Sign of the Maker
Brian Shea
THE SIGN OF THE MAKER
Copyright © 2020 by Brian Shea.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-073-1 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64875-074-8 (Hardback)
ISBN: 979-8-71998-664-7 (Hardback)
Contents
Also By Brian Shea
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
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COLD HARD TRUTH: Chapter 1
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About the Author
Also By Brian Shea
The Nick Lawrence Series
Kill List
Pursuit of Justice
Burning Truth
Targeted Violence
Murder 8
The Boston Crime Thriller Series
Murder Board
Bleeding Blue
The Penitent One
Sign of the Maker
Cold Hard Truth
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Unkillable: A Nick Lawrence Short Story
I dedicate this book to the victims of the Boston Marathon Bombing. To every police, fire, and medical personnel who rushed to the aid of the wounded, thank you for answering the call. To those who relentlessly hunted the terrorists responsible, your bravery in the face of true evil exemplifies the resolve needed to fight back against it. To the citizens of Boston, you stood your ground and exemplified a rare strength in the wake of those savage acts. You are the light in the darkness! You are all my heroes!
Boston Strong!
1
The morning walk through the park had been exhilarating for several reasons, most importantly because he was approaching an end to the weeks of tireless effort. It would soon be over. He had time. Seven minutes, to be precise. And if he was anything, he was precise.
He'd calculated the moment of time he now took to sit on the bench and watch the birds. His back was to Beacon Street, where many of Boston's wealthiest lived, looking down on the green of the Common. The exhaust from a passing bus momentarily tainted the park's air until a gust of wind cleared it away.
He settled, pressing against the hardwood as the birds shuffled around his feet.
Most people hated pigeons, seeing them as rats with wings. But he did not. He saw the subtle variances of gray in their wings to be just as dynamic and unique as a brightly colored toucan. To him, the birds were fearless. He respected their defiance in the way they held their ground against humans who scurried about in the overpopulated city. They didn't cower and fly off like the more skittish and delicate birds. Sure, they'd shift and adjust themselves, maybe give a quick flight to move out of the way of a jogger or cyclist or speed walker. But they always returned.
He felt a connection to the winged creatures, mostly for their ability to hide in plain sight. The man on the bench was invisible too. He, like the pigeon, moved in and out among these people without even receiving a passing glance. By design, the soft, muted colors of his uninspired clothing added to his ability to blend into the backdrop. He was neither good-looking nor ugly. An average person carried an intrinsic anonymity. On the outside he was nothing but a waif of a man. Shorter than most. Smaller than most. But his mind was anything but small.
Early in his youth, he'd found that exposing the true nature of his genius caused others to look at him differently. His parents had been the first to notice, and it intimidated them. As he grew, he learned even his enlightened professors were no match for his intelligence. In time, he'd become completely isolated from the outside world, left only with his thoughts and the birds he so adored.
He watched as a large pigeon shoved a smaller one out of the way and nibbled at a bit of coffee cake on the ground. In the animal world, size mattered. The bigger or more powerful you were, the more you could take. But intelligence was the ultimate equalizer. He wouldn't interfere and help the smaller bird. Nobody had helped him when he needed it. Survival of the fittest.
He observed the smaller bird. Its wing fluttered briefly, tapping the bigger pigeon’s tail feathers. As the bigger bird spun to see the source of its meal interruption, the smaller bird swooped in, snagged the bit of broken coffee cake, and flew away. And, just like that, intelligence had trumped the larger bird's position. The man smiled at the insignificant victory.
He spent the next several minutes in deep thought, contemplating what lay ahead for the next twenty-two minutes.
His life had always been a series of calculations and equations. Now, he crunched the numbers one last time, running through the schematics in his mind. Everything had to be perfect. Precision was critical. Connecting all the dots in his head, he affirmed everything was as it should be. Satisfied, he got up from the bench as a group of pigeons parted the way.
He strolled down through the park toward Tremont Street to his morning's destination.
The coffee shop wasn't full, which meant a seat would be available. In the three weeks he'd been coming here, he was unable to find a seat on only two occasions. He was glad that wouldn't be the case today.
It was busier than it had been in recent weeks as summer's grip yielded its hold to the coming winter. During these last few weeks of cool temps,
