Honorable Mention - Suspense Magazine

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Suspense, Mystery, Horror and Thriller Fiction
April 2012
2011
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Winners Announced
What Keeps
Harlan Coben
Motivated?
Ballet Almost got
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Contributor
Brian Blocker
Sneak Peek
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and
Brett Battles
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Credits
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CFO
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Executive Editor
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Normally I start talking about summer
blockbuster movies in May, but the release of The
Hunger Games in late March prompts me to start
the conversation early.
I have to say that summer blockbuster season
excites me more than the start of the newest
TV season, since TV is all over the place. I start
following a show and then it goes away for a month,
then comes back, then goes away. It makes me
crazy. I love some of the shows on HBO like Game
of Thrones and other cable shows, like Walking
Dead, but they only have about ten shows in a season and that makes me feel cheated.
Movies, however excite my sense of anticipation, since I know that it is over in two hours
and I don’t have to DVR the show, wait for the next show and basically forget about it
when they decide to go on a break. John Carter started off the season and that was in early
March.
There are many movies that I have on my radar this year and The Hunger Games
is the first one. By the time you read this letter, that movie will have been released, and
hopefully becomes a tremendous success. I want all the books that have been adapted to
movies to become popular, so they will do more of that. Do we really need to see another
21 Jump Street, which I’ve seen by the way because my daughter begged me? (It was a
horrible experience.) I have limited space to write this letter, but I’m going to post a blog
where I can explore a little further the “TV vs. Movie” debate and which I think is a better
experience. In the meantime, I’ve listed what I think are most anticipated films of the
movie season this year:
1. The Hunger Games – March 23rd
2. Wrath of the Titans – March 30th
3. The Raven – April 27th
The Avengers – May 4th
4. Dark Shadows – May 11th
5. Battleship – May 18th
6. Men in Black III – May 25th
7. Snow White and the Huntsman – June 1st
8. Madagascar 3 – June 8th
9. Prometheus – June 8th
10. Brave – June 22nd
11. Amazing Spider Man – July 3rd
12. Ice Age Continental Drift – July 13th
13. The Dark Knight Rises – July 20th
14. The Bourne Legacy – August 3rd
If you have some movies that you are waiting to see, e-mail us your comments to
editor@suspensemagazine.com. Happy viewing.
John Raab
CEO/Publisher
Suspense Magazine 
“Reviews within this magazine are the opinions of the individual reviewers and are provided solely to provide readers assistance in determining another's thoughts on the book under discussion and shall not be interpreted as professional advice
or the opinion of any other than the individual reviewer. The following reviewers who may appear in this magazine are also
individual clients of Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine: Mark P. Sadler, Starr Gardinier Reina, Ashley
Dawn (Wintters), DJ Weaver, CK Webb, Elliott Capon, J.M. LeDuc, and Terri Ann Armstrong.”
1
CONTENT
S u sp e n s e M a g a z i n e
M a r c h 2 0 1 2 / Vo l . 0 3 2
3
13
14
18
22
30
33
43
45
50
56
59
62
69
71
75
77
Sneak Peek Excerpt of The Destroyed by Brett Battles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
2011 Contest Winners Announced. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Honorable Mention: I Have Candy by John Patrick Lynskey. . . . . . . . . . . . .
A Southern Haunting: True Hauntings of the South by CK Webb . . . . . .
Honorable Mention: The Black Leather Caper by Nancy Sweetland. . . . .
Honorable Mention: Stripped Down by Dean P. Turnbloom . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Inside the Pages: Suspense Magazine Book Reviews. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Suspense Magazine Movie Reviews. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
3rd Place: L. Albatross by D. Warren Miller. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Featured Artist: Anna ‘Cylonka’ Szwajgier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
2nd Place: In the Playground by Cathy Spencer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Pen Name Puzzler by Laura DiSilverio. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1st Place: Cooler by the Lake by Sean Baron. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sneak Peek Excerpt of More Forensics & Fiction by D.P. Lyle . . . . . . . . . . .
Stranger Than Fiction: Haunted Washington by Donald Allen Kirch. . .
Contributor's Corner: Brian Blocker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Just for Fun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Special Preview from Author
Brett Battles
The
Destroyed
CHAPTER 1
DAR ES SALAAM, TANZANIA
I SHOULDN’T HAVE come, Lawrence Rosen thought as he
stared out the window of the cab. I should have stayed home
and pretended I’d never received it.
But he had received the email. And opened it.
And read it.
Mr. Rosen—
April 12th, 2006. A flight to Portugal. You were one of
the prisoner’s escorts. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten
about the trip. I’m willing to make sure your name isn’t
included when the story is leaked, but only if you
speak with me first.
One chance. Saturday. 8:30 p.m. Kilimanjaro
Restaurant in the Majestic Hotel, Dar es Salaam.
There was no signature, and when he tried to send
a reply, he received a message telling him the address
didn’t exist.
For twenty-four hours he had done nothing,
hoping he could just forget about the whole thing. But the
sender had been right. He did remember the flight, and he
certainly remembered the prisoner. It was a taint he could
never wash off.
When Saturday came, he boarded an early morning
flight headed southwest from his current home in Dubai to
Tanzania.
“How much longer?” he asked his taxi driver.
“Soon, soon. Fifteen minutes, no more.”
Rosen looked at his watch. It was after eight already.
Fifteen minutes would probably be more like twenty or
thirty, meaning he’d barely arrive on time.
This is a mistake. I should’ve ignored the email.
Easy to say, but how could he have done
that, really? If his name came out in association
with what had happened, he had no doubt he’d
be the one receiving a prisoner escort.
__________
“WELCOME TO THE Majestic,” the doorman said as Rosen
approached the hotel entrance at exactly 8:28 p.m.
“Kilimanjaro’s?” Rosen asked.
“Twenty-third floor, sir. The elevator is past the reception
desk.”
As hotel lobbies went, the Majestic’s was impressive—
white marble floors adorned here and there with purple
rugs, ultra-modern furniture upholstered in fabrics of green
and pink and beige, and columns that rose to the ceiling
two floors above, covered with purple and gold tiles. The
reception desk was halfway back along the left wall, a black
granite countertop manned by half a dozen smiling women.
3
Rosen walked quickly to the four
elevator doors along the back wall.
Only a few seconds passed before the
one on the far right opened. He entered
and pushed the button for the twentythird floor. Just as the door started to
close, a man and a woman rushed in.
“Ah, twenty-three. Perfect,” the
man said.
Rosen smiled weakly as he moved
into the back corner to give the others
some space.
“Honey, do you mind if we stop at
the room first?” the woman asked.
The man shrugged, and hit the
button for the nineteenth floor. “Okay
by me.”
Up they went, the new elevator
barely making a sound as it shot
past floor after floor. The car slowed
on eighteen then stopped on the
nineteenth floor. The doors slid open,
and the woman stepped off. Rosen was
too lost in thought to notice that the
man with her did not leave also.
“Clear,” the woman said from the
nineteenth-floor lobby.
The unexpected word jolted Rosen
back into reality, but by then it was
too late. The “husband” was already
pointing a gun at Rosen, his other
hand pressing the button that kept the
elevator doors open.
He motioned with the gun out the
door. “This is where you get off, Mr.
Rosen.”
__________
MILA VOSS KNEW it would be
dangerous before she even sent the
email to Lawrence Rosen. She knew very
little about his life now, how connected
he might still be, how he might react
to her not-so-subtle threat. As it was,
finding an active email address for him
had been pushing things. She had to be
very careful to minimize her exposure
in his world, a world that had at one
time been hers, too.
But it was a chance she had to take,
because he could either confirm or
dispel what she already believed.
After that?
Get through this first, she told
4
herself. Figure out the after later.
Her first concern had been whether
he would come at all. But twenty-two
hours earlier, a flight had been booked
from where he currently lived in Dubai
to Tanzania, using an alias he’d traveled
under previously. When she checked
that morning, the airline listed a “Mark
Walker” as having boarded.
Still, she wanted to be positive, so
she took another big risk by hacking
into the Dubai International Airport
video security system. She located the
footage of the gate servicing the flight
to Tanzania, and scanned through the
faces as passengers handed over their
tickets until she spotted the one she was
looking for.
Lawrence Rosen was definitely on
his way to her.
Her next concern was that he
wouldn’t come to the hotel alone. To
ensure her own safety, she had taken a
room on the fifth floor two days earlier,
then planted micro cameras outside
the hotel, in the lobby, and outside the
Kilimanjaro Restaurant. Her plan was
to wait in her room until Rosen was
seated in the restaurant. If everything
seemed fine, she’d go up and join him. If
not, she’d take the emergency stairwell
down to the ground floor and get the
hell out of there.
She began monitoring the feeds in
earnest four hours before the appointed
meeting time. If he’d arranged for
anyone to act as backup, she was
confident they would arrive sometime
in that window.
At just after six p.m., she spotted
two men and a woman in the main lobby
who concerned her. They seemed a little
too interested in their surroundings,
too aware of what was going on. She
labeled them as potential threats and
continued looking for others.
As eight thirty drew closer, she
became more and more anxious.
Though Rosen’s plane had landed
several hours earlier, there was still no
sign of him. Had he decided at the last
minute not to come? If that were the
case, she’d have to write him off, and
employ more aggressive tactics to find
out whether she was right or not.
Just before eight thirty, a cab pulled
up out front, and Rosen stepped out.
Mila felt an odd mixture of relief and
renewed tension. He was here. She was
going to talk to him.
She watched as he walked across
the lobby to the elevators, and stepped
into one. She was just thinking that
things would go as planned, when the
three people who had concerned her
earlier entered the frame. One of the
men stopped and gave his companions
a quick nod as they stepped into Rosen’s
car just before the doors closed. The
man who stayed in the lobby turned
away from the elevators, and began
casually scanning the room—looking
for her, no doubt.
Dammit! Rosen isn’t alone.
She nearly shut her laptop and
sprinted out of the room right then. The
only thing that stopped her was a sense
of unease. There had been something
odd about Rosen’s reaction to the others’
arrival. The view from the camera had
shown him move to the back corner
when they joined him, like he didn’t
know them. Faking it? Possibly, but
she had worked in the secrets business
for many years, and during that time
had developed a strong ability to read
others.
She replayed the last few moments
before the doors closed.
No, she decided. He doesn’t know
them. But if that’s true, who the hell are
they?
She switched to the camera covering
the Kilimanjaro waiting area outside
the elevators on the twenty-third floor.
Half a dozen people were hovering in
front of a podium where two hostesses
were standing. After a moment, a group
of three diners was led inside, while the
others continued to wait.
Mila focused on the elevators.
Minus the fifteen seconds that had
already passed, the car Rosen was
riding in—the one she’d labeled number
four—could reach the twenty-third
floor as quickly as fifty-five seconds.
If the other passengers got out on a
lower floor, it could take as long as two
Suspense Magazine March 2012/vol. 032
minutes, maybe more.
Fifty-five seconds passed, sixty,
then the door to car number one
opened and a party of six exited.
Twenty more seconds and another
ding, followed by the door to number
two parting.
When the clock reached two
minutes, she frowned. Number four
still hadn’t arrived. That didn’t make
sense. It should have—
Ding.
She tensed as the light next to
number four lit up.
There was a pause, then the doors
slid apart.
__________
THE NINETEENTH FLOOR was
only half finished. One wing of rooms
looked ready to go, but the hallway
leading through the other half was still
in the process of being painted, and had
yet to have the signature purple carpet
laid down.
The man with the gun walked
behind Rosen while the woman led the
way down the unfinished corridor.
“Look,” Rosen said. “I don’t know
what you want or who you might think
I am, but you’ve made a mistake. I’m
just here for a business meeting. You let
me go, I won’t say a word.”
“No mistake,” the man said.
“Of course it’s a mistake!” Rosen
argued, looking back over his shoulder.
If the man had been close enough,
Rosen would have gone for the gun,
but the guy was several feet back, out
of range.
“Turn around,” the man said.
Son of a bitch. This was a trap from
the beginning, Rosen thought.
As they neared the end of the hall,
the woman opened a door and walked
inside.
“Keep moving,” the gunman
ordered Rosen.
This was his chance, Rosen realized.
As he stepped across the threshold, he
reached out, grabbed the handle, then
jerked the door closed behind him and
engaged the lock.
The only direction Rosen could
go in the small area beyond was left.
He raced down the short hallway, and
entered a room lit only by the light of the
city flowing in through the windows.
He tensed to take on the woman.
She was there, all right, but she
wasn’t alone. Another man stood beside
her, a gun in his hand.
Rosen felt the blood drain from his
face.
Behind him, the door opened, and
the gunman from the hallway joined
them.
“Whatever it is you want, I’ll get it.
Money? Is that it? Tell me how much
you want.”
“Larry, don’t embarrass yourself,”
the new man said.
Rosen stared at him for a moment,
then his eyes widened. “Scott?” As soon
as he said the other man’s name, the full
reality of what was going on hit him.
“No. No. I haven’t said anything. I kept
my mouth shut. I…I’ve never—”
“Then what are you doing here?”
his former colleague asked.
“Just a business meeting,” he
said. But his words closed the trap
completely, and he knew it. “You know
about the email.”
“Of course we know about the
email.”
Rosen began shaking his head. “I
wasn’t going to say anything. I wanted
to see who sent it, that’s all. I wanted to
be able to tell you who it was.”
“You should have said something
before you got on that plane.” The man
turned and headed for the windowed
wall.
Rosen stumbled forward as he
was shoved from behind. Nearing the
windows, he saw something he hadn’t
noticed before—a door in the glass
wall. Beyond it was a patio stretching
the length of the suite.
“Open it,” the woman said.
He hesitated, looking over at the
man he called Scott. “Please. I realize it
was just a test, but I wasn’t going to say
anything. I swear.”
“Test? We didn’t send the email,
Larry,” the man said. “Open the door.”
“What? Then how did you—”
“You know we can do anything that
needs to be done,” the man said. “Now
open the door or get shoved through it.”
__________
MILA STARED AT her monitor as the
door for car number four remained
open for several seconds, then closed
again without anyone disembarking.
Where the hell is Rosen?
She stared at the screen, her mind
racing through the possibilities until
she snapped herself out of it, and
slammed her computer shut. Whatever
his reason for not showing up, the time
for watching was over. Even if Rosen
did show up, there was no way she’d
meet with him now. The moment she
set foot anywhere near that restaurant,
she knew the remainder of her life
would be measured in seconds.
She shoved her laptop into her
bag as she scanned the room to make
sure she’d left nothing behind. She then
moved to the door and carefully pulled
it open.
The hallway was empty.
Wasting no time, she sprinted to the
stairwell entrance and headed down.
The stairs let out in the back corner
of the main lobby. She moved carefully
through the doorway, knowing the man
who hadn’t hopped onto the elevator
was around somewhere.
She was positive Rosen had no
idea who he was supposed to meet,
so his friends wouldn’t know, either.
But even if they saw her, they wouldn’t
know it was her. She had taken the extra
precaution of changing her appearance
as much as possible. She was dressed in
jeans and a beige men’s shirt. A brown
baseball cap covered her hair, cut short
a week earlier. On her face was a pair of
non-prescription, wire-frame glasses.
With her breasts wrapped tightly, she
looked like a young man of no more
than twenty-one, an age that was
actually several years in her past. She
was just another tourist: bland, and not
worth a second look.
At least that’s what she was hoping.
As she passed the reception desk,
she finally spotted the other man. He
5
looked even more intimidating in
person than on her computer monitor.
She’d seen men like him hundreds of
times before. He was a pro for sure.
She forced herself to keep walking
like she needed to be somewhere
but wasn’t in a hurry. When the man
turned his gaze in her direction, she
was sure she’d done something to tip
him off. Fortunately, her old training
took control, and she neither hurried
nor slowed down, keeping the pleasant
smile on her face as she walked right by
the man.
Though she could no longer see if
he was looking at her, she sensed that
he’d written her off as no one important.
As she neared the front, she
realized she’d been holding her breath
and finally let it out.
The doorman noticed her approach
and opened the door. “Have a good
evening, sir,” he said as she stepped
outside.
She nodded her thanks, and began
walking down the sidewalk away from
the hotel.
She’d made it. She was free. No, not
free, she realized. Not until she got out
of Tanzania.
Whoosh.
The sound had come from behind
and above her somewhere. It was
strange enough to make her turn to
see what it was, but she’d barely started
twisting around when the whoosh was
replaced by a loud, wet smack.
On a portion of the sidewalk close
to the hotel’s front entrance lay the
twisted body of a man.
Without even thinking, she ran
toward him.
If he’d been a jumper, she would
have expected him to be lying on his
stomach, face smashed into the ground.
Instead, he was on his back, his eyes
open and staring blankly at the night
sky, terror still etched on his face.
On Lawrence Rosen’s face.
She knelt down beside the man she
had tricked into coming to Tanzania.
He was dead; there was no question
about that. His glassy eyes reflected
images he would never see.
6
She looked up the building, but
could see no obvious spot from where
he started his fall. The thought that
this was an accident didn’t even cross
her mind. Nor did she consider the
possibility that he’d come all this way
just to throw himself to his death.
Someone else did this.
The man and the woman who had
been on the elevator with him.
Get out of here. Now!
She jumped up.
“Do you know him?”
It was the doorman. He and several
others who’d been out front had begun
gathering around the body.
She shook her head. “No,” she
whispered.
“Is he dead?”
She nodded.
A woman gasped, then an old man
started reciting a prayer.
“Please, everybody, stand back,”
the doorman said loudly, trying to take
charge. “We must keep this area clear.”
He then spoke in Swahili, presumably
repeating his warning.
But no one moved. Except Mila,
who slipped unseen to the back of the
growing crowd and disappeared into
the city.
CHAPTER 2
WASHINGTON, DC
“THIS WAY,” THE senator’s assistant
said.
He led Peter down a long hallway
lined with dark wood. Hung along it
were black and white pictures taken
at various locations around the world.
The senator appeared in every image,
sometimes looking no more than thirty,
and in others middle-aged. There was
always someone else in the photo with
him, shaking hands or smiling or just
looking at something that was out of
frame. Trophy shots. The powerful
American helping those in need,
especially if the need was military in
nature.
The assistant finally stopped next to
a closed door. He knocked twice, then
turned the knob and ushered Peter
inside.
“Senator,” the man said. “Your guest
has arrived.”
A large man with a full head of hair
that was now more white than blond
pushed himself off a couch. The senator
looked older and stockier than he did
in most of the hallway pictures, but
his eyes were still piercing, and there
was no missing the aura of power that
radiated from him. He held out his
hand. “Peter. Good to see you.”
“Senator Mygatt,” Peter said as they
shook.
As of just over a year ago,
Christopher Mygatt was actually no
longer a senator, but like many titles
in Washington, his was one that would
stick with him until he obtained a better
one.
The senator turned to another man
sitting in a chair next to the coffee table
at one end of the large office. “You know
William Green, of course.”
“Yes,” Peter said, nodding a
greeting.
Green was a weaselly man who’d
been in the intelligence business about
as long as Peter had been. Peter had
done everything he could to avoid
working with the man, but a few times
when he was running the now-defunct
organization known as the Office, he’d
had no choice but to associate with
Green. No matter how simple the
assignment had been, Peter always felt
he needed a bottle of hand sanitizer
nearby whenever he even talked to the
man on the phone.
“Peter,” Green said. “How are you
coping?”
Keeping his tone neutral, Peter
said, “Fine, thanks.”
“Would you like something to
drink?” Mygatt asked him.
“No, thank you.”
The senator glanced at his assistant.
“Some tea for me, if you would.
William?”
“Coffee.”
As soon as the assistant left, Mygatt
motioned at the couch. “Please, join us.”
Peter sat.
“So, I understand you’ve been
doing some consulting,” Mygatt said.
“Sitting behind a desk, making a
suggestion now and then that no one
listens to.” Peter shrugged. “I guess you
can call that consulting.”
“I’d call that a waste of taxpayers’
money,” Green said.
Peter ignored the comment, and
said to the senator, “I understand you’re
doing well, sir.”
“Things are moving in interesting
directions,” Mygatt said.
“So it seems. If the rumors are
true—”
The senator waved a hand in the air.
“I don’t deal with rumors. Only facts.”
“And what are the facts?”
A mischievous smile crossed the
man’s lips. “Now, Peter. I also don’t talk
before it’s time.”
Mygatt was no longer a senator
because he’d left to serve as his political
party’s committee chairman. Now
that the presidential primaries were
over and the convention was looming,
there was talk that his sure-handed
stewardship of the party might lead to
something considerably more visible.
Specifically the vice presidential spot
on the upcoming ticket.
But Peter had his doubts about that.
He was sure the vice presidency was
not the kind of position Mygatt would
enjoy. Too much ceremony and not
enough action. He had a feeling there
was another position or two the senator
was eyeing. Those rumors, though not
as vocal, had been circulating, too.
The assistant reentered the room
carrying a tray with Green’s coffee, and
a teapot and cup for Mygatt. He set it
on the coffee table, excused himself,
and left.
“Peter,” Mygatt said as he poured
his tea. “I’ve asked you here because I
wanted to discuss something you might
be able to do for me.”
“I thought it might be something
like that,” Peter said. “I’m afraid, sir,
you’ve wasted your time. The contract I
have with my current employer clearly
states I’m excluded from doing work
with private industry.”
“Like no one ever cheats on the
government,” Green scoffed, himself a
government lifer.
The senator raised his cup. “The
project I have in mind might be better
referred to as a favor.”
Peter shrugged. “You can call it
whatever you want, but I’m not the man
you’re looking for.”
“Actually,
you
are,”
Green
countered. “It’s finishing something
you were supposed to have completed
a long time ago.”
Peter frowned, and shook his head.
“I have no idea what you’re talking
about, and quite honestly, I don’t care.
I have a job, and that’s all I need. Thank
you, senator, for considering me, but
I’m going to have to pass.” He stood up.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Peter,” Mygatt said, his voice
sterner than before. “Whether you help
us or not, you’re involved. Wouldn’t
you rather be in a position to control
the situation than have to deal with the
fallout later?”
Peter remained where he was, but
said nothing.
“I’d like to show you something,”
Mygatt said. “If you want to leave
afterward, you’re more than welcome
to do so.”
“What is it?”
“Just sit. It’ll only take a moment.”
“I think I’ll stand.”
Mygatt laughed softly. “Fine. Then
stand.” He looked at Green. “Please.”
Green picked up a remote control
from the coffee table and aimed it at the
television monitor on the credenza at
the end of the sitting area. The screen
flashed a vibrant blue before displaying
a paused nighttime video.
“This is the main entrance to the
Majestic Hotel in Dar es Salaam,” Green
explained. “I assume you’ve never been
there.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Peter said. “New,
right?”
“It just opened a month ago. Watch
the area close to the building about
fifteen feet beyond the entrance.”
Green hit PLAY, and the still image
began to move. People went in and out
of the building in a steady stream—
couples, a few men together, several
men on their own—keeping the two
doormen out front busy.
“Here we go,” Mygatt said.
For a moment, there was nothing
unusual, then something flashed down
from the top of the screen and whacked
into the sidewalk.
“Son of a bitch,” Peter couldn’t help
saying.
Where seconds before people had
been walking, a body now lay sprawled
on the concrete, its arms and legs jutting
out at impossible angles.
“Who the hell is that?”
Green paused the playback. “His
name was Lawrence Rosen.”
Rosen? The name sounded familiar.
“A security guy, right? Does protection,
things like that?”
“Very good. He went freelance a
few years ago.”
“So what was he doing in Tanzania?”
“Meeting someone.”
“Looks like the meeting got cut
short,” Peter said. “Is there a point
here?”
“Patience,” Mygatt said. He nodded
at Green.
The playback started up again.
Most of the people closest to the
entrance turned and stared in shock at
Rosen’s body. One person, though, ran
out from the darkness on the far side
over to the dead man. It was a guy who
had left the hotel moments before, Peter
realized, the one wearing a baseball cap.
The man knelt down beside the
body, checked to make sure Rosen was
dead, then glanced upward as if trying
to see where the body had come from.
Suddenly, he jumped to his feet, and
within seconds had melted into the
growing group of onlookers that had
started to crowd around the body. As
soon as he disappeared, Green stopped
the video again.
“That’s it?” Peter asked. “I still don’t
understand what I’m supposed to be
looking for.”
“The man in the baseball hat,”
Green said. “Did you recognize him?”
“No. Should I have?”
7
Green hit another button. “How
about now?”
The hotel image was replaced
by a close-up of the man in the hat
from when he’d exited the building.
The guy looked young, early twenties
at best. A tanned Caucasian, maybe
Latino. No way to tell for sure. He was
wearing glasses and looked otherwise
unremarkable.
“Still nothing?” Green asked.
Peter prided himself on his
memory of names and faces. “I’ve never
seen him.”
Mygatt leaned forward. “Are you
sure?”
The way the senator asked the
question made Peter hesitate. “Who is
he?”
“Show him.”
Green once more did his trick with
the remote. The shot on the monitor
was replaced this time by a split-screen
image. On both halves were identical
close-ups of the man’s face in front of
the hotel. Then, while the one on the
left remained the same, the one on
the right began to change. The glasses
disappeared first, then the hat. After
that, the hair grew until it was past the
man’s shoulders, and went from sandy
blond to dark brown. There was a slight
altering of the cheeks and lips, and the
eyes turned from brown to gray-green.
The man in the baseball cap
wasn’t a man at all. Worse, the woman
underneath the disguise was someone
Peter recognized. But that was…
…impossible.
“So tell me, Peter,” Mygatt said.
“How is it that a dead woman is walking
the streets of Dar es Salaam?”
Six years earlier, the Office had
been assigned the task of terminating
Mila Voss by Mygatt via Green. At the
time, the senator was not yet a senator,
but the deputy secretary of defense
overseeing military intelligence. Green
was his CIA liaison. Though the project
was not without its problems, the
mission had been completed, and Peter
reported back to his clients that the
courier Mila Voss had been eliminated.
Only it was clear now that the
8
mission had not been as successful as
he’d been led to believe.
“I…don’t have an answer for you,”
Peter said.
“Convenient,” Green spat.
“Peter,” Mygatt said, his voice calm.
“You need to find her for us.”
“And while you’re at it, maybe you
should finish the job,” Green threw in.
There was no way Peter could
walk out now. The fallout from this
could turn extremely ugly. As Mygatt
had pointed out, his only chance at
controlling the situation was to be
involved. He nodded, and said, “I’ll get
back to you.”
“Soon,” the senator said.
“Yes. Soon.”
“I have a man named Olsen who
will be back later today,” Green said.
“We’d like him to assist you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
Green leaned forward, glaring.
“Considering what didn’t happen
before, I don’t think you’re in the
position to determine what’s necessary
or not.”
Mygatt stood up, a smile on his
face. “Just consider him my personal
contact, freeing you up to concentrate
on the job at hand. I’m sure there won’t
be any problems.”
Peter knew he had little choice.
“All right,” he said. “Do you have any
paper?”
“On the desk.”
Peter found a notepad and pen
on the blotter, quickly wrote down an
address, and handed it to Green. “That’s
to an apartment in Georgetown, a
remote office I’ll be using.” He turned
his attention to the senator. “I need to
finish a couple of things for my current
employer so I can free up some time
without them becoming suspicious.
I’m sure you’ll agree that we don’t want
anyone else looking into this matter.”
Mygatt nodded. “That would be
unwise.”
Peter looked at his watch. It was
nearing two p.m. “I’ll be in Georgetown
by seven. If this Olsen guy is here by
then, send him over.”
“See? I knew you’d want to take care
of this.”
__________
INSTEAD OF CATCHING one of
the available taxis at the corner, Peter
continued on foot. Twice he doubled
back, and three times he made sudden
stops before crossing streets in the
middle of the block, making sure he
wasn’t being followed. Not until he was
positive he was clean did he finally hail
a cab. Paranoia was part of his DNA,
and explained why he lived as long as
he had.
A simple phone call to the agency
he’d been working with was all it
took to get some time off. A family
emergency, he said. He might be gone
a week or longer. As he’d known, the
man overseeing him didn’t care. He’d be
happy not to have Peter underfoot.
Peter had the cab drop him near
a metro station, then took the train—
changing lines twice—out to Arlington.
While he did indeed have a fully
equipped apartment in Georgetown,
ready to use for any kind of special
operations, it wasn’t the only secret
place available to him. Even in his
reduced role within the intelligence
community, he maintained over half
a dozen different locations in the DC
area alone.
The place where he was now
headed was located in a walled-off,
soundproofed section of a church
basement that could only be accessed
through an underground tunnel from
a self-storage unit next door. He was
the only one who knew of its existence,
unlike the apartment in Georgetown.
Using yet another indirect route,
he made his way from the station to the
storage facility. The door to his unit was
inside a cover hallway, itself accessed
via a number-coded lock on the outside
door. The code he’d been given was a
generic one that all the tenants used, so
it was impossible to know who punched
it in. For that, the facility relied on a
security camera mounted near the
door. Peter wasn’t worried about that,
either. His years of working as a spook
wrangler had given him a healthy sense
of paranoia, so he never went anywhere
without a portable electronic jamming
device in his pocket. He switched it
on before approaching the door, and
knew that for the few seconds he was
there, the camera would seemingly
malfunction.
Inside, he made his way to his
unit, and input the combination on the
bottom of the lock. This didn’t actually
open it. Instead, it released a small
panel on the surface that exposed a
touch screen. He placed his left thumb
against it, waited, and heard the faint
click of the real lock on the inside of
the door as it disengaged. The padlock
remained closed, having already served
its purpose. He pulled on it, and the
door swung out.
The interior light came on as soon
as the door was back in place. The unit
looked pretty standard, albeit with
only about half the amount of stuff it
could have held. Peter moved around a
couple stacks of cardboard boxes, and
lifted a nearly invisible trap door in the
concrete floor.
Forty-five seconds later, he was
sitting in his safe room below the
church.
Using one of the disposable phones
he kept there, he called Misty first. She
had been his assistant back in the Office
days, and proved herself time and again
as one of his most valuable assets.
“Misty?” he said.
There was a long pause. “What’s
wrong?”
“An old case has resurfaced. I need
your help.”
Another hesitation. “You’ll have to
get me out of my current gig.”
“You’re still at the Labor Board?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I can do that. Finish out
the day. You won’t need to go back until
we’re done.”
“When and where do you want me
to report?”
“You remember the townhouse in
Georgetown?” he asked.
“The one on the top floor?”
“Yes.”
“I remember it.”
“After work, go home, pack a bag,
and head there.” He paused. It had been
six months since he’d checked in with
her. “You can do that, right?”
“Are you asking if I have someone
waiting for me at home?” She laughed.
“Just Harry.”
Harry was her dog, a little Westie
that was getting up in years.
“Can someone watch him?”
“My neighbor. What am I supposed
to do when I get to the apartment?”
“I should be there ahead of you. If
not, just get everything operational and
wait for me.”
His next call was to the one man
who could clear up what had gone
down in Las Vegas the night Mila Voss
was supposed to have died.
One ring, two. After the third, a
recorded voice said, “Please leave a
message.”
“Quinn, it’s Peter. I need you to call
me as soon as you get this. Don’t blow
me off. I need to talk to you now.” He
gave the number of the phone and hung
up.
He tried to remember the last time
he’d spoken with Jonathan Quinn. It
had been a while. Once the Office was
disbanded, Peter had no longer been in
a position to need the cleaner’s talent
for disposing of unwanted bodies.
While he waited for Quinn to call
him back, he logged on to his secure
computer, and started putting feelers
out to some of the sources he had
in Asia, seeing if anyone might have
unknowingly worked with Mila.
At a quarter after four, his phone
rang. Only Misty and Quinn had the
number, so he snatched it up without
looking at the display.
“Yes?” he said.
“You called?” Not Misty.
“Quinn?”
“Hello, Peter.”
Not Quinn, either.
CHAPTER 3
BANGKOK, THAILAND
BROWSERS AND SHOPPERS and
people who had nothing better to do
crowded the sidewalk, checking out
the stalls and tables selling charms and
tokens and Buddhas by the bucketful.
Though their number included more
than a few tourists, most were Thai. The
sellers who offered the best wares drew
the largest crowds, sometimes making
the sidewalk impassible for a minute or
two.
On the street itself, cars were caught
in a logjam, their pace even slower than
that of the pedestrians—a few feet
forward, stop, wait, a few feet more.
One of the taxis veered toward the
curb. Before it had even stopped, the
rear door swung open, and a farang—a
foreigner—climbed out. Dressed in
jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked like
just another Westerner out exploring
the sights of the Land of Smiles. But he
hadn’t come to Thailand for the culture.
He was there for only one purpose.
Those on the sidewalk seemed to
sense the difference in him. It wasn’t
fear he invoked, but something closer
to determination, a sense of mission,
causing Thais and tourists alike to
move to the side so that his path was
unimpeded.
The clouds that had been gathering
above Bangkok all morning had finally
blanketed the sky, and the distant
rumble of thunder warned of a change
ahead. Many of the street vendors
began to double-check the canopies
and umbrellas that covered their goods,
and those who didn’t have protection
began packing up.
The smell arrived first. Rain on
asphalt, perhaps a few blocks away.
Then the initial drops began to fall.
It started as a smattering, nothing
more than a tease, but within seconds
became a downpour, skipping all steps
in between.
Tourists caught in the open rushed
for cover, while the locals, who lived
with the rain every day, went on with
business as usual. The man in the black
T-shirt continued walking as if the sun
were still shining, and gave the rain no
acknowledgment whatsoever.
It wasn’t long before he came to the
9
point where the road took a sharp turn
to the right. Instead of continuing with
it, he went left into a short extension of
the asphalt filled with food carts, where
cars were no longer welcome. Dozens of
tables were set up under umbrellas and
tarps, crowded with people enjoying
meals and staying dry.
Vendors called out to the man,
trying to entice him to stop. Each time
he put his hands together in front of his
chest and bowed his head slightly in a
Thai wai, thanking them for the offer
but never once slowing his pace.
At the back end of the food area
was a permanent structure. Inside
were more stalls, a mixture of food and
T-shirt vendors and souvenir shops.
This was where the majority of the
farang tourists had taken refuge.
The man walked all the way through
the building and out the other end, onto
a covered ramp that led down to a dock.
Beyond was the wide and mighty Chao
Phraya, the river that sliced the city in
half. Its brown water was littered with
green patches of vegetation floating
rapidly southward toward the Gulf of
Thailand. Long boats and barges and
small river ferries, unconcerned about
the rain, continued to move up and
down it.
On the covered part of the dock,
several people waited for one of the
ferries to arrive. The man could see it
approaching from the north. Like the
others that traveled between the piers,
it was long and low to the water, with
rows of seats along each edge, like a
canopy-covered airliner missing the
top half of its tube.
The man walked all the way down to
the dock, and took a position several feet
from the others. He carefully scanned
the river, noting at a subconscious level
where each vessel was.
With a series of whistles from a
man at the back of the boat, the ferry
eased against the dock, then the motor
was thrown into reverse to hold it in
place. The whistler jumped off, and tied
the vessel to the pier. As soon as he was
out of the way, half a dozen passengers
piled off, then those who had been
10
waiting climbed aboard.
The only one who hadn’t moved
was the man in the black T-shirt. The
whistler gave him a questioning look,
wondering whether he was going to
get on, but the man on the dock shook
his head. Seconds later, with another
whistle, the ferry took off.
As the man scanned the river, he
resisted the urge to bend his leg. He
knew the cramp he felt in his right calf
was all in his imagination. He didn’t
have a right calf, only a high-tech
prosthetic attached to the few inches
that remained of his leg below his knee.
The phantom pains and discomforts
were more an annoyance now than
anything. He’d taught himself how to
deal with them, and knew how to push
them from his mind. After a moment,
the cramp went away.
From the south, the high-pitched
sound of a motor rose above the other
noises on the river. Not a longboat, not
even a ferry. It was a powerboat that
looked like it would be more at home
on a lake in the States than here on
the Chao Phraya. It was racing down
the center of the river. Then, as it drew
closer, it veered toward the dock, where
its wake rushed toward the longboats
tied up nearby, rocking them against
the docks and causing more than a few
angry shouts.
Not exactly subtle, the man thought.
It had almost reached the dock
when it powered down and let the
river’s current bring it to a stop. There
were two men on board. One hopped
off the back and looped a rope around
the end of a pillar.
The second remained at the
controls. He looked over at the waiting
man and smiled. “I believe you hired
boat for day, yes?”
The expected question.
“That’s
right.
You
came
recommended.” The expected answer.
Once the man in the black T-shirt
climbed aboard, the guy who’d roped
off the boat untied it and jumped into
the back.
“Can go under,” the pilot said,
pointing at the door to the lower cabin.
“No rain, and have beer and food if
you want. Can sleep also. Will take us a
couple hours, I think.”
“I’m fine here,” his new passenger
replied.
The pilot shrugged. “Up to you.”
The smile came out again. “Welcome
aboard, Mr. Quinn.”
“Thank you,” Nate said.
__________
THE RIVER TOOK them north out
of the city, and away from the rain.
After about an hour, they reached
Ayutthaya—the capital of Siam in
centuries past—and skirted around its
southern edge until it bent northwest
into the countryside.
Small
villages
and
farms
surrounded the river, quickly turning
the craziness of Bangkok—and, to a
lesser extent, Ayutthaya—into a distant
memory.
After a while, the pilot said, “Not
long now.”
Nate nodded, his gaze fixed on the
river ahead. Not for the first time, he
played through his mind some of the
possible scenarios of what was about
to happen. This kind of thinking had
been part of his early training when he
was an apprentice cleaner to Jonathan
Quinn.
It had been an invaluable tool.
In a world where their job was to
make bodies disappear, the ability to
be flexible and immediately react to
any situation was often the difference
between success and becoming one of
the bodies.
The problem with his upcoming
meeting was that he’d already thought
of at least a dozen ways it could go, and
was sure there were at least a dozen
others he hadn’t even considered.
A few minutes later, the river bent
to the right and straightened again.
As it did, a temple came into view
on the left bank about a quarter mile
ahead. Like with all Buddhist temples
in Thailand, the upside down, conical
stupa—or, as the Thais called it, chedi—
rose prominently in the middle of the
temple grounds. This one, unlike some
others he’d seen, was not covered in
gold. Its pitted surface had been white
once, but dirt and mold had worked
their way into the nooks and cracks,
dulling its long forgotten brightness.
The temple building itself was
undergoing renovations. An intricate,
clearly makeshift wooden scaffolding
had been erected around most of the
structure. A small group of men was
spread out along it, working on the
temple walls.
The boat’s engine began to throttle
back, and the man at the wheel steered
the craft toward the small pier that
served the temple. Through the bushes
at the edge of the bank, Nate thought
he could see movement on the temple
grounds. When the boat was only
a hundred feet away, three monks
wearing bright orange robes, their
heads shaved bare, stepped onto the
dock and watched them approach.
The boat’s pilot eased them forward,
and with a perfect touch, brought the
side of the vessel up against several old
tires that buffered the dock.
“Wat Doi Thong,” he said,
announcing the name of the temple.
“How long do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Nate told him.
“I don’t want to spend night out
here.”
“Neither do I, but you’re being paid
enough, so if it happens, it happens.”
Nate stepped onto the dock.
“Mr. Quinn.”
Nate looked back. “Yes?”
“You like one of us come with you?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The pilot seemed relieved. “Okay.
No problem. We be here.”
Nate walked over to the monks and
gave them a deep wai. “Sawadee, krap.”
The monks returned the wai and
the greeting, almost as one.
“Khun phood phasa Angrit, dai
mai?” Nate said, asking if any of them
spoke English.
The middle monk seemed to think
for a moment, then said slowly, “Sorry.
Only Thai.”
Nate was about to call to the boat
pilot and have him do some translating,
when a new voice said, “I speak English.”
A man was standing on the shore
just past where the dock ended. Nate
was sure he hadn’t been there a moment
before. He, too, was wearing a saffron
robe, but unlike the other monks, he
sported a goatee and had a full head of
black hair that fell almost to the base of
his neck. On his exposed shoulder, Nate
could see a tattoo of a tiger peeking up
over the top, like it was ready to pounce
off the man’s back.
Nate walked toward him. “Great. I
believe I was expected. My name’s—”
“I know who you are,” the man said.
Surprisingly, though he looked Thai, he
sounded as American as Nate did. “I’m
afraid you’ve wasted the trip, though.”
Nate stopped at the edge of the
dock. “He’s not here?”
“He’s made it clear he has no desire
for visitors.”
“This isn’t a social call.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said, then
glanced at the boat. “If you leave now,
you might get back to Bangkok before
it gets too late.”
Nate stepped onto the shore. “If he
doesn’t want to see me, he can tell me
that himself.”
A wry smile appeared on the longhaired monk’s face. “That would be
defeating the purpose, don’t you think?”
“I don’t care about the purpose. I’m
not leaving until I see him.”
“Then I think you should make
yourself comfortable. You’re going to
be waiting a long time.”
“Yeah?” Nate said, taking another
step forward. “Well, I don’t have time to
wait, either.”
The man laughed. “You’re playing
right into the American stereotype.
Always in a hurry.”
Nate walked up the short path,
straight toward the monk. When he
neared him, he said, “Excuse me.”
The man, still smiling, stepped to
the side, but just as Nate passed him,
the monk grabbed him from behind
and twisted him around, intending to
knock Nate to the ground.
Nate was ready for it. Since the
first moment he’d seen the monk, he
knew the man would not simply
back down. There was a roughness
to him, a spark in his eye, and a set
to his stance that spoke of a life not
unfamiliar with violence.
Nate shifted his weight, bringing
his shoulder under the monk’s chest
then heaving him upward and tossing
the man to the side. Freed, he continued
toward the temple.
But the monk was not through with
him. Before Nate had gone ten feet, the
man came at him again, slamming Nate
in the back and knocking him off the
path into a knee-high, white stone
fence.
Off-balanced, Nate jumped as best
he could over the obstruction, scraping
his left shin on the top, but maintaining
his footing as he landed on the other
side. He whirled around, sure that the
monk would come at him again.
The man hit Nate in the chest like
a linebacker, and together they fell
onto the ground with a thud. A dull
ache throbbed for a moment in the
upper left of Nate’s chest. About nine
months earlier he’d been shot there.
The wound had healed well, and he’d
done everything he could to regain
the strength he’d had before, but on
occasion, the injury would still remind
him of its presence.
The monk wrapped a leg over
Nate’s waist, and attempted to pin the
cleaner in place. With all his strength,
Nate pushed the man to the side and
spun after him.
“Nate! Daeng! Enough.”
Both men stopped struggling, and
looked over at the man standing twenty
feet away.
“Get up,” Jonathan Quinn said.
“You’re making fools of yourselves.” 
Now available on Amazon
California native Brett Battles is the
award winning author of the Jonathan
Quinn thrillers. To learn more visit
www.brettbattles.com.
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S uspense Magazine March 2012/vol. 032
             
Writing Contest
By Suspense Magazine
Another year, another contest gone by and the only thing we can say
for absolute certainty is that the submissions are getting better and better
making our choices harder and harder. It continues to amaze us how the human mind works. The stories
we get are so diverse yet each one captures our attention in one way or another. Whether it’s fantasy,
paranormal, mystery, suspense, horror, thriller, romantic suspense, etc. we find something positive in
everything we receive. 2011 was no different, from our number one story this year Sean Baron’s Cooler
by the Lake, to Cathy Spencer’s number two story, In the Playground, and our number three D. Warren
Miller's L. Albatross we were thrilled.
The caliber of the stories was so good, we have three honorable mentions, but truth be told choosing
these was as difficult as choosing the three winners. In no particular order: I Have Candy by John Patrick
Lynskey, Stripped Down by Dean P. Turnbloom, and The Black Leather Caper by Nancy Sweetland. We
wish we could showcase all the stories we received.
Each and every person that submitted in 2011, we want to thank you for entering and we hope you
continue to do so. Our review team is hard at work already for the 2012 short story contest and we want
you to be a part of it. The contest is the same as always, you have until December 31, 2012 to submit,
all stories must be in the body of the email, no attachments will be opened and all submissions must be
between 1,500 and 5,000 words in length.
Now, put your feet up, relax and enjoy reading the three winners of 2011. 
13
Honorable Mention
I Have Candy
It was the song that Thomas would find the most
memorable, the one that stayed with him after he murdered
the girl, the lyrics that played over and over in his mind as
if she was still lingering around his house, playing with her
bouncy ball and dollies. The little folk song, which Thomas
later realized was popular amongst children the girl’s age was
relentless, and could drive you mad if heard too much and
too often, its lyrics sickening and repulsive. He lay in his bed
one evening, still safe and sound and unsuspected, and heard
the young girl singing the lyrics outside his house, as if he
was back to that cold, autumn day in October…
Great green globs of greasy, grimy gopher guts,
mutilated monkey feet,
chopped up baby parakeet.
and me without my spoon
Her hair was the color of brown chestnut, long and
down her back as if she refused to get it cut, and kept in a
ponytail. Her cheeks were puffy, and from his binoculars
he could see the small freckles on her cheeks and the perky
grin she always wore, as if perpetually happy. Just once, she
cried when her mother asked her to come inside the house at
nightfall, throwing her ball over Thomas’ fence in a tantrum. II
The tantrum brought him back, back to being a boy of
ten, the night when his father got drunk and his mother
became the man’s unwilling victim. She pleaded, ‘Don’t hurt
14
By John Patrick Lynskey
me, don’t hurt our son,’ but he didn’t listen and knocked
Thomas’ mother to the floor, where she lay unconscious.
When he was sure she was passed out, he brought Thomas
into the bedroom and locked the door. Thomas stamped his
feet in anger, ‘Don’t do it, Dad, or I’ll kill you,’ but his father
didn’t listen, and did it over and over until the night when
Thomas saw the blood, his mother’s blood leaking from her
forehead. He grabbed the hammer from his father’s toolbox
and beat him into the floor, straddling his neck until his
father’s quick breath ceased for good.
III
He woke out of his trance, and the next day he approached
her, thinking it wise to strike up conversation and build trust.
“Hey there, little girl,” he said.
She looked at him questioningly, and then her face
brightened at the acknowledgment of her somewhat
recognizable neighbor, the one she had seen mowing his
lawn and pruning his hedges, the one who had given her a
nice big candy bar last Halloween.
“Hi!” she said, smiling.
“My name’s Thomas,” he said. “You’re Sarah, right?”
She nodded energetically and eyed her ball, still being
clutched in Thomas’ hands, its bright pink design glowing in
her eyes like a big piece of machine bubble gum.
Thomas grinned, “Nice to meet you, Sarah. I think you
dropped this into my yard yesterday.”
He handed the ball to her, and she took it happily.
Of course she’s happy. You’ve just saved her a big hassle.
She thought it was lost forever. But now she’ll trust you, let you
talk to her more. She’ll forget that ‘never talk to strangers’ bull
crap faster than you can say, ‘Free puppies!’
“Thanks, Mister!”
“No problem, Sarah. I’m just glad you got your ball back.”
IV
A bright, colorful bouncy ball. He remembered them
from his own childhood, playing outside in the summer
heat, years after the death of his father and his mother’s cover
up of the murder. A boy next door named Bobby, or Billy,
or Benny or something really stupid would come around
and pester Thomas to get his daily thrills. One day he came
over, acting nice in front of Thomas’ mother so she wouldn’t
suspect anything, but she was too lost in her own world since
the murder, and barely left the house except to get the mail
and call Thomas in for dinner. She smiled at Bobby/Billy/
Benny questioningly, then stepped back inside the house,
most likely to lay down for one of her many afternoon naps.
The minute she disappeared, Bobby/Billy/Benny
grabbed Thomas’ bright green bouncy ball, and threw it into
the woods nearby.
“Go get it, you fucking faggot. Get your faggoty-ass ball
and bring it back to me.”
But Thomas sat there in silence, staring off into the
distance, until Bobby/Billy/Benny got frustrated and went to
fetch it himself in the small patch of trees, but didn’t turn
around in time to see the large knife in Thomas’ hand, before
Thomas took it and plunged it into Bobby/Billy/Benny’s
chest, neck and arms and stuffed his body under some tree
branches.
His mother noticed the blood on his clothes and came
running outside and found Bobby/Billy/Benny under the
branches and screamed at Thomas.
“God, Tommy, look what you’ve done again, what is the
matter with you? I can’t keep cleaning up after your mistakes,
you stupid wicked child…” V
Thomas smiled innocently, “Your mom home, Sarah?”
She nodded, “Yep. She’s watching her programs and
eating lunch.”
Oblivious, no doubt. Sarah could be screaming bloody
murder and her mother would keep on watching The View.
“And what about your daddy?”
“He’s at work.”
Of course—the corporate slime always babbling on his
cell phone as he headed out to his car, the asshole that kept
trimming the branches of Thomas’ trees out of their property
without the slightest request for permission. The one who
had his friends over for football on Sundays who parked
their cars in front of Thomas’ driveway. That prick.
“Ah, yeah. He’s a nice guy. Tell him I said hey.”
“I will,” she said casually and went on bouncing her ball.
He thought about doing it then—getting her into the
house, finally ridding himself of the frustration, and teaching
those bitch parents a lesson.
But, oh there’s always a chance her mother will come out
at that exact moment, the instant when I put my hand to her
mouth and drag her into the house.
Best not take any chances.
He backed up toward his front door and waved at her
one last time, “Bye, Sarah. See you around soon I hope!”
Sarah nodded and sauntered over to her swing set. “Bye,
Mister Thomas!”
You haven’t seen the last of me, kid, he thought. When the
time is right, we’ll be seeing each other again real soon.
VI
Days went by and so did Thomas’ opportunities. Sarah
was spending less and less time outside, and every morning
the girl hopped on a bright yellow school bus, only to return
around three in the afternoon with a backpack full of books.
Perhaps her parents knew—maybe both of them had
an indication that something wasn’t quite right in the
neighborhood, that maybe Thomas had been watching the
girl a little too closely.
Then, one day, as if brought to him by a chilly autumn
wind, he found his answer.
As Thomas racked leaves in his yard, he heard her mother
speaking through their open living room window.
“You better finish all of that homework, Sarah Elizabeth,
or no trick or treating!”
Halloween. There’s my answer, he thought. It has been
there all along.
Some years had passed since he abducted a child on
Halloween, mostly because it was the night most parents
were on the lookout, fearing deadly razor blades shoved into
those slightly unwrapped confectionaries. There was also the
annoying assumption, on Halloween only, that your nice,
seemingly normal next door neighbor, always dressed in that
scarecrow costume would finally take his first victim, the
one he had been looking for since his treacherous, abusive
childhood.
He remembered the first and only year he had done
it—a little boy dressed in a clown costume, the one he had
seen playing on his own, rejected by the other neighborhood
children. He had come to Thomas’ house alone with a small
burlap sack.
“Trick or treat,” he had said in a glum little voice.
The poor thing didn’t know what hit him. First, he’s looking
at my Halloween decorations, the next he’s bleeding to death
under the floorboards, trying to claw his way out.
It was only a few days later that his alcoholic mother
came looking for him with the police in tow, scouring the
neighborhood for the boy’s whereabouts.
‘No, I don’t remember a boy in a clown costume,’ he told
them. ‘I gave away a lot of candy that night and the little
buggers wiped me out!’
The police never came again, and the little boy’s remains
were still safe and sound under the floorboards, amongst his
other comrades from years past.
VII
15
Honorable Mention
Halloween night came, and Thomas had
spent the entire day decorating his house for
the occasion, even going to a shop in town and
buying a very non-threatening Dracula costume.
He laid fake cobwebs on his hedges and bright
lights around the windows and doors, carved
jack-o-lanterns, and set them out onto the front
porch banister and in his living room. And to top
it all off, he had gathered three bags of the largest
candy bars he could find, placed them in a bowl
by the front door, and flicked all of his porch
lights on.
If this doesn’t scream “I HAVE CANDY,” I don’t
know what does! he thought.
Then he remembered the other things he
purchased—several knives, some rope, four large
burlap sacks and a handsaw for easy disposal.
Now, all he had to do was wait.
A few children came by around six, grabbed
their candy bars, and left, without the slightest
hint of a thank you or even a “trick or treat.” No
sign of life from the Barnes’ house, not even a
porch light that showed the presence of candy or
even a decoration. Then he saw her.
It was around six thirty when Sarah came
shuffling out of the house dressed in a bright pink
jump suit and long blond wig that stretched down her back.
She stood at the front of her house, and then took a look
around, her eyes stopping on Thomas’ bright decorations,
and her voice humming that incessant little song.
mutilated monkey feet,
chopped up baby parakeet.
and me without my spoon
He waited on a darker part of the porch, blocking his
ears from the song and grasping his fists together tightly,
until Sarah crossed over onto his lawn and climb up the front
steps.
“Hello there, little girl!” he bellowed, again imitating
Dracula.
She jumped at the sound of his voice, but then realizing
it was Thomas, she took her large cloth candy bag and held
it out.
“Trick or treat, Mr. Thomas!” she said.
He smiled and laughed, “Hey there, Sarah! My, what a
nice costume. What are you supposed to be?”
“A 70’s dancer,” she said, holding her bag out further.
“Very nice! I have some candy inside the house. Come on
in. I’ve got some great decorations!”
The little girl never hesitated, never even blinked with a
second thought. The minute he went up and opened the door
for her, she came strolling in behind him, into the darkened
living room where a single pumpkin glowed on the table.
Perhaps she saw it coming in the last few seconds, or maybe
16
she started to think something was wrong when the candy
he promised wasn’t sitting by the pumpkin, because her face
turned to him in a look of confusion and fear. He put his
hand over her mouth as she struggled, screaming into his
palm. Her small hands grasped around her for anything,
something to help her escape his tight arms and his sour
breath and Dracula teeth. The screams only escaped for a
brief second when he released his hand from her mouth,
grabbed her by the neck and stuffed her head into the hollow,
suffocating opening of the pumpkin.
VIII
It wasn’t until around midnight that Thomas heard
Sarah’s parents calling her name in search of her. By then, the
girl’s body had been stuffed underneath the floorboards in
the kitchen with the others, her head still inside the pumpkin
like a gruesome Halloween mask.
You’ll never find her, he thought.
And they didn’t.
VIX
It was a few months later in February, when the frost
had come and gone and Sarah’s parents had long given up
their search, that Thomas began getting the eerie feeling
of being watched. It was never when he stood outside the
house chopping firewood, or outside getting the mail, but
only alone, sitting by his fireplace with the kitchen directly
behind him. Sometimes, there were sounds like the strange
pitter patter of feet or maybe a giggle, drifting through the
cold air of the cellar door, and following up the staircase as
he lay in bed.
For the past weekend, it snowed over ten inches, locking
Thomas inside the house with his collection of crime novels
and an electric blanket. He had gone to bed early, ignoring the
small giggle he heard from the kitchen on his way upstairs.
Then a voice came from the outside the window, that
incessant little chant that Sarah had sung there so many
times before.
Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts…
He jolted awake and thought he saw something in the
dark standing next to him, and tried to shake it off, but
realized that what he thought he saw was standing there, and
something over by his bedroom door as well, and over by the
window cowering in the light of the moon, and good GOD,
there was something on the bed next to him! They were all
there, dressed in the clothes in which he killed them—the
sad little boy in the clown costume next to his bed, the young
black girl with a jump rope tied around her neck standing by
the window, the boy with black hair holding his head in his
forearm at the bedroom door, and then little Sarah, her head
still shoved inside the pumpkin he used to suffocate her.
They all stared at him, menacingly. He closed his eyes
and longed for them to disappear, for his body to wake up
and bring him back to his real life, but they stayed and stared
and suddenly, as if from the large crescendo of an orchestra,
they started laughing. 
In 2023, ex-detective Lara Evans
just wants to win the Gauntlet, a
national endurance competition, but
a mysterious assailant wants her dead.
Can she stop the killer and survive
long enough to claim victory?
“L. J. Sellers is again in top storytelling
form with twists and turns you won’t see
coming.” -OverMyDeadBody.com
“Another great read from one of my
favorite authors.” -Bookbitch.com
“L.J. Sellers weaves an intricate web of
action, intrigue, and romance in this nearfuture thriller.” -Scott Nicholson, Liquid Fear
Sula overhears
Jenna just
wanted a baby,
but her doctor
had other ideas.
The doctor
and her lover
conspire to
kidnap Jenna and
steal one of her
eggs. But from
the beginning,
things go terribly
wrong.
a shocking
discovery at the
drug company she
works for. She tries
to find missing
data that will
save thousands of
patients, but soon
she’s running for
her life.
Available as
$2.99 ebooks and in print.
http://ljsellers.com
A Southern
Haunting
True Hauntings of the South
By CK Webb
We have touched on the incredible world of true hauntings in the South and discovered some places we will
never forget. In my research alone, I uncovered five haunted houses and a haunted road (Three-Legged Lady
Road) in my hometown of Columbus, Mississippi. It was a pleasant surprise for me as four of those houses I never
even heard of. I will make it a point to visit each one in the days to come.
This series has held a strange fascination for me and I could literally continue with it for another year and still only tip the
iceberg of hauntings within an afternoon’s drive from my home. Instead, I think it best that we spend just one more month
looking at True Hauntings of the South and after that, let your curiosity and imagination take you where it will.
I could not think of a better final stop for this series than the most haunted city in the United States: New Orleans,
Louisiana.
You have all probably seen movies that were filmed in New Orleans:
Interview With the Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles, Dracula 2000, The
Last Exorcism, Déjà vu, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, and The Mechanic just
to name a few. All in all, over one hundred and eighty films have been shot
in this beautifully eerie city.
Literature is not without its own deeply rooted fascinations with the
city of New Orleans and well-known authors such as Tennessee Williams,
Mark Twain, Anne Rice, John Grisham, Sherrilynn Kenyon, Dean Koontz,
and even Poppy Z. Brite have woven some of their timeless tales with the
dark, sinister, and extremely rich history that can only be found in this
most unusual port city. My co-writer and I even tied in bits of history and
landscape from New Orleans in our latest novel, “Collecting Innocents.”
As a port city, New Orleans has seen its fair share of devastating
natural—and sometimes unnatural—disasters. These tragedies only add
to the dark past and give more depth to the cities’ ghostly tales. What is
truly incredible about the city of New Orleans? Most of its ghost stories
are true. Slavery, war, extreme weather conditions—many laced with
hoodoo and voodoo—have taken the lives of many. They’ve left behind
a sea of tortured souls that continue to walk the streets and the hallways
of homes in New Orleans.
There are so many documented sightings within the city; I had to
18
whittle down the list significantly to include the more famous. Or infamous, as the case may be.
Welcome to
New Orleans, Louisiana
The LaLaurie House
Located at 1140 Royal Street, The LaLaurie House was built in 1832 by Dr. Louis LaLaurie for his wife Delphine. They
were a well-known and respected couple in the city, but that would all soon change.
Rumors began to fly about that something wasn’t quite right with Delphine, and the woman who was once revered by her
peers was soon believed to be an evil and harsh slave owner who frequently tortured her workers. When the authorities were
alerted and took the slaves from the LaLaurie House, Delphine’s relatives bought them back for her.
The truth would eventually come out when, in April 1834, a fire broke out in the kitchen. As firefighters sifted through
the charred remains, they uncovered a door leading to the attic. Once inside, they discovered at least a dozen bodies still
chained to walls and tables or confined in cages, and many had been dismembered with their limbs lying all about the room.
Some were even discovered alive, barely.
Delphine had fled in the night back to France and was never heard from again. In spite of this, the full scale of the tortures
would eventually come to light and she was suspected of not only killing slaves, but of torturing them with cruel, agonizing
disembowelments that kept them clinging to life for days, sometimes weeks at a time before finally succumbing to their
injuries.
Though the property now boasts beautiful luxury apartments, there are still reports of otherworldly tenants crying out
in the night.
The Beauregard-Keyes House
This home was built in 1826 for wealthy auctioneer Joseph
LeCarpentier. It derives its name from two former residents,
Confederate General Pierre Gustave Toutant (P.G.T.) Beauregard
and author Frances Parkinson Keyes.
General Beauregard and his family lived in the home from
1866 to 1868 while he was president of the Great Northern Railroad.
Mrs. Keyes used the home as a winter residence for twentyfive years, where she wrote many of her books, including “Dinner
at Antoine’s,” “The Chess Players,” “Madame Castel’s Lodger,” and
“Blue Camellia.”
Many documented sightings have been recorded at the
home, but the most impressive involve the mansion’s most famous residents. It is said that the mansion comes alive in the
early morning hours with what can only be described as a supernatural version of the Battle of Shiloh. Bloodied, mangled soldiers can be seen moving about and even horses and mules being killed by grapeshot and cannons. It is even noted
that the smell of gunpowder and blood permeate the air during this ghostly re-enactment.
The Beauregard-Keyes house is also well known as the sight of a Mafia massacre that took place in the garden. Dozens
of reports have been made from hearing gunshots and blood-curdling screams to seeing dark figures pass by the windows.
It is widely rumored that Paul Munni, a world-class chess master, went insane while living in the home. In a crazed moment, Munni ran naked from the home to Ursaline Street carrying an axe. Fortunately for the citizens of New Orleans, he
was quickly subdued by police and locked away.
Marie Laveau’s House
Marie Laveau lived in a house at 1020 St. Ann Street. She is most famous and known for being the founder of New
Orleans Voodoo. Born a free woman in 1794 in Haiti, Laveau was also known as a devout catholic. It would be this blending
of Catholicism and voodoo that would separate New Orleans voodoo from any other practiced in the world.
Rumor has it that in 1875, Marie Laveau, old and infirm, became bedridden within her home on St. Ann Street and
never again ventured outside until her death in 1881. But this is where the story gets really interesting. A woman bearing
19
the same name and features began to walk the streets of New Orleans. Her name was Marie Laveau II. The strangest part of
all: she lived in the same house on St. Ann Street as the original voodoo priestess. It is widely speculated that the first Marie
transformed into a crow and still flies, to this day, in and around the New Orleans area. As for the second Marie, she can also
be found as an apparition or any animal she chooses that stalks about at the local cemetery. No explanation has ever been
uncovered to explain the identity of the two women.
Hotel Monteleone
Built in 1886 and located in the heart of the French Quarter, the Hotel Monteleone has documented more than a dozen
earthbound entities. Numerous television shows and paranormal investigations have confirmed the existence of these visitors from beyond the grave. According to the owners and employees, all of the ghosts found at the Hotel Monteleone are quite
friendly and one in particular, might even play a friendly game of hide-and-seek with you.
La Pavilion Hotel
One of the most beautiful hotels in the heart of New Orleans, La Pavilion boasts classic French décor and a place in the
national historical registry. But what it is really famous for are its ghosts. Through several investigations and years of reports
by patrons and employees, there are four verified apparitions. One in particular is known by all of the staff as a prankster and
the reason that many employees on the cleaning staff refuse to go on a certain floor of the hotel.
The stories and sightings range greatly from one person to another and from one investigation to the next, because of
this, the ghosts that reside here are numbered between four and one hundred. Though the numbers may not ever be known,
each and every apparition that has been sighted here has been classified as “kind-hearted or playful.”
Brennan’s Restaurant
Located at 417 Royal Street in the French Quarter, Brennan’s
Restaurant has been a culinary hot spot in New Orleans and
worldwide since its doors opened in 1946. Apart from the fine
cuisine and eclectic décor like no other, Brennan’s has a few
other sights to see.
Besides the ghost of a famous chef, Brennan’s offers its red
dining room for a haunting experience you may not soon forget.
Discreetly located upstairs and lit by old gas chandeliers, the
room was once the scene of a murder-suicide during the Civil
War. It was then that the owner of the house killed his wife and
son then hanged himself from the elaborate brass chandelier.
If you find yourself about to venture into the French Quarter
and want to dine in this notorious room, you may want to
call ahead.
With over thirty-five verified haunted houses, New
Orleans is listed on many sites as THE most haunted city
in the world. If the houses aren’t enough to give you goose
bumps, perhaps the city’s forty-two cemeteries can.
New Orleans’ “aboveground tombs” make it even more creepy and heavily populated…with the dead. When the city was
new, burial of coffins was the method used to put the dead to rest. What happened then sounds like something that came
straight from a novel or movie. After the rains, the ground, already super-saturated by water from the Gulf of Mexico, would
cause the coffins to float and eventually pop up out of the ground. (Think Poltergeist.) Proof that you can’t keep a dead man
down.
Eventually it would become apparent to all that a new method for burial would need to be used or risk flooding the
city with coffins and corpses. It was then that aboveground tombs were introduced. Hundreds of years later, New Orleans’
landscape is cluttered with cemeteries and littered with the tombs of those who have passed on. The Crescent City is sometimes
called “The City of the Dead” and it has earned that title in blood.
If you ever find yourself walking the streets of New Orleans, for a moment, I want you to imagine all that has taken place
there. A million stories have unfolded there; some filled with hope, others filled with blood and pain, but each an intricate
part of the city itself. There, just below your feet, are the tales of dead men…
…the tales of a True Southern Haunting. 
20
LIFE’S A BEACH—UNTIL MURDER
ROLLS IN WITH THE TIDE
A 50-million-dollar salvage operation.
An expert diver dead at the bottom of
the sea. An elegant mermaid in a black
Porsche—and an open invitation to dip
into the troubled waters of her marriage.
Cape Cod’s Aristotle “Soc” Socarides,
part-time fisherman, part-time private
eye, is swimming with the sharks. Only
problem is, he’s the bait…and blood is
beginning to boil to the surface.
Soc didn’t think he could get in much
deeper, but he’d better think again. A
family debt of honor comes due—a debt
only he can settle—plunging him into
the middle of a lethal search for buried
treasure. Now Soc’s about to discover
how deadly the Cape’s currents can be.
Snarled in a net of smuggling, treachery,
and revenge, he’s finding out that no
matter how far down you go, nothing’s
harder to salvage than the truth.
“Absorbing....Soc is an appealing, witty protagonist..and
the Cape Cod locale is rendered with panache in this
face-paced enjoyable yarn.”
—Publisher’s Weekly
WWW.PAULKEMPRECOS.COM
Honorable Mention
The Black
Leather Caper
I hesitated, my hand on the smudged and
corroded brass plate on the biker bar door,
uncomfortable in tight leather pants and jacket. My costume
was a rental, like the Harley I parked next to the others
outside the building. Private eyes have to blend in with the
terrain.
I had to find out what had happened to Stoney.
I took a deep breath and plunged into the dreary tavern
that was dark even now in broad daylight. All the black leather
jackets at the bar swiveled to stare at me. Their nameless pale
faces, startling in the dusk, were a time-stopped, flash-freeze
of a black and white mime show, except the music didn’t fit.
What pulsed throughout the room was heavy metal, a beat,
noise. They stared at me.
Why wouldn’t they? I was an unfamiliar clone.
I took an uncertain step, feeling my leather pants squeak
as I walked, like maybe the animal they were made from was
complaining about its fate.
Time can’t stop altogether. At my move, the frozen black
and white mosaic broke into motion, turning their backs,
except for one stick-thin, white-faced man who walked
toward me, thrust his gaunt face next to mine and spoke in a
guttural whine.
“He ain’t here.”
“Where is he, then?”
The man squinted at me, his mouth twisting.
“Dead. Didn’t you know?”
In spite of my determination to stay cool no matter what,
22
By Nancy Sweetland
I gasped. This had all been for nothing, then, the costume,
the subterfuge. I needn’t have come.
But it was my father we were talking about.
My father, Stoney Wall, who meant everything to me
now. A good cop—until he’d been accused of taking off the
top.
Drugs and drug money, piles of it, confiscated right here
in this tacky tavern, in a bust he shepherded. The powers
that be down at headquarters said fifty thousand dollars
disappeared between the bust and checking in downtown.
Stoney said it wasn’t true. And then he disappeared, right out
of my life, when he’d only been back in it for a little over a
year…and I’d just begun to get to know him. Well enough to
know that no matter what, no matter how easy, he wouldn’t
take. Not Stoney Wall.
Quentin Wall, really. That’s where I’d got my middle name
and my nickname, Suzie Q. He’d earned the moniker ‘Stoney’
from his hard-nosed detective work, and it fit everything I’d
learned about him. Solid, strong, capable of protecting. Take?
Not Stoney.
“When? Where?” I choked out.
“Can’t say. Doesn’t matter…thing is, there’s nothin’ you
can do about it.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice
to a whisper I could hardly hear over the heavy beat. “My
god, girl, what are you doing down here? Stoney would kill
you himself!” His voice went back to the loud guttural whine.
“Looks like you could use a drink. C’mon.”
I stared.
“Com’ere, I said.” He grabbed my elbow and steered me
toward a beer-smeared booth at the back of the room. “Sit.”
I sat, stunned into submissiveness.
The man got a couple of beers at the bar. In the bottle,
thank god, looked like you could catch almost anything in
this place. The bikers at the bar lost interest in me. I felt as
though I’d fallen into the Twilight Zone. Stoney dead?
“What happened? Where is he, then? His…body?”
I had a hard time getting it out.
“Drink.” He handed me the beer, then said in a lowpitched, normal voice, “Sorry I had to scare you. Of course
he’s not dead, but I don’t want that bunch,” he tilted his head
toward the others at the bar, “to know that. He’s laying low
until I find out who the hell tried to set him up.” He went
back to his bar voice and complained, “Stoney owed me some
buckos, girl. If you’re part of him maybe you’ll pay up.”
“Who are you?” Stoney dead, Stoney not dead. Was this
a game? My voice rose. “What money?”
“Aw, you know he took cash that belonged to some of us
here. We want it back.” His voice was pitched to reach the bar,
but his eyes held mine with a clear blue insistence. He wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand. “Meet me at nine by the
old blocked-off underpass at eighteenth. Trust me. I’ve been
Stoney’s partner for five years.”
“I’m getting out of here,” I said, for the benefit of the bar’s
patrons. “Keep your damn beer.”
My thighs squeaked as I went outside where I was
temporarily blinded by the afternoon sun. I threw one
booted leg over my rented Harley. I could almost pass for a
biker. Almost.
The damn thing wouldn’t start on the first try, but I got
it going before anybody came out. Evidently they were all
going to stay put. I was glad of that. Somebody in this biker
crowd was connected to Stoney’s disappearance, but just
how, I didn’t know. Yet. I roared out of the graveled parking
lot and then slowed down to a safe pace. I’d come here on an
anonymous telephone tip about Stoney, and I hadn’t learned
a thing, except that the thin, white-faced man, was probably
undercover. What would I find out at the underpass? I knew
the place. The highway had been moved, the road left into
disrepair, and it wasn’t anywhere you’d really like to be after
dark.
But of course, I had to go. If I could help Stoney…
My mind backtracked. He disappeared out of my life
when I was about two weeks old and my mother decided that
the wife of a cop wasn’t for her. She took me to Los Angeles—
as far away as she could get from New Jersey—and told me he
was dead when I was old enough to ask questions. To make a
long story short, she got cancer and conscience at about the
same time and told me the truth: that he was my only living
relative. With mixed feelings, I stayed with her until she was
gone, and then I came to find my father.
He was all the good things I’d ever wanted, and I loved
him from the first minute we met: me, twenty-six years old,
him, a robust fifty-seven, slim and good looking in a rugged,
cop-type way. He’d never remarried. He hoped she’d come
back.
“Foolish,” he told me, “but I really loved your mother,
Suz, and I’m sorry she’s gone.”
I resented what she’d done to me—and Stoney—but we
had lots to catch up on, and we were having fun. He gave me
a crash course in detection, helped me get my P.I. license, and
then…he disappeared.
The underpass was shoeblack dark and I hesitated
before going in. I was dressed in my regular work clothes:
denim jeans, jacket and running shoes. I’d left my Volvo a
half block away. No moon. A tempestuous wind whipped
the tree branches. It was even darker in the underpass. An
occasional car overhead swept a ribbon of light above, but
didn’t penetrate the murk underneath.
“Over here,” a small lighter flame held at his chin lit the
man’s face.
Creepy.
“All right, I’m here. I want to know who you are, and
what’s happened with Stoney.”
A gust of wind whooshed through the tunnel, flickering
his light. I shivered in spite of my jacket.
“I’ll put this out. No use being a target.”
“For who? Why? Is Stoney all right?”
“Whoa, there. One at a time. Yes, Stoney’s all right…
far as I know. But he couldn’t fight city hall from jail, so he’s
slicked.”
“Slicked?”
“Hiding. We were working together on the big guys. The
bikers are just small potatoes. The bust at that bar was petty
stuff. Stop one outlet here, another one pops up there. You
know.”
I didn’t know. There was a lot I didn’t know. So far my only
investigations had been to find out where old Mrs. Fogarty’s
cat went every night, and that was pretty easy. I hadn’t even
had to wear a disguise to shadow a woman whose husband
thought she was having an affair because she was losing
weight. She’d only been going to a gym for workouts every
afternoon. Easy stuff, but it paid the rent. This operation was
a little out of my experience.
The man went on, “The bikers have accepted me as a sort
of part-time hanger-on, but I’m not finding out much. You,
on the other hand…”
His words trailed off, whisked away into the windy
darkness.
I got the inference. Actually, I felt that I’d been
volunteered.
“Could do what?”
“Get close to Julian Temple.”
“Julian who?
“Temple. He’s young, good-looking in a sleazy sort of
way. Runs a fruit warehouse down on the wharf, but dresses
like a gigolo. Smooth. You’ll probably like him, women do.”
“Fat chance.”
“Get close. Pump him. His father owns the Biker Bar.
He’s one of the big ones that would love to see Stoney hang.
Do whatever it takes.”
I hesitated.
23
Honorable Mention
“Whatever?”
“Within reason. Okay. My name’s Bill. Just
plain Bill. I’ll call you. You’re in the book.”
“And you? How do I call you?”
“You don’t.”
“How do I know I can trust you? Or even that
you know where Stoney is? How about if you take
me to him.”
“Not yet. Too dangerous for you both. See
‘ya.”
He was gone.
I sneaked back to my Volvo and found a
parking ticket under the wiper. Great. Just great.
In the next afternoon sunlight, the warehouse
looked well-run and fairly clean. At the loading
dock, two bare-backed men lifted heavy crates of
bananas as though they weighed nothing at all,
rhythmically slinging them onto a roller conveyor
that pulled them into the building. I was dressed
appropriately for calling on a smoothie: matching
skirt and blazer, low-heeled pumps, sling purse.
The purse wasn’t just for looks—it gave me a place
to carry my .38. I’d French-rolled my long hair
into a neat, dark cap. Ready for anything.
“I’d like to see Julian,” I stated to one bareback.
“Huh?” He turned slightly to see me, but kept up his
smooth rhythm with the bananas.
“Julian. Where can I find him?”
He tilted his head toward a small door beside the
conveyor without missing a beat in his pick-up: sling, pickup, sling.
“It’s Mister Julian,” he grunted after me.
“Right. Thanks.”
I followed a short iron-grate stair up half a flight and
knocked.
Knocked again, rehearsing my excuse for being there. I
was looking for an old friend that I thought worked here.
Lame, but it ought to get me in the door.
I got what I wanted. The door opened, but I wasn’t
greeted nicely. I was jerked inside by a strong arm.
“Hey!” was all I had time to say before a piece of duct
tape was slapped across my mouth.
I was hustled onto a chair, and in a matter of seconds
more tape held my wrists behind me and strapped my ankles
to the chair legs.
My captor was a handsome devil, I couldn’t help but
notice that. Kind of like a better version of Brad Pitt. It had
to be Julian.
“Now,” he said, quirking a dark eyebrow at me, “what’s
Stoney Wall’s cute little girl doing snooping around here?”
What could I say? My mouth was taped shut.
“Do you know where he is?”
I shrugged. He hadn’t taped my shoulders to anything.
“Listen up. There’s only one thing I’m going to say to you,
and that’s this: This is the least that’s going to happen to you
if you don’t keep your nose out of places it doesn’t belong.”
24
He picked up the phone and growled into it.
“Wait a while, then come on up here and untie the
package. Yeah.”
At least I wasn’t going to be left there to starve to death. I
couldn’t figure it out. He hadn’t taken my gun, either. Might
as well have, for all the good it had done me.
About half an hour later, one of the bare backs banged
open the door and ripped off the tape. Not gently.
“Where’d your Mister Julian go?”
“Don’t come back,” was all bare-back said.
I thought it was good advice. But I wouldn’t need to
anyway. I’d spent my half hour examining every inch of the
grungy office that I could see. And I’d made a careful scrutiny
of the city map on the wall in front of me where two stick pins
marked something. Maybe they meant nothing…but maybe
not. A good investigator follows even the most unlikely lead.
Stoney taught me that.
I stopped back at my apartment to change out of my
ripped nylons and into something more suitable for chasing
leads. Jeans and sneakers are more my style anyway.
My phone rang, and I answered pertly, “Suzie Q
investigations.”
Maybe it was a client, or just plain Bill.
It was Bill. Had I learned anything?
“That duct tape snags nylons when it’s ripped off ankles
by a bare-backed barbarian,” I said.
“What?”
I explained, looking for sympathy.
I got none.
All Bill said was, “Figures.”
I’d been going to tell him about the map, but his cavalier
attitude irritated me.
“So what have you been doing?”
“Getting close to the bikers. Somebody in that crowd
knows something and I mean to find out who and what.”
He could have them. I hated all that squeaking leather,
and that Harley I’d rented reminded me of a horse I’d ridden
once. One of us was in charge and it wasn’t me.
“No leads at all?”
Bill sounded suspicious.
“Nope.”
It wasn’t a real lie. I didn’t know if the pins were really
leads. I’d check them out myself.
The first one was a closed funeral parlor in a pretty rundown part of town near the industrial section. Nobody was
around and the alley door wasn’t locked, so I spent a while
touring the cold, empty chapels and creeping up on what was
left of the coffin inventory in the basement. Nothing there
you’d want to be buried in. If it had been part of Julian’s loop
once, it wasn’t now. The place was just abandoned, no sign of
any action there at all, not even a ground-out cigarette butt
on the floor. Looked like a good place for street people to
take over. Maybe they stretched out in the coffins at night.
I was glad to get out into the sunshine.
The second pin marked a more likely place, a small
wooden warehouse with one large truck-sized door in front
and a small walk-in on the side. I drove past it twice, then
parked around the corner and slipped into the side door.
The room was a catchall of boxes and old office furniture.
Unmarked boxes covered most of the shelves.
You know how you can tell there’s life somewhere in a
building? Just a feeling. I waited until my eyes adjusted to
the dusk, and stood without moving. There was a murmur of
voices coming from somewhere in the back, and the familiar
smell of cigarette smoke.
I edged my way along the wall, careful not to kick
anything. Light streamed from a small window that opened
onto the big room. I sidled up to look inside and gasped.
Stoney sat on a beat-up desk, smoking, talking to—I
gasped again—Julian.
I pulled back, scowling so hard my forehead hurt. Stoney
and Julian?
I couldn’t hear anything they said through the heavy
door, but the conversation was animated. Stoney seemed to
be trying to convince Julian of something, and he reached
into his coat pocket and handed Julian a wad of money. The
missing fifty thousand?
I sidled back out of the place, fast.
This was going to take some thinking. I went home and
made myself a vodka gimlet. I earned it.
Two gimlets and a bag of microwave popcorn later, I
was still confused. I couldn’t—make that wouldn’t—believe
Stoney was in with crooks. The only explanation was that
Julian was the boss crook and Stoney must be trying to pull
something out of him by pretending to go along. I’d bet
Stoney would be real mad if he knew the jerk taped me to a
chair.
I knew I should help. Somehow. I sipped and brooded.
Back to the leather rental shop. Since I couldn’t call just
plain Bill, I’d just have to track him down, and the only place
I knew to do that was the Biker Bar.
The leather didn’t give me any place to hide a gun, and I
couldn’t carry a purse. I mean, bikers just don’t. I hated the
Harley worse, but I could hardly drive up to the place in my
tame grey Volvo, could I?
There were half a dozen studded studs standing around
the gravel parking lot smoking something that didn’t smell
like Camels, and the ugliest one ogled me all the way into
the bar. I swaggered just enough to look cocky, but I was
shivering inside. The whole scene gave me the creeps.
When my eyes got used to the dark, I realized the place
was empty.
I paid for a bottle of Bud and casually asked, “Bill been
around today?”
The bartender didn’t take his eyes off As the World Turns
on the TV.
“Bill who?”
“Just Bill’s all I know. Skinny. Blue eyes.” What else could
I remember? “Wears black.”
“Don’t they all.”
I took my beer back to the booth we’d sat in before and
brooded some more, making the bottle last as long as I could.
I was just about to the point where I’d either have to buy
another or leave when the door behind the bar opened and
Bill came out…with Julian. They didn’t see me.
These two seemed to be the best of buddies, but so had
Stoney and Julian.
Julian said, “One for my friend, here,” to the bartender as
he put one arm around Bill’s shoulders, slapped him on the
chest, and left.
What was that, a replacement of the secret handshake?
The bartender tipped his head toward me as he handed
Bill a beer. Bill turned and did a double take. He obviously
hadn’t expected to see me, or—maybe—hadn’t wanted me to
see him with Julian. Truth is he looked guilty as hell.
Bill slid into the booth across from me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. What are you doing with him? I
thought I was supposed to ‘get close’ to Julian, not you.”
“Opportunity came up, I took it.”
“Where does Julian really fit in all this? Come on, open
up. I saw the guy with Stoney earlier today.”
Bill’s eyebrows went up so far they almost met his hair,
and he had a pretty high forehead to start with.
“He was with Stoney? Today? Where? Did you talk to
him?”
“No. I couldn’t. I just saw him. And what do you mean,
where? You’re supposed to know where Stoney is, not me. So
what’s the deal?”
Bill scowled.
“Stoney must be working on a way to nail Julian’s father,
is all I can think of. That must be it.” He sounded like he
was trying to convince himself. “Where did you say you saw
them?”
Something didn’t wash, here.
“I didn’t.” I got up. “But you can tell Stoney for me that I
think this whole setup stinks.”
“Yeah. You can say that again.”
“Now are you going to give me a number where I can
reach you?”
“Sure.”
He did. But it turned out to be the phone at the Biker Bar
when I tried to call it later after I’d thought up some more
questions.
Thanks a whole lot, Bill. Back to square one. Was there
anybody I could trust? That red herring about Julian’s father
being the drug czar didn’t fool me a bit. Julian was the one
they were after and they were just keeping me busy running
around in circles while they solved the case. Daddy’s little girl
shouldn’t mess with the underworld. Huh.
Back home, there was a call on my answering machine. A
client? One can always hope.
It turned out to be an insurance agent. In my line of
business, was I sure I was insured enough?
In my line of business, I told him, there was no such
thing as insurance enough, thank you very much.
My refrigerator wasn’t exactly bare. There was half a
summer sausage and some cheddar cheese in the bottom
drawer, and a couple of apples. The milk was sour, so I poured
it down the drain. One of these days I was going to have to
go shopping. I gnawed on the apple and thought things over.
25
Honorable Mention
Fact: Stoney didn’t want to be found. Not yet.
Not by me.
Fact: Bill didn’t know as much as he said he
did. He was pretty good at verbal tap dancing,
though.
Fact: Julian and I hadn’t got off on a very good
footing.
Fact: If I wanted to clear my father’s good
name and get him back into circulation, I would
have to lure Julian into admitting he’d taken
money from Stoney.
That night I dreamt the solution. It was so
simple, I woke up smiling. All I had to do was set
up a drop, bait the trap with what Julian thought
was going to be big money cocaine, and when he
came to pick it up, I’d jump out and nab him, step
one.
Step two was making him tell where the
missing fifty thousand had gone, for Stoney’s
sake. And step three was making him tell what he
had to do with Stoney, for my sake. Step four was
making him apologize for taping me to his darn
chair.
I’d leave the info on the drop in a sealed
envelope at the Biker Bar, very well-labeled for
Julian’s eyes only.
I was so smug I went shopping and bought all the junk
food I could get my hands on. I deserved a treat: Tostido
chips, shrimp dip, even a small—real small—jar of beluga.
I don’t even like caviar, but you can’t drink champagne with
just Tostido chips, can you?
I put the note on untraceable paper from the corner
drug, put the envelope in a box and sent it priority mail,
guaranteed overnight delivery, no return address. That
in itself ought to intrigue anybody. Deal: half a pound for
a mere ten thousand dollars. Seemed like a bargain to me,
but what did I know? He’d have to be intrigued. Place of
exchange: that dark underpass on route 18. Midnight. Why
not? Skullduggery can be fun.
Champagne really does go okay with Tostidos. I ate the
whole bag that night watching Matlock and Heat of the Night
and slept like a well-fed, very complacent cat. Stoney was
going to be so proud of me.
The next day dragged like time in the dentist’s chair. I
kept wondering when Julian would get the letter. Did he have
it yet? Was he going to bite?
I went to the store again for a half pound of powdered
sugar, bagged it in two Ziplocks, one inside the other and
wrapped the whole thing in a brown paper package tied up
with string. Me and Julie Andrews. I was ready long before
midnight.
I parked the Volvo a couple of blocks away again, this
time making sure there were no ‘no parking’ signs in sight.
After the last encounter here I had to fork over thirty dollars.
This night was warm and clear, but I shivered anyway from
excitement.
Moonlight laid that eerie, half-tone quality of unreality
26
over everything. I jumped when a dog barked, and hoped it
wasn’t running loose. I wished Stoney could be here to see
me make the snatch.
I walked into the underpass about ten minutes early,
flashlight in one hand, sugar in the other. My .38 was in my
jacket pocket, easy to reach.
It was cooler in the underpass. And darker. I leaned
against the cement wall, and waited.
And waited.
Finally, after what seemed hours, slow, cautious footsteps.
The flesh on my neck crept…all the way down to my sneakers.
A soft touch on my arm accompanied a whiny voice that
sounded familiar, “Got the stuff?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Right here.” I held the package out
but didn’t let go. “Want to see?”
“No lights. Just hand it over.”
“Cash first.”
I sounded tough but I was shaking inside. I was going to
reach for my gun as soon as he took the package, but what
was to stop him from offing me first? Maybe I hadn’t thought
this whole thing through well enough.
An envelope was thrust into my hand, and I fumbled
the string-wrapped package to him…and suddenly we were
both blinded by a powerful floodlight.
“Freeze!” That was a voice I did recognize. Stoney’s. He
and Julian stepped out of the shadows.
“That’s it,” Stoney said. “Thanks, honey. Good work. I’ll
take it from here.”
“No you won’t.” I pulled out my gun and pointed it.
“Julian’s mine.”
Stoney laughed, pulled handcuffs out of his pocket and
snapped them on Bill. “You have the right to remain silent…”
he began the litany, while I stood there with my mouth open.
We delivered Bill to the precinct, and then the three
of us, Stoney, Julian and I, went to an all-night diner for a
hamburger.
It turned out that Julian was an informer for Stoney, that’s
why he’d been paid at the warehouse, for info on his father’s
drug business at the Biker Bar. Working as Stoney’s partner,
Bill had taken the fifty thousand from the drug bust and set
Stoney up. Some partner. He also intercepted the drop bait
and came to cut himself in on another good drug deal. The
guy liked money and he didn’t care how he got it or who got
hurt in the process.
“So why’d you tape me up?” I demanded of Julian. He
really was a good-looking guy.
“Because Stoney wanted me to scare you off the case so
you wouldn’t get in trouble. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
He really looked concerned, but I wasn’t going to let him
off that easily.
“No. But you owe me a pair of nylons.”
Stoney grinned at me over his coffee cup.
“Good job, Suz. Only thing is, you picked the wrong man
to go after. But we got the right one anyway, in the end.”
I shrugged. What could I say? I’m just learning the
business. 
Marilyn Levinson
A True Gemini
Interview by Suspense Magazine
Marilyn Levinson, the president and co-founder of the Long Island chapter of Sisters
in Crime, lives on Long Island with her husband, Bernie, and their cat, Sammy has been a bookworm from the moment she
learned how to read. She inhaled Nancy Drews, Judy Boltons, and Trixie Belden every chance she got, sometimes two books
in one day. Is it any wonder she ended up writing mysteries?
Growing up in Brooklyn, Marilyn dreamed of becoming a ballerina or a writer, practicing her pirouettes and penning
short stories. Her family moved to Long Island, where she continued to write stories until her high school English teacher
discouraged her vigor.
Even though she had been turned off to writing, Marilyn continued to read voraciously in college and concentrated on
Spanish, which was her major. She studied in Mexico and Spain, determined to become fluent in the language. She taught
high school Spanish, married her dentist husband, and started a family. When their two sons were small, Marilyn found
herself drawn back to writing fiction.
The seed of her very first novel—a romantic suspense—appeared in a dream. After finishing it, she then decided on
writing a novel for children. Neither book sold. Roberta Gellis, a friend and fellow writer, said she had a knack for writing
children’s stories, so she began another juvenile novel. Three proved to be the magic number for Marilyn. Holt bought “And
Don’t Bring Jeremy,” and it received some applause. She hasn’t stopped writing since.
Marilyn has several children’s books to her
credit, including “No Boys Allowed,” and “Rufus
and Magic Run Amok.”
After years of writing books for children,
Marilyn’s turned to writing mysteries and
romantic suspense including: “A Murderer
Among Us” (2011), and her latest, “Murder in
the Air,” among others.
In Marilyn’s own words: “A writer is a writer
forever. We may have more than our share of
disappointments, but the rewards are many –
knowing you bring joy to readers; sharing the
camaraderie and support of your fellow scribes.
Writing is a way of life, one I wouldn’t relinquish
for anything.”
Suspense Magazine is proud to bring your
our exclusive interview with author Marilyn
Levinson.
27
“Writing is a process that goes on and on.”
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): In “Murder in the Air” you have the seventy-year-old remains of a teenaged boy being dug
up. Where did the idea come from?
Marilyn Levinson (ML): The idea came from a sensation that came to light about twelve years, a mere three blocks from where
we were living. A house was being gutted for renovations, and they discovered the remains of a body in a barrel or large container.
It turned out that the murdered woman had been a worker in the factory belonging to the first owner. The police went to question
him, and afterwards he committed suicide. The story, as I read it, was that after learning she was pregnant, the woman went to
talk to her boss/lover. He killed her and stowed her body in the container, which remained hidden all those years. After his family
moved away, three more families lived there, never knowing they were sharing the house with a corpse.
S. MAG.: Having read voraciously, Nancy Drews, Judy Boltons, and Trixie Belden, do you still have any of them lying around
to revisit? Or would we find something else on your bookshelves today?
ML: Alas, I gave away all my children’s mysteries, but I am an avid mystery reader. Among my favorite authors are John Hart,
Lee Child, Daniel Silva, Katherine Hall Page, Elizabeth George, Tana French, Josephine Tey, and Ngaio Marsh.
S. MAG.: What made you decide to start the Long Island chapter of Sisters in Crime?
ML: Two years ago I attended my first Malice Domestic conference. It was wonderful getting to spend face-to-face time with
many of my Sisters in Crime, friends I’ve been e-mailing for years. While I’ve been a member of the Long Island Romance Writers
for at least twelve years, the conference gave me the impetus to consider starting a Long Island chapter for mystery writers. At
Malice, I spoke to a few writers who started their chapter, and that gave me an idea of what was involved. I convinced my friend
and fellow writer, Bernardine Fagan to co-found the chapter. I announced it on the Guppies listserv, and Hank Phillippi Ryan
offered to be our first guest speaker.
S. MAG.: What do you enjoy more and what comes easier, children’s books or mysteries/romantic suspense novels?
ML: Being a true Gemini, I wear two hats and enjoy what I’m doing at the moment. When I’m writing a book for kids, I’m in
my young protagonist’s head. The same goes for when I’m writing a mystery or a romantic suspense. What I love about writing
novels, regardless of the genre, is exploring relationships and why people act the way they do, how they deal with conflict and
problems, and go about solving a murder.
S. MAG.: When your English teacher discouraged you about writing, how did you come to find your voice
again?
ML: When I was home raising two small
boys, I took various writing courses. I
learned something from every teacher.
My dear friend, Roberta Gellis, helped
me write my first novel: a romantic
suspense that has never been published.
I still think it’s a good story.
S. MAG.: Do your children do a lot of
bragging about how Mom has books
published?
ML: I doubt it. My son Michael told me
28
that before he was married, he discovered telling women he dated that his mom wrote books was a great line.
S. MAG.: If you could change one thing in the world, other than world peace what would it be?
ML: How women are treated worse than animals in so many countries of the world. I’d see to it they have equal rights with men.
S. MAG.: Does your husband get to critique and/or edit your work before you send it off to the publisher?
ML: No. He reads a book after it’s published.
S. MAG.: What one piece of advice would you give to an aspiring author who got their dreams shot down?
ML: Keep on writing. Take courses in your genre, form friendships and a critique group with other writers. Writing is a process
that goes on and on.
S. MAG.: What do you do for relaxation?
ML: Sudoku. And I read.
There you have it, Suspense Magazine’s interview with Marilyn Levinson. Whether she’s writing children’s books, adult
novels, short stories or anything else, she can bring mystery and suspense right to your doorstep. To learn more about this
author, check out her website at http://marilynlevinson.com/. 
THE SECOND NOVEL IN
THE 911 ABDUCTON SERIES
“A harrowing, edge of your seat thriller, the frightening premise sucks you in, while the twists and
turns will keep you guessing to the last breathtaking word.”
—Richard Doetsch, bestselling author of HALF-PAST DAWN
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Available Where
E-books Are Sold
29
Honorable Mention
Stripped Down
By Dean P. Turnbloom
Arthur thought the
story line for his new web comic was
hilarious. It was, after all, mostly taken
from his own life, a ne’er do well thirtysomething, he named Kevin, moves
back in with his parents when his wife
runs off with their marriage counselor,
a woman who happens to also be a
divorce lawyer, and they take him to
the cleaners in court. It’s hilarious, he
thought to himself, and with great
potential. Throw in a sarcastic talking
gerbil named Max and you’ve got a hit
comic.
Despite his enthusiasm and
optimism, Arthur was taken by surprise
when he was offered a contract by a
large online syndicate—surprised and
elated. He saw this as an opportunity to
start anew and maybe get his life back
on track, after being dumped by Susie,
his now ex-wife. Who knows, soon he
might even be able to afford to move
out of his parents’ basement.
The first week’s storyline thread
was all about the obligatory character
introduction and development—the
30
son, his parents, the foul-mouthed and
wise-cracking gerbil, the cute neighbor,
and Sheila, his ex, with her new
girlfriend, Wanda. It was everything a
new strip could hope to be, and more.
Two days into the second week he
had the gerbil in a cast after an unpacking
incident caused his cage to collapse. The
graphics were outrageously funny and
the online reaction was enthusiastic
and overwhelmingly sympathetic to
Max the gerbil. Arthur’s agent called to
tell him the reaction was the strongest
showing they ever had for a new comic
barely into its second week. The website
hits were increasing by the thousands
each day. The strip had, in a word, gone
viral.
Arthur celebrated his newfound
success by taking his parents out to
dinner. He told them about the reaction
to his strip and said that if this turned
out not to be a fluke, in a month or so
he would be able to afford to move out
on his own again. He was already being
prodded to give the okay for tee-shirts
and other trademark items to be sold.
They toasted his success and enjoyed a
wonderful evening together.
That night, after returning home,
Arthur noticed that his own pet gerbil,
Dirtbag, wasn’t in his cage. He searched
high and low for her, but she was
nowhere to be found. He was about to
give up when he heard a loud “SNAP”
from behind the refrigerator. Turning
on the light, he reluctantly looked.
There, behind the fridge was Dirtbag,
caught in a forgotten mousetrap.
“Damn!” cried Arthur and he
rushed to pick the gerbil up, though he
could tell that she was dead. He was, of
course, a bit sad, but it was, after all, just
a gerbil—a gerbil he purchased mainly
because it creeped out his ex-wife.
After disposing of Dirtbag, Arthur
went to work on the next day’s strip.
In this one, Max the Gerbil reacts
to Kevin’s dad, Frank, constantly
annoying him with a feather duster.
Max trips Frank with his crutch and
Frank ends up in a cast alongside Max,
with Kevin bringing them drinks with
little umbrellas.
Pleased with himself, he scans the
artwork into his computer, digitally
colors the frames and uploads it to his
website for the morning edition.
The following morning Arthur
was awakened by the sound of an
ambulance as it pulls up to his house.
Quickly pulling on a pair of pants, he
sprints up the stairs and finding no one
in the living room or kitchen, he darts
out the open back door. There he is just
in time to see his father being wheeled
to the ambulance, his mother crying
and following along beside.
Running up to her, he asks, “Mom,
what happened. Where are they taking
Dad?”
“Oh Arthur,” she sobbed, “Dad was
taking out the trash this morning and
tripped over your hamster cage and fell
down the back steps.”
Arthur knew this was not the time
to explain for the hundredth time
Dirtbag was a gerbil, not a hamster. “Is
Dad all right? Where are they taking
him?”
“Mercy Hospital. He’s unconscious,
but they say he is stable,” breaking down
into sobs as she climbs into the back of
the ambulance with her husband.
With
his
father
regaining
consciousness late in the afternoon,
Arthur returned home after a long day
at the hospital. His mother insisted
on spending the night at the hospital,
refusing to leave her husband’s side. His
neighbor, Lisa, was outside watering
her flower bed when he got out of the
car.
“Is your dad okay? I saw the
ambulance this morning, what
happened?”
“Yeah, looks like he’s going to be
okay, but he got banged up pretty bad?
He tripped over my damned gerbil
cage.”
“That’s too bad. Is the gerbil okay?”
“If he was, then Dad would be too,”
Arthur said, frowning.
She looked confused, and a little
irritated.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.
My gerbil had an unfortunate accident
a couple days ago. He’s dead. I set his
cage outside on the back steps last night
and my dad tripped on it this morning.”
“Oh…oohhhh,” she said slowly
looking suddenly like she’d uncovered
some bad cheese in her fridge.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, it’s none of my business,
but do you always use your family’s
misfortunes to write your comic?”
“Use my family’s…what?”
“I read your strip every day and…”
“Thanks.”
“…you’re welcome,” she smiled
coyly, then stopped smiling as she
regained her train of thought, “like I
said, I read it every day and yesterday
Max, the hamster…”
“Gerbil.”
“Hmm? Oh…oh yeah, gerbil,
whatever…anyway, Max the gerbil had
an accident. Of course, being a comic
strip you didn’t kill him, and then today
your Dad is in a cast…”
“But he’s not in a cast, he’s in the
hospital.”
“I know, but in your strip he’s in a
cast.”
Slowly it dawned on Arthur what
she was getting at, “Oh…no, you don’t
understand. Those things happened
after the strips were written.”
“After?”
“After.”
“Oh…do dee do do, do dee do do,”
she said, mimicing the Twilight Zone
theme.
“Whattaya mean?”
“It’s like…you’re making those
things happen, but when it does, it’s
worse!”
“Really? Noooo….”
“I don’t know. Just don’t put me in
any of your strips.”
“Oh darn. I was going to have the
‘cute neighbor’…” as he said this, he
noticed a blush come to her cheeks, “get
a sudden craving for Vitamin ‘K’, as in
Kevin.”
“Don’t you dare!” she laughed.
That night, as he was formulating a
strip for the following day, Arthur got
an idea. What if his comic strip did have
some magical power? Wouldn’t it be
cool if he could use it to teach Susie, his
ex, and that butch (with an ‘i’) Cyndi a
lesson. So, in this strip, Kevin gets a call
from Susie—Wanda’s pregnant! Arthur
could hardly hold his pen steady from
laughing as he drew the strip, hoping
against hope, knowing it was foolish,
that somehow, somehow…
The next morning the phone rang.
Arthur’s heart began to pound in his
chest as he tried not to think about
it being Susie, “Hello? Oh, Mom, hi.
How’s Dad?”
“He’s good, Artie, we’re checking
out this morning, but we need you to
pick us up at the hospital.”
“Sure. When do you want me
there?”
“As soon as possible, we’re just
waiting for the doctor to come by, and
then we can go.”
“All right, I’ll be there right away.”
Arthur hung up the phone, laughing at
himself, “Oh brother.”
Lisa was on her front porch as he
came out of the house, “Oh my God!”
she laughed, “You are wicked.”
Smiling, “You saw the strip?”
“Uh huh…my God, I hope you
don’t ever get pissed off at me!”
“And use my powers? Nahhh…I
save my powers to vanquish the evil
among us,” he said puffing out his
chest and putting fists on hips in mock
superhero fashion.
As he drove up to the hospital,
Arthur nearly crashed into a row of
parked cars. There, coming out of the
front door were Susie and Cyndi, or
‘Bagatha’, as Arthur sometimes referred
to her. What was alarming was that they
were carrying a baby! Arthur parked in
the loading zone and hopped out.
“Susie?”
Hearing her name, Susie looked
around, then spotted Arthur, “Arthur!”
she called, big smile on her face, and
came running over to him.
“Isn’t it wonderful? Cyndi and I
have a baby. Her name is Keira.”
“Keira?” he repeated, not knowing
what else to say, “Huh.”
31
Honorable Mention
“Look, I know you’re
probably still bitter about
the divorce, but I’m so
happy right now. I hope we
can be friends,” Susie said,
as ‘Cyndi’ squeezed her
shoulder.
“Sure. Why not,” Arthur
said, thinking to himself,
why not, you just screwed me
over royally and took every
nickel I had, but hell, let bygones be by-gones. “I’m very
happy for you both,” he lied.
“Well, gotta go. I’m picking
up my Dad.”
“Oh…” a look of sincere
concern showed on her
forehead, “I hope he’s okay.”
“Yeah, he’s fine. It was
good seeing you again,”
lying again as he walked
away.
Well that didn’t turn
out the way I’d hoped, he
thought. But then, who am I kidding, I
obviously had nothing to do with that.
As he walked inside the hospital,
he decided he was going to ask Lisa
out for dinner that night. He thought
that there’d definitely been some kind
of sparkle in her eye as they talked
recently, and she obviously was a fan of
his strip.
Dinner was a rousing success,
culminating in some surprisingly
passionate sex at Lisa’s place before she
threw him out, in good humor, to go
home and work on the next day’s strip.
Besides, she had to get up early for work
in the morning.
Along with his realization he was
falling in love with Lisa, one thing she
said stuck in his mind. She told him
she thought, in a way, the strip actually
worked again, just not in the way he
intended. But then, she said, it never
did.
As he drew his cartoon that night,
filled with venom and vodka, he
decided to test its power. Tomorrow’s
strip would have Sheila having a car
accident. It was difficult to make it
32
funny, but he did his best.
At 10:00 a.m. the following
morning, Arthur got a call from his
agent. There were some complaints
that the strip had taken a rather morbid
turn. He tried to explain that he didn’t
call a car running into a fire hydrant
morbid.
“A fire hydrant? What the hell are
you talking about?”
By now, Arthur switched on his
laptop and opened his web browser to
his strip, “Oh my God! Mitch, you gotta
believe me, I didn’t send that strip. I
swear!”
“Are you telling me you didn’t pen
that strip?”
“No…I mean, yeah…no, I penned
it,” Arthur was confused.
He had done a really horrible
cartoon of the car accident first, with
blood and gore, just to vent his hostility,
but he hadn’t even scanned it into his
computer. It couldn’t have…
“Then you did send it. My God,
Art, people don’t read your strip for
that kind of shit! They want to be
amused while they drink their coffee,
something light…”
Arthur didn’t hear the rest. He was
going into files looking at what he’d
saved to his computer the night before.
There it was. Somehow, some way he
switched strips while scanning and
not noticed. He must have really been
wiped last night.
Into the phone he mouthed,
“Yeah, Mitch, I’m sorry…won’t happen
again…” then hung up the receiver.
He hadn’t even taken his hand away
when the phone rang again.
“Look, Mitch, I said…”
“Is this Arthur Wexel?”
He didn’t recognize the woman’s
voice, “Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Mercy Hospital. Do you
know a Lisa Melbourne?”
Lisa! “Yeah, I know her…why,
what’s wrong.”
“You better come down here, Mr.
Wexel. Lisa’s been in an accident.”
“Accident? Is she okay?”
“We don’t know…” the hesitancy
in her voice said more than her words,
“she’s asked for you.”
“I’m on my way. Tell her I’m
coming.”
“We will…” but he didn’t hear the
rest, he was already out the door, phone
still off hook on the counter.
In the hallway outside Lisa’s room,
Susie and Cyndi were huddled together,
Susie crying uncontrollably. Seeing
Arthur she got up and ran to him,
“Arthur…it’s terrible…”
“What? What are you doing here?”
Arthur’s head was spinning trying
to understand what his ex-wife was
doing outside the door of his girlfriend’s
hospital room.
“I didn’t see her…” a sick feeling
began to eat its way through Arthur’s
stomach, “she darted out between cars
and…and…” crying, “oh Arthur…”
Cyndi’s now holding Susie’s shoulders,
trying to calm her.
Arthur rushed into the hospital
room. “Lisa.” She was lying there, tubes
and IVs running out of her into various
bottles.
“Art…”
“Oh my god! What did I do?”
Trying to smile, Lisa rasped, “Too
much power,” then she was gone.
#
The police standing outside the
door were talking to Arthur’s Dad, “…
and you didn’t notice anything unusual
about your son’s behavior?”
“No, nothing out of the ordinary.
Things seemed to be picking up for
him.”
Arthur’s mother was crying in the
chair by the door.
One of the detectives in the
basement commented to a second,
“This is one for the books.”
“Yeah,” said the other, “I’ve never
seen a comic strip suicide note before.”
Arthur lay dead across his computer
keyboard, his finger still on the mouse
where it just uploaded his latest strip,
which showed Kevin sprawled across
his computer keyboard, finger tip on
the mouse. 
s
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Suspe
Fall From Grace
By Richard North Patterson
It’s never a big surprise
to give a book by Richard
North Patterson a ‘five-star’
rating, when you consider
the fact his mind only seems
to create amazing stories
with intriguing plot lines
that keep readers fascinated until the
very last page.
Ben Blaine was a famous author
who spoke to his audience and always
made them happy with every book
he put on the market. However, Ben
Blaine was also a man who had secrets
he was able to keep hidden from his fans,
wife, and son—a CIA operative named
Adam. When Adam Blaine descends on
his place of birth in order to attend the
funeral and say goodbye to his father, he
soon sees that this larger-than-life figure
may not have had an ‘accident.’ In fact,
murder soon seems to be the ultimate
belief.
Ben’s fall off a cliff certainly has
a mystery surrounding it, and as the
story moves along, many dark secrets
concerning the family come to light.
Shortly after Adam arrives, he discovers
his father disinherited his mother,
brother, and uncle and given all his
property and money to his lover, Carla
Pacelli, leading Adam to wonder if Ben’s
death was at the hands of one of his own
family members.
Adam goes to work and tries to
break Ben’s last request, and as the
mysteries are uncovered, Adam must
look at the family and old friends that he
hasn’t seen for ten years as suspects.
There is so much to say about this
novel it is impossible to say anything
because every page offers a new ‘clue’
that will have readers chomping at the
bit to see how it all plays out. This is a
fantastic read for Patterson fans, but with
the varied cast of characters and scenes
that play out like an adventure movie,
this book is also a must-read for all
suspense and action/adventure readers
on the planet. A one-day read that will
keep all readers guessing!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of
“Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense
Magazine 
Kill Shot
By Vince Flynn
Have you ever found yourself in a situation where a routine operation gets fouled up in the worst way?
You’re on the run and everyone is gunning for you, in many ways literally. This is the situation in Vince Flynn’s
latest thriller, “Kill Shot.” Set mostly in Paris with quick trips to Washington, D.C. and Virginia, this novel never
lets up on the tension and the back-stabbing, and makes for a classic who-can-you-trust, bullets-blazing ride.
Mitch Rapp has been assassinating terrorists for the CIA for nearly a year. His latest target looks like
another walk in the park, but he ends up nearly getting killed and blamed for nine corpses. On the run from the
French National police, the DGSE (France’s version of the CIA), and members of his own organization, Rapp
must stay one step ahead while trying to figure out who betrayed him. Was it his handler, her boss, or someone
much higher?
Meanwhile, Francine Neville, investigator for the French National Police is running into a major roadblock
while investigating the murder of nine people in the form of a shady DGSE agent. Rapp pulls in his girlfriend
for assistance and when more people are killed, nobody is sure what happened or why. They just want Rapp to
answer some questions, if he can stay alive long enough.
I’ve never read a book where everybody tries so hard to cover their backsides as in “Kill Shot.” I was only
sure Rapp and Neville wore the white hats and wasn’t sure who to trust until the end. The action scenes are
logical and well executed. Politics are as corrupt as ever and the French aren’t excluded. Flynn has written
another winner and I’ll be hoping for another Rapp thriller sometime in the future.
Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Beta” for Suspense Magazine 
White Horse
By Alex Adams
The horror in the pages of this apocalypse book creeps up on you gradually. The action
alternates between ‘then and now.’ ‘Then’ is before the disaster and ‘Now’ is after, a world where
taxes are no longer certain, only death.
Zoe is a cleaning person at Pope Pharmaceuticals, but she’s highly educated. When her love
was killed, she sort of gave up on life and is working at a job that gives her time to think and piece
herself back together. Until the day a jar appears in her highly secure apartment.
In the Then times, fearing for her own sanity, she reluctantly goes into therapy with the attractive Dr. Rose,
later known to her as Nick. She lies about the jar, though, telling him she’s dreaming about it and the terror it
instills in her. The terror is true, but it’s no dream. Gradually, the world falls apart, and the Pandora’s Box in her
apartment may hold the key for the disfiguring disease ravaging most of the world’s population.
In the Now times, Zoe is desperately trying to make her way to Greece, carrying a letter from Nick. She
takes Lisa, a young, blind English woman, with her to get Lisa away from the abuse she’s suffering at the hands
of her remaining family, a father and an uncle. Zoe stubbornly clings to what makes her human, compassion and
humanity, and refuses to stoop to the level of the feral survivors roaming the world.
It really does look hopeless! The reader is drawn toward the intersection of the two sections through
revelation upon revelation (one of them reveals the meaning of the title), that kept me up way too late at night,
avidly racing to the thrilling end.
Reviewed by Kaye George, author of “Choke” for Suspense Magazine 
more Forensics and Fiction: Crime Writers'
Morbidly Curious Questions Answered
By D.P. Lyle, M.D.
Attention authors and morbidly curious readers! This is a (forgive the cliché) must-have. I
own a few other forensics books by Lyle. I love those and am now adding this newest one to the
forensic family on my bookshelf.
First, broaden your minds. The questions asked and answered in Lyle’s newest are not just
typical how-tos. For example, who would have thought to ask: ‘Can injected alcohol kill an already intoxicated
person?’ Here are few others I’ll share as proof positive of the ‘morbidly curious’: ‘Can beach sand be used to
connect a killer to his crime?’ ‘What substance available in 1924 would prevent blood clotting?’ ‘Before the
invention of the stethoscope, how did a physician determine if someone was dead?’ (Please don’t tell me they
guessed!) Could DNA from spontaneously combusted vampires reveal their age?
What blows me away is not the questions asked, but that Lyle is able to not only answer them, but does
so intelligently and very thoroughly. He gives examples and ideas, depending upon how it’s being used in the
author’s story. If you need to know how to make something “forensically-fictionally correct,” (adverb on adverbcringe here!) Lyle is definitely the one to go to.
As an author, this book is a very valuable resource, as are his other forensic books and Lyle himself. 8
STARS.
Reviewed by Starr Gardinier Reina, author of “Deadly Decisions” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint
of Suspense Magazine 
33
Ashes to Dust
By Yrsa Sigurdardottir
When Markus,
a son of the founding
father of the islands
is accused of murder,
his attorney Thora,
fighting the local police
and the secrets of the
island, has to prepare her case and
build an in-depth investigation in
an attempt to clear his name.
When a box with a man’s
head, severed genitals placed in
the mouth, are discovered in his
parents’ basement, along with
three other bodies, Markus has
to explain why he was sent by his
childhood friend, Alda, to recover
the box.
Unearthing a cold-case,
Thora—to get to the bottom of the
current case—has to dig into the
details of a murder that happened
before the volcanic ash covered
the island years before. She is met
with silence at every turn, folks
not wanting to dig up the past as
it would accuse a dementia victim,
dead friends, and their families,
of crimes they were covering up
to protect one of their own from
secrets of rape, and the subsequent
adopting of the child of this violent
act.
With a secret witness to the
current murder, and a suspect
fixing the scene to deliberately
throw the scent, this Icelandic
novel winds and twists its way
through the fjords of the pages
of the book until the murderer is
unearthed.
A challenging book to read as
the native names are a little hard
to follow. Perhaps if the names
had been Anglicized just a little
more, it would not have been such
a distraction, which is a shame as
overall this is a well thought out
plot with engaging characters,
villains galore, and all the twists
and turns of a great suspense novel.
Reviewed by Mark P. Sadler,
author of “Blood on his Hands”
published by Suspense Publishing,
an imprint of Suspense Magazine

34
Ashes of the Earth
By Eliot Pattison
Picture the world if you survived nuclear war. What would it be like to re-create society, to rebuild
homes from refuse and nurse the soil to yield crops once more? That is what the survivors have endured
to create the colony of Carthage.
Hadrian Boone is one of the founding fathers of the colony, but he has fallen from grace. Once a teacher, he was
removed from the position due to drunkenness and challenging the Governor resulting in a long list of prison stays.
When Hadrian’s mentor Jonah Beck is found hanging in the library while it is burning, a piece of his journal missing,
Hadrian vows to find the responsible party and bring him to justice.
As he pieces together snippets of information from Jonah’s personal journal and a gang of young orphans,
Hadrian is lead to the neighboring colony of exiles and learns there is a third colony across the great lake whose
inhabitants are convicts involved in smuggling and a conspiracy that threatens not only the very existence of Carthage
but also its inhabitants. With the help of policewoman Jori Waller and Emily, an exiled founder of Carthage, Hadrian
travels into the old world to stop the smugglers from bringing a dangerous shipment to Carthage and finally catch his
friend’s killer.
With “Ashes of the Earth,” Eliot Pattison brings us into a dystopian society still bound by class discrimination
and corrupt officials. He takes the reader on a journey that is bound to make one wonder if they could survive in such
conditions. His characters are complex and his writing masterful. Pattison has created another winner amongst his
long list of successful novels. Definitely add this to your reading list; it is well worth the cost of the book.
Reviewed by Jodi Ann Hanson for Suspense Magazine 
The Fallen
By Jassy Mackenzie
Private Investigator Jade de Jong is back in Jassy Mackenzie’s thrilling new mystery, “The Fallen.” The
tough-as-biltong gumshoe and former bodyguard hoped to have a romantic holiday with her boyfriend,
Superintendent David Patel of the South African Police, at a diving resort on the Natal coast outside
Richard’s Bay. Soon, though, those plans are sunk deep in the Indian Ocean.
Shortly after arriving at the resort, David breaks up with Jade, telling her he’s returning to his
estranged wife. Devastated, Jade finds herself drawn to another of the guests at the resort and spends the night in
his cabin. The next morning Jade finds her diving instructor, Amanda Bolton, has been butchered, while the other
instructor, Monique, has disappeared. The only item in Amanda’s cabin that could be called a clue is a postcard with
an odd line, hoping that she’s “OK after 813.”
Amanda had become a friend of Jade’s while teaching the investigator to dive. The local detective assigned to the
case has only recently moved from working missing persons and is overwhelmed by the murder. David is pressed into
service to help with the investigation, with Jade providing unofficial support. Then the killers reveal they have a new
target in their sights: Jade herself.
Mixed in with the murder mystery is Jade’s quest to find out more about her long-dead mother. She died when
Jade was barely one, during the time Jade’s police commander father was assigned to the Richard’s Bay SAP station.
When she checks at the town’s graveyard from that era for her mother’s final resting place, Jade discovers that there is
no grave there for her mother.
Mackenzie brings modern-day South Africa alive in her writing. Jade is a fascinating character: a Southern
Hemisphere cousin of Kinsey Millhone and V.I. Warshawski. There are a boatload of surprises and twists in store for
all who read this well-written book. It races to a conclusion that will leave you gasping.
Reviewed by David Ingram for Suspense Magazine 
Hush Now, Don't You Cry
By Rhys Bowen
Molly Murphy is celebrating the fact that she’s now Mrs. Molly Sullivan, and wedded to the man
of her dreams. Daniel Sullivan is a New York Police Captain. What he wants more than anything is for
his wife to give up the world of investigation now that they’re married. And, wanting to be a good wife,
Molly has promised that her P.I. days are over.
Daniel decides that it’s time for the honeymoon they never had, and takes an offer from Alderman
Brian Hanna to stay in the cottage on his Newport estate. Getting to the location and finding themselves smack dab in
the middle of a nor’easter, the Sullivans practically get washed away with the storm.
The entire Hanna family is about to descend because the head of their household has called them all there for the
weekend. Molly soon finds out that her new husband knows about this, as he tells her that the alderman wanted him
there for his ‘opinion’ when he exposed some apparent secret.
While Daniel he battles pneumonia, the alderman is killed; his body found at the bottom of a cliffside in the
Atlantic. Although Molly promised she wouldn’t investigate, the family and their secrets seem to draw her in. She must
not only figure out the back-story behind every family member, but also try to understand why she sees a child in the
turret of the mansion, laughing maniacally.
This huge home in Newport set among the wealthy 400 Club, and this ‘crazy’ family is written perfectly. You
can almost smell the salt in the sea breeze as Molly finds herself running amok between three brothers who run the
spectrum of playboy to angry business partner, a woman who’s still reeling from the death of a child who met her fate
at the bottom of the same cliffs that the alderman did, and a household staff hiding a huge secret. Is this Irish clan
helping Molly find the killer, or is there a traitor in their midst? A truly invigorating tale!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine 
Capitol Murder
By Phillip Margolin
In “Capitol Murder”—the third book in his Washington Trilogy—Phillip Margolin’s characters
Dana Cutler and Brad Miller are once again involved in facing off against evil plots both within
and outside of the United States government. While terrorists plan to blow up FedEx Field near
Washington, D.C., Brad and Dana discover a money trail that finances the terrorists and may lead right
back to the halls of Congress.
Margolin’s characters leap off the page and pull you into the action. Besides Brad and Dana, the author
populates the book with individuals who are pathetic, terrifying, and foolhardy as well as down-to-earth and smart,
but they are all frighteningly human.
Dana and her friend Ginny, a lawyer for the Justice Department, struggle with ethical and moral dilemmas
as they become more deeply involved in the terrorism case. They accept jobs that may further their careers, but it
soon appears that both of them are being used by their bosses for their own political ends. The two women and
Brad learn more than they want to know about the sexual activities of a United States Senator, and who may be
blackmailing him because of these activities.
At the same time, a serial killer has escaped from custody in Oregon and may be in Washington, D.C. While
Dana and Brad recognize the killer’s M.O. from Brad’s experiences with him in Oregon, they have no idea why he
might be in Washington. Does he want to help them or kill them?
In a novel peopled with terrorists, spies, and power hungry government officials, “Capitol Murder” is a roller
coaster of a book. It brings to light the complicated issues involving laws regarding terrorism, and the challenges
faced by lawyers in dealing with cases in which much of the vital information is top secret. “Capitol Murder” is a
compelling story, and Margolin has the insight to combine the fiction and fact into one.
Reviewed by Kathleen Heady, author of “The Gate House” for Suspense Magazine 
The Blind Spy
By Alex Dryden
Which of the spies in this novel is really blind? Author Alex Dryden’s “The Blind Spy” is
populated with spies and counter-spies working for the United States, Russia, Ukraine, and most of all
for themselves. The story is set primarily in Ukraine, as a post-Cold War Russia is trying to reclaim its
former satellites, particularly Ukraine, with its rich farmland and abundant natural resources.
Anna Resnikov, an ex-KGB colonel, who has been the protagonist in Dryden’s previous thrillers, risks her life
to travel to Ukraine, where Russian agents would like nothing better than to capture her and return her to Russia.
While there, she discovers her childhood connection to a Russian spy once known as Balthasar. Billionaire Burt
Miller, ex-CIA and now head of his own espionage operation called Cougar, backs Anna as she returns to Ukraine
to thwart Russian plans to destabilize the region. However, Miller seems to have a “blind spot” concerning Cougar
agent Logan Halloran, who has betrayed Anna more than once. With personal as well as political motivations,
agents on all sides maneuver through the twists and turns of a complex plot which ultimately lead to the truth
about “the blind spy.”
“Alex Dryden” is the author’s pseudonym, and he has broad experience in Russia both before and after the end
of the Soviet Union. His knowledge makes the novel all the more believable as he draws the reader into a world that
most of us can barely believe is real. In the story, the unbelievable becomes believable, but it is easy to get lost in
the characters motivations which only become clear as we wade through scenes of terror, and scenes of terrifying
ordinariness that serve to add to the tension.
BURIED IN a Book
By Lucy Arlington
This is the first book by Lucy Arlington and I thoroughly enjoyed it! It has a depth and breadth of
character that makes it more than just a “beach book,” in my estimation.
Lila Wilkins is a newspaper journalist in her mid-forties who is the sole support of her teen-aged
son. So, when the newspaper lays her off, Lila has to find another job, like yesterday! Her mother,
Althea, the local psychic, offers to help, so they move into her house, and put her Lila’s house on the
market. Luckily, Lila quickly finds a paid internship with A Novel Idea, a firm of literary agents. On her first day, a man
who appears to be a vagrant dies in the reception area. The man’s name is Marlette and Lila soon discovers there is a
fascinating story about Marlette Robbins that leads her to discover that the man was formerly a respected member
of local society. Her questions continue as she becomes a target, and Lila realizes that someone is determined to
keep the truth about Marlette and his infamous manuscript hidden.
Lila makes several new friends, including Sean Griffiths—a local detective—whose blue eyes see more than
Lila might like. As Lila discovers the truth, she discovers that life renews itself, there’s always hope for the future,
and that romance isn’t such a bad thing. A move to a new house, a new job, and a new man are her rewards for
taking a stand to defend a man who could no longer defend himself.
Lucy’s characters are fun and colorful and the story was complicated enough so that I didn’t lose interest, but
not so complicated that I had to struggle to keep up. I enjoyed this book immensely, and I look forward to the next
book in the series, “Every Trick in the Book.”
Congratulations, Lucy, on a superb first effort, and I wish you’d hurry up and get the next book in the series
out! I can’t wait to find out what Lila’s up to next time!
Reviewed by Holly Price, author of the soon to be released, “At Death’s Door” for Suspense Magazine 
Scorpion Betrayal
By Andrew Kaplan
Andrew Kaplan’s hero Scorpion
returns in a new thriller.
Scorpion (real name:
Nick Curry) was raised
by Bedouins after his
oil worker father was
killed by terrorists. He’d
attended Harvard and
served in the Delta Force
before being recruited by the CIA.
Now an independent contractor, he’ll
need every skill he possesses to catch
a terrorist who is a mirror image of
Scorpion.
The terrorist, known only as
the Palestinian, has a meeting with
the general in charge of the Egyptian
Security Services in a coffee shop
in Cairo. Within a few minutes, the
general and his entourage are dead,
and the Palestinian has escaped. The
CIA picks up worrisome whispers
that the Palestinian is planning
multiple attacks on the U.S. that will
take place soon. The intelligence is
credible enough to send the Deputy
Director of the CIA’S Clandestine
Service halfway around the world
to recruit Scorpion to stop the
Palestinian. They have no real name
for him, no background, no pictures,
only a fragmented recording of the
Cairo meeting. Scorpion’s only back
up in this chase is Rabinowich, the
CIA analyst and computer genius he’s
worked with before.
In Lebanon, Scorpion picks up
the first evidence of a trail. He follows
it through the Middle East and into
Europe, facing deadly encounters
at almost every turn. And while he’s
trying to catch up to the Palestinian,
the terrorist is moving ahead with his
plans to rain down fire and pestilence
on both the United States and Europe.
In this deadly pas de deux, hunter and
hunted become relative terms as each
man senses the other closing in.
In his pursuit, Scorpion
becomes involved with a beautiful
German Muslim television reporter
who’s known for denouncing the
conservative extremists whom she
feels defile her Islamic beliefs. But is
she an ally, or is she a threat?
In this excellent sequel to
“Scorpion,” Kaplan keeps the action
rushing forward at a lightning pace,
with constant twists and turns. His
style first matches the best work of
the late Robert Ludlum, and then
surpasses it.
Reviewed by David Ingram for
35
No Return
By Brett Battles
While an L.A. film crew
was busy putting in a day’s work
for the Close to Home travel
series, they witness the horrible
crash of an F-18 Navy fighter
plane. Wes Stewart, the crew’s
cameraman, rushes to the scene
of the crash to help extricate the
pilot. Unable to free the pilot
because of a jammed restraint,
Wes runs to get a knife to cut the
harness, but when he turns to
head back the plane bursts into
flames and the pilot is killed.
The morning after the
crash Wes wakes up in his hotel
that happens to be in the city of
Ridgecrest, his childhood home.
It has been seventeen years since
he left. He would not have been
back if the episode weren’t being
shot at this location. Waiting to
meet an old high-school friend
Lieutenant Commander Lars
Anderson at an old haunt, Wes
picks up the day’s paper and
reads the article on the crash.
Immediately he is thrown for a
loop when what he reads is not
what happened. The photo of
the pilot was not the guy he saw
in the plane and the article said
the pilot was dead on impact.
What was going on, why was the
Navy misleading the public?
Wes, along with his
girlfriend Anna, start digging
into the crash and find evidence
of a cover-up that involves
Commanding officers and
a covert operation testing
a weapons system called
SCORCH. Wes and Anna begin
finding their rooms ransacked,
footage of the crash and
computers stolen and they are
being followed whenever they
leave the hotel. When members
of the film crew go missing and
Lars gets thrown into military
prison, the situation becomes
a fight for their lives as well as
justice for the downed pilot.
Brett Battles writes a fastpaced story that takes the reader
on a rollercoaster ride through
the Sierra desert and leaves them
gasping for breath trying to
keep up with his brilliant cast of
characters. Battles has a gettingto-the-point style of writing that
I found engaging. This was the
first of his books I have read and
it most certainly won’t be the
last.
Reviewed by Jodi Ann Hanson
for Suspense Magazine 
36
Resuscitation
By D.M. Annechino
Want a story to get your heart pumping? Or maybe to stop pumping? Don’t let “The Resuscitator”
get his hands on you or your heart may never beat again. Annechino will keep you turning pages. Take a
breath every now and then because your heart will need the rest.
Two years after almost dying at the hands of a serial killer, former San Diego homicide investigator
Sami Rizzo is studying to be a social worker while taking care of her ailing mother. Her live-in lover,
Detective Diaz, becomes involved in a series of gruesome murders with clues that are numerous but
don’t lead anywhere. When Diaz is forced to travel to the bedside of his dying sister, the homicide captain
recruits Rizzo back to work the cases. Weaving through lazy detectives, vague eyewitness statements, a
hard-nosed judge, and a host of personal problems, Rizzo races against time to find the killer before more people die.
Things heat up, though, when one of the killer’s targets is found alive…
This is an excellent book. Strong writing, in-depth characters. This is not just a police procedural with surface
players. These people have personal problems like everybody else. They have histories, which affect the present. Yes,
the bad guy is evil but he has so many fascinating layers. There’s some strife between Rizzo and Diaz and you actually
care what happens. Annechino gets you going with a couple of guessing games. One regarding Rizzo, you may figure
out from the start. I did. The other regarding Julian…well, I won’t spoil it.
Mr. Churchill's Secretary
By Susan Elia MacNeal
Susan Elia MacNeal’s debut novel, “Mr. Churchill’s Secretary,” is a delight both on its own and
because it’s the first book in what promises to be a fascinating series. It’s like discovering a vein of gold
that you know you can mine for years to come.
Maggie Hope is a brilliant Wellesley graduate who had to delay pursuing an advance degree in
mathematics at M.I.T. to return to England and sell her grandmother’s huge house in London. With
WWII breaking out and London threatened, no one wants to buy it. Instead, she opens its doors to five
other women: Paige, who attended Wellesley with her; Charlotte, an Irish spitfire who prefers being known as Chuck;
Sarah, a ballerina with the Sadler’s Wells troupe; and the Belle twins, Annabelle and Clarabelle.
Maggie wants to use her mathematical skills for the war effort, but her attempts to secure a position are rebuffed.
Instead, she becomes one of the secretaries working for the new Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. The position
opened when her predecessor was killed in what looked like a common mugging.
Swirling around her are plots by the IRA and German sleeper agents to cripple the war effort—plots that could
involve some of her closest friends. Maggie is also faced with the mystery of her parents’ deaths in an auto accident
when she was a baby. As she researches the event, she discovers that almost everything she’s been told is a lie.
While MacNeal hasn’t set out to write a history, her meticulous research communicates the feel of the early days
of the war splendidly. From the typists’ office in 10 Downing Street to building an Anderson bomb shelter in the back
garden to dancing at the Savoy, her prose is wonderfully evocative of that time. This period has been used before by
thriller writers such as Ken Follett and Jack Higgins, but MacNeal approaches it with a fresh viewpoint. You’ll be
waiting impatiently for the sequel to be published late this year.
Reviewed by David Ingram for Suspense Magazine 
Midnight Alley
Fashion Faux Paw
The second outing for LAPD Felony Special
detective Ash Levine is superior to the first. “Midnight
Alley” opens with Levine on a rare weekend off trying to
reconcile with his ex-wife Robin. But a politically sensitive
murder drags him back from a planned romantic weekend
to the scene of a double homicide involving the son of a
City Councilman who has a personal axe to grind with the
LAPD. Detective Levine is working the case solo and soon
discovers ties to the Russian Mob and links to an artifact
lifted from the Iraqi National Museum.
Suddenly the case is red hot and a contract killer
makes a try for Levine, but the Jewish detective prevails
due largely to time spent in Israel and a stint with the Israeli
Defense Forces. But Levine’s troubles are just beginning.
Suddenly IA is on his back and he’s suspended and facing
prosecution for the shooting of the contract killer. On his
own, Levine tries to crack the case and clear his name, but
can he do it before he ends up dead himself?
Corwin hits it out of the park with this one and
certainly leaves the reader wanting more. Personally, I
can’t wait for the next Ash Levine mystery to come out.
An exceptionally intriguing and gripping read. Five Stars
for this one.
Reviewed by Bill Craig, author of “Decker P.I. Smugglers’
Blues” for Suspense Magazine 
It’s Fashion Week in New York City, and
professional dog walker Ellie Engleman is hired for what
she thinks will be an easy job: caring for the dogs who
will model outfits that match their human models. Ellie
and her favorite canine, Rudy, are eager to see what really
happens behind the scenes of the high fashion world. It
turns out to be more than glamour and glitz, because just
as the duo is settling in, ready for some high-powered
people watching, one of the designers drops dead of
anaphylactic shock, her EpiPen useless because someone
has tampered with it.
The victim’s peanut allergy was as well known as her
ability to make enemies, so naturally there are suspects
galore. With a little help from the dead designer’s
miniature Schnauzer—did I mention that Ellie has the
uncanny ability to communicate with dogs?—and lots
of help and wisecracks from Rudy, Ellie is determined to
find out who did the dastardly deed.
Another delightful read from a real pro.
Reviewed by Susan Santangelo, author of “Moving Can
Be Murder” for Suspense Magazine
Sadly, Judi McCoy died in February 2012. But she
completed one more book in her Dog Walker series,
“Treated to Death,” which will be released in October
2012. 
By Miles Corwin
By Judi McCoy
ON Borrowed Time
By David Rosenfelt
You are living your life. You’ve attended high school and college and gone on to get a job, meet someone
special, and get married. You are living your life. But…is any of it real? Did you really do everything you’ve
remembered? Are you sure that what you are experiencing at this very moment is actually occurring? After
you’ve read David Rosenfelt’s latest novel, you may have doubts.
Richard Kilmer has found himself in this situation. He’s a magazine writer living in New York. He’s met
a wonderful woman by the name of Jen. They date and fall in love and are on a trip upstate meet her parents. He asks her
to marry him and she accepts. So perfect, right? However…on a side trip, they encounter a freak storm and have an auto
accident. Kilmer escapes relatively unharmed but Jen has disappeared. In fact, she’s disappeared completely from his life.
Nobody he talks to remembers her. Not his friends, not the person Kilmer remembers as her mother, nobody. This starts
Kilmer on a search for answers, but who can he trust. Who is real? What is real?
If you’re looking for a more detailed synopsis, you’re out of luck. You’ll have to read this novel to discover how
well Rosenfelt slowly and intensely unravels the plot, parceling out just enough information to keep you turning to the
next chapter. It’s a mystery; it’s a thriller; its realism is scary. The writing is tight and controlled and leaves an afterimage,
one fraught with questions and possibilities. “On Borrowed Time” is the kind of story that stays with you for a while…
because you may not want to forget it.
It Takes A Witch
Deadly Offer
By Heather Blake
By Vicky Doudera
From the opening scene where the new witch
on the block, Darcy Merriweather, plays a tooth fairy
to grant the wish of a local resident, I found the book
to be aptly set in the Enchanted Village in Salem,
Massachusetts. Both humorous and touching, it set the
tone for the rest of this paranormal mystery.
Darcy and her sister have only recently learned
they are “wishcrafters,” so they’re discovering the ins and outs of this
new life. As if that weren’t complicated enough, their aunt’s suitor is
found hovering over a dead body in an alley. There are also Darcy’s
worries regarding her sister, Harper, and her propensity to get into
trouble while dealing with controversial causes. Then there is Darcy’s
growing attraction to Nick Sawyer, the man who has been hired as a
security expert to catch a thief who is threatening the town’s precious
tourism business. And that’s not the town’s only problem. There
seems to be a small plague of unsightly skin conditions threatening
the local population.
That’s a lot to deal with. And author Heather Blake does just
that, both competently and magically. I don’t usually read books with
paranormal aspects, but I’m glad I ignored that instinct and read this
one. Whether to escape from snowy weather or simply the winter
doldrums, I recommend the magical delight of “It Takes a Witch.” I
am definitely looking forward to a sequel.
Reviewed by Kari Wainwright for Suspense Magazine 
In “Deadly Offer,” the sudden
death of a vineyard owner brings
about a number of offers for the
property, and plenty of suspicion
about the owner’s death. The cast
is large, the plot is clever, and the
villain is hard to detect.
There is quite a bit of
interesting detail included about winemaking
and, as you read, you might feel as if you are
in the heart of the Southern California wine
country yourself. The author does a good job of
describing the scenes and bringing them to life.
Along with the main plot, a quiet subplot
exists, where Realtor, Darby Farr, worries about
her good friend, who may be in trouble after
following his heart into a relationship with a
woman he barely knows. This subplot has great
potential and I think the author could have done
more with it.
Although there is a good level of mystery
woven in to the story, at times the pace felt a
little slow. The ending was unexpected and quite
unique.
Reviewed by Jen Hilborne, author of “No Alibi”
The Basement
By Stephen Leather
A fast-paced thriller that is not only a quick read—due to its length—but because of the seamlessly
written alternating viewpoints that draw the reader in deeper and deeper into the psyche of the serial killer.
Each section gives a little more information that you don’t piece together until it’s too late.
Marvin Waller is a screenwriter—he is always creating the next best movie. The only problem: he can’t
get anyone to buy into his work. He knows it’s because of the secretaries, always getting in the way of his
success. He may have stumbled upon the next best thing: a killer of a plot. The only problem is Waller has become the
prime suspect in a serial killer investigation, and he fits the profile perfectly for Detective Turner and Detective Marcinko.
Sarah Hall is a mother and wife. She wakes up chained to a bed, the latest target of a serial killer…a serial killer who
doesn’t leave a trace of themselves or their victims. Locked in a small room with no hope for escape, every misstep on her
behalf resulting in an electric shock, Sarah’s time is running out.
Forced to solve a crime with no real evidence or clues, Detectives Turner and Marcinko must base all of their
evidence on the profile provided by the FBI. With Waller in their sights, they move in, keeping the pressure on the whole
time. Is Waller the serial killer? Is Sarah Hall still alive? Is it wise to push the buttons of their only suspect? All storylines
converge together for an ending that leaves no one untouched.
A true finish-in-one-sitting read. Stephen Leather keeps the story moving and leads the reader down many paths,
only to reveal that the darkest paths have not yet been explored. Recommended for anyone interested in the serial killer
genre, “The Basement” is a much welcome addition.
Reviewed by Cassandra McNeil for Suspense Magazine 
The Drowning
Girl
By Caitlin R. Kiernan
Is there an eldritch, elder
magic in the waterways and
soil surrounding the ancient
city of Providence, Rhode
Island? With this novel, Caitlin
R. Kiernan joins a continuum
of writers, including Edgar
Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft,
who find terror and ghostly
goings on in that which lies
beneath cobbled streets,
abandoned mills, and placid
dark waters.
Like her mother and
grandmother before, twentysomething Imp Phelps lives
with schizophrenia. Her
medications help her live an
almost normal life. She has
her paintings and a job at an
art supply store to keep her
busy. But time is out of joint
for Imp and she frequently
reminds us that facts are not
the same as truth. Imp met
Eva Canning, who is a shewolf or a mermaid or a siren
or perhaps only human, for
the first time in July and for the
first time in November. Her
lover Abalyn has left her, will
leave her, and will never leave
her. The story slips sideways
and turns on itself and on its
narrator, bringing everything
said into question and it uses
lies in the guise of fiction to
uncover truth.
Central to the story is
Imp’s relationship to a one
hundred-year old painting,
“The Drowning Girl” and
the many permutations and
reflections of its theme she
finds in life. Imp is fascinated
by the many ways in which we
can drown…metaphorically
and physically, from the
horrific underwater tugging
of an unseen creature pulling
us to our death, to the sublime
welcoming embrace of cool,
clear water that washes away
our pain.
Caitlin R. Kiernan’s novel
is ever powerful, often poetic
and at times profane. It takes us
into the mind of a sympathetic
protagonist for whom reality is
a slippery subject and invites
us to share her fractured world.
Reviewed by Andrew MacRae
37
The Big Cat
Nap
By Rita Mae Brown
and Sneaky Pie
Brown
It’s incredible
that
“The
Big
Cat Nap” (love the title!) is
the
twentieth
anniversary
“collaboration” between tiger cat
Sneaky Pie Brown and her human,
Rita Mae Brown. This delightful
series has more than 4.5 million
copies in print, and has frequently
been on the New York Times
bestseller list. With good reason.
The twentieth adventure
begins with a series of inexplicable
car accidents in the picturesque
town of Crozet, Virginia. They’re
all attributed to driver error, but
lead character and self-described
motor head Mary Minor “Harry”
Haristeen—who admits she’s too
curious for her own good—thinks
that’s too coincidental. One of
the accidents involves the truck
belonging to Harry’s good friend,
the very Reverend Herbert Jones.
As a favor, Harry offers to drive
Herb to ReNu Mechanics to pick
up the repaired vehicle.
When Harry and Herb
arrive at the garage, there’s no one
there—except the dead body of
mechanic Walt Richardson. And
Walt did not die a pretty death.
Enough said. And, strangely, none
of the other mechanics in the auto
shop seem particularly broken up
about his death. Then two more
ReNu mechanics are killed. ReNu
is a dangerous place to work!
Harry suspects there’s a link
between the deaths of the ReNu
mechanics and that of a young
woman tragically killed in a car
accident several weeks before.
With the help of her animal
friends: Tucker the corgi, and cats
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, Harry
unmasks the killer, and almost gets
herself killed in the process.
“The Big Cat Nap” is another
great read from a great writing—
ahem—team. And I heard a hot
rumor that during the summer
of 2012, Sneaky Pie will run for
President of the United States
in a special novel that will lead
into election season. I, for one,
can’t wait for that one. Sneaky Pie
already has my vote!
Susan Santangelo, author of
“Moving Can Be Murder” for
38
Sidney Sheldon's: Angel of the Dark
By Tilly Bagshawe
The line: “This is an edge-of-your-seat book” was, quite simply, created for Sidney Sheldon.
Featuring killing, the telling of lots of lies, and some very lustful scenes from the archives of ‘the master,’
Bagshawe has written the words using Sheldon’s unrivaled style of writing.
A multi-millionaire art dealer, Andrew Jakes is savagely killed in his Hollywood home. His verymuch-younger spouse is then raped and beaten, as the brutal enemies continue on to steal the art and
jewels from the scene. To the police, the crime seems most likely to be a robbery gone bad, and when no likely
suspects are found, the case is moved to the ‘cold-case’ files and the only witness—the young wife—disappears…
It is now ten years later and Andrew Jakes’ estranged son, Matt Daley, decides to dig around in the facts of his
father’s death, making some unusual discoveries. In his research, he finds three killings that are identical to his father’s
that have taken place in various parts of the world. Each victim was approximately the age of Matt’s deceased father,
their young wives were ravaged, and in each case, the recent widow donated her inherited wealth to a children’s
charity. After much digging by Matt, the evidence points to a single woman that the police have named the “Angel of
Death” who assumes secret identities and stays just one step ahead of the authorities.
Matt finally hooks up with former Los Angeles detective, Danny Maguire, who had investigated the murder of
Matt’s father and has now become a member of Interpol. The two men join forces to catch this ‘Angel,’ and it seems
that the fates are on their side as she resurfaces once again and gets ready to strike.
The ending is a great big surprise for the reader, the pace is action-packed to the extreme, and for any Sidney
Sheldon fan—this is a truly early Christmas gift!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Until Next Time” for Suspense Magazine 
Secret of the White Rose
By Stefanie Pintoff
People vs. Drayson is the only headline in 1906 New York City. Everyone’s talking about the horrific
anarchist who planted a bomb in a horse carriage in order to take out Andrew Carnegie…make him
pay for his ill treatment of U.S. Steel workers. Instead, the bomb only took innocent lives on the street,
including that of a child. Judge Hugo Jackson is in the center of this storm as he presides over the case.
Every day he receives a new threatening letter and he’s becoming truly terrified.
Alistair Sinclair is one of the judge’s friends, and a professor who knows all about the criminal mind and
spends his time analyzing the ‘monsters’ of society. But when he shows up unannounced on Detective Simon Ziele’s
doorstep in the middle of the night, this story absolutely explodes with excitement.
Simon knows Alistair well, but when he tells him that Hugo has been murdered, Simon tries to explain that he
can’t help. But unable to turn Alistair down, Simon finds himself a part of the case whether he likes it or not.
The clues left behind by the killer are extremely odd: a bible and a white rose surround the body that has been
sliced from ear to ear. Simon soon finds himself on a hunt trying to uncover what’s actually happening. When Alistair
disappears and another dead judge is found, Simon must put the puzzle together, or risk losing his career.
This is truly an outstanding mystery, and the vibrant color of 1900s New York is so rich that readers will want
to stay there. From the glorious wealth to the criminal element to the ‘good hearted’ anarchists who are just trying to
receive decent wages and housing, every aspect comes together to form a truly amazing story. In addition, the morals
and messages are loud and clear as the reader takes a look at how two ‘people’ can see one issue extremely different.
After all, is ‘an eye for an eye’ the only real justice in the world? You decide!
Within the Flames
By Marjorie M. Liu
Marjorie M. Liu has created an original and imaginative world, populated by those who have
unique and sometimes terrifying powers. The rest of the world is somewhat impervious to those special
beings that live in secret and protected places, but they are there.
Lyssa is the last known of her kind, a shape-shifting being, who has the ability to change into a
dragon at will. Eddie is a pyrokinetic, who suffers from control issues with his abilities. He has joined the Dirk and Steele
Agency and is given the assignment to protect Lyssa from those who would kill her. Years before, Lyssa’s family was
murdered, and she hides below the streets of Manhattan, in old, forgotten subway tunnels. She is an artist, who
manages to make a living, but Lyssa hides from everyone. Lyssa’s body is slowly changing…permanently. Into what
she really is. She must hide to keep herself safe.
A cabal of witches are looking for her…to both kill her and to gain her power. Eddie must protect her, while
maintaining his emotional distance. Eddie’s issue is that, when his emotions are involved, he creates fires: big fires,
hot fires, fierce fires.
How can he keep Lyssa safe, while battling his own issues? How can Lyssa stay safe, despite the fact that she tries
to discover why young women are going missing? Who is taking these women? And, why? Lyssa dreams of Eddie’s
eyes: deep, searching, exciting. Why do Eddie’s eyes create such a reaction in her heart?
As they work to discover who is behind the disappearances, and who is stalking Lyssa, love grows between
them. Do they have a future together? Can they defeat the deadly coven who is stalking Lyssa?
Liu’s exciting and heart-stopping climax will leave you breathless for the answers. The good news? Liu is a
prolific writer and there are more than ten other books, which will take you into her magical and imaginative world.
This is a super read that challenges your imagination in every chapter.
Reviewed by Holly Price, author of the soon to be released, “At Death’s Door” for Suspense Magazine 
The Widow's Daughter
By Nicholas Edlin
At the beginning of World War II, Peter Sokol becomes a medical officer in the Marines. After
training, Sokol is sent to Auckland, New Zealand to work in a hospital. Soon after his arrival, Peter
becomes involved with a British family and falls in love with their daughter, Emily. But there is
something odd about Emily’s family, including her guarded and distrustful mother, and her brother
Oscar, who can be extremely violent.
When Oscar meets a deadly end, Peter is accused and goes AWOL. As he works to establish his innocence,
he notices Emily is not the charming, vivacious woman she seemed to be. Mysterious things begin to occur as
this WWII tale becomes linked with a life on the California Coast in the 1970s, where Sokol lives.
A new book is released—written by a Marine—that tells the story of what Peter believes is his own life. The
story weaves back and forth from modern-day California to wartime New Zealand.
The author certainly knows his subject and the conversations and attitudes of the New Zealanders versus
the U.S. military are riveting. There are enjoyable aspects, but the ‘heaviness’ of the read can be truly confusing
at times. Before the reader can really get to know the principal characters, the book automatically moves on to
another location or event. Although this keeps the pace moving and adds to the mystery of it all, by the time
readers get to the final scenes there’s so much to absorb it makes the story difficult.
The romance factor is very well done and the in-depth look at how errors in judgment—trusting some who
do not deserve that trust—shows how lives can be altered in very unforgiving ways. The writer gives us a story
full of mystery with dark secrets to explore, but the reader definitely needs to immerse themselves in every page
in order to understand the conclusion the author is trying to achieve.
Once Bitten
By Stephen Leather
Stephen Leather, one of the United Kingdom’s most successful thriller writers, has brought
us another great tale of suspense. Leather keeps us eagerly turning pages as we follow Dr. Jamie
Beaverbrook, a psychologist working for the Los Angeles Police Department. He thinks he has seen
it all, until now.
Perhaps it was the full moon that brought out all the crazies one night. Either way, Beaverbrook
soon finds himself part of a world he never believed existed.
When a young woman, Terry Ferriman, is brought in for questioning, for a murder that involves her drinking
of a dead man’s blood, Beaverbrook suddenly finds himself wondering if he truly is worthy of the nickname he
has earned: Professor Van Helsing, the vampire hunter, because of his unsettling interview with her.
Attracted to the strange girl, who speaks more confidently, more maturely than most teenage girls he
has known, Beaverbrook becomes intrigued. When he certifies her sane, she is soon allowed to return home,
but later appears at Beaverbrook’s front door to thank him for his help in her release. Then it isn’t long before
Beaverbrook, recently divorced falls for her.
Increasingly fascinated with Terry, Beaverbrook begins his own investigation into her story uncovering
interesting clues that help him piece together the puzzle that has had him stumped from the beginning. Later,
when shadowy government officials call him in for interrogation regarding their capture of several modern-day
vampires, then Beaverbrook must decide whose side he is really on. Theirs…or the woman he loves?
Leather has used every writing skill at his disposal to write a superb tale, conjuring up original ideas and
unusual characters. Interweaving his unique characters with his incredible knowledge of crime and scientific
know-how, Leather has created an incredible thrill ride that it’s sure to knock your socks off.
Reviewed by Lynne Levandowski for Suspense Magazine 
The Innocent
By David Baldacci
Will Robie is an assassin working under the auspices of the U.S. Government to rid the world
of America’s enemies. A very cool customer who knows that his life isn’t worth a nickel most days,
Will lives in the shadows until his next assignment is received.
Soon one comes along that keeps Will very close to his home base of Washington, D.C. This is
one of those assignments that seems to ‘smell bad’ from the very beginning, and when Will finally comes faceto-face with his target, he ends up doing the worst thing a paid assassin can do: he refuses to take out the victim
and decides not to complete his mission.
Soon Will finds himself at the receiving end of the hunt. His own people are after him and he must employ
every skill he’s ever learned to stay alive. After aborting the mission, a young runaway who has escaped from
her foster home crosses paths with the failed assassin, and she’s in deep trouble. Her parents were killed in her
presence and her own life is now in danger. Again, running against type, Will rescues her from a bus crash that
turns out to be an attempt on both their lives, and they set out to try and solve the mystery of who the actual
target is, and who is behind it all.
As time moves on, Will finds that he can’t walk away from this girl and begins to believe that she’s dead
center in the middle of a huge cover-up that began back in the first Gulf War. The duo finds themselves imbedded
in a plot that reaches all the way up to the Oval Office, and Will has to come out of the shadows to accept help
from friends who are working to exonerate him.
This book is a definite one-day, ‘edge-of-your-chair’ read, with an ending that is a complete surprise.
One of the best Baldacci’s since “Absolute Power,” this is one that will have all suspense readers enthralled.
The School of
Night
By Louis Bayard
Alonzo Wax has
taken his own life and his
friends have gathered to say
goodbye. Apparently, this
scholar and Elizabethan
collector decided to jump
off a bridge, leaving a final
message with certain people, including
his once close friend, Henry Cavendish
that read: The School of Night is back in
business.
Henry is amazed as he sits with
the funeral party thinking over his past
relationship with Alonzo, wondering
why such an energetic man would simply
call it a day. When a woman dressed
in scarlet walks into the venue, Henry
is even more intrigued, but before he
can get to the female, he is waylaid by
a man named Bernard Styles. He, too,
is a rich collector and tells Henry that
he wants a letter back written by a poet
that Alonzo stole from him. Henry is,
after all, Alonzo’s executor and Bernard
wants the letter found and returned
immediately.
The School of Night is spoken of,
as Bernard offers background on this
16th century group who were the most
notable men of their time; men who
got together to discuss everything that
they weren’t allowed to discuss in public
(being under royal rule) without having
their heads cut from their bodies. Even
Shakespeare mentions The School of
Night in his own plays.
If the letter is real, it could
rejuvenate Henry’s own career. Henry
soon finds himself looking at murder,
revenge, and the woman in scarlet who
appears once again to let Henry know
about her ‘visions’ of Thomas Harriot—
the leader of The School of Night—and
a treasure that may still exist.
From the codes to the ciphers;
from dual stories that offer the reader
a look at what actually did occur in
the 16th century, to a treasure hunt of
mammoth proportions, this bestselling
author has done it once again. The
mystery is unsolvable, the characters are
fascinating, and just when you believe
all is figured out, yet another door opens
that keeps this book moving quickly
from beginning until end. A fantastic
read!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of
“Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense
Magazine 
39
The Thief
By Fuminori Nakamura
The Thief is
a young man who
picks pockets for a
living. He’s good at
his job and, like Robin
Hood: he takes from
the wealthy and has a
tendency to help others who are
in need.
The Thief has a harsh
background. In fact, this is a young
man who was once ‘tricked into’
a job for a man by the name of
Kizaki. He was to be part of a crew
that helped rob a ‘high-powered’
individual. Kizaki is frightening.
A cold man who wouldn’t think
twice about tearing someone apart
if they did him wrong. After the job
ended, the thief ran from Tokyo,
only to find himself returning
to track down his friend who
disappeared after Kizaki got his
hands on him.
Soon Kizaki is back in the
thief ’s life, and gives him a job
that includes three very small
duties. He must steal a cell phone,
a small item from the ‘mark,’ and
put both into a mailbox. Stealing
an envelope that the victim keeps
sewn inside his jacket is the last
job, then—and only then—the
thief is free. Add in a boy who the
thief wants to save from getting
into trouble and you have a story
that focuses on a thief with a
conscious.
One of the best things about
this story is the amazing detail that
is given by the author. Whether
the thief is inside a building, on the
train, or simply staring at people
in passing, he misses nothing.
Capturing every minute detail of
his ‘marks,’ the thief always sees
every facet of his surroundings as
well, so that no mistakes are made.
An extra storyline in this small,
but extremely well-written tale,
is when the thief speaks about
his love, and the “tower” he sees
when he relives moments of his
past where he wished to meet the
pinnacle of success. A pinnacle
that never came. Readers will be
enthralled by this story that offers
an extremely surprising ending.
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author
of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for
40
The Forever Girl
By Rebecca Hamilton
“The Forever Girl” should come with a warning: “This book will transform you into an Urban Fantasy
fan,” After reading the Twilight books, I decided that I am not a fan of romance between humans and
creatures of the night. I like my vampires full of bite and without compassion.
What makes “The Forever Girl” by Rebecca Hamilton a cut about the average urban fantasy is the
writing. She has a talent for weaving words. “I tilted my chin closer to his face, the distance between our lips shrinking
to nothing more than a breath.” That is a neat phrase. Throw in intriguing plot twists and you have a good read no
matter your genre taste.
Sophia Parsons has a lot on her mind. She’s a practicing Wiccan and a cult in Belle Meadow wants her out of the
community, vilifying her at every opportunity. Then there is the hissing noise and voices in her head that won’t go
away. She discovers one of her relatives in the sixteen hundreds was slaughtered as a true witch, which sets her on a
path to discover how this heritage is impacting her modern day life.
Her search takes her one night to Club Flesh, encouraged by her friend, Ivory, who tells her a friend there
possesses an antique book which may help. There she meets Charles—a mysterious and seductive man—and is later
chased by strange creatures through the forest and almost killed. She learns that these are the cruor, vampire types,
who’ve existed secretly for thousands of years.
As the romance between Charles and Sophia grows—and trust me, it is page-turning—it is clear that Sophia’s
past and present are going to collide in a dangerous way.
Hamilton explains that “The Forever Girl” grew from the characters who took over the story. She says, “As I
explored the mythology of this world more and more, the trilogy soon turned into a series.”
It was a wise move by this first time author to follow her characters. The fantasy world is rich, the characters
fascinating, and Hamilton’s skill very capable of holding a reader’s interest through many more books of Sophia’s
journey.
Reviewed by Susan May for Suspense Magazine 
The Potter's Field
By Andrea Camilleri
Translated from the Italian, “The Potter’s Field” is the latest in the series featuring Inspector
Montalbano, a police detective in the fictional town of Vigáta, Sicily.
The story begins when a local man finds a dismembered body in a plastic bag in an area called “‘u
critaru,” which is Sicilian for “the clay-field.” Even as the police officers fight a driving rainstorm to reach
the site where the body was found, their personality quirks illustrate the relationships of these men. Montalbano must
identify the victim, find the killer, and deal with personality conflicts in the police department at the same time. The
first of those tasks turns out to be comparatively simple, due to skillful forensic work when a dental bridge is found in
the victim’s stomach.
The case becomes much more involved when the victim is found to have connections to a local Mafia boss. To
complicate matters further, one of Montalbano’s officers has been in a particularly bad humor for some time, and his
romantic entanglements also have a bearing on the case.
With all these pressures going on in his life, Montalbano begins to dream of retirement, but he is able to see
through the complexities and identify the betrayals, as he connects the potter’s field where the body was found to the
Bible and the betrayal of Judas for thirty pieces of silver.
This is the first in this series that I have read, and I felt that I missed out not knowing the background. However,
Camilleri’s descriptions of the foibles of the police officers often had me laughing out loud, even as I read the gruesome
details of the crime. Only an author with true knowledge of Sicilian life could create a story which reflects the unusual
setting, as well as the human weaknesses and idiosyncrasies that are universal.
The Inquisitor
By Mark Allen Smith
This book is a smack between the eyes. It grabs you and drags you on a wave of action until the
thrilling conclusion. Mark Allen Smith marks his place in the thriller genre with ease.
Close up on the protagonist Geiger, a man with a talent for getting answers and knowing if he is
given a lie or the truth. Geiger is at the top of his game as an “information retrieval” specialist. He is
sought out by the most powerful people to extract confessions and secrets. Those around him, including
his business partner Harry Boddicker, constantly try to figure Geiger out. A quiet man, with a guarded manner, who
speaks with a voice that is silken and without inflection, he rarely blinks and walks with just a little lean. Geiger works
with a “code of ethics” in which he extracts information in any way he can, avoiding the drawing of blood and his
number one rule to never work with children, ever.
Boddicker brings a “rush job” to Geiger. The client has a small window of time to find out where a valuable stolen
item is located. Against his better judgement, Geiger accepts, though he normally requires diligent investigation into
a job before agreeing to take it on. When the client arrives, Geiger finds him demanding the interrogation of a twelveyear-old boy. Going into protection mode, Geiger takes the boy and whisks him off to the safety of his loft apartment
until he can figure out what to do.
The inquisitor now finds himself on the other end of the retrieval business. He has to find the reason the client
needs the information from the boy before he, the boy, and his partner become victims of Geiger’s brutal opponent.
Mark Allen Smith has crafted a debut novel that puts him in the big leagues. He has added an unexpected spin
to the thriller that makes this a must read.
Redemption
By Kate Flora
“Redemption,” the third in the Joe Burgess mystery series by author Kate Flora, is one of her very
best so far, which is saying a lot. Flora is also the author of seven Thea Kozak mysteries, a suspense
thriller, and true crime book, “Finding Amy,” which has been filmed for TV and is being considered
for a movie. Quite an impressive list of credits for Flora, who divides her time between Maine and
Massachusetts and also teaches writing for Grub Street in Boston.
In “Redemption,” Portland, Maine detective Joe Burgess is trying hard to live a normal, familycentered life with his new love and two foster children. Until two young boys flag down his car and tell
him they think they’ve spotted a body floating in the water. Unfortunately, Joe is able to identify the body—an old
friend from Vietnam days, Reggie Libby, a.k.a. Reggie The Can Man. Reggie’s life since those long-ago days has
been a continuous downward spiral, spent in an alcoholic haze, collecting cans and bottles he redeems for spending
money.
At first, it looks like Reggie fell into the water accidentally. But the medical examiner thinks otherwise. Who
would want to murder a homeless man? The question haunts tough cop Joe Burgess, and he decides that he owes
it to Reggie to find out.
Flora draws us into Reggie’s world, past and present, with a fast-moving plot, terse dialogue, and a cast of
believable, flawed characters. This one is an emotional roller coaster, right to the last page. And it left me wondering
whose redemption the book was really about: Reggie The Can Man or Detective Joe Burgess. Either way, this is a
must-read for mystery lovers everywhere.
Reviewed by Susan Santangelo, author of “Moving Can Be Murder” for Suspense Magazine 
Raven Strike
By D. Brown and J. DeFelice
In the throes of a covert operation in Africa, the unthinkable happens: a top-secret aircraft the
CIA is testing has crashed and must be recovered before it falls into enemy hands.
Colonel Danny Freah is head of the special ops team tasked with the recovery of Raven the UAV
that was downed. Freah and Nuri Lupo, top CIA operatives are the first to arrive in Africa to meet with
Melissa Ilse who was in charge of the testing. With a nagging feeling that he isn’t being told the whole
story about the Raven, Freah heads to the crash site in search of debris, most specifically the computer
that was the brains of the Raven.
As the operation goes on, Freah becomes aware that the test flight was actually an illegal mission to assassinate
Li Han, technical expert and weapons dealer working with a group of guerillas called the Brotherhood and
rumored to have ties to Al Quaida. Li Han gets to the crash site before the special ops team and upon seeing the
plane, realizes he can sell the technology to the highest bidder, thus begins the race through war torn Africa to find
the Raven and thwart Li Han’s efforts.
With the eleventh book in the Dreamland series, Brown and DeFelice continue to wow fans with a thriller
full of action. With detailed descriptions of existing and new weaponry, any lover of war and American espionage
thrillers will thoroughly enjoy this page-turner.
The Royal Wulff Murders
By Keith McCafferty
The Sound of a
Scream
By John Manning
It’s not often you
head to a new town to
start a new job and end up
stumbling across a dead
body, not to mention see
a creepy clown sitting
in a booth at the local
restaurant in the first few minutes of
your arrival. But that is exactly what
happens to Daphne May.
Daphne has lived with the
nuns her whole life and she’s now
headed out into the world. Landing
in Maine, she soon discovers the
hideous history of murders that
happened there a long time ago.
Now the nanny for a boy who’s part
of the Witherspoon family, Daphne
is told that this particular ‘clan’ are
the descendants of the monster who
brutally killed children by dressing
up like a clown and luring them to his
side.
That beast is now gone, but
is still felt deeply by his son, Peter
Witherspoon,
Daphne’s
new
employer. He’s an older man who
married a much younger wife that
the rest of the family can’t stand.
Donovan, Gabe, and Ben are sons
from his first marriage. Gabe is
confined to a wheelchair, Ben is
looked down upon by the family
because he’s gay, and Donovan is a
very large jerk.
Gregory Winston is the
Witherspoon enemy in town and
Daphne’s new suitor. Gregory owns
a great deal and is trying to put the
Witherspoon’s into bankruptcy.
Seeing that his parents were two of
the victims of the killer clown, he
certainly has a score to settle.
As the story unfolds, the clown is
most definitely ‘back from the grave.’
Murders happen left and right, even
inside the Witherspoon’s household.
As Daphne May uncovers the secrets
and lies, the tale becomes even more
bone-chilling, causing readers to turn
on every light in the room. Of all the
monsters in fiction, the clown is one
of the most terrifying thanks to Mr.
King, and this author has taken it one
step further: when you hear Pop Goes
the Weasel…your time is up! Enjoy!
“The Royal Wulff Murders,” by Keith McCafferty, follows painter/private detective/fly-fishing
enthusiast Sean Stranahan as he tries to solve the mystery he has stumbled into. Set on Montana’s
Madison River, the story begins with a body being found by a fly-fishing guide, Rainbow Sam. The
victim has a fly embedded in his lip, a Royal Wulff. This sets off an investigation that twists and turns
through campgrounds, ponds, fisheries, and vacation resorts. The cast of characters includes the
painter, his southern, blues-singing love interests, the local sheriff, an Indian tracker, a mentally ill loner, and a
host of out of state vacationers including a Hollywood producer. These individuals will face an attempted murder,
a stabbing, a kidnapping, a parasitic fish disease, and someone getting thrown in a lake. Two chapters in and you
know you are in for an interesting read.
Stranahan is hired by a woman hoping to find one of many trout her father caught the summer of his death the
year before. Each fish was marked by her father in a specific way, and he uses his detective skills to track down the
particular section of the river and begins his search. Every step of his search seems to put him in the wrong place at
the wrong time, where he weaves in and out of the sheriff ’s investigation until he is finally made a part of it. With
help and a little luck, he finally uncovers the truth about what has been happening on the Madison River.
McCafferty tells this story while also giving the reader a lesson on fly fishing, the environmental frailty of
Montana’s ecosystem, and what Montana will do to you if you try to harm either. “The Royal Wulff Murders” is
told in the midst of the breathtaking landscape of Montana, and McCafferty deftly captures this. Each scene is set
up with a fisherman’s patience, with the wind, water, and wildlife of Montana becoming as important as the human
characters we follow. His attention to detail is impressive, whether he is describing the fur used on a particular fly, Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of
or where and when to cast when fishing the currents. “The Royal Wulff Murders” should be on any outdoorsman’s “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense
reading list.
Magazine 
Reviewed by Brian Blocker author of “Subliminal” for Suspense Magazine 
41
To
Catch
a Leaf
By Kate
Collins
“ T o
Catch a Leaf ” is the
newest installment in the
Flower Shop Mystery Series
by Kate Collins. Don’t let
the cutesy title deter you.
This is a solid mystery with
likeable characters and a
fast-moving plot.
Flower shop owner
Abby Knight is finally,
officially engaged to her
boyfriend, fulltime bar
owner and part-time
detective Marco Salvare.
She’s determined not to
let the loving interference
of her mother and her
mother-in-law to-be in
the wedding plans deter
her from enjoying every
minute of her upcoming
nuptials. Abby’s second
family—the employees
of her flower shop—are
enthusiastically on board
the “wedding train” as well,
especially her assistant,
Grace Bingham. Then
Grace’s wealthy friend
Constance Newport is
killed and Grace is left
a large sum of money in
Constance’s will, making
her the prime suspect in
the murder. But not as
large a sum as Constance’s
cat, who has suddenly
disappeared.
With a wide array of
Constance’s disagreeable
relatives to choose from,
Abby and Marco work
together to find the true
culprit. And Abby works
hard to keep one relative in
particular from sinking her
hooks into Marco. With a
little help from a special
angel named Lindsey.
Lots of fun!
Reviewed
by
Susan
Santangelo, author of
“Moving Can Be Murder”
42
Shedding Light on Murder
By Patricia Driscoll
Grace Oliver, the likeable protagonist in Patricia Driscoll’s debut mystery, “Shedding Light on Murder” is a
former probation officer and the new owner of Pearl’s, an antique lamp shop in Barnstable Village, a small town
on Cape Cod, MA. Barnstable Village is a real town, and Driscoll spices up her story with references to actual
places there.
In Grace’s former career, she was involved with people on the wrong side of the law. She’s particularly
sympathetic to former felons, who are trying to make a fresh start, so she hires Duane Kerbey, whose career choices thus far
have been, shall we say…questionable, as an employee over the Christmas holidays. It’s just Duane’s bad luck that, on one of
his first lamp deliveries, he discovers the body of a prominent local citizen. Suspected of doing her in, he’s clapped back in jail
faster than turning on a light switch.
But Grace believes in her employee’s innocence, and between learning the craft of constructing and hand-painting
lampshades, getting the store ready for the annual Village Stroll, and keeping an eye on her irascible eighty-four-year-old
father, she’s determined to prove his innocence.
“Shedding Light on Murder” is a peek at Cape Cod during the off-season, when the tourists are gone and the beaches
are snow-covered. Lots of fun!
Reviewed by Susan Santangelo, author of “Moving Can Be Murder” for Suspense Magazine 
Killer Kool
By Marty Ambrose
This is Ambrose’s fourth in her Mango Bay Mystery series. The others have been called quick reads and chiclit for the beach. This one fills the bill, too.
Mallie Monroe, part-time reporter and full-time RV island dweller, is burdened with too many, as the story
opens. Too many boyfriends: surfer Cole and Nick, the local cop. An over-the-top nasty boss who has just made
her the food editor for the Observer, the newspaper for Coral Island. And too many murdered bodies a little
later on.
She soon takes cares of the problem of too many boyfriends by ticking off both of them and ending up at dinner with
the island geezer, an ancient man with ill-fitting teeth. Mallie tries her best to get to the restaurants and write her reviews,
but murder interferes. You’ll meet some fun characters. One is Madame Geri, a psychic and mind reader and the mother
of Jimmy, who is engaged to Sandy. Madame Geri foresees that the wedding will have to be postponed, that murder will
intervene. Sure enough, Carlos Santini, the corpulent ice-cream vendor, succumbs to an apparent heart attack. The manager
of the RV park where Mallie lives, Wanda Sue, is another colorful character. After one of the main suspects in Carlos’ death
expires, Mallie finds herself on the killer’s trail so the wedding can go on.
The easy, breezy style whips you through the fun story. If you’re not reading this on a beach, you can easily pretend
you’re right there, on Coral Island
Reviewed by Kaye George, author of “Choke” for Suspense Magazine 
Viral
By James Lilliefors
Just suppose…two simple words spoken late at night between
friends over drinks in a forgotten bar a decade ago. Two words that
serve to introduce an idea so audacious, so outlandish, so terrible
that it should have died on the spot. But it didn’t. The idea festered
and grew and now a malignant horror is poised to be unleashed
upon an unsuspecting world and it is up to two brothers to stop it.
Jon Mallory is a respected investigative reporter with a
Washington-based major newspaper. Jon finds himself following a
trail of clues left by his elusive older brother Charles, someone who
lives in the shadowy world of spies and counter spies. The trail Jon
follows leads him to a tiny country in Sub-Saharan Africa and the
horrific remains of a killing field. But is this only the beginning?
Super spy Charles, in the meantime is keeping busy as he jets
back and forth between Africa, Europe, and the US, commuting
between continents as normal people commute between a city and
its suburbs. Along the way, Charles must deal with the occasional
assassin and dodge super-smart satellites tracking him from orbit.
Software billionaires, media moguls, government henchmen,
and a beautiful bio-chem warfare expert enter and exit
the story in a whirl of action with all of it leading to
a suspenseful race to stop a crime, the magnitude of
which is off the scale.
Reviewed by Andrew MacRae for Suspense Magazine

A Crimson Warning
By Tasha Alexander
Lady Emily Hargreaves has returned to London
expecting to enjoy the season. Balls, dancing with her
husband, museums, and happiness are what she wants,
but a dead body and vandalism are what she is faced
with. A businessman is murdered and the vandal is
leaving red paint on the houses of London’s elite. After
the red paint is discovered, a crushing secret is revealed.
She and Colin, her husband and an investigator
for the crown, investigate while the whole of London’s
elite hold their breath waiting to see who will be next to
have their darkest secrets revealed. The crushing secrets
bring about terrible results. Lady Emily’s investigation
differs from Colin’s and he worries for her but has
learned she is invaluable in investigations.
With no one’s secrets safe, Colin and Lady Emily
must hurry to find the vandal before more damage
can be done. Why would someone want to destroy
London’s elite? What is the link between the murder
and vandalism?
A wonderful mystery set in the Victorian era that
will keep you riveted until the end. This is a wonderful
addition to this series!
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine 
MOVIES
Wrath of the Titans
2012
Genre – Fantasy/Adventure (PG 13)
One of the first movies I ever saw at the cinema was the 1963 Jason and the Argonauts. The
fight scene with the skeletons is still vividly etched in my mind as one of the highlights of my
early movie going days. Apparently, this one three-minute scene took four months to produce in
those days.
Thanks to ‘Jason,’ I have a soft spot for these gods versus mortals films. These films are
squarely aimed at those who enjoy big men leaping around with swords and tridents, fighting
ancient creatures breathing fire and lava, and battling gods who are pretty handy with lightening.
A decade after his heroic defeat of the monstrous Kraken, Perseus (Sam Worthington), the
demigod son of Zeus (Liam Neeson) is attempting to live quietly as a village fisherman, the sole
parent to his ten-year-old son, Helius.
The gods however, are not living peacefully, and are losing their immortality thanks to the mortal’s lack of devotion. Kronos,
the father of the long-ruling brothers Zeus, Hades (Ralph Fiennes) and Poseidon (Danny Huston) is rotting in the dungeon of
Tartarus in the cavernous Underworld.
Hades, fearing the loss of his immortality, hatches a plan with Ares (Édgar Ramírez) Zeus’s son—who has a real inferiority
complex when it comes to his half-brother Perseus. Together, they capture Zeus, imprisoning him in Tartarus, in order for Kronos
to siphon off his power in order to take over the world again and punish the mortals.
Perseus, determined to rescue Zeus, begins an odyssey, accompanied by warrior Queen Andromeda (Rosamund Pike),
Poseidon’s demigod son Agenor (Toby Kebbell), and fallen god Hephaestus (Bill Nighy) searching for way into Tartarus to free
Zeus. Along the way, he must fight some powerful mythological creatures and navigate his way through a dangerous revolving
labyrinth.
The strength of this film is in its visual effects and full on action, so don’t expect more than average dialogue scenes. If I think
back to my first brush with the gods in Jason, it wasn’t the story that I remember, it was the relenting and merciless skeletons
advancing on Jason. Don’t see this for the plot or the acting, see it for the wonderful monsters and creatures. Just like Jason’s
skeletons, they’re memorable.
Reviewed by Susan May for Suspense Magazine (http://susanmaywordadventures.blogspot.com/) 
Hunger Games
2012
Genre – SciFi/Drama (PG 13)
It was almost two years ago when I first heard the words,
“The Hunger Games,” followed by, “You must read the book.” So I
did, like twenty-six million others. I didn’t love the book. It’s hard
for a mother to read a book like this. Something changes in your
chemistry after having children. You find yourself unwillingly
placing your mind in a mother’s position at the loss or injury of a
child.
In the Hunger Games we enter a world of the future, where an unexplained uprising has left America a country governed by the
capitol, led by President Snow (Donald Sutherland). To maintain control of the impoverished twelve districts, whose sole purpose
is to provide for the needs of the capitol, the government has created the spectacle of the Hunger Games. Each year, two adolescent
“tributes,” one male and one female, are chosen from each district via a ballot on Reaping Day. They then play in a futuristic
‘survivor’ battle to the death, with every minute detail broadcast live across the land.
Sixteen-year-old Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence), from District 12 volunteers herself
after her little sister, Primrose, is chosen. Katniss leaves behind her one true friend, Gale (Liam
Hemsworth) and heads to the games accompanied by the other District 12 tribute, Peeta (Josh
Hutcherson).
Much of the book and film is devoted to the fluff and pageantry surrounding the games. Caesar
Flickerman (Stanley Tucci) is the over-the-top show host, commentating on the contestants and
the killings, as if they were attending a spelling bee; Seneca Crane (Wes Bentley) is the much
admired game designer; and the tributes are each assigned personal stylists and mentors. Our
heros, sadly, must make do with a drunken, depressed mentor, Haymitch (Woody Harrelson).
The catch cry of the games, “May the odds be forever in your favor,” does not seem to apply to
them. Katniss, though, is no ordinary girl and her cunning, wit and determination to win are not
to be underestimated. Things become even more complicated when Peeta reveals he has feelings
for Katniss.
This film and the following two of the trilogy are certain to be mega-hits, whether reviewers
like the film or not. To steal a Hunger Games phrase, “The odds will be forever with them.”
Reviewed by Susan May for Suspense Magazine (http://susanmaywordadventures.blogspot.com/)

43
Prepare for
heart-racing suspense
by thirty of the best
writers in the business!
Bodyguards, vigilantes, stalkers,
serial killers, women (and men!)
in jeopardy, cops, thieves,
P.I.s, killers—these all-new
stories will keep you thrilled and
chilled late into the night.
Available May 29
L. Albatross
By D. Warren Miller
I
strike the match and watch as the orange-yellow flame springs to life and devours the thin stick of wood. An
unlit cigarette hangs loosely from the side of my mouth, spastically jerking up and down as it keeps pace with the
uncontrollable trembling of my lower lip. I touch the base of the filter with my tongue and find it wet with spit.
A stinging burn seeps into my tongue’s buds in a circular sensation, forcing it to involuntarily jerk away, only to return
tauntingly to its former place, a masochistic addict awaiting its next fix. I watch detachedly as the match’s glaring flame gasps
its last breath. It’s been six years since the last time a cigarette has touched my lips. Six years and here I sit with one. It waits
with each new strike to be put to use, while I wait for my visitor, my unknown. Who are you, that I have wronged you so
greatly that you would do this?
Sliding open the small, red and blue cardboard box I watch as a hand—not my own—slowly draws a new match and
strikes it. Its leathery surface is dry and calloused, unnaturally darkened by years of burning welding rods. I trace the lines,
creases, and folds of every wrinkle and bend, marveling at the strength and durability of human skin. On the surface it
appears ready to crack with each new stretch, twist, and strain as it guides the dancing blade of light toward my face. The
flame is gasping its final breath when it finally reaches the well-packed tobacco. I pull steadily and feed new life into it. It
arches proudly upward, hungrily devouring the stale barroom air before being cruelly jerked away. With a quick snap, it’s
extinguished, lost forever to the ether, a faceless wraith listlessly drifting. Watching the cigarettes ember growing increasingly
brighter as my lungs fill with smoke, I struggle to suppress the rising cough accompanying the layered dirt sensation traveling
down the back of my throat. Something feels this good, makes me wonder why I ever quit.
Peering through the thin gray haze, I scan the barroom, cautiously eyeing each and every person. Could it be the old
drunk quietly nursing his draft beer? The edges of his bushy grey beard are crusted with off-white foam which frames his
45
pursed lips after every swig. Or is it the morbidly obese woman wearing the red-curtain, drape off the shoulders, shirt two
sizes too small for her build? Slamming shot after shot of Jaeger, missed droplets fall to her breasts and race playfully down
her barely covered ample cleavage while she jiggles, sways, and laughs a noxious laugh. No not her. Is it the bald, goateed
muscle-junkie then? Tattooed and scowling, he shoots pool poorly while trying to hustle a couple of cock-sure college kids.
The ornate Chinese luck dragon on his left arm rises from four legs to two and back again with every strike of the cue.
Possibly.
I can’t decide who it is for sure, but the one thing I know is that this person, whose quiet call brought me, is here
somewhere waiting, watching, and planning their next move. But who?
The note was a simple note, hand written, on plain white printer paper. Nothing fancy, nothing particularly striking other
than it being placed neatly on my inn table directly in front of the lounge chair I sit in every night. That and the fact that my
apartment stays locked and was locked when I came home. It read:
The Wall Inn, 8 sharp. Contact the cops or bring anyone with you and I’ll know. I’ve been where you live,
slept where you sleep; I’ve studied your friends and your family and have locked them safely away in the furthest
corners of my mind. Do as I say or their lives will be forfeit. 8 sharp, I will meet you there. Leave before we speak
and all lives, theirs and yours will be mine to do with as I please. Remember, you were just a name on a list,
now I know you.
L.
Albatross
L. Albatross…my mind nudges me, telling me I know the names significance. I’ve seen it before, but where? And what
does he mean by a name on a list. What list? Lost in my thoughts, I fail to realize I’ve been approached until a heavy hand
firmly clasps my right shoulder. Its meaty fingers dig furrows into the fleshier tissues under the crest of my shoulder denoting
a confident controlled power. The hand speaks as I stare intently at the dimpled wood surface of the bar trying in vain to
steady and prepare myself to face my aggressor.
“Hey man, what’s up? Didn’t figure you’d be out tonight. Hell, didn’t even know if you were still…forget that. Why didn’t
you call? I could’ve gotten Rick and Emil to meet us here. Could’ve finally shot that pool tournament we’re always talking
about. You feeling better? You’ve been missed.”
The words spew from his mouth, tumbling over each other with barely a pause as he speaks. I turn and watch as the boxy
engine-block like frame of Daniel Baker, pipe-fitter extraordinaire and former semi-pro football player turned binge drinker,
slides onto the barstool beside me. Is it you? Are you the one who brought me here? The one who turned what would have
been my normal night of watching movies and online gaming while drinking my way into a stupor into this. Is this your
idea of a joke? Some sick way of getting me to come out while having a laugh at my expense? If it is, you’ve got a lot of nerve.
“Did you do it?” I ask pointedly while averting my gaze. In an effort to appear calm and conceal my fear, I outwardly turn
my attention back to the cigarette and drink in front of me. I struggle to hold back the anger rising from the pit of my gut as
I speak.
A nervous laugh escapes his lips and he orders a draft as his right eyebrow raises slightly the way it always does when
something catches him by surprise. “Do what?”
“The note. Did you leave it for me?”
“What note?”
“Did you do it?”
He looks at me suspiciously through glazed, bloodshot eyes while taking the freshly poured mug from the bartender. He
orders another and says it’s for me while slipping the bartender a wrinkled old ten and telling him to keep the change. “You sure you should be out tonight, bro? I mean, it’s good seeing you and all. But something like that…you know those
things take time. Look, we’re all here for you. Boss-man already said you’ve got your old job back just as soon as you’re ready.
I…”
He pauses long enough to slide the newest mug of golden foamy ferment toward me while clapping one of those giant
meat hooks squarely on my shoulder. I want to rip it off and beat him with it until he confesses. But I don’t, I just sit and wait
for him to finish as I contemplate the ramifications of my smashing a full mug of beer into his concerned, smiling, friendly
46
face.
“We’re all sorry for what happened. We thought the world of...”
My hands act of their own accord as they shoot forward and clasp around his throat. The thumbs, digging in on either
side just below his jaw, force his head up and back.
I listen as a crazed voice growls in urgent fervor, “Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking say it! Say it and I swear, I swear I’ll shove
this whole damn beer, mug and all, straight down your throat. I swear I will!”
He waves the bartender and doorman off with a quick glance and slight patting of the air in their directions, before
grabbing my wrists and pulling my hands slowly yet forcefully from his neck. I’d forgotten Daniel had once told me he
worked events here on occasion and was tight with the owner. Maybe that’s why he chose this place to meet.
Without releasing my hands, he utters a brief apology while avoiding saying her name. The thought of that left unspoken,
brings with it a new urging in the back of my head. It’s significant somehow…but how?
“It won’t happen again dude, I promise. Now tell me about this note, maybe I can help you sort it out.”
“The one left on my inn table. The one that told me to come here. Did you do it?”
“Let me see it.”
I take the neatly folded paper from my pocket, carefully open it, and spread it out on the table in front of him. Taking it
gingerly with his fingers along the edges, I watch as he scans the words. A sigh escapes his lips as he lets go of the note and
slides it back to me.
“No man, I didn’t write it.”
He turns his attention back to his beer and takes a long drink. His hands shake as they carry the glass to his waiting lips.
I wait in silence as Daniel gulps down the remaining half beer, half-nods toward the note, begins to speak and then stops.
Rising from his stool, he sets the empty stein on the bar and turns toward me while pulling his wallet from his back
pocket. He still won’t look at me directly, but instead chooses to stare intently into his wallet while thumbing back and forth
through the bills.
“You know you can’t…”
He stops short of completing his sentence as his attention is drawn to the front of the bar. Standing a short distance from
the doorway is a short thin man wearing a brown, tweed jacket and black slacks, a priest’s collar encircles the base of his neck
and small circular glasses teeter recklessly on the bridge of his nose.
“Sinners, sinners! You’re all going die. Die! Beware, beware the unassuming innocence of one who walks among you. The
Devil walks among you and he is there!”
A slender finger jutting out from a boney hand points menacingly in my direction just before its owner is dragged from
the bar by his throat and tossed into the street.
“Some people,” I say while laughing half-heartedly.
That nagging sensation is back like somehow the old man might have known what he was talking about. Could he be the
one that wrote it?
Daniel looks at me and the sadness contained in his eyes betrays his pity for me.
“Yeah man, some people. Here this is for him, on me,” he says while handing the bartender three bills. “Take care of
yourself man.” He begins making his way to the door and I am left feeling hollow. Part of me almost wishes it was him.
Just as I begin to turn back to my thoughts and my beer, a subtle movement from the shadows near the entrance catches
my eye. There in the darkness I can faintly make out the silhouette of a solitary man. His face is hard, like that of someone
who’s seen too much. Like someone who’s been places and done things, things that are often talked about in close circles with
quiet whispers. With a slight lifting of his hand he motions for me to join him.
Rising from my stool, I make my way through the barroom toward him. As I draw near, he kicks a chair free and gestures
for me to sit. I do, and he slides an amber-colored shot over to me. Bourbon. Picking it up, I wearily smell of its smooth oaken
scent and an unsettling thought creeps into my consciousness. The man who entered my home, who left the note, would
know what I drink.
“Go ahead, it’ll ease the pain.”
The gravel in his flat, deadpan voice chills my spine and sets heavily in my gut. I know this man, and I’m afraid of him,
47
but I don’t know why. I ask the burning question as I set the still full shot glass down.
“Did you do it? Are you L. Albatross?”
With a lazy slightly amused smirk and a shrug of his shoulders he scoops up the shot and tosses it back.
“Suit yourself. It’s your dime. Name’s Overstreet, not Albatross.”
“My dime? You rob me while you were at it?”
He leans forward and smiles, “I’m just the messenger. That’s all, just the messenger. I’m here to take you to him. Are
you ready?” He says warily gazing at me from behind seedy little almond shaped eyes. The sides of his full, salt and pepper
handlebar mustache form a misshapen ‘M’ around his lips as he grins. “Maybe you should down a couple. It might make this
go a little easier for you.”
“Not thirsty.”
“Well…can’t say I didn’t try.” Overstreet says slamming back the shot he just offered me. Placing the glass back on the
table, a slight sigh escapes his lips as he stands almost reluctantly. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even shoot me a sideways glance as he makes his way outside. Against my better judgment, I
will my body to rise and fall into step behind him, certain this man holds the answers I’m looking for. Not so sure anymore
that I want to know them.
I’m greeted by a cold mist as I leave the bar and follow him across the street into a nearby alleyway. It’s going to rain soon.
We travel a short distance between the intermingled concrete, wood, brick and mortar. The mixture of old city meeting new,
shadowy and frigid, its quiet calm is at once welcoming and frightening. My mind is screaming at me to turn back, to run, as
far and fast as I can with every step. But I can’t, not now, not when I’m so close.
We turn a corner about halfway down the alley and I find myself face to face with the biggest man I’ve ever seen. Easily
six foot five or better and just as wide, he doesn’t say a word as my escort approaches him and speaks in muted tones under
his breath. I try to run, but my legs fail me and I’m forced to stand in place as the big man looks toward me and then back to
my escort with a confused expression masking his round childlike face.
“Do it and make it quick, it’s starting to rain and I hate getting wet.” Overstreet says pulling a pack of Marlboros from
the inside of his thin leather jacket. “Look, it’s what he paid us for. Paid in full no less. I don’t get it either, but I took the job,
accepted payment, and I always see jobs through. Always. Now get it done if you want your half.”
I watch in silent horror as the giant lumbers toward me while reaching in his back pocket. I open my mouth to protest,
but all that manages to come out is a high-pitched cry and I am left standing mouth open, frozen in place as sausage like
fingers swing forward from behind him and shove a folded, aged newspaper clipping into my chest.
Finding strength from somewhere deep inside, I reach up and take the clipping from his outstretched hand. Opening it,
I find myself looking at a headline which reads:
Westbrook killer claims ninth victim before being caught while…
The first two droplets of a new rain slide gracefully down my cheek just moments before I feel more than see the giant’s
massive fist coming my way and the clipping drops from my fingers.
The blows begin to fall as my memory returns. Bloody images flash before me, a body broken beyond repair. She’s dead
now, and it’s my fault, no matter what I do, no matter how much pain I suffer, I can never change the past. Never right the
wrong. I stop resisting and let the pain come. I deserve this. It was my fault. My consciousness begins to slip as the picture of
her once gentle, smiling face locks itself in my mind. I remember Kalie, it was my fault.
They’re gone when I wake, but the memory of her and what happened that day still remains. I grab the cold metal rail of
the dirty black dumpster I’ve just spent the night beside and hoist myself up with my rain-soaked, battered body groaning
in protest as I go. I can tell from the dull throb and sudden spasm in my side my ribs are broken or at the very least cracked.
Leaning against the dumpster, I rest my head against my forearm and note the not quite dry matting of my blonde hair
clumped against my scalp. They did their job well. I’ll have to throw in a bonus next time, I think as I slowly push off the
dumpster and begin the short walk to my home.
48
As I walk, my thoughts return to that
day. It was a normal day, like any other. I
returned home from work expecting my
usual greeting of thin, boney arms wrapped
around my neck and a lithe, warm young
body pressed firmly against me. Instead, I
found her, my Kalie, lying on her back in the
Fiction Editing and
floor, swimming in a pool of her own blood.
Critiquing Services
The coroner’s report would later show the
bastard had continued to slam her head
www.JodieRennerEditing.com
into the floor even after she lost the ability
to fight back. He was caught eventually and
Specializing in thrillers,
DNA, gathered from the skin tissue under
romantic suspense,
her nails and from the saliva dripped on
& other crime �iction
the note he left, readily identified him as
Norman Castor, former mental patient,
ward of the state.
Look for Jodie’s craft of �iction articles on these blogs:
When he was caught they asked him
Crime Fiction Collective, Blood-Red Pencil, The Thrill
why he did it. His response was simple. He
Begins, Writer’s Forensics, and Suspense Magazine.
said, “The insult,” and nothing more.
“Jodie Renner worked with me to transform my thriller,
The judge declared him incapable
The Lonely Mile, from an exciting book to a tight,
of standing trial and ordered him to live
suspenseful, heart-pounding thrill ride.” - Allan Leverone
the rest of his life in an institution for the
criminally insane. He killed nine of my
“Jodie edited my last three novels and did a
friends and family and no one had ever
terri�ic job. … Highly recommended!” - LJ Sellers
been able to put it all together, not that is,
“I rate Jodie 6 stars out of 5!” - Ian Walkley, No Remorse
until he gave his answer. That is when it all
fell into place for me. The “insult” he was
referring to was one given by me, not Kalie.
Free sample edit for new clients
It was I who said the hateful words which in
Norman’s twisted mind were a call to action,
a call for retribution. You see, I am a fan of
online gaming, especially fantasy games
where you can chat in real-time with your friends and opponents. It was in one of these games where I unknowingly met
Norman Castor, screen name L. Albatross. It was there that, in an absolutely absurd fit of rage over what I felt was cyber-game
bullying, I not only insulted Norman, but also his mother, sister, and cat. If I had only known who it was sitting on the other
end of the line, I never would have said what I did.
His response to my taunts was simple, he wrote, “You were once just a name on a list, now I know you.”
Three weeks later my Kalie was dead, all because of my pride and a pointless online game. You never know who it is
on the other side of your computer, what psychopath lies in wait. Norman Castor was mine, and my life has been forever
changed because of it…
#
I sit at home, a fresh piece of printer paper laid out before me, and I begin to painstakingly recreate the letter that was left
for me the night he came and took her from me. Once finished, I secure the apartment, slam back one Rohypnol and a fifth
of Elijah Craig’s, eighteen-year-old whiskey and make my way back down to my car to pass out and start it all over again. On
the way down, I speed dial Overstreet, the man I hired to beat me into a pulp, and give him the new time and place to wait
for me. He grunts something about it being my ass and not caring as long as the money keeps coming. I assure him it will and
hang up the phone. As to what you may think of me, or any of this, all I can say is…this is my burden to bear. I will carry it
until it kills me. I must do this, it is my penance, my burden, my Albatross. 
Jodie Renner Editing
49
Anna ‘Cylonka’ Szwajgier
d
Feature
Artist
I Tremble for you Love Always
Model: Jason Aaron Baca
Love’s Life’s Daily Challenges
Model: Lucziola
Self-taught
artist
Anna
“Cylonka” Szwajgier is a thirtysix-year old web design artist who
works at the University of Life
Sciences in Lublin, Poland in the
Information Technology Centre.
Her professional working skills focus
on web graphics in connection with
website programming. But there is
another side of her artistic life: digital
paintings and photomanipulations.
They’re often-emotional fan art. As
for the motives, she has always been
fond of vampire themes in art. Inspired by Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight,
Anna created a fan art gallery responding to the saga. In her gallery,
there are also artworks inspired by music and lyrics.
Drawing and painting has always been a passionate focus for
Anna. At the age of six, she knew she wanted to be a graphic designer.
Computers weren’t commonplace in her world, but she knew she
longed to work with something more than just traditional artistic
tools. When Anna got her first Windows operating computer she
realized what she had been waiting for. She didn’t consider herself as
a traditional artist. She preferred smaller forms of arts and industrial
design, but also loved photomanipulation. In time, those forms proved
to be the most tempting branch of graphics and art in general for her.
Anna lives on the eastern side of Poland, a picturesque land, in
the city of Lublin. They call it “a city of inspiration.” The eastern side
has small cities, beautiful villages like Kaziemirz Dolny and Naleczow.
She has two children, ages six and eight, and a loving husband who’s
a scientist at a university and a hard-rock guitarist. Her family loves
spending time together with short journeys close to home like walks
in their favorite parks. They even like traveling to more distant places.
From time to time she gets away with her husband, leaving their
daughters with their grandma so they can go to a rock concert together.
If I tell you a Secret
Model: Mahafsoun
Come Into my Dreams
Anna loves to travel and see new places, keeping herself active all
the time. She says relaxing by the sea for two weeks is just not for her;
she’d rather have a two-week tour through Europe. She respects and
seeks a clean environment, healthy food, and products that are made
with natural components.
Anna believes “A day without graphics is a day wasted.” The
passion promises to stay for a lifetime. She has spent many hours with
her artistic tools: a tablet and a computer are the most important ones.
She likes to experiment with different styles and themes. She tries to
watch the best artists, not necessarily the famous ones, trying to learn
more and more each day.
Suspense Magazine believes an issue without an artist isn’t
complete. So we aren’t going to make you wait any longer. Enjoy our
exclusive interview with artist Anna “Cylonka” Szwajgier.
Kill a Dream
51
The Queen
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): How did you get interested in the world of art?
Anna ‘Cylonka’ Szwajgier (ACS): Drawing and painting has always been my passionate focus. I decided at the age of six that I
wanted to be a graphic designer. I have also got traditional professional artists in my close family, three women. So I guess it must
be in the “genes”.
It has always been art, graphics. I’m a total addict: the one who works with graphics as a professional job, then, in a private time,
relax in front of the computer, late in the evening, doing graphics. I remember in school during my classes, teachers were surprised
or even annoyed seeing me draw in my notepad during a lecture. But, for me, that was the best way to listen to them the most
carefully, even with the boring subjects. My native language teacher, understood it well, and she suggested, “Anna, why don’t you
draw that battle in your class notepad instead of your scratchpad?” I loved her for this!
S. MAG.: Where do you think your love of vampire theme art come from?
ACS: I was a teenager (when) I saw him walking with his sisters in my direction. He was a bit meditative at the moment, slightly
watching me, quite pale, short-haired, so handsome. I knew I wanted to know him better. He seemed different than the others,
just like me, kind of a solitary. That’s my story, not a Twilight Saga, but I guess I’ve found my own Edward years ago, in high
school…my husband. His smile is charming, his teeth, oh, I was drawn to that smile so many times! So often as my vampire, I
missed a story like Twilight saga so much, though I also enjoyed classics like Bram Stoker’s Dracula, for example, but Twilight
really hit my imagination. It was different than the popular vampire stories, the type just right for me. I’ve been picturing my
Edward for so many years. My vampires have always been more humane than “classics”, with bright souls, dilemmas in their
heads, eternal love in their hearts. I still have so much inspiration for this subject. The vampire fascination is as old as my love
for my dear husband—as simple as that.
S. MAG.: Do you feel your web designing makes you a better artist, or vice versa?
ACS: Yes, it works both ways. Sometimes I like to create things that nobody asks me for, for my own indulgence. But I also love to
take challenges in my daily work. It’s a real pleasure to do a wide range of art, not assigning myself to only one type of graphics.
S. MAG.: Do you have a favorite artist? One you like to see repeatedly or maybe one you’d like to emulate?
ACS: I’m a digital artist, I love modern techniques, so my favorites are DeviantArt members like Phatpuppyart (her name
52
With You in my Head
“I’ve learned, that we are
stronger than we expect.”
53
is Claudia), a book cover artist. I admire her
photomanips. Or Sharandula (Elena Berezina)
I love the soft lines of the fairytale portraits she
creates.
S. MAG.: What form of art is your favorite
to perform: traditional painting, industrial
design or photomanipulation? Perhaps even
another form not mentioned?
ACS: Definitely digital art, the one made with
a tablet or photomanipulation, but I also enjoy
web design. I am happy to live with more than
just one type of graphics. I like the wide range of
possibilities digital art gives to me.
S. MAG.: What is the biggest dream you have
surrounding your artwork?
ACS: I always put emotions into my art. I want
people to see that, to feel that. I tell stories with
no words. I also want my watchers to find their
own stories and emotions in my art.
Dirty Sticky Floor
S. MAG.: Do you have any plans to have a
showing of you work at a gallery or museum?
ACS: Maybe, one day. I don’t dream about
such a “real” gallery, but a digital one, yes. It
makes me feel happy. I observe new watchers
subscribing to my channel, that’s motivating!
S. MAG.: What do you do when you’re not
perfecting your artwork?
ACS: None of my artworks is perfect for me. I
demand a lot from myself.
S. MAG.: Do you have any superstitions that
surround your work: Like maybe listening to
a certain song while you work or something
like that.
ACS: Superstitions? No, not really, but my
favorite music is an absolute need to create a
good piece of art! I listen to classic hard rock and
trance music most of all. I love the ’80s, I often
listen to “hair metal” but then suddenly I jump
to Armin Van Buuren, a modern electronic
artist.
In Love With a Vampire
S. MAG.: What inspires you and your work?
ACS: Motivations, milestones in my life: I have two children: the older one suffers from Down Syndrome. When she was born,
the whole world seemed to fall apart, but with years, it appeared. I gained much more then I expected, a lovely daughter and a
lot of courage to change my life for better. I changed my job from a boring one to a very challenging, satisfying one. I’ve learned,
that we are stronger than we expect. I gained things I would never dare to reach for before. She is a bright star for me. I try to help
people and families with Down Syndrome children. I’m involved with a local Down Syndrome organization (“Hidden Treasure”
in English) at www.ukrytyskarb.org (I’m responsible for their graphic and web publishing).
Suspense Magazine is very honored to have received the opportunity to speak with Anna. You can check out her artwork
at her Deviantart page at, http://cylonka.deviantart.com/art/I-can-cast-spells-you-know-291577531. Thank you. Anna. 
54
“Sarcastic, mouthy woman, protective of herself
and her family, meets over-the-top slightly arrogant
detective investigating a murder at the family
�orist shop. �t’s a match made in—well, not heaven,
exactly. But it’s not dull, that’s for sure.”
—Susan Santangelo, Author of “Moving Can Be Murder”
In the
Playground
By Cathy Spencer
Those children lucky enough not to have homework on weekday evenings meet at the
town’s small park for an hour of play before bedtime. This April evening is no exception.
A persistent Chinook has dried up the puddles and the greening grass is spongy, but not wet. The children leave their
homes bundled in jackets and sweaters, but abandon them on the asphalt as soon as they reach the playground. Two young
mothers chat side-by-side on a bench while their toddlers get their backsides dirty in the sandbox, digging with red and blue
plastic shovels in the remains of last season’s sand. An older brother rolls his plastic race car along the wooden frame, making
“vroom, vroom” and squealing brake noises. One of the mothers takes a puff from her cigarette and glances at her youngest
in the stroller. The baby sleeps, one tiny white fist curled over the hem of his blanket, while his mother rolls the stroller back
and forth with the toe of her shoe. Three, grade-six girls ride on the swing set. They arch their backs as they strain into the
sky, faces red from the wind and the exertion of pumping harder and faster, toes grasping for altitude.
“If I go any higher, I’m going to swing right over the top!” shrieks Crystal, her hair streaming into her face as she sweeps
back towards earth.
“Jump, Crystal, jump!” shouts her friends.
Crystal swings higher than she has ever dared before, catapulting out of her seat at the top of her arc and careening
through the air, arms flailing and gravel spewing as she lands. Teetering on her heels, she falls back onto the ground with a
thump, her shocked expression softening into a grin as her friends laugh at her.
“Come on, let’s go play on the slide,” she calls, jumping up and dashing away.
Her friends complain, “Hey, wait for me!”
He watches from the shadows of the trees where the sinking sun cannot penetrate.
The youngest children are riding the merry-go-round, squashed together in the center where they cannot be flung out. A
bored older brother tugs at the spokes one-by-one as they meander past him. His face brightens as he spots a friend bicycling
through the park entrance. He waves and the friend barrels straight for him, swerving at the last second and jumping off the
bike, allowing it to crash to the pavement.
“Hey, Jim,” he says, swaggering up, “whatcha doing hanging out with these little kids? Is that your sister?”
He points to a giggling child who sticks her tongue out at them as she revolves past.
“Yeah, Mom said I have to watch her.”
Jim gives the ride another half-hearted pull.
“Too bad,” says his friend. “My dad gave me money to buy a jug of milk, and I was going to let you help me spend the
change. But I guess you can’t, if you’re babysitting your little sister.” He pauses, letting a ten dollar bill peak out of his jeans
pocket.
Jim stares at the bill and frowns, “Just a sec,” he says, grabbing one of the merry-go-round arms and breaking into a run.
56
He pumps his legs as fast as he can and suddenly lets go,
flying forward a few steps before he can stop. The children
scream and cling to the ride as they whirl around in dizzying
circles. Jim’s friend snatches up his bike and speeds away with
Jim scrambling after him.
“Jim!” he hears his sister wail before her voice fades into
the distance, “I’m gonna tell!”
The animal raises its head and sniffs at the cool, damp air
as the sun’s dying rays catch the tree’s lowest branches.
The children’s playground boasts a skateboard rink
encircled by a chest-high wooden fence. Two adolescent boys
in oversized T-shirts and shorts race their boards back and
forth over the ramps, practicing jumps and flips. One boy
is more skilful than the other, flipping his board in mid-air
before rolling back down the platform. The clumsier boy tries
the stunt and trips, crashing shoulder-first into the boards.
He collapses onto the ramp like a deflated balloon and lies
there with his eyes closed. The more athletic boy rides over.
“You okay, Shaun?”
Shaun peers up at him, “I think I wrecked my board.”
“Man, I keep telling you, you’re breaking too slow on that
turn.”
“Yeah, but if I go any faster, I’ll fall off.”
“Stop leaning so far forward.”
“Who made you the expert, Chris?”
“At least I can do it without landing on my face.”
Chris shrugs and retrieves his friend’s board, handing it
to Shaun as he sits up.
“Shit, one of the wheels came off again. Where’d it go?”
“I don’t know. It’s around here somewhere.”
The boys search for the wheel as a timer trips on the
orange playground lights.
The stranger does not move, waiting impassively under
the trees. The tender new leaves shiver in the wind as the sun
dips below the horizon.
The two mothers check their watches and sigh. They
retrieve their children and stuff the toddlers and their
paraphernalia into the strollers. The older boy with the model
car ignores his mother’s summons and is dragged to his feet.
“Hey, you’re hurting me,” he whines as his mother frogmarches him out of the park, steering the stroller with her
free hand.
The older brother returns from the store to collect his
sister. Her playmates have deserted her and she mopes alone
on the stationary ride, one scuffed heel digging vindictive
gouges in the gravel. Her brother bribes her not to tell their
mother of his defection with a strand of red licorice.
“No fair! You’ve got a chocolate bar,” she complains as
she trots after him.
The three girls take one last turn skidding down the slide
before jumping up and racing home. Only the two teenage
boys in the skateboard rink remain. Shaun sits with his back
hunched against the boards watching Chris practice.
“Hey, Chris, I gotta go, it’s dark,” Shaun says after a few
minutes, hoisting himself up off the ground. “You coming?”
“Not yet. I want to try one more thing. Mom’s working
tonight, so she won’t know what time I get home. See you at
school tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you,” Shaun replies, shuffling away with his
shoelaces trailing behind him.
The rink’s only illumination comes from one lamp
stationed outside the fence, the wooden boards casting a
shadow that devours half the rink. The wind is picking up,
blowing stray plastic bags and candy wrappers across the
playground, some snagging against the equipment, some
skittering away.
The stranger emerges from the trees and edges towards
the skateboard rink, a liquid shadow skirting the pools of
orange light. The dog treads silently after him.
Chris repeats the same maneuver over and over until he
is weary. He stops, and the chilled night air raises goose flesh
on his bare arms and legs. He looks up, noticing that he is the
only one left in the playground. He is wrong.
“You’re pretty good at that,” a voice says behind him.
The boy starts and turns. A young man leans over the
boards at the rink entrance and he straightens and strolls in
the opening towards Chris. He wears jeans and a studded
leather jacket, his long bangs cut in wings that skim his eyes,
silver rings piecing his nostril and upper lip.
“Thanks,” Chris said, backing up as the other approaches.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Chris.”
“Mine’s Mike. Can I see that for a minute?”
He holds his hand out for the skateboard, revealing a
lightning bolt tattoo on his palm. Chris hesitates before
relinquishing it.
“Yeah, I used to be pretty good myself.”
Mike drops the board and pushes off, pumping to pick
up speed as he rides up the ramp. He jumps, flies through
the air to the other side, and rolls back to Chris, flipping the
board up with one foot and catching it.
“Kid stuff. I found better ways to have fun. You smoke,
kid?”
“Yeah, sure…a little.”
“Want to try some good stuff?”
“I guess.”
Mike slides a case from his jacket pocket and removes a
joint. He lights it, drags deeply, and holds the smoke in his
lungs for a few moments before exhaling with an appreciative
“whoosh.” He offers it to Chris, who tries to duplicate the
man’s technique without choking on the smoke.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Chris says, handing the joint back to
Mike.
“Keep it, kid. Enjoy yourself, on me. Hell, if you’re smart,
you can party with your friends and make some money, too.
Want to make some easy money, Chris?”
“I don’t know. What do I have to do?”
Mike and Chris are interrupted by a “tapping” sound.
They turn to see a man and dog climbing through the
entrance into the rink, the man leaning on a cane as he limps
forward. They step into the orange light encircling Chris and
Mike. The big black dog sits at his master’s feet.
“Private party, boys?” asked the stranger in a quiet voice.
“Yeah. What do you want?” Mike asks.
The stranger stares at Mike before turning his gaze on
Chris. Chris sees hooded blue eyes under silvery eyebrows
and a bushy grey moustache with a battered leather jacket
concealing his torso.
The stranger points at the joint jutting between Chris’
fingers, “Good stuff, son?”
57
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Nasty habit to get into. Cuts down on your wind. Not
good for an athlete like you.”
Mike says, “What the hell business is it of yours, old
man? Why don’t you and your dog get the hell out of here?
You’re not welcome.”
The stranger ignores him.
“I think you ought to be going home, Chris. Your folks
will be wondering where you are. You don’t want to be
hanging around with trash like this.”
“Shut your mouth, old man,” Mike says. In one smooth
move he pulls a knife from his pocket and thrusts the blade
into the stranger’s face. “Get out of here before I cut you.”
Chris stumbles backwards while the dog climbs to his
feet, his hackles rising and a growl rumbling deep within his
chest. Mike glances at the dog and the stranger cracks his
cane down on Mike’s forearm. The knife drops from his hand
and clatters onto the rink.
“Son of a bitch!” Mike hisses, grabbing his useless arm.
He reaches for the knife and the dog lunges and catches
Mike’s wrist between his teeth. They freeze, dog and man
staring into each other’s eyes.
The stranger stoops towards the ground and scoops up
the knife. He snaps the blade shut and deposits it into his
jacket pocket.
“Now, I’m not RCMP anymore, Mike, so I can’t arrest
you, but I can give an awfully good description to my old
friend, the staff sergeant. So if I were you, I’d get the hell out
of here and never come back. Capiche?”
Mike nods; his eyes on the dog as its drool soaks into his
cuff.
“Okay, King.”
The dog releases Mike’s wrist, but maintains an alert
pose, his focus never wavering from his prey. Mike slowly
straightens and backs away. When he reaches the rink’s
entrance, he turns and sprints. The stranger listens for a
minute and then snaps his fingers. King bounds away into
the darkness.
“Where’s your dog going?” Chris asks, moving a little
closer to the stranger.
“He’s going to escort Mike back to his car.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s his job. Come on, son, time for you to
go home.” He waits as Chris fumbles for his board, and then
leads the boy out of the rink.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before, Mister. You live
around here?” Chris asks, hurrying to keep up as they cross
the playground.
“Yeah, I just moved in a month ago, the house with the
grey siding a couple of doors down from the school. My
name’s Bill.”
“What are you doing hanging around the playground at
night?”
“A man’s got to have a hobby.” He stops at the park’s
arched metal gate. “See you around, Chris. Oh, I almost
forgot.” He holds out his hand and Chris stares at it for a
moment before reaching into his pocket. The boy draws out
the joint and places it on Bill’s palm. Bill unrolls it, letting the
wind snatch the broken bits and scatter them over the park.
“Goodnight, kid.”
Without another word, Chris drops his skateboard and
rides hell-bent-for-leather for home.
The black dog re-appears and pushes his muzzle into his
master’s hand, “Good job, King, you’ve still got all the moves.”
He scratches the animal’s ears, who sighs and leans into
Bill’s hip.
“Shall we go visit the guys at the station? I’ll bet they’ve
still got some of that teriyaki jerky you like.”
The dog gives a sharp bark and springs forward.
“Okay, let’s go find the car.”
The stranger strolls down the road until he and the dog
are swallowed up by shadow, the sound of the cane tapping
jauntily upon the pavement until that, too, disappears. 
PRINCE HORROR
58
The
Pen-name
Puzzler
By Laura DiSilverio, Lila Dare and Ella Barrick
I
t may look as if three people had a hand in this article, but I wrote it
alone. Laura DiSilverio is my real name. Lila Dare is the pen name
on the three Southern Beauty Shop mysteries I wrote for Berkley
Prime Crime, and Ella Barrick is my pen name for the Ballroom Dancing
mystery series (Obsidian). Pseudonyms, or pen names, are inscribed on the
spines of many classic novels: “Huckleberry Finn” (Mark Twain), “The Mill
on the Floss” (George Eliot), and “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” (Lewis
Carroll), to name a few. It shouldn’t surprise readers, then, to learn that some
of their favorite contemporary novels are published under a pseudonym.
At almost every book event I attend, readers ask why an author would use
a pen name. The reasons vary from author to author, but here are some of the
common reasons for adopting a nom de plume:
on-going and popular series.
2
1
The novel or series is work-for-hire and the publisher insists on
a pen name. The Nancy Drew mysteries were written by several
different authors, all using the pen name Carolyn Keene. In this
sort of case, usually the publisher owns the rights to the pen
name and hires authors to write a book, or several books, in an
The author thinks there’s a disconnect between who he “really” is and the type of books he writes.
For instance, if an author is a kindergarten teacher by day, and writes erotica or horror at night,
he may use a pen name to avoid potential conflict between his day job and his publishing career.
59
3
4
5
6
The novelist is a woman who writes for a genre where readers expect books to be written by men,
or vice versa. A man who writes romance novels might well use a female nom de plume. Readers are
more likely to purchase a bodice-ripper written by Elise D’Angelo than Clyde Bumpkins. A woman,
who writes thrillers, or middle grade books aimed at boys, might use a male name (or initials) in
the hopes of attracting more readers.
The writer wants anonymity. Perhaps she’s a judge who writes legal thrillers that suggest the legal
system is corrupt. Or maybe he wrote about a “fictional” dysfunctional family that too closely
resembles his own. Maybe she’s penned a piece with lots of steamy sex and doesn’t want her mother
to know. The reasons for wanting anonymity are practically endless.
The author writes in two (or more) genres and doesn’t want to confuse readers. The best-selling
women’s fiction writer Nora Roberts uses the pen name J.D. Robb for her futuristic police novels
featuring Eve Dallas. Readers can tell at a glance whether they’re getting the latest Eve Dallas yarn
or a stand-alone women’s fiction title.
The writer’s books didn’t sell well. It’s a sad fact of publishing life that if one or two of your books
sells poorly, publishers will be loathe to offer you another contract. Writers in this situation often
turn to pen names to jump start their careers. Publishing houses are frequently more willing to take
a chance on an “unknown” or “debut” author than on an author whose books have underperformed.
No matter the reason for opting to take a pseudonym, writers need to consider several factors before making the real
name/pen name decision, including whether or not they’ll be happy to forego recognition, the confusion factor (my own
mother sometimes doesn’t remember which series I write under which name), and the promotion/marketing challenges.
To my mind, the last item is the most significant consideration. These days, editors and publishers expect writers to
promote their work via social media and in-person events. Depending on your reason for adopting a pen name, inperson events—book signings, teaching at writer’s conferences, panels at genre conventions—may be impossible. And
maintaining two or three identities in the social media sphere can be time consuming and expensive.
Consider: You’ll need a website for each of your authorial names and those will require the purchase of domain
names, host server costs, site design, and maintenance. Even if you’re a web whiz so you don’t have to hire someone
to design and maintain your sites, you’ll have to spend a lot of time working on them, time that could otherwise
have been spent writing. You’ll need Facebook fan pages under each name and you’ll need to be active on each
one. Then there’s Twitter, Linked In, Goodreads, Google, and Pinterest, to name some of the obvious social media
platforms. If you blog to reach a wider reading audience, what name do you blog under—your real one or the
pen name?
I don’t use pen names for anonymity, or to keep a boss from knowing I’m writing on company time, or
anything like that, so I can be transparent about my multiple identities. In other words, although I have Laura
DiSilverio and Ella Barrick websites and Facebook fan pages (I no longer write as Lila Dare), I can cross
promote. I blog under my real name, but mention my ballroom dancing books and my real life ballroom
dancing efforts in that blog. Even so, the promotion burden is heavier than if I wrote only under my own
name.
If you’re strictly a reader, I hope this discussion of pen names has opened your eyes to the possibility that
some of your favorite books are written under pseudonyms. If you’re curious, a web search might help you
turn up other names your favorite author uses; you can try out some of his or her other books. If you’re a
writer, I hope this helps you consider the pluses and pitfalls of using a pen name. An old hair dye commercial
once went, “Does she or doesn’t she? Only her hairdresser knows for sure.” With apologies to Clairol, we can
apply it to pen names: “Only her agent knows for sure.” 
60
“
. . . a RIVETING ROLLER COASTER RIDE, complete with NON-STOP
ACTION, intriguing characters, and an AMAZING PLOTLINE. I love a good
murder mystery, and “Three Keys to Murder” DOES NOT DISAPPOINT!
”
—SHANA BENEDICT of A Book Vacation Reviews
“
For decades, Juan Velarde Cortez
obsessively hunted a legendary
treasure, and his passing has
le� unresolved feelings for his
daughter, 36-year-old journalist,
Fawn. Now, when a series of grisly
killings rock the small island
community—each victim’s face has
com
a distinct signature—Fawn suspects
a bizarre connection between the
murders, her father’s quest, and
the death ritual of an infamous
Seminole Indian from the 1800s.
A cigar box that once belonged
to her father appears to hold the
key. As Fawn draws closer and
closer to solving the 200-year-old
puzzle and determining the killer’s
identity, she will be forced to
unravel historical clues that will
lead her on a harrowing journey.
Time is quickly running out as a
serial killer is watching and waiting
in the shadows.
”
. . . a DELICIOUS, TWISTING JOURNEY unlike any I have read.
—CK WEBB, co-author of “Collecting Innocents”
Cooler
by the Lake
By Sean Baron Marnie Davis sat shivering behind the wheel of her grey Ford van with her husband’s gun in her lap and her dog, Pookie,
curled up beside her.
The heater was on high, but couldn’t compete with the cold Chicago winds coming off of Lake Michigan that rocked the
van from side to side with steady, forty mile an hour gusts.
The dog and gun swapped places half a dozen times or so since dawn, but over the past few hours Marnie began to
favor the gun over the short-haired terrier. She found herself pushing the little brown and white dog away from her every
time her fingers brushed against the cold steel of the weapon.
Why she did this, she couldn’t say. She had never been overly fond of guns in the first place, and this one was perhaps the
nastiest thing she had ever laid eyes on. Why Jonathon would purchase something so revolting was beyond her. He claimed
that if they were going to live in the city, he wanted to be able to protect her. But why pick out something so hideous? At least
the guns on the cop shows she watched were bright, shiny things. Jonathon’s was just a plain, old, butt-ugly gun.
Besides, they lived in a very safe neighborhood and Jonathon was hardly ever home anymore. How was he going to
protect her if all his time was supposedly spent at the office? And just what did a systems analyst do until three o’clock in the
morning anyway?
These were just a couple of the questions she was dying to ask her husband.
She looked at the clock and saw that is was just shy of noon. She had been sitting in the van for nearly six hours now. Her
back was killing her. Her left leg had fallen asleep again. She had to pee and was starting to worry about the baby.
It wasn’t good to spend so much time in the same position. She wanted to lie down and put her feet up. She wanted to eat
something that wasn’t fast food. She wanted to soak in a nice warm tub. She glanced in the mirror, ran a hand through her
hair and sighed. Her usually shiny auburn hair was oily and flat, the strands of grey that started to show last fall were more
prevalent than ever. So were the dark circles under her blue eyes and the lines in her forehead. She looked old. Too old for
thirty-one.
Pregnant women were supposed to be vibrant and full-of-life. They were supposed to glow like moonlight on freshly
fallen snow. What Marnie saw in the mirror was more like
the soup in the gutter after
the plows had
62
come through and salted the roads. Tears welled up in her
eyes, but she wiped them away before they rolled down her
cheeks. She wasn’t about to let that shit start up again. If she
did, she would lose her nerve and be right back here again
tomorrow.
No. By tomorrow, she wanted this to be over with. All
of it. She cried her last tears for Jonathon. Tomorrow, she
would sleep in, start eating better and never worry about her
husband again. And better than all of those things, she would
never have to touch that God-awful gun again. She hated the
damn thing.
Yet, at the same time, it fascinated her.
Holding it up to her nose, she sniffed gently. It had an
oily, slightly acrid odor that made her nauseous and lightheaded. It was awful and invigorating at the same time.
Almost the exact same feeling she had gotten after smoking
her first cigarette when she was just fifteen. She smiled at the
memory and then pressed her tongue to the barrel to see if
the taste she imagined in her mind matched the object in her
hand.
It did and her tongue recoiled from the bitter metal. She
tried to spit the taste out of her mouth, but couldn’t seem to
manage. All her time in the van, breathing the warm, stale air
that came out of the vents left her mouth dry.
“That was a mistake,” she said, looking at the dog.
Pookie looked back at her briefly, then tried to climb
back into Marnie’s lap.
She elbowed the dog back, then dropped the gun into her
lap and rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them. The
only thing worse than the taste of that gun was the unyielding
coldness of the thing, its blunt refusal to warm no matter
how long she cradled it in her lap. That such frigidness could
worm its way into her heart despite the overcoat and heavy
wool sweater she wore made her feel soulless and hollow.
She felt like she was in a prison shower stall or a basement
morgue instead of a heated van parked three blocks West of
Michigan Avenue.
The first time she brought the gun with her, Marnie was
content leaving it locked in the glove box. But as the hours
and days ticked away, she felt compelled to pick the weapon
up more and more frequently. True, she still had trouble
holding the thing for more than a minute or two at a time,
but something about the feel of the grip in her hand and the
way her finger curled perfectly around the trigger made her
want to hold it.
It was a lot more comforting than holding the damn dog.
Pookie, apparently giving up on the warmth and comfort
of Marnie’s lap, retreated to the cold vinyl of the empty
passenger seat and laid its head down. Marnie didn’t notice the dog’s insubordination. She was
too focused on the motel across the street and what had been
going on in room two-nineteen.
She plucked the gun out of her lap again and turned it
over in her hands. Her index finger was immediately drawn
to the trigger and she forced herself to move it away. Her
thumb however, settled on the little button on the side. What
had Jonathon called it? The safety?
She pressed the button.
Click.
Again.
Click.
She repeated the action another dozen times or so, then
returned the gun to her lap. The rhythmic clicking of the
safety was hypnotic and she could feel herself drifting despite
the pain in her leg and her growing need to use the ladies
room. Losing focus now was not something Marnie could
afford to do. She might only get a single chance to catch
Jonathon in the act and she did not want to miss it.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to rush things along
without being sure either.
Nobody really wants to see their husband with another
woman. But ignoring the obvious and turning a blind eye to
a man’s indiscretions wasn’t exactly the way to go. If Marnie
ever wanted peace of mind again, she would have to find out
was going on in that sleazy, little room. Seeing was believing.
Her father always said so and she believed him. What she
had seen so far scared her.
Jonathon was not himself at all lately. He was
distracted, distant, and tired. He stopped talking about
restoring his Corvette, something he dreamed of since
childhood. And their lovemaking seemed more of a chore
for him than anything resembling desire. True, he had never
turned her down, but he hadn’t made any advances toward
her in weeks.
At first she thought it was because of the baby, but
despite being well into her third trimester, she was barely
even showing. True, she started bleeding one night after they
had made love, but it stopped eventually. Her doctor said it
was completely normal and they could try again after six or
eight weeks. Eight weeks without sex? It almost killed her,
but she listened.
Lots of couples she knew continued having sex right
up until their due dates, and some of those women turned
into outright cows, gaining forty or fifty pounds. If their
husbands could get it up for them, then Jonathon should
have no trouble doing the same for her. She only gained
twelve so far.
When she found the receipt for the Rainbow Motel last
week, Marnie put everything together. Jonathon was fucking
around on her. Hard as that was to accept, she could not
ignore the facts. Her husband had met someone, probably at
the office or one of the nearby bars. He entered into an affair
and broke his most sacred vow.
She’d been driving into the city every day since, but had
yet to lay eyes on the woman who had stolen her husband.
Picking up the gun again, Marnie clicked the safety
into the on position and immediately clicked it off. On…
off…on…off, over and over again. Oh, enough already, she
thought. Time to get this over with.
She turned the ignition off and opened the door.
“Sit tight, Pookie. I won’t be long.”
She stepped out of the van, slipping the revolver into the
63
pocket of her overcoat and crossed the street.
The Rainbow Motel was a dingy and colorless shithole,
renting rooms by the week, day, or hour. She was sure
the doors to the motel rooms had been painted at one
time, presumably a different color for each, but the harsh
Chicago winters had worn the finish away. Now, all were just
slightly different shades of grey.
The door to Jonathon’s room may have been red at some
point, but she couldn’t be sure. It was definitely a darker
shade than the others, she just didn’t know if this was
from the paint or if she was somehow projecting her mood
onto it. She wondered if Jonathon noticed the difference
when he inserted his key in the lock. She doubted it. He was
smart enough to manage computer networks, but not very
perceptive.
The more she thought about the situation, the more
disgusted she became. How could her husband end up being
so weak and spineless after only three years of marriage? Had
she really believed Jonathon was different? That he would
somehow resist all temptation and remain monogamous
forever? She hadn’t really expected the marriage to last
forever, not in this world, but three years? She expected
more than that. She deserved more than that.
Realizing her finger had once again found the trigger, she
let her thumb return to the safety and clicked it. She put her
ear to the dirty, metal door and waited.
She could hear water running and low, indiscernible
voices in the background. Probably nailing her in the shower,
she thought. How long had it been since she had felt that
kind of passion from him? Six months? Eight? Long before
she ever got pregnant, that was for sure.
Okay, enough stalling, she thought.
“Open up, Jonathon. I know you’re in there.”
She waited for a response and then used the butt of the
gun to knock three times.
There was no answer.
She craned her neck around to the side window, but
could see nothing but a dirty, smoke stained curtain inside.
She raised the gun to knock again when the door finally
opened.
“Yeah, what is it?”
A tall man with sandy brown hair stood in the doorway,
shirtless, but with a towel draped over his shoulder. His eyes
were focused on a thin sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Where is she?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“What are you talking about?”
Marnie stormed past him, but the man grabbed her arm,
just above the elbow and pulled her back.
“Sorry, but you can’t just barge in here like this,” he said.
She pulled away from him.
“I can and I will,” she said and pulled the gun out of her
pocket. She pointed it at his chest and said, “Shut the door.”
“Easy now,” he said. “Just take it easy.”
“Shut the door!” she said. “Now.”
64
The man pushed the door closed.
“All right. Now what do you want?”
“Oh, now you’re interested in what I want?” she asked.
“Now?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m interested in what you want.” He
spoke slowly, his voice more calm than she expected.
She was hoping for a little more panic from him.
“I want to know about the woman in the shower,” she
said. “And if you are wondering how I found out? Please
don’t. It doesn’t take a genius to follow someone.”
“Wait a second, I don’t know what you think is going
on…” he said, still calm.
“Oh, shut up. I’m done listening to your lies.”
“No, I will not shut up. I don’t even know who you are?”
There it was. The break in his demeanor was subtle, but
she picked up on it. He was scared now, really scared.
“I. Said. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
She ignored his question and waved the gun in his
direction, not threatening him exactly, just reminding him
that she had it.
“Is that thing even loaded?” he asked.
She didn’t respond, just lifted a finger to her lips, shushing
him as if he were a small child.
She moved her finger away from her lips and waved him
away from the door as she surveyed the scenery. The bed was
rumpled, the pillows pulled out from under the covers. The
TV was tuned to some sappy soap opera, the volume turned
up, but not too loud. Just enough to drown out any moaning
she supposed.
“You can come out now,” she said, craning her neck
toward the bathroom.
There was no answer.
“Go get her and bring her out here.”
“I told you there’s no one else here,” he said. “Go look for
yourself.”
She backed around him to the door, keeping the gun
pointed at him at all times. With her free hand she locked it
and hooked the chain.
“Back,” she said. “Into the bathroom.”
He kept his hands held out in front of him, and backed
into the bathroom.
“See, there’s no one here.”
“What’d you do, shove her out the window while I was
knocking?” she asked. “Is that what took you so long to
answer the door?”
The man turned to the bathroom window, which was too
small for even a child to fit through.
“How would I do that?”
The calm had returned to his voice, and Marnie didn’t
like it.
She looked at the window dismissively.
“Turn off the water,” she said, “and come back out here.”
He did as he was told.
She looked around the room again. Jonathon’s briefcase
was on the corner of a shabby desk. It was open with a thick
stack of paper inside. A laptop sat next to it, the screen saver
flashing those annoying flying toasters he still loved
OM OR
so much. Like that was going to fool anyone into
FR TH
W AU
thinking he’d been working.
NE UT
“I don’t know where your little slut is at the
EB
moment, but I’m going to find her and when I do, D
she is going to pay for ruining our lives, just like you
are going to pay, Jonathon.”
“Listen, I’m not Jonathon. I don’t know anyone
named Jonathon. And I don’t know who you are,” he
said. “You are making a mistake.”
“Mistake?” she asked. “The only mistake I made
was marrying you. How could you do this to us?
How could you do this to our baby?”
“Baby?”
“Yeah, your son, remember?” Her left hand
moved to her stomach. “The one I’m carrying for
you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
She sighed.
“You know, I can’t believe you’re trying to deny
this. I’m pregnant and you’re out fucking some
bimbo in this crummy motel room and you have
the balls to act like it’s just another day at the office?
You’re unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but
I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy,” he said.
“Now put that gun down before you hurt someone.
Please.” He stepped towards her. “Will you please
just stop and…here. Look at this.”
He offered her the stack of papers he had been
holding in his hand.
“Don’t you come near me, Jonathon,” she said,
stepping forward. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Please.” He stepped forward again. “I’m…”
Dedicated to my lovely wife Janice,
“I mean it.” She thrust the gun forward and pulled the
All for you, sweetie. All for you. trigger three times.
The safety was off.
“Hmmmpf.” She said, slipping the gun into her pocket.
“…not…”
“Les Williams? I wonder who that is?”
He stumbled backward, falling onto the bed, the papers
She stepped over to the door and pulled her coat shut.
in his hand fluttering to the floor.
“Well, my back is killing me and I really have to pee.
“…Jonathon…”
I’m going to stop at the McDonald’s and use the restroom
Marnie stepped forward, the gun slipping from her before going home. I think I’ll lie down for awhile, put my
fingers, but not falling. No tears ran down her cheeks. She feet up and maybe even take a bath. It will be good for the
bent down and shook the man gently, trying to get a response baby, ‘kay honey?”
out of him. All she got was a gurgle from his throat as he
The man didn’t respond.
coughed up blood.
She slipped out of the room, keeping her head down and
“Oh, honey.” She stepped back as blood began to pool walked back across the street. After using the restroom at the
around his body, darkening the bedspread. “How could you McDonald’s, she bought a fresh cup of coffee for herself and a
let this happen?”
cheeseburger for Pookie. The poor little guy must be starving
She turned her face away from him and her eyes came to by now.
rest on the papers he had been holding. The print was upside
She got back in the van, started it, and as she was pulling
down, but she had no trouble reading what it said: out of the lot, she spied a tall man with sandy brown hair
walking North.
Cooler by the Lake
“Jonathon,” she said. “You naughty boy. What have you
By
been up to?” She turned right onto Dearborn Street and
Les Williams
began following him. 
Tory Allyn
65
Enjoys
Exploring
What-ifs
Author Harlan Coben
Press Photo Credit: Claudio Marinesco
H
arlan Coben is one of those authors that sets
the standard—not only for new authors but
also for established authors in the suspense/
thriller genre. Harlan has over fifty million books in print
and continues to push the limits of his own writing, but also
the intense reading of his fans.
“Stay Close” is the latest Coben novel to hit the
shelves, and it does so in grand fashion, joining the lives
of three different people into a world that will shape them
forever. Harlan didn’t stop there; last year he introduced his
first young adult book, “Shelter,” which features character
Mickey Bolitar. Some fans of Harlan’s adult novels might
recognize that name, because Mickey was first introduced
in his adult thriller “Live Wire.” Not many authors have the
ability to switch characters and genre with such a fluid style,
but Harlan is the one in a generation that can do just that.
Harlan is the first author to ever claim the Edgar,
Shamus and Anthony awards for writing. Seven years into his successful career, Harlan made a
daring move with his character, Myron Bolitar. The result
of that gamble was the international bestselling book and
66
arguably Harlan’s best book to date “Tell No One.” In 2001,
“Tell No One” was nominated for Edgar, Anthony, Macavity,
Nero and Barry awards, and won the Audie Award for Best Audio in
mystery/suspense (read by Steven Weber).
It is an honor that we were able to interview Harlan once again, and bring you, the fans, a little insight outside the
pages. We asked Harlan ten questions and you can read that interview below.
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): In “Stay Close” you ask the question, “What would you do if you could turn back time?”
Is this a question you ponder yourself?
Harlan Coben (HC): Life is a series of what-ifs. There are constant forks in the road, and every time you take one, you
change your life forever. I enjoy exploring that.
S. MAG.: With “Stay Close” being such a powerful psychological thriller, did you find it difficult pushing the limits of the
human emotion?
HC: Not really. The characters react as they do. You can’t force that emotion. You, the writer, need to earn those moments. I hope
“Stay Close” surprises and genuinely moves you. S. MAG.: Besides “Stay Close,” for new fans just finding you, what book would you recommend they start with?
HC: Oh, I’m the worst person to ask.
S. MAG.: What scares Harlan Coben?
HC: Not much. In reality I’m pretty good at blocking, maybe
because I get it all down on paper. That said, the moment you
have a child of your own, you live with fear forever.
S. MAG.: With such a long, very successful career, what keeps
you motivated to continue to challenge yourself and write such
fascinating stories?
HC: First, thank you. Second, this is what I do. It is what I
love. It is the only thing I’m good at. Also, I always want to top
myself. I want “Stay Close” to be the best I’ve ever written—and
I’ll feel that way about the next book too.
S. MAG.: “Stay Close” has three characters that are very
different. Was your challenge making sure their storylines fit
together, while still keeping them as individuals?
HC: I wanted to write a story about three very different people:
Ray, Megan, and Broome, and how one event seventeen years
ago changed their lives forever. I didn’t worry too much about
bringing them together. I knew the horrible thing in the past—
the event that all these years later keeps calling them back—
would handle that for me.
S. MAG.: What is the best compliment you can receive from
either a fan or fellow writer?
HC: I’ve been very lucky. I’ve heard from soldiers serving
overseas. I’ve heard from a variety of people telling me that
my books helped them through illness and loss and loneliness.
What could be more flattering and moving than that?
67
S. MAG.: Finish this sentence: “If I stopped writing
tomorrow I would .”
HC: Be miserable.
S. MAG.: If you could go back in time and witness one event, what
would it be?
HC: I’m not big on going back in time. I like where I am now and if I
changed something in the past, well, we are back to the what-ifs and
forks-in-the road.
S. MAG.: What is on your DVR right now?
HC: I’m a season behind on “Mad Men” and “The Walking Dead.”
I DVR the sports show “Pardon The Interruption” every night
because I like listening to those guys. We have “Modern Family” and
“Survivor” when we want to watch something as a family.
Again it is great to have been able to catch up with Harlan to
give us that little behind the scenes interview. You can find out
much more about Harlan and all of his works simply by visiting
his website: www.harlancoben.com. Many will ask the question
if you have never picked up a Coben book where to start. This
answer is easy, no matter where you start you will continue to
read them all, so go grab your copy of “Stay Close” now, and
then continue the enjoyment with Harlan’s other works. 
68
Special Preview from Author
D.P. Lyle, M.D.
More Forensics and
Fiction
Crime Writers' Morbidly Curious Questions Expertly Answered
Could my villain infect his victim with polio in 1932?
Q
: Would it be possible in 1932 to infect a victim with acute
anterior poliomyelitis? If so, how could the infection be
induced? Could it be introduced through food? Assuming the
victim is a young, healthy male of twenty-four, how long would
it take for the disease to manifest itself? My story concerns a
young intelligence operative put to death in this manner by the
opposition, so the death appears to be from natural causes.
A
: Yes, your scenario could work. In 1932 there was of
course no treatment and no vaccine for polio. Jonas
Salk did not first test the vaccine until 1952, and it was not
available for use until 1955. Prior to that polio was a common
and devastating disease.
It is caused by a virus, and its most common mode of
transmission is through contaminated food and water. It simply
would require taking some saliva or blood or even fecal material
from someone who had acute polio and contaminating the
victim’s food or drink with it. He might or might not contract
the disease since exposure to the virus does not always lead
to infection. It’s unpredictable. But your bad guy could infect
the victim’s food, and he could come down with polio shortly
thereafter. It would be even more likely if there were multiple
exposures, but a single exposure could work.
The incubation period for polio is one to five weeks
with the shortest being three days and the longest
slightly over a month. The initial symptoms tend
to be fever, lethargy, headaches, and generalized
muscular soreness and weakness, very similar to the
flu. In many victims that’s the end of it. They have
no further problems, and the virus is ultimately
killed by the body, leaving the victim immune to
69
polio. But that’s not always the case.
Polio can lead to various types of paralysis. This is called paralytic polio, and it comes in two basic varieties: spinal
polio and bulbar polio. Spinal polio is when the virus attacks certain areas of the spinal column and the muscles of the body
become weak. The legs and arms no longer move, the muscles of the diaphragm can be paralyzed, and breathing becomes
impossible. This is where the old iron lungs came into use. The paralyzed muscles begin to wither and shrink.
About 2% of cases are the bulbar variety. Here the virus attacks the brain stem, which is the lower portion of the brain and
the upper part of the spinal cord. In bulbar polio certain of the cranial nerves, which are nerves that come directly from the
brain and not the spinal cord, become involved and can cause difficulty with breathing, swallowing, and speech, inability to
use the face muscles, blurred and double vision, and other neurologic abnormalities. Both spinal and bulbar polio can exist
together, and this tends to happen in approximately 20% of patients. This is called bulbospinal polio.
When someone develops paralytic polio, their muscles will cease to function, the muscles will atrophy, breathing will
become difficult, and they will be placed in an iron lung. This was the standard treatment in 1932. The major complications
that lead to death early on in this disease process are pneumonia and urinary tract infection. Penicillin was discovered in
1928, but it was not until 1934 that any real studies were done on it, and purification and its use as a true antibiotic did not
occur until the 1940s. So in 1932 there would have been no method for treating these pneumonias and kidney infections, and
they can be deadly, particularly in someone who is immobilized.
So your victim could be infected by presenting him with contaminated food or drink, and he could develop the paralytic
variety and end up dying from either an infection or a slow wasting away. There would be no way medically or forensically
to determine that the infection was intentionally directed at him and not something he contracted through normal personto-person contact, which was how most cases occurred.
Are Poisons Still Viable Weapons in Fiction?
Q
: In today’s age of high-tech forensics, do poisons still work for fictional murders?
A
: Yes, people often get away with poisoning because it is not thought of. If an eighty-five-year-old demented
person with heart and lung disease dies in his sleep in a nursing home, his private MD might sign the
death certificate as a natural cardiac death, and the ME would accept it. Likely no autopsy would be done and no expensive
toxicological exams would be undertaken, so an overdose of morphine or digitalis or whatever could go undetected. But if a
five-million-dollar inheritance was in play and if the insurance company didn’t have to pay for a victim of murder or if one
family member suspected another, the ME might be asked to open a file and investigate. The first step in getting away with a poisoning murder is to make it look like something else. Keep the ME completely out
of the picture or at least give him an easy answer for the cause of death. If no murder is suspected, he’ll take the path of least
resistance, which is also the cheapest route. The ME must live with and justify his ever-declining budget. If he is wasteful, he’ll
be looking for a job. So give him a cheap and easy out.
The second step is to use a poison that is not readily detectable and will slip through most drug screens. Drug screens on
both the living and the dead typically test for alcohol, narcotics, sedatives, marijuana, cocaine, amphetamines, and aspirin.
Some screen for a few other classes. Once a member of a class is identified, further testing to determine exactly which
member of the class is present and in what amount will follow. These tests are more expensive and time consuming, but if the
screen shows something it will be pursued. If not, to save money the death is attributed to something else and life goes on.
Remember that a common cause of death in middle-aged folks is a cardiac arrhythmia without a heart attack. There are no
autopsy findings in such deaths. A heart attack can be seen but not an arrhythmia since it is purely electrical.
That said, if a poison is suspected and if the funds and interest to pursue it are present, virtually anything can be found in
an intact corpse. Using gas chromatography in conjunction with either mass spectrometry (GS/MS) or infrared spectroscopy
(GC/IR) will give a chemical fingerprint for any molecule. Because each molecule has its own structure and thus its own
fingerprint, every compound can be distinguished from every other one.
For these reasons, poisons are still rich tools for the writer of crime fiction. 
70
By Donald Allen Kirch
Haunted Washington
Washington, D.C. is seen
throughout the world as
the capital of the United
States, as a seat of power, and as a
city of monuments. What most do not
realize is that it is also one of the most
haunted cities in America. This city
has seen a lot in its short history. There
have been military battles, deadly duels,
assassinations, untimely deaths, and
invading armies. There are so many
associated tragedies with this town that
it can compare its “skeletons” with any
in the world.
The city got its birth from an act
of Congress on July 16, 1790. The
territories of Columbia, George Town,
and the City of Washington were merged
together into a single entity called the
District of Columbia. The future site
of the American Government had no
stronger supporter than the man it had
been named after: the first President of
the United States, George Washington.
such soul appears within the original
halls of the U.S. Senate. This ghost also
has no identity, but it is rumored that
a wall either collapsed upon him by
accident or that he was the victim of
murder due to the jealousy of a local
politician. In either case, his dedication
to finishing his work has survived long
after his death.
The United States Capital Building is one of
the most haunted in D.C.
The United States Capitol is
considered by most parapsychologists
as one of the most haunted in
Washington, D.C. One could state that
the hauntings began right away upon
the construction of the rotunda in
1863. Several times during the night,
the spirit of a construction worker has
been seen floating above the vastness
of the sacred dome. He is an unknown
soul and carries with him a toolbox
filled with stonework tools. He was said
to have fallen to his death. Another
Tour guides at the Capitol have
seen the ghost of Pierre Charles
L’Enfant roaming the halls. L’Enfant, by
all rights, could be called the “father”
of Washington, D.C. It was he who
designed the original plans later carried
out by Congress. However, L’Enfant
was a passionate and unpopular man,
and his vision of the city was not fully
appreciated by the federal government.
In a fit of rage, the man was ultimately
dismissed by President Washington
and died in poverty in 1825. He is often
seen mumbling to himself looking over
a set of city blueprints in his hands. He
appears as if he is looking for something.
71
What? No one seems to know.
There is also a ghost reported to be
“unfriendly” to a local news reporter.
Upon the old marble steps leading from
the House chamber to the dining room
there are a series of “stains” said to be
the blood of Representative William
P. Taulbee, a congressman from
Kentucky from 1884 to 1888. Taulbee
had been accused of many scandals
by a Louisville Times reporter named
Charles E. Kincaid. The congressman
had been involved with everything
from adultery to a patent office scandal.
Taulbee assaulted Kincaid by tweaking
his nose in public. Embarrassed,
Kincaid encountered Rep. Taulbee on
the House steps, shooting him. Taulbee
died two weeks later. Kincaid was
acquitted, claiming self-defense. News
reporters have stated that when one of
Ghosts have been reported working within
the Rotunda Dome late at night.
their fellows fall upon these stairs the
ghost of William Taulbee can be seen
glaring down at them.
In the Speaker’s Room late at night,
one can hear an unsung hero against
slavery. On February 21, 1848, former
President and Representative John
Quincy Adams suffered a stroke and
died. There are those today that state
if you stand where Adams’ desk once
rested, you can hear the passionate man
debate into the late hours of the night
about his views upon slavery. Several
night security guards have written
reports of a man yelling inside this
room about the evils of “keeping men
in bondage.”
President Adams is not alone on
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his rounds. There have been many
sightings of President Garfield’s specter
roaming the hallways of Congress
since his assassination on July 2, 1881
by a disgruntled office seeker named
Charles J. Guiteau.
Of all the Capitol ghosts, the most
feared is the “demon black cat.” This
cat is said to prowl the darkened halls
of the building and is only seen upon
the eve of a national disaster. It was
first reported by a guardsman who had
shot at it in 1862. It made its presence
known the night before the Lincoln
Assassination, the October 1929 stock
market crash, and the tragic death of
John F. Kennedy. The demon’s favorite
resting place is in Washington’s Tomb.
Two levels below the
Capitol’s Rotunda is an
original feature of the
building, which was
designed as a tomb for
George Washington and
the rest of his family.
The Washington family politely
refused the offer. The cat can be heard
meowing late into the night, although
the room is never open to the public.
The ghostly cat always gets into the
chamber—and always remains.
There is also an “unknown” World
War I soldier who makes his presence
known. Sometimes he is seen guarding
Washington’s Tomb but more recently,
he has been seen in the Rotunda during
state funerals. When a President is
kept inside the Rotunda during a
state funeral, a soldier dressed like a
“Doughboy” enters the room, salutes,
and silently walks away.
The White House is the oldest
building on President’s Park. Built
in 1792, the building was opened on
November 1, 1800. The first couple to
live there was President John Adams
and his wife, Abigail. During his first
day at the Executive Mansion, Adams
was heard to say, “May only wise and
honest men live within this house.”
Within the vastness of the East
Room, late at night, some White House
staffers have been assaulted with the
overpowering scent of soap and damp
clothing. It has been said that this was
where Abigail Adams hung her and her
husband’s clothing to be dried. Others
have seen the nation’s second “first
lady” carrying baskets of laundry into
the room only to have her disappear
upon following her. Some within the
Taft administration even went “on the
record” in observing Abigail Adams
walking through walls. Keep in mind
that the entire inside of the White
House was gutted out and rebuilt
during the Truman administration.
Although copied and replaced better
than the original, what are floors,
walls, and doors to us could be slightly
different within the spirit world.
The White House’s most famous
ghost is that of Washington’s sixteenth
President, Abraham Lincoln. Several
famous personalities have stated seeing
it, including First Lady Grace Coolidge.
Once, while walking through the
White House late at night, the woman
saw Lincoln standing in the Yellow
Room, staring out a window, with his
hands behind his back gazing upon the
Potomac. Once, Theodore Roosevelt’s
personal valet ran screaming from
the building saying that he had seen
Lincoln.
The most famous encounter
and certainly the most documented
occurred in 1942 and involved Queen
Wilhelmina of The Netherlands. The
queen heard footsteps approaching her
room, a soft knock, and answered the
door. Before her stood Lincoln, dressed
in a frock coat and his famous top
hat. She stated he softly looked down
at her and smiled. The queen fainted
from the encounter and talked of it
often afterwards. She was always heard
saying, “His eyes were both caring and
tragic.”
Others like Harry Truman,
Winston Churchill, and Dwight D.
Eisenhower have claimed to “feel” the
great man’s presence during tragic or
difficult times. Perhaps, having been
the last victim of a terrible civil war, the
late president feels it his spectral duty to
offer solace whenever possible?
waiting for his orders to strike. The third
is more “timed.” Every July 6, the ghost
of Anna Surratt, daughter of convicted
Lincoln assassination co-conspirator
Mary Surratt, bangs upon the main
entrance begging for the president to
spare the life of her mother.
walking in the direction of the Oval
Office. He always appears to be in some
unknown hurry.
The White House has its share of ghosts
including Lincoln, Adams, and Reagan
When one travels down the
southwest portion of Independence
Avenue, on or around the site of the
Federal
Aviation
Administration
building, they may encounter ghosts
reminding all about our nation’s
shamed past. Upon this ground, there
once existed a notorious slave market.
The Yellow House or Williams Slave
Pen had been seen as a modest and
well-kept establishment in its day. It
had a deep basement in which newly
arrived slaves from the New England
“Triangle Trade” were kept for auction.
On dark nights there have been reports
of a woman screaming, of the cold
clanking of chains, and of a lonely cry
of a slave barker trying his best to make
a profit.
Also, the ghost of Lincoln’s son
Willie, who died in the White House of
typhoid on February 20, 1862, tends to
approach children offering them a new
playmate.
Other presidents have been spotted
haunting the White House as well.
Several guests have reported hearing
Thomas Jefferson play his violin in the
Yellow Room. Andrew Jackson has
been spotted sleeping within the Rose
Room and his laugh has been heard
echoing within the building since
the 1860s. Lincoln even reported the
encounter once! Mary Todd Lincoln
often complained about hearing
Jackson’s ghost stomping up and down
the ceiling keeping her up at night.
Three “non-resident” spirits also
haunt this house. One is the ghost of
David Burns, who was listed as the
original owner of the land before selling
it to the government. Often, while
people are standing in the Blue Room
a soft voice has been heard saying, “I’m
Mr. Burns.” The second is a constant
reminder of the White House’s most
tragic hour. The third is that of a British
soldier dressed as an invader during the
War of 1812. This specter seems to be
forever setting the White House ablaze,
reminding people of the mansion’s
invasion and torching. Researchers
claim that this unfortunate soldier
had lost his life the following day of
the invasion as an unusual hurricane
passed through the town extinguishing
the purposely-set fires. Still, he is seen
either inside, or out, holding a torch
There is talk of the
ghost of President John
Adams being seen in the
East Room, working
at his desk reading
documents with only
a candle to light the
way. He appears both
worried and annoyed.
No one knows why.
The ghost of George Washington
is often seen standing in front of
the White House looking upon the
structure he helped to build, but did not
live long enough to live in. In modern
times, Ronald Reagan has been spotted
In Lafayette Square there is a
nightly vision connected with the
author of The Star Spangled Banner.
Philip Barton Key II, the son of Francis
Scott Key, and the author of the “The
Star-Spangled Banner,” began an
affair with the wife of Daniel Sickles,
a friend of his. On February 26, 1859,
Sickles became aware of the affair. The
next evening the unfortunate husband
had spotted Key signaling for his wife
on Lafayette Square and rushed Key,
shooting him three times. Eyewitnesses
have stated for the record seeing Key’s
ghost walking about the square late at
night still waiting for his “lady fair.”
Beyond the average congressman
with a “cause” or senator wanting to
pass a bill, ghosts abound in the U.S.
capital. If touring the city late at night
and you encounter an unknown chill
and suddenly feel the cold clasp of a
hand upon your shoulder…well…good
luck to you, too! 
To learn more about this author and his
works go to, www.donaldallenkirch.com.
Comments about Stranger Than Fiction:
True Stories of the Paranormal can be
sent to, Storywriter1967@yahoo.com.
73
Contributor's Corner
Brian Blocker
Sitting in his living room in Phenix City, Alabama in 1984, Brian Blocker
saw the commercial for a G.I. Joe toy in which the announcer claimed,
“you can recreate your favorite G.I. Joe adventures.” Although it was simply
a company tagline, he clearly remembers thinking, “Why would I want to
‘recreate’ something when I could imagine something new?” While his
buddies dreamed of bicycles and stereos, Brian dreamed of having action
figures and play sets that would allow him to act out what was exploding in
his imagination! With those “toys,” he had a world at his fingertips that he
could mold and create according to his mood.
In the fourth grade, Brian was bitten by the writing bug. His teacher
asked if anyone would like to submit a story for a writing competition. He and
his best friend jumped right in. They were asked to attend a young authors’
conference and were chosen to read from their projects. After the panel
listened to several poems depicting dandelions and horses, it was the boys’
turn to read. The story was titled “Slime Beast” and if the looks they got meant
anything, it was obvious that it made quite an impression.
Brian kept reading whatever he could find, from Asimov and Philip K.
Dick to Fitzgerald and Hemingway, but found it hard to touch pen to page.
He would tell himself, “I don’t want to waste the effort on something that isn’t brilliant.” So he
waited. He would start stories here and there, but then abandon them a week later. Nothing
was ever “good enough.”
As he got older, there were girls and other such diversions, forcing the action figures to
be put away and the comics to be stacked on the shelf. He truly wanted to be inspired by a
world that no longer motivated him. It was an inaction that followed him throughout his
teens and into college, leaving the stories that weren’t “good enough” piled up.
The age of thirty-five came, and Brian reached the point where movies didn’t entertain
him the way they used to. Books began grating on him. He felt someone should be reading
something with his name on it. Where were his adventures? He spent so many years looking
for plot holes in everyone else’s work that he missed the hole in his own.
One restless night, with his wife Karen and their children Cameron and Avery asleep, he opened his laptop and started
“Subliminal,” his first novel. It follows Robert Dawes and his struggle to deal with the realization that he is able to control the
minds of others and has been doing so for years. After he begins training with his new mentor and other similar individuals,
his powers grow beyond what everyone was expecting. As he gets more powerful, Robert attracts the attention of a rival
faction that seeks to yield his ability for their own gain and threaten to destroy everything he holds dear.
Challenge is not a
Roadblock
75
Brian states he still doesn’t know where the story came from. The only answer he can come
up with is that the novel wanted to be written even more than he wanted to write it. A year later
it was finished. Eight months after that it was accepted by Rhemalda Publishing. Now it rests in his hands. Momentum is
an awesome thing in writing. With that being said, he’s wasted no time banging out a second, and is now deep into a third.
Brian now lives in Columbus, Georgia, where he tests computer software by day and by night reads, writes, and plays
video games.
Suspense Magazine is honored to have this opportunity to speak with this month’s contributor, Brian Blocker. He’s had an
amazing journey to find what he was meant to do.
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): When you wrote the Slime Beast story with your friend, whose idea was the plot? What was
it about?
Brian Blocker (BB): I don’t remember whose idea it was. My friend John and I would take turns with the story and collaborate
on the details. It involved a monster from the sewer that attacked the school one day: a typical fourth-grade boy’s daydream. We
were characters in it and we defended the school and scared the monster off. Later on, the beast tracked us down at our homes
and chased through town, until we defeated it somehow and it crawled back to the sewers from whence it came. I’m pretty sure
there were illustrations, too. I wished I would have saved a copy. It would be good for a laugh.
S. MAG.: When you were writing “Subliminal,” did you feel the second and third novels already starting in your psyche?
BB: Absolutely, but not the ones I expected. I had this idea about a man who experiences personal loss and isolation, pretty heavy
stuff, and he undergoes a transformation and a rebirth. I was still working out the details in my head when I started “Subliminal.”
Never intending to write a novel when I started, I figured I would drop “Subliminal” and move on to this other serious work, but
that never happened. After “Subliminal” grew legs and I became wrapped up in telling the story, I grew impatient about finishing
so I could start on something new. When I started my second book, it wasn’t what I planned to write, either. It was something
completely out of the blue. Now I’m on my third, and I still haven’t touched the one I planned on writing first. Sometimes an idea
takes control of you and you have to run with it.
S. MAG.: Does the writing process itself and what it does to you, now feel different then it did back in the fourth grade?
BB: It is a really similar feeling, because in the end, I just want to tell an entertaining story. If one person can say that they’re glad
they read my work, that’s good enough for me.
S. MAG.: If we looked at your bookshelf now, would you still have those comic books and what else would we find there?
BB: Most of my comics are now in my brother’s collection for safekeeping, and my bookshelf isn’t growing as much anymore since
I bought a Kindle, but I still keep a good variety of stuff on hand, from the Fantastic Four and Heavy Metal magazine to Conan
and Groo. People that know me well know that I am a history nerd, so there are a lot of history books on my shelf. I’ve been trying
to find new authors to read, and friends are all too eager to give me their suggestions. There isn’t enough time in the day to read
all that I want to.
S. MAG.: Does your wife get to read your work before your agent or publisher? What does your family think about you being
an honest-to-goodness author?
BB: I wrote a short story a while back and she was the first person since the fourth grade to read any fiction from me. I was a
nervous wreck waiting for her to finish. She told me that she liked it, but I just figured that she was required to say that. When
I finished “Subliminal” and gave it to her, I would check in periodically and see if everything was okay. Again, she told me that
she liked it and that she thought it was good. After it got rejected for publication a few times, I started to lose faith in it, but when
Rhemalda accepted it, I was ecstatic. She just looked at me and said, “I told you so.”
My family likes to joke around about me being a celebrity and being founding members of my fan club, and I am now required to
help my children with their writing assignments. I’m very fortunate that it has happened to me so fast. There are a lot of talented
writers that haven’t had the opportunities that I have.
S. MAG.: What inspires Brian Blocker?
BB: Everything. I have an overactive imagination, so it doesn’t take much for me to build a story out of something, if only to
entertain myself. Every time I see something on the news, or read about a historical event, I play little mind games where I
imagine myself in that situation, and think out how I would react. Before I realize it, I am off on an adventure, daydreaming
away. If it’s a fun ride, I’ll write it in my notebook for another day.
Suspense Magazine was honored to have been able to bring you this exclusive interview with our contributor and author
Brian Blocker. A man who helps us keep our publication going. Thank you, Brian. If you want to learn more about Mr.
Blocker, check out his website at, http://brianblocker.net/. 
76
J
U
S
T
F
O
R
1. Stephen King, “The Wind Through a Keyhole”
2. Alexander McCall Smith, “The Limpopo Academy of
Private Detection”
3. Mary Higgins Clark, “The Lost Years”
4. Anne Perry, “Dorchester Terrace”
5. Justin Gustainis, “Evil Dark”
6. Richard Castle, “Heat Rises”
7. Lisa Scottoline, “Come Home”
8. Iris Johansen, “What Doesn’t Kill You”
9. John Grisham, “Calico Joe”
10. Penny Vincenzi, “More Than You Know”
11. Michael Connelly, “The Fifth Witness”
12. Margaret McLean, “Under Oath”
13. Robert K. Tanenbaum, “Outrage”
F
U
N
14. Robert Dugoni, “Murder One”
15. Paul
Goldstein,
“Havana
Requiem”
16. Regina O’Melveny, “The Book of Madness and Cures”
17. James Lilliefors, “Viral”
18. Anne Tyler, “The Beginner’s Goodbye”
19. Alice Hoffman, “The Dovekeepers”
20. Jonathan Kellerman, “Mystery”
21. Graham Swift, “Wish You Were Here”
22. Adam Levin, “Hot Pink”
23. Stephen Dau, “The Book of Jonas”
24. John Updike, “The Witches of Eastwick”
25. Douglas Kennedy, “Temptation”
77
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authors, current books, and upcoming projects.”
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78

Honorable Mention - Suspense Magazine

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