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Though off to a bad start this morning, I had already planned to talk about my thoughts on AI... So, it might as well be as the start today... I was awake at 4 and reading the latest from the third story in this book and my mind suddenly grasped that Nick Russell is a writer who I was very often in sync with... I had gotten to a certain part and was highlighting a lot and realized that I wanted to spotlight what was being said there...
But, yesterday, after finishing the second story, I went online to find the author. Facebook popped up first so I clicked and verified that this was the man who had written the book, so I requested a connection... I immediately was told that I didn't know this person... Once again, Facebook infuriated me! I DID know this individual. I had been reading him for days... And I knew more about Nick Russell than I ever would for all those other possible connections that Facebook routinely suggested for me! The "brain" behind the programming on Facebook has boggled my mind for years... They claim that they are connecting the world, BUT it is with selections being made by...computer... Duh... I had just once again been told that I didn't know Russell so I couldn't possibly have a need to connect with "him..." DUH... I'm a reader reading his book. Russell is a writer who wants people to read his books... Surely a simple programming routine would have connected these two individuals?! But, hey, they are now using AI and, according to the news yesterday, thousands are being terminated because of AI implementation. And, my message has not been read...so I'll not finish talking about these four books now...
BYW, before I started this post, I was prevented from being able to start this blog post... But, at least, I know that Google normally pays attention to feedback...
PREPARE FOR AN EVEN WORSE COMPUTER-GENERATED TIME-WASTER IN YOUR FUTURE!
And I've had a lifetime of time wasted by those who claim that they know what is best for me in relation to computer use... Take for instance that I had created an entire facilities management system and even gave a paper presentation of it at a professional meeting, only to discover that West Virginia University was far behind most of the basic systems used to other universities... Yes, that's true... You see, I had the brain to create the system. I did not have the power and authority to gain support for that system... Years and much employee time wasted...
So, there I was yesterday, after being a book blogger for over 20 years, being told by a machine--or the minds that told the machine--that I did not know Nick--I was already calling him one of my favorite authors! But they allow anybody and everybody to send messages - so I did take advantage, carefully identifying myself, the book I was reading and why I was contacting him... Then...wait...
So I went out to Amazon. Now they force you to use some type of "named" AI system... I explained that I had been billed twice for a book that, both cost, $18.01... So I went out to orders, found the book and saw that no other book recently bought had the same price...
Oh, wait... I must point out that all of these companies claim that you no longer need to have paper files, right? That's been one of the key "selling" points as far back as the 1960s! In any event, I had been reviewing my "online" checking account, saw the two listings for a book costing $18.01, along with a bunch of numbers created by the bank to supposedly identify this purchase... Well, both were marked as a reduction of my available money, but had different ID numbers... which, of course, forced ME to go hunt up what was going on... BTW, I also made a list of supposed Walmart purchases that I questioned within the time period...
So, back on Amazon, the AI generator had pulled up a different book, at a different price... BUT, on the opposite page was the right book cover with the right price...So I go back to AI, the book listed was a purchase I had also made, but a lower price... So, which was the mistake? On my bank, on Amazon, or the AIs of the world united to drive us crazy?!
Now back to Facebook. I know I have a personal grudge against that site who claimed that there was possible hacking and kept me offline for nearly 2 years and which resulted, ultimately, in a total loss of my data in a group I have started on Facebook which had been operational since the last decade... So I keep a lowkey most of the time unless some computer crap from some corporate online system drives me to...rage...
Anyway, JC and I were doing a lot of telepathic action as I was reading Russell's book... I was getting all kinds of connections with news items, other books, and messages from Him, depending upon what I was reading...
This morning I read about an event that had affected the entire town. Somebody--I don't know who yet--had murdered a cop who stuttered... And immediately a videos of many times when this president has made fun of those people who include the disabled, or those he calls stupid or...whatever... The man then gets upset when comedians use him as the stooge he is, in my opinion, of course... LOL
Folks, I've been around a long time and have led somewhat of a sheltered life until I started working at WVU and met many people from around the world. By that time, my family, school, and church background had created a basic sense of awareness that all people desire recognition as "potential" children of God... I word that carefully to reveal my own humanity in not being as God wants--that we love all of our neighbors... In my defense, though, until about 2015 and both the news and the internet opened my eyes to the diversity in America... I was, and, still am, quite naive about the full scope of all peoples now living around the world...
But Russell has made it quite easy for us, really. He takes us to the smallest group of people under one level of government--the small town--and reveals more than we might never know exists in other locations... To me, this was a gift that is needed, right now, when one group of people are striving to destroy the advancements which have been made by many, many people pulling together, working together, to meet the needs of our own lives, as well as the people from all around this earth... at the first level of organizing...
Now Reading: Haberman, Maggie; Swan, Jonathan. Regime Change: Inside the Imperial Presidency of Donald Trump (p. I). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.
Just got a call that I have a driver to help me get groceries today... So need to close this out today... But I want to add one video and talk about it soon... see if you can find MSNOW of the news items... I think it was one Turi's Moment...
I have been quiet too long. Silence can be a kind of complicity, a way of letting the powerful believe their actions carry no witness and provoke no moral accounting. But there comes a moment when the weight of events presses against the ribs, when the news scrolls like a ledger of avoidable suffering, and when a citizen, any citizen, must speak.
We are living through such a moment now.
For months, the United States has waged what many have called an undeclared war against Iran. The headlines arrive with the rhythm of a drumbeat: schoolchildren killed in airstrikes; senior Iranian leaders targeted and assassinated; peace negotiators bombed while carrying proposals meant to stop the bloodshed.
In the Strait of Hormuz, American and Iranian vessels face each other in a tense maritime standoff, each side daring the other to blink. Oil tankers idle like hostages. The world holds its breath.
And over it all, the American President issues threats that echo across continents, threats to “annihilate” an ancient civilization, one whose poetry predates the English language, whose cities were old when Rome was young, whose memory stretches back to the earliest chapters of human time. These are not the words of diplomacy. They are the words of a nation forgetting its own history, its own fragility, its own moral obligations.
Meanwhile, the American stock market rises and falls like a fever chart. A single mention of ceasefire sends it soaring; a single threat sends it plunging. Oil prices convulse. Working families feel the tremors in their grocery bills, their heating costs, and their commutes. The global poor, who have no voice in these decisions, pay the highest price. A blockade in the Persian Gulf becomes a tax on a mother in Detroit, a farmer in Kenya, a bus driver in São Paulo.
This is what power without mercy looks like. It is not a strength. It is not leadership. It is a form of blindness.
Nations, like individuals, reveal their character in moments of crisis. When a country possesses overwhelming military might, the temptation is always to use it, to believe that force can solve what diplomacy cannot, that threats can replace negotiation, that fear can substitute for respect.
But power without mercy becomes reckless. Power without accountability becomes dangerous. Power without imagination cannot see the humanity of others.
We have seen this pattern before in American history: the belief that overwhelming force can bend the world to our will. It has never worked for long. It has always left scars on foreign soil, on American soldiers, on our national conscience. The Guest House*
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning, a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture,
Still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
For some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
Meet them at the door laughing,
And invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.
~ by Rumi
Iran is not merely a geopolitical adversary. It is a civilization. Its poets Hafez, Rumi*, and Ferdowsi shaped the spiritual vocabulary of half the world. Its cities, Shiraz, Isfahan, and Tehran, carry the architectural memory of empires and revolutions. Its people have endured invasions, dynasties, sanctions, and isolation, yet they remain rooted in a cultural lineage older than the United States by thousands of years. To threaten such a civilization with annihilation is not only morally indefensible; it is historically absurd. Civilizations do not vanish because a modern nation wills it. They endure. They outlast the empires that try to dominate them. They survive the bluster of presidents and the ambitions of generals. Every blockade in the Strait of Hormuz sends shockwaves through the global economy. Every drone strike reverberates through markets. Every threat from the White House becomes a tremor in the price of oil, a tightening in the budgets of families who have never heard of Hormuz and never asked to be part of this conflict.
This is the hidden cost of American foreign policy: the way it reaches into the pockets of ordinary people, destabilizes fragile economies, and turns distant conflicts into local hardships.
War is never contained. It leaks into everything.
I have watched these events unfold with growing unease. I have listened to the pundits, the analysts, the retired generals. I have waited for someone to say plainly what seems obvious: that a nation cannot claim moral leadership while threatening to erase another civilization; that a democracy cannot bomb peace negotiators and call it security; that a superpower cannot kill children and call it collateral. Bombing the infrastructure of Iran at will only goes to prove the Iranian point that they need a nuclear weapon to deter outlandish aggression from the United States. If Iran had a nuclear weapon, this invasion would never have happened, certainly not with the impunity displayed by the Americans.
So, I break my silence. Not because I have all the answers. Not because I speak for any party or ideology. But because conscience demands it.
A nation as powerful as the United States must be held to a higher standard, not a lower one. Our strength should be measured not by the reach of our weapons but by the restraint with which we use them. Our greatness should be judged not by the fear we inspire but by the mercy we extend. Power without mercy is not sustainable. It corrodes a nation’s soul. It erodes the trust of allies. It fuels the resolve of enemies. It destabilizes the world.
We must demand better from our leaders, from our institutions, from ourselves. We must insist on diplomacy, accountability, and a renewed moral imagination. We must remember that the world is not a chessboard but a shared home, fragile and interdependent. The Artemis crew told us as much on their voyage around the backside of the moon. The crew described a universe abounding in darkness, but Earth stood out as a living, breathing, colorful rock in the cosmos. How blessed we are to live on a planet bustling with life. We should at least respect what we have by living peacefully with those who inhabit this oasis surrounded by darkness.
I have been quiet too long. But I am speaking now. And I will continue to speak until mercy returns to the vocabulary of American power. Author’s Note
I’ve been away from this space longer than I intended. Life pulled me toward the work that pays the bills, necessary work, steady work, but work that leaves little room for the writing that asks more of me. Like many writers, I live in that tension between calling and survival. Some seasons allow both. This one did not.
But even as I tended to the work that keeps the lights on, this piece kept pressing on me. I carried its sentences through long days. I felt the weight of the moment growing heavier, the cost of silence growing sharper. Eventually, the pull to speak became stronger than the reasons to stay quiet.
So, I’m here again, doing the work I’m meant to do.
If this piece resonates with you, if you believe independent writing still matters in a world this volatile, I invite you to consider becoming a paid subscriber. I’ll be candid: it doesn’t take a crowd to sustain this work, but it does take a committed circle. Thirteen new paid subscriptions would give me the breathing room to keep showing up with the consistency and depth these times demand.
Whether you read freely or choose to support the work, I’m grateful you’re here. Thank you for giving these words a place to land, and for helping ensure I can keep writing when the moment calls for it.
~~~~*I have read Rumi before and use his words here...I use it today to illustrate for each of us to ponder?What could happen if we lost all writers of song, poetry and literatureby destroying another civilization?What would happen if we lost all scientists, doctors, researchers...We would NOT be the world we are today...So why is it that people like this president are allowed to screw aroundAnd deny the rest of us what we need to reach our own dreams?God created each of us and gave these gifts, like Rumi, for all...Don't allow freedom to disappear... It was 2011 when I first met this wonderful, knowledgeable, and prolific writer who has used his life to speak for good for all people. I am grateful that God brought him into my life! Because at this time in our country, I sometimes find myself unable to find words that speak clearly and objectively, with details sufficient to perhaps change somebody's mind about the crisis we are facing. Yet Michael presents words that touch my mind and soul in the awareness of a man who speaks with the words of God's Truth and Love. This is one of those articles that will/should be shared across the nation and the world and so I send it out to all of you who stop by Book Readers Heaven often... and hope you share it as well... Because I know that our Merciful Father has once again used Michael to speak of what needs to be said... And I, again, thank Him for bringing Michael into my life so many years ago... Please take the time to share directly from this site or find Michael on Substack, LinkedIn and other sites on which he can be found... Support his work if you can! This is a time when our Black Brethren are being attacked daily in one way or another... the latest is the forced relocation of refugees who had been accepted when a crisis occurred and a call for help was made... This president has no code of honor that helps him restrain and consider just how the people will be placed in harm's way... Indeed, he routinely places millions in harm's way daily, doesn't he? I, too, have found that I must speak of this crisis as much as possible. I had not seen this post originally shared in April, because of my own medical issues, but I'm so glad I was led this morning to think of Michael and have reposted it as per my agreement with him to be an ongoing contributor to this blog... Do you have something you'd like to share as well? Let me know and let's talk! Gabby
Claudia Barnes savored another spoonful of her soup at Le Bistro. The chef had a way with mushrooms, no question about it. And the desserts were to die for, despite the dent they put in her reporter’s salary. But tonight, the conversation between the couple in the booth behind her was even better than the food. After setting down her spoon, she pulled out her notebook, opened it to a blank page, and tuned in, pen poised.
“Tell her to forget it.” A man’s voice. “But Mike, she’s really spooked by this.” A woman speaking now. “And Rachel isn’t the type to go for any of that supernatural stuff. We’ve worked together for two years, and she’s very levelheaded. She thinks it’s weird too.” “That’s understandable. I mean, come on, Marta. She finds a Raggedy Ann doll buried under a pile of snow in a Bread Company parking lot and says it’s sending her a message?” “I know. If it wasn’t Rachel telling me this, I’d dismiss it. But I told her I’d check with you and see if the police would be interested.” “Nope.” The sound of ice tinkling in a glass. “You’re sure?” “Honey, if she shows up at the station, no one will take her seriously. They’ll listen to her story with a straight face, but once she’s gone, everyone will have a good laugh. Trust me on this. Save your friend the embarrassment.” A heavy sigh. “That’s what I thought.”
Cutlery clinked against china. “What do you think she should do with the doll?” “Pitch it.” “That’s what I told her. But I might have to do it for her. I don’t think she wants to touch it again.” More ice rattled. “Don’t get involved. Stay away from the doll.” “I thought you said her story was a bunch of nonsense?” “It is. But weird things happen sometimes.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I don’t know. Nothing.” “Hey, I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.” The woman’s tone was half-teasing, half-serious. “’Fess up. I sense a story here.” “Not much of one.” “Come on, Mike. Out with it. We always said there’d be no secrets in our marriage, remember?” “This isn’t a secret.” “Then tell me.” “Fine. I had this friend in high school. Nice guy, on the quiet side, very strait-laced. Anyway, a couple of days after I got my first used car, I tossed him the keys and asked if he wanted to drive it. He stood there, jingling the keys, and out of the blue he said, ‘I’d lay off the booze and smoking if I were you. It could cause you a lot of trouble.’ That blew my mind.”
“Why?” “Because the night before, I’d met up with some friends who were a little more on the wild side, and we shared a twelve-pack and some cigarettes at a picnic table in one guy’s backyard. No one was around—but I was scared to death we’d be caught. That was the first time I’d ever done anything like that. The thing is, my keys were on the table the entire evening.” “Are you saying the keys...transmitted...your secret to him?” “I have no idea. I never asked. I wasn’t about to admit my guilt, so I passed it off as a joke. But I knew he knew. I told myself he must have seen us, but I never did quite buy that. He lived on the other side of town. And he didn’t socialize with the fast crowd.” A few seconds of silence followed. The woman sounded more serious when she responded.
“Maybe the police should check into Rachel’s story.” “It’s not going to happen, Marta. Trust me.” “Can you offer her some other options?” “Pitch the doll.” “Besides that one.” “She could always try the FBI.” “Would they be more receptive?” “Probably not. But it’s the only alternative I can think of. Hey, do you want to split this chocolate decadence thing for dessert? I won’t feel as guilty if we share it.”
As the conversation shifted to mundane matters, Claudia set her pen down, dipped her spoon into the cooling soup, and considered her own options. The features editor at the St. Louis tabloid where she worked was always on the hunt for unusual stories. A local woman with some sort of telepathic power ought to qualify. Her tale would be a great lead for a story on ESP or clairvoyance. Claudia stirred her soup. She ought to be able to find some interesting material connecting ESP and crime-fighting too. Better yet, if she dug deep enough she might be able to put a local slant on the piece. If nothing else, a story like that should help circulation. Readers might claim they didn’t like sensational stuff, but it sold papers. Look at the National Enquirer. And anything that boosted circulation boosted advertising revenue. Her editor would love that. Too bad she hadn’t tuned into the conversation earlier. All she had was the ESP woman’s first name. Claudia propped her chin in her hand and toyed with her spoon. She should be able to trace this Rachel through the cop’s wife, though. All she had to do was check the last name on their credit card. Unless they paid in cash. Nursing her soup, Claudia listened to the exchange as the server presented the couple’s bill. Smiled when it was clear the twosome was paying by credit card. Followed the server and positioned herself behind a pillar. Ran into him as he passed on his way back to the table from running the card. Beat him to the ground picking it up as he apologized. Scanned the information she needed. You didn’t get to be an ace reporter by being meek. And ace reporter was her goal. Working at the tabloid wasn’t great, but she was only twenty-four and two years out of J-school. Everyone had to start somewhere. If she could write some unique stuff that got noticed, she could move on to bigger things sooner rather than later. After returning to her table, she jotted down the cop’s name in her notebook. Not bad for a night’s work. Spirits ticking up, she signaled for the server and ordered dessert. Maybe she’d even charge her meal to the paper. Chalk it off to research that just might pay big dividends.
~~~~~~
Sometimes she wished she didn't have a mind that was both curious but committed to helping others if she could... She really had not choice when she saw the doll lying in the cold ice, as if it had fallen from a child's fingers. Well, she would at least dig it out of the ice and allow those in the nearby building to handle it as lost and found... At least that was her plan...
But as soon as she picked it up, she was overcome with a shocking feeling of terror. What happened as she dropped the doll and began to recover, still feeling fear, confusion, and still hanging on to the terror?
Assuming, of course, there was no question about her sanity.
Rachel had tried to think through all that had happened until she couldn't think anymore. Her first thought of going to the police was not a pleasant one--she figured they would all laugh and think she was one of those kooks who were always claiming they could help solve crimes. But, finally, she knew she had to do something; she couldn't just ignore what had happened. Perhaps the FBI would be better able to deal with a strange situation...
She shouldn’t have come. The knot in Rachel’s stomach tightened, and she squeezed her laced fingers, whitening the knuckles. Though she’d never been claustrophobic, the walls of the small, sterile interview room off the lobby in the glass and concrete FBI office building in downtown St. Louis seemed to be closing in on her. With each minute that passed—ten and a half so far—the urge to flee before she made a total fool of herself intensified. But the vibes from the doll were even stronger. Strong enough to counter the dubious glance the woman behind the bulletproof glass in the reception area had given her. And strong enough to convince her she needed to pass the Raggedy Ann on to someone who was in a position to investigate—whether they chose to or not. Based on her conversation earlier today with Marta, “not” was the likely outcome. While her co-worker had been diplomatic in relaying her husband’s comments from their dinner last night, it had been easy to read “fruitcake” between the lines. And if a local police officer thought her story lacked credibility, she had little hope the FBI would treat it with any more seriousness. But she had to try. And if she failed to convince anyone to pay attention to the odd vibes emanating from the doll stashed in the small paper shopping bag at her feet, at least she could walk away knowing she’d done her best.
One advantage of reading a trilogy is that we know that the FBI heroes will be the last of the three we've already met in previous books. Nick, was the one that was renovating an older home and had been providing housing for the other two agents who were stationed in the area. And, we can also surmise that Nick will be immediately attracted to Rachel, LOL... That didn't happen as quickly with Rachel, she was consumed with what was happening, needing help, but didn't want to be considered some type of "crazy..." Fortunately, Nick was the type of man who spent time with those he was interviewing, so he began by getting some basic facts, even though he immediately questioned what he was hearing...
It was an interesting connection while both of the individuals were watching every move of the other. But when she pointed out she saw what he was doing, it eased both of them into moving on without any preconceptions. Until she mentioned the "vibe" she felt when she touched the doll... A Raggedy Ann Doll to be exact...
She had remembered that she had once had a similar doll, many years ago when her mother was still alive... Now she was entirely on her own. And, sometimes, like now, she wished she had somebody with whom to talk and know that individual would listen carefully and explore what might have happened... Readers will discover that Nick was such an individual to whom she began to share...
But that didn't help in trying to discover if some type of criminal act had occurred that resulted in the "terror" that Rachel had felt. But at least Nick agreed to take the doll and it sat in his office as days and weeks went by... In the meantime, be prepared to be an avid participant as Nick and Rachel begin a relationship that was moving beyond the exploration of a rag doll. Mainly because, a local news reporter had listened in on a conversation right from the beginning and had immediately decided that Rachel was into something dealing with the paranormal... And she wanted to tell the world!
A major twist came when they learned that a young child had been kidnapped quite recently... Contact was made and the FBI from two different states started comparing investigations... And I loved how this story immediately turned into a wonderful family drama where many are finding out secrets from long ago. One of which had been held from over 35 years... Could this be the beginning of the end of frustration and discovering the kidnapped child's location?
Irene Hannon ensures that readers carefully considers all of the women involved in this unforgettable mystery of a child kidnapping... A book geared for the women in a family who will understand how one woman can consider stealing a child, creating logical excuses that makes sense o her that she is actually helping the other new mother who was overwhelmed...
Later we watch another mother who kept a secret that should have been revealed years ago, but fear had kept that woman silent, not trusting in love's survival...
We also see a connection easily rediscovered as two strangers meet after the separation... Each of these stories are wonderfully framed so that readers will experience both the concern that a baby has been taken, and what that might mean in the end... So that, when we discover what has actually happened, we can find empathy and sympathy for all those who are caught in various webs that could only be weaved by someone who allows God into that story...
This book keeps you tense, on edge, but, still, secure that only good will come out of all that has been disrupted through theft, but pulled together by all those who care and support others through their jobs, their lives and through a gift of Love that only God can provide that leads to knowing that everything is goin' be alright...
Amazing Storyline! - Highly recommended!
It was going to be tight, but she would finish the mural in his dining room by her self-imposed deadline of Fourth of July. Tomorrow.
Reaching for her purse on the seat beside her, she shook her head. Talk about a photo finish. While the date hadn’t seemed unrealistic when she’d begun, progress had been far slower than she’d expected thanks to the two fingers on her right hand that continued to give her problems, the tips alternating between tingling and loss of sensation. Thank heaven the aftereffects of the frostbite were diminishing, but holding a paintbrush—or playing the piano—still proved challenging. Who would have guessed it would take two months to recover enough dexterity to perform at tea again? Or that even her simpler pieces would be so taxing? Very frustrating. Likewise for painting. Completing a scene still took far too long. She glanced at the house where she’d spent so many hours over the past two months. Although Nick didn’t seem in the least concerned that his dining room had been transformed into an art studio and had urged her not to push herself, she wanted to finish before Coop and Monica came into town with their baby for the long holiday weekend. When they gathered here tomorrow for a barbecue along with Mark and a newly expecting Emily, she wanted them to be able to appreciate the tranquility of the scene she’d painted rather than be distracted by the clutter of a work-in-progress. As she stepped out of the cool car, the stifling air of a typical Missouri July enveloped her in a muggy embrace. The holiday would be a scorcher too. But never again would she complain about the oppressive heat of St. Louis summers. The other extreme was far worse. After pulling the key Nick had given her out of her purse, she slipped it into the lock of his stately brick home. Now that school was out, she was able to put in a fair amount of time on the mural during the week while he was at work. All that remained today were a few finishing touches that shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to complete. She turned the knob and entered the gracious foyer, reveling in the sense of homecoming she felt whenever she stepped through his door. It was even better when he was there to welcome her with a warm hug and kiss, of course—but even alone in the house on workdays like today, she felt happy and content. The same way she always felt around Nick. Once she’d deactivated the security system and set her purse on the dining room floor, she inspected her mural. Like the painting, their relationship had grown in the preceding months, taking on depth and dimension. While they both believed in the value of prudence and patience, it was clear they were headed down a serious path. Barring some sort of bizarre twist of fate, a proposal should be in the offing in the not-too-distant future. Smiling at that hopeful thought, she took a step back and tipped her head as she examined her work. It was the largest piece she’d ever tackled, but the scale and subject matter fit the room. Two rows of tall poplars receded into the distance, flanking a formal garden of patterned boxwoods, reflecting pools, and fountains. It was the kind of garden common in France or England in days gone by, and it fit the character of the Federal-style house perfectly. Restful shades of green dominated, while overflowing stone urns of flowers added spots of color. Today she’d add a few more deep pink blooms to two of them, tuck a bench into the poplars on both sides of the pool, and declare the work finished. But before she rolled up her sleeves, a detour to the kitchen was in order. If his pattern held, Nick would have left some sort of decadent bakery item for her on the counter, along with a pot of fresh-brewed coffee. On her last visit, she’d found a fabulous caramel pecan roll. What treat awaited her today? She ambled toward the foyer, pulling out her cell phone. Maybe Rebecca had a better handle on their ETA by now, delayed due to an an emergency at Colin’s office. Hopefully they’d make it in before the afternoon barbecue at Nick’s. As she hung a left toward the kitchen, she glanced toward the living room. Froze. Tucked into the front corner beside the fireplace, right where she’d pictured it the first time she’d seen this room, was a Yamaha C1X, the patina of the baby grand’s black lacquer finish gleaming in the morning light. What in the world? Slowly she walked toward it, until she was close enough to read the title on the crisp, new piece of sheet music resting on the stand:
“Our Love Is Here to Stay.” Her signature piece. “Like it?” At the soft question, Rachel gasped and spun around. Nick stood in the doorway leading to the study, one shoulder resting against the molding, hands in the pockets of his jeans, a tender smile warming his face. “I didn’t know you were home.” “I took the day off.” “But…the security system was on.” “There aren’t any motion sensors in the study.” She waved toward the corner of the living room. “You bought a piano?” “Yep. It was delivered yesterday.” “You don’t play.” “No. But I know someone who does.” He pushed off from the doorframe and strolled toward her. An undercurrent of excitement zipped through the air as he approached, sending a tingle racing up her spine. Taking her hand, he led her toward the Yamaha. “Do you like it?” “It’s gorgeous. But Nick...these cost a fortune.” “Splurges are allowed on special occasions.” “Is this a special occasion?” “I hope so.” He guided her to the piano bench and urged her to sit. She didn’t need much persuasion. Her legs were getting more wobbly by the second. After perching beside her, he tugged the phone from her grasp, laid it beside the music stand, and lifted the piece of sheet music. She stared at his fingers. They were trembling. Just like hers...
While I didn’t relish killing, I couldn’t ignore God’s command. It was right there in the Bible for all to see. An eye for an eye.
Yesterday, I tried to open this book on my desktop. Over and over I tried. Finally I gave up. I had another job to do... This morning, as soon as I opened YouTube, the above video was there, front and center... It was to be used along with this review. A sure God Incident??? I hope I can share what I am supposed to...
“How bad is it?” Though the clipped question from the dispatcher registered, Mark’s brain stalled. He’d been in plenty of situations where people got hurt. Had learned to steel himself against blood and terror. But nothing in his years of training and field experience had prepared him for watching Emily bleed. Somehow he managed to squeeze two words past his tight throat. “I’ll check.” He pressed the speaker button, laid his phone beside him, and eased Emily onto her back, keeping his head low. The wound was on her left arm, halfway between her shoulder and elbow. The flow of blood was heavy and steady. Not comforting, but better than spurting from an artery. “The bullet went all the way through her arm. I think it nicked a major vein.” He needed to stem the flow of blood. She was losing too much too fast, and they weren’t going anywhere for the next few minutes. “I’ll alert the ambulance crew. You should be seeing activity at the perimeter momentarily. There was a patrol car three minutes away.” He did a quick three-sixty as he stripped off his T-shirt. Flashing lights were approaching in the distance on the road that bordered the park. “I see the car. I also need you to contact Steve Preston at the St. Louis FBI field office ASAP.” He recited the phone number. “I copy that.” Working in the restricted area behind the bench, Mark folded his T-shirt into a long strip and wrapped it around Emily’s arm, exerting as much steady pressure on the wound as his prone position allowed. It wasn’t his first choice for a dressing, but it was all he had.
When Emily drew a ragged breath, he touched her cheek. Frowned. Her skin was cool and clammy. Her eyes, though open, were starting to glaze. And her breathing was becoming shallower. Classic signs of shock. She needed more help than he could provide. “Hang in there, Em, okay?” He tucked her hair behind her ear, maintaining the pressure he was exerting on the wound with his other hand. “W-what happened?” “Someone decided to use us for target practice.” “Are you hurt?” She was bleeding profusely and she wanted to know if he was hurt. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “No.” “Good. I wouldn’t want to miss that cold drink with you.” Her voice was fading. “Agent Sanders, I have Officer Fisher from Oakdale on the line. He was first on the scene. I’m going to patch him in.” There were a few clicks as the dispatcher connected the call. “Go ahead, Officer Fisher.” “Agent Sanders, I’m on the south side of the park, and I have you in sight. We’re securing the perimeter, focusing on the wooded area on the east end where you pinpointed the shooter. Have there been any additional shots?” “No. I suspect he’s long gone. And I need medical assistance. Now.” “Understood. We’re preparing to send in two paramedics. In the meantime, we’re sweeping the perimeter of the woods, and a chopper is on the way to do a thermal scan.” The thlump-thlump-thlump of rotors sounded in the distance. That was one lucky break, anyway. The rapid response meant the helicopter must have been close by on a training mission or doing aerial photography. But they could use a few more bits of luck. Emily’s blood had soaked through his shirt, and the flow wasn’t showing any signs of abating. Mark drew a shaky breath. He was almost desperate enough to pray—but after twelve years with the FBI, he’d seen too much. The loving, compassionate God of his youth had been lost somewhere in the blood and gore and man’s inhumanity to man. As the seconds crept by with agonizing slowness, the temptation to pick up Emily and run toward the flashing lights in the distance was strong. But he’d been too well trained to take that chance. If the shooter was still in the woods, a rash action like that could be a death sentence for both of them. He had to follow protocol, no matter what his heart was telling him to do. “Mark?” Emily’s voice was growing weaker. When he touched her cheek, her eyelids flickered open, and she turned her head toward him, mere inches separating them. He was close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes. Close enough to feel her breath on his lips. Close enough for memories of their brief summertime romance to surge back—and make him wonder why they’d ever lost touch. “I’m here, Em.” “Remember Wren Lake?” So she was remembering too. Another flood of sweet memories swept over him from her six-week visit to her grandmother’s house two decades ago in his Tennessee hometown. Most of them tied to Wren Lake. They’d spent hours there during that summer of his seventeenth year. Swimming, picnicking—and kissing. Quite a bit of the latter, in fact. Enough to give them both a first, tentative taste of physical intimacy. It had been an idyllic time. A magical interlude that had never been repeated. “Of course I remember.” “Everyone should have a Wren Lake.” Her words were a mere whisper as she drifted away, her eyelids fluttering closed as she let out a long breath. Mark’s lungs locked. Pressing shaking fingers against the carotid artery in her neck, he didn’t breathe again until a steady pulse tapped out a rhythm against his skin. But it was weak. A quick look confirmed that help was on the way, and a surge of relief shuddered through him. A police car was moving across the grass toward them, protective vests jury-rigged over the far windows. It stopped a few feet away, providing additional cover between the bench and the woods. Two paramedics exited, crouched low, and ran toward them as two officers with automatic rifles took up positions behind each end of the car, their weapons trained on the woods. The paramedics dropped down to flank him as he rose to a kneeling position. While one of them wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Emily’s uninjured arm, the other snapped on a pair of latex gloves and reached toward the bloody T-shirt. “I can take over now.” Mark eased his hand off the makeshift dressing as the paramedic slid his in. “I think the bullet hit a vein. She’s been bleeding steadily for seven or eight minutes.” “Pressure’s low. She’s shocky.” As the other technician spoke, he prepared to start an IV line, sparing Emily’s injured arm a quick look as he addressed his partner. “You’ll need a pressure bandage on that.”
For several minutes Mark watched them work—until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Steve behind him. No surprise the man had already arrived. The lean, mid-fortyish agent might have a few flecks of silver in his dark hair, but he showed no signs of slowing down. As supervisor of the reactive squad, he was known for his rapid-response mentality—and he expected no less from the agents who reported to him. “You got here fast.” Mark gave Emily one more look and stood. “I was at a meeting in Clayton. The thermal scan indicated the woods are clear, so we’re free to move about.” He inclined his head toward Emily. “I understand she’s a friend?” “Yes.” Mark took a deep breath. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Not exactly the way I would have planned a reunion.” More paramedics arrived, with a gurney in tow. Mark stepped aside to give them room to work. “You need to get that taken care of.” Steve nodded to his forearm. Frowning, Mark examined the expanse of skin that had been scraped raw from his slide on the asphalt. “Later.” “Now.” Steve caught the attention of one of the paramedics standing by the gurney. “We’ll talk while he works on you.” It wasn’t worth arguing about. There were more pressing matters to discuss. “I take it the shooter got away?” He angled sideways to give the paramedic access to his arm. “For now. The chopper’s going to hang around and do some aerial shots, though. The ERT and the county CSI unit are on the way. We’ll sort things out when they get here.”
Interesting that Steve had called in the FBI’s Evidence Response Team. After all, the St. Louis County Crime Scene Investigation unit was good. But when one of their own was involved, it was understandable that Steve would want to use FBI resources. Once everything was “sorted out” to his satisfaction, odds were the ERT would take over the crime scene. “Is the perimeter secure?” Mark scanned the park. “The tape and barricades were being put up as I arrived.” Mark winced as the paramedic cleaned a particularly sensitive area. “Sorry. You’ve got a lot of dirt in there.” The man apologized but didn’t pause as he treated the wound. “It’s okay.” He’d endured far worse. And he’d learned how to distance himself from physical pain. “I called the Bureau and talked to your boss in Quantico. He wants to set up a conference call as soon as possible. And we need you to debrief the team. We’re going to have to decide how to coordinate this with local law enforcement.” True. Sorting out jurisdiction issues would be tricky, since a shooting like this would usually be handled by the local cops. However, when a federal officer was involved, the FBI would play an integral role in the investigation. In all likelihood, they’d consider it a joint investigation with the Oakdale PD, at least until they got a better handle on the target and motive. In the meantime, his position on the HRT and his recent media exposure would mean serious involvement from the higher-ups back East.
As the paramedic working on his arm taped a final strip of gauze in place, Special Agent Nick Bradley—aka his temporary roommate—joined them. “And you thought St. Louis would be quieter than Quantico.” He held out a T-shirt. “Based on information you provided before I accepted this assignment.” Mark scowled at him as he took the shirt. “Maybe you brought trouble with you. HRT operators do make enemies.” “You want to retract the offer of a spare bedroom in your house for the duration of my stay?” He pulled the shirt over his head. “You know better.” He tugged the shirt down and regarded his friend. With his startling blue eyes, sandy hair, and lean, athletic build, Nick was the epitome of the all-American boy—and he’d taken plenty of ribbing for that at the academy, where the two of them had been in the same new agent training class. And those twenty weeks they’d spent together had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.” Nick dipped his head in response. “They’re setting up a command center over there.” Steve indicated a cordoned-off area surrounded by emergency vehicles, shielded as much as possible from the media trucks already converging on the scene. “Let’s head over and get Quantico on the phone.” “Give me a minute.”
Without waiting for a response, Mark turned toward Emily. The paramedics had put her on the gurney and were preparing to transport. “How is she?” He addressed his question to the closest technician. “The bleeding’s under control and she’s stable. But she lost a lot of blood.” The man took a look at Mark’s hands, withdrew a pack of sterile wipes from his kit, and held it out. “Some of it’s on you.” As the burgundy stains on his skin registered, Mark took the pack and ripped it open, cleaning up as best he could. But it would take a thorough washing to remove the traces of Emily’s blood from his hands. And he had no idea how to wash away the taste of fear that lingered in his mouth. “Is she conscious?” He eased closer to the gurney. “Barely.” “Can I have thirty seconds?” “No more.” Moving beside her, Mark took her hand. She remained pale as death, and her tank top, pristine white half an hour ago, was soaked with blood on one side. Leaning close, he brushed the hair back from her forehead and spoke softly. “Em?” Her lashes fluttered, and she squinted, as if struggling to focus. “Mark?” “Yes. The paramedics are going to take you to the hospital now. I’ll come by and see you later.” “Give me a...rain check on that frappuccino, okay?” She somehow managed a smile. His throat tightened. “You got it.” The paramedics moved into place, and after an encouraging squeeze, Mark released her hand.
“You ready to try to find this guy?” Nick moved beside him as they watched Emily being wheeled away. A muscle ticced in his jaw. “More than.” The command center was teeming with activity when they ducked under the yellow police tape. Steve was already putting through the call to Quantico, and he placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Go ahead and pick up the other line, Mark. We’re both patched in.” Mark took the phone from the communications specialist. A few seconds later, a familiar, gruff voice came over the line. Les Coplin—aka the Bulldog. A nickname the HRT commander had earned thanks to his stocky build, close-cropped gray hair, square jaw, and tenacious determination. “You there, Mark?” “Yes.” “Okay. Steve already filled me in on the basics. What’s your take on this?” Mark shifted into analytical mode at the man’s clipped, cut-to-the-chase manner. He might be a victim in this incident, but he was also expected to provide a professional assessment. It was possible the shooting had been random, perpetrated by some nut who’d decided he’d had enough and wasn’t going to take it anymore. Someone who wanted to send a message to the world. But that didn’t fit. Shooters who wanted to attract attention tended to seek crowded, very visible places to make their statement. Places where they could inflict the most amount of damage in the least amount of time. And in general they expected to be caught—or to take their own life rather than surrender. Today’s shooter had chosen an isolated park on a quiet Saturday morning. Only two people had been in range when he’d opened fire. His aim had been sound. And he’d made a fast getaway.
~~~~~~
I was so impressed with the first book that I had gone out to purchase the two left in this Quantico series... That was almost a month ago and apparently it was time to conclude the series. Today would have been my mother's birthday. I think we were close enough that I would have been able to talk to her about what is going on in today's world. It was she who had all of her children in church each time it was opened. It was she who worked to have at least two of her children learn the piano so that we could assist in the music portion of services as needed. And when we all were given voices that were half-way decent, each of us participated in the choir or special singing... I think that it is important to let my readers know that I've depended on God as part of my life for much longer than most of the individuals who are now leading our government... So that, when I watched the above video, well, I felt like gagging... When a man has to include himself within such a speech, which was so obviously written by somebody else, it is sad to recognize that the speaker has no idea of who God is and How He Talks With Us...
For surely, Irene Hannon has such a relationship. Hannon writes books that allows her readers to enter into the lives of her characters, with only the story to see God at work. And in this particular book, she places the villain as a man who claims he is following what God requires him to do... He refers to one phrase "An Eye for an Eye" and uses it to proceed with what he wants to do. Get revenge for losing his family...
This phrase, an eye for an eye, is used in two Biblical locations, Leviticus 24:17-22 and in Matthew 5:38-42. It is provided purely for your information. Pointing out only one thing - that Jesus spoke against the original use...
While arguments could be made by many, Hannon clearly writes about how she sees the issue from a legal standpoint. To seek retribution, especially when an individual is only peripherally involved, is wrong. Illegal. And the FBI Will be on the case... In a personal and professional way...
If this is the first time visiting my blog, you may be confused by my expansion beyond a regular review sometimes... This is one of those times. I thought the above particular video was relevant. You may recall the big discussion on critical race theory, which was pulled out of the cosmos as a political "bang" at some point in the republican race when they started talking about being "woke." No matter how many times it was pointed out that critical race theory was a college-level concept, it continued to be incorrectly used. In my opinion, it was to attempt to discount the use of critical thinking which is, in my opinion, what each of us routinely does in daily life, if they are allowed to... In any event, take this from the standpoint of thinking clearly about "an eye for an eye." Not only are there hundreds of ways to consider how that phrase could or should be used, it is also relevant whether and who is using the phrase... Hannon has done an excellent job, I believe, in teaching us how Jesus would teach...
My quarry was late. Very late. Shading my eyes, I scanned the deserted jogging path and shifted the rifle cradled in my arms. I couldn’t linger much longer without risking detection. In the past couple of hours I’d already seen a few too many runners and dog walkers, despite the oppressive August heat. But no one had yet ventured anywhere near my concealed position in the woods at the edge of the park. After studying my quarry’s habits, I’d chosen the time and place with care. And I’d walked through the exercise dozens of times in my mind. Park behind the First Congregational Church, unoccupied on this hot St. Louis Saturday. Leave the car at the far end of the isolated parking lot, next to the woods that separated church property from the park. Cut through the dense thicket. Wait for my target. Take my shot. Return to the car, slide the rifle back inside the weed-eater box on the back seat. Drive home. Dispose of the gun. I stroked the sleek steel barrel, the taste of regret sharp on my tongue. Destroying my favorite hunting rifle would be hard. But hanging on to it once this job was finished would be too dangerous. My only consolation was that it would end its life doing God’s work. Shifting position, I lifted my arm and wiped the sweat from my forehead, leaving a wet splotch on the sleeve of the dark green shirt that provided excellent camouflage. Then I turned to scan the empty church parking lot barely visible through the shrubby undergrowth beneath the trees. I hadn’t sought out a house of God as my staging area, but it was fitting. For I was here to follow a directive from the Good Book. I was here to claim an eye for an eye. And if my quarry didn’t show today...I’d find another time to carry out my mission. Ten minutes later, as I was about to scrap my plans and head back to my car, my patience was rewarded when my target appeared in the distance. My pulse surged, and I wiped my damp palms on my slacks. Closed my eyes. Lord, guide my aim as I do your work. After exchanging my cotton gloves for a pair made of snug-fitting latex, I lifted the rifle. Fitted the stock against my shoulder. Pinned the figure in my crosshairs. And waited. There was no need to rush. I could do the job at 150 yards, but why not wait until a hundred? The closer the target, the better the odds I could finish this in one shot. Either way, in three minutes, max, the score would be settled. Justice would be done. Timing and patience were everything—whether hunting animals or people. * * * Warmth rose in shimmering waves from the asphalt jogging path, the humidity already stifling at eight o’clock in the morning as a trickle of sweat headed south between Mark Sanders’s shoulder blades while another tracked down his temple. Man, it was hot. Without breaking rhythm or slowing his pace, he tilted his head and lifted his arm to swipe the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead. Bad as the heat was, though, he’d endured far hotter conditions.
It may have been called a God Incident when Mark was on the location where Emily would be that particular day. There are many writers out there, maybe even more these days, who are writing books to express what they believe in relation to what actually happens in the United States or other location. Mark and Emily had known each other as teens. Mark was the first who remembered that she had been the first girl that he'd ever kissed... And, now, it was a beautiful memory returned to his mind.
As the sniper took his shots, both had been within the planned range of the villain. Not only had he missed, but he decided to move quickly out of the area to plan for a next attempt. In the meantime, both Mark and Emily, by protocol, were both placed under constant watch... Mark would be watching Emily, while Mark's former partner was sent in to act as his backup... BTW, this trilogy features three FBI agents from different sections and three women in need of assistance, which also results in all three falling for the Quantico hero ... That triples the involvement and storyline for the trilogy and the three men and women who are slotted to fall in love... I enjoyed getting to know the characters as each of the books continued the male trio of friends, and their wives.
The storylines are all wonderfully written and the personal friendships of those six were intricately drawn in order to ensure readers have the full impact of character development... And the relationships that develop when God is part of storyline.
Because if she had nothing left to give, she wouldn’t notice there was no one to give anything to.
Nick was spot-on. He did have marriage on his mind. Like it or not.
The renewal of vows had been surprisingly moving. As the service concluded with an instrumental meditation piece on the harp, Mark glanced at Emily. After two weeks, she bore little physical evidence of the trauma that had nearly taken her life. The bruise on her temple was gone, the remnants of the abrasion on her cheek masked by makeup. While the bandage on her arm remained, peeking below the edge of her short-sleeved silk jacket, the bulk had been reduced to Band-Aid thickness. In another few days it would be gone. And in two weeks, so would he. For good. Unless he chose to stay. The burning decision of the day. “Mark? It’s over.” At Emily’s soft comment, he looked up. She’d risen, and the other guests were moving toward the exit. He stood and took her arm as they left the pew. “Sorry. I was lost in thought.” “That’s what a meditation is for.” Coop was waiting for them in the vestibule. “Nice service.”
And, as each found love in the other, so, too, the love of God was shared.
Because, of course, both Emily and Mark had a personal backstory that had led them to be good and effective on the jobs to which they'd dedicated their lives and time. This increase tension, confusion, and discussions among friends. Could a relationship that began many years ago, actually be rekindled through the chaos that now surrounded them?
And so it was that the book ended and there had been no retribution for the man who lost his family. At the same time, two young boys who had gotten involved with the case had been part of the fascinating ending. Simply by thinking through what they were seeing, knowing what was right or wrong, and taking responsibility for speaking out... as their parents had taught.
Whether you see the connection that I automatically did is only a choice for you... Each of us must critically think through what they read or hear... If it results in violence, serious review and contemplation should be part of our thinking... Consider how the work of the heroes of Quantico actually used legal actions to reveal that what one thinks is true may actually be nothing but somebody using the words of the Bible, a book, or even a phrase--An Eye for an Eye--out of context. The purpose is selfish--to attempt to skew not only his own thinking but the thinking of others to commit criminal actions. Violence is never the answer in my opinion, but even I know that each situation can and must be considered before assuming what should be done in any given situation.
I encourage you read this book... The characters' actions are those that you might find are worthy of considering as to what is right or wrong in your life. Choosing to act in violence is not a choice that should be easily taken. Especially if you are being told something by those who are known for not speaking Truth...
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