"The Devil's Backbone" Opening Chapter By James Babb

Brody came in from the evening chores. His Momma fretted around the kitchen, passing back and forth in front of the glowing cracks in the potbelly stove. He breathed deeply through his nose, expecting the scent of meat cooking, but found no such smell.

    “Time to eat?” he asked.

    Momma untied her brown apron and laid it on the counter next to her, but remained silent.

    He went to the table, sat down, and waited. Daddy’s boots thumped on the wooden porch outside. The sound stopped, only to be replaced with a rhythmic rapping on the wall. Brody didn’t get up to answer the door because Dad always removed his boots, banged them against the wall to knock the dust off, and then left them outside until the next morning. This time, the banging carried on longer than normal.

    “Why don’t he stop?” Brody asked.

    Momma sighed, but didn’t turn away from the wash-pan. “Got things on his mind,” she whispered.

    The wooden lever on the door rattled and Dad came in.

    Momma turned. “Anything?” she asked him. Black strands of hair had come loose from her bun and rested against her cheek. Mother normally kept her hair perfect, but not today. This caused Brody to study her face closer. She had sunken eyes and wrinkles, something he had never noticed before.

    Dad rubbed a troubled hand across the stubble on his chin. “Nothing.” He sat at the table and looked at the boy. “Brody.”

    “Yes sir,” he answered.

    Dad took his dusty hat off, pushed his brown hair back, and then repositioned the hat. “Tater needs brushed.”

    “But I already brushed my pony.”

    “Son.” Dad’s tone warned him not to argue.

    “Yes sir,” Brody said on his way out the door. “Have it done in a jiffy.”

    Brody knew why he had been sent out. Grown-ups liked to talk alone. He closed the door behind him, but immediately ducked around the corner. The thin chinking between the logs on the old house did little to muffle the conversation.

    Dad coughed. “It hasn’t rained in weeks. The crops died.”

    “All of ‘em?” Momma asked.

    “It’s all brown.”

    Dishes clinked together. “Jim, what are we gonna do? It’s mid-July and we’re outta food.”

    Dad sighed. “Well-”

    Momma interrupted. “We’re out of money, and we need somthin’ to eat.”

    “I hunted all mornin’,” Dad said. “The game is scarce. They’re feelin’ the pinch too.”

    “This is not a pinch,” Momma argued. “We’re in trouble.

    Brody pressed against the rough logs and heard his dad’s chair scoot across the wood floor. “I can go to Fort Smith. Maybe there’s work.”

    Momma’s voice rose. “There’s no work, and how would you get there? On Brody’s little pony?”

    “I’ll walk,” Dad said.

    “It would take you days. It won’t work.” She remained quiet for a moment. “You could’ve taken the old horse, if you hadn’t killed it.”

    “We had to eat,” he said.

    Brody clutched his gut. His father had told him the farm horse ran off. We ate him? Brody thought. He took a step back, lowered his head, and stuck his hands in his pockets. The thought of eating horse meat twisted his stomach around.

    The conversation inside continued. “Jim, we can’t last long enough for you to go to Fort Smith.”

    “Maybe we should all go,” Dad suggested.

    “You and I ain’t eaten in days, Jim. I don’t know bout you, but I don’t have the strength to walk for close to a week.”

    Brody leaned closer to the wall. Not eaten? He thought about the past few days. Momma had cooked for him, but he now realized he had not seen her or his father eating.

    “Brody will be back any minute,” Dad said. “Let’s sleep on it, pray about it. We’ll find a solution in the mornin’.”

    “Jim, we moved here in eighteen seventy-seven. We’ve been lookin’ for a solution for three years.”

    Brody heard the booming sound of his dad’s calloused hand slapping the table. “It’s the best I can do.”

    Brody ran to the barn and quickly brushed Tater while he pondered on things. Was it his fault? Had he eaten more food than he should have? He patted Tater on the side. The pony’s ribs stood out under Brody’s fingers. “You’re safe,” he said. “There’s barely any meat on ya.”

     Brody put the brush up, and closed the barn door. The red sunset cast the last of its glow across the rolling hills in front of their property. He paused and looked toward the dark woods behind his house. There had to be some kind of game animals left in there.

    A lit candle sat on the table. He took it and walked across the creaky floor. Brody stopped at his parent’s bedroom doorway and could hear Momma crying softly.

    “You okay?” he asked.

    Dad’s voice came from the dark bedroom. “Come here.”

    Brody went inside. In the dim light from the candle he could see his Dad’s strong arms holding Momma. Dad shifted, and held out a welcoming arm to Brody. The boy went over and Dad pulled him close. Momma took the candle and set it on the nightstand. They shared a family hug, longer than normal.

    “Everything’s fine,” Dad said. “Go get some rest.”

    Brody wanted to tell them he had overheard the conversation, but thought Dad might be mad on account of the eavesdropping. He kissed Momma on the check, and then headed to his room.

    Brody rolled and tossed, and though he tried, sleep avoided him. His stomach growled with hunger. If he felt this bad after only going a day without food, then he couldn’t imagine how hungry his parents must be. They needed food and he felt responsible. There just had to be game left in the woods.

    My spot, Brody thought. He didn’t try my spot. Brody had found a wonderful area a year earlier, but kept it a secret. He never told his father about it because Brody wasn’t supposed to be that far from home. He had seen three deer in the secret hollow the year before, but couldn’t get a shot at any of them. This time would be different.

    He started constructing the plan in his head. He knew he would get in trouble, but it would be worth it. Brody drifted to sleep, thinking of how excited his parents would be when he returned with something to eat.

    He woke early, lit a lantern, and got dressed. Instead of doing his morning chores, Brody rushed to the corner where they kept the guns. Dad had gotten up earlier than him and had taken the rifle. It only left Brody with the old flintlock his grandfather had left them when he died. Brody had used it before. The pitted barrel made the gun hard to load, but it still shot straight.

    He gathered the wadding, balls, and bag of powder. A leather pouch hung on the wall, so he grabbed it and threw the stuff inside. He found his jacket and big hunting knife, and then went to the front door. It creaked as it swung open, so he paused and listened, making sure his dad had left.

    Brody put his jacket on, eased the door shut behind him, and then headed to the barn. Tater tried turning his head to keep Brody from putting the bridle on, but it didn’t work. After he finished, Brody found a leather bag hanging from a post. He tied his bag to it with a short piece of rope, and then threw them across Tater’s back. He crawled up, and even though Brody weighed no more than a sack of corn, Tater still grunted.

    Brody buttoned his jacket. “Let’s get goin’,” he said. “The sun is risin’ and we’ve a long way to go.”

    He kicked his pony’s sides and they were on their way. The cool morning air instantly started the boy’s eyes watering, but he did not care. His special hunting spot would provide. He just knew it.

    He kept Tater at a trot. The first hour of daylight could sometimes be the best time to hunt, and the thought of missing it angered him. Brody made his way up a long ridge. After going down a slope, they went through a grove of cedars. The prickly green limbs rubbed against his clothes and coated him with the smell of fresh cedar.

    After leaving the cedars, they crossed over two smaller ridges, and then arrived at the old wagon trail that led to his secret spot. The trail had not been traveled by wagon for many years. Large saplings and brush grew in its middle. Tater settled into the path’s depression where countless wild animals had traveled, and trotted along.

    The oaks towered above them. Winter’s leftover leaves crunched under Tater’s hooves. Brody slowed him to a walk to keep from spooking any game. A large, low hanging branch blocked the old path. It looked like a good place to stop, so Brody climbed down, and then tied Tater to the limb. He patted the speckled gray hair on the pony’s shoulder, retrieved the gun and packs, and then eased down the side of the point.

    About halfway down the gentle slope, Brody found an oak tree with a large root that curled around. It formed a perfect sitting spot. He raked the leaf litter out of the way and settled in.

    He opened the pack and took a quick inventory. There were about twenty balls, lots of wadding, and a large bag of black powder. He knew his dad kept the flintlock loaded. He just had to prime the pan. Brody reached into the bag for the powder flask, but it wasn’t there. He had forgotten it. The task of filling the pan would be hard without it, but he felt he could do it.

    He untied the bag of powder, and then balanced the gun across his knees. Brody managed to load the pan without spilling very much. He sat the powder between his legs, and cocked the hammer all the way back. The time for waiting had come.

    The birds woke, flew from tree to tree, and chirped. A squirrel jumped onto a branch above him, sending down a shower of morning dew. Brody ignored the cool drops and entertained the idea of taking a shot at the tree rat, but then figured he could not hit it up in the tree anyway. But, if the thing ventured down to the ground, Brody knew he would give it a try. While he waited, his mind drifted.

    Memories, good memories, of his first fourteen years and much better times kept his thoughts busy, until a twig snapped in the hollow below. Brody sat a little straighter and got ready. The echo of old leaves crunching sent his heart racing. The boy’s secret spot had not failed him.

    Deep in the hollow, a shadow moved. The figure came around a large tree and stepped into the sun’s morning rays. A deer. Life had been hard on the skinny animal. Its ribs pushed against its hide. The deer stood motionless for a long time, but its ears twitched constantly.

    Brody’s mind raced with the pace of his heart. The excitement of the hunt and promise of food overtook him. He knew there would be enough meat to feed his family for a week, maybe more. Brody eased his knees up, to give him a good rest for the shot. He waited until the deer lowered its head. Then, Brody rested his elbows on his knees and brought the butt of the gun to his shoulder. His hands shook with deer fever.

    The deer fed along, coming closer with each step. The dry leaf litter announced its every move. It stopped fifty steps away, threw its head up, and looked around.

    Brody froze and strained to keep from blinking.

    The deer stomped its foot, a sure sign it had caught his scent. Brody knew he would have to take the shot now. He peered down the long barrel, lined the sight up, and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked hard and smoke filled the air. Brody thought he heard the deer running, but couldn’t see through the white cloud. He turned the flintlock on its side, and then heard something hissing between his legs.

    Brody looked down in time to see that a spark of burning powder had fallen into the bag he had neglected to close. In an instant, a searing, orange flash of exploding gun powder shot up. The blast hit him square in the face, and Brody sucked in a surprised breath. His eyes, mouth, throat, and whole head burned.

    The boy slapped at his face and rolled on the ground. Brody’s voice cracked with each attempted scream. The remnants of burning powder covered the inside of his mouth and throat. His face stung all over, but his eyes worst of all. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. He tumbled, flopped, and prayed the whole time for it to cease.

    Brody stopped flailing long enough to realize there were no flames, only pain. Intense pain. He opened his mouth and cried, but the salty tears burned his cheeks. He tried to cry louder, even louder than the time the horse kicked him, but his sobs were silent. The scorched vocal cords in his throat no longer worked. A tingling feeling ran up Brody’s legs, and then he passed out.

    Sometime later, he woke. The pain had lessened to a dull throb that kept time with his heartbeat. Brody guessed he had been out for awhile. The hot, stiff breeze told him the stillness of the morning had passed.

    He sat up and tried to open his eyes. Brody cracked one of his lids slightly, but everything remained dark.

    I’m blind!

    A panic rushed over him. He rolled onto his side and touched his face. It hurt, but Brody ran his fingers over it anyway. Leaves were stuck to his burnt skin. He cringed and brushed them away.

    He found that his face didn’t feel like his anymore. Brody’s eyes and lips were swollen, almost shut. He had no eyebrows and some of his hair had burned away.

    Brody gritted his teeth, and pressed one of his eyelids upward. The pain kept him from holding it there long. Nothing. No hint of sight. He staggered up onto weak legs, and held his hands out in front. He had to get to Tater.

    After three or four cautious steps, Brody stopped. He knew he should be walking up hill, but wasn’t. The boy turned and eased forward. His hands brushed against the rough bark of an oak tree. Brody leaned against it for a moment, and then continued in a small circle. He felt no rise in the lay of the land. During his throws of pain, Brody had rolled to the bottom of the hollow.

    He paused and tried to think past his throbbing face. Three ridge points emptied into the bottom. That’s what made it such a good hunting spot, but that very thing had Brody in big trouble. He had to pick the correct ridge, he had three choices, and he couldn’t see any of them.

    Brody sat on the ground and rocked back and forth. Dad will come, he thought. No he won’t, his mind argued back. Dad doesn’t know where you are. No one does. You snuck out and didn’t leave a note.

    Brody punched the ground. He ran his hands through the leaves until he found a rock. He threw it, and then hit the ground with his fist again. After the tantrum, he got back on his feet and took a deep breath. He had to find the pony.

    His first ten steps were slow. The next ten came quicker. After that, Brody couldn’t seem to slow down. He kept his hands out, feeling his way from tree, to nothing, to tree again. His breath came hard. The land began to rise under his feet, bringing a small amount of excitement to Brody. He had found a ridgeline. He scrambled up, swinging his arms wildly in front.

    The boy ran into a limb and it slapped him in the face. He clutched his head with both hands and went to his knees in a crumpled heap of pain. Brody’s chest heaved, trying to draw in more air. He attempted to cry out, but his voice made no sound. Brody struggled for another breath, but it barely came. He moved his shaking hands to his neck. The boy’s tortured throat had swollen shut. A ringing in his ears turned into the crunching of old leaves.

   

    The chirping of crickets and buzzing of locust woke him. He listened to the constant noise for a moment while his thoughts cleared.

    I’ve got to find Tater, he thought.

    Brody sat up and fought off another bout of panic. After calming down, he tried to think. The swelling in his throat had mostly gone away, allowing him to breathe normally again, but running into the limb had made his face hurt even worse.

    Brody knew the sun had either just set, or would soon. The crickets always came alive in the evenings. He knew the day was dying, because their annoying chirps sounded all around. The air had cooled, but not considerably. Late evening had come and Brody knew his dad would be mad and worried by now.

    He staggered back to his feet and continued up the ridge. Each time his hands found a tree, he used it to steady himself. He pulled on a small sapling and it cracked. Brody ran his hand down its length, until he felt the break. He yanked on it until the last bit of sinuous fibers broke free. He swung the stick around and it smacked into a tree. This’ll work, he thought.

    The boy kept his pace quick, but unrushed, hoping to avoid another swelling episode. He kept moving the stick side to side. More than once, it stopped him from running into another limb.

    The pony would get him home, if he could just find him. A loud whistle usually prompted Tater to neigh. Brody tried it, but the attempt only brought him pain. Another hundred steps had Brody sweating. A drop ran down from his hairline and burned his raw forehead.

    The ground leveled out, telling Brody he had reached the top. He eased along while dragging his feet, feeling certain he could find the old wagon trail. The number of steps ticked away in Brody’s head.

    Twenty-nine. Thirty. Too many. I should’ve crossed the path by now.

    Brody shook his head. He had picked the wrong ridge point and knew what had to happen. He would have to go back down and find the next one. Such a long way, he thought. Dejected, Brody sat against a tree and rested.

    In a desperate bid for help, he tried to call out. The air escaping his throat did nothing but hiss. The boy slapped the side of his leg in frustration.

    An owl hooted down in the hollow, a certain sign it would be dark soon.

    Brody pushed one of his swollen eyelids up again. Nothing. A mosquito buzzed in his ear. He started to swat at it, but froze when he heard Tater neigh. The sound echoed and Brody could not pinpoint it. He cupped a hand behind his ear and waited.

    Yes, oh yes, just one more time, he thought. He wished with all his might for Tater to make another sound. Are ya on the left ridge, or right?

    Something growled in the bottom below. Brody sucked in a quick breath, and the hairs on his arms and neck stood tall. The animal let out a scream. A woman could not have out done it. Brody squirmed around to the other side of the tree. He had heard a wildcat before. Apparently Tater had too. During the commotion, the pony squealed. Hoof-beats sounded, and the boy knew Tater had broken loose. He could only hope the panther followed the pony. He wished Tater no ill, but if he had to choose the pony or himself… Brody tried not to think about it.

    The boy’s very core shook with tension. He couldn’t hear the cat and it worried him. They were sneaky. It could be anywhere. Brody wanted to run and hide, but decided to stay put and remain silent. He thought if he were completely still, maybe it would not notice him.

    All sense of time left him. He wasn’t sure if ten minutes had passed, or thirty. His legs cramped, making him want to change positions, but he could not risk the noise it would make.

    Slowly, the woods came alive with things rustling in the leaves. At first, the boy’s heart skipped, but he soon realized the noises were too small. Even the padded feet of a wildcat would be louder than this. He decided coons and opossums were probably making the small sounds. At least he hoped he was right.

    Brody’s leg pain worsened, until he couldn’t wait any longer. He shifted. A small stick cracked under his weight and the leaves crunched softly. He waited for the terrible attack to come, but it didn’t.

    Hours passed. Three? Four? He did not know for sure. Regardless, the night wore on, and sleep soon called to him. Not being able to open his eyes made it even harder to stay awake, but Brody knew better than to drift off with a panther creeping about.

    The owl hooted again, this time from a different place in the bottom. Brody jolted at the sound, and then pulled his jacket tight around his neck. Far in the distance, another owl answered. Its call carried on and the boy desperately wanted the sound to change, and become his father’s voice yelling for him.

    A blue-jay screeched its warning. The bird’s call quickly told Brody two things. Morning had come, and the jay wanted him to leave. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Brody didn’t even remember lying down.

    The cool night air had felt good on his burned skin, but the day’s warm breeze brought discomfort. He made his way down the ridge, moving through the shadows cast from the massive trees, knowing each time the sun hit his skin. The heat from the rays doubled the pain from his burns. Though it hurt, he tried glancing toward the sun, to see if he could detect a glow through his eyelids. Still nothing.

    He lowered his head, sighed, and continued swinging the stick. If he did make it home, he would be blind forever, nothing but an additional burden for his family. Brody had set out to make things better, but only made it worse, much worse.

     He paused occasionally and listened to make sure nothing followed. Brody could not help worrying about the wildcat. His steps quickened. It would not be wise to spend another night in the hollow.

    He stumbled and shuffled his way across, tripping and falling more than once. His shoulder muscles burned from holding the stick out. Finally, the ground rose again. He walked left, and the land sloped down. He went back over and to the right. The ground dropped. Brody prayed this would be the correct ridge.

    Forty steps up, left him exhausted. He sat and rested. Brody’s legs ached and his head throbbed. A terrible hunger came from his empty stomach. The lining of his mouth and throat were much too raw to eat anything, but the thought of cool water teased him. He ached for a drink.

    At sixty-two additional steps, the land started to level off. Brody drug his feet, but did not feel the trail. The thought of having to go back into the bottom to look for the third ridge did not sound good. This had to be the right one. He got down on his knees and crawled, feeling his way along the top of the knoll. A bug squirmed between his fingers, and Brody jerked his hand back. After a moment, the boy moved on, searching the ground carefully.

    At last, his hands fell into a slight depression. He paused, crawled one way, and then the other. The indention continued. Relief washed over him. He had found the wagon trail. Left would lead him toward home. He stood, centered his feet on the path, held the stick out in front, and eased along. His best guess put him almost four miles from home. It would be a long, slow walk.

    He wondered what his dad would think when Tater came home without him. Brody hoped Dad could follow the pony’s back-trail. It would at least show him the direction the boy had gone. Brody stopped walking for a moment. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Dad had found their original trail. He could already be on his way. Brody shook his head. He had taken Tater across two ridges where there was no trail. It would be almost impossible for anyone to track them through there.

    Brody moved slowly, making sure to stay on the path.

    One hundred and sixty-four. A bird fluttered in a tree close by. The crow blurted its scolding cry and flew away.

    A few seconds later, Brody’s stick hit something hard next to the trail. He ran his hands around the object. His fingers told him it was an old log. Time for a rest, he thought. Just for a little while.

    After he began walking again, the trail started downward and Brody’s hopes lifted. He had made progress. He tried to picture the way. After reaching the bottom, he would need to turn right and cross over two ridges. After that, the cedar grove would be the next challenge to find. During his thoughts, Brody lost count of the steps. He gave up on remembering the correct number and started over. He wasn’t sure why he counted them, other than it kept his mind busy and helped give him a rough, mental map.

    Ninety-seven. Something sharp cut across his hand. Brody pulled back, and it snagged the skin on his fingers. Briars.

    The thorny stalks were nothing new to the farm boy. He had picked his way through many briar patches, but this one worried Brody more than any other. He had not come through this area with Tater.

    The boy backed up, went to his knees, and felt the ground. His hands found the trail’s indention easily. It led straight into the briar patch. Brody’s head drooped. He had not lost the path. He had followed the wrong one. Right there, in the middle of the woods, at the edge of a thorny patch, he fell apart. The thought of going back and having to find the correct ridge broke the boy down. He curled up on the ground and sobbed. Without a parched throat, Brody’s cries would have scared the animals for miles, but his silent sobs went unnoticed.

    A deep rumble of thunder rolled across the land and shook him out of his pity. The wind stiffened and weaved its way between the limbs above. Leaves fluttered and another round of thunder came. High in the trees, a few lonely raindrops smashed into the broad leaves.

    Brody stood, and then moved back up the trail. At twenty-eight steps, he strayed from the path until his stick smacked a tree. The first one felt too small, so he kept going. Brody needed a huge tree with lots of branches to protect him from the rain.

    At nine careful strides, uneasiness came over him. He couldn’t go too far, or he would have trouble getting back to the trail. Brody failed to complete the tenth step. The ground disappeared from under his feet and he toppled over an edge. His mind barely had enough time to grasp his dire situation before hitting the ground.

    His right foot smashed into the earth first and a searing pain shot up Brody’s leg. His hip and shoulder hit next. The boy tried to cry out, but couldn’t. The impact had knocked the breath out of him.

    Brody’s lungs finally filled and his head cleared. He shifted, trying to see if anything could be broken. He tried to roll onto his side, but his injured ankle was tangled in something. Brody reached for his foot, only to find the force of the fall had lodged his right leg between a tree root and a large rock. Brody took a deep breath and pulled. It did not work. He let go and his hands shook uncontrollably.

    Lightening struck close by and every muscle in Brody’s body jumped. His sudden movement told him the location of every bruise. He twisted his ankle, trying to free it, but he could not handle the pain.

    Brody tried to open his eyes, but his lids would not budge. He found the swelling had gone down, but his eyelids felt like they had healed shut, or been glued together. He pried at them, fought through the tearing pain, and finally managed to open one, and then the other.

    Rain drops, larger than any he had ever felt, pelted him all over. The musty smell of wet leaves filled the air. Rolling thunder and the roar of rain kept Brody from hearing anything else. He opened his mouth, attempting to coat his raw throat with water, but then stopped. Brody found it hard to believe his situation could be worse. He had no strength left. His will broken.

    Let it come, he thought. Let my last day find me here.

    Sometime later, the rain stopped, and Brody’s sprits lifted. He placed his free foot against the tree root and pushed. It did not work, and Brody huffed from the effort. Hours tumbled past. Exhaustion took over, and his body begged for rest.

    Let me find a way out, he prayed.

    The rain had brought cooler air, which started the crickets early. When the annoying noise stopped dead, Brody took note. Something growled to his left, and he jerked his head toward the sound.

    Brody held his breath and listened. Lingering drops fell from the trees and splattered on the ground. The crickets started again and he began to wonder if he had imagined it.

    He tried pulling on his leg again. His pants were soaked and the moisture must have helped. Brody’s foot came free, but he winced in pain.

    A loud hiss sounded, at the base of the bluff. Brody’s heart fluttered. It was the panther. It had to be.
_______________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.  Post your query to theperfectwrite@aol.com(no attachments) and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to theperfectwrite@aol.com

"The Unwilling Spy" By Sue Chamblin Frederick Opening Chapter

CHOPIN’S Piano Sonata No. 2 filled the small cottage, the notes scattering in the air like a wish made on a spent dandelion. Garcia Quinones hunched over his piano, his nose mere inches from the keys. He played with a lilting tenderness, his delicate fingers choosing the notes as though guided by a far-away voice, an angel perhaps, one who knew his artist’s soul. His hands raced across the ivory surfaces with unrelenting passion, unaware that deep within those brilliant hands, dormant and undisturbed, was an ability to kill.

Though quite famous across Europe, the Spaniard’s name had never surfaced in the thousands of World War II espionage cases being worked at Whitehall, near London. The British Secret Intelligence Service had no idea the tall, thin Catalonian even existed…until their agent in Barcelona sent a coded message: the farmer is on holiday.

The Gestapo was also unaware of Garcia Quinones. If they had been, perhaps they would have made note of his unlikely link to Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuhrer of Nazi Germany. The connection was remote, but significant, for throughout Berlin and Paris, Himmler flaunted a mistress, a woman the pianist had known some ten years earlier, merely an acquaintance, coupled with an occasional greeting. It was an unremarkable alliance, yet it would catapult him out of the serenity of life in a remote village in northern Spain and into the world of espionage.

Now, in his modest house on the outskirts of the village of Brasalia, Garcia sounded the last notes of the sonata, oblivious to the burgeoning scrutiny of His Majesty’s Secret Service as well as that of the feared Gestapo. Both searched for him desperately – but for altogether different reasons.

Chapter One

THE Apartamentos Magnificos del Puerto de Barcelona stood on Avenida de Madrid, only four blocks west of the busy port where ships from across the world anchored in the azure waters of the Mediterranean. It was early evening, blustery, as it often is near the sea. Juan Castillo studied the grand facade of the opulent apartments, an imposing structure that rose high into the Barcelona skyline. Manicured gardens, lush with purple lilacs, grew beneath the tall, thin poplars surrounding the grounds. His eyes searched the avenue across the tree-lined landscape leading to the square. The city crawled with Gestapo; he could spot them in an instant, but none mingled with the Spaniards leisurely walking along the avenue.

From the shadow cast by a high stone fence, he watched the building for signs of anything out of the ordinary. The entrance doors shone with a soft gold patina, the outer edges trimmed in an iridescent blue, the same color as the sea. A cool wind whipped down the avenue, battering his worn fedora. Suddenly chilled, he remembered a night in Paris when his boots had frozen to the pavement while he waited in the snow for a late night rendezvous. Only a hard tap from the butt of his gun had loosened the ice and allowed him to move. The memory angered him. He had been inexperienced then; a young spy who wanted desperately to stay alive as the Germans made plans to conquer Europe.

The Service saw him as a battle-hardened, covert warrior. His lessons in tradecraft had been learned well; of course, they had. The bullet entrance and exit hole in his shoulder branded him as an evader of death. Had he not plunged from a bridge in the middle of the night in a city named Berlin, he would have ended up in the cemetery of the unknown. He carried no identification when he hit the water at roughly three meters per second. The blood he lost in the half-kilometer swim to safety was significant enough that immediately upon reaching the shore, he became unconscious.

Juan’s hand shook with cold as he struck a match to another cigarette. He smoked only a few minutes, then left the shadows to walk across the street and up the five steps to the portico. One last look down the street before he knocked softly on the door.

He stiffened as he heard a woman’s high heels clicking across the foyer. When the door opened, the woman stepped forward and looked at him rather coldly, her eyes large and black as ripe olives. “Yes?” she said, through lovely but unsmiling lips.

Juan observed her. Large turquoise earrings dangled almost to her shoulders where a thin white gauze blouse, plumped with shoulder pads, draped across her chest. The sleeves were capped with a split that folded loosely together, revealing her slim arms. The lace camisole she wore beneath her blouse was faintly visible, tantalizing to a man who appreciated beautiful women.

The woman lifted her chin, her expression haughty. She watched him for a long moment, examining him carefully. “You need a bath,” she said, turning from the doorway and into the house.

Juan followed her dutifully through the elegant entrance hall, up the carpeted stairway and across a stone landing where they entered her private chambers, rooms that smelled of French perfumes and fresh-cut lilies. Her slim hips swayed slightly as she continued across the great room and entered her boudoir. Candles flickered everywhere, casting soft shadows that promised a fleeting moment of tranquility. Unhurried, she laid out towels and soaps. Her lovely hands turned the faucets of the tub and the sound of running water filled the room.

Silently, she moved toward him and deftly removed his worn jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. In one swift movement, she unbuttoned the fly on his trousers and in moments he was naked. She ignored his arousal and motioned him into the large ornate tub. Again, he obeyed.

The warm water embraced him like thousands of white pearls, pulling him down into its depths like the warm hands of a spirit. He rested his head on a small pillow and smelled soap made by Arabian handmaidens, infused with secret elixirs that promised more than sensual pleasure. With half-closed eyes, he reached out for the glass of whiskey she had poured and held it to his lips. Above him, the beautiful señorita unbuttoned her blouse and slid her skirt from her hips, watching him all the while. She pulled the thin straps of her camisole to her waist, revealing exquisite breasts with nipples like perfect pink flowers awaiting the morning sun.

Across the room, wide mirrors mounted in ornate gold frames reflected her nakedness and gave the illusion that there was more than one of her in the room. Juan’s eyes traveled from one reflection to the other, and then to the woman who stepped lithely into the tub with him. He was afraid to speak; he knew she was angry.

Iliana Lanzarote picked up her own whiskey glass and tipped it toward him. “Your timing amazes me. I have been waiting for you for days.”

Juan sipped and nodded slowly. “My line of work is not conducive to a precise schedule. My heartfelt apologies.”

Still, the black eyes were angry. “I have had a belly full of your apologies. It is only my love for you that keeps me from forgetting you forever.”

He smiled at her, a sad smile that sent a message of regret. “It is my love for you that keeps me coming back, despite my unacceptably unreliable schedule.” He saw her face soften slightly, the lips part to reveal the whiteness of her teeth and the pink of her tongue. “Come,” he said and reached out his hand.

She obeyed and moved her body toward him. The wet of her skin and the damp tendrils of hair on her neck again aroused him. He pulled her on top of him and kissed her whiskey lips. Her hair smelled of the wild lilacs that bloomed along the edge of the mountains. “Wash me,” he whispered.

At last, a smile. “You are like a baby.”

From a large porcelain bowl, she lifted a bar of ivory-colored soap scented with almonds and lathered a cloth. Gently, she washed his neck and ears. He watched as her breasts swayed back and forth in sensual rhythm only inches from his face. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and fell into a dream-like trance while the filth of war and the smell of death were washed away by a beautiful woman whose hands were like an angel’s kiss.

The bed sheets were as soft as the skin of the woman beside him. He carefully dried her hair and placed a pillow underneath her head. In the yellow candlelight, he kissed her, his lips moving from her mouth to her neck, to her breasts. He felt her hips rise, begging him to hurry.

Early morning light swept Iliana’s bedroom as she lifted her head and reached out to touch him. “How long can you stay?”

“Not long.” He lit a cigarette and pulled her into his arms.

“Back to London?”

“Not yet,” he answered vaguely.

“Where?”

“Not sure.”

“Alone?” She raised her eyebrows.

“No.”

“Who?” she asked, not knowing if he would answer.

He paused and looked away. “I think I shall take Felipe with me.”

“Felipe?” she asked with surprise. “Why ever Felipe?”

“Your brother is a powerful man and I need him.”

“Does he know?”

“Not yet.” Juan smoothed hair away from her face and kissed the smooth skin of her cheek. He could see she was flushed.

“He’s due back in court today, around ten o’clock. He’ll be here for lunch, though.”

Juan fumbled for his watch. “That’s four hours from now. Can you have him come sooner?”

“Perhaps. Sometimes, it is difficult when his court is in session. But I’ll try.”

“Call now. It’s important.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Here in Barcelona or with you?”

Iliana laughed. “How ridiculous. He knows very well that if you are in Barcelona, you will be with me.”

“No, he doesn’t know. Go now. Make the call.”

Iliana slid off the bed and picked up the telephone. Juan’s eyes followed the long shapely legs and her lovely backside.

When the connection was made, Iliana handed him the telephone.

“I’m leaving for Brasalia tonight.”

“What about the farmer?”

Juan lowered his voice. “We’ll talk. Can you come for an early lunch?”

The spy returned the telephone to Iliana, then slowly lifted his head and captured the nipple of her right breast.

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.
Post your query to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com(no attachments) and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com

"The Common Garden" by Martha Moffett Opening Chapter

THE COMMON GARDEN

JUNE

Sow half-hardy annual seeds in protected frames; late in month, sow tender annual seeds . . . . Start mowing the lawn as soon as it begins to grow. . . . Set the blades of your mower high for first trim. . . . Shade young and newly set out plants. . . . Plant caladiums, tuberoses, and cannas. . . . Choose seedlings with stems the thickness of a pencil; avoid leggy, yellowing seedlings. . . .  Hand weeding is laborious but effective. . . . Transfer pollen from male flowers to female flowers with a small paintbrush, or push the male flowers into the female ones. . . .  Sow a second lot of candytuft, nigella, and cornflowers. . . Watch nasturtium seedlings closely for aphids. . . . Summer mulch may now be applied to everything.

CHAPTER ONE

Robin telephoned Paul.  She telephoned him at the office if he was there.  If he was at home and she was out, she called him from all over town, from the first-floor telephone bank at Lord & Taylor; from the telephone arcades in the library at Columbia University where from time to time she did some of her husband’s research on Common Market countries; from the phone booth outside the charming little restaurant on Madison and Sixty-first to tell him that a mushroom omelet and a small carafe of white wine had cost her fifteen dollars.  Calling Paul was a way of staying anchored while sailing through the streets of the city.  It was her first taste of life in a metropolis and she set out—relentlessly, Paul said—to explore every avenue.

            She had him summoned from a sales conference to tell him that she had found an entire undiscovered area of New York City.  His secretary sniffed at the end of every phrase, letting Robin know how frivolous it was to summon one’s husband from a sales conference at Marketing Associates International.

            “Paul, it’s under this bridge—I think it’s the Manhattan Bridge—and a million Mainland Chinese are living here.  I’ll swear, it’s more like Kowloon than Manhattan.  Come see it.  Come and have Dim Sum with me.”

            “Robin, I’m busy.  I’ll take your word for it.  I’ll see the New Territories some other time.”

            “Oh, all right.  Sorry I bothered you.  Wait a minute.  Now I remember what I really called about.  Can you leave the office at least long enough to dash out and buy a new tie?  Summerish?  St. Laurentish?  Tomorrow’s the garden party.  The Beckfords, in the middle house in the block.  Remember?  They invited us last week.  Our first big New York party.”

            “But not our last, one supposes.  I’ll try.  Now, Robin, get off the phone.”

            “I will—no, not yet!  Wait.  Wait, Paul.  I’m jammed in the phone booth.  The door won’t open.  Paul, I’m lost.  I can’t see a street sign from here.   I can’t tell you where I am.  What’ll I do?”

            “Oh, Robin, for God’s sake.  Push the door in the middle.”

            “I did.”

            “Pull the handle.”

            “There is no handle.”

            Paul let a long sigh pass down the line to Robin’s anxious ear.  “Tell you what you do next.”

            “Paul—what?”

            “Are you wearing a bra?”

            “No.”

            “Open your purse, put on your sunglasses, let your hair hang down, write ‘Help! I am Gloria Steinem!’ on a piece of paper, and hold it up to the glass.  Someone will come along and let you out.”

            “Paul!  Wait!”

ζ

            Toward the end of the day, Robin hurried up the stairs at her stop on the IRT local, her calves aching.  No wonder the women in New York had such great legs; it took a lot of muscle power to sprint for trains and buses, up and down stairs, across streets, covering block after block, downtown, cross-town, uptown.  She must have walked miles today, she thought.  In addition, she was weighted down by the bundles in her arms.  She had checked out half a dozen new cookbooks from the main library at Forty-second Street and lugged them with her to cooking class; now her arms were full of books and groceries.  Out of breath, she emerged from the subway exit and headed in the direction of Park Avenue, toward the bright, sinking sun.  At last she knew which way to go when she came up from underground without having to say to herself, “Let’s see, north, south, east, west.”  She made herself wait for the green light at Park Avenue, although some hardened city dwellers lined up next to her on the curb decided to make a dash for it.  Two nuns, the white hats of their order like paper boats, sailed unconcernedly across without even glancing at the oncoming traffic.  How do they know they’ll make it to the other side? marveled Robin, sure that the driver of one yellow taxi had tried to come as close as possible to the billowing black skirts.  She wondered when she would get over her self-consciousness at living in New York City and learn to walk blindly through the city like everybody else.

            Her block—the block between Park and Madison—was putting out its best small-scale charm today.  Not much longer would the high-rise apartment buildings that were creeping up the East Side allow this little remnant of an earlier New York to escape destruction.  The line of contiguous narrow brownstone homes stood behind a row of plane trees.  Each front stoop led to solid double doors with polished brass fittings.  Through windows at different levels she could as she walked catch a glimpse of chandeliers, a wall of books, a flight of stairs.  The winter jasmine vine from the Jensen house near the middle of the block had inched its way abroad for so many summers that it now hung like a great hairy green curtain over the fronts of five of the neighboring houses; Robin had welcomed a curling green tendril into the window of her upstairs  study, thinking that all too soon, when the time came to close the window against the autumn chill, she and Paul would be gone, their time in the sublet brownstone up, and Paul’s stint in the home office completed.

            Robin glanced along the street.  In the distance, Central Park turned lilac under the trees.  She bypassed the flight of stairs leading to the formal first floor of the house and let herself in by the door under the stairs, which opened into a cheerful blue and white tiled kitchen.  There was no time to change.  She threw down her bags and books, placed the braided loaf from cooking class carefully on the counter top, and began to prepare the evening meal.

            She had started the countdown toward dinner that morning soon after clearing away breakfast and getting Paul off to the office.  She had taken two chicken breasts from the refrigerator, inserted her thumb at the pointed end and peeled them like a glove, then holding a breast firmly at both ends bent it back until the prow-shaped breastbone popped out.  She pulled the bone out and with a sharp knife cut the breast into halves.

            Shaping the meat into flattened ovals, she carefully rolled each supreme around nuggets of sweet, chilled butter into which garlic, parsley, tarragon and lemon had been smoothed with a wooden spoon. The herbs she grew herself, in pots in a sunny spot on the terrace.  Next she had wrapped the filets carefully, sealed them with egg yolks and breadcrumbs, and lined them up on a platter to sit on the refrigerator shelf until cooking time.  Removing them, she checked her watch and saw that Paul would be home any minute.  She’d better get a move on.  As she began to drop the filets into the hot oil, one by one, she rehearsed the rest of the menu: with the chicken, they would have newly shelled green peas and diced cucumber, warmed in sour cream, with a pinch of fresh dill thrown in; the braided brown loaf still warm from the cooking-school oven, kneaded and punched with her own hands and rating the qualified approval of a hard-to-please Cordon Bleu-trained instructor; wine; and freshly ground coffee.  Back home, she’d probably be frying pork chops.  It was paradise to practice the culinary arts in New York City, where every ingredient, no matter how exotic or out of season, could be found, and any dish could be assembled. 

            Peering in through the steam that had collected on the kitchen window, Paul rapped for Robin to let him in.  “Easier than fumbling for my keys,” he explained as Robin tripped the latch and threw open the door.   “What are you cooking in here—steamed pudding?”

            “That’s the coffee!” Robin said.  She had an automatic coffeemaker in her kitchen in Ohio, and was not used to remembering to turn off the stove.  She ran for a potholder, snatched up the steaming coffeepot from the burner, and advanced with it to the center of the room, where she hesitated as if lost in thought.  Paul circled her warily on his way to deposit his briefcase and jacket in the hall closet.

            “Robbie, what the devil are you doing?”

            “What?  Oh—it’s funny,” she explained.  “The coffee is still perking.  It feels like a heart beating, in my hand.”

            “Put it down, for God’s sake, and I’ll give you the hausfrau’s reward—what every noble American woman is getting at this time of day in this time zone from every red-blooded American husband—”  Paul gave her an exaggerated wet smack on her cheek and went on to nuzzle her neck.  His arms went around her and his hands slid down to her ass.  For a minute, as he hands reached lower, his weight on her shoulders was oppressively heavy, so that she twisted away and began busily to pile dishes and silverware on a tray.  They had made it a practice, since taking temporary possession of the house, to eat supper in the big candlelit dining room that opened onto the tiny terrace at the back of the house, even when just the two of them were there for dinner.

            In the two years they had been married, this had always been the most important part of the day, the time when they seemed most connected.  At the table, with everything in place, Robin looked across at Paul a little anxiously.  It’s ridiculous, she thought, to feel that every meal is crucial, to think that the success of the dish is somehow equal to the success of the relationship.  She breathed a sigh of relief as Paul’s raised fork pierced the chicken and a jet of hot, aromatic butter shot forth—the test of this particular dish.  He tipped his glass in her direction in a toast.  All the light in the dim room gathered on the surface of her wine and mooned up at her.  Idiot, she said to herself, dismissing her anxiety, her desire to please.

            Paul reached for the loaf of fresh bread, breaking off a piece.  “Is this the product of today’s labor at M’sieu Henri’s establishment?”

            “Yes.  I passed bread with flying colors, but I flunked brioche.”

            “How’d you do that?”

            “My brioche looked like a muffin.  It didn’t have a bump on top.  It had sunk to nothing.  The bump’s obligatory.  I said I had made an American brioche by mistake, and I think some of the other pupils accepted that.  Not M’sieu Henri, of course.”

            “Naturellement.  M’sieu Henry wasn’t fooled for a minute.” 

            Contentedly, Robin watched him enjoy the meal, as if she were watching, through the candlelight, one of the shadowy figures she sometimes ministered to in dreams.

ζ

            They spent the evening watching old movies on Channel 13.  “Again?”  Robin had protested as the credits for The Maltese Falcon rolled across the screen.

“Pipe down.  I love it,” said Paul, playfully settling her on the couch, his hand warm under her blouse.

It was after eleven o’clock when Robin, on her way to bed, glanced out of the window, looking down from her bedroom at the back of the top floor to the small flagged area where she sometimes sat in the thin spring sunlight.  I must do some work there later in the week, she reminded herself.  The potted geraniums needed topping, and there were winter leftovers of dried vines and leaves to be cleared away.  It would be fun to do the small-scale gardening that city living allowed.  Beyond the paving at their back door there was a small pear tree, bravely blooming in the city air.  She could smell the rising scent of the pear blossoms.  And beyond that, there was a central area, consisting of a formless garden with a pebbled path, a few lilacs and ailanthus trees and a sentimental fountain, the common property of all the householders whose homes opened onto the center court.

Looking down the length of the garden, at the lights spilling from rear doors, Robin was struck by the thought that, in a way, in opening onto the common garden all the doors also opened into each other.  Probably some of the neighbors knew each other well enough to use the back door, as informally as in a small town.  Perhaps tomorrow, at the Beckford’s party, they would meet most of the people who lived in this double row of brownstones and put names to the faces she had already begun to identify as people from their block.  She was looking forward to it; she loved parties.

The summer’s arrangements had really been more for her benefit than for his.  Paul, spending time in both Ohio and New York, could as easily have been based at home, commuting to New York during the week, but they had decided that a summer in the city would be enlightening that it was an opportunity to get a taste of city life before they were tied down with kids.

“We were really very lucky to get this house,” said Robin as she slipped a nightgown over her head.

“What?  Hey, don’t put that on.  I’ll only have to take it off again.  Oh, the house, yeah.”

“I’m so glad the Leas went to Europe.  You know, they really wanted us to have the house, didn’t they?  Funny how people who love New York always want everybody to see the city the way they see it.”

“Don’t be naïve, Robin.  What they probably wanted was the rent, which the company was willing to subsidize to have this summer training program work.”

“No, they really wanted us to live in their house.  Remember, they were talking about it last year, when we first met them at the new products market.   They said then that someday they wanted us to love New York the way they did.”

“Well, enjoy it while you can, baby.  In three months, it’s back to the suburban split-level for you.  How long will it take your New York veneer to wear off?”

“Wasn’t aware I had one.  In fact, I was thinking today when I was crossing Park Avenue that I’m still in culture shock,” answered Robin absently.  She stripped off her gown and stood scratching her thigh, a slender woman with long limbs and narrow wrists and straight shining brown hair that fell below her shoulders.

“Come here and I’ll do that for you.”

Robin bounced onto Paul’s side of the bed for a good scratch.  Like a kitten, she responded to the long, luxurious strokes.  Gradually his nails dug deeper until she started and rolled away when one long scratch furrowed the skin on her back and ass, but Paul’s heavy leg came over and pinioned her.  What did it mean, she wondered, when his caresses began to hurt?  In the first months of their marriage, it had been her unspoken fear that Paul harbored a secret antipathy toward women—toward her, toward her sexuality—but later she came to feel that what she was seeing was simply the form his curiosity took as he studied her body and its responses.  Thinking about it again, she wondered now if it was actually Paul—offering this playful roughness—who liked it?  Was he inviting her to treat him violently in return?  She shook her head.  What could she do to Paul?  He was a big man, a head taller than she.  Nothing she could do would hurt him.

His curving fingers had turned into probes now, jabbing at her, just missing the clitoris; why couldn’t he remember it was more to the front?  She clasped his hand and guided it forward.  In, out; in, out; the growing moistness made it better.  Friction, moistness, warmth . . . nice.  Wouldn’t it be nice to come like this and then be ready when he entered her to come again?  She was almost there when disappointingly he shifted his fingers, and the signal was lost, Robin fading and confused on its trail.

Now Paul’s full weight rolled upon her, and he lifted her legs, creasing her into the tightest possible casing for himself.  He kissed her, his tongue entering her mouth at the same moment he penetrated her.  She gasped.  Then there was a long, timeless pounding until he released her and she straightened her limbs in a long stretch.  Had she come, finally, had she finished, or had she been on her way to another level of response?  She felt a spasm in her belly and decided that wherever she had been going, she hadn’t quite reached her destination.

Robin pulled the top sheet from the bed and wrapped herself in it like a cloak.  She paused on her way to the bathroom and leaned her head against the cool windowpane, rolling her forehead back and forth.  The scent from the little pear tree flowed across the windowsill in a wash of air that moved around her ankles.

She realized she had been staring down into the middle court for several minutes.  There in the common garden, the abandoned fountain stood half in deep shadow and half in the perpetual soft light of Manhattan’s night.  Robin was still.  She could see a woman leaning against the fountain, her hips braced against the broad lip of the bowl.   The woman’s hair hung loose about her shoulders; light gleamed along her cheek when she raised her head to let it fall back against her shoulder, pillowed by the flowing hair.  She had the full, heavy-breasted figure of a classical statue . . . perhaps it was a statue?  I must go out and look around tomorrow, Robin told herself.  The common garden is not uncharted territory . . . I won’t fall off the map.

Her eyes sharpened their focus.  No, it was not a statue.  It was perfectly clear that it was a woman, resting languidly against the side of the fountain.  Robin’s eyes swept the length of the garden.  There were no lights burning at the backs of the houses, everyone was asleep then—or, like her, sleepy spies on their way to bed, hesitating invisibly at darkened windows.

The tight shadows across the garden shifted and broke up, and another figure stepped from the row of lilac trees and walked slowly forward, not stopping until he stood between the woman’s legs.  He came so close that he might have overbalanced her except that his hands went out to anchor her hips, and her hands came up to hold his shoulders, as her skirt fell back and her legs came up to wind and clutch. . . .

“Paul!” Robin whispered urgently.

“Hmmmmm?”

“Oh . . . nothing.  I think I must be dreaming.  Or there must be some other explanation.  I mean, they can’t be—” Why, she thought, that looks like—oh, who is he, the man who lives in the house with the skylight.  But what is he doing?

Robin found a fresh pane to rub her cheek against.  The cool glass flashed on her hot face.  She knew she couldn’t really be dreaming because her eyes had that strained, dry feeling that comes from the lids having been pulled back too wide.  The scene in the garden below was real.  The man was real.  He was moving his body against that of the woman in long, perceptively powerful strokes.  At each slow impact, her body was almost lifted from the edge of the fountain where it rested.

The woman’s head snapped far back on her neck.  Robin could see her face.  She opened her own mouth in a silent moan that matched the unheard one below.  The woman must have cried out.  But upstairs, closed away in her bedroom that seemed suddenly airless, her hands before her wide-open eyes, Robin did not hear a sound.

ζ

The empty garden had grown darker when Robin stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.  She dried her cheeks with a rough towel, and then rubbed away the stickiness between her thighs.  Lying on her side of the bed, still wrapped in the sheet, she tossed from side to side for a while, then fell into a restless sleep, later sliding into deep slumber, where she dreamed of a man whose hand would touch her sex like the bell of a flower.

______________________________________________________________
For authors, The Perfect Write® provides
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.
Post your query to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com (no attachments)
and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

For authors, The Perfect Write® also offers a
FREE OPENING-CHAPTER CRITIQUE.
Post you opening chapter (up to 5,000 words)
to the body of an e-mail (no attachments) and
mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com.

The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from
manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing,
along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send
your project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com

"Dead Stick Dawn" Opening Chapter by Sharon M.

PALM BEACH, FLORIDA

APRIL 27

En route to Palm Beach International Airport at thirty-one thousand feet, I heard a violent explosion in the passenger cabin. The cockpit rocked, followed by loud whooshing outside the Boeing 767 cockpit door. My copilot and I pulled on our oxygen masks. The cabin intercom chimed, and I heard noise and screaming as a flight attendant said, “Captain Starr, it’s Kimberly, aft cabin. A bomb exploded, and a man was sucked out!”

I scanned the instrument panel. “Where and how much damage?”

“Under the last window seat, left side, four-foot hole.”

“We need to dive to a safe altitude.  Everyone buckled in?”

“Yes. Oxygen masks deployed. They’re putting them on now.”

“Okay, sit tight.” I turned to my copilot, Lance Calder. “A bomb exploded in the aft cabin—initiating emergency descent. Check passenger oxygen system is on, seat belt/no smoking signs are on, and set transponder to emergency code. Notify air traffic control and read the emergency descent checklist.”

“I’m on it, Sam.” Lance pulled out the checklist and entered the emergency code.

While he radioed the Miami Air Route Traffic Control Center, I throttled back our wounded airliner, extended the landing gear and speed brakes, and began a diving right turn to exit the jet route. Lance read the checklist out loud to ensure nothing was overlooked, as we plummeted to ten thousand feet above the sea.

I scanned the gauges when we reached our target altitude. “We’re level at ten, Lance. Remove your oxygen mask and take control. Then I’ll remove mine and call the cabin.”

I asked the flight attendants at every seat station for status reports.

“The hole isn’t getting bigger, there’s no fire, and the passengers are buckled into their seats with their oxygen masks on,” Kimberly reported.

“Good, I’ll talk to the passengers now.” I flipped a switch. “This is your captain speaking. Now that we’ve reached a safe altitude, everyone may remove their oxygen masks. Everything’s under control. We’ll be landing soon.” I took a deep breath and resumed flying.

The air traffic controller’s voice filled our headsets, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, state number of souls on board, fuel remaining, aircraft status, and intentions. Radar shows you ninety miles northeast of Palm Beach International Airport, level at ten thousand feet.”

I pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434, a bomb blew a four-foot hole in the aft left fuselage. We lost one passenger. Could be more bombs and terrorists onboard. We’ll fly over water near the coastline and land south on the Kennedy Space Center runway, approaching over the unpopulated area north and east of the Space Center. Notify law enforcement and emergency services. ETA: fifteen minutes. One hundred and ninety souls on board and forty-five minutes of fuel remaining.”

The controller spoke in a dismissive, matter-of-fact voice, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, turn left heading one-eight-zero. Descend to six thousand feet. Plan to land at Palm Beach International Airport. Kennedy Space Center is not available to civilian aircraft.”

Nice try. “Negative, Miami Center, too many lives will be at risk if more bombs explode. The Space Center’s long, isolated runway is our only safe option. No launches or landings are posted for today. Deal with it.”

“Luxury 434, police may not have time to secure the area before you land.”

“Call the military base on Cape Canaveral. Ask them to establish a tight perimeter around my aircraft. We have the Cape in sight, descending to six thousand feet.”

Another explosion rocked the cockpit, followed by loud ringing and a bright red light.

“Captain, the left engine is on fire.” Lance pointed to the lighted number one fire handle.

The cabin intercom bell chimed. “Captain, it’s Tiffany, forward cabin. A bomb exploded under the empty left window seat, front row, first class—blew debris into the left engine. It’s burning.  I put out the cabin fire, but I’m scared there’s a terrorist. Please send Lance to help us.”

Won’t be suckered into that mistake. “No, Tiffany. Everyone’s best chance for survival is if both pilots remain locked in the cockpit. Suck it up and prepare the cabin for an emergency landing and evacuation.” I ended the call and focused on saving the aircraft.

Lance tapped the glowing red fire light. “Captain, number one is still burning.”

The radio blared, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, the Space Center wants thirty minutes to prepare for your arrival. Hold twenty miles northeast of Melbourne VOR on the zero-six-zero radial at six thousand feet, right turns, ten-mile legs, until we clear you for the approach.”

“Negative, Miami Center, another bomb exploded. Left engine is on fire. Stand by.” I shut down the left engine and discharged the remote fire extinguisher into the flames. “Lance, call out the engine fire checklist followed by the single-engine landing checklist.”

As we ran through the checklists, the red fire light went out. After shutting down the number one engine, the aircraft yawed to the left. I pushed hard on the right rudder pedal. “Call Miami Center and declare a MAYDAY.” How many frickin’ bombs are there?

Lance pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434 has significant bomb damage and only one engine operating. The fire is out, but we need to land immediately—declaring MAYDAY.”

“Luxury 434, understand MAYDAY. Be advised most of Florida, including Cape Canaveral and Kennedy Space Center, is covered in a low cloud base with continuous heavy rain, ceiling one hundred feet, visibility one-half mile, and wind one-two-zero at thirty knots. State your intentions.”

Bad weather. What next? “Luxury 434 will land on Runway One Five. I want fire equipment and EMS standing by. Warn them we may have more bombs. We’ll evacuate as soon as we’re stopped on the runway.” I gripped the control yoke and focused on the flight instruments, expecting another explosion any moment.

“Luxury 434, descend to two thousand feet. Turn left to one-eight-zero. Cleared for the Runway One Five ILS approach. Contact the tower on one-two-eight-five-five. Good luck.”

Lance called the tower, and I concentrated on the instrument panel as we descended through the storm clouds. My right leg vibrated from the constant strain of pushing hard on the right rudder pedal, compensating for the dead engine rolling our aircraft to the left. My proper use of ailerons and rudder was the only thing preventing our aircraft from rolling upside down. Adrenaline surged through my veins with my senses tuned to high intensity.

“Lance, we don’t know if we have wing damage, so I’ll do a no-flap landing, rather than risk control issues close to the ground. Extra speed won’t be a problem on that long runway.”

“Final approach, Captain. We’re centered on the localizer and glide slope, but we’re still in the soup. Will we do a go-around if we don’t see anything at decision height?” 

“No, the airplane might not survive a go-around. If we don’t see the approach lights, call out our altitude every ten feet below one hundred feet until we’re on the runway. Signal the flight attendants to assume the brace position.”

Lance gave the six-bell signal to the cabin. He scanned between the altimeter and the view outside. “Five hundred feet . . . four hundred . . . three hundred . . . two hundred . . . one hundred, ninety, eighty, seventy, sixty, RUNWAY IN SIGHT.”

“Runway in sight—landing,” I declared. “Notify the tower.”

Just as the landing gear touched down, I heard a loud noise and felt the aircraft swerve. Employing the rudder and asymmetrical braking to keep the airliner’s forward motion centered on the runway, I noted the red fire warning light on the front panel.

“Captain, we have a wheel well fire and probably some blown tires.”

“Notify the tower, and tell them we’re evacuating the aircraft.” I wrestled the massive airliner to a stop, set the parking brake, shut down the engine, and announced to the cabin, “This is the captain speaking. Evacuate the aircraft using the forward and aft exit doors. Do not use the wing exits. There is a fire under the wings. Move as far away from the aircraft as possible and follow instructions from law enforcement personnel waiting on the ground.”

I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans and looked over my shoulder at the check pilot seated in the back of the Boeing 767 flight simulator. Over four frickin’ hours in the sweatbox! My test had better be over.

“Excellent check ride, Sam,” Check Pilot Jim Rowlin said. “We threw every emergency in the book at you. Your selection of the Space Center runway was unexpected, but you showed good judgment.” He glanced at the man to his left. “Unless the FAA examiner has anything to add, I think we’re done here. Congratulations, Captain Starr. Not bad, considering you’ve been a copilot only six years.”

“Piece of cake, Jim,” I said, grinning.

“Miss Samantha Starr, the first female captain at Luxury International Airlines! How does it feel to be the big cheese with the most prestigious charter airline in the world?” Lance asked.

“I’ll let you know when my muscles stop twitching. Jim gave my right leg quite a workout with the left engine failures.” I turned to Jim. “You do know the 767 has two engines? At least one right engine failure would’ve been nice to balance out my leg muscles.” I rubbed my right thigh and smiled. “Now I’d like a long shower and about thirty minutes in my hot tub with a bottle of ice-cold Champagne.” 

“Well, I had to make sure you have what it takes to do a man’s job,” Jim joked. “The hot tub sounds tempting, but you’ll have to settle for celebratory beers at the bar instead.”

I saw the men nod in agreement when I released my hair from the clip behind my neck. “Uh huh, I don’t know any men who’ve had five consecutive left engine failures in their entire lives. Good thing a woman was at the controls.” I laughed and followed the men out. “Jim, when do I start the line checks, flying regular passenger flights with check captains?”

Jim checked the calendar in his Blackberry. “Ah, you’ll start in three days. We’ll head to the briefing room, finish the paperwork, and meet at The Sound Barrier Bar and Grill.” He started down the hallway with the FAA examiner at his side.

“Great job, Captain!”  Lance gave me a big hug, lifting me off my feet.

I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for your help.”

“You can always count on me.” He gave me a confident wink and escorted me down the hall.

My right leg stopped vibrating during my walk to the briefing room. I caught up to Jim. “Thanks for the fair check ride, but I think I’ll pass on your drink offer.” I wrinkled my nose. “I really do need a shower.  After four hours in the sweatbox, I reek.”

Jim put his arm around my shoulder.  “Nonsense, you need adult beverages. The flight simulator was so realistic, your subconscious believed you were in mortal danger and flooded your system with adrenaline. A few beers will help you relax. Besides, this is a major milestone in your career. Come and celebrate. Drinks are on us.”

Jim sat at the desk and filled out the forms for the Boeing 767 type rating to be added to my airline transport pilot certificate. “Sign here and we’ll head over to the bar. Are you coming, Lance? You’re invited too, Dick. We don’t mind drinking with a fed.”

Lance grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of missing Sam’s celebration party.”

FAA Examiner Dick Farinati glanced at his watch. “I’d love to join the party, but my wife will have dinner on the table in fifteen minutes.  It’s not worth the grief if I’m late. Thanks anyway, guys.” He shook my hand. “Congratulations, Captain Starr.”

I smiled at the eager men, deciding the politically correct choice was to join them at the bar for a few rounds, even if I felt like collapsing into my hot tub. I enjoyed their company, but navigating through the minefield of male egos was just as difficult as my toughest flight test, and mistakes in either could jeopardize my career.

Jim and Lance were handsome, but Jim was married, and Lance had a reputation for running wild with the flight attendants. I didn’t want to complicate my captain qualification flights by dating a company pilot. The men tended to gossip, and my recent breakup with a fellow pilot had registered on everyone’s radar in record time. As the sole female pilot at elite Luxury International Airlines, my life was always under a microscope.

During my short drive to the bar, I pulled out my cell phone and called my mother. “Hey, Mom, I passed! You’re talking to the world’s newest Boeing 767 captain. Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old woman. Wish Dad was alive to see my fourth stripe.”

“Congratulations, Sam! I knew you’d ace it. Your father would’ve been proud. Are you going out to celebrate?”

“I’m meeting the men at the Sound Barrier. After four hours of extreme emergencies, my nerves are shot, and my muscles feel like mush. Wish I didn’t have to wait until August for my vacation. I need it now.”

“I can relate. I’m writing the first chapter of my new romance novel, and I’m having trouble creating the lover for my Highland chieftain.” 

“Why not pretend you’re the one enjoying the hot Scot?” I asked.

“Good idea. I’ll make the main characters my age and let the middle-aged damsel marry the handsome warrior for a change. My mature readers deserve a steamy fantasy.” 

“Your novels have me fired up to visit Scotland this summer.”

“You’ll love the Highlands. I have a strong feeling it may turn out to be your most exciting vacation ever.”

“I’m counting on it. Your intuition has never been wrong. Gotta go, Mom, love you.”

______________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.

Post your query to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com(no attachments) and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com

For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com