Never let it be said that we can’t live and learn. I guess that is the theme of this entry. It’s been almost six week since the last entry and I wanted to take a moment to bring you up to speed. I’ve been very busy, both at work and at working on the book. Things are good at home, my wife is grudgingly putting up with my mental absences, though she does an excellent job of pulling me back into reality when needed. And Romeo is still an attention whore. All of us are going a little stir crazy being locked up in the house all the time. The weather is starting to get a little warmer, just not the “Open the windows/I want to go outside and play” kind of warm we really need.
I’ve been working on the edit every spare minute, and while I believe I was somewhere around chapter eleven when I wrote the last entry, I’m in the middle of Chapter 15 now.
I did start the edit over from page one when I found a terrific free piece of online editing software called ProWritingAid at prowritingaid.com. The first link will take you right to the Analysis/Editor page. From the little research I’ve done, there are several very good programs out there, the one I deem the best won’t work on my Mac. There is another one that is web-based that is probably second to that one, but you have to subscribe. ProWritingAid has a very powerful free version that has everything I need to help get the manuscript into shape for the editor. The only shortfall of the free version compared to the premium version is there is a word count limit (3000) and the toolbar doesn’t work. However, all the sections in the toolbar are accessible from the sidebar, and working with more than 3000 words at a time is tiring and time consuming. Breaking the manuscript into 3000 word sections to edit makes it much more manageable. Without going into a lot of boring detail about what the program actually does, I’ll simply tell you that if you’re editing something on your own, I strongly suggest you try it. If you have any questions about using it, feel free to drop me a line via the Contact Page on my website.
I’ve also continued to promote the book. I’ve built my author’s website, you can visit that at stephenacarter.com. I built it though Sitebuilder.com and it was very easy to use. Tip: I signed up a couple months ago and waffled because of the cost. They kept sending emails with special until finally they sent one that told me I could have the site (free), domain name (free) and hosting for only a dollar a month for the first year. I had to pull the trigger. I opted for the extra protection so I believe the annual cast for the first year was $34.00. I believe it jumps to around $60 next year, though don't quote me on that. There is a Home Page, About The Author, The Books page, and the blog is posted there. There is also a Reviews page, and a page for my Short Stories. You can also email me via the Contact Page, sign up to be a Beta Reader and, if you scroll to the bottom, you can click on the button to check out my new Photo Gallery. Earlier Blog entries and some of my photos can also be seen on Niume.com. I continue to promote the book’s Facebook page, blog and now the website via my Twitter account. My followers have grown to almost 550 at last count. (Thank you, followers!)
For those of you who have been following the GERM LINE: THE BLOG on blogspot, I’ll continue to post there, but my author’s site is now its true home. At some point I may drop it from blogspot.
I’ve also joined several writer’s and author’s groups on Linkedin, and have gotten some good marketing advice, some tips for improving the cover, and have had several people volunteer to be Beta Readers. In addition, I’ve been assembling a list of agents and publishers that are appropriate to the book’s genre, and inquiring about rates from editors for copy and line editing.
Like I said, busy.
Finally, I’ve changed the Prologue. I read an article about agent’s pet peeves and discovered that Prologues were a biggy, though I don’t know why. Personally, I enjoy them. But I’m not about to alienate a whole slew of agents simply because my book starts with the word Prologue in bold lettering. Since I consider the information integral to the story, and to the hero’s motivation and state of mind, it has become chapter one, 'You Dropped Something". I’m fairly secure that queried agents won’t read this, so I’ll take the chance of writing about it, with the hope that you’ll keep this just between us. If they do, maybe they'll read it, maybe they'll like it. (I tried to find the article to link to the post but didn't have any luck. It's out there though so if you're interested, dig into it.)
Okay, at the risk of being receptive I will post the first two chapter for your reading enjoyment:
You Dropped Something
Veronica Stark pulled her three-year-old Nissan into the garage of their modest Valley ranch home. She immediately tapped the remote hanging from her visor, closing the door behind her, the sonorous rumble of the rollers on their tracks oddly assuring. As a cop’s wife she knew the drill, “Be aware, look strong, stay in the light.” She had been well schooled in closing and locking the doors behind her, staying on the main roads, and shouting “Fire!” instead of “Help!” if she ever got into a jam. She had been drilled in these precautions out of love; they weren’t simply lip-flap platitudes because bad things did happen to good people.
Veronica, (Ronnie to her friends,) was one of the good people. She recycled and lived greenly as possible without seeming ridiculous to her family and friends. She also volunteered at the Lutheran Food Bank twice a week, helped out their neighbors whenever the need arose, and kept a kind word for almost everyone. Of course, as an intelligent women, she was perfectly capable of telling some douchebag to screw off in explicit and colorful terms if he or she warranted the Viper Tongue.
Generally, most people liked her and liked being around her, and those who didn’t were likely jealous of her easy manner and wholesome good looks. Her blue eyes sparkled warmth and humor, she kept an open mind, and she worked out every other day at the Bally’s on Victory and ran an average of thirty miles a week. On the superficial side, she paid top dollar to have her nails done once a week, and had artificially highlighted hair. At thirty-two, she had a superbly shaped, drum-tight ass she was secretly proud of and that her husband adored (sometimes caressing and speaking to it as though it were a separate entity, much to her outward annoyance but private delight).
As a couple they didn’t earn a lot of money by L.A. standards, but that didn’t matter because on most days they were happy. She worked part time at the library (though her hours dwindled as budget cuts took effect) and her husband only made ninety grand a year before overtime as a detective second grade with the LAPD. Combined, they netted almost eighty thousand after taxes. It seemed substantial when you said it out loud but in a community where the average home price exceeded five hundred thousand dollars, the money didn’t go very far. They struggled to save for things like vacations and home improvements and, with a two thousand dollar a month mortgage and two car payments, they were lucky to put away a steady ten percent for retirement. But that was law.
On this hot and sunny Valley day, the coolness of the garage was a welcome relief as she climbed from her Murano. Veronica didn’t run the A.C. very often to save gas, today was no different. She had money on the brain as she locked the car door, the alarm chirp reassuring.
She was so preoccupied she barely registered Samantha their Border Collie barking like her tail was on fire on the other side of the door that separated the garage from the house. With so much on Veronica’s mind it was little more than an itch at the back of her brain. Samantha, however, was quite insistent and finally made her point.
“I’m coming, Sammy! Knock it off,” Veronica shouted.
As a rule she didn’t yell at her dog but she was nervous. She was also excited, scared, thrilled, and filled with wonder because she had received big news. Big News, capital B, capital N. She had peed on the stick so she had an idea it was coming, but it wasn’t until her doctor read the results of her blood test that it actually registered they were having a baby.
They were going to be parents. Finally. After ten years. She marveled at the idea of it. At this point it was almost ridiculous. She met and married her husband fresh out of the academy. They tried to get pregnant from the moment they hit their honeymoon suite overlooking the cerulean blue waters of Maui. They continued when they got home from their honeymoon, every night after that, and sometimes during his lunch breaks. They even sacrificed several mornings a week, forgoing the most important meal of the day in pursuit of parenthood.
Both she and her husband were only children, and had decided before taking their vows that they wanted a house full of kids. If not enough for an entire baseball team, at least enough for a solid infield. She knew Adrian would be a great father, one of those super-dads who always said the right thing, knew how to build a tree house, and showed up at all the important events. The Job, with a capital J, involved life and death but family came first whenever possible.
As cop-wives went, she was one of the lucky ones. He didn’t drink (except modestly at parties), came straight home after work and he left the stresses of the office at the office. After a decade of marriage, they were still hopelessly in love.
When five years had passed and there was still no bundle of joy, it seemed Veronica and Adrian were destined to remain childless. They discussed other options: adoption, surrogacy, foster care, but there always seemed to be some excuse for putting off the next step. After eight years they stopped talking about it. After ten, they forgot about it altogether and went on with their lives.
But now…
She could not wait to break the news. She resisted telling her husband after the stick revealed the parallel pink lines because she wanted to make certain there were no mistakes. Now, with her ducklings in a row, she planned the perfect evening. She stopped at Ralph’s purchasing the ingredients for his favorite meal: chicken Marsala, garlic mashed potatoes and cinnamon sweet carrots, with a glass of Moscato for Adrian and sparkling water for her. He would wonder about the wine, inquiring as to the occasion, but she would deflect and deliver the news over crème brûlée.
As she raised the hatch to remove the groceries the thought struck her that they would have to dig into their savings to build out the nursery. But wasn’t that what it was there for—
Movement in the shadows where Adrian kept his golf clubs caused Veronica to drop her keys. They lay forgotten as the man stepped into the light.
Veronica had seen this man somewhere but couldn’t place him. He wasn’t a neighbor and he didn’t visit the library. He was Hispanic, with an oily, pockmarked complexion and two days worth of facial hair. He wore an orange jump suit, which was odd. Usually only detainees in county lock-up wore orange jump suits. She’d noticed young people wearing them as fashion statements, but this man was her age, maybe older. She didn’t think he was trying to look cool.
“You dropped something, mamacita.” His accent was heavy, most of his life spent south of the border. It came out, “Jew drop some-ting, mamacita.” He slid around the car with sinuous grace, his eyes locked to hers, predator to prey.
“What are you doing in here? My husband is a police officer, you need to leave.”
Veronica wasn’t scared. Not yet, not exactly. She was irritated because she had things to do. She needed to get the groceries inside, get them put away and begin prepping for supper. She didn’t have time for this.
“I know your husband, bitch. He that stupid mother-fucker think actions got no consequences.”
His tone was calm but his dark gaze fiery. He closed the gap between them with two easy strides.
Phantom icy fingers squeezed her intestines as she realized who this man was. She’d seen him on television being perp-walked into the station house by her husband. She and Adrian watched it on the news while snuggled in bed two nights ago. According to Adrian, he was a shit-bag rapist who has escalated to a half dozen killings in the north Valley. Adrian hunted him down, took him without a fight, and escorted him to jail where he belonged. His name was Victor Jorge Sanchez and he was standing in her garage.
Veronica needed her keys. The mini-garage remote was on the key chain. It didn’t matter who he was or why he was there, she just needed to get out. She needed to open the garage door and run as fast as she could, yelling, “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
Survival instincts kicked in In a blink, without taking her eyes off of him, Veronica squatted and felt for her keys; they were just to the left of her searching hand.
He was on her in an instant, grabbing her ponytail. She forgot about the keys and stood straight up, her powerful thighs driving her compact body upward like pistons. She caught him under the chin with the top of her head, knocking him backward, forcing him to release her hair.
Veronica bolted for the door to the kitchen, knowing it was locked, hoping she had forgotten, certain she hadn’t. She gave the knob a desperate twist - it didn’t budge.
On the other side of the door, Sammy was going nuts. A thought flitted through Veronica’s mind, He better not touch my dog!
She bolted for the garage door, thinking, Scoop up the keys—
She heard them skitter across the concrete a beat after registering the impact on the toe of her Asics. They were now somewhere under the Murano, where they remained until forensics put them in a plastic bag that evening.
The garage door had an emergency switch, in case you got locked in without the remote. Where was it? On the wall. Which side? There was also a quick-release handle. Veronica couldn’t remember where that was either. Shit! She and Adrian had gone over all of this when he had the new motor installed three years ago. They couldn’t afford it, but when it malfunctioned and closed on his Explorer that ended the discussion—
There! She grabbed it—
Her arms were suddenly wrenched backward, white-hot spears of pain shot through her shoulder sockets, causing her to cry out. She was swung around and slammed face first into the hatch door of the Nissan. Blood filled her mouth as her front tooth pierced her lip. She saw stars and darkness explored the edges of her consciousness.
Her left arm was twisted up behind her until she thought it would snap. She felt her shorts being ripped to her ankles. She let loose an involuntary guttural grunt as she was entered from behind. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled, ineffectually, unable to find leverage. Her final thoughts were of her baby.
*
Detective Adrian Stark found his wife’s body six and a half hours later laying by the rear tire of her car. Her shorts were around her ankles, her throat slashed. He didn’t know at the time that she carried their only child. Even so, all he could do was sit beside her holding her hand, his body wracked with deep, gut wrenching sobs.
The next-door neighbor, passing by while walking his Pekingese, called 911.
He’s So Beautiful
Another perfect evening in the Pacific Palisades. One of those fresh, clear nights where dreams were born, life was full of potential, and nothing could possibly go wrong. Architectural lighting showcased the multimillion-dollar homes that dotted the hills like well-placed ornaments, the spectacular Pacific Ocean view from the Palisades shared by only the wealthy select who could truly afford it.
Inside a sleek cliff-side Ray Kappe Modern, minimalist decor accented that expansive view through floor-to-ceiling glass. The Blue Danube oozed from unseen speakers. Doctor Ari Farhoud, a distinguished-looking naturalized Pakistani hummed the waltz as he poured two glasses of Merlot from the Shafer Vineyards. Anticipating sharing the special bottle with his wife, cherry, plum and sage filled his nostrils as he poured. A remembered conversation from earlier that day interrupted his musings.
“I spoke with Necci this morning. I assured her we would be there on Saturday.”
Doctor Farhoud’s wife Ayesha, a dusky, voluptuous beauty of forty-five, was preparing dinner. She smiled at the thought of their only daughter worrying over the attendance of her housewarming party. She had done well, graduating with honors from UCLA. She would be attending medical school in the fall so they had bought her a lovely Spanish Modern in Brentwood as a graduation gift. A fledging medical student shouldn’t worry about paying rent.
“Does she need us to bring anything?” Ayesha asked.
“She simply said, ‘Make certain mother brings her bikini.’ I assured her I would insist.”
Ayesha let out a girlish laugh, warming the doctor’s heart as he lifted the glasses of wine and headed into the kitchen. His wife was just pulling a simmering pan of Aaloo Gosht from the stove.
“You would subject your daughter and her friends to such an outrageous spectacle?”
Her husband offered a glass. “Only to render the women jealous and the men weak-kneed with envy.”
Ayesha’s sparkling expression melted to perplexity. A dark form... an intruder trailed her husband into the kitchen.
“Ari?”
Before Doctor Farhoud could turn, the intruder snapped his neck. The glasses he carried fell from his hands and shattered on the floor, wine splashing across the travertine tile in a crimson wave.
The intruder effortlessly heaved the doctor’s body over his shoulder, as though hoisting a sack of potatoes.
Ayesha clawed at her face in horror, leaving long welts, shrieking hysterically as the shock of what she witnessed washed over he. The act too immediate, too violent to leave room for denial. Her husband was dead and this… man—
The intruder’s movements were precise and deliberate, without wasted motion. He stepped around the kitchen island, heading toward the living room, carrying Farhoud and moving fast, heading toward the living room.
Ayesha couldn’t understand why this was happening. Why was this man in her house? (Man? Was he? He moved with machine precision.) Why kill her husband? There was no reason— Why was he entering her living room— How does he move so quickly?
Ayesha, normally a bright woman who processed thoughts rapidly (the other reason her husband had married her), made a fatal mistake. Instead of running away as logic dictated, she attacked. She raced around the island, snatching one of her prized Wusthof carving knives from the knife block, the bloody taloned fingers of her left hand now directed at the intruder.
He was halfway across the living room— (Where was he going?) Ayesha sprinted to catch up, raising the knife to plunge it into his spine. Whether he heard her coming or sensed she was near she would never know. Before she took her next step, he spun and delivered a lightning roundhouse kick that caught her in the jaw and slammed her to the floor, silencing her forever.
Her final thought as she glimpsed his face just before the blow struck was, He’s so beautiful!
The beautiful man was named Jacob, after the Biblical schemer. He was twenty-five, stood six-four, with a fair complexion, striking, intense features, piercing eyes and the muscular form of a ballet dancer.
He stared down at the fallen women. He hadn’t meant to harm her, he’d reacted to proximity. Adrenaline had forced him to act with inappropriate violence.
He quickly assessed: He was carrying a dead body with another at his feet, concluding that the situation was untenable, the plan ill-conceived. How had he become convinced to take this path? The logic was flawed. He considered laying the body down, calling the police and sitting down to wait for them to arrive.
The others were counting on him, waiting for him to complete this task.
Jacob froze with indecision. This was not a state to which he was accustomed; decisions came easily. Usually. But now… He had killed someone— Two people. But he had taken the life of an innocent. No longer a soldier on a mission, he was a murderer. He had crossed the Rubicon and was forever changed.
Taking three running steps, with Doctor Farhoud’s body slung over his shoulder, he blew through the massive picture window. He plummeted forty-five feet, landing on the hillside below, flexing his knees to absorb the impact. He skidded, fell on his ass, and slid twenty feet before popping up and bounding down the mountain. He disappeared into the night carrying the one hundred and seventy-five pound dead man like a bag of dirty laundry.
*
By most accounts, Rupert Rutgers was a nosy, whiny little bitch. He’d retired from the “biz” seven years ago, having spent four lucrative decades staring through the lens of a 35mm motion picture camera while complaining about everything from the color of the wardrobe to the craft services fare. He worked consistently because he was a gifted cinematographer and a “master” at painting with light. The fact he was a huge pain in the ass only seemed to add to his allure. However, Rupert never cared what others thought of him. He spent his career doing what he loved while making one hundred percent certain he was as comfortable as possible while doing it.
Now, at sixty-eight, he spent evenings watching his neighbors through a Celestron telescope while sipping Dewar’s and snacking on braunschweiger spread on rosemary crackers. His acute interest in the neighborhood wasn’t out of concern for the safety of his fellow residents, he was at heart a voyeur, and afraid he might miss something. Like Mommy-Of-The-Year on Via La Costa who was addicted to coke and sometimes blew her daughter’s boyfriend for a gram while she was upstairs getting ready for their date. Or Limp Dick Fat Ass over on Del Cielo who liked to whip tall, redheaded escorts with a power cord, at five grand a pop. Who needed movies? The uncurtained living rooms and bedrooms of America is where the real action happened.
Right now though, Rupert Rutgers needed a stiff drink but wasn’t having much luck getting his scotch fix because his hands were shaking. It kept slopping over the sides of his glass. He would have to remember to clean it up so it wouldn’t stain the Brazilian wood. He finally splashed enough scotch into the glass for a healthy swig and knocked it back in one gulp. It didn’t sit well on the braunschweiger.
What he had seen was impossible. Inconceivable. No one could survive a fall like that, much less get up and run away. He must have been on wires. It had to be a stunt. A stuntman on wires. He’d shot a hundred scenes like that. But the fall was fast. Too fast for wires. And he’d seen no cameras or lights or crew. Where was the crew? And, and, and what he did to Rich Immigrant Doc! Definitely wasn’t a stuntman. And the kick— Rich Immigrant Wife was a beautiful, classy lady. She didn’t deserve that.
He needed to call the cops. He never got involved in the doings (legal or illegal) of his neighbors. But this… This was wrong. Would the cops even believe him? He should make up a story. He would need to make up a story to get them there. Lazy pricks. He had to get them over to the Doc’s house pronto and he didn’t need to answer a million questions to do it.
In reality all he wanted was another drink and to forget he saw any of it. It wasn’t his problem. But that’s what he did, he saw things, and this was the fucking Palisades. You don’t just kill the neighbors, jump out the window, fall eighty fucking feet and simply walk away. No sir! Not on his watch.
He set down his glass and glanced at the clock. Just past eight. He pulled his cell, took a breath and dialed 9-1-1. Rupert told the operator he had witnessed a break-in and heard shots fired. He gave her the Farhoud’s address and hung up.
There, he thought. That should bring the lazy cock suckers running. He knew they had his address and phone number but fuck ‘em. He didn’t feel like answering a million fucking questions. He had done his duty.
He poured another Dewar’s, his hand shaking only slightly less.
Thank you for reading! As always, your questions and comments are welcome.
Thank you for reading! As always, your questions and comments are welcome.
