The Tower

DONALD SPARKMAN, the award-winning graphic designer
and president of Sparkman+Associates, has recast himself as
the writer of page-turning thriller novels using the nom de
plume of Herrick Lyons.
Under his new pen name, he has written the novels “The
Niche” and “The Tower.” Both are unique in that they spring
from his intimate knowledge of the fields of graphic design
and advertising. The stories come from an imaginative mind
that takes murder and international intrigue to a whole new
level – and you with it. Sparkman points out, “I can identify
with my book’s characters as they are all old friends of mine.”
Why the pen name? Sparkman says he continues to work as
a designer and he wants to keep his identity separate, as well as
its association with his award-winning design agency.
Sparkman+Associates has been a pre-eminent design agency in
the Washington metropolitan area for more than 30 years and
has won national and international awards for his design work,
which has ranged from readily familiar logos to consumer
packaging.
During his career, Sparkman served twice as president of
the Art Directors Club of Metropolitan Washington, and he
founded and was the first president of the International Design
by Electronics Association (IDEA) based in New York.
Sparkman also wrote the instructional book, “Selling
Graphic & Web Design,” for designers published by Allworth
Press. The book was translated to Spanish and printed in
Mexico as a textbook which was chosen by Critique magazine
as one of the top 85 books for designers written in the 20th
century. It is now an e-book on sale at Amazon and Barnes &
Noble as well as other fine stores.

For Cheryl, Kathleen and
my main man
John Paul

THE

Herrick Lyons

Copyright © Herrick Lyons (2015)
The right of Herrick Lyons to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 84963 976 7

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

INTRODUCTION
ONE OF THE LAST PEACEFUL BASTIONS of the now
over-developed Atlantic coast is Duck—a lazy beach
community on the outer banks of North Carolina. For years,
Duck has been a rural sister to Nags Head. Not that Nags Head
isn't rural when compared to the beaches of Atlantic City,
Ocean City, and Virginia Beach.
Both Duck and Nags Head share the Atlantic Ocean on
one side and a sound on the other. The sound is calm and hosts
thousands of sleepy crab pots, yielding the best blue crabs in
the world. It also offers the east coast of the United States
some of the most glorious sunsets. Kitty Hawk is near Nags
Head, and as you drive down the Route 158 bypass, you can
see the Wright Brothers National Memorial, a large concrete
pillar on top of the sand dune that was the site of the Wright
brothers’ first powered flight.
While Nags Head has some of the retail elements
associated with the beach, there are no skyscrapers or
condominiums and no real boardwalk. There are the typical
tee-shirt and beachwear shops. There are miniature golf
courses, water parks and restaurants, but it still doesn’t feel
commercial.
Duck is even more laid back. The little shore community
reminds one of a southern Martha’s Vineyard. For years, Duck
was considered remote and later snobbish, because the rich
finally discovered the area and built beachfront mansions on it.
In the eighties, the timeshare carpet-baggers arrived from
up north. Now, Duck is somewhat built up, with low-rise
condos and single-family rental houses dominating the shore
lines and sound. Even with all this, though, Duck still feels
quaint and not overly-commercial.

There is communication technology in this peaceful and
more or less undisturbed area. But the Internet is everywhere,
and emails thrive with the tourists as well as the natives.

PART I
And I can feel it coming in the air tonight,
Oh Lord...

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ONE
THE NEW RED Honda Accord was stopped for a red light at
the intersection of Connecticut Avenue and L Street. It was
seven-thirty in the evening and the Washington DC summer
rush hour traffic was nearly over.
Tim Morrison tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to
the soft beat of Phil Collins’s In the Air Tonight. The music
filled the car from the Honda’s Bose speakers. He didn’t notice
the black Camaro as it pulled up behind him. Suddenly the
Camaro rudely slapped his rear bumper and Morrison was
thrown back in his seat and then forward against the steering
wheel.
Without thinking, he leapt out of the car to survey the
damage to his newly-prized possession. Normally he would’ve
thought twice about getting out of his car in any other part of
DC, but this was the business district of the city.
He realized his mistake almost immediately. A man from
the passenger side of the Camaro was running toward his open
door. The driver was also out of the car and in his hand he held
a 9mm Beretta with a mean-looking black six inch silencer
screwed into its barrel. The man had the gun aimed directly at
Morrison’s chest.
Morrison threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot. Take anything
you want, but please don’t shoot. Pleeeeeeze!”
He watched in horror as the man slowly squeezed the
trigger.
His instincts told him to run—he turned and began to
sprint down the sidewalk. He felt like he was moving in slow
motion or worse yet, like he was under water.
PFLOPP! PFLOPP!

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Two bullets ripped into his back. His last sensation was the
feeling that a huge fist had knocked all of the air out of his
lungs.
Tim Morrison was dead before he hit the pavement.
•••
IT WAS THE SECOND dreary morning that Sommers had
spent at the beach with his family. He had never objected to his
nickname for his surname Jack Sommerstag since he received
it from a girlfriend in high school. And it fit him like a
comfortable shirt.
He awoke in a strange bed—in a strange bedroom—in a
beach house that smelled of mildew and ocean. He could hear
the light misting rain that would be just enough to keep Jenny
and their two kids off the beach for the day.
Still half-asleep, with his eyes closed he ran through the
alternatives. She could take them shopping to the outlet mall in
Nags Head or find an indoor spot like a movie theater that
would keep their minds off the lack of sand and surf. After all,
this was Duck, and to do anything halfway exciting you had to
drive to Nags Head or some place further down the coast. Up
the coast was Corolla, but that was just more beach and hardly
any stores.
Sommers stretched, swung his stiff legs over the side of
the bed and padded into the kitchen—following the aroma of
fresh coffee. Jenny was standing near the linoleum-top dinette
table, which the owner had probably considered quite
practical, when it was purchased. She had poured him a cup
when she heard the wooden floors creaking in their bedroom.
Jenny’s thirty-six years had been good to her. She had kept
her figure after having the two children. Her hair was short and
perky, as Sommers liked to say. Light brown with a touch of
honey in it. Colored naturally by hours spent in the sun, while
reading books and watching the kids play on the beach. She

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had graduated from Loyola University in New Orleans with a
degree in Home Economics. Jenny and Sommers would
celebrate their eleventh anniversary this September. Now it
was July and this was their yearly hallowed vacation.
“Want some breakfast?” Jenny asked, in a far too chipper
way for Sommers.
“No, it’s too close to lunch time. Where are the kids?” He
asked, not really caring or worried.
“They’re next door playing with their cousins.”
This, after all, was also a family reunion of sorts. Jenny
and her sister, Beth, had started these annual beach trips for
both families after her mother died of cancer three years
before. Sommers knew she was making sure the family stayed
together. Her dad, in his eighty-second year, was not up to
these yearly gatherings. He had stopped coming with them last
year. A single rainy day with four screaming and bored kids
would probably put him over the edge anyway. Dinner twice a
month at his house was enough of a strain on him.
Sommers on the other hand was an orphan. Both of his
parents had been killed when he was only four, in a head-on
collision with a car driven by a small-time thief running from a
robbery. The thief was charged with manslaughter because he
was only sixteen years old and had no priors.
Sommers had put himself through college and made the
Dean’s List three out of his four years at the University of
Maryland. He had majored in Journalism and minored in
Communications. After graduation, he went to work for a
small ad agency, McGraw Advertising Design. The company
had grown, and he liked the future he saw there. Now forty and
at the prime of his career, he felt like he was a key-player in
the agency and the sky was the limit.
His hair was getting a little thin on top. Being in
advertising, he knew that growing a beard would give him
character and draw attention away from his head. So he had

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last year. After all, he thought, Jenny looked too young for a
bald-headed husband.
“What’s on the agenda today?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t
included. He had looked forward to vegetating on the porch
with his latest book.
“Well, I thought I’d see if Beth and our two broods would
like to go to the Food Lion. That should give the kids
something to do. Besides, I need some things for tonight’s
dinner.”
The evening’s dinner for both families would be at their
beach house tonight, and Jenny would make her famous
vegetarian Lasagna. The families each alternated fixing dinner
for the whole group.
“Honey, that won’t make up for an entire day of rain. Why
don’t you take them to that new water-park in Nags Head?” He
was determined to get some peace and quiet.
“Because it’s raining, silly!” she laughingly replied.
“As long as there’s no lightening, a little drizzle won’t get
them any wetter. Besides, they need to blow off some steam or
we’ll pay later.” Sommers was serious, but he knew Jenny was
scared to death of thunderstorms. Even if there was no
lightening, she was still edgy.
After calling Beth, Jenny found that her sister didn’t really
want to trudge around in the rain. Beth’s husband Larry had
left the day before, because of some computer disaster at work.
And Sommers didn’t mind. He got along with Beth better than
he did with her husband. Something about computers and
advertising that didn’t mix.
Jenny asked Beth to send Joey and Cindy home for lunch.
Beth didn’t argue, because out of their boredom, all four
children were beginning to snap at each other.
Beth was the youngest of the two sisters, but only by one
year. The standing joke between them was, how could mom
and dad have been in such a hurry to have them, and then stop

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having children altogether? Each with two children of their
own, they now knew the answer.
Cabin fever at the beach is like cabin fever anywhere.
Except, maybe worse. There’s supposed to be warm sun and
cool surf, and beach houses are not meant for long indoor
stays.
Jenny smiled to herself. She knew that Sommers just
wanted to sit on the little porch outside their bedroom and read
his book. He hated sitting on the beach and sunbathing, finding
that it was unproductive and boring.
“We’ll do something that won’t interfere with your
reading” Jenny said smiling.
Acting hurt, but not too badly offended, Sommers replied,
“This is the only time I enjoy just reading and sitting around. If
we were at home there’d be something that needed fixing or
cleaning.”
“I know dear. And that’s why we’re here. So relax and
enjoy your book.” She knew Sommers would be cranky if he
came along. And she didn’t need three cranky kids.
•••
AFTER THE THIRD car door slammed, Sommers knew that
Jenny, Joey and Cindy were all in the car. He heard the gravel
crunch under the wheels as their blue Saab left the beach house
driveway.
Settling down into one of the two white wicker chairs on
the porch, he opened his book to the author’s notes. This was a
mystery dealing with attorneys. Since Sommers had a lovehate relationship with lawyers in general, this was a perfect
book for him.
After an hour of reading, Sommers decided to get up and
stretch. His throat was dry and he had the beginnings of a
headache. Probably from reading with forty-year-old eyes.
Something cold to drink would be good.

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There was a clean plastic cup on the counter with some
restaurant’s name in funny letters stenciled on it. He picked up
the cup and walked to the refrigerator. He opened the freezer
door for ice and threw several cubes into the cup. Next he
opened the fridge, not really knowing what he wanted. He
spotted a half gallon of Jenny’s spring water and some day-old
iced tea. He let the door swing shut and turned to the tap on the
sink and ran water into the cup. The first sip turned into a
spitting stream of water. “God,” he thought, “this water tastes
like crap.”
It’s true that tap water at the beach is not very good, even
at its best. Most of the rental houses on Duck had water
purifiers that were added by their owners in the late eighties,
and this house was in definite need of one.
Sommers poured the rest of the water down the drain and
filled the cup with the day-old tea. There was a bottle of
aspirin on the counter. He emptied three tablets into his hand
and threw them into his mouth. The tea was strong but it got
the pills down.
He returned to the porch and picked up his book. As he
looked out over the Sound, he noticed a green water tower
blocking part of his view. The tower had always been there,
but it hadn’t really meant anything to him until his bout with
the tap water. Now it gave new meaning to the words bad
taste.
He sat back down and opened the book. It wasn’t very
good, and he had made a point to buy the expensive hard-cover
version because the print was larger. Larger print, even though
he didn’t need glasses, was much easier to read. Even if his
headache contradicted the thought.
He remembered seeing a sign for a public library on the
Route 158 Bypass in Currituck. A library would let him
browse at his own pace and find a good novel. Not one that
had a lot of hype on the back of a fancy raised-color cover.
Definitely not like the one in his hand.

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He went into the bedroom and slipped out of his lime
green swim trunks. He grabbed a pair of shorts from a dresser
drawer. Then he threw on yesterday’s madras shirt, a pair of
crumpled khaki slacks, and his five-year-old docksiders—
thinking to himself—getting dressed-up at the beach meant
adding socks to his wardrobe.
•••
THE LIBRARY was built only for utilitarian purposes. With
its cinder-block walls painted municipal green and its flat roof,
it looked dreary in the now pouring rain. Sommers jumped out
of the car banging his knee on the door of the little red Ford
Fiesta. This was his car, since Jenny wouldn’t drive stick shift.
Although it was small, the car reminded Sommers of a little
red Austin-Healey Sprite he’d had in college. If he could have
taken off for the full two weeks that he and Jenny had rented
the cottage for, they would all have come in the Saab. But
Sommers’ ad agency was pitching VISTA Technologies, the
largest defense contractor in the free world—hell the world.
He had been informed that two weeks off were out of the
question. So Jenny came down with the kids and met her sister
for the first week. He came down on the Tuesday of the second
week. Actually, Sommers didn’t mind the drive by himself. It
gave him time to clear the cobwebs out of his head, and it also
gave them two cars at the beach. Which also gave him a little
extra freedom. Sommers really enjoyed his solo drives,
exploring Nags Head and the nearby towns. Duck was small,
and it became less of a challenge every time he went for a
drive.
Once in the library, Sommers realized that he hadn’t been
inside one in years. There was a gray-haired man sitting behind
one of those caramel-colored oak desks that reminded him of
the furniture you see in schools. Except for the man, the place

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was empty. Probably because of the rain, he thought to
himself.
Sommers walked over to the desk. “Do you have any
books by Peter Miles?”
“Nope,” replied the librarian. “He’s too new, and his first
three books are still on the best-seller list.”
Sommers noticed a water fountain next to a door marked
‘OFFICE’. “Is that beach water in the drinking fountain?”
The librarian looked up and then over at the fountain. “No,
it’s city water. You’re in Currituck County.”
“Then I’ll have some. I think I may have poisoned myself
on the beach water in Duck. That must be the worst water I’ve
ever tasted.”
“I wouldn’t drink that stuff even with a purifier,” replied
the librarian.
After a refreshing drink of ice-cold water from the
humming steel water fountain, Sommers turned back toward
the older man. “Does the water tower on Duck have anything
to do with why the water tastes so bad?”
“The water tower?”
“Yes, the one on the Sound. You know, the one near
Seascape, those time-sharing condos.”
“All of Duck’s water is piped in from Nags Head. I’ve
lived in Corolla for thirty-five years and it’s always been that
way.”
“Then what’s the tower for? Fire trucks?”
“That tower was built by some Army soldiers in May. The
paper said it was for emergencies. We all guessed that they
meant for it to be used if something happened to the Nags
Head’s water. Maybe like 9/11.”
Sommers shrugged and decided to let the matter drop.
After a good half hour of browsing, he picked out two books.
One was a mystery about murder in the Pentagon, the other
about a man-made plague dumped into New York’s sewer
system. Neither one really excited him. With only a few days

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left at the beach, he really only needed one book, but he took
both, in case one was a dud.
He presented the books to the librarian. The man carefully
removed the cards in the back of each book.
“You don’t have a Currituck library card, do you?”
“No, we’re down for two weeks from Virginia.”
The man smiled, “I didn’t think so. Well, I can issue you a
temporary card for a ten-dollar deposit.”
Sommers fished two fives from his wallet and filled out
the form the librarian placed in front of him. “How long can I
keep these?”
“Well, we don’t have many people through here except
locals. Most folks at the beach bring books with them. You can
keep these two until you’re ready to leave.”
•••
SOMMERS PULLED into one of the double spaces at their
rented beach house. Walking up the stairs on the side of the
house, he looked at the water tower again. Somehow it looked
different. Something about it wasn’t sitting right with him.
Why would the Army be in the water-tower business?
Wouldn’t private contractors be used to build it?
Just then he heard the crunching of gravel below him as
the Saab pulled in next to his car. Jenny jumped out of the car
with umbrella in hand. Joey and Cindy didn’t need an umbrella
because they were already up the steps and past him.
He held the door for Jenny, who had two bags in her arms,
“Did you find anything interesting to do?”
He took the bags from her and placed them on the kitchen
counter top.
“Yes, after the Food Lion we went to Goombay’s for
lunch. I had the best crab-cake sandwich. The kids had some of
those yummy greasy onion rings, with Shirley Temples in
those special Goombay’s cups.”

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He remembered that the cups were usually reserved for the
potent rum drinks Goombay’s was known for.
“They really felt grown up.” She turned and pulled a
plastic bag out of one of the brown grocery bags. “I got you a
Goombay’s tee shirt.”
She knew he loved tee shirts and would probably wear this
one until she could steal it away to wash it. The shirt was
bright yellow with a green alligator on the back and the word
Goombay’s on the front pocket.
“Thanks hon, it’s great!” He said it with genuine
appreciation. Sommers suddenly realized he had forgotten to
eat lunch. The small headache was settling back in. Now his
mind was now on his number-one priority, food. He turned
toward the kitchen, ready to raid the refrigerator of anything
that didn’t have mold on it.
He opened the door, finding nothing but some yellow
cheese that was hard as a rock. “What did you get at the
store?”
“There’s some bologna, lettuce and tomato in the bag, if
you can wait a minute.” She laughed at his desperation.
“Did you get any bread?”
“Yes, I got bread. You can make yourself a Dagwood.”
“What the heck is a Dagwood?” Sommers was puzzled.
Jenny looked surprised. “Didn’t your dad ever read the
funnies to you when you were little?”
“No. I guess I was deprived. We had TV and I watched
cartoons like a normal kid. So what’s a Dagwood?”
“Dagwood, in the comic strip, would wake up in the
middle of the night, go down to the kitchen and fix himself this
huge sandwich with everything left over in the refrigerator.”
“Hmm. Sounds like my kind of man. But we have a slight
problem. There are no left-overs in our refrigerator, except that
crummy cheese that’s probably been in there since you got
here.” He was smiling.

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“There’s fresh cheese in the bag and I even got some of
that brown mustard you love.”
Sommers started pulling things out of the Food Lion bag
and placed them on the counter. “Did you get any beer?”
“No, but I did get milk. That’ll be good with your
sandwich.”
She knew him well and his love of a cold glass of milk. All
of the distractions of the city’s suburban life seemed far away
when she was near the sea.

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