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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 24

Sunday afternoon after church I was laying in my bed dozing after having read over a hundred Facebook comments, most all concerning the Real Justice project, when Sheriff Waldrup called.

After two rounds of pleasantries, he said, “we got him.  The man who pawned the murder weapon.  From the camera at Joe’s Pawn Shop.  I’m sorry I didn’t call last night but wanted to have a more complete picture.”

“That’s good news.  Where did you find him?”

“Floyd County Sheriff’s Department in Rome, Georgia arrested him late yesterday afternoon.  They received an anonymous tip and it was a good one.  Deputies arrested our man at an old roach-infested motel in south Rome next to the long-abandoned railroad line from Piedmont to Atlanta.  They arrested him without incident.”

“Who is he?”  I asked.

“His name is Nathan Johnson.  He’s a thirty-seven-year-old, ex-con.  He looks twice his age.  From what we’ve been able to gather he’s a drifter from Texas.”

“You said, ‘our man.’  I assume he has confessed?”  This was all sounding too good to be true.  You know how that usually winds up.  My gut was trying to tell me something, but I tried to suppress the feelings.  I usually screwed up when following my gut.

“No. Sorry. He’s not saying much at all, certainly hasn’t confessed.  I shouldn’t have used those words.  I only meant we got the man we were looking for.  Our prime suspect.”  The more I talked with Sheriff Waldrup the more I liked him.  He was a true gentleman and genuine with his openness.  When he was unclear he admitted it.  I liked a man who, unpretentious, was the same on the outside and the inside.

“If I had to bet right now I would say there is much more to this story than simply an ex-con drifter passing through Boaz who happened upon a lost and wandering Darla secluded next to a pond and shot her for no reason in the back of the head with a gun that he was brilliant enough to try and pawn one community over.”  I said.

“I had a feeling you were not the average bear.  No insult intended.  Katie, I feel the same way and it’s not just a feeling.  I have something else to tell you, but this must remain between us.  I hope you know I always try to keep the victim’s family fully informed but there are times I must withhold information for the benefit of the overall investigation.  My gut and my head both tell me I can trust you to keep a secret until told it’s okay.”

“Thank you for your confidence.  I agree to your terms.”

“Early this morning I received a call from Rachel Alford.  She reported that her mother’s 22 pistol was missing.  You might want to be sitting down for what I’m about to say.”  The polite and compassionate Walrup had to be an aberration in law enforcement or the crime novels I’d read needed a new slant.  “I’m taking it you don’t know Rachel Alford?”

“No.  That name doesn’t ring any bells.”

“She is the daughter of Raymond Radford.”

“Rachel Radford.  Now, that’s a name I’ve heard.  Her mother would be Cynthia Radford.  Doesn’t she live in old Country Club?”  I said.

“Correct.  I’m sure you are more familiar with the story than me.  See if I have it right.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Raymond and Cynthia married, probably in the early 1950s.  They had two children, Randall and Rachel.  Randall was the star child because of his basketball skills.  He was popular and went on to play college ball at Auburn.  Unfortunately, he’s disappeared.  Rachel was the oldest child, the studious one who also went to Auburn, but on an academic scholarship.  During the family breakup, and from what I’ve heard, she has sided with her mother.  Raymond and Cynthia divorced in 1972 or 1973 and shortly thereafter Raymond married your mother.  Rachel married after college and has lived in Birmingham working as a pharmacist.  She retired about a year ago and lost her husband a few months later, an accident of some sort.  She’s been coming to see Cynthia more over the last few months.  It seems she never forgave her father for what he did to her mother.  Cynthia wasn’t much of one to forgive either, from what I’ve heard.”

“Your account is pretty accurate.  What about the gun, the missing gun?”  I asked, growing tired of reliving the past and afraid Sheriff Waldrup was about to bring my illegitimate birth onto center stage.

“Rachel was here in Boaz on her weekly visit.  She was straightening up in her mother’s room.  She opened the drawer to the nightstand beside her mother’s bed to put up some paper and pencils when she noticed the pistol was missing.  Rachel told me that her father had given the 22 to Cynthia when she and Randall were young.  Raymond apparently traveled out of town quite a bit and wanted the children safe.  Cynthia apparently had kept the pistol in her nightstand beside her bed for all these years.  Now, we know this is the weapon that killed your mother.  Cynthia had kept the box the gun came in, along with the paperwork from a gun store in Fort Payne where Raymond had purchased it in 1958.  The serial number was typed on the invoice.  It matches the gun we recovered at Joe’s Pawn Shop.”

“Let me see if I’m understanding you correctly.  You are wondering whether Cynthia Radford killed my mother?”  I asked, this making much more sense.

“More particularly, I’m thinking there is good reason to investigate whether Cynthia, or Rachel herself, hired Nathan Johnson to kill your mother.”

“Seems odd that Rachel would call you if she was involved, but I suppose stranger things have happened.”  I said, not putting much stock toward an investigation into Rachel or Cynthia.  I’ve heard she has Parkinson’s disease.

“I see where you’re coming from, but you might be shocked to hear a few stories I could share, but I’ll refrain for now.”  I was growing more intrigued by the gentle giant of a man named Wayne Waldrup.  This is the way it has happened for years.  A future character in one of my stories was birthed from some encounter in life.  After Darla’s death is resolved I may have to interview the kind and sensitive Waldrup, maybe watch him and listen as he describes a few of his shocking experiences.

“What keeps getting me is the timing.  It seemed it all happened so fast and without plan or design.  I bet if I wrote about this I would have a hundred questions, one being, how would Cynthia, Rachel, or Mr. Johnson, know that Darla would be wandering about?  If one of them did have the opportunity to kill her it seems to me it is one of the most fantastical coincidences ever.”

“A few things we are not considering.  Someone stole the gun from Cynthia and he or she killed your mother.  Whoever shot Darla disposed of the gun and Nathan Johnson someway discovered it.  His only crime, albeit arguably no crime at all, is involved with the pawning.  And, further, we haven’t considered the possibility Rachel herself is involved.”

“You said Mr. Johnson wasn’t talking.  Correct?”

“That’s right.  He says he will talk after he meets with his lawyer.  Two of my deputies went to Rome to pick up Mr. Johnson and transport him back to our jail.  It was late when they returned.  DA Abbott instructed me to wait until tomorrow to see if Johnson has a lawyer.  My bet is he’s stalling.  It doesn’t seem to fit that a loner, a drifter like him, would have a lawyer on call, even though most ex-cons would have encountered a lawyer or two in their past.”

“I agree.  There’s no way Johnson would have easy access to a Texas lawyer, one who would be ripe and ready to respond to an ex-con’s call from an Alabama jail.  Sorry, I guess I assumed the lawyer would be from Texas.”  I said.

“Katie, I’ll call you as soon as I learn something new.  Again, please don’t mention anything about the pistol.”

“I won’t.  Thanks for keeping me informed.”

After our call ended, I lay back and stared at the ceiling fan that was slowly turning clockwise.  My imagination sprang to life.  There were five paddles on the fan.  They each were chasing the one in front of them.  They were all moving but going nowhere, just spinning in a circle.  It was like a dog chasing its tail.  I couldn’t quite get my mind around how all the Faking Five were involved with Darla’s murder but one thing I was certain.  Someone named Radford was involved.  My least favorite was Raymond.  I honestly believed he had loved my mother.  But I also recognize that money is a powerful force.  Raymond Radford himself could have had an awakening of sorts while sitting in jail.  Men love to build things and pass them on to their sons.  With his son Randall missing, probably dead, Raymond could easily want his wealth to wind up in grandson Ryan’s hands.  Thus, Ryan could have simply been carrying out granddad’s orders, or doing some plotting on his own, independent of granddad.

On the other hand, there was Cynthia.  The famous quote came to mind, ‘Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned.’  I had long known this wasn’t from Shakespeare but was taken from the play ‘Love for Love,’ by an English poet/playwright by the name of William Congreve in 1695.  The actual words were: “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”  I recalled a conversation or two I had with Darla when I was maybe 15 or so.  She had told me how for the first few years with Raymond she feared Cynthia.  “She lost everything and hated Raymond with a passion, hated me even more.”  Two questions were rolling around in my head when Cullie called me to supper.  Had Cynthia known about Raymond and Darla’s prenuptial agreement?  And, had she held on to her hatred for Darla, for her stealing Raymond and her cushy life, for nearly half a century?

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 23 (sorry for formatting issue)

The school week after Labor Day was the longest of the year so far, even though it was only four days.  Time spent in my classes and in office visits with students was what I lived for, other than Cullie and Nanny of course.  Almost that time or stay after school.  Cullie made the choice for me.  By 3:00 immediately after announcing the Real Justice novel project, I had little choice but to share my thirty-minute lunch break from 11:25 to 11:55. It was either answer questions from inquisitive team leaders during p.m. every day, she was ready to go home to Nanny, and the barn loft.  The true reason the week slowed more and more as each day passed was what happened during my 10:30 to 11:25 break and planning period.

Cindy, before her declaration late Labor Day night that she had been raped, normally popped into my room a few minutes before lunch.  Beginning Tuesday, she was waiting for me in my classroom when I returned at 10:30 from my twelfth-grade English class in the Auditorium.  The only thing she wanted to talk about was her Six Red Apples project that she kept assuming I had agreed to help her construct and execute.  If by Friday this wasn’t bad enough, Cindy’s lunchtime prayer (before students arrived) was causing similar discomfort.  I didn’t know why.  A quick ‘thank-you for our food’ might be okay, even nice, but a multi-minute exploration of the problem of evil, God the mysterious, and a too-long final verbal paragraph confessing ‘your will, not mine,’ was teasing out my long-abandoned condescending attitude.  I had developed it in college because of a dorm roommate’s continuous and arrogant assertions she knew the mind of God.  I had been pleased that the wonderful and dedicated, not to mention, humble, Catholic nuns and teachers at Marymount Catholic High School in Los Angeles had dissuaded me from believing all Christians were like my sweet-from-a-distance dorm-mate.  By the end of today’s prayer, Cindy’s ‘your-will’ phrase sparked the unwanted memory and unhealthy regret, I had agreed to go with her to the Sunday School Department’s quarterly social at church on Saturday night.

 

The only thing I ever wanted to be late to was my funeral.  Tonight, there was a close second vying for the number one spot.  It was the Sunday School social.  And I was late.  On our way to our cars yesterday afternoon after the last bell rang, Cindy reminded me to be in the church’s Fellowship Hall no later than 6:20 p.m.  She had said that Lane McRae, the Department Head, was a stickler for promptness.  Cindy said these events were always crowded and Lane had a peculiar way of assigning seats.

At 5:55 p.m., Saturday evening, just as I was walking out the back door to the garage to leave, I heard Sammie scream, “Nanny’s gone. I can’t find her.”  I raced inside and down the hallway to where Sammie stood semi-frozen and screaming.  “Calm down, when did you last see her?”  I asked.

“Two minutes ago, three at the most.  She was brushing her teeth in her bathroom.  I had to go myself, so I ran to the half-bath beside the kitchen.  When I returned to her room, she was gone.”

“Grab the flashlight from the pantry and go outside.  I’ll fetch Cullie upstairs and join you.”  I said, almost ashamed of myself for thinking this would be a good excuse not to attend the social.

Cullie wasn’t in her room.  I descended the stairs three steps at a time.  As soon as I was beyond the garage, I saw a light at the front of the barn.  It was two lights.  I walked the fifty yards or so and saw Sammie and Nanny shining their lights into the opened hayloft door where Cullie was sitting with her feet dangling, with her eyes closed.  Fear and trepidation sprouted for two seconds until I noticed her ear buds and the white cables to her iPhone in her left hand.  She was simply listening to her music and was in what she called, ‘the zone.’

By the time I got Cullie’s attention with the toss of two pea-sized gravels and learned that Nanny had told Sammie she had come out to check on Cullie, my own iPhone vibrated in my pocket.  It was Cindy.  “Where are you.  We’re about to start.”

“Nanny caused a stir.  I’m on my way.”  I said but did not say.  It must have been Cindy’s praying that prompted me to create such an orderly arrangement of words.  Otherwise, I would have stayed at home.

I was glad that when I arrived, Robert Miller, the youth pastor, was standing at the entrance to the Fellowship Hall.  He led me to Cindy’s table.  to I sat beside her.  She leaned over and whispered to me, “so glad you came.  Lane’s still introducing visitors.  You’ve not missed anything.  We’re about eat.” 

After Lane led a rather short prayer of thanksgiving, mainly for the food, Cindy introduced me to Tiffany Tillman (Pastor Tillman’s wife), and Karla Radford (Ryan Radford’s wife).  I knew both enough when I saw them but had never been formally introduced.

When the four of us returned to our table after going through the food-laden buffet, I noticed the empty chair beside Cindy and the absence of Steve.  “Where’s Steve?”  I whispered to Cindy as Tiffany and Karla were critiquing a green-bean casserole.

“He’s at the front, see?”  She pointed towards the head table along the outside wall of the Hall behind the podium and where Lane had stood earlier.  “Tonight, is Steve’s turn.”  Cindy wasn’t making any sense.

“Turn?  For what?”  I asked.

“Lane rotates through the four Outreach Directors in our Department.  There are four Sunday School classes.  It’s Steve’s turn.”  Cindy said using her fingers to pull apart the largest fried chicken breast I’d ever seen.

“Once again, Steve’s turn for what?”  Cindy was normally much clearer in her language.

“Oh sorry.  He shares what he and his outreach team have been doing and the results of this past quarter’s visitations.  He will introduce anyone who is here because of outreach efforts.  He also must, it’s kind of a tradition, share a personal story about his own home life.  Listen carefully, you may hear how a real husband treats his woman.  I hope he doesn’t get too intimate.”

The meal was excellent.  It brought memories from my youth and how Pastor Walter, Warren’s grandfather, once per year, had encouraged all young people to bring a friend or two to the annual picnic that took place at the Boaz Recreation Center and attached Park.  He always made sure there was enough food there to feed everyone in Marshall County.  My thoughts of Walter spawned thoughts of Wade, his son and Warren’s father, who was in jail awaiting trial for murder.  I simply couldn’t get my mind around the idea that Wade, also a pastor here for decades, could have murdered his wife Gina, a close friend during high school of my own mother.

Tiffany and Karla were both likable.  To an extent.  When they were not talking among themselves about the food (apparently, they both were expert chefs in their own kitchens), they were ribbing Cindy a little about what they could expect from Steve.  The three of them, from what I could gather by reading a little between the lines, had rather vigorous sex lives with their darling husbands.  The statement directed my way, the one that made me swear to not return next quarter, or the following three hundred, was Karla’s.  “Katie, we are so pleased you have returned to Boaz and are so interested in teaching our teenagers to write.  Fictionalized stories are fun to read, especially those steamy Harlequins, but having real romance at home is irreplaceable.  I hope you can find a real man here in Boaz, one who is as kind, generous, and loving as Ryan.”  If this weren’t enough, she continued, looking at Cindy and Tiffany, “oh, sorry, and for these fine ladies, Steve and Warren.”  I almost got up and left.

Steve’s talk revealed a side of him I didn’t know.  He was serious about Sunday School and Outreach.  He introduced four couples who were present, who all stood and briefly shared how irresistible Steve and his teammates had been in encouraging them to give the ‘Young but Maturing’ Sunday School Department a try.  I was glad Steve was short-winded on the personal and intimate portion of his speech.  His, “many of you know I was a hellion until I met Cindy.  I don’t blame my prior behavior on growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.  I made a lot of bad decisions as a teenager and young man.  But, I do blame the pretty lady sitting beside Katie Sims, for all of my good behavior and decisions since we had our first date in 1999.”  That was a good place to stop, even though I’m sure my face was red from the embarrassing feeling that was crawling out of my gut after Steve mentioned my name.

Just as Steve had stood at the podium after being introduced by Lane McRae, I had spotted all members of the Faking Five.  Warren had come in late and had sat at the back, over beside the main entrance.  Justin and Ryan had apparently been in the kitchen and were now putting lids on food containers all down the buffet.  Fulton and Danny were sitting with who I suspected were their wives.  The same ladies I had seen them with the Sunday’s I had attended the worship service.  I was hoping Steve was as terse as Cindy said he normally was.  I was ready to get out of here.  I needed some fresh air.

“If it weren’t for the vasectomy my beautiful Cindy made me get in 2009 we would probably have ten more kids.  I’m thankful our God instructed us to be fruitful and multiply.  Cindy, my baby, I see your smile, you know I love you a boatload more than fishing.  Thanks baby for knowing how to push my buttons.”  Steve’s little personal statement had the crowd roaring.  One thing I could give Steve, he knew how to speak directly and without confusion.  For a lineman for Marshall-Dekalb Electric Coop, he understood language.  He seemed to be a master of sex talk, the type that is absent of sex words but clearly points the mind and urges toward the bedroom.

Before I closed my eyes to deafen my ears, I looked at Cindy who was as red as our tablecloth.  Our eyes met, and she leaned over and whispered.  “See why I can never tell Steve the truth.”  I nodded as though she was referring to something as innocent as having to confess to Steve that she had surprised Patrick Wilkins in his school office when he was telling a semi off-color joke to coach Haney.  Oh, if it were only that simple. 

It was when I was walking to my car parked at the far side of a crowded parking lot that I realized I had not seen Patrick Wilkins all night.  I guess he was smarter than he appeared.  At least he had the sense to stay away on the night Steve would be talking about him and Cindy.  I drove home interested in learning more about the former Steve, the one who had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks.  My literary mind told me that Patrick Wilkins would be a dead man if Steve Barker ever found-out Wilkins had lain naked next to and inside his darling wife.

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 22

Wednesday night after Prayer Meeting, Ryan, Fulton, Danny, and Justin joined Warren in his man-cave in the basement of the parsonage, entering through an exterior door that was located down a flight of ten steps, all hidden behind an L-shaped row of giant Blue Princess Hollies.  It was at least a once-per-month custom for the five to meet.  Sometimes for beer and relaxation.  Other times for a boring update on Club Eden’s business and two hours of sparring egos.  They all preferred the darkness to avoid attention.  They also preferred Warren’s man-cave with its surround-sound stereos, one-hundred-inch custom made flat-screen TV, and his multi-volume private collection of digital porn.  Tonight, the TV screen was dark and silent.  As was the visitor the four men saw when they walked in and their eyes adjusted to the low-light.

“Hello fellas, please join Patrick and me.”  The two of them were seated at a large round oak table nestled in a corner next to a row of floor to ceiling windows that faced a small below-ground patio that contained firewood and an overflowing garbage can of cardboard beer containers.

The four spoke or gave Patrick a half-smile as they pulled out chairs and sat at the table they had each won and lost thousands of dollars over the years in games of Texas Hold’em and Blackjack, usually drunk and horny from the beer and digital broads.

“Patrick has gotten himself into a little trouble.  He’s asked me for advice.”  Warren said, puffing on a giant Cuban cigar.

“What type of trouble?”  Fulton said.  It was as natural as the sunlight each morning.  He was the most intellectual and, by default, the unelected spokesperson for the four.  His connections and those of Warren’s gave the two the floor to speak first and to guide the group’s overall conversations.

“He let his ego and his animal urges leap himself into the wrong tree.  To put it plainly, our friend and rising community star had a roll in the hay with Cindy Barker.  Cindy didn’t choose to be in the hay.”  Warren said, now sipping his customary Bourbon.

“You mean he raped Cindy Barker?”  Danny asked, standing, and walking behind the bar to a hidden refrigerator for a can of Bud Light.

“It wasn’t like that.  I didn’t really force her.”  Patrick responded, looking only at Warren.

“There’s different types of force, physical and psychological.  If she didn’t consent to having sex with you then you raped her.”  Fulton as usual attempted to bring clarity and avoid lazy and ignorant thinking.

“There’s something else you four need to know.  Patrick and Cindy’s interactions took place at Club Eden.”  Warren said, pouring more Bourbon and acting as though he would continue speaking.

“What the fuck?”  Ryan’s voice rose to overpower the stereo, even though it was not on.

“I take full responsibility.  You could say I’ve been grooming Patrick for nearly a year.  I promise you I’ve followed every rule and protocol our fathers established after the Micaden Tanner debacle.”

Micaden Lewis Tanner was a high school classmate of the fathers of the men present, excluding Patrick.  Their fathers, known as the Flaming Five because of their star basketball-playing reputation, had agreed Micaden could become a member.  He was the first and only member outside the five families: the Tillman’s, the Adams’, the Ericson’s, the Radford’s, and the Billingsley’s.  The Club was still reeling from the aftermath of that decision.  The deaths of two teenagers during the Flaming Five’s high school graduation party in 1972 had ignited a firestorm in the gut of Micaden Tanner.  For almost forty years, Tanner, an attorney, had haunted the Flaming Five.  Now, the entire group was fighting State and Federal criminal indictments.

“Looks like you’ve done a really good job.  You’re not-yet-honorary Club member not only had access to the Club’s secret hide-a-way but used it to commit a crime.”  That is just what we need, especially with a missing videotape that was nowhere to be found at Raymond’s house.”  Justin declared lighting up one of Warren’s cigars.

“Out of order.”  Fulton almost shouted.  He knew Justin had said something no one in the world should hear and now someone had, a someone who was not a member of Club Eden.

“Hell, we might as well talk about anything we want.  Seems to me Patrick is now, by default, one of us.  Warren, I don’t like these type surprises.”  Ryan said realizing he had opened himself up for ridicule.

“You’re one to call the kettle black my friend.”  Danny said, returning from the bar with five beers.

“I move we are open for business.”  Warren said, referring to the Club’s official rule and its purpose to place every issue on the table when the majority present approve the motion.

Fulton, Danny, and Justin all raised their hands.  Ryan abstained.

“Motion carries.  First, let’s go back to our first order of business.  Patrick’s situation.  You may not have put it together, but we have an even worse problem.  Patrick says Cindy is very good friends with Katie Sims, yes, our Katie, as though I had to be so redundant.”  Warren was simply doing his duty.  He was the Club’s President for another three years.  Long ago the Club had decided the top leadership term would coincide with that of the U.S. President.

“I assume you believe Cindy will tell Katie and then all hell is going to break loose.  Correct?”  Fulton said.

“Absolutely.”  Warren said, looking over at Patrick and nodding as though directing him to speak.

Patrick complied.  “I honestly don’t think Cindy will go public.  On the drive back from Club Eden to her car parked at the church, I told her I was sorry and that I would never bother her again.  I also told her she should keep quiet, that if she spilled the beans her and Steve’s relationship and that of her family would be destroyed.”

“How did she respond?”  Fulton asked.

“She didn’t really say anything, but when I looked over at her, I’m sure she nodded her head in agreement.”  Patrick said.

“That’s reassuring.  What more could we want?”  Ryan said, the most sarcastic son of the Flaming Five.  “What if the two lovely ladies have a little accident?  Wouldn’t that solve our problem?” 

Justin quoted his oft-repeated claim: “he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“I kind of wish it were that simple.  Here’s a note our dear Katie gave me a couple of Sunday’s ago when she was passing through the end-of-service hand-shaking line.  It reads, ‘Videotape quality is amazing.  Perched like an assassin.’”  Warren said, placing the small note in the middle of the table to allow everyone an opportunity to read.

“Sounds like a literature teacher.  Rule one, there is deep meaning within the words.  First, the obvious.  Katie has the tape, has watched it, and has found it provides clear-cut evidence that could sink every one of our ships.  Maybe not so obvious, but for the trained reader, ‘perched like an assassin,’ likely means the videotape itself is a separate and distinct entity from her, and that it, by itself, is ready with deadly force.  Here’s the bottom line, getting rid of Katie, or Katie and Cindy, will probably trigger deadly shots to your heads and mine.”  Fulton said looking at and pausing a long ten seconds at each man at the table other than Patrick Wilkins.  “Patrick, if Cindy tells Katie what you did to her then don’t think for a second that Katie’s little assassin won’t turn its rifle towards you.”

For another two hours the six men batted the ‘what should we do?’ ball around the table.  At midnight, Patrick asked if he could be excused.  All agreed and each son of the Flaming Five was thankful it was the honorary member who had made the request.

After everyone left Warren’s man-cave, he turned down the light-dimmer, poured another glass of Bourbon, and looked through the glass windows onto the patio.  The stack of last year’s unused firewood loomed large.  As he grew sleepy, he repeated to himself: ‘we six are no better off than a stack of seasoned wood.  No doubt, only one match-strike from going up in flames.’

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 21

Ever since the second week of school I had started each of my first three classes with a vocabulary lesson.  Our focus was on a word a day.  I posted each day’s word in each class’s Facebook group at least twenty-four hours before its related class time.  At the beginning of each of these three classes I would call the class to order and call on one student to come and stand beside me and say (not read) a sentence they had created using the day’s focus word.  One of my student-assistants would snap a photo of the student as he verbalized his statement to the class.  The assistant would then post the photo to the applicable Facebook group for twenty percent of the class to comment.  This way, in a week, every student was required to publicly comment on a focus word by offering his own statement (silly and irrelevant commenting earned the student a one-point grade demerit). This was just one of several ways I was attempting to increase each student’s classroom participation.

Today’s word was sanctimonious (this adjective was defined by Merriam-Webster as “hypocritically pious or devout”).  I had found the following sentence on the internet: “The sanctimonious Bertrand delivered stern lectures on the Ten Commandments to anyone who would listen but thought nothing of stealing cars to make some cash on the side.”  As was my custom, I always included an example sentence in my Facebook posting.  As I had this one.

In my first period class I chose Ben Gilbert to come forward and tell us his sentence using sanctimonious.  He said, “The sanctimonious Aiden Walker made the preaching and praying of the Apostle Paul look proud but couldn’t stop his mind from undressing the sexy Stella Gibson every time she walked in the church’s auditorium every Sunday morning.”  The class erupted in laughter and shouts of “Give us Real Justice.”  I was surprised, almost shocked.

When I finally got the class halfway settled Clara Ellington stood in the middle of the second row and asked me, “why can’t we write a novel?  It’s not fair you favor your creative writing class.  Aren’t you supposed to teach us in English class how to write?”

“You are absolutely correct on one thing, wrong on another.  First, I’m not favoring anybody.  Second, I am to teach, and you are to learn quite a bit about writing here in this class.”

The class was perfectly quiet, and it seemed all eyes were on me, each just around the corner from itching ears.  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you have already heard about my novel writing assignment.  Small towns and, I suppose, most high schools, spread news like a raging wildfire.  How many of you have actually seen the announcement on Facebook where I described the Real Justice project?”

Almost everyone raised a hand.  Ben Gilbert, still standing beside me, turned to me and asked.  “Can my team have Aiden Walker?  He is a hypocritical pig.  I want to give him real justice.”

I don’t think I had ever seen a group of students more eager for homework, a full year’s worth of it.  “I am honored that you would want to write a novel.  That can come, if you go on to take my creative writing class in two years.  As you probably know, all twenty of those students are seniors and already have quite a bit of writing experience.  Almost as big an issue is that I simply don’t have time to properly manage another seventy-five students, roughly another nineteen teams.

Clara and Ben had an ally.  Joanie, still purple-haired and still plump, stood up in the far right-hand corner of the middle section of the auditorium and said, “what if you made it, the novel project, an elective thing for us, maybe for extra credit?”

“That would still require a lot of my time.  Please don’t think that I don’t want to teach you this wonderful type of writing.  The only thing I can do is to encourage you, on your own time, to read novels and to write one of your own if you are so inspired.”

Tommy Vines immediately jumped into the conversation.  He chose to remain seated.  He was almost a head taller than anyone in the class.  This was noticeable even while he sat.  “Don’t worry about us Miss Sims we’ll just tag along.  We invite you to do the same thing.  We’ve added your name already to our Facebook group.  We’re calling it ‘Justice for Real.’  Read and comment anytime you want.  We won’t try to stop you from learning.”

I was sad, angry, and in awe.  I would never ever want to appear uninterested in helping my students, especially with something that was at the core of my being.  I was sad I couldn’t agree to expand my novel writing assignment to classes outside the twenty students in the senior Creative Writing class.  I was angry because Tommy Vines, as spokesperson for what appeared to be all seventy-four of his classmates, had stolen my Facebook group learning idea and my novel writing project.  Before I spoke, I concluded that no matter what pain this caused me, it was never a bad thing for teenagers to possess so much interest in something that I truly believed was a skill that could change their lives for the better.

“Tommy, again I’m honored.  Thanks for enrolling me in your group.  It already appears you and your classmates will have secondary access at a minimum to what goes on with my twenty Creative Writing students.  I wish you all the best of luck.  Also, I’ll try to visit your group, maybe occasionally offering an opinion.  But, please note, I will not be there as your teacher.”

The class remained quiet.  The remaining thirty minutes of class time was spent discussing a 1920’s short story, The Daughters of the Late Colonel, by Katherine Mansfield.  This New Zealand author was an add-on to my list of American authors.  The main reason we were studying this wonderful writer, and this story, was I had been unable to find an American author who had better combined the themes of death, independence, confusion, fear, and patriarchal society into one short story.

At 8:35 a.m., I was even more surprised.  My second class on the first day after the Labor Day holiday, a day that would likely become known as one of the most pivotal days in my life, was a virtual repeat of tenth grade English.  This class, eleventh grade English, made the same demands.  They too wanted in on my novel writing project.  I again declined.  For the same reasons.  They again, ignored me, and Charlie Rodgers, like Tommy Vines, announced their ‘Justice for Real II’ Facebook group and politely invited me along for the ride.  He announced twice that I was already a member of their group.

At 9:40 a.m., I was pleasantly surprised by my twelfth grade English class that they didn’t reveal even a hint of wanting in on the novel-writing gig.  I guess these seniors had other things on their mind.  Twenty of their classmates were already in my Creative Writing class.  I guessed this said the other hundred or so of their peers had determined writing, intensive, long-term writing, wasn’t something that warranted such a large percentage of the best year of their lives.

At lunch I told Cindy what had happened with my tenth and eleventh grade English classes.  She said I should be honored.  She also expressed her opinion that it seemed my novel writing project could be easily adapted to what, as she called it, “our own local little project.’  I was adamant, but respectful, to change the subject.

“You won’t believe who I saw going into Patrick Wilkins’ office as I was coming here.”  Cindy said, taking a bite of her tuna fish sandwich that was lighting up my little office with smells that combined the best of deep sea fishing with a shallow spreading of fresh manure over a recently plowed garden.

“I hope it was Sheriff Wayne Waldrup and you’re about to tell me you have gone to him and told him what Wilkins did to you.”

“Get that out of your mind girl.  I told you that wasn’t going to happen.  No, it wasn’t that W, but another one.  It was Warren Tillman, our wonderful pastor.”

“Don’t read too much into that.  I think the two of them are pretty good friends.  Come to think of it, I think Wilkins is close friends, with all the Faking Five.”

“Who?  Did you say the Faking Five?

“I did.  That’s a label I coined.  I did a take-off on the Flaming Five, you know the long-term descriptor for their fathers.  I guess the latter is worse than the former.  The former guys at least in part had a respectable source for their fame.”

“I’m a little confused.  To be clear, who are you including in your little Faking Five group?”  Cindy said, finishing her sandwich and using a paper-towel to shine the biggest red apple I had ever seen.

“Let me put it this way.  These five are five members of the group of six we spoke of last night.  My five and your one.  Do I need to spoil our lunch by actually naming my five?”

“I get it now.  I see clearly.  Your five are fakes.  To the world, at least to our local community, they are fine upstanding men.  Inside, where it really matters, they are putrid and vile.”

“You got it.”  I said.  “Can I have a bite of the apple?”  I intentionally said ‘the’ instead of ‘your’ to see if Cindy was listening to my little Biblical reference.

“You may but let me warn you. ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’”  Cindy said standing and holding the apple high over her head as though she was a tree.

“Funny.  I choose to believe I will learn something new and beneficial if I take a bite of your apple, emphasis on your.”

“You just learned something, and you didn’t even have to taste the fruit.”

“What did I learn?  That the key to our little project is a red and juicy apple.”

“Okay.  Enough.  Eat your apple and let me have your thoughts how to draft a first chapter writing guide for my little novel writing project.”

“Hold on.  In a second.  Do you remember ‘Ten Red Apples?’  It’s a poem.  I’m not sure who wrote it.

“I don’t remember.”  I was growing tired of apples and Cindy still hadn’t cut me a bite of the juicy red one that was continuing to disappear.

“When I was an elementary school teacher I used this poem to start the year off with what I called my Apple Unit.  I can still recite my favorite apple poem, “Ten Red Apples:”

‘Ten red apples grow on a tree

Five for you and five for me

Let us shake the tree just so

And then red apples will fall below

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.’

I suggest we change this to Six Red Apples and call our little project the same.  Six red apples grow on a tree, three for you and three for me, let us shake the tree just so and then red apples will fall below. 1,2,3,4,5,6.”

“Cindy serious.  You now have me thinking there is a connection between your gorgeous red hair and the six red apples I’m imagining in your other hand.  I suddenly don’t want a bite of the real apple.”  I literally no longer liked apples.

“But you do want to bite off an arm or a leg from every one of the six red apples that you and I both hold securely in the palms of our hands.”

Cindy simply wouldn’t let it go.  For probably the first time ever, I was deeply grateful when the bell rang, and our lunch time ended.

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 20

I had just come to my bedroom after watching three episodes of The Walton’s with Nanny and Cullie.  Sammie was unnaturally tired, so we let her relax in her apartment while Cullie and I watched Nanny.  After brushing my teeth, I had just sat on my bed when I received a text from Cindy.  “Can you meet me at school?”

I couldn’t imagine why she wanted or needed to meet.  It was almost 10:30 p.m. on Monday night, the end of the long Labor Day weekend.  We both had a habit of being at school by 6:30 each morning so I would see her in eight hours.  “Why?  Can it not wait until morning?  But, if you need me, I can.”  I almost hadn’t written the last sentence.  It was my friendship with Emily Fink that reminded me of the importance of having one person in my life who was there for me no matter.  Emily had been that person.  She had been the only one in my life who had come close to caring for me more than I cared for myself.

“I hope you know I wouldn’t ask you at this time of the night if it wasn’t important.  You are the best friend I have, and I need your wisdom.”  Cindy was the type of woman who appeared to always have it together.  To me, she was the perfect role model for Cullie.  Cindy was educated, happily married with three wonderful children, and was a teacher’s teacher.  My description wouldn’t be complete without saying she was as dedicated a Christian as I had ever met.  She had faith like a mountain and believed prayer gave her a direct line to God and His son Jesus.

“What time?  Where?” 

“11:00 p.m.  Your classroom.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks for being such a wonderful friend.”  I was glad to see that Cindy felt the same as I did.

I was waiting in my little office when I heard the hallway door open.  It had one of those little dinger things mounted on the top.  During the school day I usually left the door open but closed it at most other times.

“Katie, it’s me.” 

“In here.”

When Cindy appeared in my office doorway I could tell she had been crying.  Her face complexion was much redder when I had seen her in the afternoon and her eyes were not only dark green but puffy.  I had never seen her without eye makeup.  She was still attractive in a redhead type of way but hardly looked the same as the vibrant and exuberant Cindy I was accustomed to.

“All weekend I’ve been mentally drafting and redrafting my little talk with you.  On the drive in tonight I burned all that up and threw it out the window.”  I liked the image Cindy created.  She was a Literature and Writing teacher.  She thought in word pictures.

“Okay, so you have something to tell me, but you don’t know how?”  I asked, worried that I had done or said something that offended her.  Maybe she had taken something I had said about Alysa the wrong way.  I didn’t have a clue what that could be.

“I do.  Patrick Wilkins raped me.  Last Wednesday night.  After church.”  Cindy delivered the four short statements like a first grader reading a book from the top shelf, meaning she shouldn’t be reading it.  She started to cry and walked into my office.  I stood, speechless, but open-armed.  I held her for what seemed like ten minutes, although it was probably no more than one.  Just as she seemed to gain control of her sobs, a rush of fear and hatred poured from my mind and pushed tears from my eyes.  My breathing almost ceased.  It was like I was smothering.  I had never experienced anything like this.

“Oh Cindy, my dear friend.  I’m here, all I know to say is that I am here for you and always will be.”  I had never been so sincere.  It was strange, but it was like Cindy’s pain launched my feelings for her, my belief in her, to the next level in friendship.

“I know.  That’s why I asked you to come.  I was dying.  I had to talk.”

“Have you told Steve?”  I asked.

“No.  I haven’t told anyone, and I don’t plan to.  Other than you.”

“Cindy, this is a hundred times worse, infinitely worse than his assault on you last week.  You have to report this to the police.”

“I can’t.  It will ruin my life.  It will change everything, especially my relationship with Steve.”  On one level, Cindy made sense, but no doubt her and Steve’s relationship was strong enough to weather this.

“Steve is the best friend you have.  You two are true soul mates if there ever were such a thing.”  I said, trying to persuade her she could not remain quiet.  Then, it dawned on me.  That’s exactly what I had done.  Who was I to be giving Cindy advice?

“You’re right and I want to keep it that way.  I’m afraid he will, deep down, think that it was my fault, that I somehow had done something, maybe the way I dressed, I don’t know, something to cause Wilkins to come on to me.”

“Steve wouldn’t think that.  He knows you to your core.  Aren’t that what soul mates are all about?”

“Even if Steve handled the news perfectly, that’s just the beginning of a whole new life, one I have no desire to live.”  Cindy had now recovered enough to return to the other side of my desk and sit down.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I know the right thing in one sense is to report this to the police and see that Wilkins is convicted of rape.  I’ve watched enough Law and Order, SVU, to know I can’t go through that.”

“He is a criminal Cindy.  He is a sexual predator.  Don’t you think if he gets away with this he will be emboldened?  I’m going to be direct and blunt as needed.  What if he turns his attention to young girls, even Alysa and Cullie?  I know you don’t want that.”  I knew I was treading on sensitive ground.  I sure didn’t want to put a world of responsibility on her precarious shoulders.

“I know.  You’re right.  And, we certainly don’t know what he has been doing.  Isn’t it unlikely I’m his first?”  I was glad Cindy was asking a question.  She was engaged, thinking.

“This leads obviously to the health risk he may have exposed you to.  You need medical attention.  You said you hadn’t told anyone.  Not even a doctor?”  I asked.

“No one means no one.  Sorry, that sounded wrong.  I didn’t mean to be a smart ass.”  I was surprised Cindy said that.  I had never heard her say a single cuss word, dirty word of any kind.

“You don’t have to answer this, but you said this happened at church Wednesday night?”

“Actually, it was after Wednesday night’s prayer meeting.  Steve had taken the kids and gone home.  I had driven separately knowing our Sunday School Department had scheduled a time after the prayer service to talk about the upcoming social.  Every quarter all four Sunday School classes in our Department get together for a meal and a speaker.  The meeting didn’t last thirty minutes.  Everyone else had gone but I had walked to the Education Department to pick up our new Sunday School quarterlies.  The teacher in me wants everyone to have their new lessons at least a couple weeks before the start of a new quarter.  When I was walking out, Patrick Wilkins met me in the hall outside the elevator.  You know he is the Church’s Education Director.”  Cindy’s words stopped.  It was like a spicket had been turned off.  Her tears returned.  She just sat there, frozen, with her head looking at her hands in her lap.

“You don’t have to give me any details.”  I walked around my desk and sat down beside her in the other chair I always had under the little window.

“You already know the horrendous details.”

“He sure was bold.  Right there in the church office.”  I said trying to rid my mind of Wilkins overpowering Cindy.  Probably pulled her into his personal office, closing and locking the door, and forcing Cindy across his desk.

“That’s not where he raped me.  He forced me to walk out to the parking lot.  That’s where I screamed when I saw Pastor Warren headed on foot to the Parsonage.  He turned around and stood there looking our way.  I know he could see us and know who we were.  We were standing under one of the big street lamps along the edge of the parking lot.  It was like Warren yelled out something but by that time Wilkins had me in the front seat of his vehicle.”

“You’re sure Pastor Warren recognized you?”

“He had to.  He was probably less than a hundred feet from us.”  I turned my chair to face Cindy and took both her hands.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.  It’s like a nightmare.  I know what you’re going through.”  The words just appeared, in my mind, milliseconds before they slipped past my lips.

“Katie, I love you, but please don’t tell me you know what I’m going through.  I know you’re trying to help but that rings a little hollow.  Right now, I need bald-faced truth.  Just say you can’t imagine what I’m going through.”  Cindy said, softly, with her green eyes lightning up just a shade.  She was so kind and respectful.

“Cindy.”  I clutched her hands more tightly, my mind teetering atop the highest mountain, unsure which way to fall and kill itself.  Which way was less painful?  Head first or feet first?  Either way, the distance into the abyss was the same.  I doubted the pain would be radically different.  I chose head first.  “Look at me.  I have a secret I have never divulged to anyone.  I do know how you feel.  In 2002, I was raped.  The only difference with your horrible experience is that five men gang-raped me.  I did, and you do, feel helpless, totally powerless.  I know.  I’ve been there.  I’m still there.”

“Oh my gosh.  Katie my dearest.  I would never have guessed.  You seem so happy and complete.”  Cindy was doing her best to console me.

“Believe me, some days, inside my head, I’m a train wreck.”

“The lowdown bastards.”  Cindy again surprised me.  She was beginning to sound like me, at least my words below my breath.  Sometimes.  Sometimes not.  “Did you know who raped you?  Sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”  I now knew how I had sounded to Cindy.  We both were being a little artificial.  Real friends were much blunter, simply asked anything and everything they wanted to know.

“You can ask me whatever you want.  Just like I can with you.  I know that for sure.  You are real.  We are real for each other.  Oh, by the way, yes.  I knew who raped me.  And, you know them too.”

“Oh my gosh.  I keep saying that but oh my gosh.  It happened here in Boaz?  When?  Who are these guys?”  Cindy now was operating in full friend mode.

“I was home for Christmas holidays.  From California.  I had never thought of Boaz being a place where a single woman, alone, had to be wise, be smart about where she was.  I had always loved the downtown fountain.  I had driven my rental car there from Birmingham’s Airport before I drove on to Nanny’s.  I was abducted returning to my car after having walked into the Mall from the parking lot across the street from First State Bank.”

“Katie, I have to know who they are.  For mine and Alysa’s sake at least.”

“Hang on to your hat.  Warren Tillman, Ryan Radford, Fulton Billingsely, Justin Adams, and Danny Ericson.  Those five men repeatedly raped me in a tent somewhere, I suspect, twenty minutes or so from here, out in the country, down a long gravel road.”

“You couldn’t tell where you were, where they took you?”  Cindy asked.  I hoped she would keep this our secret.  Someway, I knew she would.

“No.  They had grabbed me from behind, just as I was walking past the little public restrooms building next to the parking lot.  They slipped a black hood over my head at the same time I first felt their hands on me.  I never saw them.  After it was over, they threw me beside my car with my hands loosely tied behind my back.  It was only then that I was able to remove the hood.  By then, they were long gone.”

“Sorry, but how did you know who raped you?”  Cindy said, asking a question I wished she hadn’t.

There was no use turning back now.  I was in for the full trip.  “Two ways.  I somehow, subliminally maybe, knew from their smells, touches, groans, that it was them.  I know that wouldn’t hold up in court but trust me.  I knew.  The second way was from the tape.  They had recorded it.  I’ve recently come into possession of that tape.”

“The bastards.  Dumb asses for sure.”  I had never heard my New York friend Emily Fink say a single word off-color, and she was a wonderful friend.  Now, I knew, a real friend is not prohibited from stepping one foot inside the muddy gutter.

“They truly are but that makes them even more dangerous.  Funny thing is I have let it be known to our fine pastor that I know they were the ones who raped me.”

“Do they know you have the tape?”  Cindy asked.

“I’m not sure, but if I were to bet, I would say yes.”

“Now I’m wondering.  It just hit me.  Pastor Warren and Patrick Wilkins.  He, Warren, may have known what Wilkins was up to.  My scream would have told anyone else in the world that it was a scream for help.  Yet, he ignored my cry.  Just looked our way, registered seeing Wilkins with Cindy Barker, then turned and walked away.  They are despicable.”

“I certainly agree.  Cindy, it’s too late for justice for the five men who raped me, but it’s not for Patrick Wilkins.  Please reconsider reporting him to the police, hey I know, talk with Sheriff Waldrup.  I spoke with him this morning about Darla’s case.  He is a kind and compassionate man, and no doubt, strong enough to take on your case.”

“Katie, I’ve been totally serious with you.  I’m not going to the police but thank you for caring so much.  But, I will help you get justice of sorts if you will help me.  I’ve been thinking of how I was going to deal with our fine Mr. Wilkins.  I must confess, what’s crossed my mind is contrary to the Bible, the verse that talks about vengeance being the Lord’s.  I can’t do anything.  He needs to be punished somehow.”  Cindy was breaking all records now, surprising me like I would have never imagined.

“Be careful my friend.  Revenge is a dangerous animal, like a boomerang, it can come back to cut off your own head.”  I said trying to plant a contrary opinion in Cindy’s mind.  To me, she was straying into the wrong side of town.

“You and I both have watched movies and read novels about this very thing.  Where the criminal justice system can’t or won’t do anything to balance the scales, to mete out punishment where it has clearly been earned.  At least think about something we could do to embarrass these six men.”

“I have been thinking about it for years.  For the five men who raped me.  I have tried to stay away from the thoughts that have appeared in my mind over the years, thoughts to cut the you know what off the five bastards, or better yet, to take a gun and blow off their fucking heads.  Sorry for the F word.”

“It’s okay.  What has held you back?”

“Easy answer.  My writing.  I’ve forced myself to channel my anger into words.  Since it happened, I’ve been working on another novel.  Unfortunately, it grows and grows and is going nowhere.  It’s like I hadn’t found my true passion.  Instead, I’ve resisted a deep and innate need for revenge.  Now that I think about it, maybe that’s what’s missing, that’s why my novel has been floundering.”  I wanted to explore this issue.  I was shocked that I hadn’t been able to recognize this potential before.

“Katie, promise you will join me in thinking honestly about real justice for these men.  It’s only right.  I would like nothing more than keeping my life with Steve just as it is while at the same time seeing perfect Mr. Wilkins burn in hell.”  If I had reason to doubt whether a sincere and committed Christian had feelings and thoughts the rest of us animals do, that was now history.  Cindy was sounding genuine, genuinely human.

“I promise.  But, for now, we best go.  It’s only three and a half hours till my alarm goes off and motions me to my writing desk.

We walked outside my room together.  As I was locking my door, Cindy asked me to go with her to her Sunday School Department’s quarterly social.  I told her that it was funny she had brought that up because I had promised Cullie I would ask her about her Sunday School class.  I committed to going.  I even halfway promised I would join her and a dozen or so other women in their late thirties in the Ruth Sunday School class. 

As I drove home, I had this wonderfully sick feeling.  It was wonderful to know that Cindy and I had exchanged our blood.  Our two-hour talk had been a blood pack of sorts.  My feeling of sickness was from the existence of the shared experiences between Cindy and me, and how we had so easily agreed to consider and ponder stepping into the shoes of those committed to breaking the law.  I hoped Cindy would somehow herd the camel back into the tent and forget she had ever opened the barn 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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 19

Monday morning, Labor Day, I almost ignored my 4:30 a.m. alarm.  I had hardly slept at all.  After returning from my classroom Sunday afternoon I had binged on Netflix, alternating between Stella Gibson and The Fall, and Longmire.  The sexual tension between Walt and Vic in the latter series was noteworthy and spurred me to consider adding a romantic subplot to my own Real Justice work.  The only good thing that had come out of my binging was a reminder I was abusing the name Real Justice.  My current work in the basement was called Real Justice.  The creative novel project was labeled Real Justice and that was only for team one.  I hadn’t thought of it until now, but was team two’s to be called Real Justice II?  This was a problem I could solve.  No matter, the best thing my multi-hour binging had done was keep me from pondering Darla’s murder and the hot spot I had created for myself at school.

I was glad I somehow had the determination to follow my routine.  Once again, my writing time produced that feeling I longed for every day, that I had accomplished something special.  For years this feeling had guided my life.  If I had written at least 1,000 words towards an active project, then my day was successful no matter what happened the remaining twenty-two or so hours.  Today I had written a solid scene and had spent the last fifteen minutes pondering a change to my book’s title.  I was leaning towards The Light in the Darkness or The Darkness in the Light, somewhat of a sequel to my 2002 award winning Out of the Darkness.  I was deep in thought over the problem of evil in the world, trying to figure out whether it was fate or some mysterious plan of God that had caused the darkest day of my life when I heard the phone ringing upstairs.  It was the land-line, Nanny’s phone since the early fifties.  I normally wouldn’t have heard it but today I had left the door at the top of the stairs open thinking that Sammie and Nanny might show up early, hours earlier than the noontime Sammie had promised.

I started to ignore it, but the caller was relentless.  I answered on probably the tenth ring.  “Hello.”

“Katie, Katie Sims?”  The deep voice said from the other end of the line. 

“Yes, this is Katie Sims.”

“This is Marshall County Sheriff Wayne Waldrup.  Do you have a few minutes to talk?”  The first thing I thought of was Cullie.  Fear rushed through me like I had never known.  Why would the Sheriff be calling me so early?  I had stayed longer than usual in the basement, but it was still only 6:30. Cullie and Cindy and her family must have been in an accident.

“What’s happened?  Is Cullie hurt?”  I asked, frantic, sitting at the kitchen table and virtually jumping up before he could respond.

“Katie, my call has nothing to do with Cullie.  I’m calling to give you an update on our investigation into your mother’s death.”  I sat again, relieved, as though I had just heard the best news of my life, thinking how weird it was that something horrible, in the right context, could be good news.

“I’m sorry.  I’ve never had a law enforcement officer call me, much less so early.  My daughter, Cullie, is away with friends and is scheduled to return today.  I jumped to the conclusion there must have been an accident and Cullie was hurt.”

“No need to apologize.  I have two children of my own.  I probably would have responded the same if I had been in your shoes.”

“Has there been some progress in Darla’s, I mean, Mother’s case?  Do you have a suspect?”  I said believing this would be why Sheriff Waldrup would have been calling.

“We do have a suspect but have been unable to identify him.”

“Who is he?”  When the words left my mouth, I realized my mind hadn’t quite recovered from its former desperation.  “Sorry, dumb question.  How do you know about him if you don’t know who he is?”

“He was caught on camera pawning what we believe is the murder weapon, a 22-caliber pistol.  We have a good relationship with Joe’s Pawn Shop.  They gave us a call yesterday morning relaying their suspicions.”

“What made them suspicious?”  I concluded Joe’s maybe had heard about the murder.

“When we have a missing gun case, we always alert local pawn shops, and when we know. telling them the make, model, and caliber, and encourage them to be on the lookout.  Of course, the shops know to always be on the alert when any gun is being pawned.”

“The man, on camera, what does he look like?”  I was ready for Sheriff Waldrup to describe Ryan Radford or Danny Ericson.  It was funny or weird or both that I had already solved the case.  Both men had a motive to kill Darla.  And, Ryan was with her shortly before she was found, not only dead, but with a bullet hole in the back of her head.

“Short, stocky, curly, scraggly dark hair.  He has a beard, but Joe suggested the beard looked fake.  The video isn’t the best quality.”

“You said the gun was probably the murder weapon.  I assume that means the ballistic tests haven’t been completed?”  I guess I had watched enough Law and Order and CSI to know that would be the first thing the Sheriff would do.

“Correct, the State Department of Forensics is closed for the holiday weekend.  Deputy Childers will be waiting with the subject gun in Montgomery when they open in the morning.”

“Do they do the fingerprinting or is that something for your department?”  I was glad I had some interest in criminology and had watched all those TV shows.

“We conducted preliminary tests.  The gun contained two sets.  One belonged to Joe at the Pawn Shop.  The other set didn’t match anyone in our database.  The State has more resources than we have here at the local level.  I’m hoping their testing will produce better results.”

“I assume you broadcast the man’s photo, a camera shot to news stations?”

“We did.  Joe called us late Saturday afternoon, and by midmorning yesterday, local radio, and all the TV stations in Huntsville and Birmingham, had the information.  They are asking the public to call our hotline if they know the man or believe they have seen him.”

“I hope you get a break.  Can I tell you something I believe could be relevant to solving Mother’s case?”  I said, almost forgetting what I had discovered in Darla’s journals.

“Absolutely, we need to know everything, even things unlikely relevant.”  There was something about Sheriff Waldrup’s voice.  I had seen a photo or two of him in the Sand Mountain Reporter; Nanny had probably been a lifelong subscriber.  He was tall and strong looking.  He could have given Walt Longmire a run for his position in Absaroka County, Wyoming.  Like Walt, Wayne had a kind and gentle voice, one that commanded respect and a healthy dose of fear.  I gained confidence in his investigation just from his voice.

I spent the next fifteen minutes telling him everything I knew, starting with the early morning phone call from Darla where she asked me to come get her.  I filled the Sheriff in on what Sammie had done and learned and what I had found in her suitcase.  I even admitted to him how I had come to have Darla’s things in my possession.  When I finished I could tell that Wayne, Sheriff Waldrup, was keenly interested in Raymond and Ryan Radford and what they stood to gain by Darla’s death.  For some reason, I chose not to tell him about the videotape, thinking and believing that it was only relevant to the spur-of-the-moment decision to kill Darla, and did not relate in any way to the prenuptial and thus the primary reason the Radfords would want her dead.

Sheriff Waldrup had just asked me when the best time for him or one of his deputies to come pick up Darla’s journals, when he abruptly said he had to take an emergency call.  This gave me a good excuse to drive to school and make a copy of both journals.  I knew he would be calling back and something prompted me that I should have an opportunity to complete my reading and to retain a copy just in case the Sheriff and his team somehow lost this critical evidence.

Between photocopying the 400 pages in Darla’s two journals, and drafting, editing, and completing my one-page Real Justice novel project handout, it was after 11:30 a.m. when I returned home.  I was making a sandwich when Sammie and Nanny entered through the kitchen’s rear door.  I hugged both and asked if they were hungry.  Nanny smiled and started fiddling with the long cord dangling down the wall as though she knew at least one phone conversation had taken place since she left yesterday morning.  We all sat, ate, and talked for over an hour.  I was glad to hear they had a good time, especially that Nanny had gotten to ride a lot on the back roads of Dekalb County, one of the favorite things her and Papa had done when he was living.  There had always been something inspiring for Nanny to see the places three generations of her family had lived and farmed. 

Just after Sammie and Nanny left the kitchen for her room and a nap, Cullie and Alysa burst through the back door with Cullie cuddling a small, black kitten.  “Mom, the man in Anniston where Steve stopped to buy gas said the kittens were headed to the animal shelter where they would be put to sleep.  I took this one, Midnight, and Alysa took three.  I hope you don’t mind.  I promise to take care of her, him, whatever, and to do more chores to pay for his food.  Please?”

“By the time Cullie finished her long and strong argument Cindy came in looking both apologetic and sad.  Or, was it frustrated?  I had, in our three weeks together at school, been able to detect when something was wrong.  Her face would be a tinge redder and her normally bright green eyes grew darker.  “Katie, I tried calling you.  I didn’t know what to do.  If you do not want to keep the kitten, Midnight, we’ll carry her home with the other three.”

“It’s not a problem.  I kind of like cats.  I haven’t had one since my high school days, didn’t even know they still made them.”  I tried being funny, hoping to remind Cindy I was truly her friend.  I wanted to spend some time talking with her, but Steve started honking the car horn.  I am sure he wanted to get home after being away all weekend.  It worked out for the best since I wanted to hear from Cullie and be close by her side. 

All afternoon, as we talked and created Midnight a nice little bed along with a litter box (thankful that Steve had stopped at Walmart in Gadsden) on the back porch, all I could think about was the feeling I had when Sheriff Waldrup called.  Cullie was the most precious and wonderful thing in my life.  She was blood of my blood.  Created in darkness but clothed in light that dispelled everything cruel, hateful, and evil.  “Thank-you God for giving me Cullie and bringing her safely home.”  I said the words aloud and noticed the breathtaking smile that appeared on Cullie’s face as she seemed pleased her mother was praying.