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Chapter One

Monday, February 2023

“If I had known that I was going to die today, I probably wouldn’t have even bothered to wake up,” Jason Logan thought to himself as he opened his eyes and stared at the bedroom ceiling. But, like most mornings, instead, he awoke frustrated, unsettled, and pissed off. The same damn recurring dream. It could have best been described as a nightmare. He was frustrated because he had just suffered another lousy night of sleep, and God knows he needed rest. He was unsettled because it was like all the other nights. He never made it to the end of the dream; he remembered hearing what he thought was a gunshot. He presumed that it had always meant that he had died. What made matters worse, he couldn’t ever recognize where he was.  He was pissed off because the years of therapy had not helped. The VA had paid for most of the psychiatric help but not all. The doctors just couldn’t rid him of this almost nightly torture. Their diagnosis, of course, was Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD.  That was just a cop-out, an easy diagnosis—a no-brainer for the doctor. Logan felt that, somehow, it was more than that. The alarm on his phone was set for 6:00 am, but he turned it off because, again, it was not needed. It will not startle him this morning. He rolled out of bed to his right, acknowledged that beautiful Kimberly was still sleeping, did twenty deep knee bends, followed by forty push-ups, and began his morning grooming ritual. His cell phone, still connected to the charger on his bedside table, flashed an unexpected sequence of lights that grabbed his attention. “That’s odd,” thought Logan, mesmerizing at the brightly glowing screen. The flashing stopped suddenly when he picked it up. Also, there was a late-night text from his buddy, Paul Hunter, that he hadn’t seen. He decided to deal with that later. He felt the sudden need to hurry, get ready, and head to the office. 

It was an unseasonably warm February morning. Logan had no scheduled meetings today, so khakis and a long-sleeved sports shirt should be just fine. He decided a sweater would suffice if he had to be outside. Having lived most of his 43 years in Boston, he couldn’t remember such a daybreak. The sunrise was clothed in a low, dense fog that seemed to smother everything. Concerned about possible weather-related traffic delays, he skipped breakfast to allow extra travel time to the office. Kimberly was just waking when he leaned over to kiss her goodbye. 

“Trouble sleeping again?

“Yeah. The usual. And nothing new.”

“Chelsea up yet?”

“Don’t think so. Doesn’t she need to be there a little early for a Debate Team practice?”

“Oh, right. I think so.”

“Well, I’m leaving a little early. I’ll knock on her door and check on her.”

“Thanks, Sweetie. See ya’ after work. Love ya’.”

“Yep. Back at ya’. Should be home normal time.”

Making his way down the hall, he paused at Chelsea’s door and gave his familiar rhythmic five-rapping knock. Chelsea immediately cried back in her normal, irritated voice, “Yes, Dad. I’m up!”

Still not used to his new title, Jason smiled and gave two additional raps. “See ya’. Enjoy your day!”

Loading up the usual work stuff in his SUV, he opened the garage door and headed for the freeway. The commute should take about 30 minutes. His typical game plan was to be at the office by 6:30 am, and he was on schedule. Reaching into his brown paper lunch bag, he chose to violate its contents by partaking in an apple that would have made a perfect afternoon snack. With a big smile, he spotted Paul Hunter’s unmistakable burgundy red 1968 Porsche 912 as he cautiously entered the freeway in front of him. “What a coincidence! And when we reach the office, don’t forget to ask him about his text from last night.” Jason had always loved that car and would have recognized it anywhere. This would be a slow and deliberate 20 miles. Surprisingly, I-93 was not very congested for a Monday morning, and with the lack of visibility, he was sure his neighbor did not know that he was the pair of headlights in his rearview mirror. Jason has known Paul Hunter for years. They had served together in Iraq, lived in the same neighborhood in Medford, worked in the same newspaper office, and played golf together almost every Saturday morning once the weather finally warmed in April. Still, right behind Paul, Jason exited the freeway at State Street. After about half a mile and two traffic lights, the two approached home plate: One Exchange Place. As they arrived at the intersection of State Street and Congress, just on the east side of the newspaper building, the traffic signals suddenly freaked out and started flashing erratically, causing Paul to throw on his brakes and squeal to a stop. Jason barely missed rear-ending him. They were the only cars at the intersection. No one else got caught by this apparent traffic light malfunction. Wouldn’t you know they got tripped up right at the finish line? Jason could see Paul adjusting the red earbuds he always wore through his slightly tinted back window. He was probably listening to some ’70s rock and still hadn’t noticed him. He looked around in confusion and then put his Porsche in park. Logan stared at the flashing signals for exactly 15 seconds, and like Paul, Jason also put his Jeep Grand Cherokee in park.  He decided to say hi to his disoriented friend. Opening his lunch bag, he carefully replaced the half-masticated apple core, picked up the bag with his right hand, opened the door, and walked quickly to Paul’s driver’s side. The traffic lights were still flashing out of control. Knocking on the window startled Paul, but he quickly recovered, recognized Jason, and rolled down his window to say hello. Jason returned his smile, reached into the lunch bag, pulled out his silver polished Beretta 92FS with a 9mm silencer, and put two quick, point-blank slugs in his forehead. It was quick; it was easy, and no witnesses. He dropped the pistol in the sewer drain at his feet and walked swiftly back to his Jeep. His SUV made a slight squeal as he made a U-turn and pulled away, triumphant and unnoticed. Jason took a right turn and accelerated back toward the freeway. He reached into his brown bag again, removed the already browning and injured apple, took a slow, satisfying, celebratory bite, and smiled. Back on I-93. 

—————————————————————————————

 The silence-piercing ring of Jason’s cell phone startled him. The shock instantly transported him back to reality. He opened his eyes and discovered he was parked at a truck stop just off some freeway. Fumbling to find the screaming device, the phone displayed a number he didn’t recognize. Jason answered, “Hello.” Someone muttered something that he didn’t understand. Confused, he hung up. Jason studied his surroundings and identified the area. He was about 25 miles from downtown, almost to Auburndale. It was now 8:45 am, and he had no idea how he got there or what had happened for the last two hours. 

His phone rang again. Still feeling cloudy, he answered because caller ID showed his work number. 

 “Hello, this is Jason Logan.” 

 “Logan, where the hell are you?” he recognized the voice of his News Chief, James Parker. 

 Thinking on his feet, “Sorry, Chief. Uhhhh … I am feeling a little under the weather this morning.” 

 “Well, I don’t care about your weather. I need you in here right now!” 

 “Yes, on the way. Be there in 30 minutes.” 

 To help shake the cobwebs, Jason quickly ran inside the truck stop and hit the vacant restroom. After he relieved himself, he splashed cold water over his face and dried it with a handful of paper towels. He stood for a moment and looked into his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. “Come on, Logan; you haven’t had a blackout session since (Iraq.) Got to pull it together.” 

 He stopped on his way back to his SUV and grabbed a donut and a small cup of coffee. “Black coffee and some sugar-covered carbs. That should help.” He added a lid to ensure that he would not be wearing a coffee stain when he got to the office. He fired up the engine, backed out, got back on the turnpike, and headed toward downtown. The coffee and donut helped, but he arrived and parked in his assigned spot, still lost and confused. Jason noticed a lot of unusual commotion as he entered the building lobby. There were three police officers on the elevator as he pushed the button for the 5th floor. When the door opened, he saw a swarm of people and heard loud chatter. Sharon, the receptionist, spotted him getting off the elevator. She excused herself, worked through the multitude, and anxiously grabbed his left arm. 

 “Chief told me to get you to the conference room pronto.” 

 “What the hell is all this? What’s up?” 

 “Haven’t you heard? Paul Hunter was shot this morning right by our building.” 

 “Oh, my God!” 

 “Yes, gruesome. Apparent murder. Chief wants you on the case. Get in there!” 

 “Okay. On my way.”