New Release NIGHTMARE
I'm pleased to announce that my new release NIGHTMARE, Book 5 in The Blacklick Valley Mystery Series, is now available in print and eBook on Amazon at: https://www.amazon.com/Nightmare-Blac...
I hope you will check out NIGHTMARE as the final webs of mystery are untangled and for the exciting and shocking conclusion of The Blacklick Valley Mysteries. Love to have you give it a read and leave your comments in a review on Goodreads and Amazon. It's your interest and opinions that keep us writers inspired to keep on writing!
Here's a little taste of the Prologue (slightly revised to avoid spoilers):
"The rain moved in from the west, over the hazy, steel-blue mountains and across the verdant valleys below like a sheer gossamer veil as fine as any Laotian silk. It moved slowly, steadily, forward—at first, silent as a Pharaoh’s tomb, then with the faintest whisper of sound. On it came as if by some invisible force, and with it came the change of light that cast the landscape in luminous green, almost as if the terrain itself projected some ethereal light from within. Then the whisper turned to a stirring and the stirring to a thrum, and jagged bolts of lightning zigzagged across the darkening sky, cutting with razor-sharpness through the swelling thunderheads on the charcoal horizon.
An evening thunderstorm in late April was not uncommon to the inhabitants of Blacklick Valley, and the man who hunched over the litter-strewn desk in the study of the neat, two-story colonial on Fennimore Street barely took notice of the oncoming storm. The patter of fat raindrops against window glass was little more than white noise, a mere distraction.
He rested his head in his hands, his splayed fingers slicing through a swathe of unkempt hair now receding from a high forehead. He sat alone, unmoving, his vacuous eyes staring at nothing but the desk’s wood-grained surface. In front of him rested a half-empty glass of Jack Daniels, the amber contents long ago grown warm and diluted, its filmy surface mirroring the overhead light in distorted reflection.
He was deep in thought. But he was not at peace. His mind tumbled with unformed thoughts like flickering scenes from a fast-forwarded film. An image of (XXXXX’s) face once again flitted across the canvas of his mind.
“Damn it!” he mumbled aloud, his words indistinguishable, slurred as they were by agitation and alcohol. “Why the hell couldn’t you have done it right? Why didn’t you stick to the plan? Stupid…! Should have taken care of it myself from the beginning.” He continued his angered and disparaging litany for some minutes, senselessly berating (someone) who was long dead and gone.
It wasn’t the first time.
Again, he ran trembling fingers back through his thinning hair, then rubbed at his burning, blood-shot eyes as his mind skipped back in time to that September day now over a year and a half ago when he’d run into (his former friend) on a busy street in downtown Pittsburgh.
He had (suggested they have coffee and his friend had) accepted—more from curiosity than interest. And thus, began the clandestine conversations over the next weeks and months that led them down a path of evil intent, each motivated by greed, avarice, and malicious vindictiveness….
(They) met as frequently as possible between the months of September and December, devising a plan, developing a scheme where they could kill two birds with one stone, as they often laughed about. By December they were ready to put their plan into action. No one would ever suspect their connection to one another nor the connection between (their victims’) demise—just another psychotic serial killer, choosing his victims at random.
Now, (he) picked up his lukewarm drink and took a sip, thinking that it all could have worked out so splendidly. Could have—if (his friend) hadn’t been so stupid. Had stuck to the plan. But, no. No! Did nothing but get … killed.
Thank God, he’d gotten away with his own part in the scheme. No one had ever suspected him. Aside from one anxious moment when his … son had found a chloroform bottle in the back of (his) SUV, he had gotten away free and clear. His lips turned upward in a half-smile.
Outside, a loose shutter, caught in the mounting, mournful wind, banged back and forth in relentless clamor; and pelting rain lashed against the windowpanes.
(He) rubbed a sweaty hand over his face. He realized that, unfortunately, he was now no further ahead than when he’d started. His wife was still alive and well. Rich as ever. And him? Still as poor as a church mouse with no control over the money at all, accepting her dole outs like a pathetic and destitute second-class boarder.
No, he’d have to take care of it himself. He had no choice. He would think of a new tactic, devise a new plan. And this time there would be no mistakes. None at all.
This time he would dispose of (his wife) himself. Permanently.
**************
I hope you will check out NIGHTMARE as the final webs of mystery are untangled and for the exciting and shocking conclusion of The Blacklick Valley Mysteries. Love to have you give it a read and leave your comments in a review on Goodreads and Amazon. It's your interest and opinions that keep us writers inspired to keep on writing!
Here's a little taste of the Prologue (slightly revised to avoid spoilers):
"The rain moved in from the west, over the hazy, steel-blue mountains and across the verdant valleys below like a sheer gossamer veil as fine as any Laotian silk. It moved slowly, steadily, forward—at first, silent as a Pharaoh’s tomb, then with the faintest whisper of sound. On it came as if by some invisible force, and with it came the change of light that cast the landscape in luminous green, almost as if the terrain itself projected some ethereal light from within. Then the whisper turned to a stirring and the stirring to a thrum, and jagged bolts of lightning zigzagged across the darkening sky, cutting with razor-sharpness through the swelling thunderheads on the charcoal horizon.
An evening thunderstorm in late April was not uncommon to the inhabitants of Blacklick Valley, and the man who hunched over the litter-strewn desk in the study of the neat, two-story colonial on Fennimore Street barely took notice of the oncoming storm. The patter of fat raindrops against window glass was little more than white noise, a mere distraction.
He rested his head in his hands, his splayed fingers slicing through a swathe of unkempt hair now receding from a high forehead. He sat alone, unmoving, his vacuous eyes staring at nothing but the desk’s wood-grained surface. In front of him rested a half-empty glass of Jack Daniels, the amber contents long ago grown warm and diluted, its filmy surface mirroring the overhead light in distorted reflection.
He was deep in thought. But he was not at peace. His mind tumbled with unformed thoughts like flickering scenes from a fast-forwarded film. An image of (XXXXX’s) face once again flitted across the canvas of his mind.
“Damn it!” he mumbled aloud, his words indistinguishable, slurred as they were by agitation and alcohol. “Why the hell couldn’t you have done it right? Why didn’t you stick to the plan? Stupid…! Should have taken care of it myself from the beginning.” He continued his angered and disparaging litany for some minutes, senselessly berating (someone) who was long dead and gone.
It wasn’t the first time.
Again, he ran trembling fingers back through his thinning hair, then rubbed at his burning, blood-shot eyes as his mind skipped back in time to that September day now over a year and a half ago when he’d run into (his former friend) on a busy street in downtown Pittsburgh.
He had (suggested they have coffee and his friend had) accepted—more from curiosity than interest. And thus, began the clandestine conversations over the next weeks and months that led them down a path of evil intent, each motivated by greed, avarice, and malicious vindictiveness….
(They) met as frequently as possible between the months of September and December, devising a plan, developing a scheme where they could kill two birds with one stone, as they often laughed about. By December they were ready to put their plan into action. No one would ever suspect their connection to one another nor the connection between (their victims’) demise—just another psychotic serial killer, choosing his victims at random.
Now, (he) picked up his lukewarm drink and took a sip, thinking that it all could have worked out so splendidly. Could have—if (his friend) hadn’t been so stupid. Had stuck to the plan. But, no. No! Did nothing but get … killed.
Thank God, he’d gotten away with his own part in the scheme. No one had ever suspected him. Aside from one anxious moment when his … son had found a chloroform bottle in the back of (his) SUV, he had gotten away free and clear. His lips turned upward in a half-smile.
Outside, a loose shutter, caught in the mounting, mournful wind, banged back and forth in relentless clamor; and pelting rain lashed against the windowpanes.
(He) rubbed a sweaty hand over his face. He realized that, unfortunately, he was now no further ahead than when he’d started. His wife was still alive and well. Rich as ever. And him? Still as poor as a church mouse with no control over the money at all, accepting her dole outs like a pathetic and destitute second-class boarder.
No, he’d have to take care of it himself. He had no choice. He would think of a new tactic, devise a new plan. And this time there would be no mistakes. None at all.
This time he would dispose of (his wife) himself. Permanently.
**************
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