Thursday, July 30, 2020

THE PRESCIENT – Installment 1


dontravis.com blog post #400
  
Courtesy of Pxfuel.com
Thanks to everyone who congratulated me on the acceptance of The Cutie-Pie Murders for publication. Thanks to Dreamspinner Press for that bit of news.

This week, and for a couple following, I’ll again step out of my usual genre of writing. This is a short story about a vampire. Yes, you read right. A vampire. Not the Bela Lugosi portrayal, but still a bit spooky. In this first installment, you’ll meet Tancready—as he’s called himself for the last two hundred years. Prior to that, he bore other pseudonyms. Shall we start?


*****
THE PRESCIENT

From a park bench cloaked in the deep shadow of night, I observed the progress of the quasi-organized brawl these people called baseball, a neighborhood game of frequent bawdy disputes, usually resolved just short of mayhem. Despite the throbbing pain occasioned by bright, glaring pole lamps, only marginally eased by heavily smoked glasses, the raucous vigor and raw emotions of the rowdy participants were ambrosia, feeding my vortex, easing the gnawing of a voracious hunger and restoring my pranic energy sufficiently to dull the edge of my depression, a condition I often suffer.
Yet, even the massed force of those straining, sweating, cursing young men on the field would not sate my appetite—not completely. For that, I required an intimate confrontation with the tall, wiry young man with the broad Magyar brow generations of New World blood had not significantly altered. This youth, whose towering aura occasionally flickered in my direction, surpassed the collective beauty of all who cavorted on the field.
My name is Tancready, although that is not the appellation bestowed at my birth in 1047 Anno Domini. While not my first alias, Tancready is the one that has served for the last two hundred years. I am an Eternal, or if you prefer, a Vampire; not the idiotic caricature of fiction or the loathsome, bloody fiend of legend who stalks the unwary with deadly intent, but one of a miniscule elite who escape the usual constraints of humanity. I exercise an eccentric lifestyle and develop unorthodox relationships, such as that I seek from the most uncommonly beautiful human I have encountered since the Italian Renaissance, the youth I patiently stalk.
Over virtually a millennium, I have endured many lifetimes, embracing death often over the centuries, but true to my ilk, I endlessly return from the earth to assume another name, another persona. I endured Vlad the Impaler’s tortured reign and witnessed his assassination. I died at Hastings with the Conqueror’s army and attended Henry’s knights as they slew Thomas à Becket at Canterbury, fought with the Mongols on the Steppes when Temujin became Genghis Khan. I battled the Emperor in Russia and again at Waterloo. I died at the hands of German Nazis at Stalingrad. I have seen … lived … momentous history!
The game on the sports grounds ended in a pungent burst of sweaty enthusiasm as redolent as a potent Russian brew. The field began to clear, and the terrible lights slowly died, allowing my photosensitive eyesight to regain its sharpness. Body vibrating, nimbus soaring, the boy approached on the paved walkway, his corded arm riding the shoulders of a young lady. The easy, comfortable companionship between the two elicited an instant and unintended burst of energy from me. The boy’s rich luminescence, yellow with affection and friendship for the creature under his arm, suddenly flashed red as he crossed the path in front of my sheltered bench. Tentacles reached toward me uncertainly. I quickly reined in my raging jealousy and sent a more benign form of kinetic energy toward him, seeking to block his unconscious curiosity. I overdid it, as was frequently the case; he visibly staggered, but recovered and continued across the park, his aura drawn close against his body. His flesh, I knew, would be puckered in a case of ‘heebie-jeebies,’ in today’s pedestrian vernacular.
The boy was aware of me now, too much so at this point, although he had no real understanding of that fact. Nonetheless, I would need to proceed carefully. His name was Boris Balint, a good Hungarian patronymic miraculously not yet Anglicized into Valentine. Born in the northern New Mexico mountains twenty years past, he now attended classes at the university in Albuquerque. His passions were chess and photography. All this and more, I knew from clandestine midnight visits to the university records room. Chess, I decided, would be my gateway into his life.
As my quarry passed from sight, my energy level dropped precipitously. Edginess and irritability, frequent companions, returned until I focused on a distant figure on the field. My need honed to a keen edge, I moved toward the sleek young Hispanic responsible for securing the game equipment. Anticipating the touch of his smooth, dark flesh, I literally salivated. He was at that brief age when adolescent mestizos were as pretty as girls yet exuded the budding machismo of their elders. Delicious!
Although he had not yet seen me, the youth demonstrated a sharp alertness as he slowly turned from the equipment shed to nervously scan the darkened pathway. I flooded his slender form in tentacles of friendship yellow and purple desire, overpowering the fearful red of his suspicion. His resolve faltered, and enveloped in my powerful sexuality, the boy obediently trailed me into the deep shadows behind the equipment shed. Without physically touching him, I pulled him to a halt before me. He swallowed hard.
“What is your name, my beautiful young friend?”
“Car…Carlos.”
“Ah, Carlos. You bear a noble name.”
He flinched at my hand on his cheek. No sign of a beard. Beautiful. The boy stood hypnotized while I stripped him naked in the cool, high-desert air. My sensitive fingers traced the broad, bony shoulders, the curve of the thin chest. His heart raced at my touch. I inhaled the push of air from his diaphragm as I slid down the gently bowed belly. He awakened at my touch. Well-endowed for one so young and slight, the boy responded readily.
Young Carlos moaned, torn between fright and desire. I wrapped my physical arms around his waist and pulled him to me, allowing the salt of recent sweat, the aroma of strenuous exercise and sexual arousal to tease my nostrils pleasantly. His hands closed on my head; his hips twitched. He was lost, and I was greedy for his fresh young semen.
The youth’s thin frame jerked in the throes of an orgasm he would fruitlessly strive to match for the remainder of his days. Shuddering, this fledgling Carlos, this namesake of powerful kings and emperors, would have fallen had I not eased his weight to the ground. I contemplated arousing him again, but he was drained beyond quick recovery. Satisfied for the moment, I disappeared into the night, leaving the boy naked and spent. I smiled to myself. The boy’s seed, while sweet, had yet to reach the peak of potency. The lad was an immature eighteen; in a year or two, his sperm would ripen.

*****

Hope that was enough to rouse your interest. Let me know what you think of the start of Tancready’s story.

The following are buy links for my last BJ Vinson mystery The Voxlightner Scandal.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. Mountain time.

Thursday, July 23, 2020

TREETOP INFERNO


dontravis.com blog post #399
  
Courtesy of Pikist
First, a bit of news. Dreamspinner Press notified me today that they are accepting my seventh BJ Vinson novel called The Cutie-Pie Murders.

Readership last week was mediocre, but the story got several comments on my private email. And yes, it was quite a change of pace for me. As is today’s offering.

*****
TREETOP INFERNO

          “Told you I didn’t want to come up here this weekend, anyway.” Lou’s chin trembled as she eyed the smoke rising just beyond the hill.
          “Don’t get your nylons twisted,” Fred said, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “You always like the mountains, and this cabin is one of the best.” He gave a dry cough. “Whoops, it just crested the top. Would you look at those flames?”
          Lou wailed and dropped her purse. “We’ve got to get out of here. Everyone else has already left the area.”
          Fred tore a little skin from his lip as he removed the butt and waved it across the small meadow. “It won’t cross the creek. We’re okay.”
          “Are you crazy? I can jump that creek… with my panties down around my ankles.” Her voice was muffled as she scurried around on the floor collecting the contents of the spilled bag.
          “That, I’d like to see.”
          “Figure of speech. Come on, Fred, we’ve got to get moving.”
          “Don’t go giving me orders, bitch. We’ll leave when I say so.”
          “Give me the keys to the Bronco, and I’ll leave. You can stay here and fry if you want.”
          Fred patted his pants pocket. “They’re right here, and that’s where they’re gonna stay. Think of it, we’ll be able to say we rode out a forest fire.”
          “Roasted out, is more like it. Seriously, Fred, let’s go! Please.”
          “You’re such a mama’s girl. Scared of your shadow. Look, if it doesn’t stop at the creek, it’ll have to cross the meadow. There’ll be plenty of time to get out.”
          Lou grabbed an old-fashioned hand fan from the table and waved it frantically in front of her face. “It’s getting hot, Fred.”
          “It’s been hot… and dry.”
          “No, I mean I can feel the heat from the fire. Please, let’s get in the car and go.”
          “In a minute. Fix me a glass of sweet tea. Get one for yourself. That’ll cool us off.”
          “Fred, I can’t breathe.”
          “Imagination. Just your imagination.
          Fred couldn’t believe the speed of the wildfire as it raced down the side of the hill. Rollins Mountain, the locals called it. Wasn’t big enough to be a mountain. Smoke roiling in front of the flames indicated the wind was in this direction, but most of the stuff—including fiery sparks were going straight up. He watched as a tongue of flame twisted around like a waterspout. Lou clutched his arm. Her tremors of fright irked him. “Where’s that tea?”
          “Get it yourself. All gone, anyway.” She squealed as the flames reached a small grassy patch of ground and raced to the far bank of Pullinan’s Creek. As Fred had predicted, the flames died in the damp earth.
          He pointed with his ever-present cigarette. “See. Stopped.”
          Wide-eyed, Lou pointed to the right. “What about there?”
          Fred’s chin dropped as he shifted his gaze. The relentless flames fought their way through the trees to the north, sounding like a freight train. It was true. Everyone said “like a freight train,” and that’s exactly what it sounded like. Entranced, he stared, unable to move as orange fingers reached across the creek and touched dried boughs faded to a tannish green, and two spruce ignited instantly.
          “Fred!” Lou shrieked. “Let’s go before it’s too late.” She released him and tore off the porch of the log cabin, heading for the brown Bronco parked in front. Startled out of his lethargy, Fred tossed aside the cigarette and bounded down the steps.
          Gas! He shoulda got gas in town before starting up the mountain. How much did he have? Fumes. The tank was full of fumes. Fumes exploded, didn’t they. Not the gas, it just burned, but the fumes…
          He reached the side of the vehicle and fumbled with the gas cap.
          “What are you doing?” Lou screamed. “Unlock the door. Let me in the car.”
          The cap came away in his hand as she screamed again. He turned to look behind him.
          The flames had reached the meadow and rolled across the grass like water rushing downhill. He barely had time to comprehend before they licked at his boots. Superheated air made breathing almost impossible. A shower of sparks fell like scorching rain.
          The blast threw him against the side of the porch. A sharp pain told him something was broken. An elbow, maybe. Through the haze, he looked at the car. Part of the rear panel was torn away.  The Bronco was useless.
           The meadow flames had worn themselves out, so he was able to hobble around the car to find Lou sprawled in the dirt, bawling loudly but seemingly unhurt. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.
          “We’ll make a run for it,” he panted, finding it difficult to draw a breath, even though the flames were racing to the north of them, hungrily devouring every tree in their path. The wildfire was a living thing. An army on the march. Breaching the enemy’s lines, finding pathways through poorly fueled spots and racing on inexorably.
          As he started down the dirt road, hauling a helpless Lou along with him, the stand of trees to the north exploded—much like the Bronco’s gas tank—sending tongues of flame racing to cut them off.
          Lou gave a high-pitched scream and pulled away from him, racing across the burned-out meadow. He swallowed his reprimand as he understood what she was doing. The creek water. Their savior!
          He lurched after her, limping from an injury he hadn’t noticed before. The fire moved to envelop them before they reached the creek, but Lou made it, flopping face-down in the creek, now almost black from ash and half-burned material.
          Fred fell into the water a moment later, but it wasn’t the relief he anticipated. The surface water was hot but got cooler in the depths. The problem was the little creek was only three to four feet deep. He flopped over on his back and gasped for air. It was hard to come by. He could hear the angry roar of the flames even with his ears submerged.
          “Lou!” he called.
          No answer.
          “Lou!” he yelled again. Then he concentrated on trying to breathe, something becoming difficult to do.


           The Thursday Morning Bluetown Weekly special edition reported on the Wild Pig Valley fire, claiming it was ninety percent contained after consuming almost 25,000 acres. The above-the-fold headline story revealed that dry lightning had been the source of the conflagration. While destruction had been widespread, Forest Service authorities had been able to give enough warning to avoid heavy casualties among the valley’s dozen or so inhabitants, mostly summer cabin owners. The article concluded with the following:

Two bodies were recovered from Pullinan’s Creek in front of a cabin owned by Gilbert Findlay. The two deceased, identified as Lewis Wilber and Fredricka Mossman, were well known to the area’s authorities for their habit of breaking into uninhabited cabins and living off food supply stocks for a few days before moving on. Identification of the victims was possible as they were not badly burned. They suffocated after taking refuge in the creek. Wildfires are notorious for stripping oxygen from the atmosphere.

Oddly, the male, Wilber, was dressed in women’s clothing, while the female, Mossman, was in men’s attire. Locals who have known the two for years expressed surprise and indicated they had no idea of the subterfuge.

*****

If anyone can figure out why I wrote this little story, I wish they’d explain it to me. I sat down to write this week’s blog, and when I got up, this was what was there. Hope you enjoyed it.

The following are buy links for my last BJ Vinson mystery The Voxlightner Scandal.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

Thursday, July 16, 2020

ALMOST ME


dontravis.com blog post #398
  
Courtesy of Pixabay.com
I’m not sure how my two posts about my new novel The Cutie Pie Murders, went over. Got lots of hits but few comments. At any rate, it’s now at Dreamspinner Press, so we’ll see what happens.

A total change of Pace this week. Just a little something I dreamed up. Let me know how it works, okay?

*****
ALMOST ME

The path, rocky and uneven, made it difficult to find my footing given the shadows thrown by the surrounding forest and the fading light as the sun began its journey below a horizon hidden by towering trees. I cursed myself for not having returned to the house to saddle Thunder or harness one of the carriages. But I had already been far afield on foot when I cottoned to the time and grew aware of the approaching hour the summons from his lordship had specified. Faster to complete the trek by foot.
          And so it was, but I would arrive flushed and unseemly and likely be required to remain overnight. Nay, I’d borrow a steed for my return home. Earl Harold was not an onerous liege, but I preferred other company. And why was the “invitation” for me alone, excluding my father… even as a courtesy? Word would have reached the manor by now of the delirium in possession of my sire. By rights, I should have ignored the Earl’s message and remained at Father’s bedside.
          I broke free of the woods and paused at the edge of the broad expanse of lawn surrounding the pile of stones called High Wethersby Hall. Dark turrets husbanded the gathering gloom while tall spires desperately clutched at the last rays of the dying Sol. A dismal place despite flickering lights at many of the windows.
          Before stepping from the tree line, I caught sight of an indistinct figure near the east corner of the building. I drew breath to hail the individual, but my call died in my throat. One blink of the eye… and the figure had disappeared.
          “My word, that was odd,” I muttered to myself. But perhaps not. The man, and I was certain the figure had been masculine, had been near the corner of the manor house and likely simply stepped out of sight. Resisting the urge to check on a possible intruder, I maneuvered the grassy lawn to the graveled walkway leading to the front door of the hall.
          Why did I assume it was an intruder? It could have been a servant, a groom, a guest. Almost endless possibilities loomed, yet “intruder” stuck in my brain. That being said, there was something oddly familiar about the phantom. My father! He had moved like my father in his younger days.
           One of the earl’s servants answered my knock and stepped aside with a mumbled acknowledgment, “Master Saxon.”
          I handed him my cane, alas my hat remained on its customary peg at home. “Evening, Pushkin. I am here at the invitation of his lordship. But I need a place to wash up and make myself presentable.”
          “Yessir. His lordship is expecting you. Right this way.”
          Once he showed me to a small side room with washstand and toweling, I dismissed him upon learning my liege was in his library. So it wouldn’t be a family visit. That would have been held in the drawing room. My curiosity heightened as I washed my face and hands free of dust and combed my mop of hair into some semblance of order.
          Earl Harold did not rise to greet me as I entered the library. He merely glanced up from a ledger, snatched off his reading spectacles, directed me to a seat opposite his escritoire, and leveled a look at me. I took in his lean features, frizzy hair the color of ashes, and firm downturn of the mouth. This was not a social call.
          “Josiah Saxon, there is no possible excuse for your behavior.”
          I straightened in my chair. “I apologize, sir. I came here directly from the fields.”
          “I’m not talking about your dress, man. I mean your behavior.”
          “I don’t understand. How has my behavior proved offensive?”
          His lordship’s cheeks took on color. “Playing the Peeping Tom on my daughter and her friends is not offensive?”
          My chin dropped. “Beg pardon, sir?”
          “Don’t bother with denials. My daughter saw you clearly, as did her two friends.”
          I gasped. “Esme saw me intruding on her privacy?” Not that I wouldn’t have liked to cast gazes on that fair flower and inhale her perfume, but this was a false accusation.
          “Precisely. And she called you out on it.”
          I gained my feet and stood ramrod tall. “Milord, I was overseeing work in our fields for the entirety of this day. In fact, I walked to the hall directly from our northernmost pasture. If I have given offense, it was not by spying on Lady Esme and her friends.”
          “You dare to stand there and deny your perversions?”
          “Aye. I do. Because the charge is patently false.” I hastened to correct my language when the earl came halfway out of his chair. “Lady Esme is simply mistaken. May I not ask her about the incident?”
          The earl didn’t stutter, but he came close. “Y-you want me to involve my daughter in this offensive discussion?”
          “I should merely like to assure her I would do no such base thing. I believe I can convince her of my innocence. And you, as well, sir. I was in full view of several of our laborers for a good part of the day. The remainder of the time, I was tending my father, who is ailing, as I’m sure you have heard.”
          “Aye. I sent my doctor to him. Not much to de done, I hear.”
          “I fear that is true. He’ll be taken from us soon. In a way, he already has been.”
          “How so?”
          “He lives, but he lives in the past. He talks to my mother and my aunts, all of whom are long gone. He will join them soon, I fear.”
          “Josiah, you and your father have my sympathies, but his impending loss does not release you from the consequences of your behavior.”
          “Milord, may I be so bold as to ask a boon? Allow me to return home. Once my father’s situation is resolved—one way or the other—I will return and make my defense against these charges.”
          The earl stood and delivered me a long, uncomfortable stare. “Very well. Go home to your ailing father. Once that ordeal is over, we will talk again. You should know that my intention was to have my servants place you in a carriage and deliver you to the proper authorities. But that can wait.”
          Given the circumstances, I could neither remain in the hall overnight nor request the loan of a horse to ride home. Thus, I departed the same way I had arrived, on my own two feet.
          I had nearly gained the cover of the wood when I heard a voice behind me.
          “Son.”
          I whirled at the familiar voice to find my mother standing behind me. My breath deserted me. My ma’am was taken away a decade ago by a fever. “M-mother?”
          She stepped backward when I moved toward her. “I apologize for your troubles. This should not have happened. It’s all your father’s doing. Joseph should simply have gone easy. Instead he’s fighting, calling on us.”
          “Mother, I don’t understand.”
          “No, I suppose you don’t. But….” She halted and inclined her head as if listening. “It’s your father. Joseph needs me now. Goodbye, son.”
          “Don’t….”
          As with the apparition near the manor earlier, one blink of the eyelid and she was gone. Staggering as if dealt a body blow, I reeled on toward the waiting path. I needed to get home. Make sense of all this. “Hurry, Joss, hurry,” I muttered to myself.
          “Brother!”
          A deep voice, also somewhat familiar, came near to costing me my balance. I steadied myself and turned to face whatever was there.
          What was there was me. Well, almost me. By a full moon’s glow, I perceived hair darker than my brown.  A noticeable lentigo adorned his right cheek. A fraction taller.
          “W-who are you?” I managed to get out, despite paralyzed vocal cords.
          “I am Jacob, Josiah. Your brother. Your twin.”
          “I have no brother.” I struggled to put conviction into a faltering voice.
          “Aye, you have. Or had. I died at birth. And the family concealed the fact from you. You see, I strangled on your umbilical cord, and they sought to spare you guilt.” The man, creature…apparition, gave me a speculative look. “I’m pleased you grew up to be a handsome, well-formed man.”
          “Why?”
          “Because that gives me form, as well.”
          I drew a sharp breath. “It was you!
          “Who invaded the lasses’ privacy? Alas, I’m afraid so. I’ve been denied so much and have so little time to satisfy a myriad of curiosities.”
          So many questions flew around in my head I grew addled. But Jacob, seemed to know them.
          “It was our father. In his dying delirium, he summoned me. Me and mum.” His expression grew sad. “I’ll go when he does.” His image flickered. “And I fear that will be soon.”
          “Wait!” I shouted. “We have to get to the manor. You have to tell his lord—”
          His image faded alarmingly. The voice weakened. “Not enough time, I suspect.”
          And then I blinked. He was gone.
          As the import of his disappearance struck me, I lurched down the dark, wooded path toward home, knowing full well that my father had died.
          Another thought struck like a pole ax between the eyes. How would I ever convince Lord Harold—or the police—of what actually happened?

*****
It looks as though young Mr. Saxon has himself a problem. He knows the answer to the puzzle, but can he convince anyone else of the truth? Did he convince you?

The following are buy links for my last BJ Vinson mystery The Voxlightner Scandal.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

Thursday, July 9, 2020

THE CUTIE-PIE MURDERS -Chapter 1


dontravis.com blog post #396

Courtesy of Pinterest
If you’re reading this, then I suppose the Prologue to the Cutie-Pie Murders did its intended job. Seriously, I hope it worked for you.

Now we go to Chapter 1 of the novel, and I warn you, it’s a long read. But I hope you’re drawn in. If you want more, it might help the process if you emailed Dreamspinnerpress.com and told them to hurry up and publish the full book.

Now to Chapter 1.

*****
THE CUTIE-PIE MURDERS

Chapter 1


New Mexico State Penitentiary, Santa Fe, Thursday, March 8, 2012

          “B. J. Vinson, you’re an idiot!” I told myself for the umpteenth time. Why in the hell was I driving up to the state penitentiary to see an inmate I remembered well and detested vehemently?
          Why did Jose Zapata want to see me? The lawyer who called last week to make the arrangements claimed not to know, said he was merely passing on a request. Not sure I bought his answer. In order to gain access to a Level VI prisoner, I either had to be on Zapata’s visitor list or his attorney’s investigator, neither of which was true.
          Zapata—better known by the tag of Zancon because of his long legs and lanky frame—had been the underboss of a vicious gang called the Santos Morenos, or Brown Saints. He’d played a prominent role in the case file I’d labeled The Zozobra Incident. José Zapata had  kidnapped the human being I treasured most on this earth, my life companion Paul Barton, and attempted to murder him before I literally dropped from the heavens to put a bullet in Zapata’s gut before he could accomplish the deed.
          Committed now, I sighed aloud and put the car in gear. When traveling from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, I normally drive straight up Interstate-25 for a pleasant trip of something under an hour, but the prison lay fourteen miles south of the state capital on the Madrid highway—better known as the Turquoise Trail—so I pointed my Impala’s nose east on I-40 through Tijeras Canyon and picked up State 14 North. Two lanes instead of four; a twisting drive rather than one as straight as the proverbial arrow but also more interesting.
          For the first leg of the trip, I turned on the car’s stereo to catch Kelly Clarkson warbling “Stronger”—or what I knew as “What Doesn’t Kill You”—and a newscast dominated by speculation of whether oil restrictions would end Iran’s nuclear weapons program. Wary of icy stretches of mountain road where the sun didn’t reach—something unforeseen—I snapped off the radio to concentrate on driving.
          I manfully resisted stopping in Madrid, a former coal mining town now turned artist’s enclave. Shortly thereafter I had to quell a desire to take a turn around the tiny square of yet another old western town called Cerrillos before eventually pulling into the visitor’s parking area at the penitentiary.
          Upon successfully maneuvering the prison’s metal detector, a piece of equipment no self-respecting airport would accept as adequate security, I addressed a corrections officer. “B. J. Vinson for Inmate José Zapata, Number 79805. His attorney arranged my appointment.”
          Although this was the new state penitentiary, iron bars threw the same ragged shadows as in the old one, as if emphasizing the blackness hiding in every man’s soul, be he inmate or custodian. I mentally shook my head to clear photographic images of the riot at “Old Main” on Cerrillos Road I’d been required to study at the Albuquerque Police Academy.
          Thirty-three inmates died and two hundred suffered injuries in February 1980 in the worst prison insurrection in US history. Endless streams of scholarly studies and airy articles and outright fiction vied to describe in minute detail the overcrowding, poor food, official incompetence, and lack of training that birthed the uprising. I’d gone to school with a kid whose father died in the bloodbath. The family subsequently moved out of town because of harassment. People can be real shits… even grade schoolers.
          The officer I’d addressed scanned a list of names on a clipboard while metal doors clanged in the distance and voices echoed up and down the hallway. A prison was never silent.
          The man made a check mark on a list he was holding before responding. “Yessir, I’ll have him brought up.” He nodded to a man standing nearby. “This officer will take you to the interview room.”
          Nodding, I told him this wasn’t my first time at bat before taking another look at the man’s ID. “Simmons. Weren’t you with APD a few years back?” I referred to the Albuquerque Police Department where I’d served for ten years.
           “Yessir, it’s Detective B. J. Vinson, isn’t it?”
          “Not since 2005.”
          The man loosened up a little. “I remember you getting plugged when you and the commander were apprehending a murder suspect.”
          “Gene Enriquez was a lowly detective just like me back then. And now you know why he’s in charge of the Criminal Investigative Division and I’m not.”
          Simmons laughed. “Yeah, he let you take the bullet instead of him.”
         “Thanks for reminding me.”
         My escort, a young corrections officer named Pierce, took off down the hall, pulling me along in his wake. The absolute absence of odor in the stark hallway tempted me to believe the institution was pristine and sanitized… but I knew better. In the bowels of this concrete and metal beast, the intestines would stink. We reached the interview room a few minutes before Zapata.
          When the inmate arrived in restraints and with his own escort, as was required for Level VI prisoners, I struggled to tamp down a surge of sudden anger. Not only had he manhandled Paul, his gang had killed a young man named Emilio Prada by hacking him to death in Santa Fe’s Fort Marcy Park while thousands of people gathered there for the annual Burning of Zozobra ritual. Emilio had been a hustler, but he didn’t deserve to die.
          Now Zapata looked more like a sick old man than the forty-four-year-old thug I knew him to be. My bullet apparently hadn’t digested well. In the place of healthy—if malignant—swagger, I now detected decay.
          After the inmate was seated, his guard checked Zapata’s handcuffs, leg shackles. and belly chain to assure himself the prisoner was properly restrained. Then he and Pierce took up stations on the other side of the interview room door.
          Zapata didn’t wait for them to exit before speaking. “Vinson,” he said in a gravelly voice stronger than expected, given his appearance.
          I settled into a chair on the other side of a bolted-down metal table and addressed him by his nickname out of habit. “Zancon.”
          “Thanks for coming.”
          “Surprised to get a call. Even more surprised it came from Brookings Ingles. Didn’t know you went for the most expensive defense attorney in the state.” Brookie was long rumored to be a mob lawyer.
          Zancon waved a cuffed hand. “He wasn’t my trial mouthpiece. I was a cooked goose then. But now he takes care of things a man can’t take care of hisself. You know, when he’s locked up like this.” His black eyes looked filmed over with something… exhaustion, disease, hopelessness? “I got a brother with some coins, and he helps me out with the lawyer’s bills.”
          I took that statement to mean Zancon had managed to hide some of his loot. The brother was merely managing the inmate’s assets.
          “I got a problem. At least, my brother Juan has. But I figure you owe me, so I’m the dude putting the question to you.”
          “If you’re referring to the slug I put in your gut, I owe you nothing. But if your brother has a legitimate problem, I’ll listen to what he has to say.”
          Zancon flushed, showing a trace of the hood he was before he relaxed and spread his hands over the table as far as his restraints would allow. “Fair enough. Everbody was shooting at everbody that night you’n the cops ambushed us, but I’m the one who can’t eat or take a crap like everbody else because of the lead poisoning you give me.”
          “Now that’s out of the way, what’s your brother’s problem?”
          “Some son-of-a-bitch offed his boy. And I want him to pay.”
          I leaned back in the hard chair. “A gang killing?”
          He shook his head. “Naw. Kid wasn’t into gangs. My bro ain’t either. Stayed righteous while I was outlawing. He’s got a car lot offa South Coors.”
          “So what happened?”
          Zancon looked uncomfortable. “Juan’ll give you the details. He’s waiting for your call.”
          My antenna went up. “Look, if you’re not straight with me, then I can’t—”
          “I’m telling it like it is. No gang stuff. Mateo wasn’t in no gang.”
          “Mateo. He’s your nephew?”
          He nodded and seemed suddenly tired. The prematurely old man was ascendant now, but the gutter snipe was still in residence. “Yeah. Mostly went by Matt.”
          “How old was he?”
          “Eighteen. Wasn’t but eighteen.”
          “Give me some details.” The warning look returned. “Okay, at least tell me where he was killed.”
          “Albuquerque.”
          It was my turn to spread hands over the table. “Hell, you don’t need me. ADP will take care of it.”
          Zancon gave a sour smile. “Yeah, right. They’ll see what you seen. Another gang member offed. Good riddance.”
          “That’s not the way things work, and you know it. They’ll give it their best shot.”
          He leaned forward and tapped the table with a long fingernail, determination back in his eyes again. “Maybe so. But I know you, Vinson. You’re a damned good detective. And I want you to finish him.” He dropped his voice. “You know, like with Puerco.” He referred to the Saints’ top man whom I’d shot to death the night I wounded Zancon.
          Now it was clear why this hood wanted me on the case. He wasn’t interested in APD finding the killer. He was offering to hire me to settle with the murderer. Why did these guys always judge others by their own lights?
          Zancon studied my face and must have assumed he was losing me. “Talk to my brother.” He held my gaze for a long moment before dropping his eyes. “Please.”
          “All right. Do I work through Ingles?
          “Naw. All I wanted the lawyer for was to get you in to see me. Work with my brother. Juan’s a straight-up guy.”
          From what he’d told me, Juan Zapata was a used car dealer, and I wasn’t sure the two things held together. But maybe I painted with too broad a brush. We’d let time determine that factor.
          “Do you know who killed your nephew?”
          “Naw. One day he was doing good at the university, you know, UNM, and then the next he was dead.
          “Okay. How do I contact your brother?”
          Zancon lurched to his feet and cited a telephone number before shuffling to the door and tapping it with his knuckles.
          The same clank of metal, the same hollow, echoing voices, the same ghosts from Old Main followed me all the way out of the prison. I took the quick way back to Albuquerque—Interstate 25.


          “Why would you give that creep the time of day?” Paul asked later when I told him of my meeting. “Forget about him nearly shooting me, I damned near choked to death on the gag he stuffed down my craw.”
          When I’d found Paul that night almost six years ago, he’d been trussed up with a rag in his throat held in place by a handkerchief over his mouth. I grinned at the handsome hunk glaring at me with hands on hips, stance wide. “Maybe Zancon is right. Maybe I do owe him.”
          Paul’s mouth fell open and he dropped into an easy chair in our den. “Huh?”
          I reached out and tousled his dark brown hair. He batted my hand away. “If he hadn’t kidnapped you, I couldn’t have ridden in on my white horse and saved you, earning your everlasting love and gratitude.”
          “Ha! Ha! I was scared, Vince.” Paul called me Vince. The rest of the known world addressed me as BJ.
          “As I recall, you were spitting mad.”
          “That too. But why do Zancon a favor?”
          “Not a favor. A job. Remember, there’s an eighteen-year-old kid lying on a slab somewhere. I don’t like killers, particularly those who kill youngsters before they’ve had a chance to try their wings. Believe me, I’ve seen more than my share of adolescent corpses.”
          My lover gave me an uncertain smile. “Can’t cure the world, Vince.”
          “No, but maybe I can catch whoever did this one killing. See he doesn’t do it again. Regardless who pays for my time, it’s Mateo Zapata I’m doing it for… providing I take the case.”
          “Mateo, huh? I remember him as a little guy.” Paul was a South Valley kid who’d avoided joining a gang, and like most of the neighborhood, grew up to be a decent, law-abiding citizen. “Matt was nine or ten years younger than I was. Cute kid. Smart.”
          “How about his father, did you know him?”
          Paul brushed a stray lock from his brow. “Juan? I remember him as a solid citizen. He’s about ten years on the other side of me.”
          “Was he close to his brother? To Zancon?”
          “Yeah.” He thought over his answer. “In some ways. Always got the feeling he stayed away from the Brown Saints. Skirted the gang stuff as much as he could.”
          “And now he’s a used car dealer.”
          “Last I heard. Who knows? Maybe he got his start pedaling cars the Brown Saints stole.”


*****
Sure hope that caught your attention and motivated you to contact Dreamspinner and ask for the novel. Feel free to let me know what you think of the book so far.

Next time? Who knows at this point.

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