Read Online CRIME THRILLERS-A Box Set by Billie Sue Mosiman - Free Book Online
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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watching a big-screen television. It looked like a situation comedy was playing. Two patrons were belly-up to the bar, neither of them giving attention to the other.
Mark ignored the activity behind him and slipped quickly into his room. He dropped his suitcase near the bed and went into the bath, turned on the shower full force, waited for the temperature to get to the proper degree while he undressed.
It was turning into a long, lonesome trip. He wasn't used to the melancholy mood that was upon him. It cramped his style, made him lapse into periods of self-pity. All his life he'd been in control of his own destiny. He knew what he wanted out of the military and worked hard to get it: authority, security, respect. He had met Molly's mother after he made lieutenant and knew he wanted her in his life. She never complained about compound housing, official politics, or his dedication to his job. She gave him what he needed. Unconditional love, loyalty, and a beautiful, intelligent daughter. She had given her life, he realized in regret, to bring a child into the world.
And he had always thought Molly intelligent, that is, until she'd pulled this stunt of running away from home. Now his destiny was uncertain, his life in a chaos not of his making, and evidently beyond his control. Molly had usurped his authority, left him to worry himself sick over her. While he drove sometimes he felt the anger coming like a runaway train. Molly was a spoiled, selfish creature unfit to be called his daughter. She'd learned nothing from his examples, rejected those values and beliefs he felt she needed most.
Other times sadness invaded him, that quality of melancholy that filled him like pie in a pastry shell, and he moaned aloud, wishing to be anywhere, in any situation except this one. Dealing with a teenager was turning out to be like defusing a bomb. It took iron will, steady hands, unswerving patience, and skill. All those characteristics he lacked except for the will. And that had been too muscular, not limber enough for the job at hand.
He stepped into the shower's spray and let it cascade over his bowed head. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth.
He was neither angry nor sad right now. Just beaten. No telling how far ahead she was. She might have changed cars, hitched with another driver. She might have decided not to go to the West Coast, and at this moment was on her way back east or north or even to the Midwest. The United States was a big country, all spread out., thousands of places to hide or get lost in. She might have stopped off in one of the towns along the route he traveled, and was now melting into New Orleans or Lake Charles, vanishing like a wisp of fog.
It was sheer misery that drove him to continue. He needed rest. A few hours in a bed. But then he'd be on his way again, heading west, asking his questions, showing Molly's picture. He knew no other way to live with himself. Even if he hired private investigators, they might take months and come up with nothing. The agencies looking for runaways were swamped with calls from frantic parents looking for kids. He knew there was little hope in that direction.
Hell, look at the pictures of missing kids on the sides of milk cartons. It was an epidemic; no one knew what to do. He must go forward and hope Molly headed for California the way she'd told her Florida friends. If she'd lied, if she'd changed her mind, he was shit out of luck. It might be years before he found her. Dammit.
He washed, shampooed his short, crew-cut hair, rinsed, and stepped from the shower stall. After drying off, shaving, brushing his teeth, donning the bottoms of a pair of plain white pajamas, he threw back the covers on one of the two double beds and flopped onto his back. He had a wake-up call for five-thirty. He should do a few sit-ups--it was harder to stay in shape since his retirement--but sleep pulled him into its silky depths.
He slept with the table lamp on, his mouth open,
Mark ignored the activity behind him and slipped quickly into his room. He dropped his suitcase near the bed and went into the bath, turned on the shower full force, waited for the temperature to get to the proper degree while he undressed.
It was turning into a long, lonesome trip. He wasn't used to the melancholy mood that was upon him. It cramped his style, made him lapse into periods of self-pity. All his life he'd been in control of his own destiny. He knew what he wanted out of the military and worked hard to get it: authority, security, respect. He had met Molly's mother after he made lieutenant and knew he wanted her in his life. She never complained about compound housing, official politics, or his dedication to his job. She gave him what he needed. Unconditional love, loyalty, and a beautiful, intelligent daughter. She had given her life, he realized in regret, to bring a child into the world.
And he had always thought Molly intelligent, that is, until she'd pulled this stunt of running away from home. Now his destiny was uncertain, his life in a chaos not of his making, and evidently beyond his control. Molly had usurped his authority, left him to worry himself sick over her. While he drove sometimes he felt the anger coming like a runaway train. Molly was a spoiled, selfish creature unfit to be called his daughter. She'd learned nothing from his examples, rejected those values and beliefs he felt she needed most.
Other times sadness invaded him, that quality of melancholy that filled him like pie in a pastry shell, and he moaned aloud, wishing to be anywhere, in any situation except this one. Dealing with a teenager was turning out to be like defusing a bomb. It took iron will, steady hands, unswerving patience, and skill. All those characteristics he lacked except for the will. And that had been too muscular, not limber enough for the job at hand.
He stepped into the shower's spray and let it cascade over his bowed head. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth.
He was neither angry nor sad right now. Just beaten. No telling how far ahead she was. She might have changed cars, hitched with another driver. She might have decided not to go to the West Coast, and at this moment was on her way back east or north or even to the Midwest. The United States was a big country, all spread out., thousands of places to hide or get lost in. She might have stopped off in one of the towns along the route he traveled, and was now melting into New Orleans or Lake Charles, vanishing like a wisp of fog.
It was sheer misery that drove him to continue. He needed rest. A few hours in a bed. But then he'd be on his way again, heading west, asking his questions, showing Molly's picture. He knew no other way to live with himself. Even if he hired private investigators, they might take months and come up with nothing. The agencies looking for runaways were swamped with calls from frantic parents looking for kids. He knew there was little hope in that direction.
Hell, look at the pictures of missing kids on the sides of milk cartons. It was an epidemic; no one knew what to do. He must go forward and hope Molly headed for California the way she'd told her Florida friends. If she'd lied, if she'd changed her mind, he was shit out of luck. It might be years before he found her. Dammit.
He washed, shampooed his short, crew-cut hair, rinsed, and stepped from the shower stall. After drying off, shaving, brushing his teeth, donning the bottoms of a pair of plain white pajamas, he threw back the covers on one of the two double beds and flopped onto his back. He had a wake-up call for five-thirty. He should do a few sit-ups--it was harder to stay in shape since his retirement--but sleep pulled him into its silky depths.
He slept with the table lamp on, his mouth open,
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