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Free Thriller Excerpt! Non-Stop Action, Original Story Lines And a Twist of Supernatural – Start Reading Alex Siegel’s CARNIVAL OF MAYHEM

On Friday we announced that Alex Siegel’s Carnival of Mayhem is our Thriller of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the thriller, mystery, and suspense categories: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

 

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Thriller excerpt:

4.5 stars – 24 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

CARNIVAL OF MAYHEM is the exciting sequel to APOCALYPSE CULT. In this continuation of the series, innocent people across the country are dying of an unknown illness. To prevent a national panic, the U.S. government claims the cause is tuberculosis, knowing this is far from the truth. The military has sent its best medical scientists to investigate, and even they are baffled. A secret cult, the Order of Eternal Night, is behind the mayhem. Only the Gray Spear Society can stop them from spreading death to the four corners of the world.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Aaron shook his head as he watched Smythe sneak over to the window. Smythe pulled aside a flower print curtain, peeked through the crack at the darkness outside, and then sat back down in his chair.

Marina’s voice came through a bud in Aaron’s ear. “Smythe, was that you again?”

Smythe turned on his microphone. “Yes.” Like Aaron, he wore a radio headset suitable for combat.

“Stop it. You’re acting like a school girl waiting for her date to show up.”

“I don’t like being bait,” Smythe said. “This sucks.”

“Are you afraid?” she asked. “I thought you were a tough guy, a veteran warrior who battled terrorists in the mountains of Afghanistan.”

“One thing you learn fighting terrorists is that it’s a really bad idea to make yourself a target.”

“If I ask Aaron to give you a tender hug, will that comfort you?”

Smythe’s face turned red, but instead of answering her, he turned off his microphone. Aaron smiled.

He was doing a better job of hiding it, but Aaron was nervous also. Both he and Smythe were the bait in this trap. They wore blue business suits like regular FBI agents, but underneath they wore soft, flexible body armor which trapped heat and sweat. To stay comfortable, they had turned off the furnace in the house.

The house was small. From his location in the main room, Aaron could see into the kitchen and the single bedroom. There wasn’t much else. The cheap furniture was made of varnished wood and fabric. Apparently, the owner liked pink and blue flowers because they covered the wallpaper, curtains, and upholstery.

Aaron went into the kitchen to get a snack. He poked through cupboards that were mostly empty. He found high fiber cereal, cans of soup, tuna fish, a bag of rice, and dry spaghetti. Finally, he spotted a can of mandarin oranges.

“Do you know where the can opener is?” he called out.

“In the drawer by the fridge,” Smythe replied.

Aaron quickly found the opener.

The owner of the home was an old lady. She had been told the FBI needed her house for a “top secret” operation, and an overly generous cash payoff had closed the deal. Now she was staying in the best room in a nearby hotel. Aaron expected she was telling all her friends about it, which was fine.

As he ate his oranges, he listened to the eerie quiet. Everything inside the house that might make noise was turned off, and cold weather had silenced the insects outside. If a mouse farted, he would hear it.

After he was done eating, he went back to his chair, which had several guns stuffed between the thick cushions. He checked to make sure all of them were in the right place. He didn’t want to grope for his weapons in an emergency.

Smythe frowned at him. “I still have a problem with this ‘working for God’ thing. I just don’t believe it.”

“I know,” Aaron said. “I had trouble with it for a while, too.” He spat at the wooden floor, and his yellow saliva immediately bubbled into foam. Within seconds there was a clean hole. “Until the evidence convinced me.”

Smythe stared at the hole. “There is a scientific explanation for everything.”

“Why is God not scientific? Is there a physical law that forbids His existence? Just because it’s fashionable for scientists to ignore God doesn’t mean they should.”

“Sounds like you don’t like scientists.”

“That’s not true,” Aaron said, “but nobody is smart enough to understand everything. The human brain just isn’t that big. Mine sure isn’t, so I have a very simple philosophy these days. I follow Ethel’s orders, I try not to get killed, and I don’t ask questions that have no answer.”

“In other words,” Smythe said, “you’re intentionally ignorant.”

“I focus on doing what I’m good at. Nothing wrong with that.”

Smythe sighed.

“And one other thing,” Aaron said. “Your kind of science pertains to the natural world. We’re unnatural monsters. Different rules apply to us.”

“I can’t believe that. The whole point of physics is that it’s the same for everybody.”

“It’s the same for almost everybody.”

Aaron leaned his head back and tried to relax. The long hours had passed very slowly with only brief conversations to break up the monotony. They had to be ready to fight at all times. Even trips to the bathroom were hurried.

He wondered if Marina was as tired and bored as he was. She was sitting in a metal storage shed in the back yard. Her job was to watch a bank of video monitors fed by surveillance cameras placed all around the house. Light amplification in the cameras made starlight seem as bright as sunshine, so night was no problem. Thermal and motion sensors provided another layer of security. It would be impossible for anybody to set foot on the property undetected.

“What if the Eternals never show up?” Smythe said. “Are we going to stay up all night?”

“Have some faith,” Aaron said. “The address of this house is the worst kept secret in the history of the FBI. We damn near posted our location on the internet. If the Eternals are looking for Santorini, they’ll come here.”

Smythe sighed deeply.

Aaron considered going out to visit Marina. She had a tiny electric heater in her shed, but it wasn’t enough. A nice hug and a kiss would warm her up, but if the Eternals were watching from the perimeter and saw him go to the shed, it would wreck the operation. She was the ace in the hole.

“You mentioned you were a Chicago cop,” Smythe said.

“Nine years of proud service,” Aaron said.

“Why did you quit?”

“I was fired.”

Smythe raised his eyebrows.

“I fingered another cop for bribery,” Aaron said. “Some senior officers felt I should’ve handled the situation less publicly. Cops are supposed to protect each other. Eventually, they found an excuse for getting rid of me.”

“Is that the whole story?”

Aaron scratched the stubble on his chin. “You could say I helped them find an excuse. The department had its rules, and I had mine.”

“You were dirty?”

“No, I was more interested in justice than proper procedure. They called me a renegade and a thug. Mr. Bodycount. Maybe they were right. Doesn’t matter. In the end, being a cop was just training for this job.”

The radio in Aaron’s ear crackled. “A car just parked on the street,” Marina said. “It approached with the headlights off.”

Aaron turned on his microphone. “Can you read the license plate?”

“Yes, and I’m texting it to Edward right now. Two men are stepping out. Big guys in dark sweat suits. They have assault rifles.”

“Huh? Wise told us the Eternals don’t like guns.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Maybe these guys aren’t Eternals. They look Italian.”

“Fuck.” Aaron rolled his eyes. “Of course Santorini has other enemies. He’s a snitch, after all, and we told the world exactly where to find him.”

Smythe sneered but had the good sense to keep quiet.

“They are trying to peek through the windows,” Marina said.

All the blinds and window curtains in the house were closed, so the attackers wouldn’t see anything. Aaron furrowed his brow as he considered his options, but he really only had one.

“Call Ethel,” he said. “Tell her I’m using deadly force. If she doesn’t like that, then she has about ten seconds to give me a better idea.”

“Calling now.”

He reached between the cushions and took out a Glock 30 pistol with a large suppressor. The .45 caliber cartridges packed enough punch to knock a man down, even if he were wearing a vest. The suppressor wouldn’t make the gun silent, but it would keep the neighbors from hearing any shots.

Smythe took out a Beretta 93R, which could fire three round bursts. He clicked off the safety.

“We’re going to kill these guys?”

“Better them than us,” Aaron said. “Those assault rifles aren’t housewarming gifts.”

“Just don’t accidently shoot me.”

“I should tell you the same, rookie. Pick your spot.”

Aaron went to a corner of the room and crouched behind a reclining chair. From this location, he had a clean shot at the front and back doors. Smythe pushed the couch around and kneeled behind it to achieve a similar result. They could also cover each other’s backs.

“I talked to Ethel,” Marina said through the radio. “You’re authorized to protect yourself.”

“That’s nice,” Aaron said.

“And Edward ran the license plate through his computer. These men are mobsters. We don’t need them alive for questioning.”

“Also nice. Where are they?”

“Coming around to the back of the house,” she said. “You’d better kill them quick. The neighbors will hear the assault rifles.”

“They’ll be dead before they fire a shot.”

“Hey,” Smythe said. “I’ll bet you a beer I get the first kill.”

“Beer?” Aaron said. “Too cheap. The winner gets to pick the booze.”

“Fine.”

Aaron settled into a solid firing stance. He had a clear view of the back door in the tiny kitchen. He aimed at head height and sighted down the barrel.

“A few more seconds,” Marina said. “Here they come.”

The back door burst open and two men rushed through. Aaron fired at their faces. He pulled the trigger as fast as he could until the targets went down.

He jumped up and ran over to verify that both men were dead. One glance confirmed it beyond any doubt. Blood and chunks of brain tissue had painted the back wall of the kitchen to create a grotesque form of abstract art. Aaron closed the door in case a neighbor got curious.

“Not only merely dead, but really most sincerely dead,” Smythe said. “Who won the bet?”

Aaron bent down for a closer look. Smythe was using lighter rounds than Aaron, which meant the bullet holes were slightly smaller.

“Hard to tell,” Aaron said. “We both placed some good head shots.”

Smythe nodded. “Let’s call it a tie for now.”

“That’s fair.”

A pool of blood was spreading across the floor, oozing into the cracks, and staining Aaron’s shoes. He quickly searched the mobsters for wallets and found none. Then he backed out of the kitchen.

“No identification,” he said.

“Do you want to check the car?” Smythe said.

“Too risky and a waste of time. We don’t care about these guys.”

“The Eternals will see the car. It might spook them.”

Aaron shrugged. “What can we do?”

“Not much, I guess.”

They sat on their chairs and reloaded their guns.

Aaron’s heart rate returned to normal. As the adrenaline left his system, he suddenly felt very tired. The worst part of a mission was the lack of regular sleep. He hated the nagging exhaustion which weighed down his body and clouded his mind.

“Is this what you do every day?” Smythe asked.

“Not really. We see serious action just a few times a year, if that much.”

“Why?”

“God’s enemies usually keep a low profile,” Aaron said. “Maybe they’re afraid of Him. We actually spend most of our time training and practicing. How do you think I got these big muscles? Ethel works us hard every day. We’re also constantly developing new contacts and sources of information. Preparation is the key to our success.”

Marina’s voice came through the radio. “Movement on the west side! I see…”

Her voice cut out, and Aaron heard a painfully loud buzzing noise instead.

He tore off his headset. “Shit!”

Smythe did the same. “I think the signal is jammed.”

Aaron opened his cell phone and found he had no bars. “The enemy must be using a wide spectrum jammer.”

“Like the one you used on me?”

“Exactly.” There was a phone on a table. Aaron picked it up and heard nothing. “The line is cut, too. Get ready for a fight.”

He grabbed the rest of his guns and stuffed them in his pants, but he kept the Glock 30 in his hand. It was the best weapon he had available. The assault rifles lying on the floor in the kitchen were too noisy to be useful, and besides, he didn’t like picking up weapons. If they were poorly maintained, they could jam or misfire.

He was worried about Marina, who was alone out there. She could lock her storage shed from the inside, and if anybody tried to break in, she had some nasty surprises waiting for them. She was also wearing body armor. But despite the precautions, he couldn’t convince himself she was safe.

Smythe finished arming himself. “We’re blind without Marina. We need to get out of this trap. Let’s take the fight to the enemy.”

“I’m sure that’s what they’re waiting for,” Aaron said. “They’ll cut us down as soon as we step outside. Let’s think about this for a second. We need a distraction so we can escape and find cover safely.”

Smythe nodded and looked around. He pointed to the single bedroom. “There is a window in there. We’ll leave that way.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s farthest away from the kitchen.”

“So?” Aaron leaned his head.

Smythe went into the kitchen and ransacked the drawers until he found aluminum foil. He wadded up a big ball, stuffed it into a microwave oven, and turned the oven on. The metal immediately began to emit blue sparks. He turned on all the gas burners on the stove without lighting them. Invisible natural gas gushed out.

He ran out of the kitchen. “Let’s move.”

He hurried into the bedroom, and Aaron followed close behind. They pulled a mattress off the bed and knelt underneath.

“The neighbors will hear the explosion,” Aaron said. “They’ll call the fire department.”

“We’ll still have a few minutes to work,” Smythe said. “The blast will blind and confuse the enemy, giving us the tactical advantage for a short time.”

“We need to capture some of the Eternals alive for interrogation. That’s why we’re here.”

“I understand.”

Aaron didn’t like Smythe assuming a leadership role, but that argument would have to wait until after the fight.

After a couple of minutes, Aaron started to smell the gas, and the odor reminded him of rotten eggs. Then a roaring noise filled his world. The shockwave from the explosion slammed into the mattress and pushed him to the floor.

He and Smythe threw off the mattress as soon as they were able. Fire was everywhere in the other rooms, but it hadn’t reached the bedroom. The nearest window was completely blown out. Aaron jumped through and ran into the chilly night air.

The first priority was finding cover. The fire provided plenty of light, and he quickly spotted a dense clump of bushes ten yards away. He dove into the middle of the clump and slid to a stop in the dirt. Smythe followed him in. They bumped heads in the cramped space as they tried to sit up.

Aaron peeked between the leaves to assess the situation. The house was located in a semi-rural neighborhood, so there was plenty of open space around. Large, old trees dominated the landscape. The Eternals were probably hiding up in the branches because they provided a great location for surveillance.

“We have to check the trees,” Aaron whispered.

Smythe nodded. “Sneaking up on a guy in a tree is almost impossible. He sees you a long time before you see him.”

“Marina is watching the surveillance video. If we could get to the shed, she could tell us exactly where the enemy is.”

“We’ll have to go around the house. We’ll be seen.”

“Not if we take the long way. Follow me.”

Aaron sprinted directly away from the house. He kept going for two hundred yards before turning. Smythe’s heavy footsteps stayed close behind him. Aaron made a huge circle that looped through the yards of a dozen other homes before he headed back.

He spotted the shed straight ahead. Made of rusty, corrugated steel, it wasn’t quite big enough to store a car. He stopped in the shadow of a tree before he got too close.

“Do you see anybody?” he whispered.

Smythe was breathing hard. “No, but wait. Let me catch my breath. You’re in much better shape than me.”

Aaron looked up. Fall had come but the trees still held many leaves. Yellow, red, and brown had replaced the lush greens of summer. He searched for any sign of the enemy. The combination of the flickering fire and a light breeze made all the leaves appear to dance in the night.

“The neighbors must’ve called the fire department by now,” he said. “The Eternals will run when they hear the sirens, and we’ll go home empty-handed.”

“Better than going home dead.” Smythe shrugged.

Aaron didn’t like that response. “I’m going to run to the shed now.”

Smythe raised his Beretta. “I’ll cover you.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I could perform surgery with this gun. Go.”

Aaron dashed forward. He realized he was entrusting his life to a man with questionable loyalties. From the way he talked, it was clear Smythe still didn’t consider himself a Spear.

Aaron put those doubts out of his mind as he approached the shed. He kept to the shadows, but the front door of the shed was fully exposed. He took a deep breath and ran the last several yards.

The door was open, which surprised him. He had assumed Marina would lock herself inside. He couldn’t just stand in the light, so he went in.

The interior was a jumble of flickering, disorienting shadows. While his eyes were still adjusting, he saw a dark shape moving around. He wasn’t alone.

Aaron raised his gun. “Freeze,” he said quietly, “or I’ll drop you where you stand.”

“Go ahead and shoot,” a deep masculine voice replied. “Death is my ultimate reward.”

Aaron couldn’t leave this guy behind to cause mischief. Capturing him alive would be time consuming, dangerous, and noisy. This shed was a lousy place for a fight. In the meantime, Smythe or Marina might desperately need Aaron’s help. He had only one choice.

“As you wish.” Aaron pulled the trigger and put a .45 caliber slug into the enemy’s brain. The suppressor made the shot sound like a soft thump instead of a loud bang.

He checked the video surveillance monitors and found all twenty displays turned off. The power cord for the entire system had been cut with a sharp knife. Marina sabotaged it, he thought. She didn’t want the enemy using it.

He checked the shed for clues. Marina had taken her body armor and weapons, which was an encouraging sign. He found words written on the wall in face paint, and they read, “Black truck on street. See you there.” He smiled.

He ran back outside, and the bright fire dazzled his eyes. The entire house was engulfed in flames now.

Aaron heard quick footsteps to his right. He reflexively dove to the ground and rolled. He looked back to see another Eternal standing with a dagger. He was a large man wearing a cloak, hood, gloves, and boots, leaving no skin exposed. All his clothes were black. The dagger’s blade had a milky, wet gleam. Poison?Aaron wondered.

The Eternal fell on Aaron with the clear intention of stabbing him. Aaron grabbed his wrist and twisted so that the blade pointed up instead of down. The move was automatic, the result of countless hours of training. The Eternal landed on the dagger, grunted, and rolled over. The blade was buried in his abdomen up to the hilt, and blood trickled from the wound.

Aaron scrambled to his feet in case the enemy had the strength for a second attack, but it quickly became clear the fight was over. The Eternal was making choking noises, and all his limbs trembled violently. He expired several seconds later.

Definitely poison, Aaron thought.

“Nice move.”

Aaron spun around and saw Smythe approaching. “Thanks,” Aaron said.

“But I thought you wanted to take live prisoners.”

“I do, but they’re not cooperating. Marina is investigating a black truck parked on the street. Let’s go.”

Aaron heard distant sirens. No! Not yet! He ran towards the street.

He spotted the truck which was the size of a small moving van. It was already pulling away. His heart skipped a beat when he saw that Marina was standing on the rear bumper and clinging to the back of the truck. She wore gray and black camouflage fatigues.

Aaron would not let the woman he loved be taken away. He shot at the tires on one side of the truck, flattening them, but the truck didn’t stop.

“Jump off!” he yelled to Marina.

She shook her head.

A fire engine sped around a corner. The truck tried to swerve out of the way, but the flat tires made hard turns impossible, and it crashed into a ditch. The truck rolled onto its side.

“Marina!” Aaron yelled as he sprinted forward.

He found her lying in the weeds about twenty yards away from the accident. She was unconscious but still breathing. Blood oozed from a cut on her forehead.

Smythe knelt beside her. “I’ll take care of her. You worry about the enemy.”

Aaron reluctantly left her in Smythe’s care. Aaron ran over to the cab of the truck and looked through the cracked front windshield. Two men were inside, still held in place by their seatbelts.

For the first time Aaron saw the pale faces of the enemy. Their hair was cut short in a distinctly military style. One had a scar on his cheek. Wearing heavy, black robes, they reminded Aaron of medieval monks. They were young, no older than twenty-five, but there was no fear in their eyes.

Aaron drew his gun and aimed through the windshield. “Nobody move!”

One man reached into his robes and took out a hand grenade. He pulled the pin and held the grenade in the air like a trophy. Both Eternals watched it with calm expressions.

“No!” Aaron ran back and hid behind a tree.

The explosion sent shrapnel in all directions. He heard it whizzing past and striking the foliage all around as if it were raining. The truck was destroyed. Burning gasoline poured out and the flames reached high into the air.

A police car came up the road with its lights flashing and siren wailing.

“Smythe!” Aaron yelled. “Pick up Marina and follow me!”

Smythe lifted Marina with both arms and ran over. Aaron led him away from the road and into the murky shadows under the trees. They crouched down.

“How is she?” Aaron said.

“I hardly had time for an examination,” Smythe said, “but nothing looked broken. Maybe a concussion. We should get her to a hospital just to be safe.”

“That’s one piece of good news.” Aaron sighed. “Otherwise, the night has been a fucking disaster.”

Continued….

Click on the title below to download the entire book and keep reading Alex Siegel’s Carnival of Mayhem >>>>

4.5 Stars and Just 99 cents for the exciting sequel to APOCALYPSE CULT!
Alex Siegel’s CARNIVAL OF MAYHEM

How many Kindle thrillers do you read in the course of a month? It could get expensive were it not for magical search tools like these:

And for the next week all of these great reading choices are brought to you by our brand new Thriller of the Week, by Alex Siegel’s Carnival of Mayhem. Please check it out!

4.5 stars – 24 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

CARNIVAL OF MAYHEM is the exciting sequel to APOCALYPSE CULT. In this continuation of the series, innocent people across the country are dying of an unknown illness. To prevent a national panic, the U.S. government claims the cause is tuberculosis, knowing this is far from the truth. The military has sent its best medical scientists to investigate, and even they are baffled. A secret cult, the Order of Eternal Night, is behind the mayhem. Only the Gray Spear Society can stop them from spreading death to the four corners of the world.

Reviews

“Most thrillers are pretty cut-and-dried: one can pretty much predict the progression and outcome and characters are either military or civilian in approach and makeup. Not so with CARNIVAL OF MAYHEM, where protagonists are diverse, their actions often unpredictable, and their intentions and associations a mystery… In the end it’s a powerful pick filled with action and unexpected twists and turns: perfect for prior fans of APOCALYPSE CULT who want to see more of Aaron and his team.” – D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

“I have been absolutely hooked on this series since the first book. I have not been able to read anything else in the meantime. I would recommend this series to anyone who likes non-stop action, original story lines and a twist of supernatural. I am looking forward to more books by Alex Siegel.” – 5 Star Amazon Review

About The Author

Alex Siegel grew up a math and computer geek. At the age of twenty-five, he received a Ph.D. in Computer Science from Cornell. He continues to make a good living as a software developer in Chicago. In his late twenties, he took up creative writing as a serious pastime with the intention of eventually making it his career. This goal has been elusive, but failure is not an option. In 2001, his wife gave birth to triplet boys. People often ask him how he still finds time to write. In 2009, he began the Gray Spear Society series, and he hopes it will be his key to literary fame.

The Gray Spear Society books are thrillers set in the Chicago area in the present day. The plot unfolds rapidly and the action is fast-paced. A supernatural twist makes these stories unlike anything you have ever read before.

The current list is APOCALYPSE CULT, CARNIVAL OF MAYHEM, PSYCHOLOGICAL DAMAGE, INVOLUNTARY CONTROL, DEADLY WEAKNESS, THE PRICE OF DISRESPECT, TRICKS AND TRAPS, POLITICS OF BLOOD, and GRIM REFLECTIONS. More books are forthcoming. Thank you for your interest!

Check out my facebook page for the latest updates:

https://www.facebook.com/GraySpearSociety

or my personal site:

http://www.grayspearsociety.com/

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Free Thriller Excerpt! What if you awakened one morning with the ability to stop school shootings like the horrific Sandy Hook tragedy? Andy Holloman’s When His Dreams Take Flight

On Friday we announced that Andy Holloman’s When His Dreams Take Flight is our Thriller of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the thriller, mystery, and suspense categories: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Thriller excerpt:

When His Dreams Take Flight

by Andy Holloman

4.2 stars – 29 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Note : After the horrific Sandy Hook shooting (Dec. 2012), I was inspired to create a story where someone might have the ability to stop school shootings.  This novel is NOT about this specific event.
              ———————————————————–

From Amazon Bestselling Author Andy Holloman comes a story of struggle, dreams, death, and redemption.

Have you ever dreamed you were flying? If so, you know how exciting that type of dream can be. High School Principal Nick Townsend had those dreams regularly, and he used to enjoy them.

But in late 2012, after losing another battle against the mighty tequila demon, he awakens the next morning remembering a dream of an elementary school shooting in progress. When he sees the details from his dream on the news, he knows that he’s been given a gift (curse?) and the next time he drinks and dreams, he enlists his best friend to help him stop a shooting in Arkansas.

As his alcoholism continues to haunt him, he must decide whether to try and save more students from certain death. He wants to do the right thing. But should he risk his life when his lovely fiance is carrying his child? Will he win the war against tequila? And what if he drinks and dreams again, only to find that the next shooting is happening at HIS SCHOOL?

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

I – June 5,  2013

 

Before Nick opened his eyes, before the morning light struck the back of his retinas, pain throbbed through his frontal lobe and settled in his temples. He massaged them then opened his right eye. The bright sun burned and he rolled onto his side to avoid the light. With his eyes closed, he pushed himself towards the edge of his bed and sat up. The room spun and bile rose in his throat. He lowered his head between his knees and spat on the floor.  He stood up and put his hand on the wall for support. He swayed towards the wall, spilling a cup; the contents sprayed across his foot and the carpet underneath his bed.

He walked out of the room and down the hall, bracing himself with the wall until he reached the bathroom. He splashed cold water in his face and ran his wet fingers through his hair. More bile bubbled up in his throat, so he cupped his hand under the cool stream, bent down, and drank. When he came back up and looked in the mirror, his dream from the night before rushed back into his consciousness. This time it would be his school. His students, his staff.

Allison!

He hurried back to his room and grabbed his phone from the bedside table. Eight-thirty. Halfway through first period. He punched Allison’s speed dial number on his phone. Voicemail. “Allison. You gotta get out of the building. Don’t stop to talk to anyone, don’t drop by the office. Just walk out the exit door beside your classroom. Stay away from the front of the building! The dream happened again, but this time at our school. You’ve got to get yourself and the baby out. Right now!”

As the principal, he had banned his teachers from having their own phones on during class time. God, if only her phone was sitting on her desk, vibrating, lighting up, getting her attention.

He pulled on a pair of khakis and a white t-shirt. Goddamn you, Gene! Just when I need you the most, you up and leave me. He moved out of his bedroom and towards the door, pulling a baseball hat off a hanger. The school was a ten minute jog from his apartment. He stepped out the door, slamming it behind him, and started down the stairs. Halfway down he paused and brought his hand to his mouth. He bent over the railing and vomited. He spat out the remains and dialed the school’s number.

“James Thomas High School, how may I—”

“Jenny, its Nick. I’m coming right now. I’m running out the door, but I need you to do something. This is very important. Okay?”

“Sure, Principal Nick. What is it?”

“Promise me that you’ll stay calm and that you will move fast when I say to.”

“Sure, Nick, but you’re kinda scaring me.”

“Our school is going to be attacked. There’s gonna be a shooter and—”

“A shooter? Are you kidding?”

“This is no joke. It’s the Laskins. They’re coming and it’s going to be bad, so I need you to pull the fire alarm in my office. Move right now and get in there. Break the glass and then pull down the switch.”

“You mean Timmie Laskin is going to shoot people? What the heck are you talking about? How do you know what—”

“Please just do what I say. It’s not Timmie, it’s—”

“Stick?”

“Yes.” He stopped, pulled the phone away from his head and vomited again.

“Oh my god! He’s coming through the front door right now. He looks terrible and dirty. But how did you know Stick was going to be here?” said Jenny.

“Never mind. Go in my office, lock the door, and then pull the fire switch. Do it now!”

“He’s coming towards the office!  He’s got a gun. Mr. Laskin, what are you doing? Please put that gun away. I—I have to; you have to, Mr. Laskin! No! Please no!” The line went dead.

“Jenny? Jenny? Are you there?” He looked down at his phone’s screen.

Call ended.

 


II – About Six Months Earlier

 

The walkie-talkie crackled in his pocket.

“Nick, its Susan. The Laskin kid is in another fight. Need you at the front of the school.” Nick turned and walked quickly towards the main doors. He lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth and keyed the mike.

“Copy, Susan. I’ll be right there. Don’t get in the middle of anything, okay?”

“Hurry. He’s got some ninth grader down on the ground.”

Nick reached the crowd surrounding the fight a minute later and pushed through. He grabbed Timmie and pulled him back with ease. The boy on the ground was crying. Blood flowed from his lip and nose.

“He started this, Principal Nick!” The boy on the ground pointed at the other. “He grabbed my lunchbox.”

“That’s a bunch of crap. The kid’s lying and—“

Nick leaned in close to the boy he still held in his grip. “Shut up, Timmie.” Nick stood up and looked around at the crowd of a dozen students that had encircled them. “Okay, okay. We’re all done here, everyone back to class.” The crowd slowly turned back towards the school.

Nick turned to Timmie, “This is the second time this year I’ve pulled you off someone who claims you started a fight.” He pointed towards the front entrance. “Get in my office, now!” Timmie jerked his arm out of Nick’s grip, glaring back at him as he walked towards the office. Nick kneeled down and helped the other boy stand up. “David, I’m really sorry. Susan, do you have any Kleenex?” She nodded and handed him a small package. “So, he tried to take your lunch, right?”

David dabbed his lip with a Kleenex and nodded. “Same thing he did to Donnie before Thanksgiving.”

“I’m sorry, David. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.” Nick stood up and walked back to the school.

When he got inside, Timmie was standing at the entrance to Nick’s private office, yelling at Jenny, the school secretary. “I told Principal Nick I didn’t do anything! I’m not staying here!”

“Yes, you are,” said Nick. “Get your butt in my office right now.” Two other teachers walked in, attendance reports in hand.

“I’m leaving,” said Timmie, walking towards the door. Nick’s face reddened and he grabbed his arm.

“You stop right there,” said Nick, jerking him back. Timmie’s face flushed and he tried to pull his arm free, but Nick held fast. He turned his head and spat in Nick’s face. Nick released his grip and wiped the spit off his nose and mouth. Nick drew his fist back and thrust it forward, catching Timmie squarely on the mouth. He fell back into a bookcase. Glass and books sprayed down onto the floor.

“Damn,” said Timmie, looking up from the floor, “what the hell was that?

“Nick! What did you do?” yelled Jenny. One of the teachers rushed to Timmie and helped him stand up. Jenny took Nick by the arm and led him into his office.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Nick,” she said as she shut the door behind her. He kicked the chair beside his desk and it slammed into the wall.

“Damn it. Why did I do that?”  He wiped his face again. “That was bad.”

“It was, Nick,” she said softly. “Even though the kid just spat in your face, you can’t lose it and punch him.”  She looked through the window and watched Timmie leave the office.

Nick shook his head, “There’s going to be trouble over this.”

 

***

 

Dec. 19, 2012, 10:30 a.m.   – Sent Via Facsimile –

 

Nicholas Townsend, Principal

James Thomas High School

Re: Incident Report #326

 

Dear Principal Townsend:

 

As is the policy of the Mt. Rutgers City School Board, we have opened an investigation into an incident that has been reported to us. The Board received information that you struck a male student in your office on the morning of Dec. 17, 2012. Additional witnesses on the school staff have corroborated the account which was reported to the Board.

The School Board takes matters of this type very seriously. As you are aware, it is imperative that we investigate this matter thoroughly to determine what measures, if any, the Board would need to impose on those involved. The Board will convene a special session on or before Dec. 31, 2012 to do so.

It is our decision that you should take paid leave beginning at the end of the school day today and that you should remain on paid leave until the Board can convene its special session.

Thank you in advance for complying with this request and for not entering the school grounds of James Thomas High School after today. The Board will notify you of any additional actions it takes in regards to this matter. We thank you for your service to the Mt. Rutgers community.

 

Sincerely,

 

Dr. Samuel Ellison, President

Mt. Rutgers City School Board

 

 


III – Three Days Later

 

He’s jogging on an empty street. He extends his arms and his body rises. Three quick flaps of his arms and he is fifty feet above the road. He is flying, his favorite type of dream. He’s not in Mt. Rutgers. It appears to be somewhere warmer, palm trees below his feet. He flaps again, rising another ten feet. The sky is perfect, with small clouds floating above him, the sun warming his face and body. He flies over homes like the one he grew up in, red brick ranches built in the sixties and seventies, working class. He sees cars up on cinderblocks in driveways, dogs barking from behind rusted fences. Women are pushing strollers along the streets, waving to others on front doorsteps. He rises higher and twists his arms to change direction, flying towards a school building four blocks away. As he gets closer, the roof of the school appears to be gone, or is he just seeing through it? He watches children moving between classes. The cafeteria is full. He slows and banks to the left, towards the front. He sees the sign at the front of the school. Batistica Elementary.

No one notices him as he hovers above, but he sees them. Teachers pointing at whiteboards, smiling children, hands in the air, eager to answer. The school’s office buzzing, phones ringing. Underneath him, a man wearing camouflage clothing and carrying a black duffel bag is jogging towards the front door. He sees a gun holstered on the man’s belt. “Hey you!  What are you doing?” His voice is a whisper. He tries to lower himself, but the air now feels like syrup, he can barely move. “Stop!” No reaction.

He watches as the man enters a restroom inside the school, drops his bag, and pulls the zipper down to open it. The man covers his head with a stocking and removes two automatic weapons from the bag, slinging them over his shoulder. A person walks into the bathroom, maybe a teacher. The man shoots the teacher without hesitation. Nick pumps his arms, trying to get down. He lands on the school steps, shouting, but no one notices. He can see the office staff, frozen after hearing the shots, not certain what to do next.

His legs are pumping, trying to propel him towards the school door, but he feels as if he’s running on ice. Then pop-pop-pop-pop, like firecrackers, but he knows otherwise. He flaps his arms again, trying to get to the shooter. He screams.

 

“Mr. Nick. Mr. Nick, wake up. Wake up, Mr. Nick.”

“Huh? Eduardo? Am I at school?”

“Mr. Nick, I think you have been drinking again. I can smell it strong on you.”

“Damn, what time is it?”

“It is early, Mr. Nick. But you know that you can’t be coming to the school anymore. No one can see you here.” He sat up on the couch. His pants were wet.

“You smell like piss and tequila, just like my papa when I was a kid.”

“Eduardo, what time is it, really?” Nick massaged his temples and ran both of his hands through his hair.”

“It is only seven o’clock. But today is teacher workday, so no kids.”  Eduardo stood up and grabbed a chair. Turning it backwards, he sat down and crossed his arms on the chair back. “The teachers don’t come in so early on workdays. So there’s nobody here but you and me.”

“Hmm, that’s good. Damn, my head feels like I got hit with a baseball bat.”

“I know, I know. The tequila will do that. My papa would drink too much tequila, just like you, Mr. Nick. I would wake him up in the morning and he smelled like piss. In Juarez, many fathers drank the tequila and did not take care of their children. Good thing you got no children, Mr. Nick.”

“I never knew, Eduardo. I’m sorry that you grew up dealing with that.”

“Gracias, Mr. Nick. I turned out okay. I have a good job and I have my kids and my sweet wife.  I take good care of them and I stay away from the tequila.”

“Good man, good man.” He leaned back against the couch, lacing his fingers over his head.

“Mr. Nick, it’s no good that you are here at school. You shouldn’t come to your old office like this and sleep and piss on the couch.”

“You’re right about that, my friend. I don’t even know how I got in here.”

Eduardo pointed at an open window. “You came in through that window. But you shouldn’t be here, since the school board, they fired you.”

“I got suspended, not fired.”

“But Mr. Nick, this morning you come here and you do all this. The school board is not gonna like that you are here. Then they will fire you.”

“You’re right. Then I know you’ll keep this between you and me, okay?”

“You know me; I’m good at keeping secrets.” He drew his fingers across his closed lips and smiled. “My lips are sealed tight. I know that boy, that Laskin boy you hit. He is bad for this school. I know that he say things to you and not give you respect. I see him yell and hit on the smaller boys. He is no good, Mr. Nick. I think he should be the one who is fired from school, not a good principal like you.”

“Thanks, friend.” He tried to stand up, but fell back down on the couch. The room spun around him and when he closed his eyes, stars fluttered across his lids. Eduardo stood up and grabbed his arm.

“You stand up too fast, Mr. Nick. Your head is hurting bad, yes?”

He shook his head. “Yeah, it’s bad, but I’ll be fine.” Eduardo released his arm and moved his chair away from the couch.

“Mr. Nick, you can’t do this again. You want to come back to school and be principal, yes? All the people here, they want you to come back.”

“I’ll be back, Eduardo. Just gotta get this thing fixed. The school board knows I do a good job, that’s why they asked me to take over this school.” He stood back up and put his hand on Eduardo’s shoulder. “I’ve got some extra clothes in my locker, so I’m going to change. Do you mind cleaning up this couch for me?”

“No problem, Mr. Nick. I make it all clean for you.”

“Thanks, thanks for being a friend. And you’ll keep this little thing between us, right?”

“Yes, sir. Eduardo is good at keeping secrets.”

He changed clothes and walked out the front door of James Thomas High School into a chilly, but sunny morning. Time for coffee at Pat’s, eggs, and some aspirin. He patted his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. Shit, four messages from Gene. Didn’t need a lecture today. He tapped the voicemail button.

“Nick, you gotta call me. I heard what happened with the school board. Call me back. You know you want to talk to me. Don’t slide back, man.”

-Delete-

“Okay, it’s me again. Don’t piss me off by not calling me. You gotta buck the fuck up and not fall down again.”

-Delete-

“Hey man, you gotta call your buddy Gene. This is stupid. I’m worried about you. Don’t screw with your sponsor like this. I’m gonna rally some guys from the group and we’re coming over. You better be home.”

-Delete-

“Nick, you messed up. I came over at midnight and you were gone. Saw the bottle. Call me when you wake up. We can get this back on track. I’m here for—“

-Delete-

 

***

 

Pat’s coffee helped. He closed his eyes and leaned over the cup and inhaled.

“Suze, you got any aspirin under the counter?”

“Sure, Nick. Did ya have too much fun last night?” She smiled and brought out a large bottle of aspirin from under the counter.

“Nah, just a little stressed lately. I’m sure you heard.”

“Yep, sure did and I’m really sorry. You got plans?”

“I’ll get it fixed. Just lost my cool. I’ll work it out with the board.”

“I heard it was the Laskin kid. Is that right?”

“Yeah, it was.”

“He’s a bad egg, Nick. Just like the father. Can’t say as I blame you for hitting him based on what he did.”

“Thanks, Suze. Can’t have a principal doing what I did. It was a bad screw-up.”

“Maybe so.” A bell dinged. “Speaking of eggs, you’re up.” She picked up his plates and brought them to him. “Need anything else?”

“Hit me with another coffee, Suze.” A phone rang at the other end of the counter.

“Hold on, Nick. Be right back.” He broke the yolks with a corner of his toast and spooned bits of egg onto the toast. His stomach was settling. His head throbbed less. He turned to Suze, who spoke quietly while glancing towards him. She nodded and turned away when their eyes met. She returned with coffee.

“Someone’s looking for you.” She filled the cup. “Need any more cream?”

“I’m good, Suze. Guess that was Gene?” She nodded. He bit off the end of his toast.

 

***

 

“So, you couldn’t get away from me, huh?” Gene smiled and took the counter seat next to him. Nick stirred his coffee and didn’t look up. “Sure wish you’d call me first. Second time in the last year, dude. Why not ask for help?” Nick brought his finger to his lips and glanced down the counter at Suze serving two other customers. He nodded towards a booth, next to the window. He took his plate and coffee and moved there. Gene followed.

“Should’ve called you. Just felt like shit, like I was out of control again.”

“It happens to all of us. Me too, just not in the last seven years. But I think about it every day.”

“I don’t know, Gene. Last time was when Allison dumped me. It’s harder to control when the shit hits the fan. The crap with the school board, you know. I just sat around all day worrying. The bottle took control.” He held his cup up for Suze to see and then pointed to Gene. She brought a cup for him and filled both of them.

“It doesn’t happen if you call. You know you can call me anytime. Where did you end up?” He took a long sip of his coffee.

“On the couch in my office.”  Gene coughed and sprayed coffee on the table. “Or perhaps I should call it my former office.” Nick handed him a napkin.

Gene wiped up the spray, “You passed out in the school? Damn, man. You have got to buck the fuck up and get your shit together.” Suze looked up at them from a booth on the other side of the small diner. Nick smiled at her.

“Not so loud, huh?”

“Sorry,” Gene leaned forward. “Anyone see you?”

“Just Eduardo, the janitor.”

“Damn, that was lucky.

“Real lucky. Eduardo knows how to keep a secret. Especially for me ‘cause I’ve kept a few for him. He found me another time at the middle school, never said a word.”

“How much did you drink?”

“Most of the bottle.”

“Listen, Nick, you gotta see how bad this could’ve been.” He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the customers. “I don’t just mean fallin’ down again; I mean the job, the job you want to get back.” He tapped his finger on the table with each word. “You drink, you black out, and you wake up in the school where folks could’ve seen you—“

“Or smelled me.”

“Yeah, that too. Then the job is gone,” Gene snapped his fingers, “Poof.”

“You’re right. Damn Laskin kid. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Kid pushes my buttons.”

“The kid’s bad news, just like his dad. Stick’s crazier than a box of frogs.”

“Does he have some kind of label?”

“Don’t know what the exact label is, but the guy is certified crazy,” Gene smiled. “Reminds me of what my old granny use to say, ‘If you mix crystal meth and mental illness, some crazy shit’s gonna hit the fan.’”

“Funny. I guess your granny was way ahead of her time,” Nick took a long pull from his coffee.

“Yeah, she was. Especially since she died thirty years before this goddamn meth plague hit. That stuff has wrecked the lives of a lot good folks around here.”

“So you told me. I’m glad you locked him up. Especially after that bullshit he brought up about you stealing cash from him.”

Gene looked down at the floor and nodded. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“So I’m guessing he was a really shitty dad.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. The guy was just tied up with his own problems. Still, the kid is heading down the wrong path, so you better be careful with him. Keep that in your thick, tequila drenched head.”

“I know. Got lucky. Won’t happen again.”

“But you know that it—”

“Okay, Gene, listen,” he put his elbows on the table, “I wanna pass on the lecture this morning. I deserve it, but I don’t have the head or the stomach for it.” He turned back to his plate and continued eating. Gene drained his coffee and held up his cup. Suze came over with the pot and refilled it. Nick waved her off his cup. “Gotta head out. I’ll take the check.”

“Nick, I got it. No lecture this morning. But I’m coming over tonight with some dinner. I’ll be at your place at six-thirty.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’ve got to—”

“Nonsense. I’ll be there. Don’t skip out on me again.” Gene stood to leave.

Nick reached for his elbow, “You know how you told me that story about how you could have crazy dreams when you tied one on?”

“Sure. Had some real doozies. Can still remember a few.”

“Well, sit down for another minute and listen to this, ‘cause it happened to me last night. I dreamed I was flying.”

Gene sat down, “You mean like flying a plane?”

“Nope. Flying like flapping my arms, except more like gliding. And it felt spectacular. I’ve had these flying dreams before, but this one was better.  I could really turn and rise and fall.

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was but it got weird.  I was flying over this elementary school and I could see everything going on inside the school.”

“How did you know it was an elementary school?”

“I flew over the sign at the front of the school. It said ‘Baptista’ or something like that.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Batistica, that’s it. Batistica Elementary. And it was warm and there were palm trees underneath me. Really beautiful. But all of a sudden, it got shitty. I watched this guy walk into the school with guns and I tried to yell to stop him. But it was like I was frozen because I couldn’t move toward him. Then the guy goes into a school bathroom, changes clothes. While he’s in there, a teacher walks in, and he shoots the teacher. God, it was terrible.”

“What happened after that?”

“Woke up.”

“Interesting. Flying through the air and then a school shooting. So you never had any kinda dream like that before?” Nick shook his head. Gene removed his John Deere cap and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. “Do you think the dream means anything?”

“I doubt it.”

“I’ve have dreams that are wild and crazy, especially after I had tied one on, but I’ve never had one where I was flying. Dreams are always screwy anyway because you can’t remember most of what happened.” He stood up.

“That’s for sure. Weird how that happens with dreams.”

Gene put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t forget about tonight. I’m here for you.”

“Thanks man.”

Continued….

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What if you awakened one morning with the ability to stop school shootings like the horrific Sandy Hook tragedy?
When His Dreams Take Flight
A story of struggle, dreams, death, and redemption by Andy Holloman

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When His Dreams Take Flight

by Andy Holloman

4.2 stars – 26 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Note : After the horrific Sandy Hook shooting (Dec. 2012), I was inspired to create a story where someone might have the ability to stop school shootings.  This novel is NOT about this specific event.
              ———————————————————–

From Amazon Bestselling Author Andy Holloman comes a story of struggle, dreams, death, and redemption.

Have you ever dreamed you were flying? If so, you know how exciting that type of dream can be. High School Principal Nick Townsend had those dreams regularly, and he used to enjoy them.

But in late 2012, after losing another battle against the mighty tequila demon, he awakens the next morning remembering a dream of an elementary school shooting in progress. When he sees the details from his dream on the news, he knows that he’s been given a gift (curse?) and the next time he drinks and dreams, he enlists his best friend to help him stop a shooting in Arkansas.

As his alcoholism continues to haunt him, he must decide whether to try and save more students from certain death. He wants to do the right thing. But should he risk his life when his lovely fiance is carrying his child? Will he win the war against tequila? And what if he drinks and dreams again, only to find that the next shooting is happening at HIS SCHOOL?

Reviews

“Andy Holloman’s When His Dreams Take Flight is a taut thriller about an underdog hero with an unusual paranormal gift/curse that takes him, and the reader, on an unusual journey of suspense, murder and redemption. Well worth the trip.” – David Lender, Bestselling Author

“Readers, buckle up! Holloman delivers heart-pounding intensity and stomach-dropping twists.” — Bestselling Author Tamara Ward

“A page-turner to keep you from your own dreams.” – Douglas Dorow, Bestselling Author

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Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

4.1 stars – 159 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
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Top 5 Bestseller on Amazon UK – Crime Thrillers & Mystery
***
Amazon US – Top 40 in Suspense Thrillers
On a rain-drenched night, a young husband runs to the corner shop – and never returns.Eighteen years later, his body reappears.-Reappears, wearing the same clothes, and on the same street from which he went missing.
-Reappears, and is the victim of a hit/run driver.He looks exactly the same now as when he vanished.His widow, Jennifer Parkes, is determined to solve this enigma once and for all.

Other bodies are found, all missing eighteen years. None seem to have aged.

On the trail of a vicious killer, Jennifer and homicide detective Neil Lachlan are drawn into a human minefield of deception and terror; into the depths of a mystery that baffles the police and defies logic. Investigating at the forefront of scientific and medical technologies, they confront a threat that is closer than either of them could ever have imagined.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

PROLOGUE

 

 

It was the perfect time and the perfect place for the killing.

The first soft sweep of dawn light, the air crisp. The reserve was a large, sprawling tangle of green, sections of park, sections of natural bush. The running track circled the grounds, obscured from view in several places by overhanging willows and over-reaching ferns.

The jogger’s blood lust was running at fever pitch, his senses singing with exhilaration. Most people would wake this morning feeling good to be alive. The jogger had woken feeling reborn, his all-consuming, dark need re-energised. His moment had finally arrived.

The time.The place.And the perfect victim.

For the first time in eighteen years he was free to kill again. The watchers were gone, he was certain of that.

He’d driven the perimeter of the reserve, stopping at random to scan the area with binoculars. No cars in the immediate vicinity. The reserve itself was empty, except for the young woman, keeping to her usual routine.

He joined the track on one of the hidden stretches and began to jog. His timing was precise, so that the woman was a dozen metres in front of him. She covered the ground in long, casual strides.

He couldn’t have wished for a finer specimen. Long legs, athletic physique, electric blue shorts in a tight fit.

The urge coursed through his veins like a drug as he closed the distance between them.

He was going to make up for the long years of frustration and denial; of trying to satisfy his desires with fantasies and memories; of practically being driven mad on occasion by the inexplicable restraints.

That was over now.

The woman was almost within reach. He imagined the thin strip of wire looped around her throat, pulling tight, biting into flesh. Her panic; her gasping for breath. She’d be unable to scream, unable to break free of his iron grip.

And then acceptance as her hands fell limply to her sides and her knees sagged, life draining away.

The jogger reached for the wire that lay in the pocket of his tracksuit pants. Its cold steel felt reassuring against his fingers.

The woman was within arm’s reach now. He noticed the slight tilt of her head as she became aware of another runner on the path. It was almost time.

For the young woman it should have been the start of one of the most exciting times in her life. She’d woken that morning feeling good to be alive. Instead, it was to be the end of everything.

ONE

 

 

Eighteen years earlier

 

 

Thunder rolled across the sky, nature’s soundtrack to the dark clouds that blanketed the city. The night was lit only by the occasional flash of streak lightning. There was steady rain, not a deluge, just the promise of one, and the wind howled like a pack of hounds.

Hell of a night, thought Brian Parkes.

He’d been stuck on the train for two hours, any hint of rain and the blasted things slowed down. Give them a full blown electrical winter storm and they threw in the towel completely, stopping and starting with a familiar, grinding mechanical wheeze. Then came to a complete standstill.

On a number of occasions during the two hours the train had stalled for up to fifteen minutes at a time, before lurching on a little further. Stop-starting all the way.

At the end of the long journey Brian learned from a station assistant that the delays were caused by overhead lines coming down under the force of the strong winds. Many decades earlier Neil Armstrong had set foot on the moon. But in Sydney, the train system defied the fact that, elsewhere, Man was reaching for the stars.

It was a twelve-minute walk from the station to his home. His umbrella had been pushed inside out by the wind and the metal sprockets had snapped. The thin strands of metal stood upwards, away from the inverted cloth, like a creature on its back with its legs in the air. He dumped it in a roadside bin as he ran, pulling the collar of his coat tighter. He sprinted the first two blocks, and then slowed to a walk for the third. After all, what was the point of racing? He was already soaked to the bone. He wasn’t going to be any less wet when he walked through the front door.

Was it just his imagination or was the rain driving harder since he’d left the train? That’d be right. It pounded the pavement like a battering ram. He broke into a run again as he rounded the corner into his street.

Inside number forty six Claridge Street, Jennifer Parkes watched her husband as he stepped into the front alcove. She felt herself tingle with contentment. She loved the rumpled look of his young face with his easy smile, snub nose and pointy chin. His curly brown hair was plastered to his head by the rain, but the lines of water that ran down his cheeks didn’t detract in the slightest from those handsome, cherubic features.

Their eyes connected and Brian beamed.

‘Hi, baby.’ He eased out of the wet jacket and ambled towards her.

‘I was starting to worry.’

‘Train packed up. Been stuck in a carriage for two hours.’

She winced. ‘Poor thing.Hot cuppa?Hot bath?’

‘Yes please. The works.’

She melted into his arms. The feel and smell of her made Brian’s senses soar. The firm swell of her breasts through the light cotton of her blouse, pressing against his chest, the gentle warmth of her body, supple and slender, fitting snugly against him. He brushed his fingers through the dark hair, shiny ebony black, centre-parted, that fell below her shoulders.

‘Cuppa first. I’ll make it while you get out of those wet clothes.’ She pulled away, headed for the kitchen.

‘In a sec.’ He flopped down on the lounge, shivered, reached for the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. Flipped it open. ‘Damn. I’m out of fags.’

Jennifer’s head popped around the corner of the kitchen doorway. She made a face at him. ‘Silly, aren’t you.’

‘Bloody silly.’

She looked at the rain lashed window, then back to him. ‘You’re not going out in that again?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s only a coupl’a minutes to the corner store. Bill will still be open.’

Jennifer gave him a despairing look. ‘Good night to give them up.’

Brian shook his head. ‘No. Bad night to give them up.’ He retraced his steps to the door, pulling his coat back on again.

‘You’ll catch a chill.’

‘I’ll hop straight into a hot bath when I get back. Promise.’ He paused at the door, looking back at her. The dance of the rain on the roof became suddenly louder. ‘Of all the days to have the car in for service.’

‘One day we’ll look back on this and laugh. Or at least I will.’ She smiled again, winked at him, and he marvelled at how her smile lit the room.

‘Love you,’ he said.

‘Love you too. Be quick.’

‘Real quick.’ He blew her a kiss and stepped out into the storm.

‘Wait!’ she called. She took her small yellow umbrella from the hook on the hall wall and ran to the door, passing it out to him. ‘Take my brolly.’

‘Thanks, hon.’

Jennifer went back through to the kitchen to check on the vegetable stew. She placed four bread rolls in the oven to heat. This was going to be just the meal for a night like this. Despite the cold air outside, she felt warm and cosy in here. Before she knew it, twenty minutes had passed. It was only a five-minute walk, three if you ran, to the local store.

She went to the front door, opened it, and peered out into the rain. She couldn’t see a thing. What was taking Brian so long? Probably standing in that shop, dripping wet, chatting with Bill. Men. She went into the living room, placed her open palms in front of the electric heater, and waited.

Another fifteen minutes dragged by and she began to worry. Brian and his damned silly cigarettes.Where was he? She went to the door again and looked out. The rain had eased off considerably. A full moon glowed through a break in the night clouds and the wind had stopped.

Jennifer pulled a jacket on and marched off along the street towards the shop. The store was closed when she reached it but a light was still on inside. She banged on the front door and half a minute later it swung open.

Bill Clancy was a large, round, red-haired Englishman who, despite his ten years in Australia, had not lost any of his pommyaccent. ‘Ullo, luv. Lucky you caught me. Just closin’ up, I was.’

‘Hi, Bill. Sorry to disturb you but I’m worried about Brian. How long since he left here?’

‘Left here? I’m afraid you’ve lost me, luv. When’re we talkin’ about?’

‘He hasn’t been here for a packet of cigarettes?’

‘No, luv.‘Aven’t seen Brian at all today. ‘E say he was comin’ ‘ere, then?’

‘Yes. He left home forty minutes ago.’

Bill lifted his arms in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘Doesn’t make sense.’

‘You’ve definitely only just closed up?’ Jennifer asked.

‘Yes, luv. Look, maybe he decided to try another shop. He’s probably back home now, snug an’ dry an’ all.’

‘No Bill. You’re the closest shop by far. Why would he go somewhere further?’

‘Well, let’s go look for ‘im then.’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s all right. I’ll just go home and wait. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon enough.’

‘Bound to be a reasonable explanation,’ the shopkeeper said.

‘Of course there is.’ Jennifer waved as she headed for the door. ‘Thanks anyway, Bill.’

‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he called after her.

Jennifer walked back home and noted that the storm had passed. Suddenly she was annoyed with her husband. He’d probably changed his mind, gone to a different shop and got held up for one reason or another. Didn’t he realise I would be worried? Why didn’t he think?

She arrived back home to an empty house. Normally she liked the quiet, but now the silence of their home seemed menacing. ‘Brian!’ How silly of me, to call his name as if he were here. Then again, maybe he was. Anything was worth a try.

‘Brian!’ He’s snuck back in, she speculated, and he’s hiding somewhere, playing a game. Stupid bloody game, not like Brian at all. The silence, in reply, was deafening.

She sat down to wait. An hour inched by and Jennifer had no doubt it was the longest hour of her life. She went to the laptop, accessed the local directory, and called the Hurstville Police Station on her cell. The senior constable on duty, Ken Black, listened as she explained the situation.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Parkes,’ he said, ‘we’ve seen this sort of thing before. Hubby decides to sneak down the local for a coupla’ beers.’

‘My husband doesn’t drink,’ Jennifer protested, inwardly aware that she needed to keep her cool. ‘He went to the corner shop for cigarettes. That was almost two hours ago. He was wet and tired. He could be lying somewhere, hurt …’ Her voice trailed off.

Forced to put her fears into words she realised all of a sudden the reality of it: Something was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

‘Very well, Mrs. Parkes, I understand,’ Constable Black said. ‘Please stay calm. I cannot list your husband as officially missing until he’s been gone for twenty-four hours. But I’ll take down the particulars from you, and drive by the area as soon as possible, keeping an eye out for anything unusual.’

‘How long is as soon as possible?’

‘Twenty minutes or so. Now, let me take some details. Your husband’s full name, Mrs. Parkes?’

Jennifer gave him the details. Height, weight, hair colour and so on. Then all she could do was wait. Again.

After a while the rain began falling heavily once more. Jennifer, restless, walked out to the covered garden rockery that stood immediately outside the back door. She and Brian had spent much of the past few weekends out here, building the rockery, planting the flowers and ferns. Roughly hewn bamboo cross-beams held up the green tinted, clear fibreglass covering.

She listened to the steady rhythm of the rain. Normally it had a calming effect on her. Not tonight though. She felt a great, deep, dark chasm opening up inside. She was nauseous.

What’s happened to you, Brian? The thought buzzed inside her mind like an annoying insect. Something must have happened because it just isn’t like you to go traipsing off for hours without saying something. That just isn’t you.

She wandered over to the rock pool she and Brian had fashioned out of rockery stones. The moonlight, tinged by the green tones of the covering, glinted off the dozens of five-cent coins that lay on the bottom of the tiny pool.

It had been Brian’s idea on the first day they’d completed the rock pool. ‘I’m going to make a wish,’ he’d said, and had tossed a coin into the water.

‘A wish?’ Jennifer giggled.

‘This is going to be our own private wishing pool,’ he pronounced. ‘My first wish is that you and I will always be together.’

‘That won’t work, will it? Telling someone aloud what your wish is.’

‘Why not?Our pool. We make the rules.’

‘My turn, then,’ Jennifer said. ‘Got a coin for me? My purse is inside.’

Brian handed her a five-cent piece and she dropped it into the water. ‘I wish for our love to keep on growing and never stop.’

He screwed up his face. ‘Corny.’

‘No cornier than yours.’ Jennifer laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder.

Standing there, staring into the pool, always made her feel good. There’d been so many good times already and they’d hardly even begun.

She rummaged in her skirt pocket and, to her surprise, found a lone five-cent coin. Maybe not such a surprise, she realised. Since Brian had started this wishing pool thing she’d got into the habit of leaving the coins in her pockets. There was no particular reason for always using five-cent pieces. Just another one of Brian’s crazy “rules.” There had to be rules, he’d insisted, for the magic to work.

She and Brian had often strolled out here, impulsively, and made their wishes. It was fun.

She dropped the coin into the pool. My wish is that nothing has happened to you, Brian. Please, please, come home safely to me.

 

TWO

 

 

‘Come round and take a seat, Mrs. Parkes,’ Senior Constable Ken Black said from behind the long, wide front desk. Jennifer nodded and went through the narrow front opening.

It was 11.30 a.m. on Wednesday morning and the suburban police station was a hive of activity. Two or three calls at a time lit up the switchboard. Each being handled swiftly by a feisty, no-nonsense woman, middle-aged, who wore a constable’s uniform.

Jennifer realised she’d never been inside a police station before. From the open doorway of the radio room, a few feet away along the left wall, came a non-stop series of garbled messages over the police radio frequency. Every voice seemed to quote a series of numbers, tens and fours and so on, a kind of numerical shorthand that reminded Jennifer of the many police drama shows.

She took a seat facing the senior constable.

‘As I told you on the phone,’ Black said, ‘normal procedure with adults, is that twenty-four hours must elapse after a person has vanished before they’re listed as officially missing. The exception is when it’s immediately probable that a missing person may be in danger.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘My husband isn’t the kind of man to go off without telling anyone, Constable Black.’

‘I’m sure he isn’t. Hence our decision to move early and bring in the Missing Persons Bureau.’ He turned towards his PC. ‘I’m going to take a statement from you, and I’ll need all the particulars on your husband.’

‘Didn’t we cover that on the phone last night,’ Jennifer said. Her eyes felt as though they had knives sticking through them. She hadn’t slept. The constable’s return call the previous night, around eleven, had advised her that his drive around the area had revealed no sign of Brian.

‘Yes, but we’re going to need a great deal more than that with which to initiate a thorough search.’ Senior Constable Black typed, firing questions at her as he went along. He took down Brian’s physical description, hobbies, interests and personal habits. The questioning included the names of Brian’s family members and personal friends and, where possible, contact phone numbers and addresses.

Jennifer answered the questions mechanically. In her mind’s eye the words “thorough search” flashed on and off like a neon sign on a garish, night-time city strip. How could this be happening, out of the blue, to her and Brian? Missing Persons Bureau … thorough search …

‘Who does Brian work for?’ Black asked.

‘He has his own accountancy practice. He set up an office in the city just a few months ago.’

‘Do you have access to his office?’

‘Yes, I have a key.’

‘I’ll arrange for you to meet me there later, Mrs. Parkes. The Bureau will want a list of his clients and any other business associates.’

The questioning continued. Medical history, family history. Was theirs a happy marriage? Had there been an argument the previous night?

‘Please understand that I have to ask some highly personal questions,’ Black explained apologetically.

‘All right.’

‘Does your husband have a drug dependency, or had he ever to your knowledge?’

‘No.’

‘Do you and your husband have financial difficulties of any kind?’

‘No.’ To her own ears, Jennifer’s voice sounded like a watered down version of itself, swept away by a torrent of fears.

 

 

Meg Roberts was sitting on the steps outside the house when Jennifer arrived home. ‘I thought I’d hang around in case you weren’t going to be too long,’ Meg said, springing to her feet as Jennifer came up the front path.

‘I’ve been with the cops.’ Jennifer unlocked the front door and Meg followed her through to the living room.

Jennifer was moving as though in a trance. Going through the motions. The police had run a thorough check on all Sydney hospitals. No one matching Brian’s description had been admitted. She’d started to wonder if she was partly to blame. Perhaps she should’ve phoned the police earlier. Why had she waited so long?

Brian had only gone to the local shop, just minutes away. If she’d acted sooner Brian might’ve been found.

It had been close to midnight when Jennifer had phoned Brian’s parents. They lived on the Central Coast, north of Sydney. The anguish in Brian’s mother’s voice had stayed with Jennifer through the long, sleepless night.

‘Jen! I thought I told you to call me. That I’d go down to the cop station with you.’

‘It’s okay, Meg. I’m handling it.’

Meg looked closely at her friend. Jennifer’s eyes were dry but glassy; her face set rigid in an expression of firm resolve. She’s mustered together all her reserves of strength, Meg thought, and steeled herself to face the trauma and get through it. That, in Meg’s opinion, did not mean she was handling it okay. ‘I don’t want you handling it on your own. I’m here for you. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Jennifer conceded.

Meg felt like rolling her eyes. Jennifer was her oldest, closest friend, and she was always insistent, no matter what came along, that she was “handling it.”

‘So what are the police doing?’

‘They took down a lot of details. Just about everything you could think of.’

‘And?’

‘Checked the local hospitals and emergency services.Nothing. So they’ve called in the national Missing Persons services.’

‘They’ll find him, Jen. There’s bound to be a reasonable explanation for all this.’

‘Maybe.’

‘This is not the time to get pessimistic on me. Fashion designers are positive, forward thinking people, right? That’s what you told me.’

‘Point taken. What would I do without you?’ Jennifer gazed gratefully at her old friend. Meg Roberts had always had a bright, breezy personality. She was a pleasantly plump girl with large, expressive eyes, a wide smile and reddish brown curls.

They had been close since their school days, despite the differences between them. In comparison to Meg, Jennifer was often seen as quiet and intense.

Meg grinned. ‘Don’t go getting all buddy buddy now. I don’t think I could stand it. And it’s way too early for alcohol. How about coffee?’

‘Make it strong.’

‘I don’t make it any other way, honey.’ Meg went through to the kitchen and placed the kettle on the stove. ‘So how’s the dress designing coming along?’ she called out as she reached for the coffee jar.

Jennifer sighed. ‘Slowly. I’m still picking up a bit of freelance work with that small fashion warehouse at Surry Hills. There’s not a lot around at the moment.’

When Meg returned to the lounge she found Jennifer, head in hand, crying freely. Meg dumped the two steaming hot mugs on the table and sat down beside her friend. There was so little she could do to help. So little anyone could do.Except wait.

‘It’s good to let those feelings out.’ Meg placed her hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. ‘Cry it all out, babe.’

‘Where is he, Meg? What on earth could have happened to him?’

‘He’ll turn up, Jen. Has to. Whatever happened, he can’t be too far away, surely.’

Jennifer wiped the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath, an attempt to regain her composure. ‘There’s something Brian didn’t know. Now … he may never know …’

‘What could he possibly not have known?’

‘I think I’m pregnant,’ Jennifer blurted out. ‘I’m two weeks overdue. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in the morning for the test.’

‘Listen honey, with any luck your old man will be back and he’ll be able to make that doctor’s appointment with you.’ Yeah, so why don’t I feel convinced, Meg thought, and she hoped her doubt didn’t show. She hated this feeling, the same one she was sure Jennifer had, that Brian wasn’t coming home.

 

THREE

 

 

One foot after another hit the pavement in quick succession. There was an acquired art to this, for the sole of each foot to touch the ground only lightly and briefly, the result of the powerful sweeping strides of the runner. One movement passing fluidly into the next.

Jogging in the early mornings and evenings had long since become a popular pastime. Exercise and nutrition had swept the youth culture of the western world, a fad to some, a serious concern to others. These days it was a multi-faceted industry. It suited the jogger’s purposes nicely.

He wore a blue tracksuit lined with a single white stripe. He had matching gloves and sports shoes with thick rubber soles. His sports cap, with rounded peak, was pulled down low on his forehead and with his head tilted downwards as he ran, his face was mostly obscured.

The thin, pliable piece of wire was looped round and round itself, wound into a compact ball, and stuffed into his pocket.

It was a cool, clear morning, one of the last days of winter. Six- fifteen. The jogger had been here for a run on two previous occasions that week, to get his bearings. This wide, leafy reserve in a semi-rural district north west of Sydney was ideal. A narrow path ran along the perimeter of the reserve, amidst hedges and trees that looked as though they’d been there forever.

The jogger had noticed the young woman on both of those previous visits. Fair-haired, plump, wearing a tee shirt and slacks. He noticed her running had improved. She had an easier, more natural pace, a rhythm she’d lacked before.

He’d passed her and now she was several metres behind him on the track. After a while he slowed his pace, allowing her to gain on him again.

He thought back to the previous kill, two weeks before, picturing the quiet street in the nearby suburb. An attractive, middle-aged woman had arrived home in the middle of the day. She carried her bags of groceries into the house. There was no one else on the street.

Plenty of trees in the front yard for cover.

He simply walked, unseen, into the open side door of the house, twenty seconds or so behind her.

He had stood behind the open door between the kitchen and the lounge room, the thin stretch of wire at the ready in his hands. He felt the flood of excitement. Blood coursed through his veins, pounding in his temples. Not too soon, he thought. Control it. Concentrate on the task at hand.

He’d always been this way. Feeling pleasure while inflicting pain on others, though it was getting out of control and he was aware of the need to be careful. The time lapse between each of the past few kills had been less and less and he felt he should taper back.

After this one, he decided.

The third time the woman passed through the doorway, the jogger pounced. His method was always the same. He struck suddenly and swiftly from behind, snapping the looped wire around the neck of the victim, and then pulling tight. The deceptively smooth, thin wire cut into the flesh of the woman, an ugly red welt at first, then a pencil thin crevasse, weeping with blood as she fought for breath.

Now he felt the blood coursing through his veins like an electric current, igniting every nerve end with its voltage, as though stretching out every fibre of him with the power.

He wanted to scream out, for release, at the sheer ecstasy of it.

Strangulation by garrotte didn’t take long. Sometimes, when the jogger could regulate the flow of strength through his arms, and manipulate the struggling of his victim, he made it last longer, which lengthened his enjoyment of the act.

At the surprise of the attack, the woman’s shock gave way to an overpowering fear so strong it was like an odour in her nostrils. She could neither scream nor run though she tried desperately to find a way to do both. As the seconds ticked by her horror became an anchor in the pit of her stomach, plunging down, ripping apart the fabric of everything she had ever been. She began to weaken, her strength slipping away as the world around her darkened, her terror so great that even tears would not form in her eyes.

Afterwards the jogger left the house as he’d entered, unseen, by the side. His car was close by.

He pushed those memories, as exciting as they were to him, from his mind. Control it. Concentrate on the task at hand. The young woman was adjacent to him now on the narrow path.

She glanced in his direction and caught his eye. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘You’re a sucker for punishment. Third time this week, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m here every day. Determined to get in shape for summer.’

I know you’re here every day, you stupid bitch.

She moved ahead of him. He slowed his pace further, shifted his position so that he was directly behind her. He allowed the pace of his stride to match hers.

Same speed, same rhythm.

He was certain their breathing and the beats of their hearts were in tandem and the idea thrilled him. She was his.

For two weeks he’d longed for this moment. The exhilaration soared through him like a mad, demonic song. Savour it. The jogger knew he was different, he’d always known that. He simply couldn’t help himself.

The two runners approached a bend in the track, which was completely hidden from view by hedges on either side. His hand slid into his jacket pocket, removed the ball of wire, his fingers deftly allowing it to uncoil. The young woman was oblivious to him. He was close enough to hear the pant of her breath. He ached inside with the irresistible urge.

Now.

He lunged forward. One simple, single movement. He looped the wire around her neck, pulled it tight, heard her gasp, heard the air expunged from her lungs.

At first, the jogger didn’t know what the cold, clammy sensation was on the back and side of his neck. He was pulled backwards in a swift, savage movement by what he now realised was a large, meaty pair of hands. Another arm came from the side in the same instant, delivering a karate blow to his knuckles, destroying his grip on the wire. It fell from his grasp and he became briefly aware of the young woman tearing it from her throat, coughing, then falling to her knees.

Continued….

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Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

4.1 stars – 157 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Top 5 Bestseller on Amazon UK – Crime Thrillers & Mystery
***
Amazon US – Top 40 in Suspense Thrillers


On a rain-drenched night, a young husband runs to the corner shop – and never returns.Eighteen years later, his body reappears.-Reappears, wearing the same clothes, and on the same street from which he went missing.
-Reappears, and is the victim of a hit/run driver.

He looks exactly the same now as when he vanished.

His widow, Jennifer Parkes, is determined to solve this enigma once and for all.

Other bodies are found, all missing eighteen years. None seem to have aged.

On the trail of a vicious killer, Jennifer and homicide detective Neil Lachlan are drawn into a human minefield of deception and terror; into the depths of a mystery that baffles the police and defies logic. Investigating at the forefront of scientific and medical technologies, they confront a threat that is closer than either of them could ever have imagined.

Reviews

“A stylish, craftily-worded thriller…crossing time, social class, love, loss, indulgence, greed, and …pure evil…a fantastic read.” – Martin Treanor, author of The Silver Mist

“One of the best page turners I’ve read in years.” – Tricia Lee, author of A Carribean Summer

“Great suspense.” – Amazon reader reviews

“Complex mystery…I guessed and second guessed myself throughout.” – Amazon reader reviews

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Free Thriller Excerpt! The Suspicious Death of a Young Woman Undergoing an Exorcism is at The Heart of This John Jordan Mystery – Blood Sacrifice by Michael Lister

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4.9 stars – 7 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
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Here’s the set-up:

Following a particularly brutal and costly case, John Jordan goes to a secluded retreat center and encounters one of the most bewildering and haunting cases of his career—the suspicious death of a young woman undergoing an exorcism.

Fighting a losing battle against a powerful undertow of violence and loss, John washes up on the shore of the coastal town of Bridgeport at St. Ann’s Abbey, a retreat center carved out of the ubiquitous slash pines of the Florida Panhandle. Temporarily leaving behind the demanding duties of prison chaplaincy and the homicide investigations he is irresistibly drawn to, John comes to St. Ann’s in search of serenity. He finds anything but.

Dedicated to art, religion, and psychology, St. Ann’s is operated by Sister Abigail, a wise and witty middle-aged nun who supervises the counseling center; Father Thomas Scott, an earnest, devout middle-aged priest, in charge of religious studies and spiritual growth; and the young Kathryn Kennedy, an acclaimed novelist responsible for artistic studies and conferences.

While undergoing counseling with Sister Abigail because of his depression and self-destructive behavior, John resists the urge to investigate when the body of a young boy staying at St. Ann’s is discovered in the Gulf. He is convinced by Sister Abigail that it is no longer just his pride or career or even his marriage, but his soul he is trying to save.

But when Tammy Taylor, the highly sexual young heiress to the Gulf Coast Paper Company fortune, is savagely murdered while undergoing an exorcism by Father Thomas, John can no longer resist. He must find out how she really died and who killed her. And with Father Thomas looking increasingly guilty and the future of St. Ann’s at stake, Sister Abigail asks for his help.

Father Thomas, who appears to be the only one who could have killed her, claims Tammy’s murder was the work of the demons inside her, but the skeptical Jordan suspects a human culprit with a far more earthly motive.

And human suspects with hidden motives abound in this closed community. Among them, Ralph Reid, the lawyer representing Gulf Coast Paper Company whose job it is to close St. Ann’s and reacquire the land; Steve Taylor, the victim’s cousin and chief of police who refuses to turn the case over to FDLE; Keith Richie, an ex-con with more than previous crimes to hide; Brad Harrison, the religious zealot handyman who can’t seem to quit committing “sins of the flesh” with the victim; and, of course, Father Thomas himself who is most likely to have committed the crime—and the person all the evidence points to. As evidence and bodies continue to mount, and more and more secrets come to the surface, John realizes he has far more questions than answers, and that the shocking truth may be far stranger than anything he imagined.

A provocative thriller, Blood Sacrifice, is also an exploration into unseen realms of darkness and light—especially those of John Jordan’s conflicted heart. Confronting the irrational, superstitious, and greedy, Blood Sacrifice delves into the rise of American exorcisms following their explosion in popular culture, and mourns the loss of Florida’s final corner of unspoiled beauty.

Blood Sacrifice is an exciting entry into one of the most unique series in contemporary crime fiction.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Chapter Nine

 

When the banging on my door began at just before two in the morning, I hadn’t been asleep long. I had returned to my room from an after-dinner walk around the lake restless and frustrated. I had hoped to run into Kathryn but she was nowhere around, and I wondered if she was with Steve.

I shouldn’t have even been thinking about her, but I was finding it difficult not to, and that made me agitated and unable to sleep.

The truth was Kathryn was just a distraction. The real reason I was agitated and unable to sleep was my mental state. I felt isolated and alone, cut off from the rest of the world. I was homesick for a home I didn’t have and my loneliness opened up a hole inside me that felt as bad as anything I had ever experienced. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. I wanted to scream but didn’t. I needed to connect but felt as though I were the only lonely soul adrift in the cosmos.

I paced around the small room, mind wandering, bumping into the furniture, before I finally laid down and courted that which alluded me nearly as much as equanimity.

I dreamt I was floating weightlessly in a world of clear, sky-blue water, arms and legs dangling beneath me. Hearing the sound at the door, like the knock of an oar against a boat, I rose to the top, cresting the surface into consciousness.

“Get dressed, I need your help,” Steve said.

 

In the split-second I saw his face before he spoke, I knew something was wrong. His words and tone only confirming it. Suddenly, there was nothing between us—no competition, no unresolved conflict, no past at all, only the present, only the task at hand. Now he was just a cop; I, his best hope for help.

Without saying a word, I quickly put back on the jeans, shirt, jacket, and tennis shoes I had donned earlier to walk the lake, silently praying nothing had happened to Kathryn or Sister Abigail.

When I was dressed, he turned and began walking down the narrow corridor, his rubber-soled shoes nearly soundless on the dull tile floor. I followed a step behind him, waiting for him to tell me what had happened and what he needed from me.

“I need to know I can count on you to act like a cop and not a chaplain,” he said.

I nodded.

He turned and looked at me, slowing a step so I could walk beside him, which I had to do with my shoulders at a slight angle for us to fit.

I nodded again so he could see it.

“No matter how you might feel about these people, you’ve got to help me preserve evidence, protect the crime scene, secure statements.”

“Crime scene?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Where?”

“One of the cabins.”

My heart, racing since I first heard the banging on my door, seemed now to stop completely.

“Who’s the victim?” I asked.

 

He shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”

“What?”

“The cabin’s empty,” he said.

“Then how do you know it’s a crime scene?”

“All the blood.”

When we stepped out of the dorm and into the night, a cold gust of air slapped me in the face, tiny needles pricking my cheeks and nose, tears stinging my eyes, and I heard what sounded like a child screaming, but it was so faint and far away it could have been the howl of the wind.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“What?”

With no clouds to diffuse it, the full moon lit up the night, its bright glow casting long, dark shadows on the dew-damp ground. Like the trees surrounding them, the buildings of St. Ann’s were silent, the only sound, the whistle of the wind through the woods.

The airy whine sounded lonely and eerie, and it made the abbey feel desolate, the dark woods around it disquieting, and I realized how different it seemed now from earlier in the evening when it had nurtured and inspired me.

Wordlessly, we walked past the chapel and down the hill toward the cabins and the moonlit lake beyond, our breaths visible the brief moment before we walked through them.

“Which cabin?” I asked.

“It’s not Kathryn,” he said.

 

Relief washed over me—followed immediately by gratitude, then guilt.

“How’d you discover the—what are you still doing here?”

“Fell asleep. Something woke me—a scream, I think. When I came out here, I saw the door to the last cabin open and the lights on inside. It’s supposed to be empty, so I walked over to check it out.”

“From where?”

“From where what?”

“You woke up and came out of where?”

“Kathryn’s cabin,” he said.

I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I was shivering now, feeling as cold within as without, as I tried unsuccessfully to still my shaking body.

As he stopped in front of the last cabin on the right, I came up beside him and waited. The door was now closed, the lights off, no sign of violence visible.

“I turned off the lights to keep from attracting any attention while I went to get you,” he said.

“That was smart.”

“I’m a good cop.”

“I know.”

He nodded, his expression one of gratitude, though he didn’t say anything.

“You seen a crime scene lately?” he asked.

I nodded.

 

“Well, this is a bad one,” he said. “So be prepared.”

“I am.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

 

Chapter Ten

 

The musty old cabin was cold, its damp boards smelling of mildew, its dormant fireplace of charred hardwood and ashes, but those weren’t the only odors. The dank air of the small room also carried on its currents the wet-copper aroma of blood, of life and death—and it was strong enough to let me know it was most likely the latter.

I didn’t need Steve to turn on the light for me to know I was witnessing—at least in an olfactory way—a scene of extreme violence and bloodletting. When the light came on my sense of sight only confirmed what my other senses had already told me, but there was something about actually seeing it that made it simultaneously more real and less believable.

The interior of the cabin was much as the exterior—simple, rustic, unvarnished—except now much of it was splattered with somebody’s blood.

Beneath a bare bulb on the ceiling, a blood-soaked bed with four wooden posts extended out from the right wall to the center of the room. Leather straps like dog collars were fastened to the bedposts. What looked to be arterial spray covered the headboard and the wall above it.

 

Trying to locate the source of the dripping sound, I turned to look for a kitchen or bathroom, but found neither in the one-room cabin, and I realized it was blood dripping from the bed.

Beside the fireplace on the back wall, a wooden rocking chair held some clothes and books. Candles lined the hearth and circled the bed.

Nodding toward the candles, Steve said, “Looks ritualistic.”

“Would make sense at a place like this.”

Behind me the door slammed shut and we both jumped.

He rushed over to check outside but could see no one.

“Wind,” he said, closing it back.

As we turned back around toward the room, the candles lining the hearth and circling the bed were lit, their flickering flames causing shadows to dance on the floor, walls, and ceiling.

“Wind didn’t do that,” I said.

“What the hell?” he said. “This shit is freaking me out. Voices in the wind, slamming doors, crazy radio static, lights flashing. I think this place might be haunted.”

“Might be,” I said.

“Anyway, I’m thinking maybe we interrupted the guy and he’ll be back, but I need to go search the property in case the victim’s still alive. If the UNSUB went to dispose of the body, he’ll probably be back to clean up. I want you to wait here in case he shows.”

I nodded.

“You got a gun?”

“In my truck.”

He knelt down and pulled a small .22 from an ankle holster. “Here,” he said, handing it to me, “use this. We don’t have time for you to go get yours.”

As I took the gun, something in the far corner caught my eye. Noticing my wide-eyed expression, Steve followed my gaze.

When he saw what it was, he looked back at me with a wide-eyed expression of his own.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he said.

We crossed the room, carefully avoiding the blood. There, opposite the rocker, in the dimmest corner of the room, mostly hidden behind a dresser on the left wall, was a video camera on a tripod, its lens trained on the bed.

“Got any gloves?” I asked.

 

He shook his head. “You?”

“In my truck.”

“Well, hell,” he said, and reached down and turned on the camera.

When it whirred to life, he pressed the Play button, but nothing happened. I bent over and took a closer look.

“There’s no tape,” I said.

“He must’ve taken it.”

“And not the camera?”

“Maybe he couldn’t carry it and the victim, so he took the tape and is gonna come back for the camera and the other stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“I gotta get out there and take a look around,” he said, turning to leave.

“When you gonna call for backup?” I asked.

“As soon as I figure out what I need backup for,” he said. “You saw what I’ve got to work with. I’m not gonna have one of them fuck up my crime scene. Speaking of which, you better not either.”

As he started to leave, I said, “Be careful.”

“You too,” he said, and quietly walked out and closed the door.

Alone in the room, I took another look around. No other camcorders. No blood-covered UNSUBs cowering in the corner. Nothing that might help me figure out what had happened in here just moments before—except maybe the things in the rocking chair.

 

As I walked over to the chair, I heard a light tap on the door. Figuring the UNSUB wouldn’t knock before coming back in, I kept the .22 down as I crossed the room.

“Steve?” Kathryn said in a loud whisper. “John?”

I opened the door and stepped outside, closing it quickly behind me.

“Steve’s taking a look around,” I said. “We don’t need to be out here in case—”

“Good, let’s go in,” she said. “I’m freezing my ass off.”

“You need to wait in your cabin. You don’t want to see—”

“I already have,” she said.

Stepping past me, she opened the door and walked inside. I followed her, closing the door behind me.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I got scared. I just couldn’t sit there by myself any longer.”

Unlike many people unused to crime scenes, Kathryn neither gawked nor averted her eyes. She seemed as relaxed as she could be in the circumstances.

“It’s okay.”

“Do you have any idea what happened in here?” she asked.

I shrugged. “A few ideas, but no. Not really.”

“You think it’s connected to what happened to Tommy Boy?” she asked.

“It’s very different, but two deaths in one day at a place like this are more likely to be connected than not.”

Turning to the back corner, she said, “Is that a video camera?”

I nodded.

“So the whole thing’s on—”

“There’s no tape in it,” I said.

 

She frowned and shook her head. “That would’ve been too easy,” she said.

“I guess so.”

“You want me to put it in my cabin for safekeeping?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Really.”

“It’ll need to be processed like everything else,” I said. “We need to be very careful not to disturb anything.”

She nodded, and looked around the room some more.

“Do you feel that?” she said. “There’s a . . . presence here.”

I nodded. “It’s palpable.”

“You rarely encounter this kind of concentrated evil, do you?”

“Well, I work in a maximum security prison, so I do actually, but I know what you mean.”

“There’s something truly wicked going on. We’re all in danger. It’s ancient and it’s evil. Sorry, but it’s so strong.”

I waved off her apology and nodded my agreement.

“What’s in the chair?” she asked.

“I was just about to take a look when you knocked.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Careful to avoid the blood, I crossed the room again, this time with Kathryn in tow. Holding on to my arm, she walked right behind me, pressing herself into me when I stopped at the chair.

Slowly, I sifted through the clothes, Kathryn looking over my shoulder. Stacked on a pair of shoes with socks in them was a pair of women’s jeans, a button-down white shirt, bra, and panties.

“Isn’t that what Tammy was—”

“Yeah,” I said, “it is.”

 

Next to the neat stack of clothes, a Bible, a book of Catholic rites and rituals, a bottle of holy water, and a rosary looked to have been dropped unceremoniously. With the very tip of my index finger, I lifted the cover of the Bible by its edge and looked inside. Near the bottom corner of the first page an embossed logo read: Library of Father Thomas Scott, with the initials TDS in the center.

“What does it say?” Kathryn asked.

I told her.

She shook her head. “There’s got to be some mistake. He could never—someone must be trying to set him up.”

“Could be, but we all saw her leave the dining hall with him just a few hours ago.”

“Which is probably why someone thought they could set him up.”

“Possibly, but for what? We don’t even know what we’re dealing with here.” Nodding toward the bed, I added, “That could be his blood.”

If it were possible, she grew even paler. “Oh, God, please no. It can’t be.”

“I hope it’s not,” I said. “My point is, we just don’t know.”

“Yes we do,” Steve said from behind us.

We turned. He was standing in the open door, eyes wide, hands shaking—and not just from the cold.

“Tammy’s dead,” he said, his voice breaking, “and Father Thomas killed her.”

Chapter Eleven

 

The canopy covering the narrow blood-stained path blocked out much of the moonlight, and we stumbled on exposed pine, oak, and cypress roots as we slowly negotiated our way around the lake. Occasional breaks in the foliage caused intermittent patches of the path to be bathed in a pale phosphorous glow that washed out the grass and leaves and made the splatters of blood on them look black.

Steve was in front with a large black metal flashlight he had retrieved from his Explorer. I was following close behind, attempting to step where he had. Kathryn had gone to call for backup and an ambulance.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“Not far,” he said. “Guess I should get my other gun back.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “the weight of it in my jacket pocket feels pretty damn good.”

“Thought you were supposed to be comforted by his rod and staff.”

I let that one go and we walked along in silence for a few minutes.

The wind sounded like whispered voices warning us to turn back, and I could’ve sworn I heard a lonely loon across the lake.

“Was he attempting to hide her down here?” I asked.

“Not when I found him.”

“Why didn’t you bring him back with you?”

“I want to take pictures of the scene just the way I found it,” he said.

“You didn’t have cuffs, did you? How’d you subdue him?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“What makes you think he’ll be there when you get back?”

“You’ll see.”

What I saw was two people unconscious and covered in blood, but it was Tammy’s blood and, unlike Father Thomas, she would never regain consciousness.

They were in a small moonlit clearing next to the Intracoastal Waterway. Father Thomas was slumped against the base of an oak tree, his head hanging down, Tammy, several feet away facedown in the dirt, her naked, blood-splattered body looking black and white in the moonlight.

Though there was little doubt, I had to ask, “Are you sure she’s dead?”

He nodded. “I checked.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said.

 

“Thanks. We weren’t very close, but still . . .”

We were quiet for a while, the sound of our breathing joining the frogs and crickets and wind whining though the woods all around us.

After a few moments, he pulled a small camera out of his jacket pocket and began to snap pictures of the crime scene, methodically working from wide, establishing shots all the way down to close-ups. The bright flashes of light added an eerie dimension to the already horrific scene, its intermittent overexposure of the bodies as disconcerting as lightening without thunder.              When he was finished taking the pictures, I said, “Can we lay him down now and take a closer look at his wounds?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but what wounds?”

I carefully laid Father Thomas onto the cold, damp ground, wondering if he might not have been better in his previous position, and checked him for abrasions and contusions. Scratches covered his face, cuts and bruises, his hands, and a gash in his head left blood in his hair and a bump beneath.

“Bump on his head’s pretty bad,” I said. “Must be what knocked him out.” Glancing back at the tree, I saw traces of blood and hair on the end of a broken branch. “Looks like he hit the tree.”

Pulling out his camera, he took pictures of the spot from various angles.

 

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said. “He binds her to the bed and starts to do stuff to her. At some point, something happens—he goes too far, she changes her mind—something, and they begin to struggle. In the process, she gets beaten and cut up pretty bad and loses a lot of blood, but somehow she fights back and gets free. She runs out of the cabin, down the trail, bleeding all the way. He follows her. She makes it here to the clearing, they fight some more, and either he hurts her some more and accidentally stumbles and hits the tree or she pushes him into it.”

“It’s a theory,” I said, “but why run down here instead of to another cabin or a dorm for help?”

“Disoriented, dazed, confused—being half-dead and several quarts low’ll do that to you.”

“You sure you’re okay to work this one?” I asked. “Maybe you should—”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve got to work it. No way I’m turning family over to someone else. Why be a cop?”

“I know, but the case needs someone with some objectivity.”

“Like you?”

“No. Didn’t mean me.”

“Well, whoever you meant, just forget it,” he said. “I appreciate your help so far and I know what you’re saying’s right, but it’s not gonna happen, so just drop it.”

I dropped it.

 

“Father Thomas is not a young man,” I said, “and he’s spent many years living a very sedentary life. You really think he could catch her if she were running away from him?”

“She had to be weak from all the blood loss.”

“Still.”

“You know how these things work,” he said. “Never an answer for everything.”

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to find one.”

He looked over at Tammy again and shook his head. “Still can’t believe she’s dead.

“I’m very sorry.”

“Fuckin’ raped and beaten and stabbed—”

I thought about that.

“What?” he asked.

“If this is rape or sexually motivated—”

“If?” he asked. “He had her strapped to the fuckin’ bed. She’s not wearing any clothes.”

“But he’s wearing all of his,” I said. “Think about it.”

“Maybe he got dressed before he came out here to throw her body in the waterway.”

“Doesn’t fit with your other theory of her escaping somehow and running out here and him following her.”

“So?”

“So if she was already dead, who knocked him out?”

“Maybe he tripped, dropped her, and hit his head on the tree.”

 

“Look how far away she is.”

“So he put her down and was going back for something and tripped and hit the tree.”

“With the back of his head?”

“Maybe he turned around to look at her body again and that’s what made him trip. We’ll ask him when he comes to.”

“What about a murder weapon?”

“What about it?”

“Where is it?” I said. “It’s not in the cabin. I didn’t see it on the path. It’s not here in the clearing.”

“He could’ve thrown it in the waterway already.”

“I’m just saying there’s a lot that doesn’t add up.”

“Always is,” he said.

“So you keep saying.”

Sister Abigail appeared at the edge of the opening and I turned to face her.

 

“Is he . . .” she began.

“He’s unconscious,” I said.

She knelt down beside him. “Why aren’t you helping him?”

“Please don’t touch him, Sister,” Steve said. “We don’t want to contaminate any of the evidence.”

She looked up at us in a shame-producing shock. “He’s hurt. He needs help.”

“Which is on the way,” Steve said. “Don’t you think I want to cover Tammy up?”

She glanced over at Tammy, then back up at Steve. “But there’s nothing you can do for her. Tom’s still alive.”

“And not withstanding the fact that he killed my cousin,” Steve said, “I want him to stay that way.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that it? You’re not helping him because you think he killed her?”

“That has nothing to do with it. I’m gonna process the crime scene and conduct the investigation by the book.”

“Because he didn’t kill her. He couldn’t have and you know it. It’s obvious they’ve both been attacked.”

“With all due respect, Sister,” Steve said, “Tammy’s been murdered, not attacked. And all he’s got is a bump on the head and a few scratches.”

“I’m telling you,” she said, “he didn’t kill her.”

“I know it’s hard for you to accept,” Steve said, his voice patronizing, “but I’m telling you what the facts say.”

“The facts?”

 

“The evidence, the crime scene,” he said. “I’ve been doing this a while and—”

“I’m telling you he didn’t do it,” she said. “And it’s not just that he wouldn’t, but that he couldn’t. He’s not capable.”

“That’s what everyone always believes about people they know, but—”

She shook her head in frustration. “Listen to me, please, and be quiet. I’m not talking about morally. I’m saying physically. Physically he couldn’t do it. This is supposed to be a secret so please don’t tell anyone, but Father Thomas is very sick. He doesn’t have long to live. He doesn’t have the strength to do what has been done to this poor girl.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “What’re you saying?”

“That you better come up with a different theory to fit your facts, because Tom couldn’t have done this and his doctor will testify to it.”

Continued….

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