Chapter 6, Part 1

Chapter 6

Crystal was still asleep.  She was sleeping better now than she had been earlier, and it looked like her craving for the meth was becoming less intense. Still, I knew that it would not leave her entirely. She was addicted; she would not be rid of it so easily. Eventually she would wake up and go out into the streets, searching for someone who would sell her what she needed.


And suddenly I wondered if I really wanted to put in the time and effort necessary to discover what was happening in her life. Did I want to stand between Crystal and whoever was after her? After all, it really wasn't my job. The cops could handle this; it was what they were paid for. Besides, I had something else to do--something I was committed to.


Yet Chester had sent her to me. And the .44 was always there, beside the chair, in case I ever needed it.


I glanced at my watch: it was nearly six p.m. I got up, showered and changed once more into my three-piece suit and fedora hat. It was once again time to see Frank Nelson.

#

Nelson was at the piano, where I'd found him the night before. He had finished setting out his music and was running a few scales to warm up. As soon as he saw me he began playing Stardust.


I left the bar without ordering a drink and went to the elevator in the lobby. Again the small bout of panic jolted me as the elevator car took me down into the lower level of the parking garage, and again I fought it and won.


There were more cars than there had been the night before; it was considerably earlier in the evening, and the hotel's two restaurants were still busy. I wove between the cars, to the same rear corner where Nelson and I had met the night before. I leaned against a pink Hummer 3.


A pink Hummer? I thought. That didn't make a whole lot of sense.


The Hummer's alarm went off, startling me. I jumped away. After a few seconds, the alarm stopped and I leaned on the pickup truck beside it.


Nelson stepped from the elevator after fewer than two minutes. He, too, zigzagged through the parked cars, pulling a cigarette from his ever-present pack as he made his way to me in the corner.


He almost leaned against the Hummer, but I pulled him away and he leaned against the pickup beside me. "Alarm," I said. He nodded.


I nodded toward the Hummer. "What the hell's this all about?"


Nelson put the pack back in his inside coat pocket and smiled broadly. "There's a Mary Kay convention in the hotel. Started today."


"Their incentives have certainly increased in value."


"You can say that again." He lit his cigarette.


"Shouldn't you have played a set before coming down here?"


"It'll be alright." Nelson took a long pull on his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke. "Besides, I have something for you."


"Oh?"


"I talked to an old partner who's running homicide now. Roger Elliot. He says there have been three similar crime scenes within the past week and a half."


"I haven't seen anything. There hasn't been anything in the papers, or on the news."


"And there won't be. That's not the kind of detail the cops want to get out. Besides, they don't want to start a panic."


The cops always held out a number of details from the media, just to weed out the inevitable loonies who confessed to something they didn't do. And the fact that there might be a serial killer loose in Denver might freak the populous.


"Any idea who the other victims were?" I asked.


"None yet. Like Billy, they were each stabbed once in the chest and once in the stomach, then their hands and heads were pounded beyond recognition. So far, though, it looks like they were homeless. Their clothing pegged them as homeless, at any rate."


"What are the cops doing about it?"


"Of course, they're asking around in the homeless community. One seemed to be hanging out on the Sixteenth Street Mall, had been for a few months. Name was Bob--no last name known. The other two, no one seemed to know."


I nodded.


"Anyway," Nelson continued after another long drag on his cigarette, "it looks like this is turning out to be a serial thing. And the cops can't figure out what was used to do the mutilations."


"I can tell them that. It was a sledgehammer."


"I don't think it would be real smart to tell them what you know just now, do you?"


"No."


We were silent for a few seconds. Finally, I said, "If the cops get anything...."


"Of course. I'll keep in touch with them, and you keep in touch with me. By the way, Roger knows you're looking into the case."


"How does he know that?" I asked.


"I told him."


"You did what?"


"Don't worry. He doesn't know who you are--just that someone is looking into it."


"What did he say about that?"


"He wasn't happy. He wants you off of it."


"I'll bet," I said, turning toward the elevators. After all, this was police business. All he needed was a civilian mucking around in it, maybe even jeopardizing a conviction when they finally caught someone.


"I agree with him," Frank called at my back. "These guys are dangerous."
 
*****
 
Again in scene 1 of this chapter, I re-inforcce the thought that he might not want to become involved in Crystal's problems. He is still very much on the fence here.
 
In the second scene, we learn about the three similar murdrers the cops are working, and that the cops don't really know who the victims are. We also learn that the police know Point is working the case, but they don't know who he is.
 
At the end of the scene, Nelson tries to warn Point off the case.

OUTLINE - Chapter 6 Through Chapter 10

I'm sorry about the neglect of this blog over the past month and a half. The holidays caught up with me, and aI also had to move. Although this blog took the brunt of all that, somehow I managed to keep writing.

The following is my rough outline for chapters 6 through 10.

*****

Chapter 6


Scene 1
Crystal is sleeping better, but Point knows she is fighting the drugs. He wonders if he really wants to get involved in her problem. He gets up and gets dressed to go see Frank Nelson.

Scene 2
Again underground garage. Nelson: 3 similar cases within week and half. Cops don't know who they were, but Nelson will let Point know if he finds out anything else.

Scene 3
Point goes to the church. Chester not in, Peters in, tidying Chester's office. They were to meet to audit the church books. Peters hasn't been able to contact Chester all day. Point takes Peters cell number, learns back door unlocked when Peters came in.

Scene 4
Point goes to Schroeder's piano bar. Run-in with cop named Barry. Same name given by the cop who questioned Chester the night before. Piano player: Barry has been asking questions about Point. Ken: has seen Barry in The Charger Lounge. Point too dressed to go there tonight. Besides, he wants to be at Schroeder's if Barry returns. Point hangs around Schroeder's, but Barry doesn't return.

Scene 5
On the way home Point calls Father Andrews. Chester still hasn't checked in.

Scene 6
At the apartment, Crystal is gone. Probably out getting a fix. Point checks the money in the coffee can in his closet. It is there. He has another conversation with Angel. This time about his confusion.


Dec. 21 (Thursday)

Chapter 7

Scene 1
Point wakes. Crystal not back yet. He goes to breakfast, then the church. Back door unlocked. Point lets himself in.

Scene 2
Peters at church. No word from Chester. Peters worried, but hasn't called cops. Point tells him to do so. Tells Peters to tell the cops about Barry, but not that he is a cop.

Scene 3
Point goes coffee shop to think and kill time.

Scene 4
Point goes to Schroeder's. Ask manager about Barry. Never seen before last night.

Scene 5
Crystal waiting outside apartment. Looks better. Agree about leaving note next time.


Chapter 8

Scene 1
They spend rest of morning and part of afternoon reading paper. 2:15 pm Tony asks if Point would watch liquor store.

Scene 2
Point goes up. Barry and two others dressed in police uniforms walk by. He is almost certain they don't see him.

Scene 3
Crystal doesn't speak much the rest of the afternoon. Point thinks of gun. He won't use until he learns Chester's fate. At 7:00p.m. Point takes shower, gets ready to go out. Asks if Crystal will be there when he gets back. She says yes.

Scene 4
Point goes to The Charger Lounge. He learns from Josh that the cop named Barry's last name is Burrell.

Scene 5
Point goes to Schroeder's, asks owner, Marianne, bartender. None saw Barry.

Scene 6
Point calls Peters. Chester is dead. Peters is going to identify body. Point gets drunk. Barry doesn’t come in.

Scene 7
Point returns to the apartment. Crystal is sleeping. Point puts .44 on shelf beside can bank. FIRST TURNING POINT - Point sleeps well; he is committed to finding Chester's killer.


Act 2


Dec. 22 (Friday)

Chapter 9

Scene 1
Point goes to church, Peters not there. Goes to 16th Street Mall, calls Peters. Body is Chester's. Same circumstances as Billy's murder. Cops know nothing.

Scene 2
Point returns to his apartment and Crystal is gone--has left note. Point leaves a note of his own and heads for the bookstore coffee shop downtown.

Scene 3
A short man follows him on the mall shuttle bus. Point confronts the man in an alley and is shot in shoulder. Point takes the man’s gun and gives chase. Point passes out.


Chapter 10

Scene 1
After dark, Point regains consciousness. A tall man tries to rob him. He runs the man off, but the short man’s gun is gone.

Scene 2
Point elects to walk to the church. Father Peters helps him to a sofa, where he collapses. He hears Father Peters on the phone, saying he will try to keep Point there until someone arrives. Point has heard enough. He leaves the church.

*****

Note that there is a turning point in the final scene of Chapter 8, and right after thatm, in Chapter 9, the book's second act begins.

In the next post I will begin with Chapter 6.

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I could feel myself being drawn into Crystal's problem. I didn't want to become involved, but I knew I might not have a choice.


"The cop knew Crystal's name?" I asked.


"He didn't seem to, but he had an accurate description. And he said he saw her come in here last night."


"Did you know the cop?"


"No, I didn't."


Chester knew all the cops from his police district; I knew that for a fact. That meant the cop was either from another district, or he was new to this district. Or, perhaps, he wasn't a cop at all.


"Did you ask for ID?"


"No, I didn't think to. Darn."


"Don't worry about it. If he wasn't a cop, he probably had a fake that would pass inspection. Did he give a name?"


The priest nodded. "Barry... something."


"Barry what?"


"I don't know. I can't remember."


I nodded.


"What do we do now?" Chester asked.


"I have a friend with contacts in DPD looking into similar murders."


"And Crystal?"


"If they're looking for her, I guess she couldn't be much safer than with me, for now. Particularly if there's a cop involved. But I'd really like to get her situated somewhere else."


Chester nodded.


"What can you tell me about her?" I asked.


"Just that she comes in here for the lunch about half the time. I tried to get her into a drug rehab program in October, but she wouldn't have anything to do with it. And I gave her a coat and gloves about two weeks ago."


"She didn't have either last night when she came to my door."


"She had them when I saw her. She probably sold them for drug money between here and your place."


I nodded. "By the way," I asked, "what's her last name?"


"I don't know. She never would tell me."


We were silent for a few seconds. Finally, Chester asked, "Is there anything else, John?"


I got to my feet. "No," I said, "I don't think so." Then I said, "Yes, there is something. I passed a guy in the hall coming out of Father Peters' office."


Chester shrugged.


"Tall, large, gray suit, curly white hair and beard."


"Ah, that would be Senator Arnold Hogan. He's donating three hundred high-end ski parkas to the church, everything from small children to large adult. Really, a very fine gesture."


It is, I thought as I went through the church and out. I wondered if Crystal would end up with one of those high-end coats.


I put a couple dollars in the poor box at the door.

#

Crystal needed sleep--there was no doubt about that. I'd heard her tossing restlessly the night before. It was the drugs, of course. She hadn't scored in some time, and she was beginning to feel withdrawal symptoms. So rather than go home immediately from the church, I stopped at a Starbucks on the Sixteenth Street Mall and had a large latte, watching the crowd on the mall build as lunch hour began and the offices around the mall emptied.


It really was shaping up to be a fine day. Although it wasn't particularly warm, the sun was out and shining brightly, and the snow on the ground had nearly all melted away. I'd read somewhere that Denver was blessed with more than three hundred sunny days per year. And the sun somehow made everything, if not worth facing, at least tolerable.


It was too early for me to contact Nelson. Besides, I don't own a phone. Of course, I know the black man's number, and I could use one of the pay phones along the mall, but I didn't want to do that this early. The man had to have time to meet with his contacts in the Denver Police Department. I knew I'd see him tonight, at the hotel bar, as I had the night before.


I left the coffee shop as it began to fill with office workers looking for lunch. There was a new sandwich shop two blocks east and one north that the office workers didn't seem to know about yet. The crowd there would be lighter, and they made a great turkey on sourdough with avocado. I ordered a sandwich and a cup of water.


I sat thinking about what Chester had said this morning. Although I didn't want to admit it, he was probably right; I undoubtedly did need help getting past all I'd faced in the three years since returning home from Afghanistan. What happened there that last op had scarred me--not just physically, but also mentally. And then, what I learned when I returned to the States, about my wife and our unborn daughter....


I could do nothing about that now. The cops had no leads, and there was no way I could chase them down myself. I had to depend on Frank Nelson, and what information he might be able to gather from his contacts in the Denver Police Department.


Those thoughts kept chasing themselves around in my mind, with no hope of resolution. Before I knew it, it was three in the afternoon. I went home to check on Crystal.

#

As I had thought she would be, she was still in bed. Again, she was sleeping fitfully, but at least she was sleeping.


The .44 remained on the table beside the easy chair, beneath the front section of The Denver Post--I made sure of that. I wanted it there, in case I needed it. Not just to take care of anyone who might come looking for Crystal, but also in case I needed it for myself, for my unfinished business. I didn't think I would take my life now, without deciding what--if anything--I would do about Crystal's problem. But I wanted the weapon close at hand, for either option.


I went to Angel's cage, on the shelf beyond where Crystal slept on the futon, careful not to bump the bed. I took some pellets from the bag on the floor and placed them in the rat's food bowl. Then I took three or four sunflower seeds from a smaller bag and put them on top.


Angel came out as I turned away. I turned back and rubbed her cheek.


"How is it going, John?" she said.


"Better than last night, I guess."


"Then you won't be doing what you'd planned last night?"


"No. Not right away, at any rate."


"I'm glad to hear that," the rat said. "I'd miss these conversations."


"I'll bet you would."


I went back to the other side of the room and collapsed into the chair. I was tired--too damned tired. The nightmare had been with me again last night, just as it had nearly every time I tried to sleep since I'd returned to the States. I had again been in the rugged mountains of northern Afghanistan, battling enemy forces. My SEAL team was far behind enemy lines.

#

The night was cold and moonless as I led my SEAL team through the forest's dense underbrush on a mountainside in the Zhawar Kili area of Afghanistan.


I walked point. As a lieutenant I was in charge, and couldn't expect one of my men to do something I wasn't prepared to do myself. My primary weapon was an M4A1 carbine, tricked out with an AN/PVS 14 Night Vision sight. My secondary weapon, in a special holster on my hip, was an MK23, a .45 caliber pistol. Not only did the handgun possess excellent knock-down power, but it was fitted with a KAC sound suppressor, just in case silence in the weapon's use was needed.


Directly behind me came a tall red-haired young man from New Orleans, Rubin Shavers, an expert in most marshal arts who had at one time tried out for the Olympics. His M4A1 was fitted with a Trijicon Reflex sight, allowing rapid acquisition on close targets. His handgun was a nine millimeter M11 Sig Sauer.


Third in line was the radioman, Warren Oldfield, thin and prematurely bald. He wore night vision goggles and carried two sets of communications equipment--an extra in case the primary was disabled. He also carried an un-modified M4A1, and a M11. He was from New York City.


The last man in line was Emory Hawley, a large raw-boned black man from Detroit. He was our M60 gunner, carrying the MK43 Mod 0 variant and its belt-fed ammunition. His handgun was also a M11.


All three were enlisted men.


My SEAL team made its way silently toward the caves spotted only hours before near the top of the mountain by an unmanned Predator aircraft. Intelligence had indicated that tonight one of those caves would host a meeting of high ranking Al Qaeda and Taliban operatives.


Our objective: to capture as many of those operatives as possible for eventual interrogation.


I knew we would never get them all; there would simply be too many, and those we could not take alive we must kill. Still, I had hopes we would bring at least a few of the enemy in for questioning. My team was one of the SEALs' finest. We were trained to a sharp edge of perfection.


But in order to bring the operation off successfully, we would have to be at the cave within half an hour--without being spotted. And there was sudden movement on the trail ahead.


Cautiously, silently, I advanced my team toward the movement on the trail. The lack of a moon made it impossible to tell who was there--even with our night-vision capability. But that also worked in our favor, hiding us from the enemy.


I knew for certain it wasn't animals ahead; I could hear soft voices, although I couldn't understand what was being said. The voices were speaking in one of the many native dialects.


In only a few minutes, we were near enough to see that we were faced with an Afghan villager, his wife, and their infant child sleeping in its mother's arms, coming down the trail toward us. This was not good--particularly since another group, somewhat louder, was coming down the trail nearly fifty yards behind the villagers. That would be the operatives we were hunting.


The look of shock on the Afghan villager and his wife's faces said it all. They knew they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.


I gave them a thumb-up gesture--one known as a sign of friendliness by the Afghan villagers--then motioned for the man to raise his tunic, to show he wasn't hiding a weapon. The man did that, and I motioned him and his wife off the trail, into the dense brush.


We crouched there beside the trail, listening--SEAL team, villager, wife and infant--as the enemy approached.


The enemy was talking loudly and laughing. I put a finger to my lips, making sure the villager and his family remained silent. Everything depended on maintaining the element of surprise.


Suddenly, the infant became restless. It wasn't crying--not yet. But it was obvious it soon would be.


I took the infant from its mother's arms, held it gently and placed my large hand over its nose and mouth. Soon, it was quiet. I handed the infant back to its mother.


We closed on the enemy and the fighting was bloody and fierce. They would not give up without considerable resistance.


A chill of excitement fluttered in my chest and my mind filled with blind rage. I fought like a wild animal, allowing no quarter. Had any of the enemy wished to surrender, they would not have been able to. I saw to that.


No prisoners were taken for interrogation that night.


And it wasn't until after the firefight that I realized the infant was dead.

#

When I woke I realized that I had fallen asleep again and relived the nightmare. And then the memory of what I had faced when I returned the United States filled my thoughts.


My wife had been raped and brutally murdered, and our unborn child had died in her womb. I hadn't been there to stop it. The perpetrator had never been caught.


*****

At the very first of this chapter I note that Point feels he is being drawn in to Crystal's problem. This is something he definitely does not want.

We learn about the mysterious cop who is hunting Crystal, although not all that much. Point thinks it is probably best if she is with him for the present.

We learn a little bit more about Crystal, from Chester's point of view--not much, but enough to know that she probably traded her coat and gloves for drugs.

And Point finds out that the guy he passed in the hallway was Senator Arnold Hogan. I knew I had to introduce the antagonist early (is chapter 5 too late?) and I wanted to introduce him in a somewhat good light. Even bad guys have some good traits. They are, after all, human beings. And I had to balance that with Point doing something good--putting a few dollars in the poor box.

Point sits thinking in a sandwich shop, and again we get re-inforcement of what happened to his wife and daughter, without any specifics.

Point returns to his apartment, has a short conversation with Angel, then collapses in his easy chair. He falls asleep.

And we get a dream sequence telling what happened on the hillside in Afghanistan. And at the very end of the chapter we find out what, exactly, happened to his wife and child. This all goes toward character motivation.

In the next post, I'll again go into plotting mode for five or six chapters.

And don't forget to let me know if you see something that doesn't look right or ring true.

Chapter 4, part 2

Chester's church, Holy Sacrament, crouched in the shadows of a glass and steel, fifty-floor skyscraper in lower downtown Denver. The church had deeded the property to a developer fifteen years ago, with the understanding that the church could remain on the property as long as the building stood--the skyscraper, not the church. The modern office building wrapped itself around the gothic architecture of the church as if protecting the older building from all elements of the modern world.

I climbed the short flight of worn marble steps to the massive polished-wood and shined-brass doors. They opened easily to the pressure of my palm, and I slipped into the relative darkness inside.

I stood at the back of the church, allowing my eyes to adjust, then made my way up the central aisle, toward the large ornate alter. My steps echoed loudly in the empty church as I went to the left and around the alter. I stepped through a nondescript door that led to a series of small rooms. I went past the choir director's office/music room and on toward the assistant pastor's office.

As I approached, a large man in a gray suit, sporting long, curly, brilliantly white hair and a neatly-trimmed white goatee, opened the door and stepped from the assistant pastor's office. He was perhaps fifty-five or sixty.

"Thanks you, Senator!" came Father Andrew Peters' voice from the office as the large man passed me without a word, not even acknowledging my presence. He went out into the church.

I continued on down the hall. The sign on the door before which I stopped read: Father Chester Albright, Pastor. I rapped lightly on the door frame.

"Come in," came Chester's pleasant tenor voice.

I opened the door and stepped in. He sat behind his desk, doing the inevitable paperwork. Papers and books were stacked in every corner and on the straight-backed chair before the desk.

"Welcome, John," Chester said, getting to his feet. He was dark haired with gray at the temples, of medium build and five-feet-nine. "I thought I'd see you today." He offered his hand.

I shook it across the desk and said, "Chester." I smiled, remembering the joke the two of us shared about his profession and his first name--Chester the Molester.

"What happened to your teeth?" he asked.

"You didn't know what you were doing, but you saved my life last night."

The priest frowned and sat back down behind his desk. "It's become that bad?" He motioned for me to clear the papers off the chair and sit. I put the papers on the floor.

"It has," I said as I sat.

"You have to get beyond Sylvia's murder and the loss of your child. And you have to get over what happened in Afghanistan."

I nodded. "Both of those things are part of it--there's no doubt of that. But they're certainly not all of it."

"What is it, then, John? What's been eating at you?"

"I don't know." I paused, then said, "No, I do know. It's the loss of everything I possessed in Afghanistan, everything I could lay claim to as a Navy SEAL. I feel myself getting weaker by the day. Every minute I'm away from the SEALs, away from special ops, I'm losing a bit more of the only thing I could ever do well. It's all I ever knew, all I am. My life now is useless, hollow."

"There's nothing you can do about that. You know there isn't."

Chester was right. He was the only person I had ever told about how I'd left the military. It hadn't been a voluntary separation. I had been released from the Navy SEALs not because of what had happened during my final operation in Afghanistan, but because of what I had done to the enemy. And it wasn't the first time that had happened under my command.

"And your addiction?" the priest asked, as if reading my mind. "Are those urges lessening?"

I shook my head. My addiction to violence was as strong as it had ever been; the excitement I had felt the night before at seeing Billy Simpson's mutilated body, the two men on the mall shuttle and the old man outside the hotel had made that abundantly clear.

After a few seconds, Chester said, "John, are you considering what I think you're considering?"

"That depends on what you think I'm considering."

"Suicide." I didn't respond. "You know that's a sin."

"Not for an atheist, it isn't," I said.

"Yes, it is. An atheist just doesn't know it's a sin."

I grunted noncommittally. I'm not absolutely sure I'm an atheist--more an agnostic leaning toward atheism. But I've found it easier to simply tell everyone I'm an atheist, and let it go at that. And I hope with all my heart there isn't a god. If there somehow is one, I know that at my death I will be shuffled off to the darkest and hottest corner of hell. If there is such a place.

"You aren't going to do it right away, are you?"

"No, not right away. I want to figure out if I'm going to get involved with Crystal's problem first, or not."

"God provides," Chester said. After a pause, he continued, "I'm going to ask you one last time, and then I'll never bring it up again. Will you let me arrange for some counseling? You need help, John."

"I don't need help," I said. "Not for now, at any rate. Crystal's problem will see me through for a while--if I decide to help her."

"Then there's actually a chance you won't?"

"A good chance. I'm not sure I want to become involved. And I don't know why you sent her to me. You know this isn't the right time for this--for her. The holidays, and again no Sylvia."

"I thought you might do her some good. If nothing else, you could protect her. And it sounds like it would certainly do you some good as well, if only to postpone matters."

Again, I didn't respond. After a couple seconds, the priest continued, "She told you what she saw?"

"She did. I took a look for myself."

"What did you find?"

I told him.

"Pretty grim stuff," the priest said.

"You can say that again. But I guess as long as they didn't get a good look at her, Crystal will probably be all right."

"I don't know," Chester said, shaking his head. "There was a cop in here this morning asking about her."

Damn, I thought. It can never be that simple.

*****

In the last part of chapter 4, I bring Senator Hogan onto the stage for the first time. He is the major antagonist in the story. And I hint at one of the Senator’s henchmen--the cop who came around to Chester’s church asking questions about Crystal.

I also finally name Point’s main character flaw, his addiction to violence. It is just as disabling as a full blown cocaine habit.

Chapter 4, part 1

Chapter 4



We talked over mugs of steaming coffee the next morning, after a breakfast of cold cereal in non-fat milk. The coffee was a special blackberry blend sent by my nephew in Seattle two years ago; I had never had a reason to brew a pot until now. My coffee had a shot of Jack Daniels in it.


Crystal looked as ragged as I felt. She hadn't had a fix in at least a day. Maybe longer, I told myself--her fix up had been interrupted by Billy's murder. It was beginning to show on her, both in her appearance and in her behavior. And she hadn't slept the night before; I'd heard her tossing on the futon all night.


I hadn't slept well either. But then, I seldom did since returning from Afghanistan.


"I had a horrible nightmare last night," Crystal said after taking a tentative sip of steaming coffee. "I dreamed the short man smashed Billy's head with the sledgehammer."


"That wasn't a dream. It was a memory."


"You mean it really happened?"


"That's right. Your mind was trying to hide something that scared the hell out of you."


"Then my gasp of horror drew their attention to me."


I nodded. "Probably."


Again we fell silent. "Where are you from?" I finally asked, wrapping my hands around my mug to warm them. I used electric space heaters in the apartment, and by morning there was always a definite chill in the air.


She shivered, then wormed her hands on her own mug. "From here, for the past four years."


"I mean before that. Your accent sounds Southern."


She nodded. "Georgia. Atlanta, Georgia."


"And what brought you to Denver?"


"Work. I was doing television--the weather for a network affiliate. I was offered better pay to come out here." That explained her speech pattern.


"What happened?"


She paused. After a few seconds, she shrugged. "I guess I fell in with the wrong crowd. One thing led to another, and I started using drugs. I got hooked, lost my job and eventually burned through my savings. I've been on the street now for the past two years."


Her story was all-too-common--one that could have just as easily applied to me, had I not got at least some control over my life.


In spite of the ravages of two years on the street, Crystal looked like she might have been on television at one time. Her face had the underlying bone structure that could belong in entertainment. And let's face it, television weather is about half entertainment. If the weather person wasn't an intelligent wise-cracking male, she was air-headed eye candy. It was the only place on the evening news where the networks and their affiliates could inject a bit of not-so-subtle sex.


But as soon as word got out that the weather girl was married, she lost her appeal and was replaced. And, if she started using drugs, and it began to show....


"Do you have any family back in Georgia?" I asked.


She looked down into her coffee and shook her head. "No one who would claim me."


"No one, anywhere, who might help you, who might put you up for a while?"


Without looking up, she said, "No, no one."


"Except for Father Albright."


"That's right. And he sent me to you."


"So he did," I said, then fell silent. I'd have to talk to him about that.


After a few seconds, I said, "I'll go see him this morning, see if he has any options for a place for you to stay."


But if the killers saw her, I thought, maybe it's best she stay here. That was probably what Chester had been thinking when he'd sent her to me. I just wasn't sure it would work out; I had other plans for my life--or lack thereof.


I finished my coffee, then did the breakfast dishes in the small sink. I re-enforced the door-opening instructions with Crystal. When I was sure she understood the security precautions, I left the apartment on my way to Father Chester Albright's church.


The weather was crisp and clear. It was hard to believe there had been a blizzard the night before. But that's Denver. One day a blizzard, the next near spring weather.


*****


At the beginning of Chapter 4, I'm trying to establish that Point doesn't want Crystal around. He has other plans for his life, "or lack thereof." Also, I'm establishing some backstory for Crystal.


At the very end of the first part of this chapter, I try to give a bit of subtle location. Denver really is that way.


A follower, Mark James, asked, "Do you structure your work into acts as you write your rough draft or do you go back and do that afterward? I'm asking because I've tried using the act structure as I write a rough draft, but I always end up having to move scenes around, so I'm curious how it works for you."


Yes, I do structure into acts as I write the rough draft, and into scene's--sort of. I do try to outline five or six chapters in some detail in advance of the actual writing, with a very broad and loose outline at the beginning. But I do go back and re-adjust continually throughout the process. Writing a novel, for me, is a very messy process. I'm continually adjusting everything, through rough draft, and through all the other drafts, moving scenes around up to the final draft, even switching elements among the three acts up to that point. At the penultimate draft, everything is pretty much where it should be. The final draft is the "polish" draft.


Another follower (I can't remember who it was) asked if I was making these posts to simply write the novel, or if I wanted ideas and responses to the posts.


By all means, please, if anyone has an idea I've overlooked or haven't touched on, let me know. This is all first-draft stuff. It's rough, and any ideas you want me to consider would be welcome.


Next time I'll post the end of Chapter 4.

Computer Problems

Sorry about the lack of a post in a while. I have been experiencing computer problems, and haven't been able to get on the Web.

My other computer (a big-screen laptop) has never been on the Web, and will never be. It is my writing computer, so I haven't lost any of my work. But I haven't been able to keep this blog current like I'd hoped to.

I had to reformat the hard drive on my Web machine (which I am typing on at this instant) and I'm slowly rebuilding my favoriets lists. I'll post another installment of this blog soon.

A. C. Ellis

Chapter 3, part 2

Within a couple minutes I heard the elevator door slide open. It closed again, and twenty seconds later Nelson came around the SUV, pulling a cigarette from a nearly empty pack.



"Frank," I said, offering my hand. "You still smoking those damned things?"


"You still drinking like a God-damned fish?"


"Touché!"


"How are you doing, John?" he asked as we shook hands. There was actual concern in his deep voice.


"I've been better, but I'll live. At least tonight I will."


"That's good to hear. After the way you were talking last week, I was beginning to wonder if you might be on a downhill slide."


"I was, but something intervened."


"That's good. I'd miss you coming around."


I shrugged. "It's that something we have to talk about."


Nelson frowned. "It's not about Sylvia's case, is it?" I shook my head. "Good. I don't have anything new there. But it must be something serious for you to come looking for me at this hour."


"Billy Simpson's dead." Six years ago, when Frank Nelson was using, Simpson had been his supplier, too. We'd talked about him more than once in the two years I'd known Frank.


After a few seconds, Frank said, "I think we both could have predicted that outcome."


I nodded. "It's the circumstances of his death we couldn't have predicted." I told him Crystal's story and about the bloody scene I had found in the alley.


He whistled in surprise. "Someone didn't want the body recognized."


"That's what I thought."


The elevator opened and woman in a gray business suit approached. We both fell silent. Frank puffed on his cigarette and I shuffled my feet nervously as she went to a small red Mazda sports car parked on the other side of the black SUV. She was careful to avoiding eye contact with either of us. Only after she pulled away did we continue our conversation.


"What was Billy into?" Frank asked. "Any idea?"


"Other than his regular drug trade--none."


"Excuse the pun, but don't you think what you described was overkill for his regular trade?"


I nodded, and Frank dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it out under foot. "What can I do for you?" he asked.


"I need to know if there have been any other murders like Billy's." Frank was a retired Denver police officer. He still had contacts on the force.


He nodded. "I think I'll wait until after the body's discovered before making any inquiries, though."


"That might be a good idea," I said.


"By the way, what's with your teeth?"


I didn't know what to tell him. Finally, I said, "You don't want to know."


He nodded. "Is that all you need?"


"That's it," I said. "Thanks." I turned and started for the elevators.


Before I had taken three steps, Frank said, "John--" I stopped and turned back around. "Take care of yourself. These guys sound dangerous."


"I'll do that," I said, turning back toward the elevators. I put up a hand and waved nonchalantly as I again headed for the elevators.


#


I returned to the apartment and again knocked my special knock. Crystal opened the door before I could use my key.


"Where have you been?" she asked as I stepped in. I closed the door against the snow and cold.


"Meeting with someone who I thought might be able to help us." I nodded toward the futon and Crystal sat.


"So, it's us now. You've decided you're going to help me, after all."


"No," I said as I sat in the easy chair. I put my hat down on the newspaper and noticed the pistol was still there, beneath the newspaper. "I haven't decided yet if I'm going to help you or not. I'm just taking some preliminary steps--testing the waters, as it were."


"I understand. Can he help?"


"Maybe. We'll see."


We were silent for several seconds, watching each other. Then I checked my watch; it read 2:37. It was time we both got some sleep. I needed it if I was going to be any good to her, although I wasn't sure yet if I wanted to commit to helping her at all. She needed sleep if she was going to help me help her.


She patted the futon mattress. "We can share the bed, you know," she said.


"I don't think that's such a good idea."


"We don't have to do anything. We can just sleep."


"We wouldn't just sleep--you know that as well as I do." There had been women since Sylvia--two in three years. They had booth been hookers. Just sex, no connection. Both times I had left the money on the night table and simply walked away without any conversation beyond what it took to consummate the transaction.


Again we were quiet. Finally, Crystal said, "I guess you're right."


"I'll take the chair."


"No, this is your bed."


"There's no way I'd be able to sleep, knowing you're here in the chair."


She smiled. "That uncomfortable, huh?"


"No. In fact, half the time I fall asleep right here." I patted the chair's arm.


She smiled again as I got up to change.


#


The nightmare filled my mind than night as I drifted off to sleep, slashing like the sharp blade of a knife. I woke shivering and sweating beneath the blanket.


*****


Point's conversation with Frank Nelson in the underground garage sets up a sidekick character of sorts, who gives him a lead into the Denver Police Department. Also in this scene, we get another hint about Point's wife--again, just a hint. This is part of the overall series arc.


At the end of the scene, Nelson tries to warn Point off the case. This, too, will prove significant later on. For me, writing a mystery had a lot to do with foreshadowing.


In the next scene, after Point returns to the apartment, Crystal asks if he is going to help her. Point says he hasn't decided yet. He still doesn't know if he wants to get involved, and he still has unfinished business she has interrupted.


Then Crystal asks if he wants to share the futon. Here I introduce just a bit of sexual tension--at least as close as Point can get to it at this stage of his life.


The final scene is a transitional scene. He has the nightmare.