Measure Twice Read online

  Measure Twice

  J.J. Hensley

  Copyright © 2014 J.J. Hensley

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of this author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  The 12 Steps to Recovery: Reprinted by permission of NA World Services, Inc. All rights reserved. The Twelve Steps of NA reprinted for adaptation by permission of AA World Services, Inc.

  It’s about time somebody gave Hannibal Lecter a run for his money. Lester Mayton, the serial killer who sets new standards of murderous inventiveness in J.J. Hensley’s new novel “Measure Twice,” is up to the task. Hensley walks a reader right up the edge of unbearable dread, then leavens it with flashes of witty insights into the way local bureaucracies and political infighting can hamper something even as critical as the need to stop a killer before he strikes again.

  - Gwen Florio, award-winning author of

  Montana and Dakota

  J.J. Hensley keeps you turning the pages from the very start. A finely crafted story of redemption, MEASURE TWICE will keep your adrenaline pumping.

  -Tim Green, bestselling author of The Forth

  Perimeter and Exact Revenge

  For Kasia and Cassie

  Measure twice, cut once.

  -Proverb

  The 12 Steps To Recovery

  Step 1 – We admitted we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable.

  Step 2 – We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

  Step 3 – We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

  Step 4 – We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

  Step 5 – We admited to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

  Step 6 – We were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

  Step 7 – We humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

  Step 8 – We made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.

  Step 9 – We made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

  Step 10 – We continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

  Step 11 – We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

  Step 12 – Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

  Prologue

  H ell with the lid off. Lester Mayton could not remember who had once described the city that way. He thought it had something to do with the suffocating pollution the populace inhaled in a time when furnaces and factories heated the region’s economy, but he was not sure. Whoever had uttered those words would be shocked if he could see the stars draped over the modern skyline tonight. The peaceful buzz reverberating from downtown was in some ways more tranquil than actual silence. It was as if, after decades of relentless forging and hammering, a balance between industry and civility had met right where the rivers converged.

  Mayton shifted his weight as the wobbling boat swayed under his feet. He looked toward a towboat that was pushing a barge. Why a boat that pushes something would be called a towboat was a mystery to him. Mayton’s eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on the pilot’s face that was faintly illuminated by the craft’s controls. The pilot glanced in his direction and nodded as the barge moved past the much smaller boat. Mayton waited for the wake of the barge to reach him and absorbed the rocking while watching the skyline rise and fall.

  Cindy had loved doing this—sitting out on the river at night and letting the water sway her troubles away. They had both loved this. They had both loved Pittsburgh. They had both loved each other. Now she was gone and this city was to blame. He had tried to stop it. He had done everything in his power, but it was not enough. God often answered prayers, but this city of atheists stopped calling out to the Almighty long ago. The inhabitants had bled faith for decades and the loss had allowed them to drift into a state of numbness in which they did not even realize they were dying. Apathy had taken Cindy away so apathy was the enemy. And the enemy had to be destroyed.

  Mayton looked at the gold crucifix in his right hand and then looked into the sky. He had listened to God all of his life. Although he knew he was not perfect, he had never strayed from the path of righteousness. Even when Cindy begged him not to, he donated most of their money to the church. Whenever Cindy started to lose her way, he insisted they spend more time doing volunteer work. When she got sick, he took her to a retreat and pumped her full of the best holistic remedies. She said he was obsessed. Toward the end, she said he was a God addict. He knew he was a believer. Mayton had tried to be good. Good acts—always. He had to do well unto others. But the others did not do well enough in return. Then they took her away from him.

  They did not listen to him.

  They did not listen to God.

  An act of awakening was needed.

  As the boat stopped rocking and calmness settled back on the river, Mayton had a brief moment of peace. His eyes moved upward and he took in all that was above him.

  They would listen soon. He would make sure of that.

  And they would remember.

  Remember the atrocities he intended to commit.

  But first, he had to break free from his addiction.

  – – –

  Jackson Channing took a step back from the bathroom mirror and looked at the reflection of his torso. What he saw was a shade of his former self. So many scars. So much damage. When it occurred to him that he had no idea what time it was, he felt depressed. When it occurred to him that he had no idea what day it was, he started to cry. What he did next was predictable. The act had been repeated more times than he could remember. His oily fingerprints were visible all over the clear bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. He added another set as he took a long pull from the container. It did not even burn any more. How could whiskey no longer burn?

  The bed creaked as he sat down. When he roughly put the bottle back on the nightstand, everything shook and the framed photo fell over. Picking it up and holding it in his lap, he wondered if she was happier. She had to be; she was not with him. Quickly, he snatched the bottle and took another drink. He had driven her away. He drove everyone away. Dozens of stitches had held his body together, but his sanity had unraveled. It had come undone in that dingy basement. The man who gave him the scars had seen to that. Now all he had left was wreckage.

  Channing looked at the clock beside him. It was after ten in the morning. Since he was still on administrative leave from work, he really had nowhere he needed to be. This was going to be his life—purposeless mornings soaked in alcohol. He started crying again. Then, he took another long pull from the bottle. His supervisors with the Pittsburgh Police Department had told him to take all the time he needed. He needed time all right. He needed time back. He needed Mary back, but that book was closed. One hollow point round in the brain and maybe he could get it all back. Maybe he would get another chance in another life. Perhaps that was the only way.

  He opened the drawer of the nightstand and withdrew his pistol. It wa
s loaded. It was always loaded. The GLOCK never failed him. Throughout a ten-year career, probably a hundred thousand rounds had gone through that barrel, obliterating innocent paper targets. Now he would fire one meaningful round. Why not?

  Staring at the photo one more time, Channing put the gun in his mouth, closed his eyes, tasted the polymer barrel, felt the front sights scrape against the top of his mouth, and pulled the trigger. The hard click vibrated to the back of his throat. Then…nothing. He opened his eyes. The rear sights were still staring him down. The photo was still in his other hand. He was not breathing, but not because he could not. The only result from his action was the arrival of a cold stillness, nothing but silence surrounding the wreckage. Taking the gun out of his mouth, he looked at it in disbelief. When he pulled back on the slide, a silver round ejected and bounced off his foot. The gun had been loaded. It should have worked. He should be dead. He was not.

  Staring at the unspent round which lay by his foot, he felt a glimmer of…of what? Not hope, but something else. A long-forgotten primal instinct for survival? A trace of strength somewhere in his shroud of solitude? Whatever it was, for the moment he was relieved he was not dead. He became conscious of the air filling his lungs, and it did not sadden him. Channing did not think he had the ability to pull the trigger again. The moment was gone. So, if he was not going to end it all this morning, then…what?

  The bottle of whiskey and his cell phone sat inches from each other. Channing thought of all of the things he had done. The person he should have been. The person he was not. Then, for the first time in a long time he thought about what he could be. What he still could be. How do you find redemption for your sins? The answer came to him. You don’t. You earn it. You have to earn it every day.

  With tear-filled eyes he reached toward his nightstand and put the photo of Mary back in its place. Channing was not sure he believed in a higher power. You were born, you lived, and then you died. That was the nature of things. He tried to comprehend what had just happened, and then he reached for the first step toward his salvation. The phone felt small in his hand.

  He knew what he had to do now.

  He had to earn it.

  He needed to wake up.

  As soon as the echo of the trigger pull faded away, Channing felt a spark of purpose.

  He had to pay attention to the signs. He had to listen to fate.

  He would commit acts of redemption that would erase his memories.

  But first, he had to break free from his addiction.

  Step 1

  We admitted we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable.

  M ayton needed to pull himself together. Mornings were always the worst. His normal routine used to be to head to work and then volunteer at an outreach center, but he would not do either anymore. Cindy’s life insurance meant he did not have to have a regular job for quite some time. He would keep up with some other volunteer work on the weekends, only because it fit into his plans.

  The one-time Quality Control Manager for a pharmaceutical company knew he was hooked on reciting and living by the words in The Book. To do God’s true will he would have to break his habits. Much like Abraham was told to sacrifice his son, Mayton had to sacrifice his faith. The irony was not intended to be understood by a simple mind such as his. Mayton’s constant need to give all he had to those around him, and to cherish all life, dominated his existence and now it was time for him to act purely on behalf of his Lord by distancing himself from Him.

  One hour of lifting weights and jumping rope was how his days started now. In the beginning, after they took her, he could barely get himself out of bed, much less exercise. The sun coming in his bedroom window only served to illuminate his despair and keep him pinned firmly beneath his blanket. Now, even at forty-five years of age, he could bench press more than most twenty-year-olds. Although he tried to clear his head of prayers, he found himself reciting scripture every time he lifted the weights off his chest. He could stop doing good, but he could not yet stop saying good. He did not employ creative interpretations of biblical verses to meet his needs. If there was one thing that sickened him to no end, it was the way extremists of the Christian and Muslim faiths would pick and choose specific lines of text, take them out of context, and manipulate the meaning of those words to fit their goals. Muslim terrorists never seemed to mention that Mohammed said, “There is no compulsion in religion,” the same way those right-wing militia nuts that claimed to be Christians failed to remember Matthew 7:1, “Judge not, that you be not judged.”

  As hard as he tried not to recite The Book, he was not there yet. If that made him a hypocrite, then so be it. He knew he had been out of control in the past and still could not stop completely. He would have to take baby steps, then he could alter his mind enough to do what had to be done.

  Mayton showered, shaved, and made coffee. Sitting at his kitchen table, he combed through the morning paper, finding nothing but bad news. When he finished reading the paper, he was surprised to find the gold crucifix on the table. Picking it up, he stared at it as it twirled from a thin gold chain. He did not remember picking it up from the top of the dresser this morning. He looked at the walls of his kitchen and the hallway that led into the living room. Religious symbolism was everywhere. Wooden and gold crosses hung besides prints of The Last Supper and various other works of art. His personal favorite, The Last Judgment was situated over the fireplace. Something about that painting always comforted him. The rage displayed on the face of St. Bartholomew while he held a knife in one hand and his own flayed skin in the other was a reminder that wrongs must be revisited and remembered. Victims must be avenged so future generations can sleep soundly. All of the other symbols would have to come down, but not that one. That one could stay.

  Mayton put the crucifix down on the table and walked to the closet to get his coat. He walked out the door, got into his car, and started the engine. A minute later, the front door of the house swung open, Mayton rushed to the kitchen, picked up his cross, knelt for a quick prayer, and closed his eyes. When his eyes opened again, he was shocked to see that thirty minutes had passed. A feeling of panic filled his body. There were things he had to prepare before this evening. He could not be late in taking his first step toward redemption. He could not let them hurt someone—again.

  – – –

  Channing entered the police station and felt entombed by the stares from his colleagues. The second he started walking down the aisle between the desks of his fellow detectives, the shuffling of papers stopped, conversations were left dangling from linguistic cliffs, the room fell silent as a wet blanket of interest suffocated him. Illogically, Channing had a sickening feeling that they could all hear the alcohol being secreted through his pores.

  Sergeant Ken Harris’s nondescript office was in the back corner of the squad room. The sergeant sounded awkward when Channing called him two hours earlier and told the fifteen-year veteran that he wanted to return to duty. Harris’s uncertain tone did not come from any oversensitivity to Channing’s plight, but rather from not knowing how to deal with what was sure to be a disruption in the Homicide Squad.

  Channing raised his closed fist to the door and watched a tremor reverberate through his bones. He paused and waited for it to pass. He badly needed a drink.

  The knock on the door was met with an abrupt, “Come in.”

  When Channing entered, Harris’s shoulders seemed to sag a bit and the mood of the room immediately softened. Harris stood, faced his much taller subordinate, and extended his hand.

  “Jackson, it’s good to see you.”

  Channing covertly wiped the sweaty palm of his hand on his pants before reaching out to meet his supervisor’s greeting.

  Channing opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly worried about his breath and felt the dryness in his throat. In the end, all he could do was nod.

  Harris took his seat and gestured toward the empty chair across the desk, but Channing remai
ned standing.

  Clearing his throat, Channing tried to imitate the subtle confidence he once had and said, “I’m ready to come back.”

  “So I gathered from what you said on the phone. Look, nobody would blame you if you took some more time off. Hell, nobody would blame you if you retired on disability and headed off to relax on some beach. You’ve done your duty. You don’t owe anybody anything.”

  “Except Alex.”

  Harris fell silent remembering Channing’s young and vibrant partner.

  Harris dipped his head, stared at a souvenir coffee mug on his desk and said, “Nobody holds you responsible for that. You have to know that.”

  Channing remained silent and waited for Harris’s eyes to once again meet his. He felt his hands begin to shake again and put them in the pockets of his leather jacket. Not knowing how much longer he could keep it together, Channing sped up the conversation.

  “I want to be reinstated—today. I want to come back.”

  “Why don’t you give it another couple of weeks?” Harris pleaded. Your desk will still be here.”

  Now it was Channing’s turn to drop his eyes to the desk.

  “I need to be reinstated. I have to come back.”

  Harris sat quietly for half a minute and finally said, “All right. You work the two-to-ten shift tonight. You’ll just be on call until I can reassign some cases to you. Krenshaw is off today, but you’ll partner up with him starting tomorrow.”

  “No partner,” blurted Channing way too quickly.

  “It doesn’t work that way and you know it,” Harris replied.

  “I need to work alone for a while. Besides, I’m sure Krenshaw would rather work with somebody else.”