Gil Van Wyck
Finding her daily routine boring, Sondra decides a fun-filled evening of music and dance would be a change for the better. Suitably dressed for the evening’s outing she travels some distance to a popular nightclub where she hopes to have an enjoyable time and possibly meet that special man. Unfortunately her dream of a pleasurable happening turns into an unforgettable nightmare. Raped, beaten, and immorally used by men she previously trusted she forgoes professional help and seeks to gain retribution on her own. Simon is hired to find the alleged rapists. He fails. Sondra persists in her search and once again finds herself caught in their malicious web. Forcefully abducted, terrorized with fear, she narrowly escapes with her life. Then the unexpected happens. Her abductors search her out. Fighting for her life she is forced into a heinous act to defend herself. Arrested, arraigned, and placed on trial, a panel of her peers must determine if her action was just.
This book contains pervasive adult language, violent images, and intense graphic sexual scenarios.
Gil is a native of Minnesota, a former resident of New York, Mississippi, Kansas, and some forty years in California, a military veteran, and a grandfather of six. Gil’s hobbies include golf, sailing, motorcycling, photography, reading, and writing. He has cycled across the country, driven coast to coast, and visited every large city in this great nation.
As a senior citizen he decided to put to paper his stimulating thoughts and explore the bizarre mind-boggling world of fiction. A veteran of corporate strategies, his knowledge includes years of hands on experience dealing with people at all levels. From intelligent corporate CEO’s to those unfortunate mindless residents in convalescent homes.
Earlier publishing’s:
Deadly Hunter
Simon Purvis
Without Remorse is the second book regarding the cases of Simon Purvis.
gil2@localnet.com
Chapter 2
As quiet as two gnats having sex I didn’t hear him enter nor did he announce himself. Yet, there he was standing in the doorway of my inner office. A man so large he engulfed the entire door frame.
“You Purvis?” He asked.
I stood up from behind my desk. I was surprised by his being there. Not that he was so big, well, maybe that too, but here he was in my inner office. Was I asleep? Were my senses so dead not to recognize the presence of another? Apparently so.
“Yeah, I’m Purvis. Who are you?” I asked.
The man didn’t answer my query. He walked across the room toward me. His pace was steady. No rush. He stopped behind a stuffed-leather chair and looked me dead in the eye. About this time I’m wondering if I had recently offended anyone.
“You the private eye?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I answered.
Seeing this guy, hearing the question he asked, I gave thought to immediately retiring from the business. This guy was huge. Had to be six-six, three hundred pounds plus. Muscular. No neck. Perfect size for playing defensive end for the Green Bay Packers. This is the kind of guy that works out with weights, the kind of guy that has biceps on top of biceps, the kind of guy that pulls eighteen wheelers with his teeth. I’m sure you get the picture.
“Got a moment?” He asked.
He motioned with his hand to sit. I didn’t know if he meant for me to sit or was asking permission to seat himself.
“Yeah,” I answered in as deep a controlled voice I could muster. “I have a moment. Grab a seat.”
The man wore a grayish-blue tailored suit. An expensive garment I was quite sure to be Armani, Versace, or Brutini. Sharp. Three piece. Tailored perfectly. If one could fit this man’s body, someone did a fine job. White shirt, cuff links, tie, all the fine accessories. However, the expensive clothes didn’t match the man. Or was it vice versa? The man didn’t match the expensive clothes.
He unbuttoned his suit coat and sat. His heavy weight landing on the over-stuffed-leather chair let out a rush of air I likened to a long-drawn-out fart.
I smiled. He didn’t. I watched as he gathered himself and got comfortable.
“We need your expertise,” he said.
“Oh?” I answered as I sat down.
He said we. I distinctly heard him say we? There isn’t anyone else here. So who is we? Was his expression just a general connotation or is there really a we?
I watched as he crossed his legs. Right leg atop the left’s knee. I noted the shoes. Italian crafted for sure.
So I asked. “Who’s we?”
Chapter 6
It was the following morning, one of those rare times I lay in bed wanting to sleep in and catch up on my beauty rest, which in my case a few hundred hours might be suitable. I didn’t have anything planned for the day except meet Trace for lunch, so I thought why not catch a few more zees? Maybe later I could get in eighteen. No rush. Just laze about. Besides, after a quick trip to the bathroom, I hurried back to bed with hope of returning to this wonderful dream I was having.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be, for my cell phone beckoned. I reached across the bed to the nightstand.
“Hello. This is Simon.”
“Tell me why you recommended my services to Sondra Mullen? I’ve done my pro bono cases for the year. I don’t like taking cases I can’t win, or at least have a chance at winning. She isn’t a friend or a relative of mine. I don’t know her. And I don’t believe I owe you any favors, Simon. So please tell me why? Why do you think I would want to hang myself out on a limb as perilous as this one?”
“Hi, John. How are you?”
“I’m waiting, Simon.”
“She needs your help, John. You are the most accomplished, successful, and noteworthy defense attorney in the district. You are the only person I can think of that can save her pretty ass from the gallows.”
Dead silence. No response to my accolades. Hell, that was the best endorsement I could manufacture on such short notice. I wasn’t even awake yet.
I don’t hear John breathing. Matter-of-fact I don’t hear any noise on the other end at all. I wonder, with my admirable praise and all, did John hang up? My impatience got the better of me.
“Are you there, John?”
The absence of sound from the other end of a phone line can be disturbing if one doesn’t know who is on the other end.
“Simon, are you any good at detecting ghosts?” John asked.
“What?”
“Haunted houses per se?”
“Come again?” I asked.
“Ghosts, Simon. You know, eerie sounds, sheets over the head, rattling of chains. Ghosts.”
“John, what in the hell are you talking about?”
“Do you know where I live, Simon?”
“Yes. I know where you live.”
“Good. Be there this evening. Shall we say eight. I want to hear everything you know about Sondra Mullen. Click.”
I held my cell phone out where I could look directly at it wondering what I had done to deserve all this attention. I didn’t think with Sondra’s confession and all that there would be a trial. What for? Why waste the taxpayer’s money? She said she killed them. So why go to all the effort of having a trial? But, what do I know?
Chapter 15
Having passed on lunch I likened my hunger to that of a marauding bear pondering the parked cars at Yellowstone. The embarrassing rumbling sounds emanating from my stomach was alerting my quiescent brain of approaching starvation. Not one to indulge in personal deprivation I stopped at Safeway on the way home and bought the most appealing rib-eye steak I could find. This was a connoisseurs choice of select beef at its finest. My mouth watered just from the thought of its flavor. The steak was just short of being a pound. Along with Idaho’s finest export, I was ready to indulge in man’s pursuit of red meat and potatoes. Ah yes, well seasoned with a dash of this and a dash of that, maybe a touch of sour cream, bacon chips, and butter for the tater. Then of course I must have a table Cabernet Sauvignon to compliment the meal. Nothing extravagant mind you, for there are those times when man must rough it, go with the masses if you will, and digress to a lesser winery, yet one adequate in quality to satisfy a gentleman’s palate.
Why am I telling you this? Trace hates for me to eat red meat. Well, maybe hate is too formidable a word, but she frequently reminds me how horrifying beef can be to my system. Doesn’t want me to have a stroke, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and whatever else she can come up with. So, in my little mischievous way I’m sneaking a meal on her. What she doesn’t know, well, you get the picture. When we dine out, it’s seafood. Hey! Don’t get me wrong for I love seafood.
I was in the kitchen seasoning my lovely selection of choice beef when a knock on the door interrupted my preparation. Wouldn’t you know a disturbance of some sort happens when you’re into something pleasurable? Either someone comes a calling unannounced or some cheerful telemarketer from India has phoned and is asking me how my day is going.
I wiped my hands on my apron as I traversed the living room and answered the door.
“Elda Mae!”
“Good evening, Simon. I thought I would pay you a visit for I have news I’m sure you would be most interested in.”
What news could she possibly have I’d be interested in? Most likely the homeowners association of this building has voted to raise the annual dues and she can’t wait to tell me the depressing information.
Next time I’m not going to answer the door. I keep telling myself to get a peephole installed and never respond to the door or the telephone during meal times.
Chapter 31
Lunch time and I wasn’t really hungry. At least I didn’t think I was. However, being one not to forgo necessary sustenance I grabbed a jumbo hot dog from the stand outside the justice building. I filled it with everything: sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, relish, onions, and chased it down with a cola. I have to say I made a glutton of myself for the dog overflowed with condiments which I found my fingers catching most before they fell to the ground. Messy yes, but oh, the dog was so good. I nearly bought another. Fortunately I had the good sense not to. Even though the scrumptious little devil teased my palate for another sampling, there are those times when one must restrain from the obvious pleasures life offers.
I noted my young female friend from the erotica magazine seated on a park bench nearby yakking away on her cell phone. Most likely reporting the day’s events to her editor. I decided not to impose with my presence for I was sure she’d hurl a field of questions at me the likes of which I’d already heard.
A last swallow of the soft drink and a final wipe of my handsome mug brought an end to my yearning appetite. I tossed the dog carrier, cola can, and napkins into the nearby trash bin. Then I was off for a short walk around the government buildings to digest my mouthwatering repast before returning to the courtroom.
