Harvey Bennett Mysteries: Books 4-6 Read online

  Harvey Bennett Mysteries

  Books 4-6

  Nick Thacker

  Copyright © 2014-2017 by Nick Thacker, Turtleshell Press

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922337

  First Printing, 2014

  Nick Thacker Colorado Springs, CO

  www.NickThacker.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  The Jefferson Legacy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  The Paradise Key

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  The Aryan Agenda

  Prologue

  1. Jennifer

  2. Jennifer

  3. Jennifer

  4. Sarah

  5. Al Jazeera

  6. Sarah

  7. Rachel

  8. Rachel

  9. Journal Entry

  10. Graham

  11. Sarah

  12. Rachel

  13. Sarah

  14. Rap

  15. Reggie

  16. Ben

  17. Reggie

  18. Sarah

  19. Julie

  20. Rachel

  21. Rachel

  22. Journal Entry

  23. Graham

  24. Ben

  25. Sarah

  26. Sarah

  27. Rachel

  28. Graham

  29. Ben

  30. Julie

  31. Graham

  32. Reggie

  33. Sarah

  34. Graham

  35. Reggie

  36. Ben

  37. Ben

  38. Julie

  39. Sarah

  40. Sarah

  41. Reggie

  42. Sarah

  43. Julie

  44. Julie

  45. Graham

  46. Ben

  47. Ben

  48. Ben

  49. Julie

  50. Ben

  51. Reggie

  52. Graham

  53. Ben

  54. Ben

  55. Reggie

  56. Reggie

  57. Julie

  58. Ben

  59. Reggie

  60. Ben

  61. Julie

  62. Sarah

  63. Graham

  64. Ben

  65. Graham

  66. Ben

  67. Ben

  68. Reggie

  69. Julie

  70. Ben

  71. Ben

  72. Reggie

  73. Sarah

  74. Graham

  75. Graham

  76. Sarah

  77. Ben

  78. Ben

  79. Julie

  80. Sarah

  81. Reggie

  82. Ben

  83. Ben

  84. Julie

  85. Julie

  86. Ben

  87. Reggie

  88. Ben

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Nick Thacker

  About the Author

  The Jefferson Legacy

  Chapter One

  OCTOBER 11, 1809.

  THERE’S NOT much time left.

  He had to make it. There was no other option, or the fate of the entire republic…

  He didn’t want to think about that. He shuddered, and not just because of the cool breeze of late fall that had descended upon the forested path.

  Lucius kicked his horse’s side urging it faster through the wind. The wind, it seemed, was his main antagonist tonight. Darkness had settled in hours ago, and yet even the darkness waned against the brisk wind, the two forces battling it out and making Lucius and his poor steed their pawn.

  The moonlight from the waxing sliver wasn’t much of an ally, offering nothing but thin wisps of light that were immediat
ely consumed by the deeper shadows as he raced on.

  Hohenwald was a mere four miles away, close enough he thought he could already smell the wood-burning stoves and ovens of late-night workmen and their families. It was an illusion, a smell burned into his mind from years of stoking a late-night blaze as the incantations began. It brought him back, to a time when this night was a mere speculation, nothing more than a dream and the barest of plans.

  And yet he was still far enough that he knew the enemy was closer. They would reach the destination first, before he could alert their target. The target would be caught off guard, perhaps for the first time in a decade. Sleeping soundly, unassuming, the target would certainly be unable to rouse, fend off the attack, and eliminate the threat.

  Lucius’ orders still stood, however. He would ride.

  He kicked his steed’s sides again, but felt no increase in its speed. Instead of cursing, he sniffed a deep, sharp breath through his nostrils. The air hit the top of his palate and forced his eyes open. It was crisp, laced with the beautiful smell of pine and earth, yet it seemed to also carry the dismay of being too late. He was going too slow, and he wasn’t going to make it in time. It wasn’t the horse’s fault, nor was it his own. The Society had sounded the alarm, yet it had taken over an hour to put a plan in place.

  Over an hour for a plan that had already existed. This was the downside of government by committee, Lucius knew. This was the downside of not remaining lean and nimble. He had urged his leaders to make the call, and to do it with haste, but the time it had taken to gather and vote was going to be the difference between life and death.

  It meant life or death for Lucius’ target, certainly. Possibly for others, as well. Possibly for the nation itself.

  Possibly for Lucius himself.

  He gritted his teeth and dove forward over the final gentle crest that led into the village of Hohenwald. Nothing but a collection of small houses and a town square, the village wasn’t even Lucius’ destination. His target lay sleeping in an inn along the route to Hohenwald, just east of town. There the proprietor, Griner, operated the small establishment and sold whiskey to the Indians, whose land backed up to his property.

  All of this had been in the report given to Lucius’ leaders. They had mulled over it, and the greater mission, as if it had been the first time anyone had heard of such a thing. Lucius had stood by, calmly biding his time, until he knew they were running out of time. He couldn’t understand why they were hesitant — didn’t they understand that the fate of the nation was in their hands?

  So he had set out, knowing that his target would be at Griner’s Stand hours before he would arrive. Hours to wait, think, and ponder. Hours to wonder, and worry.

  Hours to sleep, soundly or otherwise, until either Lucius or the enemy arrived, to seal the fate of the young nation once and for all.

  Chapter Two

  OCTOBER 11, 1809.

  GRINER’S STAND was less than a half-mile away, and for the first time since Lucius had left, he could see it with his own eyes. No more speculation, no more running through the details in his mind’s eye. He could see it, and he knew it was his final destination.

  Griner’s Stand sat on the edge of Indian territory, either by design — Griner himself was known as a high-quality moonshiner — or by accident. Perhaps Griner had hopes to use his proximity to argue against the Indians as the young nation continued to expand its own territory, or perhaps Griner was sympathetic to the native population.

  None of that mattered to Lucius. His horse, beaten and sweaty, had slowed to a jog a quarter-mile ago and he hadn’t tried to force it along. It had been a long, arduous journey, but the end was in sight.

  The first of the matching cabins came into view to Lucius’ left. The Natchez Trace that Lucius had been following descended downward again, heading toward a still out-of-sight river. The path wound around a few trees, admitting its inferiority to the age-old forest inhabitants.

  The trees alone could attest to the age of this long stretch of road. They stood as silent sentinels for generations before even the game and wildlife used this intra-mountain route through the ridge. When the American Indians later explored and conquered the area, they assumed ownership of the route and further flattened it beneath their feet.

  Today, Lucius had taken the same exact winding route through the forest, trusting the feet of previous generations to get him to his destination, and they had not let him down. The second of the right-angled cabins swung into view, separated by the narrow dog run between the buildings, and he could see the smaller kitchen building farther back on the land.

  A lone horse had been tied to a post outside this second cabin, and Lucius knew it belonged to his target. The innkeeper maintained a small barn and a few horses elsewhere on the property, but there was no barn in Lucius’ immediate view. The target must have arrived and tied up promptly, not bothering to house his mare for the night.

  In his mind, the target was likely not concerned with bunking down tightly. The stay would be for less than a full night, coming in late and leaving early the next morning. Long enough to fulfill orders, and short enough that bedding down a horse for the night wasn’t worth the trouble.

  The horse neighed and scuffed in the distance. Lucius eyed it as he jogged his own horse in, trying to get a feel for the situation. He couldn’t see much beyond the direct perimeter of the house; the Natchez wound down to the front of the first cabin and then back out through the trees, but it was hardly a large road. The weak moonlight did nothing to make the area feel more open, and Lucius suddenly felt himself strangely vulnerable.

  He wanted to get inside, to stoke the fire in one of the cabins’ chimneys, and take his boots off and rest. He wanted to throw his own steed’s rope over the post and let it graze for the night while he slept, earning back the hours he’d spent with his eyes glued to the hard-packed dirt. He wanted to stretch out, his legs pulled back together for once in the past week, and just… be. He didn’t want to play the role he had been playing for so long, since he had grown from a boy to a man to a man with a purpose.

  But, like usual, he pushed those thoughts back down and ignored them. Self-discipline was a nasty habit, but it was a true habit. He had honed his perception of himself just as he had honed his perception of the world, and it had so far provided him with the edge he needed to ascend the ranks of his organization far faster than anyone his age.

  Self-discipline was a virtue, he knew. Yet Lucius often felt it was a curse, burdening him with knowledge he didn’t want to carry, with the lifestyle he never wanted to lead, and with the drive toward a goal he could never admit outside his closest circles.

  He had led a life of depravity, of celibacy and singularity. A man intently focused on his sole purpose, never erring from the path of righteousness he knew would save the republic. He had bought it so long ago, when he was barely old enough to work the fields, but he wanted nothing more than to not have to work the fields.

  He’d run away from home and joined the Society, promised by the leaders riches and importance the longer he committed to the cause. Yet it hadn’t been either the money or the status that he’d eventually committed to. He cared not for the social posterity or friendship circles he’d been brought into, and he certainly didn’t want to be known for this or that in his local community, as others in the organization desired for themselves. And he didn’t even care that to leave the organization, at his level, would mean death.

  No, he hadn’t stayed in the Society for any of those reasons. He had stayed because of a simple, unfortunate truth.

  He had stayed because he knew the truth.

  Chapter Three

  OCTOBER 11, 1809.

  LUCIUS FORCED HIS EYES OPEN again and guided his horse down the path that connected the Natchez Trace with Griner’s cabins. It was a rocky, horrible trail, and he wondered if Griner had ever taken the time to maintain it. This was an estate likely devoid of slaves, so Lucius figured Griner or his wife would h
ave been the ones to do it. Perhaps they had many visitors to keep them busy inside, or Griner’s whiskey operation was doing far better than Lucius’ report had indicated and they cared little for the integrity of their small estate.

  Lucius made it to the tree line that marked off Griner’s property and stopped. He sniffed the air again, an old trick a farm hand had taught him years ago. It didn’t help much to know the smell of a place, but somehow sniffing the air forced his other senses to attention, ready to take in anything out of the ordinary.

  He couldn’t believe he was the only one here. He’d been adamant that there wouldn’t be enough time, and his superiors had almost gotten angry with his argumentative tone. He had convinced himself that he was not going to be alone, or if he was, it would be because the enemy had beaten him here and the job was already finished.

  There were no lights on to destroy the moonlight, and he could see clearly into the open area of Griner’s Stand. The two cabins now dwarfed the circle of grass, but they were in turn dwarfed by the massive pines surrounding the property. He took in the details of the cabin. Nothing elaborate, just a simple utilitarian home with a replicate addition. Two matching buildings connected by a dog run, with a kitchen and barn behind. A small field, unplanted but tilled into rows. The barn, now in sight, barely larger than the cabins.

  In all, a moderate estate for a family. Something that could provide a decent revenue stream if it were on a main route, like the Trace. It helped that it was known, both by locals and travelers. The Natchez Trace was one of the few routes that led from the North to the harbors and ports of faraway cities, and it was the only direct route.

  Lucius had traveled along it before, but only once. His first impression had been somewhat of a disappointment. The underwhelming width of the trail made it difficult, if not impossible, to travel with more than a horse in some spots, and sections of the route had been in such disrepair that he’d had to guide his horse through the trees to the side of the actual trail for a stretch.

  Not to mention the banditry he’d encountered. He’d found two murdered bodies the first time, ditched along the side in a trench, their purses and good clothing removed and stolen. He’d felt disgusted and nearly carried on, ignoring the bodies, but dug the graves anyway and presided over the two funerals with the obligatory care and attention his organization had required.

  Later on the route he’d come across a family — a man and woman and small child — who had been robbed and beaten. The child was near death, choking and coughing in the heavy winter air, and the father seemed nearly gone as well, but the mother had urged his help. He obliged, guiding them to a village he knew about to the west.