Into the Fire

You all know you can count on one hand how many non-fiction books I've reviewed here on this blog. I'm a fiction writer and reader but there are rare times when I'm intrigued by a non-fiction book for various reasons. I know this: I highly recommend this well-written book which dispels the myths created by those with political agendas willing to lie about extracting techniques used to get critical information from committed terrorists to prevent future attacks such as 9/11 on American soil.

In this time of political unrest where lies have become the popular sport of choice by a prejudiced media hell-bent on creating chaos in the streets, it's imperative to learn the truth. This book lays to rest the lies perpetrated by members of Congress who have no regard for decency and the real safety of the United States of America.

Father, forgive us all as those of us who know you repent and ask for healing for our nation. One Nation Under God. Thank you for your rescue and reprieve. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Great tune. Great moves. Who cares what he's advertising. Just a pleasure to watch.

Father, you give the talent and gifts. Only you. Thank you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Really, it's not about "wishing". (It's about praying.) Having said that, I really would love to create a character as big as Mitch Rapp. Or as meaningful as Raleigh Harmon. Or as complicated and strong as Cole "Tox" Russell. These are just a few that have impacted me in my reading.

But the truth is in my line of writing, it probably won't happen. In my sphere of influence I've had some great compliments on a few of my characters and I cannot describe the appreciation for those readers who "got" them and loved them.

I will continue to work to make them meaningful, even impactful, but, seriously, it will take the hand of God to give them an audience who can enjoy them enough to keep them in their hearts as I have those characters mentioned above.

Father, only you. Only you can do what's best, what's necessary, what is good and perfect. Thank you for all you've done even though the thank yous are never enough to cover it all. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Do you give the horse his strength

   or clothe his neck with a flowing mane?

Do you make him leap like a locust,

   striking terror with his proud snorting?

He paws fiercely, rejoicing in his strength,

   and charges into the fray.

He laughs at fear, afraid of nothing,

   he does not shy away from the sword.

The quiver rattles against his side,

   along with the flashing spear and lance.

In frenzied excitement he eats up the ground;

   he cannot stand still when the trumpet sounds.

At the blast of the trumpet he snorts, 'Aha!'

   He catches the scent of battle from afar,

   the shout of commanders and the battle cry.

Job 39:19-25 (NIV)

            Fifth chapter of unfinished novel titled Race:

Five

Mondays at the track were noticeably laid back. Two off days of racing followed the usually climactic Sunday when most of the stakes and handicap races were run. Various stakes and handicap races featured the best horses of specific ages competing at set distances, the schedule usually progressing to longer distances as the meet wore on.

      Those who celebrated the end of the week at the local establishments sleepwalked through their stall cleaning and managed to complete their other Thoroughbred maintenance. Some collapsed in tack rooms for naps after the morning work concluded while others resumed their partying ways, meeting up at various bars or designated locations. I knew this because I used to work here for a few summers when I was a kid in high school. Truth is I loved it, loved the horses. Couldn’t say the same for most of the idiot owners except for a few who seemed to understand their horses were genuine athletes who sored up or got tired and needed a break once in awhile.

     I looked up as a warm ray rushed over me. The sun ambushed a retreating cloud and displayed its presence with authority. I soaked it in with admiration and appreciation. My partner walked up behind me still in the shade of the shedrow.

     “What do ya see?” His gaze searched the sky, his expensive Aviator sunglasses perfectly in place.

     “Sunshine. What’ve you got?” I didn’t want to explain my focus on the heavens.

     “Well, it turns out the boss-man’s missus arrived with a pony horse to exchange for another one at her barn around 11 PM and left about 12:10 AM or so.” He smirked.

     “Really. This is startin’ to get interesting.”

     “I’d say so.”

     We heard her before we saw her reaming the security guard who’d put up one hand in defense and cocked his head in an attempt to cool the lady’s rapid fire repartee. Her arms wind-milled around pointing into the victim’s room and encompassed the shedrow. Neither of us moved for at least 30 seconds, watching the breeze catch her Farrah Fawcett hair and play with it. Finally the guard pointed toward us and the woman stomped her brown leather boots and sprayed on designer jeans in our direction. Her Levi jacket hung open exposing a pale pink form-fitting scooped-neck top which drew our eyes to the tan flesh protruding and bouncing with each stride. I sensed Jesse throw a quick glance my way and I stepped forward into the shedrow to greet who I assumed must be Mrs. Trainer in a tizzy. Also a potential suspect now that I could see what she looked like.

     “Speak of the devil?” Jesse said softly, barely moving his lips.

     “Officers, what happened to Roman? He can’t be dead! He helped me switch my ponies last night. He—”

     “What time was that, ma’am?”

     “It’s Renee Casey. And—” She hesitated. “Sometime after eleven, I guess. Why?”

     Jesse jumped in with a good question. “Do you always exchange horses that late at night?”

     She glared at him and her tone took on a condescending note. “I exchange horses whenever I feel like it, Officer—”

     “It’s Detective, ma’am. I’m Detective Jesse Davidson and this is Detective David James.”

     “Well, Detectives,” she said, ice forming a glacier around each word, “I had to run a horse in the last race and our pony horse pulled up sore so I had to go home, get my trailer, and bring another one back.”

     I wouldn’t want to be in the area if Mr. and Mrs. Trainer ever got in a tussle. It’d be hard to say at this point who might win that skirmish.

     “Mrs. Casey, we don’t know yet what happened to Mr. Diego, but he is dead. And so far only you and his girlfriend happened to be in the vicinity around the time he passed,” I said as gently as I could muster.

     “Well, Detective, he was alive and well when I left the barn. And Carmella wasn’t here—probably out partying. The only other person at the barn last night was Dr. Sims, Ronnie, the vet. She and Roman had some vet work to do. Our other grooms weren’t available.”

     The almost empty syringe in the garbage can flashed to mind.   

     “Was Dr. Sims here when you arrived?” Jesse asked.

     “Yes.”

     I noted the slightest bristling at the question. “When you left?”

     Hesitation. “No.” She scuffed the toe of her leather boot in the shedrow dirt. “They were finished by the time I got my pony unloaded. I called for Roman to get the horse I was taking home.”

     “So you switched the horses and then hung around for a bit before leaving?” Jesse made sure his voice sounded strictly business without implication.

     She shoved hands in her jacket pockets and looked to her right down the shedrow. “I had some things to take care of in the office, so it took me a few minutes to get out of here.”

     “Do you know where Roman was when you left?” I asked.

     Her voice strained. “In his tack room I assume.”

     “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Casey,” I said.

     “When is all this tape going to come down? We have a business to run here. That tape can be very disruptive to Thoroughbreds.”

     I’m not putting racetrackers down because they’re just regular people, but most of them would never use the word “disruptive” in this situation. Mrs. Trainer had some education, and I wondered about her background before becoming Mrs. Trainer. From the looks of her and what I could remember from grainy newspaper photos of Walter Casey, the missus was considerably younger and much better looking than her husband.

     Jesse replied to her question, making an effort to execute his politest voice, but the answer was “up to our determination”. She literally huffed away to the other side of the barn.

Father, thank you is never enough. Again and again. Never enough. Please help me to continue. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

So we know each day is filled with choices, beginning with the choice of whether or not to get out of bed. We all have various commitments we choose to honor. Sometimes spontaneous choices jump up and demand attention. Life continues to raise up decisions. We battle with failure and success and many times we are guaranteed neither with equal opportunities for both.

Since putting myself on notice for doing something important each day – and keep in mind "important" can be rightfully subjective – I have printed out the pages for one of the three novels I've started and am reconnecting with it, editing what I have, and am determined to refrain from the self-imposed writing freeze I've experienced for too long. There were logical and reasonable interferences, but no more. It's time to return to these stories and get them wrapped.

Each day I have many choices. I'm determined to make more of them meaningful.

Father, I'm always desperate for you. Help me to honor you in all I do. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Have you asked yourself this question recently: What is so important?! At times, I wonder.

The demands of the world regardless of your profession or retirement, whether or not you must or want to work or must or want to stay home, however your time is occupied, whatever is required of you, how much of it is truly important and is it possible that much of what's taking up your time isn't really important? We get tricked, lulled, pressured, convinced, manipulated into doing things that aren't of value to us in the "Big Picture" and yet we repeat them over and over again.

I'm horrendously guilty of doing value-less things. As a result of this admission, I'm putting myself on notice. I need to make sure my day is filled with something of value – at least before I end up in frivolity. I'm not talking about the regular chores of life – they're necessities and I'm up to those daily. I'm talking about real value.

Nothing has more value than being a servant of the Lord. Listening, praying, doing what He desires. People live in tight schedules. I don't. I have no excuses and I won't make any.

As a writer who needs to get back to it because it's important in my life – something God has given me to do – I need to forget about all that tends to accompany it and just do it. Help me, Jesus.

Father, your Holy Spirit inspires me. I need every word. Please. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

I might be the only avid fiction reader of mysteries, suspense, police procedurals, thrillers, etc., who had yet to read a James Patterson novel. Just after Christmas, a friend of mine gave me Merry Christmas, Alex Cross to try. The prolific author and creator of the Detective Alex Cross character (among others) ranks as Numero Uno of the NYTimes bestselling authors with the most novels to hit the number one status on its lists. The number of books he's written is off the charts. He churns them out like opinions. Honestly, I expected him to be a hack who could tell a good story – and, frankly, I've heard him described that way. Having said that, the two-pronged plot for this story was both realistic, entertaining, and well done.

It's Christmastime in DC, and even cops' families have expectations of time spent together especially on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Although those might be unrealistic in many cases, it's a hope not easily discarded just because some criminal or whack job decides Christmas is the perfect time to stage a grand event of lawbreaking or terrorism.

It's Christmas Eve, a huge snowstorm approaches, and a former celebrated attorney decides his ex-wife, their children, and her present husband should die. He's barged into their home and has them in complete submission with his personal supply of meth and other drugs and an arsenal of weapons. Detective Cross is familiar with the man, who rose to the top in a prestigious law firm through two prominent cases, which is why he is summoned to assist in subduing the intelligent lunatic. Cross's family is none too happy to see him leave their celebration, but duty calls.

Cross finagles his way into the home, unarmed, and must listen to the man's ranting and abusive treatment of these people who he once loved – with the exception of the new husband who is first on his list to be exterminated. When there is gunfire, Cross is hard-pressed to make a way to get this guy into custody before SWAT must risk an all-out assault.

When things are finally under control, Cross makes his way home and hopes Christmas Day can be enjoyed after a few hours of sleep and some of his grandmother's sweet bacon, but a female terrorist has been spotted and Alex's friend and former associate from the FBI calls putting an end to any Christmas joy.  

The two plots are distinctly different. I don't know if this is a pattern in Patterson's novels, but they served to demonstrate the often consecutive draws on a LEO's life regardless of time of day or night or special occasion or holiday. Families are forced to endure the abrupt absence of their loved one and the fear this causes. In Merry Christmas, Alex Cross, we see the wilting stamina forced upon Cross after enduring hours and hours with little rest to get one perpetrator into custody and then figuring out the grand plan of a mastermind terrorist before something horrific happens to a large number of people. The toll of what occurs during these two events leaves scars on the psyche as Cross fights to put it all behind him.

I found Merry Christmas, Alex Cross to be well-written and entertaining with realistic characters. To my surprise a healthy dose of faith and Christianity were included, and profanity was kept to a minimum. I recommend this quick-read for those who enjoy police procedurals with strong characters good and bad.

Father, I pray James is one of yours and that you will continue to supply him with good stories that ultimately showcase the gift you've given him. May he inspire others to look to you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.            

A malicious man disguises himself with his lips,

   but in his heart he harbors deceit.

Though his speech is charming, do not believe him,

   for seven abominations fill his heart.

His malice may be concealed by deception,

   but his wickedness will be exposed in the assembly.

Proverbs 26:24-26 (NIV)

                   This is part of Chapter Five from Sweet Release.

CHAPTER FIVE

     CM passed an attractive woman on her way down the hall, her face puffy from crying. When she reached the double doors leading into the ICU, her mom came out to meet her, her eyes like those of the woman she’d just passed. Her mom reached out and hugged her only child.

     “Come in and talk to your father. Thank you for getting here so quickly.” Her words lurched from her mouth.

     CM wanted to reply but couldn’t and numbly followed her mother.

     He lay in the hospital bed with a heavily bandaged leg. His handsome face, though lined and telling a bit of the tale of his fast living, was bruised, and a rather wide bandage spread across his forehead with a patch of blood expanding through the center of it. Several tubes grew from his arms, his color pale, almost ashen.

     After letting CM take in his appearance, her mother stated, “He’s lost a lot of blood. They’re going to operate soon because they think he’s bleeding internally.” Her mom stopped a sob with a deep breath.

     CM struggled with the reality of the situation, and she fought against fainting. She could feel her sight being threatened by a blackness creeping around the sides of her eyes. She looked for a chair, found one and sat down fast, dropping her head between her knees.

     Immediately her mother knelt down in front of her. “Honey, are you going to be alright?” Her voice soft.

     “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said weakly, keeping her head down. “You don’t need this.”  She sucked in some deep breaths, furious with herself. Finally she dared to raise her head, taking another deep breath. She placed her arms on the sides of the chair. 

     Hearing the voices, Eric Rutheford became conscious again. “CM,” he rasped.

     CM took another deep breath and turned in her chair. “Yeah, Dad. I’m right here,” she managed to say quietly. 

     With considerable effort, he moved his arm over so he could reach her hand. She clasped it. “Mom said you have to have some surgery,” she said, trying to keep her voice level.

     “CM, I need to tell you a few things before I go,” he labored.

     “Dad, please, it’s too hard for you to talk right now. You can tell me after surgery. I’ll be here. We’ll both be here.”

     “No,” he replied quickly and more firmly. “Honey, it has to be now.”

     Her dad hadn’t called her “honey” since she was a little girl.

     “I’ve been a terrible father to you and a worse husband to your mother. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really understand it until a few months ago.” He coughed, pain in the sound. CM forced deep breaths again and strained to hold back tears. “I thought—as stupid as it sounds—I thought I was just living my life. That this was just me.” She watched him strain to get his thoughts in order. “Please, help me,” he whispered, looking above him at the ceiling.

     CM jumped up. “What do you need, Dad? The nurse? Some water?”

     A trace of a smile crossed his lips. “No, just bear with me, honey. Sit down. I’m trying to get this out in case I don’t make it out of surgery.”

     “Dad, don’t be saying that! Of course you’re going to make it out of surgery. You know what? You shouldn’t be trying to talk. Mom, tell him. He should rest up for surgery.” She babbled. Her tears flowed. Out of control. Everything beyond her control.  Why in the world was there never any control?!

     “Honey, listen to me now,” he said with more strength but with a kindness she couldn’t ever remember him having when he gave instruction.

     “I’ve been a louse. I hurt your mother and you to the enth degree. I was a coward—I was afraid of settling down and taking on responsibility. I wanted to be the dashing playboy because I was so afraid I’d be a rotten father. I never gave myself a chance to be one. I bailed on your mother and you for the first time after only two years of marriage even though I loved her. CM, I’ve always loved your mother and you.” The tears began to drain from her father’s eyes, causing her to nearly convulse from holding back her own. “The other women were toys. I know that’s ugly, and I’m truly ashamed, but I thought I needed them to make me feel like a man, to make me feel like I was worth something. I gave up real love with you and your mom for this counterfeit empty sex thing, and I want you to know how terribly sorry I am. I am just so, so sorry.”  He began to sob, and CM fell apart.

     “I love you, Dad,” she managed to say.

     “Then will you do me a favor, honey?” he asked wearily, his strength ebbing.

     “Yes, Dad. What?”

     “A little bit ago, I met Jesus Christ. I asked Him to forgive me for what I’d done to you and your mom and everyone else in my life. He’s become my Savior, so if I don’t make it out of surgery, I’ll be with Him in heaven. I’ll be alright either way, CM. I don’t blame you if you can’t forgive me for what I’ve done, but I hope you can find a way—the only way I know to find forgiveness is through God. Would you consider investigating the Lord for me, CM?” He paused and fought for a breath. “Please, honey, would you do that for me?”

     She looked at her dad, unable to compute what he was saying to her. He might as well have asked her to eat a big horned toad. She looked at him as if she’d never seen him before and then she looked across the bed to her mother who sat expectantly, holding on to his other hand with both of her own, a faint smile on her lips.

     “Will you, honey?” he asked with less strength and his eyes closed.

     Just then the attendants arrived with a gurney to transport him.

     “CM?” he asked as he forced his eyes to look directly into her stunned blue eyes.

     “Sure, Dad. Yeah, I’ll do that for you,” she managed to answer a little above a whisper.

     “Thank you, sweetheart. So much,” he said before they took him away.

     CM sat in the chair unfamiliar in this world. She glanced toward her mother who’d stood when they took her father, still staring down the hall, now empty. Her mother seemed to be in control of her emotions now—how such a thing would ever be possible again for herself CM had to wonder. My dad met Jesus Christ? He might as well have said he met Superman or the Green Hornet. Was he delirious from medication? She almost wished he was. 

Father, again, I thank you for every word, thought, inspiration. And thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.