Bones of the Innocent
A Mason Collins Crime Thriller
Tangier, 1946: the wickedest city in the world, and teenage girls are disappearing.
After breaking a powerful crime ring in occupied Germany, Mason Collins has a price on his head. Cornered by assassins in Marseille, he is offered a way out by a flamboyant stranger, on one condition: come to Tangier and find the missing girls.
In this playground for the super-rich, nothing and no one is what it seems. Everyone has an agenda, some are guarding a terrible secret, and the killers are back on Mason's trail.
He has to find the girls before it is too late. If he lives that long.
Excerpt from Bones of the Innocent
Somehow they always knew when she awoke, and they would come. And those footsteps, like pounding drums in the cave-like passageway, always meant anguish and terror. The trouble was, she couldn’t remember why.
Cynthia stiffened, clamped her eyes shut, and continued the steady rhythm of her breathing as if still asleep. At some point during her nightmares, she had wound up in a fetal position on the floor. The stone felt cold on her face, and the coarse sand, like ground glass, etched her cheek. The odor of dank earth and the contents of the bucket assaulted her nostrils. Her head, her throat, her heart, her entire insides, seemed like one throbbing bruise. Despite this, she kept very still.
She tried to recall the events leading to her abduction, but the only thing she could remember was being with her mother in the medina. She had just turned eighteen, and her mother offered to take her on a shopping spree to celebrate. But the actual abduction and these last few—days, weeks?—of captivity seemed like one continuous nightmare, asleep or awake. Time stood still in this coffin of rock.
Just below the thumping of her heartbeat, she could hear the moans from other prisoners in the midst of their own nightmare. Someone coughed, the sound echoing off the rough-hewn rock walls. Sometimes it was soft crying, and sometimes a desperate prayer in a language she didn’t understand. Always the voices of the young, and some seemed to be children.
Oh, God, let it be a nightmare so vivid it only seems real. Let me go home. Let me go home!
A voice startled her. She clamped her hand to her mouth, realizing that she had spoken the last phrase out loud. That prompted a few other prisoners to sob in their cells. They weren’t supposed to talk. Even crying might bring the stout woman with the cruel eyes. From another cell, a boy shushed the others with panic in his voice.
An odd staccato clacking came again, the one that had woken her from sleep. It was closer now. As much as she tried to keep her eyes closed, she felt an overpowering need to see the source of the noise. Slowly she opened them. The cell had no illumination, though a harsh light from a single bare bulb in the hallway found its way through the ill-fitting slats of wood that made up her cell door. It produced razor-thin slashes of light, and one cut across the small room, directly at her head, only to veer off at the last moment. The backlit grains of sand made it seem like she gazed upon an alien landscape. That illusion captured her thoughts a moment, insistent, mesmerizing. It drew her in and refused to let go.
Her captors must be giving her some kind of drug. That was the only explanation. But for what purpose? Who had taken her prisoner, and why were they keeping her in a drug-induced stupor? Cynthia had never taken drugs before, but she was sure that was what it must feel like. When the drug’s influence was at its worst, she often saw relatives she knew from England, like her long-dead grandmother, who seemed to be standing right next to her. Spirits and voices whispered to her.
A moment later the clacking began again and a cockroach crossed the beam of light. It stopped next to her face. Its antennae wiggled in the air, as if analyzing her breath. Despite her urge to recoil, she remained still. The hard light hit it from behind, making it translucent amber. The cockroach reminded her of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and the strange creatures Alice had encountered. Like the caterpillar on the mushroom, this cockroach seemed to be communicating with her. She knew that was silly, but the creature gave her a sense that she wasn’t so alone. A calm came over her—or was that the drug still having its way with her?
Her mind suddenly cleared, and with it, alarm gripped her heart. Like clockwork, they would come soon. They knew. Somehow they always knew. That thought forced her to rise up on her elbows, and the cockroach scurried away. She had to find a way out or she might go crazy.
Crazy like the one young woman—girl really—who had been dragged away—yesterday or the day before?
The young woman had screamed in her cell, a scream that froze Cynthia’s lungs. And the big woman and man came for her. They always wore Venetian carnival masks of white, with grinning mouths and evil eyes, making them even more terrifying. The young woman cried and struggled against the strong chains that held her as they dragged her away. Cynthia caught a glimpse of the girl’s body through the cracks of her cell door, as she was forced toward some unknown fate. She wore a gown like Cynthia, and she growled and snapped and wailed. It had made the others cry out. The man yelled warnings at them in Italian. Several heavy doors slammed in succession behind them, bolts shoved into place, until the girl’s primal screams had faded to weak echoes. They took her away, and she never returned.
That memory drove Cynthia to her feet. She panted with panic. She knew she would end up like that girl. Soon they would take her away.
Why was she here? Why were any of them here? What was happening to them? Would she ever see daylight again? Her mother?
She pressed her hands against her temples as if her head might explode. Moaning from the pain, she staggered in tight circles. How long had she been here? When would it end? She spun faster and moaned louder. It was the only way to control the cold, invisible hands that threatened to crush her mind. She became aware of the others moaning along with her. Then other voices loudly begging her to stop.
“They’ll come!” some girl said. “Then you’ll be sorry.”
Another pleaded, “You’ll make us all suffer.”
Cynthia threw herself against the door and pounded her fists. “Get me out of here! Please!”
Others were screaming now. Was she in an insane asylum? Was she losing her mind? She pounded the door and cried.
A boy yelled at her in a foreign tongue. There was terror in his voice. Begging.
Cynthia’s violent efforts dissipated the effects of whatever drug they had given her. And more memories came. The shadow of a man hovering over her like a ghostly and evil spirit. She was helpless, as she lay… where? His hot breath. His hands.
Cynthia pulled at the iron bars inserted in the small window of her cell door. She pulled so hard her shoulders ached. Then she heard herself growl like she had gone mad. She didn’t care. “Get me out of here!”
Like the crack of a rifle shot, a heavy bolt was pulled back. The sound was so terrifying that she stopped. She held her breath and froze. A distant door’s hinges creaked.
They were coming.
More doors and footsteps. Cynthia backed away. She held her arms tight around her and backed up slowly until she hit the rock wall. Footsteps were loud now, and Cynthia clamped her hands to her ears.
Maybe if the sound disappears, they won’t come. Maybe—
Cynthia’s cell door opened with a clang. A tall, dark figure, silhouetted by the harsh light, stood in the doorway.
Cynthia screamed.
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