I am fascinated by the human psyche, which could explain my degree in psychology. So, my original plan was for one book in which Raiford Reynolds was both detective and killer--two distinct personalities with no knowledge of each other.
My daughter read the first original three chapters of Lucky Thirteen, and slung the pages across the room saying, "Momma, if you make Ray a killer, I'll never read another thing you write."
Being just as fascinated by the documented instances of the supernatural connection between twins separated at birth, the story took a new direction and resulted in four books and a Faulkner Wisdom Competition top 20 placement with the third book, Broken.
2
A
Real Pain
Detective
Raiford Reynolds groaned, rubbed his temples, opened his desk drawer, and
snatched his prescription for Amidrine. "Damn it! I don't wanna take this.
I can't afford to go to sleep right now. This shit always knocks me out."
As keyed up as
he was, he half expected a voice to answer him. In the last two hours, he had
already taken four Advil, three aspirin, and three extra-strength Tylenol. Nothing
was left but to take the Amidrine, even if it meant passing out for a few hours.
The last time his head had hurt this much had been when he pulled an
all-nighter studying for his last final at Louisiana State University. He had
partied far too much with his fraternity brothers at Delta Tau Delta to study
in a reasonable fashion. "I'm surprised I graduated," he grunted. No, this headache is worse, but I brought
both of them on myself from lack of sleep and pushing my body further than it
needs to be pushed.
These damned
headaches had prevented him from playing football as much as he liked the sport
and had wanted to play. He had managed baseball and golf. His body took less
pounding, and his doctor would only release him to play non-contact sports in
school. A stabbing ache like an ice pick through his temple shot from one side
of his head to the other. The pain was becoming unbearable; the Amidrine,
inevitable.
But what of my ridiculous headache? Detective
Reynolds was certain his migraine, even if it was the worst one he had
experienced during his three years as a detective, was nothing compared to the agony
the twelve women in the pictures before him must have endured. Besides, he
would be feeling a different kind of hurt, unemployment, if he didn't solve
this case, and soon. The chief had personally said, "Ray, you're the best
detective I have. This is an election year. Get this mess solved! I don't need
this, and neither do you."
The chief's
declaration had come after the seventh body was discovered. Now, there were
twelve. Oh, yes, Chief Gerard is feeling
the sting of an election-year nightmare—a serial killer. The mayor is on the
chief's back. And, oh, yes, misery loves company. The chief definitely
intimated that if he's out, I am, too.
But what kind of pain is that? It's not real
suffering. Looking at the pictures again, a wave of nausea swept over him. He
couldn't be sure whether the nausea was caused by the persistent migraine or
the crime scene photos, but he determined to get his headache under control. He
had no choice. He had to take the Amidrine.
Ray looked at
the drink machine in the hallway. Maybe
if I take the damned pill with a Red Bull, I can get a couple of more hours
before I zonk.
He stood and
stretched to his full six-foot height. He clutched the prescription bottle and
chuckled as another voice came to his memory. Ray could hear his mother, "Raiford
Michael Reynolds, stand up and stop slouching! You'll get a hump in your back. We
might be Catholic, but I don't want you to be known as The Hunchback of Notre
Dame. One of your ancestors, also called Raiford, was a knight who fought in
the Crusades. Straighten that spine and show pride in the person you are."
Ray knew he
always slouched when he was stressed. What
would Mom say if she could see me now? This case is more than a hunch in my
back. It's enough to bend me double, maybe break my back. So what if my
namesake was Sir Raiford Reynolds? It's not really my blood anyway. After all, I'm
adopted. I've always known I was born in the charity ward of Catholic Charity
Hospital. My birth mother was a street-walking drug addict who went by the name
of Audrey—real or not, I don't know, nor do I really care. I've been blessed to
have been adopted by Albert and Dorothy Reynolds. They've given me a good life.
He looked down
at his desk again and puffed out a remorseful sigh as the top picture, the
second victim, burned into his brain, and a throb like a hot bullet shot
through his head. He slammed his chair into his desk, stomped to the drink
machine, got a Red Bull, and popped two Amidrine into his mouth, washing them
down with the entire Red Bull without a breath. He tossed the can into the
wastebasket and made a stop in the restroom.
Ray washed his
face and wet down his short soot-black hair. He leaned on the lavatory and
gasped when he saw himself in the mirror. He touched strands of gray near his
temple. Although somewhat thin at hundred eight-five pounds, he was by no means
skinny, but his face looked gaunt. He had an athlete's body and worked to
preserve it three or four days a week at the gym, but visits lately had been
few and far between. A good workout would
go a long way toward relieving this damned headache. His two-day stubble
made him look older than his thirty years. The blood-shot whites of his eyes
and dark circles beneath his lower eyelids made his startlingly sapphire-blue
irises look even bluer and more outstanding against his rather fair complexion
and black hair. He noticed a coffee stain on his white button-down shirt. Ray
grunted. "No, Mom wouldn't holler at me. She'd probably slap me." Then, again, I can't remember having ever
been slapped.
He shook his
wet hair like a dog and returned to the deserted office area. He turned the
crime scene photos face down and whispered, "I can't look at you deceased
right now." He then picked up the photos of the twelve dead women from when
they were still alive. "Maybe living," he muttered. The detective put
them in order of their deaths and stared at them as if hoping one of them would
speak to him.
He reviewed in
his mind: Twelve women are dead in less
than a year. The M.O. is the same. All had their throats slit. Almost all the
blood was drained from their bodies. They were all obviously bound as evidenced
from the bruising on their wrists. There was a different emblem painted over
each ones' shaved pubic area, but there was no sexual assault. Moreover, none
appeared to have been abused except for having been tied up. All were placed in
the cemetery in the normal position a dead body would be laid in a coffin, and
they were all wearing what could have been a white wedding dress. On the other
hand, they have absolutely nothing in common.
Serial killers usually pick a type, but my
victims range from a fifty-five-year-old white nun to a sixteen-year-old black
high school student, with various ages and races in between. There's no
socioeconomic attachment either. Nothing makes sense.
Ray glanced at
the white board against the wall where he had recorded vital information on
each victim and their last known movements and whereabouts. He grabbed the
badly dog-eared chart he had made and reviewed it. He had numbered the women in
order and written the most important information: name, race, age, physical
description, date missing and date of death, and the blasted symbols. He
grunted as he looked at his chicken scratch. "Maybe it's the dates. Some are
holidays. But what are the others?"
♣♣♣
"Come on!"
He slammed the chart onto his desk. "Gimme a break! Speak to me!" he
screamed.
Ray heard the
response he had been expecting earlier. He looked up to see Special Agent
Christine Milovich, the singular, but only,
help the FBI had sent when Ray requested assistance at Easter. Chris was pretty
and athletically built. Ray knew she never lacked male companionship for
several of the patrolmen had asked her out since she had been there. She was
almost as tall as Ray and wore her dishwater blonde hair short. Her soft brown
eyes stared with rebuke at Ray now. She wore black slacks, a cream-colored
lightweight cashmere sweater and flat black suede Earth shoes. She crossed her
arms, pursed her lips, and tapped her foot. "Ray, have you been here all
night again?"
"Yes,"
he replied, unaffected by his temporary partner's tone or demeanor.
Agent Milovich
snatched the pictures from Ray's desk. "Go! Now!" she commanded. "If
you make yourself sick, you'll be of no use to anybody. I can see by the expression
on your face you have another migraine. You look like shit! Get some rest, and
for God's sake, shower and shave. Do that for me. I have to smell you."
Ray rubbed his
head again and spoke softly. "Chris, I can't have another body turn up."
He picked up the picture of the nun as it escaped her hands. "I knew her
personally. Sister Mary Michael taught Sunday school when I was a boy. Who
would wanna hurt this woman? Or any of them? It's just that this does make it
more personal, and I don't have a clue." He finished with despair in his
voice. He ran his fingers through his hair and puffed out his exasperation in
one long breath.
Christine
softened her tone. "Ray, get some sleep. We'll get this bastard. I promise.
But right now, you need to rest."
"I know,"
he submitted. "I'll go to the locker room and sleep a while. And I promise
to shower and shave before I come back."
She shooed him
on with a little hand motion. Ray went to the back of the facility where each
police officer had a locker. Several cots stood for use during disaster times. They
had been moved in after Hurricane Katrina. He plunked onto the nearest one and
instantly fell asleep.
A strange,
disconcerting dream floated into his subconscious as often happened. He dreamed
about himself, or thought it was himself. Although the person looked just like
Ray, it was someone entirely
different.
6
Compassionate
Captive
Larkin
started awake as the door to her prison creaked. "Hello?" she
ventured into the darkness. The sliver of window told her another gray dawn was
approaching.
"I brought
you some breakfast," said the voice from the night before. "Are you
all right? Do you need anything?"
"I need to
go home."
"Sorry. I
can't grant that wish." The man came closer. "I hope you like sausage
biscuits. I brought coffee and orange juice. Cream and sugar?"
"Just
cream—three."
"Want some
coffee with your milk?" The man's voice sounded light, almost laughing. He
offered her a Styrofoam cup.
She pretended
not to be able to reach the cup. "I can't reach it. Can you come closer?"
"Really? Why?
Do you want to see my face? Latrice wouldn't like that."
"Who's
Latrice?"
"She tells
me what to do. She told me how to get you here and what to do to keep you here
and how to take care of you. She told me what to make you for dinner last night.
Was it done right?"
"It was
delicious. Thank you so much." She
didn't try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Do you always listen to
Latrice?"
"I just
started hearing her a couple of weeks ago."
"I see,"
Larkin said, realizing she might be dealing with a mentally unstable person. She
walked as far as her leash would allow. "I really can't reach it. See?"
Larkin heard
relief in the man's voice as he said, "I guess your chain is a little
short."
"It does
reach the bathroom though," she said, trying to draw him into a
conversation. "But it's not really a bathroom. How am I supposed to bathe?"
"I…I don't
know. Latrice didn't say."
The man took a
couple of steps closer, but kept his face averted as he handed her a sausage
biscuit and a cup of coffee.
"I
appreciate it," she said honestly.
"Can you
carry your juice, too?"
"Um."
She balanced the biscuit on top of the cup. "Sure."
The man turned
to leave. Larkin said, "Please don't go. Stay and talk to me for a little
while. Have breakfast with me. I don't like to eat alone."
"But you
live alone."
"Ah, but
my cat always has breakfast with me." Larkin could not help but feel the
lonely melancholy as she thought of breakfasting only with Cyclops and the last
time she had been with him, she hadn't even been able to do that.
"I had a
dog when I was a kid," the man said guardedly. "He was a golden
retriever. His name was Dawg, D-A-W-G. I named him Dog, you know like in Big Jake. John Wayne's dog was just Dog,
but I spelled it D-A-W-G because he was a Southern dog."
"What
happened to him?"
"He was in
the back of my dad's truck when my dad and my little sister, Ronnie—Rhonda—hit
a deer. Dad lost control, and they were all killed. I was thirteen." He
paused. "Sometimes Dawg still comes to show me the way to go."
"I'm sorry.
You know, my parents were killed in a wreck when I was five. We have something
in common." She had a fleeting thought, Another Son of Sam? Oh, my God, he's listening to a dead dog. "Cyclops
is all alone. He might starve without
me," she said, hoping to gain sympathy for her pet as leverage.
"I have to
go. I'm not supposed to talk to you." The man stopped slouching and headed
for the door again.
Larkin surmised
he was about six feet tall. He wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, utilizing the
hood over his head to shield his face. It was hard to gauge his weight with the
shirt on, but he seemed thin, not skinny, but perhaps buff.
"Why can't
you talk to me?" she asked, desperate to keep her captor talking.
"Latrice
says your voice is strong, and you'll only confuse me."
"I don't want
to confuse you. I just want to know why someone as nice as you has me chained
to a bed. Are you going to rape me or kill me?"
"Neither! I
would never do that," the man said in a frightened voice. "I don't
want to do anything to you. Latrice wants you."
"What does
Latrice say she wants with me?"
"She says
you're the last. You're supposed to purify this country and bring forth a
leader to stop the chaos."
"How am I
supposed to do that?" Her stomach roiled.
"I don't
know. Latrice didn't say." A well manicured hand massaged the man's temple
area as if he were getting a headache.
"Let me
ask you something. How can a person do anything if she doesn't even know
Latrice? When will she be coming to meet me?"
"On your
special day." He dropped his hand to his side.
"The day I'm
to die like twelve other women? You said you wouldn't hurt me."
"No! No!"
the man said. Clearly agitated, he clenched his fists against his thighs.
"Latrice
wants to hurt me, but you don't. Don't listen to her. Listen to me."
"Stop!"
the man screamed as he put his hands over his ears. "Too many voices. I am
getting a headache."
Larkin spoke
softly. "I'm sorry. If you can't listen to me, listen to Dawg. Where would
he lead you?"
The man said pathetically,
"You don't understand. There are so many voices. It's a cacophony. Latrice
said if I listen to her, the voices will stop."
"How many
voices were there before Latrice?"
"Do you
really care?"
"Yes."
"A lot
before I started taking pills. Then, not so many."
"Are you
taking your pills?"
"No."
He shook his head. "Latrice said she could make the voices stop without
them."
"She lied.
Don't listen to her anymore."
"I would
do anything to stop the voices."
"Anything?"
"Yes."
"Would you
take your pills even though Latrice says not to?"
"I have to
get some more."
"Get some
and come back and talk to me. I can't promise the voices will leave, but I will try to help you. I swear it."
A strained
silence lingered several moments. "Why would you want to help me if you
think I want to hurt you?" he asked barely above a whisper.
"You don't
want to hurt me. Latrice does. She wants to hurt you, too. She is hurting you right now by not giving
you your medication. You need it."
"I can't
go back to the health department to get the pills."
Larkin could
tell she was getting through to the man. "Why?"
"Latrice
is there."
"Is
Latrice's voice there?"
"No, she's
there."
"Is
Latrice here?"
"No!"
The man's agitation elevated. "Latrice is not a voice, Larkin. She's real. She'll be so mad I talked to you."
"Don't
tell her. Do you know where the free clinic run by Charity Chapel is located?"
"Yes."
"They'll
take care of you. Tell them Larkin sent you."
The man began
to pace. "I have to get out of here. I have to stop the voices." He
headed for the door.
"Please!"
Larkin shouted.
"Please
what? Listen to your voice? Let you help?" The peculiar man came
into the small patch of light very close to her, and she looked into the bluest
eyes she had ever seen—the same eyes she had seen in her dream, yet not the
same. These eyes were lost, begging to be found. Though they had deep dark
circles, this man's eyes were breathtaking.
Without
thinking, she reached out and touched his cheek. She whispered, "No,
follow Dawg. I'm sure he'll lead you to safety. If you don't think you can
trust me, trust him. Maybe he's your guardian angel."
Blue eyes
backed away and left Larkin alone.
She put her
hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. She prayed. Oh, God, is he crazy? Please, God, send an angel to guide him. He's in
so much pain, so much trouble. Please, protect him. Show me how to help him.
Something about
the man made her feel deep compassion for him. Larkin could not help but think
something about this man just did not add up. He looks and smells like a street urchin, but the clothes he has on,
although dirty, are top-line. She had recognized the Diadora logo on the
sweatshirt. Only serious athletes wear
that. The jeans are American Eagle,
top-line mall apparel. His speech patterns are educated and cultured; his
vocabulary, amazing. And he also looks vaguely familiar. Where have I seen him?
She rubbed her
own temple. She lay back and gave into sleep once more. Again, she dreamed of
blue eyes, but this time Cyclops was with the blue eyes. The eyes seemed more
focused, more determined.
How I picture my characters:
Raiford--These are the actual eyes used on the cover.
Raifords at 30
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