Title:
TRISOMY XXI
Genre:
Horror
Author:
G.A. Minton
Publisher:
World Castle Publishing
Sixteen-year-old
Joshua Allen was born with an extra chromosome—a genetic aberration known as
Trisomy XXI, or Down Syndrome. When a serious accident leaves him in a
coma at the hospital, Joshua receives a mysterious injection that endows him
with supernatural powers. The transformed teen is linked to a string of
bizarre, unexplained deaths that have both the town’s sheriff and the coroner
baffled. But when a ghastly creature from another planet lands on Earth and
begins its hunt for Joshua—viciously slaughtering anyone in its path in order
to complete its deadly mission—Joshua and his friends are thrust into
terrifying circumstances. What follows
is a horrific life-and-death struggle with this seemingly-indestructible
extraterrestrial being. The salvation of an entire race of aliens hangs in
the balance…
TRISOMY
XXI
by
GA Minton
Chapter I
HENRY
Spring had
finally arrived in the small town of Tranquil.
The winter snow had melted, and all that remained were a few patches of
frosty white ice nestled under the shadows cast by some of the loftier pinion
pines and alligator junipers. Like
clockwork, Mother Nature had once again displayed her magnificence. The newly transformed landscape was now alive
with a panorama of plant and animal life, recently awakened from a forced
slumber under a blanket of wintry snow.
Drawn
by nature’s fragrant bouquet, ruby-throated hummingbirds and bumblebees could
be seen hovering over colorful spring blossoms, sipping nectar, only to be
exploited as naive vectors of pollination.
As a white-tailed deer lapped up freshly melted snow from a babbling
brook, two rock squirrels emerged from their seasonal nap, giving noisy chase
to each other across a sun-soaked, high-desert terrain. Off in the distance, the muffled bugle of a
big bull elk was faintly audible.
Tranquil,
a rural Arizona town with a yearly population of almost three thousand, was
located in the picturesque White Mountains, which boasted an elevation of seven
thousand feet above sea level.
Most
of the people living in this close-knit community were honest, law-abiding
citizens who worked in the large copper, silver, and molybdenum mines dotting
the area. The rest of the townspeople
were either retired, or small business owners who catered to the assortment of
tourists that visited the region each summer.
Tranquil
was just like its name, a sleepy mountain community where nothing much ever
happened. Yes, there was that incident
that had occurred around six months ago, when Henry Pickridge, a local resident
and retired miner with a fondness for straight bourbon whiskey—or for that matter, any other spirits he could
get his hands on—claimed he had been abducted by a space alien.
According
to Henry, the extraterrestrial being he encountered that day wasn’t your
average run-of-the-mill visitor from another planet. It wasn’t a little green man or a Grey. Nor was it cute, furry, or friendly. The otherworldly thing that attacked Henry
was a nightmare—a monstrosity that he’d never seen the likes of before, or ever wanted to see again. Unfortunately for Henry, the horrific image
of that alien creature was permanently etched into his brain.
Henry
Pickridge was Tranquil’s proverbial town drunk, a crusty old-timer who lived by
himself in a little wooden cabin located on the outskirts of town. He grew up there, back when it was just a
widened area in the road, missed by most passing motorists if they had blinked
their eyes. His father, Foy, was
employed by the Midas Mining Company as a miner who worked hard in, at that
time, the only molybdenum mine in the area.
Foy worked the lode for over twenty years until he died of lung cancer,
when Henry was only fifteen.
In
order to help his mother out with the bills, Henry was forced to drop out of
school in the eighth grade. The boy
worked in the mines off-and-on for longer than he could remember, until finally
retiring a couple of years ago at the age of sixty-eight. On two separate occasions, Henry ventured out
to find work in Texas and New Mexico, but within a few short months found
himself back in his beloved Tranquil, homesick and broke.
A
rough-and-tough abrasive man, Henry possessed a mouth so foul that it would
have knocked the socks off of anyone’s
Aunt Mildred. The old duffer had about
as much appeal as a turd in a punch bowl.
He was the king of cuss; the prince of profanity; the sovereign of
swear; the viceroy of vulgarity. Over
the years, Henry amassed a huge repertoire of curse words and expletives—an
obscene vocabulary that would have elicited the envy of any seasoned sailor or
traveled truck driver. And he didn’t
limit himself to the use of the same profane phrases over-and-over again, ad
nauseum; nope, the wily senior was too sophisticated for that. The patron saint of smut had the unique
ability to combine certain words together—creating a descriptive expression
that would be offensive to anyone around
him—one of Henry’s favorites was “pig fornicator.”
Taking
immense pride in his unsavory slang, Henry became a connoisseur of the
cuss-word, mixing and matching obscenities that would best accommodate his
particular conversation or situation—even to the point of applying the art of
alliteration in the deliverance of a choice selection of his vulgar
verbalizations. Even though he had
barely attained an eighth grade education, Henry must have paid special
attention in English class that day when the teacher was discussing the merits
of alliteration in sentence construction.
To question if old man Pickridge had a foul mouth would be as ridiculous
as asking if the Pope were Catholic—or, in Henry’s language—if the Trojan Horse
had a wooden dick, or if a bear craps in the woods.
The
silver-haired speaker of smut did his research.
Curious about the origin of cusswords, he visited the town library and
learned about some interesting historic accounts pertaining to the derivation
of certain obscenities. Take the word crap, for example. Henry read in The History Book of Slang, that this word is merely a shortened
version of the name Crapper, taken from the English plumber and royal sanitary
engineer, Thomas Crapper, the inventor of the modern toilet.
Henry’s
verbal antics were even too much for his wife, Mabel, to handle. She divorced the foul-mouthed fogy many years
ago for what her lawyer called irreconcilable
differences. Differences. . .yes;
irreconcilable. . .definitely. “Fix me
my damn dinner, you bony bitch!” wasn’t exactly the most romantic of phrases
one could use to greet a wife when arriving home after a hard day’s work. And Mabel didn’t appreciate Henry’s gift of
alliteration either, especially when it was used that way—no woman appreciates being called the “b” word. The old geezer’s lewd language had kept him a
bachelor ever since—no self-respecting female would even think about tolerating
his vocally offensive shenanigans.
Henry
was truly the father of filthy four-letter-words. If the citizens of Tranquil ever decided to
hand out an award for “The Most Potty-mouthed Citizen,” he would be its proud
recipient, winning hands down. It would
be a dream come true for Henry—one that he pictured often. The master of ceremony would heartily announce
to a hushed audience, “This year, the recipient of ‘The Most Potty-mouthed
Citizen of Tranquil’ award goes to. . .Henry Pickridge!” The crowd would erupt into loud clapping,
cheers, and cat whistles.
Old
Henry, dressed in his best fishing outfit, would graciously walk across the
stage to receive the prestigious honor.
The boozer would step up to the microphone and read from a wrinkled
napkin that he had scribbled his acceptance speech on earlier. “I
humbly accept this bitchin award and I want to thank all you a-holes out there
who voted for me!”
The
unruly members of the cheering audience would go crazy—hooting and hollering,
screaming and yelling—some chanting “Hen—ry. . .Hen—ry. . .Hen—ry,” while
others would cry out, “You da man, Henry. . .you da man!” Amiably waving and throwing kisses to his
rowdy admirers, Henry would proudly exit the stage, shining trophy in
hand. Like perpetual constants of the
universe; the earth revolves on its axis every day and Henry Pickridge
cusses—that was the name of that tune.
Around
six months ago, Henry camped out one night next to Fletcher’s Pool, a small
pond that was located about five miles north of Tranquil. There were some nice trout that resided in
the deep fishing hole, and he was going to try to catch a stringer-full. The only way to get there was to travel on
Route 44—a poorly maintained, winding mountain road that everyone used before
they built the new highway to Tranquil six years ago. Now, the pothole-ridden artery was only
utilized by those wishing to fish, swim, or picnic at Fletcher’s Pool, although
occasionally, a group of backpackers would also take the scenic journey to
explore the wooded hills and grassy valleys enveloping the area. Henry fished there many times before, so he
was familiar with the surrounding countryside.
He parked his old blue pickup truck, and set up camp about fifty feet
away from the dirt road that was adjacent to the small body of turquoise water.
Henry
was the proud owner of a 1965 Chevrolet pickup truck that still sported its
original factory paint job, except that now, as a result of weather and time,
the “blue” had degenerated into at least five distinct shades of color—ranging
from light gray to dark purple. He would
affectionately refer to his well-traveled vehicle as Betsy—Ole’ Betsy if she wouldn’t start. All of the townsfolk in Tranquil were
familiar with Henry Pickridge’s mode of transportation—it was the ancient,
broken-down, bluish pickup truck sporting the white sticker with red printing on
the back bumper that read, If you can read this, then you are driving too
close to me—So back off, jackass! And Scotch-taped to the truck’s rear
window was a sign saying, When Guns Are
Outlawed, Only Outlaws Will Have Guns!
Henry was just that kind of a guy—a free spirit who didn’t give a rat’s
butt about what others thought of him.
After
starting a small fire from the kindling he had gathered from a nearby wooded
area, Henry sat down next to the warmth in his worn-out folding sports
chair—one that he purchased many years ago when living in Irving, Texas. The seat and back supports of his wooden
throne were constructed from some type of cloth fabric, now noticeably
discolored and tattered from weather and wear.
Imprinted on the frayed seat was a faded image of a blue-and-white
football helmet, and stenciled on the back of the armchair were the washed-out
and barely legible words, Dallas Cowboys. For all the years that Henry lived in Irving,
he had never attended a Dallas Cowboy’s football game, but he did use that chair religiously—for all
other outdoor events.
Gazing
upward, Henry took off his raggedy New York Yankees baseball cap and repeatedly
repositioned it on his head until it felt just right. The full moon was out that night, shining
brightly in all its splendor, and there wasn’t a single, solitary cloud in
sight. His eyes followed the somber
stretch of dusky sky, dotted with twinkling luminaries that radiated their
brilliance in a way that reminded him of countless white sequins reflecting off
of a solid black evening dress. As Henry
meditated the vastness of the firmament above, an occasional streaming white
trail of a distant shooting star would entice his peripheral vision, only to
disappear from sight as he turned to observe its celestial journey.
While
downing several shots of his favorite brew, Henry noticed some strange blinking
lights—darting in a zigzag pattern, much like a misguided bottle rocket—moving
across the clear, nocturnal sky.
“Well,
crap fire and save your matches,” Henry spouted. “What, in the name of fornication, is that?”
As
the mysterious flashing beams approached his campsite, he could visually make
out the outline of a cigar-shaped metallic object, dark gray in color. A dome-like structure extended upward from
the middle third of the craft, and Henry estimated the soaring thing’s length
to be about fifty feet. There was
absolutely no sound emanating from the unidentified flying object, which
hovered effortlessly in a fixed position over the gently swaying, neighboring treetops.
In
a state of awe, Henry vigilantly rose from his chair—eyes bugged out and mouth
gaped open—astounded by the surreal presence and sheer magnificence of this
alien mechanical masterpiece. He watched
intently as the Mack Truck-sized, sheeny Cuban cigar peacefully glided over the
nearby assemblage of towering evergreens.
Then in one smooth fluid motion, like a raindrop falling from a leaf, it
vertically descended out of sight—into an open meadow located about a hundred
yards away from his camp.
“Mamma
mia. . .if that’s what I think it is, I’ll kiss a rang-o-tang’s butt,” quipped
the old-timer, as he followed the flying saucer’s flight through inebriated
eyes.
Outwardly,
Henry tried to remain calm, but inside the retired miner’s chest sat an adrenaline-driven
heart that was fluttering faster than a thumping pair of hummingbird
wings. His wrinkled flesh crawled with
goose bumps, sending a huge wave of chills streaming down the entire length of
the weathered fisherman’s scrawny back.
Momentarily spellbound by this strange and unusual event, Henry slowly
took off the scruffy baseball cap and scratched his grizzled head, pondering
about what his next move should be.
Sitting
down next to the fire, he took a big swig out of the whisky bottle, swallowed
hard, and then wiped his alcohol-soaked lips on his dirty shirtsleeve. As he stared across at the crackling flames,
a wisp of crisp mountain air coolly caressed his pensive face. Heaving a deep sigh of deliberation, Henry
screwed the cap back on his glass container of booze and defiantly stood
up.
“A
man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!” he crowed.
The
effects of the alcohol may have helped, but the determined old imbiber had made
up his mind. He walked over to his
truck, opened the door, and grabbed the ivory handled Smith & Wesson,
three-fifty-seven magnum, snub-nosed revolver lying on the seat, tucking it
under his belt, behind his back. There
was a history behind this hand-held cannon that fired .357 magnum
bullets—hollow-point projectiles with enough power to knock down a Clydesdale
horse. It had belonged to his big
brother, Fred, who was a member of the Phoenix Police Department—a senior
detective with only three months of duty left until his retirement—when he was
killed in the line of duty. Needlessly
murdered by two new members of a street gang robbing a 7-Eleven convenience
store as a part of their initiation. It
was around four in the morning, and Fred had walked through the front door to
buy a pack of cigarettes, catching the robbers totally by surprise. They had already killed the store clerk, so
the pair of punks emptied five caps into the unsuspecting detective—Fred was
dead before he hit the ground. Never
even had a chance to un-holster his gun.
The thieves got away with less than a hundred dollars. This was just one of the thousands of
countless, senseless murders that occurs every day when someone is in the wrong
place at the wrong time. Henry used to
jokingly caution his brother, “Fred, those damn cigarettes are going to kill
you someday,” and he was right—in a bizarre, Twilight Zone sort of way, it was the addiction to the neatly
papered cylinders of tobacco that were responsible for the police detective’s
untimely death—Rod Serling himself could have authored the script, with its
unforeseen O’Henry ending. Never in his
wildest dreams would Henry have thought that something like this could have
ever happened to his only brother. The
sterling Smith & Wesson was happily gifted to him by Fred’s wife, who
never, ever wanted to see a gun again in her life. Henry always kept the firearm close by,
treasuring it as a memento, in commemoration of his brave older brother.
Hellbent
on finding out what the metal thing with the aerial acrobatic maneuvers was,
Henry slammed the truck door closed, walked back to the fire, and downed
another big gulp of liquor. Then he set
out toward the UFO’s landing site—located due west of his campsite, just beyond
the haughty rows of pine, juniper, and fir trees that majestically bordered
Fletcher’s Pool.
Slowly
making his way through the arbor of wooded columns, Henry’s eyes caught a
glimpse of fluorescent light, shimmering brightly from the settled saucer
ahead. As the surplus of coniferous
branches gestured in the wind, the rays of illumination radiating from the
alien ship twinkled and flickered, like shiny strands of colored tinsel draped
loosely over the boughs of a freshly cut Christmas tree.
Exiting
a thick grove of ponderosa pines, Henry observed the gargantuan metallic beast
with its collection of blinking lights, obscurely nestled in the open grassy
field ahead. As he approached the docked
spacecraft, the only sounds audible were the high-pitched chirpings of the
crickets around him. The jittery old
coot slowly and silently walked through the thick grass, cautiously stopping
about ten feet away from the mystical flying machine. A sudden gust of howling wind swept across
the open meadow, upsetting the rabble of wild flowers clustered around Henry’s
feet. The perennials thrashed about angrily,
making thumping sounds as they unmercifully whipped against the pant legs of
his trousers.
Standing
motionless and taking in a slow deep breath, the amazed septuagenarian marveled
at the exquisiteness of the interplanetary phenomenon from another universe. The smooth outer surface of the saucer was
fabricated from a dark gray metallic substance, an alloy that Henry had never
seen before. Flashing luminescent
lights, which reflected a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors, extended in a
horizontal fashion around the centrally placed dome. Five symmetrically placed, teardrop-shaped
landing extensions projected from the belly of the craft to the ground below.
Henry
had watched enough documentaries about military aircraft on television to know
that the complex design of this mechanical creation was far too sophisticated
to have come from this Earth. Besides, there were no jets that he knew of
that could instantly reverse their direction of flight while traveling at such
fantastic speeds—physically defying the laws of gravity.
This
thing was definitely extraterrestrial.
Henry
happened to look down at the gold plated watch strapped to his left wrist—an
inexpensive timepiece he had received as a retirement gift from the Midas
Mining Company. Its luminous white hands
were spinning like an airplane propeller, stopping at the high noon mark that
was pointed directly at the spacecraft in front of him. He frowned and grunted, “Suck my sausage. .
.this goddam watch had better not be broken—it’s almost brand-spanking
new!” The perturbed souse moved his arm
at a forty-five degree angle, extending it away from his body, and like
clockwork, the hands again spun furiously, this time ending up praying to the
three on the dial. Henry shook his wrist
and said, “Must be some son-of-a-bitchin magnetic thing. . .from that freakin
flyin contraption over there.” In
reality, the retired miner was clueless when it came to knowing anything about wristwatches, magnetic
forces, or for that matter, alien saucers from outer space.
From
a distance, the curious elder examined the UFO’s outer structure, but could see
no seams, rivets, joints, or openings on the exterior of the ship, so he
carefully moved in closer to get a better look.
Then
something suddenly dawned on Henry.
There was no sound coming from the landed spacecraft.
Not
a peep.
He
cocked his head and listened.
Nothing.
It
was disturbingly quiet—too quiet to
suit Henry. A particular reminiscent
thought flashed through the old codger’s boggled mind. He recalled the 1951 science fiction epoch, The Day The Earth Stood Still, a movie
that he had seen countless times before.
Would an invisible door suddenly
slide open, exposing Gort, the giant frickin alien metal robot that could beam
out disintegration rays from where its eyes should be?
Unsure
if he would be facing friend or foe, Henry slowly and carefully reached behind
his back, pulled the snub-nosed firearm from his belt, and held it nervously at
his side.
Not
knowing what to do next, Henry took a deep breath in and anxiously cleared his
throat. His voice quivered as he called
out, “Hel. . .hello, is any. . .anyone there?
Any. . .body . . .home?. . .I
ca. . .come in peace!”
Silence.
There
was no response from inside the metal aircraft that had arrived from another
planet.
Attempting
to pacify his building anxiety, Henry jokingly recited the outer space
vocabulary he had memorized from his favorite old sci-fi movie—the utterances
used to keep the giant robot from harming any Earthlings—“Gort. . .Klaatu. . .
Barada. . .Nicto!” The old drunk felt
really stupid saying that, but those were the only alien words that he knew of,
and besides, it couldn’t hurt.
Again,
no reply was given to the trembling alcoholic.
Henry
swallowed hard, gripped the pearl handle of his magnum tightly, and began to
slowly raise the barrel.
Without
warning, a condensed beam of rainbow-colored light discharged from the
undersurface of the craft, seizing the surprised senior citizen in its
paralyzing grip. Henry struggled to get
away, but was unable to move a muscle or scream for help. The gray hair on the back of his neck stood
on end, sending a cold shiver down his bony spine. Henry was so horrified that he thought he was
going to lose control of his bowels—take
a crap, pinch a loaf, or dump a deuce in his pants, as he would fondly
say. He was petrified. . .too petrified
to do anything! The terrified tippler
wouldn’t have been able to drop a load even if he had wanted to.
Son-of-a-bitch! I’m screwed. . .what am I gonna do now?
Henry
was trapped. He was helpless.
The
engrossing iridescent shaft of luminosity lifted the senior citizen slowly and
methodically toward the ship. Floating
ever closer to the mammoth spacecraft, the frightened old-timer sensed that
someone or something inside was
watching him.
From
nowhere, and without making a sound, a small oval-shaped panel slid open on the
hard metallic covering of the UFO, discharging a yellow cloud of foul-smelling
gaseous material into the air. Henry
caught a whiff of the vapory miasma, which reminded him of the sour acid reek
that he had occasionally inhaled when he was a miner, working in the deep
shafts of the molybdenum mines. It was a
fetid smell that he would never forget.
The stench was overwhelming, so Henry held his breath to avoid inhaling
any of the noxious fumes.
As
the gas slowly dissipated, he caught a shadowed glimpse of something moving
from inside the ship. Rapidly blinking
his irritated eyes in order to help clear up the blurry vision, the drunkard
could barely make out the gangly figure of an alien being—human-like in
appearance—lumbering directly towards him from within the portal opening.
Henry
wasn’t one to believe in creatures from outer space—the only aliens he knew of
were the illegal ones from south of the border—those with black hair and brown
skin that spoke no English and worked for below minimum wage. Old man
Pickridge was in for one helluva surprise!
Holy Jesus! What the hell’s that thing?
As
the dark anthropomorphic being approached, Henry squinted to try to see its
face, but was unable to discern any features—only that it possessed a large,
oblong-shaped head.
Don’t come any closer, you overgrown alien
piss-ant!
A
monstrous reptilian-like extremity reached out for him, grabbing at his frayed
shirt collar. The limb was bulky and
muscular, covered with coarse green scales.
Four long flexible fingers with two opposable thumbs, joined together by
bands of thick fleshy webbing, extended from the animal’s grotesque hand. Projecting out from the end of each
lime-colored digit was a thick, black fingernail—a horny claw that was long and
curved, with serrations—ending in a razor-sharp point. Henry’s heart was pounding like a rock band’s
drummer, and he could feel the surge of adrenaline racing throughout his
quivering body.
Do I still have my. . .where’s my damn
gun? Even though he couldn’t move his arms, Henry
sensed that the revolver still remained at his side, its pearl handle tightly gripped
in the sweaty palm of his trembling right hand.
Closing
both eyes and using every ounce of strength that he could muster, he moved his
right wrist just enough to elevate the snub-nosed barrel of the Smith &
Wesson. Unable to accurately aim his gun,
he would have to shoot from the hip, just like a quick-draw artist—only minus
the quick-draw part.
The
saurian hand latched onto Henry’s left shoulder, and the frail old man could
feel the vise-like grip of the beast’s claws painfully tighten down on his bony
flesh.
Then
a terrifying thought raced through his head.
This motherthumpin thing is gonna kill me.
. .I don’t wanna die. . .not like this!
Henry didn’t want to end up like his brother, the haphazard recipient of
a senseless murder. You weren’t given no chance to do anything, Fred, but I will. . .I
will, dammit!
Panicked
but determined, the leather-skinned whiskey guzzler concentrated all of his
will on his right index finger, which was firmly curled around the contoured
trigger of the .357. Even if he could
only fire off one round, his hollow pointed slug was bound to inflict some
serious damage to whomever or whatever
it hit.
Come on, you pussy. . .squeeze your
finger. . .pull the trigger. . .move the hammer. . . shoot the freakin gun!
Forcefully
flexing his forefinger, he felt the metal trigger slowly begin to budge, then
depress.
Screw you and the horse you rode in on,
you alien bastard!
The
trigger finally yielded to his finger pressure, firing the weapon
once—discharging its deadly hollow-nosed projectile in the direction of the
alien aggressor.
“Boooom!”
The
report echoed through his ears—a deafening sound, as if two symbols had been
clashed together next to Henry’s head.
The recoil of the magnum’s barrel was so intense that the gun flew out
of the old man’s hand and landed on the grassy ground below his levitated
feet. A cloud of blue-gray smoke fumed
before the alcoholic’s terror-filled eyes, and the strong distinctive odor of
gunpowder permeated throughout his flared nostrils. Those were the last things that Henry
remembered before he passed out.
#
When
Henry awoke, it was daylight, and the sodden old-timer found himself at the
campsite, lying on his sleeping bag, fully clothed, with his baseball cap and
shoes still on. The elder’s revolver,
along with his half-full bottle of liquid spirits, lay innocently on the grass
next to him.
“What.
. .what in the name of Jesus H. Christ is going on?”
Groggy
and disoriented, the rousing rummy slowly lifted himself from the sleeping bag
and sat up. His head throbbed, and he
felt woozy and weak—like he had been drugged with a Mickey Finn. Henry instinctively reached over for his
nearby bottle of hooch, uncapped it, and tossed down a few nips of
intoxicant.
“Oh,
man. . .I feel like hammered dog crap.”
Wait a minute. . .how the hell did I get
here? Was that all a dream. . .a damn
hallucinatory? I didn’t drink enough to
pass out. . .did I?
Henry popped his baseball cap off and swept
back his scraggly locks of silver hair with both hands. The old alcoholic had suffered through enough
hangovers to know that the sensations in his head were very different from
those symptoms that he usually experienced after a night of heavy boozing.
“This
is just too friggin freaky!”
The
befuddled inebriate felt mighty weird, and knew that something creepy had
befallen him the night before—something he was presently unable to
explain. Determined to find out what
happened, Henry picked up his gun and walked back to the area where the UFO had
landed. He meticulously explored every
inch of the grassy field and found nothing—the saucer was gone, leaving no
trace that it had ever been there before.
No footprints, no blood, no wounded monster from outer space.
Jumping
in his pickup, the dazed dipsomaniac raced back to town and reported his
fantastic story to Buck Evans, the sheriff of Tranquil. Buck was very familiar with the alcoholic
antics of Henry Pickridge—he had arrested the old coot several times before for
drunk and disorderly conduct. The experienced
lawman was extremely skeptical, but still drove out with the protesting boozer
to search the area. When they arrived at
Fletcher’s Pool, Henry led Sheriff Evans to the grassy site where the alleged
alien landing had occurred. They hunted
for any signs of an extraterrestrial visit, but found nothing—there was no
evidence to indicate that anything had
landed there, much less a flying craft from outer space.
Most
of the townsfolk never believed Henry’s bizarre account, attributing it either
to hallucinations conjured up by his alcohol-demented mind, or to the dream
illusions associated with an affliction of sleep paralysis. Besides, no one else saw the flying saucer or
any aliens, and the retired miner had no tangible proof to back up his
startling story—except for the oddly shaped bruises on his left shoulder, and
the fact that one of the bullets in his three-fifty-seven magnum had been
fired.
Henry
Pickridge was the talk of Tranquil for the past several months—and because
nothing that exciting had ever occurred in the town before, the local gossips
milked the scary story for everything it was worth. Frequenting the local bars in town, the
liquor-loving lush would gladly spin his tale over a wet whiskey for anyone who
would listen—especially if they paid for the drinks. Henry really didn’t care whether they
believed his grisly encounter with the alien or not—in his mind, he knew that it had happened.
#
After
enduring months of a snowy, harsh winter, the community of Tranquil approvingly
welcomed the onset of beautiful spring weather.
In preparation for the upcoming tourist season, the residents hung up a “Welcome to Tranquil - The Quietest Town in
Arizona” sign over the street entrance to its business district—a city
block of about twenty stores, shops, and eating establishments located on both
sides of Main Street.
As
an orange-red sunset slipped into the western sky, the townspeople prepared for
the approaching darkness of night.
Scattered puffs of grayish-white smoke could be seen arising from a
handful of chimney tops, as the evening chill still had enough bite in it to
warrant the welcome of a warming blaze in the household fireplace.
Most
of the residents and newcomers had already departed the downtown area and were
heading for home, but a few window shoppers could still be seen milling around
the outside of some of the quaint gift shops that were interspersed along the
row of small business establishments.
Even though a spattering of rental cars belonging to a handful of
visiting tourists remained parallel parked along the curb located on the north
side of Main Street, virtually all of the shops and stores in town had pulled
the shades, hung up their CLOSED signs, and locked their doors for the
night. For now, everything was peaceful
and quiet in the charming little mountain village of Tranquil. . .but that
would all change drastically in the days to come.
To understand Dying to Tell’s backstory, I should explain the series’ genesis. First, Dying to Know, the first novel, began with Tuck’s murder. He returns to solve his own case. The “dead detective” theme is based on my 20-year recurring nightmare after the first Gulf War—I was killed by terrorists and returned to hunt them. After telling my adult daughter about it, she urged me to write a similar murder mystery—voila, Oliver Tucker. Each of Tuck’s cases intertwine a traditional murder and a historical subplot. Together, they surround Tuck’s long-lost family secrets—which involve gangsters, spies, G-men, and rogue adventurers—and yes, these ancestors are all dead and back amongst the living, too!
