Audio Available Now: Bob by Tegon Maus

BOB
Tegon Maus

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Strange lights in the night sky. The baffling case of a woman locked in a basement and two words, repeated continuously by his friend and guide…’IS BELT.’

Peter Anderson is a newspaper reporter with a career on the slide. After 27 years he’s all but washed up and overlooked for the best jobs.

Sent to cover what seems like a mundane piece, about a series of strange lights in the night sky over Arizona, Anderson suddenly finds himself embroiled in one of the strangest events of his life.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the tedious job becomes a puzzling mystery. A mysterious young woman, trapped in a basement, diverts his attention from the job in hand. She is rescued by Anderson then promptly disappears before he can learn any more about her. And there’s still the lights.

As he returns to investigate them he uncovers more questions than answers. And then there is those two words, repeated over and over again… “…IS BELT.”

• • •

The first time I heard it, I thought nothing of it…nothing. I've been in the newspaper game for more than twenty-seven years and that kind of experience gave a guy an edge but even that didn't prepare me for this.

I'd been beaten, shot at, even stabbed a couple of times over the years but I always got the story. Always. But this one was big. Too big perhaps. Maybe we were ready, maybe not. Either way, it wasn't my call.

None of which filled me with the fear, the trepidation, the anguish of five little words that still haunt me today…

"Is okay. I have cousin."

I felt as though I had been in a plane or a car for weeks sent from town to town, story to story without a break or at least a weekend to catch up. At the very least it was nice to return to a hotel I had been in several times before. Tired beyond words I was more than happy to have Carlos carry my bags to my room.

"Carlos, do you know where Payson is?" I asked as I slid the card, opening the door.

"Sure. It's about an hour and a half north of here, why?"

"I have an interview tomorrow at 10:00. I need a car and some directions," I said, tossing my laptop on the bed.

"I can arrange it for you. 7:00 AM good?"

"That would be great," I said, searching my pocket. "Thanks, Carlos," I said, holding out a five.

"Thanks, but that's not necessary," he answered, waving away my offering.

I shook his hand and he took his leave.

Alone at last, I collapsed on the bed, exhausted.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to control the personal demons that slowly began to chink away at my armor. I hated the quiet time, hated to be alone. I could only hope tomorrow proved to be less frustrating.



By 7:00 AM the following morning, I stood in the lobby, ready for the day. True to his word, Carlos arrived on time.

"Morning, sir," he said, offering his hand in greeting.

"Morning, Carlos," I returned, giving his hand a quick shake.

I followed him across the lobby and then outside to stand in the morning sun. We made small talk as the minutes slowly ticked away. I glanced at my watch several times, becoming more uncomfortable as each minute slipped by.

Carlos made no outward sign he noticed my discomfort. It was clear I was going to have to say something.

"Ah, here we are," he said cheerfully, raising his right hand to flag down a passing car.

I turned in surprise and disappointment as a faded blue sedan sputtered to a stop in front of us, belching out a small cloud of blue smoke with a sharp bang.

A mournful creak of metal pierced the air as the driver's door swung open.

Dressed in a rumpled black suit, a very large, heavyset man unfolded himself from behind the wheel, tucking his shirt into his slacks as he rounded the front of the car.

He ran his fingers through his hair frantically, trotting up the steps to the landing were we waited.

"Carlos, my friend," the man said loudly in a strong Slavic accent, throwing his arms around the young man, lifting him off the ground. At long last he set him down, patting him heavily on the back.

"Mr. Peter Anderson, this is Dimitri Rurik Petrova," Carlos said cheerfully, patting the large man affectionately on the chest as he spoke.

"Nice to meet you," I responded, offering my hand. "My friends call me Pete."

This close to me, Dimitri seemed even larger than I first thought. His face was square, his skin painfully pocked, but pleasant over all, giving him the appearance of an out of shape football player.

"You are friend to Carlos, you are friend to me. We are friends now. Yes?" he said before grabbing me, hugging me, giving me the same hello he had just given Carlos.

"We're late, Mr. Petrova," I admonished, now irritated with having been handled like a rag doll.

"Call me, Bob," he returned, rocking his weight from heel to toe, swinging his arms playfully.

"Bob? How the hell do you get Bob from Dimitri?" I asked, trying not to laugh.

"Bob is American, yes? I now American, so now am Bob."

• • •

Married forty-three years to a woman he calls Dearheart, Tegon Maus lives a contented life in a small town of 8,200 in Southern California. By day, Tegon is a successful home remodeling contractor, but his passion is storytelling.

Tegon's progatonists are frequently wedged between a rock and a hard place, but manage to work things out through the story. Like most when pushed into a corner, it only brings out the best in his characters and become the unstoppable force of a reluctant hero. Tegon's signature style is creating characters who are driven and believable, and who strive to find happiness.

Tegon is the author of The Chronicles Of Tucker Littlefield series.

Find Tegon Online:

Website - http://www.tegonmaus.com
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/pages/Tegon-Maus/150255051766767
Twitter - https://twitter.com/TegonMaus
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Tegon-Maus/e/B009PFZILW
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Available Now: The Ash Heap of History by Chris Morgan

THE ASH HEAP OF HISTORY
Chris Morgan

$4.99

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(99c/99p through 28 May)

Jessica “Blondie” Yuskevich views her career as a private eye as an annoyance that keeps her from smoking pot and watching TV. It’s a pretty boring job, until one day she finds herself on a particularly convoluted missing persons case involving a couple of shady characters and a lot of misinformation.

Can she solve the case, find the missing woman and keeping her safe? More importantly, can she do it without missing an all-new Mork & Mindy?

• • •

Should I go to bed, or should I eat something? Both are pressing matters at the moment. I was up all night, but I didn’t really get a chance to eat anything. Duty called, you know? I wasn’t doing anything cool or sexy. I rarely do. Being a private investigator is not as romantic and glamorized as they make it seem. You know what I did last night? I sat in my car waiting for some guy to leave work to see if he was with his secretary. And when I say “with his secretary,” I mean that in the intimate sense. His wife figured he was cheating. That’s almost all I get. If you think your spouse is cheating, and 99 percent of the time it’s a wife worried about their spouse, you ring up Blondie Yuskevich.

That’s not the name I was born with, of course. Upon entering this world, I was named Jessica, but I quickly earned the nickname Blondie, because my hair is so radically blonde as to justify being called “Blondie.” It’s been a long time since anybody who wasn’t a substitute teacher called me Jessica. It’s Blondie, or it’s Miss Yuskevich. You know, in professional settings, or when a cop is hassling me. When you are a private investigator who also has made smoking marijuana a regular staple of her regimen, you tend to run afoul of the law more often than is comfortable. Not that it keeps me from doing my job. Or from smoking pot.

At this point, you are probably focused in on one specific thing I just mentioned there, and that’s the fact that my name is Jessica. Yeah, I’m a woman. A woman who works as a private investigator. No, you don’t see that very often. It’s some once-in-a-blue-moon type shit. I’ve met only one other woman in my line of work. She was in town from Riverside, following up on a missing teenager case. The girl turned out to be shacked up with some college guy she saw who happened to be next door. We ran into each other in the hall. I forget how our jobs came up. I think her name was Angela. She seemed nice.

When I tell people I’m a private investigator, and I don’t tell them often because I don’t think it’s a very interesting topic, their initial reaction seems to be one of alarm. Private investigating is, in their eyes, a dirty, dangerous business. It’s for low lives, and in particular for low life men. Men who can take a punch and use a gun and what have you. In truth, this stereotype doesn’t bother me, because it makes my job easier. Nobody expects me to be a private eye. They let their guard down around me. Some dude who I’m following sees me sitting in a car and fear is not his initial instinct. I’m just some blonde chick who dresses like a surfer. What harm could I do?

Also, yeah I dress like a surfer even though I don’t surf. They don’t get to own that look, you know? Anyway, the funny thing is that the drive to get women to be seen as equal to men, the notion that women can do anything a man can do, is actually something that’s gonna make my job tougher to do. Gloria Steinem really fucked shit up for me. I mean, she seems cool and all, but . . .

I feel like I’ve lost my train of thought. I believe I was making a point, but what that point was is now lost to me. As I spin the wheels of my mind, I watch a man throw a stick to his dog on the beach. At least, it looks like a stick, but I’m pretty far away. Did he bring the stick with him? I don’t feel like there are a lot of sticks on the beach.

Oh, that’s right, I was explaining why I didn’t sleep last night.

• • •

Chris Morgan is a pop culture writer and the author of The Comic Galaxy of Mystery Science Theater 3000: Twelve Classic Episodes and the Movies They Lampoon, published by McFarland Books.

Find Chris online:

Website - http://supertotallyawesome.com/existentialparachutepants
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010102717212
Twitter - https://twitter.com/ChrisXMorgan
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Morgan_Chris

Available Now: Redemption Lake by Susan Clayton-Goldner

REDEMPTION LAKE
Winston Radhauser Series, #1
Susan Clayton-Goldner

$5.99

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(99c/99p through21 May)

Tucson, Arizona – Eighteen-year-old Matt Garrison is harboring two terrible secrets: his involvement in the drowning death of his 12-year-old cousin, and a night of drunken sex with his best friend’s mother, Crystal, whom he finds dead in a bathtub of blood. Guilt forces Matt to act on impulse and hide his involvement with Crystal.

Detective Winston Radhauser knows Matt is hiding something. But as the investigation progresses, Radhauser’s attention is focused on Matt’s father. Matt’s world closes in when his father is arrested for Crystal’s murder, and Travis breaks off their friendship.

Despite his father’s guilty plea, Matt knows his dad is innocent and only trying to protect his son. Devastated and bent on self-destruction, Matt heads for the lake where his cousin died—the only place he believes can truly free him. Are some secrets better left buried?

• • •

For the next hour and a half, he drifted in and out of sleep. Cradled by the night sounds of the desert outside the open window, each time a memory emerged, his thoughts thickened and folded back into sleep. At one point, he heard water running for a bath. A little later, he heard a car outside. Oh God, please don’t let it be Travis. He stumbled to the window and opened the curtains. In the street, two long rectangular taillights moved away, turning south onto Oracle Road.

Matt leaned against the wall, staring at the sunflower sheets on Crystal’s bed. The same bed he and Travis had jumped up and down on when they were eight. The digital clock read 10:38pm. His head throbbed. He needed to close his eyes. Crystal would wake him in time to leave before Travis got home. He fell back onto the bed.

When he woke up again, the room was very dark. He wore only his boxers and a white T-shirt his mother had insisted upon—claiming his usual dark one would show through his tuxedo shirt. As if the color of his T-shirt could ruin her perfect wedding. But he’d been ingenious and found another way to ruin things for his mother. He turned toward the empty space beside him. It took a few moments for him to realize where he was. He closed his eyes, shook his aching head to clear it. Crystal was his best friend’s mother. What the hell was he doing in her bed?

He thought he heard the sound of the front door open, then close again. Oh God, please don’t let it be Travis. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. One event at a time, he remembered everything.

Fully awake now, he shot from the bed, rocking for a few seconds before he achieved balance, then hurried to the window. The moon hung over the mountaintop, its light silver and unforgiving. Crystal’s driveway was empty. Whoever he’d heard, it wasn’t Travis. On the other side of the street, an engine started. This time the taillights were round. Definitely not Crystal’s Escort. The car turned north on Oracle Road.

Matt let out the breath he’d been holding and glanced at the digital clock—its red letters told him it was 11:20pm. He needed to get dressed and leave. The dance ended in forty minutes and Travis would head home. He grabbed his tuxedo pants and shirt from the chair. His hands shook so hard he could barely work the fly and the button on his trousers. He slipped into his shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed. As if he had the flu, his head throbbed and his stomach felt queasy.

He rushed down the hallway toward the bathroom. And when he did, he saw the puddle of blood on the floor beside the bathtub.

He hurried across the room, jerked open the pale green shower curtain.

Crystal lay naked in a bathtub filled with blood-colored water. Her hair, her beautiful blonde curls, had been chopped off, shorter in some places than others, as if a small child had done it. Some of the curls were floating on top of the water.

For a strange moment, everything remained calm and slow.

Her head was propped against one of those blow-up pillows attached to the back of the tub with suction cups. The tint of her skin was pale and slightly blue. Crystal’s eyes were open and staring straight ahead—looking at something he couldn’t see. Blood splattered the white tiles that surrounded the tub. It dripped down them like wet paint. One of her hands flopped over the side of the tub. A single thick drop fell from her index finger into the crimson pond congealing on the linoleum floor. It covered her neck and shoulders. Tiny bubbles of frothy blood still oozed from the gash in her neck.

An empty Smirnoff bottle sat in a puddle of blood on the tub’s rim, beside a straight-edged razor blade.

The bathroom was so quiet. Nothing but the sound of his own breathing. He clenched and unclenched his hands. His body grew numb. “Oh no. Oh God, no,” he said, the words thickening in the air in front of him. His head filled with strange sounds—the drone of insects humming, violinists tuning their strings. “What have I done?”

• • •

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

Find Susan Online

Website - http://susanclaytongoldner.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/susan.claytongoldner
Twitter - https://twitter.com/SusanCGoldner
Blog - http://susanclaytongoldner.com/my-blog---writing-the-life.html
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan

Available Now: Cleaved by Sue Coletta

CLEAVED
Grafton County Series, #2
Sue Grafton

$5.99

BUY HERE
(99c/99p through 7 May)

Author Sage Quintano writes about crime. Her husband Niko investigates it. Together they make an unstoppable team. But no one counted on a twisted serial killer, who stalks their sleepy community, uproots their happy home, and splits the threads that bonds their family unit.

Darkness swallows the Quintanos whole—ensnared by a ruthless killer out for blood. Why he focused on Sage remains a mystery, but he won’t stop till she dies like the others.

Women impaled by deer antlers, bodies encased in oil drums, nursery rhymes, and the Suicide King. What connects these cryptic clues? For Sage and Niko, the truth may be more terrifying than they ever imagined.

• • •

Bloodied and battered, suspended between this world and hell, I could barely catch my breath. Cool air struck my face and my eyelids fluttered open. Pure blackness enveloped my body, stuffed inside a steel drum. Metal scraped my bare back. Sharp pain shot to my knees, ankles, and neck, bent at such an angle moving was not an option. No longer did I control my breathing, my chest heaving much faster than I could regulate. Within this sinister trap, the oxygen thinned with every patter, patter, patter of my heart.

Animals shrieked outside the barrel. A throaty rattle shuffled in the trees. Croaks and crickets. A far off screech owl’s predatory cry increased the blood coursing through my veins.

Where am I?

A throb pulsed at my forehead. I reached to assess the damage, but pulled back. Part of me didn’t dare. With a deep inhale—not too deep or I’d deplete what little oxygen I had left—I allowed my fingertips to brush my eyebrow, now flopped over one eye. The bridge of my nose seemed off-kilter, shoved over to the right. Tiny bits of bone swam under my cheekbone and my lips swelled to the size of the wax candy Chloe and I played with as children.

With an open hand, I banged the metal wall. A clang from my wedding band echoed in return. “Help.” My voice coiled against the steel. Water lapped against my unforgiving grave—rocking, swaying me from side to side. “Help,” I called out, louder this time, tears flooding my throat. I couldn’t die like this, trapped, no one to discover my remains. If I couldn’t escape, I’d never see my family again. Our thirteen-month-old son hadn’t matured enough to understand death. He’d grow up without a mother, without a crucial piece of his life. Niko would starve. During our nineteen-year marriage, all he ever made were reservations.

Above all else, I must survive. If not for me, then for my family.

Tears warmed my frigid cheeks. Colt and Ruger would never understand why I didn’t come home. Who’d walk them? Who’d keep their coats silky smooth? Did my family know—inherently grasp, deep in their soul—how much I loved them? They’re my whole world, my everything. Their unconditional devotion enhanced the very breath I breathed.

Had I prepared them for the day I stopped walking through the door? No. I’d taken my life for granted, maybe theirs too. How many “I love you’s” did it take to last a lifetime?

Dear God, don’t let me die this way.

With my last unbroken fingernail, I picked at the curved metal walls, clawed at the lid, and scratched the bottom of the steel drum that trapped me from my life, death, or whatever cruel cosmic joke. Nothing worked.

How did I get here? The memory blurred.

A woman’s whispering shriek sliced the crisp evening air. “Help me!”

Hope soared like an unexpected burst of energy on a never-ending hike. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

She pleaded with me to free her.

“You’re trapped too? Do you know where we are? Who did this to us?” I fired off questions faster than bullets left a fully automatic pistol.

She said, “The man.”

Water trickled on my bare shoulder, and my gaze shot to the right. A streak of moonlight lasered through a tiny crack, metal shavings shimmying onto my bent knees. Little by little, inch by inch, I peeled back the layers while my chest constricted like a boa firmed his grasp.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.” Where else would I be?

“I’m Lisa.”

“Sage, Sage Quintano.”

“The author?”

“Yes, but we need to conserve oxygen.” As much as I adored my fans, talking about my books was the last thing we should do. “Can you find a way out?”

Think, Sage, think. If an average oil drum held fifty-five gallons, then I had about seven-point-three-five cubic feet of air, but with each expelled breath I traded one molecule of oxygen for one of carbon dioxide. I didn’t have long before the confined space won this battle. If only I could widen the crack. Or maybe, if I wedged my fingers under the lid, I might be able to pop it loose. That is, if the metal bung wasn’t secured.

With the back of my head and flat hands against the cold steel, I thrust against the lid, and it moved. Not much, but enough to define my chances of survival. Fortunately, whoever trapped me forgot to lock the clasp. Perhaps he intended for me to escape. Did he lurk outside, ready to ambush me?

“Sage?”

“Yes?”

“I wanna go home,” she cried, her words laced with panic. “I’m so scared.”

“I know. Me too.”

“The man said he’d be back.”

“Man?” For a moment, I stopped fighting to free myself. “Did you see his face?”

“Not really. He wore some sort of mask. I only caught a quick peek before he blindfolded me.”

“Did you say mask?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Oh. My. God. Where’s Noah?”

• • •

Sue Coletta is a member of Mystery Writers Of America and Sisters In Crime. She lives in northern New Hampshire with her husband and four-legged baby. If you catch her strolling on the beach or roaming the rural backroads don't be surprised if she stops to chat with you about her books or her two beautiful granddaughters. Just don't ever call her Grandma.

Find Sue Online:

Website - http://www.suecoletta.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/SueColetta1
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Blog - http://www.auniqueandportablemagic.blogspot.com
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