Happy Sunday! This has been a pretty good week, writing productivity has been great and there has been a lot of back and forth between a few of us on the writing. That sort of bouncing ideas off each other always results in a better book.
The second Dreamer’s Worlds book is nearly finished. Once it is it will go for editing. That will probably wrap up this coming week sometime, and then I will work on The Fold the new settlement Earth book that the others have been working on. After that I am really thinking about finally finishing the first Rapid City book as an offering for the next ES/Zombie Plagues story. The story has to be told because that place becomes prominent later on in the series, and I have let it wait too long already.
That will bring me to Hurricane the second offering in the Rebecca Monet series. Hurricane is set in the state of Alabama and follows several characters there as a hurricane heads for the city. It will also feature Rebecca Monet as she continues to fight her way up the TV News Anchor ladder to get where she wants to be. It is a graphically violent novel like Billy Jingo and will probably have a warning attached to it.
I write these stories pretty easily. Having spent part of my life on the streets it’s not a far reach for me to see the seedier side of life and the people that populate that world.
This is an excerpt from Hurricane which will probably have to be re-titled because of the Movie Hurricane and writings about Rubin Hurricane Carter, so consider Hurricane a working title. I hope you enjoy the preview…
Hurricane is copyright 2010 – 2014 Wendell Sweet and independAntwriters Publishing.
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This is a work of fiction. And resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. All events and circumstances are products of the authors imagination.
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This material is not suitable for those under the age of 18. It depicts Graphic Violence, drug use, bad language and more.
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“I’m sorry,” Amy said, “Mike is such a asshole.”
Deidre said nothing. She had called and said she was having dinner at Amy’s house and that she would ride home from school with Amy’s mother, and then catch a ride back from Eight Mile later on. It was all a lie of course. Amy had called to tell her mother she would be at Deidre’s house. Someday it was all going to catch up to them, Deidre thought. But for now it hadn’t.
“Aim, earlier, before all the crap with Mike and Jimmy, we were talking,” Deidre said.
“Yeah,” Amy said. ” that is probably why he did it. Mike doesn’t like you and I to be together… To talk.” She said. They were both sitting on the running boards of Jimmy’s truck sipping beers. Dinner had been a bag of nachos. Split. And the beer, which Amy claimed had both calories and sugar, and so accounted for most of their dinner requirements.
“Between the two, we’re good,” Amy said half seriously.
“You said you were thinking of me,” Deidre said.
It seemed as though Amy was not going to answer her. “Uh huh… I know,” she said at last looking at her as she spoke.
“Hey!” Mike said, stepping around the corner of the truck. “I gotta piss, so, what are you gonna do just sit there and watch?” He tugged at his zipper, leering as he did, and Amy and Deidre both got up and walked away.
“Hey! What are you, a couple a fuckin’ lesbos? You only hang out with each other… People are gonna think things.”
Deidre’s face turned red. She turned back around and looked at him. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself with that little dick of yours,” She said quietly.
“What did you say,:” Mike asked. He took a step towards her, still holding his dick in his hand.
“I think you heard me or are your ears that small too,” she asked?
“You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, Bitch, but some day…”Mike said. Barely catching and hanging onto his temper.
“Dee, please,” Amy said. “Let it go.”
Deidre turned and walked away with Amy. Mike said nothing more.
Mike went back to pissing. His face red. His temples pulsing. Jimmy stepped up behind him. Mike finished, zipped himself up and turned around.
“Some day what?” Jimmy asked. His words were a little thick. They had been drinking most of the afternoon.
“What,” Mike asked?
Jimmy just stared at him. Jimmy was slow to anger, but Mike and he had known each other all of their lives and Jimmy was no one to fuck with once he did actually get angry. Especially when he was drinking.
“Okay,” Mike said. “She pissed me off… Did you hear what she said? I just got pissed is all.”
“I heard what both of you said. You started it with her. What’s the deal with the lesbian remark and coming over here to piss like that? Just expecting them to go? Did you whip it right out in front of them,” Jimmy asked?
“No… Of course not, Jimmy,” Mike said. “Look, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I just don’t like being talked to like that by any body let alone a girl. I’m not used to it. No man is,” Mike finished.
Jimmy stood for a moment and then the tension just ran out of him. “Fuck… She’d got a smart mouth… I know that. I’ll talk to her.. But you watch your mouth too… We’re friends.. I wouldn’t ever talk to Amy that way.. See?”
“Yeah.. Yeah, I see,” Mike agreed. Jimmy clapped one hand on his back and they walked away together back to the front of the Nissan.
Get the book…
Hurricane
Amy and Diedra are best friends, maybe more, something always seems to be in the way every time an opportunity to explore the possibilities arise. Dave Plasko is serving a long sentence at Huntsville state prison, and after that he will be transferred to New York to serve more time. Rebbeca Monet is working her way up the ladder of success in the television reporter game. A hurricane of epic proportions is heading towards Mobile Alabama. The lives of the people involved will never be the same again… #Crime #Drama #Action #Readers #DellSweet #KDP #KU
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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
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Dedication
For Joan, my wife, the only dame who ever truly understood the shadows I walked in. This ain’t a love story, not in the conventional sense. There weren’t any moonlit strolls or whispered promises. Hell, most nights, I barely saw you, tucked away in that cramped apartment, the city’s symphony of sirens and shouts a lullaby to our uneasy peace. Our marriage was a deal, a contract hammered out between two bruised souls in a world that chewed up and spat out the soft and sentimental. You knew the game, the rules, the price. You saw the grime under my fingernails, the hollowness behind my eyes, the weight of every case clinging to me like a cheap suit. And still, you stuck around. You knew I wasn’t the knight in shining armor, more like a rusted tin can rattling down a back alley. But you saw something in the wreckage, something worth salvaging, even if it was just the stubborn ember of a flickering heart. This one’s for you, Joan. For the quiet strength you showed, for the unspoken understanding that passed between us in the dead of night, for enduring the man I am, not the man I wish I could be. For enduring the long silences, the averted gazes, the crumpled pay stubs that spoke volumes more than any words could ever say. For holding onto hope when I’d buried mine under layers of cynicism and cheap bourbon. This is a story of shadows, yes, but it’s also a story of the quiet loyalty that can bloom even in the darkest corners. A testament to the enduring power of a bond forged not in romance, but in the shared understanding of a life lived on the edge, where the lines between right and wrong blurred, and the only certainty was the next case, the next drink, the next uncertain dawn. It’s a small offering, this book, a poor substitute for the quiet life you deserved, a life free from the stench of smoke and the stain of violence. But it’s all I have to give, for you, the one woman who ever gave a damn about the crumpled, cynical, hard-boiled egg that is Jack Rourke. This one’s for you. And for the quiet strength you showed, the unspoken understanding, the enduring loyalty, even when there was nothing left to salvage but the embers of a flickering heart.
Chapter 1: The Stakeout Begins
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout.
Another hour ticked by, the sun inching its way across the sky, dragging the day along like a lead weight. This wasn’t the kind of case that got the adrenaline pumping. No shadowy figures, no whispered secrets in smoky bars, just a comfortable suburban home and a husband who seemed, at least from my vantage point, annoyingly ordinary. Melinda, the wife’s friend who’d hired me, had hinted at something more, something darker lurking beneath the surface of Paul’s apparently mundane life. But so far, all I had to show for five hundred bucks was a sore ass and the lingering taste of cheap coffee.
My gaze drifted to the house. Paul Fields, a man I’d pegged as a mid-level accountant based on the muted grey suit and the slightly receding hairline, was pacing the living room, a nervous energy vibrating off him like a faulty appliance. He kept checking the locks on the doors and windows, a ritualistic act that made my cynicism prickle. It wasn’t paranoia, not exactly; it was more like a compulsive twitch, a nervous habit amplified by whatever was eating at him. Was it guilt? Fear? Or simply the product of a mind overwhelmed by the mundane pressures of suburban existence? My years in this business had taught me that the most ordinary people often held the most extraordinary secrets.
I pulled out my notebook, the cheap paper rustling like dry leaves. I scribbled down a few notes, mostly observations about his movements – the way he nervously adjusted his tie, the slight tremor in his hand as he lit a cigarette, the way he kept glancing at the neighbor’s house as if expecting something, or someone. These weren’t the clues that made headlines, the kind that sold newspapers or landed you on TV. These were the tiny cracks in the façade, the almost imperceptible shifts in behavior that whispered of something amiss. But to the untrained eye, they were just… nothing. In my business, nothing was everything.
My thoughts drifted to Joan, my wife. Marriage, I’d decided long ago, was a complicated equation with too many variables. It was a series of compromises, small betrayals, and occasional moments of fragile intimacy that were often overshadowed by the petty squabbles and simmering resentments. It was a lot like this stakeout, actually: long stretches of tedious waiting, punctuated by brief bursts of activity, and the nagging feeling that it was all ultimately pointless. The money helped, of course. It paid the bills, kept a roof over our heads, even allowed for the occasional bottle of decent scotch. But the money couldn’t buy back the lost time, the quiet evenings that had been sacrificed at the altar of my cynical profession.
The hourly rate gnawed at me. Melinda had paid a hefty retainer upfront, but I was acutely aware of the ticking clock. Every hour spent here was an hour I could have been pursuing a more lucrative case. The guilt was a familiar companion, a shadow that followed me from one job to the next. It was a strange paradox of my profession: the quicker the case, the more guilty I felt, the more I worried about shortchanging my client, and the less I earned. It was a vicious cycle of doubt and self-recrimination, a never-ending loop playing on repeat in the back of my mind.
A memory flickered – Melinda’s face, pale and drawn, her eyes shadowed with worry. She’d met me in the dimly lit back room of a bar downtown, a place that smelled of stale beer and desperation. She’d spoken in hushed tones, her words carefully chosen, veiled in euphemisms. She’d never explicitly accused Paul of infidelity, but the suspicion hung heavy in the air, thick and cloying like the cigarette smoke that drifted around us. She’d spoken of unexplained absences, late nights, and a sudden shift in Paul’s behaviour, an unsettling change in a marriage that had previously been, at least on the surface, stable.
Hours bled into one another, the monotony punctuated only by the occasional car driving past, the rhythmic chirp of crickets from the nearby park, and the rhythmic tapping of my fingers against the steering wheel. Then, a break in the routine. A yellow taxi pulled up to the house next door, a nondescript dwelling with peeling paint and overgrown ivy. A woman emerged, her face obscured by the shadows, but her figure undeniably elegant in a way that contrasted sharply with the slightly shabby surroundings. She walked with purpose, a confident stride that betrayed no hint of hesitation, directly towards Paul Fields’ home.
My gut tightened. This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t part of the expected narrative. This was a twist, a deviation from the predictable trajectory of a simple infidelity case. The woman disappeared inside Paul’s house, and the image of her silhouette against the lit window pane burned into my retinas. This wasn’t just about a straying husband anymore; this was something else entirely. Something more complicated, more dangerous. The feeling of dread wasn’t the familiar pang of anxiety associated with a looming deadline, but the sharper, colder fear of venturing into unknown territory. This stakeout, it seemed, was about to get a lot more interesting. And a lot more expensive for Melinda. And potentially, for me. The night was young, and the city held its breath.
The afternoon sun beat down on the Falcon’s dashboard, turning the interior into a small, sweltering oven. The smell of stale coffee had been joined by a new, unwelcome aroma: the faint, metallic tang of sweat. My shirt clung to my back, damp and uncomfortable. Paul Fields remained inside, his movements a blur behind the drawn curtains, but the overall impression was one of restless energy, a caged animal pacing its confines. He’d gone through the lock-checking ritual at least five times in the last hour, each repetition more frantic than the last. It wasn’t a subtle thing, this anxiety; it was practically radiating from the house, a palpable energy that even I, hardened veteran of countless stakeouts, couldn’t ignore.
I reached for my thermos, the lukewarm coffee a bitter disappointment. It did little to soothe the growing unease that was beginning to coil in my stomach, a knot of apprehension tightening with every passing minute. This wasn’t just a case of a possibly cheating husband; it had taken on a darker, more sinister edge. The obsessive checking of locks and windows wasn’t the behavior of a man hiding an affair; it was the behavior of a man hiding something far more significant. Something he was desperately, almost desperately afraid of losing.
My notebook lay open on my lap, filled with meticulous observations: the brand of cigarettes he smoked (Chesterfield, king size), the precise time he lit each one, the way he ground the butt into the ashtray with an almost aggressive force. These weren’t the glamorous details that made for a sensational story; they were the mundane breadcrumbs, the almost imperceptible clues that only someone with my experience could decipher, could weave into a narrative that held any real significance. But for now, they remained just that: breadcrumbs.
The hours stretched, each one a slow, agonizing crawl. The cityscape around me began to blur, the incessant drone of traffic merging into a single, hypnotic hum. My attention wavered, drifting from the house to my own life, the internal dialogue a familiar companion. Joan would be at home now, probably working on her latest watercolor painting, the gentle strokes of her brush a stark contrast to the harsh reality of my existence. I often wondered if she felt the same sense of unease, that same gnawing feeling of something being wrong, even when things seemed perfectly normal on the surface. Maybe she did; maybe that’s what kept us together, that shared unease, that unspoken awareness that beneath the surface of our seemingly stable marriage lay a chasm of unspoken words and quiet resentments.
I caught myself staring at the neighbor’s house again – the one the woman had emerged from. It was unremarkable, a typical suburban dwelling, slightly run-down and unkempt. Yet, it held a certain morbid fascination. It felt…significant. Like a piece of a puzzle I hadn’t yet found, a missing fragment in a picture I was slowly, painfully putting together. The woman had been striking, elegant in her simplicity, with a certain air of determination about her. She had entered Paul’s house without a second glance, her movements purposeful, even resolute. There was an understanding between them, a silent agreement that I couldn’t quite grasp. What was the nature of this interaction? Was she an accomplice, a confidante, or something more sinister?
The sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the street. The air cooled, the oppressive heat of the afternoon giving way to a cooler, more ominous evening chill. Paul Fields was less agitated now, but a subtle tension remained, a nervous stillness that was almost more unsettling than his earlier frenetic energy. He sat by the window, a drink in his hand, staring out into the gathering dusk. What was he looking for? Who was he expecting?
I checked my watch. The retainer was almost exhausted. Melinda’s initial payment, generous as it was, was quickly dwindling. The guilt gnawed at me again, the familiar pang of professional anxiety. I was spending more time on this case than I’d initially anticipated, and the hourly rate was a constant reminder of the dwindling financial returns. Was I overstepping my professional boundaries, letting my curiosity, my personal fascination with the case, cloud my judgment? I’d always prided myself on my objectivity, my detachment; but this case…this case was different.
A sudden noise broke through my thoughts – a low, rhythmic tapping against the glass of the window. I jerked my head up, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was coming from Paul Fields’ house, a slow, deliberate tapping, repetitive and insistent. My hand instinctively went to my pistol, a familiar weight offering a semblance of comfort, a grim reassurance in the growing darkness.
The tapping ceased. Paul Fields had disappeared from the window. Silence descended, heavy and oppressive, thick with an unspoken tension. The only sound was the distant hum of city traffic, and the faint, incessant chirping of crickets. The seemingly insignificant details I’d meticulously recorded in my notebook – the nervous tie adjustment, the tremor in his hand, the aggressive way he extinguished his cigarettes – these seemingly inconsequential observations took on a new, more profound significance. They were no longer just details; they were pieces of a puzzle, fragments of a story slowly, painfully unfolding before me, a story that promised to be far more complex, far more dangerous, than I’d initially imagined.
The night was settling in, and with it, a sense of foreboding that ran deeper than any simple case of infidelity. This was about secrets, lies, and a fear so profound it permeated every corner of Paul Fields’ carefully constructed suburban existence. The stakeout was far from over. In fact, I had a feeling it was just beginning. The truth, I suspected, lay buried deep, waiting to be unearthed, and my gut told me the cost of discovering it would be far greater than I’d ever anticipated. The woman’s visit had shifted everything, changing the stakes of the game. My job had moved beyond the simple pursuit of a cheating spouse; it had transformed into something far more complex, something that touched on the very fabric of human deception and its potentially lethal consequences.
The rhythmic tick-tock of the Falcon’s clock mocked the stillness of the evening. Each second felt stretched, an eternity of waiting. My mind, however, was far from the stakeout, adrift in the turbulent waters of my own marriage. Joan. The name itself felt like a worn coin, smooth from years of handling, its initial shine dulled by the relentless friction of daily life. We’d been together for fifteen years, a lifetime in some ways, a blink in others. The honeymoon phase had long since faded, replaced by a comfortable, if somewhat predictable, routine. We shared a life, a house, a bank account, but did we really share a soul? Was there still a spark, or was the flame reduced to a flickering ember, barely clinging to life?
The question gnawed at me, a persistent ache mirroring the dull throbbing in my temples. Marriage, I’d come to realize, was a constant negotiation, a delicate balancing act between individual desires and shared responsibilities. It was a dance of compromises, of unspoken expectations and carefully constructed compromises. Sometimes it felt more like a business deal than a partnership forged in love and passion. The paperwork – the joint accounts, the insurance policies, the mortgage payments – felt strangely analogous to the meticulous notes I kept on Paul Fields, each entry a careful accounting of actions, reactions, a meticulous record of a decaying trust.
Melinda, Paul’s wife’s friend, had paid handsomely upfront; a generous retainer, enough to keep me comfortably occupied for a week, even two. But the thought of the hourly rate – that constant, nagging reminder of the money I was burning – prickled my conscience. There was an insidious guilt that always followed a swiftly resolved case; a feeling of having cheated the system, of not earning my keep. This wasn’t a lavish life, detective work. It was more about steady income, keeping the wolves from the door, enough to keep Joan and I afloat. Yet, that constant pressure to justify my expenditure, to always be productive, mirrored the pressure in my marriage, where every moment seemed judged and accounted for.
Were we, Joan and I, simply two people going through the motions, enacting the rituals of marriage without the substance of genuine connection? Did the quiet silences between us represent a void, or simply the comfortable silence of two people who’d learned to live in harmony, even without passion? It was a question I’d avoided for too long, burying it beneath the layers of routine and responsibility. The work had become a convenient distraction, a shield against the introspective exploration of my own life.
The thought of Paul Fields’ situation – a man seemingly trapped in a web of his own making – stirred a painful resonance. Was his desperate need to secure his house an external manifestation of the same anxieties that gnawed at me? A fear of losing something precious, something irreplaceable? Or was it something darker? Something far more sinister than a simple midlife crisis or a clandestine affair? The more I observed him, the less certain I became of the original briefing. Infidelity seemed almost too simplistic, an inadequate explanation for the level of paranoia and anxiety I had witnessed.
The darkness deepened, swallowing the last vestiges of the day. The city lights twinkled, a distant, cold constellation in the vast expanse of night. My eyes remained fixed on Paul Fields’ house. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of traffic. Yet, the stillness was deceptive. Beneath the surface, a current of tension flowed, a palpable sense of unease that tightened its grip with every passing moment.
I considered Joan again. Her world was a study in contrasts to mine. The vibrant colors of her paintings, the meticulous detail of her brushstrokes, the quiet satisfaction she derived from creating something beautiful; these represented a life that was completely separate from my gritty world of shadows and suspicion. We were two ships passing in the night, each sailing on a different sea. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, we’d found ourselves docked together, sharing a harbor, a home. But was it enough? Was this fleeting contentment what our lives were to become, or did a future of potential storms still await us?
My thoughts returned to Melinda’s initial payment, the generous upfront sum. It was enough to sustain us for several weeks, but the nagging feeling of not truly
earning it persisted. The hourly rate, a constant, insidious reminder of my own professional limitations. The case, initially expected to be straightforward, had become something else entirely, something that stretched the boundaries of my professional competence. The initial impression of a typical marital discord had morphed into something far more complex and unsettling, a mystery that wrapped around me, pulling me in like a relentless tide.
Was this my problem, the one I felt increasingly drawn to resolve? I often felt more satisfaction in the conclusion of a case, and not necessarily its financial rewards. The financial rewards were only relevant to the continuation of this lifestyle I was beginning to question. I knew, deep down, that there was something more to this than the potential for monetary gain. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of unraveling the complexities of human behavior, the dangerous dance between truth and deception; these were the aspects that truly captivated me. They were the reasons why I chose this path, why I continued to walk this lonely road, amidst the darkness and the shadows.
But the darkness was getting to me. It was creeping in, threatening to engulf me entirely, to swallow me whole. The night pressed down, heavy and suffocating. My initial feelings of guilt over a quickly resolved case had given way to a different kind of guilt, the gnawing sense of responsibility that came from recognizing the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just about infidelity; this was about something far more profound, something that touched upon the very essence of human nature, the secrets we keep, the lies we tell, and the terrifying consequences of our actions.
The tension remained palpable, hanging heavy in the air like a shroud. The silence stretched, agonizing, unbroken. I watched, waiting, for the next clue, the next piece of the puzzle. The cost of the stakeout was going up exponentially, not just financially, but emotionally. What started as a simple, even mundane, job had evolved into something far more complex, a mystery that promised to be both exhilarating and potentially dangerous, a game with high stakes. And the game, it seemed, was just beginning. The shadows deepened, and with them, the unsettling feeling that I was venturing into territory that was far beyond my initial expectations. The line between professional curiosity and personal obsession was becoming increasingly blurred, and I had no idea where that would ultimately lead.
The memory flickered, a hazy snapshot in the stark contrast between the sterile brightness of my office and the shadowy suburban street where I now sat. Melinda. Her face, etched with a mixture of apprehension and determination, swam back to me. She’d arrived late that afternoon, a figure shrouded in a heavy winter coat, her breath misting in the cold air of my waiting room. The dim lighting of my office seemed to amplify her nervousness, highlighting the tremor in her hands as she clutched a worn leather purse. She’d been introduced through a mutual acquaintance, a lawyer I’d worked with on a few prior cases. Her initial reluctance to divulge details, the carefully chosen words, the veiled allusions – they’d hinted at something far more complicated than a simple case of marital infidelity.
“It’s… it’s about Paul,” she’d begun, her voice barely a whisper, as if afraid the very air might carry her secret. “My best friend’s husband. Sarah… she suspects something. Something’s not right. She’s too afraid to… to confront him herself.”
There was a hesitant pause, a brief silence broken only by the rhythmic tick of the clock on my desk. It was a sound oddly familiar to the one I was now listening to, the rhythmic ticking that filled the night here on my stakeout. The similarities between the two settings were unsettling, the echoes of that initial consultation creating a weird sense of déja vu.
“It’s not just… you know… another affair,” she continued, her voice gaining a slight measure of resolve. “It’s… different. More… dangerous.”
The word “dangerous” hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. She refused to elaborate further, merely offering a series of vague pronouncements; unusual late-night meetings, strange phone calls, and a pervasive sense of unease that permeated their otherwise seemingly stable life. She hadn’t spoken of specifics, only impressions, vague feelings, hinting at a darkness that lay just beneath the surface of their comfortable suburban existence. The fear in her eyes, however, had been palpable. It was a fear that transcended mere infidelity, a fear that spoke of something far more sinister, something that went beyond the usual marital squabbles and clandestine encounters.
She’d paid handsomely, a significant advance that far exceeded the typical retainer for a simple infidelity investigation. The money had felt… heavy, as if burdened with the weight of her anxieties, her unspoken fears. The generous payment had raised my suspicions, fueling my intuition that this was no ordinary case. It suggested there was more at stake than just catching Paul with another woman, that the truth was buried far deeper, far more elusive than a quick snapshot of infidelity.
I’d tried to draw her out, to coax more information from her, but she’d remained tightly wound, her lips sealed as if bound by an invisible oath. She spoke in coded messages, her words carefully chosen to conceal more than they revealed, her eyes constantly darting around the room as if expecting to be overheard. The overall impression was one of extreme urgency, a sense of impending doom that she couldn’t quite articulate, but that resonated powerfully with me.
The contrast between that dimly lit office, heavy with unspoken anxieties and the hushed quiet of the night outside Paul Fields’ house was stark, yet somehow fitting. Here, in the darkness, surrounded by the slumbering suburbia, I felt a similar weight of anticipation. The silence, which I’d initially found tedious, now held a different, more compelling meaning. It was a silence pregnant with secrets, a silence that vibrated with the unspoken tensions of the lives I was observing.
My eyes remained fixed on Paul’s house. The rhythmic ticking of my watch—a different watch, but the rhythm was the same, a constant companion—accompanied the sound of the crickets chirping in the nearby woods. Paul remained inside, a shadowy figure hidden behind the drawn curtains. His movements, even those few I could see, were restless, anxious. He kept pacing, checking the locks on the doors, peering out the windows as if expecting an intruder. It all fit with Melinda’s description, a feeling of being watched, of being under siege, not necessarily by a person, but by an unseen force. An unseen force that, in my growing suspicion, might be far more powerful and dangerous than just the threat of a love affair gone wrong. Perhaps Melinda herself was in danger. Perhaps Paul was, too. The initial case—infidelity—was losing its significance, becoming secondary to something else entirely. Something more complex, and infinitely more disturbing…
Check out the series below:
Private Investigations: The John Rourke Private Detective series
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book one:
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout…
Private Investigations 2: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Storiesby W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition J Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book two:
My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book three:
The silence was broken by the distant screech of a hawk, its cry sharp and piercing against the vast silence of the desert. It was a lonely sound, a perfect metaphor for the state of my own soul. I was tired, bone-deep tired. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford, nightmares a constant companion. The faces of the victims, the ones I’d found along Rieser’s trail, haunted my dreams. Each one a testament to the brutal efficiency of a man who knew how to erase his tracks… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and or distributed without the author’s permission.
Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.
Chapter 1: The Burning House
The acrid smell of burnt wood and something else, something sickeningly sweet and acrid, hung heavy in the air. Sheriff Kyle Stevens squinted against the still-flickering flames, the orange glow painting grotesque shadows on the ravaged remains of Turk Hayley’s house. It was a mess, a chaotic jumble of twisted metal, shattered glass, and charred timbers. The fire had been fierce, consuming everything in its path with brutal efficiency. He’d received the call just after midnight – a raging inferno engulfing a house on the outskirts of Glennville. Now, standing amidst the ashes, the early morning chill did little to counter the gnawing unease that settled deep in his gut.
A fireman, his face smudged with soot, approached Stevens, his voice strained above the crackling embers. “Found a body, Sheriff. Near the back.”
Stevens followed him, his boots crunching on broken glass and pulverized brick. The closer he got, the stronger the sickly sweet smell became – a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat. They reached a relatively clear patch where a body lay partially obscured by a fallen beam. The remains were badly burned, but even in the dim light, Stevens could tell the victim was a man. The fireman carefully moved the beam, revealing a twisted, charred limb. The sight, brutal and stark, sent a jolt of adrenaline through Stevens. This wasn’t just another house fire.
As the paramedics began their grim work, Stevens surveyed the scene. The fire had started in the back of the house, near the kitchen, the fireman had reported. The pattern of the burn suggested a rapid spread, consistent with accelerant. But the layout of the house suggested a different story. The wind, a fierce gust from the south, should have pushed the fire towards the front, not contained it to the rear. It was a small detail, perhaps insignificant, but it planted a seed of doubt in Stevens’ already troubled mind. Something wasn’t right. The air itself felt heavy, charged with unspoken truths and unanswered questions.
The fire marshal arrived shortly after, a harried man named Miller, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He surveyed the damage with a professional eye, his clipboard a shield against the chaos. After a cursory examination, Miller muttered something about accidental causes, possibly a faulty electrical wire. It was the expected conclusion; a tragic accident, another scar on the otherwise quiet town of Glennville. But Stevens remained unconvinced. The way the fire had spread, the unusual intensity, the lingering smell – these things whispered of a different narrative, a darker tale woven from malice and deception.
The discovery of the body complicated things considerably. Miller, pragmatic and weary, barely registered the finding as anything unusual. “Another casualty of the fire, I suppose,” he’d murmured, his gaze already shifting to his report. But for Stevens, the presence of the body shifted the entire investigation from a simple fire incident to a potential homicide. A nagging suspicion, cold and hard, formed in his gut: this wasn’t an accident.
The body was eventually identified as Arthur Abernathy, a reclusive neighbor who lived a stone’s throw from the Hayleys. A recluse, yes, but a harmless one, according to what little Stevens had managed to gather from the few people who’d ever interacted with him. Abernathy, a frail, elderly man who kept to himself and his small garden, had seemingly become an unintended victim in the inferno. But Stevens couldn’t shake off the feeling that Abernathy’s death wasn’t a random consequence of the fire. The placement of the body, partially shielded yet undeniably exposed, seemed… deliberate. The early stages of the investigation already seemed to be building a case against the randomness of events.
Meanwhile, May Hayley, Turk’s wife, arrived at the scene, a small, fragile woman clad in a flimsy nightgown and bathrobe. Her face was streaked with soot and tears, but a flicker of something else, something that resembled relief rather than grief, momentarily crossed her features. It was a fleeting expression, quickly masked by the performance of overwhelming sorrow. Stevens made a mental note of it. The display of grief didn’t quite ring true. There was a coldness in her eyes, a distance that hinted at a deeper, more complex story beneath the surface. He watched her as the paramedics worked, a silent observer picking up on the nuances of her grief, or lack thereof.
The initial interviews with the neighbors were equally unsettling. They spoke of the Hayleys in hushed tones, their words laced with a mixture of fear and resentment. Turk Hayley, they said, was a volatile man, prone to fits of rage. He was a man known for his loud arguments and unpredictable behavior, a fact confirmed by the numerous reports filed against him for minor infractions over the years. The accounts confirmed a volatile relationship between Turk and May, punctuated by explosive arguments and threats. Christine, their daughter, was rarely mentioned, only ever referenced in passing, described as “troubled” or “rebellious.” The neighbors seemed reluctant to divulge much, their fear palpable in their hushed whispers and darting glances…
Check out the book…
Small Town Murder: A Kyle Stevens Murder Mystery (Glennville Book 12) Kindle Edition
Small town murder
The Small town of Glennville New York is a nice quiet place to settle down and raise your family. At least that is What Sheriff Kyle Stevens thought when he retired after being a detective in New York City for twenty years. And Glennville, for the most part was quiet. Respectfull. Safe. Until the day Kyle’s deputy for the body of a young girl out by the old abandoned school building…
The Criminal Intentions books are collections of short stories, some short some nearly novel length that I have combined together in this collection for you to enjoy, Dell.
In this collection are the following short stories: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS – A GOOD PLAN – BLACKNESS OF THE SOUL – THE LAST TAXI RIDE – DELLO GREEN – THE ACCIDENT – THE MAN WHO NEARLY TOOK MY LIFE – THE STORY OF THE MEXICAN – WHEN THEY TRIED TO KILL ME
An excerpt from the short story The Accident:
I lay breathing heavy, trying to calm my racing heart. The dream had been so vivid, so real. I had held her and it had felt so good so real so right. She had turned to me and I had opened my eyes and really seen her. Seen what I was holding. A rotting corpse. She was coming closer, holding me, her hands suddenly clutching harder, trying to drag me down into the grave she stank of.
I was covered with sweat, but my heart slowed and I got myself up and made it to the shower.
The Criminal Intentions series are collected short crime fiction in each book that I have gathered together to present to the reader, Dell.
Short Stories in this collection:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS – THE TALE OF LIV – THE TRIP – HOOD RATS – THE PHONE CALL – CHEATING AND DEATH – SANTOS – HARROWS
An excerpt from the short story: The Story of Liv
For fifteen long minutes, Liv stood outside in the chilly, pre-dawn rain. Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity when the craving hit. Time stretched endlessly, with every clock and watch in the world ticking away the moments. Finally, she began testing the doors. The front and back doors were locked. She hadn’t considered the garage door, but eventually decided to try it. To her surprise, it was unlocked, although the lock was badly damaged, causing her to hesitate.
The dust swirled around my worn boots, a miniature desert storm kicked up by the frantic thump of my own heart. The air hung thick and heavy, the scent of dry earth and something else… something metallic and sickeningly sweet, clinging to the back of my throat. It was the smell of blood. Old blood. New blood. The kind that stains the soul as deeply as it stains the earth. I’d been clean for six months, six agonizing months of sweat-soaked nights and gnawing cravings, a testament to a willpower I never knew I possessed. Six months of staring at the cracked pavement, avoiding the shadowed corners where my past lurked like a hungry ghost. But tonight, the ghost had found me.
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book one:
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout…
Private Investigations 2: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Storiesby W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition J Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book two:
My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book three:
The silence was broken by the distant screech of a hawk, its cry sharp and piercing against the vast silence of the desert. It was a lonely sound, a perfect metaphor for the state of my own soul. I was tired, bone-deep tired. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford, nightmares a constant companion. The faces of the victims, the ones I’d found along Rieser’s trail, haunted my dreams. Each one a testament to the brutal efficiency of a man who knew how to erase his tracks… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
The Criminal Intentions books are collections of short stories, some short some nearly novel length that I have combined together in this collection for you to enjoy, Dell.
In this collection are the following short stories: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS – A GOOD PLAN – BLACKNESS OF THE SOUL – THE LAST TAXI RIDE – DELLO GREEN – THE ACCIDENT – THE MAN WHO NEARLY TOOK MY LIFE – THE STORY OF THE MEXICAN – WHEN THEY TRIED TO KILL ME
An excerpt from the short story The Accident:
I lay breathing heavy, trying to calm my racing heart. The dream had been so vivid, so real. I had held her and it had felt so good so real so right. She had turned to me and I had opened my eyes and really seen her. Seen what I was holding. A rotting corpse. She was coming closer, holding me, her hands suddenly clutching harder, trying to drag me down into the grave she stank of.
I was covered with sweat, but my heart slowed and I got myself up and made it to the shower.
The Criminal Intentions series are collected short crime fiction in each book that I have gathered together to present to the reader, Dell.
Short Stories in this collection:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS – THE TALE OF LIV – THE TRIP – HOOD RATS – THE PHONE CALL – CHEATING AND DEATH – SANTOS – HARROWS
An excerpt from the short story: The Story of Liv
For fifteen long minutes, Liv stood outside in the chilly, pre-dawn rain. Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity when the craving hit. Time stretched endlessly, with every clock and watch in the world ticking away the moments. Finally, she began testing the doors. The front and back doors were locked. She hadn’t considered the garage door, but eventually decided to try it. To her surprise, it was unlocked, although the lock was badly damaged, causing her to hesitate.
I found myself sitting in a prison counseling session, grappling with the memories of my past when the topic turned to a particularly haunting incident. I had touched on it earlier in the book, but now, in the sterile environment of the counseling room, it felt as if the shadows of that day were creeping back into my consciousness. It began while I was in the dayroom at a maximum-security prison—Clinton Correctional, a facility notorious for its hardened inmates and grim atmosphere.
To be honest, I couldn’t recall exactly why I had chosen to spend my time there. I had always hated the TV rooms; they were breeding grounds for conflict. I had my own cell and a personal television, which allowed me to escape the chaos that often erupted over the flickering screen. I had seen too many fights break out over what to watch, and even worse, I had witnessed guys getting stabbed over trivial arguments about television shows. So, it baffled me that I found myself in the dayroom that particular day, surrounded by the cacophony of voices and the flicker of the TV.
As I sat there, lost in thought, the atmosphere shifted. News broke that the State Police had arrested a man—a man who had committed dozens of heinous murders. He was a monster, preying on young men, kidnapping them, subjecting them to unspeakable horrors, and then brutally murdering them. The details were chilling, and the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on everyone in the room.
Then, as if the universe conspired to bring the past crashing back into my present, I looked up and locked eyes with a figure across the room. My heart stopped. There he was—the very man who had tried to take my life all those years ago. The realization hit me like a freight train, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. I was rendered speechless, my mind racing as I grappled with the flood of emotions surging through me.
Memories of that fateful day rushed back, vivid and raw. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the terror of facing someone who had once held my fate in his hands. The man who had once haunted my nightmares was now mere feet away from me, a living reminder of the darkness I had fought so hard to escape.
In that moment, a whirlwind of thoughts swirled in my mind. How had it come to this? How had I ended up in the same room as my would-be killer, in a place designed for rehabilitation? The irony was almost too much to bear. I felt a mix of anger, fear, and disbelief wash over me, and I struggled to maintain my composure.
As I sat there, I realized that this encounter was more than just a coincidence; it was a twisted intersection of our lives, a moment that had the potential to redefine both of our narratives. I had survived, and he was still trapped in a cycle of violence and horror.
The counselors continued to speak, their voices a distant hum as I remained locked in this surreal confrontation. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a pivotal moment, a chance to confront the past and reclaim my narrative. I had endured so much, and now, faced with the man who had once sought to destroy me, I felt a spark of defiance igniting within me.
In the weeks that followed, I would grapple with the emotions stirred by that encounter. It forced me to confront not only my past but also the choices I had made and the person I had become. I was determined to emerge from this experience stronger, to take control of my life, and to ensure that the darkness of my past would not dictate my future.
As I navigated through the complexities of my emotions, I realized that this encounter had the potential to be a turning point—a moment that could propel me toward healing and empowerment. I vowed to harness the strength I had gained from my struggles and to use it as a foundation for the life I wanted to build. The man who nearly took my life had become a catalyst for my transformation, and I was ready to embrace the next chapter of my journey.
I finally snapped back to reality and realized that the counselor was speaking directly to me. I had been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t even registered her words until that moment. I always made it a point to pay attention during these sessions; after all, I recognized the importance of the time I was investing in myself. Sincerely, I thought to myself, when in hell would I ever get this kind of opportunity to focus on my own growth again? The answer was clear: never.
I understood, just like anyone who has spent time in the game, that if I didn’t take serious action now, I would inevitably walk out of prison and fall right back into the same destructive patterns. What kind of safety net did I have to keep me from slipping back into that life? I had no woman in my life who might disapprove of my choices and help steer me away from the temptation to return to the streets. I had no legitimate job waiting for me on the outside. The reality was stark: counseling was crucial for me, and I was determined to make the most of it.
I committed myself fully to the process, investing genuine time and effort into my sessions. I answered questions with honesty—real honesty, not the kind of fabricated truth I had grown accustomed to in the game, where I would twist my words and recycle the same lies I had told before. This was actual, raw honesty, and it was tough to do. It felt like peeling back layers of myself I had long buried, exposing vulnerabilities I had spent years trying to shield from others.
As I engaged with the counselor, I could feel her probing deeper into my psyche. She was relentless but compassionate, and I found myself apologizing for having drifted off during the session. The focus of our conversation shifted to that incident—the one that had haunted me for so long. I could see that she was genuinely interested, and I wasn’t the only one. About six other convicts leaned forward, eager to hear my story. Some of them were likely hoping that my confession might somehow benefit their own situations, a potential “get out of jail free card” depending on how the narrative unfolded.
I had faced a similar dynamic in the past when I shared my life experiences with Christian inmates whom I genuinely wanted to help. More than once, I had seen someone make a beeline for their lawyer after a Christian fellowship or an AA meeting where I had spoken. I had grown accustomed to this environment and, honestly, I didn’t care. What mattered to me was the opportunity to confront my past and share my truth, regardless of the motivations of those listening.
So, I took a deep breath and plunged into the story, laying bare the details of that fateful day—the fear, the chaos, the moments of clarity that followed. I spoke about the man who had nearly taken my life and the impact that encounter had on my journey. As I recounted my experience, I could feel the weight of the past lifting, piece by piece. It was liberating to share my truth, to confront the demons that had haunted me for so long.
The atmosphere in the room shifted as I spoke; the other inmates hung on my every word, some nodding in understanding, others with expressions of empathy. I realized that my story wasn’t just mine—it resonated with their struggles, their own pasts, and the battles they faced daily. It was a reminder that we were all in this together, navigating the complexities of our lives, trying to find a way out of the darkness.
By the time I finished, I felt a sense of catharsis wash over me. It wasn’t just about recounting my story; it was about taking ownership of it. I was no longer a passive participant in my life. I was actively shaping my narrative, and that realization empowered me in ways I had never anticipated. Counseling had become more than just a requirement—it was a lifeline, a chance for redemption, and an opportunity to reclaim my future.
As the session came to a close, I felt a flicker of hope igniting within me. I was on a path toward transformation, and I was ready to embrace whatever came next.
WHAT WENT DOWN
I found myself standing in the shadow of a doorway on Lyell Avenue, watching the traffic roll by in a hazy blur. The air was thick with the scent of rain, and I could feel the droplets slowly transforming into snowflakes, creating a thin layer of white on the pavement. I was high—mixed with speed and booze, I was pretty well shot. My mind felt like it was drifting in and out of focus, and I knew all too well the unspoken rules we lived by on the streets if we wanted to stay alive. One of the most important was simple: if you were messed up, don’t go for rides.
It was a hard lesson learned through experience. If you had to move, you needed to keep some of your fellow street people close. If you decided to get into a car, you made sure they parked it and stepped out first. It was a way to minimize risk; if they wanted to do something harmful, they could. If they wouldn’t or didn’t want to, then you had to cut your losses and move on. It was a harsh existence, but it was the reality we faced each day.
As I stood there, watching the rain slowly turn into snow and pile up on the street, my mind began to wander. I was lost in thought when I noticed a car pass by twice—a Plymouth Fury. The sight of that car sent a jolt of recognition through me. It was the same kind of vehicle that the cops drove back then, and it had a familiar, ominous presence. My instincts kicked in, and I felt an uneasy knot form in my stomach.
When the car stopped abruptly, and the driver motioned for me to come over, my heart raced. I could see from my vantage point that it looked like a cop car on the inside, too. The dashboard glowed with the telltale lights and equipment that screamed authority. I could hear the crackle of police radio squawking in the background, dispatch chatter filling the air with a sense of urgency. A CB radio was also on, adding to the chaotic noise that reverberated through the vehicle.
I took a cautious step forward, my mind racing with thoughts of what might happen next. The driver was an unkempt man with a rough exterior, his face partially obscured by the shadows. There was a thermos in the cup holder that I assumed was filled with coffee, and next to it sat a large cooler. I didn’t give the cooler a second thought at the moment; my focus was solely on the driver and the situation unfolding before me.
As I approached, I felt the cold air biting into my skin, heightening my awareness of the potential danger. My instincts screamed at me to be careful, to remember the rules I had lived by for so long. The streets were unforgiving, and I had seen too many people get caught off guard, their lives turned upside down in an instant.
“Hey, you looking for a ride?” the driver called out, his voice gruff and edged with something I couldn’t quite place—was it desperation or something more sinister? I hesitated for a moment, weighing my options. I wanted to say no, to turn around and walk away, but the allure of escape tugged at me. I was tired of standing in the cold, tired of the uncertainty that surrounded my every move.
But the rules were clear, and I had to think fast. I glanced around, making sure no one else was watching. The streets were mostly empty, the snowfall creating an eerie silence that settled over everything. My heart pounded in my chest as I took a step closer to the car, trying to read the situation.
“Look, man, I need to get somewhere fast,” the driver insisted, his impatience evident. I could see the tension in his posture, an urgency that made me even more wary. I wanted to ask him questions, to probe deeper into his intentions, but I didn’t want to show any signs of weakness.
“Where you headed?” I finally asked, trying to maintain a casual demeanor while my mind raced with possible outcomes.
“In a hurry, man, just get in,” he replied, waving me over again, the impatience in his voice growing.
I stood there, torn between the desire for warmth and safety and the instinct to protect myself. I could feel the weight of my choices pressing down on me, the realization that I was on a precipice. If I went forward, I could be stepping into a trap. If I walked away, I faced the cold isolation of the streets.
In that moment, I knew I had to make a decision. It was the age-old gamble of street life—a choice that could either lead to freedom or further entrapment. As the snow continued to fall around me, I took a deep breath, preparing myself to either walk away or step into the unknown. The stakes were high, and I had to trust my instincts to guide me through the uncertainty.
I made the choice to get in. My mind was in a fog, and I couldn’t make sense of what he had said to me. The truth was, I had decided that he was a cop. It was a gut instinct, one that told me if I didn’t comply with whatever he wanted, he would find a way to mess with me for a long time. I couldn’t afford to take chances like that; I had to think about my survival on the streets after this night.
“Grab a beer if you want to,” he said, motioning toward the cooler that sat between us. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I wanted to accept anything from this man, but curiosity got the better of me. I opened the cooler—or maybe he did; the details were hazy in my mind. Sure enough, I was met with a jumble of ice cubes, water, and beer cans bobbing around like little islands in a sea of cold liquid.
I remember shaking my head and turning him down. “No thanks,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but it didn’t seem to matter much. The heat radiating from the car’s interior was overwhelming, wrapping around me like a thick blanket. It made my head spin, and I felt lightheaded as the warmth seeped into my bones.
As I sat there, I could feel my eyelids growing heavy. I tried to focus on what he was saying, but his words were muffled and indistinct, swirling together in a haze that I couldn’t quite grasp. The combination of the warmth inside the car and the alcohol still lingering in my system was starting to take its toll. I could feel myself slipping away, my thoughts drifting into a fog.
In a matter of seconds, the world around me started to fade. I closed my eyes, and I wasn’t sure if I was falling asleep or losing consciousness altogether. It felt like I was floating between two worlds—the chaotic reality of the street and the creeping comfort of oblivion. The last thing I remember was the sound of his voice, distant and echoing, as I succumbed to the darkness that enveloped me.
In that moment, I felt a strange mixture of fear and relief. Fear of the unknown, fear of what might happen next, but also a sense of relief that I could finally escape the relentless grip of reality, even if just for a moment. The car became a cocoon, shielding me from the cold and the chaos outside. I had no idea what lay ahead, but for now, I was adrift in a sea of blackness, unaware of the choices that would shape the course of my life.
As I drifted deeper into that void, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I had made a grave mistake by getting into that car. But it was too late to turn back now; I was trapped in a situation I couldn’t fully comprehend. Whatever awaited me in the depths of my unconsciousness was a mystery, one that I would have to face when I finally emerged from this stupor. Whatever the outcome, the night was far from over, and my journey had just begun.
When he picked me up, it was early evening, the sky painted with hues of orange and purple as the sun made its descent. I remember the warmth of the car enveloping me, but that comfort quickly faded into a hazy oblivion. When I finally came to, it was early morning, and the world outside the window had transformed. We were stuck in traffic, ensnared in the grip of a snowstorm that had brought everything to a halt. The muffled sounds of honking horns and frustrated drivers created an eerie symphony of chaos, but inside the car, an unsettling silence loomed.
I blinked a few times, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and that’s when I noticed him. He was positioned in the driver’s seat, his attention focused on something I couldn’t quite decipher. It took a few moments for my mind to clear, but within seconds, I realized with growing dread that he was trying to tie my hands. Panic surged through me as I began to assess the situation. We were stopped in traffic, surrounded by cars, but no one could see what was happening inside our vehicle.
Instinct kicked in, and I attempted to move my feet, only to discover that they were already tied. The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity. I had been so disoriented that I hadn’t even sensed the restraints. In a moment of desperation, I braced one leg against the seat and quickly lifted the other, aiming to knee him in the face. My mind raced from confusion to clarity in an instant, a shift from “What the hell is happening?” to “Oh, no—this is really bad.”
Adrenaline surged through my veins, sharpening my senses and heightening my awareness. I felt bile rise in my throat, a nauseating mix of fear and instinctual fight-or-flight response. I tugged at my hands, trying to pull them free, but it was no use; the bindings were too tight. In that moment, I realized I had to fight back. I did the only thing I could think of—I headbutted the guy square in the jaw.
The impact wasn’t as powerful as I had hoped, but it was enough to catch him off guard. His grip loosened momentarily, and I took advantage of that split second. I yanked my hands free with a painful rope burn, the friction stinging my skin, but I didn’t care; I needed to escape.
With a surge of determination, I sprang to my feet, my heart racing as I scrambled to undo the bindings on my legs. I could see his surprise morph into anger, but I was already moving. I flung open the passenger door and stumbled out into the chaos of the snowstorm. The ground was slick with slush, and I slipped and slid as I tried to regain my balance.
The biting cold hit me like a slap in the face, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I was fueled by adrenaline and sheer will to survive. Behind me, I could hear him cursing, the sound of the car door slamming shut and the engine revving as he tried to pursue me. I took off, my feet moving instinctively, navigating the treacherous terrain as I darted between the cars that were also stuck in the storm.
With each step, I felt the weight of fear begin to lift, replaced by a fierce determination to get away. The snow continued to fall around me, thick and heavy, but I was focused on one thing: escaping. I could feel the icy wind biting at my skin, but the need to survive drowned out everything else. I was free, and I wasn’t looking back.
It would have been great if that had been the end of the story. In my mind, that’s how I wanted it to play out. I had written about the incident, capturing the essence of that chaotic night, and in my narrative, it felt like a neat conclusion. I hadn’t intended to be evasive or dishonest; I simply expressed what I felt at the time. The way I portrayed it, it seemed like I had managed to escape, to break free from the clutches of that harrowing experience.
After the group session ended, I returned to my cell, a small sanctuary amid the chaos of prison life. I picked up my guitar, letting the familiar strings soothe my frayed nerves. As I strummed out a few chords, the music wrapped around me like a warm blanket, offering a temporary respite from the memories that threatened to resurface. I read a book, losing myself in the words and stories that transported me far away from my reality. The hours passed quietly as I navigated my evening alone, a solitary figure in the dim light of my cell until lockdown settled in.
Truthfully, there was a sense of comfort in the sound of the cell doors slamming shut, a metallic finality that signaled the end of the day. It was a reminder that I was safe, at least for the moment. It took a long time to drift off to sleep that night, my mind replaying fragments of the past, but eventually, exhaustion overtook me, and I slipped into a restless slumber.
The following morning, the day began as it always did, marked by the unmistakable sound of the cell door creaking open with its familiar metallic slam. I was used to this routine; it was a sound that heralded a new day, yet somehow felt like a prison in itself. I could still feel the remnants of the previous night’s turmoil lingering at the edges of my consciousness, but I was determined to push those thoughts aside.
I made my way to the mess hall, my stomach growling in anticipation of the morning meal. As I walked, I felt the weight of the memories begin to slide away, like water trickling off a duck’s back. I focused on the mundane details of daily life in prison, the clatter of trays, the low hum of conversations, and the shuffling of feet across the cold concrete floor.
I was still processing everything, but with each step, I found a little more clarity. The chaos of the night before faded slightly, replaced by the routine of my surroundings. I took a seat at one of the long tables, surrounded by other inmates who were absorbed in their own conversations and struggles. I joined them in the ritual of sharing a meal, the simple act of eating together providing a sense of normalcy that I desperately craved.
As I sat there, I realized that I had the power to reshape my narrative. While the memory of that night would always be a part of me, I didn’t have to let it define who I was moving forward. I could choose to focus on the present, on the small moments of joy and connection that existed even within these walls.
The snowstorm had passed, and a new day was dawning, one filled with possibilities, no matter how small. With that thought in mind, I took a deep breath and embraced the day ahead, ready to face whatever challenges came my way, one step at a time.
The next day arrived without a group session, a welcome relief. I headed to the yard with determination, ready to channel my energy into working out hard. I pushed myself to the limits, lifting weights and running laps until I could feel the burn in my muscles, a physical exhaustion that drove the chaos of the previous days right out of my head. I needed that release, that catharsis that came from the sweat and effort, a way to escape the mental turmoil that had been plaguing me.
But as the sun dipped low on the horizon and the day turned to night, I knew the next day would bring group again. I have to admit, it lingered in my mind as I walked into that room. There was a knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach, but I reminded myself that I shouldn’t have been worried. Group sessions didn’t happen two days in a row; it was someone else’s turn to share their struggles, not mine. I felt a small wave of relief wash over me, allowing me to breathe a little easier.
However, that sense of comfort didn’t last long. Just as the last inmate took her seat, the other female counselor walked in, her expression serious as she shut the door behind her. I felt a chill run through me as she turned to face the group. “So,” she began, her tone clipped and direct, “I understand you had a breakthrough on Monday in group… and I read what you wrote. But we’ve discussed this before and, in that context, this makes no sense at all.”
Confusion washed over me. I had no idea what she was talking about. My mind raced as I scrambled to piece together what she meant. The other counselor I had spoken to earlier chimed in, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “The knife. You’ve told us before that you carried a knife in your boot at all times. Not sometimes… So, tell me, when you got your hands free, why didn’t you stab this guy?”
Her words hit me like a gut punch, leaving me momentarily speechless. I was floored, my mind racing as I tried to process what she was asking. The room fell into an unsettling silence, the weight of her question hanging heavily in the air. No one spoke to fill the void; no fellow inmate attempted to change the subject or rescue me from the spotlight. All eyes were on me, and I felt the pressure mounting.
Finally, with no choice but to respond, I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. “I… I didn’t think about it,” I stammered, my voice barely audible. “I was just trying to get free. I didn’t have time to think about anything else.”
“But you had a weapon,” she pressed, her gaze unwavering. “You had the means to protect yourself, to fight back. Why didn’t you use it?”
I could feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, a mix of shame and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “It all happened so fast,” I replied, my voice gaining strength. “I was caught off guard. I didn’t want to believe that it was happening. I thought I could talk my way out of it or find another way. It was like I froze.”
The other inmates shifted in their seats, some nodding in understanding, while others looked on with a mixture of curiosity and judgment. The counselor’s expression softened slightly, but she didn’t relent. “You need to understand that you have power in those moments. You can’t let fear paralyze you. You have to fight back.”
Her words struck a chord deep within me, resonating with the struggles I had faced on the streets and in this prison. I knew she was right; I had to reclaim that sense of agency, that power to defend myself. But the reality of those moments was complicated, laden with fear and confusion.
“I get that now,” I said, my voice steadier. “But in that moment, I just wanted to survive, to get away. I didn’t think about the knife.”
As I spoke, I felt a flicker of determination igniting within me. I recognized that this conversation was part of my journey, a necessary step toward healing and reclaiming my narrative. It wasn’t just about the knife or the escape; it was about acknowledging my fears, my past, and learning how to face them head-on.
“I didn’t finish the story…” I began, my voice tinged with hesitation. “I left it hanging because I didn’t want to delve into the details. And honestly, it’s complicated. I mean, I’m in prison now. If I had stabbed that guy, I could be facing charges. I might never see the outside world again.”
For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air. The first counselor looked at me, her expression unreadable, while the second counselor finally spoke up. “But you were defending yourself,” she said, her tone firm yet compassionate. “You had every right to act. You woke up to this guy tying you up, likely intending to rape or kill you…”
“Get it out,” the first counselor urged, her voice steady, pushing me gently but firmly to confront the memories I had been avoiding.
It was one of those moments in therapy where I found myself caught in a struggle, questioning whether I was being played or genuinely helped. After a moment of internal debate, I decided to embrace the discomfort and let it all spill out. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the memories that were about to resurface.
“He got me,” I confessed, the words tumbling out. “He lunged across the seat and grabbed me. I was in a state of panic while he seemed completely calm, almost unfazed by the chaos. He held me there, and then he gunned the engine, speeding right into one of those turnarounds where the cops park on the interstate to catch people speeding. That was when it hit me—we were on the interstate. That realization sent a wave of dread crashing over me as he drove into the turnaround, and the highway disappeared behind us, swallowed by the night.”
I could feel the tension in the room as I recounted the details, the other inmates listening intently. “That’s when I finally started to fight back,” I continued, my voice stronger now, fueled by adrenaline and the memory of that night. “But he was stronger than I anticipated. I managed to get the door open, and we both spilled out onto the slush-covered turnaround, throwing punches and slipping around like we were on ice. It was chaotic.”
I paused for a moment, allowing myself to relive the struggle. “I don’t know if he had a weapon, but I assumed he did. My gut instinct told me that he was reaching into his jacket for something. That thought shot through my mind like a bolt of lightning, and as he came at me, I remembered that I did have a weapon—I had a knife hidden in my boot.”
The words hung in the air, and I could see the counselors processing what I had just revealed. It felt liberating to finally voice the fear, the uncertainty, and the desperation of that moment. I was no longer just a victim in my own story; I was reclaiming my narrative, confronting the reality of that night and the choices I had made.
“It was like a switch flipped in my mind,” I said, my heart racing at the recollection. “In that moment, I was no longer just trying to survive. I was ready to fight back, to take control of the situation. I reached down, pulled out the knife, and prepared myself for whatever came next.”
The counselors nodded, their expressions a mix of empathy and encouragement. I could see that they understood the gravity of what I was sharing. This wasn’t just a story; it was a pivotal moment in my life, one that had shaped who I was and how I viewed the world.
I stabbed him. I’m absolutely sure of it. I felt the blade connect with his jacket, and I’m convinced it penetrated deep enough to reach his upper chest or shoulder area. The moment the knife made contact, it was as if time slowed. I could see the shock in his eyes, and he was gone just that fast. Whatever was concealed in his jacket remained there, untouched, but he didn’t react as if I had injured him. Instead, he backed off, his demeanor shifting as the realization hit him.
I took a step back, my heart racing, and watched as he turned and climbed back into that car, which had looked so much like a cop car in the dim light of the night. A wave of uncertainty crashed over me, but I knew I had to act quickly. I turned my back on him and bolted into the woods that separated the two sides of the interstate highway.
Once I was among the trees, I felt a mix of adrenaline and fear coursing through my veins. It seemed like I spent hours wandering through those woods, though I couldn’t be sure how much time had passed. I kept moving, heading in what I hoped was either south or north, desperate to put distance between myself and that nightmare. Each step took me further from the chaos, but the weight of what had just happened pressed heavily on my mind.
When daylight finally broke, I stumbled out of the thicket and found myself back on the side of the interstate. The scene was eerily still; traffic was stalled, and the slush from the snowstorm had turned into a heavy, icy mess. I felt frozen, both physically and emotionally, as I surveyed my surroundings. The world felt surreal, like I was watching it unfold from a distance, disconnected from reality.
But then I spotted a diner just off the interstate, its neon sign flickering invitingly. A mix of dread and hope washed over me. What if he was there? What if he had followed me? The thought sent a chill down my spine, but I quickly reasoned with myself. If I had truly injured him, he wouldn’t be lurking in a diner; he’d be somewhere getting patched up, nursing his wounds.
Despite my fear, I knew I had to take the chance. I couldn’t remain out in the cold, exposed and vulnerable. I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and approached the diner. Each step felt like a leap into the unknown, a step toward reclaiming my life after the chaos of the night before. As I crossed the threshold of the diner, the warmth enveloped me, a stark contrast to the icy grip of the world outside.
Inside, I scanned the room, looking for any sign of him. The familiar sounds of sizzling food and clinking dishes surrounded me, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts. I was alive, and I had fought back. Whatever lay ahead, I was determined to face it head-on. It was time to confront the aftermath of my actions and figure out what my next steps would be in this tumultuous journey of survival.
As I stumbled through the trees, a sense of paranoia gripped me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I kept seeing that car creeping along the interstate. Every rustle of leaves and snap of twigs made my heart race. I don’t know if it was a figment of my imagination or if it was truly there, lurking just out of sight, but the thought of it sent chills down my spine. The woods felt suffocating, and I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder as I hurried forward.
Eventually, I found my way back to the interstate and spotted the diner just off the highway. It was a refuge in the chaos—a place where stranded travelers sought warmth and comfort. Inside, there were truckers and all sorts of people, each with their own stories of being caught in the storm. I settled into a booth, nursing cup after cup of strong coffee, trying to gather my thoughts and regain some semblance of composure. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as I sat there, staring out the window at the snow-covered road, the world outside feeling both familiar and alien.
The waitress, a kind woman with a concerned look, approached my table more than once, her eyes searching mine for answers. She must have sensed that something was off, that I had that look—the look of someone who had been through something traumatic. But I said nothing. I offered her a weak smile and turned my gaze back to the window, hoping to blend into the background, invisible and safe.
At some point, exhaustion washed over me, and I drifted off to sleep right there in the diner, the noise of clattering dishes and murmurs of conversation fading into a distant hum. I felt utterly drained, as if I had been shot out of a cannon and landed in a whirlwind of chaos. When I finally woke, the diner was bustling, and the waitress was chatting with another staff member.
I caught snippets of their conversation, and my heart sank when I overheard her mention that she was thinking of taking me home with her. I imagined that her maternal instincts had kicked in—after all, I was young and vulnerable, a lost soul in need of care. At that moment, the thought of being taken under her wing was both comforting and unsettling. I didn’t want to be a burden, nor did I want to draw attention to myself.
Fortunately, she didn’t approach me with that idea, and once I had gathered my thoughts and regained my composure, I knew I needed to make a plan. I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I dialed a number I had memorized, a lifeline in the storm. I made a deal for a ride that turned out to take me about two hundred miles back to the city.
As I waited for my ride to arrive, I glanced around the diner, taking in the faces of the other patrons. Each one seemed to be wrapped in their own world, oblivious to the turmoil I had just escaped. I felt a mix of relief and anxiety as I prepared to leave this temporary sanctuary. I was heading back to the city, back to the life I had known, but nothing would ever be the same again. I had crossed a line, faced my fears, and fought back in a way that changed everything.
When my ride finally pulled up outside the diner, I took a deep breath and stepped out into the cold morning air, feeling the weight of my experiences pressing down on me.
Gus Dyer is a detective no more. Staring into the deep wells of corruption for too many years sent him into a spiral. He tried to use the bottle to find his way out, but that only dragged him in deeper. The road to Redemption is a look at that fall and how hard that fall was. But Gus is determined to stand on his own two feet again. It remains to be seen whether he will ever become a detective again, but he is finding out that being a detective is not about a badge. It isn’t something you take on with the position either. It is in your blood, and if you have it, you cannot help but follow those impulses that flood through your body with that blood when you know something is wrong. Dead wrong…#Detective #Crime #Mystery #Thriller #Suspense #Readers #KU Gus Dyer: The road to redemption – Kindle edition by Watson, W. W., Norton, A L. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.
Gus Dyer is a hardcore detective in the big city. He knows what crime is, and he has seen the worst of the worst walk her streets and taken those same people down. Some to jail, some to the gates of hell where they belonged in the first place.This time he is on the trail of a hired killer, Jimmy West. West works out of the city. It is his base and fortress, the place where he can roam free among millions of other people unseen, unchallenged and free to continue his crimes. #Detective #Crime #Mystery #Thriller #Suspense #Readers #KU
The dust swirled around my worn boots, a miniature desert storm kicked up by the frantic thump of my own heart. The air hung thick and heavy, the scent of dry earth and something else… something metallic and sickeningly sweet, clinging to the back of my throat. It was the smell of blood. Old blood. New blood. The kind that stains the soul as deeply as it stains the earth. I’d been clean for six months, six agonizing months of sweat-soaked nights and gnawing cravings, a testament to a willpower I never knew I possessed. Six months of staring at the cracked pavement, avoiding the shadowed corners where my past lurked like a hungry ghost. But tonight, the ghost had found me.
I reached the relative safety of the small office and set down the suitcases. The Mexican stood and slowly shook his head as I approached. I looked down and saw that Kat’s shirt had been cut away. One large hole had punched through her upper shoulder leaving a blue-black, bloodless hole. Her eyes blinked rapidly as I knelt beside her.
“Hey,” I said. She looked at me, pulled another breath and then her eyes slipped shut. She had a small smile on her face as if she knew some secret that I could only guess at.
I froze for a moment and then reached down and shook her shoulders.
“She’s okay, Billy,” The Mexican said. “I gave her something… We need to get her somewhere where I can stitch her up… Or you. Listen, I don’t want to sound hard or as if I don’t care, but right now, unless we want to just give up and die, we need to get ourselves in gear. If it wasn’t one of the trucks that blew by us while we were on that dirt road, and we know it wasn’t that red pickup… someone is still out there, and once they get their shit together they’ll come back for us, amigo. And there has to be some locals of some sort around here, eventually one of them is gonna show up. Federales… Maybe locals… What you need to do Billy is get us another truck so we can get back across the border and make that meeting… Put this behind us,” the Mexican said.
I looked around the showroom. “I don’t see any here, which means I’m going to have to go back outside to find one. Which means,” I looked at the Mexican, “I need you to keep watch in front; I’m going out the back door.”
I walked over to a small plywood board to one side of the double doors, and began to search through the key-tags that hung from it. “Hey, take a quick look out front and tell me whether you see a light green Ram out there, about ten years old or so,” I continued to search through the keys as he looked.
“Si, out by the road,” he replied.
“How about a two-tone red and white Chevy?”
“No veda nada… No, not out here.”
“Good,” I said as I dropped the remaining keys in a heap by the board. I had kept two sets out; apparently, there were two green Ram’s, another out back somewhere along with a tu-tone Chevy that had possibilities. “Okay I’m going to get it,” I said as I turned and walked down a hallway in the direction of the back of the building, I turned back. “Kat?” I asked.
“She’s safe, amigo… Go, I’ll keep watch on her.”
I turned and walked down the hallway through a set of double steel doors and into a small garage area. I searched the garage quickly, but no red and white Chevy or green Ram resided in the shadowy interior. I walked to a set of double steel doors set into the back of the garage, pressed the bar handle, and stepped out into the back lot.
I found the Ram first directly behind the rear of the garage checked the stock numbers and after determining, which set of keys went to it opened the door and got in. A low chiming greeted me as I opened the door. The Ram was one of the upper level models; it was also not four-wheel drive. The tires were not much more than passenger tires and when I turned on the ignition to check the gas gauge the needle stopped just above empty.
“Fuck,” I said to myself. “this one isn’t going to do us a hell-of-a-lot-of good.”
I found the other truck farther back in the lot. It was a low end model; built more with a hunter or some other type of sportsman in mind and much better suited to our needs. Plain stark vinyl interior and the gas gauge leveled out at half when I checked it. Not great, but a lot better than the other truck and we didn’t have the time to pick and choose.
“This is her,” I told myself. I started the truck and drove out of the back lot toward the front of the dealership.
I had been tensed, expecting to hear the chatter of machine pistols while I was out back, and when I drove by the glass encased showroom and saw the Mexican crouched by the side of a car on the showroom floor I breathed a sigh of relief. I just caught his waving hands out of the corner of my eye before two men jumped out from behind one of the trucks in the front row and opened fire on me.
Too late, I thought as I realized I had left the machine pistol lying on the front seat instead of keeping it in my right hand where it should have been. I could hear the sound of a machine pistol behind me as the Mexican opened up. I did what I could. I aimed the truck at the two men; levered the door-handle and prepared to jump just as the windshield hit by several of the rounds fired by the two men was blown inward: My world faded to black.
