PROLOGUE My name's Carl Houseman, and I'm a Deputy Sheriff in Nation County, Iowa. It's a pretty big county, as Iowa goes, covering about 750 square miles. Our total population is about 19,000, and our largest town has nearly 2,000 people. Among other things, that means that when our daughter Jane went to college, there were more people in her dorm than there were in her hometown. I'm 56; about six feet four and about 275 lbs., give or take. I have less hair than I did last year and a whole lot more than I'll have in a year or two. It's harder to tell it's thinning, since it's all gray now. I'm what those who don't want to irritate me refer to as "experienced." Under Iowa law, in fact, I'm so experienced I'm eligible to retire. Under Iowa's Public Employee's Retirement System, I can't afford to. This is the story of the Schiller case. It doesn't have a case number, because it didn't happen anywhere near our jurisdiction. That's the same reason that the official case file is out of my reach. Nonetheless, I got assigned to it. Reluctantly, just for the record. Washington, DC Excerpt from an Intelligence Briefing entitled: "Task, Collect, Pro cess and Use" presented by special agent Volont of the F.B.I. to a joint task group on April 19, 2002. One of the weaknesses of a typical terrorist or gani za tion is their inability to act in a timely fashion. This is the window of opportunity that can enable us to discover the intent to act and to intervene decisively before the act is committed. This is the area where our response has been the least effective. We feel that the primary reason for that lack of effectiveness is twofold: insufficient resources to enable us to differentiate between accurate and inaccurate information; and a failure of interpretation after reliable information has been received and identified as such. CHAPTER 1 Tuesday, October 28, 2003 Pond Square Park Highgate, London, UK Emma Schiller left the Gate house Pub, and walked quickly toward her flat on the southwest side of Pond Square Park. She'd been drinking, was embarrassed, hurt and very angry at one Martin Granger, and wasn't quite ready to see her roommates. She walked to the south edge of the little park, scrunching the tiny rocks under her feet, and sat on a bench near the public restroom. The lighting was adequate, although she thought it was too yellow. There was very little activity in the village, and except for the make of the cars parked in the square, she could have been home in Maitland, Iowa. "Well, it's a good thing you're not," she said, quietly, to herself. In Maitland, they probably just wouldn't understand. The problem had started with Martin Granger, a young teacher she'd met at the Pub more than a month ago. They'd struck up a conversation, enjoyed each other's company, and she had wound up sleeping with him at his flat four nights later. Emma had no regrets about sex with Martin. None whatsoever. Emma's attitude toward sexual relationships had been, for at least the last fifteen of her thirty-four years, very much focused on the here and now. She would have termed any sexual relationship that lasted more than six months as having gone on too long. She very nearly always managed to end them on her terms, and in her way. She was happy to have brief relationships, and was absolutely convinced that she would never have one that lasted as long as a year. She certainly didn't want or need something long-term. "The little prick," she said softly. Martin had caused her to violate one of her very few hard and fast rules about relationships. Never sleep with a married man, or one who was engaged. Everybody else was fair game. A simple rule, and in her entire life she'd never found herself seriously attracted to anyone who had been married. She was determined to never be the other woman in a relationship. Tonight, Martin had informed her that he was engaged, that the wedding would be quite soon, and that he was sorry, but that things would have to stop. Worse, he'd done it after she'd joined him and some of his friends at their table, and had actually asked the little creep to escort her home. The implication of her request had been very clear to him, and to his friends. He had acted embarrassed, and the inflections of his voice had made it appear as if she'd already known of his fiancé. "The bastard," she said. She had, in fact, asked him if he were encumbered in any way before she'd ended up in his bed the fi rst time. She'd never forget his answer. "Hardly. I'm not the sort who has long relationships." She'd thought they were birds of a feather. She took a deep breath. So much for that idea. And to top it all off, she'd come to the Pub tonight with her roommates, and had insisted that they leave and not wait up for her. Both Jane and Vicky had asked her if she were "sure you'll be all right?" She'd been irritated. Neither of them had any romantic action at all. Why interfere with her? The statement that had topped it all was that one of the other men at Martin's table had said something she hadn't entirely caught, but involved the words "slutty," and "American." She'd put him back very firmly in his place, when she'd grabbed his collar and said, "Fuck off, you pencil necked little schoolboy." Well, she thought that maybe she had. It had felt very good to say it, but the recollection was beginning to sour. She leaned forward, and put her head in her hands. "Aw, shit," she muttered, and took a deep breath."Forget him. Hell, forget them . You're just embarrassed." She thought that was good advice, straightened up, and almost started to get to her feet when she became aware that there was somebody standing very close in front of her. Her first thought, before she raised her head back up, was that it was Martin. "Piss off," she said, loudly, as she stood. It was not Martin. Instead, in the yellowish light, she found herself staring at a fairly tall man with sharp features. "Oh.," she said, with an embarrassed giggle. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought . . ." The first blow was to the left side of her face, and nearly knocked her off her feet. "What?!" she yelled, as she caught herself with her right and on the seat of the bench. Her first instinct was to kick out, and she did, but he jumped back, and she missed. She became aware of a hand trying to grab her from the rear, and she lunged to her left, pulling the shoulder of her sweatshirt from his grasp. Emma had always been something of a fighter, and even surprised and a little drunk, her reactions were very good. She lunged directly at the man who had hit her, screaming as loudly as she could. He grabbed her, but she frantically twisted her five foot one inch frame, at the same time as she struck out with a flurry of blows to his face. They both went to the ground, and she managed to stand before he did. In three steps, she'd left him behind, and was just filling her lungs to scream when a third man she hadn't seen stepped from a shadowy area near a tree, put his shoulder down, and ran right into her. His shoulder hit her in the chest and abdomen, driving her upward and back, completely off her feet, and knocking her breath away. She hit the gravel with a thump that knocked the remaining wind from her, with his body crashing down on hers an instant later. She fl ailed her arms, but was picked up by her legs and arms by what she thought were two people, and the third delivered a kick that caught her in the kidneys. She came around a few seconds later, confused and in a lot of pain, but was able to realize that she was already in a car. She was trying to fight, get her breath, and vomit all at the same time. Someone was pounding on her back saying "Lie still! Lie still!" Another was trying to put some tape over her mouth, and the one pounding on her back stopped for an instant, and said something in a language she didn't understand. The tape disappeared, replaced by a rough hand pressing her face into the crack of the seat. As she vomited up her last Guinness, she tried to move her head, afraid that she would drown. Every time she raised her head, somebody would strike her in the middle of her back, and say, "No!" She started to get her breath back, gasping, spitting, and gagging. She had a dim awareness of looking at the back of a driver's seat, before some hands grabbed her ankles, held them tightly together, and bent her legs, bringing her feet up toward the back of her head. Then, whoever that was, leaned heavily, pinning her even more fi rmly to the seat. The hand on her neck relented, and her face was turned toward the front of the car. Tape was slapped over her mouth, wound part way to the back of her head, tangling in her hair. She jerked her head back, and was rewarded with another blow to the face. Stunned, she was dimly aware that a roll of tape was being wound around her head, over and over. Then her wrists, behind her back, were tightly bound. Then her ankles. Then they seemed to pass something between her ankles and her wrists, tightly bringing them together behind her back. Then, and only then, did the pressure ease and the blows stop. "American whore." It was said in a low tone, but very clearly. Then the same voice said, "Call him. Tell him you have her." "Right. Yes. Is she alive?" "Don't be so foolish. Call him and tell him you have her." What Emma Schiller couldn't know, and surely couldn't have cared about at that moment, was that these things happening to her were the result of months of planning. Excerpted from November Rain: A Carl Houseman Mystery by Donald Harstad All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
