Rattlesnake Island: A Contemporary Thriller

by Randall N. Dunn

Overview

Lake Winnipesaukee in central New Hampshire is a paradise on earth. It’s not only beautiful but also peaceful—a perfect place to unwind—until a ruthless killer starts taking innocent lives. Following a horrific double homicide, the small communities surrounding the lake are wondering who the next victim will be and what the killer wants.

Russian-American police officer Vanya Petrova is enraged that someone has shattered paradise on her lake community. She seems to be the central figure in this murderer’s bloody rampage. Vanya suspects she’s somehow acquainted with the sick man responsible for the bloodshed—that the whole mess might involve a Russian crime boss who seeks revenge.

The killer won’t settle for inciting fear in Vanya’s community. He wants to ruin her life too. He doesn’t necessarily want her dead; instead, he’s intent on shoving Vanya over the cliff of insanity. There is one thing, however, that he doesn’t plan on: Vanya fighting back. She stands up for her family, friends, and community, and she won’t give up without a struggle. Even if it means losing her very life.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781462065141
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	01/12/2012
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	396
File size:	493 KB

Read an Excerpt

Rattlesnake Island

A Contemporary Thriller

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By Randall N. Dunn

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Randall N. Dunn
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-6499-1

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Chapter One

Monday: Six Days

Paradise: a place of ideal beauty or loveliness. A state of delight. Paradise: Lake Winnipesaukee, central New Hampshire. Until now.

A stiff summer breeze blew off the lake as Vanya Petrova stood in the driveway of her white Cape Cod, with another package in her hands, another stunned look on her face, a single word pulsing through her mind: conundrum.

She couldn't believe it. The fifth package in as many weeks.

The first contained the front page of the Washington Post from four years ago. The lead article contained a color picture of a boat in flames. Its caption read: "Botched hostage rescue attempt." Scrawled across the bottom of the paper in blue ink were the words: "How did you like that explosion? Do you feel guilty? Don't ever forget."

She wiped her damp eyes with the palm of her hand. Living the guilt day by day, how could she forget? The very day she received the Post article was the four-year anniversary of Logan's death. And like the previous three years, she took the day off from her lake patrol duties, making the long lonely pilgrimage down to Portsmouth, spending the morning at the Russian Orthodox Church lighting candles, offering her penitence to the Lord, dipping to her knees in prayer and tears for Logan. Then she spent the afternoon praying that God would forgive her and heal her fractured soul.

From time to time over the years she tried to forget that she had killed Logan, had killed the life-long friendship with her best friends—his parents, and had killed her close relationship with Logan's grandparents. But the pain and loss were so intense—so utterly distressing—she found it impossible. Sometimes she would go a day without a thought of him, but not at night. At night, the ghastly nightmare always returned.

"Auntie Vanya, please save me from the bad men, please ... please."

She shook her head, thinking of the second package, postmarked Washington, DC. This one contained an old picture of her Russian parents—her mom eight months pregnant—standing in the Oval Office with the president and first lady, being congratulated for their harrowing defection from the Soviet Union and their service to America. Scrawled along the bottom were the words: "for your sake, these traitors were lucky to live through their defection."

She pondered the third package. It had been postmarked Reston, Virginia, and contained a picture of her as a newborn, swaddled in a pink blanket and knit cap. Her mother, with a broad smile, held her in front of Fairfax Hospital. The words written across the bottom of this one read: "You may have been born in America, but you were conceived in Afghanistan and raised as a Russian. Go back to where you belong."

Vanya considered the words. Yes, she was American by birth, but her genes, her upbringing, her life, are Russian. Yes, she loved America. It gave so much to her and her parents. But her heart, her soul, longed for Russia. If asked, she couldn't explain. All she knew is that her thoughts, dreams, and feelings are Russian. Her pulsing blood—Russian. She was an American patriot, for sure, but one simply possessed by all things Russian.

She contemplated the words written on this picture: "Go back to where you belong."

For now, I belong here. And no one is going to scare me away. I ran once. I won't run again.

A fourth package had arrived last week, tilting her world on end. It contained a picture of her standing in front of her alma mater, the towering Moscow State University. And on this picture was the message: "Moving to Russia didn't put you out of my reach. I can, and will, follow you anywhere."

What kind of person would shadow her across the globe? and why? Was it the killer on her lake? She felt her heart hammering in her chest.

Rick Barbieri approached her with a frown. "What's wrong, Vanee?"

She glanced from the latest package in her hands to her husband. "I, um ... I think the person sending me all these packages is the same person who murdered those two vacationers last week. The handwriting appears identical."

"If that's the case, I'm not gonna stand by while you're likely to be his next target. I'm arming myself with my .45 24/7."

"Um, yeah, that's probably a good call. But, no, it's not his MO. He's donking off civilians not cops. He only wants to screw with my head. For reasons unknown to me, but its working." She studied Rick. "I took this position on the Marine Patrol to get away from big city drama. But I'll tell you this, I ... um ... I'm going to find this guy and take him down."

"I'd prefer you let someone else investigate. You're too close." He cupped her cheeks in his large hands. "Vanee, your stuttering is getting worse. Which means you're under stress. Which means I'm worried for you."

"I'm sorry. Doctor Rubenstein said there's not much I can do about it. Only time will tell. Um, anyway, this is my responsibility. I think the killer murdered those people because of me. And I think he might have set me up for that hostage crisis four years ago. Why? I don't know. But I think he did it, and I, um ... I'm going to find out." She regarded him a moment. "And please shut up about my stuttering. It started after I killed Logan. And I can't stop it." She frowned. "Funny thing is, I never stutter when I speak in Russian. Strange, isn't it?"

"Sure is."

"Mmm-hmm. So, um ... if you care to learn Russian, you won't be distracted by my stuttering."

"No thanks. I'll just continue worrying for you."

She studied the small box in her latex-gloved hands. It was postmarked Moscow, Federation of Russia, and was heavier than the others. She tapped the cardboard box. "I'll send it down to the Manchester lab for a dusting."

"Maybe you'll get lucky this time."

"Doubt it. Didn't score the last four times. He's too good to leave prints." She looked for the return address, and, as with the others, there was none. She rubbed her temples. She'd been juggling a lot lately—too much. And trying to pull off the long-distance adoption of twin baby girls was at the top of the stack. She reflected on tiny Sonya and Galena and smiled. She then thought of the homicides and the lunatic sending her trinkets from her past. Is there really a connection?

She glanced at Rick. "I really don't need these packages showing up in my life right now."

"What can I do, Vanee?"

His use of her affectionate diminutive Russian name brought a smile to her face, and she responded in kind. "Honey, just please get us on that plane to Moscow on Sunday."

"I'm all over it. So whadaya think? a psychopath?"

"Um, don't know. I'm a cop not Sigmund freud. But I remember enough from my university psych classes that most psychopaths are extremely cunning."

"Not this one."

"Come again?"

"I think this guy's bulb must be about a ten-watter or whatnot if he's stalking you."

"Excuse me?"

"Think about it. You're a cop. You hold two black belts. You're a pistol and rifle marksman. SWAT certified to boot! Oh, and a master instructor of Kra ... Krav ..." He waved his hand. "What is it?"

"Krav Maga."

"Yeah, that's it. You're one dangerous weapon-system. You know that, lady?"

Vanya wondered why she felt the need to excel at everything. She was a natural overachiever, that's for sure. But there was more to it than that. There was the living hell her parents suffered under Soviet domination. And in particular during their harrowing defection through the mountains of Tajikistan and Afghanistan. As well as the horrors inflicted on her mama so many years ago. And ... and there was little Logan.

All served to ingrain into her psyche that this is a cruel world with evil people roaming its surface. She had to be prepared for anything—anything this world dished out. Especially a murderer on her lake.

Rick waved his hand in front of her. "Vanee ... you there?"

"Um, sorry. What were you saying?"

"I said ... who in their right mind would intentionally tangle with you?"

She scowled good-naturedly at him. "You obviously enjoy it."

"That's because I'm nuts."

"Exactly my point, ya big clown."

"Hmm ... But nobody else would. They'd be flushing their life down the toilet."

"Your faith in me is overrated." She held up the box and wiggled it. "Anyway, if this guy's trying to spook me, it's working." She unclipped a black folding knife from her uniform pants pocket, flicked it open, and sliced the packing tape on top of the box. She slowly opened the lid and peered inside. Whatever is in there was nested in foam packing beads. She began using the tip of her knife blade to push aside the beads.

"Wait!" Rick held her wrist. "It could be a mail bomb."

"On this lake? are you kidding me? This is paradise."

"Used to be paradise," he corrected. "Think about it. There've been two homicides, and somebody's been sending you some pretty weird stuff. He may not want to kill you, but don't count out a package containing a couple ounces of C-4. That's enough to blow your arm off."

"Um, maybe I should put a call in to the station for Jigs. He can sniff it a bit."

"That old mutt? He's retired in place. We're better off doing it ourselves."

Vanya yanked off her Oakleys. "You wanna sniff it? Be my guest, Scooby-Doo."

She propped the box on the hood of her Jeep and continued spreading the packing beads with her knife blade. After a moment, she glanced at Rick. "yeah, so, um ... I'm not the bomb squad. You might want to move back."

"I've been through worse. I'm in this with you all the way, Vanee."

She turned and held his right hand, thinking of his captivity. She kissed the ragged scar on his palm, then its twin on the back of his hand. She reached up and ran her finger along the large scar on his neck.

"I'm so sorry, hun. I know you have. So very much worse." She squeezed his hand. "Okay, we're in this together. For better or for worse."

After a couple of minutes of hesitant probing, she jerked back, "Oh, sweet Lord in Heaven. It's ... It's my matryoshka doll."

"From your nesting doll collection?"

"Um, yeah. Mama and papa gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday." She closed her eyes and smiled, remembering its skillfully painted features. "It was my favorite doll. But we had a break-in a couple of years after it was given to me. The only things stolen were this matryoshka, a couple of my lacrosse trophies, and some family photos. Very creepy." She tugged the delicate wooden doll out of the box, admiring it. "I've missed her so much over the years."

The doll, carved from birch wood by Vanya's favorite Russian craftsman, stood about six inches tall, rounded at the top like a person's head and curved in the middle like a woman's waist. Painted on an emerald background was a striking red-haired, green-eyed, freckled-faced young woman. Her long red ponytail draped over her shoulder, flowing down a yellow dress to the doll's base.

Rick glanced from the wooden doll to Vanya. "My God, Vanee. except for the ponytail, this doll is you. Right down to your freckles and emerald eyes."

"That's why it's so special. Papa made the doll himself. And when I was a little girl, I did have a long ponytail. I only cut it when I started seriously playing sports." She admired the doll. "Simply stunning."

"It certainly is. And how many little dolls inside?"

"Um ... four increasingly smaller ones. Each nested inside the other. Papa painted me on all of them, but with different dresses on each. He said each one, growing in size, represented a different stage of my life: baby, toddler, and so on. The outer is me as an adult. The smallest one inside is only about an inch tall." She smiled. "Me as a baby." She studied the doll. "Other than my very life, this is the most precious gift my parents ever gave me." She frowned. "Then it was stolen from me."

"Open it. Let's take a look-see."

She glanced from the doll to Rick. "Um, I can't believe it. I'm afraid to."

"Go ahead," he urged. "It's your prized nesting doll."

She took a deep breath and twisted the wooden doll until it separated in the middle. She slowly wiggled off the top and gasped, nearly dropping it. There were no smaller matryoshkas inside. Rather, a skimpy pair of white lace panties popped out.

Rick pointed. "Those are not nesting dolls."

"You think?" Pulling the underwear the rest of the way out, she held them up on her forefinger, her hand shaking. "Um, these are definitely mine. Do you recognize them?"

"Faintly."

"Our wedding night, Rick. These are the panties I wore for you on our wedding night."

He fingered the wispy underwear. "you're kidding me."

"I'm afraid not. In fact, that pervert had to have been in our house in the past couple of months." She stomped her black boot on the driveway pavement. "Rick. This is insane. He did a B&E on our house and stole them. A freakin' B&E on a cop's house? The nerve."

"What makes you say that?"

"You don't remember our anniversary a couple months back? The night we played out that romantic love scene?"

Rick grinned. "The scene you wrote in your head for us? The one where you were a Russian secret agent? yeah. Wow. I didn't understand a word of Russian you moaned but it sure was a turn on, lady."

"Thanks. I did it for you." She waved the panties in front of him. "anyway, I wore these that night too." She blinked. "Geez, Romeo. You don't remember?"

"Sorry, no. It was kinda dark, and I think I was probably focused on your special freckle."

She scowled at him.

"Sorry, Vanushka. I was kinda distracted."

"Don't you Vanushka me. Not while I'm mad at you." Rick pointed to the panties. "If you wear them tonight, I promise I'll notice."

"Eeyeuuw ... Rick. After what that pervert's gone and done? That's so disturbing on so many levels." She sighed. "No. I'm, um ... I'm gonna burn them. Then I'm calling the Gilford police and have them put a 24/7 patrol on our house. And yes, you better carry your pistol, and shoot that perv if you catch him inside our house. I know I will."

Rick reached in the nesting doll and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Should I?"

"Please. I can't bear reading another word from this psycho."

He unfolded the paper and read the note. His face flushed.

"What ...? What's it say?"

"First of all, I don't think you want to know. Secondly, if I ever find this guy, I'll beat the moose snot out of him. He knows too much about you."

"Good Lord, Rick. What's it say?"

Rick hesitated. "He said ... ah ... the whack-job says that you looked ... uh ... beautiful in those ..." Rick pointed to the panties. "... on your wedding night. And that ... ah ... and that it appears they haven't done anything to help you conceive. And just as this silly wooden doll is barren, so are you." A large vein bulged on Rick's forehead, his jaw clinched like a vice.

Vanya's eyes grew wide. "He was spying on us? On ... um, on our wedding night? In our honeymoon suite? a peeping Tom?" She leaned against the Wrangler for support. "Oh ... I'm gonna be sick." Tears welled in her eyes, and she began shaking.

Rick held her by the shoulders, whispering, "We'll find this guy. It'll be okay."

"No it won't. Nyet, nyet, nyet!"

He cupped her cheeks in the palms of his hands. "What is it, Vanee? What's going on?"

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, thinking of tiny Sonya and Galena in their Moscow orphanage. Her feelings rushed up, becoming words. "I never told you this before, but the Russian word, matryoshka, is associated with fertility and motherhood. Originally, the outside doll represented the mother. And her numerous children are represented by the smaller nested inner dolls. Mama told me this doll was a sign that I would be the mother of many children. But when it was stolen, I felt as if I would never have children. I know it's illogical, but I feel like my being barren is the fault of this person stealing my matryoshka. I've been haunted by this feeling for years."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Rattlesnake Island by Randall N. Dunn Copyright © 2012 by Randall N. Dunn. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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