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 14
Thursday afternoon and Friday, I spent in Birmingham at an insurance sales conference. Saturday was a day I would cherish forever. Dad and I worked in his garden for a couple of hours before retiring to the pond for an afternoon of fishing and talking. I didn’t catch many fish but was encouraged to learn how sharp Dad’s mind was, especially concerning the history of Boaz.
After we settled in at our usual spot, just at the outside edge of a long-lasting shadow cast by the giant oak on the west side of the pond, I asked Dad, “What do you remember about Ricky Miller and his place? I think it was called the Safe House.”
“You should remember Ricky. He was your Biology teacher, what, in the tenth grade?” Dad asked.
“Of course, I remember that, and how much I liked his attitude toward life.”
“Yea, right. That’s what got you all whop-sided with Christianity.” Dad could have said a lot more here. Ricky Miller, that year in Biology class, had opened mine and Noah’s eyes. He was so unlike every other teacher at Boaz High. They all were cut from the same cloth, openly sharing their faith, a few even voicing prayers during class time. I was always amazed at how good they were at compartmentalization; they could think critically about everything but religion. Looking back, my sophomore year was my best year in high school. Ricky Miller changed the direction of my life.
“I don’t remember anything about the Safe House.” I said.
“What’s got you thinking about that if you don’t remember? Seems odd to me.” Dad said as he reeled in his line, removed his float and hook, and attached a fat green frog for bait. Dad was the best bass fisherman in the family.
“I saw an old Sand Mountain Reporter article the other day. From 1973, I believe. It talked about a controversy between the Safe House and the Lighthouse. That place, I do remember.”
“Ricky and Randy were twins. They were virtually identical from a physical perspective but couldn’t have been more different from a mental state. Randy was on fire for God. I’m not sure what drove Ricky. But, it wasn’t God. The opposite I guess.” Dad was standing and snagged a small bass. He seemed deep in thought.
“It seems to me the names, the Safe House and the Lighthouse, were symbolic. I get why Randy and First Baptist of Christ named their youth hangout and ministry the Lighthouse. What do you think Ricky intended with the Safe House?” I asked.
“Come to think of it, you and Susan were in Auburn. You didn’t come home very often, did you?” Dad said removing a half-pound largemouth bass from the end of his line.
“I guess not. School. Study.”
“Yea, right.” Dad liked that phrase. “Ricky was a fish out of water, especially here in Boaz. He believed his brother was brainwashing the young people. He felt they needed an alternative place to hangout, a place, according to Ricky, that young minds could be protected. Thus born, the Safe House.” I knew Dad would remember.
“Let me see if I’m hearing you correctly. Ricky believed his students, the local young people, should be exposed to both sides of the issues, all sides. I do recall him in tenth grade making statements, more so after class to a group of us who hung around, that the natural world directly conflicted with the Bible.” I said, setting my fishing rod aside.
“I suspect that’s how the trouble began. A couple of years after you were gone, and the Safe House was up and running, five kids became the center of attention all over Boaz.” Dad said.
“Over what?” I asked, thinking that I knew what he was going to say. Rebecca and her Bible burning ‘crime’ had to have won the popularity award.
“Angela Collins and Rebecca Aldridge both alleged that Randy Miller had, let’s just say, been inappropriate with them.”
“Are you saying they accused the youth pastor of sexual assault?” I asked.
“That’s one way to put it. No one believed them. Well, except Ricky. Those two girls, both friends of Deidre’s, I can’t help but still feel sorry for them. I guess the stars kind of aligned and they found shelter at The Safe House.” Dad was now reeling in a much bigger bass. The green frog seemed to be working. I had lost all interest in fishing for the time being.
“You mentioned that five kids became popular, as you said, ‘the center of attention.’ Who were the other three? Did they make the same accusations?” I asked Dad almost regretting giving up the practice of law.
“Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones. The group, I think they called themselves the Misfits or something like that. No, the Aliens. That was their nickname.” Dad placed the big bass on a stringer and threw it back into the water, along the pond’s edge.
“What did these three guys do? By the way, was Johnny Stewart any kin to Connie?” I asked.
“Cousin, I’m pretty sure. Those three, all classmates of Angela and Rebecca, and your sister, got caught burglarizing the church, First Baptist Church of Christ. Seems like they stayed past closing time after a Sunday night service. Surprisingly. To them, during the night, the pastor, Brother Walter, returned to his office and found the three pilfering through his files. Kids got arrested and, like Angela and Rebecca, became the scourge of Boaz.”
“I would suspect the court system treated them as Youthful Offenders and sealed their files for privacy purposes since they were so young. And, I suspect the three kids as you call them went on to put all that behind them as they grew up.” I was forecasting but I had seen it often enough. Fairly minor offenses committed during one’s youth, rarely led to jail time, or any significant deflection of a normal life.
“That is how the court system dealt with them, but fate or God or whatever had something more painful in mind.” Dad had sat back down beside me in his lawn chair and was pouring a paper cup full of tea from the thermos Mom had insisted we bring.
“What do you mean? What happened to the three?” I asked.
“Beaten and hung. They were found on a Saturday morning, in the grove of trees behind the football stadium. You know, next to the practice field. Case was never solved. Most folks believed it had something to do with the game. It was Fall, mid-season, and Albertville had come to town the night before. Boaz won but it wasn’t easy. There had been a big brawl right after the start of the second half. Johnny, Allan, Tommy, the three Aliens, were ring-leaders and were tossed from the game. One of the Albertville players, a big black kid, I forget his name, had to be taken to the Emergency Room. Again, word on the street was that the Albertville football team got their revenge.”
“Now that you mention this I seem to remember. Didn’t you send me a couple of newspaper articles about it when I was in Auburn?”
“I’m sure I did. I wasn’t good at writing letters. Sending things I had cut out of the Sand Mountain Reporter was intended to be my way of telling you I loved and missed you.”
Dad and I continued to fish for another two hours. He must have had enough talking since he wandered around the pond, casting throw after throw. We ended up with a nice stringer of fish. Ten by Dad’s skill. One by my luck. I drank more tea as I watched Dad fillet our catch while Mom fussed over the mess he was making on the back porch. Oh, how wonderful life was at Martin Mansion.
The Pencil-Driven Life 