The CGL project has been announced and the Rest of Merlin's Legacy, Chapter 4

Well, the project I'm working on for Catalyst Game Labs has been announced:

http://www.catalystgamelabs.com/2014/03/17/valiant-catalyst-partner-for-comic-book-based-tabletop-games/

So, I need to find out as much as I can about the one title I'm responsible for. The problem is I have only the current series to draw from (the previous series can't be considered, as there are major differences between the two series, even though they're about the same characters.) The current series is short, and the latest I can't draw from for several reasons. The fun of being a writer....

Anyhow, the least I can do is leave you something to read, so here's the rest of Chapter 4 of Merlin's Legacy:

***

        Donella’s car was a six-year old Honda that still looked in good shape. As she drove me out to the graveyard, she told me a little bit about herself. Both her parents were dead, and her Aunt Abby, her father’s older sister, had taken the young girl into his care and taken a desk job to give her niece some stability. Once Donella had graduated from high school, Abby retired from the FBI and moved to Pilgrim’s Cove. Instead of going to college, Donella had chosen to come with Abby,”to help settle her in.” That had been three years ago.
        “What happened?” I asked. “Why did you stay?”
       “Aunt Abby’s the only family I have left,” she replied.  
       “How did you end up at Camelot?”
       “The owner of the house we were renting wanted to sell it. Aunt Abby made an offer, buit the owner didn’t want to sell it at that price. Then Carlton Brackett bought the house and gave us thirty days to get out.”
       “Damien’s Dad?”
       Donella nodded. “Aunt Abby was mad and went down to the bank to give Carlton a piece of her mind. She ran into Lucian, told him the story and he offered her one of the houses on the estate. We’ve been there two years. But enough about me. What about you?”
        I gave her the same Cliff Notes of my life I’d given the Sheriff the night before, and added a few details I’d left out. My parents were retired, my older sister worked for the Department of Defense, while my younger brother was a sophomore at the U of MD. She listened to me talk about the few times I met Lucian. “He was the last of four children,” I said. “Grandpa, Great-Aunt Evelyn, Great-Uncle David, and Great-Uncle Lucian. Between them, they had twelve children and twenty-two grandchildren. Now, they’re all gone.” I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. “All we have left now are memories. And I have so few of Uncle Lucian.”
         I felt a hand on mine, I opened my eyes and looked at Donella, who gave me a soft smile before looked back at the road. “I miss him too,” she said.
        Three minutes later, we reached the cemetery and drove through the gates. Dorsey was near the gate. Donella slowed the car and rolled down the window. The older man smiled when he saw who it was. “Afternoon, Miss Donella,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
        Donella motioned to me. “Just here to drop Roger off to get his car.”
        “Ah,” Dorsey said, tipping his cap and leaning down to see me. “And how are you sir?”
        “I’m fine,” I replied. “I gave more than I received.”
        “Aye, that you did,” he said. He looked at Donella. I was driving up after I called the cops, and I got to the top there,” he motioned to the top of the hill, “When bam! All four toughs go flying like twigs in a high wind. Then they got into the van and drove off.”
        “Did you see anything else?” I asked. “Something you didn’t tell the sheriff?”
        Dorsey took off his hat and scratched his head. “Funny you ask that sir,” he said. “I could have swore there was a fifth person there. I didn’t see their face, on account they were facing away from me, but the were wearing a long black cloak.” He inhaled slowly. “But it could have been a freak shadow, because by the time I got close, it had vanished.”
        “Okay, thanks,” I said.
        “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes,” Donella said. “I’ll see you later, Dorsey.”
        “You too, Miss Donella.”
        Donella rolled up the window and drove away. As she made the turn to head up the hill, Donella asked, “What was that about?”
        “What?” I replied.
        “Asking Dorsey if he’s seen anything he didn’t tell the sheriff.”
        “It’s nothing.”
        “I don’t believe you.”
        “It’s had to explain,” I said. “And I don’t want to say anything until I have more evidence to convince me what I thought happened, did.”
        “You’re not sure what happened?”
        “I’m sure what happened, but it doesn’t make any rational sense. Until I can make sense out of it, I’m not saying anything.”
        Donella shrugged. “All right, but if the sheriff finds out you didn’t tell him everything, he’s going to be mad.”
        “If I told him what happened without proof, he’d be even madder, and I would be branded as a crank.”
        Donella rolled to a stop behind my car. “All right,” she said. “We’re here.”
        “Could you come with me for a moment?” I asked, unbuckling my seatbelt.
        Donella narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
        “Because I want to try something.”
        She sighed and put her car into park. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”
        We walked toward Lucian’s tomb. I noticed the burnt rubber on the road from the van’s sudden stop and start. I looked around, but saw no traces of the fight, beyond some torn-up grass.
        “I haven’t been here since Lucian’s funeral,” Donella said.
        “I didn’t get the letter notifying me of Lucian’s death until last week, several days after the funeral,” I said. “Charlie Windicott said he had a break in and his files were messed up which delayed the letter by several days.”
        “I see.”
        We reached the tomb. It looked untouched. I went up and placed my hand on one of the  stones that had been used to fill in the doorway. I felt the power under my fingertips. “Could you come here for a second?”
        Donella walked over. “What?”
        “Could you put you hand on the stone?”
        Sighing in resignation, she put her hand on the stone and gave me a “Why are we doing this?” look. After a few seconds, her expression changed to puzzlement and she pulled her hand away from the stone. She put her hand on the stone again. “I feel something,” she said.
        I nodded and took my hand off the stone. “Like a generator?”
        “Yes.” she frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”
        I glanced at my watch. “We’d better get going.”
        The removed her hand from the stone. “Yes,” she said, looking at the tomb. "Come on, you can follow me.”

***

That's all for now -- Let's see what I can get done by Thursday!

Craig

Merlin's Legacy, Chapter 4, Part 2

Well, African Firestorm is up to Chapter 30 in the outlining stage, but I'm going to have to downgrade priority on that, as I've got a writing assignment from Catalyst Game Labs that's due April 1st (no joke), for my first non-Battletech game writing assignment. It's time to expand my writing experience into another area. This is for a new RPG, which should be announced Monday (That's what Randall says in his tweet, at any rate).

In any case, it'll give me a chance to do some more research for African Firestorm, as I have to locate a good place for a pirate base for the major set piece that starts the final third of the novel. I plan on staying as close to reality as I can, location-wise and culture-wise.

And to keep you coming back, here's more of Merlin's Legacy, Chapter 4!

***

  They didn't catch the van, but did put an APB out for it. Sheriff Walker, who was leading the rescue force, insisted that I be checked out by the town’s doctor. He drove me back into town and soon I was sitting on and examination table, waiting for the Doctor.
Doc Weatherbee came in, He was in his mid-50s, and strongly resembled a beardless Santa Claus. His hair was snow-white, but still thick and full, and wore rimless spectacles on a bulbous nose. His lab coat was bright white, but the Hawaii shirt and shorts he wore under it did make him look a little odd.
“We can fill in the paperwork later,” he said in a low, rumbling voice. “Let’s take a look at you. Shirt and shoes off, please.”
I removed my shirt, shoes, and undid my pants. Doc raised an eyebrow when he saw the old bruises and the new ones. “Looks like this isn't your first scuffle with someone.”
“Three masked thugs jumped me in my apartment last week. Just now, four tried it. I’m expecting five next week.”
“Well, you still have a sense of humor. That’s good.” He spent a few minutes poking and prodding me, going “hmmm,” and asking questions like “Does this hurt?”
I had to answer “yes” to the shot I’d taken across the stomach in the arm and the graze I’d taken on the other arm. He also looked at my other bruises and seemed satisfied that they were healing. After twenty minutes, he said, “looks like you have a few more bruises, but nothing’s broken. I suggest you avoid any bar brawls, mosh pits, or reenactments of the battle of Hastings for the next couple of weeks and let these bruises heal up before you add any more.”
“It’s not my fault,” I said.
There was a knock at the door and Donella walked in. “Doc,” she said, staring down at a clipboard, “I need—” She looked up and stopped when she saw I was half-naked. “Oh.”
I grabbed my shirt and covered myself feeling a bit embarrassed. From the way she was reddening, I wasn't the only one.
Doc looked from me to Donella and back to me again, raising an eyebrow. “He’s all right, Donella,” he said. “He could stand to lose about twenty pounds, but he’s healthy and fit.”
I don’t know who was redder, me or Donella. I couldn't see myself, but if Donalla was as red as I was, we could have stood in for red lights at intersections.
Doc chuckled, then went over to Donella and said gently, “Why don’t we wait outside and let the poor boy get dressed?”
They left and I scrambled into my clothes as fast as I could. I had finished button up my shirt when there was a knock on the door and Doc stuck his head in. “Sheriff wants to talk to you,” he said.
"Here?”
“Out on my porch.”
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly one o’clock and my stomach rumbled. Doc’s eyebrow went up again. “I’ll see about getting you something to eat, too,”
“That’s all right,” I said “I—”
“Nonsense, my boy,” Doc said. “You need food to help heal those bruises. Go on, son. I’ll bring you out something in a minute.”

***

        I didn't see Donella as I walked out of the examination room and out into the hall. The waiting room, a large open area across the hall from the examination room was currently empty. There were a few antiques scattered around, but most of what I could see was designed for modern business.
        Doc’s office was also his home, a trim blue Victorian, so when I walked out the front door, I found myself on a porch that was probably larger then a few New York City apartments. The porch wrapped around the fronts and sides of the house. Sheriff Walker was sitting in a rocking chair near a porch swing. He waved at me to come over.
        I walked over to the porch swing and sat slowly, mindful of the new pain. Walker stopped rocking. “Okay,” he said, tell me what happened.”
        I told him almost everything, except for the Nazgul specter and the energy wave. He listened as I told him about the attack. “You know martial arts?”
        “First degree black belt,” I said. “And unlike last week, I wasn't surprised.”
        He nodded. “You think those thugs were the same one who attacked you in Maryland?”
        I nodded back. “The head thug told me that I should have given them the letter back then. It sounded like the same guy.”
        “I see. I’ll place a call with the local detective in Maryland handling the case and see if he has anything I can use.” He looked at me. “You seems to be attracting trouble.”
        “Lucian’s estate seem to be what attracting the trouble,” I replied. “I just happen to be the poor sap in the middle.”
        “Who knew you were going out to visit Lucian’s grave?”
        “I got the directions out of Charles Windicott, in the lobby of his office.”
        “Do you know who else was in the office at that moment?”
        “Well, Myself, Charlie, Margaret Teague, Cathy, Damien Brackett, and Mister Blount. I never saw Blount, as he stayed in his office and was starting an appointment with Damien. Everyone else was within earshot.”
        Walker nodded. “All right, Roger. What are your current plans?”
        “I have to be up at Camelot by three, because Charlie’s showing me around the estate, then I have a few hours to prepare because I’m going to be spending the night alone in the main house.”
        The sheriff frowned. “Is that wise?”
        “It’s part of the will.”
        The front door open and Donella came out with a tray and walked over to us. “Doc says to eat this,” she said, handing me a large sandwich one a plate and a large glass of lemonade.
        I took the plate and lemonade. “Thank you,” I said.
        She handed Walker a plate with a slice of cake on it. “Carrot cake,” she said, “In case Sandra asks.”
        “Thank you, Donella,” Walker said gratefully. “It’s been a while since I've had some of Doc’s carrot cake.”
        “He knows.”
        “Donella, could you sit for a moment? I need to ask you a favor.”
        I moved over to give her some room, and she sat down on the porch swing. “What do you need Sheriff?”
       “Roger here is meeting Charlie Windicott at Camelot at three, but we left his car back at the cemetery. I’d run him back out there, but I have to go see Pastor Breisch about some vandalism he’d just discovered at his church.”
        “Another one?” Donella said. “That’s what, the third incident?”
        “Fourth,” Walker replied, taking a bite of his cake.
        “Problems?’ I asked.
        “A few of the local churches have been hit by vandals,” Walker said. He paused to take another bite of his cake. “Kids probably, but it’s becoming a problem. Anyway, Donella, could you run Roger up to the cemetery to get his car?”
        “Sure, Sheriff.”
        “Thanks.”
        “Sheriff,” I said, “Can I ask you a question?”
        “If I can.”
        “Did Lucian ever strike you as being odd?”
        Another bite of carrot cake disappeared into his mouth, “In what way?”
        I told him about what Charlie had told me about the will and the stipulations I had to follow. “No one seems to know what Lucian did for a living except he was some sort of consultant. He cut all connections to his relatives, yet names me, not my dad or either one of his brothers, or any of the other relatives as sole heir. And even before I find out I’m Lucian’s heir, I’m attacked, because someone didn't want me up here. And I've just been attacked again for the same reason. So who is Lucian Merlin and what did he do?”
        Walker was silent for a few moments, eating his cake. Finally, he said, “I can’t tell you Roger. Lucian was a private man who always kept his distance, yet when someone needed help, he was the first person there. He did a lot of good around here, and that’s what people will remember him for.”
        “He was lonely,” Donella said. We looked at her. “The sheriff’s right, Lucian was a private person, but there was a sadness in him. If you were around him long enough, you could see it. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I asked him why he was sad. He looked at me and said that he walked a path few can travel, and when he found someone to walk that path with, he lost her during the war. He said he never found another, but I think he never looked.”
        Walker put his now-empty plate down and stood. “I have to get going,” he said. “Roger, I’ll be in touch if there’s any developments or if I need to talk to you again.”
        “Of course, Sheriff.”
        “Good day to both of you.”
I watched him walk away, then took a bite of my sandwich. Ham, cheese with tomato and lettuce, all topped with honey mustard. After the sheriff drove away, I chewed and swallowed, then looked at Donella. She looked back at me, and I felt myself begin to lose myself in her eyes.. We broke the gaze by mutual consent. “So,” I said. “Are gangs a problem up here?”
        “Not really,” she said, “but there have been a number of unsolved crimes over the last six months. The Sheriff’s feeling the heat from the town council.”
        “What sort of crimes?” I asked, taking a bite of my sandwich.
        “Well, four of the local churches have been vandalized. From what I've know, they did a real number on the altars, wrecking them so they can’t be used. There’s been a rash of farm animals disappearing, including several cows. A couple of weeks ago, they found the remains of a cow up on Table Rock.”
        “Table Rock,” I muttered, the swallowed the food in my mouth. “Isn't that where they found Lucian’s body?”
        “Yes. And that’s another thing that has the council upset, even though the sheriff turned the investigation over to the county detectives. Lucian was well like and respected by everyone around here.”
        I began to feel uneasy. Lucian’s death, the Nazgul wannabe, and this crime wave, all felt like they were connected. And not in a good way.
        “People are scared, Roger,” she continued. “I only go out at night if I have to work and even then it’s to the Inn and back again. Aunt Abby keeps a loaded shotgun by her bead and Leal Severine lets his dogs roam the estate at night.”
        “The estate?” I asked.
        She made an “O” with her mouth in surprise. “I didn't tell you, did I? We — Aunt Abby and I — live on Camelot.”
        My heart started beating a little faster. “Who’s Leal?”
        “He’s the estate’s groundskeeper. Lucian rescued him from his brothers and gave him the job of taking care of the estate’s grounds.”
        “His brothers wouldn't happen to be Mel and Gene, would they?”
        She stared at me in surprise. “How did you know?”
        “Ran into them last night outside the Inn. Might have gotten into a brawl with them if the Sheriff hadn't shown up and arrested them.”
        “Oh,” she said. “Well, Leal isn't like them. He’s a very simple man, honest, hard working. I don’t know how, but he keeps the estate grounds looking good all by himself. He was very devoted to Lucian.”
        “He lives on the grounds?”
        She nodded. “He has a small house near the front gate and he lives there with five or six large dogs that he’s rescued from the county animal shelter.”
        I had been working on my meal while we were talking and finished it as she was talking. “Thank you,” I said.
        “For what?”
        “For bring this out to me. I didn't realize I was that hungry.”
        “Doc loves to cook. A couple of times a year, he threatens to quit medicine and open up a café.” That got a mild chuckle out of me.
        Donella stood up. “Come on,” she said. “Let me get my jacket, then we’d better get going.”

***

Let's see how much of the writing assignment I can get done before Monday....

Craig

New Information on the Current Novel and More Merlin's Legacy

The above is the logo for the series that I'm outlining the novel I've mentioned the last several posts. Created by Rick Chesler (Thriller / suspense novelist: BLOOD HARBOR (12/10/13); Tara Shores series: SOLAR ISLAND (2012), kiDNApped (2011), WIRED KINGDOM (2010)), Outcast Ops is about a team of US specialists, who have, for one reason or another found themselves outside of the system. But just because they're outside the system doesn't mean they're going to go quietly into the night. The world still needs their skills, and there are evil people who still threaten their fellow man.

As of now, The name of the novel I'm working on outlining right now is tentatively called African Firestorm, and I've outlined it out to Chapter 29. It's still looking like the 40-45 chapters mark is still holding, but I think there's a third of the novel left to outline, leading to the exciting climax, so we'll see. (I hope!)

Now that I've filled in some of the mystery, I'll keep you updated on my progress.

And speaking of novels....Here's the start of Chapter 4 of Merlin's Legacy:

***

        The bouquet of flowers was on the passenger seat when I pulled into the cemetery. Rolling Hills Cemetery was west of the town, on a hill overlooking the harbor The cemetery was surrounded by a five foot stone wall, with black iron spikes adding another foot. The gates were the same black iron. 

        I drove in slowly, getting a long look at the place. The grass was green and well-tended, and the headstones were intact. A man was pushing a wheelbarrow toward me. I pulled the car next to him, stopped the car and rolled down my window. “Afternoon,” I said.

        The man put his wheelbarrow down and gave me a friendly smile. “Afternoon to you, sir!” he said. “My name’s Dorsey, head groundskeeper. What can I do for you?” He looked like he was in his mid-fifties, with a tanned, weather-beaten face, fit, with worn clothes, dirt-covered boots and a wide-brimmed hat.

        “I’m looking for a certain grave,” I said.

        “Who’s?”

        “Lucian Merlin.”

        A cloud a sadness covered his expression. “Yes,” he said. “Lucian was a good man. We’re all morn his passing.”

        “Yeah, I’m learning that.”

        “Anyone, Lucian doesn't have a grave. He has a tomb, near the top of the hill. You can see it from here, just look up and to the left. It’s the pure white one.”

        I scrunched down and looked out the passenger's-side window and up the hill. The tomb was right where Dorsey described. “How do I get up there?”

        “Oh well, sir,” Dorsey said, motioning with one arm in the direction he had come from. “Go down here until you come to an intersection, make a right, go uphill, then make your third right.”

        “Thank you,” I said.

        “You related to Lucian?” he asked. 

        “Great-nephew,” I replied. “I got into town last night.”

        Dorsey scratched his chin. “Never knew Lucian had any family.”

        "He did. Thank you for your help.”

        “Not a problem. I’m sorry for your loss.”

        “Thank you,” I rolled up window and rolled away. In the rear-view mirror, I watched Dorsey pick up his wheelbarrow and continued on his way.

        I followed the directions, and was soon parked near Lucian’s tomb. I took the bouquet,  got out of the car and looked around. Again, I felt I was being watched, but saw no one except  Dorsey, and he was down near the front gates, raking up some leaves and ignoring me. I did another slow spin, but saw no one. It was cool and clear, with a light breeze blowing in from the sea. Otherwise, it was silent. No birds or insects sang their songs, and I was too far away from town to hear any noise from there.

        It was unnerving.

        “It’s the place that’s creeping me out,” I muttered. I started walking up the grass slope to where the tomb stood.

       Even in this well-tended memorial park, the tomb stood out. It wasn't very large, maybe eight feet wide, twice as deep and eight feet tall at its highest point. It was made of white marble, with symbols engraved on each stone block. I recognized only a few of them — the Ankh, some runes, and what looked like symbols from the book I Ching. Over the what had been the doorway, but was now a solid block of stone was the word MERLIN. Below that, carved in base-relief was the twin dragon holding a stone shaped into a form of a gem — just like my ring.

        I bowed my head and whispered a prayer for Lucian’s soul. There was a hollow calender cared from the stone that looked large enough to hold the flowers. I put the flowers into it, and was about to step back, when I felt the urge to touch the stone. I did so, placing my right palm flat against the door.

        I could feel the stone vibrating under my hand, gentle, quiet and peaceful. The feeling of peace flowed down my arm and into my body, and all tension and conflicting emotions in my body and mind was swept away in the feeling of tranquility.

        I hadn't intended on saying anything, but the words came out before I could stop them. “Uncle Lucian, I grieve for your death and I thank you for your kindness you have shown this town. Had the family known you were still alive, we would have visited you and made sure you were never alone. I will pray that the police find out who murdered you and bring them to justice.”

        I felt a subtle change in the energy around me. The hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. I knew something was happening, but I didn't understand what. Several of the engravings seemed to start glowing, though it was hard to see it in the daylight. Then, without warning, I head a soft whisper. “I’m sorry, Roger.”

        I yanked my hand away from the stone as quickly as I could. I looked around for any reason to explain what I’d just heard. Nothing. I walked around the tomb and again, found nothing.

        I scratched my head. I had to imagining it, right? There was no such things as ghosts, right?

Then why couldn't I dismiss it as such?

        I squared my shoulders walked up to the sealed door and placed my hand on the stone. I felt the energy again under my hand and the feeling of peacefulness flowed into me again. I closed my eyes this time and concentrated. I felt the energy and saw flashes of lights on my eyelids.

        Then like before, I heard the whispers. “Beware the Dark Master,” it breathed. “Beware the Dark Guide.”

        “Who?” I asked softly. “Who are they?”

        “Death,” the whispers answered. “Destruction, Chaos, Evil.”

        Before I could ask for more information, I heard the squeals of wheels, and the sound of an engine, both getting closer and quickly. I opened my eyes and pulled my hand away. I turned and saw a black van coming up the road at a nearly insane speed. Something told me I was the reason they were here.

        I stepped away from the tomb and started for my car, but suddenly, there was a hooded figure in front of me. “Not so fast, Merlin,” it hissed, pointing a loved finger at me.

        I stepped back. “Who are you?” I demanded. All I could see was a cloaked and hooded figure, with a void where the face would be.

        “Your enemy,” the figure replied as the van turned onto the road and raced toward us. It shot past my car and came to a stop in front of me in a cloud of smoke and squealing brakes. The side door slid open as the van came to a stop, and the same hooded thugs who’s jumped me in my apartment hopped out, plus one. Well, same in dress, ski masks, and weapons, baseball bats.

        One of the thugs pointed his bat at me. “You had you chance,” he growled. “You should have given us the letter when you had the chance!”

        “You were too early, asshole,” I said, “I didn't get the letter until after you tried to beat me to a pulp.”

        “We’ll take care of that now. You ain't welcomed here in Pilgrim’s Cove, and now we’re going to make sure you regret ever coming here.” He looked at two of his friends. “Watch it, he knows some Kung-fu moves. Take him.”

        Two of the thugs came at me. I knew more than a few “Kung-Fu” moves, and unlike last time, I was alert and prepared. The first thug tried taking my head off with his first swing, But I ducked and sidestepped him, kicked him in the side of the knee and shoved him into the second thug, sending both of them sprawling. 

        Before I could go after them, the head thug came at me, his swing scraping down my arm instead of landing on my collarbone. I yelled and kicked out, hitting him on the thigh instead of his groin, but it was enough to made him stumble back. I surged forward, punching him between the eyes. 

        Before I could follow up, the fourth thug stepped forward and hit my left arm near the shoulder with his bat. I stumbled sideways, right into the path of one of the first two thugs who tried to double me over with a had swing into my solar plexus. I exhaled and tightened my stomach muscles just in time. The blow hurt, but I wasn't disabled. With adrenaline surging through me, I grabbed the thug’s wrist and kicked him as hard as I could in the groin. He screamed and doubled over, and I followed up with a knee to the face. I felt his nose crack under the blow and I shoved him away.

        Thug four charged me, screaming at the top of his lungs. I stepped inside his swing, blocking his arm and slamming a palm into his nose, barking a short, sharp yell. His head snapped back and he fell on his ass.

        The head thug rushed me, swinging his bat fast and hard. I backpedaled, then ducked as the other unhurt thug tried taking my head off. I caught a glimpse of the hooded figure just standing there, watching the fight.

        The head thug and his partner started working together, forcing me on the defensive. They managed to get in a few glancing blows, but they were forcing me back toward the tomb I saw one of the other thugs slowly get up, his mask a bloody mess and murder in his eyes.

        As I stepped back to avoid a thrust, my right heel caught a buried rock and it threw my balance off. I stumbled back, and found myself leaning up against the tomb. There were now three thugs on their feet and number four was getting up.

        “Kill him and take the ring,” the hooded creep said.

        I put my hand on the tomb to steady myself. As I did so, energy flowed into me, lots of energy. I was suddenly full of energy and even more kept flowing in. “Lift your left hand and will the energy though it,” the whispers said.

        I lifted my hand, and forced the energy through my arm and out through my hand.

        The result was unbelievable.

        A wave of energy flowed out of my hand and slammed into the thugs, sending them flying. Two hit the van hard enough to stun them, while the other two were sent tumbling across the road and into the gravestones on the other side. Only the hooded creep was unaffected by the blast.

        Once the energy was gone, I dropped to one knee, and dropped my head, feeling like I’d run a marathon while wearing weights. In the distance, I heard sirens, getting closer. I lifted my head. Creepy cloak was still standing there. “It appears I have underestimated you, Merlin,” it said, sounding like a snake. “I will not make that mistake again.”

        “I don’t know who you are, your third-rate Nazgul,” I managed to snarled. “But stay out of my way!”

        “No,” it replied. I have no idea if it was male, female or even human under that hood. It turned its head in the direction of the stunned thugs. “We must leave now.”

       The thugs were up on their feet, but moving slowly and in pain. I grinned nastily, but I had no energy of my own to do anything to add to their pain. They climbed into the van and roared off, even as the sirens got louder.

        Nazzy looked back at me. “Lord Zamaka will not be denied his reward, Heir of Merlin. The Black Guide will show him the way.” And, like a ghost, Nazzy faded away.

        I pushed myself into a sitting position, feeling drained. I head an electric motor A golf cart into sight, driven by Dorsey. He jerked to a stop and got out. “Are you all right?” he asked.

       “Fine,” I replied. “Just a little tired.”

       He knelt next to me. “I’m sorry, but they faced into the park and nearly hit me! When I saw where they were going, I called the Sheriff and told them what was happening!”

       The sirens were getting louder and I could see flashing lights. “I’ll stay here,” I said. “You go get them.”

       Dorsey nodded and ran back to his golf cart and roared off. I just sat there and let the pain hit me. “I looked up at the tomb. “I sure hope this is all worth it Uncle Lucian,” I said.

       “It is,” the whisper replied.

***

All for now -- Later!!

Craig

Why Self-publish? A newbie's view.....

As I look at the number of posts I've made since the start of the year, I realize that I've blogged more this year than the other two years. In fact, by the end of the month, I'll have blogged more this year than the other two years combined. Guess I'm still trying to step up my game....

Okay, first the update on the novel. It's fully outlined through Chapter 24, and rough outlined for Chapters 25-30. It looks like the novels going to run 40-45 chapters by the time I've finished the outlining. I sent what I've done so far to my proposed co-author/originator of the series, and he likes it so far. But the proof will be in the writing itself.

And that brings me to the post's subject: why self-publish? The reason are many, and I will outline my thoughts here.

Why Self-Publish?

There is no one main reason to self-publish. It's a number of factors, all have their own influence on my thinking. I have read many blogs from many different people who are farther along on their journey, and I am seeing things that enforces what I'm seeing with my own eyes.

Control of My Intellectual Property (IP) Rights --- This has a big influence on my thinking. Any original story I write (That isn't linked to someone's else's IP) is mine. I own everything in that story, and I should have the right to decide who gets what from those rights. The problem is these days, the Traditional Publishing Companies (TPCs) are demanding more and more rights from the writer. E-book rights, audio rights, foreign rights, and even movie and TV rights have become part of a lot of publishing contracts these days. Combined with contracts that are twisted and rigged to give the TPCs everything and the writer very little, it's not worth giving up those rights for the thrill of seeing my book in print.

Distrust of the TPCs --- I have read blogs in which authors explained how the TPCs basically raked them over the coals, and earning nothing because the TPC screwed them over, either through incompetence or willful neglect. Things like "No-compete" clauses, reduced advances, accounting practices that make DC bureaucrats look like amateurs, and demanding every right they can think of are compounded by indifferent editing, little publicity, and a willingness to drop the author at the slightest reason. All that leads me to believe that if a novel I write fails, it should fail because of me, not because TPC screwed me over.

Amount of Work --- Most publishers don't put out more than a book a year for an author. There are exceptions to this -- James Patterson and Clive Cussler come to mind -- but most authors have only one novel out at a time. (A main reason who some authors use Pen names). Well and great if I have only one novel ready to go, but what if I have three novels ready, or several novellas? Do I want to wait three years to publish all three novels, or figure out how to get novellas published? By self-publishing, all three novels can be out in a year, finding readers and hopefully earning money. If I want to publish under my own name, a pen name of ten pen names, I decide when and how I release my work and in what form. That still means I have to write quality stories, but I don't have to sit there with a stack of finished material, dribbling out a novel at a time.

Freedom --- That leads in from Amount of Work. I decide when and how I release my novel/novella/ novelette/short story. I decide if I want to have an audio version, what the price of my work should be. I decide what cover my stories should have. I'm on my own time table, not a TPC's. I think that would have a better handle on what my story needs in the way of a cover, and how much PR I can put out and in what format.

Money --- Yes, it's that low on the list. As a self-publisher (or independent author), I receive no advance (Which are shrinking rapidly). I do however, receive a larger percentage of royalties per book. And because e-books or Print on Demand (POD) never go out of print, I could earn money on a novel I wrote five or ten years ago. While I wouldn't earn a lot per sale, say $2.50 per book, once I have enough stories published, I wouldn't need that many sales per book. If my books each sells only ten copies a month ($25.00), and I have ten stories published, I'm looking at $250.00/month. Not a huge amount, but it would be constant, and grow each time I published a story. With the right PR, I could boost sales for a series, or offer special editions. I don't need runaway bestsellers (Though I would not complain if one of my stories did hit it big) to make a living,

And those are my thoughts as I see it right now. Can my thoughts change? Yes. I expect that I will be altering my thoughts a lot over the next few years, as I start digging into the new soil of being an Independent Author.

Craig

Update on the Novel, and More Merlin's Legacy

Well, I'm up to Chapter 20 in the outlining process, and it's going well so far. The genre of this novel is action/adventure/Thriller, and I've always been a fan of those sort of novels, The co-author wants to keep each chapter to five or six pages, so I'm working the narrative to suit the action. After I finish the outline, I'll tell you more about the series, because by then, I hope to have more to tell you about.

But to keep this from being a short blog post, here's the next scene from Merlin's Legacy, First draft:

***

        We spent the next thirty minutes signing forms and turning over things like bank accounts, property deeds, and other things to my control. My head was spinning by the time, so when Windicott said we were done for now, I was relieved.
        He guided me out of his office and into the lobby, all the while making the pitch to become my legal adviser. Just as we passed Cathy’s desk, we heard a woman’s voice say, “Charles.”
        Well, she didn't really say it, she sort of purred it.
        We both turned and looked behind us. Standing there was a tall statuesque redhead with green eyes and a sly smile on her ruby-red lips. She was dressed in a business suit with a knee-high skirt and low-heel shoes, but despite being conservatively dressed, she somehow make the outfit alluring.
        “Windicott coughed. “Ah, Margaret,” he said, his tone half an octave higher than it had been several seconds before.
        She smiled widen when I she looked at me, and I felt like a piece of meat dangling in front of a hungry lion. She moved toward us, her walk more like a stalk. “Who’s your friend?”
        I cannot stress the beauty of this woman. It wasn't the girl next door type of beauty, but the wild-weekend-in-Vegas-that-you-will-never-tell-your-mother-type of enchantress. I felt my heart beat faster and blood run to places that it shouldn't in a the middle of a lawyer’s office.
“Yes, yes,” Windicott said, his breaths fast and short. “Margaret, this is Roger Merlin, Lucian’s great-nephew. Roger is is one of my associates, Margaret Teague.”
Her smile became wider. “Lucian’s kin, huh?,” she said. She turned her head to look at Windicott. “Don’t you have to get ready for court?” she asked, her silkily-smooth voice laced with steel.
Windicott gulped and shifted from one foot to the other. “I have a couple of minutes,” he said.
Margaret sighed. “Go,” she said.
Windicott went.
After he hurried back to his office and close his door, Margaret looked at me. “Well,” she breathed. “I never knew Lucian had such a handsome great nephew.”
In the back of my head, alarms were going off. I’m an all right looking guy, but AJ’s is not only better looking, he has the person skills I don’t. I felt my face getting flush and I looked around,. We were alone, and I felt my heart beating faster.
When I looked back, I found myself staring into two large green eyes that promised so much. She was standing inches from me, having stepped close when I was distracted. “Are you doing anything tonight?” she whispered. “We could have dinner. I know a lot about Lucian and could tell you everything.”
She reached out to caress my arm, but as she did so, there was a burst of static electricity, shocking both of us. We jumped back, and the spell was broken. Margaret’s expression darkened and she glanced down at my hand. “The ring!” she snapped. “When did you get the ring?”
My mind was still a little rattled. “A week ago.”
She huffed in anger, put hands on her hips, then gave me a bitter smile and looked at the ceiling. “Nicely played, Lucian,” she said softly.
Windicott chose that moment to come out of his office, several files in one hand and a briefcase in the other. As he looked at us, I heard the front door open and turned to see who was coming in.
Damien Brackett scowled when he saw me. “Uncle Lucy leave you anything?” he asked with a sneer.
“Enough,” I replied, smiling to show my teeth.
“So, leaving soon?”
I pursed my lips and shook my head. “Nope. I think I’m going to be hanging around for several years, at least.”
Damien shot me an ugly look. I shot him an ugly look. While we were staring at each other, the door opened somewhere behind me and Cathy ‘s voice said, “Mister Brackett? Mister Blount will see you now.”
Damien waked toward me, and I braced myself for a shoulder bump. Instead, he walked past me without contact, walked past Margaret and into another office. Margaret gave me a half smile that was more cruel than sexy, then walked into another office.
“Mister Windicott,” I said.
“Please, call me Charlie,” he said.
“Charlie,” I said. “When do you want to meet this afternoon and where?”
“Why not the estate? Just take Bayfront here, head north and you can’t miss it. Say, three?”
“Sounds good. By the way, do you know where Lucian’s buried? I would like to pay my respects.”
He nodded and gave me directions. We walked out and parted ways outside the office. I walked back to my car but just as I reached it, I felt eyes upon me. I did a full, slow spin, but saw no one looking at me. There were several dozen people in sight, all going about their own business.
I looked around again, and this time, I spotted Mister Brawn sitting on a bench in the park, half-hidden behind a lamppost. He was throwing breadcrumbs on the ground in front of him, but there were no birds anywhere near him. He looked in my direction, saw me looking at him, got up and walked away. I watched him until he crossed the street on the other side of the park and enter the bakery. I waited a couple more minutes, but he didn't reappear. I shrugged it off and was about to get into the car, when I changed my mind and started walking toward the florist.

***

That's the first three chapters of Merlin's Legacy. Any opinions?

Craig

Progress on the novel project (and More Merlin's Legacy)

Well, the outline on this novel for this series is going well. I've had to research things like private jets, Nuclear weapons, North Korea and Iran. I've been in communication with my co-author on this, and we seem to be thinking along the same line. First fifteen chapters outlined, and I hope to have several more done by Monday. I know this is a bit late, but this creating has been taken up a lot of my time. But to hopefully keep you coming back, here's a little more of Merlin's Legacy, namely, the start of Chapter 3:

***

My first day in Pilgrim Cove started with me waking up in a warm soft bed.
I found the Oates House with problem, and Mrs. Oates, a plump woman somewhere between forty and sixty, welcomed me in and gave me a small, but comfortable bedroom on the second floor in back.
I called mom and dad to let them I had made it safely, but didn't tell them Uncle Lucian had been murdered. Then, after a cup of tea and reading a couple of chapters of the my current novel, I went to bed and slept like a log.
I am not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. But waking up in that bedroom was one of the most agreeable mornings I had experienced in a long time. The sunlight was clean and bright, and I was gloriously warm under the quilt. I laid there for a few minutes, enjoying the morning. Then with a groan, I sat up and stretched slowly.  As much as I wanted to stay there, I had things to do.
After getting out of bed, used the bathroom, and gotten dressed, I went down to breakfast. I hadn't seen any of the other guests, but Mrs. Oates had tole me about them, so they weren't a surprise when I entered the dining room and found I was the last guess to breakfast.
The young couple sitting next to each other had to be the MacGregors, newly-weds from Burlington enjoying their honeymoon. She was a cute blonde, while he was nice-looking guy. From the way they were looking each other, I don’t think they were really aware of me.
On the other hand, the third guest was more intent on eating through a large stack of blueberry pancakes. Mister Brawn had a round body, round head with a round face, and was as bald as a cue ball. He glanced up as I walked it, looked at me for a few seconds, then went back to eating.
Breakfast conversation was nonexistent. The MacGregors were still in their “I only have eyes for you,” phrase, while Brawn was packing away pancakes and never had an empty mouth to speak with. I settled for a couple of pancakes, some scrambled eggs and bacon, along with a cup of orange juice and a cup of tea. I ate slowly, enjoying the breakfast. After I was finished, I took my dish and cups into the kitchen, leaving the other three involved in their own worlds.
Mrs. Oates was in the kitchen, cleaning up from breakfast. “There was no need to come in, dearie,” she said.
“I was raised to clear my place at the table,” I said with a smile.
She took my plate and cups. “Thank you. Are the others still out there?”
“Yes. Mister Brawn is eliminating any leftover pancakes and the couple are drinking in each other.”
She smiled. “That’s good.” She glanced at the clock. “Charlie should be in his office in a few minutes.”
“Yes, where is Mister Windicott’s office?”
“Town square, next to the town hall. Take a right out of the driveway, Right onto Second Street, then left onto Main Street. It’ll be on your left.”
“Thank you.” I thought for a moment. “Did you know my great-uncle?”
“Lucian?” The smile faded from her face. “He was a great man. He will be missed greatly by many people.”
I nodded. “When I had dinner with the sheriff last night, he told me that Lucian had been murdered.”
She nodded in return. “Yes, it was a great shock to us. We couldn't believe it.”
“What happened?”
“No one knows. Lucian was found out by Table Rock by a pair of wild blueberry pickers. We thought he’s just slipped and fallen, but when they found out he was shot. . . Well, that put the cat among the pigeons.”
“Anyone know what he was out there?”
“At Table Rock?” She shrugged. “No one knows. Lucian was well known for going on long walks around the area, but not at night. He had dinner over at Whitney’s Inn, and that’s the last time anyone saw him alive.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“I know he rubbed a few people the wrong way.”
“Does that include Damien Brackett?”
Mrs. Oates scowled. “That man is no good,” she said.
“You won’t get any argument from me,” I said. “I met him last night, over at the Whitney’s Inn, and it was loathing at first sight.”
“He’s a bad one,” Mrs. Oates said. “Him and his hoodlum friends, always getting in trouble. If it isn't the Severine boys causing trouble, then it’s that Brackett boy and his friends. The Sheriff’s been trying to build a case against them for a couple of years now, but they always manage to slip out of it. Money and power goes a long way in keeping that boy out of prison.”
“He was harassing Donella Nesbille last night.”
She snorted. “He’s been chasing her for months, but Donella’s a good girl. He can’t harass her at her home — Abby’s armed and isn't afraid to shoot. So, he harasses her at work.”
I nodded. “Donella seems like a nice girl.”
Mrs. Oates smiled warmly. “She’s a lovely girl. Always friendly and cheerful, and so beautiful!”
“She must have a lot of guys chasing her.”
“Oh, they chase, but she doesn't allow herself to be captured. She’s an independent girl.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall behind her. “It’s getting late. I suggest you get moving if you want to see Charlie before he has to go to court.”
“Yes, I should. Thank you for breakfast. It was excellent.”
She beamed at me. “Good day, Mister Merlin.”

***

It took me less than five minutes to find the storefront office of Charles Windicott. Mrs. Oates’s directions were right on target and I found a empty parking space quickly. I climbed out, feeling the cool of the breeze off the Atlantic, and looked around.
The town square was defined by a small park with a gazebo in the center, surrounded by a few large trees and benches. The park was bordered by streets on all four sides, and two-story buildings on three sides of the square, and a large three-story building that had to be town hall was on the same side of the square where I was parked. I could see couple of a dozen people out and about, and traffic was seven or eight cars driving slowly around the square.
In front of the gazebo, a statue was standing on a ten-foot tall pedestal facing the town hall. The statue depicted a man wearing a pilgrim’ outfit, including hat, arms behind his back, glaring at the building in front of him. Unlike a lot of other statues I’d seen, there was very little green oxidation on the statue. A large plaque, also lacking the green of weathering, was attached to the front of the pedestal, but I was too far away to see what was written on it.
I scanned the buildings on the other three sides. The ground floors were all storefronts —   An accountant, bakery, antiques, florist, bank, café, hardware, real estate, and a bookstore were among the business I saw as I looked around. I also noticed a few empty storefronts, telling me that the economical problems had made it all the way up here.
The law offices I wanted were next to the town hall and I walked past two empty storefronts to reach them. The display windows were clear of any obstructions and I could see some chairs and a desk. In the door was the important information.

Charles E. Windicott, Esq.

Raymond H. Blount, Esq.

Margaret. F. Teague, Esq.

Attorneys at Law 

Wills-Family-Civil-Criminal

Underneath was a phone number and business hours. Steeling myself for what was to come, I opened the door and entered.
The waiting area consisted of a dozen chairs, broken into smaller groups by low tables piled with magazines. The carpet was industrial gray, the walls white, with framed reproduction seascape prints. There were a couple of potted plants, several plaques on the wall, and a single desk facing the front door.
A woman sat at the desk, the only other person in the office. I judged her to be in her mid-or late twenties, short brown hair done in a pageboy cut, features that made her pretty in a severe way, and a pale complexion. She was wearing an off-white blouse, and blue suit jacket. She looked up when I walked in. “Can I help you?” she asked in a strong New England accent.
“I would like to see Charles Windicott,” I said, walking toward her.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
She exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure he can see you today. He has—”
“I’m Roger Merlin, Lucian’s great-nephew and heir.”
“—  a number. . . Oh,” she said in a startled tone. A nameplate on her desk read CATHY WELMER.
“I got into town last night,” I said.
“Yes. . .ah. . .I’ll inform him you’re here,” she said, standing up quickly. She had a decent figure and was wearing a knee-length skirt. “If you’ll wait.”
She turned and strode away, deeper into the office. Behind her the same motif as the lobby, only instead of chairs and side tables, there were file cabinets and several doors. She stopped at one door that had a small plaque affixed upon it, knocked, waited for a response, then entered. I stood there and looked around. The place had a vibe of dry dullness of old paper and complex sentences.
I only had to wait for a few seconds before Cathy come out and looked at me. “Could I see some ID please?” she said briskly, walking back to the desk. I took out my wallet, removed my driver’s licence and handed it to her. Her eyes fell on the ring and for a brief instance, I saw either fear or anger, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “Thank you,” she said. She looked at it, then walked back to the same door and entered.
A minute passed before she appeared again. She gave me a smile that seemed a little forced and said, “Mister Windicott will see you now. If you’ll come one back?” I walked past her desk and entered the office. Cathy held the door open and I thanked her as I walked by.
The room was an office that matched the lobby in carpet and walls, only there were no windows. This one had bookcases a desk, several chairs, and a couch. The man behind the desk popped up as soon as I walked in. “Roger!” he said in a “happy to see you” tone. “Welcome to Pilgrim’s Cove!”
Charles Windicott was a thin man in his mid-forties, balding, with a Roman nose and thin lips. He had bushy eyebrows over a pair of large brown eyes. He wore a pinstripe suit, wide striped tie, and when I shook his hand, I noticed the large gold wristwatch he wore. He twisted the handshake so he could see the ring.
“Please, take a seat!’ he said, smiling broadly after releasing my hand. He looked at Cathy. “I’ll need Lucian Merlin’s file and a cup of coffee.” He looked at me. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No thank you.”
Cathy left, closing the door behind her. I took one of the padded chairs in front of his desk while he sat down again.  He folded his hands on the desk and peered at me. “Oh my,” he said breathlessly as he saw the yellowing bruising on my face. “What happened?”
“I was jumped by three goons in my apartment last week,” I said, leaning back in my chair.
“My god!”
“They were demanding the letter you sent me.”
Windicott’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did they know about the letter?”
“I don’t known, but they knew about it before I did.”
He slumped back in his chair. “This is distressing, most distressing.” He looked down then up. “I owe you an apology, Roger. I would have contacted you earlier, but someone broke in here the same night Lucian died and rifled through my files. It took me and Cathy several days to find your contact information.”
“I see,” I said. “Sounds like someone didn’t want me to find out about Uncle Lucian being murdered.”
Windicott was startled. “How did you find out about that?”
“I ran into Sheriff Walker last night as I was coming into town, and he told me.”
“Oh.” The lawyer shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. Everyone like Lucian. I don’t know who could have done such a thing to him or to you.”
“That’s the impression I’m getting from the people I've already talked to.”
“Yes, Lucian was a rare man — he managed to get along with just about everybody.”
There was a knock at the door and Cathy entered, carrying a thick folder and a ceramic mug. She placed them in front of Windicott and left without saying a word. Windicott opened the file and scanned the first several pages. “Lucian was my client and my friend for nearly ten years,” he said, not looking up from the file. “On most legal matters, he let me handle the details. But when it came to his will, he was most demanding.”
“I see,” I said.
“He states that you are the sole heir to his estate, saying that you ‘have a special gift that will benefit from my labors.’ As of this minute, his estate is valued at thirty million dollars, most of it held in a trust. In addition to the valuables, you are now the owner of Camelot.”
“Camelot?”
“Yes. You can into town via route 189, right?”
“Yes.”
“You say the estate on the headland across from the lighthouse?”
“Yes. . .That’s Camelot?”
He nodded. “Twenty acres of land and three houses on the estate,. In addition, you now own four buildings inside the town limits and two more outside of it. All except the Potter mansion are occupied and are adding a modest profit to the portfolio. There are also a few out of state investments, which I will go over with you later. But there were a few stipulations that Lucian insisted that you follow before you inherit. The first, wearing the ring, is completed. He made it very clear that you were to receive the ring as soon as possible.”
I looked down at the ring, the red gemstone shining in the overhead light. “It’s a good fit,” I said.
He nodded. “The second stipulation is that you must promise to make Camelot your main residence for a minimum of seven years, and you are not allowed to sell the estate for at least twenty-five years.”
“Oh.” I hadn't expected that.
“Is that going to be a problem?”
I puffed out a breath. “Not really,” I replied. “I didn't know how long I was going to be up here, so I quit my jobs back home, and I don’t have many close friends. My parents live in Florida, my sister works for the Department of Defense, and my brother’s in the junior year of college. I rent an apartment, but the lease is up in a couple of months, so getting out of that not a problem. Yes, I promise to make Camelot my main residence for at least seven years, and I will not sell the estate for at least twenty-five years.”
Windicott smiled. “The last stipulation that needs to addressed at once. Lucian wanted you to spend one night in the main house by yourself. Should you do that, then Lucian’s estate is yours.”
I frowned. “When do I have to do that?”
“It states as soon as possible upon being informed of it, which means tonight.”
“Oh.”
Windicott looked at his watch. “I have to be in court in an hour, but I’ll be free this afternoon to take you to the estate and show you around.”
“That’ll be fine.”

***

That's all for now!

Craig

More of Merlin's Legacy, Chapter 2

Well, I am working on the outline/chapter breakdown of this novel for this series I'm trying to get into. First eight chapter are (sort of) plotted, and hopefully will have three or four more done before the end of the week. Right now, it's just as much research as plotting, as I have to get an idea about locations and background. About the series background, there have been a few discussions with the author behind the series, but I have only a few basic facts and basic character background for the series' main characters to work with.

To keep this from being a real short blog entry, here's more of Merlin's Legacy, Chapter 2. Keep in mind that is is a first draft you're seeing and some, if not all, will be rewritten:

***

We walked into a small lobby, where we were met by a short plump woman, dressed in colonial garb. “Thank you, Sheriff,” she said. “I was afraid those two were up to no good.”
“No charge,” Walker said with an easy grin. “Sandy, I want you to meet Roger Merlin, Lucian’s great-nephew.”
Sandy smiled at me. I judged her to be in her mid-forties, blue-eyed, cherubic face, with wisps of blonde hair escaping from under her white cap.. Her handshake was strong though.
“Roger, this is Sandy McIntyre. Her family has owned this inn for nearly two hundred years.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said. She looked at Walker. “Table for two?”
He nodded and she plucked two menus from a rack near a doorway. “Follow me.”
The dining room of the inn matched the exterior. The modern was seamless blended into Colonial styling, making you feel as if you had taken a step back to the time of George Washington. The stone walls matched the exterior, with large landscapes hanging on them. Wood was everywhere, the floor, ceiling beams, tables and chairs, all dark with age and wear. Light was provided by small table lamps made to look like lanterns and a pair of chandeliers hanging over the center of the dining room. Recorded music, soft classical was audible over the murmuring of the patrons and employees.
Sandy led us to a table that was next to a window looking out over Pilgrim’s Cove. After she left, we took a couple of minutes to look over the menu. “So,” Walker said, “Have you been up here before?”
I shook my head. “I went to Vermont once, to visit my sister who was in college, but I've never been up here before.”
“You didn't know your Great-Uncle was living up here?”
“Not a clue. I talked to dad and he talked to his brothers. No one in the family had heard from him in ten years. Even before that, he wasn't around much.”
“Must have been a shock to you when you learned he’d died.”
I frowned. “Sheriff, what’s going on? I don’t like the direction these questions are going.”
He placed his menu down, put his hands on the table, and looked at me. “All right. Lucian Merlin was murdered nearly two weeks ago.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Murdered?” I said woodenly.
Walker nodded. “He was found at the base of Table Rock. At first, we thought he’d just fallen, but the autopsy discovered he’d been shot, then fell.”
I slumped back in my chair and stared at him blankly. Who would do such a thing?”
“We don’t know. The investigation is still open.”
I didn't know what to say. Before I could say anything, a voice said, “Hi, Sheriff.”
I looked up and found myself staring at the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
That may sound like hyperbole, but not to me. Tall, willowy, with light brown hair peeking out from beneath her cap, she was a girl that you couldn’t help but notice. Her face had the beauty of the girl next door, rather than the a model’s, but it was just as stunning. Her eyes were deep green and I found myself drawn into them.
A loud cough cut through my fascination and I quickly yanked myself back into the presence of Walker and the inn. Walker was smiling, and the poor girl looked embarrassed. “Donella,” the sheriff said, ‘This is Roger Merlin, Lucian’s great-nephew. Roger, this is Donella Nesbille. She and her aunt rent a house from Lucian.”
“O-oh,” I stammered. I hunched down in my chair, wishing I could disappear. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” she said. “What are you doing up here?”
“I’m. . .er. . .I’m here to w-wrap up my uncle’s estate,” I said, trying not to sound lame and failing.
“You’re wearing Lucian’s ring,” Donella said.
I looked at the ring, which hadn't left my finger since I’d put it one the week before. “It was with the letter Mister Windicott sent me.”
“Could I look at that letter?” Walker asked.
I glanced up at Donella, who was shifting from foot to foot in impatience. “Why don’t we order first?’ I said.
Walker smiled again. “All right.”
We ordered and Donella fled. I watched her walk away and sighed. Walker chuckled and turned back to look at him. “Sorry,” I muttered. “She must think I’m a jerk.”
“She’s a beautiful girl,” Walker said. He motioned to the ring. “Windicott send that to you?”
“Yes.” I reached down for the fanny pack. “I have the letter right here.”
I removed it and handed it over to the sheriff. He took it out of the envelope and read it slowly. After he finished, he folded it and put back in the envelope and handed it back to me. “that explains the ring,” he said. “Charlie’s out of town right now, but he should be back late tonight.”
“What can you tell me about Uncle Lucian?” I asked. “I only met him a few times, and I know almost nothing about him.”
Walker leaned back and looked at me for a few seconds. “Lucian Merlin was the kindest, gentlest man I've even know. Never had a bad word to say about anyone, and was always the first in line when something needed doing.”
“Did he ever marry?”
“Not that I know of. He did mention once that the woman he loved died during World War Two, but never went into any more detail than that.”
“Did you know what he did for a living?”
Walker scratched an eyebrow. “He was a consultant,” he replied. “He did work at all levels of government and private sector, both here and abroad, and was gone several days a month. He never went into any details, but I know the work he did was important.”
Walker then told me several stories about Uncle Lucian that showed his humanitarian side. As the Sheriff told it, there were few in Pilgrim’s Cove that hadn't been touched by Lucian’s generosity in one way or another. When the local Methodist church needed a new roof, Lucian spearheaded the fund drive and contributed a lot of cash, despite Lucian not being a member of any church. When a storm damaged several fishing boats and the owners couldn't afford the repairs, Lucian floated every one of them a loan, and gave them several years to pay it back, without interest. Ever boat owner paid Lucian back within the time frame.
With every story, I felt more and more like I had missed an important person. Donella, looking a little more composed, appeared with our dinners. Steak and mash potatoes for me, chicken breast and a salad for the sheriff. I looked out the window, not wanting to embarrass her again. Then she was gone, and we started eating.
We didn't talk about Uncle Lucian or his case. Instead, Walker filled me on the basics of Pilgrim’s Cove and a little bit about himself. Population was about a thousand full-time residents, though during the height of summer, there could be another three hundred visitors and tourists. Tourism and fishing were the town’s main industries, and the Pilgrim’s Cove Lighthouse was a national historical landmark. Walker himself had been a Boston PD detective before retiring early, moving up here and taking the post of sheriff.  He was married, with three kids.
I returned the favor and told him a little bit about myself. Middle child of three, U of Md grad, but hadn't found the right job before the economy went south, and had been working three jobs to make ends meet. I told him about the thugs who attacked me, and the demand for the letter.
That caught Walker’s attention. “They demanded the letter?”
“Yeah. I didn't have a clue about it until I looked through my mail two days later.”
“Interesting. you had no idea the letter was coming?”
“None.”
Donella came by with refills, coffee for the sheriff and tea for me. I inhaled slowly, and said, “Miss Nesbille—”
“Donella, please,” she said, “Miss Nesbille is my aunt.”
I inhaled again. “Donella,” I said. “I’m sorry if I caused you any discomfort earlier. I’m not usually so. . .idiotic.”
She gave me a soft smile and said, “Apology accepted.” Then she was gone, off to another table.
I exhaled slowly. Walker chuckled. “I take it you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah, but don’t feel bad. She has that effect on most single men under thirty, and a few over thirty. But I think I should warn you that her aunt is no shrinking violet. She’s a retired FBI agent and fiercely protective of her niece.”
I wilted. “I’m not looking for a girlfriend,” I said in a low voice. “Besides, she probably has a dozen guys lining up to ask her out.”
“You would think so, wouldn't you?” Walker asked.
We finished dinner and I ordered desert, apple pie with home-made strawberry ice cream. Walker begged off, saying that he had to watch his weight. After Donella left to fill my order, he looked at me over his coffee. “What are your plans while you’re up here?”
“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “I have to talk to Mister Windicott and find out exactly want Uncle Lucian left me and go from there.”
He nodded. “No idea what your great-uncle left you?”
“Only what Mister Windicott mentioned in his letter.”
“”Sheriff,” a smooth voice said. Walker’s expression tighten, then relaxed into a neutral mask.”Damien,” he said, his tone a couple of degrees cooler than I expected.
I looked up and found a guy standing there. If this had been California, I would have called him a surfer bum. He was taller than me, well-built, with wavy dirty-blond hair, a chiseled face, and dreamy blue eyes.
“How’s it going?” Damien asked in a tone that was several notes short of genuine..
“It could be going better,” Walker replied.
I felt my hackles rise. Something was bugging me about this guy.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Damien said, his tone losing a couple more notes as he looked at me. His smile was predatory. “And you are?”
If he thought I was going to wilt, he was mistaken. I smiled, making sure I showed teeth. “New to town.”
The smile faulted for a second, then increased. “I’m Damien Brackett, My family owns most of the town.”
My smile increased. “I’m Roger Merlin, and I don’t give a damn who the hell you are.”
I saw the surprise in Damien’s eyes, but he quickly replaced it with a imperious twist of his mouth. “You have no idea who you dealing with.”
“A bully,” I replied.
“Gentlemen,” Walker said, his tone sharp.
Damien looked back at him. “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said.
“Excuse me, Damien,” Donella said. She was standing behind him, my pie and ice cream in hand.
Damien turned to look at her. “Oh sorry,” he said much more smoothly. He stepped back, allowing Donella to place the dessert in front of me. “Want to go out after your shift?”
Donella gave him an icy stare. “No,” she said flatly.
“It’s been two weeks.”
“The lady said no,” I said.
He turned back to look at me. While he was doing that, Donella retreated back to the kitchen. “Stay out of this,” he said. “This is between me and her.”
“Roger’s right,” Walker said, rising to his feet. “I suggest that you leave now.”
Damien looked from me to the sheriff and back again. He looked around and found she’d gone. He stiffened, then turned back and looked at me. “You win this round, Merlin,” he said coldly. “Finish your business and get out of town and back to Maryland.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Walker said.
Damien looked at him. “Merely good advice. Sheriff.” He walked away, and part of me wanted to get up, spin the bastard around and punch him in the mouth.
“Not worth the effort,” Walker said.
“I looked at him. “What?”
“I saw your expression,” he said. “And while it would be gratifying to watch you punch that arrogant son of a bitch, I’d have to arrest you for assault.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I have a low tolerance for bullies. Used to be bullied when I was a kid, until I started taking martial arts. Once I started fighting back, they left me alone.”
“It’s not so simple up here,” Walker said. “The Bracketts own about fifty percent of the land within a dozen mile radius, including the town itself. Old man Brackett isn't too much of a bastard, but Damien makes up for it.” He scowled. “Damien is a wastrel who loves being lazy, booze and girls.”
“Lucian have any problems with him?”
Walker thought for a second. “Haven’t heard anything solid, but I know Damien and his pals started avoiding him about three years ago. That was right after Damien and three of his friends were found naked, painted blue, and duct-taped to the Gazebo in the town square. Couldn't prove that Lucian was behind that and none of Damien’s group cooperated. Never did get any sense out of them about what happened that night.”
“Sounds like Lucian has the right attitude,” I said.
“Lucian never did like bullies.”
“You don’t think that he had something to do with Lucian’s death?”
Walker sighed. “He has a solid alibi. He was at a party his parents had at their house, and half a dozen people can swear he wasn't out of their sight for more than two or three minutes at any time. Solid, respected people too.”
I dipped my spoon into the ice cream. “Do you have any suspects?”
“I can’t say. Ongoing investigation.”
“Of course.” I looked out the window. Night had fallen, and I could see the lights of the town, and the moon’s reflection off the waters of the bay. “It’s beautiful.”
“Wait a few more weeks, when the fall foliage comes in. That is spectacular.”
“I guess so.” I tried to cover a yawn, and failed.
“Long day?”
“Very.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
“Not yet.”
“You can try the Oates House, on Elm. She runs a bed and breakfast and has a couple of rooms open.”
“Sounds like what I need.”
He gave me directions as I finished up the wonderful dessert. After that, I left a large tip for Donella, settled my bill with Sandy (Which was reasonable) and followed Walker out to the parking lot. I followed him into town and we went our separate ways.

***

Back to outlining!

Craig