Category Archives: First Chapters of My Books

The Healer

Chapter One

Brian Thomas unlocked the door and walked into the apartment he shared with his mother.

The barrel of a pistol poked him in the back of his head. “Easy now,” the holder of the pistol said.

Another man pointed a pistol at his mother. She was in the living room, duct-taped to a chair and gagged, her eyes wide. She attempted to yell from beneath her gag.

Brian was shoved into another chair beside her with a pistol pointed at them.

The pistol fired.

Brian sat up in bed crying out while waving his hands in front of him to defend himself from the attackers. The alarm on his phone was going off.

It had been a couple of months since he had that reoccurring nightmare. A shake of his head did not fling the images into nothingness. They were still so vivid they could have happened yesterday, not twenty years earlier.

After silencing the alarm, he sat on the edge of the bed holding his head in his hands, wondering if that nightmare would always haunt him. As much as he wished to never dream it again, he didn’t deserve to forget.

He got ready to go to work as a farmhand on the thoroughbred farm, Whispering Oaks, outside of Louisville, Kentucky where he had been employed for two weeks. As jobs went it was no worse than the many other laborer positions he held over the last twenty years. The owner, Sam Braun, was a renowned trainer, and he and the managers under him treated Brian respectfully.

Just after lunch, it had become hot and he paused from unloading bales of hay from a trailer into the hay barn. Wiping sweat from his forehead and he glanced around. Since arriving at Whispering Oaks he hadn’t done anything to attract attention, but it never hurt to be aware of who might be paying attention to him.

A woman who he guessed was close to his age of thirty-seven, pulled a cart towards him from one of the twenty identical barns that housed some of the two hundred horses that lived on the farm. He had noticed her numerous times before. It was hard not to. She had a body that mannequins were molded from, brunette hair that was usually in a ponytail, and almost always had an expression of being content with her life. She was Sam’s daughter.

Brian went back to work. When she got the cart beside the trailer, she held out her hand. “Hi, we haven’t met. I’m Lisa Braun.”

He pulled off his leather glove and shook her hand. “Marcus.”

“I could use a couple of those. Actually, I could use about four of them but will have to come back to get the others.” She gestured to the small cart.

Brian set four bales on the edge of the trailer then jumped down and loaded two on her cart. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him. “I’ll save you a trip.” He grabbed a bale in each hand and walked beside her back to the barn she had come from.

Her T-shirt read, 2017 Derby Half-Marathon. “Did you run a half marathon?” As soon as he asked, he regretted it. It was always a challenge to strike a balance between being approachable to coworkers or standoffish and considered rude. To remain as aloof as possible he shouldn’t have said anything.

She glanced at her tee and smiled, which made him swallow. He forced himself to look away. “Yeah, but I did awful. I crawled across the finish line on my hands and knees.”

He smiled at her embellishment. “I doubt that happened.”

“Even though I trained for it, it was really hot and humid that day. About like today. It sucked the energy out of me.”

Numerous comments came to mind, but he dropped his smile and said nothing.

“Do you run?”

“Yeah, but I’ve never run a half-marathon.”

“I won’t anymore. I’m getting too old.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Mentally, he kicked himself.

“This from the guy who has never run a half-marathon.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

She laughed, something he suspected she did often and easily.

Lisa led the way into the barn where there were snickering horses. A few whinnied. Halfway down a thoroughbred was tied outside a stall. He reared up on his hind legs as far as his lead allowed, kicked his front legs and whinnied. “You can set those down there. Rapid Onset doesn’t like strangers.”

A white-faced golden retriever struggled to stand, then walked up to Brian wagging his tail. “This is Spencer.” Lisa gave him a pet. “He’s an old boy but he loves coming to the farm. Don’t you boy?”

Spencer stared up at Brian. He crouched beside the dog, took off his gloves, and pet him. Brian felt the familiar flow of his healing leave him. A feeling similar to sweat running down his skin. Lisa continued down the barn pulling her cart and wasn’t watching them. When she stepped into an open stall, Brian held both hands over Spencer’s hips and healed the arthritis. The energy leaving him was not so significant it would exhaust him and make him unable to finish work. He worried about taking this risk, but he loved animals.

Spencer stood still with his head lifted, his mouth open, and slowly panted.

When the healing flow began to diminish, Brian moved his hands to Spencer’s shoulders.

“You and Spencer bonding?” Lisa stepped out of the stall with a pitchfork that she stuck into one of the bales.

Brian’s faced warmed as he gave Spencer a pat, then stood. “Yeah. He’s a good boy.”

The horse—Rapid Onset, he thought Lisa called him—had calmed down and stood watching Brian. Animals were always a mystery and he liked to experiment with what his presence did to them. They always seemed to welcome him. In a slow even pace he started towards the horse.

Lisa came back out of the stall and noticed Brian was almost to Rapid Onset. Alarm filled her face. “I wouldn’t get any close—” She frowned when Brian reached out and pet the horse’s head. She dropped the pitchfork and stood beside Brian, petting the horse. “You’re the first stranger he let walk up to him without raising a ruckus.”

“Animals seem to like me.”

“They must sense you aren’t going to hurt them.”

Brian shrugged. He had no idea if animals sensed his ability and found it enchanting, or if it was something else. He gave the horse one final pet. “I better get back to work.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Anytime, Ma’am.”

Just before he left the barn, he glanced back at Lisa. She continued to stand next to Rapid Onset petting him, but she was watching Brian.

Later, Brian returned to the hay barn with another load. A BMW was parked at the entrance to the barn Lisa had been in.

While Brian unloaded the trailer he heard raised voices coming from the barn, but he could barely make out what was being said. He was pretty sure one them was Lisa. He listened a moment and determined no one was in distress, then continued with his work. But the arguing continued. He considered making sure Lisa was okay. Or was that an excuse to see her again? Whatever was going on was none of his business.

“She’s old enough… own decisions,” Lisa said. “If she doesn’t… with you, you can’t expect… make her. If we do, you… make the trip miserable. Maybe you should consider that she…”

“Or what?”

“Or… maybe because she won’t…” Lisa said.

“I wanted the time alone with her. She’ll be going off to… get this time with her again. Out of respect for… do as I wish.”

“What about Chris’ wishes? I’ll admit… difficult and headstrong, but… she goes on vacation? Shouldn’t it be someplace… enjoy going?”

Who was she arguing with? Her husband?

“That’s beside the point. I made… ago. Expecting me to change… is absurd. She’s acting like a spoiled brat. Something I warned you… get her way.”

“Me? You gave in to her whim… greatest phone. Then, when she treats… willing to… replacement.” Lisa said.

“I knew you’d throw that in my face.”

Spencer began barking.

“Spencer, shut the fuck up,” the man yelled.

“Before you go… take a look… manipulate you.” Lisa had to yell over Spencer’s barking.

Horses shuffled in their stalls, whinnying, and flapping their lips. One kicked its stall.

“Quit changing… going with me.”

“What’s she going to do there? You’ll play… and she’s to do… what?”

Spencer continued to bark.

“Spencer, goddamn you.”

“Don’t you kick him!” Then a moment later, “Take your hands off me!”

Brian jumped off the trailer and ran in to the barn. A guy his age, dressed in dress slacks and a button up shirt, had Lisa by the arms. Spencer pranced around barking. The horses were whinnying.

“Everything okay here?” Brian stopped beside them.

The guy turned narrowed brown eyes to Brian.

From his expression, Brian guessed Dress Slacks was used to getting his way. “Go back to work. My wife and I are having a private conversation.”

“Ex-wife!”

“It seems like Ms. Braun feels the conversation is over,” Brian said.

“It’s not, and it’s a private conversation.”

Brian returned Dress Slack’s glower. “Can you have it without shaking her?”

Dress Slacks’ expression softened as he took in his hold of Lisa. He released her slowly, lifting his hands after he ran them down her arms. “There. You happy?” he asked Brian.

The horses around them sensed the de-escalation and became calmer. Spencer stopped barking.

“As I said, we were having a private discussion. In case you’re too thick-headed to understand, that means you’re to go back to work and leave us alone.” Dress Slacks pointed to the barn entrance.

“If I heard it in the next barn, it wasn’t very private. I think I’ll stick around so that Ms. Braun doesn’t feel threatened again.”

Dress Slacks took a step toward him. He was tall as Brian and years ago might have been imposing, but he was going soft. Had this pretty boy ever been in a fight?

Brian didn’t move and locked his eyes on Dress Slacks.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“From how you’re dressed and the way you’re trying not to get any manure on your shiny shoes, I’m guessing someone who doesn’t work for a living.” The survivalist in Brian regretted being so bold and calling attention to himself, but he hated bullies.

Dress Slacks’ face turned crimson. “I could get you fired. Now leave us alone.”

Brian shrugged. “I’m not leaving.”

“Derek, it’s time for you to leave,” Lisa said.

For several seconds Dress Slacks glared at Brian before turning to Lisa. “I’ll call you later.” He turned his narrowed eyes at Brian before storming off.

After the BMW sped off, Brian asked, “You all right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Brian stepped over to Rapid Onset’s stall and the horse approached the gate to the stall and bobbed his head before letting Brian rest his hand on his head. “It’s okay, he’s gone now,” he said to the horse, then he bent and petted Spencer.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that. Thank you for stepping in. That’s the first…” She took another cleansing breath. “He wants our daughter to go on vacation with him and doesn’t understand how bored Chris will be. I was trying to explain that. But… as always I let him push my buttons.”

“That’s gotta be hard.” He couldn’t understand how someone as personable as she was married such an asshole.

She sighed. “I’m truly sorry you had to see that.”

“He seems like a nice guy.” He tried not to smile.

She snorted out a laugh.

He basked in the smile she gave him. “Do you need me to stick around in case he comes back?” He had no authority to do that. Would the boss’s daughter stick up for him if he got in trouble for not finishing what he was supposed to be doing?

She patted his arm, then yanked her hand back as if embarrassed she had gotten so intimate. “No, thank you. He won’t come back.”

“Well, then… I’d better get back to work.” Again, just before leaving the barn, he glanced back and found her watching him.

First Chapter of novel, Blamed.

BLAMED Small-promoChapter One

I awoke to crushing pain radiating from my legs. My arms were dangling above my head and my hands were resting on the overhead panel of the aircraft. Fighting to remain conscious, it took me a moment to figure out I was upside down.

I yelled and squirmed in an attempt to stop the slide into nothingness and to relieve the agony in my legs. Neither relaxed the all-consuming pain. If anything, my thrashing sharpened it, making me aware of a stabbing throb in my chest.

We were on approach to Dallas-Fort Worth when … what? I could not remember why I would be upside down and in such misery. A black hole filled my mind, erasing what happened between everything being normal as we approached the runway and the torture of the present.

Wind whistled through the shattered cockpit windows, ruffling my hair. Shards of glass littered the overhead panel. Smoke that stank of burned jet fuel and something vaguely ominous drifted in.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire! Fire! I had to get the flight attendants and passengers to safety! The evacuation training we practiced every nine months kicked in before I remembered we had been ferrying the empty aircraft from a maintenance facility in San Salvador.

Damn! The agony made rational thoughts impossible. I mentally worked to block the misery so I could think.

Ned! Why hadn’t the first officer, who had been the pilot flying, made a sound?

When I looked across the cockpit, I screamed.

The overhead panel had bowed in and crushed the forty-something husband and father’s head backward at an extreme angle against his headrest. A lifeless eye bulged from his distorted, bloody face. It stared straight ahead.

The laid-back pilot with a dry sense of humor looked like a ghoul from a Hollywood movie.

How could he be dead? He had been joking with me just moments ago.

To distance myself from the sight, I squeezed my eyes shut while fumbling for the seatbelt buckle of my five-strap harness, then hesitated. If I released it, I would plant my head into the overhead panel, which was filled with numerous toggle switches. Even if I didn’t impale on a switch or break my neck, the agony in my legs made me question if I could work them enough to crawl from the aircraft.

I risked a glance. Whatever had happened to us had bent the instrument panel down, trapping my lower extremities under it. The femur in my right leg poked out through a tear in my pants. A constant stream of blood ran from the tip of the broken bone.

I recoiled, and the bone moved.

An intense spike of nausea erupted, emptying my stomach. Vomit burned my throat, ran into my eyes, and up my nose.

I swiped my face with my arm to clear my vision, sending a wave of blackness rolling through me. A part of me welcomed an end to my misery, while another part of me worried I would never regain consciousness. I couldn’t leave my wife, son, and daughter.

The sounds of large diesel engines approached. Air brakes hissed. Were they from the crash and rescue trucks?

“Help.” My cry was a gurgle from the vomit in my mouth. I spit.

The smoke outside was so thick now I couldn’t see the ground. Would they find me before I was consumed by fire? “Help!”

I didn’t see any movement or hear any voices. I would not die helplessly. I had to get out of the airplane.

The intensity of the torment in my side grew, making it harder to breathe. When the yoke rammed into me had it broken a rib, or my sternum? Punctured a lung?

A shove on the yoke to move it forward proved futile.

If I slid the seat back, I might breathe easier and free my legs. It would also aid in getting the hell out of the cockpit.

Twisting to yank the lever at the base of my seat stabbed my chest. With my free hand, I shoved on the glareshield, normally at shoulder height but now waist level, hoping to ease the pressure against my chest. The seat did not move nor slacken the crushing force in my chest.

It also intensified the torture in my legs. I doubted a chainsaw cutting into them would hurt worse. The bellow I unleashed didn’t summon the strength needed to distance me from the yoke. The intensity of the torment was so great, I almost blacked out.

If I slipped back under, I might either bleed or burn to death.

I sat as still as I could, panting.

The gulps of air I took didn’t relieve my shortness of breath.

Through gritted teeth, I pushed on the glareshield, yanking on the seat adjustment lever at the same time. When I didn’t move, I attempted to shove my feet against the floor under the instrument panel. Unimaginable agony consumed me, plunging me into inky darkness.

Calamity, First Chapter

Calamity - FullRes 6 x 9CHAPTER ONE

Friday, February 14th, 2:32 p.m. MST.

Denver approach air traffic controller Art Contu watched the blip on his radar screen. Contrails Airline’s flight 1917 had passed through its assigned altitude on its descent. Contu keyed his mic, “Contrails 1917, your crossing restriction at Fulla intersection is thirteen thousand. Climb and maintain thirteen thousand.”

Neither pilot responded. Contu frowned. “Contrails 1917, Denver approach. The crossing restriction at Fulla intersection is thirteen, one three thousand feet. Climb and maintain thirteen thousand.”

“Contrails 1917 has a dual engine flameout.” The pilot’s voice was hurried. “We’re declaring an emergency and need vectors to land immediately.”

Contu leaned closer to his radar screen. He had worked numerous aircraft with emergencies, but not one that had lost power to all of its engines. “Contrails 1917, Denver international is three o’clock and ten miles. Turn right heading two six zero. Say fuel and souls onboard.”

The pilots didn’t acknowledge his instructions. The blip on his screen continued south, taking the Contrails flight away from the only airport to which they could glide, if they turned now.

Contu swallowed. Were the pilots too busy to reply? “Contrails 1917, Denver is at your three thirty and fifteen miles. Turn right heading two seven zero.”

“Two seven zero.” The Contrails pilot’s voice was high. His words strung together. “We need the fire trucks. We have no power.”

The blip on Contu’s screen turned toward the approach end of runway two-six. “Contrails 1917, the emergency equipment has been alerted. Turn right heading two eight zero. Say fuel and souls on board.” The rescue workers needed that information to know how big a possible fire might be, and how many passengers, babies, and crewmembers would need to be pulled from the aircraft.

“United 865 going to tower,” the pilot of another flight said.

Contu mentally kicked himself. He’d been so wrapped up in Contrails’ emergency, he had ignored the other aircraft he was sequencing onto final. United should have already been told to contact the control tower for landing clearance. After acknowledging United’s transmission, he gave instructions to a couple of other flights, picked up the phone, and speed dialed the controller responsible for giving takeoff and landing clearances.

“Tower.”

“Contrails 1917, an ADB-150, has a total power loss.” Contu realized his voice was as rushed as the Contrails pilot’s. “I’m vectoring them for two-six.”

“They’ll be landing in a twenty-knot crosswind. The runway hasn’t been plowed in an hour and has two inches of snow.”

“At the rate they’re losing altitude, they’ll be lucky to make it to any runway,” Contu hung up. “Contrails 1917, runway two-six is eight miles. Turn right two nine zero.” The crosswind pushed the flight south, away from the runway.

The snow that had been falling hard over the last several hours had finally let up. “Contrails 1917, Denver twelve hundred overcast, five miles in blowing snow. Wind three three zero at twenty gusting to thirty.” Contu wiped the sweat from his forehead. During a normal landing, the pilots would have balked at landing on a snow-covered runway with a crosswind that strong. Now they had no choice.

Although the pilots didn’t acknowledge Contu’s instructions, their blip turned further north.

Contu squirmed; Contrails’ altitude read-out indicated they had descended to eight thousand feet. That put them twenty-seven hundred feet above the touchdown zone of two-six. At the rate they were losing altitude, they would slam into the ground short of the runway, tearing the airplane apart.

***

Denver air traffic tower controller Bradley Messano cleared United flight 865 to land on runway three-five-left, then looked out the tower’s windows to the east. He lifted a pair of binoculars and through them spotted the landing lights. The Contrails ADB-150, an aircraft similar in size and appearance to a Boeing 737, descended at a rate that lodged his heart in his throat. It would hit short of the approach lights. The foot of new snow would cushion its arrival but would make it almost impossible for rescue workers to reach the passengers and crew.

The flight aimed at the end of the runway but continued to drop too fast.

When it appeared the aircraft would impact, Messano braced himself on the counter surrounding the tower.

Except Contrails didn’t hit.

The aircraft flew at what looked like inches above the snow drifts. Then the right wing and nose rose. The left wingtip dragged through the snow, sluing the aircraft left.

The aircraft rose, the wings leveled, then banked right to realign with the runway.

The nose swung left and right with the wings rocking.

The aircraft cleared the approach lights by a few feet and continued to climb. “They’re going to make it,” Messano yelled out to no one in particular.

When over the end of the runway, the nose dropped. It swung to the south, pointing the airplane to the side of the runway. Messano braced himself again. The aircraft would touch down on the side of the runway. The snowbanks lining its edges would pull it off into the unplowed snow.

The right wing dipped, the nose slued to the north, rolling the wing further. The wingtip contacted the runway, yanking the nose further north.

The aircraft slammed down. The nose began to turn toward the center of the runway until the right main gear caught the snowbank on the side of the runway and yanked the aircraft off the pavement.

“Shit!” Messano yelled.

The nose gear snapped off, dropping the nose. It plowed a furrow, sending a cloud of snow into the air, making it impossible to see what happened for the next few seconds.

The Cover-Up, First Chapter

Monday, June 14 2:07 p.m.

Chapter One

Monday, June 14 2:07 p.m.

cropped-cover-small-the-coverup.jpg

Chunks of rubber as large as garbage can lids flew from the tire of the main landing gear of the Omega Airline 737.

LaGuardia Airport air traffic controller Sanchez Lopez’s heart pounded as he watched the aircraft continue to accelerate for another thousand feet. Then, slots in the sides of the two jet engines opened and the nose of the airplane dipped, indicating the crew rejected the takeoff.

Sanchez looked to his right. United Airlines Flight 549 crossed the end of runway three-one and began its flare to slow its descent rate for landing. Runway four, which the Omega aircraft barreled down, intersected runway three-one. There was the potential for a collision, or the runway being contaminated from the debris from Omega’s tire. He keyed his microphone. “United 549, go around. Aircraft on the runway.”

Omega continued through the intersection and raced toward the end of the pavement. It appeared to be going too fast to stop on the remaining runway. The last two thousand feet was built out over Flushing Bay, with a twenty-foot drop to the water.

Sanchez curled his toes as if pressing on the brakes of the aircraft, willing it to stop. Eventually, his training kicked in. He raised his voice to get the attention of the other six controllers. “Omega 918 is going off the end of the runway.”

The other controllers pivoted their heads to the end of runway four.

Sanchez confirmed visually that United 549 was in a climb, retracting its landing gear, before he spoke into his boom microphone. “United 549, fly heading three four zero. Climb and maintain five thousand feet.”

He glanced back in time to see Omega slide off the end of runway four.

“Shit!” Sanchez braced himself against the counter as if he were in the airplane.

The airplane was airborne for two hundred feet, then smashed through the first set of approach-light stanchions. Parts of the engine cowling ripped away as if from an explosion. The plane continued forward, its nose canted down, for another two hundred feet before it collided with the second stanchion. The tail of the aircraft rose before slamming down, sending out a shower of water.

The 737’s left wing sat on the stanchion. The right one lay in the water, canting the aircraft thirty degrees. Its nose looked as if a wrecking ball had smacked it.

Coerced, Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

COERCED - 1 - FULL RES

Air traffic controller Jacob Crispen looked to the west, out of the windows of New Orleans International Airport’s control tower and observed the black line of clouds two miles away. They continued their march eastward toward the airport. Every few seconds, lightning shot out.

An Omega Airlines flight was three miles from the airport and approaching from the east. If it didn’t land in the next few minutes, the storm would close the airport and they would have to either hold until the storm passed, or fly to their alternate airport.

Omega was several thousand feet higher than other flights would normally be on their straight in final to runway two-eight. It seemed impossible they would lose their excess altitude and make a normal landing.

Crispen considered giving Omega the option of flying a three-sixty-degree turn to give them additional time to lose altitude, but that would have them landing after the storm hit. “Omega 1194, winds two one zero at fifteen, gusting to twenty-five. You’re still cleared to land.” His foot tapped a steady beat.

“Omega 1194,” one of the two pilots radioed back.

The 737’s wings rocked. They were two miles from landing, but their altitude readout on Crispen’s radar showed them at two thousand feet. Most aircraft would be at eight hundred feet. He couldn’t believe they were continuing the approach.

“Omega 1194, wind one eight zero at twenty gusting to thirty.” Crosswind gusts in excess of twenty-five knots made landing difficult.

The plane continued toward the airport.

The wind howled as it rounded the control tower windows. Crispen considered evacuating the tower and seeking the safety of the offices at ground level in case the wind toppled the tower, or blew out its windows. After Omega landed, or aborted their approach, he’d scramble down the stairs.

Omega was a mile from the airport and a thousand feet above it. They should be less than five hundred feet above the ground. The plane’s wings continued to rock. The wall of rain from the thunderstorm was half a mile away. “Omega 1194, wind one seven zero at two two. We just had a gust of forty.” Crispen stood and stepped from foot to foot.

The flight crossed the end of the runway two hundred feet in the air. Most aircraft would’ve been at fifty feet. It continued descending, the wings rolling left and right.

“Go around. Go around,” Crispen said without keying the microphone. He could only order the flight to do so if the runway wasn’t clear of traffic.

Over halfway down the runway and twenty feet off the ground, Omega’s nose aligned with the runway. The aircraft descended fast, hitting the runway with a massive jolt. It bounced ten feet into the air and hovered while continuing on its path, before dropping to the concrete once more.

Do they have enough runway to stop?

The spoilers on top of the wings lifted, and the slots in the side of the engine opened, signaling the pilots had selected reverse thrust.

The aircraft swerved back and forth.

Crispen’s mouth gaped when Omega went off the right side of the runway. Pieces of smashed runway edge lights flew into the air.

The thunderstorm swallowed Omega in the heavy rain. Visibility dropped, making it difficult for Crispen to observe Omega’s roll out.

Without taking his gaze off the ghost-like shape of the plane continuing down the side of the runway, he lifted the phone with a trembling hand and speed dialed a number.

“Fire and Rescue,” a male voice said.

“This is the tower.” Crispen’s voice was louder than necessary. “Omega Airlines 737 went off the side of the runway and may need assistance.”

“Location, damage, and souls onboard?”

“They just came to a stop at the west end of runway two-eight. Aircraft appears intact. Souls onboard unknown.”

“We’re rolling.”

He hung up. “Omega 1194, tower. Rescue equipment is on their way. Do you require assistance?”

No one answered.