A first glimpse at "The Dislocated Man" a terrifying paranormal romance, ghost story collaboration with Larry Donnell...

Thanks so much for taking the time to investigate this truly terrifying paranormal romance. Larry Donnell is an exceptionally gifted up-and-coming author, and I'm honored to share the literary stage with him through "The Dislocated Man"...



            Jack Werth slid into the men’s room and saw a young man, probably one of the new mailroom trainees, slamming his palm repeatedly against the sink. His shaggy blond hair, red cheeks and uncontrolled anger reminded him so much of Emil that Jack paused by the door and just stared.

Angry blue eyes swung his way.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Jack shook his head. “I’m okay. How ‘bout you?”
“Do I look okay to you?”  He stripped his blue tie off with one vicious pull.
Jack raised his hands.
“Hey, I was just trying to help.”
“Well fuck you, fuck your help and fuck that Boonsen bitch who just fired me!” With that, the early twenty-something exploded past him.
They could be twins.
The eerie similarity to Emil clotted Jack’s thoughts in place. Then, as though through someone else’s eyes, he watched his hand follow the angry young man and hover near the doorframe. The door slammed shut.
Jack came to his senses and yanked his hand away, but not in time!
White hot agony shot from the tip of his pointer finger.
"Goddamn it!"
He gasped and pulled his finger out of the impossibly small gap between the steel door and the jamb. It was as though an elephant had stomped on his finger. He clutched his thumb and squeezed the sharp pulsar. It didn’t help. A part of his brain luxuriated in the throbbing which seemed to thrum through his whole body.
"Goddamn it, I’m not going back to that.”
He dampened the perversion inside of him and willed the pain to lessen. There came a languid sense of focus as his breathing slowed and he squashed all thoughts of that horrible time from his mind. Approaching the sink, he pushed the lever and doused his aching finger. The cold water shocked then soothed the dented flesh around the bruising knuckle. He shook it and doused it again.
At least there aren’t any client reports due.
Typing was going to be out of the question for a few days…maybe longer. He cupped both hands and splashed cold water on his face, neck and stared into the mirror. No way could Hannah find out about this.
Through the closed door, he could hear laughter and the first strains of “Jingle Bells.”
Remembering he had come for a reason, Jack relieved his bladder then returned to the mirror where he stared at the reflection of his dark eyes and tried to understand how the past had crept up on him again. It had been years—well, at least months—since he had even thought about acting that way. He dunked his finger several more times, took a deep breath and wiped his face with his good hand.
His therapist would have a great time with this.
“Time to go back, Jack old man.”
One more deep breath then a practiced smile slid onto his face as he exited the bathroom and flowed back into the maelstrom of co-workers and plus ones pretending to have fun. He waved to catch the attention of the nearest overgrown elf. Everything about the T. Boonsen Equities’ Christmas party—right down to the waiter’s green costume, replete with fur boots and a floppy green hat—was ridiculous.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
“Double scotch.” Jack said. He fought the urge to suck on his sore finger.
“And I’ll have a triple martini with a splash of cranberry juice,” Derrick added as he stepped up to Jack’s table.
“No problem,” the young waiter said, brushing his hat’s white puffball from his forehead and moving back through the balloons and streamers. They would have been more suited to a birthday bash than a Christmas party.
“Ten to one, he screws our order up,” Derrick said. “The kid never wrote anything down.” 
Jack feigned a smile. Leave it to the Director of Sales to complain even at a Christmas gathering. Why couldn’t Hannah understand this was why he needed a glass glued to his hand tonight? How else would he survive so much face time with T. Boonsen management?
Dressed in the same red tie and inexpensive blue suit he’d worn earlier at the office, Derrick Branson patted his gigantic stomach. “I’m going to start spending some time at the gym. That’s my big resolution. You always keep fit, Jack. What’s your secret?”
Jack wanted to suggest the obese man use his mouth for something other than a funnel, but he wasn’t quite that drunk. Besides, at forty-two he was too old to be following the angry mail clerk out the door. These days, financial companies had no problem letting experienced brokers go only to replace them with new recruits willing to work longer hours for less pay. T. Boonsen Equities was no exception. Over the last ten years, average salaries had plummeted as youth among the staff increased. 
God, I miss the nineties.
“A little basketball and jogging on the weekends,” Jack offered, which was mostly true.
He sat and admired Hannah from across the party floor. Though not quite as slim as some of the young trophy wives roaming the room, she was blond and stunning for a woman in her mid-forties. Hannah caught him looking and gave her best coquettish smile, a promise of wanton things to come. By the time they got home the boys would be asleep. Jack smiled because even if sleep won out over intimacy, he would be cuddling with a woman he still desired after twenty-two years of marriage. She and their two sons were everything. They made even the barely tolerable parts of his life somehow better.
“So I’m thinking of turning a couple of the newbies over to you, Jack. You’d make a helluva team leader,” Derrick offered.
Translation: I want you to train your replacements.
Jack reluctantly pulled his gaze from his wife’s shapely calves and faced Derrick’s intent gaze and fiery red nose. Why was it that people with authority felt the need to wield it even after hours? He drained the last of his scotch.
“I can’t train anyone right now, Derrick. I’m the only agent old man Van Hausen will deal with, and the partners specifically asked me to get his portfolio back on track this month.” He didn’t bother to add that he had finished work on that account earlier in the week.
“I never actually spoke with Van Hausen,” Derrick said. “What’s he like? Do you think you could introduce me?”
“Hi Jack, Derrick.” Like the goddess she was, his wife had come over to save him.
“Hello, Hannah,” Derrick said. “You look lovely as always.” The way the heavy man’s eyes traveled up and down her sleek red dress and paused at her chest suggested he meant it.
So much for who’s got the most power.
“Hi, Hon,” Jack said pulling her down for a kiss.
“I came over to take my husband away for the next slow dance.”
“He’s a lucky man,” Derrick said, “but it’s okay because the buffet has been crying out my name for a while now.”
Just then, the elf returned and handed the men their drinks from a full tray. Derrick fell silent because, of course, the waiter had gotten their orders right. Jack kicked his double scotch back in one gulp.
“I thought you wanted to walk out of here?” Hannah said, her tolerance reaching its limit. In the previous five years, Jack had fought two bouts of depression, the last one requiring him to join a program for six months. She had already made it clear, medication was one thing, but she would not live with a drunk.
“Last one,” Jack promised, even though he was already thirsting for his fifth—or was it his sixth?
“On that note….” Derrick heaved his considerable frame to his feet and shuffled toward the lavish buffet.
“Like an emphysema patient to a smoke shop,” Jack said.
“Really?” Hannah lifted his empty glass. “What’s your analogy?”
“An apologetic puppy wagging his tail?” Jack suggested.
“Okay, that one was cute. But I’m serious. Our kids aren’t growing up with a lush for a role model.”
He pulled her down onto his lap. It amazed him how it still felt like a first date with her. He nuzzled her ear until strains of the Kiss ballad “Beth” poked through the din. Wordlessly they made their way to the floor and enjoyed the sway in time. After two decades together, they had an unspoken rhythm that was at once familiar and exotic. Date nights with Hannah always confirmed what Jack had known since the day they met: she was the perfect woman for him. By the time “Beth” transformed into “Lady” by Styx, the party around them had faded into a wash of surreal sound. It was only Hannah and Jack, Jack and Hannah.
“You are amazing,” he breathed.
“That is so true Jack,” she whispered, “but it’s very nice of you to notice. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“That was a little weak as far as compliments go, Mrs. Werth,” he said, nibbling her ear.
“I prefer to give my compliments at home,” she said.
“Not fair,” he countered, running his hand up and down her waist. “I still have to wait for Bonnie and Clyde to give their yearly ‘make us some money’ inspirational speech. That’s probably two hours away.”
“You know I could have sworn I brought my pills but they’re not in my bag,” she told him. “Nobody went near it when I went to the ladies’ room earlier, did they?”
“No way,” Jack said. “I was like the secret service for that purse.” Then, more seriously, “That’s not like you to forget.” 
“I know but…well, I must have left them on the dresser or something. I’ll just have to go home and get them. That’s all.”
Jack stopped dancing.
“I don’t want you driving, not without your medication.” Hannah had been diagnosed with a mild form of epilepsy several years earlier. It had taken three different drugs and almost six months for her to get her driver’s license back. Though she had never had a seizure while driving, he didn’t want to imagine the possibility.
“You’ll have to take a cab,” he told her.
Hannah pouted for a moment then nodded.
“You could...come with.” Her long nail painted a tracery on his chest.
“God, I want to. You know I do.”
“But you’re going to stay.”
“Yeah, I have to.”
“Okay,” she said. “It shouldn’t take me long. Save the horizontal dancing for me, or else.” Her exaggerated snarl made him laugh.
“Okay, okay.” He started to say something else but paused.
“What, Jack?”
“I should go with you. Tipsy hot woman, cab, miscreant driver; all the earmarks of—”
“Jack, Jack. Stop right there. I’ll take Yellow Cab, the one we use for the kids. Their drivers have always been good.”
“I just worry about you.”
“I’m the one who should be worried.” She pointed at the cluster of empty glasses on the table. “Promise me you’re going to behave.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “Less drinking and more face time with the real miscreants of the world.”
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You do realize you’re one of those investment banker miscreants, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been forced into it by my gold-digging wife who always wants more luxuries…like food and clothes for the kids. Next you’ll want to college educate them.”
“Maybe we should get them out of elementary school first,” she suggested. “I better get home. I’m feeling a little warm.”
“See, I should go with you.”
Hannah gazed into her husband’s eyes. “Really, babe, it’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
Knowing he was just being foolish, he nodded and watched her sway toward the far end of the conference hall where she would find her coat and the exit. At the last minute, she turned and waved. Something about her smile made him regret not going. He got up but then watched as she disappeared through the door.
The next hour was nearly as arduous as he had imagined. He moved toward the brown-nosing end of the hall where brokers wore permanent smiles and spouses aggressively flirted upward. Jack didn’t know for certain, but he assumed the flirters really would have slept with upper management if they thought it would gain them or their spouses an edge. He also wouldn’t have been surprised if those people abandoned one spouse for another, anything for a nicer home, fancier car or larger expense account. Of course, at the center of the kiss-ass whirlwind, he found Thomas Boonsen and his wife, Edith Boonsen, perched like silver monarchs at the end of the immense conference table. Around them crowded the most hardcore of their flock. One man—a hedge fund manager from the Seventh Avenue building—was actually spreading jam on a biscuit and handing it to Mrs. Boonsen who accepted it with the aloofness of a queen. Jack wished he could say she had been less haughty when he first entered the game or that had he seen the way the Boonsens really were he might have made different choices. But he would have been lying to himself.
He just found it increasingly hard to suffer it.
“Jack Werth,” Thomas Boonsen said, somehow noticing him through the throng of greedy hangers-on. “How’s my favorite manager of temperamental clients?”
Suddenly, every eye within fifty feet was staring at Jack. More importantly, a pathway opened up so he could actually approach the exalted couple to make his yearly bow of respect.
“I’m not sure managing one temperamental client makes me an expert.” He moved close enough to shake Thomas’ hand.
Since the queen’s blue-veined hand didn’t reach his way he simply nodded and smiled at her. Her return gesture could have been a wince. She had never been one to mingle much with the help, though everyone knew she was responsible for a majority of company decisions, including who got fired and who didn’t. The balding manager with curly red hair at the sides knew exactly what he had been doing when he handed her a jam-filled cracker.
“I see big things ahead for you and T. Boonsen,” Thomas said generously.
Translation: We’re going to make big money with or without your help this year.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I hope you and your family—”
“Mr. Werth! Mr. Werth!” His assistant’s panicked voice lanced through the din.
Every eye at the clotted end of the room snapped to see a young redhead pushing her way toward them, a cellphone aloft in her hand. Though in her late-twenties, she still had a vicious case of acne and an awkward teen aura about her. Not having seen her since shortly after the party began, he was surprised that his secretary hadn’t actually left already.
“Mr. Werth, it’s the police,” Allison said, her voice carrying easily now that the room had fallen silent. “They’re calling from Mrs. Werth’s cell phone.”
Jack felt as though a glass dome had slipped over his entire body. People separated so he could retrieve the cell phone.
“They tried all her speed dial numbers,” the young woman said. “You must not have your ringer on.” 
His chest tightening into a ball of black coal, Jack shoved back the way he had come. Most of the partygoers parted for him. At the distant end of the room people were still dancing, gesturing, their faces filled with smiles. He reached for the phone.
“He-Hello. This is Jack W-Werth.” He could hear sirens wailing and commotion pushing through the other end of the receiver.
“Mr. Werth, my name is Sergeant Abbott with the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m sorry to infor—”
“Where is my wife? Tell me where she is!”
“Mr. Werth, there has been an accident.”
“No. No. Where is she? I need to talk with her.” Jack’s head felt like an overheated steam furnace. His heart pumped fear straight into his brain.
“The medics are with her right now, Mr. Werth,” Sergeant Abbott said. “It might be best if you came here to the scene—”
“Is she okay? Is she going to be okay?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Werth. The medical technicians and the doctors will have to make that determination…”
“Which hospital?”
“We have a lot of victims here, Mr. Werth,” the sergeant said. “It has not been determined yet—”
“Which fucking hospital?” Jack screamed. He ignored the stares and expressions of horror and detached interest.
“She is still at the scene, Mr. Werth.”
“Where? I’m leaving right now!”
 The lights were getting dim and a rushing sound reverberated in his head. Vaguely, Jack heard someone speak.
“I’ll drive you.”
Minneapolis valets were neither common nor known for top notch service, but one of the two young attendants outside the Kirstwood Hotel’s lobby retrieved Derrick Branson’s late-model Chrysler in record time.
“Do you need me to sign anything?” Derrick asked the uniformed thirty-something who hustled around the car and handed him the keys.
“Just get him to wherever he needs to go,” the young man said.
Jack fought back tears as a movie of his life with Hannah played like an emotional whip in his mind. He could see her smile at the Brown campus where they met. She was still smiling when they moved into their first cockroach-infested apartment in Grand Rapids. He even remembered her laughing the day the doctors made him bring their first-born, Chet, home from the hospital without her. He slid into the passenger side of Derrick’s car and barely noticed the Burger King bag that Derrick snatched from the seat before he could sit on it.
Why did I let her leave without me? I should have—
He buried his face in his hands and fought the tidal wave of emotions that were swirling like hot lava though his mind.
I need you, Hannah. I need you to be okay. Please be okay!
“Seat belt, Jack,” Derrick said.
Jack looked up.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Absently, he pulled his belt around and locked it in place.
“The Nicollet Island bridges are still closed for construction,” Derrick said. “We’ll have to cross at North Plymouth. Sound alright?”
Jack nodded.
Derrick momentarily jerked to a stop at the entrance to 6th Street before the Chrysler’s tires squealed and jumped out into a stream of cars.
Jack willed cars to move, lanes to open, anything that would get them to Hannah’s side sooner. He was tempted to call the policeman back, what was his name…Sergeant Abbott? But he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. The man had refused to give him any information over the phone.
I need you, Hannah. The boys need you!
“I know you can’t help it, Jack,” Derrick said, jerking his car into the outside lane and passing a carful of teenage girls, all of whom seemed to be giving them the finger. The girls’ horn blared as Derrick’s Chrysler slid in front of them.
“Jack, let go!”
“What?”
“You need to let go of your keys. You’re bleeding.” Derrick reached behind the seat and pulled out a wrinkled fast food bag. With one hand, he somehow managed to pull out two napkins embossed with a large “M.” He passed them to Jack.
“Squeeze these instead.”
“Okay.” Jack did as he was told. He didn’t even remember pulling the keys from his pocket. He willed the blood to stop but like Kool-Aid on a white tablecloth, a red stain spread rapidly through the napkins.
Twice in one day. I definitely can’t tell Hannah.
He felt the same flood of shame as he had the day it all started, the day he had seen the surprised expression on his brother’s dead face. Jack didn’t remember much after that, but the doctors said he had nearly bitten through his own thumb by the time the ambulance arrived. Then, after several hours in surgery, he had been confined for two weeks to Ward Six for psychiatric patients.
Fourteen? I was only fourteen when Emil died.

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