tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18089043001635064992024-03-14T02:09:26.703-04:00A Thrill a MinuteThe continuing adventures of one man's quest to achieve publication, validation, and money-make...shun...Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.comBlogger254125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-77981084381764667402014-06-17T12:04:00.000-04:002014-06-17T12:04:07.398-04:00A New Flight 12 release!If you've read any of my occasionally coherent updates on Facebook or my shamefully rare blog posts here, you know that I was recruited into The Twelve around the first of the year. With names like J. Carson Black, Robert Gregory Browne, Diane Capri, Vincent Zandri, Brett Battles and more, I was thrilled to be asked and wasted no time accepting, lest they come to their senses and withdraw the offer.<br />
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I still haven't received my own key to The Twelve's penthouse headquarters yet, but I do get to clean up after their wild celebrity parties, and let me tell you, the things I've seen would stand my hair on end. If I had any.<br />
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One of the things we're committed to as a group is rewarding our loyal readers while at the same time introducing our work to new mystery/thriller lovers. Back in February, we offered DEADLY DOZEN, featuring a previously released book from each of us in one handy package, for just 99 cents. People seemed to like it. We sold over 100,000 copies of the thing and spend weeks on the <i>New York Times </i>and <i>USA Today </i>bestseller lists.<br />
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I realize you know this already, I just like saying it. "<i>New York Times </i>bestseller." Ahhh...<br />
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Anyway, we're on to our next project now: FLIGHT 12. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-12-Kristin-Cunningham-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00K9PWZ9K/" target="_blank">My Flight 12 installment</a> kicked the series off last month, and this month it's J. Carson Black's turn. I had the opportunity to read her release, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-12-Cardinal-Thriller-Begins-ebook/dp/B00KVR1E98/" target="_blank">FLIGHT 12: A LAURA CARDINAL THRILLER</a>, prior to publication and I can tell you it's everything you expect out of a Laura Cardinal book and more.<br />
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As each member of The Twelve releases his or her installment, we're inviting reader interaction with custom questions at the <a href="http://thetwelvexii.com/flight-12/" target="_blank">Flight 12 section of our website</a>. Answering our questions and interacting with the authors and other readers will earn you the opportunity to win cool prizes (a Kindle Paperwhite is one example), and as the project moves on, you'll get the chance to help write the conclusion to this revolutionary series.<br />
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In the meantime, you have to read J. Carson Black's FLIGHT 12: A LAURA CARDINAL THRILLER.<br />
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Trust me on this.<br />
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And if you haven't read my Flight 12 entry yet, this would be a good time to do so. There is no need to read the releases in any particular order, and I'm excited by the early reviews. I packed a lot of action into the story and I'm pleased with how it turned out.<br />
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If you do decide to check out <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-12-Cardinal-Thriller-Begins-ebook/dp/B00KVR1E98/" target="_blank">J. Carson Black's Laura Cardinal Flight 12 release</a> or <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-12-Kristin-Cunningham-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00K9PWZ9K/" target="_blank">my Kristin Cunningham Flight 12 release</a>, we would very much appreciate it if you take a couple of minutes to add an honest review to the appropriate page; it really does help set our work apart from the thousands of other titles available.<br />
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And if you've already read the first two Flight 12 entries, don't despair - Diane Capri is up next!Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-80806313149069237282014-05-15T19:45:00.000-04:002014-05-15T19:45:12.992-04:00Sometimes a revolution can be thrilling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last winter I was recruited by the wonderful author Diane Capri into a group of mystery/thriller authors dedicated to raising our profile among readers and to pushing each other to become better writers.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KRaCS3muRzo/U3VL7L6kTUI/AAAAAAAAAUI/T-t2G99qDWo/s1600/1781772_600117863400239_594989930_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KRaCS3muRzo/U3VL7L6kTUI/AAAAAAAAAUI/T-t2G99qDWo/s1600/1781772_600117863400239_594989930_o.jpg" height="200" width="132" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We called ourselves <a href="http://thetwelvexii.com/" target="_blank">"The Twelve,"</a> and once we got our act together, we released <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Deadly-Dozen-12-Mysteries-Thrillers-ebook/dp/B00IER9DK4/" target="_blank">DEADLY DOZEN</a> as a gift to our fans. It's a collection of twelve mysteries/thrillers, one from each member of The Twelve, and it went on to sell (as of today) nearly 95,000 copies and spend two weeks on the New York Times bestseller list as well as six weeks on USA Today's list.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's one hell of an accomplishment and something I'll never forget. But in this business, if you're not moving forward you're falling behind, so even while DEADLY DOZEN was becoming a bestseller, we knew we needed to do something else to maintain our hard-won momentum and give MORE to our readers, both long-time and brand-new.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Welcome to out next project: FLIGHT 12, a series of thrillers loosely connected by one event - Skyway Airlines Flight 12 from New York to Rome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Each member of The Twelve will write original material featuring one of his or her main characters, the entries will be released over time, prizes will be won, and at the end of the project, the final installment will be written based on suggestions from you, the readers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To my knowledge, a project on this scale has never been tried, and it's exciting as hell - and nerve-wracking - to have the honor of leading off a lineup that includes, in order:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">J. Carson Black</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Diane Capri</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cheryl Bradshaw</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aaron Patterson</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Vincent Zandri</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Michele Scott/A.K. Alexander</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">J.R. Rain</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joshua Graham</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Brett Battles</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Carol Davis Luce</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Robert Gregory Browne</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-odm6XBSsxxQ/U3VMLZwSa-I/AAAAAAAAAUQ/Llz2FDFL8YI/s1600/10285510_10203259684200555_6778567464668985358_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-odm6XBSsxxQ/U3VMLZwSa-I/AAAAAAAAAUQ/Llz2FDFL8YI/s1600/10285510_10203259684200555_6778567464668985358_o.jpg" height="320" width="206" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So if you want to be a part of something truly different, maybe even revolutionary, check out my brand-new release, FLIGHT 12: A KRISTIN CUNNINGHAM THRILLER, and get ready for an ongoing project that will knock your socks off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, and when you pick up your copy, be sure to check out the embedded links. You might just have a shot at winning cool stuff like a <a href="http://thetwelvexii.com/flight-12/" target="_blank">Kindle Paperwhite</a>, or travel bags filled with stuff you'll need on Skyways Flight 12 to Rome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then help The Twelve write the ending to this unique project.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-12-Kristin-Cunningham-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00K9PWZ9K/" target="_blank">FLIGHT 12: A KRISTIN CUNNINGHAM THRILLER at Amazon</a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/flight-12-allan-leverone/1119473745?ean=2940149582662" target="_blank">FLIGHT 12: A KRISTIN CUNNINGHAM THRILLER at Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id877286488" target="_blank">FLIGHT 12: A KRISTIN CUNNINGHAM THRILLER at iBooks</a></div>
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<a href="http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/flight-12-1" target="_blank">FLIGHT 12: A KRISTIN CUNNINGHAM THRILLER at Kobo</a></div>
Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-23058903410452525792014-02-22T09:00:00.000-05:002014-02-22T09:00:00.703-05:00The Best Book Deal You'll See This Year<span style="font-size: large;">A couple of months ago I was asked if I might be interested in joining a group of like-minded mystery/thriller authors with the goal of promoting ourselves - both individually and as a group - as well as pushing each other to be better writers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I thought about it for awhile, and -- ah, who am I kidding, I didn't have to think about it at all. I said "Hell, yes" before they could change their minds, and just like that I became one of The Twelve.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Twelve consists of <i>New York Times</i> and <i>USA Today</i> bestselling authors, award-winning authors, journalist-authors, traditionally-published authors, and…well…me. Our goal is nothing less than world domination (or World Domination, depending on how you look at it).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We have a lot of cool stuff planned for the future, but our very first project as a group is something any reader of genre fiction should be able to get behind:<b> DEADLY DOZEN</b>, a twelve volume ebook set of mysteries and thrillers, one book from each author, for the ridiculously low price of $9.99, or <i>less than a buck per book.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>BUT WAIT</b>, as the infomercials say, <b>THERE'S MORE!</b> The special introductory price for this twelve-book set (some people call them "box sets," but as the whole thing is electronic I can't really get behind that description in any meaningful way) is <b>just 99 cents</b> for a very limited time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now, I don't have to tell you that's less than eight-and-a-half cents per book. And these aren't just any books, these are gripping tales from some of the most talented genre writers around and…well…me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Check out this lineup:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>DON'T KNOW JACK</b> - Diane Capri</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>CRY WOLF</b> - J. Carson Black</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>NIGHT WIDOW</b> - Carol Davis Luce</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>GUARANTEED JUSTICE</b> - M.A. Comley</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>STRANGER IN TOWN</b> - Cheryl Bradshaw</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>BREAKING STEELE</b> - Aaron Patterson</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>MOONLIGHT SONATA</b> - Vincent Zandri</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>TERMINUS</b> - Joshua Graham</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>ONE DAY IN BUDAPEST</b> - J.F. Penn</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>DEAD CELEB</b> - Michele Scott</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>FINAL VECTOR</b> - Allan Leverone</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>THE GIFTS</b> - Linda S. Prather</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The individual books in this collection have racked up nearly <i>seven hundred </i>five-star reader reviews at Amazon, and if purchased separately, would cost more than $46, even for the electronic versions. So let's face it, you're going to kick yourself in the ass if you miss out on getting this amazing collection for less than you'd pay for a small coffee at Dunkin' Donuts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So here are the links for what will be an indispensable collection for any genre reader:</span><br />
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<a href="http://smarturl.it/deadly12" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">DEADLY DOZEN at Amazon</span></a><br />
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<a href="http://smarturl.it/deadly12-bn" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">DEADLY DOZEN at Barnes and Noble</span></a><br />
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<a href="http://smarturl.it/deadly12-itunes" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">DEADLY DOZEN at iTunes</span></a><br />
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<a href="http://bit.ly/1f7It0V" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">DEADLY DOZEN at Kobo</span></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">By the way, if you'd like to hop on the express train that is The Twelve, you'll definitely want to <a href="http://thetwelvexii.com/list/" target="_blank">sign up for our email newsletter</a>. That way you'll be the first to find out about new releases, promotions, giveaways, etc.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Feel free to check us out at <a href="http://thetwelvexii.com/">TheTwelveXII.com</a>, on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/thetwelvexii" target="_blank">Facebook</a> and on <a href="https://twitter.com/TheTwelveXII" target="_blank">Twitter</a>…</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks a lot for your interest, and I hope you enjoy DEADLY DOZEN!</span>Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-28281880557436216782013-11-05T15:35:00.001-05:002013-11-05T15:35:19.432-05:00MR. MIDNIGHT excerpt<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's release day for my brand new dark thriller, MR. MIDNIGHT!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Offered by DarkFuse in three formats -<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Midnight-Allan-Leverone-ebook/dp/B00GFX6U1E/" target="_blank"> ebook</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Midnight-Allan-Leverone/dp/1937771601/" target="_blank">paperback</a>, and signed numbered limited edition hardcover (which I believe have sold out) - MR. MIDNIGHT has received some impressive early reviews:</span><br />
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"Leverone has penned one of the most chilling villains in modern fiction with MR. MIDNIGHT. Unforgiving, intelligent, and ingenious, this monster is what nightmares are made of…"</div>
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- Shannon Raab, Suspense Magazine</div>
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"…at times both touching and sickening…MR. MIDNIGHT is what a horror novel should be…Leverone crafts a tightly-knit tale that keeps the reader turning the page as quickly as possible…"</div>
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- Minneapolis Books</div>
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"MR. MIDNIGHT is a thrilling, suspense, dark fiction novel about good vs. evil, family, and the supernatural…downright amazing. This is definitely movie material."</div>
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- I Heart Reading</div>
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"It is violent. It is at turns subtle and gory. If you love horror then you will love this. If you don't or are scared easily, leave this book alone and lock all your doors…"</div>
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- Liz Loves Books</div>
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To celebrate the release, and maybe even convince you to pick up the novel, here is an excerpt:</div>
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<br />
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<b>Chapter
1<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Stalking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mr. Midnight was
stalking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He trailed along behind
his two targets carefully, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, staying
a healthy distance while being sure to keep them in sight at all times. The
girls were college students; that much he knew. Whether they attended B.U.,
Northeastern, Tufts, or any of the dozens of other schools in the Boston area
the predator didn’t know and didn’t care.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What mattered to Mr.
Midnight was that the girls were clearly from out of town, new students still
unaware of the lines of demarcation the more experienced students observed automatically
which allowed them to stay safe. Relatively speaking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mr. Midnight had
been following the pair for twenty minutes, ever since observing them as they stumbled,
drunk, out of a raucous apartment party on Commonwealth Avenue. He had been
loitering in the dark recesses of a doorway across the street and gotten a vibe
about the girls almost immediately.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now they were
lost, and confused, and just beginning to feel the first tentative twinges of
apprehension. Alcohol bravery and the fact that they were together and could
count on each other for support had suppressed the panic thus far, but Mr.
Midnight knew it was mere minutes away from bubbling to the surface.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He picked up his
pace and moved silently closer, now near enough to hear bits and pieces of
their conversation. “…think we went in the wrong direction,” the one on the
left was saying. She had a nice, shapely ass packed into low-rise jeans. Her
crop-top blouse didn’t come close to reaching her waist and the predator
thought he could see the hint of a thong peeking out over the jeans. He smiled
in approval.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“…don’t recognize
anything…” the other one said. She looked and sounded Asian, a slim, tiny girl
poured into a red mini-dress.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Maybe we should
turn around,” the first girl said. Mr. Midnight was close enough to them now
that he could now hear their voices clearly. Both girls sounded near tears and
the predator felt himself becoming aroused.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The area was
unfamiliar.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The streetlights
were dim and spaced far apart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pedestrian traffic
was minimal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It was time to
move.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mr. Midnight
closed the remaining distance between himself and the girls, still unsure of
which one he would take, not that it mattered. They were both young and pretty,
and he knew he would be more than satisfied with either.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was almost too
easy. The predator wore Nike cross-trainers and moved with a practiced stealth,
and the frightened girls were chattering to each other like magpies in an
effort to keep their mounting fear at bay.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They were crossing
in front of a Catholic grade school, the Victorian-era stone structure looming
in the semi-darkness behind a padlocked chain-link fence, when the predator
struck. He used the butt of his knife to club the girl on the left—he glanced
down and discovered he had been right about the thong—in the temple. She let
out a low moan and dropped straight down, unconscious before her body hit the
concrete sidewalk with a wet <i>thud</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The second girl,
the tiny Asian in the mini-dress, gasped and froze, trying to process in her
alcohol-addled brain what had just happened. A half-second later she drew in a
breath to scream, but by then it was much too late. Mr. Midnight slapped a hand
over her mouth and lifted the knife to her throat, running its razor-sharp
point along her silky skin like a lover’s caress. Blood immediately began
welling up in the furrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The girl stopped
struggling, undoubtedly hoping compliance would equate to survival.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She wouldn’t find
out until much later how wrong she was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter
2<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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The air inside the Super-K Grocerette
felt pleasantly cool to Caitlyn Connelly as she waited in line at the register.
A low pressure system had stalled over Tampa, the moisture in the atmosphere
combining with the blazing heat to form a mushy tropical blanket over eastern
Florida.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Through the
plate-glass windows fronting the store Caitlyn watched as people trudged across
the parking lot. They seemed to move in slow motion, as if bogged down by the
weather.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The line dragged, Cait
inching forward until eventually she stood behind only an elderly woman, who
had placed her purchases—roughly a fifty-fifty split between food for herself
and food for her pets—on the conveyor belt and now reached into a purse approximately
the size of a small European car for her wallet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait felt a
sensation of pressure inside her skull, a wave rolling over her brain. She blinked
twice and her head rocked back slightly. It was the sort of reaction a person
might have if confronted with a completely unexpected sight. The image of a
tiny kitchen flashed into her head. The room was shabby but spotlessly clean. On
top of faded linoleum tiles which had been out of style for half a century, Cait
saw a checkbook which had fallen to the floor and now lay against a leg of an
ancient kitchen table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A pair of sleeping
cats sprawled on either side of the checkbook, looking like furry bookends, and
Cait knew instantly what had happened. The woman had placed her purse at the
edge of the table in preparation for her trip to the store—she shopped twice a
week, Monday and Thursday—but she had mistakenly left it unclasped. The
checkbook had fallen out of the purse when she picked it up, in a hurry because
the taxi arrived sooner than expected, and it would simply be wrong to make the
poor driver wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Caitlyn wasn’t
guessing about any of it. She knew what had happened because she could see it in
her mind as clearly as if it were playing on a high definition television
screen in front of her. She didn’t know <i>how</i> she could see it in her
mind, only that she could. She had been experiencing these visions—“Flickers,”
she called them, due to their short but intense nature—for as long as she could
remember.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The Flickers were,
as far as she could tell, completely random occurrences. Sometimes they
disappeared for days, the visions going silent for such long stretches of time Cait
began to think maybe they had disappeared for good, only to return with a
vengeance, dozens of the intense mental movies blasting into her head over the
course of a few hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
More often than
not, though, she experienced one or two per day. They seemed normal and natural
to Caitlyn because she had been living with them her entire life, but she had
years ago given up trying to explain them to anyone else, tired of putting up
with the amused smiles or exasperated looks of people who simply did not
believe her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Back in the
Super-K, the elderly woman began frantically digging through the gigantic
purse, looking for the checkbook she would not find, apologizing for holding up
the line. The cashier, a bored teenage girl with purple-dyed hair who demonstrated
her annoyance by snapping her bubble gum every few seconds, stood with one hand
on her hip. She rolled her eyes at a heavyset woman standing in line behind Cait.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, dear,” the
elderly woman said, “I’m so sorry. I know I had my checkbook with me and now
it’s simply disappeared.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Listen, lady,”
the woman behind Cait said, “we all have places to be. How about you step aside
while you try to get your act together—not that you’ll be able to—so the rest
of us,” she raised her arms like Moses parting the Red Sea, “can pay for our
stuff and get the hell out of here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The elderly woman
was now almost in tears, flustered and confused. Cait turned and stared down
the woman behind her, locking eyes until the woman turned away impatiently. Cait
returned her gaze to Alice—that was the elderly woman’s name, the knowledge
came to Cait without warning—and said gently, “Do you think you might have
forgotten your checkbook at home?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I suppose I must
have, but I can’t imagine how. I always prepare in advance for my trip to the grocery
store. I place everything on the table in the morning while drinking my tea. I
do it the same way every time to avoid this exact problem. Now, where could
that checkbook be?” She began digging through her purse again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait put an arm on
her shoulder. “I’ll pay for your things.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, no, I
couldn’t allow you to do that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Of course you
can,” she answered gently. “I’ll pay for your purchases and then this nice
young woman behind the counter will give me a slip of paper. I’ll write my name
and address on it, and when you get home and find your checkbook, you can mail
me a check for the cost of your groceries. How does that sound?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, I don’t
know…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The woman behind Cait
snorted impatiently and Alice said, “All right, yes, I think that would be
fine. Thank you so much, young lady.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait paid the
cashier for both sets of groceries and then helped the woman load the bags into
the trunk of her tiny car, glad to be out of the store. The incident had left a
sour taste in her mouth and she felt badly for the old woman, who was obviously
alone in the world. She wondered about her history. Was there a husband who had
passed, leaving Alice to live out her final years alone? Were there children in
the picture who visited once a week, bringing a much-needed break from the
loneliness and isolation?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait considered
the Flickers a normal part of her life. She had long ago stopped thinking of
them as strange or unusual, but sometimes they were just so damned frustrating.
The mental movies the Flickers provided were almost always incomplete, lacking
any sense of context or cohesion—as in Alice’s case, where she learned just
enough about the woman’s life to become curious—leaving her unhappy and upset.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Of course,</i> she thought as she wheeled
her bags to her car<i>, I don’t know much
more of my own history than I
do of Alice’s. Someday that will change,</i> she vowed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Someday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait loaded her groceries
and drove slowly out of the lot. Over Tampa the clouds swirled, becoming
thicker and blacker by the minute. A storm was coming, and by all appearances,
it was going to be a bad one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 3<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Thirty Years Ago<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Everett, Massachusetts<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Robert
Ayers paced relentlessly, unwilling to leave his wife’s side but unable to
stand still. Back and forth he walked, mopping Virginia’s sweaty brow, holding
her hand, then marching to the bedroom door before turning on his heel and
retracing his steps to her bed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Shadows crept across the floor as the sun
lowered in the late-afternoon sky, the hands on Robert’s watch moving
simultaneously fast and slow. Virginia moaned and thrashed, screaming at the
onset of a contraction, relaxing when the pain eased. Sweat poured down her face.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“This is insane,” Robert muttered. “She
should be in a hospital. The days of giving birth at home ended decades ago.
This is unsafe, especially if something goes wrong.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>On the other side of the bed stood a
stranger dressed in grubby medical scrubs, a pair of latex gloves pulled over
his hands. As far as Robert could discern, the man had done little but observe
quietly as Virginia screamed and suffered. The man shot him a dark glance but
said nothing.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“She should be in the hospital,” Robert
repeated. He stopped pacing for a moment and leaned over, stroking his wife’s
cheek gently with the backs of his fingers. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t
seem to notice.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“Up to you,” the stranger said. “It’s your
choice. Call an ambulance if you wish, but understand I get paid my full fee
regardless of your decision.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Robert Ayers glared at his guest. “You’re
concerned about your fee? Jesus Christ, you’ll get your money, don’t worry
about that.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“Jesus Christ has nothing to do with this,”
the stranger shot back, grinning darkly, revealing dual rows of yellowing
teeth, irregular stumps thrusting at odd angles out of an unhealthy mouth. For
what felt like the hundredth time, Roger wondered where in the hell his wife
had found this man, this disgraced medical professional who had been stripped
of his license to practice and now skulked about in the night, earning a living
providing medical care deep in the shadows outside accepted society.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>He called himself “Doctor Jones”—Robert
hoped the man was better at doctoring than thinking up aliases—and when Robert
had asked Virginia a few days ago where she had found him, she had been unable
or unwilling to provide a satisfactory answer.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Locating and hiring “Doctor Jones” was just
the latest example of the strange and frightening ability manifested by his
wife on occasion. Robert had been completely unaware of her unusual gift until
after they married. At times Robert thought “bizarre” would be a better
description of Virginia’s ability to place herself inside the minds of other
people, strangers she had never before met and would never see again.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>It was creepy and unsettling.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>After their marriage, Virginia had described
her unusual talent to Robert to the best of her ability, begging his
forgiveness for not telling him sooner but admitting she feared the knowledge
might frighten him away. “And I can’t live without you,” she told him
tearfully.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>She described the moments of incredible
insight—“brain movies,” she called them—that came upon her without warning,
flashes of thoughts or mental pictures. They represented experiences other
people were having, things they might be thinking or plans they might be
making.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Suddenly, the strange, thought-provoking
scenarios that had occurred over the course of their courtship—none momentous
when considered on its own, but all quite disturbing when added together—all
made sense. The empathetic connection Virginia seemed sometimes to share with random
strangers, her inexplicable flashes of insight into lives and situations of
which she should have no knowledge, all of it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Initially he had been hurt and angry, even
frightened. Then, after some time and reflection, Robert had decided it was far
from the worst thing that could happen. Quite the opposite, actually, it was in
some ways reassuring. Virginia wasn’t a freak, she was simply a young woman
with an unusual, almost mystical ability; a gift she had not asked for and
could not divest herself of even if she wanted to.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Hell, if you really thought about it, the
gift was nothing more than a hyper-sensitivity to the needs of others. And that
was a good thing.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>That was what Robert told himself.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>And he stayed with Virginia.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>He assumed Virginia had used her gift to
find “Dr. Jones.” He assumed she had experienced one of her strange “brain
movies” when somewhere near him, maybe at the gas station or while in line at
the bank, had uncovered his disgraced standing in the medical community in her
mind and then had approached him to deliver her baby.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Virginia had adamantly refused to give birth
in the hospital. Her fear of the place was something Robert did not quite
understand—he found it illogical and senseless—but his wife would not be
dissuaded from her insistence that the delivery occur at home.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Now, with the woman he loved suffering
greatly, contractions wracking her body and “Dr. Jones” flippantly unconcerned,
Robert began to feel the tug of panic in his gut. Virginia could die in
childbirth; it was a very real possibility here in this non-sterile bedroom
equipped with only the most rudimentary medical equipment.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Or her baby could die.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Or, God forbid, both things could happen.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></i>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter
4<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The tenement was ancient, probably
over one hundred fifty years old. Its red brick construction had been worn down
by decades of extreme Boston weather until it now sagged and buckled as if the
act of defying gravity was becoming simply too much to bear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The building had
been condemned years ago, deemed unfit for human habitation and then ignored, never
renovated but never demolished, either. Now it sat, hulking and silent, its
interior stripped, everything of value removed, either legally by owners who
had long-since disappeared, or illegally by everyone else. Smashed-out windows
had been hastily boarded over with sheets of plywood, and the building’s
exterior doors drooped in proportion with the rest of the structure. The entrances
had been secured with locks which were broken off within days, likely within
hours, of their installation and the tenement now formed a convenient gathering
place for vagrants, drug dealers, users, and the occasional hooker performing a
fifty-dollar quickie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
And one other man.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo Cain was the
only resident of the top floor, having carved rudimentary living quarters out
of the empty shell of one of the apartments. In one corner of what at some time
in the past had been a living room, Milo had placed an air mattress, which represented
a massive improvement over sleeping on the buckling floor. A ratty wool blanket
lay over the mattress, one side eaten raggedly away by moths.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In the opposite
corner Milo had placed a Coleman cook stove, offering a way to heat coffee and
soup and the occasional canned spaghetti dinner. There was no oven in the
kitchen; that appliance had disappeared decades ago along with everything else
of value.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo sat unmoving,
butt on the floor, back against the wall. He stared across the room at nothing
in particular. The electricity had been turned off years ago, and candles placed
inside grimy old drinking glasses provided uneven lighting, splashing
flickering shadows across the wall. A gigantic spider moved slowly and clumsily
across the floor in front of Milo, its movements jerky and insectile. He barely
noticed and didn’t care.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
His head lolled,
striking the wall behind him as he was assaulted by a series of vivid images,
all different but uniformly dark and disturbing. In the first, a man dressed in
a stained wife-beater undershirt screamed at a woman, consumed by a white-hot rage
which Milo could feel but which was meaningless to him because the vision
provided no context. It was simply a scene, picked up at random by his
subconscious mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The next involved
a drug deal going down somewhere near the tenement. Milo watched through his
mind’s eye, floating high above the illicit meeting, silent and unseen. The
participants were nervous, both sides tense and fearful of a double-cross and the
potential for deadly violence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
That image seared
itself into Milo’s brain in an instant, only to be replaced by another, in
which a young child, perhaps ten years old, was torturing an alley cat,
skinning its tail with a dull knife. The cat screamed, the sound remarkably
human, the suffering animal writhing in pain and struggling to escape but unable
to do so. The cat snapped and spit as the skin under its fur was peeled away
and still the child continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Finally the images
came to an end—for now—disappearing as if with the flick of a switch, and Milo
sagged against the wall, spent. How long the break would last he had no way of
knowing. It might be a precious few minutes, or maybe even a couple of hours if
he was extremely lucky, which most of the time he was not. The only thing Milo
knew for certain was that before long the images would return and when they
did, they would be uniformly dark and disturbing and exhausting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
But there was one
silver lining. When the images returned, maybe they would provide him with information
he could use for his own purposes; there was always that possibility.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In the meantime he
would rest while he could. Milo considered crawling to his air mattress and
napping while he had the chance, but he was too fucking tired to move. The
visions were so goddamned draining.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Instead, he bent
down, head hanging between his spread knees, and closed his eyes. God, he was
tired. Maybe he would just lie down on his side right here on the floor and
nap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Then the visions exploded
into his brain, beginning anew. Milo Cain’s head snapped up, smashing against
the wall, and once again he stared off into space, lost and dazed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter
5<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Cait sipped her wine, enjoying the
last of the pot roast dinner and reveling in the nearly continuous stream of
compliments being lobbed her way by her boyfriend. Kevin Dalton was not a hard
guy to please when it came to food, but Cait wasn’t about to let that minor
detail lessen her appreciation of the moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Both worked long
hours in the hopes of building their careers, Cait as a real estate attorney and
Kevin as a Tampa police officer. But their long-standing tradition was a
home-cooked meal every Thursday night, and tonight it had been Cait’s turn to cook.
She had purchased everything she needed at the Super-K and then had spent the
next couple of hours peeling potatoes and carrots, tossing a salad and cooking
the roast, before Kevin’s arrival.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I gotta tell ya,”
Kevin said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, “this might be the
best meal I’ve ever eaten.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait smiled. “Like
I’ve never heard that before. I think it may have had more to do with the fact that
all you had to eat today was half a cheese sandwich for lunch.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Duly stipulated.
Whew, that was quite the vigorous cross-examination, counselor. You’re really
getting this lawyer thing down.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait laughed and
shook her head. “I do real estate law, remember? We don’t cross-examine
people.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s a shame,”
Kevin answered, “because you’d be really good at it. Anyway, I’ll admit it, I
was beyond hungry. But I’m still not backing off my testimony. Everything was delicious.
I’m stuffed.” He patted his belly and grinned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If you unbuckle
your belt and unsnap the top button of your jeans, you’re out of here. And you
better have saved a little room for dessert and coffee.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Note to self,”
Kevin replied. “No belt unbuckling. At least not until later.” He waggled his
eyebrows suggestively and Cait laughed. “And as far as dessert is concerned, I’ve
never passed it up yet, and I’m not about to start now. What’s on the menu?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Nothing. At least,
for now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Excuse me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You heard me. I’m
withholding dessert—it’s your favorite, by the way, homemade strawberry
shortcake—until I get what I want.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ooh, kinky,”
Kevin said, nodding in appreciation. “If it involves a seductive striptease and
grapes being hand-fed to me by a certain sexy young woman, count me in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You wish. It
involves you letting me in on this big surprise you claimed to have in store
for me. No dessert, of the food <i>or</i>
sexual kind, until you spill the beans.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wow, that’s cold.
Lawyering’s changing you, sweetheart.” Kevin’s eyes narrowed and Cait smacked
him on the arm with a laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Come on,” she
said. “Give it up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“All right, all
right, I can’t take any more. You’ve worn me down.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Was there ever
any doubt I would?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good point. Okay,
you know how you always say you’d like to learn more about your past—the
identity of your birth parents, where they live, why they gave you up for
adoption, all of that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure. I just
don’t know where to begin. I have no idea where I was born, no idea what my
parents’ names might be, no clue what agency may have handled the adoption.
There’s nothing to go on.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Exactly,” Kevin
said. “There’s nothing for <i>you </i>to go on. But a professional could
probably handle the job.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe,” Cait
answered. “But I don’t have the money to hire a professional, you know that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You don’t have to
hire a professional.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And why’s that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Because I already
did.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Uh, Kevin, aren’t
you forgetting something?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“You</i> don’t have the money for that,
either.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s where
you’re wrong. It just so happens I’ve been saving up for a while, waiting to
surprise you. I have enough cash put aside to at least get started, so I went
out yesterday and hired an investigator.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait paused at the
kitchen sink where she had been rinsing dishes. She stared at Kevin, saying
nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well?” he
prompted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Are you
surprised?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Surprised would
be an understatement.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kevin frowned. “What’s
wrong? I thought you’d be excited.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait rinsed her
hands under the warm water and dried them on a towel. “It’s not that I’m not happy,
I am. I guess I just never really thought I would have the opportunity to
discover my heritage. It’s going to take a little while to get used to the idea
that I might be able to learn something after all these years.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well,” Kevin
said, “the guy has a great reputation and all of his references check out. But
he told me not to get my hopes up, that it’s a long shot at best. He may not be
able to find out anything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It doesn’t
matter,” Cait said, hanging the dishtowel on a rack. She walked across the
kitchen and sat in Kevin’s lap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It doesn’t?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No. What matters
is that you cared enough to do such a thoughtful thing for me. That was really,
really sweet. It’s just one more reason why I love you.” She put her arms
around his neck and nibbled his ear. “Now, about that dessert. Still hungry?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m suddenly
ravenous.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The strawberry
shortcake went uneaten.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 6<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Thirty
years ago<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Everett,
Massachusetts<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Virginia
moaned and thrashed as another contraction struck and Robert’s panic bubbled
closer to the surface. He decided he could no longer stand the agony of
inaction. He had to do something. He just had to. He mopped his wife’s forehead
with the cool cloth—Christ, she was sweating so much!—and caressed her cheek.
Her eyes remained closed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“That’s it,” he announced. “I’ve had it.
This insanity has to end.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“Dr. Jones” gave no response. It was as if
he hadn’t even heard Robert speak. He seemed preoccupied and Robert wondered if
perhaps he was high on some medication. “She’s going to the hospital,” Robert
continued. “I’m calling an ambulance.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>He strode across the room.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Made it to the open door.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>And Virginia screamed, her voice jagged and
high-pitched, intense now with anger, not pain. “NO! You will not call an
ambulance! I’m having this baby right here. You agreed to this and you will NOT
BACK OUT NOW!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Robert stopped in his tracks, confused, the
certainty of a moment ago gone. At the foot of the bed, he thought he saw a
smile flit across “Dr. Jones’s” face and disappear.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Then Virginia screamed again as another
contraction struck. She sounded like she was being beaten with a baseball bat.
The contractions were coming more rapidly now and increasing in intensity.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Robert rushed back to her bedside. He
realized it was probably too late for an ambulance now, anyway. Something was
going to happen soon, he could feel it. The baby was going to be born in the
next few minutes or…well…Robert refused to consider the alternative.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Again Virginia screamed, her voice like a
buzz saw ripping through a stubborn plank. She was panting and sweating, screaming
constantly now, thrashing on her blood-and-sweat-soaked bed. The unlicensed
doctor bent down over Virginia, somehow deciding now was the time to act. “You
need to push,” he announced softly.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“I can’t,” she screamed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“PUSH,” Dr. Jones said again, more
forcefully this time, grabbing her by the shoulders, and she pushed. She
screamed and cried and sweated and swore, but she pushed, and then pushed
again, continued pushing when she swore she could not, and then it was over and
Virginia Ayers had given birth to a baby girl.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>And then to a baby boy.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></i>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter
7<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Milo Cain wandered down Washington
Street toward Roxbury, moving slowly, randomly. The night was still young, so he
was forced to share the sidewalk with plenty of other people. Few took direct
notice of him, but, as always, the majority of pedestrians gave him a wide
berth, somehow unconsciously sensing menace. Mothers tightened their grips on
their children, adults averted their eyes at his approach.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
His face was
nearly invisible, sunken deep inside the shadows of a hooded grey New England
Patriots sweatshirt. Baggy jeans, desperately in need of a washing they would
not receive, threatened to slip down his narrow hips, somehow defying the laws
of gravity and staying up. Tattered Chuck Taylors flopped on his feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A group of three
young black males approached, flat-brimmed baseball caps askew, sauntering
shoulder-to-shoulder, forcing Milo off the sidewalk and into the gutter. One of
them shot him a glance, silent and resentful. They passed and Milo waited for a
sign and received nothing, so he continued on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A small
hole-in-the-wall tavern appeared on the right, flickering neon Coors sign
illuminating a plate-glass window that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the
Bush administration. The first one. Inside the bar, a tired-looking middle-aged
waitress schlepped glasses of beer clustered atop a small round tray. As Milo
watched, a heavy-set drunk lost his footing and stumbled into the waitress, sloshing
beer over the sides of the glasses and off the edge of the tray in a golden
mini-tsunami. No one paid any attention and the waitress soldiered on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Two girls, white
and young, blonde, clearly college students, too ignorant to realize they had
no business being in this area—Milo’s favorite kind of girl—rounded the corner and
turned in his direction. They chatted quietly, unaware of their surroundings, oblivious
to the potential for danger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The girls passed
on his left, quickening their strides, and his head snapped back like he had
been struck in the face as an image seared itself into his mind. The girls were
students at Northeastern University. Juniors. The one passing closest to Milo was
named Angela and she was cheating on her boyfriend, sleeping with her married Philosophy
professor for no reason other than it seemed exciting and daring. She had told
no one, not even her best friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
As quickly as it
had slammed into his brain, the vision vanished. The two clueless college girls
continued on, moving away from Milo and he paused, stopping in the middle of the
sidewalk, analyzing what he had just learned, trying to decide if the information
was in any way useful. He glanced at his feet and saw sickly-looking weeds struggling
through the cracks in the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Then he raised his
head and the Northeastern students were instantly forgotten as he locked in on
what he now knew he had been waiting for. Across Washington Street, a young
Hispanic boy ambled along the sidewalk. The kid was perhaps ten years old, wearing
gang colors, MP3 listening buds sprouting from his ears like cancerous growths.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo didn’t even
need a vision to tell him what he needed to know. The kid was a runner, a
middleman employed by local gang members to deliver product to customers and
cash back to the dealers. It was the oldest scam going. As a minor, if
apprehended with illegal drugs, the kid would face nothing more than a slap on
the wrist, whereas the older gangbangers could be put away for years, even for
life, depending on their arrest records.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
What Milo didn’t
know was whether the kid was carrying drugs or cash; whether he had already
made a delivery or was on his way to do so. Milo had no need or desire for
drugs, his reality was warped enough from the nearly unending stream of visions
he experienced. Cash, however, was another matter entirely. For a man living on
the farthest outskirts of society, cash was indispensable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo crossed
Washington Street at a jog, moving quickly enough to gain ground on the kid but
not so fast he might draw unwanted attention. In this neighborhood, a sprinting
young man most often suggested a felony in progress. Behind Milo a cab slammed
on its brakes, nearly clipping him as it slewed to the side of the street. The
furious cabdriver unleashed a string of broken-English epithets into the muggy
night, his anger unacknowledged by Milo or anyone else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When he reached
the opposite sidewalk, Milo slowed. Now roughly twenty feet behind the kid, he maintained
his distance. And waited expectantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He didn’t have to
wait long. In seconds a vision sizzled into his fevered brain like a lightning
bolt. <i>It’s money, </i>he thought. <i>The kid is carrying the proceeds from a drug
deal</i>. It wasn’t much, only a couple of hundred bucks, but beggars couldn’t
be choosers, especially when you took the expression literally. Two hundred dollars
would go a long way when you had nothing but a little spare change rattling
around in your pocket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo picked up his
pace slightly, staying attuned to his surroundings as much as possible while
still absorbing the vision. The money was in the right thigh pocket of the
kid’s cargo shorts, nine twenty dollar bills and two crumpled tens stuffed next
to a throwaway cell phone. Milo could see it in his mind as clear as day. In
the left pocket the kid carried a knife, a weapon which would wind up being completely
useless to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It was perfect.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
What was not perfect
was the fact that the kid was almost back to the burned-out shell of an
abandoned tenement—a building not much different than Milo’s—which served as
his gang’s headquarters, only another block-and-a-half away on the left. Once
within sight of that warehouse, the kid would be untouchable, as the gang would
have a team of sentries posted, young men who were heavily armed and not likely
to approve of their runner being taken down before their very eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo knew he had
to act now—stealth and surprise would work in his favor. He resumed jogging and
wrapped his fingers around the stolen Glock 19 inside the hand-warmer pouch of
his sweatshirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In seconds he was
couple of feet behind the kid, who was still bopping along to the music in his
ears, feeling secure in a way he never would again. Milo pulled the Glock from
his pocket and in one smooth motion lifted his arm to smash its butt against
the side of the kid’s head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The boy had begun
to turn at the last moment, some instinct alerting him to the impending attack.
His reaction was much too late. He spun around and the gun caught him just
above his right eye. He dropped like a felled tree, blood gushing from a jagged
gash in his forehead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
This was the critical
moment. Time was precious. The kid moaned and clutched at his skull, almost but
not quite unconscious. Milo knelt and reached into the left pocket of his
victim’s cargo shorts, withdrawing the hunting knife still secured in its
scabbard and jamming it into his pocket. He didn’t really need it, owned plenty
of knives already, but he had no desire to find he had misjudged the extent of
the kid’s injuries by getting shanked as soon as he turned his back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo pulled the
wad of cash and the cell phone out of his victim’s pants, then stood and began
walking briskly away from the tenement building. He made it half a block before
the first rough shouts of surprise went up. He didn’t turn around, didn’t
glance behind, didn’t do anything. He just kept walking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In a matter of
minutes, Milo had left the scene of the attack behind and was well on his way
to safety of his “apartment.” He assumed as a matter of course that he had been
seen attacking the kid, but the likelihood of being identified was almost nil
between his outfit—the uniform of urban anonymity—and the fact that he rarely
spent time in this neighborhood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
To be safe, Milo
knew he would have to avoid Washington Street for a good long while, but the
prospect didn’t concern him. Boston was a big city and there were plenty of areas
suitable for hunting. All one needed was the time to seek out victims.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
And Milo Cain had plenty
of time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter
8<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The Private Investigator’s name was
Arlen Hirschberg and he was hungry. Specifically, he was hungry for a turkey
melt with crispy fries and a chocolate shake. Cait knew this because she could
see it in her head; the vision exploded into her brain the moment she stepped
into Hirschberg’s office. It was not exactly the sort of he-man meal Cait would
have expected out of a macho private detective, but she had been on the
receiving end of Flickers for her entire life and had never known them to be
wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Hirschberg had
called yesterday and scheduled the appointment, saying only that he had some news
to share. When Kevin expressed surprise that the PI had obtained results
already, he laughed and said he would be happy to sit on the information for a
couple of weeks if it made Kevin happy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Now, sitting in
the P.I.’s office, it occurred to Cait that her expectations of what a private
investigator would look like had been inaccurate all around. She had expected
to meet a gruff, burly man wearing an ill-fitting suitcoat over a leather
shoulder holster into which would be crammed a big handgun. He would have a
booming voice and arms like stevedores and his office would be small and
Spartan, with a ceiling fan moving the air around and a metal filing cabinet in
the corner behind his beat-up desk. He would be the Hollywood noir cliché of a
private detective.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The reality was
almost the complete opposite. The Hirschberg Investigations office was big and
airy, with framed, signed prints of American sports heroes adorning the walls.
To Cait’s right, Bobby Orr flew through the air, hockey stick held high in
triumph, forever celebrating his Stanley Cup-winning overtime goal for the
Boston Bruins in 1970. To her left, a young Michael Jordan slammed down a dunk,
tongue wagging out of his mouth. Behind her, some NFL kicker she didn’t
recognize was booting a football into a raging blizzard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Instead of a
clichéd cheap suit, the private detective was dressed casually but crisply in
tan Dockers and midnight blue golf shirt. His weapon, if he was sporting one,
was nowhere to be seen. There was no ceiling fan, and the filing cabinets weren’t
even in this office, they were located behind Hirschberg’s receptionist in the
waiting area. Behind his desk, the glass wall offered a breathtaking view of
the Tampa cityscape, with the greenish-blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico
beyond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In short, Caitlyn
realized this was no down-on-his-luck Hollywood PI. Everything about Arlen
Hirschberg screamed competence and success, and Cait supposed that was exactly
the point. She wondered how much money Kevin had had to shell out to secure this
man’s services. She had asked him that very question on the way over but he
refused even to discuss the issue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So,” Hirschberg
said after introducing himself and seating them, “can I get you something to
drink? Coffee? Tea? Sparkling water?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m fine,
thanks,” Cait replied, smiling. If she had held on to any remaining stereotypes
about Arlen Hirschberg, the offer of sparkling water pretty much destroyed
them. Her adopted father had been a devoted fan of the 1970’s TV series, <i>The
Rockford Files</i>, in which James Garner played a down-on-his-luck private
detective. As a child, Cait had watched just about every episode with him on TV
Land and she was almost certain he had never once offered sparkling water to
anyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, then, let’s
get right to it. You have quite the unusual history, young lady,” Hirschberg
said with a smile. “In most cases, when an adopted child wishes to unearth her
history, the official records may have been sealed to protect the privacy of
the birth mother and thus are not accessible, but there <i>are </i>records.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait nodded. “I
understand. But that’s not the case with me, is it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, Ms Connelly,
it’s not. In your case, there <i>were </i>no official records, accessible or
otherwise. You weren’t born in the Tampa area, I’m sure you are aware of that
much. Do you have any idea where you were<i> </i>born?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“The only
information I ever got from my adoptive parents regarding my birth history was
that I was born somewhere in the northeastern United States. That’s as specific
as they would ever get. I got the impression that even they didn’t know exactly
where I came from.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And your adoptive
parents are now deceased, is that correct?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, that’s
right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Hirschberg crossed
his arms and cupped his chin in one hand. “What do you know about the black
market baby trade, Ms Connelly?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The question
caught her by surprise. She paused and then shook her head. “Um, nothing,
really.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You’re not alone.
It’s not a subject that gets a lot of media attention. But it should. There is
a flourishing market in this country for people who want babies but are not
able to have their own and, for whatever reason, cannot or will not go through
the normal and accepted—and legal—channels of adoption. This market has existed
for decades, centuries probably, and continues to this day. It will likely
continue long into the future.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Are you saying I
was a black market baby?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It would seem
logical, wouldn’t it, given the lack of official documentation regarding the
circumstances of your birth?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait nodded and
Hirschberg continued. “This would explain why there seems to be no way to trace
your adoption through legal channels. There <i>are </i>no legal channels to
speak of.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But you said you
had news for me. If there’s no way to trace my history, why am I here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Hirschberg held up
a finger. “I didn’t say there was no way to trace your history. I said there
was no way to do it through legal channels. I’ve worked in law enforcement my
entire adult life and over the course of my career have served as a patrol
officer, a homicide detective and federal agent, among other things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Over time I
developed a fairly extensive network of contacts, as you might imagine. In your
case, mining those contacts was problematic due to the fact that three decades
has passed since the adoption occurred. Many people who might have been
familiar with the circumstances of your case are now dead or moved on years ago
and cannot be found. However, ‘problematic’ does not mean ‘impossible,’ and I
was able eventually to secure the information you wanted.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Cait shook her
head, confused. “How in the world could you do that if there are no records?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh there are
records, Ms Connelly. There are always records, at least in these sorts of
cases. They may not be official government records, all neat and clean and
notarized and legally binding, but they do exist. And those records are
accurate, certainly accurate enough for your purposes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So…” After years
of dealing with the pain that came from assuming she would never learn the
specifics of her familial background, Cait discovered that being on the verge
of getting that information was more than a little daunting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She took a deep
breath and started again. “So, where am I from, Mr. Hirschberg?<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter
9<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The visions pounded through Milo Cain’s
head, one after the other, like movie trailers playing non-stop on some cursed
screen in his brain. These trailers, though, often made no sense. They were mostly
short snippets of lives being lived by anonymous people Milo would never meet.
Pointless visions of ordinary actions, like a woman washing the dinner dishes
or a man making plans to play basketball the next day. Their very pointlessness
made Milo Cain’s torture even more difficult to bear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He sat in the tiny
shell of an apartment, back propped against the wall—his usual method for
riding out the storm of visions—waiting for them to take a break. They always
did, eventually, just as they always came roaring back eventually as well. When
they finally, mercifully, came to an end, an exhausted Milo Cain considered how
to spend his evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It wasn’t supposed
to be like this. Milo had survived a traumatic early childhood involving
physical and mental abuse, had survived and moved on and deserved better. Up
until the age of five, he had lived in suburban Austin, Texas with his adoptive
parents, both executives in the nuclear power industry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Normal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Respected.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Abusive to Milo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He didn’t remember
much of anything about Texas, but one thing he <i>did </i>know was that while
living there he could not recall so much as a single episode involving visions
blasting into his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Milo remembered
with crystal clarity the first time it had ever experienced a vision. When he
was five years old, the Cain family moved to Amesbury, Massachusetts, a seaside
community on Boston’s North Shore. His mother and father had both received
promotions involving higher pay and additional responsibilities to work at the Seabrook
nuclear plant located up Interstate 95 in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The incident
occurred at the end of the family’s first day in Massachusetts. Everyone was exhausted
from the move, hunkered down in a motel for the night, in bed early because the
following day was to be spent conducting a lengthy house-hunting search. Milo
lay in the room with his father and mother, almost asleep in his rollaway bed despite
the discomfort of the lumpy mattress, when into his head blasted a strange,
frightening vision, almost but not quite a dream.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In the vision, his
parents were lying in bed, and his father was doing something to his mother; it
almost looked as though he was attacking her, hurting her somehow. And she must
be getting hurt, because she was moaning, her head thrashing back and forth on
the pillow. It was horrifying, and not just because the young Milo Cain didn’t
understand what it meant. What made it all the more frightening was that he had
no idea where it had come from.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The disturbing
vision had all the qualities of the dream state, the vivid colors and the hyper-reality,
but it could not be a dream because Milo was not yet asleep. Even five year
olds know you have to be asleep to dream, and the moment the vision began, Milo
opened his eyes wide in mute, helpless terror, mouth agape, waiting for the
scene to end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When the vision
did end—thankfully, this first one was short and to the point, even if Milo
didn’t understand the point—his head lolled to the side, and he found himself simultaneously
comforted and horrified by the sight of the sleeping forms of his parents in
the bed across the semi-dark motel room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
That long-ago
night in Massachusetts represented the beginning of the visions for young Milo Cain.
The family found a home and remained on the North Shore, and as Milo grew, the
visions became more and more pronounced, growing ever darker and more disturbed
even as his treatment at the hands of his parents became more and more twisted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
For a short time
he tried to describe the horror of the visions to his mother and father, eventually
coming to the realization they didn’t believe him, would never believe him, and
would not care even if they <i>did </i>believe
him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After that Milo
simply gave up. He stopped telling his parents about the strange scenes exploding
into his head, the visions that now populated more and more of his waking hours.
And he began to fall behind in school. His teachers assumed he was daydreaming
and uninterested when his features slackened and his eyes glazed over and he
stared at the blackboard or out the window, not disturbing anyone or causing
trouble but clearly not paying attention, either.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He became
withdrawn and sullen at home, spending all his time in his room, stretched out
on the bed staring at the wall, unwilling to discuss his problem but unable to
make it stop. Soon after, neighborhood pets began disappearing, mostly cats and
a couple of small dogs, the occasional mutilated small-animal carcass thrown
carelessly into the woods along the side of the road.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
One morning in
midsummer 2001, when Milo Cain was not quite eighteen years old, he walked out
of his parents’ Amesbury home and never returned. Over the next decade, Milo
wandered throughout New England, traveling as far south as Bridgeport,
Connecticut and as far north as Jonesport, Maine, at times gaining temporary
respites from the torture as the visions receded, at other times suffering
mightily as they attacked with renewed fervor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
But they never
completely disappeared, and Milo found it easiest to survive inside the
sprawling Boston metropolitan complex, where he could disappear, losing himself
in the crowds of down-on-their luck vagrants who, like himself, fit in nowhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
There was another
advantage to living in Boston. Milo’s compulsion to <i>do </i>things, bad
things, horrible, twisted things, had blossomed as the visions increased in
frequency and intensity. His need to injure, to destroy, to tear apart based on
the information contained in those visions was often overwhelming, and this
compulsion was fed most easily in the city. The atrocities he committed were
not invisible in Boston, of course, but they were much easier to get away with
in the teeming metropolis than in the wide-open spaces of a small town like Amesbury,
where everyone had known him and seen him as a freak.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After years of
restless wandering, Milo moved to the city permanently at the age of
twenty-two, never staying in one place too long, moving around obsessively.
When his compulsions began to attract the attention of the wrong people, he
would simply pick up stakes and wander to another neighborhood, from Dorchester
to Roxbury to Mattapan to Back Bay, thrilled that by traveling just a few
blocks he could begin fresh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
There was the
occasional brush with the law; it was almost impossible to be a vagrant even in
a city as large as Boston and not catch the eye of the authorities every so
often. But to Milo’s continuing amazement, most of the suspicion involved his
appearance, his dirty clothes and unkempt hair, those superficial things that
made the good citizens of Massachusetts uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The things that <i>should
</i>have been of interest to the police—the abductions, the torture, now of
humans rather than animals—never seemed to find their way back to him, despite
the fact he rarely made more than a token attempt at disguising his activities,
and despite the fact that the media had begun playing up the horrifying
exploits of “Mr. Midnight,” the tag a clever television news reporter had hung
on him a few months ago, when a trash bag filled with decaying body parts had
been discovered behind a restaurant in Chinatown.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He supposed his
visions were largely responsible for his invincibility. Thanks to the images
flashing into his head, he was able to select as victims only people who would
pose no more than a minor threat to him. The irony of being insulated and
protected by the very visions that tortured him day after day and made his life
a living hell was not lost on Milo; he appreciated it in the way an entomologist
might appreciate being bitten by a particularly poisonous insect: the
experience was painful and rewarding at the same time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
All of this ran
through Milo Cain’s mind as he leaned against the bleak apartment wall. He
savored the clarity of thought that accompanied his brief respites from the
visions. The damned images spent so much time bouncing around inside his brain
that when they finally subsided, his head felt large and airy, like a penthouse
apartment that has been cleared of all furniture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He considered the
long night ahead, stretching dark and empty before him. His skin was beginning
to feel tight and hot, and his breathing felt ragged and constricted. His
obsessions were beckoning again. It was time to play.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Tonight he would
find a streetwalker. Playing with hookers was especially enjoyable. Milo loved
taking the hardened, streetwise bitches, with their garish makeup and their
superior, sneering attitudes and turning them into helpless victims, begging
and pleading for their worthless lives, suspecting but never knowing for
certain until the very end what their fate was going to be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The risk of
getting caught was minimal, too, with hookers. Dealing with pros meant dealing
with people who, like himself, spent their days and nights on the fringes of
accepted society. Their pimps would miss them, but that would be it. There
would likely be no worried husbands or boyfriends to report them missing, no
concerned coworkers to alert the authorities when they didn’t report to the
office Monday morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
They would simply
vanish.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
So that was it,
then. He would take a walk tonight and let the visions lead him to the perfect
victim. The visions would be there to guide him. They always were.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
MR. MIDNIGHT is available for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Midnight-Allan-Leverone-ebook/dp/B00GFX6U1E/" target="_blank">Kindle here</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
MR. MIDNIGHT is available in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Midnight-Allan-Leverone/dp/1937771601/" target="_blank">paperback here</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-73126909394455647952013-09-21T15:09:00.000-04:002013-09-21T15:09:11.823-04:00The cover art for my new novel, MR. MIDNIGHT, coming in November from DarkFuse:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f0SU-igqN1w/Uj3utM_nUlI/AAAAAAAAATA/EVo3RBVoGis/s1600/mr_midnight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f0SU-igqN1w/Uj3utM_nUlI/AAAAAAAAATA/EVo3RBVoGis/s400/mr_midnight.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-67069751614339880052013-05-19T21:37:00.001-04:002013-05-19T21:37:47.455-04:00Hotel Hell - Adventures in Traveling<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In a scene from my latest thriller, PARALLAX VIEW, my main characters, Tracie Tanner and Shane Rowley, spend a night holed up in a fleabag hotel in New Haven, Connecticut, while they try to figure out why the hell a group of assassins are trying to kill them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In a case of life imitating art, my wife and I spent this past weekend in a fleabag hotel just outside New Haven while we attended my daughter's graduation weekend at Quinnipiac University.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Admittedly, no one was trying to kill us. As far as I know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And we didn't do it intentionally; we had no desire to spend two nights in the New Haven Arms, which is the name of the fictional hotel where Tracie and Shane spend one memorable night. In fact, we booked a room at a nationally franchised place, which would lead you to believe (at least it did us) that the place would probably at least measure up to some minimal standard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You would be wrong. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This place was almost comically bad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We had asked for a cot to be put in the room in case we needed it for our son. No cot. It turned out we didn't need it, but unless the hotel staff possesses an impressive mind-reading ability, I'm assuming they would have no way of knowing that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There were virtually no electrical outlets. After a hunt of </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">which Sherlock Holmes would be proud, we found an outlet hidden behind the TV stand, into which one of those expanded outlet things had been plugged. Unfortunately, it already had a bunch of stuff stuck into it. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We found another outlet cleverly hidden behind one of the beds. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that was it, with the exception of the outlet in the bathroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The towel racks were tilted. Literally. I'll bet one of them was nearly an inch off-level, which may not sound like much, to a marginally-OCD jackass like myself it might as well have been ninety degrees off. Honestly, these towel racks looked as though they had been installed by a drunken eight year old. In a hurry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Three lamps just randomly stopped working on the first night of our stay, rendering the lighting of the room's interior something only Vincent Price would have found pleasing. By the second night, one of the lamps was magically working again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But the best thing of all was the hairdryer. You know how hotels provide hairdryers for their guests who don't have the foresight to bring one? Well, ours was a little plastic thing mounted in a stand on the wall next to the door. The electrical outlet was located next to the sink, meaning the dryer's electrical cord was draped directly over the sink, hanging maybe a foot above it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For real!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, I'm not complaining, although I admit it probably sounds like I am. We waited until the last minute to make reservations on what was going to be a very busy travel weekend, with Quinnipiac's and Yale's graduations being held on the same day, so it would make sense the best lodging would be filled up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And we were pretty busy, so it's not like we spent the weekend lounging in the hotel room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But just in case this is some kind of karmic revenge for my scene in PARALLAX VIEW, the next time Tracie Tanner needs to stay in a hotel, I'm making it a five-star luxury suite.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You know, just in case.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-72419645020141506982013-02-05T09:00:00.000-05:002013-02-05T09:00:11.492-05:00The week I became a bestselling author<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One year ago today I became a bestselling author.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">That seems like a pretty cut-and-dried statement, but as with everything else in life, it seems there are degrees of bestsellerdom. The top of the heap, maybe, would be occupying a spot on the New York Times bestseller lists. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I've never done that. In all likelihood, never will.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">At the bottom of the heap, maybe, would be occupying a spot on the list of bestselling titles of a tiny publisher nobody has ever heard of.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I've never done that, either, and have no intention of ever doing so.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8J_EHau2zvw/UQ2jY8cgoVI/AAAAAAAAARw/ThP_o5sesNI/s1600/Lonely+Mile+Cover+final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ea="true" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8J_EHau2zvw/UQ2jY8cgoVI/AAAAAAAAARw/ThP_o5sesNI/s320/Lonely+Mile+Cover+final.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">So in the universe of "bestselling" authors, I'm somewhere in between the two extremes. But I still get goosebumps when I think about the fact that a year ago today, my thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lonely-Mile-ebook/dp/B005DAX06I" target="_blank">THE LONELY MILE</a>, blasted into Amazon's Top 100 overall paid bestseller list, eventually peaking at #21.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I wrote the 21st bestselling book at Amazon out of the millions of books available at the world's most prolific bookselling site.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I don't say this because I'm boasting. I'm not. It's actually just the opposite - I still have a hard time believing the events of last February actually happened, despite the fact I can remember them like they took place just last week. I'll never forget them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The book had been released the previous summer by StoneHouse Ink, and despite our best efforts, sales had languished at around thirty a month, give or take. Other authors, I'm sure, can relate. There are a lot of books out there, all seeking readers. Most of those books will never find any.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">In mid-January I asked Aaron Patterson at StoneHouse about the possibility of taking advantage of Amazon's new Kindle Select Program and making the book free for a couple of days. I thought we might give away a couple of hundred copies and take advantage of the resulting exposure, maybe selling a few extra copies when we started charging again for the book. What did we have to lose?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">THE LONELY MILE went free on February 2 and within hours had zoomed to Number One on the free list, where it stayed for nearly three full days. By the time we ended the free promotion, we had given away 46,000 copies and gotten invaluable exposure.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">On February 5, one year ago today, THE LONELY MILE returned to its regular price of $2.99 and began selling at an incredible rate. By the end of the day we had broken into the Top 100 paid list at Amazon. Over the course of the next three days we sold eight <em>thousand </em>copies, a rate that would probably disappoint Lee Child but which completely flabbergasted me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">On the afternoon of February 7, which was a Thursday and the third day of incredible sales, I made the comment to my wife that maybe this was really happening, that maybe we had crossed some invisible threshold and my name was finally going to become recognizable, a key aspect when it comes to selling books.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The entire last three days I had been holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for sales to dry up. They never did. Then I made that comment to my wife, and right on cue, sales began slipping.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It took a few more days to drop out of the Top 100, and for the entire month of February we ended up with over 12,000 sales, my best sales month ever by far and one I'll never forget.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">A year later, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lonely-Mile-ebook/dp/B005DAX06I" target="_blank">THE LONELY MILE</a> still sells the most consistently well of all my titles, and that's cool. It's a book I'm extremely proud of and a damned good story, if I do say so myself.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I'll never forget the week that made me a bestselling author, and while I'm working hard to get back there, if it never happens I'll always remember the week (and maybe even the month) I outsold Lee Child, Michael Connelly, and so many other unbelievable authors.</span>Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-58009123349045221772013-01-19T22:20:00.000-05:002013-01-19T22:20:54.999-05:00Review - HEART-SHAPED BOX, by Joe Hill<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Judas Coyne is an aging heavy-metal rock god who seems to be the very cliche of the over-the-hill rock star, from the requisite dead band members, to his interest in the bizarre and the freakish, to his succession of doomed relationships with female groupies whose ages are getting farther and farther removed from his own.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Jude lives on a farm in upstate New York. His "career" now consists of writing and recording songs for his own benefit - hiding them away like he hides himself away, letting his personal assistant handle the minutiae of real life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">When his assistant mentions he's run across the opportunity online to purchase a dead man's ghost - by way of the corpse's suit - for a thousand dollars, Jude jumps at the chance. What else would he do? What else would his fans have expected him to do?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The suit arrives at Jude's door a few days later, and almost immediately, strange occurrences begin happening. Frightening visions. Trance-like states of hypnosis, with blackouts and worse. Then things move quickly from bad to worse, and before you know it, Jude and his girl - a flavor-of-the-month goth chick nicknamed "Georgia" - are running for their lives, trying to outdistance an angry spirit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I'm not going to run down the plot any further, partly because so many other reviewers already have, and partly because by now you've already decided whether HEART-SHAPED BOX is your cup of tea or not. In some ways it's a very traditional ghost story and in others, not so much.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Heart-Shaped-Box-ebook/dp/B004O0UTVM/" target="_blank">HEART-SHAPED BOX</a> was originally published in 2007, and I never bothered reading it because, quite simply, I didn't give author Joe Hill a chance. The fact that he was Stephen King's son was supposed to be some kind of big secret, but it was about the worst-kept secret since, well, some other really badly kept secret.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I figured here was the classic example of a guy making money and gaining fame off his father's name, and the fact that he was writing under a <em>different</em> name made it somehow worse. More cynical and calculated, or something.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Boy, was that a mistake, and not just because it shows what a shallow asshole I can be at times.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Joe Hill can really write. He takes a story that's been told around a million campfires and lifts it above the commonplace and into something special, developing a gauzy, southern-gothic atmospheric tension when the story moves from New York State to Georgia, on to Florida, and finally ending in Coyne's boyhood home, a dilapidated farm in Louisiana.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">While I resisted reading Joe Hill's work because of his family name, it seems almost comically ironic to note that HEART-SHAPED BOX contains much of the stuff that made me such a die-hard fan of Stephen King's early work, most notably <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Salems-Lot-ebook/dp/B0019LV31E/" target="_blank">'SALEM'S LOT</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Shining-ebook/dp/B001BANK32/" target="_blank">THE SHINING</a>:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">- The ability to create characters we may not like but can't help rooting for, maybe because we see ourselves in these people who so often act out of self-interest and personal greed, but who - we hope - have the chance to redeem themselves in the end, perhaps because we hold out the same hope for <em>our</em>selves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">- The ability to insert humor into the narrative in the unlikeliest places and at the unlikeliest times, without taking away from the suspense, and even, as impossible as it seems, enhancing it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">- The ability to draw the reader into the world he's created, so by the end of the book you're not just <em>watching</em> Judas Coyne and Mary Beth try to fight their way out of the mess they're in, you're right there with them, experiencing the horror that is the relentlessly vengeful Craddock McDermott and his smoke-blue pickup truck.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">If you're smarter or more perceptive than I am, maybe you'll see where the book is going before it gets there, and if so, good for you. But I didn't see it coming, so when Hill wraps up the mystery of <em>why</em> Judas Coyne had been chosen - and he was chosen - for haunting, it's a satisfying resolution.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Of course, there's still the pesky question of how - and even <em>whether </em>-the aging rock star and his troubled, three-decades-younger girlfriend will survive, but if you haven't read the book yet, you're going to have to do so to get the answer to that one.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I owe you an apology, Joe Hill. I'm sure you don't care one way or the other, but I didn't give you a chance, and it was my loss missing out on one outstanding horror novel for six years.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Great book. If you love horror - not blood and guts and gore, but real psychological horror - and you haven't read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Heart-Shaped-Box-ebook/dp/B004O0UTVM/" target="_blank">HEART-SHAPED BOX</a> yet, go get it. You won't be sorry.</span>Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-32805028674257872262013-01-15T21:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T21:00:02.235-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Ten<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Ten:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<strong><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></strong><strong><br /></strong><strong>10</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>May 30, 1987</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>2:35 p.m.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Ramstein Air Base, West Germany</em><br />
<br />
The back of the envelope was sweat-stained to a murky off-brown from being plastered to Tracie’s skin in the stifling heat of the East German dance club. The front, where was scrawled, “President Ronald Reagan,” by Mikhail Gorbachev, if her handler was to be believed—and Tracie believed him—remained undisturbed. <br />
<br />
After fighting her way out of the dance club, Tracie had snuck out of East Berlin uneventfully—it was never a problem if you had the right contacts—and driven as fast as she dared back to Ramstein Air Base in West Germany in a waiting CIA-supplied automobile. By the time she arrived at Ramstein it was approaching six a.m., and she crashed, exhausted, in an empty apartment maintained just off the base by the CIA. After just a few short hours of sleep, she was awakened by telephone and advised her flight to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland would be departing at eleven p.m.<br />
<br />
Tracie showered and dressed, reveling in the luxury of a little time to herself and the added bonus of an unlimited hot water supply. In many of the locations she had worked as a CIA field operative there had been no water at all, much less hot water.<br />
<br />
During her shower, Tracie placed Gorbachev’s envelope atop the ceramic toilet tank, less than four feet from where she stood soaping and rinsing. Her assignment had been to retrieve the letter, spirit it out of East Germany, and then accompany it to Washington, never allowing it out of her sight until its delivery to the President, and that was what she intended to do.<br />
<br />
She had slept with the letter hugged to her chest, cradling it like a tiny baby. She slept fitfully, but then she always slept fitfully, awakened by the slightest hint of a sound, a disruption in the room’s air currents, a barely perceptible noise outside her window. Her supersensitive perception, even while asleep, had kept her alive in some of the most dangerous locations in the world.<br />
<br />
Tracie had performed missions in Asian and Middle Eastern countries where being female meant you had no rights, possessed no intrinsic value other than what the men around you were willing to bestow upon you. You could disappear without warning at any time and for any reason, and no one would ever question why.<br />
<br />
The United States government would be no help, either, as her missions were almost always off the books and so highly sensitive that if she was captured, rather than fighting or negotiating for her release, the government would deny her very presence in the country, all the way up the official channels.<br />
<br />
This was the life of a CIA Directorate of Operations agent. It was Tracie Tanner’s life, and a career she had never once regretted undertaking. It was a solitary, often lonely life, but as the daughter of a four-star U.S. Army general and a career State Department diplomat, Tracie had been groomed for it. After graduating Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, with a degree in linguistics, Tracie had been recruited into the ranks of the CIA. She had trained for three grueling years, initially at The Farm and then in the field, under a crusty old badass veteran of a quarter-century of covert operations whose real name she still did not know. Then she began working solo missions under her mentor and direct supervisor at CIA, Winston Andrews. Despite her inability to share even the broadest of details about her career with her parents, she knew they were proud of her decision to devote her life to the cause of freedom and service to her country.<br />
<br />
But right now, all Tracie cared about was the steaming-hot water blasting out of the shower in the small apartment. She washed the sweat and grime of the mission off every inch of her body, then rinsed off and started again, scrubbing until she felt completely refreshed, regenerated and ready to begin the second half—the easy half—of the job. She would accompany Gorbachev’s letter to the White House, bypassing all official and diplomatic channels before hand-delivering it to its recipient, President Ronald Reagan.<br />
<br />
The mission would end with an official debrief at Langley. Tracie hoped she might then be fortunate enough to wrangle a few days off to visit her folks in suburban Washington, but knew that was probably a pipe dream. Too many things were happening in too many hot spots around the world for the agency to allow one of their most valuable resources to hang out like a normal twenty-seven-year-old single woman.<br />
<br />
In any event, the rest of the trip should be a cake walk. Tracie calculated the length of the flight and the time difference between West Germany and Washington, D.C. Eight hours in the air, more or less, and a six-hour time difference meant they would touch down at Andrews around 2:00 a.m. local time.<br />
<br />
The 11:00 p.m. departure time was not exactly a typical flight schedule, but then Tracie had long ago adjusted to the unusual hours the job entailed. After being advised of the critical nature of the mission, the Air Force would have needed time to prep an airplane and get a flight crew together.<br />
<br />
Tracie stepped directly under the shower nozzle, rinsing shampoo from her luxurious mane of red hair, enjoying the warmth of the water, always keeping one eye on the innocent-looking envelope propped against the wall on top of the toilet tank just outside the shower.<br />
<br />
Finally, reluctantly, she twisted the faucets, sighing as the blast of water slowed to a trickle and then disappeared entirely. She stepped from the shower, dried off and dressed, and then quickly blow-dried her hair. With the extravagance of the hot shower out of the way, she wandered the apartment, the time passing slowly as she waited to leave Europe behind.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>May 30, 1987</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>10:10 p.m.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Ramstein Air Base, West Germany</em><br />
<br />
Tracie woke with a start and checked her watch. She had drifted off to sleep, stretched out on a small couch while watching a soccer match on the apartment’s black and white television, and now worried she may have missed her flight.<br />
<br />
Ten-ten. Shit. She’d have to hurry, but would probably make it. If she timed it right, she might even manage coffee. Dinner she could take or leave, but the thought of departing Ramstein for a long flight to the States without an invigorating jolt of caffeine was unacceptable.<br />
<br />
She threw her clothing into a small canvas bag—traveling light was second nature to Tracie Tanner after seven years of CIA service—and slid Mikhail Gorbachev’s letter carefully into the interior breast pocket of her light jacket. Then she rushed out of the apartment, jumped into her car, and drove onto the base.<br />
<br />
She dumped the CIA car outside a small commissary adjacent to the airfield, hid the keys under the front seat, and hustled inside. She passed a pair of young airmen who made no attempt to hide their admiration of her running figure. She ignored them. They didn’t have coffee. Besides, she had long since gotten used to men staring at her. Also ogling her, leering at her and propositioning her.<br />
<br />
Tracie checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes until her flight’s scheduled departure. She choked down her coffee. It was scalding hot and almost undrinkably strong, just the way she liked it. Then she grabbed her bag, checked for her precious cargo—the letter was still there—and then double-timed to the airfield. Someone would retrieve the car later.<br />
<br />
Tracie had been instructed to check in at Hangar Three, and now she slowed her pace about a hundred feet from the door, walking onto the tarmac at precisely 10:55 p.m. Outside the hangar, a gigantic green U.S. Air Force B-52 towered above her, the eight-engine high-wing jet appearing almost impossibly large. It had to be close to two hundred feet from wingtip to wingtip, and the fuselage soared high above like some kind of fabricated metal dinosaur. The notion of the huge hunk of metal ever getting airborne, much less staying that way and flying all the way to the United States seemed outlandish, some kind of magic trick or optical illusion.<br />
<br />
Tracie had logged endless hours aboard dozens of different aircraft, from medevac helicopters to Boeing 747’s, during her tenure as a CIA covert ops specialist, but had never been aboard a B-52. The sheer enormity of the aircraft was staggering. From where she stood, it looked like every other aircraft she had ever flown aboard could fit inside this behemoth. The wings thrusting outward from the top of the aircraft’s fuselage seemed to go on forever, swept back and hanging down slightly, as if the weight of the eight jet engines hanging in clusters of two was simply more than they could bear. The fuselage itself stretched off into the distance; to Tracie’s eye it appeared nearly as long as the wing span was wide.<br />
<br />
She froze in place, marveling at the engineering miracle perched atop its tiny-looking wheels. She could feel her jaw hanging open and closed it, embarrassed. She felt like a country bumpkin on her first visit to the big city.<br />
<br />
Standing directly in front of—and far below—the nose of the huge aircraft was an officer, probably late-thirties, handsome in a grizzled, seen-it-all way. He had obviously been awaiting her arrival, and he smiled at her reaction to the B-52. “May I see your ID, ma’am?” he asked.<br />
<br />
Tracie handed it over, shaking her head in mute admiration of the aircraft.<br />
<br />
The officer said, “We get that a lot from people who have never been up close to a BUFF before. It’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?” <br />
<br />
“That’s an understatement,” Tracie answered.<br />
<br />
The officer handed Tracie’s ID back and said, “I’m Major Stan Wilczynski, and I’ll be Pilot in Command for today’s flight. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew shortly.”<br />
<br />
She returned the Major’s smile. “I’ll bite,” she said. “What’s ‘BUFF’?” Other than you, she wanted to add, wondering how long it had been since she had enjoyed any male companionship outside of official duty status and realizing she couldn’t remember. She kept her remark to herself, though, noting the Major’s wedding ring.<br />
<br />
He chuckled. “BUFF’s our nickname for the B-52. Stands for ‘Big Ugly Fat Fuckers.’ And they are all of that, but these babies have served with distinction for a quarter-century, with plenty more years to come. Some say the new B-1 will make the BUFF obsolete, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”<br />
<br />
Tracie nodded, noting the reverence in the pilot’s voice as he talked about the plane. “How long have you flown the B-52, Major?”<br />
<br />
“It’s Stan to my friends, Miss Tanner. And I’ve been involved with these Big Ugly Fuckers almost since my first day in the Air Force. Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole life inside one of these beasts. Can’t imagine a better way to serve my country, to be honest.”<br />
<br />
Tracie grinned. The man’s enthusiasm was infectious, and went a long way toward breaking down her caution, a trait she came by naturally and one that had served her well over the course of her seven-year CIA career. But there was no need for it now; it was clear she was among friends.<br />
<br />
“Anyway,” Wilczynki continued, “I’ve bored you long enough. I just can’t help bragging when the subject is my baby.” He gestured affectionately toward the aircraft’s nose. “Whaddaya say we climb aboard and get ready to leave this continent behind?” The Major turned and indicated a metal ladder hanging from an open hatch in the bottom of the aircraft.<br />
<br />
“I’m not bored at all,” Tracie answered, starting up the ladder. “I love hearing a professional discuss his passion.”<br />
<br />
Major Wilczynski paused. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it in those terms before, but you’re right, I do have a passion for these old birds.” He started up the ladder behind Tracie and they disappeared into the B-52.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-48905266622430668442013-01-15T20:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T20:00:01.642-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Nine<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Nine:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>9</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>May 30, 1987</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>12:15 a.m.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Ramstein Air Force Base, West Germany</em><br />
<br />
“Hello?”<br />
<br />
“Is this Mitchell?”<br />
<br />
“Who wants to know?”<br />
<br />
“Kopalev.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, it’s Mitchell.”<br />
<br />
“You are alone, yes? You can speak freely?”<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
“Good. Because we have an assignment for you. An item has been taken out of Russia through the GDR and is being flown to the United States from your air base.”<br />
<br />
“So? Stuff flies out of here to the States all the time.”<br />
<br />
“Not ‘stuff’ like this. It is critical this item not reach its intended destination. You will ensure that it does not.”<br />
<br />
“What is the item?”<br />
<br />
“An envelope addressed to your President Reagan. We believe the envelope contains a handwritten letter from Mikhail Gorbachev betraying his country.”<br />
<br />
“I’m supposed to intercept a letter? In one small envelope? I don’t know anything about mail delivery. It’s not possible.”<br />
<br />
“It is possible, Major. And it will be done. We have been paying you good money for many years and you have provided little return on our investment. Now it is time for you to earn those tens of thousands of American dollars we have deposited into your bank account.”<br />
<br />
“But…how?”<br />
<br />
“This item is far too valuable to be left unguarded. It will be placed on the first available military flight leaving Ramstein and will be carried personally by a member of your CIA. We believe that representative will be a young woman, red-haired and beautiful.”<br />
<br />
“A beautiful, red-haired CIA spook?”<br />
<br />
“That is correct. We have two witnesses who saw such a young woman execute one of our men in cold blood. We are certain she is in possession of the item. The airplane she boards for the United States is the airplane the envelope will be on. You will ensure that plane never arrives at its destination.”<br />
<br />
“Crash a U.S Air Force jet? Are you out of your mind? Why can’t I just steal the letter and deliver it to you through a contact?”<br />
<br />
“You propose stealing a Top-Secret document from a CIA professional? It would never happen. You would be dead before you got within three feet of her.”<br />
<br />
“But if I can?”<br />
<br />
“You do not understand. This item could conceivably change the entire balance of world power. It is imperative it be destroyed. We cannot risk you being caught trying to steal it. You will crash the airplane and thus destroy the letter. Those are your orders. They will be followed. Period.”<br />
<br />
I already told you, it’s impossible. It can’t be done!”<br />
<br />
“You will find a way, Major.”<br />
<br />
“You’re a fucking crackpot. Forget it. I’m out. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”<br />
<br />
“Major, you will never guess the report I received today.”<br />
<br />
“Report? What are you talking about?”<br />
<br />
“One of our operatives followed Roberta as she drove little Sarah to dance class this afternoon. He tells me, Major, that your young daughter is getting quite beautiful. Growing like a weed, as you Americans like to say.”<br />
<br />
“He what? Roberta and Sarah? Listen here, you psychotic bastard, you leave my family out of this, do you understand?”<br />
<br />
“The roads, Major, they are so dangerous in your country. Automobile accidents are a daily occurrence, often fiery crashes where the victims, sometimes mothers with their young children in the back seat, they crash their cars and burn to death in the fiery aftermath. They may survive the initial accident but then literally cook to death inside the burning vehicle. So sad, Major. So painful for the victims. So avoidable.”<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
“Are you still with me, Major? Are you paying attention?”<br />
<br />
“I’m here, you sick son of a bitch.”<br />
<br />
“Good. You will ensure the airplane carrying the item of which we spoke never reaches your country. If you do not accomplish this assignment, well, let us just say I hope you have many photographs of your beautiful little family to keep their memory alive. Do not think about alerting the authorities, either. We will get to your wife and child if you do. Please believe that. Do you believe that, Major?”<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
“Do you believe that, Major?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. I believe that.”<br />
<br />
“Then get going. You have a lot of work to do and very little time. The item is either already on the base or will be soon. It won’t be long before the plane carrying it will be lifting off, likely with the CIA operative as the sole passenger.”<br />
<br />
“God damn you.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, and Major? One more thing.”<br />
<br />
“What?”<br />
<br />
“Good luck. And goodbye.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-18849142449836092912013-01-15T19:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T19:00:03.164-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Eight<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Eight:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>8</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>May 30, 1987</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Time Unknown</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Location unknown</em><br />
<br />
Aleksander regained consciousness slowly. He was sitting on a hard chair, probably in a basement or storage room of some sort. It was cold and dark and damp and smelled of rotting vegetables and something vaguely sinister. Copper? Aleksander wasn’t sure.<br />
<br />
He could hear voices muttering somewhere nearby. Two people, it seemed. He was afraid to open his eyes to check. His hands and arms ached. He tried moving them but they were secured tight to the chair, arms pulled behind his back, wrists shackled together.<br />
<br />
Tried his feet next. Same result. Each ankle had been affixed to a chair leg with something heavy and solid, probably a length of chain.<br />
<br />
Aleksander felt queasy and weak. He knew he had been drugged into unconsciousness inside the tiny East German automobile and wondered how long he had been out. Was he even still in the German Democratic Republic? Was he back in Russia? Somewhere else? He concentrated on the voices, trying to pick up enough of the conversation to determine what language they were speaking and how many people were inside the room with him.<br />
<br />
No luck. The voices were too quiet.<br />
<br />
He risked opening his eyes, just a sliver, and moved his head very slowly to look around. In the dirty yellow light of a single bulb he could see a pair of shadowy figures huddled together in a corner of the room. The image blurred and doubled, then cleared. The lingering effects of whatever drugs he had been given, Aleksander guessed.<br />
<br />
The men were sitting around a rickety table drinking something hot out of mugs—Aleksander could see the steam rising into the air even from here—and his stomach clenched and rumbled.<br />
<br />
He wondered how long it had been since he had eaten. He wondered whether he would ever eat again. The terror of his predicament struck him like a wrecking ball and Aleksander puked all over the floor, the vomit burning his gullet on the way out. <em>Cheap German vodka</em>. Aleksander sobbed, then quickly stopped himself. His eyes widened in mounting panic as the men pushed their chairs back and began walking across the room.<br />
<br />
The men stopped directly in front of him. One was tall and thin, skeletal. The other was completely bald. Aleksander looked up in fear, feeling like he might be sick again. He hoped when the vomit erupted from him it wouldn’t splatter all over his captors.<br />
<br />
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Comrade,” the bald man said in Russian, which meant nothing, since his East German contact had spoken Russian, too. “Time is of the essence, so let us skip the preliminaries and get right down to business, shall we?”<br />
<br />
Aleksander’s terror was nearly overwhelming. His stomach rolled and yawed. He was afraid to speak for fear of vomiting again.<br />
<br />
But as terrifying as this situation was, he knew he possessed the ultimate trump card—provided he had been kidnapped by Russians. If these two weren’t citizens of the USSR, he didn’t know what he was going to do.<br />
<br />
<em>“Where is it?”</em> the bald man said. So far skeleton-man had not spoken.<br />
<br />
Aleksander had no choice but to answer now. He hoped he wouldn’t puke on the men, but they were standing perilously close. He swallowed hard. “Where is what?” he croaked. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until just now.<br />
<br />
“Do not play games with us. Doing so will only cause you pain,” the bald man said, and skeleton-man drew back his foot and kicked Aleksander in the shin, hard, with his steel-toed boot. The pain exploded, racing up and down Aleksander’s leg like an electrical current.<br />
<br />
He screamed in agony and fell forward, desperate to cover up, to protect his injured shin, but could barely move with his wrists shackled to the chair behind his back. He hadn’t heard anything crack but couldn’t believe the bone hadn’t shattered.<br />
<br />
“Where is it?” the bald man repeated, his voice slashing like a knife.<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” Aleksander gasped. “I passed it along just as I was instructed to do. Where he went with it after he left the club I have no idea.”<br />
<br />
“You know him,” the man said. It was not a question. “You have done business with him in the past.”<br />
<br />
“No, never. I swear. I’ve never seen him before.”<br />
<br />
“You were laughing and joking like old friends, Comrade Petrovka. Do not insult our intelligence.”<br />
<br />
“I was just doing what I was told to do by my contact, to blend in, that’s all. I’ve haven’t been to East Germany since I was a teen, I swear. You can check my travel records if you don’t believe me.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, we will, don’t worry about that. Next question: What was the item you delivered?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t believe you, traitor.”<br />
<br />
“Traitor?” Aleksander looked up at his tormentors, sweat dripping into his eyes. His shin throbbed with every beat of his heart. He knew now was the time to play his trump card. It might be his only chance. “No,” he said, “I am not a traitor. I was doing exactly as ordered by General Secretary Gorbachev. I am here on official state business.”<br />
<br />
“Official state business?” the man said, his voice mocking and cruel. He turned to his partner. “Did you hear that, Vasily? He is here on official state business, representing Secretary Gorbachev himself.”<br />
<br />
The man turned his attention back to Aleksander. “Well, I have news for you, Comrade Aleksander Petrovka of Ivanteyevka. Mikhail Gorbachev is just as much a traitor to his homeland as you are. We care nothing for Mikhail Gorbachev’s orders. If Gorbachev’s reckless stupidity is not checked, he will be the downfall of the Soviet Empire, and Vasily and I are just two of many who refuse to see that happen.<br />
<br />
“Betraying your country under the orders of a fellow traitor is no excuse, Comrade Petrovka. So I ask you again, for the last time: what was the item you delivered to your contact?”<br />
<br />
Terror flooded through Aleksander’s body. The terror overwhelmed the pain so his throbbing shin did not even exist. The terror overwhelmed his queasy stomach so he no longer felt he was about to puke. The terror was everything.<br />
<br />
These men were Russians, but it did not matter. They were Russians, but the word of Mikhail Gorbachev meant nothing to them. They were accusing him of treason, but they were traitors. The irony struck him like another kick to the shin. Aleksander realized he was breathing heavily, forcing air in and out through his mouth like a panting dog. He was hyperventilating but could not stop himself.<br />
<br />
This was bad. This was worse than bad. This was a nightmare come to life.<br />
<br />
“WHAT WAS THE ITEM YOU DELIVERED TO YOUR CONTACT?” the bald man screamed in Aleksander’s face. Spittle sprayed out of the man’s mouth as if from a fire hose. A fat gob of saliva splattered the side of Aleksander’s nose and dripped slowly into his mouth.<br />
<br />
Aleksander sobbed, “I don’t know! Secretary Gorbachev gave me a sealed envelope. Inside was some kind of document, I don’t know what. He forbade me to look at it.”<br />
<br />
His tormentor stepped back and looked at his comrade. He seemed genuinely shocked. “You risked your life to deliver a document and . . . you <em>don’t even know what it was?”</em><br />
<br />
Aleksander hung his head and shook it miserably. He would never see Tatiana or his children again. He would never see the sun rise over the eastern edge of the Moscow skyline. He was going to die here in this dirty, dark torture chamber at the hands of two people he had never seen, two people who believed him a traitor to his country. And there was nothing he could do about it.<br />
<br />
A wrenching sob shook his body and pain flared in his shin. “The envelope was sealed. I could not have opened it even if I wanted to.”<br />
<br />
His two captors laughed as though he had said something funny. Then his interrogator switched gears. “Your contact, he was a German, was he not?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, that is what Secretary Gorbachev told me, and I don’t know why he would lie about it.”<br />
<br />
The two men grunted and his interrogator spit on the floor. “Yes, why would he lie?” the bald man said. “He is destroying his ancestral homeland, the land Russians have spilled blood to protect for generations, but surely he would not <em>lie</em>.<br />
<br />
“Now, getting back to the document the traitor Gorbachev asked you to pass along to this German, what was it?”<br />
<br />
“I already told you, I don’t know.”<br />
<br />
The man waved his hand like he was brushing a fly away from his face. “Don’t take me for a fool, please, Comrade. There is no one alive who would not look inside the envelope the first chance he got. <em>What was it?”</em><br />
<br />
Aleksander raised his head and looked at the man beseechingly, but said nothing. What could he say? It was clear another denial would be ignored.<br />
<br />
And then, out of nowhere, inspiration. His contact! “If you were watching me, you must have been watching my contact, too,” he said, speaking quickly, enthusiastically. “If you can find him, you can take the envelope away from him and see for yourselves what it contains.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you for your very helpful advice,” his tormentor replied with exaggerated politeness. “Your German collaborator claims to know nothing as well, and he passed the envelope off before we were able to intercept him.” The man shook his head in disgust and spit again on the floor. “We are getting nowhere and time is passing quickly.”<br />
<br />
He smiled at Aleksander, his lips a thin bloodless slash. “I would like to say I am sorry for what is to come next, but, alas, I cannot. I have little patience for traitors, but would have gladly ended you quickly had you only given me the information I require. Now, I am afraid you are in for a rather unpleasant little while. I can’t be more specific because, you see, I don’t know how long it will take you to die. One can never predict these things, but the time will probably seem much longer to you than it actually is.”<br />
<br />
The other man walked away and began dragging equipment across the concrete floor, placing it next to Aleksander’s chair. He didn’t seem sorry, either. He whistled a tuneless ditty as he expertly clamped a set of booster cables to a series of automobile batteries stacked atop a wooden pallet on wheels. A cable ran from the batteries to a small box fitted with dials, switches and a couple of grimy meters. To Aleksander the box resembled the transformer from the small electric train set he and Tatiana had given his son, Aleksander Junior, for his fourth birthday last year. It had taken months to save up enough money to buy the toy, but the look on his son’s face when he opened his gift had been worth every bit of sacrifice.<br />
<br />
Tears spilled down Aleksander’s cheek at the memory and mixed with the spittle drying on his face. The quiet man continued working and whistling. Two cables extended from one side of the transformer-like box, snaking across the floor, terminating at Aleksander’s shackled feet. At the end of each of the cables was a shiny copper connector, spring-loaded and fitted with sharp teeth. A feeling of dread wormed its way through Aleksander’s gut and he no longer suspected he was going to throw up again, he knew it.<br />
<br />
The quiet man unbuckled Aleksander’s belt and pulled it completely free of his trousers. He unsnapped the pants and unzipped the fly and motioned impatiently for Aleksander to lift his ass off the seat. Numbly, Aleksander did as he was instructed, and the man yanked his trousers and underwear down to his ankles.<br />
<br />
Aleksander puked, barfing up the acidy-tasting remnants of the East German vodka, not caring this time that it splattered all over the quiet man. He began babbling, begging for his life.<br />
<br />
The quiet man continued, unaffected. He attached the copper ends of the two cables to Aleksander’s bare scrotum, tugging lightly on each one to ensure it was fastened securely. Then he walked behind Aleksander’s chair, returning seconds later with a bucket of foul-looking water. He splashed some on Aleksander and on the cables.<br />
<br />
He looked at Aleksander, his eyes hard and remorseless. “Goodbye, Comrade,” he said. They were the first and last words Aleksander ever heard him say. Then he walked to the small table on wheels upon which the transformer-like box was placed, and he flipped a switch. Then he turned a dial. Then Aleksander’s situation changed for the worse.<br />
<br />
It took a long time for him to die.<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-54096416941902301652013-01-15T18:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T18:00:00.486-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Seven<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Seven:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>7</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Berlin, GDR</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>May 29, 1987, 11:25 p.m.</em><br />
<br />
After his contact had departed, Aleksander savored the relief he now felt. He took a deep pull on his vodka and smiled. It wasn’t up to Russian standards, but it was better than he had expected to find in Germany.<br />
<br />
He wondered how long he should wait before departing. His contact had said “a few minutes,” and Aleksander wanted nothing more than to leave this club behind and get on with his life.<br />
<br />
He tried not to think about the envelope, but couldn’t help it. General Secretary Gorbachev had indicated it would eventually be delivered to the <em>Americans</em>, of all people, which was strange, but Aleksander didn’t claim to know anything about international diplomacy. Didn’t want to, either. If Comrade Gorbachev wanted the Americans to have the envelope, and was willing to go to such great lengths to conceal its contents from the KGB, who was Aleksander to question the decision?<br />
<br />
He shrugged. It was no longer his problem to deal with. The damned envelope was out of his possession. He had done what was asked of him, had performed admirably, he hoped, in service to his country and the Communist Party, and could finally relax. He looked at his watch and decided enough time had passed for his contact to have disappeared into the night.<br />
<br />
Aleksander finished his vodka—was that his third or fourth glass? Fifth?—and slammed it down on the tiny table before struggling to his feet, swaying unsteadily. The German vodka may have been a poor substitute for the real thing, but it still packed a satisfying wallop. He placed some of that phony-looking GDR money under his glass and staggered through the crowd, unnoticed and unimpeded, just another Friday night drinker on his way home to face the wrath of his frau.<br />
<br />
Aleksander pushed through the door into the cool German night. The stars glittered overhead and a light breeze caressed his flushed face. He felt light-headed, more than he should after just a few glasses of vodka, and decided it was due to lack of sleep and the tremendous strain he had been operating under. But that didn’t matter now. He had done his duty and was in the clear.<br />
<br />
He turned right and staggered unsteadily along the dimly lit sidewalk, occasionally sidestepping an onrushing pedestrian or couple walking arm-in-arm. Tomorrow he would take a cab to the airport and fly home to Moscow and the reassuring monotony of his bureaucratic life. Tonight, though, he walked unhurriedly, enjoying the fantasy he had constructed in his alcohol-addled mind. He was a superspy, a man counted on by all of Mother Russia, indeed, all of the USSR, to keep the empire safe. He felled all enemies of the state and was treated like royalty by the Supreme Soviet. He was James Bond, only on the proper side of the equation.<br />
<br />
It was an enjoyable fantasy, and Aleksander was lost in it when two men overtook him from behind. They were on him before he knew what was happening, and when they reached him, each one grabbed an elbow in a vice-like grip and propelled him forward. “Do not say a word,” the man on his right side whispered fiercely into his ear in Russian, and Aleksander did not say a word.<br />
<br />
He risked a quick glance to his right and then his left. The two men were dressed identically—black overcoats, black slacks, black shoes, even black Homburgs covering their heads. They escorted him directly past the entrance to his hotel, walking him roughly half a kilometer along the main road, still busy with pedestrians at this relatively early hour. None of them paid any attention to him or to the men dressed in black. Aleksander’s heart was racing but he tried not to panic. One call to Secretary Gorbachev’s office and this misunderstanding would be cleared up.<br />
<br />
The strange threesome continued, moving so far down the sidewalk that they left the flickering, pre-World War Two-era streetlights behind. They turned a corner into a secluded alleyway, walking Aleksander to an East German-made Trabant automobile parked in the shadows. The car was ancient, tiny. They shoved him wordlessly into the back seat. One of the men leaned over and lifted a foul-smelling cloth from a well-sealed plastic bag in his pocket and pressed it to Aleksander’s face. Aleksander willed himself not to panic and tried not to breathe.<br />
<br />
Eventually he did both, in that order, and everything went black.<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-13575452007183401872013-01-15T17:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T17:00:01.757-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Six<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Six:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>6</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Tracie Tanner lifted the envelope effortlessly from her East German contact and slid it down the front of her blouse. The heat generated by all the bodies crammed together inside the tavern was stifling, and Tracie thought the envelope might have to be peeled away from her skin with a chisel when she finally made it to safety. She felt naked without her weapon, a Beretta 92SB, but her skimpy attire left no room for it.<br />
<br />
Tracie had nursed her glass of soda water and loitered on the other side of the room, watching out of the corner of her eye as her contact received the envelope from an extremely nervous Russian bureaucrat, all the while rebuffing a succession of young East German men doing their best to capture her attention.<br />
<br />
The moment her contact—she had never met him, had been told only that he was an East German citizen committed to reunification of his country—shook his companion’s hand and turned toward the door, Tracie offered a dazzling smile to the young German currently chatting her up and gave him a little wave. “Nice meeting you.”<br />
<br />
The kid blinked in surprise, jaw hanging open, his disappointment obvious. Tracie turned and left him behind, striding across the room to intercept her contact.<br />
<br />
The exchange went off without a hitch, and the moment Tracie had secured the envelope, she turned on her heel and began working her way through the dense crowd toward the back of the club. The bass track thumped and the people shimmied as Tracie headed for the swinging door behind the bar leading to the back exit.<br />
<br />
She breezed around the open end of the bar, where three bartenders struggled to keep up with their drink orders. As she barged through, the one closest to her raised his eyebrows. “Hey! You’re not allowed back here.” His voice was gruff and insistent.<br />
<br />
Tracie smiled brightly and blew him a kiss and continued on. She pushed through the swinging wooden doors as if she owned the place and moved straight toward the service entrance in back. To her right, dozens of silver beer kegs gleamed dully in the washed-out lighting. To her left, far off in the distance at the end of a narrow corridor, she could see people hard at work in a small kitchen. The smell of stale beer and spoiled meat hung in the air, heavy and thick.<br />
<br />
Aside from those kitchen workers, Tracie was alone in the storage area, at least for the moment. She had thought the bartenders would be too busy to follow her and she was right. She breathed a sigh of relief, wondering how in the hell it had failed to occur to the KGB to cover this potential escape route. Apparently they considered the possibility of a switch remote, given that they were dealing with a frightened Russian bureaucrat.<br />
<br />
She kicked it into high gear now and broke into a trot. As she neared the rear exit, a stern voice from behind her growled, “Stop right there!”<br />
<br />
Tracie cursed under her breath as she gauged the distance to the door, calculating the odds of surviving a headlong dash for freedom. It was just a little too far. The Russian secret police were not used to being ignored, and neither were the Stasi, and Tracie knew the operative behind her would be expecting full and immediate compliance, regardless of which organization he represented.<br />
<br />
No choice.<br />
<br />
She stopped and turned slowly, holding her arms out at her sides, away from her body, spreading her fingers to show she was unarmed. She hoped the envelope resting against the sweat-soaked skin of her belly was hidden by her blouse. If not, she would probably not survive beyond the next few seconds.<br />
<br />
The man who had stopped her wore the forest-green camouflage summer field uniform of the NVA, East Germany’s National People’s Army. Tracie took in the uniform and breathed a sigh of relief. The KGB had indeed thought to cover the back entrance, but had used a People’s Army lieutenant to do so, rather than a KGB or Stasi operative.<br />
<br />
She might still get out of this.<br />
<br />
“What’s your hurry?” the man said, his weapon trained on Tracie. She said nothing and he took a couple of aggressive steps toward her. She willed him to take a couple more.<br />
<br />
A loopy grin spread across her face and Tracie wobbled unsteadily forward a step, then back. She allowed her eyes to glaze over. “What’rr you doing in the ladies room?” she said, intentionally slurring her words. “You shou’nt be in here.” Then she giggled, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.<br />
<br />
The tension in the lieutenant’s posture relaxed slightly and the look of suspicion creasing his face eased a bit. Tracie thought she saw him stifle a grin. The gun, however, remained pointed at her midsection. If he fired now, the slug would probably punch a hole right through the envelope. He took another couple of steps forward, this time moving with more swagger and less aggression, lowering his gun and sealing his fate. He was almost close enough.<br />
<br />
As he took another step, Tracie stumbled to one knee. He was eighteen inches in front of her. Any closer and he might conceivably be <em>too</em> close. It was time to act.<br />
<br />
She shot to her feet, propelling her body forward, grabbing her captor’s gun with her right hand. The man took a step back in surprise, and Tracie yanked his hand hard, jerking his body toward hers as he squeezed the trigger reflexively. The sound of the gunfire was loud and Tracie hoped the thumping bass beat out in the club had covered most of it. The people working in the kitchen down the hall would have heard, but she wasn’t worried about them.<br />
<br />
He clubbed her on the side with his left hand as she used his momentum against him, flicking her head forward, the movement tight and compact. Her forehead impacted the man’s nose and she could hear the bones shatter even above the damned disco music and the ringing in her ears from the gunshot.<br />
<br />
He crumpled immediately, blood streaming over his mouth, which he had opened in a scream of pain. It gushed out, spilled down his face, and splattered onto the dirty floor. It looked like Niagara Falls. She grabbed the soldier’s weapon and yanked it away from him. His finger jammed in the trigger guard and Tracie felt it break.<br />
<br />
The man staggered, splattering blood onto her leather pants and boots. He was practically out on his feet. She pivoted her hand to the side, like a hitchhiker trolling for a ride, and then reversed direction and slammed the butt of the pistol against his temple. His eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped straight down. She flashed back to her encounter with the security guard in the Ukraine less than ten days ago.<em> All my dates end badly.</em><br />
<br />
She hoped she hadn’t killed the man but couldn’t afford to take the time to find out. By now the KGB agents monitoring the front of the club would have discovered the man they had followed was empty-handed, and it wouldn’t take long before they realized they had been victimized by the oldest trick in the book, the bait-and-switch. Within minutes, maybe less, this place would be blanketed, locked down, and if Tracie was still here when that happened she would never get out alive.<br />
<br />
The sound of pounding footsteps told her the soldier’s gunshot had been heard. She dropped to one knee and turned, raising the man’s gun. An elderly man and woman—they each had to be seventy years old if they were a day—burst out of the hallway and into the storage area. They were undoubtedly the pair she had seen working in the kitchen, although they had been too far away to identify for sure. “One more step and you die,” she said in German, pointing the gun in their direction, hoping her voice hadn’t carried into the bar.<br />
<br />
The pair skidded to a stop, the old woman banging into the old man in front, sending him careening helplessly toward Tracie. He fell to the floor and then scrabbled backward, almost knocking the old woman over in the process. It looked like a Three Stooges routine, and under other circumstances might have been funny.<br />
<br />
Right now, though, the only thing on Tracie’s mind was escape. She had already been inside the building far too long. She rose to her feet and said, “Go back to the kitchen and stay there for at least ten minutes. If you move before ten minutes has passed, I’ll come back and kill you both. Do you understand?”<br />
<br />
The pair nodded at the same time, then turned and hurried back down the narrow hallway. They moved quickly, but did not scream or yell into the front of the club for help, as Tracie had been afraid they might. She waited until they had reentered the kitchen, then sprinted for the door.<br />
<br />
She burst into the night, the oppressive heat of the club vanishing in an instant. The service entrance opened into a narrow, trash-littered alley. A row of frost-covered garbage cans had been lined up next to the doorway and the rank stench of spoiled food hung in the air around them like smog over L.A. The alley was deserted.<br />
<br />
She slowed to a fast walk along the crumbling pavement, moving south, knowing their East German collaborator had been instructed to turn north after leaving the club—not that he would have gotten far before being intercepted by the KGB. The alley opened onto a quiet street one block south of the bar. A pedestrian glanced at her suspiciously but kept walking. If he noticed the blood staining her leather pants he kept it to himself. <em>Your lucky night, pal,</em> Tracie thought grimly.<br />
<br />
She turned a corner and walked a hundred yards. Parked at the curb was a battered Volkswagen, at least two decades old. Tracie yanked the door open and eased into the driver’s seat. She sank into the worn fabric and rested her head against the steering wheel, breathing deeply in and out, adrenaline still coursing through her body. Then she started the car. She flicked the headlights on and drove slowly away.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-67448985068584337472013-01-15T16:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T16:00:05.722-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Five<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Five:</span> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><strong>5</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Klaus Hahn slipped the envelope into his breast pocket and picked his way through the crowd. American disco music blasted through tinny speakers in the background, and the temperature had skyrocketed inside the densely-packed tavern. He was sweating profusely, and not just from nervousness.<br />
<br />
A veteran of more than a decade of service to the American CIA, Klaus looked forward to a time when his beloved Germany would be reunited. No more East and West, with the ugly concrete and barbed-wire barriers splitting the country arbitrarily and needlessly, in some cases literally tearing families apart, half living on the side of freedom and opportunity and half on the side of repression and paranoia. Klaus Hahn’s dream was to one day see the elimination of the fear and forced servitude on the eastern side of that wall.<br />
<br />
Klaus had not hesitated on that day years ago when co-opted by his CIA handler, a man known to him only by his alias, “Mr. Wilson.” He had made no secret of his willingness to work in the name of freedom, and when approached by Mr. Wilson, had enthusiastically accepted the opportunity to contribute, even in some small way, toward a unified and free Germany.<br />
<br />
The majority of the tasks Klaus had handled over the years were relatively small and risk-free. Most often his assignments had involved nothing more than funneling the names and addresses of hard-line Communist sympathizers to Mr. Wilson, or the names and contact information of other freedom-seeking individuals like himself.<br />
<br />
Tonight was different, though. Mr. Wilson had approached Klaus with the offer of something much more substantial. Something big. So big, in fact, that Mr. Wilson had said this would be the last job Klaus would ever do for the CIA. Klaus would be toxic after this.<br />
<br />
“Toxic.” That was the exact phrasing Mr. Wilson had used. If the job was completed successfully, Klaus could expect an uncomfortable night of questioning by local authorities and, quite likely, the Stasi, the German Democratic Republic’s feared secret police. If unsuccessful, well, Mr. Wilson had not spelled out any details under that scenario, but elaboration had not been necessary.<br />
<br />
“Stick to your story when you’re questioned,” Mr. Wilson had told him. “Do not deviate from it. You stopped off at the club for a few drinks after work. You ran into an old friend from school, quite by accident. You do not even remember his name. You shared a drink and discussed sports, women, whatever. Then you left. They will not believe you, but there will be nothing they can do about it. After several hours of intense questioning, they will reluctantly release you. But you will be watched, and we can never meet again. Your work for us will be finished.”<br />
<br />
Klaus had reluctantly agreed. He was not afraid of a night of questioning, by the police <em>or</em> by the Stasi. He was disappointed his work toward the cause of a reunified homeland was coming to an end, but he had no choice but to accept the assignment when Mr. Wilson stressed its importance. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, weaving through the crowded tavern, moving steadily toward the door.<br />
<br />
Halfway across the floor, he turned sideways to allow a pretty young woman to pass by. It was his contact, and she was dressed provocatively, in skintight black leather pants and a silk blouse that did little to hide her considerable assets. She caught his eye and flashed a smile before rubbing her body up against his out of necessity—the crush of thirsty bar patrons crowded them from all sides.<br />
<br />
They squeezed past each other. Klaus felt a brief tug and then the envelope was gone and so was the girl. He continued toward the door as he had been instructed by Mr. Wilson. He had been told not to look back but couldn’t help it—he took a quick peek behind as he exited the front door. The beautiful young girl was nowhere to be seen.<br />
<br />
Klaus strolled into the cool Berlin night, glad to be free of the claustrophobia-inducing, sweat-soaked, sexually charged atmosphere, not to mention the annoyingly loud music. He turned left and began walking toward his car, moving faster now. Before he had made it five steps, a hand gripped his elbow. Attached to the hand was a tall, skeletal man dressed in a dark suit. An unbuttoned overcoat flapped in the chilly breeze.<br />
<br />
The man said, “Where is it?”<br />
<br />
Klaus answered, “Where is what?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t play stupid. Where is the envelope?”<br />
<br />
Klaus wrenched his arm free and turned, staring directly into the man’s eyes. The street lighting was dim and shadows running from the man’s hook nose across his face gave him the appearance of a vulture. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.<br />
<br />
“You’re coming with me,” the man answered, and Klaus knew his night of questioning had begun.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-72211254090931800442013-01-15T15:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T15:00:04.951-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Four<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Four:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>4</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Berlin, German Democratic Republic</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>May 29, 1987, 10:20 p.m.</em><br />
<br />
The vodka burned in a familiar and not unpleasant way as it rolled down Aleksander Petrovka’s throat. He gulped down his first glass in a matter of seconds and realized he should have ordered two at once from the heavy-set barmaid when she had made her first pass by his table. He shrugged. She would return soon. Any good barmaid could recognize the heaviest drinkers in a crowd instantly. Her livelihood depended upon it.<br />
<br />
Aleksander knew it was critical that he keep his head clear and his wits about him during the upcoming rendezvous. This was only his second trip into the GDR, and every face appeared hostile, suspicious of the Russian interloper. But the prospect of getting through the next hour—indeed, the rest of his life—without the fuzzy reassurance provided by a liberal dose of vodka was unthinkable. The enormity of this mission was not lost on Aleksander, nor was its potential to destroy his life, and for the thousandth time since yesterday afternoon he questioned his commitment to General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev.<br />
<br />
Nobody defied the KGB and got away with it.<br />
<br />
And Aleksander knew that by carrying out the instructions Gorbachev had given him, he was defying the KGB. There was simply no other way to look at it. The very circumstances of their meeting this morning were enough to convince him of that fact.<br />
<br />
No office.<br />
<br />
No aides.<br />
<br />
Just him and the most powerful man in the Soviet Union.<br />
<br />
Aleksander forced his thoughts back to the present and the raucous East German club. He maintained a continuous watch on the crowded discotheque, eyes darting, searching for potential threats. The notion that the Undersecretary for Domestic Affairs, the very definition of an anonymous apparatchik, would recognize a threat even if it stood before him and announced itself, was laughable. Aleksander knew this, yet he could not stop himself.<br />
<br />
In his obsessive concern for security, Aleksander almost missed the blocky figure of the barmaid approaching his table. She asked him a question, which was lost in the din of the club and the uncertainty of a foreign language, and Aleksander nodded, handing her his empty glass. He assumed she must have asked if he wanted another drink, which he most certainly did. What else could it be?<br />
<br />
The barmaid took his glass and clomped away. Standing directly behind her, completely hidden by her bulk until she stepped around him, was a smallish, unassuming-looking man, dressed casually, with a receding head of buzz-cut sandy hair and a pale face dominated by black horn-rimmed glasses. And a jagged scar running diagonally down his right cheek. In his hand he clutched a glass of clear liquid, presumably vodka.<br />
<br />
The man nodded at Aleksander, then sat across the small table without waiting to be invited. “It has been a long time, Dolph,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.<br />
<br />
Aleksander stared at the man, nerves tightening. He was supposed to respond. Call the man by a code name. What was it? He had been rehearsing it a moment ago and now it was gone.<br />
<br />
The man’s eyes narrowed at him and sweat broke out on Aleksander’s forehead. He felt as though he might suffer a heart attack. Then he remembered. “Henrik!” he burst out. “It is wonderful to see you, Henrik.”<br />
<br />
The stranger relaxed and leaned across the table, waiting to speak until Aleksander had leaned forward as well, then said softly, “Do you have the item?” His Russian was flawless.<br />
<br />
The barmaid returned with his drink and Aleksander remained quiet while she dropped the glass onto the table, vodka slopping over the side. As her hefty form plowed back through the crowd toward the bar—Aleksander could not help picturing a gigantic Tupolev airplane steaming down the runway for takeoff—he turned his attention back to his new friend. The man sat drumming his fingers.<br />
<br />
Aleksander nodded. “Da. I have it.”<br />
<br />
He reached into his breast pocket for the envelope before realizing how conspicuous it would look for him to withdraw the item here in the tavern and pass it across the table to his contact. Although no one seemed to be paying attention to them, Aleksander knew<em> someone</em> would remember once the KGB started questioning people. The KGB could be very persuasive.<br />
<br />
Suddenly terrified, Aleksander froze, hand on the envelope sticking out of his pocket. What should he do? How could he avoid becoming the object of everyone’s attention and still complete the mission Mikhail Gorbachev had entrusted to him? The Soviet leader was not someone to be trifled with. In his own way he was as imposing and intimidating as the faceless killers of the KGB. One didn’t rise to the position of General Secretary of the Communist Party without possessing an iron will and a ruthless efficiency.<br />
<br />
The contact saved him. He smiled reassuringly, rising and leaning over the table, clapping Aleksander on the shoulder with one hand and deftly plucking the envelope from Aleksander’s pocket with his other. The envelope disappeared in an impressive sleight of hand, one worthy of a professional pickpocket. “You’re doing fine,” the man said, again in Russian, as he eased back into his chair. He had clearly been briefed he would be dealing with a novice.<br />
<br />
Then he continued, speaking quietly. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’ll share a drink and light conversation, just a couple of old friends catching up. Then I will get up and leave the club. You will wait a few minutes, then follow.”<br />
<br />
The contact leaned back and began laughing uproariously, as if Aleksander had just said the funniest thing he had ever heard. Aleksander stared, surprised by the man’s sudden outburst, before realizing he was supposed to join in. So he did, feeling silly. The he took a big pull on his vodka, emptying the glass. The fuzzy reassurance he had been waiting for began to tingle through him and Aleksander welcomed it with enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
He waved the barmaid over to their table—she hadn’t gotten any better looking, even after two tall vodkas—and ordered another round for himself and his new friend. After all, it was what the man had just said he was supposed to do, right? The shroud of fear and uncertainty that had been hanging over Aleksander since his meeting with the General Secretary began to lift. For the first time Aleksander began to believe things might actually turn out all right. He was almost finished with this frightening business, and then he could return to Moscow and get on with his life, safe and secure in his bureaucratic anonymity.<br />
<br />
His contact made small talk for a few minutes, and Aleksander returned the conversation with inanities of his own. They laughed now and then, just two men reconnecting after time apart. They could be friends, brothers, co-workers. Still no one appeared to be watching. Aleksander’s concern continued to melt away. He knew it was probably due to the effects of the alcohol but didn’t care.<br />
<br />
At last, Aleksander’s contact pushed his chair back on the dirty floor and stood. Aleksander stood too and the man with the scar reached across the small table, shaking his hand and drawing him close at the same time. “Remember,” he whispered in Aleksander’s ear. “Go nowhere for the next few minutes. Have another drink, relax. Allow time for me to slip away. Then you should disappear. Good luck.” Then he laughed again, smiling and nodding at Aleksander.<br />
<br />
He turned on his heel and melted into the crowd.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-28182048527503056122013-01-15T14:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T14:00:00.629-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Three<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Three:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>3</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>The Kremlin, Moscow</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>May 29, 1987, 10:10 a.m</em>.<br />
<br />
Aleksander Petrovka was suspicious and nervous—Mikhail could see that the moment the man entered his office. Petrovka worked in the Kremlin as a member of Mikhail Gorbachev’s personal staff, but his status within Gorbachev’s inner circle was not so lofty that he had ever had occasion to take a private meeting with the general secretary.<br />
<br />
“Aleksander,” he said, rising and extending his hand. It was critical he put his underling at ease.<br />
<br />
Petrovka shook his hand uncertainly. “You wished to see me, sir?”<br />
<br />
“I did,” Mikhail said, smiling. “Let us stroll the grounds.” He knew this development would arouse further concern in Petrovka, but it could not be helped. His office was certainly under surveillance, with listening devices as well as cameras, so broaching the subject here would get them both arrested for treason before an hour had passed.<br />
<br />
The men remained silent until they had exited the building. Mikhail could feel Aleksander’s discomfort. It was rolling off him in waves. As they strolled through flower gardens just beginning to bloom in the dank Moscow climate, the secretary spoke in a near-whisper to avoid detection by ubiquitous KGB listening devices. “You are being entrusted with a great honor,” he began. “A patriotic duty. You are being given the opportunity to perform a service to your country far beyond any you may previously have imagined possible.”<br />
<br />
Aleksander remained silent and Mikhail removed an innocent-looking envelope from his suit coat. He held it up for Aleksander’s inspection, but kept it close to his body, hoping to conceal it as much as possible from view of surveillance cameras. “You are to leave immediately—we will provide you with a change of clothes for your overnight stay in the GDR. You will be driven straight to Tushino Airfield and fly via private plane to Berlin, where you will pass this envelope along to an operative at the location specified in your paperwork. Please note the envelope has been sealed in wax with my personal insignia, and its contents are classified Top Secret, not for your eyes or anyone else’s except its intended recipient. The consequences of opening it would be severe and immediate. Do you understand, comrade?”<br />
<br />
Aleksander nodded slowly. Mikhail could see that he understood. Severe consequences in Russia meant only one thing.<br />
<br />
“How will I recognize the envelope’s recipient?” Aleksander asked.<br />
<br />
“I am told he suffered facial disfigurement in an automobile accident years ago. A long scar on his right cheek. But you needn’t worry, I have passed your description along and your contact will be watching for you. He will address you as ‘Dolph’ and you will respond, ‘Hello, Henrik.’”<br />
<br />
The secretary continued. “After delivering the envelope to your contact, your mission will be complete. You may enjoy the rest of your evening in East Berlin and then fly home tomorrow. Simple, yes?”<br />
<br />
Mikhail knew Aleksander wanted to question him. Hell, he could see the man wanted to refuse the assignment. But he also knew he would do as asked. His place was not to question. He was a bureaucrat and had been given an assignment by the most powerful man in the USSR. What else could he do?<br />
<br />
Aleksander reached out reluctantly and took the envelope. “Remember,” Mikhail said. “No one is to open this letter.”<br />
<br />
“What if…” Aleksander’s voice trailed off.<br />
<br />
“What?” Mikhail asked, annoyed. The lack of sleep was catching up to him and he still had a long day ahead.<br />
<br />
“Well, what if I am challenged, you know, by the authorities?”<br />
<br />
Mikhail reached into his pocket and removed a pen and a small pad of paper. He jotted something down and handed it to Aleksander. “The authorities would have no reason to challenge you, but if you encounter any difficulties, this is my personal telephone number. Anyone wishing to question you can call me, any time, day or night, and I will be happy to explain the situation.”<br />
<br />
It was clear to Mikhail that Aleksander was not pleased, but that did not matter. He placed the envelope in the interior breast pocket of his suit coat and the men began walking toward the building. Mikhail knew he had just passed the point of no return. He hoped Aleksander Petrovka was up to the challenge.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>The Kremlin, Moscow</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>KGB monitoring station</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>May 29, 1987, 10:30 a.m.</em><br />
<br />
Viktor Kovalenko squinted, his eyes glued to a tiny black-and-white monitor. The screen was crammed into a metal rack mounted on the wall next to his desk, alongside eleven similar monitors, each transmitting a different view of the exterior of the Kremlin.<br />
<br />
The image was small, but he could see enough to know something unusual was happening. General Secretary Gorbachev was speaking with one of his assistants, something he did regularly throughout the day. But normally the men would be surrounded by aides and secretaries and assorted party apparatchiks. This meeting was being conducted one-on-one, almost an unheard-of scenario with a low-level bureaucrat like Aleksander Petrovka.<br />
<br />
The men were engrossed in an intense conversation, Gorbachev doing most of the talking, Petrovka’s body language suggesting he would rather be almost anywhere else in the world. Gorbachev removed something from his pocket and after stressing a point, finger waggling, handed the object to Petrovka.<br />
<br />
Kovalenko glanced at his watch and jotted the time down on a small pad of paper, along with a notation regarding Gorbachev’s odd behavior. He squinted, watching the small Russian-made Ekran television monitor closely as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Tried to determine the relative importance of what he was seeing. Decided to play it safe. He picked up a telephone handset and dialed a number from memory.<br />
<br />
The call was answered on the first ring, as Kovalenko knew it would be. It always was. He laid out the details on the phone for the KGB watch commander: The virtually unprecedented change to General Secretary Gorbachev’s routine. The seeming reluctance with which Aleksander Petrovka received what Gorbachev had to say. The secretive passing of an object, perhaps an envelope, between the two men.<br />
<br />
Despite his familiarity with Gorbachev—he had been assigned to this post for over three years—Kovalenko could not guess what the General Secretary might be up to. Something was definitely amiss, though.<br />
<br />
Colonel Kopalev listened without comment for five minutes or more as Kovalenko reported his observations. Finally, when Kovalenko had finished, the colonel said, “Continue observing Secretary Gorbachev. When he leaves his office for the day, I want it thoroughly but discreetly searched. Have your men look for anything unusual and then report back to me with your findings.”<br />
<br />
Kovalenko grimaced. “Colonel, the object was passed to Petrovka. I seriously doubt any evidence will remain in Secretary Gorbachev’s office by the end of the day. There’s probably none in there now. If I may suggest following Petrovka—”<br />
<br />
“Thank you for your assessment, Major. Of course we will follow Comrade Petrovka. But it changes nothing as far as you are concerned. You have your orders. I will expect to hear from you immediately if your search turns up any useable information.”<br />
<br />
“Yes sir,” Kovalenko replied, and the connection was abruptly broken at the other end. His boss had just slammed down the receiver. He replaced the handset in its cradle and lifted his middle finger at it, fully aware that he might be under surveillance as well, that his insolence was probably being observed, but was annoyed enough not to care.<br />
<br />
He lit another cigarette and resumed observing the activity in and around the Kremlin.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-71332917678883729822013-01-15T13:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T13:00:00.019-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter Two<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter Two:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>2</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>The Kremlin, Moscow</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Mikhail Gorbachev’s residence</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>May 28, 1987, 11:15 p.m.</em><br />
<br />
Mikhail Gorbachev trudged into his den. He was exhausted and felt like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Raisa had gone to bed hours ago, but sleep would be elusive for Mikhail tonight. He eased into his plush leather office chair, selected a sheet of custom stationery, and got to work.<br />
<br />
This might be the most important letter he would ever write, and it was imperative he compose it here, at home. Working in his office, filled as it was with monitoring equipment, would risk his words being seen by the wrong set of eyes.<br />
<br />
KGB eyes.<br />
<br />
So he began writing, taking his time despite the fact he had put in a full day already and had another long day planned for tomorrow. He paused every few words to rub his chin and think. It was critical every word be phrased to convey the proper sense of urgency. Mikhail knew full well the letter’s recipient would be suspicious, if not outright dismissive, of the veracity of his words and the motives behind them. And that was assuming the letter even reached its intended destination.<br />
<br />
Mikhail realized he was probably under surveillance here, too, but working at night in his home office was not an unusual occurrence and should not elicit undue suspicion. More importantly, the quality of the surveillance cameras here was likely a step below those in his executive office. It was a risk, but a calculated one, and one worth taking.<br />
<br />
He had long-since grown accustomed to being watched. Clandestine KGB surveillance was ingrained in the consciousness of Soviet society, accepted as just as much a part of the late-twentieth century Russian experience as exquisite vodka and blisteringly cold winters. Still, he hunched over his work, shielding the letter to the maximum extent possible with his body’s bulk. The KGB might not be able to read the specifics of what he was writing, but they could probably guess the subject. And that made this communique one of the most dangerous pieces of paper in the world.<br />
<br />
Once he finished crafting the letter, the next step would be to enlist a trustworthy courier to make delivery. That would be a tricky and dangerous proposition, and where his plan could easily fall apart. A contact well-versed in espionage techniques would be the obvious choice, and as Soviet General Secretary, Gorbachev could take his pick of the skilled KGB operatives in their considerable arsenal.<br />
<br />
But there was a problem. This assignment would require personal loyalty, and a career spy would have no reason to offer such loyalty to Mikhail Gorbachev. In theory, Russia’s espionage service existed to support the Communist party, of which he was titular head. The reality, however, was much different. KGB officials enjoyed tremendous power and were accustomed to wielding that power to their own benefit. Mikhail knew if he entrusted this mission to the KGB, the document would not be out of his hands thirty minutes before it would be undergoing intensive scrutiny. And the consequences of <em>that</em> could be dire.<br />
<br />
But Mikhail Gorbachev had not risen to power through the cutthroat ranks of the Soviet political system by being timid—or by being stupid. He wielded power and influence, too, and his inner circle was filled with men fiercely protective of him. Not only because he was their friend and confidant, but also because their livelihoods depended upon his maintaining power. Were he to be overthrown, the new Russian leader would bring in new lieutenants, disposing of the old power brokers in whatever manner he saw fit.<br />
<br />
Including making the most knowledgeable—and thus most dangerous—of them disappear.<br />
<br />
Gorbachev knew the courier would have to be a man inside his inner circle, but it could not be someone so close to the General Secretary that he was indispensable, because the odds of the man completing the mission successfully and also returning alive were slim. <em>Practically nil</em>, he thought grimly.<br />
<br />
The Soviet leader took a break from composing his letter and flipped it face down, then stretched out in his chair. His eyes were tired, burning from the exhaustion of a full day followed by the stress of tonight’s illicit work. Tomorrow he would have to carry on as though he had gotten a good night’s sleep. It would not be easy, but then nothing was easy in a world where Mother Russia’s hold over the rest of the Soviet republics was slipping steadily away.<br />
<br />
The world was shrinking, and people who at one time were easily controlled via intimidation were beginning to demand freedoms unthinkable just a decade ago under Russian rule. No one inside the Kremlin wanted to admit it, but the burden of repressing the citizens of so many nations, all yearning for freedom and self-government, was stretching the Soviet Union to the breaking point. The largest military in the world was not going to be enough. Things had to change, and they had to change <em>soon</em>, but most inside the ruling body of the USSR refused to see it. They buried their heads in the sand and pretended the year was still 1962.<br />
<br />
Mikhail Gorbachev knew better. The Soviet Union was headed for disaster. It was inevitable, and would tear his country apart. The KGB had set a plan in motion that would cause a massive shift in global conditions, allowing them to consolidate their own hold on power, and he could not allow that plan to happen. It was too extreme. It would trigger World War Three.<br />
<br />
So he would do what must be done. But to challenge the KGB openly would be foolhardy and likely considered treasonous. He would disappear without a trace in the middle of the night, just like millions of his countrymen had disappeared under Josef Stalin. The KGB could make it happen, his status as Communist Party General Secretary notwithstanding, and no one would question a thing. A new leader would be installed and the system would lurch along toward its own demise.<br />
<br />
This was why he worked in exhausted solitude at his desk while the rest of Moscow slumbered. This was why he risked everything. For his beloved country. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. He whittled down the list of potential couriers in his mind. He chewed on them endlessly until he decided on the perfect candidate.<br />
<br />
Aleksander Petrovka’s official title was Undersecretary for Domestic Affairs. Aleksander would do as instructed, particularly if properly motivated. He was fairly intelligent for a party apparatchik, maybe even intelligent enough to pull off what Mikhail needed of him.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow they would talk, and Mikhail would put his own plan in motion, the one which would, with any luck, negate the KGB’s. He would dispatch Petrovka to East Berlin on the first available plane. The KGB would know something was up but would not have time to stop him, provided Mikhail acted quickly and decisively.<br />
<br />
He nodded, alone in his office. Having decided upon a courier, Mikhail felt a great weight lifting from his shoulders. The plan would either work or it would not, but solidifying things, even if only in his mind, made Mikhail feel better, like he was accomplishing something of significance. He straightened in his chair and got back to work.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-1603489184536836292013-01-15T12:00:00.000-05:002013-01-15T12:00:09.846-05:00PARALLAX VIEW, Chapter One<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, is now available. I'm very excited about this book and will be posting several preview chapters over the course of the day. Here's Chapter One:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><strong>1</strong></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Nikolayev South Shipyard, Ukraine</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>May 20, 1987 – late in the Cold War</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>2:25 a.m.</em><br />
<br />
Tracie Tanner carefully eased one drawer closed and opened another in the dented, World War II-era metal filing cabinet wedged behind the desk of the general manager’s office at Shipyard No. 444. <em>Where’s that damned file?</em> She’d been searching for nearly half an hour already with no luck, unable to decipher the Soviets’ Byzantine filing system.<br />
<br />
Her eyes burned from the strain of reading reports typed in Cyrillic on substandard Russian-made typewriters, and she could sense time ticking away—surveillance reports indicated the guards’ patrol patterns included a walk-through of this very office every forty-five minutes or so.<br />
<br />
The darkened office smelled sour, its cement block construction retaining the unpleasant fishy stench of the Black Sea combined with old sweat. She clenched a small penlight between her teeth to free up both hands for the search, and she worked methodically, flipping through file after file under the most likely tab headings.<br />
<br />
Tracie, a CIA clandestine ops specialist, had been assigned to remove the guidance system software specs for the Soviet aircraft carrier <em>Buka</em>, scheduled for commission later this year, and replace them with bogus specifications. Construction had been completed on <em>Buka</em> years earlier, but bugs in the ship’s sophisticated software had delayed commissioning ever since.<br />
<br />
Four years ago, in a successful nighttime operation, another CIA clandestine ops specialist had broken into this very office and replaced the proper specs with useless, CIA-generated data. Now the goal was to repeat the scenario and delay launch of the <em>Buka</em> for several more months, if possible.<br />
<br />
Tracie worked quickly but thoroughly. Next to the office door the Soviet bureaucrat in charge had placed a large aquarium filled with exotic fish, and the steady drone of the water filter motor began to lull her into drowsiness. She blinked hard, closed the filing cabinet drawer, and opened another. She had worked her way through nearly two-thirds of the file cabinet and had found nothing.<br />
<br />
And then, there it was. The first folder in the new drawer. It was blue, filled with several dozen sheets of numbers, diagrams and specifications. Tracie lifted out the folder and compared some of the sheets inside it to corresponding sheets of paper in the dummy file she had brought into the office. They appeared identical. The differences in the specifications were so minute it would take a team of engineers months to decipher the problem, and that was after they had discovered there was a problem.<br />
<br />
She smiled in the darkness and removed the original specs, sliding the forged documents into the file folder in their place. She rolled the drawer closed, slowly and quietly, and then stood, glad to be finished. She placed the original software specs into a small briefcase and snapped it shut.<br />
<br />
Padded quietly across the office.<br />
<br />
And dropped her flashlight. It slipped out of her hand and clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop against the door.<br />
<br />
<em>Dammit</em>.<br />
<br />
Tracie froze, waiting to hear a shouted challenge or footsteps pounding down the hallway.<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
She waited fifteen seconds. Thirty. Then breathed a silent sigh of relief and picked up the flashlight. <em>Be more careful, dummy</em>.<br />
<br />
She eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. And walked straight into a Soviet security guard’s Makarov semiautomatic pistol.<br />
<br />
Tracie stepped backward instinctively, calculating the odds of reaching her Beretta 9mm inside the shoulder holster under her jacket. Result: not good.<br />
<br />
The guard said, “Stay right where you are,” in Russian, and Tracie moved back another three steps, hoping he would follow her into the office. He did.<br />
<br />
She stepped back and he moved forward. Stepped back again and he followed, still holding the gun on her. She backed into the general manager’s desk, studying the guard. He was barely more than a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and he wore a threadbare Red Army uniform that had probably been handed down from soldier to soldier two or three times, maybe more. His hands were shaking, just a little, and he said, “You’re coming with me.”<br />
<br />
<em>I don’t think so</em>, Tracie thought, but raised her hands to chest level in submission. “All right,” she answered in Russian, hoping her slight English accent would be undetectable. “This is a simple misunderstanding. I can explain.”<br />
<br />
“Not my problem,” the guard said. “You will explain to my superiors.” He gestured with his head toward the door. “Go,” he told her, “and do not try anything stupid.” The Makarov stuttered and jumped and Tracie hoped he wouldn’t shoot her by accident.<br />
<br />
The guard stepped aside to allow Tracie to pass him into the hallway. He brushed up against the table holding the aquarium, and as she moved past him, she pushed hard, a blur of sudden motion in the semi-darkness, and smashed his hands, gun and all, straight down into the side wall of the aquarium.<br />
<br />
The glass shattered and the guard gasped, the sound almost but not quite a scream. He pulled the trigger reflexively and the gun fired, the slug whizzing past Tracie’s head. A wave of water and fish flooded out of the tank, soaking Tracie and the guard. Even in the dim light she could see the razor-sharp glass had ripped a gash in the guard’s forearm. Had she been sliced, too? No time to worry about that now.<br />
<br />
The guard stumbled forward and Tracie ripped the gun out of his hands and slammed it against his temple. He sank to his knees, stunned. She hit him again and he dropped to the floor. He didn’t move. She prodded him with her foot and he lay unresponsive. He was out.<br />
<br />
But now she had another problem. The shipyard was patrolled at night by a team of two guards, and if the other man was anywhere near he would have heard the gunfire. He could be rushing here right now. He could be on her in seconds. Tracie unlatched the briefcase and dropped the guard’s Makarov inside, then snapped it shut and eased out the door, her Beretta drawn, alert for any signs of the second guard.<br />
<br />
He was nowhere in sight.<br />
<br />
She made her way out of the building and through the shipyard, moving between concrete and aluminum structures like a wraith. At the edge of the shipyard property, she turned toward the Black Sea shoreline and an inflatable boat which would take her to a U.S. submarine stationed nearby. She disappeared into the black Ukrainian night.<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-55667864300103735602013-01-15T11:40:00.000-05:002013-01-15T11:40:45.629-05:00Virtual release party all day long for PARALLAX VIEW!<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brand-new thriller is titled <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, and is available NOW exclusively at Amazon for three months, then elsewhere. I'm really excited about this book, it was a lot of fun to write and I'm thrilled with how it turned out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Here's the quick back-cover text:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em>It's spring, 1987, late in the Cold War, and CIA Special Operations agent Tracie Tanner is tasked with what should be a relatively simple mission: deliver a secret communique from Soviet General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev to U.S. President Ronald Reagan.</em></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>After smuggling the document out of East Germany, Tracie believes she is in the clear. She's wrong. There are shadowy forces at work, influential people who will stop at nothing to prevent the explosive information contained in the letter from reaching the White House.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>Soon, Tanner is knee-deep in airplane crashes and murder, paired up with a young Maine air traffic controller and on the run for their lives, unsure who she can trust at CIA, but committed to completing her mission, no matter the cost...</em><br />
<br />
C.J. West, author of THE END OF MARKING TIME and other suspenseful thriller, calls PARALLAX VIEW "A sexy, sophisticated Cold War thriller with all the intensity of THE LONELY MILE."<br />
<br />
Ian Graham, author of the upcoming VEIL OF CIVILITY, says ""Bringing back the days of the Cold War like a Best of Tom Clancy flashback, Parallax View is a rocking read from start to finish!"<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm holding a PARALLAX VIEW virtual launch party/giveaway all day long at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/100000243107761#!/events/568870126459822/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, from noon ET until 10 p.m. tonight, and I'd love it if you stop by and say hello, and maybe even win some stuff. Here's a list of what's being given away:<br />
<br />
10 Kindle (or PDF) copies of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Parallax-View-ebook/dp/B00B0XEN86/" target="_blank">PARALLAX VIEW</a>, one per hour<br />
<br />
<br />
2 print copies of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lonely-Mile-ebook/dp/B005DAX06I" target="_blank">THE LONELY MILE</a>, my Amazon overall Top 25 bestselling thriller<br />
<br />
2 print copies of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revenant-Paskagankee-ebook/dp/B008GG3TA8" target="_blank">REVENANT</a>, Book two of my Paskagankee horror series<br />
<br />
2 print copies of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Drunk-on-the-Moon-ebook/dp/B007X45BUA" target="_blank">DRUNK ON THE MOON</a>, the very cool Roman Dalton anthology, featuring my story "The Darke Affair," plus stories from Paul D. Brazill, Richard Godwin, BR B.r. Stateham and many others<br />
<br />
2 print copies of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Nightfalls-Notes-end-world-ebook/dp/B00AGCIO8C/" target="_blank">NIGHTFALLS</a>, the brand-new charity anthology to benefit at-risk children in the Los Angeles area, featuring my story "The Dogs on Main Street Howl," plus stories from Patricia Abbot, Matthew C. Funk, Nigel Bird, Chris Rhatigan and many others<br />
<br />
1 print copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Intrigue-Stories-of-Suspense-ebook/dp/B005DAX2F2/" target="_blank">INTRIGUE</a>, the thriller/mystery anthology featuring my story "Faces," plus stories from Dave Zeltserman, Paul Levine, Robin Parrish, Vincent Zandri and many others<br />
<br />
1 print copy of <a href="http://needlemag.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Needle Magazine's</a> Fall 2011 issue featuring my story "The Ticket," plus stories from Ray Banks, Keith Rawson, the late Gil Brewer and many others<br />
<br />
All of the print books/magazines can be signed/personalized if you'd like, or not...your choice!<br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-16468105043879420812012-12-31T23:59:00.000-05:002012-12-31T23:59:39.234-05:00See ya later, 2012<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8aaFvwCklZU/UOJq5aBSGDI/AAAAAAAAAQw/DHfYkLwyy0M/s1600/015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8aaFvwCklZU/UOJq5aBSGDI/AAAAAAAAAQw/DHfYkLwyy0M/s200/015.jpg" width="128" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">December 31 marks a milestone for everyone, right? We all have a tendency to take stock as one year ends and another begins, and I'm nothing if not predictable, so here goes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Three years ago yesterday I signed the contract with Medallion Press for publication of my first book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Final-Vector-ebook/dp/B004MMEDU0/" target="_blank">FINAL VECTOR</a>. Each year since then has seen a steady progression of my writing career, and this year was no different.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In terms of sales, 2012 was successful beyond my wildest imagination, thanks mostly to the lightning-bolt success in February of my thriller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lonely-Mile-ebook/dp/B005DAX06I" target="_blank">THE LONELY MILE</a>, which peaked at #21 overall in the paid store at Amazon and resulted in 12,000 sales for the month.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8UCf80V0ioU/UOJrF46TyCI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/4-0sE7Yoz5U/s1600/Lonely+Mile+Cover+final+(427x640).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8UCf80V0ioU/UOJrF46TyCI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/4-0sE7Yoz5U/s200/Lonely+Mile+Cover+final+(427x640).jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">With that as the springboard, sales of all my work totaled nearly 14,500 copies. When you add in the free giveaway promos we did over the course of the year, which came to well over 60,000 copies, in 2012 more than 75,000 copies of my novels and novellas found their way into people's hands.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I know, I know, when you do a giveaway, lots of people download the books and never get around to reading them. Guess what? I don't care. If even ten percent of the people who downloaded one of my books for free decides to give it a try, more than 7500 people were introduced to my name and my work this year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">That's a win, as far as I'm concerned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">***</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">What did I learn this year? Here it is: Nobody knows anything. When I signed with Medallion, I wanted to give myself the best possible chance to be successful, so I was conscientious about researching what was expected of me as a brand-new novelist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">- The general consensus was that an author needed to be active on social media like Facebook, to maintain a presence. I made sure to do it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">- The general consensus was that an author needed to blog regularly to bring attention to his or her work. I made sure to do it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">- The general consensus was that an author needed to do blog tours to bring his or her work to the attention of new readers. I made sure to do it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">- The general consensus was that an author needs to hustle for reviews, because the more reviews your work has, the more likely it is to be "discovered." I made sure to do it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Wanna know what I found out? None of it makes a damned bit of difference, at least not in more than a very general - and very minor - way. All these things I tried did little more than take valuable time away from what's important: writing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Success, at least in terms of sales, is largely dependent upon things out of the author's control, at least any author who is not a household name. What is much more valuable than any of the above things, in my opinion, is <em>writing!</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Writing more accomplishes two things: It helps the writer improve, because like anything else you only get better with practice. Plus, producing more work gives you a better chance to be noticed, and in so doing have your work catch on with a reading public inundated with choices.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Remember, though, nobody knows anything, including me, so treat the above with the healthy skepticism it deserves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">By the way, some of the stuff I still do because I enjoy it. Facebook, for example. I love interacting with readers and other writers. But now I do it when I want to, not because I think I need to simply to advance my writing career.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">***</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Each year of this journey has seen an exponential growth in sales of my work. It will be hard to continue that trend in 2013, given the success of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lonely-Mile-ebook/dp/B005DAX06I" target="_blank">THE LONELY MILE</a> last February, but I'm excited about the coming year. On January 15, my Cold War thriller, PARALLAX VIEW, will be released, and although I'm understandably prejudiced in favor of this book, I think with a little luck it could be a big success. It's exciting and fun and filled with action.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Within a couple of months after that, my horror/paranormal suspense novel, MR. MIDNIGHT, will be released. It's not quite ready for prime time yet, but I'm working hard on it and when all is said and done, I think it could be big as well.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qqbvtooOpMQ/UOJsX1pm4DI/AAAAAAAAARI/ntjrWaAMDKw/s1600/Paskagankee+(427x640).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qqbvtooOpMQ/UOJsX1pm4DI/AAAAAAAAARI/ntjrWaAMDKw/s200/Paskagankee+(427x640).jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Beyond that, I hope to finish the third book in my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/PASKAGANKEE-ebook/dp/B0072PMYNM" target="_blank">PASKAGANKEE</a> series this year, as well as work on a followup to PARALLAX VIEW, featuring kickass CIA heroine Tracie Tanner.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">A busy year upcoming? Absolutely, but I'm having a blast writing and am nothing but excited about the prospects moving forward.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">***</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It wouldn't be an end-of-year manifesto without thanking a few people:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">First, my wife, Sue, who encourages my writing and never, ever, falls preys to my constant and unrelenting conviction that my work sucks and I'm one bad review away from the whole tenuous writing career I've built falling apart like a house of cards.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Aaron Patterson and <a href="http://stonehouseink.net/" target="_blank">StoneHouse Ink</a>. This is a guy who has his own very successful writing career, but who sacrifices time on his own work to help others succeed. He singlehandedly built StoneHouse Ink on instincts and business sense into a mega-growing indie publishing powerhouse. I'm proud to be associated with Aaron and StoneHouse and look forward to big things ahead for him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Writers I admire and am inspired by. It's a varied group and includes people like Lawrence Block, Brad Thor, Vincent Zandri, Heath Lowrance, CJ Lyons, Robert Bidinotto and many others.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">And finally, readers - every single person who has given one of my books a chance, especially if he or she spent their hard-earned money to do so. I am honestly humbled by the fact you gave me the opportunity to entertain you and will never take that for granted. I'm going to work even harder this coming year to prove myself worthy of that opportunity.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">***</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Happy New Year. Here's to a happy, healthy, safe and productive 2013. Let's buck the odds and make this the best year of our lives.</span>Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-88684617606840336662012-12-21T00:01:00.000-05:002012-12-21T08:03:58.569-05:00Love books? Today is your day!<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.buymereadme.com/"><img alt="" class=" wp-image-17 aligncenter" height="616" src="http://buymereadme.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/99authors-blog-ad1.jpg" title="99authors blog ad" width="616" /></a></div>
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These prices are available on Amazon only.</h2>
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For a listing of books offered and to enter to win, click <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span style="color: #3366ff;"><a href="http://www.buymereadme.com/"><span style="color: #3366ff; text-decoration: underline;">here!!</span></a></span></span></h2>
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I'm fortunate to be a part of this tremendous promotion, and it is for ONE DAY ONLY!<br />
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I'd love it if you take advantage of the 75% savings on my Amazon Overall Top 25 paid bestseller, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lonely-Mile-ebook/dp/B005DAX06I/" target="_blank">THE LONELY MILE</a>, but also check out these 98 other books from 98 other unbelievable authors in all different genres, all offering books for just 99 cents, today only...<br />
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Oh yeah, plus you can WIN CASH...<br />
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Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-80562748070024120542012-10-22T09:33:00.000-04:002012-10-22T09:33:29.405-04:00Mallorie is braver than you<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Imagine for a moment that we had made such wonderful progress in the fight against cancer that only two hundred cases remained in the entire United States. Or substitute heart disease for cancer if you'd prefer. Or HIV.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">That would be a revolutionary day, right? Something to celebrate, as by that point we would be just one more small breakthrough away from eradicating an entire disease, from wiping it off the face of the earth forever.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">But what if, instead of cancer or heart disease or HIV, the disease affecting two hundred Americans was something you had never heard of? What if this disease was so rare, affecting such a small percentage of the population, that there was virtually no incentive to devote any funding to medical research?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">And what if the disease was incurable, affecting mostly teenagers and young adults, and once diagnosed, meant a future of gradually worsening seizures, muscle spasms, dementia and eventually death?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">What if you were diagnosed with <a href="http://rarediseases.info.nih.gov/GARD/Condition/8214/Lafora_disease.aspx" target="_blank">Lafora Disease</a>?</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-erEhV8eYV9o/UIS_QsJceWI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/jW1A54S2fo8/s1600/Mallorie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-erEhV8eYV9o/UIS_QsJceWI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/jW1A54S2fo8/s320/Mallorie.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Welcome to Mallorie Lindo's life. Mallorie is braver than you. She's braver than me, too. Mallorie is a seventeen year old neighbor of mine in New Hampshire, living a few towns away, and she suffers from Lafora Disease.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Mallorie has been forced by circumstances beyond her control - beyond anyone's control - to carry a burden no teenager should ever have to carry. She knows what her future holds, and unlike many people diagnosed with a deadly disease, Mallorie can't even cling to the possibility of a miracle cure, because little is being done to find one.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Needless to say, Mallorie and her family are facing the battle of their lives. These kinds of fights aren't cheap, either, and many of the expenses Mallorie and her family are facing aren't the sorts of things health insurance will pay for.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aEjaIgHKOHo/UIS-PxZJbuI/AAAAAAAAAQE/fIKffw5zDQ0/s1600/UncleBrick4Novelettes300dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aEjaIgHKOHo/UIS-PxZJbuI/AAAAAAAAAQE/fIKffw5zDQ0/s320/UncleBrick4Novelettes300dpi.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It just so happens that at the same time I was learning of Mallorie's situation I was putting the finishing touches on my brand-new collection of mystery novelettes titled <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Brick-Four-Novelettes-ebook/dp/B009SYFWVQ/" target="_blank">UNCLE BRICK AND THE FOUR NOVELETTES</a>. The collection includes three previously published stories, including "Uncle Brick and Jimmy Kills," a finalist for a 2010 Derringer Award for excellence in short mystery fiction, as well as one brand-new story, written just for this collection.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">UNCLE BRICK AND THE FOUR NOVELETTES is available at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Brick-Four-Novelettes-ebook/dp/B009SYFWVQ" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/246979" target="_blank">Smashwords,</a> <a href="http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Uncle-Brick-and-Four-Novelettes/book-VXM7h5FSQEOoOR9IP5lXMA/page1.html" target="_blank">Kobo</a>, and any minute now at Barnes and Noble. I am pledging all of the royalties I earn from this collection - every penny - from now through Thanksgiving to Mallorie and her family. That amounts to about $2.06 per download.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I'd like to think the collection is a pretty good deal on it's own, $2.99 for 40,000 words of entertainment, but when you add in the fact you'll be helping contribute to a young woman facing a future none of us should ever have to face, in my opinion it becomes a no-brainer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">If you're not interested in Uncle Brick and would like to contribute to Mallorie's fight directly, you can do so via the Paypal button at her website, <a href="http://www.malloriesjoy.org/" target="_blank">Mallorie's Joy</a>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Mallorie's Joy - that's not the name you would expect on the website of a young woman facing what she's facing, is it? But that's because <em>Mallorie</em> is not what you would expect. She's braver than you and I, remember? She is determined to face each day as brightly and optimistically as possible, and while no one should doubt the difficulty of doing so in her situation, it's one of the things that make Mallorie Lindo and her challenge so special.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">So check out <a href="http://www.malloriesjoy.org/" target="_blank">Mallorie's Joy</a>, click around and get to know this extraordinary young lady. Consider helping Mallorie and her family financially if you're able, either by purchasing <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Brick-Four-Novelettes-ebook/dp/B009SYFWVQ" target="_blank">UNCLE BRICK AND THE FOUR NOVELETTES</a> or by <a href="http://www.malloriesjoy.org/contact/" target="_blank">contributing directly</a>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">If financial support is not possible, I'd be willing to bet she would appreciate a prayer if you pray, or a good thought if you're not religious. Maybe a card or a note.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">But please keep Mallorie in your thoughts.</span>Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-63562927946800971012012-09-28T21:44:00.000-04:002012-09-28T21:44:09.684-04:00Don't buy my book tomorrow!<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If trying to introduce people to my books has taught me anything (it has), it's that you have to be willing to try new things, because you never know what's going to work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Amazon introduced the Kindle Select Program last fall, with the ability for authors to give their books away, I was skeptical. How would offering a book for free help me make money?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Well, after the program had gotten up and running, I saw it working out for the brave authors who tried it, so in February StoneHouse Ink and I gave it a whirl, making <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lonely-Mile-ebook/dp/B005DAX06I" target="_blank">THE LONELY MILE</a> free for three days, giving away 42,000 copies and launching a bestseller in the aftermath of the explosion. We sold eight thousand books in the three days following the promotion, and 12,000 total for the month of February, sending the book rocketing as high as #21 in Amazon's Paid store among all books, #2 in all Suspense Thrillers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It was a ride I'll never forget, and one which I've yet to come close to duplicating, despite going back to the well and trying the free thing a few times in the months since.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The fact is, things are constantly changing in the wonderful world of publishing (as if you haven't heard <em>that one </em>before) - and especially selling - books.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VksJfA6bzcE/UGZQ8f53w8I/AAAAAAAAAPk/PJOa9O9p8AI/s1600/Revenant+-+Print+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VksJfA6bzcE/UGZQ8f53w8I/AAAAAAAAAPk/PJOa9O9p8AI/s320/Revenant+-+Print+Cover.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">All of which leads back to my initial point. Gotta try new things.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">To that end, I decided to try something a little different with my new supernatural suspense novel, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revenant-Paskagankee-ebook/dp/B008GG3TA8" target="_blank">REVENANT</a>. The way the Kindle Select Program works is the author or publisher gets five days of free promotion in exchange for making the work exclusive to Amazon for ninety days. I had three promotional days left for REVENANT approaching the end of the ninety day period, so I decided to use those three days during the last three days of the period, then re-up with Kindle Select, and use all five promo days at the <em>beginning</em> of the next ninety day period, giving me eight free days in a row.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Something different. Worth a try, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Well, there was a problem. Of course.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A189FObNbnY/UGZROT9K0RI/AAAAAAAAAPs/t1lnosGwPAQ/s1600/015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A189FObNbnY/UGZROT9K0RI/AAAAAAAAAPs/t1lnosGwPAQ/s320/015.jpg" width="206" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Turns out you can't schedule the free promo days with Amazon until after the new ninety day exclusivity period has begun, so there will be a break of one day between the three free promo days at the end of the old ninety day period and the five free promo days at the beginning of the new period.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">That day is tomorrow. Saturday, September 29, 2012. The only day during the nine-day stretch from September 26 through October 4 when you will have to pay to download REVENANT.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I don't know if making my book free for eight days will do a damned thing for it or not, but I do know Medallion Press made <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Final-Vector-ebook/dp/B004MMEDU0" target="_blank">FINAL VECTOR</a> free for fifteen days at the end of August and we went on a pretty good sales run immediately following that promo. I figure it's worth a shot, but I will feel a little guilty if you buy the book tomorrow when you could have gotten it free the day before or the day after.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">So please, spare me the feelings of guilt. Don't buy <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revenant-Paskagankee-ebook/dp/B008GG3TA8" target="_blank">my book</a> tomorrow. Get it free on Sunday. Or wait and buy it on October 5, if you prefer...</span></div>
Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-67943122596166460602012-08-17T20:54:00.000-04:002012-08-17T20:54:24.670-04:00Interview with Debut Author Jim Wilsky<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For the past couple of years, I've been posting interviews with authors I admire on a semi-regular basis. I've been privileged to <strike>bother </strike>ask questions of <a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/05/interview-with-bestselling-author.html" target="_blank">Lawrence Block</a>, <a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2011/10/interview-with-bestselling-author.html" target="_blank">Robert Gregory Browne</a>, <a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/05/interview-with-bestselling-author-cj.html" target="_blank">CJ Lyons</a>, and many others, some of whom you are probably familiar with, others you may not be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Today I'm really excited to feature a new kid, a debut author who is older than me, and that's not an easy feat to accomplish. Jim Wilsky has written some kick-ass short fiction in the past, but never got around to writing a novel. Until now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">He has teamed up with veteran <a href="http://www.frankzafiro.com/" target="_blank">Frank Zafiro</a> to produce <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blood-on-ebook/dp/B008TB9JAO" target="_blank">BLOOD ON BLOOD</a>, a blistering, profane noir/crime fiction effort that any fan of the genre absolutely must check out. I was lucky enough to read an ARC of BLOOD ON BLOOD, and I tore through it in about three days, diving into it whenever I possibly could.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">BLOOD ON BLOOD reminds me of the best of Tom Piccirilli and Les Edgerton, and if you know how much I admire those two guys, you know what a compliment that is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Jim Wilsky is my guest today, and he agreed to answer any question I threw at him. Here's the result:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><strong>You’re a pretty prolific short story writer, having placed tales in any number of outstanding publications, including <a href="http://www.shotgunhoney.net/2012/03/yella-haired-girls-by-jim-wilsky.html" target="_blank">this nasty little gem</a> in one of my favorites, Shotgun Honey. What makes an accomplished short story writer decide to move on to novels?</strong></span><br />
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Well thank you Allan and thanks even more for letting me do this interview. To borrow from your blog name this is a thrill a minute for me. <br />
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I have to say though that as far as me being prolific – well, I can’t even see the front of the prolific line from where I’m standing. Much appreciated, but I sure don’t think I’m in that category, not by a long shot. The outstanding publications mention is absolutely spot on though. There are some great homes for short stories and what talent there is these days. The editors of these publications make that all possible. Those same editors are extremely talented writers as well. I have been lucky enough to get to know them and learn from them. I’ve just been very fortunate and early on I submitted and inquired so many times that I think they finally just said Okay, OKAY, we’ll accept the damn story. <br />
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I’ve been writing quite a while but it’s been on again and off again for many years. Now it’s on again at a pretty heavy pace. For me anyway. Throughout this entire time though, the thought and dream of writing a book has always been there for me. When I say the dream, I don’t take that word lightly. It seemed only a dream forever, as time and life as a non-published author just continued to click along. I really don’t think there was any definite point in time where I firmly decided okay this is it, but I had a lot of constant support and encouragement along the way to give it a try one day. Then along came a book idea and an offered writing project made by a very good friend/associate of mine Frank Zafiro. Some more persuasion/encouragement and then bang the starting gun went off and away we went. <br />
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<strong>Your debut, BLOOD ON BLOOD, just released from <a href="http://snubnosepress.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Snubnose Press</a>, was co-written with veteran Frank Zafiro. That’s a pretty unconventional way to write your first novel. What was that process like?</strong><br />
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To be honest with you there is only one person I would have ever tried this with. It had to be Frank or this thing wouldn’t have even been considered – or hell, offered to me, for that matter. I am not what you would call the most cocky writer around. I’m just very hard on my writing and that’s as it should be, but there’s a little fear mixed in too. Fear of acceptance I suppose, or dread that everybody will read something of mine and unanimously think what the hell was that supposed to be? It’s very odd with me and writing, it’s not like I’m Mr. Trepidation about other things in life. I’ve always been outgoing, foolishly confident and simply an idiot when it comes to accepting challenges. <br />
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For me, writing isn’t like sports or business or even raising kids. When somebody reads something of mine, it’s like I look down and notice that I’m not wearing any clothes. There is a baring it all feeling for me there that is tough for a normally confident person. It’s been said many times but writing is just so personal. People are looking through my windows dammit and there are no drapes to pull. Anyway, I’m my own worst critic, half paranoid and cynical about my ability to write something of value that a few people might enjoy. Good example? This interview. Am I nervous about it and how it will read?…Oh, hell yes.<br />
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So after that little schizophrenic confession, I’d say that with anyone else but Frank Zafiro, no matter how talented, accommodating and helpful they were, I would have been very skeptical and worried that my work would not measure up in terms of quality and/or I wouldn’t be able to keep up. There would be something that I’d just be sure to screw up.<br />
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With him though, it’s different. He’s always been positive and always supportive of my writing but he also is able to tell me in a casual convincing way, ‘oh bullshit, you’re a writer, so write’. I trust his misplaced judgement, value his help and appreciate the hell out of the friendship we’ve forged. Frank and I were somehow introduced or met on line years ago. How many years ago, or when and how it happened, I have no idea. Main thing is, it did happen and without that chance meeting, my first book would probably still be waiting to happen. <br />
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We went into it prepared with a damn good shell of a story, pretty well defined characters and a solid but flexible story outline that we constantly adjusted. We kept a lot of open room in the outline. We knew that we would have to expand and collapse the story at times depending on the story pace, our two different characters and our writing styles. We also went with 1st person and we each took one of the two main characters. This was also fairly daunting for me. We alternated the chapters though which always kept it fresh for me as a new chapter of mine would be finished and sent, then I would receive the next chapter from Frank. Once we got that rhythm going, it flowed. It just hummed along. It flowed so well that I was positive I was writing garbage. It shouldn’t come that easy, it shouldn’t be enjoyable…I mean, should it? Frank told me to just shut-up and keep writing. We had momentum and fed off each other. <br />
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<strong>Were there times during the writing of the book where you wanted to go in one direction and your co-author wanted to go in another? How were these types of issues resolved? Any bloodshed?</strong><br />
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Well, I have finally reached the conclusion that Frank is an absolute ass. I mean that, I’m sorry, but there it is.<br />
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Seriously though, there were only two fork in the road type occasions. Pivotal points in the story, where we had to lay things out on the table and decide on where we were going, or how we were going to get there. I believe we only had two phone calls the entire time we wrote this novel. Long calls, but only two, the rest all email. I look back on that and think damn – that’s pretty amazing - I think. But him and I read each other well. Really well. We’re also a lot alike personally I believe. Like hearing someone’s tone of voice and inflection, we seem to be able to read each other’s tone. As we were writing, Frank had confidence in our plan and that our combined work would be good. Maybe better than good. I appreciated the hell out of that confidence he had in me. It was classic coach psychology. You don’t want to let them down. We just flat clicked as writers.<br />
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The last third of the book, as in almost every book or novel, was crucial. Things were really cooking, coming to a boil and we were looking for that perfect set up/ending. I don’t know that there’s such a thing as perfect but you gotta try right? We had other considerations too, like a sequel or possibly a series. At the end of the day, hey, he’s a pro and I’m like some goofy walk-on in college trying to make the team. Let’s just say I listened. A lot. No bloodshed whatsoever, although I’m sure he thought about where he could hide the body.<br />
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<strong>Talk a little bit about BLOOD ON BLOOD. It’s billed as a hard-boiled chase novel about half-brothers racing to recover missing diamonds – accurate?</strong><br />
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Yes, I think so. That’s a pretty good synopsis. I’m terrible at that. Paul Brazill asked me to write a 25 words or less billing and what I wrote sounded cheesy, like I was trying to be too damn cute or something. For me it’s very hard to wrap it up, but hell you have to. Otherwise, the billing you write up is too long, too descriptive, too something. Attention spans ain’t what they used to be, including my own. You better hit somebody right in the nose with something. A hard, quick jab.<br />
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Since I’m a wordy bastard though, I’ll add that I liked that we chose Chicago as the setting for this story. Neither one of us are natives but I’m very familiar with that town and it doesn’t get enough stories. We felt that it was an excellent fit for what we had going on. So many possibilities there. We had a great brother thing going on but we also had some strong ethnic play mixed in. We all know about the distinct neighborhoods and burroughs of NYC but if you’ve ever been to Chicago and I mean really been there, you know that Chicago is second to nobody in the wonderful rich ethnic stew that makes up every major city. And last, the brother that I had was a great character and I had a ball with it. Known some guys like that, not to that extreme but I wasn’t writing blind that’s for sure. <br />
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<strong>I see you’re hard at work now on the followup to BLOOD ON BLOOD, again to be written with Frank Zafiro. Is this a partnership you see continuing? Any plans to work on a solo novel?</strong><br />
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It will continue for as long as he wants to partner up on a project. He writes a lot of books and he’s very good at that, so believe me, it’s his call all the way. Hey, I’m in if he calls. Because of him, Blood on Blood was an absolute blast to write and I’m hoping we’ll get some positive reaction and a good acceptance. We do have some plans for future work together and unless he wakes up to the obvious mistake he’s made with me, or the old warrant out there on me gets noticed, it’ll happen.<br />
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Blood on Blood has also allowed me to think very seriously about a solo novel. Not only think about it, but I’m definitely going to make that jump. I’d say about a year from now if I was guessing…and I am. For me, this will be a damn leap. Actually, the equivalent length of an Olympic triple jump event. <br />
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<strong>What’s easier to write, a novel or a short story? Which is more rewarding?</strong><br />
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I’ll answer the last question first. Here’s the way I look at that. I think a story is a story and I love them both. I see them as two different kids. One is older, taller and has more miles, more backstory to tell, more experiences to call on and talk about. Periods of action and then not so much, times that were fast and slow and in between. <br />
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The other is younger, shorter but has a certain energetic burst, a quickness. There is an urgency and a little less to tell maybe but it’s in your face. Excited and exciting with a faster pace but still a full story. <br />
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As far as easier to write? Wow. I think a better way to put it might be which is harder to write. In some ways, I think the short story is more difficult. You need to cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time. You still have to have a full story though, so every word is crucial and the dialogue doesn’t have the luxury to be drawn out but it has to be meaningful. With a novel you don’t have those issues but you have pace and rhythm and continuance worries, action or lack of, the middle book blues and the dreaded premature ending. <br />
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So my answer is neither and both. I’ll take the vague/easy/cheap way out anytime. But it also depends on who you are and what you cut your teeth on. I know of people, and have read about authors, who have basically never written anything but novels or like me have the opposite experience with shorts. There is a certain level of comfort that comes with familiarity.<br />
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<strong>You’re one of the few first-time novelists older than I was when my first book came out, so I’m allowed to ask this: What took you so long?</strong><br />
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Yes, you are allowed but no one under 40 can ask that. Great question too. I think as I mentioned earlier I’ve always had a little devil on my shoulder saying ‘no way’ on novel, but I also have been writing for a very long time so in a way that kept me from rusting out. My first story was probably at about age 8 or 9 but you have to remember, which I know you do, this thing I’m typing on didn’t exist. A typewriter or just a pad of paper and a number 2 pencil. The medium of the internet that we all take for granted didn’t exist. Neither did the opportunities. There were library cards for crying out loud and rolodex files to check books out and shut the hell up signs (I still miss all of that and it’s not all nostalgia based). I think there was true value in going to a Library. As a young kid like so many others, I was writing to myself many times. <br />
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Then life started changing a little. My kids got older and time became a little more free. I still have a career and still need to provide for my family, college, etc. of course. That has always been the number 1 priority for me. You live through your kids. I believe that strongly. Nothing different or special there, millions of other people have the same view or outlook. But people are different too, they look at themselves and the world differently. Others maybe don’t have a family or kids yet, or they never will through choice or chance. All of it figures into writing. If you write early, you take it seriously, then you do what you can when you can afford to. So the short answer I suppose is life. Life is what took me so long. And that, that’s a good thing I think. Again, a wonderful question Allan.<br />
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<strong>Is there any one author or group of authors you look to for inspiration?</strong><br />
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Another good question. I love Western writers. They have a certain passion that I admire and a real dedication to a genre that isn’t always tops on reading list of the masses. I’ve always felt a good solid western is one of the toughest stories there is to write. Writing authentic and realistic are damn hard things to do with a western story. <br />
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Demographically, I value guys like you and others in our age group. When you’re in that age bracket and you can relate to others it can be a true inspiration to keep writing. Use our life experiences and celebrate those lifespans instead of shunning them. At the same time, the current crop of young writers is so talented and so damn deep in numbers that I think it pushes me. I mean that in a good way. Makes me compete. Work harder. Gives me a better sense of urgency and makes me realize the time I lost when I was younger. I don’t think I could have matched them back then anyway though. It seems that the younger writers are just more mature and accomplished now. Could be a generational thing - or it might just be that I’m a dinosaur. <br />
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<strong>What are you reading right now? What’s next on your “To Be Read” list?</strong><br />
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Well I was lucky enough to get an early read of City of Heretics by Heath Lowrance, published by Snubnose Press. Wow, it just blew me away. Never stopped until I finished the damn thing. Also, just finished The Innocent by David Baldacci. I like Baldacci, like his style and have right from the beginning. Then Pulp Ink 2 is out, a short story collection with an unbelievable author list. Chris Rhatigan and Nigel Bird did a fantastic job of putting that together. This should be strong, very strong. Then there is some book called Revenant that sounds mildly interesting.<br />
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<strong>Hypothetical situation #1: You’re shipwrecked on a desert island, but before fleeing your sinking ship, are able to grab any one book of your choosing. What book do you take, and why?</strong><br />
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This is going to sound very odd but then again it makes sense. Golding’s Lord of the Flies. The island tie in one thing but for some reason this book hit me at just the right time and age. I was young but it had real meaning. I just barely ‘got it’ at the time because of my age, but I got it.<br />
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That story has never left me. Written in 1954, the message is ageless, the depiction of our human nature is a bulls-eye and it could easily be set in 2054 or 2154, if we last that long. Somethings will never change.<br />
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<strong>Hypothetical situation #2: You are given a choice by the Gods of Publishing. Your books can either bring you tremendous monetary wealth or they can be universally acclaimed as outstanding by the critics. Which do you choose, and why?</strong><br />
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That’s an evil question Allan. You really ought to be ashamed of yourself. <br />
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Hey, okay, here’s what I think. It depends on the author. Authors are people and people are different. You won’t ever find me dissing a popular bestselling author. A bestselling author who by the way writes books that people f’n buy and buy a lot. They write in a way that rings bells for readers. Whether or not that happens because of reputation, or because everybody else is buying it, or because everybody is reading it in the airport, or Oprah likes it…or because his last ten books did the same thing. I hear people say the masses just don’t appreciate good writing and the masses just jump on the bandwagon. I got news for the gifted ones, if you think you have the corner on brilliant, deep writing well that might be true – for some people. <br />
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Because you have preferences and appreciate a particular writing style or content doesn’t mean you’re right and others are wrong, but it does mean you have an opinion. All I know is that ‘good’ books are as varied and different as ‘good’ food. Sorry but that’s the truth. <br />
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I could find you a minimum of ten paintings, that in my opinion, beat the living hell out of the Mona Lisa. I have a little art, and the appreciation for it, in my background so I’m not Jed Clampett studying art on the wall and cocking my head sideways. It also means that the Mona Lisa is still a helluva piece of work. <br />
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If you write what’s true to you, what you’re proud of, then that’s the choice for me. Hey, if I by some serious (almost impossible) stroke of luck, happen to sell some books with a story I love then I’m good. I’m all good in fact, because I don’t find money to be necessarily evil. I sure as hell find some people with money to be evil. I don’t measure illuminated critics opinions anymore higher than I do everyday readers buying books. <br />
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<strong>Thanks for taking the time to visit A Thrill a Minute. Any last words of wisdom you’d like to share with my <strike>thousands</strike> <strike>hundreds</strike> <strike>dozens</strike> handful of readers?</strong><br />
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The pleasure was, and is, all mine. I really mean that and I very much appreciate you extending an opportunity like this. Also Allan, if you have a handful of readers, that’s a pretty big hand. It also means, doing the math comparison, somehow I have a negative 4 readers.<br />
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As far as words of wisdom, man have you got the wrong guy…However, I’ve always been a big quote guy. I love reading quotes from people in history. Sometimes they are misquoted or outright taken from someone else and credited to the wrong person. There is one that I’ve always liked, because it’s honest and true, and those two words have to be at least part of the definition of wisdom. I’m relatively sure it comes from Carl Sandburg and he said, “I’m an idealist. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way.” It sure as hell fits me and probably some others too. Thanks again Allan.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blood-on-ebook/dp/B008TB9JAO" target="_blank">BLOOD ON BLOOD</a> was released by <a href="http://snubnosepress.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Snubnose Press</a> on August 4. It's priced very reasonably at $4.99 and is well worth your money, not to mention your time.Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1808904300163506499.post-65697878745017646482012-07-07T21:33:00.000-04:002012-07-07T21:34:06.686-04:00REVENANT excerpt: Chapter Eight<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's the final day of my week of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revenant-Paskagankee-ebook/dp/B008GG3TA8" target="_blank">Revenant</a> excerpts; tonight is Chapter Eight. Here are links to the first six days of previews if you'd like to check them out before reading today's preview:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/07/revenant-excerpt-prologue.html" target="_blank">Prologue</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/07/revenant-excerpt-chapter-one.html" target="_blank">Chapter One</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/07/revenant-excerpt-chapter-two.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/07/revenant-excerpt-chapter-3-4-and-5.html" target="_blank">Chapters Three, Four and Five</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/07/revenant-excerpt-chapter-six.html" target="_blank">Chapter Six</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://allanleverone.blogspot.com/2012/07/revenant-excerpt-chapter-seven.html" target="_blank">Chapter Seven</a></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Here's Chapter Eight:</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><strong>8</strong></span><br />
<br />
<br />
In the corner of the dark basement, the industrial-sized floor freezer hummed monotonously, its motor powering a compressor, the compressor flooding the inside of the container with ice-cold air, cooling . . . nothing. The freezer’s former occupant lay unmoving in the middle of the floor, a gaping hole in his chest, severed veins and arteries framing the location where Earl Manning’s heart used to reside.<br />
<br />
The corpse’s extremities, which had previously been stiff and unyielding after being frozen through and through, now rested limply on the tarp separating the body from the concrete floor. A soupy mix of bodily fluids had gradually thawed, following the irresistible pull of gravity as they did so, and had collected on the tarp, molding around the dead body like the world’s most disgusting bath water.<br />
<br />
Manning’s skin was dark grey, devoid of any of the color provided by a beating heart pumping blood through a living body. His eyelids remained open, dead eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling, a thin, milky caul covering each one.<br />
<br />
The stairs creaked and groaned as Max Acton and Raven descended them. The pair turned at the bottom and stood at Manning’s bare feet. Max examined the corpse with a critical eye, his lips compressing into a thin line as he concentrated. He glanced at his watch and did a little quick figuring. Then he smiled. “I think we’re ready to proceed,” he told Raven, who nodded once and looked away.<br />
<br />
They were dressed in fresh jumpsuits and booties. Latex medical gloves once again covered their hands. Raven stepped to the side and watched closely as Max wheeled a five-gallon wet-dry vac across the floor, easing it to a stop next to the corpse and flipping a switch. A high-pitched whine filled the room and the two of them grimaced as Max maneuvered a plastic tube fitted to the end of a rubber hose around the body, sucking the fluids off the tarp and into the vacuum.<br />
<br />
He flipped the switch again and the motor died, the whine fading away, leaving a ringing in Max’s ears and, he assumed, in two of the four other ears currently occupying the basement. Fresh fluids immediately began collecting on the tarp, trickling slowly out of the body, replacing what had just been cleared away.<br />
<br />
Max sighed and knelt on the floor. He reached over Manning’s chest and rapidly turned the thumbscrew on the rib spreader, drawing the metal arms toward each other, allowing the broken ribs to collapse into the chest cavity. A wet sucking sound accompanied the movement of the bones; to Max it sounded like a drumstick being pulled off a well-done roast chicken.<br />
<br />
After a few moments, the resistance of the bones on the rib spreader had been eliminated and Max pulled the metal contraption up and out of Manning’s body. It was slick with watery-looking blood and some kind of residual yellowish pus-like substance. Max examined the mess with distaste and set the rib spreader aside. He placed one hand on either side of the large incision he had made yesterday, then pulled the dead man’s slack skin back together with his palms. It felt thin and rubbery and it sagged in the middle of Manning’s body, where there was no longer the support structure of a functioning rib cage to hold it in place.<br />
<br />
Max turned and nodded to Raven and she opened a small plastic box, setting it on the floor next to Max. Then she backed up and resumed watching. She was clearly on edge and for a moment Max thought about shouting “Boo!” and watching her piss her pants, then he decided just to get on with the business at hand. He reached into the box and selected a suture needle and surgical thread, then went to work, leaning over the corpse and efficiently if not artfully stitching the two sides of the corpse’s chest back together.<br />
<br />
When he had finished, he leaned back on his heels and examined his handiwork. The chest was caved in at the center, the result of the broken rib bones and, of course, the missing heart muscle, but under the circumstances looked relatively passable. Despite the delicate appearance of the mottled grey skin tissue, it appeared the stitches would hold for as long as Max needed them to.<br />
<br />
He smiled up at Raven. “Looks pretty good, don’t you think? I’d say this might even be an improvement over what you dragged out of that bar last week.”<br />
<br />
“Well, it would be hard to get any worse,” she said wryly.<br />
<br />
“I’ll have to give you that one,” Max said as he rose to his feet, brushing the knees of his jumpsuit and stretching his back. He strolled toward the small table next to the freezer, upon which lay the two wooden boxes, one ornate, adorned with the intricate Navajo carvings, and the other simple and plain.<br />
<br />
Raven followed a couple of paces behind. “Is this really going to work?” she asked nervously.<br />
<br />
Max stopped and turned, scowling at Raven. Her face blanched and she took a step back. “You’re the one that turned me on to this whole deal,” he said. “You’re the Navajo squaw with the background in all this Native American mumbo-jumbo. It goddamn well better work after all the time and effort I’ve invested in this project. I don’t think I need to remind you what will happen to us if we don’t deliver the goods to the North Koreans. Not only will we not get paid, no one will ever find our bodies again.”<br />
<br />
“I know, I know, don’t get upset, baby.” Raven held her hands up in a placating gesture. “You’re right, I do know it will work, it’s just hard not to be a little nervous, that’s all. I can’t believe you’re not nervous, too!”<br />
<br />
“Why would I be? If what you’ve told me about this special rock is true, we have nothing to worry about. Right?”<br />
<br />
Raven said nothing.<br />
<br />
“Right?<br />
<br />
She finally nodded.<br />
<br />
Max thought he had never seen a less-convincing emotion. He continued staring until she dropped her gaze to the floor and left it there. Then he reached over and unlatched the boxes, lifting both lids. Inside the plain box was the zip-locked plastic bag containing Earl Manning’s heart, now completely thawed and looking exactly like what it was—an unmoving lump of dead muscle tissue.<br />
<br />
Inside the more ornate box decorated with the intricate Navajo carvings was the baseball-sized stone Max had stolen from Don Running Bear three months ago in the Arizona desert. The stone looked almost ordinary but just a little . . . off, somehow. Max gazed at it almost as if expecting something mystical to happen. Nothing did. The stone sat in the middle of the box, ancient and inanimate.<br />
<br />
After a moment Max reached inside and rolled the stone to the edge of the box. He needed to free up space inside the small area for its new roommate. He then picked up the sealed plastic bag containing Earl Manning’s heart and lifted it out of the plain box, placing it next to the Navajo stone in the ornate box. Then he stepped back and waited expectantly.<br />
<br />
And he waited.<br />
<br />
And he waited.<br />
<br />
And nothing happened.<br />
<br />
Max turned slowly, his face reddening. He glanced pointedly from the wooden box to Raven’s face and back again, saying nothing. She backed up another step, her mouth working overtime but managing nothing more than a tiny squeak of barely controlled fear.<br />
<br />
“Why is nothing happening?” Max said softly, the words more menacing for their lack of volume than if he had screamed them.<br />
<br />
“I. . . I . . . it’s . . .”<br />
<br />
Max took a step toward her and her pretty green eyes widened in terror. But she was no longer looking at his face. She was peering intently over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
He stopped and turned.<br />
<br />
Walked back to the table.<br />
<br />
Looked in the box.<br />
<br />
Inside the clear plastic bag, Earl Manning’s severed heart was beating, slowly and steadily.<br />
<br />
__________ <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revenant-Paskagankee-ebook/dp/B008GG3TA8" target="_blank">REVENANT</a> is a 75,000 word novel which works as Book Two in the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/PASKAGANKEE-ebook/dp/B0072PMYNM" target="_blank">Paskagankee</a> series and also as a stand-alone supernatural suspense novel. It's priced at $3.99. Thanks for reading! <br />
<br />
<br />Al Leveronehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09875867178918970838noreply@blogger.com0