An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6^th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

newechocover5rs

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up. Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.”

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe” available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 12

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second worlds war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

I had walked quite fast in my attempt to distance myself from our pursuers if they were, in fact, chasing me. In doing so I had tried to make my escape as quiet as possible.

Now, between Jack and I, hiding in the undergrowth, the only noise I could hear was our laboured breathing, and mine in particular. I hadn’t been expecting to be doing this sort of exercise when I signed on for the job.

Now, I think, exercise was going to become a priority.

If I made it back alive.

A crack and I saw Jack go very still, ears cocked, and looking in what was the direction of the sound. He’d know, better than me, where the noise came from.

Another minute before I could hear muffled voices, then as if they had stepped into a room, I could hear them.

“So, you’re telling me you let him hit you?”

“I had to, for the sake of making it look good. I was told he was no fool.”

The voice of the man who had orchestrated my departure. I shook my head, very disappointed in myself for not seeing through what could have been a very cunning plan. It also explained why they hadn’t summarily shot me. I could see Jackerby gloating over the cleverness of his plan.

So perhaps for a few moments there, I was a fool. Not anymore.

“What do we do if we find him?”

“We’re not supposed to find him, remember. You were at the same meeting, or was that your ghost I saw with me?”

“Observe and report back.”

“Exactly.”

The voices were very close, and I could hear their boots of the rocky path until they stopped.

“Which way?”

The voice sounded very close, in fact, I thought they were just on the other side of the undergrowth, but that couldn’t be right, I could see through it in places, and no one was standing on the other side.

Sound must travel very good in this part of the forest.

“Follow the main river. He won’t be looking to deviate from his objective, which by now would be to find the other members of the resistance and organise his departure.”

“And leave alone what he saw?”

“There isn’t much he could do about it. By the time he’s reported back to London, we will have found the underground members and eliminated any threat.”

“Aha, so he’s leading us to the resistance?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And it was your idea?”

“I do have my moments, thank you. Now, let’s get on, or he’ll get too much of a start on us, and I don’t want to be the one to explain how we lost him to Jackerby in particular.”

A minute passed, then two before I heard the sound of boots receding. Johansson, or maybe Jackerby, had correctly guessed I might know where the other resistance members were, and, after escaping, go straight to them.

Pity, I was going to disappoint them.

The second attempt looks a little better, but not much

The process of writing is rewriting editing and more rewriting.

The other day l wrote some words. I didn’t like them. But it had laid the groundwork for a second draft.

Here it is:

Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.

My brother, known in school as the best-looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.

He was mean.

Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.

She was charming and polite.

Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.

I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.

My overachieving brother was the epitome of business success, a veritable god-zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.

My ultra-successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.

Then there was me.

I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly, l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.

Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud, but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.

My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.

My sister was not so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.

Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.

I told my boss that l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.

It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck through the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.

It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to mine. The door opened and what looked like a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.

She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

“What do you want?”

“Help.”

My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”

“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”

The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.

She’d been shot by what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …

…

It still needs work, but I’ve got the gist of where I want to go.

The idea is not to make a character so loathsome no one would want to read about him.

This will evolve and you can if you like come along for the ride!

Writing a book in 365 days – 354/355

Days 354 and 355

Writing exercise

…

Your protagonist has just been retired from a solitary, action-packed life that had no room for family, friends, partners or holidays.

They have to reassimilate by thinking about prior family life, how they used to relax, relating the fish out of water start to, in the end, finding a way to live in a world they have no clue existed.

….

“I’m sorry,” Barnaby said in his usual matter-of-fact manner, “but this is the end. You have done your bit. Now it’s time to move on.”

Sitting next to Barnaby in the back of the limousine, I could not believe what I was hearing. “This is the end?”

“No. Just the end of your service. You have gone above and beyond. We are grateful, very grateful. But now it’s time to reintegrate back in the world.

“Where are we?”

“In the city we picked you up from all those years ago.”

“Cinnamon Falls?”

The linousine slowed, and then stopped. The shades went up on all the windows of the car, and I could see a park, the bandstand, and a row of dead-looking rose bushes. There was a layer of snow on the ground, and piled up by the side of the road.

“Your hometown.”

Was it? I was sure I came from some small backwater place, but it was so long ago, and I’d been to so many places, what I was looking at was as alien as if they had dropped me off on Mars.

“Sure as hell doesn’t look like anywhere I’d come from.”

“Well, our records don’t lie. You have your ID, which is your real name, documents to prove it, and a bank account with enough funds to tide you over till you find a job.”

“Job?”

“Yes. You know. A place where you go, toil for eight hours and then go home. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Impossible. You’ve been trained to be anyone, anywhere, and do anything. I have complete faith in you.”

“Will I see you again, anyone again?”

“No. When you get out of the car, that’s it. We never existed. Now, it’s time to go.”

I could see there was no arguing with Barnaby. He had said, a long time ago, this time would come. It had. I opened the door. A cold blast of air came in.

I shrugged. “Thanks for the ride.”

I got out, took a last look at the old man, then closed the door. I watched the car drive off until it turned the corner and disappeared.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

…

Cinnamon Falls was one of those small, forgettable little towns scattered about the Midwest. My parents had been ranchers, their parents before them and so on.

Other family members were shopkeepers, soldiers on the frontier, and immigrants before that.

Now, I had no idea who they were.

My parents had died very recently, my older brother, Sherman, and his wife, Madeleine, the proverbial childhood sweetheart he’d known from grade school, who were ranchers now, were the only family I knew.

The rest had died out or moved on.

I stood on the sidewalk and looked at the bandstand. My first kiss was under that roof, a girl called Amy Deacon, the minister’s daughter.

He was a fire and brimstone preacher of the old school who castigated his flock every Sunday about sins, and the wrath of God. Everyone was too scared not to turn up.

I wondered what had happened to her. Married to Archie, her prom date no doubt. I was going to ask her but somehow never got around to it. She was my first love, the one that really hurt when it didn’t work out.

The first flakes of snow that had been chasing us into town started to fall, and it was going to get cold. There was no time to look up whether Sherman, my brother, was still on the farm; that was a tomorrow job.

Today I’d get a room at the hotel and decide what to do tomorrow.

The Falls Motel was old and decrepit when I left 20 years ago, and hadn’t improved except for a coat of paint.

The sign had a missing ‘l’ in Falls, and the no vacancy sign had no ‘ancy’. There were three cars outside the 20 rooms, which meant it was not full.

Darkness was setting in as I reached the front door, and it opened with a screech from the hinges. Perhaps that was how the receptionist knew there was a customer.

Or not. After a minute, I banged on the desk bell, the one that had a handwritten sign that said ‘ring for service’. Not immediate service anyway.

A girl about 15 or so came out of the back room, swaying to music that I couldn’t hear. Ear buds.

She pulled one out and said, “What do you want?”

The obvious, I thought. “You do have rooms for the night, don’t you?”

She looked at me like I was from another planet. “Duh. You want a room?”

“Please.”

She shoved a book in front of me with a pen without a lid. “Sign in.”

I put my name and no address because I didn’t have one, then scribbled a signature.

“Card or cash.”

“Cash.” I pulled out my wallet.

“A hundred bucks.”

It was a bit more than the last time I stayed there.

She slapped a key with the number 10 attached to it. “You want breakfast, the diner’s 200 yards up the road. Leave by 10 am.”

By the time I got to the door, she was gone.

The snow was falling harder by the time I reached the door. Two rooms I passed that had cars out the front had TVs blaring.

When I opened the door, I was greeted by a combination of disuse and disinfectant. It could be worse. It could be better.

The bathroom had soap and shampoo, the bed had clean sheets, and the TV had CNN. It was as much as anyone could hope for.

…

Like any time in a new or different city, I woke slightly disoriented. It took a minute or two to remember who I was and why I was there. Not on an operation, but as a cast-off.

It was still dark, but early, about the time I usually woke. The snow had stopped, but the cold had become more intense. I put the air conditioner on, but it only blew cold air.

I dressed and headed up to the diner.

It was once owned by a relative, but it was clear that someone else owned it now. None of my relatives was Chinese. I sat at the counter, and a middle-aged lady who looked like one of my grade teachers served coffee.

There were a half dozen customers, some sitting in booths, and the chef behind the servers was looking busy. He shoved two plates of fried stuff on the servery and banged a bell. The middle-aged lady collected and delivered them to a man and a woman in a booth.

They had been arguing quietly as I came in and were now looking at me. Townspeople trying to identify a stranger, perhaps.

The middle-aged lady returned. “From outta town?”

“Yes and no. I’ll have the special.”

It didn’t say what it was, but it was one of three items on the menu board above the servery.

She wrote it down and gave it to the chef.

The coffee was oddly good.

A police car pulled up outside the diner in a specially marked parking space and a Deputy got out. He was slightly older than me, bigger and stronger and in his tailored uniform looked good.

Ben Frasher. Dad was a sheriff; his dad was a sheriff, it was how things worked. Ben, though, had been a wild youth, so it was a surprise to see he had followed in his father’s footsteps.

He adjusted the uniform after getting out, holstered the gun, looked at his reflection on the car window, and then came in.

A younger girl, a waitress, comes bounding out of the back. “Deputy Frasher, the usual?”

He smiled. “Of course, Daisy.” A nod to the middle-aged lady, a quick look around at the customers, and then stopping at me.

I’d changed considerably in 20 years, and he might not recognise me.

“Jack Dawson?” There was incredulity in his tone.

“It might not be.”

“But there again, it might. When did you get back?”

To him, it seemed like it was only yesterday I left town.

“Last night.”

He came over and sat on the seat next to mine. I would have preferred he hadn’t but he was the law.

“Been home?”

“No.”

“Going home?”

“Depends.”

My brother was either going to welcome me or shoot me. He had threatened the latter when I told him I had to go. It wasn’t for the reasons he thought it was, and definitely not the lies certain people spread after I was gone.

20 years was a long time, maybe they’d forgotten, but knowing this town, I doubted it.

“You won’t be welcome.”

An understatement. “It’s been a long time.”

“I can take you, if you like. It might help prevent trouble.”

It might, or I might not get there. The Frashers, father and sons, never liked us. “I’ve got to collect a car and take myself. Thanks for offering.”

The young waitress put a takeaway cup of coffee on the counter in front of him and smiled.

He nodded in her direction. “Thanks, Daisy.” He picked it up and walked slowly towards the door, then stopped and turned. “No trouble. This is a peaceful town now.”

…

It was odd that he thought that I would be the one to start any trouble when, on the first instance, in what could only be described as an ambush, father and son Frasher came after my brother and me based on a lie.

And if anything, the only one in our family who had the right to pick up a shotgun and use it, it would be me, not my brother. We both knew who the problem was and who took the fall, but it was how they spun the story after I left.

I was never expected to come back. I never expected that I would be deposited back in my hometown.

Maybe Barnaby didn’t know what he had done, but that was hard to believe when he often bragged that he knew everything and could be trusted. This was just the sort of stunt he would pull, either as a test or an active scenario.

It was not a test.

It was a scenario that was designed to take a problem off his hands.

The middle-aged server dropped a takeaway coffee on the counter in front of me. “It’s cold out, and you’ll need it.”

“You weren’t one of my grade teachers, were you? Miss Penman?” I thought I recognised her.

She smiled. “My mother. You’re Jack Dawson. She always said you were one of the good ones. I didn’t believe for a moment you were the one who burned the Frasher barn down. They haven’t improved over the years, doubt they ever will. You were lucky to escape this place.”

She picked up the empty plate. “Don’t hang around. Go see your brother, then leave quietly. The town is not the same any more.”

I’d seen that expression before, many times. Fear. And sadness.

“I’m not planning on staying. I wasn’t planning on visiting, but sometimes shit happens.”

“That it does.”

…

The car rental place had three cars out front. The storefront had been recently painted, and the windows looked new.

It looked to me like they’d been replaced, and a closer look, before going in showed glass fragments inside, under the ledge.

Intimidation?

The man behind the counter was not a local. The car company was a branch of a well known brand. He looked up as I came in.

“How can I help you?”

“I have a car booked.”

“Name?”

“Dawson.”

He looked at his computer and frowned. “This tells me you cancelled the booking.”

“Ten minutes ago?”

He looked at the screen. He shook his head and didn’t look at me.

“Frasher called you. Which car was set aside?”

“The red Acura.”

I held out my hand. “Don’t mess with the people who made the booking. Frasher is about to find that out.”

He took the key off the wall rack and gave it to me. “There’s no excess if you have an accident. Try to return it in the same condition as you picked it up. A full tank of gas would be appreciated. Have a nice day, Mr Dawson.”

Before I got in the car, I looked up and down the street. Next block, tucked in behind a Ford, was a cruiser. Watching and waiting.

The Frashers were worried. My return caused them more angst than my family simply because I was the one who knew the truth.

…

I got in the car, pulled out of the parking space and onto the main road that passed through the town, and then on to the cross road five miles outside of town.

The police cruiser followed me, keeping pace.

At the intersection where the lane to what used to mt home and the main road in and out of town, two cruisers and a large Suburban, the vehicle of choice for the current sheriff, blocked the three roads.

Another cruiser joined the one behind me, and when I stopped, about five cars from the road block, they stopped a similar distance behind me.

An odd thought popped into my head: if I had a gang, they could be robbing the main street shops right now because all the police were here.

I typed a message on the phone and sent it to the one number in my contact list, then got out of the car. I did not have a weapon like I would usually, so it was an unusual feeling.

It is, I thought, what it is. not the time to be worrying about consequences.

The sheriff and his mentors did likewise; those other than the sheriff waited by their cars, weapons drawn but not pointing them at me.

Yet.

I walked to the front of my car and leaned against the bonnet, hands where they could see them. Deputies in this country had a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later.

The sheriff walked five steps towards me and stopped.

“Sheriff Frasher,” I said in my most congenial tone. What came out sounded like I was being strangled.

“Jack.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if his boots were new and hurting his feet. Then, “You need to turn around and go back to the airport, and back to where you came from. This town doesn’t need or want you.”

“I think that’s more about you not wanting me here, Sheriff.”

“I want what’s best for the town. That means not having you here to stir up trouble.”

I looked around at the deputies by their vehicles. Three of them were Frashers. I guess anyone could be a Deputy these days.

“I’m not here to stir up trouble. I’m just here to see my brother, but with all this attention, I have to wonder why you don’t want me to see him.”

“He might not want to see you.”

True, but the sheriff could not know that for sure. “Well, be that as it may, I will still be visiting my brother.”

“Just… ” His cell phone started ringing.

I saw him look at the screen with a perplexed expression before answering. The stiffening of the shoulders and the almost standing to attention told me this was neither a conversation he wanted, but, most of all, wasn’t expecting.

To tell the truth, neither was I, nor at least not as soon as this. But then Barnarby always knew how to put the wind up people, people whom others never dared to try.

I heard the sheriff distinctly say no several times, and ‘of course’ once near the end of the conversation.

A few seconds later, it was over. After another long, mournful glare at the screen, he put the phone back in his pocket.

Then he looked at me with a curious expression.

“Just who the hell are you?”

“No one. I’m sure if you looked me up, you would find no trace of me from the day I left this town till I arrived back yesterday.”

“Then how…”

“That is a long story.”

A sudden gust of wind came from the north, bringing with it the promise of more snow. It was not the time to be standing around talking.

I shivered, partly because of the cold, but mostly from a momentary memory of another time, in another country, with similar people, people obsessed with wealth and power.

Frasher was either too stupid or too stubborn to let this go.

“Enlighten me.”

I sighed. Light snow started to fall out of the sky. The wind picked up, and a blizzard was in the offing. I left in a blizzard; to me, it was an omen.

“Giles Bentley, Sheriff.” I held up my cell phone. “You have a choice. Now. In five minutes, you won’t. I’m sure you and your deputies have better things to do.”

He still didn’t look happy, but then, once I mentioned the name that had not been mentioned before, he didn’t have much of a choice. And given his expression, he knew he had overstepped.

“Wrap it up, boys, and get back to work. Now.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. The snow was coming down much thicker and settling on everything. In another half hour, we would be snowed in.

I got back in my car and started the engine. By the time I was ready to drive, all but the Sheriff’s vehicle had gone. A last look at me, he got in his vehicle and moved to the side of the road.

As I drove past, I could see him on his cell phone, talking and gesturing, like a man who knew his time was up.

…

Everybody had a piper they had to pay. Frasher was no exception. Barnaby was no exception. Neither was I. There was always someone above our pay grade pulling strings.

My father made a mistake 20 years ago, and I paid the price for that mistake. No one but my father and Giles Bentley knew exactly what it was, and Frasher had been the one to oversee it.

Lies had been told by all three to cover it up.

I was never supposed to return to Cinnamon Falls, but Frasher senior and my father had both died recently, and Barnaby decided that I should not be punished any more.

It was the subject of a text I received just as I was about to finally get to sleep. Typical poor timing that was Barnaby’s melodic operandi.

I hadn’t been retired. I had been released, my sentence over. My troubles were over.

I drove those last five miles, wondering if I could ever just close my eyes and sleep peacefully, the sort of sleep where you weren’t expecting trouble, where you no longer had to look over your shoulder. A 20-year habit that would be hard to break.

I drove under the sign that announced you were entering the Excelsior Ranch, the Dawson family home for over a hundred and fifty years, reputedly won by Alexander Dawson in a card game.

Such stories were told and retold until they became just that, stories with no basis in fact; they just sounded good on paper.

The thing is, it was true, we had the piece of paper, signed by the hapless Bentley, the gambler and wastrel relative, who lost it in a card game, a document witnessed by a Frasher.

It was a story that changed depending on who told it. Now it didn’t matter. All promises and obligations were discharged. The Excelsior belonged to the Dawsons. The County Sheriff would always be a Frasher, and the Bentleys they had a presidential candidate that didn’t need a scandal.

I felt sorry for Sheriff Frasher. Well, maybe not. The Grashers always were dumb as dog shit.

I stopped the car at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the verandah where Sherman and Madeleine were waiting.

I got out, and for a moment the snow stopped swirling. Long enough for me to get up the stairs and under cover.

“Jack.” Sherman held out his hand.

“Sherman.” I took it, and we shook hands like two men sealing a deal.

Then it was hugs all round until I saw Amy Deacon standing back. She smiled and said, in her usual laconic manner, “You are a sight for sore eyes, young Jack.”

I was home, once and for all.

…

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream. She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”

“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled. “As you say, I was never here.”

…

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