David's World

Why is it so hard?

2019-01-23T08:08:00.001-06:00

It's coming up on two years since I was diagnosed with social anxiety and aspergers, over a year since I've been put on medication, and it's easier, but it's still hard.

"David, are you doing okay?"

"Yeah, sure, how are you? Hey did you see x or How was that thing you did."

I'm not doing okay and I just deflected you. What, you didn't notice that when you asked how I was I made sure and remembered what your favorite topic of conversation was and moved it on to that?

Why would I want to tell you I'm a mess inside, that my heart is racing, that I'm just scared to face the day? Why would I tell you that all I want to do is cry? Why would I tell you that I've been masking this for 44 years and I'm a damn pro at it? Why would I tell you that I don't even know what I want to talk about? That I've been deflecting and avoiding for so long I haven't a clue how to begin talking about me.

When I do get the courage to say something, to be be fair, something so vague that no one picks up on it, and no one follows up or asks me, I shut it down.

Life's been easier the past two years, but it's still so hard, and I don't know how to change that.

It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

2017-10-31T08:09:00.005-05:00

This is my FAVORITE Time of year. What I call the Holiday Season (October 31st-February 14th) is here. The past few days I've been so nervous. Would I get to enjoy it this year, because last year....I was miserable the entire time. Yes, I dressed up as the Old School TV Joker, but that was more because Grace wanted to be Harley Quinn and wanted us to go together like that. Last year I was fighting me, and losing. I wasn't diagnosed until February 15th, what I now refer to as my new birthday. (This day use to be Happy Pitchers and Catchers Report Day in case you were wondering)

All week I've worried I won't be happy, I'll sink back into that funk, but I didn't. I've smiled more in the last 24 hours than I knew was possible. I'm physically exhausted with all the stuff going on in my life, and at night I just basically collapse, but there is joy, and I can't stress how good it feels. So for the next 3 1/2 months, I'm going to be happy as can be, post stupid stuff, and some may find me down right looney. I love Valentine's Day, always have, because it's the hope of love. The New Year brings the hope of a second chance. Christmas is family and love. Thanksgiving is a chance to reflect on all the blessings we have received. And Halloween, it's an excuse to dress up and just be a little zany...and don't we need zany...

I know some get depressed this time of year because of all they've lost, and I feel for them. But I also know this life is too short, and I can't do last year ever again, because I only get so many. So smile, we're all gonna end up in the same place some day, so let's enjoy the ride, let's be kind to each other and have some joy in our life. Happy Holiday Season everyone! Now if you'll excuse me, I have some zombie chair dancing to Thriller to do!

I can fight

2017-09-06T11:33:00.000-05:00

I've been working on this on and off all day. Should I post it, should I not, but given what this month is, I feel I need to.

Today, I'm full of tears. A family member is dying, and there is nothing I can do. She's dying of cancer.

Writing has been my outlet for several years now. I started writing about this detective, who was different, and I came to realize over the past several months it was my outlet for my Aspergers. I even wrote him having it, though I didn't realize it at the time.

The past few months I've been open as I can about my mental illness (Aspergers and General Anxiety). I've written for the Mighty, I've contributed the best I can to campaigns, especially suicide prevention month.

This weekend, I had the worst breakdown I've had in a long, long time. I was so down in the dumps, and then yesterday news came about my family member. My anxiety literally said, my bad, and walked away. See as bad as it gets, the anxiety can't kill me. Only I can decide to do that. My cousin, she can't fight that. She's losing, and soon, she will just lose. Those may be the most painful words I have ever written, but they are true. I've learned something from this, and I swear to God, I wish if me not learning it would keep her here. In the end, it's my choice in this battle, and make no mistake, it is a battle. Every day. I am going to lose some days, but I don't have to lose the war. My cousin, she has no choice, she's going to lose the war.

So do me a favor, hug those that are close, tell them you love them, and those you wish that relationship was different with, do something about it. I love you all. This life is too short not to say. it.

Why Did I Wait?

2017-08-24T14:45:00.001-05:00

If you're like me, you have certain preconceived ideas. One of mine was the side effects of anxiety pills weren't worth the rewards. Let me tell you what happened to me on Wednesday. I took my first whole pill Wednesday (before had been all half pills). We had two meetings at work to go to, one after another, and typically I would have been what I used to think were all nerves before. What I learned Wednesday is it had always been anxiety. We got in the car, me in the passenger seat. I am that guy that when I'm not driving, I always have to tell you which way to go, because you might not know, or pay attention and if I don't we could be late and then people will look at us. (Breathe.)

As I sat down, I was looking outside, thinking the sky was very bright. As the driver, my boss, took the exit, my thought was, that's not right, but oh well, what do I know? From the backseat, my coworker said, "You're going the wrong way!" The next exit was 20 miles down the highway. Usually I would be a basketcase, but all I thought was, oh well. We might have done one of those u-turns you're not supposed to do, and if we did I would have been very upset over that, because that could get us in trouble, but if we did, I didn't care. (I can neither confirm or deny that last statement). At this point I looked at my watch saw we were late and did something I never did before. I shrugged about being late.

Part of me nearly lost it's mind, but the part that was in control said, "Sit back, relax, look at the beautiful sky." And I did. After our appointment was done we got back into the car, the driver almost missed the turn again, because I was looking at the sky, and I just shrugged. I'm not a zombie, it's just kinda rude to always tell someone where to go, right? You really shouldn't do that unless asked, and I wasn't so why should I, besides, we'll get there when we get there. I've reached a level of chill I didn't know was possible in me.

Later on in the day, I found my jaw felt weird, because I had been smiling all day. I danced to Taylor Swift with my daughter last night, ever though I looked ridiculous. My wife is looking at me like, "Who is this guy?" I'm changing, I'm not worried, I don't have a 1,000 ridiculous thoughts flooding me and overwhelming me. They still come, but they're stupid, who cares. Why did I wait so long? What was I scared of? Is this how I'm supposed to live life, because it is pretty cool. I'm not worried about stuff I can't control, I'm not freaked out about the grass being too high in the yard. I still remembered to set the bills to be paid next month. I'm not a zombie, or experiencing mania, I still care about things that are important, but the other stuff, so what.

Why did I wait?

6 Months Later

2017-08-10T08:38:00.002-05:00

February 15, 2017. That was the day I found out what was wrong with me; I had Asperger's, and General Anxiety Disorder. For 42 years I had operated under the assumption that everyone felt like me, boy was I wrong. I've learned a lot in the past 6 months, and I thought I'd share them.

I learned that this rage I felt in my head all the time was not normal. I can't tell you what it's like not to be mad, not to feel a burning rage, to be happy. I found out that this rage triggered so many of my outbursts. I found out that eliminating it, eliminated 90% of those outbursts. I found out being happy was okay.

I learned that it's important to share what I was dealing with. The more that people knew, the more they tried to help me not be in those situations that bothered me. Now I will admit that I've had to gently tell some people not to treat me with kid gloves, but I can't tell you how great it is when I'm going through a stressful situation at work, co-workers will double check with me that I'm alright.

I learned talking about my mental health is important...but not the way you think. Telling people about my condition had an unexpected consequence. I've been contacted by so many people telling me that me sharing what I'm going through has prompted them to try to find a way to help a child, a friend, a sibling, a loved one, or just anyone that they care about that they suspect is suffering from Asperger's/autism. I had many parents tell me I'm a role model to their child. They can point to me as an adult that succeeded. I didn't even know (well, diagnosed, I always wondered) what was wrong with me as I navigated 20+ yrs of marriage, work, and my education. By just talking truthfully about what I dealt with has helped others.

I learned that I do have empathy. I work with kids to go to college. The majority of my students are low income students, first generation students, minority students, refugee students, and/or foster kids, and for some reason that escaped me for years, I can relate to them. How a middle class, middle-aged white guy can, I had no idea. One day my therapist asked me if it ever dawned on me that I recognize the struggles these kids go through, because I had my own, that I suffered in silence with for years. It was like a light bulb went off.

I learned I don't hate me.

I learned I like me. (Not the same thing)

I learned I can communicate, it just takes some doing sometimes.

I learned my wife really is a superhero.

I learned that living life being miserable isn't living, it's just existing. If you take nothing from this, know that you deserve to be happy. We all do.

I can't wait to see what the next 6 months bring.

Just 5 Minutes

2017-07-24T14:05:00.001-05:00

It's been a strange few weeks. A few days ago, out of nowhere, feeling began to wash over me that I can't even begin to figure where the come from. Out of nowhere came the thought that others would be better off without you. I'm not talking suicide, because to be totally honest I'm to much of a chicken to ever attempt it. I'm talking just not being around. Not bothering my family or friends with my problems, with my insecurities, with me. Today, yesterday, and a lot of last week, I simply think I'm not worth the trouble. I find myself crying, just sad. I don't know what has brought it on, and I don't know how to fix it. My mantra for the past few days, just get through the next 5 minutes. It is exhausting. It is embarrassing. It is driving me crazy. I am tired. I am tired of fighting with myself. I am tired of people telling me I'm being ridiculous. I know it's ridiculous, but it won't stop. I will be alright, but whether it's today, tomorrow, or next week, I can't tell you when. I envy those whose minds don't terrorize them. I envy those who thoughts don't haunt them every night while they try to sleep. Maybe one day I'll get control of my thoughts, but until then I'll keep fighting. But today, today I'm just tired.

Not So Long Ago, In This Galaxy Right Here

2017-04-18T08:26:00.001-05:00

Bare with me, this one is two parts, but you need some backstory first, I'll give you bare bones.

Episode IV - They Gave Me Hope

My father had Guillain-Barre Syndrome. You don't know what that is, don't worry the doctors barely did. It was 1982, and I was 7. I was in 3rd grade. I had seen Star Wars, once. One night in February my father collapsed unable to walk, within a few hours he was in the hospital and had lost all ability to move. For all intensive purposes, me and my two sisters moved in with my aunt. During that time, HBO ran Episode IV - A New Hope, well, alot, and given my state, my aunt let me watch it each time it was on. During that time, I became friends, if not family, with some pretty cool people. There was the rouge, Han Solo, the Wookie, Chewbacca, the whiner, Luke, and the beautiful, smart-aleck, witty, princess Leia. They saved the galaxy and my sanity during that time.

That's a nice story, right? That would be a great story, but it wasn't the end...I just didn't know it. 2016. My world was in shambles. It was December, and I had canceled Christmas in my head. I love Christmas. I love the meaning, the songs (I play them all year long). The decorations, the feelings I get, and most of all, the love. 2016, there was no love. I did not want to come out of bed. I knew everyone hated me, thought I was a loser, thought I was a fraud, and mostly, thought I was worthless...and I knew they were right.

This is all nothing I haven't shared before, but what I'm about to tell you is true, and I've been ashamed, or something to tell it, because part of me feels it's my fault. That's my anxiety talking I know that, but it still feels like it was my fault. The first weekend in December, I found myself researching, and that's when I started to really wonder, did I have Aspergers? Was it that simple? The answer in my head was no. I got the courage to make the phone call, and the doctor couldn't see me until after the New Year. I told him I'd get back with him. For the next week I went back and forth on what to do.

Some friends rented a private screening of Rogue One. I had my tickets months before, and the day was here, and I didn't want to go. That's when I knew something was terribly wrong. I stood in line for over 19 hours for Episode One tickets. I went and saw Episode One 7 times at the theater. Do you get it? I love Star Wars, and I didn't want to go. Because there were people...that were judging me...at least so I thought. I sat there, nearly trembling because I was so upset to be in public, but this story began to unfold, and by the end, I was so drawn in. At the end (Spoiler Alert) there is my princess again, Leia...and my mind started to think about Carrie Fisher, and all of her mental illness battles she has had over the years. I still was on the fence. A week later, I was on twitter, and why I don't know, but within minutes of her collapsing, I knew. Over the next week I read, and read, and read. I read about her struggles of her mental illness. I read how this amazing, beautiful, tortured soul struggled her entire life. Not only did she say she was ill, she wasn't ashamed. "I am mentally ill. I can say that. I am not ashamed of it. I survived that, I'm still surviving it, but bring it on. Better me than you." That quote...that quote still brings me to tear, because she saved my life with that quote. She passed on December 27th. I know because that was the day I called and scheduled the appointments with my doctor. Today part of me still feels guilty, and I know deep down that it's not my fault, but part of me, the part that won't shut up because of my mental illness, that I'm no longer ashamed of, keeps telling me if I had made that appointment she would still be alive. This week in therapy, my therapist told me that when I feel anxiety to just accept it. Admit it's there, acknowledge it and carry on through it. She said we are just going to recognize it is a part of who you are. So I did, but being the nerd I am, I found myself thinking, "I am one with the force, the force is one with me. I am one with anxiety, anxiety is one with me." It kinda worked.

So, Carrie Fisher saved my life, not directly, but it was her bravery, that gave me the moment of bravery I needed. This struggle isn't easy, and I know I have it better than so many. So let me do this.

Hello, my name is David Carner, and I have 2 mental illnesses, Asperger's (autism) and General Anxiety Disorder. I am not ashamed, they are part of who I am, and if I can help one person, than that means the world to me. If you've made it this far, and wonder is there something easy you can try, the following link is ABC Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It has done wonders with me. You may see me in a situation shut my eye and mutter something to myself, that's me working my process. http://www.basic-counseling-skills.com/cognitive-behavioral-therapy.html Also if you ever need someone to listen, then hit me up on twitter @davidcarner If you don't want to talk publicly, you can message me. Thanks for reading, and thank you Carrie for saving my life. You been a Princess, a General, and a Godsend. RIP.

Till next time, whenever that is

David

Everything I Thought I Knew Was Wrong

2017-03-07T11:24:00.000-06:00

(Note, this is a piece I submitted to The Mighty)

Most people would have looked at me in July of 2016, and thought, “He has got life figured out.” They would have seen a person who had just defended his dissertation and earned his Ed.D in Educational Leadership, who was a few months from publishing his seventh novel, and a person who had a wonderful wife and an amazing daughter. What they wouldn’t know is underneath that exterior was someone who thought, “I’m not good enough. I have no friends. There’s something wrong with me. I’m worthless.”

In the fall of 2016, I was sitting in a departmental meeting at the college I work for and was listening to a presentation of Student Disabilities. I would like to tell you that I can tell you what he talked about, but I had so many thoughts running through my head that I couldn’t concentrate on what he was say. Also, there were nearly 100 people in the room, so I had to sit in the back corner and pray no one saw me, lest they would start talking about me. What I do remember him saying was the majority of the disabilities his office dealt with were ones on the inside that most people would never notice. What I really remember him saying is these disabilities are real. All I could think is, “Those poor souls. Someone out there has these thoughts of being worthless, or can’t even be in a room with a group of people because it bothers them so much.” (I mean let’s be honest, at this point it had never occurred to me what was wrong, but that was the moment I started to wonder.)

In December, after the program I worked for, hired a new director, even though I had been co-running the program for over a year, the thoughts of worthlessness flooded me like a constant tidal wave. Most mornings it was a struggle to get out of bed, much less face my students I try to prepare for college. As I stood in front of a group of seniors talking about scholarships and making sure their FAFSA was complete, all I could wonder is what I was doing. I was a complete, worthless fraud. They had to see it, they must have seen it. I was passed over for the job I was already doing, so strangers even saw it. That was the low point.

That weekend, I was on twitter and saw a lady who was in her 30s, had a Ph.D., and had self-diagnosed herself with Asperger’s. I read her blog and was in shock. The things she talked about sounded like my life, but I couldn’t have Asperger’s. I was 42, they would have caught that by now. It wasn’t possible. I mean sure, sometimes when no one was around, I would make noises to amuse myself, or when I was nervous I would pace until someone saw me and asked me what I was doing. Or maybe I clicked a pen, or tapped my foot, or tapped my thumb on my forefinger to relieve stress. Ok, maybe I would have these rage moments, in which I found myself wondering who let this irrational person in my body screaming these things that were nonsense, then break down in a sobbing mess, and then five minutes later I was fine, but that’s just my way of dealing with stress…right? So the question began to burn into my brain, and like everything else in my life, I began to obsess over it. It took a while to find someone, but testing began. What was supposed to take three sessions took four, and then it took the Psychologist sometime to make sure of his findings, but on that piece of paper, on February 15, 2017, I learned what I already knew, I had Autism and General Anxiety Disorder (I did ask, and he said if it had been five or six years ago, it would have been Asperger’s.)

I scheduled some therapy at the university, but it was a few weeks away, so I did what I do best. I started researching it on my own (hey, make it work for you, right?) I had such mixed emotions. I finally knew what was wrong, but what was wrong was incurable. In so many places I read, “It’s manageable.” I don’t know about you, but that sounds horrible. That sounds like making sure someone is comfortable before they die. At that moment, in the heart of some of my biggest doubts of myself in my life, I promised myself that I wouldn’t just survive anymore, I was going to live. I was through wrestling these disorders, and fighting for air. I was going to find a way to grab its hand and walk through life, and live. Of course the first week, I had a meltdown. However, for the first time in my life I was able to see it coming, I couldn’t stop it, but I saw it coming. I decided I could beat it, it wouldn’t happen. It did. It was one of the worst meltdowns I ever had. It was in that moment I understood why some people use the word manageable. For the first time in a long time, I did something I hadn’t done, I didn’t get down on myself, but used it as a learning experience. I examined everything in my life that lead up to it, and realized a few small changes could stop it from happening.

The next week my wife feared the worst. I had three school visits, my daughter had two performances, three practices, a competition on Saturday, and my wife’s family wanted to have dinner that Saturday night, in public. To her, there was no way I wouldn’t melt down. I finally began my self-care. When I went grocery shopping I put my headphones in and listened to music so the voices and noises wouldn’t bother me. When I was somewhere that I could feel those levels building I politely left for a few minutes, or just left. I let my wife take care of some of my daughter’s practices. I have this feeling because I work shorter hours than my wife and she is the breadwinner that “I should” do things so she doesn’t have to. I’ve learned, “I should” leads to me losing it. By Friday night, I felt great. I was absolutely amazed, but Saturday, with over 100 10 yr olds, all day, was going to be a test. For the first 6 hours, it went great, but by 4:30 Saturday afternoon, sitting on some bleachers, with dozens of kid’s voices behind me, kids bouncing on the bench I was on beside me, and the lady in front of me not understanding personal space and had touched my knee three, nope, make that four, times, I could feel the meltdown. I turned to my wife and simply said, “I need a break.” She pointed to an open space away from everyone where I could go, “pace to my heart’s content.” I was never more thankful. I walked the crap out of that little area, and I was fine. I took my daughter and met her family at the restaurant for dinner. As the restaurant filled, and more and more people’s voices assaulted me, I began to worry I wasn’t going to make it. I had finished eating, and my wife looked at me and asked if I was done. I told her I was, and she said, “go.” God bless her. By the time she and my daughter got home, I was fine.

Last week was the first time I felt like a real human in a long time. The self-doubt is a little quieter, the worry is a little less, but most importantly, the biggest fear I had didn’t come true. I just knew many people would think I made this up, was doing it for attention (which is the last thing I want!), or worse, make fun of me, have been nothing but supportive. This is the beginning of my new story. My old story ended a few weeks ago, because now, I know, and I understand. I know some days will be horrible and a fight just to get through, but now there can be, and will be good days. Entire, whole days that I can enjoy. That is living, and that is what I’m going to do. Everything I thought I knew was wrong, but I’m learning new things, and I’m going to make my life right.

Intro to Dave's Living Room, A Podcast focusing on wrestling, and who knows what else

2014-01-26T23:35:00.002-06:00

https://app.box.com/s/30qd2umeiehm6om6kcti

New Day in Queens Landing Chapter 1 and 2

2014-01-14T08:08:00.001-06:00

Chapter 1

Terrance stood beside Cal and looked over at the farmer not believing what he heard. He looked over the bodies of the cows in the field, and then back over to the farmer. Eddie, as he was known, had called the sheriff’s department numerous times over the years. Eddie’s real name was Benjamin. Eddie believed that the name Benjamin was the name given to him by his alien abductors when he was ten. Terrance always referred to Eddie when he talked about why pregnant women shouldn’t use crack.

“You want to run that by me again?” Terrance said, wondering if this was withdrawal from not having smoked in the past few hours, or had he smoked some really good stuff today and had forgotten about it.

Terrance was currently a member of LaCompt County Sheriff’s Department, and a frequent user of marijuana. He kept telling everyone it was for medicinal purposes, but since Kentucky didn’t recognize medicinal marijuana, that was really a moot point. Terrance was a former linebacker in high school, and apparently once a member of Special Forces. Cal couldn’t get Terrance to talk about it, so he let it go.

“I’m telling you zombies killed my cows,” Eddie said just as calmly as if he was talking about the weather. Terrance shook his head and looked over the cattle. There were four dead animals. Two of them seemed to have cut marks on them and had bled out. The other two . . . Terrance didn’t know about zombies, but something had bitten them.

Terrance looked over at Cal. Cal was looking the other direction, like he was trying to track something. Terrance started to speak, but Cal put his finger to his ear. Terrance listened, and heard something that didn’t match the sounds he would expect to hear on a farm.

“Are you having any lumber hauled, Eddie?” Cal asked. Terrance nodded. It did sound like a large truck trying to navigate the tiny back roads.

“Naw,” Eddie answered. “You’re probably hearing those oil guys over there at the Miller farm.” Eddie pointed behind him as if there should be a boundary line visible.

“The Millers have a lot of oil on their property?” Cal asked, peering off in the direction Eddie pointed. Eddie made a snorting laughing noise, and Cal turned toward him, amused.

“Apparently, someone didn’t do their homework right,” Eddie said, amused. “The Millers have some oil, but most of the oil in the area is under my property, and Uncle Brody’s.” Terrance’s mouth dropped.

“Crazy Brody is alive?” Terrance blurted out, before he thought about what he had said. Eddie didn’t seem to notice or care.

“He’s 88 next month,” Eddie replied proudly. Cal chuckled. Crazy Brody, as he was known around town, still didn’t have electricity or running water. He lived in what could best be described as a shack. He bathed about once every six months, and at one time had all the grass around his house burnt away so he could see any snakes coming. “He said if he reaches 100 he’s going to put electricity in. He thinks it will get too hot in the summer for him to handle it at that point.”
“Do you check on him often?” Terrance asked, more from curiosity than anything else. Eddie shook his head.

“Naw,” he answered. “He got bitten by a dog a while back, and we wanted to take him to the hospital, but he don’t believe in hospitals. He didn’t show any signs of anything so we left him alone. I tried to stop by more often, but when you only bathe every so often . . .”

“Rank?” Cal asked. Eddie burst out into a laugh.

“I’d say,” he answered. “Now what are we going to do about these cattle?”

“I’m going to start looking for zombies,” Cal answered, keeping his face straight.

Chapter 2

Terrance and Cal walked back to the SUV. Cal looked around, enjoying the fall weather. He thought about how much his life had changed in the past few months. Cal had been what many would refer to as a dirty cop. He took money to look the other way while a drug lord named Hernandez sold drugs in LaCompt County. Cal’s boss, Chris Rogers, had figured out what was going on, and had been killed for it by Hernandez and his crew. When Cal finally figured out that Hernandez was selling drugs besides marijuana, and in more places than just LaCompt County, he decided to do the right thing and stop Hernandez. With the help of Carol, and Terrance, they took down Hernandez and his crew.

Cal had expected his sister Carol to make him turn himself in, but Carol and Terrance had wanted someone who was going to try and clean up the drug trade in LaCompt County. Cal cleaned up his act and began to live the right way. A few days later, while out on patrol, he met Sam, a beautiful blonde. They had begun dating. Life was good, until he woke up one night and found Hernandez’s brother sitting on a chair in his bedroom, with a gun pointed at Cal. Cal had spent the next few weeks double checking the locks on his home after that episode.

“Trying to decide if you can call him Hernandez?” Terrance asked, pulling Cal from his thoughts. Cal chuckled, opened the door to the SUV and climbed in. Terrance did the same. They closed the doors, and took off.

“It would makes thing easier if I just called him Hernandez,” Cal admitted. “What do you think of your first Eddie case, T?” Cal had called Terrance T for years.

“He’s twenty-five pounds of crazy in a five pound bag,” Terrance replied, eyes wide and looking disgusted he had to be bothered with him.

“Did you notice anything strange?” Cal asked.

“The dude thinks a zombie ate his cows, and you’re asking me if I saw anything strange?” Terrance replied.

“I expected more of you, T,” Cal said, and then drove in silence. Terrance kept looking at Cal.

“What did I miss?” Terrance asked, trying to play the scene back in his mind. Cal shrugged, a smile on the corner of his mouth. Terrance sat and thought for a little bit, and then noticed they weren’t headed back to the station, but deeper into the county. “Where are we going?”

“The Miller farm,” Cal replied, straightfaced. “I need to see a man about a zombie.”

Bucket List Part 2 or It's Chris George's fault

2013-09-21T09:25:00.004-05:00

There's this prevailing theory that you should write down your goals in life, because when they're written down they mean more. I don't know if I agree with all of that. What I do know is if you do write it down, you do know what was important to you when you wrote it down. What I do know is I've crossed 2 things off of my bucket list that I created 2 years ago. Is my bucket list the same today as it was back then? I don't know, and that's the rub.

See that's the problem, because if it is, then I have have another opportunity to knock something off of my bucket list. #7 have something published that is not an academia paper, is done. I've done it. I am working daily on #10 make a living writing. That goal is one of those things that will be a work in progress until its done, or I'm dead, so essentially I've done all I can do on it. That leaves two new spots, and one of them is to write 9 John Fowler novels (as of now 5 are complete and 6 is 90% done) and I've done 2/3 of that goal.
That brings me to why this is Chris George's fault. #5. Earn a PhD. That goal was written incorrectly. It should have been Earn my doctorate. I've found the program, and there's the rub. The cost is one of the cheapest I have ever found in a doctoral program, and the residency issue is taken care of. SACS certified, so there's no question about the program's legitimacy. Now the questions begin. Do I want to do this again? Do I want to complete 12 classes and write a dissertation? Do I want to put my writing career on a slow down, if not a hold? Those are the negatives.

Now the positives. Do I want a seat at the table to help some of the people I work with everyday if I have those two little letters in front of my name? Yes.

So I break it down. Class work, can do, but do I want to. Writing the dissertation. Please? 16 weeks to write a 60 to 100 page paper double spaced? That's called a good weekend. The research? I can do, but do I want to?

And that's what it all comes down to, do I want to. Do I want to sit thought these classes (admittedly online)? Do I want to do the work (admittedly 90% I can probably sleep walk through) I guess the biggest question is do I have the want to complete the goal. I don't want to be ABD (all but dissertation).

Then I think about one of my students. I've helped him, his brother, and his sister. Let me tell you about his day. He goes to school, when he gets out of school, he goes home, gets the mail, translates it for his parents, helps them pay the bills, then goes to work for 6 hours to help pay the mortgage, comes home, does his homework, goes to bed, and gets up does it all again the next day. Did I mention he's pulling a 3.6? I asked him why once, and he told me that's what he had to do for his family to make it here in America. He was given a chance here, and he intends to make the most of it. That's the students I help, and they deserve more. Then you have lawmakers and others who talk about changing things that they have no idea what's going on in schools, homes, or anywhere else. When I speak, I don't count. I'm just a counselor, I'm just some guy at a university. I'm not a lawmaker, a politician, or a Dr, but I could be the last.

I could be.

I should be.

I think I will be.

No, I will be.

So, if you like my writing, I would like to apologize. It will more than likely slow down a bit. Now remember I've written 6 novels in 2 years. Surely I can still write one a year while doing this. 2 1/2 years it what it will take me if I go slow. 5 semester if I go fast, and only three semester of actual classwork if I go lightspeed.(doubt that will happen.) Of course I have to get accepted, but I had to accept it was what I wanted to do first.

I'd like to thank you all for listening to my online therapy session today. :) Now if you'll excuse me I have a novel to finish.

Till next time, whenever that is

David

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 9 and Epilogue

2013-04-18T07:52:00.002-05:00

Chapter 9

Cal’s legs were hurting from squatting behind his hiding place. It was close to midnight, and most of the activity had died down at Hernandez’s house. There were only 6 goons Cal had counted. The three had decided to make sure they got Hernandez. Cal told them the drug trade had to end, regardless if he got back the file on himself or not.

“Do you know what the signal is supposed to be?” Terrance asked Cal. Cal shook his head. “Cal, it’s dark out here, I can’t see you if you’re nodding or shaking your head!”

“I don’t have a clue,” Cal admitted. “I did see Carol sneak over there a few minutes ago, and went back to her hiding spot.”

“Where?” Terrance asked. Cal got his hand as close to Terrance’s face as he could and pointed where he had seen her. “Oh, that’s good.”

“What’s good?” Cal asked. It was at that time he saw a trail of fire head toward the direction Cal had pointed at seconds ago. He peered into the night and noticed there were a couple of drums there. They appeared to have some symbols on them. “Is that gasoline?”

That was the last thing Cal heard for a while, except for the loud explosion that took out the drums, vehicles, and part of the house.

A few seconds later a few goons stormed out of the house with weapons. Cal watched one of them dropped and realized from the angle of the bullet entry he had seen, it hadn’t come from him or Terrance. His sister was picking off the men! The second fell, and Cal had an internal count going. There were 6 goons and Hernandez by his count, so now they were down to 5 men total. Gunshots filled the night air, and Terrance and Cal got separated during the fire fight. After a few minutes, Cal was pretty sure they had taken down 4 of the 6 goons. Cal made his way into the house, as stealthily as he could. He could see movement in the kitchen. There were two men firing out the kitchen window at Terrance’s general direction. Cal came around the corner quietly, and realized that Hernandez was one of the men. He aimed very carefully and prepared to squeeze the trigger when something slammed into his chest knocking him down and the gun from his hand. He looked up, breath knocked out of his body, at the other goon he hadn’t accounted for.

The bullet had hit Cal in his Kevlar vest, but Cal was pretty sure he had broken a rib. Hernandez walked over and made a gesture for the goon to head into the kitchen. Cal heard a sharp crack and the sound of someone hitting the floor, Hernandez didn’t seem to notice, he was staring at Cal.

“You think you can come in here and take me out, after everything I did for you?” Hernandez asked threatingly. John heard another sharp crack. He heard a moan from inside the kitchen. Hernandez aimed his gun at Cal’s forehead.

“I should have done this the same night I took down the sheriff,” Hernandez said. Cal closed his eyes and began to pray. He heard a gun go off, but didn’t feel anything. He waited just a second, and heard something fall.

“But you didn’t and I just took you out!” Terrance exclaimed. Cal opened his eyes and saw Hernandez lying on the ground, looking towards him with a bullet hole in his head. Cal gulped. Terrance came over and helped Cal up. Cal held onto a table, to keep himself upright. Terrance disappeared into the house. Carol appeared in the doorway.

“You okay?” Carol asked. Cal nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He was afraid his voice would crack from the terror. He felt something shoved in his hands. Terrance handed him the folder that Chris had complied on him. Cal took a deep breath and handed it back to Terrance.

“You two decide what to do with it,” Cal said.

“You realize this could ruin you?” Terrance asked.

“T, I have messed up bad, and it’s time I pay,” Cal responded. Terrance looked at Carol. She nodded. Terrance reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter and tossed the file into an empty sink. He lit the folder and stood there and watched it burn.

“You owe both of us,” Carol said as she watched it burn. Cal nodded. “You can start by being a good sheriff, the kind of sheriff this county needs.” Cal nodded again. Carol sighed and waved him towards her. “Come on, let’s get those ribs looked at.”

Epilogue

Over the next few days life went back to normal for Cal. He deputized Terrance and told him that he had to quit smoking marijuana. He was pretty sure Terrance was stoned when he told him. A new girl, Samantha, moved to Queen’s Landing and seemed to flirt with Cal any chance she got. Carol continued to keep an eye on Cal to make sure he was on the straight and narrow.

It was a few weeks later that Cal woke up in the middle of the night and felt someone in the room. He started to reach for his weapon on the night stand when he heard a gun being cocked.

“It’s not there,” a voice said. “I know who you are and what you did, and I’m not happy about it. Hernandez was an idiot, but he’s my idiot. You had no right to kill him. I’m going to kill you Mr. Shelby . . . just not tonight.” With that, Cal felt, more than saw, the intruder leave the room. Cal didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, at the sheriff’s office, Cal told Terrance what happened.

“What are you going to do?” Terrance asked.

“I’m going to do what I promised you two I’d do,” Cal answered. “We’re going to start by cleaning up what’s left of the Hernandez mess.” Terrance nodded, and went over to the weapons locker. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not going out there to fight them barehanded,” Terrance said, tossing Cal a shotgun.

“T, this is my mess, and I wouldn’t dare ask you to help,” Cal replied.

“That’s good,” Terrance said, checking his weapon. He looked up and Cal stood there still in shock. “If you try and hug me or something, I will shoot you.”

Cal nodded, and the two headed out the door.

“Thanks, T,” Cal said as they got in the vehicle.

“Don’t mention it,” Terrance replied. “I mean it, don’t mention it again.”

The two took off in the car to begin the long road of cleaning up the mess Cal had made.

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 8

2013-04-09T11:34:00.004-05:00

Chapter 8

As they came up the stairs, Cal put his hand down to his service weapon. He heard rustling upstairs, and was afraid Hernandez had sent one of his boys to take Cal out. When he came out of the stairwell, there stood Carol.

“Did you play basketball this week?” Carol was asking Terrance. “It smells like it.”

“I have a prescription,” Terrance replied. Carol rolled her eyes and looked at her brother and then back at Terrance and the ordnance they were carrying.

“Going hunting boys?” Carol asked.

“For Hernandez’s men,” Terrance answered. Carol looked surprised. She turned toward Cal for verification, and Cal nodded. Carol nodded slowly, shrugged and headed down the stairwell without a word.

“Did she know what was down there?” Cal asked. Terrance nodded. “How does she know what’s going on down there and I didn’t?”

“You’re the fuzz,” Terrance answered simply.

“I’m your friend and knew you were smoking pot and didn’t say anything!” Cal exclaimed. Terrance turned around and looked Cal straight in the eye.

“You’re a dirty cop,” Terrance explained. “I didn’t know if you’d try to blackmail me, turn me in, or just let it ride.” Cal’s mouth was open in shock. It remained open as he saw Carol bring up two bullet-proof vest and a rifle with a scope on it. Terrance started to stay something but Carol cut him off.

“You can’t lay cover fire and help him take the place,” Carol said. Terrance thought, nodded, and turned toward Cal.

“How long will it take you to deputize her?” Terrance asked. Cal shook his head.

“Nope, no way!” he exclaimed. Carol gave Cal the don’t be an idiot look.

“You know Dad taught me how to shoot,” Carol said.

“If you get shot, or worse, Dad will kill me,” Cal replied.

“I’m simply laying down cover fire,” Carol said. Cal couldn’t believe the mess he had gotten himself in. “Besides,” she continued. “Someone’s got to help you two. You can’t shoot and he’s half-baked.” Terrance looked up from what he was doing, started to argue, realized Carol was right, shrugged and continued to load his weapon.

“What are you even doing here?” Cal asked, trying to get some control of this situation. Carol looked at Cal, very angrily.

“I came to tell you that Becky that you went to high school with, she’s dead. Heroin.” Cal didn’t say anything, he just looked down at the floor. When he looked up, Terrance and Carol was staring at him, not sure whether to be mad at Cal or not.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go to my office so I can figure out how to deputize you two.” Cal turned and left the house without another word.

“Try not to let him get killed,” Carol said quietly to Terrance.

“I know, he’s your brother,” Terrance responded. Carol shook her head.

“That’s not why,” Carol replied, grabbing the rifle and heading out of the house. “I’m still not sure I don’t want to kill him.”

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 7

2013-04-04T09:58:00.000-05:00

Chapter 7

Terrance led Cal downstairs to what Cal could only call an armory. There were guns and ammo everywhere. Shelves, display cases, and hooks on the walls all held guns of every kind. There were crates holding bullets everywhere.

“Expecting a zombie attack?” Cal asked. Terrance looked at Cal like he was stupid.

“Let’s just say I’m ready in case I ever need to be for anything,” Terrance answered.

“T, you have more ordnance here than we do,” Cal said, still surveying the room.

“I’m better trained than you too,” Terrance replied. Cal slowly turned to Terrance.

“Why are you showing me this?” Cal asked.

“I said I owe you,” Terrance replied.

“So you’re going to loan me ammunition and weapons to take down Hernandez?” Cal asked, hoping that was the answer, but fearing it wasn’t.

“Yeah,” Terrance answered, picking up an automatic rifle and beginning to load a clip into it.

“Is that all?” Cal asked. Terrance gave Cal an annoyed look.

“What do you want from me?” Terrance asked. “Do you want me to hold hands with you and sing Kumbaya? Or, would you rather I strap up and we go run Hernandez and his boys out of town?” Terrance gave a challenging glare at Cal, waiting for his answer. Cal ran his hand through his hair and looked around the room. He looked back at Terrance.

“I can’t,” Cal responded. Terrance looked at Cal flatly. “You’re not a deputy.” Terrance barked a laugh, but Cal’s face never changed.

“You’re serious?!” Terrance more said than asked. Cal slowly nodded.

“If we do this, then people will get killed, and I can’t protect you,” Cal answered. “If you were deputized, then we might, and I mean, MIGHT, get away with it.” Terrance stuck his tongue into his bottom lip, thinking. He slowly nodded.

“Do it,” Terrance said.

“Do what?” Cal asked, not believing what he was hearing.

“Deputize me,” Terrance answered.

“You cannot be serious,” Cal said, not believing what he was hearing. Terrance was grabbing more guns from around the room.

“You heard me, deputize me,” Terrance answered. “I’m more than qualified. In fact, I’m probably overqualified.” Cal had never seen his friend like this since high school. Terrance looked so alive.

“What happened to you over there?” Cal asked quietly. Terrance stopped in mid-movement with his back to Cal. Terrance’s face tightened. He never looked at Cal.

“Some things are better not known,” Terrance answered. “Let’s just say the same guy didn’t come back.”

“Are you sure about his T?” Cal asked. Terrance didn’t answer for a second. “You don’t have to do this T,” Cal said softly, knowing he would never survive this without his friend. It didn’t matter to Cal, he couldn’t ask his friend to do this. Terrance remained facing away from Cal.

“Some things are worth fighting for,” Terrance answered. “You done taking dirty money?”

“Yes,” Cal answered quietly. Terrance nodded and turned to Cal.

“Then let’s strap up, get me deputized, and put these punks out of business,” Terrance said with a gleam in his eye that Cal had never seen before. “I can’t stand drug runners.”

“You smoke marijuana,” Cal replied. Terrance looked at him like he was crazy, shook his head and started up the stairs.

“It’s for a medical condition,” Terrance replied as headed upstairs leaving Cal by himself.

“I swear I am never going to understand that man,” Cal said to himself.

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 6

2013-03-27T07:51:00.001-05:00

Chapter 6

Cal walked into Terrance’s house. Knocking was useless. Terrance never answered the door. He also never locked the door. When Cal walked in he had to hold his breath while searching for Terrance. Smoke filled the home. Cal found Terrance taking a hit off a bong. Terrance raised his hand at him in greeting, stoned out of his mind. Cal grabbed Terrance and drug him out the back door to fresh air. Terrance was bigger than Cal. Terrance used to be a standout middle linebacker in high school. He used to be 6’2” 215 lbs. and could run a 4.4 forty. Terrance had joined the military out of high school and had become a firearms and marksman expert. Cal had never gotten the full story, but somewhere in the Middle East, Terrance was either shot or stepped on something and severely injured his leg. He didn’t lose it or anything like that, but he could always tell when bad weather was coming, and it did seem to legitimately hurt on a consistent basis. Terrance now spent his days smoking pot, and claiming it was all medicinal marijuana, forgetting the fact that Kentucky didn’t recognize medicinal marijuana.

“What’s eatin’ you?” Terrance asked.

“I think Hernandez killed Chris,” Cal replied solemnly. “I think it’s all my fault.”

“Chris? The sheriff?” Terrance asked. “Man, either I’m more stoned than I realized, or Hernandez just stepped up his game.” Terrance looked over at his friend who didn’t know what to do. “Chris finally figure out you’re taking money from Hernandez?” Cal looked over at Terrance in shock.

“T, how did you know?” Cal asked.

“Do you think we’re all stupid?” Terrance asked in respond. “You’re rolling in money that you shouldn’t have. You have never brought in any of his men, and every time one of them gets popped, they suddenly get out because of mishandling of evidence. I’m stoned, not stupid. The question is what did Chris have that Hernandez killed him over?”

“Chris had some type of file apparently,” Cal answered, still shocked that Terrance had figured things out.”

“What are you going to do?” Terrance asked.

“I don’t know what I can do,” Cal admitted. “If I take him down he turns in the file, if I try and take it, he’ll kill me.”

“You deputies are a bunch of wimps,” Terrance said, shaking his head in disgust.

“I’m sheriff now!” Cal spat back. “Besides who are you to talk?” Terrance lifted an eyebrow and looked down at his leg. Cal looked a little ashamed of himself for blowing up at his friend like that. Terrance sighed and crossed his arms. He knew how to fix this mess; he didn’t want to, but he knew how.

“How many men does Hernandez have?” Terrance asked.

“I have no idea, no more than 8 to 10 at a time are at his safe house,” Cal replied. Terrance nodded, and walked inside, Cal followed. Terrance walked up to a wall, took a look at Cal, and made up his mind.

“You’ve looked the other way on the things I do for a long time, guess I owe you,” Terrance said and began to shove a book case. The bookcase moved back to revel a stairway. Cal looked at Terrance in awe.

“I may have been a slightly bigger deal then I let one when I was in the military,” Terrance said as an explanation.

“I’ll say,” Cal muttered. “I’ll say.”

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 5

2013-03-20T10:01:00.002-05:00

Chapter 5

“Who says I was at the Sheriff’s house last night?” Hernandez asked.

“Come on Hernandez,” Cal replied. “My brother-in-law could tell the tire tracks came from vehicles like yours. Do you think everyone in this town is stupid enough not to figure it out?”

Hernandez laughed. “Yeah, I do,” he replied.

Cal was seriously beginning to think he made a mistake. He thought about the conversation he had with his sister a few months ago, regarding Hernandez. The rumor had been that Hernandez wasn’t just selling in LaCompt county, and he wasn’t just selling weed. Carol had told him that cocaine use and heroin use were up tremendously in the surrounding counties. She had also heard that the Mexican drug cartel was supposedly interested in making some deals with Hernandez.

Cal was beginning to suspect that Hernandez wasn’t honoring their agreement. There was something else that bothered Cal. LaCompt county wasn’t that big. There was only a population of around 15,000 people. How was Hernandez making enough to pay Cal off $5,000.00 every two months and still be making the money he was obviously making? As Cal glanced around at all the guns pointed in his direction, he decided that this might not be the best time to ask that question to Hernandez.

“Hernandez, do I need to do something, or not?” Cal asked. Hernandez frowned. “I can’t do what you paid me to do if I don’t know what’s going on.” Hernandez signaled for his guys to lower their guns. He leaned in angrily.

“If you’d done your job, we wouldn’t have to take care of the Sherriff,” Hernandez said in a low voice.

“What do you mean?” Cal asked. Hernandez said nothing, stood up, strode over to a table and picked up a file for Cal to see.

“This buried both of us,” he continued. “Now go do the job I’m paying you for!” Cal thought about saying something else, but thought better of it. He left. Just before he exited the door he turned back.

“Is there anything going on I need to know about?” He asked Hernandez. Hernandez barked a laugh.

“No, there’s nothing you need to know,” Hernandez answered, emphasizing need. Cal turned, walked out to his vehicle, started it, and took off, knowing this was probably the last time he would see Hernandez on friendly terms.

Bad Day in Queen's Landing Chapter 4

2013-03-13T13:09:00.002-05:00

Chapter 4

Cal walked into the house, and nearly threw up. He had seen crime scenes before, but this was absolutely senseless. Cal counted five bullet holes minimum in Chris. He nodded and Carol dropped the cover back over Chris. Since the county was so small, Carol had become deputy coroner. For the most part, she took care of crime scenes and brought the body back to the coroner, unless an emergency call came in that she was needed somewhere else.

Carol walked with Cal through the house; trying to make sure he didn’t get sick and contaminate the crime scene. She looked especially irritated with him today. Cal stopped and turned toward her.

“Have I done something that makes you more irritated with me than usual?” Cal asked. Carol gave Cal a dirty look.

“What do you think happened here?” She asked very angrily.

“I have no idea Carol,” Cal responded, genuinely confused. Carol turned and studied him for a minute. She pursed her lips and nodded.

“This was senseless,” Carol said quietly. Cal nodded. “It makes me angry, I’m sorry if I took it out on you.” Cal reached out an arm and hugged his sister with one arm. Cal noticed something and let her go. Carol followed Cal, watching him.

“Guys,” Cal called toward the crime scene techs. They came to where Cal was. Carol saw it. There was a blood trail into the kitchen and back outside. Cal went and stood where the drops ended.

“Was there something on the table?” Carol asked. Cal turned toward her, nodding.

“I think so,” Cal replied. “Apparently someone came in here to get something, and then left. The question is whose blood was dripped, Chris’s, or one of his assailants?” Cal turned toward one of the techs who was smiling.

“Don’t even start on us man,” the tech said. “You’ve watched too much TV if you think you’ll get this blood analyzed in under 24 hours.” Cal didn’t say a word; he just stepped back and let his sister bite the man’s head off.

“That is an officer down,” Carol said pointing at Chris’s body. “Does that not light a fire under you!?!” The tech gulped, and turned toward his supervisor, who just nodded and left the room.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the tech said. “I’ll personally put a rush on it.” The man left and Cal found himself chuckling. Carol turned around with an amused smirk on her face.

“What are you laughing about?” She asked. Cal shook his head. There was no way in the world he was answering that question. He continued to work the crime scene. Craig offered to give Cal a lift home so he could get his vehicle and begin his investigation. Cal accepted and shortly he was on the road.

After about 10 minutes of driving, Cal pulled up to Hernandez’s known hangout. One of his goons met Cal outside. He led Cal inside. Hernandez nodded at Cal as he entered the room. Hernandez got up and went to his safe. He picked up an envelope and handed it to Cal. Cal opened it, and saw the 5 grand he had been expecting. Cal smiled at his return on his investment. He sat down and looked Hernandez right in the eye.

“What were you doing at the Sheriff’s house last night?” Cal asked.

The four goons of Hernandez pulled their guns on Cal. As he heard their weapons click, for the first time in the past 10 years, Cal wondered if he was making a mistake by taking payoffs from Hernandez to look the other way as he sold weed in LaCompt County.

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 3

2013-03-04T12:36:00.003-06:00

Chapter 3

Carol climbed out of the ambulance with an annoyed look on her face.

“Why don’t you have you phone on?” She demanded.

“I can’t get a signal, so what’s the point?” Cal replied. Cal had been turning on his phone as the exchange took place. He saw numerous missed calls and texts. He nodded, impressed with the amount of calls made trying to locate him. “I take it this isn’t over breakfast?” He asked his sister.

“Get in!” Carol demanded. Cal knew when Carol was like this there was no arguing. Cal locked his seatbelt and prepared to hold on for dear life. Five minutes later they arrived at their destination, Chris Rogers’s residence, Cal’s boss. Cal looked over Carol. She gave him her famous, “you should have listened to me” look. Cal got out of the ambulance and noticed the front window had been blown out, and bullet holes littered the frame of the house.

“What happened here?” Cal asked quietly. He noticed the Mayor walking up towards him. Cal was getting very nervous. The Mayor extended his hand and Cal shook it.”

“Cal,” the Mayor said crisply. “As of right now, you’re the new sheriff of LaCompt County. We’ll deal with things later, but right now, you need to figure out who killed Chris, and quickly.” The Mayor nodded curtly, turned, and walked away. The reporter for the local paper came up to Cal.

“Anything I can do Cal?” Tyler, the reporter asked.

“Not right now Tyler,” Cal replied. “When did this happen?”

“No one knows for sure,” Tyler replied. “People started trying to call Chris this morning; that was the only way everyone figured out something was wrong.”

“No one heard the gun shots!?!” Cal exclaimed.

“The only neighbor around is 80, and she can’t hear you if you yell directly in her ear,” Tyler replied. Cal shook his head. Kentucky Highway Patrol had shown up and had offered to help process the scene. Cal knew that meant they were going to take over the investigation which was fine with him. What had happened here? Cal looked around and saw his brother-in-law Craig. Craig waved him over and Cal headed toward him.

“Bad day in Queen’s Landing,” Craig said. Cal nodded. He hadn’t gone inside the house yet because he didn’t want to see his dead friend. Cal was looking over toward some tire tracks that had been roped off. Cal motioned with his head for Craig to follow him.

“Any chance you recognize these tire tracks?” Cal asked. Cal didn’t have a clue about cars, tires, trucks, or anything motorized. Craig looked a second at the tracks and then back at Cal. There was a confused look on his face.

“Yeah I recognize them,” Craig replied. “Don’t you?” Cal shook his head no. “Man those are the same type of treads your SUV makes.” Cal nearly broke his neck trying to keep from whipping his head around to look at Craig. Cal had a bad feeling where this was going.

“Do they look like only my tire tracks?” Cal asked never looking at Craig.

“No,” Craig responded shaking his head. “They look like those SUVs that Hernandez’s creeps roll around in. Cal was torn. On one hand he was thrilled that there were other vehicles than his that made the tracks, on the other, he had rather it been anyone other than Hernandez. Hernandez Marrero was the known marijuana king of LaCompt County. There were questions as to whether or not he was involved with the Mexican drug cartel. Cal didn’t think so. He thought Hernandez help spread those rumors so others would be scared to cross him. Regardless if the stories were true or not, no one crossed Hernandez. Cal thanked Craig for the help and started for the house. Craig watched Cal walk away shaking his head. Cal may have been a smart man, but if the stories were true he was the dumbest man in the county for the deal he had made.

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 2

2013-02-27T07:57:00.000-06:00

Chapter 2

Cal groaned. He had heard the next door neighbor’s rooster “cock-a-doodle-do” for more mornings than he cared to remember. He opened his eyes and saw the sunlight starting to light the room; despite his best efforts to block out the sun coming through the window. Cal sat up and looked at the clock. The red numbers glared back at him. It was already past 6:30. Cal knew he had to get moving. He began his morning procedures. After he had finished his morning rituals and was dressed, he poured his morning energy drink from the big pitcher he kept in his fridge. He looked around the old house. He had bought the place from his parents when they decided the winters were just too cold and the summers were just too hot in Kentucky. His parents were now living in San Diego, where the temperature seemed to never change, regardless of the season.

Cal had spent his entire life in LaCompt County. He graduated from LaCompt County High School and took some classes at the local community college. The county was small, and the main town, Queen’s Landing was even smaller. It was located next to a lake, and tourism helped keep the county afloat. After Chris was elected Sheriff, he had approached Cal about being his deputy. Cal had quickly agreed. That had been 10 years ago, and little had changed for Cal. He checked on his folks in California about once a week, checked on his best friend Terrance, or T as he was known, every couple of days, and had breakfast with his sisters a couple of times a week.

This morning was one of those mornings. He was supposed to me Ann and Carol in town for breakfast in the next five minutes. He was going to be late, unless he turned on the sirens and did 90 all the way there. He knew his sisters wouldn’t approve of that, but there was a lot Cal did that he was quite sure they wouldn’t approve of.

He didn’t get to see Ann near as much as Carol. Ann was a school teacher, and had three children. She had married one of the local boys, Craig, and was happy as could be. Cal was happy for them. Carol, on the other hand, was still single, but working as an EMT. Cal saw her constantly on the job. Usually if one of them got a call, so did the other.

Carol had been inspired by their aunt Charlotte to go into medicine. Charlotte had been one of the best nurses in the state. They had lost her a few years earlier. Cal found it interesting that was about the time started to change in his life.

“Changes for the better,” he thought to himself. Cal smiled and looked out at his black SUV. He was quite proud of himself. He had been by himself ever since high school and he was proud of his “investments.” He chuckled at his conversation with one of the local bankers yesterday. The banker had wanted to know Cal’s secret in investing. Cal had his line ready.

“Buy low, sell high,” Cal had said to the banker. The banker gave a friendly laugh, but Cal knew it wasn’t the answer the banker wanted. Cal knew he had to get going or he was going to be really late. He walked outside, and had just locked the door, when an ambulance pulled up in the driveway. Carol was driving, and looked mad. Cal reached in his pocket, and pulled out his cellphone. It was off. Cal chuckled. The only way to get service where he lived was to put the phone on a windowsill, put the phone on speaker, and yell at it. Cal normally just turned it off. What could happen it this little town that would be so bad someone needed him 24/7? He was about to find out.

Bad Day in Queen's Landing - Chapter 1

2013-02-20T09:49:00.001-06:00

Chapter 1

Chris turned off the TV and shook his head; another Sunday night movie about another cop with issues. Where were the stories about the cops or law enforcement agents that did their job without having some kind of personal demon that they had overcome? Where were the stories of the good men that did their job because they were supposed to? Where were the stories about the men that felt they were supposed to make a difference where they lived, so that’s where, and why, they served?

Chris got up and walked across the living room to his kitchen. He looked in the fridge for something cold to drink. He settled on a glass of ice tea. LaCompt County had only become wet a few weeks ago, but Chris had no intention of going wet with it. He didn’t like the new law, but his job was to uphold the law, not enforce what he wanted, or what he thought was right. Not like his deputy, Cal. Chris shook his head. There were days he wondered why he made Cal his deputy. Chris and Cal Shelby had gone to high school together. Cal had been a couple of grades in front of Chris. They had been friends in high school, and Chris thought he knew Cal, but he had been more wrong than he ever thought possible.

Chris looked down at the file on his kitchen table. He had spent weeks gathering information. He had begun suspecting things months ago, but he never dreamed what he had found. The only question was to take care of things publicly, or privately.

Chris thought he heard something and lifted his head. He was sure he heard tires on the gravel outside. He walked to the large living room window and lifted the curtain to peer out. It was dark outside, but he thought he saw the silhouette of a SUV. Chris dropped the curtain and retreated back to the kitchen. He kept his service weapon on top of the fridge, but he was heading toward the gun cabinet that held rifles and his shotgun. He opened the case and grabbed the shotgun. The SUV resembled Cal’s, but Cal hadn’t been out to Chris’s in months. He grabbed the rifle and shotgun and headed back into the living room. He laid the rifle down and slowly lifted the curtain. Chris felt his heart leap into his chest. He was seeing shapes everywhere on his land. There had to be at least 20 men outside, all armed. Chris saw the first muzzle flash and shot the shotgun in response. He felt something rip into his shoulder, thigh, and his side. He fell to the ground. He tried to reach for his rifle and found he couldn’t. The front door kicked open, and the last thing Chris saw was the muzzle fire of the weapon the man was holding.

The man stepped over Chris’s body, walked into the kitchen and found the file lying on the kitchen table. He flipped through it for a second. Satisfied, he took the file and headed back outside. He stopped before he headed out the door, turned, and fired one more shot into the body of the local sheriff. The men all got into their SUVs and drove off into the night.

One Year Later

2012-10-08T12:22:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday, I quietly celebrated my birthday. On October 4th, 2011, J.D. Carner, the author was born. He lasted all of about three months, but it was under that name I first wrote The Road to Justice. The funny thing was, J.D. Carner was supposed to be John Fowler. Confused, if you've read these blogs before, then I'm sure you're used to being confused. Let me start at the beginning, October 4th, 2011.

You see, I sat down at a computer with the thought of writing a novel. Now in case you're wondering it took 2 months for me to actually get to that step. I had kicked the idea around of a short story for a while, but I just couldn't make it work. So I sat down to write the story of Veronica and Beth. (If you've read the Road to Justice, you should recognize those names.) There was no John, Jessica, Chet, Trip, Archibald, or especially Bruce! There was a story about two girls and how one was killed because of who she was and how it would effect Veronica. That was the story, I had more back story on the four friends of Veronica and Beth that died on page 6 or so then I did John or Chet!

So what happened? I sat down to type, and nothing would come out. There was no writers block, no mental block, nothing. There was just nothing. I panicked. I clearly remembered saying to myself, "This is never going to work." And then a conversation began in my mind. (I figure one day my wife will use this to have me put in a home.) It went something like this.

"You need a lead character" I ignored it, because this is the sign of a crazy person! Still nothing. Then again I heard, "You need a lead character!"

"Like an Alex Cross?" I replied softly. Now am I hearing voices? No. At least I don't think so. :) I like to think that this is my creative part of my mind communicating me in a way I can understand. So the talks began in earnest.

What do I call him.
You know.
No, that's my pen name.
You're not Mark Twain.
But I could be.
You can't write page one, how can you be Mark Twain.
Point. But what if I want a pen name.
Then do what the woman on murder she wrote did.
Not bad, not bad. J. D. Carner. I like it!
So, you're calling him John Fowler.
Yeah.

And that is how John Fowler was born. I wrote. I rewrote and I rewrote. The first couple of drafts were horrible. I mean atrocious. After day 3, I hadn't passed what today would be Chapter 2. (The first two chapters were originally the scenes in the White House and the graveyard.) After a few days I was ready to quit, and then, well, I started talking to myself again.

Would you let Grace read that?
No.
Would you let your mother read that?
OH @#($*@#&* (@^%$@&% NO!!!
Then why are you writing that?
Because James Patterson does?
You're not James Patterson.
But I need to be like someone.
No, you need to be David Carner, and trust me, James Patterson is no David Carner.

And that is when I decided to write a clean book. It took a day or two to clean things up, but after that, man did it take off. And fun! Wow was it fun. Do you know what it's like to be at the zoo, or church or anywhere and being stuck on something and then someone says just one little word and everything becomes crystal clear? It's an amazing feeling! And then, it was done, and I didn't know what to do. So I decided to write a second one. I'll let you in on a secret, John was originally going to die in the White House saving the first lady from David George. It was always only supposed to be one book, that's all. It's actually all Clint Bragg's fault. He said something about John's future adventures after test reading the first 10 chapters. That got me thinking, and thinking and thinking.

Well, that's all I have for now. Next time, I'll talk about Sins of the Son and how hard that was to write. Don't get me wrong, I loved it, but it was agonizing at times.

50 rejections = first 50 pages of my book!

2012-04-16T13:46:00.000-05:00

To find out more about John Fowler, please feel free to follow my author page on Facebook. The David Carner fan page currently holds all announcements pertaining to this series.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication:

To Mom and Dad (George): Thank you for raising me to believe in myself and that I can do anything I put my mind to.

To Chelle and LouLou: Thank you. Thank you for believing in me and encouraging me at every opportunity.

To Bobbi and Tonya: Each time I was ready to quit on this project you two seemed to magically know I needed encouragement, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

To Mr. Rogers: You saved me on technicalities more than once, and for that, you have my heartfelt gratitude. Thank you.

To Mr. George: You’ve been my rock through this whole thing. I don’t say it often, but as I’m concerned you and Mr. Wilhelm the brothers I never had. Thank you.

To Mr. Wilhelm: Thank you. Fourteen years ago, you encouraged me to write fantasy wrestling. You wrote your organization and I wrote mine. You pushed me to tap into my creative side. This book would never have been possible without you. As I said to Mr. George, you’re the brother I never had. Thank you.

Thank you to Ahmad, Amy, Amy, Carrie, Clint, Elizabeth, Leigh Ann, Linda, Nancy, Rob, Susan, and Steve. Thank you for critiquing my work and helping me stay on track. Without all of you, this never would have happened.

Finally to you reader: Thank you for picking up a novel from an unknown author and giving me a chance. I hope you enjoy the story I am about to share with you.

Chapter 1

Sunlight streamed into the apartment window as John continued to beat on his alarm clock. As the buzzing continued, John realized it was his phone and not the alarm clock making the horrible racket. As he focused his eyes on the name flashing on his phone John groaned. “Mommy” continued to flash across the face of his phone as John set his feet on the floor and held his head in his hands. It wasn’t his real Mother of course. His real Mother hadn’t spoken to him in three years now, which was fine by him. In fact, John couldn’t remember speaking to any of his family since the funeral. No, thought John, they would speak to me; I just don’t want to speak to them . . . not since I made that scene at the gravesite after the funeral.

The funeral; it had been three years, and it still seemed like yesterday. It seemed like just yesterday when his father-in-law cussed him in front of everyone at the gravesite. It probably didn’t help John was three sheets to the wind while his father-in-law was doing it. It probably didn’t help that John had told Arthur, John’s father-in-law that he was an interfering waste of human flesh. It probably didn’t help that he told Arthur that John and Sam had never had children, not because of John’s job but because Sam didn’t want Arthur’s interfering nose in the child’s life. It sure didn’t help that Arthur was right about John. If John hadn’t been drinking . . . . If. . . John’s thoughts were interrupted by the phone buzzing again.

John stood up and stretched. He glanced out the window at the city. New York. Sam had wanted to live here. Where else can you find the arts, the different types of people, the nightlife, and all the other wonders this city held she had asked him. The most exciting city in the world . . . for John, it was also the loneliest city in the world. John had only one friend here. Most of John’s friends apparently agreed with the words his father-in-law had spoken. In fact, except for Chet, none of his friends had spoken to him since the funeral. That was fine with John. He didn’t need anyone. No sirree, he was doing just fine one his own.

“They say every cloud has a silver lining and the silver lining is I haven’t had to listen to your stupidity Arthur since I lost her. I don’t have to listen to your judgments, your foolish ideas, and I don’t have to listen to you speak.” John smiled. As he glanced over to the picture on his nightstand of himself and the beautiful girl with him, his stomach dropped all over again. The smile fell from his face.

“I know Sam,” he said out loud. “It’s a lie. I am not fine. I’m a wreck and I don’t know how to go on each day without you.”

The phone buzzed again. John walked out of the bedroom and walked into the kitchen. He opened the freezer and stared at the bottle of vodka. The bottle was a reminder to him of all he had done . . . not that he could ever forget. He had not touched the bottle since the funeral. If only he hadn’t touched it before then. . . . . John had fought the same fight every morning for more than 3 years. He had been to AA meetings, but he had never spoken. He left the FBI after the incident. He looked at the wall at his PI license and scoffed.

If you watched TV in the 80s, you would think every other street in a city had a private investigator on it. What TV didn’t tell you was the majority of the work included process serving, chasing down debtors, and of course, spying on a spouse that someone thinks is cheating. Oh that was the best. All of the training John had received at EKU and Quantico wasted. There was nothing like renting some seedy hotel room and getting some interesting pictures of some not-so beautiful people doing things with other not-so beautiful people. John shook his head in disgust of the mental image that had invaded his mind.

With the type of work he did alone, it was a miracle he had been sober over three years. The thought of those people just then was enough to drive most sane men to drink. John barked a laugh at the joke his life and his investigative skills had become. John stared at the bottle and tears welled up in his eyes. “Blast it Sam . . . . I’m. . . He was interrupted by a pounding on the door. John knew who it was without even looking out the peephole on the door. He knew once Chet started in on him there was no stopping him, and for some reason, known only to Chet, it was time for them to talk. John wiped the tears from his eyes, shut the freezer door, sighed, and headed to towards the door.

Chapter 2

The pounding on the door continued. “John!!! John!! Are you in there? I will break down this door. JOHN!!!!!!!!!!!!” John stared at the door. He peered through the peep hole to see his best friend . . . well his only friend. Chet looked furious. John stood there thinking of his options. It was early. Well, it was 2 in the afternoon, but it was early for him. He hadn’t slept much from the PI case he had just finished working . . . and honestly he slept as little as possible for the past three years, so his mind wasn’t thinking very clearly. John did not think he was in good enough physical shape to try to climb down the fire escape. Well, that was a lie. He was in shape; he just didn’t want to exert himself if it wasn’t warranted. While John really didn’t want to deal with Chet right that second; to climb down a rusty fire escape, which might collapse in the process, seemed a little extreme.

John realized he had to do something soon. Chet was a member of the FBI, so he could actually kick in the door and get away with it. “JOHN!!!!!!” John sighed and opened the door to face his friend. Chet barged passed him and straight into John’s bedroom. John knew an explosion was seconds away. John counted down from three on his fingers. When his fingers reached zero, he heard, “WHAT THE . . . .!?!?!? Why does it say Mommy on your cell phone!?!? That’s how you list me in your phone!?!?”

John sat down on the couch and smiled. “Good to see you too Chet, what can I do for you this morning?”

“Why!!?!?!? Why do I bother!?!?” Chet stormed around the living room while John tried to suppress a smirk. “My last girlfriend told me that the best thing I could do is to let you fall into whatever deep depression filled hole it is that you want to!! She told me that all you want to do is join Sam. I told her that she was wrong. I told her that you were just going through a rough spot and you would get through it. I broke up with this girl because of the things she said about you!! Do you realize that John!?!? I left her because of YOU!!!!! DO YOU KNOW HOW HOT SHE WAS!?!?!?!?

John had been trying to hold back the laughing, but the last statement pushed him over the edge. John roared with laughter. He laughed until his sides hurt. As he looked through the tears that were rolling out of his eyes he noticed Chet was sitting on the chair laughing as hard as he was.

After several minutes of the chuckles dying down John spoke. “You’re the only person that cares about me Chet, that’s why I named your cell phone number Mommy.” John tried to keep a straight face but he burst into laughter and Chet did the same. As the laughter finally subsided, John noticed a folder Chet was holding.

“Bring me a present Chet?” John asked. Chet would sometimes throw things John’s way that the FBI couldn’t, or didn’t want to touch. Chet hesitated. In that instant John read Chet’s face and knew what was in his hand. Oh crap, thought John. “No! No!! I am done with the FBI!!!” John was furious.

“Now John, calm down. You are being brought on as a consultant only.”

“Chet, I have no interest.”

“John, look, I know you don’t need the money. . . Oh crap, I’m so sorry.” John looked away. Sam had a trust that was left to her by her grandparents. Her grandparents were the only members of Sam’s family that liked John. Honestly, her grandparents were stinking, filthy, rich. John had no idea how much money they had. He honestly thought it was billions. All of Sam’s trust had been left to John. He didn’t know how much was exactly in the trust, but he knew it was enough for him to live five lives on.

Chet opened the folder in front of John. He laid out four pictures of people that had been shot perfectly in the head. John tried to ignore the pictures but the shots were right in the center of each head. The pictures had John’s interest. Chet let John look. The case would sell itself and Chet knew that. Chet just had to wait and John would hook himself. As John leaned back, seeming to lose interest, Chet reeled him in with one little sentence.

“They were all shot by the same person, within five seconds of each other,” Chet said casually. John’s eyebrow shot up, and Chet knew he had his best friend back on the hunt with him.
Two Weeks Earlier

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue Washington DC.

Chapter 3

Agent Luke McDonald tried to steady himself as he stood at the First Lady’s door. “Get ahold of yourself man, she’s not going to go off on you . . . I hope.”

Luke knocked on the door and waited for the First Lady, Lisa Nichols, to answer. The door opened and Agent McDonald handed a manila envelope to her. “Mrs. Nichols, this is one of those names you asked me to flag in the system.” Confusion spreads across Mrs. Nichols face. “Those special five names you asked me to flag ma’am?”

Mrs. Nichols smiled her best campaign smile and took the envelope. Agent McDonald spoke, “I’ll double check on the other four names you asked me to keep an eye on.” The agent looked down and then back at her. “Mrs. Nichols. . .Lisa . . .I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.” For a second Lisa’s smile faltered and she looked down at the envelope, confused. Understanding began to spread over her face. She looked sharply at the agent, pursed her lips, and nodded her head in acceptance. The agent nodded and walked away.

As he walked down the hallway and heard the door to Lisa’s office close, Agent McDonald thought to himself, “There’s a reason I suggested they give her the codename Silk. She’s as smooth as they come.”

The First Lady, or Lisa as she is known to her friends, walked into her private office. “Steady girl.” She said to herself.

She opened the envelope and her worst fears are confirmed. The headline to the paper that has been photocopied reads, Captain Jason Sparks Dies in Overseas Operation in Afghanistan. Memories come rushing back to Lisa. Feelings she had repressed for so long . . . they came rushing back as well. She shook her head as if trying to remove them from her mind. “Get a grip” she says to herself. She gripped the sides of her desk. There was no way anyone could connect the dots on what happened all those years ago.

The fears that she thought she had mastered welled up in her stomach. Her mouth filled with the bitter taste of bile. Tears come to Lisa’s eyes but she fights them away. She gets up and walks downstairs to find Agent McDonald. Lisa found him in the intelligence center. “Agent, can you do me a favor?” She asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“I need you to check the incoming mail for any of those last four names. I need you to make sure as few people see anything that is sent from them as possible. Do you understand?”

“Of course ma’am, are you expecting something from them?” Luke asked. Lisa shrugged. Luke nodded. “As usual, we will keep this to ourselves?” He asked.

The first lady nodded, smiling.

“Lisa, shall I destroy anything I might find?”

“Agent McDonald,” the first lady said smiling. “That is why you are my favorite.”
The Next Day

Cemetery just outside of Fort Dunn, New York

Chapter 4

Leroy looked across the cemetery and shook his head. Four people he never thought he would see again were present. The first one he saw was Colt. Colt had his tan from all those years working in Florida at a huge theme park. Every now and then Leroy received letters from Colt. Colt always seemed fine.

Leroy looked back to scan the crowd and saw another familiar face. There was Amy. He thinks her last name is Jensen now. Leroy chucked to himself. Amy sent him a Christmas card every year. The card is always a picture of her, her husband, and two dogs. Leroy thinks she’s a second grade school teacher in Illinois.

Of course there was Doctor Tom Bradley of Vermont, the genius of the group. Leroy was always inviting him down for the summer, but Tom never took him up on the offer. Truth be told, he never responded to any of the letters Leroy sent. Leroy wondered if any of them would respond to the invitation now with Jason’s death.

Lastly, there was the quarterback . . .in the casket. He was the reason they were there. Jason Sparks, 2^ndLieutenant, US Army. Leroy looked at the coffin and felt the sadness sweep through him. Lieutenant Sparks was killed in Afghanistan during a hush-hush mission.

Leroy remembered all of the times Jason had protected him in middle school. He really was one of the good guys. . .well except for that little secret that all of them shared. As the funeral went on, he looked around to see if the last member of the group was there.

Veronica Staples was nowhere to be seen. He knew she wasn’t there, of course. How could she be? Veronica couldn’t be here; she couldn’t take the chance that someone might figure it all out, that someone might connect the dots that Leroy knew were unconnectable. That’s all he had heard from the other three all week. He wasn’t surprised. He wondered how many of them secretly were happy she hadn’t come.

There were plenty of ways for Veronica to be at the funeral and no one would ever figure out the connection, but . . . no . . . no she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk the secret they all shared coming out. He understood. He just didn’t like it. Of course with Jason dead, maybe it was time. Maybe the truth could finally come out and he could get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in over twenty-five years.

After the funeral and the family left the cemetery, the four of them gathered around the gravesite. No one said much. How could they? They all looked down at their friend. Leroy wondered if all of the thoughts about telling the truth were going through their minds. Was it time to tell what really happened all those years ago?

A light snow began to fall. As they stood there they saw a figure approach them. It dawned on Leroy as the figure was less than 10 feet away who it was . . . but that was impossible . . . it was just . . . impossible.

Leroy swallowed, “David . . . David George is that . . .you???”

“Leroy Jenkins, Amy Jensen, Colt McCormick, Tom Bradley . . .” All four looked nervous and anxious. In one motion the man in front of them reached down pushing his trench coat aside on both sides of him. Shock and surprise was on all four of their faces as he pulled out a gun in each hand. There were silencers on the end of each gun and they were pointed at the two members of the group on the outside. Simultaneously he shot from both hands and then changed targets to the two on the inside and shot again at the second pair of targets. All four dropped dead. As he fired the shots, he answered.

“Yes. It is me. You see when I kill someone; I make sure they’re dead.” David dropped a note on the bodies and then turned and walked away. Each body lay on the ground with a single gunshot wound in the middle of their foreheads. The note simply read, Tell Veronica I know who she is, and she’s next.

Now

John Fowler’s Apartment, New York, New York
Chapter 5

“Four shots in 5 seconds; how do you know that?”

Chet smiled, “He sent us a tape of it. He’s that good. No one saw it happen. John, he wants us to know who he is.”

John looked at the file, it was very thin. He groaned inwardly and looked at Chet. Chet was looking everywhere but in John’s eye. “Chet . . . . “

“Ok, ok. We’ve got nothing, but there are four people dead and the killer sent us a video. There is also a good chance that the killer . . .” John leaned forward and was staring daggers into Chet. “I mean we feel like there is evidence. . .” John leaned in even closer. “All right; I’ve got a gut feeling.” John fell back on the couch with his arms spread. “John, I really, really think that whoever killed these four people also killed the soldier.”

John stared up at the ceiling. Chet was a computer genius. He probably could have been a rich computer tycoon or a world class hacker. . . . or both! Chet's biggest problem within the FBI was he was always looking for a conspiracy. Chet however tended to be right about when he had a "feeling" on a case or what seemed to be unrelated cases. That kind of gut instinct had the tendency to ruffle some feathers. Not John, he had no problem looking at something wild and outlandish, he just needed some evidence to back it. That’s probably why he and Chet had become so close over the years.

John was lying back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Special Forces?”

Chet, “We’re pretty sure.”

John, “Why?”

Chet looked confused, “Why what?”

“Why do you think this person has Special Forces training?” John asked.

Chet responded. “Four shots in five seconds; you don’t learn that on the street. Also, there were some companies deployed in Afghanistan during the time Jason Sparks was stationed there. “

John shook his head. He looked at his friend. “Chet, you’re doing it again; you are trying to make the evidence fit a theory. You know better.” Chet looked down. He didn’t know how many times over the years he had heard the same speech. He couldn’t help himself, when he got these gut feeling . . . sometimes they would just take him over, and he would push until he found the mystery. “Hey Chet,” said John, “I never said it was a bad theory, but let’s let the evidence get us there, now. Now, since you’ve headed down this path, let’s take it a step further. Is there anyone who might have this type of training AWOL?”

Chet shook his head. “Not that I can find.”

John looked at his friend and asked the question that had been troubling him, “Why me?”

Chet froze. John tried hard to repress a slow smile. He knew what was going on. This was a gray area case. Locals didn’t want it because of the proximity to the base. Feds didn’t really want it because it had loose military ties, and military couldn’t investigate because it wasn’t military personnel shot at the grave-site. The FBI wanted someone they knew, but wasn’t connected directly to them. It was the old political game that he had seen many times. . .and hated.

John also knew what this case meant. It could be a career maker or breaker. If he took this case, not only could it be his chance back into the FBI, but if he couldn’t solve it, he would probably never be back with the FBI. John wasn’t sure how her felt about that. On one hand he really didn’t want back in, but on the other . . . John had never seen the case file on his wife’s death. In fact, it was still listed as unsolved. John wanted one thing in his life more than anything, to wrap up that case. He believed he should be in jail, but he was found innocent of all wrongdoings. That means there was more to the story than he knew. As much as he didn’t want to join up again, there was that part of him, the part that made him the guy that solved more cold cases, or cases everyone thought were unsolvable, that wanted back in. If the FBI thought it was someone else who had killed Sam . . . John knew this was his one chance. He couldn’t appear eager. He had to make them think he was doing them a favor.

John looked at Chet. Chet had turned away trying to think of a polite, political way to answer his question. Chet was struggling with what to say to him.

“Chet, give me one good reason to take this case, just one.”

Chet looked his friend straight in the eye, “John if you ever, ever, EVER want back in, this will be your ticket.”

“Why Chet, why would I ever want to go back to them. Why . . .” John stopped and looked out the window. It had been over three years and it was still a fresh wound. Because of them . . . because of the FBI, he had lost Sam. This is why he didn’t want the case. John swallowed and looked at his friend. John asked the question he had avoided asking for three years.

“Chet,” John asked trying to choke back tears, “do you think I’m suicidal?”

Chet was taken aback, “John, where did that come from!? Are you trying to tell me something???”

John waived his friend off. “No, nothing like that, I just wondered if you were trying to keep me busy, showing me there is more to life, or show me the “good” part of the FBI. You know what happened. Chet, you’ve seen the file. I haven’t even seen the official file on her!!! You’re the only person I’ve ever told what happened to Sam. Not her parents, friends, or anyone. Well that’s not entirely true, is it?”

Chet looked away very uncomfortably. John smile. “How about this, you’re the only human I ever told what happened to Sam. For crying out loud Chet, it’s been three years and they’ve never done anything to me about it!!” John looked at his friend. Chet was so uncomfortable. But there was something else, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. That was one of the things that got John so far in the FBI and made him such a great PI. He noticed the little things and followed the trail until not only was it cold, but there were no other possible leads. Today John had other things on his mind or he might have followed his instincts. “But never mind all of that, you’re avoiding the question. DO YOU THINK I’M SUICIDAL!?!?”

“No John,” said the woman who had entered the room during the previous exchange and had stood quietly. “No John, you may be vain, arrogant, narcissistic, a pain-in-the-butt, and most importantly very hurt and lonely, but no . . . you’re not suicidal.”

John looked stunned. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The one person he had gone out of his way to avoid more than his in-laws. He stared at the woman and then back at Chet. “Chet,” John said very angrily, “Why on Earth is this woman in my home!?!”

Chapter 6

“Jessica. What are you doing in MY. APARTMENT!?!?!?!?” John bellowed.

Jessica rolled her eyes, walked into the apartment, and looked around. It was in much better shape than she expected. To be honest it was pretty well kept for an almost forty, recovering alcoholic, widower. She was sure there would be pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, and the like strewn all around. In fact, truth be told, his apartment was in much better shape than her apartment. Jessica chuckled inwardly. Jessica looked over at John and thought, so far, so good.

Jessica “The Hammer” Hammerstein was probably the one person John hated the most in this world . . . well . . . the second. The first being whoever had killed Sam. Jessica had been given the nickname “The Hammer” because of her work in interrogation. Most criminals always wanted her in the box. Most simply thought she was a beautiful woman that got the job because of her looks. However, once the interview started, they quickly regretted that decision. If Jessica found one inconsistency in an interview, she would hammer on a person until she got that person to break. Every once in a while a story was inconsistent for very valid reasons. Either way, by the time she was done, she would know why. John had used her skills as an interrogator many times over the years.

John spoke, “I’m waiting.” Jessica looked at John and took a deep breath.

“John, let’s get this out in the open right now. If you’re mad at me for what happened in that interview room over three years ago than you’re a fool!” John’s mouth fell open. Chet had known this moment was coming, but winced anyway. This moment had been building for three years. He knew if John was to ever come back to the FBI this moment had to happen. Over three years ago when John’s wife died, John was a suspect. It was simple really; wife found dead, husband is the first person looked at, end of story. After what had happened, the biggest Mafia bust in recent FBI history, and John was the main reason it all happened . . . the FBI had to make absolutely sure their man hadn’t gone nuts and taken out his wife.

“John, if the FBI had put anyone else in that box to interrogate you, what would you honestly say? “ John said nothing; he just stared at the floor. Jessica continued. “John? John!!”

“Cover-up,” John whispered.

“John, I can’t hear you.”

John shot Jessica a death look. He cleared his throat, “A cover-up. I would say the FBI had gone soft and had done a cover-up. I know that Jessica. I accept that. The FBI actually did me a favor by having you grill me. Let me take that back. You didn’t grill me; you rode me hard and put me up wet.” Chet covered his mouth with his hand so John wouldn’t see him smile. “I told you what happened, every gory, blasted detail at least ten different times. So tell me this, “Hammer,” John said sarcastically. Why didn’t I serve any time for killing my wife?”

Chet grabbed John’s arm. “John, we’ve talked about this.” John pulled his arm away and walked to the window and looked out. He put both hands on the window seal and spoke.

“Look, do me a favor, both of you. Get OUT!!!”

Jessica walked up to John, grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sure Sam loves the way you keep her memory.” John looked as though he had been slapped. “She’s dead. Buried. In the ground for three plus years. GET OVER YOURSELF!!” John pulled away and walked out the door of his apartment to the hallway.

Chet started to walk after him and Jessica stopped him.

“Don’t. He’s got to get past this if we’re going to be a team again. I admit, we need him, but we need the old John, not this depressed shell that’s living here. Let’s start on the file.”

“Here?” Chet asked.

“Have you got somewhere more pressing to be?” Jessica asked. “Besides he’s got to come back sometime . . . right?”

Chapter 7

John was halfway down the building stairs when it dawned on him. He had just stormed out of his apartment. He couldn’t help it. He began laughing. There were so many emotions that were swirling inside of him. He still didn’t know if his friend thought he was suicidal. John knew he wasn’t . . . not yet. He had one thing he had to do, and then . . . John pushed those thoughts from his mind. What would Sam say to him if he were to take his own life??

John walked out the door of his building with tears streaming down his face. He walked over two buildings and started up the stairs to his PI Office. Why he kept it he had no idea. It wasn’t like he needed all the room. He could do everything in his apartment, but John didn’t feel right bringing all of the cases to his home. He needed to keep things separate . . . well as far as PI work was concerned.

Sam use to give him grief constantly for bringing FBI work home. That was all in good fun. It was the undercover work that was the strain on her. 14 months planted into the Mafia, John had become too ingrained. He drank with them constantly. He had a problem, but he couldn’t do anything until his undercover work was over. John truly was surprised in the last three years no one had tried to take him out. Of course maybe that hadn’t happened because they were much too busy trying to take out the “rats” that had turned on the family. As much as some of the Mafia life was romanticized, when it came time to do life, or take a deal and live in witness protection, the mob crumbled. There was also another reason. Maybe the mob thought he was already dead.

John sat at his desk and looked out the window. He could see the building that Sam used to work in. He leaned forward and opened the drawer where he had the locket he had never given Sam. He was going to her the night she died to apologize. They had made all the busts . . . except one. A low level member had gotten away. If John had known that at the time ... John shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. He was going home that night to tell Sam he was joining AA and even quit the FBI if she wanted. John was a block from the apartment when it exploded. The FBI reported John dead. They tried to put him in witness protection, but he refused. That was when he first heard the mutterings of him being suicidal. Maybe he was, or maybe he just felt like he had nothing left to lose.

“Ok Sam, I take this case, get reinstated, and find your killer. Of course, as far as I’m concerned he’s sitting right here in this office.” John lowered his head and wept openly. “Sam,” he whispered. “Sam, I’m so sorry. It should have been me.”

Chapter 8

One Hour Later

John entered his apartment. Jessica and Chet were going through the relatively thin file for a quadruple homicide. Jessica saw John, stood, and walked over to him. She stopped an arm’s length away.

“John, we need to finish the conversation we were having,” said Jessica. John nodded, his cheeks still wet from tears.

“John, I need you. You haven’t lived in over three years, you’ve just existed. I need one of the FBI’s top investigators.” Jessica stared at the floor. She spoke very quietly, “John, Chet and I haven’t done so well since you’ve left.”

John looked up sharply. He glanced over at Chet. John studied him hard. Chet looked a little gaunt in the face. His eyes were puffy and dark like he hadn’t been sleeping. John cursed himself under his breath. He had been so wrapped up in his other problems that he hadn’t even noticed. He looked back at Jessica and studied her carefully. She was as beautiful as ever, but normally she was also very meticulous about her clothes. When he looked over them, they looked slightly wrinkled. It could have been anything from not being ironed to sleeping in them. Whatever it was, it was something that John, no not John, not this John. John Fowler, FBI agent, he would have noticed. He looked back at Jessica, nodding for her to continue.

“Since you . . . left, our little team has never found a person to replace you. She crossed her arms and slowly started to walk the room. “See . . . well, they kept trying to replace you. Geez I can’t believe I’m about to say this.”

John crossed his arms and smiled broadly, “I’m waiting.”

Jessica turned toward John her face angry. She crossed the space between them in three long strides, her arm extending. She pointed furiously at John as she spoke. “See! See! This is why! This is why no one has contacted you in three years! They don’t want to put up with you and your egotistical . . .”

John interrupted her, “Good to see you still can’t admit you need and want me.”

John ducked to avoid the right hook. Now if someone had walked in on this, they would have thought John was under attack. John knew better. For some reason, and John thought he knew why, he could push Jessica’s buttons until she was literally ready to knock his head off. In the seven years they had worked together he had dodged dozens, if not hundreds of punches.

John was laughing, “Ok, ok. Things aren’t going good, but you guys survived without me for fourteen months when I was undercover. I mean I was in a little, but mainly it was just the two of you, what has gone so wrong this time.” John smiled at the unspoken question he didn’t dare ask at this point.

Jessica was still mad. She was pointing at him and muttering under her breath, “don’t you dare.” John put his hands up to try and calm her. She sighed and began. “During those 14 months, no one was put with us. The three of us were a team, and no one dared try to replace you. After you left, well, the politics started.”

John looked at the floor. So this was his fault as well. Ten years ago the three of them started working together on a case and closed what was not only thought to be a cold case, but impossible under most circumstances. In other words; a career maker. The three had been made a permanent team. They became the go to team on all big cases. Chet could handle any computer problems, John could sniff out any lead, and Jessica could get the location of Hoffa’s body out of the person who buried him if she had him in the box . . . or out of the box. But that was a different story for a different day. John always worried what would happen to them if they were separated. Each of them was a perfectly good agent, but they each had a label. Like actors in Hollywood feared being typed cast, John had feared that each member would only be seen as their strengths, not as a total agent. Now John’s fears for the team had come true.

John looked at Jessica, “Trip?”

Jessica nodded. Lionel Pennyworth Smothers III, or known as Trip, his instance not the agents’ choice, was the Director of the New York office. John sat down in the chair. He looked up at Jessica waiting for the next shoe to fall. Jessica sat on the couch across from him.

“Bruce?” John asked. Jessica nodded slowly. John slumped in the chair. Bruce had been the go to guy in the office before John arrived in the New York Office. Bruce had told John many times he was going to enjoy watching him go all the way back down the ladder. According to Bruce, John had stepped on everyone’s head on the way up the ladder. John hadn’t, he had just taken Bruce’s spot, a spot that was thought to have been arranged by Bruce’s father, a Senator in the US Senate. John knew differently, but that was a story for a different day.

“So if you don’t solve this one . . .” John began. Jessica was nodding as he began speaking. John just left it hanging.

“Bruce has convinced the brass in Washington that we aren’t complete agents. He’s convinced them we are only good as the team, and now without you, we can’t be complete. He has completely convinced Washington that being on the team has hurt us. And Trip . . . well Trip can’t fight Washington and Bruce knows it.” Jessica said.

John leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Trip was a good guy; he just wasn’t one to stick his neck on the line. He wanted a safe, comfortable job. John was willing to take chances. Many had worked over the years, but some had backfired . . . very, very badly. If the higher-up at Washington were leaning on him . . . well, why would Trip save them? For that matter, how could Trip save them? Actually there was no them right now, was there . . .

John raised his head up, “So you believe if I come back and help you, then you’ve keep yourself safe for now. Let’s say I do this, and we figure it out and solve this case. What happens next time? This is a onetime reunion. I’m not going back in.”

Jessica smiled. “John, help us and buy us a few months. After this case is over and you don’t want back in, I’ll drop it.” Chet shot Jessica a look and started to speak. She put her hand over his mouth and shushed him. Jessica continued to talk with her finger over Chet’s mouth which caused John to raise his eyebrows. “If you help us, win or lose, Trip has agreed to let you see the file.”

John had about to ask if her and Chet had become an item, but with this revelation John jumped to his feet.

“Jessica, Chet . . . do not play with me!!” John was trying hard to keep his composure. This was what he wanted and more importantly, needed.

Jessica walked up to him and took both of his hands in hers. She looked straight into his eyes. He had seen that look once. It was during the interrogation. “John I need you to be you. You need to live again, you need to be that . . . “ She looked up at the ceiling, blew out a breath and continued, “you need to be that arrogant, cocky,” John smile was growing by the second and irritation was slowly spreading its way across Jessica’s face. “Smug, narcissistic, jerk that can follow a 10 year old scent across three continents.” Jessica was staring hard into John’s eyes.

John broke the silence. “I know exactly what you are thinking.” Jessica raised an eyebrow. John continued. “You’re thinking, he’s a widower now, and he has been for three years, would it be inappropriate if I kiss him?”

Jessica threw down John’s hands, and stood up as straight as she could to look him in the eye. She spoke softly but very crisply. “You know I asked Sam once about your obsession with me.” John was taken aback. “She said I was the only woman she ever worried about. I told her then she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Nice to see you’re back . . . JERK!!”

Jessica turned to walk away, but John grabbed her arm. She slowly turned looking at the hand on her arm and then at John.

“Jessica . . . I’m sorry.” Irritation left Jessica’s face. “Jess . . . . I . . . was so mad at you . . . you just did your job. I was so wrapped up . . . “

Jessica stopped him. “John, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. I was too proud to call you and see how you were. Look we’ve all made mistakes. Let’s just do what the three of us do best and crack this case. OK?”

John nodded. Jessica paused and then spoke, “There is one thing.” John looked at her. “You will be a consulting agent.” John nodded. “And if I hear you once refer to yourself as a murder or having killed Sam during this case, I won’t miss the punch on purpose. Understand?”

John smiled and turned to head out the door. “Let’s head over to my office, and Jess, the answer is yes. . . .” Jessica looked confused. “It would be inappropriate to kiss me.” John turned and walked out. Chet hurried after him. Jessica smiled. Yeah, enough of him was back, for now. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed all of him back. She needed John back in the FBI or she and Chet were goners, but first things first. They had to solve this murder or there would be no second chance for any of them.

Chapter 9

John’s Private Investigator Office

John sat down at his desk and Chet placed each picture of the victims on the board. After all four pictures were up, he looked at John. John smiled and nodded. Chet placed the 5^th picture on the board . . . Captain Jason Sparks United States Army. Jessica stood back and smiled. John noticed.

“What?” John asked.

“It’s like you never left,” said Jessica. “You’re supposed to be a consultant and yet here you are running the show again.” John started to get up, and Jessica held up her hand. “No, don’t. I’m not mad. Chet and I had a week on this our way, you run it. Just remember when we get in the field you have little to no authority. In fact let’s go with no authority so there aren’t any questions down the road.”

John nodded. “Jessica, if I overstep my bounds, I have no worry that you will gladly put me in my place.” Jessica smiled and looked down. Chet looked away, uncomfortable. “Ok, time for me to ask a question to make everyone uncomfortable.” Chet looked quite confused. “Chet, Jessica, are you two a thing, and before you get all defensive, remember who I am and what I can do. I’m not that addled.”

Chet had turned 14 shades of red, and Jessica looked away. And then it clicked; the conversation in his living room earlier with Chet. John looked out the window. He then stood up and walked over to it. He stared out the window and spoke quietly.

“I’m batting 1.000 right now aren’t I? I cause my wife’s death, almost cost you two your careers, and now you two can’t even have a relationship because of me. Dear God, what kind of broken am I?”

Jessica walked up behind him. She wanted to comfort him, but that was impossible. John only let one person in his entire life comfort him, and she was gone. Chet had tried to be his friend, and he was . . . as much as John would let him. Jessica straightened and started to speak but John looked at her. His eyes were dancing with mischief through the tears.

“So which is the lie, the one you told me today, or the one you told Chet when he left you?"

Admittedly John’s detective skills were a little rusty, but he flat missed the cut sign that Chet was flashing over and over.

“Excuse me!?!” Jessica exclaimed. “He left me!?!? He said I thought you were suicidal!?!? He was the one . . . you JERK!!!” John was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He now had his answer. Chet thought John was suicidal. He also knew that Jessica had left Chet, and she left him because of Chet’s worry over him. John walked over to the board and faced both his partners.

“Look there was a time when no one thought we could crack what was supposed to be an impossible case. We did. We did it as a team with no secrets. Chet, I don’t know maybe I am suicidal." Chet nodded. John may have kept Chet away as much as possible, but he was still an FBI agent, and a good one. "Have I thought about it, yeah . . . but how mad would Sam be at me if I did?” Chet looked at John with pity, but John waved it off.

“You want me to get through this, then help me with this case, and you two promise to help me with one more, if . . . IF I want you to.” Chet nodded solemnly. Jessica looked uncomfortable.

“John, it’s easy to say all of this, but if Chet and I are kicked out of the FBI how can we help you with Sam’s case.” Jessica asked.

John straightened. For the first time in three years, John Fowler felt like himself. The cocky smirk that drove his teammates crazy, but also let them know he was on the hunt returned. Jessica smiled in spite of herself. For the first time since she and Chet had run into so much trouble at the bureau, things felt right. They were back. John reached over to the hat rack and put on what he called his “crime solving” hat.

“I’m going to help you solve this case and then we’re all going to get the redemption we all deserve.”

Chapter 10

John looked at the board and began to study it. He realized he wasn’t getting anywhere. He sighed and turned to his partners.

“I guess it’s time I get my comeuppance. We probably need the big board at the bureau. Plus all of the files you have there.” Chet looked embarrassed and Jessica was studying her shoes. John was a little taken aback. “OK. Exactly how bad is it at the bureau?”

Jessica was playing with the top button on her shirt. She wet her lips before she spoke. “We were only given this case two days ago.” John’s mouth dropped. Jessica held up her hand. “It wasn’t our fault, it took almost a week for jurisdiction to be decided and it took a few days for everyone ELSE in the department to have their take on the case.” John had a bad feeling he knew where this was going. It was obvious they weren’t going to come right out and say, so he asked.

“You weren’t assigned this case, were you? You went to Trip and asked for it, and asked for me to take a run on it? That’s what this whole thing is!?!? You put your careers on the line!!! Admittedly not that it sounds like much is left of them at this point.” Both Chet and Jessica looked a little hurt with that statement. At this point John didn’t care. He was on a roll and couldn’t help himself. “You two numbskulls gambled everything that A. you could get me to come back, and B., and this is the doozy, that I wasn’t so drunk or so rusty that I could solve a quadruple homicide that’s now over two weeks old!?!?

“I didn’t think you had been drinking.” Chet had been quiet during most of the exchanges that afternoon. He had taken about all he could though. Whether John wanted him or not, Chet was John’s friend. He had to do something to try to save John’s life. Chet figured his FBI career was over anyway. He was willing to gamble with what little he had left for one big win. John started to speak and Chet cut him off. John was a little surprised by the ferocity shown by his friend.

“John, for three years I’ve let you push me away, but no more. Look at the evidence in front of you.” John looked puzzled and glanced at the board. “No you idiot, not the board, YOU!!” John was very taken aback. “In a couple of hours, after not doing any real investigative work over the past three years, you have figured out almost every secret we have kept from you. John, your mind makes these connections that the rest of us can’t. So maybe you’re only 60 to 75% of the old John. Who cares!! Don’t you get it!?! You were, and still are, one of the best. Your best guess is better than ¾ of the agents I worked with absolute certainties!!”

John looked around the room. “You know I do work very hard on my investigations as a PI.” Chet looked on in irritation and Jessica started to snicker. “You know how hard it is on some of these stakeouts not to eat myself out of my pant size or break down and drink?” Chet was fighting back a smile, and Jessica’s snickering was louder. A slow grin was crossing John’s face. “And do you know how hard it is for me to not to lose my lunch on some of the photographs ...”

Jessica cut him off full out laughing. “Ok, you have worked hard.”

John stopped laughing and looked down. “No, I haven’t. I’ve just existed.” Jessica gave him an understanding smile. “Can I even get back in the building?” Jessica handed him a pass. “Ok, so we need to go there. Look it’s late; let’s start fresh in the morning. Chet can pull all electronic files on these folks and print them off for me?” He raised his hand before Chet could say anything. “I know I can look online, but sometimes with the printouts in my hands I can see the connection better.” Chet nodded. “So what time tomorrow?”

Jessica smiled; she had been waiting for this all day. “8 AM.” John looked hurt. “You can be up by then, right?” John knew he had been bested. He gave her a smile. Jessica waved at both men and walked out. John turned to his friend, but Chet spoke first.

“Before you say anything John, she was a beautiful girl that I worshiped . . . but I don’t know if I loved her or had the kind of feelings she needed me to have for her.”

John looked away. “I know Chet. You kind of said it earlier.” Chet looked confused. “You said ‘do you know how hot she was?’ not ‘do you know how much I liked, or even loved, her?’.” Chet smiled and shook his head. He then grabbed John in a bear hug. John was taken aback and then gave the most awkward hug imaginable. Chet pulled away and slapped his friend on the arm.

“John, that’s why I didn’t give up on you; you’re the best. Even as narcissistic as you are,” John feigned shock, “you can’t admit how good you really are.” Chet paused. “Three things and I’ll leave.” John nodded. “The first, and most important, Sam’s death is not your fault.” John looked at the ground. “John I mean it. Solve this case and you can have the file. With that file you can find out exactly what I mean.” John looked up, face determined and nodded. “Second, she would want you to move on.” Chet held up his hand before John could speak. “Hear me out. I know you, you need to finish this, but Sam would want you to find someone else . . . even Jessica.” Both men smiled and Chet headed toward the door.

“Chet,” John called after him. “What was the third thing?”

Chet replied without missing a step, “That woman is crazy about you, and part of me honestly believes she only dated me to get closer to you.”

Chet continued out the door and was gone. John looked around the room and began to tidy up. He put all the papers and pictures back into their files. He looked around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, packed up and headed out the door. As he walked back to his apartment and felt the chill in the February air, he thought about doing something different tonight. Maybe he would watch some college basketball. He hadn’t watched a ball game in a couple of years now. Maybe he’d get lucky and his Cats would be on. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the skyline. Maybe the healing was finally beginning. All he knew is for the first time in three plus years, he didn’t want a drink.

Chapter 11

The Next Morning at the NY FBI Office.

John desperately wanted a drink. He knew it would be bad, but he had no idea it would be . . . well, nothing could prepare him for this. And to think the morning had gone so well.

John woke up at 5 am, and made himself presentable. He then looked in the mirror and decided to go for dapper. The problem with that is the only good suit he still had was the suit he had worn to the funeral three years ago. After several minutes of deliberating, John decided to wear it. After all, he could very well be going to the burial of his FBI career if this didn’t work out right. John exited his apartment and headed back to what used to be his office.

When he walked up to security, there stood Fred. Fred’s jaw dropped and he ran over to hug John. John had seen Fred’s face every day he had worked in the building manning the security booth. After a few pleasantries John headed up to the old office. When he rounded the corner to the section of the offices his group used to occupy, he froze. There was no open space anymore, but a wall. On the door leading into the offices read Bruce Cosby. John was stunned. He knew Bruce had stroke, but this was absolutely ridiculous. He went over to the offices Bruce and his cronies used to occupy, and he saw all of Bruce’s old cronies still had their offices there. Well if Bruce was over there, and his cronies were here . . . oh no.

John hurried to what was called the rookie room. When he looked in the doorway he saw what were obviously new recruits for the NY office. Well, all John knew is they had been there less than three years, because he knew none of them. John put his hand over his face. There was only one place his crew could be. The “foxhole”. The basement. After a certain TV show dealing with the paranormal and the FBI had gained fame. The basement offices had been renamed the foxhole.

John was standing in the hall trying to decide what to do. He looked down the hall and saw a light on in Trip’s office. Well, he shouldn’t drink before meeting with the man in charge. John drew in a deep breath and headed for Trip’s office. Trip’s door was open. John went to knock on the door, and like always, Trip waved him in without ever looking up. It was spooky. John had to watch himself around Trip. Trip had an uncanny resemblance to the FBI director in the TV show the foxhole had been named after. John had caught himself several times about to refer to him by the wrong name. John walked in and Trip, while still reading a report, opened a drawer and pulled out an official pass with John’s picture on it. John took the pass, and clipped it to his coat.

“John, I need you to wear that at all times you’re here. Not everyone like Fred is still here and knows you.” Trip closed the case file he had been reading and leaned back in his chair. He ran his hand over his balding head. He stared at John a second and a slow smile came over Trip’s face. He stood up, and walked toward John. John had expected a handshake. He was very surprised when Trip hugged him. Trip stepped back and put one hand on John’s shoulder.

“John, I am so glad to see you. As much as you drove me crazy, you’re a saint compared to Bruce.” John was so stunned by the honesty of Trip that he began to laugh, and then to his surprise, stoic, rock solid Trip, began to laugh out loud. Trip turned and got a refill on his cup of coffee, and offered one to John, who politely declined. Trip leaned back on the coffee counter, took a deep breath and spoke.

“I need to say some things, and I need you not to interrupt me.” John nodded. “First, no matter what happens, you will get full access to your wife’s file.” John swallowed and looked away his eyes moistening. “I would ask you not look at it until you finish with this current case. I know how much that file will mean to you and I know you will put your everything in to it, and right now, I have two live agents who need your help. After this case is over, I will give you every available resource I can to help you with that file.” Trip stopped. He wanted to let it sink in exactly what he had told John. John shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. He couldn’t believe that Trip was willing to go out on a limb for him. Maybe John had misjudged Trip all of these years, or maybe what happened with John and Sam had changed Trip. He didn’t know, but he did know he was glad of the change.

Trip continued, “Second,” Trip paused, sighed and continued. “I am sorry for having to put Jessica in the box with you that night. If I hadn’t the DOJ would have come after all of us John. I did what I had to do, but I promise you I didn’t like it.” John nodded.

“Third, if, after this is over, you want your spot back with your team, I will do everything I can to give you your spot back. I must warn you that Bruce has all but built a house in your old office space.” John smiled. Who knew that John was less trouble to Trip than Bruce. John waited to make sure Trip was finished and then spoke.

“First . . . Thank you. Second I completely understand, and third, if, and that’s one mighty big if,” Trip nodded, “if I come back, can my group just keep the foxhole?” Trip nearly choked on his coffee. He stared at John incredulously. Then Trip chuckled and smiled.

“You want to be down there in the basement?” Trip asked. John nodded. Trip continued. “It would kill him to know you’re solving cases down there and not on the main floor. He thinks he took something away from you, but if you show it doesn’t bother you, that will just kill him.” Trip clapped his hands together. “I LOVE it!!!” John had a huge grin on his face. “It’s all yours, and it’s perfect! It has everything upstairs did, and Chet actually has more computers down there than he did upstairs.” It was John’s turn to look stunned.

“I didn’t know that was humanly possible,” John said. Trip chuckled. John continued, “If you don’t mind sir, I have two agents to help, and possibly a third to get reinstated, but most importantly there’s a certain someone here I need to make his life miserable.” Trip laughed and gestured toward the door. John tipped his hat and headed outside. Trip chuckled and drank from his coffee cup. He then spoke out loud.

“I think things may get a little interesting around here over the next few weeks.”

Here I go Again (with all appologies to Whitesnake)

2012-02-23T13:01:00.000-06:00

I'm sitting on lunch break with my mind spinning. You know that dream you have, that thing you want to do with your life. No, not that one, the one you barely even acknowledge its existence. The one you think about or work on when you think no one is watching. Yeah, that one. How would you feel if you were on the verge of having that dream realized. On Monday, a publisher will let me know if I am to be published. I understand something today better than I ever have in my life. Whatever I'm told Monday about my book, the journey is just beginning. Whether this publisher goes forward with the project or not, I am. It still amazes me that I'm even this close to it being a reality.

It was was around 6 months ago I began blogging. I started with a simple bucket list. #10 on that list was to make a living as a writer. I found myself looking at that bucket list every day thinking, well, why can't I write. I'll tell you why, I can't physically write.  My handwriting looks horrendous. I had terrible writing before my arm surgery, and now. . . it's dang near unreadable. I always laugh when I think I was in the last class of typewriting at CCHS. I dare say if computers hadn't become what they have, my writing dream would have been nothing more than a dream.

So now I have the tools, but what to write. I'm not one for deep technical details or descriptions, but I know how to tell a story. Strangely enough it started because my buddy David Wilhelm wanted to write fantasy wrestling and have someone write with him. I looked back over some of those things I had written over 10 years ago the other night, and it really should be no surprise about how I currently write. My writing was story and character driven then. When I sat down to write The Road to Vengance the story was suppose to be about a murder of a girl. While the murder is still in the book, the rest of it is something that just exploded out of me. The main character, John Fowler, was always suppose to be my pen name. (A pen name I picked out at eight years old by the way.)

So here I sit 6 months later, with the chance to publish something I did just to see if I could it. Let me tell you something I can't stress enough, I have loved EVERY minute of writing this book. It now feels as much a part of me as my arm or leg. The other day a good friend told me that this book is my art, my creative passion. That took me by surprise. I began to reflect on the idea. I'm not suppose to be creative. I'm a big guy. I like ultimate fighting and wrestling. I like movies with explosions. I love violent collisions in football. I'm not suppose to be creative. Yet I am. I never considered myself creative. I played in the band and other instruments, but I wasn't very good.

So I'm creative and these books (I'm nowhere close to done with John) are my art. I'm almost 38 years old and I'm finally figuring out what I like to do. Does that mean anyone else will like it? No. No, it doesn't. A lot of people pour their heart and soul into their work, and others don't like it, for whatever reason.

So here I sit. In 96 hours I could be on my way to having my first book published. I am scared to death. I didn't know these emotions existed in me about something of mine. I can't think about anything else. I might get to live my dream; a dream I didn't even want to admit existed in me.

So here I go again. On another journey, but this time down a road I've never taken. I don't know what's going to happen, but I truly hope each of you who are reading this, get this experience. My life will never be the same again.

2012-02-07T10:06:00.002-06:00

It's Coming . . .either by publishing house or my me . . . It's Coming.

How did I get here?

2012-01-08T17:07:00.000-06:00

Back in July I realized after finishing my educational career that I missed writing. I began a blog to "release" those creative juices. The first blog was a bucket list in which I wrote the 10 things I would like to do if time and money was no issue. For a month I wrote pretty much everyday, but I found myself starting at #10 on that list, to make a career writing.

I don't know where it happened or when it happened, but I decided I was going to write a book. I quit blogging and for a month I did research on a book. I do know on the 3rd of October, 2011, I began writing my novel. I chuckle when I look at the original notes of my book and what actually ended up on paper. What is so funny, is the main character, John Fowler, was simply noted as hero. I had no idea who John was or what he was going to be about. It was literally on October 3rd, that John was created. I didn't know his convoluted back-story or that my novel would become a character driven novel. I didn't know about his murdered wife Sam, her killer, and a Virginian Senator that at times sounds like Foghorn Leghorn. I didn't know about any of these characters, but today I've got notes everywhere about them, and what they're going to do through my first four books.

I don't know how many times I almost threw in the towel, but each time I was about to, something was said from a friend, or someone at church, or just an innocent comment made by someone in passing that kept me going. Today I have finished a novel, and it's sitting in a publisher's hands.

I had a friend that asked me if it went no further have I acomplished something, and the answer is yes, I have. I was good with it. I was fine; win, lose or draw. Notice I'm using the word was. Something changed today. Today I was sitting in church and there was a guest speaker. Today the speaker said, "God knows your dreams, even the ones you dare not voice."

The dreams I dare not voice. So have I voiced my dreams? I don't know, I put it down on a bucket list, but it was something I said I would like to do if money was no option and time wasn't either.

So let me say it, loud and proud. I want to be a publisher author, and I want to make a living at it. Will I? Only God knows the answer to that question, but I can tell you, I'm going to do my best to make it happen. I may never be James Patterson, but by golly, James Patterson may never be David Carner.

So there it is. I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know I'm going to give this thing my all. If you'd like to help, it's real simple. When this book is published (we're being positive here) I ask you give it a shot and tell all your friends. Anything you can post or share online, in advance, I thank you.