CHAPTER 22

 

Clark Royer hated his job. All he did was stare at a computer screen all day inputting data into his company’s database. The accounting company he worked for specialized in estate planning. Their job was to enable folks—particularly wealthy folks—to keep the federal government from robbing their assets before their family ever got a dime after they passed.

How boring.

But there was one thing Clark liked about his job—one major perk that helped him keep his sanity while juggling names and numbers all day: the ability to control.

He had zero control here, to be sure—hell, he was nothing but a lackey at this place. A lowly peon. He was expected to do his thing, keep everything he heard and read strictly confidential and not give anybody any shit. Do this fucking hackwork for a salary that was about the equivalent of minimum wage while the rest of the staff earned major bucks with copious benefits.

Clark’s ability to control was elsewhere, far removed from this place, out there in the real world. He had found a comfortable niche for himself where he was the one calling the shots—the chief, the big cheese, the main fucking honcho. When he spoke, people listened and did what they were told, period. Or else.

Now that’s control.

Control had its benefits. It wasn’t just about getting his way and seeing folks beg for mercy at his feet. There were the pecuniary awards as well, as in a sizable, non-taxable income. If the assholes working at Davidson and Associates Accounting knew of his personal wealth, they would be impressed. He would be respected around this place instead of being at everybody’s beck and call all the time. They would call him Sir, not Clarky Boy.

But no one could ever know of his assets or what he did on his own time when he wasn’t working at this place. It wasn’t any of their business and frankly, they might not particularly appreciate the other side of Clark Royer.

One of the listings suddenly caught his eye. Mabel Louise Stokes, aged 94. Net worth: 2.7 million dollars. One heir: a daughter, Martha Goode, aged 62. Abstract: Mrs. Stokes has terminal cancer and is expected to expire before the end of the year. With the exception of her bank account and a few certificates of deposit, the bulk of her worth is based upon a collection of jewelry and precious stones she has acquired through the years. . .

Clark smiled as he read the remainder of the listing. He casually leaned back in his chair and glanced around the office to see if anybody was looking in his direction. Carrie’s face was glued to her screen as usual and Martin was on the phone talking to a client. In a single fluid motion he picked up his cellphone, accessed the camera and took a quick shot of the screen. Replacing the phone, he continued scrolling down the page and resumed the tedious work he was being paid to do.

Later that day he sat at his kitchen table, opened the screen image he had taken and zoomed in on it. The enlarged text revealed that Mabel Stokes lived in a very expensive nursing home, having been forced to vacate her home on Rose Hollow Lane in Fulway, West Virginia. Gabe Dorsey, Mrs. Stokes accountant, noted that Mabel’s sister, Ruth, aged 84, was still living in her elder sister’s home.

Clark opened up Chrome and did a Google search of the address. He switched over to satellite view and scanned the nearby area. Just as he had hoped, the closest residence to the old woman’s home was nearly a quarter mile away. Her home was a huge three-story brick structure and looked to be at least seventy or eighty years old. It sat on three acres of land surrounded by the West Virginia foothills.

And laughably accessible. Clark had learned from experience that super-elderly, well-to-do women like Mabel Stokes rarely invested any of their precious millions in security measures that might actually deter burglars from robbing them blind. These old hens were incredibly tight with their money and never seemed to embrace the expression “you can’t take it with you.” They held onto their wealth for one single reason: to leave it to their loving family upon death.

There was one other important tidbit Clark had learned from his on-the-job experience. These old women weren’t particularly keen on storing their valuables in safety deposit boxes, either. Instead, they simply hoarded everything away in some place they felt was secure but in reality was anything but.

That’s where Clark entered the picture. Unlike most burglars, he liked to do things in his own special, unique way. Most burglars would simply knock on the door, point a gun at an old lady and enter her home by force. Clark thought this was unimaginative and much too simple. He liked a challenge.

Clark had dreamed of being a cop since he was a young boy. He not only admired what cops did to serve and protect, he appreciated the respect they demanded and more often than not received from the public. When a cop motioned you to pull your car over, you by God pulled over. And when he demanded to see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, you gave it to him. He was running the show. He was the boss, the big cheese at that moment in time. And you obeyed him without question, or there would be hell to pay.

Clark could think of no greater authority figure in the world than a cop. Cops had the power and the legal right to basically tell people, rich or poor, male or female, sober or wasted to do as they ordered at any given moment. What other job afforded that kind of control?

As a child, Clark had been painfully shy, reserved and introverted. A lot of the kids at school made fun of him because of his social shortcomings and inability to make friends. He was a loner, and it wasn’t until he became a teen that the tiny chip on his shoulder had become a massive boulder. He was suddenly sick and tired of being bullied and pushed around all the time, feeling like a worm at the end of everybody’s fishing line. Even his parents bossed him around incessantly because he never challenged or back-talked them, no matter how unfair their demands might be.

So at thirteen years old he decided he was through being a nobody and a loser. He was going to start taking the world by the balls and show everybody what he was really made of. This transition was gradual at first, and later accelerated by alcohol and drug abuse. Finally he decided one fateful day to turn his pent-up anger and frustration into a life lesson for the rest of the world to learn.

He broke into his high school. Entering the place had been a snap—all he had to do was break the glass on the door with a hammer, pull the handle and he was in. He recalled the thudding of his heart in his chest as he slinked through the dark, quiet halls, lighting his way with a cheap penlight.

He randomly entered the classrooms and offices at will, empowered by the fact that he could do anything he pleased and nobody could stop him. It had been an incredibly cathartic experience.

After twenty minutes, he left the school by the same way he’d entered it. In his backpack was an iBook laptop, a laser pointer, a graphing calculator and about three bucks in change from one of the teacher’s desk drawers. He felt wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. And more in control than he’d ever felt in his little life.

He had no sooner exited the school grounds when he was suddenly bathed in a blast of brilliant light. He looked to his left in terror as a police cruiser pulled over to the curb, the spotlight crisply trained on him.

Clark took off in the opposite direction and heard the policeman holler “halt, police!” as he tore down the street as fast as his legs could carry him. Seconds later he heard loud footsteps and heavy panting directly behind him. He turned around just as the officer tripped him up and threw him to the ground.

The next thing Clark knew he was in the back of the cruiser headed for the police station. He was questioned and his parents were notified that their son had been caught breaking and entering McKinley High School.

When he saw his father show up at the station and saw the look of pure anger on his face he had nearly laughed out loud. His only son had just broken the law and was now in the custody of the police. His father was thinking, where have I gone wrong?

Well Dad, let me tell you where you went wrong. Instead of treating me like a piece of shit all my life, maybe you should have tried a radically different approach. Like showing me some respect and caring about my well-being in this fucked up world. Teaching me how to stand up for myself instead of letting me be a pussy and a wimp. Now look what you’ve created!

That was the turning point in Clark’s life. He had discovered a way to get the attention he so longed for. And learned how to take control of a situation. No more putting up with all the shit the world was dealing him. He’d discovered an outlet—a way by which he could become a real person for a change.

Because his father was considered one of the pillars of the community and because he was a juvenile with no prior run-ins with the law, Clark got off with little more than a slap on the wrist. He was grateful for that because he was spared a criminal record, which would have seriously jeopardized his future. He graduated high school with honors, went to college and earned a degree and eventually landed this lame job at Davidson and Associates.

What nobody knew was that he had managed to accrue a substantial income through his life of crime over the years. He had socked most of it away, appearing to be living a simple life, while in fact he was living la dolce vita. And not once had he been caught again.

At twenty-six years old he owned a second home out in the sticks that very few folks in the city even knew about. It was his retreat. He never went there during the week, choosing only to go on the weekends, spending the majority of his time in this modest apartment. That was the key to success—laying low and staying low.

His pride and joy was his collection of vintage cars he had amassed through the years. Besides his skills as a burglar, Clark knew how to work on cars. He could take a junked ’67 GTO and turn it into a masterpiece. He had learned auto body repair work while working part time in high school. He had always been handy with engines from observing his uncle as a child, who was an excellent mechanic and the only relative he had ever been fond of.

Clark decided he would smoke a joint and take it easy tonight. It was Friday and time to let loose a little. Maybe scope out the new chick that just moved in on the fifth floor. What a fucking body! What he wouldn’t give to hop on top of that.

But first thing’s first. He typed in Fulway, West Virginia and read the Wikipedia description of the town. It was located in Humboldt County with a population of 4,643. Most of the area was rural; the Humboldt County Sheriff’s department kept the law.

He clicked a link and was taken to the Humboldt County Sheriffs Department website. The Sheriff’s name was Dwayne Gifford and there were a half dozen deputies working under him. Clark studied the site and took screenshots of their uniforms, badges and anything else he felt was relevant.

Clark then went back and clicked the images tab on his browser and a hundred thumbnail images of sheriff’s patrol cars filled the screen. He examined the Humboldt County vehicles and took a few more screenshots. It appeared as though their patrol cars were late model white Ford Crown Vics with gold stripes and navy blue lettering. He knew that these images could be outdated so just to be on the safe side he would do a little more research on that.

Satisfied that he had done all he could at this point, he shut down his computer and rolled a joint. He fired it up and inhaled deeply, a big smile on his face. Life is good, he thought. Tonight he would celebrate his success by getting high and watching the tube. The girl on the fifth would have to wait for another time.

Tomorrow he would pack up the car and head for Fulway, West Virginia. There was a lot of work to be done and he was fucking stoked, baby.