Category: Novels

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.

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 66

Harrison insisted I ride with him.  It didn’t take but a couple of minutes and he was parking us at an old run-down house on Adams Street.  He motioned for me to follow him behind the house and across a driveway between two houses facing Darnell Street.  I had to almost jog to keep up with the old but fit Harrison.  We were inside the school at exactly 12:00 noon according to my iPhone.  I was impressed and hoped I could think and move like my old principal when I was his age.

He certainly knew his way around Boaz High School.  He should, after fifty plus years.  After he disabled the alarm system (I was surprised the school board hadn’t changed the code during the five years since Harrison retired), he stopped and looked down the long hallway towards the front of the school.  “Seems like there ought to be a thousand students racing to and from class and me herding the stragglers along.  I guess it’s a good thing it’s Fall Break.”  

During the short drive from the hospital I had contemplated the best way to access the old Mosler.  I had concluded the Vocational Ag shop would likely have a torch.  Luckily, Harrison’s memory spun up a set of three numbers.  The only thing missing was the order.  I was surprised the old Mosler wasn’t better hidden.  Inside the Vocational Agriculture teacher’s office was a closet containing several file cabinets, all on rollers.  Once they were out of the way, there was a pocket door.  Harrison bumped it a couple of times to get it back on track.  Once aside, the Mosler stared at us like it was a crouching lion.

It took me five or six times to get the order right, but Harrison’s recall was perfect.  The heavy door of yet another Model T20 Mosler safe groaned slightly but didn’t pose much resistance.  I was amazed at the number Kodak Super 8 film cartridges stacked inside.  Harrison quickly ordered me to remove them and place them on the metal desk in the adjoining office.  “Put them in date order.  I’ll be right back.”  He said and was gone before I could respond.  By the time I had the thirty or forty cartridges lined up in rows and by date (starting with the oldest on the top left-hand corner of the desk), Harrison returned.  “La Belle Super 8 Cartridge Portable Projector.  Old as Moses, still on the top shelf in the Drama Department’s storage closet.  I hope it works.”

It did.  Perfectly, from what I could tell.  Although Kodak’s Super 8 movie camera wasn’t as good as the video camera on my iPhone, it was remarkably clear.  The first film Harrison selected wasn’t the oldest.  “I hope you’re ready for your Damascus Road revelation.”  I certainly didn’t know what to expect.

“Let’s start with the big picture, the view of the forest.  Get it, picture.”  Harrison giggled like a teenage girl.  “Nineteen seventy-one, December,” He said as he shifted the La Belle projector in line with where he had us sit in two straight-back wooden chairs.  The film revealed a panoramic view inside First Baptist Church of Christ’s old auditorium.  “Probably Wade.  Walter’s son.”  Harrison said as if I hadn’t graduated with the asshole. I sat and looked at a full house.  I assumed it was a Sunday morning. 

Harrison continued: “It’s right before the concert.”  I could see the giant Christmas tree hand-constructed at the front of the auditorium behind the pastor’s pulpit.  Choir members stood on multi-level rows like Christmas tree lights on any other tree.  They presented a musical the weekend before celebrating Christ’s birthday.  This had been a tradition all my growing up years.  “I can’t believe I helped spike the punch.  Damn, I was such an idiot.”  Harrison commented as the cameraman now was walking the aisles recording the faces of most everyone sitting.  Most everyone seemed at peace, almost in a daze.

“What do you mean, spike the punch?”  I asked.

“Remember the Quaalude-300?”

“I do.”

“Pastor Walter and his gang, along with the able assistance of Doug Barber, figured out how to get everyone addicted.  They called it Communion.  We, they also spiked the tea in the cafeteria before each Wednesday night’s fellowship meal.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”  What I was watching, and hearing was surreal.

“Addicted folks are more generous with their tithes and offerings.”  Harrison said as he removed the Christmas cartridge and inserted one from my third row.  “Promise you won’t get mad at me when you see this?”

At first, I couldn’t figure out if he was serious, even whether he was asking a question or just making a statement.

Again, I quickly recognized the setting.  This time it was the backroom of the Lighthouse.  I couldn’t have mistaken it if I tried.  The giant mural of Christ hanging on His cross reaching out with an over-sized arm and hand back in time to Adam was unmistakable.  The youth group had spent nearly a year completing the forty-foot work of art.

What I didn’t immediately see was Susan and Connie.  They were sitting on the floor with their backs to the camera.  Then, that changed.  The cameraman moved around the room.

“Fall 1973.  Just a week before the triple murders.”  Harrison pointed to the empty cartridge on the edge of the desk.  It was then my mind awakened.  Why had I been so reluctant to remember?  Susan and I had already completed a year at Auburn and returned the summer of 1973 to rest and relax at Martin Mansion.  A week or so before we were set to return for our sophomore year, Susan decided to stay with Mom and Dad and attend Snead State Junior College.  At the end of our freshman year she had changed her major from architecture to education, with her sights set on becoming a high school math teacher. 

But, there was one problem.  She would have to take two quarters of calculus at Auburn.  No easy feat.  This drove her to take Lyndell Bate’s pre-calculus class at Snead during the fall of 1973.  It wasn’t a fun time for me in Auburn.  I moped about missing the love of my life.  However, what I was now watching seemed to indicate my shy and sexy Susan had found time for some extracurricular activities while away from me.

“This film drove your father over the edge.”  As Harrison said this, the cameraman turned to face the sitting Connie and Susan.  It was then I saw Johnny Stewart laying with his head across my Susan’s lap.

“You can blame Connie Stewart.”  Harrison said as though he could see inside my mind as I wondered how this had happened. 

“What the hell does that mean?”  I asked.

“Connie, the manipulator.  Susan never saw it coming.  You know the two of them were at Snead together that fall?”  I did recall Connie staying in Boaz after all three of us graduated together in May 1972.  She had told me about attending Snead for two years before transferring to the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. 

“Saw what coming?  Tell me what’s going on.  What happened.”

“If I hadn’t been Pastor Walter’s lap dog I would have never known.  There’s more on some of these other tapes.  The Lighthouse became a lab, a place to experiment on the effects of various dosages of Quaalude-300.”

“So, Susan became a guinea pig of sorts?”  I asked.

“Yes and no.  Sometimes the pastor had multiple goals.  With Susan he was simply protecting his daughter.  You remember Olivia?”

“I sort of do.  She was two or three years behind.  Oh, I guess she was in Rebecca and Angela’s class.  Deidre’s also.”

“I hate to say this, but I suspect this was the night your dear Susan made the mistake of her life.  But Fred, you must know, it wasn’t her decision.”

“I’m lost now for sure.”

“The sex, her getting pregnant.  You can blame the manipulator for that.  And Pastor Walter, but of course he’s dead.”  The line between the dots was drawn faster than I could say pencil.  What Dad had said wasn’t caused by his hallucinations.  He was telling me the truth.  Now, here, Harrison was confirming the same.  I was concerned I wasn’t madder than hell, but I wasn’t.  Susan had been raped.  Sex against her will, or when she was legally incompetent from the Quaaludes, was rape.  No doubt about it.

“Why would Connie be involved with this?  I just don’t get it.”  I asked.

“I’m speculating on part of this, but I suspect it was for two reasons.  First, and I’m confident of this one, Connie made a deal with the devil.  Kind of like I did, kind of like your father did but he got out of his.”

“Why would Connie need to cut a deal with Pastor Walter?”  I asked.

“You are in the dark, aren’t you?”

“Apparently so.”  I felt like such an idiot.  Not only had Johnny Stewart gotten my sister pregnant.  He had done the same thing to my own wife.

“She needed to save her neck.  You probably don’t know but the pastor and his gang found out that she was part of the burglary.  That’s when the coins and diamonds and the million dollars went missing.”

“A million dollars?”  I knew the cash stolen was a lot but not anything like this.

“Connie herself also had another motive.  You know she was bosom buddies with Rebecca Aldridge and Angela Ericson?”

“That I know.  Back to Connie’s motives.  I’m confused again.  Was there another one you started to mention?”

“Oh yea.  Connie would have done anything to breakup you and Susan.  Fred, you’re a dumb ass if you didn’t know how much Connie Stewart wanted you for her own.”

“So, the pastor was angry at Dad for him standing up to the five wealthiest and most powerful men in Boaz, and had the influence over Connie to manipulate the manipulator into arranging the perfect setting for Casanova Stewart to bed my wife?”

“I guess it was God’s gift to you and Susan that she miscarried.”  Hell, was there no limit to what Principal Harrison knew?

“We can talk more later, but we need to be going.”  Harrison said, stood, and started stacking the film cartridges.  He walked over to the old Mosler and pulled open the top drawer on the right side.  He reached in and turned back to me.  “Take these, they might come in handy someday.”  Before moving a muscle, I instantly recognized several bullets inside a clear zip-lock bag.

“Let me guess.  The four bullets that killed Johnny Stewart.  All illegally removed from the Department of Forensic Sciences by a man named Grayson Bolton.  Right?”  I asked.

“Sounds about right, but I have to admit I never knew the culprit’s name.

Neither Harrison or I said a word during our return trip to Marshall Medical Center South.

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 65

I was awakened by a trumpet.  Was it the seventh one before the Second Coming of Jesus Christ?  What a strange dream.  The sound wound up being my iPhone.  Before my final collapse last night, I had set the alarm to sound a horn blaring.  Just as I pressed ‘Stop,’ the phone sounded again.  This time it was a call from Bobby.

“Is it you or Jesus?”  I answered, not knowing why I would try to be funny.

“You sound like shit.  I hear you’ve had some tough days.  How’s your father?”

“I haven’t heard this morning.  Last night he was only semi-conscious.”

“I’m waiting in Huntsville to catch a plane back to Dayton.  You’re going to want to hear my update.  Take a seat.”  Bobby always liked to frame a context.

“I’m seated on the edge of my bed.  Safe enough?” 

“Grayson just called me.  You know Grayson Bolton, my friend at the Department of Forensic Sciences.”

“Yea, the friend whose owed you a big favor for years.  The guy with impeccable character, your words.”  I said, standing up and walking to the bathroom to offload last night’s coffee.

“Thanks to you our scales are now balanced.  He’s delivered a mother lode.”

“I’m ready.”  I put my iPhone on speaker and sat it on the glass shelf above the lavatory.  I leaned down and splashed water on my still-groggy face.

“We’re lucky Grayson’s a bulldog.  And, that he’s tight with Kramer Hammonds at HP White Laboratory in Maryland.  You know, Vanessa’s go-to lab.”

“Okay, what have you learned?”  I was now leaning back in my Lazy Boy growing impatient on too-much context.

“In a way, it’s still somewhat of a mystery.”

“I thought you said Graben delivered a mother lode.”

“Grayson.  Fred are you awake?”

“Sorry, keep going.”

“There’s a missing gun but I’ll get to that.  The Smith you lifted, the one from Doug Barber’s, is that what you safecracker’s call it?  Anyway, it seems it’s the weapon that killed Allan Floyd and Tommy Jones.”  I could hear in the background, ‘Flight 389 will be boarding soon for Chicago.’

“Sounds like you better hurry.  So, Grayson located the Department’s original reports?”

“Yes.  The ballistic testing on the bullets and the autopsy reports.”

“I heard the bullets were missing, some bullets?”  I recalled what Nancy Frasier had said, ‘I’ve always thought the missing bullets were stored in Boaz in someone’s safe,’ or something close to that.

“That’s part of the mystery.  We’re lucky old Grayson is dying.”

“What?  Lucky?  Not lucky for him.”  I was confused.

“Grayson came clean, a terminal diagnosis tends to trigger confessions.  At least to a limited audience.”

“I’m listening.  Do you need to catch your plane?”

“No, not yet.  Grayson told me why he couldn’t send the bullets, notice the plural, taken from Johnny Stewart.  It took him a while but, after I promised to not disclose his secret, he confessed to taking a bribe from a man in Boaz, he said he was the pastor of the largest church in town.  Money for bullets was the deal.  That was in late 1973.”

“Okay, that seems to fit what I’ve learned.  See if I’ve got this.  The pistol from Doug Barber’s safe killed Floyd and Jones, but we can’t confirm if that same Smith also killed Johnny Stewart?”  I asked, happy and unhappy at the same time.

“Now, I’m needing to go.  Two things quick.  The pistol you borrowed from the church matches the bullets recovered from both Randy Miller and Doug Barber.  The pistol you labeled Double M won the prize for Ricky Miller.”  Bobby’s words hit me like two tons of rocks.  The old Smith and Wesson stored deep inside Martin Mansion had fired the shots that ended the life of my high school Biology teacher and friend.  The man who gave me life, the knowledge and intellectual strength to leave the faith of my father.  And, Mother.

“Rows one through twelve now boarding Flight 389 for Chicago O’Hare.”  The high-pitched voice sounded scripted.   

“Fred, one final thing, back to the mystery.  In Johnny Stewart’s autopsy report, Grayson noted an oddity, maybe two.  He said, even though the bodies of Stewart, Floyd, and Jones were all found together, only Stewart’s body had been beaten, and shot multiple times.  Here’s a real strange thing.  Stewart was shot four times.  The bullets made a cross-like pattern on the left side of his chest, each bullet sliced through his heart.  I got to go.”  With that shocker, Bobby ended our call.

I sat in my Lazy Boy for nearly an hour after Bobby’s call.  My once steel-trap legal mind could still raise an interesting point or two.  If the church’s pistol, the Smith & Wesson found in the church’s safe, had killed both youth pastor Randy Miller in 1989 and Doug Barber in 2017, had the same person pulled the trigger both times?  Something told me no.  Running through a current list of church-member candidates revealed the first murderer was likely dead before 2017.  For some reason, my mind was stuck on five men, six if I included Elton Rawlins, who were captured by Angela’s through-the-window photograph.  Again, being dead would seem to prevent these six men from harming Doug or anyone else in late 2017.

Sleep almost recaptured me but I had to see Dad.  Deidre had called during my legal wanderings and had given me an update on our father and had announced she was headed home.  Dad was much improved and appeared to be enjoying a surprise visit from Hoyle Harrison, Principal Harrison.  I took another shower, dressed, and walked inside the ICU a few minutes before 10:00 a.m., exactly twelve hours after I left last night.

I nodded toward Harrison and said hello as I stepped around his chair and toward the head of Dad’s bed where I kissed him on the forehead.  I don’t recall ever kissing my father.

“Son, you remember Principal Harrison, don’t you?”  How could I forget?  Nearly half-century old memories flooded my mind.  Each one of them reminded me how much the military-style high school principal hated my guts.

“I think we’ve met.”  I could easily become a smart ass.

“Hi Fred, long time no see.  You’re looking fit to be so old.”  The ancient Harrison said, crossing his legs, sitting in the only chair in the room.

I responded in kind: “You don’t look much older than the last time I saw you.  What was it, 1972, at graduation?”  This wasn’t true.  I for sure had seen him at First Baptist Church of Christ most every time Susan and I were home from Auburn.  I had the habit of attending church with Mom even though I hated it.  Harrison was a deacon and, if memory serves, sometimes gave the financial report at the end of the Sunday night service.  Why I returned with Mom to Sunday night services, I will never know.

“Son, Hoyle and I have been catching up and relieving our consciences.”  I knew that Dad and Principal Harrison were longtime friends even though I couldn’t recall any contact between them, especially since I returned to Boaz in 2014.  “Right before you walked in we were puzzled.  Maybe you can clear away our fog.”  I couldn’t imagine what I could know that would be of interest to these two old codgers.  Harrison looked as old or older than Dad, heck, he had spent 50 years as Boaz High School principal.

I walked around Dad’s bed to the window and leaned against the window sill.  “Ask anything you want.  I’m a walking encyclopedia.”  Semi smart ass.

Harrison spoke first: what was the appeal, the real appeal, of Ricky Miller?  I know you and Noah were one of his first converts?”

“I assume you are speaking of his Christian philosophy?”  I asked intending to couch it in congenial terms, to start with at least.

“Shouldn’t you say, his un-Christian philosophy?”  Dad added.

“His position, however you label it, was simple really.  He was an intellectual, someone who reached conclusions based on the facts around him.  What I liked most about him was his willingness to change his mind.  He always said, ‘I’ll become a Jesus believer just as soon as the evidence warrants such a belief.’”

Hoyle took a turn: “Truth be known, I actually liked the man.  He was an excellent Biology teacher.  Fred, what grade were you in when Miller, Ricky, started teaching at Boaz?”

“Ninth grade.  I didn’t have Biology until the tenth grade, but Ricky was mine and Noah’s study hall monitor.  That’s how we first got to know him.  Most days, the other students in the room walked across to the library leaving the three of us together.  Contrary to what you might believe, he never tried to force his beliefs down our throats.”

“What’s funny, or strange is a better way to put it, is that you were persuaded by the man, but Deidre wasn’t.  What do you say to that?”  Dad asked.

“I can’t say anything.  If truth be known, I suspect Deidre, like a lot of folks, were too lazy, or too disinterested, to explore the issue and honestly consider the facts.  Growing up in a Christian home and church and community tends to indoctrinate a young person.”  I didn’t say it, but I also suspected that Deidre was drawn to Randy Miller and his little parties that got her paired up with Casanova Johnny Stewart.

Harrison got up from his chair and walked over beside me.  “Sit down, it’s time you learn the truth.  Your dad tells me you’ve been on a quest for quite a while.”

I complied, not sure to be thankful for the chair or what I was about to hear.  “Thanks.”

“Son, your mom and I held opposite opinions of Ricky Miller.  She hated him for the influence he had on you.  I owe him a debt of gratitude.” 

“Fred, what your dad is trying to say is that Ricky gave your dad salvation.  I wish I had taken his advice.”  Harrison’s words had no meaning to me.  Salvation?

Dad still looked bad but was no doubt operating with his full mental faculties.  “Harriet and Harrison, and Stewart, Bill Stewart, all served on the church’s finance committee for several years.  The first couple of years, when you were in ninth and tenth grade I believe, they, unknown to them, were being groomed by Pastor Walter and his four henchmen.”

I interrupted Dad, my mind flashed Angela’s photo across my eyes.  “Would those four be David Adams, Raymond Radford, Franklin Ericson, and Fitz Billingsley?”

“How in the hell would you know that?”  Harrison asked.

“It’s a long story.  Right now, I’m just a listener.

“Since they are all dead and gone I’m free to talk.  I regret not having thanked your father for trying to persuade me to get out while I could.  I’m sorry to say, I didn’t listen.”  Harrison still was flying high above the trees.

“You two have me right where you want me.  I’m thoroughly confused.”

“Pastor Walter and the other four were members of a club.  They called it Club Eden.  I never learned too much about the inner sanctuary of the club, but I do know the five men were power and money hungry.  They were masters of manipulation and, from what I’ve later learned, had their claws in several local, critically placed, men.  These men diverted money from their employers in exchange for a slice of the pie.”  Harrison took an inhaler out of his pants pocket.

“I suspect you two were not among the critically placed.  I don’t recall either of you having access to much money.”

“No, but I had access to something maybe more important.  Young people and their minds.”  Harrison said, taking in several breaths and holding them a few seconds before their release.

“Still confused.”  I said.

“Son, I don’t know why we’re dancing around the core of the apple.  My friend Harrison here agreed to transfer information on behalf of Club Eden.  He obviously had access to school records and daily access to every student at Boaz High School.  Pastor Walter and his gang were addicted to power and prestige.  Having the best and brightest young people in the church’s youth group gave Pastor Walter bragging rights all over the southeast.  He was a popular guy on the revival circuit.”

“Okay.  Seems legitimate to me.  Harrison divulging a student’s grades seems fairly innocuous.”

“I’d agree if that was the extent of it.  Harrison, you want to, so go ahead.  Get it off your chest.”  Dad seemed to be taking the lead.

“Oh hell, I don’t have much to lose.  I became principal of Boaz High School in 1960.  That’s when I met Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber.  They were juniors, two of the most conniving and dirty-minded kids I’ve ever seen.  Fast forward.  Doug was the brighter of the two, academically at least.  He graduated and went on to Auburn, became a pharmacist, and returned to Boaz to join his father at Neighborhood Pharmacy.  It was probably 1970 or 1971 that someway, Doug, Elton, and the Club Eden five discovered the multiple uses of a drug called methaqualone.  Quaalude-300 was the brand name.”

For the next twenty minutes, I was excluded from the conversation.  But, I did listen.  I became both shocked and stimulated.  So too did my little demon, especially after Harrison mentioned, for the second time, how much he’d like to revisit his old Mosler.  His words, “my old Mosler.”  Those words didn’t exactly shock me.  I already knew there was a Mosler at Boaz High School.  Thanks to Granddad and his journals.  I recall it was a 1961 entry; might have been 1962.  Neither Noah or I had ever considered cracking this safe because we both had concluded: “what items of interest could a high school safe possibly contain?”  Maybe some old photos of renovations and new construction.  For sure, a whole stack of snapshots of the new structure, still in full use, built in 1968?’  Truly exciting. 

What was now surprising, was of interest to not only Harrison, but to me.  Harrison and Dad’s five-minute borderline silly exchange over watching Super 8 film cartridges peeked my attention.  I don’t recall seeing Dad laugh so much since the last time Mom cracked a joke at Sunday lunch.  Then, his emotions turned on a dime.  I thought he was going to cry.  His and Harrison’s conversation was difficult to follow.  Apparently, Dad had been part of the original deal: hide film cartridges and money in his basement safe, just as Harrison was doing with the high school’s safe.

Harrison’s statement was puzzling at best: “Franklin, I thought you were a goner when you told Pastor Walter you were done being his puppet.”

“It was the right thing to do.  You should have followed my lead.”  Dad added.

I think Harrison knew how confused I was.  He walked over to my chair and motioned for us to exchange places.  I returned to the window sill.  “I hope the hospital isn’t recording us.  Fred, your father had some real guts.  He stood up to Walter and the entire Club Eden gang.  But, it came at a price.  Franklin, your father, cut another deal.  You have to know that no one turned their back on Club Eden.  If you did, you became river moss.”

“What deal?  I looked over at Dad, who looked like he was about to have another heart attack.”

“Son, it was the most stupid thing I ever did.  In exchange for them releasing me, I promised to do them a one-time favor.  I hate to say, but that favor cost a man his life.  Also, nearly destroyed your mother.”

I was in mid-sentence asking Dad to explain himself when nurse Greta walked in and ordered Harrison and me to leave.  “Your dad’s blood pressure has spiked.  Again.”  The timing couldn’t have been worse.

“Son, I promise to tell you the full story.  Later.”  I nodded, walked over to his bedside, and for the second time in all memory, kissed him on the forehead. 

“I love you Dad.  Forever, no matter what you say.”  With that, Harrison and I walked out of ICU and down the hallway to the waiting room.

We had just sat down after pouring us a cup of coffee when Harrison said, “your dad tells me you are pretty good cracking safes.”  I didn’t know how to take his words.  What had Dad told him?  What the heck did Dad know about my safecracking?”

“My grandfather taught me a few things while I was growing up and during the summers I stayed with him and Mama Martin in Cincinnati.  You know granddad worked for Mosler Safe Company?”

Harrison didn’t immediately respond, but just sat there looking down at his Styrofoam cup.  Then, both eyebrows raised.  “You up for a little adventure?  It will be interesting I can assure you.”

“What do you have in mind?”  I didn’t have a clue what old man Harrison was up to.

“I still have a key to the door off the lunchroom loading dock.  I also know how to handle the alarm system.  What I don’t have is the combination to that old Mosler hidden behind a false wall in the Vocational Agriculture Department.”  He looked up at me with a sly grin on his face.  “Do you think you could get us inside?  The safe that is.”

My little demon sent an electrical thrill down my spine.

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 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 63

Deidre didn’t know where she was.  She knew it was late, probably going on midnight.  The sun’s rays coming through the edges of the closed blinds had long faded.  A severe leg cramp had been a blessing, jostling her body, causing the chair to fall over, enabling her to free her hands from the rope tied behind her back.

When Rebecca had appeared beside her cubicle, there was no choice but to obey.  She had pulled up her oversized bright blue top and revealed a shiny little pistol tucked inside the waistband.  It was erect and ready, silently commanding Deidre to submit.

After walking beside Rebecca all the way down three flights of stairs, outside through the Purchasing Department’s loading dock, and across the employees’ parking lot to the far back side, Deidre was ordered into the trunk.  Directed to roll over.  Rebecca had tied her hands behind her back and driven for at least thirty, maybe forty minutes.

“You bitch.”  Rebecca said, walking into the den/kitchen combination from the back porch.  Deidre had just untied her feet and was still shaking, her left leg loosening her tight thigh muscles. 

Rebecca fumbled inside her purse and pulled out her 32 caliber, the one Elton had always carried while showing real estate to prospective buyers.  Just as she looked up and pointed, Deidre slammed her fifty-pound heavier body into Rebecca’s semi-anorexic frame.  She still managed to pull the trigger, launching the small but deadly bullet into the ceiling.  With both hands, Deidre grabbed Rebecca’s right hand and the pistol.  Rebecca was stronger than Deidre expected.  And quicker.  Excruciating pain shot through her right eye as Rebecca’s left hand and long nails clawed down her face.  Deidre used her body weight to roll her and Rebecca to the left.  As she did, the pistol turned upward into Rebecca’s gut and exploded.

After an hour back inside the ICU waiting area, I insisted Connie and Tyler go to her house to rest.  Their story was eerily like a scene from It’s Over, a novel I had recently read by Britney Banes, a local author I had hurriedly completed a life insurance application for at the office sometime last year ten days before she was flying to Paris, France.  She had given me a copy of her first book as a thank-you for me staying past Alfa’s closing time.

Earlier, after Connie had left the hospital, she had returned to Luke’s house but hadn’t stopped this time.  She had driven on towards Crossville and four miles later had met Tyler walking south.  Alone.  His condition was good, excepting heavy sweat from a long walk.

Tyler had shared how the pastor, at first had been angry and fidgety.  There was a fake-looking pistol lying on the van’s console.  The overweight pastor had continued driving and talking about how his life was over.  Tyler said Caleb alternated between shouting threats and confessing he was no murderer.  Fifteen minutes later the pastor had pulled down an old logging road several miles past Crossville.  Caleb ordered him out of the van and directed him to walk further away from the main road.  After they reached the top of a steep hillside, he was ordered to sit on a decaying log and look down into a valley. 

Over the next ten minutes, Tyler heard Caleb reveal how his life had devolved into a “hell of a mess.”  He shared how he had gotten addicted to gambling and how stupid he had been to be seen at Tunica, Mississippi by Rebecca and Angela.  Tyler said he had never heard anyone, much less a preacher, describe how he would love to tear the guts out of anything or anyone.  “The damn bitch will not tell me what to do.”  Tyler quoted the pastor, saying he had repeated this again the second before the fake gun blasted and the heavy man fell across the log knocking Tyler over.

It hadn’t taken the tall and skinny teenager long to skedaddle.  As Connie and Tyler stood to leave the waiting room, Tyler looked over at me and said, “as long as I live, I’ll never forget the look on what was left of my uncle’s face.”  My stomach didn’t have the nerve to ask Tyler what he meant.  I suspected I knew.

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 62

At noon, I was sitting in the Emergency Room lobby at Marshall-Medical, when Connie returned my call.  “Fred, I hate to be so blunt, but your dad, he’s in the hospital.”

“I know.  I’m here.  They’re working with him, cat scan, something.  The nurses made us wait in the lobby.”  After thirty minutes at the office I had tried the number I hadn’t recognized when my phone booted back up.  It was Ed, Deidre’s Ed, telling me my father had likely had a heart attack and was being taken by ambulance to the hospital.  Ed had still not been able to reach Deidre, thinking she must be in surgery, still dealing with the critical nurse shortage sweeping across the country.

“You know I would come be with you, but I’m torn.  I found Tyler.  Kind of.  He was at Luke’s.  I saw them outside earlier this morning.  I started to stop and talk, maybe warn Tyler, but I didn’t.  I just left.  I hate to tell you this.  It’s such a bad time for you.”

“What?  You have to tell me now.”  I hated when people brought up a subject and then reneged on providing details, relevant details.

Connie finally continued: “I rode back to Gabby and Brad’s, having decided to have a little visit with Luke and Tyler.  Just as I rounded the curve before your niece’s place, I saw Caleb’s puke-green van backing out of the driveway and heading the other way.  Luke got my attention, standing and waving on the front porch.”

“What did Luke say?”

“He was confused why Caleb turned and drove towards Crossville and not Boaz.  Luke said the pastor seemed anxious, distracted, but wanted to help Tyler through this difficult time.”

“I wished you had followed Caleb.”  I said.

“I know that now, but I didn’t know Tyler was with him and thought something was wrong with Luke.”  Connie seemed a little upset with me, raising her voice as to defend her actions.  “What the hell would you have done?”  Wow, what was going on with the normally calm Connie?

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up.  I probably would have done the same thing.  Now that I think about it, you did exactly what I would have done.”

At 12:30, Ed gave up on reaching Deidre and called the Nurse Supervisors office at the hospital.  After ending his call, he looked at me, wide-eyed and mouth-opened: “Kellie said when her and Kara returned from lunch they found a hand-written note from Deidre saying she had gotten sick and had to leave.  But, half an hour later, a nurse’s aide had said she had seen Deidre leave with a tall, gray-headed woman.”  My stomach did a backwards flip.  It was all I could do to keep from telling Ed the truth about Deidre.  I should have told him.  I don’t know what he could have done but he had a right to know, especially now, the near half-century secret Deidre had kept from him.

For an hour I battled over what to do.  My decision was made for me when Dr. Finlay appeared from ER and said we could see Dad in ICU but ordered us to visit one at a time and only stay a minute or so each.  “Try to keep him calm.”  By now, Gabby and Brad, and Luke and Miranda, were all present.  All five directed me to be the first to visit Dad.

When I walked in his room I had flashbacks to earlier days when I was a boy growing up and spending time with Dad at Martin Pond.  Now, Dad had tubes coming out his nose, and a series of electrical-looking wires burrowing under his hospital gown.  He looked gaunt and like he had lost twenty pounds, pounds he couldn’t afford to lose.  “Dad, how are you?”  What a dumb ass thing to say.

It took him a while to respond but I sensed he was trying to frame a thought.  “Fred, I’m dying.  I know it.  I can feel it in my bones.  In my heart too.”  Dad showed his yellow-stained teeth revealing his sense of humor.

“Don’t say that.  Doctor Finlay says you can recover.  You got to believe that and not give up.”  I wanted to be a source of encouragement for the man who had supported me all my life, no matter what I had chosen to do.

Dad’s words were only a whisper, but they packed the rumble of thunder.  “Son, there’s some things I need to get off my chest.  Things you have a right to know.”

“Not now Dad, you need to rest.  And, not worry about anything but staying calm.”

“Your mother and me (I almost corrected his grammar) did a horrible thing, nearly half a century ago.”

“Dad, please.  I can’t stay but a minute.  Doctor’s orders.  Don’t worry about what happened so long ago.  Focus on now, getting better.”  I felt certain whatever Dad was wanting to tell me wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.  I had always been a pretty good lawyer, able to project things, figure out what had really happened at a crime scene, or at a car accident.

“If I hadn’t helped her, she would have gone to jail.”

“Dad, I’ve got to go.”

“No.”  Dad’s whisper volume plunged.  “Harriet shot Johnny Stewart.  Had good reason too.  Two daughters pregnant by the same asshole.”  No doubt my dear father was hallucinating.  Deidre was his only daughter.

“Dad just relax.  Don’t talk.  You’re on some powerful medicine.”  Dr. Finlay had told us, and that Dad might not be fully coherent.

“Deidre.  And Susan.”  Dad’s voice heightened as he said Susan.  Our eyes met, and I saw a reflection of my young and strong father, with dark eyes just like Papa Martin’s.  My training and experience screamed that Dad had someway suppressed and secluded the effects of his medication and released a long-buried truth.

“Dad, Susan was never pregnant.  We’ll talk more after a while, maybe tomorrow.”  I said just as a burly nurse with a squeaky voice slipped in behind, ordering me out of Dad’s room.  Two younger and smaller nurses slid past me toward the opposite side of Dad’s bed.  The burly one followed me all the way to the waiting area where Ed and family all stood up as we entered. 

“No more visitors for now.  His blood pressure has spiked.  Again.”

 Almost three hours later, the same burly nurse, Greta Larson, returned and said that Dad was stable but heavily sedated.  There would be no more visits today. 

After I politely ordered everyone to go home, I rode the elevator to the first-floor gift shop to buy a book.  It was going to be a long night.  As I exited the elevator, Connie and Tyler rounded the corner, heading towards me.  I suddenly had a whole new appreciation of Connie’s investigative skills.  Maybe she did need to work part-time for Connor Ford.

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 61

Monday morning, I almost called-in sick.  I had woken up with the desire to visit Boaz High School and see if I could convince Mr. Harrison to talk about the past.  He had been principal for over fifty years and hadn’t liked me too much during my four years as a student during the late sixties and early seventies.  But, he and Dad were best friends.  I figured Harrison would possess insights about the Brights vs. The Believers controversy.  And, what exactly had triggered the 1973 anarchy and Bible burning.

My work ethic convinced me otherwise.  Nell had reminded me Friday that I was scheduled to fill Ted Eubanks’ spot at Goodyear Tire in Gadsden.  If memory serves, Ted (no relationship to Carson according to Nancy at the library) had developed a habit of avoiding his rubber company responsibilities. 

I dropped by the office to pick up a supply of new-hire forms.  Connie called just as I got back in my car.  “Good morning hot stuff.”  I liked how the tall and shapely brunette made me feel young.  “Bad news.  I can’t find Tyler anywhere.  I pulled an all-nighter.  He’s not been at home.  Neighbors say they haven’t seen him since his dad died yesterday morning. 

“You better get some rest.  Oh, after you do, would you keep an eye on Rebecca, maybe hang out with her, keep her occupied?”  I said feeling uneasy about Tyler’s well-being.

“Okay.  It’s kind of funny.  I’m not really that tired.  Maybe I should talk to that Connor Ford guy, he’s a local private eye, and see if he has a part time job for me.”

I loved talking with my dear Connie but sometimes she could ramble.  “Hey babe, I’ve got to take another call.”

“Later. Tonight?”  It was a question.  Connie’s aggressive side was becoming insatiable.”

“Okay.”

“Just call them back.  I forgot something.  I saw Pastor Caleb’s puke-green minivan turn around in the Eubanks’ driveway twice earlier this morning, right before sunup.  I have to say, he takes visitation to an all new level.”

Something wasn’t right.  Caleb’s visits, attempted visits, were out-of-place.  My training was screaming there was an elephant in the room.

My work morning wasn’t very productive.  After sitting for two hours in a small conference room beside the human resource director’s office, only one of the new-hires showed up.  At 10:30, I received a text from Regina, Alfa’s new secretary, that read: “a Nancy Frayzur called asking for you.  Wants you to her.”  I guessed good spelling wasn’t as important as it used to be.  Omitting words was also permissible.  Nell was slipping.

I was bored so I went ahead and called Nancy.  She answered the Library’s phone on the first ring.  Her voice was distinct, almost as deep as a man’s.  “This is Fred Martin.  I was told to call you.”

Without a good morning or a thank-you for calling, Nancy said, “The library in conjunction with the Sand Mountain Reporter is putting together a tribute to Clarence Bright, you know, the sixty-plus year reporter who recently retired.  We’re organizing all his articles where visitors can see in one place the volume of his work.  I was reading through a few of his 1970’s articles this morning and thought of you.”

“Okay.”  Nancy could be long-winded.

“I really don’t know why or how we had Clarence’s most interesting article.  It was never even published.  I vaguely recall a short-lived public controversy over the newspaper’s Saturday edition, in the fall of 1973, not being distributed.  Anyway, Clarence had a long, detailed interview with Ricky Miller.  I don’t think I’ve ever read it.”

“That seems odd, but what did it say?”  I’d love to know the full story why the article, heck, the entire newspaper, wasn’t published.

“Clarence had a way of pulling out the facts from even the most reluctant witness.  In this case, Ricky must have been in a talking mood.  I’d love to have a recording of how Clarence greased the wheels in Ricky’s mind and mouth.”  Nancy could be colorful.

“Give me a summary, I’m about to have another interview.  I‘m at Goodyear.

“Ricky must have learned that Pastor Walter Tillman was stroking the flames.”

“Of what?”

“The belief difference between Ricky and Randy.  Ricky said that it was all in fun, that he and his youth pastor brother had been in a friendly-brother battle since they were kids.  Ricky believed Tillman was doing things to keep local folks focused on the Brights and the Believers.  You remember the two clubs?”

“I do.  I also remember the two hangouts, the Lighthouse and the Safe House.”

“Ricky disclosed to Clarence that the real news should be what was being hidden by First Baptist Church of Christ and two sex perverts who knew too much.”

I asked Nancy to explain.

“In a nutshell, according to Ricky, Pastor Tillman and four other local guys operated like the mafia.  They, the five of them, were part of a group called Club Eden.  They exchanged favors for money.  I suspect Randy must have tipped Ricky off to this stuff.  Someway Randy became aware of money being skimmed from church member contributions, and about a sex ring.  Seems Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber became aware of these illegalities.  But, here’s the kicker.  The church, not really the church, but Walter and his gang, had their own leverage.  Mind you, Clarence wrote this article just a few days after the triple murder.  You know, after the bodies of Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones were discovered.  Ricky alleged that Rawlins and Barber were responsible for the deaths of the three boys.”

“This interview was obviously right before Ricky’s death.  Didn’t he die around Thanksgiving that year?”  I asked.

“Oh, you didn’t let me finish.  Clarence wrote that Randy had a different take on things.  Clarence admitted Randy’s position came from Ricky, which you know was hearsay.  Ricky said that Randy believed Johnny Stewart’s death was caused by a very disgruntled parent, one whose daughter had been seduced by the Casanova Stewart.”

I don’t know exactly how long Nancy kept on talking or what she said.  All my mind wanted to do was slide down a steep and slippery slope towards one and only one conclusion: that someway my otherwise sweet and adorable mother had shot and killed Johnny Stewart.

If Goodyear’s director of human resources hadn’t shook my shoulder, I don’t know when I would have escaped the fog.  “Fred, Fred, are you okay?”  I had never traveled to such a place.  When I awoke (it was like I had fallen asleep and was dreaming), I saw the tall and virtually anorexic man standing beside a short and wide man who reminded me of a bulldog.  The completed new-hire form proved I conducted an interview with the short guy.

When I walked in the front door of Alfa’s office, Nell handed me a pink phone message form.  “Call Connie, it’s urgent.”  I didn’t remember turning off my iPhone.  I walked to my office and delayed returning the call until I could tell if I had missed any messages.  I had.  There were two missed calls, one from Connie and one from a number I didn’t recognize.  I also had a text message waiting.  Connie: “call me, it’s urgent.  Bad.”

I dialed her cell number first.  Voicemail.  I had the same success trying her home phone.  She always answered one or the other.  Perfect timing, as if I needed more stress right now.

Where the hell was Caleb?  She thought, peeking through the supply closet door open just enough for her to see Deidre at the nurse’s station standing over a younger woman sitting in front of a computer.  It had been nearly three hours since he had answered his phone.  I need to forget Caleb right now.  He has no choice but to kill Tyler.

Two hours earlier, Rebecca had left home wearing a pair of surgical scrubs she lifted from the Gadsden Regional Medical Center during last week’s serendipitous visit.  Her real luck had come when the same dumpy little nurse’s aide sitting at the computer had left her name badge in her chair while she relieved herself in the next-door bathroom.

If Deidre followed last week’s routine, she would leave the nurses’ station at 11:05 a.m. and take the elevator to the first-floor cafeteria, where she would buy a grilled chicken salad and return to her office on the third floor.  The other two nurse supervisors, this time last week, had stayed in the cafeteria, leaving Deidre alone in her cubicle for almost twenty minutes.  Shit, this was a terrible idea, a rushed idea, not enough planning.  Rebecca said as a security guard strolled by flashing a flirt-intended wave at the dumpy aide.