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Showing posts with label human trafficking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label human trafficking. Show all posts
Ok Folks, I just can't help it... I met James Houston Turner with his very first Talanov book... and I've been receiving personal messages from him to his fans every since... Like me, James had to stop for a period to take care of medical issues... AND, in his latest, I immediately noticed a difference in this book... which made me ever more excited! Hey, Sorry! If you've never got excited about a book or author, you, my friend, are missing a lot in your life, JMPO...
From the Front of the Book:
Forty years ago, a hero was born. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but that is when the real Aleksandr Talanov and I crossed paths. I do not know his actual name. Talanov is the name I gave him. I was an idealistic smuggler of Bibles and medical supplies behind the Iron Curtain, and in doing so, I attracted the attention of the Soviet secret police, the KGB. The world behind the “Curtain” was a dystopian police state that was very foreign to this small-town Kansas boy. And my humanitarian actions were perceived by the Soviets as a genuine threat, so the real Talanov, who was in the KGB, leaked word out of Moscow that I was on a watch list and in danger. I found the notion ludicrous, but I learned very quickly that it was not, especially when I was told he would be executed if his actions were discovered.
But he saw something in me that inspired him to take the risk, and thus was born the character of Aleksandr Talanov. I grew up in a time of heroes. Back then, the heroes in books and on television were usually squeaky-clean good guys. That is a far cry from reality, which I first noticed in Sunday school with many of the biblical characters I came to admire. Take King David, the shepherd boy who slayed Goliath. David had the heart of a lion – a man “after God’s own heart,” as it is recorded of him – but who was just as much a sinner as he was a hero. Which is the case with most of us: we are a messy blend of both. Thus, in Talanov, I worked to create a hero with flaws who was still undeniably a hero.
I admire heroism, where a flawed character puts the welfare of others above his or her own good, and usually at great risk. That is what the real Talanov did for me. My mom and dad were also among my first heroes and I am forever grateful for the world of adventure, love, and imagination they gave me. Sorry for all of the gray hairs I gave you, Mom.
Another of my real-life heroes was an American Indian athlete named John Levi. He and my dad were personal friends and I grew up on stories about “Big John” Levi. So, I nicknamed one of the characters in the book “Skee,” which was the actual nickname of Big John. I had the honor of getting to know Big John’s son, John Levi, Jr., and his wife, Mary, so the appearance of Skee in the book is my small way of honoring the memories of John Levi and his son, John Levi, Jr. Thanks also go to the Sieval family, of the Netherlands, whom I met on my first Bible smuggling trip and with whom I have visited on many occasions. This family continues to inspire me every day. Speaking of the Sievals, I wish to acknowledge Eelko and Marja Sieval for making it possible for me to produce my first feature film, Square Pegs.
Another real-life hero from my smuggling days was Josek, a man who had been exiled to the coal mines of Siberia simply for his faith. His integrity and grit will live forever in the character of Aleksandr Talanov. While imprisoned in Siberia, Josek would carve wooden figurines to pass the time. After his eventual release and return to Poland, we met on one of my trips, where he was so moved by my visit that he wept openly. He then went into his house and returned with a small wooden figurine he had carved in Siberia. The carving depicted a robed fisherman holding a fish. “This is for you,” he said. I still have Josek’s carving in my office, and I still remember his exhortation for me to continue “casting my net” on the other side of the boat.
There are also the heroic women I met at the Union Rescue Mission’s women’s shelter, Bethel Haven, where I once worked as a journalist. Several of these women, from Eastern Europe, were victims of human trafficking, and their stories opened my eyes to the reality of that monstrous crime. It was heartrending to hear them describe the abuses they had endured and how they had been traded and sold as slaves and sexual commodities. Their incredible grace and strength in the face of such adversity helped create the character of Larisa.
Those and other interviews also helped me create the character of Namazzi, whom you will meet in this book, and whose composite character represents the tenacity and faith of several survivors and observers of the Liberian Civil Wars, the Uganda Holocaust, and the Nigerian massacres. My challenge was how to capture the rawness of those testimonies without painting a picture that was too gruesome for this book. Reliving those testimonies made me uncomfortable, which is a good thing because I should be uncomfortable with those atrocities, which are still occurring in many parts of the world. I hope I did them justice.
Thanks also to my beautiful wife and best mate, Wendy, who embodies what it’s like to have a servant’s heart, to persevere unspeakable tragedy, and to meet each day with a joy and warmth I cannot adequately describe. Thank you for the inspiration and love you give me, and for catching a whole range of needed tweaks that helped make this story shine. I love you. I could not have done this without you.
And, because books are judged by their covers, I would like to acknowledge the graphic arts genius of Frauke Spanuth of Croco Designs for yet another spectacular cover. Thanks also to Jon Whelan and Beau Wheeler for bringing Aleksandr Talanov to life in such a spectacular way.
Finally, I wish to say thanks to Yeshua/Jesus Himself, who saw fit to give me another opportunity at life when cancer threatened to end it back in the early 90s. I remember my grave diagnosis of having but 18 months to live. But I also remember the unexpected sense of hope that Wendy and I felt. A lot is said of faith, and while the lines between faith and hope sometimes blur, it is hope that keeps us pushing forward and not giving up, no matter how dark and grim life seems. That same sense of hope is one of the themes of this book.
And a final thanks to you, my readers. Without question, I wrote this book for me, since I’ve experienced many of the same dynamics. But I also wrote it for you. I hope you enjoy the ride.
Surprised? Don't Be... I consider Turner as one of the few Authors who actually work to promote each and every book and keeps in touch with fans... FYI
I'm now reading this book and really am so excited! Can't Wait to Tell you About it!
“Quick? As far as I can recall, the name doesn’t come up as part of Allenby’s online network. So, Jaime gets taken within days of these two guys getting killed? What’s going on?”
Danny Cavallo felt a small prick of anxiety. He set his phone back down on the conference room table and tried to focus on the presentation. He was in the first month of a temporary placement with the RCMP. From his role as a detective in the Port Alma PD’s Criminal Investigations Unit, to Operation Ladybird with a national police force? The Royal Canadian Mounted Police? They didn’t actually use horses anymore. But still. Total culture shock. He’d known he’d be working on cross-border crime between Canada and the US, but had been surprised at the immediate assignment to a task force on human trafficking. And the kicker had been the focus on child protection. It had been a challenging introduction to the shadowy world of abuse and exploitation. And now, here he was trapped in a room watching a slide show full of shocking photos and dark statistics, worrying because his own daughter hadn’t checked in after school. His eyes kept wandering from the screen at the front of the room to the screen of his phone. He willed the device to display a cheery text from his 11-year-old. Every so often, he surreptitiously nudged the phone to life, his stomach clenching at the blank screen and the minutes creeping by on the clock.
Once Jaime had turned 10, she’d begged to be allowed to walk home from school by herself. Cavallo and his ex, Charlotte, had agreed, with many conditions. Jaime was proud of her independence, and ecstatic to be leaving the after-school program. With a recent birthday celebrating her 11th, she was growing even more self-reliant. When Danny had thought about the risks, he had to admit there wasn’t too much exposure for the daughter he adored. Charlotte worked from home as a virtual assistant for a law firm and, as they shared custody of Jaime, she picked the girl up from school half the time, anyway. The weeks that Cavallo had Jaime, she had sports team practices on a couple of afternoons, and lots of company from other kids on the walk home from her neighborhood school on the remaining days. Besides, Cavallo’s shifts meant he was home within half an hour of her arrival. Until the new job. Now, instead of heading out of the station in the late afternoon, he was lucky to make it in time for the dinner hour. So far, Jaime had been fine with the schedule. She’d never before forgotten to text him. A voice from his new sergeant penetrated his worry. “Are we boring you, Constable?” It felt strange for Danny to be a constable once again, but his role was comparable to what he’d done in CIU. He didn’t really care much about the title. “No, sir,” he said immediately. But as soon as the boss was focused back on the front of the room, he grabbed his phone and messaged Jaime. ‘Everything OK?’ He honestly expected to get a ‘Yes, dad’ and a bunch of emojis. The longer he waited for the message, the more he could feel his heart rate accelerate. Sweat was beginning to roll down his back. He knew it was an extreme reaction, but after being immersed in Operation Ladybug, his brain was pretty much conditioned to expect the worst. Cavallo no longer cared if the sarge got angry. He grabbed the phone and texted Charlotte. ‘Is Jaime with you?’ ‘Swimming. But it ended an hour ago.’ He leaped to his feet and blurted, “Boss, my daughter’s missing. I have to go.” He looked around wildly, as if someone in this elite group of police officers could magically give him an answer. Of course, he got nothing but startled looks and a couple of shocked expressions. The sarge was all business. “Go ahead. You know what to do. I’m sure she’ll turn up fine, but keep us posted.” Cavallo sprinted out of the new glass and steel RCMP building, and across the large parking lot to his black Jeep, already on the phone with Charlotte and cursing his distance from home and the Port Alma PD. He swept a light dusting of snow off the windshield with the sleeve of his black leather jacket, and hopped in. The RCMP had taken over a new building in the industrial park in Port Alma’s east end. It was large enough for offices, labs, and any other facilities that they needed. But with Cavallo living with his daughter almost at the Gull River on the western edge of Port Alma, it meant a drive across the whole city to get to and from work. At this time of year, it was already completely dark, and this only ratcheted his panic up a notch. “Charlie, it’s me. I’m on my way out of the office. I haven’t heard from her.” “What do you mean? She didn’t text you?” “No. And I texted her, and she never replied. I hope it’s nothing. Maybe she forgot to charge the phone or something. I’m headed to the house to see if she’s there, but it’s going to take me at least 20 minutes. I need you to start calling every friend and teammate you can think of.” “Oh, Danny, what’s happening?” He could hear the tears in her voice, but cut her off. “Just do it. Let me know when you’re done.” He started the car, fastened his seatbelt with one hand, and with the other pushed the speed dial for the Port Alma PD. Before the call connected, he heard the chime for an incoming text. He slammed his foot down on the brake and looked at the screen. Had Jaime finally remembered? His heart sank as he saw it was just a message from a friend. Holly Towns wanted to know if he was free for dinner. At any other time, he would have sent back a heart emoji and an enthusiastic ‘yes.’ But at the moment, he felt like he’d never eat again. In fact, he could hardly breathe, he was so worried. He quickly thumbed a reply. ‘Busy. Emergency.’ In the next second, he heard the voice of the duty sergeant at police HQ. At the same time, he pressed the accelerator. “Sarge, it’s Danny Cavallo.” “Hey Cavallo, how are you doing?” “Bad, sir. I think my daughter, Jaime, is missing. She never got home from school and never texted me like usual. I’m on my way to the house to check, but I haven’t heard from her.” “Slow down, Cavallo. Are you driving?” “Yeah.” “Don’t you have one of those tracking apps on her phone?” Cavallo slammed on the brakes, signaled, and pulled quickly across traffic and into the lot at Memorial Park. He didn’t want to stop, but was kicking himself for not remembering the app. Towns had put it on his and Jaime’s phones a month or two ago and he’d never even looked at it. What was the thing called? Tracker or something. Once the Jeep stopped moving, he said, “Hang on, Sarge. Yeah, I have one, but I’ve never used it. I totally forgot.” He brought up the home screen on his device, and sure enough. Traxsy. There it was. He was almost afraid to look, but took a deep breath and opened it. Jaime, or her phone, was on Lake Street, at the opposite end of the street from Holly Towns’ condo. The whole street was only three blocks long, but Towns was right near the water and the beacon on his phone was further north. “I see it!” he said. “OK, the closest address is 550 Lake Street.” “I’ll send a car. Don’t kill yourself or anyone else getting there. It won’t help matters.” Cavallo tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, ignored the advice, and took off like a shot. He used voice commands to call Charlotte. She sounded as bad as he felt, but he spoke over her. “Those class and team lists. Do any of the kids live on Lake Street?” “I think so. Just a second. Yes. Victoria. Tori Loewen.” “Did you call them?” “Not yet. I’ll do it now.” “Never mind. I’ll be there in five minutes. What’s their actual address?” “645 Lake Street. Is that where she is? Is Jaime with the Loewens?” “I have no idea,” he shouted. “I have to hang up. I’m driving.” “This better not be because of you, Danny.” There it was. If anything bad was happening, it was because of him or his job. He knew she’d eventually end up at that point, just didn’t expect it so fast. He disconnected. He went as quickly as he dared along Petrie and slowed to make a left onto Belvedere. Then two more quick turns, parking just around the corner on Lake. A cruiser was already there, the light rack splashing blue and red all over the road and the fronts of the houses. He glanced up and saw he’d landed right in front of number 645. Dashing up the walk, taking the stairs two at a time, he rang the doorbell and then pounded on the door because no one answered in the first second. A short, blond woman carrying a toddler on her hip opened the door, taking in the police car outside, and Cavallo’s unsmiling face. “What is it? Is everything all right?” “I’m Danny Cavallo. Is my daughter Jaime here?” “No. Sorry. Is there a problem? I picked the girls up from the pool early. It turns out practice was cancelled for a senior swim meet. Jaime came over for a snack. Then she left to walk home.” Her voice was rising. “What’s wrong? She said it was OK, that you let her walk home alone.” Before Danny could respond, he heard a shout from down the block. “Cavallo, over here.” He turned and ran, his heart in his throat and a wave of dread rushing through him. It was no surprise to see that the constable was standing on the snowy front lawn of 550 Lake Street. At his feet was a square pink backpack. He crouched down, and the cop said, “Wait. I’m sorry. Gloves, Cavallo.” “You’re right,” he muttered. He stood and got a pair of nitrile gloves from his inside jacket pocket, and then knelt to open the zipper on the backpack. His worst fears were realized and desperation hammered them home. Towns had done three things over dinner that night. She installed the app on the phone, gave Jaime an electronic key fob for her house key, and attached a second tracker to her pack. All three were linked to apps on his phone. And all three items were right here in front of him. “Useless. Completely useless,” he said, his voice cracking.
~~~~
Human Trafficking is the most horrendous action that has ever entered the minds of criminals... It has been going on for, it seems like, forever, but continues to this day... The terrible part of it is that, often, like with the Epstein case, others are used to bring potential victims into the situation before it is too late. This book explores every aspect of this situation through a series of cases that are being handled by the Port Alma and spotlights the main character DC Holly Towns. Towns is a character that draws readers in, for a reason. She's empathic and sympathetic, that is part of her being and routinely comes to the fore, often faster than her male counterpoints, in "sensing" the connections. That gift has often led to closing many cases.
But this time, there are many cases that are overwhelming the group. Several murders of young men. A group of younger people who have taken a personal interest in what they see as that the police are not effective enough to solve the cases. A kidnapping of the daughter of an officer. As well as a potential domestic abuse case!
And Anne Shillolo skillfully leads readers through the potential or actual connections to be found, while working each case individually...
Men visiting a certain bar seem to be ending up being poisoned, but they are found on the streets, later... So the search takes time and trying to discover if and what is the connections between them is intensive and time-consuming... A final is discovered mutilated, but that was by a snow plow since a major storm has blown in and slowed traffic and activity down even more.
Jamie Cavallo's disappearance hits hard since she's the daughter of Danny, a member of the Criminal Investigations unit at Port Alma. He and Holly had been somewhat involved, but when Danny was sent to the RCMP, things had slowed down. But Holly was just as concerned when she learned that Jamie had disappeared. Her schoolbag had been found on the way home and later a video by a wonderful 80-year-0ld woman who kept cameras running in the front of her house for helping any way she could, was the one that discovered that a man had been hiding and had snatched her. Thank God for those who try to help any way they can! Even in a book! Danny was allowed to stay in his home office until she was found... at least the first time it happened...
“Sarge, what do you think about motivation? Is the person targeting child abusers and people with kiddie porn? Or taking revenge on greedy scammers? Preventing them from destroying more lives.” “Good question, Holly. But I don’t have an answer.”
And then there was the Amber Crew, named after the Amber alert sent out for missing children. These were young adults who wanted, most to help, but in many ways, caused more trouble than if they had just turned in information they found. Their goal was to protect the innocent, but in trying to do so, other people sometimes got hurt...
This book is character-driven, so much so that it becomes extremely complex, so be prepared. With so many cases being handled, together with the use of computer and video support, it soon was movement between and among cases, and a beginning to make connections at least by type of crimes. Finally, I started following Holly as my focal point--she always seemed to be at least minimally involved with all that was happening...
This is a clear police procedural mystery, with even a high-tech type of evidence board/system that allowed one person to input all evidence from which anything could be then merged, compared, and tracked. This proved to bee especially helpful as the WHO behind the crimes became more and more clear...
But... nothing... could prepare you for the climatic ending! Shocking... But...quite appropriate...
I've been talking a lot about connections I've been making--from books, from News, movies and other media... Others, simply by talking with other people who openly share their truth... My library of ebooks is reaching 3000 books, not all of them yet read. and, within the last decade especially, I find I've been reading any book differently from my own earlier reading of all genres. But, I could be wrong, admittedly, it seems to me that more fiction writers use what is happening in the news as a basis for brainstorming.
The Cult of the Constitution written during that period also includes reference to the present president. I didn't need to "make" connections to that one, thankfully. I appreciate her being willing to get specific with Truth behind what she writes as a learned professor. We need more of that specificity. Unfortunately at the same time, we may not be able to learn much about a book just by its title and description. Having our country split at this time has especially resulted in my own purchasing concerns. I refuse to read a book that presents a point of view supporting, say, Christian Nationalism. As you know, I no longer routinely accept books for review. I choose to buy every book anybody has referred to me for comment--and only if I want to read that book.
You will see that I included just one of the thousands of videos available on the Epstein files/Victims--by the way I've read one from a victim and is available by hashtag search. As many of you know, constant news is available on the actuality of linking teen girls with unknown men for sexual reasons. As of right now, only a few of those men to who "used" those girls have been identified. Her Final Hours provides an excellent source by which a conceptual process of the Epstein Business actually worked... The one key difference in this book? All men involved were not necessarily rich, but they could...get...rich... $3M at a pop to be exact...OMG... If you are interested in that book for purposes of learning more about how rich men crave power over girls, read this book... On the other hand, I highly recommend this book purely as one of the best Psychological Suspense Thrillers I've ever read... I've checked and this book has plenty of reviews, so I'm diverting off into "connective" related thoughts.
Noah clicked on his flashlight and began to make the trek through to the pond. As he got closer, the peaceful sound of water gently lapping against the shore was replaced by the ear-bleeding drone of rock music. He could see the light of fire flickering through the trees and a cluster of figures, some were in groups, others dancing. He breathed in the crisp fresh air, taking in the scent of pine and earth. A group of teens was gathered on a small beach area where people could be found swimming or sunbathing in the summer months. Instead, tonight was cold. Snow had fallen, making it the strangest place to hold a party and yet secluded enough that they knew nosy neighbors wouldn’t call the cops. Several hiking trails fissured through the forest near the pond’s edge. The trees around him were tall and majestic, the underbrush covered by a thin layer of snow. March was an odd month. It was often when mother nature would deliver some freak weather. He liked to think of it as the last push of winter. As he got closer, Noah could see the glow of a fire pit illuminating the faces of teens and casting flickering shadows across the surrounding trees. The music boomed from a portable speaker. The beat thumped, and he noted teens dancing provocatively to the rhythm. A waft of burning wood mixed with the odor of alcohol hit him as he passed several teens completely engrossed in their world, oblivious to his presence. Many looked to be eighteen or nineteen. He felt a surge of anger and concern rise. He took a deep breath to steady himself just as his boot kicked a bottle, and Noah looked down to see several empty bottles scattered. He asked one of the teens. “Have you seen Mia?” “Who?” the teen replied, a hint of sarcasm coming from his alcohol-fueled brain. “My daughter,” he replied, his voice tense. “She’s supposed to be here.” “I don’t know, man.” The guy shrugged, his eyes red from smoking too much pot. Noah heard him ask as he walked away why an old dude was at the party. Noah pressed into the knot of teens. That’s when he spotted Mia on the far side. She had an arm draped around some guy sitting on a log. He was holding a beer bottle. As Noah elbowed and turned sideways through the crowd, Mia locked eyes with him. In an instant, she dropped her drink and muttered something in the ear of the guy, who looked Noah’s way before she peeled herself away. Within feet, he could smell the alcohol on her. Although eighteen was the drinking age in some countries, not in New York. He thumbed over his shoulder, not hiding his disappointment. “Let’s go.” She glanced at her phone. “I’m sorry, Dad. I should have….” “We’ll discuss this on the way back.” “Hey, hold up, you’re Mia’s pops,” the guy said, making his way over. “I’m Teddy.” Noah turned back to him as he extended a free hand. The other held his beer. “Ah, I’m guessing you’re the guy.” “The guy?” “How old are you, Teddy?” “Eighteen. Why?” Noah took out his badge. His jaw dropped. His gaze bounced to Mia. It was clear she hadn’t told him. “And that matters because?” “If I have to explain it to you, we’ll do it at the department.” Noah summoned a smile before brushing past him and crossing to where the music was playing. He switched it off, and silence fell over the group. “Party is over. Go home!” He took out his badge and lifted it. Multiple teens dropped their drinks and took off into the forest like it was some raid. Others remained, grumbling, a few throwing out curse words. Noah made his way back to Teddy. “I’m going to cut you a break. But next time, Teddy. It won’t just be me rolling up here. If I catch you around my daughter again, you and I will have more than words.” He heard Mia say something, but he didn’t catch it. He turned and took hold of her arm to lead her out. “Dad. Get off me. You’re embarrassing me.” “You’ve already embarrassed yourself. Now let’s go.” They marched through the forest back to the vehicle without another word spoken. He was fuming. He could understand now why Lena was struggling to deal with Mia. As Mia climbed in, she cursed. “Why did you lie to me?” he asked as he fired up the engine, and it growled to life. “You lied first,” she shot back. “What are you talking about?” “You said that things were going to be the same.” “And they are.” “You pulled me out of school and put me in High Peaks. I don’t want to be there. My friends are here.” “I did it to make life easier.” “For you. Not for me.”
~~~~
Psychological Suspense is just that--the book will keep you on edge until the final hours...or the climatic scene of the book. My thought at this time is that I don't want to take away from that insofar as possible. I'm going to try to share about this book through what you might call Character Introduction...
Noah is head of a team that handles criminal cases--in this book there are five different murder actions that run throughout the entire book. Noah is in the center of four of them. Another officer is in the center of the other...
Given the topic of the events I will be giving facts and not revealing scenes through the book. I know what I mean in saying that, but I hope it doesn't fail to provide sufficient information...
The cases in which Noah are involved are--two cold cases, and two happening in present day. The cold case occurred when he was a young man. He was dating a wonderful girl. She disappeared. Many looked at Noah to be the likely individual to be involved. He was not. It led him into his chosen career. Since that time 25 years ago, there have been many young girls who have disappeared. A new investigation began when a young teen half naked was found on the railroad tracks at night and railroad workers found her, barely alive. They called for help but were shocked to see that letters were on her body. When they got closer they realized that it was hundreds of names written perhaps "etched" into her skin... As Noah began to feverishly try to work with a girl that had no memory, it was later in the book when his own daughter was taken. Sho had been traumatized when her mother died, forced to relocate, and started acting out and going out at night. One night somebody stopped her. A trade of the two girls were demanded. The fourth was also a cold case that was very personal. Noah's wife had died. Noah felt that she was murdered and had been working on it for as many years as she had been gone... He found her killer...
The other murder which was also under this leadership was a battered wife case, the woman was the sister of another officer in Noah's area. The man had been released for "good behavior" but was just as evil as he ever was, even if the jails deemed him able to be released. The first thing he did was to go after his wife. Although not assigned, her brother "handled this case."
“No. No, you don’t get to do that. Just stop. I’m not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you, Maddie. Not like how you hurt me.” His tone was laced with bitterness. “Let me go.” “Once you stop fighting me.” “How did you get out?” He grinned, leaning forward and whispering in her ear as he breathed her in. “Good behavior. At least one of us has been good.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Don’t play coy, Maddie. I’ve seen you with him. Why are you attempting to replace me? Huh?” he asked, his voice dripping with venom as he demanded answers. His face contorted, anger and longing taking over. He wanted to understand, understand why she’d hurt him. “You better let me go. He’s coming here.” “No, he’s not. Don’t lie. Right now, he’s working on a construction site on the west side. Like clockwork.” “You’ve been stalking me?” “Stalking? Is that what you call it?” “You’re breaking a no-contact order.” “Am I?” “You put me in the hospital.” “You put yourself there. I told you to back off. To leave me be. To not keep pushing my buttons. But oh, no, you couldn’t listen, could you? Too busy trying to play the good girl, the law-abiding citizen. How easily you forgot what you did before that. Does Daddy know? Huh? What about your brothers? Don’t you remember?” He paused, hoping that she would nod in agreement. Maybe even smile at who they were — how they were. “We were good together, Maddie. We can still be good together. I’m willing to forget the past. Put it behind us. Of course, that requires you to do the same. Starting with cutting that loser loose.” “Fxxx you!” Tommy brought a hand up. “Go on. Go on. That’s what you do. See what happens.” He lowered his hand, then snatched her phone from hers. Before swiping through her contacts, he brought it up to her face to unlock the screen. “Jake Randall. Huh. How about we call him? And you tell him you no longer want to see him. It’s over. And you’ll put his things outside your house for him to collect.” “Never.”
He drove by a cop car idling in a turnout and smiled. The chase had begun. Tommy was now driven by a toxic mix of obsession and revenge, and today had set the wheels in motion for a sinister game. At the heart of it all, Maddie and those around her would soon discover the line between hunter and prey was about to blur, where anything could happen and would. And only one would be satisfied, and he fully intended that to be him.
Many of you I am sure have been wondering just how long Epstein had been kidnapping young teens... We have learned that at least 1000 girls had been taken. The difference was, that for whatever reason, the girls were kept alive and released (we assume all of them).
In this book, there was no count or even awareness that a cult of individuals were "hunting" and kidnapping young girls... As the investigation moved on, I did, however, see another connection, In the book there was a huge hunting club that had increased in size with added programs, including for girls/women. It reminded me that we know that at least one of the girls from Mar-a-Lago had been approached by Epstein's female pimp (that is the book I read). There has also been a release that a father made a report of an approach to his daughter in the dining room... There was also quite some time ago, a mention that women (known to be illegals at that time) working at the club often were requested and went, whether as service people, we don't know, to the home of Epstein. That has not been brought up since his death, as I recall, though. But, as of today, the judge has given notice to the DOJ requesting a response as to why they have not met his announced deadline for all files to be released... Let me just say, the police, in this book, gobbled everybody up in one ongoing attack activity... But Noah's daughter's kidnapping was a different psychologically explosive venture in itself, ending the book, except for routine book closings...
For me, the most fascinating part of this conspiracy group was the mandated secrecy, even to the point of never being able to leave once involved. Epstein was both secretive and open in relation to group parties.
They had groups based upon individuals' assignments... One for finding the "pigeons," one for gathering them, one for holding them, and on up to those who "funded" the club's activities! There was an option to acquire a "pigeon" for $3M and one man involved tried to do that. Another man was a holder, but fell in love with one girl being held, which led, ultimately, to the main plot of the story.
The police operation to clean up did not cover details, except it became clear that the involved money was flowing through the now, major recreational facility!
A beginning of a conspiracy plot that was just mentioned possibly adds money laundering through a certain club... but that's my mystery solving thoughts and just happened to pop into my mind as I'm writing about the similar correlations of the book to other evil human trafficking activities...
Neither of these thrillers, including the Epstein case, gives a reason--the Why of why men want very young girls...will pay for them to be used for whatever secret reason, or for making money... I've learned somewhere along the line that many who had been drug lords switched to human trafficking because it was much more profitable!!! Does some portion of today's men still crave women as slaves, as mommies to take care of them, or as toys to play with and control as adult women rarely do these days? It makes me wonder just how race is "used" when white male supremacists are in control...
When reality documents fiction, to the growing extent that it has, we can see it is a major part of the control activities of kidnapping people off the streets as well. Is ICE not just a different type of evilness that negatively affects all non-white male supremacists?*
I'd like to think that the new connectiveness is not a symptom of the major problem, but if I can see it immediately, don't you wonder? Suicides of young people has increased. Young students are being murdered in schools, young people are often abused by their parents... even in religious homes, supposedly... Sexual abuse cases have been publicly announced in news of three different denominations that I know of. Several books I've read are about abuse of girls of women, one of them is set in a church, other books reveal the treatment of women by religious leaders across the world... Children are stolen and trafficked into sexual pleasure palaces...
Until I changed my memoir to a journal type rather than two different books, one of which was to be title, A Single Christian Woman: Is Sex All That... If I had more time, I'd write some of my thoughts on this last topic... Beginning with the time period A.D. In the old testament there are many stories about sex. One in particular touched me when Tamar, King David's daughter was raped by her half-brother. First, that means, that David had or kept more than one woman in a harem... or had multiple wives... or just gave a woman he know longer wanted back to her family... Or, another, reselling women to other men is a possibility... Have I missed any type of sexual abuse used by manipulative men? And, Can you blame me when we know that just in the past few days, a young mother was murdered by ICE and immediately the Trump republicans are trying to cover it up, blaming the woman? Just as the offenses performed by masked men working for his administration have attacked man people, including citizens.
What has happened? My first thought was that the Adam and Eve Story was a fairy tale written by men of that time. So they blamed the first woman--the woman who was created by God to comfort the man and be his partner in life... Then think about how sexuality has become a major issue in today's world, not in a good way, in my opinion... Because MEN are the initiators in most cases... It is men who seek out prostitutes, yet the Johns are never arrested... The men who were paying Epstein to find girls for them cannot possibly blame the teens, yet, none of them are being charged and, in fact, hidden from accountability if Trump has his way...
*This terminology, White Male Supremacists was found in the book, The Cult of the Constitution, which points out that the creators of the Constitution were all white male supremacists, some of whom also owned slaves.... There were no woman nor non-white men in this group... Obviously today's citizens were not even considered in writing this document, even if additions have been made, it is clear that they can be "unmade" as was Roe by this administration.
Must all non-white male supremacists men forever stifle the equal coverage of all U.S. people in the U.S.? The question must be asked since it's been going on for thousands of years in one way or another...
GABixlerReviews
Noah Sutherland Needs to Be in the White House...
Just My Personal Opinion based upon this one book...
Or at least head of FBI, ICE, or some Security Function
Things happen in a good way with a Jack Hunt book!
He is NOT a Male White Supremacist... clearly proven!
Enjoy some intriguing connections from this book...
My hope is that this book can aim some light at the darkness and force it to crawl back into its cave.
Picture a girl sitting alone on a curb, her face stained with tears. She is fifteen, but so skinny that she appears even younger. She could be pretty, with her blue eyes and long blond hair, but her freckled face is swollen, her throat is bruised, and in her mouth is a taste she will never forget: gunmetal. Bleeding from places she didn’t know she could bleed, this girl has been hurt before, but not like this. A gust of wind makes the palm trees above her shudder. She wipes her bloody lip. What would it be like, she wonders, to matter? Then she sees the stretch limousine. As it glides toward her, black and shiny, the girl catches a glimpse of the driver behind the wheel. Her mind flashes on the limo in Disney’s 101 Dalmatians, the one that Cruella de Vil drives around London, looking for puppies to skin. How many times has she watched that movie? But this isn’t a scene from a cartoon. That’s kids’ stuff, and the girl hasn’t felt like a kid in years. This is real life in Miami, Florida. And the girl is me. Busting out of the juvenile detention facility in Palm Beach County forty-eight hours earlier, I’d been so full of hope. I knew from experience that I needed to ditch my juvie uniform—a navy polo and khakis—or the cops would pick me up right away. So my first stop had been a Marshalls discount store, where I quickly changed into a new T-shirt and jeans and made a show of returning my prison-issue garb, neatly hung on a hanger, to a rack. Then I exited the store without paying and headed straight for Delray Beach. I’ve always been good at talking to strangers. On the sand, I met a stoner dude—way older than me, but with a mellow energy. He was smoking a joint, which he offered to share as we looked out at the Atlantic. When I told him I planned to sleep outside that night, he said I could crash on his couch. I worried that he wanted sex, but I was wrong. When we got to his place, we just smoked some more pot and then he found me a clean towel so I could take a shower. “Please be gone by the morning,” he said before he went to bed. “I go to work early. And please don’t fuck up my house. Do the right thing.” Not all men are monsters. The next morning before dawn, I did the right thing, pulling the front door shut with a quiet click. Then I headed for the train station, where I took most of the money I had—a twenty-dollar bill I’d panhandled from a gas-station attendant—out of my ponytail scrunchie, where I’d hidden it, and bought a one-way ticket to Miami. An hour and a half later, I arrived at the Miami-Dade station, fifty miles south of Palm Beach. I’d run away dozens of times before, but I’d never made it this far. From the station, I headed east on foot, figuring I was about an hour’s walk from the ocean. Right away, I saw the pink and orange glow of a Dunkin’ Donuts up ahead. Back home in Loxahatchee, I’d often begged for change outside the local Dunkin’, so the sight of its logo—a cheerful steaming coffee cup—felt like a good omen. I went inside and bought two of my favorite chocolate-topped donuts. With food in my stomach for the first time in days, I walked out feeling confident. I had no place to go, but I’d figure it out, somehow. I must have been walking for about twenty minutes when a white van pulled over just ahead of me. “Need a lift?” the driver asked, sounding friendly. “I’m going your way.” Maybe it was the sugar high, but my guard was down. Besides, it was hot and humid, and the dark-haired driver looked like a skinny shrimp—bigger than me, but not by much. I got in and buckled up. The driver glanced at me, then back at the road. He was probably in his late thirties and dressed as if he worked construction. “I need to make one quick stop,” he said. He owed someone money, he said, and needed to pay them back. That’s cool, I replied, in a voice I hoped sounded tough. The van turned west, away from the water, then parked in front of a seedy-looking motel. “Come upstairs with me,” the construction worker said. “It’ll only take a sec.” I followed him up, then through a door into a dingy, worn-out room. He was on me immediately, and I knew right away I had underestimated his strength. He overpowered me and held me down on the bed, one hand around my neck. Then he pulled a gun and put its muzzle into my mouth. He raped me from the front first, then from the back. The only lubrication was the saliva he spit into his palm. He choked me until I lost consciousness, then let me breathe, then choked me again. I imagined myself dead, dumped in a ditch. And then a miracle: the man’s cell phone rang, and he released me so he could answer it. “Stay here,” my attacker told me. “Try to leave, and I’ll find you and kill you.” Then he turned back to his phone and stepped outside. I suspected he was going to kill me either way. So I waited until I couldn’t hear his voice anymore. Then I ran. That’s how I became this tearstained girl sitting on a curb in an empty beach parking lot. It is dusk when I see the limousine slow to a stop in front of me. The tinted rear passenger window hums as it opens, revealing the pasty face of a stranger in his sixties. He is heavyset, balding. I watch his eyes as they roam over my swollen, bruised face and battered body. “Oh, you poor baby,” the old man says. His concern sounds genuine. Peering into the car, I see a pretty girl in a short red dress sitting next to him. She smiles at me. The old man wears black slacks and a collared shirt. The men in my family tend toward blue jeans or coveralls. I hope this stranger is different from them in other ways too. “Come in here so we can take care of you,” the old man says, as the girl nods encouragement. I think of my attacker driving around in his white van, his gun in his lap, searching for the girl who got away. I stand up, wobbly. The limo door opens, and the old man slides over to make room for me. The old man tells the limo driver where to go, then introduces himself. His name is Ron Eppinger, and he runs a modeling agency called Perfect 10, he says. He gestures toward Yana, the girl next to him, who is from the Czech Republic. Would I like to become a model like her? He asks me how old I am, and at first I say sixteen because it sounds better to me, less vulnerable. Eppinger shakes his head; he isn’t buying it. So I tell him the truth, that I’m fifteen, which seems to please him. “As long as you never lie to me again, I will take you in,” he says. “What does that mean?” I think, but don’t ask out loud. Then Eppinger’s fleshy face turns sad. He had a daughter once, he says. Susan Marie. She died when she was fifteen, when the driver of a truck she was riding in fell asleep and crashed into a utility pole in Pompano Beach. Eppinger has never gotten over it, he tells me, and for a moment, I feel sorry for him. That’s when he reaches for me and strokes my hair. “If you want,” Eppinger says, “I can be your new daddy.” How quickly he does that, twisting the father-daughter bond into something sickening. But I already know that trick, and I want to believe it doesn’t work on me anymore. I don’t trust parents—especially fathers. I don’t need a daddy, old or new. I just want a break from fending for myself. When you grow up female, danger is everywhere. I’ve known that for as long as I can remember. Just hours ago, the construction worker in the white van showed me a darker shade of evil. I know I can’t go home again. There’s no safety there. My whole body aches, inside and out. I have no good options. The old man, the model, and I order takeout from an oceanfront stand. As we eat—I scarf mine down like an animal—we listen to the waves. Then Eppinger says he wants to take me shopping. We go to a nearby GapKids, and he steers me toward short shorts that don’t cover my backside and tops that are way too small. From the look on the saleswoman’s face, it’s easy to tell what she’s thinking: This isn’t what most grandfathers buy their granddaughters. Next, we go to a lingerie store where Eppinger seems to be a regular. He picks out G-strings and other lacy things that I’ve only seen grown women wear in the movies. He holds them up to my newly developed body, leering. Finally, he tells the chauffeur to take us home. Inside his huge apartment in Key Biscayne, with its sweeping views of Miami across the Rickenbacker Causeway, Eppinger introduces me with a wave of his hand to five other girls, most of them wearing underwear or nothing at all. Only a few speak English. Then, he takes me to a back room—his room. There is a circular bed and a mirrored ceiling. I ask where I can sleep. “With me,” he says. Part of me feels a familiar dread. Is it too late to get away? But another, bigger part remembers how life was in rehab and in foster care and, worst of all, on the run. Maybe this is the way all men behave? I am tired. I want to feel nothing. The old man calls me “Baby.” I am the youngest girl there, so the nickname sort of fits. I want to become someone new so badly that I accept it. “Baby” is now who I am. — It’s breakfast time, and my kids—ages eleven, fourteen, and fifteen—are tearing around the house, almost late for school. At the sunny end of our kitchen island, I sip a perfect cup of coffee, cherishing the chaos. My husband, Robbie, hands out the lunches he’s packed: three healthy snacks and one oversized sandwich. (Robbie’s family is from Sicily, and his Italian subs are hard to beat.) My job is to confirm that everyone has their homework, their permission slips, their gi uniforms for their after-school martial-arts classes. As Robbie herds them toward the car, I hug my daughter and two sons tight, ignoring how they wriggle to get free. “Hurry up!” Robbie yells. “That bell is about to ring!” Then, impulsively, I decide I want to come too. Though still in my pajamas, I jump in the front passenger seat as Robbie opens our electric security gate, and I marvel that this is my life. Later, I’ll take a Pilates class and make coq au vin for dinner, giving Robbie (our family’s primary chef) a well-deserved night off. But first I must return to the job of examining what came before. It’s no fun, this task I’ve assigned myself, but it is necessary. Would it be easier to spend my waking hours walking on the beach with Juno, my French bulldog, or taking my daughter, Ellie, shopping for earrings, or getting ready to overdecorate our house for Christmas? (My husband complains every year, but I can’t help but go overboard on Christmas.) Yes, it would be easier. And I do all those things too. But it’s finally time, I’ve decided, to put all the puzzle pieces of my life together. I couldn’t do that as a child, which is part of the story. Children don’t have the luxury of that kind of reflection. Especially if they are in bad situations as I was, they must focus all their energies on simply trying to survive. In the present, my life is organized around two things: my devotion to my husband and children and my determination to hold my abusers accountable. Part of me would prefer to start in the here and now, describing the gratitude I feel as I arrange Santa Claus figurines, say, or shiny strands of tinsel. But my past demands an audience. It has been hidden for too long. So how did I end up in Miami, penniless, battered, and alone, at the age of fifteen? There are so many answers to that question, but if you’d asked me in 1998, unpacking them all would have hurt too much. Instead, I would have offered the shortest explanation. “I ran away,” I would have said. “I ran away from Growing Together.”
She began as a loving and happy child who her mother daily spent time with her...until she didn't... She had been good in school, had friends...until she didn't... You see, that was about the time that her father had noticed how she'd grown older... Old enough to begin visiting her in her bedroom at night... Her mother pulled away from her, Jenna not knowing why, but missing her terribly, because she had become afraid... She had learned that he'd be back...
Perhaps when her husband started brining his friend around to get to know his daughter--maybe trade daughters... That was when her mother decided that Jenna was unmanageable and sent her away... to a place that, maybe was ever worse than at home... In any event, Jenna was soon out of there, on the streets, running...
When he’d belt out the chorus, in which a young girl demands again and again, “Don’t call me daughter,” I’d chime in at the top of my lungs.
When an older man in a long limousine saw her on the street, and ordered his driver to pull up beside her... For a short while, she was fed, warm, and in a nice room... until he, too, wanted more...
What happened next would be funny if it weren’t so appalling. Forrest stood up and grabbed me by my shoulders, then pushed me to my knees, where he’d forced me to be so many times before. This time, though, he was clothed. “You need to ask God for forgiveness,” he said, sort of bellowing, “for what you did with your dad and me.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. As horrible as I felt about myself, some part of me knew that what had happened with Dad and his friend wasn’t all my fault. But standing over me now, Forrest just kept on, half-yelling, half-preaching. Suddenly, I knew what hate tasted like. It was bile in my mouth, bitter, and I had an appetite for it. I hated Forrest. I hated my parents. I hated every living being in Loxahatchee.
~
In some published accounts about this period in my life, I’ve been inaccurately described as an eager participant in Eppinger’s world. In her book Perversion of Justice: The Jeffrey Epstein Story, the Miami Herald’s Julie K. Brown writes that after I heard from Eppinger’s other girls about the expensive clothes and jewelry that their clients gave them, I “began to think that this lifestyle wasn’t only exciting; it was an acceptable way to earn a living.” That’s bunk. I wasn’t excited. I was a defeated, hopeless child. I knew what was happening wasn’t right. Soon, after Eppinger began trafficking me to his friends, I knew how it felt to be a puppy picked from a litter, just hoping its new owner wasn’t the whipping kind. I was merely trying to survive. The only bright spot in this dark chapter came when Eppinger, sensing that law enforcement was onto him, sent me away...
Jenna was on the move again since after Forrest's tirade, her mother told her to leave again... Running, on the streets, until she hooked up with a fellow student she'd been friends with, who offered to let her stay with him--a locked room with his mother. Still, it was better than any other place where she was able to be free, to talk, to know somebody was listening, and to choose what she wanted to do... They'd spend hours listening to music...
More than that, though, who am I kidding? I had no place else to go, no one else to turn to. Setting aside all the indignities I’d suffered at the hands of my parents and others, the consequences of my own choices were becoming evident, even to sixteen-year-old me. I was a high school dropout. I had a boyfriend I lived with but didn’t want a future with. I was damaged in more ways than I even knew, and I was a long way from getting the help I needed to repair myself. I had little money and few prospects for making any. “Well, I’ve been down so long / Oh, it can’t be longer still,” Jewel sang into my earphones around this time. “I’ve been down for so long / That the end must be drawing near.” I thought I had nowhere to go but up. What happened next, then, seemed like a gift. In the summer of 2000, my father—then a maintenance man at Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago Club in Palm Beach—got me a job there as a $9-an-hour locker-room attendant.
Karen had met her one true love in high school and they'd been married ever since. Karen did everything for him--when he came home, she had dinner ready and waiting, got up early to iron his clothes so that by the time he would leave for work, he looked great. And his smile and loving goodbye held her throughout the day...
Until it didn't. Harold had isolated Karen--she hadn't seen her family for three years. That wouldn't have been so bad, except Harold worked constantly and Karen was often alone...and lonely.
Meet Karen
and
Good Karen and Bad Karen It’s funny, just looking at him reminds me of how great a night we had and how horrible I feel this morning. Harold is like alcohol. He goes down so nice and easy, you can have the time of your life, but when it wears off, you’re reminded of your pain. Shit, you might even vomit on yourself, but I love alcohol and I love Harold. ~~~
...I remember sneaking off with him and fooling around on the roof of the school that night. We were so scandalous as teenagers. I think to myself now, what the hell were we doing? But then there is a part of me that says, I wish we could hold onto those days now. I miss those days.
I don’t know what happened last night, but Harold made me feel like that young girl again. That girl he so eagerly wanted. He brought those feelings back at least for one night. The way we made love last night was so amazing, but this is not who we are. We are not the same people anymore.
In our early thirties, we have become something else. We have become animals in our own right. I guess I can’t think of the good without the bad creeping in. You see, I’ve been fighting with two personalities in my brain for some time now. One wants me to die while the other wants me to live. They always interfere with each other. One thinks with evil intent while the other has a lot of good in her, even though I think she’s bad as well at times. Let’s say she’s the least of the two evils. Just don’t let her hear you say that.
I call the two parts of me Good Karen, and Bad Karen. I wake up every day wondering which personality will win. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s who I am. I love my husband so much, but I feel like he is slowly fueling the fire. He is feeding the badness in me. I love him dearly, but he is the one ruining my life.
As I gaze at this cover, I realize how much it represents this very unique debut by R. D. Murray. Karen, the main character, is hidden from life by her husband, who she loves dearly. But when left alone so much, she begins to dwell mostly on internal conversations, trying to understand how she got this life, when she loves her husband so much...
We all have both good and bad tendencies in our human nature. But once Karen realizes that her isolation is not what her life should be, she begins to look toward some answer, some way to change how her life has evolved... You see, Harold trusts Karen. She has followed whatever he has said and done whatever he said...until...until she is no longer willing to be the silent member of the marriage. She starts by going into his home office, where she has never been before...
What she finds there is immediately understandable... Harold has a book of women's names and addresses--with notes about some of them, perhaps saying she is his favorite, or other thoughts...
“THE BEST WAY TO GET REVENGE IS A LITTLE BIT TODAY, A LITTLE MORE TOMORROW, AND A WHOLE LOT EVERY DAY AFTER THAT.”
Kill Bill was mentioned in the book, and it was easy to see the correlation for what happens as Karen discovers that not only does her husband have one mistress...he has many! Bad Karen was quick to tell her to kill him, or kill herself to get away from him (which she often tried to get her to do)... but Good Karen would talk about her life, telling her to find that independent, special woman that she had been before being not only subordinated by her husband but also his not being faithful!
Karen wanted revenge--the question was how was she going to get it?
Karen had decided what to do, but she could not ever have expected what secrets started to be revealed. I began, like eating a potato chip, for which it is always said that you can't eat just one...I read the book in one setting, but the taste of the book is not easily swallowed and enjoyed. Karen had decided on revenge, but discovering just what her husband was involved with, related to violence, criminal activities, and the betrayals she discovered were overwhelming... Actually downright disgusting. Her drive for revenge grew...
I wondered about the potential connection between a serial cheating husband and whether there is an evolutionary movement into criminal activities. And then, at the end, with still another surprise, Harold begins talking about Good Karen and Bad Karen... I admit that I felt deprived as the book ended...I wanted to proceed on with the story, refusing that it was possibly ending as it was in the last few pages...
The book will not be for everybody, so make sure you read sufficient information/reviews to decide you want to read the book. In many ways, I felt the book was aimed more at women than men, although the next book may prove me wrong. Many women are purposely left in a vacuum of loneliness by a husband who supposedly works many hours. Karen, instead of thinking through the situation that had been created by her marriage, had allowed it to fester, internally believing that love was enough to keep herself happy... But love without a responsive feedback soon festers and breeds unhappiness and...possibly...contempt...
Murray presents a dark drama that is, at first, unbelievable, and even mind-boggling. No, it's not a realistic tale, nor is it totally fantasy. Some may think that the activities of Harold are overkill. In fact, each of the activities with which Harold was involved are now happening all over the world, in one way or another. Sexual exploits and Human trafficking are just examples, horrible to consider, but worse in the reality. The author creates a world in which Harold, along with like-minded individuals, live to respond to their own desires and their thirst for money and power, caring not about anybody who is hurt by their actions. Even the bright spot of the introduction of a police officer became a dark scene... as he too faces one of the common crises happening today.
Yet, Karen's responses seemed to be right--Good and Bad Karen was rarely considered. Had Karen gained sufficient courage and strength to ensure what needed to be done, was done? You may want to wait until the next book is out before reading the debut, but I do highly recommend you read this first book. It is an important book, but does need the second one to be a satisfactory read. Still, this is a story like no other, amazing, gut-wrenching, and yet...it is almost compulsively to be consumed... I've followed the author on Amazon so I will know when the next book is ready! I was that impressed with it...
GABixlerReviews
R.D. Murray was born and raised in Harlem, New York. He has written for Alfred Hitchcock magazine and has a Bachelor's Degree in cultural arts from Empire State College. His love of writing thrillers, mysteries and suspense novels has translated into an explosive debut novel.
