I Want _____________ To Be President...
Current mood: amused
Category: News and Politics

Have you ever noticed that when you go to your designated polling place to cast your vote, there are these blinders positioned on either side of the booth - be it punch card or electronic. Even the big honkin' mechanical voting booths - which I am old enough to remember using, although some of you probably aren't - had a curtain you pulled closed in order to hide what you were doing in there.

Why is that?

Well, it is because we are allowed privacy. The reality of the process is this - it is a "secret ballot." That means it's nobody else's business for whom you cast your vote. Kinda cool, eh? You get to make up your own mind and not be taken to task for it. Democracy... Ain't it grand?

So, here we are, right smack in the middle of another election year. The candidates are running willy-nilly about, screwing up, telling you what they think you want to hear, making promises they will never be able to keep - no matter how well intentioned - because the President is only one branch of the government and generally cannot make wholesale decisions without the approval of the house and senate.

So what? These candidates are human, they are going to make mistakes just like you and me, and telling you the bunch of well intentioned lies is the best way to influence you in order to get what they want. Besides, they probably even believe some of the dreck they are spouting. That's all part of politics. We have to cope with it because it's what we have, and while it certainly isn't perfect, it's close to, if not THE best game in town.

I won't get started on some of the things I think our government is doing to undermine our freedoms - that's another blog entirely. Probably several, in fact...

No, my running off at the mouth today is about "endorsements." There is currently a celebrity endorsement bouncing all over Myspace... It even made the national news. Now, I happen to like said celeb. Not that I know him personally, or have even met him, because I don't and I haven't. But, I do like his movies, and I'm guessing he'd be a kick to sit down with and have a chat. So, this is NOT aimed at him... Actually, it is aimed more at the media...Why? Because his video endorsement made the national news...

I don't get it.

Since when did starring in a few movies, thereby being in the public eye, make someone qualified to "endorse" a political candidate? Moreover, why the hell should the average joe on the street care one way of the other if an actor says "Vote for Wilson"?

Is it an, "I'm not a politician, but I play one on TV" sort of thing? I'm just curious... Why? Because I still don't get it. Maybe I'm a big moron. Maybe I'm the one who should be talking to a volleyball. I dunno...

However, since this is apparently the trend, I certainly cannot pass up this promotional opportunity. Since I am at least somewhat in the public eye due to writing a mess of novels, I figure I need to get on the bandwagon too.

Therefore, it is time that I, as a minor league celeb, tell you for whom you should cast your vote, seeing as how you, the general public apparently have no ability to make up your own minds without the influence of people who have no better grasp of politics than you. Since I am, as I said, only a minor league celeb, I won't go through the gyrations of making a video. I will simply do it via text.

So, here goes.

I want Geena Davis to be the next President of the United States. She played the part on TV already, so I'm betting she has a pretty good understanding of how the system works. Hell, if her series hadn't been cancelled, she would probably have already accomplished getting us the hell out of Iraq, and gas would have been replaced by highly efficient and low cost, non-polluting fuel cells.

And, to take things a step further, I really think she should pick Martin Sheen as her running mate. He had a hell of a run in the White House, and given the incredible skills of his staff, I'm sure he can help Geena when it comes to picking her advisors.

There. Now I am going to sit here in my office and wait for a call from the Early Show.

I mean, since I am an official minor league celebrity and  I have publicly announced my endorsement, I am certain Harry Smith and the crew will want to talk to me.

No offense to Harry, but I hope I get interviewed by Julie Chen. She seems like she would be a really nice person.

You know, come to think of it, maybe Geena should make her the Chief of Staff.

More to come...

Murv

9:10 AM - 11 Comments - 17 Kudos - Add Comment

Weekly Randomness - Love Is The Bond, Chapter 20...

Yes, it's "Weekly Randomness" time again... A little late, but that's better than not at all, I suppose. :)

For week 6 we have a randomly selected chapter from Love Is The Bond, the sixth book in the RGI series. Funny how the weeks seem to equal the number in the series. Someone should look into that... I think it might be a conspiracy... Anyway, it is ALSO the first book in the Miranda Trilogy, a story sub-arc that occurs within the series, introducing a somewhat insidious antagonist, as well as some twists for the characters.

As with all of the weekly randomness blogs, all disclaimers apply, copyright M. R. Sellars, and all that jazz.

As always, the actual novels are available from your favorite bookstore and online...  Buy several copies in case you want to read it more them more than once!

Murv

LOVE IS THE BOND

A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION

ISBN 0967822122 / EAN 9780967822129
Trade Paperback / 346pp / $14.95 US
Book 6 in the RGI Series

SHE LOVES THEM TO DEATH…

     Of existing serial homicide cases, women make up less than one-tenth of American serial killers. However, among female serial killers in existence worldwide, American women have the dubious honor of snagging better than three-quarters of that total.
     Within the characteristics of the Kelleher Typology nine-point categorization of serial killers is that of SEXUAL PREDATORS—those who systematically kill others in clear acts of sexual homicide.
     They are sociopaths, sometimes harboring a form of paraphilia, but almost always killing in order to fuel or even validate an ongoing fantasy.
     In the case of female serial killers, this classification is so distinctly rare that there has been only one documented instance of it in the United States.
     Still, there are those who wonder if that case was merely an isolated anomaly, or in fact a harbinger of what is yet to come.
     Rowan Gant is about to find the answer, but it just might be one he doesn't want to hear…

CHAPTER 20:

It dawned on me as we stood there that Ben had been inordinately quiet ever since making his comment to Mandalay about her memory for facts and statistics. I looked over to find him staring blankly in my direction as he slowly massaged his neck. His face was creased with an unmistakable look of consternation, and his eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into space. I couldn't tell for certain if he was looking at me, past me, or through me, and for a moment I wondered if he had even been paying attention. Of course, I knew better. He didn't miss much, and his next words were a testament to that fact.
 "So we're lookin' for some kinda seriously sick psycho-bitch who just became a serial killer," he mumbled before I could say a word; his dark eyes were still glazed and unblinking. "Given what she did to 'im, that's kinda obvious though. Ya' got anything else, Row? Anything at all?"
 "No, Ben," I replied. "Sorry. I know it's not much help."
 "Yeah, well, doesn't matter. That ain't what I asked you ta' come here for anyway."
 "Why then?"
 "There's somethin' else I want ya' to look at."
 "What?"
 "Remember that design that was carved into Wentworth?" he asked.
 "You mean the heart shape?" I asked. "Yeah. As a matter of fact, Felicity and I had a theory about that. We were thinking maybe it's a tattoo of some sort."
 "That a Twilight Zone thing?"
 "Yes and no. I did have a quick flash of a similar symbol, but actually the tattoo idea is just a mundane theory."
 "Yeah, well I think you might be able to mark that one off the list. Let's see what you make of this," my friend said, then finally blinked, turned his head slightly and called out, "Yo, Marty, you done with the table?"
 "Yeah," the photographer replied. "Just be careful, it's touchy."
 Ben turned his gaze back on me then pointed across the room. I followed his finger to a round table positioned in the corner. The horrific centerpiece on the bed had been the immediate focal point upon entering the room, and I hadn't even noticed the table until just now when he pointed it out.
 Two straight-backed chairs, one of which was still neatly tucked beneath, flanked the piece of furniture. The other seat, however, was pulled out as if someone had been sitting there. A glowing swag lamp was suspended only a few feet above the center of the table's surface to cast illumination downward on that specific section of the room. It wasn't the brightest light in the place by any means, but it was more than enough to highlight a yellowish substance that appeared to have been poured onto the table. 
 "Go have a look," my friend instructed. "Just don't touch it."
 I turned and gave him a puzzled glance then walked the twenty or so feet across to the corner. Agent Drew was already well ahead of me.
 After only a pair of steps, what had at first appeared to be a random spill began to reveal a pattern. After another few steps, that pattern looked deliberate. A short moment later when I found myself standing next to the table, I was staring down at a tangle of yellow lines that were clearly so intricate as to be considered artful.
 More than that, however, what the lines formed was eerily familiar.
 On one third of the table had been drawn a cross. It wasn't your typical cross however, instead being a pair of intersecting lines that were exactly the same length. At each of the vertices formed by the four ninety-degree angles of the intersection were scribed smaller crosses. At each end of the vertical line resided yet another cross. These, however, were encompassed in small circles. Starbursts adorned the ends of the horizontal bar, flanked inwardly by ornate, leaf-like designs. A complex filigree of both thick and thin lines slashed across the arms of the cross in both perpendicular and diagonal swaths then sprouted outward, through, and around the base design.
 Positioned near the center of the artwork was a cigar—judging from the size, a petit corona. The band, however, told a more intriguing story. If the words could be believed, the stogie was contraband—a real-deal Cuban cigar.
 Opposite the roll of tobacco was a bone that appeared like it might have once belonged to a chicken drumstick. At least that is the animal I suspected it had come from, even though it had obviously been stripped, bleached and well dried. Still, considering that I had seen this symbol before and knew what it was meant to represent, I was fairly confident that my identification was correct.
 Gracing the next third of the table, next to the cross, was another complex drawing. The basis for this one instantly struck a nerve, as it was a heart pierced by a dagger. Within the confines of the outline, carefully spaced and curved gridlines created an almost three-dimensional quilted look to the heart itself. Around the outside, an intricate frill decorated the border, and splaying out from it was yet another purposefully twisting filigree.
 Planned within the branching design were two blank patches. One of which held a filterless cigarette. The other, a glass filled with a translucent, brown liquid, which I had an inkling would prove to be rum.
 By sight, this second drawing was as equally familiar as the first, if not more so considering my recent vision. Unfortunately, that was where my experience with it ended, and I did not know its inherent meaning. However, I knew all too well the significance of the cross, and that just told me that I now knew where to look in order to find the other.
 And, it wasn't in a tattoo artist's design book.
 Below the two symbols, filling the last third of the surface was an even more recognizable depiction of a circle divided into thirds by curving lines. It too was intricately filigreed but still obvious in its design. Positioned within its borders was what appeared to be a tube of lipstick and a small bottle of perfume.
 "I don't believe this," I muttered under my breath.
 Apparently, Ben could still hear me because he replied with, "Yeah, fuckin' weird, huh? The bone is what made me call ya'. That, and the heart, obviously. Either way, when I saw the bone the frickin' hair on my neck stood up."
 "What?…" I shook my head for a second before what he said registered then I began to stammer, "Oh, yeah… Yeah, that's… And…" I finally stopped myself before I could look any more the fool and asked, "Does anyone know where the victim is originally from?"
 "Why?"
 "Because this doesn't make any sense."
 "So it's just crap?" he asked hopefully. "It's not what I was thinkin' it might be?"
 I shook my head vigorously. "That depends on what you were thinking."
 "What is it?" Constance asked.
 I shot her a quick glance. "Do you remember a little while ago asking me if there was an occult element to Wentworth's murder?"
 "Yes," she replied. "You never really gave me a firm answer on that."
 "Well I am now."
 "Jeezus… Fuck me…" Ben muttered. "I just knew you were gonna say that. I just knew it."
 "Well, it's why you wanted me to come here, isn't it?"
 "Fuck no," he spat. "What I wanted was for ya' ta' come in here and say 'what the hell is that?' then get mad at me for draggin' your ass down here. What I didn't want was for you ta' actually tell me it's some kinda hocus-pocus shit."
 "Why are you getting so wound up about it?" I asked.
 "'Cause the last time you told me the crap was the real deal it got way too weird."
 "Well, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid this is the real thing," I told him. "Most of it, anyway."
 "Whaddaya mean most of it?"
 "Well, it has all the elements, but given the scene it's definitely been bastardized to fit an agenda." I pointed to the table and moved my finger slowly about. "These designs are what's called veve. They're ritual symbols used to represent godlike spirits known as Lwa. This one…"
 "So, you're saying this is some kind of WitchCraft?" Agent Drew interrupted, his tone still overtly skeptical but somewhat less confrontational than before.
 "No, not WitchCraft, it's…"
 "What then?" he demanded, once again cutting me off before I could complete the sentence.
 "Stop interrupting the man, Agent Drew," Mandalay ordered.
 "…Voodoo," I finished. "Or like I was saying, a bastardized form of it."
 "Come on," he groaned. "Voodoo isn't real. It's all just a bunch of Hollywood crap."
 "No, Agent Drew, it's very real," I replied. "Whether you want to believe it or not. Don't they teach you anything about alternative religions at the FBI academy?"
 "They teach us about cults."
 "Well, this isn't a cult. It's an actual religion."
 "Yeah, okay, whatever."
 I ignored his rebuke and pointed to the designs on the table once again, indicating toward the ornate cross with my index finger. "This veve here I've seen before. It represents Papa Legba. He's what you would pretty much call the head Lwa. He stands at the crossroads between the material world and the spiritual world and facilitates communication between the living and the dead.
 "The cigar and chicken bone are offerings to him… Gifts given in order to persuade him to open the gate between the worlds so that the practitioner can speak to the spirit of a departed loved one, or even another Lwa."
 "Well, whatever the reason, whoever did this is a hell of an artist," Mandalay observed.
 "That's actually part of what marks this as real," I told her. "The ability to properly and accurately draw veve is a basic but very important part of the religious practice."
 "You're trying to tell us Voodoo is a religion?" Drew piped up.
 "What did you think it was?" I asked.
 "Like I said, bullshit," he replied.
 "Yeah, well, ya' learn somethin' new every day, don'tcha'," Ben jibed.
 "These had to take quite a bit of time," Mandalay murmured as she continued scanning the tabletop with her eyes.
 "Probably less than you would think for a skilled practitioner," I offered. "But, yeah, they still took a little bit of time to make."
 "What is that? Sand?" she asked.
 "Crime scene guys took a sample for the lab," Ben offered.
 "I think they'll probably tell you it's just plain cornmeal," I explained. "That's what is commonly used for this."
 "Cornmeal," my friend repeated then paused.
 I looked over and noticed that he was taking notes.
 "Sometimes flour, ashes, chalk or some other such thing," I added. "But, this definitely looks like cornmeal."
 "Okay," he said, looking up from his notebook and nodding toward the table. "Does that mean anything?"
 "It's just another indicator that this was at least done by someone who is either a practitioner or has deeply studied Voodoo."
 "Okay, so you say the top one is for Poppa Whosits. What about the other two?"
 "Papa Legba," I corrected him then shrugged and pointed to the circle that had been divided into thirds. "This one looks for all the world like a triskele, which is a Celtic symbol that is commonly used in various forms of WitchCraft. But, given the nature of the ritual done here, I would guess that's not what it's meant to be. The other one, I don't know. But, it definitely makes the connection with Wentworth." 
 "Okay, so whaddaya mean, you don't know?"
 "I mean exactly that. I don't know. We'll have to look it up."
 "Why don't you know it?" Drew asked, a hint of smugness returning to his voice. "I thought you were some kind of expert."
 "I never claimed to be an expert, and I'm also not a Voodoo practitioner. I've just read up on it a bit." I replied. "Look, I'm perfectly willing to admit that I don't know everything."
 "Okay, so then how do you know that you're right about the other one?" he pressed.
 "Because I've actually seen it pictured in a ritual context before. Like I said, I've read up on it some."
 "Apparently not enough."
 Mandalay opened her mouth to admonish him, and I immediately laid my hand on her forearm and shook my head.
 "You're Catholic, correct, Agent Drew?" I asked.
 He cast a suspicious eye toward me. "Yeah, how did you know?"
 "Nothing particularly esoteric on my part," I replied. "Just your exclamation earlier, 'Holy Mary Mother of God'. I've only heard that from Catholics."
 He relaxed noticeably then gave me a curt nod. "Yeah, okay. So what's that got to do with anything?"
 "I assume you went to a Catholic school?"
 "Yeah."
 I continued. "Attended your religion classes like you were supposed to?"
 "I still don't see what this has to do with anything."
 "I'm just establishing that you are well educated in your faith."
 "Okay. So?"
 "So, can you name the original seven archangels for me?"
 "Michael, Gabriel, Raphael…" he began confidently but almost immediately tapered off into silence.
 I waited a moment then finished the list for him. "Anael, Samael, Sachiel, and Caffiel."
 "Yeah." He nodded in agreement. "It's been awhile. So, how do you know them?"
  "I've studied Judeo-Christian practices a little deeper than some other religions. In particular, Catholicism."
 "Why?"
 "Self-preservation… Anyway, back to the archangels. I suppose that asking you to draw their sigils for me would be out of the question?"
 "Their what?"
 "The symbols that represent each of them," I said then pointed at the table. "Like the veve for the Lwa."
 "Okay, fine," he conceded. "I think I get your point."
 "If you wanna win an argument with Row, pick somethin' he doesn't know anything about," Ben offered, taking pity on the younger man.
 "I get it." Drew nodded. "Don't argue religion with Gant."
 "I'm still not claiming to be an expert," I reminded them. "Voodoo definitely isn't my area."
 "But, you're sure this is Voodoo?" Ben asked, turning his attention to me and ignoring his own advice. "I mean, shouldn't there be a doll with some pins in it or somethin'?"
 "No. That would be a poppet, and then we'd be talking WitchCraft not Voodoo."
 "Fuck me," he muttered as he shook his head. "I thought… No… Forget it… I don't even wanna know."
 An urgent but muffled trill began warbling up the audible scale, and we all looked at one another out of reflex.
 "Not mine," Constance offered.
 Ben's voice fell in behind hers, "Me neither."
 The escalating tune ended on a high note, only to start anew a good measure louder.
 "It sounds like mine," I said aloud.
 Out of reflex I reached into my jacket pocket at just about the same instant Agent Drew was announcing that it wasn't his either; however, I found that the pocket was empty. At that moment the trilling tones started anew and were far louder.
 "Crap," Ben muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I've still got your phone."
 Pulling out one cell and glancing at it quickly, he shook his head; he reached back in and withdrew another and then handed it to me. I instantly thumbed the annoying gadget to life and placed it to my ear as I said a quick hello.
 Instead of a similar salutation, I was greeted immediately by my wife's stilted voice—her audible annoyance reigned in only by a forced, but obviously wavering, patience. "Rowan, would you please have Ben come outside and tell this young officer that I am supposed to be here."

8:37 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Rowan Gant Investigations E-Books...
Current mood: irate
Category: Writing and Poetry

So... Have any of you read any of the Rowan Gant Investigations e-books? You know, the electronic versions of the book. In particular, I believe these e-books are in convenient PDF format.

If so, good on you! I hope you enjoyed them. Now, let's settle up-

For each Rowan Gant e-book title you have read, you need to send $3.95 (the average price of an e-book) to my publisher, WillowTree Press. The address is as follows: WillowTree Press, PO Box 142414, St. Louis, MO 63114-0414. Make your check payable to WillowTree Press. Please include a note listing the titles for which you are paying.

Why?

Because, there are NO Rowan Gant e-books... Yes, there ARE some PDF files floating around out there. I just found out about it today. Apparently, they have been floating around for a while now. In fact, long enough that they have been downloaded thousands of times. Illegally.

Yeah. ILLEGALLY.

And guess what? My publisher hasn't seen a dime. Know what that means? I haven't either. Yeah... they didn't get paid, so I didn't get paid.

Now... If you are one of the e-book readers, the address is listed above. Send your money in so that my publisher can pay me. If your excuse for downloading them is that you wanted to sample my books before buying, well, that's what libraries are for. If you don't have a library card, well, you know, there's also a chapter sampler on my website available for download. That would have given you a sample...

You'll have to excuse me, but I'm pissed right now. People seem to think authors are flush with cash and that we don't need the royalties. Well, here's how it is... It's our friggin' paycheck, people. How would you like it if I stopped by your place of employment on Friday, picked up YOUR paycheck and put it in MY pocket even though you did the work?

Yeah, wouldn't be so nice now would it?

For those of you who have NOT pirated my books, and actuall purchase them legally, I'm terribly sorry you had to listen to this... Please know that I truly appreciate you.

But, for now, I'm one pissed off Murv...

3:36 PM - 23 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

WEEKLY RANDOMNESS - Crone’s Moon, Chapter 3

Yes, it's "Weekly Randomness" time again... For week 5 we have a randomly selected chapter from Crone's Moon, the fifth book in the RGI series. As with all of the weekly randomness blogs, all disclaimers apply, copyright M. R. Sellars, and all that jazz.

As always, the actual novels are available from your favorite bookstore and online...

Murv

Crone's Moon

ISBN 0967822149 / EAN 9780967822143
Trade Paperback / 332pp /$14.95 US
Book 5 in the RGI Series

WHEN THE DEAD SPEAK, ROWAN GANT HEARS THEIR WHISPERS...

A missing schoolteacher, decomposed remains in a shallow grave, and a sadistic serial killer prowling Saint Louis by the semi-darkness of the waning moon... EXACTLY the kind of thing Rowan Gant has no choice but to face. But, this time his bane, the uncontrolled channeling of murder victims, isn't helping; for the dead are speaking, but not necessarily to him. Rowan once again must skirt the prejudices of police lieutenant Barbara Albright as he and his best friend, homicide detective Ben Storm, race to save a friend... and perhaps someone even closer.

CHAPTER 3:

I wasn't someone you could describe as a big fan of heights. Standing here at this particular moment, looking down through the railing from the top level of the old Peerless-Cross department store parking garage, smack in the middle of downtown Saint Louis, I was reminded of that fact in no uncertain terms.
The honest truth is that for the majority of my life heights had never been much of an issue. I hadn't spared as much as a moment's consideration to the idea of fearing them; at least not any that I remembered. But, of course, that was all before the night when a deranged serial killer had tossed me over the side of the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge somewhere near the middle of its span across the Mississippi river. Now to that, I had given more than just a passing thought. I had dwelled on it. And, to say the least, it was definitely something I wasn't going to forget. Not in this lifetime and probably not even the next.
Fortunately for me, the rope he had been trying to hang me with had held fast. The other bonus was that it had been wrapped around my arm instead of my neck. It was only due to this stroke of blind luck that I had the luxury of being able to recall that night in all of its Technicolor detail.
But that's another story, sort of.
Now, to clarify, I have to point out that I'm not one to panic or go into an immobile stupor due to a fear of heights—not at all. Whenever confronted by the vertical demon, I simply feel an involuntary catch in my throat and then experience that sinking flutter in the pit of my stomach that always precedes the 'fight or flight' adrenalin dump of fear. Of course, it is just about then that said adrenalin does exactly that—dump.
With a sudden flood into my circulatory system, the hormone embarks on an emotionally driven attempt to rescue me from the perceived danger. A few seconds later I, mutter some form of exclamation, the cleanliness of which is directly proportional to the height multiplied by the amount of adrenalin then divided by my heart rate. That accomplished, I remove myself from the situation.
For the most part, all it ever really does is make me tense muscles I don't even remember having and then battle a lingering headache for an hour or two.
"Sudden stop." My friend's deep voice uttered the two simple words from behind and above my left shoulder.
I glanced back without fully turning and questioned him. "Do what?"
"The sudden stop at the bottom," Detective Benjamin Storm returned with an almost jovial undertone. "Ya'know… It ain't the fall that kills ya', it's the sudden stop at the bottom."
It was comments like this one that had long ago convinced me that my best friend, a homicide detective with the Saint Louis City Police, would make the perfect wisecracking cop for a weekly television crime drama. He was loyal, honest, and good at his job. And, as evidenced by his most recent verbal observation, he was inextricably tied to clichés. There were even times when they would season his speech the same way some people salt their French fries—too much. Still, while not always an especially endearing quality, it was a part of his makeup, and I accepted it for the personality trait it was. Of course, accepting it didn't keep me from retaliating against it at times.
Like right now for instance.
"Not actually," I said as I turned, unsure as to whether or not he would take the bait I was about to toss before him.
I put my hand up to shield my eyes against the late morning sun. The sky was clear and the yellow-white globe had already driven the air temperature past ninety, with the relative humidity making it feel as if we were in a Jacuzzi. Worse yet, the hottest part of the day was still to come. Of course, that was just 'Mother Nature's Tourism Bureau's' way of saying welcome to June in Saint Louis, Missouri.
The only thing that made it bearable standing up here on the open concrete deck of the parking structure was the slight breeze rising and falling around us, and more importantly, the fact that a table in an air-conditioned restaurant was waiting for us down at street level.
I tilted my head up to look at my friend's face. While I wasn't the tallest person around, I was still of average height. Ben, on the other hand, took average and built upon it with reckless abandon. He stood a full six-foot-six and carried himself on an enviable broad-shouldered, muscular frame.
The sun silhouetted him so I had to squint in order to make out his angular face. Framing his countenance was coal black hair, worn as long as departmental regulations allowed. His dark eyes gazed out over high cheekbones, revealing little and missing nothing. It was impossible to look at him and not immediately know that he was full-blooded Native American.
"Whaddaya mean, 'not actually'?" he huffed.
And with that, we officially had the 'hook.'
On the fly, I dredged up an old childhood myth and applied my own twist to it. "What I mean is that you're dead before you ever hit the ground."
"Yeah, right."
"Seriously. The fear of falling is so intense that your system overdoses itself on adrenalin. It pretty much shorts out your nervous system and causes you to suffer a heart attack as you fall, end of story. You're a corpse before you ever hit the ground."
I watched his rugged features as his right eyebrow furrowed. I could literally see him rolling what I had said over and over inside his head, trying to get a handle on it.
"Bullshit," he retorted.
The one word comment wasn't exactly what you would call swallowing the 'line,' but I'd known he would be a hard sell.
"Oh yeah." I nodded vigorously as I spoke and offered up a bogus factoid to lend credence to my lie. "It's a known fact. Now, of course, the fall has to be greater than twenty feet for the fear to reach that level and cause your system to dump that much adrenalin."
He cocked his head to the side and gave me an unsure look.
I pressed on. "You know how when you fall you get that bizarre feeling in your gut like you just lost your stomach?"
"Like when ya' top a hill on a roller coaster, you mean?"
"Exactly. Well it's like that, but since you don't fall far enough you don't have the heart attack."
"No way. Hills on roller coasters are way higher than twenty feet." He shook his head as he argued.
"Sure, but that's different. Your subconscious knows you are in a roller coaster."
"You're just yankin' my chain."
"Why would I do that?"
"So what about skydivers?"
"Parachute. Again, the subconscious knows."
The look on Ben's face told me that he was struggling with this sudden contradiction of perceptions. He wasn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination, so I was actually surprised I'd managed to take it this far.
My friend slipped his hand up to smooth his hair and then allowed it to slide down and began to massage the back of his neck. He always performed this gesture when he was thinking hard on a subject.
"Really?" he eventually asked, giving his head a slight nod as he squinted at me.
Now, there was the 'line.' I thought about going for the 'sinker' as well, but I wasn't feeling particularly ornery today, and I doubted my luck would hold out. Besides, it had only been one cliché, not to mention that he was bigger than me and he had a gun.
I gave it a long moment before finally answering him with a simple, "No."
He shook his head and screwed his face into a frown. "Jeezus, Rowan, don't fuck with me like that."
"Hey," I splayed my hands out in a 'don't blame me' gesture. "You're the cop here. Aren't you supposed to be able to tell when someone is lying? Besides, I've never known you to be gullible. How was I supposed to know you'd fall for a line of BS like that?"
"Because it came outta your mouth," he replied with a grunt as he stabbed a finger in the air toward me. "I EXPECT everyone else to be lying but not you. And, you got so damn much trivia runnin' around in your head, I just figured maybe you knew somethin' I didn't."
"Well…" I shrugged. "Maybe I do on some stuff. Sudden stops at the bottom, though, not really my area of expertise."
"Yeah, mine either, but I've seen a couple of meat sacks sprawled out on sidewalks. The friggin' stop at the bottom's what did 'em in. Trust me."
"I'll take your word for it," I replied, consciously chasing away the visual his words had conjured, and then I paused for a moment before changing the subject. "So, I may be wrong, but I didn't think we came here to discuss the physics of falling from tall buildings. Or did we?"
"Nope." He shook his head. "But you were the one starin' off into space over here."
"I wasn't staring off into space."
"Yeah, Kemosabe." He nodded. "Yeah, you were."
I didn't issue another rebuttal. It occurred to me that perhaps my earlier self-assessment was in error. Maybe these days heights did make me seize up after all.
"So, speaking of lying, are we at least here to go to lunch like you said when you showed up at my door?"
"Yeah," he answered. "Why would I lie about that?"
"You tell me? It wouldn't be the first time you've used a free meal as a carrot to get me somewhere."
"C'mon, man, I told ya' already. This is my day off."
"I seem to recall you once telling me that you are never really off duty," I reminded him.
"Jeez, what are you, a freakin' tape recorder?"
I merely chuckled in reply.
"Yeah," he continued. "Maybe so, but even when I've done that to ya', I didn't screw ya' over on the deal."
"You sure about that?"
"Hell yes." He waved his index finger in the air to punctuate his comment. "I know for a fact that I still bought chow."
"I wasn't talking about the meal," I said as we began walking along the inclined parking lot toward the glassed-in elevator enclosure.
He ignored the comment. "Well, to be honest, I do have somethin' else I wanna do while we're here, now that ya' mention it. I need to hit The Third Place after we eat." He offered the name of the tobacco shop we both frequented with what could have easily passed for reverence. "You good with that?"
"Yeah." I gave him a nod. "I need to have Patrick order me some more CAO MX Two's anyway. It'll save me a call."
"You and those damn double maduros," my friend muttered.
"What's wrong with MX Two's?"
"Too strong, white man," he told me.
"Hey, I like what I like."
"Yeah," he said as he tugged open the door to the glass enclosure and motioned for me to go through. "I just wish you'd like somethin' else."
I shook my head as I entered the somewhat air-conditioned waiting area. "What does it matter?"
His matter-of-fact reply came as he followed me through the door. "'Cause I don't like 'em."
"So?" I queried, stabbing the call button for the elevator then looking at him with a puzzled expression. "You aren't the one smoking them."
"Exactly," he replied. "So if you don't smoke the ones that I like, then it makes it kinda hard for me to bum them off ya' now doesn't it?"
"Ohhh, now I get it." I nodded slowly. "You want me to smoke something you like so you don't have to buy any."
"Damn straight," he chuckled. "Cigars are expensive."
"So quit."
My friend looked back at me like I had suddenly grown an extra head. "Yeah, right. I already told ya' once today ta' quit yankin' my chain."
A sickly electromechanical ding announced the arrival of the elevator car. The signal was followed by the scrape and groan of the doors parting down the center with a moment's hesitation then sliding laboriously open. Looking through the widening gap, we could see the car still in motion as it rose the last few inches and then halted with a clunk and a shudder.
"Oh yeah," Ben announced. "This looks real safe."
"You want to take the stairs?" I queried.
"I'm thinkin' maybe yeah," he replied.
"The stairs are outside."
"Yeah, so?"
I held my arms out and glance around. "Hot out there, cool in here. Well, cooler anyway."
"Lemme see… Hot or splattered? Hot or splattered?" He motioned with his hands as if he were physically weighing the two options. "Considering the conversation we just had, I'm not all about splattered if ya' know what I mean. Elevator or not."
"I'm with you on that one."
He stepped back toward the glass door of the waiting area and tugged it open. At that moment, as if cued by some unseen director, our ears were met with what had to be the single most panicked scream I had ever heard in my life to date.

6:12 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Of Fatherhood And Shovels...
Current mood: melancholy
Category: Pets and Animals

There are times when it seriously sucks to be the Dad.

I suppose I should back up just a bit and give you some background as to why I make that statement, because I suspect most of you know I am all about my kid. So, let me fill you in...

Some of you may or may not be aware that the animals in my novels - those being the two dogs and the three cats who share the abode with the main characters, Rowan and Felicity - are actually based on my own four-legged cohabitators. The dogs, as I have mentioned in the past, have since gone on to the other side, but they still live on in my books. So too, do the felines in many senses, as they are composites of the numerous cats we have rescued over the years. Emily - the cats in the novels are named Emily (Dickinson), Dickens (Charles), and Salinger (J.D.), go figure - is based on the real life felines, Data and Buffer, both calicos like their fictional composite. Data left us last year, peacefully, in her sleep. She was something on the order of a million years old... Well, around 18+ years to be a little more exact, but for a cat, that's a fair piece of time. Buffer, however, was still around - until this weekend.

Buffer was only 14, but that is still a good lifetime for a feline. To be honest, where I come from, farm cats rarely made it past 5 or 6 years, but I digress as usual. The especially bad part about losing Buffer this weekend is that she went outside and got into an altercation with a vehicle. 

The vehicle won.

EK and the Spawn were out shopping, which was fortunate, because I was the one who found her instead of them. As you can guess, when you are talking Feline vs. Auto, the results aren't very pretty.

So, I found her... And, I got to be the one who cleaned up the remains, dug the hole, tried to convince my wife that the animal hadn't suffered - though I really couldn't know that for sure - and help console an 8 year old who misses her friend. Then, I got to toss and turn that night because the image of the aftermath played back for me each time I closed my eyes. And, you know, as it happens I miss the cat too. But, I have to be the strong one.

Hence, why it sometimes sucks to be the Dad, especially when a shovel an a shoebox are involved...

(sigh)

I suppose I should try to end this on a slightly cheerier note, so here goes...

Speaking of pets, I'm sure most everyone is aware of the latest Myspace rage, that being purchasing and selling your friends as "human pets". Well, it seems I was purchased by an old friend, and she has since sold me... Since then I have been gifted, traded, and sold all over the place. But, just so all the bases are covered, I'll mention here that if you purchase me, unlike Morrison, I am housebroken and fairly low maintenance.

BTW, I really like Pizza and beer, but I don't do tricks. Well, I do, but that's a whole 'nother story...

More to come...

Murv

7:21 AM - 17 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Weekly Randomness: The Law Of Three, Chapter 23

Yes, it's that time again... Week 4 of "Weekly Randomness"... This week we have a randomly selected chapter from The Law Of Three, the fourth book in the RGI series. As with all of the weekly randomness blogs, all disclaimers apply, copyright M. R. Sellars, and all that jazz.

As always, the actual novels are available from your favorite bookstore and online... .

Murv

The Law Of Three: A Rowan Gant Investigation

ISBN 0967822181 / EAN 9780967822181
Trade Paperback / 327pp / $14.95 US
Book 4 in the RGI Series

LET THE BURNINGS BEGIN...

In February of 2001, serial killer Eldon Andrew Porter set about creating a modern day version of the 15th century inquisition and Witch trials. Following the tenets of the Malleus Maleficarum and his own insane interpretation of the Holy Bible, he tortured and subsequently murdered several innocent people.
During a showdown on the old Chain of Rocks Bridge, he narrowly escaped apprehension by the Greater St. Louis Major Case Squad.
In the process, his left arm was severely crippled by a gunshot fired at close range.
A gunshot fired by a man he was trying to kill.
A man who embraced the mystical arts.
A Witch.
Rowan Gant.
In December of the same year, Eldon Porter's fingerprints were found at the scene of a horrific murder in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, just south of St. Louis. An eyewitness who later spotted the victim's stolen vehicle reported that it was headed north...

CHAPTER 23:

"So explain to me again why we weren't watchin' this Sullivan woman?" Ben smoothed back his hair and then winced. He pulled his bandaged hand away and then stared at it as if it was the first time he'd ever seen it. I didn't give it long before he did away with the bandages altogether in a fit of frustration.
Apparently, he had only just gotten out of the shower when Mandalay contacted him about Porter's call. Even though she assured him that she had things covered on our end, he insisted on returning immediately. No amount of explanation from her was going to convince him otherwise. Judging from his rumpled appearance, he had probably still been getting dressed on the drive over.
We were assembled in the living room of the small apartment. Ben occupied one end of the sofa and Mandalay the other. Felicity was parked in the chair, cradling a cup of tea between her dainty hands; but me, I couldn't begin to think about sitting. I had too much of an infusion of nervous energy. I was standing at the sliding doors, holding the heavy drapes partially open, and looking out across the snow-covered balcony to the parking lot several floors below.
"She was only a dedicant," I replied without turning.
It had been just slightly over an hour since Porter had called, and my anger was still fresh. My jaw had now added itself to my list of aches due to the fact that I was unconsciously grinding my teeth. I kept catching myself in the act, but I didn't seem to be able to stop. I was still fighting a case of the jitters that was born of the creepy tune looping in the back of my head; so, I wasn't sure if the teeth gnashing was an effect of the anger alone or a combination of rage and anxiety. Whatever the cause, it was beginning to get very old.
"And that means she's like what? A non-person?" He splayed his hands out in a gesture of helplessness.
I shook my head sharply and allowed the drapes to fall closed as I turned. I was frustrated that I had to explain something that I perceived as trivial common knowledge especially in light of my current emotional state. I took a deep breath and huffed it back out, trying to keep in mind that Felicity and I were the only ones in the room familiar with Coven dynamics and order. "I really didn't mean for it to sound like that," I told him. "Basically, a dedicant is someone who has made a conscious choice to study a particular religion, or most often, religious path. What we often refer to as a tradition. They take an oath to study and learn the tradition."
"So it's like making a pledge or a promise. Somethin' like that?"
"Aye, exactly," Felicity chimed in.
"So this isn't something unusual then?" he asked.
"Not within the confines of a Coven, no," she answered again. "Not at all."
"So what you're really sayin' is that she wanted to join your study group?" He simplified my answer as he looked back and forth between us.
"Something like that, I suppose, yes." I nodded. "At any rate, she had approached Cally about joining our Coven some time back. We met with her on a couple of occasions, and we discussed the possibility of her dedicating. What you have to remember is that taking someone into a Coven is not something you do lightly, so we took some time to mull it over. We were actually planning to bring her in at Yule, but she was out of town."
"So she wasn't actually a member of your group yet?"
"No. Not officially." I shook my head. "She would have been brought in at the next Full Moon meeting."
"Well, Porter obviously chose her because of her relationship to you," Mandalay offered. "He didn't just get lucky. How would he have found out about her if she wasn't actually a member?"
"I don't know." I shook my head and shrugged. "My best guess would be Randy, but I can't be sure. It could be that Porter asked him for names when he tortured him. We pretty much know that's how he started compiling his list of victims originally. Or it could be that Randy had her name and some notes in a day planner or a PDA."
"Notes?" Ben asked.
"Established Covens take bringing someone new into the fold very seriously," Felicity offered as explanation.
Ben sighed heavily then brought his other hand up to massage his neck, only to repeat the wince and stunned stare.
"Dammit," he muttered as he shook his wounded mitt and then lowered it back into his lap.
I began to slowly pace. "I blame myself for this," I announced. "I should have considered it as a possibility."
"Aye, I think not," Felicity asserted. "I'm their High Priestess. I am as much at fault as anyone, if not more."
She had regained her composure quickly. Still, I knew by looking at her that it was a defense mechanism. What she had done was nothing more than a temporary patch job on her exterior demeanor. Inside, there was still a swirling ball of gut twisting terror, but she had no intention of letting any more of it show; not in front of Ben and Constance at least.
"Neither one of you is at fault for anything," Mandalay returned. "There was no way you could imagine that Porter would go this route."
"Believe me, Constance." I gave her a quick nod. "I can imagine a lot out of this whack job. I've got scars to prove it."
"Mandalay's right," Ben interjected. "Beating yourselves up about all this isn't doin' either one of ya' any good. Not to mention that it ain't gonna get us anywhere."
"Well, what IS being done?" I asked.
"Right now, there's a CSU team on their way to Sullivan's apartment. Her car is listed on the hot sheet, and every copper on the street is lookin' for it."
"We don't know that he has her car," I objected.
"We don't know that he doesn't," Ben returned. "Look, Row, let us do the cop stuff, it's what we do. Like I've told ya' before, we actually solved a few crimes by ourselves before you came along."
I closed my eyes and put my palms up to my temples, squeezing my head between my hands and roughly massaging at the same time; as if I could will the pain away. "I'm sorry," I muttered. "I don't mean to be arguing with you about this. I'm just kind of at the center of it, and I'd give just about anything to be somewhere else."
"That's understandable," Mandalay said. "You've been through a lot today."
I shook my head. My eyes were still closed, and my fingers were now working at my scalp. "Today is just the beginning," I said aloud. "There's an end coming. I don't know when or where, but I'm not sure I want to."
The moment the words exited my mouth, I felt a wave of dread hit me. If that wasn't enough, I could physically feel my wife's startled gaze instantly burning a hole in my back as I stood there.
"What's that s'posed to mean?" Ben asked.
"I don't know," I answered. "Forget it. I'm just rambling."
"You sure?" he pressed. "That ain't some kinda hocus-pocus la-la land thing you're spoutin' is it?
Mandalay offered her observation. "Yeah, Rowan, that sounded a little on the morbidly prophetic side, especially coming from you."
"Really. Forget it." I waved a hand at them. "My head is killing me, and I'm just running off at the mouth."
The truth was that I didn't actually know what the comment was supposed to mean. I didn't even know for sure why I had said it. I only knew that there actually was more to it than just idle rambling and that it sounded just as bad to me as it did to them.
"You need to take somethin', Kemosabe?" Ben asked.
"Wouldn't do any good," I sighed. "So anyway, go on. You were telling me what the plan is…"
"CSU, car…" He ticked off what he'd already said. "Keepin' an eye on public places since he seems to have a penchant for exhibiting his kills."
"By then it would be too late," I contended in a flat tone.
"Believe me, Row, we know that," he returned. "But it's somethin' that has to be done."
"We're also watching for the possibility that he might use one of the two cell phones again," Mandalay added to the list. "If he does, we'll be on top of it, and maybe this time we can get a grid location."
"What about me?" I queried.
Ben feigned ignorance. "Whaddaya mean? What about you?"
"Don't play dumb, Ben." My voice once again took on a note of annoyance. "You know damn well what I mean. Porter killed Randy, and now he has Star, and he's going to kill her. You've already said that he's choosing his victims to get to me."
"Yeah, I know where you're headed but don't go there." His tone was adamant.
"What do you mean, 'don't go there?'" I couldn't help but raise my voice a step. "There's no place for me to go, Ben. He's bringing it to my doorstep!"
He addressed me with deadpan seriousness in his voice and a hard expression forming across his features. "Listen, Rowan, I'll be honest with you, Albright already said something about this."
"Screw Albright," I spat. "If she wants to ban me from something else, tell her to go ahead."
"No, you don't get it," he snarled. "She's all about using you for bait."
"Will wonders never cease," I said, injecting the words with as much sarcasm as I could muster. "She and I finally agree on something."
"Rowan! No!" Felicity yelped.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the startled expression on her face, and as I turned to look at her, she slowly stood.
"I can't let him kill Star," I told her as if the conclusion was obvious.
"Aye, I won't allow it," she proclaimed.
Ben glanced her way then back at me as he spoke. "Well don't worry, Felicity, cause it ain't gonna happen."
"Why?" I demanded.
"Because it's not how we do things, Rowan. This isn't a cop show. We don't use civilians as bait for crazed serial killers."
"Yeah, well maybe it's time to change your rules."
"I can't listen to this," Felicity blurted with a mixture of both fear and anger in her voice.
I looked over at her, and she was trembling. She stared at me with her eyes glistening, and I knew there were tears behind them begging to be released. I took a step toward her, and as I reached out to touch her, she backed away and sidestepped. I stopped, immediately feeling the torment that now afflicted her. She put her hand to her mouth and then shook her head again. With that, she turned and disappeared down the short hallway and into the bedroom.
The door made a dull sound as it slammed.
"Jeezus, white man." Ben shook his head.
"You should probably go talk to her," Mandalay offered softly.
I was torn between running after her and pleading my case. Choosing between the woman I loved more than my own existence and the life of someone I barely knew was the last thing I needed at the moment. I mutely pled for guidance from The Ancients and met only with silence.
I started toward the bedroom door and hesitated. I felt damned no matter which direction I went. I took another step then turned and stared at Ben.
"Listen, apparently the whole idea isn't out of the question or Albright wouldn't have brought it up," I finally countered.
"Why the hell do you think she was all over your ass back at the morgue, Rowan?" He stood there looking at me with his eyes wide and questioning.
"Because she doesn't like me?" I answered.
"Exactly. And because she doesn't like you, she was trying to get you worked up so you'd do somethin' stupid, Row."
"I thought we'd already established that."
"I mean as in stupid like going after Porter. She wants to let you throw yourself out there as bait, and if you get killed in the process, oh fuckin' well, too bad so sad."
The revelation struck home, knocked me down, then kicked me a few times just for good measure. I stood there mute, wondering how I could have been so totally oblivious to her intentions.
"Am I that stupid?" I finally asked, an uneasy calm in my voice. "Have you known this all along?"
"No." He shook his head. "Don't feel like the Lone Ranger, I didn't catch it either. I just found out on the way over here."
"How?"
"A call from one of the coppers on the case," he answered. "He overheard a phone conversation she had, and he thought I should know."
"Recklessly endangering a civilian on purpose?" Mandalay sounded incredulous when she asked the question. "Have you gone to IAD about this?"
"That'll be my next move." Ben nodded. "But I want to make sure I can count on my source and get something a little more concrete before I make an accusation like that. Right now it's just hearsay, plus there's someone else involved, and I don't know who."
"Let's give her what she wants," I muttered.
"HELL No!" Ben stood and thrust his hand at me as he made the exclamation. "You just forget that shit right now! Hear me?"
"Look, Ben." I focused on him with as much intensity as I could muster. "This sonofabitch is playing this out like some kind of contrived, low-budget movie. He's going to torture and probably kill an innocent woman just to get me out in the open. I can't let him do that."
"We don't plan to," he shot back.
"You can't stop him." I shook my head. "He is going to keep killing until he gets to me."
"You don't know that we won't get him, Row," Ben said.
"Oh yes I do," I nodded and spoke with absolute certainty.
"You wanna tell me how?"
I just stared at him. The silence in the room grew thick and charged with a frightening energy that made my skin prickle.
"Dammit, Rowan, stop this crap. Just get in there and talk to your wife."
"I can't yet," I said with a disconcerting calm.
"Why the hell not?"
"Because that's him now."
Ben shook his head and gazed back at me with confusion creasing his forehead. "Him now what?"
The startling ring of the telephone answered the question for me.

4:40 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

On Her Majesty’s Secret Alphabet...
Current mood: busy

Okay, so I'm in the middle of writing and stuff, therefor this is just one of those quick "Did'ja ever notice" kind of blogs.

I won't go into a long explanation of things because the info is readily available on the net, suffice it to say, anyone who has ever seen a Bond flick knows who "Q" is.

Here's the thing - one of the delightful moments in most of the films (I say most because "Q" actually does NOT appear in ALL of them) is the bantering back and forth between Bond and "Q" as a new mess of insane gadgets are introduced. Now, I won't even go into the odd paradox created by "Q" being upset about Bond destroying said gadgets, which by default is going to happen if he bothers to use them because most are designed to blow up at some point.

No, my question is this - How did "Q" become so prescient? I mean, think about it - everything he gives the double nought spy for that particular movie is something that comes in REAL handy like. It's as if the "man who shall be known as a consonant" has some prior knowledge that "Double Nought Sevum" will be tied up over a shark tank in exactly X position, thereby requiring a watch that will double as a miniature buzz saw.

You know... I'm thinking maybe it would be a good idea for the Double Nought Spy folks to do a bit of internal investigation. From where I sit, it sure looks like some of their alphabet has defected to a different soup.

More to come...

Murv

6:52 AM - 8 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

WEEKLY RANDOMNESS - Perfect Trust

In keeping with the "8 week plan" here is the third installment -  Chapter 20 of Perfect Trust. All disclaimers apply, copyright M. R. Sellars, etc.

All books in the RGI series are available for purchase via bookstores and online.

PERFECT TRUST: A Rowan Gant Investigation

ISBN 096782219X / EAN 9780967822198
MM Paperback / 369pp / $8.95 US
Book 3 in the RGI Series

P I C T U R E     P E R F E C T

Rowan Gant is a Witch.
His bane is to see things that others cannot.
To feel things he wishes he could not.
To experience events through the eyes of another...
Through the eyes of victims...
Sometimes, the things he sees are evil...
Criminal...
Because of this, in the span of less than two years, Rowan has come face to face with not one, but two sadistic serial killers...
In both cases he was lucky to survive.
Still, he abides the basic rule of The Craft—Harm None.

This predator could make Rowan forget that rule...

CHAPTER 20

     Detective McLaughlin was only inches from colliding with us as we entered through the squad room door on our way back to the interview room. There was an almost wild look contorting her face, and the level of energy she was exuding was physically palpable.
     "Whoa!" Ben jumped back, juggling a pair of hot coffees. He had stuffed the unopened can of soda into his pocket. "Where’s the fire?"
     "Forget about Hodges," Charlee announced the matter-of-fact statement. "She’s gone."
     "Do what?" Ben exclaimed. "Whaddaya mean gone?"
     "She left," she continued, obviously worked up about something. "You guys weren’t gone for two minutes, and she bolted. Said she was sorry, but all she wanted to do is tell me she remembered something about a dress."
     "It wasn’t because of me was it?" I asked.
     "I doubt it," she spoke in a rapid fire staccato, her voice building into a near frenzy. "She was still way too spooked when she showed up. I’m surprised she stayed as long as she did to be honest. But anyway, that’s not important."
     "Not important? But…" Ben started to object.
     "No, listen to me." Charlee shook her head vigorously and gestured. "I just now got off the phone with University Hospital. They’ve got a thirty-two year old blonde rape victim sitting in Emergency right now."
     Ben stopped cold and looked at her. "You pretty sure it’s our guy?"
     "Can’t be positive, but according to the doc, her neck is bruised up, and she can’t remember where she’s been since Saturday night."
     Ben quickly looked around for a place to dispose of the drinks he was carrying. Finding none, he shoved the cups of coffee into the hands of a uniformed officer who was walking past, giving no explanation other than a muttered, "Here. Merry Christmas."
     His attention remained focused on Charlee, and I could almost feel the surge of adrenalin that kicked into him as he ramped up to her level. We were already hurrying through the sex crimes squad room as he spoke, "Get the CSU on the horn now. Tell ’em ya’ need an evidence team at this woman’s residence immediately if not sooner. We need ta’ hit this before anyone can screw with the scene."
     "Already done," she answered as we jogged.
     "Did they tell ya’ who’s runnin it?"
     "No."
     "Call ’em back and tell ’em ya’ want Murv. I don’t care if they hafta drag his ass outta the shower or what. We want the best on this, and I’d almost swear that guy could lift a print off a fuckin’ puddle of water if he had to."
     "Got it."
     "I’ll go check in upstairs and let ’em know what’s up, then we’ll meet you out back. I’ll drive."
     "See you in ten," she told us as she peeled off toward her desk.
     "Make it five," Ben called after her.
     I had to break into a near run to keep up with my friend as he hooked around the desks and shouldered open the door leading to the stairs.
     "Why are we in such a rush," I asked, following him through into the stairwell but lagging behind as he took the stairs two at a time.
     "Because I wanna get ya’ together with the victim while everything’s still fresh," he said.
     "This is kind of an about face. I thought you were still a bit leery about all that."
     "Oh, I am," he called down. "I’m just taking my turn."
     "What?"
     "My turn," he repeated, his voice starting to fade in the distances as it echoed from the concrete walls. "You said it was my turn ta’ trust ya’ for a change. Well, I’m gonna trust ya’ ta’ figure out who the sick asshole is that’s doin’ this."
     He had already disappeared from view, and I could hear the creak of the door slowly closing behind him. I forged on, and finally topping the first flight of stairs, I rounded the landing and started up the next set, only to halt dead in my tracks.
     Seated on the top stair was a blonde in her early twenties, clad in a cheerleader’s uniform. Her arms were crossed, and she was leaning forward with them resting on her knees. The toes of her unnaturally white sneakers pointed slightly in toward one another, and she was staring at me quizzically.
     After a brief interval of motionlessness, her mouth began to move. A short measure later, completely out of sync with her lips, words began glancing from the walls with a phase-shifted quality that I’d come to expect from the earthly manifestations of spirits.

     I’m dead, She’s dead.
     D-E-A-D, dead.
     She’s dead, I’m dead.
     D-E-A-D, dead.

     Her head bobbed back and forth in time with the ditty as she spoke, making the lack of synchronization between the movement of her mouth and the words just that much more disconcerting. Her eyes remained locked with mine, unblinking, and I could do nothing more than return the stare.
      The past two days of quiet had lulled me into a sense of complacency where such ethereal visits were concerned, and her sudden appearance here took me by surprise, especially since I was used to hearing the dead, not necessarily seeing them. At least not while I was awake.
     I simply stood there, unsure of what to say.
     She continued the piece of morose poetry, picking up the disharmonious pace as she went.

     Rowan, Rowan, he’s our man!
     If he can’t do it, nobody can!
     She’s dead, I’m dead, what to do?
     Find the killer, we’re counting on you!
     Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,
     Catch the killer, don’t let him go.
     Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,
     Make him suffer, don’t you know.

     If he screams, well we don’t care,
     If he cries, then we’ll be there.
     We want him to hurt, and to be afraid.
     We want him to die in this bed he’s made.

     Now go catch the killer,
     We’ll make him pay.
     And pay, and pay,
     And pay, and pay,
     And pay, and pay, and pay, and pay, and pay…

     The vengeance laced words continued to echo inside my head as they faded in concert with the rapidly dissolving image of Debbie Schaeffer. I felt a hard knot in my stomach and nausea gripped me. This wasn’t good at all.
     Debbie had literally taken over my body once before, and even though I was in better shape now than I had been that night, if I wasn’t careful she could do it again. The last thing I needed was for her to use me to commit murder—even if the victim was a killer himself. There’s no way in the world I’d ever be able to convince a jury that my physical body had been possessed by the spirit of a dead cheerleader with a hunger for revenge. No, this was worse than not good. This was just plain bad.
     I’m not sure how much time I spent standing there contemplating this fresh threat, but it couldn’t have been long. I started with a violent jerk as the door at the top of the landing bumped open with a heavy thud and Ben stuck his head through the opening.
     "Hey, Rowan," my friend called down to me. "You comin’ or what?"

*     *     *     *     *

     The doors leading from the ambulance bay slid open before us to reveal something resembling an all-day-long progressive holiday celebration in halting swing. The on-again, off-again nature of the work here was managing to consistently interfere and prevent the festivities from ever making it to the status of a full-blown party.
     As we entered, for the second time this week the antiseptic atmosphere of an emergency room assaulted me full force; but at least this time I wasn’t a patient. The sweet smells of cookies and candies mingled with the savory aromas of cheese and cold-cut trays on the cool air. They were in turn undercut with the sharp fumes of isopropyl alcohol and other medicinal preparations. The entire mélange was bound together by the peculiar plastic odor of adhesive bandages.
     Fortunately, it didn’t appear to be too terribly busy at the moment—yet another calm before the storm considering that statistically, holidays bring out the worst in some people. Still, even with the lull, the staff wasn’t exactly twiddling their thumbs either. The nurse behind the desk was involved in paperwork, presumably from a recent admission. Here and there, others could be seen taking care of various tasks or simply snatching a cookie from one of the many plates.
     The young woman tending the desk had made an effort to offset the plainness of her scrubs, having adorned herself with a holiday bow in her hair and an electronic reindeer pin above her name badge. As we approached, the LED in the plastic novelty’s nose was flashing wildly, and the circuitry embedded within was belting out a medley of holiday tunes comprised entirely of a series of slightly off-key electronic tones.
     "Can I help you?" she asked cheerfully as she looked up, obviously noticing that no one in our trio appeared to require immediate medical attention.
     "City Police," Charlee told her as she flashed her badge. "I’m Detective McLaughlin; this is Detective Storm and Mister Gant. I received a call from a Doctor Kennedy a little while ago."
     "Yes," the nurse nodded, her smile fading. "The rape. He said to expect you. Treatment room four." She stood and leaned slightly across the counter then motioned with one hand. "Down this corridor, left at the end, through the double doors and it will be about halfway down on the left."
     "Thanks," McLaughlin told her.
     We rounded the corner of the admitting desk and headed down the hallway with Charlee in the lead. Ben reigned in his extra long stride and put a hand on my arm to hold me back as well, allowing us to fall a few paces behind her.
     "I haven’t had a chance ta’ talk ta’ Chuck about the hocus-pocus stuff," he half whispered to me. "Not ta’ mention that this victim is comin’ right off the incident, and she hasn’t had time ta’ come ta’ terms with it."
     "I understand," I replied.
     "Really, Row," he admonished. "Don’t go in there slingin’ fairy dust or whatever right outta the box. We gotta feel out the situation first."
     "Okay, Ben," I reiterated, "I’ve got it. I’m sorry about what I did back at the station and I won’t do it here. I promise."
     "Okay, I just gotta be sure," he told me as he rummaged in his pockets again.
     "What? Do I need another breath mint?" I queried, noticing his preoccupation with the task.
     "Prob’ly," he huffed flatly. "You hot-boxed four cigarettes between gettin’ to the van and gettin’ in here."
     "Yeah, well, blame it on Miranda Hodges. Besides, I seem to recall seeing a Fuente Chateau clenched between your teeth, my friend."
     "Yeah, but I was just chewin’ on it. Actually, I wanted ta’ give you somethin’ else." He finally withdrew his fist from his pocket and held it out to me. "Here."
     I extended my palm, and he dropped a wad of small paper packets into it. "What’s this?" I asked.
     "Salt," he answered matter-of-factly. "I stole ’em outta the break room before we left."
     "What do you want me to do with them?"
     "Hey, you’re the Witch, you tell me. Felicity seemed ta’ think it was pretty important ta’ have salt the other night. I’m just tryin’ ta’ help."
     "She was doing something a bit different than what I’m about to do."
     "Yeah, well it’s all the same in my book," he returned. "Besides, I haven’t seen Felicity go off the deep end yet, so maybe ya’ oughta try it her way."
     I was going to object again, but we were almost to the door of the treatment room, and I really didn’t have time to explain the difference between Magickal workings and psychic abilities to him.
     Of course, the real truth was that in my case they were probably closer to one another than I wanted to believe. On top of that, he was most likely correct in his assessment. Given my current state, a little caution might very well go a long way. Especially since I now had an ethereal vigilante cheerleader threatening to use me as a weapon to exact her vengeance.
     I almost had to laugh at that thought. The entire concept sounded like a bad fifties sci-fi/horror movie—I Was A Killer Teenage Zombie Cheerleader, or something equally ridiculous. Unfortunately, I was playing the starring role in the production and it was all far too real.
     I stuffed the handful of salt packets into my coat pocket and kept my mouth shut.

6:18 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

EXTREME MAKEOVER: Perfect Trust Edition...
Current mood: busy

Well, maybe not totally extreme... Just a little extreme...

And I’m not going to mess up my hair and jump around like a rooster on crack, holding a video camera and screaming about a house being demolished by the local ladies auxilliary choir while some people in Disneyland pretend to watch (poorly I might add) on a notebook computer that isn’t even powered on...

Well, maybe that could be fun... Nahhhh...

Anywho, I may have mentioned this before, but the third book in the RGI series, Perfect Trust is going into reprint - again - but this time it is getting a bit of a makeover. Some slight remodeling on the interior, and a whole new facade on the outside...

As to the interior remodeling, nothing drastic - just one of those opportunities an author sometimes gets to fix minor things - in this particular case, like the fact that my editor for the first three books in the RGI series (before I was assigned the lovely, evil, and utterly fantastic editor I have now) took issue with Felicity using Gaelic epithets, and Ben’s speech having a midwestern clip. So, the original version was "genericified" a bit.

My new editor took over at The Law Of Three (4) and I no longer had this problem... So, when Harm None (1) and subsequently, Never Burn A Witch (2) went into reprint, I was allowed to fix some of that schtuff. And, that is what has happened with Perfect Trust. Like I said, nothing drastic, just minor tweaks, because you can’t really change it too much or then it becomes a "new edition" requiring a new ISBN and all that crap.

BUT, here comes the fun part - The cover is getting a makeover! While I thought the cover of Perfect Trust was pretty cool, it was never a favorite - especially of the artist, Johnathan Minton. So, it’s getting a facelift.

The reason I am going on about this today is that I attended a photo shoot yesterday where a model was dressed in various outfits and "posed" to pictorially recreate the overarching theme of the story. The photos are going to be used as a prop for the final cover image. Similar to the first cover, but kind of a "once more with feeling" sort of thing... You’ll see what I mean...eventually.

The shoot was interesting because, as those of you who have already read the book know, the model pretty much had to go completely limp and allow herself to be posed. This made for some interesting moments - no, no, no, get your minds out of the gutter - I mean interesting as in her being very good about remaining limp and almost literally slipping right out of the chair and onto the floor as the pictures were being taken. While I’m sure it was a pain in the a** for her (no, she never actually fell on her a**, just almost) it definitely added to the realism of the theme.

So, all in all it was fun. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some direct involvement - at least as a spectator - in the design of my bookcovers, and it is a real kick to see what goes on behind the scenes when it comes to this sort of thing. Yesterday was no exception...

I will be sure to post a copy of the cover mockup as soon as I get my hands on it... But, here’s something to keep in mind - copies of Perfect Trust with the original cover will soon be completely sold out... which means, they are kind of a "collectors item"...

Well, maybe not, but I just thought I’d say that anyway.

More to come...

Murv

6:35 AM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Weekly Randomness - Never Burn A Witch, Prologue

NEVER BURN A WITCH: A Rowan Gant Investigation

THE RETURN OF THE BURNING TIMES