A Mother's Love

Well, I'm a couple of days late with this (and I'm almost always more than a few dollars short), but today I'm starting ten straight days of excerpts, a different one from each of my stories in the collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES.

Today's dark treat comes from my story, A MOTHER'S LOVE, and takes a look at just how far a mother will go to save every child should be saved.

*****

Amy Jennings stands on her front lawn, staring into the empty street. Fog-shrouded street lamps cast a ghostly pallor over the neighborhood. Amy shivers. She is clad only in a nightgown and her husband’s trench coat, which gives scant warmth. Memories — pushing Adam on the swing, playing tag with her little boy and her husband, picnicking on the back deck — swirl through her mind like leaves stirred by the late night breeze. Recollections of a time now gone, taken under cover of night.

Behind her activity fills the lawn, the house. Men in uniforms search, those in suits and ties talk with her husband, with neighbors. She hears them, noises meant to show activity, attention, though the results will be nil.

Amy knows this. She’s been there, in her own detective clothes. We will do everything possible. We have every available person working this case. We have a nationwide alert out, his description sent to every law enforcement agency in the country. We’ve had good success. We are hopeful.

She has recited the statements a hundred times over — Amy’s worked half the childhood kidnappings in the Mid-west over the past decade -- and she's well practiced at the empty words that leave the promise of hope while making no commitments, no hints at the truth.

Your child is gone. Unless we’re lucky, you’ll never see him again. His fate is sealed. Tonight, maybe next week, perhaps in a month, he will die. And it won’t go easy.

That’s what Amy thinks every time she mouths the words of cautioned hope. Those are the thoughts behind the practiced, non-committal statements the men and women give tonight.

Amy walks across the wet grass. Fear flashes through her. Terror. Panic. He was here, on this spot. Amy falls to the ground, her hands tracing the path of horror, Adam’s emotions still alive, traceable, as clear to her as a trail of blood. She’s felt this before. Her “gift” everyone calls it. The ability has made her a kidnapping specialist, not because of her powers of observation or ability to out-think criminals, but simply because Amy can feel the emotions of those who have been taken, track their movements.

Tonight is different. Her stomach knots, the taste of bile seeps into her mouth. No professional detachment, just a battle to hold her emotions in check.

Amy climbs to her feet and marches by the men and women in uniform, the detectives in the living room, ignoring the “Mrs. Jennings,” and “Are you okay?” Fifteen minutes later Amy pulls from her garage, stopping only because one of the uniforms stands in her way. She recognizes him as the shift captain.

“Amy, where are you going?”

“Out.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“Should you be?”

“Captain, step away from the car. I’m leaving.”

“The FBI response team will be here momentaril—”

“I’m a member of the goddamned response team, remember? I’m the one who leads them to the …” She cannot finish the sentence. “Get away from the car.” Amy mashes the accelerator. On the street, even with the car between her and the pavement, she still feels it, like an ache in bones. Terror. Dread.

*****

To read the rest of A MOTHER'S LOVE, and the full collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, click here for your Kindle or here for your Nook.

A teacher under attack.....

An excerpt from my novella, THE ALCHEMIST, part of THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, a top 40 Amazon Hot New Release:

For three nights Denny Harris experienced a consuming fire inside him, a yearning to strike out hard, to stop this rolling force of evil he had witnessed spreading through the children who walked into his school.

Twenty-one years ago it was the odd one who was a trouble maker. Fifteen years ago it was the hippies and druggies. More of them, but most kids were still good and decent. Now things had changed. Too much bad. Too little good. He felt like exploding in frustration at not knowing what to do. The one thing he knew was that he could rid the world of Jackie Pugh.

The day Jackie returned to school lumbered agonizingly slow. Denny mostly assigned classroom reading, then paced the floor, nervous energy building with each step.

The final bell rang. Kids clamored from classrooms, opened and shut lockers, yelled in the hallway. To Denny it was background noise, barely perceptible above the slushing of his blood pumping through his body.

The school grew quiet.

Denny stepped from his classroom.

At the other end of the hall stood Jackie. He was flanked by two others, a boy who looked about Jackie’s age, and a girl. Denny recognized her as Donna Obenshain. Two years ago she was a nice kid. She worked hard, played sports. Now she wore Doc Martens and fishnet stockings, a short leather skirt and a torn black t-shirt, with a small chain looped around her waist. Donna’s hair was spiked, liked Denny’s, only much longer so that the ends turned down. Her hair was mostly pink with a bit of natural blond showing. The boy, Roger something or other. Except for his hair being all black, Roger and Jackie could have been twins.

Jackie stepped forward, followed by the other two. He pulled a chain from his jacket and wrapped it around his hand as he approached.

Denny walked straight at them. Within seconds he and Jackie stood face to face. The other two flanked the teacher.

“Uh oh,” Jackie said. “Looks like teach is in a bit of trouble.”

“You’ll need more than these two,” Denny replied.

Denny’s vision exploded into bursting stars, hurt rolling across his head as Roger smashed his fist into the teacher’s temple.

Jackie slammed his chain-covered fist into Denny’s cheek. The skin split and blood spurted from Denny’s face. Donna kicked him in the stomach, pushed him to the floor, then the three of them stomped wherever they could lay a foot -- head, shoulder, back, leg.
Denny’s vision faded. He felt unconsciousness creeping through his body.

No. This will not happen.

Denny roared as he sprung to his feet. He backhanded Donna and she sprawled across the hard tile floor. The chain had come loose from Jackie’s fist during the struggle and now it flapped against Denny with each punch. He grabbed the end and jerked, the movement catching Jackie by surprise. Jackie lurched forward and fell against the teacher as Denny yanked the chain. Denny shoved the heel of his hand against Jackie’s chin. The teen stumbled backward and fell.

Denny whirled to face Roger, pointing at the teen with outstretched hand.

“Fenestra. Fenestra Fragosus,” he cried.

Roger catapulted through the air and crashed headfirst into the window. His body came to rest draped over the bottom of the frame, head and torso hanging inside the building, legs hanging outside. Jagged cuts lined Roger’s face, a piece of glass protruded from his neck. His body convulsed.

“What the fuck did you do?” Donna screamed. She ran to Roger.

“You’re dead, now,” Jackie said. He stood and circled Denny until he was next to Donna.

Denny raised his hands, palms facing his attackers, and chanted “Quietum! Abi in malam rem. Commoror. Aeternus a um.”
Their bodies began fading into nothingness. Denny heard gurgling noises from Roger. Donna screamed. Jackie stared at the teacher, and an old saying from his youth -- If looks could kill -- came to mind, then the three were gone.

***

For the complete novella, and nine more dark (and maybe thought-provoking) tales, download here for your Kindle, and right here for you Nook.

Until midnight, Saturday, May 18 the collection is on sale for just 99 cents!