Why should I provide my email address?

Start saving money today with our FREE daily newsletter packed with the best FREE and bargain Kindle book deals. We will never share your email address!
Sign Up Now!

Lunch Time Reading! Enjoy This Free Excerpt From KND Thriller of The Week: Christopher Allan Poe’s The Portal – 4.5 Stars on a Scale of Terror!

On Friday we announced that Christopher Allan Poe‘s The Portal 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:

The Portal

by Christopher Allan Poe

4.5 stars – 35 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

She had nowhere left to hide…

Vivian Carmichael has been hiding in the San Bernardino Mountains for more than a year. Far from cell towers and video cameras, she thinks she’s finally found a safe place to raise her four-year old son Cody. Until the night he crawls into her bed and whispers two words that fill her with terror.

“Daddy’s home.”

Now running for her life, she’s horrified to learn that her estranged husband Jarod is not quite human anymore. Can she unravel the mystery of her family’s dark secret before he can steal her son, claiming her as his next victim?

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

 

I

 

The Long Night

1

 

V

ivian woke to an ocean of darkness that filled her lungs to capacity. Frantically, she groped her nightstand. Something banged on the floor. Where was her inhaler? There. She puffed and puffed again, but her short breaths could only take in so much.

Her chest loosened. Exhausted, she lay back. Underneath the splash of raindrops outside, Cody’s muffled voice came from the hallway. Her bedroom door creaked open, and a sliver of light blinded her.

“Mommy?” His silhouette clung to the doorknob with one hand. The other dragged Mister Vincent on the floor behind him. “Are you okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” She lifted her blanket. “Come to bed.”

Seconds later, he cuddled against her chest. She breathed deep the scent of baby shampoo. God she needed to be more careful. Just one slip and he would be alone in this world. Then what? Some chemical substitute to fill the void? Crime? Jesus, she would never let it come to that.

“Mommy,” he whispered.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Mister Vincent is sorry.”

She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep. Although Mister Vincent painted the kitchen walls in shades of peanut butter yesterday, whatever mess lay beyond her door could wait until morning. “It’s fine.”

“He didn’t mean to let him in.”

She almost sat up to check. No, everything was locked. The Trenton Security System was armed, and the dead bolts were three feet above the door handles. Well beyond Mister Vincent’s reach.

“It was just a bad dream, baby,” she said. “Not real.”

He sat up on his knees and put his hands on her cheeks.

“Mommy,” he said.

“Go to sleep.”

“I have to tell you something, but I promised not to say it out loud.”

“Fine,” she said. “But then you’ll lie down.”

He nodded, leaned over her, and whispered in her ear, “Daddy’s home.”

She jumped up and turned on the light. It crashed to the floor. Her car keys! She needed them. They had to get out.

“Where is he? Where did you see Daddy?”

“Ouch,” he cried.

She looked down and realized how hard she’d grabbed his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said. “I didn’t mean it.” He lowered his head. “This is really important,” she continued. “Like when Mommy needs her inhaler.” He nodded. “I need you to tell the truth. Where did you see Daddy?”

“Walking in the trees.”

She pulled up the mini blinds and wiped away the condensation on the window with her hand. Their van was parked next to the forest, at least thirty yards from the cabin. She put on her shoes and grabbed her keys.

“Come here,” she said.

He ran in front of the toppled lamp. Shadows raced across the walls. She leaned down, and he wrapped his arms around her neck. In the hallway, her knees nearly buckled. The front door swung back and forth in the wind. Leaves blew through the living room into the hall.

Cody clutched his bear. “He didn’t mean to let him in.”

“I know he didn’t, sweetheart. Don’t worry. We’ll make sure Mister Vincent stays safe.” She hugged Cody’s head against her shoulder. “We all need to be very quiet now.”

Carefully, she stepped over the creaky second floorboard. Slowly. Don’t panic. The power in the cabin went out. Shit. Following the meager light from the front door, she picked up her pace.

“I can’t see.” Cody’s voice seemed to thunder.

“Shhh, you have to stay quiet.”

The basement door directly behind her opened and clicked shut.

“Hello, Vivian.” Jarod’s voice froze her in place. His footsteps thumped close. Breath smothered the nape of her neck. “‘Till death do us part. You do remember, don’t you?”

She steadied her legs. Cody needed her to be strong.

“Honor and obey, too.” Her joke, their joke failed to produce any laugh. He just kept breathing, heavy and slow in the darkness.

“I told you it was an accident,” he mumbled, as if something filled his mouth.

“Cody almost died, you son of a bitch.”

“You stole my fucking son,” he shouted.

She bolted down the hallway. In her wake, his footsteps shook the cabin. She reached the front door, grabbed the handle, and slammed it shut behind her. A thud rocked the house. He must have smashed into it.

She almost continued, but stopped. He’d run three miles a day when they were married. Every single day. And she was carrying Cody. He could barrel them down within seconds.

She fumbled with her keys and locked the top bolt. Last month, she’d installed the dual key dead bolts to keep Cody from opening the door. Fat lot of good that did, but now they had a use far greater. There was no turn latch on the inside. Only a keyhole. And the bars on the windows meant that Jarod was now locked inside.

The door rattled. A thunk rumbled through the mountains. She took off for the car. Above, the storm clouds broke. Flashes of lightning exposed his Humvee parked off the driveway. They were more than an hour from any town. Visions of their capsized minivan, forced from the road by the military vehicle, filled her head.

Thwack. The repetitive cracking gave away Jarod’s position as she raced to the Humvee. Inside the left wheel well, she found Jarod’s magnetic Hide-A-Key. Thank god some things never changed. She unlocked the gigantic door and lifted Cody into the backseat.

“Put your seat belt on,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he cried.

“Now.”

She opened the driver’s door and climbed into the vehicle. Switches and panel readouts sat all around her. Could she even drive this stupid thing? Where was the ignition? There. She turned the key. The engine roared.

“Mommy,” Cody shouted.

Something snapped the glass. An explosion of nuggets sprayed her face. Jarod reached in and grabbed her sweater. She screamed. Broken and jagged, some fused together, his teeth dripped saliva.

The corners of his lips twisted as he shouted, “He’s mine.”

She punched the accelerator. Mud puddles sprayed over the windshield, blurring her view. Running alongside, Jarod yanked the steering wheel. The Humvee lunged toward a tree trunk and sideswiped it.

His shriek, guttural and inhuman, echoed through the cab. She slammed on the brakes to regain control. Something brushed her leg. His severed hand twitched in her lap. Forcing back her nausea, she slapped the thing onto the passenger floorboard and punched the gas.

At the end of the driveway, she turned left. Where could they go? Erika’s house? No. If Jarod had found her here, he might have people waiting for her there.

For the last year, she’d planned for this, and none of it mattered. Along with their clothes and cash, she’d also left every inhaler behind as well.

In the backseat, Cody sobbed.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” She reached back to hold his hand but found only a toe. “It’s over. We’re safe now.”

They could get out of this if she could just get down the mountain. Tammy probably still lived in Los Reyes. That was only a two-hour drive. They could still get out of this.

A blue dashboard light knocked back her hope as she sped around the final bend of Chesterfield Road. She closed her eyes and prayed over the sound of Cody’s sobs. The gas gauge flashed empty.

2

T

hrough the shattered window, mist, laced with the scent of pine, sprayed Vivian’s face. Though the Humvee ate both lanes of traffic, and though speed would burn their fuel faster, she pressed the accelerator. The initial lead would count more.

“Where are we going?” The tremor in Cody’s voice tore at her heart.

“Everything’s fine now. We’re going to see Aunt Tammy.”

She checked her rear view mirror. So far nothing, but she couldn’t shake Jarod’s face from her mind. Something had deformed him. Those teeth. No, she must have seen it wrong. Some trick of the light or, more likely, her fear running wild.

In the backseat, Cody stared through the side window. He scrunched his hand on his knee repeatedly.

“Let’s play a game,” she said, not just for him. More than ever, she needed to hear his voice. “I spy the letter T.”

“What?” He sounded distant.

“The letter T.”

He finally turned from the window. “Tree.”

“You always get me.”

“I spy the letter M,” he said quietly.

Although M was always Mister Vincent, she guessed, “Mouth.” He shook his head. “Money?” She reached back and tickled his knee. “Where did you get money from? Did you rob a bank?”

In the rear view mirror, she saw him smile. At least on the surface, he seemed oblivious to Daddy’s hand thumping the floorboard around every turn.

A blue and red glow filled the cab. A quick look back showed a police car’s flashing lights.

“Damn,” she said.

“Soap.”

Jarod couldn’t have called the police. The cabin didn’t have a landline. And there weren’t any neighbors for seven miles. Nor any cell towers until Mercer. Maybe the cop just needed to get around her. She slowed onto the shoulder of the road. His siren wailed.

“Shit,” she said.

“Mommy.”

“I promise I’ll eat the whole bar when we get down the mountain. Now, I need you to be quiet.”

To avoid Jarod coming up on them, she pulled onto a dirt road. Branches clawed and scratched at the tank-like vehicle. Gravel popped underneath the tires. They reached a circular clearing with metal fire pits surrounding the perimeter, no campers. She stopped and took a deep breath. If this officer ran her license, they’d add grand-theft-auto to her kidnapping charges.

She pulled down the visor and freaked. Her hair wisped every direction. Blood spattered her clothing. Quickly, she wiped her face and tied her hair in a knot. On the massive center console, she found his sport jacket. Jarod’s musky cologne made her skin crawl as she put it on.

A spotlight drenched the cab of the Humvee, followed by approaching footsteps.

“License, registration, and proof of insurance.” The officer’s cold tone made her uneasy. She held up her hand to block his flashlight and realized just how far from civilization they were.

“What’s the problem?” she asked.

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

“Maybe forty,” she said.

They’d only driven fifteen miles. Too far to catch on foot, even for Jarod. But what if he could hotwire the minivan? She should’ve slashed its tires.

The officer lowered his light. This wasn’t good. His crew cut and chiseled features looked like he came from a long line of ball busters.

“License and proof of insurance,” he repeated firmly.

“It’s around here somewhere.” That sounded dumb. How many times had he heard those words? She glanced at the center console and panicked. “I’m sorry.” Carefully, she pushed a gun back, away from the officer’s field of view. “I must have left my purse at home.”

Jarod. That bastard had brought a gun to the house where Cody slept.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?” the officer asked.

“Excuse me?” She caught herself. With Cody in the car, she refused to drive under the influence of mouthwash. Still, losing her temper wasn’t going to help. “No. Nothing to drink.”

“Please step out of the vehicle.”

If she did, he would see her splattered like a slasher victim. Then he’d find the hand.

“Whatever I did, can you please let me off with a warning? Just this once.”

“The side of your vehicle looks like it was buffed with a chainsaw. Broken glass is everywhere. You have no license, registration, or side mirror for that matter. And your son is in the car with you.”

“So is that a no?” She immediately regretted her tone, but the police always brought out the worst in her.

The jerk didn’t respond. He just stared at her.

“If you smell my breath,” she said. “Will you be able to tell that I’m sober?”

“A field sobriety test encompasses more than alcohol. Now get out, or I will remove you.”

“My driving was bad because we’re almost out of gas and I was trying to coast. And I didn’t want to mention it, but the reason we’re heading to town at his hour is for Midol. I’m having cramps.”

His eyes became twitchy. He shifted from foot to foot. Men. Lies poured from their mouths without the slightest remorse. They could rape the earth and butcher children, but tell them it was that time of the month, and they fidgeted worse than Billy Graham at an orgy.

“What about your other gas tank?” he asked. She could feel his relief at the change of subject. Good. She had him on the ropes.

Wait…

“What did you say?” she asked. “Other gas tank?”

“This isn’t your car?”

“It’s my father’s.”

“Unlike other civilian models.” His voice carried an air of disdain. “The Humvee comes standard equipped for all combat situations. Hit that switch on the left.”

She searched the dashboard and flipped the button. The gas gauge slowly filled.

“God, I could kiss you,” she said.

“That’s nice of you, but I still need you to step out of the vehicle.”

There weren’t any more excuses. He would take her to the station. Her fingerprints would show that she was wanted, and Jarod would make sure they locked her away forever. A lifetime without Cody. Forcing back her tears, she knew what had to be done.

“I just remembered where the registration is.” She reached over, grabbed the gun, and pointed it at his head. He jumped back and went for his weapon. “Don’t even think it.”

“Mommy.” Cody sounded concerned.

“We’re just playing cops and robbers,” she said without turning back. Then she opened the car door. “Cuff yourself to that campfire grate.”

“Don’t do anything you’re going to regret,” the officer said.

“Any minute now.” She hushed her voice. “My ex-husband will come down that mountain. He is going to steal my son and kill me. Don’t think for one second that I won’t shoot you if I have to.”

“Whatever the problem is, we can work it out.”

Though he held one hand forward, the other rested on his holstered firearm. She knew he was working up the guts to call her bluff.

“Put that gun on the ground and kick it to me,” she said. “Or I will shoot you in your stomach twice and then sleep like a baby tonight.” She shoved the gun toward him and shouted, “Now.”

“Okay.” He held both hands forward.

When the gun was at her feet, she said, “Now chain yourself to the grate.”

“If your husband is really after you like you say.” He cinched the cuff around his wrist. “It’s smarter to let us help.”

“Like you helped us before? Thanks for the concern, but he owns you.”

“I don’t even know your damn husband.”

“Maybe not you, but certainly the people above you,” she said. “Just cuff yourself.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

Once she was positive he was restrained, she opened the car door and got inside. Through the missing window, she said, “When we reach the bottom of the mountain, we’ll call somebody to pick you up.”

Vivian sped off, terrified of this new world she inhabited—where the two guns in her lap made her feel safer than none at all.

At the main road, she stopped. What was that? Even over the rumble of the engine, she heard a clicking noise from the back. Great. Now, the car was breaking down. What else could go wrong tonight? Again, click click. That wasn’t the car. Click. It was coming from inside the cab. Right behind Cody.

Jarod couldn’t have made it this far. Or could he? In the confusion with that cop, she hadn’t been able to watch the vehicle the entire time. She opened the door and got out. Then she crouched low and crept to the back bumper. With her gun ready, she pulled open the rear hatch.

It was empty. No, there was that noise again. A chill raced up her spine as she saw it. Jarod’s hand. Mangled tendons and shattered bone. Inch-long hooked talons extended from where the fingernails should have been. But even that couldn’t compare with that horrible click of bony claws against the wheel well as the hand twitched. The thing was still moving.

3

V

ivian parked at the back of the K Street cul-de-sac, just past Tammy’s trailer. Above, the only working streetlamp flickered and throbbed. Three houses down, a group of black-booted peckerwoods hovered around a truck on blocks. Spray paint cans hissed from their direction.

Perfect. Five minutes, and already her lungs felt tight, strangled in barbed wire and oil-soaked dirt. She had promised herself that night to never come back, and now she’d brought Cody here.

Still, none of that mattered. They had bigger problems. What had happened to Jarod? His face? She tried to push the image away, but those claws. He’d been dangerous before. Now he wasn’t even human.

Worse yet, if he could find them at the cabin, no place would be safe. Especially Erika’s house. They needed to leave the country. That meant retrieving the cash she’d stashed. No way she could attempt it with Cody in tow. So suck it up, Vivian. Even at three AM without a courtesy phone call, big sis was her best option.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to Cody, who stirred as she pulled him from the backseat. He didn’t wake. Then she grabbed the ice chest from the front seat.

All right, maybe storing Jarod’s disgusting, twitching claw in a beer cooler wasn’t too safe. She packed it tight with towels though, and the chest was wrapped in duct tape, too. That counted for something. Besides, it was proof that she wasn’t crazy. Maybe, it could be her chance to come out of hiding. Sole custody even. She didn’t dare think it. Hope was a useless emotion, reserved for gamblers throwing away their money. She didn’t have that luxury. In any case, the claw wouldn’t leave her sight.

Tammy’s gate almost fell from its hinge as Vivian opened it. She walked to the front door and knocked. Just feet away, the neighbor’s pit bull chomped and rattled a chain link fence. She rang the bell. Please let this be the right decision. Through the rusted screen, she saw the door open.

“Knock it off.”

Vivian recognized her sister’s voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Not you.” The porch light turned on and the screen creaked open. “The damn dog.”

Vivian’s knees weakened. That brick-colored hair pulled into a bun. Her piercing green eyes. For a second, she thought she was staring at her mother.

“You look like hell,” Tammy said. She even sounded like their mother. Had this been a mistake?

“I’m sorry if we woke you,” Vivian said.

“Well I don’t sleep in my work clothes.”

Looking down at the Astro Lounge insignia on Tammy’s jacket, Vivian covered her embarrassment with a cough. Tammy couldn’t have been one of the dancers. A bartender? Maybe, but judging from her bulk, she was more likely a bouncer.

“It’s been awhile.” Tammy motioned to Cody, who slept soundly. “Yours?”

She nodded. “This is Cody.”

The skinheads behind them began shouting.

“Well,” Tammy said. “You might as well come in before Anthony and his boys start humping your leg.”

As she walked inside, the scent of beef and cigarettes tightened her chest even more. This wasn’t asthma though. A polluted flood of memories made her nervous.

She laid Cody on a couch in the unlit living room and covered him with an afghan. In the kitchen, she found Tammy sitting at a Formica table. A hanging light swayed as she poured two shots of Wild Turkey.

“None for me,” Vivian said.

“Who said anything about you?” She slammed one of the shots. The idea of leaving Cody here, even for just a few hours, seemed crazier by the minute. But with no money for food, gas, or a motel, they were out of options.

“What’s in the chest?” Tammy asked.

“Food.”

“And the duct tape is for what, freshness?”

“It wouldn’t stay shut.” She wished she had a chain and padlock for the thing.

Tammy eyed her. Then she took a drag from her cigarette. “Well, it better not be drugs. You know I won’t expose my family to that.”

“It’s not.” Vivian felt a little ashamed because two handguns and a severed claw were far worse than any narcotic on earth. “Did you say, family?”

Tammy motioned to a white cat walking across the stove. “That’s Sinead.” She scratched another tabby napping in a chair next to her. “I took in Bones after Mom died.” She paused. “We missed you at the funeral.”

“I know,” she said. “I really wanted to go.”

“So why didn’t you?”

This conversation couldn’t lead anywhere good. Every wasted moment only played in Jarod’s favor, so she said, “Tammy, I need your help.”

“You don’t waste time.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re in trouble.” Vivian sat down at the table. “I need to borrow your car and some money for gas.”

“How did I know this was coming?”

“You know I hate to ask, but—”

“I’m your last hope.”

God, she hated when Tammy did this. Taunted and teased. Dangled the prize just out of her reach.

“If you could watch Cody,” she said. “I’ll back in two hours, tops.”

“Let me guess, the mob is after you.”

“Tammy, please. This is serious.”

“The secret police?” Her laugh echoed in the kitchen. Furious, Vivian didn’t dare speak. Tammy put out her cigarette in the tray. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to disappear and dump your brat on me.”

Vivian stood up so fast, that her chair nearly knocked over. “Don’t ever speak about my son like that.”

“Fair enough, as long as you tell me why.”

“What?” Vivian asked.

“After all this time. You show up at my doorstep, begging.”

“Begging?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How many times have I bailed you out?”

“What? Ten years ago? You must be joking.”

“I just need you to watch Cody for a few hours. I can even pay you when I’m done.”

“Oh this is good.” Tammy poured herself a new shot. “Tell you what. I’ll do it if you give me the real reason you’re here. Why me?”

“Because—”

“Why now? And don’t give me this sisterhood bullshit.”

“Because I never told Jarod about you,” she snapped. “He doesn’t know where to find us here.”

The sarcastic smile left Tammy’s face. Silence filled the kitchen. The kind that only their mother had been able to create.

“Tammy, listen.”

“No, it makes sense. You always were ashamed of us.” She began petting Bones. “Thought you were so much better. And maybe you were. You got his looks and her brains.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell him.”

“I get it,” Tammy said. “But what I can’t figure is with all of that.” She waved her hands as if demonstrating a door prize. “Why you couldn’t resist stealing Mom’s boyfriend.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kenny wasn’t much, but he was all she had.”

“Exactly what do you think you walked in on?”

“Jesus, Vivianna, I’m not a fool.”

There it was. The name her mother had called her. Suddenly her anger felt like a swarm of hornets in her stomach.

“I want to know what you think you saw,” Vivian said.

“Let’s just drop it.”

Oh, it was far too late. “You want to know why I didn’t come to the funeral. Why I ran away and never told the man I married who I really was?”

“Sorry I brought it up,” Tammy said.

“That drunk piece of shit Kenny tried to rape me. And you know what our mother said to me? She told me not to ruin it for her. That I had already ruined everything else.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Are you insane? I was sixteen.” The tears in her eyes didn’t ease her rage. They magnified it. “That’s why I ran away. And I didn’t go to her funeral because I was afraid. Terrified that the only reason I cried was because I would never get the chance to tell that bitch what I really thought of her.”

Tammy just sat with a stupid sneer, rubbing her finger across the rim of her shot glass.

Something brushed Vivian’s hand. She glanced down to find Cody. He didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned his head against her leg, with a look of concern that quieted her anger instantly. Again, silence filled the trailer.

Finally, she wiped her eyes. “I’ve spent too many years blaming myself.” She picked up Cody in one arm and grabbed the cooler. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I wouldn’t leave my son with a cockroach like you for a second.”

She hurried back to the front door.

“Don’t ever come back here again you—”

Vivian slammed the door and cut her off. She breathed deep the smoggy air. Somehow, she felt better. Maybe it had been bottled up for too long. Or maybe, the curse of genetics had provided her with one final opportunity to tell her mother off. Either way, she did feel better. Cleansed.

She was crossing the street when she heard the voices. Three skinheads surrounded the Humvee.

“Well,” the short one with beady eyes said. “Look who’s back.”

She held Cody tight. After the night she’d had, these bastards had no clue of what they were getting themselves into.

 

As Vivian left, Tammy thought of a million things that she should’ve said. At least the slut was gone. Good riddance. Take her lies with her. She poured another shot and slammed it down. Wild Turkey usually calmed her nerves after work, but not tonight.

He doesn’t know where to find us here, Vivian had said. There could only be one reason why she came here when she was in trouble and not the police station. Only one reason.

“I’ll show you a fucking cockroach.” She picked up the phone and dialed nine-one-one.

Continued….

Click on the title below to download the entire book and keep reading

Christopher Allan Poe’s The Portal>>>>

 

 

4.4 Stars on a Scale of Terror! THE PORTAL by Christopher Allan Poe is KND Brand New Thriller of The Week

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 Christopher Allan Poe‘s The Portal. Please check it out!

The Portal

by Christopher Allan Poe

4.4 stars – 34 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

She had nowhere left to hide…

Vivian Carmichael has been hiding in the San Bernardino Mountains for more than a year. Far from cell towers and video cameras, she thinks she’s finally found a safe place to raise her four-year old son Cody. Until the night he crawls into her bed and whispers two words that fill her with terror.

“Daddy’s home.”

Now running for her life, she’s horrified to learn that her estranged husband Jarod is not quite human anymore. Can she unravel the mystery of her family’s dark secret before he can steal her son, claiming her as his next victim?

Reviews

“The Portal by Christopher Allan Poe is one of the best paranormal thrillers I’ve read in quite a while. Once I picked it up, I absolutely couldn’t put it down. I just had to know what happened next. Poe painted a picture of a villain and a world that intrigued and fascinated even as it terrified me. Every time I thought the heroine was going to escape, something came along to trip her up. I think I’d bitten all my fingernails off by the end of chapter four.”

“Fans of Stephen King and Dean Koontz will really enjoy this tale that wraps childhood fears of things that go bump in the night with adult realities of deadly relationships and human choices with catastrophic consequences.”

About The Author

 

Christopher Allan Poe is an author and touring musician from Los Angeles, CA. He writes paranormal thrillers, with an emphasis in themes that shed light on social problems for women and children.

His award-winning debut novel, THE PORTAL, is available from Black Opal Books now.

Looking For Free And Bargain Kindle Books?

Check out BookGorilla!

Lunch Time Reading! Enjoy This Free Excerpt From KND Thriller of The Week: A Big Adventure Novel in The Clancy Tradition – Ed Baldwin’s The Other Pilot

On Friday we announced that Ed Baldwin’s The Other Pilot 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:

The Other Pilot

by Ed Baldwin

4.3 stars – 25 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

General Trusten Polk’s F-16 explodes on takeoff in Denver. Within hours he’s exposed as an impostor, a war hero politician controlled by others.

As Captain Boyd Chailland, the pilot member of the accident board uncovers Polk’s lonely private life he finds another pilot from Polk’s past knows all his secrets and is leaking them to the press.

Congressman Roscoe Kelly is tied to bank fraud and other politicians with ties to Polk duck and weave. The press smells blood and government corruption dominates the news cycle. Is The Other Pilot a patriot or a criminal? Where did all that money come from?

Boyd rushes to find The Other Pilot, as signs point to a criminal mastermind with a lust for revenge.

The spark to set off civil war in America is on a ranch in west Texas. Boyd, his English teacher lover, his flight surgeon pal, a vintage aircraft enthusiast with a restored P-51 Mustang, and a small town sheriff are the nation’s last line of defense.

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

CHAPTER ONE

The general hated flying. Any other pilot would have been thrilled to have a brand new block 50 F-16 to tool around the country instead of using the airlines. Even with his aide there to file the flight plan for him, General Trusten Polk hated it. He hated the G-suit, and the helmet, and the boots.

“Trust One to Buckley tower. Permission for takeoff,” he said, annoyed at the delay. They had his flight plan, there were no other aircraft leaving for hours. Why not just say, “Permission granted,” and let him get airborne and out of here?

“Trust One, permission granted for takeoff. Have a pleasant day, sir.”

General Polk keyed the microphone button on the stick to acknowledge the transmission, but said nothing. His left hand moved the throttle impatiently. The Falcon lurched forward.

The night before, an old friend had called in another favor, the latest in a long series of requests, tips, accommodations, lies, and fraudulent deeds. Like the round heeled whore he was, Polk had delivered with a smile.

The acceleration pressed Polk back into the seat as the aircraft rocketed down the runway. Polk had no sense of being in control, even though he wielded the stick and the throttle. He even considered closing his eyes, trusting that sheer inertia and the width of the runway would keep them on it until they reached takeoff speed.

“One sixty,” Kevin Barnes said, calling out the takeoff speed from the back seat.

In two days Polk had to be in Washington to testify before the Senate Armed Services Committee. Tonight when he got back to Virginia, the FAX machine beside his bed would print out the questions, and the answers. No one cared what Trusten Polk thought about the issue, the four stars would speak. All he had to do Monday was read off the answers. Disgust choked him, like vomit in his oxygen mask. The Falcon’s nose lifted gracefully.

He’d been a man once. A man who had occupied space, with a personality, a soul. He’d had dreams, friends, a past, and a future. Now Trusten Polk was virtual reality. Turn off the forces that controlled him, and there would be nothing.

Polk lurched forward as the engine, emitting a loud clang, exploded. He looked down into the cockpit, mind in transition from his self pity to the checklist for engine failure on takeoff. The right wing rotated quickly downward.

“Hey!” Polk yelled, as if Kevin Barnes in the back seat could do something if he were alerted. Instinctively he put lateral and backward pressure on the stick to correct the roll and bring the nose up, but before the Falcon could respond the right wing tip hit the ground and the aircraft cartwheeled forward at 250 knots. The nose hit a moment later and 12,000 pounds of jet fuel became an aerosol. The burning rear of the aircraft rotated into this cloud of fuel and ignited it with a muffled roar and a bright red fireball.

The firemen sitting on the crash truck east of the runway were already in their crash suits, so they had only to put on their boots and start the truck. They were rolling before the stunned air traffic controllers could notify them of the crash. In less than a minute they were at the site, pouring foam on the debris and looking for survivors. The black smoke was already 1,000 feet in the air.

The pilots had been admiring Mount Evans, sixty miles to the west and 14,264 feet above sea level. Had anyone been on the top that morning they could have seen the small plume of smoke on the eastern fringe of the Denver metropolitan area that marked the end of an illustrious, if unusual, military career.

CHAPTER TWO

The long thin blade crossed and recrossed the stone. In spite of a puddle of 30 weight motor oil, it made a high pitched grating sound that fascinated the dog. A black Labrador retriever lay with his face on his front paws and his eyes fixed on the knife as if he were to receive some precious insight from the event.

Boyd Chailland (SHYland) sat on the back steps of his rented farm house just east of the Denver International Airport. His gaze shifted from Mount Evans, to Longs Peak to the north, and back to the filet knife he was sharpening. From his vantage point in the prairie east of Denver he could see the whole city and the mountains beyond. He could look down the line of airliners descending from the east, and with the usual departure route to the north, he could marvel at how those huge loaded crafts could rise so quickly in this thin mountain air.

“You ready to chase some trout, Eight Ball?” he said to the dog as he wiped the motor oil on his jeans and stood up, admiring the blade.

The telephone rang. Boyd had only been in Denver a month and could think of nothing good that could come from a telephone call.

“Captain Chailland?” the voice asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Colonel Bertz. We’ve had an accident this morning.” There was a quiver in his voice. “General Trusten Polk crashed on takeoff at 0700. He and his aide were both killed. I’ll be the chairman of the accident investigation board and I’ve assigned you to be the pilot member.”

“Yes, sir. Should I come over now?” Boyd saw the image of Polk speaking just the day before. Earnest, decisive, and energetic, he had been wired with a collar mike and paced the stage.

“There are those in Congress…” Polk had said several times, straying perilously close to a political statement, forbidden to military officers. He had only touched on the anniversary celebration of Buckley being upgraded to an Air Force Base from an Air National Guard base, his reason for coming to Denver. The thrust of his talk had been toward preservation of U.S. military superiority in an uncertain world, and a caution to watch for, “those who would leave us open to a stab in the back from bitter enemies who covet this beautiful land.”

That last statement had been the 20 second sound bite delivered as the lead story on the evening news the night before. With it had gone a complimentary piece about how the Colorado Guard unit was part of the backbone of America’s might, with its state-of-the-art F-16s ready to deploy worldwide on a moment’s notice. Boyd had felt pride for the first time since taking an active duty assignment as a pilot with a guard unit instead of another active duty fighter wing. His choice had been between a non-flying job or flying with the reserves.

“What happened?” Boyd asked the obvious question without waiting for an answer to his first one.

“Engine exploded on takeoff. Never even cleared the end of the runway,” Bertz said woodenly, like he’d already told the story more than he wanted to, then added, “Yes, come over now. Wear ABUs and bring an extra change of clothes.”

Boyd relived a take off; damn little of it before the end of the runway. Then he saw the general again, striding off the stage to applause, waving.

“Come to flight operations and we’ll assemble before going down to the site. We usually bring in somebody from another base for the board, but you’re new here, and you’re an instructor pilot with combat experience in the F-16. Headquarters said to put you on the board. How soon can you be here?”

“Half an hour, sir,” was Boyd’s crisp military response. It masked his considerable aversion to the task and the disappointment in having his weekend plans changed so abruptly.

A change of clothes? Boyd thought as he stood in his kitchen looking south out the window. A smudge of smoke was visible high in the southern sky toward Buckley.

“Change of plans, big guy,” he said as he filled Eight Ball’s water dish and tossed him a couple dog biscuits. He strode back down the steps into the worn back yard and kneeled to rub the dog’s ears and head. The dog looked up expectantly from his dog biscuit, brushing his heavy tail against the dust.

Boyd stood and returned to the house. He quickly threw a spare flight suit and boots along with a change of underwear and socks into a leather athletic bag.

The smell of the leather briefly took him back to the carefree leave he’d enjoyed in Italy while flying combat air patrol over Afghanistan. He’d felt invincible then, before the drawdown eliminated half the pilot billets and sent shit-hot fighter jocks to the airlines, parcel services, and graduate schools. Fighter wings were different now. Performance was not for pride as before, but to stay in the upper half of the top gun standings and avoid the next cut.

He turned off the lights, unplugged the coffeepot, donned the black baseball cap of the cougar squadron of the Colorado Air National Guard and walked out to his muddy and battered Chevy pickup. No need to lock the door.

CHAPTER THREE

Boyd stood stunned by the transformation of the aircraft he had flown almost daily for six years. It had changed from a graceful light grey ballerina of the clouds to a broken black beast, surrounded by a 150 foot circle of burned grass, and pieces. “Pieces of what?” Boyd murmured to himself with a wave of nausea.

The perimeter of the site was marked by day-glow orange ribbon and patrolled by guards toting M-16s. Boyd and Moses Eubanks, the crew chief on his aircraft, stepped out of a van only a few feet from the smoldering wreckage. The air reeked with the smell of burned and unburned kerosene, and burned grass, paint, plastic, and human flesh. The ground was singed inside the barrier. Firemen milled around, still carrying hoses and spraying water and foam on a few smoldering hot spots. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, and command vehicles, each chattered on their own radio frequency. All the doors were open. All the engines were running.

“Over here, gentlemen.” A voice emerged from the chaos, and the accident board walked numbly toward it, their eyes still fixed on the wreckage. “I’m Major Graham. I’ll be in charge of crash site security. Now that you’re here we can enter the area. We’ll stay together at first and take a quick walk around, then we can spread out and look for objects to chart. The pilot member of the board needs to be the first one to examine the flight controls and instruments so nobody touch the cockpit area until he’s been there. The remains will stay in place until the flight surgeon has all the pictures and diagrams he needs. Don’t pick up anything yet. When we begin charting parts, call for a technician to come over and measure how far something is from the center of the site and what compass reading it is. One of the actual board members will confirm and initial all notations.” As he said this, the guards moved the ribbon and they walked onto burned grass.

The carcass of the F-16 lay on its side without the wings. The jet engine, really just a pipe with a fan in the middle, was blackened by the fire and its outer wall had a fist-sized hole on the right side. The fuselage that had surrounded it was gone. From the rear cockpit forward the outer skin of the aircraft was intact in a few places, missing in others. The canopy was broken, and only a few pieces of it were scattered about on the ground below the fuselage. Both pilots were still in the aircraft, their fireproof helmets, visors, and flight suits still in recognizable condition.

When the fuselage had collapsed on impact, the shape and size of the cockpit contracted and expanded drastically in a moment. This had fragmented the pilots’ bodies and caused their fluids to form an aerosol like the jet fuel that had caused such a spectacular fireball. The explosion and fire after impact had been anticlimactic for them.

Moses Eubanks vomited immediately upon looking into the cockpit. Boyd a moment later. Most of the others followed within a minute or two. The security guards and firemen politely turned their attention to details in another direction from the vomiting accident board.

A gentle breeze was blowing from the north and by stepping into it one could get respite from the smell. Boyd turned and looked at the mountains, stood straight and breathed deeply and remembered the first and last lines from a poem all pilots know.

“I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth…

…and touched the face of God.”

Others were looking at the mountains too, each making his own adaptation to cope. One by one each returned his attention to the subject at hand and began talking in low murmurs about various aspects of the crash.

Boyd returned reluctantly to the cockpit. The flaps were down, as they should be this close to take-off. The stick was in a neutral position, typical for the F-16, as the controls are actuated by pressure on the stick rather than movement. The airspeed indicator was stuck at 200 knots. The attitude indicator was correctly indicating 30 degrees of bank, which was about the position of the fuselage at this moment. The throttle was in afterburner, all the way forward; a desperate last ditch effort to stay in the air. The landing gear were in the locked down position. Things were just how they should be according to the pre-flight checklist. He stood back while the photographer recorded all findings.

“Wingtip hit here.” Moses Eubanks called, standing fifty yards behind the fuselage. The others walked over to see the surprisingly narrow gash in the ground that was only a couple feet deep. A young man, not more than twenty years old, and wearing an orange jumpsuit, rushed over with a brand new construction tape measure and began documenting its exact location. He was ashen faced and seemed eager to get that far away from the aircraft.

“Look at this stuff all over the ground.” Boyd said, standing beside Moses as the others walked around the site. The ground was littered with tiny bits of things.

“That’s the plane,” Moses said solemnly, stooping to pick up a piece of composite no bigger than a toothpick, and just as sharp. It looked like fiberglass. “You take the engine and avionics out of one of these things; four men can pick it up.”

“No shit?” Boyd said, thinking about the 18,500 lbs it weighed empty and the 7,000 lbs of fuel it carried internally, and the 15,000 lbs of bombs or rockets it could easily carry. “I guess that’s all it is, really. Engine, instruments, gas, bombs, and men.” Boyd had to look at the mountains again after that. Pilots prefer to approach plane crashes in the abstract.

The different parts of the plane were discovered, talked about, catalogued and photographed. Before they knew it, it was noon. Lunch was delivered and they were all called over to eat.

Just before leaving the perimeter Boyd stopped and picked up something totally unexpected; they looked like a pair of vice-grip pliers, blackened from the fire and bent. Moses and Major Graham stopped to examine them and the airman quickly began the measurements.

“Vice-grips?” Boyd said to Moses as they washed their hands and opened a can of Pepsi. “I’ve never seen a Vice-grip on an aircraft before.”

“They aren’t vice-grips. They’re dikes. We use them to cut the wire that tightens the bolts on the inside of the combustion chamber. The bolts have a safety wire attached to them that is twisted to be sure the bolt doesn’t come loose and fly about. Sometimes dikes do get left in the aircraft. It doesn’t usually cause a problem.” Moses looked worried.

“Looks like they might have gotten into the engine and then it spit them out the side, rupturing the fuel tanks,” Boyd said, still whispering.

“Maybe.” Moses said slowly as he wrinkled his face, removed his hat and ran his hand over the top of his bald head as if he were smoothing down the hair that no longer was there. The head looked like a mahogany colored bowling ball.

They ate lunch in silence, without pleasure. Bologna sandwiches on white bread with one slice of American cheese and doused with mustard will stop any thought of additional food for a good six hours, and what is a meal for if not that?

By mid-afternoon the sun was high and warm and they were all working in their ABU pants and t-shirts. The firemen had packed up and left, and the security police were occupied with a small band of reporters who had been allowed to approach the site and report back to the army of journalists at the main hanger. Finally there was nothing else to do. Mortuary Affairs began to remove the remains. A final walk around, within, and a large circle outside, the perimeter failed to turn up anything new. They boarded the crew bus and were driven back to the briefing room.

Tired, thirsty, and smelling of fiery death, Boyd hopped out of the crew step-van at base operations and followed Moses Eubanks inside. The accident board walked silently down the hall, the pilots and admin people standing aside, out of respect and revulsion at the smell. Some were already stripping down in anticipation of the showers at the end of the hall.

“Chailland! Got a call,” the Supervisor of Flying stopped Boyd in the hall. “Some guy says he has something for the pilot member of the board and won’t talk to anyone else.”

Boyd took the yellow phone message form from the major serving as SOF for the day and walked a few paces before looking at it. The call was long distance. Boyd stopped, angry, grumpy, and in the mood to argue.

“I need a class A line, this is long distance,” he said, hoping someone would say he couldn’t use the phone and he could crumple the note up and go shower with the rest of the guys.

Amiably, the major pointed to the phone on the SOF desk and left the room. Wearily Boyd sat down and dialed.

“Lamar Implement Company!”

“This is Captain Boyd Chailland, Colorado Air National Guard, here at Buckley. You left a message for me to call back.”

“Oh yes, that was Mr. Switzler, hold just a moment please?”

“Hello, John Switzler. Thanks for calling back. I understand there’s a board investigating that plane crash this morning. It’s all over the news.”

“Yes, I’m Captain Boyd Chailland, the pilot member of the accident board.” Boyd said, crisp and formal. He wouldn’t be at all sad to have this be short.

“Look, Captain, I’m not any happier to be having this talk than you are. I just want to be sure I’m talking to the right guy. I don’t want to create any problems, and maybe I’m mistaken about this. So, if I have some information that’s relevant to this case, can I just report it to you?”

“Sure, we may need to check back with you in person if it’s something important.”

“That’s no problem.” There was a pause, as if John were struggling to find a starting point. “Look, Trusten Polk and I were friends; college roommates; fraternity brothers at Oklahoma. We kept in touch for awhile, then I didn’t hear anything until today. The last time I saw Trus was after the Viet Nam war. He was going to Libya to fly fighters there. I was living in Tulsa then and he came by the house. We had some beers, caught up on the good times. Right after that I heard he’d been in a plane crash.”

“I’m writing this down. I haven’t been over his personnel file yet, so I can’t say if we need anything that far back,” Boyd said, confident now he could bring this to a close.

“I’m not calling about any of that. The fellow on the television last night, the guy that made the speech; the one on the news this morning. That’s not Trusten Polk.”

“What do you mean it’s not Trusten Polk?”

“Not the guy I knew.”

“Maybe you knew a different Polk.”

“On the news it said he went to OU, won a silver star in Viet Nam. I went to the Air Force web site and read his bio. It all fits; but it’s not him.”

“How could it not be him?”

“I was thinking maybe the news got the wrong picture.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it. We’ll have his personnel file in the morning; with the official picture, finger prints, DNA; everything.”

“It’s probably just a mixup of pictures, or something. I’ll just hang back, not talk to anyone.”

“Good idea. Look, I’ll get back as soon as I see the file; probably tomorrow afternoon. Keep it quiet till then.”

“Deal.”

Leaving the base Boyd felt dirty. In spite of a long shower the smells of the crash were still on him. He didn’t want to take that back to the sanctity of his rented farm house and Eight Ball. His spirit was wounded. He needed a beer, and Dozer’s Bar was just the place. Way east of Denver International, Dozer’s had opened when the initial grade work was being done. For more than two years heavy earth moving equipment churned the prairie to get the grade and elevation right for the runways, and Dozer’s was the watering hole for the drivers.

Boyd had been to Dozer’s a couple times since moving in a few miles down the road. The walls were lined with pictures of bulldozers, graders, dump trucks, survey crews, and mountains of dirt as it documented the construction phases of the new airport. Boyd entered and sat at the bar, ordering a long neck and swiveling around to look at the Saturday happy hour crowd.

A man stood in the door, his eyes adjusting to the darker interior. Tall, heavy, dressed in western style pants with a bolo tie and Wellington boots. He spotted Boyd and walked over, taking the adjacent stool.

Retired colonel, Boyd thought to himself. Sees my flight suit and wings from over there; wants to talk about the crash. Can’t tell him anything. Don’t even need to acknowledge I’m on the accident board.

“Captain Chailland?”

“Yes,” Boyd said. How’d he know, was what he thought.

“May I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.” This is just what Boyd had hoped to avoid.

“Let’s sit over here, it’s quieter.” He nodded to the bartender to send over two more and walked toward a table in the corner. Boyd followed, taking a seat and watching passively as the older man sat, leaned his cane against the table and pushed another long neck across the table to Boyd.

Boyd took a long pull of his beer and felt the cold slice down into his middle. He waited for the questions to start.

“Trusten Polk was my best friend,” the man said solemnly.

Boyd looked the man in the eyes for the first time, not hiding the surprise in his own. The man was intense, watching him.

“I have friends at Buckley. They called me after the crash. Too late then, of course, to do anything.”

“Do anything?”

“About what he told me at dinner.” The gaze was direct, piercing.

“Wait, who are you?”

“Barney Freeman, just an old retired colonel. Trus and I go way back.”

“There’s a form for the accident board; I have to document the previous 24 hours. I need to know what he ate, with whom, where, how much he had to drink. That sort of thing,” Boyd said, trying to remember what else he needed to find out.

“Ate with me, at the Brown Palace, steak, one cocktail. That’s not what’s important for you to know. Listen, Trus was in big trouble. It was eating him up. He’s gotten into something in Washington. Something illegal. Something big. Something that may have led to that crash.”

“Wait, I gotta write this down,” Boyd said, looking over at the bar for a legal pad, some paper.

“No. Just listen.” A big hand pinned Boyd’s arm to the table. “He was a member of the Delano Society. Mention that to your board chairman. Ask him to run that by the SecDef. You’ll see some fireworks.” Freeman stood, dropped a twenty on the table and walked out, he didn’t use the cane.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

She was early, but waited in the car until the staff cars with the stars and eagles on the front unloaded in front of the chapel. The wives wore their church dresses and the guys their class A’s. There was to be a burial at Arlington in two days, this was the memorial service for the Air Combat Command staff and those who might have known General Polk here at Langley in Virginia. Some big guys from the Pentagon and other bases had shown up here, to show support and respect.

Nobody knew Trusten Polk. Carmella De Beauvoir was sure of that. She entered the chapel with the bulk of the crowd, those who came in from their workplace in the uniform of the day, lining up to sign the guest registry. The lump in her throat became the first tear as she signed it herself. She’d been to a hundred of these, every active duty death on every base her husband had been posted to in a thirty year career. Bud De Beauvoir had led flights, squadrons, wings, and held staff jobs at every level. She would pull herself away from kids, or golf, or bridge, put on her best dress and meet him at the chapel or rush out to the car when he honked in front of the house. Most of the time she hadn’t known the deceased, some young airman in a car crash, a pilot in a training accident, cancer, heart attacks, a boating accident. This was different.

“Will Colonel De Beauvoir be coming?” a young Airman from the ACC staff asked. He wore Honor Guard shoulder braid.

“No, he’s TDY. I’ll just sit in the back.”

“The other staff colonels are in the second row. Could I escort you up there?”

She looked up to the second row, the place her husband’s job entitled her to sit. Phyllis and Ned, Carol and Raphael, and Maxine without Tommy were all together. They were her neighbors, pretty good friends, and part of Polk’s bridge club.

“OK. Put me on the far end of the row, next to Colonel Franks,” she whispered. Maybe sitting next to Maxine would help her maintain composure. If she lost it, she’d be so far toward the end of the row it might not be noticed.

“Where’s Bud?” Maxine Franks asked.

“He had to go to Randolph for a promotion board. He’ll be back tomorrow. We’re going up to the burial at Arlington,” she said as she slipped in next to Maxine. Carmella dabbed her eyes as tears flowed. Who would take the guest registry when the funeral was over?

Bud had had the Wild Weasel squadron at Spangdahlem, ten years before. The dark, damp German winters took their toll and he’d had to spend a lot of nights shoring up morale at the club and at various gasthouses around the Eifel region of southern Germany. The Weasels were the squadron that went into a target first to take out the anti-aircraft radar. They went TDY to every hot spot and exercise in the hemisphere. Carmella played bridge. Brigadier General Trusten Polk, the wing commander, was her regular partner.

In the chapel at Langley, the music started, and Carmella De Beauvoir remembered Trusten Polk.

“Five, No Trump,” he had bid, with authority, and a twinkle in his eye for Carmella. Their opponents folded and Polk proceeded to work through the cards, skillfully switching suits to trap their face cards and win the hand, and the tournament. Afterward, helping him clean up in the kitchen of the wing commander’s quarters, she’d felt an attraction, brushed against him, flirted, and finally, they’d embraced.

Carmella was not a stranger to being felt up in the kitchen. Fighter pilots back from a long TDY or passing a big Operational Readiness Inspection celebrate, and some celebrations are marathon affairs going from house to house gaining momentum. A butt pinch or a tittie squeeze in the midst of general merriment is not a foul. This, however, was a long wet kiss with Polk’s hands thoroughly exploring her plump butt and ample, matronly bust.

“Oh, God!” he’d said at the break, the blushing anguish on his face and the bulge in the front of his trousers told Carmella two things: Trusten Polk was not queer, as some had suggested because he was a lifelong bachelor, and secondly, he was a needy, lonely man.

Bud De Beauvoir, call sign “Debo”, barged through life at full tilt, the little boy with the big dick, with one eye on the mirror and the other on his buddies; indestructible, fearless, restless. Sex with him was entertainment. He wanted lights and mirrors and always something new.

Trusten Polk, call sign “Trus”, tall, broad shouldered and handsome like Bud, was very different. Carmella knew, even before their session in the kitchen at Spang, it was all an act. He could swagger and joke and talk about flying, gathering the young pilots like children around him to hear his stories and share his insights on the world situation, but he didn’t feel it. He took her naked, full length, slowly in a darkened room, savoring every inch of her with his hands and face. He spent his seed in such a great rush of emotion, it seemed like pain, and she was drawn to him because of it. She wanted to see behind that mask, to know what he felt. Afterwards he was shaken, guilt ridden for committing the unforgivable sin of fucking a subordinate’s wife.

Polk went to the Pentagon after Spang.  Bud got National War College, then the Pentagon on Polk’s staff, later his own wing. Bud was sure he’d get a star, and when he didn’t it took something out of him. One day he was that boy who never grew up, mischievous and wild, the next day he was old, counting the days to retirement and an oblivious life of fishing. He lived two hundred yards from the ocean, and didn’t yet own a fishing pole.

Langley was best for Carmella. Kids grown and at nearby colleges, Bud reaping the benefits of a successful career in a soft staff job with no flying and enough travel to make him feel part of the action, and Polk needy and guilt ridden as ever, giving up more and more pieces of himself. She was fascinated.

“Our Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today to remember one of our own.” The Command Chaplain opened the service. Polk’s own preacher, selected by him for the chance to become the only general officer chaplain in the Air Force, had three pages of notes. He played bridge too.

Trusten Polk was into something illegal, dangerous, and tied up with politics. It was affecting their sex life. He was like all boys — draining off some of that sperm seems to clear their mind, lets them see the world better. Anxiety about his problems was turning their trysts into confessions, complete with tears and entreaties of, “never leave me, I have no one!”

She’d calm him down, promise whatever, get his pants down, and get on him. Afterwards, he’d talk about a friend from Texas. She’d seen the friend a couple times at Polk’s house, a stoop shouldered man with a cane. Things always seemed worse after he’d been around.

Polk would send Bud TDY about twice a month, usually for a day or two, and always with rental cars and full protocol honors, as befitting a senior staff officer of Air Combat Command rolling into town to kick ass and take names. Carmella would plan something for the early evening with friends, then on returning home turn out the lights except for her bedroom, and slip out for a walk. The security detail that watched Polk’s street changed at 2300 hours, and she’d slip into Polk’s back door. Boys are always telling sex stories, re-affirming among themselves that they’re all getting it regularly. Carmella, middle aged and heavier than she would have liked, enjoyed knowing that she was keeping the brains of two of America’s fighting men clear of that dreaded semen build up.

He needed to talk. “If the country only knew,” was one of his favorite phrases. He’d check himself, then resume the endless discussion he always seemed to be wrestling with himself over  — constitutional rights. He’d talk about how the media didn’t understand why law abiding citizens would need to carry guns. Carmella didn’t either, but Polk, apparently, did. Once she saw a film clip of him on the news from out west. He was standing in front of the F-16 he flew when he traveled, making a speech about the constitutional right to own property and control its use. She found it odd that an Air Force general would be speaking on such a thing and mentioned it to him. He paled, and asked her what channel and at what time. Had anyone else seen it?

The FAX machine in Polk’s bedroom would begin to spew out paper at midnight. Carmella had learned that if the night’s sex were not over by then, then it would be, because Polk got mad as soon as the thing kicked on to warm up. Unlike all the other documents Bud brought home and Polk had all over the house, these were not on letterhead, and the FAX cover sheet had no identifying information on it. It was pages of text, instructions, verbatim speeches, even testimony before Congress. From where? From whom? He wouldn’t say.

Continued….

Click on the title below to download the entire book and keep reading

Ed Baldwin’s The Other Pilot>>>>

KND Brand New Thriller of The Week: A Big Adventure Novel in The Clancy Tradition – Ed Baldwin’s The Other Pilot – Now $2.99 on Kindle

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 Ed Baldwin’s The Other Pilot. Please check it out!

The Other Pilot

by Ed Baldwin

4.3 stars – 25 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

General Trusten Polk’s F-16 explodes on takeoff in Denver. Within hours he’s exposed as an impostor, a war hero politician controlled by others.

As Captain Boyd Chailland, the pilot member of the accident board uncovers Polk’s lonely private life he finds another pilot from Polk’s past knows all his secrets and is leaking them to the press.

Congressman Roscoe Kelly is tied to bank fraud and other politicians with ties to Polk duck and weave. The press smells blood and government corruption dominates the news cycle. Is The Other Pilot a patriot or a criminal? Where did all that money come from?

Boyd rushes to find The Other Pilot, as signs point to a criminal mastermind with a lust for revenge.

The spark to set off civil war in America is on a ranch in west Texas. Boyd, his English teacher lover, his flight surgeon pal, a vintage aircraft enthusiast with a restored P-51 Mustang, and a small town sheriff are the nation’s last line of defense.

Reviews

“This story will certainly appeal to aficionados of fighters, flying, and complex political intrigue” – Kirkus Reviews

“An interesting military mystery novel.  Even the cover of the book makes one wonder what’s going on.” – The Voice

The story circles around a war hero whose plane explodes on takeoff at Denver International Airport.” – The Greeley Tribune

Looking For Free And Bargain Kindle Books?

Check out BookGorilla!

Lunch Time Reading! Enjoy This Free Excerpt From KND Thriller of The Week: James Fox’s Dust Pan Girl

On Friday we announced that Dust Pan Girl by James Fox 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:

Dust Pan Girl

by James Fox

5.0 stars – 7 Reviews
Or currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members Via the Kindle Lending Library
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
A YOUNG GIRL IS STABBED IN THE DARK BY HER OWN FATHER. HER MOTHER RACES HER TO THE HOSPITAL ONLY TO FIND OUT SHE IS OKAY. SHE SAVED HERSELF BY CARRYING HER MOST PRIZED POSSESSION. AN OLD METAL DUSTPAN THAT SHE LOVES TO PLAY WITH IN HER COAT. THE STORY BRINGS TO THE SMALL TOWN OF HOOD RIVER OREGON A CON MAN OF UNQUESTIONABLE SKILL, WHO WILL EXPLOIT THE SITUATION FOR MONEY.

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

DUST PAN GIRL FIRST THREE CHAPTERS

Chapter One

Oct 31st 5:00 PM

“The worst way to start a book is to read the first page. It always reeks of desperation.”

I hear Cort talking to me, but I can’t answer him. He stuffed a gag in my mouth when he was tying my arms and legs together. I turn away from him and look out towards my home.

Hood River is a bustling place. I can see Mt. Hood looming over the valley blocked by the tall foothills of the Cascade Range. There are houses standing watch as the Hood River pays tribute to the wide Columbia. That massive river splits Oregon and Washington apart. Bridges like this one try to stitch them together again.

`           That’s where I am now. On a bridge, and it’s a gorgeous Halloween evening in the fall of 2011. This is the day I’m going to die.

“Janet! Are you listening to me?”

Cort pulls on the rope in his hands. One end is tied to his waist. From there it leads to an old metal trunk that belonged to Steven Oakley Crates. Most everyone called him by his intended nickname Socrates. From there the rope is tied to my legs. Cort will jump off the bridge and the trunk will follow him, and I will be pulled off the bridge and sink slowly to the bottom of the river.

As Cort pulls on the rope the trunk scrapes along the metal guardrail where it sits. The screech the metal trunk makes me scream through my gag. I can’t move. I don’t even think I could jump forward over the guardrail. Even if I did the weight of Cort and the trunk would still pull me over the side of the bridge.

I hear loud popping coming from the Oregon side of the river. Then loud booms and smoke rising. The State Police had formed a line to hold back the thousands of people in the crowd. They formed right at the toll booth in two tight lines.

Out of the smoke stumbles a figure toward us. At first glance I think it’s a disorientated cop. The figure lumbers forward a few steps and stops. One figure becomes two as hands pop out of the waist and hoists the torso off and down to her feet.

The little boy nicknamed Smoke Bomb points towards Cort and I, then turns back to the toll gate hurling more smoke bombs at the frazzled police. I know it’s her before she takes the helmet off her head. She walks with the swagger of Superman and the pace of my 8 year old daughter.

I’m ambivalent.  I want her here and I don’t. I want to see her before I die, but I don’t want her to watch me die.

“Look at her, Janet! The worst book we ever opened. We could have been happy together. Still, maybe they’ll write a book about us, and this is how it’ll end. That little girl is going to watch us die. Then she’ll know what she did to us. Don’t worry, Janet!  She can’t hurt you anymore.”

I hear the whumpa whumpa whumpa of a helicopter above.  I can barely recognize a reporter leaning out the side door. He points at us and talks into a microphone. I turn away from him and look back at my daughter. I named her Comet because the night she was born a shooting star flashed across the night sky..

Please God, be good to her.

I see her take off her helmet and her long black hair sails in the wind. She reaches behind her back and pulls out her dust pan that shines brilliantly in the sun.

A voice on a loudspeaker booms from the helicopter.

“Dust Pan Girl is on the bridge! I repeat Dust Pan Girl is on the bridge!”

Out of all the things I have in my brain the only coherent thought I have is a question.

How did it all come to this?

Oct. 28th 6:00 am

I was in my bakery.  How does so much dirt get tracked in here? I didn’t even have ten customers yesterday. I still need to pull my pastries out of the oven. Where’s Comet? “Comet Estevez!  Come down here!” That slow gait of hers isn’t going to help my stress level.

“Yeah, Mommy?”

“Comet, I need you to come sweep this up. C’mon like a big girl.”

Comet rubbs the sleep from her eyes.

“Mommy needs your help.”

“Okay, Mommy.” Comet grabs the broom from my hand.

“Good. I saw an old dust pan on a nail over there.” I head back to the kitchen. I look behind me and see Comet staring up at the dust pan on the wall.

The pastries are hot from the oven. Of course I don’t like a few of them. I put them toward the back of the display case. The heat steams up the display case glass for a couple of seconds. Now everything is ready, I can take a few minutes and run Comet up to her school.

“Comet! Where are you?” That girl! It’s everything I can do not to yell at her all day. “Comet Estevez!” She’s hiding, wonderful. She likes to pull this sort of thing right before school. I feel the warm mask of anger on my face.

The bakery isn’t very big. There’s a customer seating area, that doesn’t get used. There’s a small display case and a cash register that rarely get used. There’s the kitchen, but she wouldn’t hide in there. She could’ve gone upstairs to her room. “Comet! We have to leave.” I hear some movement from over by the bathroom.  I walk in and see her standing in front of the mirror. She had tied a red towel around her neck, and changed her clothes again, putting on some blue tights. She looks at me. “I’m Dust Pan Girl!”

“No, sweetie you’re late.”

It takes some inner magic to get her ready for school again without yelling. I lock up the bakery and head for the car. My sad little hatchback has seen better days. The tires are bald, there’s rust creeping up the wheels, brakes are questionable, and there’s a crack in the windshield. All of this would be no problem if the stubborn thing would stop starting every morning, but it does every time. We head up the hill slowly. I don’t have time to let the car warm up more, so it’s a little cold inside. Comet snuggles down her coat like a shy turtle. The coat is too big for her, but slightly used and cheap it was hard to pass up when I bought it.

Comet stares out her window quietly. We live in a great town. Hood River, Oregon. It’s great because there is almost always something to do. In the summer there’s windsurfing and kite boarding on the Columbia. Hiking and Camping is plentiful here. In the winter we have several ski resorts open on Mount Hood. The town is less than an hour from Portland, and only a few hours from the beach.  It’s the perfect place to have a small business. My bakery sits on the best downtown street. There is almost always plenty of foot traffic, except right now.

Hood River is like a smaller version of Aspen, Colorado with more to do, but there is one major slow period too. When the waters of the Columbia get cold in the fall, and before Mount Hood gets some serious snowfall is when things get slow. I sit in my bakery everyday hoping for enough customers to walk in the door. Each and every day I pray for more. I wouldn’t be in this spot if I could say no to Cort, but I’m scared at what he’d do to us if I didn’t give him money.

Hood River is a town built entirely on hills. My hatchback hacks and coughs climbing Hospital Hill towards Comet’s school. The rhymes in my head tell me I could afford some small car, only if Cort had not taken it so far. PAY ATTENTION! I almost was in a crash. My little car would’ve finally been trash. Today would be bad timing, for too much inner rhyming. “Comet?” I say. “What will you do in school today?” She looks up from under her hood, a nod to let me know she understood.

“Mommy! Did you almost hit someone again?”

I can’t lie to her. “Almost sweetie, but we made it.”

“Mommy, you scare me when you do that.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” My head clears when I talk to her. When she grows up I’ll tell her how much she helped me through it all. “Here we are Comet, I love you.”

“Mommy this is the wrong school.”

“What?” I look around. She’s right. Comet went to this school in kindergarten, but now she goes to one out past the orchards. “Hang on, we’re running a little late.”

I drive into the right school with plenty of time for Comet to make it to class. I on the other hand need to haul some. No more rhyming right now I need to focus. What else do I need to do before I open up this morning? Put money in the cash drawer, start brewing some coffee, turn the sign to open, and hope that I will get enough customers today to pay for next month’s rent. Beyond all of that I hope that today I won’t see Cort. I’m tired of working so hard just for him to take it from us. I don’t even want to think about how much I’ve given him this year alone. Why can’t he get his act together? Grow up and be a man? I could use some help from time to time. Not just another bill that walks and talks and slaps and shakes. Not another day when he just takes, takes, takes.

I pull into my parking spot, and walk down the hill to my bakery. On the way in I turn the sign to open. I turn on the lights and look around. I don’t see any reason why I can’t make money today. I walk behind the counter and fill the cash drawer. Behind me on a table against the wall I hit a button and the coffee starts to brew. Soon I hear the drips.

In my head I have a number. It’s seventeen. That is how many customers I need this morning so I can make rent next month. After that all my bills are paid up and I can use the last few days this month to make money for Comet and I to live off of. During the summer I’d make enough in the first two weeks of the month to take care of all that. In the winter it’s usually two and a half weeks, but still I make plenty of money. It’s just this point in the fall that I have trouble

I would be fine if Cort would leave me alone. Sometimes he disappears for a while. I love those times. He’ll be gone, and I can relax. Deep down I’d like to see him drown. Deep down I wouldn’t even frown. Deep down I might even say yay! Deep down I hope he dies today…

I feel dark when I think about that, but after all that Cort has done to me I can’t help it. I try to forget it as I see a customer walk in. She’s one of my regulars. I smile and fill a tall cup of coffee and load her up with pastries. She thanks me and leaves. Sixteen more customers, and I can make rent next month. I wonder if there was anyone like me on the planet. Seven billion people are out there right now. I wonder if any of them rhyme when they think inside their head.

 

 

Oct 28th 9:00 a.m

The outside of the Bel Air, California mansion gives off the impression of great wealth. The people who live here are not hurting in the recession at all. To them it must seem like a nightmare they don’t bother on having. This is especially true since the occupant of this monstrous place is not human. You might say that anyone living in such decadence can’t be considered human, but in this case it is almost worse. The occupant of this mansion is a cat. The richest cat in southern California is the sole heir to a high end cat food fortune. Her name is Buffy.

Buffy is a brilliantly white cat with green eyes the color of money. Buffy’s biography on the corporate website states that she loves being brushed, playing with cotton balls, and is very spry for being 22 years old. That is what the website says.

Right now there is a wonderful meet and greet of the winners of some lame contest. The lower grass field of the cat food mansion is busy with well-groomed cats, well groomed women, some very bored men, photographers, and caterers. Behind all of this sits a man named Angel. Angel is twenty, good looking and energetic. He is a soccer player in the day, and a poker player by night. Angel has been stuck in L.A.’s junior games of poker for some time, since no one believes him when he says he’s got money in the bank. It eats at him constantly. This hindering of his game is why Angel has killed Buffy six times.  Angel is the next heir of the cat food fortune after the cat dies. Buffy the cat has been poisoned, dropped, kicked, dropkicked, stabbed, and shot. Angel is growing impatient with how many lives the old cat has had. So, feeling impotent he has reached out to some of his poker buddies with a challenge. Five million dollars will be transferred to the man who can actually kill Buffy.

Sitting in a car outside the mansion is a unique individual. His phone rings and he answers it. “Frank, how are you, my boy.”

“Lucky, where in the world are you?”

 “Frank I am in Bel Air at the moment. I am enjoying a gorgeous morning.”

“Lucky we need to talk. Things are getting tight for you. The last royalties for your TV shows are starting to dry up. You’ve eaten through the last stocks you got from wife #2. Wife #3 is fighting your alimony status. Your rental in the hills is over with at the end of next week, and there’s a tow truck waiting outside your other house for the Mercedes.”

Don’t worry about it, Frank, it will all be fine. I want to tell you a story about a few of my new friends. You see I was in a Bel Air mansion last night playing a limit game of Omaha. During this game I find out that the young man I sat across from was named Angel. He’s the heir to some overpriced cat food fortune. He is unable to collect his inheritance until the kitty passes away. Which I’m sure had happened sometime five or six years ago. So he tells his friends that he will pay five million to whoever can get the job done. They all try their best, but in the end they don’t realize the source of a pet’s immortality.”

Frank is silent on the phone for a moment. “A butler?”

 “No a caretaker is what his title is. He controls all of the assets and insures the safety of an oblivious feline. For his part he has done his job extremely well. The cat has lived longer than anyone could’ve guessed. Angel and his friends are not bright enough to shed light on the truth. The cat has died several times, but never in public.” Lucky puts his car into drive and starts down the street. Ahead of him an intentional accident occurs. A man in a truck delivering fish to nowhere bounces off an elderly woman with a wind chime in the back of her car. The collision spreads fish all over the road. The wind chime rings in the back of the car which had its windows rolled down. From out on the grass a set of ears twitch in the wind. A young doppelganger jumps off a pillow and runs full speed toward the sound, which to her ears is suspiciously close to the dinner bell. Out on the road there is a feast before her eyes that she had never seen. Greater than anything ever offered to her, she runs to the first fish and begins to nibble. Lucky speeds up.

“Frank, there have always been opportunities to make more money. Don’t worry about that. What we need to do is be ready for them when they come our way.”

“Being your lawyer is never boring Lucky. By the way Natalie has been calling. I think she found out.”

“What could she find out?”

“She found out enough to realize she isn’t going to be rich by marrying you.”

“Don’t worry about her.”

“You know, Lucky she is pretty young.”

“Prospectors are always young, Frank.”

Do you think she’ll get the picture?”

She’ll get all the pictures. Have the hired guys bring the pictures back in the house. Dr. and Mrs. Steinz will want things back to normal when they come back from Europe next week. Once Natalie sees the pictures she’ll know everything that needs to be known. I suspect she’ll try a few more auditions before heading back to Nebraska.”

“I thought she was from Kansas?”

“She is from Kansas, but I found out her high school squeeze is a young QB in Nebraska. He’s nothing special mind you, but he will go in the third round of the NFL draft this year. She’ll coat tail him into the league for awhile, and probably settle down as a second wife to a decent tailback. Maybe I’ll run into her some day when I buy the 49ers.”

“You still dreaming of that, Lucky?”

“I dream about it all the time, Frank.”

What are we going to do in the meantime? I would like to get paid at some point too.”

“That won’t be a problem for long.” Lucky makes a left up a slight hill, an oblivious cat is right in front of him. “By the way Lucky, I got a call that you owe someone big for a game. Hollywood.”

“Tell Spiderman to back off, I’ll get him some action the next time I’m in town.”

“Wasn’t him. Big Boy is looking for you.”

“That is a different matter.” Lucky tenses up. The knuckles around the steering wheel stretch white. “How much is it by his count?”

“Six million.”

“Well I have a need to disappear for a while. I’ll call you when I land.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What about your expenses? Should I just erase Lucky and start fresh.”

“Prep that. I will need a new set of papers to work from. I’ll call you when I come up with a new name. As far as your expenses don’t worry…” THUMP THUMP “..the cat is in the bag.” Lucky rolls down his window and smiles at an overdressed and soon to be unemployed caretaker. The despair in his face is the funniest thing Lucky has seen in a long time. Dozens of guests, contest winners, photographers all come to witness the horror of it. Among them Lucky sees Angel. He nods approvingly, and they both know that Buffy is dead for sure this time. Angel raises his fingers to his eyes and rubs his middle and index finger together with his thumb. That gesture is the international sign of money.

“Frank are you still there?”

“Lucky! What did you do?” Frank mockingly portrays disapproval. “Angel will call you in an hour or so. It won’t take him long to get access to the money, but it doesn’t matter. He has enough piled up in his other trust fund to pay us. When he does I would like you to do me a small favor and go get something out of hawk.”

“The baseball cards?”

“No, the value of those things drops all the time. I’ll be able to pick up some huge stashes for next to nothing in the coming years. No, I want you to go get my cufflinks.” Frank pauses for a moment. “Oh I know, the black onyx with the diamonds. What did they say 1ct?”

 “One percent.”

 

Chapter Two

Oct 28th 12:15 p.m.

A principal of a small town elementary school doesn’t have a large office. There is a small computer desk with a decent chair. Two filing cabinets crammed into the back corner by a window. Photos and diplomas and charts line the walls. In front of the desk there are two chairs. All three chairs in the room are now occupied.

“Mary, you’re the principal. Do you think we need to call her mother?”

Mary shrugs. “I don’t think this is a major issue guys. Sometimes a dust pan is just a dust pan.”

Tom the underemployed P.E. teacher and Ms. Stevie the overworked 3rd grade teacher look at each other. Tom pipes up. “This could be used as a weapon.” Tom touches the metal dust pan. It’s old and black and heavy. The edge of the scoop is worn down and sharp.

Ms. Stevie looks at Mary. “I don’t think this girl had anything malicious in mind. I think she was just wrapped up in a fantasy. She was running around the school yard like she was a super hero.”

Tom coughs. “This thing could hurt somebody. I say suspend her for a few days so she’ll learn her lesson.”

Mary sits with her hands folded. She reaches over her head and cracks her knuckles loudly. “I think that is an overreaction Tom. She is a 3rd grader. This isn’t a weapon. It’s a dust pan.” Tom blinks like his eyes are burning him. “Anything can be a weapon if it is metal and sharp.” Tom runs his finger along the edge of the dust pan. “You’d be surprised what that thing can cut.” Mary looks at them both. “I know that we need to be careful with items brought on school grounds, but in this case I don’t see it as much of a problem. Ms. Stevie would you please tell young Ms. Estevez not to bring it again, and she can pick it up and the end of the school day here in my office. Tom in the future, when you are on campus, please bring these things to the full time staff.”

“Why?” Tom’s face gets red. Mary leans forward. “Unfortunately you are not around enough to know which kids are the troublemakers. Dragging that little girl in here and yelling at her was not the right thing to do. You scared her pretty bad, and for what? A dust pan?”

Ms. Stevie looks at Mary. “I think I’ll leave.”

“Thank you, is Ms. Estevez still in the waiting room?”

Ms. Stevie nods. “Tell her I’ll talk to her about this myself.” Ms. Stevie leaves.

Mary feels embarrassed, the young teacher didn’t need to see the principal talk down another teacher. That should be the case even if that teacher was here only 6 days a month. “Tom, you and I go back a long way.” Tom crosses his arms and flexes his old chest. “I’m sorry your job keeps getting chain-sawed by the budget, but when you are here I need a calm cool head or I can’t have you here at all.”

Tom stands up. “Mary I hope you have fun finding someone to replace me.” Tom leaves Mary’s office. She thinks that she’ll get a call from the teacher’s union about this soon enough. It won’t come to much, but the state will probably fund Tom’s retirement. So, it might turn out to be a good thing.

Tom storms out of the office area without looking at Comet. Tom comes right back in the office ten seconds later with another kid and walks up to Mrs. Thornbrush the stalwart secretary. “Tell Mary I know this item shouldn’t be on school grounds period.” Tom leaves a firecracker on the counter with the fuse half burnt off. He sits an old fourth grader next to Comet and leaves. Comet looks over the boy, she had seen him before. He had been in the fourth grade group since Comet was in the first grade. Mrs. Thornbrush picks up the firecracker and walks into Mary’s office. The young boy looks around and reaches into his pocket. From a small tube he rubs something that smells funny on his hand. He then reaches into another pocket and pulls out a lighter. He squeezes the flat button on the lighter while squeezing his hand around it. After a few seconds he strikes the lighter and opens his hand. Comet looks as the fire dances in the boys’ eyes. She sees him smile. He sees her and closes his hand extinguishing the flame. “What did you do?” he asks her. “I brought a dust pan to school.”

“Why?” he says. “Because I’m Dust Pan Girl.”

He smiles at that. “What did you do?” she asks him. “I brought a smoke bomb to school.”

“Why?” she says.

“Because I’m Smoke Bomb.”

“Ms. Estevez.” Mrs. Thornbrush looks at Comet with eyes that have seen everything. She is neither amused, bewildered, or the least bit reactive to anything Comet has done. In that way Mrs. Thornbrush is the best judge of what happens at the school. When Comet passes her Mrs. Thornbrush goes back to her desk. Before she sits down she looks over at the young boy, and raises an eyebrow. To anyone who knows her this gesture would be on par with a statue that sneezed.

Inside Mary’s office the principal looks at the young girl. “Don’t be scared Ms. Estevez. I’m not going to call your mom about this. I do want you to know that you shouldn’t bring this dust pan to school.”

Did I break a rule? Mary wonders aloud for a moment. “No, you didn’t break a rule, but I can ask you not bring it to school.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Mary thinks for another moment. She can’t call the dust pan a weapon. It’s too ridiculous. “Your dust pan might distract other students here. So they can’t learn.”

That actually might be true Mary thought. “Other kids bring stuff here. One boy in my class is always bringing stuff. We call him IPOD.”

“Why?” Mary asks.

“His real name is Isaac Paul Odell. So the kids call him IPOD. He’s got cool games he shows us at lunch.”

Mary changes her tactics. “Ms. Estevez. Why do you want to bring a dust pan to school?”

Comet looks up at her. “Because I’m Dust Pan Girl.” Mary doesn’t like the moniker. She convinces herself that this girl might never live down that nickname. “Ms. Estevez do you know that at some point you won’t want to be Dust Pan Girl.”

Comet shrugs. “I just started.”

Oct 28th 2:30 p.m.

Mary walks outside the school building. There is a line of buses on her right and longer line of SUVs on her left. Hood River shut down one of its elementary schools this year. That leaves Mary’s school with another in town, one more in the middle valley and one in the upper valley. Still no matter where kids live their parents all request transfers to Mary’s school. Mary would like to think that’s because she’s a great educator, or she keeps nice facilities, or even that she has a great teaching staff, but she knows different. As the bell rings the kids with the designer clothes take a left toward the SUVs and the kids with the hand-me-downs take a right towards the buses. Mary sees Comet taking a right. She also sees a young Mr. Odell taking a left and follows him. Mrs. Odell drives a very nice car that makes Mary jealous when she sees it. As Isaac jumps in Mary waves and says hi. She wants to say something to Mrs. Odell, but doesn’t. What could she say? Hi, I was wondering if you could not load your son up with rechargeable plastic envy and send him into an elementary school. Could you also not shop for his clothes in the swanky end of the mall? Thank you. All I want is for these kids to be friends. Mary walks back to her office a little sadder. She wonders what chance Dust Pan Girl has in this world.

Comet loves riding the bus home. She draws little shapes on the windows. She laughs with the other kids. Sometimes she rides up front, sometimes in the way back. Today she is somewhere in the middle, and she’s sitting with someone she never sat with before. Smoke Bomb.

“I never saw you ride this bus before.” Smoke Bomb shrugs. “I usually get a ride with my Mom, but she didn’t show up today. So, I’ll go home with you.” Comet laughs.  “You can’t go home with me you have to go home with your family.”

“Why? They don’t like me.” Smoke Bomb smiles at Comet. “Do you like me?”

“Yeah, why not?” The older boy gets red in his face. He’s much larger than Comet, but smaller in some ways. The bus driver is a friend of Janet’s. So he will drop off Comet right at the bakery. Smoke Bomb gets off with her. As they leave Comet runs right into the bakery, but Smoke Bomb pauses and watches the bus drive up the street a ways and stop. There are small flashes, some smoke, and a lot of screaming and laughing. Smoke Bomb smiles and walks into the bakery.

As he walks in, Janet greets him. “Hi little boy are you lost?”

“No Mommy, he’s my friend.”

Smoke Bomb smiles. “Comet, how did he get here?”

“He rode the bus with me, Mommy.” Janet is displeased, but handles it well. “Uh Huh. Well does your Mommy know you are here.” Smoke Bomb shakes his head and looks at all the goodies. “Do you know your phone number at your house?” Smoke Bomb nods. “Can you tell me your phone number?”

“I don’t want to,” he says. “You’ll call my mom and she’ll come get me.”

Janet’s eyes open. “Would you like a cookie?” Smoke Bomb nods. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a cookie if you tell me your phone number.” Smoke Bomb gives it to her. Janet makes the call. “Hi. My name is Janet. I run Janet’s Bakery downtown. I think I have someone who belongs to you.” There is a sigh on the other end of the line. Some muffled swears. “I’ll be right down.”

Smoke Bomb eats his cookie with glee and follows Comet into her playroom. There is a place for shoes and a small indoor castle. There are words on the outside of the castle. “What does that say?” Smoke Bomb asks.

“Fortress of Attitude. My Mom made it for me.”

“I like it.” They play together for a while and Smoke Bomb is incredibly happy. They form a superhero team together. Smoke Bomb and Dust Pan Girl. Smoke Bomb wants to light off some small smoke bombs but he used his last ones on the bus. It doesn’t matter to him much though. They laugh and play for half an hour until Smoke Bomb’s mother shows up.

“I’m so sorry for all the trouble Ms. Estevez.”

“Janet Estevez, and that is my daughter Comet.”

“How do you do.” Smoke Bomb’s mother is a large woman with a nervous temper about her. She’s embarrassed and rightly so. “My little boy is always getting into trouble. William! William come here.”

“That’s not my name!” Smoke Bomb shuffles his feat towards her.

“You’ve had a big day William, why don’t you pick out some more goodies from Ms. Estevez and we’ll take you home. Smoke Bomb lazily points at a few treats in the case. Janet packs them all up while the Smoke Bomb’s Mom pays for them. “Do you know the history of this building? I’m part of the local historical preservation group.” Janet shakes her head. “Well this used to be part of a larger country store, but they sold anything you wanted. Do you live in those apartments up there?”

Janet nods her head. “Do you know why they don’t have windows in the bedrooms?” “No, but I have a good imagination.” Janet didn’t want Comet to learn any of that just

yet. “Thank you for coming in, you and you’re son are always welcome.”

“I am?” Smoke Bomb lifts his head. “Can I come tomorrow?”

Janet looks at the boy’s mom. “It’s up to Ms. Estevez.” Janet is a little shocked that a mom would carelessly let some stranger look after her son. “I can pick him up at about the same time tomorrow.” Janet is put in a tough spot.

“Sure thing. Comet say goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Smoke Bomb.”

“Bye Bye, Dust Pan Girl.”

The rest of the evening things picked up in the bakery. Apparently Smoke Bomb’s mom put on Facebook how wonderful the goodies at the bakery were. Janet actually saw some summertime levels of traffic in her bakery. These weren’t the usual 7-8 dollar customers either, they were spending upwards of 20 dollars. Janet was happy. She had made enough not only to pay rent, but she had enough to go buy Comet some winter clothes. She found her daughter asleep in the Fortress of Attitude. “Comet, Sweetheart wake up.”

“Yeah, Mommy,” she whispers with her eyes closed.

“We need to go to the store and buy you some winter stuff.”

Comet smiles and opens her eyes. “Yeah! Winter Stuff!” Janet lets her put on her coat while she grabs the night deposit for the bank. One of the nice things about working downtown is that everything is in walking distance. Janet locks up the bakery and starts up the street. Hood River is a nice town really. Janet’s bakery is on the low end of a street that climbs up to the library. The bank is only a block away from the bakery. Tonight that’s a block too far.

“Janet. Hi!” Comet frowns from underneath her coat.

“Go away Captain Dirt.”

“Comet, be quiet.” Janet stands tall looking at him. He’d lost weight. He was skinny in his face. His oversized smile glowed in the dark like the Cheshire cat. He wears a dirty jean jacket like a clothes hangar, and some stained cargo pants. “How did we do today?” His grin cuts deep into Janet. She’s scarred and scared of him.

“Slow time of the year, just enough to pay bills y’know?”

“Janet c’mon. I saw big women leaving your store with big boxes not a half hour ago.” “I don’t need it all this time. I just need a little to help me cut down. Things are getting

better for me these days.”

“Go away Capt. Dirt!” Janet pushes Comet to the side, she keeps getting in the middle of them.

Cort Roberts looks down at Comet. “Why don’t you shut up while the big people talk huh? You little worm germ.”

“Leave her alone, Cort.” Janet cocks her head. “I can’t help you out anymore okay. I have to look out for my daughter.”

Dirt laughs. “Look out for her. Listen to me. She’s the reason why we’re so messed up Janet.”

“I’m not messed up. You are. You can’t have any more money Cort.”

Dirt’s smile fades. “Can’t or won’t, Janet? My mom owns that building. You owe me.”

At this point other people on the street stop to watch. “They might own it, but you never will. They cut you off, Cort.”

He smacks her hard in the face. She feels tears in her eyes and pain rush to her cheek. “I’m the only reason you’re not out on the street, Janet. You owe me. Now pay up.”

It takes a lot out of her, but she manages to say, “No”.

Dirt can’t believe it. “You will pay me.” From under his coat he tugs at something. Janet backs up. Dirt grabs her hair. “You don’t say no to me!”

“Get away from me, Cort.” Janet cries hard.

“You don’t like me, Janet. Fine.” His arm moves reaches back into the air with a knife in his hand. Janet freezes solid.

The knife thrusts forward. “Mommy!”

Dirt looks down. He sees a little girl with a knife in her. It scares him, and he runs. He can hear Janet behind him screaming. Great, he thinks. I forgot the cash.

Janet grabs Comet up in her arms. “No. NO. NO!!” There are people around instantly. A car pulls up and they get her and Comet inside. Tires screech all the way up hospital hill. Janet holds her hand down hard against Comets’ chest, and rocks her back and forth. There’s nothing she can do. They pull up to the Emergency Room and the driver helps them inside. “She was stabbed,” is all that Janet can say. The nurses put her on a bed and a young woman doctor carefully unzips the coat.

A photographer always has his camera with him. That is from an old movie, and it’s true. JT had snuck into the Emergency Room to get a picture with a celebrity skateboarder who’d broken his arm while in town. JT was shocked when they brought in the little girl. Something bad was wrong with her. Shot maybe. As they started to unzip her he instinctively held up his camera and took a picture. What he and everyone else saw was a miracle. Down feathers from the jacket floated around like angels. The little girl had a smile on her face. Her chest wasn’t covered in blood. It was covered with an old metal dustpan that had a fresh scratch in the middle. JT took more pictures, and caught a quote too. The little girl sat up and raised her arms to say. “Dust Pan Girl Saves The Day!”

Chapter Three

Janet finally stopped crying when the cops had been there for ten minutes. JT hung around in the background eavesdropping. When the doctors were done checking Comet for injuries, Janet told the cops that she wanted to go home. The cops thought that was a bad idea. Besides they wanted to sit on the bakery to see if Dirt would show up again. One of the cops looked at Janet and asked, “Could you spend the night at a family members’ house? A friends?”

Janet told them that her family was all in Mexico, and single mothers had few friends. “She does have an old high school teacher.”

Socrates walks into the ER room. A balding man in his seventies, pug-nosed and pot bellied. “She can stay with me tonight.”

Janet sobs relief.

Socrates drives back to his assisted living apartment in silence. Janet sits in the back seat holding a sleeping Comet in her arms. Streetlights flash through the window and light up Comets’ face. Janet can’t stop looking at her. She rhymes to herself in her head.

She’s alive. She’s alive. My heart took a dive.

She has life. She has life. It was not cut by a knife.

I need her grins. I need her spins. With her each day begins.

Without her I have no history, or victory.

Without her I….

Continued….

Click on the title below to download the entire book and keep reading

James Fox’s Dust Pan Girl>>>>

A Family That’s so Dysfunctional it’s Murderous… Don’t Miss KND Brand New Thriller of The Week: James Fox’s 5-Star Dust Pan Girl – Just $0.99 on Kindle

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 James Fox’s Dust Pan Girl. Please check it out!

Dust Pan Girl

by James Fox

5.0 stars – 5 Reviews
Or currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members Via the Kindle Lending Library
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

Here’s the set-up:

A YOUNG GIRL IS STABBED IN THE DARK BY HER OWN FATHER. HER MOTHER RACES HER TO THE HOSPITAL ONLY TO FIND OUT SHE IS OKAY. SHE SAVED HERSELF BY CARRYING HER MOST PRIZED POSSESSION. AN OLD METAL DUSTPAN THAT SHE LOVES TO PLAY WITH IN HER COAT. THE STORY BRINGS TO THE SMALL TOWN OF HOOD RIVER OREGON A CON MAN OF UNQUESTIONABLE SKILL, WHO WILL EXPLOIT THE SITUATION FOR MONEY.

5-Star Amazon Reviews

“…This is one of those reads that will stick with you. Long after you’ve finished the book you’ll be anxiously awaiting the sequel (which I believe will come in the near future), and you’ll find yourself wondering about some tragic and exciting elements of the story.”

“…I loved it, in my opinion it’s the definition of what a good suspenseful thriller should be like. I definitely recommend it”

Looking For Free And Bargain Kindle Books?

Check out BookGorilla!

Enjoy This Free Excerpt From KND Thriller of The Week: Dan Maurer’s Snow Day: a Novella *Plus a Chance to Win a Free Kindle Fire

On Friday we announced that Dan Maurer’s Snow Day: a Novella 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:

Snow Day: a Novella

by Dan Maurer

4.6 stars – 50 Reviews

Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Or check out the Audible.com version of Snow Day: a Novella
in its Audible Audio Edition, Unabridged!
Here’s the set-up:
SNOW DAY AWARD CONSIDERATION
Dan Maurer’s Snow Day  is a semi-finalist for The Kindle Book Review’s 2013 Book Awards. Finalists announced September 1. Winners announced October 1.

It happens each winter, and has for over 35 years. Every time the snow starts to fall late in the evening before a school day, the dreams begin again for Billy Stone. They are always the same – there’s a dark tunnel, and there’s blood, lots of blood, and someone is screaming.In this chilling childhood tale, Billy, recounts the events of one unforgettable day in 1975. On that day, he and his friends played carefree in the snow, until an adventure gone awry left him far from home, staring death in the face, and running from a killer bent on keeping a horrible secret.

Set in a time before Amber Alerts, when horror stories were told around camp fires instead of on the nightly news, Snow Day is a blend of nostalgia and nightmare that makes us question if the good old days were really as good as we remember.

From a new voice in dark fiction comes a thriller about an idyllic childhood turned horrifying; a cautionary tale about how losing sight of the difference between feeling safe and being safe can lead to deadly consequences.

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

Prologue

January, 1975

 

Tap…tap, clang… Tap…tap, clang…

“Hello?”

My voice was cautious as I called into the darkness. It wasn’t my house and I had no business being down in that cellar. By the look of the boards on the windows upstairs, and the weeds that strangled the front yard, it hadn’t been anyone’s house for a long time. But still, even at ten, I knew in my bones that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

One of the windows was busted at the corner, and the cold wind whipped and whistled at the breach. Outside, a loose metal trash can rolled and rattled and knocked about with each new gust. It made a soft, distant sound.

Tap…tap, clang… Tap…tap, clang…

The only light was an old Coleman lantern that I found there. It lay at my feet, the mantle fading and sputtering. Beyond the meager glow that lit no more than my boot-tops, it gave me the terrifying certainty that someone was here, or close by, and would soon –

Was that a sound? I held my breath and listened carefully, trying hard to dismiss the pounding pulse that thrummed in my ears. Was that a shuffling sound, maybe feet moving and scraping across loose dirt?

“Hello…? Anyone here…?”

I squinted hard but it was useless. The darkness was unyielding and oddly thick with the smell of freshly turned earth. Someone had been digging down here.

Tap…tap, clang… Tap…tap, clang…

Running into the house to hide from the police was my only option. The place should have been empty, long abandoned. But it wasn’t, and I knew now that I had to get out. I turned to leave, to run; then I heard it, a word from the darkness. It was whispered and pitiful and – it was my name. Someone in the darkness called my name.

“B-Billy?”

“Who’s there?” I called out.

“I…I…didn’t d-do nothing wr-wrong, Billy.”

Both the voice and its stutter were familiar. Just hearing it made my guts twist.

Tap…tap, clang… Tap…tap, clang…

I snatched up the lantern at my feet, recalled my scout training, and worked the pump to pressurize the kerosene. The lantern’s mantle hissed a bit, burned a little brighter, and pushed back the darkness.

“Holy shit…”

The light washed over a young boy. Like me, he was just ten, and I knew his name.

“…Tommy?”

It came out like a question, but it wasn’t. Tommy Schneider lived next door to me and was part of our snowball fight just a few hours before.

When the light touched him, Tommy flinched and turned his shoulder, as if anticipating a blow. He shivered and folded his arms across his chest, hands tucked in his armpits. He paced and shuffled his feet in a small circle, as if his bladder was painfully full, and he whined and muttered; half to himself, half to me.

“It w-wasn’t m-my fault, Billy. I…I just w-wanted to play.” His eyes were swollen and red, and the tears ran streaks through the dirt on his freckled face.

Tap…tap, clang… Tap…tap, clang…

“Tommy, what the hell are you doing down here?”

“I..I…I’m sorry, b-but I d-didn’t do nothing wrong, Billy. I’m s-sorry.” He kept his hands tucked under his armpits, but motioned with his chin. And that’s when I saw it, just a few feet from where I stood.

Naked and half buried in a pile of loose earth lay the dead body of a boy that appeared to be our own age.

“Jesus Christ…what the hell, Tommy.”

“No….” His whining grew and fresh tears were coming.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Nooo…” he whined more and covered his ears. “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

Frantic now, I held out the fading lantern, quickly looking around. We were still alone. The scene before me was unfathomable.

In the half-shadows of the cellar where the lantern struggled to reach, there was a pile of fresh, moist earth and broken shards of concrete. I saw some tools – a sledgehammer and a shovel, and I think a pickax, too. A few brown sacks of cement mix were piled against the wall. And there was a large hole; a gaping wound in the cellar floor that reached beneath the foundation of the house, a hole that led down into a place where the lantern’s light could not touch. Nearby, a stray boot lay in the dirt, just beyond it a gym sock, and another lay close by my feet. A faded, wadded up pair of jeans was perched at the edge of the hole.

Tap…tap, clang… Tap…tap, clang…

I shivered, despite my layers of clothing and new winter coat. Tommy was freezing. He wore only jeans and a t-shirt pulled over a long-sleeved sweatshirt. His breath, like mine, fogged in the January air, and his jaw waggled helplessly from his shivering.

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the body.

At first, Tommy’s eyes followed my finger, but then he just moaned and cried some more, and turned away.

I couldn’t tell if the boy on the ground was from our immediate neighborhood, or my school, or Boy Scout troop, or baseball team. It was difficult to discern much about him at all. He lay on his belly in a pile of dirt, and the loose earth covering his face and parts of his torso were, it seemed, tossed on him carelessly by whoever dug the hole. The backs of his pale white thighs glowed in the lantern’s light. The only stitch of clothing left on him was a pair of white Fruit of the Loom jockeys tangled around one ankle.

I picked up one of the gym socks from the ground, pinched it into a ball and held it with the tips of my fingers. Kneeling beside the dead boy’s head, I held the lantern close with one hand and used the sock to brush the dirt from his face with the other. Like a fossil being unearthed by an archeologist, the truth came slowly. As the seconds passed, the light and each stroke of my hand brought broken, bloodied and indecipherable features into sharp focus. But the crushed and jellied eyeball put me over the edge.

I jerked back from the body.

“Oh, God! Tommy, what – ” My stomach lurched.

I dropped the lantern and fell backward onto the ground. Turning and scrambling away on hands and knees, I found a corner and began to wretch. My back arched and my body convulsed uncontrollably. It was the Coney Island Cyclone all over again, but this time nothing came up, only thin strands of bile dripped from my mouth and down my lips.

In time, the convulsions faded. I finally rolled over and just sat there, looking at Tommy, wiping the spittle from my lips with the back of a shaky hand. My head throbbed and my mind was fuzzy. No words would come.

The wind howled through the broken cellar window again. Outside, the passing cars made a distant shushing sound as they crept along Woodlawn Avenue, tires rolling through the snow and slush. My heaving, stinking breath clouded in the cold air, and Tommy just cried.

Clang, clang… Clang, clang…

I was ten years old and had just seen my very first real dead body – still and soulless, and battered beyond recognition – lying on the floor of a cold, dark cellar of an abandoned house. What the hell did I get myself into?

Clang, clang… Clang, clang…

Staggering to my feet, I picked up the lantern and held it out.

“Tommy… who did this?” My throat was dry and pained.

Just as the words passed my lips, something in my mind and in my ears opened up – popped open, really, like in the cabin of an airliner during descent. That sound…

Clang, clang… Clang, clang…

It was different. It was continuous. It wasn’t the rattling trash can anymore. The sound came from a distance but it was there, and it was distinctive. I knew exactly who was standing impatiently, hip cocked and jaw set, banging on the lip of a dinner bell with her soup ladle.

Clang, clang… Clang, clang…

Tommy looked at me. He heard it too and knew what it meant.

“Your Ma’s calling, Billy.”

“Who, Tommy?”

“I…I…didn’t d-do nothing wr-wrong, Billy,” Tommy whined. “I just w-wanted to play.”

“Tommy…”

“It was ol’ George,” he finally said. “He did it. Stay away from ol’ George.” And then he started to cry again, whimpering. “I just wanted to play,” he mumbled through the tears. ” …just wanted to play…”

Clang, clang… Clang, clang… Clang, clang…

 

1

 

January, 2013

 

It’s snowing.

The wind is picking up and the scattered flakes are swirling. Tonight’s storm is just beginning. It’s not much now, but CNN is forecasting a nor’easter. They say it should reach full strength by midnight, maybe one o’clock.

Sally dreads the snow. She’s not looking forward to an ugly morning commute, or worse, the thought of working from home; not when she’s trying to close a deal and needs face time with her client. But our boys have a different perspective. Stephen, nine, and Peter, eight, are giddy with anticipation. Not even Christmas morning holds this much excitement for them. They’re hoping for the kind of deep snow that rolls over the neighborhood in soft waves and makes everything seem clean and new and ripe for rediscovery. Above all, they look forward to a day free from the routine of school; from classes, tests and handing in homework; a day free from responsibility and accountability. Before they go to bed tonight, they will pray for a snow day.

I used to share their enthusiasm, but not anymore; not since that day when I was ten. Dr. Jeffreys keeps probing for more details, but I’ve been reluctant to share until now.

My iPhone just chimed.

The weather app has sent me a notification. It says: “Winter Warning in Effect…”

I don’t need to read the rest of the text, nor do I have to watch CNN or WNBC for storm coverage. I have my own internal barometer. You see, every time the snow falls late in the evening before a school day, the dreams begin again.

They are always the same – there’s a dark tunnel, and there’s blood, lots of blood, and someone is screaming.

God, I hate snow days.

 

2

 

January, 1975

 

Tommy smiled and giggled as he made snow angels with the little kids.

Bobby thought it was weird; so did I. Most kids thought Tommy was a little weird, and on that day Bobby had no patience for it.

“Tommy, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be helping us make snowballs.”

But Tommy didn’t pay Bobby any mind, or he pretended not to hear. More likely, he was lost in his own head, something I noticed Tommy did from time to time. He just lay on his back in a patch of virgin snow and continued to wave his arms, and open and close his legs, pushing aside the snow to form the impression of an angel. He had company. On either side of him were my little brother Rudy and his best buddy, Freddy Carlson, doing the same thing and giggling as well. We thought it was baby stuff. Rudy and Freddy were only six, so the snow angel thing was understandable. But Tommy was ten, like us, so we thought it was a bit strange. But then, Tommy always seemed to play better with the little kids.

Tommy was a slight boy with red hair and a freckled complexion. His close-cropped hair set off his ears and one of them, his right, seemed oddly shrunken. It made me think about my cousin with the extra toe and I remembered my mother’s admonition about such things: Never stare.

My buddy Bobby always had a bit of a short fuse, and now Tommy was about to light it.

“Hey, Tommy b–”

“Tommy, you shouldn’t do that,” Lucy said, cutting Bobby short. “You’re getting wet. You’re going to get sick. Why don’t you come help us?” Lucy always knew how to defuse Bobby’s frustrations and yet still appear to take his side. She had a way with people.

“Yeah, man,” Bobby said. “You don’t even have a coat on. That’s stupid. Quit with the baby stuff.”

“Hey, Tommy?” Lucy said. “You don’t want me to ask my Mom if we have an extra coat, do you?” She was sincere, if a little reluctant to get too entangled with the kid my brother Frank used to call “the mental case.”

Tommy said nothing, still in his own head, but Bobby snorted. “Yeah, I think pink’s his color,” and then he laughed. “That would suit him just fine. What a dork. Such a Potsie.”

Lucy gave him a shove and Bobby took the hint.

“S-sit on it and rotate, B-bobby,” Tommy said in a girlish voice, and then giggled a girlish giggle.

“Th- th- that’s all, folks,” Bobby mocked, and then tossed a handful of snow at Tommy, who simply brushed it away.

Nobody thought Tommy was really retarded or anything, despite his stutter. He went to the same public school as Jimmy Barnes, and Jimmy said he was in the same grade as me and my friends, even if he was in some of the slower classes. We just thought he was odd. Like, here it was, January, over a foot of snow on the ground, and we were all bundled head to toe in coats, scarves, snow pants, hats, hoods, gloves, earmuffs, and boots. You name it, we wore it. Our bodies were thick with it, but not Tommy. He came out to play in the snow with just his father’s oversized boots, the same threadbare jeans he wore most of the year, a red long-sleeved sweatshirt, and pulled over on top of that, a free Police Athletic League t-shirt he got at the Blackwater Founder’s Day Fair. It was his favorite, I guess. He always wore it, and typically wiped his running nose with the shirt tail or a sleeve. It was white, or used to be, with big black letters that read BLACKWATER P.A.L.

Tommy would come up to me, point to the filthy shirt and say, “Hey, look, Billy. I’m your pal,” and then he would laugh, always alone.

“Come on,” Bobby said. “The big kids are going to be back soon. We need to get ready. The big battle’s coming.”

This was our first major snowfall of the year and it wiped everything else away. Our parents worried about things like OPEC pushing oil prices ever higher; President Ford investigating the CIA; and guilty verdicts in the Watergate scandal. But we were oblivious to all of it.

We woke in the morning to discover deep, rolling mounds of snow covering the little town of Blackwater, New Jersey. The sky was a hazy white-gray, and as it reached down to meet the horizon line, heaven and earth were covered by the same cold blanket, broken only by the occasional barren gable, or smoking chimney, or the rare car that slowly made its way down the road in the distance.

WWDJ Radio, the inspirational station that my mother listened to, confirmed it for us. St. Mary’s Catholic Elementary School was closed and we had a snow day. We were kids; this was Nirvana.

We spent the day in drifts that nearly came to our knees; first building a teetering fortress of ice, then waging mortal combat with hard packed balls of snow until our wool gloves were soaked through and the cold needled into our fingers. There were eight of us plus Tommy when the day started.

The big kids – my brother Frank and his friends – didn’t mind competing in the icy melee with Bobby, Lucy and me. They were fourteen and we were just ten, but Frank figured it was fair enough. They didn’t even mind letting the little kids in on the fun. Rudy and Freddy were only six, but Frank confessed that the little kids always made the best targets when the snowballs began to fly.

Luckily, my friends and I were spared that little kids label, but it stayed with Rudy and Freddy for years. Rudy carries it still. I guess some shit just sticks with you forever.

And then, of course, there was Tommy.

“Why do we always get stuck with the little kids, and him?” Bobby said.

Tommy and the little kids ignored him. They gingerly sat up and stepped out of their snow angels, taking care not to spoil their work.

“Don’t worry about them,” Lucy said. Some strands of her blonde hair had escaped her toboggan cap and framed her face. She was pretty even then. “Just keep making snowballs.”

There was a lull in the action when Frank and his friends ran around to the other side of the block. They hoped to draw us out, to get us to follow them, but we were too smart for that. We knew that if we stayed in my backyard where we had built our snow fort, we’d be safe. As bad as it got for us in these snowball fights, there was always my mother, occasionally peeking out the kitchen window to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. On the other side of the block, out of sight from any parental gaze, the big kids could kick our asses by throwing sharp chunks of ice, or by sticking our faces in the ground and making us eat yellow snow. No thanks, we weren’t going to give up our air cover so easily. Instead, we used the opportunity to stockpile ammunition for the coming battle.

“Hey, maybe we can use the little kids for cannon fodder,” I said. “You know, put them up front like shields and stuff.”

“Quit it,” Lucy said, and tossed some snow at me.

She was one of the few who stood up for the little kids. When we were younger, Lucy would play school with them on her front porch. She pretended to be a teacher, reviewing their ABCs with them and putting them down for a nap during their pretend recess. But that was in the past. She wasn’t their playmate anymore, though she remained their defender when the price wasn’t too high. Tommy was a different story. She didn’t know how to deal with him and he made her a little uncomfortable.

“They aren’t much use to us otherwise,” Bobby said. “Jeez, their throws can’t even reach the fence.” He was talking about the fence that lined our yard along the sidewalk on Persimmons Avenue and typically gave the big kids cover.

Just then, a loose ball of snow splashed against Bobby’s navy parka, catching him by surprise. “What the hell?”

Rudy laughed. “Gotcha, you’re dead,” he said, shining his buck-toothed grin.

“Jerk-wad.” Bobby threw his snowball hard at Rudy’s head, but missed when my little brother ducked.

Lucy stepped between them. “Leave them alone, Bobby.”

“Come on,” I said. “We need to keep making more snowballs.”

“Come here.” Lucy pulled Rudy and Freddy aside. Tommy stood apart, making his own snowballs, pretending not to listen to Lucy and the little kids.

She bent over, hands on knees, to look them in the eye when she spoke to them. Even at ten, Bobby would steal looks at Lucy’s ass and that moment was no exception. I made a note to bust his chops about it later. Bobby and Lucy sittin’ in a tree…

“We need you guys for an important job,” Lucy said. She pulled Freddy’s coat closed and zipped it while she spoke, then used the corner of his scarf to wipe his running nose. “We need your help to make more snowballs before the big kids come back and murder us. Think you guys can do that?”

Lucy wasn’t kidding about getting murdered. Frank and Lucy’s older brother Carl were pretty big, even for fourteen. Together, with their buddy Jimmy Barnes from down the street, they led some nasty attacks against our fortified position between the three-foot wall of snow we built in an L shape – our fort – and the side of my garage.

Bobby and I packed snowballs and kept watch in the direction of Persimmons, while Lucy helped the little kids make more snowballs.

Then I heard it; the snake-like hiss of an irregularly shaped snowball, wet and packed hard, as it cut through the air like a missile. Bobby took one square in the back.

Carl had maneuvered around behind us and was attacking from the yard next door – the yard belonging to Tommy’s parents. We were exposed back there. Lucy, Bobby and I turned our attention to Carl and returned fire.

“Ouch!” A snowball exploded on top of Lucy’s head. It didn’t come from Carl. We looked around; another struck me on the top of my shoulder, a glancing blow. I looked up and saw him. It was crazy Jimmy Barnes. He stood right above us, on the sloped and snowy roof of our garage, firing snowballs from the armful he cradled against his chest. He must have climbed up the tree in the Carlsons’ backyard, which had branches that leaned over our garage. From there he could step onto the roof and attack from above.

They had us from two angles so now our fort offered no cover. Then Frank showed up and things got worse. Jimmy and Carl threw hard but Frank had a cannon for an arm. Everyone knew it and everyone feared it.

My brother Frank was a sports fiend – baseball, basketball, wrestling, you name it, but baseball especially. He had a nasty fastball that he mixed up with a scary lollipop curve. In fact, he was called up out of Little League to play with the older kids in the Babe Ruth League a year earlier than the rules permitted.

Baseball was one of the few things Frank and I had in common, though we never played ball together. While Frank was pitching in the Babe Ruth League and played for the American Legion team, I was still down in Little League, making my way as a weak-hitting catcher on the team sponsored by Charles Alliots Plumbing.

Our coach – Mr. Deluca to the kids, Uncle Nick to his nephew Andrew, our shortstop – was an interesting character. He was the first and only Little League coach I ever knew who wore a business suit to practice. He sported a salt-and-pepper beard trimmed to a Van Dyke and wore three-piece suits, always black, and he carried a cane with a brass handle in the shape of a horse’s head. He also smoked a lot, like a chimney.

Mr. Deluca always came to practices and games with a friend. We never knew his name, but he wore dark glasses and drove Mr. Deluca everywhere, so we just called him The Driver. He was a barrel-chested man, maybe an ex-football player, with a crew cut, who always wore a sport coat, even on the hottest days. It was usually a tacky plaid sport coat that reminded me of Lindsey Nelson, the New York Mets broadcaster renowned for his bad taste in apparel. The driver would chauffer Mr. Deluca to every practice and then stand just behind the backstop, silent and watchful.

Frank said the whole thing – wearing suits and sport coats to baseball practice – was gay. Frank figured that unless you were a cool NFL head coach like Tom Landry or Hank Stram then you had no business wearing a suit on a ball field, especially a baseball diamond. But it never bothered me. If Mr. Deluca didn’t care that my batting average was well below the Mendoza line, then I wasn’t going to care about how he dressed.

At each practice Mr. Deluca had a routine. He hit ground balls to an infielder while still balancing a cigarette between his fingers or dangling it from his lips. The kid scooped up the ball and threw it to first, then it came home to me, where I fed it back to Mr. Deluca and the drill would start all over again with the next fielder. When the ball came in to me from Johnny Bennetti, our hard-throwing first baseman, the ball would zip through the air on a rope and land in my catcher’s mitt with a hisssss-pop sound. I thought Johnny had a gun for an arm until I saw Frank fire the ball. Johnny made the ball hiss like a little snake. Frank? His throws hissed like a monster cobra, and man, did they bite.

Frank’s first snowball hit my left ear with an explosion of pain, sending snow and ice into the up-turned hood of my coat and down my back. The impact put me on the ground hard where I could feel the corner of the tin Sucrets box in my back pocket digging painfully into my rear end.

I jumped up and returned fire, missing Frank by a mile. He laughed. Not only was I a lousy hitter, but this catcher had a glass arm as well.

Snowballs buzzed in the air like angry insects, the laughter was contagious and we were making great memories. At least we were, until Jimmy Barnes fell off the garage roof.

Crazy Jimmy, another kid who was lightly dressed for the January snow, didn’t have snow boots. He had on a pair of old canvas Keds with worn soles and he lost his footing pretty easily on the snowy shingled roof. Jimmy shouted, when his feet slipped out from under him.

“Oh, shit!”

What happened next took place in seconds, but for those of us who watched and recalled it later, the sight played out like an old Super-8 movie running through a bad projector. The action slowed and flickered and stuttered, and still does in our memories.

There was an immediate and incredulous cease-fire when Jimmy shouted. We watched, mouths agape, as he fell on his tail and began sliding down the inclined roof. He rolled over, writhing and clawing at the icy slope. In a last futile attempt to avoid the precipitous fall ahead, Jimmy grabbed the rain gutter. Screws creaked and screeched as they were yanked clean out of the wood frame. Small pieces of shingle, wood and tin flew into the air like confetti. As Jimmy sailed through the air, gutter in hand, Lucy let out a gasp. Finally, crazy Jimmy and the gutter landed in our yard, right in the middle of our snow fort. For the few terrifying seconds that followed, we just stared, wide-eyed and silent, wondering if he would get up.

Lucky for Jimmy, his fall was softened in part by our stockpile of snowballs, now reduced to a scattered heap of snow. He staggered to his feet a little stunned, the tangled scrap of metal that was once our rain gutter still clutched in his hand. He tossed it aside, thought about it for a moment, and started to laugh.

Just then, a soft packed snowball splashed against Jimmy’s chest. Shocked, I turned to see who threw it. It wasn’t Lucy or Bobby, and it certainly wasn’t me. I wouldn’t have had the balls to do it, not after what I’d just seen. No, it was Tommy Schneider. He had an idiotic smile on his face and he was giggling.

Jimmy seemed surprised at first, and a little confused. Then he saw who did it, and his eyes slowly narrowed. “Hey, mental case,” he said, a big grin spreading across his face. “You just opened up a whole can of ass-whoop.”

Tommy reached for another snowball.

I shouted: “Tommy, no, run!”

Then I heard it – the cobra-like hiss of a Frank Stone snowball. It came from behind me, sailed right over my shoulder and nailed Tommy smack in the head. The snowball exploded on impact, splashing into fragments, but leaving a dollop of slush on his temple.

Stunned, Tommy reeled backward, red-faced, eyes clenched tight in pain. His slowed reflexes left him exposed. Without pause, Jimmy, Carl and Frank unleashed a rain of icy projectiles on him.

Smack! Smack, smack, smack!

The rest of us were surprised. It happened so fast we could only watch. And, well, it was funny, so we laughed. We all laughed.

Tommy backpedaled and held up his arms, hoping to deflect the snowballs, but his Blackwater P.A.L. t-shirt and faded jeans were peppered with wet slushy impact points. He lost his footing and became an ice skater about to fall, wind-milling his arms and shuffling his feet. His oversized boots formed erratic trails across his snow angel, scarring the holy impression. He scuffled about and finally fell on his seat in the middle of the ruined angel. And still the snowballs rained down on him, stabbing at him like giant insects with icy barbed stingers. Frank and his friends didn’t let up. They gave no quarter, took no prisoners. That was their way. In his eagerness to be accepted, to be like the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, Tommy had unwittingly crossed an invisible line and brought a wave of pain down on himself. The big kids felt obligated to teach him a lesson and the rest of us just enjoyed the show.

We all laughed and smiled and had a good time at Tommy’s expense until the crying began. When the barrage of snowballs finally stopped, Tommy lay on his back in the snow; silent, red-faced and open-mouthed. He was crying so hard that no sound would come out. Then there was a hitch in his chest as he caught his breath and the wailing began in earnest. His cries were piercing and easily carried across our small neighborhood. It would only be seconds before someone’s mother opened a door or a window to determine the source.

Like roaches escaping from the light, we scattered. Over fences, through hedges, we ran as if the devil himself were biting at our heels. No one wanted to be standing next to a wailing Tommy Schneider, especially when his mother emerged from her kitchen onto her back porch, a vantage point which overlooked my own backyard where the battle had been fought and, where Tommy was concerned, lost.

Rudy and Freddy ran inside our garage to hide. Carl disappeared into the neighboring Carlson backyard, while Frank and Jimmy jumped the fence on the far side of the yard and ran south down Persimmons Avenue. Lucy slipped away cat-like, squeezing through a small space between the garage and the back fence. Too big to follow her, Bobby and I went in another direction, running down the narrow pathway between my house and the neighboring Schneider house. We ran past the line of trash cans and stayed low and close to a row of tall hedges that separated the two properties, so no one who might be looking out the Schneiders’ side windows would see us pass. There were no first floor windows on that side of my house, so I knew my mother wouldn’t spot us.

After we cleared the hedges, Bobby and I cut right and hurried down East Glendale Avenue until we reached the far corner of our block where East Glendale met Route 5, a busy two-lane road frequented by commuters and delivery trucks making their way to Route 46, the George Washington Bridge and the five boroughs. We eased from a hell-bent run to a winded trot, and finally stopped for a breather as we turned the corner and were well concealed by some shrubs.

After a few seconds bent over, hands on thighs and sucking wind, we looked at each other. And then we laughed. We laughed until we were nearly ready to piss our Wranglers.

Just the thought of Delilah Schneider, Tommy’s five-foot six, 250 pound mother, busting out of the back door on to her porch like a raging rhino, was too much. We’d seen it before and we could picture it now like a Hollywood Technicolor movie, as clear as Shelley Winters on screen in The Poseidon Adventure at the Park Lane Theater over in Palisades Park. She would be wearing a faded one-piece house dress, worn and dirty slippers, a Virginia Slim dangling from the corner of her mouth, her breath fogging in the cold air, and Tommy’s baby sister, Claire, would be tucked into the crook of one arm. Delilah would be angry, yell at Tommy, and chase him into the house.

She was always angry, even more now since her husband closed up his barbershop down the street one day and just disappeared, leaving her with a young son, another child on the way, and no means to pay the bills.

“Tommieeeeee!”

The voice came from the Schneiders’ kitchen window. It sounded like a farmer calling pigs. From our hiding place behind some shrubs three houses away, her voice was distant, but still clear, and it made us laugh even harder. Bobby rolled on the snowy ground, holding his belly in pain, his face red from the gales of laughter that shook him. I laughed, too, and accidentally snorted like a pig, which made Bobby laugh even harder.

“Tommieeeeee!”

We knew that voice, of course. It was Delilah, and we laughed even more when she continued to bellow loud enough for her voice to carry across the entire neighborhood and several blocks beyond. But the laughter didn’t last for long.

The Schneiders’ back door swung open with a CRASH!

“Get your God damned ass in this house, now!” Delilah screamed. The baby in her arms started to wail as loud as Tommy.

“How many times have I told you to stay away from those God damned kids?”

That’s when the beating began. Bobby and I peered through some shrubs to get a partial view. The Schneiders’ back porch was three houses away and obscured a bit by hedges and shrubs, but we could still see and hear the blows as she slapped her open hand against his shoulders and the side of his head. Each slap punctuated a word.

How! Many! Times! Have! I! Told! You…

The rusty storm door on the back porch, which she had propped open with her hip, creaked and rattled with each blow.

Tommy wasn’t just crying now, he was screaming: “Noooo! No! I didn’t do nothing wrong. No! Stop! I just wanted to play!’

“Get in here, God damn it!”

Delilah balanced the infant in one hand and pulled on Tommy’s arm with the other. He resisted, leaning back with the entire weight of his slim frame, to his heels, trying to pull away. Finally, the massive woman yanked him back to his feet and when she did she started beating him ferociously. She was determined to teach him the price of defiance.

Then Tommy did something that shocked us. He screamed. He screamed like we’d never hear a kid scream before.

“Fuck you, you fat cow!”

The slap Delilah planted across Tommy’s face in return was so vicious, and its crack so loud and piercing, that, even three houses away, it stung us and we flinched.

“Oh, my God.” Bobby whispered.

The blow sent Tommy stumbling back. He tumbled down the few stairs to the snow at the foot of the porch. Still crying, he crawled a bit and then staggered to his feet.

“Get back here, damn it! Get in this house, now!”

But once Tommy gained his feet, he ran, turned the corner of his house, and was gone. Delilah mumbled something we couldn’t quite make out, and then she finally retreated and slammed the kitchen door.

There was no more laughing.

Bobby and I just stood there for a moment, silent. Fat Delilah was always a mean woman, but she’d become worse – much worse – after her husband disappeared. Yet still, we’d never seen her hit Tommy before. I mean, we knew she probably did. All our parents hit us at one time or another, usually because we had it coming, but never in public. They called it discipline, but it came with rules, unspoken as they were. Rule number one: you didn’t hit your kids in public, but behind closed doors you could beat the living shit out of them with a leather belt or a wooden kitchen spoon if your kids had it coming, if the punishment was well bought and paid for.

But for Delilah, it was different. The parental rule book went in the trash beside her wedding album. Tommy, his father’s son and a constant reminder of Delilah’s shitty circumstances, was going to get it whether he deserved it or not.

Continued….

Click on the title below to download the entire book and keep reading

Dan Maurer’s Snow Day: a Novella>>>>