Writers Registry, Jan Wallace

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Jan Wallace

Recent Projects

My current projects include two mystery novels: Missing Marbles and You Don't Stop the Heart. In Missing Marbles David Langston and his four friends dominate the schoolyard marble games. Each of them retains a lifelong passion for marbles, but David and one of the other boys become collectors of rare and very expensive marbles. When David's rival is murdered and his marbles are stolen, the police accuse the only girl in their group of the crime. David knows she is not the killer, but he must find the missing marbles to prove her innocence. The second novel, You Don't Stop the Heart, tells the story of Dana Danivan, a young physician. Dana becomes romantically involved with a detective who is the son of one of her patients. When there is a murder at the hospital Dana is drawn into the investigation. She becomes suspicious of an older physician who was her father's friend and who is the trustee of the inheritance that she will receive on her twenty-seventh birthday. She discovers that he has used most of her inheritance and desperately needs the rest. He plans to kill her before her birthday to ensure he gets it. I am also writing a series of short stories an aging and the problems and joys aging. There are currently three stories in the series, but I plan a total of eight. The stories will illustrate the sadness of the loss of family and friends, but will also show the comical side of aging.

Projects or Proposals Offered

I am seeking an agent to represent my published and unpublished works. The agent would pursue film and other distribution opportunities for my published novels Where Roses Grow Wild and Agatha’s Secret and would provide representation for my completed, but unpublished, novels: Until Proven Guilty, The Masterpiece, and Safe Keeping.

Searchable Keywords

mystery, fiction, suspense, romance, novel

Specialties or Categories of Interest

mystery novels, women's fiction, romantic fiction, historical fiction

Experience, Credits, and/or Awards

I have two published novels: Where Roses Grow Wild and Agatha's Secret.

Excerpts from Reviews or References

From a review by Jackie Cooper of Where Roses Grow Wild . . . "The book is reminiscent of the movies of the forties, such as "Portrait of Jennie" and "Love Letters." These characters seem cut from the same cloth as those who inhabited those tragic love stories. You can almost imagine Jennifer Jones and Joseph Cotton playing these roles too." "This is a small book and one that can be read quickly. But it provides a large amount of reading enjoyment. If you like romantic stories then you are sure to enjoy this one.

From The Book

The agent that placed my first novel became ill and unable to work. I placed my second novel myself. I am seeking an agent to pursue film and other distribution opportunities for my two published novels Where Roses Grow Wild and Agatha’s Secret. I also need representation for my three completed, but unpublished, novels: Until Proven Guilty, The Masterpiece, and Safe Keeping which are described below.

Until Proven Guilty

An outstanding Atlanta high school athlete is accused of the brutal slaying of his mother. The boy disappears into the Georgia north mountains and is soon linked to the death of two policemen. A manhunt ensues. Believing in the boy's innocence, an Atlanta detective and a newspaper reporter join forces to find him. Atlanta police discover several more suspects including a powerful state senator. As the detective and reporter search for the boy, they discover the real killer is racing them to reach the boy first.

The Masterpiece

A Masterpiece is the story of three beautiful women named Victoria, the artist they love, and the paintings that shape their lives. The first Victoria, dominating and flighty, is the grandmother who marries the renowned painter, Jacobson Renwald. The second Victoria is their daughter, Vicky. A morose, tender girl who is the heartstrings of her doting father. The third Victoria is the vivacious, determined granddaughter Tory. Tory owns a small shop selling paintings and art supplies in a north Georgia tourist town. She becomes entangled with an old mountain painter named Jake Taylor, and is shocked to learn that he is really Jacobson Renwald her supposedly dead grandfather. Rumors of a new Renwald masterpiece sweep through the art world. When an Atlanta art dealer is found dead in Tory’s shop her life becomes a tangle of lies and danger.

Safe Keeping

Josh Franz, a twelve year old German boy, and his sister are witnesses to the brutal murder of their parents. They escape and build a new life in the United States where twenty years later Josh’s sister is murdered. Josh pursues the murderer in modern Germany. His only clue is a small metal disk hidden in his watch, a link to the past that only his father knew. Pursued by a beautiful secret agent, hidden by a German policeman, and betrayed by a treacherous uncle, Josh continues his search for the killer, Kurt Röhm. The trail leads Josh through German festivals and ancient castles. Struggling against Röhm's band of hired assassins, Josh uncovers not only a hidden wartime treasure but also the dark past of his father and the secret of Kurt Röhm's rage against Josh's family.

The following excerpts are from three of my unpublished novels:

THE MASTERPIECE

UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY

SAFEKEEPING

* * * * * * * THE MASTERPIECE * * * * * * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Maps were scattered around the floor of Victoria's study. In the midst of them Victoria was on her elbows and knees planning the trip she was giving Tory to celebrate her graduation from col-lege. Tory chuckled as she entered the study and saw her grand-mother on the floor looking at the maps. At eighty-one Grams was still a spry old lady.

"Grams, aren't you a little old to be on the floor playing with paper dolls?" Tory asked as she sat down on the floor beside her.

"Oh, Tory, look at all the grand places we can visit on our vacation!" Victoria sat up but remained on the floor.

"What vacation?" Tory asked, puzzled.

"It's a surprise, another gift I'm giving you for graduating from college, if you can call that place a college."

Victoria just wouldn't let it rest. She had never approved of the small college Tory attended. She'd wanted something more prestigious for her granddaughter. Stretching her legs in front of her, Tory put her hands behind her and leaned back on them as she looked at Victoria.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Grams," Tory said. "You'd better brace yourself."

"My goodness, Tory. Why do you do these things to me when I'm feeling on top of the world?"

Tory laughed and sat up again dropping her hands into her lap. "Grams, this is reality, the real world. This world you're feeling so on top of . . .." She paused. "I've got to go out into it and start making a living for myself."

"That's nonsense. Utter nonsense. I won't have it. I've more than enough money to take care of you for the rest of your days and you know it. No grandchild of mine is going to scrimp and go hungry. Besides, you have the money Sidney left you. You could live off the interest from that alone."

The words were there, but they didn't have Victoria's usual force and authority. The trace of fear in her voice was confirmed by the look in her eyes. There was no confidence, just a pleading, a pleading that begged Tory to say she was joking.

Tory didn't reply. Her smile faded, and she sat staring at her hands. She clasped her fingers together and waited.

"Aren't you going to say something? Something to make me feel better about you . . .." Victoria stopped unable to force herself to speak of Tory leaving.

They sat quietly, the silence broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantle. But it didn't last long. Their natures wouldn't allow it. Tory's hand flew to her mouth, but it was too late. She giggled, giggled out loud, just like a child.

"Grams, I love you so much. In fact I've decided to keep you for my grandmother."

"Oh, Tory. Stop it. Say what's on your mind. Go ahead. What is it you're trying to say that's going to destroy my life forever?"

"You know, Grams. It wouldn't be you if you didn't over dramatize everything. We'll take the vacation. That's fine, but I'm starting my own business up in the mountains. I've bought a neat little shop that will make an ideal art studio. I'm going to sell art and help young artists get started. I used part of the money Sidney left me to buy it. Even though we never knew each other, from what I've heard you say about him, I think he would have approved. At any rate I'm going to do my own thing."

Tory's words were bubbling with enthusiasm. She smiled the whole time as she poured out her idea to Victoria. Finally, after a torrent of words, Tory stopped . . . and waited. Victoria didn't say a word for a few minutes, but Tory knew her well enough to know the wheels were turning.

"You say you've already purchased the shop?"

"I did it last month. I've been looking at it for ages. You'll like it, Grams. Honest."

"Tory," Victoria said gravely, "You have a degree in business management, but you can't even draw an apple. How are you going to do something like this. You can't learn to be an artist. Artists are born."

Tory took Victoria's hand in her own. "I hope I can explain this so you can understand it. I have a business degree. My shop will be a business. Maybe studio is the wrong word. It'll be more a gallery, but I don't want it to have that atmosphere. It'll truly be a shop. I'll sell art supplies. I'll sell pictures. I never said I'd paint a picture. I can't even draw a descent stick man. I'll sell other people's work."

"Oh, dear," Victoria gasp. "That is a concern, Tory. You don't know about art. I mean . . . well, at least, not like I do."

"Most gallery owners don't know art like you do, Grams. So, you can advise me." Tory squeezed Victoria's hand and stood to her feet. Victoria followed her example and stood but, at her age, not as quickly as Tory. Glancing at the maps on the floor, Victoria decided the trip planning could be done later. What Tory planned to do with her life was more important right now. "Dear," Victoria said, "let's think this over. Shall we?"

"What is there to think over? I've already thought about it."

"Someone could pass a fake off as an original to you."

"I'm sorry, Grams. I'm not explaining myself well. These will be new artists - unknowns. No one would forge their work. I'll sell their paintings in my shop. It won't be a gallery for famous painters, just an outlet for the work of unknown artists. I'll put their paintings in my shop on consignment. I'll only have to pay them if the painting sells. Of course, I might put a few of Jacobson Renwald's fine paintings in there. Not for sale. Just for display to attract customers for the other paintings."

"I don't think you want to do that. It would be dangerous. If you let it be known that you have some of Jacobson's paintings in your shop, it would encourage robberies. That would be out of the question."

Tory leaned over and kissed Victoria's cheek. "You worry too much, Grams," she said smiling. "See this?" Tory asked holding up a key. "It's the key to the shop. You and I are going to drive up there and have a look."

"I have one other question," Victoria said. "What made you decide to do such a thing with your future?"

"You," Tory replied.

"Me? I never suggested such a thing, not even once."

"I never said you did, but I've always enjoyed watching you with grandpa's paintings. When I was small you would point out things about his work, the way he used certain colors, the way he did certain brush strokes, the things you felt were flaws, the details you liked best. I enjoyed all of it. I like being around the smell of linseed oil, the paints, even the canvas."

Tory closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Opening them again, she leaned back against Victoria's desk and her voice became dreamy as she continued.

"You know I used to like to play with grandpa's brushes and I've always loved art supplies, the paint tubes and stuff. Artists live in another world. I like being around them. Each one is so different, strange in a lot of ways, but nice to listen to - that is if you can get them to talk. Some of them are so close-mouthed it's as if they're afraid they'll give away some big trade secret about their painting. Most of them are pretty temperamental, but their moods don't bother me. How could they after growing up with you. Right, Grams?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Victoria said tossing her head to the side as if she were striking a pose to be painted. She had always wanted Jacobson to paint a large portrait her, but he never had. He claimed he couldn't do her justice.

The movement was one Tory had seen her grandmother make hundreds of times. The head was tossed to the right so the angle would show the left side of her face - her best side she always said. The chin was lifted and the left eyebrow was slightly arched. It gave her a regal look. It wasn't the look of just an aristocrat or even a princess. Even at her age, it was the look of a true queen.

* * * * * * * UNTILL PROVEN GUILTY * * * * * * *

SATURDAY - DAY ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Overgrown bushes along the cracked cement walkway separated Jay Hendly from Karen Hampton's house. Even though it was still daylight, the thick bushes hid him. Up and down the street he could hear the sounds of the late afternoon traffic, and several houses away someone started a power-mower. Glancing at his watch, he realized he'd been squatting in the same position for over an hour. He was sure she was in the house. He'd seen her pass the window twice.

Still watching the house, he stood cautiously to his feet and stretched his cramped mus-cles. The pale blue stucco house had brilliant peacock-blue shutters that were too large, making the windows seem smaller like portholes on a ship. He wondered why anyone would use such a garish color on their shutters.

As he watched, the door opened and a tall blond-haired man stepped out on the porch. Karen Hampton appeared in the doorway, but Hendly's view of her was blocked by the man. When he turned back to speak to Karen, Hendly noticed the man was wearing a back-pack. Catching a glimpse of his face in the shadows of the porch, Hendly realized it was a boy about seventeen or eigh-teen and figured he must be the son Karen always talked about. In a slow cautious movement Hendly squatted in the bushes. He cer-tainly didn't want to be seen hiding in Karen's yard.

While he couldn't catch all the words from his hiding place, he could tell Karen and her son were arguing. The boy stepped from the porch and started down the walk toward him. Hendly remained motion-less as the boy approached. Just as he passed Hendly, the boy turned back to Karen Hampton.

"Mom, go back inside and sleep it off. You'll feel better in the morning."

With the boy out of the way Hendly could see Karen clearly, and his pulse quickened. She always did that to him. She was leaning against the doorframe, a glass in one hand while her other fist rested on her hip and clutched the neck of a whiskey bottle. Looking at her narrow waist and the full curve of her hips, Hendly licked his lips. Her voice seemed slurred as she cursed and shouted for the boy to mind his own business. Step-ping back inside, she slammed the door. As Hendly watched, the muscular teenager disappeared down the street looking back only once.

Hendly had followed Karen Hampton to three different bars in the last year trying to get a date with her. Sometimes she would talk to him, but she always acted like she had some deep, dark secret. When she was drinking heavily just before the bar closed, she would brag about knowing important people and fancy restaurants where she had worked, but the subject would always change to her son - that he was an honor student, that he was going to college, that he was so smart he could go to any college he chose, that he was such a great athlete.

Standing slowly to his feet, Hendly decided to wait a few min-utes longer. He'd give her a chance to relax after the argument with the boy, then knock on the door and see if she wanted to go someplace and have a drink with him. As he waited, he thought of sitting in the darkened bars watching Karen Hampton's lips as she talked. If she would just go out with him . . ..

Hendly pushed the bushes apart and was about to step out on the walk when a car pulled to a quick stop in front of the house. He let the bushes close back around him and squatted quietly.

A middle-aged man got out of the car, hurried up the walk and knocked on the door. The door opened quickly, but as soon as Karen recognized the man, she began to shout for him to leave. Hendly was sure she hadn't been expecting the man. As she tried to close the door, the man pushed past Karen. She tried to stop him, but he slapped her hard across the face twice yelling that he only wanted to see the boy.

In the bushes Jay Hendly shivered wondering if he should try to help Karen or maybe go to a phone and call the cops. Unable to decide, he remained in the bushes and watched. Through the open door Hendly saw the man shove Karen down on the couch and then disap-pear from view. In a few minutes the man came back into the living room. He drew back his hand threatening to hit Karen again, but instead walked from the house slamming the door behind him.

Hendly wanted to run to the house and comfort Karen Hampton, but as he stood trembling in the bushes trying to calm down, he saw a figure dart across Karen's yard and into the shade of the car-port. The man tried the handle on the side door. When it didn't open, he knocked. In a few minutes the door opened, and the man stepped inside. Hendly couldn't see Karen from his posi-tion. He shook his head in wonder. How many visitors was she going to have for crying out loud? He could hear Karen Hampton shouting again inside the house.

A large, late-model car pulled up in front of the house, and Hendly watched as a tall, distinguished-looking man walked to the door. Instead of knocking or going inside when he heard Karen's voice, the man turned and looked around. Staring at the bushes, he seemed to be looking directly at Hendly. Hendly expected the man to point at him and shout. He could feel sweat running down his sides before the man finally turned and put his hand on the doorknob. The man paused, still listening, then opened the door and slipped inside.

Glancing at his watch, Hendly saw it was nearly six o'clock and stood up. Avoiding Karen's yard, he backed through the bushes into her neighbor's yard, quickly crossed the corner of their property, and stepped onto the sidewalk. All he wanted to do was ask her out, but there was just too much action at the house to suit him. He shrugged. He knew a quiet little place a few blocks away where he could get a sandwich and a beer. He could kill some time, play a game or two of pool, and try to see Karen later.

As he walked the four blocks to Danny's Bar and Grill, Jay Hendly thought about how badly he wanted a date with Karen Hampton. He was at the corner across from the bar, and just as he stepped off the curb to cross the street, a car raced around the corner nearly hitting him. As he jumped back on the side-walk, he recognized the driver as the distin-guished man he had seen going into Karen Hampton's house. As the car sped away, he noticed the local Cobb county tag.

Shaking his head, Hendly crossed the street and entered the bar. As he ate his ham and swiss cheese sandwich, he watched a girl in a tight green sweat-er-shirt as she kept playing the jukebox and guessed she was probably in her early twenties. Turning back to the bar he thought how skinny she was, not at all like the full hips of Karen Hampton.

After he finished the sandwich, Hendly played a few games of pool, then sat nursing his second beer and listening to the music on the jukebox. Finally, he realized he'd been sitting in the bar for nearly three hours. It was a little after nine and already dark outside. He left the bar and walked toward Karen's house hoping her boyfriends were gone by now.

Stopping on the sidewalk in front of her house, Hendly ran a plastic comb gently through his sparse, red hair. Though he was nearly bald, he tried to stay in shape and didn't think he looked too bad to be nearly thirty-eight.

Swallowing hard, he tried not to be nervous as he knocked on Karen's door and waited. Wiping his sweaty palms on his pants, he knocked again. There was no answer from inside, and he won-dered if perhaps Karen had gone out with one of the men. He could hear the phone ringing inside, and he stepped back and tried to see in the window. She had been drinking. Maybe she was asleep on the couch where he'd seen her. The thought made his pulse quicken again. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the knob and opened Karen's door.

Stepping inside, Hendly looked around without going further. The table light was on in the living room, and he noticed immedi-ately that Karen Hampton wasn't on the couch as he had hoped.

"Hello," he called. "Karen, are you home?"

There was no response, and he started to leave when a thought crossed his mind. Why not have a look at the rest of the house? It would be nice to know what Karen's place looked like. Leaving the front door ajar, he crossed the living room, turned on the hall light, and looked into the small bedrooms and bath-room. He came back through the living room. His throat was dry, and he grinned as he decided to have a drink before he left. Stepping into the kitchen, he flipped the light switch.

He looked around the kitchen and the color drained from his face as a wave of nausea swept over him. There was an overturned chair and on the floor, on the cabinets, and even on the table, there was something splattered that Hendly was terribly sure was blood. He walked slowly around the table, drawn by some strange combination of fear and fascination, and saw the body. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he stood frozen looking at the inert form. He recog-nized the bloody dress.

"Karen?" he whispered softly. "Karen," he said again, his voice cracking, knowing she wouldn't answer. He started to kneel beside her, but the linoleum floor was wet with her blood, and slick. His foot slipped, and he fell sprawling across Karen Hampton's battered body. Her vacant horror-filled eyes stared up at him accusingly. Why hadn't he helped her?

"No!" he said pushing himself up. "No, this can't be. What did you do to make him do this to you?"

Backing away from her body, he stumbled against the over-turned chair and picked it up leaving bloody hand prints on the back as he slid it under the table. He wiped his bloody hands on his pants, shaking and crying. Maybe he should clean the place. Looking at Karen Hampton again, he knew if he stayed another minute he would vomit, and Jay Hendly turned and ran from the house.

He ran down the street. Each time he came to a street light he looked at the dark stains fading into his clothes and ran faster. He wanted to get as far from Karen Hampton as he possi-bly could. He hoped no one remembered how he had followed her from job to job and prayed no one remembered how she had threat-ened to call the cops if he didn't leave her alone.

Suddenly, fear gripped him as he realized he had left finger prints every-where. It was the story of his life. He'd always been in the wrong place, and this was as wrong as anybody could get.

SUNDAY - DAY TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Far below clouds hung like a soft, white blanket obscuring the valley. As it curved along the top of the ridge, the left side of the mountain road broadened into an overlook parking area with room for perhaps a dozen cars. All around the valley green peaks thrust into the morning sky. The car sat silent and alone in the overlook where the deputies had stopped to eat breakfast. Large gold letters proclaimed "Sheriff's Patrol" along the front fender and the county seal was painted on the door.

The driver had slumped and fallen over on the seat, a deep gash slashed completely across his throat. Blood from his severed jugular veins had sprayed the dashboard and steering wheel and soaked the seat. His partner had fallen out the open passenger door. With his feet still in the car, his body lay face down on the pavement. There were three large bullet holes in the back of his bloodstained tan shirt. A bloody service revolver lay on the front seat by a Hardee's bag. Biscuits and orange juice had been spilled in the floor, but a still warm cup of coffee sat cooling on the dashboard.

About a mile from the overlook, Terry Hampton climbed out of the woods onto the narrow road. From his blond hair and golden tan, you would expect to see him surfing or sitting atop a lifeguard stand on the beach, not climbing up the side of a north Georgia mountain. The cut-off jeans and sleeve-less sweat-shirt revealed the well-toned muscles of a young athlete. He stood staring up the road trying to decide whether to walk the pavement for a while and rest or to continue hiking straight up the side of the mountain as he had been doing for the last hour.

There was the whine of an engine and a screech of breaks as a small motor home rounded a curve above him. The man at the wheel was driving too fast and the motor home's wheels slipped off the road in a spray of gravel. The vehicle swerved then stra-ightened as it started down the straight stretch toward Terry. Stepping off the road onto the grass, Terry watched it coming. As the Winnebago bar-reled by him, the pudgy-faced driver laughed and waved. The man's wife wasn't laughing. She was vigorously shaking her finger at her husband. While Terry couldn't hear her words, he assumed she was discussing the man's driving. Terry didn't return the man's wave as he watched them go by.

From the back window, a fat boy, who appeared to be about ten or twelve, lifted his middle finger to Terry as the motor home roared around the curve and continued down the mountain. Terry shook his head. Just being a little kid, he thought.

After last night, he couldn't take any more. He didn't want to see any people. Let them have the road. The fewer people he saw, the better it was for him. Shifting the pack on his back, he crossed the pave-ment and disappeared into the woods above the road.

When the driver of the motor home reached the overlook, he pulled in and stopped for his wife to take pictures. The view was majestic, a long vista through a gap in the mountains, the morning haze just burning off, and in the valley far below the sunlight glistened on the rapids of a small river. The sherif-f's car was parked at the far end of the parking area, appearing at first glance to be deserted. The door on the far side was open. It didn't take long for the little fat kid to discover the car wasn't empty. Planning to scare the occupants, he sneaked up to the car and looked inside. He paused for a minute, shocked, before he screamed.

The pudgy-faced man, who had been standing at the railing while his wife took pictures, turned and ran toward the boy. His wife was right behind him. The man was short and fifty pounds over-weight. Running across the parking area in his bermuda shorts and Bud Lite t-shirt, he resembled a charging rhinoceros. He stopped and stared in the car and the color drained from his face.

When his parents reached the car, the boy stopped screaming and the only sound was the buzzing of a shiny green fly inside the car. The fat man's color changed from pale to a sickly green. He turned from the sight in the car and took two steps before bending over and retching violently. His wife took in the scene and ran for the motor home where she picked up the CB radio and frantically called for help. The boy began to wail again.

Twenty minutes later a Georgia State Trooper arrived in his blue Mustang. By then the overlook resembled a carnival. There were three cars full of tourists, two local cars, a jeep, a farm truck, two pickups, and a jacked-up pickup with oversized tires and Rebel flag hanging in the back window. Pigs squealed loudly from the back of the farm truck. The woman in the Winneb-ago was still on the CB radio hysterically calling for help on Channel 19.

The Sheriff, several deputies, and city police from the nearest towns arrived at intervals over the next thirty minutes. They set up road blocks and began routing tourist and thrill seekers onto other roads and away from the area. Within two hours of the time the fat man's frantic wife first picked up the CB, there was a helicopter from an Atlanta TV station hovering over the scene. The story made the noon news without pictures. The evening television newscast was complete with grisly photos, film, and an interview with the Sheriff. There were also inter-views with the fat man and his family, who were identified as Herman Markowi-tz, wife Thelma, and son Vernon - tourists from Columbus, Ohio.

* * * * * * * SAFEKEEPING * * * * * * *

CHAPTER FIVE

Josh stopped the red Mercedes 500SL in the parking lot behind Hillary's print shop. He lifted the first box of paper from the car and sat it by the back door of the shop and then stacked the remaining three boxes on top of the first one. He returned to the car for the sack of candy he always brought her. Josh smiled thinking of how many years he'd been picking out candy for Hillary. He had bought her candy since they were kids, from the time his thin nose was pressed against the glass case in Mr. Heinrich's candy store with her tugging at his shirt and pointing to the licorice. She had always whispered for him to buy the red kind.

Using the key he kept on the ring with his car keys, Josh opened the back door of the print shop. He hefted one box of paper under his arm and, carrying the candy, entered the shop.

"Hillary, the paper boy has arrived. Bearing gifts, I might add." There was no response. "Hil, where are you?" he called.

Josh noticed the machines were all turned off. He sat the paper down and pushed the swinging door to the customer area open. "Goofing off, huh? Aren't you the girl who never takes coffee breaks?"

Later, he would remember wondering if he heard someone in the shop screaming and then realizing it was himself. He fell to his knees beside her and pulled her head gently to his face.

"No, Hil. No, babe," he screamed. He looked at the piece of candy that had rolled from the bag he dropped. The red jaw-breaker rolled across the floor and stopped in the pool of her blood. Josh couldn't force his mind to focus. It was blank. The world seemed to spin around him. He couldn't believe her eyes were staring up at him. He stared back into her deep blue eyes, but they didn't blink. He had promised his mom he would always take care of her and he had . . . until now.

"I've let you down, Hillary." He put his cheek to hers and rubbed her head the way he had when they were children. She had been five when their parents were killed. His mind reeled. The correct term would be butchered. He had hidden himself and Hillary on a boat under a tarpaulin. He had held her in his arms to stop her crying. Trying to soothe her fears, he had rubbed her head until she had gone to sleep. She had never known how frightened he was. He'd held her even more tightly to conceal his own trembling body. He'd never gone back. The men who killed his parents had wanted the thing that was concealed in the watch he was now wearing. He glanced at the watch and back to his sister's beautiful face. He knew they had found him. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth. Josh kissed his sister's cheek and whispered, "Only thing, Hil, is I'm not twelve years old this time."

The last time this happened he had known only raw fear. This time he still felt his heart pounding in his chest, but the emotion that surged through his grief was pure hatred. "Goodnight, sweet Hillary. Dream a nice dream for me. I love you, little Hil. You'll always be my mountain."

He kissed her cheek again. He slid his fingers across her once warm flesh, then held her tightly as if he could keep her from going or maybe go with her.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Josh awoke to the sound of vehicles passing by on the road just beyond the ridge. He could hear the high pitched hum of their tires on the pavement and then the faint, distant rumble as they crossed the ancient wooden bridge. He stirred and looked around the room and laughed.

He must have been more afraid last night than he would care to admit. He had built a fortress. The room was ten, maybe twelve, feet square with two bookcases, a couch, an old easy chair and he had crammed a bed into it. He chuckled and slipped his feet into his shoes. As he looked around, the room seemed so small and that was odd. Josh could remember, as a child, thinking the room was enormous. He had sat many nights in this room listening to his parents tell stories of the war, fairy tales, and old German myths. He always loved the scary stories, like the one about the two headed animals that came to torment evil doers. "Kids are crazy," Josh said aloud. "Why did I want to have the wits scared out of me before going to bed?" He shook his head and walked into the bathroom.

The small room had a tiny shower stall, commode, and basin. Tiles had cracked and one piece was missing. The basin was stained from the minerals in the water. Josh showered and shaved before putting on his only fresh clothes. He would buy more today, but first, he would rent or buy a car, something that could travel into the mountains. There was a metal cabinet fastened to the wall over the sink with a mirror on its door. He looked in the mirror combed his wavy blond hair. He stepped back into the living room and stopped.

On each side of the mantel where he had removed the bookcases the walls were lighter colored. The paint hidden behind the bookcases had been protected from light and dirt and now showed as light colored rectangles, but that wasn't what Josh's sharp eyes had noticed. He walked to the mantel. A tiny scrap of paper, yellow with age, was sticking out from behind the mantel down next to the floor.

Josh bent down and pulled the paper. A corner tore. There was writing on it. Josh laid the scrap on the hearth and gently pulled the remainder from behind the mantel. He laid it on the hearth and pushed the two pieces together. It was stationery from the Franz Print Shop.

The death of his parents flashed before him. He remembered. That morning he had unloaded a box of stationery from the car and put it on the hearth for his father. It had been a hot day in early summer, too hot for that time of year. The shutters and windows were all opened. He stared at the paper on the hearth before him. The words stood out as though screamed at him from the grave. In large broad strokes of brown ink, one of his parents had written him a note.

josh go away put it in safekeeping take hillary

we love you both watch out there are more of them

mama and papa

Josh sat on the floor staring at the words in shock and disbelief. The strokes were too wide, the ink on the faded paper too brown. His heart beat faster. He realized in horror it wasn't brown ink. It was blood, the dried blood of his . . .. He couldn't tell which one had written it. Was it his mother's blood or his father's?

It was the blood that had moved him to action that day. When it had dripped on his shoulder, he had grabbed Hillary and gone out the cellar door. They had run as quickly and quietly as possible across the small backyard and into the woods. The men hadn't looked for them. He supposed the men thought he and Hillary were off playing with other children.

Josh remembered his father's words. As he was rushing them into the cellar, his father had pushed something into Josh's hand. "Take this, Josh. Keep it safe. Take Hillary and stay quiet. Make not even one sound, no matter what happens. Now, go!" They had hidden in the cellar, too frightened to leave, until the blood had dripped on him. Now, the blood was speaking to him again.

Josh couldn't believe that after eighteen years his parents were still trying to reach him, still trying to tell him something. He looked at the message again.

watch out there are more of them

What did that mean? Who were they? Deep inside Josh began to feel that Kurt Röhm and his men were not the only ones involved in this. But what was it all about?

There was a lump in Josh's throat again as he pulled the watch from his arm, turned it over and removed the back. He shook it gently and the tiny round piece of metal his father had pressed into his hand that day fell into his palm. It told him nothing. It meant nothing, but it was safe . . . and had been for eighteen years. He replaced the piece of metal and snapped the back on the watch again.

Josh looked around the room, so much sorrow where once there had been so much happiness. He could almost hear his father's boisterous German laughter, almost see his mother's stern German ways and little Hillary racing through the house. He could feel his mother's big arms wrapping around her children, hugging him and Hillary tightly to her. Now, they were all gone . . . gone because of a round quarter-sized piece of metal. He was an engineer. He knew different metals and the metal of the disk was nothing special. He knew the uses of metals, but what was the purpose of the disk hidden inside his watch? He had no idea.

About The Author

Born in New Smyrna Beach, Florida and raised in Detriot, Michigan, I lay claim to the North and the South and have thoroughly enjoyed both places. Presently, I live in an historic house in Marshallville, Georgia. I am married to my high school sweetheart and have four grown children. I have two published novels: Where Roses Grow Wild and Agatha's Secret. In addition to writing my interest is orphaned animals. My youngest daughter and I have over one hundred and fifty animals we love and share.

To request information on this author or a manuscript contact the listed agent or e-mail: dbooth@authorlink.com

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