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 32
Wednesday night, I was running a few minutes late for dinner in the church’s Fellowship Hall. When I arrived, I was surprised to see Connie sitting at our table, along with Dad, Deidre, and Ed. I wasn’t surprised to hear the first statement from the manipulative Deidre: “I asked Connie to join us. Thought it would be a trial run for Sunday. She can decide if she’s ready.” Her last words could have been interpreted several ways. I looked at Connie and she gave me that adorable smile. If I hadn’t had different plans I would have been excited to share a meal with Connie, and then accompany her to Prayer Meeting. Instead, I had to lie about a non-existent insurance appointment.
Earlier this afternoon Noah and I had made an abrupt change in our plans. Ever since I had learned about a second safe at Rebecca’s, one holding what likely was a large hoard of cash, Noah and I had been plotting my return to 208 Thomas Avenue. But, our secondary, longer-term plans to crack the Mosler in the church’s basement, cried out for attention. Two things had caused us to change our minds. The body shop at Adam’s Chevrolet had caught fire late afternoon and no doubt would require the attention of the Boaz Fire Department for hours. And, there was a touring choir from Nigeria that Pastor Caleb had asked to present a musical after prayer meeting. This would add an extra dose of attention and possibly confusion that would magnetize the church’s greeters and the facility guards (something the deacons had instituted after the mass murder at a church in Charleston, South Carolina two years ago). Finally, Noah’s idea to trigger the alarm at Boaz High School would demand the balance of the police force that wasn’t already occupied directing Highway 431 traffic around the Adam’s Chevrolet fire.
As Connie and I carried our plates to the dish-washing window I told her I hated I couldn’t go with her to Prayer Meeting but that I would call her after my appointment. I warned her that it might be ten o’clock. She seemed eager for a roll in the hay. That was my interpretation, recognizing that I was often wrong.
I walked out to my car, exited the church’s rear parking lot, and turned right on Elm Street. I made a three-block circle and ended up behind an abandoned house on Sparks Avenue less than seventy-five yards from the west side of the original sanctuary built well over a hundred years ago. There was a ground level entrance to the basement and I knew, thanks to Noah, it was not controlled by the high-tech security system that governed the new sanctuary and education building the church had built less than five years ago just to the east of the original structure. The basement of the old building was mainly used for Training Union classes on Sunday night and for storage. I was thankful the window next to the side entrance was unlocked, just as I had left it the last night of Doug’s ‘Death’ class. I raised the old wooden window and slipped inside.
It didn’t take me but a couple of minutes to locate the old Mosler. If it hadn’t been for my interview with Pastor Caleb I wouldn’t have had a clue where to start looking. He had shared his love for old safes and how, to him, it seemed they had a mind and a heart of their own. While he was rambling on about how he hoped the old Mosler in the basement divulged a ton of memories about life around First Baptist Church of Christ, he had mentioned, not intentionally I’m sure, that the only thing he dreaded was having to endure the piss smell from the old bathroom the youth group used back fifty years or so when they met down in the basement. There it was, inside the boy’s bathroom and inside a closet in the corner. I could tell there used to be a wall hiding the safe, but it had long ago been dismantled other than a couple of 2 by 4’s along the outer edges.
The trick was gaining access. Caleb had, in that same insurance interview, divulged that he didn’t have the combination to the safe and intended to ask Betty Tillman, the wife of Walter Tillman, the former pastor, if she could find out the correct combination. I didn’t have any idea whether he had pursued this. Instead, I came prepared, again thankful to Noah, to access the front of the safe. I almost felt disrespectful to Papa Martin who had taught me the tried and true method of unlocking the safe via a long and sometimes tricky back door approach with the use of a torch and a long flathead screwdriver. Noah, through his many resources, had discovered a device, just a NASA strength version of a DeWalt drill, that bored straight through the spinning dial and disabled the bolt lock as it vaporized the metal shavings the solid diamond bit created as it bored. It worked better than Noah had declared.
As I opened the thick steel door with my right hand I reached in my pocket with my left for my iPhone. Activated, it read, 6:48. I had been inside the basement for almost seven minutes. Mine and Noah’s limit, what we referred to as our ‘drop-dead’ time, was ten minutes. I decided to not dilly-dally but to load up the safe’s contents in the two duffel bags I had brought and skedaddle, hopefully with a minute or so to spare. I wasn’t worried what I might encounter when I walked out the west-facing door. I knew Noah was somewhere, hiding in plain sight ready to execute a diversion plan if necessary.
As the safe’s heavy door fully opened I was shocked by a pistol pointing directly at me. It was laying on its side. I thought it rather odd for the barrel to be facing me, like someone had placed it in that exact position to warn an intruder to think twice before removing anything from this safe.
I gently rotated the pistol barrel away from me, grabbed it by the handle, and placed it at the bottom of my first bag. Once again, there were accordion folders full of papers. As I loaded them in my bags I noticed one was labeled, “Deacon Deeds.” I quickly wondered if the latter word was referring to land documents or actions performed by the church’s deacons. I was about to close the safe door after loading the folders when I noticed a thin canary-colored envelope standing on its edge and slipped behind the maroon-colored cloth along the right side of the safe.
Normally, these safes were lined with this identical cloth material but some way, here, the lining had been torn away from the thick steel. I removed the envelope and read the following words written in pencil on the outside: “Confidentiality Agreement: First Baptist Church of Christ, Elton Rawlins, and Doug Barber.” I had to fight the temptation to open the envelope and read what I assumed was a contract document inside. Instead, I stuffed it in my bag and made my way to the side door.
In less than thirty seconds after exiting the basement I had dropped both bags inside the trunk of a tan-colored 2005 Chevrolet Impala that Noah had parked less than twenty feet away. My job was then to walk to my car hidden on Sparks Avenue and drive to Burger King in Albertville where I was to meet Lorie, Noah’s wife, dressed as a man, and present my speech for thirty minutes concerning the benefits of purchasing a long-term health care policy. This meeting, along with the hamburger joint’s security cameras, would give a semblance of an alibi if ever I was questioned about the burglary.
At 9:45 p.m., I was at home. After leaving Burger King, I met Noah at Chili’s’ Restaurant in Guntersville, just beside his security facility, where we, over apple pie, ice cream, and coffee, had discussed my adventure in the bowels of the grand old sanctuary. Before arriving, he had already disposed of the 2005 Impala and had stored the two duffel bags inside his late father’s gun cabinet at his parents’ now-empty house at the intersection of Miller Street and Ray Avenue in Albertville.
My call to Connie and our nearly two-hour conversation was like icing on the cake. What a successful day. As if it couldn’t get any better, the lovely Connie mentioned, two times, how long it had been since she had sunbathed at the beach. She had even suggested I carry her to Gulf Shores sometime soon. When our call ended, and I lay down to sleep, the picture of Connie in a two-piece bikini was mesmerizing.
The Pencil Driven Life 