Heart Beatings, page 1
Heart Beatings
An Alex Mendez Tale
Edward Hancock II
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2012, 2017 by Edward Hancock II
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, recording or otherwise, without written permission, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN-13:
ISBN-10:
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to everyone who helped me push through every single time the world stood in my way. I’m the man I am because you are the friend you are.
Mendez Series books (Preferred Reading Order)
Mourning Reign
Heart Beatings
Connection Terminated
Target: Mendez
Mendez: Genesis (Series Prequel)
Stay tuned for more books in the series coming soon!
CHAPTER ONE
Somewhere in Gilmer a scared young mother of two was begging for her life. Begging the man who had sworn to be her protector some seven or eight years before. You couldn’t call him father. “Sperm donor” might even be pushing it. In another home, a frightened four-year- old boy whimpers in pain, gasps for breath as blood pours from at least thirteen stab wounds slowly filling his lungs, spilling onto the bedroom carpet on which he lay dying. In another room of that same house, the cowardly mother had already denied a jury of her peers their God-given right to decide her punishment. God himself was wondering why the father had chosen to abandon all hope and drown himself in an alcohol-induced pool of vomit; lying unconscious in a dark alley during the mother’s schizophrenic act of vengeance against imaginary demons coming to claim her innocent son’s eternal soul.
Dead dogs, dead babies, dead mothers and fathers.
Death.
Death was an integral part of Alex Mendez’s life. Try though he might, he’d been unsuccessful at separating himself from the powerful grip of Death. The feel of Death. The smell of Death. The sound of Death. His brother, father and untold numbers of fellow police officers had all experienced Death’s grip firsthand as Alex watched, powerless to prevent the Great Thief from robbing this world of another innocent soul. Even Alex had once tasted the bitter pill Death asks each of us to swallow. For Alex, the pill had proven too bitter.
Mercifully, he’d been afforded an opportunity few would ever be offered. To taste death’s offering and decide for himself whether to accept it now or later. In his line of work, he wasn’t often afforded a kindred spirit. Today was no exception.
For the most part, Alex felt the same with each and every case he’d ever worked. Well, okay, with most of them. He felt sadness at a life snuffed out. Invariably his mind played out various imagined scenarios of how each victim might have met his untimely end. No matter the horrors, no matter the manner of death or how the level of violence might have mirrored, Alex never felt the same twice. Death was as it had always been, a shock to him. A mystery undiscovered, though he’d walked the path of discovery personally. The innocence of some souls weighed more heavily on Alex than others. Andrew Kramer was one of those light weights.
Fifty-seven year old Andrew Kramer was a racist. He was a vocal racist. He was an ignorant, bigoted racist that Alex had vainly considered silencing on more than one occasion. One of a growing number of troublemakers in the otherwise quiet East Texas area of the Bible Belt Buckle. The son of a former Klansman—former in the sense that the senior Kramer was dead some five years—Andrew Kramer could likely rest in peace knowing he’d faithfully carried on a family tradition of hate and violent prejudice.
If nothing else, Alex thought as he examined the bullet-riddled body of Andrew Kramer, father and son were together now, likely still ignorantly celebrating their superiority to the other lost souls with which they now shared an eternal home.
Andrew Kramer had not died quickly. Though Alex had not been there to witness it, he was reasonably certain, too, that Andrew Kramer had also not drifted quietly into that goodnight. Of one thing
Alex was certain, Andrew Kramer had indeed been dead when his killer left him. He hadn’t been left for dead. He’d been left dead. Coagulated pools of blood dotted the oil-topped country road. The ditches on either side suggested his death had been drawn out and torturous. The morning sun had not yet risen far enough to effect Andrew Kramer’s remains, but a gentle breeze poisoned the dawn with the stench of rotting flesh. Drag marks leading into the ditch where Andrew Kramer’s body was found led Alex to believe he’d likely not fallen here willingly.
An autopsy would have to confirm the weapons used to inflict other harm, but visible bruises suggested to Alex that Andrew Kramer had been beaten as well as shot and stabbed—though perhaps the word “carved” was more accurate, judging by the severity and size of several wounds to the chest cavity. A sheriff’s deputy had discovered an arrow lodged in a nearby tree. Though there was nothing to suggest it as a weapon, Alex had it taken into evidence just to be sure.
Most likely, it would turn out to be the discarded property of some bow hunter with bad aim. But, at this point, Alex couldn’t afford to miss anything. To Alex, it appeared as though many of the bullet wounds in Andrew Kramer’s body had been afterthoughts. He wasn’t a Medical Examiner, but years of interacting with them had given him a few tips, such as whether or not a wound was inflicted post-mortem.
These bullets, to his untrained but experienced eye, looked to have been inflicted after Andrew Kramer’s life had already expired. Tiny metallic insurance policies, or the product of pure rage? At this point, he couldn’t speculate.
“Did it hurt, you racist pig?” Alex whispered. Catching himself, he looked up to see if anyone would have been in earshot. As no one seemed to be looking his way, Alex figured his question had fallen on deaf ears all around.
I hope it hurt.
Alex was not saddened by the death of a racist named Andrew Kramer. He felt no weight from a soul possessing little in the way of true innocence. On some level, Alex actually felt a sense of relief that this boil on the backside of humanity had been lanced by a well-meaning vigilante who’d grown tired of waiting for the scales of Lady Justice to tip back in the favor of the truly innocent.
But that was the cynic talking. Alex the outsider that had experienced a brief period of freedom from the responsibility imposed upon him once he decided to once again pin on a badge and swear to protect the citizenry of Longview, Texas. Alex the police officer could not afford the luxury of gloating over the corpse of a dead racist. Alex the outsider could gloat later. Alex the cop had a killer to find.
Andrew Kramer’s car had been forced off the road. Whoever had done it had seemingly left no trace of their identity. It had almost been made to look like he’d swerved to miss a deer or something. No signs existed to support Alex’s assertion that his car had been forced off the road. Alex had no proof of this theory. All he had were his instincts. But he trusted them despite the undeniable dulling they’d suffered during his time off.
The investigation would focus on the death of Andrew Kramer. Alex would follow procedure. He’d solve the crime step by agonizingly slow step but he was reasonably certain many of his initial gut feelings would prove true. To be certain, he’d keep most of his “gut” to himself until he had evidence to support his conclusions. Nevertheless, he trusted his preliminary feelings.
Andrew Kramer had been a cancer on Longview’s citizenry─on all of East Texas, really. His diseased message had spread across Tyler, Gilmer, Gladewater, Kilgore and countless numbers of unassuming East Texas communities. He’d been almost single-handedly responsible for a rise in membership of hate groups and was suspected to have a connection to the violent deaths of at least 2 black men in the last year. What was known is that he had spread his poison to young and old alike.
His death would do little to silence that message. In all likelihood, his martyrdom would fuel the growing hatred and widen the already cavernous racial divide within the area. A divide of which Alex was all too aware anytime his family had a dinner in any restaurant in East Texas. A Hispanic father, Caucasian mother and 2 mixed children were more than enough fodder for curious—often icy—glances from onlookers. Had they met on the street, Alex was certain he would not have enjoyed the company of the living Andrew Kramer. In death, Alex noted, his appreciation was no less intensely negative.
Negativity plus apathy equaled positive. By the very laws of science and nature, his reaction made no sense. A negative feeling plus a neutral one couldn’t equal a positive reaction. But it did. Alex had detested the living Andrew Kramer and found apathy a small hiding place from his death, but Alex couldn’t deny it. He was glad the racist slime was dead.
His reaction might not make sense from a scientific or mathematical standpoint, but as it related to the human heart, two plus two did indeed equal five.
CHAPTER TWO
Joey had quite a set of lungs on him for a child born two months prematurely. And he wasn’t afraid of reminding the world of the b
August was hot. Her choice of bedclothes was not a choice of seduction or personal vanity ─ more a choice of comfort. Silk didn’t cling to her. It didn’t make her sweat. She just hoped that Joey was done pooping and spitting up for the night. Her next alternative for bedclothes was a t-shirt and sweats.
To Joey, it didn’t matter what she was wearing. It seemed he was going to fuss and cry no matter what. As tired as she was, Lisa understood. It was something he needed to work through. In time, he’d figure the world out a little better. Given enough of a chance, he’d settle comfortably in the knowledge that Mommy was his friend.
There were no more bad men out to get him. He was safe now. She realized it was always possible she was projecting her own insecurities upon the tiny infant. But his trepidation was all too evident, whether she was present or not. Whether Lisa was to blame—in whole or in part—Joey Mendez was not yet ready to face the world into which he’d been so violently introduced.
Despite the tears and tortured cries, Lisa was amazed at every little hurdle Joey seemed to overcome. In the weeks since his birth, he’d tripled in size. His lungs were obviously not as underdeveloped as they’d feared. Whatever problems he might develop later Joey was, for now at least, seemingly a reasonably healthy child. The pediatrician said he was on an apparently normal developmental track. And he was the cutest little boy Lisa had ever seen.
Christina was another story, at least where Little Brother was concerned. At five years old, she wasn’t quiet as enamored by the tiny milestones her baby brother was reaching with every breath he took.
The concept of the “living miracle” seemed lost on the elder Mendez child. To say the least, she was less than impressed by the eating, pooping and crying the littlest Mendez was managing. As her first day of kindergarten approached, she had become increasingly unimpressed by her baby brother. An obvious air of jealousy existed.
At least twice since Joey had come home from the hospital, Christina had asked to trade her little brother in on a quieter model. Under other circumstances, the logic in her argument on the money saved through such actions might have been given deeper consideration.
Lisa sighed as she gently rocked the crying infant. It wasn’t a sigh of frustration. Rather it was simply something akin to contentment that only another mother was likely to understand.
Lisa definitely missed police work. She couldn’t deny it. If nothing else, she missed the paycheck. Living on “retirement income” wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. They were barely able to afford the remodeling they were doing to make room for what was likely to be the permanent residence of Mrs. Mendez. But her maternal instincts were kicking in full bore. She loved being a career woman. She loved the action and adventure police work had afforded her. She loved just about everything about her job, her career.
Still, Lisa Mendez was a mother first. Police Officer had been her career. Motherhood had been her purpose. She was proud and found no shame in an attitude that was deemed, by modern society, as setting some perceived “women’s movement” back fifty years. To Lisa it wasn’t about hindering anyone’s sense of self-worth. To her, it was more about helping her children discover theirs. As the last five years had rendered Christina increasingly more independent, Lisa had managed to lose sight of how much she enjoyed merely mothering.
What the world thought of her choice was of little consequence to Lisa.
Perhaps being kidnapped and robbed of her memory, if only temporarily, had something to do with her renewed maternal instinct. She’d had to lose all of herself to find a part of herself that had, if nothing else, gone into hibernation. Had being denied a bonding experience that can only occur in those precious first moments after a child’s birth sparked the awakening of a burning desire thought long dead? Had her absence fed the hungry flames that burned inside her maternal heart? Being gone for…how long?
Looking at her fussy infant, rocking him gently and singing a made-up tune, Lisa became all too aware that the separation anxiety she still felt was no doubt mutual in the heart of Joey Mendez. Maybe a good bump on the head had just jarred something loose. Something she was not in a hurry to unloose.
“I love you,” Lisa sang, not breaking the sing-songy melody that was failing to soothe Joey’s cries.
“Let me take him.”
Mother Mendez’s voice, while welcome, startled Lisa.
Without looking up, Lisa said, “I’ve got him. It’s okay. I think he just needs to work it out. You should go back to bed. It’s so late.”
“He’s got my Theodore in him,” she said, ignoring Lisa’s suggestion. Lisa looked up just as Mother Mendez placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her smile was wistful, as if she were only half in the present. Likely half lost in some remembrance of her child-rearing years. “No one slept for two weeks after he was born. My mother told me to give the child a thimble of whiskey in his bottle at night.”
“We don’t have any whiskey.” Lisa confirmed. “But I’m half tempted to get Alex to bring some home.”
Mother Mendez chuckled to herself, paused and sighed. Bending down slightly, she touched Joey’s forehead ever so gently. “Those were good times.”
The quiet chuff of doggy jowls alerted Lisa to the presence of yet another curious Mendez whose own maternal instincts had become heightened since Joey’s arrival.
“I hope we didn’t wake Christina.” Lisa said.
“I looked in on her before coming to see about you.” Mrs. Mendez replied. “She was sleeping rather soundly. This one,” she continued, motioning towards Brandy “I’m afraid is another story.”
Unaffected by being the subject of such human gossip, Brandy padded beside Lisa and gently sniffed the top of Joey’s head. She let out a soft, almost gravelly whimper. Confused? Concerned? Who knew? Without warning, Brandy sneezed, startling Lisa. Though his face remained crimson and discontent, Joey grew instantly silent.
Not wanting to resume her confrontation with the crying fit from hell, Lisa fought against the absurd fit of laughter building as she pondered what must have gone through Joey’s mind, having been sneezed on by his furry, four-legged big sister. As she met the equally bemused stare of Mrs. Mendez, they both erupted into comical spasms.
“You mean all I had to do was sneeze on you to get you to be quiet?” she whispered.
Mrs. Mendez let go a soft laugh.
Looking at Brandy, Lisa said, “Maybe you have magic doggy snot, eh?”
“She is quite the special one, isn’t she?” Mrs. Mendez agreed.
“Would’ve been a great Mommy herself, I’d bet.”
Maybe it was a flea tickling her ear, maybe an ear mite, or maybe some indeterminate microbe infesting her doggy skin. For all Lisa knew, a tiny flake of pet dander had bounced across Brandy’s ear hair.
Or maybe on some level, the very mention of all things maternal simply triggered some sort of ear twitch in the carefree Mendez canine. Whatever it was, the brisk headshaking at Lisa’s declaration was perfectly timed.
Outside Joey’s bedroom window, the sun was just starting to make its amber presence felt on the day.
“Alex should be home soon. I hope.” A wistful sigh escaped her, voicing conflicting opinions as to the accurate definition of the word soon. Not soon enough, she lamented. “You know, I thought he was supposed to be past these nighttime call outs. I know he’d been gone a while but you’d think Danny would still respect his seniority.”
“Maybe he does,” Mrs. Mendez said. “My son is an excellent policeman. Maybe it’s an important case. Maybe they needed his expertise.”
