Eric Wilder's Blog, page 3

Cities of the Dead-a New Orleans short story

INTRODUCTION

I’ve long been a fan of short stories and penned my first attempt at the genre when I was only ten. I continued writing short fiction during high school and college, though none of the stories managed to survive the years. I can’t remember when I wrote my first short story featuring French Quarter sleuth Wyatt Thomas, but it was long before the publication of Big Easy in 2006. Once I started, I found it all but impossible to stop.~SPOILER ALERT~When I decided to write Big Easy, my first novel-length French Quarter Mystery, I did so by combining parts of three New Orleans’ short stories: Cities of the Dead, Voodoo Nights, and Pontchartrain. If you haven’t read Big Easy and are considering doing so, then you should probably start it first before reading Cities of the Dead.If you’ve already read Big Easy, then you might get a kick out of Cities of the Dead as it’s different in many ways than the side-story in the novel.

Cities of the Dead
Darkness draped Rue St. Ann as throngs of French Quarter tourists crowded the entrance to a Creole townhouse. Heat radiating from the stoop bothered Lieutenant Tony Nicosia. He mopped his brow as he watched paramedics remove two stretchers from the premises. The old man occupying one of the stretchers didn't notice the heat.*  *  *It started with Buddy DeJan's wake. Buddy was nearing seventy when a heart attack claimed him in his sleep. His wife Foxy called a wake for him at their house, near the spot where the Mississippi River meets the Gulf—the literal end of the road. I attended the wake with Buddy's cousin, Bertram Picou. As lights disappeared in our rear-view mirror, sub-tropical vegetation and endless splay channels gradually replaced them. Soon, there was no sense of civilization at all as scrub oak and cypress knobs replaced jazz and musty mortar.Distraught over his cousin's death, Bertram tippled Cuervo and sniveled all the way from the City. Having my own memories of Buddy and little patience for Bertram's stories I'd heard all before, I stared out the window, trying to block out his mindless chatter. When we reached the wake, his bottle was already empty.Foxy and Buddy lived in a fishing camp beside a murky channel that snaked into the Gulf. Wooden stilts raised their house above a soggy yard marked by muskrat hides, catfish bones, and flat-bottomed fishing skiffs. By midnight, the occasion had turned festive, with Bertram leading the charge. A black dress swathed Foxy DeJan’s large frame. She had long since discarded her shawl of mourning. Like many of the mourners crowding the room, she clasped a half-empty glass of bourbon in her hand.Black crepe-paper draped the front door, and clocks were stopped to coincide with the time of Buddy's passing. All mirrors faced the wall. Lying in his mahogany coffin, Buddy seemed more resplendent than in life. I slipped out of the house, seeking solitude in the darkness below. My trance shattered abruptly when someone tapped my shoulder.“I didn't mean to startle you,” the young woman said.”“Guess I was thinking about Buddy.”“I see that. I'm Celeste Duples. Mr. DeJan and my Father were distant cousins.”“Wyatt Thomas,” I said. “I didn't know Buddy had any relatives named Duples. You from around here?”“I grew up in Philadelphia with my mother. Now I live in Starkville. Daddy sells real estate. I teach at the college there. And you?”“I have a place in the Quarter and do odd jobs for people.”“Such as?”“Look up this. Research that. Most anything to earn a buck.”I stepped into the beam of the floodlight suspended from the roof. Celeste's green eyes sparkled in the light. She was tall, fully five-eight, and had jet black hair and an olive complexion that left little doubt of her French Acadian ancestry.“This wake seems so strange to me.”“Ritual,” I said. “A mixture of Catholic, Protestant, and Judaism, with a smidgen of black magic from Africa and voodoo from Haiti.”Dueling strains of mandolin and accordion, saturating the damp air with a Cajun melody and silencing the chorus of frogs, floated down the stairs. A shooting star streaked across the sky, disappearing over the horizon.“Buddy's wake will be a party before morning.”“I won't last that long,” Celeste said.“I wish I could leave, but I rode down with one of Buddy's closest cousins. He won't stop grieving till he OD's on Cuervo.”My description of Bertram's alcoholic inclinations amused Celeste. Leaning closer, she said, “We'll take you back.”I needed very little persuasion. After paying my last respects, I joined Celeste and her father in the driveway. He had the same strange last name as his daughter, and she called him Maurice.Celeste's maroon convertible left no chance for conversation. The breeze it produced was welcome after the smoky wake. I'd recently moved into an apartment over Bertram's bar. When Celeste and her father dropped me off, I didn't expect to see them again. I was wrong.***Lady, Bertram's collie licked my hand, relieving any guilt about missing Buddy's funeral. Next morning I opened the bar for him, even managing to turn a small profit. Bertram showed up at noon. Hung-over and head pounding, he went straight to his apartment in back. I kept working until five when Maurice Duples strutted through the front door.Back-dropped by bright sunlight, he seemed different from the man whose shoulder I had pressed all the way back to the City. Although still wearing the same tweed sports coat, he had changed pants, shirt, and shoes. Now he sported combed gray hair and a fresh shave and greeted me by squeezing my hand in a vice-like grip.“I was hoping I'd find you here,” he said.“Bertram's under the weather. I help out when I can.”“Celeste said you were a good man.”Celeste's praise secretly pleased me. “You aren't here to commend me on my benevolence. What can I do for you?”Surprised by my directness, Duples gazed around Bertram's bar. “Celeste says you know a lot about New Orleans burial rituals.”“No more than anyone else in the City.”“Am I correct in thinking you make a point in knowing things others don't?”“Maybe.”“Several people at Buddy's wake told me so. I’d like to visit a grave and thought you might be of assistance. I have no earthly idea where to find it.”“Then you're in trouble,” I said. “The city has dozens of cemeteries.”“Precisely why I need your help. I'll pay your fee.”He sat on a stool and sprawled his elbows on the zinc countertop. Exhaling, he rested his head in his hands.He smiled when I said, “You look like you could use a drink.”Maurice Duples was tall and slender. Thirty-five or forty years older than his daughter Celeste. I guessed his age at sixty-five or seventy.“Red wine,” he said.When I set the glass in front of him, he seemed almost asleep, his left hand dangling off the counter. Lady's warm tongue revived him, and he patted her head before sipping his wine.“Interesting place,” he said, noting the severed ties, bras, panties and other intimate undergarments draped from the ceiling and mirror behind the bar.“New Orleans is an easy place to lose your inhibitions.”Duples smiled for the first time since I'd met him. “Celeste was conceived here. During a particularly eventful Mardi Gras.”“She said you live in Mississippi.”“Born in New Orleans. My mother worked for a man named Duplessis. We lived with his family until she died. An aunt from Starkville took me in. I never knew my father or mother's burial place. I'm desperate to find her grave. Will you help me?”I topped up his glass and said, “Anything else you remember about New Orleans?”“Is that a yes?”“Look, Mr. Duples, you don't need me. If you know your mother's name and her approximate date of death, you can go over to the Notarial Archives in the basement of the District Court and find where she's buried.”“Tried that already. The two investigators I hired found nothing. If you can't help me, I don't know where I'll turn.”“Why don't you tell me everything you remember and I'll do my best to help you.”The look of desperation melted from Duples' face. When he latched on to my hand with both of his, I had the sudden sensation I was saving a drowning man.“Thank you, Mr. Thomas, thank you.”I poured myself a glass of lemonade from the stash under the counter and said, “Let's go to a booth and talk.”Duples and Lady followed me to the back of Bertram's bar. Most of Bertram's regulars never appeared before nine or ten at night. The place was empty. “Now tell me what you remember.”“Nothing much,” he said. “I was eleven when they buried her. Guess I’ve blocked most of the details from my memory.”“Rest your head and relax. Close your eyes and focus on the muscles in your face. Imagine you have a warm towel resting there.”Maurice Duples followed my suggestions, soon sinking into a low-grade trance. I continued speaking in modulated tones until his breathing and heart rate reduced to barely a whisper.“You're a child again, at your mother's funeral. Tell me what you see.”Duples began reciting in the high-pitched voice of an eleven-year-old.“Rows of rectangular structures topped with crosses and Greek statues. Beautiful flowers with colors and smells you can almost feel, amid wide streets separating the structures. I see an impatient horse, snorting and kicking up grass with his hoof. He's pulling a black carriage. It's almost like a city. Everyone is crying, and dressed in black.”“Is there a special statue you see, or maybe a nearby name you can read? Anything specific you remember?”“Yes,” Duples said. “Hundreds of x marks on one of the structures.”Bingo. Having all I needed, I woke Duples from his trance.“Amazing,” he said. “I feel wonderful. Better than I have in years. And I remember things now.”“You never really forgot. You just had them blocked.”By now, Bertram was awake and cleaning up the bar with a wet rag. A few afternoon patrons straggled in, along with a curious sightseer or two. A street band, hoping to evoke donations from the throng of tourists filing into the French Quarter, fired up a hot jazz number outside. Maurice Duples was smiling.“I haven't visited the cemetery since Mother's funeral. Now, I remember it vividly. It was almost like a little town, with rows of houses and narrow streets.”“That's why they're called Cities of the Dead. Since much of New Orleans is below sea level, the water table is close to the surface. Before the City set up a drainage system, the only recourse was to bury their dead in a puddle of water, or else above ground.”“You said you knew where to find my mother's grave.”“I know exactly where it is, in the St. Louis Cemetery # 1, over on Basin Street.”“Pardon my skepticism, Mr. Thomas. How can you be so sure?”“Number One is the oldest cemetery in the City. Many famous people are buried there—Etienne Bore, father of the sugar industry, and Homer Plessy, to name a couple. You may remember the pivotal cemetery scene from Easy Rider. It was filmed in the St. Louis # 1.”Duples didn't seem to know about Easy Rider or the two names I'd mentioned.Homer Plessy?”“Plessy v. Ferguson. An 1892 Supreme Court decision establishing separate-but-equal Jim Crow laws for blacks and whites in the South.”“Sorry,” Duples said. “I'm in real estate, not a first-year law student.”Biting my tongue, I refrained from asking if he could read. Instead, I continued my explanation.“Many of the rich and notables had expensive and ornate tombs built for their families. It's not uncommon to see forty-foot tall Greek statuary or tons of carved and polished stone. I was hoping you would remember a landmark tomb.”“But I didn't.”“Yes, you did. You remembered seeing the most famous tomb in New Orleans—the crypt of Marie Laveau, queen of voodoo.”Light from the jukebox reflected off Duples’ deep green eyes.“Take me there.”“We'll go tomorrow.”Duples folded his arms and shook his head. “I won't wait another day. Let’s go now.”“Impossible. It's near the Iberville Project and crime is rampant there. Even tomorrow we'll need to go with a group.”“Not on your life, Mr. Thomas. I have a thousand dollars. It's yours if you take me now. If you don't, I'll find someone else who will.”Before I could answer, the educated voice of Celeste sounded from behind us.“Such wild expressions on your faces, you both look ready to fight.”***After leaving Duples' irresistible money with Bertram for safe-keeping, I accompanied Maurice and Celeste up Basin Street, past the Project to the St. Louis Cemetery # 1. Although closed to the public for the night, I knew the location of the caretaker's entrance. Duples had armed me with two vital bits of information: the probable location of his mother's grave and the name of a shadowy figure from his past. Arthur Duplessis was still alive, living on St. Ann's. Duples could look him up after we visited the grave.Last glimmers of the sun had disappeared over the trees as we opened a wrought-iron gate and entered the City of the Dead. Dormant pigeons roosting in eaves around the tombs barely budged as we passed. Bats strafed our heads with wildly beating wings. Up the street, a tomcat's screech momentarily silenced the cooing of pigeons.Apparently unaware of our possible danger, Celeste sported a blissful smile on her pretty face. “If Marie Laveau's grave is unmarked, then how did you know Daddy saw it?”“Because it's covered with freshly-chalked x’s. The superstitious believe if you make a wish, along with marking an x on the grave, your wish will come true.”Celeste squeezed my hand. “What do you believe?”“That we should find your grandmother's grave and get the hell out of here.”“Is it that dangerous?”Her question went unanswered. By now it was dark, with only dim fluorescent street light and the powerful beam from my flashlight illuminating our path. We barely noticed two men as they appeared from the shadows in front of us.“Well, what do we have here? Grave robbers or midnight mourners?” one of the men asked. Several missing teeth made his accent even more incomprehensible. It didn't stop his companion from laughing at the joke. His laughter died away when we tried to walk around them. They were big, mean and ugly. Even worse, both men had switchblades.“Where you think you're going?” the leader said, digging his knuckle into my breastbone.To my surprise, Celeste knocked the man's hand away with the palm of her hand.“Leave us alone. This is a public place.”Celeste's anger brought an even greater outburst of laughter from the two men.“Looky here Biggs. We got ourselves a sassy one.”“Jackson, we surely do.”“You heard the lady,” I said. “I'm an off-duty cop. Make trouble with us at your own risk.”I forced as much authority into my voice as I could and it had some effect. Biggs and Jackson both took half-steps backward. The NOPD is notorious. That's spelled b–a–d, with a capital B. The force had even turned back a group of Hell's Angels at the City limits, preventing them from attending and disrupting Mardi Gras. I was counting on my bluff to get us safely out of the cemetery. Something else saved us instead.Two pistol shots fired directly behind my head almost caused me to lose my lemonade. Diving for the turf, I wrestled Celeste down with me.“Run or I'll blow your heads off, you lice-infested ghouls.” It was Maurice Duples, screaming like a banshee and firing an old German Luger into the air. Biggs and Jackson didn't wait around. They took Celeste's smile with them and she trembled as I helped her up. Sirens wailed in the distance. They weren't coming our way.“Are they gone?” she asked.“Yes. Now let's get out of here.”“Not until I see my mother's grave.”Celeste and I stared at her father's eyes, now wildly green amid dim light from the street.Celeste continued to shake. When I put my arm around her, my own racing heart did little to abate her chill.“This is frightening your daughter. I'll bring you back tomorrow. And what are you doing with that gun?”“It saved our lives. Go on, if you're so frightened. And take Celeste with you. I'll find the grave by myself.”When I nudged Celeste toward the street, she shook her head. “We can't leave him here by himself.”“He has the gun,” I reminded her.Celeste ignored my comment.Maurice Duples struck out alone, trudging blindly along the path lined with broken shells. Celeste and I followed after him. We weren't far from Marie Laveau's grave when Duple's demented yell pealed through the cemetery.“Here it is!”We found him squatting by a large tomb bedecked with faded marble, and statues of Greek gods. Celeste knelt beside him, her hands on his shoulders.“What is it, Daddy?”“The name,” he said. “It's not our name. Someone removed my mother's remains from her grave. Why would anyone do that to her?”Duples was possibly correct. During the plague years of the 1800s, with cemetery space at a premium, residents often sold or bartered tomb rights to the more prosperous. This practice continued until recent times, bones being moved hither and yon, often to who-knows-where. Strangely, the names of Arthur and Megan Duplessis were engraved in stone on the tomb, their deaths as yet unrecorded. The couple Maurice and his mother had lived with had apparently taken her grave.Probably a mistake,” I said. “We'll check the Notarial Archives tomorrow.”After helping Maurice and Celeste to their feet, I pointed the flashlight back from where we had come. It reflected off of Marie Laveau's grave. Celeste stopped beside it. Maurice and I watched as she took a fragment of chalk from the sidewalk, closed her eyes and made a large x on the side of the tomb.***I tossed and turned after finally making it to bed, somehow sensing the night had yet to end. It hadn't. At midnight I received a frantic call from Celeste.“Daddy's gone crazy. He went storming out of here with his pistol to find Arthur Duplessis.”“Meet me at the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann,” I said, pulling on my pants. “Just down the street from your hotel. I'll be there in ten minutes.”We found the door to the Duplessis townhouse on St. Ann open and entered without knocking. Duples stood braced against the wall, pointing his pistol at an old man in a rattan wheelchair. A ratty Afghan draped the man's legs and he showed no fear. His face was contorted in a crooked grin every bit as deranged as Duples'.Duples waved his gun at us in a menacing fashion. Remembering the incident at the cemetery, I pinned Celeste against the wall with the back of my arm. Duplessis spoke, returning Maurice's attention to the center of the room.“You wanna kill me? Go ahead. I'm ninety next month,” he said, giving his useless legs a hard slap with the flat of his hand. “I already done more living than any three men.”“I'll kill you, all right, but not before you tell me why you moved my mother's remains.” “You crazy? Who are you, anyway?” “Maurice Duples. My mother's name was Emeline, but you already know that.”Arthur Duplessis's rheumy old eyes glimmered with sudden recognition in the light of the suppressed overhead bulb.“You about a dumb one, you. You mama was a whore over in Storyville until they bulldozed the place to the ground.”“You're a liar.”“Don't call your own father a liar.”Duples opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Outside the door, a horse-drawn carriage clomped by on the street. It was followed by a dog howling over near the Iberville Project.“Don't look so surprised,” Duplessis said. “You think your name was Duples all these years? What kind of dumb name is that? You mama was my whore and you're my bastard boy.”Duplessis howled with laughter and it drew into a hacking cough. When the coughing abated, he started to speak but never got the words out. A terrific blast rocked the room, knocking the old man out of his wheelchair and blowing him against the wall.Celeste and I turned to Maurice Duples but he looked every bit as stunned as we were. Both barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun had blasted Duplessis. A gray-haired old woman, dressed in tattered silk, stood tall and without emotion. She was still clutching the smoking gun.“He's the bastard, not you. I should have killed him twenty years ago. He kept your mama and others like her. He never gave a whit for my feelings or theirs.”Megan Duplessis let the shotgun slide to the floor and crossed the room to where stunned Maurice stood, still braced against the wall. When she touched his cheek, he dropped the pistol to the floor.“I want you to know, your mama's still in that tomb. The old man just had her bones pushed to the back of the vault. I raised you as my son until the old man sent you away to Mississippi.”She went to her fallen husband, kneeling and giving his lifeless cheek a final kiss before clutching her heart, gasping once and sinking to the floor beside him.***Lieutenant Tony Nicosia gave me a go-to-hell look when he and the NOPD finally arrived. Between stilted explanations, deftly omitting why we were there in the first place, I spirited Maurice Duples' pistol off the floor and into my jacket. Arthur and Megan ranked high in the City's elite. Because of this, the police would conveniently overlook the fact that the old man had died from a shotgun blast. His death, subsequently resulting in Megan's untimely heart attack, would go down as accidental.Other than some puritanical need to punish Maurice for his temporary insanity, I saw no reason to involve him further in his father’s death. New Orleans has few Puritans. I wasn't one of them. While escorting Maurice and his daughter to the hospital to attend Megan Duplessis, Celeste informed me the real reason I covered up for her father.“The x I made on Marie Laveau's tomb. I wished my father would find out about his family so his bad memories would go away. And I wished for a happy ending.”Watching Maurice hold Megan Duplessis’ hand in the back of the ambulance, I realized Celeste had gotten her wish.
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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Something Terrible - The Bombing of Alfred P. Murrah

Years ago, I wrote a short story called Prairie Justice. I had almost forgotten the story and found it again, recently, while deleting unnecessary files from my computer. As I reread and re-edited the story, details of why I wrote it in the first place flooded my brain.The year was 1995. During April of that year, a madman blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Building, killing 168 innocent victims, including many children in daycare there. Anne, my wife then, was a fledgling lawyer, having gone to law school late in life (mid-forties). She partnered with Becky S., and we were about to move into our new offices when the bomb exploded.I had returned home from an early-morning dentist’s appointment. I found Anne sobbing uncontrollably.I was puzzled because Anne was a trooper. Despite all the bad things that had happened to us, I don’t recall having ever seen her cry. When I saw her that morning, she was crying like a baby.“What’s the matter?” I asked.“I don’t know,” she said. “Something terrible has happened.”We turned on the TV to a local news station. Their helicopter was heading downtown to check out an explosion that had rocked the city.“There’s lots of smoke coming from one of the buildings. I think it’s the Federal Building,” the chopper pilot said.A cameraman was taking pictures. Except for the smoke, the front of the building looked normal. We watched as the chopper circled around the building. When the camera focused on what remained of the north side of the building, Anne and I gasped in disbelief.“Oh my God!” the pilot said. “Oh my God!”Days passed, and then weeks. The bombing was like a blow to the head for the entire City. It became all too common to be talking to someone, and suddenly have them dissolve into tears, blurting out some heart-wrenching story they’d kept bottled inside for far too long. Everyone had a story. Everyone was affected.Shortly after the bombing, Becky sent Anne to interview a deadbeat, druggie client that had been put in jail for beating his wife.“You may think he’s scum, but he deserves his day in court. He’s your client so treat him with respect, no matter how you feel about him in your heart,” Becky counseled.Anne and I left Oklahoma City early one morning, heading west to El Reno, the Canadian County seat. I can’t even remember why we stopped there, but I remember the courthouse facilities and the historic town well. Leaving El Reno, we passed a Las Vegas-style bingo hall in nearby Concho. Gambling was in its infancy in Oklahoma. Sixteen years later, it’s rampant.We drove through the tiny town of Okarche, to Eischen’s Bar. The longest continuously operating bar in Oklahoma was shut down at the time because of a flash fire. We made it to Enid shortly before lunch, finding the correction’s facility ensconced in an old neighborhood.The jailers brought Doug (that was his first name) into a visitor’s room, wearing an orange jumpsuit, shackled in leg irons, handcuffs and a belly chain. I watched from a distance as Anne talked with him for about half an hour. Wearing her own shackles of lawyer/client privilege, she never told me what they talked about.Later that night, I wrote Prairie Justice, a short story featuring Buck McDivit, a character that had suddenly invaded my mind. The story is about a crooked oilman and mirrors a real oilman responsible for the bankruptcy of the oil company Anne and I started from scratch. Most of the description in the story actually occurred.Years have passed since I wrote Prairie Justice. Anne died three years after the Murrah bombing. I wrote Ghost of a Chance, my first Buck McDivit novel, some years later. It was published in 2005. The scar of the 1995 Oklahoma City Bombing has faded. Tears streamed down my face as I wrote this story. Buck McDivit is now a real person to me. The Murrah Building scar has faded, and people no longer sob during normal conversation. Maybe, but the bombing still rests like a red blotch on my soul, as I’m sure it does for everyone that experienced that sad day.

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All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

Old Bones - a short story

 It’s a gray day here in Oklahoma, my two kitties, Buster and Buttercup, searching for even a scant patch of sunlight in which to bask. The gloom reminds me of a search I made many years ago that resulted in an eerie discovery.A chill weekend in November found Gail, my ex, and me deep in a pine forest in southwest Arkansas. A graduate student in geology, my thesis concerned long-forgotten mineral deposits in a sparsely populated corner of the universe. Years before the invention of GPS tracking devices, we relied on a very old Brunton compass to navigate through the stark loneliness of the southern Ouachita Mountains.Tall trees, mostly pines, covered the rolling terrain. While the Ouachitas aren’t high, rapid elevation changes of several hundred feet are common. We were moving slowly, picking our way through the undergrowth as we traversed an east-west trending ridgeline, looking for an old lead mine hidden deep in the forest.Gail was short, had green eyes, dark hair and an olive complexion inherited from her French-Acadian parents. Though raised in the New Orleans’ metro area, her athletic legs carried her through the forest as smoothly as if she’d been born there. She was walking ahead of me, and I bumped into her when she halted abruptly.“How do you know where we’re going?” she asked. “There’s no trail. I think we’re lost.”I was holding an old topo map in one hand and the Brunton compass in the other. “We’re following an azimuth. The mine should be just up ahead.”“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago,” she said.“It’s hard staying in a straight line with so many trees and boulders in the way.”“Tell me about it.”“Let’s keep walking,” I said. “We’ll find it.”I was about to give up when we reached a slight clearing that led down the slope to a roaring stream. There was something anomalous about the rounded pile of dirt located in a bend.“That has to be it,” I said.“That pile of dirt?” she said.“Someone dug that dirt out of the ground and put it there. I think it’s the mine we’re looking for.”“Doesn’t look like a mine to me,” Gail said.“Quit bitching and let’s investigate. Even if it’s not the Davis Mine, we can at least take a break.”Gail had endless energy and rarely ever took a break. As I sat on a fallen log and tossed pebbles into the roaring water of the creek, she climbed up on the pile of dirt and began exploring it.“This hill’s bigger than it looks,” she said. “It follows the river for at least fifty yards.”“I’m sure it was built by humans,” I said.“Hell yeah,” she said. “Look at this.”Glancing up the hill, I could see Gail had something in her hand.“What is it?” I asked.“An old bottle.”“How old?”“Real old,” she said. “Looks like something from a museum.”I left my perch on the stump and followed her up the hill. The bottle was faded green and crusted with dirt. I was still examining it when Gail called again.“Check this out,” she said, holding up something for me to see.“What is it?”“What’s left of a Confederate soldier’s shirt.”“How do you know that?”“There’s a brass button still attached with the letters C.S.A.,” she said.The weathered hill was the talus pile of an old mine. A scar, roughly a half-acre in size, was all that remained of the old mining operation. Vertical shafts had collapsed or were filled with standing water. We soon began digging beautiful ore specimens out of the talus pile strewn with old bottles, broken timbers and a few faded signs of the men that had worked it.“How did anyone ever find this place?” Gail asked when she finally stopped for a break.“Prospectors searching for silver in the 1830s found lead and antimony instead,” I said. “This particular mine used horses and slave labor to mine lead for the Confederacy.”“The old man at the truck stop told us we’d never find this place, and that it’s haunted,” Gail said.“Well, we did find it. Don’t know about any ghosts, though the accounts of operations at the Davis Mine refer to abuse, torture and even murder of Union prisoners of war conscripted to work here.”“Then maybe it is haunted.”“Maybe so,” I said. “The shadows and silence are starting to creep me out.”“Me too,” Gail said. “I keep looking around, thinking someone’s behind me.”It was already past noon when we found the old mine, days short and our time limited before we needed to start back to the truck. We took photos and collected specimens, all the while feeling as if there was something present other than ourselves, even if it was only fleeting shadows. The distinct sensation that we were disturbing a place where something terrible had happened was unmistakable. I felt it, and so did Gail.I jumped when she said, “Oh, shit!”“What is it?”“You better come see. I’m not touching this thing.”She was standing on the top of the pile, nudging something with the toe of her boot. Though mostly covered with dirt, it looked for all the world like a human skull.“Shit is right,” I said, digging the skull out of the earth with my pick hammer.“Is that a bullet hole?” Gail asked as I held the skull in my hand.“Looks like it to me,” I said. “But hell if I know for sure.”“What are we going to do with it?” Gail asked.I tossed it into the creek, staring at the rapidly rushing water a moment before answering.“Forget we found it,” I said.“Can we do that?” Gail asked.“I have a thesis to write and no time to participate in a murder investigation. I don’t intend to ever return to this place except maybe in my nightmares.”“I hear that,” Gail said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before it gets dark.”Twilight draped the forest when we finally made it back to our old faded green Ford truck, waiting for us on a muddy dirt road. When we returned to Fayetteville, I sent some of the ore samples to the U.S. Geological Survey in Denver for analysis. The results surprised me as I’m sure they would have the prospectors that discovered the Davis Mine. The ore wasn’t just lead and antimony; there was silver present, and it was richer even than ore from the Comstock Lode.Many years have passed since Gail, and I felt the presence of ghosts at the remote Davis Mine, hidden deep in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas. Today, as an overhead cloud cast a shadow on my kittens, sleeping on the hood of my car, I remembered in vivid detail.

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All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

MACHINE GUN - Vietnam War Story

 I was in graduate school working on a Master’s degree in geology in 1969 when the first Vietnam draft lottery was held. Having already graduated with my bachelor’s degree, I no longer had a 2-S deferment from the military. My draft number was 38 and I was called up to the military shortly after the lottery in December. I believe in our country but didn’t believe in what I considered to be an absolutely senseless war. Because of this, I declined repeated offers to go to officer’s training school. I went instead to basic training and advanced infantry training at Fort Polk, Louisiana and was on my way to Vietnam by the summer of 1970 as a private. I spent just short of six months in the boonies patrolling the Jolly Trail system near the Cambodian border. During my months in a “free fire zone” I made 52 combat assaults out of a helicopter, earning an Air Medal and the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, for both of which I am very proud. Amazingly, I was neither killed nor wounded. Since I was and still am a crack typist—a skill that serves me well now that I’m a writer—I got a job back in the rear as a clerk-typist when an opening came up. After coming home, many years passed before I told anyone that I was a Vietnam vet. This is because Vietnam vets were all thought to be drug-crazed baby killers and all manner of other nasty things. I don’t know, but I think this was also true for both World War II and Korean War vets. I’m so glad that the perception of people serving in our military has changed for the better. Whatever, I was proud to be of service to the country that I love. Just remember that freedom isn’t free.
Machine Gun
I watched a program on the cable channel Encore about Jimi Hendrix and the Band of Gypsies.  On the show, he played a song called Machine Gun, and it evoked a memory of Vietnam that I hadn’t thought about in years.I went to Vietnam in 1970 as an infantry mortar man.  For a while, in addition to my M16, I humped the base plate of an 81 MM mortar in the mortar platoon of an infantry line company.  I was in Charlie Company, 1st of the 8th Cavalry, First Cavalry Air Mobile.  We were operating off a hill bulldozed bald amid a jungle of green that could literally swallow you whole.  The Cav had just made their first sanctioned incursion into formerly off-limits Cambodia, and we had dealt a near-mortal blow to Charlie.  For the following months, Charlie played a game of duck-and-run while we tried desperately, and with little luck, to finish him off.After several months of fifteen days in the jungle, five days on the firebase, and almost no success in encountering the enemy, Brass devised a new tactic of having us fly around in helicopters until we started taking ground-to-air fire.  Once we did, the choppers would swoop down and drop us off in hopes of making contact—something that rarely happened because of Charlie’s weakened state.During this time, Brass also decided the 81 MM mortar was too unwieldy for rapid deployment, and all of us in the mortar company suddenly became infantry foot soldiers, grunts, 11-bravos; also known as 11-bullet-stoppers.  I was given a twenty-six pound M-60 machine gun to carry since I already had experience toting a twenty-three-pound base plate.  I had never shot an M-60, even during basic training at Fort Polk in Louisiana. This is because mortar men weren’t ever supposed to use the gun.Around this time artillery began shooting sophisticated listening devices into the jungle using specially designed 105 MM rounds.  Intelligence mapped the locations of these devices, and we soon had a good idea of where there was movement—of a military nature—in the jungle.  The devices weren’t always correct, and we once found a large family of monkeys instead of Viet Cong or North Vietnamese regulars.  This wasn’t always the case.Reports of intense enemy troop movement in a nearby swamp had the Brass salivating.  My company was soon loaded into choppers, flown to the area and dropped out of the birds. I mean this literally.  With no landing zone cut into the jungle for us to land and deploy from, the choppers hovered 10 feet or so above a large swampy pond while we jumped out.  This was no easy feat while carrying 100 pounds of gear.We soon found ourselves in a maze of trails and something very anomalous— there was movement all around us.  Charlie wasn’t even trying to cover it up.  This could only mean one of two things: Either we had caught the enemy very much by surprise, or else they had us outnumbered and knew it.  We were all pretty nervous because one thing we had never really done was catch Charlie by surprise.Our company had about 100 men divided equally into four platoons.  We set up a camp, and then my platoon started out on patrol.  Soon as we were out of sight from the rest of the company we began hearing even more movement.  After months in the boonies, we were all attuned to sounds of the jungle. Now, there was no doubt in my mind that there was a large number of enemy soldiers very close to us, and that they were paralleling our movement through the jungle.  This bothered me and everyone else because we were on Charlie’s home turf—likely smack-dab in the middle of a large enemy camp and staging area.  We could hear movement in every direction, and if I told you that I was anything but piss-in-my-pants scared, I’d be lying through my teeth.Jungle warfare is like no other.  You can be 10 feet from the enemy and never see him.  You have to rely on your nose, your ears, and your wits because otherwise, you may as well be blind.  My nose, ears, and wits told me we were about to have the living shit kicked out of us and I expected, any minute, to be shredded by AK 47 bullets.  The platoon leader decided on a quick ploy.I was the machine gunner, the “Gun.”  When Super Sarge tapped my shoulder and pointed to a slight concave just to the side of the trail, I knew my time had come.  We quickly prepared for what we called an instant ambush.  Charlie was following close behind.  My assistant gunner and I set the M-60’s bi-pod and started stringing every round of ammo we had into the gun’s chamber, locked and loaded, ready to kill—and just as likely, I knew, to be killed. It didn’t matter that I’d never pulled the trigger on an M-60. What mattered was that I was getting ready to.  Just as quickly as the sergeant tapped my shoulder and motioned what he wanted, he left the two of us alone on the trail to mow down anyone coming up from behind.  From the sounds we heard, we wouldn’t have long to wait.I could tell you that we ambushed Charlie, wiped most of them out and sent them dropping their weapons and running for cover.  That didn’t happen.  What did happen is almost as strange but still true.  It was monsoon season in Vietnam.  Every day the skies would part, and rain would fall in torrents—almost like being under a waterfall.  My finger was on the trigger of the M-60, my heart in my throat when it began to rain.  My assistant gunner and I lay there on our bellies for an interminable time, rapidly flowing water soaking our fatigues.  When the rain stopped, there was no sound.  I mean none.  Charlie had taken the opportunity to clear out, and we never heard him again. That night we camped in the middle of the swamp, mosquitoes, and leeches sucking our blood.  It rained so hard that Charlie could have gotten close enough to cut our throats and we wouldn’t have seen him.  The next morning the Captain let me shoot the M-60, for practice, while we waited for the choppers to extract us. We stood single file, knee-deep in a wide pool of stagnating water. With five-hundred rounds locked and loaded, I stood like Rambo, the big gun at my waist, and began mowing down vegetation across the pond. I didn’t take my finger off the trigger until the sound of imminent death finally ceased and the pungent odor of spent rounds wafted up into my nostrils.It was the first and last time that I ever shot the big gun, though I’ll never forget the sound it made or the power of life and death I felt, and that will never leave me for as long as I live.Tonight, while watching the piece on Jimi Hendrix, I remembered that sound and that feeling, and it chilled my soul.
###



All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

MACHINE GUN - a Memorial Day Weekend Story

 I was in graduate school working on a Master’s degree in geology in 1969 when the first Vietnam draft lottery was held. Having already graduated with my bachelor’s degree, I no longer had a 2-S deferment from the military. My draft number was 38 and I was called up to the military shortly after the lottery in December. I believe in our country but didn’t believe in what I considered to be an absolutely senseless war. Because of this, I declined repeated offers to go to officer’s training school. I went instead to basic training and advanced infantry training at Fort Polk, Louisiana and was on my way to Vietnam by the summer of 1970 as a private. I spent just short of six months in the boonies patrolling the Jolly Trail system near the Cambodian border. During my months in a “free fire zone” I made 52 combat assaults out of a helicopter, earning an Air Medal and the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, for both of which I am very proud. Amazingly, I was neither killed nor wounded. Since I was and still am a crack typist—a skill that serves me well now that I’m a writer—I got a job back in the rear as a clerk-typist when an opening came up. After coming home, many years passed before I told anyone that I was a Vietnam vet. This is because Vietnam vets were all thought to be drug-crazed baby killers, and all manner of other nasty things. I don’t know, but I think this was also true for both World War II and Korean War vets. I’m so glad that the perception of people serving in our military has changed for the better. Whatever, I was proud to be of service to the country that I love. Have a happy and safe Memorial Day Weekend, and just remember that freedom isn’t free.
Machine Gun
I watched a program on the cable channel Encore about Jimi Hendrix and the Band of Gypsies.  On the show, he played a song called Machine Gun, and it evoked a memory of Vietnam that I hadn’t thought about in years.I went to Vietnam in 1970 as an infantry mortar man.  For a while, in addition to my M16, I humped the base plate of an 81 MM mortar in the mortar platoon of an infantry line company.  I was in Charlie Company, 1st of the 8th Cavalry, First Cavalry Air Mobile.  We were operating off a hill bulldozed bald amid a jungle of green that could literally swallow you whole.  The Cav had just made their first sanctioned incursion into formerly off-limits Cambodia, and we had dealt a near-mortal blow to Charlie.  For the following months, Charlie played a game of duck-and-run while we tried desperately, and with little luck, to finish him off.After several months of fifteen days in the jungle, five days on the firebase, and almost no success in encountering the enemy, Brass devised a new tactic of having us fly around in helicopters until we started taking ground-to-air fire.  Once we did, the choppers would swoop down and drop us off in hopes of making contact—something that rarely happened because of Charlie’s weakened state.During this time, Brass also decided the 81 MM mortar was too unwieldy for rapid deployment, and all of us in the mortar company suddenly became infantry foot soldiers, grunts, 11-bravos; also known as 11-bullet-stoppers.  I was given a twenty-six pound M-60 machine gun to carry since I already had experience toting a twenty-three-pound base plate.  I had never shot an M-60, even during basic training at Fort Polk in Louisiana. This is because mortar men weren’t ever supposed to use the gun.Around this time artillery began shooting sophisticated listening devices into the jungle using specially designed 105 MM rounds.  Intelligence mapped the locations of these devices, and we soon had a good idea of where there was movement—of a military nature—in the jungle.  The devices weren’t always correct, and we once found a large family of monkeys instead of Viet Cong or North Vietnamese regulars.  This wasn’t always the case.Reports of intense enemy troop movement in a nearby swamp had the Brass salivating.  My company was soon loaded into choppers, flown to the area and dropped out of the birds. I mean this literally.  With no landing zone cut into the jungle for us to land and deploy from, the choppers hovered 10 feet or so above a large swampy pond while we jumped out.  This was no easy feat while carrying 100 pounds of gear.We soon found ourselves in a maze of trails and something very anomalous— there was movement all around us.  Charlie wasn’t even trying to cover it up.  This could only mean one of two things: Either we had caught the enemy very much by surprise, or else they had us outnumbered and knew it.  We were all pretty nervous because one thing we had never really done was catch Charlie by surprise.Our company had about 100 men divided equally into four platoons.  We set up a camp, and then my platoon started out on patrol.  Soon as we were out of sight from the rest of the company we began hearing even more movement.  After months in the boonies, we were all attuned to sounds of the jungle. Now, there was no doubt in my mind that there was a large number of enemy soldiers very close to us, and that they were paralleling our movement through the jungle.  This bothered me and everyone else because we were on Charlie’s home turf—likely smack-dab in the middle of a large enemy camp and staging area.  We could hear movement in every direction, and if I told you that I was anything but piss-in-my-pants scared, I’d be lying through my teeth.Jungle warfare is like no other.  You can be 10 feet from the enemy and never see him.  You have to rely on your nose, your ears, and your wits because otherwise, you may as well be blind.  My nose, ears, and wits told me we were about to have the living shit kicked out of us and I expected, any minute, to be shredded by AK 47 bullets.  The platoon leader decided on a quick ploy.I was the machine gunner, the “Gun.”  When Super Sarge tapped my shoulder and pointed to a slight concave just to the side of the trail, I knew my time had come.  We quickly prepared for what we called an instant ambush.  Charlie was following close behind.  My assistant gunner and I set the M-60’s bi-pod and started stringing every round of ammo we had into the gun’s chamber, locked and loaded, ready to kill—and just as likely, I knew, to be killed. It didn’t matter that I’d never pulled the trigger on an M-60. What mattered was that I was getting ready to.  Just as quickly as the sergeant tapped my shoulder and motioned what he wanted, he left the two of us alone on the trail to mow down anyone coming up from behind.  From the sounds we heard, we wouldn’t have long to wait.I could tell you that we ambushed Charlie, wiped most of them out and sent them dropping their weapons and running for cover.  That didn’t happen.  What did happen is almost as strange but still true.  It was monsoon season in Vietnam.  Every day the skies would part, and rain would fall in torrents—almost like being under a waterfall.  My finger was on the trigger of the M-60, my heart in my throat when it began to rain.  My assistant gunner and I lay there on our bellies for an interminable time, rapidly flowing water soaking our fatigues.  When the rain stopped, there was no sound.  I mean none.  Charlie had taken the opportunity to clear out, and we never heard him again. That night we camped in the middle of the swamp, mosquitoes, and leeches sucking our blood.  It rained so hard that Charlie could have gotten close enough to cut our throats and we wouldn’t have seen him.  The next morning the Captain let me shoot the M-60, for practice, while we waited for the choppers to extract us. We stood single file, knee-deep in a wide pool of stagnating water. With five-hundred rounds locked and loaded, I stood like Rambo, the big gun at my waist, and began mowing down vegetation across the pond. I didn’t take my finger off the trigger until the sound of imminent death finally ceased and the pungent odor of spent rounds wafted up into my nostrils.It was the first and last time that I ever shot the big gun, though I’ll never forget the sound it made or the power of life and death I felt, and that will never leave me for as long as I live.Tonight, while watching the piece on Jimi Hendrix, I remembered that sound and that feeling, and it chilled my soul.
###


All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

Night at the Triple X - a short story

It’s been said that the biggest sex organ in the body is the brain. Years ago, I had reason to confirm that claim.Miss Carol and I were a number, but we were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. She was smart, confident and good looking. I was simply young and dumb. Even though we worked in the same industry, the biggest attraction we had for each other was sex, pure and simple.Six months had passed in our relationship, and the attraction had begun to wane. Both of us, it seemed, was searching for a way to let the other down easy. My friend Joel was in town from Colorado and staying with me. I was divorced, but my ex and I had not yet sold our house. We were taking turns staying there until we found a buyer.Miss Carol’s friend Miss Ann took Joel with her to one of our favorite bars. Miss Carol and I were supposed to join them. It was Friday night, Miss Carol a lease broker who had just returned to town from a week of checking records in Roger Mills County, had been doing her thing during that time, and I mine.“I just want to go home and go to bed,” she said.“What about Joel and Miss Ann?” I asked.“They don’t need us,” she said.“Let’s drive over anyway. Joel can ride back with me, and Miss Ann can take you home.”“Fine,” she said, “But I’m not staying.”On the way to the club, I caught a whiff of her perfume and suddenly remembered why I liked her so much. We were on 10th street, an area in Oklahoma City populated by strip bars and seedy hole-in-the-walls. About that time, we passed a stand-alone X-rated movie theatre.“Have you ever seen a porn movie?” I asked.“I’m not ten,” she said.On a whim, I pulled into the parking lot. “Let’s go in.”Miss Carol grinned. She was trying to dump me but had just enough kink to consider my offer.“Okay, Perv,” she said. “You’ll say uncle before me.”The XXX Theatre was a single-storied building with a very dark lobby. We purchased two tickets from the disinterested ticket puncher who had likely seen it all before. The theater was small and dark and smelled like urine. A naked man and an equally unclad woman were going at it on the screen.There were probably ten patrons in the theater. All weirdos and not people you’d want to call friends. Miss Carol and I found an empty aisle and settled in to watch the movie. The couple on screen was performing every sex act imaginable, complete with grunts, groans, moans, and even a few screams.As I began getting into the flick, I put my hand between Miss Carol’s legs, groping her most private parts, fully expecting a slap in the face. Instead, she began licking my neck. Before long, we both had our jeans pulled down to our knees, helplessly locked in the throws of hot, mindless sex right there in the middle of an x-rated theater, surrounded by perverts with their own pants down to their knees. We were shocked back to reality by a raspy voice.“Real sex ain’t allowed in here. Take it outside, or I’ll have to call the cops,” the man from the ticket booth told us.I was having trouble discerning the difference between real sex and sex on the screen as we headed for the lobby. Didn’t really matter, faces burning and buttoning our jeans as we went. We were both still hot. Hell! My head was about to explode! I was all over Miss Carol soon as the doors of my car closed. She was as hot as I was, and I’m not sure who was all over whom. Our passion continued, the windows steaming like a sauna when someone tapped on the door. It was a cop. He wasn’t smiling.“Take it to the house, and I mean now.”Our ardor hadn’t waned when we made it home, spending the rest of the night locked in hot passion. Joel interrupted our ardor, knocking on the door around two in the morning. I let him in and quickly returned to the bedroom without bothering to hear the story he wanted to tell me.Do I recommend a triple-X experience? I’ll just say this. It won’t save a relationship, but it’ll sure make for unforgettable memories. Miss Carol and I broke up shortly after our night of red-hot passion. My lust had dissolved and my brain again able to add two and two and not come up with five.
END






Wyatt Thomas and Bertram Picou are recurring characters in Eric Wilder's French Quarter Mystery Series. Check out all the colorful characters on Eric's Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages, and his Website.

Blue Norther - a short story

Dark clouds of an approaching Blue Norther gathered outside the window as Linda watched her husband pace worried circles around their living room."Please, Ted, don't go out tonight. The weather's awful and getting worse by the minute."Ted stopped pacing and frowned. "No option. Big meeting at the bank.""Friday night at seven?Both Ted and Linda glanced up at their precocious nineteen-year-old daughter Britta. One year beyond high school graduation, she still lived with them. She glanced over the balcony, naked except for a pair of lacy panties.Linda said, "Britta! Put some clothes on."Britta pranced back to her room, returning with one of her father's starched white shirts over the panties."Hot date, Dad?"Britta's jesting implication caused Linda's gaze to return to the pot on the stove. Ted didn't seem to mind."I have an important meeting at the bank, young lady.""Even Gramps wouldn't call a meeting on a night like this.""Your grandfather may own the bank, but he doesn't run it any longer. I'm president now. I call the meetings when I see fit.""Whoa!" Britta squealed."Have you done your homework?""I graduated a year ago, Mom. Remember?""Just being facetious.""I have a date tonight with Freddy.""You can't go out in this awful weather. I won't allow it.""I'm nineteen. I make my own decisions now. Remember?""As long as you live here you should at least listen to your mother.""Dad, will you please tell her to stuff it?"Ted glanced at his watch before replying. After winking at his daughter, he said, "Britta's a grown woman. Cut her a little slack.""Thanks, Dad," Britta said, blowing him a kiss and disappearing into her room before Linda could protest.Ted cracked the curtain and peeked out the window."Can you fix me a drink?" he said.Linda swallowed her annoyance on the way to the liquor cabinet, pouring one for each of them. She touched his hand when she gave him the vodka."You know I don't sleep well when you're away."Ted returned to the window, ignoring her distress. "How did the weather turn so bad, so fast? The sun was out when I left the office."Drifting snow had already begun piling up against fences and houses. "Blue Norther," she said.Ted saluted the snow with a raised glass. "Got that right,""See how bad it's getting? Please stay home tonight."She returned to the kitchen without an answer. Linda was different from her daughter. Soft and silky smooth compared with Britta's lithe body and her all-over tan. Long, bottle-lightened hair draped her shoulders. Britta's hair was short and surfer girl blond. Britta was a chatterbox, Linda introverted to the point of angering her husband."At least eat something before you go."Rattling ice in his glass, he just stared out the window. "Maybe. If the weather doesn't get any worse."The ringing of Britta's cell phone interrupted their conversation, and she returned to the banister. "Guess I'm staying home tonight. Freddy's battery is dead.""Good," Linda said. "At least I won't be all alone."They all turned to look when someone knocked on the front door. Ted opened it, finding a tall stranger waiting in the doorway."Help you?""Car broke down, and I lost my cell phone in the snow. Mind if I use your phone to call for help?""Let the poor man in and close the door," Linda called from the kitchen.Moving aside, Ted watched him remove his gloves and blow his hands to warm them. The young man's clean-cut good looks calmed any distress Linda may have had as she took his coat and pointed to the kitchen."Warm yourself by the stove. You look half frozen."Britta shattered her concentration when she hurried downstairs to see who was there."Now I'm glad Freddy has a dead battery," she said, staring at the handsome stranger.Ted frowned. "Britta, put some clothes on."Britta frowned but trotted back upstairs as Linda followed the man into the kitchen."Coffee or hot tea?"Looking at her drink glass, he said, "I'd rather have what you're drinking."Feeling an inexplicable attraction to him, she turned to the liquor cabinet to mix another drink."What do you drink?" she asked."Scotch, neat, if you have it.""The phone is by the coffee pot," she said as she handed him the drink.Without taking his eyes off her, he raised his glass in a silent toast. It brought an inexplicable flush to Linda's cheeks."Phone's dead," he said."Can't be," Linda said, concern replacing her facial flush. "Britta just had a call.""On her cell phone," Ted said, walking up from behind.Linda jumped. Regaining her composure, she called upstairs."Britta, is your phone working?""No bars. Sorry.""Mine's not working either in this lousy weather," Ted said. "Guess you're out of luck. Sorry, we can't help."Britta called from the banister. "Dad can take him into town. Invite the poor man to dinner, Mom.""Pardon my rudeness. Will you have dinner with us?" Linda asked."Why not?" he said, his smile warming Linda's neck."Then make yourself comfy. My pot roast is almost ready."The stranger smiled again. This time, Ted noticed how it flustered her. She turned away, averting his frown."How rude of me not to introduce ourselves. I'm Linda Stevenson, and this is my husband, Ted. The sassy young lady is my daughter, Britta."For an awkward moment, the man continued staring at her as he squeezed her hand."I'm Dan Savage," he finally said."I'm going upstairs and try the weather band," Ted said."Well," Linda said. "Guess we'll soon find out about the highways. Dinner won't be long."She smiled when she heard the rattling thump of logs added to the barren fireplace. Feeling almost guilty, she peeked through the door. As if he'd felt her gaze, Savage gave her a look that made her weak in the knees."Thought I'd heat things up," he said.Before she could reply, Ted rushed down the stairs, bundled in coat and gloves."Can't wait for dinner. Got to go now. Storm's worsening by the minute. I'll drive you into town, Mr. Savage."Dan Savage placed the last log in the fireplace and grabbed his coat hanging by the front door. Before he could button up, Britta rushed up from the basement."Wait, Daddy. We have a broken pipe downstairs."Ted banged the door with his clenched fist. "You can't be serious.""No need missing your appointment," Savage said. "I'm handy with things. I'll fix it for you.""Fantastic! You go ahead, Dad," Britta said. "Mr. Savage can repair the pipe and then stay the night in the spare bedroom. You can give him a ride into town tomorrow."Ted glare revealed his inner turmoil. After glancing at the cut of Savage's clothes and hair, he decided he was no ax murderer."Great. I'll take you into town tomorrow."He kissed Britta's forehead, ignoring Linda's folded arms as he went out the front door without a backward glance."Show me the pipe," Savage said, interrupting the moment.Britta led him to the basement. Despite Linda's concern, she experienced an almost forgotten flush of sexual excitement. The feeling embarrassed her as she returned to the kitchen.Unable to shake her growing sexual fantasy for the young man, she fixed him another drink and took it to the basement. She almost dropped it when she saw his bare chest. Stripped to the waist, he was making final adjustments on an exposed pipe. Britta, sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, was also watching Savage's every move."Thought you might need this," Linda said.Sweat trickled down Savage's muscled rib cage. Unnerved by his physical presence, she had trouble averting her gaze."Thanks," he said.Savage stood six inches taller than Linda, had a strong jaw, thick brown hair and probably fifteen years younger. After tipping back the glass, he touched the icy surface to his forehead."Fixed," he said."You are good!" Britta squealed, wrapping her slender arms around his neck.Linda's face flushed, jealousy her only emotion as she watched Savage and Britta embrace."Follow me, Mr. Savage, I'll show you the guest bedroom. You can shower, and I'll find some of my husband's clothes.""Call me Dan," he said, untangling from Britta and following Linda up the stairs, into the spare bedroom."Towels are in the cabinet. Take your time."Linda waited in the kitchen for twenty minutes before selecting shirt and pants from her husband's closet. Returning to the guest bedroom, she tapped on the door and then entered without waiting for a reply.Through the cracked bathroom door, she heard Savage humming a silly tune. She eased it open; senses sharpened as she stared into the steam-filled room, her eyes focusing on his hazy shape. Standing with his back to her, he stared in the mirror, shaving cream on his face and razor in his hand. She watched his naked backside until he stopped humming and turned around."See something you like?"Linda's face flushed bright red. After dropping Ted's clothes to the floor, she hurried out of the bathroom."Dinner in ten minutes," she said.Twenty minutes later, Savage joined her in the kitchen. Though Ted's shirt and pants were too small, he didn't seem to mind."Britta," she called. "Dinner is ready."Wearing a sexy blouse and tight leather skirt, Britta danced into the dining room. "Where you from, Dan?" she asked."Here and there," he said, ladling corn from a bowl. "Mostly there."Britta giggled, and Linda smiled. When they finished eating, Britta went upstairs, and Savage helped Linda with the dishes. They were soon together in the living room, basking in the warmth of the fireplace."Does your husband always have meetings on Friday night?"Savage's question earned him a nervous titter from Linda. "I've wondered that myself.""The answer?"Reclining on the couch, knees bent, she rested her head in her palms. The posture caused her skirt to ride up on her thighs. She straightened when she realized Savage was staring at her legs."Sorry," Savage said with a smile.Linda's face was on fire, but it felt good and she realized she didn't want it to stop burning."Britta says he's having an affair," she said."Is he?""Probably. I'll get you something to sleep in tonight.""I usually sleep in the buff," he saidLinda ignored his comment and Savage stretched out on the couch as she hurried upstairs. He was grinning when she returned."You're bigger than Ted," she said, handing him the robe and pajamas.He winked as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. "Your husband has excellent taste. I can sleep naked if they don't fit."Savage's words seared Linda's soul. Flushing with sexual warmth, she waited ten minutes. When he didn't return, she went to her bedroom, shutting the door but leaving it unlocked. Her body blazed as she squirmed beneath the sheets. She finally got out of bed and drew open the curtains.The storm had more than arrived. She watched, perspiration beading her forehead as drifting snow piled up against the house. After returning to bed, she slipped into a restless dream, returning her to the shower scene:A steamy mist filled the room as Savage reached for her hand. When he touched her breasts, she awoke, tangled in the sheets and needing a drink. Not bothering with robe and slippers, she arose to get one. On her way to the stairs, she found something amiss.Ted's office door was open. Peering inside, she switched on the desk lamp. Papers lay scattered on the floor. His floor safe stood open and empty. With trembling fingertips to stifle a scream, she touched her open mouth."My God!"When Linda discovered Ted's gun was missing, her hands began to tremble. She hurried to the guest bedroom and pushed open the door. She gasped when she heard the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking. Not only had the brazen stranger stolen their money, but he was raping her daughter. She reached for the light switch."Stop it now, you monster!"Britta sat bolt upright,  shock on her pretty face. Savage grinned."Mother, how could you?" Britta said."Get out of that bed," Linda yelled. "Now!"Grabbing Britta's arm, she yanked her to the floor. Britta curled up in a ball to hide her nudity."Thief! How could you rob us and then rape my daughter?""You kidding me, lady? The little bitch loves it.""You're a liar," she said, scratching and flailing with arms and fists as he blocked her blows. When he slapped her and shoved her against the wall, she sank to the floor, wiping tears from her eyes and blood from a split lip.Britta sobbed, as she lay crumpled in a naked heap beside the bed. Savage wiped the blood from three parallel scratches on his face. Linda crawled across the floor to her daughter. When she tried to put her hands on her shoulders, Britta wrenched away."How could you do this to me?" she said."Britta, you don't understand. This man is a thief.""You only want him for yourself," Britta said, her tears returning."That's not true.""I hate you," Britta cried. "Just like Daddy hates you."Slamming the door behind her, she ran out of the room leaving her mother alone to glare at the thief on the bed."I'm calling the police."Savage laughed, and it chilled her. "Phone's dead. Remember?""It was you that cut the line." Savage didn't answer. "How did you know about the money and jewels we keep in the house?""Maybe you should ask Britta."Linda froze. "What do you mean?""You think I just met her tonight? We've been going at it like cats in heat for a month. We're taking the money and blowing this burg.""Liar!""Am I? How do you think I managed the broken pipe in the basement?"Feeling dizzy, Linda sank to the floor as he got dressed. She followed him out of the bedroom and down the stairs where Britta was waiting, suitcase packed. Savage grabbed his coat and opened the front door as the icy wind filled the hallway with blowing snow.Linda grabbed Britta's elbow. "Where are you going?"Britta shook loose from her grasp. "Away from you.""What will I tell your father?"Pivoting on her heels, Britta said, "Don't bother. He'll know why I left.""Please stop," Linda begged as her daughter trudged through the snow.Britta kept walking. Linda followed her into the brunt of the storm. When they reached a car parked on the street, Savage tossed the suitcase into the backseat. Linda grabbed Britta's arm, but she pulled away and climbed into the passenger seat, locking the door behind her. Banging on the window, Linda pleaded with her.Savage tried cranking the engine until it became apparent the battery was dead. Britta led him to the garage. Minutes later, Linda's silver Mercedes screamed away through the misty darkness, Linda chasing, barefooted through the snow, after them.***Ted Stevenson returned next morning, easing his car into the driveway. In front of the house was a red Chevrolet, hood, and windows covered with snow, he hadn't noticed when he left. He also saw something else.It was Linda, on her knees on the front porch dressed only in her sexy nightgown. Crystals of ice coating her body glistened like broken glass in the morning sunlight. One frozen hand clutched the door handle in a deadly embrace. Paralyzed by horror, Ted stared at her pallid face.An ironic smile lay frozen on her lips. Her eyes seemed to move, but it was only a frosty reflection. Rushing upstairs to check on Britta, he abandoned her to death's eternity and the frozen kiss of the departed blue Norther.


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All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

Discarded Gold - a short short story

Here is a piece of flash fiction I wrote decades ago when I was heavily into experimental fiction. Don't make too much of it because I'm not even totally sure of what message I was trying to convey. Ah, youth!

Discarded Gold 
Three old men on a park bench watched as she strolled past. Blond, bouffant hair, the red ribbon tying it matching her dress, tight and short. Replacing the magazine on the rack, I hurried from the corner drugstore, chasing after her down the street."Wait," I said.Executing a perfect one-eighty pirouette, she faced me, curtsying, smiling. When she blew me a kiss, I saw she was no more than eighteen, and maybe younger."You dropped this.""Not mine," she said.Withdrawing the bogus blue silk scarf, I basked in her green ephemeral eyes, desperate to bite her puffed lower lip."Sorry. Would you have a sundae with me?""Will you take me home afterward?""No car," I said."How old are you?""Old enough to drive.""Can you dance?"We both could, our swirling bodies colliding as intersecting cosmic rays beamed from a ceiling strobe. Sweat beaded my brow. Our bodies, moving in time, touching, caressing, becoming enamored, interacting, made love to the beat. The girl and I kissed.Later, as we walked along the beach, hypnotic moonbeams splayed crystal sand. Midnight breakers crashed against the shore, rounding tiny quartz crystals surviving from seamless streams that had never twice touched the same drop of water.A distant fire."I don’t even know your name.""Emil," I said. "And yours?""Collette.""I love your eyes, Collette.""What else do you love?""The rest of you," I said, gazing across the moonlit water.Far out across the bay, dolphins broke the rolling waves."I’m sixteen," she said, licking lips so red and swollen that they defied gravity."You’re lying."She didn’t bother denying my accusation.Behind us, two gulls groused over a dead fish bobbing upside down in the surf."Who are we, Emil?""Two people," I said. “Do you have to go home?”“Do you?” When I shook my head, she said, "Are we fated, Emil?""Let’s have our cards read and find out."Chipped red paint lay behind the sign on the door that said SEER, Collette’s hand feeling warm and grasping as I led her through it. A dark woman sat across a tiny table from us, greasy strands of black hair protruding from her red bandanna. She had a bulbous nose and puffy face, and her high cheeks frowned. Malignant eyes stared at us across scarred and stained oak. Liver-spotted hands nervously fingered frayed tarot cards."I can contact the spirits, but it will cost you fifty."Collette punched me when I asked, "Don’t you know any cut-rate spirits?"My pointed sarcasm failed to faze Mother Midnight. Taking my five, she dealt the magic cards."The moon is full," she said.When I gazed at the ceiling only broken tiles stared back at me."Are we in love, Mother?""We are all in love," she said.Mother’s black cat wound through my legs as we exited into the back alley. Overturned cans of trash reeked of spoiled fish. I stole a kiss and grasped Collette’s tiny hand."Spirits are weak tonight," I said."And life is fragile," she said, exciting me further with an unexpected kiss.Multicolored rockets exploded in the distance, momentarily startling a starless sky.Collette and I held hands. High above reality, like multicolored balloons we floated, unpunctured by sharp earthen prods."The streets below are dark," I said."But the sky above is light," she said, her smile colliding with red and green reflections bounding away from flickering streetlights. "And my heart is full." Before I could answer, she said, "I left my skates on the street.""Leave them," I said. "Thieves be damned."An approaching streetcar with an ancient electrical heart struggled as it climbed the steep hill on its way toward us. Raising a finger, I flagged it, grasped Collette’s hand and pulling her through the door. Above us, the lazy sun split the hazy dawn as Collette’s creamy thighs peeked from beneath her short red skirt."I love the dawn," she said."Let’s make love at my place," I said."We’re making love now," she said."But we have no music."Then you’re not listening."Rush hour. Carbon monoxide wafting up from endless vehicles pointing in straight lines toward oblivion. The noise began filling my cavities of desire with mental glue."It’s morning," she said"Every twenty-four hours," I said."Must this end?""Well, I should go to work.""Does your work usurp beauty?" she askedEncroaching noise drowned my answer as I stepped from the antique, watching as she waved from the door of the disappearing streetcar. An old gray dog brushed my leg. When I reached to pat his head, he turned and disappeared behind trashcans lining the nearby alleyway. Probably in search of discarded gold hidden behind forgotten scraps of life.###


All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.

Rusty's Reading : Spotlight: River Road by Eric Wilder

Rusty's Reading : Spotlight: River Road by Eric Wilder: Spotlight: River Road by Eric Wilder Genre: Cajun Mystery Thriller Synopsis:  River Road is Book 5 in Eric Wilder’s popular F...

Spring Equinox Time Walk

Today is the first day of spring - the vernal equinox. Seasonal changes were sacred to the ancients and celebrated as holy days. In my book Blink of an Eye P.I. Buck McDivit walks back 1000 years in time to Spiro, the once great center of the Mississippian people to attend the Summer Solstice with more than 20,000 Native  Americans. If you love history, adventure and mystery, then take a magic carpet ride back a thousand years and prepare to see the New World as it was long before the white man ever arrived.
Chapter 12
Buck fumbled in the dark with the keys when he reached the front gate of Thorn’s property. She was asleep in the passenger seat and hadn’t moved since they’d left the Roadhouse. Pard and Maggie were raising a ruckus in the backyard as he unlocked the front door and turned on the porch light.Thorn was dead weight. He had to wrestle her onto the bed. Maggie and Pard watched, wagging their tails, as he pulled off her boots. Knowing how bad it felt to wake up with a hangover, he thought about removing her jeans and blouse. Instead, he covered her with a quilt, deciding he didn’t know her well enough. Turning out the lights, he went into the kitchen.Maggie and Pard demanded attention. After popping the top on a cold beer he found in the refrigerator, he obliged them. They gobbled up a couple of dog treats, then returned to Maggie’s extra large doggie bed by the stove.Turning off the lights, he went into Thorn’s cozy den. Pulling off his boots, he plopped on the old couch that sat in front of her pot-bellied stove.“Good for you, Pard,” he said, glancing at the doggie bed. “At least one of us has a girlfriend to keep them warm tonight.” A storm came up, with thunder rattling windows as rain drummed a cadence on Thorn’s tin roof. Lost in a dream world, Buck didn’t awaken. At least until a bright light shining in his eyes caused him to open them. When he did, he sat straight up on the couch, not believing what he saw.Before him stood a beautiful woman, an aura of blue light radiating from her naked body. He first thought it was Thorn. Instead, it was someone he’d never expected to see again. His heart began racing inside his bare chest.“Is it you, Esme, or am I dreaming?”“Come to me and see,” she said.”When he pressed against her and began smothering her with kisses, he knew she was real.Esme was tall and graceful, her long hair and demanding eyes as dark as the storm raging outside the house. As he pressed against her soft breasts, a familiar rush coursed through his body. Just to make sure it was she, he turned her around. As he remembered, a rattlesnake tattoo highlighted the supple curve of her shoulder.“It’s been two long years. Not a day has passed that I didn’t think about you,” he said. “Why did you go away?”“I know it hurt you, Buck McDivit. I could not help it because I am from a different place and time.”“What place, and what time?” he said.“You will see. I will take you there. First, you must become as naked as I am.”Buck’s jeans dropped to the floor. “I’m ready,” he said. “Where are we going?”“To a place you’ve never imagined,” she said.Esme held his hand as they passed through the locked door as if it weren’t there. The storm had grown stronger as rain poured down in sheets. Thunder rocked their steps, lightning sizzling across an angry sky.Sharp stones from the gravel driveway didn’t hurt his feet. Though rain gushed off his head and shoulders, he was oblivious to it. Esme led him down the hill, their feet sinking into the mire as they reached a pond overflowing from the deluge. Lightning laced the darkness above them. He hesitated when she stepped into the roiling water.“Come with me,” she said.He continued to waver. “It’s dangerous.”Pulling him toward her, she said, “Trust me.”Neck deep in churning water, they embraced as lightning kissed the pond. It set off a kaleidoscope of radiating colors that made his head spin. When he opened his eyes, darkness was gone. So was the storm. Dancing rays of sunshine radiated through the cloudy sky. Birds soared overhead, and only friendly drops of rain rippled the water’s surface.“We’ve crossed over,” she said.“That was the wildest ride I’ve ever taken. What just happened?”“You did this once before. You just don’t remember.”“Did what?” he asked.“Walked across time,” she said. “Brace yourself for culture shock because you are now in my world.”They were in the river. Esme took his hand and led him out of the water to a teepee near its bank. The same teepee Esme lived in when he’d met her near the pagan village of Lykaia. When they pushed through the flap, he saw Beauty, Esme’s giant wolf dog. They moved toward one another, meeting in the middle, and were soon rolling on a deerskin rug.“Where the hell have you been?” Buck said, giving her big neck a warm hug.“She’s missed you, and so have I,” Esme said.“You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed both of you.”“Yes I can,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed. I have much to show you.”Soon, Buck looked like a Mississippian warrior, Esme like a medicine woman. Beauty hadn’t left Buck’s side until Esme told her to stay and guard the teepee.“She doesn’t like crowds,” she said.Buck gave the large beast another hug and then followed Esme out the door. He could hardly believe the sights that began unfolding around them.Dozens of canoes occupied the riverbank and more floated in the river. When they crested the natural levee, his jaw dropped. Wooden houses with thatched roofs stretched for as far as he could see. Indian women, naked from the waist up, were working small truck gardens. Men, returning from a hunt, carried a deer and a large turtle.“They are preparing for the festival,” Esme said.Buck was curious. “Festival?” he said.“You’ll see.”They were both resplendent in colorful paint and feathers. Esme seemed to know everyone and exchanged smiles and greetings as they passed. They soon reached a palisade. Behind the timbered walls, stately mounds, topped by wooden houses, jutted toward the sky. Activity outside the entrance to the palisade was heavy.“It’s festival day,” she said. “Some of the people have traveled a thousand miles to be here.”“Tell me about this festival.”“Tomorrow is the first day of summer, the longest day of the year. For my people, it is one of our holiest days. Today is the eve of the summer solstice. Our chief will speak, and there will be a game of chunkey. Following the game, the bonfire is lit, and everyone feasts, chants, and dances until dawn.”Buck had met Esme for the first time during a solstice celebration. He remembered because he’d been the only male present. He and several hundred naked pagan females had danced the night away in a solstice ceremony. When he’d met Esme, she’d been the spiritual leader of the pagan enclave known as Lykaia.“Are we going to dance like we did when we first met?” he asked.She shook her head. “I am the medicine woman. I must feast with our chief, the elders, and the emissaries from many other tribes. I have other plans for you.”“What tribes?”“Mississippians from all over, Aztecs and Mayans from Mexico, and Anasazi from Four Corners.”“You must be kidding.”“I assure you I’m not.”They all wore their festival best. Pearls, shells, and colorful beads adorned the braids in many of the women’s long hair. Most of the men had painted faces and shaved heads with only a top knot. Colors of their costumes moved like a kaleidoscope in slow motion.The palisade was on a hill. From their vantage, they could see the bend in the large river. Hundreds of canoes lined the bank, more still arriving. Everyone, it seemed, was smiling.“How can so many tribes coexist?”“Spiro, as you know it, is the religious hub of our universe. There can be no war, strife, or disagreement in this holy place, especially on the eve of the summer solstice. Well, except for chunkey,” she said.The scene reminded him of the open marketplace in Santa Fe. This was similar but ten times larger. A myriad of color, noise and excitement, and jewelry wasn’t the only thing for sale.The aroma of fresh corn, squash, grapes, and a dozen other vegetables floated in a warm breeze. A big black dog that no one seemed to own sniffed his leg before disappearing into the crowd.“This place is shoulder to shoulder,” he said. “Reminds me of the crowds at the state fair, or an OU football game.”“There are many thousands here today,” she said.“Thorn would be in heaven,” he said.“She descended from Mississippians.”“I can’t imagine anyone loving their cultural history more than her.”“She is a good person. Maybe too good for the likes of you.”“What about for you?”Esme’s smile disappeared. “We were never meant to be.”“Star-crossed lovers?” he said, squeezing her hand.“We must live in the moment. I have you now, at least for a short time, and there are many things I need to tell you.”They strolled through the open-air market, marveling at the crafts. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, only a flock of gulls circling to land on a pond created by a bend in the river.“It’s time to enter the palisade,” she said.“I understand every word these people are saying. They can’t be speaking English.”“You left your clothes and many other things in Oklahoma. While you are here, you are one of us.”The high-timbered palisade surrounding the enclave was more spectacular than Thorn had described. A moat filled with water surrounded the tall timbers. Guards armed with spears left little doubt that no one entered except by invitation. He and Esme were on the list. They followed a circular maze until it opened into the ancient gated city of Spiro. The panorama blew him away.“I visited the Archaeological Park yesterday. I had no idea it looked as spectacular as this.”“The new world’s version of Camelot,” she said. “The game is starting. Would you like to see?”In the distance, hundreds of spectators occupied a large arena where two teams were beginning to compete.“It’s a half-mile away. It’ll be lunch before we get there,” he said.“We don’t have to walk,” she said, snapping her fingers.Four men appeared with a hand carriage, waiting until Esme and Buck had climbed aboard. Hoisting it to their shoulders, they began trekking toward the chunkey game. Rampant noise grew louder as they approached the arena, covered seating awaiting them. Play stopped as the players, and the crowd acknowledged Esme’s appearance.“They treat you like a goddess,” Buck said.She wasn’t smiling when she said, “To my people, I am a goddess.”Forty people occupied covered seating opposite them. A man in bright paint sat in a cane throne decorated by wreaths of flowers and feathers. The throne rose high above everyone else in the box.“He must be a bigwig,” he said.“Walking Wolf is chief of the Mississippians. He’s without a doubt the most powerful person in North America.”Walking Wolf’s throne was quite a distance away for a good look. Still, the regal old man seemed strangely familiar to Buck.
Chapter 13
Buck had attended many sporting events, both amateur and professional. He’d never seen one quite as loud and raucous as the chunkey match.Eight contestants and a referee, surrounded by several thousand adoring fans, occupied the football-sized field. Dressed in breechcloths, the competitors had faces painted white with black eyes like raccoons. Both teams wore pillbox hats woven of straw. One of the men stood at least six-six, and towered over the others.“That’s Talako,” Esme said. “He’s the captain of our team. We have never lost a game.”“Impressive,” he said. “Who are they playing?”“A team from a large Mississippian settlement called Cahokia. They have also never lost.”“One of their dudes is almost as big as Talako,” Buck said. “How is the game played?”“With short spears and a stone roller chiseled from quartz. Talako and the big man from the other team are the spears. They do all the throwing and most of the scoring. Each team has a disc roller and two team members called fronts that run interference. Only the disk rollers can touch the disk, and only the spears can throw them. The fronts use their spears for tripping, and preventing the disk from going through the goal posts. That’s five points. You’ll get the gist once they start playing.”One of the Cahokians had a six-inch stone disk with a hole in the middle. Taking a stance like a pro bowler, he rolled it toward the opposite goal. The referee waited until the disk had traveled about twenty feet and then waved his hand. Talako and the big man from the Cahokia team launched their spears. When the disk came to a halt, a ref ran onto the field, picked up the closest spear to the disk and held up a finger.“One point,” Esme said. “The first team to reach twelve points wins.”“What’s the significance of the hole in the disk?” Buck asked.“If a spear penetrates the hole, then the game is over. The team that makes the toss is the winner.”“Seems unlikely for that to happen.”“Almost never,” she said.When the ref waved his hand again, eight men ran toward the disk. The melee that followed resembled hand-to-hand combat. Both teams pushed and shoved, the fronts doing their best to break their opponent’s legs. A Cahokian retrieved the disk and launched it toward the goal. The scrum continued, both teams fighting for position and scoring a few points. The crowd had grown inflamed.“There’s massive betting going on in the stands,” she said. “Much property will change hands because of this match.”“Most everyone’s rooting for our team,” Buck said.“Not all. There’s a large contingent of Cahokians here to watch the game.”Talako’s spear landed within inches of the disk, the crowd standing and yelling. When the ref waved his hand, the two Cahokian fronts took Talako’s legs out from under him. When they did, the big spear kicked him in the side.“Damn! That looked like a foul to me. Those boys are serious. They don’t have a penalty box in this game?”“Chunkey emulates combat. Bones are often broken. The crowd expects the team to play through their pain.”“Brutal. Sort of like pro football. How long till the ref calls a break?”Esme shook her head. “They’ll battle until they drop, or the game is over. There are no quarters.”“And the reward?” he asked.“Life, the losers killed and their scalps displayed on the winner’s belts.”“You gotta be kidding me,” he said.“If the visiting team wins, our chief will pardon them because this is a religious holiday. If our team loses, they will lose their heads.”“Doesn’t look like they’re in any danger of that. They’re ahead by six points.”“I pray not,” Esme said. “Talako is Walking Wolf’s only grandson, and the greatest warrior our tribe has.”“Your chief wouldn’t allow his own flesh and blood to have his head chopped off.”“Not only allow it, he would proclaim it so. He would have no choice,” she said.“You seem distressed. You okay?”“These games always frighten me.”“You want to leave?”“I can’t,” she said.“Something you aren’t telling me?”“Walking Wolf and I are time walkers, inherited only when both parents are also walkers. The only other walker in the tribe is Talako.”Buck stared at her anxious expression, trying to decipher what she had just told him.“So you and Talako are . . . ?”“Betrothed,” she said. “We must marry and have a child.”She squeezed his hand, her eyes begging for understanding.“I had hoped we were going to do more than just hold hands tonight.”“I am so sorry. That is not possible,” she said.“Do you love him?”“As much as I love you.”“Then I guess it’s okay,” he said.When they returned their attention to the game, they saw that the Spiro team had drawn within a point of winning. The Cahokian roller gave the disk a great heave, the crowd waiting until the referee waved his hand. As he did, Talako and the big Cahokian launched their spears. The disk hit a bump and fell on its side as Talako’s spear sailed over it.When the Cahokian’s spear began its descent, every spectator in the arena sensed what was about to happen. As the missile landed in the hole in the disk, the crowd grew deathly silent. The chief came down from his cane throne, motioning Talako to approach him. Esme’s face turned bright red as she squeezed Buck’s hand.“I can’t believe this,” he said.“If he can break Talako’s spear, then it is a sign that the Great Spirit wishes him to die. Walking Wolf will have to take his head.”Buck stood. “I’ll stop it,” he said.Esme pulled him back into his seat. “No. If the spear breaks, then it is ordained.”Talako’s head hung low as he knelt in front of his grandfather and handed him his spear. Removing a serrated stone dagger from his ceremonial belt, Walking Wolfe drove it into the earth. Then he raised the spear over his head and did a slow turn so that everyone in the stands could see.Esme let go of Buck’s hand, her tears flowing and the veins in her neck bulging. She clinched her hands, almost as if she also had hold of the spear.Though smaller than his grandson, Walking Wolf looked anything except weak. Buck could see he was preparing to break the spear and had little doubt that he could complete the task. As the rapt crowd watched in silence, his muscles strained, his face turning red. Buck and everyone else expected the spear to snap at any second.Despite his efforts, the spear never even bowed. Finally, the anger imprinted on his face disappeared, replaced with a smile. He turned again to the crowd.“This spear is unbreakable. Would anyone care to try?” He walked around the arena, offering it to anybody that might accept it. No one did, not even the contingency from Cahokia. “Then the Great Spirit has spoken,” he said. “I deem this contest a draw.”Cheers erupted from the crowd as Chief Walking Wolf returned the spear to Talako. Buck glanced at Esme, her hands still clinched and tears streaming down her face. He took her hands and uncoiled her fingers. Two deep red welts occupied her palms. He began massaging them.“You saved him, didn’t you?” he said.Her breathing labored, she answered. “It took every ounce of power I have. I couldn’t let him die.”People began filing out of the arena as Esme regained her composure.“What now?” he asked.“A meeting with Walking Wolf. You are about to learn why we brought you here.”




All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.