Suspense Magazine July 2013

Suspense, Mystery, Horror and Thriller Fiction 

JULY 2013 

 

A Summertime Cornucopia with 

James Rollins 

Tami Hoag 

Brad Taylor 

Richard Godwin 

Matthew Dunn 

Peek Inside 

“The eye of god” & 

“The Poisoned Pilgrim” 

Lisa Gardner 

Continues her 

10-Part Series 

On Conquering the 

Dreaded Synopsis 

Stranger Than Fiction 

Beware! 

The Vampire Hunter

# 1 I n t e r n at I o n a l B e s t s e l l e r 

“ 

SIMON KERNICK 

writes great plots, great characters, great action.” 

—Lee ChiLd 

Available in paperback and ebook Available as an ebook Available as an ebook 

“Simon Kernick writes with his foot pressed hard on the pedal. 

hang on tight!” —harLan Coben 

“Kernick is no longer a writer to watch; he’s an author 

to be reckoned with.” —MarK biLLinghaM 

ATRIA INTERNATIONAL BOOKS OF MYSTERY 

YOUR PASSPORT TO A WORLD OF MURDER AND MAYHEM 

P r o u d ly 

Published by 

Facebook.com/AtriaBooks 

Twitter.com/AtriaBooks 

AtriaInternationalMysteries.com 

PICK UP OR DOWNLOAD YOUR COPIES TODAY

C r e d i t s 

John Raab 

President & Chairman 

Shannon Raab 

Creative Director 

Romaine Reeves 

CFO 

Starr Gardinier Reina 

Executive Editor 

Jim Thomsen 

Copy Editor 

Contributors 

Donald Allen Kirch 

Mark P. Sadler 

Susan Santangelo 

DJ Weaver 

CK Webb 

Kiki Howell 

Kaye George 

Weldon Burge 

Ashley Wintters 

Scott Pearson 

D.P. Lyle M.D. 

Claudia Mosley 

Christopher Nadeau 

Kathleen Heady 

Stephen Brayton 

Brian Blocker 

Andrew MacRae 

Val Conrad 

Laura Alden 

Melissa Dalton 

Elliott Capon 

J.M. LeDuc 

Holly Price 

Kari Wainwright 

David Ingram 

Jodi Hanson 

Amy Lignor 

Susan May 

J.S. McCormick 

Kestrel T. Andersen 

Cassandra McNeil 

Jenny Hilborne 

Tanya Contois 

Sharon Salonen 

Anthony J. Franze 

Jeanine Elizalde 

Kristin Centorcelli 

Jerry Zavada 

Ray Palen 

S.L. Menear 

Drake Morgan 

Sherri Nemick 

Customer Service and 

Subscriptions: 

For 24/7 service, please use our website, 

www.suspensemagazine.com or write to: 

SUSPENSE MAGAZINE at 

26500 Agoura Road, #102-474 

Calabasas, CA 91302 

Suspense Magazine does not share our 

magazine subscriber list to third-party 

companies. 

Rates: $24.00 (Electronic Subscription) 

per year. All foreign subscriptions 

must be payable in U.S. funds. 

SuspenseMagazine.com 

What makes a great villain 

When authors write a series, the focus is 

generally on the heroes—their family and lives, and 

the people that touch them every day. 

But what about the villain That character 

usually changes from book to book since the hero 

saves the day and in the end the villain is generally 

killed off. The readers rarely get to know the villain 

since their life is so short, but that doesn’t mean the 

author can simply write about a really bad person that does bad things and then loses in 

the end. 

Why Because the number-one rule that every author should follow is to never write 

a character that is forgettable. The most famous villains get that status because of the 

depth of character the author was able to create. While it’s difficult for an author to get 

that in-depth with a certain character in one book, it can be done. 

When you start thinking of your fictional world and the characters that will live in 

it, pay close attention to the characters that you know will only be around for one book. 

You have time to build characters that will continue on from book to book and bring 

them along with the reader. 

Let’s take a series, more than three books that are not tied together. When you 

first introduce the hero and the characters that will interact with them throughout the 

series, you can slowly bring them along through all three books, talking about their past, 

present, and future. Creating a villain in each book and having depth to them will bring 

the reader back to book two and book three and so on. 

Thrillers—particularly military and political ones—constitute one genre that seem 

to have the same exact hero or cast of heroes facing new challenges each time. In some of 

these books, the villain is simply a character that is placed in the pages to give the heroes 

some sort of challenge, and never really touch the reader with any emotion. 

Even though “The Joker” has been around for a very long time, Heath Ledger created 

a version of that character that is seen as one of the best film villains ever. Within the 

pages of a book, given that it takes a lot longer than two 

hours to read, the author should have no excuse not to 

create a formidable foe for the hero to encounter. This 

basic rule of character development is what separates 

the good authors from the great ones. 

This rule also works with secondary characters, 

which fill the world of a book up into much more 

than just words on a page. The reader will not only 

be entertained but have an experience that will keep 

them coming back to see what you have in store for 

them next. 

John Raab 

CEO/Publisher 

Suspense Magazine ■ 

From the Editor 

Photo Credit: Model: http://l6visyda.deviantart.com, 

Photographer: http://iardacil-stock.deviantart.com 

“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, S.L. Menear, and Amy Lignor.” 

1

CONTENT 

S u s p e n s e M a g a z i n e 

Ju l y 2 0 1 3 / Vo l . 0 4 9 

Excerpt of “The Poisoned Pilgrim” By Oliver Pötzsch .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 

Rules of Fiction: The Seven (Bad) Habits By Anthony J. Franze.. . . . . . . . . . . 7 

Lisa Gardner on Conquering the Dreaded Synopsis: Part Six.. . . . . . . . . . 14 

The Hilcrove Atrocity By Justin Guleserian.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 

From Their Pen...to the Silver Screen By CK Webb .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 

Getting Into Your Historical Characters POV By Ric Wasley.. . . . . . . . . . . 24 

The Sidewalk Ends By Thomas Scopel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 

Inside the Pages: Suspense Magazine Book Reviews.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 

Suspense Magazine Movie Reviews. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 

Featured Artist: Taire Lilith Morrigan.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 

Excerpt of “The Eye of God” By James Rollins. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 

Stranger Than Fiction: The Vampire Hunter By Donald Allen Kirch.. . . . . . 63 

Diving to Depth By Joe Becker.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

Special Preview from Oliver Pötzsch 

The Poisoned Pilgrim 

A Hangman’s Daughter Tale 

Prologue 

Erling, near Andechs 

Saturday, June 12, 1666 AD, Evening 

By Oliver Pötzsch 

Dark thunderclouds hung overhead as the novitiate Coelestin, with a curse on his 

lips, marched toward his imminent death. 

In the west, beyond Lake Ammer, swirling clouds towered up, the first flashes 

of lightning appeared, and a distant rumble of thunder could be heard. When 

Coelestin squinted, he could make out gray rain clouds 

over the monastery in dießen, five miles away. In only a 

matter of minutes the storm would be raging over the 

Holy Mountain, and now, of all times, the fat monk of 

an apothecary had sent him to fetch a carp from the 

monastery pond for supper. Coelestin cursed again and 

pulled the cape of his black robe farther down over his 

face. What could he do Obedience was one of the three 

vows of the Benedictine order, and Brother Johannes was 

his superior—it was that simple. An occasionally hottempered, 

often enigmatic, and above all gluttonous lay 

brother, but nevertheless his superior. 

“Porca miseria!” As so often when he was in a bad 

mood, Coelestin switched to his mother tongue. He had 

grown up in an Italian village on the other side of the 

Alps, but in the turmoil of the war, his father had become a mercenary and his mother a whore who followed army camps. 

Here in the monastery on the Holy Mountain, Coelestin had found a home in the pharmacy at Andechs. Even though the 

incessant litanies and nightly prayers sometimes got on his nerves, he felt safe here. Three times a day he got a good meal; 

he had a warm, dry place to sleep, and the Andechs beer was said to be one of the best in the entire Electorate of Bavaria. In 

these hard times, one could have it much worse. Nevertheless, the spindly little novitiate cursed under his breath, and not just 

because he would soon be as wet as the carp in the pond of the Erling Monastery. 

Coelestin was afraid. 

Ever since the discovery he made three days ago, fear had been eating at him like a rabid beast. What he saw was so 

horrible that his blood almost froze in his veins. It still followed him at night in his dreams, when he woke up screaming 

and bathed in sweat. God would never allow such a crime to go unpunished; that much was certain. To Coelestin, the dark 

clouds and the flashes of lightning in the sky seemed like the first harbingers of an Old Testament revenge that would soon 

be visited on the monastery. 

Even more threatening than the heresy, actually, was the man’s hateful gaze. The man had recognized Coelestin when the 

novitiate tried to make a hasty escape—at least that’s what Coelestin thought. And the look on the novitiate’s face said more 

than a thousand words. In recent days they had reached out to him, prodding, as if checking that Coelestin hadn’t betrayed 

the secret. 

Coelestin knew that the other one had powerful advocates. Why would they believe him, the little novitiate The 

accusation was so monstrous that he could be considered insane. Or even worse, a character assassin. This comfortable life, 

with meat, beer, and a warm, dry bed, would then no doubt be gone forever. 

Nevertheless, Coelestin had decided to speak up. The next morning he would tell the monastery council what he’d seen 


3

and his conscience would finally be clear. 

A loud clap of thunder rolled across the countryside, and the freezing novitiate could feel the first cool drops of rain on 

his face. Hastening, he tightened his hood and had soon left the last houses of Erling behind. Fields and meadows spread out 

before him. On the other side of a small wooded area, surrounded by fences and bushes, lay the fishpond. When Coelestin 

turned around, he saw storm clouds towering over the monastery up on the mountain—the home he might soon have to 

leave. He sighed and shuffled the last few yards to the pond, as if advancing toward his own execution. 

In the meantime, drops fell faster and faster, until the surface of the pond seemed to boil up like a poisonous brew. 

Coelestin could see the fat gray bodies of the carp slowly coursing through the dark water by the dozens. Their hungry 

mouths snapped at the raindrops as if they were manna from heaven. Coelestin shuddered as a wave of disgust came over 

him. He’d never cared for carp. They were dumb, slimy scavengers whose flesh tasted of moss and decay. The fish reminded 

him of the monsters he’d seen in pictures of Jonah and the whale: horrible creatures of the deep that swallowed whole 

everything that wriggled in front of them in the water. 

Timidly Coelestin started down the narrow, slippery walkway and reached for a fishnet leaning on a post alongside the 

pier. With his hood deep down over his face, he leaned into the wall of rain and wind and moved his net back and forth 

listlessly in the water. If he hurried, he might be back in the monastery pharmacy before the trousers and socks under his 

thick black robe were soaked as well. In another life he probably would have slapped Brother Johannes across his chubby face 

with the carp, but for now, he was damned to prayer and obedience. This was the price he had to pay for such a comfortable 

life. 

A slight creaking sound, almost drowned out by the thunder, caused the novitiate to pause. It sounded as if someone had 

stepped onto the walkway behind him. But just as Coelestin was about to turn around, something started flopping about in 

his net, and with a sigh of relief, he pulled in the long pole. 

“Got you,” he mumbled. “Let’s have a look at what a big fish . . .” 

At that instant, something heavy hit him on the back of the head. 

Coelestin staggered, slipped on the rain-soaked wood of the walkway, and finally fell—fishnet and all—into the swirling 

water of the pond, where he thrashed around and fought to save himself. Like so many people of his time, Coelestin could 

skin a rabbit, identify hundreds of herbs by their smell, and recite whole sections of the Bible by heart. But one thing he 

couldn’t do was swim. 

The young novitiate shouted, waved his arms around, and kicked his skinny legs, but his own weight pulled him inexorably 

down. When he felt the muddy bottom beneath his feet, he pushed himself back up to the surface, gasping. In despair he 

reached out in all directions until he suddenly felt the pole floating in front of him on the surface. He clung to it and pulled 

himself up. Through the increasingly violent downpour he could see a hooded figure on the walkway holding the other end 

of the net. 

“Oh, thank you,” he groaned. “You saved my—” 

At that moment the figure pushed the pole down so hard that Coelestin sank again, gurgling. When he came to the 

surface again, he felt the pole push him down violently once again. 

“But . . .” he started to say as his mouth filled with murky water, which stifled his last desperate cries. Silently he sank into 

the pond. 

As life ebbed from his body in little air bubbles, Coelestin could feel the fat, slimy carp rubbing against his cheeks and 

nibbling on the short hair of his tonsure. When the dying youth had finally sunk to the bottom, his mouth was as wide open 

as those of the fish around him that stared back at him with dumb, expressionless eyes. 

The man on the walkway watched the bubbles for a while and finally, nodding contentedly, put the net back in place and 

set out for home. 

The time had come for him to complete his work. 

Chapter 1 

At The Same Moment, in the Forests Below The Holy Mountain 

Lightning flashed from the sky like the finger of an angry god. 

Simon Fronwieser saw it directly over Lake Ammer, where for a fraction of a second, it lit up the foaming waves in a 

sickly green. It was followed by a peal of thunder and a steady downpour—a black, soaking wall of rain that within moments 

drenched the two dozen or so pilgrims from Schongau. Though it was only seven in the evening, night had fallen suddenly. 

The medicus gripped the hand of his wife, Magdalena, tighter and, along with the others, prepared to climb the steep hill to 

the Andechs Monastery. 

“We were lucky!” shouted Magdalena over the thundering downpour. “An hour earlier and the storm would have caught 

us out on the lake.” 

Simon nodded silently. It wouldn’t be the first time a ship of pilgrims had gone down with all hands in Lake Ammer. 

4 Suspense Magazine July 2013 / Vol. 049

Now, barely twenty years after the end of the Great War, the crowds of pilgrims streaming to the famous Bavarian monastery 

were larger than anyone could remember. In a time of hunger, storms, ravenous wolves, and marauding brigands, people 

were more eager than ever to find protection in the arms of the church. This longing was fed by reports of miracles, and the 

Andechs Monastery in particular, thirty miles southwest of Munich, was renowned for its ancient relics that possessed magic 

powers—as well as for its beer, which helped people to forget their worries. 

When the medicus turned around again, he could just make out through the rainclouds the wind-whipped lake that 

they had just managed to escape. Two days earlier, he had left Schongau with Magdalena and a group from their hometown. 

The pilgrimage led them over the Hoher Peißenberg to dießen on Lake Ammer, where a rickety rowboat took them to the 

other shore. Now they were proceeding through the forest along a steep, muddy path toward the monastery, which towered 

far above them in the dark clouds. 

Burgomaster Karl Semer led the procession on horseback, followed on foot by his grown son and the Schongau priest, who 

struggled to keep a huge painted wooden cross upright in the storm. Behind him came carpenters, masons, cabinetmakers, 

and, finally, the young patrician Jakob Schreevogl, the only other city councilman to follow the call for the pilgrimage. 

Simon assumed that both Schreevogl and the burgomaster had come less in search of spiritual salvation than for business 

reasons. A place like Andechs, with its thousands of hungry and thirsty pilgrims, was a gold mine. The medicus wondered 

what the dear Lord would have to say about this. Hadn’t Jesus chased all the merchants and money lenders from the temple 

Well, at least Simon’s own conscience was clear. He and Magdalena had come to Andechs not to make money but only to 

thank God for saving their two children. 

Simon couldn’t help smiling when he thought of three-year-old Peter at home and his brother, Paul, who had just turned 

two. He wondered if the children were giving their grandfather, the Schongau hangman, a hard time at home. 

When another bolt of lightning hit a nearby beech, the pilgrims screamed and threw themselves to the ground. There was 

a snapping and crackling as sparks jumped to other trees. In no time, the entire forest seemed to be on fire. 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” 

In the twilight, Simon could see Karl Semer fall to his knees a few paces away and cross himself several times. Alongside 

him, his petrified son stared open-mouthed at the burning beeches while, all around him, the other Schongauers fled into a 

nearby ravine. Simon’s ears were ringing from the bone-jarring thunderclap that seemed to come at the same instant from 

right over their heads, so he could only hear his wife’s voice as if through a wall of water. 

“Let’s get out of here. We’ll be safer down there by the brook.” 

Simon hesitated, but his wife seized him and pulled him away just as flames shot up from two beeches and a number of 

small firs at the edge of the narrow path. Simon stumbled over a rotten branch, then slid down the smooth slope covered with 

dead leaves. Arriving at the bottom of the ravine, he stood up, groaning, and wiped a few twigs from his hair while scanning 

the apocalyptic scene all around. 

The lightning had split the huge beech straight down the middle, and burning boughs and branches were strewn down 

the slope. The flames cast a flickering light on the Schongauers, who moaned, prayed, and rubbed their bruised arms and 

legs. Fortunately, none of them appeared injured; even the burgomaster and his son seemed to have survived the disaster 

unscathed. In the gathering dusk, old Semer was busy searching for his horse, which had galloped away with his baggage. 

Simon felt a slight satisfaction as he watched the burgomaster running through the forest, bellowing loudly. 

Hopefully the mare took off with his moneybags, he thought. If that fat old goat shouts one more hallelujah from up there on 

his horse, I’m going to commit a mortal sin. 

Simon quickly dismissed this thought as unworthy of a pilgrim and quietly cursed himself for not having brought along 

a warmer coat. The new green woolen cape he’d bought at the Augsburg cloth market was dapper, but after the rain it hung 

on him like a limp rag. 

“One might almost think God had some objection to our visiting the monastery today.” ■ 

Oliver Pötzsch, born in 1970, has worked for years 

as a scriptwriter for Bavarian television. He himself 

is a descendant of one of Bavaria's leading dynasties 

of executioners. He lives in Munich with his family. 

Excerpted from “The Poisoned Pilgrim” A Hangman’s 

Daughter Tale 

Text copyright 2012 by Oliver Pötzsch 

English translation copyright 2013 by Lee Chadeayne 

“The Poisoned Pilgrim” A Hangman’s Daughter Tale 

was first published in 2012 by Ullstein Buchverlag 

GmbH as Der Hexer und die Henkerstochter. Translated 

from German by Lee Chadeayne. First published in 

English by AmazonCrossing in 2013. 


5

America's Favorite 

Suspense Authors 

On the Rules of Fiction 

The Seven (Bad) Habits of 

Highly Effective Writers 

By Anthony J. Franze 

In this series, author Anthony J. Franze interviews other suspense writers about their views on 

“the rules” of fiction. For the past few months, Anthony has profiled authors who are teaching 

at this summer’s CraftFest, the International Thriller Writers’ writing school held during the 

organization’s annual ThrillerFest conference. This month, nearly a dozen CraftFest instructors, 

including ITW’s co-founders David Morrell and Gayle Lynds, identify recurring issues 

they see in the work of newer writers. 

Shattering the adage, those who can, do; those who can’t, teach, some of the biggest names in fiction will teach this month 

at CraftFest, a writing school held during the International Thriller Writers (ITW) association’s annual conference in New 

York City. Dozens of renowned storytellers will teach nearly forty classes on a myriad of writing topics. 

As a member of the 2013 CraftFest faculty (I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t know how it happened either), I had 

access to this impressive talent pool, and I couldn’t resist asking the CraftFest teachers a question of interest to readers of this 

series: “In the numerous manuscripts you’ve reviewed by newer writers, what’s the one main problem 

you’ve seen over and over” The authors rose to the occasion and identified not only recurring 

problems—seven bad habits—of newer writers, but also some solutions. 

Bad Habit #1: Flashbacks at the Beginning 

David Morrell, the father of the modern action novel—and author of the acclaimed new 

Victorian thriller, “Murder as a Fine Art”—identified the flashback as a major problem. “I frequently 

see minor flashbacks on the first pages of manuscripts. ‘Joe woke up with a terrible hangover. The 

previous night he’d been at his favorite bar and had drunk three more drinks than he should have. 


7

He’d barely been able to find his car. Now he wondered where he’d parked it.’ Moving a story backward on a first page is, by 

definition, not a good idea. It becomes a stylistic tic that shows up again and again in later parts of the story. I see this problem 

so often that I use it to determine my level of hope for the rest of the manuscript.” 

Morrell’s fix “Especially on a first page, step back and look for the number of times that ‘had’ is used. If there’s a cluster 

of them, chances are they signal a minor flashback. On the theory that forward motion is essential on a first page, get rid of 

the flashback.” 

Bad Habit #2: Rushing the Ending 

Gayle Lynds, the reigning queen of espionage, said it’s the end of manuscripts where she often 

sees problems. “One of my biggest frustrations is spending four-hundred pages deeply involved in a 

novel only to have it end abruptly, in just a chapter or two. After that much time with the characters 

and their stories, readers want and need a sense of completion, of satisfaction. And if the book has 

been violent, they need a violent confrontation at the end for catharsis. It’s true that not all subplots 

and characters need to be resolved in your ending, but at least work through the primary ones. For 

instance, because politics plays a large role in my books, my characters generally have somewhat 

happy endings, but the situation itself is likely to be bettered only for the time being, because that’s 

the way it is in life.” 

Lynds said that if you’ve written a great tale and finish it with an ending “commensurate 

with the its length and weightiness,” you’ll find your readers will not only love what you’ve written, 

“they’ll hunger for your next book.” 

Bad Habit #3: Too Much Telling, Not Enough Showing 

We all know the conventional rule of writing show, don’t tell. The CraftFest authors, 

however, went beyond this general prohibition and identified some specific show-don’t-tell 

problems they’ve observed in manuscripts. They also gave tips on how to avoid telling, not 

showing. 

Linwood Barclay, the #1 international bestselling author of a dozen novels, including 

the highly anticipated, “A Tap on the Window” (Aug. 2013), said a mistake he’s seen, and 

one he’s made himself, is “having major plot developments happen ‘off camera.’ You don’t 

want someone showing up and saying, ‘That time-bomb we were worried about It just 

went off in Tuscaloosa.’” 

Barclay’s advice: “As much as possible, put your main character where the action is. Don’t have her hear about 

someone finding a body. Let her be the one who finds the body. This heightens the suspense, gets your protagonist fully involved 

in the story. Best of all, you’re showing the reader what happened, not telling. Get your hero to Tuscaloosa. She may 

not disarm the bomb in time, but she’ll sure see what happens.” 

Catherine Coulter, the author of this month’s hot release, “Bombshell,” and more than sixty 

other New York Times bestsellers, identified the misuse of dialogue tags as the biggest problem she 

sees in manuscripts. “Dialogue followed by: he snorted, he gasped, she wailed, he gritted, she panted, 

he rasped, he complimented (common and grammatically wrong) and on and on. In addition, after 

dialogue, a ‘said’ followed by an adverb, e.g. she said haltingly, he said enthusiastically, she said 

cruelly, he said bitterly, and on and on.” 

The Fix: “Use ‘said’ or nothing at all. There are no synonyms for ‘said.’ It is merely an identifier. 

If you don’t need to identify the speaker, use nothing, or some physical action, e.g., he walked to 

the window, then dialogue. By using an adjective in the place of said or tacking an adverb onto 

said, you aren’t trusting that what you’ve written will tell the reader how the character is feeling.” 

Stanley Trollip, the co-author of the exceptional Detective Kubu mysteries with Michael 

Sears (under the name Michael Stanley), agreed that too much telling is the main problem he sees 

in the work of newer writers. “When a new character is introduced, if the writer includes a long description of the character’s 

background, how the character looks, and so on, that is telling. The effect of this telling is to break the flow of the story and, 

usually, to slow the action down. Similarly, descriptions of locations can disrupt the flow, detracting from the tension of the 


story.” 

As for how to tell, not show, the award-winning author of “Deadly Harvest” advised, “Almost 

always, the information a writer provides when telling the reader something can be incorporated 

into the action, into the dialog, or into how characters behave.” Trollip gave the following paragraph 

as an example: As she walked home, Lesego’s head was full of Christmas. She knew her sister would 

save some of her tips and buy her a small present. Lesego had no money, so she was making Dikeledi 

a doily from scraps of red material left over from her needlework class. She was trying to embroider 

‘Dikeledi’ across it in blue, but she’d made the first letters too big, and the whole word wouldn’t fit 

neatly. She frowned. She was going to have to start it again. 

“This probably leaves the reader with the impression that Lesego and Dikeledi are poor, that 

they are close, and that Lesego was young. But nowhere does it say those things. That is showing 

rather than telling.” 

Bad Habit #4: Lack of Structure 

Steve Berry, this year’s ITW Silver Bullet Award recipient whose books are staples on the New 

York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, said a lack of structure is “a common flaw in nearly every 

new manuscript I read.” At CraftFest, Berry teaches a class titled, “The 6 C’s of Story Structure,” 

which include Character, Conflict, Crucible, Complications, Crisis, and Conclusion. “All six of 

these have to be created, developed, and resolved at precise points in the story. A failure to do that 

creates a snowball effect, one that cascades uncontrollably into an avalanche of problems. It’s like 

building a house. No matter how elegant, fancy, or clever the walls and decor ultimately are, if the 

foundation is not laid right underneath the whole thing will eventually crumble to the ground. 

I’m not saying that my writing is perfect on this. I make my share of mistakes, too. But I can say 

that I’m aware of structure and work hard to adhere. Many new writers today tend to ignore it.” 

Berry’s advice on how to address the problem: “Unfortunately, there is only one way. Study your genre. See how 

writers structure their stories. Both the good ones and the bad. In fact, you can learn a lot more from the bad. Then write. 

After that, write some more. And keep writing and studying every day. The process never ends. I’ve been at it for twentythree 

years and learn something new every day. All any writer can ever hope for is what they write 

today is better than yesterday, and what they write tomorrow will be better than today. That’s about 

as good as it gets.” 

Leonardo Wild, the celebrated writer of eleven books and more than two-hundred articles (and 

ITW’s only member in Ecuador), said the biggest problems he sees is “a lack of understanding of 

what a scene is, how it is structured, and what are its functions within a story.” He said a first step 

is “to realize that there is no scene without three meta-elements: (1) Setting: where and when does 

a particular scene happen (2) Characters: who are the characters that appear in the scene (3) 

Conflict: what is the nature of the main conflict in a particular scene Is it a physical conflict A 

mental conflict An emotional conflict” 

Bad Habit #5: No Unique Voice 

Jenny Milchman, one of this year’s breakout debut authors, said, “Over and over I read a fine, 

workaday manuscript, only to be left wanting. What’s missing is the writer’s unique voice, style, and 

take on a novel. There are hundreds of thousands of novels out there. Our decision to try and add 

another is warranted only by our willingness to be daring, to take a leap into uncharted territory. 

When I read, I want to find something new. I want to feel something new. Give me that, and your 

novel will find its way.” 

Milchman’s three tips: “(1) identify the books that have moved you the most and ask why; (2) 

practice entering a meditative state in which the voice telling you to play it safe is quieted; and (3) envision your novel as a 

movie and write each scene as if it were appearing before you on the screen. When you describe something—instead of being 

in that state of trying to be a writer—you sometimes bypass your inner editor and take off.” 

Brandt Dodson, the author of the acclaimed Sons of Jude and Colton Parker series, said that “the most common problem 


9

I’ve seen when reviewing manuscripts from newer writers is the lack of originality in the 

plot. I’ve seen two manuscripts in the last month alone in which the climactic moment is 

defined by the protagonist attempting to decide which wire to cut when defusing a bomb. 

Really” Dodson’s recommendation: “Read widely and read deeply. And don’t be afraid to 

read outside your genre. Some foreknowledge of what’s already been done can go a long way 

toward being original.” 

Bad Habit #6: Diminishing a Character’s Status 

Steven James, a critic’s favorite and author of this month’s must-read release, “The 

King,” said a problem he’s seen involves writers inadvertently lowering the main character’s “status.” 

What does he mean by status “Well, in nearly every social encounter one person has, or is vying 

for, the higher status, or the more dominant position. By allowing the main character to become too 

submissive, too cold and unfeeling, or too weak and gimpy you can make the reader start to cheer for 

someone other than your hero.” 

James’s guidance: “Remember that showing compassion and exhibiting self-control will always 

raise your character’s status. So, if she is being tortured and screams out for help—low status. But if 

she clenches her teeth and refuses to cry out, higher status. If your detective arrives at a crime scene 

and scoffs and coldly assesses the facts—low status (he’s not showing compassion). If he treats the dead with 

dignity and respect it raises his status. Show higher status by letting your character slow down—stillness is power. Also, 

choose verbs that portray self-control (he strode into the room) rather than the need for attention (she sashayed into the 

room, or she strutted across the room). Allow your hero to act heroic by letting him sacrifice for the good of people who 

are oppressed (emotionally, physically, financially, etc…), letting him turn the other cheek, and showing how he is not easily 

rattled.” 

Bad Habit #7: Too Much Backstory 

The seventh bad habit of newer writers is perhaps the most recurring: too much backstory. 

Nearly half of the CraftFest instructors I interviewed identified this as the main problem they see in 

manuscripts. For instance, Karen Dionne, the author of the exciting environmental thriller, “Boiling 

Point,” and a member of ITW’s Board, said “the most common mistakes I see in manuscripts from 

new writers are overexplaining, and including too much backstory in the opening pages.” Dionne’s 

answer: “Trust the reader. Don’t explain every detail, and watch out for instances where you’ve said 

essentially the same thing twice. Remove all instances of backstory in the opening pages so that 

your story raises questions instead of answering them.” 

Other CraftFest teachers—James Bruno, Lincoln Child, JT Ellison, Jamie Freveletti, Andrew Kaplan, Douglas 

Preston, and Alexandra Sokoloff—also offered some great advice on how to avoid the backstory problem. So much so, that 

I’m dedicating next month’s edition solely to addressing their views on backstory. Until then, want to learn more from these 

and other masters of suspense Head over to CraftFest in New York on July 10-11. It could change your (writing) life. ■ 

*Anthony J. Franze is the author of the debut legal thriller, “The Last Justice.” In addition to his writing, Anthony is a lawyer in 

the Appellate and Supreme Court practice of a major Washington, D.C. law firm and an adjunct professor of law. Anthony is 

active in the International Thriller Writers association where he Co-Chairs ITW’s Debut Authors Program and is the Assistant 

Managing Editor of the Big Thrill magazine. Anthony lives in the D.C. area with his wife and three children. Learn more about 

Anthony at http://www.anthonyfranzebooks.com/ 

Montage Press Photo Credit: Michael Palmer (St. Martin’s Press), Tess Gerritsen (www.tessgerritsen.com), John Gilstrap (Kensington Publishing), 

John Lescroart (provided by author), Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child (provided by authors), Richard North Patterson (Miranda Lewis), Anthony 

J. Franze (provided by author). Author Images (in order): David Morrell (Jennifer Esperanza), Gayle Lynds (www.gaylelynds.com), Linwood Barclay 

(Michael Rafelson), Catherine Coulter (provided by author’s representative), Stanley Trollip (provided by author’s representative), Steve Berry 

(Kelly Campbell), Leonardo Wild (provided by author), Jenny Milchman (provided by author), Brandt Dodson (provided by author), Steven James 

(provided by author’s representative), Karen Dionne (provided by author). 


The Modern Spy 

Meet Matthew Dunn 

By Suspense Magazine 

Photo Credit: Provided by Publisher 

The old adage “write what you know,” has 

never been more true than it is for author and former spy 

Matthew Dunn. An MI6 field officer for nearly six years, Matthew 

has created a new career for himself fictionalizing the reality of his 

previous position. 

Though fans of 007 will need to partially wipe the imagery that 

immediately comes to mind when thinking of the stars on screen— 

parties, amazing gadgets, fast cars, and even faster sexy, half-clad 

women—they’ll be equally entertained by Dunn’s approach. 

With a past brimming with tales of real deep cover, Matthew 

breathes life into Will Cochrane—MI6 and the CIA’s deadliest 

weapon—in his Spycatcher series. Here’s a taste of what you’ll find in 

his most recent release, “Slingshot”: 

Cochrane is ordered to recover a mysterious document 

stolen by a Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SRV) 

traitor working for a former high-ranking East German 

Stasi officer. The officer, years before, had instigated a secret 

pact between Russian and U.S. generals. The agreement 

stipulated that should it be broken, 

an assassin would immediately be set 

loose after an unknown target. 

The SRV has sent their own version of 

Cochrane—a cold-blooded, brilliant 

operative—to retrieve the document, 

pitting spycatcher against spycatcher. 

We hope you’ll enjoy the time we spent 

with Matthew as much as we did, learning 

the challenges he faces, his separation of fact 

and fiction, and what he has planned for the 

future. 


11

“I’m the first ex-MI6 officer of my generation to write 

books under my own name. It’s garnered a 

huge amount of attention.” 

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): Can you give us an inside look into your book “Slingshot” that can’t be found on the back 

cover 

Matthew Dunn (M.D.): Everything that happened in “Slingshot” was character-driven and that made for a wonderful writing 

experience. There are over twenty pivotal women and men in the story. Their actions and, in many cases, differing objectives all 

drove the direction of the tale. I knew what ending I wanted for the book, but juggling the agendas of these characters and getting 

to the ending was like playing a game of chess while trying to herd cats. 

One of my favorite characters in the book is a German assassin, codename Kronos. He is a devoted father of twin boys. I got 

Kronos to the ending I wanted, but he outwitted me for most of the story and became a character I hadn’t originally envisaged. 

S. MAG.: When did you realize you wanted to use your experience in the British Secret Intelligence to write a book 

M.D.: The truth is that writing took me into espionage, and espionage took me back into writing. At school, my favorite subject 

was creative writing—a subject that’s sadly no longer on the curriculum of most British schools—and I distinctly remember 

winning “best novella” award for a spy story I wrote. It fueled my imagination and made me want to experience the real secret 

world. Fifteen years later, I entered that world. During my time as a spy, I often thought, “It would be good to write about this 

life.” And here I am. 

S. MAG.: What is your favorite book and why 

M.D.: Without doubt it is the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. If you read all of the works, as I 

have done many times, then you’re essentially following the professional lifetime of a brilliant, yet flawed, detective. It makes for 

fascinating reading. There are so many aspects of Doyle’s tales that I love, including the historical setting. Great Britain’s empire 

was at its zenith for the most part of Holmes’s life, and “class” and “knowing one’s place” were paramount. And yet, despite being 

a well-educated and groomed gentleman with a cut-glass accent, Holmes seemed to not only transcend all classes but in many 

ways stood outside the class system. There are more than a few hints in the books that suggest Holmes had more respect for the 

North American spirit of “anyone can do” than he did for the pomp and arrogance of Victorian Britain’s ruling elite. 

S. MAG.: This is the third book in the Spycatcher series starring Will Cochrane. How has the journey been for you 

M.D.: It’s not been so much a learning curve but rather a vertical ascent up a sheer rock face. During the last three years, I’ve had 

to learn from my mistakes, learn from my publishers and agent and understand their industry, and ultimately put myself out 

there. I’m naturally a private guy so it’s been an odd process giving interviews and getting involved in marketing my books. The 

double whammy is that I’m the first ex-MI6 officer of my generation to write books under my own name. It’s garnered a huge 

amount of attention. I can’t complain because it was my decision to declare my background and real identity, and I did so for the 

obvious reason of publicity. However, it carries with it a huge burden of responsibility. I’m bound for life to The Official Secrets 

Act. If I write or say the wrong thing, the implications are obvious. 

All of the above said, I can say with hand on heart that my experience of being a published author has been wonderful. I wouldn’t 

swap this job for anything else in the world. 

S. MAG.: The beginning or the end of the book—which do you believe has more impact on the reader, but which is more 

difficult to write for the writer 

M.D.: The obvious answer is that the beginning and the end of the book should have tremendous impact on the reader, and 

therefore both have to be written with precision. But if I had to choose between the two, I’d say that the ending has the biggest 

impact. Readers invest a big chunk of their time following your story; authors have to give them an ending that rewards their 


commitment to your book. 

However, I think the journey between the beginning and ending is the hardest part to write. All writers have a duty to constantly 

engage their readers. It can be a mentally and emotionally tough process. But what a brilliant job! As my children say to me, “So 

Daddy, basically you wake up in the morning and then spend all day making stuff up.” In essence, they’re right. 

S. MAG.: When writing a subject matter that is so close to home, do you find yourself emotionally connected to Will 

Cochrane 

M.D.: In all respects, Cochrane is a very hard character. I admit, he is a version of me, or at least the person I used to be. Putting 

his thoughts and emotions down on paper has been a difficult thing to do. In “Slingshot,” I really believe that I’ve found my groove 

to continue exploring his character in a way that doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I am emotionally connected to Will and he 

takes me back to some very dark and hazardous experiences and states of mind. Though he is at times surrounded by other 

people, he’s a lonely guy because he feels dislocated from the real world due to the nature of his job and his experiences. 

S. MAG.: Will Cochrane is sitting in front of you—what would you like to ask him 

M.D.: I wouldn’t ask him anything. Instead, I’d take him for a beer and say, “Ten years from now, you can be married, have 

children, and lead a completely different life. Don’t lose sight of the possibility that can happen. When you retire from espionage, 

you’ll feel even more alone than you do right now. Don’t be frightened of that. Instead, every day make the effort to take small 

steps toward the normal world. But I’m not going to lie to you. The secret world may never leave your consciousness. Part of you 

may always be alone.” 

S. MAG.: Would readers be shocked about how much is actually real in books, even though you have to keep it fiction 

M.D.: Yes, I believe so. You may on rare occasions hear about military actions conducted by special operations units, but—unless 

a traitor whistle blows details—you’ll have to wait decades to be privy to information about what an MI6 or CIA field operative 

has done in hostile locations overseas. I feel privileged to have worked alongside intelligence operatives who’ve conducted brilliant 

and utterly daring missions behind enemy lines. I can turn my experiences, and the experiences of other operatives, into fiction 

without breaching secrecy. But herein is the problem: If the public isn’t privy to the reality of contemporary espionage, how can 

readers judge whether a work of fiction is realistic or otherwise History isn’t necessarily telling because a look back at the Cold 

War reveals a period that was an espionage slow-burn chess game. One day, the very different world of modern spying will fully 

come to light. In the interim, the nearest you can get to it is by reading authors who’ve served in that world. 

S. MAG.: Do you suggest readers just finding out about you start with your first book “Spycatcher” 

M.D.: All of my published books are standalone novels and I make a point of recapping so that readers don’t have to read the 

books in order. 

S. MAG.: What does the future hold for Matthew Dunn 

M.D.: HarperCollins (U.S.) has renewed my contract and has put an advance on the table for two more Spycatcher novels. So, 

the immediate future will no doubt involve lots of writing, more television and print and online interviews, and continuing to 

write newspaper articles. 

Other projects are looming: I’ve been approached to star in a documentary about MI6, my Hollywood film agent is in advance 

talks with producers about the Spycatcher series, plus I’m fleshing out an idea for an espionage-related TV series. 

But my heart is firmly in the Spycatcher series of novels, and I have so many ideas for future stories. Ideally, I’d like to take this 

series as far as it can go. That could easily be fifteen or twenty Will Cochrane adventures. Maybe more. 

My future is therefore my past. It will be a very interesting journey. 

We’d like to thank Matthew for taking his time to give us more insight into his life. For more information—and we highly 

recommend the interview section of his site—check out his website at: http://matthewdunnbooks.com. ■ 


13

Conquering the 

Dreaded 

Synopsis: 

A Series of Ten Lectures 

By Lisa Gardner 

Press Photo Credit: Philbrick Photography 

Lecture Six: 

Identifying Plot Points 

After grabbing an editor’s interest with a strong opening, your 

next task in the short synopsis is to accurately—and entertainingly— 

summarize your 400-page magnum opus in the roughly two and a 

half pages you have left. No problem, right After writing 400 pages, 

two and a half should be a piece of cake. 

Unfortunately, this is where many synopses fail. The writer succumbs to “laundry list” syndrome, 

cramming in one sentence for every scene of the novel, regardless of importance. This overwhelming level of detail suffocates 

voice and leaves the editor reeling. Or the studious writing goes off on tangents, describing secondary characters or minor 

research elements that aren’t crucial to understanding the core story. Or the author may have determined the right level of 

detail, but then transitions so roughly that the synopsis seems to leap randomly from point to point, lacking clear logic flow. 

Once again the editor becomes overwhelmed and stops reading. 

Why these problems occur is simple: The poor author is trying to reduce hundreds of pages into three, and she can’t 

decide what to leave in or what to leave out, so she includes a bit of everything. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. 

You need to focus on the main plot points and turning points of the novel. Ignore secondary plots and characters. Forget 

about individual scenes. Just identify the major incidents that comprise the skeleton of your story. 

Of course, this leads to the logical question, but what are the key scenes in my novel Many of us plot organically, and it’s 

only after the fact that we can examine each scene of our novel to determine which ones are essential to the development of 

the story, and which ones we simply love. (And if you’re reading this now thinking, oh, but all of my scenes are essential to 

the story, only an idiot includes nonessential book scenes, refer to the laundry list syndrome mentioned above. Not all scenes 

in a novel are of equal importance. It’s a fact. Move on.) 

To help identify major plot points, I’ve broken my first two suspense novels, “The Perfect Husband” (TPH) and “The 

Other Daughter” (TOD), into key plot points and turning points. Hopefully, analyzing these outlines will help you 

identify the main plot points in your own novel. 

Some caveats: This analysis will make more sense if you’ve read the two books, as one point of this exercise is 

understanding all the stuff I leave out of the outline. Also, the outlines give away substantial information about 


the novels, which will ruin the suspense if you haven’t read the books yet. 

Finally, the reason I outlined both books is that they represent two different kinds of suspense. TPH 

is a classic thriller novel, whereas TOD is a mystery novel. In a thriller, we know who the bad guy is, so the 

suspense is derived by how you catch him. Thrillers rely heavily on action, the cat and mouse chase between 

protagonist and antagonist. If you have a thriller novel, you must have at least a few clever turning points where the 

book heads a new direction, as we will see reflected in the outline of TPH. 

A mystery, on the other hand, derives its suspense from who did it. Mystery novels generally have a large cast of characters 

so there will be plenty of suspects. Also, they rarely have many action sequences, but instead must get out new pieces of the 

puzzle (new information on the crime) to keep the book moving forward. The plot points may appear subtler, as there is less 

overt action. Instead, big revelations serve as major plot points and/or turning points in the novel. 

With that background, let’s begin. 

Major Plot Points: “The Perfect Husband” 

Premise: Mysterious woman (Tess) attempts to hire an ex-mercenary (J.T.) to teach her how to protect herself and her child 

from homicidal ex-husband (Jim Beckett). 

Plot Point 1: Ex-mercenary finally agrees to help damsel in distress, even though he’s sworn off damsels in distress— 

particularly ones who won’t give him their real names. 

Plot Point 2: Homicidal ex-husband infiltrates police task force to learn status of investigation; leaves them a pointed message 

(dead body) that he’s still interested in finding his wife and capable of using the cops to do it. 

Plot Point 3: Ex-mercenary’s sister learns woman’s true identity and involves the local police to do so, possibly compromising 

the woman’s safety. All fear Jim Beckett will head to Arizona and Tess is nowhere near ready. 

Turning Point 1: Jim Beckett does not head to Arizona. He heads to central Massachusetts where he kills a cop and kidnaps 

his own daughter. Police mobilize in an even bigger way…but Jim Beckett is nowhere to be found. (I call this a turning point, 

because the book just fundamentally shifted. Readers have been expecting Jim to track down Tess in Arizona, but instead he’s 

gone after his daughter and raised the stakes in a major way.) 

Plot Point 4: Tess returns to Massachusetts against all advice. Jim Beckett promptly attacks Tess and J.T. at the crime scene. 

Only J.T.’s excellent combat skills get them out alive. They are both injured…but now so is Jim Beckett. 

Turning Point 2: Tess decides to lay a trap for her husband with herself as bait. She will wait in their old house, knowing 

that Beckett cannot resist the challenge of coming after her. Once and for all, it will be done. (This is another turning point 

because again the book has shifted. Tess is taking control, setting the stage for a showdown.) 

Resolution: Jim Beckett comes after Tess. Killing an FBI agent first downtown, then taking out one of the rooftop snipers, he 

splits the protective task force, and descends upon his terrified wife. J.T. however, surprises the man from behind. Beckett 

winds up dead, Samantha is found. Family reunited. 

Now, anyone who has read the book knows it was way more involved than this. I barely mention Marion (J.T.’s sister) 

though she’s a key part of the novel. I don’t have room. I never mention the police POV—Special Agent Quincy, Lieutenant 

Difford, and the rest who carry substantial scenes. I don’t have room. I’m looking just at key action points from the protagonist/ 

antagonist POV. The approach is bare-bones, but it also leads to a concise logic flow. A strong, clear logic flow is extremely 

important. I can’t emphasize that enough. 

Major Plot Points: “The Other Daughter” 

Premise: Melanie Stokes believes she is leading the perfect life. Twenty years ago she was abandoned at a Massachusetts 

hospital, drugged and with no memory. That was a long time ago, however, and she rarely thinks about it anymore. Promptly 

adopted by a well-respected surgeon and his wife, Melanie has grown up in the lap of luxury. She is doted on by her parents, 

adored by her adopted brother, and spoiled by her godfather. At the age of twenty-nine, she feels she is probably the luckiest 

person in the world. Until tonight. 


15

Plot Point 1: A tabloid reporter arrives at the Stokes’s residence. Getting Melanie alone, he declares that he has proof that 

she is the daughter of a Texas serial killer, Russell Lee Holmes. Holmes was executed for the murder of six young children 

the same night Melanie was abandoned in the MA hospital. And one of the children Holmes allegedly killed was Melanie’s 

adoptive parent’s first daughter, Meagan. Melanie does not believe the reporter and sends him away. 

Plot Point 2: The next day, Melanie comes home to an unpleasant surprise—an altar at the foot of her bed containing 55 

votive candles spelling a single name: Meagan. In the middle rests one of Meagan’s old toys. It was last seen the day she died. 

Plot Point 3: Melanie pays a visit to the tabloid reporter, wanting to see his proof. Before Melanie can get more details, 

however, the tabloid reporter is shot dead. Melanie just manages to take cover, before the gunman grabs the reporter’s 

notebooks and runs. 

Turning Point 1: Now a witness to a homicide, Melanie ends up in protective custody. For reasons that are not clear to 

Melanie, the FBI are also interested in her case. Fortunately, Special Agent David Riggs agrees to pull the FBI case file on 

Russell Lee Holmes. To their surprise, his request for information generates a personal phone call from Quantico’s leading 

profiler, Pierce Quincy. Quincy has recently read the file, and to his expert eye, the Meagan Stokes murder was clearly a 

copycat crime—not the work of Russell Lee Holmes. Worse, he believes the likely suspects for Meagan’s murder are her own 

family members—Harper, Patricia, and Brian Stokes. (Remember this is a turning point because the book is now obviously 

headed in a different direction.) 

Plot Point 4: Melanie and David research Meagan Stokes in earnest. They learn Meagan’s murder garnered the Stokes one 

million dollars in life insurance. Also, Patricia and Harper Stokes were having marital problems as well; Harper liked to 

sleep around and Patricia retaliated with an affair of her own—with Harper’s best friend and Melanie’s godfather, Jamie 

O’Donnell. Last but not least, Melanie’s brother Brian was seeing a therapist in the 1970s. He had been so mean to his little 

sister that he was not allowed to be alone with her. Definitely, there were a lot of people with possible motive to hurt Meagan 

Stokes. Quincy and David now believe Melanie may honestly be the daughter of Russell Lee Holmes. Possibly, her parents 

agreed to adopt her in return for Russell Lee Holmes confessing to the murder of Meagan Stokes, finally ending the police 

investigation. Melanie can’t believe her parents would do such a thing, but she is beginning to wonder. Maybe the hired gun 

can tell them more… 

Plot Point 5: Hired gun turns up dead. No clues. 

Plot Point 6: Melanie returns home against David’s advice. When she tries to question her family about the past, however, she 

and Harper end up in a violent argument. He slaps her, then storms away. Melanie doesn’t know what to believe anymore. 

Turning Point 2: Next morning when Melanie comes downstairs, she finds her father’s business associate in the study, rifling 

through papers. When she confronts William, he pulls a gun and demands to know the combination of Harper’s safe. In bits 

and pieces, Melanie learns that her father has been committing healthcare fraud—hence the FBI’s interest in her; they have 

been investigating her father. William babbles about how little she really knows about her parents. Melanie and William 

end up in a struggle. The gun goes off. William falls dead. Melanie has killed a man and all she can wonder is if Russell Lee 

Holmes would approve. 

Plot Point 7: David receives a call from Melanie that she’s just killed William in self-defense. She will not be around for 

questioning, however. She’s taking matters in her own hands. Goodbye. David races to the scene to find that the healthcare 

squad’s main witness is now dead, Harper is accusing his daughter of the crime, and Patricia looks on the verge of 

collapse. She wants to know if anyone has told Brian yet about the shooting. The police respond that they can’t find 

Brian Stokes. A friend declared him missing twenty-four hours ago. 

Plot Point 8: Frantic and scared, David tracks Melanie to Huntsville, Texas, the last home of Russell Lee Holmes. 

Melanie is trying to learn everything she can about her father and she is destroying herself bit by bit. Everything about 

her life is a lie. She is merely a substitute for a murdered daughter. David tells her it’s not that simple yet. He believes in 

her. He will help her find the truth. 


Turning Point 3: Together, they track down the midwife who 

had delivered Russell Lee Holmes’s child. Melanie confesses 

to the woman that she is Russell Lee Holmes’s daughter and 

she wants to find out what happened twenty-five years ago. 

The midwife, however, is stunned. Russell Lee Holmes did 

not have a daughter, she informs Melanie. Russell Lee Holmes 

had a son… 

Okay, I won’t give you the resolution because that ruins 

the whole book and frankly, I’m mean. Needless to say, 

this outline is running long and that’s because this book is 

500 pages (115,000 words) so condensing it down is even 

more difficult. To give you some sense of what I left out, 

the complete novel involves ten different points of view. We 

spend time with the mom, the dad, the brother, the godfather, 

the reporter, etc. The hero is introduced right away and has 

a compelling backstory. I didn’t include any of that here 

because then I definitely couldn’t cover the outline in three 

pages. 

Subplots include a shadowy figure that is sending 

everyone notes saying you get what you deserve. Patricia 

Stokes, by the way, is a recovering alcoholic. The book spends 

a lot of time on her complex relationship with her husband, 

as well as Jamie O’Donnell. Other subplots are that Melanie’s 

brother, Brian, was kicked out of the family six months 

ago for declaring that he is gay. This starts to play into the 

police’s suspicion of why someone contacted the reporter 

now. Oh, and Melanie’s best friend Ann Margaret is relevant, 

and William isn’t just Harper’s business associate, he’s also 

Melanie’s ex-fiancé. 

See, left that all out and probably confused you by putting it here. That’s why I left it out. It’s extraneous stuff, 

the meat on the bones, and for three pages, you just want BONES. Keep to a singular POV if that helps. Focus on 

primary scenes, nothing else. 

Bottom line—we’re back to KISS. 

Conclusion 

Identifying the key plot points in your novel will enable you to properly focus your short—and long—synopsis. If you 

have been creating synopses that are confusing, flat, or overwhelming, look at the level of detail you are trying to include. It’s 

always better to say a few things well, than many things badly. 

Next up, we’re going to look at two possible outlines to help you organize your bold hook and brilliant plot points into a 

nice, neat, highly marketable, package. ■ 

Lisa Gardner, a #1 New York Times crime thriller novelist, began her career in food service, but after catching her hair on fire 

numerous times, she took the hint and focused on writing instead. A self-described research junkie, her work as a research analyst 

for an international consulting firm parlayed her interest in police procedure, cutting edge forensics, and twisted plots into a 

streak of internationally bestselling suspense novels, including her most recent release, “Touch & Go.” 

With over twenty-two million books in print, Lisa is published in thirty countries. Her success crosses into the small screen with 

four of her novels becoming movies and personal appearances on television shows. 

Lisa lives in New Hampshire with her auto-racing husband and black-diamond skiing daughter. She spends her days writing in 

her loft with two barky shelties and one silly puppy. 


17

The Hilcove Atrocity 

I used for five years, without 

a hitch. Of course, my habit didn’t get serious until 

the last couple years. I finally lost my job. I was disbarred. 

That spelled very bad news for me, because it’s an expensive 

habit, you know. Not as bad as coke, mind you, but still a 

pretty penny. I sold my house. It was a seller’s market, so I 

did all right. My dealer was fair with me, too. I lied and told 

him that I planned to move out of the city, and he cut me a 

wholesale deal. I bought enough junk to last me through the 

spring and moved here, to Hilcove Apartments, room one 

twenty-six, to live in absentia for as long as I could afford. 

This place. I can’t think about it without feeling like I’ve 

stumbled into a junk-sick dream. I don’t know who built 

it, but he must have hated humanity. Three stories of units 

stacked like warehouse crates, caged by tarnished-brass 

balcony railings. Red doors with brass numbers and glass 

peepholes. The arched roof is lost in shadow. Hilcove had 

been built over a canal that runs down the middle, between 

the two rows of studios, entering and leaving through rusted 

iron grates. It makes me wonder whether that arched roof 

has always been there, or whether there was a time when 

the sun glinted off our brass railings and set the canal’s 

water sparkling. But we’re boxed up pretty well now. Even 

the canal. The water is clean enough, but its depth makes it 

appear black in the florescent light. 

You forget what daylight looks like in here. The only 

windows are these panes on either side of the building’s 

entrance, these narrow slits from which light can only bleed. 

I still can’t believe it. No daylight! Who built the thing So, 

days and nights run together in a mosaic blur. You might 

venture out, but the moment you return, it’s like the outside 

never was. You only remember Hilcove. I don’t think I ever 

ventured out once after I signed the lease. I had nowhere to 

go. Looking at the sorry faces around here, I guessed that 

most of them didn’t either. 

Our complex has few amenities. There’s a general store. 

A laundry room. Somebody once mentioned a gym, but 

I’ve never seen it and wouldn’t step inside if I had. There’s 

swimming, though. The canal. For most of us here, the human 

race is like the dysfunctional family that we feel obligated to 

visit on holidays. So the canal was the closest thing to a social 

By Justin Guleserian 

scene we could hope for at Hilcove. We all readied a smile, 

trimmed our goddamn toenails, and went out to rub elbows 

at the canal. 

It was there, in the canal, that I first saw Elise. She was 

poor and came from poor inner-city stock, like most of the 

Hilcove residents. Of course, with a face like hers, she could 

have gone straight uptown. But she wanted to hide, away 

from her father. She came to Hilcove to forget and to be 

forgotten. We would never forget that sad-angel face of hers. 

Elise loved the water. Loved it. She would wade in the 

canal twice a day, like clockwork. Maybe she felt cleaner in 

the water. I don’t know. But the rest of us, the men especially, 

took a very sudden and very strong interest in Hilcove’s 

canal. Of course, most of us never stood a chance. I never 

stood a chance. What does a forty-year-old junky have to 

offer a pretty young girl like that, except a bunch of stories 

from better times But I liked to be around her, all the same. 

She was the one thing at Hilcove that didn’t seem used up, 

even if she felt otherwise. 

The younger guys would wade with her. The older ones 

would just sit poolside in shorts and t-shirts. Of course, I 

had to wear long-sleeves so my tracks didn’t show. I wore 

a turtleneck because I thought it made me look vaguely 

sophisticated. To that end, I always had a book with me. 

Pathetic, I know. But it was a fair way to start a conversation. I’d 

found the book under the bed, when I first moved in. It was a 

strange one and looked like it was typed on an old typewriter 

and bound by hand. It was all about astral projection, which 

is when a person has an out-of-body experience on purpose. 

Of course, I’ve left my body three times a day since my habit 

got serious, but it was still good to have that book to stick my 

nose into for when some young buck was flirting with Elise 

and I didn’t want to watch. 

And the women! Oh, those poor ladies. Some of the 

Hilcove women would wade in the canal and vainly try to 

win back the interest of their men. They were so obvious. 

Once, when a man dragged his eyes off Elise, I noticed one 

of the women stretching for him, baring her underarms, 

pulling her breasts above water, as she let out the prettiest 

sigh a mother could teach her daughter. Some of the guys 

took a glance, but it was only a moment before our attention 

returned to Elise. Before long, most of the women gave up 


swimming when Elise was in the canal. They would pass by 

the men, on the way to do laundry, and mutter some catty 

trash about Elise that we all heard but never acknowledged. 

I think some of the men, too, tasted bitterness after a 

while. We didn’t talk about it, but I believe it was there. None 

of us would win Elise. She wasn’t here for us. And even if 

some buck got lucky, what good was that to the rest of us 

Once in a while I’d take my gaze off Elise and look at one of 

the older crows. He’d just shoot me back a familiar look of 

resignation, as if to say, hey, what are we supposed to do 

What were we supposed to do We were supposed to walk 

away. We were supposed to have gone about our business, 

gone after something that might actually yield some kind of 

good in our lives. Maybe if we had, Elsie would still be alive. 

But we didn’t. I didn’t. I just kept my nose in that book and 

hoped for things I couldn’t admit to hoping. 

The book. Maybe it was my boredom, my need to escape 

my own addicted flesh, but I actually started to believe that 

it was possible for a spirit to leave its body while the body 

remained living. No, not just possible…natural. It was as if I 

saw, within the riddled verses and the spidery lines of those 

strange hand-drawn diagrams, directions to a place just on 

the other side of town, a place I’d always known was there. I’d 

seen the ads, read the reviews. I’d just never shelled out the 

cab fare to check it out for myself. It was there, though. It had 

always been there. 

I began to practice, at night, before I went to bed. At first 

my training was a half-hearted experiment, like an atheist 

who prays just to make sure no one will respond. My attitude 

changed pretty quickly in the weeks that followed. Before 

long, I was doing the exercises, every night. I would close 

my eyes and visualize the room that I occupied. The image 

of the room was a tenuous thing, infirm, an ever-changing 

phantom. Then, I began to see the golden light. The light 

made everything solid, illuminating the room before my 

closed eyes with a pale and bleary flickering. At first, the 

illumination grew dimmer, the farther I traveled from my 

body, and I couldn’t go more than few feet before I was 

standing in an impenetrable murk. It was terrible, being in 

that murk, without ground to stand on or feet to stand with. 

I could never stay in the dark for more than few moments 

before I fled back to my body, where the exercise would start 

over again. By turns, I could drift farther and farther from 

my body without losing my sight. 

I realized that I could go farther when I was junk sick 

and sweating with the chilling fever of withdrawals. I started 

fixing earlier in the evening, so that I was good and sick by 

bedtime. It was almost unbearable, feeling that sickness and 

knowing that relief was just a few feet away on the coffee 

table. But if I could hold it together long enough to see the 

golden light, I would be freed from my sick flesh and leave 

my shivering body behind for a while. 

One night, I made it as far as the door, all the way across 

the studio from where my body lay. I peered out through 

the peephole and saw an old woman drop a cigarette, just a 


few feet from my door, and pass on without stepping on the 

smoking butt. My eyes shot open, and I felt the unwelcome 

but familiar sensation of my limbs, trembling in the sweatsoaked 

sheets of my bed. Despite the realism of my visions, 

I could never be certain that what I saw was not just in my 

own head. But here was a way to prove that my nightly 

journeys were more than a fever-dream. I struggled out of 

bed as quickly as I could, draped the covers over my quaking 

shoulders, and made for the door. I must have looked like a 

mad man, poking my frantic head out the door in the middle 

of the night, half-naked, shivering, searching the ground for 

a cigarette butt. But I found it. It was still smoking. Suddenly, 

I saw a way that I could get closer to Elise. 

# 

Three months after I began, I 

was ready. On the chosen night, I left my body and 

made for the canal. The golden light was shining brightly, 

illuminating everything around me, as my ghost passed 

through the grain of my studio’s door and floated above the 

walkway. To fly. I cannot describe my surprise and elation 

when I first discovered that I was no longer bound by gravity. 

At first my flight was uncertain, not like a fledgling, who will 

beats its wings in a frenzy to stay aloft, but like a balloon, 

which might be blown too easily by the breezes that resulted 

from my poor concentration. By turns, my flight grew more 

certain. I was able to soar higher and faster without feeling 

that my buoyancy was any less sure. And then I was free, a 

holy ghost sailing through a cathedral to sound of blessed 

hymns. The filthy doors and their brass numbers became as 

stained glass and the canal was as a nave. 

As I brought my vision down to the canal, to its dark 

and watery mirror, I saw a sight that surely would’ve made 

my heart leap, were my body nearby. I saw the source of the 

golden light. It was me. My soul. My spirit. I appeared to 

myself as a golden vapor, sleek and bright, free of scars, free 

of used-up flesh and collapsed veins. I wished, then, that I 

had eyes to weep. You must understand that to use, to poison 

yourself everyday for years, knowing the same blood that 

carries your life also carries the poison, with every breath, 

with every single heartbeat—well, you can’t help but think 

that maybe your spirit is rotting right alongside your flesh. 

Yet here was golden light, pure and unsullied, lighting my 

path like the wisdom of a saint. For the first time I felt that 

perhaps I was as worthy as anyone to win Elise. Why not 

And, if she didn’t want me, so what At least it would not be 

due to a rotten soul. 

When I came upon Elise, I instinctively stopped in my 

flight and hovered above the canal, watching her. She snuck 

out every night to wade alone, free of her entourage, their 

insistent stares and their probing remarks, like eager hands 

grasping at her wrists. Nobody knew she came out to bathe 

at night. I knew. I had once gone to do laundry in the small 

hours. When I approached her alcove, she had ducked 

underwater, the darling. I couldn’t blame her, even then. It 

hurt like hell, of course, to see her duck down like that. But 

19

she wouldn’t have to hide this time. There would be nothing 

to hide from, nothing to touch her but golden light. 

She looked so goddamn beautiful, I tell you, sitting there, 

her platinum hair slicked back along her neck. I floated 

timidly toward her, instinctively fearing to disturb her, as 

I had on that first night. And I noticed how unassuming, 

how unaffected, her expression seemed now. The mask had 

dropped. She looked at peace in way that I had never seen her 

before now. Perhaps, at these times, alone with the calming 

plip, plip,plip of the canal’s dark water, she was able to escape 

even the terrors that drove her to Hilcove. And I, free of my 

carnal bonds, was filled with a magnanimous compassion, 

and content to simply hover beside her, enjoying her beauty, 

bathing her in golden light. She took a deep breath through 

parted lips and sighed, and I wondered if my light, though 

apparently invisible to her, had in some way elicited that 

sigh from her. I was curious. Could she sense me, after all 

Playing a hunch, I drew closer and saw a relaxed smile spread 

across her face. I was inches from her, could almost feel her 

calm and steady breath, when I suddenly heard the sickening 

crack and saw her head loll horribly upon her pretty bare 

shoulders. 

I felt myself scatter. With my concentration lost, my 

vaporous spirit utterly dispersed. I saw only blackness and 

was near certain that, in a moment, I would awake in my 

fevered body. It was only by a supreme effort of will that I held 

my presence together in that spot long enough to reassemble 

itself. When I could again see the golden light shine upon 

the scene, I knew that the snap I’d heard had been no 

hallucination. Elise was dead, her neck broken. Frantically, I 

shot my glance about until, from a nearby patch of shadow, I 

saw another light begin to brighten. A sickening light spilled 

from a thick and coiling cloud of violet and black. The cloud 

had eyes. It had eyes. Every impulse I felt was shouting at me 

to turn away from that sight. But something made me look. 

And I saw. Set in the midst of this violet vapor, at what might 

most easily described as its front, were a pair of eyelids, 

behind which hovered two sickly green eyes, a woman’s eyes, 

filled with unfathomable hate. Yes, a woman’s eyes. To look 

upon those eyes, I knew, this was no conjured devil. This was 

a person, like me, but with a spirit that was infinitely fouler. I 

looked upon the astral projection of a witch. 

It glared at me a moment longer before turning those 

eyes away and shooting off, down the corridor, over the canal. 

With the eyes no longer fixed on me, I felt my courage return, 

and with it, my outrage. In a moment, I was off, chasing the 

dark vapor. Faster, I flew. The doors fused in a red blur as I 

sped. I knew I only had to keep sight of dark vapor, to see 

where it led, to see where its body hid. Finally, as we neared 

the iron grate through which the canal’s water exits, the witch 

vapor veered and flew through a door. Two sixteen. Room 

two sixteen. 

I forced my mind to slacken, my concentration to relax, 

and so my own projection dispersed. I awoke in my body, 

swimming in my sweat, shaking with chills. Now, again, I 

needed all my strength of mind to hold myself together. I was 

a dervish of rage and fear and sickness. I vomited in a waste 

basket and felt a little better, well enough to grab my shotgun 

and wrap my sorry frame in a raincoat. 

A minute later, I was walking along the canal toward two 

sixteen, glad there was no one around. Mind you, I had no 

delusions of avoiding a murder charge, but if anyone has seen 

me walking like that, with my hand held inside my coat and 

my pajama pants sticking out the bottom, they might have 

figured something was up and decided to play hero. Same 

as I was doing. But nobody was there to see me, and before 

long I was standing right in front of two sixteen with a loaded 

shotgun in my hot little hands. 

I didn’t bother to knock. I was pretty weak still, and it 

took a few kicks before the door gave way. When it did finally 

fly open, I wished I had just called the police and let them be 

the ones to need therapy. It was an abomination: On the floor 

of a wholly unfurnished apartment, sat a woman so morbidly 

obese that her corpulence, rather than suggesting overnourished 

life, suggested only death. In fact, her flesh was 

not plump at all. It hung from her frame like warmed wax, 

so that at first glance, she actually appeared to be melting. It 

could only be black magic keeping her alive. No human heart 

could pump blood hard enough to reach the capillaries on the 

edges of those monstrous folds. Her skin appeared gray, even 

bluish. For all its abundance, it was dying. Only her eyes still 

flared with terrible life, burning from within dark circles, and 

sunken despite the fleshy curtains of her drooping face. The 

smell. The rank odor was something simply indescribable. To 

make things worse, I had to squeeze the stock and barrel of 

my shotgun to keep my hands from shaking when I noticed 

small stones, glimmering gems, like diamonds, slowly and 

silently orbiting her head. A devil’s diadem. The diamonds 

just floating there and circling like worshippers. 

“You must live in one twenty-six,” she croaked. “I used 

to live in that one, many years ago. I see you found my book. 

I always wondered what became of it. Glad you enjoyed 

it. Didn’t save your precious Elise, though. Didn’t save her 

pretty neck. Oh, Elise. A lovely girl. Just lovely.” 

The witch’s jowls shook with mirthless laughter. 

“Whatever will you boys do with your time, now” 

I let my shotgun answer. Yet, as I fired, I noticed one of 

the diamonds speed off from its orbit. It was almost too quick 

to see. Just a glint of light and then a sharp blow to my chest. 

I looked down and saw that I was bleeding. Badly. There was 

no pain. No pain from a diamond bullet. I tossed the gun 

aside and hit the floor. 

My shot will bring curious neighbors, and they, in turn, 

will bring police and an ambulance. But I feel my life’s blood 

flow from my chest, and I doubt there’s enough life in this 

used-up body to see me through the night. It’s all right. I 

know there’s a golden light at the center of it. One that even 

cursed diamonds can’t outshine. 

But poor Elise. Poor kid. We should’ve walked away. We 

all should’ve just walked away. ■ 


On sale in july! 

Devil In The Hole 

ADvAnce PrAIse 

“in this smartly constructed crime novel...the 

result is not a finished portrait but an intriguing 

collage of impressions and personal perspectives 

for the reader to ponder.” 

— Publisher’s Weekly 

“...a fine piece of crime writing and a hell 

of a fun read.” 

— reed Farrel coleman, 3-time shamus award winning 

author of Gun Church 

“...a haunting meditation on the thin, wavering 

line between sense and senselessness.” 

— Kaylie Jones, Lies My Mother Never Told Me 

“...the overall effect is like slowly opening a 

Beautifully wrapped box of poisoned chocolates.” 

— Tim McLoughlin, editor Brooklyn Noir 

By Charles salzberg, the 

author of Swann’s Last Song 

and Swann Dives In 

E Published by Five Star, available in leading book stores and online at Amazon and Barns&Noble

By CK Webb 

This month we find ourselves at number eight on my list of favorite books that became my favorite movies. 

Just to refresh your memory, here are my personal guidelines for determining a great book-to-film adaptation: 

1. True to the book, with no weird new characters or twisted existing ones. 

2. The actors in the movie are the right ones to play the characters in this book (I know that every character 

will not always feel 100 percent right, but I need to at least feel like the screenplay writer and director actually 

READ the book). 

3. And finally, I always look for story and character development on 

the part of the screenwriter that makes the book/film better. 

# 8 THE CHILDREN OF MEN 

Credit: Universal Studios 

Now, before anyone sends me hate mail for totally going against my 

very own guidelines, let me explain why. 

First off, sometimes a movie comes along that, even though it doesn’t 

conform to the book, manages to become a wonderful film in spite of itself. 

Or sometimes, that film even becomes better than the book, though not 

very often. And then there are those rare times when a movie simply jumps 

from the big screen and grabs hold of you so solidly, that you toss all rules 

to the side and embrace your inner rebel! 

“The Children of Men” is that book/film for me. 

“The Children of Men” is a dystopian novel written by P.D. James 

and published in 1992 by Knopf/Random House. Set in an England in 

2021, far removed from the one we are familiar with, “The Children of 

Men” shows us a world where mankind has become sterile and the entire 

human race hangs in the balance. 

The narrative for the novel alternates between first and third person, 

making it stand out in its very mechanics. It was exactly this style of 

alternating narrative that caused some readers to dislike the novel. 

The novel opens with a journal entry, recounted the events that 

brought mankind to this place. 


In 1994, all the sperm counts of all human males fell to zero, meaning the imminent extinction of the race. In the year 

1995, or “Year Omega,” the last people who were born are now called “Omegas.” Considered a race apart from all the others, 

Omegas enjoy certain amenities and accommodations that aren’t given to others. In the opening lines we learn that the last 

human to be born on Earth has just died in a pub brawl. 

Described as spoiled, hateful, and egotistical, the Omegas are violent and unstable. They often regard the non-Omegas or 

elders with disgust and contempt, but their crimes go unpunished because of their age. In the novel, it is even rumored that 

other countries sacrifice Omegas in fertility rituals. 

In the book, due to mankind’s infertility, newborn domesticated animals are doted upon and treated as infants in this 

new society. 

The courts still exist. Defendants are now tried by a judge and two magistrates. All convicted criminals are abandoned at 

a penal colony on the Isle of Man. There is no restitution, escape is a certain impossibility, visitors are strictly forbidden, and 

prisoners may not write or receive letters. 

Every citizen is required to learn skills they might need to help them survive if they happen to be among the last human 

beings in Britain. 

The book received positive reviews from many critics and readers alike and has remained one of the most controversial 

and widely read books of our time. 

The film version of the book was released in theaters in 2006 and is a dystopian science fiction film co-written, co-edited, 

and directed by Alfonso Cuarón. It is loosely based on the novel. 

In the film adaptation, the year is 2027 and two decades of human infertility have brought mankind to its knees. Illegal 

immigrants are flocking to England in hopes of seeking sanctuary in the United Kingdom, where the last functioning 

government in the world imposes oppressive immigration laws on refugees. 

Clive Owen plays the protagonist, civil servant Theo Faron, who is compelled to help pregnant West African refugee 

Clare-Hope Ashitey safely escapes the chaos. Children of Men also stars Julianne Moore, Michael Caine, Pam Ferris, and 

Chiwetel Ejiofor. 

In spite of the film’s limited release and low earnings at the box office, Children of Men still managed to receive global 

critical acclaim and was also recognized for its miraculous achievements in screenwriting, cinematography, art direction, and 

innovative, single-shot action sequences. 

Children of Men was nominated for three Academy Awards for Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Cinematography, and 

Best Film Editing. It was also nominated for three BAFTA Awards. The film won awards for Best Cinematography and Best 

Production Design, and three Saturn Awards including, Best Science Fiction Film. 

P.D. James was reported to have been pleased with the film, leading to the screenwriters of Children of Men being awarded 

the 19th annual USC Scripter Award for their screen adaptation of the novel. 

Howard A. Rodman, the chairman of the USC School of Cinematic Arts Writing Division, described the book-to-screen 

adaptation as “writing and screen writing of the highest order,” although he noted the screenplay bore very little resemblance 

to the novel as it pertains to the gender of the baby born in the book, the character who was pregnant in the book, and also 

as it pertains to the death of Theo, who in actuality, does not die in the novel. 

The film was also nominated in the category of Best Adapted Screenplay at the 79th Academy Awards, placing it in an 

elite category with other films that have enjoyed back-to-back nominations. The Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy & 

Horror Films bestowed the Saturn Award for Best Science Fiction Film for Children of Men, and it received the nomination 

for Best Dramatic Presentation, Long Form by the members of the World Science Fiction Convention. 

In the end, I watched the movie my first time and frowned a bit at the vast differences from the book to the film. But it 

would be my need to give almost every movie a second try that brought me around. Eventually, I watched the film a couple 

more times before I knew emphatically that somehow, THIS film was better than the book had been. 

I will end by saying that though I love the film and the book for completely different reasons, it is because of one that I 

have the other and therefore I thank you, P.D. James for your incredibly vivid imagination and your willingness to share that 

with the rest of the world! 

However you discover this haunting tale, whether by book or by film, I am certain you will add it to your list of all-time 

favorites! 

Remember… 

Somewhere, someone is ALWAYS getting away with murder! ■ 


23

Getting into your 

historical characters 

POV 

Using historical characters as a backstory for your suspense/mystery is a popular and proven successful 

literary device to add depth, clues, and perspective to your story. 

It’s also a great way to set up a compelling premise for the mystery and has been used with great success by numerous 

authors from Dan Brown to Alfred Hitchcock. Hitch was of course, the one who gave the name MacGuffin to whatever was 

the object of a story’s quest. For instance, in the movie version of The Maltese Falcon, Gutman, played by Sidney Greenstreet, 

explains to Bogey—Sam Spade—the ominous history of the “Black Bird” and what the cost of the pursuit has been in human 

lives. Think of how diminished the suspense would have been had Dashiell Hammett not used that historical backstory and 

decided to make the MacGuffin, say, a bag of cash from a local liquor store heist. It is the romance and danger surrounding 

the history of the Falcon that gives the story its tingling edge. 

But often you’ll run across historical characters and events who, whether as backstory foils or main protagonists, seem 

lifeless and two-dimensional. Worse yet, sometimes they appear anachronistic—almost as though a Hester Prynne type of 

character had decided to update that dreary old scarlet letter by taking a trip to the local Salem mall. 

Admittedly, it is difficult for authors to put themselves in a different time and place when events, mores, and behavior 

were far different. After all, every time and culture views the past through the prism of their own Zeitgeist, and we today are 

no exception. And even though we have come to a more enlightened view on things like race, gender, sexual orientation, and 

even children, projecting this enlightened view into a story robs it of its impact. For instance, suppose that an author was 

writing a Dickensian tale and chose to have a caring social worker intercede in helping Oliver Twist get that extra bowl of 

gruel—or OSHA coming down on Simon Legree for deplorable working conditions. That would certainly make us feel better, 

but would it make for powerful reading Probably not. 

So what is the answer Obviously, it is incumbent for authors to leave modern sensibilities here in the present and 

submerge themselves as much as possible into the period they’re writing about. Think of it as an imagination-powered time 

machine. 

But while imagination is the touchstone of a writer’s craft, too much of it can cloud the water when writing of another 

period. Because it’s not enough to get the framework of the history correct. A novel lives on in its characters. Thus, while 

the hard facts of names, dates, and events must be correct, they don’t mean a thing if the characters you create are not truly 

products of their time and not ours. 

So how do you get into that historical character’s head The most direct way possible: by accessing the same things that 

real historical characters used to express their own personal thoughts and feelings: letters, diaries, and journals. 

When I first started doing research for the historical flashbacks in my paranormal mystery, “Echoes Down a Dark 

Well”—and more recently, a full-blown historical mystery called “Candle in the Wind”—I began by using those musty old 

records that libraries euphemistically refer to as “the stacks.” And as every writer who’s ever used them knows, these are the 

books that look and smell like they haven’t been opened in a hundred years—and most of them haven’t. But often, they hold 

the key to making your historical characters and setting ring with that elusive tone of authenticity. 

As I found out when doing, “Echoes Down a Dark Well,” a backstory that spans two thousand years, finding first-person 

records and accounts is difficult. Most of what you get for personal observation prior to the sixteenth or seventeenth century 

is actually written by a third party chronicling events after the fact. There are of course, some famous first-person diaries and 

journals; for instance, the diary of Samuel Pepys or Caesar’s Commentaries. This means that the author needs to fill in more 

of color to develop believable and complex characters from pre-sixteenth-century settings. 

By Ric Wasley 


One of the things I enjoy most about writing historical mysteries is uncovering some little known event or item mentioned 

in a journal or newspaper; then using that information and a knowledge of the period to imagine what it must have been like 

to experience that. Then once I’ve worked that out in my notes and research, I set my characters with their own individual 

personalities, into that scene and let the reader experience that event through them. 

And if we do it right, we will hopefully avoid the historical writer’s greatest hazard: anachronisms. 

It seems that those little buggers are lurking around the corners every time we engage our characters in action or dialogue. 

And they are usually not as blatant as a protagonist who walks up to Henry Ford rolling off his first Model T and comments, 

“Dude. Nice ride.” 

Were it so, they’d be easy for authors and editors to catch. Alas, the types of anachronism that creeps into the story and 

leaves us feeling uneasy without knowing why are harder to spot. Why Because they migrate unseen and unnoticed from our 

minds and creep into the story without us being consciously aware of it. And the reason they are so hard to detect is because 

they bleed onto the page from our personal Zeitgeist and subtly color the world and thoughts of our major characters. This 

is especially true when it comes to characters’ thoughts and actions in dealing with the social mores of the period they are in. 

Most writers and readers are well aware that the way in which we view and interact with the world is radically different 

than in almost every previous age. For instance, our views on things like the role of women in society, children, religion, 

race, ethnicity, and slavery, just to name a few, are more different now than they have been at any time in human history. 

That means that to portray a historical period accurately, the writer is going to have to go against the grain of everything we 

believe in now. 

For example, take slavery. Up until 150 years ago, almost every person of every race and ethnicity on every continent 

accepted it as a natural part of life. Remember that man had been enslaving his fellow man since the first tribe conquered its 

rival and decided that it would be kind of nice to make the other guy do your heavy lifting. Rome built the first world empire 

on it. 

So if you were trying to portray, say, a protagonist living in the eighteenth century, you would have to divorce yourself 

from your modern viewpoint of how wrong it was, and put yourself in the perspective of someone who’d been raised to 

believe that it was the natural order of things. Thus, unless the character was a nascent abolitionist, their viewpoint would 

not include the thoughts of equality that we take for granted today. 

Sounds basic, right But it’s harder than we think to leave our core beliefs in the twenty-first century and jump into a 

virtual time machine to where people behaved in ways that are an anathema to us today. 

That’s why I think the best way to avoid this pitfall is to create your characters from sources taken from the actual period. 

Whenever I’m doing a historical book or story, I like to begin by immersing myself in journals, diaries, letters, and 

firsthand accounts from the period. Legends and sagas can be useful since even if they were created after the fact, they will 

produce a far more revealing viewpoint than our own. After all, while we might not see much to laud in ancient swordsmen 

chopping their enemies into small pieces, the society that produced the saga, legend, song, or even fairy tale saw it differently. 

For instance, Hansel and Gretel’s father didn’t abandon them in the woods because he lacked proper parenting skills. It 

was because he couldn’t feed them! So even a fairy tale can give an insight on a period before there was any kind of social 

safety net, making an action that’s unconscionable today into a practical, if sad, part of life. 

And up until the twentieth century, how many men who were considered good, decent, and pillars of the community 

looked upon their wives and daughters in a way that we would consider patronizing, chauvinistic, and just plain wrong 

today And yet they did. It happened. And for every John Adams who took it seriously and welcomed his wife Abigail’s 

admonishment to “remember the ladies,” there were millions who did not. 

But that’s why it’s so important to portray our characters as realistically as possible within the context of their time 

and culture. Because by doing so, we as authors have the privilege of letting the world glimpse another era and in doing so, 

gain a better understanding and appreciation of how the viewpoint of our modern world evolved. Or to paraphrase an old 

commercial from the late twentieth century, which even now seems almost like another era, “we’ve come a long way baby.” 

And thanks to writers like us, we know just how far! ■ 

A member of Mystery Writers of America and the Cape Cod Writers Group, Ric Wasley is a writer and lecturer as well as the 

author of the popular McCarthy mystery series set in Boston in 1968. 

Ric has a forty year professional career history in advertising, publishing, and marketing in Boston, New York, and San Francisco. 

He has degrees in history and psychology and has been trained in debating, public speaking, and stage acting. A large part of 

his forty year career was spent in numerous professional and business settings as a presenter and featured speaker at seminars 

and professional meetings. He also teaches a popular course on marketing for authors at prominent venues such as the venerable 

“Cape Cod Writers Conference.” 

For more information, check out his website at www.ricwasley.com. 


25

With his normal route closed for 

construction, James needed a 

temporary bypassing route. Generally unfamiliar 

with the part of the city, he applied directive 

logic and turned onto Southern Lane hoping it led 

over to Highway 12, the road he normally traversed to 

and from his latest employer. 

Immediately noticing that the street was oddly dark, he 

was soon wishing he hadn’t taken the street at all. Maybe 

it was just the row of large oak trees lining each side of the 

street successfully blocking the morning sun’s rays, but as 

he drove deeper, the gloom seemed more intense, as if happiness 

either purposely avoided the area or was completely 

banned altogether. 

He passed a tight cluster of condemned and eviction 

stickered buildings attempting to hide behind shrubs that 

looked to be no more than clusters of dried tumbleweeds and 

started searching for people loitering about, but saw none 

and a pang of loneliness stabbed. 

He started comparing the sights to aspects of his considerably 

less than stellar corrupted and sinful life, something 

that he seemed to be more aware of recently, but never seriously 

tried to fix. Instead, viewing the overall big picture 

with contempt and self-sorrow. The burnt buildings became 

a symbol of the many infidelity laced broken relationships; 

the crooked branches staggering off the shrubs signifying the 

twisted and conniving directions his life had taken; the dark 

asphalt looking closer and closer to the color of his heart. 

Maybe halfway through and approaching was when he 

first saw it, a sign partly hidden behind a most unkempt rotted 

brown shrub. As he read, the words yanked him out of 

the fantasy associations. 

Posted directly in the center at the end of the sidewalk, 

he viewed it with ridicule and couldn’t help but laugh at the 

seemingly preposterousness of it loudly proclaiming reservation 

obviously aimed at less common sensed folk. Pearl white 

and glistening, the sign appeared completely out of place, 

unlike the others, old, rusted, and bullet-holed. Had it not 

been in such pristine condition he probably wouldn’t have 

By Thomas Scopel 

noticed at all. 

Did a person really need a sign telling 

them this Couldn’t they see for themselves Did 

they actually have to be told that the sidewalk ends 

After reading it a few more times, each time increasing 

a grin that eventually grew into a chuckle that 

burst into a rolling laugh. Unaware, he lifted his foot from 

the gas pedal and the car slowed. 

Now at a crawl, he realized, readied a middle finger salute 

while glancing up into the rear view mirror, half expecting 

to see an angry tightly following driver on the verge of 

blowing the horn. But no car was tailing and his finger went 

limp as he looked back at the oncoming sign. 

Suddenly the car began to sputter terribly and turned off. 

James looked at the gas gauge. There was plenty and he pulled 

to the curb before the sign. He tried turning the key a number 

of times, but the car wouldn’t start. Furious, he pounded 

a tight fist onto the dashboard creating a crack alongside a 

similar looking one that had been created the same way. 

He exited the car and kicked the door’s existing dent, 

rocking the whole car as the door slammed shut. Stepping 

up onto the worn and uneven sidewalk, he stopped to light a 

cigarette, took a big drag, and contemplated his next move. 

The metal sign beckoned and he walked to it. 

After standing before it for a few moments reading it several 

more times, anger diminished somewhat, but wouldn’t 

allow humor to fully invade, and his inquisitiveness grew. 

Had they run out of concrete Did they just decide to 

stop the sidewalk there Why didn’t the sidewalk continue 

the length of the entire street Why, if they were going to end 

it there had they bothered to create it at all It didn’t make 

any sense. 

Thoughts deliberated, never coming to a tangible and 

logical solution and he forced the notion into the back of his 

mind’s slush pile of things considered meaningless. 

The aspirin he had taken earlier was wearing off and he 

cringed while gently rubbing the sore side of his face. His 

head began to pound and he wished he hadn’t spent most of 

the previous night drunkenly slouched over an equally ine- 


iated woman in a bar whose name he couldn’t remember. 

But he did remember her wrinkles and makeup caked face. 

He recalled trying to pick her up for a meaningless overnight 

relationship. She adamantly declined his very forward and 

sometimes belligerent advances and angry at the rejection, 

he called her a couple of not so nice choice names. A tall man 

leaning nearby against the bar played chivalry and told him 

to leave her alone. He remembered turning toward him and 

spouting off a few more choice words, too. The fight ensued 

and James lost the battle. Typical, normal, consistent. 

His cell phone rang and he reached into his pocket for 

it, drawing it out and seeing it was his boss. He was late and 

certainly wasn’t going to make it anytime soon, so he let the 

call go to voicemail and tapped a couple of different screen 

icons pulling the camera feature up. Aiming it at the sign, he 

clicked off a shot. 

The picture was too bright with a blinding glare hiding 

most of the letters making it unreadable. He deleted it, sidestepped 

and took another. Although more of the letters were 

visible, this picture still wasn’t much better and he inched 

farther to the side to try again. The next shot was worse than 

the previous two, blurry and undistinguishable. 

He groaned a vulgarity, jammed the phone disgustedly 

back into his pocket, half-heartedly flipped a middle finger 

at the sign and stepped forward and onto the blackened hard 

packed dirt path leading passed it. 

Suddenly he was no longer on the trail but standing at 

the end of a dim and long, institutional off-white colored 

hallway that turned to the left at the far end. The air was stagnant 

and a tinge of antiseptic burn invaded his nostrils. 

Along the side walls, opposite and staggered, were inset 

doorway thresholds with three holding creatures, all gruesome 

in their own right, peering back at him. 

A grandfather clock’s deep and dark toned loud chiming 

broke the otherwise still silence, nothing like the pleasant 

and comforting sounds as he recalled the one his grandparents 

owned. 

Just as a tremendous feeling of impending doom rose 

inside him, a bat screeched out from somewhere above and 

he reactively stepped backwards, finding himself standing on 

the sidewalk at the front of the sign again. 

Perplexed, he felt his throbbing head again and leaned to 

look beyond the sign. 

Still some distance away coming toward him was an old 

man with a crooked walking stick carefully navigating the 

dirt path. A small, mange-infested mutt explored the path 

side-to-side, occasionally tugging at the leash the man held 

tightly and lifting a hind leg when deeming fit. 

James looked back and forth from the sign to the man, 

not knowing exactly what to do. The dog caught sight of 

James’s movements and stopped dead in its tracks looking 

menacingly back, growling lowly and partway snarling. 

James felt the anger rise and considered kicking it if the thing 

tried to attack. The man was looking back at him, smiling a 

not so reassuring toothless grin. 

After a moment of stare, using the tip of the stick the 

old man nudged the dog and it cowered before obeying and 


continued cautiously treading toward James. 

Not one to be frightened off by a little dog, James readied 

for kicking and stepped forward past the sign. 

Again he was standing in the hall and kicking the dog 

evaporated from his mind. Recalling the screech, he frantically 

searched about for the flying rodent, but couldn’t find it. 

Not far away, just beyond the first threshold dangling 

from the water-stained dingy white ceiling he saw a gently 

swaying noose and wondered how it was able to move in still 

air. Through the rope’s gape was a rotted wood opening leading 

to a pitch black outdoors. A gleaming full moon beckoned 

in the far distance. 

Entranced by the moon’s brightness, a flicker of movement 

caught his eye and he focused. It was the bat, hanging 

upside down from the lip of a jagged wood outcropping deep 

in the opening. It’s hair stood on end as it looked back with 

beady little eyes and teasingly opened its wings partway implying 

that it was about to swoop down. Its mouth opened 

showing tiny pointed teeth and it screeched again, this time 

much louder. James couldn’t help but to instinctively dip his 

head slightly, but maintained a close vigil. 

Then he remembered the creatures and forced himself to 

remove his eyes to look for them. 

They were still in place and moved ever so subtle while 

looking back. James feared they would come toward him, but 

none seemed interested in leaving their threshold confines 

and simply looked back and forth from James to down the 

hall and back. A chill flowed down James’s spine and he now 

knew what it must feel like to be a fly caught hopelessly in 

a web, watching and awaiting a spider looking tastily back 

from the corner shadows. 

In the first threshold, an almost see through specter-like 

skeletal creature dressed in a sheer and flowing white tattered 

robe held its mouth wide open screaming-like, but no sound 

was heard. Lifting a bony arm, the bones clicked and ground 

together when it reached out palm up at James and motioned 

with an index finger to come closer. 

James’s eyes widened and he fell back against the cinder 

block wall. Immediately, coldness like none he had ever felt 

before radiated, saturating his back. The creature’s mouth 

closed to a wicked smile, but the beckoning finger kept clicking 

back and forth. James looked away. 

At the second threshold opposite and off center from the 

first, a stocky and shiny black-shelled creature with a large 

oblong shaped head and a mouthful of long pointed teeth 

scrutinized James’s stare. Glistening drool cascaded down 

over each tooth in ripples, forming growing larger droplets 

at the points before falling into a hissing puddle to the floor 

below. Small crab-like claws clacked raucously from its sides 

and it turned to look down the hall. 

Down further on the same side leaning against the inner 

threshold stood a shadowed dark and silent man wearing 

a long black cape and clenching by his side a large-bladed 

knife rotating ever so slowly from side-to-side, reflecting and 

showing off moist red. The large brimmed hat he wore was 

drawn forward hiding his face in total darkness and although 

James couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he had the feeling the man 

27

was tightly watching. 

The clock bellowed again and James jumped. 

When the stroking stopped, the hall became deathly 

silent except for a low consistent hum that grew annoying. 

James looked and saw, nestled in the corner at the far end just 

as the corner turned, an electric chair still holding a slumped 

and vibrating hooded body, the corroded green metal helmet 

it wore occasionally sparking and he recalled the murder 

trial some twenty odd years ago when he was facing the 

same fate. Both he and his lawyer knew he was guilty of viciously 

stabbing the man repeatedly over and over, but due 

to the alcohol, he could, even to this day, only remember bits 

and pieces. Lucky for him, his attorney was one of the mob’s 

best and the case was dismissed when a key witness refused 

to step forward. Without the lone witness, regardless of the 

truth, nothing could be proven and he walked away scotfree, 

even keeping the one hundred and thirty six dollars he 

had taken from the man’s wallet. He tried to remember what 

he spent the money on, but couldn’t, only wagering to say 

that booze was involved. 

Looking back at the creatures again, they seemed more 

menacing and he nervously backed up to the wall, kicking 

the sole of his boot against the concrete block, expecting to 

fall through as before and return to the morning he left. But 

the wall was unyielding and his boot only succeeded in sliding 

down the wall’s face. He kicked again as precipitous horror 

rose through him, only to have the same result. 

Spinning around, he pushed with open palms firmly 

against the wall. It was hard, dense, cold, and unforgiving. 

He began pounding with balled fists before it dawned on 

him that maybe those creatures were sneaking up on him 

and his head snapped to look back. They were only watching 

as before and James would have sworn that the skeletal 

thing’s grin was wider. He turned back and struck the wall 

considerably harder. A sharp pain shot through his hand and 

he yelled out. Turning around, he held his hand gingerly and 

looked to the end of the hall. There had to be a way out. 

Fearful, he took a small step forward and stopped to see 

what the creatures did. They took notice, rising upright a bit 

and leaning farther out, but remained in their confines. His 

body knotted with another step forward, careful to remain in 

the hall center. The ghastly skeleton’s bony finger chronically 

beckoned, clicking and moving quicker. Not being a small 

man, James felt confident in fending off the skeleton and 

maybe the man with the knife if need be, but wasn’t so sure 

about the large headed creature who was larger than him and 

appeared so big and strong. If it was to snarl out, those teeth 

would be hard to avoid. 

What if they attacked together The question sliced 

through him like a razor through paper, cutting some of the 

confidence away with it. He concentrated on the open hall, 

planned to zigzag around and hoping that if it came to that 

he could outrun them. 

But what was around the corner Was he climbing into his 

own grave 

His hand throbbed loudly, reminding him of the wall 

and that it was his only hope. He took the pain, balled fists 

and stepped again, conscious, aware, and ready. 

Almost to the skeleton, he shifted to the wall opposite 

and watched for any threatening gesture while inching by. 

The skeleton’s head creaked as it turned following his movements. 

The finger beckoning ceased and its arm dropped to 

its side, tapping once against the top of its hip bone with a 

hollow reflective sound. A chill ran down James’s spine and 

he wondered whether he was doing the right thing. Swallowing 

the fear, fists ever ready, he sped up, quickly side-stepping 

past and becoming in between the first and second thresholds. 

Maintaining a back and forth vigil, aware that an attack 

could now come from either direction, he moved a few more 

steps, insuring he was beyond the skeleton’s reach before 

crossing the hall to the opposite wall. There wasn’t an inkling 

of impending confrontation, but no sense of relief flowed as 

he pondered whether the other two would be just as easy to 

get by. 

His hand ached again and he slightly loosened the fist 

giving some relief and took a couple more steps until he was 

below the noose. 

It was grayish and dry rotted, just like the ones he had 

seen in those old black and white matinee western movies 

he frequented as a boy. He thought of Robert Blake’s tightly 

wrapped body dropping through the gallows trapdoor, snapping 

and gruesomely bouncing back up at the end of the Truman 

Capote film In Cold Blood. 

He gazed back and forth, between the noose and the 

creatures unable to decide which was more frightening. 

Quietly sucking in a deep breath, he was about to take 

another step when he noticed a bottomless looking ragged 

black hole leading through the yellowish tiled floor almost in 

the hall’s center ahead of him. It was small enough to allow 

shimmying by and he stepped forward. A pair of reflective 

green eyes appeared and looked back as a low, liquid filled 

choking-like growl emitted. James placed his back against 

the side wall. It was colder than the end wall had been. 

He looked at the toothy creature ahead not far away 

and back to the hole. He compared each side, pondering 

which way to go around, but realized that from either side 

it wouldn’t make any substantial distance difference and he 

decided to remain on the side he was. 

The eyes disappeared and assuming opportunity was 

knocking, he shifted, remaining tight against the wall like a 

person high up edging along a skyscraper’s tiny ledge and 

made his way by. 

A few steps beyond the hole he looked back at it. The eyes 

were back, watching. A matted and clumped hair covered 

claw with long cracked nails crept out—reaching—bringing 

with it a rancid odor like that of a thousand dead bodies that 

had been lying for days in the midday sun. James gagged and 

bile burned at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and 

slid a couple more steps. The claw, its nails chattering gritty 

lined marks against the tile, retreated back into the hole, taking 

much of the rotting smell with it. 

With the unseen creature gone, James breathed a small 

sigh of relief and looked at the creature across from him. It 


was considerably larger than he thought and he could now 

see it had a long curled up tail. 

With little beady eyes the creature watched, its jaw moving 

up and down, clenching and unclenching teeth, making 

a terrible grinding sound. A puddle of bubbling and hissing 

drool festered at its feet, vapors rising and swirling about. 

Half expecting it to lunge out, James kept his back tight 

to the wall remaining on guard, the thought of those vicious 

teeth biting down and tearing into his flesh. But as with the 

skeleton, it too remained still and didn’t make any attempt. 

The bat screeched again, yanking the horrendous deliberation 

from his mind. Instinctively ducking and raising his 

arms protectively above his head in one motion and realized 

it was now directly above him, still hanging upside down 

where it had been in the ceiling opening. 

Fearing it would swoop, he kept both arms up and hurriedly 

took a few more steps, getting beyond both the dangling 

rodent and the drooling creature, nestling up against 

the side of the grandfather clock. 

Still quite confused and fearful, his confidence grew, realizing 

that he was more than halfway along. He looked back 

at the creatures again. Nothing was in tow and he stepped 

to the front of the massive meticulously carved and heavily 

worn clock. 

Behind an intricately etched glass panel featuring time 

associated symbols, a tarnished golden pendulum swung 

consistently back and forth, loudly ticking with each sway 

and James felt a little hypnotized watching it. The clock face 

registered slightly after midnight. That can’t be right, James 

thought and he glanced at his wristwatch. It was the same. 

He squeezed his eyes tight, reopened them, looked back up 

to the clock face and then to his wristwatch again. Neither 

changed and he concentrated on the shadowy black figure in 

the next threshold. 

The man’s head remained tilted forward completely hiding 

his face, but James still had the sensation that he was still 

watching. The knife in his hand flicked a speck of bright light 

off the steel each time it turned from side-to-side. 

James took a step to the other side of the clock. The man’s 

head remained still, but it didn’t soothe James’s prior concern 

and he slid down the wall as before, getting by with no incident. 

The remaining thresholds were empty and James paced 

quickly toward end of the hall only glancing back once to see 

that although the creatures continued their vigils, none were 

following. 

He approached the corner, the electric chair humming 

grew louder and the body arched higher, vibrating amidst its 

grip. James didn’t linger and rounded the corner. 

Another very similar looking hall stood before him, not 

quite as long, but considerably darker and gloomier. There 

were thresholds leading off from it too, but nothing stood 

in them. Large elaborate paintings depicting castles and demons 

and moons and fires, thick with shadowy, rich colors 

lined the walls in between each and before James could dwell 

on them, he spotted someone at the end of the hall, sitting 

behind a large wooden desk head down and busy laboring 


over something and he felt partially relieved to not be alone 

any longer. 

Treading carefully, half expecting someone or something 

to emerge at each threshold as he passed, his guard remained 

high, keeping to the hall center. Nothing appeared. 

Growing ever closer to the desk, he was able to distinguish 

that it was a bespectacled and balding little man, who 

was busy writing in a large thick leather bound book with a 

feather quill pen. 

At the desk, James silently watched the man write. Seemingly 

oblivious to the observance, the man maintained his 

intense concentration, occasionally reaching out without 

looking to dip the pen’s tip into an adjacent oddly shaped 

black ink jar and resume writing. James looked at the brass 

nameplate sitting crookedly on the front of the desk…Mr. 

Lived, and he wondered whether it was intended to be more 

of an adjective describing an existence, much like the many 

posters he recalled sometimes seeing on the walls of interviewing 

offices. Ones that said things like INTEGRITY and 

COURAGE and HONESTY and HOPE. The quill flicked 

rapidly with each letter stroke and James remained quiet, 

leaning forward trying to make out what the man was writing, 

but the lettering was so petite that he couldn’t. The man 

grunted somewhat rudely, obviously conveying awareness of 

James’s presence, but continued penning and didn’t look up. 

Just as annoyance started to replace fear, the man finished 

the line he was writing and placed the quill into the 

ink jar and looked up with alarmingly cold and distant eyes, 

much larger from behind the magnifying spectacles. 

The irritation fluttered away as dread replaced. James attempted 

to counter with conversation. 

“Where am I” 

“In time my friend…in time.” The man replied in a high 

pitched voice, taking James by surprise. 

The man chuckled. James couldn’t imagine what the man 

found so funny and he wanted to reach out to snatch the man 

up by his collar, maybe smack him around a bit and take out 

the morning frustrations. But although not something he 

regularly practiced, considering the circumstances he opted 

to change tactics, anticipating getting more with sugar than 

with vinegar. 

“What kind of name is Lived anyway” he asked, attempting 

to be personable, “I mean, it’s different…never 

heard it before.” 

“Not where I come from,” the man replied, chuckling 

even more, but keeping close observance. 

After a sustained bout of merriment, the man calmed, 

taking on a more serious appearance. 

“Please excuse me,” the man began, “I tend to find things 

rather amusing and yes, I suppose you’re right, it is a rather 

uncommon name. But where I come from there are many 

both common and uncommon names and usually the distinction 

is just a matter of locale.” 

At a loss for words and still partially digesting the man’s 

funny sounding tone, James listened. 

“Let me ask you something,” the man’s eyes tightened, 

almost becoming slits. “Have you ever heard the old adage 

29

curiosity killed the cat” 

“Sure,” James answered. 

“And do you find it to be true” 

The man’s brow rose and his eyes opened more. 

“Never gave it much thought,” James replied. “I suppose 

so,” he added in a snotty tone becoming aggravated. 

“Why do you think it was created” the man inquired. 

“How do you think it was started Obviously, it had to begin 

from somewhere…probably through observation. Wouldn’t 

you agree” The man suavely returned the attitude with a 

grin. 

Not the philosophical type, James gave the question no 

active consideration and simply looked on blankly shrugging 

his shoulders. 

The man raised a withered hand, snapped two fingers 

and pointed behind James. James turned to look. The hall 

had been transformed, changed and completely the opposite 

of when James came through. Paintings were exchanged with 

newly depicted ones and the thresholds now each held a horrible 

looking beast, much worse than the ones he had been 

with in the first hall. As each gawked, low growls, screams 

and cries filled the air. 

“Like I said,” the man began cackling, “it’s all a matter of 

perception.” 

James turned back toward the man and his eyes fell to 

the nameplate. It now read deviL rM. 

The black leather chair squeaked as the man leaned back 

laughing louder and fear flooded into James when he saw 

the man’s lower half was that of a goat. He turned and fled 

back down the hallway past the dreadful creatures with no 

concern whether they were reaching out. The man’s laughter 

echoed down the hall after him. 

“Want to know what the RM stands for” the man called 

out. 

James didn’t care and concentrated on being surefooted. 

“It’s for Resident Master!” 

Rounding the corner, hundreds of various voiced laughter 

thickly filled the air, echoing from wall to wall, impelling 

his ears and chasing after him. The prior creatures were gone 

and James focused on the end wall. 

Drawing near, he lowered his stocky shoulder like a fullback 

would, determined to break through the concrete block 

barrier and back into the morning from which he came. 

His shoulder collided and he cried out loudly when it 

popped sideways out of the socket. Momentum slammed 

his face into the hardness, chipping most of his front teeth 

and breaking an upper cheek bone before brutally deflecting 

backwards and landing on the floor in an unconscious heap. 

James opened his eyes and blinked a few times trying to 

eliminate blurriness. The pain in his shoulder was terrible 

and his mouth tightened when he winced. Jagged points of 

what was left of his teeth scraped against his bottom lip as 

he grimaced, feeling the dried streaks of blood that had run 

from the corners of his mouth and down from his nostrils 

crack with the movement. 

Looking up he hazily saw shadowed shapes standing 

above, surrounding and looking down at him. 

After a few more blinks, features started gradually coming 

into view. It was the creatures from the thresholds, with 

the bespectacled little man at his head smiling widely with 

uneven and grotesquely-shaped teeth. 

“Shall we answer your question now” the man grinned 

wider as horns broke through the skin of the man’s forehead 

and wormed stubbly out like a growing weed. “Your soul was 

destined and you can’t tell me that you didn’t know You had 

your one warning…your one chance. Something I always 

allow…a warning if you will. Something I do for every destined 

soul and maybe something more than a little game I 

play. After all…there should be some sort of fun involved… 

right” 

The creatures chortled profusely as the man looked away 

around the standing perimeter before looking back down. 

“You were allowed back out. But just as curiosity and the 

cat, you stepped right back in, now didn’t you Remember 

the growling dog You could have easily turned away and 

headed in the opposite direction. But NO! You stood firm, all 

uncaring with malicious intent. Remember Of course, no 

need to feel bad about it now. After all, you’re no different 

than most, choosing to continue along the identical path until 

it’s far too late. Should I apologize for the trickster in me 

I think not because it’s what I do.” 

The man’s voice grew deeper and he straightened, still 

gazing downward. 

“I trick souls. So, do you still want to know where you 

are” 

The fright in James’s face answered the question for him 

and the man noticed. 

“I assumed as much.” 

Rooted and frozen in realization, James could only hope 

it was a dream and wanted to cry out, awaken himself from 

the horror if it was, but he couldn’t seem to utter even a peep. 

The man’s eyes flashed bright red as he wickedly smiled 

and raised a crooked finger to his lips, “Shhhhhh.” 

Apprehensive with eyes wide, James looked back as the 

creatures stopped their hilarity one-by-one and reached 

down. James felt their grip and his voice let loose a tremendous 

shriek before going black. 

When he awoke, his shoulder no longer hurt, his mind 

seemed perfectly clear and an eerie calmness lingered 

through his body as if it wasn’t really there. Looking down, 

he watched an expensive business suit wearing man come 

ambling through a white clouded haze and grow increasingly 

perplexed as he stared down the hall. James listened intently 

to the drooling creature’s claws clacking almost in perfect 

unison with the clock’s ticking. Somehow he knew that the 

both the skeletal character and shadowed knife wielding man 

was watching, too. 

When the man noticed the creatures his eyes grew wide 

and disbelieving. 

James wanted to call out…to tell the man to turn around 

and go back and never return. But the tight noose he dangled 

from wouldn’t allow a single syllable and just as the man 

peered up at James, the clock began chiming midnight. ■ 


Blues, bourbon 

and the occasional 

homicidal maniac. 

WELCOME TO NICHOLAS COLT’S WORLD. 

“It hits you hard and fast with crackling suspense, hair-raising twists 

and stunning revelations. Word of advice: don’t start on this one unless 

you’re prepared to stay up all night.” 

—John Ling, author of The Blasphemer, on Key Death 

“Jude Hardin takes the thriller genre into the darkest corners of the 

human heart and mind. Bold suspense and drama.” 

—Scott Nicholson, author of Liquid Fear 

AVAILABLE NOW ON KINDLE AND AS TRADE PAPERBACK 

*And look for the new Nicholas Colt 

Thriller, BLOOD TATTOO, coming in November*

Inside the Pages 

CLOSE TO THE BONE 

By Stuart MacBride 

MacBride is 

still the king of grit; 

every character, plot, 

and murder scene 

is dark and twisted. 

Detective Inspector 

Logan McRae of the 

Aberdeen, Scotland 

Police Department is the focus of 

this tale, and although there are 

quite a number of scenes to make 

the suspense lover cringe, Logan 

McRae also provides readers with 

entertaining, humorous looks into 

both his private and public life. 

As the story begins, DI McRae 

is on his way to a grisly murder 

scene where the victim has been 

strangled, stabbed, and set on fire. 

Not only is the method of killing 

beyond grotesque but the DI also is 

confused as to what category the kill 

falls into—gang issues or something 

far worse. 

But this is not the only crime. 

Someone is busy leaving little piles 

of bones outside McRae’s house. He 

doesn’t know the reason why, but 

because he has other more bloody 

crimes to deal with, this takes a back 

burner. With drug gangs fighting 

mercilessly; a pair of teenagers who 

are missing and could somehow be 

attached to the strange executions; 

a recent bestselling novel that 

seems to be spelling out what will 

happen next; and Asians being 

found brutally attacked, this is one 

detective that needs a very long 

vacation. 

The grisly is definitely provided, 

but the entertainment comes along 

with it in the form of a new Detective 

Sergeant who seems to want nothing 

more than to anger McRae. 

Not for the squeamish, this is 

one novel that provides the worst 

of humanity, and is written so well 

that readers will see each of these 

hideous scenes in their mind’s eye. 

But the banter between McRae 

and his staff is hilarious at times, 

and far more interesting than the 

continuous line of CSIs, etc. that are 

seen regularly on televisions across 

the country. 

Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author 

of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & 

Lowery Book Two” published by 

Suspense Publishing, an imprint of 


Suspense Magazine Book Reviews 

FIRST GRAVE PAST THE LIGHT 

By Darynda Jones 

There should be a 12-step program for addicts of Darynda Jones and the Charley Davidson 

series. I could head up the local chapter and fans could commiserate about all of the day-today 

goings on that we miss while trapped in the pages of her novels. It’s a pleasurable trap, 

mind you, but as readers, we’re sucked in and those pesky things like work, dishes, and laundry 

converge into something we don’t want to deal with until the last word. 

Charley Davidson—grim reaper, police consultant, and investigator—has her hands full, 

as always. An arson investigation, most likely tied to her on-again/off-again sexy neighbor Reyes Farrow, is 

nagging at her for a solution…well, not the investigation, it’s her Uncle Bob who’s sure Charley knows more 

than she’s saying. 

With the possible consequences of another fire hanging over her head, she’s hoping to solve what should 

be an easy case of adultery to lessen her load. Seriously, how hard could it be to catch a cheater in a busy bar 

with tight, cleavage-bearing clothing Clearly more difficult than Charley planned and she makes an instant 

enemy out of the man whose head she doesn’t turn. If that isn’t challenging enough, when the spirits of 

women begin flocking to her home without the intent to crossover, Charley’s feeling the weight. It’s hard 

enough to shower with the corporeal ghost of a full-grown Rottweiler, but when one distressed woman hides 

in Charley’s shower, it gets to be too much and her humble home is in a word: crowded. 

Sure, she can bunk with Reyes, but there are nighttime complications when you play house with the son 

of Satan. Learning that the captain of the PD—Uncle Bob’s boss—has decided to shadow her to find out 

exactly what her secrets are just about unhinges her. 

Bad day at work Stressed out by the kids Darynda Jones and the Charley Davidson series is the solution. 

Captivating and laugh-out-loud funny, this is one of the best series in print today. 

Reviewed by Shannon Raab for Suspense Magazine ■ 

FOLLOW HER HOME 

By Steph Cha 

Cha is a debut author and she kept me reading until the very end. Using literary giant 

Raymond Chandler’s character Philip Marlowe as her guide, Juniper Song becomes entangled 

in a mystery that is sordid, harrowing, and very deadly. Song is not an investigator in any way, 

but having read enough—at least she thinks—of Marlowe’s escapades, she attempts to draw on 

those situations to finagle staying alive. 

Her best friend Luke needs help in finding out if his father is cheating on his mother and 

elicits Song to do some simple questioning. She agrees, but wishes she hadn’t. That simple task leads her to 

be knocked unconscious, to find a dead body in the trunk of her car, and to be threatened. And that’s just the 

beginning of her weekend. 

While trying to uncover the truth of what is really going on, she realizes the case has similarities to her 

personal past. She tries to resolve her issues while dodging bullets and dealing with death in both the covert 

and well-known parts of Los Angeles. She ends up losing more than could have imagined. 

Cha keeps you wanting to turn the pages with a need to know what is going on and cheering Song on to 

help work through the pain from her past. A well-written and very intriguing book. 

Reviewed by Starr Gardinier Reina, author of “The Other Side: Melinda’s Story” published by Suspense 

Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ 

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN 

By Louise Millar 

There are those in life who are accident-prone; it’s as if they picked up a bad penny when 

they were little and Fate has followed them around ever since. 

Kate Parker is one of those people. Her anxiety and worry is at the highest level when it 

comes to her and her son’s protection. Having to deal with the tragic accident of her parents, 

Kate then had to face the loss of her husband at the hands of a murderer. The added difficulties 

of the always mean and sometimes brutal world makes Kate seem psychologically imbalanced. 

Wanting nothing more than to open the door to a new, better life, Kate makes the decision to get away 

from the past and journey to a new location. A man comes into the mix and Kate finally allows herself to start 

smiling; she and Jack are happy and the positive things begin appearing. 

Of course, what Kate doesn’t cling to is the fact that there are truly horrible people in the world who 

own a sneer behind their smile. And when Jack is suddenly put in danger, Kate must struggle to get her head 

on straight in order to save her son. But with the twists and turns that stand before her, her imagination may 

just mix with real life and end in a tragic event. 

Good psychological thrillers are difficult to find. Taking away all the paranormal and science fiction 

overtones a book can have and stripping it bare, it is difficult to write a character that needs help inside their 

own head. Kate is one of those women who you want to see survive, and you desperately hope her courage 

will be unleashed so she can turn from victim to hero. 

Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by 

Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ 


SHADOW PEOPLE 

By James Swain 

Swain manages to combine a thriller with the supernatural, and pull from his hat a touch 

of a good versus evil page-turner. 

Now you see it, now you don’t. A cliché, but one that character Peter Warlock uses to 

entertain. That is, before the Shadow People ‘entertain’ him. Having a bit of evil inside of 

himself, but trying to use it for good, Peter works with FBI Special Agent Garrison to bring 

down a serial killer. 

Kidnapped by the Shadow People and brought against his will to a time in the future, he is ordained to 

be the one to save Rachel, not only the killer’s next victim but also someone whose good works are a threat 

to evil. 

Peter’s girlfriend Liza is determined to understand who he is, the good and the bad side of Peter. She 

accompanies him on his frenzied run from present to future and is put in harm’s way. Peter is just as firm in 

his need to not only keep Liza safe but to also keep her in his life and shares more than he has ever shared 

about himself. This leads to not only an enlightenment of his past but of what he is actually capable of. 

Swain puts you in a trance, forcing you to turn page after page until all is revealed. A magic trick I 

think not. I recommend this to readers who are looking for something different, entertaining, thrilling, and 

completely engaging. 



A MEDAL FOR MURDER 

By Frances Brody 

A pawnbroker in the city of Leeds is robbed in a brash, daytime assault. Numerous items 

temporarily entrusted to his care by financially embarrassed clients are stolen and the police 

admit to having few clues. The distraught shopkeeper hires Kate Shackleton to discretely 

contact the owners of the missing pieces and assure them their losses will be made good. 

This novel is set in England of 1922, four short years after the end of the Great War. Kate 

is almost a widow. Like so many other women in Europe, her husband is presumed dead on the 

battlefield, but is not legally dead and Kate still harbors secret hopes he may yet be alive. In the meantime, 

she has opened a detective agency. After all, bills must be paid. 

Kate’s mission takes her to the town of Harrogate where a young acquaintance of hers is directing a 

community play. Kate agrees to attend the final performance that evening, welcoming a brief respite from 

her detecting. But murder makes an entrance and Kate finds herself caught up in the investigation. 

Enter, stage left, Inspector Charles of Scotland Yard. Kate and the Inspector have met before, during 

Kate’s first investigative adventure, chronicled in “Dying in the Wool.” When honest with herself, Kate has 

to admit to being intrigued by the handsome policeman, even when he is admonishing her to keep her 

attractive face out of police business. 

Frances Brody’s novel harkens back to the fabled Golden Age of Mystery and reminds the reader of 

Christie, Sayers, and even at times, Wodehouse. Post war England is rendered with skillful prose that quickly 

draws the reader into that world. Ms. Brody’s plot is masterfully constructed, deftly staged, and brought to 

an ending that is both logical and emotionally satisfying. 

Reviewed by Andrew MacRae, author of “Murder Misdirected” for Suspense Magazine ■ 

SHIFT 

By Hugh Howey 

It’s hard to find eloquent words to describe my love for the genius of Hugh Howey. 

Reading his work reminds me of how I felt when I first read Stephen King’s “Carrie.” For me, 

no author has ever measured against Master King’s writing. Howey and King have one thing 

in common: They are storytellers before they are writers. 

Howey is one of the new breed of Indie Hybrid authors, self-publishing his e-books and 

licensing the paper-book distribution rights to the major publishers. So, he can deliver great 

reads quickly; no more waiting for the publishing world’s limit of one release a year. 

“Shift” takes us back to the beginning before “Wool;” before the world was laid waste and toxic by 

something that happened sixty years before, forcing the few thousand remaining human beings to live in 

two-hundred story silos. The silos are layered with not only physical levels but political and social strata, and 

are governed under strict rule. 

Whilst reading “Wool,” (which I recommend reading before Shift) there were what you could presume 

to be plot holes. These are resolved in “Shift” as we travel from the destruction of Earth to the monotonous 

existence of the inhabitants of Silo One who are cryogenically frozen and awakened for their shifts. 

This new world and its progression through several hundred years is told through various characters: 

the engineer who unwittingly designed the silos, a shift worker who remembers fragments of another life, a 

courier who becomes embroiled in an uprising, a child trapped for years in a computer safe room. 

It is science fiction work, but crosses genres with genius. The reason for Howey’s huge success is the 

human stories he tells. Through his wonderful and rich characters, Howey challenges us to contemplate 

hope and humanity. 

Just like King’s millions of loyal fans who read every book he releases, there will be few initiates to 

the Howey style who will not continue to follow him wherever he chooses to write. And that’s the kind of 

passion a good storyteller evokes. 

Reviewed by Susan May http://susanmaywordadventures.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine ■ 


INFERNO 

By Dan Brown 

Although Brown 

has more than one 

book that’s rock 

solid and historically 

engaging, it’s the 

power of “The Da 

Vinci Code” that 

brings readers out of 

the woodwork to see what he has 

come up with next. 

Robert Langdon, the famous 

symbologist, is back—resurfacing 

in the world of historic myths, facts, 

truths, and fantasy. This mission is 

based on clues from a ‘hellish’ trip, 

as Langdon must find answers to 

old questions inspired by Dante’s 

“Divine Comedy.” 

Scientist, Bertrand Zobrist is 

a eugenicist—a strange specialty— 

wanting to improve humanity by 

controlling heredity. His companion 

is a very mysterious woman who’s an 

enigma who readers will have a lot of 

fun figuring out. 

Langdon wakes up in a hospital, 

the last two days of his memory 

gone. He has no recollection of why 

he’s in a hospital in Florence, and has 

no idea why someone has made an 

attempt on his life. 

Sienna, a lovely young doctor 

explains all she knows, and almost 

immediately, an assassin begins 

shooting up the emergency ward. 

Langdon and Sienna are on the 

run. But running does no good if 

someone can follow. Without giving 

anything specific away…Langdon is 

being tracked because of something 

special he carries on his body, which 

if it was actually deciphered, could 

stop the human race from operating 

the way it always has. The issue of 

how to balance the universe, how 

to better the quality of life without 

destroying it all together, is at the 

core of this intricate plot. 

Readers will be interested to see 

that the presence of evil has nothing 

to do with the priesthood. Here, 

Langdon must step away from the 

Divine and go head-to-head with a 

mad scientist. 

All brains, all plot, and killer 

conversations. Yet again, Dan Brown 

has shown he can combine myths 

with facts to create unforgettable 

stories; a gift that has earned him the 

title, “Master of the Literary Maze.” 






33

DEADLY FORECAST 

By Victoria Laurie 

The fun that 

comes from leading 

up to a wedding 

day: ordering the 

cake, getting the 

venue, sending out 

the invitations; all 

of this brings warm 

and happy feelings to a bride. 

Unfortunately, in the case of Abby 

Cooper (a psychic consultant 

with powers of her own), these 

happy moments have to be set 

aside. She has to deal with far 

more; a darker world where cakes 

and the guest list are not a part of 

her preparations. 

There have been unusually 

large numbers of suicide 

bombings occurring in the 

commercial areas of Austin, Texas 

that have caught the attention of 

FBI Agent Dutch Rivers. Dutch 

is Abby’s fiancé, and when Abby 

has a premonition that shows the 

fact that her true love is in mortal 

danger, wedding plans are left 

behind. 

Abby is determined to find 

a way to insert herself into the 

cases so she can better foretell 

any tragedy that could happen 

to Dutch. As usual, Abby’s spirit 

guides are right on the money, 

as they keep her advised as to 

what’s happening. As the hostility 

builds, so does Abby’s anxiety. 

The couple’s wedding is fast 

approaching and Abby’s sister, 

Cat—who is the Queen of Type-A 

personalities—is planning a 

whiz-bang of a ceremony, not 

caring one iota if the bridal pair 

likes it or not. 

Dutch is able to keep his cool 

while Abby is driving everyone 

over the edge. And when there’s 

another bombing, Abby rises up 

to meet the challenge of Fate, 

taking it upon herself to save the 

day. 

Enough said because any 

more information given will 

spoil the incredible ending of this 

amazing novel. Suffice to say, after 

reading just a small portion, you 

will most definitely continue on 

to see if the wedding day will, in 

fact, arrive. 

This is a truly memorable 

and entertaining read! 




Suspense Publishing, an imprint 

of Suspense Magazine ■ 

FATHER KNOWS DEATH 

By Jeffrey Allen 

In the little town of Rose Petal, Texas, there is an annual event held that brings everyone 

out of their houses and into the 100 degree sun—without complaint (well, without much 

complaint). It is the Carriveau County Fair, and everyone is scheduled to have a ball. 

Always held in April, hoping that the weather will at least be kind of cool, schools and 

businesses come together to promote the Fair. Everything else in town is literally brought to a 

halt while the whole town celebrates. 

Deuce Winters, a stay-at-home dad; his wife, Julianne, who is extremely pregnant and more 

than upset with the heat factor; and their daughter, Carly, who is a real ball-of-fire, are on hand to start this 

year’s Fair. 

Deuce is helping in the 4-H tent because Carly is a member. On his way to replenish the food tent, Deuce 

smiles at everyone he knows, opens the freezer, and there, resting among the hot dogs, hamburgers, and 

bratwurst, lies George Spellman. The groundskeeper at the fairgrounds is dead as a doornail. 

Deuce agrees to help find out who killed George, as he’s a partner in a detective agency. Julianne wants 

him to stay out of this one because of her condition, but that’s not likely to happen when the head of the Fair 

Committee, Mama Biggs, becomes adamant that Deuce investigate and report his findings to her, and her only. 

Spending a week with these people in the town of Rose Petal is a hoot-and-a-holler. Everyone is knee-deep 

in everyone else’s business. The gas company runs all about town wanting to dig for natural gas in the backyards 

of the citizens, while Deuce is left to wonder if having a dead body in the freezer is a health hazard. 

A one-day read; you will not stop until you discover who the culprit is. And this is one cozy that offers a 

real surprise ending! Enjoy! 

Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by Suspense 


FRAGILE ANGEL 

By Stefaunia Dhillon 

One word: creepy. That’s the perfect word for “Fragile Angel.” And it’s right up my alley. 

Once I started this book, I was unable to put it down. 

Happily—at first—to set off on an adventure with her new husband Michael, Evie discovers 

that life isn’t always what you make it. Instead, it is what is destined for you. And this is what Evie 

finds out when she moves to England. 

Michael purchases a 13 th Century Gothic Church to restore as their new home. Evie is not 

at all happy that he did this without consulting her first. But over time, and much rebuilding, they settle in. Then 

she finds out they are not alone. She’s confused and battles with demons and spirits she doesn’t understand. 

She’s desperate to share her feelings and newfound abilities—which actually, without realizing it all these years, 

have always resided within her—with Michael. But he can’t deal with what she is telling him, that the church 

has a life of its own and is calling her. 

Feeling alone, she strikes out on a journey to find out why she is so connected to Catherine, one of the 

spirits at the church. What she finds out is not what she expects when she began her new life in England. 

If you can overlook errors commonly made by a debut authors and love this side of creepy in a story, you 

will love this book as I did. Intriguing, suspenseful, and downright otherworldly, it’s a story I was sad to see end. 

Hopefully, we’ll see more from Dhillon soon. 



BOMBSHELL 

By Catherine Coulter 

Everyone’s favorite agents and fantastic husband and wife team—Savich and Sherlock—are 

back! 

The previous book (“Backfire”) introduced readers to Agent Griffin Hammersmith. In this 

new story, we begin with Griffin as he heads to Washington, D.C. in order to join Savich’s team. 

Making a quick stop in Maestro, Virginia to visit his sister Delsey, Griffin walks into a 

dangerous situation. Upon arrival, he finds that Delsey has been attacked in her home by an 

unknown assailant. Thankfully, Delsey survives and she, her friend Anna—along with Griffin—join forces in 

order to find out who’s behind the strange attack. Working with the sheriff and his wife, an FBI Agent, the team 

assembles to look for answers in a very snooty and mystery-filled town. 

Meanwhile, in D.C., Savich and Sherlock are working on the case of a college student, who’s the grandson 

of a former Federal Reserve Chairman. The boy was found in the snow at the feet of Abraham Lincoln in front 

of the Lincoln Memorial. 

The two cases eventually meld together. The agents find themselves deep into both, and thanks to the 

author’s fascinating plotting, it seems that no one is safe who has anything to do with either case. 

As always, Catherine Coulter has provided non-stop action including the FBI, DEA, and individuals 

galore. She takes readers from the depths of D.C. to a school that involves two high-and-mighty brothers that 

have more than a passing interest in Delsey, all the way to a cave in the mountains of Virginia chock full of drugs 

and guns. 

It always feels like a visit from good friends when Sherlock and Savich return. The character base grows ever 

larger with each book; more and more agents and unique people join the scene. But the core is and will remain 

the happily married couple, and Coulter will remain an author who has never lost the power to mesmerize. 




BLOOD OF MY BLOOD 

By Ralph Pezzullo 

A guy like Smokey Annicelli, a former New York City cop turned private investigator, 

may let his wife down and may disappoint his grown daughters, but he’d never go back on 

the promise he made to his dying best friend to look after his children. Only at some point he 

must have, because the nineteen-year-old Ricky Bravero is dead, shot nine times in the back. 

To the police, the case is simple—a drug addict killed by his dealer for non-payment— 

but Smokey thinks there are deeper questions to be asked, and he is soon demanding the 

answers. A few are found easily, but others are being hidden so well that Smokey finds it hard to shed light 

into places that have remained dark for decades. 

Help comes in the form of old friends and new acquaintances, but who can he really trust Though 

Smokey isn’t certain he can believe in anyone, he realizes he has to trust someone in order to get the answers 

that dangle just out of reach. 

Threatening phone calls and a brutal attack lead to an attempt on Smokey’s life, with results that could 

change everything for him. Pulled in one direction by his need to right old wrongs, pulled in another 

direction by a girlfriend who wants more than he’s been giving, Smokey has to balance the new promises 

he’s almost ready to make with the old promises that are tightening around his neck. 

Told in present tense, “Blood of My Blood” has an immediacy that propels the story forward at a 

blistering pace. Author Pezzullo’s terse dialogue and raw descriptions take the reader straight to the seamiest 

side of the roughest streets of New York City, where Smokey finds out that an old promise is dragging him 

toward places he never wanted to go. 

Reviewed by Laura Alden, author of “Curse of the PTA” for Suspense Magazine ■ 

MY LUNATIC LIFE 

By Sharon Sala 

Tara Luna lives with her Uncle Pat, has since her parents died. He is as best a parent as he 

can be to the young girl. We meet them as they move to Stillwater, Oklahoma. 

Another new school where they can call her Luna the Looney, Moon Girl, or even worse, 

witch. Tara is not only psychic but has a couple of hundred-year-old ghosts, Millicent and 

Henry, who provide a little protection and advice and cause general mayhem to embarrass 

Tara at every opportunity. 

Other than her ghostly followers and rare ability to read minds and peer into the future a little, Tara is 

just like every other teenager: likes the bad boys, has a run-in with the head cheerleader, etc. Sala follows the 

pattern of typical high school cliques that all of us have run into one way or the other. 

Dealing with the rigors of just being a teenager and full of angst, Tara also handles being the new girl 

and the knowledge there is a foreboding dark presence in the house she and Uncle Pat moved into. By the 

time she meets the ghost of the young girl who was murdered there, helps save the life of a student at school 

who is having a seizure, and leads the police to one of her schoolmates who has been kidnapped, all by 

demonstrating her psychic powers to her new friends, Uncle Pat is forced to believe there is more to Tara 

than meets the eye. 

Using real places and street names in the Stillwater area helps bring this book to life. In this, the first in 

the series of the “My Lunatic Life” young adult novels, Sala gives us a plucky little heroine to cheer for and 

leaves us eager to read the next book, for after all, there is still a murder to solve if the ghost of the child in 

her house is to be appeased. 

Reviewed by Mark P. Sadler, author of “Blood on his Hands” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint 


I HEAR THE SIRENS IN THE STREET 

By Adrian McKinty 

Book II of The Troubles Trilogy is a tension-filled narrative that draws readers into the 

life of Police Detective Inspector, Sean Duffy. It is the early 1980s and the civil war in Belfast, 

Northern Ireland is raging—with more violence and pain occurring each and every day. 

The author begins with a ‘bang’ not a ‘whimper,’ as Sean discovers the remains of a man’s 

torso stuffed into a suitcase buried in a dumpster. The only evidence of who the man might 

have been comes in the form of a partial tattoo. The authorities don’t have much to go on, 

suffice to say, so Duffy and his cohorts hit the bricks to do some good old-fashioned police work. 

Finally able to identify the corpse, the happiness is short-lived. The body is an American tourist who 

has no links that could have caused him this much pain. The case slows to a crawl as Sean attempts to put 

two and two together. 

Never giving up, he comes up with scenarios about what the sinister plot could be. A random act of 

violence in the already violent city Or perhaps a conspiracy involving British Intelligence, American FBI, 

and some local paramilitary death squads that Sean most definitely doesn’t want to get involved with 

A redheaded beauty whose husband died in an IRA assassination may just hold the answers. But as 

Sean gets deeper into the case, passion and professional misconduct may just end up to be the combo that 

does him in for good. 

Full of sorrow for the country and people of Northern Ireland, this plot will keep the reader busy. Being 

a standalone book, even though it’s part of the series, knowing Book I (“The Cold, Cold Ground”) ahead of 

time is not a necessity. However, after this, you’ll be scrambling to see how it all began. 




KILLER AMBITION 

By Marcia Clark 

Marcia Clark 

scores once again with 

a taut, suspenseful, 

and intelligent legal 

thriller. In the third 

Rachel Knight novel, 

the teenage daughter 

of wealthy Hollywood 

director Russell 

Antonovich is kidnapped. After he 

delivers the ransom money, one 

million dollars in cash, the girl is 

found dead in the trunk of a car at 

the Los Angeles airport. DA Rachel 

Knight and her friend Bailey Keller, a 

detective from the LAPD, believe the 

case to be a kidnapping gone wrong, 

until the suspected kidnapper is also 

found dead in a shallow grave on a 

remote mountain road. 

As the investigation proceeds, 

the prosecution’s evidence points 

toward Ian Powers, a former child 

star, now high profile manager and 

close family friend of the dead girl, 

Hayley Antonovich. Although the 

police find strong forensic evidence, 

they are unable to identify a motive 

for the killing, until Rachel and 

her associates dig deeper into the 

backgrounds of Antonovich and 

Powers, as well as the would-be 

kidnapper and Hayley’s boyfriend, 

Brian Maher. 

The criminal trial begins, and 

Rachel is pitted against a defense 

attorney who does not hesitate to use 

any dirty trick available to discredit 

the prosecution’s evidence. And as 

well as proving her case, Rachel must 

deal with the members of the press 

who hone in on a great celebrity 

story, no matter who is guilty or 

innocent. Eventually the truth 

comes out, illustrating the lengths to 

which they will go in order to achieve 

success in a cutthroat industry. 

Ms. Clark’s strong female 

characters and insight into both 

the motivations of the criminals 

and those who surround them, as 

well as the lawyers and police who 

search for the truth, make this an 

exceptional novel. Her personal 

experience as a prosecutor makes 

her uniquely qualified to write about 

the investigations and courtroom 

proceedings, but her strong writing 

makes the novel entertaining and 

satisfying. 

Reviewed by Kathleen Heady, 

author of “Lydia’s Story” for Suspense 

Magazine ■ 

35

KEEPER OF THE 

DAWN 

By Heather Graham 

For anyone who 

has been a fan of The 

Keepers: L.A. you’ll 

be thrilled. This is 

paranormal romance 

at its finest, with the 

sexiest ‘dead’ man 

since Dracula came 

to town as one of 

the primary characters. Readers 

have walked hand-in-hand with 

Graham’s warriors as they kept the 

night, the moon, the shadows, and 

now the dawn, and Graham has 

made sure to keep up the passion, 

thrills, and chills throughout every 

tale. 

A warning regarding the 

Hildegard Tomb was given to 

Alessande Salisbrooke; she knows 

the horrors that once happened 

inside the eerie location. A shapeshifting 

magician who coveted 

evil had once reigned, and his 

followers had proven their loyalty 

by carrying out the horrific rite of 

human sacrifice. 

Investigating the past can 

bring it back to life, but Alessande 

cannot get over the fact that she 

believes the brutality surrounding 

the Hildegard Tomb has something 

to do with the murder of her friend. 

Being that Alessande is a Keeper, 

and devoted to her mission as 

well as her loved ones, she runs 

headlong into a nightmare. 

Mark Valiente (who every 

woman with a pulse swoons over), 

is the cop who helps his beautiful 

Keeper on her mission. And 

although he makes others’ pulses 

race, his remains silent. (He is a 

vampire after all). 

As they journey to the truth, 

the thrills come from both passion 

and fear when Alessande barely 

escapes becoming a sacrificial 

victim, and adding another notch 

to the Hildegard belt. A nightmare 

is one thing, but when Mark and 

Alessande uncover a web of lies that 

include the ones they trusted, that’s 

when the true darkness arrives. 

Declan, Sailor—you’ll love 

them and they’re back! Graham 

has written more than a hundred 

novels during her career, and 

seeing as that she’s never let a fan 

down yet, there’s sure to be at least 

a hundred more to come! 






NOT THE KILLING TYPE 

By Lorna Barrett 

The November election is heating up in Stoneham, New Hampshire. Not the U.S. 

presidential one. Or the congressional one. Or the mayoral one. This election is for the 

presidency of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce when a run-of-the-mill Chamber breakfast 

meeting at the Brookview Inn turns ugly. 

Long-standing Chamber president Bob Kelly, who figures he’s a shoe-in for reelection to 

the job, is shocked when his former girlfriend, Angelica, announces that she’s running for his 

seat. And local businessman Stan Berry throws his hat in the ring as well. 

The breakfast meeting comes to a screeching halt and the list of candidates drops significantly when 

Tricia Miles, Angelica’s sister and owner of the local bookstore, finds Stan Berry dead in the hotel bathroom. 

The murder weapon is a brass letter opener which belongs to the inn’s receptionist. Unfortunately for Tricia, 

this is the second time she’s found a dead body in a local bathroom, and this time her sister is considered a 

prime suspect. 

Of course, Angelica asks Tricia to clear her name. Angelica figures that, because Tricia reads (and sells) 

so many mysteries, she can figure out whodunnit in no time. And the fact that Tricia is a close personal friend 

of the local police chief should make solving this crime a snap. 

Nothing is ever that simple, and as Tricia begins to dig into the life of the victim, she discovers personal 

information that is better left buried. Like the victim. And a Chamber full of people who had grudges against 

him. 

“Not The Killing Type” is the sixth in the Booktown mystery series by Lorna Barrett. Lots of fun! 

Reviewed by Susan Santangelo, author of “Class Reunions Can Be Murder” for Suspense Magazine ■ 

THE SHADOW YEAR 

By Hannah Richell 

I went into this book with no expectations, so finding myself up into the wee small hours, 

completely gripped by the story and unable to put it down until I finished was a pleasant 

surprise. 

The basics Five friends stumble upon an abandoned lakeside cottage hidden deep in 

the English countryside on a hot summer’s day in the eighties. Having just graduated college, 

they decide to take something of a gap year, moving into the cottage, living off the land, and 

dropping out of mainstream society. All is initially well, but as the seasons change, tensions begin to rise. An 

unexpected stranger brings further tension and intrigue to the tale, and things hit a peak shortly thereafter. 

In a parallel story, thirty years on from the lost year by the lake, Lila is given a key to the cottage by a 

mysterious stranger. Her life, filled with sadness after a recent tragedy, sees her deciding to take a break from 

life as she knows it to renovate the cottage. By the books’ climax, it becomes clear just how the previous 

tenant’s time at the cottage has implications for her future. 

“The Shadow Year” draws you in slowly at first—it even came off a little too dark and depressing for the 

first few chapters. Within twenty pages, however, I was firmly gripped in the story and didn’t put it down from 

there until I had finished (I have the gravy smudges on a few pages to prove it.) The writing is skillful and taut, 

and Richell gives you just enough information at a time to keep you intrigued and thoroughly hooked. 

Having read a lot of books in this genre over the years, it was a testament to Richell’s story telling skills 

that I didn’t start to suspect the final twist in the tale until very close to the page it was revealed. 

Reviewed by Mel Hearse http://anadventureinreading.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine ■ 

HOTTER THAN HELEN 

By Susan Wingate 

What could be hotter than hellen 

Perhaps Susan Wingate with 

this novel, the second in the Bobby’s 

Diner series. 

Georgette Carlisle is happy. 

She’s getting married, owns a diner, 

loves her cat, and has some wonderful friends, 

including the mayor of Sunnydale, whom she 

considers a daughter. Everything is going great. 

That is, until her friend Helen shows back up in 

town. Then all ‘hel-en’ breaks loose. 

Georgette’s world is turned upside down. 

Her cat is missing, her fiancé becomes unfaithful, 

Helen is discovered murdered, and the mayor is 

abducted. And the culprits behind it all are really 

working for someone else. 

A suspenseful and well-penned novel that is 

sure to entertain you this summer. Read on! 

Reviewed by Starr Gardinier Reina, author of 

“The Other Side: Melinda’s Story” published 

by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense 


KILLING RACHEL 

By Anne Cassidy 

Rose’s mother disappeared several years ago, as 

did Joshua’s father. The two of them are family in a way, 

siblings, and yet aren’t and there are mixed feelings. Some 

of friendship and maybe more for one of them. They are 

determined to discover what happened to their parents, 

regardless of what a previous investigation shows. 

Rose is a bit distracted from their search as her 

former friend from boarding school, Rachel, starts 

sending her messages needing to speak with her urgently. 

Because of past issues, Rose ignores the requests. When 

Rachel turns up dead, Rose is determined to figure out 

exactly what happened to Rachel and why. 

The clues that are left that she searches to find, may 

just turn out to be more than initially believed. Joshua is 

delving into their parents’ last case and going on ‘feelings’ 

as well as clues to get closer to the truth. 

Enjoyable mix of family dynamics 

and mystery, this book keeps you reading 

until the end. 

Reviewed by Ashley Dawn, author of 

“Shadows of Pain” published by Suspense 

Publishing an imprint of Suspense 



CHIHUAHUA CONFIDENTIAL 

By Waverly Curtis 

Seattle P.I. (don’t call her a Girl Friday!) Geri Sullivan is back solving another mystery with 

the help of her Chihuahua, Pepe. Geri adopted Pepe from a local animal shelter, and they’ve 

developed a unique relationship—Pepe talks and Gerri is the only one who can understand 

him. And Pepe, who is addicted to Spanish soap operas, is super smart, super cute, and a true 

Lothario when it comes to wooing potential girlfriends like a cute Pomeranian named Siren 

Song. 

When Siren Song’s owner, the wealthy Rebecca Tyler, decides to shoot a television pilot for 

a reality show called Dancing With Dogs, Pepe convinces Geri that they should be one of the dancing couples. 

He’s thrilled to leave rainy Seattle for the golden sunshine and glitzy lifestyle of Los Angeles, especially when 

he learns that starlet Caprice Kennedy will be one of the show’s judges. Pepe claims that he once belonged to 

Caprice, but Geri doesn’t believe him, since he’s also told her that he once fought a bull in Mexico, raced in the 

Iditarod in Alaska, and wrestled an alligator in an Alabama swamp. 

When one of the reality show judges is found murdered before the dancing lessons even start, Geri and 

Pepe realize they’ve become much more involved in solving a mystery than learning the tango or being fitted 

for matching costumes. Then Siren Song, and Caprice Kennedy’s new dog, Princess, are kidnapped and Pepe 

and Geri decide to deliver the ransom so they can catch the criminals. 

“Chihuahua Confidential” is the second book in this delightful series by mystery writing team Waverly 

Fitzgerald and Curtis Colbert, using the pen name of Waverly Curtis. I give it ten dog bones—it’s a hoot! 

Reviewed by Susan Santangelo, author of “Class Reunions Can Be Murder” for Suspense Magazine ■ 

HER LAST BREATH 

By Linda Castillo 

Speaking of breath, I held mine while reading this latest novel by Castillo. As typical of this 

author’s quality of work, “Her Last Breath” is another shocking story centering on the lives of 

the Amish. 

An Amish family of five is reduced to two when a senseless slaying occurs. Coming back 

from a weekly visit with the doctor at dusk, Paul Borntrager slowly leads his horse and buggy 

and his three special needs children cautiously through an intersection only to be hit by a 

speeding vehicle. Two of the three children and Paul die. 

Mattie, the mother is crushed and grieves when she hears of their deaths. She nurtures her sole remaining 

child David back to health. But that’s not the end, not even close. Discovering that it was not just an accident 

and unsure if Mattie or Paul was the target of someone’s rage, Kate Burkholder, Chief of Police in Painter’s Mill 

leads up the investigation and tries to protect Mattie and David from further happenstance. 

But Kate is working through personal issues of her own involving a lover—whether or not she should 

take a chance and commit—and her sordid past that is coming back to haunt her. Kate feels the sting from 

the loss of the Borntrager family because she is not only ex-Amish but also because Mattie was her best friend 

while growing up. Devastation after hardship spins Kate through a spiraling tunnel, only to end up being 

the killer’s target when she gets too close to the truth of the murder of the Borntragers. When I read who 

was behind the deaths and the calamity surrounding it, I was astounded. I wasn’t right about one person I 

suspected. 

Castillo has always been able to—and probably will always do so—flabbergast me. Another fantastic 

story. 



GENERATION V 

By M.L. Brennan 

This is the first in a brand new series that centers on (you guessed it) vampires. Yes, the 

metaphors and sarcastic barbs may race through the skull; however, if the rolling of the eyes 

can stop for a minute, there is one thing that readers should most definitely know about this 

particular book. It’s good. 

We begin with Fort (short for Fortitude) Scott, who is what you would call a vamp-intraining. 

Half-and-half, Fort grew up basically normal and wants to stay that way. He has literally 

no desire to transition into a full-fanged ‘baddy’ when he reaches adulthood. Not to mention, 

his relatives are so mean that he definitely does not want to be like them. 

Fort attempts to slow down his change by making a living working in a coffee shop and living in an 

apartment away from his blood-sucking family. His mama, Madeline, is a little heartless and creepy; his sister, 

Prudence, would turn a cold fish…cold; and his brother Chivalry, who was born around the Civil War era, is 

a real hunk. Very aloof, but most people actually like him. 

Suzume is a shape shifter sent to watch over Fort as he tries to stay human. Being able to shift into a fox, 

she is just as sly as the animal she becomes. And Luca is the real stinker here; the bad guy who wants nothing 

more than to infiltrate the family’s territory. 

The suspense is all over the place in Fort’s life, as people go missing and he tries to exchange his fated 

black cape for the Superman red and blue. If you’re looking for the fluffy romance of a Twilight saga, forget it. 

This is way better. (Yes, I can feel the angry glares right now). 

With a cool cliffhanger that will lead readers to the next installment, this may be one vamp series that will 

step away from the pack and shine. 




NIGHT TERROR 

ANTHOLOGY 

Edited by Karen Henderson 

Since the rise and rise of 

e-Books, short stories and novellas 

have become increasingly popular. 

I think of short stories as a sorbet 

between longer books; something 

to refresh your palette before 

moving on to that six-hundredpage 

tome or if you are a Stephen 

King fan, one-thousand plus page 

doorstop. 

The “Night Terrors 

Anthology” edited by Karen 

Henderson of Kayelle Press is 

a creepy little anthology of all 

things nasty with an abundance 

of demons, vampires, ghosts, and 

the undead. Inside are seventeen 

top-notch horror stories from 

international authors; many of 

whom are award winners. 

The quality of the stories 

ranges from very good to 

exceptional. The first of the 

anthology, A World Not Our Own 

by J.C. Hemphill, proves you can’t 

trust vampires and is as far from 

“Twilight” as a good vampire story 

should be. 

Now the publishing and film 

and television world have fallen in 

love with zombies, zombies have 

become the new black. Move over 

Edward. Read Share the Love by 

Chris Donahue to get your quality 

zombie fix. 

White Lines, White Crosses by 

Andrew J. McKiernan could have 

been written by Stephen King. It 

is a cool little ghost story about 

a teenager’s desire to fit in and 

the price he pays when the peer 

pressure comes from the other side 

of the grave. It is seriously dark and 

beautifully paced. 

There is also a few classics 

thrown in for good measure. They 

are just as fresh today and fit right 

in with their modern counterparts; 

Edgar Allan Poe’s A Tell-Tale 

Heart, The Dead Girl by Guy de 

Maupassant and A Ghost Story by 

Mark Twain. 

The “Night Terrors 

Anthology” is a solid collection 

with some truly enjoyable, 

clever tales that will stay with 

you whether you want them to 

or not. The “Creepy” Badge of 

Honor is awarded to editor Karen 

Henderson for having a great feel 

for a good story. 

Reviewed by Susan May http:// 

s u s a n m a y w o r d a d v e n t u r e s . 

blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense 


37

RAVEN GIRL 

By Audrey Niffenegger 

My ten and twelve year old 

boys are, sadly, at an age where 

they don’t want me to read to 

them anymore. In fact, thanks 

to iPads, X-boxes, and cable TV, 

they don’t want to read anymore. 

However, they both 

expressed interest in me reading 

them “Raven Girl.” In the end, 

my hubby sat in and for several 

nights, we eagerly anticipated the 

next reading. It was a wonderful 

experience. First they wanted to 

read it, then they didn’t want me 

to stop. They loved the story and 

wanted it read again. A miracle. 

“Once there was a Postman 

who fell in love with a Raven.” 

The opening line in this 

modern-day, dark fairy tale begins 

a marvelous tale of a postman 

who “thought he had seen just 

about everything Her Majesty’s 

Postal Service could offer in the 

way of danger and difficulty, 

hilarity and boredom.” When he 

rescues a baby raven, which has 

fallen from her nest, they fall in 

love and eventually have a baby 

raven girl who has human form, 

but speaks in raven. The raven 

girl is not happy with herself and 

seeks to be transformed. 

Niffenegger has collaborated 

with Royal Ballet Resident 

Choreographer Wayne McGregor 

to produce a ballet based on this 

book. It premiered at the Royal 

Opera House in London in May 

2013 

Ȧudrey Niffenegger was 

on my list of beloved authors 

before this book. Her first novel, 

“The Time Traveler’s Wife” was 

an international bestseller and 

her second book, a ghost story 

entitled “Her Fearful Symmetry,” 

is in my top reads. 

Niffenegger puts words 

together from which spin magic. 

She is also a talented artist. In 

“Raven Girl,” she not only wrote a 

charming tale she also illustrated 

it beautifully using the 17th 

century technique of aquatint, 

which uses metal, acid, wax, and 

rosin to achieve delicate tone and 

detailed images. 

Anyone, any age reading 

this will fall in love with the tale 

of the “Raven Girl.” It is a book 

of exceptional beauty and one to 

treasure. 

Reviewed by Susan May http:// 

anadventureinreading.blogspot. 

com.au/ for Suspense Magazine ■ 

OF GRAVE CONCERN 

By Max McCoy 

For any reader who misses those real, rootin-tootin westerns, you will be truly fascinated 

with this work. The author, who has penned a variety of “Indiana Jones” tales and is an awardwinning 

writer of the western genre, takes this cowboy plot in a brand new direction. 

Ophelia Wylde has many gifts; one of which is her ability to talk to the dead. She has been 

left a widow because of the angry battles in the Civil War, and is now attempting to leave the past 

behind by heading west. 

Leaving New Orleans, Ophelia’s final destination is Colorado, where she has an appointment 

to give a lecture/demonstration of spiritualism. However, her new life gets put on hold when Ophelia finds 

herself in Dodge City, arrested and charged with murder. 

The arresting officer claims that Ophelia’s real name is Kate Bender, a woman who really is guilty of 

murder, and throws Ophelia in jail. Managing to find a lawyer, she’s turned loose until she can go before the 

judge and somehow prove that the officer got it wrong. She needs to clear her name in order to escape the 

hangman’s noose. 

Jack Calder is a bounty hunter and more than a bit skeptical about not only Ophelia’s situation but also 

about her supposed psychic gifts. He stands by as Ophelia gives a few spiritual shows, provides readings to 

people who need them, and tries to talk to the dead. The townspeople soon think she might be running a small 

scam. Becoming an angry mob, they take Ophelia to “Boot Hill” and bury her alive. Only then do the real dead 

begin to speak…and they have a whole heck of a lot to say. 

This is a fun read with characters that fit perfectly in that western genre. But this plot is far more thrilling 

when the Old West meets the paranormal realm head-on for an unforgettable ride. 



STOKER'S MANUSCRIPT 

By Royce Prouty 

With all the vampire books flooding the market recently, it’s hard to find an original and 

fresh take on the legend. Royce Prouty, though, has accomplished it. In “Stoker’s Manuscript,” 

he imagines Bram Stoker had guidance in creating “Dracula”—a guide who wasn’t happy with 

the result. 

Rare book expert Joseph Barkeley is hired to authenticate and purchase the original draft of 

“Dracula” along with the author’s notes. Included in this version are a foreword and an afterword 

that were removed after a fire destroyed Stoker’s first publisher along with the to-be-published manuscript. 

Barkeley brings the manuscript to Bran Castle in Romania, the legendary home of Vlad Dracul. He’s told that 

the manuscript will be a centerpiece on display as part of the reconstruction of the castle as a tourist attraction. 

For Barkeley, the trip to Romania is a journey into his personal history. He and his brother were saved 

from a state orphanage there after his English father killed their Romanian mother and then committed suicide. 

They grew up as the wards of nuns in Chicago, and while it was far from ideal, it has allowed him to create a 

pleasant, safe life for himself. But now the bill for their salvation has come due. 

Barkeley discovers that he is the prisoner of one of Vlad Dracul’s sons who sets a task for him: decipher 

cryptic clues in the manuscript to discover the burial places of other members of his family. As he delves into 

the history of the manuscript and the world of the 1890s when it was written, Barkeley discovers his own 

history is wrapped up in the task. But can he save himself before his usefulness is used up 

Prouty weaves the story of the publication of the original novel and the history of Vlad Dracul and his 

family into a satisfying and well-told story. The vampires here are the stuff of nightmares, just as in Stoker’s 

novel. For horror buffs, this is a pleasant return to form for the genre. 

Reviewed by David Ingram for Suspense Magazine ■ 

ONE HOT MURDER 

By Lorraine Bartlett 

This is the third installment in the Victoria Square mysteries, and it’s just as cool as books one and two. 

Katie Bonner has always dreamed of owning a B&B, but she found out—when her husband passed 

away—that he had used all of their savings to buy a mall that handled local crafts. This mall is already going 

down the tubes and Katie now finds herself the manager of a business she never even wanted. 

Her job is to deal with a lot of weird characters that have set up booths in her mall—some with very strong 

personalities and others that are just plain crazy. On the upside, Katie has a little romance going with the owner 

of the pizza parlor who’s also her landlord. Her only drawback seems to be the fact that she’s the local ‘Jessica 

Fletcher,’ and every time there’s a crime, she finds herself right in the middle of it. 

Katie is trying to get over her husband’s mistake of buying the white elephant that hangs like an albatross 

around her neck, but can’t seem to stop whining. Even some of the mall characters are complaining that they’ve 

heard the story over and over and Katie should just get over herself. 

One very hot morning, Katie looks out her window and sees smoke billowing from one of the stores that 

sells wooden artifacts and furniture. Although not completely destroyed, a dead body is found inside, and the 

victim did not die from smoke inhalation. 

Ray Davenport, the trusted detective in charge arrives and is much nicer to Katie than he usually is, but 

there’s a reason for this new attitude. 

The plot, yet again, is a whole lot of fun. Katie may whine, but she’s a strong character that wants nothing 

more than to find the answers. Once again, the recipes in the back are scrumptious! 




SLICE 

By William Patterson 

Jessie Clarkson had a pretty good life when she was young, going to school and living in a 

small town in Connecticut. The only problem she seemed to have as a young woman was the 

fact that she couldn’t keep a boyfriend around for long. Her sister, Monica, actually stole her 

high school beau, and her best friend glommed on to her college love match. In order to get 

even, Jessie decides to hook up with a motorcycle maniac, Emil, and show them all she’s landed 

a wild and crazy guy. 

Unfortunately, she’s right. One night, Jessie finds out that Emil is more than crazy, as she 

watches him take someone’s life. Running, Jessie heads to New York City to hide. She wants nothing more 

than to escape Emil, who just happens to be the father of the child she carries. 

Informed that Emil is killed in a drug related battle in Mexico, Jessie decides to go back to her New 

England home now that he’s no longer a threat. 

With Emil gone, hoping to settle down and live a normal life, Jessie establishes herself as an author. 

With her daughter, Abby, and nanny, Inga, Jessie heads back to Connecticut. Unfortunately, the good life 

can’t be found. Killings suddenly start up again using Emil’s previous M.O., and each victim seems to have 

a connection to Jessie. As the fear begins, Jessie must find out if Emil is still alive and has come back to seek 

revenge on all who did him wrong. 

With a bevy of characters, from best friends to high school beaus to a neighbor, John Manning, 

who’s a writer that allegedly murdered his wife, the cast is intriguing. A really fascinating thriller with a 

little of the paranormal thrown in for good measure, readers will really enjoy this fast-paced book. 



THE KING'S DECEPTION 

By Steve Berry 

Cotton Malone, a former Justice Department agent, takes the reins of this latest Berry 

novel. With the author’s perfect research into modern and historical time periods, the reader 

will be thrilled with this extremely engaging puzzle. 

In the history of Tudor England, there is a secret being hidden that, if it comes to light, 

will throw the Brits into a tizzy. Thanks to the machinations of Henry VIII and some of his 

cohorts way back when, the secret has stayed hidden…until now. 

Cotton is retired from government service. Now the owner of a book shop in Copenhagen, he’s headed 

there with his teenage son. They will have a small stopover in London so Cotton does a favor for his ex-boss 

and agrees to escort a teen fugitive back to England. 

Unfortunately, upon arrival he and the boys are greeted in London by men with guns. Both boys are 

kidnapped and Cotton finds himself pulled into a showdown between Britain and America concerning the 

release of a terrorist. An international incident could commence, seeing as that the terrorist is the person who 

brought down Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. 

Blake Antrim, a CIA officer in charge of “The King’s Deception”—which is a case that has the CIA and 

MI6 running around like headless chickens to solve—joins the party. With his own investigation, Blake must 

delve into the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, uncovering a shocking secret that may change the political realm 

forever. 

Cotton has to be friend and foe in order to uncover the dangers of solving a kidnapping, letting a terrorist 

go free, and holding the secrets of sixteenth century English history in the palm of his hands. 

Good will not cut it here. Nor will great, fantastic, exemplary, or the other million adjectives given out 

for ‘5-star’ work. With this story, Steve Berry took wisdom, intelligence, and power, and ended up offering 

readers an incredible jewel. 



SAVING LAURA 

By Jim Satterfield 

A riveting, rapid paced, and well-written mystery thriller. 

Shelby Lee, continues to have feelings for his ex-girlfriend Laura. After leaving Shelby, 

Laura gets involved with a drug kingpin, Tom Tucker, who was in the middle of a big drug 

deal. Shelby steps in and spoils the drug transaction by taking Tucker’s five kilos of cocaine 

and $75,000 dollars, hoping to use it as a bargaining chip to get Laura back and help clean up 

her drug addiction. 

After the robbery, Shelby needs to get out of town and meets up with a couple who is on the run from 

the law. They end up in a shootout along the highway that leaves one officer dead and another seriously 

wounded. Shelby becomes a person of interest with local law enforcement and is hunted. He is also being 

watched by the DEA because of the drug transaction that went bad. 

After hiding at his dad’s small cabin in the hills around Aspen, Colorado and dodging the law, he is able 

to return and find Laura who is also running from Tuckers gang, trying to find her own way. Together, with 

the help of a famous local author, a dog named ‘JAWS,’ and a ruthless DEA Agent, they are able to challenge 

Tucker and his desire to get his cocaine back and use Laura again as his drug addicted mistress. 

The story twists and turns and will keep you turning the pages with interest; that includes a group of 

strong and committed characters. 

Reviewed by Jerry Zavada for Suspense Magazine ■ 


THE GHOST RIDERS 

OF ORDEBEC 

By Fred Vargas 

An ancient, thousand-year-old 

legend has the small French village 

of Ordebec in its grip in the latest 

Commissaire Adamsberg mystery 

from author Fred Vargas. 

Fred Vargas (ironically a 

female) has had international 

success with the Adamsberg series 

and “The Ghost Riders of Ordebec” 

has just the right amount of mystery 

and thrills to make this a domestic 

U.S. hit as well. 

The Ghost Riders of Ordebec 

are a legend based on the infamous 

Furious Army of Normandy. This 

band of horsemen represented 

the most nefarious men in the 

region and the legend of their 

reappearance marks the pending 

death of four suspect individuals. 

Commissaire Adamsberg’s 

usual territory is Paris. His 

involvement in the disappearance 

of a man in the town of Ordebec 

is sparked when a mysterious 

woman named Lina appears at 

his precinct begging for his help. 

Having heard of his reputation, 

Lina feels Adamsberg is just the 

person to solve the mystery of the 

Ghost Riders and to stop them in 

the midst of their ‘great hunt.’ 

Adamsberg and a few of his 

colleagues venture to Ordebec 

and find a town in the grip of this 

ancient myth. Fred Vargas excels 

when she builds up the level of 

paranoia to a point where anyone 

in the town may be a suspect and 

no one feels safe. As the body 

count continues—including the 

attempted murder of an elderly 

woman named Leo that Adamsberg 

had grown fond of—the members 

of Paris’ seventh arrondissement 

are at their wit’s end to solve the 

mystery and quell the growing 

panic before it consumes all of 

Ordebec. 

As translated from the French 

by Sian Reynolds, Fred Vargas’ 

“The Ghost Riders of Ordebec” 

is a great blend of mystery with a 

firm grounding in historical fiction 

and legend that will keep readers 

guessing right up to the last page. 

Having been newly introduced 

to this series, I now look forward 

to catching up with Commissaire 

Adamsberg and his team and 

eagerly look forward to their next 

assignment. 

Reviewed by Ray Palen for Suspense 


39

SUGAR POP 

MOON 

By John Florio 

Being the 

perfect definition 

of ‘misunderstood,’ 

main character, 

Jersey Leo, is a bit of an outcast. 

He keeps a low profile amongst 

the tough guys working in the 

speakeasy business in mobster-run 

New York. 

An albino of mixed-race, 

the locals have given Jersey the 

nickname Snowball. He works 

tending bar at a place called the 

Pour House, which is owned by 

the mob and located in Hell’s 

Kitchen. He doesn’t have a group 

of guys to hang with, and even his 

own mother abandoned him long 

ago. Although his father is still 

around, the man is a former boxer 

and doesn’t like Jersey spending 

his time at a place owned by a 

notorious gangster. 

One fine day, Leo buys some 

counterfeit moonshine (AKA: 

Sugar Pop Moon), with the boss’ 

money. No, Jersey isn’t trying to 

do himself in; in fact, he must turn 

to his father to help him find the 

bootlegger in order to save his own 

life. But while Jersey is searching 

for the seller, there’s also someone 

waiting in the darkness searching 

for him. 

The reader gets a taste of 

literally everything; from the 

historic areas of NYC; to an 

interesting psycho who loves to 

wield a cleaver; to a Christmastree 

farm that is the location for 

far more than just decorative pine 

trees. In other words, this author 

made sure to produce a fast-paced 

tale where you never know what’s 

coming next. 

This book represents one of 

those good, old prohibition-style 

mob stories that brings a tear 

to the eye and a laugh out loud, 

depending on the situation. Jersey 

Leo can never be called a hero, 

but he sometimes acts like one. 

He has a caring way for the people 

he works with—not to mention, 

friends and family—but his real 

focus is on trying to save himself… 

and who can blame him 

After this small taste, readers 

will definitely hope that the author 

produces more Jersey Leo stories. 




Suspense Publishing, an imprint 


UNSPEAKABLE 

By Kevin O'Brien 

Suspense lovers will be thrilled to see another work by this author who is a master at keeping everyone 

on the edge of their seats. O’Brien is so skilled at bringing the reader into the fear, you’ll almost want to read 

this book with your eyes closed. 

Olivia Barker is a hypnotherapist in the state of Washington who’s faced with an unusual problem. A 

young man who claims his name is Russ Leander, even though the name on the caller ID is C. Stampler, sets up 

a meeting with the doctor. When he arrives for his session, Olivia feels as if she’s experiencing déjà vu because 

the new client looks so familiar. 

He admits to Olivia that he had given her a fake name because he used to be a child-star, Collin Cox, and 

didn’t want his identity known. Russ/Collin alerts her to the fact that something bizarre happened when he 

was hypnotized by a friend, and he wants Olivia to hypnotize him to see if it would occur again. Putting him 

under, a new personality suddenly enters the room by the name of Wade, and the game of fear begins. 

Wade is frightening; he murdered a family back in the 60s in their hotel room. He goes on and on, listing 

violent crimes committed in the area that happened before her patient, Collin, was even born. Olivia knows 

nothing of these horrible slayings, but through hypnotherapy, she learns details of the killings that only the 

murderer would know. 

Having no proof other than what she’s heard in her sessions, Olivia gets pulled into a nightmare. As the 

body count starts to pile up, her life is put in danger. Determined to find out what’s going on, she continues 

seeing Collin, but the truth will amaze, astound, and scare her to death. 

Every thrill-seeker who picks this one up should make sure they have their blood pressure checked before 

reading. 



VERLAND: THE TRANSFORMATION 

By B.E. Scully 

Part noir, part dark romance, part nightmare, “Verland: The Transformation” is a tale of loss, pain, 

suffering, and redemption, woven into the construct of the vampire. 

Elle is a crime writer. Successful, she is still seeking answers to unspoken, unformed questions from her 

mother’s murder two decades prior. Kingman is a Hollywood superstar with a string of directing hits under his 

belt, who sits in prison convicted of murder. As Elle begins to write his story, a tale far more dark and haunting 

emerges: a story of death, murder, necromancers, and vampires. Are vampires real Who is Verland and can 

his diary be believed 

The narrative shifts dramatically between past and present, with Elle’s story juxtaposed with the diary 

entries of this supposed vampire. Death and transformation create a thematic link between both stories. 

Verland is transformed into a vampire, but he also experiences a spiritual transformation. His descent parallels 

Elle’s ascent out of her past as she delves deeper into Kingman’s frightening and bizarre world of wealth, power, 

and violence. The characters are well-drawn and the secondary cast is almost as delightful as Elle and Verland. 

Delightful details enrich the narrative, which serve to keep the novel from getting bogged down in intense, 

dark imagery and provide an edge of comic relief. Both Verland and Elle have a dramatic story to tell, and 

Scully’s multifaceted narrative through the use of a diary makes it all work. 

Do not let the presence of a vampire scare you. This is not horror as we know it today but a fast-paced 

thriller story that could stand alone as a superb crime fiction novel. The diary serves as a parallel story to 

explore very dark themes. Scully explores the question of murder and death through both Kingman and the 

vampire. They each represent the criminal element of the killer we fear in society. Reaching into the Gothic 

literary tradition, Scully weaves a spellbinding fusion of crime thriller and supernatural tale. 

Reviewed by Drake Morgan for Suspense Magazine ■ 

VEILED THREAT 

By Alice Loweecey 

The coolest ex-nun turned P.I. in the mystery world is back for a brand new adventure— 

and the author has once again brought a whole lot of fun to the genre. If fans haven’t read the 

first two in this series, they should fix their mistake immediately. This is one author that has the 

ability to take her characters into fascinating scenarios that ooze with intelligence. 

Giulia Falcone, a former teacher in a convent, is up-to-date on current problems and is 

a very astute investigator, having the ability to read people easily. In a relationship with Frank 

Driscoll, her partner at Driscoll Investigations, Giulia and Frank run the gamut of friend, boyfriend and back 

to friend, keeping a tremendous amount of respect for each other in the process. 

The partners are asked by their friends, Anya and Laurel, to help them out because their adopted baby 

girl has been kidnapped. It doesn’t seem to the two women that the police are paying a lot of attention to their 

plight, so they ask Driscoll Investigations to step in and make it right. 

Giulia soon unearths two other kidnappings in cities nearby that mirrored this one exactly; the children 

were both taken from same-sex couples and both cases ended extremely badly. Going undercover as a 

housekeeper in a local resort that catered to the other victims, Giulia sets her mind on finding out what’s going 

on. But even with Frank and a friend of his from the police department backing her up, she still manages to 

get into a bit of trouble. 

The setting is Christmastime. And this third book in this very addictive series is once again a winner. The 

author has used her own experiences to take her main characters on a ride to a surprising conclusion, and the 

plot even offers a new little spark of romance which should make book four a blast! 




THE TOWER 

By Simon Toyne 

The third and final book in the Sanctus Trilogy, “The Tower” wraps up everything for the 

reader in a nice little package after a high-speed adventure they will never forget. 

The director of the NASA Control Center in Maryland goes missing. The Hubbel Space 

Telescope is disabled; and even odder, the computers at the Control Center shut down. Only 

the director’s machine is working; the screen offering an ominous message stating: MANKIND 

MUST LOOK NO FURTHER. 

Enter FBI Agent J.J. Shepherd. Called by his FBI bosses to help in the investigation, Shepherd is more than 

a bit wary considering he will have to work alongside his immediate superior, Agent Benjamin Franklin. This 

is one man he wishes to avoid because he has been hiding secrets from Franklin for a good long time. Having 

no choice, Shepherd must answer the call of Assistant Director O’Halloran who believes his background in 

science will be the ultimate asset to uncovering the truth. 

Discovering a note written in the missing director’s handwriting, Shepherd believes that there may just be 

a world of pain being brought about by cyber-attack. What follows is a myriad of violence: an explosion at an 

ancient monastery in Turkey; a deadly outbreak of a virus; and the disappearances of American reporter, Liv 

Adamsen, and ex-special forces operative, Gabriel Mann. 

Shepherd and Franklin’s investigation takes them into a web of secrets and lies. When strange things begin 

to happen with climate change and animals, weather and more, the two men must try and figure out the cause 

before Earth is destroyed. 

This book is so action-packed with so many revelations, locations, etc., that the reader will be thrown this 

way and that—from dark alley to brilliant stars—as they stick by Shepherd’s side to see how it all works out. 

Readers will become absolutely engaged by this brilliant tale, wondering if the hero can win before the clock 

strikes zero. Enjoy! 



TELL ME 

By Lisa Jackson 

This book is absolutely tension-filled. Jackson is on top of her game with “Tell Me.” Nikki Gillette wants to 

know what happened twenty years ago to her murdered friend Amity and wants someone to tell her. Amity’s 

mother Blondell was imprisoned twenty years ago based on the testimony of her son, Amity’s brother, that his 

mother is the one who shot them and killed Amity. 

A true crime author and writer for the Savannah Sentinel, Nikki goes on the hunt, investigating when she 

should leave it up to her fiancé, Detective Pierce Reed. But that’s not in her nature. She gets more than just 

information for her articles and book however, when she runs into some nerve-wracking—both for the reader 

and the character—situations. During her and Reed’s investigation, Nikki finds out she has a stalker and figures 

it has to do with the case. Is someone warning her to back off She’s threatened on more than one occasion, 

but doesn’t give up. 

This romantic suspense will have you up all night reading, paging your way through the romance between 

Nikki and Reed and the at-times very dangerous circumstances Nikki gets herself into. To say ‘I didn’t see it 

coming’ may be cliché, but it’s very true. You will be astounded with the ending! 



TOPPED CHEF 

By Lucy Burdette 

Most of us love those television 

food shows. I know I do. But “Topped 

Chef ” puts a fatal spin on lime cupcakes, 

shrimp and grits, chefs, judges, and the 

idea of a reality show and its winner when 

a judge—Sam Rizzoli—is murdered and 

the other critics begin to worry about their safety. 

Hayley Snow works for Key West’s Key Zest—a 

magazine of which Hayley is a food critic. She is 

assigned to be one of the judges for “Topped Chef ” and 

it could end up being her last assignment. Choosing 

the right dish, eliminating cooks from the show, and 

commentating on film what she likes and doesn’t like 

are the easy duties of this competition for Hayley. The 

hard parts for her are staying alive and trying to find 

out who murdered Rizzoli, while balancing a sort-of 

relationship with one of the detectives investigating 

Rizzoli’s murder. 

A delightful read filled with yummy recipes at the 

end with tangy suspects sprinkled throughout. 

Reviewed by Starr Gardinier Reina, author of “The 

Other Side: Melinda’s Story” published by Suspense 


THE COLD COLD GROUND 

By Adrian McKinty 

Sergeant Sean Duffy is a Catholic police 

detective on a protestant police force. In 1980s 

North Ireland, that isn’t the ideal place, but he is 

determined to be the best at his job as he can possibly 

be. Protestants are suspicious of Catholics and many 

have bounties on their heads. The hunger strikes, 

riots, deaths, and mayhem endanger everyone. 

With all the trouble brewing and bubbling 

through the land, a man’s body being found isn’t 

surprising. It is thought to be a simple murder, but 

when Duffy investigates, he finds it could be a serial 

killer targeting homosexuals. All investigations are 

complicated because of the political climate and 

everything is questioned. 

Duffy investigates in his unique manner. He is 

determined to unearth the truth and is willing to step 

into harms way to find it. 

A history-filled police procedural and mystery 

that keeps you interested and informed from start to 

finish. 

Reviewed by Ashley Dawn, author of “Shadows of 

Pain” published by Suspense Publishing an imprint 


THE NEVER 

LIST 

By Koethi Zhan 

As young 

girls, from middle 

school to the 

preliminary years 

in college, Sarah and Jennifer were 

inseparable. Afraid of everything 

from earthquakes to rapists, they 

made up a series of rules. They 

called it the Never List. Until 

they unfortunately violated a 

basic rule, “never get in a car with 

strangers,” their lives were pretty 

straightforward. 

When they realized that 

something about the cab ride 

was out of the ordinary, it was 

too late. For the next three years 

they, and two other girls, where 

imprisoned in the basement of a 

house, brutally tortured, raped, 

beaten, and starved. The opening 

lines of this novel sound chillingly 

real: “There were four of us down 

there…and then, very suddenly 

and without warning, there were 

three.” 

With the three girls released 

and their captor, a former college 

professor, sitting in a jail cell, their 

lives could go on, but for Sarah it 

could never end there. Jennifer’s 

body was never found and she 

can’t move on until she brings 

closure to her situation. With the 

reluctant help from the other two 

girls that survived with her, they 

build a trail, going back into the 

past to move into the future. Their 

journey becomes a cross-country 

chase involving religious cults 

and BDSM dungeons, all leading 

back provokingly to her past jailer, 

a man who is about to be set free 

on probation unless the secret 

location of the missing body can 

be unraveled. 

As witnesses step forward, 

you wonder how the police could 

have missed these clues in their 

original investigation. The three 

girls once again find themselves 

trapped in their original torture 

chamber and all the pieces fall into 

place, leaving the reader twisting 

in the wind as the startling ending 

jumps out from the darkest place 

with a loud BOO! 

A fast-paced, don’t-dareput-the-book-down 

read that will 

leave you cringing as your darkest 

fears emerge from the shadows as 

Zhan takes you to the places you 

never wanted to go. 

Reviewed by Mark Sadler, author 

of “Blood on his Hands” published 

by Suspense Publishing, an 

imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ 


41

Jodie Renner Editing 

Fiction Editing and 

Critiquing Services 

www.JodieRennerEditing.com 

Specializing in thrillers, 

romantic suspense, 

& other crime iction 

Look for Jodie’s craft of iction articles on these blogs: 

Crime Fiction Collective, Blood-Red Pencil, The Thrill 

Begins, Writer’s Forensics, and Suspense Magazine. 

“Jodie Renner worked with me to transform my thriller, 

The Lonely Mile, from an exciting book to a tight, 

suspenseful, heart-pounding thrill ride.” - Allan Leverone 

“Jodie edited my last three novels and did a 

terriic job. … Highly recommended!” - LJ Sellers 

“I rate Jodie 6 stars out of 5!” - Ian Walkley, No Remorse 

Free sample edit for new clients 

THE HEALER 

By Antti Tuomainen 

A thriller/mystery with a dash of ‘end of the world’ spice, this novel 

offers readers an interesting look at the vibrant area of Helsinki. 

In the midst of constant rainfall that’s flooding the land, food and 

water have become almost non-existent. With fading power across the 

city, the Internet and all electrical systems have turned unreliable. With 

whispers of the plague coming forth, citizens are leaving the city in 

droves, making for greener pastures. In addition, Amazon rain forests are 

on fire and the United States has been attacked by missiles sent from drug 

cartels in Mexico. It seems that most of Europe is at war, there is no police 

protection or medical care and, frankly, unless you’re richer than Midas 

you can forget receiving any help at all. 

In the midst of all this is the story of a serial killer roaming the streets 

of Helsinki, who has named himself The Healer. Killing families he feels 

are responsible for creating the huge mess that the world now finds itself 

in, The Healer is good at his work. And because the police presence has 

dwindled to almost nothing, the killer remains on the loose, causing 

havoc wherever he goes. 

Tapani Lehtinen, a poet, is one of the few people who still live in the 

city. The day his wife, Joanna goes missing, he suddenly finds himself on a 

quest to follow a murderous monster roaming the area. As Tapani searches 

for her, he discovers that his wife got a lead on The Healer and may have 

met with harm. But in this dystopian world, nothing is as it seems. 

Scared and angry, Tapani must deal with secrets that actually link his 

wife to the very killer he’s seeking. 

The author has done an extremely good job, causing 

readers to feel the shivers all around them as they try their 

best to make it through this strange, eerie world. A definite 

keeper! 

Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: 

Tallent & Lowery Book Two” published by Suspense 

Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine 

THREE LIVES OF TOMOMI 

ISHIKAWA 

By Benjamin Constable 

Tomomi Ishikawa aka Butterfly is the perfect best 

friend for Ben. She is vivacious, loves to drink and 

smoke, and hang out in bars, alleys, and back rooms. 

She is also full of surprises...like leaving a suicide note 

and a scavenger hunt for Ben. There is no body to grieve 

over, just a note she leaves him with her computer and a pen. She 

believes Ben can write well and what she shows him and what he finds 

will make a really good story for him to put to paper. 

Ben is consumed with Butterfly’s death and plays along with 

what he believes to be her final request, a treasure hunt. Searching her 

computer turns up files with some colorful, yet disturbing names that 

make Ben feel quite uncomfortable. Unfortunately for Ben, it’s not a 

treasure he’s hunting but Butterfly’s very disturbing past. 

Butterfly leaves wild clues, making Ben climb statues, break into 

private property, and ride subways back and forth, over and over just 

to see if he can find the clue in the split second it appears through 

a window. He is obsessed with this game until he finds himself 

wondering if he is in fact the game. 

Believing he is enjoying the beauty of Paris and New York that 

only Butterfly would be able to see and share with him (that is her 

dying wish, right), Ben discovers that beauty to her is also very 

deadly. Butterfly shows him how she has helped others in her past, 

with their “sadness,” which, for Butterfly’s entertainment only, she 

turns into complete depression for them. Following her clues leads 

Ben to discover that Butterfly was (and apparently still is) a very 

dark serial killer…he thinks. 

Relying on his imaginary cat, Cat, to keep him sane, he not only 

follows Butterfly’s clues but Cat’s as well. Follow Ben and Cat on their 

scavenger hunt from the streets of Paris to the underground of New 

York City. 

A wonderful debut novel and a must read. 

Reviewed by Sherri Nemick for Suspense Magazine 

THE SHADOW TRACER 

By Meg Gardiner 

The novels that can be set into the ‘fantastic’ 

category may be slim, but this standalone mystery by 

Meg Gardiner certainly found a place in that ‘elite’ 

group. 

As our story opens, readers are five years in the 

past watching Sarah run through the woods with her 

baby in her arms, when she’s confronted by a man. Sarah refuses to 

stop and gets to her car. The man pulls a gun…but chooses not to fire. 

Five years later, Sarah, along with her daughter, Zoe, are living in 

Oklahoma City where Sarah has a career as a skip tracer. Sarah locates 

people and then hauls them into court. 

Things are going just fine until Zoe is involved in a school bus 

accident that sends all the passengers to the ER. Zoe’s medical tests 

offer up a discovery that no one—certainly not Zoe—knew about: 

Although Sarah is a relation, she is not Zoe’s mother. 

Facts regarding the child’s birth start to flow, and after all is 

revealed (or is it) police, FBI, even the U.S. Marshall, are on the 

hunt for Sarah and Zoe who once again have run. To top it all off, a 

mysterious group that perhaps had something to do with Zoe’s real 

mother are mob related, and will not stop until they get this child into 

their ‘family.’ 

As friends help Sarah and Zoe stay off the radar, Sarah must rely 

on her well-honed skills as a skip tracer to help her avoid the pitfalls 

that occur when people attempt to stay off the grid. She hopes that the 

people tracking her are not nearly as good as she is when it comes to 

doing the job right. 

Plot twists galore, readers never quite know who the bad guys are 

or what they’re actually after. A ‘master’ writer, Gardiner is certainly 

right on the money where this suspense is concerned! Well done! 

Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The Sapphire Storm: Tallent & 

Lowery Book Two” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of 

Suspense Magazine 


Movies 

Monsters University 


Genre – Adventure/Comedy (G) 

Over the past year, Disney has taunted us with trailers for Monsters University 

(MU), the prequel to Monsters, Inc., so by the time we snuggled down into our 

seats, we were absolutely ready to attend school with our pals, Sulley (John Goodman) 

and Mike (Billy Crystal). 

Robert L. Baird who wrote the screenplay for MU and the original, along with 

Cars and Tangled has the real ability to infuse true life into his characters. He writes 

a script with depth and heart. Add to this the voice talent of John Goodman and 

Billy Crystal and magic happens, making you totally forget you are watching animated 

characters. 

Pixar rarely misses with their animations and it was a wise move bringing 

these beloved characters back to the screen with a prequel, allowing us insight into 

the friendship between the leads and the conflict with rival scarer Randall (Steve 

Buscemi). 

It’s not many films where we enjoy clichéd characters, but they work here, 

played for laughs; the retrenched salesman returning to University as a mature age 

student; the pudgy kid nobody wants on their team; the stern Dean Hardscrabble 

(Helen Mirren) who takes no prisoners; the sports’ jocks who rule the campus; and the nerd kids. 

We attend Monsters University with Mike before he and Sulley became best friends; in fact, when they don’t even like 

each other. Mike is the not-so-scary wannabe desperate for a career in the craft of scaring children, whose captured screams 

power the city of Monstropolis. He spends all his spare time studying. Sulley, son of a great scarer, doesn’t bother to study, 

believing his fantastic roar and pedigree guarantees him an automatic pass. 

After a mishap, which finds them both expelled, the pair is forced to team up, not just with each other, but the misfit 

O.K. (Oozma Kappa) fraternity to compete in the annual Scare Games which involve a series of inventive tests. If they win, 

the entire team will gain admission into the Scarer programme. 

There are sub-plots galore and the Monster world is expanded imaginatively. Watch for fabulous cameos of Monsters, 

Inc. characters. 

Since the original Monsters, Inc, animation fans expectations have grown and 

been dashed many a time. Pixar led in the beginning and with the delivery of MU, 

they are still winning. Perhaps we need a Pixar University for other studios to 

study the art of making films with heart. 

Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinfilm.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense 


Despicable Me 2 


Genre – Animation/Comedy (PG) 

My family were not fans of the first Despicable Me so we weren’t skipping along 

to number two. Well, what a surprise! Great voice talent, plus a solid script, plus 

beautiful animation, all adds up to a film which the whole family will enjoy. Steve 

Carrell and Kristin Wig eat up the lead voice roles and the minions are simply 

hilarious. There is a fantastic scene over the end credits well worth the extra entry 

price to see it in 3D. 

Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinfilm.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense 



Movies 

The Lone Ranger 


Genre – Adventure/Action (PG-13) 

It’s Pirates of the Caribbean western style and that’s by design. Gore Verbinski, 

the director, helmed the first three of the blockbuster ‘Pirate’ series and he’s 

brought the scriptwriters along for this latest big-budget Disney adventure. 

If you’re not weary of Depp’s oddball portrayals or viewing an adventure by 

the numbers, (insert desert for high seas), then this will please you. At 149 minutes, 

there is probably too much back story in the beginning, winding up to what 

is a very solid final thirty minutes of action and fun. 

Tightened up by twenty minutes, it would have become a great piece of entertainment, 

but lately many of these summer blockbusters have gone with the 

concept that more is more, to the detriment of the film. Still, it has Johnny Depp 

playing an Indian and that is weird but quite entertaining. 

A warning to parents: Though it is Disney, it’s not for the littlies. There are 

some adult themes and violent action that will have them choosing to role-play 

as the nice Indians instead of the cowboys. It’s clearly a set up for a franchise, so I 

doubt it will be the lone, “Lone Ranger” for long. 

Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinfilm.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine ■ 

The Way, Way Back 


Genre – Comedy/Drama (PG-13) 

Here is another ensemble Indie coming of age piece dissecting American family values. 

This has wit and depth and a stellar cast. I love the way Steve Carell takes opportunities to play 

dramatically against typecast. He is quite unlikable in this. Toni Collette is her usual solid self 

and Allison Janney is seriously brilliant providing great comedy. 

When I received a preview invite, I replied to the publicist, “You had me at Sam Rockwell.” 

And it’s Rockwell, playing the cavalier manager of a water park who lifts this out of mediocre 

territory. I didn’t love the ending, but everything before was a real summer holiday. 


The Hunt 

(Danish Foreign Language) 


Genre – Drama (R) 

You will watch this film with your hand covering your mouth. This could happen to anyone 

and that makes it a horror film. Mads Mikkelsen who gives a thrilling performance in everything 

(catch him at the moment in the Hannibal TV series) is extraordinary as the innocent teacher 

accused of paedophilia. The blurb about this film is correct—it is the best drama you will see 

this year at the cinema. The Danes certainly know how to craft their films. My suggestion is 

don’t miss it. It will terrify you how easily life can be stripped from you. 



45

Featured Artist 

A Dream 

Come True 

Taire Lilith Morrigan 

Interview by Suspense Magazine 

Grimoire

Malevolence 

Dies Novus 

The question we’re asked the 

most about in regard to the 

magazine is always “Where 

do you find your artists” 

Our artists come from varied 

backgrounds; they’re professionally trained 

to self-taught, digital photo-manipulators 

to photographers, from here in the U.S. 

to South Africa. That’s where this month’s 

featured artist, Taire Lilith Morrigan, hails 

from. The answer is relatively simple. The 

online art community, though vast, is a very close-knit group. In our early 

years, we simply pounded the pavement and tracked them down and 

now after years of promoting such talented and diverse creative artists, 

oftentimes they find us as was the case with Taire. 

“Art is my passion and my dream brought to life, a place where I can 

disappear from the world and create my own, I’ll keep it forever,” says 

Taire on her deviantArt site, and this self-taught artist lives her mantra. 

Inspired by everything from books and music to mythology and movies, 

Taire digs deep and uses her personal emotions to connect an idea to a 

new piece. 

A deeply passionate perfectionist, Taire began using Photoshop in 

2010, but without a background in graphic design, it wasn’t a comfortable 

medium and she spent her time learning the software and working in 

other areas. Comfort in the digital medium came to fruition in mid-2012 

and she’s been unstoppable since working with authors and musicians on 

commissioned work. 

We’re sure that you’ll agree that Taire’s an ideal fit for the July featured 

artist spot. 

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): Of all your incredible pieces, which is your 

favorite and why Does each have its own story 

Taire Lilith Morrigan (T.L.M.): I can’t really decide which piece is my 

favorite. I would have to say “Amor Divina”—one of my older pieces; it is a 

very personal piece—or “Dies Novus,” my very first digital painting. It could 

also be “Eternal Fire”; I loved the outcome of this piece. It has a meaning as 

all of my works do. The name Eternal Fire and the reference to the heart, for 

me, means true love is forever. It is passionate just like the flames of a fire. It 

can only die if it is not nourished to keep it going. 

S. MAG.: Money, possibility of fame, or the fun of it What motivates you 

T.L.M.: Neither. Just the passion in doing something I love every day. 

S. MAG.: If you couldn’t be an artist, what profession would you choose 

and why 

T.L.M.: A musician or photographer. That way I can still create beautiful 

things and share them with the world. 

Outcast 

S. MAG.: When did you first realize you had a passion for art 


47

Secret Window 


“Art is my passion and my 

dream brought to life...” 

T.L.M.: I was very young. I always loved to sketch and paint. 

S. MAG.: Do any artists—present or past—influence your work 

T.L.M.: I would have to say Victoria Frances and Elena Dudina, as well as 

William Shakespeare, even though he was an artist of another form. 

Eternal Fire 

S. MAG.: Describe a day in your life. 

T.L.M.: When I am not busy with life issues, I am mostly working on art. I 

become inspired by books and music, so the moment I see something in my 

mind that reaches a deeper meaning within myself, I am inspired to portray 

it in an art form. Even though everyone interprets art differently, I enjoy 

expressing myself this way. 

S. MAG.: What is the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given 

T.L.M.: Never let go of your dreams. 

S. MAG.: Do you have any superstitions when you develop a new piece 

T.L.M.: Not at all. It is just expression of feelings and emotions. 

S. MAG.: What is your biggest personal and professional accomplishment 

Amor Divina 

T.L.M. Becoming a digital artist; it has opened up doors to achieve my dreams 

as an artist. 

S. MAG.: What are your plans for the future 

T.L.M: To share my artwork in galleries all over the world and give aspiring 

artists the belief in themselves to never give up on their dreams. 

We’d like to thank Taire for spending time with us and if you’d like to 

see more of this talented artist, we invite you to check out her portfolios at 

http://morriganart.weebly.com, www.facebook.com/MorriganArtwork, or 

www.morriganart.deviantart.com. ■ 

Model/Photographer Credit: “Grimoire” Model/Photographer: Aruni, http://devious-stock. 

deviantart.com; “Malevolence” Model: Monique Wanner, Photographer: Cathleen Tarawhiti, 

http://cathleentarawhiti.deviantart.com; “Dies Novus” Digital Painting, no model; “Outcast” 

Model: Natalia Gautier, http://www.modelmayhem.com/827849; “Secret Window” Model: 

Poppy Isabella Wyrd, Photographer: Cathleen Tarawhiti, http://cathleentarawhiti.deviantart. 

com; “Eternal Fire” Model/Photographer: Jessica Truscott, http://faestock.deviantart. 

com; “Amor Divina” Models: Taire Lilith Morrigan and Roger Morkel; “Chastity” Model/ 

Photographer: Jessica Truscott, http://faestock.deviantart.com 

Chastity 


49

N O W I N P A P E R B A C K 

F R O M # 1 N E W Y O R K T I M E S B E S T S E L L I N G A U T H O R 

Daniel Silva 

“Silva builds tension with breathtaking double 

and triple turns of plot.” —People 

• • • • • 

Ancient treasures, 

dangerous secrets, and a 

murder at the Vatican only 

master spy and art restorer 

Gabriel Allon can solve… 

• • • • • 

“Gabriel Allon 

is one of the most 

intriguing heroes of 

any thriller series.” 

—Philadelphia Inquirer 

• • • • • 

DanielSilvaBooks.com

Richard 

Godwin 

A Renaissance Man 

Interview by Suspense Magazine 

Press Photo Credit: Provided by Author 

Richard Godwin writes dark crime fiction, horror, and poetry, is a 

produced playwright, and his stories are published in over twentyeight 

anthologies. 

Born in London, Richard has bachelor’s and master’s degrees in 

English and American Literature from King’s College London, where 

he also has lectured. He conducts interviews with other authors (Chin 

Wags At The Slaughterhouse), which can be found at his blog: http:// 

www.richardgodwin.net/blog. He is a public speaker and in March 2013, 

spoke at The House of Lords in London for cultural diplomacy. 

Godwin is an active member of the Crime Writers Association, 

Horror Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, and Sisters 

in Crime. 

With regard to his fiction writing, he has penned several novels 

that are available in the U.S. and the UK. His newest release, “One Lost 

Summer,” was just released on June 14. It’s a psychological portrait of 

a man who blackmails his beautiful next-door neighbor into playing a 

deadly game of identity. 

We were able to ask him a few questions and here is what he had to 

say: 

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): You’ve been a speaker at The House of 

Lords. How did you get involved in this 

Richard Godwin (R.G.): I was invited by the Institute of Cultural Diplomacy via my website. They were hosting a series of events 

involving the Mayor of London and many other politicians and diplomats and wanted involvement from the Arts. 

S. MAG.: We indicated above a lot of your attributes. What can you tell us about yourself that would surprise your fans 

R.G.: I am an easygoing, funny guy. I am also a great cook. 


51

S. MAG.: Which one of your fiction books was the most difficult to write And why 

R.G.: “Mr. Glamour.” The reason being I had written it and shelved it, then realized there was a great subplot there and the main 

plot had problems, but could work. This resulted in my tearing the spine out of the book. I had to rewrite sections then check 

carefully. It reads really well now. But it took eight edits. 

S. MAG.: You have to choose only one author to read for the rest of your life. Who would it be 

R.G.: Shakespeare. 

S. MAG.: What steps did you take to develop your characters Did you draw on personal traits 

R.G.: I think the unconscious mind takes what it needs and merges elements. I am always observing, making note mentally or 

otherwise, you create hybrids. 

S. MAG.: In the whole time you’ve been writing, what is the most shocking thing you’ve learned about the process of 

publishing along the way 

R.G.: The series of decisions the big houses made that invited Amazon to take lead. The reason they did so is simple. Publishing 

is part of free-market capitalism and therefore open to the same monopolies as any other business. Many houses ignored fresh 

talent and dismissed the advent of e-readers. 

S. MAG.: How does the ever-changing world of technology influence your characters and/or plots in your books 

R.G.: I think we live in an age of surveillance, and “One Lost Summer,” my latest novel, dramatizes that. It is a dark noir story of 

fractured identity and ruined nostalgia and it explores the fact that because of technology we have been made watchful, we are 

looking and being observed. But do we know who is watching us 

In the novel, when Rex Allen moves into a new neighborhood in a heat wave 

and begins spying on his next-door neighbor, beautiful Evangeline Glass, his 

obsession ends in disaster. 

S. MAG.: What historical event would you like to have witnessed in 

person 

R.G.: The rise of the Roman Empire. 

S. MAG.: What is the worst job you ever had 

R.G.: Working for a multinational market research company years ago. 

Utterly meaningless. 

S. MAG.: Which of your books would you recommend to subscribers of 

Suspense Magazine 

“I think we live in an age of 

surveillance, and “One Lost 

Summer,” my latest novel, 

dramatizes that.” 


R.G.: “One Lost Summer” and “Apostle Rising.” Here are 

the publisher’s blurbs: 

“One Lost Summer”: 

Rex Allen loves star quality in women. He moves into 

a new house in a heat wave with few possessions apart 

from two photographs of his dead daughter. His nextdoor 

neighbor, beautiful Evangeline Glass invites him 

over to one of her many summer parties, where he meets 

her friends and possessive husband Harry. Rex feels he 

knows Evangeline intimately. He starts to spy on her and 

becomes convinced she is someone other than who she 

pretends to be. When he discovers she has a lover, he 

blackmails her into playing a game of identity that ends 

in disaster. 

“Apostle Rising”: 

Detective Chief Inspector Frank Castle never caught the 

Woodlands Killer and it almost destroyed him. Now 

years later, mauled by the press and traumatized by 

nightmares, he is faced with a copycat killer with detailed 

inside knowledge of the original case. 

He and his partner DI Jacki Stone enter a deadly 

labyrinth, and at its centre is the man Castle believes was 

responsible for the first killings. He’s running a sinister 

cult and playing dark mind games with the police. The 

investigation has a shattering effect on the lives of Castle 

and Stone. The killer is crucifying politicians, and he 

keeps raising the stakes and slipping through their hands. 

Dark coded ritualistic killings are being carried out on 

high-profile figures and the body count is rising. Castle 

employs a brilliant psychologist to help him solve the 

case, and he begins to dig into the killer’s psyche. But 

some psychopaths are cleverer than others. 

“One Lost Summer” is high psychological noir suspense. 

“Apostle Rising” is darker and unresolved, and I am 

writing the sequel. 

S. MAG.: What can you readers and fans expect from 

you next Is there something special you’re working 

on 

R.G.: I have been contracted by Italian publisher Atlantis 

to write a miniseries and a novel for Christmas. It takes 

place in various European cities, with an emphasis on 

the crime of each city and with a Noir feel. Both the series 

and novel will be published in English and Italian. 

We at Suspense Magazine would like to thank 

Richard for taking the time to talk to us and his fans. 

To find out more about him, please visit his website at: 

www.richardgodwin.net. ■ 


53

Special Preview from Author James Rollins 

The Eye of 

God 

A Sigma Force Novel 

By James Rollins 

Summer, AD 453 

Central Hungary 

The king died too slowly atop his wedding bed. 

The assassin knelt over him. The daughter of a Burgundy 

prince, she was the king’s seventh wife, newly wed the night 

prior, bound to this barbarian lord by force of marriage 

and intrigue. Her name, Ildiko, meant fierce warrior in her 

native tongue. But she did not feel fierce as she quailed beside 

the dying man, a bloody tyrant who had earned the name 

Flagellum Dei, the Scourge of God, a living legend who was 

said to wield the very sword borne by the Scythian god of 

war. 

His name alone—Attila—could open city gates and break 

sieges, so mightily was he feared. But now, naked and dying, 

he seemed no more fearsome than any other man. He stood 

little taller than her, though he was weighted down with 

thick muscle and the heavy bones of his nomadic people. His 

eyes—wide parted and deep set—reminded her of a pig’s, 

especially as he had stared blearily upon her, rutting into her 

during the night, his eyes stitched red from the many cups of 

wine he had consumed at their wedding feast. 

Now it was her turn to stare down upon him, measuring 

each gurgling gasp, trying to judge how long until death 

claimed him. She knew now she had been too sparing with 

the poison given to her by the bishop of Valence, passed 

through him by the archbishop of Vienne, all with the 

approval of King Gondioc de Burgondie. Fearing the tyrant 

might taste the bitterness of the poison in his bridal cup, she 

had been too timid. 

She clutched the glass vial, half empty now, sensing 

other hands, higher even than King Gondioc, in this plot. 

She cursed that such a burden should come to rest in her 

small palms. How could the very fate of the world—both 

now and in the future—fall to her, a woman of only fourteen 

summers 

Still, she had been told of the necessity for this dark 

action by a cloaked figure who had appeared at her father’s 

door a half-moon ago. She had already been pledged to the 

barbarian king, but that night, she was brought before this 

stranger. She caught the glimpse of a cardinal’s gold ring on his 

left hand before it was hidden away. He had told her the story 

then—only a year past—of Attila’s barbarian horde routing 

the northern Italian cities of Padua and Milan, slaughtering 

all in their path. Men, women, children. Only those who fled 

into the mountains or coastal swamps survived to tell the tale 

of his brutality. 

“Rome was doomed to fall under his ungodly sword,” the 


cardinal had explained to her beside her family’s cold hearth. 

“Knowing this sure fate as the barbarians approached, His 

Holiness Pope Leo rode out from his earthly throne to meet 

the tyrant on the banks of Lake Garda. And upon the strength 

of his ecclesiastical might, the pontiff drove the merciless 

Hun away.” 

But Ildiko knew it wasn’t ecclesiastical might alone that 

had turned the barbarians aside—but also the superstitious 

terror of their king. 

Full of fear herself now, she glanced over to the box 

resting atop a dais at the foot of the bed. The small chest was 

both a gift and a threat from the pontiff that day. It stretched 

no longer than her forearm and no higher, but she knew 

it held the fate of the world inside. She feared touching it, 

opening it—but she would, once her new husband was truly 

dead. 

She could handle only one terror at a time. 

Fearful, her gaze flickered over to the closed door to the 

royal wedding chamber. Through a window, the skies to the 

east paled with the promise of a new day. With dawn, his 

men would soon arrive at the bedchamber. Their king must 

be dead before then. 

She watched the blood bubbling out of his nostrils with 

each labored breath. She listened to the harsh gurgle in his 

chest as he lay on his back. A weak cough brought more 

blood to his lips, where it flowed through his forked beard 

and pooled into the hollow of his throat. The beating of his 

heart could be seen there, shimmering that dark pool with 

each fading thud. 

She prayed for him to die—and quickly. 

Burn in the flames of hell where you belong … 

As if heaven heard her plea, one last rough breath 

escaped the man’s flooded throat, pushing more blood to his 

lips—then his rib cage sagged a final time and rose no more. 

Ildiko cried softly in relief, tears springing to her eyes. 

The deed was done. The Scourge of God was at last gone, 

unable to wreak more ruin upon the world. And not a 

moment too soon. 

Back at her father’s house, the cardinal had related Attila’s 

plan to turn his forces once again toward Italy. She had heard 

similar rumblings at the wedding feast, raucous claims of the 

coming sack of Rome, of their plans to raze the city to the 

ground and slaughter all. The bright beacon of civilization 

risked going forever dark under the barbarians’ swords. 

But with her one bloody act, the present was saved. 

Still, she was not done. 

The future remained at risk. 

She shimmied on her bare knees off the bed and moved 

to its foot. She approached the small chest with more fear 

than she had when she slipped the poison into her husband’s 

drink. 

The outer box was made of black iron, flat on all sides 


with a hinged top. It was unadorned, except for an inscribed 

pair of symbols on its surface. The writing was unknown 

to her, but the cardinal had told her what to expect. It was 

said to be of the language of Attila’s distant ancestors, those 

nomadic tribes far to the east. 

She touched one of the inscriptions, made of simple 

straight lines. 

“Tree,” she whispered to herself, trying to gain strength. 

The symbol even looked somewhat like a tree. She touched 

its matching neighbor—a second tree—with great reverence. 

Only then did she find the strength to bring her fingers 

to the chest’s lid and swing it open. Inside, she discovered a 

second box, this one of the brightest silver. The inscription on 

top was similarly crude, but clearly done with great purpose. 

The simple strokes meant command or instruction. 

Sensing the press of time, she steadied her shaking 

fingers and lifted the silver box’s lid to reveal a third coffer 

inside, this one of gold. Its surface shimmered, appearing 

fluid in the torchlight. The symbol carved here looked like 

a union of the earlier characters found inscribed in iron and 

silver, one stacked atop the other, forming a new word. 

The cardinal had warned her of the meaning of this last 

mark. 

“Forbidden,” she repeated breathlessly. 

With great care, she opened the innermost box. She 

knew what she would find, but the sight still shivered the 

small hairs along her arms. 

From the heart of the gold box, the yellowed bone of a 

skull glowed out at her. It was missing its lower jaw, its empty 

eyes staring blindly upward, as if to heaven. But like the boxes 

themselves, the bone was also adorned with script. Lines of 

writing descended down from the crown of the skull in a 

tight spiral. The language was not the same as atop the triple 

boxes, but instead it was the ancient script of the Jews—or so 

the cardinal had told her. Likewise, he had instructed her on 

the purpose of such a relic. 

The skull was an ancient object of Jewish incantation, an 

55

invocation to God for mercy and salvation. 

Pope Leo had offered up this treasure to Attila with a 

plea for Rome’s salvation. Additionally, the pontiff had 

warned Attila that this potent talisman was but one of many 

that were secured in Rome and protected by God’s wrath, 

that any who dared breach its walls were doomed to die. To 

press his point, the pope offered up the story of the leader 

of the Visigoths, King Alaric I, who had sacked Rome forty 

years prior and died upon leaving the city. 

Leery of this curse, Attila took heed and fled out of Italy 

with this precious treasure. But as in all things, it seemed 

time had finally tempered those fears, stoking the Hun’s 

desire to once again take siege of Rome, to test his legend 

against God’s wrath. 

Ildiko stared across his prostrate body. 

It appeared he had already failed that trial. 

Ultimately, even the mighty could not escape death. 

Knowing what she had to do, she reached for the skull. 

Still, her eyes fell upon the scratches at the center of the 

spiral. The skull’s invocation was a plea for salvation against 

what was written there. 

It marked the date of the end of the world. 

The key to that fate lay beneath the skull—hidden by 

iron, silver, gold, and bone. Its significance only came to 

light a moon ago, following the arrival of a Nestorian priest 

from Persia to the gates of Rome. He had heard of the gift 

given to Attila from the treasure vaults of the Church, a gift 

once passed to Rome by Nestorius himself, the patriarch of 

Constantinople. The priest told Pope Leo the truth behind 

the nest of boxes and bone, how it had come from much 

farther east than Constantinople, sent forward to the Eternal 

City for safekeeping. 

In the end, he had informed the pope of the box’s true 

treasure—along with sharing the name of the man who had 

once bore this skull in life. 

Ildiko’s fingers touched that relic now and trembled 

anew. The empty eyes seemed to stare into her, judging her 

worth, the same eyes that, if the Nestorian spoke truthfully, 

had once looked upon her Lord in life, upon Jesus Christ. 

She hesitated at moving the holy relic—only to be 

punished for her reluctance with a knock on the chamber 

door. A guttural call followed. She did not understand the 

tongue of the Huns, but she knew that Attila’s men, failing to 

gain a response from their king, would soon be inside. 

She had delayed too long. 

Spurred now, she lifted the skull to reveal what lay 

below—but found nothing. The bottom of the box held only 

a golden imprint, in the shape of what had once rested here, 

an ancient cross—a relic said to have fallen from the very 

heavens. 

But it was gone, stolen away. 

Ildiko stared over to her dead husband, to a man known 

as much for his keen strategies as for his brutalities. It was 

also said he had ears under every table. Had the king of 

the Huns learned of the mysteries shared by the Nestorian 

priest in Rome Had he taken the celestial cross for his own 

and hidden it away Was that the true source of his sudden 

renewed confidence in sacking Rome 

The shouting grew louder outside, the pounding more 

urgent. 

Despairing, Ildiko returned the skull to its cradle and 

closed the boxes. Only then did she sink to her knees and 

cover her face. Sobs shook through her as the planks of the 

doors shattered behind her. 

Tears choked her throat as thoroughly as blood had her 

husband’s. 

Men shoved into the room. Their cries grew sharper 

upon seeing their king upon his deathbed. Wailing soon 

followed. 

But none dared touch her, the grieving new wife, as she 

rocked on her knees beside the bed. They believed her tears 

were for her fallen husband, for her dead king, but they were 

wrong. 

She wept for the world. 

A world now doomed to burn. 

Present Day 

November 17, 4:33 p.m. CET 

Rome, Italy 

It seemed even the stars were aligned against him. 

Bundled against the winter’s bite, Monsignor Vigor 

Verona crossed through the shadows of Piazza della Pilotta. 

Despite his heavy woolen sweater and coat, he shivered— 

not from the cold but a growing sense of dread as he stared 

across the city. 

A blazing comet shone in the twilight sky, hovering above 

the dome of St. Peter’s, the highest point in all of Rome. The 

celestial visitor—the brightest in centuries—outshone the 

newly risen moon, casting a long, scintillating tail across the 

stars. Such sights were often historically viewed as harbingers 

of misfortune. 

He prayed that wasn’t the case here. 

Vigor clutched the package more tightly in his arms. 

He had rewrapped it clumsily in its original parcel paper, 

but his destination was not far. The towering façade of the 

Pontifical Gregorian University rose before him, flanked by 

wings and outbuildings. Though Vigor was still a member 

of the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology, he only 

taught the occasional class as a guest lecturer. He now served 

the Holy See as the prefect of the Archivio Segretto Vaticano, 

the Vatican’s secret archives. But the burden he carried now 

came to him not as his role as professor or prefect, but as 

friend. 


A gift from a dead colleague. 

He reached the main door to the university and marched 

across the white marble atrium. He still kept an office at the 

school, as was his right. In fact, he often came here to catalog 

and cross-reference the university’s vast book depository. 

Rivaling even the city’s National Library, it held over a million 

volumes, housed in the adjacent six-story tower, including a 

large reserve of ancient texts and rare editions. 

But nothing here or at the Vatican’s Archives compared to 

the volume Vigor carried now—nor what had accompanied 

it in the parcel. It was why he had sought the counsel of the 

only person he truly trusted in Rome. 

As Vigor maneuvered stairs and narrow halls, his 

knees began to complain. In his midsixties, he was still fit 

from decades of archaeological fieldwork, but over the past 

few years, he had been too long buried in the archives, 

imprisoned behind desks and stacks of books, shackled by 

papal responsibility. 

Am I up for this task, my Lord 

He must be. 

At last, Vigor reached the university’s faculty wing and 

spotted a familiar figure leaning against his office door. His 

niece had beaten him here. She must have come straight from 

work. She still wore her Carabinieri uniform of dark navy 

slacks and jacket, both piped in scarlet, with silver epaulettes 

on her shoulders. Not yet thirty, she was already a lieutenant 

for the Comando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale, 

the Cultural Heritage Police who oversaw the trafficking of 

stolen art and relics. 

Pride swelled through him at the sight of her. He had 

summoned her as much out of love as for her expertise in 

such matters. He trusted no one more than her. 

“Uncle Vigor.” Rachel gave him a quick hug. She then 

leaned back, finger-combing her dark hair back over one ear 

and apprising him with those sharp caramel eyes. “What was 

so urgent” 

He glanced up and down the hall, but at this hour on 

a Sunday, no one was about, and all of the offices appeared 

dark. “Come inside and I’ll explain.” 

Unlocking the door, he ushered her across the threshold. 

Despite his esteemed position, his office was little more than 

a cramped cell, lined by towering cases overflowing with 

books and stacks of magazines. His small desk rested against 

the wall under a window as thin as a castle’s arrow slit. The 

newly risen moon cast a silver shaft into the chaos found 

here. 

Only after they were both inside and the door closed did 

he risk clicking on a lamp. He let out a small sigh of relief, 

reassured and comforted by the familiar. 

“Help me clear a space on my desk.” 

Once that was done, Vigor placed his burden down and 

folded back the brown parcel wrap, revealing a small wooden 


crate. 

“This arrived for me earlier today. With no return 

address, only the name of the sender.” 

He turned back a corner of the wrapping to show her. 

“Father Josip Tarasco,” Rachel read aloud. “Am I supposed 

to know who that is” 

“No, nor should you.” He stared over at her. “He was 

declared dead over a decade ago.” 

Her brows pinched, and her posture stiffened. “But the 

package is too pristine to have been lost in the mail for that 

long.” She turned that discerning gaze back on him. “Could 

someone have forged his name as some cruel hoax” 

“I don’t see why. In fact, I think that’s why the sender 

addressed this package by hand. So I could verify it came 

from Father Tarasco. We were dear friends. I compared the 

writing on the parcel to a smattering of old letters still in my 

possession. The handwriting matched.” 

“So if he’s still alive, why was he declared dead” 

Vigor sighed. “Father Tarasco vanished during a research 

trip to Hungary. He was preparing a comprehensive paper on 

the witch hunts there during the early eighteenth century.” 

“Witch hunts” 

Vigor nodded. “Back in the early 1700s, Hungary was 

beset by a decade-long drought, accompanied by famine and 

plague. A scapegoat was needed, someone to blame. Over 

four hundred accused witches were killed in a span of five 

years.” 

“And what about your friend What became of him” 

“You must understand, when Josip left for Hungary, the 

country had only recently shaken free of Soviet control. It 

was still a volatile time there, a dangerous place to be asking 

too many questions, especially in rural areas. The last I heard 

from him was a message left on my machine. He said he was 

onto something disturbing concerning a group of twelve 

witches—six women and six men—burned in a small town 

in southern Hungary. He sounded both scared and excited. 

Then nothing after that. He was never heard from again. 

Police and Interpol investigated for a full year. After an 

additional four years of silence, he was finally declared dead.” 

“So then he must have gone into hiding. But why do that 

And more important, why surface a decade later, why now” 

With his back to his niece, Vigor hid a smile of pride, 

appreciating Rachel’s ability to get to the heart of the matter 

so quickly. 

“The answer to your last question seems evident from 

what he sent,” he said. “Come see.” 

Vigor took a deep breath and opened the hinged lid of 

the crate. He carefully removed the first of the package’s two 

objects and placed it in the shaft of moonlight atop his desk. 

57

Rachel took an involuntary step backward. “Is that a 

skull A human skull” 

“It is.” 

She moved past her initial surprise to step closer. She 

quickly noted the hen-scratched inscription across the bone 

of the cranium, following the spiral of its course with a 

fingertip without touching. 

“And this writing” she asked. 

“Jewish Aramaic. I believe this relic is an example of 

early Talmudic magic practiced by Babylonian Jews.” 

“Magic Like witchcraft” 

“In a way. Such spells were wards against demons or 

impeachments for help. Over the years, archaeologists have 

unearthed thousands of such artifacts—mostly incantation 

bowls, but also a handful of skulls like this. The Berlin 

museum holds two such relics. Others are in private hands.” 

“And this one You said Father Tarasco had an interest 

in witches, which I assume extended to an interest in occult 

objects.” 

“Perhaps. But I don’t think this one is authentic. The 

practice of Talmudic magic started in the third century and 

died out by the seventh.” Vigor waved his hand over the skull 

as if casting his own spell. “I suspect this artifact is not that 

old. Maybe thirteen or fourteenth century at best. I’ve sent a 

tooth to the university lab to confirm my estimate.” 

She slowly nodded, contemplating in silence. 

“But I also studied the writing here,” he continued. 

“I’m well familiar with this form of Aramaic. I found many 

blatant mistakes in the transcription—reversed diacritics, 

wrong or missing accent marks—as if someone made a poor 

copy of the original inscription, someone who had no true 

understanding of this ancient language.” 

“So the skull is a forgery then” 

“In truth, I suspect there was no foul intent in its crafting. 

I think its forging was less about deception than it was about 

preservation. Some group must have feared the knowledge 

found here might be lost, so they hand-made copies, trying 

to preserve something more ancient.” 

“What knowledge” 

“I’ll get to that in a moment.” 

He reached to the crate and removed the second object 

and placed it beside the skull on the table. It was an ancient 

book, as wide as his outstretched hand and twice as tall. 

It was bound in rough leather, the pages secured by crude 

stitches of thick cord. 

“This is an example of anthropodermic bibliopegy,” he 

explained. 

Rachel screwed up her face. “And that means … ” 

“The book is bound in human skin and sewn with sinew 

of the same.” 

Rachel took a step away again, only this time she didn’t 

return to the desk. “How can you know that” 

“I can’t. But I forwarded a sample of the leather to the 

same lab as the skull, both to test its age and its DNA.” Vigor 

picked up the macabre volume. “But I’m sure I’m correct. I 

examined this under a dissection microscope. Human pores 

are distinctly different in size and even shape from that found 

in pigskin or calfskin. And if you look closer, in the center of 

the cover—” 

He drew a fingernail along what appeared to be a deep 

crease in the center of the cover. 

“Under proper magnification, you can still make out the 

follicles of eyelashes.” 

Rachel paled. “Lashes” 

“On the cover is a human eye, sewn shut with finer 

threads of sinew.” 

Visibly swallowing, his niece asked, “So what is this 

Some text of the occult” 

“I thought as much, especially considering Josip’s interest 

in the witches of Hungary. But no, it’s not some demonic 

manuscript. Though in some circles, the text is considered 

blasphemous.” 

He carefully parted the cover, cautious not to overly 

stress the binding. He revealed pages written in Latin. “It’s 

actually a Gnostic book of the Bible.” 

Rachel tilted her head, well versed in Latin, and translated 

the opening words “‘These are the secret sayings which the 

living Jesus spoke …’ She glanced over at him, recognizing 

those words. “It’s the Gospel of Thomas.” 

He nodded. “The saint who doubted Christ’s resurrection.” 

“But why is it wrapped in human skin” she said with 

disgust. “Why would your missing colleague send you such 

ghoulish items” 

“As a warning.” 

“A warning against what” 

Vigor returned his attention to the skull. “The incantation 

written here is a plea to God to keep the world from ending.” 

“While I certainly appreciate that plea, what does—” 

He cut his niece off. “The prophetic date for that coming 

apocalypse is also written atop the skull, in the center of the 

spiraling inscription. I converted that figure from the ancient 

Jewish calendar to today’s modern accounting.” He touched 

the center of the spiral. “This is why Father Josip came out of 

hiding and sent these items to me.” 

Rachel waited for him to explain. 

Vigor glanced out the window to the comet glowing in 

the night sky, bright enough to shame the moon. With that 

portent of doom hanging there, a shiver of certainty rang 

through him. “The date for the end of the world … it’s in four 

days.” ■ 

Used with permission from William Morrow An Imprint 

of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright © 2013 by James 

Czajkowski. All rights reserved. 


An accident that turns out to be murder … 

a racist conspiracy … and a dirty bomb. 

Can ex-military operative Joe Hunter face down a 

white supremacist gang — before they reduce the free world to ashes 

“Matt Hilton delivers a thrill a minute. 

Awesome!” 

—Chris Ryan, author of Who Dares Wins on Slash and Burn 

www.MattHiltonBooks.com 

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

Brad Taylor 

Has a Tactical Advantage 

Interview By Suspense Magazine 

Press Photo Credit: Rod Pasibe 

There are a handful of heavy-hitters 

who come to mind when you think of 

the best authors in the political thriller 

arena: Brad Thor, Vince Flynn, Brad 

Meltzer, and Brad Taylor. 

Born in Japan, but raised in rural 

Texas, Brad began his military career 

after graduating from the University 

of Texas. He served our nation for 

more than twenty-one years, retiring 

from the U.S. Army as a Special Forces 

Lieutenant Colonel. 

Consistent praise regarding 

the authenticity and believability of 

his characters is one of the reasons 

fans clamor for more. Brad uses his 

experience to breathe life into tough 

subjects that hit closer to home than 

we’d like. 

Brad took the time to talk to us 

about 

his newest release “The Widow’s Strike,” 

his main character Pike Logan, and 

what’s on the horizon. 

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): Can 

you give us some inside scoop on “The 

Widow’s Strike” that’s not on the back 

cover 

Brad Taylor (B.T.): Well, for one, I left 

the Middle East as a setting. With the 

Arab Spring and all the other turmoil 

penetrating throughout the Levant and 

North Africa, I decided to go back to my 

old Special Forces stomping grounds in 

Southeast Asia. Doing the research for 

“The Widow’s Strike” was a blast, and 

there are some settings that I had no 

intention of using, but ended up doing so 

because of my travels. 

For instance, the gambling 

mecca of Macau, China, figures 

prominently in the book, but 

only because of happenstance. 

We landed in Hong Kong with 

about fourteen hours before our 

flight was to leave for the United 

States. With nothing better to do 

than sit around an airport, and 

being mildly insane, we decided 

to take a hydrofoil to Macau. 

Of course, we got no sleep 

whatsoever, but it was pretty 

fun, and it would have been a 

mistake to not include that setting in the 

dynamics of the Taskforce’s attempts to 

stop a global pandemic. My only regret 

is that Pike Logan doesn’t wear a tuxedo 

and play baccarat, drinking a shaken 

martini. 

S. MAG.: This is your fourth Pike Logan 

book. How has he changed from book 

one, “One Rough Man” 

B.T.: By the end of the third book, 

“Enemy of Mine,” his redemption is 

complete. He’s grown out of the cesspool 

where we first found him in “One Rough 

Man,” returning to what he once was. 

Unintentionally, those first three books 

ended up completing a trilogy. In “The 

Widow’s Strike,” he’s back in charge 

and more than capable of solving the 

problem of the Iranian Qud’s force. The 

true character growth is seen in Jennifer 

Cahill, who, after having some heinous 

things happen to her in “Enemy of Mine,” 

has become a bit hardened, and more 

comfortable with her combat skills. To 

that end, for the first time, Pike Logan’s 

team begins to accept her as an equal, 

instead of calling her a potential liability 

(something, of course, they’d never say 

out loud to Pike, or even within earshot, 

as Decoy finds out to his detriment). 

S. MAG.: Why Pike Logan What 

made you think of him as your main 


character 

B.T.: Pike Logan has been bubbling in 

my head for years. People always ask 

if he’s based on someone specific, or if 

I’m writing about myself using fiction 

as a tool. The answer to the first part 

is, “Yeah, a little bit.” Pike Logan is a 

compilation of men I have served with, 

but only in their skill set and dedication 

to our nation. The baggage he carries is 

pure fiction. The answer to the second 

part is a resounding no. I make it a 

practice to never write about anything I 

have ever done or witnessed, period. 

In truth, I originally wanted to write 

a story of redemption simply because 

I like that theme, and, in the end, I set 

out to write a story that I would like 

to read. I wanted to show a distinct 

moral component for the work that men 

like Pike Logan execute. Too often the 

characters in Hollywood run around 

killing or torturing people without a 

shred of remorse, instead throwing out 

some wiseass quip, when that’s not really 

the case. 

A lot of time, effort, and thought go into 

counterterrorist activities in the real 

world, and the men and women who 

execute them operate within a moral 

framework. They make decisions with 

life-or-death repercussions, and live with 

those decisions—and not all are good 

memories. They aren’t robots. I wanted 

to show that through the interactions 

between Pike—an operator experienced 

with combat—and Jennifer, a relative 

newcomer to what combat actually 

entails. 

S. MAG.: For readers new to your 

series, can they start with “The Widow’s 

Strike” and work backwards 

B.T.: They certainly can. All of the books 

stand alone. The only issue with reading 

“The Widow’s Strike” first—or any of the 

books out of order—is that they contain 

small spoilers from the previous books. 

Little references that have no effect on the 

plot, but if the reader is paying attention, 

he or she will know a few things that they 

wouldn’t have known otherwise. 

S. MAG.: Within the “The Widow’s 

Strike,” which character had more of a 

role than you originally planned 

B.T.: Surprisingly, it’s Elina, the Chechen 

Black Widow. Originally, she was nothing 

more than a tool for General Malik, 

the commander of an Iranian Islamic 

Revolutionary Guard Qud’s force. In my 

mind, the book was going to be a little 

bit of force-on-force, with the Taskforce 

pitted against a state-sponsored terrorist 

group, the Iranian IRGC Quds. They 

would have a deadly ballet, with both 

entities fairly equal in terms of support 

and skill. 

As I wrote, though, Elina took more 

and more prominence, with the novel 

becoming a bit of a character study as to 

why someone would be willing to become 

a suicide bomber, only in this case, 

instead of harming just those in the blast 

radius, she’ll release a pandemic that will 

sweep the earth. The Black Widows are 

a real Chechen phenomena, as are the 

Iranian Quds—but Elina became the 

central focus, so much so the book’s title 

changed to reflect that. 

S. MAG.: With terrorism hitting so 

close to home, are you worried the 

subject matter in your books might 

bring readers too much terror 

B.T.: Not at all. Just the opposite. Have 

you watched the nightly news lately 

What scares me is coming up with a 

scenario and having the reader say, 

“What’s the big deal Why should I care 

if the Taskforce stops this I saw worse 

on the TV last night,” followed by them 

putting the book down. Another question 

I get asked, in a similar vein, is whether 

I think I’m giving terrorists an edge by 

creating the plots that I do, in effect, that 

I’m giving them a blueprint. Once again, 

I’d say no, not by using fiction. 

Think about it: If English was your 

second language, would you read fifteen 

novels on the off chance that you’d find an 

idea you could use I wouldn’t. I’d come 

up with my own ideas based on specific 

weaknesses I found in the open press that 

I could exploit, which is exactly how I 

come up with my plots in the first place. I 

had a reader mention “Debt of Honor,” a 

book written by Tom Clancy in 1994 and 

involving a hijacked aircraft being used 

as a weapon, as if that were a precursor 

to 9/11. But the truth is that scenario 

had been a threat for some time. 

Israel, in 1973, went on red alert because 

they believed a hijacked aircraft was 

going to crash into Tel Aviv. It wasn’t 

a new idea, and Tom Clancy didn’t 

create 9/11. It was a weakness that was 

exploited. A better question is whether 

there’s anyone on the good-guy side who’s 

reading fiction and then plugging holes 

from the weaknesses that are shown. 

Answer: No. 

S. MAG.: When writing military/ 

political thrillers, would readers be 

shocked at things that are really true 

and done by certain governments 

B.T.: This is a two-pronged question, 

given the revelations of the last 

couple of months. In today’s world, 

everyone immediately believes the U.S. 

government is doing evil, when I think 


61

they’d actually be shocked at how hard 

it is to do anything in the intelligence 

community due to the oversight in place. 

We live in a democracy, and the men 

and women who execute the activities I 

write about do so under the constitution. 

There is no Taskforce. 

It’s fiction, yet when someone like 

Edward Snowden leaks classified 

information, claiming huge breaches of 

the Constitution, everyone believes him 

instead of all three separate branches of 

our government and the leadership of 

both parties saying it’s not true. I think 

people would be shocked at how little 

actually goes on in the “secret” world 

as far as real action. There are heck of 

a lot more briefings and talking than 

any counter-terrorism activities, because 

there are about four hundred layers to 

wade through to ensure it’s legal. Layers 

that are aggravating to people like me, 

but necessary. That bureaucracy is 

exactly what spawned the creation of 

my fictional unit, The Taskforce. It was a 

little fantasy we would have liked when I 

was operational, but it isn’t real. 

On the other hand, organizations like 

the Quds force are real. While they rarely 

make the news here in the states, the 

Quds have been responsible for blowing 

up embassies in Argentina, attempted 

assassination of Saudi diplomats in 

the United States, attacks in Thailand, 

and the latest, a deadly bombing attack 

in Europe. They created Hezbollah, 

introduced tank-killing explosively 

formed penetrators in Iraq, and are 

doing they’re damnedest to destabilize 

the country of Bahrain. And, of course, 

they’re all over Syria. 

They are a global worldwide threat, 

and yet nobody’s really heard of them. 

To me, it’s strange that most folks will 

immediately assume the United States 

is doing evil at any given time, going 

ballistic based on one traitor’s fount of 

lies, then shrug off other news reports 

of real threats as exaggerations or not 

worth their effort to read. 

S. MAG.: If Pike Logan is sitting in front 

of you, what would you like to ask him 

B.T.: He sits next to me every day I work 

my keyboard. There’s really nothing 

I’d like to ask him. Or, more precisely, 

nothing I haven’t asked him. I write an 

action-oriented series, but getting the 

reader to associate with the characters— 

both on the “good-guy” side and the 

“bad-guy” side—is what really matters 

to me. It’s the heart of why I write, and 

trust me, that’s led to a lot of WWPLD 

questions of Pike Logan himself. Bullets 

flying around and bombs going off are 

great, but they mean nothing unless 

someone is viscerally affected by the 

action. That’s what brings the story to 

life, and is the hardest thing I struggle 

with. At the end of the day, it’s the impact 

of those actions on the characters that 

makes a reader want to continue, and 

something I “question” of Pike Logan 

constantly. 

S. MAG.: What do you think makes a 

great villain 

B.T.: First and foremost, the reader has 

to associate with him or her. Period. That 

association may not be pleasurable, but 

it has to occur. This means the villain, 

just as the hero, must resonate with the 

reader. He or she must show motivations 

and depth just as strongly as the hero. In 

truth, unless you’re writing about aliens, 

the villain must be a human being, with 

all that entails. A flawed human, to be 

sure, but a human being. 

This is exactly what I was talking about 

above when I discussed the Black Widow. 

I started getting into her head, and the 

next thing I knew, I could understand 

why she was doing what she was doing. 

By the end of the book, I sort of liked her. 

I didn’t want to, but I did. I definitely 

think she will resonate with the reader, 

but I’m not sure they’ll like what they 

feel. You want to hate her for what she’s 

trying to do, but you find it hard. 

And, truthfully, at the end of the day, that’s 

the real world. I’ve had the misfortune 

of meeting a few real terrorists, and I 

always scratched my head after the fact, 

thinking, “Why does that guy want to kill 

everyone He seems so normal. He seems 

so human.” 

S. MAG.: What does the future hold for 

Brad Taylor 

B.T.: Me, personally Well, after I receive 

this year’s Nobel Prize, I think I’m going 

to be the first author aboard the space 

shuttle. Wait, what They no longer fly 

the space shuttle Do they still give out 

the Nobel Prize, or was that a lie from 

my publisher as well Seriously, as far as 

writing goes, I just finished the first draft 

for “The Polaris Protocol” (to be published 

in January 2014). Believe it or not, the 

villain in this book is a contractor that 

works for the intelligence community. 

He believes in “transparent information” 

and the “freedom of the internet,” and is 

willing to harm our national defense by 

giving up digital secrets. 

And yes, I typed, “The End” two days 

before Edward Snowden became a 

household name, although my villain 

doesn’t work for the NSA, but for the 

50th Space Wing, which controls our 

GPS constellation. I think the average 

reader will be surprised to learn how 

far GPS architecture has penetrated 

into our society. There’s very little that 

isn’t touched by GPS, from the timing of 

your credit card swipes to the regulation 

of Wall Street trades to the packet 

synchronization of your cell phone calls. 

People think of GPS as that annoying 

voice in the car that gives directions, 

but it’s much, much more. Yes, Pike 

and Jennifer are in the thick of it, along 

with two different Mexican drug cartels, 

Hezbollah, and a Palestinian assassin 

known as the Ghost—a name that some 

readers will recognize—recruited by Pike 

to, of all things, help solve the problem. 

We’d like to thank Brad for spending 

time with us. To learn more about this 

very talented author, check out his 

website at www.bradtaylorbooks.com. ■ 


By Donald Allen Kirch 

Beware! 

The Vampire Hunter 

In every age there is a certain individual that sets the tone. During medieval times there was the 

knight-errant, sworn to protect those surrounded by the forces of evil. The Dark Ages held the terror of the Inquisition, and 

no one personified that terror more than the official Inquisitor. 

In the Far East, there was the stoic Samurai, sworn to his master by the immortal Code of Bushido to be forever a servant. 

Still another character walked these same halls, which like the con man of today played upon the fears and evils of his age, 

draining each village and populace of their life’s blood. Like the mythical monsters they hunted down and destroyed, they 

drained the life’s blood from the suckers who believed in them. They were simply known as “Vampire Hunters.” 

Those of you who read this article may laugh, but vampire hunting has been a lucrative business since the early 1700s, 

perhaps even farther back. The last recorded case of a hired hunter can be traced back to pre-Civil War days in Virginia, the 

United States, in or around 1860. Vampires, at least in the fear of men’s hearts, were big business and indeed considered quite 

real. Some claim that in certain parts of Eastern Europe this practice still lives on through modern witch doctors who use 

science and superstitions to line their pockets with ignorant people’s fortunes. 

What did it take to become a vampire hunter Well, what does it take to be a vagabond, hobo, or con man One needed 

resourcefulness, a little courage, and a lot of chutzpah. Showmanship was the name of the game. Without capturing your 

audience, what was the point of trying to convince a war-weary population, half sick with the black plague or cholera, that 

Uncle Joe had risen from the grave to become a bloodsucking troll 

There is not a culture that, deep down, hasn’t feared the returning of the dead. A person in ancient times often associated 

bad omens with falling stars, the sudden changing of the weather, or in most cases, the unexpected death of a certain 

individual. After a funeral, especially if the participant had committed suicide, the body had been discovered at a crossroad 

or abandoned church, or who just “died” for no apparent reason other than to please Satan himself, a vampire hunter was 

desperately sought out. It was his duty, and expectation, to explain the death of the victim, to reassure the citizens that he was 

there to help stop the unknown evil, and to help cure those affected by the infected. 

A vampire hunter also had to be part psychologist. If he could read the fears of those who would later become his 

customers, he could go about his business pushing the right buttons, making it seem he had the ability to read minds and 

have magical spells and powers of his own. If he were supremely talented, this would become a family business that could be 


63

Vampire Hunting Kits came in all shapes 

and sizes. As small as a toolbox or as 

huge as an entire wagon. 

Credit: www.paranormalbites.com 

passed down for generations, and indeed some in Germany, Great Britain, 

and America made a fortune on such supernatural endeavors. 

One thing was certain: If you were going to become, or be, a vampire 

hunter, you needed a “hunting kit.” Some referred to this as their “conjure 

kit” for those rare occasions a vampire could not be found. If this were the 

case, most would speculate that a ghostly force was at work, and suggested 

to those few who would pay, that an exorcism would be needed at any 

available crypt. 

Point of fact: As far as the Catholic Faith is concerned, places of the 

dead, homes, and inanimate objects CANNOT be possessed by an evil 

force. This would require a living soul to battle over, and the dead are long 

gone from that “earthly” equation. 

The kit itself could be as small as an average toolbox, or as huge as a 

wagon. It was said to contain all the earthly weapons needed to fight the 

undead. That, in itself, was never an easy task. Crosses, garlic, wooden 

stakes, and stakes made out of silver, lead, and gold were paramount to the 

vampire hunter. So were the variations of the theme. 

Unlike the vampires of the ’60s Hammer films, vampires walked the 

earth in many different guises. There were the traditional Dracula types of 

undead, which feasted upon the blood of the living, but there were also the 

unusual Vampires that sucked away youth instead of blood. Vampires that lived off the positive emotions of those around 

them. Even undead creatures that could sneak into the bedchambers of pregnant women and cause them to miscarry. 

Vampires could be both human and animal, and for a fee, of course, the cursed villagers could be enlightened as to what 

“classification” of Nosferatu they were facing. 

There were a few hunters who did this as a humanitarian act. They, in their own ways, had been victims of a sickness or 

unknown factor which caused deaths in their own families. As a means of helping with the pains of their own losses, they 

took up the mantle of becoming vampire hunters to help others. These people deserve respect. In their own crude way, they 

helped pave the way for science. Through acts of faith, observations, and dedication, they asked the right questions and 

created circumstances that saved lives. 

It is from these individuals that such noted writers as Bram Stoker and Ann Rice created their heroes. 

Once, in England, around the time Bram Stoker was researching his novel, and when Jack the Ripper ruled the areas 

around Whitechapel, there was a case of vampirism. A well-respected 

cemetery had an odd problem. They couldn’t keep a deceased banker 

within the confines of his tomb. Three times, it appeared that someone 

had broken into the vault and taken the poor man’s body. After official 

investigations, it was discovered that the vault was never broken into but 

broken OUT OF! The man had been buried alive at least twice. 

This was an occasional occupational risk of the time. Premature 

burial has since been reduced with the betterment of medical science. It 

still affects us to this day, however. Ever wonder WHY a body isn’t buried 

until several days AFTER death That’s why. Superstition soon becomes 

accepted dogma. 

In any case, once the banker was returned to his grave for the 

third time, a vampire hunter performed a rather odd addition to the London's Highgate Cemetery - the scene of 

gentleman’s entombment: He added crushed garlic and a few rosaries to the 

the Victorian Vampire. 

cement used to seal the vampire up. Needless to say, London lost interest 

Credit: Panyd at en.wikipedia 

in its “Victorian Vampire.” Some claim that the event inspired Stoker. This 

author, however, holds to the realism that it was Jack the Ripper who had given birth to Count Dracula. 

Like gypsies, the vampire hunter kept a keen eye out for a village that either had suffered from a foreign war, or had a 

series of unexplainable deaths. Then, like a knight from the old stories, would ride in with his bag of tricks to save the day. 


Some even went as far as to befriend a deformed or crippled sidekick 

who would share with the villagers “his” story about how gifted and kind 

his master was. 

If the sidekick failed at his task, at winning the hearts and minds of 

the village, the noble vampire hunter would torture him, beat him, and 

leave him to starve after both were run out of the city. 

Being the sidekick of a vampire hunter had its dangers. 

In the hills of Virginia, in the United States, about a decade before 

the Civil War, there was an unexpected plague of cholera. The citizens 

knew not the cause, nor really what the sickness was since there were no 

doctors within a hundred miles. A traveling vampire hunter convinced 

the city council that they were being victimized by creatures of the 

undead. 

What was their only salvation 

It seems that a Catholic had recently perished and had been buried 

Vampire skeletons found in Virginia with 

iron stakes in their hearts. 

Credit: AP 

just outside of town. Since Catholics were treated as badly as Jewish people had been treated in Europe, the recently dead 

individual seemed a logical target. In the early colonial days, when a new Catholic settlement had been spotted, it was not 

considered “unchristian like” to nail the churches shut with the followers inside, and then light a match. Vampire hunters of 

old loved to use minority religions as a means to conjure up fears of the undead. 

So, this vampire hunter had the corpse dug up, its heart was removed and burnt to ashes, and all around the site were 

invited to eat a small teaspoon of the vampire’s ashes. This was so that the village could build up their immunity in case of 

a future attack. The vampire never again showed itself, so the trick worked. Years later, in the early 1970s, the graves were 

excavated by a local college and were found to be mutilated and the bones were scattered and torn apart. 

The vampire hunter, like his European counterparts, lived off these people’s fears for 

the remainder of the Civil War, and sometime after, until he 

fell victim to cholera himself. 

In modern-day Romania, it is not uncommon to 

discover a long wooden stake driven through the chest 

cavity of young people who die for no apparent reason, or 

suicide victims beheaded to keep them from rising from 

the grave in Satan’s service. 

Since the dawn of civilization there have always been 

mysterious creatures of the night. Monsters that lurk within 

the boundaries of both fact and fiction. Of them all, the 

vampire has retained the most staying power. In him, we 

see the vile sickness that lies within our own human psyche. 

Maybe the vampire hunter existed to help explain this part of 

mankind that religion and a good storyteller could not. 

Still, to those who did not know, but would later find out, 

most vampire hunters were worse than the creatures they had 

sworn themselves to destroy. They were champions of their 

day and used the tools that both God and mankind gave them. Now, we see them as B-rate heroes in B-rate movies—exactly 

where they should be! 

So, if you ever end up in a mysterious mountain village on the outskirts of the world, and there end up being a lot of 

mysterious deaths, think twice about hiring a tall and mysterious man who claims to be able to get rid of all your problems. 

Chances are he’s just a flim-flam man with a box of cheap tricks. 

“Cave! Immortuorum inquisitor!” 

Translation: “Beware! The Vampire Hunter!” Eh, roughly. ■ 

If you are interested in this author and would like to see more of his work, please go to: www.donaldallenkirch.com. 


65

FROM SIX STRINGS TO SIX 

SHOOTERS—IT’S TIME TO ROCK 

A CROSSROADS THRILLER 

THE RHYTHMIC ORIGINAL 

THE ROCKING FOLLOW-UP 

—Amazon.com 

“Price handles a keyboard the way Keith Richards handles 

a black, three pick-up Gibson Les Paul Custom.” 

—Michael Sherer, author of Night Blind 

“Eyre Price is rock fiction’s front man.” 

——Rick Robinson, bestselling author of Alligator Alley 

AVAILABLE NOW ON KINDLE AND AS TRADE PAPERBACK

“The 9th Girl” 

is a Perfect10 

An Interview with Tami Hoag 


Press Photo Credit: Jan Cobb 

Tami Hoag is a number-one New York 

Times bestselling author. According to her bio, she 

started writing at age nine and apparently hasn’t 

stopped—fortunately for us. She has been a New 

York Times bestselling author fifteen times now. 

Some of the titles include “Deeper Than the Dead,” 

“Secrets to the Grave,” and “Prior Bad Acts.” She has 

more than thirty-five million books in print and 

is published in over twenty languages worldwide. 

She started writing romance novels then eventually 

switched to thrillers. 

Tami was born in Iowa, but raised 

in Minnesota and left there in 1998 for 

warm rays. She currently lives in Palm 

Beach County, Florida, where she 

competes her horses in the prominent 

winter show circuit. 

We were able to catch up with 

Tami and ask her a few questions. 

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): “The 

9th Girl” returns fans to the popular 

investigative team of Kovac and Liska. 

Did it feel like a homecoming to you 

Did you always plan to return to this 

series 

Tami Hoag (T.H.): Absolutely. They’re 


67

“ I’m very protective and 

secretive about my work 

when I begin a new project. ” 

like dear old friends to me. I first met them in “Ashes to Ashes,” where they were only meant to be secondary characters. But I 

loved writing them so much that I’ve brought them back again and again. “The 9th Girl” is my fourth outing with them, and it 

won’t be the last. 

S. MAG.: Can you now tell us something about “The 9th Girl” that new fans won’t find on the back cover 

T.H.: That Liska’s fifteen-year-old son, Kyle, has a prominent role in a storyline that tackles the topic of bullying. 

S. MAG.: We know authors who have kept early rejections as a motivational tool even while they sit on bestseller lists. When 

you first started out, how many rejection letters did you receive—if you received any—and did any impact your writing in a 

positive or negative way 

T.H.: The first book I tried to publish was rejected a couple of times, but I got a letter back from one agent that told me he didn’t 

think that book would sell, but that he felt I was a good enough writer that I would eventually be published. Based on that, I quit 

my day job, wrote another book, and sold it to the first publisher I sent it to. 

S. MAG.: Having begun your career as a romance author, how difficult was it for you to switch genres With the rapid changes 

to the publishing environment, do you think it would be easier or more difficult to do in today’s climate 

T.H.: It wasn’t difficult at all for me in terms of the writing. Writing romance was always about exploring the psychology and 

dynamics of human relationships. I do the same thing in suspense; I just get to explore some much darker stuff. My publisher was 

back and forth as to whether or not I should make the switch when I wrote “Night Sins.” I was having a lot of success in romance. 

Nobody knew how I would be received as a suspense writer. But I never had any doubt about it. Suspense was what I wanted to 

do, and I was going to make that happen. Would it be more difficult today I don’t know. It 

seems like everything in this business is harder in the current climate. Publishers seem to 

live in such a constant state of fear that they’ll be even less inclined to let a writer having 

success in one genre move to another. They want a sure thing. 

S. MAG.: Which one of your fiction books was the most difficult to write and why 

T.H.: “The 9th Girl” was a long and difficult birth for a couple of reasons. First, my focus 

was interrupted when my publisher wanted me to also write an e-book short—“The 1st 

Victim.” Publishers think we can just knock these things out, like it’s just typing. That’s 

not how I work. I’m never going to compromise the quality of what I do, so it took 

two months out of my schedule. I felt it should be tied in to “The 9th Girl,” which also 

complicated my life tremendously. In the end, I was really happy with the outcome, 

but the process made my life a living hell there for a while. I barely left my house for 

months. Friends brought food by and left it at the front door. Also, this book has a cast 

of teenagers in it. They were predictably difficult to deal with! 


S. MAG.: Is there a subject matter that you find too taboo to write about 

T.H.: I know the minute I name something, I’ll get an idea for just that topic, 

but I don’t think I could ever stomach writing about child sex trafficking. That 

would push me over the edge. I couldn’t take it. 

S. MAG.: Do you have any superstitions or idiosyncrasies when you write 

T.H.: Well, they all seem perfectly normal to me, but I’m sure other people would 

call them idiosyncrasies. I’m very protective and secretive about my work when 

I begin a new project. I won’t even tell my editor much about it. He just has 

to trust me. During the work, I have to have the television on, but sometimes 

without the sound so I don’t get too distracted. I’ll play music and run the same 

five movies over and over and over without the sound. It’s like the actors are 

old friends keeping me company. Then I’ll watch MMA fights at three in the 

morning to unwind, as weird as that sounds. Suffice it to say, it’s a good thing 

I’m single. 

S. MAG.: What is the oddest, wildest, or most unusual request ever made of 

you by a fan 

T.H.: I recently had a guy propose to me on my Facebook page, pledging to be 

submissive to me! Yikes! For the record, submissive men need not apply. 

S. MAG.: What is the single most important piece of advice ever given to you 

and one that you would offer up to other aspiring writers 

T.H.: That if one in a million people is going to make it in this business, it might 

as well be me (you). That was my attitude going in with that first book. I believe 

in setting a goal and achieving it. If someone closes a door in my face, I’ll go in 

the window. If I can’t get in the window, I’ll get in through the basement. There’s 

no quit in me. I’ll pound a square peg into a round hole all day long until the 

bloody thing fits. You have to be tenacious and determined, and work your butt 

off. 

S. MAG.: What can you readers and fans expect from you next Is there 

something special you’re working on 

T.H.: Like I said, I won’t reveal much, but I’m just beginning a book I think is 

going to be really special. It’s about a young woman whose tragedy in the present 

makes her look at her past and the people she has known her whole life through 

a much darker lens. Things that seemed innocent and believable at the time now 

look sinister and suspicious to her, and her life will be put in jeopardy because 

of it. I won’t say anything more. Just telling you that much is making me break 

out in a nervous sweat. 

We would like to thank Tami for taking time to speak with to us, her 

readers, and her fans. To find out more about Tami Hoag, please visit her 

website at http://www.tamihoag.com. ■ 

THE 9TH GIRL 

By Tami Hoag 

Outstanding! Tami Hoag continues to 

set the standard for excellence in her genre. 

“The 9th Girl,” a return to the popular Kovac 

and Liska team, circles two very powerful 

storylines—one, the incredibly painful issue 

of teenage bullying and the other a lunatic 

with a penchant for publicity. 

Detective Sam Kovac and Sergeant Nikki 

Liska are not starting the year as planned. 

Sub-zero temperatures, dark of night, and a 

zombie corpse are not what the duo intended 

for their New Year’s Eve festivities, but frankly, 

neither did the victim. And this case is not a 

run of the mill murder. Initially—though 

it takes a small stretch of the imagination 

on the part of Liska—it appears to be the 

continuation of a string of gruesome holiday 

murders by the aptly dubbed ‘Doc Holiday’ 

killer—making the latest female victim 

number 9. But is it really 

Lacking leads, identifying the victim 

is priority number one, but it’s not going to 

be a simple task because she’s been stabbed, 

has fallen out of the trunk of a moving car, 

been run over by a party-Hummer, and 

mutilated by acid, which sets the tone for this 

investigation. Nothing about this case is easy. 

So the aging and technologically challenged 

Kovac has to think outside of the box when 

attempting to track down this particular 

monster—and he does so, only slightly 

griping as he’s brought into the social media 

age. 

With a carefully planned media leak, a 

taskforce is assigned, but more questions than 

answers arise. For Liska, this investigation 

becomes a personal matter and the questions 

asked are issues parents face every day. Do you 

really know what your children are doing Do 

you really know who they’ve become or what 

they deal with What happens to socially 

aloof teens on the fringe of society Who 

cares when something bad happens 

A smartly written, one-day read, “The 

9th Girl” offers an emotional connection 

to incredible characters, and the distinctive 

style only found in a bestseller by Hoag. 

Reviewed by Shannon Raab for Suspense 



69

THE 

MYSTERY 

OF WHAT TO READ THIS 

SUMMER.. 

ṠOLVED. 

Available on Kindle and as trade paperbacks

“...a common superstition among the Mongol people is that if 

Genghis Khan’s tomb is ever found and opened, it will mark the 

end of the world. So, of course, I had to tell that story.” 

Join 

The 

Force 

With James Rollins 


Press Photo Credit: David Sylvian 

James Rollins is a regular guest within the pages of Suspense Magazine and any fan of his work can certainly understand 

why. Sometimes an author is just so talented that with one book released, or even two a year, it’s still not enough to quench 

our thirst for more. James’s work is a magical blend of historical secrets, science, and exotic locales. His newest release, “The 

Eye of God,” fits that mold. 

An avid traveler, James not only regularly meets his fans at conferences and bookstores, he’s developed a reputation of 

being accessible to his fans with a strong online presence in an era where the pressures of social media can be daunting to 

both new and established authors. An advocate for his peers, James was also active in breathing life into the distinguished 

International Thriller Writers group. 

Whether writing his Sigma series, his standalones, or teaming up with a peer, James always shocks us with his pace and 

intensity, all while walking the tightrope of giving his fans exactly what they want: a remarkable story with characters that are 

loved or loathed, and an intriguing mix of reality and pure imagination. 

We were lucky to get a few moments with James before he began his “Eye of God” tour, and we hope you’ll enjoy the 

insider look. 

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): Give us look inside your latest book “The Eye of God” that is not on the back cover 

James Rollins (J.R.): In all of my books, I love to blend truth and fiction. In this novel, a major plot element is a comet that 

sweeps past earth—but there’s something “strange” about this comet, something that sets the astronomical world on fire. I based 

this celestial event on a real comet that is due to pass by our planet this coming November. What’s intriguing about this comet 

is that it will be the brightest comet ever to light the night sky, so bright in fact that it will be visible during the daytime. And as 

comets have historically been harbingers of doom, I knew this spectacular November visitor needed its own mythology—and that 

became “The Eye of God.” 

S. MAG.: With this being the ninth book in the Sigma Force series, what surprises have you learned along the way with the 

series 

J.R.: Every book surprises me. Sometimes it’s that character that walks onto stage—someone who I thought was going to be a 

bit player—but who becomes a significant element to the series. Some of the deaths have also caught me off guard. But I think 


71

what surprised me most about the series is how much I’ve grown to consider these 

characters as real people. Between books, I find myself often wondering what they’re 

doing, what they’re having for dinner, what they’re doing on vacation. 

S. MAG.: What one piece of advice did you receive about writing that has stuck 

with you all these years 

J.R.: I have it written on a yellow Post-It note and stuck on the side of my computer 

monitor: Today I give myself permission to write crap. I received this mantra from 

an early writing teacher, who warned that sometimes you need to get that editor out 

of your head and simply write, to shed any expectation of perfection and to simply 

get words onto paper. I think the road to writer’s block is paved with those nagging 

fears that everything you write must be gold. 

S. MAG.: What is the most difficult part of writing a series that has continued 

now for nine books 

J.R.: The biggest challenge is to make each book fit into the series, yet be freestanding 

enough that new readers could hop aboard at any point and be fully up to speed. 

It’s a juggling act to fill in that back story for new readers while not slowing down 

the storyline. I think a majority of readers have read the Sigma series out of order. 

And that’s okay. In fact, I’m happy to hear that. I want each book in the series to be 

as open and inviting to new readers as much as it is rewarding for those who have 

been following the series since the beginning. 

S. MAG.: Which character in “The Eye of God” had a larger voice than you 

thought they would when you started 

J.R.: That would be Duncan Wren, a new member of Sigma whose role in the book 

grew larger and larger. I crafted this character after attending a “body modification 

fair” in San Francisco. I met some individuals who had implanted rice-sized slivers 

of rare-earth magnets in their fingertips. These magnets vibrate in the presence of 

electrical fields and stimulate the nerve-endings in the fingertips, opening an entirely 

new way of experiencing the world. I was fascinated by this and gave Duncan this 

new “sixth sense.” What he ends up doing with this new ability grew from a novelty 

to a profound significance. Plus he was simply a great character to write. 

S. MAG.: Which sentence or scene in “The Eye of God” do you feel captures the 

essence of the book 

J.R.: That’s a tough but intriguing question. It would perhaps be easier to pick a 

scene, but I’ll go for the challenge of a sentence—or perhaps a few sentences. In 

regards to plot, I would pick this line: 

Vigor glanced out the window to the comet glowing in the night sky, bright 

enough to shame the moon. With that portent of doom hanging there, a shiver 

of certainty rang through him. “The date for the end of the world … it’s in four 

days.” 

But in regards to the book’s essence, I think these words from a man who is dying 

and is closer to the central theme of the novel. It is a message about the gift of life: 

Do not waste that gift, do not set it on a shelf for some future use; grab it with 

both hands and live it now, live it every day. 

THE EYE OF GOD 

By James Rollins 

When Rollins writes, readers 

bite. This is a fact of life in the literary 

community. And this book is yet another 

‘goodie’ from a creative mind that never 

lets readers down. 

The world is ending. And even though 

many have written about this fact, Rollins 

never stoops to stereotypical plots. With 

this, he provides the ultimate story. 

The reader is offered a prologue set 

in the summer of 452AD. The location is 

the kingdom of Attila, where the historical 

figure has just married his seventh wife. 

This new wife, with the help of a Cardinal, 

causes Attila to meet his maker—saving 

the people she knows he will kill in his 

plans to take over Rome. When she 

succeeds in her plan, however, she realizes 

that with her actions, a future tragedy has 

been created. 

In present day, a research satellite 

crashes in Mongolia. This satellite is the 

core of a project meant to study dark 

energy. Meanwhile, at the Vatican, a 

package arrives that includes a skull with 

Aramaic writing and a book bound in 

human skin. DNA evidence shows that 

these items were once in the possession 

of Genghis Khan, King of the Mongols in 

ancient times. 

The Commander of Sigma Force, 

Gray Pierce, and his cohorts are called in 

to discover the real truth behind the fall of 

the Roman Empire. Following clues that 

date back to the beginning of Christianity, 

they must find a weapon that has been 

hidden for centuries; made to bring about 

the end of the world. 

The Sigma Force books have been 

incredible. Mr. Rollins describes ancient 

times and connects them with present day 

so well that it’s a truly fascinating read that 

will hold the attention of any mystery/ 

thriller fan. Carefully researched, the 

characters both old and new literally come 

to life—offering an ending that is truly a 

surprise. 

Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “The 

Sapphire Storm: Tallent & Lowery Book 

Two” published by Suspense Publishing, 

an imprint of Suspense Magazine ■ 


S. MAG.: What is your favorite word and least favorite word, and why 

J.R.: I love including one word in all of my books. It is the word “sluice.” I thought it was an ordinary enough word, until its 

frequent use was brought to my attention by fellow author and friend, Steve Berry. He hates that word. So now I make sure that 

word is in every book or short story I write—if only to irk him. As to a least favorite word, it’s probably the pantheon of curse 

words. Not that they don’t appear in my books, especially coming from the notoriously foulmouthed but lovable Kowalski. But I 

try to use such language sparingly as cursing can become an easy crutch to lean on versus using more effective language. 

S. MAG.: Is there a mystery that you feel could actually be solved in our lifetime 

J.R.: A central treasure hunt in “The Eye of God” is the search for the lost tomb of Genghis Khan. This Mongol warlord had 

conquered most of the known world during his lifetime, and all the wealth of those conquered lands vanished into Mongolia, 

including the crowns of dozens of defeated kings. But presently—using modern tools like satellite scans and ground-penetrating 

radar—archaeologists are zeroing in on his tomb. Whenever it’s discovered, the treasures found there will likely alter much of 

what we know about history. But even more ominous, a common superstition among the Mongol people is that if Genghis Khan’s 

tomb is ever found and opened, it will mark the end of the world. So, of course, I had to tell that story. 

S. MAG.: Are we any closer in seeing The Sigma Force on TV or made into a movie 

J.R.: Lots of interest and many film options have been bought, but nothing has been concretely green-lit. But I did get a chance 

to meet the famous Dino De Laurentiis, the producer of such classics as Three Days of the Condor and Dune. It was one of my 

greatest thrills to share a lunch at his home with his family. As an avid movie junkie and someone whose DVR is always full, I 

would love to see Sigma cast onto some screen in the future—big or small. But for now, it’s still a waiting game. 

S. MAG.: What was your goal when you started writing 

J.R.: To simply walk into a bookstore and see my book on a shelf. I didn’t care if I was paid a dime. I just wanted to see the book 

on that shelf. Of course, don’t tell my publisher that. 

We’d like to thank James for spending his time with us and we always look forward to what’s coming next. To learn more, 

please check out his website at www.jamesrollins.com. ■ 


73

Diving 

to Depth 

By Joe Becker 

Kal heaved his equipment bag upon the truck’s rusty tailgate and took a glance at the ashen sky. It 

was quarter past eight, the season of summer coming to an end in the foothills of the desolate western plains, tree insects 

claiming their final calls, crops wobbling on tired, ochre ground, sweat still sticking to grimy necks. 

“Maybe half-hour before we go down, Sepi.” 

“Alright then,” replied Sepi, readying his gear. 

Sepi was only a nickname, one given by Kal during one of his frequent barbecue cookouts. As the region’s only diving 

instructor, Kal felt all his students needed some kind of moniker, comfort in their relationship being the prime reason. Years 

as a diving instructor taught him this, especially when it comes to those destined for night-diving certification. After all, 

when you submerge yourself into complete liquid darkness, with nothing but the stark beam from an unearthly light cutting 

the path in front of you, partner congeniality is paramount not only to your safety, but your sanity. To Kal, the guy looked 

Italian, so “Sepi,” the first name that arose from his then-inebriated lips, was chosen. 

For the same reason Kal slung out nicknames—a sense of camaraderie, bonding, goodwill—he’d host the cookouts for his 

students. Good grub, too. The very thought of which was beginning to ping around Sepi’s echoing gut. 

“So, time’s the next feast, Kal” 

Kal shook his head. “Shoot, ain’t no gas ‘round for cooking. Damned place. Haven’t seen propane for weeks. I’d have to 

run fifty miles just for a tank. Or charcoal. ‘Cause last time I checked, Meyer’s is clean the fuck out of both. But hell, whatcha 

gonna do It’s a distribution thing they always say.” 

“Yeah Plenty ‘o wheat around, though.” 

They both heard the sound—a thud followed by water crashing against itself—but neither thought so much of it at the 

time to interrupt their conversation. Sounds like these were common around the quarry, although more so when college kids 

were still around for summer. Rarely, however, was anyone near the quarry so close to twilight hours. 

“Guess we can burn that. Got a big ass harvester” laughed Kal. 

Sepi looked into the quarry, to the deep-blue water darkening by the minute, to the wide hole in the earth where he would 

soon be certified for nighttime diving. It was his last in a series of underwater certifications, before he could get licensed as an 

undersea welder. Then he could move out, very far out, if one happened to look at working on oceanic oil platforms that way. 

Kal stared out along with him, then flopped himself upon the tailgate. He launched a spit to the dirt and furrowed his 

eyes. 

“Kids. Rock jumping at this hour,” came his complaint. “Stupid, man. They can get caught on something down there. You 

better be careful, too. Happened before, trust me.” 

“Dumbasses,” replied Sepi, as a way of seeking mentor approval. 

They slipped into their wet suits, attached their buoyancy vests, slung their weights and tanks over their shoulders, and 

headed along the quarry’s hardscrabble upper edge. Before long, Kal pointed down towards Monolith Rock, the local name 

given to the large abandoned slab that stuck out from the liquid like a shoreline glacier. It was their point of entry, and they 

turned into the narrow path that wound in its direction. The path was tight, shadowy at this hour, with only enough of the 

moon to distinguish the collection of debris to its side strewn over the years by restless teens. 

When they reached the rock’s edge, another thud resounded throughout the quarry, its sound waves lingering over the 


75

ippling water. It came from their left, from the other side of a steep rock isthmus jutting out over the quarry. They eyed each 

other, shaking their heads. So be it, they seemed to say, kids will be kids. 

“Guess we’ll have company,” said Kal with resignation. 

They dropped down on their backsides like a pair of penguins, sliding along the slick smoothness of Monolith Rock, air 

tanks dragging behind them. When their feet found water, they adjusted their gear and came into their fins. 

Kal peered at his student one last time, questioning his bravery and intent. The kid was solid, he thought, unfazed, cool 

as ice. Seemed like the perfect candidate—the type of guy that didn’t let much get to him. Levelheaded. Stolid, in both his 

manner and demeanor. Yes, he reckoned, he picked the right guy. The right guy, indeed. 

When both were ready, they gave each other the thumbs up sign and donned their masks. They sucked in their 

mouthpieces, and without such as a wave, slid into the quarry. 

Deep onyx enveloped around them, disappearing their body parts inch-by-inch. In accordance with their dive plan, 

they descended slowly at first, progressing past tepid shallow waters and acclimating to the changing pressures and dropping 

temperatures. Ultimately, they reached the zones of depth that have never felt the warmth of the world. 

Kal motioned for Sepi to stop with a signal of his hand. They held their position level, and checked their gages under their 

bright flashlights. Fifty-plus feet. Kal threw out an O.K. signal and Sepi reciprocated in kind. 

They hovered there a moment, surveying the surroundings, adjusting to the blackness and to their beams of light that 

penetrated into it. As well to the shocking cold. 

Sepi could almost feel the trauma of the water through his wetsuit, and on top of that, he felt the ethereal openness of the 

space beginning to alter the connections of his brain. The water at this depth was almost incapacitating; his entire body felt 

like it was being subjected to a brain-freeze. A three-millimeter wetsuit Maybe that was too conservative, he realized. He’d 

have to tough it out, but that was nothing new of a task for Sepi. Block out the pain, he said to himself, allow enough time 

for the body to heat up the suit. Stay relaxed, and keep breathing. Then rational thought would move in and counteract the 

benumbing shock of the deep quarry waters. 

If there was any consolation to Sepi’s burgeoning terror, it was in the luminosity of his flashlight. It spread wide and bright, 

capturing small particles floating through the water, bringing them into relief against the endlessness spread out before him. 

He gave his beam a sweeping arc across the void. It was a way to reassure himself that the black beyond was indeed capable of 

taking in his rays and wasn’t a realm of the complete unknown; that he wasn’t submerged within some underwater purgatory 

to which his final fate was waiting. He gave a downward tilt to his flashlight. The sobering light captured the jagged remains 

of rock left behind by excavation crews working many years ago, giving proof, more than anything, that he was in fact within 

a pocket of the earth, and not some other place. This reality became more evident as he illuminated the scattered debris— 

bottles, cans, sheaths of plastic—that clung to rock shards or were tucked into their crevices. 

True, if Sepi’s flashlight did provide a feeble sense of security to a liquid world shown as vaguely surreal and hallucinatory, 

it was still enough of a crutch to allow him to steal away from Kal—if only temporarily. He was an independent type, and 

the sense of aloneness often intrigued him, pulled him into vicinities that even he couldn’t foresee. It’s what his mother 

complained about on many occasions—”your carefree meandering”—and his grade school teachers were right on board 

with this assessment. He was always the last to enter the class from recess, preferring to wander the woods alone during these 

breaks, exploring and discovering the new and foreign. 

His affliction, if you could call it that, was a bad case of wanderlust. It was an unshakable condition, and naturally, this 

became his identifying persona, and one that would stay with him to this day. “You’re such a rogue,” he would often hear them 

say, “an aimless vagabond.” In turn, Sepi became (and was thought of as) a sober-minded fellow, earnest and introverted, who 

typically denied the fool-hearty their due and refused to take lightly the bullying ways of the world. 

Gradually, Sepi found himself favoring the direction of deeper and away, loosening with each graduated stroke the 

emotional bonds that attached him to his instructor. The emptiness around him drew him further into his beam of light, 

inescapably and inexorably, like a marble drawn into the nozzle of a vacuum. 

Up ahead, a large abandoned hunk of quarried stone stood on end like a wreck at sea that never correctly settled to the 

floor. It was a behemoth that resisted the journey earthward with the determination of its massive weight. Drawn by its shape 

and magnitude, Sepi headed in its direction. Kal noticed Sepi’s drift and gave casual pursuit, pausing briefly to assume the task 

of reading his instrumentation gages. Time, depth, compass, oxygen levels. All was going according to plan, he determined. 

Sepi figured the face of the off-kilter slab—gray, cold, and immovable—to be about seven feet across, nine high. He 

cornered its left; Kal its right; their beams splitting around it like divergent tracks of rail. 

Another sound penetrated downward, echoing against the face of the stone. Distinctive and telling—a heavy splash. Very 

heavy, coming from the left. Even at fifty feet below, they could tell as much. 

Sepi buoyed himself higher and headed in the direction of the splash. He couldn’t help himself, curiosity and impulsivity 

being a natural part of his constitution. Whoever the kid was, he needed to be seen, his body needed to be tinseled with 

a spectrum of light to verify his existence. Besides, there’d be nothing like shocking some punk kid braving his ability and 

temerity in the late summer hours of a darkened quarry. Nothing like assaulting his fragile nerves with a blast of light from 


the inhabitable depths below. 

He cut off his light. Only Kal’s flashlight—which was veering off somewhere behind him—illuminated the liquid world 

around him. Sepi knew the eventual reveal had to come out of nowhere, so he swam further ahead and gave the dark a few 

seconds to grow, to expand into consciousness. As it did, he questioned himself, his juvenile motives and the crass notion 

of fright in general. But he knew there was no turning back—under the circumstances the idea was too compelling, too 

inescapable. He was already visualizing the outcome, claiming it as foreordained. Kal would understand. Hell, he’d probably 

even appreciate the execution of the terror. 

Sepi figured his depth was close to thirty feet, thirty-five at most. He swam further and higher, the water pulsing with 

bursts of warmth that he could feel against his face. He was edging closer to the region below the sound of the splash. Then 

he stopped. 

“Now!” he said to himself. He pushed the button on his flashlight. A movement, swift and fleeting. It came against the 

furthest reaches of his light. Was he mistaken Was it still descending Only the craziest of kids would be diving down this 

far. That’s it, he thought, I’ll give it to him good. 

He swam faster. Rising bubbles wavered in his light, giving him a jolt. He turned back around, and looked below. Twenty 

feet deeper was Kal’s beam heading in his direction. Sepi could see Kal’s light shining into the depths, and while gazing past 

his fluttering fins, he saw it: the mass assembled on the quarry floor, incongruous and out of context. 

With a head of light, he descended, closer and closer toward it. 

It wasn’t just one—if that was all, Sepi’s heart might not have skipped a beat—but a heap of them, their alabaster flesh 

peeling away in the current’s easy sway. Skulls atop torsos, legs and arms twisted perversely around like tangled wire, soft 

white flesh mixed with even whiter bone. The fresher ones were amassed atop figures of indeterminable decay. All were 

quieted by their conjoined company, all except the school of bottom-feeding fish milling about, nibbling from cranial cores 

and pecking at limbs that dangled with scraps of clothes. Hollowed skull holes, that once held eyes that held the world, stared 

blankly at him. From above, another thud. From behind, Kal’s light, adding depth-of-field to a field of death. Cinderblocks, 

everywhere cinderblocks, holding the beings to their grave, keeping the crush and pile forever entombed. 

A swiftly sinking human figure raced by, roped at the waist, fingers twitching in the water’s resistance. The bottom edge 

of Sepi’s light caught the eyeballs, saw them briefly locking into his own. Alive Possibly. (Or tricks of a panicked eye). But 

what he saw—if for only a split second—was a human being beckoning for succor, grasping for one last moment of existence. 

He couldn’t give that to him, no, he could only give that to himself. 

In a frenzy, he headed to the surface, with Kal trailing directly behind. 

They surfaced at Monolith Rock, slamming atop it with the same haste as sea lions under pursuit. They threw their arms 

and chests against its slope, tanks bobbing behind them in the water. Sepi spat out his mouthpiece and threw his mask to the 

crown of his head. He gasped for air. His eyes froze into Kal’s, not so much for comfort, but for an explanation to what he 

had just witnessed. 

Kal pointed up over Sepi’s right shoulder, straight up over the rock wall that jutted out beside them. He could tell Sepi was 

in a state, foggy-eyed and panicked. But he knew they had to be quiet, that revealing themselves would be disastrous. They 

were in no position to be exposed. Gingerly, Kal held his index finger to his lips and portrayed an unmistakable calmness. 

Sepi took a deep breath, nodded, and laid his wobbly arms flat out against the rock. He rested there a few seconds, silent, 

shaken. Then Kal gave a gentle push against Sepi’s arm, motioning him to move along the rock, real slowly towards the edge. 

He wanted to get a direct look at whoever was up there and verify their presence without being seen. With their air tanks 

holding them buoyant, they eased along, hand over hand, until a clear line of sight was achieved. 

By the falling crescent moon, they could make out a truck’s tailgate laid open fifty feet above them. Despite the cliff ’s edge 

obscuring their vision, they were able to make out two burly figures, chest high to head, standing on either side of the truck, 

their backs turned. The distant resonance of their voices seeped down into their ears, like the murmurings in a troubled 

dream. 

They both kept a keen eye to the cliff for a moment, trying to maintain a low and calm posture, but Sepi’s stomach had 

a hard time not retching for relief. A mouthful of mucus and water shot out. Quickly, Kal grabbed his arm, forcing him to 

tread back out of sight. 

“Get off your gear,” demanded Kal. 

“What” 

“I said take it off. Quietly, up on the rock.” 

“Why” Sepi asked in a faltering whisper. He was already shedding his vest and fins. 

“We need to get up there and we can’t have all this shit on us. Got it” 

“The authorities. We need to call...the sheriff or someone.” 

“Hell that,” struck back Kal. “Ain’t no time for that. They’d be gone by then.” Kal’s voice began to rise, and he checked it 

down. Distant and desultory laughter could be heard, and they inched over to take a look up again, to make sure they weren’t 

discovered. In the pale light, they could make out one of the figures hoisting a cinderblock overhead with each arm, up and 


77

down, over and over. 

They crawled back over and Kal continued. “And then we’d have to answer...fuck, answer to all those bodies down there.” 

“But…” 

“But what You’re certified now,” whispered Kal as he jabbed his finger at Sepi. “Hell, yeah, you are. You want that job 

Doing clean-up and removal ‘Cause that’s what you’ll get. You’ll get just that, Maxwell.” 

Sepi paid no notice to the use of his real name. He could only hear the question, like a white-hot metal prod poking 

through his eardrum. Between his moments of revulsion, he was forced to ponder that which Kal asked. “No,” he replied. 

“Well then,” issued Kal, directing his attention above. 

“The bodies...who’ll get the bodies” 

“No tellin’. But I know they’re not leaving nowhere.” A darkness overtook Kal’s eyes, a disposition brought on by the 

harrowing situation. “This shit ain’t right. You know it ain’t.” He grabbed Sepi’s arm, tight. “O.K., Sepi O.K. First things first. 

We take care of business.” 

They shed their wetsuits and laid their gear atop Monolith Rock. Still dripping, they headed up 

the path. Kal led the way, but he stopped midway, figuring it was always best to hash out a plan beforehand, and better still 

while out of earshot. “Get a number off the truck if you can. And only if they’re headin’ out, that is. Otherwise, we overtake 

‘em together, quick and quiet. From the rear, blades on the back.” He held up his scuba knife with conviction. “Take ‘em down 

to the ground, but we do this only when they’re occupied with...with their weight. Got it Surprise ‘em, get ‘em down, hands 

behind the back, then tie ‘em down tight.” 

Sepi nodded along with each of Kal’s points, patting his pants to double-check that knife and rope were contained within. 

He was still disoriented, disarmed by what he was asked to do and how quickly he had to do it. His mind was floating in a 

weightless void, with death still an arm’s length away. Somehow, the information he was given was able to sift through all 

those interferences; it even slipped through the interference that manifested as a physical form—body and face—that came 

amid Kal’s sharply spoken words. It was as if the person himself was overlapping Kal’s own features, shaped slowly into 

existence like a ghost from an old cartoon. Sepi saw him leaning against the classroom door, waiting there as he often did to 

taunt him following his return from lunch break. He could even hear Bryce Taverns’s sinister voice. 

The extra weight Bryce Taverns carried could have been fat, but it also could have been muscle buried beneath fat. No 

one in high school, including Sepi, dared to test which one. His face was flattened and dominated by red boils. Whoever cut 

his hair—barber, father, mental health professional—cropped it close, giving him a deranged look. These were the features 

that stood out as Sepi stood there listening to Kal’s orchestrated plan. 

“What, were you out meeting your maiden, Maxwell No Guess it was your sissy-ass boyfriend then. Huh, Max-i-well” 

Then he’d feel the slap to the back of his head. He felt it then. 

He wanted to punch Bryce Taverns square to his gut. Wanted to double him over, and more. But he didn’t; he was recoiled 

by a fear that locked his fists firmly to his side. And he had terminal regret over this. It was possible, however, that someone 

else didn’t, as one weekend night Bryce Taverns found himself headlong into the grill of a Mack truck with a fifth of whiskey 

gurgling in his stomach. The driver swore he saw two other people next to him before impact. Human or divine, Sepi figured 

justice was served. Next time, if there ever was one, he wouldn’t hesitate to take the offering. He’d take it raw on a cold plate. 

They reached the clearing and tucked away into the brush. The moon was crouched low, hidden amidst the trees’ foliage. 

The truck was parked ahead, its darkened headlights facing them like dead eyes of a demon. In the dimness, they couldn’t 

tell if the truck was grey or red (or was covered over in mud or rust). They couldn’t possibly tell its make—Dodge or Chevy 

or Ford—let alone pick out a license plate number. Nevertheless, one of them was able to make out the figures from the facial 

contours of their silhouettes. And their voices—deep and callous and irreverent—also helped give them away. 

“Hell, I know those fucks,” Kal said, cupping his hand to Sepi’s ear. “Guys from the crematory. Everyone outta gas ‘round 

here. Pitchin’ clients where nobody’d find ‘em, right down in the drink.”Sepi squinted his eyes and looked to the tailgate. He 

thought it was bare feet he saw hanging over its side, but he wasn’t sure in the dark. The guy who had been military-pressing 

cement blocks was leaning his stomach against the back of the truck, watching the other one, who, as far as they could 

discern, was busy twisting rope between block and flesh. 

A flashlight suddenly blasted to the ground. Kal and Sepi ducked lower. They could hear the voice of the guy working the 

rope: “Comb it around good. Don’t leave no evidence.” The light zigzagged around awhile, discovering nothing. “O.K.,” he 

said again, “grab your side, Billy.” 

Kal elbowed Sepi in the ribs, giving him a firm nod of his head. He peered into his eyes, hard and unmistakable. The time 

was now. 

Kal and Sepi inched towards the front of the truck, eyes focused on the backs of the guys. They stopped at the hood of 

the truck, each peering through the windshield at the sight of the two large men readying themselves for the dead weight 

laying on the tailgate. Sepi could see the figure: middle-aged man, semi-clothed, pale and listless. They watched as the 

guys positioned his body forward, then struggled to hoist the cement block atop his midsection, trying to achieve a proper 


alance. When the man’s stomach went flaccid under the dense concrete form, the two men reached for their ends. 

Kal pointed to himself, then to the left side of the truck. He jabbed his finger at Sepi, then pointed right. His finger against 

his lips was followed by a circular motion in the air. 

“O.K., Billy. Heave on three...” 

They advanced. It was the stealth of wolves. Scuba knives substituting for teeth and claws. Thought process instead of 

carnal instinct. Revenge for raw need. 

“...and fuckin’ let go on time...” 

In seconds, Sepi’s knife came against his man’s back. The cloth and flesh was hard, but he knew there was tenderness to 

be found under metallic sharpness. He tightened his grip and pressed closer against it. He felt the man’s body twitch from 

shock. He looked at his hand and knife. The image was surreal, electric. He found himself saying something, something 

definitive and clear into the guy’s ear. He pulled him close with his other arm. Then he heard it: the garbled noise of a recently 

cut throat. 

Sepi glanced over to see Kal holding his guy’s hair, blood spilling from the neck. The man collapsed, and with him went 

the weight he held. Sepi’s man never let go of the dead man’s legs; the fall shifted the weight, a shift Sepi couldn’t foresee. He 

heard something guttural, an utterance of extermination. 

He looked down. He found his hand holding tight to the handle of the knife, with its remainder submerged well into 

cloth and warm flesh. It felt good. He plunged in further and twisted, no doubt reaching a vital organ that soaked his shirt 

with blood. 

As Sepi sat in Kal’s pickup truck, staring at the truck’s headlights as they carved road out of the 

night, the enormous echo of crashing water still rang his ears. It was one of the last things he remembered. That and Kal 

calling out orders, hollow and translucent, like the moon breaching through the passing trees: to search the place clean—”not 

a fucking drop”—and to cram the cab with fresh death. The rolling tires, breaking limbs, the sight of it over the cliff. Then the 

sound. That’s really what he recalled amidst the density of fog that saturated his brain. 

Kal grabbed the coffeepot off his counter and topped his mug off with a substance that poured 

like tar. On his kitchen table, the local morning edition was splayed out in front of him. Nothing out of the ordinary: a 

ribbon-cutting ceremony, a feel-good 4-H story, a brief on wheat futures. Typical stuff in a small rural town dotting the 

western plains. No mention anywhere of a local business missing its operators. 

It was three days since, and Kal hadn’t heard word one from Sepi. He dropped him and his equipment off that evening, 

with a wordless understanding and a feeble handshake. Not hearing from him was fine by Kal, just fine. He wasn’t expecting 

as much either, but one never knows. All seemed well that morning as Kal dumped spoon after spoon of sugar in his cup. 

The phone rang. He spilled his coffee, obliterating instantly a picture of a local high school football player. He picked up 

the phone, but didn’t answer. 

“Kal” the voice said. 

“Yes” 

“Sheriff Woodbine here.” Kal hesitated then set his coffee cup upright. 

“Sheriff. How are you,” he said calmly. 

There was moment of silence, then the sheriff spoke, “Line’s secure on this end. You” 

“Completely.” 

“They put up a fight” 

“Didn’t have a chance. Went down like lambs in a slaughterhouse.” 

“Good. Clean it good Please tell me you did,” said the sheriff anxiously. 

“Left it bare. Quiet and clean. No kids around either, made sure of that. Haven’t heard much in town, which is good,” 

remarked Kal. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout that. I’ll cover those variables when they come up, and they will. Remember, those boys were hunters 

and there’s a lot o’ country out there. How ‘bout our boy” 

“Well, you don’t worry ‘bout that one. Told you, I picked the right guy,” Kal said with proud assurance. 

“Good, good. You know it was time they had to go. Those guys had shit-for-brains and hell, they just couldn’t be trusted. 

Made the wrong choice with what they were doing, anyway. I told ‘em that, but they don’t listen, never did and never would.” 

“And never will,” remarked Kal with a bent laugh. 

The sheriff went quiet, and it occurred to Kal there was more the sheriff needed to know. It was the main reason for the 

call, the most important aspect of their conversation. The sheriff spoke. “So, you see our guy down there” 

Kal poured some more coffee and drew a long sip. “Nope, he wasn’t below. Found him still up with the guys in the truck. 

And that’s where he’ll stay, in the truck, keeping the dumb fucks company. Sixty feet below, along with the rest of ‘em.” ■ 


79

Subscribe 

Today! 

Benefits to Subscribing 

• Reviews and ratings of new 

releases 

• Discover new authors 

• Short stories 

• Author interviews including 

many of your favorites 

• Much, Much More! 

Available at: 

Amazon 

Barnes & Noble 

or Subscribe to the 

Electronic version at 

www.SuspenseMagazine.com 

Rates (Electronic): 1 Year: $24.00/ 2 Years: $48.00 

“Suspense Magazine nicely fills a long-vacant niche for readers 

of this popular genre. If you like a good old-fashioned whodunit, 

grab a copy and get the latest scoop on all your favorite 

authors, current books, and upcoming projects.” 

~Wendy Corsi Staub, New York Times Bestselling Author 

“Suspense Magazine is chock full of stunning artwork, intriguing 

fiction, and interviews It's a winner!” 

~Tess Gerritsen, International Bestselling Author

Suspense Magazine July 2013

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?