Well, here we go! As I discussed yesterday, I’ll be posting a free story every Wednesday for the next year…if I can! Watch closely: there is clear train wreck potential here.

I’ll leave each story up till Tuesday, then remove it and post the thing on Amazon. (If you really want to keep a free copy, I’m sure you can figure out how. There may even be a useful button just under the title of this post.) The following Wednesday, I’ll include links to buy/review the previous week’s story.

You Sleigh Me

For once, when the calendar nears its rollover point, Rick Santos finds himself in the Christmas spirit. The catch? That may not be a metaphor. Some days a guy just can’t get a break…

Hi! This story’s been published on Amazon’s sites, so I had to take it down on the blog. Annoying, I know, but still…pretty cool how fast that can happen, isn’t it? If you missed this one, there’ll be another posted every Wednesday for a year.

Want to see the story’s new home on this site, or find a link to check it out on Amazon? Here you go: You Sleigh Me

Have fun out there!

Um. I thought about calling this Wacky Thursday for those of you who will assume I simply forgot, but of course the fact is I’ve just been living a day behind lately. Sometimes even more. So it’s not my fault.

(But thanks for the emails, Brian and Toni!)

Ahem. So here we are with Chapter 5 of Shiver on the Sky. This would be a weird place to begin reading (better here, maybe?), and I’d think people would have asked for the whole book during a recent giveaway I did, but apparently I’m at least slightly wrong. Thus, this:

Chapter Five

(Monday Morning—Owen)

Owen woke, tangled in his sheets. The window air-conditioning unit had finally kicked in sometime during the early morning. The sheets, damp from his sweat, were now also cold.

He rarely slept well in a strange bed, but this had been worse than usual. He’d woken repeatedly from a nightmare that had seemed to return every time he closed his eyes.

He walked on the beach and saw Leon’s body washing out to sea, with gulls swooping and crying out overhead. He dove in to pull the corpse back to shore and found Shawna under the surface, her lower body replaced by a scaly green mermaid’s tail, trailing seaweed, tugging on the spear that was still, horribly, poking through Leon’s head. Leon’s eyes rolled in Owen’s direction, and their lack of expression showed, illogically but absolutely, Leon’s full awareness of what was happening to him. Shawna towed Leon farther out into the Gulf, and Owen could do nothing to stop it.

Owen surfaced and yelled for help, but the beach was deserted. Except sometimes the Hermit was there, leaning on his own spear, much larger than the one stuck through Leon; the dream named it a harpoon.

The Hermit thundered out advice, exhorting Owen to straighten out his life. “Commit yourself to something! Be something! You must make a choice, boy!” The old man had a seagull on each shoulder, and behind him Owen caught occasional glimpses of a black dog, probably Shadow, digging up old bones in the dunes. The bones were dry and brittle, but Owen knew if they ever reached the water they might begin to move on their own.

He hadn’t managed to shake the dream and get any real sleep until well past three o’clock. It wasn’t until sometime around nine that he pried his eyes open and looked blearily around the hotel room.

He peeled the sheets off his body and staggered around a small dining table to the window, stepping over Shadow’s sleeping body on the way. The dog’s front legs twitched.

He didn’t want to think about the bit with Shawna and Leon’s body. It was just a nightmare, and he figured he was entitled to one under the circumstances. And as for the Hermit, he’d had enough of that sermon yesterday.

Coastal Bend mornings in September, or any other month, were frequently gray and wet. This one had turned out to be sunny. When Owen put his hand to the window, warmth sank into his fingers. He turned off the air conditioner, which had lowered the temperature in the room to that of a meat locker once it got going, and resolved to get a different room if he ended up staying in the hotel.

He shook himself. Might as well get moving. He dialed Detective Gordon’s number to let him know about the missing Jeep, but hung up before the first ring.

Maybe it was time to stop reacting and start thinking.

Gordon had felt like a good guy, even if somewhat tricky—but Shawna’s welfare wasn’t going to be his first priority. And Owen had a feeling the Jeep was important. So far, if he was going to help Shawna, the Jeep was the only card he had to play. He ought to look at it a bit more carefully before giving it away.

He padded into the bathroom and took a shower. He’d cleaned up the night before, immediately after getting into the room, but had bathed since in clammy sweat. Even when he got out, he didn’t feel quite clean.

Clothed, and as alert as he figured he could get, he picked up the phone and dialed a different number.

It was picked up right away. “Corpus Christi Caller-Times, Carl LaMott speaking.”

“Hey, Carl. Had breakfast yet?” God, he was hungry. He’d forgotten to eat last night.

“Holy shit, you’re alive and free. Yeah, I had doughnuts two hours ago. Where the hell are you?”

“Off the record? The Wave Inn on South Padre Island Drive. Though I’m thinking I might like to wave goodbye to it.”

“Yeah, yeah, off the record, whatever. For now. You’re a computer guy, you don’t even know what that means. Jesus, man, what’s been going on? I hear somebody got killed out at your boat, Shawna’s gone, your ex-boss is gone, and now you’re calling me from a hotel and saying shit like ‘off the record.‘”

“Want to watch me eat breakfast?”

“Hell yeah, I’ll even buy. How about the Cracker Barrel over near you on SPID?”

“Works for me.” Owen thought about it. The restaurant and the hotel were both on South Padre Island Drive, but it would still be a long walk. “Can you pick me up? I’m having a little transportation problem this morning.”

“Jeep’s not running? Why not, everything else around you is screwed up. You ought to buy a real car anyway. Maybe even one with working air conditioning.”

“Carl . . .”

“Not my fault you’re so damned cheap. Okay, okay, be there in twenty. Meet you outside.” He hung up.

It was closer to thirty minutes before Carl showed up. He held his cell phone against an ear, carelessly listening, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Owen grinned and put Shadow in the back seat. He got in the front and watched Carl drive, wondering who could silence him so effectively.

“My editor,” Carl explained when he eventually got off the phone. He pulled into the Cracker Barrel parking lot. “He has these great ideas every once in a while, and he has to tell me about ‘em. If I’d argued, it would have taken longer.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

They left Shadow in the car with the windows cracked. Owen ordered pecan pancakes and sweet tea. Carl, insisting he was on a doughnuts-only diet, sneered at the menu and ordered coffee.

Carl spoke first when the waitress left. “Okay, Owen. What’s going on? And what’s with the dog?”

“What do you know?”

“Not a lot. I’ve got calls in to a couple of people. If they get back to me I’ll let you know what I find out. Junior’s missing, presumed dead. Shawna’s missing, status unknown.”

Owen held up a hand, swallowed. “How do the cops figure she was at Junior’s? She didn’t even have a car last weekend, it’s in the shop getting a new transmission.”

“Appointment calendar, plus a neighbor saw somebody matching her description. And prints. All over the place, apparently…but also on a fireplace poker. It’s got Junior’s blood and hair on it, too. Or at least they think it’s Junior’s. Don’t tell anybody you know about that, because I’m not supposed to know either.”

“How’d they ID her prints? I don’t think she’s ever been arrested.”

Carl looked up from shredding the napkin that had been wrapped around his silverware. “Beats me, man. Maybe they went by her place, or stopped by wherever she works. I don’t think it’d be too hard. Or maybe she’s got a record you don’t know about.”

“Carl, you have to know Shawna would never . . .”

Carl shook his head. “Look, I only met her a couple of times. And I don’t know what the circumstances were, over there.”

Owen tried to speak, but Carl rode over him. “Neither do you. Maybe Junior threatened her. Maybe he even hit her. Or maybe someone else staged the whole thing. But forget that for now. Who got killed on your boat, Owen? I couldn’t get any info on that. I thought it was you until you called me this morning.”

“Leon Purvis,” Owen said. “He was a friend. Shadow—the dog—is his. Or was. I think you met Leon once, a couple of months ago out at the boat. We were having a fish fry.”

Carl shrugged, looking down at the napkin again. “I might have. I don’t always remember things like that, especially if there’s beer involved, and there would have been for a fish fry at your place. Hell of a trait for a reporter, but there it is. Lucky I’ve got a column now, so I can write about my feelings instead of facts.”

“You know, Carl, that’d be a lot more convincing if I didn’t know you drink maybe once every six months or so. And I think three beers is about your limit.”

Carl laughed. “Okay, okay. But I really don’t remember him. Uh…anyway, maybe I shouldn’t be playing around. I’m sorry about your friend, and I’m sorry I don’t know more about what happened, but…right now I’m just glad it wasn’t you.”

“Me too.” Owen met Carl’s eyes for a moment. But Leon hadn’t deserved it either.

“So why are you out on the loose? You have a good alibi or something?”

“Not really, no. I was out in my kayak most of the weekend. I guess I have an alibi for yesterday afternoon if I need it, but I’ll have to check with the Hermit before I mention it. On the record, anyway.”

“You didn’t tell the cops you were with him? Jesus, Owen.”

“I told you, it was only yesterday afternoon. And you’ve met him. How do you think he’d react to cops showing up? And what about after he found out I’d sent them?”

Carl shook his head. “Maybe somebody ought to show up. I mean, it looks like the guy’s barely getting by out there. And he’s not getting any younger. Could be he’d be better off if he got locked up.”

Owen laughed, wincing at the thought. “I think he’s getting by okay,” he told Carl. The Hermit could probably buy the mortgage on that new house Carl was so proud of out of his profits from this year alone. The Hermit had a doctorate in English Literature from Yale, had once taught at the University of Texas, and had been a professional bridge player in what he called his misspent youth. He still made a substantial income from rental properties he’d bought with his card-playing profits. He just lived out on the water because he was, in his own words, a geriatric delinquent.

“He’s a wing nut,” Carl said with an air of finality. “And so are you, if you don’t see it.”

“Yeah. But if he gets mad at me, and he knows you through me, he probably won’t tell you where the fish are biting anymore.”

Carl laughed, then pointed his fork at Owen. “Whatever, man. If they fry you I’ll write it up real nice for the paper. Anyway, what’s with the Jeep? You need a ride someplace?”

“The Jeep? I figure whoever killed Leon has it, or Shawna has it. Don’t know which yet.” If that wasn’t just two ways of saying the same thing…but it couldn’t be. Nobody who really knew her could think so.

“What do the police think?”

Good question. “Far as I know, they don’t think anything. I forgot to tell them about it last night.”

Carl groaned and grabbed the top of his head. “You are going to tell them, right?”

Owen looked at him, then away. “I don’t know. I need to see if my keys are still in my boat. If they are, maybe Shawna’s using the Jeep. It would have to be some sort of emergency before she borrowed it, because she hates driving a stick shift, but she has her own keys. If she has the Jeep I don’t necessarily want to send the cops after her.”

“Jesus Christ, Owen. What if whoever killed Leon and Junior has Shawna in the Jeep?”

Owen shook his head. “You mean, what if he just happened to kidnap or kill Junior and Shawna, then go to my place and kill Leon, and steal my Jeep? What was he, on foot before that? Or what if he walked to my boat, killed Leon, stole my Jeep, and then drove across town to grab Shawna and Junior, and Shawna had taken a cab or something to get there? The whole thing is nuts either way. I think Shawna borrowed the Jeep to go to Junior’s, and if anybody’s using it it’s probably her.”

“Owen. That makes her sound pretty fuckin’ guilty. I mean, if Junior and Leon are both dead, and Shawna was in both places…I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I. And yeah, it looks bad. But I’m not going to help the police catch her just yet.”

“What are you gonna do, find her yourself?” He looked at Owen more closely. “Holy shit. You are, aren’t you?”

“Off the record, Carl.”

“Jesus.” Carl shook his head. “I’m not sure any of this makes sense. But it’s your show. So okay, how ‘bout if you drop me off and borrow my car for the day? If you still need it later I’ll get a ride home from somebody. I can just use my truck tomorrow. Deal?”

“Yeah.” Owen met Carl’s eyes again. “Thanks. I really appreciate all this.”

“No problemo, buddy. Just try to keep us both out of jail.” Carl got up, pulling out his wallet to pay the bill. “And Shawna too, if you can. I kinda like her.”

Owen nodded.

—————————————————————

The first chapter of the book can be found here, and if you want to read the whole thing at once you can find buy-now links here.

Boilerplate follows:

My books are not in stores, so the only way anybody hears about them is online. If I’ve entertained you sufficiently, and if you can spare the time, please consider posting a review. Even a line or two, if posted to Amazon or Goodreads, can make a big difference to me. And I’ll appreciate the heck out of it.

Also, if you’d like to be among the first folks notified of new releases regardless of where they’re sold, you can sign up to my mailing list here. I send email only when I have a new release, and I won’t sell or give away your email address.

Have a good day out there.

(Note: If you’re here for Wacky Wednesday free fiction, it’s in abeyance for a few weeks–it’s temporarily superseded by the goofy giveaway I started last Friday.)

A few people, by which I mean four people, have–hmm. How do I put this? They’ve expressed concern that I’m doing great evil to myself, to writers in general, and maybe indirectly to the market share of civilized discourse versus…other stuff…on the internet.

Okay, that last part was all me. Not all these folks were polite. Though two of them were.

As a practical matter, let me say this: my books were all published several months ago. One of them sold pretty well for a while, but sales for all of them have been “lagging” (other words could be used here) lately. I figure that’s a normal thing, and the best cure is a new release–which I’m working on. Or I was working on it a few minutes ago, and I’ll get back to it. Meanwhile, I thought of a fun way to try to attract new readers and start up conversations. I’ve made some new internet-friends in the process. There’s no obvious downside here.

Am I devaluing the writing of fiction? If so, how cool is it to have that superpower? Awesome! But slightly more seriously: there are lifetimes’ worth of free reading available on the net already. There is no way for any of us to change that. What I’m doing has encouraged a few more readers to try my stuff. Possibly instead of someone else’s, but more likely it’s in addition to whatever they were going to read anyway.

On top of that, I think the notion of idea-ownership is likely flawed from a moral standpoint to begin with. I feel strongly that content creators (storytellers and other artists) deserve to be paid exactly as much as their readers/audiences/viewers/consumers feel is appropriate. Goodwill is key, in the long term. I’ve read some new-to-me authors because their works were free. Later on, I paid them for other stuff. I’ve done this when I’ve wanted to, not through coercion. If I can inspire that sort of feeling and action? Good. If not? I’ll need to work harder.

I’ve written before that I feel people who buy digital works actually own them. And I’ll point out that even under existing laws, digital distributors/resellers don’t own the copyrights to the stuff they claim to “license” either. So all the stuff that Amazon, B&N, or whoever tells you about how you can and can’t use what you buy? About how you can’t share it with a friend unless you go through them? It ain’t actually their call. With my stuff? That’s up to me. I say: share it however you like. If you want to post it to “pirate” sites? Go for it; I’d do it myself if I felt I could spare the time.

That most certainly includes fan fiction, by the way. I don’t think anybody out there’s been inspired to write new stories set in a universe I’ve created. But if you want to give it a shot? Feel free, folks. Send me a link and I’ll probably read it. If I like it, I may tell people about it. If you later want to publish it somewhere you’ll get paid? More power to you, and you owe me nothing. (This is fairly meaningless at the moment–but I plan to keep writing for quite a while, and it may matter someday.)

Only, for chrissake, don’t submit ANY of your fanfic to Kindle Worlds (no link) even if they graciously allow it. Nate Hoffelder at The Digital Reader has debunked the notion that Kindle Worlds is about fanfic to begin with. And Barry Eisler, whom I admire (okay I’m more of a fanboy there) and whose John Rain character/world are included in this Amazon scheme, just posted a Q&A on the topic.

To be clear: Eisler is not expressing criticism of the program. I am, though. If you read the Q&A carefully, you’ll notice terms like “exclusive” and “for the term of copyright” (currently your lifetime plus 70 years) are in evidence. If that doesn’t make you want to scream and run for the hills, you may want to buy and read a copy of The Copyright Handbook. It’s scary stuff.

Anyway. I figured I could write this and point people to it, thus saving time in the future. If you now hate me, well, have at it. Meanwhile I’ve got more work to do.

Have fun out there.

Here we are with Chapter Four of Shiver on the Sky.

And suddenly, according to some readers, the novel takes a plunge into thoroughly weird territory. Well…yes and no. Thing is, I gave several hints earlier. And somehow there are also readers who manage to get through this bit and then express surprise at some of the later supernatural elements.

Really?

Well, okay. Meanwhile, what can I say? It made sense to me to do it this way at the time. It still does. And other readers seem to have no trouble, so…all us monkeys is weird. Is what I say. Plus, this book is easily my most popular work so far, so I’m not going to worry about it too much.

Oh yeah: if you missed the beginning of this novel, here’s Chapter One. And you may notice I’ve moved the “Send to Kindle” to the top of pages & posts. A little thought may cause you to wonder why the heck I didn’t do that to start with. Beats me too.

On with the show:

Chapter Four

(Sometime—The People)

The People were restless. They were always restless, according to their larger, slower-moving Cousins. But this time they had a difficult choice to make, and had no time to wait for the wisdom of the Cousins.

The schooling Cold Ones were swirling, shifting for position. They were even more bad-tempered than usual, biting at each other, coming closer together.

The People’s memory didn’t go back as far as the Cousins’, but even they knew that when the Cold Ones gathered close in their dominance games it might mean they were about to lash out. All at once. Even the People kept their distance from that sort of threat.

Some of them had found a way to approach the Great Cold One and ask him to intervene, but of course he would not. He never had before, and he probably never would. Even so, some of the People liked playing with him, because he was irritable but had never actually harmed them. So they asked, even though he was not the sort of Cold One that swam in a school. It passed the time, and it was fun.

The People lived in tidal waters, and the Cousins swam out in the Deep. Still, the Cousins sang of greater tides, or Tides, that came and went in spans of time vaster than any the People could comprehend. The People listened to the Cousins, though at times they did not understand what they heard, because it made a good game.

Lately the Cousins had begun Singing that the time had come to repair what had been broken, that the People Above and the People Below would come together again.

The People hadn’t ventured Above into the dry world beyond for so long that they had almost forgotten they could. Many of the People had died Above their shimmering Sky, and the few who had survived had lost the Songs that made it possible to cross. Just recently, though, some of the younger ones among the People had begun to remember their ancient Songs…with the help of the Cousins.

But some of the Cold Ones were Above as well, which none of the People remembered having happened before, though they barely remembered going Above at all, so just maybe it was not a new thing after all. Still, if the People were killed and driven back Below before, possibly without Cold Ones about, what would happen now?

One of the People was already involved in Cold One business, and the rest were afraid. The People shivered in their fear, enjoying the thrill it gave them, and Sang for the Cousins even though they knew events Above would probably unfold before the Cousins could respond.

And they played, of course, defining themselves in their timeless way.

They did that.

—————————————————————

The first chapter of the book can be found here, and if you want to read the whole thing at once you can find buy-now links here.

Boilerplate follows:

My books are not in stores, so the only way anybody hears about them is online. If I’ve entertained you sufficiently, and if you can spare the time, please consider posting a review. Even a line or two, if posted to Amazon or Goodreads, can make a big difference to me. And I’ll appreciate the heck out of it.

Also, if you’d like to be among the first folks notified of new releases regardless of where they’re sold, you can sign up to my mailing list here. I send email only when I have a new release, and I won’t sell or give away your email address.

Have a good day out there.

Here we are with Chapter Three of Shiver on the Sky. (If you missed the beginning, Chapter One is here).

Here the plot thickens quite a bit. I had a lot of fun with both Owen and Detective Gordon in this chapter…I’ve never told anybody, but I imagined Gordon as being played by Paul Newman as I wrote this.

Hey. I liked Paul Newman, a lot.

Anyway, on with the show. And there’s a new “Send to Kindle” button at the bottom of all my pages and posts now, so if you want to read or refer to something later? You can. Oh, and the “Related Posts” dingus ought to help people navigate forward and backward if they’ve a mind.

Not that I have mindless readers. Do I? If so…cool, but how?

Chapter Three

(Sunday Evening—Owen)

Ramirez and his partner had left Owen in an empty office at the boat broker’s place across the street from the marina. To wait for a detective. Two hours ago.

He sat uncomfortably, hands still cuffed, on a wooden chair behind a scarred mahogany desk. From time to time he got up to pace to the door and back. He could hear nothing from outside. He didn’t know where Shadow was.

At first he couldn’t think past his anger, at the police and whoever had killed Leon. Then for a while he worried about Shadow, out there with the police. Then he wondered about Leon’s parents. They were still around, up in San Antonio. Would they want Shadow? Though Leon had said his mother didn’t allow dogs in the house, hadn’t he?

Probably the police would tell them what had happened to Leon fairly soon, if they hadn’t already. The police would have questions to ask, too. Would they do it over the phone, or go in person? San Antonio was only a few hours away. Owen felt bringing the news—and the dog?—should have been his responsibility, though he couldn’t say why.

None of this seemed real to him yet. He’d just been out for the weekend, having a good time. He’d stopped for lunch and conversation when he’d seen the Hermit’s boat, then paddled across the Bay, and…everything had gone to hell.

* * *

Owen collapsed forward over his paddle, gasping for breath as his kayak glided to a stop.

His arms ached, and as circulation returned to his numbed hands a grainy sort of stinging sensation vibrated between his left thumb and forefinger. Another blister. He should have stopped to do something about it before it got this bad—the gloves weren’t helping much.

But hell, blisters didn’t matter. He’d pushed himself pretty hard, maybe even set a personal record, crossing the Corpus Christi Bay. Wheezing and flailing at the water, good form left somewhere far behind, he’d thrashed his way into the City Marina and declared victory. The Fusty Navel, home sweet home since he’d left his job last year, floated only forty or so yards away.

He laughed briefly, his lungs still heaving. A record, by God. If he’d actually timed it, and if anyone cared. He could tell Shawna about it later—he’d be doing the cooking tonight, so maybe she’d agree to feign awe at his prowess.

Or not. But that was okay. She’d probably smile, at least a little. He’d take what he could get.

After a few minutes, his breathing almost under control, Owen glanced up—and took a few quick strokes to get out of the way of a fast-approaching tourist in an aluminum outboard. It looked like one of the boats John Sumner notoriously left clustered at the loading dock, apparently so he could rent them to idiots in paisley Speedos.

Owen rode out the overpowered little boat’s wake, shook his head and began paddling slowly homeward. He’d been away for two days this time, and even with the hazards to navigation it was good to be back.

Up in the parking lot, somebody’s child screamed his defiance of the natural order and repeatedly slammed a car door. Owen usually enjoyed noisy kids, and only partly because they weren’t his problem. But his grin died half-formed, and he nearly missed the water with his paddle, as his eyes leapt to an empty space next to the fresh-shrimp stand.

Owen lowered the paddle to his lap, still staring into the parking lot. For several minutes no boats moved in or out of the marina. The kayak drifted through an oily flatness.

His Jeep Cherokee was missing.

All at once he couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t focus his mind even to paddle the last few yards to his boat. He felt inadequate, struck by an absurd conviction that he should be able to immediately understand, and maybe fix, what had happened.

But…who would have bothered to take the Jeep? With all the other cars sitting in the lot, grabbing Owen’s twenty-year-old ride didn’t make a lot of sense. It almost had to be kids, or maybe something personal.

Whom had he pissed off lately? And was the houseboat okay?

Or…Owen’s chest loosened as he realized there was a more likely explanation…maybe Leon had needed to borrow the Jeep? He knew where the keys were. He’d promised to rewire Owen’s instrument panel this weekend, and all he’d wanted in return was a 12-pack of Shiner Bock. Which he would probably split with Owen anyway, because Leon didn’t like to drink alone. So if he had taken the Jeep, he’d more than earned the privilege.

And for some reason Leon couldn’t keep his little diesel-powered VW Jetta running smoothly, even though he was a miracle worker with marine engines. He’d kept Owen from falling for a shady mechanic’s claim that the Fusty Navel’s port-side Westerbeke needed replacing, and then hadn’t charged much to fix the old one, so Owen didn’t begrudge him the occasional loaner.

On the other hand, up till now Leon had always asked for permission in advance.

Leon usually left notes about the work he was doing inside, on Owen’s refrigerator. Owen closed his eyes, told himself to relax. There would probably be a note. Or maybe Leon would only be gone for a few minutes.

He leaned out and dug in with his paddle, aiming for home. He’d deal with Leon and the Jeep later, if it turned out he had to. Right now he was going to enjoy the end of his trip.

Owen reached his boat and climbed aboard, smiling partly in self-mockery but mostly in a genuine and pleasant fog of anticipation. He hungered for some quiet, laughing time with Shawna in a few hours.

Once he’d stowed the kayak on deck and finished off the sole remaining bottle of beer from the cooler he’d carried behind him, he stretched out his aching legs and checked his watch. Thanks to his personal record crossing the Bay, he had plenty of time before Shawna showed up for their date at nine. He had filleted fish to split between the freezer and the frying pan, salty gear to rinse with freshwater, and probably some mail waiting for him at the marina office.

But his first priority, aside from checking for a note from Leon, was clear: he needed a shower. Two days of dribbled sweat were backing up his pores, and the disconcerting full-body prickle-chafe of dried seawater was calling attention to anatomical regions he preferred not to contemplate.

Besides. Coming back to the Fusty Navel also meant returning to the everyday world, with all its standards and expectations. His fragrant blend of old and new sweat, fish slime, and spilled beer would definitely not please Shawna when she arrived. He left everything where it sat and fumbled with the combination lock on the starboard door.

A faint but subtly out-of-place scent drifted beneath his own stench, permeating the back of his mind and settling in dark recesses. Its passage was setting off alarms, but they were muffled by the comforting insulation of exercise and alcohol.

When he finally opened the door (or hatch, as Leon kept wanting him to call it) and entered his living room, a concentrated miasma seemed to gather itself and rise up like a wall in his path.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes watering. His first thought as he turned away and stumbled back outside was that he would have to stop calling it a living room.

Leon had always insisted it was the main salon—and what was left of Leon waited inside. In a very real sense, he would never leave again.

Owen’s second thought was lost over the rail, along with the beer and sandwiches he’d had for lunch.

* * *

Owen shook his head. None of it made any sense. But after all this time in the empty office, with nothing new happening, the sheer absurdity of the situation had risen to the fore. Given the number of people who’d gathered to watch all the excitement, what would being led away in cuffs do to his status on the docks? Would he be asked to leave the marina? Would people walk more quietly past his boat when they returned, drunk, at two in the morning? At the very least, the story ought to be worth a few beers down at Snoopy’s. If he wasn’t in jail.

By the time the office door opened, his thoughts were careening from Leon to Shadow to his missing Jeep to wondering what life in prison would be like and back to what had been left of Leon’s face. He heard himself giggle just as a heavyset dark-haired man in a gray suit let himself in. Jesus, he had to get a grip. Hysteria wasn’t going to help.

“Mr. Tremaine?” the man asked, looking at Owen oddly. “I’m Phil Gordon, a detective with the CCPD.” He pointed at the badge clipped to his belt. “I’m sorry about the cuffs. It’s a nuthouse out there, and I was on another call.”

“Sorry?” Owen tried to sit up straighter. “Does that mean you’re going to take them off?”

“Should I?” Gordon asked.

“Depends. Where’s the dog?”

“Outside. He’s fine. Looked like somebody gave him a hamburger. I hope that’s not a problem.”

Owen nodded. “Okay. I got over being mad at you guys a while ago. Now I’m just tired. But I did nothing wrong, except maybe for a phone call to you people that didn’t work out so well. I might get irritated again if somebody tries something like shutting me up in a room for two hours.” He paused. “You know what really is a problem? I need to go to the bathroom. Do you want to help me, or uncuff me, or should I just piss here on the chair?”

Gordon looked at him, appearing to come to a decision. “Tell you what. I’ll get the cuffs off, then you can go to the bathroom across the hall, maybe step out to check on the dog if you want. Then you can come back and tell me what happened. Notice I’m not saying you can tell me your story,” he said, making quoting motions in the air with his index fingers. “I’m saying you can tell me what happened. And we’ll go from there. Deal?”

Owen grinned at him. Gordon felt solid. More than the kids who’d put him in here, anyway. But getting people to trust him was part of Gordon’s job, wasn’t it? “Maybe.” He stood up and turned around, offering his wrists. “But maybe not. Do I need a lawyer for this?”

Gordon puffed out a laugh as he bent behind Owen. “What for? You weren’t even there when it happened, right?”

“Yeah.” Was he about to make a big mistake? The kind you couldn’t recover from? “Right. One thing, though—I had a date for tonight. She was supposed to show up at my boat around nine o’clock. It’s getting close to nine now. Could you tell the folks around the boat to watch out for her and tell her I’m okay? She’s about five-four, blonde, brown eyes, name’s Shawna McPhee. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Gordon answered, still busy behind Owen’s back. “I’ll let ‘em know outside.” He straightened up. “Done. See you in a few minutes.”

When Owen came back into the room, Gordon waved for him to take the big wooden chair again. Interesting. “You want me to be comfortable, right? Maybe I’ll get overconfident and say something dumb?”

Gordon shrugged. He sat in a visitor’s chair in front of the desk. “Hell, if it works I’m a genius. Also I’m not the one who just spent a couple of hours in cuffs. And I’m between you and the door. Besides, I never did like chairs that swivel around. I like a chair to stay put when I sit in it.” He gave Owen a jaundiced look. “Good enough?”

“Sure.”

“Great. So I’m gonna put this recorder right here on the desk. You want to say something you don’t want recorded, just point and I’ll shut it off. Otherwise it’s on.” Gordon hit a button and leaned back in his chair, pulling out a notepad and pen. “Oh yeah, almost forgot.” He read Owen his rights and established their identities on the tape. “So what happened?”

“I got home—I live on the boat—and found Leon. He was dead. I called the police. I got guns pointed at me. Looked like they might be about to shoot the dog, too, if he got loose. There was a lot of yelling. I got put in cuffs. Been waiting in here ever since.” Owen thought for a second. “That’s it.” Assholes.

Gordon nodded, then leaned forward. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“No, go ahead.” Worse things had happened today.

Gordon shook out a cigarette and lit it, smiling faintly. He met Owen’s eyes. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Whatever happened to your buddy Leon probably went down yesterday sometime.” He took a drag on the cigarette, tilted his head back, and blew smoke at the ceiling. His eyes returned to Owen’s. “You say you weren’t here until this afternoon. That’s fine, so you weren’t here. But you had to be someplace. If you’ll tell me where it was I can go check it out and write my report. Then I can start looking at other things, maybe figure out what happened. The way I understand it, this guy was your friend. And it happened in your house. Where you live. That’s gotta bother you some. So tell me where you were, what you were doing, who saw you. Okay? I’ll just sit here and save my questions till you’re done.”

Gordon balanced his cigarette on the corner of the desk. Ash fell to the cheap yellow carpet. He glanced at it and shrugged, seeming a little embarrassed. “Carpet’s ugly anyway.” He focused on Owen. “This would be a good time to start talking.”

Owen took a deep breath, held it for the ten seconds Shawna liked to count aloud for him when she was around, and let it out. Yeah. Gordon was right. If Owen could help, he needed to do it.

“Okay. I was out in my kayak the last two days. The first day I drifted around, not really fishing much, just trying to remember how to look at stuff around me instead of the inside of my own head. Between all the people, in those empty places, there’s a whole world out there, you know?” He shook himself. “But that’s not what you want to hear. I saw a few people, and watched some boats go by, but I didn’t talk to anybody. Or recognize anybody either.

“I stayed overnight on Mustang Island, in one of the inlets. Nobody was around. I guess I could take you and show you where it was.” Owen blinked. He had something better than that, didn’t he? “Or I could give you the GPS coordinates, because a friend gave me one and I was playing with it. Actually I have my whole route on the thing. Not a human witness, but it’s better than nothing.”

Gordon leaned forward as if he wanted to ask a question, but then settled back in his chair and waved for Owen to continue.

What had that been about? “Anyway,” Owen went on, “there wouldn’t be much to see out there, because I did my cooking on an alcohol stove and I pack out my trash on these trips. On the second day, this morning, maybe ten o’clock, I ran across a friend’s houseboat and stopped in to say hello. He fed me lunch and we got to fishing and talking. We had a few beers in there too. I started back around four o’clock so I’d have time to get here and clean up, because I had a date tonight. Did Shawna show up, by the way?”

Gordon shook his head. “Not yet. They’ll tell us when she does. Go on.”

“There isn’t much more. I got back here around six o’clock. When I went in to take a shower I saw . . .” he swallowed bile. Not again, not here, not now. “I saw Leon in the salon, with a spear going in his mouth and out the back of his head. There was blood everywhere.” He felt lightheaded. “I ran out and puked over the rail. Felt like I might pass out for a while there. Then I called you guys, and waited.”

Gordon nodded. “You didn’t call 911?”

“No. I remembered something about a city ordinance against frivolous calls. I wasn’t thinking too well, I guess. But I figured it wasn’t an emergency, because there was no way anybody could help Leon. Does it matter?”

“Nope. Only difference is the call didn’t get recorded. Sometimes people dial the regular line so we can’t prove they’re the ones who called. But it doesn’t apply here, I just wondered. So how do you know Leon?”

“We went to high school together.” It seemed to have been a lot more than ten years ago. And there wouldn’t be any more memories of him, would there? Never mind that for now; Gordon needed answers. “We weren’t all that close back then, and I hadn’t seen him for years, but there’s still a connection with people like that. I moved out to the new marina when they built it last year and decided to allow liveaboards again. Leon lived here too, so we’d get together sometimes for a beer. He taught me a lot about boats, and I’d hire him to work for me sometimes. Other people did too. I don’t know if he ever had a regular job, but he did okay.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Gordon asked.

“Private investigator.” Owen felt his face warming, and hoped Gordon wouldn’t notice. “I’ve done a lot of things, but I don’t want to do them anymore. I was an MP in the army so I could get the license without too much trouble. But I’m just starting, really.”

“PI, huh? What kind of clients you got?”

“Just a couple. A lady hired me to find her husband. It wasn’t hard. He’d run off to Dallas with another woman, I think the wife was the only one who didn’t know. And I’m waiting for a contract to show up in the mail. If it goes through I’ll be working for Wave & Surf, to figure out how they’re losing inventory. Stuff like that. Nothing exciting so far.” And within six months to a year, in spite of his savings, Owen would have to either find more clients or get what almost everybody he knew insisted on calling a real job. Unless he won the lottery. But Gordon didn’t need to hear about that.

Gordon was already unimpressed. “Anybody out there doesn’t like you? Or Leon?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, a few people probably wouldn’t mind if something happened to me, but no real enemies.” Owen hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t think Leon made enough of an impression on anyone to have an enemy. No money, either, as far as I know.”

“Okay,” Gordon said. “Now I’ll tell you what this looks like. You say you weren’t here, but you got no alibi. That GPS thing is cute, and I’ll look at it, but even if it checks out there’s no way to know for sure when you traveled that route, or if it was even you who did it, so it doesn’t do me much good. When did your friend give it to you?”

“Couple of months ago.”

“See? That’s no good. If it was a couple of days ago, and your friend swore the route wasn’t on the GPS when he gave it to you, it’d at least prove you went to some trouble. This way it means nothing. Hell, if we check into it and find something funky it might help convict you, but it won’t do much for you, because you could fake it too easy.”

Gordon paused, gave Owen a bland look. “Relax, Tremaine. I believe you. Maybe even because nobody would make up such a lame alibi. So let’s move on. You were with a friend earlier, but you haven’t given me his name. I’ll need that to check with him, but it won’t help you much either, because from the smell and the condition of the body Leon got himself killed yesterday at least. Maybe before. We’ll get that nailed down later.” He grimaced. “Personally I hafta say I wish you’d left the air conditioner on.” He eyed Owen for a moment.

Owen focused on breathing, doing his best not to react. If this didn’t end soon he might pass out after all.

“On the plus side,” Gordon went on, “you were seen paddling up to your boat and you definitely puked over the side. But you might have done that even if you knew what you were gonna find. And whoever killed Leon had to be pretty strong. That spear went right through him. You’re a big guy. Know anything about the spear?”

“It’s mine. It usually hangs on the wall.” Owen shrugged. “I like to go gigging in the Bay sometimes. You know, walk around with a flashlight after dark, looking for flounder?” It wasn’t all that different from this interview. The Bay sat quiet and still, just like this office. You never changed direction quickly when you were wading. There might be a stingray right behind your heels, hoping to eat whatever you stirred up. You didn’t want to step on it accidentally, because its stinger would go right through your foot. Or leg. You had to be sure to move in an arc, so the rays would quietly follow you around. There was no way to know when they’d punish a misstep. Gordon, with his alert eyes and conversational twists, was starting to remind Owen of the rays. He resolved to walk slowly and carefully.

“Yeah, I done that before,” Gordon said. “Not with that kind of spear, though. The one I used had little prongs on it, to hold the fish. How come yours doesn’t?”

Owen shrugged. His hands were sweating. He wiped them on his shorts. The shorts, stiff with saltwater and stinking of dead fish, felt like sandpaper. “It was at a garage sale and I liked it.”

“So anybody at all could have grabbed it off the wall?”

“Yes.”

“Supposing they were in your houseboat, anyway.”

Owen looked at him. “Well, somebody was.”

“Sure. Who was your friend today, the one you were drinking with?”

“Um. It was just a couple of beers on a Sunday afternoon. And…I can’t tell you who it was.”

“How come?” Gordon asked. He looked disillusioned. Owen thought it was a pretty good act.

But he couldn’t bring the Hermit into this. Not without a better reason than Gordon’s curiosity. “Because he doesn’t like cops. Because I’ve known him since I was twelve years old, and if I send the police out to find him he might hold it against me. And also because—as you pointed out—I went there today. Nothing happened to Leon today. So if I get charged with a crime I’ll talk to my lawyer, and maybe I’ll tell you who it was and maybe I won’t. But right now you don’t need to know.”

Even with Gordon glaring at him, Owen couldn’t think of the Hermit and his posturing without smiling a little. He suspected the local fishermen thought finding the old man in the Nameless, his ancient and cluttered houseboat, to be an omen of good luck to come. And the gifts they left—usually a few beers or some of their catch—had always struck him as being less than charitable, an oddly fearful sort of propitiation.

But Owen figured he, at least, was all grown up now and knew better than to believe any fairy tales casting the Hermit as a peculiar spirit of the Laguna Madre. Still—the Hermit was family, in a way, even if he had sent Owen off in a storm of insults a few hours ago.

Gordon pointed at the recorder. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

Owen shrugged.

“How about the dog? You take him with you on the kayak? Or was he with your friend Leon? Think he’d make a good witness?”

Damnit. “I guess you know I got him off Leon’s boat. But what was I supposed to do? I knocked on Leon’s hull to see if anybody was around—maybe I thought somebody might be there looking for him, I don’t know, I was pretty messed up—and Shadow went nuts. So I got him out. Then I called you guys.”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah, somebody saw you. I’d have to ask a lawyer to find out if what you did was legal. My guess is it wasn’t. And it sure doesn’t help me do my job when people mess with a crime scene.” He shrugged. “But if it was my buddy’s dog I’d probably get him out too. I just wondered if you’d lie about it. Did you touch anything in either boat?”

“Just the outside of the hatch on Leon’s. I would have gone in to get Shadow’s leash, but it was already clipped to his collar.”

Gordon looked interested. “Yeah? Would Leon have been likely to leave him that way?”

“I doubt it. Maybe for a few minutes. It would depend on what he was doing.”

Gordon made a note. “Okay, so we’ll check that. Maybe somebody else was seen with the dog. Maybe Leon didn’t put him in there. How about your boat? Touch anything?”

“Uh…you know about the kayak and camping stuff, I guess. I don’t really know what I touched when I was on deck. After that—well, I usually grab a rail when I climb inside. I might have touched the wall or a counter as I left. I wasn’t thinking very clearly just then.”

Gordon turned off the recorder. “Okay. I think we’re done here.”

Owen blinked at him. The rhythm of the questioning had nearly hypnotized him, and this sudden awakening was almost unwelcome. “So I can go?”

“Sure, you can go. Let me know where you’re staying and how to reach you, though. I might have more questions.”

“All right.” It sounded reasonable. Probably. Owen was still reeling. “I can do that. After I figure it out for myself.”

“I’ll get some clothes off your boat for you. It’s gonna be locked up tight for a while.” He handed Owen a card. “You can reach me any time on the cell.”

Gordon stood up, still watching Owen. Owen shrugged and walked around the desk. Gordon’s finger jabbed the recorder just as Owen reached for the door. “One more thing. What’s your connection to Viktor Bentley?”

“Viktor Bentley? I don’t…oh, Junior Bentley? Or his father, I guess. I never think of him as Viktor, but I guess I remember it now.” Owen walked back behind the desk and sat down. Here it came. The stinger.

Gordon checked his notebook. “Junior.” He sat back down too, planting himself as if he wasn’t planning to get up any time soon.

Too much history there. Gordon didn’t need all of it, especially if he was going to play games. “I used to work for him, at CyberLook. It’s a software company. But I quit a year ago.”

“Why?”

“Um, a personality conflict, maybe. Why? How’d you know there was a connection?”

“Did you talk to this Junior Bentley recently?”

“Yeah. He wanted to hire me a month ago. Not back to my old job, exactly. He just wanted me to poke around.”

“Poke around what?”

“I don’t know. Something funny going on, he said. I told him I was busy. Right after I quit, my girlfriend left me for Junior. I used to like him okay, but I didn’t want to work for him again.” Jesus, where was this going?

Gordon tapped his notebook. “Junior Bentley disappeared last night. A neighbor checked on things when she saw the front door standing open. From the blood on the floor, we figure he’s probably dead. And your girlfriend, the one you’re waiting for, that’s this same Shawna McPhee who used to date him, right?”

Owen nodded, unable to speak.

“Yeah, that’s her. We think maybe she did it. But I dunno how she could have done this thing to your buddy Leon, that took real strength, so maybe it’s not connected. Or maybe she’s got somebody working with her. Or she got dragged off by whoever got Bentley. Anyway, she’s gone too. So if you see her, you call me. Okay?”

Owen swallowed. “Shawna’s…missing?”

“Yeah.” Gordon leaned closer. “Pay attention, Tremaine, stay with me here. Right now this doesn’t look so good. There’s something between you and this McPhee woman and this guy Junior Bentley. Maybe some jealousy there, I don’t know. And Leon Purvis gets it in the face with a spear, on your boat, probably the same night somebody left blood all over Bentley’s place. His blood type, not your girlfriend’s, by the way. And you know what tops it all off?”

Owen didn’t really want to know. “What?”

“Your damned résumé. The file was open on Bentley’s computer. Right there, front and center.” Gordon slowly stubbed out his cigarette on the side of the desk. He never looked away from Owen’s face. “We looked for you late last night and again this morning, but we didn’t have a warrant to get into your boat. You say you have no idea what Bentley wanted to hire you for, a month ago.”

“Just something at CyberLook, that’s all I know. He figured we could make it look to everybody there like I was coming back to my old job, or maybe consulting. Said there was some funny stuff going on. But I turned him down before we got into the details.” Owen stopped himself. Was he babbling?

Gordon nodded. “There were files on his computer we couldn’t read. Encrypted, they tell me. You know anything about that? Or where he might keep a password?”

“Sorry, but we weren’t exactly close.”

Gordon leaned back in his chair. He gave Owen a speculative look. “You really go out fishing from that kayak? I mean, as a regular thing?”

“Yeah. It gets me away from people.” Just not far enough, sometimes. Where the hell was Shawna?

Gordon snorted. “Could do that in the big boat too. And you wouldn’t have to paddle.”

“Sure. There’s just something about moving under my own power, and camping on the beach. Sometimes you see the damnedest things out there too.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

So Gordon wanted a story now. “You know how if you catch a fish, and slap it on the water, the porpoises will come sometimes and eat it?”

“No.” Gordon looked skeptical. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen that.”

“Well, in a kayak you’re close to the water, so it’s easy. I guess it’d be a pain from a bigger boat. Anyway, this happened early on Saturday afternoon. I’d seen a porpoise jumping within the last few minutes or so, and I’d just caught a redfish too small to keep. It was pretty torn up by the time I got the hooks out, so I figured I’d give it away if I could. So there I was, slapping the fish on the water, not really expecting anything because usually nothing happens, and this big damn hammerhead shark came up from underneath the kayak and grabbed the fish.”

Owen shivered, suddenly feeling cold. His father had told him that happened when somebody stepped on your grave. He guessed he was still a little spooked. “I thought it would get my hand. I dropped the fish and jerked back, and the hammerhead took it, and I just sat there for fifteen minutes, too scared to move. The thing must have been about eight feet long, and I’d had no idea it was anywhere near me. I guess they’re always around, but you don’t think about ‘em much, and it shook me. Anyway, I’m not saying I want to repeat that particular experience, but things happen out there. I want to see them.”

“Huh.” Gordon turned the recorder off again. “Hell of a story.” He regarded Owen for a moment.

Owen looked back at him. There had been something unnatural about that shark’s grab for his hand. He’d had a sense of…malevolence. He was certain it had only taken the fish because he’d moved his hand in time. And he’d never heard of a hammerhead doing that before. Could a shark be rabid, or did they get some similar disease? He didn’t understand what had happened—but he also didn’t care whether Gordon believed him. Gordon had asked; Owen had answered.

“I’m going to let you go,” Gordon said finally. He took in Owen’s appearance and almost smiled. “Your boat’s a crime scene, so I hafta ask you not to go back to it without checking with me first. Same for Leon’s. I’ll bring those clothes to you here.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “We probably have enough to hold you on. But the thing is, personally I believe you. And I don’t think holding innocent people is a good policy. Still. You’re mixed up in something pretty nasty, even if you don’t know what it is. So don’t forget—stay in touch, I might need to talk to you. And be careful. Very careful. Okay?”

“Sure.” Owen was startled by the sudden reprieve. He’d been half-expecting Gordon to arrest him. “Uh…the dog?”

“You want him? I figure you went to some trouble for him already. So I can’t tell you it’s okay to take him with you, but I ain’t watching that closely either. Your buddy’s parents will probably show up eventually. Work it out with them.”

Gordon left.

Owen followed him outside, hoping nobody would notice his wobbly knees. In spite of everything that had happened, the night air seemed sweeter than usual, more potent somehow.

He walked Shadow for over an hour, hoping they’d both be able to sleep if they could manage total exhaustion. It wasn’t until he picked up his bundle of clothes to get into a cab that he remembered he hadn’t told Gordon about the missing Jeep.

—————————————————————

The first chapter of the book can be found here, and if you want to read the whole thing at once you can find buy-now links here.

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Have a good day out there.

Here we are with Chapter Two of Shiver on the Sky. (If you missed it, Chapter One is here).

I kind of love this chapter more than most even though I did decide not to use the word “gloaming”…but don’t tell any of my other chapters; I don’t want to upset them.

The thing is, I’m introducing a very bad guy here. I really wanted this to be disturbing.

On the bright side, one of the few rewrite requests I got from an editor at Baen, back when I thought they might publish this book, was to tone it down a bit. And some of my friends, who know me from non-writing activities, have seemed…put off? Which I view as a form of applause.

Unfortunately I haven’t yet received any coldly angry 1-star reviews for the book as a result of either the chapter or the subplot it introduces. Which means I probably need to try harder next time.

Though it’s still possible that at least a few readers become ex-readers when they encounter it. I hope so, anyway. Not that I want readers to go away, but–hey, I still think I did a pretty good job with the thing, and if so it ought to offend somebody. Don’t you think? If it’s just sort of there and nobody cares what happens next…well. Not good for me, is it?

Maybe you’ll just have to judge for yourself. On, once again, with the show!

Chapter Two

(One Day Earlier—Hunter)

The hunter found her on Saturday night, at the downtown Whataburger between Water Street and North Shoreline Boulevard.

He’d always wanted to hunt there, but busy streets and bright lights in the parking lot had made it impractical. Tonight, though, he noticed all but one of the lights were out—and road construction had shut down traffic on Water Street. He pulled in to see what would be offered to him.

Corpus Christi, Texas was the home of Whataburger, and the downtown restaurant was huge. Two stories, a deck, kids going everywhere. It felt wrong to him, letting kids run wild like that. But maybe their parents were blind to the nature of the world, or their families’ rightful place in it.

When he saw her he already knew it would go perfectly. Past sunset, the sky going blue-black, the city lights brightening, the dead-fish ocean smell blowing in from the Bay…dwindling twilight was his domain. He glanced slyly at the well-lit building across Water Street from the restaurant, almost wishing someone would come out and try to stop him. But that was mere fantasy. Between the darkness and the construction signs, he wouldn’t even be seen.

She looked to be about ten years old, with long blonde hair and an energetic stomping sort of walk. Blue and white dress, white stockings, dark blue shoes. Or so he guessed. He couldn’t actually see her shoes from the parking lot. But he was sure they would be right. She was that kind of person.

Her parents looked like tourists, if they were her parents. She didn’t seem to fit them, somehow. Her father sported a mostly-red Hawaiian shirt with olive-green nylon shorts, possibly a swimsuit, definitely due for a wash. Her mother wore old jeans and a faded orange T-shirt. But the girl appeared ready for church on Sunday. She was sharper, more in focus, a higher order of being. Did they know she didn’t really belong to them?

He was sitting in his van wondering how he would get to her when she solved the problem for him. He watched her argue with a younger boy (her brother?) and stomp back to her parents with an air of setting things right. He lost sight of her for a few moments, and was thinking about going inside—though he knew better and would never have actually done it—when he felt an almost electric tingle at the base of his spine and realized she was outside the restaurant, with a set of keys in her hand, heading toward his corner of the parking lot. He supposed he wasn’t surprised.

As she passed, he got out of the van. He left the engine running and followed her back toward Water Street. She stomped along, intent on her mission.

“Susie?” he called. She reminded him of a girl he’d known when he was about her age. What was her name? Albright, that was it. What the hell. “Susie Albright?”

She stumbled, but kept going without looking back.

Time to invoke authority. “Come on Suze, I have something for your mom,” he called. “Hold up a sec!”

She turned around. “I’m not Susie,” she said. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “My name’s Katie.”

That’s it, he told her directly, without speaking. He was sure she could hear him. Stay put, now. Keep talking. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Susie’s my horse, you see, and she’s always wandering off in parking lots. I think maybe she wants to be a car.”

The girl looked amused. Or maybe a little irritated. Maybe both. “I’m supposed to look like a horse? Nice story, I guess. What do you want?”

Could she be older than she first appeared? It didn’t matter; he was almost there. “Actually Susie’s my niece, and she looks a lot like you. I have something I was going to give her mom, and I thought you were her.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll give it to you anyway. Do you like chocolate?”

“Um . . .” She glanced toward the Whataburger behind him and took a half-step away. “I’m not supposed to take stuff from strangers.”

Of course she wasn’t. And yes, she was too old for candy to work. But she was beautiful. Dark blue eyes, the color of the sea. Perfect. She belonged in the deeper waters, away from sandbars and shallow folk. In his world, dark and quiet and still.

“Well, okay, I can find a different horse then.” Oh, she would be so good.

She rolled her eyes. “Enough with the horse thing, okay? It was funny the first time, but not anymore.” She turned and walked away.

“Horses don’t eat chocolate anyway,” he said, following her. “So I guess it’s for me.”

A car pulled into the lot behind him and he froze. He cocked his head, listening, but it went past him and parked on the far side of the lot, under the single working light. It disturbed a group of seagulls, which squawked and flew into the air.

He smiled at the driver when she got out, though he didn’t think she could really see him. He was just a shape in the dark. Most likely she wouldn’t have looked directly at him anyway. She’d probably heard that eye contact was dangerous—they taught that sort of thing in self-defense classes. And of course she’d parked under the light. Good for her. Safety was important.

He turned back to the girl. She’d picked up speed, circling around to the right. She didn’t know where her car was. “Hey, what if you took the chocolate inside and asked your mom if it was okay?” He angled to cut her off. It was almost time. She stopped between two SUV’s and peered back at him. About to bolt, maybe.

He glanced around. No witnesses except for the lady who’d parked under the light, and she was almost inside. He reached out with a foil-wrapped package.

Seagulls screeched and flew nearer to investigate. No, birdies, none for you. Impatience filled him with the power he needed. Come on, you little bitch. Just a couple of feet closer.

She looked past him, toward her parents. “I can’t. I have to go.” She turned away, hesitated for a moment, then headed farther from the restaurant.

Okay. That hesitation was a sign. She clearly wanted him to take her.

He stood between her and her parents. The potential witness had gone inside, and there was nobody else around. But that could change at any moment. Time. Go for it.

He ran after her.

His feet scraped on the sandy asphalt and she glanced back over her shoulder. She spun and threw the keys at his face, looking more angry than frightened. When he reached up to block them, she took off at an angle toward the light and the restaurant beyond, dodging between cars so he couldn’t cut her off.

He laughed as he ran. He’d known she was special. But she was just a kid, and gawky, and he would catch her.

She tripped as she jumped over a curb. He dove onto her sprawling body, pinning her down, and covered her mouth with his left hand. He’d scraped it as he landed, and her eyes widened with the taste of his blood.

But she was still a fighter. Even as he brought a rag out of his pocket with his other hand, she bit him, hard. More blood flowed into her mouth. He panted with laughter, excited by the game. He knew she wanted to be with him, or would want it later, when she understood. The same thing, really.

She struggled briefly, but passed out soon after he covered her mouth and nose with the sweet-smelling cloth. She was perfect, he knew. Perfect. She’d never shown any fear at all. He picked her up, filled with compassionate joy by her potential, and carried her back to his van.

As the van moved slowly out of the parking lot, a seagull swooped down to grab the foil-wrapped chocolate he’d dropped on the asphalt. Another flew to contest it. More gulls appeared, summoned by the noise and activity…or, he supposed, just possibly they were created by it. He wasn’t going to rule it out. The night was magical, and so was he, and so was his prize.

Taking her, having her, wasn’t really the point this time. It was part of a larger plan. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play with her. He shivered all over, rubbing his arms gently, then put both hands on the wheel as he turned toward the Crosstown Expressway.

In the parking lot across Water Street from Corpus Christi Police Headquarters, the only sounds were the ticking of a cooling engine, tucked away safely under a light, and the discordant screaming of gulls.

—————————————————————

The first chapter of the book can be found here, and if you want to read the whole thing at once you can find buy-now links here.

Boilerplate follows:

My books are not in stores, so the only way anybody hears about them is online. If I’ve entertained you sufficiently, and if you can spare the time, please consider posting a review. Even a line or two, if posted to Amazon or Goodreads, can make a big difference to me. And I’ll appreciate the heck out of it.

Also, if you’d like to be among the first folks notified of new releases regardless of where they’re sold, you can sign up to my mailing list here. I send email only when I have a new release, and I won’t sell or give away your email address.

Have a good day out there.

Well, here we are. Whatever that means.

I really like the idea of putting an entire novel up on the site for free, one chapter a week. I started that with Pagan Sex a while back, then decided to make it available exclusively on Amazon–so that didn’t work out. And I’m tempted to do it with Shiver on the Sky, but…well, at some point in the future Shiver will probably be free on all sites. Might be after I have the sequel out, or after I have a couple of sequels out. We’ll see.

What I’d really like to do is write a serial novel just for Wacky Wednesdays. I’d definitely go for that if I had more readers here. Most of my blog posts are read by fewer than 100 people, though, so it’s probably not a great idea. (Yet?)

So…here’s the first chapter of Shiver on the Sky. I’ll keep going with this, with perhaps an occasional dive into something else, until either (a) the book is free anyway, or (b) I get to the end.

Got a better idea, or even a different idea? Suggestions on content are always welcome.

On with the show!

—————————————————————

Chapter One

(Sunday Afternoon—Owen)

Shadow quit struggling when they got past the boat. Owen set him back down on the dock, nearly tripping himself over somebody’s bait bucket.

He braced on one knee and scratched Leon’s dog behind the ears. Once they were past the worst of it, he figured seventy pounds of muscle and bone, split about equally between Black Lab and Great Dane, ought to be able to walk on its own.

But he didn’t blame Shadow for balking earlier—Owen half-longed to plant himself on the concrete and whimper right alongside him. If he could just get a little more distance first.

The smell ought to have faded by now. He stood, inhaling a warm soup of Texas Gulf Coast humidity, diesel exhaust and the almost-visible stink of rotting fish. Anything beyond that, this far from the boat, had to be a memory…stuck in his nose. He tried breathing through his mouth instead.

It didn’t help. It just reminded him that his mouth still tasted vile, and his teeth felt fuzzy under his tongue.

But the marina was full of people going about their business as if they didn’t notice a thing. Owen practiced forcing himself to breathe normally until he was fairly sure he wouldn’t pass out, then twitched Shadow’s leash. He led the dog down the dock, up the ramp and across the parking lot, unable to meet the eyes of anyone he passed. Shadow bumped into his legs all the way.

He hooked the leash over a post of the Coast Guard’s “Kids Don’t Float!” sign next to the payphone, for once barely registering the slogan’s enthusiastic nonsense. Shadow sat on his feet.

Owen wiped at his face with his T-shirt, but the sweat kept dripping. The shirt was too stiff with dried saltwater to help much. He found the police non-emergency number and dialed. His knees shook and he pulled over a cheap plastic chair.

“CCPDmayIhelpyou?”

He almost smiled, and something in his chest opened. He forgot about sitting down. She sounded so bored. Efficient, too. She probably sat at a clean desk, in a cubicle in an air-conditioned building, living in a chill world where phone calls were dull. He wanted to kiss her. “This is Owen, uh, Tremaine. There’s a—”

“Sirhowdoyouspell ‘Tremaine’?”

“T-r-e-maine, like the state. Look, there’s a dead body on my boat.” He closed his eyes, wishing his memory of Leon’s face would subside, and feeling guilty that he wanted it to. “No way it was an accident. Somebody killed him. I’m at—”

“Sir, what is your location?” She sounded more alert. But what did she think he’d been about to tell her? So much for efficiency.

Owen sensed bureaucratic machinery jerking into motion on the other end of the line, and sighed. The official wheels, once started, would grind in their own way, however disconnected they might become from any reality he could grasp. He reached down to pet Shadow, who licked his fingers gratefully. God, he wished he could get back into his kayak and paddle away from all this. Out in the Laguna Madre, he could go for days without talking to anybody.

But Leon deserved more than that. “Ma’am, please just be quiet for a minute and listen to me. I’m at the Corpus Christi City Marina, the new one, on Ocean Drive. Slip 35, on the first finger to the left as you walk out. The dead man is Leon Purvis. He has a—”

“Sir, I have to ask this. Do you feel you are in immediate danger?”

He hadn’t even thought of that. Should he have? If this had happened to Leon, somebody must have been responsible. Who? Why? Was whoever had done it still here? “Uh, maybe. I mean, I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I’m not on the boat, and from…from the condition of the body I don’t think anything happened today.”

“Sir, I’m dispatching a cruiser and an ambulance.” She sounded doubtful. “They should be there shortly. Please stay on the line. Do you have a driver’s license number or state ID?”

Machinery in motion. The conversation suddenly seemed hazy and meaningless, her now-skeptical voice nothing more than a bland echo. What was the point? He’d have to go through it all again when the cops showed up in person.

He should get himself together before they did. Besides, Shadow really needed to go for a little walk. No telling how long he’d been shut up in there. The poor guy was probably hungry and thirsty too.

So Leon’s dog would trump bureaucratic gibberish, for now at least. “Ma’am, I think we’re done. I’ll be waiting out by my boat. It’s the Fusty Navel, slip 35.”

“SirIneedto—”

Owen hung up, feeling a little better. Irritation and defiance had restored his strength. He led Shadow out of the parking lot and down the street, tempted as he went to just keep going and never look back. Who would it hurt?

But…no. The police would probably react badly if he wasn’t there. Not that it would be much better if he stuck around.

Still, he wasn’t staying on the boat tonight even if the police allowed it. Leon’s little cabin cruiser wouldn’t be available this time either. Maybe he could get a hotel room, if he could find a place that didn’t mind dogs.

He thought of Shawna, but she’d moved into an efficiency apartment. He and Shadow wouldn’t be able to breathe. And Shawna had a huge, spoiled, declawed Siamese. Owen didn’t want to strain their relationship just when it had started to work again.

But he needed to call her anyway, to break their date for tonight. She’d understand, under the circumstances. At least he hoped she would.

Shadow took care of some urgent business on the sidewalk. Owen cleaned it up with a baggie he’d grabbed from a dispenser in the parking lot, then turned back toward the payphone.

He raised his eyebrows. A police car had already pulled into the lot. So the waiting was over before it had really begun. They must have been pretty close when they got the call—but then, their headquarters building was only a few blocks away.

Two uniformed officers got out and headed down the ramp to the dock. They looked like kids. Just out of high school, maybe. Though they had to be older than that, didn’t they? Even from fifty yards away, they seemed awkward—out of their element, and a little scared.

Owen pulled Shadow into a jog. Calling Shawna could wait. He didn’t want the police on his boat before he talked to them. He tossed the baggie in some bushes as he ran, promising himself he’d pick it up later.

At the bottom of the ramp Shadow started whining again. Owen knelt to fasten his leash to a post about thirty yards short of the Fusty Navel.

The officers stood next to the boat, looking around nervously. Owen decided to walk the rest of the way, rather than come up to them at a run. They had enough on their minds.

He waved to get their attention.

They started toward him. One of them, the larger, hung back about twenty feet. The other kept coming. His youthful eyeless gaze pinned Owen in place, his mirrored shades reflecting defeat and impotence. “You Tremaine?” the officer asked from ten feet away.

“Yeah. The guy in there is Leon Purvis. He’s a friend of mine.” Owen winced. Part of him apparently still thought it would all be okay, that if he did everything right somebody would somehow push an “undo death” button and reverse the last hour—but it had been longer than that for Leon, hadn’t it. He supposed it came from spending too much time working with computers, solving problems in artificial jurisdictions where anything could be fixed. He tried again. “Was a friend of mine.”

The cop nodded. “You guys get in a little tussle? Been drinking maybe?” He stepped forward, arms up, ready for a fight. “Okay, what I need you to do now is turn around and put your hands on your head. Don’t argue with me, just do it.”

Owen stared, flatfooted. “Hey. Wait a second. I wasn’t even around when it happened. I just got here half an hour ago. I called you guys.”

“Don’t argue!” the cop shouted. “Turn around and put your hands on your head!” His partner drew his gun and moved closer. Suddenly they were both yelling.

Shadow jumped up and barked loudly, startling the nearer cop, who backed three quick steps away from Owen and dropped his right hand to his gun. Shadow growled and jumped again, trying to get loose.

“Okay! Fine! I’m turning around!” Owen stumbled over his own feet, trying to watch both Shadow and the cops, and nearly fell. If Shadow backed up instead of pulling forward, the collar might slip right over his head.

Owen raised his hands. “Look,” he said over his shoulder, trying to sound calm for the dog’s sake, “I’m doing what you said. But I called you, and then I waited for you. Why the hell are you acting like this?” It was one thing to be a suspect; he’d expected that. But to have a gun pointed at him just for calling the police . . .?

“Stand still,” the smaller cop said. He frisked Owen quickly, then cuffed his hands behind his back. “Ramirez!” he called. “Take this guy over there a few feet and stay with him. I’ll check out the boat.” He turned and gingerly stepped up onto the houseboat’s aft deck, pulling himself aboard with a stanchion. “Jesus, it’s gotta stink to hell in there, it’s clogging up my throat from here.”

Owen stood on the dock, left wrist pinched by the cuff. His legs shook, a little. What was he missing? Were these guys nuts? Or just young and dumb?

“Sit down over there,” Ramirez said. “We aren’t going anyplace for a while.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and read the Miranda warning. “Do you understand these rights?” When Owen nodded, Ramirez put the card away and jerked a thumb toward the Fusty Navel. “Anything missing inside? Anything you want to tell me about before we find it in there?”

Owen was busy doing his best to sit down without falling over. Funny how much he missed his arms for balance. Normally he didn’t notice using them.

He’d delayed his answer long enough to make Ramirez’s face redden. He spoke up just as Ramirez’s mouth opened again. “I didn’t see anything missing. But I was only inside for a few seconds.” He squirmed on the concrete, trying to get more comfortable. Why bother with these guys? They didn’t seem to speak the same language. “As for the rest, you can just see it for yourselves. I already tried talking to you.”

Come to think of it, they weren’t detectives, and Owen was pretty sure they shouldn’t be messing with the interior of the houseboat. “Let me know when somebody a little brighter shows up.”

A passing woman with a young girl in tow held her close, keeping her well away from Owen as they went by. Ramirez wiped sweat from his forehead and watched them walk toward the ramp. “That your dog down there? He acts like it.”

Shadow had stopped trying to get free, but stared intently at Ramirez, his teeth showing. He let out a low growl. The woman and child gave him an even wider berth.

Owen looked past Ramirez, watching a seagull dive into the water. He didn’t answer. Was Shadow his dog now? If not, whose?

Ramirez nodded. “Better hope he doesn’t bite anybody.”

He hadn’t yet. Owen had never seen Shadow even growl at anyone before, except in play.

Ramirez kept talking. “So, has he had his shots? You got him licensed? I don’t see any tags on him. There’s a law, you know.”

Never mind the dog—Owen’s teeth ached to sink into Ramirez themselves. He looked up. “That’s what’s on your mind right now? Tags?”

Ramirez flushed. Maybe he’d been trying to build pressure, maybe threaten Owen with a fifty-dollar fine if he couldn’t produce the tags? He really was just a kid. Though he couldn’t be more than a few years younger than Owen, in spite of appearances.

If these guys did anything to Shadow, they’d pay for it. One of Owen’s friends was a columnist for the Caller-Times. And he liked dogs.

Owen went back to watching the seagull.

“Jesus fuck!” the other cop yelled from inside Owen’s boat. “He’s got a damn spear through his head!”

Ramirez backed up a step, then remembered to close his mouth. Owen gave him an awkward shrug and tried to make eye contact. “So now what?”

Ramirez shook his head slightly, but said nothing.

Yeah, Owen thought. They teach you about that in cop school last month?

God. Who had done this? And why? He was losing faith that the police would figure it out.

Owen leaned back on a post, trying to relax. Shadow was lying down. Good. They might be in for a long wait.

—————————————————————

Boilerplate follows:

My books are not in stores, so the only way anybody hears about them is online. If I’ve entertained you sufficiently, and if you can spare the time, please consider posting a review. Even a line or two, if posted to Amazon or Goodreads, can make a big difference to me. And I’ll appreciate the heck out of it.

Also, if you’d like to be among the first folks notified of new releases regardless of where they’re sold, you can sign up to my mailing list here. I send email only when I have a new release, and I won’t sell or give away your email address.

Have a good day out there.

Two things today: a free version of Hard Roads, a story that’s never been independently published (though it is included in my September collection), and…

Were you enjoying the excerpts from Pagan Sex? Did you want them to continue? Well, here’s a treat: the entire novel should be free for five days, starting today, on all Amazon sites. Here are the links:

If you can tell your friends about this without feeling embarrassed, please do so. If you can’t, just remember I’m laughing maniacally somewhere offstage. Just sayin’.

On with the show! Here’s today’s Wacky Wednesday freebie (if I got the timezone settings right, ’cause I’m actually posting this on Saturday):

——————————————–

Hard Roads

(Author’s note: The “voice” in this mostly comes from a little town called Bonham, TX. I spent a lot of time there when I was a kid. And then I lived there for a couple of years recently.)

Up on the expressway, the trucks roared through my dreams.

I don’t know. It might have turned out different if we’d had air conditioning back then. The way it was, most summers starting when I was nine, after dark I’d lie there in my room upstairs and sweat and hear the cicadas a-chorusing out the window and sometimes there’d be a cricket inside but I hardly ever found one of them. I’d feel the night all itchy on my arms and sides and I even tried sleeping naked but just couldn’t get arranged, and the air was so darn still but I knew the trucks were moving. If they weren’t moving any particular moment it was because they were getting ready to go, getting loaded up or fueled, and if it wasn’t that it was because the drivers were weak or the laws interfered.

But my Daddy wasn’t weak. Nobody ever tried to say that.

Anyway, that was life in Georgia for us. Mother did the best she could, nobody could fault her for cleaning and cooking and stretching three nickels’ worth out of a dime. Well, one time she went and showed little Dustin about how to read when he was just eight, even though Daddy said it was the school’s job, and Daddy had to teach her a lesson but it took pretty good and there wasn’t no more of that. Hell I couldn’t read then when I was twelve and I don’t do so well now either but I can get by on the roads and that’s enough for me.

Dustin was a good kid mostly. Not big like me, and sometimes he talked funny and Daddy tried to teach him to act right, like a man. Dustin left when he was fourteen. Said he’d go to Hollywood and send me a postcard when he was famous, but you know he never did. He could write real good too. I was sad I never got it.

I always knew I’d drive a truck like Daddy. Always knew I’d find little Dustin somewheres too, but I guess not just yet. Boy, you should have heard Daddy the day I got my commercial license, that was in Texas by then though and Mother was gone two years already because of the cancer.

“Hey boy,” he said. “You gonna support me in my old age?”

“Heck no,” I told him like he wanted. “You ain’t old, and if you was I’d just drive over you. Be a mercy for the sake of the Lord.”

He nodded. “Don’t forget, now.”

Well I didn’t.

So I drove a truck and me and Daddy helped feed the whole world, and bring gas so other people could drive to work and mow their lawns and use chainsaws for firewood. There was no end to the good we did. We carried everything everywhere, and half the time I think somebody or other needed it. If you ask me that’s a better percentage than a doctor or a lawyer gets for what he does. It was good being partners for as long as we were.

Then last year I got a new partner, a guy who owned his own rig but had two other guys driving it and paying him for the privilege. Well that was a darn good idea and a lot of drivers worked it just that way if they could and some of them figured they would eventually get rich but I wasn’t made for that. My truck was my home, and also I didn’t know if anyone else could keep it running like Daddy taught me.

I didn’t name the truck, though, like Lucy or Amber or one guy named his Madonna but we all thought that was dumb. My new partner, who his name was Dave, he started in wanting me to name it at first but I think he was just trying to find something to talk about because he got bored from time to time. I had to tell him you couldn’t count on seeing what was going on around you if you didn’t hold your mouth right, like Daddy told me only once but I understood him just fine. So Dave got some books to read and some music and some audio books. I thought maybe listening to the audio books might be as bad as talking, but he’d been so understanding I figured I sort of owed it to him to let him alone about that. Also it made the days go by better, because they was some good stories.

Some days were easy and some just stretched out forever like they’d end just as soon as the interstate did and not one bit before, with nothing going right, but the important part was the truck kept moving pretty good as a usual thing. Even when the laws made us hole up someplace because of too much driving all at once I could hear the other rigs going by and know I was part of something big and powerful. Besides, we kept more than one log book to show at weigh stations and lied a little too, which is easier for independents like us but anyway it was in a good cause because what we did was important.

Then Dave’s truck got stolen by California, which was something I never heard tell of before.

These two drivers who had his truck, I disremember their names, anyway they pulled off to sleep at a place they shouldn’t ought to have, and parked Dave’s truck next to a warehouse with a guard they knew. But a bunch of kids was using the place for some kind of dance thing that night, and the police raided it, and the drivers had an underage girl with them in the truck.

Now don’t get me wrong. Nothing happened to that girl. And she eventually admitted it too, but the cops were mad just the same because one of the guys—that’s right, his name was Andy—anyway Andy broke a cop’s arm with the truck’s door, all hurried-like, when the cop was trying to pull that little girl out of there. Well of course the cop had been undercover and wasn’t wearing no uniform, and that girl, she was screaming like to wake the dead, so how was Andy gonna know what was happening? But that made no nevermind, the cops still got riled up and decided the truck had just maybe been used to bring in drugs for the kids, so they took it. Even though it wasn’t Andy’s.

It beat all I ever heard. But Dave said there was no way to get his truck back, because he’d have to put up a chunk of its value to go to court, and then he’d have to prove it never had drugs in it, and how would he do that? So the truck was gone.

“You know what they took?” Dave asked me after he got done telling me about what his lawyer told him. “That was the tuition money for my daughters. I spent fifteen years driving to get that truck paid for, and I was about to get another rig too in a couple of years, but now I’m back to where I was, and how am I supposed to explain it to my kids?”

Well I didn’t know. But it bothered me. “Just what,” I asked him, “are the cops fixing to do with that rig anyhow? Haul prisoners around? Doughnuts maybe?”

“They’ll sell it, I guess. Hey, you know what else? I just thought of something. My oldest girl was planning to go to UCLA next year, as a non-resident of California, and it was going to cost an arm and a leg. So if she can’t do it, well hell, at least it’s partly their own money they took from me.”

That was Dave. Always thinking things out. But it still didn’t sit right with me.

Dave was hurting, and so was his family, and I had some extra money saved up. So we found that lawyer again and started us up a partnership, and went in halfsies on another truck. We thought we might buy his old rig back, because at least he knew what-all was wrong with it, but California sold it for scrap to a company that did nothing but destroy big rigs. Now who would have thought they’d have one of those? It didn’t seem decent.

We did okay with the new rig and some new drivers, I thought, but Dave was used to better money coming in, and he’d fret about it. He started talking about how he might as well carry drugs, or guns maybe, and make the money he lost back plus a little interest. But that kind of crazy talk didn’t help us one bit.

He kept up with it, though, and it got real uncomfortable riding with him. I thought about splitting up, one of the guys we’d hired riding with me and the other with him in our new truck, but it didn’t seem like a good idea.

Finally I took him to see my Daddy. Daddy lived with a younger woman he’d met just before he quit driving. I hadn’t been to see him since he told me he was quitting, but I figured he could work it all out for us if we just gave him half a chance.

The woman wasn’t home, which was probably for the best. Daddy was glad to see me, and said he was willing to talk the situation over with us. Dave didn’t pay much attention to him, though. He spoke real loud even though Daddy could hear just fine, and once we got there he wouldn’t even discuss drugs or guns.

Well, that was jim-dandy. I didn’t want to hear any more about them anyway. The next thing I did was, I took the big wrench I kept behind the seat and bashed in the back of Dave’s head real quick so he wouldn’t suffer none. I felt bad about it but he didn’t leave me no choice.

The way that boy was going, sooner or later the cops would take another truck off of him, and it might be mine they got next. And it purely looked like the truck would get broken up, too. They really hadn’t ought to do that, but things are what they are and all you can do sometimes is get by as best you can.

Daddy didn’t quite see what I was up to at first, but that was okay. I showed him where Dave had kept a little gun handy, then when it looked like Daddy was beginning to catch on to how I was fixin’ to make it all right I took the gun out and shot him. Then I got Daddy’s fingerprints on my wrench, took him out in the woods and buried him.

There was lots of fussing for a while, but in the end it looked like Daddy killed Dave and ran, just like I told the police must’ve happened. Crazy old coot probably thought he was doing me a favor, but it wasn’t like I asked him to, now was it, is what I said.

Dave and me had insurance, so I got the loan on the new truck paid off right away. Also it was the kind of deal where if one partner died, the whole thing belonged to the other one. Kind of tough on Dave’s wife and kids, but what did they know about trucks? And I was done having partners.

As for Daddy, well, if he hadn’t been so old I couldn’t have done it to him. He was a big, strong, smart man once. We used to move darn near anything all the way across the country.

The main thing is, the truck is supposed to move. And I figure that means we are too. I’d say I helped him move on in pretty much the only way he truly had left in him. It was just like we used to say, a mercy for the sake of the Lord.

But I don’t know. What am I gonna do with two trucks? I need to find a good solid driver to ride with me, some guy who knows about this world and how it’s supposed to work. I purely wish I could find little Dustin and offer him a job now he’s all growed up. I believe he would understand it all right.

Because, like Daddy always said, the work we do?

It’s important.

There’s people out there counting on us. And them trucks is supposed to move.

——————————————-

Want more stories? Try  What Happens in September… for this and six others.

Remember: my books are not in stores, so the only way anybody hears about them is online. If I’ve entertained you sufficiently, and if you can spare the time, please consider posting a review. Even a line or two, if posted to Amazon or Goodreads, can make a big difference to me. And I’ll appreciate the heck out of it.

Also, if you’d like to be among the first folks notified of new releases, you can sign up to my mailing list here. I send email only when I have a new release, and I won’t sell or give away your email address.

Have a good day out there.

Okay, I owe you guys an explanation–Wacky Wednesday will continue, but this is probably the last excerpt from Pagan Sex for a few months (even though I really love all the Google search traffic I get for that phrase).

I’m actually removing PS from most online stores. For a few months, it’ll be available only on Amazon. It’s a little counter-intuitive, ’cause it’s actually been selling better on both Barnes & Noble and Google Play than on Amazon…but I’m going to take advantage of some promotional opportunities at Amazon that require exclusivity.

Basically: I like this book. I think it should get in front of as many readers as possible. And my blog doesn’t compete well with Amazon.com, so….there it is. Plus, I have a sneaking suspicion that more people will download a book with this sort of title than will tell their friends about it! So, it can be an ad for my other stuff. Sorta.

And I’ll be working on my blurb too.

I’m not sure what I’ll go with next week. If you have a preference or a suggestion, let me know.

Anyway. We began with the Prologue a couple of weeks ago, which you can find here. Otherwise? On to the free stuff!

—————————————-

Chapter Two (John)

“Hey, Zack,” I said as I walked into my bookstore to help him close up. “Any problems this afternoon?”

Zack didn’t bother to look up from the book he was reading. “Shoplifting. But I figure justice was done.”

Mrs. Knebel, who came into the shop at least once a week, cackled from my ‘UFOs—Are They Really Here?’ section. “Kinder to call the police, Mr. Faa, if you’d like my opinion of the matter!”

Zack glanced over his shoulder. “Shut up, you mean old lady!”

She tittered. I don’t know what else to call the sound. I also don’t know how Zack can insult everyone in the store and manage to make them like it. But it works, so I don’t mess with it.

“Okay,” I said. “Shoplifting. Who took what?”

“Couple of kids came in together. One of ’em took a Heinlein juvenile. Rocket Ship Galileo, I think.”

“So where’d the justice come in?”

He slammed his book shut in exasperation. “Jesus, John. A Heinlein? That kid’s gonna get more moralizing from the book he stole than I could ever dump on him. Besides,” he went on, “it’s not my money. I’m paid by the hour. Barely.”

Whoops, bad mistake. Especially with a customer listening in. As Zack’s employer, I had to enforce certain standards. “Lookit, twerp. Heinlein’s books are pretty damned good. I grew up on those things.”

“Uh huh. Find us a new home yet?”

“Nope.” My new and used bookstore—A Criminous Exchange—was due to lose its lease in three months. The owner had already sold the building to a company that planned to tear it down, so there wasn’t much room for negotiation.

“You suck, boss. Three months isn’t a lot of time.”

Mrs. Knebel came up to the register with her books just then, so I didn’t bother to answer. It was true, though.

And my son came in, slamming the door. “Sorry, Da—uh, John. Hey, Zack. Hi, Mrs. Knebel. How are your cats today?”

Jesus, what a charmer. Fourteen years old, about a hundred pounds, and every ounce was pure evil. He had her smiling and offering him candy from her purse in fifteen seconds flat. While he simultaneously texted some probably-misspelled nonsense to a random friend on the iPhone I’d bought him for his birthday.

If my multitasking kid worked in the store? We’d be rich. I didn’t know why he’d switched to “John” from “Dad,” though. The change was only a week old, and so far I was officially failing to notice.

I slapped the top of his head after she left. “One day some nice old lady will feed you poison, kid.”

“Never happen,” he mumbled, still looking at his phone. “It’s the girls my age who hate me.”

I doubted that, but it was okay with me if it was true. As a single parent, I had enough trouble already. I was pretty sure the next few years were going to be interesting, in the sense of the Chinese curse. “So how come you’re here instead of home?”

“Well…I took a bus. You know how Coach Watson asked me about the wrestling team?”

“’Course I remember. I’m not senile yet.”

He ignored that, probably because he didn’t agree. “I figured I’d try out next year. So, are you going to the gym tonight?”

Brian was born with a deformed left foot. He walked okay, but he couldn’t run very well, and he usually didn’t like to let people see the foot. I’d have to make a point of thanking Coach Watson for whatever he’d said.

“Of course I’m going. So you’re gonna come along?”

“Just for the summer. If that’s okay, John.”

It was kind of funny watching him pretend calling me “John” was normal. Zack’s eyebrow rose, but I shook my head when Brian was looking the other way, and Zack caught on. Nothing going on here.

“’Kay with me.” I grinned. “Since you’re here, you can help us move stuff around for tomorrow’s signing. Build up those muscles doing something useful.”

* * *

At the gym I left Brian to the weights and headed for the elliptical trainer. I used to run, but I tweaked my left knee a couple of years ago and these days I can’t go more than a couple of miles without pain.

It was getting better, though, and I hadn’t given up hope for a full recovery. I missed running the roads, especially at night.

This gym belonged to a friend of mine, and had two additional advantages: no television and no obtrusive music. I liked to think my own thoughts, especially when an endorphin rush made the world a bearable place to live, and as long as I didn’t put on a headset I could do just that.

Brian finished long before I did—he didn’t know how to pace himself yet, but advice from me was not wanted—and waved to me as he headed for the locker room. I knew he’d just sit in the sauna as long as I let him, so I didn’t rush.

When I finally got my shower, I decided to relax in the hot tub for a while. It usually helped keep me from getting too sore.

But when I got to the edge of the hot tub my eyes leapt to the man already in it. Andrew?

I hadn’t seen him for fifteen years—but he’d died that night. The same night I’d lost Jeanette.

This guy looked just like him, though. I opened my mouth to say something, I don’t know what, and noticed the way his arms were floating. “Hey,” I called. “You okay?”

He didn’t move, and at first I couldn’t either, but I made myself get closer. I bent down and touched his shoulder, and his head flopped over onto my hand. In spite of the water temperature, it felt cold.

This man was dead. Andrew was dead. But…it made no sense, I told myself. This guy looked only slightly older than Andrew had when he’d died. If Andrew had lived, he’d have been over eighty by now.

I realized I was being an idiot. I jumped in and wrestled the body out of the hot tub. No rigor mortis yet—there might be a chance. “Call a doctor!” I yelled, and started giving CPR.

Within two minutes one of the trainers had relieved me, with one of those plastic mouth-things people use now that we’re all so afraid of disease.

I rolled back and grabbed the dead guy’s arm—I’d seen a glint of something familiar.

He wore a silver bracelet with a triple-spiral design on the front. Bizarre, obviously, but I knew it had to be coincidence. Didn’t it?

With shaking fingers, I jerked it off his wrist and flipped it over. On the back was engraved “J/J”…which was flat-out impossible.

I knew what it meant, though. To Jack. From Jeanette. But I hadn’t seen it for fifteen years.

I ran to the toilet and threw up.

* * *

Steve Welch, the owner of the gym, collected Brian for me while I took another quick shower. We left quickly, and I didn’t tell Brian what had happened until we were in the car on the way home.

“Damn, Dad. Did you know the guy?”

“No. Not really. He just looked like an old friend I haven’t seen in a while.” Then I realized what he’d called me. “So I’m not ‘John’ anymore?”

His face reddened and he turned away without speaking. Oops. Apparently I’d overstepped somehow. Well, maybe he’d explain later. Meanwhile his thumbs worked the phone.

“I was at Grandma and Grandpa’s the weekend before last,” he said just as I pulled into our driveway.

I knew that. I’d driven him, both directions. I finished parking the car, turned off the ignition, and looked at him. “And?” If Mary, my mother-in-law, had upset him again…

“I saw a picture of Mom!”

He was really upset. “We have pictures at home, too, Brian.”

“Yeah. But this one was bigger. From high school.”

Oh, shit. Mary had promised me she would get rid of those. I guess I should have known better than to believe her.

“It’s basic genetics, Dad. John. Blue eyes, like yours. Mine are brown.”

I remembered Jeanette’s blue eyes, alive with mischief as they’d once been…not alive with anything anymore, though, and I wrenched my thoughts away from that. But there had never been anything malicious in her eyes, and I couldn’t believe we’d come to this.

I’d been silent too long. “I’m not your kid. John. And Mom was just a slut, wasn’t she?”

I reverted to my own childhood for a moment. “Dear God in Heaven. No, Brian. No, she wasn’t.”

I knew right away: saying that wouldn’t help. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to explain all this until he was out on his own, and impervious—in my fantasy—to harm from the past.

“Brian. Being your father is…it’s all I am. You’re my kid. Let’s just start with that much, okay?”

He didn’t answer.

I’m sorry, Jeanette, I said to no one who could hear. I’d thought I was doing okay. But…I obviously wasn’t. How could I have let this happen?
———————————————-

Want the whole book at once? Get it from one of these links (bearing in mind that non-Amazon links will soon quit working, if they haven’t already).

Or check out my other fiction if you’ve a mind.

Last week we started off the Wednesday freebies with my Prologue for Pagan Sex. I’m in the RV working on The Secret just at the moment–I hope–but last Friday I set this up to post for you.

Let there be no more delays! We continue with:

Chapter 1 (Jeanette)

“You’re what?” my boyfriend Larry asked me after I finally made myself track him down.

I glared. “You heard me. Look, I’m not trying to trap you or anything. Just tell me what you want to do and we’ll go from there.” We were standing just outside the front door of the bowling alley where he worked, but the stench of its mildewed carpets had followed us.

“Jesus.”

I nodded sympathetically, though I was pretty sure he wasn’t thinking of the mildew. But he didn’t seem to be looking at me anyway.

One little blue cross on a test strip. One little baby on the way, one new life in the world. Out of billions, I kept telling myself, this couldn’t count as a crisis.

“Jesus, Jen,” he repeated, throwing in a nickname I hated. “I didn’t see this coming. Uh, look…” he studied his shoes “…is it the money you need?”

I’d loaned him three hundred dollars, and—probably as a direct result—he’d been dodging my calls for a week. I’d taken the pregnancy test three days ago, but I’d waited to tell him in person.

So, now I’d done that. The nature of our future relationship was becoming clear. I tried to control my voice and my face. “All right, Larry. Yes, the money would help.”

He nodded. “I get paid tomorrow morning. I’ll cash the check and bring the money to your apartment.”

I nodded, turned, and walked away. My eyes and throat weren’t happy—I decided it was the mildew, and took deep breaths as I made my way to a bus stop.

I really wanted to get back home, and take a bath. And stay away from people for a little while.

* * *

But the next day, by six PM, Larry hadn’t shown up. And four days of moping, I suddenly decided, were about my limit. I was all done with sitting around my apartment feeling sorry for myself.

Not that things were completely out of control. I’d been cutting classes at UT, but my friends had brought me notes from Physics and Calculus, so I wasn’t too far behind in the important stuff.

But the money was more of an immediate problem, and I had to do something about it. Sure, Dad was paying for college—I was a Physics major, planning to go into Astronomy even though he wanted me to head for medical school, following his example, after I graduated—but I was actually pretty close to broke. Because I’d stupidly loaned Larry that three hundred dollars.

Anyway, I needed cash for rent…and today would be good. I doubted Dad’s response, when I finally confessed my situation, would be to meekly give me more money. He’d be more likely to show up on my doorstep, all ready to save me. Which would include taking me home with him, I was sure.

So I tied my hair behind my neck—I hate my hair; it’s sort of a blonde afro even on a good day—and grabbed some jeans and a sweatshirt. Time to confront Larry. Again.

He wasn’t working tonight, and he wasn’t answering his phone. But I knew he had Caller ID. So I’d check his apartment first, then think about calling his friends and letting them know he had my rent money. If I needed to.

* * *

I found a seedy-looking guy smoking on the porch when I got there—mid-thirties maybe, long greasy black hair, jeans wrinkled from living in them, and a potbelly poking out from beneath a dingy gray T-shirt. He tried to pull the shirt down when I got close, and his eyes lit when he saw I was headed for the door he was leaning against.

“Here for the game?” he asked.

What game? “Here for Larry. I need to talk to him.”

“Oh. Larry?”

“Yes.” Definitely. Please, I thought, Larry, be here. Don’t be an asshole tonight.

The guy shrugged and opened the door for me.

“I’m Matt,” he mumbled as I edged around him. His breath stank of the cigarette and cheap beer. Well, college.

“Jeanette. Pleased to meet you.”

The place? A wreck. Larry had two roommates, but they’d been in Cancun for a couple of weeks. If he didn’t clean it up, they were going to be royally pissed.

Voices. Loud, male, obnoxious. Not a surprise at this point. I picked my way through the entry hall—a waste of space; I’d never liked Larry’s apartment—and peeked around a corner into the living room.

Six guys, ranging from Larry at 20 to a guy who looked vaguely Indian—like from India—and maybe in his mid-sixties. Sitting around an eight-sided table I’d never seen in there. But I could see what it was for.

“Larry,” I said as calmly as I could. “I need to talk to you.”

He started guiltily at my voice, then glanced down at the pile of poker chips and money in front of him and gave a nervous smile. “Hey, hon! Didn’t I tell you I was busy tonight?”

I think everybody else at the table winced. “That’s fine, Larry. I’m glad you’re having a good time. But can you step outside with me for a couple of minutes?”

“Uh. Sure.”

* * *

“So, do you have the money?” I asked when we were alone.

“Sure,” he said, sounding wounded. “I told you I would.”

I frowned at him, but decided to let that pass. “So give it to me, Larry, and I can get out of here.”

I turned to go back inside and he spoke again. “But y’know, Jen, I can’t take it off the table yet.”

I stopped, staring away from him. “Why not?”

“It’s the rules. I can’t take money from the table until I quit.”

How had I ever wanted to spend any time with this guy? Suddenly I realized I was relieved that he hadn’t shown any sign of interest in the baby.

“Whose money is it, Larry?”

“Look. I’ll pay you back when the game’s over.” He brightened. “I’ll bring it over later. Uh, maybe tomorrow if the game goes all night. I mean, I can’t quit, I’m the host.”

* * *

Two hours later—and that was an eternity for me as I leaned on the wall and tried not to meet anyone’s eye, but I wasn’t going to trust Larry to pay me back once I left the apartment—Larry lost all the money he had in front of him.

I just nodded and straightened up. No point making a scene; I was done.

But then, sweating heavily, he got more chips out of a box and put them in front of himself. Nobody said anything, so I went back to the wall.

Three hands later Larry and this guy who looked like an Ivy League recruiting poster started raising each other, shoving chips into the pot. I leaned forward, then caught myself and settled back. Larry’s eye had been twitching the way it does when he gets nervous—but it wasn’t now. Was he going to win enough to pay me after all?

“I’m all in,” Larry announced in a voice so quavery I thought it should inspire anyone who was paying attention to fold. I’m not good with people, but it was obvious.

The other guy looked at him for a while, then glanced over at me and smiled in apparent sympathy. He began counting chips to call.

The hell with it, I decided. Larry was a jerk, and this guy had smiled at me. “Fold,” I told him.

He stopped and stared at me. “Are you serious?”

Larry slammed the table with his right hand. But he kept his left hand on his cards. “Shut up, Jen, damn it!”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. “See what I mean?” I said. “He knows he’s going to win if you call.”

Mr. Ivy League turned up his hand—the jack and ten of spades. “You sure? Look, the king and queen are on the board—the only way he can win is with an ace-high flush.”

I shrugged. I barely knew what a flush was. “Your decision.”

He smiled at me again, so I added: “But if you fold and I’m right you have to take me somewhere for coffee.”

Larry was trying to control himself, but it looked like his blood pressure might actually cause his eyes to pop out.

“Yeah?” said Mr. Ivy League, barely glancing at Larry. “Deal.”

And he threw his cards away.

I nodded in approval. “See you outside, jack-high.”

Larry jumped up and screamed at me, but I went out the door instead of listening. Screw him.

* * *

By the time I got outside I was nauseated and shaky, so I sat down on the steps and leaned against the rail, hoping Mr. Ivy League would just stay inside.

But he followed me out. “You okay?” he asked as he closed the door.

“No. I’m pregnant.”

Oh my god. What was I saying? And what was the poor guy supposed to say to me now?

He was still behind me, so at least he couldn’t see my face. I swatted a tear and stood. “Sorry. This isn’t your problem. I just…need to go home.”

“Hey. Want a ride? With your coffee, I mean.”

“What?”

“A ride. Coffee. Conversation. That idiot Larry’s the father?”

I turned to look at him. “Yeah.” Was he going to play Mr. Sensitive for a while and hit on me now? I guessed I’d shown him exactly how high my standards were, hadn’t I?

He smiled again. “You’d make a hell of a poker player. How’d you let that guy play you?”

I gaped. It was the perfect question. “I…don’t know.”

“Yeah. Well, you’ve got his number now, don’t you. You know you saved me five hundred bucks?”

“That much?”

“Yup. I appreciate it. And I want to know how you knew. So will you do me another favor and let me pick your brain over coffee?”

Put that way…“What’s your damn name, anyway? I can’t keep calling you jack-high.”

“Call me Jack, then. My car’s over there.”

* * *

Jack—if that was his name—was a class act all the way. He took me to Denny’s.

“Nice place,” I said as we sat in a booth.

“Hey, free refills on the coffee.” A waitress came by and filled our cups as he spoke. “And great service, too.” She smiled at him and nodded to me.

“Actually,” Jack went on after she left, “this is sort of my office. I come here four or five times a week, at least.”

I looked around. “Here? Why?”

He shrugged. “They know me, and they don’t care if I spend three hours reading a book with nothing but a cup of coffee. ’Course, I tip a lot. Nothing’s free.”

I studied him. Red hair, freckles, upturned nose, a funny dimple in his chin. “Okay, you’ve officially piqued my interest. You can just quit messing with me now. How is this your office? What do you do for a living? Are you in school? And, mostly, is your name really Jack?”

“It used to be John. John Faa. But when you called me Jack I liked it.”

I glared.

“Well, I did. I’m going to use it. Look.” He fidgeted with his spoon. “I don’t usually tell people what I do, but…I can’t lie to you after what you did and what you told me. So: I play poker for a living. It’s not much like the movies—but the truth is, most of the people I play with aren’t the kind I’d want to see away from a poker table. So, other than the games, I’m alone a lot.”

“No girlfriend?” Subtle. That’s me. On the other hand, he’d left that wide open. Maybe I was supposed to ask.

“Nope.” He kind of squirmed in his seat. “There’s a problem with girls, for me—they generally either want to gamble with my money or to ‘cure’ me of all the gambling.”

“But you win. Right?”

“Yeah, mostly. Doesn’t matter to a lot of people, or they don’t believe it. My mom says I’ll grow out of all this, and that’s about as good as it gets.”

Sounded kind of awful. “Will you? Grow out of it?”

“Dunno. Right now it’s hard to convince anyone to pay me much for working—I’ve got no experience and no degree—so poker is what I do. Someday I think I might want to run a bookstore or something, but as things are I only work once or twice a week. It’s not a bad life.”

“Except that you don’t tell people what you do. And you’re lonely.”

“Well. Yeah.”

I wasn’t sure what to think of this guy. Was he just putting me on? “You mentioned no degree. Are you in school?” I waved at the waitress.

“Uh, no. That didn’t work out too well for me.”

“How come? You seem bright enough.”

“Gee, thanks.” He looked at his watch. “Are you ordering something?”

I blinked. “Wow. Hit a nerve there?” I put my hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean anything by it—I’m just trying to figure you out. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

Well, that worked. Of course it always works with guys. He relaxed and shrugged sheepishly. “I guess I’m a little sensitive on the subject, yeah.”

“So tell me next time.”

“Next time?”

“Sure. You’re lonely. I like you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not after a love interest right now—and I’m not looking for a father for the kid either.” He looked down at the table. Maybe I was laying it on a bit thick. “I mean, I like talking to you so I hope we can do this again.”

He grinned at me. “Me too. Does that mean we’re done? Because if we are, I have an idea.”

“My mom tells me all guys have ideas.”

“Besides that. You were at the game because that idiot Larry owes you three hundred, right?” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out more cash than I’d ever seen, then put three bills in front of me. “So here’s your three hundred.”

God, that’d get me through the next month. But…“Dude. You don’t owe me—”

“Maybe I do! You just saved me five. But that’s not the point. If you go back in with me, I’ll tell Larry I gave you the three, you back me up, and he’ll give me the money in chips.”

“Why would he do that? And what about my ride home?”

“He’ll do it because he’s the big loser at that table, and from watching him I don’t think he has the money to cover what he’s lost. So if I make a big enough fuss he has to do it my way or risk the game breaking up.”

“And my ride?”

He looked down at the table again. “Yeah. I forgot about that. Unless you want to borrow my car?”

“You’re kidding. Borrow your car? I just met you.”

“Yeah, but who cares about that? I can get a ride from Andrew to your place—it’ll only be an hour or so, ’cause we’ll want to cash out while we still can, and you can just leave my keys on a tire or something.”

“I got lost somewhere, Jack-high. Who’s Andrew?”

“The older guy, with dark skin? He’s…my mentor, I guess.”

“He looked sort of mad, earlier. When you said you’d come with me.”

“Yeah…Andrew has this thing about focus, you know? He says, if you’re going to play poker, you play to win. When I left he figured the game was still good. So I should have stayed put—in his mind, anyway.”

“But I just saved you five hundred dollars!”

He laughed. “Sure. But you’re a girl, and Andrew doesn’t think they count. Also, that was already a done deal. There was no advantage to going with you afterward.” He tapped his head. “The guy’s a little nuts, but he’s helped me a lot.”

“And he’s giving you a ride to my place?”

Jack—fine, I would call him Jack—spread his hands. “Come on. It’s not like you have to invite him in.”

We went back to the game, and I helped Jack collect from Larry. It worked just the way he’d said it would.

After that, though? I told him I’d take the bus.

He laughed. And went back to his game.