Tag Archives: Suspense

PICT Review & Guest Post: Knowing by Laurel Dewey

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KnowingCover_Frost
Laurel Dewey
The Story Plant
Dec 4,2012
394 Pages
Purchase: Amazon
RBM’s Disclaimer

After the life-altering ending in the third Jane Perry thriller, REVELATIONS, Jane Perry takes time off from the job to find the missing part of herself she never knew existed. But her journey is quickly hijacked when a wanted criminal, Harlan Kipple, steals her car. Kipple—accused of the heinous murder of a prostitute in a seedy motel—is on the run and desperate to stay that way. Jane’s personal plans take a back seat as she tracks down her stolen ride and discovers through an unusual source that Kipple may be innocent and is being framed by a nefarious group. When she trails Kipple and confronts him, every belief she ever had about this world and the next is put to the test.

Kipple, who by his own admission is not the “brightest bulb in the box,” received a heart transplant seventeen months ago. His life changed from the moment he woke up in the recovery room. In fact, he’s not so sure where he ends and his heart takes over. As strange as that sounds to her, Jane cannot deny what she witnesses after spending just two days with Kipple. It becomes clear that nothing is what it appears as Jane is drawn into a deep rabbit hole with dark webs and darker crevices that force her to operate on the other side of the law. With the police hot on Kipple’s tail and a devious faction intent on finding him first, Jane is caught in the middle and realizes that solving this crime could have fatal consequences.

With themes as diverse as immortality, regeneration, resurrection, transformation and death, author Laurel Dewey tackles this latest Jane Perry novel with originality and plenty of suspense. “Finding yourself” takes on a whole new meaning in KNOWING.

Guest Post:
“How long does your research take and what goes into that research?”
by Laurel Dewey

I admit it. I love the research side of writing a book. When I get an idea for a story, I’m a research fiend. It’s not enough for me to spend a week or so delving into the subject matter. I don’t want to just know the surface of anything. I want to know what it looks like and feels like so I can give the reader a vivid sense of being right there in whatever scenario I’m creating.

Ten years ago, when I was writing the first Jane Perry novel, Protector, I immersed myself in police life. I interviewed several homicide detectives and then asked them if I could spend the day with them. One of them agreed and was very helpful in showing me his daily routine, and enlightening me to basic police procedures. Since I was writing in a genre that was often graphic and depicted crime scenes, I needed to know what one looked like. That was putting me way outside my comfort-zone as I’m not particularly fond of blood. But I bit that proverbial bullet and spent hours looking at horrific crime scenes, many of which included children. That part was obviously very tough but it was vital since, at that time, the story involved children who were murdered.

Now, fast forward to about late 2009. I got the idea for Knowing, the fourth Jane Perry book in the series, and knew it would require an equal amount of intense research. I’d created a story that was layered and included elements as varied as Egyptian esoteric symbols, covert military operations and what happens when a heart transplant patient begins to function with their donor’s heart. Much of the esoteric information was easy to collect since I’ve built quite a library in my home over the past years and had access to plenty of intriguing texts. But covert military operations and heart transplant patients? That was going to create some interesting hurdles.

Strangely, the first one I chose to undertake was the toughest one: covert military operations. It wasn’t easy but I eventually found someone who was the most unlikely candidate on the surface, but who turned out to be a treasure trove of information. And, just like my experience with the homicide detectives many years ago, this individual introduced me to situations and information that was difficult to digest, due to the extreme content.

You would think it would be easier to find a heart transplant doctor than a former covert military individual, but it sure wasn’t. I spent nearly six months tracking down and calling numerous cardio doctors and heart transplant physicians until one finally called me back. Over the course of the next year, he and I kept in touch. Whenever I had a technical question or wanted to make sure a segment in my character’s life was true to life, I’d contact him and we’d discuss options.

Readers tell me all the time that my books “feel real” and that the characters “ring true, as if they are taken from real life.” To do that, it takes a lot of time but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

EXCERPT:
Sergeant Detective Jane Perry rolled to an abrupt stop in front of the gas pumps and checked the time. 7:17. It had been exactly seventeen minutes since she left her house on Milwaukee Street in Denver and headed south on I-25 but it felt like hours. Lately, reality had revolved in a surreal sphere, and Jane was looking forward to jumping off the mind-bending roller coaster and getting some heartfelt perspective on her life. But all that would have to wait now.

If Jane were still a smoker, she would have extinguished four cigarettes since she left her house. Even though it had been over eleven days since she was sucker punched by the news, the rawness of that first moment when she saw the truth in black and white was still fresh and stung like venom, hot and unforgiving. Nicotine would soften the edges but she’d made a promise to herself to quit, so she’d have to figure out how to steer through this oozing emotional wound without the comfortable dulling of pain.
That was proving more difficult as the days progressed. In one moment, Jane’s world not only blew apart, but her entire identity split with it. She’d spent the past days dredging up her turbulent young life yet again—propelling her heart back into the chaos—searching for clues in the multitude of unspoken words and wondering how she missed the torturous secret her mother chose to keep. Unfortunately, her memories had been fogged by time and over twenty years of abusing the bottle. If there was any sign of what was hidden long ago, it was now buried in layers of regret and omission.

Jane rolled down her window and adjusted the side mirror on her ’66 ice blue Mustang. She took in a deep breath, hoping it would abate her temp- tation for tobacco. The cool, mid-April breeze belied the promise of spring, even though March and April were known in Colorado as the wettest and snowiest months of the year. As Jane canvassed the flattened landscape so common for this section of the state, there was still no sign of the Isis of rebirth—no lush green panoramas to sink her teeth into and inhale the beauty. All that lay in eyesight were varying shades of taupe, edged by the blacktop of the frontage road. How was it possible for anything verdant to emerge from this lifeless topography? The sheer energy it took for Colorado to rise from the frozen ashes of winter never ceased to amaze and confound Jane. While the rains had abated over the last twenty-four hours, an uncommon moisture still clung in the normally dry morning atmosphere that lent a dampened spirit to her journey.
Jane leaned outside and caught her reflection in the side mirror. No, it couldn’t be, she thought. Moving closer to the mirror, she parted her shoulder length brown hair and found a cluster of gray. When did this happen? Had she been so preoccupied with the events of her last case that she failed to notice the preamble to death painted on her crown? She studied her brown eyes in the mirror and noted the bags underneath—badges of a hard fought life where sacrifice trumped freedom. Crinkling her nose, Jane forced the lines around the corner of her eyes to deepen. She could chalk it up to too much smiling but anyone who knew her would disagree since Jane Perry’s personality was not synonymous with grinning. She let out a hard sigh of resignation. How in the hell did she get so goddamned old in just thirty-seven years?

She leaned over and locked her Glock in the glove compartment on top of her badge. Even though her anticipated seven-day trip was purely personal, she never traveled without her service weapon. It was an anchor and a steel security blanket. Swiping her credit card, she selected the highest-grade gasoline for her cherished classic ride and filled the tank. A gust of wind blew across the service station, forcing Jane to button the collar of her leather jacket. She turned and surveyed the smattering of vehicles filling up at this early hour. Jane had always been a student of observation; always keenly taking in the minute details in front of her. That ability ran on autopilot and served her well as a cop when she had to recreate a homicide scene.

But lately, she’d taken to counting objects that were grouped together. It had almost become an obsession; something to indulge her addictive mind. At that moment, there were three cars, including hers, at the islands. There were seven islands, each with three options for fuel. But four of those fuel pumps were covered with yellow tape, marking them out of order. So, readjusting it, there were seventeen fuel handles available. Ironic, she mused. When she rolled into the gas station and looked at the clock, it was 7:17, which was seventeen minutes after she left her house. Odd.

She’d come to know these as syncs, clusters of seemingly disparate words, digital times on a clock, names, symbols or numbers that kept cropping up in such a way to herald a hidden message. While some of the syncs had been easy to decipher, most proved mystifying, leaving Jane to feel she either wasn’t smart enough to understand the significance or that the message itself wasn’t ready to be heard. This concept may have occupied illogical territory, but even the most logical human being has been guilty of latching onto a sign from above or below in an attempt to give meaning to an experience.

As much as Jane Perry primarily used her logic, these last few years had introduced her to phenomena that defied rational sense. The more she fought it, the more the strangeness attacked like a serpent, demanding to be acknowledged. More than anything, she couldn’t escape the weird coincidences and syncs that plagued her daily life and infested nearly every homicide she worked. The constant dovetailing of events was so common now that she no longer questioned the mystical belief of entanglement with other humans, both dead and alive.

The fuel pump clicked but Jane kept squeezing the handle in an attempt to force every last drop of gas into her tank. She noted the signage on the pump warning against “topping off” your tank and some reference to “creating a cleaner, greener planet.” Fuck that shit, she thought. She had a long drive in front of her and her hungry Mustang needed to be fed as much liquid “grass” as possible. When she finally filled it to overflowing, Jane removed the nozzle and hooked it back on the pump. Just as she did, she sensed the presence of the attendant behind her, ready to make a smartass comment. She turned, ready to verbally tackle him with her well-worn bravado. Yet to her astonishment, there was no one there. Jane spun around and scanned the immediate area, looking for any sign of an attendant in the vicinity but she came up empty. She chalked it up to a lack of sufficient caffeine, even though she’d already knocked back three cups of coffee in the last two hours. While gas station java swill wasn’t her first choice, it would have to do.

Inside the small Quik Mart convenience store, Jane found four aisles stuffed to the gills with every known junk food. Besides the corpulent woman behind the cash register who crunched on a greasy pork rind, the only other occupants were a beefy biker and a scrawny teenage boy who was loading up on enough “crack in a can” energy drinks to keep him awake until he stroked out. A small television, located above the cash register, was turned on with the sound muted. Jane briefly glanced up as a booking photograph of a heavyset man filled the screen. His wavy brown, scraggly hair matched his unkempt beard and mustache. His name flashed underneath the photo: Harlan Kipple, age forty-two.

Jane knew all about Kipple, although she’d never met him. For almost fourteen days, he had been enjoying “three hots and a cot,” courtesy of the Denver penal system. She would have caught the case but Kipple committed his crime southeast of Denver in Limon, Colorado and was only kicked to Denver because of his heinous, high profile crime and to insure he was secured prior to trial.
Kipple, an Interstate truck driver with only one past infraction of transporting illegal prescription drugs in his rig for his brother-in-law, had been accused of the macabre butchering of an unidentified black prostitute. It was your classic open and shut case since Kipple had been found in a dingy Limon motel, passed out in bed with the working girl, clutching a bloody hunting knife and covered in her blood. To make the case even more depraved, the poor girl had been gutted like a deer and her head cracked open, leaving her brain draped outside of her skull. As expected, drugs were involved and that part of the murder made Harlan Kipple nefariously notorious. Lab reports showed he injected the girl with ketamine hydrochloride—a PCP analogue used as an anesthetic in veterinary medicine but gaining popularity on the street as a date rape drug. Known on the club scene as “Special K,” “Super K,” “KO” and “Make Her Mine”, ketamine was distinguished from other date rape drugs in that it produced a dissociative anesthesia, rendering the victim detached from all bodily sensations but often aware of what was being done to them and yet paralyzed and unable to respond. Picture being encased in a glass ball, while watching the unthinkable happen to you and having no way to fight back. It was the ultimate torture because if the victim survived the attack, they usually suffered from amnesia but were prone to subsequent, suddenly triggered vivid hallucinations that replayed the rape or attack, forcing the victim to question their reality. To Jane, ketamine was the epitome of a true mind-fucking drug that left its twisted mark on survivors for many years. As for the unsuspecting prostitute that Kipple mutilated, her last minutes were likely spent watching herself being raped and then filleted open until the grace of God separated her body from her soul.

But the incongruity of Kipple’s case didn’t end there. About two years prior to the grisly murder, he had been given a life-saving heart transplant—a surgery that nearly ensured him another healthy two decades of life. The fact that those years would now be spent confined to a cell and probably end in execution was God’s little irony, Jane deduced. What a waste of a good heart, she recalled thinking when the story broke.

Kipple’s face lingered on the television inside the Quik Mart. The press named him “Kipple, the Heartless Killer.” Nothing works like an obvious alliteration when you’re selling freaks to the public. Jane stared at his photo, searching out the darkness that always lingered behind the eyes of all psychos. But Kipple was a tough nut to crack. Instead of the penetrating evil, there was a strange softness and quiet sweetness that projected from his photo. Good God, was she losing her touch?

“Can I help you?”

Jane turned away from the screen to find the cashier staring at her, a speck of pork rind dotting her upper lip. “I need strong coffee.”

The woman pointed her fat finger toward the back of the store, in the corner next to the bank of refrigerated shelves. Jane glanced outside to her Mustang and then quickly walked to the rear of the store. She selected the strongest brew available and the largest cup, filling it to the rim. Searching for the sugar, she tipped over the plastic bowl that held the packets. She counted them as she put them back in the bowl. Seventeen. She snapped the lid on the cup and carried it around the corner of the aisle, staring momentarily at the array of artery-clogging snack foods that lined the shelves. She looked up briefly to glance at her waiting Mustang before searching the selections for anything remotely healthy. It was another promise Jane made to herself after recently escaping what she assumed was a death sentence. She found herself drawn to the pine nuts, even though she never would have made that choice a few weeks ago. She squinted to read what was written across the front of the bag in green lettering: ENJOY THESE NUGGETS OF NATURE FROM THE PINECONE! The price was right for the small bag, a buck seventy.

Jane grabbed all eight bags on the shelf as she felt the burly biker walk behind her. For some strange reason, he hovered awfully close. She allowed the intrusion to continue for another few seconds before spinning around. But there was no one standing there. The biker was, in fact, on the opposite side of the store. Jane stood still, sensing a muscular thickness around her; a phantasm imprint that lacked clarity. A few years ago, she would have ignored this curious feeling but she’d learned the hard way that the more she pretended it away or chalked it up to booze, flashbacks, PTSD or lack of sleep, the more dynamic it became.

Jane waited, looking into nothingness yet still clearly aware of the unassailable presence around her. She started to turn right but was drawn to the left. Moving around the aisle, Jane stood at the long magazine rack that framed the front windows. Cradling the eight bags of pine nuts, she made her way toward the cashier when she heard the soft brush of a magazine fall to the vinyl floor behind her. Jane turned to find a copy of “The Q”—a glossy, men’s sports and outdoor magazine—splayed open, cover side up. She leaned down, picked up the magazine and replaced it on the shelf. Turning toward the cashier, Jane took a step and heard the magazine fall behind her again. She stopped. The phantasmal stickiness gripped her like a defiant child demanding her attention. Jane carefully turned toward the magazine, finding it sprawled in the same position as before. She leaned down, turned it over and stared at the advertising found on page seventeen. Against an indigo background lay a mountainous landscape with snowcapped peaks. Featured in the foreground was a woman’s modest wristwatch placed upon what looked like a red satin cloth that stretched from one side of the page to the other. The hands on the watch pointed to 11:17. In the bottom left hand corner, there was an illustration of the “great and powerful” Oz from The Wizard of Oz peeking out from his purple curtained area. In bold, red block letters next to the image, it read:

IT’S TIME FOR A CHANGE, DOROTHY.

Jane searched on the page for the product or service being advertised and came up empty. She figured “time” related to the woman’s wristwatch and Dorothy correlated to The Wizard of Oz but the rest of the ad was nonsensical. There were no website links or phone numbers that related to whatever they were selling. Avant-garde garbage. That’s what Jane deduced as she inexplicably tucked the magazine under her arm and walked to the cashier. Suddenly, the presence that had hung so closely to her disappeared.

“That all?” the chunky woman asked.

“That’ll do it.”

The woman tapped her greasy finger on a greeting card stand to the left of the checkout. “We got Easter cards on closeout.”

Jane regarded the woman with an incredulous stare. Did she actually believe Jane looked like a woman who would send someone an Easter card? Jane glanced at the nearly empty card stand and saw a glittery greeting with the Archangel Gabriel blowing his trumpet. Who in the hell sends Easter cards? Jane peered around the card stand and saw liters of spring water. She grabbed four bottles and added them to her pile. “Okay. That’ll do it.”

“Thirty-three even.” Jane handed the woman a fifty.

The woman opened the register and handed Jane’s change back to her. “Seventeen’s your change.”

“What in the fuck is going on?“ Jane muttered.

“Excuse me?” the woman asked, offended.

“Not you.” Jane’s mind was elsewhere.

The woman dumped the purchases into a plastic bag.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, still affronted. “Hey…” Jane was still lost in thought as she tucked the seventeen dollars into her wallet. “Hey,” the woman stressed, leaning forward.

Jane awoke from her slumber. “What?”

The woman pointed out the front window. “Isn’t that your car driving away?”

Jane turned around just in time to see the back wheels of her ice blue Mustang squeal out of the parking lot. She raced outside, instinctively grabbing for her Glock and coming up empty. The only detail she could make out was the back of a man’s head and his thick neck.

About The Author:
Laurel Dewey was born and raised in Los Angeles. She is the author of two nonfiction books on plant medicine, a Silver Spur nominated Western novella, hundreds of articles, and three other novels in her Jane Perry suspense series, Protector, Redemption, and Revelations along with the Jane Perry novelettes An Unfinished Death and Promissory Payback and the story collection Unrevealed. She is also the author of the novel Betty’s Little Basement Garden.

Connect With The Author:
Website

My Thoughts:
Laurel Dewey is one of the best suspense authors of today’s time. I have read her works in the past and was super excited to jump into this novel. I was ready to get lost in her world of page turning, edge-of-your seat suspense that steals your breath. I will tell you now, that I was NOT disappointed!

Jane Perry is one of the best characters ever created. I loved reading about her in previous novels, and this one is the best yet. Jane Perry is a character that will take you on an intense ride of ups, downs, ins and outs of the suspense world. There is never a dull moment as your turn each page, quickly trying to find out what is gonna happen next, what will happen at the end of the story.

Jane’s newest investigation was supposed to be a personal one, finding out who she really is as a cop. But, when things start happening, and clues start piling up, she realizes that she’s just begun a murder investigation instead. This investigation is full of so many twists and turns that your jaw will drop, your heart will pound and you’ll be begging Ms. Dewey for more at the end.

If you’ve never read a Dewey novel before, you MUST do so now. This author knows what her readers want and delivers. Each novel is better than the one before it, and the characters continue to stand out and steal your heart. Fabulously done once again, Ms. Dewy!

-Reviewed by Molly

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PICT Showcase: Dangerous Deception by Cindy McDonald

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Dangerous DeceptionCover_Frost
Cindy McDonald
Acorn Book Services
Nov 1st,2012
235 Pages
Purchase: Amazon
RBM’s Disclaimer

Vic Deveaux’s glory days as a winning jockey have ended, but he refuses to accept that pile of horse hockey! When the West family asks Vic to take an easier position at their Thoroughbred farm, Westwood, he becomes enraged and teams up with two greedy stable hands in a scheme to kidnap the youngest son, Shane. Things turn ugly when Vic discovers that his new-found friends have murder on their minds. Suddenly Vic finds himself between a rock and a hard place. He has betrayed his good friend, Eric West, but will he participate in his son’s murder as well? Not content to sit at home and wait for her men to bring her brother home, Kate West convinces homicide detective, Carl Lugowski, to check out a hunch at an old abandoned mansion. Soon they’re trapped in a hornet’s nest of a notorious biker gang. Oh yeah, Vic’s deception has placed the West family in more danger than they know what to do with!

EXCERPT:
The fading sunlight seeped through the curtains, shimmering over the silky white Persian cat, Stella, sleeping on the window sill. The candles on the vanity flickered, sending a waft of vanilla throughout the room, camouflaging the smell of sex. Ava West’s auburn hair cascaded across her shoulders, and her breathing was shallow and steady against Carl Lugowski’s chiseled chest.

Lieutenant Carl Lugowski worked homicide for the Rosemount Police Department. He was normally a light sleeper as most cops are. Subconsciously prepared for that emergency phone call from the station that jolts them from their bed, because a body had been found in some dark alley, or a domestic argument had gone terribly awry, resulting in murder. But today his sleep was deep and his gentle snore was restful, holding Ava’s beautiful naked body in his arms, after their afternoon of abandoned love-making.

God she knew how to get to him. He had taken a half day off, they were supposed to see a matinee, but when he arrived at her apartment, Ava had other plans. Not a problem. Nosiree, Bob. She answered the door in a dark blue lace Teddy, accentuating the swell of her round breasts and her stiff nipples peeking through the sheer delicate fabric. Her sultry green eyes had a “come on” look, and her plump lips curled, begging to be kissed, hard.

Ava didn’t flirt. When she wanted sex, she was shameless. She opened the door and pressed her lips to his, running her hands over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. There was no fumbling. The buttons slipped open with unerring precision. He slipped the strap of the Teddy from her shoulder, baring her beautiful breast, running his tongue over the pebbled nipple, feeling the undeniable pressure of his erection. Her smile turned devious, pushing him away. Ava was like that. She teased. He knew what she was about.

As gracefully as a dancer, she swooped up two glasses of wine from the hall table, strutting toward the bedroom. Her long silky hair caressed her back as she moved. Lord have mercy, how he loved to watch her walk toward that bedroom where pleasure would rule the afternoon, and where once would never be enough to satisfy her desire. Ava was a demanding lover, and he aimed to please and please and freakin’ please. Who needs a damned movie?

Their clothes lie on the floor, and the daylight was gently giving way to the purple whisper of twilight. They were spent. The sheets lightly covered their warm moist naked bodies, until suddenly the surreal quiet was broken by Lugowski’s cell phone buzzing and vibrating against the lamp on the nightstand. Damn it. His eyes dragged open slowly, rotating toward the meddling reverberation. He let out a low grouse, and then begrudgingly reached for the phone. Ava tugged at his arm.

“Let it go to voice mail,” she murmured.

Not a bad idea. In fact, he was seriously considering it, when his eyes caught the name on the screen: KATE WEST.

Game changer.

His relationship with Ava meant the world to him. He had wanted that woman since well, forever. He wanted her when they were in high school. He wanted her while he was away at the academy, and he still wanted her when he returned to find that she was Mike West’s wife. But now she was exactly where he always wanted her to be, in his life, and in his bed.

Wrangled and rocked beyond his control, his heart helplessly skipped a beat when Kate West was around, hell, when Kate West’s name was merely mentioned. She stirred something inside him that he couldn’t explain. He couldn’t wrap his head around, it confused and quite frankly scared the hell out of him.

She wasn’t the clichéd blue-eyed, blonde-haired, “girl next door”. But she was definitely a woman any man would want to come home to, wrap his arms around, and make love to night after night. Kate West was what Lugowski would define as “a keeper”.

WTF? He was in bed with the woman of his dreams. He should really let the call go. Yeah, really, that’s what he should do. She was squeezing him, why would she be calling? They didn’t have anything but a professional relationship. So…

“I need to take this. Sorry, baby,” he said, sitting up, pressing the phone as tightly and as covertly as possible to his ear. “Lugowski…” he announced, making sure he sounded authoritative, official.

“Carl, I’m so sorry to bother you. This is Kate West.”

Ava groaned, dragging her fingers through her hair, perking her ears when she detected a slightly familiar female voice, filtering through the receiver. It made her brows furrow and her lips purse. Suspicion was mixing it up with jealousy, fast. Lugowski had successfully muffled the voice, but she tilted her head against the pillow, narrowing her eyes, engaged. The voice sounded like Kate’s, and that was definitely an unacceptable intrusion on her afternoon delight.

“What’s going on?” Lugowski asked, recognizing the disquiet in her voice.

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, but it’s really important, Carl. Can we meet at McDonald’s?”

Coffee, he had had coffee with the lovely blonde at McDonald’s several times, usually at his request, and it had become almost a code between them-never anything sexual, and he wasn’t sure what he would do if it ever did. Shit. What was he thinking? Kate was Mike West’s little sister, and Ava’s ex-sister-in-law. It was too complicated, too weird, too out-of-control…

“I’m on my way,” no hesitation, the words spilled right out of his mouth, as he ended the call, pitching the sheets aside, swinging his legs over the bed, and reaching for his boxer briefs.

Briskly sitting up, Ava grabbed his arm. The black satin sheets slipped to her waist. Her breasts bobbed delicately into glorious view, “What? Wait a minute, where are you going?” She demanded in a high-pitched annoyed tone, and it only took a nanosecond for her green bedroom eyes to morph into a jaded glower.

It was a justified question that he knew he couldn’t give an honest answer to; unless he was absolutely sure he wanted to endure the repercussions. Ava would be furious, to say the least, if she knew he was leaving her bed to go to Kate’s aid, or whatever it was that he was going to, he wasn’t sure.

He just knew that he had to go.

About The Author:
For twenty-six years my life whirled around a song and a dance: I was a professional dancer/choreographer for most of my adult life and never gave much thought to a writing career until 2005. Don’t ask me what happened, but suddenly I felt drawn to my computer to write about things I have experienced (greatly exaggerated upon of course) with my husband’s Thoroughbreds and the happenings at the racetrack.
Surprised? Why didn’t I write about my experiences with dance? Eh, believe it or not life at the racetrack is more…racy. The drama is outrageous—not that dancers don’t know how to create drama, believe me, they do but race trackers just seem to get more down and dirty with it which makes great story telling—great fiction.

I didn’t start out writing books, The Unbridled Series started out as a TV drama, and the Hollywood readers loved the show. The problem was we just couldn’t sell it. So one of the readers said to me, “Cindy, don’t be stupid. Turn your scripts into a book series.” and so I did!

In May of 2011 I took the big leap and exchanged my dancin’ shoes for a lap top—I retired from dance. It was a scary proposition, I was terrified, but I had the full support of my husband, Saint Bill. It has been a huge change for me. I went from dancing hard five hours a night to sitting in front of a computer. I still work-out and I take my dog, Harvey, for a daily run. I have to or I’d be as big as a house. Do I miss dance? Sometimes I do. I miss my students. I miss choreographing musicals, but I love my books and I love sharing them with you.

Connect With The Author:
Website

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PICT Showcase & Interview: Pandora’s Temple by Jon Land

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Pandora’s TempleCover_Frost
Jon Land
Open Road Integrated Media
Nov 20th,2012
390 Pages
Purchase: Amazon
RBM’s Disclaimer

What if Pandora’s box was real. That’s the question facing Former Special Forces commando and rogue agent Blaine McCracken who returns from a 15-year absence from the page in his tenth adventure.

McCracken has never been shy about answering the call, and this time it comes in the aftermath of deepwater oilrig disaster that claims the life of a one-time mem-ber of his commando unit. The remnants of the rig and its missing crew lead him to the inescapable conclusion that one of the most mysterious and deadly forces in the Universe is to blame—dark matter, both a limitless source of potential energy and a weapon with unimaginable destructive capabilities.

Joining forces again with his trusty sidekick Johnny Wareagle, McCracken races to stop both an all-powerful energy magnate and the leader of a Japanese dooms-day cult from finding the dark matter they seek for entirely different, yet equally dangerous, reasons. Ultimately, that race will take him not only across the world, but also across time and history to the birth of an ancient legend that may not have been a legend at all. The truth lies 4,000 years in the past and the construction of the greatest structure known to man at the time:

Pandora’s Temple, built to safeguard the most powerful weapon man would ever know.

Now, with that very weapon having resurfaced, McCracken’s only hope to save the world is to find the temple, the very existence of which is shrouded in mystery and long lost to myth. Along the way, he and Johnny Wareagle find themselves up against Mexican drug gangs, killer robots, an army of professional assassins, and a legendary sea monster before reaching a mountaintop fortress where the fi-nal battle to preserve mankind will be fought.

The hero of nine previous bestselling thrillers, McCracken is used to the odds be-ing stacked against him, but this time the stakes have never been higher.

EXCERPT:
The Mediterranean Sea, 2008

“It would help, sir, if I knew what we were looking for,” Captain John J. Hightower of the Aurora said to the stranger he’d picked up on the island of Crete.

The stranger remained poised by the research ship’s deck rail, gazing out into the turbulent seas beyond. His long gray hair, dangling well past his shoulders in tangles and ringlets, was damp with sea spray, left to the whims of the wind.

“Sir?” Hightower prodded again.

The stranger finally turned, chuckling. “You called me sir. That’s funny.”

“I was told you were a captain,” said Hightower

“In name only, my friend.”

“If I’m your friend,” Hightower said, “you should be able to tell me what’s so important that our current mission was scrapped to pick you up.”

Beyond them, the residue of a storm from the previous night kept the seas choppy with occasional frothy swells that rocked the Aurora even as she battled the stiff winds to keep her speed steady. Gray-black clouds swept across the sky, colored silver at the tips where the sun pushed itself forward enough to break through the thinner patches. Before long, Hightower could tell, those rays would win the battle to leave the day clear and bright with the seas growing calm. But that was hardly the case now.

“I like your name,” came the stranger’s airy response. Beneath the orange life jacket, he wore a Grateful Dead tie dye t-shirt and old leather vest that was fraying at the edges and missing all three of its buttons. So faded that the sun made it look gray in some patches and white in others. His eyes, a bit sleepy and almost drunken, had a playful glint about them. “I like anything with the word ‘high.’ You should rethink your policy about no smoking aboard the ship, if it’s for medicinal purposes only.”

“I will, if you explain what we’re looking for out here.”

“Out here” was the Mediterranean Sea where it looped around Greece’s ancient, rocky southern coastline. For four straight days now, the Aurora had been mapping the sea floor in detailed grids in search of something of unknown size, composition and origin; or, at least, known only by the man Hightower had mistakenly thought was a captain by rank. Hightower’s ship was a hydrographic survey vessel. At nearly thirty meters in length with a top speed of just under twenty-five knots, the Aurora had been commissioned just the previous year to fashion nautical charts to ensure safe navigation by military and civilian shipping, tasked with conducting seismic surveys of the seabed and underlying geology. A few times since her commission, the Aurora and her eight-person crew had been re-tasked for other forms of oceanographic research, but her high tech air cannons, capable of generating high-pressure shock waves to map the strata of the seabed, made her much more fit for more traditional assignments.

“How about I give you a hint?” the stranger said to Hightower. “It’s big.”

“How about I venture a guess?”

“Take your best shot, dude.”

“I know a military mission when I see one. I think you’re looking for a weapon.”

“Warm.”

“Something stuck in a ship or submarine. Maybe even a sunken wreck from years, even centuries ago.”

“Cold,” the man Hightower knew only as “Captain” told him. “Well, except for the centuries ago part. That’s blazing hot.”

Hightower pursed his lips, frustration getting the better of him. “So are we looking for a weapon or not?”

“Another hint, Captain High: only the most powerful ever known to man,” the stranger said with a wink. “A game changer of epic proportions for whoever finds it. Gotta make sure the bad guys don’t manage that before we do. Hey, did you know marijuana’s been approved to treat motion sickness?”

Hightower could only shake his head. “Look, I might not know exactly you’re looking for, but whatever it is, it’s not here. You’ve got us retracing our own steps, running hydrographs in areas we’ve already covered. Nothing ‘big,’ as you describe it, is down there.”

“I beg to differ, el Capitan.”

“Our depth sounders have picked up nothing, the underwater cameras we launched have picked up nothing, the ROVS have picked up nothing.”

“It’s there,” the stranger said with strange assurance, holding his thumb and index finger together against his lips as if smoking an imaginary joint.

“Where?”

“We’re missing something, el Capitan. When I figure out what it is, I’ll let you know.”

Before Hightower could respond, the seas shook violently. On deck it felt as if something had tried to suck the ship underwater, only to spit it up again. Then a rumbling continued, thrashing the Aurora from side to side like a toy boat in a bathtub. Hightower finally recovered his breath just as the rumbling ceased, leaving an eerie calm over the sea suddenly devoid of waves and wind for the first time that morning.

“This can’t be good,” said the stranger, tightening the straps on his life vest.

* * *

The ship’s pilot, a young, thick-haired Greek named Papadopoulos, looked up from the nest of LED readouts and computer-operated controls on the panel before him, as Hightower entered the bridge.

“Captain,” he said wide-eyed, his voice high and almost screeching, “seismic centers in Ankara, Cairo and Athens are all reporting a sub-sea earthquake measuring just over six on the scale.”

“What’s the epi?”

“Forty miles northeast of Crete and thirty from our current position,” Papadopoulos said anxiously, a patch of hair dropping over his forehead.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Hightower.

“Tsunami warning is high,” Papadopoulos continued, even as Hightower formed the thought himself.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we are in for the ride of our lives!” blared the stranger, pulling on the tabs that inflated his life vest with a soft popping sound. “If I sound excited it’s ‘cause I’m terrified, dudes!”

“Bring us about,” the captain ordered. “Hard back to the Port of Piraeus at all the speed you can muster.”

“Yes, sir!”

Suddenly the bank of screens depicting the seafloor in a quarter mile radius directly beneath them sprang to life. Readings flew across accompanying monitors, orientations and graphic depictions of whatever the Aurora’s hydrographic equipment and underwater cameras had located appearing in real time before Hightower’s already wide eyes.

“What the hell is—“

“Found it!” said the stranger before the ship’s captain could finish.

“Found what?” followed Hightower immediately. “This is impossible. We’ve already been over this area. There was nothing down there.”

“Earthquake must’ve changed that in a big way, el Capitan. I hope you’re recording all this.”

“There’s nothing to record. It’s a blip, an echo, a mistake.”

“Or exactly what I came out here to find. Big as life to prove all the doubters wrong.”

“Doubters?”

“Of the impossible.”

“That’s what you brought us out here for, a fool’s errand?”

“Not anymore.”

The stranger watched as a central screen mounted beneath the others continued to form a shape massive in scale, an animated depiction extrapolated from all the data being processed in real time.

“Wait a minute, is that a . . . It looks like— My God, it’s some kind of structure!“

“You bet!”

“Intact at that depth? Impossible! No, this is all wrong.”

“Hardly, el Capitan.”

“Check the readouts, sir. According to the depth gauge, your structure’s located five hundred feet beneath the seafloor. Where I come from, they call that impos—“

Hightower’s thought ended when the Aurora seemed to buckle, as if it had hit a roller coaster-like dip in the sea. The sensation was eerily akin to floating, the entire ship in the midst of an out-of-body experience, leaving Hightower feeling weightless and light-headed.

“Better fasten your seatbelts, dudes,” said the stranger, eyes fastened through the bridge windows at something that looked like a waterfall pluming on the ship’s aft side.

Hightower had been at sea often and long enough to know this to be a gentle illusion belying something much more vast and terrible: in this case, a giant wave of froth that gained height as it crystallized in shape. It was accompanied by a thrashing sound that shook the Aurora as it built in volume and pitch, felt by the bridge’s occupants at their very cores like needles digging into their spines.

“Hard about!” Hightower ordered Papadopoulos. “Steer us into it!”

It was, he knew, the ship’s only chance for survival, or would have been, had the next moments not shown the great wave turning the world dark as it reared up before them. The Aurora suddenly seemed to lift into the air, climbing halfway up the height of the monster wave from a calm sea that had begun to churn mercilessly in an instant. A vast black shadow enveloped the ship in the same moment intense pressure pinned the occupants of the bridge to their chairs or left them feeling as if their feet were glued to the floor. Then there was nothing but an airless abyss dragging darkness behind it.

“Far out, man!” Hightower heard the stranger blare in the last moment before the void claimed him.

Interview:
Tell us about Jon Land. Who are you when you’re not
writing?

Hey, that might be the toughest question to answer of any,
because I probably know my characters better than myself.
When I’m not writing, I might be at the gym since, like
a lot creative people, getting old(er) is to be avoided
at all costs. Or I might be reading, watching a film or
something really good on TV. It’s entertainment, but it’s
also inspiring. See, there’s an even simpler answer to
your question that is, I’m always writing, even when I’m
not behind the computer or consciously plotting. It’s a
process you can’t turn on and off. It’s always on, all the
time.

Do you have a day job as well?

Nope, never have.

Why the paranormal genre and where do your ideas come from?

I’m actually a thriller writer, although there’s a lot
of spillover these days from the paranormal and I pushed
the envelope more into the mythical and speculative for
PANDORA’S TEMPLE. My ideas come from anywhere at anytime
because, like I said above, the process never shuts off.
I might be reading an article in the New York Times, or
somebody might send me a news item they know will interest
me. For PANDORA’S TEMPLE the idea came by me asking
myself what great legendary artifacts, like the Arc of the
Covenant or the Holy Grail, have never become fodder for a
thriller and I quickly settled on Pandora’s box (which was
actually a jar). Something nobody’s ever done before.

Who is your favorite character to write about in your
stories?

Now that’s a real tough one, because my characters are
like my children—I love them all! I’d love to say my
original series hero Blaine McCracken who makes his return
to the page after 15 years in PANDORA’S TEMPLE. But I’ve
also written five books now featuring female Texas Ranger
Caitlin Strong. I feel she and the other characters in the
Strong series represent much more of the writer I am today.

Rediscovering McCracken was kind of a retro experience
for me that was fun but also challenging, since a book of
PANDORA’S scale requires so much suspension of disbelief
that I couldn’t do a lot of the things that I enjoy most
about my Caitlin Strong books. I guess what I’m saying is
it’s half a dozen of one, six of the other. Caitlin and
Blaine are both great—it’s up to the reader to decide which
is for them. Hopefully both!

Do you foresee taking one of your lesser seen characters
and creating a series about them?

You know that’s a great question and I’ve never actually
been asked it before. And I’d say, no, because I don’t
believe it would work. Everyone has a role in a book,
especially a series. They’re defined by that role because
it determines how they play off the hero or heroine who
are actually completed by their interaction with the other
recurring characters. They weren’t conceived to be capable
of driving their own stories. All these characters are
parts of a greater whole.

Can you tell us about your challenges in getting your first
book published?

Oh, man, it was hard even back then and we’re talking 1980
when I wrote it, 1981 when I finally found an agent and
another year-plus before she was able to find a publisher
for it. I actually wrote my first novel as a senior thesis
at Brown. It was around 600 pages typed on a Smith-Corona
typewriter—think I must have gone through about 20 ribbons!
The book was god-awful, but I finished it and before me or
anyone else can publish a book, we have to finish it and
that stops more would-be writers in their tracks than I
can count. My second book was the first to get published.
But, to get back to your question, the biggest challenge
is and was to find a publisher who believes in you. See,
nobody buys a book to sell a few copies. Publishers buy
new authors because they believe they can make them into
something. The challenge is to keep believing in yourself
when you’ve got enough rejection letters to paper the
walls. Everybody has the same story but the one thing
those of us who’ve made a career of it have learned is that
you can never give up. The day you start submitting your
first book is the day you should start writing your second
because, like mine, it will be much better and provide
solace while your taping those letters to the walls.

If you had to go back and do it all over, is there any
aspect of your novel or getting it published that you would
change?

Not a thing, except for maybe doing some more exhaustive
research into the little known field of dark matter which
plays a huge role in PANDORA.

Have you written a book you love that you have not been
able to get published?

Love? No. At this stage in my career, getting published
has been eclipsed by other challenges like distribution,
placement, and finding a way to reach the New York Times
bestseller list. In some ways those challenges are just as
great as being published in the first place.

How do you market your work? What avenues have you found to
work best for your genre?

I’ve always been published by major publishers, so my job
is to be a team player and work within the system while
acknowledging its limitations. The simple fact of the
matter is I take on so much work, I don’t have the kind of
time required to do all the social and new media stuff.
But, hey, I found time for you and am having a blast
talking!

What was your favorite chapter (or part) to write and why?

You’re on a roll today! Another great question! I
think my favorite part of PANDORA’S TEMPLE to write was
McCracken’s dialogue in general. That’s because the more
he talked, the more he came back to life for me. I’d never
gone back to writing a character I’d previously abandoned,
and that’s a lot more challenging than it sounds. You can
plan and lay it out as much as you want, but until the
character’s own words start popping off the page you’re not
there.

What has been the toughest criticism given to you as an
author? What has been the best compliment?

Let me answer that question a different way. I’m most
proud of the fact that I’ve published 32 books now, but
that they run the gamut of so many different approaches to

storytelling. I did my first nonfiction book last year,
BETRAYAL, which was quite an experience. I’ve done two
uplifting inspirational tales (Hope Mountain and Dolphin
Key) and I’m now penning my third major series with female
Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong in the lead. Of course, I’m
also extremely proud of bringing Blaine McCracken back
after so many years. In that sense, more than anything
I’m probably more proud of the fact that I’ve never given
up in this crazy business of ours and have continually
looked for ways to grow and redefine myself. That said,
I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was frustrated over being
on this treadmill where, like for Alice in Wonderland, I
have to keep running faster just to stay in the same place.
I’ve had a lot of success, a great deal really, but I’ve
never been a New York Times bestselling author. That’s the
Holy Grail and, damn, it just keeps eluding me. I know
my books are good enough, I know all the pieces are there
but they’ve just never fallen together the right away.
That’s one of the truly exciting things about publishing
PANDORA with the great folks from Open Road. Hey, it gives
me something to look forward to and work even harder to
attain, so I guess it’s not all bad!

Here’s a couple of quirky questions for Jon Land
What’s your favorite movie? JAWS but THE GODFATHER is the
greatest film ever made.
Cake with or without ice cream? Without.
Date night out, or date night in? Depends.
Thanksgiving or Christmas? Both.
Physical copy of a book or eReader?? Physical copy for
sure!

Is there anything that you would like to say to your
readers and fans? Nope. I think they’re probably sick of
me by now!

Thanks for stopping by!
About The Author:
Jon Land is the critically acclaimed author of 32 books, including the bestselling series featuring Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong that includes STRONG ENOUGH TO DIE, STRONG JUSTICE, STRONG AT THE BREAK, STRONG VENGEANCE (July 2012) and STRONG RAIN FALLING (August 2013). He has more recently brought his long-time series hero Blaine McCracken back to the page in PANDORA’S TEMPLE (November 2012). He lives in Providence, Rhode Island.

Connect With The Author:
Website | Facebook | Twitter

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Providence Book Promotions Spotlight: Five Years To Live by Frank Zaccari

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Self Published

October 2012

Purchase: Amazon

It is the phone call every person lives in fear of receiving. There has been an accident and your loved one is paralyzed. A spinal cord injury is the single most devastating and life altering event. Based on a true story, Michael and Donna were young, successful, in love and planning their life together. That life was radically changed by a tragic car accident. Now a wheelchair user as a quadriplegic, with limited movement, constant infections and multiple surgeries, doctors projected Michael’s best case life expectancy to be five years. See how this young couple battles through his injury and spends his five years making a lasting impact on hundreds of people. It will make you realize what can be accomplished when a person does not let circumstances dictate their life.

About The Author:

Frank Zaccari is a native of western New York. He received his bachelor’s in finance from California State University at Sacramento after serving as a military medic in the United States Air Force. He spent more than two decades in the technology industry, holding various positions from account representative to CEO. He also spent time specializing in turn-around management of companies under $100 million. Zaccari left the industry to provide primary care of his children, purchasing a small business that was more accommodating to his family. He presently owns an insurance agency in Sacramento, where he currently resides. “Five Years to Live” is not his only book for sale. He has also written, “When the Wife Cheats,” “From the Ashes: The Rise of the University of Washington Volleyball Program,” and “Inside the Spaghetti Bowl.”

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TLC Blog Tour Review: The One I Left Behind by Jennifer McMahon

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William And Morrow

Release Date: January 2,2013

Purchase: Amazon Barnes And Noble

The summer of 1985 changes Reggie’s life. An awkward thirteen-year-old, she finds herself mixed up with the school outcasts. That same summer, a serial killer called Neptune begins kidnapping women. He leaves their severed hands on the police department steps and, five days later, displays their bodies around town. Just when Reggie needs her mother, Vera, the most, Vera’s hand is found on the steps. But after five days, there’s no body and Neptune disappears.

Now, twenty-five years later, Reggie is a successful architect who has left her hometown and the horrific memories of that summer behind. But when she gets a call revealing that her mother has been found alive, Reggie must confront the ghosts of her past and find Neptune before he kills again.

My Thoughts:
So it took me forever to get this book. But, when I did, I devoured it. I had to turn each page and see what was happening next, how the story would end up, where it would take me. I must confess, I was slightly disappointed. Why, you ask? Because. I didn’t want it to end and it did. It’s a riveting suspense story filled with characters that steal you away into the center of the twists, turns, ins and outs of the past…..blending with the present day. Simply awesome.

Reggie’s character, both present day as a wonderful architect, and as an awkward teenager, is awesome. I loved following her as she dealt with tragedy, dealt with the horrific crime of the Neptune killer taking her mother. I loved seeing her reactions as she found out the truth behind the killings, and dealing with her mother back in her life.

Following Reggie was definitely a roller coaster ride. Ups, downs, twists, turns….all of it leaving my heart pounding and my body on the edge of my seat through out the book. This book hooked me so fast and so hard that I had it done in one sitting. The writing style of Ms. McMahon is stunning and the characters gripping. The plotline will not soon be forgotten and this is definitely a book that I will be turning back to again and again.

If you love suspense, riveting intensity, and amazingly written storylines, then this is a 5 star book you shouldn’t miss. Grab it up, sit back, and be thrown for a loop as you hunt for the Neptune Killer and follow Reggie’s life long journey of moving on. Well done, Ms. McMahon!
-Reviewed by Molly for TLC Book Tours

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