Stepford USA (Jade Snow International Adventure #1)

  STEPFORD, USA

  A Mystery Thriller

  Jade Snow International Adventures Prequel

  Lada Ray

  Includes excerpt from the new gripping mystery/thriller, GOLD TRAIN, set in Russia!

  Second Edition

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2011-2012 Lada Ray

  VISIT: www.LadaRay.com

  Five Stars

  "A fascinating, if at times nail-biting, read. I highly recommend Stepford USA." -- Jason Sullivan, Author, The Dark Yergall

  Five Stars

  "Very well written and gripping tale that will leave you guessing to the very end! Excellent storytelling!" --Madeline Walsh (New York)

  Five Stars

  "Psychological thrillers don't get much better than this. Excitingly and yet chillingly gripping... plot line that surprises you at every turn and absolutely does not let you go." -- J.J. Collins, Author (London, UK)

  To Kei and Lily, without whom this book would have never happened.

  And to all those, who not only dare to dream, but have the courage to make their dreams a reality.

  Prologue

  The full moon was surreally bright, but that didn't help. This part of the Hidden Lake shore was so secluded, so few ever ventured in this direction that not a single soul was likely to hear her scream.

  Except one. If he cared to listen… If he cared about her… But now, she knew with absolute certainty, he didn't. No one did. The world - her world - was ending.

  How will her mother survive this? And dad? He's just started recovering from a stroke. Gathering what strength she still had left, she struggled on wet grass as her new summer dress turned to filthy rags, as a thousand knives sliced through her tortured body. But there was no escaping from the cold fingers pinning her down, or from a rough hand that crushed her mouth, the hand that hit her - again, and again, and again.

  The last thing she thought was: how could he? The last thing she smelled was the freshness of the night lake, overpowered by a foul stench of a drunken, sweaty male. The last thing she saw was a menacing shadow obscuring the light of the moon.

  Then, she saw no more. She felt no more…

  Chapter 1

  I never thought of myself as a stay-at-home little housewife. A mere eight weeks ago I'd been dodging stray bullets in Afghanistan together with Paul, my new husband. But then again, I'd never pictured myself as a marrying type either.

  My name is Jade Snow, I am twenty eight, an investigative journalist and a freelance documentary filmmaker. I met Paul, a brilliant journalist for Time magazine, on one of our expeditions. My crew got word that the Taliban should be in one of the villages of southeastern Afghanistan, close to the Pakistani border. Our documentary about the Iraqi and Afghani insurgencies would've been enhanced dramatically if only we succeeded in getting that coveted footage of the bearded, dust-covered Taliban warriors.

  We were in the very thick of things, when the shooting started. My crew was trapped, and Paul came out of nowhere and saved the day, just like - I am embarrassed to say - that proverbial knight in shining armor. And as if that was not enough (as they would say in romance novels) that's when our eyes met and we knew.... Basically, you get the drift.

  When you are in the line of fire every day, you know very quickly who's who around you. You also don't waste your time on unnecessary doubts and deliberations. Paul and I didn't. A month later we were married and since our lives were very busy, me - shooting my documentary, him - writing his pieces for Time magazine, the honeymoon was brief and almost perfunctory: four days at a luxury hotel in Dubai, part of the nearby United Arab Emirates. Dubai is a Switzerland wannabe of the Middle East – so close to all the skirmishes, yet so prosperous, so clean, so quiet and so neutral. Well... sort of prosperous, apart from nearly going bankrupt recently, and sort of neutral, at least officially.

  We spent our time making love, walking on the beach (in case you were wondering, just walking since public displays of intimacy are a huge no-no in these parts), making love (alas, strictly in our hotel room), enjoying peace and quiet, and making love (lots of it). It was loads of fun, restrictions aside, but we had to get back to the hell across the Gulf.

  Trouble started when one morning I felt sick. At first, we thought it was just the food - you know, the inedible, indigestible kind Afghanistan is so famous for. But when the excruciating abdominal pain and the extreme nausea didn't subside after a full week, Paul talked me into flying back to Dubai to see a proper doctor.

  Turned out, I wasn't sick at all, I was just pregnant. And that's when my life changed forever from the predictability of danger-ridden assignments at the hottest spots on the planet to the shock of the unpredictable existence as an expecting housewife.

  The doctor shook his head reproachfully and pronounced that I had too much stress in my life and if I wanted to keep my baby, I should consider changing my lifestyle.

  “Meaning?” I managed to squeak out indignantly.

  “Meaning, young lady,” continued the doctor, sternly knitting his bushy eyebrows, “you should stop chasing the Taliban and start living a peaceful, restful life, with good and regular nutrition and in a safe environment.”

  I hated that man!

  But Paul agreed with him immediately and wholeheartedly. One week later, he persuaded me, forced me really, to move back to the US. He knew I didn't have much of an excuse. The documentary was basically done and I could leave my crew behind to finish up some additional footage.

  We returned to New York, to Paul's spacious apartment on Upper West Side, where he spent his days applying finishing touches to his work. Meanwhile, I was trying to look like I was busy, too. I went around, obsessively re-arranging furniture in compliance with the principles of my new hobby, feng shui, all the while feeling like a caged tiger. Before long, Paul's eyes started acquiring a certain alarmed look every time he'd turn around to find yet another furniture piece not in its familiar place. But at that point, his series of Front Line Essays was published to a chorus of favorable critique; my crew came back and our documentary went into production. Soon, I ran out of furniture to re-arrange, having already feng shue-ed the whole place to death. There was nothing left for me to do but to be bored, between debilitating attacks of nausea, of course.

  From there on everything got worse... Paul got a new assignment, of all places, to Africa. I envied him since I was about to begin resembling a small barrel on long, thin legs and in my condition, taking on any new assignments was out of the question.

  Meanwhile, Paul didn't feel right leaving me by myself in New York. We need to talk, he said to me one day. Oho! Why didn't I like the sound of that? Then he started. Didn't the doctors say I needed a peaceful and restful atmosphere? So, he continued, that must mean the country. It turned out that all my assurances that I was fine in New York and that I had all the fresh air and peace I needed right where I was fell on deaf ears. Paul was a man of action, coupled with an overactive imagination and a white knight in shining armor syndrome to boot. I should know, this was the explosive combo I fell for. But now it was turning downright dangerous, as he insisted on treating me as his very own damsel in distress.

  So, one fine day, Paul came home and happily announced that he rented me a wonderful cottage in the Berkshires, MA, a charming community about two and a half hours north of the City. Fresh air, mountain views, peace and quiet - what can be better for a pregnant woman? Paul's rhetorical question hung in the air next to his smiling face, which stared happily into my mortified one.

  He continued his assault. Green grass, birds singing, besides, didn't I want to start working on my own bo
ok? Surely, those gorgeous mountains would provide plenty of inspiration! He was so convincing, I imagine that's how the infamous snake in the Garden of Eden seduced naïve Eve into trying the forbidden apple.

  I certainly saw Paul's dilemma: what to do with me in my condition when he is so far away, risking his life in some godforsaken Somalia? From his point of view this was a perfect solution and a great way to appease his guilt – mission accomplished! And I... I was too exhausted to argue and somewhere deep down, skillfully implanted by my best friend and confidant, Rachel Weise, a doubt lingered. Who knows, maybe I should, after all, try a change of pace? Perhaps, the country would indeed be better for the baby? Perhaps, I could finally start working on the stories I always wanted to write, but never found the time? Perhaps...

  And that's how I was seduced into moving to the quaint town of Stepford, located in idyllic Berkshire County, MA.

  Paul left for Africa two weeks later, after settling me down in our new country home. He gave me a long and passionate kiss, his dark eyes gazing into mine.

  “Ocean,” he murmured dreamily, as our lips finally detached. “Ocean,” he repeated, still gazing into me. It was our code word of sorts, that's what he'd always called my eyes. They were like two turquoise drops of a boundless ocean on a beautiful summer day, he said to me once, and the image stayed with us. My eyes were indeed an unusual blue-green color and their shape was a bit like a drop of water, with corners slightly slanting upwards.

  “The Orientals,” Paul had told me when we first met, “believe that people, whose eyes are slanted upwards are born optimists.”

  “Relax, enjoy, and remember how much I love you,” he finally managed to whisper, still a little dazed and tongue-tied, but sporting one of his sexy, boyish smiles. I stood in the front door as he pulled out of the driveway, waving like a proper little housewife I've suddenly become. My eyes followed the car carrying my husband away, as it flashed the left turn signal and disappeared behind the bend. A sigh parted my lips as I touched them, savoring the lingering sensation, the taste, the smell, the feel of his lips on mine, that last delicious kiss. I wanted to make sure it stayed with me forever.

  For lack of anything better to do, I started writing a story that was on my mind since Iraq. The Stepford library was just a few steps away from the famous Blue Peacock Inn, right on Main Street and a nice fifteen minute walk from my house. The library was a delight for those who appreciated antiques - a sweet, peaceful place. During the day, I would spend a few hours writing in its deserted hall, at one of the ancient tables with turned legs and surrounded by nineteenth century portraits decking its old walls.

  It started becoming my routine, unless I felt I'd do better, writing in one of the area's little cafes. The weather was getting warmer and each morning I would awake to the merry chirping of the birds and to nature's intoxicating smells, as lilac in my garden burst with color and aroma. What a nice, sheltered paradise it was! What else could I want? How could I miss my old life, full of danger, uncertainty and death? That was a good question and I didn't have an answer to that. And yet, I was getting more restless by the day. The only thing that kept me pinned down was the fact that my belly was growing and I knew, it would only get bigger.

  It looked like I had no choice - I had to stay right where I was, for the baby. I talked myself into taking it easy. But a slight aftertaste, bordering on rebellion, remained somewhere in the depths of my psyche.

  Meanwhile, my life was outwardly settling down. The cottage Paul rented for me came tastefully, if lightly, furnished with some quality antiques. First things first - again I spent some time on feng shui, the so called “oriental art of placement.”

  I tirelessly moved furniture around to allow for a free flow of chi. A few days later, I stood in the middle of my living room, between a comfortable sofa and a mahogany coffee table sitting atop an oriental rug. A vase filled with daisies - my favorite flowers - adorned the table. That's for harmony. On the sideboard I put a large bowl of fresh fruit for abundance and on the étagère with my books, a pitcher with curly bamboo for growth and good health. Next to it, a statue of Laughing Buddha - for luck. After adding a framed photo of Paul and me, both smiling happily on our wedding day, I admired the fruits of my feng shui-ing labors.

  The only taboo in the room were the hefty original beams running across the vaulted ceiling. That, according to the best feng shui practices, meant heavy obstacles. I laughed out loud. Ridiculous! Obstacles? What obstacles could I have in Stepford? Besides, I liked these beams. They gave the place a character. All in all, if my living room was any indication, a peaceful, restful and luck-filled life was predestined for me in the Stepford paradise.

  I sighed, recalling the smoldering ruins of Iraq and the lung-searing dust of the Afghani desert. Nothing like that here; just peace, quiet, chirping birds. For all I knew, this town could as well be in another galaxy. And this – another sigh – was my new life.

  And so it happened that one fine day I was working on my story at the library. It was almost six p.m. and I was getting tired and hungry, but my writing flowed so well that I didn't dare interrupt it. However my stomach, together with my nutrition starved brain, begged to differ.

  About to give up and leave in order to find supper for the demanding beast inside, I noticed a group of women making themselves comfortable by the ancient fireplace adorning one of the walls of the usually deserted reading hall. They arranged their chairs around an antique coffee table and started pulling out their knitting projects.

  Knitting - imagine that! All of a sudden, I felt transported to Victorian England, of all places. I could make out a sweater on one woman's lap, a cute little hat on another's, also, what looked like a baby blanket, a pair of slippers, a lacy shawl and even a knitted bunny! There were women of all ages and I noticed that two of the younger ones were pregnant.

  For some reason, I felt drawn to this group. Trying to be inconspicuous, I attuned to their conversation.

  “I don't know what's going on,” said one of them, an older woman in some comfortable, new-agey clothes. She glanced at the others over the top of her half-moon spectacles that didn't go at all with her round face. “I rang Adelaide's bell – no answer.”

  “This isn't like her,” agreed another woman. This one had keen eyes hidden behind some practical, but sooooo old-fashioned glasses, complete with an oversized square frame. She shook her head, at the same time remembering to count her stitches. “The other day, I couldn't reach her on the phone either.”

  “This would be the third meeting she'd missed,” announced one of the young pregnant women with innocent blue eyes and rosy cheeks.

  “I think you are right, Karen,” frowned the woman in new-agey clothes. “Adelaide and I started this club over ten years ago and I don't recall her ever missing a single meeting, let alone three in a row...” Her voice trailed off, a look of mild alarm on her face.

  “D'you think we should all go and visit her sometime?” proposed another young woman brightly. “Perhaps she needs help?”

  “Now, that's a great idea, Shawna,” nodded the older woman approvingly. “We'll make it a field trip. How about this Saturday?”

  I hadn't the faintest idea who the mysterious Adelaide was, but all of a sudden I felt a strong urge to belong. Isn't it nice to be a part of a group where so many people care when you don't show up for a knitting club gathering? In my previous life I was always needed: my crew needed me, my editors, my friends, my husband. And now... Certainly, I still had friends who called me regularly. But they were all in New York, going on with their lives. They all promised to come and visit sometime, but I knew from experience – this could be a long wait.

  And of course, Paul called every opportunity he got, but honestly, what kind of opportunity could he have in Somalia? His calls were far and in between and his letters, even more so. I knew, he would be there for me close to my due date - my knight in shining armor - but for now... Oh, let's face it, I was on my own.

&n
bsp; Well, I told myself, I'm a tough chick, so Paul isn't worried. In his mind, I should be happy and, most importantly, safe right where I am. After all, what's not to like in paradise?

  Some unknown force lifted me from my chair and before I knew what I was doing, my feet carried me towards the group of knitting women.

  “Excuse the interruption,” I started. All six women, as one, lifted their heads from their knitting and looked at me expectantly. I produced the friendliest smile I possessed. “ My name is Jade Snow. I'm new in town and I saw you all here... So I thought, maybe I could...”

  I felt uncharacteristically shy and once I realized that I did, my confusion and embarrassment made me blush.

  The women stared at me. Then their eyes rested on my slightly showing stomach.

  “Oh, please, please, join us,” said one of them, while another hastily pulled up an extra chair.

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  “I'm Maria,” said the older new-agey woman. “And these are Shawna and Karen. They are expecting, too.” The two younger women, who were about my age and who, from all appearances, were further along than me, gave me a friendly wave.

  “I'm Beth and this is my sister Cathy,” said another woman, who looked like she was in her early forties. Cathy, who might have been in her thirties and who was apparently a woman of few words, simply nodded.

  “And I'm Anne,” said the woman in the old-fashioned glasses.

  “So, Jade, do you like to knit?” inquired Beth.

  “Now that you've mentioned it, I actually never tried it. But I'd really love to learn,” I said quickly and, incredibly, blushed again.

  “See, I am a journalist and my husband, also a journalist, is now in Africa. He thought I'd like the peace and quiet of the Berkshires, while he's away. I'm actually busy writing my first book, but sometimes it feels a little lonely and... and I start wishing I had company.” I uttered that almost apologetically.