Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) by Douglas Wickard Page B
Authors: Douglas Wickard
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The last thing Janice witnessed before leaving the office was Louis picking up the telephone.
June 15, 2007
2:22 AM
Friday
11
Dan Hammer was an honorable man. But, he wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes, like everybody. Dan thought it had to do with timing. Or possibly… opportunity.
Did Dan know how taken he would be with Dr. Garrison?
Did he understand the seriousness of Angie Kessler and her violent attack? Absolutely. It would have been downright stupid to say he didn’t. After all, he was the one who played by the rules, never cheated and hardly every cussed. A squirrel was on the loose and it was his job to find him.
So, what happened?
Between arriving at Old Towne Road and the ground floor exit of the hospital, when he touched Dr. Garrison’s hand, initiating a friendly handshake. What was all that about?
A light rain coated the windshield of his Plymouth as he crossed the James Island Bridge. Actually, it was more like a fine mist. Fog was rolling in over the lowlands. It caused him to use his windshield wipers and drive slower than usual. He was enjoying his sudden bout of quiet time. Solitude. No radio. No static. No FM.
The hypnotic motion of the wipers kept him company. The scanner blinked from channel to channel, red pinpricks of light exploding like tiny flares inside its black metal frame. The night dispatcher was transmitting intermittent calls, each more jumbled than the next. As Dan reached over to turn down the volume, he wondered why he never played a musical instrument as a kid. Interesting the things one thinks about when alone.
Sometimes, Dan surprised himself.
Heading west on Highway 61 en route to Old Towne Road, Dan once again reflected on his meeting with Dr. Garrison. It poked into his consciousness, like the headlights peeking through the wet murkiness from the opposite side of the median. What time was it anyway? Dan looked at his watch with its green glow-in-the-dark hands. After two. He yawned. It was that “in-between time.” “Dead time.” Like flying. That patch of space between takeoff and landing when there were no interruptions, no conversations, no cell phones. Free air. Dan craved it. It allowed him an opportunity to ruminate. Think things over. Create theories. If he enjoyed writing more, he would keep a journal. His brain was very methodical. A machine, almost. He collected information and immediately began organizing. Prioritizing. Call it “mental triage.” Columns appeared. Numbers. Tools showed up, like on a computer. He could bold, highlight, and underline…it all sounded crazy.
Dan rubbed a small circular patch on his side window. He glanced out into the darkness. Tonight, his attention was far away, far from where it should be. A monster was loose. So why weren’t his thoughts with Angie? Or Angie’s perpetrator? Her mutilated body?
His mood was mirroring the weather. And, of all things, he was reflecting on his brief encounter with Dr. Garrison. Again. And in such high definition detail. The way she wet her lips in the middle of a sentence. The sheer force of her, the stamina she exuded when explaining herself. The crease in her forehead each time her undivided attention was on Dan. Direct and focused, she listened, her interest keen. Disciplined. Facial features that didn’t require makeup, defined only by sharp lines and soft curves. She carried off both extremes very well.
Her presence stole too much of his time, too much of his attention.
Focus Dan. Keep your thoughts centered.
On Angie. Little Angie. Angie needed all of his concentration right
June 15, 2007
2:22 AM
Friday
11
Dan Hammer was an honorable man. But, he wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes, like everybody. Dan thought it had to do with timing. Or possibly… opportunity.
Did Dan know how taken he would be with Dr. Garrison?
Did he understand the seriousness of Angie Kessler and her violent attack? Absolutely. It would have been downright stupid to say he didn’t. After all, he was the one who played by the rules, never cheated and hardly every cussed. A squirrel was on the loose and it was his job to find him.
So, what happened?
Between arriving at Old Towne Road and the ground floor exit of the hospital, when he touched Dr. Garrison’s hand, initiating a friendly handshake. What was all that about?
A light rain coated the windshield of his Plymouth as he crossed the James Island Bridge. Actually, it was more like a fine mist. Fog was rolling in over the lowlands. It caused him to use his windshield wipers and drive slower than usual. He was enjoying his sudden bout of quiet time. Solitude. No radio. No static. No FM.
The hypnotic motion of the wipers kept him company. The scanner blinked from channel to channel, red pinpricks of light exploding like tiny flares inside its black metal frame. The night dispatcher was transmitting intermittent calls, each more jumbled than the next. As Dan reached over to turn down the volume, he wondered why he never played a musical instrument as a kid. Interesting the things one thinks about when alone.
Sometimes, Dan surprised himself.
Heading west on Highway 61 en route to Old Towne Road, Dan once again reflected on his meeting with Dr. Garrison. It poked into his consciousness, like the headlights peeking through the wet murkiness from the opposite side of the median. What time was it anyway? Dan looked at his watch with its green glow-in-the-dark hands. After two. He yawned. It was that “in-between time.” “Dead time.” Like flying. That patch of space between takeoff and landing when there were no interruptions, no conversations, no cell phones. Free air. Dan craved it. It allowed him an opportunity to ruminate. Think things over. Create theories. If he enjoyed writing more, he would keep a journal. His brain was very methodical. A machine, almost. He collected information and immediately began organizing. Prioritizing. Call it “mental triage.” Columns appeared. Numbers. Tools showed up, like on a computer. He could bold, highlight, and underline…it all sounded crazy.
Dan rubbed a small circular patch on his side window. He glanced out into the darkness. Tonight, his attention was far away, far from where it should be. A monster was loose. So why weren’t his thoughts with Angie? Or Angie’s perpetrator? Her mutilated body?
His mood was mirroring the weather. And, of all things, he was reflecting on his brief encounter with Dr. Garrison. Again. And in such high definition detail. The way she wet her lips in the middle of a sentence. The sheer force of her, the stamina she exuded when explaining herself. The crease in her forehead each time her undivided attention was on Dan. Direct and focused, she listened, her interest keen. Disciplined. Facial features that didn’t require makeup, defined only by sharp lines and soft curves. She carried off both extremes very well.
Her presence stole too much of his time, too much of his attention.
Focus Dan. Keep your thoughts centered.
On Angie. Little Angie. Angie needed all of his concentration right
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