CHAPTER ONE

He had just come off the set and was leaving the studio. Another episode on wildlife delivered to his global fan club.

At 69, Horace Brinkman had spent the past three decades telling the stories of animals that couldn’t tell their own; animals and plants and fish endangered by human failures.

The viewers adored his passion and commitment, adding his voice over amazing film that was shot from the world’s diverse habitats. What they didn’t see was his extreme arrogance. Dismissing questions at airport lounges. Ignoring kids’ requests for an autograph. Refusing engagements without the $50,000 fee. Telling critics to fuck off even when their arguments were sound.

With a PhD in biology, he had laid the groundwork for respectability. Being appointed a faculty member to an Ivy League School in Massachusetts further built the reputation he sought. It allowed him an audience and for his ego-satisfying fan base to gather steam. His knack of drawing the viewer’s attention to things they would not otherwise see or issues they would not otherwise hear about, made him popular. His storytelling complemented the mastery of the cameramen and women who did all the hard work.

As he walked in the parking lot adjacent to the studio and opened the door of an electric car that he’d made a company buy for him, a 12-inch blade tore through his back, exiting his chest with ferocity. He glanced to his left to see his killer and hear the words, “Die, you charlatan,” before falling to the ground with his heart still pumping out the remainder of the ten pints of blood that had fueled his life.

His body was found within the hour. The newscasters struggled to prepare his eulogy with sufficient detail to appease the shocked viewers.

Sarah was reading the story, sitting on the front porch of her farmhouse just east of Kingston, Ontario. She turned to her husband.

“Barry, you should read this book. You’re an investigative journalist, I think you’d enjoy the stories.”

A flowery summer dress covered her fit frame, which was approaching its 60th birthday. She handed the paperback to her husband.

“Who Is Frank di Callo? Never heard of it. The author is H.D.N. Zealot; that’s a weird name. How did you find it?”

“Just on a random search for new authors. Not that the book is new. It’s five short stories were published in 2016. Since there are so many books out there, you need to dig deep because they all have great reviews written by family and friends, or they pay for bloggers or subsidize free offerings. You have to be careful you don’t pick a dud. The last two were like that, but this one’s good.

“I’m reading the third story, about an environmentalist who had a television show and lots of admirers. He’s just been murdered. I’m about to find out why and who did it. Obviously, it will be Frank di Callo, since he was the killer in the first two stories.”

“You mean, he was never caught?”

“No, in both the other stories, he got away scot-free.”

“You said the book was published in 2016?”

“Yes, why?”

“Didn’t a TV commentator get murdered in Tucson more recently? The guy who’d go to Washington to harass senators to put more money into nature reserves and hand land over to Indigenous people. What was his name? Jed Franklin. Claimed to be an ancestor of the former

president.”

“Yes, I remember that. Huh, that’s interesting. Didn’t he get killed in a parking lot just after recording another episode of Nature versus Humanity? Gosh, that’s how the character in the book was killed!” said a startled Sarah.

Lifting his head from the weekend newspaper he was reading, Barry’s expression carried multiple layers of intrigue. The same MO? Five years after the book was published. Maybe I need to read the story and see how much of a coincidence it really was.

“How did he die in the book?” Barry asked as he searched Google for the Franklin murder details.

“He was stabbed.”

Barry had his phone on his lap. “Guess what? ‘Popular naturalist Jed Franklin was stabbed to death just after recording an episode of his Nature versus Humanity series,’ it says.

“In fact, now that I come to think about it, I remember that news story. Wouldn’t it be funny if someone read the book then decided to carry out the act?”

“I wouldn’t call that funny, Barry. Worse still, did this H.D.N. Zealot person plan it, write about it then do it himself?” Sarah replied, sounding a bit like a conspiracy theorist.

Barry picked up the book and flicked through the pages, starting at the titles of the five stories:

Murder by Necessity

The Homing Pigeon of Breckenridge

The Charlatan Naturalist

A Red Card for the Unsportsmanlike Football Agent

Death is ’Round the Corner.

“You’re right. I think I would like to read these,” he said, now completely focused on the paperback. “Who died in the first two stories?”

Smiling, Sarah replied with a tease.

“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? Read them for yourself. There are quite a few murders and none of them get solved, by the cops at least. That in itself is not what I expected.”

Seeing the look in Barry’s eyes, Sarah knew what was coming next. Her husband had written a steady stream of articles of late, thriving on deep dives that required astute investigation. Despite being almost five years older than her, he kept himself very fit. His six-foot two-inch frame was tough as nails, agile, and with a mind that could be laser focused.

She had been a teacher, but now spent her time on their farm, horseback riding and staying closely connected to their daughter Kate and son Andrew’s work and love lives. She was Barry’s rock. She knew about his work, having seen enough drama emanate from it to last her a lifetime.

“Suddenly the weekend newspaper articles I love will have to wait. How quickly can you finish the third story so I can nab this off you?”

“Well, that depends. I have to teach riding lessons, tidy the spare bedroom, do two loads of laundry, go over some papers Kate sent me, plus meet with Bob and Louise to order more supplies. It could take a while.”

Knowing damn well she was listing all these jobs on purpose to get under his skin, Barry agreed to do the laundry, review their daughter’s material, tidy the bedroom, and make dinner so she could finish the book by midnight. He proposed that their farmhands, Bob and Louise, could wait.

The deal was set.

“Let’s get going. I need to find out about this mysterious Frank di Callo character,” he said, heading to the laundry room.