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Showing posts with label psychological suspense. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychological suspense. Show all posts
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...
...She had no piercings, and only a single tattoo around her wrist. She glanced down at it, rubbing at the long sleeve of her sweater. The tattoo was visible just beneath the cuff, looping her wrist like a handcuff or a manacle. The words of the tattoo read:
Take captive every thought...
“Vicarious resolution to trauma,” Ilse murmured softly, answering the thoughts reverberating in her mind. “Projecting interpersonal control on tangential issues.” Dust and dirt crunched beneath her feet as she took the trail, following it along the old concrete barriers lining the nighttime road. “Stupid,” she added at last, channeling her inner Agent Sawyer. “Really, really stupid.” The streets were empty; the night stretched above and stared down, watchful of the vacant trails. Ilse rubbed at her arms, feeling a chill seep through the soft fabric of her baggy hoodie. This was not a good idea. How had a quick trip for a bite to eat turned into something so stupid? And yet, even as she thought it, she continued marching on, eyes ahead, taking the portion of the dirt road that ran parallel to the highway itself, on the other side of the concrete barrier. A trained psychologist. A licensed therapist. And yet, still, she ignored her own counsel—maybe she’d been too hard on some of her patients over the years. The ones who’d ignored her completely and beaten their own path. She shivered, remembering how some of those stories had ended. But still, she marched along the old dirt road, arms at her side now, swinging like pendulums. It had been a while since she’d gotten some decent cardio in. She picked up the pace a bit, speed-walking and breathing in slow, steady patterns. Fear was a liar. Fear was her enemy. Sometimes, it seemed, even more than her history, her father—even more than Hilda Mueller’s memories. Fear was the true threat. Stupid though this was, a small part of her felt like this was the only way… No more cowering behind locked doors and shuttered windows. No more double- and triple-checking locks… well, perhaps that would be a harder habit to break. But she refused for fear to be the motivator now. Refused to allow it to control and manipulate as it so often did. As she stalked along the old road, the same road the killer had been hunting, the same road where two women had been killed, where Samantha had been kidnapped, she could feel the fear rising like a cloud over her. Despite her best intentions, despite her desire to face it head on, fear was stretching across her like a blanket, weighing her movements, suppressing her thoughts, strangling the life from every moment of natural vitality, trying to drown her in sheer panic. “No,” Ilse said, simply. “No!” she repeated, louder into the dark. Headlights suddenly flashed over the top of the hill, moving down past the concrete barrier. Ilse’s heart skipped a beat. She waited, breathing heavily, watching as the car slid past. For a moment, it almost seemed to stall, the engine grumbling loudly in the night, echoing and reverberating off the concrete barrier. But then the headlights shifted, and the vehicle picked up the pace again, growling and speeding away. Ilse breathed a bit easier, watching the taillights blink back toward her like the red eyes of some sentinel demon. Where had the other bodies come from? She stopped moving for a second, standing on the old dusty trail, frowning to herself. The FBI was tracking down the identities of the other victims they’d found in that basement. Ilse shivered. Where had they come from? This road too? More hitchhikers? More unsuspecting victims? Ilse gritted her teeth and shook her head, marching forward again. Take captive every thought… She mouthed the phrase, picking up her pace until she was jogging now, kicking up dust and darting under the splayed branches and shivering shadows across the dusty road. Another car’s lights flashed behind her, this one coming from the opposite direction. Again, the vehicle seemed to slow… Ilse paused, looking back. Her heart skipped a beat, watching as the car moved through the gap between the opposite highways. It paused beneath a clearly marked No-U-turn sign. A cop? Not a cop. No, a truck. An old, flatbed truck. It came across three empty lanes, pulling from the sheer opposite side of the highway and coming to a crunching halt next to the barrier. The headlights illuminated her, shining bright, and Ilse could feel the oppressive cloud of fear now turn into a cold trickle rattling down her spine. For a moment, breathing heavily, she came to another halt, facing the bright lights, squinting against the glare, listening to the steady rumble of the truck’s engine. A second later, the lights clicked off, and a hand waved out of the front driver’s side. “H—hello?” Ilse said, hesitantly, staring toward the waving, fluttering hand. “Need a ride?” a voice called from inside the truck. A faint, gravelly voice, like a smoker’s. Hard to make out, though. Ilse could feel her feet rooted to the spot, could feel the familiar chill rising up her spine. Her mind flashed with images of basements and postcards and dead pigeons. Her teeth set and she stared at the greasy windshield. The fear was slowly met by a rising sense of sheer fury. Righteous indignation that went as deep as her bones. The man’s outline was hard to determine through the windshield. Though it looked like he might have been wearing a baseball cap. For a moment, Ilse thought of Agent Tom Sawyer. For another moment, she felt a shiver of surprise at how much she missed the lanky, silver-haired BAU agent. Missed him, and especially his gun. Alone on the open highway, witnessed only by the moon, Ilse forced one frozen foot forward. Her hands trembled horribly as she did, but she refused to back down now. She was here for a reason. No more postcards, no more haunting memories. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. “Hi,” Ilse said, finding her voice surprisingly steady despite her inner turmoil. “Can I help you?” The same road. The same road the killer had been hunting. The same road. Ilse blinked and watched as the man in the baseball cap gave a soft little chuckle. It smelled, perhaps, like cigarette smoke wafting from the front of the vehicle. “Thought maybe I could help you,” he called back. Ilse shivered, rubbing her elbows through her thick sweater. She shifted uncomfortably on the road, feeling trapped for a moment. Her hand went to her pocket, where she’d placed her keys, and she felt the comforting, hefty weight of the ring of metal. She paused, though, hesitant. Where was her pepper spray? She glanced down, frowning. The little plastic container was missing. Where had it gone? She froze now, double-checking her pocket, then her keys. The pepper spray was missing. Panic began to set in. Her sheer exhaustion weighed heavy, and the momentum of her choices up to this moment pressed on her. Abort. She needed to abort. This was a terrible idea. Unarmed, defenseless… Her hand tightened around the keys, and she took another step toward the truck despite her thoughts. “Just saw your car back that way,” the man said, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Did you break down?” Ilse swallowed once. “Yes,” she lied. Leave! Get out of there! But she ignored her subconscious. She’d come too far. She was too tired to try again. Sometimes risks were necessary. Besides… she had a plan, didn’t she? She swallowed, hand tightening further around the keys. Where had she lost her pepper spray? “Tough luck. Well, wanted to be a good citizen. Need a lift anywhere? I’m in no rush.” Ilse exhaled slowly. What sort of folk were in no rush at midnight? Most, perhaps. But on the other hand, what sort of folk pulled over to the side of the road at midnight for a stranger? The man seemed friendly enough, though his voice came muffled from the front of the cabin, and his hand—which still dangled out the window—seemed limp. But still… Ilse hadn’t come here for fear. Just five minutes. Always five minutes. What could it hurt? The keys were good enough, weren’t they? She’d defended herself with far less as a child. She could only imagine the absolute gold strike a set of keys would have been back in that basement. “Unknown… Brown eyes… Six victims…” “What was that?” “Nothing. Yeah, I could use a ride. Thanks!” She’d said it. She’d committed. Damn it. Ilse circled to the passenger side of the truck. Before she could reach the handle, she heard the click of locks, and the driver reached across, shoving the door open. His smile flashed beneath a baseball cap, his features wreathed in shadow as he waved at her, gesturing for her to get in. A very pronounced smile. Almost an intentional thing. More a leer than anything. Ilse, though, refused to allow her feet to command her actions. When they again seemed intent on rooting to the concrete, she forced herself up the small metal rung into the front of the truck, and slid into the passenger side. Inside the cabin it was surprisingly clean. She detected the faint scent of air freshener, trying to hide the odor of cigarette smoke. “Mind shutting that?” the man said. Ilse nodded numbly. Stupid! Don’t be stupid! Stupid! Don’t be stupid! She ignored her own thoughts and shut the door. A second later, the lock clicked. “Sorry,” the man said. “Locks are finicky.” He brushed off any chance at anxiety with a wink and another smile. “Where can I take you?” he asked. The man’s chin was covered in stubble, and he smelled of smoke and lavender from the air freshener. Two little dice dangled from his mirror, cottony, fluffy things. In the rearview mirror, Ilse noticed two strange canisters sitting on the back seat and… there, tucked beneath the canisters, she spotted what looked like the hilt of a bowie knife. She swallowed, glancing toward the locked door, her fingers trailing down the cool glass, touching against the metal handle inside the cabin. But she’d come this far. No backing out now. The same road. Don’t be stupid. The same road. Don’t be stupid. She ignored the thoughts again. “Oh, just to Three Lakes,” she said. “That work for you?” “Dandy,” the man said with a nod and a wink. “Buckle up.” He waited expectantly, a sort of hungry look in his eyes as she reached with a quavering hand toward the buckle past her shoulder and then pulled it, locking it in place. Alone, trapped, watched by a stranger with just a bit too much eagerness. She felt like a specimen, the way Dr. Mitchell sometimes made her feel. But where Donovan’s attention was on her behalf, examining to help, to aid and care for, this man’s attention seemed of an entirely different and far more selfish variety. Once she was buckled, the truck began to move, heading in the exact opposite direction it had been going before, taking her back toward town. “Kinda late to be out on your own, isn’t it?” the man asked in a light, airy tone. Ilse’s eyes fixed on the road. “Wanted some fresh air,” she murmured. “Know what’s wrong with your car?” “I’m not really a car person.” “Oh… Well, I am. I can take a look if you’d like.” Ilse swallowed. “No… No, that’s fine. If you could just take me back to town.” “Sure, sure, whatever you want.” He shot her a sidelong glance, his eyes lingering on her face for a moment and then shifting down, taking more of her in. Ilse stiffened in her seat, locked in place, feeling like an animal in a zoo, trapped in a cage. “You know, I don’t do this for just anyone,” the man said, still conversationally. “I had somewhere to be—the opposite direction actually. But, you know, I suppose I can help a fellow citizen out.” He reached over and patted her on the leg. His hand lingered for a bit longer. She glanced in the rearview mirror again, her eyes on the hilt of what she was certain was a bowie knife. She pictured the way he’d smiled, leering as she’d entered his truck. A smile on the top of a note paper. A smile of corpses. A smile from a driver who picked her up on the same road where two women had been killed. Though she felt like she was doing something monumentally stupid… And it was that. Stupid. She also wasn’t an idiot. She knew when a coincidence became more than that. She shivered as his hand trailed from her thigh. “Thank you for the ride,” she said, stiffly. “You know… Maybe if you just let me off here, I can walk.” “What? No, don’t be silly. All sorts of strange guys are out this time of night. A pretty little thing like you? It’s just five minutes that way. I’ve got you.” The easy, carefree tone had grown sort of strained now. The man was breathing a bit heavier, his eyes hooded beneath his cap as he stared at the road. Ilse’s fingers pressed against her ring of keys, holding them tight, bunched up in her hand nearest the door. Her thigh felt slick and oily and gross from where his fingers had trailed. Maybe he was just being friendly? Maybe he was just a bit too touchy… Was it all in her head? The man was whistling softly now, fiddling with the radio, turning the station to a crooning love ballad. It came crackling and low over the car’s janky speakers. “There we go, that’s the right mood, yeah?” He chuckled a bit as the love song echoed in the cabin. A prickle spread along Ilse’s arms. She glanced toward the locked door again. “Where you from—you never even told me your name,” he said, speaking a bit louder now. Instead of friendly and curious, it came across as demanding. She shifted. “Ilse,” she said. “Ilse. My ex was named Ilse, you know.” He let out a little shuddering breath accompanied by a wiggle of his thick shoulders against seat leather. “She had a mouth on her, I’ll tell you. A real, real pretty mouth. If you catch my drift…” He glanced at her, his eyes lingering on her lips. This time, he didn’t even try to look away, but instead met her gaze and winked. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “I gotta take a leak. You can watch if you like.” He gave a grunting little laugh. “Just hang tight one sec, all right?” He pulled the truck sharply over to the side of the road, moving to a rest stop with a blacked out safety light. The truck trundled over asphalt and loose gravel, crunching in its path behind a low grove and against a metal rail blocking the rest stop from the rest of the road. “What are you doing?” Ilse said, quickly. “I gotta piss,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Won’t take but a second. I never do. Sit tight, won’t you?” And then they pulled to a full stop in the darkest, most hidden section of the rest stop, shielded by a metal railing and low trees from the rest of the highway. The man put the vehicle in park, and—for a moment—it seemed like he was double-checking the doors were locked. Then, smiling, he turned to face her...
~~~
Sawyer tapped Ilse on the arm. Before he could indicate she follow, though, she stepped past him and quickly moved ahead. Then, without looking back, she beckoned him with a crook of her finger. He blinked after her for a moment as she strode away, the photo clutched in one hand. Despite himself, a small smile crept across his lips. He hid it in a cough, though, and then followed Dr. Beck out of the precinct. Was she right after all? What were the odds? Had she remembered Samantha Wright’s words correctly? Had Ms. Wright remembered the past correctly? Somewhere out there, Samantha’s time was running out. They didn’t have another lead. Maybe there was a chance… a chance of a chance. Maybe, just maybe, they had a chance at finding this old abductor’s address. Active for twenty years… Sawyer shivered, frowning as he did. He wouldn’t make it personal. Couldn’t allow it. But even for him, the thought made his skin crawl. He could only hope Dr. Beck was right. Otherwise, things were looking grim for Samantha Wright. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The gloomy, overcast weather marked the horizon as Ilse watched Agent Sawyer drive through the narrow roads south of the city. At least this time, he’d allowed her a seat up front, though he’d seemed reluctant to do so. Ilse’s eyes kept darting from the printed photo in her hand to the road ahead of them. The GPS from Agent Sawyer’s phone kept chirping. His eyes were fixed on the road. As they traversed beneath gray skies, Agent Sawyer murmured, “Tell me again why we can’t use your phone’s GPS?” This was the first he’d spoken to her in the nearly twenty-minute drive south from the station. She cleared her throat delicately, glancing toward the lanky form of the BAU agent. “I have a dumb phone,” she murmured. “It doesn’t have GPS.” She pulled out her old flip phone to show it to him. He glanced over, then returned his attention back to the road. A few moments passed, but then, to her surprise, he spoke again. “You’re not a drug dealer, are you?” It took her a second to realize he was joking. “Umm, no. I just like the phone. Not a big fan of technology. I have a wood-burning stove back home, actually.” She wasn’t sure why she’d volunteered this last part. But for some reason it seemed to prompt a ghost of a smile on Agent Sawyer’s normally dour lips. “I see,” he said. They drifted off into silence again, and Ilse did her best not to shoot glances in his direction. A strange case study, Agent Tom Sawyer. Named, it seemed, after a character from a novel. A novel written by an author who’d hidden his name. Samuel Clemens to Mark Twain. Not too unlike Hilda Mueller to Ilse Beck. Maybe the two of them had something in common after all. However small though it was. “There we are,” Sawyer murmured, nodding through the windshield to an old, dead field a second before the GPS chirped, Arriving at destination on your left. Sawyer piloted the vehicle smoothly onto the dirt road, past the broken, dusty field. The car jolted and bumped. A branch had fallen, forcing Sawyer to veer off into the dirt and then back onto the road, kicking up a cloud of dust which wafted to meet the gray, glaring skies. In the distance, through the dust and past the low-hanging, arching boughs, withered much in the same way as the surrounding fields, a creepy scene confronted them. A vacant, abandoned farm. The fields were tell-tale, but the rusted, overgrown tractor and combine added to the desolate scene. Old farm equipment piled against the side of a large, red barn. Ilse glanced at the photograph in her hand, then tracing a finger, she pointed off behind an overgrown patch of forest. “The old shack should be back there,” she murmured in a faint voice, feeling a chill rise along her spine. The trees seemed larger, darker than they had from the main road. Now, as they trundled along toward the old barn, and the weathered farmhouse on the flat land, facing the dead field and the abandoned farm apparatus, Ilse could feel her mind flitting, sifting through the basement of her memories. Her fingers gripped each other, hard, and she swallowed, shivering against the rising thoughts. Agent Sawyer glanced at her. “You okay?” he said, quietly, his voice oddly gentle and gruff at the same time. “Fine,” she murmured. “The shack should be just past there.” No movement from the farmhouse. A flutter of birds who’d hidden out behind the rusted tractor scattered toward the sky as they drew nearer. A crackling, cracking sound arose from old sticks and dried boughs across the road as the sedan moved closer to their target. Suddenly, a loud bang. Then the car jolted to the left. Ilse yelped, but Sawyer cursed, slamming a hand to the top of the wheel and immediately bringing the car to the side of the road and throwing on the brake. “What was that?” Ilse demanded, her heart pounding as she glanced around, her eyes on the farmhouse, tracing to the barn, then back to the very edge of a weathered, but hidden building behind the overgrowth. “Flat tire,” Sawyer replied, kicking open his door and sliding his lanky legs out onto the dusty road. “Wait inside.” Ilse paused, then huffed. “Hang on,” she said, firmly, “I’m not staying here.” Sawyer looked through the window at her. “You’re not coming with. Stay in the car.” “Oh? And what if the killer sneaks up on me while you’re off searching the farm?” Sawyer paused for a moment, tongue in his cheek, but then sighed, gesturing at her. Ilse wasn’t sure if she’d wanted to win this particular battle. Locked behind the car’s doors seemed a safer location than anywhere on the farm. But she had to remind herself why she was here. Who she was here for. She pushed out of the vehicle, her eyes on the old, creepy fields, feeling suddenly very alone and isolated. She stepped delicately out onto the dirt road, exhaustion weighing heavily on every movement. She circled the front of the unmarked sedan and approached where Sawyer was on one knee, grumbling and poking with a pale finger at the front left wheel. “What happened?” Ilse said. “Nail,” he replied. He tapped a finger on a jutting metal spike in the tire. Already, the thing was deflated beyond use. “Damn it,” he growled, slapping a hand against the hood of the car. He turned, glancing along the trail, and then his frown deepened further. “What is it?” Ilse said, reading his expression. Instead of answering, he began to move carefully toward a portion of the road they’d passed. He pulled up short, staring down. One of his hands twitched toward the holster on his belt. “Agent Sawyer?” she pressed, peering in closer. Ilse looked past Sawyer’s form, his looming shadow cast as a dark streak against the gray road. There, dull and scattered across the ground, she spotted more nails, as well as screws and small jutting pieces of metal. They’d been left in a line across the dirt road...
~~~
I found myself intrigued by the title of this book--and still am. I think I understand, but I'm not quite sure who the "Us" is supposed to encompass... It could be the two lead characters who will clearly continue on in the series, or it also could related to the villains as well... I wish I knew for sure. It affects my own personal perspective of how I read the book... But, as they say, "It is what it is..." What I can tell you is that this author is set to keep readers guessing from the very first page. Even as you know a little about the background of Ilse Beck, the story does not lend regular clues that will confirm whether a reader is moving in the right direction. In fact, I thought the book was over, concluded, the FBI got their man... But the book was not finished yet...
I was stunned, even as I read... Be prepared because there is no way I'm even going to hint at the full scope and breadth of this suspense thriller. It can only be called one thing--Extraordinary!
At the same time, I sense a budding friendship or romance between Ilse Beck, who has become a renowned expert on serial killers and looks at her job as a psychologist to help those whose lives have been affected by these individuals in some way... In this book, she has already gained the respect of the local FBI Agent Sawyer, who seems to have connected by caring little about the work clothes they wear, if that makes sense... Both of them, however, are very interested in doing their job and when it connects, each takes the initiative to grab the lead for their respective expertise and won't back down from anything or anybody working to stop them... A dangerous dilemna for Ilse...
The local police are already involved with the disappearance of several women. However, it is only because Ilse has taken on a new client as recommended from her long-time teacher and mentor that she begins to think about serial killers... Samantha had been attacked 20 years ago, but has grown fearful that her attacker at that time is now looking for her again. Her fears, her memories--everything is coming back and she has sought out a psychologist to help her through her fears... Sam and Ilse have met for two sessions, but during the second meeting Ilse had realized that she was doubtful that a 20-year-old killer would still be looking for old victims so she found her own history coming into the picture much more than it should as Sam was describing where she had been held, what had taken place, and more...
So, it was quite a shock that at some time during the night, Ilse took a call from Sam. She was running, being followed and knew it was the same man who had attacked her... She was calling for help! Ilse immediately went into action, calling the police, getting dressed and drove directly to where Sam had last been when she'd lost contact. Of course, Ilse became ashamed that she had not given much concern that something was really happening, so there was no other choice, Ilse was going to work along with the police until Sam was found!
The book describes the basic methodology of building a case history on clients which I found fascinating, even if I could never hope to figure out how to use it... In any event, Ilse never kept records, which is one of the reasons she has so many clients come to her--less fear of their secret lives being exposed... However, now that Ilse was being asked for possible clues, perhaps based upon what information Sam had disclosed during the two sessions, she had to build up to accessing the few things covered thus far. Ilse used a rather strange method for calming herself. She would pick a serial killer and then review the basic statistics of that particular individual she had studied and set to memory. But, this time she was so upset that her mind was going over her own life, Sam's life, and the awareness that Sam could now be dead because Ilse had not paid her routine diligent attention to what the client was saying... A stress that just made everything more distressful... Readers will watch as she pulls herself together and proceeds to gain confidence again--perhaps with the helpful support she was being given by the FBI Agent?
Finally she remembered where and how Sam had been captured and held and with computer assistance, they began to discover possible locations where Sam was now being held... But would it be too late?
This novel is both informative and entertaining re the unfortunate number of serial killers in the world... It is clearly character driven with characters you will be watching closely as the series proceeds... Highly recommended
She remembered a novel she’d read in her teens, Anna Karenina by Tolstoy. The opening line: Happy families are all alike, but an unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. The words had always struck her...
‘Don’t you see it’s my penance, Kevin,’ Joe had explained once, ‘for not doing anything to save the men that perished on my ship? For not being around to protect my Marie and Sophie?’ He’d dismissed the detective’s logical reasoning, that he’d been suffering from shock during the aircraft attack, that he’d not been in a fit state to help anyone. And again, when he’d been committed to hospital following his breakdown, the events that led to the hit and run had been beyond his control. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier to bear though, eh?’ he’d said simply. Coupland had merely shaken his head. He knew how slowly time passed for the grieving.
‘You know, I’m not convinced,’ Joe began evenly, once their breakfast plates had been cleared away and he’d wrapped up the left-over toast in his paper serviette for later, sliding it into the pocket of his hand-me-down jacket. Even on summer days he wore it, wouldn’t take it off his back. True meaning of the capsule wardrobe, he’d explained with a laugh, and Coupland knew in that moment that Joe would never return to a normal life, that he was intent on serving his penance.
‘Just how reliable is the information you have regarding this woman’s state of mind?’ ‘Well, like I said,’ Coupland replied, ‘the reports we’ve had back don’t flag up any areas for concern.’ ‘Maybe not,’ Joe countered, ‘but I’m telling you, the clues will be there… This young mother was deeply troubled by something she felt she needed to protect her son from. Something big enough to justify her actions – to herself anyway. Something she felt unable to share with anyone else.’ He paused, his eyes shutting down as though he was looking inside himself for the answer. ‘Do you think she was mad?’ Coupland asked. Joe rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, shaking his head. ‘How the hell would I know?’ he reasoned. ‘I’m a walking talking Looney Toon, but I recognise the actions of a desperate person, someone afraid to unburden their fears in case they are judged. It’s a typically British trait, stiff upper lip and all that… Realising you suffer from a mental illness is terrifying,’ he said purposefully, ‘it’s not just a condition, it’s a definition. It becomes who you are, or at least who the outside world thinks you are. From then on in, every action or reaction you have is put down to your illness and there is nothing you can do about it.’ He paused; spread his calloused hands flat on the surface of the table. There was dirt under his fingernails and they were broken. Tell-tale nicotine stains on the index finger of his right hand. On his left hand, scratched and battered out of shape, was a wedding ring. ‘I tried so hard to stay well for my Marie. She was struggling to cope with the little one and me. I’m sure there were days when she thought her life would have been easier if I hadn’t been discharged, or better still, if I’d been killed on that ship. The burden of caring for me was tearing her apart.’ He paused. ‘The nightmares I had about the ship being hit and the burning bodies didn’t stop.’ He looked across the table at Coupland. ‘The nightmares have never stopped, Kevin, I just learned to stop talking about them…’ ‘Didn’t medication help?’ ‘I don’t want a life of numbness!’ Joe spat. ‘I want to grasp life by the thorns until my hands bleed – isn’t that what I deserve?’ He looked down at his wedding ring, traced the edges of it with the index finger on his right hand. His voice shook when he spoke next. ‘It’s a fragile cord that binds us to sanity, Kevin, and wouldn’t we do everything in our power to cling onto that?’
Coupland’s throat was sore, as though he’d swallowed a bag of razor blades. He merely nodded, pushing himself to his feet so that the two men were standing eye to eye. ‘How the hell will I cope without her?’ ‘She’s not gone yet. You need to be strong. For Lynn, for Amy, but most importantly, for yourself.’ ‘What if I can’t cope?’ ‘You won’t have a choice,’ Joe answered.
~~~
I was happy to have started reading this series from book 1. It is a long series and I doubt if I can take the time to continue reading, but I can already say that I recommend this book and the series... It is both well written, but, more, has provided an excellent base upon which readers will be able to move forward, knowing what to expect. Detective Sergeant Coupland is the main character... He's an interestng character who is constantly struggling with the world as it exists--for him... He had worked himself up to his present position, Detective Sergeant, but he knew he would be stopped from moving upward from there--he'd gotten a bit rough with a suspect years ago and would never get promoted further. And, he's also concerned about his home life, but, most of it is his own imagination, while his wife is dealing with a serious health issue that she has not told him about yet. Probably not a good decision on her part, but communication seems always to be a problem, especially for those in law enforcement. Everybody knows Joe is an ex-soldier, as he still carries himself like one and maintains a keen intellect, but has decided he is to do penance for the rest of his life, for all those he was involved with, who didn't make it... Hopefully, this will change in the future, since Coupland has asked him to help work on his garden at home when he's able...
Salisbury presents an interesting twist as she presents a number of different cases, while at the same time, multiple officers, suspects, and affected individuals are carried forward on an ongoing basis with Coupland keeping on top of everything. We know he's a good and caring cop, especially when he becomes friends (trying to help him) with a veteran, Joe, with PTSD as well as suffering through the loss of his family. Coupland seems to be well respected by his staff, including a young female officer who is quite good and with whom he has become close. She does a lot of his detail work, sometimes begrudgingly, but nevertheless does it because she knows it's important.
Was this apathy because parents viewed their children as their personal property, to do with as they wished? Free to harm their own but woe betide a stranger try to? She shook her head, unable to accept that thought. It occurred to her that, for a nation of animal lovers, the collective treatment of our children came in a poor second.
As a psychological suspense novel that hones in on a tragic murder/suicide within a family. It's the type of case that has affected everybody, including the husband who is the only remaining family member. The reason for what occurred takes up most of the book as everybody "needs" to know why a pregnant mother with one son, would first, kill her son and then hang herself... The scope of the work of the police is unbelievable, as they examine even the rope used, bringing in an expert to learn what type of rope it is and why it normally wouldn't be used for this...
Readers are given almost the entire book to consider the "whys" that could have caused this horrendous action. My guess was fairly close, but the actual reason requires a move into personal history of the involved...
At the same time, a knife killing has set the area into a state of fear, with a call that knives cannot be carried on the streets... Unfortunately, this includes two young girls who enjoyed the thrill of theft, and more...
It was not surprising that Coupland had begun to think about whether it was even worth working in law enforcement, when it never seemed to end--don't we all know that! Still, through fiction, we look toward police procedural novels and other types of stories that places the good guys fighting against the bad guys... Most of us can't...stop...hoping...
They had been too late. They were detectives, but they didn’t detect anything. They merely picked up the pieces, after the tragedy, time after time after time. Despite the fact that it kept him in work Coupland hated that bad things would always keep on happening. He’d once asked Joe, who had suffered enough hardship to last a lifetime, why this was so. It was the only time he recalled his friend stalling; it seemed for once he didn’t have an answer, yet it was surely something he’d thought about, a dark voice that counselled him in moments of doubt. They’d been sitting on a bench in Light Oaks Park, working their way through Joe’s roll-ups as they watched a group of small boys play football, the air thick with concentration. They’d trudged along a well-worn path over lawns displaying signs to keep off the grass. Joe’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat, but from exertion, not anxiety. It was hard to imagine he’d been up three nights in a row, unable to cope with the recurring nightmares of his last moments on ship, of the last time he’d seen Marie and Sophie. He’d blown smoke rings into the air, the corners of his eyes crinkling at a passing toddler who ambled John Wayne style beside her mother. The child slowed by the bench and pointed at the exhaled smoke, mesmerised by the cloudy patterns, her rosebud lips shaped into a perfect ‘O’. Joe pulled the edge of his mouth into a smile, turned to Coupland just as a cheer broke out and someone shouted Goal! Maybe bad things occur, he’d answered slowly, because it’s the only way we can recognise good when it happens.
As Vince said, “I wrote Everything Burns hoping that readers would devour it in one sitting, then start all over again to catch what they missed the first time. There’s a lot happening in this book, both in the burning mind of the main character and in the pyro action described on the page.”
~~~
So that’s why Olga came to the house. To get more condoms. “I trust you, hon. No need to investigate.” I hear the toilet flush and my daughter singing what I recognize as a Selena Gomez song, which I pray doesn’t get stuck inside my head. “Quickly,” I say, “before Anna comes back in.” “Quickly what, Reece?” “Do you have any idea who might have broken into your place?
~~~
“Fire! Fire!” says the Town Crier; “Where? Where?” says Goody Blaire; “Down the town,” says Goody Brown; “I’ll go and see’t!” says Goody Fleet; “So will I,” says Goody Fry; “Burn! Burn!” says Goody Stern. “Burn her! Burn him!”
—Nursery Rhyme, circa 1920
I don't know about you,
but I certainly wouldn't want
this read to my children!
Rhyming is fun, but choose words carefully.
“Thanks, Blood,” I say, shifting the Escape transmission into drive. “Don’t be thanking me,” he says. “You shouldn’t expect a thank-you in life just for doing the right thing. That’s something the politicians will never understand. Priests too.” “Priests?”
“Let’s just drop the subject. The good Lord be out of my humble jurisdiction.” I drive on to where the money is.
~~~
Apparently I did exactly what the author wanted--to have his readers read this book a second time...except it was about two years ago and I didn't remember it. I even then looked and saw that I had rated it once before, because it did begin to sound a little familiar... but I kept on reading... It definitely is a great thriller, but this time, although I compulsively finished it, I really wish I had not. It is a very dark book. But as I write, I wonder if it is because of how "dark" America seems to be right now. Thrillers were written to be enjoyed, not to make someone feel sad... Although, even then I'm wondering about that...
Has the violence in America and in the World become so real that we no longer want to read about it even in fiction? Here's just one discussed yesterday:
Quite some time ag0 a member of my own family called Leader Pelosi "evil..." I didn't even know what to say. I certainly had never seen or known of any reason that she would be thought evil...for what? Was this man who was now looking for her, indeed, fed so much misinformation that he would go out, even if he wanted to "just talk," but carrying a hammer with which he broke into their home and then when the police arose, he attacked! Because of politics!?!
But then there are millions who are either afraid...or angry... Where is America heading?
Yes, I will be reading this book ASAP, because I am, just as the two individuals talking in the above video, positive that the former president and the republican party has opened the greatest can of worms ever, or since at least the time of the Civil War. His spewing hatred had certainly led to the attack on Mr. Pelosi (in lieu of his wife)! And, nobody can convince me that the greatly increased attacks on others, including by mass shootings, cannot be placed at the feet of Trump, whose followers listen...and act! January 6th is certainly a major example, but, since then, and before, there have been many more...
Everything Burns is a tragic story--even from the thriller/horror genre, in my opinion. What I would call it is a psychological suspense novel. The main character, Reese, watched, after having narrowly escaped, as his mother and two brothers were burned to death. The young boy had a mental breakdown where they "shocked" his brain, trying to erase memories. But he also developed an obsession with fire--we read of just how often he goes into PTSD, pulls out a Bic and starts, clicking and watching as the fire...calms... him... down!
Throughout the book, we find that he regularly talks to his father who is dead and he looks around, seeing him, to ask his advice. Not to be left out, but on a lighter note, he also talks to his dog, even supplying the conversation on both sides... The main character is a writer who, as the book opens, has reunited with his ex-wife and his daughter, both of whom he has never stopped loving and wanting to be with.
But slowly, things began to happen, the house is broken into and a picture of him having his brains blown out is left behind...The police soon become involved, but they know him by his first book, The Damned, whose main character was a pyromaniac...
Tension begins early and remains steady throughout the book, rising only toward the end when the police definitely know somebody is creating all of these happenings... They just weren't sure it wasn't Reese...
Me, I couldn't even finish writing my review, stopping to get away from the madness, the anger, the revenge, the retribution being sown... I went out and turned on Sister Act...
Have we gone too far? Has violence become a part of our lives from which we cannot escape? Where do we turn? Just as so much good has happened over the 2000+ years, so much cruelty, hate and violence has as well...
The one thing I know is that, there is a need for those who see the hate, the prejudice, and call it out! It is wrong. And, please, always remember, although we read books, see movies, and, now, in reality, see much war, pain and killing of the innocent...please, please...know that it is NOT God who has chosen this path for America, for Israel, Palestine, or Ukraine...
Those individuals who spend time analyzing what is wrong, as seen here on Amazon, should certainly realize that the plot had to be as it was... and that the writer was very skilled in his presentation, flow of the drama buildup, and with an excellent ending. At least I agree that this book is not for everyone. But does that make the writer/writing of this book a problem as opposed to his desire to spotlight a number of issues facing us today: Hate, Revenge, Retribution, Prejudice...and more... I found this book compelling, and much to the point related to historical medical procedures, spotlighting the sharing of information that could be called classified (as in a marriage) as well as the problem of mental health--including those who have been helped as well as those who appear sane "on the surface..." those who, while being somebody who actually could be a sociopath--in disguise--can often do significant damage to the world.
This book ends with the family back together, all that had happened was revealed... Truth matters, doesn't it? Books which take us to the brink of madness, yet pulls us back into goodness may be difficult to contemplate...but when we know that people hungry for power are actually choosing to lie, cheat and steal to gain that power, then we must act to ensure they don't succeed...
“Do you see the little pale yellow flowers at the tips of the branches? Hanging in long clusters?” “Flower child. I always thought it of her. Perfect, perfect child, covered with roses. Yellow and gold and pink,” the voice answered, promptly this time. It was easiest to assume that this response was a yes. Step 4: Answer subject, and continue in this manner until you or subject is tired of topic.
“Those are called catkins,” Dr. Norton said. “They hold the male flowers on this tree, and if you look—” “Yes, kitty kitty. You’re fluffy, and you’re a girl, not a boy, aren’t you?” “What?” Dr. Norton had momentum now and hated to stop. “She’s a sweet thing, and she’s my friend, isn’t she?” “Well...,” Dr. Norton hesitated, sensing that his finely-engineered conversation on oak trees was crumbling. He had never gone past Step 4, but he could see that would be necessary now. Step 5: Subject is tired of topic. Change topic to subject’s choice. “Isn’t she?” the voice persevered.
Dr. Norton sighed. “Yes,” he said, abandoning the oak flowers. Perhaps another time... “You really think so?” “I do.” Dr. Norton was amazed. This person actually cared about his opinion, and it had nothing to do with demyelination of the nervous system, perivascular inflammation in the brain or progressive-relapsing multiple sclerosis. His opinion about a cat! He gave a small, shy smile to the shadowed trunk of the oak tree. “I know she’s happy because she’s purring, and she must be purring because she likes you.” Dr. Norton paused, feeling the trembling bark beneath his hands. “She’s not an easy lady to please,” he added. His cheeks warmed at the boldness of this remark. “She isn’t?” the voice sounded doubtful. “No...she’s often annoyed with me these days. Even though she’s been with me for thirteen years. That’s why I was so delighted to discover her purring here.” “Yes, you’re a happy girl, happy girl, friendly girl,” the voice crooned to his cat. “Such a friendly girl, friendly friend...” Dr. Norton waited. “She likes to have her back rubbed, right above the base of her tail,” he volunteered. “Oh yes, I know what Princess likes, I do,” the voice chuckled.
“Princess is...a good name,” Dr. Norton said, trying to be agreeable. “I call her Mathilde.” “Ma-thilde. Like Matilda?” “Yes, very similar to that.” “Matilda. Almost like me. Do you know the song?” And before Dr. Norton could respond, the song came drifting down from the top of the tree, “Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong, Under the shade of the Kulibar tree, And he sang as he watched and he waited ‘till his billy boiled: “You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me....”
Dr. Norton pressed his hands into the bark, furrowed imprints in his palms. The singing was wistful, translucent. Each note descended and tingled on his face, along with the rounded raindrops, perfectly on pitch, glasslike. He stared at his hands, or where they would be if he could see anymore on this spring night. As the melody swirled around his hands, his head, he thought of himself as a young child, skipping and singing in a preschool class. “Up rode the squatter mounted on his thoroughbred, Down came the troopers, one, two, three, Whose that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag? “You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me....”
He tried to remember what the song meant, but all he could recall was that it was odd. Something to do with sheep shearers wandering around Australia carrying blankets to keep themselves warm. Was Matilda the blanket? “Up jumped the swagman, sprang into the billabong, “You’ll never catch me alive, said he. And his ghost can be heard as you pass by that billabong: “You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.And he sang as he watched and he waited ‘till his billy boiled:“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”
A heavy stillness settled out of the air. Dr. Norton didn’t move. He had no idea what to do now. How could conversation follow a song such as that? Step 6: End conversation? “What are you thinking?” asked the voice, startling Dr. Norton out of his thoughts. “Oh,” he said. “Uh...,” relevant thoughts, relevant thoughts, Roland. “I was thinking...what a lovely song that was. I mean, not the song, but the singing,” he hurried to explain, his cheeks on fire again. “Although the song itself is quite nice, too. Perhaps I should go inside now,” he added. He removed his hands from the tree.
“Wait, Mr. White Oak Man,” said the voice. “Miss Matilda will come with you now.” Mathilde. Once again, he had forgotten about her. “Mathilde?” he called up the tree trunk. “Mrrow.” Here she was, slithering down the tree and into his arms. “Mathilde. I’m glad you didn’t get stuck up there,” he said, with his nose buried in her wet fluffy neck. “It’s time for us to go do some reading.” Holding Mathilde, he began to step cautiously away from the close blackness of the tree. At the edge of the canopy, he hesitated. “Goodnight,” he called upwards. “And...thank you. Mathilde has had a fine evening.” Excellent resolution. The tree breathed a shower of mist in response. Dr. Norton waited, wanting to ask the voice if it was indeed real, and if so, why it should choose to spend a damp evening in the top of his oak tree. But that might precipitate another conversation, and he was worn out. Or he might find that he had had an imaginary dialogue with one of his plants. Best to end on a good note, he decided, and ask no more questions. He shut the screen door, latched the back door, and carried Mathilde to the kitchen.
“Look at you, Tilly, you must feel terrible when you’re all wet like that.” He rubbed a towel over her thick fur. She sat without making a sound, looking pleased with herself. He used a corner of the towel to rub the short fur on her head. She twitched her tail to show that her patience was wearing thin, and he hooked a finger under her collar to keep her still. “What’s this?” he asked her. Her collar felt unusually lumpy. He parted the fur on her neck and instead of the black of her collar saw gloppy dirty white, no...pale greenish yellow. Soggy smashed petals, hundreds of tiny petals connected in catkins. Catkins intertwined, around and around her collar. “Did you get tangled in the oak flowers, Mathilde?” He pulled some strands off and held them up, sniffed them. They had little fragrance, but they smelled faintly of growth and crushed earth...
~~~
Breathtaking
Compelling!
Page-Turner
Informative - Love Thy Neighbor
Normally I would read the short summary for a possible book, but having connected with the author, after trying to rebuild twitter connections after its takeover, I just bought the book and began to read...
It was interesting to try to get into a book cold turkey, so I was soon enthralled as each new character was brought forth. Certainly this book is character-driven, in an unique and extraordinary manner! You see, if you happen to have moved into town, purchased a home on Locust Street, you may quickly begin to wonder one thing...
Does anybody else live on the street? In fact, the author sets up the book for us, her readers, in a Prologue. She talks about the houses, the walks, the grass, which apparently is required to be kept in a certain way... Still, nothing about who lives on the street... except to point out it could be you, me, or even a psycho... But does it really matter, she challenges...
And so the book began. And there I was, Willow Stokes. I am a single older woman, living alone, and somewhat physically fragile... Ms Stokes differs in one way from me. She has nobody to depend upon or to help her. Miss Stokes was quite self sufficient, until noises and voices started beyond her home, she knew that she wouldn't be able to settle until she learned what was happening. She crept out carefully, wearing her special glasses to see better. At first what she saw scared her--but then she looked again and saw it was a large painted bus that took up most of the street. She escaped this major disturbance with earplugs as she shuffled off to bed...But she worried about what was going on...
Clarence and Janice St. Couer might be considered the elite of the street. And, like some who get into higher paying jobs are those who are hungry for more and more power, while looking down on those who do not meet their status... It was Janice who immediately, when seeing the bus, decided to call the police, and even made a sign and placed it on the window of the bus to warn them. Unfortunately, it rained and the sign could not be read. They have a two-year-old little girl who they think rules the world, being the smartest, and bound to be able to do anything they wanted her to do.
Miss Stokes comes back into the story, thus introducing our new character, Dr. Norton. Miss Stokes has fallen outside and her neighbor Dr. Norton hears her...
Dr. Norton is a neurologist and reminded me of my nephew who had Asperger's Syndrome. Dr. Norton is a good man and has a wonderful professional career, but had come to realize that he is totally unprepared to meet...people. Yep, Dr. Norton and I were also in sync. With guidance, Dr. Norton had learned a set of steps which could guide him through conversation which required what most people call "small talk." So each time he was involved, he would struggle how to deal with the situation. At least, finally, Dr. Norton was able to handle the situation to get Miss Stokes to the hospital. And, to do this, he had sought help from the newest resident--the owner of the bus!
Stopping there, I wanted to spotlight just how the author has garnered so much attention from her readers. In reading many books, I don't think I have ever read a writer who was so prolific in weaving each and every character through not only the physical descriptions so that we feel like we can imagine the individual, as well as how that person speaks as a part of his or her personality. Picture for yourself, just how you might think through your day--moving from thought to thought, idea to idea, backward and forward until you are able to decide just how and what you want to say or do...
Now, think about your friends, your family members...how they differ from you...and what that means in your own ability to interact with them. I could go on and on, but I must say that Parciak's character development, especially in, this, her first book, is qualifiedly well beyond any in my memory of thousands of books.
Back to the story...for before long--two young women slowly invade each life on the street in some way... as the Circus has come to Town!
Eugenia is one of the main characters. She is 13 and lives with her father. One day, one of her neighbors called; she had never met the woman so was surprised when she explained that her babysitter had to be away for a week and hoped that Eugenia would be able to take care of their daughter, Alicia, during that time period. Eugenia was thrilled--finally a way to make a little money...
But she had no idea what she was getting into! For one, the child, age two, never went anywhere outside of her home except in a car, being driven. This tragedy soon became the first problem to solve since Eugenia of course was not old enough to drive...
The home of the couple who had hired Eugenia was certainly reflective of the personalities of the two parents who both worked. But only as we read do we begin to see the obsessive-compulsion of the father while at the same time, the insecurity and trauma of the past that has held the mother for many years. Watching how Eugenia handles each task within an extremely structured environment, well, was just plain fun.
Eugenia may not be brilliant, but she sure came across as an extremely self-sufficient and intelligent young girl. What she did in order to take care of the child was creative, and indicative of a child who, having faced bad times in the past, was quite able to stand on her own two feet to handle a new situation. And while she faces each new experience, she begins to create a "scene" in her mind in which she works to solve the problem... These little stories flow easily through the entire novel...
Eugenia Walch, an observant girl on Locust Street, gives us the following eyewitness account of a break-and-enter robbery by a sociopathic homophobe.... Or...Eugenia Walch describes in terrifying detail how she outwitted a pack of feral Dobermans, which were about to consume one of her neighbors....
One of the surprising times was when Eugenia had decided to take Alicia into the back yard and, upon seeing what was a very carefully created sand pond was seen by Eugenia and Alicia as, simply a sand box! (And even stranger when her father comes across this ruined scene!) And, it was at that sand box that Eugenia and Alicia first met the second young woman.
Infantile French lesson versus her first big break as a journalist? No contest. She scudded back across the street to the St. Coeur’s yard, yanked her roller blades off and threw them under the bush, and tiptoed in her socks to the backyard shrub-wall. She pressed her ear against prickly branches, inhaling the pungency of sap and fleshy blue juniper cones. Nothing.
She pushed her hand into the branchy mire. “Ow.” She pulled her hand back. How did the St. Coeurs get into their backyard? Not from here, evidently. The neighbor’s yard had a rather hostile-looking gate, so she climbed up on the porch, unlocked the heavy doors and went inside, remembering just in time to de-activate the security system before the alarm went off. She trotted to the large glass doors in the sun room, where shades kept all but a hint of the sun from entering. She slid the doors open and stepped out onto the deck.
The yard below was large and bare. No grass. Round rocks stretched in an orderly fashion in all directions to the boundary hedge. Here and there a small tightly-pruned juniper stuck out. In the middle of the yard, plastic edging bordered a kidney-shaped area that was filled with sand. Not an errant leaf or a weed in sight. No crickets chirping, either.
Eugenia didn’t see any criminals, wild Dobermans or anything else exciting, so she descended to the yard and pulled off the car seat. “Look, a sand box.” Eugenia deposited Alicia in the middle of the kidney, so that her bottom made a nice round imprint in the carefully swirled, rake-crafted ridges of sand. Alicia looked up. Her mouth formed into an “O.” Uh-oh, fish gasping for air, watch out.
“It’s fun. Every child plays in the sand,” Eugenia assured her. “Here, I’ll show you.” She picked up the cow hoof, which had fallen into Alicia’s lap. “Gross, it’s all soggy,” she said, nearly dropping the stinky thing in disgust, but she forced herself to show Alicia how to scoop up sand with it and deposit it elsewhere. “Problem is, you need water to build a proper sand castle. Tell you what, you play with that while I go get you some.” Eugenia detoured to the side of the yard to see if she could see where the screaming person had come or gone. Much like the front side, the inside of the hedge appeared impenetrable. She walked the length of it, trailing her hand along the flat, scaly foliage. Wait. Here was a skinny branch that had freed itself from the pruned conformity of its partners. It angled into the yard a short ways, soaking up sun. She poked her hand behind it. “OW!” She yanked her hand out. Scratched again, worse this time.
But wait a minute, she thought, that wasn’t the resistance of millions of tiny interlaced branchlets. Those were prongs. Sharp ones. Broken-off branches. She peered into the dusty darkness, and saw tens, maybe hundreds of white tips. Woody limbs that had been snapped and exposed, lighting a path from one side of the shrub to the other. Incontrovertible evidence that a large body, or maybe a small but fast-moving body, had come through here.
For the first time, Eugenia felt a chill. If the body belonged to the screaming person, then where was he? Or she? Or it? The first alien to land on earth had an unsavory encounter with the thick-witted residents of Locust Street and fled back to the Andromeda Galaxy with hateful tales of the cruelness, greed and ignorance of the human race. This caused the Intergalactic Council to place a ban on further contact of any sort with Earth. And from that day onward the blue-green planet was left alone, to fight her own internal wars, and to assume that the life within her was indeed unique in the universe....
Eugenia wandered in the direction of the house without seeing any more clues. Of course, a bulldozer was about the only thing that would leave a trace in this yard, with the exception of the hedge and maybe the sand pond. She climbed the deck stairs and went inside, trying to remember why she had come. Oh yes, water.
She looked up. After the basement, the sun felt like a wall of brightness and warmth. What was she doing? Water. Alicia. Eugenia squinted into the yard and breathed a sigh of relief. Alicia was still there. But...no. That was not Alicia, unless she had grown and sprouted an abundance of dark hair. Without thinking, Eugenia ran towards the threatening intruder, towards the sandbox where her feeble little charge had been playing.
“Don’t!” she yelled in a voice hoarse with fright, and the silver disc sailed out of her hand, spinning and glinting in the sun, arcing up and then down, down, down until it plunged headfirst into the sand, a foot shy of the black-haired maniac. Darn it, a piss-poor throw, Eugenia thought as she ran behind it. So much for being heroic. She stopped short at the sandbox, chest heaving. Alicia was sitting where Eugenia had deposited her, eating sand. She was paying no attention to the stranger sitting in front of her. “...think you’re telling the truth,” the stranger was whispering to Alicia. “You don’t like Carrie or Leon or Jessica either. Perhaps together we...” The stranger looked up, suddenly aware of Eugenia’s presence. Eugenia found herself staring at a pale, open face with dark eyes that were wide-open and trusting. “You’re...just a girl!” Eugenia said. For once, she was at a loss for words. The stranger was small, thin and looked as though she was only a few years older than Eugenia. Eugenia felt weak in the knees now that she knew she wasn’t dealing with an alien being, or some big, hairy convict from the city jail. As soon as Eugenia had spoken, a change came over the girl’s eyes. They darkened to an inky black, a blackness that soaked up the sun’s energy and wrung it out somewhere deep inside.
“No!” screamed the girl, jumping up. “I am not a boy! You can’t make me be one! Make Carrie be one instead!” She was clutching a shiny plastic bag into which she plunged her hand and threw a handful of something yellow at Eugenia. Eugenia dove to the ground to avoid being hit. She found herself face-to-face with one of the small yellow missiles. It was a corn chip. What a freak! She almost laughed out loud.
“Wait,” she said, ducking her head to avoid another shower of chips. “Didn’t you hear me? I agree with you. You’re very definitely a girl. That’s the first thing I thought when I saw you. Truly.” The girl retreated to the far end of the sand pond, clutching the bag of chips, which looked strikingly similar to the bag Eugenia had opened for Alicia’s breakfast. She glowered and spoke in a voice so low Eugenia could hardly make out the words. “Think you’re so smart, don’t you? ...know better...with Princess Carrie and her knives and tigers...not trustworthy... all fire and light...thought she was a golden child and Leon loved her....know better...it’s me that’s supposed to be the one....know better, I do....”
“What the heck?” Eugenia interrupted. She was confused and somewhat irritated. Was this complete gibberish or was it a personal attack? And who was Princess Carrie, an evil member of a royal family?
~~~
And Ruining through the remainder of the book is this song...
With unexplainable results since we never learn all of the words...
Well, I was curious enough to find them so they are at the bottom of this article...Latin to English
But it is not really the words that are sought
But rather how the song came into the story...
I was about 40% of the way through the book when I started noticing something... Each of the homes had very high fences or trees, so much so that an individual could not go from one home to another through their back yards. In fact, it quickly became clear that there was little involvement with their neighbors, which is not altogether unusual, except, we sense that most of the individuals are dealing with some personal fear that caused them to withdraw into their home, seeking the security that could not be found out in the world...even on their own street, in their own town... Even one of the newcomers, who presents as an extremely friendly outgoing man, has a terrible burden that he only allows to come forth with those who are caring enough to listen...
Readers, I was one of those who carefully listened to all those who came to live on Locust Street... I invite you into the most complex book you may ever read... Yet, in many ways, the most touching tale that can only be read as a whole... Because if you don't, you will truly miss the treasure to be found...beyond...the end of this book! How Exciting to say that! I wanted a different ending...but it would have to have been a lengthy novel that would merely elaborate on the ending we "experience..." Still, I must say that I would love to see a follow up book featuring the two young women, perhaps working together to continue to spotlight the crux of the storyline in Requiem. Don't miss this literary gem!
