Welcome to Book Readers Heaven! Find Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
It reminded her that she was closing in on Bad Luck, a tiny town not far from Austin, a town she’d sworn she’d never set foot in again. The sunroof was open, harsh rays beating down on the top of her head, strands of her red-blond hair yanked from the knot she’d twisted to the base of her skull. She didn’t care. She’d kicked off her high heels at the airport and was driving barefoot, her eyebrows slammed together in concentration, the notes of some old Madonna song barely piercing her consciousness. She took a corner a little too fast, and the tires on the Caddy screeched, but she didn’t slow down. After ten years of being away, ten years ostracized, ten years of living life her way in Seattle, she couldn’t wait to pull up to the century-old home where she’d been raised. Not that she’d stay long. Just do her business and get the hell out.
“We need to talk.” “What the hell are you doin’ here, darlin’?” Disappointment clouded his blue eyes, and a part of her wanted to run to him and throw her arms around his neck and say oh, Daddy, I’ve missed you. But she didn’t. Instead she swallowed back the urge to break down altogether and stiffened her spine. She was no longer a frightened little girl. “Alone, Judge. We need to talk alone.” She stared pointedly at his latest gofers. The men, dismissed by a nod from their boss, kicked out their chairs, and with muffled words and hasty assurances from Judge Cole that they’d get together later, walked stiffly around the back of the house and through a gate. In the ensuing stillness, when the sound of bees humming and a woodpecker drumming were all that could be heard, Shelby didn’t waste any time. She reached into her briefcase, pulled out the manila envelope, ripped it open and spilled its contents onto the glass-topped table where the ice in three half-consumed drinks was still melting. The black-and-white photo of a girl of nine or ten stared up at them, and the Judge sucked in his breath as he slowly sat down again. Shelby noticed that his wedding band had cut a groove in the ring finger of his left hand, a ring that hadn’t been removed in over thirty years, and on his right, he sported a flashy diamond that most Hollywood brides would envy. Shelby leaned over the table so that the tip of her nose was nearly touching her father’s. With one finger she pointed to the black-and-white picture. “This is my daughter,” she said, her insides quaking, her voice unsteady. “Your granddaughter.” She looked for any sign of recognition in the old man’s face. There was none. “She looks just like me. Just like Mom.” The Judge glanced at the photo. “There’s a resemblance.” “No resemblance, Judge. This girl is a dead ringer. And here”—she edged a piece of paper from beneath the photograph—“this is a copy of her birth certificate. And this ... the death notice of her as a baby. Read it—Elizabeth Jasmine Cole. She was supposed to have died, Judge—of complications, heart problems—right after birth. You . . . you told me she hadn’t made it. That those ashes I spread in the hills ... oh, God, whose were they?” she asked, her voice cracking, the immense pain rising up again. Shaking her head, not wanting to hear any more lies, she said, “Don’t . . . oh, God.” Shelby’s throat was clogged and she thought she might throw up. “You lied to me, Dad. Why?” “I didn’t—” “Don’t! Just don’t, okay!” She held both her palms outward, in his face, and stepped back. Bile roiled in her stomach. Beneath her skin, her muscles were quivering in rage. “Someone, and I don’t know who, sent me all this. I got it yesterday, and so I came back here to clear it up. Where’s my daughter, Dad?” she demanded through teeth that were clenched so hard her jaw ached. “What the hell did you do with her?” “Now, darlin’—” “Stop it! Right now! Don’t call me darlin’, or sweetie, or kiddo, or missy or any of those cute little names, okay? I’m all grown up now, in case you hadn’t noticed, and you can’t smooth-talk your way out of this, Judge. I’m not a little girl. I know better than to believe a word that passes through your lying lips, and I only came back here to find my child, Judge—my daughter.” She thumped her chest with her thumb. “Yours and who else’s?” he asked, his smile having disappeared and the old, hard edge she remembered coming back to his voice. “That—that doesn’t matter.” “Doesn’t it?” The Judge scattered the papers across the table and frowned, his eyes narrowing behind wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Odd, don’t you think? You get proof that you’ve got a kid during the same week that Ross McCallum is going to be released from prison.” “What?” Her knees nearly buckled. McCallum couldn’t be given his freedom. Not yet. Not ever. Fear congealed her blood. She was suddenly hot and cold all at once. “Oh, so you didn’t know?” The Judge settled back in his chair and played with the ivory handle of his cane. He looked up at her over the tops of his glasses. “Uh-huh. Ross is gonna be a free man. Oh . . . and Nevada Smith, he’s still around.” Her stupid heart skipped a beat, but she managed to keep her face bland, her expression cool. Nevada was out of her life. Had been for a long, long time. Nothing would change that. Ever. “Yep,” the Judge went on, fingertips caressing the smooth knob, “inherited a rocky scrap of land that he’s tryin’ to ranch. No one knows how he’ll handle Ross’s freedom, but the word is that there is certainly gonna be hell to pay.” He bit his lower lip and scowled thoughtfully, as he’d often done while hearing long-winded summations when he was on the bench. “And now someone sends you bait—a little chum in the water to lure you back to a town you’ve sworn you’d never return to. Someone’s playin’ you for a fool, Shelby,” he said, slowly nodding his head, as if in agreement with himself, “and it ain’t me.” For once she believed him.
Lisa Jackson was one of those favorite authors during my early years of reading purely for pleasure. So, when I grabbed Unspoken, I was disappointed. There was little, if any, suspense that you could identify. The villain was clearly identifiable, since he was already a part of the main character's life. Indeed, he had already attacked her during high school!
But, for me, the most devastating was that Jackson totally ignored the WHY of having been lied to that her baby had died at birth... When you call a novel suspenseful, you'd better ensure that you clear up what caused the suspense! Duh...
Since there was little to actually concentrate on in this supposed riveting novel, I did get involved more closely with the family dynamics. Unfortunately, this was another book where a main character comes right out of today's headlines... Shelby's father was a Judge--a man who thrived on power and who felt he had a right to do what he wanted to do--sound familiar? When Shelby got pregnant in high school, the Judge made it clear that she had brought shame to the family structure and he would handle everything... Shelby was naive enough to accept that the baby had died and that she would not need to bear the pain of seeing her child.
But she had been relocated during the pregnancy and the boy who she felt was her baby's father was left out of everything that occurred. It was a shock, then, when Shelby went to him and told him she'd had a child and she believed he was the father.
Somebody wanted her to know, and had sent a picture of the child, who looked exactly like Shelby. That mystery was also not a problem to figure out the whodunit...
“That’s what I was told by everyone, but now... now I think I was lied to, and that she’s alive, but I don’t know where. She was probably adopted through the black market.”
Nevada was still single, but had little to do with activities in the town, so Shelby caught him with news he didn't know how to deal with, at least at first. But it wasn't long that he was willing to try to find his daughter. Around about that time, it seemed that there were more people knowing what was going on than there should have been, with little explanation for those involved and their actions. I began feeling like Jackson was under a deadline and continuity and rewrites were ignored to finish the book... even if that was not the case... To complete what I felt should have been explained and merged into the overall story would have taken about 20 pages--not too much to ask from a well-known author, is it?
Ol’ Judge Cole
Was a nasty old soul
And a nasty old soul was he
He called for his noose
And he called for his gun
And he called for his henchmen three.
The poem made her cringe inwardly, but she refused to let it get to her.
Right now all she could think about was finding Elizabeth.
And what about Nevada? her mind taunted,
but she wouldn’t fall victim to those old feelings again.
Nevada was a man whom she had to deal with—the father of her child. Nothing more. Until she located her daughter, nothing else mattered.
Shelby's actions are understandable as she is learning just how much and how long she was deceived. My impression of Nevada was that he handled the situation much better and was willing to, for the most part, accept how deeply Shelby had hurt him by just leaving. This relationship was the only salvation for a bright spot in the novel... You will have to decide about this one...
About a half-mile down the beach she was surprised to see an old-fashioned amusement park—a Ferris wheel and great red-and-white towers of a wooden roller coaster jutted up into the clear sky, and other brightly colored buildings hinted of summer fun. "It's heaven," Oliver said. "Let's stay here forever." "It's heaven," she whispered, watching the tiny figure of the cop far off down the beach. This place felt far apart from the harsh world outside. It was as if here was a place she could start over, be whoever she wanted to be, dream any dream and make it come true. She briefly considered what it would be like to live permanently in a little cottage, in a cute village surrounded by sand and sea and cotton candy, with the chance to just be herself and have nothing to hide.
She unlocked the gate, then turned to face him. "Thank you for your help, Captain Ryan. I can handle it from here." "I'd better see you inside safely." She wondered at what point his obvious impression that she was incompetent would make her either lose her temper—or fall all over him in relief. But since she knew he was right about her, she just shrugged and went through the gate, Oliver and the man trailing behind her.
As soon as the house came into view she realized her prayers for a quick sale had not been answered. She stopped in her tracks. It was a monstrosity. No. That wasn't the word. At least a monstrosity would have adequate square footage. This was... it was indescribable. It was tiny—all of two and a half stories high and still probably smaller than her one-bedroom condo had been. It had obviously been built without a blueprint. It was crooked. She didn't see a straight line anywhere in sight. The roofline was pitched at an angle that defied gravity, with one side climbing toward the sky at a steep slope, and the other side swooping down practically to the ground. "The roof...," she muttered. "Cat slide," Captain Ryan said. "That's what they call that steep, one-sided pitch," he explained to Oliver. Oliver stood, as wide-eyed as she herself must appear, trying to take it all in. "Yeah," he muttered. "A cat would slide right off, huh?"
"The Honeymoon Cottage was the first Stockdale," Captain Ryan said. She didn't have time to ask him what the heck a "stockdale" was, because she was busy walking around the front of the cottage, trying to make sense of it. The walls appeared to be made of stucco in a charming shade of cream-and-mildew, interspersed with huge, rough-hewn beams of what she imagined was ancient redwood. The beams appeared to be barely holding up the walls. Iron sconces framed the door. And the door, a round-topped slab of redwood, obviously hand-carved by a carpenter who didn't own a level, stood proudly off-center in the front wall, flanked by not only the gargoyle-shaped sconces, but also by heavy-framed, diamond-paned windows that arched into unbelievable shapes never imagined by the folks at Home Depot. "Oh, no," she muttered.
"Haven't you been to the Honeymoon Cottage before?" he asked. "Stop calling it that!" she snapped. "Honeymoon cottage—like it's some cozy little getaway for a newlywed couple. Divorce cottage, more like it. One look and the marriage broke up." "The house then. You haven't seen the house." "House? This isn't a house. It's—it's—" She was at a loss. A complete loss. All her plans for a quick sale and a getaway to a new life were shot in this one, first glimpse of— "—It looks like it was built by a drunken leprechaun," she finally said. Unexpectedly, the taciturn captain chuckled. "I think that's the best description of a Stockdale cottage I've ever heard." He pushed open the door, which wasn't even locked. Why would it be? Who would want to break in? The iron hinges on the door gave way with a creak straight out of an old horror movie. He ushered them inside. "We might as well see the rest." She went in. It was a mess. The walls were as crooked inside as they had appeared from the outside, the diamond-pane windows were missing glass in several spots, and there was ample evidence that something—she prayed it wasn't raccoons—had taken up residence in the middle of the living room floor. "I think it's neat," said Oliver. He ran over to the fireplace. "See all the different pictures!" He started tracing out patterns in the ceramic tiles framing the fireplace. "This one's a squirrel!" Numb, Camilla followed him over to the fireplace. He was right. It was beautiful. Under the grime and slime, the fireplace was covered in handmade embossed tiles. There were trees and starfish and suns, all in rich browns and golds and greens—many greens, from pale moss to deep forest. More and more came to light with every sweep of Oliver's hands against the dirty surface. It smelled of mold.
"This cottage is worth a lot of money," the man behind her said. "Why?" she said sarcastically. "You get a lot of drunken leprechauns around here needing housing?" "You don't know? It's a Stockdale. Built by Jefferson Stockdale. The architect." "Using the term loosely," she muttered. "The village is littered with them. People come from all over the place just to see them. Postcards, walking tours, they even filmed an old TV series here years ago. You know—about that old lady who solved mysteries." "I don't think this place is on the tourist maps." "Not now. But a little repair, a little spit and polish—" She pulled at a loose tile on the hearth and it came off in a cascade of decayed grout and mouse droppings. "—Okay, a lot of spit and polish. But this place is full of history. If you own it, you're sitting on a gold mine." He was talking a lot. The silent captain had become very chatty all of a sudden. "How do you know?" He froze, as if he realized he was revealing too much, and then said, "Um, I know somebody who inherited one." "How nice for them," she said. Then the words "gold mine" sunk in. "You think I can get a good price for it? The real estate agent told me it just needed a bit of fixing up." He looked around the room. "Your real estate agent is an optimist. I imagine it'll take some money to hire the team of specialists...." "I'm doing the work myself. Yes," she added at his skeptical look. "I have experience with—well, not with this sort of house, but with normal houses." He looked down at her from his six-foot-two. "Really?" "Yes, really. My father did construction." When he wasn't in jail. She looked him in the eye, glad she hadn't said that last part aloud. "I am capable of taking care of myself, Captain Knight." "I don't doubt you," he said, but she didn't believe him. She went to the front door, and held it open. He still stood in the middle of the room, as if he wanted to say something more. "Thank you for your help, Captain." She looked at him pointedly and he finally came over to where she stood. Again she felt that surge of adrenalin as he invaded her personal space.
She had no room to step back, with the redwood door behind her and the tree of a man only a foot in front of her. He stood there for another few seconds while she held her breath. Some insane part of her wanted to ask him to stay: Don't go. It's all too much for me. I want you to help. But luckily her mind was stronger than that idiotic thought. She stood silently and finally he stepped through the door and walked up the path to the street. She watched him go. At last he was out of her life. But long after the gate creaked shut, and the SUV's engine roared to life, and the sound of the tires crunching on the gravel faded in the distance, she still stood there, her thumb rubbing over the gold embossed badge on the business card. "What's for dinner?" Oliver's voice cut into her swirling thoughts. She realized her face was damp with evening fog, and the sun was almost completely gone. It would be dark soon, and she didn't even know if the place had working lights. She turned to Oliver. "Macaroni and cheese for dinner. Assuming there's a stove. Let's find out." She held out her hand to him and they went to find the kitchen.
~~~~
As soon as I read the description of this tiny house, I could hear the song in my head: "There was a crooked man, who..." and I was hooked to know more about what would happen in this tiny crooked home... Lee has a fascinating way of building each of her main characters, who readers will naturally assume that they will come together sooner or later, LOL. The antagonism had started on Camilla's part as soon as they met, even though it was the situation and the fact that Ryan was a cop that had been called by a shop owner who thought there was a potential sale of stolen property going on... Yeah, it's going to be that type of tense relationship between two of the nicest people--you can tell by their actions--that you might want to meet.
But both of them had a past that they didn't want to share, especially when one was a cop...
It was rather a strange entrance into Pajaro Bay. She was out of gas, needed money quickly to get more, while swearing she had just filled the car with gas 50 miles before. She also had a young boy with her but no father. And, further, when they got to her new home, she admitted she had never seen it nor knew what type of house, and condition, it was in. Having to sleep on the floor was just the beginning of the new life they needed to adjust to!
The last thing he needed was a woman wearing freckles and a halo, a little boy who loved trucks, a glimpse of goodness and honesty that was impossible for him to ever know again. It was a vision of something beyond this empty, echoing life. Something he had forgotten even existed. And now these innocents walked into his life and tempted him to see goodness and forget the horrors that lurked just beneath the surface.
At least until she sold the cottage... and with that money reclaim her identity as far as a profession goes. Ryan has him own back story and had already submitted his resignation... Which, after meeting Camilla and finding himself attracted to her, has already put him in a quandary as he soon realizes that the feeling seems to be mutual and both are unwilling to consider the alternative to their respective plans...
Enough of that. But even as she scolded herself she had to smile. She was feeling so much better after a good sleep that even the thought of the overbearing cop couldn't dampen her spirits. Oddly, crashing in a sleeping bag on the floor of this tiny cottage had given her the best night's sleep she'd had in weeks. Outside the diamond-pane windows, the sea had whispered all night, and the fog had cocooned Oliver and her from the outside world. All had felt warm and cozy inside. She'd finally gotten the deep restful sleep she had so desperately needed. It was as if the cottage was holding them safe in its arms. Nice feeling, even if it was merely a result of exhaustion and stress.
I don't want to share too much about the details other than to say that a serial killer is involved. Also involved is an ongoing con man activity that results in Ryan finally concluding that he needed to begin a full-scale investigation. In the meantime, he got permission to provide ongoing security at the cottage, where their relationship continued to bloom.
The young boy is a very special character, because he has his own secrets of the past. But he is now loved and wanted and as the story goes on, Camilla made an internal commitment to ensure that Oliver becomes confident that she will not disappear like his father did... That decision also provided a new strength in her decisions about her past and future.
There was something about the way she looked at him. She wasn't going to take life's problems lying down. She was facing her troubles with that cute little button nose up and a stubborn set to her jaw. There was something admirable about her. The awareness that she was alone in the world, without a penny to her name, but she wasn't going to stop trying until she found a way out of the mess in which she found herself. He wished he had her faith that everything would work out, if one only kept trying.
This is such a delightful, heartwarming story, with an underlying note to readers that, no matter what has happened in your life, there is still a chance to survive and return joy to your future... The characters are wonderfully created, giving readers a chance to both boo-hiss and rejoice of the people in the Pajaro Bay community. With a surprise and shocking climatic event! Highly recommended!
They pushed me out of the way to clasp Dad’s hand, pat his back. I backed up, wanting to be far away from all of them. As I started to turn away, to run to my room, and wait for Mom to come home to find out if she was infected with this, too, the guy who seemed in charge turned to stare at me. He’d been handsome before he got all soft and jowly. He turned his round blue eyes on me and my knees went watery. When our eyes met again, I could see the flames Dad talked about, like a forest fire behind his eyes. I turned and ran into my room and locked the door...
There was only one thing I could think of that scared me, Robert James. Even thinking of his name made me shudder and I wondered if Dad finally got a taste of that. --Veronica
Imagine if you would, as I did, that the setting of this book is in a small town, either at present, or as planned for the near future... No, I rarely know the storyline before I get a new book... Title and cover is enough, as long as it is within my budget... I have to admit that I'm beginning to feel like these books are coming into my hands "supernaturally..." Because this story is too close to what we've been learning about plans of "project 25..." where government at the lowest levels is being taken over by Christian Nationalists... or MAGA...or whoever is behind all the chaos!
Veronica is our main character and the book ranges from her being 12 through to present as she is moving toward high school graduation. Veronica is an only child of two loving parents. The father has been offered a job and they move to Dalesville where he will be working for Faith Fellowship...
With absolutely no explanation as to how, when, or the possible why, Veronica has a special psychic gift of, upon touch, she is able to read another person's mind... There is no reference that even her parents know about this ability... Of course, Veronica may not have been given this ability until the relocation.
Because since they've been to Dalesville, Veronica's mother has disappeared. Her only clue since that happened, is that, in shaking hands with a woman at church, she saw a vision of her mother, in bed as if ill. Of course, there was no way for her to question a church member as to how she had seen her mother...
Veronica saw a definite change in her father. He was changed from the fun-loving father she remembered:
Dad was the lively one, in both voice and manner. He was always enthusiastic about something, whether it was stoking the coals of the barbecue or scribbling notes in books or on articles. I’d pick those up later, most sailed high and wide above my head. “Colonization of the other?’ or “PG again,” although not all, I picked up one article praising former president Nixon full of margin notes reading “asshole” and “dipshit.” Dad caught me with it and yanked it away, blushing. Then he gave a big booming laugh and ruffled my hair. “Your old man’s got some strong opinions, kiddo.” “I don’t mind.” I pointed at the picture of Nixon in the center of the article. “He looks shifty.” He’d swept me up in his arms and planted a kiss on my forehead, the tickle of his beard made me giggle. “My kid’s a friggin’ genius.” Mom came in at that moment, a stack of papers in one hand, a gallon of milk in the other, and asked what we were laughing about. Dad told her, and then she kissed me, too, and told me I’d earned a special trip to the bookstore. That was years ago. It was easy to see things were different.
The four who wind up as the lead characters in this YA novel are among the outsiders... Not because of who they are, necessarily, but because the town has two major institutions--one a corporation; one a church... Actually there is a tendency to realize that the two have leaders who are representing all of the town in some major way--either as employers, as a church member or student at the church school, or as those who have spent time at a facility run by the church but in another town...
I tried to think objectively about the situation. There was a certain degree of comfort, even relief, in knowing one’s purpose, of being told exactly what you have to sacrifice—autonomy, career—in order to achieve it. But was anybody really ever aware of how big their sacrifice would be?
And then somewhere along the line, I learned that this was an evangelical college... No wonder I recognized the authoritarian aspect of the town...
When he did speak, it was the same kind of thing I’d been hearing for years. “I’m going to have to be gone a great deal over the coming weeks. I trust you’ll continue to behave in the ways I’ve taught you. What I don’t see, God does.” The words were the same, but the tone was wrong, it crackled with something unspoken, something that couldn’t be said. The knuckles that gripped the chair were white. “Do you understand?” Was he talking about Theo following me?
These four students became friends, perhaps, caused by their own rebellion--maybe they were unhappy with the way things were in their own homes... As mentioned, Veronica's father moved to Dalesville to be employed by the church. Chris is also a high school student but writes for the school paper. His father is "Big Pat" and is the owner of the company which supplies most of the jobs for the community, outside of the church campus and other activities they sponsor. The other two are gay; most people don't accept them... I "think" one may be also black, which, well...you know...
We meet the four of them at The Club which is the only entertainment location in town. Veronica sneaks out to go there. Chris dresses differently in rebellion to his father by wearing dark clothes, painting his nails black and adding other goth-type accessories... Being together as a gay couple is fine at this Club... A mosh pit gets the action going...
Now Veronica, who, as mentioned, has a gift or a problem, depending upon how you look at it, and stays away from dancing most of the time... And, she also has a personal reason for getting to know Chris. She's hoping, as a reporter, that he may be willing to help her either find her mother or discover what happened to her. But, little by little, the heat between these two becomes a reality and when a slow jam then starts, Chris asks Veronica to dance and she finally decides to try it...
After I pulled it shut and twitched the curtain closed, I made my way down the alley that ran the length of our subdivision toward Sunset, the road that ran east-west through this crappy town. Toward downtown, where all the freaks hung out, hoping this was the time I’d run into Chris. I thought he might be able to help me keep my promise to myself to find out what happened to Mom. Whatever other motivations I had I did my best to deny as I walked down the hill leading to Sunset. “I’m trusting you,” Dad had said. More’s the fool him. Trust was for suckers.
I MOVED, THEY MOVED, we moved together. The bounce and sway of the mosh pit, the black-clad mass pressed against my body, the music pressed against my eardrums, colored lights pressed and flashed against my eyes. We were one. I flailed and fell, drowning. I leapt up and slammed against another. So much noise, I couldn’t hear my own thoughts...or anybody else’s. I was no longer Veronica Simon, alien and alienated. I was no longer alone. Just because I had a plan didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun, right?
The song ended, segued into a slow jam suitable only for the love sway, couples hugging one another with no visible rhythm. Of course, my mocking was only the slim coating over a bitter pill. Seventeen-years-old, and the only commandment I’d managed to break, goddamn it, was not taking the Lord’s name in vain. I still honored my mother, but Dad cared more about his stupid Faith Fellowship Community than me, so he didn’t deserve it. And maybe I’d done a bit of coveting of a certain sharp-faced, black-haired boy reporter with a quirky little smile. The thought of him made me smile as I plowed through the crowd, trying not to touch anyone. I wouldn’t mind breaking a few more commandments with him. Much as Dad and his cohorts tried to convince us otherwise, “Thou shalt not engage in sex before marriage” hadn’t actually made it onto Moses’s big stone tablet. I almost wished it had, for the fun of breaking it. Then again, I thought, as I got closer to the bar, who knew what would happen with that much closeness? I shuddered. Keep my distance. Tamp it down. Caution: use only as directed. And if a few things still slipped through the cracks, all the more reason to keep to myself. Best to concentrate on this opportunity. I rapped my knuckles on the bar to get Mike the bartender’s attention, and gave him what I hoped was a winsome smile. I hadn’t had a lot of practice with talking to people since we’d moved to Dalesville, but the few times I’d made it to The Club, talking to Mike had been easy. Someday, I might even be able to talk to someone else. He grinned when he saw me, his natural expression. He had a kind of teddy bear face and physique that was made for tapping kegs and giving the highest of fives. “What can I get you, Veronica Simon?” “Vodka tonic, if you’d be so kind, Michael Higgens.” I matched his tone. He crossed his arms, tried unsuccessfully to settle his round face in hard lines. “ID?” “Mike. Do me a solid. Jesus’ll love you for it, you know.” The grin reappeared before he could stop himself. “You could go to hell for saying shit like that.” I felt my good humor crack a bit. It was a reminder of things I wanted the drink to forget. My smile and banter felt rubbery and fake, but I pushed on regardless. “My bad. I thought this was hell.” He coughed and laughed simultaneously. “Fine. Three bucks.” I put four on the bar. “Price-gouging bastard. Thanks, Mike. May God bless you.” He laughed all the way down the bar.
I swiveled in my chair, sipped my drink, and watched the dancers. An involuntary sigh escaped me, and I took a large gulp of my drink. Pathetic. I lit a cigarette from the pack I’d bought at the beaten-up little store around the block and commenced watching again, but the dizzy dance-induced endorphin rush was long gone, replaced by the slow-simmer anger I’d carried for the past four months. What did I expect, coming to this place? I didn’t know anybody. Five years of home, school, church, or church-related activities had rusted any social skills that didn’t involve quoting the Bible or praising Jesus. Even with Nancy, my best friend until Jeremy Barnes asked her out and proceeded to monopolize her, every word had to be monitored and measured, so I wouldn’t offend her. She’d never be caught dead in a place like this. And Mr. Mulligan, sadly, was nowhere to be seen. I crushed out the cigarette, half-smoked, polished off the last of the vodka, adjusted my gloves, and slid off the stool. I snaked again through the dancers to the exit and out into the cold night air to be actually alone. I wasn’t alone. On the outer rim of the streetlamp outside the parking lot of The Club was a guy, leaning against a station wagon festooned with an array of discordant bumper stickers from an NRA “from my cold dead hand” to an Earth Day decal. He held a cigarette between long pale fingers, nails painted black to match both his hair and ensemble. My laugh was both unstoppable and loud. He looked up and saw me, then shoved himself off the car and ambled in my direction. Despite the vampire drag and the dark parking lot, I wasn’t remotely scared. I knew who he was, the reason I’d started haunting The Club in the first place, hoping it might be one of the places he’d hang out. Finally, risk met reward. I leaned against the wall of the club, bass thrumming through the plywood, a soothing counterpoint to the fluttery sensation in my stomach as he came closer. I told myself it was the nervousness of asking for a favor from a stranger.
He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a pack of cheap cigarettes, offering me one. I took it and the offered lighter. It was only then he spoke. “Were you laughing at me?” No accusation in that deep, soft tone, only curiosity. I darted a glance at him, smiled. “Yes.” He returned it. “Just checking.” I took a drag of my cigarette, exhaled the smoke toward my boots. “Are you offended?” “Terribly.” His somber voice was immediately undercut with a laugh. I chanced looking up again, and let my smile widen. “Then please accept my deepest apologies...” “Chris Mulligan.”
“Veronica Simon.” He squinted at me as if the fluorescents above the door hurt his eyes. “You look familiar.” “I think we go to the same school, although your distinctive style should’ve made you more... distinctive,” I finished lamely. I was lying. I’d been noticing him for a long time, a math class here, an English class there, sneaking glances at his profile over my copy of Huck Finn, reading his stories in the Dalesville High Journal with a little more interest than a profile of Coach Blake necessitated. I didn’t want to open with that, though. I thought I might come off as a stalker, especially since I’d never actually worked up the courage to talk to him until now. I watched him as he took a drag on his cigarette, the sharp plane of his cheek sucked in slightly. It should’ve made him look gaunt, but his face was softened by long lashes and lips whose curves always seemed to quirk on the edge of a smile. Not that I’d ever visualized kissing those lips or anything, or thought about running my hands through that shiny black hair. Nope, not me. I wasn’t remotely disconcerted by his proximity and was in no way having any problem paying attention to what he was saying. Absolutely not. This was purely professional.
“...anyway, there’s a day-Chris and a night-Chris. Mostly ‘cause day-Chris has enough to do getting up and getting dressed without killing someone to manage more than jeans and a shirt. Then again, my dad hates it when I dress like this.” “That’s enough of a reason to do it, yeah?”
When had asking nicely ever gotten me anything? The nip of night air felt nice on my skin, and I let my sudden bad mood trail away. I dug another cigarette out of my bag and lit it, focused on the fact I’d kept my head around him, and known to quit while I was ahead. The light from a trashcan fire in the alley next to the St. James Hotel—formerly the “jewel of downtown Dalesville” and now home to anyone who could pay the ten dollar a night charge—illuminated the stark dark branches of the catalpa in the center of the square. I ambled over there, took a seat on the warped wooden bench under the tree, and leaned back, sending smoke up toward the icepick stars above. Alone was better.
Dad would be home on Sunday, in time to drag me to church, where I had the joy of being surrounded by people whose only connection was how much they hated everything not like them. I wasn’t like them, and the effort to hide that was exhausting. Worse, the collective crazy of Dad’s church of freaks had a way of sneaking through the chinks in my mental armor even without touching them. I hugged my arms more tightly around myself. Alone was definitely better.
The square was deserted, and the silence loud. My ears strained to pick up a sound, any sound. Relief came in the form of an idling car nearby. A door slammed, and I stood, turned away from the street. It was time to move on, sneak back into the house. “Hey. I thought it was you.” I spun around again, on my guard, and was facing Chris, giving me that same flickering smile. He stepped back, the smile gone. “Unless you didn’t want to be bothered.”
I let my face relax. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything important.” It quirked on again. “Cool. We’re,” he gestured toward the station wagon, where two shadows lurked in the depths of the car, “going to Sam’s for some coffee and grease. Wanna come with?” “Well...” I thought about the walk and the pleasure of solitude, that smile and the sharp teeth of the wind. Thought about sitting next to Dad and being harangued for my sinful nature in this our sinful world, anger like incense lingering in the air. Smiled, because it worked. “Why not?” We walked together toward the car. Chris opened the passenger door for me. Up close, I noticed two boys in the backseat sporting a motley collection of piercing, tats, and other blasphemous attire, and scrambled right in and slammed the door behind me.
~~~~
The smell of incense was worked into the wooden pew. In front of him was the doleful face of the suffering Christ. He saw no judgment there, no expression carved into the face that said, “Chris, you have sinned. You are cast from my kingdom.” There was enough of that in the pinched faces of the communicants’ heel-toe-ing it up the aisle. He stared instead at the lip of the pew where he was kneeling, trying not to slump and lay his head there. The wages of sin were falling asleep in church and waking up to see the red creep up his father’s neck, and the disappointment in his mom’s eyes. His father—his Dad’s friends called him Big Pat, and so did Chris in his head—was always angry about something lately, and thus easy to dismiss. Mom’s disappointment was rarer and harder to take. Be a good boy. When he was little, he’d wanted that life. A modern-day Saint Francis, working with the sick and poor. A life of service to the greater good. Christ’s representative on earth. That was all gone. He wasn’t sure exactly where it had gone. Maybe it was as simple as getting old enough to be horrified at the idea of never getting laid. Maybe it was Catholic grade school and the bitter nuns and pietistic priests and the hypocritical good boys and girls they praised, who were no better than anybody else. If it hadn’t been hard for him to figure out they were full of shit, shouldn’t people who’d devoted themselves to God be able to see through all that crap, too? There was one thing left that could still give him an echo of that old magic. The darkened church, priest in the nave with a large candle, and then the parishioners lighting their candles, each to each, until the church was full of hundreds of flickering flames. Easter vigil:
the return of Alleluia, the return of the Lord from the hell of death. Eventually, the candles were snuffed, and he’d start counting the hours until the vigil was done. “The mass is over. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
The organist crashed into the recessional like he was playing Notre Dame rather than a mid-sized Midwestern Catholic church. Chris wasn’t the only one who jumped. He suspected Big Pat actually had dozed off, given the wide-eyed bleary gaze he returned to the priest. Still, he managed to get himself together to lead the procession out of the pew as soon as Fr. Nickols and the altar boys had swept past. Chris outdistanced his family almost immediately, pulling on his jacket as he walked down the aisle and out the doors into the sharply cool sunlit Sunday morning. He lit a cigarette the minute his feet hit the mended asphalt of the parking lot, picked out their rust-bitten station wagon among the shiny sedans and SUVs of the other parishioners, and strode in that direction. Their newer truck was in the shop, and money was tight while Big Pat was on disability. From that vantage point, he could watch his parents nod and smile at Fr. Nickols, watch his sister Meg squirm with irritation at being forced to stand still after an hour of sitting in church. He took a drag of his cigarette and followed the lazy drift of his thoughts to Friday night and the girl who got into the car. They’d driven over to Sam’s, the mangy twenty-four-hour diner on Sunset amid with strip malls and dollar theaters and fast food joints like neon pimples on the green backside of the hills surrounding the town. The fries were undercooked, the pie was rubbery, the coffee could either strip paint or be thin enough to read through, and the air was thick with cheap cigarette smoke, old grease, and beer sweat from the good ole boys who’d stumble in when The Rambler across the street closed, but it was theirs. The girls with shiny hair, the guys with visible biceps? They never set foot in Sam’s. It was the boys clad in black, pale from choice or from spending hours in their parents’ basement reading Lord of the Rings or playing Dungeons and Dragons, the girls who pierced their noses or dyed and spiked their hair in electric blue or Kelly green or cherry red. Even more subtle outcasts—the girl who’d rather read English lit or was too fascinated by string theory, the boy who liked to draw, or even the ultimate crime in a mid-sized Midwestern town in the mid-nineties, the boy who like other boys—flocked to Sam’s. Sam’s, The Club, the Blue Moon coffee shop, Lou’s Used Records—those belonged to all of the above. To hell with the rest of the town.
Chris was counting the days, and his savings, until he could leave for good. They’d stood in the doorway, and he could recognize almost everyone under twenty. Mark, who could quote verbatim from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and laughed at any mention of the number forty-two, or Cecilia and Tim, with heads both shaved on one side so when they sat together, it looked like one head of dyed black hair. They were the town’s answer to Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore, and played their brand of odd, intellectual rock every other Saturday at the Blue Moon.
Veronica? He couldn’t remember her at any of those places, only coming out of the ground fog at The Club, laughing at him, or sprawled on a bench under the worn catalpa in the square, staring up at the sky. That was weird. She was memorable. Tall, with dark brown hair in a careless ponytail, and a glance so sharp, it could cut glass...
...he realized what it was: he felt chosen. But for what?--Chris
Robert James, staring at me with that smug little smile as he said, “No one will stand in our way.”
Reading this book set in the '90s was a new experience for me... I realized just how little the gulf between people actually was and, still, is... That's sad, don't you think? My thoughts turned to just exactly when large churches became so influential and massive, often separating parents from their children--their children who witnessed a change of the level of fun and happiness in their home, which was the only barometer that could be used at their age...
Once again, I am caught trying to understand just how white men ever got the idea that they are special... especially knowing that the greatest man who walked on earth, at least in my opinion, was not...
“You know, sweetheart, the fear of the moment is always worse than the reality.” Mom’s voice was so clear in my head I could be sitting next to her in our old white truck, with its sprung seats and tall stick shift one of us would always knock into getting in or out. We’d sat outside of school for what seemed like forever, the truck growling and rumbling as it idled. I hadn’t wanted to go in, something bad happened—a fight with a classmate, maybe, or something embarrassing like my shorts falling off in gym class, too many humiliations to count—and I hadn’t wanted to walk through those doors either. “Always?” She leaned over, knocking her elbow on the stick shift, she ignored that and kissed me on the cheek. “I promise.” I took one last drag and stood up, dropping the butt in the ashtray by the door. I could disappoint Dad and drive off Chris, but I owed it to Mom to be strong.
Here's one reader who hopes there will be at least a sequel to this extraordinary novel! The book was published this year, so I didn't expect another to be available, but I still went looking... The book did close out the theme that was running through the book, but... Either this book is a fantastic first book with some type of follow up book/series, or it lacks the closure that I needed to see. I don't regret reading the book, but if the things that remain hanging, especially with Chris and Veronica, it's my guess that 95% of readers will be heartbroken, especially the teens... I've done a little research and can find no reference to there being a next book... BUMMER! Rating reduced to 3 then...
I've been reading Chase since 2009, so I encourage all of you to check out some of the earlier books I have read--and which makes me want to keep on checking out her latest books...
There was a low whine. Katie reached down to pet her black German shepherd, Cisco. He had been by her side ever since she did two tours in the Army as a K9 explosive detections team. She had been extremely lucky to be able to bring Cisco back with her, with a little help from her uncle (and now boss), Sheriff Scott. Not only did she bring back Cisco, but also post-traumatic stress. A mental state that was more like a grief cocktail with highs and lows at some of the worst possible times, but she didn’t let it stop her from performing her job. She was determined it was to be a reality that would take a back seat to her life. Cisco sat up in front of Katie. The jet-black dog with amber wolf eyes watched her with curiosity, slightly tilting his head. It was clear he felt Katie’s moods...
Several loud thumps against the cabin jolted Katie back into the present. Cisco instantly turned his focus toward the interior of the house. His body stiffened and a low grumble vibrated from his chest. He stood still, taking in sight, sound, and smell to catalog the incident. Katie instantly moved quietly back into the house with her cop instincts alert and grabbed her Glock from her suitcase. Straining to listen, she didn’t hear any more sounds despite expecting to hear another thump, a voice, or even footsteps. But it remained hushed. Cisco padded lightly behind her, watching her back. Katie slipped out of her pajamas into a pair of jeans and a hoodie, quickly pulling on her boots. Her mind seemed to always jump to criminal activities instead of thinking it might just be the trees swaying against the cabin or a forest creature making its way across the roof. She inched from her bedroom to the living room and then stopped at the front door. Pausing there, she listened. No other sound. Her nearest neighbor was a couple of acres away and she wasn’t sure if the occupants lived there year-round—it was most likely vacant. There wasn’t a convenient peephole in the door to see if someone was out there. Instead, her hand grasped the deadbolt lock and she quietly eased it clockwise before gripping the doorknob. Furious knocking broke the tense silence. The rapping was fast and frantic, rattling through the cabin. It startled Katie, causing her anxiety to rise. Her breath became shallow, and her hands tensed. Cisco rapid-barked. She turned to the dog. “Nein, bleib,” she said in German to command the dog to stop barking and to stay in place. Cisco immediately stopped and stood in position. His eyes fixed at the door.
With her gun down at her side, but ready if she needed it, Katie said, “Who is it?” There were soft cries. “Please…” said a female voice. “I… I… need your help.” Katie’s first thought was that someone was trying to bait her as a ruse to get her to open the door, but that was her cop way of thinking. Everything wasn’t always the worst-case scenario. She turned the doorknob and opened the door. A teenage girl, who looked to be about seventeen to eighteen years old, stood there staring at Katie, her eyes wide. The girl wore jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a jean jacket. Her fur-lined leather boots were laced up to her knees. Her long blonde hair was braided and gently laid over her right shoulder. She had several piercings on her ears and wore a leather choker with unusual beads. “What’s wrong?” said Katie glancing around to make sure there wasn’t anyone else. “Please help me…” The girl eyed Katie’s gun. “Please, I saw your car… There’s a…” The teen was clearly distraught and had obviously seen something. “I’m Katie. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” “I found a woman in the woods. She needs help.” Katie’s interest heightened, but she still wasn’t sure if the girl was making complete sense. “Where?” “She’s just a ways. Please… you need to come and help.” Katie glanced back to where Cisco waited. “What’s your name?” “TJ.” “Okay, TJ, show me where this woman is.” Katie grabbed her phone and keys from the small wooden table by the door. She wondered why the girl hadn’t called the police for help. Katie slipped the Glock in her waistband. “Do you have a phone?” She shook her head. Katie thought that was strange, that a teenager didn’t have a cell phone—or at least didn’t want Katie to know she had one. “Please hurry,” said TJ as she began to walk down the gravel driveway. Katie closed her cabin door and locked it, leaving Cisco behind. She wasn’t sure what was going on, so she decided not to bring the dog. It was one less thing to worry about.
“This way…” the girl said. Katie had to jog to keep up as they weaved their way around trees and across overgrown areas. The brisk morning brought out a strong aroma of oak and pine trees, pushed around by the slight icy breeze. Katie made a mental note of the route they took, as the trees and winding areas began to all look the same. They moved through the wooded area for less than ten minutes before TJ abruptly stopped, her arms at her side. It was as if her feet were glued to the forest floor. Katie could see that she was shaking and her eyes were filled with tears. TJ then raised her arm slowly and pointed. “There,” she barely whispered. Katie looked to where she indicated and instantly sucked in a breath. She blinked twice to make sure she was really seeing what she thought she was. About twenty feet away was the body of what appeared to be a woman hanging in a pine tree, her feet barely a foot above the ground, the body swaying slightly. Katie could see bright pink nail polish on her toes and fingers. It was clear by the condition of the body and its disturbingly pale-bluish color that the woman seemed to have been dead for a while, more than a couple of hours. She was dressed only in pale-pink panties and a thin white T-shirt, and there was a brown burlap sack over the woman’s head. The rope around her neck made an eerie creaking sound against the branch as the body rocked back and forth.
~~~
Chase started out with police procedural books and soon won the reputation of local police that her books were right on the mark for her understanding and ability to write about the procedures that police routinely use. Since then, she has moved into various sub-genres, but always with villains who seek out targets that are chosen based upon some type of psychological problem that they possess. I didn't know until the video above, that she had experienced a neighbor with such an affliction, which ignited her desire to know more...and then write about what she had learned. Her ability to dive into a new area, such as with adding Cisco as her ongoing partner, keeps this reader coming back...
It should have been anticipated, but Katie had not expected that she would be pulled into a murder investigation while she was on vacation--a vacation that she had been forced to take since her uncle was also her boss...
Still she was unhappy. She liked to keep busy, to stay on the job and always be working to help somebody in trouble... But this time, she shock of finding a hanging woman had her scrambling as to how and what she might be called upon to do. One thing she knew was that she had to go back to the cabin, find something to help preserve the scene of the crime since snow had abruptly started... She was still at the cabin when the local police arrived. And immediately started asking her lots of questions... You know, like she could be the one who committed that murder!
But, of course, that would change moving further into the story... In fact, with her living so close to the actual crime scene, and just enjoying the area in which she was to vacation, would pull her deeper and deeper--that's how her mind worked out cases...
The crime scene buzzed through her mind. Cisco whined once more and then curled up at Katie’s feet. In order not to forget what happened, Katie typed up her report from the time TJ knocked on her door to the time the police arrived. She found an email for the police department and sent her report and contact information. She then began checking out the town of Echo Forest. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for but wanted to try to get a feel and understanding of the area. She also checked out the website for the police department. She didn’t find much, but it did refer to Chief Beryl Cooper and his bio stated that he had grown up in Colorado working as a police sergeant for Colorado Springs Police Department. He then moved to Echo Forest five years ago after being appointed to the position of chief. Katie continued to scroll through the site, but it was mostly highlights and not much substance. She let out a sigh.
Maybe she’d have better luck with the so-called Woodsman. Typing in this name, and ignoring all the results about hunters and lumbermen, she found a ton of information including movies, books, and various blog articles that were based on a type of mythical monster that stalked people, namely children, in forests. There were artistic renderings and people’s accounts, which seemed to cross over into other countries. She then narrowed the search to the specific area and across three surrounding counties. After scrolling through several pages, she found an article from almost fifteen years ago written by local newspaper The Pine Cone that featured “the Woodsman.” There wasn’t much to the article, but it did say a woman was found dead about five miles from where Katie was staying. The case had remained unsolved and the article suggested that something powerful had murdered her. The commentary inferred that something in the forest had killed her—and it had then gone on to cite “the Woodsman.” The article wasn’t very helpful; it was more from the writer’s point of view. Katie couldn’t find anything about local folklore or any evidence related to the cold case. It was all too cumbersome to try to pinpoint what she was looking for. It frustrated her. Katie leaned back in the chair and took a sip of coffee. There was nothing glaring or conclusive, but she found it troubling that TJ had been so terrified of what was most certainly a well-spun tale. It could have been stories she had heard growing up—or, though unlikely, it could be something more. “Well, Cisco… what do you say? Should we go on a hike and check out the location of this cold case from fifteen years ago?” Cisco immediately jumped up, wagging his tail. She dropped the location into her phone and hoped the spotty cell signal would be available when they got there. Even if she found nothing, it would still be nice to get out for some fresh air. Before closing her laptop, Katie decided to check out something. She typed in Jack Thomas, veterinarian, Echo Forest, California. A simple website popped up. It showed some stock photographs of cute dogs and cats. There was an image of an older warehouse with a sign out front: “Thomas Veterinary Clinic.” Katie put the address into her phone: 1216 Timber Road. “C’mon, Cisco,” she said. The jet-black dog hurried to the front door, not missing a step. He breathed heavily at the doorknob. Katie tucked her Glock into the holster underneath her sweater and jacket—just in case. She checked her phone and was surprised she hadn’t received a text message from her uncle—or anyone else. She thought at least her partner, McGaven, would have checked in with her by leaving a funny message. But her phone was quiet. She supposed everyone was giving her rest and privacy.
Katie and Cisco climbed into the Jeep. Cisco stood in the back seat behind Katie, staring straight over her shoulder. His tail wagged and every few minutes he let out a whine. The little bit of snow that had come down earlier was now melting. The roads were completely clear and the only evidence of the previous flurries was spotted along the tree branches. It took about ten minutes before she came to the downtown area. She passed a couple of trucks with single drivers and one utility van. The traffic was nonexistent compared to what she was used to in Pine Valley. The main street was scattered with a few stores and was about a mile long with adjacent side streets where the grocery, hardware, and supply businesses were located. She decided to stop and get some groceries just in case the weather hit harder overnight. When Katie was back behind the wheel, her GPS told her to turn onto a gravel road and then travel farther west. The longer she drove the more rural the area became. She had just passed the five-mile marker, which was near a hiking trail entrance. There were no other cars parked. She wasn’t sure what she would find, if anything, but she wanted to get a sense of what had attracted the killer to use the densely wooded area to dump a body.
After making sure the Jeep was secured and locked, she and Cisco headed to the trail. Cisco trotted about five feet ahead, stopping once in a while to sniff something of interest. She tied the dog’s leather collar around her waist in case she needed it. Katie looked at her phone, which amazingly had a signal, and which showed that she was close to the described location. But it wouldn’t give her the exact coordinates. Either way, she estimated they were near the site. Katie slowed her pace, then stopped and surveyed the area, wondering how different the forest was from fifteen years ago. In the article there weren’t any details about the crime scene, just that a woman had been murdered. No name. No details of the scene. No cause of death. No mention of any suspects and so forth. Just that it was a cold case. The article seemed to be a mishmash of information, and most of it not informative. The air was cold and the bitterness of it stung her face, but the wind was so slight as to be almost perfectly still. The forest area around her was quiet—too quiet. Katie noticed that Cisco had stopped and was staring straight ahead. His body was tense, unmoving, looking with intensity at what appeared to be nothing. Katie’s arms tingled. She thought she had heard something, but then dismissed it. It wasn’t because of anything she saw, but rather, something she sensed. She looked around a few minutes, but was satisfied it was a combination of the cold weather conditions and that she was surveying an area that was once a crime scene. “Cisco…” she said. The dog hesitated, but then turned, wagging his tail as he approached Katie. She took another few minutes to look around. It was definitely an overgrown area, but the walking path had been kept clear—most likely by the county for hikers. She didn’t have anything to go on and there wasn’t anything obvious she could scrutinize and she couldn’t even identify the exact location. Katie sighed. The clouds blocked all the daylight. The temperature seemed to drop more, making her shiver. Maybe it was a stupid idea, trying to fill her boring days with something she could sink her teeth into, such as a cold case. “C’mon, Cisco.” She headed back up the trail as Cisco effortlessly trotted ahead.
That’s when she heard it… a soft whisper in the wind, “Katie…” Katie spun around with her hand on her Glock, expecting to see someone, but there was no one there. She continued to take a slow three-hundred-sixty-degree scrutiny of the forest. There was nothing. Cisco had moved close to her. She felt his warm body at the side of her left leg. His body language had changed, becoming vigilant. She took a few more minutes until she was satisfied there was no one there. Katie took a breath and continued toward her Jeep. One thing was for sure, she had definitely heard her name. She was not imagining it...
~~~
Whether or not she was asked to participate in working the crime, it appeared at least somebody was calling for her participation... And before long, she was happy to welcome McGaven, her partner from back home, who was now there to be by her side...
Soon they were on a trail. And there were signs they they were coming nearer. Katie then saw two sets of feet coming from below nearby bushes... Two bodies were there, with a sign Three down...More to Go...
These investigations were not only the hardest they’d had to investigate, but the twists and turns were both unusual and horrific. It was as if they were being dropped into a play with no script and didn’t know what was going to happen next.
Haven’t you noticed that it’s just enough information and reports to give the appearance of transparency?”
Chase publicizes this book as being addictive--it is... But, no matter what does happen before the book ends, be assured that this author will have the case(s) all tied up and the serial killer identified and convicted...
Most villains these days remind me of those who spread hate on the news these days... I'm always relieved when the book is wrapped up tightly and the law officers have control again... May we be encouraged to know that many, many people do recognize and know the difference between the good and bad players... May more real-time Jennifer Chases work to help us break down the worst attack ever on the United States Democracy!
But Robert had nothing new to say. He’d already painted a true picture of Hattie as a promising pianist who stayed out of trouble. Yes, she could be disorganised, disengaged, sullen, but she wasn’t the sort to get involved with the wrong crowd. It was hard to imagine what the wrong crowd would even look like at the academy – students who practised their scales for five hours a day instead of six? Students who thought Beethoven was overrated?...
It was the tricky alternating-octaves passage of "Rondo Alla Turca," which made Hattie cringe at her small hands. She could still play it better than anyone else her age, and better than most pianists in the country, but now she was more aware than ever that her finger-stretching hadn’t helped enough. The piece just didn’t shine. As she waited for Robert to deliver his criticism – which she was beginning to think might actually be deserved after all – she found herself pulling on the ends of her fingers, making the bones click in ways they just weren’t supposed to. “This fingering is all over the place,” said Robert, shaking his head. Hattie waited for the sound of sniggers behind her, but none came. Back at school, everyone had laughed whenever Mr Henderson talked about fingering in keyboard club, but the academy wasn’t a place where people laughed much at all. “I don’t like the octaves,” whispered Hattie. “You can’t like or dislike octaves. They simply exist. You might as well say you don’t like the number eight, or sharps, or flats.” Hattie balled her hands into fists. The tips of her fingers were hurting worse than ever, but that didn’t stop her from clenching in rage. Why did he talk to her like this? Why did he have to belittle everything she said like she was a stupid kid? She was one of the most talented young musicians in the country, probably the most, but all she got for that was punishment and scorn. She was so busy being angry that she barely noticed Robert sitting next to her on the piano stool. Suddenly there was music playing as he blasted through the fast-octave section on the piano, his arms stretched across her but not touching her. His playing was technically accurate, but Hattie knew it wouldn’t make waves on the concert circuit. He played like a teacher, not a pianist. But that didn’t stop him raising his eyebrows once he’d finished the passage, waiting for her to admit that she hadn’t managed to play it like he did. When she said nothing, the applause from the students seated behind her covered the silence. She knew it was mainly girls clapping. They always clapped Robert, because the awkward boys their own age who attended the academy were nothing to clap about. Finally, after another rant – this time about her posture - the session finished and it was someone else’s turn to get torn to shreds. Hattie slunk back to take her place in the semi-circle, relieved to no longer have a piano stool beneath her. She spent the rest of the morning staring at the floor. But even with her eyes averted, she felt Robert’s piercing gaze from across the room.
~~~
Sometimes excellence can become a burden, specially for young teens who have become sufficienly efficient on their chosen instrument to be selected to attend an exclusive academy where they would receive personal attention and support toward moving forward in their skill levels, perhaps sufficient to be chosen to play in a major orchestra... or, even as a premier soloist...
Hattie, our main character was the youngest student to come to the academy. Her parents had supported her love of the piano since she had first started picking out songs... Indeed, her talent had been such that she had already been invited to travel all over the world and had gained a wonderful reputation.
However, here at the academy, where all types of communcation were forbidden... where their parents were not permitted to visit except for scheduled concerts, and where competition was purposely developed as small groups were taught by one tutor to which all compliments and criticisms were heard by all. It was a dismal sort of school environment where the joy of music, their love and passion, was reduced to boredom, tedious repetition, and a feeling that you could just not succeed no matter how your tried...
Hattie had become so tight--frustrated that she had lost the ability which had garnered her such praise. Discussions on fingering occurred often and Hattie became so insecure that she started pulling on her fingers privately, trying to get the ability to handle the octaves that occurred in many classical selections. A concert was coming up and she hoped to select a piece on which she could excel... Practice, practice, practice was demanded constantly once the date was actually scheduled... Her parents had been invited and she was anxiously looking forward to seeing them, having had their support and praise since her early years.
But she had been assigned Mozart’s Fantasia in d minor rather than the Mozart selection she had hoped to play... The schedule had been finalized and the control and demand on each student had heighten to a point that each student barely had time to breathe or sleep...and... finally the day was there and they moved to the location of the recital where each student would be given the opportunity to play on the actual instrument they would be using in the concert. Finally Hattie was called to the recital room...
Everyone took it in turns to go and practise alone on the grand piano in the centre of the stage, so that they’d be familiar with the key weightings and the tone. When it was Hattie’s turn to leave the dressing room, she sensed Robert moving to follow her. But then someone asked him a question and his pursuit was stopped. She was relieved to reach the stage alone. It was just her and the dim pre-performance lighting. She could see the shadowy forms of the seats stretching away into the inky black, where only the emergency lights of the entrances and exits rooted her in reality. Breathing deeply, she started the slow, atmospheric climb of the opening bars of Fantasia in d minor. The stage seemed to warp and bend as she transitioned into the dissonant chords that followed, the lights winking at her as she reached the descending bassline, then the trill, then the playful climbing harmonies in the left hand. When she launched into the fast and frenzied scales that signalled a radical change of pace, she felt as though she was lifting steadily off the ground. It was all she could do to keep control of the intricate fingering as she emerged into the slower, dreamy passage that mirrored the start of the piece. Her fingers sang and screamed in a mixture of ecstasy and pain, thanking and berating her for the ritual stretching. At the end of the piece, the silence was life-affirming. She drank in the absence of applause, the absence of chairs thumping, the absence of Robert stern and motionless in the front row. This was what playing was all about. It was about another world altogether, a world barely connected to this one but mirroring all the love and hurt of life. And every time she stretched her fingers, she was reaching closer to that other world and drifting further out of this one. A nagging fear told her this habit was unhealthy, that she was harming herself inside and out, but was it really any more harmful than the pressures of the academy? Hattie let out a long breath. The performance she’d just delivered was the real recital. She promised herself she’d remember the silence, and cling to it when the noise of the academy and Robert made her tremble. Then a thought struck her. If she’d just given the real performance, the one that really counted, then why did she have to perform later? What if she didn’t play the recital at all? What if, during the shadowy intimacy of her playing just now, the emergency lights had been beckoning her to find a way out? A strange tingling sensation spread through her limbs. There were bubbles in her stomach. Her ankles twitched with the urge to make her stand up. For a moment, she felt sick. This urge to move was all wrong. She was supposed to stay seated at the piano almost every hour of every day, and the idea of voluntarily moving away from it scared her. But it was happening. She couldn’t control it. Even the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up now, urging the rest of her body to follow. Slowly, steadily, her heart pounding and her skin prickling with sweat, Hattie rose from the piano stool, pulled her dress up above her knees, and made her way towards the exit.
~~~
And no further music was heard...
Hattie was gone... We learn later that she walked out away from the academy facility... somebody else saw a truck, but had not seen it near Hattie... A complete search was organized, students were returned to their own rooms...finally, the police were called in...
He knew this was the moment something awful had started. This was day one. Disappearance day. In all the confusion, only one thing was clear: He had to get her back.
The major part of this book will be the suspense, the mystery, the questions of whether she is alive or dead... The author has created an intricately enmeshed thriller that will pull readers on to the next page, exploring exactly what happened to Hattie...
Did she run away from the pressure? Was she kidnapped? Did she have an accident somewhere where there is no way to call for help? As everybody is interviewed that day, the pollice worked to narrow down who could have been involved... And, then, a break occurred when a social media poster shared her personal thoughts, which wound up moving the investigation toward a specific person... Only to later have her admit when she was called in with her mother to talk about her providing official testimony at court, that she had lied...
Back to square one? Yes and No, because at that point, readers are not quite sure of anything, including whether a crime had occurred. Let's be truthful, this author had us guessing up to very close to the end of the book! So much so that there is no way I can say more... Especially when you've been talking about classical music that is hundreds of year old... Well, I could only think of one way to move it forward... to turn the beat around!
%20(5).jpg)
.jfif)
