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 19
Monday morning, Labor Day, I almost ignored my 4:30 a.m. alarm. I had hardly slept at all. After returning from my classroom Sunday afternoon I had binged on Netflix, alternating between Stella Gibson and The Fall, and Longmire. The sexual tension between Walt and Vic in the latter series was noteworthy and spurred me to consider adding a romantic subplot to my own Real Justice work. The only good thing that had come out of my binging was a reminder I was abusing the name Real Justice. My current work in the basement was called Real Justice. The creative novel project was labeled Real Justice and that was only for team one. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but was team two’s to be called Real Justice II? This was a problem I could solve. No matter, the best thing my multi-hour binging had done was keep me from pondering Darla’s murder and the hot spot I had created for myself at school.
I was glad I somehow had the determination to follow my routine. Once again, my writing time produced that feeling I longed for every day, that I had accomplished something special. For years this feeling had guided my life. If I had written at least 1,000 words towards an active project, then my day was successful no matter what happened the remaining twenty-two or so hours. Today I had written a solid scene and had spent the last fifteen minutes pondering a change to my book’s title. I was leaning towards The Light in the Darkness or The Darkness in the Light, somewhat of a sequel to my 2002 award winning Out of the Darkness. I was deep in thought over the problem of evil in the world, trying to figure out whether it was fate or some mysterious plan of God that had caused the darkest day of my life when I heard the phone ringing upstairs. It was the land-line, Nanny’s phone since the early fifties. I normally wouldn’t have heard it but today I had left the door at the top of the stairs open thinking that Sammie and Nanny might show up early, hours earlier than the noontime Sammie had promised.
I started to ignore it, but the caller was relentless. I answered on probably the tenth ring. “Hello.”
“Katie, Katie Sims?” The deep voice said from the other end of the line.
“Yes, this is Katie Sims.”
“This is Marshall County Sheriff Wayne Waldrup. Do you have a few minutes to talk?” The first thing I thought of was Cullie. Fear rushed through me like I had never known. Why would the Sheriff be calling me so early? I had stayed longer than usual in the basement, but it was still only 6:30. Cullie and Cindy and her family must have been in an accident.
“What’s happened? Is Cullie hurt?” I asked, frantic, sitting at the kitchen table and virtually jumping up before he could respond.
“Katie, my call has nothing to do with Cullie. I’m calling to give you an update on our investigation into your mother’s death.” I sat again, relieved, as though I had just heard the best news of my life, thinking how weird it was that something horrible, in the right context, could be good news.
“I’m sorry. I’ve never had a law enforcement officer call me, much less so early. My daughter, Cullie, is away with friends and is scheduled to return today. I jumped to the conclusion there must have been an accident and Cullie was hurt.”
“No need to apologize. I have two children of my own. I probably would have responded the same if I had been in your shoes.”
“Has there been some progress in Darla’s, I mean, Mother’s case? Do you have a suspect?” I said believing this would be why Sheriff Waldrup would have been calling.
“We do have a suspect but have been unable to identify him.”
“Who is he?” When the words left my mouth, I realized my mind hadn’t quite recovered from its former desperation. “Sorry, dumb question. How do you know about him if you don’t know who he is?”
“He was caught on camera pawning what we believe is the murder weapon, a 22-caliber pistol. We have a good relationship with Joe’s Pawn Shop. They gave us a call yesterday morning relaying their suspicions.”
“What made them suspicious?” I concluded Joe’s maybe had heard about the murder.
“When we have a missing gun case, we always alert local pawn shops, and when we know. telling them the make, model, and caliber, and encourage them to be on the lookout. Of course, the shops know to always be on the alert when any gun is being pawned.”
“The man, on camera, what does he look like?” I was ready for Sheriff Waldrup to describe Ryan Radford or Danny Ericson. It was funny or weird or both that I had already solved the case. Both men had a motive to kill Darla. And, Ryan was with her shortly before she was found, not only dead, but with a bullet hole in the back of her head.
“Short, stocky, curly, scraggly dark hair. He has a beard, but Joe suggested the beard looked fake. The video isn’t the best quality.”
“You said the gun was probably the murder weapon. I assume that means the ballistic tests haven’t been completed?” I guess I had watched enough Law and Order and CSI to know that would be the first thing the Sheriff would do.
“Correct, the State Department of Forensics is closed for the holiday weekend. Deputy Childers will be waiting with the subject gun in Montgomery when they open in the morning.”
“Do they do the fingerprinting or is that something for your department?” I was glad I had some interest in criminology and had watched all those TV shows.
“We conducted preliminary tests. The gun contained two sets. One belonged to Joe at the Pawn Shop. The other set didn’t match anyone in our database. The State has more resources than we have here at the local level. I’m hoping their testing will produce better results.”
“I assume you broadcast the man’s photo, a camera shot to news stations?”
“We did. Joe called us late Saturday afternoon, and by midmorning yesterday, local radio, and all the TV stations in Huntsville and Birmingham, had the information. They are asking the public to call our hotline if they know the man or believe they have seen him.”
“I hope you get a break. Can I tell you something I believe could be relevant to solving Mother’s case?” I said, almost forgetting what I had discovered in Darla’s journals.
“Absolutely, we need to know everything, even things unlikely relevant.” There was something about Sheriff Waldrup’s voice. I had seen a photo or two of him in the Sand Mountain Reporter; Nanny had probably been a lifelong subscriber. He was tall and strong looking. He could have given Walt Longmire a run for his position in Absaroka County, Wyoming. Like Walt, Wayne had a kind and gentle voice, one that commanded respect and a healthy dose of fear. I gained confidence in his investigation just from his voice.
I spent the next fifteen minutes telling him everything I knew, starting with the early morning phone call from Darla where she asked me to come get her. I filled the Sheriff in on what Sammie had done and learned and what I had found in her suitcase. I even admitted to him how I had come to have Darla’s things in my possession. When I finished I could tell that Wayne, Sheriff Waldrup, was keenly interested in Raymond and Ryan Radford and what they stood to gain by Darla’s death. For some reason, I chose not to tell him about the videotape, thinking and believing that it was only relevant to the spur-of-the-moment decision to kill Darla, and did not relate in any way to the prenuptial and thus the primary reason the Radfords would want her dead.
Sheriff Waldrup had just asked me when the best time for him or one of his deputies to come pick up Darla’s journals, when he abruptly said he had to take an emergency call. This gave me a good excuse to drive to school and make a copy of both journals. I knew he would be calling back and something prompted me that I should have an opportunity to complete my reading and to retain a copy just in case the Sheriff and his team somehow lost this critical evidence.
Between photocopying the 400 pages in Darla’s two journals, and drafting, editing, and completing my one-page Real Justice novel project handout, it was after 11:30 a.m. when I returned home. I was making a sandwich when Sammie and Nanny entered through the kitchen’s rear door. I hugged both and asked if they were hungry. Nanny smiled and started fiddling with the long cord dangling down the wall as though she knew at least one phone conversation had taken place since she left yesterday morning. We all sat, ate, and talked for over an hour. I was glad to hear they had a good time, especially that Nanny had gotten to ride a lot on the back roads of Dekalb County, one of the favorite things her and Papa had done when he was living. There had always been something inspiring for Nanny to see the places three generations of her family had lived and farmed.
Just after Sammie and Nanny left the kitchen for her room and a nap, Cullie and Alysa burst through the back door with Cullie cuddling a small, black kitten. “Mom, the man in Anniston where Steve stopped to buy gas said the kittens were headed to the animal shelter where they would be put to sleep. I took this one, Midnight, and Alysa took three. I hope you don’t mind. I promise to take care of her, him, whatever, and to do more chores to pay for his food. Please?”
“By the time Cullie finished her long and strong argument Cindy came in looking both apologetic and sad. Or, was it frustrated? I had, in our three weeks together at school, been able to detect when something was wrong. Her face would be a tinge redder and her normally bright green eyes grew darker. “Katie, I tried calling you. I didn’t know what to do. If you do not want to keep the kitten, Midnight, we’ll carry her home with the other three.”
“It’s not a problem. I kind of like cats. I haven’t had one since my high school days, didn’t even know they still made them.” I tried being funny, hoping to remind Cindy I was truly her friend. I wanted to spend some time talking with her, but Steve started honking the car horn. I am sure he wanted to get home after being away all weekend. It worked out for the best since I wanted to hear from Cullie and be close by her side.
All afternoon, as we talked and created Midnight a nice little bed along with a litter box (thankful that Steve had stopped at Walmart in Gadsden) on the back porch, all I could think about was the feeling I had when Sheriff Waldrup called. Cullie was the most precious and wonderful thing in my life. She was blood of my blood. Created in darkness but clothed in light that dispelled everything cruel, hateful, and evil. “Thank-you God for giving me Cullie and bringing her safely home.” I said the words aloud and noticed the breathtaking smile that appeared on Cullie’s face as she seemed pleased her mother was praying.
The Pencil Driven Life 