Month: September 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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 13

I decided against attending Elton Rawlins’ funeral.  I hated them with a passion.  I hadn’t been to one since Susan’s death and dreaded the thought of how I would deal with the morbid thing when either Mom or Dad died, or they both did.  Anyway, Noah had promised to attend.  Instead, I occupied my complete afternoon with finalizing Connie’s paperwork and overnighting it to Alfa’s main office in Montgomery and watching several training videos the Company had developed to educate its agents on the intricacies of the long-term health care market.

At 5:30 p.m., I drove home dropping by Mother’s to pick up a plate of food she had prepared for me.  It was now pretty much a well-formed habit.  Either I ate with her and Dad or she called mid-afternoon and said, “your plate will be waiting on you when you want it.”  I seemed to always want more of the best food on the planet.  Mom was the world’s best cook, always had been.

I ate without changing clothes.  Another habit led me to boot up my desktop computer in the converted front bedroom.  Following my routine, I checked my office email, even though it had only been a little over an hour since I had left work and responded to a question from Darryl Nelson about whether Alfa had a savings product Lowe’s employees could use to supplement their main retirement plan.  I then checked my private email.

There seemed to be a chorus of routines resounding all around me.  Luke had emailed me early this morning at 6:10 a.m.  This reinforced my position that I only checked my personal email once per day, at the end of the day.  Checking it in the mornings was too potentially distracting.  Further, if someone badly needed me, the people that mattered knew how to reach me at work or on my cell.

I quickly glanced through Luke’s long first paragraph.  He was telling me about his and Tyler’s fishing venture last Sunday afternoon at Dad’s pond.  The two appeared to have gotten into a pretty heated argument.  Tyler had made fun of several local folks, including Deidre, and how they responded to other people’s Facebook posts when they shared some hardship they were experiencing.  Luke gave one example.  In part, Luke had written that there had been several folks post about Eugene Lackey.  He was the thirty-five-year-old Boaz High School basketball coach who had a virulent form of cancer.  Tyler had made fun of how Deidre and about fifty others had responded with short statements such as, “praying,” or “praying now,” and a dozen other similar comments.

At the beginning of Luke’s second paragraph he had asked me, “is Tyler correct?  Prayer doesn’t work.”  Luke had gone on to say that he had never heard such a thing, that he had believed God always answered prayer, every one of them.  Luke ended his email in what looked like a state of total confusion because he wrote, “I might have my doubts about whether there is a God, but I still believe in the power of prayer.  Too many miracles have occurred at church.”

Before I responded, I once again virtually kicked myself for getting in this predicament.  I couldn’t fathom a way for this rocky and winding road Luke and I were traveling to end up in a safe and secure destination.  I could almost feel and see the horrible confrontational scene on the horizon.  It involved my entire family.  I might be literally shunned when Diedre and company learned what I had been telling the young and easily swayed Luke.

After contemplating my last thought, particularly the last two words, I emboldened myself.  The audacity of Diedre and Ed, Mom and Dad, an entire community of peers and wise old authoritarians.  All of them were involved, many virtually unaware, of constantly running a full-court press with one goal in mind: fully manipulating Luke (and everyone similarly situated) into believing the greatest myth of all time.

I clicked on the REPLY button and wrote.  “Luke, based on nearly a lifetime of reading, research, and contemplation, I have to agree with Tyler.  Prayer doesn’t work.  Our dialog on the God subject will likely take quite a while.  Recall I’ve mentioned that my experience of walking away from the Christian faith took years.  I suspect yours will too.  I encourage you to read an article.  Here is the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/31/health/31pray.html.  I’m not saying that the Templeton research project is absolute proof that prayer doesn’t work.  It certainly isn’t proof there isn’t some form of supernatural being out there somewhere.  However, I believe it cannot be dismissed as a fluke.  It was a double-blind, statistically-sound, study that indicated praying for sick folks simply had no effect (it appears to have made folks sicker).  I encourage you to read it carefully. 

As to your reference to ‘many miracles have occurred in church,’ I respectfully disagree.  If you could recall and focus on any one of them microscopically, you would conclude that the result you refer to as a miracle is explainable in total by natural means.  As an example, what I’m trying to say is that just because two years ago the church family and community had prayed for Eugene Lackey and his cancer had gone into remission, certainly didn’t mean such health improvement was caused by the prayers.  If you had the time to explore, you would find that this type thing happens all the time.  Even to people who are not believers and who have not been prayed for.  For the love of God (sorry!), please don’t ever discount the power of humanity here, especially the intelligence, skills, and experience of the many doctors and other health care workers who were involved.

It is rather easy to ‘want’ to conclude that good results come from God.  But, what about bad results?  Consider, what will Pastor Caleb, Deidre, and all the others praying for Eugene say if Mr. Lackey dies from cancer?  I must warn you, but you already know this since you’ve been in a fundamentalist Southern Baptist Church all your life.  Upon his death they will say, ‘God knows best.  He is mysterious.  His thoughts and ways are high above us.  Praise God.’  Only to someone knee-deep in faith would such thinking be reasonable.  To unbelievers like me their conclusions are fully deluded.”

I ended my email with a strong exhortation for Luke to remain fully committed to keeping our conversations totally private.

The news buzzing around the Fellowship Hall Wednesday night didn’t come as a complete surprise.  For whatever reason, yesterday after Elton’s funeral, Rebecca had discovered her home had been burglarized while her and Elton had been away at Gulf Shores. 

During Prayer Meeting, the news shared was more focused and fully surprising.  So much that it scared me to death.  A hidden motion-sensitive camera in Elton’s library had captured a tall man wearing a black toboggan easily accessing the hidden safe and removing several boxes of valuable contents.  Prayers from three different people pleaded with God to guide police and detectives in their search for the brazen burglar, and to give peace and comfort to the grieving Rebecca.

I could hardly sit still during the remainder of the service.  As I walked out of the auditorium I felt the long stare by Doug Barber revealed his knowledge I was the sought-after criminal.  As I drove home I pushed my emotions aside and restored my confidence by reviewing the steps I had taken to keep my identity concealed: the black toboggan, the long black wig protruding from underneath the toboggan, the black beard, the fake Roman nose, the skin-colored gloves that included a large scar along the top side of my left hand, and a set of false teeth that distorted the shape of my mouth, even my face.  My long sleeve black tee-shirt and black jeans were common.  The black poncho I had removed after entering the house was easily available.  Not to forget, the dark, thick glasses (thankfully without magnification) would also greatly detour even the best detective. 

After arriving home, I almost sat in my recliner.  This would only have made matters worse.  Right now, I didn’t need to ponder what I had just learned.  This would not be productive.  Instead, I pulled down the bag used in the Doug Barber burglary and placed the contents on the kitchen table.

I first looked at the pill bottles.  There were at least twenty.  Several of them contained some type liquid.  Others contained five to ten pills of all shapes and colors.   None of these bottles included any type of label or other form of description.  The remaining two bottles contained ten pills each and were marked, “Quaalude-300.”  I had a vague memory of having heard the word ‘Quaalude,’ but had no idea what ailment it had been used to treat.

Goggle quickly came to the rescue.  One website revealed that Quaalude-300 was a brand name for methaqualone, a drug first patented in the US in 1962. It was prescribed as a sedative, a muscle relaxant and as treatment for insomnia. Although Quaalude-300 was a non-barbiturate, the drug did have barbiturate-like effects.  It depressed the central nervous system, reduced heart and respiration rates, and numbed the fingers and toes. 

Another website stated, “frequent users of Quaalude-300 could have developed a tolerance to the drug, and methaqualone overdoses could result in death.”  A third website described the process of how in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, people increasingly used the drug recreationally, and it had been off the market in the US since 1982.

I walked to my closet and returned with a shoe box and placed all the pill bottles inside.  The cheap jewelry, including two pocket watches, several pairs of earrings, and the two gold necklaces from the King Edward Cigar box, didn’t interest me.  Neither did the locket, even though the old photograph of the young woman registered with my mind that I had seen her before.

I set aside the rare looking coins for now.  I turned my attention to the old Smith & Wesson.  Again, with the help of Google, I learned that it was a 38 caliber.  It had been initially introduced in 1950 at the International Association of Chiefs of Police (IACP) convention in 1950.  A vote was held there to name the new revolver.  It was forever dubbed the “Chiefs Special.”  The old box the pistol lay in looked to be original.  I guessed that Doug or maybe his father had purchased the pistol, maybe as a collector’s item, making sure to hold on to the box for posterity purposes.

I fingered through the contents of the two accordion file folders.  They seemed to be typed notes from Bible studies, each referencing The Shepherd, the long-standing Sunday School quarterly published by the Southern Baptist Convention for many decades.  I recalled Doug had taught an adult Sunday School class for years.  The two folders were used to keep separate his studies from the Old and New Testaments.  Each of the two to four-page documents was stapled and contained a title, scripture references, and the date they were apparently used to teach a Sunday morning class.

The five or six standard manila folders all contained copies of Sand Mountain Reporter articles, ranging in subject matter from Boaz High School football, to news about area churches, and local crimes.  One folder was marked, “Safe House.”  The file name intrigued me, so I opened it seeing it contained several articles spanning the 1970’s starting in 1973.  I flipped to the back of the file and unfolded the oldest article.  The title was, “Lighthouse vs. Safehouse.”  I had heard of both.  The latter came about after I graduated from high school in 1972.  The Lighthouse, a First Baptist Church of Christ ministry, was started when I was in the tenth grade.  It was located on South Main Street next door to First State Bank of Boaz.  It was a weekend hangout for young people of all ages.

The article described the different worldviews of Randy and Ricky Miller.  Randy was the youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ and was instrumental in forming the Lighthouse ministry.  Ricky was his brother, who moved to Boaz during my freshman year to teach Biology at Boaz High School.  The article writer did her best to contrast the brothers.  Ricky was a secular humanist and believed his brother was deluded, working tirelessly to capture the minds and hearts of all the local young people.  The article shared how six local churches, led by First Baptist Church of Christ, had attempted to persuade the Boaz City Council not to issue a business license to Ricky Miller to operate what he dubbed the Safehouse (located directly across Main Street from the Lighthouse).  The churches had been unsuccessful.

The other articles in the file labeled Safe House, painted a rather sad picture.  The most recent article, dated November 29, 1973, was titled, “Safe House, Not so Safe.”  It revealed the story of Ricky Miller’s death by gunshot wound two days after thanksgiving.  At press time, there were no suspects.

I sat aside the two accordion file folders and opened one of the three black journals.  Inside the front hardback cover was printed in big, bold print, “1971/Sophomore.”  Underneath was a preprinted sentence with a long blank line where Angela had printed in pencil, “Angela Ericson.”  I checked the other two journals.  They followed suit: “1972/Junior,” and “1973/Senior.”  After scanning the first few pages of each of the three journals, I concluded Angela had kept a detailed record of her last three years at Boaz High School. 

It was nearly 9:30 p.m., and I was sleepy.  Normally, I’m wide awake until midnight.  I decided to stop my inspection and retire to my recliner, figuring a thirty-minute nap would give me a final burst of energy to return to the kitchen table.  For some reason I was inspired to read Angela’s words.  I clumsily stood up and knocked two of the black journals off onto the floor.  A folded sheet of paper, mauve-colored, slipped halfway out of one of the journals.  I leaned over and picked both up and opened the “1973/Senior” to the last page.  This is where Angela (or someone) had slid the sheet of stationary that clearly matched the one I had discovered in the Elton and Rebecca Rawlins’s safe.  Not only was the paper the same, so was the message and the author.  Randy Miller had once again written: ““Dear Angela: Go forth and live your life for God.  Your sins are forgiven, and your secret is safe with me.”  The letter was signed, “Pastor Randy.” 

I was now even more intrigued but was more overcome by sleep.  I walked to my recliner and didn’t wake until I heard Dad’s tiller humming away at the edge of the garden right next to my front yard.  I looked at my iPhone.  It was 7:30 a.m., thirty minutes before my first appointment.  So much for a quick nap.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 12

I had just walked into the Alfa office Tuesday morning when Nell, the eccentric secretary and the only carry-over from the time the company was known as Farm Bureau, said, “a Connie Stewart just called you.  I left you a message on your desk.”

It wasn’t 8:00 a.m. and the tall and lovely Connie was good to her promise. I walked inside my office and laid my briefcase on the edge of my desk and sat down.  The pink phone message said, “Call her back within the next hour or late afternoon.  She will be working in her yards most all day.”  I couldn’t quite see the naturally tanned Connie setting out flowers and shoveling mulch.  She seemed the type to have a yardman do the hard and dirty work while she lay out beside the pool.  If she had a pool.

Before I dialed her number, I took a side trip.  I pulled out my Marshall County phone book and scoured all three columns of S’s.  There she was, Connie Stewart, 468 Sandor Drive.  I didn’t recognize the street name.  Within a few seconds Google Maps revealed it as a connecting street between Ross and Lindo Drive in the Boaz Country Club area, the section developed in the early seventies.  My mind spun up an image formed just a couple of weeks ago.  I had conducted a home visit with an older couple who lived on the corner of Ross Drive.  After the interview, one producing a $150,000 annuity sale, I had driven in the opposite direction from where I had arrived.  I now knew I had driven Sandor Drive and had noticed a beautiful white-brick, ranch style home.  The home’s neatness and beauty were certainly accentuated by the lovely landscaping.  To me, it now seemed the sixty-plus year-old Connie invested a considerable amount of time in her home and yard.  I guess that was reasonable since she didn’t have a man around to distract her.

“Connie, it’s Fred.  I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“No problem.  I just figured you were an early riser, being a farm boy.”  She no doubt remembered my growing up years out in the country because of her friendship with Deidre.

“Don’t mention it, that brings back some backbreaking memories.  Is now a good time to talk?” 

“It is.  I’m ready to decide on that long-term health care policy we talked about Sunday night.  That issue is consuming my thinking.  I want to know if I can afford a good policy.  If not, then I need to forget it.  I have other things to deal with.”  Connie said.

“We can move on it at your convenience.  The process involves Alfa’s underwriting department reviewing your medical history.  Of course, this assumes you submit an application for coverage.”  I wanted Connie to know I was ready when she was.

“Would you mind coming here?  I would prefer a private meeting instead of meeting in your office.  No offense intended of course, I’m just a little weird that way.”  Connie said.  I thought I heard her whispering something in the background.  Maybe I was wrong about her, maybe she had a boyfriend or something.  Gosh, I never considered that she might be lesbian.  Maybe that’s why she never married.  Traditionally, that is.

“Whatever works best for you.”

“This might be asking too much but could you come now?  I really want to deal with this as soon as possible.”

“I’m flexible this morning.  No appointments and just a pile of paperwork.  The latter can wait.  What is your address?”  I didn’t want her to think I could just jump in my car and drive straight to her.  I needed to play this on the cool side.  Sixty-four years old and I was concerned about being cool.  What an idiot I could be.

“Four sixty-eight Sandor Drive.  That’s in Boaz Country Club.”

“I think I know where that is.  I was in that neighborhood a few weeks ago.  Should I drive over?  Now?”

“Please.  Just come on in the front door, I’ll leave it unlocked.  Molly and I will be straight back in the sun room.”

I had Nell pull Alfa’s long-term health packet from a row of filing cabinets along the back wall.  The packet included a colorful brochure reflecting people of all ages, intending to softly influence someone into protecting their families hard-earned assets from decimation due to the high cost of living too long.  The packet also included the application, a HIPPA form (medical information release authorization), and all related forms to submit to underwriting.

At 8:15, I was gently pushing open Connie’s front door that she had left just barely cracked.  I walked in a large foyer and could see sunlight streaming into a large den from the room Connie had mentioned.  I announced my appearance and started walking across the den noticing a room full of expensive antiques.

“Come on back.”  It was the soft but commanding voice of the woman who had always intimidated me.  What in heck was I doing here?  Now, I was thoroughly confounded by the woman who was such a mystery back in high school.

As soon as I entered the sun room I saw Molly.  Laying across Connie’s lap, as she sat in a swing along the back wall.  Molly too was gorgeous, but in a different sort of way. 

“Fred, meet Molly.  Pet her head and let her smell your hand for just a few seconds.  She’ll warm to you easily since I’m giving her permission.”  I learned Molly was a black Yorkie.”  I complied with Connie’s instructions and then sat down in a love seat perpendicular to the swing.

“She’s beautiful.  How long have you had her?”  I asked, wanting to be polite but also not wanting to do anything to offend Connie.  I rarely walked on egg shells around anyone, but again, Connie was intimidating. 

“Thirteen years.  She’s getting old.  She constantly battles bronchitis and has had cataract surgery on both eyes.  It’s going to kill me when she’s gone.”

“Pets, especially dogs, change your life.  Susan and I had Golden Retrievers for over thirty years.  They, like Yorkies, make wonderful companions.”

“I was so sorry to hear about Susan.  You two were a beautiful couple.  I know it still must be difficult though it’s been, what, five years?”  Connie asked.

“It will be this September.  Moving home to Boaz has helped a lot.  I had to get away from Huntsville.  Everywhere I went I saw Susan.  We had lived there since a few months after I graduated from law school.”

Connie and I continued to reminisce out in the sun room for nearly thirty minutes.  Finally, she suggested we move to the dining room where we could talk business.  She was quick to absorb the key features of Alfa’s health policy and by 9:00 she was ready to complete the application.  I was a little surprised she hadn’t balked when I told her the premium was nearly $5,000 per year.  Clearly, she had done her research and had already decided to make the investment if she could find a policy that offered continually increasing benefits set to match the rise in the consumer price index.  I was thankful Alfa had pioneered such a feature.

We were finalizing the application when Connie said that Rebecca Rawlins was also interested in this type policy.  Apparently, Connie had called Rebecca right after we had gotten off the phone.  I thought it was strange, given the timing.  I knew Elton’s funeral was this afternoon.  I think Connie saw in my face that I was puzzled.

“I think I mentioned to you how close Rebecca and I are and have been since high school.  We talk about everything.  And, I don’t think it is a secret around town that Rebecca and Elton were not that close.  To put it bluntly, she’s ready to get on with her life.  That sounds cold doesn’t it, especially since the woman hasn’t yet buried her husband.” 

I continued to think this turn in conversation was odd, maybe even disrespectful, but wanted to know more.  “I was surprised when I heard Elton died.  From what I knew he was improving.  The heart attack, and when it happened, certainly was tragic.”

“To me, the car wreck was where the real tragedy was avoided.  But I am partial to Rebecca.  Elton wasn’t supposed to be driving.  He had passed out back two or three months ago and by law was not allowed to drive for at least six months.  If Rebecca had been driving, she would have certainly been the one being buried.”  Connie said.

“I haven’t heard anything about the accident.  What exactly happened?”  I asked.

“They were returning from Gulf Shores and got t-boned in Foley, right on the main drag.  You know where Lambert’s Restaurant is?  That intersection between it and the Hampton Inn.”

“Sounds like Elton might have run that red light.”

“That’s what I thought to begin with, but seems like several witnesses saw it happen.  They say he clearly had the right of way.  Since I watch many crime shows on TV and Netflix I think it was intentional.  Crazy thought uh?”

“Connie’s statement perked my ears and my mind.  For whatever reason, one I think might have been what Dad had said during Sunday’s lunch, something like, “she’s already murdered three husbands,” speaking of Rebecca, my mind wanted to agree with Connie’s declaration.

In less than five minutes all the paperwork was complete, and Connie had encouraged me to call Rebecca, tomorrow if I could.  I loaded my briefcase with the brochure and all the forms and stood up.  Connie walked me to the front door and called for Molly to come.  She had, by orders, remained in the sun room as Connie and I had transferred to the dining room.

“Tell Mr. Fred bye.”  Connie said reaching down for an eager Molly.

“It was very nice meeting you Molly.  I hope to see you again soon.”  I wanted to crawl in a hole.  Quickly.  Why I had phrased my statement that way I will never know.  It was like a less-than-subtle hint to Connie that I would like to come back.  I just as quickly added.  “I’ll see you when I bring Miss Connie’s policy.”  A lawyer must be quick on his feet.

I glanced at Connie and there was that perpetual smile.   This time she had added a slight rise of an eyebrow.  I tried to ignore it.  “Let me know if you need more information.  Also, I assume you will call me when the policy is issued?”

“I will.  We will need to meet again.  It won’t take long.  I like to review the final policy with you and Alfa requires you sign a receipt.”  I said, feeling more confident.

“Just call me when it arrives.”

“I will.  And, thanks for putting your confidence in Alfa Insurance Company.”  It was a line I always used.  It was a statement I truly meant.  Connie, and all my other clients, didn’t have to choose Alfa.  There were a dozen other strong insurance companies they could choose just as easily.

“And in you.”  Connie said.  “I’m confident you wouldn’t mislead me, that you are a man of your word.  That’s very important to me.” 

Awkwardly, I shook Connie’s hand and again thanked her.  I walked out on her front porch and was turning to walk down the steps onto her sidewalk when she said.  “Be sure and call me.”  I looked towards her and saw that sly smile, more sly than usual.  Somehow her smile and something about how she was leaning against the frame of her front door emboldened me.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”  I was kind of glad I said it, but then I didn’t know what to do.  Our eyes locked for just a few seconds, and I turned and walked back to my car.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 11

Last week when I met with Pastor Caleb and he mentioned the church’s Mosler safe, I was glad I hadn’t revealed my connection to the oldest safe manufacturing company in America.  At the end of that meeting I had made a mental note to review Papa Martin’s journals on the specifics of what he had recorded about the Mosler safe sold to First Baptist Church of Christ.

The sale had taken place in 1899, June.  I thought it an odd, even a rare, coincidence that the transaction had taken place the same month in which Papa Martin was born.  Not only had he, starting in 1919 when he first went to work for the Mosler Company, began recording the make and model of every safe sold since its inception in 1874, but also the name and address of the buyer.  Sometimes, if he knew, he would write out a narrative, placing the buyer in a sort of story frame. 

When I arrived home from the Fishermen concert last night, I had found Papa’s 1899 to 1904 journal and the June 23rd entry that listed the Model T20 Mosler safe the church had purchased.  It was the same model Mr. Whitman had purchased for his Thomas Avenue home in 1924.  Papa had written, “this was the first safe purchased by anyone from the area in which I grew up.”  Papa had told me over the years that he would sometimes go back through his journals, after he learned new information and add a little to the original entry.  He must have done this with the church’s original narrative because running vertically along the edge of the page he had written on October 28, 1979, less than a year before he retired, “Mosler has now sold six safes to the Boaz area.  They were purchased by: First Baptist Church of Christ, Edward Fenns Whitman, City of Boaz, Radford Hardware, Doug Barber, and Boaz High School.”

I was surprised I had never read this entry.  For whatever reason, when I had originally discovered the First Baptist Church of Christ entry, I had ignored the vertically aligned add-on.  I reread Papa’s last entry and noted he had not said there were no other Mosler safes in and around the Boaz area.  He would have no way of knowing that.  There was always the possibility, maybe even likely possibility, of someone moving into the area with their own Mosler purchased when they lived in Scranton, New Jersey, or Boise, Idaho, etc.  And, it could just as likely be that someone, a long resident of the Boaz area, bought a Mosler, used, via Ebay, Craigslist, or through some other used equipment venue.

I was glad I had discovered Papa Martin’s listing of local Mosler purchasers.  But, the only one I was interested in, right now at least, was the one I had known about for nearly eighteen years, the one owned since the early seventies by Doug Barber.  It too was a Model T20 (was there any other kind?).  The thing I hadn’t known was where Barber’s safe was located.  It was just as likely located at his home or his pharmacy.  It was a stroke of luck that in 2015 Doug had engaged the highly capable firm of Water’s Security to upgrade his outdated system at Good Neighbor Pharmacy.  Noah had finished up the installation himself and, late one night, being all alone, had thoroughly inspected every inch of the sprawling drug store.  There was no Mosler safe to be found.  That meant only one thing, the Model T20 was somewhere in Doug and Angela’s house on Debbie Street.  It was there, I would be paying a little visit in less than six hours.

This adventure was much riskier than my visit to the Rawlins on Thomas Avenue.  Doug was still in town, working.  However, I was thankful he had mentioned last night that he would be a bachelor for nearly a week, since Angela had left mid-afternoon for a multi-day visit with her sister in Montgomery.  This news had accelerated mine and Noah’s plans by at least a couple of months.  I had called him last night and we had carefully crafted a plan.  He would stakeout Doug as he worked at the pharmacy and if he chose to head out during our target times Noah would confront Doug with the excuse his alarm system was pinging, anything to delay Doug from encroaching upon my private time.

Heaven itself was the real reason Noah and I decided late afternoon that it was a go.  Yesterday, the weather forecast was mixed, there was a thirty percent chance of rain.  Today, Heaven blessed the righteous and the burglars alike with an easily modified forecast, racing the probabilities all the way to a hundred percent.  By the time I arrived at Willard Avenue and tucked a borrowed car behind a thick hedgerow next to the Boaz Golf Club, I realized our plan had flaws.  It was quite a walk to Doug’s house on the far end of Debbie Street.  I wished I had arranged for Noah to drop me off at the corner of Eugene and Debbie, but that would have created its own set of issues.  As I walked along the edge of Debbie in pouring rain I prayed no one would see me.  Surely, mine and Noah’s cause was somewhat righteous.

I was thankful Doug and Angela liked their privacy.  They had a six-foot wooden fence around the enclosed pool at the back of their house.  I was also thankful Noah had loaned me his scanner.  It wasn’t the typical police scanner.  This was a device Noah had created and for which he had obtained a patent.  He, at my request, had declined to market it.  It was touch and go whether it was legal.  Before using the device, I had conducted a quick inspection attempting to determine whether the house had a burglar alarm.  I hadn’t seen any signs. 

In less than a minute I had tripped the back-door lock and was inside the kitchen.  The small scanner looked like an iPhone.  It was indicating there was no active alarm systems in the house.  Some relief was in order but only a real burglar would know the feeling of dread, trepidation, and outright fear that came close to disabling the most determined man or woman once he or she was illegally inside another’s home.

After searching the master bedroom and bath, and a large study, my stomach turned nauseous.  I concluded the safe was either not here or was hidden behind a wall.  The latter would kill the chances of success since I didn’t have the combination and was going to have to cut a hole in the back of the safe.  That would take nearly an hour.  I quickly scoured the other two bedrooms, another bathroom, and the den.  I turned towards the back-door entrance to call it a day when I saw the door beside the pantry.  No way would someone put a Mosler masterpiece out in their garage.  I hesitated to look but was drawn by curiosity.  I walked over and opened the door.  I didn’t have to walk inside and look around.  I saw it along the outside wall, across from the entrance to the breakfast nook as you entered the house.

Within two minutes I had removed about twenty boxes from around the safe and had rolled it away from the wall enough for me to access its back side.  I had thirteen hundred degrees piercing the thick metal of the outside wall for ten minutes when I heard a car driving by.  Doug’s garage doors were closed.  For the first time, it dawned on me the doors had windows and my torch would be lighting up the entire garage.  Burglars are so dumb, especially this one.  I lucked out when the car rolled on down the street as the rain continued to pour.  I locked the handle on my high-priced torch and propped it temporarily.  I walked over and used my duct tape to seal cardboard over the three narrow windows. 

The thick plate steel fell outside the safe at 5:45, fifteen minutes before Doug was scheduled to close the Good Neighbor Pharmacy.  I had to hurry.  It didn’t take long for me to peer with flashlight inside the safe.  It was loaded down.  This was a problem.  I had to someway reach through with a short flat-headed screwdriver all the way to the front door and trip the plate that held the combination locking system in place.  After another three minutes of trying to squeeze my hand between boxes that were stacked beside and on top of each other, I finally felt the safe’s front wall.  After a small miracle occurred, I looked at my watch: 5:55.  I hadn’t figured on the two layers of thick duct tape Doug had used to keep the locking mechanism in place.  The contrary thought quickly raced through my head that maybe Doug had read enough to know that the back-door method was the only feasible way for a burglar to gain access via the safe’s front door. 

Whatever.  I rolled the safe, using all my strength, to a better access position and pulled open the front door.  I started opening and discarding box after box.  Most of them contained old pill bottles, filled with multi-colored and multi-shaped pills.  A few boxes had an assortment of jewelry, pocket watches, and earrings, all looking cheap, almost common.  I found two flatter type boxes containing some rare looking coins each inside its own plastic sleeve.  I tossed them into an extra bag I had brought along, maybe subliminally believing Doug’s safe wouldn’t be as tidy as Elton’s.

The time was 6:03.  Doug was now talking with Noah.  Our agreement had been if I hadn’t called his burner phone from my burner phone by 6:00 p.m., that he would walk inside the pharmacy if the front door wasn’t locked.  If it was, then he would wait on Noah to come out.  I had already determined there wasn’t a usable rear door on the backside of the old building.  I couldn’t see Doug walking down the narrow alleyway dodging old and unused dumpsters, and two disabled Volkswagen bugs.

I reverted to plan B.  I would grab everything I thought might contain something valuable and zip them up in my extra bag.  There were two accordion file folders, several regular manila folders, three black journals that reminded me of Papa Martin’s, and a heavy box that I quickly opened to find a Smith & Wesson 38 caliber pistol.  It too was old.  For good measure, I grabbed an old King Edward Cigar box that contained an assortment of coins, rings, gold necklaces, and a locket I didn’t take time to open. 

At 6:09, I was back in my borrowed Malibu and turning left on Pleasant Hill Road.  I dialed Noah’s burner phone, but he didn’t answer.  I concluded he was still talking with Doug, maybe inspecting the security system’s control panel in a storage room next to the rear door.  At 6:15, I made my second attempt to reach my best friend, hoping he hadn’t run into any clichés.  “I’m leaving, walking across the parking lot.  Doug’s still inside.  Is everything a high-five?”  I was glad Noah could stay on our agreed-upon script, at least with the last statement.

“Yep, no real issues.  But, change of plans.  The train car’s full of junk and needs sorting.  I’m returning to base and will forward an update when the tracks are clear.”  I knew there was nothing really to gain by meeting Noah and dividing up the haul.  I felt it was safe for me to exchange my Malibu for my truck at Tyson’s crowded parking lot and drive home with the loot.  If there was anything worth keeping Noah and I could decide how to divide and conquer later.

At 7:04, I pulled under my prefab carport beside my hundred-plus-year-old home.  It was still pouring, but not as bad.  When inside, I shoved my tool bag onto the top shelf in a closet next to the kitchen.  I laid the extra bag on the oak-planked table, another piece of ancient furniture built by the long-gone, but never forgotten, Stonewall Martin.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 10

I slept later than I had intended.  I woke up just in time to get dressed for Training Union.  I wasn’t sure that was still the name First Baptist Church of Christ called it.  It had been called Life’s Way or Learning the Way, or something similar, at First Baptist Huntsville where Susan and I attended during the thirty-three years we lived in the Rocket City before she died.

Pastor Caleb had triggered my interest when he announced at the end of the morning service, and after the long prayer for Elton, that new classes were beginning tonight.  I was barely listening when he stated the names and teachers of the first two classes.  That changed when he said, “Doug Barber will be teaching a class on death.”  I think the Pastor called it, “Dying with Dignity.”  He encouraged everyone, especially those with aging parents, to attend this six-week series. 

There were only seven or eight women in the R.P. Steed Sunday School room when I arrived.  No men except for one.  I took a seat along the back wall, behind everyone else, and looked to the man standing at the front behind a small podium.  I hadn’t seen Doug Barber in years.  He didn’t say anything to me when I walked in but kept looking at me, even to the point he was staring.  “Are you Fred Martin?”  He finally asked, still pouring his dark-circle eyes into my face, like he was trying to peer inside my brain.

“That’s me.  Are you Doug Barber?”  I honestly couldn’t see the younger Barber in the old man’s face.  He looked to be as old as Dad but that couldn’t be.  Dad was eighty-nine, and Doug would be no older than his mid-seventies.

“The one and only Douglas Barber.  Sharp of mind and dull of body.  It’s been a long time Fred.”

Just as I started to become a smart ass of sorts, like ask Doug if he was still working in the drug trade, I almost fell out of my chair.  At first, for a few seconds, I didn’t recognize her.  My mind quickly convinced me it was Connie Stewart.  I would have easily and instantly recognized her profile, but I hadn’t seen her straight on, or face-to-face, in a lifetime, probably at her high school graduation.  I reminded myself that was the last time I was at Boaz High School, other than the recent Career day, when I had gone to see Deidre Martin give her valedictorian speech.

Doug started the class after Connie sat down on the front row just in front of his podium.  He spent the next thirty minutes touching on a broad list of topics, everything from the need for us all to start preparing for our own deaths, to developing a resource plan for our parents if they were still living.  He also outlined the six sessions we would have together.  The one that I certainly didn’t want to miss would provide the latest research on what happened to the body when we die.  I thought I already knew everything I needed to know about that: basically, the body decomposed.  The initial phase, I believe, is called rigor mortis.

Doug used the tired old phrase, “ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” to refer to the natural process of dying and the body returning to the earth.  He referred to Genesis 3:19 as though he was quoting but I knew this wasn’t how the text read.  I knew it by heart, Mother had quoted it a million times over the years: “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”  No one said anything to Doug’s little slip and he ended his answer to his question by saying, “I’ve read that when a body is buried six feet down, without a coffin, in ordinary soil, an embalmed adult normally takes eight to twelve years to decompose to a skeleton.  

Doug transitioned to what would have certainly perked Mother’s ears.  He said, “we gain hope by hearing God’s plan to give us a new body in Heaven.”  If for no other reason, I hoped to hear something that I could share with Mother.  She was often intrigued or troubled over how and when this transformation would take place. 

Doug dismissed class a few minutes early saying he had to run to the pharmacy.  I suspected he continued his longtime practice of being available for his customers at any time.  I think his business, Good Neighbor Pharmacy, had a tag line.  Something like, “Always available for the sick, or never closed to the sick.”

After Doug left I got up and wasn’t far behind him when I heard my name called.  I turned, and Connie Stewart was standing just outside the entrance to our classroom.

She repeated my name and said, “Don’t you work for Alfa Insurance Company?” 

I told her that I did.

“Can I ask you a question?”  She asked as I walked back towards her.

“Sure.  I’ll try to answer it.  I’m still fairly new to the insurance business so I’m still learning.”  It was kind of an elementary statement.  My thoughts were more, ‘how in the hell do you still look almost the same as you did when you graduated from high school?’  I didn’t ask that question and I forced myself to avoid staring into her deep blue eyes.

“I bet you’ve run into this.  Mine and your parents are probably close to the same age.  I’m interested in a long-term health care policy.  I’ve been reading up on them and heard Alfa has one of the best and most cost-effective as far as premiums go.”  Connie said, leaning back against the door frame.  She hadn’t lost any of her height.  I remembered her as a tall and lanky majorette in the Boaz band.  I could see her coming off the football field, strutting her stuff, when me and the rest of the team were coming out of the field house after halftime.  I could still see her perfectly shaped legs.  And, at the time, she was only a sophomore.

“Alfa does have a great policy, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck.  Underwriting won’t consider anyone over eighty and then, the rates are astronomical.”  I was glad I had worked some in this market.

“No.  Sorry.  I wasn’t clear.  I know I’ve waited too long to pursue a policy for Mom and Dad.  I’m interested in one for myself.”  Connie said.

“Okay.  That’s a different story.  I believe these type policies are still cost-effective for someone our age.  Hopefully, you’ll be like your parents and live a very long time.”  It was a miracle of sorts I could formulate a simple sentence and voice it without babbling.  Why was I so shaken with such a simple conversation?  Connie Stewart, the mysterious Connie Stewart, was to me like talking with the late Princess Dianna.

“You know I’m two years younger than you?”  Connie said with a smile.  I didn’t know if she was trying to make me feel bad by being older or if she was trying to lighten things up a little. 

I don’t know how long I stood there reminiscing about the one and only date we had.  I was a junior.  Susan and I had been dating on and off for over a year, but we were taking a break, what she had said we needed to do to make sure we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together.  When I called Connie to ask her to go with me to a basketball game, I knew I was way out of my league.  I was shocked that she had agreed.  I can’t remember a thing we said during the entire basketball game.  But, I do remember walking her to the back door of her house when I dropped her off.  It was awkward at best.  I wanted to end our first date with at least a kiss, any type of kiss would have been fine.  As I had leaned in, I still remember it like it was yesterday, she had leaned out.  That was the end of my days in the big league.

“I may be sixty-four years old, but I still have a pretty good memory.  You were in Deidre’s class.  Right?”  I asked.

“And Rebecca’s.  After church, I’m heading over there to see my very best friend.”

“She and Deidre were close.  At one time, anyway.”  I said.

“If you still have half a memory, you should recall how close the three of us were in high school.  Have you forgotten Rebecca and Deidre sat behind us at the Albertville Coliseum during our one and only date?”  I couldn’t believe she had remembered we had a date during high school.

“Don’t remind me.  I actually don’t remember Rebecca and Deidre being there, but I could never forget that disastrous night.”

“Well thanks.  I enjoyed it myself.  I’m sorry it was so bad for you.  But, I’m not surprised since you never called me back.”

“That didn’t come out right.  I was the disaster.  Quite frankly, you were too good for me.  I was such a dunce.  I was embarrassed.  That’s why I never called you back.  I couldn’t face the guaranteed rejection.”  I said.

“People can be so dumb and so wrong.  All you had to do was call.  Anyway, we’re going to be late for the service.  I always love hearing the Fishermen sing.”  I had forgotten the popular group was scheduled for the entire worship hour.

Connie walked back into the R.P. Steed Sunday School room for her purse.  I took the opportunity to stare at her rear and her naturally tanned legs.  Her skin had always been dark and beautiful.  Her bright flowered dress didn’t hide her figure.  Sixty-two.  It’s a miracle.  She turned and almost caught me staring.  I had to say something.  “If you want I can help you find a long-term health care policy.  But, I’ll need a little more information, things like daily benefit amounts you would want, deductibles, waiting periods, things like that.”

She was looking straight into my eyes, smiling, almost as though she had eyes in the back of her head.  “I’ll give you a call in a few days.  You work out of the Boaz office, right?”

“I do.” She walked on by me, kept smiling and was halfway across the small auditorium headed towards the stairway, when she turned and said.  “I’ll try not to forget to call you.”  She seemed to always be smiling.  I couldn’t hardly move from where I had stood frozen beside the Sunday School door.  As I often do, I pondered what conversation I had just experienced.  The sound of the Fishermen’s first song making its way down the stairwell was enough to bring me back to reality. 

After the concert, I drove home with a whole new appreciation for Connie Stewart and a determination that if she didn’t call me tomorrow, I would call her on Tuesday. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice in one lifetime, no disrespect meant for my dear Susan.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 9

Sunday, Pastor Caleb ended the morning service with a long prayer for Elton Rawlins.  It was almost like the pastor was conducting the actual funeral even though it wasn’t scheduled until Tuesday.  His final statement got my attention: “And Lord, we ask that you bathe Miss Minnie with your grace that she might find comfort and peace during these dark days.”  I made a mental note to find out who Miss Minnie was.

Lunch at Mom and Dad’s on Sunday’s was almost mandatory.  From what I hear, before I moved back to Boaz in March 2014, this rule was more flexible.  I believe Mother thought there was safety and power in large numbers.  With all her family, except me, real Bible thumpers, she subtly manipulated the makings of a mini-revival around Papa Stonewall’s giant dining room table shortly after noon every Sabbath.  One thing that wasn’t flexible was the seating arrangements.  This had long ago been established, while Susan was alive.  We drove from Huntsville for the grand gathering at least half a dozen times per year.  The lineup further refined itself as soon as the four grandchildren were old enough to feed themselves.  Susan’s chair, across from me and besides Dad, continued to remain unfilled until, as Mom hoped, I would eventually remarry.

After everyone was seated and Dad blessed the food and our bodies, Luke, who was seated to my left (because of Mom’s novel seating chart) grabbed a hot biscuit from the plate in front of him and then popped a question.  “Brother Robert told the group this morning that the universe is finely tuned by God for us humans; what do you think Grandmama?”  I was glad he hadn’t directed the question to me.

I guess Deidre couldn’t resist.  “Luke, pass the bread down this way for your mom and dad.  As to your question, the Bible is clear.  God created man and woman in His image.  This would have to mean he first created a world that was just right for us.”

I filled my plate with potato salad, baked ham, black-eyed peas, and a host of raw vegetables including tomatoes, peppers, and onions.  I had learned not to offer an opinion unless I was pinned to the wall.  I think all the adults, other than Mom, had learned to bypass my street when they were seeking Bible truths.

“I’ve read that just a tiny change in the distance between the earth and the sun would kill us all.  If it were a little farther away, we would freeze to death.  If it were a little closer, we would fry.”  Ed added.

“Pass the biscuits back this way sis.”  I sometimes was able to distance me and the rest of us from potentially explosive subjects.  But today my power lay dormant.

Luke turned and looked toward me and said, “what do you think Uncle Fred?” 

I had to say something.  “I’ve never thought about it much, but I did read or hear this analogy.  If you think of a standard two thousand square foot house as the universe as we know it, the earth would be represented as a grain of sand over in one corner of the den.  I’m really not sure how to square that with the Bible, or why 99.99% of the house couldn’t support a flea.”

It surprised me that no one followed up on my opinion, especially if they caught my intent that God must be small himself if he is like us humans.

Maybe it was Dad’s way of dulling the edges.  He interjected, “Deidre, I assume you’ll be going to Elton’s funeral?”  I took it that he was asking her and not simply making a statement.

“I am.  Rebecca seems to be doing well, but I don’t want her to ever wonder why I wasn’t there.  If nothing else, it will be interesting to see Jessica.”

“Whose Jessica?” Brad, Diedre’s son-in-law, asked.

“Elton’s first wife, and the mother of their two children.”

“Seems like only yesterday that you and Rebecca were inseparable, school, spend-the-night parties, and ball games.”  Dad continued to interject.

“Don’t forget cheerleading and chasing the boys.”  Ed added.

“How long have Rebecca and Elton been married?”  I asked, knowing that he had to be twelve to fifteen years older than her, given the difference in mine and Elton’s ages.

“Three, maybe four years.”  Deidre said.

“Why would a good-looking woman like Rebecca marry an old codger like Elton?  She’s sexy enough to snare a man as young as me.”  Ed said, trying to be funny or soliciting an affirmative response to stroke his ego.

“Oh boy, you’re older than Rebecca and she’d lock on to you. If she were desperate for a yardman.”  Diedre said, smiling across the table at the pudgy Edward.

“Thanks, my love.”

Gabby seemed to be interested in her father’s question.  “At least answer Dad.  Did they marry because of love?  I bet Rebecca is a gold-digger.  I’ve heard Elton was loaded.”

“Don’t insult my best friend in all my high school years.  Maybe, Elton was her knight in shining armor.”  Deidre said, her voice trailing like she was dreaming.  She was no longer smiling.

“If you ask me, Elton was pretty brave to marry a woman who had already murdered three husbands.”  Ed offered, surprisingly rude for him.

“Murdered?”  Mom said, taking a sip of coffee.  I hated coffee at mealtimes, other than breakfast.

“Grand kids, Mr. Ed was only kidding.  Rebecca, unfortunately, sadly, lost three husbands, all some sort of tragedy.  Rebecca wouldn’t hurt a flee.”  Deidre was trying to clean up Ed’s mess.

“Elton was a good man, probably loved Rebecca a great deal.  But I suspect he also wanted to help her, take care of her.  Maybe he was like your sis said,” Dad looked over at me.  “He was her knight in shining armor.”

Sis apparently wanted to change the subject.  I was glad she did.  “Mom, do you know how old Miss Minnie is?”  It was the question I had wanted to ask but had already forgotten.

“Let’s see.  She’s at least ten years older than me.  Her and Paul had Elton later in life.  She was probably in her thirties.  I’d say she’s getting close to a hundred.”  Mom seemed confident in her reasoning.  My own mother, at age eighteen, was valedictorian of her Boaz High School class, already married to Dad, and was eagerly anticipating going on to college in accounting.  My own mother, now eighty-eight and fit as a fiddle.

“Where is she now?  I doubt she lives alone.”  I wanted to know more about the woman who had put up with Elton Rawlins for a good seventy-five years.

“Albertville Nursing Home.  She’s been there for years.  Parkinson’s.  Fortunately, well, maybe not, she’s kept her mind.  Now, she probably wishes otherwise.”  Dad added.

“I bet she’s praising God right now for being so good to Elton, taking him on to paradise before her.  She might even be a little jealous.”  Mom said.  I wondered at first whether she was serious.  I looked at her carefully.  She was serious.  I almost made a snide remark, ‘old Elton is probably swindling some old woman out of her mansion.’

Instead, I remembered Dad’s knight in shining armor comment and decided to ask why Rebecca needed rescuing when a loud car horn blew.  Mom got up and looked out the front window.  “It’s a young man in a red car.  Needs a good haircut.”

“Oh, that’s Tyler.  We’re going fishing if that’s okay granddad.”

I was a little surprised that Tyler was driving by himself.  He was just a ninth-grader like Luke.  Maybe, he was already sixteen and had his driver’s license.  If so, I guess he’s failed a grade or two.

“May I be excused?”  Luke said, looking towards Dad.

The meal was great as usual and thankfully I had escaped the ever-reaching, long tentacles that seemed to surface from under and around Papa Stonewall’s giant table.

I drove down the half-mile narrow, hard-packed country lane to my house for a nap.  For some traditions, I was forever thankful.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 8

I had just gotten up Saturday morning when my iPhone vibrated.  It was Noah.  I was thankful he had waited until nearly 8:30. He knew I liked to sleep later on the weekends, a habit formed after I had graduated from Boaz High School and moved away to Auburn University from Martin Mansion in 1972.

“Yep.”  My standard greeting for my best friend.

“Elton Rawlins died late yesterday afternoon.  I feel sorry for Rebecca but sure won’t shed any tears for our dear old friend.”  Noah said.  I could hear the faint sounds of a couple of different voices in the background.

“Don’t try to be funny.  You know you suck at that.”  Noah was the most serious person I had ever met.  Even back in high school he was driven to succeed and rarely would relax or crack a joke.

“What happened?  I heard he might be stable enough to transfer to UAB.”

“Apparently not.  He died during the med flight.  I heard he had a heart attack just before the helicopter landed.  Rebecca saw him die.”  I barely heard Noah while the background noise increased.

“Are you at work?”  I asked.

“Yea, sorry.  I’m with the general contractors doing a walk-through at the new UPS facility in Huntsville.”

“Must be nice working in the big leagues.  One would think you wouldn’t need a part-time job.”  I said, always better at comedy than Noah.

“Don’t go there.  Remember, I don’t exist.  I’m silent you know.  That means I don’t have any job other than Waters Security.”

“Okay Mr. Serious.”

Noah ended his call and I poured a bowl of cereal and sat in my recliner.  Elton Rawlins.  I couldn’t help but speculate a connection between my uninvited visit to his home, and his death.  I concluded that much stranger things happened every day.  The reality was I didn’t know about them.  Neither could Elton know about my visit.

After Noah told me Elton had died, I wanted to reminisce about how all this had gotten started, but cell phones weren’t the best way to discuss such delicate subjects.  I made a mental note to ask Noah next week about his memory of how Elton and Doug Barber crawled under our skin during the three years we played high school football.

Elton Rawlins was a real estate broker with Rawlins Realty, a company his father had started after returning from World War I.  The story goes that Ellijay Rawlins did it mainly on a whim to compete with Ericson Construction and Real Estate, a company, albeit under a slightly different name, that had been around since before the turn of the century.  Ellijay and Benjamin Ericson were lifelong enemies.  I didn’t know why.  As to the other skin-crawler, Doug Barber was a pharmacist who operated his own company,

 Both Elton and Doug were former Boaz High School football players, having graduated in the early 1960’s.  They seemed to be good friends with Coach Hicks since he let them meet and interact with the players, especially in the team meetings before each game.  But, it was their little speeches a couple of times each week after practice that aggravated Noah and me.

Each of them always started off reminding us that football builds character.  Elton liked to repeat the phrase that was posted over Coach Hicks’ desk in the field house: “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.”  Neither Noah or I had a beef with this.  It was his virtual preaching that pissed off the both of us.  It never failed he spoke as though God had a plan for each of our lives and our part was to be obedient.  I will never forget how Doug often said that Jesus would give each of us our own Damascus Road experience like he had the Apostle Paul.  But only if we were sincere and believed with all our hearts.

This may sound silly but by the end of our senior football season, during the Fall of 1971, both Noah and I had already seen the light.  We were, as far as we knew, the only two on the entire team who fully believed Elton and Doug were the most deluded men in Boaz.  Unbeknown to them, the trials and tribulations of football, including enduring their routine preaching, had spawned a life-goal for Noah and me.

Over the years, life’s pressures and priorities had evolved.  It wasn’t until I had carefully explored Papa Martin’s black journals in 1999 and discovered both Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber owned a Mosler safe, that I had introduced a foggy idea to my best friend.  But, it wasn’t until nearly eighteen years later that we had acted.  Even though the Rawlins burglary (and the yet to be executed Barber burglary) was intended to rattle the cage of the two men who had gotten under the skin of two naive teenage boys, at no time had we contemplated (or desired) physical harm to anyone.  The only concession I made to myself was that Elton’s driving, his auto accident, had nothing to do with my criminality.  Especially, since he had no way of knowing his safe had already been cracked.

Hearing the news of Elton’s death was troubling but it still, strangely, gave me some consolation.  I think it was my memory of how damned certain Elton was some forty-five years ago.  He had a way of twisting everything into the Master Plan, Master meaning God Almighty.  I recalled how he shared with the team after the tragic death of one of our teammates.  The young man, Terry, had been arrested over the prior weekend for something and committed suicide by hanging while still in his jail cell.  The wisdom of cocky Elton revealed that Terry’s death was all by God’s plan and intended to teach us a lesson.  I always hated when he said “we see through a glass darkly and don’t always know God’s reasons, but the Master does.  He is mysterious to us, but we can trust that he always acts in our best interest.”

I nearly poured the remaining milk in my cereal bowl into my lap when I wondered how clearly old Elton was seeing now.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank, turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks.  All, while he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 7

It was our third meeting.  Pastor Caleb said he liked to keep business within the family as much as possible.  He was referring to his church family.  I was glad I was the most active life insurance agent who was also a member of First Baptist Church of Christ.

Caleb and his wife Tabitha and their twin boys, Matthew and Michael, were relatively new to the area.  They had moved to Boaz a few months ago for Caleb to shepherd this nearly one-hundred twenty-year-old church.  He had spent the past ten years as lead pastor at First Baptist Church of Prattville, Alabama.

Caleb was the first pastor in the church’s history whose last name was not Tillman.  I had learned from reading Lucille Wright’s, A Short History of Boaz Churches, there had been six Tillman’s who had pastored the church since its founding in 1892.  The most recent, Warren Tillman, had been killed in a home invasion less than a year ago.  From what I had heard, if it hadn’t been for some serious legal troubles for Walter and Wade Tillman, Warren’s grandfather and father, the church would have continued with the family name as its senior pastor.  Many in the church had breathed a breath of fresh air when Caleb was called.  I think it was probably because he was a Boaz native that tipped the scales in his favor.  He was a 1990 graduate of Boaz High School and had grown up here at First Baptist.

Today, Pastor Caleb and I were finalizing the paperwork required to hopefully secure him a million-dollar life insurance policy.  His purpose was to provide financial security to his family in the event of his death.  I didn’t expect any issues with underwriting since Caleb appeared in good health and had steady employment.  I had brought in attorney Trevor Nixon to address Caleb’s legal questions.  Although I was still a licensed attorney I thought it best to wear only my life insurance agent hat.  Trevor had drafted a Revocable Life Insurance Trust to own and control Caleb’s policy. 

We met in a small conference room beside Caleb’s office on the third floor.  After he signed the life insurance application I slid over to him a checklist that Alfa strongly encouraged its agents to give to each of their clients.  It was titled, “The Don’t Forget Checklist.”  I said, “I encourage you to read and implement each of these.”

Caleb laid his pen down and scanned the list.  “Number three recommends I discuss my estate plan with my family.  I’ve done that.  Number four talks about keeping my documents in a secure and accessible location known to my executor and trustee, since I am establishing a trust.  Tabitha wants us to rent a safety deposit box.”

“That’s a good idea.  I wish I could convince a lot of my other clients to do that.  It seems most of them just put their important papers in a desk drawer.  This could cause a lot of grief to survivors, especially if there were a fire and the documents were destroyed.  Wills and trusts turned to ashes aren’t much help.”  I said.

“I’m not going to make that mistake.  The church has an old safe down in the basement.  I talked with Elton Rawlins, bless his heart, before he and Rebecca left for their Gulf Shores trip.  He said the only problem was as far as he knew, the church had lost the combination.  I hope to have that solved.  Yesterday, I asked Betty Tillman if she would look through her late husband’s things, or maybe write her imprisoned son Wade and ask if he knew the safe’s combination.”

“Sounds like it might be simpler just to rent a box at the bank, like Tabitha suggested.”  I said.

“You’re probably right but there is just something about those old safes.  It’s like they have a mind, maybe even a heart.  I guess I’m hoping me and the old Mosler can have a long conversation with it unloading a ton of memories.”

I just looked at Caleb as he shared how he loved history and wanted to know everything he could about the many roads our church had traveled over its long and honorable history.

 I let him talk for thirty more minutes before I invented a meeting I had back at the office.  Pastor Caleb was certainly an interesting character but what intrigued me most of all was his mentioning the church owned a Mosler safe.  I made a mental note to review Papa Martin’s journals when I arrived home later tonight.

After spending a couple of hours in the office responding to phone messages, I drove to Mom and Dad’s.  For three weeks now, she had hosted a family reunion of sorts.  It wasn’t unusual for Deidre to join us three on a Thursday night for dinner, but once again she brought not only Ed, but their two children and their families.

After another fantastic meal by Mother everyone left except for Deidre.  Mom made Dad help her clean up the kitchen while Deidre and I sat out on the screened-in back porch.  I took advantage of this opportunity and asked her if she remembered anything about the 1973 Bible burning.  For some reason, I couldn’t get that visual image out of my mind.

 “Have you heard how Elton Rawlins is doing?”  I thought I would ease indirectly into my chosen subject.

“He’s hanging on by a thread from what I hear.  The surgery, from all accounts, was successful in stopping the internal bleeding but he’s still in very serious condition.”  Deidre didn’t say where she had received her news.

“I bet this is very difficult on his wife.”

“It is.  Rebecca said the doctors are coordinating with UAB doctors to get Elton transferred to Birmingham.”

“You’ve talked with Elton’s wife?”  I asked.

“Through Facebook, Messenger.”  I started to call her but knew she was probably bombarded with phone interruptions.  I’m going to see her just as soon as they are in Birmingham.”

“I take it you two are still friends.  You two graduated together, didn’t you?”  I asked.

“Other than Ed, she is one of my best friends.  She’s a remarkable woman, especially for what she’s been through.”  Deidre said.

“It’s funny we’re talking about her.  I ran across an old photo the other day at the library.  I think it was taken in December 1973.  Do you remember anything about Rebecca and a Bible-burning bonfire?”

“Gosh, there’s a picture of that?  I’m surprised there is even a single ash remaining of that horrible night.”

“Tell me about it.  When I saw the photo, I realized I had never heard about it since Susan and I were already living in Auburn.”

“I’m not sure what exactly triggered Rebecca and four of our classmates to rebel.  But, they started giving Brother Randy, you know, youth pastor Randy, hell on wheels.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m cloudy on a lot of the details but it seems there had been a guy from Chicago who had lived in Boaz for a while.  He, I can’t remember his name, was an atheist.  He was in the eleventh grade when Rebecca and I were in the ninth.  Anyway, apparently, he had some influence on a few people.  Rebecca and her gang kept confronting Pastor Randy and basically arguing the Bible was made-up, you know what.” 

“So, according to the photo, Rebecca and her friends burned their Bibles?”  I asked.

“If my faith hadn’t been so strong I probably would have gone along with her.  Anyway, things turned out for the good.  All five of the culprits wound up returning to the fold.  I guess they realized the error of their ways.  I think Brother Randy and a few of the deacons took a real interest in the wayward teenagers.”

“That’s all you remember?”  I asked.

“Yea, pretty much.”

“You said, or I thought you indicated, Rebecca had experienced a lot of hardships.  Were you talking about the Bible-burning episode or something else?”

“Since we graduated, Rebecca has had a lot of bad luck.  That’s not right.  In truth, God had to take her through some tough lessons.  She’s lost two husbands, one child, and both parents.”

“All lost to sickness?  God inspired?” 

“Don’t go there.  No, I guess that’s what made it even harder for her.  Car wrecks, a house fire, and an unsolved murder.  Tragedy with a capital T.”  Deidre said making me wonder how on earth one person could overcome such losses.  It had been four years since I lost my dear Susan, and many days I could barely go.  I couldn’t imagine losing most all my family, and especially if I lost them because of accidents and crime.

I was just about to ask Deidre a little more about how Brother Randy helped Rebecca back into the fold when Mom and Dad walked in.  After fifteen minutes of Mom asking Deidre questions about life after death and at what point the believer received a new body, I excused myself, indicating I had a phone call I had to make.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank, turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks.  All, while he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 6

It took nearly an hour with Cynthia Lang at Sand Mountain Tire.  She was the new business manager and was determined to increase morale.  I agreed with her that a comprehensive medical plan for the employees would help, especially if the company paid the monthly premiums. 

I missed the fellowship meal but made it just in time for prayer meeting.  Normally, at 5:30 p.m., I meet in the Church’s fellowship hall with Deidre and Ed and one or both of their children and spouses, and we share a spread of food almost as good as Mother’s.

To anyone who really knows me, now only Noah since Susan is gone, would think I was weird.  Why did I continue to regularly attend church since long ago I had shed my belief in the supernatural?  I thought prayer was a total waste of time.  But, my comeback, other than it was simply a habit and a long-since expired duty owed to the faithful Susan, was always the same.  I enjoyed the fellowship and feelings of belonging to a loving and caring family.  Secondarily, it was a good place to network for business prospects.  I almost laughed out loud when the thought that church was a good place to pick up women slithered alongside my business reason.

Maybe Noah knew me better than I knew myself.  If he were sitting here on the back row with me as Pastor Caleb was updating the thirty or forty folks scattered across the center section of the main auditorium, he would argue it was time for me to move on with my life.  It was time I started dating.  He would contend that Susan, dead now for over four years, wouldn’t have a problem at all with me pursuing another woman, in fact, she would encourage it.  Noah would be correct.  Susan was all heart and soul, faithful to God, Jesus, and Christianity.  To a fault.  She was the best I knew at picking out the good parts of the Bible and emulating them to a tee. 

I heard Pastor Caleb give an update on how Eugene Lackey, the Boaz High School basketball coach with cancer, was doing.  My mind skimmed past the Pastor’s words and focused, along with my eyes, on Connie Stewart.  From where I was sitting I could make out a part of her right-side profile.  For some reason she was a subject Deidre had focused on during our church meal last Wednesday night.  Deidre, and no one else as far as she knew, had a clue why the still-gorgeous Connie never married.   I had my own opinion.  I had dated her one time during the late Fall of my junior year, with my little sis to blame.  To me, Connie was sophisticated and stuck up.  She simply never found anybody she though worthy of her time and attention.  I figured she still grouped me with the peasant clan.

I was equivocating between thoughts of Connie teaching high school English for probably forty years and whether she wore a two-piece bathing suit in her private swimming pool when I heard Pastor Caleb say “Elton Rawlins.”  Immediately, my attention focused forward.  Caleb continued, “we don’t know exactly what happened.  Rebecca was apparently driving.  She wasn’t hurt.  Elton may not make it.  He is in surgery now.” 

During his prayer for Elton, Pastor Caleb asked God to bless the Foley, Alabama surgeons who were working to save “our Deacon’s life.”  My mind put the pieces together.  Rebecca and Elton were returning home from Gulf Shores and had a wreck.  I almost lost my supper thinking how much pain Rebecca was probably experiencing and my responsibility for adding to that when she got home and discovered her home had been burglarized, although that news might not be instant since the only sign of an intrusion would be the missing coins and jewelry.

After another forty-five minutes of testimonies and prayers for everything from missionaries in Africa, to traveling mercies for the Keenagers adventure to Ken Ham’s Ark Encounter in Williamstown, Kentucky, I slipped out the rear entrance to the auditorium.  I walked across the vestibule and down the long hall to the rear of the church leading to the parking lot.  I was about to get in my car when I heard, “Uncle Fred.”  I turned, and it was Luke walking with a large group of young people back toward the church basement.  They were coming from the newly completed amphitheater the church had built, alongside a sand-filled volleyball court.  I raised my hand and waved.  He said, “thanks,” and continued walking beside Tyler.  I guessed he liked the fellowship as much as I did.

When I arrived home, I booted up my computer to see if Tina Graves had sent me the birth dates for her six grandchildren.  I had met her yesterday when she had walked in the Alfa office inquiring about setting up a financial plan for her son’s children.   As promised, she had sent the requested information.  I spent an hour preparing life insurance illustrations and was drafting a cover letter when I received a Gmail notification that I had received a message from Luke.  This was quickly evolving into a routine.

Once again, Luke started with something he had heard.  “Tyler said that Brother Robert speaks as though the Gospels are historical and eyewitness accounts of Jesus and His ministry.  According to Tyler, that’s simply not true.  Uncle Fred, what do you think?”

I wanted to tell Luke that it didn’t matter what I thought, that he would have to make up his own mind.  That was not what I did.  I was too tired to go into a lot of depth.  Luke’s question was a good one.  It made me want to meet and get to know Tyler.  I’d love to know his background and how he had come to learn so much as a young teenager.

I shared with Luke that most Bible scholars claim the book of Mark was the first of the four Gospels, with it being written around 65 or 70 of the Common Era (CE).  Matthew and Luke were composed, independently of one another, sometime in the 80s or 90s.  There was some disagreement as to the Gospel of John, but most agreeing it was written between the year 100 and the year 120 CE.

I told Luke that none of the Gospels were written by the named person.  They were simply later-added titles.  The man named Mark in the Gospels did not write the book named Mark, and so on.  It was the same with all four of the Gospels with the likely authors being one or more well-educated Greek scholars.

As to eyewitnesses, I shared with Luke that it was very unlikely the authors interviewed anyone who had known Jesus (who allegedly died around the year 30 CE) since average life expectancy during the first century was most likely half of what we experience today.  I admitted that it was certainly possible for the Gospel authors to have talked with people who had heard stories that had been passed down from generation to generation but explained how unreliable such accountings typically were.

I ended my email to Luke with a question.  “Why don’t you ponder the following: how did the Gospel writers know what Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane since he was all alone?”  I asked him to read the passage from Mark 14:32-42.  I then asked him to ponder two reasons that I had heard often given for this seeming dilemma.  The most often cited reason was that the Holy Spirit told the authors what Jesus had said.  The second reason was that after Jesus was resurrected and before his ascension he spent time with his disciples and told them the contents of some of his prayers and conversations that had occurred out of their earshot.  I assumed, maybe hoped, Luke would assess these reasons the way I did.  I believed they were simply a guess.  A guess wholly unsupported by the evidence.

In closing, I relayed to Luke that my ultimate decision to walk away from the Christian religion did not occur instantly, and that it was a multi-year journey.  I encouraged him if he was serious about learning what I described as ‘the other side,’ to become like a heat-seeking missile and go after the truth with a vengeance, reading everything he could.  I suggested he try to get a hold of Richard Dawkins’ book, The God Delusion, offering my assistance if he couldn’t find a copy.

Before going to sleep I wondered how Elton Rawlin’s surgery had turned out.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank, turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks.  All, while he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 5

Wednesday afternoon I headed to the Boaz Public Library.  I was glad to be out of the office.  Tuesday was my day, 8:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., to man the walk-in desk.  I was one of five agents in the Boaz Alfa office.  I had much rather be out in the field calling on existing clients and prospects than being stuck behind a desk. 

My work life, now, was radically different than my first career.  In January 1980, six months after graduating from the University of Alabama Law School, I had started work for King and Hart, P.C. in Huntsville.  For the next thirty-four years I spent most of my time either at my desk or in court.  There was no time I could really call my own.  I resigned March 21, 2014, six months after another significant day in my life.  Susan died of breast cancer September 18, 2013.  During this period, I was virtually worthless.  Most days I was at work but sat staring into space.  The kind and generous Bart King and Jeff Hart would have probably let me grieve forever on their dime but finally the day came I knew I had to leave both my job and mine and Susan’s Huntsville home.

The Boaz Public Library was relatively new.  A beautiful two-story colonial style building on Thomas Avenue had replaced the old and antiquated facility on South Main.  Truly a treasure for such a small town like Boaz.  The head librarian wasn’t so new.  Nancy Frasier had inspired many a reader for nearly sixty years.  She was now in her eighties and could still, from memory, on instant notice, relate what books were on her shelves.  Other media was a different story, so the sweet and saintly Nancy referred me to Brenda Yates, the library’s electronic master.

In less than five minutes Brenda had me sitting before a microfiche machine and about a dozen boxes of Sand Mountain Reporter slides from the 1970’s in a dark room under the winding oak staircase. Ever since Sunday night I had not been able to get the mauve-colored letter secreted in the Rawlins’ safe out of my mind.  A phone call yesterday to Noah had given me the direction I now pursued.

I started my search with the May 25, 1974 newspaper.  The date hand-written on the bottom of the Rebecca Rawlins’ secret letter was May 27, 1974.  I had checked.  That was a Monday.  I knew from my own life-long experience with Dad’s subscription, the Sand Mountain Reporter newspaper was published three times per week, including Saturday.  I was glad the Library had the latest technology.  Their microfiche machine was what was called search-capable.  This allowed me to enter a query and the machine would direct me to an article, ad, or photo caption that included the best response to my question.  I was out of luck.  There were no responses or hits for any of my key words.  I had used Rebecca, Rebecca Aldridge (Noah had told me her maiden name), and even Randy Miller (no kin to Susan as far as I knew).

It was 1:35 p.m.  For the next three hours I looked backwards through every edition of the Sand Mountain Reporter, crossing over into 1973.  I had just returned from a rabbit trail concerning the Boaz Christmas Parade held on Friday, December 7, 1973 when I entered ‘Rebecca Aldridge’ on the query line for the previous day’s newspaper.  Her name was listed, along with half-a-dozen others, under a photo of a giant bonfire.  Before reading the full caption or the article I assumed the event was related to a football game, a big pep-rally.  Then, I realized the date seemed off for that.

I read the full article twice, a little surprised that I had never heard the story.  Correctly, this time, I realized that I was a student living in Auburn, Alabama when the photo was taken, and the article was written.  In current day terms the whole thing seemed rather silly.  Rebecca and four of her high school classmates had been arrested for burning Bibles.  The scene had taken place on the back side of the sorghum cane field next to Boaz High School.  It was on school property.  Halfway through my first reading I had assumed this was probably why the five had been arrested.  This was not the case.  After a slower and more methodical reading, it was clear the arrest had been made to protect the five from a near blood-thirsty mob. 

The article didn’t explain exactly how things had gotten out of hand, nor how the community had known what the five were up to.  The last line of the article quoted Randy Miller, youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ, who said, “a few hundred years ago witches were burned at the stake.  These five young people better be glad the fine citizens of Boaz are giving them another chance to honor and glorify God.”  I thought it was an odd statement especially after the reporter had used a long paragraph to describe how the Boaz Police had to threaten the use of Billy-clubs to nearly a dozen local men and women. 

After reading and pondering the article, I wanted to continue my search, but I was out of time.  I had a 5:30 appointment with the new owner of Sand Mountain Tire and Muffler concerning medical insurance for his employees.  I didn’t need to be late.

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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank, turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks.  All, while he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 4

I wound up helping Dad plant four long rows of purple-hulled peas and set-out ten Big-Boy tomato plants.  It was the first time in a year I had watched him get down on all fours.  At eighty-eight years old he was still in remarkably good health, but his strength, stamina, and balance were waning.

Dad had grown up in Cincinnati.  Frederick Martin, known as Papa or Papa Martin, Dad’s dad, had grown up at the Martin Mansion as it was called, helping his father and mother and eight brothers and sisters farm their hundred-acre tract.  There were shades of many stories as to why Papa Martin had moved at age sixteen, north, first to Detroit and then to Cincinnati.  To me, the most likely reason was he and my great-grandfather, Stonewall Lee Martin, had a falling out; Stonewall was like a thick stone wall, literally immovable, especially in his Christian beliefs.  In 1928, Papa Martin married Mary Ruth Davis, a sophisticated woman from an old established Ohioan family.  Dad was born in 1929 in Papa and Mama’s large Victorian home perched high on one of Cincinnati’s seven hills.

Dad’s experience growing up was almost identical to mine, except he came south every summer rather than north.  Like me, he visited his grandparents.  Dad always said he came in first place.  He had missed only one summer coming to Alabama while he was growing up, after he turned six, and I had missed two summers.  That’s where the similarities diverged.  Even though Dad grew up a city boy, he loved the outdoors.  It probably would have been different if he had grown up living in the country and having to farm.  Dad and his grandfather, Papa Stone, spent nearly every waking minute of the two-week visits hoeing and harvesting vegetables from the garden, feeding the pigs and chickens, milking two cows, and fishing.  Someway, the two of them had a connection that Papa Martin and the Stone Wall could never discover.  Like Dad, my favorite spot was the three-acre pond, halfway between my little house and Martin Mansion. 

 Papa Martin had gone to work for Mosler in 1919, when he was only twenty years old.  He had already completed a two-year accounting course which caught the eye of old man Mosler, the son of the founder.  Like me, Dad met his future wife while in high school.  He and Harriet Ann Parkland married in 1949.  Neither went on to college and struggled for five years (refusing help from her wealthy family) until Dad decided in February 1954 to move, along with my thirteen-month-old sister, Deidre, and his pregnant wife, back home to live at Martin Mansion as Papa Stonewall lay dying. 

Looking back, I had experienced the best of both worlds, country and city.  Summertime in Cincinnati, and the rest of the year living on the same ground my great-grandfather Stonewall had purchased for $450.00 in 1896 and farmed until his death five months before I was born in August 1954.

Dad made me tag along with him back to Martin Mansion and to a grand supper prepared by the best cook I have ever known.  Mother had the ability to make green beans taste like steak.  I hated them, unless they were Mother’s.  It seemed I was getting spoiled eating over half my supper time meals at the table built by Stonewall Lee Martin in 1896.  Along with the beans, corn bread, and left-over ham from Sunday’s even grander lunch, Mom had fresh out-of-the-garden corn, peppers, onions, and tomatoes.  The meal was heavenly.  That was Dad’s description.  His pre-meal prayer always ended the same, “Lord, thank you for this heavenly meal we are about to partake.”  I was glad Mom was quiet.  Normally, when it’s just the three of us, she had to say something about my loss of faith, even something so slight as, “Fred, you look tired.  I wish you got more rest on Sunday’s.  You know that’s what it was made for.”

It was after dark when I arrived at my four-room cabin.  It was built as a log-cabin, but my great-grandfather had decided in 1953 it needed an upgrade.  It was his last big job before he died.  Re-framing the outer walls, adding insulation, and covering the studs with clap-board siding.  Dad always believed his grandfather had some premonition that caused him to undertake such a project at age eighty-two.  Maybe some way he knew my own journey and struggles would lead me back to my roots.

I changed out of my dusty gardening clothes and sat down in what used to be a bedroom before I converted it to my study and library.  I booted up my desktop to check my work email.  I was pleased to see that Darryl Nelson had asked whether Alfa dealt with annuities.  I responded in the affirmative and told him I would call tomorrow with additional information.

I was just about to shut down my old Acer and go to the den for a little TV before going to bed when a Gmail notification flashed across my screen.  I opened it.  It was from Luke.  I almost was afraid to read it, subconsciously believing my agreement to communicate with him over such a sensitive subject was akin to plotting an assassination of the president.

“Tyler said that if I had grown up in Indonesia or Turkey I would likely be a Muslim and believe that Allah was the one and only God.  What do you think?”

I continued to ponder whether to renege on my promise.  After five minutes my battle with family and tradition had lost.  I was too much of an adherent of humanism and the quest for truth no matter where it lay to go back on my promise concerning such an important subject.  It wasn’t like Luke was six years old.  He was a bright young man, curious about life, deeply troubled over what he had always been taught.  I typed out a short response: “Tyler is probably correct.  I have read several articles on this subject.  It seems to be basic common sense.  A child is born with some basic instincts, like how to nurse from his mother’s breast, but the baby certainly doesn’t know anything about religion, politics, sports, you name it.  I suppose it is nearly impossible for a child not to adopt the beliefs and practices of his parents, especially those who are loving and kind.  In my own experience, it took a rather big jolt to spawn my first embryonic thought that I might have been misled.  I’ll not share that story now, but it happened when I was about your age.”  I clicked on ‘Send’ and shut down my computer.

I walked to the den and flipped on the TV.  I couldn’t find anything interesting, so I turned it off and laid back in my recliner.  All I could think about was my own story, the one I had not shared with Luke. 

It was 1970.  I had completed the tenth grade and was in Cincinnati at Papa and Mama Martin’s.  He had just showed me how to remove the locking mechanism on an old Mosler.  We were out in his garage.  Mama brought us some lemonade and we all three sat down at an old dusty table.  Mama soon got tired of hearing Papa rattle on about how he had acquired the safe that now had a ten inch by ten-inch hole cut out of its back.  She left us and walked back to their house.

It was the one and only time Papa ever mentioned religion.  He said he had come to believe that a safe was like a person’s heart.  It was a place where we kept our innermost secrets.  He shared how his first boss in the accounting department had told him how Gustave Mosler, one of the company’s original founders, had compared the safes his company built to Christianity.  Both were virtually impenetrable.  Both were made of time-tested materials.  Layer upon layer of the materials that had kept lives and whole societies secure for centuries.

Papa hadn’t said it directly, but I sensed he someway had broken away from the faith of his father and family.  He described how, over the years, he had become intrigued with the stories that bounced off the walls in the accounting department.  Stories from all over the country from people who had either bought a Mosler safe, often without the combination, or who had discovered one behind a hidden wall.  Papa said what really aroused his curiosity was the stories of the different ways folks had gained access to the locked away contents.  He shared with me how, over time, he had analogized the physical safe to his father’s Christian beliefs, pondering what it would take to gain access to the very reason his father held on to the inerrant scripture.  Papa said his father believed in Adam and Eve and the creation story, Noah’s flood, and Christ’s resurrection.  It was one statement by Papa that made me think something, somehow, had gained access to his own heart, otherwise thought to be impenetrable.  He had said, “if you can act as though you have never heard of Christianity while you are listening to a Southern Baptist Fundamentalist, questions will arise, such as, ‘how can the earth be only six thousand years old?  You will start to question.  Questioning everything is the secret to cracking a safe.”

Before those two weeks ended during the summer of 1970, I heard one other thing that probably changed my life.  Mama said one afternoon while we were waiting for Papa to arrive home from work, “I think your grandfather would become a professional safecracker if he wasn’t afraid he’d get caught.  He’s absolutely obsessed with the secrets people lock behind a combination.”

Now, starting to doze, I wish I had just one more afternoon with Papa Martin.  I got up, walked to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and stared into the mirror.  I wondered whether I would have the courage to tell him about last night’s adventure to 200 Thomas Avenue.