A trip north of the border takes Cole Wright into the heart of snowbound Canada. Friendly people, vast distances, tough vehicles, isolation.
When a breakdown looms, Wright finds himself caught in the white, compacted landscape. A road thirty feet wide, hemmed in by the piled up ridges left by snowploughs. And an endless forest that could hide just about anything.
Unfriendly territory. Dangerous places.
A Cole Wright novella that focuses down on a single moment where the slightest error could be his last.
It’s been a big year for my Cole Wright character, from the first short story “Dark Fields“, and the first novel The Arrival, we’ve put out a bunch more novels and stories, and now, the first novella. This has been a labour over the last several years to get these up and running. The sixth novel Zero Kills will be out in December (available for preorder now), and I’m hard at work on the seventh right now, and hoping to have that out around May next year. More on that as the time approaches.
Next year we’ll be putting some of the novels together into box sets – that’ll be two box sets, of books 1 -3 and of books 4-6. We’ll also have a collection of all the short stories, and include Cold Highway in there too. And some bonus content that we’re still tinkering with.
For a little change and a little challenge, I took on participating in NaNoWriMo this year. The background to taking that on comes from my day job workplace, a public library, where the youth team are working to encourage young writers to participate. I’m going to run a couple of workshops for in the Youth Space too.
NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, held every November. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the thirty days. That works out around 1667 words a day. In any given month I write more than that so it’s manageable. This is the first time, though, that I’ve started a novel intentionally on the first of the month, targeting a finish by the last day. Mostly my novels come in around 60,000 words. Sometimes they spill over to 70,000, even 75,000.
NaNoWriMo is a funny thing, though. Signing up is cool and it’s nifty recording my word count each day as I progress toward that target. They have pep talks and encouragement, but sometimes miss the mark.
The first one I came received, from a well-published and award-winning writer talked about how “writing is hard”. Really? Sorry NaNoWriMo, that’s no pep talk. That sounds discouraging. I did read the whole of the ‘pep’ talk and it wasn’t really to my taste, wasn’t really talking to me.
I would have loved something about how writing is fun. It’s a blast. You’re making up stuff just for the heck of it. Because you can. I would suggest that if it’s hard you might be doing it wrong, or coming at it from the wrong approach. And if it’s not fun, go do something that is.
Last year I railed against an article in the Sunday Star Times* titled if “Writing is torture and you hate it, you might be a writer”. What is the deal out there with so many people writing about how tough writing is? Let’s encourage writers rather than put them off.
*[In previous years I also railed against the T&C of the SSTimes story contest which were a rights grab. I noticed this year that they’ve updated the terms to drop that grab. Good on them, finally. Sorry I didn’t notice this until the contest closed – I guess I’d become cynical about it over the years.]
On a lighter note, I am having a blast writing this novel. It’s fun and different and once it’s had a once-over and a copy-edit and a proof-read, it should be out sometime in the first half of next year.
Oh, yes, about next year. I’m looking at publishing a little less. Publishing ten novels (albiet one of them a short novel), a few novellas and numerous short stories this year has been good, but I still need to learn marketing better, and social media [talking about something that’s hard – try social media… oh, what, that’s easy? I wish I found it easy… it doesn’t come naturally to me, so I need to practice I guess 🙂 ]. I do have three novels in various stages of preparation to be released through the first half of the year, likely to be February, April and June. Another focus next year will be collections – I have a whole lot of stories that I’ll gather together. Including all the Cole Wright shorts from this year. Considering the title No Lack of Courage. Cheesy? Corny? I don’t know. It’ll be nice to have them all together in a single book.
The last novel for this year will be the sixth in the Cole Wright thriller series, Zero Kills. It should be up for preorder soon. The cover it a little different from the original, but matches the story better. (cheeky me, I’ll reuse that original image on another book, maybe next year).
I’ll have another short story – “Junkyard Mornings” up for free in early December for a week or so. You know, marketing and promotion. Reader magnet or what have you.
With my last post, I was deep in the heart of writing the ninth Captain Arlon Stoddard novel, Dead Ringers, and as I write this, I’m deep in the heart of writing the seventh Cole Wright novel (as yet untitled), which shows that I go too long between posts here.
With “Cold Highway” the first Cole Wright novella out on November 20th, and the sixth novel Zero Kills out on December 20th, it’s a busy time for my little thriller series. I figure why not make it a little busier with another Cole Wright story free to read here for a few days.
Stay tuned for more news – another free story in December, and plans for Cole Wright and other series next year.
“Cold Highway” is available for pre-order now. $3.99 ebook / $10.99 print.
Cardinals – blurb
Lieutenant Ione Anders of the Spokane Police Department stares at a blade jutting from one of the tires on her new issue vehicle.
Looks like the start of another one of those days.
A day that proves full of surprises.
A Cole Wright story with a difference, putting him right there in the action as he tags along.
“Cardinals” will also be out as an ebook and in print, usual thing of $2.99 and $5.99, since it’s just a short story.
But in the meantime, free to read below.
Lieutenant Ione Anders of the Spokane Police Department stared at the blade sticking from the rear tire on her new issue Tahoe.
It was a hunting knife, with a black leather grip and a short cross guard at the base of the hilt. A steel butt.
Buried in the rubber to halfway along the blade.
The tire was flat, the rim crushing it to the tarmac at the curb.
The day was bright and cool. One of those fall mornings that are enlivening and refreshing. The street was in Willow Heights, one of the mid to low end suburbs. The plain clapboard houses were separated by wire fences, with the occasional white picket. Kids left their bicycles in the front yards and leaves were everywhere.
Old, fat-trunked plane trees lined the street, their roots pushing up the grass on the verge. From a block or so away came the drone and crackle of a lawnmower.
Closer, the whistling chirp of a bird. Anders glimpsed red feathers.
Old Ford Tauruses and Toyota Corollas and similar vehicles were parked along the curb, both sides, ahead and behind Anders’s vehicle. Some were well-looked after, but others had rust points and peeling laminate and cracked windshields.
A newer vehicle swept by. A Lexus. Moving a little fast for a suburban street. Anders noted the plate number. Force of habit.
She had two takeout coffees in a cardboard carrier,and she set it on the Tahoe’s roof. Two blocks away some enterprising college kids had set up a coffee spot in an old food cart. Espresso Willow. They staffed it on rotation, only open early in the morning. Their trade was roaring, between locals walking to the bus and their friends. The area was popular for less expensive accommodation for students.
Anders glanced up at the house facing the Tahoe. A two-story place with a tiny front stoop. The ageing carport on one side was empty, save for a couple of local recycling and trash wheelie bins and a stack of firewood. The occupant, Cole Wright, didn’t currently own a car.
The upstairs windows on his room were still drawn, so he was still in bed. Ah, the life of the idle.
Another couple of minutes she was going to have to wake him. He might even help with changing the tire.
The Tahoe was only a couple of months old. Black police livery, with the Spokane decals on the sides, light pack across the roof and crash bars at the front.
When she was behind the wheel, the thing purred and drove like it was riding on air. She’d gotten lucky to have the use of it. The department’s vehicle renewal plan was falling behind, because money.
Now she was going to have to call this in. She was on late starts right now, working eleven AM to seven PM. It took some getting used to, but shifts were part and parcel of being a cop.
She photographed the blade with her phone, using several angles. There was a manufacturer’s mark on the butt. Two stamped in letters. ST. Probably no use in helping to figure out who’d done the deed.
Could be tough to get a decent set of prints off that leather hilt too.
It wasn’t like a planned and pre-meditated thing. Plenty of people around here didn’t have much love for cops, despite the work the police did in the community to try to have a helpful and friendly profile.
All that good work of family park barbeques and bouncy castles and arm wrestling got undone the moment you took someone’s uncle away for dealing meth.
This knife in the tire was more spontaneous. A crime of opportunity. Intended as a little retribution inconvenience. Something they knew wouldn’t be worth pursuing.
And still, she had to call it in. It would take ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get the tire changed. Then she’d have to drop the vehicle at the workshop to get the stabbed tire replace.
“Hey,” someone called from behind.
“Wright,” she said, turning. “Nice neighborhood you’ve picked to live in.”
Wright was a former Seattle cop. He’d quit and become semi-itinerant. He’d settle in Spokane for a little while, then get itchy feet, toss in his lease and catch a bus somewhere. Somehow able to stretch his pension and odd jobs into enough cash for it all.
He was taller than her, by a little, which was nice. He always smelled good. Today he had stubble which, though she would never admit it, was kind of attractive. In a swarthy, rugged way.
Kind of guy most women would be pleased to see show up when they had a tire to change.
“They’re all nice neighborhoods,” he said. He was wearing jeans and a white tee shirt, with a dark blue plaid shirt over the top. Tan MacMillan boots on his feet. He needed to dress more warmly.
“Sure,” Anders said. “All nice neighborhoods. Just with a little work to do in some.”
Wright smiled. It was police courtesy to ‘manage your languaging’ around how you referred to certain sections of town. Like that stupid old adage, there are no strangers only friends we haven’t met yet.
“I saw it,” he said. “I saw who put a blade through your tire’s heart.”
Somewhere nearby a dog started barking. Didn’t let up.
“You saw it?” Anders said. “You saw it and you didn’t stop them.”
“No time. I was in the house.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the big downstairs front windows. A leadlight hummingbird hung there, right in the center, blue and green.
“You were in the house?” Anders said.
“Sure. I was having breakfast. Cheerios. With milk. Young woman strolls by. She’s got a Kroger’s bag with maybe some groceries. She looks around. Races off up the street. She’s back a minute later. Wearing a black hoodie. She has another good look around. Doesn’t see me, I guess. Too much reflection from the glass, maybe. She stabs the tire and she flees.”
“Again, you didn’t think to stop her?”
“It all happened so fast.”
“She had time to go fetch the knife.”
Wright smiled. “I thought she’d just left. I didn’t imagine that she would come back with a knife. Besides, I’m retired, remember. You don’t like it when I, and I quote, ‘take the law into my own hands’.”
Anders pursed her lips and nodded.
“So then,” she said, turning and reaching for the coffees. She gave him one.
“So then?” Wright said. He took a sip and licked his lips. “Thanks.”
“So then, you can help in an advisory way.”
“Like advising on changing the tire?”
“Funny,” she said. “That too. First, though, you can tell me where she went.”
Wherever it was, the lawnmower shut off. From farther away came the vague growl of traffic. A gust ran along the street of Tauruses and Corollas, lifting leaves, sending them tumbling and rustling for the curbing.
Anders took out her phone and swiped and called in to the department. She got Casey, the guy who’d been running the front desk for the last couple of weeks. Fresh out of college with a forensics degree. The guy was a chatterbox and would make a dreadful cop, but there was some hope that he might train up well for the coroner’s office.
“Ione!” he said, though it should have been ‘Lieutenant’. He did have a certain enthusiasm.
Anders quickly explained the situation. That she would be in once they’d switched out the tire and gone to check on a suspect.
“You said ‘we’,” Casey said. “Are you with another officer? I thought you weren’t on duty yet.”
“I’m, um, taking an advisor.”
“Is it that Wright guy? You’ve been seeing him haven’t you? Getting serious.”
Anders rolled her eyes. Wright saw it and smiled.
“Please, Casey,” Anders said. “Just make a note that I’ll be in a little late on account of someone vandalizing the Tahoe’s tire.”
“Got that. I’ll do an APB.”
“No, Casey. Just a note on the duty roster, please.”
“Sure. Will do. And, by the way, I was kidding about the APB.”
Anders hung up.
“New recruit?” Wright took another sip of his coffee.
“Office guy. Now. Come show me where she went when she got the blade.”
“You’re leaving it here?” Wright said. “At least bag it.”
“I know procedure.” In her waist satchels she had gloves and an evidence bag. But that bag was too small for this blade. Assuming that half of it was hidden within the tire.
Still, she got the bag and shook it out. She put on a glove and crouched to the blade.
“You got that?” Wright said, still standing back from the curb.
“You bet.” She put her gloved hand on the grip and tugged on it. The blade didn’t budge. She tugged again, putting more force into it.
She put her free hand onto the Tahoe’s body, right above the tire. Tugged again. Gritted her teeth.
It felt like Wright’s eyes were boring into her back. She worked the knife back and forth. It came out a little.
She turned, about to say you want to have a try, buster? almost ready to give in.
But he wasn’t even looking at her.
He’d taken a step away from the car and was staring up the street.
“Be back in a second,” he said. He stepped around her and put the coffee on the Tahoe’s roof, right where it had been when he’d come out of the house.
“What?” she said.
But he was gone, heading away at a fast walk. He disappeared around the Tahoe’s hood.
Anders cursed. She grabbed the blade again.
She twisted it. Worked it back and forth.
Once it started moving, it got easier. In moments she had it out.
She put it hilt-first into the bag. Opened the Tahoe’s door. Tossed the bag in.
Slammed the door. Locked it.
She went after Wright, peeling the glove off as she went.
A guy in athletic clothes was running along the opposite sidewalk. Loose shorts, Nikes without socks on his feet, gray Rangers tee shirt. Phone in his hand and buds in his ears.
He glanced Anders’s way, but didn’t slow. His feet set up a constant rhythm on the sidewalk.
She’d lost track of Wright for the moment. Somewhere ahead. Across the street from her Tahoe.
She crossed the verge and reached the sidewalk. It was uneven and cracked. Old, tired concrete.
There was Wright, three houses up. Walking right on the roadside edge of the sidewalk. Walking fast.
“Wright,” Anders said. “Hold up.”
But he didn’t turn. He stopped at the gate to the next house along. Called out to someone.
Wright wasn’t at the front walk, he was at the far corner of the property. Whoever he’d called to was hidden by the house.
Wright inclined his head. Listening.
Anders was still two houses back. Walking fast herself. No need to run.
You ran when the threat was imminent. Walked most other times. She had friends who were paramedics who explained some of that. Walk from the ambulance to the patient. It might be urgent, but you have to ensure you don’t get hurt yourself. If whatever injured the patient is still a threat, you need to avoid that. And if not, if you’re hurrying you might turn an ankle. Then you have more patients.
Wright took a step closer to the property. Another step.
Came right up against the low wire fence. Called out something again.
Then he moved.
Dropped his coffee.
Vaulted the fence. Sprinted across the front yard.
Vanished behind the house.
Anders started running.
Dead leaves crunched underfoot as Anders ran. Farther along the street, someone retrieving groceries from their car stared at her. Paper sacks under each arm. Eyes wide.
This wasn’t a great neighborhood, but it was still a surprise to see a cop running.
Anders didn’t vault the fence as Wright had done. She went through the open gate. Missing gate. The square of steel tubing with cyclone wire lay on the ground with grass growing through.
There were more leaves strewn across the lawn. And a fallen tricycle. A baseball bat and ball. A catcher’s mitt on the house’s front step.
It was a single story place. Gray-white. Not too run down, but in need of a paint job.
Anders reached the corner.
Where Wright had gone.
She slowed. Looked around.
She ran on. There was a narrow strip of half-dead grass along the side, with more of the wire fencing, then the neighbor’s rough concrete driveway. An old Ford pickup parked in the carport there.
Anders reached the back of the house. Slowed again.
No one in the back yard.
Three cars parked there. Non-descript twenty-year old Japanese things. Only one looked like it was in running order.
The back of the property was overgrown with what looked like brambles. A trampoline with half of its springs hanging down. Crates and gas cylinders. Someone at least had mown the grass out here, even if it had been without a catcher.
Where had gone?
Anders crouched to peer under the cars. No one. She moved on, heading for the trampoline.
“Come on Wright,” she whispered. “It’s just slashed tire. These things happen. It’s not worth it.”
She edged on past the trampoline. The air was thick with the scent of the grass and tangle of vegetation. It was bracken, with blackberry all twisted within. Still some of the glistening berries hanging on the spikey vines.
Real easy to let that get out of hand. You could cut it back to the ground and by next year it would have sprouted back from the roots and be almost as big.
Anders looked side to side, along and across the other properties. Better maintain. On the left, there was a clipped pine hedge, and on the other, a six foot wooden fence, gray with age.
Where had he gone?
Anders turned back to the house.
She sighed. He hadn’t gone inside had he?
Nice guy. Smart. Rugged.
But he could be impetuous. Not thinking things through.
As she started back toward the house, starting to think through the next step, the back door burst open.
A kid ran out.
In a black hoodie.
The girl came to a stop. Staring at Anders.
A tawny cat appeared from hiding. It leapt onto the hood of one of the parked cars in the back yard. The cat began licking its paw.
On the grass, just out from the house’s back door, the girl faced Anders. Couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Black hair and brown eyes. A mole on her left cheek. Her hoodie was a size too big.
“Hold up,” Anders said.
“He’s going to kill everyone,” the girl said. She took off again. Running around the other side of the house from where Anders had come. Along the driveway.
Anders headed after her, but slowed near the back door.
It was open.
Someone was shouting from inside.
And with that, a calmer voice.
Anders cursed again.
She unclipped her holster. Put her right hand on the grip of her standard issue Glock.
She stepped right up to the open back door.
“Hey guy,” someone said. Male. Sounded young. “C’mon. This none your biz anyhow.”
“It’s my business,” Wright said, “if I say it’s my business.”
Another curse slipped from Anders’s lips.
The guy just had to go ahead and do his own thing.
Anders stepped right up to the top hardwood of the door frame. The door itself was a simple thing. Three glass panels with a chromed handle and a brass deadlock below.
“Don’t make trouble you can’t end,” the unidentified male said.
There was silence for a moment. Easy to imagine the guy sloped on an old sofa, Wright standing over him.
The doorway led to a hallway through the house. Two rooms at the back, a laundry on the left, with a door that led through to a kitchen. On the right, what could have been someone’s bedroom. Anders couldn’t see well enough. Not from outside.
“I’m just the middle guy.” The guy was kind of whiny. I don’t do anything.”
Whiny could make sense. Wright could be intimidating.
“You don’t do anything?” Wright said. “So what’s all this?”
“It’s not anything. Here. Take this. Walk out. All of this is forgotten. Easy.”
Something thumped quietly.
Anders saw it. A small package. White. Taped up.
The hallway opened into the living room, halfway along the house. Or the dining room. The carpet was a dark maroon. Threadbare in places.
The package lay there on the rough carpet.
“C’mon man,” the whiny guy said. “Someone’s going to get real mad over what you did to Sammy.”
Drugs. Anders took a breath. Reasonable suspicion.
“Sammy,” Wright said, “did that to himself.”
Anders took her weapon from the holster. Right hand on the grip. Finger on the trigger guard. Left hand on top. Steadying.
She stepped into the house.
The house smelled of baking. As if someone was running a bread maker, or had just come back from the bakery with baguettes and cob loaves. The place hardly felt like a baguette and cob loaf place.
More like discount sliced white bread.
The ceiling were paneled, with a couple of panels askew. Anders peered into the bedroom, as she went by. Unmade bed–mattress without a base–with a rumpled quilt and pillow fallen onto the floor. Pringles and Doritos packs, empty, lying around. A poster on the wall of Thirty Seconds of Summer, the boy band looking shiny and young.
The laundry had a machine with the lid up. A box of laundry powder on the windowsill, sagging at the bottom as if it had become waterlogged.
Anders continued along. She kept the gun down. Aimed at the floor.
“Police,” she said. “Put your hands up. Set down any weapons.”
There was another door on the right, before the hallway opened out into the living room.
Ahead of her, in the living room, Wright stepped back into view. He had his hands up.
“They’re unarmed,” he said. “But come take a look.”
Anders relaxed. She kept the gun in hand, but lowered it even more. She dropped her left hand to her side.
“What’s going on?” she said, continuing on.
“You’ll see,” he said, with a vague smile.
As Wright turned away someone burst from the next room in the hallway.
Another kid. In a black hoodie.
He barreled straight at Anders. Shoulders down.
He was bigger than she was. He grabbed her around the waist.
Like a linebacker sacking the quarterback.
Anders twisted back. Turned with the tackle.
Most important thing was to keep hold of the gun.
She slapped the wall with her left hand. Dropped her right shoulder.
As they went down, she brought her right knee up.
Right between the kid’s legs.
She didn’t connect.
He was a weight on top of her. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but he must have weighed somewhere north of one eighty.
She was closer to one twenty. He had half again her mass.
“Hey!” Wright called from somewhere.
Then, his loud footsteps.
But Anders had this.
She squirmed. Jerked her shoulder around. Pushed off the wall with her left foot.
Flipped the guy over.
It wasn’t so much a matter of body weight. More about leverage.
The kid struggled. Lying face down now, with Anders on top.
Holstered the gun. Whipped out her cuffs. Grabbed his left hand with hers. Flicked the cuffs into place.
Yanked the arm up his back.
The kid squealed.
“Take it easy,” she said. “Relax. This won’t go so bad.”
He tried to roll over. Anders moved her right knee onto his back.
“You’re under arrest,” she said. “Assaulting a police officer.”
She grabbed his right arm. Brought it around. Cuffed the wrist.
Stepped away from him.
He rolled then, wincing as he came onto his cuffed hands.
And it wasn’t a male at all.
She squinted hard at Anders. Dark hair and eyes. Had to be the other one’s sister.
Wright came up beside them.
“She’s the one I saw,” he said. “Sticking the knife into your tire.”
Anders followed Wright along the hallway. The second room, where the linebacker girl had come from, was another bedroom. Smaller than the other. Bed with no base, Oreos wrappers on the floor, with MacDonald’s boxes and shake cups.
The drapes were drawn.
“I came in through the front room window,” Wright said. “I saw the sister clambering through. She was quick. Raced on out the back.”
“I saw her go.”
“Sorry about the other one,” he said. “I should have checked all the rooms before you came in.”
“You didn’t know I was coming. What have we got here?” Anders had her gun out again. One-handed. Down at her side.
Opposite the door was another poster. The Grand Canyon, standing stark and deep, the layered brown rocks carved away, with the blue twist of the Colorado River below. The top right pin had popped out and that corner was rolled down.
In the living room, there were two men.
One, in jeans and a torn tee shirt, lying back on the sofa, legs out under a wooden coffee table. Slouched any more and her would have been lying down.
Windows above his head faced out across the driveway to the house next door.
The other man was sprawled out too, but on the floor. Face down. Limbs akimbo.
The guy on the sofa stared at Anders.
On the table were more packages. Taped up. There were addresses written on them. Sacramento, Yuma, Jacksonville.
“Sheesh,” Anders said as she crouched to the guy on the floor. She reached for her phone. “We really need backup.”
“Hold on,” Wright said.
“Hey cop,” the guy on the sofa said. “You going to–“
“Quiet,” Anders said. “You have the right to remain silent. I’m sure you know that.”
“He hit Sammy! Knocked him out cold.”
Sammy was out cold, that was for sure.
“Wright,” Anders said. “You can’t just go hitting people. Even if they’re drug dealers. And I’m sure you know that.”
“We’re not drug dealers!” the guy on the sofa said.
Anders looked at him. He must think she was an idiot.
“They’re not drug dealers,” Wright said. “And I didn’t hit him. Same as the young woman back there rushed you, Sammy here rushed me. Too bad for him that he hit my elbow.”
Wright tapped his left elbow.
“Went right into his eye,” Wright said. “Jerked his neck back. I say better not move him. He is breathing.”
“Just!” the guy on the sofa said.
“Stay out of it,” Anders said.
The guy muttered some epithet under his breath.
Anders stood. “We need paramedics for him. I need a couple of cruisers here for these guys.”
“Give me your phone,” Wright said. “I’ll call it in. But follow me. You’re in for a treat.”
The smell of baking was stronger as Anders followed Wright out of the living room and along the hallway. It led to the front door, which had multiple locks on it. Two more rooms, one on either side. Light streaming in from one, the other dark.
A Kroger’s bag is by the front door. The end of baguette sticking out. Anders smiled. Clearly she had misjudged the residents.
Wright stepped into the darkened room.
“This is where I came in,” he said. He reached up and turned on the light.
Tables on the front and back walls. Shelves either side of the windows. The curtains were closed but moved in the wind. This would be where Wright had come in. Following the girl who’d stabbed the tire.
The front table was piled with tee shirts. Black, blue, red, white. A few green, and a few in pastels. All very plain. The scent of dye hung in the air.
“Brand new,” she said.
The shirts were unfolded and had that flat, even look of something freshly made.
The shelves had boxes with more. And there were more boxes under the tables. A knife like the one that had gone into her tire lay on top of one of the boxes, clearly used for slitting the tape.
“Here,” Wright said.
At the end was some odd kind of printer. Blocky with handles on the side. A laptop plugged into it. An image on the laptop’s screen.
Cardinals. With the stylized sweep, and the red head of a cardinal bird. Almost cartoonish. Looking serious. Threatening.
“The packages aren’t drugs,” Wright said.
“How much do you pay for a franchise shirt from your favorite team?”
Anders shrugged. “I don’t own any. I don’t have a favorite team.”
Wright smiled. “Forty, fifty bucks, I would guess. Licensed merchandise. All this–” he swept his arm around the room “–is unlicensed merchandise. Someone in Florida wants a Dolphins shirt, but doesn’t want to pay the premium, they order from these guys. They grab an image from the net, use this thing to print onto the shirt. Ship it out.”
“They’re probably getting the shirts at a dollar piece,” Anders said. “Ink’s expensive, but… well, even with shipping, they must be making a tidy profit. Sell the shirt for twenty.”
“In a nutshell.”
Anders shook her head. “That always intrigues me. The money from the licenses supports the team. Those people might earn millions, but, still, if they’re your favorite team, why steal from them, in effect.”
From outside came the sound of a siren.
“How often,” Wright said, “have you been able to fathom the criminal mind?”
Anders closed her eyes and took a breath.
“Never. And every time I see something like this, I get further from being able to fathom it at all.”
“I know it.”
The siren shut off.
“Come on,” Anders said. “Let’s go fill these guys in. Then you and me, we’ve got a coffee date.”
“We do?” he said with a wry smile.
“Sure we do. Remember? I was bringing you coffee.”
“I do remember. So, let’s go do that.” Wright stepped by her.
Anders looked around the room. The ingenuity was impressive.
From the front door came the sound of the locks disengaging.
Anders turned and followed Wright out.
Coffee. And, they still had a tire to change.
Well, that was an all right start to the day.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed “Cardinals”. Feel free to say hi in the comments. Always nice to hear from readers.
I am currently deep in the heart of writing the ninth Captain Arlon Stoddard novel, Dead Ringers, which is proving to be one of the most complex I’ve ever written – I’m taking more notes as I go than ever, and I’m tinkering a whole lot more with early parts of the story. It’s fun and different, and I hope to have it out in the first quarter of next year, all going well.
Experienced Captain Ulliana Alvis loves skimming above the forty-five hundred kilometer stretch of the Tegh Sea. Her vessel the Mourave carries fifty passengers in safety and comfort. The calm of the water always reassures and moves her at once.
But safety can be an illusion.
A Captain Arlon Stoddard short story that pits the crew against cascading events and into a desperate attempt to save lives.
A great place to jump in if you’re new to the series, and a wonderful addition for fans.
I like to have new book releases out on the 20th of the month, and for October and November, these will be novellas from two of my series. The first novellas in both. My novellas sit around a quarter the length of a novel – say around a hundred pages. I think Amazon labels them in with “90 minute reads” or something.
First up in on October 2oth is “Ortanide Steppers” from my Captain Arlon Stoddard Adventures series. Think deep space adventures with mysteries and puzzles around the galaxy. Technically a “novelette” in SF terms, but boy, keeping track of the names for the different lengths…
Ortanide. A planet with a unique geography, a rich history and a strange political system.
A political system that defies Captain Arlon Stoddard and his crew.
Restrained in a dank cell by the very people he came to help, Arlon faces the choice of violating the charters he works to uphold.
Or certain death.
A Captain Arlon Stoddard novella that pits the crew against possibly their most heinous foe yet.
Priced especially at $2.99 for the ebook, and $6.99 for the paperback. A bargain, right?
Next out on November 20th is “Cold Highway” from my Cole Wright Thrillers series. Pretty standard kind of thriller, adventure, gunplay stuff here. I’ve always liked those frozen highways and figured that might be a fun place to set a story. I was right, at least in writing it. I hope it’s as much fun to read.
A trip north of the border takes Cole Wright into the heart of snowbound Canada. Friendly people, vast distances, tough vehicles, isolation.
When a breakdown looms, Wright finds himself caught in the white, compacted landscape. A road thirty feet wide, hemmed in by the piled up ridges left by snowploughs. And an endless forest that could hide just about anything.
Unfriendly territory. Dangerous places.
A Cole Wright novella that focuses down on a single moment where the slightest error could be his last.
Still reasonably priced at $3.99 for the ebook, and $7.99 for the paperback.
So far all my paperbacks have come through Amazon, but I’m testing this one through Draft 2 Digital as well, in a slightly larger format, and ending up priced at $10.99. We’ll see how that goes.
As with previous months, I’ll have short stories out in the lead up to the releases. “Sea Skimmers”, which is the first Captain Arlon Stoddard short story, and followed by “Cardinals” which is a Cole Wright story with a difference – Lieutenant Ione Anders as the lead character (you’ll remember her from the first Cole Wright novel The Arrival) and Cole himself tagging along as a background character.
Details to come.
Remember you can explore the series from the pages available in the menu at the top of the page on the website here.
Scorpion Bait, book 5 in the Cole Wright series is available now through the regular channels.
$5.99 ebook. $15.99 print, $19.99 hardback
Jerome Miller lies in scorching, gritty sand, staring up out of the rugged ditch. Bleeding and broken. The start of a very bad day, for him. Cole Wright hitches into the town of Gollick, Arizona. Somewhere between Tuscon and Yuma. Looking for a good meal and maybe a bed for the night. Not looking for trouble. Sometimes, though, trouble hides away in those out of the way places. Sometimes trouble just finds him. Sometimes Wright just meets it head on.
More Cole Wright news soon – “Cold Highway” a novella is coming in November, and all things going well, book 6 Zero Kills, coming in December. The book is complete and revised and just in the queue for final copyedit and proofread and then should be up for preorder before “Cold Highway” hits the shelves.
With Scorpion Bait, book 5 of the Cole Wright series on preorder and available from September 20th, it seemed like a good moment to post another Cole Wright short story. “One Little Broken Leg” is the fifth of these, and it was fun to write. While I love writing the novels, I love the stories just as much, but in a different way. It’s fun being concise and looking as just one event that can usually be resolved quickly.
Read the first two chapters below. Keep an eye out on the site here, I’m working on posting a story free to read for a week or two from time to time. The next one should be the first couple of weeks of December.
Also available as an ebook and in print, from Amazon and elsewhere.
One little broken leg was never going to slow down Sally. Not out here in the wilds, five miles from the freeway. Two miles from the nearest road.
Sally sat on a black rock, poking up from the mossy, earthy soil all around. An outcrop of granite or gneiss. She’d learned rocks back at NAU. Just a couple of geology courses as a freshman.
None of that had stuck.
Not that that would help her situation right away.
The sky overhead was clear, a brilliant dome of blue. A few scudding, icy wisps to the north east, and a few billowing thunderheads a hundred miles to the south. It was late in the day and the air was cooling. Behind her the range rose slowly, and the sun would dip behind soon.
Then it would get real cold.
Around her, ponderosa and Oregon pines shivered in a light breeze. Their scent was heady and strong. Invigorating. Life-giving.
The rock was nobbly and rough. It poked against her butt, but the nobbles were small enough and even enough that it didn’t hurt. Tiny pieces of it looked like they were ready to break out. Little blocks of the stuff like the tips of miniature french fries.
The fall had happened just beyond the rock, on the uphill side. A trail there that might once have been clear and open, but now was tending to weeds and saplings. Dry in places, boggy in others. Some parts, farther down, back toward Jessie’s car
The Ryeling Park Forest was eighty-nine hundred acres of old growth. It sounded like a lot, but it wasn’t really. A jagged shape, six miles long, and four miles across at its widest.
Abandoned rugged country. Too hard to farm, really. Too beautiful to mill, though the way the lumber companies were getting now, they would happily come in and fell every last tree, plant some saplings and vanish.
Sally’s leg throbbed.
She’d fallen. Distracted by the flight of a raptor. A hawk probably, not an eagle. Too small. Brilliant speckled brown feathers, with a tail that tipped left and right adjusting its flight.
The bird had been gliding along above the clearing around the rock. The bird’s head had turned and its yellow eye had glinted at Sally.
Pulling its wings in, the bird plunged at the ground.
Vanished behind the rock.
Sally had hurried to watch.
Fallen across part of the rock. Her foot jammed. The rest of her kept going.
The pain in that moment had been explosive.
As if her foot had been ripped off.
It had taken minutes for her breathing to come back to normal.
She’d shucked her backpack and lay there on the trail. Staring at the sky. Letting her leg throb.
Calculating how long before dark. Calculating whether she could hobble back before dark. Calculating if she could even drive the car.
Jessie’s car was a old Ford Fusion. A little beat up, with wheel bearings the squeaked sometimes.
It wouldn’t drive itself.
If only she had a Tesla, ha, ha.
But, it was kind of Jessie to let her use it like this. In exchange for a little childcare. Sally would do that for free.
Her phone had been in her back pocket. In the fall, the screen had smashed. The phone was still working, but the display was flickery and fragmented. And wouldn’t respond to her taps.
she couldn’t make a call. Couldn’t text.
So now here she was, sitting on top of a rock, miles from anywhere with her leg throbbing. No phone. No one around.
Still the view was nice.
She dragged her pack up after her and unzipped the top flap. It was a decent overnight pack. Sixty-five liter capacity. She had a quick coffin tent and a good sleeping bag. All middle of the range—best she could afford—but they did the job.
Maybe she would have to camp out for the night. She would have to drag herself back along the trail a ways. Just before the small clearing around the rock outcrop, she’d spotted a kind of flat area that would have enough space for the tent.
She could wait out the night and hobble on back to her car come morning.
When she’d bought the pack, at Wilbur and Son, the sales assistant had suggested an emergency locator. A little thing like a cross between a flashlight and a GPS. It had a secret button that sent a signal to the satellites. A kind of automated S.O.S.
She’d balked, though at the price. Not that it wouldn’t be three hundred dollars well spent, just that she didn’t really have three hundred dollars to spare.
She’d hiked plenty, with no problems. She was young and fit.
Now, though, maybe she should have had that locator.
From the zipped pouch, she pulled out a baggie with trail mix. Nuts and seeds and sultanas, with a smattering of chocolate chips and yoghurt balls. Quite delicious.
Buried below, she had a full dried meal—stroganoff—and a little camp cooker to boil it in. She would have to use her drinking water, since she wasn’t going to be collecting water from a stream anytime soon.
If she could even get the cooker set up.
Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, girl.
She took a mouthful of the mix. It was yum. And cheering.
From farther up the trail came a sound. Someone running?
Sally sat up straighter. Looked around.
Not from up the trail. From down. Back toward the small carpark.
Her heart pounded.
Fifteen yards away, someone burst from the trees.
Sally waved. Shouted.
“Hey,” she said. “Little help.”
He came to a stop.
Stared at her.
He had thick, lank black hair and three days of stubble.
He stared at her with piercing eyes.
“I fell,” she said. “I need…”
She trailed off.
He was just staring.
He was wearing jeans. Dirty jeans. Tan work boots. Muddy.
A plaid shirt over a white tee shirt.
No water bottle.
He was carrying just one thing.
A little black pistol.
Cole Wright stepped from the passenger side of Lieutenant Ione Anders’s Tahoe. Police issue SUV with the full package. Bars on the front, lights on the top, cage in the back. Painted black and white, with the Spokane Police Department decals.
Nothing subtle about it at all.
The vehicle was starting to get a bit worn and tired. Chips in the paint and wear on the seat vinyl. A corner of the dash where the peg had failed and the plastic was bending up against the windshield glass.
“Let me read this,” Lieutenant Ione Anders said from the driver’s seat. She was looking at the vehicle’s police-connected laptop display.
“Happy to wait here,” Wright said.
They’d parked in a small parking lot out of town. In the hills. Pines stood all around, making the roadway into a canyon and sending the sweet drifting smell of pine and earth. From across the other side of the road, beyond the tinkling stream it followed, came the chirruping of a pair of hidden birds. Fighting, perhaps, over some tidbit.
A sign at the far end of the lot identified the place as Ryeling Park Forest with some logos for the Department of Wildlife and Washington Parks.
A map in the top right corner, with marked trails, and a list below showing the walking times. Camping prohibited. Fires prohibited. Dogs banned.
“Go look at those other vehicles,” Ione said, stepping out of the vehicle. “Got another call about a domestic shooting south of here. Suspect left in a Dodge pickup. Got one right there.”
“And this guy?” Wright said.
“Let me go talk to him first,”
“Go ahead. I’m enjoying a moment with the peace of nature.”
She made a face at him and headed toward the other vehicles.
There were three. An old Ford sedan, and even older Dodge pickup, real beat-up, and a near new BMW. It was the BMW she was heading for. A white-haired gentleman well into his seventies stood at the right front fender.
Strictly speaking, Wright shouldn’t really even be here. Not in her vehicle. Retired cop, fraternizing with a younger, off-duty cop.
He was happy to help, always. He enjoyed their time together, but there would always be a tension.
He’d quit the force, in Seattle. Disillusioned and jaded. She, on the other hand, was on the ascendant here in Spokane. A career. An energy. Colleagues who supported her.
Still, he had to remind himself to enjoy the moment. Live in the moment.
Later, after this little diversion, they could grab dinner at Denny’s or maybe that little Mongolian barbeque he’d spotted just off downtown. They could head back to his little leased apartment and see what happened.
“Wright,” she said. “Come listen.”
From across the road, one of the squabbling birds shot out of the trees. I flew like a bullet. Dead straight. Directly above Wright’s head. Vanished into the trees on the park side.
The other bird appeared a fraction of a second later. Followed the same trajectory.
Wright smiled to himself. Wildlife was always on its own schedule. Didn’t care a whit about people.
Wright went around the Tahoe and across a few empty slots to the Beemer. Shiny and well-kept. Dark blue. Two-seater. Little shark gills on the fender just ahead of the door.
“Listen to this,” Anders said.
“It don’t change the more times I tell it,” the man said. He sounded like he was from down south somewhere. He was wearing black chinos and a button shirt. A bolo tie with a picture of steer horns on the clasp.
“No,” Wright said, “But I might hear something different.”
The man looked Wright up and down. Frowned.
Anders was in uniform—and she looked great in it—but Wright was just in faded jeans, work boots and a tee shirt, with a black jacket over.
“Detective?” the man said.
“Retired,” Wright said. He’d been a regular beat cop, but some days it had felt like he knew more than the detectives.
“Heck, look at you? You’re all of twenty years old, and retired. I’m seventy-five and I have no plans to retire.”
Wright was well into his thirties, but there was no need to correct the man.
“What did you see?” Wright said.
“Guy there comes screaming around the corner from down Abernathy way.” The man pointed to a curve in the road where Wright and Anders would have found themselves if they’d continued on.
“Must’ve been doing eighty,” the man said. “His tire blew. You can see it there. Strips of it.”
Wright looked. Sure enough, black strips from a ruined tire. And now that he looked more closely, he could see that the pickup was parked at a poor angle. And that it was down at the front left, with the back right corner of the tray higher. Lifted on the rear suspension.
“The whole tire stripped off?” Anders said.
“Yes ma’am. You look at these two tires on the near side, you can see they’re old and bald. Retreads, at best. Shouldn’t be on the road, let alone doing eighty up in here in the hills. You see how narrow these roads can get?”
“He was lucky to make it into the lot here. Lucky he didn’t total my car.”
“Then what happened?” Wright said. He walked around the rear end of the Beemer. Out on the road there were black skid marks. Some gouges in the tarmac that looked fresh.
Easy to picture the tire blowing. Shredding. The driver fighting for control. Automatically slamming on the brakes. Shuddering along, barely making it into the lot.
The front bumper was actually right up against the low log fence that separated the parking lot from a grassy berm, and the start of the forest.
To the right of the pickup was a gap in the fence, with a sign.
Black Rock Loop. Allow 6 hours.
Wright read the pickup’s plate number and called it out to Anders.
“That’s the one,” she said.
Wright turned. Looked up into the trail. It was bright for a ways, but soon the thickness of forest got the better of the sun and it turned into a dark tunnel.
“Then he got out,” the man with the Beemer said.
“Where is he now,” Anders said.
“Took off into the woods.”
“This way?” Wright said, pointing up Black Rock Trail.
“Yep. Guess he didn’t want his head blown off.”
“Excuse me,” Anders said.
“Well, he tried to carjack me. That’s why I called.”
“Carjack you?” Wright said.
A squirrel ran from the woods and through the grass. Climbed onto one of the uprights on the log fence. The squirrel’s tail twitched. Black eyes stared at Wright.
“He tried to carjack you,” Anders said. “But instead ran into the woods?”
“Why did he run into the woods?” Wright said.
“Well, he got out of the junk heap there and brandished a gun.”
Wright saw Anders stiffen right away.
“What kind of gun?” Wright said.
“That’s very specific.”
The man shrugged. “I know a little about guns.”
“So he had a gun,” Anders said.
“Yes. Told me to give him my keys. I declined.”
“And so he ran into the woods.”
Wright could see where this was going.
“He did,” the man said.
“What kind of gun do you have?” Wright said.
The man smiled. “Let me show you.”
The full story is available in ebook and as a paperback from the usual channels. ebook $2.99, print $5.99
Book 5, Scorpion Baitis available for preorder now. Full release on September 20th
Jerome Miller lies in scorching, gritty sand, staring up out of the rugged ditch.
Bleeding and broken.
The start of a very bad day, for him.
Cole Wright hitches into the town of Gollick, Arizona. Somewhere between Tuscon and Yuma. Looking for a good meal and maybe a bed for the night. Not looking for trouble. Sometimes, though, trouble hides away in those out of the way places. Sometimes trouble just finds him.
Mostly I think I wait until I’m done with a book before I post about it, but I’m having a blast writing this one, so I thought I just drop by here and give a little update.
A draft cover here, with main art by Ateliersommerland with the background by Bertrandb, both through Dreamstime. I am enjoying getting a relatively consistent look to the series now. I’m still learning design of course (yes I do my own covers), and feel like I’m improving little step by little step. Trying for a unified look, but still based on the original images.
Need a little more contrast in the text there – the dark red on the yellow aren’t doing it for me. Still, there’s time. Liquid Machine should be done soon, and once it’s edited and tinkered with, and the cover is finished, it should be out in the first quarter of next year.
Then, in keeping with the alphabetical titles there, the next one I’ll write will be Rorqual Saitu or similar. Has anyone read T.J. Bass’s 1974 novel The Godwhale? That’s my touchstone there. I love that novel and, without becoming fan fiction, the Karnish canals will have an android rorqual. Am I giving too much away, for a novel that’s not written yet and likely won’t be out for at least a year?
My story “Scour”, which appeared in the December 2016 issue of New Myths magazine, (free to read at the link) is set in the same world. Different characters, but the scour of the title is a relative of the upcoming rorqual novel.
Which leads me neatly into my next little topic here – short stories and novellas which fit into the worlds of my series.
I’ve been doing it a whole lot this year with my Cole Wright series, which I’ve been working on over the last few years. With each novel, I put out a short story too. It’s been real fun writing the stories with the character. Also a good taster if you want a quick read, and want to see if the character and style matches your taste – the stories are cheaper than a cup of coffee (depending where you get your coffee I guess).
Four novels – The Arrival, Measured Aggression, Hide Away, and Slow Burn, and four short stories “Dark Fields”, “Schedule Interruption”, “The Forest Doesn’t Care”, and “The Handler”.
The cool part of this is that I put the stories up here free to read in the early part of the month when there’s a novel coming out.
September sees book five Scorpion Bait released, with “One Little Broken Leg” available free to read from about the fifth. Also available in print and as an ebook.
I guess that’s enough of a ramble from me for now. Go check out “Scour” at New Myths – it’s a little dated now, and I like to think I’ve improved as a writer in the meantime, but it’s a fun read. At least, I think so. Also, free to read.
I have a new standalone novelette out now – “Sail Man“.
Alice Briggs has a plan. Send a deep space probe farther out than any before.
She knows how to do it, but faces blocks at every turn. When she meets Tink and Caroline—the sail builders—they make her big ideas seem small.
In a good way. A story of pioneering, relationships, and an AI who might just get her own way.