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.
Epilogue
It was almost a month before Deidre invited me to lunch at Martin Mansion. She now was a very rich woman. Even though her attorney, Dalton Martin, was still knee-deep in sorting out Miss Mossie’s estate, there was no longer any doubt Deidre was entitled to half the Mosler fortune. I suppose one could say she and Ed were even richer by my own generosity. Friday afternoon I had signed over my interest in Martin Mansion to Deidre in exchange for a deed to my little cabin and the back forty as Dad always called it.
The first Sunday lunch around Mother’s giant dining room table wasn’t anything akin to what was ingrained in everyone present. Even Tyler, who had been virtually adopted by Deidre and Ed, expressed an accurate interpretation of the out-of-focus feel we all were experiencing: “Is it me, or is the room tilted away from Papa Martin’s chair.” Initially, she was reluctant but then insisted I sit in Dad’s head-of-the-table chair. I vigorously declined and suggested Luke take the helm. After a lively discussion with Ed firmly acknowledging his lack of Martin blood flowing through his veins, all acquiesced and the young Luke Martin Sullivan moved from my left to my right and semi-confidently accepted his post. It was almost like changing the guard at Buckingham Palace.
After a meal, including a respectable bowl of Mother-similar green beans and a less-acceptable coconut cake, I declined to join everyone out on the front porch. I had already decided I would, but it was Luke and Tyler’s invitation to join them at Martin Pond that provided a face-saving exit.
“Uncle Fred, do you think Papa Martin is in Heaven?” It was the same question he had asked me after Mother died. I was sitting in Dad’s chair underneath the old oak on the east side of the pond. At first, I didn’t understand Luke’s question. He was a quarter of the way around the pond, following a casting Tyler who had already made it to the pond’s dam.
“He is if that’s what you decide to believe.” I really didn’t want to talk about Dad. I was just now regaining the respect I had always had for the man who sacrificed his freedom away from Martin Mansion to return and care for 90 plus year old Stonewall Martin, the ancestor I most resembled, according to Mother.
“What the heck does that mean?” Luke said moving slowly back towards me pulling his fishing line along the edge of the pond.
“Let me ask you a question. What would your dear mother say in response to your original question?”
Luke didn’t hesitate, “she’d say Papa Martin was not only in Heaven right now but was walking streets of gold, that he and Mama Martin had their own mansion along one of those streets.”
“I have no doubt you are correct. Now, what do you think, what does your logical mind reveal?”
Luke was now within five feet of me and laid down his rod and reel. “My heart wants to believe Papa Martin is young again and happy to be with the love of his life, but my head tells me there’s a fly in the ointment.”
I guess old sayings are still being passed down one generation to the next. “Why do you say that?” I wanted Luke to develop the rare ability to not only think but also to express why he reached a certain conclusion.
“The facts tell me that I saw him lying in his casket. No matter what the morticians had done to make him look good, it was all makeup, not even skin deep. Papa’s mind and heart were dead, just like every other cell in his body. It’s absolutely absurd to believe that his mind, soul, whatever you call it, simply floated away to Heaven after he took his last breath.”
“You’re correct. But Luke, back to what I said earlier. Most folks that you know believe what they’ve been taught to believe. They truly don’t think for themselves. God forbid they conduct an honest and thorough investigation into the actual evidence.”
“If they did, what would they find?” Luke was listening. His was an excellent question.
“They should find no real evidence for the existence of a god at all. And, certainly not for the Christian Jesus of the New Testament, or of God, Yahweh, of the Old Testament. Undoubtedly, they would argue two things. The Bible proves their God and His son Jesus, and second, they would contend everything you see, all of nature, throughout the physical world, proves there has to be a god, really, their Christian God.”
“You’ve already explained to me, understandably I might add, how the Bible is simply man-made. But, after hearing Pastor Robert this morning preaching on creation and how everything clearly revealed God’s handiwork, His design, you know, it makes some sense. Luke and I had exchanged places. He was now sitting in Dad’s chair. I was using Luke’s line to cast for a big bass. I really wanted to join Tyler on the other side of the pond.
“Think of it as a trap. It’s called the argument from improbability. Believers think it is an ace up their sleeve. Actually, it works against their position.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Christians argue that ‘the probability of life originating on Earth is no greater than the chance that a hurricane, sweeping through a scrapyard, would have the luck to assemble a Boeing 747.” I said virtually quoting what Richard Dawkins had written in The God Delusion.
“I’m really confused now. What you just said sounds very true.”
“You’re right. It is very true. What’s missing is that the argument rests on a false premise. I mean, one had to assume life here on earth came about by chance. Evolution isn’t about random chance. It’s about natural selection. Here’s the Christian’s real problem buried inside their argument from improbability. They contend for creation, creation by design. That there must be a designer. But, as my hero Dawkins writes, ‘God is the Ultimate Boeing 747.’”
Luke stood and picked up the rod I had laid beside Dad’s chair. “Oh, I see, or I think so. If something so complex as life on earth could not come about simply by chance, and instantly if you believe in the Genesis story, then God Himself is just as improbable. Right?” I appreciated Luke’s concentration. He, and I assumed Tyler on the other side of the pond now pulling in a nice bass, gave me hope others could lay aside mythical beliefs.
“Good job Luke. Where Christians stumble is to think there are only two choices for life to exist. One being mere chance and the other design. I want you to learn there is normally at least one more question you need to ask. Here, it’s simply, ‘is there another option?’ The answer is yes. It’s called evolution: from simple to complex; life has evolved. Dawkins calls it ‘graded ramps of slowly increasing complexity.” I encourage you to do some serious reading on evolution.”
Luke looked over at me and said, “so, I take it you don’t believe Papa Martin is in Heaven?”
“No, I don’t believe it. Of course, I don’t know he’s not there, but it seems highly improbable given what we know from science. One thing I do firmly believe is that for the God of the Bible to exist He couldn’t have always existed as an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-loving being. He would have had to come about by some long, long process of evolving from a very simple state, likely over millions of years, into the God as described throughout the Bible.”
“Uncle Fred, you got one. Pull. Even though my eyes were open I hadn’t seen or felt the end of my rod bending forward. I quickly began to reel and hold my line taut. “Careful, you may have the Beast.” Luke kept shouting.
Sometimes little things, like the fish I caught, pack a powerful message. When I first saw the half-pound bass floundering in the edge of the water, my decision was made. Ever since Dad’s funeral I had contemplated returning to Huntsville and my desk at King and Hart. I had talked to both Bart and Jeff twice each over the past four weeks. I now realized I was tired of pursuing the Beast, one I never would fully capture. I wanted to explain to Luke how easy it was to get distracted from what really mattered. Even though I would always be a Martin, I didn’t have to live in Boaz.
As I thought, I wandered around Martin Pond, half-casting, fully happy without snagging the Beast or even another half-pounder. I could hear Luke explaining the argument from improbability. I didn’t catch what Tyler said in response, but it spawned a thunderous clap of laughter between the two as they gathered up their fishing gear and started walking back toward Martin Mansion.
I couldn’t help but think of Connie and Susan. If not for the former I would still have to work. Now, I could work because I wanted to. Even though I still didn’t know exactly how I was going to laundry the million dollars she had stolen from First Baptist Church of Christ, I believed there was a way. At worst, I could call on my friend Colton Mason. He no doubt would have a few tricks up his sleeves. My mind found satisfaction in anticipating us renewing our friendship: there was honor among thieves.
Susan, the newly discovered truths about Susan, didn’t require forgiveness. But, I had forgiven her anyway, thanks to Pastor Robert. She was not guilty of willingly having sex with Johnny Stewart. The fact she had kept it a secret from me for her entire life still rubbed me the wrong way. Truth be known, I had never fully loved anyone but Susan. Although, things could have been different with Connie if the falling stars hadn’t collided.
I finally wound up back in Dad’s chair under the giant oak. My thoughts continued to ponder the past four years. It was almost midnight when I woke up from a deep sleep, still in Dad’s chair.
I left my fishing gear and felt my way back to my cabin under a moonless sky thankful that mine and Susan’s house in Huntsville had not received a single offer in nearly the four years I had it on the market.
I chuckled as I took the two steps onto my porch, and as the thought raced across my mind that someway, somewhere, somebody was looking after me.
Some traditions were impossible to shake.
THE END
The Pencil Driven Life 