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 64
I didn’t leave the hospital until late Tuesday night. That’s when Deidre showed up with Ed at the ICU Waiting Room. She was lucky to be alive. Her story was extraordinary in many ways, but one thing it wasn’t, to me it didn’t come as a surprise.
After Deidre’s brief visit with a near comatose Dad (nurse Greta shushed her out), we three sat with coffee I had poured from the adjoining refreshments room (thanks Marshall Medical Center South).
Deidre had used Rebecca’s cell phone to dial 911. Luckily, the emergency system had the technology to determine the call location. Sis, at that time, didn’t have a clue where she was. An ambulance and two police cars from Anniston showed up within minutes.
The stress, strain, and scratches of Deidre’s ordeal were obvious from her face: a fully blood-shot right eye with four claw marks traveling down the adjoining cheek. Her left eye was hollow. Her natural bright blue was like it had been painted black by a not-so-good painter. The message her face communicated was: I’m in shock. I nearly died.
At the hospital, the police had allowed Deidre to call Ed. He had joined her and the two had spent all day at both the hospital and the police station dealing with every aspect of the whole ordeal. What had pissed her more than anything was being treated as a criminal and not being allowed to come immediately to see, what very well could be, our dying father.
I finally left the hospital a little before ten. As I stood to walk out of the waiting room, my cell phone vibrated. It was Connie. I walked outside into the hall and answered. “Hey honey, how’s Tyler?”
“He has barely moved all day. The kid can sleep without hardly even breathing. He wouldn’t take off his shoes when he lay across the bed in my spare bedroom.”
I wasn’t coherent enough to chat, but I said: “He’s lucky to be alive. I have a much higher opinion of Pastor Caleb now. He could have taken the easy way out and killed Tyler. I admire the man in a strange sort of way.”
“Rebecca wasn’t so lucky. She’s dead. I just heard.” I wanted to ask her for details, especially how she had learned the news. But, I didn’t. My mind and body were in Safe Mode, I think it’s a computer term.
After I politely declined Connie’s invitation to drive over to her house, I again said goodbye, to Deidre and Ed.
It was the most pleasurable shower I had ever taken. And, a long one. I stood under the semi-weak spray for nearly an hour, numb to my existence. Except, my mind played a short video of what had been happening around me. The title should have been “Look Who’s Dead,” or something involving the cessation of life for so many I knew.
It started with Elton, then Doug. Next was Angela. Now, Carson (as far as I knew, the only one who died of natural causes, but I wouldn’t bet on it). Oh, I forgot Miss Mossie, but, I didn’t know her. Probably a natural death; heck she was ninety something. No, Rebecca and Angela had stayed, after Carson left. And finally, Caleb and Rebecca. Jealousy and money, it seemed, was the root of nearly every one of these deaths.
When I finished my shower, I was drawn like a magnet to my bed. But, there was something I had to do. The thought had been niggling me all day. I walked to the kitchen and opened the pantry door. I knew Angela’s journals were safe. I had already checked them once since the search warrant invasion. They had been peacefully resting on the top shelf, hidden by the fake ceiling underneath that I had spent the better part of a day cutting and installing, and re-cutting and re-installing.
My goal was to reread from Angela’s third journal the account of her senior year at Boaz High School beginning in August 1973. My focus was the Friday night Johnny Stewart and friends met their fate, and the following two weeks that ended when Biology teacher Ricky Miller was found dead at the Safe House.
I sat in my Lazy Boy and read ten pages. I was disappointed I didn’t learn anything new. I was forgetting I had read this section at least half-a dozen times over the past several weeks. I lay the journal on the end table beside me and activated my iPhone. It was after midnight. I lay my phone on top of Angela’s journal intending to push back and take a multi-hour nap.
It was then I noticed the difference. Angela’s third journal was the same color as her sophomore and junior year journals, but the spine and how it was stitched was noticeably different. I almost chuckled. Apparently, not too noticeable since I’d handled all three on several occasions. I laid my iPhone on the table and lay all three journals in my lap, with the opening end against my gym shorts. The thought flashed across my mind that I was losing it. Why in the hell would I be doing this? At this hour? At this stage of pure exhaustion?
I returned the oldest two journals to the end table and opened Angela’s senior year journal. What had prevented me from discovering the pouch in the back cover of the journal was Angela’s silly drawings. After her last entry, which was May 24, 1974, there were several remaining pages. She had, at some point, exercised her elementary-level drawing skills. I had previously looked at a couple of them and had closed the journal. Now, past the final page and drawing, I discovered the pouch, slim, lying flat against the back hard-cover of the journal. The opening was nearly sealed. I used a letter opener to lift it up enough for me to peer inside.
The hidden photo was a shot of several men sitting around a patio table. The panes of a window were clearly shown, as was a thin curtain. I surmised the photographer had snapped the picture from inside a house looking out onto an adjoining porch or patio.
I instantly recognized three of the men. Their faces were facing the mostly hidden photographer. Pastor Walter Tillman, Franklin Ericson (Angela’s father), and Doug Barber. Franklin was seated next to Walter and Doug was standing directly behind them. There was another man whose profile I believed was Elton Rawlins standing behind and to the left of Doug. This man was holding a glass. Probably liquor. Finally, there were three other men sitting around the large table, but I couldn’t make out who they were. I could see only the back side of their heads.
I turned the photo over and read: “early Saturday morning October 13, 1973, dumb asses think they are alone. Looks like blood on Raymond’s shirt sleeve. Love to know what they’re saying.” It was then I concluded one of the three hidden faces must belong to Raymond Radford, the owner of Radford Hardware and Building Supply. The attorney in me projected the remaining two had to be David Adams and Fitz Billingsley. I had heard stories about these five men and their forebears, and even their sons. Stories that made my skin crawl.
It was almost two-thirty before my mind stopped pushing curiosity. Like Tyler, I figuratively died and didn’t move a muscle for hours.
The Pencil Driven Life 