Tag: The Boaz Safecracker

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 40

I’m unsure, but I think it was the lovely Connie who gave me the final nudge to submit to a temptation that had been dangling before me ever since the rainy night I slipped inside 208 Thomas Avenue. 

Yesterday afternoon, after politely declining Dad and Ed’s invitation to join Luke and Tyler at Martin Pond, I sat for almost two hours on the front porch of Martin Mansion with the three Martin mavens.  Deidre and Gabby were no doubt experts in boy-girl relationships and were eager to respond to the endless questions of Miranda, my great-niece.  It seemed the eighth-grader herself was well-read in Biology and Anatomy, and had a loose, but clearly defined, interpretation of the limits God allowed in teenage sexual exploration.

For some reason, right before I exited the audience of girl-talk, Deidre had taken the opportunity in one of her responses to take a dig at me.  “Miranda, at some point, you have to know how to close the deal.”  To me, her statement was wholly inappropriate, it was like Deidre was advising Miranda to use her female persuasive equipment to convince her boyfriend to give her what she wanted.  Next, Deidre sat up in her rocking chair, looked over at me, and said, continuing her response to Miranda, “don’t be like Connie Stewart.  She had all the beauty, nicely packaged I might add, but never could close the deal.”

So, indirectly, Connie, through Deidre, had sent me the message that I needed to close the deal.  The timing had worked perfectly.  Today, Monday, I had spent an hour with a new retirement plan prospect in Huntsville at the new industrial park.  Afterwards, I had taken the first step towards tipping headfirst into the biggest temptation of my life.

Colton Mason was a former client of mine.  He was, and remains, a criminal.  Unlike most who disrespect the law, Colton had nine lives.  Over the twenty years or so I had represented him, he had gone to prison only one time.  He was sophisticated and slippery, as cunning and ruthless as the worst antagonist in the best of all novels. 

Driving home from Huntsville I couldn’t help but recall the biggest courtroom victory of my career.  My law practice had been equally split between civil and criminal matters, but it was the latter practice area that ignited my afterburners.  The December 2012 not-guilty verdict sent shock waves throughout Madison County and all across North Alabama.  The District Attorney seemingly had an ironclad case.  Colton’s specialty was burglary and fencing.  The State had him on camera breaking into and removing two backpacks loaded with valuables from homes of both the Huntsville Mayor, and the pastor of First Baptist Church in Madison. 

It was the only time I could recall the Madison County District Attorney being over-confident.  To his credit, he had been juggling two capital murder cases at the same time.  The DA’s investigator had conducted only an elementary review of Colton’s family.  They never discovered, until it was too late, that Colton and Dalton Mason were twins.  By the time I presented clear evidence that it was Dalton who had committed the crimes, it was too late for the DA to marshal a respectable response.  It didn’t hurt that Dalton was unavailable.  He had died in a freak auto accident a few months before Colton’s trial.

Even though we won the big case, Colton lost his freedom.  At the time of the trial, he had several misdemeanors pending, things like third-degree assault on a grocery clerk, and third-degree theft of property for allowing his sticky fingers to illegally transport a set of imitation gold cuff links from inside Belk’s Department store.  The maximum jail time for any misdemeanor is one year.  However, again to his credit, the DA persuaded Judge Tabor to stack Colton’s five convictions, making him serve them consecutively, one year at a time, one after the other.  Colton, nor me, initially had believed the Judge would do such a thing

It was in late February 2014 that I had last seen Colton Mason.  I had visited him in jail a few weeks before I resigned from King and Hart.  There had always been a kind of favorable brother-brother relationship between us.  I had almost felt a responsibility to see him one last time.  I vividly recall the last statement he had made to me over four years ago as the jail guard came for me.  Colton’s voice was low, virtually a whisper: “if you ever need to move some hot items keep me in mind, you know I’ve still got my Italian connections.”

Today, after my retirement plan presentation, I had dropped by to see Colton.  I knew from the January 2018 Huntsville Times article that the infamous Colton Mason had been discharged from the Madison County Jail on New Year’s Day.  Last night I had located that article through Google and noted the reporter had mentioned that Colton was looking forward to returning to his home in Harvest, Alabama.

I had found the nondescript home easily.  It was the same house I had visited a couple of times over the twenty years I had represented him.  One other thing the DA probably still doesn’t know.  Colton Mason is Anthony Barolo, one of two heirs to Marchesi di Barolo, possibly the most renowned and best quality wine in Italy.  The five-generation winery is in Barolo, the small southern Italian town named after Anthony’s long-dead multi-great, grandfather.

This locally unknown fact had been Colton Mason’s ace.  This had given him a predictably safe environment to market (aka, fence) the high-priced coins, jewelry, and art, he had stolen from Madison County’s rich and famous for nearly thirty years. 

As I crossed ‘the big-river bridge,’ as Guntersville and Marshall County locals liked to call it, I felt confident I could trust Colton’s handling of Elton and Rebecca Rawlins’ coins and jewelry.  Unlike the Madison County District Attorney and Anthony Barolo, I was the only other person alive who knew what had happened to Dalton Mason.  Heck, not even Dalton himself knew.  I must blame Susan’s cancer for tipping me over the edge.  It was the only time I flagrantly violated my role as an officer of the court.  Not only was Anthony Barolo a master burglar, but he was also the master of disguise.  I still cannot believe I went along with the grand scheme of creating Dalton Mason.  Yes, I could trust my long-time friend.  Of course, it was nice to have a little insurance.

It would take him only a few days to close the deal with his Italian cousin.  Once the coins and jewelry arrived in Borolo, I would be richer than I ever imagined.  I almost chuckled as I realized that the money wouldn’t make any difference for Noah; he was already filthy rich.

As I turned off Highway 168 onto my long driveway, I wondered how Benjamin Ericson would feel about some of his prize possessions winding up in Italy.

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 39

I was surprised by how cordial everyone was to me as I walked inside Martin Mansion.  Even Gabby and Brad gave me a friendly nod.  The meal itself was better than I had expected.  Deidre and Gabby were someway pulling off the impossible.  Their green beans brought a happy sadness to my mind.  This Sunday, they hadn’t forgotten to add the bay leaves which gave them the Harriet Martin signature.

Not much was said during our meal.  Ed and Brad’s sparring over whether Labron James or Stephen Curry was the better basketball player kept me huddled safely at my corner of the table.  For some reason I kept looking across at Susan’s empty chair and missing both her and the lovely Connie.  When I had talked to her earlier this morning she had been rather vague about what she was doing for her Aunt Julia, who wasn’t doing so well at the hospital.

As our Sunday lunch moved into dessert phase, Deidre started slicing everyone a piece of coconut cake.  Then, all hell broke loose.  It had started off less hot than where it ended.  It surprised me that the bomb hadn’t come from either Gabby or Deidre.  Just as I was taking my first bite of Gabby’s rather poor attempt at replicating Mother’s favorite cake, Luke shared his first words since I had arrived forty-minutes earlier.  “Why in heck does anyone believe prayer healed Eugene Lackey?”

I had heard the recent Boaz High School basketball coach had received a glowing report from his doctors that his cancer was in full remission.  For the second time.  There was no doubt the membership of First Baptist Church of Christ and many, if not most, of the local community, had engaged in a giant wave of prayer for the highly respected coach.  I had attended several Wednesday night prayer meetings where Eugene’s health received the most attention.

Deidre was the first to take Luke’s bait.  “Coach Lackey is a faithful follower of Christ.  He, his family and friends, and so many people, far and wide, have pleaded with God for His special touch.  The doctors are not lying when they say he is in remission.  Why on earth would you question what is as clear and simple as that?”

I didn’t say it, but I was proud of Luke.  Especially, his response to his grandmother.  “Okay, I’ll modify my question.  Why in heck did God not heal Heather Mosher?”

Gabby then entered the fray.  “Luke, who is Heather Mosher?”

“Lately I’ve been trying to better understand what you, Dad, and a church and community of folks have been pouring into my head ever since I was able to nurse.  The one subject that I couldn’t avoid was prayer.  It’s all the hype on Facebook if someone gets sick or loses their dog.  The comments seem to be as natural as breathing.  Folks respond to the bad news with, ‘praying,’ ‘God’s got this,’ or ‘God’s plan is always perfect.’  By the way, Heather Mosher was a thirty-one-year-old woman from Connecticut who died of breast cancer back in December.  I was doing some research and found her story through Google.  The article I read related that her boyfriend had asked her to marry him the day she was diagnosed with cancer.  A year later, the two went ahead and married even though Heather was in the hospital and virtually at death’s door.  Again, why didn’t God heal Heather Mosher?  Do you think it was because no one at all had prayed for her?”  I also liked Luke’s sarcasm.  “Certainly, if she had been healed it would have been because of all the many prayers.  Oh, I forgot to say.  Heather died the day after her wedding.”

I could tell Deidre was about to explode.  We already, from Luke’s first question, had exchanged looks.  Her face hadn’t expressed too much brotherly love.  “Luke, God isn’t bound to grant every request.  He is God.  He is sovereign.  He is mysterious.  His ways, thoughts, and plans are not ours, they are higher than ours.”  What a crock of shit but I kept my mouth shut.

“Mama D, that kind of proves my point.  Prayer doesn’t work.  No doubt everyone who prayed for Eugene Lackey or Heather Mosher asked for healing.  They asked specifically that the sick would be restored to good health.  I think we can assume all prayers were sincere, yet, God said no to one and yes to another.  Doesn’t the Bible say that if you abide in God you can ask what you will, and God will grant your request?”

I guess it was time for Gabby to show her Mama Bear nature.  “Luke, I’ve been polite long enough.  I know you can’t see it right now, but you are allowing your great uncle to brainwash you.  Someday you’ll realize that you don’t learn about high and holy living by asking a criminal.”

“Oh, now I’m a criminal.  I almost said something I would later regret.  Instead, Luke came to my rescue.  “Uncle Fred has done nothing but answer me honestly.  I went to him.  He is the only one who treats me like I have a brain.  And, he is the only one who doesn’t claim to know things none of you can possibly know.”

“Like what?”  Brad now joined in, probably to show Gabby he was with her defending their only son.

Luke will make a great lawyer someday.  His logic and reasoning skills already revealed his prodigious mind.  “Here’s a few things.  God created the universe, but God himself was never created.  God created Adam from the dust of the ground and Eve from his side around six thousand years ago.  And, here’s what is starting to make me so damn mad.”

“Son, no cursing, please.”  Gabby’s cautionary command was clearly on display.

“If God is so darn loving, why does he allow so much suffering?  You would think God, the supernatural God, the one who is all knowing, all loving, and all powerful, could and would do something to save the suffering and starving children around the world.  He is either incapable or He simply doesn’t give a, well, you know what.”  I could see myself in Luke, always respectful of our mothers.

For the next fifteen minutes I was unsure whether I was going to be hauled out and burned at the stake or pushed down the cellar stairs and locked away forever.  Even Dad seemed to align himself with the winning side, the majority who, no doubt, would say in the event Eugene Lackey ultimately died of cancer, that “God’s will is mysterious, praise God for loving Eugene so much He carried him home.”

I had never heard a more pleasing and welcoming sound.  A few minutes after 1:00, a car horn blared beside Martin Mansion.  Just as quick as Luke had stepped out into heresy lane, he was up and headed to the front door.  “It’s Tyler.  We’re going fishing.”  Luke was clearly becoming defiant.  He hadn’t even asked if he might be excused from lunch.  Gabby and Brad certainly had a hell-raiser on their hands.  Luke wasn’t the only one with a command of sarcasm.

In my own defiance, I stood up and asked Dad if I might be excused.  He looked at me funny and finally gave me a nod.  I walked to the front porch and found my favorite chair.  Today, I was going to be the last to leave the afternoon discussion.  Mother would be proud of me.

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 38

My fear of walking the dusty road around the edge of Dad’s garden to Martin Mansion pushed me to stay hidden behind the four walls of my cabin.  Angela’s photo prompted me to pull out her 1973/Senior journal.  I hadn’t read an entry yet in either it or her 1972/Junior journal.  For some reason I wanted to read what, if anything, she had written during the time the photo had been taken.  I knew the game was around the middle of October since I vividly recalled the Auburn vs. LSU game.  Instead of driving home to Boaz, Susan and I had stayed in Auburn and on Saturday gone to Jordan-Hare Stadium to watch LSU trounce Auburn 20 to 6.  What a lousy Saturday.  I still regret not driving home to watch the sensational Johnny Stewart run roughshod over the Pennington Wildcats.

I started reading with Angela’s October 8th entry.  It was Monday.  Mostly, she wrote about school.  In her last paragraph she mentioned how tired she was from the extra cheerleader practice over the weekend.  Her final sentence was, “I can’t wait until Wednesday night to be happy again.”

My first thought was that Angela might have been depressed.  Then, remembering what she had written on the back side of the library photo, I concluded she was sad, mad no doubt, about what appeared to be her loss of Johnny Stewart to my dear sister.  I continued to read.  There was nothing revealing on Tuesday, October 9.

Wednesday’s entry had been written Thursday morning by Angela’s own admission.  Her first sentence was, “love the ludes.”  At first my mind froze.  I even took out my iPhone and Googled ‘ludes.’  The first result thawed my mind instantly.  Angela had to be referring to Quaaludes.  I started to pull down the box of bottles I had stolen from Doug’s safe but didn’t need to.  I recalled exactly that two bottles contained, at least according to their labels, Quaalude-300’s.

According to Angela’s journal, for weeks now, after youth group, Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber had hosted a high/happy/session in the back room of the Lighthouse.  I gathered from her writing, including Thursday’s entry, that the youth director Randy Miller had been instrumental in organizing the lab, again, Angela’s description. 

Angela described how she was one of three Boaz High School cheerleaders, including Rebecca Aldridge and Randi Peterson, who had volunteered to take the drug and learn the effect upon their spiritual experiences.  Angela wrote how mad she had gotten Wednesday night when, instead of Randi, Deidre Miller had shown up.  Angela’s writing was convoluted and needlessly confusing, but I concluded that what had been going on in the ‘lab’ involved more than singing “Why Me” by Kris Kristofferson (for some reason this popular song represented the heart of what Angela referred to as ‘Ludes Lab’).  To my shock, I learned that a little over an hour after their sessions began and the Ludes were ingested, the songs and the swaying had given way to sexual exploration.  Angela never described it as a sexual orgy but that’s what vision my mind produced.

It was not clear at all to me why or how Deidre had shown up to replace the absent Randi.  I got to counting and realized three girls and five guys wasn’t an even pairing, not that that was a requirement for the type orgy I imagined.  The physical interactions became more apparent to me when Angela expressed what had made her so mad.  Apparently, the Ludes or simply natural attraction, had isolated the magnetic Johnny Stewart with my dear Deidre.  I may have read something untrue between Angela’s sentences, but it seemed clear to me that during the past ‘Ludes Labs,’ those where Deidre was absent, the Johnny hunk (Angela’s words) shared his high and happy touch with all three of the eager cheerleaders.

I knew I was running late but wanted to finish Angela’s writing through Friday.  On Saturday morning she had written about last night’s game against J.B. Pennington and, for the first time, noted how mad she was at the football superstar.  She wrote, “if I can’t have him, nobody can.  Damn him and Deidre Martin.  I’d send them both to hell right now if I could.”

If this language wasn’t shocking enough, she finished her entry by expressing the range of emotions she always experienced during what she referred to as ‘Faith’ time.  This apparently took place after ‘Sex’ time (my label), after all present had experienced the highest of highs.  Angela wrote how Elton and Doug had shown them a few weeks ago how to play Russian roulette.  To them, this was how they showed their commitment to Jesus and His will for their lives.  I had never in my life read something so sick and twisted. 

I returned the journal to the top shelf of my pantry closet and headed out the door to Martin Mansion.  All I could think about along the dusty trail was whether Deidre herself had played the game that could easily have taken her life.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.  

The Boaz Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind.  First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer.  And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.

Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected.  Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973?  Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well?  How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?   

What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 37

I woke up Sunday morning with a dull headache and a nauseous stomach.  Yesterday afternoon, while coolly dreaming under a hot shower, I had convinced myself I would wake up today, naked, with the lovely Connie similarly dressed in her king-size bed.  Hopes and dreams, the earlier blessings from the gods, all had suddenly vanished.

Just as I had walked into the sun room to a smiling Connie sitting in her swing, her iPhone had rung once again.  This time it was her mother announcing that Aunt Julia had suffered a stroke and was in the Emergency Room at Marshall Medical Center South.  I learned quickly that Connie had a special relationship with the mother of the late Johnny Stewart.  “My dear aunt, she’s suffered more than Job.  Losing her only child when he was a senior in high school, and the sudden death of Uncle Bill last year, is more than she can take.  I have to go be with her.”

That had ended mine and Connie’s wonderful day together.  As we had been about to walk outside, her to her Camry headed to the hospital, and me to leave for home in my own car, she handed me an old photo and an equally old Alfa life insurance policy.  “Angela said give these to you.  She found them going through Doug’s jam-packed study.  She thought you’d like the picture and could help her collect from Alfa.”

I had hardly looked at either item until I arrived home.  The photo looked to have been taken at Boaz High School during the fall of 1973.  What tipped me towards the correct time-frame was a large hand-lettered and painted banner along the wall behind the information desk inside the library where the photo was taken.  It read: “Pirates Pound Pennington.”  It was odd this brought back such a memory.  Even though Susan and I were both sophomores at Auburn, I recalled how we had wanted to drive home to attend the game.  It was the first time Boaz had played the Blount County School since I was in the ninth grade.  The memories ran deep since I had been called on by Coach Hicks to fill in for the injured Ted Parker, or, it might have been Sidney Wheeler.  How I had intercepted a pass and ran it all the way back for the winning touchdown was still my biggest mystery.

I easily recognized everyone in the photo.  My dear sister sat on a leather couch between Angela Ericson and Rebecca Aldridge.  Deidre was smiling but both Angela and Rebecca were wearing stern faces, maybe even scorn since their eyes were slanted toward the disliked person between them.  Standing behind the couch was Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones.  Johnny was directly behind Deidre and had his right hand on Deidre’s shoulder.  I turned the photo over and read what I assumed was Angela’s printed note.  The smudged ink read: “Last time I’ll ever sit beside the Deidre bitch, unless she’s on her deathbed.”  Then, the writer had listed the names of everyone captured in the photo.  At the bottom right hand corner was written, “photo taken by Doug Barber with Elton Rawlins’ new camera.”

I thought it impolite for the grieving Angela to have sent the photo to me.  Was she trying to tell me something?  It seemed that a normal, respectful person, would have kept the rude and vulgar picture to herself, and let bygones be bygones.

I was even more surprised with the Alfa life insurance policy.  The contract listed Doug Barber as the insured and First Baptist Church of Christ as the policy’s owner.  Another oddity.  Why would this policy be in Doug’s possession?  Usually, owners maintain their own property.  I flipped the page and noticed that Rachel Roden was the primary beneficiary, and that Angela Ericson was the secondary beneficiary.  The oddities continued.  The policy was dated May 15th, 1974.  Angela was at that time a senior, about to be a graduating senior, at Boaz High School.  This was years before her and Doug married.  Hadn’t he been married to Rachel Roden first, maybe for thirty or more years?  I couldn’t keep my legal mind from activating.  Why would First Baptist Church purchase a life insurance policy on Doug’s life? 

I sat in my recliner most of the morning, sipping coke and nibbling on saltine crackers.  A few minutes before noon, I couldn’t avoid the feelings any longer.  My sickness wasn’t from yesterday’s disappointment in having to end mine and Connie’s day way too soon, or from the unsatisfying taste I had from Angela’s photo and policy.  Clearly, it was caused by me dreading to walk up the road to Martin Mansion for Sunday lunch.  No doubt, I was afraid to face my family, and what seemed a certain crucifixion for me brainwashing Luke.

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 36

I didn’t hesitate walking into Connie’s foyer.  It was now established between us.  When the front door was cracked open, that was my signal to come in. 

“I’m in here.  Waiting.”  She must have a camera or sensor or something to tell her I’d arrived.  The kitchen is half a house away, beyond the great room.  When I walked through the archway into the breakfast nook I saw her slipping off a mitten and laying it on the counter beside the coffee-maker.  “Good thing I delayed cooking the biscuits.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.  Deidre called, and we had the worst argument we have ever had.”  Connie poured me a cup of coffee and walked it to me.  She almost handed it to me but set it down on the counter beside me. 

“Here, let me make it all better.”  She moved her body in close to mine and reached her hands and arms around my waist.  “I’m glad you came, and I’m happy we have become friends.  Let’s don’t talk about your argument for now, just hold me.”  My mind switched gears faster than a lightning bolt.

“Thanks for inviting me and I hope you know I’m enjoying every second I get to spend with you.”  Connie was nearly as tall as me.  She raised her head and poured her mysterious blue eyes into mine.  She smiled, and I pulled her even closer, feeling her breasts pressing against my chest.  At the same instant we both moved for the other’s lips.  The kiss was long and passionate.

“Wow, you are a good kisser.”  She pulled back and reached over for my cup of coffee.  “We better focus on breakfast for now.  A few more kisses like that and we’ll never get to the yard.”

“Maybe that would be a good thing.  I could come back Monday afternoon for the chores.”  I took a sip of coffee, set it down, and again pulled Connie into me.  This time as we kissed I let my right hand move down her back and onto her firm and shapely rear.  I pressed firmly, and she didn’t resist positioning her body closer.  She let out a soft moan when she felt how excited I had become.  I slipped my left hand inside her pink top along her lower back and was surprised when she pulled my shirt outside the work shorts I had worn.  I moved my left hand higher and noticed she didn’t have on a bra.

The pace and direction I hoped we were traveling quickly ended.  “Okay Fido let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”  About that time the oven timer went off.  “Saved by the biscuits.  They’re better when their hot.”  I almost responded with a rather crude remark but didn’t.  But, I had to question who had been saved.

“Thank goodness I’m saved.  I was beginning to get nervous, the way you were beginning to take advantage of me.”  I hoped Connie could take my joking.

“It’s a good thing both of us are not as slow as you.  I have to say I’m thinking there is hope for you after all.  Now, sit down and let’s eat.  We have a mountain of work to do today.”

Breakfast consisted of biscuits and fresh honey from the bee hives I had no idea she had.  And, bacon, eggs, and grits that were better than Mother’s. 

For the next four hours I was reminded of how much I missed Susan.  She, like Connie, was a yard’s person.  During the summer, on Saturdays, Susan became a drill sergeant barking out order after order of what needed to be done.  By 1:30, I had used Connie’s John Deere to mow and vacuum nearly three-quarters of an acre.  And, I had edged both the front and rear sidewalks.  I was about to crank up the Stilh blower when she motioned me to follow her to the pool where she had apparently been high-pressure washing for the past hour.  She was carrying a tray of lemonade.

“Let’s rest.  We’ve got time.  We’re making great progress.”  Connie said as I sat in a lounge chair lined with a soft, flowered cushion.  She handed me a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.

“You have a beautiful place here.  I hope I’m not out of line but maybe we could go swimming together sometime.  Say right now?”  I don’t know if it was the tartness of the lemonade or the gentle humming of the pool’s filter, but something spurred my boldness.

“Fred is a quick learner.  I love it.  Here’s an idea.  Why don’t we finish up the yards, maybe take a nap to restore our energy, grill out some steaks late afternoon, and then see what happens.  Who knows, a nighttime swim might make for a romantic evening.”

“I love a woman with a plan.”  Heck, what was I to say.  Connie’s ideas were perfect.

I wasn’t expecting her response.  “Sometimes my plans are disastrous.”

“Care to share?”  I asked.

“Fred, don’t you think it’s odd that we are together?  I mean, I guess it’s okay for me to say this.  Is it just a coincidence that we are seeing each other, or do you think it is God’s plan, His somewhat twisted way of showing He works in mysterious ways?”  Connie’s words were bouncing off me like my mind was wearing heavy armor.  I was fully confused.

“I hope you know I like the fact we are working on a wonderful relationship, but I don’t see what’s odd, weird, mysterious, whatever, about it.”

“I spent a year encouraging Angela and Rebecca to make their peace with Deidre.  Your sister.  Now, it’s kind of like I’m being rewarded with you.”

“For sure, you are one lucky lady, but what’s the deal over Deidre?”  I asked, more confused than ever.

“Unlike you, after we graduated in 1972, I stayed in Boaz.  For two years, attending Snead State.  This was when your sister was away, supposedly in Europe as an exchange student.  Surely, you know that Angela and Rebecca had the hots for Johnny Stewart.  But, my darling cousin, fell for the sexy Deidre.  While I was a sophomore at Snead, Angela and Rebecca were seniors at Boaz High.  After Johnny was killed the two of them went berserk, blaming Deidre for his death.  I think if she had been in town for much longer, you know she moved to Cincinnati at Christmas 1973, Angela and Rebecca would have killed her.”

“Wait.  I thought you said Deidre went to Europe as an exchange student?”

“That’s what your mom wanted everybody to think, but don’t you know it’s rather difficult keeping a secret in a small southern town?”

Once again, I felt like the most stupid man in Boaz.  It seemed everyone knew the very things that I should have known.  I was about to respond to Connie’s question when her iPhone vibrated on the lemonade tray.

“Sorry.  It’s Angela.  I better take this.  She’s still having a hard time with Doug’s death.”  Connie answered the call and walked away and towards the pool house across from where we had been sitting.  I laid my head back and pondered how Angela and Rebecca had found out the truth about where Deidre had moved.  As I wondered whether they had also learned that she was pregnant with Johnny Stewart’s baby, Connie returned and sat back down beside me in a matching lounge chair.

“Are you okay with a little change of plans?”  She asked.

“As long as it keeps me close by your side my lovely, I’m good.”  I was sounding like a star-struck teenager.

“Angela wants me to run over for a few minutes.  Let’s do this.  While I’m gone why don’t you use the blower to clean off the front and rear sidewalks, then you take a shower and change clothes.  By the time you’re all spiffy looking, I’ll be back.”

“Whatever your pleasure my madame.”  No doubt the gorgeous Connie was leading me by a leash.

“Oh, use my shower.  It’s bigger, and the one in the bath in the hallway doesn’t have much pressure.”  Connie stood up and reached out her hands for me to stand.  I complied.  She gave me a quick kiss and walked away, towards her garage.  Before she was out of eye shot she turned and said, “if you like big and thick towels, they are on the top shelf in the linen closet.  Make yourself at home.”

As soon as I heard Connie’s Camry start and pull out, I went into racing mode and headed for the front sidewalk.  In less than ten minutes every inch of concrete, including the driveway, was free from dirt and cut grass.  I must be living right or something because the gods were raining down blessings on me.  They had given me the perfect opportunity to itch a scratch I had ever since discovering the sensor at the bottom of Connie’s linen closet when she had sent me after her First Aid Kit.

I put the blower in the garage, fetched my pants and shirt from my car, and walked to the master suite.  The only other time I was in Connie’s bathroom I hadn’t noticed the door across from the double vanity.  I suspect I had been focused on walking through the first room of the bathroom into the showering area where the linen closet was.  I stopped and opened the door and entered a large walk-in closet.  On three sides were shelves and clothes racks.  Connie sure had a lot of clothes and shoes.  I walked over to an old cedar chest that sat along the left wall underneath a ton of cubby holes filled with shoes.  I knew the wall behind the chest housed the linen closet in the showering room.  That odd-placed sensor had my attention.  I gently pulled the chest out away from the wall and saw a single slim white wire coming through the wall.  I traced it towards the hallway that would be behind the back side of Connie’s walk-in closet.  I roughly measured the depth of the closet and then walked outside into her bedroom.  I walked off the same distant and noticed the extra space, maybe three feet, before I reached the doorway leading out into the hall.  I returned to the walk-in closet and proceeded to gently move Connie’s clothes back and forth, so I could see the wall that normally would have backed up to the hallway.  In the far-right corner I noticed another sensor.  It too had a small white wire protruding out its side.  I traced it back to the left side of the back wall and found the edge of a door, the type that opens by sliding inside a specially created wall.  The door moved easily.  I almost wasn’t surprised.  The sensors had alerted me to the fact there was something Connie had hidden.  Seeing the giant Mosler resting inside the hidden room was exhilarating.  Until, I realized that given my recent track record of uncovering long held secrets, I almost became nauseous while thinking if I ever looked inside this safe, mine and Connie’s relationship might be ruined forever.

“You alright in there?”  Damn, Connie was home.  She hadn’t stayed at Angela’s the full hour.  I rolled the door shut and straightened her clothes, trying to return them to an equal distance between hangers.  It was as though the crooks on the hangers were eternal guards protecting the world’s secrets. 

When I turned on the shower I yelled.  “Come join me if you want.”  Nice touch Fred, but it’s way too desperate.  As I stripped down and stepped underneath the scalding water, I kept telling myself that I had to play this cool.  I needed to act as though I would be just as satisfied if Connie and I didn’t spend any time the rest of today fooling around.  Who on earth was I kidding?”

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 35

I hadn’t slept good at all last night.  After I arrived home from Noah’s parents I had tried to relax and doze in my recliner.  That hadn’t worked well, nor had laying for seven hours in my bed.  I don’t think my insomnia had as much to do with what I had discovered in the two duffel bags as with Connie’s call a few minutes before midnight.  She had invited me to her house today for what she described as a lawn party.  When she mentioned her John Deere riding mower, an edger, and a blower, I realized she wanted me to help her groom her giant yard.  Her final statement consumed my mind’s entire night: “after we finish, and you shower, we can see what happens.”

Connie had also invited me to breakfast.  “Motivation for all the hard work you’ll be doing.”  She had said.  As I removed a change of clothes from my closet my iPhone rang.  It was Deidre.  I started to let the call go to voice mail but was worried it might have something to do with Dad.

“Good morning sis.”  I always liked starting off with honey.

“Fred.  I’m going to tell you one time and one time only.  Stay away from Luke.  He’s a good kid and doesn’t need to fall for your bullshit.”  No doubt Deidre was mad.  Her call wasn’t really a surprise.  Someway I had known all along that my discussions with Luke wouldn’t remain secret.  I laid my pants and shirt hangars across my bed and stood silent, knowing she couldn’t or wouldn’t.  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I agree.  Luke is a great kid.  And, a curious one.  He has a right to ask questions about the world.”  I knew I was right, but I also knew there was no way Deidre would listen to logic.

“The news you have been coaching Luke has so angered and upset Gabby and Brad they threatened to sue you for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

I almost laughed out loud.  “That’s hilarious, that quasi-criminal charge relates to an adult action that allows or encourages a minor to engage in illegal behavior or exposes them to illegal behavior.”

“Well duh, convincing Luke there is no God will certainly lead him to all kinds of immoral behavior.”

“Sis, you’ve got it all wrong.  I haven’t been trying to convince Luke of anything.  But, I admit, I have encouraged him to use his brain and think.  He came to me with questions.  I tried to answer them the best I could.”

“You could have refused and reported the awful news to Gabby and Brad, or, at least, to me.”  Deidre was so damn deluded.

“So, it’s awful for a bright, young mind to ask questions?  That’s so par for the course, just what Christian fundamentalists want.  You sound just like Mother.”  I shouldn’t have brought Mother into this.

“I sure hope that Luke can be rescued and not hurt Gabby like you hurt Mother.”  I don’t know what triggered my anger, but it was like, after half a century, I had reached the tipping point.  I had enough of the old and tired accusation that I hurt Mother so bad by rejecting her religion. 

“He certainly needs rescuing.  Just like I did when I was about his age.  Thank God for Ricky Miller.”  I was ignoring all the red lights my legal training had drilled into me.  I was leading myself to an eventual slaughter, or, at a minimum, a point I would regret.

“His coaching turned out well for him, didn’t it?  There has never been anyone in the history of Boaz to cause so much sin and suffering as the heathen Miller.”

“What about his brother, Randy?  Him spouting all the Bible nonsense led many a generation into believing the biggest myth ever told.”

I could hear Deidre’s heavy breathing.  She and I shared one Martin characteristic that had gotten us both in trouble on many an occasion.  Once provoked, we didn’t turn back or calm down.  She was like a mama bear protecting her cubs.  “Ricky Miller ruined my life.  His little Safe House spawned a war that killed Johnny Stewart.”

The red flags were waving.  “I figure you’re jumping to big conclusions, but I agree with one thing.  Your life would have been different if your baby-making lover hadn’t been killed.”  Damn, I needed to shut my mouth.  I was already late for breakfast at Connie’s and here I was knee-deep in the worst argument my sister and I had ever had.

“What the fuck are you insinuating?”  How on earth had this conversation devolved to this?

“Sweet sister, secrets have a way of crawling out into the sun.  I hate to burst your bubble, but I know more than you think I know or you want me to know.”  I seemed powerless to shut my mouth and to stop the destruction of Martin Mansion.

“Whatever you think you know you are wrong.  Stay the fuck out of my life, and Luke’s.”  I wasn’t the only one who was saying things they would later regret.  At least, I hoped so.

“Sis don’t worry.  I’ll never divulge your secret.  I suspect dear Ed doesn’t know about the twins.”  Someway, I had to end this hell-on-wheels call.

“Twins?  There you go Fred, always talking bullshit, acting as though you know something is true.  You should stick with hocking insurance policies to vulnerable women.”

“Don’t worry sweet pea, I’m not after a confession.  You never have to tell me anything.  Here’s for a truce.  I keep my mouth shut about you and Johnny Stewart’s baby-making, and you let Luke follow his curiosity.”  At least I was beginning to suppress the red flags.

“Don’t fucking try to tell me what to do.  One bit of advice.  Have a little respect for your dear and dead mother.  She would turn over in her grave if she knew you were bringing up this dark chapter in her life.”

I didn’t respond to Deidre’s last statement.  I ended the call, grabbed the two clothes hangers, and drove to Connie’s arriving nearly fifteen minutes late.

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 34

After my appointment with Cynthia at Sand Mountain Tire, I called Noah and asked if I could borrow the key to his parents’ house.  We had planned on moving the two duffel bags Sunday afternoon, but my mind was craving an intimate look tonight.  The only other possible thing that could have distracted my quest was an evening with the lovely Connie but she, along with Rebecca and Angela, were headed on their quarterly adventure to Oneonta and Oh-So-Good Barbecue.

Noah didn’t present any opposition.  He did suggest I park my car in the garage and pull the shades when I was inside the house.  He said his parents had a slew of nosy neighbors. 

I pulled inside the garage and manually closed the heavy overhead door.  The only other exit was through a narrow room filled with gardening tools and two long shelves holding a ton of quart jars containing everything from green beans to peach pickles.  I walked through the half-open side door, across the small back yard, and onto an unlocked back porch.  At first, I thought the key Noah had given me was the wrong one.  Finally, I got it to work in the old lock that was probably installed when the house was built in the early 1920’s, according to Noah.

The house was small and had that old person’s smell, probably a combination of rubbing alcohol and Vick’s Salve.  The kitchen was large for the size of the house.  The metal cabinets reminded me of Mama Martin’s in Cincinnati but were, I’m sure, a much lower quality.  The gun cabinet was in a long narrow, pine-paneled room around the corner to my left.  Before touching the cabinet, I walked over to the rear wall and pulled the shades on four windows that looked out into the small back yard and the two-story garage apartment that looked like it could fall in at any moment.

I used the other key Noah had given me to unlock the bottom drawer of the gun cabinet.  Other than a few, mostly empty boxes of 12-gauge shotgun shells, the duffel bags had the giant drawer to themselves.  I reached for the first one and felt the pistol.  I probably should have told Noah to be careful with the bags.  He apparently, in a hurry, had simply tossed the bags in the drawer, the risky one landing upside down.

I started to unload the bags onto the kitchen table right outside the small den but decided against it.  There, I would have to turn on another light and the window above the sink didn’t have a shade.  I opted instead to sit on the floor with my back to a ratty looking couch across from the gun cabinet.  I sat the gun-toting bag upright and opened the second one.  My mind was like a laser.  I had to open and read the contents of the manila envelope titled, ‘Confidentiality Agreement.’

The first thing that struck me when I saw the document was that it was mauve-colored, the same identical paper, or so it seemed, that I had found in both Rebecca and Angela’s safes.   Before reading, I flipped the pages.  There were three.  Back on the first page I sensed what I was holding had been prepared by an attorney.  The first part set out what lawyers referred to as ‘the whereas’ section.  This is where the parties, here, Elton Rawlins, Doug Barber, and First Baptist Church of Christ, disclosed the accepted facts of their agreement.  What I was holding was a contract, an agreement between the parties for each to do and to refrain from doing certain things.  The whereas section consisted of two statements.

“1. Whereas Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber are Deacons at First Baptist Church of Christ and believe they possess incriminating information concerning: a) the misuse of member contributions and theft of purported payments to the Southern Baptist Convention, and b) other misconduct by members of the Church’s deacon board;

2. Whereas First Baptist Church of Christ believes it possesses incrimination information concerning the disappearance of Esmeralda Gomez and the death of Johnny Stewart.”

I knew it was typical of confidentiality agreements to couch the language in hypothetical terms.  None of the parties truly admitted anything.  The purpose of the contract was to keep things secret, whether they were true or not.  The mere fact the allegations went public was so negative, the parties, or at least one of them, were willing to pay to keep mouths shut.  As I read the remainder of the agreement, what was odd was that the church was willing to pay Elton and Doug a substantial sum of money, two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars each, for their eternal silence.  This told me what the two men knew, or thought they knew, that was incriminating on the church, was far worse than what the church knew, or thought it knew, against Elton and Doug.  The document was signed by these two men and by Walter Tillman as church pastor, was notarized by Nancy Frasier (odd, I thought), and was dated May 27, 1974.  It didn’t take me long to recall this was the same date that had been hand-written on the bottom of the Rebecca Rawlins’ letter I had seen in her and Elton’s safe.  The thing I couldn’t recall was whether Angela’s identical letter contained the same date.

I returned the agreement to the manila envelope and laid it on the couch behind me.  I then pulled out the accordion folder labeled, ‘Deacon Deeds.’  It contained five manila files each with its own confidentiality agreement.  These documents were clearly written by a lay person to the law.  I recognized the names of all the men: Walter Tillman, David Adams, Raymond Radford, Fitz Billingsley, and Franklin Ericson.  I thought it odd there was a confidentiality agreement between Walter Tillman, the former pastor, and his church.  These five agreements were all dated November 29, 1973, and all concerned events and circumstances involving Ricky Miller and the Safe House.  None of these agreements were couched in hypothetical language.  All admitted wrong doing, including innocuous things as spreading false rumors, to such serious actions as assault and attempted arson.  As I closed these five files all I could think about was the bravery of Ricky Miller.  He stood up to these five strong and prominent men, and, virtually the entire community, to simply exercise his constitutional right of free speech.  In his case, free speech came at the ultimate price.

It didn’t take long for me to recognize the pistol that had pointed straight at me when I opened the church’s old Mosler could pass as the twin of the one I had taken from Doug Barber’s safe.  They both were Smith & Wesson 38 caliber ‘Chiefs Specials,’ and of similar ages.

The remaining contents of the two duffel bags were mostly large manila envelopes containing photos of various church events, including shots from two or three different Vacation Bible Schools.  One envelope contained the most photos.  They were of Randy Miller’s youth group.  I found myself in one of the pictures.  It was probably taken in 1970 or 1971.  The good condition of the basement in the old sanctuary almost made me sad given my recent visit to the decaying structure.

I almost didn’t open the final manila envelope.  I was tired of looking at photos of mostly smiling teenagers.  Curious me couldn’t go the final mile.  The contents of this one seemed out of place.  They were minutes to a secret Deacons meeting held in late October 1973. I couldn’t make out the actual day since it was so smudged.  The only way I knew the meeting was secret was because the secretary had admitted as much in his opening notes.  The names of every deacon in attendance was listed, including the five prominent men who later entered into confidentiality agreements with the church.  The actual meeting notes were short, the secretary, a Harold Maples, had hand-written, “the Deacons discussed the necessity of honoring God by persuading a select group of our neighbors to confess and repent of their wayward actions.”  Maples’ final statement read, “the Deacon body voted unanimously to take whatever action is needed to stop Ricky Miller from operating the Safe House and from polluting the minds of young, but naive teenagers.”

I had seen enough for one night.  I loaded the files, folders, and envelopes back into the two duffel bags, along with the unloaded pistol, and locked them back in the gun cabinet’s bottom drawer.  As I backed out of the garage, I saw an old woman next door standing on her back-door steps, waving.  I hoped she was senile enough to think I was Noah and had a right to be visiting his parents’ home.  I certainly hoped she didn’t call the police.

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 33

I nearly ran over the courier as I walked inside Alfa’s office.  Next thing I knew I would be looking at my iPhone while driving down the highway.  I couldn’t become that stupid.

Nell and the other four Alfa agents were all in the small conference room when I got my bearings.  Two were seated and two were standing up, along with Nell.  “Fred, come in here please.”  There wasn’t anyone politer than the sweet, but old, Nell.

“We’ve drawn straws and you’ve won.”  Victor, the youngest and brightest agent of the fold, said, looking down at a death benefits check laying alone in the middle of the table.  I knew it was for a death claim because of the check’s color.  All benefits from life insurance claims were paid out with a putrid green check.  I hated them because they reminded me of, well, death and dying, and the sordid conditions that accompany every death, like they represented the stinking bile that oozed from everybody at some point.

“Fred, all silliness aside,” Nell said looking seriously at Victor, “I think you are the right person to deliver this check to Pastor Patterson at First Baptist Church of Christ.”  I wasn’t completely surprised that the church was the beneficiary of Doug Barber’s policy.  One of Elton’s policies had named the same beneficiary.  I was at a sales conference when his check arrived.  I think Nell delivered it.

“Okay, that’s not a problem.  But, I am curious why none of you heathens want to meet with the pastor?”  I knew none of them attended First Baptist, but I was pretty sure they all had a church home.

James lifted the green check from the middle of the conference room table and revealed a blue form.  “It seemed irreverent to have to ask these questions.”  I had heard of the ‘CYA’ form but had never had to use it.  Having the recipient of a death check acknowledge that he knew nothing about the perpetrator of a crime likely made for an uncomfortable conversation. 

“I’m truly surprised Alfa has issued this check.”  Nell said, reaching over and acting as though she was pondering her next statement.  “A million dollars.  I might understand if Alfa paid out twenty thousand under the present circumstances.  If a problem arises, its always harder to herd the camel back into the barn.”  She seemed to be saying something in coded language.

“The Church owned the policy.  Alfa had a duty to fulfill their promise under the contract.  As far as I know there is absolutely nothing to tie the church to Doug’s death.  What’s the issue here?”  I asked.

“Nothing for sure, but Alfa’s investigators are now suspicious of Elton Rawlins’ death.  Seems they have discovered the driver of the car, the car that hit Elton and Rebecca, and ultimately caused Elton’s death.  He’s admitted being paid to cause the wreck.”  Nell said.

“I’d like to know how they learned that.  Sounds like some mighty good investigative work.”  I said.

“We’re not sure, but the Alfa rumor is that the team received an anonymous tip, something about the driver, a beach bum by trade, coming into some money and not wanting to share.  The tip wasn’t exactly anonymous.  It was from the man’s ex-wife.”

“I hate to interrupt our party but I’m going to have to run if I go by and see Pastor Caleb and make my four-thirty appointment at Sand Mountain Tire.  To summarize, all I must do is ask the ‘CYA’ questions and get the pastor’s signature.  Right?”

“You got it.  And, be sure and express our sincere condolences for the tragic death of Doug Barber.”  Nell, ever so polite and respectful.

During my drive to First Baptist I couldn’t help but think about the manila envelope resting inside the gun case in Albertville.  I was aggravated at myself not to have taken at least fifteen or twenty seconds to peek at the confidentiality agreement inside the faded envelope before I had stuck it inside my second duffel bag.  It would no doubt have given me a more complete context for what I was about to do.  At least, this is what I pondered.

Pastor Caleb was as cordial and polite as Nell.  We met in his office on the third floor of the Education Building and he answered the ten, ‘CYA’ questions without a single hesitation.  His secretary came in and witnessed his signature on the blue form.  After I gave him Alfa’s putrid green, million-dollar check, I asked him if we could have a confidential conversation.  I liked his response, “Fred, I’m always available to listen and counsel.  You should know about the pastor and penitent privilege.”

“I do, but this is a little different.”  I had been contemplating this conversation for several weeks.  Now that I had the perfect opportunity to ask my question, I felt I was an idiot and would do nothing but embarrass myself and the gentle pastor.

“Fred, rest at ease, share what’s on your heart.”

“I know that you are my nephew.”  If I detected anything at all in Pastor Caleb’s face it was not more than a slight and instant raising of his left eyebrow.  “Mother’s death has been tough on me in more ways than one.  Dad shared this well-hidden secret with me a couple of weeks ago.”

“I’m a little surprised this secret hasn’t been discovered before now.  I must give it to your mom and dad.  They did a fantastic job of concealing my identity.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, when did you learn the truth?”  I wanted to better flesh out my question but for some reason I didn’t.

“Last year, when I was considering moving here from Prattville to become pastor, my dear mother confessed.  She told me she always knew there would come a time she would be forced to tell me the truth.  She said she simply couldn’t let me accept such a high profile and important job as pastor of the largest church in my own hometown without knowing the truth.”

“Pastor, do you mind sharing with me exactly what she told you.  I really want and need to know the facts are the same as those shared with me by Dad.  In a way, I’m a lot like you.  The truth has been kept from me for all these years.”   I said.

“Deidre, your dear sister, and the late Johnny Stewart, were, are, my biological parents.  Of course, Johnny died shortly after I was conceived.  A few months later, Deidre was whisked away to Cincinnati to conceal her pregnancy.  Your dear mother, I have to say, a very cunning woman, choreographed the private adoption with the willing participation of my mother, Helen Patterson.  I’m sorry to say my dad, Helen’s husband, went along with it but never seemed to accept me as his own.”

“I guess I know the rest of the story.  You grew up in Boaz, graduated from Boaz High School, and then went on to college and seminary.  Right?”  I asked.

“Yes, all that is true.  But, I might as well give you the full picture.  Fred don’t blame me, you asked.”  The pastor’s words felt ominous, like he was about to add color to the TV screen that had always been black and white.

“Why do I feel a bomb is about to go off?”  I said.

“Because it is.  Keep in mind we are speaking confidentially.  I suspect you take that very serious, you having spent most of your adult life in and around a courtroom.”  

“The attorney/client privilege is sacrosanct.  Just like your profession’s privilege.”

Pastor Caleb got up from behind his desk and walked over to a window that looked out onto the church’s west side parking lot.  “There’s something else common between pastors and lawyers.  They both are curious.  After Mother confessed, I did a little snooping around.  My inquiries led me to Cincinnati, Ohio.”  He turned back to face me and returned to his desk chair across from where I was seated.  “Do you want the long or the short version?”  Pastor asked.

“Can I have both?  Right now, I’m tight for time but later, at your convenience, I would love to hear every detail.”  I said.

“That’s fair.  Okay, today, the short version.  Carson Eubanks is also your nephew.”  Pastor Caleb didn’t crack a grin or reveal any emotion.  My mind went into lock down.  I couldn’t digest what the pastor had just said.

“What, who?”  As another five seconds inched by while I looked at the pastor, my mind delivered a small clue.  Carson, that’s Tyler’s father, Noah had said so, they met, at Boeing.

“Tyler, Luke’s friend.  Carson is Tyler’s father.  He works in Huntsville.  He’s your kinfolk also.”

“How?  I’m drawing the biggest blank ever.  Can you explain?”  I asked.

“Carson and I are twins.  We’re blood brothers.  It was a surprise for all, especially your mother.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  Deidre had twins?  Why had Dad not told me the complete truth?  Then, it hit me.  What if Dad himself didn’t know?”

The pastor poured me a glass of water from a small pitcher on the credenza behind his desk.  “Fred, this story is a perfect example of life, how it can throw the best curve ball in existence.  You mother had planned for months what was going to happen to her first grandchild.  Her best friend, my mother, Helen, the two of them had created a team with a carefully crafted plan.  But then, life pitched the curve ball.  Remember back then there were few if any sonograms.  Twins could slip up on a pregnant woman.  That’s what happened.  Your mother had to scramble to find Carson a home.  He grew up just around the block from your grandparents in Seven Hills.”

“One final question and I have to go to my next appointment.  Do you have any idea why Carson and Tyler are living in Boaz?  As you say, Carson works at Boeing, all the way over in Huntsville.”  I said.

“I don’t know for sure.  But one thing I figure out is that he is searching.  Maybe he has picked up a lead about his real parents.  I don’t know if he even knows he was adopted.  I really don’t know him.  He and Tyler are, what should I say?  Unbelievers, if what I hear is true.”

“Pastor, thanks so much for being so open.  I do want to talk more later if you would be so generous, but now I have to run.”

I left the Education Building and drove to Sand Mountain Tire and Battery on Highway 431.  I couldn’t tell you anything for certain, I said as I met with Cynthia Lang and discussed the new retirement plan she had chosen.

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 32

Wednesday night, I was running a few minutes late for dinner in the church’s Fellowship Hall.  When I arrived, I was surprised to see Connie sitting at our table, along with Dad, Deidre, and Ed.  I wasn’t surprised to hear the first statement from the manipulative Deidre: “I asked Connie to join us.  Thought it would be a trial run for Sunday.  She can decide if she’s ready.”  Her last words could have been interpreted several ways.  I looked at Connie and she gave me that adorable smile.  If I hadn’t had different plans I would have been excited to share a meal with Connie, and then accompany her to Prayer Meeting.  Instead, I had to lie about a non-existent insurance appointment. 

Earlier this afternoon Noah and I had made an abrupt change in our plans.  Ever since I had learned about a second safe at Rebecca’s, one holding what likely was a large hoard of cash, Noah and I had been plotting my return to 208 Thomas Avenue.  But, our secondary, longer-term plans to crack the Mosler in the church’s basement, cried out for attention.  Two things had caused us to change our minds.  The body shop at Adam’s Chevrolet had caught fire late afternoon and no doubt would require the attention of the Boaz Fire Department for hours.  And, there was a touring choir from Nigeria that Pastor Caleb had asked to present a musical after prayer meeting.  This would add an extra dose of attention and possibly confusion that would magnetize the church’s greeters and the facility guards (something the deacons had instituted after the mass murder at a church in Charleston, South Carolina two years ago).  Finally, Noah’s idea to trigger the alarm at Boaz High School would demand the balance of the police force that wasn’t already occupied directing Highway 431 traffic around the Adam’s Chevrolet fire.

As Connie and I carried our plates to the dish-washing window I told her I hated I couldn’t go with her to Prayer Meeting but that I would call her after my appointment.  I warned her that it might be ten o’clock.  She seemed eager for a roll in the hay.  That was my interpretation, recognizing that I was often wrong.

I walked out to my car, exited the church’s rear parking lot, and turned right on Elm Street.  I made a three-block circle and ended up behind an abandoned house on Sparks Avenue less than seventy-five yards from the west side of the original sanctuary built well over a hundred years ago.  There was a ground level entrance to the basement and I knew, thanks to Noah, it was not controlled by the high-tech security system that governed the new sanctuary and education building the church had built less than five years ago just to the east of the original structure.  The basement of the old building was mainly used for Training Union classes on Sunday night and for storage.  I was thankful the window next to the side entrance was unlocked, just as I had left it the last night of Doug’s ‘Death’ class.  I raised the old wooden window and slipped inside.

It didn’t take me but a couple of minutes to locate the old Mosler.  If it hadn’t been for my interview with Pastor Caleb I wouldn’t have had a clue where to start looking.  He had shared his love for old safes and how, to him, it seemed they had a mind and a heart of their own.  While he was rambling on about how he hoped the old Mosler in the basement divulged a ton of memories about life around First Baptist Church of Christ, he had mentioned, not intentionally I’m sure, that the only thing he dreaded was having to endure the piss smell from the old bathroom the youth group used back fifty years or so when they met down in the basement.  There it was, inside the boy’s bathroom and inside a closet in the corner.  I could tell there used to be a wall hiding the safe, but it had long ago been dismantled other than a couple of 2 by 4’s along the outer edges. 

The trick was gaining access.  Caleb had, in that same insurance interview, divulged that he didn’t have the combination to the safe and intended to ask Betty Tillman, the wife of Walter Tillman, the former pastor, if she could find out the correct combination.  I didn’t have any idea whether he had pursued this.  Instead, I came prepared, again thankful to Noah, to access the front of the safe.  I almost felt disrespectful to Papa Martin who had taught me the tried and true method of unlocking the safe via a long and sometimes tricky back door approach with the use of a torch and a long flathead screwdriver.  Noah, through his many resources, had discovered a device, just a NASA strength version of a DeWalt drill, that bored straight through the spinning dial and disabled the bolt lock as it vaporized the metal shavings the solid diamond bit created as it bored.  It worked better than Noah had declared.

As I opened the thick steel door with my right hand I reached in my pocket with my left for my iPhone.  Activated, it read, 6:48.  I had been inside the basement for almost seven minutes.  Mine and Noah’s limit, what we referred to as our ‘drop-dead’ time, was ten minutes.  I decided to not dilly-dally but to load up the safe’s contents in the two duffel bags I had brought and skedaddle, hopefully with a minute or so to spare.  I wasn’t worried what I might encounter when I walked out the west-facing door.  I knew Noah was somewhere, hiding in plain sight ready to execute a diversion plan if necessary.

As the safe’s heavy door fully opened I was shocked by a pistol pointing directly at me.  It was laying on its side.  I thought it rather odd for the barrel to be facing me, like someone had placed it in that exact position to warn an intruder to think twice before removing anything from this safe. 

I gently rotated the pistol barrel away from me, grabbed it by the handle, and placed it at the bottom of my first bag.  Once again, there were accordion folders full of papers.  As I loaded them in my bags I noticed one was labeled, “Deacon Deeds.”  I quickly wondered if the latter word was referring to land documents or actions performed by the church’s deacons.  I was about to close the safe door after loading the folders when I noticed a thin canary-colored envelope standing on its edge and slipped behind the maroon-colored cloth along the right side of the safe.

Normally, these safes were lined with this identical cloth material but some way, here, the lining had been torn away from the thick steel.  I removed the envelope and read the following words written in pencil on the outside: “Confidentiality Agreement: First Baptist Church of Christ, Elton Rawlins, and Doug Barber.”  I had to fight the temptation to open the envelope and read what I assumed was a contract document inside.  Instead, I stuffed it in my bag and made my way to the side door. 

In less than thirty seconds after exiting the basement I had dropped both bags inside the trunk of a tan-colored 2005 Chevrolet Impala that Noah had parked less than twenty feet away.  My job was then to walk to my car hidden on Sparks Avenue and drive to Burger King in Albertville where I was to meet Lorie, Noah’s wife, dressed as a man, and present my speech for thirty minutes concerning the benefits of purchasing a long-term health care policy.  This meeting, along with the hamburger joint’s security cameras, would give a semblance of an alibi if ever I was questioned about the burglary. 

At 9:45 p.m., I was at home.  After leaving Burger King, I met Noah at Chili’s’ Restaurant in Guntersville, just beside his security facility, where we, over apple pie, ice cream, and coffee, had discussed my adventure in the bowels of the grand old sanctuary.  Before arriving, he had already disposed of the 2005 Impala and had stored the two duffel bags inside his late father’s gun cabinet at his parents’ now-empty house at the intersection of Miller Street and Ray Avenue in Albertville.

My call to Connie and our nearly two-hour conversation was like icing on the cake.  What a successful day.  As if it couldn’t get any better, the lovely Connie mentioned, two times, how long it had been since she had sunbathed at the beach.  She had even suggested I carry her to Gulf Shores sometime soon.  When our call ended, and I lay down to sleep, the picture of Connie in a two-piece bikini was mesmerizing.

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 31

Monday was a holiday, not a State holiday, but one Alfa had instituted many years ago to honor its founder and his family.  I spent most of the morning working with Dad in his garden and reliving last night with the lovely Connie.  I couldn’t tell you a single song we had sung during the music time as we shared a songbook, nor did I remember any specifics from Pastor Caleb’s sermon on the power of prayer.  But I did recall every second I spent on Connie’s couch after we returned with a half-gallon of Brier’s Black Walnut ice cream we bought at Walmart after church.  This morning, sweaty and dirty from pulling weeds from a long row of peas, I was proud of myself for initiating a long passionate kiss after following Connie back to the kitchen with our empty bowls.  I had been totally surprised she had returned my passion.  I’m beginning to think that her sex life has been so-longed suppressed that once it is unleashed, I might have to seek out what is commonly known as ‘the little blue pill.’  I must have had a strange look on my face because Dad kept asking me if I was okay.

A little before noon I returned to my cabin and showered.  I laid down across my bed and picked up Angela’s 1971 journal.  I had been reading a few pages every night for the past two weeks.  It had been my way of forcing myself to get through all three books of her mostly teenage girl ramblings.

In November 1971, I recognized a growing frustration, almost anger, she was developing over her Sunday School teacher’s persistent emphasis on prayer and its importance to every young person desiring a close walk with Jesus.  His name was Farris Pauly and he was a local used car dealer.  Apparently, his favorite Bible verse on prayer was John 15:7: “If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.”  Pauly routinely argued that all a true believer had to do was ask and she would receive.  It never failed that he emphasized that the requester had to be in the right relationship with Jesus for this promise to be fulfilled. 

From Angela’s writings, there was no doubt a proper understanding of ‘abide’ had often led to heated arguments in the high school youth department, especially in Pauly’s tenth grade class.  One example she shared concerned the death of fellow student Brandy Peterson the night of Halloween 1971.  It seemed the young girl had been seriously injured in an auto accident after witnesses had observed her staggering around the Piggly Wiggly grocery store.  They said she appeared to have been drunk as a skunk.  Angela and the entire youth group had staged a three-day prayer vigil for Brandy as she lingered at Boaz-Albertville Hospital.  Angela had written: “I know I did everything I could possibly do to be in right relationship with Jesus, yet Brandy died.  Prayer sucks.”  Less than two weeks later, Angela shared that an autopsy of Brandy’s body revealed she had ingested a drug known as methaqualone.

I got up and walked to the box I had stored at the top of the kitchen’s pantry.  I thought I had seen a similar name on one of the bottles I had taken from Doug’s safe.  I was right.  There were two bottles labeled “Quaalude-300.”  I recalled the Google article I had read that stated the drug produced barbiturate-like effects.  It could depress the central nervous system, reduce heart and respiration rates, and numb the fingers and toes.  I took my iPhone from my pocket and conducted another quick search.  This time my query was “Quaalude-300 and accidental deaths.”  Google found an article titled, “More Quaalude deaths from injuries than overdose.”  Here, I learned that actual overdoses of the widely abused sedative produced a drunken-like stupor.

I returned the bottles and box to the top shelf and walked back to my bedroom.  In December 1971, Angela and her four closest friends, Rebecca, Johnny, Allan, and Tommy, were all members of Ricky Miller’s school club known as The Brights.  Angela was the only one of the five who wasn’t allowed to attend the meetings because of her parent’s command, but she nonetheless spent time with the Biology teacher/secular activist.  She wasn’t exactly clear how she was able to have private meetings unless it was after school.  Angela shared how she had talked on several occasions with Miller about Farris Pauly and his insistent claims about the power of prayer, and its importance to sincere Christians.

In reading Angela’s journal through the end of December 1971, I gathered that he had challenged her and her four friends to do their own investigation into the authenticity of prayer.  Within several journal entries Angela had written what Ricky Miller had told the five of them.  Things like, “prayer works equally as well as coincidence,” and “John 15:7 is possibly the clearest and strongest indictment of the Christian faith.  Either there is no Christian who truly abides in Jesus, the Bible is lying, or God’s Son is wholly incapable of fulfilling his promise.  Either way, prayer doesn’t work.”

Ricky had encouraged the five to start attending Prayer Meeting every Wednesday night at First Baptist Church of Christ.  He suggested at least one, maybe two, of the five attended while the others attended his brother’s youth group sessions.  Ricky instructed Angela and her friends to record every prayer request that was made, especially those by the adults in Prayer Meeting, and then to monitor the results.  He even gave them a form he had developed to record their findings.

Angela’s entry on December 31, 1971 revealed her internal struggle with her faith.  She summarized what her and her four friends had done all during the month of December and how eye-opening it was to learn that, at best, prayer worked only about fifty percent of the time.  One thing she noted, I thought it was brilliant, that out of all five of the prayer meetings either her or one of her four friends had attended during December, the boldest prayer was one made by Nancy Frasier, the librarian, for her granddaughter’s left arm to be restored to full health.  It seemed the girl had fallen out of a tree house and not only broken her arm but injured it so severely she would lose all practical use for the rest of her life.

Other than Nancy’s request, Angela shared how no adult at prayer meeting ever prayed boldly.  No one asked God to grow back a leg that had to be amputated.  No doubt Angela was truly impacted by the death of Brandy Peterson back in November.  Angela referenced that horrible event once again as she closed out her December 1971 journal.  She pondered two questions: “if John 15:7 is true, why didn’t Brandy survive?” and “out of all the hundreds of local folks who were praying for her survival, was not one of them truly abiding in Jesus as required in this Bible verse?”

At 4:30 p.m., I had to get up and move.  I had read enough of Angela’s ramblings.  I changed into a pair of more comfortable shorts and a tee shirt and headed out for a long walk.  I passed the barn at the back of the cabin on my way to Martin Road and couldn’t help but think about the twice-stolen jewelry and coins resting comfortably in an army surplus box beneath a ton of hay.  This prompted me to ponder where my and Noah’s vendetta against Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber was going to lead.  I surmised there was a long-suppressed story hidden somewhere among the clues that we had taken from the two Mosler safes.  I felt an electricity surge along the bottom of my spine like it was a signal to seriously consider cracking another safe or two to determine whether they, too would divulge some aspect of the story that seemed to be loosely coalescing in my mind.