Author: Richard L. Fricks

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 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 69

Dad’s funeral was Saturday afternoon, two days after Deidre and I let him die.  She made me consent to letting Youth Pastor Robert Miller conduct the funeral.  I think it was some sort of long-ago but still-surviving allegiance to his grandfather, the pastor of our youth, Randy Miller, the brother of my hero and friend.

It was another week before Bobby called.  As expected, the four bullets were the ones that had been stolen from the Department of Forensic Sciences nearly half-a-century earlier, the ones that had killed Johnny Stewart.  I wasn’t surprised they had been fired by the mystery Smith & Wesson Connie had requested I remove (along with the cash) from her old Mosler.  What I wasn’t expecting from the ballistic testing was the revelation the same pistol had killed Randy Miller.  I hadn’t known that Grayson Bolton had retrieved and delivered to Bobby any paperwork related to Randy’s death in 1989.

After Bobby’s call, I was reminded Deidre had given me a small envelope with a thank-you note and a cash honorarium to give to Robert Miller, now the new pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Instead of heading home from Walmart, I drove to Sparks Avenue and the church’s parking lot closest to the parsonage.  There was a large U-Haul truck backed up alongside the giant house with two men struggling to move a heavy-looking dresser down the extended loading ramp.  Pastor Miller was barking out, respectively, orders to pick the piece up and not to slide it.

The new pastor saw me and ignored my presence until the dresser was safely on level ground.  He waved the men off towards two chairs and the shade of an old oak tree beside his new home.

“Thanks again for a wonderful job at Dad’s funeral.”  I said, handing him Deidre’s envelope.  I could contort facts with the best of them.  I also knew that honey opened more mouths to truth-telling than vinegar.

Without responding, he stood, peeled back the white flap and removed the card and a check.  It seemed to take him a minute to read Deidre’s note.  I wished now I had read it.  What all was there to say other than ‘thank you for sending Dad off to bask in the glory of God until we meet again,’ or some other similar nonsense.

Robert asked me to join him under the oak, insisting the two men go raid the refrigerator in the basement until he was finished.

“Deidre said you might have some questions.  She authorized me to share my grandfather’s belief on how important it is to forgive.”  I guess that’s what Deidre had included in her long thank-you note.

I really didn’t want to hear a sermon.  I had questions I wanted to ask, but, out of respect for the youth pastor of my tender, teenage years, I listened.

Pastor Robert shared how his grandfather was a die-hard believer in journaling, in writing things down.  He apparently encouraged others to do so.  I guess Angela Ericson had taken his advice.  Robert revealed how his grandfather had recorded his sessions with a woman who had allowed hate to enter her heart.  It soon became clear the woman was my mother.  Before Robert concluded his remarks, I learned the box of mauve-colored stationary had originated with youth pastor Randy and had been a gift to mother.  I recalled the two ‘go and sin no more’ letters I had found, one in Rebecca’s safe, and one in Angela’s.  Robert wasn’t exactly clear, but I gathered his grandfather had written and handed out several almost-identical letters, including one to mother. 

The final thing Pastor Robert said to me as the two men returned from the basement was, “you can rest assured your mother was forgiven for the death of my uncle Ricky.”

I sat under the giant oak for several minutes after the pastor and his two helpers returned to the U-Haul.  Once again, I felt like a stranger to my own life, the life I had grown up beside but not fully inside. 

Walking back across the parking lot to my car, I wished I had never moved back to Boaz from Huntsville.  If I hadn’t, I probably would have been better off.  Some time it is simply better not to know the truth.  Mine and Noah’s lamebrain idea to peek underneath the top layer of Elton and Doug’s cockiness had unleashed an avalanche of secrets that forever shattered the respect I had for the Martin reputation.

In truth, I didn’t steal anything from the old Moslers I had cracked.  My safecracking had stolen my manipulated memories of a once-in-life love for Susan and revealed the putrid underbelly of a city long controlled by five powerful families.  Thoughts of the worst side of my own family weren’t much better.

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 68

After almost a day at the hospital, there were two things I had to do: overnight the bag of four bullets to Vanessa and go see Connie.  I had no doubt, yesterday she had sensed something had short-circuited in our relationship.  This was why she hadn’t returned my texts or calls for nearly twenty-four hours.

After I left the post office, I pondered how I wanted to manage Connie.  I had to know her side of the story before I walked away.  Damn, why the hell was trust so important to me, a man living a double life?  My plan coalesced as I turned right off Ross and onto Sandor Drive. 

My mind did a double-take when I saw her garage door open.  My heart almost stopped when I noticed Hoyle Harrison’s old Toyota Camry inside the garage parked beside Connie’s nearly new Maxima.  Something screwy was going on.

I parked behind Connie and almost headed for the laundry door entrance at the back of the garage.  Instead, I walked down the sidewalk to the front door.  It was slightly ajar, just like she had left it the first time I had come to discuss a long-term health care policy.  For some reason, I rang the doorbell.  Considerate me.

I didn’t wait long.  My most pleasant thoughts were the two of them were out back and Connie was showing Harrison her collection of roses.  That’s why she hadn’t heard the doorbell.

I eased in and announced my entry.  No response.  I walked across an over-sized den and across to the sun room.  I didn’t see a sign of either of them.  That’s when I heard the gunshot.  My mind said to keep going towards the front door and get the hell out of there but when I reached the hallway, my feelings for Connie turned me right.  What I saw when I entered the giant master bathroom was blood curdling.  No doubt it was the blood.

Harrison was lying face-up blocking the entrance to Connie’s walk-in closet.  I had no doubt he was dead; the pool of blackish blood proved no one could have survived.  Connie was sitting propped up against the back wall beside an open pocket door.  The door on the old Mosler was open.  Both racks of clothes had fallen to the floor.  Connie was still holding a pistol.  I concluded she had managed to fire it to get attention after I rang the doorbell.

Connie’s injuries weren’t as apparent as Harrison’s.  But, as I’d heard mother say a hundred times, “she’s got that death look.”

“Oh baby, what have I done to us?”  Connie whispered as I knelt beside her.  It was then I noticed a pair of jeans tied around her left thigh. 

“No, no, no.”  I stood on my knees and removed my iPhone from my right front pocket.  I dialed 911 and surprisingly, Connie slapped my phone to the floor. 

“Fred, let me die.  I deserve it.”

I retrieved the phone, backed away and dialed.  In two sentences I summarized the situation.  Seconds later, the gruff female voice said, “the police and an ambulance will be there in a few minutes.”

I saw Connie fighting to stay conscious.  Her face was white as a ghost.  “Fred, do me one final favor, take the money bag and the pistol.  Inside the safe.  I left you a letter.  Never tell.  Please know I love you.”  With those words, stated slowly, slightly above a whisper, the lovely Connie’s chin slumped against her chest.  

Favor?  She had made a request, a dying request I assumed.  No doubt she had her reasons.  I stood and stepped across Connie’s slumbering body to face the giant Mosler.  Unlike the last time I had peered inside, now there were two duffel bags smashed together at the bottom of the safe.  I didn’t see a pistol or a letter.  I quickly removed the bags and raced outside.  Against my better judgment, I locked them both inside the trunk of my car, my legal mind reminding me how much police liked searching cars. 

I knew the neighborhood was about to light up and sound off but notwithstanding the coming parade, I walked over to Harrison’s Camry and once again was surprised.  In his back seat was a cardboard box, a Houghton Mifflin Harcourt box.  Textbooks.  School.  Inside was no doubt the film cartridges from the Boaz High School safe.  At least, that was my quickest and best bet.

Less than fifteen seconds after I placed the box alongside the two duffel bags in my trunk, I heard the shrill sound of two sirens.

I lucked out.  The two young police officers virtually ignored me even though one took a brief statement.  I think it had something to do with Alfa and the recent interviews Nell and I had conducted at City Hall to implement its supplemental health care program.  Even though I was free to leave, I stuck around waiting to learn how Connie was doing.

The zipped-up bag riding on the gurney broke my heart and flooded my mind with a laundry list of good times the two of us had experienced over the past few months.  For some reason I was awash in grief, blaming myself for what seemed like a dozen deaths.

I reached out my hand and touched the dark heavy plastic of the body bag as the two EMT’s pushed it by my car.  While they were loading her in the back of the ambulance my legal mind tried to figure out what had happened.  Just a few minutes ago Connie was alive.  Although she had a gunshot wound in her thigh, she had been able to tie it off.  She had also been able to hear (I assumed) the doorbell and fire off another shot to alert me to her presence.

Just as the EMT’s backed out of the driveway the two officers exited the front door and walked over to me.  “We’re sorry for your loss Mr. Martin.”  The taller one said.  It was then I noticed the shorter one holding an evidence bag.  It contained one of Doug’s bottles, one just like the ones I had in a box on the top shelf of my kitchen pantry.  Then, it made sense, a little sense.  Connie’s death was intentional.  She had taken an overdose of Quaalude-300.  My gut knew this. 

Our conversation was cut short by the arrival of an overgrown van with “Marshall County Forensics Lab” painted on the side.  “Sorry, Mr. Martin, but we have to ask you to leave.  This is a crime scene.”  The taller officer said to my complete surprise.  Did they not know that the murder suspect could be standing right in front of them?  Unlike Huntsville, or any other large city, small towns possessed a unique but ignorant respect when it came to crime.

By 3:45 p.m., I was sitting in my kitchen with two empty duffel bags and a table full of cash, yet another Smith & Wesson 38 caliber ‘Chief’s Special,’ and a two-page mauve-colored letter hand-written by Connie and addressed to me.

The first long paragraph was how she had fallen in love with me during our first and only high school date.  She confessed to manipulating Susan and apologized.  Although her words seemed conflicted, I concluded she had truly loved me despite her deceptions.

The remaining page and a half revealed surprising details, many occurring nearly half-a-century ago.  But, initially, she described what had happened only two days earlier.  When she had met Tyler on the verge of collapse jogging down Highway 168, instead of turning around to return to Boaz, the two of them had returned to the old logging road where Pastor Caleb had ended his life.  The reason?  To retrieve the pistol.  Someway, Connie knew it could tell a story, one that involved her.

I finished reading Connie’s letter and if it was to be believed, the Smith that was resting on my kitchen table was the one that had killed Johnny Stewart.  And, Doug Barber.  I started to credit Connie’s drug delusion with her fanciful little story, but then I reread the letter and finally acknowledged that it had been written long before Harrison had showed up.

Knowing how much pride Connie had in her stellar reputation, and that of her family, I started to understand the predicament she was in.  Not only had her first cousin, Johnny Stewart, impregnated Deidre and Susan, he had done the same to her.  Of course, she blamed it on the Quaalude-300’s, vehemently denying all consent.  What was hard to picture was the level of revenge it had taken for her to pull the trigger.  Four times.

But, I had to admit her letter wasn’t perfectly coherent.  Connie’s motivation to exact revenge was also heavily influenced by the damning evidence Pastor Walter and Club Eden had on her.  According to Connie, they knew she was one of four burglars who had not only stolen the Ericson’s coins and jewelry but had taken nearly a million dollars in cash they had skimmed from church contributions and God only knew where else. 

It was the night of the Boaz-Albertville football game that changed Connie’s life forever.  Not that she needed anything else, given she was already pregnant with another one of Johnny Stewart’s babies.  It seemed she was present with Raymond Radford and his gang at the convenience store when Dad’s call came that Johnny was headed their way from Martin Mansion.  Given the gruesome details she provided, I had no doubt she had witnessed the awful beating the Club Eden men had delivered.

I guess I could say, the most startling surprise came when Connie confessed to using the gun I now possessed to shoot her first cousin four times in the chest.  She said it had been Franklin Ericson’s idea.  He had argued it was fitting given Johnny’s notorious bragging about how he had won the bet whether he could bed four high school female classmates in as many weeks. 

I was not at all satisfied with Connie’s explanation of why she had killed Doug Barber.  Her statement, “I had to do it to keep the truth from coming out,” didn’t satisfy my curiosity.  She had also left the question wide open how she acquired from the church this pistol that was lying two feet in front of me.

I got up and started packing the cash inside the duffel bags.  All I could think about was, if the Smith I had just packaged in an extra U.S. Postal Service box I had bought just this morning, was the Johnny Stewart and Doug Barber murder weapon, how did it get back to the church and accessible to Pastor Caleb for him to use in blowing off half his own head?   The only person who came to mind was Hoyle Harrison.  Of course, that was mere speculation. 

I stood on a stool and pushed the bags up onto the top shelf of my pantry closet.  I walked into the den and sat down in my Lazy Boy.  For the next two hours, I half-dosed and fully contemplated all that I still didn’t know.  It was hard to concentrate on anything, but what had motivated Principal Harrison to go to Connie’s?    I finally fell asleep without a single satisfactory explanation.

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 67

Harrison dropped me off at the Hospital’s main entrance and drove away like he was late for a faculty meeting.

I rode the elevator to the third floor and just as I stepped out into the hallway and turned left toward the ICU, I saw Connie.

With her raised voice I could hear her clearly even though she was at least thirty feet away: “Tyler finally woke up.  Ate nearly a dozen scrambled eggs.  He’s with Luke now, thanks to Ed.”  She kept walking towards me, looking over my shoulder like she was expecting somebody.

“I need to see Dad for a few minutes.  How was he when you checked on him?”  I figured it was a reasonable assumption that she was here to see Dad, and me.

“The nurses wouldn’t let me inside his room.  They said he was resting and didn’t need any visitors.  Why don’t you come home with me until we, you can see him again?”  Connie looked directly into my eyes.  At first, I glimpsed that little twinkle vibrating across both blue eyes.  She had developed a habit of doing that, when she wanted to play.  Then, almost in a heartbeat, a wave of dark gray plowed away the light.

I started to call her ‘Baby’ but that would be dishonest.  That human wall of protection had raised itself after Harrison and I had viewed that last cartridge.  I had experienced it before.  When someone breaks the solid cable of trust between you and them, it’s like you’ve stepped out into thin air.  “Maybe I can come later.  I really need to stay with Dad.”

“Okay, if that’s how you feel.”  And, she was gone.  I turned to look at her walking away and toward the wall of elevators.  Her shapely rear end didn’t generate a single lust.

I don’t know why Connie lied.  After I sneaked inside Dad’s room during the nurse’s shift-change, he revealed the two of them had talked.  He wouldn’t disclose the subject matter.

“Pull the chair up beside me.  I’m going to die prematurely if I don’t get this off my chest.”  Dad’s giggle sounded like Harrison’s back at the high school.

I started to resist but before I could get out a word, Dad had that look and his head had that right-leaning cock I had seen so many times.  He meant business and expected no argument.  I complied without a word.

“Son know that one bad decision can change your life forever.  My one bad one, a series of bad ones, was when I jumped in bed with Pastor Walter and Club Eden.  I mean figuratively you know.” Dad tried to sit-up a little straighter in his bed.  I reached over and pressed the up-arrow bed control.

“I may have made a bad one myself.  I’m not sure yet.”

“That bad decision points you in a new direction.  The night of the Boaz-Albertville football game in 1973 was supposed to sever my relationship with the Club forever.  Things didn’t work out quite that way.”  Dad said.  I could tell he was taking deeper breaths between phrases.

“I wish you would just let this be.  But, if you are hellbent on confessing this story, then give it to me directly, good, bad, and ugly.”  I wanted this over with.  For Dad’s sake. 

“All I had to do was tail Deidre and Johnny after the game.  I knew they would be together, even over strict orders from your mother.  It was around 11:00 p.m., and they wound up beside the city dump down King Street.  Johnny’s old Bonneville pulled into a grove of trees just beyond the gate.”

“How did that help the Club?  You were tailing them?”  I asked.

“I’m not exactly sure but from what Harrison had told me and what seemed obvious, was that Allan Floyd and Tommy Jones were targeted separately.”  I raised my left hand, slightly confused.  Dad stopped talking.

“Targeted?  Why were those two, three I guess, such a threat and needed to be targeted?”

“Son, you were in Auburn.  All hell had broken loose here in Boaz.  These three teenage boys, along with their peers, Rebecca Aldridge and Angela Ericson, were the core of a group of young people who were rebelling against tradition, you know, community norms.”

“You mean Christian fundamentalism?”  I asked.

“I’m not sure if that’s the right term, but Pastor Walter and his gang had had enough.  They, again according to Harrison, believed their entire kingdom would collapse if the Aliens, I think that’s what they were called, were able to continue to spread their anti-Christian message.  The bottom line is Club Eden chose the Boaz-Albertville football game, afterwards really, to shock the kids back into allegiance.”

“So, Floyd and Jones were killed on the backside of the stadium, across the team’s practice field just inside the woods.  That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Seems true.”

“Who shot them?”  I asked.

“Not sure, but most likely it was Doug Barber and Elton Rawlins.  The Club was too smart to actually pull any triggers.”

“But, Johnny Stewart wasn’t there, at least not at first?”

“Just as soon as Johnny dropped Deidre at home, I made the call I will forever regret.  The two of them had not seen me at the city dump, but I waited in my own grove of trees across the road until about 1:00 a.m.  I saw two cars carrying the five Club members sitting at the convenience store when I crossed Highway 431.  I called the store when I got home and told Raymond Radford that Johnny had just left.”

“They were able to apprehend Johnny, beat him to a pulp, and then transport him to his two teammates behind the stadium.  Do you know who shot him.  Four times?  I asked.”

“Son, how the heck did you know these details?”  Dad asked, cocking his head now to the left.  That was his, ‘I have a question’ pose.

“That’s a long story.  Let’s finish yours.” 

“I don’t know who shot him but speculation, mine and Harrison’s, was it wasn’t Doug or Elton.  Rumor is there was another pistol, another Smith & Wesson.  The Chief’s Special they were called.  Some guy had passed through town, holding a gun show, back around 1969 or 1970.  Sold a ton of the little darlings, bitches, whatever.”

“So, that’s where yours came from?  That gun show?”  I had to be open.  I too was ready to get some things off my chest.  I had violated Dad’s trust by breaking into his old Mosler.  Now was a good time to join Dad at the confessional alter.

“Is this related to your bad decision?”  Dad asked, surprising me a little.  He was listening.

“Maybe.  Sort of.”  We took another ten minutes or so for me to describe how I knew that his pistol, his 38 caliber Smith & Wesson, was the Ricky Miller murder weapon.  At first, Dad was reluctant to admit it but then the floodgates opened.  He ultimately confirmed what I had already unjustifiably concluded: that mother was involved with my Biology teacher and friend’s death.

“The Club, I’m not sure which member, caught your mother and Bill Stewart breaking into the Safe House.  This became the beginning of another dark cloud that hung-over Martin Mansion.  Son, your mother loved you and Deidre more than life itself.  She would have killed God, God forgive me, if she had to to protect her two darlings.”  Dad’s breathing was noticeable worse now.

“Dad, I’m going for a nurse.  No, I’ll signal for them.”  I reached for the emergency call pad on the bed alongside dad’s right side.

“No, not yet.  Let me finish.”

“Harriet and Bill did the deed.  Of course, that was after the three boys were murdered, but before the bonfire Bible burning fiasco.  That hot and bright night was the final straw that steeled your mother’s determination to eliminate the key threat to your sister’s eternal destiny.  She was sure she had already lost you, hell no, she wasn’t going to lose Deidre too.”

“Mother thought Ricky Miller was leading Deidre to hell.”  I said, intending my statement to also be a question.

“Dad gasped for breath and before I could stand or say a word, three nurses invaded his room.  Not a one of them acknowledged I was present.  As I pushed my chair back from Dad’s bed, another nurse or technician wheeled in a defibrillator.  Then, almost in unison, three blue-smocked women ordered me outside ICU.

Thursday at noon, Deidre and I, as health-care proxies, gave permission to Dr. Calhoun to remove the respirator that was keeping our dear dad alive.  We had spent the past twenty-two hours contemplating this decision.  It would have been what Dad wanted.  It was the hardest choice of our lives.