Lit Fuse (A Tanner Novel Book 44) Read online

  “We can discuss it after breakfast.”

  Cody and Sara nodded. They understood that whatever news Franny had was not something she wanted to reveal in front of two young children.

  Franny looked down at her meal and pushed her plate away. She had been planning to heat up what was left of her breakfast in the microwave, but she had lost her appetite.

  Marian finished eating, and Lucas had already cleaned his plate. It was no wonder; part of the meal had been French toast, one of Lucas’s favorite foods.

  “I’m going to take the children into the living room,” Sara said. “I’ll put on one of the videos they both like and will be right back.”

  Franny nodded and began clearing the table of dishes. Cody helped her, and he remained silent until Sara returned. Whatever Franny’s bad news was about, Cody was sure she would appreciate only having to tell it once.

  When Sara returned a few minutes later, the three of them sat at the table and Franny revealed her news.

  “My Cousin Boyd passed away. They think he had a heart attack.”

  Cody joined Sara in giving Franny condolences on her loss while feeling a degree of loss himself. When he was a boy growing up on the ranch, Franny’s cousin, Boyd LaMar, had been a neighbor and one of his best friends.

  “Was Boyd in bad health?” Cody asked.

  Franny nodded while wiping away tears with a tissue. “He was a smoker and overweight. He had gotten heavier the last time I saw him, after his divorce.”

  “Did he have any children?” Sara asked.

  “No, but his mom, my Aunt Patty, is still alive. She’s in a nursing home; that was she who called and… I have a favor to ask.”

  “What is it?” Sara said.

  “I need to take some time off to see to Boyd’s funeral arrangements and spend time with my Aunt Patty. I know it’s short notice but—”

  “Of course you can have the time off,” Cody said.

  “I feel bad about the timing, because of the trip you had planned.”

  Cody and Sara were going to visit Sara’s aunt in California, along with Cody’s brother, Caleb. They were to leave in four days and be gone for over a week.

  “Don’t worry about our trip,” Cody said. “We’ll be fine. And take as much time as you need.”

  Franny reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  “Take today off too,” Sara said. “You’ll need to prepare for your trip.”

  “I could use the time. I told my aunt that I would inform the rest of the family… about Boyd. We’re somewhat scattered around the country, but I’m sure that most of them will want to come to the funeral.”

  After Franny went to her room to make phone calls in private, Sara looked over at Cody and saw that he was wearing a pensive expression.

  “You used to be friends with Franny’s cousin, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, until his family moved away. I have good memories of him, although we were just kids the last time I saw him.”

  Sara leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry for your loss too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We won’t be together, but Franny will still be in California when we arrive there. Do you know where her cousin was living?”

  Cody stirred the last of his coffee before lifting the cup. “Franny mentioned it once. She said that Boyd had made his home in the city of San Padre.”

  On Wednesday, Joshua Mullins and his girlfriend, Haley, were in San Padre.

  The two had traveled there on their own to get a look at the city, even though they were to join the other members of their group on a bus trip there the next day. The hit and run trial of Kyle Anderson was winding down. Anderson was facing second-degree murder charges in the death of Sharonda Washington. It would soon be up to the jury to determine Kyle Anderson’s fate.

  A poll conducted by a news station revealed that over ninety percent of those asked believed that Kyle Anderson was guilty of leaving the scene of the accident. There were few who bought his story that he had gone to his father to get aid for his victim, Sharonda Washington. Most believed that he went to his father to get help for himself. At some point, Kyle must have realized that leaving the scene after hitting a child was beyond wrong, and a criminal act.

  Most felt that Kyle Anderson had panicked and driven away from the scene. Going to his father for help was just part of a lifelong pattern. Anderson had been in trouble as a youth of fifteen when he and two of his friends were accused of shoplifting. His father, Dr. Anderson, had intervened then to make certain that Kyle hadn’t faced any consequences. Four years later, when Kyle was a freshman in college, his father came to his rescue again when one of Kyle’s classmates accused him of drugging her and taking advantage of her—as in rape.

  The young woman later recanted her accusation and left the state to settle in Florida. It came out during the trial that she had accepted a forty-thousand-dollar payment from Dr. Anderson to do so.

  Kyle Anderson didn’t go to his father on the day he ran over Sharonda Washington to get medical help for the child. Running to Daddy was just simply something Kyle did whenever he was in trouble.

  Joshua Mullins and Haley were parked in a scenic overlook along the highway. Joshua pointed out the large homes that were situated on a hill that overlooked the ocean at their rear. The luxury homes were separated from the highway by a wide stream and a high wall. The one road leading to them was guarded 24/7 and there were also iron gates blocking the way.

  “I bet each one of those homes cost five million or more.”

  Haley brushed aside strands of her blue hair from in front of her face. “I’d say closer to ten million. And see that large white house near the barrier wall? That’s where Kyle Anderson lives with his father.”

  Joshua whistled as he took in the three-story home. He was too far away to make out details, but he could get a sense of the home’s size. “I knew the Andersons were rich, but I didn’t think they were that rich.”

  “Being a plastic surgeon brings in the big bucks,” Haley said. She was right, of course, but no one had handed Dr. Anderson his practice. He had spent four years in medical school and an additional six years in a residency at an inner-city hospital in Los Angeles. After practicing medicine for more than a decade, he decided to specialize in cosmetic surgery. His son might be a waste of space, but Dr. Anderson wasn’t. He donated to worthy causes and gave of his time and skill to help the poor who suffered disfigurement due to accidents or birth defects. Joshua and Haley were aware of none of these facts. Dr. Anderson was rich, and the rich were evil in their view. The one exception was whoever was behind the funding given to Die Fistulous. That unknown benefactor had their priorities straight as far as Joshua and Haley were concerned.

  They returned to Joshua’s car and drove deeper into the city of San Padre. The business district was in an area that took up less than twenty square blocks, but the stores and restaurants were on the higher end of the spectrum of retail establishments. One of the storefronts was the real estate office that had belonged to the late Boyd LaMar, Franny’s cousin.

  There was also a park with a manufactured lake. A family of ducks was in the lake and the park had bike paths and walking trails.

  As they continued driving, it wasn’t long before Joshua and Haley came upon an area that was rundown. When contrasted with the newer section of the city, the difference was like night and day.

  San Padre had once been a thriving community of blue-collar workers, but that was decades earlier, before most of the factories in the region moved into Mexico where labor rates were cheaper.

  The old downtown area was littered with vacant storefronts. What remained were discount stores, pawn shops, and several offices occupied by bail bondsmen. The streets were dirty, graffiti marred the few mailboxes that remained, and several buildings displayed signs of having suffered a fire.

  Despite the poverty, the area was home to several thousand people who were occupying the sub
sidized housing projects. These weren’t the brick multi-floor tenements that were so common in many cities. They were sprawling, one-story wooden structures that took up two hundred acres. Their beige stucco surfaces were crumbling, and they were uniform in their appearance. There were twenty-two building complexes in all, and they contained units ranging in size from seven hundred square feet to twelve hundred square feet. Over the years, the section of the city had come to be known as Flat Town.

  The one-story buildings in Flat Town had been built back in the 1960s and had seen better days. The crime rate and drug use in the area was several times what they had been when the structures were built. As for the people, they looked to be either high on something, beaten down by life, or both, with here and there a man or a woman who was engaged in work or on their way home from a job.

  Joshua shook his head in disgust as they drove through the narrow streets between the complexes. “Look at this poverty. And only a few miles away, assholes like Kyle Anderson are living in mansions overlooking the ocean.”

  Haley had been watching a group of children play in a vacant lot that was full of trash. She pointed them out to Joshua. “Those kids are about the same age as Sharonda Washington. Imagine hitting one of them with your car and just driving off like you had run over an empty soda can.”

  “The jury will find Anderson guilty. They have to.”

  “But what if they don’t?”

  Joshua smiled. “That’s why we’ll be here. The group I mean, Die Fistulous. If the jury doesn’t deliver justice, we’ll do it.”

  “I hope they find him guilty. Otherwise, things are going to get seriously violent.”

  Joshua waved a hand around the interior of the car, indicating the slum beyond the windshield. “If it takes violence to change this, then I’m down with it. If Anderson is allowed to go free, I’m going to suggest to Naya that we head to those homes on that hill back there and burn them all to the ground.”

  “Oh, Joshua, that would send a message, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’re damn right it would,” Joshua said, and he found himself wishing for the jury to find Anderson not guilty.

  Naya was in San Padre as well. And it would shock Joshua and Haley if they knew where she was. She was at a meeting being held in one of the opulent homes on the hill that looked out over the ocean. Naya and twenty-eight of her cohorts were meeting with the man who’d recruited them, Morgan Miller.

  Naya wasn’t a true believer and an advocate for social justice. She and the others were hired by Morgan Miller to act as professional rabble-rousers. They had been given the task of recruiting people into the organization that Miller had named Die Fistulous. For every person they brought in they earned forty dollars. Naya had recruited thousands of them since coming to work for Miller a year earlier and found it easy to do so. There was no shortage of young people who felt disenfranchised, marginalized, or disregarded by society. Had she been looking for those that were self-motivated, ambitious, hard-working, and capable of critical thinking, she might have never made a cent.

  Morgan Miller—which was not his real name—was working for others and had made a career in the corporate world as a fixer. He was forty-one, tall, handsome, and when dressed in a suit he looked like an ad executive. Today he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  Naya and the other coordinators were scattered around a living room that granted a view of the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was fifteen hundred square feet and had a fieldstone fireplace that was ten feet wide. The fireplace was dormant, but it made for a nice backdrop as Miller paced in front of it while speaking. He had a rich voice that carried well throughout the room.

  “I have a source in the courthouse who tells me that Kyle Anderson’s case will be going to the jury no later than tomorrow morning. The trial has only lasted this long because of the endless expert witnesses the defense has brought in. My source also expects the jury to return a verdict within a matter of hours.”

  A man in the back of the room raised his hand as he asked a question. “What happens if they find Anderson guilty? Our people are ready to riot if he’s found innocent, but if he’s not set free, they’ll have no reason to be pissed anymore.”

  Miller smiled. “In that case, we switch to Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  Miller’s smile turned enigmatic. “You don’t need to know that. But I can assure you that your people will be given a reason to riot no matter what the verdict is. When they do, be sure to steer them toward that list of targets I gave you.”

  A woman on the right spoke up. She looked like a college student, but Naya knew she was about thirty.

  “If I know my people, they’re going to want to come here and tear these houses down, especially the one that belongs to Kyle Anderson’s father.”

  Miller was nodding. “I realize that, and so does my employer. That’s why it’s up to all of you to direct your people to the targets I’ve selected. It shouldn’t be difficult. Most of them will be more interested in looting than in causing Anderson’s father grief. If they do come up here, they won’t stay for long. There will be extra security on duty, and they’ll have orders to use deadly force if necessary.”

  Another man spoke up. He was a black guy with a large afro. “A lot of people are going to die either way. The cops won’t be holding back once the riot breaks out. Shit, they might even start it.”

  Miller and Naya shared a look after hearing that comment, then Miller nodded in agreement with it.

  “Yes, the police can become overzealous sometimes. Does anyone have any questions?”

  A woman with short blonde hair and thick glasses raised her hand. “When do we get our last payment?”

  “You’ll be paid again the day after the verdict comes out. The money will be delivered to you in the usual way, along with a bonus for the good work you’ve done. Any more questions?”

  There were none, and Miller told everyone to go down to the beach and enjoy themselves.

  “There’s an open bar and catered food. If you want a bathing suit or need to use a bathroom, you’ll find both in the cabana near the shore. Enjoy yourselves, people.”

  Naya stayed behind. And after the others left, she joined Miller by the fireplace, where they embraced and kissed. Unlike the others, Naya had worked with Miller before and was his lover. She knew the true purpose behind his forming of the protest group Die Fistulous.

  Miller’s employer was a corporation named Hexalcorp that didn’t give a damn about social justice or inequality. What Hexalcorp cared about was profit and the expansion of their power. Once a riot broke out, the rioters would be directed toward targets chosen by Miller’s employer.

  Those targets included the region where the low-income housing was located. That was valuable land, land that could be put to better use and turn a profit many times larger than what it cost to fund Die Fistulous.

  The state was in the process of connecting San Padre to a second interstate highway as a remedy for traffic congestion in the area. The other interstate highway became a parking lot during each rush hour, and it was thought that connecting the city with a second freeway would ease the traffic woes.

  Hexalcorp saw the state’s road plans as a grand opportunity. With easier access available to the area, San Padre could accommodate a new enterprise that would bring an inflow of fresh capital into the region. The only problem was that there was little empty land available. That was when Hexalcorp decided that Flat Town’s two hundred acres were too valuable to be used by the poor.

  They had instigated riots in other cities and states to make the changes they needed. They could do the same in San Padre.

  It wouldn’t happen overnight, or even within a year, but eventually, the properties obtained for pennies on the dollar after the riot would be renovated and new development would take place. Within a few years, the slums of San Padre would be replaced with a hospital, or perhaps become the site of a new sports arena. If a m
edical center was built on the land, there would also be new buildings to house the offices of medical specialists that invariably set up shop around hospitals. Land that had been used to house the area’s most unproductive citizens would generate new wealth for decades.

  Miller’s employer understood the fact that people died during the riots they instigated, while others lost their homes or businesses. It wasn’t even a factor to Hexalcorp, the corporation funding the endeavor. There were always winners and losers in life. That too was a fact.

  After sharing a kiss, Naya walked over to the whiteboard Miller had used to list the areas that the group would target. At the top of the board, Miller had underlined the name of their group, Die Fistulous. Naya pointed at the words.

  “What does that mean, Die Fistulous? Does it even have a meaning?”

  Miller chuckled. “I came up with that. It’s an anagram.” He moved over to the board and used an eraser to wipe away what was written beneath the group’s name, then, one by one, he rearranged the letters in DIE FISTULOUS and wrote them below, while connecting the letters with the corresponding ones above them.

  U-S-E-F-U-L I-D-I-O-T-S, which spelt out Useful Idiots.

  Naya laughed as she pointed at the board. “Oh Morgan, that’s hilarious.”

  “And true. The people you recruit have no idea that they’re being used by the rich they hate so much. Thanks to them, the rich will get richer, and you and I will profit as well.”

  Naya took Miller by the hand. “Let’s go join the party. I could use a drink.”

  Miller locked up the home as they left so that no one could enter it while he wasn’t there. He had it for the rest of the month and then would be moving on. There was a racial incident in Kentucky where three white police officers were accused of beating a black man to death. There was prime real estate there being taken up by a peach orchard. Miller would see to it that the trees in that orchard were burned to ashes, and the land’s rich owners vilified for siding with the cops.