Month: October 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 24

I should have woken up Wednesday morning feeling like a king.  But, I didn’t.  My head hurt, and my stomach was slightly queasy.  At 7:45 I called Nell at Alfa and told her I wouldn’t be in until after lunch. 

I rejected coffee and chose Coke instead.  I sat in my recliner and tried to doze off but couldn’t.  I finally got up and retrieved Angela’s ‘1971/Sophomore’ journal, returning to my recliner.  I was glad I had stuck my business card where I had left off a few days ago. 

It was Friday, August 27, 1971.  Angela wrote about marching at halftime at Sardis High School.  I was surprised I remembered the game so well.  It was mine and Noah’s senior year.  Angela was in the tenth grade and a member of the band.  I didn’t recall that.  She was upset with her performance, apparently having turned the wrong way, twice, while the band performed “Rocky Top” by the Osborne Brothers.  Angela didn’t seem too interested in recording anything about how my pass and Noah’s reception won the game.  She did spend several sentences describing in detail the moves Boaz sensation Johnny Stewart made alluding tackler after tackler in his long touchdown run right before the end of the first half. 

I was getting bored with Angela’s crush on Stewart and was about to move on to her next journal entry when my mind caught Susan’s name as I scanned Angela’s final paragraph.  I paused and read the full paragraph: “how do I get him to notice me as more than a friend.  Now I have Susan Morrison to worry about, if Deidre Martin wasn’t enough.  I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.  After the game and before we left the stadium, I saw Susan and Johnny beside the concession stand kissing and groping.  If it hadn’t been for Rebecca, I would have walked over into their shady little corner and kicked the bitch.”

What?  Susan was my age, a senior, the love of my life, and a co-head of the cheerleading squad.  What Angela wrote couldn’t be true.  At that time, Susan and I were going steady.  We had developed plans to graduate the following May and move to Auburn in the Fall.  Married.  I do recall that Susan’s father wouldn’t let her ride the band bus with the other cheerleaders.  He had a fear of bus wrecks.  I also remembered that Coach Hicks always kept us in the visitor’s field house until most everyone had left the stadium.  He never missed a chance to conduct a skull session. 

No doubt, such timing would have given Susan and Johnny an opportunity to secretly meet.  I reinserted my business card and closed the journal.  After five minutes of convincing myself Angela’s journal was full of shit, my cell phone vibrated on the end table next to my chair.  It was Noah.

“Make it quick.  I don’t feel so well.”  If nothing else, mine and Noah’s relationship could be described as blunt.

“Top of the morning to you.”  I went on to describe why I was at home and what I had just discovered in Angela’s journal.  We were like two school girls, talking about everything.

“Changing the subject but you will be proud of me.  I finally asked the lovely Connie for a date.”  I said.

“That’s super my man.  When?”

“Friday night.  She had a conflict Saturday night, something about Sunday School.”

“I hope things work out, given the news.”  Noah could, at any time, turn mysterious.

“Okay, I’ve been held up here all morning.  What news could affect my Friday night date?”

“You have been a recluse.  Doug Barber was found murdered late last night.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.  Where, how?”  I asked.

“He didn’t come home at his normal time from the pharmacy and Angela got worried.  She finally called Boaz Police around nine to ask them to drive by and check on Doug.  Less than thirty minutes later a cop car showed up at Angela’s with the news.”

“You seem to have the inside story.”  I said.

“I have my sources, some human, some electronic.  Here’s something strange.  Doug was shot one time in the middle of the forehead, seated in his office chair.  Nothing was stolen and there were no signs of a break-in.  It seems the killer hid out in the pharmacy until after closing and after everyone else had left.  It’s common knowledge that Doug was always the last one to leave every day.”

I really don’t know if Noah continued to talk.  My mind, instead of going blank or stale, maybe even frozen, spun into high gear.  It painted a virtual picture on the gray wall across from my recliner of two giant Mosler safes.  Both are open, and each contains an open-eyed, decapitated head.  One, no doubt, was Elton Rawlins.  The other was Doug Barber.

“Fred, you’re not making any sense.”  I didn’t even know I had been talking, much less describing what my mind had painted on the wall.  “But, I have to agree, it’s awfully strange the two men we hated with a passion and who were the focus of our ball-buster agenda have turned up dead after you cracked each of their safes.”  I knew Noah had to be talking on his secure line.  There was no way he would be so open and incriminating if he weren’t talking on that high-tech satellite phone he had bought in Paris, France, at a conference he attended in March.

“Let me get my footing.  I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”  I ended Noah’s call, got up and took a shower.  I had to do something, anything, but continue to sit.  I may have been afraid of what the gray wall might tell me next.

During my drive to the office, I couldn’t help but believe that someway, somehow, the deaths of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber were connected.

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 23

Dad seemed more like himself last night than at any time since Mother’s death.  It may have been that Deidre’s all afternoon visit and their open and honest talk helped him understand a side of his wife she had kept locked away.  I had picked up supper at Pizza Hut and Dad and I had watched two episodes of The Walton’s on DVD’s Gabby had bought her grandparents last Christmas.  I wanted to hear details from Dad and Deidre’s talk but didn’t push him.  Walton’s Mountain did its job in carrying Dad to a simpler time, one where he could easily imagine he had the love of his life by his side.

Today, I was again tired.  After I had gotten back to my cabin last night, unsurprisingly, I had another email from Luke waiting anxiously for my reply.  I chose not to respond.  His two-part question asked why the Apostle Paul didn’t include anything about Jesus’ birth, life, or ministry, and why the Gospels didn’t include anything about Paul, what he experienced, and his widespread ministry.  After he asked his question, he had written: “These things seem odd since Paul wrote around the mid-fifties and the Gospels were written from the mid-to-late seventies all the way past the turn of the first century.”  Luke had a good point, but I was in no mood to respond.  Not to be denied, a few minutes before midnight my phone vibrated on the table beside my bed.  I didn’t recognize the number, so I didn’t answer.  Less than a minute later, my phone sounded the text notification tone.  The text read, “this is Luke.  I now have a cell phone, 256-390-3053.  I’d really like to talk with you.”  What was I to do?

I called and learned he had just today received a new iPhone, thanks to his dad.  I had never heard Luke angry about anything.  At first, he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.  He kept saying, “it’s all a lie.”  And, “I’ve gone to church all my life, and not once have I ever heard the truth.  Not once have I ever heard a preacher address my two-part question.  I’ve been led to believe that all the stories of Jesus’ life and ministry happened as the Gospels state and then the Apostle Paul came along, and after his Damascus Road vision, he wrote, taught, preached, and set-up new churches.”  We talked for nearly an hour and by 1:00 a.m., I was convinced it was Tyler who kept poking the fire that was raging inside Luke’s head.

For a Tuesday, Alfa’s walk-in traffic was slow.  This gave me an opportunity to doze and to wonder if today I would be given the honor of working on Connie’s John Deere riding mower.  At 2:30, I received the following email: “Mollie’s gone.  I’m devastated.  But, I still hope you can come work on my mower.  Anytime between 4:00 p.m. and 7:00 p.m. is good with me.”  I sent her a quick reply stating how sorry I was about Mollie and that I would be there around 5:00.  I was glad I had brought a change of clothes.

Connie was sitting in her garage beside her mower when I arrived.  It looked like she was reading something.  I parked and walked through the over-sized door into the giant garage.  I could tell she had been crying, probably a lot.  I shared, again, how sorry I was for her loss.  That’s all it took.  She laid aside her book and walked over to me with her eyes looking down.  I was surprised she wrapped her arms around my waist and laid her head on my shoulder.  “I’m all alone.  She was my world.  For fifteen years she was the mate and partner I never had.”

I didn’t know exactly what to say, but I didn’t want the moment to end.  There was no doubt Connie was hurting and no one would think I didn’t have a duty to provide what comfort I could.  It was the Jasmine or whatever the scent, virtually identical to what Susan had worn for the last several years of our shared lives.  Connie always smelled the same.  Now, close, close, I could also catch a faint whiff of her shampoo.  My mind said lilac, but I really didn’t know if I had ever known that scent.  It didn’t matter.  I had to work hard not to explore with my left hand that was gently resting against the middle of her back.  I was also careful not to hug her like I wanted to.  This scene was her creation and she was in full control.  I may have imagined it, but it seemed like she gave me a little squeeze right before she released me and stepped back.

A few words finally emerged from my physical freeze: “I don’t want to sound unsympathetic, but I think I can imagine how you feel.  When Susan died I thought my life was over.  In many ways, it was.  You can’t believe it now, but things will get better.”  As I said my last word I was hoping Connie wouldn’t be offended in any way.  It’s so hard to know what to say to someone who has suffered such a deep loss.

It turned out her mower problem was simple.  It was a solenoid switch that kept the engine from starting.  I promised I would find one tomorrow and come back and have her mowing before church fellowship Wednesday night.  It was the first gorgeous smile she had shared with me since I had arrived.  I was gathering up the tools I had brought when Connie said, “why don’t you come in and wash your hands.  I made a coconut cake late this afternoon.  If that won’t spoil your dinner, I could use the company.”  I was glad I had learned at an early age to always help anytime and anywhere I could.

Connie’s cake brought back memories of Mother.  The two ladies were both excellent cooks.  If it hadn’t been impossible, I would have sworn my dear mother had baked the cake Connie and I shared in her dining room. 

After two slices I was feeling like I needed to be making my exit.  I didn’t want to send any type signal to the lovely Connie that I was interested in making any type move towards a relationship.  I wanted her to drive this car if she wanted to go somewhere together.  I finished off my third cup of coffee (I never liked small coffee cups) and pushed back my chair.

“Can I ask you a question?”  Wonderful, she’s not finished with me.  This is good.

“Sure, I’ll answer if I can.”

“This may be more personal than you want to get but why did you never ask me out again?  You know, after our one and only date in high school?”

“Now there’s a question I can answer.  I didn’t think you liked me.  Our date was awkward.  I had a good time, but I sensed that you could have been just as happy, maybe more so, if you had stayed at home.  Connie, I hope this doesn’t hurt your feelings, gosh, I would never want to do that, but I always believed you were too good for me.  You were both the prettiest and the smartest girl in school, and that’s saying a lot.  Boaz High had some awesome girls.”

“Fred, that was unfair of me.  I shouldn’t have asked that question.  Sometimes, especially now, I feel like I’ve made such a mess of my life.  I’ve missed out on being married and having children.  Now, I’ve lost the most important person in the world.  Mollie that is.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, I guess I owe you at least one?”  Connie said, giving me her second smile of the night.

“Why did you not get married?  I’m pretty sure you have had quite a few suitors over the years.  I can imagine there have been lots of men pursuing you.”

“I have dated a few men over the years.  In the late seventies I was close to a man from Birmingham, but I later learned he was already married.  That taught me a valuable lesson.  Men aren’t to be trusted.  At least those you haven’t known for half a century or more.” 

Without giving me a chance to respond, Connie pushed her chair back, stood up, and gathered up the dirty dishes.  Still in a helpful mood, I followed her into the kitchen carrying the remainder of the coconut cake.

“Put it in the refrigerator if you will.”  I did as she placed each utensil, and both plates and coffee cups in her dishwasher.  It was something about how she leaned over.  I don’t want to say it was how damn good she looked from behind, but that might have had something to do with my boldness.

I slid the heavy cake onto the top rack and noticed several bottles of Jack’s Hard Cider on the door’s bottom shelf.  The thought, “Connie Stewart is probably an enigma, wholly full of surprises.”

I stood back up and turned around.  Connie was facing me, leaning against the kitchen’s sink.  “Thank you for coming tonight and looking at my mower.  I promise I’ll return the favor, especially if you get me back in the saddle by late tomorrow.”

“Sounds like the cowgirl has got some riding and roping to do.”  This was the lightest and funniest we had ever talked.  Thinking back, this might have been the catalyst that prompted my outlandish question.  “This may be way off base, but would you consider going out to dinner with me sometime, maybe this weekend?”

At first, she didn’t respond.  My heart raced for a few seconds, then it was as though it had stopped.  Finally, looking at me from across the kitchen with her deep blue eyes piercing my mind, she said, “Fred Martin, you are the slowest man on earth.  But, I must give you credit.  You asked me for our second date.  Yes, I would be honored to go out with you.”

I thought I would collapse onto Connie’s floor.  No doubt she could tell I was a little faint because she walked over and gave me another hug.  This one didn’t last like the first one, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. 

Driving home, at first, I felt guilty for feeling so good.  It was like I was betraying Susan, something I had never done.  When I pulled underneath my carport, I almost imagined Susan looking down on me and saying, “Fred, my love, you have my permission to go on with your life.”

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 22

All day Monday I felt out of sorts.  Early morning, Dad had met me coming out of my front door wanting to show me a locket he had found while going through a curio cabinet Mother kept along the side of her clothes closet.  “Your mother took this from Deidre when she learned she had disobeyed her strict orders not to see Johnny Stevens.”

I knew Dad was in so much pain and all he knew to do was either talk about Mom or touch and handle her clothes, books, photos, jewelry, even the last towel she used to dry herself off the day before her stroke.  It was the only way he knew to be with her and to imagine her voice.

I didn’t get to spend the time with Dad I needed to.  Certainly, I wanted to but I had an 8:00 a.m. appointment and it was in Attalla.  I promised Dad I would see him later afternoon and that I would bring supper.  Just as I was walking off my porch and towards my car Dad grabbed me by my left arm.  “Look, this broke your mother’s heart.”

I didn’t have a choice.  I set my brief case down and laid my coat across a chair at the end of the porch.  Dad handed me the opened locket.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  Deidre.  Naked Deidre.  It was almost like those photos you have made at a fair, but this was a full-length shot of the tall and shapely Deidre.  She was standing in front of the Lighthouse.  Its sign was shown clearly above the door.  It looked like the photo had been made at night.

“At first your mother was going to let her keep it.  That was before she had ever looked inside.  I think it was the summer before Deidre’s senior year and Harriet had just learned the news.

“What news was that?”  I asked.

“Somebody, I think it was one of Deidre’s friends.  Might have been Angela or Rebecca, had told your mother that Deidre thought she was pregnant.  Turned out she wasn’t but the whole ordeal kind of forced Deidre to confess she had sex with Johnny Stevens.  Anyway, I found the locket this morning and that entire bad chapter flashed before me.  I had to get out for some air.  I really don’t know why I walked down here and showed you this.”

I was only five minutes late to my appointment.  My drive to and from Attalla was consumed with my mind pondering the mental image it now had of a naked Deidre and what had gone on between her and our mom.  If it hadn’t been for Connie’s call I probably would have thought the same thoughts all day.

She asked me to come tomorrow and look at her lawn mower instead of today because Mollie was still under the weather.  She was taking her to Dr. Adams.  I told her I hoped the vet could help Mollie, and that I would call her tomorrow.  She thanked me and hung up.  I could tell she was not herself.  I figured it was because of her baby.  Mollie was no doubt like family to Connie, who had no children of her own.

At the office I caught up on emails, mostly a back log of both technical and marketing information concerning a new homeowners policy Alfa was about to introduce.  At 11:15, Dalton called and asked if I had time to meet with him and one of his clients at 1:00 o’clock.  Dalton Martin is an attorney in town and is also my first cousin.  The two of us had never been close growing up, probably because he was several years younger.  But, since I had moved back to Boaz, he had asked me on several occasions to help him advise a client on proper insurance coverages.

I was out of Dalton’s office by 2:00 and thought about taking the rest of the afternoon off.  I was tired from a restless night tossing and turning.  My best but limited sleep had come right before daylight and included an extensive dream about bright lights.  Crazy how words invade deep sleep.  Driving from old downtown Boaz I was about to cross Highway 431 and head home.  Instead I turned left, twice, and wound up at the Boaz Public Library.  After last night I had a lingering compulsion to see if Ricky Miller’s club, the Brights, had ever made it into the Sand Mountain Reporter.

Once again Brenda Yates, the library’s media expert, guided me with her suggestions on the best query to use with their high-tech microfiche reader.  She said if I wasn’t careful, I would call up several years of unrelated articles because a Clarence Bright had been a reporter with the Sand Mountain Reporter for most all the seventies and eighties.

I found a few articles from the fall of 1969 that said the same things that Noah had told me about Ricky Miller and his desire to establish a Brights chapter at Boaz High School.  Two other articles provided updates on the controversy and even a couple of quotes from locals who had attended the emergency court hearing before Circuit Judge William Jetton.

I was about to change the date component of my query to 1970 when the last hit caught my eye.  I had already discarded it because of its title, “Local Leader Leaves Legacy,” which appeared to be wholly irrelevant to my search.  I couldn’t help but wonder why Brenda’s carefully structured query hadn’t easily eliminated such a non-Bright article.  I chuckled to myself.  For some reason, instead of clicking the ‘Delete’ button or modifying my query, I scrolled down and looked at the photo under the article’s title.

The description under the photo read as follows: “Franklin Ericson, along with his two children, John (age 16) and Angela (age 13), donate coins and jewelry on behalf of their father and grandfather, Benjamin Ericson.”  The article revealed that the older Ericson had died and left a sizable bequest to First Baptist Church of Christ.  The reporter, Clarence Bright (so much for Brenda’s highly refined query) wrote that although the elder Ericson had make a fortune in buying, selling, and developing real estate all over the county, his true love was sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ and that he wanted to leave something tangible to the church that had inspired him to pursue a higher calling.  In the next to the last paragraph, Mr. Bright wrote that Ericson chose to donate these items to honor his mother who had acquired the items almost a hundred years earlier, and to give something to his favorite church that might continue to increase in value.

I was so shocked I lost all interest in pursuing news about Ricky Miller’s club.  Although I didn’t know for sure, I had a deep feeling the donated items someway had disappeared from the church’s possession and found their way into Elton Rawlins’ old Mosler safe. 

I drove home wondering how on earth I would find out if the extremely valuable items sitting in a metal lockbox in the barn loft behind my cabin were the same as those Benjamin Ericson had bequeathed to First Baptist Church of Christ in late 1969?  I felt confident they were, but it seemed odd, outright risky, for Elton to have insured these items with Alfa Insurance Company.  I drove under my carport, suspecting that stranger things had happened.

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 21

After church, I walked out with Connie and almost asked her if she wanted to go to McDonald’s for a cup of coffee.  I declined after she mentioned Mollie was a little under the weather.  Instead, I drove home and pulled out Angela’s journals still wondering why Doug had mentioned them in his final remarks.

The one labeled “1971/Sophomore,” seemed the proper place to begin.  Before I started reading, I closed my eyes and looked back in time to August 1971.  That was the beginning of my senior year at Boaz High School.  Although Deidre was in Angela’s class, my mind wouldn’t spin up any memories of the two of them being friends.  Also, before digging into Angela’s words, I scanned the entire journal.  It was rather thick, containing 300 pages, each numbered in ink in the lower right-hand corner, no doubt by Angela.  It appeared she had written something for most every day of the school-year, more for school days and less for the weekends.

I buckled down and started to read.  Angela had beautiful handwriting.  By August 13th, the end of the first week of classes, I had learned that Angela and Rebecca Aldridge (now Rawlins) were best friends, and the two of them often flirted with her brother’s friends (John Ericson was Angela’s brother and his four friends were in mine and Noah’s class and were all-star basketball players, known around town as the Flaming Five because of how they set the nets on fire).  It was also clear that Angela and Rebecca were friends with three male classmates: Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones.  To me, this was sad to read because of my recent discoveries.  Little did those three guys know, that in a little over two years, before they ever graduated from high school, they would all be dead.

Angela’s August 17th entry, a Tuesday, was like opening the top hatch of a submarine while it’s still a thousand feet or more under water.  At the dinner table she had a heated argument with her parents, especially her father, Franklin Ericson.  He had forbade her from participating in a group Angela referred to as ‘the Brights.’  Apparently, seventh period, twice per month, was reserved for club meetings.  Mr. Ericson had said she had to participate in ‘the Believers,’ a club lead by First Baptist Church of Christ’s youth pastor, Randy Miller.

I could vaguely recall high school club meetings.  Since I played football I never got a chance to participate.  At the end of sixth period all players headed for the field house and Coach Hicks.  For forty-five minutes he would walk around our lockers while we were getting dressed for practice.  He was the master of holding meetings with small groups who all played the same position.  His aim in doing this, coaching while we were dressing, was to have us ready to hit the practice field the split second the final school bell rang.   All I knew about the Brights was it was a secular humanist club that Ricky Miller had started when I was in the ninth grade, the first year he came to Boaz High School to teach Biology.  I also vaguely remembered a huge controversy his club idea had sparked.

I decided to call Noah.  I thought his memory might be better than mine.

“Freddie, what a nice surprise.  What’s up my friend.”  Noah, for as long as I had known him, was upbeat and positive.  I couldn’t remember a time I had called and found him sad or depressed.

“Question.  Do you recall a high school club called the Brights?”

“Oh, hell yes.  But, if it weren’t for Naomi I wouldn’t know so much.”  Naomi was Noah’s sister, and she was two years younger, which placed her in Angela and Rebecca’s grade.

“Tell me about it.”  I said.

“Naomi wanted to join but Mother said hell no.  Well, she said no.  But, that didn’t stop Naomi, she did a work-around.”

“What?”

“She was a silent member.  She didn’t attend club meetings but was like an ex—officio member.  Angela and Rebecca kept Naomi up to date.  A way to avoid family problems.  From what I heard, Naomi wasn’t the only ex-officio.”

“I’m not sure that’s the correct term.  Tell me more.”  I said.

“Ricky Miller started the club during his first year.  That would have been when we were in the ninth grade.  You know he was the brother of youth pastor Randy Miller?”

“I do.  Keep going.  Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Hey, you called and asked.  Listen up.”

“At first, Boaz High School stopped Ricky from organizing the Brights, saying the school wasn’t an appropriate place.  The School, at least at first, thought Ricky was claiming he and whoever joined his club thought they were smarter than everyone else.  Naomi said that wasn’t it at all, it was just a word to identify those who didn’t believe in the supernatural, in contrast to the Believers who obviously do. Seems like Mr. Ricky had some real balls.  He got him an ACLU lawyer and within a couple of weeks, after a few back and forth letters and an emergency court hearing, the school had to relent.  First Amendment stuff, you know.”

“I suspect I know the problem but tell me anyway.”  I said.

“Freddie why are you wasting my time.  You should know all this shit.”

“Refresh my memory.  The only thing I have a clear memory of concerning Ricky Miller was Biology class in the tenth grade.  What I learned that year was the final nail in my Bible thumping coffin.  I still don’t know how anyone could believe in God if they have even a basic understanding of Biology and evolution.”

“There, you’ve pretty much summed up the Brights.  As I said, they have a natural worldview, meaning they believe, like me and you, that everything has a natural explanation and therefore there is no supernatural being or force.  That would exclude God.”  Noah said, giving me the big picture.

“By chance, do you remember if Angela Ericson was a Bright?”  I asked.

“That’s another story.  Her father and four other deacons, all whose kids were joining, or trying to join the Brights, got Randy Miller and Pastor Walter involved.  Best I recall, the church and a big part of the community protested outside the school, trying to get Ricky Miller fired.”

Who were the other four, if you remember?”

“Let’s see, Angela and Rebecca, and Johnny Stewart, Tommy Jones, and Alan Floyd.  I remember because they were like five peas in a pod.  Each of their fathers was a deacon at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Each of them, the students, not the fathers, basically told everyone to go to hell.  Not in those words of course.”

“For your information, I’m reading Angela’s journals.  You know I told you how they came to be in my possession.”

“Sorry man, I don’t know anything about that.”  Noah was trying to be funny.  And, to not say too much over the telephone.  He had a reason to be so wise concerning privacy.  The man was a genius when it came to security matters.

“I’m reading where Angela is in the tenth grade and is attempting to join the Brights.  I’m wondering why she wasn’t already a member.  Why didn’t she join during the ninth grade?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe it had something to do with biology class.  You said she’s in the tenth grade.  Well, that’s when we all took biology.”  Noah probably had a point.  I recalled how intelligent and persuasive Ricky could be, even without trying.  His approach wasn’t to say much at all about God, the Bible, and Christianity.  He really didn’t have to.  He simply taught the intricacies of living organisms, emphasizing the vast time it had taken for life to evolve.

“Maybe so.  Anyway, I’ll let you go.  Are we still on for lunch on Thursday?”  I asked.

“Right on.”  I almost ended our call when Noah jumped in and said. “Freddie, you do know that the Brights club led Ricky Miller to set-up the Safe House in downtown Boaz.  It was a little like evolution.  It was an evolving process.  While we were in high school was the time a foundation was being built.  Ricky couldn’t do everything at once.  But, by the time we graduated, the Brights had quite a few members and the Safe House made about as much noise as the Lighthouse across the street.  Of course, local churches and almost all the community hated Ricky Miller about as much as right-wing Christians hated Obama.  You get the picture.”

After hanging up with Noah, I read a few more of Angela’s August 1971 entries.  The only new subject she brought up was her growing crush on Johnny Stewart.  With that, I closed the 1971/Sophomore journal and walked to my recliner. 

My mind pondered wonder boy.  From what I had learned, Johnny Stewart was certainly a lady’s man, even as far back as his ninth-grade year.  I doubt, back in the day, my dear sister would have disagreed.

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 20

What I had learned from Dad in the gazebo had triggered a rush of adrenaline.  Instead of using the excuse of Mother’s death as a good reason not to attend Doug’s Training Union class, I arrived early.  But, I wasn’t the first person. 

Connie was already there, sitting on the first row right in front of Doug’s podium.  Just like last week.  I smiled at her and said hello as I walked toward the back row.

“You can sit with me.  I don’t bite.”  Connie said, returning my smile.  No doubt it was silly, but it seemed like her invitation was like the midpoint of a novel, and our relationship up to this point in time.  I felt a monumental shift, like a long row of dominoes had just tripped over the first of another similar row that was headed in a whole other direction.  I turned and walked toward the most beautiful woman I had ever seen (sorry, Susan).  I hoped Connie didn’t detect I was fully delusional.

“What time is it?”  I asked as I sat down in the second seat from Connie.  “I didn’t realize I was so early.”  My delusion continued.

“Sit next to me.  I’m cold.”  It was the weirdest place on earth for sexual desire to rush over me like an ocean’s wave.  Even though it was hot and humid outside, the small basement classroom was cold.  And, Connie had on a sleeveless blouse.  “You can keep me warm.”  Did this woman, sixty-two’ish but easily disguised as a thirty-six-year-old former model, not know what she was doing to me?  For the first time ever, I was thankful for the old and uncomfortable chairs along the front row of the classroom.  They were the type that, for some reason, were all tied together.  They were fitted close together and you had no control over one chair’s distance from its next-door neighbor.  Praise God for all blessings.  I sat down, and my left shoulder and upper arm had no choice but to be near-firmly pressed against Connie’s.

“It’s like a refrigerator down here.  Where’s the thermostat?”  Always helpful me.  Why didn’t I say something like, ‘how warm do you want to be?’ but thought the better of it.

“How’s your Dad?”  Easily, quickly, Connie changed the subject.  I had seen her briefly at Mom’s funeral.  Then, all she said was, “I am so sorry.  I know how close you two were.”   I recall being thankful she hadn’t said, “she’s in a better place.”

“He’s taking it pretty hard.  But, that’s no surprise.  I stayed last night with him.  Surprisingly, he’s been a chatter box all day, reliving almost every second he and Mom spent together.”  An older couple came in.  I didn’t recognize them.  They hadn’t been here last week.  They said hello and sat in my back-row spot.

“I can’t imagine how I’m going to feel when my parents die.”  I knew Connie’s parents were still almost the picture of health, even though they too were well into their eighties.  Before I could comment, she said, “changing the subject but do you know anything about John Deere lawn mowers?”

“Not really.  Why?”  Man, Connie could throw a curve ball.

“Mine just died late yesterday afternoon.  The dealer at Snead was closing when I called.  He said for me to either bring it in on Monday, tomorrow, or he could send a truck and driver to pick it up.  I just thought you might remember some of the stuff you learned in high school.”

“Gosh, you have a good memory.  I did take shop with Mr. Jackson.  I learned a lot about two-stroke engines, winning a second-place ribbon in the eleventh-grade county competition.”  This ten minutes before class was like riding a roller coaster.  Sexual urges (mine) and a flashback to our youth (hers).

“I hate to ask you, but would you mind coming over and taking a look.  I don’t have any way to get the darn thing down to Snead and I really would rather not pay the dealer a fee to come get it.”

“No.  I mean I don’t mind, but don’t be disappointed if I’m not much help.  Technology is a little different now than nearly half a century ago.”  Connie gave a low verbal nod.

Doug, and what seemed the remainder of the class, walked in before either of us could continue.  He placed a folder on the podium and scanned the room while everyone took a seat.  “Thanks to everyone for coming.  It’s a minute or two after six so let’s get started.”

Doug spent the next thirty minutes lecturing us on what the Old Testament said about death, more particularly, what happened to a person after he died.  Doug clearly believed the OT promised an afterlife with God.  He cited two verses.  One, in Job 19:27, where the suffering old man said, “I myself will see him with my own eyes. … How my heart yearns within me!”   The second one from 2 Samuel 12:23, speaking of King David when his infant son was taken from him by death.  To Doug, King David affirmed his conviction that someday he and his dead son would be reunited. 

Connie added her own understanding to the class when she said, “David’s words in Psalm 23 have brought comfort to me and countless generations of believers: ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. … And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’  That’s from Psalm 23:4 and 6.”  I shouldn’t have been surprised that the lovely Connie was fully familiar with the Bible.

The new couple on the back row asked Doug if the Old Testament taught of a literal Hell.  He answered, I think correctly, that the OT was rather vague on the idea.  Doug spent several minutes assuring the class that the New Testament clearly taught the doctrine of a literal Hell.  Doug cited a ton of scriptures including, Matthew 3:7, 3:12, 5:29-30, 18:9-12, 13:38-42, 13:49-50, and 25:46.  And, these were just the Matthew scriptures.  Doug then argued the OT indirectly argued for a literal Hell.  He said that the OT contained many references to God’s wrath, and that He gets angry at wickedness and those who perpetrate such wickedness.  Doug also said the OT prophets repeatedly spoke of a time when the Holy One would have His ‘day,’ which was a day of justice in which He would express His anger toward sin and visit judgment on sinners. 

I raised the question about Sheol.  Doug, no doubt, was familiar with this term and the Bible in general.  He said Sheol referred to the grave or the abode of the dead, and that during the OT period, it was believed that all (humans and animals) went to one place when they died, Sheol.  It didn’t matter whether the humans were righteous or wicked, no one avoided Sheol.  It was a place thought to be in the lowest parts of the earth. 

After several questions from the class that ate up a lot of time, Doug was speaking of the absence in Sheol of love, hate, envy, work, thought, knowledge, and wisdom, when the bell rang. 

For some reason, after Doug led the class in a closing prayer, he made a remark about wickedness, referring to our earlier discussion.  Then, he announced as everyone stood and was starting to move toward the exit, “please continue to pray that the wicked man, woman, one and all, will be captured.  Angela would love to have her journals back.”  I thought it was an odd statement, coming when it did.  My mind, odd how it worked at times, thought it strange the three journals were safe and secure on the top shelf in my kitchen closet that doubled as a small pantry.

As it happened, Connie and I walked into the hallway together.  If things for ten minutes before six couldn’t get any better, Connie turned to me and said, “you can sit with me during preaching.”  She must have thought, no, she would have certainly known, I was bat-shit crazy about her.  All I could mumble was, “yea.”  It was like I was casting a vote for something in Congress.  She looked at me a little strange and smiled.

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 19

I spent the night with Dad.  It was nearly 9:30 p.m. when Deidre called.  I was asleep in my recliner and was silently pissed she asked me to come.  She didn’t say it directly, but I took it to mean she had family responsibilities at home and I didn’t.  By the time I arrived, Dad was already asleep, thanks to Dr. Luther who had prescribed something guaranteed to knock out a horse.

Sunday morning Dad slept until nearly ten.  When he walked into the den his face revealed the perfect illustration of a man who had lost the love of his life after nearly sixty-nine years of marriage.  I made him a bowl of oatmeal.  Surprisingly, he wanted to talk.  It was like something was compelling him to speak aloud the chronology of their lives.  Long after he had pushed back the half-empty bowl, I heard the story of how he and Mom had met, married, and endured five years floundering in Cincinnati as he worked as a flunky (his word) at a NAPA auto parts store.  Their move to Martin Mansion outside Boaz was the best decision of their lives.

After pouring us both a cup of coffee, we moved outside to the front porch.  I don’t think I said a thing for the next hour.  Nearly every other word out of his mouth was Harriet, baby, your mom, or queen bee.  This was true even as he described the death of Papa Stonewall shortly after Dad and Mom moved to Alabama, and as he talked about his struggle to both farm and work at Goodyear Tire and Rubber in Gadsden.

While he was sharing experiences during mine and Deidre’s high school years, he wanted to walk the garden.  After he had me return to the old wash-house for a five-gallon bucket to use in gathering some tomatoes, Dad said, “there were only two fights me and your mother ever had.  The first one was more a heated discussion.  She didn’t want you to play football, thought you would get hurt for life.”  I asked Dad if that was why she wouldn’t come to watch the games.  “Partially, she also wanted to spend that time in prayer, praying for your safety.”

I made another trip to the wash-house for another bucket.  We gathered tomatoes, squash, and green beans.  My mind wanted to share with Dad what Rebecca Rawlins had said to me last Thursday in Connie’s dining room.  My face must have looked as sad as Dad’s had earlier since he said, “you’re taking it pretty hard too, aren’t you?”

“I am.  Mom’s death has been such a shock.  I was totally unprepared.  Now, I’m torn apart with regret.  Just last Sunday, only one week ago, she asked me to stay with her on the front porch and talk.  She said something like, ‘Fred, I wished we could talk like we used to.’”  I followed Dad onto the screened-in back porch and obeyed his motioning to place the tomato-filled bucket on a table beside a big sink.

“Fred, I have to be honest with you.  It broke your mother’s heart when you abandoned your faith.  She never got over that.  She always believed it was her fault.”

I always did what was natural.  Talk like a lawyer, give a sound and logical rebuttal argument.  But, I didn’t.  Instead, I became vulnerable.  “I think if I could, I would go back and try my best to be exactly what Mother wanted me to be, even if it wasn’t what I truly believed.  Anything to relieve her suffering.”

Dad motioned for us to go back outside.  We walked to the little gazebo he and mother had finished building when I was in high school.  I had started the darn thing as a project for shop class.  Formally, it was called Vocational Agriculture.  For some reason I had changed my mind and rebuilt an old lawn mower engine instead.  Mom and Dad hated unfinished projects, so they completed the now old and decaying gazebo themselves.

We sat in two metal chairs in great need of sanding and painting opposite a well-worn swing.  “That’s where she sat when we had that second big argument I mentioned.”

“What was that about?”  For whatever reason, I figured Dad was about to tell me another incident where Mother was disappointed with me.  Maybe, when Noah and I took a job driving some of George Everette Cox’s used cars to Huntsville during the summer before our senior year.  Mother’s problem with that was the hitchhiking.  Noah and I had to find our own way back.  Again, to Mother, I took too many risks.  Couple that with my near-heretical beliefs, and she had every reason to fear and worry her head off.

“It’s a real touchy subject.  If your mom was still here, sitting over there in that swing, she would be demanding I keep my mouth shut.  But, it’s time you know.  I’m tired of keeping secrets.”  Dad was glancing at me but mostly looking towards the empty swing.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.  Whatever it is.”  I said.  I wanted to let Dad know I wasn’t trying to pull anything out of him.

“I would appreciate you keeping this between us.”  Dad laughed out loud.  “I guess I’m not fully free from a secret life.”  Dad pulled his pocket knife out of his right pocket and a piece of wood from his left.  He had always used whittling as a stress reliever.

“I promise, if that’s what you want.”  What else could I say?

“This subject almost broke through the darkness at lunch last Sunday.  You recall us talking about the Safe House, Johnny Stewart, and how your mother forbade Deidre from seeing him.”

“I remember some of the conversation.”

“Well, it seems your sister didn’t fully heed Harriet’s order.  The two of them, your sister and Johnny, kept seeing each other.  I’m sure it involved a lot of sneaking around, probably a conspiracy of sorts.  The bottom line is Deidre got pregnant and your mom made her move away for the remainder of her senior year.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never heard this.”

“That was the plan.  That was the big argument.  Might as well call it a fight, except there were no punches thrown.  Your mom wanted to do everything she could to protect your sister’s reputation and future.”  Dad said, looking intently at a piece of wood that had the faint look of a horse’s head.

“Deidre moved to Italy, as an exchange student.  I remember not seeing her at Christmas when Susan and I came home from Auburn.”

“That was a lie.  Deidre was in Cincinnati with your aunt Hazel.”

“So, Deidre went into hiding, and me and I suppose the rest of the local world was told she was across the big pond?”  I asked.

“Pretty much right.”

“I’m assuming Deidre carried the baby to full term and then put it up for adoption.  Is that close to correct?” 

“Dead on.  Except there is a little twist.”  Dad said.

“Why do I feel this is where the plot thickens?”  I asked.

“Your mother could be a little cunning.  It’s kind of like she tried to do the impossible, like having her cake and eating it too.”

“What exactly did Mother do?”

“She choreographed a private adoption.  Here’s where you need to be very careful with what you say.  I’m glad you’re sitting down because otherwise you might fall over.”

“Dad, you’re a master storyteller. I’m literally sitting on the edge of my chair.”

“The baby was adopted by a dear friend of your mom’s right here in Boaz.”

“Who was the friend?”

Dad was carefully eyeing the miniature horse, no doubt avoiding looking at me.  “Helen Patterson.  Her husband was Joshua Patterson, long dead.”

“And the baby’s name is?”  My gut was already telling me the answer.

“Caleb Patterson, the current pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.”

“What a story.  I think I feel a little of what an outsider feels.”

“As you might expect, this was all terribly hard on Deidre.  Having to move away and live with an old maid in a big city.”

“Question, did Deidre go to school while she was up north?”

“She did, she went to Seven Hills High School just like me and your mom did.  She was able to go the full year.  From January through May.  We had moved her up there shortly before Christmas.”

“When was the baby born?”  I asked.

“July 12th, 1974.  Here’s what also was so hard on your sister.  She shared this a long time ago with your mom and she shared it, eventually with me.  Deidre is certain she became pregnant the night before Johnny was killed.  You know, we talked about the horrible incident after the Boaz-Albertville football game.”  Dad said, now standing up and moving over to sit in the swing.

“The football game more likely was on a Friday night.  So, Deidre and Johnny someway secretly met on Thursday night.”  I did some quick math in my head.  “A full-term baby born in July would have been conceived in October.  Do you know when Johnny and his two buddies were killed?”  I asked.

“It’s not known exactly but for sure it was after the football game.  That’s a no-brainer.  They played in the game that night.  The three were the heart of the Boaz team.”  Dad said.

“Again, this is amazing in a terrible sort of way.  It would be hard for a novelist to create such a sad story.  A baby is conceived just a day or so before the father is murdered, and shortly later the pregnant mother is whisked away to a foreign world to carry and care for a baby she was powerless to keep.” 

“Like I said, please keep this to yourself.”  Dad said.

I couldn’t respond.  Deidre and Ed drove up just as I started to speak.  The two of them saw us as they got out of their car.  Deidre joined us, taking a seat beside Dad in the now-to-me, infamous swing.  Within a couple of minutes, I had politely excused myself and walked back to my cabin.

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 18

Mother’s funeral was Saturday morning.  Late Thursday afternoon, shortly after her body arrived from the hospital, McRae’s Funeral Home called and said that Mom had called less than two weeks earlier and added a note to her long-made arrangements.  She had requested her funeral be no later than the second day after she died. 

If there was anything I hated more than a Southern funeral, I couldn’t think of it, unless it was a root canal.  Apparently, Deidre and Mother had spent quite a bit of time planning her final goodbye.  As the service waned on I got the feeling the planning was more of Deidre’s idea than Mother’s.  Gabby sang two songs, and Jacob read a poem that supposedly Mother had asked him to read.  Pastor Caleb eulogized Mother as though he had personally known her all his life.  As is customary, even required, he finished his time with a literal altar call encouraging all those present who were not yet in the fold to surrender today to the mighty Christ and be saved.  Both before and after the funeral, I bet I heard at least two dozen well-intended friends say, “I know you’re going to miss your mom but she’s so much better off, she’s in such a better place.”  Unsurprisingly, this popular Southern Baptist statement, had an opposite affect from what was intended.  It didn’t give me comfort.  It just made me mad that otherwise intelligent people could truly believe such malarkey.

After enduring the unnecessary stress of the funeral and after being cooped up all day yesterday at Martin Mansion greeting and meeting with friends and long-absent family members, I was ready for a break.  I had to find a way to absent myself without seeming cold and insensitive.  We all retired to Martin Mansion after the funeral and graveside service, where we found a mountain of food prepared by the Keenagers, the church group Mother had spent years enjoying and supporting.  If there was one person, there was at least a hundred: including distant family and friends.  As I ambled down the long buffet line set up in the side yard, Deidre came up and softly whispered, “can you go fishing with Luke?  He’s having a very difficult time and asked me if I would ask you.”  I almost hugged her neck.

Fifteen minutes later, after downing my plate of food and rushing to change clothes at my cabin, Luke and I were sitting under the shade of the old oak Papa Stonewall had set-out in 1899, the year he built the pond and Papa Fredrick was born.  Luke was rewashing his hands at the water’s edge after having dug a mound of bait from Dad’s fifty-year-old worm farm nestled underneath the overhang of the old barn behind my cabin.

“Don’t you think you’ve got them clean?”  I asked as it seemed Luke was taking extra-long to wash off the rich and foamy dirt.

“Granddad always digs the worms when we go fishing.  It was fine at first, the top layer, but when I got down to the wriggly things, the soil got slimy.  If that wasn’t enough, the goo made me think about myself and how disappointed Nanny would be if she knew what I had been thinking.”  All the kids, grand and great-grand, called my dear mother, the family’s matriarch, Nanny.  I’m not sure how that came about. 

“I assume you are speaking of your doubts, maybe the things the three of us, Tyler, me and you, have been talking about.  I suspect Mother would think two things.  She would agree with you that it is natural to have questions.  But, unfortunately, she would disagree with you if you concluded anything other than what the Bible says.  No doubt, she would try her best to keep you focused and dedicated to her God.”

“I was talking to Tyler at the cemetery, after the graveside service.  He said that Nanny was better off as everyone was saying but it was because she wasn’t suffering, not because she was sitting with Jesus or strolling streets of gold.”  Luke finally was satisfied with his hands but didn’t seem to want to fish with the slimy creatures.  He started attaching an artificial worm to the end of his line.

“I suppose you are asking yourself the age-old question: ‘what happens to a person when she dies?’  Am I close to correct?” 

“That’s pretty much dead-on.”  Luke said, moving closer to me. 

I was hesitant to head down the track it appeared mine and Luke’s conversation was headed.  Maybe I should pull out Dad’s trick and spend my time walking around the pond, casting my line for a hungry bass.  Sometimes, my love for truth came at a price.  “In a sense, funerals are no different than everyday life around a Southern Baptist Church.  To an outsider, it’s like visiting a foreign country.  I bet you’ve recognized that your world, youth group at church and probably your home life regarding things of God and church, includes a heavy dose of a particularized language.”  After I said this I remembered I was talking to my ninth-grade grand-nephew.

“Tyler has said something similar.  He’s always asking me things like, ‘what do you need saved from?’  And, ‘do you think virgins can really have a baby?’”

“Like I’ve said, it took me years to break free from the clan.”

“More like a club or a gang, according to Tyler.”  Luke said adding another weight to his line.

“You and Tyler are pretty close I gather?”  I meant it as both a statement and a question.  I really didn’t know much about him and certainly didn’t want Luke to be led into drugs or alcohol, or something even worse.

“He’s now my best friend.”

“How did that come about?”  I thought this might lead us away from a slimy discussion of some sort.

“I met him this past summer.  He and his family had just moved here from Seattle, Washington.  We both tried out for football.  We both were cut.  Coach Sullivan said we needed another year of conditioning and for us to try out again next year.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, is the coach kin to your dad?”

“No, different branch of the tree I guess.  Anyway, I guess you could say, mine and Tyler’s friendship was born out of failure.”

“I’d encourage you not to look at it that way, the football failure as you call it.  Give yourself credit, you gave it a try.  That took some real gumption.” 

“Tyler’s dad said the same thing.”

“What’s he like?”

“Mr. Larson?”

“Tyler’s father.”  I said.

“He’s kind of a nerd.  Tyler calls him Mr. Brain.”

“What does he do?  For a living?”  I was full of questions, again thankful the elephant in the room had wandered off.

“He’s a scientist with Boeing.  In Huntsville.”

“I’m curious.  Why did they move to Boaz?  Why not live in Huntsville?”

“I’m not really sure.  I think there are a lot of people around here that work in Huntsville.”

“Right, but I bet most of them have roots in Boaz.  That’s why they make that long drive every day.”

“Uncle Fred, can I ask you something?”  Luke had cast his line a few times but didn’t seem too interested in fishing.

“Again, you don’t have to ask me that.  You can always ask me a question.”

“Do you believe Nanny is in Heaven?”  No doubt, this was the heart of Luke’s motivation when he asked his mother to ask me if I would go fishing with him.

“No.”  I sat down in one of the two lawn chairs Dad always kept under the giant oak.  I pulled the tackle box closer looking for Dad’s green frog.

“Is that all you’re going to say?  Just, ‘no’?”

“Sorry, I was kind of hoping you didn’t want to know why I feel this way.”

“Sorry, but I do.”  For a moment, I saw Luke as a peer.  I don’t remember me being so bright when I was in the ninth grade.

“Let me back up just a little.  You know we were talking about the unique language that goes with being a Southern Baptist Christian?  Until you are free from that culture you don’t really realize how foolish you sound.  Here’s an example, one really close at hand.  You heard Pastor Caleb say today at Mother’s graveside service, ‘Harriet wouldn’t want any of us to be sad.  She’s finally home and in the presence of her precious Jesus, praising him.  She’s happy and no longer suffering.’”

Luke couldn’t stay quiet.  “I think I see why Tyler pokes fun at me.  He’s always saying, ‘Luke boy, think a minute.  How do you think that sounds to me?’

“He’s right.  Think rationally for a minute.  Mother was eighty-nine years old.  She died of a stroke.  At the hospital, the doctors explained what happened to her.  They said a stroke was like a brain attack, it’s when blood-flow to an area in the brain is cut off.  They said Mother had a hemorrhagic stroke.  This occurs when a blood vessel in the brain breaks or ruptures.  The result is blood seeping into the brain tissue, causing damage to brain cells.  A lot of research has been performed that clearly reveals that when a person’s brain is damaged there are predictable results.  For example, if a stroke occurs in the left side of the brain, the right side of the body will be affected, often producing paralysis.”

“I think I already know where you are going with this.  A person’s brain can be damaged and there are predictable results.  The more damaged a brain, the less the person is like a real person.  I mean a normally healthy person.”  Again, I was impressed with Luke.

“Right.  And, continuing with your illustration, when a person dies, their brain simply stops functioning.  Yet, Christians, at least the Southern Baptist breed, believe that even though the brain has died, the conscious soul simply flies off in perfect condition and easily capable of seeing love ones long gone and recognizing Jesus.”  I said, recalling one of my favorite statements by Sam Harris, a world-famous neuro-scientist and atheist.

“That’s another thing I simply don’t understand.  Souls and new bodies.  Don’t we believe, Christians, my family and church, don’t they believe that humans consist of body, mind, and soul, and that when Jesus returns all believers, including those already in Heaven, will get a new body?”  Luke was asking some age-old questions.  Of course, Southern Baptists have known the answers for years.  At least, they think they have.

“We’re in murky waters now, if you ask me.  Research that I’ve read holds that a person’s mind is like software running on the person’s brain.  Although there is much scientists do know, there is no evidence that a person’s mind or consciousness, or soul if you want to call it that, survives death.  You asked a while ago, whether I believe Mother is in Heaven.  I answered no.  It is my full belief that when someone dies they die.  That’s it.”

“That sure makes me wonder why on earth anyone could believe Nanny is still alive, just missing her earthly body.”  Luke said, reeling in one of the smallest bass I had ever seen.

“That’s easy.  Because they believe the Bible says so, and they’ve been taught this from the cradle.  In short, it’s called indoctrination.”  My stomach almost turned sick as my words flowed off my tongue.  If Deidre, Dad, Pastor Caleb, Youth Pastor Robert Miller, or any one of them, could hear me, they would be calling for my expulsion from the church.

“And, you believe the Bible is just another man-made book.”  I wondered whether Luke was making a statement or asking a question.

“Yes.”

For the next hour, Luke and I walked around the pond, sometimes together, sometimes separately, casting our lines.  Close to 4:00, he snagged a big bass and wanted to go show his father.  I decided to let Ed help Luke clean the ten-pounder.  I gathered up our fishing gear and walked the long trail back to my cabin, wondering if, beyond all odds, Mother was looking down on me and frowning.

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 17

By the time I reached the hospital, Mother was already gone.  Her death was, in a way, harder on me than Susan’s had been.  Hers was a long process.  Mother’s was a sudden event.  With Susan, I had time to prepare, if that’s what you call it.  After her second relapse, we knew she would likely die within six months.  It was five.  Mother’s death was like a bombshell that appeared out of nowhere and destroyed everything in its wake.  I sat with Deidre and Dad in the chapel as the nurses prepared Mother’s body for our final viewing before she would be transported to the funeral home.  All I could think about was how selfish I was to not have stayed with her out on her big front porch last Sunday afternoon.  She had said as I was leaving, “Fred, I wish we could talk.  Like we used to.”

By 11:30 a.m., Dad, Deidre, and I had returned to Martin Mansion.  By 1:00, the whole family had arrived.  We spent all afternoon reminiscing the life of Harriet Ann Parkland.

Her and Dad had met at Seven Hills School in Cincinnati.  It was a private high school that prided itself on preparing its students for college.  Although both Dad and Mom were in the top ten percent of their class and had every family-financial opportunity to advance their education, for some strange reason they had opted to ignore the world’s dictation, instead choosing to work menial jobs after graduating so they would have more time to focus on each other.  I think they had some premonition they would end up in Boaz, working this magnificent hundred-acre farm.  I never tired of hearing Mother talk about how much Dad shared with her his love for Papa Stonewall and Martin Mansion.  Their opportunity came in February 1954 when Dad came home from his factory job and announced they were moving to Alabama and Martin Mansion to care for his aging grandfather.

At noon, Rebecca met Angela Barber at the Rock House Eatery in Guntersville.

After ordering lunch, Rebecca said, “I met with Fred Martin this morning.  Connie’s idea about the long-term health care policy was a good one.  I don’t think Fred suspects anything about Pastor Caleb.”

“That seems impossible.  His own sister getting pregnant and having a baby without him knowing it.”  Angela added.

“Remember, she was barely showing at graduation.  I suspect he still believes that Deidre’s high school graduation present was a year of travel and study in Europe.  I still remember what fun we had mailing him those silly cards from Florence, Italy.”  Rebecca said, thanking the waitress for her baked salmon salad.

“Can you imagine the look on Fred’s face if he found out that Caleb Patterson was his nephew?”  Angela asked.

“It would be one of surprise, but it would definitely turn to anger and disgust when he learned Deidre’s blood son came from the intimate work of Johnny Stewart.”  Rebecca paused as the young waiter poured her another glass of white wine.  “It will only get worse for all of us if your journals go public.  I would nearly bet the two burglaries, your house and mine, are connected.”

Angela waved at an older man with a younger woman who were just being seated.  Customers of the Neighborhood Pharmacy.  “Here’s a thought that just beamed through my head.  Do you think it possible that Fred knows more than we think?  That he someway knows Johnny Stewart charmed the saintly Susan?”

“Continuing that dark thought.  What if Fred is the one who took your journals?”  Rebecca said, cutting a piece of salmon and laying it on Angela’s plate of Fettuccine.

“If he did, then he probably stole your jewels.”  Angela said.

“And, don’t forget, my stolen coins.”  Rebecca added, distracted by the odd couple Angela had waved at.  “I wonder if Romeo over there knows his Juliet is after his money and hopes for his early demise?”

“He’s probably as dumb as Elton was.  He never knew what hit him did he?”  Angela asked.

“Literally.  My persistent persuasion that he should drive that day could have been a give-away.  In a way, my dear Elton was as dumb as dirt.  Older men are greatly overconfident.   I hope you can come up with as good a plan as I did.”  Rebecca said.

“Caleb’s coming around, so that’ll make it easier.  And, more interesting.”  Angela said, reaching over and forking another piece of Rebecca’s salmon.

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 16

The next ten days drug by.  With the growing routine of work, church, suppers and dinners at Mom’s, and a couple more email exchanges with Luke, it was finally the day I had been looking forward to.  Late yesterday afternoon Connie’s policy had arrived by courier.  I had called her immediately after verifying the home office had gotten everything right.  Once again, she had wanted me to come early, before she headed out to her yard.  And, once again, she instructed me to come in through her unlocked front door and back to the sun room.

As promised, I arrived at 8:00 a.m.  The Thursday edition of the Sand Mountain Reporter was laying on her front porch, so I picked it up and eased inside.  A faint creaking of the door or a silent alarm must have aroused the tall and shapely Connie.  I was halfway through the giant den when she appeared.  With the sun’s assistance, she looked like an angel.  There was something about how the incoming rays engulfed her shoulders creating the look of white and fluffy wings.  But, it was the shorts, rather the tanned legs coming out of the shorts, that got the most attention.  I still was shocked how this 62-year-old creature could still look so good.  Of course, I knew that a man’s eye for beauty evolves as he grows older, but I couldn’t help but believe that if I were a sixteen-year-old kid (heck, a thirty-year-old man) standing here, I would be hard pressed not to fantasize how this lovely creature would look naked.

“Come on back.  Mollie and I made us some coffee.  She’s already had hers.”  I complied fully, sitting in the same seat beside her swing noticing a small card table had been added to the room’s arrangement.  I wondered if the less gorgeous Mollie drank coffee.

“Thanks, I could use another cup.  It’s been one of those mornings.”  I said, needing to say something that had little meaning.

“Cream and sugar, or Sweet-n-Low?”

“Black is fine.”

As she handed me my cup I think she caught me staring at her hair.  It was a cross between brown and brunette.  It was silky and just long enough for her to pull it up in a short pony tail to the back of her head.  This accentuated her neck, but I dared not go there.  She smiled as she turned her attention to the card table, pulling it up to us.  I laid my notebook and Connie’s policy folder on top.  “I hope you don’t mind but I’ve taken the liberty to provide you with a new prospect.”

Any insurance sales person would have known exactly what Connie meant.  For some reason (my involuntary reaction to the sexy Connie might have something to do with it) her words didn’t register.  I must have looked bewildered, so she repeated herself, adding a little explanation. “Rebecca Rawlins should be here in a few minutes.  You know I shared with you that she was interested in this same type policy.”

“Oh yea.  Thanks.”  My mind had finally caught up.

“Go ahead and give me your spill.  I’ll sign the receipt you mentioned.”  She was in full control of our agenda.  I didn’t mind.  I was happy just sitting here, sipping my coffee, and trying to figure out the faint smell of perfume.  I think it was one Susan had worn.

I sat up straighter and pulled out Connie’s long-term health care policy.  “Your policy was issued just like you wanted, the requested amounts agree fully with your application.  To start with, if you needed home health care services, the policy will pay a maximum of two hundred dollars per day.  For assisted living or nursing home care it will pay four hundred.  Each day, maximum.  The automatic benefit rider will increase these daily benefits each year by the amount of the change in the consumer price index, but never less than two percent.”

Connie, as always, was among the brightest bulbs in the drawer.  She asked a couple of questions and prodded me to produce the paperwork she needed to sign.  She had just thanked me for making the entire insurance buying process less painful than a trip to the dentist.  We shared a laugh.  I was about to pop the question I had been pondering ever since my initial visit, but the front doorbell rang.  My idea of asking Connie out for a cup of coffee would have to wait.

“Oh, that must be Rebecca.  Perfect timing.  Mollie, you stay here with Mr. Fred.”  Connie got up and pushed the coffee table away, towards the solid glass wall looking out onto her gorgeous back yard.  Susan would have loved all the red roses.

Mollie jumped up in my lap when Connie headed for the front door, as though the black Yorkie had received a subliminal order from her master.  Once again, those loving eyes prompted my thoughts back to the Golden Retrievers Susan and I had and loved so dearly.

I hadn’t seen Rebecca in over forty years.  As she came in and we exchanged the normal pleasantries, I was silently, hopefully non-visibly, disappointed.  She had not aged near as well as Connie.  Although I would have recognized her most anywhere, she wasn’t the pretty and athletic cheerleader I remembered.  She still wasn’t ugly by any means.  I think it was simply the shifting of body parts.  Forty-four years ago, the tight-bodied and busty teenager was a head turner.  I hated the aging process.

“If you two don’t mind I’ve got some work to do out here.  I think the dining room would be better for your discussion anyway, and its cooler in there.”  Once again, Connie choreographed the scene including its characters. 

After Rebecca and I sat the large mahogany table, she looked at me with a faint smile.  “Thank you for seeing me.  I know I look like a wreck.  It’s been a difficult couple of weeks.”

“No apology needed.  I’m honored to meet with you.  I hope you know I take my responsibilities seriously and will do everything I can to earn your trust.”  My standard spill.  I meant every word of it.

“Connie’s reference is all I needed.  Of course, it’s not like we’re meeting for the first time.  Even though it’s been a lifetime, I recall you being a nice guy back in high school.”

“Thanks.  Maybe I’ve matured for the better.”

For thirty minutes I made my standard presentation, the same one that had persuaded Connie to make her insurance purchase.  Rebecca had similar questions that I believe I answered to her satisfaction.  An additional thirty minutes later I had completed my second long-term health care application in as many weeks.

It seemed our meeting was over.  I organized all the paperwork laid across our end of the table and placed them back inside my notebook.  I pushed back my chair and was about to again thank Rebecca for meeting with me when she said, “can we talk, personal?”

The first thing I thought of was someway she had identified me as the criminal who was being sought by both local and state law enforcement.  Quickly, it dawned on me that wasn’t likely.  If so, why would she have trusted me with such a big financial decision?  “Sure, what’s on your mind?”  I hoped my internal worry hadn’t oozed on to my face.

“I want to apologize for what happened back in high school.”  Rebecca was growing more mysterious by the second.

“Okay, but I don’t have a clue why you would want or need to apologize to me.”  I’d never been more truthful.

“The things I said about Deidre.”  Rebecca pushed back her chair and crossed her legs.  I knew that arm-crossing was a defensive position.  Leg action was subtler.

“Rebecca, I sense you are troubled about something and believe me, if you had ever offended me I would let you know.  I’m completely in the dark here.”

“I guess I have to believe you, but it seems odd.  I was the one who told your mother about Deidre and Johnny.”

I searched my memory for a clue about what she might mean.  The only thing that surfaced was what had been discussed last Sunday around Mom’s dining table.  I couldn’t remember if it was Deidre or Mother who had said why she had banned Deidre from the Safe House because of Johnny Stewart.  “Stimulate my memory.  What exactly did you tell my mother?”  I finally asked.

“I’m beginning to feel I’ve opened a can of worms.”  Rebecca said, fingering a locket around her neck I hadn’t noticed before.

“Since the lid’s been removed why not go ahead.”  I hated when someone started to tell me something and then became mute.

“Okay, I will.  Again, it’s very surprising you didn’t know.  I was mad at Deidre.  She had stolen Johnny from me.  I wanted to hurt her and the best way I knew was to tell your mother than Deidre was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?  That’s news to me.  How could I not know this?”  I recognized, once again, as I had with Dad by the pond, that I had missed out on a lot happening around Boaz while Susan and I stayed secluded in Auburn.

“I doubt it’s unusual for a brother to not know his sister is banging a star football player.  Sometimes, family is the last to know.”  I had mixed feelings about what Rebecca was telling me.  On the one hand, I was growing angry.  Why cast such a negative light upon my sister?  Or, was Rebecca truly sorry, which fed the other side of my mind that wanted to be sympathetic?

“Fred, by the look on your face I realize I shouldn’t have said a thing.  I assumed wrong, apparently totally wrong.  I have always thought that you, along with your mother, and family as far as that goes, hated me for pointing the finger at Deidre.  Now, I must apologize for bringing all this up.”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary.  If what you are saying is true, then let bygones be bygones.”  I said.

“Please know I would not make up something like this.  Oh, what a mess I can make.  Please forgive me.”  I had no doubt Rebecca was sincere.  She was starting to cry.

“I have a question.  If Deidre was pregnant, what happened to the baby?”  I would betray every thing about being a lawyer if I didn’t ask this question.

“All I know is from rumors and I’m not going to share gossip.”

“That’s not helpful.  Often, gossip is the gospel.  I wish you would tell me what you’ve heard and let me determine what to do with it.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.  All I can say is, if you really want to know, talk to your mother.”

I don’t know if it was good or not but at that moment Connie stuck her head in and asked if we wanted something to drink or a slice of the key-lime pie she had made the night before.  I declined and made the best attempt I could to exit without appearing too shocked.

I was thankful to be in my car heading back to the office.  I hadn’t reached Highway 205 when my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket.  It was Deidre.

“Fred, you need to come quickly.  Mom has had a stroke.  She’s at the hospital.  In the emergency room.”