Book Two of Search for Justice is Live

“Four Seasons Book Two: Search for Justice,” is live and available for you my loyal readers to buy and read.

“Prominent Books Edge” has also agreed to publish book three called “Evil That Men Do.” It will soon be live in the fall. All of this cannot be possible without the support of you my readers.”

Here are the Amazon links:
Paperback: A Search for Justice: Four Seasons Book Two
eBook: A Search for Justice: Four Seasons Book Two

Here are the ISBNs for the books. You can use the ISBNs to search for a book on Amazon as it’s a unique code that quickly finds the exact version without confusion from similar titles or editions.

Paperback: 9798896722878
eBook: 9798896722885

The Mind

Science geek here again. This time I’m considering the mind, brain generally, and our perceptions of what we perceive as reality. I’m of an opinion that though everyone might see the same thing, how each individual perceives what he sees are as different as night and day. 

The Nova episode that I watched the other night is as telling of what each of us view as real or fake. It’s why magicians are still performing their acts of illusion, or delusion if you will, and wowing the audiences even in this day and age of skepticism.  

Our brains are programmed by our environment, parents, friends, and the intangibles such as mutations. Whatever one person might view in a certain situation including cataclysmic events and not sense they perceive the same thing. Instead, any traumatic event will invariable result in many people telling a vastly different story based on their past experiences, when and how they were raised and the intangibles of their own life experience. 

I’m a living example of my own trauma when I suffered a stroke in 2002. Many things on my brain that wasn’t affected is as poignant as what I lost. I lost some physical traits such as use of my left arm hand and fingers. I’m walking with a noticeable limp, but most of my memories are still there, my speech didn’t change—I was born with a cleft lip and pallet that speech therapy more or less fixed—still have my hearing and eyesight because those areas of the brain were not affected by the stroke I had. But, I’m noticing other changes that aren’t physical but mental. 

Like that minor, Phineus Gage, I noticed changes in my personality that weren’t apparent 23 years ago. I tended to be even keeled with a mild temperament. I was often taken advantage because I wanted to be accepted into whatever clique I wanted to befriend. It also explained my affinity for heavy drinking in my younger years, and probably why many people in higher positions of power didn’t see me as leadership material. 

Since my stroke, my personality has shifted more toward being impatient and temperamental toward certain people, and being terribly angry at myself. I have been warned numerous times that this behavior is unacceptable at work. When I saw that on Nova last night, how Mr. Gage’s own behavior issues were laid out, it made sense that the stroke I had also caused personality traits that are part of that portion of my brain happened near the frontal cortex and on my right side. 

Of course, with age, one has to put that into perspective how our personalities also change as well as our genes and how one was raised, be it a single parent relationship or even an abusive history that goes back many generations. 

As I have said before I have grown to appreciate Nova and other science programs more because I like learning new things about myself and the world around me. I hope we all can appreciate how we see the world through another lens and respect those differences, and embrace everyone’s perspectives and coexist. 

The Mailbox: Part 2

“Oh, to relive those days again,” Carl chuckled. “You were a handful that’s for sure.” He walked up the slight grade. His breathing, though steady became increasingly labored. He searched for that chair to sit upon before he became too weak to walk further. 

“What are you doing?” Susan screamed in frustration. 

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Ginny yelled back in a voice filled with rancor and scorn. “You ain’t stealing my Carl either. I swear I’ll kill you in your sleep.” 

“He’s my dad!” 

“Oh no, you are a harlot!” 

Carl found the chair and sat down. He fumbled with a pouch filled with cigarette tobacco and Zig Zag rolling papers. He began placing the paper in his one hand and pouring the tobacco onto the paper. With his free hand he fumbled with rolling it, until he had it started then used his other hand to complete the process. He used a wooden match to light the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply into his aged lungs. 

He could smell something burning from somewhere.  

“Mom, you’re going to burn his house down. Stop it right now!” Susan sounded frantic and Carl knew the time had come. She was beyond the help Susan could provide her. 

“That must be where the smoke smell is coming from.  

“Why are you insisting on calling you that? You aren’t my daughter. I don’t know who you are!” 

“Oh, that’s going to hurt to the core. I’m sorry Susan. I should never have brought us into your life. I bet you’ve aged ten years since we came here from Davenport Iowa.” He finished smoking the cigarette when he heard firetrucks approaching. Their distant sirens came closer to the property. He remained seated as he felt the breeze of the engine brush passed him. Several cars and trucks soon followed. Then all was quiet. 

 A commotion of men barking orders to each other while his daughter yelling at the men and Ginny singing a gospel song from when they were children over eighty years ago. “Come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!” 

Carl continued walking up the road to the mailbox. He tapped his cane against the four-by-four post and gingerly caressed the box until he found the opening and searched inside. He placed the single envelope out of the box and tucked it into the light jacket he wore. He then slowly made his way back to the house where fire truck, volunteer firefighters, Susan, and Ginny milled about putting out the fire Ginny started. 

“Yes, Susan it’s time to take her out of your hair and put us in a home where we can pass the days until we breathed our last breaths. 

The Mailbox

Carl used his white cane to guide him to the mud room where his black boots sat on the floor next to a chair from the last time he put them on, this time yesterday. It was a chore of love toward his daughter Susan that he did this each and every day except Sunday. 

He methodically put on his logger boots and laced them up. The macular degeneration took away his sight but not his memory. Unlike his wife of seventy years, he still remembered how to lace his boots and other things too. 

He heard her busy about the kitchen, his daughter was outside by her vegetable garden, an affair that brought envy to him every time he walked out there and smelled the beets, the potatoes, carrots and tomatoes, all ready for harvest this October afternoon. 

“I should wait until she gets back inside. I’m supposed to look after Ginny. But the mailman came and there might be an important letter awaiting for me or a bill from the electric co-op.” 

Just then she walked in with a basket of vegetables, mostly sugar peas and tomatoes, ripe and ready for the soup pot. She had handsome looks, though that too was a memory of Carl’s since the best he could do anymore was caress her daughter’s face, feeling the soft weathered flesh of her face, mouth, and hair. 

“Oh, you came in now,” Carl stated with a slight Norwegian accent to his baritone voice. “I wanted to wait so that Ginny wouldn’t get into trouble.” 

“I appreciate that Poppa. She hasn’t been herself lately and I’m worried for her,” she told Carl with more than a hint of concern emanating from her middle-aged voice. She had just turned fifty-nine yesterday, though Carl didn’t know what day which was anymore. They all blended together. 

“I will be back shortly, Susan.” 

“Take your time,” she advised him. “When you get back, I’ll have dinner started,” she promised him while she set the basket on the floor and removed her dirt covered shoes and placed slippers on her feet. 

Carl moved the cane side to side imagining in his mind where everything was to his darkened world. He heard and felt the cane strike the front door and he grasped the door handle, turning it and opening the door then stepping outside. He immediately felt the waning sun in his face while he walked in that very direction to the single lane road that led to the main road and the mailbox that stood sentry-like alongside that road. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was a goodly distance away and at the speed his old but gangly legs could muster it all took an hour to get there and back. Susan had her late husband place a folding chair around halfway up the road so that Carl could sit down and rest for a bit. He recalled he died last year from a massive heart attack. His name was Sam and he homesteaded this land and died making it all work out for him. 

“Mother no!” Carl heard Susan scream at her mother. 

“What did you do now Ginny?” He shook his head sadly knowing her demented mind lost all ability to reason or comprehend the simplest of tasks. Anymore, just having her sit quietly in the TV room vacantly staring off in the distance remembering a time long ago when her mind was sharper and more focused, she would be this darling angel that he fell in love with when they were teenaged sweethearts courting behind the barn. 

Lost Highway

“Do you know where we’re going dude?” Hector asked Mark with more than an abundance of impatience in his voice. 

“I’ve been down this way before,” Mark shot back with frustration. 

“It so happens, amigo, I think you missed our turn back there. You know how to work this navigation thing?” 

“If I knew, don’t you think I would be using it?” 

“Sorry I asked. So, what’s this all about?” 

“My parents,” Mark replied, concentrating on the highway and not paying attention to Hector’s reaction. It was five years ago to the day; he found out from Mark’s sister that they died. 

“What do you mean man?” Héctor asked trying to sound relaxed, but his gut was churning with guilt. 

“I need to confide in you something I found out. It’s a rumor and that’s all it is, my Mexican friend.” Mark appeared on the verge of tears as he tried desperately to hold his emotions in check. “God I miss them. Every night I have dreams of them before all of this. You know, Mom never had a bad heart; Dad did. I can’t and won’t believe they both died from some kind of cardio-event. Something happened to them.” 

“But the autopsy?” 

“In all the years we’ve been investigating homicides, how many times have you counted when the medical examiner or pathologist was wrong?” Mark turned his head quickly to Hector and saw a look he couldn’t describe upon his face. “What is it Hector? Do you know anything about this?” 

Hector so wanted to clear the air here; admit that he was the one tasked with protecting them, he failed and found their bodies in his parents’ home. “No man, I don’t know nothing.” 

The fog was thickening. “You never did answer my question, Mark.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Where are we going?” 

“Tri Cities.” 

“Why? Is there a case that Armstrong sent us on? I don’t recall anything in this morning’s briefing.” 

“You haven’t heard, but our entire team, except for Howard Jones, are being moved to the other Washington. I’m taking this trip to clear the air about how my parents really died. I know you don’t know nothing about this because you were on some kind of drug sting the day my parents died. 

“I called Sheriff Dickerson, but he sounded distracted by something. Next year is election year for him and that might have something to do with it.” 

Hector didn’t say anything. He stared at the heavy, dense fog layer and wondered Why can’t I tell him? He needs to know. “Mark, how much do you trust Joe?” 

“Armstrong? I guess I trust him, okay. He had my back on that first case we did together; had yours too. You just didn’t know it at the time.” 

“Howard told me some stuff on him that…Well I’m surprised he still has a job. And now he’s being promoted to section chief in D.C.? Who is he giving blowjobs to?” 

“I can’t answer that one partner. I’d have to admit though; without him I wouldn’t be in the FBI.” 

“What? Why you say that?” 

“He basically let my physical ride.” 

“What happened Mark?” 

“The doctor who examined me, had to leave suddenly and when he returned he forgot where he left off. Remember Héctor, I’m missing half my right lung from when I got shot in Baja California. The doctor probably…shit he had to have told Joe the physical was incomplete. Yet, I was hired anyway.” 

Hector pondered this bit of information, plus the fact that his duty assignment was vetoed in favor of being partnered with Mark in Spokane, plus every time he had requested a transfer, he was turned down three times in the fifteen years he’s been an FBI agent. I smell a big fat rat. 

“So, Mark, you are going AWOL just to try and clear the air about how your parents really died?” 

Mark wondered about that remark but let it pass. “You know, I wouldn’t blame you if you did know more than what you’re telling me. Secrets are made for a reason. I guess if there was something that happened and someone higher up the food chain wanted a lid clamped down on it, you’d have no choice. 

“Mark, trust me, if I knew anything, I would tell you.” 

“I’m sure you would, amigo. I’m sure you would. Shit I can’t see two feet in front of me.” 

“Dude, you really don’t need to do this. Just turn around and go back. Someday, something will happen and the truth will be revealed to you.” 

“How do you figure?” 

“Like you said earlier autopsies can be wrong sometimes.” 

“I just find it hard to believe they both died from a heart attack on the same day, virtually at the same time. It’s been in the back of my mind for a long time. Then, I lost touch with Nicole. She disappeared about the same time my parents died. 

“Oh, I did receive a letter from Dylan, but he doesn’t mention his mom at all. I think I know what might be going on. He wanted to straighten out his shit and joined the Army. He’s in Afghanistan doing something there, but couldn’t elaborate. But, why is Nicole giving me this cold shoulder treatment?  

“Ever since I joined the FBI, she has grown more and more distant. I think she’s afraid I’ll bring her drug days back, or that I’ll bust her for possession. Shit, Hector, I could care less. It’s her life. Anyway, she changed phone numbers or something because I can’t get hold of her. I even tried to get hold of her parents, but they died in 2000. The day after my parents. Some kind of gas explosion, I guess from what the police told me. 

“Did you hear about that?” Mark asked Hector directly. 

“I’m afraid I was out of the loop on that one, amigo.” 

Both men turned their attention back to the highway, just in time to see two sets of headlights coming on them. 

“SHIT!” They both screamed as Hector braced for impact, and Mark made a hard right. The car in his lane barely clipped him and he spun into the gravel, and the FBI cruiser, a 2004 Ford Crown Victoria flipped onto its side. Glass shattered and a horrible grinding noise of sheet metal and gravel echoed off the interior. 

Before the car came to a halt, Hector was on the radio, using his instincts from the Marine Corps to survive, blurted out, “Clear all chatter; clear all chatter. Unit 1641 involved in car accident on State Route 126 between…Shit Mark where are we?” 

Mark appeared groggy and perhaps injured, but replied, “between Lacrosse and Washtucna,” in a disembodied voice. He grimaced in pain. “Go check on the other car, Hector.” 

“We got a copy,” the dispatcher replied in a calm young female voice. “Are there injuries?” 

“Yes,” Hector replied quickly. “Mark, can you get out from the car?” 

Mark didn’t reply right away. He then slowly unbuckled the safety belt and discovered the car door was directly over his head. “Son of a bitch,” he stated in exasperation. Pull that center armrest down.” 

Hector did as he was told and saw Mark push the heavy driver’s side door open, using every ounce of strength to defy the gravitational pull. His six foot four inch frame worked to his advantage as he was able to pull himself out from the car. “Give me your arm, Hector.” Again, Hector obliged his friend and partner’s request by reaching his left arm up and allowing Mark to pull him out from the car. 

Once both were free they jumped off the car and onto the highway’s pavement, slick with black ice, and promptly fell on their butts. They slowly raised themselves and saw they were alone. The other two cars fled the accident scene. In the distance a lone siren wailed. 

Five minutes later blue and red overhead flashing lights came into view. Mark and Hector remained in the same position. They hadn’t said a word. The State Trooper pulled to a stop. He got out from the car, wearing his overcoat and trooper hat. “Are you two alright?” 

“I’m alright,” Hector replied, “ my partner might have a concussion.” 

“I ain’t got no such thing,” Mark replied in bitterness. “I’m just a bit uncoordinated right now. That’s all.” 

“What happened?” 

“We were on our way to meet someone,” Hector started. “We’re FBI agents working a cold case, when these two cars came at us. I believe one was trying to pass the other, but that other guy wouldn’t allow it. We tried to veer out of the way…” 

“The car that was in my lane clipped me though, and I ended up like this. Here are my credentials, Hector, I mean Agent Gonzales, please show him yours.” Mark handed the Trooper his badge and ID. Hector did the same.  

The trooper briefly looked at the pieces and then handed them back. “Did you get a good look at the cars involved?” 

“Sort of,” Mark replied. “But it happened so fast, I couldn’t possibly give you an accurate description.” 

“It was a dark colored Chevrolet sedan, possibly an Impala, and a blue Pontiac, maybe,” Hector guessed. 

“I think I went passed them on the way up here. I’ll call it in.” Another distant siren was heard lowly approaching their location. 

“So much for my perfect driving record,” Mark stated as he looked at the sideways car parked on the gravel shoulder. 

Hector nodded, but inwardly, he thanked God this happened when it did. Mark was about to get me to confess to everything. That would have been an awkward moment. 

end 

Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was this kingdom where everything was wonderful, so long as the emperor was happy. He was an old ruler with many whims and wants and needs, not least of which was that his loyal subjects graced his presence with reverence and awe. 

One day in the southwest corner of the massive kingdom a fair maid’s mother Lady Alabaster was abducted by a jealous lord from a rival kingdom. The news spread like a plague upon the kingdom, and the subjects were sad by this news. The fair maid after all was well liked by everyone. Lady Alabaster, though not known, was respected and admired. 

This of course took attention away from the emperor who fumed and muttered profanities at his loyal court. “How dare she take away my sovereign subjects. They must faun upon me not her! Who is this Lady Alabaster? A nobody! I’m the greatest emperor ever. She has nothing on me! Quick what must I do to gain my subjects’ attention back on me?” He asked the court. 

“My liege,” the Black knight announced to the emperor. “I have heard rumors that I am certain are true of a kingdom far away near the Orient that has amassed a great and powerful army that intends to do harm to our friendly ally. I say we strike them first to prevent our friend’s kingdom from certain doom.” 

“My liege,” the treasurer argued but not convincingly, “The kingdom doesn’t have the money to do such a bold attack, though we could tax the subjects for more through the tariffs we have imposed lately, your highness.” 

“Will my benefactors be affected through these higher tariffs?” The emperor asked. “I promised them I’d lower their taxes to ensure their absolute loyalty.” 

“Not at all your highness,” the treasurer replied. 

“Then make it so. Raise taxes for our glorious fight to save our ally’s little kingdom. What do they give us in exchange for this?” 

“What you always demanded, their loyalty to you,” the Black knight replied with a sinister gleam in his eyes. 

“Yes, most excellent for I am the greatest emperor of the greatest kingdom of all the world!” 

“YES YOU ARE!” The court stood and shouted their voices echoing throughout the halls of the castle. 

“But, can we rescue Lady Alabaster?” The court’s sheriff asked the emperor. 

“It’s not about her, but me,” he replied with disdain. “Whatever ransom this outlaw demands ignore him. Eventually he’ll simply kill her, and I of course will go to her funeral and bestow condolences to the fair maid. Perhaps I’ll invite her to be my jester or court scribe telling the kingdom of my greatness.” 

Dressing for a Change

I’m so glad I’m not the only person that thinks the current fashion comfort overlooking nice and decent. I read and saw the news about how Tampa International Airport had banned wearing pajamas at their airport. It might appear “tongue in cheek,” but I’m of a view that perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here. 

I see people, mostly millennials or gen-x types come to the casino I work at wearing pajamas while playing their favorite slots games. I see the same thing at Grocery stores and Walmart stores too. I’m not sure when or more importantly, why people suddenly have this yen to not change into regular clothes after getting out of bed. Is it to be comfort or laziness that explains this habit? 

If you haven’t noticed, I’m in that crowd that believes in a certain dress code where people are attired in clothing that makes them appear more becoming. I’m of that generation that thought it important to dress up for Sunday services, special occasions such as weddings, funerals, graduations, and even travel. And I considered people who chose not to dress according to the occasion, inept, slovenly, and perhaps not in their right mind. 

I don’t see anything wrong with being comfortable, casual pants or denim jeans are perfectly fine. Dockers come to mind. Women have their comfortable dresses, skirts or pants that doesn’t say “I just rolled out of bed. Look at me!” 

If I sound like a curmudgeon embittered by today’s fashion trends, you’re right. And what’s with wearing ripped and holey jeans? I guess that’s for another day. 

Ambulance Chasing

It wasn’t until I had my stroke in 2002 that I realized the true cost of healthcare. I saw the ambulance charge for the ride that went from the Moose Lodge on Lidgerwood at that time to the nearest hospital not more than perhaps a mile away, tops. 

Years later I found a similar charge for my father going from a clinic to an adult care facility in the Spokane Valley. If there was a choice then I’d take it, but in an emergency, we consumers of immediate healthcare, that’s not an option. 

Here’s something I never heard before that I thought quite interesting, since I’m a wordsmith. Most insurers and regulators try avoiding the term “overcharging.” Instead it’s called “structural pricing conflict.” 

It’s pretty interesting that ambulance services are out of network on purpose and zero competition. I always assumed that if you were in say a fire department where ambulance services were part of their priorities that the bill would be less since it’s on the taxpayer’s dime, but that’s not true either. Because these public services have no competition, they too charge what they believe is a fair price for them. 

It’s not like you or I can just go to the yellow pages and compare prices or rates when we are involved in an accident or are shot or injured by some other accident or misfortune. We’re at the mercy of these companies and they know it. Of course then they can charge what they believe is fair for them. 

Now in their defense they are the second line of triage care for help in saving one’s life following first responders, who are tasked with assessing their injuries and stabilizing him or her when the ambulance arrives. This care continues until the patient arrives at the nearest hospital. All of these life-savers are highly trained and schooled. 

You could ask what about that law of no surprise billing in healthcare passed and signed in 2022? Well, ground ambulances are exempt from that law, so they can still charge rates to the insurance providers with the expectation that you and I will be responsible for the remainder. 

I thought this was a scam but it’s something we all grudgingly accept because when your life is on the line you and I don’t really care how much it will cost us or how we ended up in the hands of professionals who can put us back together again and live to talk about it. 

New Book Out Now

My loyal readers I have wonderful news to share with you. I have just released a new book called, Clock maker and the Red Widow. At this time it’s available on Amazon and of course through my website when my great and magical webmaster puts it up for all to view and buy. 

From the ashes of war to the shadows of international espionage, Clock Maker and The Red Widow is a gripping trilogy of vengeance, loyalty, and the devastating cost of duty. 

The story resumes after the events of Hector’s Call to Duty, retold from the chilling perspective of the antagonists. Dmitri and Lena Costas, survivors of the brutal civil war in the former Yugoslavia, have escaped only to become weapons themselves-elite assassins for the Serbian State Security, an organization as ruthless and secretive as the KGB. Their final mission promises freedom: assassinate Mark Marteau’s parents-and eliminate Nicole and Dylan Baker. But in a world ruled by blood and betrayal, freedom is never guaranteed. 

Eight years later, Dylan Baker, haunted by his mother’s brutal murder, is deployed in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban. As his Army service nears its end, Dylan prepares for a different battle-one driven not by orders, but by revenge. 

I hope all of you will want to order copies. There are also eBook versions available. 

Thank you all for your support 

Tiffany A Porcelain Doll

Her face appeared flawless. The color of ivory, as smooth and perfect as window glass she had a perfect look. Her name was Tiffany, at least that’s the name I gave her when I found her yesterday morning. 

Yesterday she was a grotesque mess. Apparently she didn’t notice that the traffic light had changed or thought maybe she could outmaneuver a big Freightliner going over forty miles per hour. 

Regardless, after the postmortem she came here to me. I promised her parents I would make her perfect. I guess her real name her parents gave her was Agnes—a horrible name for such a girl! 

Her parents gave me her latest selfie. A pretty face, though maybe too healthy looking for my tastes—all tanned and blemish free. I prefer my subjects with a perfectly wan appearance, resembling dolls of Victorian times.  

So, after the stage where she is cleaned out, bled out and embalming fluid injected into her using an apparatus resembling an I.V. pole, a tube, and a long needle. Her face began to resemble the perfection that I desired. 

I admired her physical features. She was seventeen, a beautiful, athletic body, but alas she will be forever young. When the embalming process had run its course, in a hundred years, she’ll resemble all the residents who reside at that cemetery, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

I applied more pancake to her marred skin until it became a ghostly hue. I then applied the makeup, lipstick on her lips that will never experience a kiss from her lover and rouge along her high cheek bones. I then placed her hair into ringlets to give it that Victorian look. Ah, perfection.  

The parents wanted her dressed in a summer smock. Of course I complied with their wishes, though a lovely pinafore with pretty ribbons and bows would be better, though I didn’t tell them that. Besides, the smock was easier to put on her than what I had in mind. Rigor-mortis had already set in making my job so much harder. 

I checked the time on my watch and realized it was quitting time. I smiled down at my creation before gently closing the coffin’s lid.