I’m sure I’ve forgotten a ton of potential inmates here; my apologies in advance, and please go easy on me during my sentencing hearing.
Living nearby, in a private residence near the secret prison—all Alcatraz-style, natch—is my family: Meredith, Parker, and Sarah, who are incredibly understanding when I disappear into the prison of my own making (in the basement office of our northeast Philadelphia home) for long stretches of time.
And finally, a word of thanks to my former high school English teacher James Roach, who showed us Cool Hand Luke during a series of classes one week. Wish you’d stop bein’ so good to me, cap’n…
About the Author
Duane Swierczynski is the author of several crime thrillers, including Fun and Games, Book One of the Hardie Trilogy. He’s written for Marvel Comics’s Punisher MAX, Cable, Deadpool, Immortal Iron Fist, Werewolf by Night, and Black Widow series, and has collaborated with CSI creator Anthony E. Zuiker on the bestselling Level 26 series of “digi-novels.” He lives in the City of Brotherly Love with his wife, son, and daughter. Visit him at www.duaneswierczynski.com or twitter.com/swierczy.
…and what about Charlie Hardie?
In March 2012, Charlie Hardie’s story continues in Point and Shoot, the conclusion of the Hardie Trilogy. Following is an excerpt from the novel’s opening pages.
This isn’t going to have a happy ending.
—Morgan Freeman, Se7en
Philadelphia—Now
Of all the shocks Kendra Hardie had endured over the past few hours—the dropped call from her son, the chilling messages on the alarm keypad, the thudding footfalls on the roof, the wrenching sounds in the very guts of her house, the missing gun, and the awful realization of how quickly her situation had become hopeless—none of that compared to the shock of hearing that voice on the other end of the phone line:
“It’s me.”
Kendra’s mind froze. There was a moment of temporal dislocation, distant memory colliding with the present.
Me.
Could that really be…you?
It sounds like you, but…
No.
Can’t be you.
But then how do I know, deep in my soul, that it is you?
“Are you there? Listen to me, Kendra, I know this is going to sound crazy, but you have to listen to me. You and the boy are in serious danger. You need to get out of the house now and just start driving. Drive anywhere. Don’t tell me where, because they’re definitely listening, but just go, go as fast as you fucking can. I’ll find you guys when it’s safe.”
Kendra swallowed hard, looked at the face of the satellite receiver. 3:13 a.m. A little more than four hours since she had stepped into her own home and into a living nightmare. Eighteen hours since she had last seen her son. And almost eight years since she’d last heard her ex-husband’s voice. Yet there it was on the line, at the very nexus of the nightmare.
“Kendra? Are you there? Can you hear me?”
“I’m here, Charlie. But I can’t leave.”
“You have to leave, Kendra, please just trust me on this…”
“I can’t leave because they’ve already called and told me I can’t leave.”
Earlier in the evening Kendra had been out with a friend downtown, at a Cuban restaurant on Second Street in Old City, but found that she wasn’t really into the food, didn’t want to finish her mojito, and was tired of hearing about her friend’s first-world problems, such as problems with interior decorators and the headache of maintaining three vacation homes on the Delaware shore. Kendra excused herself and just…left. Paid for half of the tab and split, handed the valet her stub, and drove back to the northern suburbs, leaving poor Derek to complain to somebody else about having too much money. Maybe one of the Cuban-exile waiters would give a shit.
It had been that kind of listless, annoyance-filled week, and Kendra now felt foolish for thinking that a night of moderate drinking and inane conversation could turn that around.
During the drive home her son, CJ, had called. He told her he was just calling to check in—which was just about as unusual as the president of the United States dropping you an e-mail just to see how everything was going. CJ didn’t check in, ever. As CJ grew to manhood, he became increasingly like his father, with the delightful ability to cut off all emotional circuitry with the flick of an invisible switch. All the abuse her son had been dishing out over the years had hardened her into exactly the kind of mother she’d vowed never to become. The kind of mother who said things like,
“Cut the shit, CJ. What happened?”
“Nothing, Mom. I just…”
Mom. Oooh, that was another red flag. CJ hadn’t called her Mom in…months? CJ barely spoke to her, and when he did, it was little more than a grunt.
A tiny ball of worry had begun to form in Kendra’s stomach. Was he hurt? Was he calling from a hospital or a police station? Her body tensed, and she prepared to change direction and gun the accelerator.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at home, everything’s fine. Look, Mom, I know this is going to sound weird, but…what did you do with Dad’s old stuff?”
“What? Why are you asking me about that?”
First “Mom,” now…Dad? For the past seven years CJ hadn’t referred to his father as anything but “asshole” or “cocksucker” or “psycho.” Before Kendra had a chance to hear CJ’s answer, the phone beeped and went dead. NO SERVICE.
Kendra continued in the same direction but gunned the accelerator just the same, all the way up the Schuylkill Expressway, then through the endless traffic lights up Broad Street, and finally along the hills and curves of Old York Road out to the fringes of Abington Township. Home. She didn’t bother pulling the car into the garage, leaving it parked out on the street. Something in CJ’s voice…no, everything about CJ’s voice was completely wrong. Dad’s old stuff? What was that about? Why did he suddenly want to see the few possessions his father had left behind? The thought that CJ might be drinking again crossed Kendra’s mind, but his voice wasn’t slurred. If anything, it was completely clear and focused, in stark contrast to the moody grunts she usually received.
And whenever CJ did go on a binge, his heart filled with raw hate for his father, not fuzzy nostalgia.
“CJ?”
The alarm unit on the wall to the left of the door beeped insistently until Kendra keyed in the code. She closed the door behind her, locked it, then reengaged the system. It beeped again. All set.
“CJ, answer me!”
And then began the nightmare.
No CJ, not anywhere. No trace of him in his room, no telltale glasses or dishes in the sink. The house was exactly as Kendra had left it when she left for Old City earlier in the evening. Had CJ even called from home? The call had come from his cell, so he could be anywhere right now.
Not knowing what else to do, Kendra tried him again on her phone, but still—NO SERVICE. What was that about? She could understand a dropped call when speeding down the Schuylkill, as if a guardian angel had tweaked the signal to prevent you from sparking a twelve-car pileup on the most dangerous road in Philadelphia. But in her own home?