Six Chambers, One Bullet - By Simon Quellen Field - If this post doesn't give you my review... Don't bother getting the book...

She had the GPS search for the nearest location of the gym she had a membership in. She was hungry, but wanted to go someplace nicer than the places where she had recently dined. And a shower was currently more pressing than a meal. Unfortunately, the nearest one was in Sacramento, an hour or two east of her current location. She got onto the freeway and headed east. Three hours later, showered and refreshed, she sat alone at a table in a nice Italian restaurant, the laptop open, next to her plate of veal marsala. She was making a list. Cash, transportation, housing, income. How had other people managed these things? She thought about all of the people she had tracked down, especially the ones who had lasted the longest out in the wild. Learn from the best. 

By the time the table was cleared and the bill presented, she had some glimmerings of a plan. Tonight it was sleeping in the car again. Tomorrow, a shower and new clothes, and then visit some banks. She drove around until she found a quiet spot where she thought she wouldn't be disturbed until morning. I need to call mom. Damn. It would be so much easier if mom had email at the new place. She reached for her purse, and remembered she didn't have her old phone, with her mother's new number in it. The events of the last few days caught up with her, and she buried her face in the sleeping bag, and let the tears come. Why now? Why not in a couple months, after it was all over? Scott, I'm so sorry. Mom, Jen, I just can't do this.

~~~

I'll be out of town until they stop looking for who killed him.

This is a way cool book! Fun to read just because of the way it was written. Consider, for example, that the above is the title of Chapter 1... Makes you sit up and say, "Whoa! What's Happenin' Man?" Right?

And each chapter gets a similar catchy title that makes you keep wanting to read... I have NEVER read a book that drew my immediate attention to the chapter heading. Most don't even have one... In any event... Get prepared...

Sandra is on the run... She is being hunted... Hunted just like she hunts... Only thing is that it is her job to help people find people... Now those who don't want to be found are on to Sandra... And she was already leaving when she discovers that Scott is now dead... Her partner is now dead but she has no time to grieve... Sandra recognizes that the guy who is hunting her now, and Scott before he found him... is good at his job! But is he as good as her? Sandra knows only one thing... She has to run and disappear! Hopefully, not to be found...

He was left hanging, and the suspense was killing him.

The officer at the scene stepped aside so Jack could enter the office. The small room was crowded. Another uniformed officer stood in a corner to allow more room for the group huddling around the body in the chair. One of them was his partner, Jaime Gonzales. "Took you long enough," Gonzales said, squeezing past an empty ambulance gurney. The medical examiner moved aside to let Jack examine the body. "Who kills somebody with a piece of wire?" Gonzales said. He held up the murder weapon, a length of picture hanging wire, with two handles made of wooden dowels. 

Jack looked at the wire, and then at the bloody marks around the dead man's neck. He felt the arm of the dead man above the elbow. "Someone pretty strong." he said. "I bet this took a while." There were evidence cards still standing up around the desk and floor, marking blood splatter. Jack looked around the room. "Not likely he found that thing in here," he said. "So, he brought it with him. Premeditated," Gonzales said. Jack looked over at Gonzales. "If you were planning on killing someone, and you had plenty of time to choose just the right weapon, why not bring a gun, or a knife? Why make it so hard on yourself?" "You're thinking the guy gets off on it?" Gonzales asked. Jack shrugged. 

"Cleaning crew found him like this?" "No crew, just that one guy. Took one step into the room, saw the dead guy, and stepped back out fast as he could. Took him another 10 minutes to call 911." Gonzales was holding an evidence bag. He lifted it up. "Dead guy is the owner, Scott Jason Tremain. Does skip tracing, some divorce stuff. Could have had a lot of enemies." Jack looked at the floor. "How much of this blood was tracked around by our people?" "None of it," Gonzales said. "Even the cleaning guy knew not to step in it." 

"So the doer wiped his shoes off before walking out?" Gonzales looked at the floor. "No footprints. How do you strangle a guy with a piece of wire and not step in the blood?" "Careful planning," Jack said. "Like someone for hire?" Gonzales asked, his tone doubtful. An office called into the room from outside. "Morgan? Dispatch wants to talk to you. They say they have report of shots fired at this location." Jack took the radio. "I didn't hear anything." "A call came in just a minute ago," a woman's voice said over the radio. "Same address, said she heard gunfire, called right away. I said we had officers at the scene already, and she hung up." Jack looked around at the people in the room, and those he could see through the door. "Anybody hear shots?" he called out. Heads shook and shoulders shrugged. "No gunfire here," Jack said into the radio. He handed it back to the officer. "Related?" Gonzales asked. "Who knows," Jack said. "A woman. Said she heard shots from this location, just a minute ago. Didn't stay on the line." As the two of them walked out of the room, Jack motioned to the gurney. "We're done with him, you can take him out." Jack walked over to the uniformed officer who had let him in. "Did anything look like it was missing when you got to the scene?" he asked. "They took a computer, I think," the officer said. "Cables and stuff were on the desk, but nothing was attached. Probably a laptop, everything was on top of the desk, no keyboard, no mouse. The desk was locked." Jack turned to Gonzales. "The phone was reading zero messages. Make sure it gets to the lab, see if they can get any deleted messages off of it. I'll have Jules get his phone records. I want to listen to that 911 call, something's screwy there." 

He turned to the officer. "Get me that bag of his effects. I want to open that desk." The dead man was wheeled out, and Jack went back inside. There was an automatic in the top desk drawer. There was no magazine in it, and no round in the chamber. He found the magazine in the bottom drawer. This was not a guy who thought he would ever have to use the gun. There was no filing cabinet. There was nothing in the desk that seemed to relate to any business that a private detective might have. It looked like everything was on the missing computer. There was nothing more to go on in the room.

~~~

Jack is a good cop AND a good guy... Soon he was looking for Sandra, but Sandra doesn't know who to trust. Still, sooner or later, she has to have some type of help... She was willing to bargain with Jack if he'd play along... In the meantime, she already knew that she didn't have time to deal with anything but getting away...and then a bit of luck came about... And she joined a band...

This motley group who traveled in a trailer needed only one thing from Sandra--money for gas. She quickly said, "I'm In." But she soon discovered that most of the music played at small venues across the states was original... and...really good! Soon, she was acting more as a manager and found she was good at it... They were moving into little bars... and after the first night, it was so packed that they put up speakers on the outside and there was literally dancing in the streets! 

Ok, I thoroughly enjoyed the break from reality that this story brings... My only regret that I couldn't also be listening to the music created by this group who threw out eclectic sounds that soon were being heard far and wide, so far, that Sandra realized that she needed to leave so that they could proceed to get the glory that was due to them... and none of the danger she presented... 

Just for fun, I'm sharing one of the songs... Get ready to get into it!

Got a five leg dog, 

The guitar played another bar alone, letting the words sink in. 

He don't walk too well. 

Again, the guitar took the next verse, as if in response. 

Got a fun-ny gait, ... 

Likes to sit and wait. ... 

But we have our fun, ... 

'Cause he LOVES to RUN! 

The guitar took off, and Sandra could picture a dog running free and fast, five beats and a leap, five and a leap, fluid and smooth. 

Hold him still until you say go, 

He'll be back before the echo. 

We will always be together,

 Love to watch him run forever.

Pocket jumped up on the stage and sat down behind the drum kit, and Charlie followed, picking up his bass. Tentatively, Pocket started marking beats, just little taps on the cymbals. Charlie thumped the bass on the first beat of each measure, feeling his way into the music. 

"I gotta say," Cocayne said to Sandra, 

"he's made it work, 

but it's only half a song. 

There's no metaphor yet, 

no kick in the pants, 

make you think, 

pull you off the floor finish to it."

She got up and joined the band on the stage, nodding her head with the beat. She took the microphone. 

If you think you're strange, 

Can't quite make it right, 

Like it's never been, 

Yours to fit right in, 

When you hear the gun, 

Just get UP and RUN! 

Don't hold back 

until you get there, 

Let them talk 'cause 

what do you care, 

Show them all 

there's nothing to it, 

We were born to ride

right through it.

Now I have to say

Ladies and Gents

That's Just how a song

Actually Gits Writ!

Seriously, readers will really get into the song, and, if you noticed, there's a line thrown in that when you hear a gun, better get up and run!

And Sandra hugged each one and off she ran, but she was indeed in contact with Jack... You get the feeling that once you read a rhyming group of words, you just happen to go with the flow? Well, this is one lover of music--of all kinds--that willingly closes this review, keeping track of the beat...

His final thought was what a good deal he had gotten on the parachute.

That, folks, is the title of the last paragraph in this book... I think I'll just go out and find a little more jammin' to close...

Have a Great Day!

Gabby

Ghosted: An American Story by Nancy French - Begins With Spotlight on the Cesar Sayoc case (Mail Bomber of Democrats) More Than A Memoir! "Ghosted" Because of Donald Trump!

 

Introduction...When I arrived home, I noticed a business card taped to my mailbox fluttering in the wind like a butterfly’s wing. I took it off, annoyed at whatever roofing company was trying to drum up business, and thumbed through my mail. But the card had a raised golden seal with five words printed beneath it: the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Contact me at your earliest convenience.” The note on the back was written in slanted printed letters. “Urgent.” My chest tightened as I dialed my husband. “The FBI?” 

David was on a business trip, and his voice sounded distant now. “What did the agent say when you called him?” “You think I called him back?” I’d never been contacted by the FBI, but it seemed like an opening to a movie, the kind in which the unsuspecting woman ends up in a gas station bathroom cutting her hair with a knife and dyeing it with shoe polish hoping for a clean slate in Topeka. “Did you rob a bank?” His voice was teasing, laced with impatient incredulity. “If not, call them.” “Does the FBI typically come to a person’s house?” I asked. “I don’t know. Call him back, before it gets too late.” It was already dark. “Whatever this is, it’s not good.” I dialed the number. 

“Thank you for calling, Mrs. French.” The agent’s formality caused my throat to thicken. “Are you familiar with the Cesar Sayoc case?” Of course. Every news channel had been covering it around the clock for the past few weeks. In the days leading up to 2018’s midterm elections, Sayoc sent prominent Democrats pipe bombs in a wave of attacks. Fear of political violence spread across the nation. When the news first broke, I’d been on a job. I’m a ghost, but not the scary kind. The writer kind. Almost all celebrity books are written by ghostwriters like me, unknown writers who learn the minutiae of their celebrity clients’ lives and toil in obscurity to meet tight deadlines. But it’s true. Most famous people don’t have the time, skill, or inclination to write a book while starring in a television show, running for office, or training for the Olympics. That’s where I come in. I sit down, hear their stories, and go to their homes, studios, movie sets, weddings, or Olympic training centers and create books that will be in stores in twelve to eighteen months. 

When Sayoc mailed his first pipe bombs, I was with a client in a hotel lobby. The television news anchor on a nearby TV described how the bomber had targeted Bill and Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, several members of Congress, Barack Obama, George Soros, and Robert De Niro. The other hotel guests and I got closer to the screen, which showed images of a cylindrical object wrapped in electrical tape, wires emerging from both ends. Black ISIS-like flags were taped to them, as well as photos of the recipients with a red X marked across their faces. Someone was terrifying the nation right before the midterms. Bad news for democracy. 

My client shrugged and continued the interview. “Anyway, so let me tell you about why I support the president, even if people say he’s divisive. He’s a unifier, if anything.” Days after the first attack, the FBI identified this domestic terrorist as a stockily built Florida man who lived in a van covered with pro-Trump posters. The feds found binders full of media clippings, photo collages of people’s faces, and writings that said, in a 180-degree twist on the words of Christ, “Kill your enemy.” He’d taken his cues from every serial-killer documentary ever made. “I saw it on the news,” I said to the FBI agent. 

“But what does any of this have to do with me?” “We found your address on Sayoc’s computer.” He paused. “Your husband was on his list.” I sat down at the kitchen table. I’d never thought David, a conservative Iraq-war veteran, would ever be listed with Bill Clinton, Joe Biden, and Robert De Niro. We’d been Republicans our whole lives, and I’d helped many conservative leaders on book projects. “He targets prominent critics of the president,” he said. “Would that include your husband?” It would. David, who wrote for the conservative magazine National Review, had been one of the only Republican thought leaders to oppose Trump. His name had even been briefly floated for a quixotic, third-party run for president of the United States. He declined, but not before his reputation among Republicans was sealed: traitor. “What do we do?” “He may have sent you a package we haven’t intercepted yet,” he explained. “We’re working with the US Postal Service, but one could slip through.” I put my forehead in my hand, and my teenage son—who’d been hovering nearby—walked over, eyes wide with concern. “Look out for nondescript manila envelopes you aren’t expecting,” the agent said. “And alert your neighbors. None of the packages have detonated, but they could.” I couldn’t breathe. I’ve always prided myself on having a certain amount of emotional awareness and flexibility. Being a ghostwriter requires it. I’d worked with celebrities like Kim Kardashian, The Bachelor’s Sean Lowe, a Chinese political dissident, and prominent Republicans who had inhabited the nation’s top political positions. As a ghost, I don’t write “he hit Clara’s daughter” but “he hit my daughter.” I don’t write “the car crash killed the passengers” but “the car crash killed my friends.” I describe scenes in such detail that I sometimes experience secondary trauma vicariously living through the moment to capture it in the first-person written word. 

But in 2016, I felt a different, more personal type of trauma. That’s when things started to change in the GOP. Within a party proclaiming faith and freedom, an unsavory element bubbled to the surface. David and I were doing what we’d always done: speaking out about our values, values which had not changed. But as the political climate shifted, we suddenly were at odds with our own community. Either you were with the GOP, or you weren’t. We’d been ostracized because we refused to support a president who made a cameo in the Playboy film Playmate 2000 Bernaola Twins. We’d been confronted at church because we didn’t support a man who’d admitted to groping women. And now we’d been targeted by a domestic terrorist. I sat at my kitchen table, my hands shaking. Someone had to point out that the emperor—not just the Bernaola Twins—had no clothes. But at what cost? Not only was I forced out of my tribe, I’d lost my main source of income. My political clients wanted a ghostwriter to write what they told them to write. That’s the job. I was supposed to reflect their views for their books, not write my own. Not only did I write their books, I traveled with them, wrote speeches, and even sat at Fox News headquarters to sharpen their talking points. I specialized in witty insults, clever turns of phrase, and political statements aimed to provoke liberals. Combativeness was part of the fun, delivered with a wink. People would argue during the day and have a drink together in the evening. But the wink was gone, replaced by mean tweets. Acrimony had settled into our brows, and people from different political parties actually loathed each other. I tried to continue my political work but vowed not to twist the truth or bear false witness against my liberal neighbors. Because I lived in Franklin, Tennessee, I didn’t have many actual liberal neighbors, but you get the idea. I wouldn’t mischaracterize liberal positions, I wouldn’t make generalizations about an entire group based on the craziest outliers, and I wouldn’t assume the worst of every Democrat. Hadn’t my own approach to politics contributed to the problem? Couldn’t we all agree things had gone too far? Though my political clients had previously respected my opinion and enjoyed our back-and-forth dialogue, they now resented my questioning their talking points and softening their forceful rhetoric. 

I soon quit, or was fired by, all of them. That put me in a financially precarious situation. Now I was in a physically precarious one. I clutched the FBI agent’s business card. Since my multiracial family had taken a stance against Trump, we’d been mocked by Republicans, targeted by White nationalists, threatened with death, and alienated from our church community. But the American story is one of defiance, especially of the political kind. My unwillingness to bow the knee to an unsuitable president was the most American thing I’d ever done. And the ensuing rupture allowed me to see my nation and fellow Americans in new, more accurate, and ultimately more meaningful ways. I quit the GOP, which means I am no longer bound to toe the party line. Now I’m liberated from all expectations and can reveal what really happened. That’s what I’m doing now. Instead of writing for others, I’m telling my own story. As a ghost, invisible to the people around me, I’m coming out and making myself known. After floating along the outskirts of the powerful while our nation has digressed into unbelievable hatred, I’ve got a story to tell. It’s not tidy, nor is it easy, and it’s more than a little frightening. All good ghost stories are.

~~~

After an Introduction like no other, it was strange, then, to turn to the beginning of a woman's memoir, that was very much like any other personal memoir... So I wanted to share a little so you can get the flavor of French's background...

We tried to stuff that shadow in a mothball-filled closet back in Kentucky in a box labeled “Grandfather’s KKK Robe.” I’d heard stories about the “old” Ku Klux Klan, which—I’d always been told—kept law and order after the Civil War.

“What do you see?” she asked. Soft, prisms bounced around as I moved my head. Magical and mesmerizing. “Rainbows.” I twirled a tress of my dark hair. “What do you see?” 

My aunt took a drag from her cigarette and peered into the ball with me. “I’m a seer, so I see a lot,” she said. “But mostly, I see . . .” I straightened and prepared to discover the secrets of the universe. “Dollar signs.” 

I breathed out my disappointment but continued to look into the ball as the clock ticked. While we waited, my aunt told me about belonging to an Indian tribe and invited me and Grandmother to their next meeting. “We wear Indian headdresses, do dances, and even have our own Indian names,” she said, but Grandmother waved her off. She was the daughter of a Cherokee princess—one of our ancestors had been named Shield Eater—but her generation didn’t broadcast their identity on the mountain. When my dad left the mountain, we left behind all the Cherokee lore, the black magic, and the astrology. 

Still, I leaned in closer. “You need an Indian name to go with your blood,” Aunt Zinnia said. “Momma’s one half, and you’re one eighth, but I see it in you. Clear as day.” I shook my head. My dad would never let me attend any sort of Cherokee dancing rituals. We weren’t allowed to do any kind of dancing, but I felt the pull. My aunt packed up her crystal ball. “Guess he stood me up.” “Didn’t we know he wouldn’t come?” I asked, hesitantly. Because of Grandmother’s rag? Because my aunt was a seer? She tossed back her head and laughed. “I like you.” She flicked her ashes into a tray without looking. “Momma, she looks and talks like us, don’t she?” I shared their coloring, facial construction, and conversation style. I loved watching these women, whom I so resembled, move and talk. Fierce and beautiful. “Your eyes will melt many a man’s heart.” Aunt Zinnia pulled out a cigarette from her case. “The color of those old blue bottles your daddy finds in the woods. Cobalt.” Their own eyes were dark like coal, but my heart swelled at their sugarcoated insistence that I belonged in this stone house with magical apple peels and dishrags. I was one of them. My aunt blew the smoke from her cigarette away from my face and leaned in closer. “And you have the gift, don’t you?” “What gift?” “You can see.” I thought about it. My eyes worked. I clearly saw that the small home had provided shelter to two parents and seven tightly packed children. I saw the middle room, which had two beds—one for my grandparents and one for the two girls. I saw the room with dueling pianos where all five of the brothers had slept on one feather bed in a room with ice on the inside of the window in the morning. I saw what they still called the “new addition,” a closet-sized space with a toilet which replaced the outhouse my dad dug. When they got electricity and plumbing—reluctantly—they built a tiny addition with a single commode. My cousins stood over the toilet and watched the water flush away to parts unknown. Still, my grandfather didn’t trust it and never used an indoor toilet even once in his life. “It’s not my way,” he said. Aunt Zinnia always breezed in and out of our lives, and I felt honored to be in her presence, and I hung on her every word. “You have the gift. To see things that are far off, have passed, or will come.” As she took a drag from her cigarette, her eyes never left mine. “Reckon?” I hesitated. At church we were warned against soothsayers and psychics, but deep down I wanted to be like these women, to be special. She put her hand on my knee. “You have it. Don’t fight it.” For the second time in an hour, my destiny shifted. I had some sort of mystical power, and I only hoped my future husband—apparently a Mr. Quinn? Mr. Copeland? Mr. Shelby?—would appreciate that part of me. 

Grandmother put the chicken into the oven to stay warm, and the gravy needed to cook a bit longer. We walked through the middle room, which had a two-handed saw painted with vibrant deer-filled vistas hanging on the wall, into the far room. It had a couch, two upright pianos, and a chair in the corner. Grandfather had black lung disease from the deep-hole coal mines, but he smoked a pipe. The aroma—a blend of woods, vanilla, and tobacco—mixed with the smell of the stove. Slumped in his chair in his worn-out overalls, he bore an eerie resemblance to my father and uncles. While we waited on dinner, I tried to make conversation. 

“I’m reading a good book.” I held out my novel to my grandfather, who took in the pink cover without saying a word. Outside, the snow pelted in a horizontal pattern. Ice tapped the windows. He beheld the book for a long time, and no one moved. I didn’t know he couldn’t read and could write only his first and last names, a skill Grandmother had taught him so he could sign his Tennessee Coal Company checks. Not for a second did I consider anything to be beyond their capabilities. They had that lived-through-the-Depression resourcefulness, which meant they never threw anything away and stared problems in the face until the sun came up the next morning. Their spines were as strong as steel, their hair as black as coal, and their bodies as unshakable as the mountain. 

My dad broke the silence and addressed his mother. “Why don’t ya play us a tune?” My grandmother shook her head. Before she’d gotten married, she played piano on gambling boats, but marriage and seven kids put a damper on all that. Uncle Jasper stood up. “Come on now,” he said, patting the bench beside him indicating a seat for me. Jasper wore a red and black flannel shirt under his overalls; his glasses were tinted so he looked like a hillbilly celebrity. “Let’s play some music for these nice folks. They drove all this way.” They drove all this way. My sisters and I were on the mountain, but not of the mountain. He sat at one of the pianos and played the opening chords to “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” My grandmother, unable to resist the pull of the notes, sat at the

adjacent “dueling piano.” Uncle Jasper could play the banjo, guitar, and piano. But Grandmother was a savant. Her hands pounded the keys, yellowed and some worn all the way to the wood. She played all eighty-eight keys, no matter the song. “Your cheatin’ heart,” Uncle Jasper bellowed. I took lessons from a Baptist lady. One finger played one note. A mistake would stand out during recitals. But there was no such thing as a wrong note here. Grandmother played from the heart, several keys at once, sweeping her hand over the piano with confidence and ease. The music was syncopated, the beat was loose. I never knew where the notes would take me.

~~~

If you've read any books by Dolly Parton or other southern writers and enjoyed them, I think you'll enjoy the early part of this book, especially. I did! School, church, and playing music took place in my early home life, so if it sounds like yours, you'll be right at home in Nancy's early life... maybe not all of it though...

She was an early reader as well, so I can see where she would look toward writing as a career. But being able to listen to somebody else's story and make it sound like their own? I'd think that takes a special kind of person and skill. And French was doing well as a ghostwriter for many celebrities and other personalities...

Until they turned on her...

Even as I read her story and so many other book, I still can't quite figure out where all the hate came from that arose in America... Nancy and her husband, David, had been conservatives for most of their lives. David wrote for the conservative magazine, National Review. And was known as one of the "Republican thought leaders." But both David and Nancy had been one of the very few who refused to support DJ Trump. While I don't consider myself a conservative, I, too, had been questioned about my choice to not support a republican candidate (as a Christian)... The French family was greatly affected financially as they made the choice to not support a candidate who admitted to "groping women..." And, then, being targeted by one of those followers that listened to Trump and acted as they were incited to do...

Nancy also shared an early sexual assault within the church. Her story was included in a Discussion of Sexual Abuse earlier (see right column for info). When I think of her extended title for this book, I can't help but wonder whether this, then, is a major part of our American Story... Sadly, that is very possible... On the other hand, there are uplifting and heartwarming stories which have been shared... which, for me, supported my belief that God is touching people who are speaking Truth at this critical time in America...

Nancy began to seek out other jobs and soon was offered a column in "The Liberty Bell." It was the first time she'd ever had an ongoing job. While along the way David wanted to, and joined, the military services. And adoption was one of the callings for them...

Discussions were constant as things were happening, such as when Steve Bannon had joined the alt-right and was now supporting white nationalists... Yeah, those who were previously in their lives in some way were now part of what I call the cult... Then, Nancy was in somewhat of a panic about her "sin" being discovered--which really had been an assault--as David had been contacted to possibly run for president as well... Seriously, folks, you just can't make up this book!

This is a personal favorite for me, for many reasons... but mostly because Nancy French, and her family, Placed God as their highest priority! I call this a Must Read, especially before November!

GABixlerReviews

The Goodpasture Chronicles: Caretaker by R. J. Halbert - Highly Entertaining! An Update! - Interested in KickStarter???

 Hi! I have to laugh at myself on this one...Not Really, I neglected one site from which I usually check to find out exactly who R. J. Halbert was! It was recommended to me on Facebook--couldn't find the original notification, sigh) So, of course, I went looking on Facebook! Even as I noticed that this book had special inserts for music, I didn't find it... Now after many have already come to visit on this latest wonderful book, I find that this is a writing duo...and also, professionally and musically connected with the Kelly Clarkson Show...! But, I'm still curious about the music inserts... If I find out anything more, I'll be back! 

More 

R. J. Halbert

There is also a Kickstarter Project...

Striving for a New Type of Audio Book, Check it Out!

Stop it, Lyana … Today is not the day. Lyana shook the intrusive thoughts away and refocused on her surroundings. The further they travelled away from downtown, the more serene the surroundings felt. The streets were lined with historic homes, perfectly manicured lawns, and lush, tree-filled rolling foothills in the background. Three miles … two miles … one mile. 

Right on cue, Boston’s “More than a Feeling” came on the radio. Lyana looked back just in time to see Ariel and Zach sharing a sibling moment, rolling their eyes as she and Ian mimed the iconic opening guitar riff. They sang along in full voice. 

{listen} 

I looked out this morning and the sun was gone Turned on some music to start the day 

I lost myself in a familiar song I closed my eyes and I slipped away 

The music continued as they made their way towards the house. 

It’s more than a feeling {More than a feeling} When I hear that old song they used to play {More than a feeling} I begin dreaming {More than a feeling} 

“Re-routing,” the voice from the GPS chimed in. They had missed the turn while basking in their musical glory days. Ian turned around and headed back the way they’d come. Within minutes, the GPS left them baffled once again. “Re-routing. Please make a U-turn ahead.” “I don’t understand. It says it should be right here, Lyana,” said Ian. “You must not have been paying attention. Turn around and I’ll look to the right. You look left.” “Re-routing. Please make a U-turn ahead.” “Argh! This is the same stretch we just did. See there’s nothi—” They turned around one more time, before finally spotting the nearly hidden driveway that was numerically out of order and barely marked. 

They turned down the driveway and entered what looked like a gateway into another world. Bushes were thick on each side, leaving just enough room for the car to pass. Only a few brave rays of sunlight broke through the shadowy trees that lined the narrow path. Ian drove for what seemed like miles. “Where is the house?” asked Zach. His voice was almost a whisper. The sky grew dark and low-hanging fog marched toward them, making it difficult to see in the distance. It was mid-morning, but it might as well have been dusk. An uneasy hush settled throughout the car. 

The change in scenery from the quaint downtown they had just experienced was stark; this was the opposite of what she had hoped to find. Lyana needed this to be so much more than a new beginning, or a fresh start. Trying to make sense of it all, tears began to gather in Lyana’s eyes. The sudden shift in the car from hopeful expectation to uncertainty triggered painful memories of the devastation and heartbreak she felt after the loss of her mother earlier that year. On top of living through the unthinkable only a few years earlier, the heartbreak of losing her mother nearly pushed her over the edge. Even though their relationship was strained, in her culture family was everything. Each generation was deeply connected to the next and losing her mom felt like a vast piece of her was gone forever. 

Lyana had been an outsider in her small Irish community with her long dark hair, olive complexion, and brown eyes. Her family moved to the area in pursuit of the American Dream and had lived there for years, several generations calling it home. She was the first one to leave. From the very beginning she and Ian knew it wouldn’t be an easy road for two small-town kids looking to pave their own way and leave life in that small town behind, breaking free from the generational expectations attached to them within the confines of a twenty-mile radius. They were so young and naïve—they believed just walking away from where it all began would give them a chance to fix the brokenness within. That belief crumbled in the months leading up to the night Lyana had taken the kids and left. Ian had come too close to repeating the mistakes of his father. It was the darkest season of life they had known. Once again, she was the first one to leave...

“No, I didn’t know that. But … speaking of fog …” began Ian. “Is this going to be one of those lame dad jokes?” Zach interrupted. “No, no. Not this time.” Ian stopped walking and Zach nearly ran into him. “I was just going to say that my brain has been a little foggy ever since I got back from the last conference. 

I got something for you, as always.” Ian paused, watching Zach’s expression morph from confusion to curiosity, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a woven leather bracelet with a stone attached to it. Zach held out his hand and Ian dropped it into his eager fingers. Zach turned the bracelet over in his hands and looked closely at the stone. “This is so cool!” he said, slipping the bracelet on his wrist. It was a little big, but Zach didn’t seem to mind. “What’s this symbol?” he asked, pointing to the image carved into the stone. “That’s called an ouroboros,” said Ian. “It looks like a snake eating its tail.” Zach traced the intricate circular image with his right index finger. “That’s exactly what an ouroboros is,” said Ian. “It’s like infinity,” said Zach, mesmerized by the gift. “I love it.” They started walking again. Ian was pleased by how much Zach liked the gift. He always brought gifts to the kids after his trips. He welcomed the challenge of finding something unique to surprise them with every time. After a rare moment of silence, Zach began posing questions about infinity. They both loved talking about impossible things and Zach was an expert at asking big questions. Just as Ian was about to respond to Zach, he tripped over something, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. “I’m fine,” he said before Zach could express his concern. 

But Zach wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the ground in front of him. Ian stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees and followed Zach’s gaze. “Dad what is that?” Zach asked. The two began to remove the brush and leaves that had gathered on what, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a door. A door in the dirt. It was a door, framed by crumbling concrete, but to what? A cellar? A shelter? Ian was fascinated by the oversized, rusting hinges that were decorated with what looked like a Celtic symbol. No, much earlier. Different culture. Maybe Sumerian? He leaned in to explore further. “Dad, help me with this.” Ian looked at Zach, who was tugging at the door’s old iron handle. He stepped over and helped Zach pull on it. At first, the door didn’t budge, and Ian thought it might be sealed shut. But then it moved. They pulled harder and the door moved even more. It was heavy—much heavier than Ian would have guessed. With each attempt, Ian’s imagination ran wild with ideas of what might lurk beyond. 

“Well, hello,” a voice said from behind them. Startled, Ian and Zach dropped the door with a loud bang and turned in surprise. Ian studied the man. He appeared to be in his fifties and stood about five feet, nine inches tall. The years had been kind to the stranger. He was neither overweight nor frail—probably an athlete in his younger days, thought Ian. His dark hair had begun to recede, and the greys showed ever so slightly through the remaining hair on his head and the unshaven scruff on his chin and jawline. He was unassuming, dressed in workman’s overalls and steel toe boots. His dark eyes, however, had a gripping intensity—they instantly pierced into Ian’s thoughts. Looking into them was like seeing the experiences of his life reflecting back at you. And yet there was a quiet confidence in his demeanor that eased Ian’s quickening heart. “I’m Marshall,” the man said. Ian was trying to recall the name. “The Caretaker,” he added. 

“That’s right. I completely forgot.” Ian had wondered, when they closed on the house, when they might run into the caretaker, but then had nearly forgotten about him in the time since. Zach was squinting, carefully studying Marshall. “I’m Ian Keene. And this is my son, Zach.” Zach continued to stare at the man, not unkindly, but wearing a curious expression. Marshall nodded. “Are you fellas a bit lost?” Ian shook his head. “We were just out getting a feel for the property. This is an amazing place.” Zach interrupted his dad with a list of burning questions. “Have you been here long? What is this door all about? Did you know the previous family that lived here? Do you have any kids? Have you …” “Whoa, bud, slow down!” Marshall’s expression didn’t change. Ian couldn’t tell if he was bothered or tickled by Zach’s curiosity. “I’ve been here as long as I can remember,” he replied. He didn’t bother to answer the other questions. The light of day was starting to fade as the three stood at the mysterious door. Ian was about to press for more information about the door when Zach spoke up. 

“Uh … Dad, we should get back.” Ian recognized Zach’s tone. It wasn’t one of fearfulness—Marshall seemed like a harmless enough man—but one of slowly building anxiety. The sky was darkening, after all. Their explorations had simply left them without a concept of time. Marshall nodded, looked over at Zach. “You two really should hurry along before …” He froze. It was almost as if he’d seen a ghost. The sudden change in Marshall’s demeanor unnerved Ian, but it was short-lived. Marshall continued, “Before it gets too dark. You wouldn’t want to get lost in this forest.” Marshall had positioned himself in front of the cellar door, a subtle signal that their explorations had come to an end for the day. “I’ll be happy to show you around the property another time.” “We just might take you up on that,” said Ian. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Marshall. Come on, Zach.” Zach stared a beat longer at Marshall, then focused back the way they’d come. 

As the two of them walked away, Zach glanced back toward Marshall. “He’s already gone,” said Zach. Ian turned to see that Zach was right. Marshall had left just as quickly as he had appeared. Zach turned his focus back to his father. “Well, that was weird.” “Yeah, you think?” The two of them talked about meeting Marshall and laughed about how they had completely forgotten someone else lived on the property. They couldn’t believe how quickly time had passed during their adventures. As they approached the house, Zach ran on ahead, clearly eager to share their adventure with his mother and show her his new bracelet. Ian walked in as Zach was excitedly talking about the door in the dirt. 

Lyana stood up and swiped at her face, brushing the hair back from her eyes and smearing paint near her eyebrow. Her face and hands had more than a few splotches of paint now. She’d clearly been hard at work while they were away. Ariel came running down the stairs to see what all the commotion was about. “You found what?” asked Lyana. “Dad and I found an old cellar door in the woods, and then we met Marshall.” “Marshall?” The look on Lyana’s face told Ian that she had forgotten as well. He laughed and said with a smile, “The Caretaker!” “Oh, of course! I’d forgotten about him.” 

Lyana’s face suddenly went white. She looked over at the stove, then the refrigerator. “I’m sorry, I totally lost track of time. I don’t have a dinner plan.” Ian already had his phone out. “No worries. I just found a pizza place that looks promising,” he said. Later, their appetites sated, Ian took in the scene before him at the kitchen table. Their stories had painted the house with joy. It practically glowed from the roars of laughter, the energy of its new residents bringing it to life again. Still, two stray thoughts threatened to distract him from that joy. What had spooked Marshall? And why did the man seem familiar? Ian shook the thoughts from his head. Surely it was nothing. • • • 

Marshall slipped amongst the trees to watch Ian and Zach head back to the house. When young Zach turned around to look for him, Marshall shook his head. This is an unexpected twist, he thought. When the two finally disappeared into the distance, a sudden breeze picked up and swirled the leaves into a ground tornado, conveniently covering the cellar door once again. Marshall glanced up into the trees and shook his head again, allowing a half-smile creeping onto his face. A few moments later,a puzzled Marshall walked through the front door of his rustic cabin, closing the creaking door behind him. The late evening sun trickled in through the singular window, painting the wooden floor in patches of fading amber light. Marshall went to the bookshelf and scanned it, making sure everything was in its place. It was, and that confounded Marshall even more. He stepped over to his table and scraped a match against the textured surface, then lit the antique lantern that sat there. The smell of kerosene filled the small room. It was a reassuring smell for Marshall. A comforting smell. He desperately needed something comforting in that moment. He sat and picked up a half-finished carving of a ram. He turned it around in his hand, briefly admiring his own craftsmanship, then set it back down on the table. He glanced around the room as he had done so many times before, entranced by the dancing shadows. He was familiar with shadowy places, having spent so much time in them. Like in the wings of an auditorium. Marshall’s eyes grew heavy. He scooted the chair back, stood, pulled the curtain across the window, then shuffled over to his bed and lay down. The flame from the lamp continued to flicker as he lay there, exhausted.

~~~

Ian and Lyana had been friends since children. Both had felt that they never quite fit in no matter where they might have lived. It was only natural for them to take off together...

Still Ian had been quite successful in his career, considering what might be his next major event... It was Lyana who had always been on the hunt for a home. Out of the city in a place where they would be able to smell fresh air of the country... And reconnect as a family... Both of them had been in family situations which were not, to say the least, ideal, so that when she stumbled on an advertisement online, she had proceeded to make an appointment with the realtor, even though Ian had not yet returned from overseas...

Driving into what seemed a quaint, older town where children played outside, people were stopping to talk to their neighbors, Liana became even more enthused. It took a little time to actually find the place, but when they did, it was hard to believe that it was available! Ariel and Zach were their children and they, too, felt the draw of the town, their new home... Actually, it was...Amazing!

And yet...even as they were moving toward the home, there were people coming out who looked like they couldn't wait to get out of the house. Later, the realtor confirmed that he'd had trouble finding somebody who wanted to stay, even once they had moved in...

Even Ariel had asked in wonder, "Are We In Narnia?"

What could be wrong with those other people who had wanted to leave? Lyana whispered to herself, It's Perfect!

It was so perfect, that Lyana immediately began to bring the pantry into use so they could begin to bring in what was needed to begin cooking...and more... She was almost done and decided to put the mirror that had been in the room, back where it had once been... It was then she stood looking at her image, only to be distracted by a small girl moving behind her--who was she? But when she turned around, there wasn't anybody there... But Lyana would often stare into the mirror, only realizing later that she had lost so much time. What was happening?

Then when Ian had gone off to explore the house, only rushing back later to talk about the fantastic room he had been in, knowing he wanted it for his office... Only when he went back with Lyana, they couldn't find the room, even though he had been describing it to her as they searched...

Halbert leads his readers in and out of situations and then leaves us wondering--tantalized--quite in the web of mystery about this house in which many had refused to even live in. But, now, there was so much about the place and the town that made them happy to be there... But Lyana soon began to show signs of forgetfulness, of gazing off into somewhere where there was nothing there. Her health began to decline more and more...

It was Zach, who had once been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome who began to work to put things together of what could be happening... Early after they had moved in, Zach had found a door built into the ground. The Caretaker had approached them that day for the first time and, as it was getting dark, had suggested he would show them around the grounds at another time. But Zach had never forgotten that mystery and talked his sister into going to find it and see what it was... That day, they did get in and Ariel quickly saw a bracelet that belonged to Zach! 

When Zach had first arrived in the house, he wanted to pick out his room, went towards the steps and started counting... 13... It was one of the things that calmed Zach and so each trip upstairs would be counted... until the day that when he counted, he counted 13...14...15... Zach was now even more determined to discover what hidden secret this house had!

And I can guarantee that readers will have the same heighten curiosity! The book keeps readers in suspense right from the beginning on through to nearly the end... Highly recommended! Unique, creative, and delightfully entertaining...

GABixlerReviews

Nora Roberts Presents Her Latest Novel: Mind Games! A Quite Extraordinary Story...

 

Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous,

but who is able to stand before envy?

—PROVERBS 27:4

“We need to talk about the arrangements I’ve made.” With everyone around the table again, Lucy began. “I can change things, if anyone wants something else or different. I want to make sure I’ve made the right choices. First, Cora and John are coming home here tomorrow.” “Can we see them?” Lucy shook her head at Rem. “No, darling. I’m sorry.” “Because of the way he killed them.” Waylon’s face went to stone, but his eyes flooded with rage. Beside him, Caleb laid a hand on his arm. “That’s right. We’re going to have pictures of them. Your uncles brought their pictures, and you can both have as many as you want. We’ll pick ones we want to put out for the funeral.” “Can we do a gallery wall here, Grammie? Not just with their pictures. I mean with everybody’s?” “Rem, that’s such a good idea.” Lucy beamed at him. “We’ll go through my picture albums sometime soon and start on that. “The funeral home, they’re going to pick up”—she hesitated, then went on—“the caskets from the airport. Cora had white and pink hydrangeas in her bridal bouquet because she favored them, so we’re having those at the service, and at the gravesite. I thought we’d have just one stone because they’re together and always will be.” She cleared her throat. 

“In my first anger and grief, I thought about having it say something like taken from us through cruelty, but that’s not how we should remember them. So I thought, something that honors them. I thought what John put on Cora’s anniversary watch. For All Time.” “That’s perfect, Mama,” Caleb told her. “None of us are big churchgoers so I thought having the service right in the funeral home’s the best. Caleb, Waylon, I’m going to ask you both for something hard. Caleb, I’m asking you to do their eulogy, to get up there and speak for all of us, if you think you can.” He didn’t speak, just nodded. “Waylon, the hard I’m asking you? That song, ‘Endless Love,’ they had at their wedding for their first dance. I’m asking you to sing that for them, and for us, just like you did for the wedding.” “Mama.” He closed his eyes, then, like his brother, nodded. “Of course I will.” 

“Is all of that all right with you, Thea, and you, Rem?” “Can one of the pictures be their wedding picture, the one on the gallery wall in Virginia?” Thea asked. “If we’re having the flowers and the song…” “That’s just perfect.” “Can Cocoa come? They loved Cocoa.” “Well, I’ll find out about that, Rem. If she can’t come in the funeral home, she can sure come to the gravesite. We’ll have the funeral day after tomorrow, and after, people will come back here. The eating places in town are sending food. They won’t take money for it. But I’m going to make a ham and an apple stack cake. Cora favored my ham, and John surely loved my apple stack cake. I’ve got a list of what I need at the market, if one of you boys would drive in and get that for us.” “I’ll take care of that, Mama,” Waylon told her. “I appreciate that. I’ll give you a check you can fill out when—” 

“No, you won’t. Don’t say that to me, Mama. Don’t. Cora was my sister, John was a brother to me.” When his eyes went teary, Lucy rose and went to him. “You’re right.” From behind his chair, she hugged him, kissed his shaggy hair. “We all have to say goodbye in the best way we can. If I’ve left something out, or you want something else, just say.” 

“Will a lot of people come?” “I expect they will, Rem. And your granny’s coming up tomorrow with Stretch, and my brother, my sisters, your cousins. Your mama and daddy had friends in Virginia, and some of them are coming, too.” “A lot of people,” Caleb confirmed. “When they’re all in here, if y’all just need to get away from them for a little bit of a while, just want the quiet? Then you go on up to your room and take that quiet. If you need something else, you just find me or Waylon.” 

“Give me your list, Mama, and I’ll do your fetching. How about taking a ride with me in Grammie’s truck, Rem? You, too, Thea, if you want.” “That’s okay. I want to put my things away. And I want to help make the apple stack cake. I want to learn how. I’m going up now, Grammie, to put my things away.” And to think a little, she added to herself. To think about how many people would come to the house. 

She needed her grandmother to teach her how to hold back all that grief and mad. She felt so much from her uncles. As calm as Caleb made himself look and sound, she’d felt as much grief and mad from him as Waylon showed on his face. All from them, from her grandmother, from Rem, inside herself got so heavy. It hadn’t been like this before, not before that night. She needed to know how to hold some of it back because it almost felt like it could crush her. She needed to learn. She waited to ask until Lucy came to tuck her in that night. 

“You said there’d be a lot of people.” “Yes.” “You said the gift doesn’t want to hurt me, and I should open myself to it. But when we were all talking after lunch, and a couple of other times today, it—it did hurt, Grammy. Uncle Caleb feels the way Uncle Waylon does, even though he doesn’t show it as much. And with lots more people—” 

“I understand. Sometimes you have to close a window.” She nodded to the open one letting in the night air. “If you closed that window, you’d still see outside, see the rain if it’s raining, or the sun or the wind in the trees. But you wouldn’t feel it nearly as much as you would if that window stayed open. This is the kind of time where you need to close that window.” 

“How?” “You’ve done it plenty already. Maybe not as thoughtfully or deliberately. Accepting what you have doesn’t mean you have to use it every day. If you need more than a window, imagine a door, close it up, turn the lock. It’s yours, Thea. Maybe you decide, all right, I can open the window a little bit, or leave the door ajar. Or you don’t because you need that quiet Uncle Caleb talked about.” 

“Do you leave it open or closed?” “Oh, I guess mostly a little open. Sometimes all the way open or all the way closed.” “If I can, I want to keep it closed when we have the funeral.” “Then that’s what you do. And if you need help, you come to me. All right now?” When Thea nodded, Lucy leaned down to kiss her. “Dream something happy now, or something full of adventure. Don’t carry weight into sleep.” 

Thea closed her eyes, imagined a window. It stormed outside. The rain, the tears. The wind, the grief. The thunder, the mad. And imagined herself closing the window. On the day of the funeral, Thea put on the black dress she and her mother had picked out for the spring chorus concert at school. She’d felt so grown-up wearing it, and the shoes with the short, stacked heels. She knew she’d never wear either again. She braided her hair, and put on the earrings the police had given back to her uncles. Granny had come with her well-to-do second husband everybody called Stretch. She’d heard her grandmother, and her mother, too, call Carrie Lynn O’Malley Riley Brown a force of nature. Standing a full six feet tall with a long spill of bright red hair and sharp green eyes, she looked like one. She’d cried, and when Thea let the window open a crack, she saw a heart that carried deep scars. The aunts and uncles and cousins brought more tears with them. Because Waylon and Caleb had driven down in the U-Haul and they only had her grandmother’s truck, Stretch rented cars for driving down to the funeral home, to the graves, and back home again. 

She sat in the back of one beside her grandmother, Rem on the other side in his best and only suit. Waylon drove, with Caleb in the seat beside him and Cocoa between. The funeral home sat on the far end of town, a big redbrick building with white trim and windows that shined in the sun. It stood on a slope of a manicured lawn, and to Thea’s eye, did look like a house. A man with gray hair opened the door to them. He wore a black suit and shiny black shoes, and spoke in the quiet voice you’re supposed to use in church. Thea decided not to listen, because her heart started to beat so fast. Everything smelled like flowers; everything felt too hot. She wanted to run back outside and keep running, but gripped her grandmother’s hand, as Rem did on the other side. With Cocoa on the leash, they all followed the man into a big room where the sun beamed through the windows, and folding chairs sat in line after line after line. A table held the pictures they’d picked out and more flowers. Two big white vases held the pink and white hydrangeas beside an easel with the picture Stretch had enlarged. Her mother in her wedding dress, and her dad in his wedding suit. She knew it was from their first dance because it had hung on the gallery wall. They looked at each other. She’d heard her grandmother once say you could see the stars in their eyes. 

She made herself look at the caskets as they walked toward them down the aisle between the lines of chairs. Boxes, polished up, more hydrangeas flowing over them. With her parents inside. She remembered how they’d looked the day they’d left for home. It seemed like a minute ago. It seemed like a year ago. Even with the window closed as tight as she could, she knew Rem started to cry. She knew tears ran down her grandmother’s face. Her uncles’ grief layered over her own. Lucy looked at her, pressed her lips to Thea’s cheek, and some of the terrible weight lifted. They let the rest of the family come in next. Though Rem went with Caleb, Lucy kept Thea’s hand firm in her own. Even when they sat in the front row of all those chairs, Lucy held Thea’s hand. More and more people came. Even when all the chairs filled, others stood in the back. The man in the black suit walked to the front. He spoke about knowing Cora since she’d been a little girl, about meeting John. How everyone here felt their loss, the tragic loss to their families, to their young children, to the community. 

Waylon got up, strapped on his guitar. He’d shaved his face smooth, tamed his hair. “This is Cora and John’s song, the one they danced to first as husband and wife.” He played it slow, and when he sang the lyrics, Lucy’s hand trembled in Thea’s. This time Thea gripped tighter. Waylon didn’t cry until he sat back down again. 

Then Caleb went up. He was very pale, and somehow more handsome with it. “There are people in the world who make it better just by being in it. People who bring joy, bring love, simply because they have joy and love in them. “Cora and John made the world better. They brought joy and they brought love. They were taken from the world, from their children, from all of us by a senseless and brutal act. “And still, they bring joy, they bring love. Through our grief we feel that joy, that love because they send it to us. To all of us, friends, neighbors from near and far. They send it to our family. “To you, Mama, to you, Waylon, and especially to you, Thea and Rem. Their loss cuts so deep, it’s hard to get through and believe that. But we do, and we will. The light they brought into the world, it’s never going out. It shines on in their children.” When Caleb sat again, the man in the black suit invited anyone who wanted to say a few words to come up. Plenty did, to say kind things or tell a funny or sweet story. But as Thea sat, her heart stopped pounding. Waylon’s song, Caleb’s words seemed to flow right into her. And somehow they dulled the sharp, cutting edge of pain she’d fought against since she put on the black dress. 

The cemetery lay outside the town proper, with its stones and monuments on rolling hills. The man in the black suit spoke again, then both Caleb and Waylon got up. “What are they going to do, Grammie?” “I don’t know, Rem.” They stood together on the sun-washed hill with the flower-draped coffins behind them. “We’re here to say goodbye to Cora and John. Mama and Daddy raised us with music, so Caleb and I, we decided we’d sing them off. Not with a sad song, but a song about life, and the love in it.” They sang, a cappella, “In My Life.” At the first line, Lucy choked back a sob. She swallowed the tears, let out a long, long sigh. She kissed Rem’s hand, then Thea’s. The three of them sat, joined, while her sons’ voices carried over the rolling hills. After, people came up to offer condolences, embraces, but eventually they stood alone together, brothers, mother, children. “I want to say how proud I am of you, my boys. For the song in the service, Waylon, for your words, Caleb. How they’re going to stay with me for the rest of my days. And for what you did here. None of that was easy for you to do, but you did it for them, and for me, and these children. “Let’s go on home now. People will already be there, and we’re grateful to the friends who stayed back from the gravesite to greet them. Let’s go on home, and we’ll come back when the stone’s set. We’ll bring flowers...” 

I don't think I could ever have fully understood the scripture quoted, Proverbs 27:4, at the beginning of the book, if I had not read this extraordinary story. How does one get to the point that envy and greed justifies everything else that an individual does in their life... Even Murder... And yet it happens, even more often these days, it seems...

Roberts latest novel, Mind Games, is well worth your consideration... It is unique yet the majority of the book's setting is one very similar to mine--in the country, taking care of farm animals, and meeting neighbors... Yet, for the main character, it is sometimes a scary--a very scary place!

Thea, who was just 12 that year, and Rem, her younger brother  have just arrived at their grandmother's farm where they spend a full two weeks of the summer each year... They travel from Virginia, which is not too far away, to RedBud Hollow, Kentucky. For these children, visiting the farm is the best part of each year. This year is different, however, they will not be going back home... And they would have been thrilled, under different circumstances... But Lucy, their grandmother had been contacted to let them know that her daughter and son-in-law had been murdered!

Even before that, though, both Lucy and Thea had known they were dead... This supernatural "gift" was passed down through the women of their family. Lucy found that Thea was much more attuned to things than even she. And that was what had caused the beginning of her nightmare, which would last for years... Thea had actually seen the murder happening and could identify the man who killed her parents!

Fortunately, for readers, Roberts has built a fascinating tale around the kind of life that happens in rural areas... Neighbors were close, bartering goods, or just providing to those in need... Lucy was a true homemaker, creating candles, soaps and other medicinal articles that were sold locally. Lucy was often the only person who was able to help when somebody was "ailing..."

The major concern for the two children was getting started at a new school, but by that time, they had met neighborhood children and were helped through that sometimes difficult time when needing to meet new people, and hopefully become friends, came about.

Thea and Rem were also from their city life, fully active in gaming. But here, too, Thea was ahead because of her strong creative storytelling skills. In fact, the very first game she created, got her into training and then her first game was sold...

Other than the book trailers above, I've decided not to reveal anything other than that Thea identified the man who killed her parents. Sufficient enough to allow police to make a quick arrest. What I'm "not" talking about is that portion of the book that moves into thriller mode, like no other I've ever read about. The imagination, plus the technical gaming study required by the writer to be able to tell this story, is outstanding--both exciting and a touch of horror moves this multi-genre novel to the best of the best of books I've read by Nora Roberts, and under her pseudonym, J. D. Robb (which had always been my favorite books from her.)

The merge of the country setting and all it entailed results in a fascinating, unbelievable story that will awaken you to hoping for the possibility of seeing more of Thea and Lucy, along with the main characters, in a series... Thea's, especially, development is compelling, extraordinary and worthy of...seeing more of her in action! Highly recommended.

GABixlerReviews

Robert Sells, Political Commentator, Discusses Latest Court Case of Republican Party Presidential Candidate...Spotlighting Congressional Leader's Actions!

 

Check to right column for Sells' Latest!

Mike Johnson: “This was a purely political exercise, not a legal one… a shameful day in American history.”.

No. It was our judicial system working just as it was designed, Mr. Speaker. Since you don’t seem to understand how our legal system works, let me enlighten you.

The district attorney decides what crime to ascribe to a defendant. That is exclusively his prerogative. Whether or not a case should be brought to the criminal court is decided not by the prosecution nor by the defense. Instead, it is decided by a grand jury… twenty or more American citizens who listen to the evidence brought forth by the prosecution. Whether or not the case proceeds to trial is exclusively their responsibility. It was the grand jury, a group of American citizens, who decided to bring the case to trial AS IS DONE IN ALL CRIMINAL CASES. Not President Biden, not the Democrats.

The jury is picked by both the defense and the prosecution equally and fairly. Once the jury is picked, the trial is overseen by a judicial expert, the judge. Donald is certainly not an expert on legal matters so whatever he claims about the judge or the trial is superfluous. Despite what he may want, he does not call the shots in the courtroom. Finally, the jury, twelve Americans, weight the evidence and decide upon guilt or innocence. They decided Donald was guilty on all 34 counts. Donald nor you have any say in this matter, Mr. Speaker of guilt or innocence in the eyes of the law… just the twelve common men and women.

So, the “exercise” was perfectly legal. Admittedly, it wasn’t what Donald wanted. Once again, he has shown himself to be a poor loser by blaming the court instead of himself. Was the process shameful? Not at all, Mr. Speaker. It was a sterling example in which the court system worked perfectly without fear or favor.

What was shameful were the deprecating remarks you and other MAGA Republicans said about the rule of law. Instead of respecting the result, you rejected the rule of law. Shame on you!

~~~

Donald, convicted felon, continues to make false statements. Here’s one about why he thought his trial was “unfair”: “The judge allowed them [prosecution] to go into everything I was ever involved in.”

No, not everything, Donald. Nothing was said about how you were stripped of your “charity” because you used it for your own personal gain. Nothing was said about the young ladies in your beauty tournaments who you embarrassed by barging into their dressing rooms unannounced. Nothing was said about you being found liable for defaming columnist E. Jean regarding your sexual assault of her. Nothing was said about you exaggerating the value of his real estate and now having to pay back the government over $500 million. Nothing was said about your intimate involvement regarding the Jan. 6th insurrection. Nothing was said about your deliberate stealing and then deliberate hiding of Top-Secret documents. Nothing was said about your seven bankruptcies. Nothing was said about your unreliable credibility, your many, many lies… over 30,000 of which you made while being president. Finally, nothing was said about you duping your followers by asking them for campaign money which is then being used to pay off your debts.

~~~

When under so many indictments, it is wrong for Donald to run for president. He even said so himself!

After Donald found out the FBI were investigating Hillary Clinton for her missing emails, he said the following: "She is likely to be under investigation for many years, and also it will probably end up – in my opinion – in a criminal trial. I mean, you take a look. Who knows? But it certainly looks that way. She has no right to be running, you know that. No right."

LOL. And now Donald is past the investigation phase… four (4) grand juries have viewed the evidence and are convinced he should stand trial in four (4) criminal cases. Four! And, one is already completed and he was found guilty! So, per his own words, he “has no right to be running”. And, MAGA followers, just to quote your master again… “You know that. No right.”

We all wonder when the republican party will face the reality of what has happened... Too much delay has occurred due to the standard justice system where appeals can be made... But, let's face it, so many lies from the republicans have eroded the value of Truth. Robert Sells presents cogent, logical statements of fact, yet there would be many who say he is lying! Simply because they disagree... Because they have heard their choice of president speaking year in and year out lie after lie after lie... How can the average citizen discover and willingly admit that they've been lied to for so long... Will they ever get over that they have been fooled by a conman? Only time will tell...