Showing posts with label july 4th 2023. Show all posts
Showing posts with label july 4th 2023. Show all posts
Sunday, July 9, 2023
🎇Sunday's Safe Word Shelf(Independence Day Edition)🎇: Star-Spangled Showdown by Hank Edwards
Williamsville Inn #6
A fireworks salesman intent on making his mark in his family’s business.
A twice divorced father in desperate need of a sale and a new love life.
A week-long town celebration that sparks their competitive natures.
Owen Gillespie is no stranger to competition. But his plan to spend Independence Day week at the Williamsville Inn before pitching his fireworks proposal is derailed when he meets a handsome and snarky man in the elevator.
Dom Mitchell has two marriages behind him and three kids he’s supporting. His bisexual awakening has opened him up to dating men for the first time, but he isn’t looking for a serious relationship; he’s in town to sell a fireworks package.
When both men realize they’re vying for the same business, they decide to turn it into a competition. But things slip out of their control when the mayor learns of their agreement and proposes some challenges of her own. These two corporate rivals will need to work together even as they’re competing against each other to woo the mayor and other city officials, all while keeping their mutual attraction a secret and their hearts in check.
At the end of the week, only one of them will be leaving town with a signed contract, but the sparks between them are undeniable, and their love life might just be the most dazzling display of all.
This funny, snarky, and steamy story about corporate rivals turned lovers with a slight age gap and a spanking fetish is set in the Williamsville Inn world but can be read as a standalone story.
When the doors opened on the third floor, Dom led the way down the hall. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Want to just come to my room real quick while I change shoes?”
“Yep. That sounds good.”
They passed Owen’s room, and he didn’t even glance at the door, his eyes instead locked on Dom’s ass as if they had a mind of their own. What was going to happen inside Dom’s room? Would Dom turn and kiss him? Throw him on the bed and strip his clothes off him then stuff his cock down Owen’s throat before ramming it up his ass?
Owen’s breath came in short pants, and his head spun. He wanted this, that was for sure. God, how badly he wanted Dom. But would it be wise to do this his first day—hell, his first few hours—in town? What if they had sex and then Dom was done with him? They were staying on the same floor, a half dozen rooms away from each other. Did Owen really need that kind of distraction as he worked on getting a contract signed with the city?
He stood a couple of feet back, watching wide-eyed as Dom slid the keycard into the lock and pushed the door open. Owen followed him into the room, his head feeling light enough to disconnect from his shoulders and float up off his body.
“Your room pretty much the same layout?” Dom asked as he kicked his flip-flops off by the dresser and scuffed the soles of his feet along the carpet as he approached the closet.
“Yeah. Yep.”
Owen stood by the door with his back to the wall, mouth dry as he watched Dom move about, picking a pair of low-rise socks from a drawer and sitting on the edge of the mattress to put them on. He was afraid to step any farther into the room for fear of losing any semblance of control and throwing himself on the man. What had been fun and flirty in the elevator and pub now felt dangerous and nerve-wracking.
What was wrong with him? If anything happened it would just be sex, that’s all. Sex between two consenting men.
But there was more than that between them already. Owen could feel it. And if Dom couldn’t feel it, or if Dom didn’t want to feel it, Owen didn’t think he’d handle it very well.
Suddenly, Dom stood before him, running shoes laced onto his feet, and a sexy half-smile curling up one corner of his mouth.
“Before we head out again, how about one more thing?”
Dom’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. He took off his Yankee hat and leaned in, stopping before his lips made contact. Owen sucked in a breath. His heart pounded and blood rushed through his body. A ringing started in his left ear. He could feel the brush of Dom’s dark, almost black whiskers mingling with his own ginger-colored beard.
“This okay?” Dom asked, his breath warm against Owen’s skin.
Owen drew in a breath, pulling Dom’s exhalation into his lungs. “Yes.”
The kiss was soft and sweet. There was no tongue, not even a quick lick across Owen’s lips. Owen trembled, and when Dom pulled away, the warmth of his mouth lingered. Owen opened his eyes to see Dom smiling. He had no idea what to say. It felt like every circuit in his brain had been thrown, and all he could do was stare.
“You good?” Dom asked.
The circuits snapped back into place, and Owen smiled. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Dom cupped a hand against the side of Owen’s face and brushed his thumb along his cheek. “Good. I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.”
“Thanks.”
Dom chuckled. “You’re welcome, I guess. Now, how about we go find that waterfall?”
“Um, yeah, sure. Okay. Let’s go.”
When Dom stepped back, Owen turned for the door and pulled it open, stepping out in the hall. What the hell had just happened? And what the hell was going to happen next? Over the course of a few hours, this typical sales trip had become completely upended.
Hank Edwards has been writing gay romantic fiction for more than twenty years. He has published over thirty novels and dozens of short stories. His writing crosses many sub-genres, including romantic comedy, contemporary, paranormal, suspense, mystery, and wacky comedy.
He has written a number of series such as the funny and spooky Critter Catchers, Old West historical horror Venom Valley Series, suspenseful Up to Trouble series, and the very erotic and very funny Fluffers, Inc., He is also part of the shared universe Williamsville Inn series of contemporary gay romance books that feature stories by Brigham Vaughn as well. He's written a YA urban fantasy gay romance series called The Town of Superstition, which is published under the pen name R. G. Thomas.
No matter what genre he writes, Hank likes to keep things steamy, kind of sassy, and heartfelt. He was born and still lives in a northwest suburb of the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan.
Star-Spangled Showdown
Saturday, July 8, 2023
🎧🎇Saturday's Series Spotlight(Independence Day Edition)🎇🎧: The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks by Josh Lanyon
Summary:
His romantic weekend in ruins, shy twenty-something artist Perry Foster learns that things can always get worse when he returns home from San Francisco to find a dead body in his bathtub. A dead body in a very ugly sportscoat -- and matching socks.
The dead man is a stranger to Perry, but that's not much of a comfort; how did a strange dead man get in a locked flat at the isolated Alton Estate in the wilds of the "Northeast Kingdom" of Vermont? Perry turns to help from "tall, dark and hostile" former navy SEAL Nick Reno -- but is Reno all that he seems?
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out #2
RATING:
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out #2
Author Bio:
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out #2
Summary:
To live and draw in L.A.
Now living in Los Angeles with former navy SEAL Nick Reno, artist Perry Foster comes to the rescue of elderly and eccentric Horace Daly, the legendary film star of such horror classics as Why Won’t You Die, My Darling?
Horace owns the famous, but now run-down, Hollywood hotel Angels Rest, rumored to be haunted. But as far as Perry can tell, the scariest thing about Angels Rest is the cast of crazy tenants--one of whom seems determined to bring down the final curtain on Horace--and anyone else who gets in the way.
The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks #1
Original Review June 2014:
I enjoyed the characters real well. Perry isn't the typical hero and yet with the help of fellow boarder, Nick Reno, that's exactly what he becomes. Not only do they solve an intriguing mystery together but they also find something in each other that they really weren't looking for and definitely weren't expecting.
Some people just find a way of burrowing their way into your hearts and Josh Lanyon has an amazing way of repeatedly bringing us characters that do just that, and this book is chock full of them.
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out #2
I enjoyed the characters real well. Perry isn't the typical hero and yet with the help of fellow boarder, Nick Reno, that's exactly what he becomes. Not only do they solve an intriguing mystery together but they also find something in each other that they really weren't looking for and definitely weren't expecting.
Some people just find a way of burrowing their way into your hearts and Josh Lanyon has an amazing way of repeatedly bringing us characters that do just that, and this book is chock full of them.
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out #2
Original Review January 2019:
When Perry Foster set out to do some renderings of the run-down Hollywood Hotel, Angels Rest, he never expected to come to a stranger's rescue but when he heard the screams he went to investigate. When he returns home to find his boyfriend back early from his own investigation he talks Nick into going with him back to Angels Rest where a small cast of eccentric tenants make for an interesting weekend. Will Perry and Nick discover who or what is after Horace, the legendary horror actor before the final curtain falls for the last time?
It has been about four years since I read The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks where Perry and Nick meet and I normally would have re-read book one before starting The Ghost had an Early Check-Out to "refresh my memory" but I didn't and you know what? I remember everything of the boys that I fell for ages ago. Now I don't want to say too much about the plot since this is a mystery and so many points can be important and telling but I will say I loved every eccentric and crazy moment of Early Check-Out.
The occupants of Angels Rest is definitely a cast of characters that made Perry and Nick's "case" intriguing. I wanted to laugh, scream, and even pull my hair out at times. You know what Perry ran into when he chased after Horace's screams and yet there is always that inkling of doubt to just what it all meant and who was really behind it. Its these moments where doubt and certainty war within the reader that make this mystery standout and kept me guessing.
So often in series, the second entry can be more about the couple finding their footing and keeping the relationship moving forward but with Early Check-Out that doesn't enter into it. Sure there are fleeting moments of internal "What have I got myself into?" for the pair but it really doesn't become a factor of the story and I very much appreciated that element. I hope there will be more of Perry and Nick in the future because they are a pair that is not getting old anytime soon.
The Ghost had an Early Check-Out is definitely a story with present day attitudes and yet its got just enough of a classic feel that I expected the likes of Humphrey Bogart or Dick Powell to turn up asking questions with their own brand of sarcastic wit. Definitely a delightful blend of mayhem and fun to make this a winning read.
It has been about four years since I read The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks where Perry and Nick meet and I normally would have re-read book one before starting The Ghost had an Early Check-Out to "refresh my memory" but I didn't and you know what? I remember everything of the boys that I fell for ages ago. Now I don't want to say too much about the plot since this is a mystery and so many points can be important and telling but I will say I loved every eccentric and crazy moment of Early Check-Out.
The occupants of Angels Rest is definitely a cast of characters that made Perry and Nick's "case" intriguing. I wanted to laugh, scream, and even pull my hair out at times. You know what Perry ran into when he chased after Horace's screams and yet there is always that inkling of doubt to just what it all meant and who was really behind it. Its these moments where doubt and certainty war within the reader that make this mystery standout and kept me guessing.
So often in series, the second entry can be more about the couple finding their footing and keeping the relationship moving forward but with Early Check-Out that doesn't enter into it. Sure there are fleeting moments of internal "What have I got myself into?" for the pair but it really doesn't become a factor of the story and I very much appreciated that element. I hope there will be more of Perry and Nick in the future because they are a pair that is not getting old anytime soon.
The Ghost had an Early Check-Out is definitely a story with present day attitudes and yet its got just enough of a classic feel that I expected the likes of Humphrey Bogart or Dick Powell to turn up asking questions with their own brand of sarcastic wit. Definitely a delightful blend of mayhem and fun to make this a winning read.
Overall Duology Review
Original Audiobook Review July 2023:
It's been 9 years since I originally read Yellow Socks and 4-1/2 since Early Check-Out, you'd think everything would be brand new after that long . . . it wasn't! Sometimes I wished my memory wasn't so good when it comes to reading and viewing as I miss that adrenaline rush you can only get from the first time but for me, knowing the work doesn't lessen the enjoyment, never has. Well this duology(though I do wish there were more than just the two) is just as entertaining in audio as it was in reading.
Not a lot I can say(or will say😉) about the plots that wasn't already covered in my original reviews so I'll just make a few comments on narration. I tend to enjoy audios of series more when it's the same narrator but different voice performers happen for a variety of reasons and life happens, certainly not something that ruins a series for me though I know it bothers some so that's why I mention it.
Who did Perry & Nick better, Max Miller or Michael Pauley? Hard to say. Miller might have a slight edge but for me that is much more likely to be the case simply because he brought the characters to life first, similar to the way I prefer an the first actor in a series who gets recast later on, neither is necessarily better than the other just who we meet first. As for this duology there was only a few days between listens but Miller was still first and therefore slightly more fitting. Pauley does the pair wonderfully and personally I chalk the difference in nuances to Perry and Nick growing, individually and as a pair, we all change over time and I look at different narrations in that way as well, making Pauley also very well suited when bringing life to the zany mayhem that the men find themselves facing.
As it was with the original discovering of the men and their mysteries, the blend of chemistry, humor, mayhem, and romance is spot on and never boring. Certainly won't be years before I visit this pair again.
The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks #1
Perry, who had just spent the most painful and humiliating twenty-four hours of his life, and had driven over an hour from the airport in blinding rain to reach the relative peace and privacy of the chilly rooms he rented at the old Alston Estate, stood there gaping.
His headache vanished. He forgot about being exhausted and starving and soaked to the skin. He forgot about wishing he was dead, because here was someone dead, and it wasn’t pretty.
His fingers still rested on the light switch. Perry turned the overhead lights off. In the darkness he heard rain rattling against the window; he heard his breathing which sounded fast and scared; and from the living room he heard the soft chime of the clock he had bought at the thrift store on Bethlehem Road. Nine slow, silvery chimes. Nine o’clock.
Perry switched the light back on.
The dead man was still in his bathtub.
“It’s not possible,” Perry whispered.
Apparently this didn’t convince the corpse who continued to stare at him under half-closed eyelids.
The dead man was a stranger; Perry was pretty sure of that. It — he — was middle-aged and he needed a shave. His face was sort of greenish-red, the cheeks sunken in as though his features were slipping. His legs stuck out over the side of the tub like a mannequin’s. One shoe had a hole in the sole. His socks were yellow. Goldenrod, actually. They matched the ugly checked jacket.
The stranger was definitely dead. His chest wasn’t moving at all, his mouth was ajar but no sounds came out. Perry didn’t have to touch him to make sure he was dead, and nothing on earth would have made him touch the corpse anyway.
He could discern no signs of violence. There didn’t seem to be any blood. Nor water. The tub was dry and empty — except for the dead man. It didn’t look like he had been strangled. Maybe he had died of natural causes?
Maybe he’d had a heart attack?
But what was he doing having heart attacks in Perry’s locked apartment?
Perry’s glance lit on the mirror over the sink, and he started, for an instant not recognizing the pale-faced hollow-eyed reflection as his own. His hazel eyes looked huge and black in his frightened face, and his blonde hair seemed to be standing on end.
Backing out of the bathroom, Perry closed the door. He stood there trying to work it out through the fog of weariness and bewilderment. Then, eyes still pinned on the closed door, he took another step backwards and fell over his suitcase which was sitting in the center of the front room floor.
The fall jarred Perry’s thoughts into some kind of order. Scrambling up, he bolted for the apartment door. His fingers scrabbled to undo the deadbolt.
He yanked open the door, but it banged shut as though wrenched away by a ghostly hand. He realized the chain was still on. With shaking fingers he unfastened the chain and slammed out of the flat.
It seemed impossible that the hall should look just as it had when he walked upstairs five minutes earlier. Wall sconces cast creepy shadows down the mile of faded crimson carpet, which led to the winding staircase. Though the hall was empty, Perry felt that he was being watched.
He listened. Rain whispered against the windows, as though the house complained of the damp, the wood rot, the mustiness that permeated its aged bones. But it was the ominous silence on the other side of his own door that seemed to flood out everything else.
What was he waiting for? What did he expect to hear? Panic gripped him. He was desperate to get downstairs to lights and people, but he was afraid to make a noise, a sudden move, afraid that something unseen waited for him in the dim recesses of the long hall.
He had to force himself to take the first step. Then he barreled down the hallway, narrowly missing the half-dead aspidistras in their tall marble planters. Every moment he expected to feel a knife between his shoulder blades.
When he reached the head of the stairs, he had to hang tight to the banister; his knees were jelly. He took a second to catch his breath and then headed down the stairs. Fifteen steps; he took them two at a time.
Reaching the second floor, he hesitated. Ex-cop Rudy Stein lived on this floor. An ex-cop ought to know what to do.
Mr. Watson had also lived on this floor, but he had died a week ago in Burlington. His rooms were locked, all his belongings waiting for someone who would never return.
Maybe it was this memory, or maybe it was the notion of facing another dark, drafty hallway, that sent Perry half-falling, half-running down the rest of the grand staircase until, at last, he reached the ground floor, which served as the lobby of Mrs. MacQueen’s boarding house.
Someone was just coming in the front door, pushing it closed against the sheets of rain. Overhead the chandelier tinkled musically in the gust of the storm’s breath, throwing eerie blue and red shadows across the man’s figure.
He wore a hooded olive parka, and for a moment Perry didn’t recognize him. In fact, he couldn’t see any face at all in the cowl of the parka, and (his nerves shot to hell) he gasped, the soft sound carrying in the quiet hall.
Shoving the hood back the man stared at Perry. Now Perry recognized him. He was new to Mrs. MacQueen’s rooming house; an ex-marine or something. Tall, dark and hostile.
Perry opened his mouth to inform the newcomer about the dead man upstairs, but weirdly enough the words wouldn’t come. Maybe he was in shock. He felt kind of funny; detached, rather light-headed. He hoped he wasn’t going to pass out. That would be too humiliating.
“What’s with you?” the man said. He was frowning, but then he was always frowning, so there wasn’t anything in that. He actually wasn’t that tall, but he was muscular, solid. A human Rock of Gibraltar.
Finally Perry’s vocal chords worked, but the man couldn’t seem to make out Perry’s choked words. He took a step closer. His eyes were blue, marine-blue, which seemed appropriate, Perry thought, still on that distant plane.
“What’s the problem, kid?” he asked brusquely.
Obviously there was a problem. Breathlessly Perry tried to explain it. He pointed upwards, his hand shaking like a Jesus freak who lacked conviction, and he tried to get some words out between the gasps.
And now the corpse upstairs was the second problem, because the first problem was, he couldn’t breathe.
“Jesus Christ!” said the ex-marine, watching his struggle.
Perry lowered himself to the carpeted bottom step of the grand staircase, and fished around for his inhaler.
Chapter One
There was a strange man in Perry’s bathtub. He was wearing a sports coat — a rather ugly sports coat. And he was dead.Perry, who had just spent the most painful and humiliating twenty-four hours of his life, and had driven over an hour from the airport in blinding rain to reach the relative peace and privacy of the chilly rooms he rented at the old Alston Estate, stood there gaping.
His headache vanished. He forgot about being exhausted and starving and soaked to the skin. He forgot about wishing he was dead, because here was someone dead, and it wasn’t pretty.
His fingers still rested on the light switch. Perry turned the overhead lights off. In the darkness he heard rain rattling against the window; he heard his breathing which sounded fast and scared; and from the living room he heard the soft chime of the clock he had bought at the thrift store on Bethlehem Road. Nine slow, silvery chimes. Nine o’clock.
Perry switched the light back on.
The dead man was still in his bathtub.
“It’s not possible,” Perry whispered.
Apparently this didn’t convince the corpse who continued to stare at him under half-closed eyelids.
The dead man was a stranger; Perry was pretty sure of that. It — he — was middle-aged and he needed a shave. His face was sort of greenish-red, the cheeks sunken in as though his features were slipping. His legs stuck out over the side of the tub like a mannequin’s. One shoe had a hole in the sole. His socks were yellow. Goldenrod, actually. They matched the ugly checked jacket.
The stranger was definitely dead. His chest wasn’t moving at all, his mouth was ajar but no sounds came out. Perry didn’t have to touch him to make sure he was dead, and nothing on earth would have made him touch the corpse anyway.
He could discern no signs of violence. There didn’t seem to be any blood. Nor water. The tub was dry and empty — except for the dead man. It didn’t look like he had been strangled. Maybe he had died of natural causes?
Maybe he’d had a heart attack?
But what was he doing having heart attacks in Perry’s locked apartment?
Perry’s glance lit on the mirror over the sink, and he started, for an instant not recognizing the pale-faced hollow-eyed reflection as his own. His hazel eyes looked huge and black in his frightened face, and his blonde hair seemed to be standing on end.
Backing out of the bathroom, Perry closed the door. He stood there trying to work it out through the fog of weariness and bewilderment. Then, eyes still pinned on the closed door, he took another step backwards and fell over his suitcase which was sitting in the center of the front room floor.
The fall jarred Perry’s thoughts into some kind of order. Scrambling up, he bolted for the apartment door. His fingers scrabbled to undo the deadbolt.
He yanked open the door, but it banged shut as though wrenched away by a ghostly hand. He realized the chain was still on. With shaking fingers he unfastened the chain and slammed out of the flat.
It seemed impossible that the hall should look just as it had when he walked upstairs five minutes earlier. Wall sconces cast creepy shadows down the mile of faded crimson carpet, which led to the winding staircase. Though the hall was empty, Perry felt that he was being watched.
He listened. Rain whispered against the windows, as though the house complained of the damp, the wood rot, the mustiness that permeated its aged bones. But it was the ominous silence on the other side of his own door that seemed to flood out everything else.
What was he waiting for? What did he expect to hear? Panic gripped him. He was desperate to get downstairs to lights and people, but he was afraid to make a noise, a sudden move, afraid that something unseen waited for him in the dim recesses of the long hall.
He had to force himself to take the first step. Then he barreled down the hallway, narrowly missing the half-dead aspidistras in their tall marble planters. Every moment he expected to feel a knife between his shoulder blades.
When he reached the head of the stairs, he had to hang tight to the banister; his knees were jelly. He took a second to catch his breath and then headed down the stairs. Fifteen steps; he took them two at a time.
Reaching the second floor, he hesitated. Ex-cop Rudy Stein lived on this floor. An ex-cop ought to know what to do.
Mr. Watson had also lived on this floor, but he had died a week ago in Burlington. His rooms were locked, all his belongings waiting for someone who would never return.
Maybe it was this memory, or maybe it was the notion of facing another dark, drafty hallway, that sent Perry half-falling, half-running down the rest of the grand staircase until, at last, he reached the ground floor, which served as the lobby of Mrs. MacQueen’s boarding house.
Someone was just coming in the front door, pushing it closed against the sheets of rain. Overhead the chandelier tinkled musically in the gust of the storm’s breath, throwing eerie blue and red shadows across the man’s figure.
He wore a hooded olive parka, and for a moment Perry didn’t recognize him. In fact, he couldn’t see any face at all in the cowl of the parka, and (his nerves shot to hell) he gasped, the soft sound carrying in the quiet hall.
Shoving the hood back the man stared at Perry. Now Perry recognized him. He was new to Mrs. MacQueen’s rooming house; an ex-marine or something. Tall, dark and hostile.
Perry opened his mouth to inform the newcomer about the dead man upstairs, but weirdly enough the words wouldn’t come. Maybe he was in shock. He felt kind of funny; detached, rather light-headed. He hoped he wasn’t going to pass out. That would be too humiliating.
“What’s with you?” the man said. He was frowning, but then he was always frowning, so there wasn’t anything in that. He actually wasn’t that tall, but he was muscular, solid. A human Rock of Gibraltar.
Finally Perry’s vocal chords worked, but the man couldn’t seem to make out Perry’s choked words. He took a step closer. His eyes were blue, marine-blue, which seemed appropriate, Perry thought, still on that distant plane.
“What’s the problem, kid?” he asked brusquely.
Obviously there was a problem. Breathlessly Perry tried to explain it. He pointed upwards, his hand shaking like a Jesus freak who lacked conviction, and he tried to get some words out between the gasps.
And now the corpse upstairs was the second problem, because the first problem was, he couldn’t breathe.
“Jesus Christ!” said the ex-marine, watching his struggle.
Perry lowered himself to the carpeted bottom step of the grand staircase, and fished around for his inhaler.
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out #2
It was after eleven by the time Nick got home.
The apartment was dark and silent. It smelled of paint and linseed oil, which was how home smelled now. It would not smell like cooking because Perry did not bother to cook when Nick was not around for meals. It was a question as to whether he even bothered to eat.
Nick quietly set his bag down and turned on the living room light. God it was good to be back. He looked around approvingly. The room was comfortably furnished. His old blue sofa was positioned against one wall. Two small end tables they’d picked up at a Goodwill store sat at either end. The tables were topped with matching alabaster lamps that Perry assured him were terrific finds. Maybe. Nick had doubts about the antiquated wiring, but Perry loved them, so he’d bought the lamps. Nick’s framed seascape hung on the opposite wall. A tall mahogany bookshelf, another Goodwill find, held Perry’s paperbacks and his vintage clock. They were using an old trunk for their coffee table. Most of the remaining available space was taken up with Perry’s canvases—those that were either on their way out to galleries and local shops or those on their way back.
Everything appeared neat and tidy and in its place. Everything but Perry.
A quick glance in the bedroom verified that he was not in. Nick swallowed his disappointment. It was unusual for Perry to go to bed before midnight, and he hadn’t known Nick was heading back to LA—Nick hadn’t wanted to let him down in case things didn’t wrap up on schedule—however, a survey of the apartment made it clear that not only was Perry not there, he hadn’t been home since breakfast.
His rinsed cereal bowl sat in the sink. A box of Froot Loops sat on the breakfast counter. Perry teased Nick being a neat freak, but he also did his best to accommodate those fifteen years of military regimen and order.
Nick stared at the red and white cereal bowl with a sinking feeling.
There were any number of benign explanations for why Perry wasn’t home. He could be out with friends. He wasn’t exactly a party animal, but he had made friends in art school and he did hang out with them occasionally. He wouldn’t have left a note because he wasn’t expecting to see Nick until tomorrow evening at the earliest.
He could have gone to a movie.
There were less benign possibilities too.
He could be stranded somewhere. That piece of junk car of his was always breaking down.
He could have had a severe asthma attack and landed in the hospital. Although, fortunately, he was so much better now that he was on those controller medications, an attack wasn’t the concern it once would have been. LA’s smog wasn’t great for him, but it had been months since he’d had a real flare-up.
Nick listened to the sound of traffic outside the apartment as he continued to uneasily study Perry’s cereal bowl. The streets were never silent here. At three o’clock in the morning, you could still hear the rush of the nearby freeway.
Well, it was a trade-off. Peace and quiet in exchange for a real job for him and a decent art school for Perry.
Unbidden, another thought slithered into his brain: he could have met someone.
What the hell? Where was that thought coming from? It wasn’t the first time either. He rejected it instantly, impatiently. For God’s sake. Perry wasn’t home to greet him and his thoughts jumped there?
It wasn’t like he was even the jealous type. He knew Perry loved him, and God knew he loved Perry. More than he’d ever imagined he could love anyone. He trusted Perry.
But there was that ten-year age gap and the fact that Perry had never been exposed to so many other gay men before the move to LA.
Bullshit. Working all these goddamned divorce cases was what even put the thought in his head.
That said, he’d have to be blind not to notice the way other guys responded to Perry—or the way Perry responded to finally getting some appreciative male attention. Meaning only that Perry’s blushing confusion at being flirted with was touching.
And the kid was alone a lot. It couldn’t be helped. Nick was low man on the totem pole and most of the out-of-town and late-night gigs fell to him. Fair enough. He was grateful for the job and beyond grateful at the possibility that he might even be made a partner eventually. But it meant Perry was on his own in the big, bad city a lot of the time.
And so what? Whatever was keeping Perry out at this time of night, it was not some illicit affair. That the idea even crossed his mind was proof Nick was spending way too much time photographing cheating wives and double-dealing husbands.
Whatever. The job was what it was, and what it mostly was, was adulterous spouses and fraudulent insurance claims. He was lucky to have it. But. Not exactly why he’d become a navy SEAL.
But then he wasn’t a SEAL anymore.
Nick was brooding over this, staring out the window over the kitchen sink at the smog-dimmed stars when he heard the smothered sound of Perry’s cough outside the apartment door. He stepped out of the kitchen as Perry’s key turned the lock.
Perry opened the door, clearly surprised to find the lights on. His thin, pointy face lit up as he spotted Nick. “Hey, you’re home!”
Nick retorted, “One detective per family is e—” but the rest of it was cut off as Perry launched himself. Nick’s arms automatically locked around him and his mouth came down hard on Perry’s eager one.
What was it about Perry? He was cute enough, sure. Medium height, lanky, and boyish-looking. His hair was blonde and spiky. His eyes were big and brown and as long lashed as a cartoon character. In this town where two out of every three guys looked like they were trying out for a role in a major motion picture, Perry was almost strikingly ordinary. Maybe that was it. The fact that Perry didn’t look like everyone else. That he didn’t act like everyone else.
It was funny though because Perry was almost the complete opposite of what Nick had always thought was his type. Not that he had really thought of himself as having a type—beyond wanting someone with a penis.
Even after nine months, that unstinting…what the hell would you call it? Sweetness sounded too sappy, but there was something so honest, so generous in Perry’s responses. It made Nick’s heart feel too big for his chest. Closed his throat so that he could rarely say the things he wanted to say, things that Perry deserved to hear.
I love you. It scares me how much I love you.
Instead, he said gruffly, “Where the hell have you been at this hour?”
Perry didn’t seem to hear the gruffness. His wide brown eyes smiled guilelessly up into Nick’s. “I was sketching—”
He had to stop though, starting to wheeze. He threw an apologetic look at Nick and dug out his rescue inhaler. He took a couple of quick puffs while Nick watched, frowning.
This was not good. He didn’t like the sudden alarming reappearance of coughing and wheezing. He put a hand on Perry’s shoulder. Under Nick’s tutelage, Perry had built up some muscle, but he had not really put on much weight. His shoulders were still bony, his collarbones sharp.
“You okay?”
Perry put the inhaler away—he didn’t like using it in front of Nick. As if he thought Nick looked down on him for it?
He said, “It was so dusty up there!”
“Where? Where’ve you been?” Nick hoped he didn’t sound as accusatory as he did to his own ears.
“I drove up to Angel’s Rest.”
“Where?”
“That old hotel in the hills. Remember at Dorian’s exhibition last Saturday? The 1920s hotel in those photos?”
“The abandoned place on Laurel Canyon?”
Jesus fucking Christ. He remembered Perry had seemed fascinated by those photos. But hiking around those hills on his own? Anything could happen to him, from being bit by a rattlesnake to running into some crazed homeless person.
Nick didn’t let any of that show on his face. That was one thing he had decided early on. He was not going to undermine Perry’s confidence or self-resilience with his own fears. Perry was not his child, he was his partner. Physically frail or not, he was a grown man.
“Right,” Perry said quickly, as though he sensed everything Nick was determined not to say. “Only it’s not abandoned. Well, not completely.”
Now, studying him more closely in the lamplight, Nick noticed Perry’s t-shirt was smeared with dust and torn at the collar. And—more alarming—his knuckles were scraped and cut.
Perry said, “Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t know you’d be home tonight. I bought pork chops for when you got home.”
“Were you in fight?”
Perry’s eyelashes flicked up guiltily. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
Nick felt as winded as if Perry had punched him. Trying to picture him in a fight was—well, yes, Nick had been showing him some moves, tried to prepare him a little in case he ever had to defend himself—but still, Perry in a fight?
“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Perry said. “Should I cook the pork chops?”
“I’ll fix us something to eat. You talk.”
In the kitchen Nick grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, uncapped them, handing one to Perry and taking a long swallow from his own. He came up for air and exhaled. He’d needed that.
“How did the job go?” Perry asked, watching him.
“The usual. It was okay. I want to hear about your week.”
Nick dug the package of pork chops out of the fridge while Perry told him about sketching Angel’s Rest over the past few days—Nick hanging onto his patience while Perry was momentarily distracted by his enthusiasm for crumbling architecture and light and shadow—before finally describing hearing someone yelling for help from the hotel grounds.
Nick clenched his jaw on his instinctive protest. Of course, Perry would respond. Of course, he would try to help. It was the right thing to do, and by God Nick was not going to try to tell him otherwise—although the sight of Perry sitting there with his torn t-shirt, bruised knuckles, and shining eyes worried the hell out of him.
While he prepared the pork chops, he heard out the whole ridiculous but still alarming story of men in skeleton costumes with wooden swords— He was both proud and aghast that Perry had charged into the middle of that.
Perry chattered on, barely touching his own beer.
“He said his name was Horace Daly. He used to be an actor. He lives at the hotel. It’s not a hotel anymore though. Now it’s sort of like apartments. Kind of like the Alston Estate really. Only—”
“Horace Daly,” Nick interrupted. “The actor. I remember him.”
“Yeah? I didn’t recognize his name, when he introduced himself, but I did sort of recognize his face.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“No. He’s pretty old, but he seems spry. He’s retired now, of course. You should see that place, Nick. He’s got a bunch of movie memorabilia everywhere. You walk down a corridor and suddenly you see a life-sized mummy standing in the shadows. Or a chopped off head sitting on a table. All these props from his films. There’s a gibbet in the old ballroom. The real thing they used in his movie, not replicas. At one time Horace thought maybe he could turn part of the hotel into a museum.” Perry’s eyes shone with enthusiasm, the artist in him no doubt getting off on the workmanship that went into creating realistic-looking skeletons and ghouls or whatever it was Daly kept in his closet.
Nick said, “Right. He was in all those old horror flicks. Night of the Blue Witch, Seven Brides for Seven Demons, Sex and the Single Ghoul.”
“My parents wouldn’t let me watch that stuff.” Perry’s expression was one of brooding regret.
Nick bit back a grin. “No, well. So, Daly is still around and lives in an abandoned hotel in Laurel Canyon?”
“Exactly. But that’s the thing. It’s not abandoned. He owns the property. He rents the suites out to regular tenants.” Perry amended, “Well, maybe regular isn’t the word. I met a couple of them. But he’s got about seven people renting from him.”
“Huh,” said Nick, noncommittal.
Perry’s big brown eyes—wide with worry and concern—raised to his. “Horace thinks someone’s trying to kill him.”
“To kill him,” Nick repeated. “He actually told you he thinks someone is trying to kill him?”
Perry nodded. “He says it’s not the first time he’s been attacked, but no one ever believed him because he’s never had a witness before.”
Several comments leaped to mind. Nick nobly squashed them all.
Perry was still following his own thoughts. “He thinks it might be a crazed fan or someone like that. Someone who saw his movies and kind of lost it.”
“So…like a movie critic?” Nick was teasing, but he didn’t like this at all. Perry had seen the guys dressed up in skeleton costumes, so Horace wasn’t making that part up, but the rest of it sounded pretty sketchy. Speaking as someone in the PI biz, homicides weren’t really all that common. Not even in LA.
Perry made a face and laughed, but he continued to watch Nick in that serious, hopeful way as though he imagined Nick might have an instant solution to old Horace’s problems.
“Why would someone want to knock Horace off?” Nick asked. “I mean, assuming it’s not a crazed fan out to get him.”
“But that’s it. He’s sure it is a crazed fan or a stalker. Someone confusing the movies with real life. He said for years he’s been getting weird, threatening letters.” Perry bit his lip thinking. “He’s hiding something though.”
Nick studied him. The funny thing about Perry was, despite his lack of worldly experience, he had good instincts about people. Reluctantly, he asked, “Why do you think so?”
Perry gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t know. He’s frightened. That’s real. He does believe someone is trying to kill him.” He said slowly, “What I think he’s lying about is not knowing why.”
“It would be in the letters, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess. Horace said he didn’t keep the letters.”
Nick considered that piece of information. It might be the truth. It might be that Horace had the letters but didn’t want anyone to see them. It might be that there never were any letters. He said, “I can tell you the usual reasons people kill. They want something someone else has. Usually money or sex.”
“What about revenge?” Perry asked.
“I’m not saying it doesn’t happen. Just that it’s not nearly as common in real life as it is on TV.”
“I don’t think either money or sex would apply in Horace’s case.”
Probably not. Nick was having trouble believing in any scenario where an aging and long forgotten film star would have a murderous stalker.
“But you think revenge would?”
“Er…no. But by process of elimination…”
Nick sighed inwardly. Thanks to true crime TV, everybody thought they were a PI. Even his own boyfriend.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “If these yahoos wanted Horace dead, couldn’t they have killed him today?”
“Yes.”
“Wooden swords sound more like movie props to me.”
Perry’s expression grew animated. “Yes. Exactly. That’s it. That’s one reason why Horace thinks that this is the work of crazy stalker fans. He believes they tried to use wooden swords because that’s what you do with vampires. You drive a wooden stake through their heart.”
Okaaay. Judging by the bright eyes and pink cheeks, it was pretty clear that Horace wasn’t the only one who thought crazed fans wielding wooden swords made total sense.
“Did Horace report the attack to the police?”
“No. I tried to get him to, but he said he reported the earlier attacks, and nobody believed him. The police thought he was making it up for attention.”
Nick grunted. The same thought had occurred to him.
“Even his tenants thought he was imagining things.”
“That doesn’t seem to be the case.” Nick had to allow that much. “You saw these three yourself.”
“Yes.” Perry’s mind was on other things. “In the movie Why Won’t You Die, My Darling? Horace had to use a wooden sword to kill Angelina once she became a vampire. You see?”
“Mmhm.” Only too well.
“So, it does kind of make sense.”
Perry went back to watching him with that resolve-weakening mix of confidence and hope. Uneasily, Nick considered the hopefulness. What did Perry want? What were his expectations?
The pork chops were fried to perfection, their fragrant smell warming the small kitchen. Nick slid them from the frying pan onto two thick blue plates, then placed the plates on the table.
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” Perry said quickly. Nick guessed that he was thinking—correctly—that two paper-thin pork chops was not a lot of dinner for him. These four beautiful little pork chops would have been a special welcome home dinner for himself. He had to watch for that kind of thing because Perry was prone to unnecessary self-sacrifice. No way was he going to bed hungry. Not on Nick’s watch.
“Did you have dinner?”
“No, but—”
“Eat your dinner.”
Perry grimaced, but then smiled as though Nick were offering him a special treat and not his fair share of their rations.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Nick was tired. It had been a long ass drive from Modesto. His thoughts were still partly on his case. Perry had had a little adventure, but it was over and no harm done. Nick looked forward to a shower, a sleep, and eventually waking up with his favorite person on the entire planet. Rarely did they get an entire weekend to themselves.
Perry chewed a couple of neatly carved pieces of pork before saying slowly, “I wasn’t expecting you home until Monday.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get away. Why? Did you make plans?” Nick smiled, a little amused. He took it for granted if Perry had made plans he’d change them to accommodate him. Not that he wouldn’t fall in with Perry’s plans if Perry had his heart set on another art show or something.
Perry looked troubled. “I did, yeah.”
Nick’s brows rose. He was still tolerant.
“I told Horace I’d stay up there this weekend.”
“You…”
“He needs help, Nick.”
“It sounds like it, all right.” Nick was grim.
Perry seemed to evaluate Nick’s mood. He brightened. “What if you stayed up there with me? That would be even better. You know what you’re doing.”
“What I’m…” Nick swallowed the rest of it. He said very mildly, “Why would you agree to that? Why would you agree to spend the weekend at a falling down hotel where people in costumes are running around swinging swords at innocent bystanders?”
“I’ve told you. Horace is afraid,” Perry said. “Nobody else believes him.”
Nick had no answer for that. Or rather, he had so many answers he didn’t know where to start. He finally managed, “But they’ll believe him now. Right? He’s got corroborating testimony.”
Perry grinned. “‘Corroborating testimony.’ You’re starting to sound like a PI.”
“Yeah. But I’m serious. I don’t see how it would be of any help to Horace for you to stay over in that dump. What are you supposed to do?”
“I think he’s lonely and it’s a relief that someone believes him.”
“Okay, that’s great. But, again, what are you supposed to do about whatever’s going on there?” Nick was struggling not to let his impatience show. Anyway, he was not impatient with Perry. He was impatient with Horace Daly for dragging Perry into his problems.
“Lend moral support?”
“Isn’t that nice,” Nick said grimly. “But you’ve had to use your inhaler tonight for the first time in how long? That’s not a healthy place for you. Clearly.”
Perry colored. His jaw took on that stubborn jut that Nick had become all too familiar with during the past nine months. “I can’t not go places just because I have asthma.”
“Of course you can. Can’t.” Nick drew a breath. “Of course you can avoid situations that make you s—that aren’t good for you. That’s just commonsense.”
“I already agreed to help.”
“We’re going in circles here. Help him how? How does your being there help Daly?”
Perry said, and it sounded like he too was trying to control his impatience, “But that’s what I’m saying, Nick. If you went with me, you could look into it for him. You’re trained to do this.”
“Look into what?”
“Look into whoever is trying to kill Horace. And why.”
Perry’s stare was unwavering. Almost stern. Meeting it, Nick’s heart sank.
Clearly, he was not going to win this battle. Either he went with Perry or Perry went on his own, but go Perry would. The weekend Nick had in mind was already a write-off.
He struggled for a moment with his disappointment and irritation. Obviously, he could not leave Perry to deal with this bizarre situation on his own. Even if he could, well, there was something about the way Perry looked at him—like he really believed there was nothing Nick couldn’t handle, no problem he couldn’t solve—Nick didn’t want Perry to ever stop looking at him like that.
Anyway, the main thing was that they had the weekend together, right?
“Sounds like you have your mind already made up,” Nick said.
His tone was a little flat and some of the eagerness died out of Perry’s face. “You don’t want to go?”
“Want to go? No. If I do give up my weekend, what do I get out of it?” Nick asked.
Perry continued to eye him in that grave way. “Horace’s undying gratitude?” he suggested finally.
“Uh…”
Perry grinned slowly with that funny mixture of sweetness and mischievousness that always set Nick’s heart thudding in his chest. “Let me show you.”
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh Lanyon
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
Max Miller(Narrator book #1)
The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks #1
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out #2
Friday, July 7, 2023
🎇📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation(Independence Day Edition)🎥📘🎇: The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara
Civil War Trilogy #2
“My favorite historical novel . . . a superb re-creation of the Battle of Gettysburg, but its real importance is its insight into what the war was about, and what it meant.”—James M. McPherson
In the four most bloody and courageous days of our nation’s history, two armies fought for two conflicting dreams. One dreamed of freedom, the other of a way of life. Far more than rifles and bullets were carried into battle. There were memories. There were promises. There was love. And far more than men fell on those Pennsylvania fields. Bright futures, untested innocence, and pristine beauty were also the casualties of war. Michael Shaara’s Pulitzer Prize–winning masterpiece is unique, sweeping, unforgettable—the dramatic story of the battleground for America’s destiny.
Praise for The Killer Angels
“Remarkable . . . a book that changed my life . . . I had never visited Gettysburg, knew almost nothing about that battle before I read the book, but here it all came alive.”—Ken Burns
“Shaara carries [the reader] swiftly and dramatically to a climax as exciting as if it were being heard for the first time.”—The Seattle Times
“Utterly absorbing.”—Forbes
1. THE SPY
He rode into the dark of the woods and dismounted. He crawled upward on his belly over cool rocks out into the sunlight, and suddenly he was in the open and he could see for miles, and there was the whole vast army below him, filling the valley like a smoking river. It came out of a blue rainstorm in the east and overflowed the narrow valley road, coiling along a stream, narrowing and choking at a white bridge, fading out into the yellowish dust of June but still visible on the farther road beyond the blue hills, spiked with flags and guidons like a great chopped bristly snake, the snake ending headless in a blue wall of summer rain.
The spy tucked himself behind a boulder and began counting flags. Must be twenty thousand men, visible all at once. Two whole Union Corps. He could make out the familiar black hats of the Iron Brigade, troops belonging to John Reynold’s First Corps. He looked at his watch, noted the time. They were coming very fast. The Army of the Potomac had never moved this fast. The day was murderously hot and there was no wind and the dust hung above the army like a yellow veil. He thought: there’ll be some of them die of the heat today. But they are coming faster than they ever came before.
He slipped back down into the cool dark and rode slowly downhill toward the silent empty country to the north. With luck he could make the Southern line before nightfall. After nightfall it would be dangerous. But he must not seem to hurry. The horse was already tired. And yet there was the pressure of that great blue army behind him, building like water behind a cracking dam. He rode out into the open, into the land between the armies.
There were fat Dutch barns, prim German orchards. But there were no cattle in the fields and no horses, and houses everywhere were empty and dark. He was alone in the heat and the silence, and then it began to rain and he rode head down into monstrous lightning. All his life he had been afraid of lightning but he kept riding. He did not know where the Southern headquarters was but he knew it had to be somewhere near Chambersburg. He had smelled out the shape of Lee’s army in all the rumors and bar talk and newspapers and hysteria he had drifted through all over eastern Pennsylvania, and on that day he was perhaps the only man alive who knew the positions of both armies. He carried the knowledge with a hot and lovely pride. Lee would be near Chambersburg, and wherever Lee was Longstreet would not be far away. So finding the headquarters was not the problem. The problem was riding through a picket line in the dark.
The rain grew worse. He could not even move in under a tree because of the lightning. He had to take care not to get lost. He rode quoting Shakespeare from memory, thinking of the picket line ahead somewhere in the dark. The sky opened and poured down on him and he rode on: It will be rain tonight: Let it come down. That was a speech of murderers. He had been an actor once. He had no stature and a small voice and there were no big parts for him until the war came, and now he was the only one who knew how good he was. If only they could see him work, old cold Longstreet and the rest. But everyone hated spies. I come a single spy. Wet single spy. But they come in whole battalions. The rain began to ease off and he spurred the horse to a trot. My kingdom for a horse. Jolly good line. He went on, reciting Henry the Fifth aloud: “Once more into the breech . . .”
Late that afternoon he came to a crossroad and the sign of much cavalry having passed this way a few hours ago. His own way led north to Chambersburg, but he knew that Longstreet would have to know who these people were so close to his line. He debated a moment at the crossroads, knowing there was no time. A delay would cost him daylight. Yet he was a man of pride and the tracks drew him. Perhaps it was only Jeb Stuart. The spy thought hopefully, wistfully: If it’s Stuart I can ask for an armed escort all the way home. He turned and followed the tracks. After a while he saw a farmhouse and a man standing out in a field, in a peach orchard, and he spurred that way. The man was small and bald with huge round arms and spoke very bad English. The spy went into his act: a simple-minded farmer seeking a runaway wife, terrified of soldiers. The bald man regarded him sweatily, disgustedly, told him the soldiers just gone by were “plu” soldiers, Yankees. The spy asked: What town lies yonder? and the farmer told him Gettysburg, but the name meant nothing. The spy turned and spurred back to the crossroads. Yankee cavalry meant John Buford’s column. Moving lickety-split. Where was Stuart? No escort now. He rode back again toward the blue hills. But the horse could not be pushed. He had to dismount and walk.
That was the last sign of Yankees. He was moving up across South Mountain; he was almost home. Beyond South Mountain was Lee and, of course, Longstreet. A strange friendship: grim and gambling Longstreet, formal and pious old Bobby Lee. The spy wondered at it, and then the rain began again, bringing more lightning but at least some cooler air, and he tucked himself in under his hat and went back to Hamlet. Old Jackson was dead. Good night, sweet Prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest . . .
He rode into darkness. No longer any need to hurry. He left the roadway at last and moved out in to a field away from the lightning and the trees and sat in the rain to eat a lonely supper, trying to make up his mind whether it was worth the risk of going on. He was very close; he could begin to feel them up ahead. There was no way of knowing when or where, but suddenly they would be there in the road, stepping phantomlike out of the trees wearing those sick eerie smiles, and other men with guns would suddenly appear all around him, prodding him in the back with hard steel barrels, as you prod an animal, and he would have to be lucky, because few men rode out at night on good and honest business, not now, this night, in this invaded country.
He rode slowly up the road, not really thinking, just moving, reluctant to stop. He was weary. Fragments of Hamlet flickered in his brain: If it be not now, yet it will come. Ripeness is all. Now there’s a good part. A town ahead. A few lights. And then he struck the picket line.
There was a presence in the road, a liquid Southern voice. He saw them outlined in lightning, black ragged figures rising around him. A sudden lantern poured yellow light. He saw one bleak hawkish grinning face; hurriedly he mentioned Longstreet’s name. With some you postured and with some you groveled and with some you were imperious. But you could do that only by daylight, when you could see the faces and gauge the reaction. And now he was too tired and cold. He sat and shuddered: an insignificant man on a pale and muddy horse. He turned out to be lucky. There was a patient sergeant with a long gray beard who put him under guard and sent him along up the dark road to Longstreet’s headquarters.
He was not safe even now, but he could begin to relax. He rode up the long road between picket fires, and he could hear them singing in the rain, chasing each other in the dark of the trees. A fat and happy army, roasting meat and fresh bread, telling stories in the dark. He began to fall asleep on the horse; he was home. But they did not like to see him sleep, and one of them woke him up to remind him, cheerily, that if there was no one up there who knew him, why, then, unfortunately, they’d have to hang him, and the soldier said it just to see the look on his face, and the spy shivered, wondering, Why do there have to be men like that, men who enjoy another man’s dying?
Longstreet was not asleep. He lay on the cot watching the lightning flare in the door of the tent. It was very quiet in the grove and there was the sound of the raindrops continuing to fall from the trees although the rain had ended. When Sorrel touched him on the arm he was glad of it; he was thinking of his dead children.
“Sir? You asked to be awakened if Harrison came back.”
“Yes.” Longstreet got up quickly and put on the old blue robe and the carpet slippers. He was a very big man and he was full-bearded and wild-haired. He thought of the last time he’d seen the spy, back in Virginia, tiny man with a face like a weasel: “And where will your headquarters be, General, up there in Pennsylvania? ’Tis a big state indeed.” Him standing there with cold gold clutched in a dirty hand. And Longstreet had said icily, cheerily, “It will be where it will be. If you cannot find the headquarters of this whole army you cannot be much of a spy.” And the spy had said stiffly, “Scout, sir. I am a scout. And I am a patriot, sir.” Longstreet had grinned. We are all patriots. He stepped out into the light. He did not know what to expect. He had not really expected the spy to come back at all.
The little man was there: a soggy spectacle on a pale and spattered horse. He sat grinning wanly from under the floppy brim of a soaked and dripping hat. Lightning flared behind him; he touched his cap.
“Your servant, General. May I come down?”
Longstreet nodded. The guard backed off. Longstreet told Sorrel to get some coffee. The spy slithered down from the horse and stood grinning foolishly, shivering, mouth slack with fatigue.
“Well, sir”—the spy chuckled, teeth chattering—“you see, I was able to find you after all.”
Longstreet sat at the camp table on a wet seat, extracted a cigar, lighted it. The spy sat floppily, mouth still open, breathing deeply.
“It has been a long day. I’ve ridden hard all this day.”
“What have you got?”
“I came through the pickets at night, you know. That can be very touchy.”
Longstreet nodded. He watched, he waited. Sorrel came with steaming coffee; the cup burned Longstreet’s fingers. Sorrel sat, gazing curiously, distastefully at the spy.
The spy guzzled, then sniffed Longstreet’s fragrant smoke. Wistfully: “I say, General, I don’t suppose you’ve got another of those? Good Southern tobacco?”
“Directly,” Longstreet said. “What have you got?”
“I’ve got the position of the Union Army.”
Longstreet nodded, showing nothing. He had not known the Union Army was on the move, was within two hundred miles, was even this side of the Potomac, but he nodded and said nothing. The spy asked for a map and began pointing out the positions of the corps.
“They’re coming in seven corps. I figure at least eighty thousand men, possibly as much as a hundred thousand. When they’re all together they’ll outnumber you, but they’re not as strong as they were; the two-year enlistments are running out. The First Corps is here. The Eleventh is right behind it. John Reynolds is in command of the lead elements. I saw him at Taneytown this morning.”
“Reynolds,” Longstreet said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw him yourself?”
The spy grinned, nodded, rubbed his nose, chuckled. “So close I could touch him. It was Reynolds all right.”
“This morning. At Taneytown.”
“Exactly. You didn’t know any of that, now did you, General?” The spy bobbed his head with delight. “You didn’t even know they was on the move, did ye? I thought not. You wouldn’t be spread out so thin if you knowed they was comin’.”
Longstreet looked at Sorrel. The aide shrugged silently. If this was true, there would have been some word. Longstreet’s mind moved over it slowly. He said: “How did you know we were spread out?”
“I smelled it out.” The spy grinned, foxlike, toothy. “Listen, General, I’m good at this business.”
“Tell me what you know of our position.”
“Well, now I can’t be too exact on this, ’cause I aint scouted you myself, but I gather that you’re spread from York up to Harrisburg and then back to Chambersburg, with the main body around Chambersburg and General Lee just ’round the bend.”
It was exact. Longstreet thought: if this one knows it, they will know it. He said slowly, “We’ve had no word of Union movement.”
The spy bobbed with joy. “I knew it. Thass why I hurried. Came through that picket line in the dark and all. I don’t know if you realize, General—”
Sorrel said coldly, “Sir, don’t you think, if this man’s story was true, that we would have heard something?”
Release Date: October 8, 1993
Release Time: 254 minutes
271 minutes (director's cut)
Release Time: 254 minutes
271 minutes (director's cut)
Director: Ronald F. Maxwell
Cast:
Union
Jeff Daniels as Colonel Joshua Chamberlain
Sam Elliott as Brigadier General John Buford
C. Thomas Howell as Lieutenant Thomas Chamberlain
Kevin Conway as Sergeant Buster Kilrain
Brian Mallon as Major General Winfield Scott Hancock
Buck Taylor as Colonel William Gamble
John Diehl as Private Joseph Bucklin
Joshua D. Maurer as Colonel James Clay Rice
John Rothman as Major General John F. Reynolds
Richard Anderson as Major General George Meade
Billy Campbell as Lieutenant Andrew Lewis Pitzer
David Carpenter as Colonel Thomas C. Devin
Maxwell Caulfield as Colonel Strong Vincent
Donal Logue as Captain Ellis Spear
Dwier Brown as Captain Brewer
Herb Mitchell as Sergeant Andrew J. Tozier
Emile O. Schmidt as Brigadier General John Gibbon
Confederate
Tom Berenger as Lieutenant General James Longstreet
Martin Sheen as General Robert E. Lee
Stephen Lang as Major General George Pickett
Richard Jordan as Brigadier General Lewis Armistead
Andrew Prine as Brigadier General Richard B. Garnett
Cooper Huckabee as Henry Thomas Harrison
Patrick Gorman as Major General John Bell Hood
Bo Brinkman as Major Walter H. Taylor
James Lancaster as Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Fremantle
W. Morgan Sheppard as Major General Isaac R. Trimble
Kieran Mulroney as Major Moxley Sorrel
James Patrick Stuart as Colonel Edward Porter Alexander
Tim Ruddy as Major Charles Marshall
Royce D. Applegate as Brigadier General James L. Kemper
Ivan Kane as Captain T. J. Goree
Warren Burton as Major General Henry Heth
MacIntyre Dixon as Major General Jubal Early
Joseph Fuqua as Major General J. E. B. Stuart
Tim Scott as Lieutenant General Richard S. Ewell
George Lazenby as Brigadier General J. Johnston Pettigrew
Graham Winton as Major General Robert E. Rodes
Michael Shaara was born in Jersey City in 1929 and graduated from Rutgers University in 1951. His early science fiction short stories were published in Galaxy magazine in 1952. He later began writing other works of fiction and published more than seventy short stories in many magazines, including The Saturday Evening Post, Cosmopolitan, and Redbook. His first novel, The Broken Place, was published in 1968. But it was a simple family vacation to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, in 1966 that gave him the inspiration for his greatest achievement, the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel The Killer Angels, published in 1974. Michael Shaara went on to write two more novels, The Noah Conspiracy and For Love of the Game, which was published posthumously after his death in 1988.
The Killer Angels #2
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE / CHIRP / WIKI
Series
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE / CHIRP
Film
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