Many people obsess over their past, but no one more than I. Perchance it’s because, as a man out of time, I left behind so much of it unlived. If that makes little sense, consider that I’m a time traveler.

Although the backdrop for my story is time travel and alternate realities, the underlying theme is a more human one—of love lost, another love found only to be lost, and of a decision, the result of a single regret brought about by the realization that my self-professed courage to never risk my heart to love was instead cowardice, to rectify a wrong in a life filled with myriad regrets. You may judge me, as it is man’s nature to judge others, or discount my story as the ravings of a lunatic mind or simply the fiction of an overactive imagination—but before you do, I ask that you read the words that follow and then ask yourself if you would have acted any differently.

Chapter 22 (Chapter 1 of January’s Thaw)

May 1947

 … At that point the door to Lance’s and my room burst in and I turned to see the German I’d roughed up in the men’s room during dinner last night, his left eye an angry pink and swollen nearly shut, and I froze—I was staring down the barrel of the strangest looking pistol I’d ever seen, and I felt my stomach sink. My holster and gun still hung on the back of the bath­room door; not that having it on me would’ve done much good—any move to draw it would only have rewarded me with a bullet.

I watched the German survey the room at a glance. Seemingly dissatisfied with what he saw, he transferred to his left hand the gun he held trained on me, stepped quickly to where I stood, and launched his right fist to catch me on my jaw. I’d been expecting it—his revenge for my spilling him so incommodiously in a pool of his own urine—but I had the satis­faction of maintaining my balance and holding onto my feet. I could see the German’s disappointment.

Lance launched himself from his sitting position on the edge of the bed, but the German was quick to point his gun at Lance, and Lance slowly sat back down on the bed.

I held myself in check; if there was any chance for me to get us out of this predicament, I’d have to keep my wits about me and calculate my best opportunity.

“It’s okay, Lance,” I said. “I’ve taken better shots than that.”

The German looked at Professor MacIntyre and said, “You haff someting dat does not belong to you.”

The professor looked at me and I gave a quick, barely perceptible shake of my head. When he said nothing, the German backhanded him across his left cheek.

“Stop it!” Melissa cried. “He doesn’t have what you’re looking for.”

“Nein?” the German asked. “I do not belief you. Vould you like to see vat I do wiss someone I do not belief?”

“Knock it off,” I said. “She’s telling the truth. They don’t have it. But I know where it is.”

The German eyed me suspiciously, trying to see past my poker face; he failed and I watched indecision creep into his expression. I continued my bluff.

“Rest assured if anything happens to any of us you’ll never see it.” I watched the German consider several options and realized that his logical mind had little experience dealing with illogical Americans who were as apt to lie as tell the truth—a valuable weapon that I committed to use to my advan­tage. Once I was certain my statement had set in, I continued.

“You can search our rooms, our persons and our baggage, but you won’t find it because it’s not here.”

The German said nothing.

“It’s in New York, locked away.”

“Mr. January—”

I cut off Melissa with a sharp look, which the German couldn’t miss. Melissa couldn’t know that her interjection was the proof the German needed to conclude I spoke the truth. I’d bought us the time necessary to get us out of this jam. Now to seal the deal by giving him something that would assure him of our short-term cooperation.

“The professor has something else you’ll need,” I said. He needed MacIntyre’s time travel gadget even more than the cube; but he couldn’t know that the future to which he planned to return, triumphantly bearing the artifact that held the secret of Hitler’s location, would not be his own. Trapped in this alter­nate timeline, one in which Germany had lost World War II and therefore cut off from his own future, he’d surely end up traveling to a different future from the one to which Regis had returned.

“Professor,” I said. “Give him the time travel mechanism.” I saw MacIntyre’s reticence. I nodded reassurance, the need for compliance with hope we might yet work this to our advantage. He took from his jacket pocket a small contrivance composed of a keypad and a tiny screen and handed it to the German.

“Now,” I said, “the gentleman on the other bed is Lance, my pilot. He flew us out here from New York. Our plane is a short distance from here. I suggest he fly us all back to New York where we can get what you’re looking for into your greedy little hands.”

“I do not trust you,” the German said.

“No? Well, I don’t believe I would either, were I in your shoes. But really, what choice do you have?” When he didn’t reply, I continued. “Look, you’ve got your time travel device there, which you’ll need to get back to from where you came.”

After a moment, he shook his head and said, “Your pilot vill fly me und Professor MacIntyre to New York. You und zee girl, I tink, are expendable.”

“Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “Professor MacIntyre sent the package you’re looking for to his daughter with instructions—instructions that, due to circumstances Professor MacIntyre couldn’t have foreseen, she couldn’t follow. In short, it’s not where he thinks it is. As for me, well, like I said, if anything happens to any one of us, you’ll never see it. Sure, you might be able to extricate the information, but really, there’s no need for that gamble, not when you can so easily get what you’re after without anyone getting hurt. I think you can rest assured that Professor MacIntyre isn’t going to risk his daughter by trying anything foolish, and I’m not going to jeopardize my friend, Lance, either. We all go or none of us goes,” I finished in a facsimile of a reasonable tone.

After a moment of deliberation, the German conceded.

“Great. Now put that thing away,” I said, referring to the pistol he still held. “Lance, grab your bag and we’ll all adjourn to Melissa’s room next door so she can finish getting dressed and packed and we can be on our way.”

Twenty minutes later we were in the lobby checking out of our rooms. The German no doubt would’ve preferred we leave with little fanfare, drawing as little attention to ourselves as possible; but I suspected he’d be loath to make a scene in a public setting, so I simply guided our group to the desk so that Melissa could return our keys and pay our bill.

The German kept a safe distance, watching me carefully for any sign of betrayal, with an occasional menacing glance at Lance and Professor MacIntyre. The Professor, I knew, would do nothing to endanger his daughter, and I hoped Lance would do nothing but instead wait for me to make a move and then react. I scanned the lobby: a few hotel patrons milled about, but I saw no one more uniformed than a couple bellhops. I could expect no help from Indy’s finest.

A few minutes later we were passing through the revolv­ing doors of the hotel—Melissa went first, followed by her father, Lance, me, and the German last, with his hand on his pistol, which I knew was nestled out of sight in his inside breast pocket. I purposely followed Lance, ahead of the German, with my hands in plain sight, hoping to put him at ease. Once we were clear of the revolving door, I took the lead and stepped into the driveway, toward the train station.

“Vhere are you go-ink?” the German snapped.

“The train will take us to where our plane is parked,” I said.

“Nein. Vee vill go by taxi.” Apparently he felt he would be safer and more in control in the less public confines of a car.

“Fine,” I said. I stepped back up onto the curb and raised my hand to hail one of the waiting cabs. The German suddenly looked uncertain, distrustful of my acceptance of his choice to take a cab; he maintained his distance—close enough to remain a menace, yet far enough away to prevent me from taking action against him.

While the cabbie loaded our bags into the trunk, I instructed Melissa and Professor MacIntyre to get into the backseat and Lance into the front seat. I expected the German would want his hostages in the back with him, and Lance and me in the front, where we could take no action and he could best keep an eye on us. He seemed agreeable with the seating arrangements.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked as he slammed the trunk.

“The speedway,” I said, making my way to the driver’s door. I bent to give the illusion I was getting in; the German, also on the driver’s side, perhaps not wishing to give me a chance to give instructions to Lance, followed close, and when he stepped one foot into the backseat, I launched my shoulder, with all my weight, against the open passenger door. The German was knocked off balance and, as he lost his footing, I heard his head crack the doorframe.

“Ach.”

“Hey,” the cabbie said. “What are you doing?”

The door rebounded from the German and I launched myself against it a second time. “This gent isn’t with our party,” I said as I made my way around the passenger door. The stunned German was on the ground. I reached inside his breast pocket and removed the pistol, and then reached first into one hip pocket and then the other to find and retrieve the time travel device. I threw both into the backseat where a startled Melissa gasped, “Mr. January!” I was dimly aware that another cab had pulled up behind ours, its driver perhaps wanting to help.

I grabbed the German by the lapels, pulled him up and clear of the cab and gave him a shove into our cabbie, who in turn stumbled backward and went down with the German on top of him; the keys to the cab spilled from his hand.

“Hey—” he said.

I retrieved the keys along with my hat, which had fallen off, and jumped into the cab, fired the ignition and sped off. In the rearview mirror I could see the German, already on his feet, wrestling with the second cabbie. I watched him hit him once and then jump into the second cab. A moment later he threw his pursuit into drive.

“Keep an eye on that other cab,” I told Lance. “I’ve got to find 16^th Street—it shouldn’t be far, a few blocks north of here. From there I’ll be able to find the track.”

Yesterday, when Melissa and I had boarded the train, I’d noted the location of the track’s main gate was at the corner of 16^th and Georgetown. I was certain that 16^th Street would find its way to downtown. All I had to do from there was head west.

I turned left on Meridian—north. A few blocks later we hit Monument Circle. The State Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, designed by Bruno Schmitz, one of Germany’s foremost archi­tects of monuments, resides at the circle’s center, marking the center of the city. I found it ironic, in lieu of our circumstances that day, that Schmitz’s monument, built to honor Hoosier heroes who died in wars before World War I, was his only commission outside of Germany and Switzerland.

A number of downtown streets radiated outward from Monument Circle, and I hoped to pick up Meridian again on the other side of the monument. I turned the wheel hard to the right and felt-heard our tires chatter-squeak over the brick street as I hit the gas again, now following the circle around to our left and picking up Meridian once more. Two blocks later, weaving through traffic and driving through the red traffic light at West New York, I said, “How are we doing, Lance? He still with us?”

“Yeah, he got caught behind some traffic at the light … but he’s through now—darn near ran down a pedestrian.”

I looked at the street signs at each intersection. Thus far I’d been fortunate, maneuvering through traffic with relative ease and passing through most of the intersections without having to slow more than a little. I hoped my luck would hold.

I saw 11^th Street.

“He’s still with us,” Lance said. “He’s not gaining but we’re not pulling away either.”

We sailed through the traffic light at 12^th as it turned amber; I kept the accelerator to the floorboard.

“He had to slow for that one, and swerve to miss a car crossing the intersection.”

I breathed a little easier. We were coming up on traffic; I hoped he would lose sight of us when we turned left. He knew where we were headed, but my bet was that he had no idea how to get there. He’d have to stay on our tail to find the track. We’d come upon 16^th Street.

“Damn,” I breathed.

“What is it?” Lance asked.

“I was hoping to lose him here, but for that sign.” Speedway the sign read, with an arrow pointing left.

“Maybe he won’t see it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I said coming out of our left turn with a squeal of tires. “I didn’t miss it and I wasn’t looking for it.” A moment later I added, “Let me know—”

“There he is!” Lance called out. “He’s still with us.”

“It’s going to be a drag race from here,” I said.

“What are you going to do if you can’t lose him?” Professor MacIntyre asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Improvise.”

For the next several miles, leaving downtown behind, we played cat and mouse; I managed to gain some distance at what seemed alternating intersections only to lose it at the others, always maintaining a lead of between a half-block and a block. I was relieved that traffic in this small suburb of Indianapolis was but a fraction of what it would’ve been had I been playing this high-speed game back in Manhattan.

The track suddenly sprang up on our right—I caught sight of the walkway Melissa and I had used yesterday to cross over the backstretch too late to negotiate the necessary right turn to access it.

Improvise, I thought, and kept going.

The next right turn would take us into the infield, where the Stinson T was parked, by crossing the racetrack. I was get­ting us closer to our getaway vehicle, but unfortunately I was no closer to losing our tenacious pursuer.

I stood on the brake pedal and turned the wheel hard to the right; the cab’s tires screamed their protest as we slid around, fishtailing wildly several times while I fought to keep the car under control; I stepped on the gas and the cab straightened out. The German would have more time to slow for the right turn I’d taken, and I knew I’d lost precious distance. But that seemed secondary in the face of the wooden barricade that suddenly appeared in front of us, designed to regulate the flow of cars entering the infield. Beyond the moveable barricade, the wooden swinging gate that spanned the gap in the concrete retaining wall of the track during the race was, thankfully, open.

“Oh, no!” I heard Melissa whisper.

“Joe!” Lance said, bracing his hands against the dash­board.

“Hold on,” I said, slowing to give the barricade’s attendant the illusion we were coming to a stop. As soon as he neared the cab’s window I stood on the gas again—through the open window I heard the attendant call, “Hey!” His voice faded out with distance even before it finished its single syllable exclamation—and I drove through the barricade in a shower of splintering wood.

The German was right behind us. While I’d slowed to nearly a stop, he’d been able to keep his momentum and I felt his bump from behind just as I drove onto the track. He caught me on the left corner hard enough to cause our cab to spin in that direction. I heard Melissa stifle a scream.

Improvise.

I steered into the spin to keep us from doing a complete one-eighty, and at ninety degrees I hit the gas again and headed off down the brick racetrack toward a broad sweeping turn to the left. Glancing in the mirror I could see the German bringing his cab around to continue pursuit. I’d bought us some time but now I heard and felt something amiss—our cab had sustained enough damage in the collision to cause a fender rub.

As we picked up speed the sound of the tire rub grew louder. The sweeping turn emptied us out onto the backstretch. I saw the walkway that spanned the track and beyond that, better than half a mile distant, the brick surface of the track seemed to dwindle to a tiny dot on the horizon. On our right, lying up against the outside retaining wall, I caught a glimpse of a rabbit. I surmised it had been struck by a practicing racecar and an image of the racecar as a dog in pursuit of the rabbit in front of a bloodthirsty cheering crowd came to my mind’s eye. No blood, the rabbit hadn’t been run over and crushed but instead struck and sent flying into the wall, at the base of which it now lay in a fetal position; yet it didn’t really matter, dead was still dead, despite its appearance of mere peaceful repose.

Hell of a place to take a nap, I thought, checking the rearview mirror. The German was gaining on us at a rapid pace. I could see his murderous glare above the steering wheel of the cab, and I wondered if the swollen black eye I’d given him last night might affect his depth perception.

As we picked up speed the sound of the tire rub seemed to lessen: its pitch had either reached a higher decibel, or the fender was fast removing rubber, alleviating the pressure of the tire against its surface. The cab wanted to veer left; I fought the wheel to keep it in a straight line.

The walkway flashed over us as we continued to pick up speed; I saw the end of the long straightaway begin to curl to the left as a new sound came to my ears. I glanced up into the mirror to see the German still gaining on us, but bearing down on him was a blue and white racecar. I inched the cab over closer to the inside of the track, away from the wall, to allow the racecar to pass us on the right. A moment later it thundered past, a rocket on wheels, its shiny body dotted with colorful decals, its big narrow fenderless tires gliding over the bricks while its driver, in the open cockpit, clutched at the big steering wheel and looked over at us from behind goggles, leaving us behind in a wake of high octane exhaust as if we were stand­ing still, despite our speedometer’s claim that we were traveling at nearly ninety miles per hour.

“Joe …” I heard Melissa squeal, nearly hysterical.

I hazarded a glance at Lance, his hands braced against the dashboard, eyes big as portabella mushrooms, and I wondered if the poor rabbit we’d passed had seen the speeding car at the last moment (I saw the oncoming car reflected in its eyes), and whether they, too, had grown to such overwhelming proportions.

We were fast approaching the next turn and I guided the cab out toward the middle of the track. I wanted to take the turn at the highest speed possible, and I reasoned that to do that I’d have to take the longest possible arc through the turn; not the shortest route, but the fastest. I glanced up into the mirror to see the German had slowed noticeably, perhaps in deference to the approaching turn or unsure of my intention, and I noted also, with satisfaction, that he was still close to the apron of the track.

We had reached the end of the long straightaway. Without lifting my foot from the gas, I gently aimed the car back down toward the inside of the track. I heard both Lance and Melissa call out “Joe” at the same time I heard the professor’s more formal “Mr. January …” All three tones rose slightly at the end, as if we were on a roller coaster anticipating our stomachs dropping as our car topped the next crest. I reminded myself that this was no thrill ride.

The tires squealed as they fought against the cab’s desire to slide back up toward the wall. Halfway through the turn I remembered to exhale and felt the cab drift back up toward the outside wall. I risked a glance into the mirror to see we’d put considerable distance between ourselves and the German, but I also noted that he’d moved over to take a similar line through the next turn, hoping to make up the distance he’d lost.

We were halfway down the short straight to the next sweeping turn that would lead us onto the long front straightaway and toward the south end of the track—away from where Lance had parked the Stinson T. My foot still pressing the gas pedal to the floor, I pointed the cab toward the bottom of the turn; a moment later the tires again voiced their displeasure at being treated with so little regard.

Halfway through the turn we began to drift toward the concrete retaining wall I was certain had claimed the life of many a racecar driver. The sound of the tire rub had further diminished and, grateful that it was a left side tire and not one on the right side—the side that had borne most of the stress as we raced through the long left turns—I wondered how much tread might yet remain.

We came out of the turn in the middle of the track with another five-eighths’ mile of straightaway in front of us. In the rearview mirror I saw the other cab fishtail wildly. The German steered into the slide, which took him to within inches of the wall; still he was gaining on us rapidly. In front of me, to our left, was the entrance to the pit area, where during the race the cars received their service—fuel, tires and whatever maintenance might be required during a five-hundred-mile marathon.

Improvise.

I eased my foot off the accelerator and pointed the cab toward the pits. The other cab was beside us now, on our right, and I felt its nudge as the German bumped us, hoping to scare me into bringing us to a stop. I heard Melissa squeal and I braked, not to placate her but to allow the other cab to pass us; when he was clear of us he veered left and, now directly in front of us, began to slow. I hit the gas and steered right. Before the German could react, I managed to come abreast of his right rear quarter panel with my left front; at that point I veered left, hitting and causing the German to start to spin. The German turned left, realizing too late that he was heading for a large holding tank, used during the race to put gas into a racecar. I heard the squeal of tires—thankfully not our own—and wondered how much gas might be in the tank. I glanced up into the rearview mirror to see the German throw up his hands as his cab hit the holding tank at nearly forty miles per hour. I averted my eyes from the brightness of the explosion.

I kept up our speed, driving down the pit lane looking for an opening in the wall through which we could find our way into the infield. On the wall to our left, as we passed individual pit boxes, colorfully painted car sponsors flashed by—Preston Tucker, Federal Engineering, Bowes Seal Fast. We sped past the blue and white car that had passed us on the back­stretch—Blue Crown Spark Plug the letters painted on its engine cowl identified. Its driver, still strapped in the cockpit, its mechanics huddled around the car, watched us go by. Seconds later we passed half a dozen men on foot racing toward the burning cab we’d left a quarter mile behind.

Eventually I saw an opening in the pit wall; I slowed and wheeled our cab to the left and drove under a sign that proclaimed Gasoline Alley. A cab driving through the garage area drew many curious glances, but no one approached us. Perhaps they were too startled; they couldn’t know that the rising smoke beyond the grandstand hadn’t been caused by a racecar that had crashed.

A few minutes later, while Lance fired up the Stinson T, I loaded our bags; a few minutes later still we were airborne. As my adrenaline ebbed, my fear of flying caught up with me as we cleared the trees at the south end of the track.

***

In 1992, a man approached J. Conrad Guest to tell his story. His name was Joe January. A private investigator from the South Bronx, circa 1940, January can best be described as an indignant Humphrey Bogart. That encounter resulted in January’s Paradigm. Current Entertainment Monthly in Ann Arbor, Michigan, wrote of January’s Paradigm, “Personal identity—the slipperiness and the malleability of it—makes up the major theme of the story … (readers) will not be able to put it down.” One Hot January and January’s Thaw are companion novels to January’s Paradigm, although they need not be read sequentially. Combined, they paint a profile of a man out of place out of time.

J. Conrad Guest is the author of Backstop: A Baseball Love Story in Nine Innings, also available from Second Wind Publishing. For a peek into J. Conrad’s literary world, please visit www.jconradguest.com.

After a student’s lifeless body turns up in a seedy part of town, an immigrant community leader contacts Kendra. What does she know about her missing students’ activities, their families’ illegal status?

Searching for the missing girls, Kendra enters a dark world where passports and flesh are currency. When a second murder puts her in the police spotlight, she is unaware a trap is about to close around her.

Chapter One

Saturday, October 9

Kendra retreated farther beneath the yellow awning and opened a bottle of cold water. The temperature had risen steadily since 8 a.m. when she’d arrived at the park. At the end of the day, would she end up with new customers or just with a case of heat stroke? Hopefully, after the canine fashion show and agility events came to an end there would be a line of customers at her booth. She settled onto a large ice chest embossed with the Waggy Tails logo and fanned herself with a brochure.

This annual Doggie Day event had long been a favorite with higher income dog owners, so she’d jumped at the chance to promote her pet sitting business which had fallen off at the end of summer. While on a leave of absence from her regular job, she counted on the income, but so far the day had been a wash. Along with her competitors, vendors had come to sell everything from grooming services to pet portraits. Kendra’s booth partner had drifted off an hour ago to distribute flyers for Waggy Tails shelter—or more likely, to socialize—leaving her bored, restless, and second-guessing her idea to attend.

A bleat of microphone feedback brought Kendra back to her feet. The organizer thanked everyone for participating and suggested they spend time browsing the booths. Almost immediately, the aisle in front of her teemed with boisterous children, their sweating parents and a wide variety of canines in various states of arousal.

For the next half hour Kendra did double duty, fielding questions about the shelter and publicizing her own dog walking business. At the first lull, she picked up her purse and headed for the ice cream stand. She was waylaid by a bony man wearing shorts and a T-shirt with Bridges printed across the chest in large italics. He handed her a leaflet, saying, “Appreciate your help,” then quickly moved on.

She glanced at the sheet of goldenrod paper, expecting to see an advertisement, but the headline brought her to a full stop. And when she saw the two headshots, the cheerful clamor around her receded as if this piece of paper had carved out a dark and lonely space of its own. After skimming the Spanish text, she turned to the English section to make sure she fully comprehended. Under the words, REWARD FOR INFORMATION, the text read:

The Arbor City Mayor’s office has authorized a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and prosecution of the person(s) responsible for the death of Imelda Perez.

On Monday, October 4, at 2:00 a.m., the nude body of the victim, aged 16, was discovered near the corner of Southbridge and 8^th Street. The Medical Examiner has ruled this death a homicide.

Also, approximately 2 hours later, the body of a second victim, an unidentified white female approximately 20 years of age, was found at the side of the Interstate near the 18^th Street on-ramp. These incidents may be related.

Anyone with information regarding this crime, or who saw either victim earlier in the day is urged to contact one of the following:

Arbor City Police Department:  555-2677  (555-COPS)
Citizens’ Crime Alert Line: 555-8477  (555-TIPS)
Bridges Multicultural Teen Center:  555-4357  (555-HELP)

All information will be held in confidence.

Kendra rushed to catch up to the Bridges man. “Excuse me, I might have some information about Imelda.”

The man ran his eyes over her. An eyebrow went up. Was he questioning what a Caucasian, middle-class looking young female in her twenties could possibly know about the life of someone like Imelda? At another time, Kendra might have challenged his narrow perspective, but this wasn’t about her.

The man asked, “Do you have any knowledge of her activities on October 3^rd or 4^th?”

“This girl—she went to Standard High, is that right?”

“Yes.”

Imelda dead! The immediacy of the death hit her like a punch to the gut. And the second girl’s photo rang a bell; was she also enrolled last spring in the Special Ed. program? If so, like Imelda, she’d been truant more often than not.

The man sensed her distress and asked, “Are you all right, Miss?”

Kendra nodded as she straightened. “I just—I knew her.”

“You a friend?”

“I’m a teacher. My name’s Kendra Desola. She was in my Vocational Skills class. How—”

“Someone strangled her, then dumped her on the street like a piece of trash. If you know who she hung out with, that might help us find who did this to her.”

Kendra shook her head. “No, sorry. I haven’t seen her since last June, but I can give you a few people to call. Maretta Edwards, especially, should be able to tell you more.” She took the offered pen and quickly wrote down several teachers’ phone numbers. She’d call Maretta herself when she got home.

“Well, if you do think of anything, you have our flyer. I’ll get back to it, then. See you.”

She stood dumbfounded until a large poodle bumped her back into the moment. As she swept her head to look around, the sun burned into her eyes and she fled back to the shade beneath her canopy. After frantically rooting through her pocketbook for her prescription eye drops, she finally spilled the entire contents to the ground before resigning herself to four more hours of discomfort. Zipping the purse up again she remembered putting the medicine in her dog walking pack—before making a last minute decision to bring her purse instead.

“Are you all right? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

It was Bridges again. Blinking away the pain, she shook her head. “I’m fine, just too much sun. What can I do for you?”

He held out his clipboard and gave her a self-conscious grin “Sorry to bug you again. I should have gotten your personal information as well, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course.” She bent to the form. When she looked up to hand back the clipboard, the Bridges man had stepped away and was handing out more leaflets. He gave one to a man coming toward her booth with a large dog at his side. Although her faulty vision made people watching a chore, something about him immediately caught her interest. Maybe it was the way he and his large dog threaded effortlessly through the churning crowd without as much as a leash tangle. Was he a professional athlete? When he stepped up to her booth, she had only a second to collect herself enough to make sure her tongue wasn’t hanging out. Golden hair, blue eyes, symmetrical features, and a smile that intimated that he’d invented it just for her.

At that moment, Bridges darted back for his clipboard, apologized for the intrusion and went on his way. Meanwhile, the Olympic god in front of her was reading his copy of the Bridges handout. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by something close to contempt. He crushed the paper into a ball and with an agile movement shot it into a trashcan several yards away. His dog reacted by jumping up for a game of go fetch, but was quickly commanded to heel.

“It’s just horrible what goes on these days,” he said. “No one’s really safe anymore. I don’t know what’s happened to this town.”

Kendra felt her own smile fail. This is his reaction to news about two brutally murdered teenage girls? Perhaps he belonged to the class of people who spent their lives living in a bubble. The silence felt awkward, so she put on her most businesslike smile and, hoping she wouldn’t have to go through the entire spiel again, asked, “Are you familiar with Waggy Tails shelter?”

“Sure am,” he said. His eyes passed from the dog collars the shelter was selling to Kendra’s business cards. “Ah, I could use a dog walker. Do you know if she’s any good?”

“That’s my card, actually, and yes, I am,” Kendra said. “Is this the dog you want walked?”

The man gave his pet a reassuring pat. “He’s a good mutt—except for eating my shoes. I got him from a shelter, not Waggy Tails, another one. They couldn’t give me much history except someone dumped him outside their office with wounds covering his body. He’s a real love when he gets to know you.”

“What a terrible life he must have had! But he looks like he’s getting good care now.”

The dog seemed to know he was the subject of conversation and tilted his head toward his master. “He’s quite spoiled, actually, prances around like he’s a pedigree or something but his ears are kind of funky, see? He must be only half Lab and who knows what the other half is? But we don’t care, do we boy?”

“I can see that.” Kendra hoped the remark encompassed everything.

The man aimed a look at her that made her knees go weak. She cursed herself when her pulse quickened in defiance of directives from her higher brain.

“We certainly could use someone like you for walks. Let me introduce myself. My name’s Roger Rhus and this here is Jackson.” He pressed his business card into her hand.

Roger Rhus, Attorney at Law. She should have gotten a clue about his profession from the way he’d been speaking to her, slowly enunciating each word as if he assumed she lacked intelligence. One of the hardest things about her current stint as a pet sitter was adjusting to being treated like an unintelligent, high school dropout who couldn’t get a different sort of job. But then, how would Mr. Rhus ever imagine she was really a Special Ed. teacher on a leave of absence?

She rounded the table and slowly approached the chocolate brown Lab, but when she got within arm’s reach, the animal shied away.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t like being touched by strangers,” Roger explained.

Kendra wasn’t sure she wanted a skittish pet for a client. She could handle students with issues, but she didn’t have the training or experience to deal with neurotic dogs. Still, she needed customers and this guy’s Rolex told her that he could afford to pay top dollar. Then again, some of the wealthiest people turned out to be the stingiest clients.

Perhaps she could charge him more if she gave him the routine where she pretended to be so busy and exclusive she’d take only certain clientele. What a crock, but she’d learned how the business world worked. In that respect, she couldn’t wait to return to teaching. “I’d have to see if I can fit you into my schedule. What exactly were you wanting, daily walks or pet care for a vacation or…?”

“I’ve been working long hours recently. Jackson hasn’t been getting enough exercise. Would you be able to walk him once a day for, let’s say, an hour? I hope you don’t charge the same hourly rate we lawyers do.” He grinned at his joke.

She decided to double down and quote him an exorbitant fee, one that would cover taxi fare in case he lived away from the bus lines. She had no intention of telling him she couldn’t see well enough to drive, even if it was temporary. “My fee is forty dollars an hour, payment due at time of service,” she answered firmly and waited for him to refuse or try to talk her down.

“No problem. Do you have references?”

She handed him a Kendra’s Critter Service packet to take with him, although she expected this would be the last she ever heard from him.

“I’ll look over your material and be in touch,” he said.

“I’ll have to make sure Jackson won’t be afraid of me when I visit him at home alone. I may have to spend an hour or two with him the first time before I can get him on a leash.”

“Of course, I understand.”

The Lab heard the word home, shook himself and pulled away. “I think my boy wants to go home now. I’ll call you as soon as I check your references. Nice to meet you.”

***

Mickey Hoffman was born in Chicago, and attended public schools where she acquired the strong suspicion that some of her teachers might be human. She wasn’t able to prove this fanciful thinking until much later, when she became a high school teacher herself.

Before landing in the halls of academia, she worked in a variety of jobs, including computer typesetting and wholesale frozen fish sales.

The author is also a printmaker and painter and resides on the West Coast with her long suffering mate, eight marine aquariums and a very large cat. Mickey is also the author of School of Lies, the first Kendra Desola mystery.

Four brothers leave their home in the northeast in the 1930′s and converge in Los Angeles after WWII. A lawyer, a mobster, a screenwriter and a shopkeeper, each of these men makes a profound impact on the emerging world of postwar California as they deal with the impact their shared history has had upon them.

Celluloid Strangers evokes a time and place in American life: Los Angeles before and after the HUAC hearings, blacklistings, and betrayals.

Chapter One

Morris stared at the sun reflecting off the swimming pool’s surface, wondering what his fraternal twin brother, Benny, needed to see him about. 1938 had faded into 1948 the way a baby yawns; ten years without a word and just the day before the telephone rang.

The pool was clear, like recently cleaned coffee table glass. It was one of those Los Angeles Sundays that reinforced Morris’ conviction to never return to the concrete-sky winters of his childhood. The shadows of palm trees and sequoias in his Beverly Glen backyard collided on the tan patio tiles, creating borders for the ants and spiders that crept out from the rose bushes. A lawnmower from the neighbor’s yard diluted the radio news he had been listening to. The air smelled of fertilizer and the smoke from his Lucky Strike. His lips tasted of the scotch he was sipping.

Morris loved the pool more than the actual house, even though at thirty-five he still carried his childhood embarrassment from not knowing how to swim. As kids in Dorchester, Massachusetts, he and Benny had relieved themselves from the annual August heat by removing their shoes and dipping bare feet into the pond at Franklin Park. Now the pond was dried up, gone—never to be seen again. Morris had thought the same of Benny, until the day before.

When Morris first came to California he told himself that one day he would have a swimming pool of his own to dip his feet into. He now looked about this backyard and felt he had “made good,” as his father, Henry, might have said.

A turn of the wrist, a look to the new Bulova timepiece his wife, Helen, had given him just a month before for Christmas. Benny was late. Morris held his breath; hoped his brother might not show. The lawnmower stopped and the news from the large Philco radio box facing out the patio door could be heard clearly. Helen had bought the wood-sided Philco during the war, when Morris was away, but it still had perfect reception.

THE HOUSE UN-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE, ALSO KNOWN AS HUAC, IS CONTINUING ITS PROBE INTO COMMUNIST SUBVERSION, CLOSING HEARINGS IN WASHINGTON AND MOVING THEM TO CALIFORNIA. TWO MONTHS AGO HUAC FOUND TEN HOLLYWOOD EMPLOYEES IN CONTEMPT. MOTION PICTURE INDUSTRY OFFICIALS CONTEND THAT IT IS NOT NECESSARY FOR HEARINGS IN LOS ANGELES. SUNRISE PICTURES HEAD, LOUIS B. KATZ, STATES THAT HE AND OTHER EXECUTIVES SUPPORT THE CONGRESSIONAL OUTCOME, THAT THE INDICTMENTS HAVE PUT THE ISSUE TO REST, AND THAT HIS AND OTHER STUDIOS CAN NOW CONTINUE WITH THE ENTERPRISE OF COMBINING GOOD PICTURE MAKING WITH GOOD CITIZENSHIP.

Morris looked to his drink. Empty. The news made him wonder about his younger brother, Simon, a contracted screenwriter with Sunrise. Mostly, the lawyer in Morris took over; he wasn’t really interested in Simon, he was curious to learn if his brother knew any of the ten indicted. He was certain his younger brother was no Red.

Another look to his wristwatch. Where the hell is he? Morris thought. He had no desire to see Benny, but he wanted him to be on time. Morris smothered his cigarette in the ashtray, took his empty glass and left the umbrella shade of the patio table to pour another drink inside, trying to recall anything about the last time he had been with Benny.

Ten years. It might as well have been ten decades. It had taken Morris a few moments to recognize his twin’s voice on the telephone the day before. The last time he had heard that voice was when Benny moved from Boston to Los Angeles in 1938. Benny had slept on the couch of Morris and Helen’s one-bedroom apartment on Wilshire Boulevard for two weeks, living out of a suitcase with three changes of clothes and a shaving kit. Their mother had been dead for years. There was nothing left in Boston. Benny had been the last of the four brothers to let go. When he arrived out west, Helen was working as a receptionist in an accounting office; Morris was finishing his law degree as a night school student. After two weeks, Benny said he had made contact with old friends from Dorchester and that he was moving. He didn’t mention where.

Morris knew who his brother had contacted and had said nothing. After that, the last Gandelman boy to move to California vanished. In the time since then Morris had completed law school and heard rumors about Benny; some he wanted to know, others he wished he had not. But he never saw his twin.

Morris went to the front room of the house, stopped and thought of how far he had come in ten years. He worked for almost nothing those first years out of law school and held to the idea that if he could just make a name for himself—a decent, respectable name—he would one day “make good.” When he had told Helen he was going to run for Los Angeles City Council five months ago, she was perplexed. She never thought her husband had a chance. No Jew—not even a lawyer who had taken his gentile wife’s surname—was going to be elected. She tried to conceal her frustration when Morris dreamed aloud: “If I make it to city council I can run for District Attorney, then State Legislature, maybe even Governor after that. If I become Governor, anything’s possible.” Helen admired her husband, but they were living in a two-bedroom with poor plumbing then. Still, she made telephone calls and passed out information literature on sidewalks after work, figuring that every man had something he needed to attempt. She rode the bus from neighborhood to neighborhood; going door to door in her best pin-dots on cinder red dress she bought at Bullock’s. She campaigned as if Morris was running for President of the United States.

When her husband won in November, she was shocked, but not as much as when the mayor announced that Morris G. Adams was to head the City Commission on Crime Enforcement.

This finally gave Morris the joy of telling Helen that she could quit her job. More than that, it gave him the respectability he had desired his whole life. He would have a reputation for being tough on crime. Helen kissed her husband and immediately informed him that he would be supporting somebody else as well: she was pregnant.

Three months later, just after 1948 arrived, Benny had called.

“Got your number from the telephone listings. I heard the good news,” Benny had said in a gravel-raked voice. “Congratulations, Mori. God, you’ve been married almost eleven years now. We were starting to get worried—no kids yet—thought there might be bad blood between you and Helen.” Benny laughed. Morris did not.

Morris had hung on how Benny had said, “we.” He did not want to speculate.

“It’s been a long time, Benny,” Morris had struggled to say.

“Long time, yes,” Benny had said. “We should see each other.”

“Sure. Maybe sometime in February.”

“No, Mori, we should see each other as soon as possible. You free tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Morris had said, more to himself.

“Great, tomorrow it is.” And the clap of Benny’s hand on a countertop rang through the receiver. “I hear your new house has a swimming pool, is that right?”

Morris and Helen had bought the house two weeks before Christmas. They never thought they would ever be able to live in Beverly Glen. Baldwin Hills or Silver Lake had always been the practical foresight.

“Yes, we have a pool,” Morris had said.

“Big man now, that’s what you are, big man living in Beverly Glen. Who would have thought back in Dorchester that one day Mori Gandelman would have a pool? See you tomorrow at noon.” Benny hung up. He had not asked for directions to the house.

Morris had asked Helen to leave the home for the afternoon so that he could visit with his brother alone. She put on a yellow-flowered sundress, still trying to avoid maternity clothes, and called her friend Eileen to play cards in the park. Morris gave his wife money for a cab, and by eleven he was already changed into his swimsuit and a white bathrobe with the initials MGA stitched over the breast pocket.

Morris wasn’t the drinking type, though sometimes he had a cocktail with a colleague after work or a glass of wine at dinner parties. But never anything regular. He didn’t even like coffee. Today he went to the liquor cabinet beside the phonograph console in the front room, found the Old Crow scotch bottle that had been bought purely for appearances and poured himself another short glass over ice. He had not smoked since law school, but he lit another cigarette from the pack he had taken from Helen’s new carton, happy she had switched from Pall Malls to Luckies. He turned off the Philco that was giving the results of the UCLA basketball game, and returned to the backyard.

Sitting on one of the bamboo deckchairs, Morris looked to the swimming pool again. The surface was now like a photograph left out in the rain, the palm tree reflections sinking into the water. He watched a leaf fall from a sycamore, then float about the water breaking the image and finally drown to the bottom of the deep end. He tapped cigarette ash, wondered where Benny could be, looked down and was surprised to find that his second drink was already gone.

He returned to the front room for another. As he dropped ice into his glass, the house bell chimed, followed by the front door opening.

“Hello?” Benny’s voice echoed off the checkered hallway tiles.

Morris sighed. He set the bottle down.

Benny emerged into the mustard-toned wallpapered room, arms stretched out. “Mori!” he bellowed.

Morris forced a smile; shocked that Benny had aged so much in ten years. He did not look like a thirty-five year-old, he appeared more like a man in his fifties, with deep valleys of skin defining his jaw—one of the only physical features they shared. Benny’s hair was unusually patchy, but everybody loses something. Seeing his brother, Morris was surprised by how his heart beat faster.

“Benny,” Morris said pleasantly and held out his hand. He got a hug, taken aback by how his brother nearly drove the air from his lungs. With Helen, Morris hugged in a gentle manner. For Morris G. Adams, there was a great power in gentleness.

“Let me see my baby brother’s teeth,” Benny said, releasing Morris from the hug and squeezing open his brother’s mouth with a thumb and forefinger. It annoyed Morris that Benny still referred to him as “baby brother” when they were born only four minutes apart. The grip hurt Morris’ jaw. “Goddamn, look at those straight whites. Only kid in Dorchester with perfect teeth and not one trip to the dentist. Big man, that’s what you are.” Benny released the grip and smiled a mouth of crooked teeth and fillings.

“How about a drink?” Morris suggested, patting Benny on the shoulder. He poured two scotches and handed one to Benny.

“L’chaim,” Benny said, “to life.”

Morris raised his glass. “L’chaim,” he repeated, uneasy with the phrase, and they clinked glasses.

“Nice Christmas tree,” Benny said, looking to the corner of the room at the bare pine Morris had not gotten around to removing. “Gone completely goy on us, haven’t you?”

Morris paused. “You can change in the guest room. It’s down the hall to your left.”

“No need,” Benny said. Morris noticed that his brother had brought nothing with him but the charcoal suit he was wearing, shrugged and led them out back.

“Wow,” Benny said. “Not just a pool but rose bushes, a fence, grass. Everything.”

Morris sat at the umbrella-shaded table, lit another cigarette, proud for the moment. Benny sat across from him, reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and produced a cigar. Benny was sweating profusely, not bothering to dab his forehead or upper lip with a handkerchief. It was an unusually warm winter but not unbearable.

“Saw out front you’re driving a Continental. I still got the Roadmaster, but it beats a Packard any day.” Benny stretched. “Nice place, Mori. Even got a flagpole out front. Really nice, I mean it.”

“Thanks Benny, glad you could come by.”

“Me, too.” Benny allowed Morris to light his cigar with a match and puffed heavy, tweezed it between his thick fingers that were so unlike Morris’ slender ones. “Where’s Helen?”

“Oh, she asked me to say she was sorry she couldn’t be here. With the baby coming, her doctor appointments are more frequent.”

“On Sunday?” Benny puffed on his cigar methodically. “No problem, I’ll see her when the kid arrives. What do you think, boy or girl?”

Morris did not want his children to know Benny. But the baby talk was simple stuff. “Helen wants a boy. I keep telling her that as long as it’s healthy, has all ten fingers and toes, I’ll be happy. But she’s already buying little blue outfits.”

“I always imagined you with a bunch of daughters to spoil. But a son, let’s hope for it. Gotta keep the Gandelman name going.”

Morris dragged his Lucky, sipped his drink. “Adams,” he said, unsure whether he should have allowed Benny’s comment to drift away with the tobacco smoke. “The child’s last name will be Adams, not Gandelman.”

Benny stared at Morris, skin crinkled at his brow, showing hints of his childhood indiscretion that had eventually gotten him kicked out of high school and sent off to a reform school in Worcester. “Right, Morris G. Adams. How could I forget? I guess that middle initial is just to remind yourself who you really are. Nice name for a big man.” He took a quick cigar puff. “Do what you do, I can’t stop you. Guess big brother Joe is the only chance for Pop’s name to pass on. A real shame. You should meet Joe’s kids, two pieces of work. Probably their mother’s influence.”

Morris had not wanted to discuss their family. But it was expected. “You see Joe?”

“Once in a while, when I visit Pop at the store.”

Morris definitely did not want to talk about their father. “Simon, you see Simon?”

“Simon? Sure I see him.” Benny jiggled the ice in his scotch with a casual turn of his wrist then said, “He’s doing great, isn’t he?”

“Yes, I suppose he is.”

“Simon always had smarts. Have you seen that new picture he wrote?”

“No, I haven’t,” Morris lied. He took Helen to the movies once each week and they never missed a film Simon wrote. There was a certain pride Morris felt when the credits displayed Screen Play by Simon Gandelman, even if he no longer saw his little brother.

“Well, don’t see it,” Benny said. “If I didn’t know Simon, I’d swear the guy who wrote it was queer. Tell you the truth, Mori, I haven’t liked many of the pictures Simon writes. All they do in those movies is talk. I go to the cinema to see something happen. I like the whodunit pictures where you don’t find out who the person betraying the other guy is until the end. I give Simon ideas for movies all the time and he doesn’t listen. Just the other day I told him this idea.” Morris noticed how Benny still pronounced “idea” as “idee-er,” not having shed his Dorchester accent. Benny leaned forward. “There’s a regular guy, like me. He runs a restaurant, has a girl. But he owes a little something to this pal who did him a favor once. He tries to get out of it, so they take the girl, but he does what’s right. Big kiss at the end. Simon never puts a big kiss at the end, that’s why I don’t like his pictures. Everyone likes the big kiss.” He leaned back. “Actually, I did like that one picture he wrote when he got back from the war, the one with his girlfriend. That was somewhat like a whodunit. That girlfriend, she’s a heart-killer.”

“Simon’s still with Doris?”

“Yeah, the actress.”

“Are they getting married?”

“Simon, get married?” Benny let out a roaring laugh. “Come on, Mori, even you know Simon’s typewriter’s his real wife.”

“What about you, Benny? No special lady in your life?”

“Me? Nah, it ain’t in the cards.”

“Really? I always thought you’d be raising the next big league pitcher by now.”

Benny laughed. He was different from the way Morris remembered him, like a baseball that had been scuffed up yet still had strong stitches. But the laugh was the same.

“Nope,” Benny said, and tapped cigar ash into the tray between them. He fell quiet. “Well, there was somebody. Beautiful girl. We were gonna get hitched. But it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Benny.” And Morris was sorry. For an instant he was looking at the Benny he once knew; the insecure kid who never had luck except when he would emulate Detroit Tiger’s Jewish slugger Hank Greenberg in stickball games.

“Yeah,” Benny said. “What are you gonna do? She…well…she passed away. She was special. Helen would have liked her a lot.”

“I’m sure we both would have.” Morris knew what “passed away” meant.

“Ach,” Benny said, stretching. “The dice don’t always roll the way you want them to.” He set his cigar to the ashtray rim. “I feel like a swim.” He stood. “Not everyone has a pool, big man.”

Benny kicked off his wingtips and removed his socks. Then he reached behind his back and produced a revolver; set it on the table beside his empty glass of scotch. As Benny slipped off his slacks Morris stared at the gun, realizing that the barrel was pointed right at him. He hadn’t seen a gun up close since they were teenagers, had sworn he would never hold one again after what had happened the only time he had on a chilly day on Kenstook Street in Dorchester.

“You know what kind of work I’m in. That don’t bother you, does it?”

Morris leaned back with his drink. “No, Benny.”

“Good.”

Benny draped his slacks over the deckchair and hastily removed his suit jacket. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, turned his back, and when he pulled the shirt off Morris gasped. The knife scar down Benny’s shoulder didn’t surprise him. Morris had been there when Benny got it. It was the rash and abundant quarter-size sores blanketing Benny’s skin. Morris had seen the same when prosecuting a prostitution case. He never dreamed that his own brother would have contracted syphilis.

Morris guzzled his scotch; the ice cubes cold against his lips. He heard a splash. Benny was wading in the deep end of the pool in only his underwear shorts, the sun making his olive-toned skin appear pale. Morris set down the empty glass, his hands shaking as he fumbled for another Lucky.

“Not coming in?” Benny hollered in that gravel voice.

“Nope,” Morris mumbled just enough for his brother to hear, the cigarette dangling from his thick, ice-chilled lips. He struck a match.

“Still can’t swim, huh? Hey, you should know that you have a leaf in your pool drain.” Benny then submerged himself under the water.

Morris turned from his brother gliding beneath the surface of the pool. There was that revolver pointed at him.

What on earth is he doing here? Morris wondered, feeling a bit drunk. They simply were not a family that kept in touch. The only brother he had seen recently was Simon, and that was two years ago. A crazed fan was obsessed with Doris and was convinced that she was his wife. Morris had gone to Los Angeles Superior Court, had a psychiatrist testify that the stalker, who had been appearing barefoot in Simon’s driveway every morning saying he would forgive Doris for having an affair with her “kike lover,” was patently delusional and posed a serious threat to the actress’ safety. A two-year restraining order was granted. Not a word after from Simon. Morris’ younger brother could have called any lawyer in town. Morris had always been perplexed as to why Simon called him since they had not spoken regularly after he told his younger brother where he was going to be during the war.

Morris kept staring at that revolver until a splash erupted and he heard Benny take huge breaths. Benny pulled his husky body out of the pool, rubbed his eyes with his fists. Morris put out the cigarette in the tray surrounded by his brother’s cigar ash. Benny approached the table and set the wet leaf that had been in the pool drain beside the revolver. He took one of the starched white towels Helen had set out. He wrapped the towel around his waist, put his shirt back on and left the front open displaying that rash and those sores Morris could not bear to look at. He sat at the table, took his cigar. “Your water stings my eyes. Next time I go to the YMCA. My eyes are all I’ve got. Shoot me if I ever lose my sight.”

Morris looked up from the revolver. The late stages of syphilis often resulted in blindness. But potential mental illness and eventual death were what should have been worrying Benny. It worried Morris.

“So,” Benny mumbled, puffing his cigar casually. “There’s more news you got besides the baby.” Benny began to rub his stomach, the nubs of his fingers gliding over those sores. “Now you’re heading this crime commission, big man.”

Morris looked to his brother across the table, the sunlight feathering the rose bushes behind him. Benny was three feet away and might as well have been on another continent. “What about it?” Morris asked, slipping his shaking hands under the table.

“It doesn’t look good, Mori. You know who I work for. You changed your name but you’re still who you are. A Jew heading this commission looks bad.”

“Since when does Meyer Moskowitz have an interest in the Jews?”

“Stop it! You wanna end up in a pine box, fine with Moskowitz, but you’re still my brother. If you weren’t related to me you’d be dead already.”

Morris held his breath, clasped his hands together. “I’m listening,” he said.

“This isn’t Dorchester. The rules don’t apply here. If you want rules, go back to Boston and slum it out with the guineas. This is California, get used to it.”

“What are you talking about, Benny?”

“What am I talkin’ about? California. Los Angeles. All that talk about Israel, getting our own country? Let’s hope. But the goyim will never let that happen. The smart money’s on California. Look at the pictures. Who runs all the studios? Jews. You think Simon could have written for the pictures back in Boston? We’re not just running the nickel houses anymore; we control the goddamn product. Hitler tried to exterminate us and we won. Millions of Americans go to the pictures every week. I’m not even in the movie business and I feel like I make them. This whole city is about the pictures. California is America.” Benny coughed, took a few puffs from his cigar and sighed. “But this crime commission business. It just doesn’t look good.”

“Benny, me being head of the commission doesn’t mean anything.”

“Bullshit!”

Morris knew that Benny was right. Heading the commission, at that very moment, in Los Angeles, might have seemed inconsequential, but it meant everything. It was only three years after the Nazi death camps had been exposed and plenty of Americans still believed that their sons had been sent off to die for Jews. There were even rumors that Pearl Harbor had been a Jewish orchestration to get America into the war, that there had been secret arrangements for Jewish sailors to be off their ships when Japan attacked. Morris was aware of the talk going around. Henry Ford’s four-volume edition of The International Jew: The World’s Foremost Problem was almost thirty years in publication and people still believed the entrepreneur’s assertion that the fraudulent Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion was authentic. The majority of the movie people HUAC had just indicted were Jews. And Mississippi Representative John Rankin had been equating Judaism to communism, pinpointing Hollywood as a bed of subversion. Morris going after Jewish criminals like Meyer Moskowitz represented many Jews’ worst fear: exposing what they didn’t want anyone to know.

“First thing tomorrow,” Benny said, “you tell them you quit.”

Morris paused. “I can’t do that, Benny,” he said in a soft, almost effeminate voice. “This is what I’ve worked my whole life for.”

“You idiot. You think Moskowitz is gonna let you be a shande?”

“If you break the law it doesn’t matter what religion you are.”

“So, you gonna come after me, your own brother?”

Morris had not thought about that; he did not want to.

“Mori, we’ve got our own man to replace you on the commission. You resign and from now on you work for Moskowitz.”

Morris thought he would rather be dead. He did not want to know who they had in mind to replace him or how they would do it. “Benny, I’m a lawyer. Why would I possibly work for Moskowitz?”

“You and Simon got Mamma’s smarts; don’t act dumb. You know about Moskowitz and the studio trade unions. Big trouble’s coming. You resign and help us with the legal end. With what Moskowitz pays, you can buy a house with two swimming pools. Look around you, living here like a schnook if I ever saw one.” He smothered his cigar on the damp leaf, stood and began to dress. Morris stared at that gun until Benny’s hand reached out and picked it up.

Morris imagined himself associated with Moskowitz and being disbarred. Losing his law license would be equivalent to having his legs amputated. “Benny, I just can’t do this.”

Benny pursed his lips, that skin between his eyes crinkling just as it had when he was a boy and was about to pummel the kid from two tenements down who always pitched into batters’ faces during stickball games. “You have three days. But if I have to take care of business, that’s what I do.”

Morris gasped. “Benny, you’re my brother.”

“I expect to hear from you by Wednesday night, big man. Just remember, nobody’s forgotten what you did at Kenstook Street, and you sure haven’t forgotten who got you out of it even if you’re now living high here in Beverly Glen. You still have a debt to pay off. Give Helen my best.” And Benny left, leaving Morris under the shade of the umbrella at the table.

Morris did not tell Helen what had happened. For all his wife’s suggestions over the years for her husband to become closer to his family, she accepted that Morris had reasons for being distant. When she asked about Benny’s visit, Morris told her that a girl his brother had been engaged to had “passed away” and that he wanted to talk.

“You see,” Helen said. “He needs you. He could have called anyone, but he knew you would understand.”

Monday morning Morris did not know what to do. He could not tell Helen the truth, so he got ready for work. After finishing his eggs and toast while speed reading the Los Angeles Times, he kissed Helen on the cheek, patted her stomach, and left. The moment he stepped out the front door of the house he noticed that his Lincoln Continental was parked on the right side of the driveway. Morris always parked on the left.

No, he thought, I have until Wednesday night. He opened the auto’s door, tossed his leather briefcase to the passenger seat and slipped the key into the ignition. Morris stopped just before turning the engine over, seeing his pregnant wife standing in the window waving goodbye as she removed her apron, the morning sunlight falling on her high Irish cheek bones and the stucco exterior of the house. He waited until she went back into the kitchen then stepped out of the auto.

Morris opened the hood. Everything looked normal. He got into the auto, again slid the key into the ignition but could not bring himself to turn the engine over.

After telling Helen that the Lincoln’s battery was dead and to call the mayor’s office to say he would be late for work, Morris walked to the bus stop. At least he did not have to worry about Helen using the auto since she did not know how to drive. But he did call her repeatedly from work that day.

“Morris,” she finally said during their fourth conversation, “we have another six months to go until this baby arrives. It’s sweet that you’re concerned, but you’re going to drive me crazy if this becomes a habit.”

The next day the Continental was moved for the second time, now back to the left side of the driveway, and Morris once again took the bus to and from work. But Wednesday morning he stood in the driveway and saw his auto moved for a third time. Morris could not even step to the front lawn where the flagpole was flying the stars and stripes, nobody in the neighborhood except Helen knowing what he actually did during the war. He had a vision of the auto exploding and Benny, of all people, putting his rash and sore-covered arms around Helen to console her at the funeral.

Morris looked behind him and saw his pregnant wife in the kitchen window, her strawberry blonde hair in a bun as she washed the plate he had eaten his pancakes from at the sink. He wanted to be a hero, like in the pictures, but seeing Helen he could not. He went back inside the house to call Benny, only to find he did not have a number.

The operator was no use; Benny was not listed. Calling the police was out of the question; he might as well have hanged himself from one of the neighborhood palm trees if he did that. Helen believed Morris was not feeling well and was working from home. Just as he was prepared to tell his wife everything, even tell her what he had done at Kenstook Street many years before, the telephone rang.

“Morris sweetie, it’s Benny,” Helen called out. When Morris reached the kitchen he could hear Helen say, “I’m so sorry, Benny. She must have been quite special; I wish I had known her. You should come over for supper some time.” She handed her husband the telephone, saying, “That poor man,” as she left the kitchen.

Morris waited, listening to his twin brother’s heavy breathing through the receiver.

“Well,” Benny finally broke the silence, “did you make up your mind? I wasn’t gonna call, but I want to know if I need to say goodbye.”

“Okay, I’ll resign.” Morris was relieved to say it.

“Good. You’re doing the right thing, Mori. After you quit the commission tomorrow morning, come to the Copeland Club on Fairfax. Be there at eleven. Oh, tell Helen I’d be delighted to come for supper some time.” Benny hung up, not saying goodbye.

Morris placed the receiver back on the wall-hold as if it was a piece of Helen’s good china and looked down to the peach-toned marbled kitchen linoleum that reminded him of a rash covered with sores. He had no idea what he was going to tell his wife.

***

Eric Wasserman was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, where he attended Lewis & Clark College. He holds an MFA from Emerson College in Boston and is the author of a collection of short stories, The Temporary Life (La Questa Press, 2005). His short story, “He’s No Sandy Koufax,” won First Prize in the 13th Annual David Dornstein Creative Writing Contest, and his work has appeared in many publications, including Glimmer Train and Poets & Writers Magazine Online.  Celluloid Strangers, Eric’s first novel, is set in late 1940s Los Angeles and tackles the anti-Semitic nature of the early McCarthy witch hunts in Old Hollywood. He is currently working on a new novel based on the biblical story of Abraham being instructed by God to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Eric lives in Ohio with his wife, fantasy writer Thea Ledendecker, and is a Visiting Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Akron.

Click here to buy: Celluloid Strangers

The year is 3032 and mankind has expanded far beyond Earth’s galaxy. Matilda Dulac is a member of the Galactic Mining Guild. With her lover, Marc Slatterly, she works in a small mining ship in deep space. Their well ordered life if suddenly thrown into chaos when one miner arrives with a load of Trimagnite, a highly toxic liquid ore. Enter the Lone Wolf. Wil VanLipsig, known as the Lone Wolf, arrives to take the Trigmagnite off their hands. Is it a coincidence for him to show up on Marc’s ship years after Marc thought he’d killed Wil? Or is this the beginning of something far more insidious? Lone Wolf is the first book in a new science fiction series by Dellani Oakes.

Chapter 1

(July 1, 3032)

       Lights on the computer console flashed, catching her attention. The bridge was dark since only the bots were supposed to be at work. Matilda checked the instruments carefully.

“Rubee, lights,” she told the ship’s computer.

“Initiating. Welcome, Commander Dulac.”

The lights came up slowly, allowing her eyes to adjust. There was a flicker of movement on one of her screens. Why was a mining unit on approach? Curious, she activated the Tri-D viewer, focusing on an incoming ship. None of the miners were due until 0800. Glancing at the chronometer, she saw it was only 0230.

“Mine Unit One, what is your status?”

Getting only static in reply, Matilda zoomed the viewer trying to get a visual on the pilot. The miner ignored the station’s auto-hails. Her long fingers flew over the keypad as she tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

“Mine Unit One, do you have an emergency?”

Nothing. Hitting her comlink, she beeped Marc Slatterly’s cabin.

“Captain!”

“Hmph?” He answered, still naked in the bed where she’d left him twenty minutes ago. “What? Matilda? Where the hell are you?”

He rubbed his face to wake up. Standing groggily, he loomed over the console. His heavily muscled body was cast into stark shadows and highlights by the Tri-D projection of her face.

“The bridge. We’ve got a problem. Get up here.”

“What?” Suddenly all business, he reached for his pants.

“Unit One. Billy’s coming in hot and erratic. He’s not answering hails.”

“You know Guild protocol, Matilda.” He struggled into his pants, getting tangled as he tried to put his feet through.

She exhaled slowly, wiping her brow. She knew protocol as well as he, but in the ten years of Mining Guild service she’d never had to use Regulation Seventeen—Destruction of a Manned Vessel. Until now.

“Maybe his comlink is borked.”

“Hail him one more time, then initiate protocol.”

“Are you coming?”

“On my way.” He didn’t bother to finish dressing. Grabbing his gun belt, he took off at top speed to the lift.

“Mine Unit One,” Matilda continued. “Slow your approach or I will enact Guild Regulation Seventeen. Do you copy?”

More static. She keyed in the coded sequence necessary to transfer the miner’s load to the cargo hold. Taking a deep breath, she tried once more.

“Mine Unit One, this is your final warning before I implement your self-destruct.” Tapping her comlink, she prayed Marc would answer.

“On my way, baby. I can go only so fast. Damn lift is slow.”

“Shit. I used the transporter.”

“There went my power. You know the drill, Commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

She lifted the clear Lucite lid over the red destruct button, hands shaking as she keyed in the final sequence.

“Mine Unit One, Billy? Can you hear me? Slow down!” Still no answer. “You made me do this,” she whispered as her finger pressed the button.

The miner’s craft imploded, folding on itself like a deflated balloon. Biting her lip, blinking back tears, she turned away. Marc walked onto the bridge a second later, eyes glued to the screen. Taking her in his arms, he held her while she cried.

“You had to do it, Matilda. You had no choice. Look at his trajectory. He’d have come right through us.”

“I never had to do it before.” She wiped the tears fiercely away. And to a friend.

Marc checked the console, securing the destruct button without a word. Taking a life was never easy, but he’d grown used to it over time. Years as a Galactic Marine had hardened him. More as a Mining Guild officer had taken the sting out of senseless killing, but the first one was always the worst.

Taking her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “You did your job, Matilda. Sometimes that’s not easy.” Puzzled, he paused, looking around. “Why are you up?”

“Something didn’t feel right. I came up to check it out.” She shrugged, pressing against him as his arms held her.

“You’re like me. Your hunches are rarely wrong.” He secured the console. “How about we go back to bed?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I need something to take my mind off….”

Marc slung an arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. “I reckon I can distract you for an hour or two.” He chuckled, white teeth flashing through the confines of his dark red beard.

Back in his cabin, they wiled away the next hour. Afterward, though she was tired, she couldn’t go back to sleep. Something still felt wrong, like an instrument played off key, making her skin crawl. Now that there was nothing to occupy her mind, she focused on her misgivings. She wanted to wake Marc so she’d have some distraction, but one look at his sleeping face told her that was unlikely. He didn’t sleep much, but when it did, it was deep.

Instead, Matilda rose and showered, dressing in a fresh uniform. She intended to go back to her own quarters after kissing him goodnight, but her feet took her to the cargo bay. As she approached, the creeping feeling on her skin grew worse, the hairs on her neck rising. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t determine what. Pulling herself away from the doors, she ran to the bridge, calling up the ship’s manifest.

There was a load of Trimagnite ore collected from the destroyed mine unit. In a panic, she buzzed Marc’s quarters.

“What the hell? Romance, what are you up to now?”

“Get dressed and get up here now! It’s urgent.”

“Again? Dammit! Can’t I get some sleep?”

“Not if you want to live.”

Within five minutes, he joined her. She gave him a cup of joe to clear his befuddlement. Gulping it down, he made a face, but in a few seconds, he was clearheaded as she told him what she’d found, showing him the scan. Trimagnite had a very distinctive pattern.

“Damn! What was he thinking? He didn’t have the equipment or storage capability for this. Digging that shit without proper shielding is lethal!”

“So, what do we do? Trimagnite can make us all go nuts! Why didn’t he tell us?” Her voice held a note of panic.

“We both know the raw ore is not only toxic, it’s a very strong neural stimulant. I’m surprised he lived long enough to get it to the ship. I’m contacting Commandant Riley. We can’t carry this, we’re only minimally shielded. Even if we’d known ahead of time, we’re not prepared to transport it.”

His fingers flew over his keypad as he sat at the console, waiting impatiently to connect. Matilda stood nearby, hugging herself. Knowing it was Trimagnite made her feel worse. Everyone in the galaxy knew the damaging effects of the semi-liquid ore—disorientation, hallucinations, madness and death. Once the process started, there was no halting it. They would die—horribly.

Lost in her thoughts, Matilda hadn’t realized Marc was talking to Commandant Riley. Instead of a uniform, he was dressed in a dull brown business suit, his hair slicked over his skull, looking a lot like a rat in the dim light of the control room.

“That’s what I said, sir. Trimagnite.”

“That’s impossible! I had no prior knowledge of the load, or I’d have sent a bot ship.”

“I sent a data file. You should be getting it in a moment. It shows the Guild Registry of the Trimagnite. Someone knew he had it. Commandant, I can’t expose my crew to this for more than twelve more hours. Otherwise we both know what could happen.”

“I don’t have any bot ships in the vicinity, but there’s a Merchant Marine in the sector. He can be there in a couple of hours. He’s shielded and can transport to us. Dammit, Captain Slatterly, I had no idea. I’d never do this to you and your crew.”

“As long as we get it out of here, consider it forgotten. Who’s picking up?”

“The ship’s called the Loup Garou. It’s registered in Beta Quadrant. Guy’s a gypsy of sorts, no set port of call. VanLipsig is the name. Wilhelm VanLipsig.”

There was a stunned silence. Marc said nothing, staring blankly at the screen.

“You’re sure that’s his name?” He asked distractedly.

Riley’s hands fluttered over his keypad as he verified the information. “Yes, says here Wilhelm VanLipsig. Goes by the handle Lone Wolf. Do you know this guy?”

Marc didn’t reply right away. “Yeah,” he said hesitantly. Suddenly, he was all business again. “Thank you, Commandant. We’ll be ready for VanLipsig. Slatterly out.” Marc sat at the console, not even remembering to disconnect.

Matilda broke the connection, looking at him carefully. “What’s up?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice as if she’d shouted. “Ghost from the past, baby.” He shook his head. “I was sure the bastard died….” He rubbed his eyes with his fists. “We can’t do anything more for now. Let’s go back and get some sleep. Rubee will wake us when the guy gets here.”

They went back to Marc’s quarters. Of course, once they lay down, he didn’t want to sleep. Instead of his usual style, Marc took her roughly with an intense focus as if trying to purge his memory of something highly unpleasant. He had never behaved like this before. Matilda would have been worried, but he urged such intense sensations from her body, she could hardly think.

Exhausted, they curled up together. Marc lay behind her, his arms around her protectively, as if by his presence alone, he could keep her from harm. They slept deeply and Rubee woke them at 0630 when the Merchant Marine hailed them.

Once he was up and dressed, Marc was all business. It seemed odd for him to be so professional when they had just been so intimate, but she knew something was bothering him.

As Matilda followed Marc to the docking bay where the ship was locking on, she noticed he was armed. The energy weapon he wore was hardly standard Guild issue. On the maximum setting, it could take down a 300-pound man, putting a sizable hole in him.

“Expecting an army? You can kill a xar beast with one of those.”

“I wish I had something bigger. If I order you to fire, Commander, you fire. No questions. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marc opened the door to the docking bay. The other ship had attached and the airlock was pressurizing. As the door spiraled open, Matilda sensed a shudder pass through Marc. He raised his weapon, covering the entrance.

Slowly, with a casual air, a man entered the airlock. Nearly as tall as Marc, he was leaner of build. His curly, dark brown hair fell to his shoulders. He stood still while Rubee scanned his identification tag before releasing the force shield in front of him.

He wore a black eye patch over his left eye and a scar ran from his left temple to the corner of his lips. It was an old scar, worn and somewhat sunken. A slight stubble of beard shaded the lower half of his face, all but the scar line, leaving a pale crescent in the dark. His uncovered eye glittered, black and dangerous in his ruggedly handsome face. Holding his arms from his sides, he waited as Rubee scanned him for weapons. Finding none, she gave clearance for him to pass.

He stepped forward, lighting a dark, thin object. The pungent odor of a cheroot filled the confined space. Squinting past the smoke, he gazed into Marc’s eyes. Marc’s weapon remained pointed at the other man’s head, his calm expression strangely predatory.

Their visitor sized Matilda up with a glance, dismissing her as non-threatening. He puffed on his cheroot thoughtfully. A crooked grin cracked his face in half, the scar pulling his left lip up at an odd angle.

“Marc, it’s been a long time.” He held out his hand.

Marc remained aloof, not taking his eyes off the visitor, lowering his weapon or acknowledging the proffered hand.

“Kind of a cold reception, isn’t it?” His voice was rasping and low.

The smile was replaced by a slight frown, a hint of sadness in the obsidian eye. Then the same placid expression took its place. Nothing in Marc’s face betrayed what he was thinking or feeling.

Marc spoke calmly. “Commander Dulac, please show Colonel VanLipsig to the lounge.”

“Of course, sir.” Looking puzzled, she did as he asked, feeling his eyes on her.

Marc followed, covering the man from the rear. When they had seated themselves, Matilda ordered three cups of joe from the synthunit. Marc kept his weapon out on his knee with his hand resting upon it. The other fellow leaned back, seemingly unconcerned and at ease. Taking a sip of the joe, he grimaced, glancing down at his cup before matching his gaze with Marc’s.

“I know we parted under difficult circumstances, but is this really necessary? I’m here to do a job, nothing more.” He carefully kept his hands in plain view, moving slowly, talking with deliberate ease.

Marc looked at him blankly. “I thought you were dead, Wil.”

VanLipsig nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You were sure you killed me.” His voice was flat, toneless, unemotional. He shrugged casually, tilting his head to the left. “I got better.” There was a flash of a chilling smile.

“The reports….”

       “The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated,” VanLipsig quipped, dark eye glittering mischievously.

Marc’s fist dented the metal table with a furious blow. “Dammit, Wil! Can’t you stay dead?”

VanLipsig threw back his head, laughing caustically. The laugh became a long, high-pitched, chilling howl. Matilda felt a shiver run through her to the very bone. She did her best not to show it, but a subtle shift of her bearing betrayed her. His gaze penetrated her soul, laying it bare, finding it wanting.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady, Marc?”

“No.”

Marc hid his anger, but Matilda knew he was furious. His attitude toward VanLipsig was puzzling. They seemed to have known one another for years, obviously parting on less than amicable terms. Though VanLipsig seemed to harbor no ill will, Marc certainly did.

“May I present myself, ma’am? I’m Colonel Wilhelm VanLipsig, also known as the Lone Wolf. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” He attempted to look humble. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His glance flicked to her nametag and insignia, dark eye lingering hungrily on her chest. “Commander Dulac.” His mouth formed the words, enjoying the feel of the consonants on his tongue.

He waited patiently for a response. Getting none, his eye locked with hers, curious, intrigued. “Do you speak?”

Matilda studied him quizzically, raising an eyebrow. “There seemed little to say.”

Wil chuckled deep in his throat. It was a seductively menacing sound. He put his feet up on the table between them, relaxed, but all business.

“So, what’s this load I’m supposed to pick up?”

Matilda glanced at Marc, his blank face betraying nothing. He gave no indication that he was going to speak, so she took over the conversation.

“Trimagnite.”

VanLipsig, who was staring openly at her full breasts, raised an eyebrow. He grinned wolfishly, dragging his gaze to meet hers.

“Really? Nasty stuff.” He sounded almost gleeful. “How pure?”

She met his eyes with a challenge as his smile became predatory. Her personal scanner showed him the basic specs. His brow furrowed slightly as he read, then he handed it back to her, whistling softly in surprise.

“Show me the full scan.” All joking aside, he stood expectantly.

Matilda ushered VanLipsig to a console and typed in the commands. He leaned over her right shoulder, his face mere inches from hers. His scent tantalized her. It was disconcerting, made all the more disturbing because he was dangerously handsome, well built, virile, wickedly seductive and extremely close. Forcing herself to look back at the screen, she felt his warm breath on her neck, tickling her skin in a very sensuous way.

He leaned forward, tapping the console, watching as the view and number readout changed. The very air between them was charged with energy. His shoulder brushed hers from behind, making her shiver

VanLipsig put his hand on her shoulder, brushing her neck slightly with his thumb, leaning in as if to kiss her. He checked himself abruptly, nearly brushing her ear with his lips. His breath stirred wisps of hair, tickling her neck.

“I’m sorry, Commander. Are you cold?” His raspy voice seemed loud, although he whispered.

She ducked out from under his arm, stepping aside. “No, I’m fine. Really. Thank you.”

Marc stood a few feet away, his eyes on the other man, saying nothing. The muscle in his jaw worked rapidly, bulging and relaxing as he fought for control.

Wil seemed unaware of them both as he read the screen, making mental calculations, sensuous lips moving as he spoke to himself. He nodded, clearing the screen, turning to them with a dazzling smile.

“No problem,” his smile broadened, but didn’t reach his eye. “I’ll just get my bots to work, then.”

He made for the door, but Marc stopped him with a powerful arm across his chest. Wil halted, pressing aggressively against Marc’s elbow.

“Old man, you know that’s dangerous.” Wil’s body stiffened defensively.

Marc glared at him, cold fury erupting. “By God, Wil! I killed you, you bastard!” Marc pounded the table next to him, scattering the cups of joe.

Wil didn’t even blink. “I told you, I got better.”

Marc’s huge fist shot out suddenly from shoulder height, all his weight behind it. Wil caught Marc’s fist, twisting up and away from his jaw, forcing Marc’s arm to bend back on itself, elbow by his ear.

“Don’t make me do this, Marc.”

Wil held Marc’s arm, their muscles swelling and knotting as they fought for control. Marc tried to free himself from the other man’s unyielding grasp. Suddenly changing tactics, he swung at Wil with his left hand. With an audible crack, his enormous fist connected with Wil’s face. Neither man seemed to notice. Marc drew back, swinging again from the left.

Wil dropped Marc’s right hand in order to block the blow. He grabbed Marc’s arm in an elbow lock. Using the force of the attack, he spun Marc to face him, slamming his fist into Marc’s abdomen.

Instead of recoiling from the blow, Marc moved in, utilizing Wil’s momentum and his own greater weight, to put his opponent off balance. He threw Wil to the floor, hitting him with a bone grinding body slam.

Wil exhaled sharply as he grappled with one hand in Marc’s hair. Wil forced Marc’s head back at an odd angle. Marc’s face grew dark red as he gasped for breath.

Matilda reacted instinctively, her weapon trained on Wil automatically. Stance defiant, her eyes glittered with dark fire.

“Let him go,” she spoke quietly, teeth clenched.

Wil held Marc’s head, but stopped twisting.

“Why don’t you put the gun down, Ma’am, before you hurt yourself?”

Wil’s face registered momentary surprise when she didn’t immediately comply. Instead, her grip shifted on the weapon, her aim true, right between his eyes. The astonishment was quickly replaced by a placid expression. VanLipsig allowed himself a glance in her direction. Her face held a determination equal to his own. Slowly, he let go of Marc, who straightened up, shaking his head.

“Move away from him.”

VanLipsig stood in one fluid motion, taking two steps back. His hands were shoulder height, out from his body. He made no sudden movements, his demeanor passive.

“Now would one of you testosterone glutted males tell me what the hell is going on?” Her dark eyes flashed dangerously.

Wil smiled slightly, waving his fingers to get her attention. “May I put my hands down, Commander?”

Matilda gave a terse nod. “Where I can see them.”

Slowly, he lowered his hands, keeping them in full view. “Could you maybe?” He gestured to the point of her weapon, motioning down.

Lowering the barrel, she kept her eyes on him. “Colonel VanLipsig, I’m required to quote you Guild Regulation 516 A, which states….”

“I know what the hell it states, Commander. Let’s pretend you quoted to me about unprovoked attacks on a fellow Guild member. Only he started it and I’m not Guild. I just transport stuff.”

“Why?” She demanded.

“‘Cause I’m nice.” His tone was petulant, his stare defiant.

“And damn well paid,” Marc added, his voice harsh and raw.

“Yeah, well that….” Wil said with an offhand shrug.

He moved toward Marc, intending to help him up. Matilda’s weapon followed sharply.

“Geesue, what’s with you people? Has the Trimagnite already fried your brains, or do all guests get this treatment?”

“That’s what I’m waiting to hear from the two of you.”

“Ask him,” Wil replied, jabbing a finger at Marc. “He attacked me, remember?”

Matilda fixed her eyes on Marc. “Talk,” she said, pointing her weapon at him instead.

Marc stood unsteadily, moving toward her, hands spread in a pleading gesture. “Romance, baby, wait….”

“Tell me.”

She tapped Marc in the chest with her weapon, emphasizing each word. Her eyes flicked over to Wil, who hadn’t moved. An incredulous grin replaced the blank expression.

“That’s what this is about? You didn’t like me coming on to her?” Wil rolled his eye upward, laughing caustically. “Damn!”

Wil looked Matilda over like merchandise, his eyes stopping at her chest. Shaking his head, he licked his full lips. “Oh, baby, we could have had some fun.” He sighed exaggeratedly. “I’m sorry, Commander.”

Finding his act hard to swallow, she kept a wary eye on him, but brought her weapon down.

“Look, I’ve been out deep for awhile. A man gets pretty lonely out there all alone. You’re the first woman I’ve seen since I left Aolani six months ago. Damn, you’re fine! I bet you have men panting after you all the time.”

“Not really,” she lied. This was a trick to get her off guard and she knew it. “I very much doubt Captain Slatterly would react so heatedly just because you were trying to seduce me.” She flashed a cocky grin.

Wil paused, gazing at Marc appraisingly. His expression changed to a stony-edged glare. “I dunno, it was over a woman last time too, wasn’t it, Marc?”

Marc drew himself up to this full height, towering over them both. “Yeah, you killed her,” he said with quiet menace.

“She betrayed us to the enemy, Marc.”

“Only you say so.”

Wil held his hands wide from his body, taking a step toward Marc. “There was a time when my word alone would have been good enough.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Marc, she was with him when I found her. She betrayed us.” He spun around on his heel, head flung back. “Geesue, Marc! It’s been almost sixty years! How long are you going to carry a grudge?”

“Another sixty if necessary.”

Matilda glanced from one man to the other. “You hate him because he killed your girlfriend, is that it?”

Marc turned an angry eye on her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “No. I hate him because he killed my wife.”

Silence.

That caught her by surprise, Wil noticed happily. She looked like she’d taken a fist to the gut. She rallied quickly.

“So, he killed your wife and you still want him dead.” She holstered her weapon.

Marc glared at her. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

Tugging at his beard, Marc paced the room. He stopped even with Wil, his face only inches away.

“What proof did you have before you killed her? She could have been there for another reason.”

Wil sighed, running his hands through his dark, bushy hair. “Marc, she was telling him everything! I was so angry, I couldn’t think straight for a few seconds. Then I came to the harsh realization that the only way I was going to keep the team alive was to end her.”

He turned away from Matilda and Marc, his back to them, purposely vulnerable.

“I killed my best friend’s wife.” He spun, facing them, advancing on Marc. “And I saved your sorry ass and the entire unit.” He spoke with very little emotion, as if it was annoying and unimportant to go into details of something so long past.

Marc fought down the urge to spring on Wil, knowing such an action would be deadly this time. Wil waited for him to move or speak. He looked thoughtful, nothing more. The dark, disconcerting eye flickered to the woman. She wasn’t looking directly at him, but she was watching him. Moving slowly, he turned and spoke to her.

“So, Commander, may I set my bots to work? I assume you want the Trimagnite removed as soon as possible?”

Marc said nothing, but Matilda nodded, dismissing him. Turning slowly, alert to attack from behind, Wil strolled through the open airlock back onto his ship. He activated the robot loading crew. As they took little to no monitoring, he went to his cabin and fell asleep.

After VanLipsig left, Matilda and Marc went back to his quarters. He wanted to make love again, so she didn’t argue. VanLipsig had set a fire in her that burned persistently in her belly. Not even making love to Marc put it out. The gnawing, hot sensation dwindled slightly, but came back just as strong later. Forcing herself to rest, she curled up, falling into a troubled sleep. Dreams of wolves with dark fur and black eyes plagued her. She tossed and turned restlessly.

Marc sat up, watching Matilda sleep. He rarely slept more than four hours and he was running in combat mode now. Having Wil around made him nervous, edgy. It was a bit too convenient that Riley sent Wil. Marc had never believed in coincidence and he wasn’t about to start now. Something else bothered him as well, a message sent to him privately by Riley the day before. He had to tell Matilda, knowing it would change the nature of their relationship forever.

Sighing heavily, he went slowly to the control room to monitor the arrival of the miners.

***

An adopted Floridian who fell in love with its culture-both modern and historical-Dellani is a happily married mother of four, substitute teacher and former English teacher. When she isn’t being one of the above, she is an avid writer, spending every possible moment immersed in her other worlds. “Indian Summer” is her only historical romance, but she also has written a series of futuristic romance novels, contemporary romances and short stories. Dellani’s interests include reading, going to the beach, listening to all kinds of music and cooking.

Click here to buy: Lone Wolf

Vivacious and talented Elaine Richman is faced with choices: A risky life in the New York theatre; an exciting life with college sweetheart, actor/director Jake Applebaum in Hollywood; a secure life in Boston with predictable lawyer David Alter, the match anointed by her domineering mother because ‘he’s the kind you marry.’ On the way to a dream, it is possible to collide with another dream’s seduction, only to learn there is no fulfillment on the path to safety. Elaine goes through the wringer to meet herself, proving there is no expiration date on talent or true love.

Chapter One

He’s the kind you marry.

Marry someone I don’t love?

You can learn to love him.

Her mother’s haunting words played over and over in her head. The woman was dead; yet, her voice was loud and clear. Was that her mission in life? To learn to love someone she didn’t love?

It was another one of those early morning awakenings. It only happened when she had something major, something catastrophic, on her mind. Half past four. How she hated it. Her normal sleep cycle was eight hours, sometimes nine. That’s when she felt really on top of it. But today, she lay there, listening to her husband’s soft snoring, hoping it would lull her back to sleep. After an hour when sleep didn’t come, she slipped quietly out of bed and into a warm-up suit, went downstairs out the back door and walked in the light rain for a long time, returning home only after she knew David would have left for his office. She’d left a brief note for him so he wouldn’t worry at her absence. His response was a little heart and his initial, D.

By half past eight, it felt like lunchtime because she had awakened so early. She was hungry. Opening a can of sardines, she laughed and wondered if she was mad at her stomach. Sardines on toast, not her usual bran or blueberry muffin. And freshly ground coffee made in her French press. Hot, black, delicious French roast. She was good at coffee. Even with the immaculate stainless steel and granite appliances at her fingertips to do her bidding, she had never been one to bustle around a kitchen. Cooking was not her strong suit; yet, the kitchen was where she would end up despite 4,000 square feet from which to choose. The charming contemporary architecturally designed house had been decorated a la Architectural Digest rules which meant that everything was destined to last forever. A wedding present from her husband’s parents, it was twelve miles west of Boston in prestigious and scenic Weston.

This isn’t how she planned it; how she thought it was going to be. But that was the whole point. She hadn’t planned it; yet, here she was in the middle of it. That’s what comes of not following a dream, of drifting off, reacting instead of acting, letting things just happen and going along because ease and comfort were less of a strain than facing your life.

As Mrs. David Alter, twenty-seven year old Elaine Richman had been plunged into a life of privilege where everyone’s motto was ‘it’s better to be rich and healthy than poor and sick.’ She had wanted a baby soon after they were married, but David wanted to wait until he was more established as a lawyer. For the past year, they had been trying to get pregnant, but she had developed some ambivalence about it. Filling up the cavity inside her with a baby wasn’t the answer. It wasn’t that she never wanted children. She didn’t want David’s children, which was inconvenient since he was her husband. They would be celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary in two days.

What else do you want for our anniversary, dear, besides a divorce?

Elaine’s mother would violently rotate in her grave, as she had anointed the match. This comfortable life in Weston, as the wife of an up and coming lawyer, was what her mother wanted for her. Elaine had had another dream and she only had herself to blame for allowing it to get hijacked. Besides, what did she really know about love and marriage? Everything she knew about love came straight from the movies.

For the past four years, she had kept herself busy hosting dozens of coffee mornings in her beautiful home to raise money for orphans and for the less fortunate. She had co-chaired endless committees for abused women and children and homeless people. Then the click in her head came. More like an explosion than a click. This wasn’t her. She was living someone else’s life. Once that click came, she didn’t know how she would tolerate another conversation with her contemporaries about the exact size and clarity of so and so’s diamond; the five star hotels and spas in the world that were not to be missed; the newest, the latest, the best. She needed more, and she was now faced with the ‘more’ in the reappearance of her college sweetheart, Jake Applebaum. He hadn’t given up his dream the way she had. After graduating from college, he had raced out to Hollywood and made his way, first as an actor and now as a director, while her dream of being an actress had been pushed aside. It was a myth made up and promoted by celebrity publicists that you can have it all.

Elaine poured herself another cup of coffee and for the hundredth time went over everything in her head. She’d seen on the news that Jake was shooting a film in Boston. She could have left it alone, left it as one of those college romances that remained a sweet memory. Surely everyone had a ‘Jake Applebaum’ in their lives. The one you didn’t end up with, but could have or should have, or maybe fantasized about your whole life. Without thinking it through, she contacted him. The rest happened so fast. Seeing him again, all the old feelings got stirred up. They’d never gone away. She succumbed to an uneasy affair which led to lies and deception. And she was now faced with compelling new choices. Jake made it very clear that he wanted her to divorce her husband and marry him. She didn’t know if this was normal, if it was unusual, if it was bad, if she was bad, if what she felt for Jake was really love.

Her father died when she was ten; her only role models of a real family were what she knew from plays, television, and the movies. She had studied for a career in the theatre. It had been her dream since she was eleven years old. Her widowed mother had been supportive until she received the health diagnosis. Her days were numbered. She wasn’t going to leave her daughter alone in the world. It was only then that she pushed for marriage to David. Elaine had to choose between a challenging and uncertain life as an actress and the secure route to a safe and comfortable life as the wife of an attorney. But it was a done deal, not really a choice. Sophie Richman was a formidable creature, especially after she became ill, and convinced her daughter she could learn to love a man she didn’t love. Time had proved that there is no guarantee of fulfillment on the path to safety.

And then, when she wasn’t looking, Jake re-entered and took center stage. All she had to do is figure out who she was going to be for the rest of her life. It wasn’t an easy choice, because while her original dream of the bright lights of Broadway had been snuffed out, there was something surprisingly seductive about the no-struggle life in Weston. The rest of her life? She didn’t know what she would be doing that afternoon let alone figure out the rest of her life. Was it to be her predictable life with unexciting husband David who was a good man, or was it going to be an unknown future with exhilarating, totally exciting lover Jake? With Jake, she wouldn’t have to make a choice between career and marriage. She could have them both. David wanted a wife, period. For him, that meant home and children with no room for any foolish acting aspirations for any wife of his.

Elaine and David. Elaine and Jake. Conflict upon conflict. Who to love? Her mother would stamp out any kind of notion about leaving David. Her mother had made sure her daughter settled for the one who would last – Architectural Digest rules. Her mother. Her mother. Her mother. But her mother wasn’t here now. Elaine had no excuses; no one to blame for her mistakes. This was her chance to – to what? Defy her dead mother? Hurt her husband? Leave her house in Weston? Go off with Jake to Hollywood?

David or Jake? Two men couldn’t have differed more in their attitudes about life, their professions, the way they looked, and even the way they dressed. At least something brought a smile to Elaine’s face as she pictured the two of them. David was a conservative Boston lawyer; Jake was a flamboyant New Yorker who had moved to California to pursue a movie career. His dressy casual style was a complete contrast to David’s conservative Ivy League attire. Jake was Italian designed all the way, even to his scent. David thought males who wore cologne were sissies. David’s world was Brooks Brothers. Non-iron, button down collared Oxford dress shirts no matter the season, three for around $200, were considered a great buy. And he never wavered from those wool knit ties and cordovan leather shoes. He was beginning to lose his hair and would most likely be bald by forty. Jake would most likely have his thick, dark curly mane, maybe not still black, in his eighties. His warm green eyes could melt her. David’s eyes were steel blue and sometimes frightened her. Jake’s world was pressed jeans, leather ankle boots and leather jackets with labels like Armani, Prada, and Gucci. David wore light blue cotton suits in the summer and navy pinstripe wool suits in the fall and winter, and one would think he was positively married to the grey wool herringbone Chesterfield coat he owned. At home on weekends, brushed cotton twill trousers, a lamb’s wool v-neck sweater, always blue; and in the summer, it all looked the same except it was a lighter fabric. Jake didn’t vary his mostly black wardrobe. There weren’t the four seasons to consider in California. Both men were classical in their way, but at opposite ends of the spectrum. But this was far more serious than which man qualified to appear on the cover of GQ.

As for her own style, Elaine wasn’t a slave to fashion, but she did like to know what was happening. She had a good figure and could have worn any style, but mostly went for comfort and always looked well put together. For her birthday one year, David bought her a tan, wool wrap waffle cardigan. Tan and brown shades were her most unflattering colors. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she told him she liked it. The next year, he bought her a similar wrap sweater in silk and cashmere. At least the ivory color blended better with her palette. What he lacked in imagination, he made up for with excess. They were not cheap sweaters. That was before he started buying her jewelry. Elaine quite liked the pearls and the diamond necklace and the assortment of rings, until she found out that David’s mother had picked everything out to save her son time. Jake had never given her any presents, at least not anything store bought. He had only opened her up to a world she never would have known without him; a world that had only existed in her imagination until him.

Elaine bit into a blueberry muffin, even though she wasn’t sure how well it mixed with sardines. Her stomach would have to forgive her this time. She was tormented. On the one hand, Jake, the future. On the other hand, David, the present. She knew how she had got to where she was. What she didn’t know was where the hell she was going. If only she could get her mother’s voice out of her head telling her that David is the kind you marry. This was her life, her life, her life.

***

Boston-born Susan Surman, author of Dancing at all the Weddings, lived abroad for over twenty-three years in London and Sydney as an actress and playwright (Gracie Luck/Susan Kramer), performing in London’s West End, Edinburgh, Sydney Theatre Company, Ensemble Theatre before returning to the States.  Surman has also written Max and Friends; Sacha: The Dog Who Made It to the Palace; The Australian Featherweight; The Noble Thing. Plays include: In Between; George; The Australian Featherweight.

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The plan was simple: hoax Bigfoot, then sell tours to Bigfoot enthusiasts. The plan wasn’t brilliant, and neither were Harry, Earl, and Patch. The three chemical-abusing friends only wanted to avoid the 9 to 5 rat race, but their antics attract the attention of a real Bigfoot. When the misogynistic Earl is mistaken for a female Bigfoot by the nearsighted creature and captured; it is just the beginning of their problems.

Between bong hits and water balloon fights, Harry and Patch come up with a plan to save Earl and the lovestruck Bigfoot. Where do you hide a giant, mythical creature? In an insane asylum, because who is going to listen to them?

Chapter One

It takes 73 newtons of force to fracture a human skull.  Roughly.  Variations in bone thickness, age, and location of the blow introduce countless variables.  A major league baseball player can lay wood on leather with 200 pounds of pressure or 890 newtons.

The skull was hit with 253 pounds of pressure or 1125 newtons.  The blow was delivered with 20 percent more force than what a professional athlete would deliver.  Over fifteen times the required force needed to crack an adult male’s melon open.  The entire swing took less than half a second.  A 26-inch carbon steel baton weighing 1.46 pounds was used.  Contact between baton and target lasted a precious 0.02 seconds.  Faster than the 0.33 seconds required to blink, or the 0.878 seconds it took the victim’s heart to pump one last time.

Ian King would have found this statistical information interesting.  A welcome distraction from the butterflies surfing his own synapses.  Ian even may have engaged the provider of such delicate morsels of information in conversation had it not been his skull used to provide the empirical data.

Green buds were sprouting on the tips of every branch in the forest.  Mother Nature letting her hair down after the long winter.  The season when children were lined up for crew cuts to prepare for warmer weather while Momma Nature was silently shaking her mane out.  In three days, the buds would have opened and Ian would never have seen the footprint.

Two minutes before his last thought, Ian relaxed his pace.  The sky had been full with rain and was now starting to drizzle.  With the rain, the wind began to shift erratically.  Ian stopped and adjusted his backpack and cracked his neck.  He knew the pack would have difficulty picking up his scent with the wind shifting.  He also knew the rain would mask the snapping twigs of his approach.  He still needed to be careful.  Eastern timber wolves were notoriously shy of humans.

Ian’s thoughts drifted.  The weather was warming, and warmth brought undergrads in shorts.  He wondered what this year’s batch would look like.  He was in his third year of graduate work at the College of Environmental Science and Forestry.  The curriculum required him to take undergrads out for fieldwork.  The work could be gratifying unless he had to remind the students to take their earbuds out or stop texting.  At least there were the girls.

Ian noted the pack’s pace was focused over the last two days.  Gone were the typical meanderings and backtracking.  The wolves were moving quickly now, seldom stopping to rest.  Ian knew he was anthropomorphizing, but he had a gut feeling the wolves knew they were in dangerous territory.  What could be making the pack skittish?  Ian rechecked the topography map and verified they were at least a half day’s hike to the nearest civilization.  It couldn’t be humans making them pick up the pace.

Rain dropping on his face renewed his focus and he kneeled over with his tracking stick to pick up the stride of the pack lead.  He glanced to his right and saw a familiar indentation in the mud.  Nothing in nature resembles a human’s silhouette.  The same can be said for a human footprint.  This particular print was nearly 18 inches long and deeply depressed into the mud.  Ian jerked up with the realization of what he was looking at.  He just connected the dots of why the wolves were quickly moving through the area when the baton struck his head.

A man dressed completely in black efficiently wiped the baton before collapsing it.  He turned to an identically dressed man, “That ape is getting sloppy.  Make contact with him and remind him of our position.”

***

Noah Baird wanted to attend the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College, but his grades weren’t good enough (who knew?). However, his grades were good enough to fly for the U.S. Navy (again, who knew?), where he spent 14 years until the government figured out surfers don’t make the best military aviators. He has also tried to be a stand-up comedian in Hawaii for Japanese tourists, where the language barrier really screwed up some great jokes. On the bright side, a sailboat was named after the punchline of one of his jokes.

He has several political satire pieces published on The Spoof under the pen name orioncrew. Noah received his bachelors in Historical and Political Sciences from Chaminade University, where he graduated magna cum laude. He knows nothing about hoaxing Bigfoot. This is his first novel.

Click here to buy: Donations to Clarity

A Christian romance set in the 18th century, Pure is the Heart has the ability to draw out the lover and the faithful spirit in every soul.   Forced to escape her home country or face the guillotine, Elise LeNoir makes her way to the estate of Lord Hunter Westwood who opens his home to the young woman and his heart soon becomes hers. Unfortunately, he is already betrothed, an engagement meant to unite two families, not two hearts. Even if Hunter were free, Elise is not in a position to marry.

Prologue

Paris, France, October 1786

“Il est etrangere, Grandmerè,” Elise Le Noir protested. Her voice bordered on a whine for she did not want to write the letter. She glanced at her grandmother.  Her eyes pleaded with the older woman to reconsider.

The regal woman of sixty sat taking tea in her salon, dressed in a severe, dark blue dress that complimented her silver hair and grey eyes.  Elise’s grandfather passed away five years earlier and after Dame Le Noir put off black, she still wore the darkest shades of clothing, as if in a permanent, semi-state of mourning.

Sunlight streamed through the windows and the crystals, which hung in front of the glass, distributed rainbows across the floors and walls.  The array of colors caught Elise’s attention and she watched the reflections dance each time a breeze blew.  The day was unseasonably warm and the windows opened to allow fresh air into the room.  The heavy scent of lavender remained late into the season this year and Elise inhaled the aroma.

With a deep sigh, the older woman lifted the porcelain pot and poured the brown liquid into a delicate cup.  “Speak English, Elise.”

The girl brought her gaze back to the woman she loved dearly.  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and spoke with care.  “He is a stranger.  There is another way?  Someone else?”  Hope lingered in her voice.

“The best way to improve your English is with someone who is British.  I know the family well.  Informal conversation is impossible at the moment, which is why you need to enter into written correspondence,” her dear grandmerè insisted and firmed her thin lips before she lifted the cup from the saucer.

Grandmerè’s dictatorial tone indicated an end to the discussion.  Elise fell back in her chair, kicked her feet out in front and exposed the white stockings covering her ankles and calves.  At her grandmother’s stern look, one eyebrow raised in disapproval, Elise straightened her spine, pulled her feet back, and crossed her ankles in a prim manner.

“Why can’t we return to Chartres?”  Elise let her lips pucker into a pout.

Grandmerè frowned.  “Your father is needed here and your mother wants you close.”

“I don’t like Paris.  There are too many people and everything is so confined.”

Her grandmother relaxed for a moment, a sad smile on her lips, and sighed.  “I, too, miss the country and my home.”  Her chin lifted and her spine stiffened.  “Time does not stand still, Elise.  You are becoming a young woman.  You are fourteen years old and must prepare yourself for court and your future.”

Elise frowned.  She was not happy with the changes in her life and less so with the lessons she’d endured since she and her grandmother arrived in Paris.  She was not sure why she needed to be in Paris at all.  The majority of the time her parents stayed at Versailles, with King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette, and took an occasional trip to Paris because of business.  Chartres wasn’t far from either Paris or Versailles, so why couldn’t she visit her parents on occasion instead of having to live in this city?  No one ever gave her a clear answer except she needed to be in the capital to prepare for her future.

To make matters more difficult, her father employed a governess to tutor her – Mademoiselle Capri, a formal, strict woman who never laughed.  Daily, except on Sundays, Elise suffered through hours and hours of lessons that included literature, sciences, behavior, music, languages and etiquette.  Each day began with mass at eight in the morning, followed by lessons, a brief luncheon, and more lessons until dinnertime.  Her head ached from the education and the tight style of her hair.  The governess insisted a girl of her age should have it pulled back and pinned into a tight bun.  With her vanity tucked away, Elise would be better able to concentrate on her studies.  So far her hair only gave her a headache.

Elise wanted to return to her beloved Chartres, where she was free to explore, ride, wear comfortable clothing, and leave her hair loose. And there were friends she could visit in town.

If she couldn’t return home, she wished to become a nun.  At least their clothing seemed more comfortable.

Elise often thought of entering a convent, and not only because of the clothing.  She watched them at Our Lady of Chartres, at home, and at Saint Chappelle, since she moved to Paris.  The nuns were devoted to God and worked for Him every day, whether in prayer, nursing the sick or taking care of orphans.   Elise envied their lives.  From what she observed, they seemed to be at peace in a way no other parishioner experienced.   From the clear, warm eyes and soft expressions, one could tell they were so full of the Holy Spirit it overflowed and touched everyone with whom they came into contact.  She wanted to experience the peace and calmness one could only obtain by serving the Lord with mind, body and soul.  She wanted to be one of them.

“Will we be able to return, Grandmother?”  Elise let her shoulders slump and her teaspoon slipped with a small clank onto the fragile teacup. She knew her nunnery dreams were impossible.  Her parents would never allow her to turn her back on her heritage and enter the church.

“In time.  First, you must learn well.  Then, perhaps we can talk your parents into a holiday.”

Elise’s hopes surged at the prospect.  She could suffer through her lessons easier with the promise of returning home.  Unfortunately, one of those assignments included the dreaded letter.  She didn’t bring the topic up again.  That subject was closed.

For the next half hour, her grandmother sipped her tea and spoke of fashion and respectability before she excused Elise, and allowed her to go to her rooms.

The task at hand filled her with humiliation.  Though she spoke English well enough, when she concentrated, she had not mastered the written language.  In an effort for her to become more proficient, her governess suggested Elise begin a correspondence with someone who was English.

Her grandmother knew of no young ladies, and the French and English were not close friends, so she suggested another to whom Elise should write, a distant relation of sort, though not by blood.  It was to the youngest son, four years older than herself. Elise was to write a letter of introduction. What did one write to a strange man in a foreign country?

After she settled herself behind the small desk, Elise picked up the quill.  She brushed the feathered end across her chin and considered how to begin.  First the address. How did one address the second son of an English earl? At least she thought the father was an Earl, though deceased.  The boys’ grandfather, a marquis, still lived, which made this gentleman the younger brother of the current earl. Or so she thought.

Elise propped her chin in her hand.  The British peerage was so difficult to follow, with all the separate titles and addresses for children.  She frowned, trying to remember the proper orders of address.   Her grandmother tried to drill the order into her head, but still she stumbled.  Why must she have this information now? In two years she would enter society and had plenty of time to get matters straight.  Besides, in France, aristocracy was easy and Elise doubted she would meet many English peers, if any. But, grandmother insisted she would need this information when she attended court as there were often visitors from other countries and she needed to be prepared.

Determined, Elise decided to admit her failings, and began the letter. The Honorable Patrick Radley,

            I hope this letter finds you well.  I excuse myself if “l’honorable” is not correct, but I have some difficulties with the English titles.

            I write at the insistence of my grandmother, Dame Le Noir. Her sister was the first wife of your grandfather.  Maybe you recognize the name.

            My governess hopes that I learn better the English.  She suggested that I exchange the letters with someone who is English for to reinforce my capacities. My grandmother recommended your family, more specifically you, because you are the most near to my age.

            I am called Elise Le Noir.  I am the only child of Compt Le Noir.  I have 14 years and I live in Paris.  Other times, I live in Chartres.

            A letter of return would be well appreciated.  It will put the comfort to both my governess and my grandmother.

                                                            Elise Le Noir

* * *

Wilshire England, 1786

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Hunter heard his brother say with laughter.

“What nonsense?” he asked.

Patrick Radley stood when his brother ambled into the room.  “A girl has written me from France and requests a letter in return.”  He tossed the parchment on the desk.

Hunter Radley, current Earl Weatherly and future Marquess Westwood raised an eyebrow.  “I hadn’t realized rumor of your charms had reached so far.”  He approached the desk and glanced at the fancy parchment.

“If it were that type of letter, I would gladly pay the lady a visit.”  Patrick flashed a devilish smile. “But no, this child simply wants someone to correspond with.”

Hunter watched his younger brother head for the door.  “So, you have no intention of writing back?”  He called after Patrick and crossed his arms over his chest.

Patrick gave his brother a bemused grin.  “Of course not. I am off to London.  You really should think about visiting the city and enjoying yourself for a change. You are only twenty, but live as if you already have one foot in the grave.”

Hunter watched his brother leave, shook his head and smiled.  He envied Patrick.  His younger brother’s life appeared freer and easier due to being born second.  Hunter wasn’t allowed such luxuries, especially since their father no longer lived.  His advantage of being born first included titles, land, and a huge responsibility that left him absolutely no time for mindless entertainments.

On the other hand, Patrick needed to mature.  A perfect example – the letter he disregarded without care.  Hunter picked up the missive and read the letter from the young girl.  He found it delightful, at least to a man with very little frivolity in his life.  He also recognized the name and recalled the stories his grandfather told of the beautiful Frenchwoman who first captured his heart decades ago.  He regretted they had not been blessed with children. However, he did lose his heart a second time to Hunter’s grandmother.

With half a smile, Hunter went in search of his grandfather, to listen while the old gent reminisced about his first wife and their life together. He also recounted stories of the young woman’s grandmother, Dame Le Noir.  When his grandfather tired, Hunter returned to the library and sat to write a letter.

Mademoiselle Le Noir,

            Allow me to introduce myself.  I am Hunter Radley, Earl of Weatherly, the elder brother of Patrick Radley.  I must apologize for my brother.  In his youth and quest for entertainment he did not allow himself to return your correspondence.  I hope you do not find it intrusive that I have read it as well.

            Your address to my brother was correct and I find it difficult to believe you struggle with my native language.  Regardless, if it is your grandmother’s wish that you correspond with an Englishman, I gladly volunteer to fill this position, if that meets with your approval.

                                                            Lord Weatherly

***

Amy lives in Central Illinois with her wonderful husband, two daughters, one son, two cats and one dog and firmly believes you should never have more pets than you have children.

She has loved romance novels for more years than she cares to actually count and when stories began forming in her own mind, she finally gave in and put her fingers to the keyboard and has not stopped writing since.

During the day she works as a paralegal and when she is not writing, she teaches Sunday School and sits on the Family Ministry Committee at her church. She can also be found at one of the community theaters doing make-up, or on a very rare occasion, costuming.

Click here to buy: Pure is the Heart

In 1968, a year of worldwide explosive protests, Paul Lasser, an American educator, ventures to Paris on sabbatical to write a novel. There he encounters the mysterious “Phantom Lady of Paris.” Though cordial, she conceals a shadowy past that will change Paul’s life forever, a secret history which unfolds amid a backdrop of café bombings, Sorbonne student riots and the drug overdose death of an American “flower child.” But in spite of these events, there blossoms a soulful relationship between the American educator and the walking enigma, The Phantom Lady, all taking place in the metropolis for lovers and dreamers…Paris.

Chapter One

The Phantom Lady of Paris? I knew her well. On the other hand—as I later discovered—I didn’t know her at all. The woman did everything wrong. She did nothing wrong. She was a Jezebel, deceptive in every way. I’ve never known a more honest and straightforward person. During our relationship, she kept me constantly jittery and perturbed. The happiest days of my life were those I shared with the Phantom Lady of Paris. They were the golden days, the good times, good, that is, until…

Don’t let her name mislead. She was not an apparition, nor a creation of some writer’s fantasy, a fiend-like character in, say, an Edgar Allen Poe tale or one by Stephen King or Franz Kafka. No, she was real all right and, above all, she was human, more human than anyone I’d known and, I’m sure, will ever know again. And in spite of my blundering ways, she taught me what it really means to be a human being.

The Phantom Lady was a down-to-earth mortal possessing a unique dream, one fabricated from her passion for living, some of which passion she shared with me and with others fortunate enough to have known her.

As her name suggests, she lived in Paris, lived there during the most turbulent times the city has known since the bloodletting and mayhem of the French Revolution. She resided in The City of Light during the Vietnam War and peace protests in the United States and Europe, Sorbonne student riots on the Left Bank and worldwide clashes between “The Establishment” and “The Flower Generation.” It was an era of cataclysmic social eruption and revolutionary clashes of ideas and age groups.

I was a grown man when I met the Phantom Lady. All was going well with me. My life was in balance, and I knew how to live it. In spite of that, the moment the Phantom Lady and I met marked the real beginning of my life. Everything preceding that instant was meaningless prologue. During our initial chat, which lasted about three hours—though it seemed a fleeting moment, I learned for the first time what life is all about and how I should live mine.

On the morning we met, she taught me many things about myself that were, until then, mysteries. And what did I learn about her? Very little. Basically, I learned that she was more question marks than periods, and that something mysterious lurked behind each question mark. I wasn’t prepared for what the hidden thing turned out to be. But looking back at what happened the morning I met her and everything that ensued, I wonder, what human being could have possibly prepared for the startling revelation that developed and how it would change not only my life, but hers…and change both forever?

Who could have been prepared?

No one.

***

An educator, Calvin Davis spent a year in Paris (1968-69), during most of which time he sat at outdoor cafes on boulevards Saint Michel and Saint German, observing the endless streams of passing humanity and writing The Phantom Lady of Paris, all the while downing countless cups of midnight-black java.  The experience taught him a lot about writing and also how to wear out the seats of a half dozen trousers. So, he’s out of six pairs of pants. No big deal. That’s a small price to pay for bringing such a wonder child into the word…the remarkable phantom lady of Paris.

Calvin Davis is also the author of two other novels; Love in Opposing Colors and The Event at Fourteenth and U: A Christmas Story.

Click here to buy: The Phantom Lady of Paris

Tracy’s supposedly perfect life as a pastor’s wife and mother of three is turned upside down when her husband leaves  her for a man.

Clay Alexander’s charmed existence starts spinning out of control when his father threatens to shut down Maple Valley’s  woolen mill – unless Clay conforms to his family’s expectations.

Is Tracy and Clay’s love meant to be, or will they forever be on opposite sides of the merry-go-round?

Her children. His parents. Her pride. His honor. The welfare of an entire town.

MERRY GO ROUND… Hang on for dear life.

Chapter One

Tracy Jones Tomlinson stepped up to the front porch at her parents’ house and turned to see if Theodora, Titus and Timothy had caught up to her. She was just ready to yell at them to quit fighting and hurry up when she heard voices.

“Did Tracy and Trevor say anything about being late, Mom?” she heard Rachael asking, probably from the kitchen. “The pork tenderloin’s going to dry out if they don’t get here soon.”

Her mother responded. “I told you to use Tracy’s recipe – you know, the one that came from Trevor’s mother. It always comes out of the oven so melt-in-your-mouth tender when it’s simmered in that heavenly gravy she makes.”

“This is the recipe I use at The Painted Lady,” Michelle said. “It always turns out perfectly. Everybody loves it.”

“Well, Tracy didn’t say anything to me, but I know Trevor’s schedule has been extremely hectic lately,” their mother said. “Every time I’ve talked to her recently he’s been off on one errand of mercy or another. Such a dear man.”

Tracy froze. She’d been keeping Trevor’s secret and playing the part of the perfect pastor’s wife for over two years. She was sick of it; tired of making up stories about where he was, covering for him at church, and having to pretend that they had the proverbial marriage made in heaven.

“I hope the church up in Blooming realizes how fortunate they are to have Trevor,” their father added in a loud voice. “Trevor works night and day for that church. I’m sure the pa­rishioners give them what they can afford, and of course they have the parsonage, but a man as hard-working and talented as Trevor could be making ten times as much money in the private sector.”

She peeked around the corner just in time to see Rachael and Michelle giving each other the look. Not one family gathering could pass without the traditional Isn’t Trevor Tomlinson wonderful? speech being de­livered by their father, their mother, or both. She risked another quick glance. Mac and Jake were probably down in the basement playing with the kids – at least they didn’t have to be subjected to their dad’s well-practiced oration.

“That Trevor has such a heart for shut-ins,” their mother added. “He visits each one in the Blooming area at least once a week, besides his regu­lar visits to the nursing homes and the hos­pitals in Austin and Red Oak.”

“He’s been up to Rochester to visit folks at the Mayo Clinic at least twice this month,” their father added. “You just don’t find men like him in the world very often anymore.”

“I know I’ve said it a hundred times if I’ve said it once, but Tracy is so blessed to be married to a man like Trevor,” their mother said.

Her sisters exchanged another look. Yeah. Well, for once, it appeared her sisters were right.

She heard the kids behind her and took her cue. “Hello!  Sorry to keep you waiting.” She held the screen door open while Theodora, Titus, and Timothy entered the kitchen single file, their mouths shut, their faces angelic looking.

Michelle wiped her hands on her apron. “Hi, Teddy! Wow. Did you do something different with your hair? I love the way it sweeps around in back.”

Theodora beamed silently as her aunt spun her around to get the full effect of her new hairstyle, then turned and threw her arms around Michelle. “Thanks, Aunt Michelle. Mom still refuses to call me Teddy. And, she hates my new haircut.”

Michelle returned “Teddy’s” hug and smiled fondly at the boys. “How ya doin’, Ty? Hi, Timothy. Nate and Josh are downstairs playing with Ian and baby Sarah if you want to go tell them dinner is ready.”

“If everyone could please have a seat,” Rachael said, looking impatient.

“Nate and Josh are here? All right!” Timothy crowed.

Even Titus’ face lit up for a second. Nate and Josh, Jake’s children from a previous marriage, lived three hours away, in Ce­dar Rap­ids, Iowa with their mother, and spent every other weekend with Michelle and Jake.

Their mother went to the door and looked out. “Did Trevor have trouble finding a place to park?”

“He’s not here,” Tracy told her with feigned surprise. “I’m sorry. I thought I told you he wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, dear.”

Her mind went blank. Panic clutched at her side. What was wrong with her tonight? She was a master at keeping a straight face when she was trapped in a half-truth and had to find the right words to cover her tracks. She’d been practicing since she was what – eight or nine? She knew hundreds of ways to bend words, to get out of a jam without actually lying. Sadly, the web of deceit she and Trevor had woven since he’d asked her for a divorce had stretched even her reserves.

“Um…” She had already nursed the counseling-a-hurting-parishioner angle to death, and given the excuse about Trevor having to visit a very ill member of the con­gregation too many times over the last few weeks for it to be plausible. Their church wasn’t big enough to warrant such never-ending pain and suffering among its members. Be­sides, the children were still within earshot. Whatever she said now would have to jive with what she had told them ear­lier.

“I’m sure I told you about the conference, Mom.” She kept her tone light. “He’s been gone all week. He did call the other night though, and he told me to give Ian a big birthday hug. Is he downstairs with his daddy?” Tracy was halfway across the spacious kitchen by the time she finished speaking and around the corner before her mother could for­mulate the words to disagree with her again.

“Conference? Something to do with the church?” She heard her dad ask.

“I have no idea,” she heard her mother say.

Tracy gripped the handrail at the top of the stairs and stood concealed from the sight of the others. She could hear Jake’s melodious voice, Mac’s deep, rumbling laughter, and Timothy’s high-pitched squeal of excitement mingling with the noisy clatter of the other children’s voices.

It wasn’t really lying, she tried to convince herself. Keeping your troubles to yourself was just what the Joneses did. Problems, personal flaws, shortcomings, and weaknesses of the flesh were squelched – squashed if necessary – and made to disappear long before they ever became public knowledge. These people lived victorious Christian lives even if it killed them.

Unless you were taken with a serious disease, of course. No one asked to be sick. There was no shame in sharing your woes when one of you was ill. She certainly didn’t wish Trevor any harm, but him being sick would have been easier to explain than what was really going on.

She herself was feeling ill just imagining what people would say if they knew their perfect pastor / son-in-law / husband of the year was gay.

“Watch out for baby Sarah!” Jake’s voice startled her when it suddenly resounded over the enthusiastic din. “She’s not quite as big as you are, Timothy.”

Tracy stepped to the bottom of the stairs. “Hello, everyone! Happy birthday, Ian.” She knelt down and scooped her little nephew up in her arms. “Hi, sweetie.” She had barely managed to kiss his chubby cheek when, in his eagerness to rejoin the bigger children, he squirmed out of her arms and slid the remaining distance down her legs to the floor.

“Wow. He’s so strong,” she said, shocked.

“He likes to move.” Mac raised one eyebrow. “The only time he sits still is at night when Rachael reads him bedtime stories.”

“Sarah sure has grown.” Tracy nodded at Michelle’s hus­band, Jake, who was sprawled at one end of the sofa, his long legs outstretched and his arms hooked behind his neck.

Jake smiled down at his only daughter. She lay on her stomach on the floor in the center of a rainbow-colored afghan Rae had crocheted for her. “She’s our little snuggle bear.”

Tracy felt a flash of envy. Her babies were all growing up so fast. Timothy still liked to climb into bed with her in the morning for a little snuggle, but it wouldn’t be long before he’d be just as bad as Theodora, who acted as though she loathed her much of the time, and Titus, who stayed as far away from her as he possibly could when given the choice.

She sighed. Neither Jake nor Mac asked where Trevor was, assuming incor­rectly that he was upstairs with the other adults. Tracy slumped down into her father’s old recliner and curled her legs up underneath her. “I thought Luke and his mother were coming today.”

“Rachael had a last minute call from a client from the Cities. Today was the only time her husband could come to see the house she’s inter­ested in. Luke vol­unteered to take the appointment. Uncle Luke and Grandma Zimmerman are going to come celebrate your birthday tomorrow night at our house, aren’t they, Ian, old boy?”

Mac reached down and scooped the birthday boy off the floor just as he was about to jump into the middle of the Candy Land game board the older children were concen­trating on. Mac whis­tled. “Close call.”

Luke Zimmerman, who was Rae’s partner in the real estate office she’d opened four years earlier, and his mother, a sweet, matronly woman with the complete antithesis of their own mother’s personality, had become adopted uncle and grandma to Rae and Mac’s baby, Ian, during the period Rae had been estranged from the Jones family.

Tracy’s stomach churned, remembering the shock they’d all experienced when they’d learned of Ian’s ille­gitimate conception. The whole fiasco Rae had gone through with Mac and Luke would pale in comparison to the bombshell Trevor was about to drop.

She resisted the urge to cry – again. No matter how screwed up Rae and Mac’s beginnings had been, Ian was a true gift from God. Much as she’d tried, Tracy could not see how any good could possibly come from Trevor’s admission. Shame, embarrassment, and grief – yes. Total, utter humiliation – definitely. Devasta­tion not only in terms of her life but the fragile development of her three innocent children – most certainly. But joy? No one could convince her that any­thing positive could come from Trevor’s announcement that he was leaving her for someone else, especially when that some­one else was a man.

“Supper’s ready!” Rae yelled down the stairs. “Come and sit up to the table before it gets cold!”

Tracy stood and stepped back to let the children go ahead of her. For the first time, she felt a flash of compassion for Rae. Being the oldest – the trailblazer – probably hadn’t been an easy role to play. But then, Rachael was the most logical, articulate, and gutsy of the three of them. It was almost as though she’d been chosen for the part.

Things that Rachael had argued herself blue in the face over, she and Michelle had done to little more than a raised eyebrow.

Sweet, obedient, middle child, Michelle had never had Rae’s rebellious nature. Michelle had been so easy-go­ing and even-tempered, and their parents, so busy arguing with Rae and gushing over her, that poor Michelle had practically gotten lost in the shuffle.

It hadn’t taken Tracy long to realize, after watching Rae constantly butting heads with their parents, that the key to peaceful coexistence in the Jones household was to keep your mouth shut and toe the line. She’d had just as much of a wild streak as her older sister, but unlike Rae, she’d never had the urge to flaunt it.

Tracy’s philosophy had always been what your parents don’t know won’t hurt them. She’d basically done whatever she’d pleased when she was in high school. She’d just made sure her parents were none the wiser. To the best of her knowledge, even Rae and Michelle didn’t have a clue to most of the things she’d gotten by with.

She thought back on some of the escapades she’d participated in when she was younger – things she’d never admit to in front of her children. She’d been only a few months older than Theodora when she’d sneaked off to a concert to hear Rita Coolidge sing “Fever”. Her parents thought she’d been at youth retreat at Bible camp.

She shuddered to think that Theodora was fast approaching the same tender age she’d been when she’d gone on her first date with Trevor. Her parents had been so thrilled that she was dating a “nice boy” from their church that they hadn’t seemed to care that she was only fifteen to Trevor’s world-wise eighteen years. She and Trevor had had sex for the first time when she was barely sixteen. If only she’d known then what she knew now.

She put her mother of three / pastor’s wife persona back on and trudged up the stairs.

“We saved you a seat right beside Mom, Tracy,” Rae said as she rounded the top of the stairs.

Tracy glared at her sister. Darn conniving Rae, she thought, taking note of her sister’s spot at the opposite end of the table.

Mr. Jones cleared his throat. “Let’s bow our heads for a word of prayer.”

Tracy kept her head bowed and listened as her father proceeded to give thanks for the meal. She’d spent her whole life perfecting the art of camouflaging not only her actions, but her true feelings. As a pastor’s wife, she’d become a pro at putting on a brave face for the world – more importantly, for her children. She’d had to. She would not let Trevor Tomlinson cloud her babies’ lives with the knowledge that he had, quote, an inborn preference for male companion­ship.

“Amen.”

Her mother passed her a bowl of mashed potatoes. “So tell me about Trevor’s conference, Tracy. Was it something the church recommended he attend?”

Tracy took a deep breath. “No, just a topic Trevor was interested in. It’s sponsored by a Chris­tian organization in California. He took some vacation time so he could go.”

Her father cleared his throat. “What denomination is this group with then?”

“I have no idea, Dad. I didn’t ask.”

“There are some pretty radical religious groups out in California. I’m sure Trevor knows better than to get mixed up in anything the folks at Fellowship wouldn’t approve of.”

Her shoulders tensed. What was it that gave her father such an un­canny sense of knowing when something was amiss? “You know Trevor as well as I do, Dad. The man doesn’t do anything that he hasn’t thought out carefully and thoroughly researched.” There, she had dodged the issue without actually lying. Well, maybe she had. She knew good and well that the conference he was attending was sponsored by a Christian gay rights organization. Trevor was pursuing his supposed calling to minister to gays and lesbians within the Christian community.

“Tracy, dear. Your father asked you a question.” Her mother’s voice penetrated her stupor like a knife.

Question?

Her mother reached over her plate and put her hand on her forehead. “Is something wrong? Your cheeks are all flushed. Are you coming down with something? It feels like you might have a fever.”

They were all staring at her now, from little Ian on up.

Her head started to spin, the room, too. Lights were flashing and Rita Coolidge’s husky alto voice was singing.

***

Don’t cry out loud

Just keep it inside, learn how to hide your feelings

Fly high and proud

And if you should fall, remember you almost had it all.

 ***

“Sorry. I’m not feeling too well all of a sudden. Please excuse me,” she mumbled. She touched her nap­kin to her lips, pushed back her chair, and fled the room, as completely and utterly ashamed as if they’d been able to read her mind.

 ***

“Do you think one of us should go after her and see if she’s all right?” Mac looked at Rae, then her mother.

“I’ll go,” Michelle spoke up quickly. She didn’t know what was wrong with Tracy but she felt certain that whatever it was, their mother – most likely Rae, too – might make it worse. Her eyes locked with Jake’s for a second while she slid her chair away from the table. Aside from some occasional good-natured grumbling, Tracy never got upset – at least not in front of the family. She couldn’t imagine what was wrong.

“Please don’t wait on us. The food will get cold,” Michelle insisted to the family’s stunned silence. One did not get upset at a Jones family gathering. There was no reason one could possibly have to get upset. All was good and well; everything was always fine in the Jones family. (And you’d better remember it if you know what’s good for you.) Their father’s words rang in her ears as she headed up the stairs.

The door to the half bath her parents had added the year after Michelle went off to college was open. She turned to Tracy’s old bedroom and rapped lightly on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Michelle.” She held her breath during the brief silence that followed.

“Come in.”

She opened the door slowly and smiled at Tracy.

Her sister pulled her legs up to her chest and leaned back against the headboard of a canopied bed her parents had brought home from a garage sale when they were girls.

“What’s wrong? We were worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Tracy said, looking anything but fine. “I’m feeling a little better already. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

“Maybe you’re lonesome for Trevor. Has he been gone all week?”

“This week and part of last.” Tracy’s eyes narrowed and glinted with what looked like unaccustomed hostility. “You’re lucky Jake doesn’t have to travel too often anymore.”

“Yes.” Michelle hadn’t been in Tracy’s room for years. A riotous field of blue, purple, and yellow paper daisies clung stubbornly to the sloped ceilings and walls of the old bedroom, a vivid reminder of days long past.

She looked back in Tracy’s direction and caught her sister’s eyes following hers.

“I suppose my choice of wallpaper offends your decorator’s sensibilities,” Tracy said.

“There’s no accounting for some people’s tastes,” Michelle teased.

“This wallpaper was the rage back in the ‘80s! And who are you to talk anyway? You had lime green love beads in your room when you were in high school.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

“I’ve been after Mom to redo one or the other of our rooms so she’d have a decent guest room when company comes.”

“You and me both. I’d do it as a designer, I’d do it as a daughter, I’d do it for free if she’d just give me the go ahead. She told me that the only people who stay overnight here are your kids and an occasional missionary who’s speaking at their church. And according to her, neither of them cares what the room looks like as long as they have a comfortable bed to sleep in.”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “Yes. We pastor’s families and missionaries are so busy thinking about heavenly things that we pay no attention whatsoever to how people’s homes are decorated.”

Michelle smiled. “That certainly explains why your home is so lovely.”

“What’s sad is that the people at church feel the same way as mom. The only reason the parsonage looks the way it does is because I took the initiative to paint or repaper all the walls and sew new drapes for the windows. The church would have left it the way it was for another two or three decades.”

“It was pretty awful when you first moved in.”

Tracy smiled. “Thanks for helping me pick everything out. I didn’t mind doing the installation but I wouldn’t have known where to start when it came to coordinating designs and colors to match our hodgepodge of furniture. I know it wasn’t fun having to scour bargain basements and remnant shops to find things that were in my budget.”

“It was fun! We made a good team. Remember that mismatched paint we got at Sherwin Williams?”

“All thirty gallons of it – for a mere dollar a gallon. I can also remember you glopping a little from this gallon and a little from that gallon in a pail until you had the perfect shade.”

Michelle giggled. “You did a great job using it all to its best advantage. You really have a talent for painting and papering. It must be the Jones perfectionist gene.”

“That gene is probably the one and only thing all three of us sisters have in common.” Tracy sighed.

“I think you’re right. I try not to drive my subcontractors crazy with my high expectations but it’s difficult. I’d give anything to have someone like you to contract jobs out to, Tracy. You’ve got such a good eye for detail.” Michelle waved her arm around the room. “Look at these walls! The pattern match is perfect, the seams are indistinguishable, and the design is level – and this house is as crooked as can be. This stuff has been here for more than twenty years and it looks as smooth and flawless as the day you put it up.”

“Now you sound like Mom. Why should I replace it when it still looks brand new?” Tracy mimicked.

They both laughed. “Well, call me if you ever decide to go into business, Tracy. You know me, I’ve got a million good ideas but I hate installation work. Hey – you could call yourself The Handy Woman.”

“Sure.” Tracy giggled. “You know, I’m really starved all of the sudden.”

“What are we waiting for then? Let’s go eat.”

***

By day, Sherrie Hansen owns and operates a Victorian bed and breakfast and tea house in Northern Iowa called the Blue Belle Inn. By night, she enjoys not only writing, but traveling, reading, needlework, quilting, and renovating and decorating old houses. She is the author of three additional books, Night and Day, Stormy Weather (Book One of the Maple Valley Trilogy) and Water Lily (Book Two of the Maple Valley Trilogy).

Click here to buy: Merry Go Round

A high tech motorcycle, a black disguise, a crusading newscaster’s quest for justice.When a car bomb kills the prosecuting attorney and a key witness against a powerful bioengineering industrialist, the blast shatters the life of the attorney’s husband, popular Phoenix television investigative reporter, Parker Knight.  After authorities hit a dead end, Parker risks his career and his life to seek his own revenge. Riding a high tech motorcycle and wearing a black disguise, the crusading newsman inadvertently becomes a media created superhero jeopardizing his quest for justice.

Chapter One

Parker Knight owed his wife an apology. Although he’d acted like a total ass the past few days, he still wanted to talk to his best friend, Justin, about the seed of suspicion he couldn’t quite shake.

Downshifting his Kawasaki, Parker flipped a u-turn in the morning rush hour traffic eliciting a blast from an SUV. Hoping no one recognized him, he sped down the busy Phoenix street. Two blocks later, he pulled into the lot of Kendall’s Motorcycle Shop and parked beside a tricked out candy apple red pickup.

Parker climbed off his bike and pulled out the slip of paper he’d found beside the bedroom phone. The words Ambassador Hotel, in Erica’s handwriting, had fanned his imagination. When he yanked off his helmet, angry shouts inside the garage’s open bay refocused his attention.

Justin Kendall, shoulder-length hair poking out the back of a Phoenix Suns cap, sat adjusting the rear strut on a Honda Sportbike. Ignoring the tirade of a brute standing on the other side of the motorcycle, he flashed Parker a reassuring smile.

The tough guy, with a tattoo of a dragon on his right forearm, probably thought he could snap Justin in two. A spray of spit flew as he shouted, “Where’s my old lady?”

“Your mother?”

“My girlfriend, smartass.”

Parker moved closer to his former Special Forces buddy. Justin could still handle himself, but he’d always been more of a lover than a fighter.

Justin rose clutching a wrench to his side. “Who’s your girl?”

The man smacked the seat of the bike. “Tina, Dickhead.”

“Tina Dickhead? Never heard of her. I’d remember a name like that.”

“Tina Banks,” he growled.

“The vet assistant? She was in yesterday.”

“So you do know her. Can’t imagine Tina with a skinny runt like you.”

“Who you calling a runt!”

Parker had to diffuse the situation. “I don’t know whether you have reason to suspect your girlfriend of infidelity…”

“Hey, you’re that reporter on TV.” The thug pointed a finger at Parker. “Stay the fuck out of this, pretty boy.”

“Pretty boy!”

“It’s all right, Parker.” Justin walked around the bike and gestured with the wrench. “Dude, I didn’t want to tell you, but your girl’s been scoping out motorcycles for your birthday.”

With a look of skepticism, the man gazed around the garage. “From a dump like this?”

“Dump! I’ve got top of the line stuff here.”

The garage smelled of oil and gasoline. Metal trash cans overflowed with greasy blue towels. Hand tools, motorcycle parts and empty Styrofoam cups cluttered the workbench.

The garage might be a dump, but Parker wouldn’t take his Kawasaki anywhere else. Justin had his weaknesses, particularly his tendency to get involved with the wrong kind of girl, but he was a techno-geek and definitely knew motorcycles.

The hothead’s expression softened as he inspected a dozen refurbished bikes along the far wall. “A motorcycle, that would be sweet.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes I over react.”

“And…” Justin winked at Parker.

“And…I’m sorry I called your place a dump.” Holding up both hands, the man retreated toward the parking lot. “Don’t say nothin’ to Tina, okay, man? Get her whatever she wants.” He jumped into the pickup and sped off, squealing tires.

“Crazy bastard.” Justin chuckled.

“Dodging bullets, my friend, dodging bullets.”

Justin tossed the wrench into his toolbox then focused his attention on Parker. “Troubles? I haven’t seen you look this bad since Afghanistan.”

Parker sat on a stool beside the workbench and handed the slip of paper to Justin.

After reading the note, a smile swept over Justin’s face. He burst out laughing until he snorted. “What is this, jealous idiots day? Dude, Erica would never cheat on you.”

“It’s more than the note. She’s been secretive the past couple months.”

“You’re both secretive. She’s a prosecuting attorney and you’re an investigative reporter. I thought you two have an understanding.”

“We do.” Parker didn’t ask Erica about her cases, and she never prosecuted corruption he’d exposed.

“She’s probably investigating something ultra-sensitive.” Justin snapped his fingers. “I bet she’s on the Bradley case.”

“Harrison Bradley?”

“No, Omar Bradley. You sure you’re a reporter?”

Harrison Bradley, CEO of Biotech and war hero, had built a bioengineering empire in Arizona and created more than five thousand high-tech jobs for the state.

“Why would the county attorney be interested in the golden boy?” Parker asked.

“Hell if I know. I just run a dump of a motorcycle shop, but one of my customers is playing hide the pickle with a paralegal hottie for the county. Apparently, they don’t have an understanding. She says your wife’s boss is after Bradley.”

“That would explain a lot.”

Justin handed the slip of paper back to Parker. “Erica loves you, man.”

Parker never doubted that. He’d just needed to talk things out. He dropped the paper into a trash can beside the workbench. How could an award winning investigative reporter jump to conclusions about his own life? He definitely owed his wife an apology for his recent behavior.

Parker pulled a cell phone from his jacket and dialed his wife’s number. He almost hung up when he reached her voice mail. “Erica, I’ve been a jerk lately, especially at the restaurant last night. I’m sorry I picked a fight this morning. You and I both work long hours. We need to talk, not argue.” Parker snapped the cell phone closed.

“Dude, you groveled by voice mail?”

Parker knew he should apologize in person. Erica deserved that, and much more.

Justin opened a metal coffee can on the bench. He took out a lighter and a marijuana cigarette. He lit the end of the joint, took a hit and held out the cigarette.

Parker declined the offer. “I wouldn’t even remember how, but thanks anyway.”

“Just being polite.” Justin hopped onto a stool beside Parker and took another hit. “Something else is bothering you. Everything okay at the station?”

Parker sighed “My audition is this afternoon.”

“There you go.” Justin took a long drag and held in the smoke. “Tell me again why a hotshot reporter like you would want to give up a job where you get paid to travel around the state.” Justin grabbed the sleeve of Parker’s black leather jacket. “For an anchor desk where you have to wear a suit and tie every freakin’ day.”

Parker shrugged. He loved uncovering corruption and greed and exposing political and business hypocrites. If he took a promotion, he’d miss being a crime reporter. He wanted to take himself out of the running, but he couldn’t just sit back and watch his rival, Marissa Graves, inherit the anchor desk.

Justin finished the cigarette and dropped the remaining flakes of weed into the can. He waved to a pretty blonde jogger in white shorts and a blue sports bra. She smiled and held a fist to her ear in a call me gesture as she ran past.

The restroom door in the back of the shop opened. “Is it safe?” A gum chewing redhead in a purple silk blouse with a plunging neckline strolled out. She sniffed the air that still lingered of pot. “Someone didn’t invite me to the party.”

Ignoring Parker, she stopped in front of Justin and set both hands on her hips. “You forgot about me, didn’t you?”

“Sorry, baby. My buddy’s having marital problems.”

“I’m not having marital problems,” Parker insisted. Maybe a little.

The woman studied Parker then checked her pink manicured nails. “Goody for you.”

Justin winked at Parker. “Parker Knight, meet Tina Banks.” 

*** 

From a room in the downtown Ambassador Hotel, Erica Knight peered out the window toward her husband’s television station. After hearing Parker’s voice mail apology, she couldn’t help but smile. Now she could focus on the task ahead.

Erica wished her witness looked as confident as she felt. “It’s time,” she said to Biotech’s CFO as he paced the room.

Larry Calderon let out a deep breath. When he buttoned his tailored suit coat, his hand trembled.

“You’ll do fine.” Erica gathered her confidential notes, stuffed them into her briefcase and snapped it closed.

“Once I step out that door, there’s no turning back.”

For either of them. Erica opened the door and nodded to the uniformed deputy in the hallway. The officer led Erica and Calderon to a waiting elevator. They stepped inside, and the deputy punched the button to the parking garage.

“Wildflower,” Calderon said, as the elevator descended.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“The key that will convince the grand jury that Harrison Bradley isn’t what he seems will be Wildflower.” Calderon ran a finger on the inside of his collar and swallowed hard.

Erica preferred his nervousness to the arrogance so prevalent the first time they’d met. She hoped the grand jurors would as well. “But you can’t prove what Wildflower is.”

“I can’t prove it’s a genetically engineered designer drug, but I know how much money Biotech’s spent on the pharmacology division. Bradley can’t keep it quiet much longer.”

“Until I can get the division head’s cooperation, I won’t be able to bring up Wildflower to the grand jury.”

Calderon shook his head. “Good luck getting Brooke Miller to cooperate. She’s Bradley’s fuckbuddy…sorry, that’s military jargon for mistress.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I told your boss. I thought you knew.”

The revelation stunned Erica. Although her portion of the grand jury case was to follow the money, she needed to understand the big picture regarding Biotech. What else didn’t she know about Harrison Bradley?

When the elevator door opened, the deputy exited and held up a hand. He scanned the parking garage then waved them into the corridor.

When Erica stepped out, Calderon stayed in the elevator. “Something wrong?” she asked, holding the door open.

Calderon dabbed his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief.

She offered a reassuring smile. “No one knows you’re here.”

With a quick nod, Calderon stepped off the elevator and followed Erica and the deputy to a blue Buick with dark tinted windows. She opened the rear door, and Calderon climbed inside, buckled his seat belt and wiped his brow.

The officer slipped behind the wheel and glanced into the backseat. “Don’t worry. The windows are bulletproof glass.”

Erica closed the rear door. Her witness’s increasing apprehension troubled her. Maybe they should wait for a police escort. As she reached for the front passenger door handle, the deputy started the car.

A deafening blast knocked Erica off her feet. As if in slow motion, the Buick’s windows exploded. Bright flames surged through the car’s interior.

Erica slammed against the bed of a pickup and slumped to the ground. Her head cracked against the cement floor in a blinding flash.

Shrill screams from inside the flaming car penetrated the ringing in her ears. Ignoring her throbbing head and a sharp pain in her gut, she lunged toward the Buick.

Flames and bitter smoke boiled from the car blocking her advance. The screams faded. Two lifeless shapes, one in the driver’s seat and one in the back disappeared as fire engulfed the car.

As heat swept toward her, Erica choked from the boiling smoke. She stumbled backward and fell. Struggling to crawl from the flames, a wave of dizziness swept over her. She tried to call Parker but dropped the phone. The flaming car blurred, and her vision faded to black. 

*** 

Parker spun a one-eighty in the station’s parking lot and sped toward the blast. As he struggled to retrieve his cell phone from his jacket, he spotted smoke curling from the parking garage of the Ambassador Hotel two blocks away.

Racing toward the hotel, Parker called Clete Hawkins, the station’s news director. After reporting the location of the blast, he snapped the phone closed, interrupting Clete’s questions. Parker jammed the cell phone into his jacket and raced down the street, the Kawasaki’s engine screaming. 

*** 

Ears ringing from the blast, Erica coughed, and her eyes blinked open. She could barely breathe. Orange flames leaped from the car’s shattered windows and acrid smoke crawled along the ceiling. In spite of the pain in her gut, she inched away from the heat of the flames.

Two car lengths from the Buick, she rested and sucked in gulps of air. She gagged from the smoke and the bitter stench of burning flesh.

What the hell happened? She’d been meticulous with the arrangements. Only a handful of associates, people she trusted, knew about her meetings to prep Calderon for his testimony.

Erica spotted her phone lying beside the red pickup. She had to reach Parker!

A screaming garage attendant stood paralyzed beside the entrance booth.

“Help,” Erica shouted then grabbed her stomach as a jagged pain ripped through her gut. Crying out, she pulled out a piece of metal and dropped the bloody shrapnel beside her.

Blood spread across her jacket. Ignoring the pain, she pressed on the wound and managed to move another car length from the blaze. When a wave of dizziness swept over her, she collapsed onto her back but fought to stay conscious as her vision blurred again. A massive knot of fear paralyzed her. Erica knew if she closed her eyes, it might be the last time.

The familiar sound of a motorcycle broke through the ringing in her ears. She raised her head and managed a flicker of hope. 

*** 

Parker sped past the screaming parking garage attendant toward the car with leaping orange flames. “Call nine-one-one,” he shouted before blasting through the wooden entrance arm.

Splinters of wood bounced off the face shield of his helmet. He fought the jerking handlebars. The rear tire slid, and the bike slammed into a convertible. Parker sailed over the front hood and rolled on the garage floor.

Ripping off his helmet, he snapped two photos of the burning car with his camera phone as boiling black smoke clung to the ceiling. He spotted a woman beside a red pickup, snapped her picture and ran to help.

With sirens in the background, Parker stuffed the cell phone in his jacket and sprinted through the garage. Staying clear of the inferno, he choked from burning rubber, gasoline and the distinct stench of burnt flesh. Parker slid to a stop beside the woman covered in shards of broken glass.

Oh my God!

“Erica,” he whispered.

Blood had caked the sides of his wife’s face and matted the front of her tan suit. Even through the hazy smoke, he could tell she’d been critically injured. He couldn’t bear seeing his wife in pain.

“Parker, how did you…” Erica winced.

Seeing how pale she’d grown, Parker summoned his Special Forces survival training, but this wasn’t a drill, this was Erica. “Can you move your neck?”

Erica moved her head from side to side then flexed both hands.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, burning his eyes. “What about your legs?”

She nodded then grimaced as she wiggled both feet.

Parker couldn’t wait any longer. He had to get her away before the gas tank erupted. Careful to avoid injuring her further, he gently pulled her away from the flaming car.

They made it to the far wall just as the Buick’s gas tank exploded. Parker fell on top of his wife shielding her body. A wave of heat and smoke belched over their heads.

Coughing, Parker rolled to his side and knelt beside his wife. His knee slipped in a smear of Erica’s blood.

Away from the thick smoke, he noticed blood oozing from both of her ears. More disturbing was the bright red that soaked the front of her tan suit. He swallowed hard knowing she had a concussion, probably two broken legs. The worst was the wound to her abdomen.

Parker untied the scarf from her neck and pressed it against the wound. “Hold this.”

Erica held the scarf against her wound and bit her lip in a grimace of pain.

Hoping to provide some comfort, he lifted her head and cradled his wife in his arms. His vision blurred as tears slid down his face. Where were the damn paramedics?

“Help, someone! I need a doctor,” he screamed over the sound of the fire. His voice echoed off the walls of the garage, hollow and empty. Even in war, he’d never felt so helpless.

Pulling a handkerchief from his jacket, he wiped blood from his wife’s face.

Erica stopped him, took the cloth and dried his tears.

Parker felt ashamed. He should be comforting her, not the other way around.

 “I’m cold.” Erica shivered, eyes fluttering. She dropped the handkerchief and scarf.

Parker eased her down onto the cement floor. He ripped off his jacket and tucked it under her head. He held the blood-soaked scarf against Erica’s wound. In seconds, blood covered his hand. “Help me, someone!” he yelled.

As sirens grew louder, he fought to calm his voice. “You’re going to be okay.” He hoped she couldn’t see the fear in his eyes.

Erica appeared calm, or was it resignation he saw on her face?

Parker kissed her. Who would do such a thing? And why? He choked back a wave of fury that surged through his soul like a rotten fish.

Erica reached for his hand and pried his clenched fist open. “Don’t…let this consume you.”

A patrol car skidded to a stop on the street. About damn time.

As one of the officers sprinted toward them, Erica squeezed his hand, her grip weaker this time. “I’m sorry about our fight, Parker.”

Parker didn’t want to talk about their stupid argument. He had so many things he wanted to say, how she’d brought him from the depths of uncontrollable depression after he came home from Iraq, how their marriage gave him purpose, how he couldn’t live without her. How long had it been since he told her how much she meant to him? His voice caught as he said, “I love you.”

While the officer radioed their location, a satellite truck from his station parked behind the patrol car. The media had arrived before the damn paramedics.

Parker wasn’t used to being a victim, or source of a news story. He didn’t miss the irony that he’d callously taken a picture of the scene with his cell phone before he knew it was Erica lying on the cold cement, bleeding and in pain. For the first time, he felt guilt toward his profession.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a fire truck and paramedics stop behind the patrol car.

“Goddamn it, over here!” Parker shouted.

Erica’s breathing grew more shallow and faint, nearly drowned out by his own sucking gasps. When she closed her eyes and lay still, he fought to remain calm.

As the paramedics removed their equipment, firefighters shot white foam into the flames covering the car.

“Help is here, Erica.”

Erica’s eyes fluttered open. She managed a smile. “Not…not in time.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’ll always love you, Parker. Remember that.”

Parker choked back a sob. “I’ll always love you.”

“Kiss me. Kiss me like you did at Scorpion Bay.”

As the officer met the paramedics, Parker brushed a strand of hair from her face and kissed Erica, kissed her like he hadn’t for far too long. For a moment, they both forgot the tragedy.

Erica smiled. She grew weaker, the life fading from her eyes.

 “My…briefcase.” Erica’s voice was barely a whisper as she stared across the garage.

Parker followed her gaze and spotted a briefcase under a delivery van two cars over. “Who…who did this?”

Squeezing his hand, Erica clamped both eyes shut. Then her hand fell away. When a paramedic knelt beside them, Erica gasped, a death rattle Parker recognized from combat. With a knife-like stabbing in his chest, Parker lifted her and clung to his wife, as Erica took a final breath.

 ***

Award winning novelist Michael Murphy  is a full time writer and part time urban chicken rancher.  He and his wife make their home in Arizona with their two cats, four dogs and five chickens. He enjoys writing mystery and suspense novels with twists and turns and splashes of humor.  Scorpion Bay is his seventh novel.
 

Click here to buy: Scorpion Bay