R.J. Plant's Blog: Breaking Through Reality, page 9
March 14, 2018
Cofax: Deservedly Lauded
California Lunch Room
“Slapfish” or: Why Social Media Matters
March 8, 2018
Words of Wisdom … Maybe
We all remember little sayings our parents used to impart to us when we were children, right? Gems such as: “If you eat too much candy, your toes will fall off,” and “If you walk around outside barefoot, you’ll get worms.”
Probably not those specifically …
It’s an interesting thing to think about, though, those little teaching moments. They’re simplified for kids. For example, sugar is not directly linked to diabetes; however, if you overindulge in sweets (or any food, really) you might gain weight which does increase your risk of diabetes and that can increase the risk of artery disease and/or nerve damage and blah blah blah amputation. Ever tried explaining that to a kid? I haven’t, but I have been a kid, and I wouldn’t have cared. I mean … I cared that I thought my toes might fall off, but you better believe I never fucking gave up that sweet, sweet sugary goodness.
The point is, sayings like that stick with you. Specifically, they instill in you the fact there are repercussions to your actions, behaviors, or decisions. If you do x, then y will happen. But there’s more to it than that. What if we go from action/consequence to action/consequence/qualifier.
Take, for example, this little saying: “You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose.” Now add qualifiers: “You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose unless it isn’t hurting anyone AND you have your friend’s consent.”
Two qualifiers there, both essentially changing “can’t” to “shouldn’t.” Those qualifiers are also asking the recipient of this saying (henceforth referred to as Dave; he doesn’t mind) to consider others before acting. So, now Dave has to ask himself, “How will this affect the people around me and how will it affect my friend?” That’s macro and micro level empathy, you guys. That’s something that can be cultivated. With the exception of individuals with certain mental disorders (primarily, but not limited to, sociopathy, narcissism, any form of psychopathy really) people are born with the ability to empathize.
Build. On. That.
You can do anything. I mean … you can do anything physically possible for a human. Can you eat an excess of candy? Yes. Can you steal? Of course. Can you walk outside with no shoes? Absolutely! Can you murder? Why not? You can do so much!
But just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. Act with the knowledge that what you do creates ripples that reach beyond you. Or, more simply put, just try not to be a dick.
March 1, 2018
Commonality Sanctum: An Inside Look
Hallo, you beautiful bastards!
As you can guess from the title, I’m giving you a sneak peek into my newest endeavor: Commonality Sanctum. In this post you’ll get to see the tail end of chapter five and all of chapter six. Keep in mind, this is a draft version, so some things might change down the road. I wanted to share this section, specifically, because it’s very character-driven instead of plot-driven. In other words, you shouldn’t be lost having not seen previous chapters.
So, here we go. I hope you enjoy entering the mind of an ex-cult-member!
Chapter 5 (Claudia Dayo) (Partial)
Friday, July 11, 2025—Present Day
I shot upright, whipping my head around to try to find the source of the mechanical grinding sound. It was coming from the alcove with the books. Michael cut his eyes to me but didn’t bother moving his head.
“It’s the printer,” he explained calmly. I let myself relax a little bit at a time.
“I fell asleep,” I said. The words came out slow. In the compound we were only allowed to sleep at night, and even then we usually didn’t get to sleep the night through. Every few hours we’d be plucked from bed to clean or pray or reflect.
I fell asleep during the day. My skin felt cold.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Fear rose from the pit of my stomach in waves. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. It won’t happen again.” I could feel myself shrinking back into the cushions of the couch and I couldn’t stop it. It was such an ingrained response. If you sleep when you’re not supposed to, you get beaten. If you eat when you’re not supposed to, you get beaten. If you speak when you’re not supposed to …
“Claudia,” Michael said. He half stood, turned towards me, his arms out, hands getting close. I would’ve screamed. I almost did. He was so quick, though. One minute he was hovering over me and the next he had my face pressed against his shoulder with one hand, the other holding my legs as he cradled me in his lap.
He was so gentle. I cried. I think from relief.
I cried and he held me and whispered against my hair, his deep voice rumbling through me.
Chapter 6 (Michael Alvis)
Friday, July 11, 2025—Present Day
The response had been automatic. I regretted it the moment she was in my arms. Catharine had been nightmare prone. I’d held her like this so many times before, when she’d wake up crying or scared. The thought made me want to push Claudia away. Holding her felt wrong. She wasn’t Catharine.
Claudia must have felt me tense. She looked up at me with watery eyes and chocked out an apology in a voice thick with tears. I tried to relax. I pushed her head back to my chest. I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t want to upset her further either, so I held her until she stopped shaking, until her breathing evened out. I gave it another minute, then placed her back on the couch and retreated to my bedroom. I closed the door and leaned against it.
What are you doing, Michael? The question rattled around in my head, unanswered. I needed help with Claudia. The only person I knew who could help her was Nate. An ex-member of Commonality Sanctum, he’d left the cult three years before I’d met him. He still had friends on the inside, which was how he’d found out about the kidnapping scheme. Apparently he’d not had all the details, or he’d have known the cult wasn’t going to stop at kidnapping.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand where it was charging. I scrolled through my contacts list until I found Nate’s name and hit call. He picked up on the fourth ring.
“I saw it on the news this morning. I had no idea,” he said, skipping right over the pleasantries.
“I didn’t think you did,” I said.
“This is fucked up, man. Tell me you weren’t there.” I didn’t say anything. “Michael …”
“I need your help, Nate.”
“What a surprise,” he said dryly.
“It’s serious.”
“When isn’t it?”
“Can you come over here? There’s a girl … She’s an ex-member. Sort of.”
“Jesus, Michael, what are you doing?”
“I keep asking myself that. I haven’t found an answer yet. Look, she’s freaking out. I don’t know what to do.”
“Being an ex-member doesn’t make me an expert. She probably needs a psychiatrist.”
“Maybe. But you know what it’s like, right? You can relate to her on a level I can’t. Can you just try? Please?”
He was silent for a while, but I could here scuffling in the background. “Yeah. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, Nate.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, then hung up. I pocketed my phone and took a deep breath before opening the bedroom door.
Claudia hadn’t moved. She was curled up on the couch, the blanket forgotten, half spilling onto the floor. The TV was white noise. I turned it off and sat on the couch beside her. Her face was dry now, her eyes puffy and red. I leaned in a little to get into her line of sight. When she focused on my face, I straightened.
“I’ve asked a friend to come over,” I said slowly. “I think he can help you.”
“Help me?”
“Yeah. Help you adjust. He’s an ex-member, like you.” She was starting to get that nervous look that came right before she freaked out. “I trust him, Claudia. I really think he can help. He’s been out of the cult for a while now.”
She nodded but looked more resigned than agreeable. She wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her knees up to her chest until she was a small ball of tightly wound nerves. I got up and headed for the kitchen. I put on enough coffee for Nate and me, then filled a glass with milk and took it to Claudia. I set the glass on the coffee table in front of her and sat on the chair. She picked up the glass and took a tentative sip. Then another. And another. When the glass was empty she set it back on the table and stared at it.
“Would you like more?” I asked.
“May I?”
“Of course,” I said. I grabbed the glass and headed to the kitchen to refill it. That was the last of the carton. I tossed the empty carton in the trash, then took the glass back to Claudia and handed it to her. I was about to sit down when there was a knock at the door.
I looked through the peep hole, opening the door when I saw Nate.
“Thanks for coming,” I said as he walked passed. He scowled at me. I shut the door, locked it, and followed Nate into the living room. Claudia was pulled back into herself again, the glass of milk empty on the table in front of her. I moved around Nate to sit on the couch beside her.
“Claudia, this is Nathan Peters,” I said. Nate waved and took a seat in the chair.
“Hi, Claudia,” Nate said. His voice was pitched low and there was a melodic quality to it. “Michael tells me you were a member of Commonality Sanctum.”
She nodded. Her expression was even.
“I was a member too, although I haven’t been for some time now. I remember the adjustment period well enough. It’s been hard, right?”
She nodded again. She adjusted her position, opening up until she was sitting cross legged with her hands in her lap, facing Nate a little more. Nate responded by inching closer to the edge of the chair, his forearms resting on his thighs as he leaned forward.
“How long were you a member?”
She looked at me, the back to Nate. “Twenty-three years,” she said.
Nate looked at me. He kept his face expressionless. Or tried to. The skin around his eyes tightened and his lips thinned slightly. He ran a hand over his face. “Shit,” he said, breathing the word. “So you were raised in it.”
Claudia nodded. She seemed to sense Nate’s distressed. She pulled her right leg to her chest, wrapping her arms around it.
“Nate …” I said.
“Yeah, man. Sorry. I mean you could have warned me though.” He rubbed the sides of his face in three quick successions and then dropped his hands to his knees. “Okay. Well that’s something.” He leaned back. “I was thirteen when I joined. My parents’ bright idea. I stayed in for about ten years, but once I realized …”
“It’s a lie,” Claudia said.
“Yeah. Once I realized that Commonality Sanctum was a cult, I ran. My parents left a few years after I did. It takes some people longer to figure it out. Some people never do.”
“It took me too long.”
Nate leaned forward again. “You can’t dwell on that, Claudia. It’s not about how long it took you to figure it out, it’s that you did figure it out. That’s the victory.”
She opened her mouth but didn’t speak. Could Nate really call this a victory for Claudia? She was one day removed from mutilating a corpse for the cult. Nate didn’t know that part. Yet. Claudia took a deep breath and looked Nate in the eye. “What I’ve done in the name of Com … of the cult … It can’t be undone.”
Nate looked at me. I looked at Claudia. “You could have done worse,” I said. She hadn’t killed the boy, after all. Nate kept staring at me.
“Is this about the Thorne kid?” he asked. I grimaced at the question but nodded. Claudia leaned her forehead against her knee. “Jesus Christ, man. She didn’t kill him, did she?”
“No,” Claudia said. Her head snapped up fast enough that it had to have hurt. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Then what?”
“This might be one of those things where the less you know, the better off you are,” I said.
“Fuck, Michael, how bad is this?”
“Well … It’s not good,” I said. Nate rubbed his face again, breathing a little heavy, a little too quickly. “I understand if you need to bail. I’m not trying to get you into any trouble or anything. I just needed some help with …” I nodded to Claudia.
“It’s starting to seem like you need help with more than just that,” Nate said. I held my hands out. What could I say to that? Nate shook his head, then refocused on Claudia. “Tell me what’s going through your head.”
She looked at him, her expression almost vacant. “Nothing,” she said. “Everything. What am I supposed to do when everything—everyone—I know is wrong. How do you live like that?”
Nate gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve been there, believe me. How are you supposed to have faith or belief in anything else when you’ve been raised on lies? Trust seems impossible—”
“Life seems impossible. What purpose do I have now? What’s the point?”
“Survival. Happiness. Living. Hell, Claudia, there’s so much to experience. You just have to take it day by day. Survive today. Survive tomorrow. Survive the next day and the next. One day you’ll wake up and realize that everything is okay.”
“Is it like that for all ex-members?”
Nate and I looked at each other. No, it wasn’t like that for all ex-members. Not everyone could live with the lies they’d spent so much time and effort believing. The loss of all those years wasted. The loss of the one thing they’d dedicated their lives to. Many of the ex-members that had been in since childhood opted for the suicide route. Nate and I had talked about that a lot when we’d first met.
“You’ve been lied to all your life, so I’m not going to start off here by doing the same,” Nate said. A lie probably would have been better in this case. It would have been easier on her. “For a lot of ex-members …” His voice faded away. He cleared his throat and tried again. “When I first got out, I was so lost. I didn’t know anybody outside the cult. I didn’t know how the real world worked. Things, no matter how scarce, had always been provided for me. I never needed to worry about shelter, because we lived at the commune.”
Claudia repositioned herself back into a cross-legged pose, opening up as Nate spoke, and occasionally nodding.
“I was one of the lucky ones. The compound I lived in was in a city full of ex-members. I snuck away one night. I walked the streets for … I don’t even remember. Four or five days, I think. I scavenged food from dumpsters, slept in doorways. I found my way to a shelter, a homeless shelter. They had these meetings where you could talk with other people staying in the shelter. You sat in a little circle and told your story. One night after the meeting, an ex-member approached me. We talked for hours. She said that there were other ex-members living together in an apartment not far from the shelter and, when I was ready, I could meet them.
“About a month later I got up the courage to leave the shelter and move into the apartment. A month after that, I had a job. Another month and I had a driver’s license, a bank account. After about a year, I moved out on my own.”
Nate pulled his hands up to his chest, the fingers of one circled the wrist of the other. Then he began rubbing his left palm with his right thumb. It reminded me of the way Claudia picked at her fingers when she was nervous or scared.
“I got a call one day, Nate finally continued. “One of my former roommates had committed suicide. Not even half a year later, I got another call. Another of my roommates …”
He trailed off. Claudia reached out and briefly touched his knee. Tears gathered in her eyes, trailing down her cheeks whenever she blinked.
“Not all of us make it,” Nate mumbled.
February 23, 2018
Branding
Hallo, beautiful people! Smalltalk, pleasantries, and such!
Good, now that's out of the way. Back to branding. It shouldn't be a new concept. Even writers need to build their own brand. I hadn't even thought that far ahead when I stumbled across my brand. The closer I got to Rise and Run's release date, the more I noticed that my marketing images seemed to have a common theme: food. Oh, baby, that's right. I f*ing love to cook and, though I don't consider myself a foodie, I love trying new restaurants. Most of the images I have of me were taken while visiting with friends in LA. Sidenote: LA has some super good food.
Anyway, food is a big part of my life. Cooking is one of the most creative outlets ... especially when you have a habit of making up your own recipes. So, since I love cooking (and, you know, eating), I decided to consider that my brand.
I contacted a local photographer to help me out with some images for my book promotion and told her my caveat: food needed to be involved. She came back quickly with a location she thought would be perfect.
The shoot was yesterday and it was a wonderful experience. And, if you're wondering, I ate an Asian salmon salad from Aromas in Williamsburg. It was delicious. By the way, having a professional photographer snap pictures of you in public places makes you feel kind of fabulous. Or, that's how I felt.
So, what's your brand? Is it weird, traditional, or are you undecided. I'm curious to know!
February 22, 2018
Review of Countryside: The Book of the Wise, by J.T. Cope IV
Hello there, guys and dolls. I’m going to do something a little different today. I’m going to talk to you about Countryside: The Book of the Wise, by J.T. Cope IV.
Countryside is a book written for ages 9-12, according to Amazon. Personally, I’d stretch that range to about 14. Also, do not judge me because I know all of you heifers read Harry Potter into your old age-ness.
Countryside is about an 11-year-old boy named Luke Rayburn. Strange things start happening to Luke about the time his father is requisitioned to go overseas. This is the catalyst for Luke, his mother, and his four siblings to go live with Luke’s grandparents in Countryside. Countryside (the place in the book, not the book itself) is equal parts Narnia and Hogwarts. The atmosphere and aesthetics of Countryside are reminiscent of that of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series (a little cowboy/western, a little medieval high fantasy).
Before I get any further, I want to say that if you (or an age appropriate person you know) picks this book up, skip the prologue. Not only is the prologue confusing, but the information it contains is in the body of the book and explained with much more clarity. Now, the first ¼ or so of the story is a bit slow. In my opinion, too much time is spent building up to the journey to Countryside (and even the catalyst that drives the family there). There is a good deal of unnecessary info to wade through and it could stand to be cut down so that the focus is primarily on Luke’s relationship with his father.
Now, once we get to Countryside? Whole different story. When Luke arrives in Countryside, the pacing is faster and there is this hint of mystery that’s fun to unravel as you go. It’s easy to get more invested in the characters of Countryside, as well as Luke’s relationship with them. Readers can more clearly feel the bonds he’s making and relate to his struggles (being an outsider, being bullied). The story hits all the major tropes of a fantasy for youngsters.
The description of Countryside is written in such a way that it feels like you’re there, walking down Main Street or Hanover with Luke and his friends. While the dialogue can, at times, get a bit expositional, it’s believable for the most part. The further along you get in the story, the more engaging it is overall.
I would have no problem recommending this to one of my nieces.
Let’s face it. You might not trust me, se head over to Goodreads to learn more about Luke’s adventures in Countryside.
Of course, if you do trust me (shut up, Dave, I heard that!) then check Countryside: The Book of the Wise on Amazon.
Rise and Run Giveaway
Hello, sweetpeas!
Starting tomorrow (2/23/2018) you can enter for a chance to win a free, signed copy of Rise and Run. The giveaway will run through March 2, so there’s a limited amount of time—and a limited amount of product.
Just click this here link to head over to Goodreads to enter the Giveaway. While you’re there, go ahead and give me a follow!
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Do it or the chicken gets it!
February 14, 2018
Cover Reveal: The Finale
Hallo, ass homies! That is officially what my almost-smart-phone feels I should be calling people. It also thinks it needs to replace the word “wonder” with “weiner,” so I’m not too sure I should be listening to it.
Anyhow, you’ve put up with all my nonsense and now you’re ready for the big reveal, right? Well, have I got a surprise for you! No, wait, it’s not a surprise if you know what it is. Well, then, have I got a cover reveal for you! First, of course, I have to include the obligatory links where you can buy and/or or review the book. I know, I know. It’s nothing personal. Just business. So here goes:
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Paperback
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eBook
Oh, ho! I snuck it right in there under your nose. You’re welcome. I hope you’ve enjoyed my teasing you for a few days. And I hope you enjoy the book even moreso.
Check me out on Twitter @rj_plant, on Facebook @therealrjplant (because I’m original and such-what), on Instagram at writer_rj.plant, and finally on Goodreads.
February 13, 2018
Cover Reveal: Part III
For whatever reason, I keep wanting to start this post with, “What up, bitches?” But I will not.
So, you’re here! And I’m here! And Dave is … Well, I don’t know where Dave is, but since you made it here today for the extras, I won’t let you down! Today I have for you a chapter that, although I thoroughly enjoy, was omitted from Rise and Run for pacing reasons. It was originally the second chapter in the book, so you might have questions to which I’ll simply say, “Hey, just go buy the book tomorrow and all your questions will be answered.”
Oh, and, this wouldn’t be a proper part III to the cover reveal without the whole … missing piece of the cover. So, you’ll find that below. For now, read and enjoy!
Chapter 2
November 4, 2012, Bar Harbor, Maine
Rian Connell had called in every favor owed to him to get Effie released after she was apprehended on the suspicion of murdering a government agent. And when Mýrún couldn’t be found, Anthony Kenna’s murder was pinned on Effie as well. Not a stretch, considering that both men had died the same way.
The DoD’s reluctance to admit that the stolen boy existed—not even a word was breathed as to his purpose—worked in Rian’s favor. Effie’s case never went to trial, so thoroughly did all parties work to bury the classified project. The only reason Effie wasn’t buried herself was Rian’s high profile and the extensive media coverage it entailed him. Effie was released after three months with full-throated apologies, and no small amount of whispered threats.
But no one went against Rian. No one dared. If there was a problem that his imports and exports business couldn’t pay for, it was dealt with by the less legal aspects of his empire—and the extent of classified information he shouldn’t have was extra leverage.
Rian stood outside the Women’s Center of the Maine Correctional Center, his sandy hair slicked back. His gray and white pinstripe suit jacket was open to show off a matching waistcoat and a deep red tie. He held his arms open just in time to catch Effie as she sailed into him, knocking his glasses askew as she settled into as fierce a hug as she could manage with her pregnant belly between them.
“We have to find him,” Effie said. She looked up at him, searching his eyes for a sign of acquiescence.
Rian’s eyes went heavenward as he searched for the proper response. “I’ve looked for him, Effie. The boy is nowhere to be found,” Rian said, his Irish accent softened by his years in the States. “And Mýrún … she’s vanished just as soundly.”
“She couldn’t stay,” Effie said for what must have been the hundredth time over the past three months.
Rian waved off the chauffeur and opened the limo door for Effie himself. She scooted across the bench seat and Rian took his place beside her before instructing the driver to take them home. He closed the partition.
“I’ve widened the surveillance range. My sources have all confirmed that the DoD hasn’t located the boy yet. At least that’s something.”
“You don’t think …” she whispered, unable to finish the thought.
“No,” he lied. “I don’t think he’s dead.”
“Take me there,” Effie said. “Take me to the pickup location. I need to see.”
“And I need you to be home,” he said “Besides, taking the limo would draw unwanted attention.”
“Then why’d you take it?” she asked. Rian kissed her forehead in answer, then pulled her into him.
“If your mind is set on this we’ll go, but not now.”
She nodded. He was right, of course. He generally was. But knowing that didn’t stop the impatient tapping of her foot or the way she nervously picked at her fingernails. She had to find the boy; she had to.
*****
December 11, 2012, Lewiston, Maine
It was nearing midnight when Rian arrived at the project building where James Moran’s witness reported seeing the boy. Moran, Bar Harbor’s police chief and Rian’s closest friend, drove up with a few of his men following behind. Unofficially. As Moran got out of his car and Rian walked over to meet him, three undercover Chargers pulled up around them.
Moran handed Rian an earpiece and neck loop mic. “Just in case you want to turn me off,” he said as he handed Rian a wireless remote control. The earpiece was small and comfortable, a nanotech prototype that Rian had paid a fortune to get into Moran’s possession. He pulled the mic over his head, then tucked it under his shirt before attaching the remote to his belt.
Rian looked around at the growing unofficial police presence that had spilled from the Chargers. They looked ready.
“Two on you, two on me,” Moran said. “One at the front entrance and one at the back.”
Rian nodded and returned his attention to the building. Its windows were boarded up and the front door hung loosely from its broken hinges. This was Russian territory. Encroaching on it could cause Rian problems down the road, but he’d promised Effie that he’d get the boy.
Rian always kept his promises.
“I’ll take the ground floor,” Moran said. Rian nodded, freeing his pistol from its holster, and followed Moran to the building’s entrance, all but two officers in tow.
Rian and Moran stopped, one on either side of the listing front door. The smell of urine escaped through the opening. Rian peered down the empty hallway, a cancerous throat with torn and molding carpet and wounded walls. He nodded to the two men lined up behind him, trusting them to cover him as he made his way to the stairwell.
He stayed low against the wall, palms cupping his pistol grip, the barrel facing the floor for now. His right index finger rested against the trigger guard. He took shallow breaths through his nose, not particularly wanting to smell the building, but wanting to taste it even less. One foot crossed over in front of the other and his back lightly scraped the wall. The stairwell was just around the corner to the right. Behind him, Moran shifted, ready to go in. Rian turned the corner, pistol up.
Emptiness.
Rian took the stairs slowly, half out of choice and half necessity. The wooden stairs were in disrepair, not creaking as much as weeping when Rian or one of the officers put weight on certain slats. As he reached the landing, he took a moment to adjust his eyesight. It was darker up here, the smell louder.
“Move,” Rian whispered.
“Moving,” Moran answered, his voice coming crisply through the earpiece.
All the doors on either side of the hall had been removed, showing only dark sores along the blue-gray stretch of hallway. Rian and his party cleared the rooms one at a time. Inside the apartments, Rian saw signs of abandoned lives. Barbies and Hot Wheels, Legos, Play-Doh, gaming systems with game cases sprawling like an overturned Jenga tower. Mold spreading from desiccated food on dirty dishes in one kitchen. Overturned chairs, broken tables, empty spaces where television sets might have been, shattered lamps.
The whole second floor had been turned over.
The last apartment was fairly intact. Rian swept through, room to room. He swept his gun through the doorway to a bedroom. Lined up against the far wall were three bare mattresses with barely enough space to walk in between. Chains hung on the wall, about halfway between floor and ceiling, over all three mattresses. The next bedroom had the same setup.
“Ground floor is clear. Going to three,” Moran said.
Rian and his two officers reconvened in the hallway.
“All clear, sir,” the taller one said. The other shook his head. He’d found nothing.
“Two is clear,” Rian said into his mic as he walked back to the stairwell. “Going to four.”
The carpet on the fourth floor had been peeled back. Long, wide strips had been cut out in places. There were holes in the walls where the sheetrock had been broken, exposing the framework. It looked like someone had been pilfering copper wire.
The three men entered the first apartment, sweeping the rooms. “Sir,” the taller officer’s voice came simultaneously over the earpiece and through the wall. Rian walked over to the officer, now standing in a doorway. He stepped aside to let Rian look in.
Chains on the wall, naked mattresses, and five bodies.
“Human trafficking,” Rian muttered. “Looks like the Russians are tying up loose ends.”
The bodies were starting to turn, the smell sticking to the back of Rian’s throat. He patted the officer on the shoulder and turned to leave. As he stepped through the apartment’s front door, he picked up movement coming from the opposite end of the building and ducked back inside.
“Third floor is clear,” Moran said over the comm.
“We’ve got movement on four,” Rian said.
He chanced a peek from around the frame. He watched as three men and four women—some crying, their distress barely audible—were herded into the hallway. A fourth man followed behind them with a gun in hand.
The man looked out of place, plucked from a department store catalog in his cheap suit. The group was about twenty feet away, heading toward the opposite stairwell, when Rian heard a cry from the apartment they had vacated. It was a small sound. A loud thump followed on the heels of the cry.
Then silence.
Rian waited until the hall was deserted.
“Eight coming your way. One armed, the rest …” Rian searched for the right word. He hated using the word victim. He settled for, “Captives.”
Over the comm, Rian heard Moran directing his men to new locations.
“Keep clearing the floor,” Rian said over his shoulder. He crept down the hallway to the last apartment on the left, from where the cry had come.
A quick look inside revealed a man in dark clothes standing over a boy who couldn’t have been more than four or five. Rian couldn’t tell if this was the right boy; the age seemed off. He took a breath, then moved to fill the apartment’s doorframe.
He didn’t say anything, simply lined up his target and fired.
The bullet hit near the man’s kidney, the lack of spray out suggesting there would be no exit wound. The boy made no sound as the body fell forward, collapsing on top of him. Rian hurried into the room to pull the man aside. Unconscious, but not dead yet. He squatted down in front of the boy, who there was no mistaking now.
The boy’s left arm was set at an odd angle and his face and neck were bruised. A bleeding cut trailed from the corner of a bloodshot eye. Rian turned at the sound of the officers clearing the rooms next door. When he looked back to the boy, the cut was nearly closed.
Rian blinked a few times, then shook his head.
“It’s all right now, boyo,” he finally said, trying to sound neutral.
Rian heard a shout, gunshots, and more shouting, this time with additional voices thrown into the mix. A woman wailed.
“Building is secure,” Moran said.
“Perimeter is secure,” a second voice responded.
“The boy is secure,” Rian announced. To the boy, he said, “Just sit tight, huh? You’re safe now.”
Rian stood up as he heard the first set of boots on the stairs. He checked the man he’d shot. Still not quite dead. He met Moran at the door, still keeping an eye on the kid and the soon-to-be corpse.
“We caught ourselves a bad guy,” Moran said.
“One of Kuznetsov’s men,” Rian said.
Moran whistled. “Shit. Well, I’m sure he’ll have an accident in prison.”
“A better alternative would be for him to have an accident before he leaves this building. I’d prefer that Kuznetsov doesn’t find out about this. Or at least not anytime soon.”
Moran nodded. “And the boy?”
“A bit beat up, but alive. His arm looks broken.”
“Who’s that with him?” Moran asked, eying the man on the floor.
“Another of Kuznetsov’s men. Post-accident. Give it a few minutes and all you’ll have to do is hide the body.”
Moran shook his head. “Funny. I’ve got EMTs on the way for the civilians. I’ll send a team up to check out the boy.”
Moran headed back down to his men. Rian returned to the boy, who hadn’t moved. He hugged his knees with his right arm. Rian sat beside him, leaning against the wall.
“Let me see,” Rian said, indicating the boy’s left arm. The boy held out his arm, made no noise as Rian inspected it. Bright bruising mottled the skin. Not broken after all. Fractured, maybe.
“Can you tell me your name, boyo?” Rian asked.
For a long while, the boy didn’t answer. Finally, he whispered, “LS061514.”
“And how old are you?”
“Three, soon.”
“I’m Effie’s husband. Do you remember Effie?”
The boy nodded.
Rian couldn’t think of anything else to say. Kids weren’t his area of expertise—just one of the reasons why Effie’s pregnancy terrified him.
“How’d you manage to get all the way over here?” Rian finally asked.
The boy squirmed a bit. “I got hungry,” he said as though that explained everything.
Rian gazed ahead at nothing. He’d ask again, when the boy was out of this squalor. A week from now, a month from now, he’d ask again.
The paramedics arrived about ten minutes later. Rian moved aside to let them work. When the lead EMT asked which hospital to take the boy to, Rian slipped her a roll of bills and gave the address of a private clinic that one of his shell companies owned.
“We need to evacuate so the cleanup crew can get to work. You almost ready?” Moran asked as he walked back into the apartment.
“Just about. I need to arrange to have papers worked up for the boy,” Rian said.
“Why don’t I start on that while you get him settled? I know a guy who knows a guy.”
Rian smiled a little at that. “Conor Quinn seems like a good name, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Moran said. “Listen, Rian, the ambulances are going to draw attention to this place. Not to mention our cars and the cleaners. Kuznetsov will know something happened.”
“I’ve got a guy at the Sun Journal. He’ll make sure the right story gets out,”
“Better work fast,” Moran said. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
Rian followed the paramedics out of the building and climbed into the ambulance. “No lights, no sirens,” he said to the driver as the rear doors shut.
*****
March 13, 2012, Kennebunk, Maine
The doctor and a flock of nurses bustled about while machines beeped anxiously. The screaming alarms were endless. Rian heard it all at a distance, his ears as resistant to decode the sound as his eyes were to the sight.
Conor gripped two of Rian’s fingers. The hands of both the man and the boy were clammy. A nurse cleared his throat, but when he saw Rian’s face, he thought better of speaking to him at all, much less trying to persuade him to leave.
She looks so small, Rian thought as he looked at Effie. So small. Somehow everything had gone wrong. The baby was stillborn and complications during the labor led to the subsequent surgical removal of the thing. The thing that would have been Michael.
His son.
Rian looked down at the boy holding his fingers in a painfully tight grip, but the boy only had eyes for Effie. One of the machines sang out a long flat line, kicking the noise and rushed movement into a higher gear.
Then everything stilled.
The doctor covered Effie with a sheet as the rest of the team shuffled out in varying states of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” was all the doctor said before leaving Rian and Conor alone with the body.
Conor let go of Rian’s fingers and walked over to the side of the bed where Effie’s arm hung out from under the sheet. He placed her hand on top of his head, like she might wake up and ruffle his hair. He held her wrist in both of his small hands and closed his eyes.
Rian looked around the room, trying to find something that wasn’t there. As he turned toward one of the observation windows, he caught sight of an older woman. Her thin white hair hung in a plait over one shoulder. She was handsome, even in old age, and her bright blue eyes shined with unshed tears.
Mýrún Ylva.
Rian looked back, saw Conor staring at Mýrún, still holding Effie’s hand on his head. Rian turned and ran out of the room, but she was already gone.
He walked back in and rested his hand on Conor’s shoulder. The boy laid his head on the hospital bed, oblivious to the bloodstain creeping outward. Rian squatted and gently took Conor by both shoulders, turning the boy to face him.
He wanted to say something, but had no words. Instead he hugged Conor fiercely, then picked the boy up and carried him out.
Well, that was fucking depressing! But I hope you enjoyed it all the same. As promised, here’s the final piece of the puzzle! Keep and eye out tomorrow for the Cover Reveal finale (that’s when you get to see the whole damn thing in order). Also keep and eye on this here page for the Amazon purchase links!
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