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 50
While I sat in the interrogation room, I dialed Cullie several times. It was probably my fifth call before she answered. I told her what had happened and that I would be home as soon as I could but that it might be a while. I figured it would be at least 8:00 or 9:00 a.m. before the city attorney would set Cindy’s bail and I could find a bondsman. I doubted the City would allow her to leave on her own recognizance. All of this was delayed because of the Thanksgiving holiday, which I had forgotten. It seemed the city attorney was out of town and the jailer was having trouble reaching him. It was almost 9:45 a.m. before I learned the real problem in the delay over Cindy’s release.
The jailer returned to the little room that was growing smaller by the hour. It was a different jailer this time. This one, a tall, older gentleman who was grossly overweight but with a pleasant smile and a calming disposition, apologized for the delay and said, “Ms. Barker is being transferred to the Marshall County Jail in Guntersville.” I voiced my confusion, confessing my layman’s understanding of the law. I sensed he wasn’t supposed to tell me, but he explained that municipalities in Alabama didn’t have jurisdiction over felonies, that’s reserved for district and circuit courts at the county level.
After I expressed my belief that first-time charges for drunk driving were misdemeanors and not felonies, he surprisingly agreed. He then said, “sorry, it seems Ms. Barker’s fingerprints relate to an outstanding case. The County Sheriff and District Attorney will have to sort this out.” I don’t remember but I figure I just sat there for a while. Finally, he said I could continue my visit at the county jail. He escorted me out of the interrogation room, down a short hallway, through a small office with the dispatcher busy manning the switchboard, and through the front door of the police department.
When I walked outside there were two officers standing between their police cars parked right in front of the station. The parking lot was nearly as small as inside the police department causing me to walk close enough to them to smell Old Spice aftershave on one or both young and fit men. They greeted me politely and continued their talk after I had passed. I was still within ear shot when I heard one of them say, “it’s getting pretty bad when someone wants to kill a preacher.” I almost turned and asked what they were talking about but continued forward and across the street to a larger parking lot and my car.
Before I had driven twenty feet, my mind, seemingly without effort and automatically, retrieved Cindy’s statement, one I had attributed to the two beers she had drunk. “I hope I killed him, I hope I killed him.” I fought back anger, fear, and hopelessness and turned left on Highway 205. It made little sense, but I extended my return trip home by driving to Sparks Avenue and First Baptist Church of Christ. There, in the smaller east side parking lot, along the street, and in the driveway to the parsonage next door were parked two Boaz police cars, three Marshall County Sheriff’s cars, and probably a half-dozen unmarked, black SUV’s. There was so much commotion two police officers were directing traffic. As I eased past the church and approached the parsonage I rolled down my window and asked one of the young officers what was going on. “There’s been a shooting. This is a crime scene. Please keep moving and allow others to pass.”
As I drove home there was no doubt in my mind that Cindy had been involved. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that somehow she had gotten hold of a gun and had come here to do what she could to square things with Pastor Warren, the man I knew and certainly Cindy knew, was responsible for the death of her dearly departed husband.
Wayne called as I was heading home from Cindy’s. After leaving the church I had driven home, picked up Cullie, and taken her to spend the day with Alysa. I wanted to go home, quickly shower, and head to Guntersville to meet with Cindy. I had to know what she had done.
“Katie, is now a good time to talk?” Oh Wayne, just skip the damn politeness.
“It is. I’m glad you called.”
“Baby, brace yourself. I have some bad news. I might as well tell you straight up. Cindy Barker has been arrested for the kidnapping and murder of Patrick Wilkins.” Wayne’s words hadn’t come as a shock, but they were shockingly painful nonetheless.
“What on earth do you mean?” I said.
“She was arrested early this morning for drunk driving in Boaz. The short of it is her fingerprints matched one of the ones retrieved from the 2005 Nissan van found in Dekalb County. You know, the one sold by Jeff’s Car Sales in Leesburg.”
“I remember you telling me.”
“After Cindy was arrested, Boaz printed her and submitted them to the National Database. We have a computer system that constantly runs and attempts to match unknown fingerprints with those that have been newly added. I received a text alert this morning at 8:25. It’s a good system. Now, we know Cindy Barker was in that van. Hopefully, she will confess and disclose who helped her kidnap Mr. Wilkins. I suspect she is also responsible, partially at least, in his death. From what we’ve learned during the investigation of her husband’s death, Cindy was after some vigilante justice.”
“Wayne, just when I had thought things couldn’t get worse. I hear what you’re saying but I can’t for the life of me see Cindy doing such a thing. She is so sweet and loving. Such a faithful Christian.” I said, unable to know what to say.
“Sometimes it’s hard to figure. The ones you would never think capable of horrendous conduct can truly surprise you, no matter how strong their faith.”
“Changing the subject, but what is going on at First Baptist Church of Christ? I just came by there and saw a bunch of police cars.” Hopefully, Wayne wouldn’t think it odd and incriminating for me to ask this question.
“If the County didn’t already have more crimes to investigate than ever, more than we can say grace over, now we have another. Sometime last night or this morning, we’re not sure, someone shot Warren Tillman, pastor Warren Tillman. I’m headed there now but from what my deputies are saying, someone shot him through a wall of glass windows down in his basement. So far, we know very little. He’s in critical condition in Birmingham. I think at UAB. He’s bad. I suspect this will become another murder investigation.”
“Oh, my goodness. ‘It’s getting pretty bad when someone wants to kill a preacher.’” The young officer’s words, said standing outside the Police Department, just rolled off my tongue. Then, just as automatically, I said, “Of course, it can be the other way around. It’s getting pretty bad when a preacher does something to cause someone to want to kill him.”
“Katie, I wish all of my deputies were as sharp as you. You seemed to always see beyond the obvious and into the real world. As much as I hate to, I must go. I’ll talk with you later. I am so sorry about Cindy.” Wayne said. I knew he meant what he said. No doubt, his job was difficult at best. He truly cared about people, but he also was fully committed to upholding the law.
After showering and dressing, I drove to the Marshall County Jail to see Cindy. On my drive to Guntersville, all I could think about was how Wayne would feel when he discovered the remaining unknown fingerprint belonged to me. Our relationship obviously would be over. And, that wouldn’t be the only thing that ended. My life, my life as teacher, mother, and aspiring writer, would be lost forever.
The Pencil-Driven Life 