Read Online Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) by Lawrence Kelter - Free Book Online Page B

“Roger Gout, I’m the new regional manager.”
    “Gout?” Tillerman asked. “Isn’t that a foot condition?”
    Brynn laughed. “Mike, this is my new boss. Say hello, will you?”
    The veins on Tillerman’s arms were as thick as marine ropes. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts. He took Gout’s hand, engulfing it in his own. “This gym is a shithouse, Mr. Gout. Everything is covered in rust.”
    “We’re working on that, Mike. We’re going to replace everything. We’ll bring in all brand new state-of-the-art equipment.”
    “Don’t change anything!” Tillerman said. “I like rust. I’d feel bad about smashing up new equipment.”
    “How big do you want to get? You’re already huge,” Gout said.
    “I work out until I’m tired.” Tillerman said. “It’s the only way I can sleep.”
    “Really? Why don’t you talk to a doctor about that?” Gout said.
    Tillerman’s eyes glazed over. “I’ve already talked to a doctor.” He squatted, lifted the massive barbell and hoisted it over his head. My family is dead. “He wasn’t any help.” Tillerman began to count reps as he pushed the barbell over his head, over and over again. Doctors can’t bring back the dead. “Eleven, twelve . . .”
    “Medication didn’t help?” Gout asked.
    “No. Eighteen, nineteen . . .”
    Brynn was a small girl with an expertly crafted, athletic body. She had seen Tillerman work out a hundred times before, but the intensity with which he pressed the weights today frightened her. She stepped back and motioned for Gout to do the same. “Watch your form, Mike. You don’t want to strain yourself.”
    The word strain did not have a place in Tillerman’s vocabulary. His libido was driven by pure rage and a neurochemical cocktail that allowed him to push himself well beyond normal human limits. His pace quickened with every repetition. He drove the weights harder and faster. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine . . .”
    “That’s enough, Mike. You’ll hurt yourself.”
    Tillerman was oblivious to the warning. “Thirty-two, thirty-three . . .”
    The expression on Gout’s face read, He’s nuts!
    “Mike stop, you’re killing yourself,” Brynn warned.
    “Thirty-six, thirty-seven . . .” The machine finally began to slow, and then without warning, Tillerman cast the huge barbell away. The weights crashed to the floor with such force that Brynn lost her balance from the vibration. Tillerman bent over and clutched his stomach. He panted like a racehorse that had been ridden too hard.
    Brynn ran to the front counter and returned with a bottle of water. “Here, Mike. Drink!”
    Tillerman squeezed the sports bottle until it was empty—twenty-four ounces of water disappeared down his throat. He crushed the plastic bottle as if he were crumpling a tissue.
    “You’re only human, Mike. You can’t do that,” Brynn said.
    “I can do it,” Tillerman said. “I must do it.” I miss my family. He looked Brynn in the eye. “I’m already doing it.” He sucked in enough air to create a vacuum in the gym, exhaled, and walked away.

Chapter Seventeen
     
    Gus and I were waiting for a representative of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey to join us so that we could take a tour of the old World Trade Center pumping station, which we had learned was located right below Kowsky Plaza, a.k.a. Pumphouse Park.
    New York may have had top billing, but the Port Authority offices were located in Jersey City, New Jersey. I checked my watch. “What do you think is keeping him? It’s only a twenty-minute ride.”
    “It’s never easy getting through the Holland Tunnel—it doesn’t matter what time of day it is; it’s always congested.”
    It wasn’t the nicest day. The sky was overcast, and the wind was brisk. I was dressed in a cotton blazer and slacks. The cotton jacket had become my maternity uniform because it hid my baby bump and was lightweight. Today, though the weather was raw, and I felt chilled. I wondered how