The Conspiracy of Silence
#Mystery #Suspense #Thriller
A depiction of the
life-and-death struggle of a gutsy female lawyer who goes to great lengths to
save her lover from a murder rap.
Blurb:
Then curious things begin to happen when
Carlton’s ambitious girlfriend, Rita Spencer suddenly unearths the shocking secret that Susan Whitaker did not, in fact, exist. She little realizes however that her
discovery of this colossal fraud is a mere curtain-raiser to a chilling world
of ugly skeletons dating back to the assassination of a U.S. senator in a
Washington hotel sauna, skeletons connected to riveting sex scandals in high
places, skeletons the FBI and political king-makers will kill for...
The Hook - {Book Excerpt}
The dim figure lurked in the dusking patch of tangled shrubbery until
darkness enveloped him. Then he choked and swore and frothed at the mouth, and went
down on all fours. After a while, he clambered out of the shrubbery like a
ghost, picked himself up, and wiped his hand across his brow. Tall, with an
athletic build, he covered his hands with fleeced gloves and masked his face
with a hood. He had a definite presence in spite of the aura of repulsion that
swelled around him like foul breath. For a moment, he stood in death-like
silence in a navy hooded sweatshirt, a pair of matching pants, and black
running shoes. His dark brown eyes studied his environment like a bloodhound
determined to unearth a misplaced object without losing its sense of smell. 
A short distance away, small cylindrical light bulbs cast an eerie glow over the
lush greenery of Glennon Park, capturing its beauty in a halo of kaleidoscopic
brilliance. And then a throng of men in fancy tee shirts and short pants
intermixed with women in
jeans and sleeveless tops whisked into
view. The dim figure, hearing their muffled voices over the sound of the
fountain’s cascading waters, stiffened. Like him, the fountain stood in an
unlit area of the park. Surrounded by luxuriant shrubs, it was the place where
randy youths who often exploited the shadows for romantic mischief loved to
loiter.
But on this particular night,
there were no lovers necking by the fountain, something else had taken their place.
A black diamond Cadillac stood beside the fountain. The unusual sight caused
the dim figure’s hands to shake with excitement. Cars were not allowed that far
into the park, so whatever fantasies within the limits of human accomplishment the
Cadillac’s driver had conceived, this was the wrong night for it, he mused. This will be my last murder, he decided, the
climax of a long, enterprising career as the greatest hitman of all time. He was a killer so efficient and so elusive
that even the FBI nicknamed him Shadow of
Death for his uncanny ability to dissolve into a penumbra after every hit.
He looked up and recognized
the wonderful head of hair and the slender, sensual neck as the lone occupant
of the Cadillac appeared in silhouette against the fountain. His pulse
quickened at once. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief and contemplated the
lady’s mesmerizing beauty. Thinking of her now as a victim seemed odd to him.
He had loved her once; in fact, he still loved her, a reality that put him in a
quandary—a lethal clash between his obsession and his
survival instinct. The survival instinct,
he knew, had to win, for between them now stood the only thing that love could
not subdue—a dark secret.
The Shadow of Death moved with stealth in
the semi-darkness toward the Cadillac,
his hands shaking with excitement with every step he took. His only accomplice was his own shadow, perceptible to no eye but his.
It seemed innocuous even to him, like a specter, only there to see, not to arbitrate.
It moved when the killer moved and stopped when he did, like a minion with no
initiative of its own, an android programmed to repeat the action of its
mentor, as only a ghost would, only to be saddled thereafter with the damning knowledge of the truth, a truth that
would elude the rest of the world—an everlasting witness, a ghost that would
never die.
There was
deafening silence inside the Cadillac. All around it, darkness closed in as
slowly and unfalteringly as the approaching evil. The killer’s face was impassive,
his heartbeat regular, but his muscles were taut as he strained to open the
driver’s door with his gloved hand.
She did not see
him, could not see him, because she was leaning face downward on the steering
wheel.
Gripped by a morbid fascination with death, he stared down at her, the roaring tension
inside him silenced by his cold determination. Everything would depend on this
moment, this act, he mulled over, staring around the fountain. He wanted no
interruption and there was none. He reached for her throat, giving her
no chance to react.
There must be no error, he steeled himself against the guilt he knew was
coming. His pressure on her throat was fierce. Time, thoughts, fear, regrets,
all ceased to exist as an eternity seemed to roll by in a matter of seconds. And
then relief flooded his being.
It was over, he
almost smiled. It bore the mark of his usual professional touch—smooth, fast,
painless, and very peaceful...
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