Write to Life blog

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.

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 60

When I pulled up in the front yard of Martin Mansion, I saw the entire family, other than Dad, walking towards me on the narrow trail that led to my cabin.  Luke was in the lead.  I reluctantly stepped out of my car.

“Uncle Fred why would the cops want to search your place?”  Oh hell.  Oh hell no.  So that’s where the three squad cars were headed nearly two hours ago?

I said what any innocent man, or one acting innocent, would say.  “What?  They searched my place?  Why?”

By now the darling Deidre was within shouting distance.  “Lucky for you, they didn’t find anything.  What are you hiding down there?”

By the end of three more exchanges, I learned the search warrant had been issued by Marshall County Circuit Judge Broadside.  The six officers had searched both the barn and my cabin.  I couldn’t believe they hadn’t found anything.  Damn good thing I had created a false bottom to the ceiling in the kitchen’s closet.  Otherwise, they would have found Angela’s journals, Dad or Mom’s Smith & Wesson, and a few other stolen items.  I was elated I hadn’t delayed transporting the Rawlins’ stolen coins and jewelry to Colton in Huntsville.

As everybody was walking toward Martin Mansion’s front porch, I pulled Deidre aside and gave her the short version of what I knew.  She seemed oblivious to all things pertaining to Miss Mossie’s trust.  I think I got her attention when I told her that if Tyler were to be out of the picture, Caleb Patterson (and Rebecca if she was his puppet master) would have strong motivation to kill her.

I visited with a tired and groggy Dad a few minutes after Gabby insisted he join the rest of the family on the front porch.  Less than three hours later I slipped into my bed, anxious to end a long Sunday.  I was exhausted.  Especially after a flying trip to Huntsville to meet Vanessa at Pints & Pixels and deliver my two other Smiths. 

What made my tiredness almost pleasurable was revisiting the long phone conversation I had with Bobby during my return drive.  He was the real deal, a true friend.  My confession didn’t faze him, nor did my request he call in a long-existing favor he was owed by the oldest member of the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences Ballistic Division. 

Grayson Bolton was seemingly a man of impeccable character.  I had never met him in person but had a couple of phone conversations over the years concerning cases I was working.   I couldn’t imagine what Bobby had on him.  It didn’t matter.  Grayson had the ballistic reports for every cold case that hovered over Boaz like an eternal fog.  I lay back and realized that when I started repeating myself, the day must end.

At midnight, Rebecca slipped out the back door of the Hunt House.  She smiled as she imagined the satisfaction she would receive when the sign on the front lawn was changed to Aldridge Place.  She eased down the steps and across the wide back yard, through a neighbor’s flower garden and into the parking lot of First Baptist Church of Christ on Snellgrove Avenue.  She passed through a small grove of Blue Hollies and down the step stairs to the basement of the church’s parsonage.

Rebecca couldn’t help but reminisce the many times she had descended these stairs when Wade Tillman, the then teenage son of former pastor Walter Tillman, occupied this house.  Those trysts were a lifetime ago.  Oh, the tragedy of life in a small town, especially one with as many secrets as Boaz, Alabama.  Walter had died in a brutal shootout, Wade was in prison somewhere in Georgia for killing his wife, and poor, but young Warren Tillman was dead, killed just inside the basement, by violence spawned during a home invasion.

Caleb was waiting on the far side of the patio opposite the stairs, and the doorway into the man-cave he had inherited when he became pastor.  He never smoked.  He was smoking.

“Rebecca, I’ve changed my mind.  I can’t do it.  So, save your breath.”  Caleb said between coughs and gasps for air.

“Young man (Caleb was in his mid-forties), you will do exactly what I say, exactly what we agreed on last Thursday.  You’re obviously not very bright.  How in the hell do you think your million-dollar gambling debt will be resolved?  Surely, you don’t think because you’re a man of God, that a miracle will cause it to evaporate.”

“I don’t care.  I can’t and won’t be a part of murder.  Hell, two murders.  No way.  I don’t know what I was thinking the other day when I agreed.”  Rebecca walked over to Caleb, took the pack of Marlboro’s he was holding and lite one for herself. 

“Sit down.”  Rebecca knew she had the gun powder to persuade the two-sided pastor.  Caleb acquiesced and joined Rebecca in the other lawn chair sitting across from two old garbage cans not used since Warren’s death.

“Caleb, it’s high time you’re honest with me.  Angela, God rest her soul, and I know you have been using your sticky fingers with Sunday’s collection plates.  How long do you think you’ll survive when that’s discovered?  Much less, the fact you owe quite a sum up in Tunica?  Answer me truthfully, do you want to continue pastoring?  Anywhere?”

“You know the answer.  There is no more powerful feeling in the world than sharing the Gospel.”  Caleb said.

“Even if you know it isn’t true?”

“That’s a different issue.  It doesn’t matter that it’s a myth, people gain so much peace and comfort from simply believing it to be true.”  Caleb had it figured out.

“Enough of that.  We both have goals here.  You have no choice.  My plan is your ticket out of debt and the only way for you to retain your little hobby.  But, pastor, and a good one you are, let me put it to you even more bluntly.  If you don’t get on board, I will fucking kill you and your family.  You are not going to get in the way of me accomplishing a lifelong goal.  I can’t do this without you.  You and Deidre have a legal right to half the Mosler fortune.  You know Deidre is not motivated to share it with me.  Hell, I wouldn’t want to be partnered with her anyway.”

“You’re forgetting one important component.  Tyler Eubanks.”

“No, I’m not, but maybe you are.  He’s your responsibility.  And Deidre is mine.  This way, let’s just say, we both have a large insurance policy on each other.  A powerful reason to keep our mouths shut.”

“Okay, but leave my family out of it.  And hear me clearly.  After this is over, you stay the hell away from me.  Do you understand?”  Caleb sounded as though he wasn’t afraid of Rebecca.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Without responding, Rebecca lit another cigarette and walked away, clearing the stairs two at a time, leaving Pastor Caleb holding the half-empty pack of Marlboros.  He read out loud:  “‘Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health.’”  He stood and threw the pack towards the two old garbage cans.  “So is gambling.  So is murder.  Oh God, help 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 59

I didn’t have time to mope about.  Connie had sent me a text as I was coming out the front door of Martin Mansion.  She was now at home.  She said that Rebecca had wanted some time alone.  I shoved my loot onto the top shelf of the kitchen pantry beside Angela’s three high school journals and showered.

I met two Boaz, and one Marshall County patrol cars as I topped the hill beyond Possum Holler on my way to Highway 431.  Exceeding the speed limit and with no sirens blasting, from my experience, usually meant they were headed to make an arrest or to conduct a search.

Connie was extraordinarily frisky.  She no doubt was a fast learner.  She met me at her front door in a see-through pink negligee that eleven times out of ten would normally have caught my complete attention.  Today, I was the one who manipulated the quickie.  As we lay back, exhausted for two sixty-plus geriatric-bound seniors, Connie became verbally inquisitive.  She had already learned a few of my moods.  “Fred, don’t you think we’re at the point in our relationship we should be completely honest with each other?  I know something major is going on and has you fully distracted.”

It was an opportunity I wasn’t expecting.  Good thing I was donning my attorney hat.  As always.  I insisted we leave our love nest, dress, and sit at the dining room table.  I needed to look directly at the lovely Connie.  Me, the expert on body language and voice tone.  I had to know, or at least make an educated guess, whether what I hoped to draw out of my girl was the truth.

Connie made us a pot of coffee while I sat silently, waiting and thinking in the dining room.  I knew if I confessed something private, even incriminating, she would have more motivation to be open and vulnerable.  That’s what I needed.  After burning my tongue on too hot coffee, I said, “I’ve got myself in a mess pursuing my little hobby.”  As expected, Connie asked for more information.

I set the stage admitting to cracking Rebecca, Angela’s, and the church’s Moslers.  I, for the time being, withheld having discovered Connie’s safe, hoping she would admit what she was hiding.  I almost didn’t tell her about my second trip to Debbie Street and the second Smith & Wesson pistol in my growing collection.  I didn’t get within a mile of the Martin Mansion safe.

Bingo, Connie possessed an honest set of genes mixed among those that had mutated at an early age.  “Fred, I need to be more open with you too.  I truly believe that a faithful and loyal relationship cannot long sustain itself without truth and openness.  I care for you and want us to make it.  I’m asking for us, now, to take the next step forward.  Vulnerability allowed, even required, but no judging.  Okay?”

I doubt if I would have agreed if Mother hadn’t gotten my attention.  I had no doubt how I felt about Connie Stewart.  I loved the woman and couldn’t see us being apart.  But, it was like another little demon had raised its head and was driving me to discover the full truth.  Had my mother killed Johnny Stewart, or someway been a contributing factor in his death going on fifty years ago?  “No judging.  Vulnerable.  Agreed.”

It took Connie a while to reach the top of the mountain.  I kept feeding her morsels to energize her journey.  After I confessed to having stolen the coins and jewelry from Elton and Rebecca’s safe, Connie said, “kind of serves her right.  She stole them from Uncle James.”

I blurted out, “I thought Elton and Doug were the key suspects?”  After I shared a little about how I had reached that conclusion, Connie seemed to relax.

“Fred, I have been a fool many times in my life but the worst thing, other than overstaying my welcome at First Baptist Church and stealing the coins and jewelry to start with, was aiding and abetting Rebecca and Angela in their lifelong quest to con Elton and Doug.”

“What do you mean?”  It was a naturally appropriate question.

“Oh, I forgot, and their real mission to square the corners with your sister.”  Connie added after my interruption.

“Again, what do you mean?”

“Before my handsome and athletic cousin discovered your little sister, Rebecca and Angela had the hots for him.  If anyone that knew them had to guess, they would say that Angela was a few yards ahead of Rebecca in her desire for Romeo.  But, that wouldn’t be true.  It was Rebecca.  Elton and Doug liked to play games with the younger girls.  They introduced Rebecca and Angela, girls ten years their junior, to Ludes, you know, Quaaludes.  They were popular at the time and Doug being a pharmacist had easy access.  The two idiots thought they were gods, manipulating the minds and bodies of their underlings.”

“Did the two perverts take advantage of Rebecca and Angela?”  I had to know.

“That would almost make the story more acceptable.  They preferred the boys.  They preferred my cousin.  But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”  Connie was setting the pace.  I kind of liked that.

“How did Elton and Doug pull this off?  It seems to me they had to have a near-perfect opportunity.  They couldn’t just show up at Rebecca’s or Angela’s houses and say, ‘let’s party.’”

“You’re right.  It was after Wednesday night Bible study, at the Lighthouse.  Pastor Randy had fell for Elton and Doug’s ‘love my Jesus’ line and trusted them fully.  After he presented the lesson he would skip out and leave the shop to the two perverts.  Seems like Rebecca and Angela fell under their spell.”

“I suspect you are going to tell me they invited a few others as time went on?  Right?”

“They did.  It was three football stars: my dear cousin Johnny, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones.  The party became Rebecca and Angela’s heaven on earth.  You can probably paint your own picture.”  Connie said, smiling with that curled up and sexy lip.  I thought she might pull me back under the sheets.

“Let me guess.  Then all hell broke loose.”  I was confident in my prediction skills.

“Yep, and don’t ask me how it happened.  Your little sister stayed past her bedtime one Wednesday night.  I suspect she had caught the eye of either Elton or Doug, maybe both.  They wanted to see her perform or be performed on.  You get it.  Oh, Johnny boy fell for sweet Deidre and the hate seeds sprouted.”

“So, what triggered a lifelong plan to square the corners as you say, was nothing but good old jealousy?”

“It’s one of the most powerful emotions yet discovered.”

“A while ago you mentioned Rebecca’s and Angela’s goal of conning Elton and Doug.”

“If the introduction of Deidre to the party wasn’t enough to sprout revenge, cancellation of their tickets was a guarantee.”  Connie said, still blowing coolness on her hot coffee.

“You’ve confused me.  Tickets?”  I wanted it framed in simple terms.

“Rebecca and Angela were no longer invited.  They weren’t allowed to stay for the party.  This was the point my two friends, God help me, drove a stake in the front lawns of both the older perverts, and committed they would die before they, here we go again, squared the corners.  Of course, as always, things have evolved over fifty years.”

“Can I guess?  The two marriages were both part of the con?”

“Oh, hell yes.  Elton and Doug had no choice.”

“Explain my dear, I’m lost.”

“I may have misled you just a little.  Elton and Doug were bisexual it seems.  When the stakes were driven, Rebecca and Angela started their snooping and spying.  It wasn’t long until they witnessed Elton and Doug kidnap a young Hispanic girl after a hometown football game.  I can’t think of her name.  Esmeralda, I think.  No, that’s another story.”

“So, many years after that, the two forced Elton and Doug to marry them.  Correct?” 

“Yes.  Don’t ask me why they waited so long.”  Connie said, refilling our coffee cups.

I finally confessed to discovering the three Smith & Wessons and divulged my desire to determine if either of them was a murder weapon.  We listed the five unsolved murder cases that hovered above Boaz like an eternal fog: Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, Tommy Jones, Ricky Miller, and Randy Miller.  The latter murder coming a good fifteen years after the cluster of the first four.

I interrupted Connie when she repeated something Rebecca had said this morning.  “That sounds like Rebecca blamed Angela for taking Johnny away.”

“I’ve never seen Rebecca so pissed.  What seemed so strange, it was only a few hours after Angela’s body had been discovered.”

Even though I knew quite a bit about Carson Eubanks and the intended flow of Miss Mossie’s money after her death, I let Connie tell me all she knew.  My mind wandered back to the times Noah and I had spent with Ricky Miller.  I loved the man because he was my hero, unafraid of facing the cold, harsh reality that Christianity was a myth.  When Connie said, “Their trip to Cincinnati changed everything.”

“Sorry, I missed that.  Who’s trip?”

“Fred, are you getting tired?  You want to take a break?”  Connie’s lip curled.  I was still exhausted from our last workout.  

“No, I’m fine.”

Connie then shared how the snooping and spying Rebecca and Angela had learned the truth about Deidre and her two babies.  Connie wasn’t sure when they learned how wealthy Miss Mossie really was.  Someway, Connie knew the exact language from Miss Mossie’s trust.  I’ve been shocked before, many times, but what Connie said next sent lightning up my spine. “Fred, here’s what I think is going on, but I don’t have any proof.  I believe Tyler and Deidre are in danger.  As we just discussed, Miss Mossie’s trust leaves everything to Carson.  Now, he’s dead.  That leaves Tyler.  He seems fine, but if you consider what would happen if he weren’t alive it could bode bad for Deidre if there is a snake in the oil.”

“The lightning had turned south and was now traveling down my spine.  But, I played it cool.  “I’m not sure what you mean, even though the canvas before me was all blue clouds and sunshine.

“What if Rebecca and Caleb or just Caleb for that matter, plotted to get their hands on the money.  Again, if Tyler is dead, Miss Mossie left all her millions to Caleb and Deidre.”

“There’s another possibility.  What if Caleb and Deidre knew how Miss Mossie’s trust worked?”

“You could be right but my best guess ties Rebecca and Caleb.  Gosh, you are the attorney.  What if I told you Pastor Caleb has a gambling problem?  Would that change your guess, especially now that you know the hatred Rebecca, and Angela for that matter, had for your sister?”

“That does seem to paint it differently.”  Right as the words left my lips my iPhone vibrated.  I had sat it on the table, face down.  I turned it over and looked.  It was Deidre.  “We’re home.  Dad is so tired.  I’m a little worried about him.”

I showed Connie the text and dismissed myself.  “I’ll call you later.  I wish I could stay but feel I need to warn my sister.  I also need to see Dad.”

“While you’re doing that, I’m going to try to find Tyler.  Something has me worried.”  Connie said, giving me a quick hug and telling me she loved me before I walked out her front door.

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 58

As I rolled the baby Mosler out of its little alcove, I pondered how Dad ever got it down those stairs.  Although it wasn’t the behemoth the T20s were, no man could come close to carrying it across a level and unobstructed surface, much less down a steep staircase.  I concluded it had most likely been deposited down here during the time of the second renovation of Martin Mansion.  The one-room cabin, which Dad used as a library, was part of the original structure.  Great-granddad Stonewall had added on not long after Granddad Fredrick moved to Cincinnati in 1919.  Then, in the early fifties, when Dad and Mom moved to Boaz to take care of Stonewall, another, more elaborate, addition and renovation took place.  The last is a U-shaped structure built around the existing rectangular dwelling.  It was odd, no doubt, Stonewall’s way, the cabin’s back wall remained exposed to the outside, leaving the original back door.  I reminded myself my conclusions were often wrong, and that I often possessed less than all the relevant facts.

It wasn’t a key Dad had hung on a tiny nail driven into the back side of a stair riser.  It looked like a piece of old cardboard.  The safe’s combination was scrawled in heavy pencil in large numbers on the card hung nearly a foot above my head.  I almost didn’t see it.  I guess Dad thought there was little chance anyone would find out about the hidden door to the cellar, much less see the card that was virtually the same color as the pine board it was attached to.

I reviewed and memorized the Mosler’s combination and bent down to turn the dial.  Just as I completed the third spin, my cell phone vibrated.  I stood and removed my iPhone from my left-hand pants pocket.  It was Bobby Sorrells.  My first choice was to ignore the call and lean over and pull open the old Mosler’s heavy door.  With the news of Angela’s death, one I was framing as mysterious, I chose to answer.

“Hey Bobby.”

“Can you talk?  In private?”  He asked.

“Yes, I’m alone.”

“I just returned from Dayton, Ohio.  I had to fly back up to meet with the defense attorneys I’m working for.  Once again, I had a lull in my schedule and decided to drive down to Cincinnati.”  Bobby paused.

“What prompted you to do that?”

“You know me.  When I’ve started a new painting, I can’t quit until the canvas is complete.  Every picture tells a story.”  I could hear something in the background.  Music.

“Did you learn anything interesting?”  I ignored the music.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that.  I just report what I discover.”  The music faded.  Bobby must have turned down his radio if that’s what it was.  I suspected he was driving.

“Okay.”

“You remember hundred-year-old Lessie Bouldin?”

“Wasn’t she Miss Mossie’s neighbor?  Lived across the street?” 

“Yep.  I spent the best part of yesterday morning with her.  The old woman has a mind like a steel trap.”

“What did she catch?  That’s relevant to me?  I was feeling the need to finish my exploration of the old Mosler and skedaddle back upstairs and out the back door of Martin Mansion.

“It’s a small world.  Your friends, Carson Eubanks, Rebecca Rawlins, and Caleb Patterson, all came for a visit Thursday afternoon.  Miss Lessie didn’t know them but seems she used an iPhone 10 to make some pretty good pictures.  I’ve confirmed it to be those three.”

“That’s really strange.  I could see why Carson would visit his mother, but what brought the other two along?”  I asked.

“Great question.  It gets stranger still.  Miss Lessie said around 4:00 that afternoon, Carson left in a taxi and the other two, she had to be referring to Rebecca and Caleb, stayed.  Keep in mind Miss Mossie was very sick.”

“Not any longer.  You didn’t know she died?”  The look on Tyler’s face at the pond when he shared the text he received from his father was still clearly impressed on my mind.

“No, I finished up about five yesterday afternoon.  I’ve been driving back ever since, except for the half-day I spent sleeping at the Day’s Inn south of Nashville.”

“I’m not sure when Miss Mossie died.  Tyler, Carson’s son, learned about it yesterday.  I don’t know when his father found out.  Now that you know this, does it strike you as just a little strange she died shortly after the three of them visited?”  I asked.

“I agree, but what makes it more suspicious to me is that Carson left Rebecca and Caleb at his mother’s alone.”  I heard a dinging sound.  “Hey, let’s talk later, I’ve got to unload some coffee.”

“Okay, I need to go too.  But quick.  You know Carson is very sick.  He could have gotten to feeling really bad and had to leave.”

“That sounds reasonable, but why wouldn’t all three of them leave at the same time?”  I heard Bobby’s car door slam.

“I didn’t think to ask Miss Lessie how the three of them got to Miss Mossie’s.  I just assumed they drove.  All together.

“Take care of your business and let me know if you think of anything else.  Thanks for calling.”

After ending the call, I bent back down and pulled on the Mosler’s heavy door.  I heard a fifty-year creak.  It was a term granddad Fredrick had taught me during my summer visit to Cincinnati in 1972 after I graduated high school.  He had said, “if a safe door hasn’t been opened in half a century, it will croak like a frog.”  I concluded this baby had been left to sleep quite a while.

Another shock.  This time bigger than when I had stumbled upon the old Mosler a few minutes ago.  Laying on top of a box with dimensions about the size of a sheet of letter paper, lay a pistol.  I removed it, using my handkerchief.  I already knew it was virtually identical to the other two Smith & Wesson’s I had recently discovered, both, also safely secured inside a beautiful Mosler.  My gut stood up and spoke, announcing this was my third time to step into a pile of you know what.  By now, I was down on one knee.  I laid the pistol on the floor to the side of the Mosler, careful to protect it with my handkerchief.

As I removed the rectangular box, I knew it contained, or originally contained, stationary.  Until now, I had failed to notice the box was a lightly-shaded mauve color.  The lid was tight, and I almost had to tear back the four corners to lift it off the underlying box.  Inside, given the weight, I had expected to see nearly a full box of unused paper, mauve-colored just like the letter Luke had shared with me at Martin pond yesterday morning.

Instead, I saw a typed letter addressed to Julia Stewart.  At the bottom, it was signed, “Harriet Martin.”  It seemed Mother had written at least two letters to Connie’s aunt, Johnny Stewart’s mother, and had refused to mail them both. 

For some reason, before reading, I removed the letter, laid it beside the pistol, and saw a photograph laying quietly in the mauve-colored box.  I couldn’t have been more surprised if Dad’s voice had suddenly shouted down to me from the top of the stairs.  I had no doubt the camera that had made the picture was once mine, a gift from Dad on my seventeenth birthday, August 13, 1971.  The camera was a Polaroid, it’s first generation of instant cameras.

The real shock came from what the camera had captured.  It was an X-rated photo.  I could make out Deidre, Rebecca, Angela, a Hispanic-looking girl, and Randy Miller.  They were all skimpily dressed, laid back on two couches that formed an L.  There was also an extra leg sticking out on the floor from behind the left side of the couches, and an extra arm and hand on the right side.  So strange.  Who were those two?

How on earth did Mother, if it were Mother, snap this photograph?  I could understand how the sound of the camera wouldn’t have alarmed any of the half-crazed bodies.  I tried to put myself in Mother’s shoes.  Not only would she have solid reason to dislike, even hate, the philandering Johnny Stewart (Deidre was laying in his lap.  I suspected she was naked under that old Army jacket spread across her midsection).  But, Mother would also have a strong reason to despise Randy Miller.  Seeing him in this scene must have shocked Mother.  She loved him and had full faith in his quest as youth pastor to guide her daughter and all the Church’s young people down the narrow pathway towards Heaven.

My memory pushed forward the word “Ludes.”  And, the closer I examined the photo, the clearer my memory became.  It was taken inside the Lighthouse.   If taken by Mother, how had she pulled this off?  An even closer look at the photo suggested that it wasn’t Randy Miller.  It was Ricky Miller.  The two brothers were virtual twins.

Things became crystal clear when I read the note scrawled across the back of the photo.  “Deidre’s world is a disaster.  She’s ruining her life.  I won’t have it.”  Mother had initialed the photo and dated it.  October 12, 1973.

I exchanged the photo for Mother’s letter.  I started to read and was quickly confused.  It was addressed to Julia Stewart, but the salutation was to Bill, Julia’s husband.  The letter was confusing at best, but one thing seemed obvious.  Mother and Bill Stewart had a plan to teach their children a lesson.  I remembered Mother had served on the Church’s finance committee during my senior year.  Bill had served as chairman for as many years as I could recall.  The two must have connected someway.

The letter was dated Wednesday, October 10, 1973.  The letter was written as though Mother was the leader.  She told Bill to meet Friday night behind the ice house alongside the railroad track.  Mother even emphasized that Bill wear dark clothing.    She said “the kids won’t see us, but we can see them as they come from the football stadium in Johnny’s old Bonneville.  After they pass, we’ll walk to the Safe House.”  It was then I started to sense I understood the context of what I was reading.  The letter was written two days before a football game.  My gut told me it was the Albertville/Boaz game, the very night Johnny and his two friends were murdered.  I became semi-nauseous when I read Mother’s final sentence: “I’ll bring a pistol, you bring the rope.”

My growing anticipation I was about to need a bathroom persuaded me to skip my usual pondering.  Yet, out of habit, I did turn the letter over.  On the back, printed in pencil along the bottom was, “Original, copy to Bill.  Things didn’t go as planned.” 

I quickly made the decision not to return the items to the safe.  I laid all items in the mauve-colored box, including the pistol, careful not to touch the old Smith.  I closed the Mosler, spun the dial, and raced upstairs to the closest bathroom.

Instead of throwing up, my bowels opened.  Strange how emotional shock can trigger such violent physical reactions.  As I sat on the toilet in Mother’s tiny bathroom right off the kitchen, I couldn’t help but ponder what I had just discovered.  I knew I was jumping to conclusions, but it certainly appeared Mother and Bill Stewart had something to do with the death of his son Johnny.  I knew it was a leap but, “I’ll bring a pistol, you bring the rope,” was more than mildly incriminating, especially since the word was, Johnny was both shot and hung.  Finally, Mother’s note that “Things didn’t go as planned” to me at least, was even more damning. 

Twenty minutes later walking towards my cabin uneasily toting the loot I had lifted from Martin Mansion, it began to rain at the same time my iPhone once again vibrated in my pocket.  I shifted the box from my left hand to my right and pulled out the little beast.  It was Noah.

“Yep.”  My greeting was short as I questioned why I had even answered.

“I’m fighting fires and don’t have any time for questions.  Just wanted you to know that Carson Eubanks is dead.”

Right as I was halfway through asking Noah when Carson had passed away, the call ended.  I tried calling him back but received his voicemail.

I walked up the two steps to my porch and felt like I was stepping off a cliff.  My world, things happening to me and around me, were more out of control than at any time in my life.