Prologue

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Maya Angelou

It is said that an unsettled spirit lingers long after the body has disintegrated. There are times of my life I placated to others that haunt me now. Wasted segments of time I hope to reclaim, avenge the conclusion, step into the light. Too many years drifting in memories of what happened and why. People stolen from me by a regime I had nothing to do with. Painting was my only politics, my way of saluting back to the world and revealing my thoughts. Perhaps I will loiter long enough to see the truth march down the aisle holding for all to see, those hidden works that I sacrificed for my freedom.

The irony is that I was not free at all. Longing and want for a piece of myself that was swapped for a boat ride to America; traded, as though they were simple coins. That dark night we clung husband and wife, to the baby each wondering if this would be the last we would see of one another. We prayed the sun would forget to rise and cried silent tears cursing the confusion the irrational.

Why had Italia turned against us? Why had Germany gone mad destroying our humble lives? We wanted nothing more than to be artists with a small plot of land to garden and to love reckless and un-abandoned. To continue cooking with fresh herbs and fish the sea that had never denied us. We lived in a paradise that was no longer docile but rather a lair to escape.

Why love did you stay only to be caught and locked in a camp? Die in a camp while your work, my work; our work was left to strangers. Left to those who, I assume, protected the paintings kept them in darkness until it was safe to come out. Did that day ever happen? Was the door opened by brilliant beams of light cascading into the shed or the basement or wherever the paintings were; alone in their secrecy?

I’ve have not lived to see this but I know the story well and I want it told. I want every detail revealed and remembered and sown back together. I want them all to know the great love and passion you and I had for one another and for the art. For the art, the artists and the lovers—what was it they called you and I?

 

 

Chapter One

Alessandra Bongioni. Beautiful Woman Beautiful Life. Born November 21 1917 Died April 26 2004

 

Leaning against the pewter headstone, I heard my grandmother’s words, “Juliana, you must go find your legacy—you will feel at home.” I pledged to her over and over that I would visit Italy, explore my heritage—and paint the villages and the sea that she spoke of with a breeze like tenderness. But I was no closer to being able to do this than the year before or the year before that. My relationship with Nona tunneled back to a place rooted inside tales of Italy that swarmed my imagination. Nona and I interpreted the world through composition and hue. I couldn’t believe she was dead and with her my unanswered questions. I thought somehow she would be eternal and time would carry both of us back to her beloved Italy. We would peruse the cobblestoned streets and her stories would arc back to us.

“Ah, you go and will not return. Italia, tis an artist’s heaven—a lougo of tragic beauty, mi montagna of my youth.” She would say shaking her head back and forth the lines around her eyes soft. I knew in those moments she had sojourned back to her village tasting “the sweet Mediterranean air.”

The noon sun untangled itself from the morning miasma blazing in the cloudless sky. I slid my hair back and yanked the bill down. Although I had the olive complexion of my grandmother, I worried that the California sun would give me cancer or irreversible wrinkles. People told me I looked just like my Nona and I relished the compliment but scarcely believed it. To me, she was exotic; the dark skin, the red wavy locks swept in a loose French twist. I felt more unkempt than exotic. And although I had the color and curl of Nona’s hair—my strands flew in random directions with no semblance of her silent sophistication.

Blooms of wisteria and lavender scented the air; the verdure of spring was rampant. Sitting opposite of my Nona’s grave were two disheveled tombstones laced in green weeds top heavy leaning towards knobby oak trees on the knoll in front of them. They reminded me of old women with thunderous breasts stooped in a forward tilt. I thought about the painting I finished months before. A face of a young Italian woman with angular cheekbones wearing a peasant top waving a tambourine. Nona loved and admired it. Like my grandmother, I could visualize faces and weave a story as if painting a past.

My grandmother was what Italian’s refer to as a grave-walker, wandering cemeteries peering at headstones creating vignettes of those buried in the soil. We walked this very graveyard many times.

“I‘m doing a service, Juliana,” she would whisper as if corpses were listening. “If no one comes to visit– the spirit cries, forlona…they feel their life is not remembered.” This was Nona’s final resting, an old coastal cemetery packed with men who fished for sardines and women who canned them. They were the bustle and breath of the infamous Cannery row now replaced by tourists shopping for trinkets; seashells, tee-shirts sipping warm clam chowder. Alessandra adored this graveyard and had picked and paid for her plot years ago.

“It tis close to the sea,” she swooned. “Lucca will find me here, I know.”

Before her passing, my grandmother bequeathed me a ruby necklace given to her by her first husband, Lucca Bongioni, when they were secretly married in Italy. I yearned to know this man whom she spoke of with the reverence of a lost lover. He seemed a mystery to me, a made up myth of a man that grew larger in my re-creation of him. She kept the necklace snug in its green velvet jewelry box, afraid to wear it; afraid she‘d lose it or afraid to belittle the circumstances in which it was bestowed.

“I want you to have this Juliana. And don’t be silly coo coo like me. Put it on your neck and parade around like a queen. With those a green eyes and that red hair, the people will step aside with their chins clanging on their chests! What a beauty, they will sing.”

I would wear the necklace at my wedding which was happening today in the early evening. I was exhausted. In the past week I slept only four to five hours a night at best. Not enough for my body’s seven to eight requirements. I contemplated my own death and wondered if people would line the sidewalks to say good-bye to me, as they did Nona? Or would my death drift like shriveled dandelion fuzz? At thirty-eight I was irritated with life. I was tired of slaving at as a nurse while my art marooned itself waiting for my return. I was too afraid to move on either in failure or success so I continued in this annoying limbo.

A few months before Nona’s death, I had a very informal showing at a café. One of the local reviewers penned my oils “Fresh, earthy, visceral” he wrote that he was “dumbfounded at why Juliana was in hiding and when was she going to debut?”

But my daughter, Louisa, was in college and there was no one else to dump the bills on, especially now, after Nate split despite we were engaged. I felt life blowing by, time sneering in my face. I needed to shed any trace of hesitance or as Nona would say, “Paint like a reckless lover.”

I thought back to the irony of coordinating my grandmother’s funeral while cinching details of my wedding. My mother, my two aunts, and I chose readings and songs for the funeral. We went through Alessandra’s artwork deciding which to display at the viewing. We decided what flowers to have at the wedding and which for the funeral– indelible moments of surreal-ness. One ceremony to celebrate, another to commemorate.

The sun’s glare snapped my thoughts back to the moment. Glancing at my cell phone I realized soon I would be reciting marriage vows at Carmel beach in front of a conglomeration of family and friends. I referred to Carmel beach as “Alessandra’s beach” for she would sit for hours in her tattered fold out chair, marveling at the azure water and white sand. “It tis the color of Italia’s sea,” she would sigh. This was the reason I choose to marry there.

 

I kissed the top of the headstone and hurried back to my car. My cell phone, which now burrowed into a dark corner of my purse, began ringing. I fumbled to answer it knowing it was most likely Sam calling frantic.

“Hello.” It was indeed Sam, his voice like an out of tune guitar, waivered.

“Juliana, where the hell are you?” He demanded.

“At the cemetery, I’m on my way home—relax.”

“For god’s sakes, we still must finish preparing food. Louisa is here and worried sick where you are?” Sam said. His tongue clacking an Arabic accent that thickened when he was upset. I knew Louisa was not worried in the least and I hated how Sam morphed everything into a Greek tragedy.

“Let me talk to her Sam.” I smirked, knowing he knew he’d been caught.

“Just come home, please Jules, you know I worry.”

“Sam, put Lou on the phone, thanks.”

“Sure, sure, sure.”

“Hey mom, don’t worry.”

“I am not– just annoyed.” I said. Louisa chuckled.

“So there’s a ton of food here.”

“It’s not all Middle Eastern is it?” Sam had assured me there would be a hodgepodge of ethnic cuisine at the reception.

“No.” She laughed again. My daughter and I had a non-vindictive sarcasm that found humor in human absurdity. What people concerned themselves with and why. Sam was a professional worrier which much to his horror Lou and I found comical.

“Good. I’ll be home in twenty minutes, help Sam out. Run around and act busy– sigh and wince that will settle him down. He’s such a freak sometimes.”

“I know. But he’s a sweet freak.”

“Hurry.” Shouted Sam as I said good-by and folded the phone.

CHAPTER TWO

As I turned out of the cemetery towards the Post Naval Graduate School in Monterey, I wondered if Sam’s anxiousness was cultural, genetic, or just simply self-imposed. Probably a little of each I decided. We lived on sixth-street by Delmonte Avenue approximately a mile and a half from Cannery Row and two miles from the popular Lover’s Point. The area is mantled with writers that steered the course of literature; Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Miller, Dorothy Parker. They say it is the “positive ions” of the salt water and the sounds of sea life that invigorates the creative instincts. Our house on Sixth Street was equally centered to Carmel; a pinnacle for painters who strode the white sands sweeping oils over canvases during the early part of the twentieth century. The Central Coast with its audacious history for the arts, felt like an innate fit from the moment I laid eyes on it. Alessandra had felt the same.

I had specific reasons for saying yes to Sam’s marriage proposal. Sam, real name, Husam (means sword in Arabic) Kardol, was a Catholic Israeli from the town of Dalyat at the base of Mt. Carmel. One serious reason II agreed to marry Sam was because he was a wonderful friend who was about to be booted back to Israel. Times were turbulent and had grown violent for non-Jewish citizens. If we married he could remain secure and in a few years, hopefully, things would settle down and we would divorce.

The second, less serious, reason was to thwart my father’s constant harrying. George McKenna was obsessed over my singleness. “I’m worried for your future, honey. You need a good man. Who will love you when you’re old? You should have more children.” My father was relentless in goading my matrimonial-less life. With each passing birthday his level of obsession grew as if my destiny as a single woman was that of a scullery maid. He failed to acknowledge that I had raised an amazing daughter, worked hard as a nurse, and god forbid was a decent artist.

My father’s ideal candidate would have been a practicing Irish Catholic. His hypocrisy was top notch, an iconic remnant of his sturdy Irish heritage; the man went to mass once every five years. When Sam volunteered for the post, my father, with mingled satisfaction and disapproval, conceded that at least Sam had a sound religious background. I realized at thirty-eight it was ridiculous to care what my father thought–but it was something I had little control over. This “caring” would erupt like a burst water main catapulting me back to age five. I decided, rather than call the plumber I’d plug it up myself–make it stop spewing at least temporarily. Sam was the plug. At least for a few years I would have some reprieve from fatherly judgment.

My mother, upon hearing of my engagement asked;

“Is he a good man?”

I shook my head yes and she slapped her palms together, “Okay then.” I knew she had secretly wanted me to marry an Italian to balance out the family scales. A wealthy dark-haired, olive complexioned godlike man with a Roman nose would have done nicely. A man who had a houses on the Amalfi Coast as well as two others sprinkled throughout the states. This would have better set my mother’s fears to rest for according to her calculations, this would be my only hope to afford being a full time artist.

My mother had a mercurial opinion of wealth. She condemned anyone with an inheritance but touted the benefits of money when it came to my love life. There were times she daydreamed about having hoards of money to traipse through Europe with. Other times she ranted about how greedy Americans were with their insatiable appetite “for things.” When she was caught bragging to whomever about my brothers and sister’s economic successes she would emphasize, “Their pockets are lined from the blood of hard work.”

My two brothers could care a sneeze over what men were in or out of my life and how much money I did or did not make. My sister, Jillian, on the other hand was chronically interested in marshaling my finances and regarded me as pitiful, irresponsible. My lack of being motivated purely, for the sake of money dumbfounded her. “I just don’t get you Juliana,” was her favorite refrain.

I pulled into the lumpy concrete driveway and took a deep breath preparing for a showdown of pouts that would rival a silent film star. As I swung the front door open, I saw Sam slinging plates of food around the dining room table mumbling Arabic to the walls. Pungent garlic smells wafted through the kitchen fusing with the fresh aromas of mint, basil, and onion. I took a deep whiff inhaling the herbs like they were some sort of relaxant.

“Juliana,” Sam bellowed as if I was standing in a crowded baseball stadium. His penchant for yelling was one of his less endearing qualities but none the less harmless.

“For god sakes Sam, I’m not deaf.” I said. “And why are you putting food out now anyway? We have six hours before the reception.”

“Six hours tsk, tsk, tsk, that is all?” Sam said looking beguiled that I didn’t share his passion for turmoil. “Jules, oh my godt, wait till you see all the foodt people have brought. Baklava, hummus, Fadi’s home-made grape leaves, lamb gyros…”

“I thought we weren’t just serving Middle Eastern? My family is Irish Italian. Remember? My father only eats meat and potatoes.” I could feel the nerves in my neck begin to pinch like little crab claws.

Sam smiled. His thick lips parting a velvet curtains showing off the large glimmering teeth that resembled piano keys. A clump of black hair escaped the heavy layer of sticky gel and trailed down his right cheek as he continued darting from counter to refrigerator and back to the counter. He reminded me of a toy soldier wound too tight. Sam was just shy of six feet with broad shoulders and fleshy biceps. He fostered a single track of dark hair from his lower lip that split through the tiny indent in the center of his chin.

“Yes, yes yes my love. We have plain American food too. Don‘t be a grump. Angelina brought us her homemade raviolis so there, we have Italia as well.” He bustled about as if in seconds the guests would trample down the front door waving forks in the air demanding to eat. I found it fascinating that Sam had an enormous array of cooking friends. I often wondered if he based his friendships on a person’s culinary skills. He obviously didn’t base his choice of a wife on hers. I was deplorable in the kitchen—clueless and uninterested.

“I’m not being a grump. Did Agnes come by? Where’s Lou?” I fired off the questions not waiting for individual answers. I had hoped the three of us Agnes, my friend since the second grade, my daughter, and me could squeeze in a walk before the mayhem began. I felt a strong need for a female chat without any males sleuthing through my thoughts or giving unwanted advice. I had grown tired of potbellied middle-aged men encroaching on my decisions. Not that Sam was middle-aged or potbellied but like men before him, professors, bosses, uncles, hell even janitors, he too was compelled to cast advice in the hallways of my life where I clearly had a “do not enter ” sign.

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My eyes kept flickering to Egan. He was not much taller than I was, with thick brown wavy hair and grey eyes and a few freckles sprayed over his nose. Although he had been in the country for two years already, his Irish accent was still very strong. If he got annoyed with having to repeat himself continuously so we could actually understand what he was saying, he never showed it.

I had to tell Patty about this strange attraction I was feeling towards him. We giggled and continued to watch the lads play their touch rugby, and the surfers beat one wave after another. Patty promised, under duress of course, not to say anything to Liam. A feeling of nostalgia washed over both of us as we reminisced about being little girls back at school sharing stories about our boy crushes.
They finished their game and came running towards us a little too fast for my liking. Before I could voice my concern, Patty and I were whipped up, our objections unheard as we screamed and squealed. The sea was upon us within seconds and we were flung into the oncoming waves like sacks of potatoes.

As we went under the water, the waves broke over us, pounding us and tossing our limp unsuspecting bodies around like rubber dolls in the wind. We clambered and fought our way to what we suspected was the surface. We gasped for the air our lungs were bursting for, and we wiped the water from our eyes and the hair from our faces. Then we swam hastily back to land, kicking with as much strength as we could muster.

At the shore line we staggered and swayed and splashed our way onto the sand, trying to get as far away from the sea as possible and into a hysterical crowd of lads. Patty landed Liam such a punch on the arm that he probably felt it all of the next week. Jude offered us towels to dry off as we made our way back to our spot on the beach, where we had to endure the various different angles and scenarios of how we had looked during our little dunking escapade.

Turmoil was building inside him, he couldn’t let the guy die but he couldn’t trust himself to fight his Vampire impulses. He tried to push it from his mind and quickly took over from the nurse. The man had a very deep cut on his forearm that was bleeding profusely.

“Put pressure on it while I quickly tie a makeshift tourniquet around his arm.”

He grabbed one of the bands used by the nurses when drawing blood and pulled it as tight as he could around the man’s arm. It slowed the flow but Alexi’s hands were covered in blood. He was fighting to stay in control but could feel his eyes starting to glaze over.

A strong hand suddenly grabbed his arm and started to drag him out of the room.

“Really doctor! You are in no condition to be working – you could be contagious.”
He heard a woman’s voice but he was too far gone to register who it was.

“He had gastro only a few hours ago and really shouldn’t have replied to his pager,” the voice stated, “and he looks as if he is about to keel over at any moment. Sorry guys but you will have to page another surgeon.”

Alexi felt himself being dragged out of the room and was helpless to resist. He was fighting hard to stop himself changing and was fast losing the battle, there was just so much blood.

The man on the floor was dead; very dead, if there was such a condition. Dead was dead; nothing he could do about it. Sheriff Roscoe Hornsby’s twenty-year-long law enforcement career exposed him to a cornucopia of recently deceased individuals of all ages and sexes. It told him a medical degree and a flock of health professionals would not get this one up. Three large caliber wounds to the upper chest made that fact clear as spring fed water; a bit of overkill though, Hornsby thought, wasted ammunition for sure and suggesting a elevated level of anger on the part of the shooter.

“Is he dead, Ross?” The voice came from the front door and belonged to Randall Ruskin, owner of the house and several other rentals in town. “I told you something wasn’t right.”

“Randy, stay the hell outside like I told you,” Hornsby said, stepping through the debris-covered floor while drawing his weapon. He had been Sheriff twelve years and he had drawn his Glock not more than a dozen times. There had never been a need outside of sapping a belligerent drunk. Of those, he had plenty; cowboys, itinerant farm hands, and sheepherders all with a craving for the bottle during those rare winter times when there was little else to do. Sore-headed, hung-over, and sheepish, Hornsby crowded them into his single twelve by twelve drunk tank/jail cell and let them sleep. On a busy Saturday night and a full tank, he handcuffed the overflow to the oak railing across the front of the office and let them snore on the hardwood floor.

The man’s body lay sprawled on his back, arms outstretched in a slowly expanding pool of dark blood in the middle of a furniture-void living room. The holes in his chest marred a much-washed red Carhartt t-shirt worn over faded tan Dickies. The Sheriff guessed the man’s age at about forty to forty-five with light brown thinning hair and streaks of pre-mature gray; a stranger though, not a local. No hint of recognition rose in Hornsby’s mind to block the vision of hours of paperwork.

The room was far from empty; it contained the makings of a sophisticated chemistry lab and dozens of plastic-wrapped and mailing tape secured packages. Hornsby guessed cocaine, which he knew cooked crack or sold as an inhalable powder. Hornsby had seen a lot of coke and knew this pile represented over a million dollars in potential revenue; definitely enough to kill for. A nearby table sat covered with a variety of chemicals, most of which had potential to lift the roof off the house if miss-used. He recognized the ingredients for cooking meth. In Chicago, they were as plentiful as household cooking oil. In Montana, anhydrous ammonia, used everywhere as a soil enhancement during farming, also provided a plentiful ingredient for meth manufacturing.

The house itself showed unremarkable, plain construction, ranch-style, three-bedroom rambler with the third bedroom the size of a large walk-in closet. Several years beyond needing a complete remodel, the dated structure classified as either a low-rent income producer or a bargain-priced fixer-upper. Hornsby cleared the rest of the house following his Model 23 Glock .40 through each room. The two larger bedrooms contained expensive grow lights and a sophisticated watering system nurturing a robust crop of multi-aged marijuana. Behind the grow tables the sheetrock walls were water-stained and speckled with dark spots of black and green mold. Careful not to touch anything, Hornsby surveyed each room with a cop’s eye without finding anything of interest. Back in the living room, Hornsby searched the man’s pockets for identification and found zip. Unlike current television programs, he lacked a fully staffed forensics lab. Anything that was not obvious would require the Tri-county Medical Examiner’s office touch, a minimum of two hours away.

Sheriff Hornsby, an Undersheriff and three deputies, represented the law enforcement presence in one of Montana’s larger counties area wise, but with the least amount of population. The nearest city of any size sat sixty miles east in another county. Antelope County sat in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, with the eastern half in the Great Plains and the western half dominated by the Crazy’s, a heavily forested, steep-sided mountain range scraping tall into the state’s famous Big Sky. Covering over five thousand square miles, the county could count a scattered population of twelve hundred, a quarter of which were over sixty-five. Primary income came from large ranches where cattle and sheep outnumbered the fiercely conservative inhabitants ten to one. In years past the crime rate hovered near zero, but recent statistics mirrored most big population centers.

Hornsby surveyed the front room again and it reminded him of his long career as a Los Angeles police detective. Only the surrounding prairie and lack of water felt different. The home sat a half mile south of town on a wind-swept, ten-acre plot of scattered prairie grass, sagebrush, and barking prairie dogs. Over recent years, the renters had been mostly transient workers, single cowhands and an occasional older retired couple. The rent barely covered the upkeep but Ruskin advertised it as valuable income property while looking for a cash-flush stranger seeking a bargain. So far, none had appeared. Hornsby stepped onto the porch, closed the door, sealed it with crime scene tape, and prodded Ruskin down the stairs onto the driveway.

“I need to get in there. It’s my place,” Ruskin complained.

“No you don’t, Randy, it’s a goddamn crime scene. Nobody goes in there until the ME gets here from Lewistown.”

A black Lincoln, raising clouds of prairie dust skidded to a stop in of front of the driveway. The car had tinted windows causing the Sheriff to draw again and put both hands on his county-issue Glock while he stepped behind his patrol car. He held the gun at his side waiting. When the Lincoln’s door opened, he lifted it up and pointed it at the car. A black Lincoln and a dead body behind him in the house, demanded caution and he growled, “Randy, step behind me, Goddamn it. Do it now.” When Ruskin did not move, he shouted, “Now!” Ruskin moved.

The man in the Lincoln stepped out following raised hands, slow, as if he knew the Sheriff would shoot if he made a wrong move. “Sheriff Hornsby?” the man said, “your office said you’d be out here somewhere.”

“And who the hell are you?” Hornsby said, his Glock not wavering and still pointed at the stranger’s chest.

“Appreciate it if you’d lower that cannon, Sheriff, I’m on your side. My name’s Draper, Charlie Draper. I believe you were told I was coming.”

“Got some ID, Mister? You’d better, because I’ve never heard of you. If you don’t I might be inclined to shoot your ass right here and now. So, reach for it nice and slow and if you get anywhere close to that piece under your left shoulder I will kill you where you stand.”

The stranger stared at first and Hornsby tensed, ready to shoot. The man had hard eyes, dark, displaying no fear and appeared to be analyzing the situation. He stood tall; Hornsby guessed well over six feet, enough weight to make him difficult to handle when it came to a street fight and a sense about him that hinted at a good deal of hand-to-hand combat training. He had on faded jeans, black cowboy boots, and a dark blue sport coat that hung loose from wide shoulders. His face deeply tanned, the beginnings of age lines at his eyes indicated he would never see forty again. Hornsby decided he was not going to take any chances; a single false move and he would shoot. Any mess he would clean up afterward.

“Sheriff, I’d really hate it if you shot me, so let me tell you I am armed; I’m Federal and here to help you. I’m going to pull back my coat and show you my gun. I will pull out my ID with two fingers of my left hand and lay it on the roof of your car where you can reach it. Okay with you?”

“Okay, but do it slowly. Just so you know, you won’t be the first asshole I’ve shot; and I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” Hornsby said.

“I believe you, Sheriff. I was told you were a no nonsense son-of-a-bitch.”

Hornsby watched close as the stranger pulled back his sport coat and exposed a leather shoulder rig with a quick-draw holster holding a black handled Glock. He could not be sure but guessed a .40 or .45 caliber. He looked like someone who would carry a serious weapon. With two fingers, the man picked a leather ID case out of his shirt pocket and laid it carefully on the roof of the Sheriff’s car.

Hornsby reached for the case without taking his eyes off the stranger, opened it and glanced at it. It looked legit, with a federal seal, identifying a Charles Draper as a federal NSA agent (retired).

“Says here you are retired,” Hornsby said.

“I still do occasional contract work,” Draper said.

“So, what’s so goddamn important in my little county that it brings a fancy federal spook clear out here in the boonies?”

“We have an undercover DEA agent that has been here a couple of months and hasn’t reported in when he should have. My job is to find him and extract him.”

“You got someone I can call to confirm what you say? This is rural Montana; we’re particular about feds snooping around without letting us know what’s up.” Hornsby’s Glock had not moved off the center of Draper’s chest. With dead body only yards away, his cop’s instinct would not allow him to lapse into carelessness.

“They were supposed to notify you that I was coming, but it appears somebody dropped the ball,” Draper said, “so who would you believe if they called you in the next few minutes?”

“Here’s my problem, friend; I’ve got you armed to the teeth, a dead body behind me in a house full of drug manufacturing equipment and no backup within thirty miles, so I’m not sure I’d believe the fucking Governor, if he called, which I doubt he would. So this is how this is going to go down; I’m going to come around the car with my .40 Glock pointed at your chest and I’m going to ask you nice and polite to put your hands behind your neck so I can handcuff you. You make even a twitch the wrong way and I will shoot you dead. Then we’ll see if your story checks out and if…”

Hornsby felt a searing pain though his chest in the instant before everything went dark. He did not feel the gun drop out of his hand nor the impact of the ground as it smacked him in the face.

Randall Ruskin who stood silent behind the Sheriff during the conversation with the stranger, screamed when a second shot rang the prairie air and dropped him to the ground in the instant following the Sheriff’s collapse.

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I wake up in the middle of the night, shivering. My blanket has fallen off the bed, and since Dad left my window open the cool spring air surrounds me. I reach for the blanket and cover myself, but it’s still cold. As I debate my choices I hear the Fuller’s metal gate squeak to a close and I wait for the usual bang that comes at the end when the broken latch hits the fence post. For as long as I live I’ll never forget that sound. I hear it every morning when Mr. Fuller leaves for work. It’s like clockwork and the first sound that tells my brain that it’s almost time to get up every morning, sort of like a pre-alarm clock, alarm clock.

I strain to see the numbers on my clock. Midnight. What are the Fullers doing up at this hour? They usually go to bed when it’s still light out, and Mr. Fuller doesn’t leave for work for six more hours.

Cold or no cold, my curiosity gets the best of me. I pull a Mrs. Peyton and bring the blanket over to the window with me. There is no moon tonight so it’s very hard to see all the way across the street. Is that a shadow from the streetlight hitting the low branches on the tree or is that a person? It’s hard to tell.

The blanket is getting in the way so I throw it off my shoulders. Brrrrrrrrr. I look again. I still can’t make out what that is.

I try to convince myself that it’s probably just the shadow cast by the tree. “Close the window and go back to bed. You’re probably dreaming anyway,” I tell myself. I follow my own advice and go back to bed, wrapping myself in the blanket like a burrito. After a few minutes I’m warm and toasty. I command myself to fall asleep quickly, but it doesn’t work. “Don’t look at the clock, Zeke; it’ll just make things worse.” Too late, I just looked again. Now I’m wide awake. I decide not to fight it and grab my flashlight and book. Maybe reading will make me sleepy.

A few pages into my book my eyelids begin to get heavy. Suddenly I’m dreaming that I’m the main character in the book. I’m running away from the ten-legged elephant-crocodile when another squeak, followed by that familiar bang, comes from the Fuller’s rusty old gate.

My heart is pounding in my chest as I sit up in bed then roll off. It’s more like a crash than a roll but at least I reach my destination, the floor. Breaking your fall is hard when you’re wrapped tight like a burrito. I wriggle one of my arms out of the blanket and take my night vision goggles out of the camping gear box under my bed. I zigzag my body across the floor like a slithering snake until I reach the window and set myself up on my knees so I can see out. Finally, something exciting is happening around here—I hope!

Releasing my other arm from the grip of the blanket-tortilla, I look through the goggles. I think I see a shape moving along the Fuller’s fence but I can’t make it out. It could be a person or an animal, or maybe it really is just the shadow of the tree now swaying in the cool breeze.

Oh, man, now I have to pee. Come on bladder, work with me here. I know I can hold it in. Holding, holding—and not holding.

Zeke, you’re a baby who needs diapers! “Make it quick,” I scold myself.

I’m gone for one minute, maybe two, but when I return to the window, there’s no shadow, from a tree or otherwise, across the street. So much for excitement.

“Back to bed, Zeke. It’s 3:05 in the morning and you’re imaging things.”

The maid’s blood was smeared across her knuckles, and as she wiped it her eyes were suddenly drawn to her hand. Indeed, it appeared smoother, even younger. Could it be from the blood? After all, she had practically been bathed in blood over the last twenty four hours. It was an interesting idea and she had heard of such claims before. Blood was thought to preserve youth. She planned to investigate this theory further.

Thus, Elizabeth’s fascination with blood began, warping who she was and tempting her down the path of unimaginable evil. She was convinced that the sticky red liquid enhanced her beauty and slowed the aging process.

No excerpt was provided by the author.

Do excerpt provided by the author.