Devour, p.1
Devour, page 1
DEVOUR by David Temple. © 2020, All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Some names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. First edition.
Business Contact: 82 MERCER Publishing, 1160 N. Coast Hwy 101, Encinitas, CA 92024
Cover by L1graphics
Book design by Jack Poppy
Editorial by Barbara Ann Temple, Ph.D.
Connect: DavidTempleBooks.com
ISBN: 978-0-7330913-6-7 (Paperback)
Proudly published in the United States of America.
Also by David Temple
The Pat Norelli Series
THE POSER
The Carter Matheson Series
KNUCKLE DOWN
BEHIND THE 8 BALL
LUCKY STRIKES
The Family Drama: Book & Film
CHASING GRACE
Devour
David Temple
82 MERCER Publishing
For Tammy, my wife, muse, and life partner.
Your love has set me free.
Revenge proves its own executioner.
John Ford
Contents
Prologue
I. First Meal
1. Morning Fog
2. Two Peas
3. Long Play
4. Stoney Lonesome
5. Blunt Force
6. The Restaurant
7. Favor Bank
8. Girl Crush
9. Slippery Slope
10. Pinky Promise
11. Deadly Cocktail
12. Good News
13. Attitude Adjustment
14. Deep Secrets
15. Sticky Wicket
16. Teen Angst
17. The Reconnection
18. Big Firsts
19. Shifting Tides
20. Face Off
21. Hand Snake
22. Haute Lunch
23. Wrong Number
24. Dull Edge
25. Deep Freeze
26. Trophy Worthy
27. Poker Face
28. Plan Be
29. Peeping Tom
30. Steak Tartare
II. Chow Time
31. Hung Overboard
32. Sexy Abattoir
33. Mother’s Daughter
34. Top Chef
35. Knife’s Edge
36. Tongue Soup
37. Relative Stranger
38. Cluster Freak
39. Memory Lane
40. Kinky Combo
41. Striking Poses
42. Homme Work
43. Big Day
44. Blast Off
45. Final Boarding
46. Heart Attack
47. Jet Lag
48. Vital Organs
49. Brotherly Shove
50. Death Wish
51. Deep Freeze
52. Free Man
53. Bad News
54. Man Up!
55. Deep Cracks
56. Print Job
57. Surf’n Turf
58. Helluva View
59. Oh Shit
60. What The…
61. Secret Stash
62. Shut Open
63. Big Release
64. Inside Job
III. Last Supper
65. Loose Cog
66. Inside Man
67. Breaking Point
68. Hell Hole
69. Ruse Roulette
70. Deadly Concoction
71. Waiting Game
72. Party Time
73. Frosty Shocktails
74. Self Doubt
75. No Return
76. Post Op
77. Well Done
78. Final Toast
Digestivo
Frederick’s Dinner Music
About the Author
Prologue
Michael whimpered in the dark, his shifting voice sputtered partial cries as he tried to man up. Man up now or you never will, his father’s voice echoed in his head. Touching his cheek, he could feel it had already begun swelling—the heat under the skin simmering like the hatred in his heart.
CRASH!
On the other side of the closet door, another dish shattered into pieces, followed by another terrifying scream. His mother sounded as though she were being beaten within an inch of her life—because she likely was.
A warm trickle crept into his mouth. He wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve, instinctively looking down, expecting to see bright red. But that was impossible because there were no lights in the confined space—nothing but woolen coats smelling of tobacco and moth balls, boots soaked with the fragrance of earth, spent rags consumed with the smell of grease, and slickers sticking to his back because of rising heat.
THUD!
His heart began to race. Imagining the worse, Michael began to panic. Instantly, panic bubbled into rage, and without caring what happened next, his fury exploded into a scream. It was a blood-curdling scream rising from the core of suppression. Eyes squeezed shut, Michael saw lights behind his lids as he continued screaming.
“Shut the hell up in there or I’ll give you something to yell about!”
But Michael did not stop screaming. Instead, he ignored the pulsating pain in his ribcage, sucked in the deepest breath possible, and released a scream so horrifying he frightened himself—his head shook, shoulders tightened, and his throat: raw.
Suddenly, the door whipped open. The motion was so swift and powerful the coats hanging above his head flew in the direction of the escaping door. Wire hangers spun on the wooden bar above his head before crashing to the floor. The light temporarily blinded him as he imagined an incoming fury putting an end to his screaming.
But it did not. And he would not.
In fact, his screaming continued as though it were the last noise he would make, one the neighbors would never forget. Aware of more impending punishment, he impulsively raised his left arm, guarding his face a split second before a crushing blow connected with bone.
SNAP! like a dead tree limb.
The pain was unimaginable. Even with eyes wide open, Michael could not see anything. The pulverizing force told his body to shut down, kicking into protection mode. A breathy gasp filled the air for a fraction of a second, followed by a strange silence. Then he fell backwards—his head hitting the back wall before he crumbled onto the floor and into a sobbing heap.
“Now, maybe you’ll shut the hell up!”
When the door slammed shut, it took several seconds before he sensed his throbbing arm. Sliding his opposite hand down his wounded arm, Michael caught his finger on something sharp and wet protruding from the skin—his last meal bubbled in his throat. Slumping forward, he desperately wanted to man up.
But he could not. And he did not.
Instead, tears began dripping into his lap just as the front door swung open, slamming the wall behind it and bringing a mirror crashing to the floor. Next came his mother’s screaming voice, “You hateful bastard!”
Then, a gunshot—BANG!
A scuffle, a scream, another gunshot—BANG!
Suddenly, someone fell against the closet door and slowly slid toward the floor as a thin scream pierced the momentary silence.
Exhausted, Michael gently laid his face on the cool wooden floor. In the narrow gap at the bottom of the door, a pool of blood began oozing toward his peeking eye.
He did not know what happened because his vision faded to black.
Part I
First Meal
1
Morning Fog
Thirty years later—
* * *
The rhythmic hum of tires on a metal bridge was lulling Michael to sleep. Between the sparse traffic, the soft buzz from a post-work cocktail, and twelve straight hours of being on his feet, Michael’s body was weary and his mind frazzled. Looking to the horizon on his left, there was nothing but blackness. To his right, city lights created a fragmented sparkle on the glass thanks to a light drizzle. In minutes, he would pass through Sausalito, cross a slice of Richardson Bay, and weave his way through several townships before landing home.
He pulled up to his house and entered quietly. Once inside, he slid off his shoes and ambled to the bar where a second drink would remove the madness of the day. Sinking into an oversized sofa, Michael sipped a twenty-year old scotch, an instant recipe relaxing his exhausted body and quieting his troubled mind. His last conscious image as he drifted asleep was the same one haunting him most every night: a tiny dark space of enormous blinding pain.
A loud crash suddenly jarred Michael awake. Sitting up, Michael took a moment before he realized it was a truck outside. Trash day, he thought, blocking his eyes from the morning light and stretching his stiff body from another night on the couch. His mouth was dry, his head pounded, and his throbbing hand found no relief. He was about to drift back off when his watch pulsated and a bleary eye read 5:55. Slowly making his way down the hall, he anticipated the one thing that could even hope to launch his day: a hot shower.
Early morning fog drifted in slow motion over the hills of the Banana Belt atop the Marin Headlands. It floated toward the red strands of steel supporting the iconic Golden Gate Bridge and slowly evaporated as it fell into the cold water below. Boats of all sizes and shapes moved eagerly ab out; some left for the open Pacific while others returned to their City by the Bay. Atop the hills of neighboring Tiburon—a town north of the city and east of the bridge—a chilly breeze blew through open windows as early morning sun tried warming the hillside. Every morning—come fog or come sun—the remarkable beauty cast a spell on the Rogan’s home and their waking community.
This Monday was no different.
Pancetta and garlic sizzled in a buttered saucepan while Michael hovered over the Wolf range that grounded the island in the middle of the great room. He deftly sliced heirloom tomatoes and shiitake mushrooms with his prized Henckel knife as daughter Natalie, wearing workout gear and an ever-present smile, entered the room and kissed his cheek, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the early morning light.
“Morning, Daddy.”
“Morning, Angel,” he replied, slapping a high-five as she took a seat atop the barstool across from him.
“Easy on the garlic, Pops,” she said playfully. “Don’t wanna scare the boys away.” Thumbing to the women’s sports section, she peeked over the San Francisco Chronicle. “But feel free to add all the goat cheese your heart desires.”
“Anything for my little girl,” he said over his shoulder, adding extra cheese and a light sprinkling of herbs to the scrambled eggs.
“Uh, young woman?” she said from behind the paper.
“Yes, of course.”
Turning to the sink, he took several pills from his pocket and washed them down with a glass of water. He did not as much hide the pill-popping as he tried not to make a deal about it.
Next, he topped off his favorite morning ritual by stuffing a handful of veggies into the Vitamix blender. Even though he knew Natalie would order a second breakfast on their way into the city, Michael loved spoiling his only child. Standing nearly six feet tall at just shy of seventeen, Natalie was a force to be reckoned with both on the basketball and volleyball courts.
“Daddy?” she shouted over the loud blender.
Michael held up a finger and mouthed, “Just a second.”
Less than a minute and a dozen decibels later, the blender stopped. Testing a sip, he nodded before passing it over the counter.
“Yes, Nattie?”
“Pain bad today?” She sipped, flashing a thumbs-up.
His expression gave him away. Reaching across the counter to wipe her green mustache, he said, “You know how it goes. Same old damp chill.”
“Uh huh. Thus the pills,” she smirked, folding and setting aside the paper.
Spreading out a linen placemat, he wiped a small drip from the edge of the plate, then positioned it in front of her.
“Just a little something to get ahead of it.”
“Just keeping an eye on you,” she said, digging in with reckless abandon. “I mean let’s face it,” she added, mid-mouthful, “Before long, who’ll be around to mother you?”
He frowned a smirk, nodding his coffee toward her.
“Thanks, but I’ll get some later,” she shrugged, sliding her finger across the plate to capture the last bit of soft cheese. “And I’m joking. Kinda.”
“That’s a new record,” he grinned at the empty plate. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Tilting her head, she squeezed a dimple deep into her cheek. “Really?”
Taking her things to the sink, he asked over his shoulder, “Want a juice to go?”
“What do you think,” they said simultaneously—as only two connected-at-the-hip could.
Standing at the broad expanse of windows, she stretched her long limbs and took in the 270-degree view.
“Never get tired of seeing that bridge.”
“Ditto.”
The front yard was in the middle of renovations and torn up in preparation for a new pool.
“Pops, you sure you still want—”
“For the last time, yes,” he interrupted. “It’ll be perfect for burning stress after work. Plus, think of how it would help your training.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up both hands. “Just remember, training’s not going to last much longer.”
As a stellar student, Natalie would graduate a year ahead of most classmates her age. Early on, Michael saw her exceptional abilities to learn and absorb at twice the speed of those around her. He wanted her to get an early start because it was apparent she would advance more rapidly than most. And she did, time and again—not only in her studies but also in sports. She continued eyeballing the space long debated over. A pool with jacuzzi had won over a volleyball court and would be finished before long.
“Maybe you and Mom would rather—”
“Would rather what?” Kathryn asked, entering the room—her long silk robe floating behind her as she walked barefoot across the room—stopping to kiss her daughter’s cheek. “What are you two conspiring against me now?” she asked, grinning.
“Talking about the volleyball court Dad said he wanted to…” she trailed off, looking to him for support.
Grinning, he shook his head, “Pool and jacuzzi. Just think how nice it’ll be when you come home to a relaxing swim before dinner.”
“Or a hot soak before bedtime,” Kathryn added.
Natalie smiled, knowing it was what they both wanted and deserved. Besides, between the courts at school, and either the indoor court at North Beach or the outdoor court at Mission Bay, she had more than enough opportunities to practice.
“You’re right,” she said, raising her arms in surrender.
“I knew you’d see it our way,” he winked.
“Hey, what if we put a volleyball net inside the pool?”
Michael and Kathryn laughed. “Now, that’s a good compromise,” she said, approaching Michael. Putting together both palms, she bowed. “May I please have some of your world famous French roast, Mr. Barista?”
“What’ll you trade for it?” he grinned.
She opened her robe. “Perhaps this would be of interest?”
“Mom!” Natalie shouted, rolling her eyes before leaving the room.
Pouring a cup, he nodded toward her robe. “Nice trade.”
She gave a cordial smile as Natalie shouted from down the hall, “Pops, I’ll be ready in 5. You best hustle!”
They both shrugged.
Kathryn Grace was her given name, but when her modeling career took off two decades ago, photographers gave her the nickname Katie G. and it stuck. Many years and one child later, she rarely modeled, preferring commercials and occasional guest appearances on New York soaps instead. Lately, Kathryn was spending more time commuting between San Francisco and Los Angeles with film roles—a much easier jaunt than to NYC.
Michael watched her sipping coffee in her favorite chaise by the window and thought she was as beautiful as the day they met over twenty years ago. Even though they spent more time apart from one another these days and had hit their share of bumps along the way, he still felt close to her. Whether she felt the same was anyone’s guess. His mind flashed back to their early days and how after his short stint in the Army, they had spent their early years hustling their respective dreams in Manhattan. Michael bartended in Midtown taverns by day and juggled apprentice work in Upper East Side restaurants by night while Kathryn modeled all over town both day and night, juggling occasional acting gigs way off Broadway.
