Favorite Author, Lauren Carr, Presents Her Latest - Shadows of the Missing - A Chris Matheson Cold Case Book 5 - A Personal Favorite! With Playlist...

With a heavy sigh, she collapsed into his arms. “What if she pushes one button too many and I end up killing her?” “You can call Elliott and me, and we’ll help you get rid of her body.” She chuckled. “You’d do that for me?” “I vowed for better or for worse.”

Kassie gave a short, humorless laugh. “Always the cop, huh? Even when it’s family.” “Especially when it’s family.” Helen finally met her gaze. “I spent over thirty years wondering why people disappeared on us. I’m not losing you to something stupid like this.”

“How many pitchers of beer did you drink?” Elliott asked with a wicked grin. “Three,” Chris asked. “But Helen and I weren’t driving and—” “But buzzed enough to kill all inhibitions,” Francine giggled. “Let’s just say while this hotel is nice, the walls aren’t that thick,” Elliott said. “I’m in the mood for love,” Doris sang. Helen’s face flushed. “We are married.” Doris held up her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m glad that you and my son have a sexually happy relationship.” With a sigh, Chris rubbed his flushed face. “Not for the rest of our stay here.”

It's been quite some time since I read a book by Lauren, but I knew that there would be a basic sameness that made me make her one of my favorite authors... First, a dog will always be a member of the family... Indeed, Lauren started out with a family series and has continued the saga down through the years, spotlighting each generation in one way or another... In my mind I might not be able to remember the ancestral lines, but I can still picture the first main character and how he came to be a rich cop! LOL

And, you will always feel like you're in the midst of a family event... Even with the latest, which includes the Geezer book club (the club is a cover for solving mysteries) there is a feeling of kinship, of laughter, of warmth and sharing that also comes along with backgrounds of individuals which makes the pain and hurt even more poignant to read about... If you're looking for a long-time series or a quick read, do check Lauren Carr out, by entering her name in the right column and pulling up book after book that has brought pleasure to thousands if not millions!

“I’ve made absolutely no headway,” Doris told Helen as she took a seat across from her. “But I’m going to crack this case. All the book club has to do is identify her, then we can find out who killed her and stuffed her in a barrel.” A group of retired law enforcement investigators, the Geezer Squad pretended to be a book club—because they were afraid of what their families would do if they knew that instead of reading crime fiction, their parents and grandparents investigated true crime. Their latest case was The Lady in the Barrel. “Mom is obsessed.” Chris refilled his glass of lemonade and joined them at the kitchen table. “Aren’t you going to take a shower?” Doris asked. “You’re sweaty.” “I’ll take a shower before dinner. I just want to rest for a few minutes.” He reached across the table and slid his mother’s copy of the folder containing the details of that month’s cold case. 

“Can you imagine contracting to have your deck rebuilt and finding a dead body encased in a barrel that has been there for decades?” “How do you not notice a fifty-five-gallon barrel under your deck?” Helen picked up the copy of the forensics report of the barrel’s contents. “Do you know what’s under our porch?” Doris asked with a wicked grin. “Our house is a hundred years old. There’s no telling what secrets the Matheson family has hidden inside these walls or under our floors.” “The key is the barrel.” Chris pointed a finger at the picture of the rusty barrel on the report Helen was scanning. “How many people have fifty-five-gallon barrels lying around? It isn’t something you just pick up at the local hardware store. If we contact the company that made the barrel, they may steer us toward the killer.” “That combined with the used motor oil they found inside with the lady,” Helen said, “That’s a lot of used motor oil. We’re talking about a service garage.” “So, the killer has to have some connection to automotive.” Chris picked up the picture of the composite sketch of the Lady. “What details has the forensic pathologist given us to narrow down our search of the missing persons database?” “He believes she was in her late twenties to early thirties,” Doris said. “Female. She had long blond hair. She was a bleached blonde. Five feet four inches tall. Weighed approximately one hundred and fifteen pounds. She had given birth at some point.” The three of them passed around the picture of a young woman with long blond hair. She was a pretty woman. “What was the cause of death?” Helen asked. “I doubt if she crawled into that barrel to die of natural causes.” “The investigators said she died of asphyxiation,” Doris said. “She’d been strangled.” “Strangling someone with your bare hands is up close and personal,” Chris said. “Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble to hide the body. The killer got the barrel, sealed it, and concealed it in a location he knew would remain undiscovered for a considerable period.” “The homeowner had lived in that house for three years,” Doris said. “Law enforcement completely cleared him. Law enforcement has accounted for every woman in his life. Francine researched every homeowner from the time the house was built forty years ago to the present and discovered no potential victims. One of her sources told me that law enforcement has done the same. There’s no missing woman connected to anyone who lived in or had any connection to the crime scene.” “Did they find anything else in the barrel besides the body and dirty motor oil?” Helen asked. “The victim wore white jean shorts and a blue and white striped shirt with shoulder pads,” Doris said, “Now the shoulder pads tell me that this murder must have taken place in the 80s. Shoulder pads were a big thing then.” Chris mentioned the house was built in ‘83. “Forensics determined the clothes were all upscale designer brands,” Doris said. “Even her underwear was expensive. We’re not talking about Rodeo Drive. But we are talking about Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s. The type of woman that people would notice if she had disappeared.” “That points to our victim having an expensive taste in clothes,” Helen said. “I’d say,” Doris said. “Not only was she wearing designer clothes, but jewelry, too. She also had diamond sand dollar earrings. We're looking at a woman with means.” “Someone has to have reported her missing,” Helen said. “We just haven’t found the report yet.” “Did they find any other jewelry?” Chris asked. “Wedding ring?” “Nothing. No purse or wallet or driver’s license giving her name,” Doris replied. “That’d be too easy,” Helen said while giving Sterling a cracker with a slice of cheddar cheese on it. “No hit with her DNA in the national database?” “Or familial DNA.” “You said she had given birth,” Helen cast a glance at Chris sitting next to her. “That means she’s someone’s mother. She’s got family out there looking for her.” “We’ll find her. The Geezer Squad is on the case.” Doris gathered the reports and cleared the table for dinner. 

“How did your helpers do?” The sly grin on her face revealed she knew the answer to her question. Chris let out a sigh filled with exhaustion. He laid his head in his arms on the table. “The highlight was the last hour when Katelyn got a splinter in her finger. While Sierra, Victor, and Buck administered first aid, Nikki and I collected the last two truckloads of hay and hauled them to the barn.” “Three people to remove one splinter?” Helen asked with a laugh. “Katelyn takes after her grandma,” Chris said. “I never needed a splinter to wrap a man around my little finger.” Doris winked at Helen. “All I needed was to turn on my irresistible charm.” “Why didn’t you use your irresistible charm on Elliott to get him to help me bale hay?” Chris asked in a sleepy tone. “He would have, but he had to go help that friend of his down in Georgia. Do you know where you made your mistake?” Doris shook the case file at him. “You should have had a bigger family. When I was growing up on our farm down in southern West Virginia, hay season was a big thing. All our aunts and uncles and cousins would come out. The women would cook all day and make desserts while the men would be out baling and hauling in the hay. Then afterwards, we’d be eating and gathering around the bonfire and shooting off firecrackers.” She continued to recount stories about her childhood in rural Appalachia as she put away her research and prepared dinner. Their voices lowered to a very dull roar in Chris’s ears as he drifted off to sleep. “Who’s that?” His mother’s question crashed through his slumber.

~~~~

Whoa, did you notice that the setting for at least part of this latest case is centered on West Virginia and Morgantown, where I used to live, as part of the search area? Carr is known for her novels being set in this particular area, but tapping into Morgantown was a bit more closer home for me. Made me connect more right from the beginning!

Before we go any further, this book starts out as a specific cold case, but becomes so much more that you will boggle at the complexity of your story line... So be prepared!

Christ Matheson is the ancestral main character; however, his wife, Helen, and her sister really set the stage for the entire book. You see, quite recently his wife's sister, Kassie, contacted her. The two sisters have been estranged in recent years... The girls lost both their parents at early ages. They both disappeared. Helen had been adopted and had a better life than Kassie who had been in several different homes during her childhood. But Kassie had come to realize that she needed to find some place--somebody--to be a part of a family for the rest of her life. She started with finding Helen and asking her to work with her to find out what had happened to her parents... And once that decision was made, of course, the entire Geezer group became part of the search. These individuals, by the way, all have some type of background that provides them a special expertise by which they can help in a formal criminal investigation. And when they started working a case, the pace, I must say, is much faster than any normal police procedural book you will ever read! LOL!

Once a plan has been made, they start the investigation, which almost immediately, led to the discovery of a body. It was not the girls mother, but the body did still wear costly jewelry, which could be identified and allow moving on to the next step in the search. In fact, each action that was discovered, soon resulted in the discovery of more bodies!

Just not the girls parents!

Staring out at the historic downtown buildings and the distant silhouette of Halliehurst Mansion against the forested ridge, Helen nodded. “Or maybe we just got bigger.” Her voice was quiet, laced with the weight of questions they’d carried for decades. They were here to uncover the truth about their parents, and in this quiet Appalachian town—gateway to endless trails yet rooted in its own stubborn history—that truth felt closer, and more daunting, than ever. Kassie turned at a light to take an exit ramp off the freeway leading into Elkins. “You can be the bad cop. You’re good at that.” Shooting a sideways glance at her sister, Helen ignored the dig.

“I used to entertain you kids by singing Dolly Parton songs.” “And play the guitar,” Helen said. “That was me.” Dani did a deep bow at the waist. “I perform most weekends at the local saloons.”

But soon they were traveling back to where the family clan was still living. Helen visited first and was immediately welcomed back with their pet name for her--this would be important as the search gets more tense! But an interesting event they discovered was that their mother had become involved with a group of call girls called the Suzy Qs, but she was known for her helping them with the business management rather than actually being involved... And all the SuzyQs that were still in town praised what their mother had taught them to be able to get out on their own and made a better life...

“Suzi Q was a class operation,” Dani said. “Didn’t any of you feel you were being exploited as sex workers?” Helen asked. “Nobody grows up saying they want to become a sex worker.” Trudy shrugged her shoulders. “In my case, I was being sexually abused by my stepfather. I ran away at sixteen–to Abby’s house. We had been best friends forever. I happened upon what Abby’s mother did for a living. I thought, why not charge for it? At least I could support myself. Your mother tried to talk me out of it.” “My grandmother was a prostitute.” Kassie stared at her uneaten slice of pizza. “My mother was a madam. My father came from a family of thieves.” “Oh, so you know about that,” Dani said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Do you ever regret taking up that line of work?” Helen asked. “I did what I had to do to survive,” Trudy said. “When it was time to turn the page on that chapter, I turned it and never looked back.” She leaned toward them. “Your mother wasn’t proud of what your grandmother did. She tried to get her out of that work. But just when she thought she was making headway, your grandmother would slide right back into it. She made good money, and she needed it to support her bad habits.” “Being level-headed, Abby could see things more clearly than any of us,” Stephanie said. “We all had baggage. Mostly low self-esteem. Abby knew we needed someone with a steady hand to guide and encourage us to look toward a future beyond Suzi Q.” “Use Suzi Q as a stepping stone to something better,” Helen said. 

As with most stories these days, we soon are introduced to the fact that Helen and Kassie had come from the wrong side of town and had been frowned upon by those with money or power--and there is both. I really don't know whether it is on purpose, or whether every rich family acts like many political families or their rich neighbors, but we certainly have them in this book... 

And that leads me to a point I especially wanted to mention about Lauren's books...Readers will be totally involved in "life..." with every facit... One minute the team will be involved in searching for possible cars in a waterway. While Helen, watches her sister dance in shadows as she waits for her friend who will be searching for any cars. Helen hides, not wanting to spoil her sister's moments of joy as she waits to have her close friend join them... For me, this helps to blunt the vision of the crimes that had been committed years ago, while, these breaks of wanting to be with a loved one allows us to gain warmth and safety, as we realize we are not alone in any type of tragedy... Carr excels at this type of twist and turn from one type of scene to another!

It was those in the higher class of town who conceived the story that Helen and Kassie's father had run away with a wife of another to go to Hollywood... But as the investigation developed in depth material, there was no evidence of their father being the man who had traveled out of state. Indeed, soon there was evidence that the woman he supposedly went with, was not the one who traveled out of town--in fact, did anybody? Yet the same rumor was repeated over and over and over, as if lies could make something false become true...

In fact, there was only one specific clue about, on the other hand, what had happened to their mother years later... And it was that Kassie, at age 5, had seen her mother get into a van with Pee Wee Herman... with his famous pinstriped suit... Could a child have correctly remembered that image for decades?

The group settled in, voices dropping lower, the office suddenly feeling smaller—and the stakes, somehow, larger. Outside, the dining room carried on with its usual clatter, but here, forty-five years of secrets had just surfaced...

“Can’t you see that those of us living in the present have lives to live? Some shadows are best left alone.” “Would you be saying that if it was your daughter who went missing and Destiny here had to grow up without her mother?”

You may think we are coming to the end of the story...but you'd be wrong...Wonderfully wrong!!! Because this author not only closes out every single issue/murder event, she presents a fantastic scene for each! Some are funny, some are sad, some reveal accountability which is much needed these days... You get the idea, right? Because this author is one of the best to be found for a totally unique type of family drama which happens to include exciting and intense scenes, one of which has to be read to believe, when Sterling acts to save the day! The signaling between Chris and his K-9 was so extraordinary, I'd defy anybody to figure out exactly how it occurred, unless you're a dog master too! LOL

“Always wanted to flatten high society. Feels better than I imagined.”

Helen and Kassie walked down the aisle together, heads high, family—blood and chosen—following to the front. The organ played “Amazing Grace.” Jethro stepped to the pulpit. “Dearly beloved,” he began, voice carrying to the rafters, “we gather to lay Michael and Abigail Hartman to rest—two souls taken too soon but never forgotten. They leave behind children who carried their light through the dark, and a family fractured too long. Today, that fracture mends.” He looked out over Hartmans, Suzi Q ladies, Geezers, and cousins. “Mike and Abby didn’t see this day. But I believe they’re watching. And I believe they’re smiling.”

Grab any book from Lauren Carr

Find justice, accountability, and Family Love and Truth

This one is a Personal Favorite for Me!

GABixlerReviews

One of My Favorite Authors, Nevada Barr, brings her own brand of Story - Blind Descent (Anna Pigeon Mysteries Book 6))

 Anna could see that a thin drizzle had started. Cold, gray, winter rain, falling on concrete. Soft, lifeless rain. Ray Bradbury rain.

I'm past the time when horror in books or movies phase me... But, this book? I was holding my breath in many scenes... I was amazed that this story was based upon a real location... I was impressed with how she chose to write this book--essentially in two parts--the horror of this cave as an individual lost there in uncharted territory... and the mystery of death there... Her writing told exactly what was there, true, but the way she told it, readers will actually feel Anna's fear as she faces a totally new experience that she has never faced before... And if you've read other books by this Federal Ranger, you will know that she has faced many dangers during her professional career... Without fear...

But this location was some place she didn't want to be. First she was claustrophobic. And she had a fear of being underground... But you would never know about these fears except through revelation by the writer as she shares how she experiences them, without letting other people know... I have to say that this female character is one of the most badass heroines I've ever met through a books...

First, I've had the wonderful opportunity to visit nearby Laurel Caverns in Pennsylvania... It was an exciting day for me, I had already, for the first time ever, gone down the rapids of a nearby river which was so exciting! But then headed over to the caverns. I'd never seen anything so beautiful, realizing they were naturally made... The key difference, though, that you should know is that the part where the spelunkers are visiting the undeveloped part of the cave that is shown in these videos. They have lights, guide ropes, a guide with you as you go through, and, in general, are completely safe... and free of all potential problems.

Very few people had ever even seen the part of the cave where Anna will be going... She had been especially requested by a coworker to come. She had been hurt in a fall and would have to be taken out for medical help, even though a doctor was part of the small group touring at that time. She was happy to come when they had put out the call for emergency help and was first assigned to a desk to control traffic, etc. It was only after she had agreed to help that the site director told her why she was there--at request of the injured woman they needed to rescue...

If you have not already read first post, please do so now...

Anna mocked herself for feeling like a woman in a tumbrel, jouncing through her last glorious moments toward the guillotine and the vast unknown. Still, she rather wished the day had closed without this final hurrah of heavenly fireworks. A sunless world would have been that much easier to leave behind. After too short a ride, the pickup pulled off the rutted dirt road into a wilderness parking lot incongruously marked off with concrete curbs. Anna’d been too engrossed in morbid imaginings to recollect the twists and turns they’d made through the wrinkled landscape, but she guessed they were only three or four miles from the headquarters buildings. The discovery of Lechuguilla in the backyard had put Carlsbad Caverns National Park in the odd position of having doubled in size overnight. Oscar had likened the experience to “finding Yellowstone in your basement.” Holden Tillman opened the tailgate, and the three of them divided up the gear. As they started the hike to the mouth of Lechuguilla, Oscar filled Anna in on the team briefing. Holden Tillman was officially titled Underground Rescue Coordinator. He was in charge of all activities subterranean. The NPS had borrowed him from the local Bureau of Land Management office because of his expertise in caves and cave rescues. Oscar assured Anna he was, in caving circles, known as the Holden Tillman. A quiet person with an aw-shucks drawl, Tillman seemed half embarrassed and half amused by Oscar’s effusions. “Oscar’s going to write my eulogy,” he told Anna, a slow smile blooming beneath a brown brush of mustache. “He just wants to get some practicing in before I’m dead.” Anna liked Holden right off. She hoped nothing happened to change that. Experience taught her her first impression of people was dead wrong as often as not. This time she had a gut feeling it wasn’t. Tillman was of an age with Iverson—in his forties—but there the resemblance ended. He was a small man, maybe five-foot-eight and a hundred thirty pounds with skin that looked shrunk to fit a wiry, muscled frame. Crow’s-feet radiated from the corners of his eyes to curve down in unbroken lines along the sides of his face. His forehead, wide and slightly sloping, was cut by horizontal lines as sharp as old scars. The effect of this network of time was a wizened soul, blessed with wisdom and, possibly, “the sight.” At least that was the fanciful image that floated up from an old fairy-tale illustration buried in Anna’s memory. Despite narrow shoulders and small frame, Holden carried a prodigious amount of equipment. Though half a foot shorter than Oscar, arms and shoulders were corded with muscle where Iverson’s were mapped in bone. Anna guessed his pack was seventy or eighty pounds but it didn’t bow his back or take the spring from his step. As he walked ahead of her along the trail Anna heard sotto-voce snatches of song. She laughed. Holden sang the digging song Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs sang on their way down into the mine. Anna saw the cavern sparkling with a million lights and peopled with benevolent spirits. Despite herself she felt better than she had since Iverson had brought her the news of Frieda’s head injury. Holden and Oscar, along with CACA’s superintendent and the chief of resource management for the caverns, had organized a four-person team that would follow the two men Anna was with. The second team would carry a stretcher for the evacuation, medical supplies Dr. McCarty had requested, and a Korean War-vintage field phone with spools of wire so Holden would have telephone communications with the surface during the carry-out. The logistics were staggering, and Anna was duly impressed that the details had been hammered out in such a short time. There were people for every aspect of the rescue: cavers who would do nothing but rig the drops for hauling Frieda up the long vertical and near-vertical ascents; cavers to schlep water, packs, garbage, batteries, and food. Anna listened to the plans being rehashed by Holden and Oscar as they walked single file along a ridge above a dry creek bed, and she began to wonder what would undo her first: her fear of enclosed spaces or her fear of crowds. The sheer absurdity freed her mind, and for a time she was able to shut out the human murmurings and enjoy the hike. They were on a plateau to the north of the gypsum plains that spread down into Texas. What vegetation managed to eke out a livelihood from the parched soil kept a low profile. Little had grown to greater than knee height, and there were barren spaces between plants. With the lifting of the clouds and the dazzling clarity of the rain-washed air, Anna could see to the edge of the world, or so it seemed, and the world was all high, clean desert, burnished with gold. Even knowing she walked over limestone honey-combed with passages, she couldn’t imagine a less likely place to find the entrance to a world-class cave. She pictured the plateau cut into thin sections and placed between sheets of glass like the ant farms she’d seen as a child. Beneath her feet, creeping through those twisting tunnels, were human beings. “There it is.” Oscar interrupted her musings. They’d walked down a slope and crossed the stone bottom of a wash to climb again. Ahead of them was more of the same: low hills dotted with desert shrubs and cactus. “See that green spot?” Iverson pointed to a cluster of stunted trees poking from a fold in the hills. “That’s it.” Anna took his word for it. Within a few minutes they’d reached the trees, and still she was none the wiser. Not until they climbed down four or five feet to where the oak trees had found soil to root could she see the entrance. Back in the rocks an opening maybe twenty feet wide, thirty long, and ringed by heavy overhanging brows of rock, showed darkly. Over the years Anna had made any number of rappels from ten to two hundred ten feet. After the first step, she’d thoroughly enjoyed the trip. Suspended like a cliff swallow over lakes in the Absaroka Beartooth, dangling above a sea of dusty live oaks in northern California. There was an above and a below. Here, she noted with an unpleasant tingle, there was neither. In the theatrical light of coming evening, the entrance to Lechuguilla looked like a portal, one lacking the standard three dimensions agreed upon by the real world. She’d read of holes described as yawning, gaping, hungry—words that suggested an orifice, an appetite. The sixty-foot drop leading into Lech didn’t fit any of those adjectives. Rather than sentience, it suggested a departure from life. The last rays of the sun skimmed its surface, lighting the stone for fifteen feet or so. Below that, nothing. Night took all. “Hi ho,” Holden said happily. Iverson began checking ropes secured to bolts near a tree that showed scarring from when it had been used as an anchor in previous descents. “The climbs are all rigged. We leave them that way along the main trade routes—established routes through the cave. We’ve found it does a lot less damage to the resource to leave the rigging in place than having every expedition rerig each time.” “Me first, you last?” he said to Holden as he threaded the rope through his rappel rack. Holden nodded. Oscar leaned back and walked, spider-like, from sight. The sun slid below the horizon, and Anna felt suddenly cold. “It’s getting dark,” she said, and hoped Tillman hadn’t heard the faint whine beneath her words. “So?” “Off-rope,” drifted up from the black hole. “Good point,” Anna said, threaded the rope through her rack, pulled on her leather gloves, and unhooked the safety. “On-rope,” she shouted down, and stepped back into the darkness.

~~~~

Prepare to shudder... For in the early stages, there had been some preliminary mapping and work by teams to prepare for easier access at a later time. Much later. Soon Anna began to feel like she was buried and soon realized that there is absolutely NO light underground... And, given the type of cave that had been lost for so long--nobody knew how long--it soon hit her that there were no small cracks that allowed some bits of light where they were walking. Only blackness! Nor were there any living life that we all know on the surface or even in other caves--bugs, sounds of birds, bats moving. Nothing could live in this cave... 

It wasn't long before they were in uncharted territory. That meant that the two guides/leaders had to install climbing equipment and teach Anna how to use it. Fortunately she had rappelled down rocks so was quite prepared for that task. What she was to come to dread was having to crawl through spaces with only the head light revealing what was right before her. Often, the threesome had to break up, using ropes to climb up or down, and then holding the ropes to expedite the next individual. Anna, thankfully, was placed in the middle of the experts... She felt safe--except from her own fears of being in extremely tight spaces... Oh, and just a little tidbit...because of the fragility of the environment, no human wastes were left behind, including human waste... which had to be properly packaged, depending on the type of waste it was... Yikes!

In fact, it was during a bathroom break that Frieda, a secretary at Anna's base of operations, had fallen... and now with various injuries including a possible head concussion.  When the threesome finally found the location where the spelunker group was resting and waiting, Anna was quickly taken to let Frieda know that her friend was there... Frieda was still confused and dealing with the pain, but she recognized Anna, tightly held her hand and said to Anna, "It wasn't an accident..." Later, Anna saw that Freda would go in and out of full consciousness.

And, Anna found that Frieda didn't seem to remember what she had told her. However, since Anna was already a Ranger law officer, she was, thankfully, immediately on alert, knowing that this group of people could possibly have caused the accident... And, later, her murder... I'll talk about that more in the next part, coming soon... 

GABixlerReviews

The Chosen by Sharon Sala - This Book Became the Kickoff to Sala Being A Favorite Author! Find Out Why!

What if he didn’t live long enough to offset the sins of his previous lifestyle? He’d been preaching and trying to do good to his fellow man, but now he felt it wasn’t going to be enough. The panic that ensued left him weak and shaking. He didn’t want to go to hell. “God help me. What do I do?” The answer came as a thought, soundless, quiet, but affirming. Live as I lived. 

Prologue 

“I’m dying. They won’t say it, but I hear it in their voices. They look at my chart and then look away. Please, oh please, don’t let me die!” Jay Carpenter’s panic was as silent as his voice. The last thing he remembered was slapping one of his girls for holding back money on him. He’d been running more than a dozen girls for over six years, and no matter how careful he was in picking them, there was always one who had to mess things up. He remembered the impact of his palm against her face, and then he’d felt a sharp pain behind his right ear. After that, everything started spinning around him. He vaguely remembered the girls screaming and someone shouting, “Call 911!” And then everything had gone black. 

All he knew now was that he was in a hospital, where he’d had surgery to remove a brain tumor, and that he had a fever that wouldn’t abate and an overwhelming sense of despair. 

*** 

Alice Presley was in her eighteenth year of nursing, and during that time, thousands of patients had come under her care. She considered herself an old hand at the job and often claimed that she’d seen it all. But that was before the patient in bed 315B was admitted. She kept a wary eye on him as she bathed him, even though he was unconscious again. She’d looked at his chart often enough to know the history. His name was Jay Carpenter—a fortysomething pimp who had passed out in his apartment and suffered a seizure. He had been admitted with hallucinations. The initial diagnosis of drug overdose had been dropped after the discovery of a tumor involving his pituitary gland and part of his brain. Surgery had been performed, but unsuccessfully. Only part of the tumor had been removed. He had a continuing fever, and kept lapsing in and out of a coma. The only difference between this man and the countless others she’d ministered to was the fact that when he was conscious, he scared her. His eyes were so dark they appeared to be black, and there was an odd smell about him that no amount of bathing seemed to change. It was a smell that she associated with the morgue, and if she didn’t know better, she would think he was already dead. Just as the thought moved through her mind, he coded. Without a second of hesitation, she hit an alarm bell and then began performing CPR. Nurses rushed in with a crash cart, followed by a pair of doctors who’d been on the floor making rounds. Each knew the other’s purpose and skillfully went through the motions of recovery, even though their initial efforts seemed futile.

 *** 

“No, no, no! Not yet! Not like this!” Jay Carpenter took his last breath at the same time that his soul left his body. It wasn’t anything like what he’d expected. There was no struggle to breathe, only a cessation of pain. For a brief moment, he was above his body and looking down, and then a force unlike anything he’d ever known began pulling at him—or whatever it was that he’d become. The gravity of his earthbound body was missing, and the only thing he could liken it to was the lack of control he’d once felt on the downhill slide of a giant roller coaster. Light surrounded him, bathing him in a warmth and love unlike anything he’d ever known. It was everything he’d ever wanted as a child and lacked as an adult—a love and acceptance he’d never believed existed. It was perfect, so perfect, but then something began to go wrong. The light that had warmed him began to retract. The implication didn’t sink in until the joy in his heart was replaced by an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. The air began to vibrate with a multitude of voices wailing in chaotic abandon. The sound pierced his being, paining him in a way that stabbing knives would have pained his earthly flesh. What was left of that warmth and love had dissipated, replaced with every earthly fear he’d ever had—and in a quantity beyond imagination. Panic was followed by a horrifying realization. This wasn’t heaven. It was hell. He began to scream, but the sound was lost in the wail of the countless souls already inhabiting the space. It was too late for regret. It was too late to ask God for forgiveness. It was too late—too horribly late—for everything. Burning lakes of fire rose up before him. The stench of sulfur was without and within as evil surrounded him. Just at the point of complete absorption, something happened. Only seconds from extinction, the same feeling of motion he’d had earlier was back, only this time he was being pulled up instead of down. “Praise God!” he cried. “I’m going to heaven after all.” Then a loud, hideous roar came at him from below, and although no words were ever spoken, still he heard the devil’s vow. “You’ll never go to heaven. You’re already mine!” 

*** 

“I’ve got a pulse!” Jay thought he screamed, even as he was being sucked back into his body. He wanted to shout, to laugh and cry, to thank the doctors and nurses for bringing him back to life, but words were still beyond him. It was days before he was cognizant enough to speak coherently. By that time, he had come to a definite sense of purpose and set his mind upon a twisted and daunting task. What he’d seen of hell had worked deep into his being. He knew it was inevitable that he would die again. It came to all men in good time, but to assure himself that his second journey would not be a repeat of the first, he had come up with what he considered a foolproof road to heaven. After a disconcerting discussion with his surgeon, in which he’d learned they’d been unable to remove all of the tumor and he was living on borrowed time, his dedication to his plan became even firmer. He couldn’t bear to think about having to spend eternity away from that warm, comforting light of love. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that something drastic must be done. Within hours of being released from the hospital, he began his first step toward what he believed would be perfect redemption

~~~~

As you know, my mind has been centered not only on my reading, but also on the tragic developments that happen daily now in the U.S. When I began reading the Prologue, of course, my mind automatically went to all the actions surrounding Jeffrey Epstein and his girls who he sold out... to rich men... Jay might not have had the brains to be a high-class pimp, but, bottom line, it was the same old, same old... Criminals have discovered that they can make more money selling girls or women--even more than selling drugs! 

But there is no way around it. Once a man who has chosen to degrade girls and women in the most horrible way, what it takes to be such a man can only be called...evil...

Sala has taken a theme against women since the beginning of time... It was during Jesus' life that men were ready to stone a woman for being a prostitute. Yes, they were going to murder the woman... Jesus not only defended her, but shamed the men who had contemplated her death...

But the fantastic twist that Sala presents right in the Prologue, is that Jay Carpenter learned that he was destined for Hell... And he was scared...to...death...

~

Used for illustrative purposes - News Reporter investigation of homeless hitchhiker...

January DeLena was one of Washington, D.C.’s most well-known journalists. On 9-11, she’d been on-site and broadcasting only minutes after the plane had flown into the Pentagon. Then the world had watched as she’d abandoned her microphone and begun helping survivors who’d come running out of the building. By the time she’d remembered what she’d been sent there to do, she was covered in soot and blood, and had cursed and cried on air. Normally, that would have gotten her fired, but not that day. That day she’d only voiced what the nation had been feeling. By the end of the week, everyone knew the name of the pretty television journalist who’d called Osama Bin Laden a bad name. Over time, it became apparent that January DeLena wasn’t just a pretty face. When it came to getting a story, she was tenacious, which was why on this night she was on the streets of the red-light district at one-thirty in the morning, mingling with the homeless, instead of sleeping in her own bed. For months, she’d been hearing a rumor about a man who called himself the Sinner and who claimed to have had a near-death experience. Now she’d heard he was moving among the homeless and the lawless, preaching his own version of eternity. In most cases, this would have been just a story about another religious zealot. However, this story had a unique twist, and unique was the key to January’s success. It had become fashionable to speak of near-death experiences. Many had written books on the subject, usually claiming that they hadn’t wanted to come back, and that they’d felt a great sense of peace in death. But this man had a different story to tell, and one that had tweaked her curiosity. According to the gossip on the street, this man had literally been to hell and back, and lived to tell the tale. Now January huddled beneath the awning of a secondhand store as wind blew rain against the backs of her legs. She didn’t mind so much getting wet, but the stench emanating from the woman with her was overpowering, and getting wet only added to the odor. She turned her back to the wind and tried not to breathe too deeply as she spoke to the woman beside her. “So, Marjorie, you say you’ve seen the Sinner yourself?” Marjorie Culver’s fingers curled a little tighter around the push bar on her shopping cart. It had been a long time since anyone had taken notice of her, and the attention made her feel a little disoriented and vulnerable. Still, she felt no threat from this woman and finally nodded. “Yep… I saw him two, maybe three days ago. He was beneath an overpass near the Potomac, passing out coupons for a free fish sandwich from Captain Hook’s. He had a whole basket of ’em. Someone said they were probably fakes, but I took one anyway, and they took it at the drive-through when I gave ’em my order.” Then she laughed, as if struck by the humor of going through a drive-through on foot. “Was he preaching?” January asked. Marjorie shrugged. “I guess you could call it that.” “What do you mean?” January pressed. “Well, he was holding a Bible and all, but what he was saying sounded pretty radical. I don’t think he was quoting any scriptures.” She shrugged again. “It didn’t really matter, though. No one was paying him any mind. They just wanted the coupon for the free sandwich.” January nodded. She certainly understood. There had been days in her youth when she might have done just about anything for something to eat. Thank God those times were far behind her. “Do you know where he lives?” January asked. Marjorie frowned. “Nowhere and everywhere, I guess. I wasn’t sure, but I got the impression that he was one of us.” “You mean homeless?” Marjorie glared. “For some, it’s a choice, you know.” January backed off on her intensity. “I’m not demeaning your existence, Marjorie. I was only asking as a means of locating him so I can talk to him myself.” Marjorie frowned and shoved her cart a little closer to the door she was leaning against. The stuff in her cart was all she owned, although she’d long since forgotten what all was in there. “Yeah, well… I can’t help you any on that. I’m not into addresses myself.” January sighed. She hadn’t meant to, but she’d obviously insulted the woman. “All right then,” she said, and gave Marjorie’s arm a quick squeeze. “Thank you so much for talking to me, Marjorie.” Then she slipped a hundred dollars worth of twenties into Marjorie’s hand. “Get yourself a room tonight and treat yourself to something good to eat.” Marjorie was taken aback by the money and for a moment thought about being insulted all over again, but then a quick gust of wind blew rain down her neck. She took the bills and stuffed them into one of her countless pockets. “Yeah… I’ll do that,” she said, then added, “See you on the TV.” “Absolutely,” January said, wondering when Marjorie ever got to watch TV, and made a dash toward her car, which was parked less than half a block away. Once inside, she locked the doors and breathed a quick sigh of relief that she had a home to go to and a car to get her there. When she turned the key, the sound of the engine starting echoed the jump of her heartbeat. As she turned on the windshield wipers, a tall thin man wearing dirty white pants and a shirt that hung loose to his knees stepped out of the alley in front of her. His clothes were sopping wet. His long hair was equally soaked, and plastered to his face and neck, as was the beard hiding most of his face. There was a brief moment of connection as their gazes met. When he began to smile, she hit the headlights, flipping them on bright. It was his signal to move, which he did, but without shifting his gaze. The expression in the man’s eyes made January shudder. The degradation of the place and its people hit her like a slap in the face, and for the first time in her life made her doubt the wisdom of following this story. Then she gathered her wits and reminded herself of how far she’d come from the poor little Latino girl from Juarez, Mexico, to the woman she was today. She’d worked long and hard to gain credibility, and apologized for nothing. With renewed vigor, she slammed the car into gear and stomped on the accelerator. Tires squealed as rubber burned. All she needed was a hot bath and a good night’s sleep, and she would be fine. Less than a mile from her apartment, a police cruiser came racing past her, running with lights and siren. Up ahead, she could see what appeared to be at least a half-dozen more police cars and almost as many emergency vehicles. Immediately, her heartbeat accelerated as her instinct for the story rose. But she reminded herself she was not on duty, and as she drove past, saw the news crew from her station. Kevin Wojak was standing near an ambulance with a mike in his hand, speaking directly into a camera as rain peppered his face. She smirked. All he had to do was take a few steps to the left and he would have been standing under a canopy, but that would have diluted the dramatic effect he was obviously going for. Wojak considered January competition. January considered Wojak a pain in the ass. Despite her reluctance to watch Wojak working the camera, she was forced to stop as an ambulance pulled away from the scene. When it raced past her, she said a quick prayer for the occupants, then waited for traffic to clear. As she waited, a tall, dark-haired man suddenly stepped out from between two parked police cars and walked in front of her vehicle, momentarily spotlighting himself in her headlights, much as the bearded man on skid row had done earlier. But her reaction to this man was far different. She knew him intimately, had made love to him in her bed, on the living room floor, in her shower, and once in her walk-in closet—but only in her dreams. Benjamin North, one of D.C.’s finest homicide detectives, didn’t know it, but he haunted her sleep, taunting her with his heavy-lidded stare and slow, sexy smile. In reality, they’d done little more than trade jibes at various crime scenes—his springing from disgust at the arrival of the media and hers from what she considered unfair disrespect. Except for one night over a year ago. With the windshield wipers swishing back and forth in January’s line of vision, she thought back to the disaster that had brought them together. 

*** 

It had been snowing for hours, which was frustrating for the crime scene investigators, because the snow had covered up whatever clues might have been left behind that might help them find out who had killed Mandy Green. She hadn’t taken up much space in the world, and what space she had had been what nobody else wanted. Now she was dead—raped and strangled, although the coroner couldn’t say which had come first. What was newsworthy about the murder of this particular hooker was that, according to the ID Mandy Green had in the purse beneath her arm, she was only twelve years old. Benjamin North had been assigned to the case. What he hadn’t known until his arrival at the scene was that the victim was a child. Granted, the child was wearing a faux fur coat and knee-high white boots, but that was all. When he lifted the blanket to look at the body, he stilled, too shocked to let go, too numb to look away. Her baby lips were smeared with a dark red lipstick; her wide, sightless eyes were a clear, pure green. Her hair was red and curly and wet from the snow in which she was lying. But it was her pale, childlike body that knocked him for a loop. She had buds where her breasts were meant to be, and a small thatch of pubic hair that had just begun to grow. One leg was lying at an awkward angle, and her right arm had been flung over her head, as if the attacker had shoved it out of the way to do his deed. “Jesus,” Benjamin whispered, and then dropped the blanket and turned away. His hands were shaking and his stomach was rolling. He could handle anything but kids. They got to him every time. He lifted his head and took a deep breath, hoping the blast of cold air would clear the horror from his mind. As he did, he noticed that a news crew was already here. “Damn vultures,” he muttered, as his control shattered. He strode past crime scene investigators, street cops and a waiting ambulance, ready to do battle. He rounded the bumper with a fight on his mind and found no one to fight. The camera crew was nowhere to be seen. He turned abruptly, expecting to see them across the parking lot, getting film of the victim. The only people he could see were the crew from CSI and a couple of patrol cops. It wasn’t until he started to walk away that he heard someone on the other side of the hedge, crying. He walked around it, then froze. He knew who she was. Everyone knew January DeLena. But he’d never seen her like this. “Lady, you’re not supposed to be here,” he said gruffly. January flinched. She hadn’t heard him walk up, and she wasn’t in a mood to talk. She raised her head and then swiped at the tears on her face before turning around. Oh perfect. It’s North. I don’t need any more grief right now. She meant to argue, to state her rights to get the facts of a story—her usual freedom of speech and press argument. But when she opened her mouth, her sorrow betrayed her. “Did you see her?” she cried. “She’s only a child.” A huge, hiccuping sob came out between an inhale and an exhale as she threw her arms up in the air and then hit the trunk of a tree with the flat of her hand. “Where is God when things like this happen?” She spun angrily, her face streaked with fresh tears. “You’re the detective. You tell me!” she cried. “Where is God now?” Ben was stunned by her rage. It was like looking at a mirror image of what he was feeling. When she turned on him, he acted without thinking. He grabbed both her arms at the wrists and pushed her against the tree she’d just hit. “Stop it,” he said. “You don’t want to hit me. You could get arrested for assaulting an officer.” She looked up at him, but saw nothing but a blur through her tears. “Why don’t they get her out of the snow? It’s fucking freezing, and they’ve let her lie in the snow like a piece of trash.” Ben felt her pain. Without thinking, he pulled her into his arms. She fought him, pushing and moaning and trying to get free. He dodged blows and turned a deaf ear to her curses as she wailed at everything from God to the lowest lizard, and still he held her. And when she wore herself out from the grief and the rage, he took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from her face—and then kissed her. It wasn’t anything planned, and if he’d had his head on straight, it wasn’t anything he would ever have done. But he was as appalled by the waste of the brief life as she was and it seemed natural to give comfort to another grieving soul. Too stunned by the taste of him on her lips, she didn’t move. But when reality began to click in and she knew this wasn’t part of some dream, she slid her arms around his neck and wholeheartedly kissed him back. She had a vague memory of unbuttoning his coat and sliding her hands beneath his sweater to the warmth of his skin before they both gasped and then stepped back. There was a long moment of silence in which they stared at each other in disbelief. Then, without saying a word, January picked up her tote bag and disappeared. By the time Ben came to his senses and walked out from behind the hedge, the news van was driving away. “That did not happen,” he muttered, and then headed back toward the crime scene to finish his job.

~~~~

Sharon Sala is known for her Romantic Suspense, but this one adds horror into the mix... And the excerpts are even before the second chapter... The book is complex, but a page-turner as well... January DeLena had earned her reputation as a leading news hound. And right now, she was working on a story that nobody else knew about... She was known for going into the area where homeless people stayed and little by little she was picking up that many of the homeless were disappearing... She intended to find out the "Why?"

At the same time, Jay Carpenter, who had met death and escaped, had become a changed man. He dubbed himself "Sinner" and began to tour the area talking about religion, with his own personal slant... He had seen "Hell" and made it back and now was sharing his story as a warning... But he still felt like he had to do more--he couldn't take any chance to be sent back to where he'd been. But, the surgeon, in clarifying that he had not been able to reach all of the tumor, had told him to expect a shorter life, perhaps just months. Jay felt he had to act faster and prayed, thinking he had been given God's answer: "Act like Jesus Acted." He began to explore some of the major events performed by Jesus... 

He had learned stories at some time in his life and with a little research, he then had to figure out how to act as Jesus acted... He remembered that Jesus had caused a scene in front of the temple and drove all of the sellers there away from that place. Jay's substitute was to consider the IRS group, who taxed people, as equivalent, and began preaching on the steps leading to the government offices, and then went inside and tried to have all employees leave the building... which had the police going to the building to pull Jay away!

But it didn't take Ben long to connect that scene with the fact that they might be looking for a street preacher! They had a sketch artist create a picture of the man calling himself Sinner...  And January knew it was the same man she had seen, but for her own reasons decided not to share that with the police...

The book doesn't say whether Jay Carpenter had owned a taxi cab, but now he was using it off the books to steal customers from known cab companies. Interesting Jay saw nothing wrong with all that he had begun to do... He thought he was being guided by God to "buy" his way into heaven... Yes, you are right, because as soon as the evangelical christians supported DJT, many questioned the whys of that decision as well... Frank Schaeffer who I've mentioned recently was the first to explain why he turned from his father, from the evangelical church, and now has an ongoing commentary on various channels, including YouTube...

Yes, we can hear these individuals provide guidance, but, for me, reading Sharon Sala's book, The Chosen, has done what Jesus would have done... She told the story of how individuals can think they know what is right or wrong... Or, more specifically, how a former pimp might go about "changing" his life to become one who would be welcomed into God's presence... 

He created his own plan of action...and proceeded... He called himself "Sinner..." And Asked the question "Do you know Jesus?" ...And More...

When you read this book, which I highly recommend you do, plan to read it as if you were reading books being written these days in nonfiction... Trying to point out what this writer or that writer has come to understand and believe... Of course, I do it all the time. But in a fiction novel, there is one major difference... The author provides the emotional impact for all characters as they come face to face with the reality of the kind of cruelty man does to other people... And Sharon Sala does it better than other writers I've read... Plan to cringe at the horror. Plan to become invested in the two who meet at a crime scene and openly react to the murder of a young teen--and become closer through those emotions. This, then, is more you should know about her...

First published in 1991, she is a New York Times/USA Today, bestselling author with 145 plus books published in eight different genres, including Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Young Adult, Western, Fiction, Women's Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Children's books.

Watch for Penance - Coming Next...

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Long-time Favorite Author Catherine Coulter with Fantastic FBI Series Thriller - Double Take! With playlist...

 

Yes, I had to...

"You probably have to swear to keep quiet even after you’re dead.”

"It boggles the mind what people can be led to believe.”

You know, it's such a comfort to come back to a favorite author and remember most of the characters who are steadily working to solve crimes... In this case, a married couple--Sherlock and Savage from an FBI special unit continues to delight, while at the same time a new sheriff, Dix, takes primary point as he is caught in a twilight zone event as he is on the hunt for his, supposedly dead wife that disappeared about 3 years ago. Somehow, it seems natural to sit back and enjoy the book, knowing that the good guys will undoubtedly come out on top--big time!

Enter the beautiful recent widow of a renowned psychic who was murdered... and is now being tracked by an assassin... which gains her another FBI Special Agent who seems to have connected as if by fate...

“My dear Julia,” Wallace Tammerlane said, voice low, flicking a look toward Cheney, “I was distraught about what happened last night, nearly worried myself into a psychic block. Are you all right, my dear girl?” “Yes, Wallace, I’m fine, really.” He gave her a longer brooding look. “And this nonsense a few minutes ago, this man waving around a gun.” “He’s here to protect me, as are the two police officers who came rushing in.” Tammerlane said, “Let me get rid of Bevlin and this philistine agent fellow, unnecessary, both of them. I’m with you now. I can protect you. We can go over to Cecile’s for an espresso. I need to talk to you, take you away from all this. 

Perhaps August will have something to say.” Cheney said, “If August Ransom is ready to check in, Mr. Tammerlane, perhaps he can tell you who killed him.” Mr. Tammerlane raised dark intense eyes. “It isn’t like that, Agent Stone, isn’t like that at all. August doesn’t concern himself with the past, with what came before—” “He doesn’t care that someone cut his life short? That the same person may be trying to kill his widow?” Wallace said patiently, “Agent Stone, when a person has crossed over, all his past pains, past insults, all of it ceases to be important. Indeed, all of life’s difficulties cease to exist. However, the truth of it is that August doesn’t know who killed him. Whoever it was came at him from behind. He told me only that he heard movement behind him, but he didn’t have time to turn around. He’d been taking cocaine, a regrettable habit of his, but he said it helped him focus, made him understand things he couldn’t have otherwise, and it slowed his reflexes, flattened any fear he might have felt. August felt only a sudden awful sharpness in his throat, then immense cold. That was the end of it, and he crossed over and everything changed. He was in The After. “But he is concerned about Julia. He loves her, has always loved her. He is here for her, not in this room with us, mind you, but close.” “He doesn’t know who hired that man to kill me, Wallace?” “No, my dear, he doesn’t know. Those who have crossed over do not become omniscient. They remain themselves.” 

“But he was a psychic,” Cheney said. “Didn’t those abilities carry over to The After?” “No, Agent Stone, they did not. He’s there, you see, no need for those abilities now.” “Perhaps,” Cheney said, his eyebrow arched, “Dr. Ransom could put the word out, ask around with the other spirits, you know. Or maybe he could hang around a bit here, keep an eye on his wife, tell her when evil is closing in on her.” “Evil, Agent Stone? I don’t know that I’d call it evil.” “When someone wants to murder another person, what would you call it?” Wallace shrugged. “Anger, rage, necessity, probably all those things, but not evil. Evil seems to me to be without motive, to exist for its own sake.” Bevlin Wagner surged to his feet, the energy nearly crackling off him. “You said August isn’t here, Wallace. Well, I agree with you. He isn’t here now, but he was before. Then I sensed he had to leave.” Julia jumped to her feet. “He was really here, Bevlin? You’re sure?” “Of course I’m sure. I felt him.” “But why would he leave, Mr. Wagner?” “Who knows, Agent Stone? There’s lots of things for him to do. It isn’t all lying around and singing ‘Kumbaya.’ No, I don’t sense Dr. Ransom at all now, and I would like to. I called to him with my mind voice, trying to call him back, but he said nothing at all. “I do agree with you, though, Agent Stone. If I were August, I’d be here with Julia, not off somewhere counseling some departed soul.” He shrugged, stroked his chin with long thin fingers. “But August always went his own path, and dying wouldn’t change that.” Cheney wanted to throw up his hands and tell the both of them to go away, but one of them might be Dr. August Ransom’s murderer. One of them might have hired the man who tried to kill Julia. Cheney said, “Do you speak to many dead people, Mr. Tammerlane? ” “Yes, of course. It is a gift, a responsibility, and obligation. I will admit that August fades in and out quickly, that it is difficult for him to maintain a link with me, thus I’ve gotten only brief images and spurts of his thoughts. I don’t know why. Neither does he.” “May I come and speak to you tomorrow, sir?” Wallace gave him a penetrating look, a very effective look, Cheney imagined, to make you believe he knew things, things that were beyond you, things not necessarily of this world. Cheney knew he had to try to keep an open mind about this, but when push came to shove, he was a lawyer, steeped in skepticism. It was hard-wired in his brain not to accept anything he couldn’t see, couldn’t manipulate with his hand and his brain. “Of course, if it could be of assistance to Julia.” “Dr. Ransom was your friend and colleague, was he not?” “Yes. Poor August and I were close for many years.” “And Julia, how do you see her, sir?” “She is a dear girl. We were to have dinner Thursday night, but alas—you know what happened, Agent Stone. I will be at home at eleven o’clock. Does that suit you?” Cheney nodded, turned his attention to the prowling Bevlin Wagner. “Are you related to Mr. Tammerlane?” “Related? Goodness no. I’m Croatian. Wallace is from Kansas.” He sounded so insulted Cheney wanted to laugh. He cleared his throat. “Would you also be available to chat tomorrow morning, Mr. Wagner?” He agreed, shooting Julia an intense look. But, Cheney thought, neither man really looked anxious to speak to him. Why was that? Cheney wondered. Because he was FBI? Because one or both of them had murdered August Ransom?

“I can’t begin to imagine what Director Mueller would say if he heard you’d cell-phoned a kidnapped psychic without the cell phone.”

Julia said, “I’ll come out with Agent Stone. He’ll want to keep me within sight at all times. He’s the one who saved me Thursday night, you know.” And it was done. She’d nailed coming with him very efficiently, no fuss at all. Cheney could have told her he actually welcomed her company, and he did want her close, but he liked that smug, triumphant expression on her face. It was better than the empty fear. “I can still ditch you,” he told her when they were finally alone again. “Nah, you can’t get away from me now. Besides, I can tell you all about Wallace and Bevlin.” She lowered her voice to a Transylvanian whisper. “Stuff that will make you shudder and turn pale, roll your eyes back in your head, jerk up in your bed in the middle of the night out of a sound sleep, sweating, your heart booming like a native drum. You haven’t seen their old interview records yet, have you?” “No. It’s Sunday. Frank said he’d get all the files ready for me tomorrow morning. I’ll go over to Bryant Street and look at them before I come here to pick you up. I have this feeling, though, that since you were always their focus, there won’t be a lot of in-depth information on any other players.” “Yes, I was their only focus.” “Yes, I realize that. You wanna know something else? Don’t you think Tammerlane and Wagner could be related—they look like father and son?” “I haven’t really noticed before, but yes, maybe you’re right. They do hang out together quite a bit. Bevlin lives in Sausalito— you’re going to love his house. He asked me to marry him a couple of months ago.” “What?” She nodded. “Yep. And dear Wallace asked me for a date at about the same time. I figured that since I’m no beauty, it was because I’m rich. But both of them are quite well off financially, what with the lucrative book deals and their group consultations that bring in something like a thousand bucks an hour. Maybe they would both like to live in this beautiful house with me.” “A thousand bucks an hour? What a racket.” “A racket? Maybe, but—” “But what?” “Come on back to August’s study. I’ve got lots and lots of tapes, of August and Wallace, even a few of Bevlin on TV. Also some of Kathryn Golden, another psychic medium. You’ll want to speak to her too. Let’s see what you think after you’ve seen them.” “I’m trying to keep an open mind.” Yeah, like I’m going to believe in spirit communication. Not in this lifetime. “The mediums—do they see themselves as something like priests—the great connectors between those left behind and those in the beyond?” 

“Something like that. The Beyond is just one name for the afterlife. August always called it The Bliss, Wallace calls it The After. I’ll give you one of the books August wrote.” “And one each of Tammerlane’s and Wagner’s.” She nodded. “Yes, and Kathryn Golden too. Come and watch the videos and tell me August isn’t for real, Cheney.”

~~~

Readers will be moving back and forth between two seemingly different storylines which, ultimately, form together to bring the whole book together...

Julia is the wife of a man who was murdered, with an FBI Agent now--you will quickly note--who finds his mind turning more and more to her when they are apart. Cheney was out on a blind date which was not going well and he goes outside to take a breather. He immediately sees what is happening nearby. A man had moved to attack a woman. He runs to her and saves her life... That's the first attempt...

The assassin, we find, is a perfectionist and an egotist who doesn't believe what happened was possible. And he immediately begins the second attempt, which took place in her home. Julia was more than just a beautiful wife to a famous man. She was intelligent and prepared to act on her own. As soon as the first attack was over, she prepared for a possible second... And not only did she wound the assassin, but she then chased him continuing to try to kill him! He was furious! And even when his boss said to let it go and leave town, he refused... Retribution--thy name is a conceited misogynist. This man will appear over and over as the book goes on, still not giving up his quest!

In another plot, a godfather has seen a ghost. Or, rather, he believes he has found his godchild who is now living in another state. He calls his friend, her father, who immediately contacted Dix and seeks his help to go find the woman and verify whether or not she is his daughter... Dix had been married to her and they had two children. She had disappeared a little over three years ago and Dix had become involved with still another Special Agent. But they were all in limbo since a body had never been found to prove she was dead.

Dix will be traveling and had contacted Savich for guidance. He was invited to stay with Sherlock's parents... The woman was married to a very wealthy man, much older than she was, who was in politics. A decision was made for the Sherlocks to host a party to listen to a political talk about changing his voting plan to vote for another candidate. Dix would be an outside guest visiting, but attending the dinner. It could have been a good plan, but Dix was shocked when he saw the woman. Throughout dinner, he would examine her features, slowly gaining certainty that she was not actually his wife... But as time went by he had a chance to see her diamond bracelet--the exact bracelet he had bought for his wife on their honeymoon... Later, he learned that the woman's brother played for the Atlanta Symphony and lived close to his home town... Was she or wasn't she his wife? Does everybody lie these days? There was no way to let it go... Proof had to be found! And Dix was going to find it! But soon, he had brought his lover, Ruth into the investigation that had to be done... Dix believed that something had happened to his wife--he just wasn't sure what... But he knew he wanted to get hold of that bracelet!

In the meantime, Cheney and his new partner, who refused to not be involved, if he she was constantly in danger of being assassinated, began to interview the three closest psychics with whom her husband had been friends, on of which I just have to share a short blurb with you...

The front door was ajar and so they walked into a small, dimly lit entrance hall. Cheney called out, “Is anyone here?” “A moment,” a man’s shout came from upstairs. “Go into the living room, on the right.” The small front room was all windows that looked toward the bay—the tip of Belvedere, Angel Island, even Alcatraz was in view. Beanbags, all of them bright red, were scattered throughout the room, some in small groupings, some alone. The walls were bare, no bookshelves, no photos, nothing but those dozen or so bright red beanbags. In less than a minute, Bevlin Wagner walked into the living room, wearing only a thick white towel knotted below his waist. “Hi, Bevlin,” Julia said, evidently finding nothing strange in this. He walked up to her, leaned down, and kissed her mouth, then straightened to study her face. “You look beautiful, Julia. I was so worried about you yesterday, you were so pale, so frightened.” She nodded. “I’m fine now. Thank you for taking the time to speak to Agent Stone.” “No problem.” Bevlin, the towel loosening a bit around his waist, nearly mesmerizing Cheney, said, “Agent Stone. I’m pleased you’re keeping Julia safe.” When in psychic Rome, Cheney thought, and shook the man’s hand. He wanted to tug on the towel just to see what he’d do. Bevlin Wagner was dead white, and his burning dark eyes and long black hair made for a compelling contrast. He had very little body hair. “I was in the shower, didn’t want to keep you waiting.” “You’re always in the shower, Bevlin,” Julia said. “Go put some clothes on. We’ll be right here when you get back. I promise I won’t let this dangerous FBI agent search the beanbags.” Those soul-probing dark eyes hit Cheney’s face square on. “I didn’t have time to wash my hair,” Bevlin said. “It looks clean enough, don’t worry,” Julia said. “Get dressed.” Bevlin left the room, whistling Bolero, if Cheney wasn’t mistaken. “He does this exhibitionist thing often?” “Oh yes. It’s sort of his trademark. I don’t know why, since he isn’t all that remarkable a specimen.” “Has he ever lost the towel?” “Yes. He paraded out with his towel once when I arrived before August did. The towel hooked on a doorknob and whipped right off. I looked him straight in the face and told him I knew a really good personal trainer.” “He wasn’t insulted?” “Didn’t seem to be. He said personal trainers were too hairy except for the women, and they scared him.” Cheney laughed. “What’s the deal with all these red beanbags? How long has he been doing this?” “Ever since I’ve known him, and I don’t have a clue.” Bevlin Wagner came back into the room, wearing old gray sweats, his long narrow feet bare. “Agent Stone, I know you’re here to question me about the attempts on Julia’s life.” Cheney said, “Yes, I appreciate your time. Mainly, I’d like to ask you about Dr. August Ransom’s murder. There seems to be little doubt that the attempts on Julia’s life and his murder are connected.” “I don’t know anything about any of it, I’m afraid.” He looked over at Julia and blessed her with his sweeping intense look. “If only I did know something—are the two really related? Okay, maybe, maybe. Wallace and I wondered about that, of course. I must tell you this, Agent Stone, when August visited me last night, he told me he really doesn’t like you, that you might be dangerous, and I should be careful not to anger you. He’s displeased about your being with Julia. He didn’t say so, but I’d wager he’d be much happier if she were with me.” Julia said, “Bevlin, there is no earthly—or unearthly—reason for August to be concerned about Agent Stone. He’s trying to find out who garroted him, after all. Despite what Wallace says, I think August would want his murderer brought to justice.” Cheney said, “Bevlin, what you said, it is what August thinks, not what you think, is that right?” Bevlin walked to the huge front window. “Of course it’s what August thinks.” He paused. “The fog’s finally lifting. I have three clients today. The first one a batty old doll who wants to give all her money to a nice-looking young man who says he’ll set up a trust for her. There’s a big commission for him, naturally. God knows what’s in the fine print.” He shuddered. Julia asked, “What is your role in it?” “I’ve already approached her husband, so to speak. His name was Ralph, owned a large piece of Sausalito at one time. He asked me to call his son, try to keep her from losing every dime he earned. Said those dimes had been too hard to come by to hand them over to a smarmy, good-looking crook. Ralph said he heard she’s not going to be joining him for a number of years yet, so she’ll need all the money he left her. I called the son a little while ago.” He shrugged again. “He was foaming at the mouth. Maybe some good will come out of it, we’ll see. Hey, Agent Stone, maybe you could go pop this crook.” Cheney found himself drawn in, believing for a moment that this very strange man had indeed spoken to Ralph, a very dead person. He couldn’t help himself, whatever Julia thought. “Did you really dial up the dead husband, Mr. Wagner, give him the lowdown?” “Ralph? Well, not really,” Bevlin said. “It was one of my guides who tugged on me, told me to talk to this old geezer, he needed to know what was going on.” “Guide?” “Yes, my guide. I am speaking English, not Croatian, Agent Stone. All of us have guides, all of us. But some of us are too unaware to even recognize that they’re there. I happen to have a good dozen of them, all for different matters, you see. One knows finance, one speaks beautiful Hindi, one has perfect pitch, is very proud of that and is often telling me what he’s listening to at the moment, and the key that’s being played—but he’s not much use, as you can imagine. There’s this one guide, all he can talk about is Egypt, about all the time he spent in the library at Alexandria. “My best guide is a real schmoozer, can chat up those who have passed over, tell me what’s in their hearts.” “Do your guides have names?” Bevlin frowned. “Do you know,” he said slowly, bending those dark eyes on Cheney’s face, “I’ve never thought to ask and they’ve never offered. They’re all very individual, really. I never had need of names to speak with them.” Julia said, “Bevlin, you said yesterday you knew August had been there, but he’d had to leave. But you spoke to him last night?” “Of course.” Cheney asked, “When you spoke to him, was it through a guide?” “Ah, August is different. He isn’t like other people who’ve passed. He already knew how things work, how to get through to me.” “I’ve never heard about guides before,” Cheney said. “I mean, are they dead people who volunteer for this duty?” “That’s a novel thought, Agent Stone. They’re simply—there,” Bevlin said. “Simply there, like when I first realized I could see things other kids couldn’t, a guide told me what was happening. He’s still with me. Sometimes he wakes me up when I oversleep and a client’s coming.” Cheney said, “Can you talk to one right now?” Bevlin Wagner eased down into a big red beanbag and closed his eyes. He sat perfectly still. Cheney felt like he’d wandered into Disneyland Croatia. Bevlin’s eyes slowly opened. They looked dreamy and vague. Odd how that could change so quickly. “I spoke to my first guide. He told me I had the gift but I have to continue to grow before I can truly become what I was meant to be. He said I had to work on being more grounded, and listen to those who know more than I do. He knows I can reach my potential, and he’s doing his best to help me.” “But why did he come to you specifically and not someone else?” Bevlin cocked his head at Cheney. “This might take a while. Please go into the kitchen, have some coffee. I made it this morning.” Then he closed his eyes. For a moment, Cheney was convinced he’d stopped breathing. He took a step forward. “No, it’s okay,” Julia said. “Let’s go to the kitchen. You really don’t want to try his coffee. He has bottled water.” “Yeah, sure.” Still, Cheney kept looking back over his shoulder at the man sitting as still as a tree stump on a red beanbag...

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This series is moving toward 30 books and still going strong... If you enjoy FBI cases... Do check out this one... And, if you haven't tried BookBub...there's free or cheaper great books waiting for you! Catherine Coulter is a wonderful author that you should at least experience once!

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“I can’t begin to imagine what Director Mueller would say if he heard you’d cell-phoned a kidnapped psychic without the cell phone.”

“No, but when they find out, they’ll cheer you for being such a heroine.” Julia saw a couple of tourists in jeans and short-sleeved T-shirts, trying to brave the cold wind, shivering violently. She should tell them the sun would come out, maybe, but instead, she threw back her head and broke into “Tomorrow.”