"You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from."
~ Cormac McCarthy
~**~~**~
Silvia Praxton entered her house and kicked off her new pair of Zanotti sandals.
The search for husband number four was proving futile.
No matter how low her shirt or how high her heels, none of those rich country hicks would take one look at her. It seemed that word had gotten around that she was a black widow of sorts, and even the most sultry look wasn't enough to convince some cowboy to buy her a drink.
Speaking of drinks, she needed one.
The money she got from her last husband was handsome indeed, but her exorbitant lifestyle called for one too many pairs of shoes—which weren't cheap. Nothing was cheap in this two-bit town--rather, former two-bit town--not after rhodium had been discovered deep in the earth; all the manufacturers in the industry had flocked to the town like a dying man to water.
Pouring some dark red wine from the decanter into a glass, Silvia threw herself upon the living room lounge chair with a dramatic sigh. Nothing was going according to plan.
Given, she wasn't as young as she used to be, but she still had her looks and her body. It shouldn't be that hard to make men fall in love with her—as long as she told them exactly what they wanted to hear. Unfortunately, none of the men in this town seemed even open to the idea. It must be something in the water.
Maybe she should pack up and move to another city—one without so much gossip.
When she first came to the town four months ago, it was with the sole purpose of finding some lonely old hermit, ready to kick the bucket in a year or two. She wasn't counting on the gossip-mongers who took one quick look at her fake tan and labeled her as a power-hungry gold-digger.
It didn't help that her late husband's attorney had tracked her down to Rinshawn and rather publicly announced his unexpected passing.
It was a shame though. The rustic colonial style home she had purchased at half the market value was suiting her well. While its classic style screamed 'homemaker' to those passing by, it was fully equipped with the latest and greatest technological applications: the surround-sound system she had installed during the move-in was barely visible on the peach-colored walls of the living room. The antique fireplace had been a hassle to clean, but when it was lit, it cascaded the whole room in a cozy warmth. It was the perfect house to showcase to future suitors.
Or it would have been . . .
She tipped back her glass and swallowed the remaining wine lingering in the bottom. Rising from the lounge, she headed to the kitchen. Her feet tapped against the buffed amber floor in a rhythm that serenaded the empty house. She set her wine glass on the counter edge with a clink and glanced out the window.
The arched dutch windows stretched across the entire wall, large enough to let in natural light, but small enough to hide from meddlesome busybodies. Her business was hers and hers alone.
With one last pondering gaze out the window, she retreated to the bathroom.
The open format of the bath was one of the only reasons she chose to buy the two-story house. It wasn't the location of the house that had first intrigued her—but the fully equipped and renovated master bathroom which called to her. After all, it wasn't like she was going to die in this house; it was just a stepping stone until she met her next husband.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, she turned on the water and added some scented oil to the mix.
When the bath was steaming and full, she sunk down into the water to relax from her stressful day of husband hunting.
The water cooled long before she was ready to exit the tub.
She heaved herself out of the tub, rivulets of water cascading down her legs and soaking the tiles. Silvia's fingers were wrinkled and she shivered slightly as she reached for a silk robe hanging nearby, loosely tying it. Her heavy hair was still sopping wet but with no time to dry it, Silvia pinned the highlighted champagne strands up sloppily.
Her stomach growled mercilessly for sustenance, so she obliged by heading downstairs for food. She opened the oven and bent to peak at the dish she had put inside earlier. Its thick, saucy aroma rose rapidly and drifted into her nose.
At the same time; however, heat from the oven escaped, sending a blast of hot air into her face. She reacted instinctively, jerking back as to avoid the heat. In doing so, she unknowingly stepped back onto the tie of her robe which had fallen to the floor. Her feet, still wrinkled from the bath, had no grip and as a result, gravity acted.
In a wild attempt to stop from hitting the floor, she grabbed the counter to her right. But instead of establishing a hold on the ledge, she missed entirely, knocking off her used wine glass.
Silvia fell on her rump with an undignified shriek, the yell followed by the sound of glass breaking. Lying in the shards of the broken wine glass disoriented, Silvia stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all.
There was too much glass.
Too much glass for just a wine glass.
Where had it come from?
Had she knocked over more than one?
The answer came to her quite quickly as she hefted herself onto all fours. The window to the right, over the sink, was completely shattered.
Absolutely nothing was left.
No shards, no fragments, nothing.
It was like the window never existed.
The sound that had accompanied the breaking glass sounded very familiar--like the little firecrackers given to kids on the Fourth of July.
But it wasn't July.
In fact, Silvia doubted there had ever been fireworks in this ancient town.
That left only one other possibility, and it wasn't a good one.
She felt her heart thump in her chest, like horses wildly galloping across an open field, hooves slamming into the ground. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and before the shock could set in, she army crawled her way out of the kitchen.
In a panic induced rush, she reached for her phone, only for it to fall through her fingertips at the last second. Silvia dove for it, cradling the phone to her chest like a newborn. Her fingers scurried across the touchscreen and her terror started to ebb when emergency services answered.
"Hello? Hello?! Please, you have to help me. Please! Someone is going to kill me!"
The dispatcher tried to calm Silvia, reassuring that officers had been deployed to her residence and to remain on the line.
Silvia continued to scurry backward in a panic, finding herself in the living room. With nowhere to run, she locked herself in a closet, huddling to the floor:
Hoping.
Praying.
Wishing she would survive the night.
But no one seemed to be listening at that moment because she heard a squeak.
Her front door was opening.
Footsteps echoed through the house, and for the first time since its purchase, she despised the cathedral ceilings—sound bounced off of them too easily.
She was breathing harshly, quickly, so loud that probably even her neighbors could hear the sound.
The thuds grew closer.
The once homely firelight curled its tendrils under the door crack in a deep hellish red, forecasting her impending doom.
A burning cheese aroma filled her nose, consuming the oxygen around her. Silvia sucked in breath after breath but nothing could calm her racing heart.
The light from the crack faded, just as the footsteps ceased.
And then the doorknob to her safe-house began to turn.
Desperately, she scrounged around for a weapon, hoping for a battle axe but instead coming across an umbrella. With bated breath, she held the pseudo-bludgeoner in front of her as a shield when the door swung open to reveal—something.
She never found out.
Because at that precise moment, fear overcame the Widow Praxton of 683B Cricket Rd and she promptly fainted on the floor in a puddle.
~**~~**~
Jack Rhodes settled back his 6'4'' frame into his office chair and glared menacingly at his empty coffee cup.
It was a regular night.
One that called for regular coffee.
And there was none.
No coffee, no espresso, not even any of that fancy girly latte mix his secretary insisted on bringing in.
This night was a disaster and it hadn't even started yet.
After six years overseas with the Navy SEALS, Jack had grown accustomed to a high action, high-risk lifestyle, but as he stared down into the bullpen from his windowed office, he took in the sleepy cops, tired agents, and that one janitor that couldn't seem to wear his pants above his hips.
Jack wondered how he had gone from an American hero to a passive babysitter.
He wasn't sure if the U.S. Government had been trying to punish him by sending him here, but either way, by accident or not, they were. . .
Situated on the Eastern coast of the country, the Field Office Jack commanded had been rightly named. After all, it was placed in the middle of nowhere.
No, that would be an over-exaggeration.
Actually, it was next to nowhere, sharing the border with rolling, grassy hills and sure-footed trees that grew together in grooves of nothingness.
In other words, it was Tartarus, jacked up on steroids and cocaine, with a little tablespoon of harrowing paperwork to sweeten the mix.
Just what the doctor ordered.
Exasperatedly, he ran a large, muscular hand through his thick, dark hair. The strands had the potential to grow out in a way that would make any Armani model green with envy, but despite the protests of his overbearing mother, the soldier in him kept it trimmed short.
Even so, the style undeniably suited him.
With a sigh and a prayer upward for strength, Jack leaned forward and grabbed the stack of manila folders on the edge of his desk. Filled with old cases and misdemeanors, the files looked even more insurmountable without the sweet aroma of coffee in the air.
Just as he flipped over the first file with his left index finger, the landline on his desk buzzed persistently. He answered briskly and professionally, secretly hoping that there was something on the other line that didn't involve a jaywalker, an escaped goat, or a runaway teen.
That seemed to be a common happenstance nowadays. Lucky Jack.
"Commander Rhodes? Hey, Hi, How are you?", without waiting for a reply, the voice continued, "This is Officer Thomas Pierson, I work out of Rinshawn. Well. . .I mean I'm in charge of Rinshawn. Well not exactly in charge per se, that would be old Stan's job. But he doesn't get around much these days. Not that he isn't good at his job. He is. Stan's the best in the business. Well. Not the best. That would be you . . . uh . . . sir."
Jack threw a desperate look to the ceiling and tried to remember which town Rinshawn was.
It shouldn't be so hard; after all, it wasn't like there were many to choose from. A quick glance at the map hanging beside his desk told him that Rinshawn was a small town to the North.
Small was an overstatement.
Technically, it wasn't even a town.
The proper term was Village.
And while he never had the honor of visiting the area, he knew it was hidden between mountains and overrun with forest, wildlife, and pesky panhandlers.
Not exactly his cup of coffee, thank you very much.
Jack impatiently glared at the receiver in his hand, waiting for the man on the other side to stop his rambling.
"Anyway, sir. You see, we seem to have a situation down here in Rinshawn. Well. Not exactly a situation. More like an incident . . . Actually—"
By this point, Jack had had enough of the man's endless rambling and interrupted him. "Officer Pierson, the reason for your call?''
"Murder! There has been a murder in Rinshawn!"
Upon hearing that declaration, Jack quickly tossed an 'on my way' into the landline and slammed it back into its receiver. He rose from his chair quickly, causing it to spin like a merry-go-round. He grabbed his black duffel from its home under his desk with one hand and slid the files he had been working on back into the drawer with the other.
Casting one more look around for good measure, he drew the blinds to his corner office and flicked off the fluorescent lights.
Jack jogged down the short flight of stairs which separated his office from the cubicles below and approached his secretary with duffel in hand.
"There's been a murder and I may be gone for a few days. Tell Agent Davis that she is in charge during my absence. Have a few agents on standby in case I need assistance."
Without giving her a chance to respond, Jack retreated to the stainless steel elevator doors and strode in. He dug his sedan keys out of his pocket and tossed them in the air for good measure. Excitement pounded in his blood.
Finally, Jack Rhodes was going to solve a murder!
~**~~**~
"Sorry to have made you drive down here in the middle of the night, son, but there seems to have been a mix-up. There's been no murder. In fact, there's never been a murder in this town since it was built in 19'oh 5," The geriatric Sheriff yawned.
Staring at the few thin wisps of gray hair scattered on the man's head, Jack wondered if it was even legal for the man to drive, nevermind carry the old revolver hugging his right hip.
"Are you telling me that the officer who called my field office was wrong? How can you be wrong on a murder? There's either a dead body or there isn't one."
"Yeppers. That's what I've been trying to tell you. There's no body and they tell me bodies are the key to investigatin' a hom-o-cide. And we ain't got one . . . A murder that is. We've got plenty of bodies. They just seem to be all up and walking around in town." The Sheriff guffawed at his poor joke and proceeded to blow smoke directly into Jack's face.
Jack tried to think of a diplomatic way to ask the man if he was off his rocker when a young chubby-faced man yanked open the door and exclaimed "Commander, I'm so glad you're here!"
"Now Tommy," the Sheriff started, "why did you tell Mr. Rhodes here that—"
Jack interrupted him. "Commander."
"What?"
"It's Commander. Commander Rhodes"
With a dramatic sigh, the Sheriff turned back to Thomas and continued "Thomas, why would you tell 'Commander' Rhodes that there has been a murder?"
"Because there has been! The Widow Praxton, down on Cricket Rd! Someone put two bullets into her front—"
"Thomas, there's a big difference between murder and attempted murder. The Widow Praxton is still alive and kicking, I say, from the way she came into the station caterwauling about God knows what. . . This right here is just a simple case of the neighborhood kids playing a late Friday night prank." Turning back to Jack, the Sheriff stated "When you've been around as long as I have, you see a lot of things. Trust me; it's nothing. Just some kids."
Jack wondered what terrible thing he had done in a past life to deserve such a night. He could feel his irritation growing with each passing second. It wasn't directed at anyone in particular--well, maybe a bit at himself. After all, he should've done his do-diligence before embarking on his journey to Rinshawn.
Jack reigned in his emotions and turned to the Sheriff.
"Since I'm here, and since Officer Pierson thought it best to call me, why don't I take a look at the scene? It couldn't hurt."
"With all due respect, son, there's nothing to see. Just a broken window and a couple of ric-o-chetin' bullets. Tommy's a good boy, a little too eager for my taste, but he means well. The boy heard 'shots fired' on the radio and jumped the gun. You're wasting your time. "
"Still. I did come all the way down here and I don't plan on leaving without getting to the bottom of this. Fired bullets, accidental or not, need to be investigated, and since you don't seem to think that the law should be upheld, I guess it's now my responsibility."
"Now look here, son—"
Without waiting for the man to finish, Jack turned on his heel and nodded to the young officer hovering in the corner.
"Come on, Officer Pierson, we have a crime scene to investigate."
Jack opened the Sheriff's office door and stormed out, leaving the man there with his cigar hanging loosely from his lips and a bewildered look on his face.
~**~~**~
A/N
Thank you for reading Eridanus Flooding!
Here's a blurb from the next chapter:
To Defeat A SEAL
His vision wavered and a tangle of limbs later, Jack found himself pinned under the shadow.
He was pressed into the carpet, arms glued to his sides, completely immobile from his torso down. When the haze circling his mind faded, the Commander stared up into the silhouette above.
Hazel eyes greeted him.
Jack swore more than he had in his entire life.
Because staring down at him with a cunning smile was the cause of his eternal torment.
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