Month: June 2024

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 42

After returning home from Cindy’s I had gone straight to bed but after nearly an hour rearranging my pillows, I had committed the cardinal sin.  I opened Facebook on my iPad swearing I would stop leaving it on the nightstand.

My first group to visit was my tenth grade English class.  I reviewed tonight’s comments related to my earlier vocabulary word post.  The word was divination.  It meant “prediction; prophecy; forecast.”  Everyone seemed to be equating my sample sentence, “Possessing the gift of divination, she warned her husband of the evils that would result from his journey to Greece,” with their outlier version of Real Justice.  Ben Gilbert wrote, “Pastor Walker’s divination powers were unique; they also worked in reverse.”  Four comments later, Joanie Kittle wrote, “Stella’s past venture down vengeance lane would haunt her in Ellijay.”

For the next hour I read every comment in every Facebook group, those officially sanctioned by me and the two unofficial groups created by my tenth and eleventh grade English classes.  The common buzz was that Stella Gibson had moved to Ellijay from Alma, a small town in Arkansas.  There, the story was, she had been accused of murdering five people, all who allegedly had raped her daughter.  I knew none of this had been mentioned in any of the outlines from any of my five Creative Writing teams.  But, I had given them the liberty to modify and adapt their story’s plot.  Each of the five outlines were maintained online at the official group’s site.  I entered the password and noted that Teams 2 and 3 had made recent updates to the back-story section of their outlines.  I read them both two times.  It seemed that Pastor Aiden Walker discovered Stella Gibson’s past and had shared it with his four friends.  Their intent was to use this as leverage to persuade the gorgeous newspaper editor to become the first female member of the Jaybirds.

Throughout Monday at school, my mind’s go-to thought dealt with my growing confusion and concern that my own life was somehow infiltrating the Real Justice project.  My internal dialog always ended with the question, “how is this happening?”

I had never been so happy that a school day was over.  The 2:40 bell rang after my Creative Writing students and I ended a thirty-minute brainstorming session on what information Pastor Aiden Walker might discover from an investigation into Stella Gibson’s Arkansas past.  As the last student walked out into the hallway I retired to my little office and dialed Wayne.  He had left a voice-mail message at noon, just as my AP American Literature class had begun.  He said it wasn’t urgent but to call him when I could.

“Wayne, I’m sorry I’m just now returning your call.”  I said as he answered on the first ring.

“No problem.  How’s Katie?  Are you better?  I felt so bad you got sick on my account.  Next time no seafood.”

“Thanks.  Yes, I feel much better.  And, I wanted you to know I had a wonderful time Saturday night and hated it so bad that I had to end our date when I did.”  I said, not wanting to sound desperate but also wanting him to know the night had not ended like I had intended.

“I’m sorry but I’m in a hurry.  My trip to Leesburg has gotten me behind schedule.”  I didn’t know what he meant.

“Okay.  Leesburg.  That’s over towards Centre.  Right?”  I said, knowing more about Leesburg than I could ever divulge.

“I called to give you an update.  It’s a potential break in the disappearance of Patrick Wilkins.”  Wayne said.

I didn’t respond.  I just waited for him to continue.  My stomach reminded me how I had felt Saturday night.

“Jeff Chandler called our Hotline yesterday afternoon.  He has a car lot in Leesburg.  He had heard our WQSB radio ad seeking information about a tan-colored van.  I knew it was a long shot but after Terri Logan reported her boys seeing this vehicle I thought it was worth a try.”

“What did this Chandler man say?”  I needed to sound interested in Wayne’s news.

“Said a few weeks ago he sold a 2005 Nissan Quest van, tan-colored, to two women from Atlanta.  He was sure they were hookers or wanted him to think that.  He said they certainly dressed the part.  Said he couldn’t figure out why they both had on blond wigs but wasn’t really concerned since they paid full freight for the van without trying to chew down his price.”

“To me, and I’m sure no detective, but that doesn’t sound like much of a break in Wilkins’ disappearance.  I don’t see the connection.”  I said, ignoring a long list of obvious connections that I would keep to myself.

“I’d agree if that was all.  I’m still amazed how things work out.  Sometimes, you go months on a case without a single clue and then suddenly, the dam breaks.  The dam broke this morning.  My dispatcher called me during my drive this morning to Leesburg saying Sheriff Harris from Dekalb County had called and reported finding a tan-colored van.  Apparently, two deer-hunters found a matching van abandoned down an old logging road just south of DeSoto State Park.”

“This is sounding like a puzzle of sorts.  Are you going to tell me the van the hunters found is the same one sold by Jeff in Leesburg?”  I shouldn’t have said Jeff.  Had Wayne said Jeff’s Car Sales?  I was confusing what I had experienced with what Wayne had just told me. 

“Katie, you may be more of a detective than you admit.  Perfect deduction.  Now, here’s the key link.  Jimmie, my friend Sheriff Harris, said a search of the van turned up a dog tag.  It was pretty much hidden under a seat railing.  The two rear seats of the van had been removed.  Since I called and left you a message around lunchtime, I’ve confirmed with Paula that the dog tag belonged to Patrick.  She said that he always wore it.  She gave it to him a couple of years ago.  Harris later confirmed that it is exactly what Paula described.  It is an Armor of God Dog Tag Necklace.  It’s inscribed with Ephesians 6:11: ‘Put on the armor of God, that you may be able to stand firm against the schemes of the Devil.’  I’ve always liked that verse.”  If Wayne said anything else, I didn’t hear a word of it.

Several seconds must have gone by.  I was nearly in shock.  Cindy and I thought we had conducted a thorough inspection of the van before we left it parked in Nanny’s barn.  When we transferred it to Dekalb County I didn’t even think to scour it one more time.  I doubt if Cindy had thought about it either.

“Katie.  Katie.  Are you there?”  Wayne said, finally gaining my attention.

“Uh, I’m sorry.  I was just thinking, just speculating, what must have happened.  My thoughts are horrible.  I assume you haven’t seen the van?”  I asked.

“No, that’s why I’m kind of in a hurry.  I’m about to drive to Fort Payne.  Harris had it transported to the County’s impound lot.”

“Has he said if he found anything else?”  I asked, now convinced that Cindy and I probably had left a few photos of ourselves kidnapping Wilkins, maybe one or two of us pushing him into his grave.  It sure seemed Cindy and I had been that stupid.

“Nothing visible.  But, I’m hoping the Alabama’s Forensic team will be able to discover and extract some fingerprints, maybe even some DNA.”

“That would be helpful.”  I said, contemplating whether I should just go ahead and confess.  Cindy and I were in some deep shit and it was getting deeper.

“Sorry, but I have to run.  I just wanted to keep you updated.  Take care and I’ll call you later.”

Just as the call ended, Cindy walked in.  Apparently, by just looking at my face she could tell something was horribly wrong.  We spent the next thirty minutes half whispering as Cullie and Alysa raided my fridge and sat in my classroom talking about how they would like to poison Riley Radford.  I ignored their conversation, chalking their trash talk to innocent teenage rivalries ignoring the fact Cullie was dealing with the recent discovery that Riley was her stepsister.  But, I didn’t ignore Cindy, who was trying to explain why she hadn’t fully confessed to Steve.  I only half-listened to her describe how she convinced Steve she was pregnant, and it was his.

Driving home, Cullie asked me, “have you ever thought seriously about killing someone?”  As the good mother that I am, I told her, “sure baby, it’s only natural.”

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 41

“She’s the queen of all bitches.”  Cindy said, literally tossing her book bag onto the credenza across from my desk.  She didn’t turn to look at me but just stood and looked out the lone window in the tiny office behind my classroom.

“Can I assume you are referring to cat-faced Paula?”  I knew there was no one else in Cindy’s world who could come close to winning this honorable title.

“Please shoot me if I don’t find a way to quit the Young-But-Maturing club.  Once again, after Sunday School, she was in the Ladies restroom and virtually attacked me.  Said she knew I was pregnant with Patrick’s baby.  Katie, I know she knows.  She’s been spying on me.”  Cindy had calmed from explosive to volatile which was about like saying she was no longer a carrot-top; she had transformed into a redhead.

“Did she say how she knows this?”  I feared what was coming.  Spying can’t be good.

“Out of the blue she asked me how Dr. Ireland was doing.  How the hell does she know I’ve been seeing an obstetrician?”  Cindy asked, finally calming.  In a way I wished I had been more faithful.  She had asked me to go to Sunday School with her.  I hadn’t. 

I really didn’t know how to answer but I tried.  “Maybe she’s been following you.  Maybe she has a friend who saw you, or one who works at Dr. Ireland’s office.  It could be a lot of different things.”

“What do you think she is going to do?  Now, she knows I’m pregnant.”  Cindy asked, leaning back in her chair and reaching for her book bag.

“Legally, I’m not sure she has any rights.  She’s not like a grandparent.  I’m not a lawyer but the only two people with custody rights would be you and Wilkins, and he’s dead.”  I said realizing this wasn’t exactly what Cindy feared.

“I’m sure as hell not worried about custody and visitation issues.  I’m worried that the bitch is going to broadcast this all over town and you know who will find out.”  I had never seen Cindy more worried.  Her blood-shot eyes, normally light-green, seemed widened apart, revealing both surprise and fear.

“Maybe it’s time you had that talk with Steve.  Cindy, he loves you.  Hearing this awful news from you will be a world better than him stumbling into it at work.  Even worse at church.”  I said, wishing I had demanded that Cindy be fully open with Steve when the rape first happened.

“I know you’re right, but I just can’t seem to take that first step.  How do you push the most important person in your life off a cliff?  That’s what it would be like.  His world would never be the same.  I’m afraid he will crash into a million pieces.”  Cindy said reaching into the pocket of her matching navy-blue jacket.

“Oh, I forgot.  Pastor Warren gave me this after church.  You know, as Steve and I walked through the firing line.”  Shaking hands with the pastor was now nearly as painful for Cindy as it was for me.  She handed me a folded canary-colored envelope with my name handwritten above his own name, one familiarly printed.  His was crossed out.  No doubt, the same envelope Cindy and I had taped to his basement door last Wednesday night during Prayer Meeting.

“Oh my God.  This can’t be good.  It’s a response to our demand.”  I said, lowering my head and shoulders readying myself for surrender.

“That’s what I figured.  I started to open it but obviously it’s intended for you.”

I had to use scissors to slide through the tape Warren had layered across the envelope’s seal.  I unfolded the single sheet of white paper.  The message was short.  Three lines:

“We can work this out.

We will pay but need your promise, and all recordings.

Call me to discuss.  256-390-3053.”

The note was unsigned.  I read it twice and handed it over to Cindy.

After a ten second pause she said, “Funny, he didn’t request an in-person meeting.”

“Do I just call him up?  Right now?  You know he and his four buddies have something up their sleeve.  They definitely want the videotapes.”  I said.

“Funny.  Did you hear yourself?  Tapes?  Remember, there’s only one.”  Cindy said, holding the letter up toward the fluorescent light overhead as though it would reveal a secret watermark, one that would guide us.

“I hear you.  Why not make a copy of my videotape and arrange to give it to them in exchange for say, half the money?”  I said.

“That might get us half the money.  I doubt if it will get the other half since we don’t have another tape to bargain with.” 

It came over me like a tsunami.  I hadn’t had this feeling in nearly fifteen years.  It was anger so fierce I could bite through a steel rod.  As Cindy was repeatedly asking me, “What’s wrong?  Are you having a heart attack?” the thought kept rolling around in my head, ‘I’m the one who was fucking raped.  Why am I even considering how to negotiate with these bastards?  They will fucking do what I tell them to do.’  And then, I reached for my iPhone and dialed 256-390-3053.

Cindy stood as I was dialing, to see who I was calling.  She shouldn’t have had to wonder.  I selected ‘speaker.’

After three rings, “hello, this is Pastor Warren.”  The bastard answered his fucking phone with pastor?  My next call I will answer, ‘hello, this is Virgin Mary.’

“This is Katie Sims.  You asked me to call and discuss.  Let me be clear, there will be no discussion.  Here’s the deal.  You and the other four criminals will deposit the money, one million, two hundred fifty thousand dollars into a bank account of my choosing.  Once the deposit is made and verified I will give you the one and only videotape of you five bastards raping me.  I will also give you my written promise to maintain complete confidentiality.  I will retain the arson videotape as my insurance.  You give me or Cindy Baker any trouble at all and that tape goes to Sheriff Waldrup.  Do I make myself clear?”  Sweat was rolling down my face as I ended my demand.

“Katie, you didn’t address one issue.  In your letter to Ryan you demanded he pay two thousand dollars per month until Cullie is twenty-one.”

Warren started another sentence, but I stopped him.  “That demand remains.  I will promise to not divulge the circumstances of my pregnancy.  Ryan Radford is Cullie’s father and I’m her mother, these roles carry a heavy lifetime responsibility.”  I said anxious to end the call.

“I understand.  I suggest you and Ryan talk this out.  Now, when do you want your money?”  Warren said as though we were closing on a real estate transaction.

“Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon.”  I said.  And then it dawned on me.  Pastor Warren was responsible himself, responsible for Cindy’s problem, nearly as much as Wilkins was.  “I have one other demand and it too is non-negotiable.”

“What is it now?  You’re beginning to wear out my patience.” 

“You bastard, you could have helped my friend Cindy when Patrick Wilkins was abducting her.  But you didn’t.  Now, you will deal with his wife.  She’s abusing Cindy, thinking she’s pregnant, by her late husband.”   I said wishing I could recall what I had just said. 

“Katie, I know, as well as Paula knows, that Cindy is pregnant.  One thing I don’t know is that her husband is dead.  Why don’t you share what you obviously know?” 

Does the whole world know that Cindy is pregnant?

Warren continued, “If he’s not dead then where is he?  He’s been missing going on a month.”  I had to change the subject.  This was the one thing I didn’t want to be discussing.  Hell, now I was in a discussion with the phony pastor.

“I’m not asking again.  Deal with Paula.  Do what you need to do, but my deal is contingent on her staying the hell away from Cindy.  Do you understand?”  I was surprising myself.  I had never been so controlling.

“I’ll do my best.  Now, back to the money.  A million plus dollars is quite a sum.  We need a month.”

Again, I interrupted.  “You have a week.  I’ll call you the account number.  Meet me at Wells Fargo Bank on Billy Dyar Blvd., at 10:45, Monday morning the 13th.  That gives you one week.  When I arrive, the money better be in my account.”

“I’ll do my best.”  Pastor Warren said, repeating himself.

“And, if you’re best fails to timely deposit the money, my best won’t fail to release your little videotape.”  I said, impressed with the fire and the results hellfire anger can cause.

“I’ll be there with the money.  November 13th.”

I ended the call.

For the next hour Cindy and I failed to escape the tangled web curling our lives.  After our argument over whether we had asked for enough money and whether money pain was real justice, we ignored my faint call for us to engage in lesson-planning.  As we walked across the parking lot towards our cars, Cindy promised she was headed home to have a heart-to-heart talk with Steve.  “It’s time.  I have to tell him the truth.”  I was proud of her.  I knew it was the right thing for her to do.

Less than an hour after arriving home to Cullie asleep on the couch, my phone vibrated.  It was Steve.

“Katie, it’s Cindy.  She’s been in a car wreck.  We’re at the Emergency Room, Marshall Medical Center.”  I could tell he was shaken.  I’d never heard him cry, never heard his voice so low, slow, weak, and desperate.

“Oh my God, how is she?  Tell me she’s going to be okay.”  I was nearly shouting.  Cullie woke up and walked over to me standing by the kitchen bar.

“I haven’t seen her.  She’s being x-rayed.  A nurse said she was banged up pretty bad, but her injuries weren’t life-threatening.”

“Oh, thank you Jesus.”  The words just poured out of my mouth.  For a second, I wondered if Jesus was responsible for protecting Cindy.  If so, why hadn’t he prevented the accident?

“Katie, I hate to ask you, but would you mind going to our house and staying with the kids?”

“I was about to ask about them.  Cullie and I are headed there right now.  Please keep me posted.”  I said while motioning Cullie to follow me out the back door.

It was nearly 7:30 p.m. before Steve led Cindy through the sliding door from their deck.  She looked awful and had a cast on her left arm.  The right side of her face was almost black.  She had a bandage across most of her forehead.

“I look worse than it is.”  Cindy said, clearly in pain.  Her eyelids fluttered as she sat down in her chair in the den while Alysa, Arlon, and Anita all crowded her stealing touches, hugs, and kisses.

She explained in detail how the accident had occurred.  Within ten minutes Steve had dismissed himself and headed to Walgreen’s to pick up a pain pill prescription for Cindy.  For some reason she was hungry for pizza.  Steve promised to pick up her favorite, a large Supreme from Pizza Hut.  After he left, Cullie and Alysa went to her room and Arlon and Anita sat glued to the TV.

Cindy struggled to get out of her chair.  “Follow me.”  she said motioning me back towards her and Steve’s bedroom.    The room was a wreck.  The bed was unmade, and clothes climbed out of open drawers, and clung to the backs of two rocking chairs that faced a balcony overlooking the swimming pool in the backyard.  This didn’t include two laundry baskets of what I hoped were clean clothes awaiting folding.

She sat down in one of the rockers.  “Here, sit.”  I willingly complied with her directions.  “Katie.  It wasn’t an accident.  It was the bitch Paula.  She ran me off the road.  After I left the school I noticed her behind me on Martin Avenue.  I ignored her and kept going.  But, she kept coming.  After I turned left on Highway 431 she got right on my bumper.  I always turn right at Huddle House onto Bruce Road until it intersects with Beulah Road.  She stayed on my tail for a mile or so, until she could see past me enough to pass.  She gave me the middle finger as she drove past and raced ahead.  Right as I was coming around the curve a half mile or so before the vet’s place, Dr. Creel, I saw her barreling back towards me in the center of the road.  She was coming at me head on.  I didn’t have any choice but to hit the ditch.  Unfortunately, it didn’t move.”

“You are lucky she didn’t kill you.  Cindy, you must report this.  I’m calling Wayne.”  I said determined that Cindy wasn’t going to stop me this time from protecting her from herself.

“Wait.  I promise I will after I tell Steve.  Obviously, I haven’t had a chance to tell him the full story.  On the way home from the hospital I subtly indicated that I had something important to tell him.  I think he thought I was a little out of my head from the medications because he didn’t press me.”

The rest of the night, until after the ten o’clock news, the three of us ate pizza.  The kids were full of all the junk I had let them eat while we were waiting this afternoon.  At 9:00 p.m., an hour before the news began, I had wanted for Cullie and me to leave but Cindy had insisted we stay.  It was like she would do anything to avoid being alone with Steve. 

At 10:45, I finally told Cindy I had to get home to bed.  My 4:30 a.m. writing time would come soon enough.  As I walked out onto their deck I whispered to Cindy, “tonight’s the night.  Jump off the high dive.  I know Steve will catch you.”

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 40

Five sealed envelopes were taped to the outside door to Warren’s basement Wednesday night when Fulton Billingsley arrived.  He had walked over from the church after Prayer Meeting and, as he walked down the stairs onto the patio, noticed them, thinking they were arranged in the shape of a heart.  None of the five envelopes contained a return address.  The names were handwritten.  His was on the top right, opposite Justin Adams’.  Then, on the right side was Danny Ericson.  At the bottom tip was another canary-colored envelope with the name Ryan Radford, written, this time, in blood-red ink.  On the left side, was an envelope addressed to Warren Tillman.  Five canary-colored envelopes, five arranged in a heart shape.  Fulton removed his envelope, noticing for the first time the faint outline of an arrow, drawn with what appeared to be pencil, with the arrow’s imaginary feathers splayed on the top left side of the door, running downward, and from behind the heart, bursting through and continuing on across, ending on the lower right side of the door in an sharply-accentuated arrowhead.  He walked inside Warren’s man-cave, leaving the other four envelopes alone.

Within ten minutes, while pondering the contents of his letter, Fulton saw Warren, Ryan, Danny, and Justin descend the stairs and react to the decorated door.  They didn’t linger.  Warren removed all four envelopes, semi-shouted, “this can’t be good,” and herded the other three through the glass door.

“I bet each of you a thousand bucks your letter is the same as mine.”  Fulton said, gulping the last sip of a Bud Lite.

“What the fuck?”  Ryan said, jerking all four of the envelopes from Warren’s hand while Justin and Danny were grabbing at Ryan as though he was withholding their candy.

“Calm it and sit down.  No need to get flustered. Everyone gets a prize.  Fulton said.  His best attempt at humor, reeling from the bomb that had exploded when he had opened his envelope.

In less than a minute, four similar bombs ignited.

“So, Katie Sims wants $250,000 from me for child support.”  Danny said.

“She wants that from me and another $2,000 per month until Cullie is twenty-one.”  Ryan said, throwing his wadded envelope into the glass window towards the patio.

Warren and Justin repeated Danny’s statement.

“That’s $1,250,000 in cash.  Warren said, finally sitting down at the round table with the other four.

“Mine says I’m Cullie’s father.  How the hell does she know that?”  Ryan said.

“Read on Brother Radford.  In mine, towards the bottom, she says, ‘even though the paternity tests reveal Ryan Radford as Cullie’s father, each of you engaged in the same criminal conduct.  Then, all chose to play.  Now, all will pay.  You don’t get to choose.’”  Fulton said.

“Listen to this, ‘your little fire didn’t destroy the videotape revealing you gang-raping me in 2002.  It also didn’t destroy another rather-revealing videotape.  This one recorded at 5583 Bruce Road, at the home of Beverly Sims.  Don’t worry, both tapes are safe and secure and under the control of an out-of-town attorney.’”  Warren said. 

“She can’t prove that.  There’s no way she has any evidence we torched that old shit-hole place.”  Ryan added, sitting up straighter as though gaining confidence in his ability to handle the wily Katie.

“Read the second paragraph on the second page.  ‘I guess you didn’t plan on Nanny and me having a state-of-the-art motion-activated camera while you were pouring gasoline.’  Looks like she has more videos.  Our asses are grass my friends.”  Fulton said opening his second beer.

Warren stood again and walked to the glass windows.  “The audacity of Katie coming down here and taping these envelopes.  Who does she think she is?” 

“She answers that in her letter.  Look at the P.S.  ‘You bastards killed my mother, my grandmother, and our dear friend, Sammie.  Just think of me as the avenger.  You five are going to pay.  The child support money is just the beginning unless you pay by November 15, 2017.’  Damn that woman.”  Justin said looking at Ryan.  “It’s your damn fault.”

“What the hell are you talking about?  You raped her just like I did.”  Ryan said, slamming a fist on the table.

“I’m not talking about the rape.  I’m talking about letting Darla find that damn videotape and then the stupid way you got rid of her.”  Justin said to Ryan as though he was a prosecuting attorney.

“Gentlemen, enough of that.  We are in this spot, together, and we will get out of it, together.  Question, Ryan, tell us what Sheriff Waldrup had to say after you finally got to talk with him?”  Fulton asked.

“He was just fishing.  He obviously doesn’t have any real evidence.  All he has is circumstantial.  Even that points just as much to Cynthia as it does to me.  He thinks because she and I both had a motive to get rid of Darla that that’s what we did.  The bad blood between Darla and Cynthia puts her more in the dock than me, especially when you bring in Cliff Thomas and now the murder of Nathan Johnson.  I think we’re okay.”  Ryan said, not convincing anyone but maybe himself.

“I think we’ve got bigger problems than Sheriff Waldrup.”  Fulton added.  “You can bet your last dollar that Katie Sims and Cindy Barker are cross-pollinating.  They’re sharing everything.  Thus, Katie knows about Cindy’s pregnancy.  By the way, good work Justin on verifying this news.  As for Cindy, if my theory is correct, she knows about Katie, what we did to her in 2002, the paternity testing, and no doubt, these money demands.  I say we can’t take a chance any longer that Cindy, that Cindy and Katie, won’t spill the beans to dear old Steve.  Katie is right, money isn’t our biggest problem.  Steve is the type to make us bleed, slowly bleed out until we’re all dead.”  Fulton, next to Warren, was always able to put things in proper perspective.

“Money may not be the biggest issue, but sweet Katie has given us a deadline.  What do we do?”  Danny asked.

“What if we negotiated a little?”  Warren asked.  What if we offered a little extra money in exchange for the videotapes and her confidential agreement promising to end her vendetta?”

“I think you may be forgetting Steve and the problem I suspect he has with his wife carrying Wilkin’s baby.  Don’t forget, no doubt Cindy saw you pastor and you didn’t do anything to help her when our dearly departed Patrick was kidnapping her.”  Fulton said, keeping clarity from getting ignored.

“This is getting expensive but that just means we have to reach an agreement with the Barker’s also.”  Warren said.

“We better be doing something pretty quick.  I have a bad feeling about leaving the blood-thirsty Steve on the loose.”  Danny said.

“Just say the word and I’ll deal with him just like I dealt with the Texas idiot.”  Ryan added.

“Enough for the night.  We all need to go do a little soul searching.”  Warren said, folding his two-page letter and stuffing it into his pants pocket.

Saturday night, it finally happened.  Wayne and I spent almost six hours on our long-delayed Huntsville trip.  It was a date.  I will never forget what he said when he picked me up, “Katie, you are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen.”  Even though he was stretching the truth quite a bit, I was still, even in my mid-forties, a head-turner.  An hour-glass figure tends to do that.

We ate at The Bottle on Washington Street.  We shared a chicken and mushroom curried soup, followed by an arugula, pear, and candied walnut salad, and finally: sea scallops and grouper main dishes. It was the most romantic meal I’ve ever experienced.  We had one of the best tables in the house, in the far back corner, the furthest from the lights of the kitchen.  Our single candle was just enough for us to make out our food and for me to see the rugged beauty of Wayne Waldrup.

After a leisurely ninety-minutes at The Bottle, we went to see November at the Touchstar Cinemas at Madison Square.  I guess it was fitting since it was now the month of November.  Thirty minutes into the movie neither Wayne or I could figure out why we had chosen such a weird show.  I suspect it was the word romance plastered along the bottom of the marquee outside the theater as we were pondering.  Werewolves have never interested me.  The two main characters, a young farm girl named Liina, and Hans, a village boy she is hopelessly and forlornly in love with, did do for us one thing I thoroughly enjoyed.  Wayne held my hand after the two lovers exchanged their first kiss.  I was afraid he would release my hand when Liina turned into a werewolf from her longing for Hans.  I’m glad he ignored his best chance to pull away when Liina jumped into an ice-cold pond.  I was impressed.  The kind, gentle, and respectful Sheriff remained handily engaged, which gave me hope he would later have the desire and the skill to move his hands over every inch of my body.  The two glasses of wine from The Bottle were no doubt loosening up all my remaining inhibitions.

During the return trip home Wayne updated me on his investigations.  I hoped they wouldn’t distract us from what I was wanting.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any good news to share concerning either of your cases.  If I had to guess, and I don’t like guessing and you can’t repeat me, I’d say Cynthia Radford is responsible for Darla’s death.  Concerning the fire and the deaths of Beverly Sims, your grandmother and her caretaker, Sammie, I’d have to say it has something to do with the two recent arsons over in Cherokee County.  Of course, that’s a big leap.  I don’t have a single shred of evidence to support my guess.”  Wayne said reaching for my left hand as he drove us over the big river bridge in Guntersville.

“Changing the subject, but have you learned anything new about my assistant principal, Patrick Wilkins?”  I said, thinking it would be appropriate to show my concern over a missing co-worker.

“Actually, I do.  Again, Katie, you must promise you will not divulge this to anyone.  We’re withholding this information for now.”  Wayne said.  I hoped he didn’t sense the sweat popping out on my left palm.

“I promise.  I hope you know you can trust me.”  I said.

“Absolutely.  Yesterday, I received a call.  At first, the woman tried to remain anonymous, but finally, after I relayed her name from the caller ID, she confessed fear of getting involved.  Terri Logan said her two boys and a friend of theirs saw a tan-colored van.  Since it was Fall Break, the boys had camped out Sunday night in a tent across the road.  Terri’s house is on Tanner Road, about a half-mile from the stop sign where it intersects with Aurora Road.  According to Paula, Wilkins’ wife, Tanner Road is part of Patrick’s early morning running route.

Terri said the boys had walked across the road back towards the house when they saw a van stop a few hundred feet from them, back towards the stop sign.  Apparently, they didn’t linger and had walked on to the house.  That’s not much but it’s given us a lead on a certain area to search for additional clues.  That’s all I know but will keep you posted.  I know this doesn’t involve you directly, but you did work with the man.”

“Thanks.  I appreciate it.”  By the time Wayne pulled up at my back door my romantic feelings and my sexual desires had transformed into a fear-generating sickness that had my stomach predicting a near-certain eruption.  Wayne clearly wanted to come in, but I had to beg-off, telling him that it wasn’t the first time that seafood had made me sick.  I apologized profusely and hopefully made him realize that I was truly disappointed.  I forced myself to kiss him semi-passionately but promised him that we would have time soon to cuddle on my couch.

After he left, and with Cullie at Cindy and Steve’s, I spent the next two hours with the TV blaring and me trying my best to ignore the thoughts of doom that were dancing around in my head.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 39

“It’s Ryan Radford.”  I said as Cindy walked into my office. 

“Smells more like Tuna.”  She was nearly an hour later than normal.  Another trip to the dentist I suppose, although two weeks ago ‘dentist’ had been code word for doctor.

“Not my lunch.  Cullie’s father.”  I said, expecting her to stare at me in disbelief.  Instead, she sat across from me and started unloading her lunch box.  “Did you hear me?”

“I did.  Katie, I suspect this has you rocking and reeling.  After almost fifteen years you finally learn what will be life-changing news for Cullie.  Are you okay?”  Cindy was such a mix of things.  My favorite side was how caring and compassionate she could be. 

“I’m adjusting.  Cullie is too.  I told her last night.”

“The results came yesterday?”  Cindy asked.

“Yes.  When I got home there was a notice in my mailbox from the Post Office that I had a certified letter.  I knew what it was, at least that’s what my gut was saying.  I went for it immediately.  After I signed for the letter I walked outside and stood with it by my car.  I almost didn’t open it.”

“Can I ask you who you thought it was.  You did have a favorite, didn’t you?”  Cindy asked, returning from my refrigerator with a bottle of Italian dressing for her salad.

“I wouldn’t use the word favorite, but I had somehow decided it was Pastor Warren.  Funny thing is, ever since our conversation Tuesday, I had been subconsciously plotting a way to both embarrass the preacher man while at the same time forcing him to pay a million dollars in past-due child support.” 

Cindy had pulled a little notepad from her book bag and started flipping pages like my statement had reminded her of something.  She said, “Good thinking, you just have to substitute Ryan for Warren.  It’ll work the same.”

“I need to ask you something.  It’s a question that woke me up during the night.  “Do you think God is trying to tell me something?”

“Probably so, but I’m not following you.”  Cindy said, pouring out two dozen Wheat Thins from a box she kept inside my credenza under the window behind where she was sitting.

“You know I’ve told you how Darla never knew who my father was.  She didn’t want to know for some strange reason.  It was May 25, 1972 at her high school graduation party.  The Flaming Five had sex with her and three other Boaz cheerleaders that night.  One of them, as you know, was Randall Radford, Raymond’s son.”

Cindy interrupted me.  “I know, I know.  Now I know what you are talking about.  You are wondering whether Raymond some way found out that Randall was your father.  He felt guilty and responsible.  Therefore, he helped Darla and Nanny all these years?  It’s almost as though God made this happen.”

“It’s difficult for me to see the wisdom in that.  It’s easier to see humor, wicked humor.  Surely, God is not wicked.”  I said.

“God works in mysterious ways.  Question, if Randall Radford was your father, is Cullie your sister?  Sorry, I had to ask.”  Cindy said.  I couldn’t decide if she was continuing to pursue our wicked humor discussion or was serious.  It had to be the former.

“She’s my daughter.  Her father would be my step-brother, you idiot.” I said but felt a tingling up my spine as though incestuous lice were crawling from my cells as though they had been locked up and hidden away all my life.

“You mentioned it, but I assume you are going to ask for child support?”  Cindy asked, pulling a paper sack from her book bag and lining up five red apples in front of her along the edge of my desk.

“I have to guess your apples are symbolic and they have something to do with the timeliness of your question?”  Cindy’s mind was always working.

“Earth to Katie.  Can’t you see the opportunity my sweet hunk of a man has given us?”

“Steve’s sleuthing skills produced the perfect segue into your extortion plan?”  I knew what she was thinking.

“Yes, but it’s even better than pure criminal.  You have a legal right to ask for child support from Ryan.  Oh, my crazy thought just arrived.  What if we took a little liberty with your newly discovered news?”  Cindy’s care and compassion had been folded away nice and tidy in the paper sack she had nearly collapsed inside her book bag.

“Tell each of them, separately I assume, they are Cullie’s father?”  I asked.

“Why not?”

“I don’t like it at all.  It seems to be insulting Cullie.  I’m unsure how to describe the feeling.”  I said.

“Okay, forget that.  But, so far, the best idea we have for punishing the Faking Five is through their pocketbooks.”  Cindy no doubt was not going to keep those five apples at the forefront.

“Other than their breathing those five guys love nothing more than their money, their power, and their stellar reputations.”  I said, thinking how throughout history what men (and women for that matter) valued the most therein lay their weakness.  I wasn’t interested in interfering with their breathing, but I was fully committed to gutting them with words, words that would scare the holy hell out of all five of the bastards.

“I agree.  Let’s change the subject, between the smell of your Tuna, and stench of the five assholes, my stomach is turning somersaults.”  I was surprised Cindy wanted to talk about something other than getting revenge.

“What did the dentist say?”  I could play with words just as good as Cindy.

“Smart ass, you don’t miss a thing.  Dr. Ireland is troubled.  He’s saying that I’m at much greater risk of complications from my pregnancy since I’m approaching 40.  He is concerned about peripartum cardiomyopathy.  It’s a very serious condition that occurs when there’s damage to the heart.  It affects its ability to properly pump blood.  My lungs could fill up with fluid.”

“Does he think you have this condition?”  I asked, thinking what on earth would happen to Steve and the kids if Cindy died.  I was overreacting and would never have voiced this thought.

“No.  Not really.  I think he’s just trying to scare me into following his orders.  Which consists mainly of laying around all day.”  Cindy said, raising her eyebrows and closing her eyes like she was falling asleep.  “I’ll submit to bed rest if I have to, but surely to God that’s way down the road, a week or two before delivery.”

“Cindy, please take Dr. Ireland seriously.  We all need you to be happy and healthy.” 

Without responding, she stood, closed her lunch box, and headed through the doorway into my classroom.  Halfway to the incoherent student rumblings from the hallway, she turned and said, “If something were to happen to me, would you marry Steve and take care of my kids?”  I almost fainted.  I did cry.  But not until I had run over to her and held her in my arms.

“Oh Cindy, you can be so funny and serious at the same time.  You’re going to be fine.  But, you must put your health first.  Your family needs you.  You’re the only one for Steve.”

“Second thought.  You couldn’t satisfy my man.  You’re not a redhead.”  Cindy said turning away.  She was no doubt the most beautiful redhead I had ever seen.  I suspected no one, redhead or not, could replace the unflappable Cindy.

“No doubt she’s pregnant.  This is the second time in less than three weeks.”  Justin Adams said, sitting in his car in the parking lot of Top Dollar Pawn looking across Patterson Street toward the office of Dr. Malcolm Ireland, Obstetrician.

“Interesting she’s using an out-of-town doctor.”  Warren said, pushing back his chair from his open Bible and the round table in his hidden study on the third floor of the Church’s Administration Building.

“No doubt trying to keep it quiet as long as possible.  It’s not Steve’s.  You know he had a vasectomy.  He reminded us of that at the last Sunday School social.” Justin said.

“We’ve got to find out if my hunch is right.  I would bet it’s Wilkin’s.  I just don’t see Cindy having an affair.  Warren said looking down at the Church’s side parking lot as two boys rode bicycles.  He wondered why they weren’t in school.

“Warren, this situation is giving me a very bad feeling.  If Steve Barker finds out, and he most likely will, we are in deep shit.”  Justin said turning down the air-conditioning on his new Suburban even though it was the coolest Fall day so far.

“I agree.  Steve can be a badass.  He’s killed before.”  Warren said.

Justin had driven left on Patterson and was sitting at the red light at Gunter Avenue.  “That’s probably true but it was never proved.”   

“Losing your father and your sister to a drunk driver would bring out the worst in all of us.  It sure was convenient for Steve and his mother that the drunk turned-up dead.”  Warren said, still looking at the two teenagers on bikes, wishing he was a kid again and thinking how he would just take his own bike and leave town.

“The drunk wasn’t an old helpless man.  It was a football coach from Albertville, Watkins, Walters, something like that.  Man was beaten half to death before he had his throat slit.”  Justin said turning right headed to Burger King.

“I wish to God Cindy hadn’t seen me the night Wilkins raped her.”  Warren added.

“You fucked up for sure that night.  Man, she saw you.  You’ve admitted that.  You know you should have rescued her.  No doubt she believes you condoned what Wilkins was doing.”  Justin said feeling like the ceiling of his big vehicle was pushing down on his head.

“I know I know.  Something else I’m thinking and feeling right now.  His disappearance.  Steve has something to do with Patrick’s disappearance.  I feel it in my bones.  Cindy has told Steve everything.  The rape.  Her pregnancy.  Steve has abducted and disposed of Wilkins.  Probably did to him what he did to that coach.”  Warren said returning to his chair and his Bible.  Something drew him to the last verse he had read before answering Justin’s call, ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge; Fools despise wisdom and instruction.’  Proverbs 1:7. He told himself, “if I were a kid again I would fear God and avoid becoming such a fool.”

“I’ve got to run.  We need to deal with this next Wednesday night.  Wilkins may have disappeared, but he’s left a shit-pot full of trouble in our lap.”  Justin said walking into Burger King.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 38

I had never had an English class be so proactive.  And, I had never allowed any class to create and execute a lesson plan.  Until now.  It was two classes.  My tenth and eleventh grade English classes persuaded me, Monday and Tuesday, to play only a secondary role in class instruction.

Tenth graders, Ben Gilbert, Joanie Kittle, and Clara Ellington, did an excellent job in describing the interrelationships between plot and character.  “Plot is the events of a story, just what happens along the way.  Plot-driven stories can be interesting and keep your mind wondering what will happen next.  But, if you want a real story, one that provides a deeply emotional experience, you have to have one or more characters who trigger a reaction in your heart.”  Joanie had said right off the bat Monday morning.  It wasn’t an inaccurate statement at all.  I only added, “a good story includes both.  Plot drives character and character drives plot.”  Ben and Clara next presented a lesson and the class interacted with their young teachers for nearly thirty minutes.

It was not until almost 8:15 that I learned what they were up to.  After Ben said, now let’s talk about how Judge Taylor’s true character is revealed, it hit me that the three class leaders and likely the entire class, had read and pondered the final drafts of the outlines my five Creative Writing teams had prepared.  I initially resisted an attempt to regain control, but Ben did a good job of persuading me to “sit back and trust them” for the rest of the class.  I really didn’t have much choice.  The whole class was engaged, and the three instructors were relaying critical elements of story structure.

During the final fifteen minutes of class I learned their plan, what these outliers had up their sleeves, at least concerning the relationship between Stella Gibson and Chief Judge Daniel Taylor.  These want-to-be writers intended to follow Team Five’s outline.  With one exception.  They were creating a character who, behind the scenes, was like a puppeteer to the Judge.  He was a real estate tycoon of sorts, one who was prone to use extortion and blackmail to get what he wanted, whether it was money, an abandoned but potentially valuable property, or an invitation to an exclusive private party.  The still-unnamed tycoon had also contributed heavily to Judge Taylor’s campaigns.  It seemed Georgia, like Alabama, elected their judges.  Right before the bell rang I learned from Clara, that Stella Gibson had discovered that Judge Taylor had issued a ruling in a hotly-contested case that would benefit the tycoon.  Stella smelled a rat. 

My eleventh-grade class pulled the same trick.  I again submitted.  This time, Travis Bryant, Brandi Skylar, and Renee Preston did an excellent job teaching.  It was like they had spent all of Fall Break refining the trio wave as they called it.  They, like the tenth-grade class, had been smart enough to know they had to provide something substantive.  They, likewise, stuck with story structure.  I was surprised they had chosen mood and theme.  Of all components that make a good story these were often the most difficult.  “Think of Miss Katie when you hear the word mood.”  Brandi had said.  This certainly had gotten my attention.  “She seems always happy, is often serious, and is rarely bitchy.  If your protagonist, let’s say Stella Gibson, our story version, is as sexy as she is in the The Fall, the TV series, then we might want to add that mood.  That’s a side of Miss Katie we don’t know.  Not to say she’s not gorgeous.”  The class burst into laughter and I sat silent pondering the disjointed statement I had just heard about mood.  Brandi had used improper reasoning.  The character’s physical characteristics and personality normally are not what sets the mood of a story, although they can accentuate it.  Mood comes more from setting and plot.  It took me ten minutes to gain control of the class but only to again succumb to their pleas for the trio wave to continue.  Unlike the tenth-grade class, it seemed the eleventh graders were dead set on following Team 4’s outline.  Jackson Burke, the founder and president of Burke Manufacturing, would attempt to control Stella Gibson via his manipulation of her teenage daughter.  As the class ended, it seemed the trio wave was headed toward revealing their story’s midpoint.  However, they stopped short and spent the remaining few minutes of class describing how fiction readers expect a major directional change around the middle of the story, something that is both surprising but expected.  When the bell rang I don’t think there was any agreement among the seventy-five students exactly what that meant.

After school Tuesday, Cindy and Alysa met Cullie and me at our house.  The teenagers had been wanting to prepare a complete meal for both families.  Two girls in Cullie and Alysa’s English class had sisters in the eleventh grade.  Both were taking a culinary class.  Someway this had inspired our girls.  The new stove that Wayne had delivered last week seemed to be the trigger for today’s request. At 7:00 p.m., all seven of the Sims and Barkers would assemble in the dining room around Wayne’s antique table for a meal of made-from-scratch tacos, enchiladas, burritos, and for dessert, a German-Chocolate cake, also fully-constructed by the creative chefs.

While Cullie and Alysa were knee-deep in flour, Cindy and I ran an errand.  We were moving the 2005 Nissan Quest from Nanny’s barn to an old logging road like the one that led to Patrick Wilkins and his decaying body.  But, this one was in Dekalb County.  I had found it Sunday afternoon after Cindy and I left Boaz High School and she had returned home.  Google Maps helped a lot.  I had returned home to my iPad and WiFi.  Google’s satellite feature saved me hours, maybe days.  I first picked out two remote areas within a thirty or forty-minute drive.  I could see that the second area was the least populated, having only one house within what I calculated to be nearly a mile.  The second feature that convinced me this was the better spot was this multi-hundred-acre area bordered DeSoto State Park.  To me, this would provide an extra barrier for potential visitors since the best access to the logging road was across the southern edge of the Park.

Everything went like clockwork.  Cindy had dropped me off at Nanny’s driveway and drove on to our designated meeting spot.  I was able to walk to the barn and drive away from the sad and lonely burned-out home on Bruce Road without seeing a single car pass in either direction.  Cindy had pulled in behind me at Aroney and we had driven without incident to the State Park.  By 4:20 p.m., the van was nestled in a grove of trees on a rough and rugged trail, one hundred feet beyond the end of the old logging road.  After turning left off State Highway 89 we had not seen a single car, at least not one operable.  At the entrance to the logging road, we had seen two old rusted-out pickups, both Fords, sitting quietly as though taking detailed notes on who was coming and going.  The thought left me almost as soon as it had come.  The eerie feeling it produced lingered until we returned home.

During the return trip in Cindy’s car, she had asked, “one apple down and five to go.  What’s your thoughts?”

I didn’t have any thoughts.  I was still reeling from the past week’s activities.  It seemed the debilitating stress from killing Patrick and confronting Paula would be enough to put Cindy and me both in bed for a month.  Surprisingly, she was eager to march forward with our Six Red Apples plan.  “I don’t have any.  But, if I did, I can assure you they wouldn’t be centered on kidnapping and killing the Faking Five.”  I wanted Cindy to know I didn’t have it in me to become a serial killer.

“I agree.  In part.  Our plan for Wilkins was a near disaster.  There’s no way he suffered the way he deserved.”  I speculated that Cindy could easily become not only a cold-blooded killer but a monster who thrived on watching her victim suffer.  I was overstating her evil, but I wasn’t the one who was carrying a baby I hadn’t chosen to have.

“Okay, you’re scaring me some but please share.”  I said, stretching the word ‘you’re’ for emphasis.

“You have, we have, enough evidence on those five bastards to cause them to dance to our music.  I say we drain them dry financially before watching them die a slow death by their own hands.”  I had to give it to Cindy.  She had a vivid imagination.  My creative partner in crime continued.  “You have one videotape of them committing a horrible crime.  Why not give them another one?  Not actually give them a tape but make them think another one exists.  This one from our make-believe camera showing an arson being committed.”

“You’re recommending we squeeze their balls until they cry for mercy, mercy enough to pay us a tidy sum.  Correct?”  I said, a little surprised that I wasn’t as eager as Cindy for real revenge.  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them burn, I just was too scared to light the fire.

“Why not?  Two struggling school teachers should get paid for making the world a better place.”  Cindy had a point.  The Faking Five were far better off than me and Cindy, although Steve made a wonderful salary at Marshall-Dekalb they likely spent everything they made with three kids and a sizable mortgage according to prior comments by Cindy.

From Collinsville, through Rodentown, and all the way back to Smith’s Chapel, Cindy and I brainstormed multiple ways of extorting cash from the Faking Five.

After a surprisingly delicious meal from Cullie and Alysa’s skilled hands, Wayne called.  I guess Cindy had seen the excitement in my face and motioned me to enjoy myself.  As I walked away from the kitchen sink where Cindy was finishing up washing the final dirty pan, she whispered, “we’re about to leave. Cullie can go with us.  Ask him to come kiss and caress you.”  I thought she would die laughing.  She had tried to be funny and carefree.  To me, it was the best idea she had all day.