Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

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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Thanks for Reading

Next in Series

COLD HARD TRUTH: Chapter 1

Read Cold Hard Truth

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,