Category: Partners In Crime Tours

 Posted in Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author MATTHEW QUINN MARTIN

 CMash  November 14, 2013  1 Comment on Guest Author MATTHEW QUINN MARTIN

WELCOME MATTHEW QUINN MARTIN

Matthew Quinn Martin

Matthew Quinn Martin was born in Allentown, Pennsylvania and raised in New Haven, Connecticut. However, it wasn’t until he moved to Manhattan that he realized he was a writer. These days, he lives on a small island off the North Atlantic coast of the United States where it gets quiet in the winter…perhaps too quiet.
Connect with Matthew at these sites:

WEBSITE    TWITTER   

ABOUT THE BOOK
For centuries an ancient evil has slept beneath the streets of New Harbor. This Halloween, it wakes up.
An action-packed debut horror novel from talented new writer Matthew Quinn Martin, NIGHTLIFE pits a feisty bartender and a mysterious loner against bloodthirsty terrors as alluring as they are deadly.
Nightclub bartender and serial heartbreaker Beth Becker might be a cynic. But when her best friend goes missing Halloween night, Beth knows it’s up to her to find out what happened.
Her quest will take her on an odyssey through the crumbling city of New Harbor, Connecticut. Along the way she meets a homeless prophet warning of something he calls the “Night Angel”…a bloodthirsty creature that has been feeding on the forgotten. And she will form an unlikely bond with a hunted stranger who knows all too well what is stalking the streets at night.
He reveals to her to the hideous truth about the nightmare creatures that have haunted mankind’s imagination for eons––creatures the world calls vampires. Together they are the only hope for New Harbor, but to defeat what lurks in the shadows they are going to have to conquer something far stronger than fear––their own desires.
READ AN EXCERPT
Beth was alone. She looked down at the wallet still in her hands. Behind a scratched plastic window was a picture of her and Ryan, both of them smiling at her from happier times.
Had he gone missing the same as Zoë? What was happening? She shook her head. Maybe she’d finally gone around the bend. Could she really have just seen a man get shot, bleed white, and then liquefy into nothingness—and all because of a box of salt?
“Get a grip, Becker.” She reached for the nearest bottle, not even sure what was in it, and poured herself a full glass. “You’re seeing things.” She was about to take a sip when she heard the sound of footsteps from the shadows. She turned to spot a faint outline form in the blackness, almost as if it was born from it. It was a man, and the slightest flicker gleamed from his eyes as he moved into the light. Beth’s glass slipped from her grasp, shattering on the floor as she saw just who it was. “Ryan!” she called out, rushing over. “Oh, my God, Ryan!”
But something about him made her stop just shy of the slick spreading out on the floor where the corpse had been lying only minutes before. She looked at Ryan. Something wasn’t right. His hair was different, longer, the way he wore it back when they’d first started dating. He was dressed in clothing he’d thrown out years ago. The same clothing he’d had on in the photo in her wallet. His gaze landed on her, and in that moment, Beth had never wanted him more. Those eyes—so inviting, so mesmerizing, so . . . hungry. He shifted closer. He had yet to speak a single word.
“Ryan,” she said. “I was so worried.” But even as she spoke the words—even as she felt that if she’d just let him take her in his arms, all her troubles would disappear—she knew something was terribly wrong. She started to inch backward. “Ryan, why don’t you say something? You’re scaring me.”
He sniffed the air, almost gulping at it. Then he cocked his head at an angle that didn’t seem natural—or even human. Suddenly, he leaped for her, covering the three yards between them in a single bound.
She dodged. He missed her by inches. But he now stood between her and the door, cutting off any possible escape. He moved closer, hands grasping for her. Beth ducked around a table and shoved forward with all her strength, crushing him against the wall. Ryan screamed. It was that same high-pitched wail she had heard coming from the man who’d been shot. The one Jack said was “hardly a man.”
Ryan pawed at the table, sending it flying end over end as if it was made of papier-mâché. Planks splintered against the brick wall. Beth swept up a board. She hit him hard, right across the face. The board cracked in half, and her hand sang with a dull thwack. It did nothing. He simply shook it off and stepped forward, closing the gap between them as he pegged her against the bar. His hands clamped down on her. His grip was like quick-drying cement. She couldn’t move.
Beth’s knees began to give out as a heady brew of terror and desire overtook her. She felt the hard press of his hand pushing back her head, exposing her throat. She felt herself giving in. She wanted to go where Ryan had gone, to see what he’d seen, to become whatever it was he’d become.
BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Horror/Thriller
Published by: PocketStar / Simon & Schuster
Publication Date: Oct 21, 2013
Number of Pages: 332
ISBN: 1476746893
ISBN13: 9781476746890
NOTE: Excessive strong language, Graphic violence

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Harper Collins/William Morrow, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author JAMES BARNEY

 CMash  October 29, 2013  1 Comment on Guest Author JAMES BARNEY

WELCOME JAMES BARNEY


JAMES BARNEY

James Barney is the critically acclaimed author of The Genesis Key. He is an attorney who lives outside Washington, D.C., with his wife and two children.
Connect with James at these sites:

WEBSITE       

Q&A with James Barney

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
— I definitely draw from personal experience.  For instance, some of the action in the opening chapter of The Joshua Stone was inspired by my experiences as an engineering officer aboard a fast-attack nuclear submarine.  The scenes in Russia were inspired by my visit to Moscow a few years ago.  And the descriptions of particular buildings and locations in Washington, DC were all based on my personal observations.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the storyline brings you?
— More of the latter.  I have a rough idea where the story will go, and I generally know how it will end.  But I let each chapter develop on its own and allow the story to change as necessary to keep it interesting and exciting.

Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
— For me, it’s catch-as-catch-can.  I write when I can find the time and have the inspiration.  My favorite time to write is early in the morning when the house is quiet and my mind is clear.

Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
— I’m a lawyer by day.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
— Michael Crichton, Stephen King, Douglas Preston, Lee Child, Steve Berry, James Rollins, John Grisham, Scott Turow, and others.

What are you reading now?
— “Our Kind of Traitor” by John Le Carre’

Are you working on your next novel?  Can you tell us a little about it?
— Yes.  All I can say is it will be another exciting adventure for Mike Califano and Ana Thorne.

Your novel will be a movie.  Who would you cast?
— Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
— Depends on my mood.

ABOUT THE BOOK
Some secrets belong to the past. Others refuse to stay there…
In 1959, in an underground laboratory in a remote region of West Virginia, a secret government experiment went terribly awry. Half a dozen scientists mysteriously disappeared, and all subsequent efforts to rescue them failed. In desperation, President Eisenhower ordered the lab sealed shut and all records of its existence destroyed. Now, fifty-four years later, something from the lab has emerged.
When mysterious events begin occurring along the New River Valley in West Virginia, government agents Mike Califano and Ana Thorne are sent to investigate. What they discover will shake the foundations of science and religion and put both agents in the crosshairs of a deadly, worldwide conspiracy. A powerful and mysterious force has been unleashed, and it’s about to fall into the wrong hands. To prevent a global catastrophe, Califano and Thorne must work together to solve a biblical mystery that has confounded scholars for centuries. And they must do so quickly, before time runs out . . . forever.
READ AN EXCERPT
PROLOGUE
Thurmond, West Virginia
October 5, 1959
IT was time. Dr. Franz Holzberg stood at the security desk of the Thurmond National Laboratory and waited patiently for the guard to buzz him through the heavy steel door that provided access to the lab. Funny, he thought as he waited. They don’t even know what they’re guarding. He shook his head and considered that thought for a moment.
If they only knew . . .
A second later, the door opened with a loud buzz, and Holzberg stepped into a steel enclosure about five feet square and seven feet tall. He turned to face the guard and pulled a chain-link safety gate across the opening.
“Ready?” asked the guard.
Holzberg nodded, and the compartment in which he stood suddenly lurched downward and began its long descent toward the laboratory spaces, nine hundred feet below the ground.
Two minutes later, the elevator shuddered to a halt, and Dr. Holzberg exited into a wide, empty passageway, about twenty feet across and two hundred feet long. The cracked, concrete floor was sparsely illuminated by overhead industrial lighting. A pair of rusty trolley rails ran down the middle of the corridor—a remnant of the mining operations that had once taken place there decades earlier.
Holzberg took a deep breath and savored the pungent smell of sulfur and stagnant water. After three long years of working on this project, he actually felt more at home underground than in the charmless cinder-block rambler that the government had provided for him “up top,” in Thurmond.
He started off toward the laboratory at the end of the corridor, his footsteps echoing loudly throughout the vast space. As he walked, the protocol for Experiment TNL-213 streamed through his mind for the thousandth time. Today is the day, he reminded himself, allowing just the faintest of smiles. Today, God would heed his command. Just as God heeded Joshua’s command at Gibeon.
Holzberg passed through the laboratory’s heavy security door and entered a long, rectangular room resembling a tunnel, with unpainted cement walls, ceiling, and floor.
The middle of the room was dominated by a large pool of water, twenty by thirty feet across and thirty feet deep, with a steel catwalk extending across it. A sturdy steel railing circumscribed the edge of the pool. Overhead, four long rows of incandescent bulbs illuminated the entire room with bright, white light. High up on the walls, thick, multicolored bundles of wires and cables snaked like garlands across sturdy brackets, with smaller bundles dropping down at uneven intervals to various lab equipment and workstations around the room.
Holzberg spotted four technicians in white lab coats busily preparing the lab for the upcoming experiment. He acknowledged them with a nod and then quickly made his way to an elevated control room overlooking the pool. He entered without knocking and greeted the room’s sole occupant, a bespectacled man in a white lab coat. “Good morning, Irwin,” said Holzberg in a thick German accent. “How are the modifications coming along?”
Dr. Irwin Michelson swiveled on his stool. He was a wiry man in his midthirties, with disheveled black hair and a two-day- old beard. He pushed his glasses up on his nose.
“They’re done,” he said.
“Done? You’ve tested it?”
“We changed out the power supply, like you suggested, and increased the cooling flow to two hundred gallons per minute. We tested it last night and were able to generate a ninety tesla pulse for twenty-five seconds with no overheating. We probably could go higher if we needed to.”
“Good. And the sensors and transducers?”
“All set.”
Holzberg nodded appreciatively to his tireless assistant.
“Sehr gut. Then let’s proceed.”
It took nearly three hours for Holzberg, Michelson, and their team of four technicians to complete the exhaustive checklist for TNL-213.
This experiment had taken three years to plan and had required millions of dollars in upgrades and modifications to the lab.
Nothing would be left to chance today.
By early afternoon they’d finished their thorough inspection of the equipment. They’d checked, double-checked, and triple-checked each of the hundreds of valves, levers, and switches associated with the lab’s “swimming pool” test rig. Everything was positioned according to a detailed test protocol that Dr. Holzberg carried in a thick binder prominently marked top secret—winter solstice.
Michelson knelt on the steel catwalk that bridged the 160,000-gallon pool of water and carefully inspected a rectangular steel chamber that was suspended above the water by four thick cables. Numerous electrical sensors were welded to the exterior of this chamber, and a rainbow of waterproof wires radiated out from it, coiling upward toward a thick, retractable wiring harness above the catwalk.
“Transducers are secure,” Michelson said over his shoulder.
“Good,” said Holzberg from the railing. He made a checkmark in his notebook and read the next step of the protocol aloud. “Mount the seed.”
Michelson stood and turned slowly to face his mentor.
“So it’s time?”
Holzberg nodded.
Michelson dragged a hand over his unshaven face and cracked a smile. “God, this . . . this is incredible.” He was barely able to contain his excitement. “This’ll give us a whole new understanding of the universe.”
“Perhaps,” said Holzberg.
“Right, perhaps. And perhaps the Nobel Prize, too.”
“No,” said Holzberg firmly, his expression suddenly turning dark.
“But . . . if this works, we could publish our findings. By then the government—”
“Irwin, no. We’ve had this discussion before.”
Michelson sighed and looked deflated. “Right, I know. Not until the world is ready.”
Holzberg inched closer to his protégé. “Irwin, this is a responsibility you must accept. Einstein himself was confounded by this material.”
“Einstein was overrated,” Michelson mumbled.
“Perhaps. But that does not change the fact that we have been entrusted with something very special here. We must study and solve it. Until we do, it is simply too dangerous to expose to the world. That is our burden. Do you understand?”
Michelson nodded sheepishly. Holzberg patted his younger colleague’s shoulder.
“Good. Now, let’s get the seed.”
The two men made their way to the far end of the room, where a circular vault was mounted flush with the cement wall. The vault door was protected by a bank-grade, dual-combination lock with twin tumblers. “Ready?” Holzberg asked.
Michelson nodded.
One after the other, the two men turned the pair of dials on the vault door four times each, alternating clockwise and counterclockwise. When the last of the eight numbers had been entered, Michelson pulled down hard on the heavy handle in the center of the door, and the vault opened with a metallic ka-chunk. He swung the door open slowly, and, as he did, the vault’s lights flickered, illuminating the interior with an ethereal blue light.
There was only one object in the vault: a clear glass cylinder about eight inches high and four inches in diameter housing an irregular black clump about the size of a golf ball. “The seed,” Holzberg whispered as he reached inside and retrieved the cylinder, cradling it carefully in both hands. He held it up to the light and peered inside. “Your secrets unfold today.”
Thirty minutes later, with the seed securely mounted in its special test chamber, and the chamber lowered deep into the pool, the two scientists returned to the control room for their final preparations.
“Transducer twenty-one?” said Holzberg, reading aloud from the test protocol.
Michelson pressed a button on the complex control panel and verified that transducer 21 was providing an appropriate signal. “Check.”
“Transducer twenty-two?”
Michelson repeated the procedure for transducer 22.
“Check.”
“That’s it then,” said Holzberg, turning to a new page in his notebook. “We’re ready.”
He checked his watch, which indicated 4:15 p.m. Then he picked up a microphone that was attached to the control panel by a long wire. “Gentlemen,” he announced over the lab’s PA system. “We are ready to commence experiment 213. Please take your positions.”
In the lab space below, the four technicians quickly took up positions at their various workstations. One after another, they gave the thumbs-up signal that they were ready.
“Energize the steady-field magnet,” announced Holzberg.
A loud, steady hum suddenly filled the lab, followed by the sound of rotating equipment slowly whirring to life.
Several seconds later, Michelson quietly reported over his shoulder that the steady-field magnet was energized and warming up.
“Remember,” Holzberg said, “bring it up slowly.”
Michelson nodded. “We’re at thirteen teslas and rising,” he said, his attention focused on a circular dial on the control panel.
“And the cooling water outlet temperature?”
Michelson glanced at another gauge. “Sixty-two degrees.”
Eight minutes later, Michelson announced they were at 25 teslas, the peak field for the steady-field magnet.
“Outlet temperature’s creeping up slightly,” he added with a hint of caution.
“What about delta T?”
Michelson pushed a button and read from a gauge on his panel. “Nothing yet. Zero point zero.”
Holzberg pressed the microphone button and announced to the lab, “Prepare to energize the pulse magnet.”
There was a flurry of activity in the lab space below as the technicians quickly went about opening valves, flipping switches, and starting various pumps and other equipment. Eventually, all four gave the thumbs-up signal.
“Ready,” reported Michelson.
Holzberg swallowed hard. This was it. He paused for a moment before giving the final command. “Energize it now.”
Michelson pulled down on an electrical breaker until it clicked loudly into place. A deep buzzing sound immediately permeated the entire laboratory. The overhead lights dimmed momentarily and then slowly returned to their original intensity. “Energized,” he reported nervously.
“Bring it up slowly.”
“Total field is twenty-seven point three teslas.” Michelson was slowly turning a large knob in the center of the control panel.
“Outlet temperature?”
“Seventy-eight degrees.”
“Keep going.”
Michelson continued turning the knob slowly until the magnetic-field strength had reached 70 teslas. There he paused and quickly checked his instruments.
“Outlet temperature is one hundred twenty-two degrees and rising,” he said nervously. “We don’t have much more room.”
“Any delta T?”
Michelson checked again and shook his head. “No. Still zero point zero.”
“Keep going,” said Holzberg.
Michelson nodded and again twisted the dial clockwise. He read out the magnetic-field strengths as he went.
“Seventy-six point four. Seventy-eight point zero. Eighty point two . . .”
“Temperatures, Irwin.”
Michelson quickly turned his attention to the outlet temperature gauge. “One hundred forty-five degrees and rising.”
“Keep going,” Holzberg said.
“Eighty-one teslas,” said Michelson nervously. “Eighty-two. Eighty-three.”
His voice cracked slightly. “Uh . . . we’re getting close to the outlet limit.”
“Any delta T yet?”
Michelson quickly checked. “No. Zero point zero.”
“We need a higher field.” Holzberg touched Michelson’s shoulder and nodded emphatically for him to continue.
Michelson’s voice grew increasingly nervous as he continued reporting the rising magnetic-flux levels. “Eighty-seven point three. Eighty-eight point four. Eighty-nine point six . . . ninety point one.”
Suddenly, there was a loud beep, and an amber light began flashing on the control panel.
“Outlet temperature alarm,” Michelson reported. “One hundred seventy-five degrees and still rising. Should I bring it back down?”
“No,” said Holzberg firmly. “We need a higher field.”
Michelson started to protest, but Holzberg cut him off.
“Irwin, the flux levels!”
Michelson snapped his attention back to the control panel. “Ninety-three point one . . . ninety-four point four . . .shit.”
Another shrill alarm sounded on the panel.
“Core temperature alarm!” Michelson shouted above the noise. “We’ve got to shut it down!” He began turning the knob counterclockwise.
“No!” Holzberg barked, grabbing his arm. “Check the delta T.”
Michelson wiped his brow and checked. “Delta T is . . . zero point one seconds.”
“My God,” Holzberg whispered. “It’s working!”
“Zero point two seconds,” Michelson reported, still holding down the button. “Zero point three . . . zero point four.”
“Bring it up just a bit more,” said Holzberg over the constant noise of the two alarms.
“But—”
“Do it!” Holzberg snapped.
Michelson swallowed hard and slowly tweaked the knob clockwise to increase the power to the pulse magnet.
“We’re gonna lift a relief valve.”
“What’s the reading?”
Michelson pushed the delta T button. “Whoa . . .”
“What is it?”
“Ten point five seconds. That’s incredible.” He continued holding the button down. “Fourteen seconds . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . fifty . . .”
“We’ve done it!” Holzberg exclaimed, patting Michelson on the back. “Okay, you can bring it back down now.”
Michelson quickly began twisting the knob counterclockwise. After several seconds, however, he suddenly looked confused.
“What is it?”
“Outlet temperature’s . . . still going up.” Michelson quickly pushed the button for delta T again. “Holy shit.”
Holzberg leaned in close and observed that the dial for delta T was now spinning rapidly clockwise. An odometer-style counter below the dial indicated that the accumulated value was now at 500 seconds . . . 600 seconds . . . 700 seconds.. . . The dial was spinning faster and faster.
“Shut it down!” Holzberg bellowed.
“I am. Look!” Michelson showed that he had already twisted the knob for the pulse magnet all the way to the left.
“Cut the power!”
At that moment, a thunderous scream erupted in the lab space below, and thick plumes of steam instantly billowed up from the pool. The technicians could be heard screaming emphatically to each other.
“Relief valves are lifting!” Michelson yelled over the cacophony.
Holzberg was just about to say something when suddenly there was a blinding flash of white light below. Instinctively, he shielded his eyes.
“My God,” Michelson shouted. “Look at that!”
Holzberg uncovered his eyes and gazed in awe at the spectacle now occurring in the lab below him. A brilliant aura of light was hovering directly above the reactor pool, swirling in undulating patterns of blue, green, red, and yellow. The aura lasted for several seconds before giving way to a violent, blinding column of light that shot suddenly out of the pool, straight to the ceiling.
Holzberg again shielded his eyes.
A split second later, there was a loud whoosh and the entire lab filled with blinding white light. The control room windows shattered instantly, and Dr. Holzberg hit the floor.
The blinding light and whooshing sound subsided after several seconds, leaving in their place a terrifying jumble of alarm sirens and horns and the panicked shouts of the technicians below. Holzberg groped on hands and knees through the broken glass until he found the prone body of Dr. Michelson, who was either unconscious or dead.
“Irwin!” said Dr. Holzberg.
There was no response.
With effort, Holzberg pulled himself to his feet and gazed in utter disbelief at the chaos unfolding below him.
“Mein Gott,” he whispered. “What have we done?”
A second later, a man in a black leather coat suddenly appeared in the lab space below, seemingly from nowhere. Who is that? Holzberg wondered, utterly confused. And why does he look familiar?
BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Thriller/Suspense
Published by: William Morrow Paperbacks
Publication Date: 10/8/2013
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 978006202139

PURCHASE LINKS:

           

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Harper Collins/William Morrow, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author STEPHEN BOOTH

 CMash  October 23, 2013  2 Comments on Guest Author STEPHEN BOOTH

WELCOME STEPHEN BOOTH

STEPHEN BOOTH

Stephen Booth is an award winning British crime writer, the creator of two young Derbyshire police detectives, DC Ben Cooper and DS Diane Fry, who have appeared in twelve novels set in England’s beautiful and atmospheric Peak District.

Stephen has been a Gold Dagger finalist, an Anthony Award nominee, twice winner of a Barry Award for Best British Crime Novel, and twice shortlisted for the Theakston’s Crime Novel of the Year. Ben Cooper was a finalist for the Sherlock Award for the best detective created by a British author, and in 2003 the Crime Writers’ Association presented Stephen with the Dagger in the Library Award for “the author whose books have given readers the most pleasure”.

The Cooper & Fry series is published all around the world, and has been translated into 15 languages. The latest title is DEAD AND BURIED, with a new book, ALREADY DEAD, published in June 2013.
Connect with Stephen Booth at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

Q&A with Stephen Booth

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
I think all writers make use of their personal experiences, though they may not be recognisable by the time they appear in a fictional story. In fact, it’s quite therapeutic to take something that’s happened to you and write about! I try to make my Cooper & Fry novels as contemporary as possible, so my characters’ lives will be affected by things happening in the real world at the time. Actually, since I’m working on a novel up to 12 months before it’s published, I’m trying to predict the future a bit.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the storyline brings you?
When I set out to write a new book, I have no idea what’s going to happen, or how it will end. I write in a very ‘organic’ way, starting with vague ideas about a few characters and a place they belong to. I write around them until I start to know who they are. Then I put them into a situation where they’re under pressure (this will normally involve a murder or a dead body, of course!), and I watch what they do. So the story arises out of the characters, and it’s always a discovery process for me as I write it. Luckily, I’m writing about police detectives, so I rely on them to do their part of the job and ask all the questions!

Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
I’m one of those writers who doesn’t really have a routine. I know the way to kick-start the creative process at any time of the day is to sit down and start writing. But I do most of my writing in the evening, sometimes into the early hours of the morning. It’s quieter then, with fewer distractions. One of the drawbacks to working from home is that everyone knows you’re there and available! So it’s hard to create the sort of structured working day you have in most jobs. When I’m writing, I tend to listen either to music, or to drama and talk programmes on the radio. Something I’ve just heard in the background can often pop an idea into my head (BBC Radio 4 is wonderful for this).

Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
Yes, I’ve been a full-time writer for the past 12 years. Before that, I was a newspaper journalist. I started my first reporter’s job at the age of 21, after I graduated – so I suppose writing (or at least editing) has always been my job.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
I grew up on Agatha Christie and the great, classic British crime novelists (who all seemed to be female). Of that older generation, the writer who can still produce something new and interesting after all this time is Ruth Rendell. Some of her books, like ‘A Judgement in Stone’, are extraordinary achievements. But I have many other favourites, including Reginald Hill, Peter Robinson and Michael Connelly.

What are you reading now?
I’ve been asked by the British Library to write introductions for two novels being re-issued in their Classic Crime series. They’re by a long-forgotten British mystery writer from the Golden Age called M. Doriel Hay, and they’re classics of their period.

Are you working on your next novel?  Can you tell us a little about it?
Yes, I’m currently writing book #14 in the Cooper and Fry series, which is called ‘The Corpse Bridge’. I hope the title suggests there might be a dead body or two! The story uses an aspect of the Peak District’s history and folklore to create a modern-day mystery. The old ‘corpse ways’ were routes taken by mourners carrying a coffin for burial, sometimes for miles over difficult terrain. When the local land-owning aristocrat decides to re-develop the villagers’ burial ground for his own commercial gain, new corpses start to appear…

Your novel will be a movie.  Who would you cast?
I’m asked this question a lot, since the Cooper and Fry novels are currently in development for a TV series in the UK. And readers definitely have their own opinions! But as an author I think it’s very risky to start getting pictures of an actor in my head. There are no actors exactly like my mental image of Ben Cooper or Diane Fry, and the danger is that you can lose your original character if you focus too much on an actor. If and when it comes to casting, it will be someone else’s interpretation of the character, and I’m quite relaxed about that.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
No contest here! I must be one of the few people left in the world who doesn’t own a TV (and I never have). For me, there’s a huge difference. When you’re watching TV, the story is going on over there in the corner of the room. But when you’re reading a book, the story is taking place inside your head. And the pictures are better too! I do watch movies, but I tend to go for something spectacular and undemanding, where I’m not expected get involved with the characters too much. Cinema does that very well.

Favorite food?
Cantonese Dim Sum

Favorite beverage?
I’m a rare teetotal Brit, so an Apple and Mango juice will suit me, thanks!

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

The helicopters are halted. The search for fifteen-year-old Laura Vernon ends when her body is found, murdered, in the forest.

On his hunt for the killer, detective Ben Cooper begins to suspect the people of Derbyshire are guarding some dark secrets-secrets that Laura might have known. Further complicating his investigation, Cooper is paired with an unfamiliar partner: Diane Fry, a woman as tenacious as she is alluring. Together they learn that in order to understand the town’s present, they must unearth its past.

Black Dog is like Twin Peaks by way of Tana French, and the first novel in the multiple award-winning Cooper and Fry series.

READ AN EXCERPT

The spot where Ben Cooper stood was remote and isolated. A passing walker wouldn’t have been able to see him up here among the bracken, even if he’d bothered to look up.

Cooper turned round, wafting his hand across his face against the flies. He was looking through the trees and thick brambles as if towards the end of a dark tunnel, where the figure of Harry Dickinson was framed in a network of branches. Cooper had to squint against a patch of dazzling light that soaked the hillside in strong colours. The old man stood in the glare of the low sun, with hot rocks shimmering around him like a furnace. The haze of heat made his outline blur and writhe, as if he were dancing a slow shimmy. His shadow, flung across the rocks, seemed to wriggle and jerk as its shape fragmented among the bracken and brambles.

 The expression in Harry’s eyes was unreadable, his face lying partly in the shade from the peak of his cap. Cooper couldn’t even tell which way he was looking, whether he’d turned away or was staring directly towards him in the trees. He wanted to grab the old man by the shoulders and shake him. He wanted to tell him that somebody had disturbed this spot, and recently. The evidence was right there for anyone to see, and to smell.

 There had been two people here, and at least one of them had been looking for more than just rabbits. The smell that lingered under the trees was of stale blood. And the flies had found something even more attractive than Cooper’s sweat to feed on.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Fiction/Crime
Published by: Witness / HarperCollins
Publication Date: 10/8/2013
ISBN: 9780062301963
Series: 1st in the Ben Cooper & Diane Fry Series

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author LESLEY DIEHL

 CMash  October 23, 2013  2 Comments on Guest Author LESLEY DIEHL

WELCOME LESLEY DIEHL

LESLEY DIEHL

Lesley retired from her life as a professor of psychology and reclaimed her country roots by moving to a small cottage in the Butternut River Valley in upstate New York. In the winter she migrates to old Florida–cowboys, scrub palmetto, and open fields of grazing cattle, a place where spurs still jingle in the post office. Back north, she devotes her afternoons to writing and, when the sun sets, relaxing on the bank of her trout stream, sipping tea or a local microbrew.
Connect with Lesley at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

ABOUT THE BOOK

Spunky and outspoken Eve Appel moves from Connecticut to rural Florida intent on starting a new life, free of drama, and more importantly, her soon-to-be ex-husband. The rural Florida town of Sabal Bay, situated only an hour from West Palm, proves to be the perfect spot for her consignment store. Thanks to the recent economic downturn, Florida’s society matrons need a place to discreetly sell their stuff and pick up expensive-looking bargains. But Eve’s life, and her business with it, is turned upside down when a wealthy customer is found stabbed to death in a fitting room. As accusations fly and business slows, Eve decides to take things into her own hands. With the help of an unlikely bunch of friends—including her estranged ex, her best friend, a handsome private eye, and a charming mafia don—she struggles to find answers and save lives. Through a maze of distorted half-truths, dramatic cover-ups, and unrequited passions, Eve learns just how far the wealthy will go to regain what they have lost. A Secondhand Murder is Book 1 of the Eve Appel Mysteries Series.

READ AN EXCERPT

It was still early so I strode back into the restaurant, indicated to the hostess I wanted a booth and ordered the breakfast buffet. Anger paired with disbelief gave me a hearty appetite. Returning to my booth after loading my plate with eggs, bacon, pancakes, pastries and a slice of toast, I noticed someone had joined me for breakfast. He was seated with his back to me as I approached the booth but I recognized the sun-streaked hair curling over his collar. My favorite PI. I almost dropped my plate.

“Hi.” I tried for nonchalant but sounded more like a hormone-addled teenager.

“Saw you come in. I guess you had an early morning chitchat with the local gendarmes.”

“To be continued this afternoon at the station.”

“Fingerprints?” He stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee.

“Nope.” The tingle in my tummy was more than simple hunger for food. I tried to satisfy it by stuffing a large forkful of pancake into my mouth. I nodded and swallowed. “Like anyone would be dumb enough to leave their prints.”

“Certainly, we know you’re smart.”

“I had no reason to kill Mrs. Sanders. That would be like killing the golden goose.”

“You didn’t like her very much, did you?”

I dropped my fork on the plate. “What do you mean? I hardly knew the woman.”

“So you say, but my sources indicate that’s not the whole story.” He stared at me. Last night I thought those azure eyes looked inviting. Now they looked more like ice. He smiled.

“You said you were investigating Mrs. Sanders. Sounds like you’re trying to nose into my affairs. Why?”

“Don’t get mad. I’m not accusing you of murder, you know.” He took a sip of coffee.

“I’m not mad.” I was a little miffed, peeved even, but not really mad. Okay, I was mad.

“Oh yes you are, and when you get angry, you stick your chin out and turn your head ever so slightly to the right. Your cheek twitches, probably from clenching your teeth. Did you know that?”

I had lost my appetite. I grabbed my purse and slid out of the booth. “I don’t recall inviting you to join me for breakfast. I just remembered I have an important appointment.”

“That would be …?” He also stood.

“That would be none of your business.”

I stalked out of the restaurant, then remembered as I approached my car that I had forgotten to pay my bill. Damn. Now I’d have to go back in there and face him again. I gritted my teeth, stuck out my chin and slammed through the door. He turned from the counter, credit card in hand.

“Don’t worry about it. I got it. Your treat next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.” I spun around and pushed open the door. By the time he reached his car, I was already starting my engine, wondering what the man knew about Mrs. Sanders and me.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: Camel Press
Publication Date: 9/15/2013
Number of Pages: 260
ISBN: 978-1-60381-935-0

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Harper Collins/William Morrow, Partners In Crime Tours

Guest Author JAMES HAYMAN

 CMash  October 23, 2013  1 Comment on Guest Author JAMES HAYMAN

WELCOME JAMES HAYMAN


JAMES HAYMAN

James Hayman is a native New Yorker having been born in Brooklyn and raised in Manhattan. Like many city kids, he was sent off to a New England boarding school at fourteen. Eight years later he graduated from Brown University and returned to New York where he spent the next twenty-five years working as a copywriter and creative director at some of Madison Avenue’s biggest ad agencies, creating print and TV advertising for clients like the US Army, Lincoln Mercury, Merrill Lynch and Procter & Gamble. After deciding that the New York agency business was “no country for old men,” Jim left Madison Avenue and moved to Portland, Maine where he worked for several years as a freelance business writer, publishing dozens of articles and two non-fiction business books. In 2007 he decided to follow in the footsteps of other former “Madmen” (James Patterson, Stuart Woods, Chris Grabenstein and Ted Bell to name just a few) and begin a new career writing suspense/thrillers. His debut novel, THE CUTTING was the first in a planned series featuring Portland homicide detectives Michael McCabe and Maggie Savage. It was quickly published and garnered rave reviews both in the print media and online. THE CUTTING was followed by THE CHILL OF NIGHT. Both books have been published around the world and translated into six languages. The third McCabe/Savage thriller, DARKNESS FIRST, is due from Harper Collins’ new Witness imprint in October. Jim lives in Portland with his wife, the artist Jeanne O’Toole Hayman.
Connect with James Hayman at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

Q&A with James Hayman

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
Absolutely, both in terms of character and plot. I think every writer does.

For example, the story in Darkness First centers around the epidemic and very real abuse of and addiction to prescription painkillers in rural Maine. Much of what I wrote in the book grew out of conversations I had with the real life sheriff of Washington County where the book is set and an officer assigned to the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. Darkness First also reflects the growing poverty of coastal towns in Washington County like Eastport and Machias where a once thriving fishing industry has largely crashed with the disappearance of the fish. Eastport was once home to more than a dozen sardine canneries.  None of them survive today, not even as the fictitious ruin in which I set a climactic scene in the novel.

My earlier book, The Chill of Night, is about child abuse.  Much of it is based on the scandals in the Catholic Church. A book titled Our Fathers was an invaluable resource as was a passing acquaintance I had with Father Bruce Ritter, a Franciscan priest and the celebrated founder of Covenant House in New York.  Ritter was later accused and found guilty of abuse, all the while posing as a champion and protector of runaway teens.

As for my characters, both my detectives, Mike McCabe and Maggie Savage, are drawn from real life.  As I’ve said elsewhere, McCabe is my alter-ego. We were both born and raised in New York City and later moved to Portland, Maine.  We both like good scotch whiskey, old movie trivia and the New York Giants.

Maggie, who I have a huge crush on, is based on a number of women I’ve known and cared for in my own life including my wife Jeanne.  I’ve also raised a beautiful intelligent daughter not unlike McCabe’s daughter Casey. All my books reflects that experience.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
Both.  My story in Darkness First grew from a comment made by my source in the Maine DEA, that the nightmare scenario for the agency would be the smuggling of a huge quantity of Oxycontin tablets, by water, from Canada into the US. The book opens with exactly that scene.

You can read the prologue and first chapters for free on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Darkness-First-McCabe-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00CGZXQDU/ref=pd_sim_sbs_kstore_1  or Barnes & Noble.com www.jameshaymanthrillers.com/books .

Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
I mostly don’t write at home even though I have a beautiful house overlooking the ocean with a room I call my office.  When I’m there, I find it is too easy to be distracted by things that have to be taken care of. Especially, when I reach a hard place in the writing.

Consequently,  I try to treat writing as a job I have to report to. I get up and go to work each morning in the great reading room in the Glickman Library at the University of Southern Maine in Portland.

Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
Writing is, for the most-part, my full-time job. When I say the most part, I mean that I also do some other things. I manage a couple of rental properties we own which, happily,  takes relatively little time.  I also occasionally accept freelance advertising or business writing assignments which can be fun and also help with any cash-flow issues. I’ve also served on the boards of a couple of non-profits, the Salt Institute of Documentary Studies and the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance which supports writers and writing in the State of Maine.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
There are many.

My favorites among mystery and thriller writers include James Lee Burke, Dennis Lehane, Tana French, Michael Connelly, Kate Atkinson, Alan Furst, Tony Hillerman, an Irish writer named Alan Glynn and, based on one book, “Gone Girl,” Gillian Flynn. I’m sure I’m forgetting others because I do read a lot.

Outside of the mystery/thriller genre, I like the books of Ian McEwan, J. M. Coetzee, Larry Brown, Erik Larsson, David McCullough, and greats like Saul Bellow, John Cheever and Philip Roth.  And, of course, there is Hemingway and Fitzgerald.

What are you reading now?
I’m currently in the middle of a very strong novel by a writer named Roxana Robinson who is quickly becoming one of my favorites. The book is called “Sparta,” and it’s about a young marine officer returning home from two tours in Iraq with a severe case of PTSD.  Robinson writes the book from the marine’s point of view and does a brilliant job of capturing the confusion and disorientation of suddenly finding oneself beyond the dangers of the war and back in the ease of middle class suburban life.

Are you working on your next novel?  Can you tell us a little about it?
I am. The book (as yet unnamed) is about McCabe and Savage investigating a series of murders in Portland that exactly mirror murders that took place on an island in Casco Bay more than one hundred years ago.  Mccabe’s photographic memory proves to be a help in unraveling the mystery. Beyond that I can’t say much without spoiling the tale.

Your novel will be a movie.  Who would you cast?
That’s a tough one. I sort of see McCabe as someone like Gerard Butler, or  maybe Clive Owen or possibly Patrick Dempsey.

I see Maggie as Anne Hathaway. Or maybe Katherine Heigl. Or Claire Danes.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
Read. While there are TV shows that I think are terrific and that I’ve enjoyed (The Killing, Breaking Bad and The Wire among others), I find novels give me much more access to and involvement with the characters.

Favorite food?
 I’m definitely an omnivore.  As long as it’s well prepared, I love all kinds of food from great New York hot dogs to the fanciest French cuisine. You name it, I’ll eat it.

Favorite beverage?
I’m a Diet Coke addict. And a coffee addict.  I drink four or five cups of strong black brew a day. Beyond that, like my hero McCabe, I’ve always enjoyed good single-malt Scotch Whiskey.  Unlike McCabe, I now drink more red wine than whiskey, mostly Cabernets and Malbecs. I also like a lot of the terrific microbrews available in Maine, especially Peak Organic IPA and Geary’s Hampshire Special Ale.

ABOUT THE BOOK
Darkness First by James Hayman is the third book in the McCabe and Savage series.
The sadistically mutilated body of a young woman is found in the secluded seaside town of Machiasport, Maine and detective Maggie Savage is drawn home to solve the murder and restore peace. Maggie is the daughter of a sheriff, and justice is in her blood. What makes her so desperate for answers, though, is the fact that her dearest childhood was found just a few steps away from the corpse, comatose, with 150 tablets of Canadian Oxycontin in her pocket.
Maggie delves through the darkest parts of Machiasport, trying to find whichever doomed corner the murdered girl wandered into. After casing old haunts and interviewing the locals, whispers of a menacing character begin to surface: a faceless and nameless man who nobody knows but everybody fears.
In the tradition of John Sandford and William Kent Kreguer, Darkness First is a gruesome thriller about a small town rocked by a savage crime.
BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Witness
Publication Date: 10/1/2013
Number of Pages: 434
ISBN: 9780062301697

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Brian Anthony & Bill Walker

 CMash  October 11, 2013  1 Comment on Brian Anthony & Bill Walker

WELCOME B. ANTHONY & B. WALKER

 

BRIAN ANTHONY is a writer and award-winning filmmaker. His first feature film, Victor’s Big Score, was praised by Variety as “A tremendous calling card for writer-producer-director Brian Anthony.” As a writer-producer Anthony has contributed to shows for American Movie Classics, Arts and Entertainment, and Fox Syndication, including Beneath the Planet of the Apes and Lost in Space Forever. A veteran film historian, Anthony has been interviewed on network television regarding film history, and co-authored the acclaimed biography of the film comedian Charley Chase, Smile While the Raindrops Fall, in 1998. Brian is an expert art and book restorationist, and you can see his work at Anthony Restorations.
Connect with Brian at these sites:

WEBSITE

 

BILL WALKER is an award-winning writer whose works include novels, short stories and screenplays. His first novel, Titanic 2012, was enthusiastically received by readers, and Bill’s two short story collections, Five Minute Frights and Five Minute Chillers, are perennial Halloween favorites. A highly-respected graphic designer, Walker has worked on books by such luminaries as Ray Bradbury, Richard Matheson, Dean Koontz, and Stephen King. His most recent novel, A Note from an Old Acquaintance, was published in 2009.
Connect with Bill at these sites:

WEBSITE

ABOUT THE BOOK

WEBSITE

When John Wilkes Booth shoots Lincoln with a bullet cursed by the notorious Chicken Man, a local voodoo practitioner, he unwittingly sets in motion a chain of events extending far into the future. Instead of killing Lincoln, the bullet puts the president into a coma for sixty-eight years, his body remaining limber and ageless. When he awakens in 1933, Abe Lincoln is a man out of time, a revered icon…and a political pariah. FDR and J. Edgar Hoover not only do not want him around, they want him to retire. But their plan to be rid of him backfires and Lincoln is on the run, a fugitive from justice.

Determined to reach Chicago and retrieve the small fortune left in trust for him by his long-dead son, Lincoln discovers that Hoover has confiscated all his money, leaving him destitute. With Bureau of Investigation agent Melvin Purvis in hot pursuit, Lincoln finds his way to a hobo camp where he befriends a young runaway, who agrees to accompany the former president back to Washington. There Lincoln hopes that Hannah Wheelhouse, the Chicken Man’s granddaughter, can help him find the peace he longs for.
Then fate deals Lincoln another strange hand when he and the boy end up as hostages to infamous bank robber John Dillinger. Instead of leaving them by the side of the road after the robbery, Dillinger takes a liking to Lincoln and invites him to join the gang, promising him he’ll get all his money back.

Will Lincoln survive long enough to recapture his fortune and get away, or will he be hunted down in a manner unbefitting a martyred President?

In this inventive and entertaining novel, history gets a work-out, the action is flat-out, and almost everyone gets rubbed-out!
READ AN EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
March 3, 1934
Lake County Jail
Crown Point, Indiana
Counselor Louis Piquett felt a trickle of cold sweat roll down between his shoulder blades and silently cursed God, the courts, and the governor of the state of Indiana. He couldn’t afford to be nervous today, yet his head pounded and his stomach churned from the breakfast he’d eaten at a roadside diner on the way to the jail. He fought back a wave of nausea and cranked open the Ford’s passenger side window, letting the raw March air wash over his face. He closed his eyes and breathed it in.
“You okay, Louis?”
Piquett turned toward his law partner, Arthur O’Leary, and nodded. “Right as rain. Just wish you’d turn down the blasted heat.”
O’Leary’s lips curled in a lopsided grin, which gave his narrow hawk-like face an air of mirthful menace. “Sorry…you know I’m always cold.”
Piquett took off his fedora and wiped his forehead with a wrinkled linen handkerchief. “Yeah, I know. You should go see the doctor about it.”
O’Leary grinned, and Piquett gazed out across South Main Street at the late-Victorian pile that was the Lake County Jail and Courthouse, his eyes scanning the mounted machineguns and the dozens of National Guardsmen manning them behind a four-foot high wall of fifty-pound sandbags.
“You’d think they were expecting the Kaiser’s army,” O’Leary said, chuckling.
“They just don’t know what to make of our client, Arthur. Lord knows, I sometimes wonder about him myself.”
“He doesn’t belong here, that’s for sure,” O’Leary said, shaking his head.
“Unfortunately, his enemies think otherwise. You and I both know he didn’t kill that federal officer.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Piquett stared back at his partner, his dark eyes like flints. “I know what you meant.” The handkerchief came out again. “You take care of the guards, like I asked you?”
O’Leary nodded. “There won’t be a search.”
Piquett patted the left side of his suit jacket. “They find this on me and we’ve got a lot more trouble than we ever bargained for.”
O’Leary shot his partner a look of annoyance. “Nobody’s got a gun to your head, Louis.”
Despite the rumble in his guts, Piquett smiled. “That’s why I like you, Arthur. You always look at the bright side.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to go. Wish me luck.”
O’Leary nodded, and Piquett eased himself out of the Ford and closed the door. He hesitated a moment then leaned in through the open window. “If I’m not out in twenty minutes, you get on out of here. You remember where I put the emergency funds?
“I remember.”
“Good. Keep lookin’ at that bright side, Arthur.”
Piquett slapped the roof of the Ford and strode toward the jail. Passing through the narrow opening in the sandbags, he gave the soldiers a cordial nod, climbed the steps and disappeared into the building.
Following an official clearance, and after passing through a succession of remotely-controlled gates, he stood before the final door separating him from his client. The lone guard, seated at a scarred oak desk, motioned toward the open logbook lying in front of him. Piquett picked up a pen off the blotter and signed his name with a flourish.
“Morning, officer,” he said, handing back the pen.
The guard, a scrawny young man with greasy black hair and a dull look in his eyes, took back the pen with a smirk spreading across his face.
“Yeah, well, it ain’t so good for that client a yours, counselor.”
Piquett’s trial-winning smile widened. “Well, we’re all innocent in the eyes of the law, until proven guilty, officer. That’s the very foundation on which our great and glorious nation resides. Besides, you never know how a day’s going to end, until it’s over.”
The guard frowned, his puzzled expression making him look even less intelligent. “You mind standing back and raising your arms, counselor?” he said. “Gotta search ya.”
Piquett’s stomach rolled over, but he managed to keep the grin plastered to his face, even as he felt the sweat break out anew.
Just then an older guard stuck his head in the doorway.
“He’s clean, Jeff.”
The younger guard’s frown deepened. “But Sheriff Holley said we was to search every visitor ‘fore I pass ’em through this point.”
The older man leaned into the room, his face flushing. “And I’m tellin’ you he’s clean.”
Piquett watched the tense exchange between the two guards and said a silent prayer.
The younger guard appeared to think about this for a moment, the gears in his mind grinding slowly. Then he sighed and shook his head. “You say he’s clean, Irv, then fine, he’s clean.”
The older guard nodded, giving Piquett a knowing look the younger guard missed then left the room. The younger guard stood and threw the lever that operated the automatic doors. There was a loud “clunk,” followed by the whir of machinery. The door slid open and clanged to a stop.
Another guard appeared on the other side of the open doorway and motioned for Piquett to follow.
They passed through a corridor lined with empty holding cells. At the end of the hall Piquett spotted a wooden chair facing one of the cells. The guard motioned for him to sit. For a fleeting moment, Piquett toyed with the notion of turning around and leaving, going back to the car and driving away–maybe take that vacation he’d always promised himself. But then, whatever was left of his tattered code of ethics took over and he eased himself into the chair.
“Thank you, officer,” he said to the guard. “I’ll let you know when we’re done.
The guard nodded, retraced his steps down the corridor and disappeared around the corner. Piquett kept his eye on the corridor for another moment then turned toward the cell.
His client sat in a matching hardback chair dressed in a white shirt, charcoal-gray vest and matching pants. He was impossibly tall–even sitting down–and impossibly…there. The face he’d grown up admiring, the face that graced the penny and the five-dollar bill now sat watching him with a look of bemusement, gray eyes twinkling in the harsh glow of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“Good morning, counselor,” Lincoln said in his high, soft-spoken voice.
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Please, Mr. Piquett, I do not think it fitting to refer to me by that hallowed moniker, especially when viewed in the harsh light of my present circumstances.”
Piquett felt his face redden. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to forgive me. I much admired your administration, your achievements.”
Lincoln smiled revealing gaps between his teeth. “And while my achievements may make me immortal, I am an inconvenient reality whose presence is a reminder of things some would prefer to forget. As far as those demigods who now reside in Washington are concerned, I am a man out of time and out of step with the problems of the day.”
“I disagree, Mr. Lincoln.”
Lincoln slapped his knee and chuckled. “You know what’s truly ironic, counselor? The tenor of Washington has not changed all that much. I suspect the streets are cleaner and summers are more tolerable nowadays, but those puffed-up politicians have raised backstabbing to a high art. Practice makes perfect. Did you bring it, Mr. Piquett?”
The abrupt shift in the conversation flustered the lawyer for a moment. “Y-yes, sir.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small package wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine. He handed it through the bars and Lincoln took it with his large, calloused hand. The package disappeared into his pocket.
“Thank you, counselor, you’ve been most helpful. And I appreciate all that you’ve done. I was especially inspired by your performance in the courtroom during my arraignment last month.”
Piquett puffed with pride. “It was an honor, sir. I just wish I could’ve done more.”
Lincoln stood and thrust his hand through the bars. “You’ve done more than any man could ask. If I have need of you again, I will surely call on you.”
The lawyer grasped his client’s hand, feeling the strength in the older man’s grip.
“Where will you go?” Piquett asked.
Lincoln’s expression turned melancholy. “Back into the history books where I belong, counselor…if they’ll let me….”
Ten minutes later, as O’Leary guided the Ford through the crush of late morning traffic, Piquett thought about the small wrapped package he’d given Lincoln and wondered–in spite of his sordid lack of ethics–if he’d done the right thing, after all.
* * *
Jail Handyman Sam Cahoon went cold all over when he felt the barrel of a pistol jabbing into the small of his back. But it was that high voice in his ears that sent his heart racing.
“I’ve got to be going, Sam,” Lincoln said, “and I need your help. Please don’t make me use this. I know only too well what it can do.”
Lincoln guided him over to the locked steel door leading to the adjoining room and motioned for Sam to call out to the guards. A large black man rose from a nearby table where he’d been playing solitaire and joined them. When Sam continued to hesitate, Lincoln kicked the door with his foot, sending a booming sound reverberating around the Day Room, which now fell silent.
“That you, Sam?” came the voice from the other side of the door.
Sam looked to Lincoln, his eyes wide with fright. Lincoln pressed the barrel harder into the handyman’s back and nodded.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Sam said. “I’m done in here.”
“All right,” the voice replied.
A moment later came the rattle of keys and the door swung inward. Lincoln kicked the door hard, sending the startled guard behind it sprawling, then he shoved Sam Cahoon aside and grabbed the guard, who was scrambling to his feet.
“Y-you out of your mind?” the guard sputtered.
“So they tell me, son. Now you go on and get us into the guardroom, and no tricks.”
The guard’s hands trembled, causing him to fumble with the keys. Lincoln jabbed the barrel harder into the guard’s back, eliciting a moan of fear from the man.
“Hurry, now.”
“I g-got it,” the guard said, slapping the key into the lock and twisting it. They burst into the guardroom, where a civilian fingerprint technician and one other guard sat drinking coffee and chewing on jelly donuts, their eyes as round as saucers. Lincoln spotted two Thompsons with fully loaded drum magazines sitting on the windowsill and nodded to the black man.
“Mr. Youngblood, we shall require those fine instruments of destruction.”
The black man chuckled and grabbed them, handing one to Lincoln, who then held up the pistol he’d used for all to see. A sly grin spread across his face. It was a crudely carved wooden gun blackened with shoe polish, the words “Colt .38” etched into its side.
Both the guard and the fingerprint technician shook their heads in disgust.
Lincoln’s grin widened. “Well, now, it does seem one can fool some of the people all of the time.” He put the wooden gun back into his pocket and waved the barrel of the submachine gun towards the exit door.
“Mr. Youngblood, take this officer to one of the cells.”
“Yes, sir.”
Youngblood manhandled the guard out of the room and returned moments later.
Lincoln looked at the fingerprint technician, who sat frozen, the jelly donut still hanging from his mouth.
“What’s your name, son?” Lincoln asked.
The young technician yanked the donut from his mouth.
“Uh, Ernest Blunk, sir. You gonna shoot me?”
“I have no desire to kill anyone, Mr. Blunk, but I am getting out of here. It’s your choice.” Lincoln’s gaze was implacable and Blunk nodded soberly and stood up.
“All right, gentlemen,” Lincoln said, “shall we take our leave?”
After a short trip down two corridors and one flight of stairs, they emerged into the alley. Lincoln eyed the narrow passageway in both directions, noting the way was clear. He smiled and turned to Blunk, who stood with his arms wrapped around himself, shivering in the cold.
“Where’s the garage, son? The one with the private cars.”
“Down the alley, around the c-corner, behind the courts.”
“Let’s go.”
The garage was in a shed-like building with a sliding wooden door that reminded Lincoln of an old barn. The door shrieked on its rusty rails as Youngblood slid it open. Inside it was toasty warm and reeked of gasoline and spilled oil. A lone mechanic lay under a late-model Chevy, banging away at a water pump and cursing under his breath. Another man sat behind a desk in the small glassed-in office. Just then a woman walked into the garage.
“Mr. Saager, is my car–” She stopped in mid-sentence when she spotted Lincoln and Youngblood wielding the two Thompsons and fainted dead away, her limp body slapping against the grimy concrete.
Youngblood handed his Thompson to Lincoln, picked up the woman and deposited her inside the office on a battered sofa. The black man motioned for the man at the desk to move and the man scrambled out the door with his hands in the air.
“What’s the fastest car in here?” Lincoln asked, handing Youngblood back his Thompson.
The man from the office looked around and nodded toward the mechanic under the Chevy.
“Hudak’d know best.”
“Ask him to join us.”
The man eased over to the Chevy and gave the mechanic’s leg a nudge with his foot.
“What you want, Saager?”
“We got a man here asking about fast cars.”
“What do I look like, a salesman? I’m up to my butt in work here, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I got to get this damn Chevy out of here by two.”
Saager looked to Lincoln and shrugged. Youngblood raised the barrel of his Thompson and Saager paled a few shades whiter. He kicked the mechanic harder and said. “You get on out here, Hudak, if you know what’s good for you.”
The mechanic slid out from under the car, the curses on his lips dying away when he spotted the two men and their machineguns.
“Damn!”
“What’s the fastest car in here?” Lincoln asked.
Hudak jabbed his finger toward a sleek brand-new car parked in a corner, its jet-black paint gleaming under the hooded lights. “That there Ford. Got a real honey of a V-8.”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Hudak.”
“But that’s Sheriff Holley’s new car.”
Lincoln laughed. “Even better. Mr. Blunk, you will drive. Mr. Hudak, you and your partner will disable all the other vehicles in the garage.”
Hudak looked incredulous.
“Now, Mr. Hudak.”
The mechanic walked toward the Chevy, shaking his head. When he reached the car, he opened the hood and started gingerly pulling wires.
Youngblood rolled his eyes, grabbed a hammer and pushed the mechanic aside. “Not like that–like this.” He swung the hammer down onto the spark plugs one by one, shattering them then pounded holes in the carburetor. He handed the hammer to Hudak. “Now, go to it, my man. Just like the boss says.”
In moments every other car was disabled and Blunk pulled the Sheriff’s car up to the door, the engine revving with a throaty roar. Lincoln and Youngblood climbed in and Lincoln hung his Thompson out the window at Saager and Hudak. Neither man moved.
“All right, Mr. Blunk. Let us proceed.”
The car pulled into the alley and then out onto East Street. Lincoln swiveled his head back and forth, looking to see if anyone followed. “Nice and slow,” he said. “It wouldn’t do to draw attention to ourselves.”
They passed the courthouse and Lincoln smiled when he spotted all the soldiers. They swung around a parked bus and pulled up to a stoplight. A bank sat on one of the corners and Lincoln stared at it. “Mighty tempting to procure us some traveling money, but I think we’ve worn out our welcome here, Mr. Youngblood.”
Yes, sir, Mr. Lincoln,” the black man said, grinning from ear to ear. The light turned green and the car sped out of town. When they reached State Road 8, Lincoln relaxed and began singing an old hymn. His singing voice was surprisingly tuneful and brought a smile even to Blunk’s dour face.
“Where we going, anyway?” Blunk asked when Lincoln had finished singing.
“Wherever the winds of fate shall take us.”
Youngblood laughed as the car sped off down the road.
The Great Emancipator was free
BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Alternate History
Published by: Lowtide Books
Publication Date: 10/5/13
Number of Pages: 352
ISBN:
978-0-9897457-0-3 (Hardcover)
978-0-9897457-1-0 (Paperback)
978-0-9897457-2-7 (ebook)

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DISCLAIMER
No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
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 Posted in Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author KENNETH JOHN ATCHITY

 CMash  October 4, 2013  Leave a Comment on Guest Author KENNETH JOHN ATCHITY

WELCOME KENNETH JOHN ATCHITY

KENNETH JOHN ATCHITY

The author of The Messiah Matrix, Kenneth John Atchity, at the age of ten began instructions in the Latin language from a multi-lingual Jesuit mentor and went on to continue his study of Latin, and to begin Homeric Greek, and French at the Jesuit high school, Rockhurst, in Kansas City, Missouri. He won an Ignatian Scholarship to Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., where he graduated as an English/Classics major and won the University Honor Program’s prestigious Virgilian Academy Silver Medal for his nationally-tested knowledge of Virgil’s Aeneid.

At Georgetown, he added to his four years of high school Homeric Greek with studies of Attic and Koinaic Greek as well as further studies in Homer and four more years of Latin. He spent his junior year summer at King’s College, Cambridge.

Atchity received his Ph.D. from Yale in Comparative Literature, after adding Italian to his seven languages, focused on the study of Dante under Harvard’s Dante della Terza and Yale’s Thomas Bergin. His dissertation, Homer’s Iliad: The Shield of Memory, was awarded the Porter Prize, Yale Graduate School’s highest academic honor. His mentors at Yale included Thomas Bergin, Thomas Greene, A. Bartlett Giamatti, Richard Ellinger, Eric Segal, and Lowry Nelson, Jr.

He was professor of literature and classics at Occidental College in Los Angeles, 1970-87, served as chairman of the comparative literature department, and as Fulbright Professor to the University of Bologna. His academic career included books on Homer and Italian literature, and dozens of academic articles and reviews. During his years at Occidental, Atchity was a frequent columnist for The Los Angeles Times Book Review, where he reviewed the novels of Umberto Eco, Doris Lessing, Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, Carlos Fuentes, and many others.

In a second career Atchity represented writers of both fiction and nonfiction, accounting for numerous bestsellers and movies for both television and big screen. In the tradition of Dominick Dunne, Sidney Sheldon, and Steven Cannell he has drawn on his professional experience with storytelling to write The Messiah Matrix.
Connect with Ken at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

Q&A with Ken Atchity

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
As all novelists do, I draw from both. Oddly enough my novel unwittingly predicted the pope’s resignation and the election of an Argentine Jesuit. But it also reflects my adolescent experiences growing up Catholic and wondering if God would really send someone to hell for eating meat on Friday or stealing $5.00 worth of peas instead of $4.99 worth.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
I do both. I start wherever the sharpest image begins and work backwards or forwards accordingly. That’s the beauty of this computer age—you can go either way. Write the scene you feel like writing today, and put it wherever it’s supposed to go later.

Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
Although I’m a morning person, I write any time of day I can steal an hour or two from my editing, managing, coaching and producing. On an ideal day, I write from five to seven a.m. Over the years I’ve taught myself to write anywhere, and particularly love writing on the plane. I use a stopwatch to make sure I get my two hours in every day.

Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
I’ve never written full time. I write when I have something to say or have a story to tell, which has, I admit, gotten to be more and more often. My day job is coaching other storytellers on how to get their stories to their maximum audiences in today’s challenging and changing world—and editing, managing, representing, and producing stories.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
Aside from my own clients, my favorite authors go back to Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Sterne, Wallace Stevens, Thomas Hardy, Melville, Garcia-Marquez, and Carlos Ruiz Zafón.

What are you reading now?
Preparatory to writing The Hong Kong Reversion, I’m rereading Ian Fleming’s wonderful James Bond books as well as James Patterson, and Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning.  I read all day, for joy, for research, and because my dayjob is helping storytellers find their audiences.

Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I’m currently working on AFI, Inc., the first in a series of memoirs, prior to completing The Hong Kong Reversion, a thriller set in Hong Kong.

Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
I’d die to have Claire Danes as Emily Scelba.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
Yes.

Favorite food?
My grandmother’s Syrian beans.

Favorite beverage?
Vodka martini.

ABOUT THE BOOK

The Messiah Matrix by Kenneth John Atchity is a fast-paced contemporary thriller in which a young Jesuit priest becomes romantically entwined with a vivacious archaeologist as they pursue the hidden history that links Jesus Christ with Augustus Caesar. A year before it occurred, the novel predicted the resignation of the pope and the election of an Argentine Jesuit to succeed him. In a story that will leave readers breathless and hungry for more, Atchity weaves a compelling tale about the foundations of today’s Roman Catholic Church lying deep in the religious rituals of the ancient Roman Empire.

From the first page to the last The Messiah Matrix takes the reader on a riveting adventure from the ancient city of Caesarea in Israel to Rome’s labyrinthine catacombs and beyond, and provides gripping evidence for all those who have ever wondered about the historical existence of the Christian Savior. The Messiah Matrix is a tour de force of modern drama and intrigue, classical scholarship, and early church history that will change the way you understand the birth of Christianity.

The Messiah Matrix may prove to be one of the most controversial novels ever written. Graeco-Roman scholar, professor, and producer Dr. Atchity is perhaps the only author alive today capable of creating this ground-breaking work.

READ AN EXCERPT

Prologue

The three-wheeled truck, having weathered World War II and every day after, carried its battle scars proudly as it hovered on the curb of Via del Plebiscito. Its V-shaped bumper was as jagged as a saw. Behind the wheel its latest owner, Zbysek Bailin, waited patiently, as though he were long accustomed to assassination on a rainy Wednesday evening.

A red umbrella rounded the corner from the Piazza del Gesù. Zbysek took in a breath and turned the ignition key. The engine coughed to an idle, purred raggedly awaiting further command from its driver. The silver-haired man ambled toward the intersection of Via degli Astalli that flanked the rear of the massive church. Purposely leaving his headlight off, Zbysek shifted into gear and bounced into the street. His foot pressed on the reluctant accelerator, the ancient vehicle climbing all too slowly up to speed.

The man had reached the intersection, and as he passed beneath the streetlight Zbysek thought he might well be deaf—he was so lost in thought he didn’t seem to hear the rumbling truck, even as it barreled toward him at full speed.

Clutching tight to the shaky steering wheel, Zbysek was hunched forward in the cab, eyes intent on his target. All he could see was the man’s bent back, crawling up Via Astalli like a praying mantis.

In seconds the truck had jumped the curb and was upon him.

The man swung around with his books and umbrella, a look of sudden shock on his face—the smile erased. His coat fell open.

For the first time, Zbysek saw his victim clearly in the light of the street lamp—the crisp white collar and the purple piping on his black vest.

His target was a monsignor!

Zbysek hauled at the wheel—but it was too late. His head struck the roof as the vehicle jerked over the body and slammed straight into the lamppost, thrusting Zbysek into the windshield and cracking his head on the glass. He climbed clumsily out of the cab and fell to his knees beside his victim. “Forgive me, father,” Zbysek finally choked out.

The old man’s face was twisted with pain. His narrowed eyes were glistening, blood trickling from his lips. He reached his hand toward his Angel of Death. He seemed to want to speak. Zbysek lowered his head to hear. The monsignor’s final whispered words confused and frightened him, and he leapt for the three-wheeler and fled from the scene.

I/1

Unholy Thursday

Father Ryan McKeown’s mood was less than reverential as he headed for the confessional where he was to perform his priestly duties. The lines of penitents in Gesù were short today. Perhaps because there’d been no major holidays recently or any coming soon, the “occasions of sin” were easier to avoid. Just as Ryan was about to step into the polished mahogany cubicle, a bedraggled man burst into the nave. The man headed for the first confessional, and knelt briefly. Moments later he unceremoniously leapt to his feet to join a short line at the next confessional booth, causing bowed heads to look up in curiosity. Ryan was bemused. Could a man’s sins be so grave he feels the need to come clean of them to several confessors?

Ryan settled himself behind the ivory baffle and listened, in turn, to an old man cursing God because his arthritis no longer allowed him to play bocce; to a teenager who abused himself fourteen times in the past seven days, using the image of his teacher, a nun, as inspiration—Father Ryan, doing his best to repress a smile, told him to say the rosary and promise never to sin again; and to a seminarian barely out of high school who asked if having concerns about his faith meant he should quit the seminary.

“Doubts are not in themselves a sin,” he told the young man. “Thomas, though he doubted, went on to become a great apostle and martyr. Not to mention Mother Teresa, whose troublesome doubts dogged at her heels even more persistently than Calcutta’s poor. I can tell you, it’s what you do with doubt that matters.” He questioned whether his comments had been of any service, or whether he should have simply referred the seminarian to a therapist. He’d often wondered where he’d be today if he himself hadn’t rejected psychotherapy as an option.

He was removing his stole to leave when a tardy penitent thumped down on the kneeler and activated the tiny red light. Ryan slid open the grate. In the obscure light he could see only enough to determine that his supplicant was a male. “Yes, my son?”

“Are you Father Ryan?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Ryan answered, before he could consider how the penitent could know his name.

“Thank God I’ve found you.”

Ryan realized he was speaking with the lost soul who’d been playing musical confessionals. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

“I killed a priest.” Ignoring the sacramental protocol, the man blurted it out in a coarse accent that Ryan had never heard before. Then, remembering the ritual formalities, the man added, “I don’t remember my last Confession. Many years ago, in Tirana.”

So the accent was Albanian. “What do you mean you killed a priest?”

“I hit him with my truck. He was a monsignor. I tried to help him. His eyes…oh my God! I got scared and drove away.”

Ryan’s heart went out to the man on the other side of the grate. The anguish in the man’s voice was dreadful. “An accident, no matter how grievous, is not a sin,” he said. “You simply have to—”

“It wasn’t an accident,” the immigrant interrupted. “I was paid to run him down.”

Ryan fell silent. What fate had led this man to his confessional today among so many hundreds in the Holy City?

“They didn’t tell me he was a monsignor.” Now the man was choking, the guttural sound poignantly wretched. “Oh, my God, I am damned to hell for all eternity.”

“Why would you accept payment for such an act?”

“I was desperate—I am desperate. My family has no money, my children need doctors—” The man’s explanations gave way to wrenching sobs. Then he regained control. “He looked at me. He told me words I didn’t understand. But I will hear them for the rest of my life.”

Reflexively Ryan slipped into his persona as an investigative scholar. “What were his words, my son?”

The poor man’s scream echoed in the hollowness of the empty church. “No!”

“It’s all right to tell me,” Ryan said. “You’re protected by the Seal of the Confessional, Holy Mother Church’s—”

“You don’t understand! It was Holy Mother Church…that paid me!”

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Romantic Thriller
Published by: Story Merchant Books
Publication Date: January 2013
Number of Pages: 353
ISBN: 978-095721-890-1

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Harper Collins/William Morrow, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author J. A. JANCE

 CMash  September 9, 2013  2 Comments on Guest Author J. A. JANCE

WELCOME J. A. JANCE

J.A. JANCE

A voracious reader, J. A. Jance knew she wanted to be a writer from the moment she read her first Wizard of Oz book in second grade. Always drawn to mysteries, from Nancy Drew right through John D. McDonald’s Travis Magee series, it was only natural that when she tried her hand at writing her first book, it would be a mystery as well. J. A. Jance went on to become the New York Times bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, three interrelated thrillers featuring the Walker family, and Edge of Evil. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona.
Connect with Ms. Jance at these sites:

WEBSITE          TWITTER    

ABOUT THE BOOK
With Second Watch, New York Times bestselling author J. A. Jance delivers another thought-provoking novel of suspense starring Seattle investigator J. P. Beaumont.
Second Watch shows Beaumont taking some time off to get knee replacement surgery, but instead of taking his mind off work, the operation plunges him into one of the most perplexing mysteries he’s ever faced.
His past collides with his present in this complex and thrilling story that explores loss and heartbreak, duty and honor, and, most importantly, the staggering cost of war and the debts we owe those who served in the Vietnam War, and those in uniform today.
READ AN EXCERPT

Prologue

We left the P-­ 2 level of the parking lot at Belltown Terrace ten minutes later than we should have. With Mel Soames at the wheel of her Cayman and with me belted into the passenger seat, we roared out of the garage, down the alley between John and Cedar, and then up Cedar to Second Avenue.Second is one of those rare Seattle thoroughfares where, if you drive just at or even slightly below the speed limit, you can sail through one green light after another, from the Denny Regrade all the way to the International District. I love Mel dearly, but the problem with her is that she doesn’t believe in driving “just under” any speed limit, ever. That’s not her style, and certainly not on this cool September morning as we headed for the Swedish Orthopedic Institute, one of the many medical facilities located in a neighborhood Seattle natives routinely call Pill Hill.

Mel was uncharacteristically silent as she drove hell-­ bent for election through downtown Seattle, zipping through intersec­tions just as the lights changed from yellow to red. I checked to be sure my seat belt was securely fastened and kept my backseat-­ driving tendencies securely in check. Mel does not respond well to backseat driving.

“Are you okay?” she asked when the red light at Cherry finally brought her to a stop.

The truth is, I wasn’t okay. I’ve been a cop all my adult life. I’ve been in gunfights and knife fights and even the occasional fist­fight. There have been numerous times over the years when I’ve had my butt hauled off to an ER to be stitched up or worse. What all those inadvertent, spur-­ of-­ the-­ moment ER trips had in common, however, was a total lack of anticipation. Whatever hap­pened happened, and I was on the gurney and on my way. Since I had no way of knowing what was coming, I didn’t have any time to be scared to death and filled with dread before the fact. After, maybe, but not before.

This time was different, because this time I had a very good idea of what was coming. Mel was driving me to a scheduled check-­ in appointment at the Swedish Orthopedic Institute surgi­cal unit Mel and I have come to refer to as the “bone squad.” This morning at eight a.m. I was due to meet up with my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Merritt Auld, and undergo dual knee-­ replacement surgery. Yes, dual—­ as in two knees at the same time.

I had been assured over and over that this so-­ called elective surgery was “no big deal,” but the truth is, I had seen the videos. Mel and I had watched them together. I had the distinct impres­sion that Dr. Auld would be more or less amputating both my legs and then bolting them back together with some spare metal parts in between. Let’s just say I was petrified.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You are not fine,” Mel muttered, “and neither am I.” Then she slammed her foot on the gas, swung us into a whiplash left turn, and we charged up Cherry. Given her mood, I didn’t comment on her speed or the layer of rubber she had left on the pavement behind us.

I had gimped along for a very long time without admitting to anyone, most of all myself, that my knees were giving me hell. And once I had finally confessed the reality of the situation, Mel had set about moving heaven and earth to see that I did something about it. This morning we were both faced with a heaping helping of “watch out what you ask for.”

“You could opt to just do one, you know,” she said.

But I knew better, and so did she. When the doctor had asked me which knee was my good knee, I had told him truthfully that they were both bad. The videos had stressed that the success of the surgery was entirely dependent on doing the required post­-surgery physical therapy. Since neither of my knees would stand up to doing the necessary PT for the other, Dr. Auld had reluctantly agreed to give me a twofer.

“We’ll get through this,” I said.

She looked at me and bit her lip.

“Do you want me to drop you at the front door?”

That was a strategy we had used a lot of late. She would drop me off or pick me up from front doors while she hoofed it to and from parking garages.

“No,” I said. “I’d rather walk.”

I didn’t add “with you,” because I didn’t have to. She knew it. She also knew that by the time we made it from the parking garage to the building, we would have had to stop to rest three times and my forehead would be beaded with sweat.

“Thank you,” she said.

While I eased my body out of the passenger seat and straight­ened into an upright position, she hopped out and grabbed the athletic bag with my stuff in it out of the trunk. Then she came toward me, looking up at me, smiling.

And the thought of losing that smile was what scared me the most. What if I didn’t wake back up? Those kinds of things weren’t supposed to happen during routine surgeries, but they did. Occa­sionally there were unexpected complications and the patient died. What if this was one of those times, and this was the last time I would see Mel or hold her hand? What if this was the end of all of it? There were so many things I wanted to say about how much I loved her and how much she meant to me and how, if I didn’t make it, I wanted her to be happy for the rest of her life. But did any of those words come out of my mouth? No. Not one.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said calmly, as though she had heard the storm of misgivings that was circling around in my head. She squeezed my hand and away we went, limping along, the hare patiently keeping pace with the lumbering tortoise.

I don’t remember a lot about the check-­ in process. I do remember there was a line, and my knees made waiting in line a peculiar kind of hell. Mel offered to stand in line for me, but of course I turned her down. She started to argue, but thought better of it. Instead, she took my gym bag and sat in one of the chairs banked against the wall while I answered all the smiling clerk’s inane questions and signed the countless forms. Then, after Mel and I waited another ten minutes, a scrubs-­ clad nurse came to summon us and take us “back.”

What followed was the change into the dreaded backless gown; the weigh-­ in; the blood draw; the blood pressure, temperature, and pulse checks. Mel hung around for all of that. And she was still there when they stuck me on a bed to await the arrival of my anesthesiologist, who came waltzing into the bustling room with a phony smile plastered on his beaming face. He seemed to be having the time of his life. After introducing himself, he asked my name and my date of birth, and then he delivered an incredibly lame stand-­ up comic routine about sending me off to never-­ never land.

Gee, thanks, and how would you like a punch in the nose? 

After a second wait of who knows how long, they rolled me into another room. This time Dr. Auld was there, and so were a lot of other people. Again they wanted my name and date of birth. It occurred to me that my name and date of birth hadn’t changed in the hour and a half during which I had told four other people the same, but that’s evidently part of the program now. Or maybe they do it just for the annoyance factor.

At that point, however, Dr. Auld hauled out a Sharpie and drew a bright blue letter on each of my knees—­ R and L.

“That’s just so we’ll keep them straight,” he assured me with a jovial smile.

Maybe he expected me to laugh. I didn’t. The quip reminded me too much of the kinds of stale toasts delivered by hungover best men at countless wedding receptions, and it was about that funny, too. I guess I just wasn’t up to seeing any humor in the situation.

Neither was Mel. I glanced in her direction and saw the icy blue-­ eyed stare my lovely wife had leveled in the good doctor’s direction. Fortunately, Dr. Auld didn’t notice.

“Well,” he said. “Shall we do this?”

As they started to roll me away, Mel leaned down and kissed me good-­ bye. “Good luck,” she whispered in my ear. “Don’t be long. I’ll be right here waiting.”

I looked into Mel’s eyes and was surprised to see two tears well up and then make matching tracks down her surprisingly pale cheeks. Melissa Soames is not the crybaby type. I wanted to reach up and comfort her and tell her not to worry, but the anesthesiologist had given me something to “take the edge off,” and it was certainly working. Before I could say anything at all, Mel was gone, disappearing from view behind my merry band of scrubs-­ attired escorts as they wheeled me into a waiting elevator.

I closed my eyes then and tried to remember exactly how Mel looked in that moment before the doors slid shut between us. All I could think of as the elevator sank into what felt like the bowels of the earth was how very much I loved her and how much I wanted to believe that when I woke up, she really would be there, waiting.

Chapter 1

Except she wasn’t. When I opened my eyes again, that was the first thing I noticed. The second one was that I was “feeling no pain,” as they say, so the drugs were evidently doing what they were supposed to do.I was apparently in the recovery room. Nurses in flowery scrubs hovered in the background. I could hear their voices, but they were strangely muted, as if somebody had turned the volume way down. As far as my own ability to speak? Forget it. Someone had pushed my mute button; I couldn’t say a single word.

In the foreground, a youngish woman sat on a tall rolling stool at the side of the bed. My initial assumption was that my daughter, Kelly, had arrived from her home in southern Oregon. I had told her not to bother coming all the way from Ashland to Seattle on the occasion of my knee-­ replacement surgery. In fact, I had issued a fatherly decree to that effect, insisting that Mel and I would be fine on our own. Unfortunately, Kelly is her mother’s daughter, which is to say she is also headstrong as hell. Since when did she ever listen to a word I said?

So there Kelly sat as big as life, whether I had wanted her at the hospital or not. She wore a crimson-­and- g ray WSU sweatshirt. A curtain of long blond hair shielded her face from my view while she studiously filed her nails—­ nails that were covered with bright red polish.

Having just been through several hours of major surgery, I think I could be forgiven for being a little slow on the uptake, but eventually I realized that none of this added up. Even to my drug-­ befuddled brain, it didn’t make sense.

Kelly and I have had our share of issues over the years. The most serious of those involved her getting pregnant while she was still a senior in high school and running off to Ashland to meet up with and eventually marry her boyfriend, a wannabe actor named Jeff. Of course, the two of them have been a couple for years, and my son-­ in-­ law is now one of the well-­ established members of the acting company at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Oregon.

The OSF offers a dozen or so plays a year, playing in repertory for months at a time, and Jeff Cartwright has certainly paid his dues. After years of learning his trade by playing minor roles as a sword-­ wielding soldier in one Shakespearian production after an­other or singing and occasionally tap dancing as a member of the chorus, he finally graduated to speaking roles. This year he was cast as Laertes in Hamlet in the Elizabethan theater and, for the first time ever in a leading role, he played Brick in the Festival’s retrospective production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in the Bowmer Theatre. (I thought he did an excellent job, but I may be slightly prejudiced. The visiting theater critic for the Seattle Times had a somewhat different opinion.)

It was September, and the season was starting to wind down, but there was no way for Jeff to get away long enough to come up to Seattle for a visit, no matter how brief, and with Kayla and Kyle, my grandkids, back in school, in fourth and first grade, respec­tively, it didn’t seem like a good time for Kelly to come gallivant­ ing to Seattle with or without them in tow just to hover at my sickbed.

In other words, I was both surprised and not surprised to see Kelly there; but then, gradually, a few other details began to sink into my drug-­ stupefied consciousness. Kelly would never in a mil­lion years show up wearing a WSU shirt. No way! She is a Univer­sity of Oregon Duck, green and yellow all the way. Woe betide anyone who tries to tell her differently, and she has every right to insist on that!

To my everlasting amazement and with only the barest of fi­nancial aid from yours truly, this once marginal student got her BA in psychology from Southern Oregon University, and she’s now finishing up with a distance-­ learning master’s in business ad­ministration from the U of O in Eugene. She’s done all this, on her own and without any parental prompting, while running an at-­ home day care center and looking after her own two kids. When Kelly turned into a rabid Ducks fan along the way, she got no complaints from me, even though I’m a University of Washington Husky from the get-­ go.

But the very idea of Kelly Beaumont Cartwright wearing a Cougars sweatshirt? Nope. Believe me, it’s not gonna happen.

Then there was the puzzling matter of the very long hair. Kelly’s hair used to be about that same length—­ which is to say more than shoulder length—­but it isn’t anymore. A year or so ago, she cut it off and donated her shorn locks to a charity that makes wigs for cancer patients. (Karen, Kelly’s mother and my ex-­ wife, died after a long battle with breast cancer, and Kelly remains a dedicated part of the cancer-­ fighting community. In addition to donating her hair, she sponsors a Relay for Life team and makes certain that both her father and stepfather step up to the plate with cash donations to the cause on a yearly basis.)

As my visitor continued to file her nails with single-­ minded focus, the polish struck me as odd. In my experience, mothers of young children in general—­ and my daughter in particular—­ don’t wear nail polish of any kind. Nail enamel and motherhood don’t seem to go together, and on the rare occasions when Kelly had indulged in a manicure she had opted for something in the pale pink realm, not this amazingly vivid scarlet, the kind of color Mel seems to favor.

Between the cascade of long blond hair and the bright red nail polish, I was pretty sure my silent visitor wasn’t Kelly. If not her, then, I asked myself, who else was likely to show up at my hospital bedside to visit?

Cherisse, maybe?

Cherisse is my daughter-in-­law. She has long hair and she does wear nail polish. She and my son, Scott, don’t have kids so far, but Cherisse is not a blonde—­at least she wasn’t the last time I saw her. Besides, if anyone was going to show up unannounced at my hos­pital bedside, it would be my son, not his wife.

I finally managed to find a semblance of my voice, but what came out of my mouth sounded croaky, like the throaty grum­blings of an overage frog.

“Who are you?” I asked.

In answer, she simply shook her head, causing the cascade of silvery blond hair to ripple across her shoulder. I was starting to feel tired—­ sleepy. I must have blinked. In that moment, the shim­mering blond hair and crimson sweatshirt vanished. In their place I saw a woman who was clearly a nurse.

“Mr. Beaumont. Mr. Beaumont,” she said, in a concerned voice that was far too loud. “How are you doing, Mr. Beaumont? It’s time to wake up now.”

“I’ve already been awake,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. In­stead, looking up into a worried face topping a set of colorful scrubs, I wondered when it was that nurses stopped wearing white uniforms and white caps and started doing their jobs wearing clothes that looked more like crazed flower gardens than anything else.

“Okay,” I managed, only now my voice was more of a whisper than a croak. “My wife?”

“Right here,” Mel answered, appearing in the background, just over the nurse’s shoulder. “I’m right here.”

She looked haggard and weary. I had spent a long time sleep­ing; she had spent the same amount of time worrying. Unfortunately, it showed.

“Where did she go?” I asked the nurse, who was busy taking my blood pressure reading.

“Where did who go?” she asked.

“The girl in the sweatshirt.”

“What girl?” she asked. “What sweatshirt?”

Taking a cue from me, Mel looked around the recovery room, which consisted of a perimeter of several curtained-­ off patient cubicles surrounding a central nurses’ station. The whole place was a beehive of activity.

“I see nurses and patients,” Mel said. “I don’t see anyone in a sweatshirt.”

“But she was right here,” I argued. “A blonde with bright red nail polish a lot like yours. She was wearing a WSU sweatshirt, and she was filing her nails with one of those pointy little nail files.”

“A metal one?” Mel asked, frowning. “Those are bad for your nails. I haven’t used one of those in years. Do they even still sell them?”

That question was directed at the nurse, who, busy taking my temperature, simply shrugged.

“Beats me,” she said. “I’m not big on manicures. Never have been.”

That’s when I got the message. I was under the influence of powerful drugs. The girl in the sweatshirt didn’t exist. I had made her up.

“How’re you doing, Mr. B.?” Mel asked. Sidling up to the other side of the bed, she called me by her currently favored pet name and planted a kiss on my cheek. “I talked to the doctor. He said you did great. They’ll keep you here in the recovery room for an hour or two, until they’re sure you’re stable, and then they’ll trans­fer you to your room. I called the kids, by the way, and let every­body know that you came through surgery like a champ.”

This was all good news, but I didn’t feel like a champ. I felt more like a chump.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the nurse asked. “Some water? Some juice?”

I didn’t want anything to drink right then because part of me was still looking for the girl. Part of me was still convinced she had been there, but I couldn’t imagine who else she might have been. One of Ron Peters’s girls, maybe? Heather and Tracy had both gone to WSU. Of the two, I’d always had a special connec­tion with the younger one, Heather. As a kid she was a cute little blond-­ haired beauty whose blue-­ eyed grin had kept me in my place, properly wrapped around her little finger. At fifteen, a barely recognizable Heather, one with hennaed hair and numer­ous piercings, had gone into full-­fledged off-­the-­rails teenage re­bellion, complete with your basic bad-­ to-­ the-bone boyfriend.

In the aftermath of said boyfriend’s death, unlamented by anyone but Heather, her father and stepmother had managed to get the grieving girl on track. She had reenrolled in school, gradu­ated from high school, and gone on to a successful college experi­ence. One thing I did know clearly—­ this was September. That meant that, as far as I knew, Heather was off at school, too, work­ing on a Ph.D. somewhere in the wilds of New Mexico. So, no, my mysterious visitor couldn’t very well be Heather Peters, either.

Not taking my disinterested answer about wanting something to drink for a real no, the nurse handed me a glass with water and a straw bent in my direction. “Drink,” she said. I took a reluctant sip, but I was still looking around the room; still searching.

Mel is nothing if not observant. “Beau,” she said. “Believe me, there’s nobody here in a WSU sweatshirt. And on my way here from the lobby, I didn’t meet anybody in the elevator or the hall­way who was wearing one, either.”

“Probably just dreaming,” the nurse suggested. “The stuff they use in the OR puts ’em out pretty good, and I’ve been told that the dreams that go along with the drugs can be pretty convincing.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” I insisted to the nurse. “She was right here just a few minutes ago—­right where you’re standing now. She was sitting on a stool.”

The nurse turned around and made a show of looking over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she said. “Was there a stool here? I must have missed it.”

But of course there was no stool visible anywhere in the recov­ery room complex, and no crimson sweatshirt, either.

The nurse turned to Mel. “He’s going to be here for an hour or so, and probably drifting in and out of it for most of that time. Why don’t you go get yourself a bite to eat? If you leave me your cell phone number, I can let you know when we’re moving him to his room.”

Allowing herself to be convinced, Mel kissed me again. “I am going to go get something,” she said.

“You do that,” I managed. “I think I’ll just nap for a while.”

My eyelids were growing heavy. I could feel myself drifting. The din of recovery room noise retreated, and just that quickly, the blonde was back at my bedside, sitting on a rolling stool that seemed to appear and disappear like magic at the same time she did. The cascade of swinging hair still shielded her face, and she was still filing her nails.

I’ve had recurring dreams on occasion, but not very often. Most of the time it’s the kind of thing where something in the dream, usually something bad, jars me awake. When I go back to sleep, the dream picks up again, sometimes in exactly the same place, but a slightly different starting point can lead to a slightly different outcome.

This dream was just like that. I was still in the bed in the recov­ery room, but Mel was gone and so was my nurse. Everyone else in the room was faded and fuzzy, like from the days before high-­ def appeared. Only the blonde on the stool stood out in clear relief against everything else.

“Who are you?” I asked. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

She didn’t look up. “You said you’d never forget me,” she said accusingly, “but you have, haven’t you?”

I was more than a little impatient with all the phony game playing. “How can I tell?” I demanded. “You won’t even tell me your name.”

“My name is Monica,” she answered quietly. “Monica Welling­ton.”

Then she lifted her head and turned to face me. Once the hair was swept away, however, I was appalled to see that there was no face at all. Instead, what peered at me over the neck of the crimson sweatshirt was nothing but a skull, topped by a headful of gor­geous long blond hair, parted in the middle.

“You promised my mother that you’d find out who did it,” she said. “You never did.”

With that she was gone, plunging me into a strange existence where the boundaries between memory and dream blurred some­how, leaving me to relive that long-­ ago time in every jarring detail.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Fiction/Suspense/Mystery
Published by: William Morrow
Publication Date: 9/10/13
Number of Pages: 368
ISBN: 9780062134677

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