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 37

By Saturday night, Cindy was two bundles of nerves, each had a separate controller.  Paula Wilkins and Steve.  I had returned from the State Park early Thursday afternoon.  Cindy and her family made it home yesterday shortly before noon.  She wanted me by her side every waking second.  I was lucky she had let me come home at night to sleep and remain until after my early morning writing sessions.  Cullie thought she was lucky too.  She had spent the entire week with the Barker family.  To her, there was nothing better.  Last night, Cindy followed me to my car as I was about to come home.  “Katie, please go with me to Sunday School and Church.  I hate having to go but if I don’t Steve will know something major is wrong.  Please.”

As instructed, I met Cindy in the Church’s parking lot at 9:00 a.m., fifteen minutes before the Assembly began in the Young-But-Maturing Sunday School Department.  She had told Steve the two of us were going to work a few hours this afternoon in our classrooms at school, and for him to transport the kids. 

“I know you think it is insane for me to go to the one place on earth that Paula Wilkins will be this morning.”  Cindy said under her breath as an older couple pulled into the parking spot next to Cindy’s with their windows lowered.

I nodded several times.  We stood between our cars, both of us rearranging our hair in the reflection of the car’s windows, and Cindy slipping on the matching jacket to her pants suit.  Finally, as the blue-haired woman and the hairless man were out of earshot, Cindy reopened her car door, leaned in and took out her Bible.  Apparently, she had forgotten it.  “I almost forgot my pacemaker.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it called that, but I guess it fits.”

“This morning, probably about the time you were walking into, what did you call it, The Thread, I was talking with my Savior.”  Cindy looked puzzled.  I did not know if she was going to cry or scream with excitement.  It could have gone either way.

“What did He say?”  This was the part that had always lost me.  God had never, that I could remember, talked with me.  Although I had often wanted Him to.

“That He is with me always, knows my needs, and will never forsake me.”  Cindy said, but did not seem overly confident of her words.

“Then, His shield will defend you against every arrow shot by Paula or anyone else.  Hadn’t we better be going?  I thought you said it started at 9:15.”

“It does.  Assembly does.  That’s where all four classes in our department meet for general announcements, and fellowship.  I sometimes skip that and go sit in my class, especially if I haven’t read my lesson.”  Cindy said, and I pondered what lesson her teacher had prepared for us today.

After we talked another fifteen minutes, mostly me listening to Cindy speculate whether Paula would confront her at all, we walked inside the Education Building and rode the elevator to the fourth floor.

Maxine Fulton taught the Ruth Sunday School class.  It was for married women although Cindy said there were a couple of recently-divorced woman members.  I was probably the only never-married human in the entire department.  Cindy said this was her fourth Sunday with Maxine and that she and Steve had decided to try separate classes the first of the new Sunday School year.  I thought it oddly appropriate that the lesson title was “The Submission of the Christian Wife,” taken from Ephesians 5:21-32.

Maxine was an excellent teacher, combining short Bible analysis with modern-day examples, and gently but directly drawing the class into a discussion.  By the end of the class I was close to believing that the hierarchical structure espoused by the Apostle Paul could likely work for a man and a woman who were truly soul mates, if they never disagreed.  As I was showered with ‘nice for you to come,’ and ‘we hope you come back next Sunday’ salutations, I couldn’t help but realize why I had always desired a more equitable relationship, one where the two partners were equal, with the total absence of domination.  As Maxine handed me a copy of the Sunday School quarterly, I realized I probably would have been better off if I had been as lucky as Cindy to find a man like Steve.  They both believed strongly in the Bible but seemed to live their lives more according to the model I had always wanted but never found.

I had almost forgotten about the grieving Paula.  I must have subconsciously believed she would restrict herself and her sadness and anger to her home.  This feeling vanished when Cindy and I entered the lady’s restroom.  I guess we were fortunate the three of us were the only ones needing to pee or freshen our makeup.  A pretty face was the last thing on Paula’s mind when she caught us coming in while blotting her lips before the mirror.

“Where the hell is my husband?”  Paula didn’t mince words or waste time.  I didn’t believe she was talking to me.

“I don’t have a clue what you are talking about.  Obviously from your rude and despicable phone call last Thursday, your sweet and faithful husband has been lying to you.  I dare you say he and I are having an affair.”  Cindy wasn’t intimidated.

“I haven’t seen or heard from him in nearly a week.  The last thing he did before he went on his run was apologize.  He confessed the two of you were having an affair.”  Paula looked like she could pounce any minute.  I was glad she hadn’t said Wilkins claimed that Cindy was pregnant, although that’s what I thought he had told her.  Of course, that’s what I had discovered from my Real Justice fictional world.

“I wouldn’t doubt he’s telling you a partial truth.  He probably is having an affair.  God knows he’s hit on me enough at school.”  Cindy said, stopping short of describing how she had resisted.

“Paula, I’m sorry, but I have to agree with Cindy.  Patrick is a womanizer and has flirted with me since school started.  He’s always looking down my blouse or standing way too close.”  It was the right thing for me to do.  Defend Cindy.  I knew she would never have an affair with anyone.  I also knew Patrick had raped her.  I would risk my life for Cindy.

“Shut up you little bitch.  Did I ask you?  This is between me and this slut.”  Paula might want to calm herself just a little.  I didn’t know but I suspect Cindy could take care of herself, especially since Paula was a smaller bitch than me.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”  I thought I was hearing someone out in the hallway.  Paula had asked the one question I feared but never anticipated coming from her mouth.  “I wouldn’t doubt it.  It’s happened before.”

“What’s that to you?  If I were pregnant, and I’m not, it sure as hell wouldn’t be Patrick’s.”   I was surprised Cindy had used the ‘hell’ word while at church. 

“What did you mean, ‘it’s happened before’?”  I asked, willing to hear the ‘B’ word thrown my way once again.

“You don’t know?  You haven’t heard about last year.  I can’t believe that.”  Paula said looking directly at me.

“She just moved here in August.  I’ve lived here for years and I haven’t heard it either.”  Cindy was now defending my lack of knowledge.

“Seemed to me it was all over town.  Patrick and Pattie Winkles, but she was smart enough to have an abortion.”

Just as Cindy looked at me and scrunched her face into a puzzled and disbelieving contortion, Maxine walked in, saw Paula, took her hand, and expressed her sympathy over the missing Patrick.  Cindy and I walked, both apparently forgetting to pee, or freshen our faces.

After a short song service, Pastor Warren’s sermon was not much longer.  “Faith Can Move Mountains,” no doubt was meant to assuage everyone’s doubts over the fate of the missing Wilkins.  The final thirty minutes of the Worship hour was spent in personal testimonies and prayer.  I suppose Warren believed a few shared stories of how real people had experienced real doubts over their loved ones only to be ultimately rewarded with a satisfying resolution, would help Paula shore up against her raging storm.  The testimonies also inspired all twelve active Deacons to hover around the distraught Paula, lay their hands on her head and shoulders, and to pray that God would find Patrick and bring him home.  One Deacon pleaded, “Almighty God, bring our Education Director back to us in a chariot of fire.”  I had trouble deciphering his exact intention.

After the same Deacon led the congregation in singing three verses of “Amazing Grace,” Cindy and I followed Steve through the line to shake Pastor Warren’s hand.  Sometimes she made the poorest decisions.  I’m not sure she heard it because she was telling Steve what to prepare for the lunch she would miss.  Behind me and towards the entranceway to the hall that leads back to the elevators, I could see two of the Deacons that I had seen praying for Paula, standing and talking.  As the long line wound around closer to them I walked over to a display table holding contribution envelopes and prayer request cards.  I don’t think either of the men knew I was there. 

The taller man said, “Deputy Yates told me they at first hadn’t suspected foul play but yesterday they learned Wilkins was having an affair.  Seems like they might have discovered a motive.”

Right then, Cindy yelled at me, “come on Katie.”  That’s when both men realized I was standing at the corner table.

Wayne, the mysterious and handsome sheriff, called me at school on my cell before Cindy and I had finished the Big Macs we had grabbed at MacDonald’s.

After a two-way exchange of pleasantries, he said, “I’m sorry I haven’t called since our date.  Again, I apologize for not taking you to Huntsville as promised.”

“No problem.  You had a good excuse.  Maybe there’s still time.”  I said, regretting it immediately.  That sounded so desperate.

“I like keeping my promises.  Will you give me a rain check?”

“I’ll think about it.”  Now, he would think I was more like a teenager, playing kid games with him.

“That’s in my favor.  I hope.  I know you need to get back to your work, but I wanted to give you an update.  I’ve had to wait until the family was notified.”  Wayne was confusing me.

“Uh, I’m not sure what you mean?”  I said.

“You remember I had to stay in town during our date because of a new crime scene?”

“I do.”

“It was a murder.  Nathan Johnson.  Your Nathan Johnson.  I mean the man we suspected of killing Darla.”  Wayne was stumbling badly.

“I’m really confused now.  I thought Nathan Johnson was in jail.  Did another inmate kill him?  Or, did Johnson kill someone.”  It seemed it could be either.

“Sorry, Nathan Johnson was murdered.  And, not at the jail.  Again, I apologize for not being able to tell you any of this.  First, and don’t ask me how it happened, but someway his attorney, Nathan’s attorney Cliff Thomas, persuaded Judge Broadside to grant bail.  Johnson was set free that Friday and his body was discovered the following Saturday.  It’s taken a week to reach his parents.  Seems they were traveling in Europe and were truly off the grid.”

“How was he killed?”  This all seemed too convenient, too lucky for Ryan and probably Danny Ericson, maybe the entire Faking Five.

“Two fishermen found him in a slew on Town Creek. His body was tangled in an old dead tree that had fallen into the water.  Shot straight through the forehead.”  Wayne said, giving it to me short and sweet.

“Katie, sorry.  The DA’s calling.  I got to run.  Take care.”

After our call ended I knew without a doubt that Mr. Nathan Johnson was too much of a liability for someone.  I suspected it was the Faking Five.

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 36

I was sitting at my desk in The Thread by 4:00 a.m.  For obvious reasons, I had missed yesterday’s early morning writing session.  There had been plenty of time after I returned home from Cindy’s to conduct an extended make-up session, but I hadn’t.  My habit is too ingrained.  There’s just something about the predawn hours that spurs my imagination. 

The Real Justice scene I was drawn to write contained Stella Gibson and Nancy Fletcher, Noah Fletcher’s wife.  For years, I hadn’t doubted that my subconscious mind and my imagination were two separate entities.  But I also believed they lived together in the same neighborhood.  This morning, they partnered to inspire me to explore Nancy, the fictional educator, to attempt to determine whether there was any connection with Paula Wilkins, the living and breathing wife of the breathless Patrick.

As I was brainstorming and drawing on a pink 5 x 8 note-card, I laughed out loud, and acknowledged the weirdness of what was happening.  My twenty Creative Writing students and I were engaged in writing a fictionalized story that was growing more and more like not only one I had experienced but was moving rapidly towards a new world that Cindy and I had just entered.  The weird part, part of the weird part, was that my twenty students didn’t have a clue about the darker edges of my past or present private life.  I was unable to resist asking myself, “how on God’s green earth was this happening?”  I knew it was happening because I had spent over two hours last night sitting at the kitchen bar reviewing the final drafts of the five outlines the five teams had submitted to me Friday afternoon before school was out for Fall Break.

The good part about my role in the Real Justice project was that I was free to follow my imagination where it leads me while I’m in The Thread.  Later, I can modify my drafts as needed before distributing the sanitized versions to the five teams in my Creative Writing class.  There is nothing like this freedom, the ability to be boundless, allowing my mind to explore, create, and destroy lives, places, relationships, and whole cities.  It was this freedom I pursued as my imagination fed me connections between Nancy Fletcher and Paula Wilkins.

Both women had husbands who were unfaithful, and they knew it.  It was part of the deal.  But neither of them minded because they both realized their lives could be far worse.  Both had married up as they say.  Of the two women, only Paula had ever strayed from her marriage vows.  After her and Fulton had their one and only tryst, she vowed to never stray again.  Although Nancy Fletcher had on several occasions helped Noah extricate him from a potentially scandalously public affair, this was Paula’s first experience.  Her and Patrick’s relationship was unique, likely rare.  Her orgasms were accentuated when her loving husband whispered to her his quests and conquests as he ravaged her body four or five times per week.  She now had made him explore with her the same fantasy on three different occasions.  The last time being Sunday night.  It was then she discovered the sex between her loving Patrick and the slutty Cindy wasn’t consensual.  This was bad enough, until early yesterday morning, as he was getting ready for his run, he divulged even more shockingly disturbing and life-changing news.  Cindy Barker was pregnant. 

I continued to explore the lives of Nancy Fletcher and Paula Wilkins for nearly an hour, ending shortly before 5:30 a.m. in near-complete confusion over what was fiction and what was real.

Wednesday afternoon was spent at Guntersville State Park with a relaxed Steve, a carefully choreographed Cindy, and four beautiful, naïve, but wonderfully blessed kids.  Cullie and I fished from a pier.  Thankfully, the wind picked up around 3:30 and the four rambunctious teen boys sharing our real estate left us alone.  Ever since mine and Cindy’s talk at Wayne’s pond over a week ago, I had decided on three or four different ways to tell Cullie the truth.  On the drive down, I had abandoned each of them.  Just make it plain and simple.  That’s what I finally decided.  And did.  “Cullie, I’m sorry but I have lied to you all your life.  Colton Brunner isn’t your father.  I don’t know for sure who is.”

Her response was surprising.  “Thanks for admitting what I’ve known forever.”  I determined then and there never to underestimate a teenage girl.

It turned out Cullie didn’t know much at all but had stumbled toward the truth when her New York City eighth grade science teacher had asked her students to create a list of the physical characteristics they shared with their fathers.  Cullie had discovered that her and Colton were as different as her and her pet hamster.  “I figured it must have been painful for you and that you would tell me the truth when you were ready.”   I hated the thought that her biological father had unwittingly shared such wisdom with his daughter.  I knew for sure she hadn’t inherited the wise-gene from me.

Our conversation over the rape wasn’t so easy.  This was the part I had struggled with so much.  Should I lie and say that I had slept around, and the father could be one of five men?  Should I tell her the names of the prospective fathers?  I hope I haven’t made a mistake.  At the time, I didn’t think I had.  I virtually had Cullie swear that she would keep every part of her conception secret, other than the name of her actual father, once we discovered the truth.  I told her everything, including the names of the five men, and that we would soon know which one had impregnated me and was her biological father.

Again, she surprised me as she closed the tackle box Steve had let us borrow.  “Mom, people make mistakes.  Sometimes the best things result from the biggest mistakes.”  I cried.  She even let me hold her in broad daylight.  I whispered to her she was the best gift the world could ever give me and that I loved her with my whole heart.

“I know you do and I love you too.  Please don’t hold a grudge against those five men.”  She said as she grabbed her rod and reel, the tackle box, and walked back towards Steve and Cindy’s cabin.

I stayed at the pier, even sat down and hung my feet over the side.  I replayed mine and Cullie’s conversation over and over in my head and could only conclude that she was either the wisest fourteen-year-old in the world, or she was a superior actor, keeping buried her true thoughts and fears.  I suspected it was the latter. 

I hadn’t planned on it but both Cindy and Steve insisted.  It was late when we finished eating the wonderful rib-eyes he had grilled, and it had started to rain.  I spent the night sleeping on a couch that was made into a bed.  My only reservation had been the effect upon my early morning writing.  Oh well, one more missed session wouldn’t kill me, but it certainly made me anxious, as it always did.  It had always been nearly impossible to explain, the feeling of incompleteness, of virtually leaving my head on my pillow as I attempted to walk forward through my day.

Thursday morning, before anyone else was stirring, Cindy and I took a walk.  We were barely out of the cabin when she asked if I had looked at Facebook.  I had not, because I intentionally avoided it, other than interacting with my students in the various writing groups.

“It’s all over my Newsfeed.”  Cindy said assuming I knew exactly what she was talking about.

“It is?  Must be important.”  I could be indirect myself.

“People are saying that the police and sheriff’s departments will continue the search today.  Yesterday, apparently, there were about a hundred-people scouring every inch of Wilkins’ running path.  One guy said Paula, Patrick’s wife, had said he seemed upset when he left their house between 5:05 and 5:10 a.m.”

“I wonder how that guy knew that?  That’s one reason I hate Facebook.  Most of what you read is made-up shit.”

“I agree, but a lot of it isn’t.  It certainly seems natural that folks would be looking for our dearly departed leader.”  Cindy said, picking up our pace more than I wanted.

“I’m confident no one saw us.  I didn’t see a single car during the whole ordeal.  And, there’s no houses close enough on Tanner Road for someone to have seen our spot.”

“I agree.  I also know we didn’t leave a trace where we parked.  I doubt any of the searchers could connect tire tracks to our van even if they were able to determine where Wilkins met his fate.”  Cindy said speaking as confident as a twenty-year crime veteran.

“You’re assuming the bleach we poured on the blood spot on the ground where his head bled for a minute or so, eliminated every trace.”  I said.

“Even if an expert crime scene team found that spot, extracted a sample, and ultimately determined it was Wilkins’ blood, that still wouldn’t implicate us.  He could have fallen and hit his head during an altercation.”  Cindy laid it all out.  At least that’s what she believed.

“His blood and a missing body.  Don’t forget we have spawned a criminal investigation.  They are looking.  They are not yet looking for us, but they are looking for a link, any link, that will point them to the perpetrators.  I can assure you they know a crime has been committed.  As time goes by, this will become unassailable.”  I really wasn’t offering anything new. 

“I still say the weakest link in our plan is where and how we are storing the van.”  Cindy finally said the same thing I had been saying all along.  Maybe she was ready to shore up this loose end.

Her phone rang before I could respond.  Immediately after taking the call and learning who was calling, Cindy activated her iPhone’s speaker.  It was Paula Wilkins wanting to know if Cindy knew where Patrick was.  Paula declared she knew about Cindy and Patrick’s affair.  After another minute or two of Paula’s screaming threats, Cindy ended the call.

“How in the hell does she know?”  I asked.

“Well, no doubt her slimy husband has been lying to her, making it sound like he and I have been having an affair.”  Cindy said as though that was her biggest problem.

“Cindy, wake the fuck up.  Affair, no affair, kidnap, rape, it doesn’t matter.  She knows enough to bury you, the both of us.  You are now in the cross hairs of this investigation.  You do know this, don’t you?”  I said, walking a shallow embankment to sit on a steel rail by the edge of the road.

“Hell, hell, hell, and more hell.  Something we never ever anticipated.”  She said, following me.

“At least not in real life.”  I said, with that same ominous feeling I had already experienced, not remembering when it was.

“You said all along that there would be some issue that would arise.  You said they always do.  Therefore, criminals get caught.  There is no way to plan for every possible variable.  Why did you let me talk you into this?”  Cindy said, pulling out her iPhone and again scrolling through her Newsfeed.

I didn’t respond.  I knew it was too late to make any difference.  If only I had stuck to what my head was telling me when Cindy had been playing with my emotions over what I had to do to square things up with the Faking Five.  The freedom I had felt yesterday morning in The Thread was now gone.  That was fiction.  This was real.

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 35

Saturday night came and went.  Our date was little different than going out to eat with my brother.  If I had a brother.  Wayne took me to a new little cafe in downtown Boaz called Pirates Cove.  It was a quaint little joint with exposed century-old brick on the walls.  The food was good.  Apparently, he liked country-cooking.  When he had called me early Saturday morning he asked if I was okay with going to Huntsville.  Everything he had said about where we were going and what we were going to do was perfect.  All day I fantasized about our romantic first date.  It didn’t happen.  When he picked me up he apologized and said he had to stay in town, something about a newly discovered crime scene.  He seemed anxious about it but wouldn’t disclose any details.  Wayne had taken me straight home from Pirates Cove, which was fine with me if he had stayed.  He hadn’t.  So much for all my Saturday fantasy thoughts.  Gone.  Evaporated like the early morning fog that had hovered over Wayne’s pond.

The following week of school went by in a blur.  I had conducted my teaching virtually on autopilot which I had sworn I would never do.  It cheated my students.  I never anticipated having a part time job planning and executing a kidnapping and killing (my crime partner refused to use or acknowledge the word murder).  Every day this last week before Fall Break was spent brainstorming and formulating our plan.  By Saturday afternoon we believed we had addressed every possible detail.

It would take place Monday, October 16th.  Cindy and Steve had secured reservations in early August for a cabin at Guntersville State Park.  Steve would take his three children and Cullie on Sunday afternoon, the 15th.  Cindy and I would join them Monday afternoon, using school and a pile of papers to grade as our excuse.  I would stay overnight with her and we would be waiting on criminal asshole Wilkins Monday morning when he turned east on Tarvin Road, probably around 5:10 a.m.

Our vehicle of choice was a tan-colored 2005 Nissan Quest, a van.  We had thought it would be easier for Cindy and me in moving Wilkins’ body.  The side door was much lower to the ground than the bed of a truck.  We had spent time contemplating whether to use Steve’s old pickup, the bright red and fully restored 1975 Chevrolet Silverado.  That would have been rather stupid.  A direct link back to Cindy if discovered.  We found the van at Jeff’s Auto Sales in Leesburg two weeks before D Day.  I suspect Jeff believed Cindy and I were both hookers just trying to make life easier on our johns. We both had worn disguises.  I was impressed with Cindy’s preparation and execution.  She had said, “cosmetology classes in high school and a theater minor in college, glad they finally came in handy.”  We had hidden our getaway vehicle in Nanny’s barn, thankful it hadn’t burned along with her house.

Wilkins was delayed a few minutes.  During the five-minute wait we beat ourselves up over our failure to consider that he and Paula might have taken a little trip this week themselves.  After all, it was Fall Break.  Just as our doubts were pushing us to abandon our plan, Cindy saw him turn right off Aurora Road onto Tarvin Road.  We had parked the van about a hundred yards from his turn.  I was glad Cindy had taken up her post across a shallow ditch and behind a grove of trees fifty feet or so behind the van, back towards Aurora Road.  We had been talking via two burner phones we had purchased in Gadsden.  The plan was for Wilkins to see me having car trouble and when I had him curiously inspecting whether my engine had died, Cindy would come assist.

“Patrick, man am I glad to see you.  Do you live around here?”  I could tell he was surprised.  “I dropped my daughter off at my cousin’s and I think my engine just died.  Can you look?”

“I’m not a mechanic, couldn’t help you if I wanted to.  Sorry.” 

“Can you help me remove my radiator cap.  It may just be out of antifreeze or something.”  I wanted to get him engaged, doing something to distract him. 

“Alright, I can do that.”  He walked from the middle of the road over to where I had parked the van, along the shoulder, almost in the ditch.

I stood very close to him.  I made sure my left leg and left elbow were touching him.  I said, “don’t you think it’s kind of neat for you to find me here.  A lady in distress.  This might be that opportunity we’ve both been looking for.”  I was having so much fun with the bastard.

“There, it wasn’t tight at all.”  He handed me the radiator cap and smiled.  We were now facing each other, still very close.  I reached my hand up to his face and gently felt his prickly beard.  “I like a man before he’s had his morning shave.”  He smiled.

“You’re surprising me.  You’ve never responded this way at school.”  He said looking at me with a devilish smile, his right lip curled upward just slightly. I had to admit, Patrick Wilkins was a nice-looking man, and fit.  He had on a sleeveless tee-shirt and jogging shorts.  His tanned body was sleek, like a runner, including taut stomach, and missing the gross muscles of a weight-room freak.”

“Patrick, believe me I’ve wanted to but, until right now, I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed.”  I hesitated, giving him my shyest look, intentionally looking down to the ground.  “Too public.  I need my job.  But, we’re not at school now.  Are we?”

He reached out with his right hand and started to pull me into him.  That’s when Cindy hit him in the back of the head with a piece of steel pipe.  He fell forward into my arms.  My body only slightly slowed his collapse onto the ground.  In five minutes we had him bound, gagged, and in the back of the van.  I turned the van around in the middle of the road, turned left on Aurora Road, right on Highway 205, and were soon traveling south on Highway 431. 

It took us nearly thirty minutes to arrive at our chosen spot.  I drove below the speed limit and made a few detours to make sure no one was following us.  I eventually turned right on Highway 278, drove several miles west past the Mountain Top Flea Market and turned left on County Road 132.  Two left turns later and we were on Moody Chapel Road.  About a half mile past Salem Baptist Church, I made our final left turn onto a private road and drove another mile.  We passed one long-abandoned house.  The gravel road gave way to an old logging road that was barely passable.  A slow and bumpy mile later, Wilkins was home.  It was a densely wooded area and would provide plenty of shade for as long as he needed.

For some odd reason, Cindy and I had more trouble removing his body from the van than we had putting it in there to begin with.  It might have had something to do with him being dead.  But, I doubt it.  While I had driven, Cindy had administered a 100 mg dose of potassium cyanide, enough to kill a horse.  Surprisingly, it had taken him over ten minutes to die.  As expected, it took us almost forty-five minutes to dispose of the fearless assistant principal, including putting him in the ground, shoveling in the dirt, and dressing-up the site with an ample amount of leaves and limbs.  We were glad we had dug the grave last Saturday when Steve thought we were shopping.  Over three hours of back-breaking labor.

By 7:30 a.m., Cindy and I were back at her house eating the breakfast we had secured after returning the van to Nanny’s barn.  We had been careful to dispose of the blue tarp, and the thirty-inch section of steel pipe we had confiscated from a pile of scrap metal behind Steve’s shop.

Pastor Warren and Ryan had ordered their breakfast from waitress Gloria at Grumpy’s Diner when Sheriff Waldrup walked in the restaurant and over to their table.

“Radford, I’m glad I saw you.  I was planning on calling you today.  We need to talk.  When can you come see me?”  Waldrup said, not to engage in any pleasantries.

Ryan hesitated, looked at Warren, and said after the Pastor gave him an almost invisible nod, “How about 9:00 a.m. tomorrow?”

“That works for me.  Don’t be late.  I’ll see you in my office in Guntersville.”  The tall man in full uniform, including a wide-brim hat, said, and walked back to the counter for an order Gloria had waiting.

“What the hell do you think that’s all about?”  Ryan said.

“I suspect you know, your family is knee deep in the Darla Sims investigation.”

After Gloria brought their breakfast, the two spent twenty minutes developing a strategy, which was to tell the truth, at least part of it.

“Where the hell do you think Wilkins is?  I warned him against being late.  Pastor Warren said motioning Gloria for more coffee.

“If you ask me, he’s trouble.  By the way, why did you want me to meet with the two of you?”  Ryan said, downing in two swallows, a full glass of orange juice.

“I needed a witness.  Nobody else could come.  Fulton’s getting ready for a Board meeting.  Danny’s in Gulf Shores at a realtor’s conference, and Justin said he had the flu or something.  I think he was still pissed at me from Wednesday night.”  Warren said.

“Yea, he didn’t much like you having Nathan’s lawyer at our meeting two weeks in a row.  By the way, why were you needing a witness?”

“I wanted someone to know exactly what I told Wilkins, where there would never be any doubt that I had given him the final ultimatum.”

“Which is?”  Ryan asked checking out Katie Sims as she came in the restaurant, picked up and paid for her takeout order, and walked outside.  “Nice ass, don’t you think preacher man?”

“Let’s not go there.  If the bastard shows, I was going to tell him that he needs to keep his pants on, that he is going to feel some real pain if he ever scratches his little itch again.  Warren said.

“The rest of us told you all along not to bring him into the Club.  I may like women as much as he does but at least I’m discreet.”  Ryan said eying Gloria as she delivered food to an adjoining table.

“Anyone watching you would certainly know you’re discreet all right.”  Warren said, pulling his iPhone from his shirt pocket.  “Damn, nearly 8:00 o’clock.  Wilkins promised he would be here no later than 7:00.  Since he’s out of school this week, he probably went back to bed after his little run.  I think I’ll go swing by there.  Can you come?”  Warren asked.

“No, I’ve got to get to the store.  Monday morning staff meeting.”

“I’ll see you Wednesday night.  Can you bring a twelve-pack?”

“No problem.”  Ryan said as Warren left.  “Hey darling, can I have a coffee to go?”  Gloria frowned and pushed Ryan’s big right hand from her lower back.

“It’ll be at the register.”

“Thanks baby doll.”

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 34

Thursday morning, I was sitting at my desk in my little office reviewing the first drafts of the Real Justice outlines.  I hated outlines for my own writing, but I had to follow with my five creative writing teams a less imaginary method to complete this gargantuan project.  Otherwise, the story would likely run out of steam by mid-January.

I was particularly struck by Team Two’s creativity (who am I to say outlines squelch creativity!).  It also felt ominous.  This team’s antagonist is Noah Fletcher, the President of South Citizens Bank & Trust.  His wife, Nancy, is the principal at Gilmer County High School and appears to play a supporting role to her husband, even in his quest to bed Stella Gibson.  I noticed that in the second half of Act II, Team Two has Noah disappear along with his wife.  What made me feel so strange was when I recognized a similarity to my real life.  Educators and bankers.  Patrick Wilkin’s wife, Paula, works with Fulton Billingsley at First State Bank of Boaz.  In Real Justice, fiction, antagonist Noah is a banker with an educator wife.  The most eerie feeling came from Team Two’s plan for their characters to disappear later in their story as part of a faux climax.  As I set aside the outlines, I wondered whether Paula knew about Patrick’s womanizing?

My first three classes in the auditorium went well.  When I returned to my classroom, Cindy was sitting in my office, in my chair.  This was a first.

“Oh, the new Katie has a new bust line.  I like it.”  I said, not fibbing about wishing I had a sexier figure.

“Sorry, I needed to borrow a pen.  Seemed more comfortable filling out this form.  I’ll move.”

“No, sit there.  What are you working on?  Trying to win a prize?”  I figured she might be wasting her time with Publisher’s Clearing House or something similar.

“You need to sign here.  And, you’ll need to enclose a check for $289.00.  If you don’t have it, I can loan it to you.”  Cindy was shocking the hell out of me.

“Uh, do you mind telling me what you are doing?”

“Finding out who Cullie’s father is.”  Cindy said as I sat down across from my own desk.  I was now fully shocked.

“Could you maybe enlighten me a little?”

“You said last weekend, when we were sitting out on your pier, that you had to deal with Cullie, that she had to know the truth.  You said she deserved to know the truth and you had committed to being fully open with her.  Girl, first, you yourself have got to know the truth.  ‘Who’s your daddy?’ isn’t the question you want Cullie being asked all her life.  Forget Colton.”  Cindy had come ready for bear.

“So, what is the paperwork?”

“Application for DNA tests.  Lab work.  It’s not free you know.”

“I’m not much of a scientist but I know from Law and Order you have to have something to test.  Oh, by the way, can I assume you are talking about the Faking Five submitting to a mouth swabbing?”  Cindy was making me pull the facts out of her.

“Who else is there?  Cullie’s father could be any one of the five bastards.  Right?  I am correct, aren’t I?”  Cindy asked.  I hoped she didn’t doubt what I had told her.

“Absolutely.  Back to the swabbing.  How do you propose convincing them to stand still and open their mouths?”

“Don’ worry.  They already have.  Well, not exactly, they didn’t know they were still and open.”  It was then I noticed five identical boxes, each about two inches tall and three or four inches wide, and maybe six or seven inches long, sitting on the far edge of my desk.

“Here’s the story.  You know Steve helps with the Wednesday night meal.  Your Faking Five always eat together.  It was easy.  He secured their eating utensils when he was cleaning off their table after they had left.  He says he was extra careful to identify which items went with which human.”

“Steve?  Now he’s in on my secret?”

“No, Blondie.  I’m imaging your dark curls transformed last night into Paula Wilkins’ gorgeous mane.”

“Weird you mention her.”  I said trying to figure out if a few people I know can read my mind.

“Why so?  Never mind.  Again, Steve is on a strictly need-to-know status.  I told him it was needed for some research Bryan Haney was doing with his history class—the origins of a few of our local leaders.  Steve can be a little gullible.”

“I trust you found a reliable lab?”

“I did.  Found them online.  They are out of Amherst, New York.  Been in business since the eighties.  Seems they’ve only recently gone nationwide, offering cheap but reliable paternity testing.”

“I thought that required blood.”

“New technology I guess.  The information pack they sent was extremely specific on the types of samples to obtain.  Did you know they can now remove your DNA from a Kleenex even if you didn’t blow your nose?”  Cindy obviously had done her homework.

“You sure received the information in a hurry.”  I said trying to sketch out a timeline.

“Can you spell O N L I N E?”  Cindy was making me feel like a low-tech zombie.

Cindy also told me that Wilkins’ routine was simply clockwork.  She apparently had conducted her early morning sleuthing two days already this week, including today.  After I gave her a check she left in a hurry.  Something totally unusual since it was now lunchtime.

“I’ll call you tonight.  I want to get these to the Post Office.  Later partner.”

At first while Cindy had been telling me what she was up to and how she had so smoothly choreographed Steve’s activities last night at church, I was angry.  My thought, ‘that’s my business and I’ll handle it my way,’ hadn’t lingered.  Now, I had set my emotions aside and was thinking rationally.  I was proud of Cindy.  She truly did know me.  She had concluded that I needed a little push, maybe a solid boot in the ass, to pursue the answer I so desperately needed.  As I unwrapped my bologna sandwich, I felt ashamed I had spent what seemed like hours during the night tossing and turning questioning why I would agree to help Cindy square the tables on criminal asshole Wilkins.  I banished for good the thought that I might be acting premature to trust Cindy.  Now I knew Cindy was for real.  She was a friend for life.

By 11:00 p.m., I had spent nearly an hour at the kitchen bar after Cullie had gone to bed reading and responding to a ton of student Facebook comments in our five online Groups.  I had just gotten up from my barstool to pour a glass of milk to hopefully settle my stomach when I heard a light tapping at the back door.  Once again, it was Wayne.  I motioned him in.

“You might want to invest in some blinds.  Does this uncovered glass door not bother you after dark?”  He said.  I barely heard him.  I had never seen a better-looking man.  It was the first time I had ever seen him out of uniform.  He was wearing dark slacks, a solid blue button-down shirt, and a light brown tweed jacket.  Without his Sheriff’s hat his whole face and head looked so different.  He was rugged and could pass for Walt Longmire’s twin brother, except for Wayne’s salt and pepper hair. 

“Katie, are you okay?”  I hoped he wasn’t one to read thoughts.  In the milliseconds the tall, dark, and handsome man had been standing inside my kitchen, my mind had traveled to Absoroka County, Wyoming and back, stopping only to linger at that big old oak tree beside the little cabin across from the pond.  I had not missed the smell of hours-old aftershave as he had pressed into me and locked on my lips.

“I’m fine.  I guess I was dreaming, certainly in a fog of sorts.”

“I saw your light on and thought I’d take a chance you might still be up.  I can give you an update if now is a good time.”  Had there ever been a more polite and respectful mind.  Of course, the electricity zipping up and down my spinal cord could be distorting my judgment.

“Now’s perfect.  Thanks for thinking of me.”

“That’s quite easy.  I followed up on what you shared with me last Sunday, about Nathan’s lawyer, Cliff Thomas.  He practices with his father in San Marcos, Texas.  I called on the local Sheriff who told me the two were well known as criminal defense lawyers and had the reputation of being willing to cross the line.  He gave me a couple of examples but here’s something probably a little more relevant.”  Wayne paused, and I asked him if he wanted to sit in the den.  He agreed and surprised me when he sat beside me on the couch.  I leaned back.  He didn’t.

“It seems our Nathan isn’t just a scraggly-bearded drifter.  His family owns the Lone Star Candy Company in Fredericksburg.  He’s the black sheep of the bunch.  Seems like Nathan Senior has had to bail him out quite a bit.  You guessed it, Thomas and Thomas, has been involved for years.  Get this, Clayton Thomas, Cliff’s father, spent seven years in Tuscaloosa beginning in 1958.  Here, look.”  I had noticed that he had been holding a book, a rather large book, under his arm ever since he had walked in.

“What is it?”  I asked.

“A University of Alabama Annual.  Here is the class photo, graduating class of 1962.  Read the names.”  Wayne pointed about two-thirds down the list of names I figured were for the students shown in the photo.  Wayne’s finger pointed to Raymond Radford and then on down to Clayton Thomas.  “Don’t you find it a little strange they knew each other.  By the way, Clayton stayed on in Tuscaloosa to attend law school, graduating in 1965.”

“You’ve discovered an odd coincidence.”  I said, not really seeing much relevance in what clearly intrigued the Sheriff.  As he closed the book, his right hand brushed across my knee.  He had not touched me at all when earlier he had laid the open Annual across my lap.  It was an innocent touch but awoke the electrical train that had pulled into the station while I had focused with Wayne on his update.

“Sorry, excuse me.”  Wayne had said our eyes connecting just long enough for me to notice he was visibly embarrassed.  His face was a light crimson.

“Silly.”  It was an odd thing for me to say.  He stood with Annual in hand and moved around the coffee table and into a wingback chair.

“I’m going to pursue this further.  I’ve asked the Hays County Sheriff in Texas to see if he can find a link between Clayton, or Cliff for that matter, and our local boys.”

“Wayne, I sure do appreciate all you are doing.  A quick update from me.  I had to have a repairman out to fix the stove.  I paid for it.  No problem, but just wanted you to know.

“Thanks, how much was it?  That’s my stove and my responsibility.”

“No way am I going to let you be that generous.”

His response, his invitation came totally unannounced and unpredicted.  “At least let me treat you to a nice dinner sometime.  Would you feel comfortable with that?”  Wow.  Is all I could say to myself.  Was the handsome fifty-five-year-old asking me for a date?

“You don’t have to do that.”  I was nearly twenty years younger.  He was old enough to be my father, yet I was attracted to him.  I was also figuratively pointing a gun at my foot.  If I turned him down, he probably would never ask me out again.

“Sorry Katie.  I’ve been too forward.  Please accept my apology.  I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”  Wayne Waldrup couldn’t be this nice.  It had to be a game.  Men, at least the ones that I had known the last fifteen or twenty years, were closer to animals.  Wayne was more like a god.

“Silly.”  Apparently, that was becoming my favorite word.  “I would be honored to go out with you.  You just caught me a little off guard.”

“I hope you don’t think you need a guard with me.  How’s Saturday night for you?”  Now, we were getting somewhere.  Saturday was much more definite than ‘let me treat you to a nice dinner sometime.’”

“It’s perfect.  What time?”

We spent the next ten minutes discussing times and places.  I could have talked all night.  I could have spent a week standing beside him next to the back door as he was attempting to leave.  We shared an awkward moment.  I wanted him to kiss me like I had imagined him doing so beside that big old oak tree, but apparently, he wanted to keep switching the Annual from underarm to underarm.  Our hands brushed together as he walked out the door.   That was intentional.  My intent.