Stillborn Armadillos - Book 1 of the John Lee Quarrels Series by Nick Russell

 

A couple of notes as I begin... I was trying to contact the author because the book copyright states clearly that excerpts may NOT be used even for reviews... So I'll be talking about the books from my own thoughts without any ability to share the actual writing. Please note also that there are mistakes, not many, but sufficient to be aware that a final editing was never done. Also, the book I got for my reader is NOT what I later found to be provided on my desktop format. I have no idea why, but as I already noted to the author, the pages were unnumbered, and at least once, I lost location of where I had left off reading. Don't ask me why. other than to say that Fire does that frequently if you lay your reader down on an uneven surface... Not LOL

In any event, once I discovered that the desktop version was different, I decided to not talk about the books in the order in which this book presents them. Given that I will be discussing the books as opposed to my regular review format, you should realize that the comments and thoughts are purely my own--sometimes opinions--sometimes flashbacks--sometimes editorial... And, more importantly, as most of you already know, I will be correlating the material presented in a somewhat comparative analysis with what is happening in the world right now, on a daily basis. I'm going to try this first book that I just finished and see how it goes. As you know, I normally use short excerpts to pinpoint issues and explore the content, but since, apparently, the fear of AI related to book content being illegally used is growing, I will be exploring how to adjust to those authors who require that I seek permission before any use. In any event, feedback about how you feel about my adjustments to copyright restrictions are, as with any other issue, always welcome...

Amazon Book Description - Life is already complicated enough for John Lee Quarrels, what with his estranged wife dropping in for unannounced sleepovers, her oversexed sister tempting him, his pot smoking ponytailed grandfather growing his own stash, his Elvis obsessed grandmother, and being caught smack dab in the middle of a power struggle between the Sheriff and Chief Deputy. But when a road construction crew unearths the skeletons of three murder victims, John Lee suddenly finds himself on the trail of a killer who may well have died long before the deputy was even born. And then a mysterious sniper begins shooting at deputies...
As sultry as a Florida back road in August, as mysterious as the South's live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, and as deadly as a copperhead strike, New York Times bestselling author Nick Russell's new John Lee Quarrels series is sure to hook you from the first page and keep you reading late into the night.
~~~~

Small town USA is the setting for the books I've read thus far... As I mentioned yesterday, I immediately thought about the fact that in the first term for the republicans as they began movement toward Project 2025's attempt to control us, there was an emphasis that they had already started at the local level to influence for their plans and to begin control... We saw an emphasis on banning books, disruptions of school boards as movement toward a tighter control for our citizens was begun...

In the books thus far, there is one blatant factor. There are always local "rich" men, leaders of the community who "think" they have the right to control our lives... Interestingly, however, Russell also includes the extreme of the other side of the small town people... Discovering the individual people within each story is, therefore, a highlight to be watched... 

Because within a small town, apparently, it seems that everybody knows about everything that is going on... And, as with today's world, individual reactions are based upon where you are "seen" in relation to the "class" of people in which you live...

Let me quickly point out that, for me, I was influenced by this obvious use of people and their relationships to each other was quite offensive. That doesn't mean that I've never had similar feelings, it merely shares that "my feelings" are based upon, oftentimes, a very different base of beliefs. I found myself often reading the books more from a sociological standpoint as opposed to content of the storyline.

What do I mean by that? Well, for instance, I have no idea what the title of this book is supposed to represent... LOL... Now talk about coons or deer that scamper around my area, and I'm fully involved. Add some cats or dogs, and I've got friends to enjoy while I read... But talks among men as it relates to sex and competition was too much of a reminder of how deadly that can and has become as we watch television each day...

Take John Lee Quarrels as the main character... and how his character is developed. My first reaction was John Boy from The Little House on the Prairie... I mean, do small towners actually use two names each time you talk among friends? In any event, his personal life is interesting. His interaction with family is stranger... and yet, the man, himself, is somebody that most women will immediately respond to. But not know what to say about him... Interested in knowing more?

Well, often in a small area, we have nepotism as an issue... relatives getting jobs because they are familialy connected. John Lee's boss, is also his father-in-aw. This becomes an issue because John Lee is an excellent officer, but supposedly reports to another man, who is also familialy connected and feels he should be the Sheriff--as opposed to reporting to his brother-in-law... So there is constant friction by the supposed boss being bypassed... Also, in a small area, we learn that sex is an open discussion option, so readers will know all about John Lee's life in that area...

But let's start at the beginning. Often an officer will be involved in providing security to construction site activity. It was there that, as digging was occurring, a human bone was discovered. In fact, ultimately there were three old bodies that had been brought to the surface... And, once site review was made, they learned that each of the men, later confirmed as Black, had been shot in the back of their heads.

This, then, becomes an ongoing investigation led by Quarrels and a need to search old records when the age of the skeletons were confirmed. That occurred when the first few bones didn't match and the digging spread out from that original discovery... And, almost immediately somebody attacked the group, firing from a distance into the cop cars!

Once it was determined that the skeletons were from Black men, the issue of slaves was considered. But the timing and the ages of the skeletons soon eliminated that they had been slaves... One major find at that time was a small object that could not be defined with a purpose... Finally, a local historian provided sufficient information to pull up an historical fact on earlier camps to collect turpentine... On the other hand, John Lee learned that what was called Turpentine had been a product of a company that was still located in town... At some point in the past a discovery was made that there had been six camps which might have used the small token to be worn by the workers who lived in the various camps. Using these to identify the workers.

This was one of the connections that came to mind... That is, the fact that, supposedly, slavery had been abolished, but many Black people, attempting to find some type of work, were often caught into the same type of corruption of rich cotton growers... The product just changed... And, workers might have been of more than one race, but treated just as badly... Those who controlled men in the camps, I picture, as the type of men now working with ICE... Yes, it was a job, but it was also a method by which racial bias was often displayed, often resulting in death for the workers... The small ID could be used and often was worn around the neck. Indeed this small item had the initials of the company name.

John Lee soon was talking with the company leader but he claimed he knew little about what was going on back that far in the company's history... But John Lee soon was dealing with who was shooting up cop cars as well as who might have murdered the three Black men so long ago...

An interesting connection between many of those John Lee interacted with was a slightly different version of ICE of today, where they go into various locations without benefit of warrants or other legal  authority. This theme runs through the small town areas in the various books, with militia-type individuals--or Klan--who used guns and threats against any law officer who tried to come on to their property... As of now, I don't have a handle on why these people felt that they could prevent the law from coming on their land... Perhaps when there is a conflict between what the law is actually trying to do, versus what the individuals believe is right or wrong? Certainly we have learned of the correlation being used by those who now walk our streets masked and with guns aimed and ready...

It was the murder of Ray Ray that brought the entire community up in arms... Ray Ray stuttered, but was so involved, kind, and caring that it didn't matter... He paid with his life... And how he died was something that called for action of various sorts...

As the book ends, readers are confronted with an ending that has little to offer... When those involved lie to the police officers or blame others as seems to be a standard operating procedure for many small town business representatives, we are confronted with one major result.

The problem of communication moves from the very bottom of civilization all the way to the top... The question is what to do when the people with legal authority are prevented from acting... by parents who choose to support their child rather than acknowledge that accountability is required... Two boys had decided it would be funny to scare a cop... The cop thought he was being killed, or could be... The mother attacked John Lee for pointing out that her son could be killed...

All I have to say it that if the small town of these books represent what actually exists in the United States...there is every reason to consider that the lack of proper training and accountability does indeed begin in the families... And, when power and money becomes a factor, it only gains strength, longevity and moves upward and outward... creating chaos...

John Lee had the scars to prove it. That mother used her claws and dug into his face, not caring that her son was actually to blame--or, perhaps, she was actually the one to be jailed...

Are we generating the world we live in through the type of parenting being done? Yet, those who are parents are often stopped from dealing with problems due to lack of money, some type of abuse, or out-of-control problems in the family that are rarely handled or even attempted because the parent is not able to handle the responsibility.

Have we reached today's crisis through ignoring the needs of those who need the most help? Statistics seem to support that to be true... Decades have gone by while one political party not only refuses to deal with gun control, but also garners financial support for retaining policies about gun control as not being needed...

Are our children being stillborn because there are no longer clear guidelines with families, local governments, federal government and across the world?

Like Nero, do we allow supposed leaders at every level to fiddle while Rome burns to the ground... and then blame anybody and everybody other than ourselves or those we voted for, at any level, including our religious leaders, to actually get away with murder???

A final thought re this series... Quarrels, in developing John Lee as his main character achieves something that many writers have not... He has put together a story that is intriguing enough to pull readers in at the same time, that his main character has sufficient moral character to allow readers to know exactly how he feels about various situations... and yet provides a layer of ongoing humor that both surprises and delights...

Watch for the next book soon...

GABixerReviews

The Whispering Girls by a Favorite Author, Jennifer Chase Now Presenting Book 14 of the Detective Katie Scott Series!

 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!

GABixlerReviews

Right from the News

The Bones at Point No Point - Also - The Shadows of Pike Place - Two Books at Once! By D. D. Black...

 

Note: this song is an appropriate substitute; 

apparently the song in this excerpt doesn't exist...LOL

Norwegian Point Beach, Hansville, WA 

Sarah knew she shouldn’t be here. She’d told Benny she couldn’t come, wouldn’t come. But by his third text, she’d agreed. And now he was the one running late. She’d been sitting on the massive driftwood log for ten minutes, staring out at the Puget Sound, as a light drizzle began. It was the kind of rain she’d grown up with, the sort she could be out in all day long and never get wet through her thin buffalo plaid fleece. She’d broken up with Benny three or four times now and had assured herself—not to mention her parents—that they would not be getting back together. But Benny had the best weed in Kitsap County—his cousin worked at one of the shops—and after the stress of finals and college applications, she needed to laugh and to green out. Finally. She smiled when she saw him coming down the beach. He wore a black hoodie and blue jeans, and walked with more swagger than he’d earned. They were never getting back together, she assured herself, but she did like his swagger. It was exaggerated, as though he was doing an impression of someone swaggering. Ironic, which somehow made it endearing. Maybe she could take him back, just for the Christmas break, which started in a couple weeks. He caught her eye and flashed a big smile. She smiled back. She ran her hands over her damp jeans and let out a long breath. “Hey,” she said as he plopped down on the log next to her, stretching his long legs. “Hey.” His voice was deep and sleepy, like he’d just rolled out of bed, which he probably had. What the hell was she doing? She’d told herself there was no way they were getting back together and yet here she was, sitting on the log where they’d first kissed, flashing a newly-tightened-braces smile at him. She should leave. Then again, the semester was almost over, and she’d already finished her essays. She deserved a break. Sarah jumped down from the log. “You wanna walk?” “We can blaze one right here.” He glanced up and down the deserted beach. Everything was shades of gray: the blue-gray water lapping against green-gray beach stones and brown-gray driftwood. Even the sand looked dull and lifeless under the dark gray sky. “Who the hell comes to the beach on a rainy day the week after Thanksgiving?” He chuckled. “Besides a former couple who are still madly in love and want to smoke a little.” Sarah slapped his arm, then looked toward the little café and general store, its entryway decorated with faint blue and white Christmas lights. It was the only business in town besides the post office, and there were two cars in the parking lot, and one was Benny’s. In the other direction, there were the abandoned shacks of Norwegian Point. December in Hansville was a dreary affair, most of the time. She doubted anyone would show up on the beach, but still. “Let’s go to the bluff,” she insisted. Benny shrugged and followed her down from the log. They took their usual route, following a mile-long stretch of beach that led past a row of waterfront homes and into the Point No Point Park. There were a few cars in the parking lot and a pair of kayakers in wetsuits trudged toward the water. In silence they walked just along the water’s edge and rounded the tip of the peninsula past the lighthouse. The water swayed gently in front of them. On a clear day, she would have been able to see Edmonds and Seattle across the water and all the way to Mount Rainier, hundreds of miles to the southeast. Sarah nodded toward the trail that led away from the beach, through the marshlands, and up to the bluff. Benny followed, hands in his pockets. “You think we’ll stay friends when you go away to college?” “Sure we will,” Sarah said, but she didn’t know if it was true. She didn’t even know where she’d go to college, and they both knew Benny wouldn’t be going at all. He caught her eye. “You’re humming that song again.” “No, I’m not,” she protested. “I’ve literally been listening to it for like two minutes.” Had she been? It popped back into her head. Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee-da, Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee. It was an old indie rock song about a girl who was never getting back together with her boyfriend. The first time they’d broken up she’d played it on repeat, and they’d laughed about it when they’d gotten back together a few weeks later. Now that they’d broken up three or four times—she’d lost track—it was more than a running joke. Benny dropped to his knees in the sand, holding up a stick as a microphone as he belted the chorus. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes… The last time we said gooooood bye.” He’d been in a mediocre band for a little over a year and had a pretty decent voice for a guy who put in next to no effort. “Enough,” Sarah said, laughing and pulling him up by his elbow. They continued up the trail, leaving behind the famous lighthouse and the plaque commemorating the treaty signed by the local tribes and the state government in 1855. When they reached the top of the stairs, they sat on a bench that offered a narrow view of the beach through a cutout in the blackberry bushes. 

Benny pulled a joint out of a little glass vial and held it out, lighter poised in the other hand. “Ladies first.” She was about to take it when she saw a figure down on the beach, walking close to the water. “Hold on.” She pointed. “Dude, she can’t see us from there. Not to mention, weed is legal now.” “Not for seventeen-year-olds. And if I can see her, then she can see us. And don’t call me dude. I mean, why do boys your age call everyone dude?” Benny smirked. “Fine, bro.” Sarah squinted. The woman was slight, with sandy brown hair and a quick, purposeful walk, but she couldn’t make out much about her face. “You recognize her?” Benny put the joint and lighter on his lap and held his hands in front of his eyes like they were binoculars. “Nope.” He went to light the joint and Sarah swatted his hands down. “No. She'll smell it. Just wait ’til she goes by.” They watched in silence as the woman walked along the beach, jutting up from the Sound toward a patch of driftwood thirty feet from the waterline. “What’s she carrying?” Sarah asked. “Picnic lunch?” Benny laughed, but Sarah ignored him. He was always making jokes. Or trying to. Moving with purpose, the woman stopped about halfway between the lighthouse and the bottom of the trail that led up the bluff. After a quick glance around, she set something on a log. From the bluff, it looked like a green bag. Next, the woman pulled out her phone and appeared to take a few pictures of the bag. Then she turned around and hurried back to the parking lot near the lighthouse, leaving the bag behind. “What the hell?” Sarah asked. Benny seemed unconcerned. “Maybe she’s doin’ one of those online treasure hunts or somethin’? Seen ‘em on Insta.” Sarah looked at him skeptically. “In Hansville, population, like, two thousand? In December?” Benny lit the joint and took a long drag, the sweet smell of high-end marijuana mingling with the moist, salty air. Sarah pulled up the collar on her jacket. Benny offered her the joint and, when she declined, he took another puff and put it out on the bench, then stowed it back in the vial. 

“Only one thing to do.” He leapt up and bolted down the stairs toward the beach, flapping his arms like the wings of a bird in flight and belting the breakup song. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes The last time we said gooooood bye.” Sarah followed, smiling in spite of herself. He was funny when he was high. She was definitely not getting back together with him, but maybe they could have a little Christmas Break fling. Benny skidded to a stop in the sand. Dropping to his knees in front of the bag, he leaned back, wiggling his fingers in a trance-like, prayerful gesture, an impression of the famous Jimi Hendrix moment when he’d lit his guitar on fire and implored the flames to rise. Benny knew this one always got a laugh out of Sarah. The sack was roughly the size of a plastic grocery bag but made of green felt in the style of a holiday gift bag. It was decorated with cheesy cutouts of Thanksgiving turkeys and cranberries. Benny reached for it. “Don’t touch it!” He offered a dumb smile. “She clearly meant for us to have whatever is in here.” Sarah crouched next to him. “What if it’s a bomb or something?” “Ahh yes, because terrorists always want to blow up logs on empty beaches on mostly empty peninsulas at the edge of the known world.” He reached for it again. “How could we not look inside?” She glanced up and down the beach. Not a person in sight. “Why would she just leave it here?” “The world is a strange place, Sarah.” He looked up at the sky. “Why does anyone do anything?” “You’re sooooooo high.” Benny laughed and rolled into a patch of sand, spreading his arms and legs wide and flailing like he was trying to make a snow angel. Sarah took one more look around her, then reached for the bag. Bang! A thunderous pop cut the silence. Sarah’s shoulders tightened. Benny sat up, looking in the direction of the parking lot. “Was that a gunshot?” Sarah asked. Benny laughed. “Pro’lly a car backfiring.” She heard the quiet whooshing of a car passing on the road behind them. “You were so freaked out.” Benny spoke in a high-pitched mimic. “Was that a gunshot?” “Shut up, asshole.” He continued rolling in the sand, laughing. “This is some good shit.” Gently, Sarah inched the red drawstring between her fingers. The contents of the bag rattled softly as she tugged it open. At first, she saw only shadow. Then, angling her body so the light filtering through the cloud cover seeped into the bag, she gasped. “What?” Benny was looking over her shoulder now. “Is it a prize? Christmas come early? Cash? Oh, please tell me it’s cash.” He whipped out his phone. “Smile.” Before she could object, before she could turn, he snapped a picture. “You’re a jerk, Benny.” Sarah looked down, shaking the bag slightly. Maybe she hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe they were plastic or something. Maybe they were… 

She peered inside, opening the bag a little wider. Bones. A hundred, maybe two hundred. Scattered at random as though fighting for space in the bag. Tiny. Bones. She rolled down the edges of the cloth, letting more light into the bag, and then she saw it. A human skull, the tiniest she’d ever seen. Jumping back, Sarah dropped the bag and screamed, causing the birds to rise from the marshland and take flight for safer ground...

This turned out to be a book for which I had mixed feelings. I didn't like the concept, but the mystery and suspense kept me reading. I think I've said befor that I'm to a point that some stories I just can't deal with due to the what I consider evil content... In this case, children are being kidnapped, cared for a few days and then murdred in an insane way... thus I won't be talking about the story itself... It is written as a thriller but it was more of a horror where the villain celebrated various holidays with the child--in this case, Thanksgiving, with appropriate food, decorations and loving care... until... bones were the only thing remaining upon which a poem was scratched:

the killer had written twelve lines using the baby’s twelve rib bones, the first line written on the top rib and the rest descending from there. 

Thanksgiving is A time to praise

  To love each other

 And cherish each day

 To gather around

 A feast fit for a king

 To laugh and toast

 To love and sing

 So come ye all

 To our table this fall

 And savor each moment

 And love one and all

It was one of those situations where I had to know "Why?" so I kept on reading... But I'm just going to say that a reader will have to decide; I don't recommend for all...

~~~

In the moment before she died, Eleanor Johnson gripped a single thought long enough to fill her last breath with bitterness: which one of those scheming bastards poisoned me?

Austin excused himself and quietly left the living room, wandering down the hallway and loitering by the bathrooms long enough to be sure no one was inside. He peered into the kitchen, where two dishwashers were scrubbing pots and pans over twin sinks. Mack and the cooks had gathered in the living room to keep the Champagne glasses full. At the end of the hallway, a door opened into an office, which was empty. Outside, a ball bounced rhythmically on cement. Thwap-thwap-thwap. Following the sound, Austin cut through the kitchen and walked along the side of the house. Kyon was no longer there. But the little girl was still playing basketball. She was good, too, cutting and weaving and making more than half the shots she took. “Mind if I play?” Austin asked. “My name’s Austin.” She shrugged. “How come you’re not inside with everyone?” “My mom said I could stay outside and play.” Austin held out his hands for a pass. “You like basketball?” She tossed him the ball. “Duh!” Austin laughed as he caught the pass. She was right. It had been a stupid question. He didn’t have a lot of experience with kids. “Who’s your mom?” “Susan.” He passed the ball back. So this little girl was one of the grandchildren who was there the night Eleanor died. “Where’s your cousin who you were playing with before?” “Kyon left.” She passed him the ball, a single bounce right into his hands. “Good pass.” He threw it gently back. “Do you know where he went?” “That was a basic bounce pass.” She began dribbling, between her legs, around her back. 

Suddenly she stopped and held the ball close to her chest. “I don’t think he liked Nanna very much.” “Nanna, is that what you called your grandma Eleanor?” She nodded. “And why do you say he didn’t like her?” “They got in a fight.” “Oh, when?” “Christmas. He makes loud music and she didn’t like it. She liked the Beatles. He said the Beatles were trash.” “That’s what they were arguing about?” She nodded. He held out his hands and she rifled him a chest pass. “I am a friend of the family. Do you mind telling me what you heard?” “Are you trying to find out what happened to Nanna?” “What do you mean?” Austin had assumed that no one told the children she was murdered. “I heard my uncle talking on the phone. He said she was poisoned. Is that true?” Austin passed her the ball. “I’m sorry.” She looked at the ground for a long time. “I like Kyon. He’s my favorite cousin. Mom says he shouldn’t dress like he does, he’s embarrassing the family. But I don’t care.” “I don’t care either,” Austin said. “When he fought with Nanna, he said rock and roll was dead. She said his music was bad. He said EDM was forever. That’s when he said the Beatles were trash.” Austin suppressed a laugh. It was as clichè a fight as there was. Most likely, Eleanor had had the same fight with her parents in the sixties, except she’d been saying jazz standards were dead and that rock and roll was forever. “Were they really mad?” Austin asked. She nodded, then looked up and passed him the ball. “But they must have made up.” “Why do you say that?” “Because. The night Nanna died we were playing video games, and they were sitting next to each other on the couch, sharing a box of chocolates.” 

By the time Austin made it back to the living room, the toasts had ended and everyone had broken up into small groups, chatting and sipping Champagne. Classical music played gently through hidden speakers. The mood of the room, though still somber, had lightened. He found Anna lingering by one of the large bay windows and told her about the conversation on the basketball court. “So far, I’m not loving any of our suspects. Kyon and Sasha are the only adults present that night who we haven’t spoken with.” Anna was already on her phone. “Hold on.” “What are you doing?” “I overheard Junior saying something about a DJ thing Kyon was doing today. He was badmouthing his own kid at his mother’s memorial.” She leaned in, whispering. “Junior may not be a killer, but he’s an absolute jerk.” “So what are you looking up?” “Hold on… yeah, got it. Let’s go.” “Where?” Austin asked, following her across the room. “Without saying goodbye?” “Yeah, this party’s dead anyway.” She didn’t even wait for him to ask about the reference. “Swingers. Another nineties movie you should have been watching instead of poring over police procedure manuals as a teenager.” “Okay, but where are we going?” “Kyon is DJ’ing a twenty-four-hour party in a warehouse downtown.” She smiled. “The nineties are back, baby.” She led them through the front door and out onto the lawn. The gentle sound of the string quartet followed them, and Austin noticed tiny speakers mounted on the side of the house. “As you know, I kinda missed the nineties,” Austin said. “What do you mean?” “Raves, all that stuff. They’re back, just with different music. Different clothes. And it’s not even that different.” “I’m sure it will surprise exactly no one that I didn’t get invited to any raves.” “Neither did I. I was more of a grunge girl. But at least I knew they existed.” She tapped her phone to call an Uber. “So how ‘bout it? Want to go to your first rave?” “Why not?” “Only, don’t call it that. I don’t think they call them that anymore.” “Noted.”

~~~

I decided to try the next book to see if it continued in the same type of dark plot... It did not, although it is still a traditional murder mystery... A Thomas Austin Crime Thriller and I came to appreciate the main character much more as I started this book. It is set in the midst of a wealthy family where there is just the matriarch remaining with the family and who is quite tight with the purse strings. On the other hand, the family in toto is so rich that they have an annual budget set aside for projects based upon an annual budget. But this year, there was quite a change in that group meeting where each family member old enough to participate, plus the family cook had been with them so long that he had been added... This year each request was funded for a limit of $1M because it was discovered that the matriarch had her own project which she deemed much more important to her upcoming retirement...

It was that same night as all the family members were gathered that she died painfully...from poison...

I asked her what her favorite food was and she looked at me like I was insane. Said something like, ‘In a world as big as ours, why would I ever have a favorite?’”

Eleanor had become somewhat of a food snob as she had gained the head of household position. Their cook was quite willing to participate and she would suggest a type of food or food from a country and each occasion's menu would be based upon that choice... It was later shown that she had died from oleander poisoning--a single leaf may kill an adult!

The investigation, of course, begins with talking with all of the family members who had attended that event about use of charitable funds--would anybody kill because they didn't get the projected budgt they wanted for their own idea? Bottom line, however, is that an unexpected twist near the end of the book blows the entire investigation into a much more broader look at just who this family really was...

For those who like to be kept guessing...this one is for you! I enjoyed it, especially with the teammate of the main character who  becomes involved when she was first asked to write Eleanor's memoir--and then lost the job... Tension between her and the new writer adds a turn that can't be ignored by anybody!

GABixlerReviews 

Beginning to Share Project 2025 as Promised, today on my sister blog... Just my Personal Opinion...

https://gabixlerpersonalopinion.blogspot.com/2025/05/mandate-for-leadership-conservative.html

Ben Bradmore Presents Her Last Recital - A Tense Page-Turning Thriller

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!

Enjoy this one!

GABixlerReviews

Linda S. Prather Presents Raw Justice - An Extraordinary and Memorable Story! A Personal Favorite for 2025

Jack didn’t have to answer her vent. He knew most people believed that law enforcement was always the good guys. Normally, they were, but drugs and money changed things. Politics changed them even more. Corruption and lies invaded every organization eventually. “I’m not trying to get myself killed.” “So why do you keep doing this?” Selina asked. “If it isn’t to get yourself killed, then why?” 

Selina DuVay finished her drink and glanced at the bartender. He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Damn it, I paid the bastard a hundred dollars to send Slade my way.” She raised her glass for another drink, and Tim smiled, filled a glass, and headed her way. “Sorry, ma’am, he wasn’t interested. I told him how pretty and sexy you were.” Tim placed the frothy glass of beer in front of her. “I’ll give the money back if you want.” “Keep it.” Selina picked up the glass and sipped. “Did he say where he was going?” “No, ma’am. I believe he’s leaving town soon, though.” Selina reached for her purse. “Keep your money.” He nodded to the beer. “That one is on the house, ma’am.” “Thanks.” Selina took another sip as Tim headed to the bar. She’d hoped Slade would find her attractive and want to talk. Most men did, and it would have made the task before her a hell of a lot easier. 

Putting aside the promise she’d made to Annabelle, she needed Slade. I’m coming for you, Crawley, and before I’m finished, I’ll own everything you possess. “Hey, little lady, buy you a drink?” The deep voice pulled her from her thoughts. She looked into the man’s eyes and shuddered. He reminded her of her stepfather. If evil had a picture in the dictionary, the man in front of her would be there. “No, thank you. I’m meeting my husband here.” The lie rolled off her tongue easily. “He just called to say he was running a little late.” “I had a woman like you, I’d never be late. Why don’t I keep you company until he shows up?” “Not a good idea.” She slid her hand into her purse then wrapped her fingers around the small derringer she kept there. “Maybe you should check out another bar. Who knows, the woman of your dreams might be waiting just down the street.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and moved in close to whisper in her ear. “Listen, bitch, nobody turns Lionel Nelson down. You walk in here and flaunt your stuff, you better be willing to put out. A man has a right to take what’s shoved at him.” Her finger twitched on the trigger. “And a woman has a right to defend herself.” She poked the barrel into his privates. “I suggest you take it elsewhere or lose it.” “Whore.” He shoved her, turned, and stomped out of the bar. “You called that one right, buddy.” The insult rolled off her like the water from this morning’s shower. It was hard to be insulted by the truth. Selina dropped the derringer inside her purse. 

The encounter had left her shaken. She was used to men hitting on her. For the most part, she welcomed it from the ones who were easy to manipulate. “I should have shot the bastard in the balls.” Her thoughts turned to Slade as she finished the cold brew. She knew where he was staying. Maybe if he saw her close up, he would change his mind. Selina waved to Tim as she left the bar and walked in the direction she’d watched Slade go. She studied the crowd around her. Men like Nelson didn’t give up easy. 

“Your feminine charms won’t work on Jack.” Selina sighed and turned toward the voice she knew only she could hear. “He’s a man, isn’t he?” Annabelle laughed. “Yes, but he’s married. Didn’t you see the wedding ring?” “His wife is dead.” “His wife isn’t dead to him, Selina. She will never be dead to him until the men responsible for her death have been dealt with.” Selina shrugged and leaned against a brick wall. “The woman has been dead for two years. He has to get horny eventually.” “You have a quest to finish, Selina. It’s important for me, you, and our people.” “I know what I promised, but I don’t think Slade is the man you were looking for.” “You’ll have to trust me. He is the White Warrior.” Selina rolled her eyes. “White Warriors, Standing Bears, and Medicine Women. I loved watching Longmire as much as you did, but do you know how cheesy those names sound?” Annabelle didn’t answer, but the air of sadness surrounding her enveloped Selina, and guilt washed over her. “I’ll keep my promise, Annabelle. I just haven’t figured out how to do that yet.” “You’ll have help soon.” Selina watched the image of her sister fade away. “She isn’t real. I’m crazy, and what she asked me to do is even crazier.” 

She made her way to the main strip and Blue’s Hall. The band was just starting to play, and she hoped she had a few more days before Slade decided to move on. A lifelong blues fan, she wanted to visit the museum before she left. Or before Crawley finds me and kills me. Maybe Slade was the man Annabelle thought he was. Selina had never met a man who was faithful to one woman. Especially a dead woman. “That still doesn’t mean he’s this White Warrior I’m supposed to find for Annabelle.” She slid onto the barstool. “Pour me a whiskey, Tim.” He placed a shot glass in front of her and filled it. “Want a chaser with that?” “No, just keep the glass full.” She raised it to her lips and downed it. “Too many of these, and I’ll have to call someone to pick you up.” Tim refilled the glass. Selina downed the second glass and grimaced as a slow burn started in her throat and made its way to her stomach. “I don’t have anyone for you to call.” She banged the glass on the counter. “Refill. And leave the bottle.” Tim placed the cork in the bottle. “Sorry, hon, you’ve had enough. That guy you tangled with earlier came back looking for you after you left. Trust me, he’s dangerous.” Selina slid off the stool and waited for the room to stop spinning. “I don’t trust anyone,” she muttered. “You’ll have to trust me.” Annabelle’s words echoed above the noise of the bar. Selina stumbled toward the open doorway. “Annabelle is the only person in my life I trusted.” She scanned the street, looking for Nelson. “And I killed her.”

~~~

I want justice for my wife and partner, but I also want to believe the good guys still outnumber the bad.”

Selina followed Slade from a safe distance as he headed toward Beale Street. It seemed out of character for Slade, but they were in Memphis, and Beale paid tribute to the legendary musicians whose music streamed from open doorways. The horror from the night before weighed heavily on her mind. Until he walked out of the police station, she’d been afraid they’d caught him. He didn’t actually kill the guy. The thought didn’t bring the comfort she desired. Slade had brought the guy there to be killed then just walked away. “You’re thinking too much,” Annabelle whispered beside her. “There’s no way this guy is any kind of warrior. He’s more like the devil’s grim reaper.” “He’s finished in Memphis. If you don’t convince him soon, he’ll walk away.” Selina drew in a deep breath. “I’ll convince him, but I still think you’re wrong.” She stopped for a moment to exchange pleasantries with one of the promoters outside a bar. Tonight, like most nights, the street was packed with tourists from all parts of the world. A glance in the window confirmed another suspicion—she wasn’t the only one following Slade. She studied the man before moving on slowly. He was tall, with an air of authority about him. “I’ll bet his suit is afraid to wrinkle,” she whispered to herself as she moved on, watching his movements in the windows she passed. He would have actually been attractive if she’d liked that sort. Maybe if he would let those dark black curls grow out a little and put a couple of dimples in his cheeks from smiling, she would take a second look if he walked past her on a busy street. “The dude is far too serious for my taste.”

~~~

“Finally.” She opened a search engine and typed in Nita Chickaway. “Not even a one-liner in major newspapers.” Going back to the search engine, she typed in “Indian woman raped on reservation.” “Fu…” She stopped herself from completing the word. She might not have decorum, but it was one word she hated the sound of. Her stepfather had used it every time he came to her room. Rage filled her as she read the articles. It wasn’t just rape Native American women had to worry about. According to the statistics, murders of Native American women were ten times higher than the national rate. One out of three Native American women would be raped in her lifetime, and three out of five were physically assaulted. In the majority of times, the perpetrator was not Native American, so the tribal government couldn’t even prosecute the bastards. Downing the now-lukewarm cup of coffee, she eyed the bottle of whiskey she’d purchased for Slade so he could stop taking the pain pills. “Nope, you’re staying sober, whether you like it or not. You made a promise, and this time, you’re going to keep it.” Because of the darkness of her skin, she’d experienced some prejudice over the years, but nothing like this. The fact that men considered her pretty had made most of it tolerable. She refilled her cup and did another search. Hatcher had called her an old soul, something about an unknown woman. She skimmed the Choctaw legends and myths until she found the one that recounted the story of two hunters. Their families were hungry, but the only thing they managed to kill was a black hawk. Despondent, they stayed in the woods and cooked the hawk. About to eat their meager meal, they were interrupted by strange sounds that caused fear to make their hearts flutter. A woman clothed in white appeared from the forest. “Doesn’t sound like me at all. First, I would never be in the forest, and second, I look terrible in white.” Selina continued to read. The woman beckoned them and told them she was hungry. The poor slobs gave her the hawk. She ate a small portion, gave it back, and thanked them for their kindness. The woman then told the men her father was the Great Spirit of the Choctaws. She asked them to meet her again during the next midsummer moon on the mound she was standing on, then she disappeared. The hunters told no one of their strange experience, but they did return as she had asked. They found a strange plant upon the mound that yielded food, which they cultivated for their tribe. “So she gave them corn, which fed their families for years to come.” Selina shook her head. “As if I believed that bullshit.”

Note: I had to include song because of Good Witch Glinda! LOL

The memory ended as abruptly as it had started. Jack opened his eyes, comparing what he’d just experienced to what the Native Americans called visions. “Memories, Slade. That’s all, and you don’t even know if they’re real.” He shifted on the hard bench as anger over the kids’ taunts about his mother rankled inside him. He knew that black eye was the first of many. Even after her death, a few of them were cruel enough to sing “Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead.” Most of those wound up with two black eyes. The irony of it was he never knew what he was fighting about. Until now, his memories of his mother had come from pictures and stories his grandfather had told him. He’d never mentioned what Jack suspected now were her psychic abilities, and his grandfather had detested anything paranormal. His mother had tried to prepare him to survive in the future she’d seen for him. His grandfather was only interested in what he’d called saving his soul. “No wonder I’m screwed up.” Jack glanced at the brittle wood again and lit a cigarette. If memories were supposed to make things clearer, this one had failed. The barn doors opened, and Hatcher stood watching him. “Selina was worried about you.” “Just doing a little soul-searching, Hatcher. You ever do that?” “Sweat lodge every six months.” Jack filled his lungs with smoke, held it, then blew out smoke rings. “Did it work for you?” Hatcher chuckled. “Nah, usually confused me.” He glanced at the cigarette. “You should give those things up.” He joined Jack on the bench. Jack glanced at the belly overlapping Hatcher’s pants. “You should lose some weight.” They sat in silence until Jack finished his cigarette and ground the butt out beneath his shoe. “Find anything interesting in your soul?” Hatcher asked. “It’s as screwed up as I am.” Hatcher laughed again. “I didn’t think I was gonna like you, Jack Slade. I believe you’re growing on me.” “Funny you should say that. I thought I could trust you, but I believe you’ve been lying to me all along.” “I lied about some things. It was necessary. No one could convince you that you were the Hunter or White Warrior. You will have to find out for yourself which one you truly are.” Hatcher stood and looked down at him. “Are you staying?” “Haven’t made up my mind yet. Selina said Nita tried to kill herself last week.” He frowned. “I guess that would be two weeks now.” Hatcher nodded. “We took out all the mirrors, but she saw her reflection in the water.” “We need to get her out of that room. Back with her family and friends.” Hatcher slapped him on the back. “Selina has already taken care of that.” They walked toward the huge double doors. “One more thing, Hatcher. If I stay, you cut this hunter and warrior crap. Contrary to what you may think, I’m not who you’re looking for.”

~~~

Two things can be true at the same time. I love this and other books by Linda Prather (search in the right column for more of her books I've read). I also hate what happens to women at the hands of evil men! I couldn't help but compare the plot to what is now happening to eliminate DEI throughout our nation and the world!

Linda has often written about the paranormal. In this book, she has many different individuals who are sending messages across the nation to ensure what is to happen will happen... Ghosts who have attached to a human to ensure that something happens before they go into the light. Some are native american(s) (or part) who are being called back to their home to rid the Tribe of all that was and is happening. Some have bad memories from their early life which returns in dreams as messages or preparation for what is to come... 

What we do know is that the evil men are white and rich and powerful (sound familiar) and they use money to cover the multitude of evil acts that are performed. And, since they live near a local Tribe, and the white man's laws prevents them from charging white men with crimes, a major movement is taking place against the women and girls of the Tribe.

The main story begins when a young beautiful girl is attacked by three white students. She had identified the three, but since the Tribal police had no authority, the local police and FBI were involved and found the three who attacked her innocent. It should be noted that one of the boys was the son of a local Senator. The other two were sons of a rich business owner who knew that his money would take care of any accusations against his sons...

That is, until the three individuals who had been pulled into the area by those in the psychic world, had begun what they ultimately knew they were called to do. Linda! I hope you plan on continuing a series or at least a trilogy, or even one more book... Get the idea, I loved these three totally unanticipated heros!

Jack Slade was the first man who had a bad early life. He had become a law officer until his wife and child were murdered and nothing was done. At that point, he took on a type of vengeance that he could live with... Since he was constantly on the hunt for who had killed his family, he also became known by word of mouth that he was willing to also hunt for those families who'd had family murdered and not convicted. 

In the case of clients, he did the hunting--always finding the guilty person(s) and he then turned the guilty over to the family. They decided what to do. Let's just say, few decided to forgive those guilty...

Selina DuVay was a twin, also with a very bad early life. When her twin was murdered, she went looking for Slade... But, her sister, Annabelle could not rest and had learned what was happening to the local Tribe members. Selina and Annabelle were both involved with Tribal mysticism and were working at that level of communication that only they can achieve! Selina heard what had happened to the young girl who had been not only raped but also cut all over her body so that she would now not talk nor leave her room. Selina knew she could help her... It started with buying a beautiful gown that covered her entire body other than her face... Selina and Slade became a twosome as they began the major job of busting through into the white man's mostly ignored corruption...

Finally, we meet Trent Morelli who is part native and a member of the local Tribe, from which he had deserted and went into the mostly white FBI... But once Jack started, with Clark, his ghost partner, giving him jabs about Morelli's competence and success, things started moving faster... Hate to say it, but corruption had also entered the FBI, it was decided that Morelli, with his connection, should be sent to do what needed to be done... Only thing was that Morelli didn't know then whether even his boss was behind their plan... Trent had been given a list of three Tribe members to identify as the ones who had raped the woman... Of course, they pointed out that the three white guys had already been cleared and these were ones that had been in trouble before??? What the FBI men who talked to him didn't know was that his brother was the head of the Tribal Police Force! Yes, it was hard for Trent to go back after a decade, but he had no choice not to go... What they could not do was force him to convict somebody without proof!

This is a fast-paced thriller which keeps you totally involved from the first page until the last, with a major pause of regrt when this reader lost a favorite character who played a great part...was murdered...

“Why do we have to kill him?” recoiling from the gun the same way he would have a snake ready to strike. His brother backhanded his twin. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life as some prison bubba’s bitch? Take the damn gun!” “What the hell is he going on about?” “Did one of you bastards ask him to come here?” “Why the hell would we ask him to come here?” “He says he’s unarmed.” “Never trust an Indian. I heard he’s a pretty good shot. We stand a better chance outside than we do all cramped together in here.” “We’ll go out on the count of three.” We’ll let the whiner cut him up when we’re finished with him.” “High-five.” “Let’s not hit anything vital. Takes all the fun out of it.” The two burst through the doorway, guns blazing until they emptied the clips. Hatcher lay on the ground a few feet in front of his cruiser. “Do you think he’s dead?” “If he isn’t, he will be.” He approached Hatcher and kicked him in the side. “You dead, Indian?” A moan escaped his lips before Hatcher opened his eyes and smiled. “Not yet. You man enough to finish it, boy?” He was kicked in the side again. “What’s the hurry?” An owl screeched in the forest, and Hatcher laughed. “What is he laughing at, creeping closer, and Hatcher laughed again. This place is giving me the creeps.” “Yeah, go get the whiner, kicking Hatcher in the leg and chuckled when it elicited another moan. “What’s the matter, big man? Did that hurt?” “Nah, just had a touch of gas.” Hatcher laughed again. “We saved him for you. Finish him off.” “Let’s just go. He’s dying anyway. Let him bleed out.”  

“Come on, boys. You started this together. Finish it together. Three shots straight to the heart.” Hatcher winked and chuckled as another screech echoed closer by. “The owls are coming.”  “He’s right. We have to do it together.” Hatcher’s chest made a slurping sound as the bullet struck. “Not so funny now, is it, big man?” Another fired twice, both shots to the chest. “Your turn." He emptied his clip into Hatcher’s chest. “Anybody want to make sure he’s dead?” Then, another raised his gun and placed a bullet between Hatcher’s eyes. “He’s dead. Let’s get the hell out of here.” A helicopter passed slowly overhead. “Forget the bitch,”  “We’ve got to move.” “I’d still like to know what he was laughing about, he said as he rushed for the Corvette.

(edited to leave out names.)

The psychic activities with background was especially well done in my opinion. Highly recommended!

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