Mystery/Thriller
Date Published: February 2018
Jesse Fairlane is missing. Max Larkin and Special Agent Michaels are unsure if this is related to a recent case involving human trafficking or something else. On top of trying to locate his partner, Max has to make a decision as to whether he leaves Rockton to work with the FBI or stays to become captain at the local police department. As Larkin, Michaels, and the other detectives work furiously to find Jesse before it's too late, Max finds himself despairing they'll find her alive. He struggles to maintain his relationship with Veronica and trying to be a friend to Jesse's girlfriend, Melissa, all while following a maze of clues to Jesse.
Excerpt:
The
convention had been long and tiring, and Fiona stifled a yawn. Then she caught
the eye of the man in the elevator, the man whom she'd met just hours before,
and giggled.
“Long day, eh?” he said.
She
nodded, too shy to say more. It was unthinkable almost. Unthinkable that a man
so attractive, so well dressed, so . . . what was the word?
Cosmopolitan, that was it. A man so cosmopolitan would be interested in her.
But then hadn't the last few days been unthinkable? She thought back to the
plane trip—her first—taking her away from Montana. She’d landed in the bright
lights of San Diego, yet another first. It was no wonder she was tired. Perhaps
that was why she'd thrown caution to the wind and accepted the invitation of
the man who was now impatiently hammering at the “door open” button, gesturing
for her to go first. Well, that and the fact that he wasn't a damn cowboy and
had manners, she thought.
She
stared around, taking in the artwork on the walls, the deep pile of the carpet
under her feet, and the shining wood of the doors in the corridor, as the man
held his key card against the lock, buzzing them into his suite. The interior
astounded her. He'd laughed when she had stoutly declared that she wouldn't go
to his hotel room, and now she could see why. This was an entire apartment with
no bed in sight to remind her of the things she refused to do on a first date.
There were enormous plate-glass windows lording over stylish furniture. A big
bowl of fruit sat on the counter of a well-equipped kitchen.
“Wow!” she said, unable to stop herself.
“Quite something, isn't it?” he said. “Glad
I’m expensing this rather than footing the bill.”
He
was a sales rep, he'd told her. Must be pretty good at his job to merit a hotel
like this.
“So, Fiona Turner,” he said, eyes flicking
down to the name badge that was still pinned to her chest. “Let me get you a
drink. I'd say we deserve one, wouldn't you?”
She
nodded and walked to the windows to look out over the glowing city below as he
strode to the kitchen area. She heard the pop of a cork as she tried to locate
landmarks below her. She felt the cool touch of glass against her hand, and
turned to take it from him.
He
stood next to her and they sipped while watching the city move toward slumber
for the night. At times, she could feel his stare on her in the glass. Whenever
she tried to catch him, he would take another sip to hide his eyes.
She
wasn't sure when she knew that something was wrong. At first it was nothing, a
little blurring around the edges of her vision, a slight dizziness when she
went to sit down. Perhaps the wine was hitting her harder than she’d imagined.
She shouldn't have skipped lunch to attend that talk. On the other hand, she
thought, perhaps she was just dehydrated. She took the last sip of crisp pinot
grigio in the stemmed glass. It was the last thing she remembered.
***
Her
mouth was dry. It took a moment to realize it wasn't from dehydration. There
was something in there—a piece of cloth. Her eyes were open, but the room was
so dark that she could see only lumps of shapes, nothing more. All around was
the sound of rustling, a kind of sighing noise, almost as if the room were
breathing around her. Her heart beat hard in her chest. She struggled, but the
restraints that held her to the chair wouldn't give.
What
the hell had she done? She'd heard of things like this—of course she had—but
things like this didn't happen to her. Didn't happen to nice girls from Montana
who still had their high school boyfriend's letter jacket in their closet.
Blood thrummed through her veins, and as the restraints refused to move, she
panicked, working harder until she was sure her wrists were bleeding. Only then
did she realize she wasn't going anywhere. There was no escape, and she was
going to become a statistic. A flash of the man's face came to the forefront of
her mind, and she could hold it back no more. She screamed as loud and long as
she could, the sound muffled by the gag, barely making any noise at all. She
tried again and again and again as tears poured down her cheeks.
***
The
door made no sound as it opened, and it was only when the light hit her face,
burning orange through her eyelids, that Fiona knew someone was coming. It was
the police, she thought, her pulse quickening. Police flashlights—that must be
it. For a brief millisecond she held onto the thought of rescue, the fantasy
that anyone knew where she was, and then steeled herself as she opened her
eyes.
A
figure was moving, certainly not the police. Average build, slim, the figure
moved with grace, but not with authority. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to
the dim light. There was crackling and rustling, and now she knew why.
Everything was covered in industrial plastic, huge thick sheets covering the furniture,
walls, and ceiling in a layer that looked almost like water. She screamed
again, but this time there was only a gurgle from her raw, scratched throat.
The
figure was fiddling with something just out of sight. Fiona couldn't identify
the strange scratching noise until the record began to play on the old
gramophone. Her eyes wide with fear, she followed the figure as it swayed to
the music, an old nursery rhyme, a song she barely remembered from childhood.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden
grow?” croaked the voice from the speaker.
Suddenly
there was light, real light, and Fiona slammed her eyes closed.
“Open your eyes.”
She
shook her head.
“Open your eyes.”
The
voice was pleasant, a deep alto or a high tenor. Male or female, she couldn't
tell. Not disguised, but neutral. Fiona swallowed. Face things head on, she
thought; that was the only chance of her getting out here. Open her eyes, be
obedient, do as she was told, and perhaps, maybe, there would be a chance of
escape. Be compliant. Blinking, she managed to squint her eyes open, then open
them fully.
“. . . and pretty maids all in
a row,” sang the gramophone.
The
figure was in front of her now. All dressed in black, a black hood, a black
balaclava. Close enough that Fiona could smell the comforting scent of wet,
fertile earth.
She
was sitting in a circle of light. The figure stretched out a gloved hand and
stroked her cheek. Fiona forced herself not to flinch.
“So beautiful. So beautiful.”
She
fought against the desire to close her eyes again, to move instinctively away
from the hand.
“But not as beautiful as you'll be when I'm
done with you.”
Her
eyes flickered away, anything not to look at the figure in front of her. She
caught sight of the glint of something just outside her circle of light. Metal.
A lot of metal. Tools maybe? She analyzed what she was seeing, hoping to figure
out what was going on. She could come up with only one theory. Her eyes closed
again against her will, a scream ripping from her throat but making no sound.
“Eyes open,” reminded the figure.
But
she couldn't, just couldn't.
“Mary, Mary,” began the record again, the
voices of small children singing now.
There
were sounds of footsteps on the plastic, the clink as metallic objects touched,
then a breath of air as the figure came back. The touch of metal was cold on
her skin, the light entering her head as her eyelid was lifted, burning into
her mind. And the pain was excruciating. So much so that she barely noticed as
the same action was done to the other eye. With no escape to darkness now, she
could clearly see the industrial stapler in the figure's hand.
“That's better. I wouldn't want you to miss
anything.”
The
figure reached out, pulling the rolling tray of tools toward the light, letting
them shine and glisten as if showing them off. Pruning shears, knives,
gardening scissors—Fiona could name them all, but her shaking body was so full
of pain and fear that she barely saw them.
“Do you have any preferences for which I
should use first?”
She
was trembling now, unable to control herself. A trickle of warmth came from
between her legs, rapidly strengthening until she had completely emptied her
bladder and only the gentle tick-tick of drops on the plastic sounded.
“No preference then?”
The
figure picked up the pruning shears and admired them, clicking the handles a
few times, letting the blades slip together with a satisfying clash. Fiona
could barely think now. What had she ever done to deserve this? Random pictures
flitted in and out of her mind: her puppy, her mother's face, the new couch
she'd just bought. And all the while the shears came closer and closer. Her
fingers gripped the arms of her chair, but she didn't have enough strength to
stop what was happening. Her finger was suddenly touching sharp blades followed
by a sharp crunch, and again she tried to scream. Her always-open eyes saw her
right index finger roll away across the plastic, leaving a smear of blood
behind it.
“. . . cockleshells and silver
bells and pretty maids . . .” sang the children.
The
figure nodded in approval, satisfied with the tool. The shears moved, and for a
moment Fiona felt relief, but then they were back and the feel of metal on her
face was burning cold. She had no sound left inside her to do anything but sit
mutely as it happened. Her nose joined her finger.
“So beautiful,” said the figure, moving the
shears toward Fiona's ear. “So beautiful.”
Blackness
was closing in now. She managed to stay conscious through both ears and another
finger. The figure wiped off the shears, cleaning them before reaching for a
tree saw. Fiona moaned as her shirt was ripped open, as the knife slit through
her bra straps. The serrated edge pricked her skin. As it began to saw through
her breast, she finally, mercifully succumbed to the void.
“So beautiful.”
They
were the last words that Fiona Turner ever heard.
About the Author
Perhaps you wouldn't characterize the Finance Manager of your local automobile dealership as an Amazon best-selling author--until you get to know Todd Thiede. He has worked for the past decade at Elmhurst Toyota, but Thiede is in the driver's seat as the writer of a murder mystery series featuring his hero Detective, Max Larkin. "Time Killer," which Kirkus Reviews deemed "a fast-paced thriller" that will "keep crime and thriller fans wrapped up in its twisting plot, fast pace and memorable detective,", "Lies To Die For" (which reached No. 1 on Amazon in the "Serial Killer" category), Miss Me? (3rd in the series) and Slashtag (4th in the series) are available via Amazon Kindle.
Go to www.toddthiede.com for more info on Todd and his books.
According to Kirkus reviews (the toughest book reviewer in the business):
A fast-paced thriller centered on a brutal, time-obsessed serial killer.
The expression "killing time" rarely means murder, but here, the victims of a serial killer must pay for time they've wasted, often with both their money and their lives. In a brutal scene from the opening chapter, an entire family is murdered after a stranger invades the family's home and accuses the patriarch of wasting his time. Veteran cop Max Larkin is on the case. Unfortunately, he's also been assigned a new partner; though she's green in the field--she has "very sad eyes" and prays upon arriving at the first crime scene--she gives the hardened old detective a new perspective he never knew he needed. But as the serial killer claims more victims, a pattern emerges that neither Max nor his new partner can ignore. With brisk pacing, Thiede's debut brims with action, violence and, occasionally, emotion. Though the book takes a while to find its heart, procedural fans will feel right at home. Larkin feels like a guy worth rooting for, despite filling the shoes of the beaten-down, grizzled, old loner cop trope a little too well. His interactions with his new partner, plus the twists and revelations regarding his past, give him enough of a pass to get readers invested in the story
and looking forward to his next outing. Larkin's story doesn't break any boundaries, but it'll keep crime and thriller fans wrapped up in its twisting plot, fast pace and memorable detective. Plenty of shock value and a charismatic, if formulaic, male lead.
Contact Links
1 comments:
Thank you for posting
Post a Comment