by Tom Shepherd
Bad Moon Rising
Star Lawyers Origins
Book 2
Tom Shepherd
.
Bookbag Press
Kansas City, MO / Tucson, AZ /Geneva, Switzerland
Copyright © 2019 Tom Shepherd
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781795731034
.
In memory of
Stefany Pearce
.
For the students, faculty and staff at Spirit Creek Middle School, Hephzibah, Georgia.
It’s really not a stretch to believe Tanella attended “the Creek” not so long ago.
Thanks for the memories.
Keep working for excellence.
Spirit Creek forevermore.
.
HURRICANE WARNING
Unlike all the other books in the Star Lawyers Universe, Bad Moon Rising is not a work of science fiction but a murder mystery set in the 21st century. The central characters are young adults, and the story is narrated from a female perspective by the chatty, often irritating, fourteen year old Sally Ann Palmer.
There are hints of extra-terrestrial connections, but the richness of place and characters unfolds upon a Georgia barrier island, where a handful of delegates show up for a secret peace conference to avoid a catastrophic conflict in the Middle East.
Yet, without the events of this earthbound volume, humanity might never have traveled to the stars. This is deep history, standing beneath the starfaring civilization of the Star Lawyers series.
Bad Moon Rising drops readers into the early life of a giant. Before a mature Tanella Jennings would become a Nobel Laureate in theoretical physics for her work on Faster Than Light travel, Tanella Blake was an intellectually gifted teen prodigy attending public school in Augusta, Georgia.
One summer Tanella and best friend Sally Ann found themselves on Barrier Island along the Georgia coast in the path of a hurricane. When the storm’s intensity increased, State Police ordered evacuation to the mainland, but the lone drawbridge broke down, forcing everyone to ride out the storm.
Then Tanella’s father, Dr. Nathaniel Blake, was accused of murder, prompting Tanella and Sally Ann to solve the crime before the storm passed and the real killer escaped Barrier Island.
Bad Moon Rising sparkles with close encounters. Cold blooded killers, drug smugglers, underwater escapes, and a storm surge that threatens to wash away century old buildings and all the people trapped on the island. And if Tanella drowns in the storm, humanity will never know a gateway to the stars has closed with her passing.
.
Note from an ancient star lawyer:
“To be ignorant of what occurred before you were born is to remain always a child. For what is the worth of human life unless it is woven into the life of our ancestors by the records of history?”
Marcus Tullius Cicero
(106-43 B.T.E.)
Matthews Trade Embassy
Suryadivan Prime - Near the Galactic Rim
22 March 3104
A double life-sized bronze image dominated the reception area, an African-Asian woman in lab coat looking upward through the glass wall at the city skyline and visible stars. She held an old-style clipboard under arm, and her hair was swept back into a ponytail.
“Tanella Jennings,” Tyler whispered, loud enough for J.B. to hear.
“A thousand years later,” his brother said, “and we’re still following in her footsteps.”
Tyler wandered through the crowd and touched the base of the bronze statue. The others joined him.
[Star Lawyers Book 1 – Jump Gate Omega]
.
“Great storms approach.”
They say I need counseling after everything that happened, and I should journal about it. Okay, how about if I just talk into my laptop? Get it all down before I forget.
When did things start getting strange? Lemme think. We’d just arrived, and I had that shouting match with Mark Bricchetti on the phone… Elya-Karoo! Yeah. Started mellow, slid into weird. What was it she told me? “Great storms approach.”
She was totally right.
Also, I remember that afternoon before the first murder, before anybody on Barrier Island ever thought about a hurricane. I was watching the surf, leaning on my elbows in the gray wood gazebo where I kissed Prince Ahmad—wait a minute.
I’m telling this inside out.
Tanella says I do that a lot. “Proceed chronologically, Sally Ann,” she tells me. And yes, I know what that means. Googled it.
So, let’s start when we approached Barrier Island that hot afternoon in early September.
One
I gazed at the Georgia bamboo and salt marshes whistling past while my Uncle, Dr. Robert Thornburg, chattered away with Tanella’s dad, Dr. Nathaniel Blake. They’re old friends. I'm talking seriously old, like in their late forties. Not doctor-doctors, college professor doctors.
I remember the moment real good, because the drawbridge separating the Barrier Island from the Georgia mainland stood at attention to allow a big white cabin cruiser passage into the landward channel from the open sea. As it sailed by, I noticed the name on the nose of the vessel, Tropical Snow.
I also remember that moment because I needed a snowpack to cool my headache—it was throbbing! You had to be there. Four hours cooped up in the car—right?—with these French horns in a screaming match against kettle drums in the rear speakers, while the two professors held a spitting contest in the front seat. Well, all the hawk-hacking sounded like a spitting contest to me.
“Arabic, Sally Ann,” Tanella said. “When my Father and Dr. Thornburg want privacy, they slip into Arabic.”
“I thought you knew every foreign language on the map.”
“Just four.”
“Oh, excuse me. I can’t hardly speak American.” I crossed my legs and peered out the window as the Tropical Snow cleared the obstacle. The drawbridge cranked downward, paused unexpectedly, and resumed lowering until it locked in place. We started moving again, crossing to Barrier Island at last.
“First they spoke Spanish or French,” Tanella said, “but I caught on pretty quickly. So, they switched to German, then Greek. Now it’s Arabic, which has me baffled.” She smiled, the brown crescent eyelids tilted upward. “For the moment.”
Tanella’s smart and stuff. You know, IQ higher than the National Debt. She hangs with me to learn what a normal teenager is like. She’s abnormal, unless teaching yourself algebra before kindergarten is normal in your world. It ain’t in mine.
“Arabic!” I closed my eyes. “I know Mexicans who can’t speak Spanish, and you’re learning Arabic?”
She held up a finger, teacher-like. “Shh! Listen.”
This classical radio station was broadcasting a warning about a “tropical storm” developing into a hurricane southeast of Haiti. I was depressed enough, so I tuned it out. We pulled into the driveway at the Island Club Hotel just as the weather report ended. Dr. Blake parked his indigo blue Mercedes under a shade tree, cracked the windows to bleed off the late summer Georgia heat, and reached over the seat to hand a ten dollar bill to his daughter.
“Tee, Dr. Thornburg and I will get the car unloaded. Go find a can of Winterwhite toothpowder for me, okay? I’ll text you the room numbers.”
“May I buy a Scientific American with the change?”
Typical Tanella. I would’ve asked for Seventeen or US Weekly.
The professor smiled. “If they carry Scientific American in that dinky little gift shop, sure.”
He’s the smartest guy in the world, and about the darkest person I ever seen. When Dr. Blake smiles it’s like the sun rising at midnight, because his face is so brilliant black. All my relatives are Norwegian blondes and Irish reds.
>
“Can I go check out the wi-fi connection?” Eric, my ignorant cousin, slipped the strap of his computer bag over a shoulder. “And get a Coke?”
Speaking of relatives, Eric is the rotten apple on my family tree. Aunt Linda sent him along with Uncle Bob on this trip, so if I wanted fun in the sun I was stuck with the little red-haired boychild. A sixth grader! It was soooo embarrassing. That sunny afternoon Eric was the only rain cloud threatening my horizon.
Well, maybe he’ll drown or something, I thought.
“Meet us in the lobby.” Uncle Bob tossed a few dollars at the little weasel’s outstretched palm.
“Good!” I said. “He’ll be lost in space for at least half an hour. C’mon, Tanella, let’s explore!”
We bolted from the car and flew across the lawn, sunlight tingling deliciously on my face. The Island Club Hotel loomed above us, a white castle crowned by a witch’s hat turret. At the peak a blue pennant snapped in the breeze. Racing around the far side, I discovered a cluster of well-maintained white brick buildings that faced the water. A series of round white tents stretched to the edge of the seaside dunes.
Oh, yeah. Civil War reenactment. Uncle Bob mentioned the gathering of gray and blue to celebrate some long-ago battle fought by Rebs and Yanks. Well, some people like dressing up as Klingons and some do the Revolutionary War thing, so why not?
Tanella wanted to find the gift shop, so we trotted around the back of the complex, ducking under live oak trees and palmettos. She paused when passing a green dumpster that hid among the shade trees. Fat, blue flies buzzed under the canopy of a huge magnolia, and I gagged at the stench of day-old garbage. Cantaloupe rinds and cartons of eggshells, rotting in the heat. Yuk! Somewhere in the distance a whirring air conditioning unit went clunk-kick-stop.
“Notice the pool?” she said.
“Olympic size, plenty of deck chairs, muscular life guard—”
“Absolutely no shade.” Tanella spotted a white paper bag, the kind that holds fast food. She bent and scooped it up, heading back to the smelly dumpster.
I pinched my nose. “So what? I need a tan.”
She slid open the panel and tossed in the sin offering. “Dermatologists say—”
I threw up my hands. “You’re the only fourteen-year-old, middle-aged woman I know!”
“Sally Ann, skin cancer is the most prevalent form of malignant—”
“Jeez Louise! You’re eight shades browner than my darkest half-cousin. You got nothing to worry about.”
“I’m worried about you.” Tanella is Amerasian. Her mom was Korean and, like I said, her dad is seriously black. She calls herself a “classical Korean and Afro-American hybrid.” Whatever that means. She swept me with a glance that started with my Nikes and ended at my ponytail. “Look at you, Sally Ann. Blonde, fair skinned, freckled—”
“Pale as the Pillsbury doughboy. This week, girl, I’m getting a tan!”
I raced off at top speed, darted around the far corner of the white brick resort, out of the trees and across the lawn again. Tanella plodded behind me. I could almost hear her mega-brain whirring, but she didn’t say anything.
We walked between palmetto trees and across the grass toward the old carriage porch, which now served as a carport for checking into the hotel. Nearing the driveway, my nose twitched from new smells drifting on the salt air. What aromas! Jasmine, musk and new leather. Definitely guy scents. Red alert! My antennas went up.
Then I saw him, not twenty steps away. He climbed from a white stretch limo parked bumper-to-bumper with two dark blue Cadillacs under the carriage roof check-in area. He shook the hem of his black robe, revealing a white linen shirt and skirt. When he leaned back to peer up at the witch’s tower, his headdress slipped and curls peeked out, sparkling blue-black in the sunlight. A hint of mustache drooped slightly in a pout as his dark eyes scanned the rooftops. An adult companion—round in the middle, wearing a gold earring and pointed beard—bent to whisper in the boy’s ear. It was the only time in my life I’d ever wished to be a bearded old fat guy. Hit the road, movie stars—my Prince had come.
The fairytale vision made me roll out a Norwegian expletive my grandmother muttered all her life.
“Uff-dah—look at that!” I whispered.
She shielded her eyes with a hand. “Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud—”
I poked her in the ribs, just enough to wake her up. “Not the hotrod, dodo brain. The hot guy.”
Tanella studied him. “He looks like an Arab.”
“He looks like an angel. I’d slap a lip-lock on him in a heartbeat. Does kissing a mustache tickle?” I took out my cell and tried to snap his picture, but too much movement, and I didn’t want a video.
“He’s about sixteen,” Tanella said.
“I like older men.”
Well, that’s not entirely true. My first boyfriend was Mark Bricchetti, who attended Spirit Creek Middle School with Tanella and me. Mark’s three months younger. We never dated or anything, we just went out, meaning we smiled at each other in the lunchroom and held hands at the bus stop. It lasted two weeks in seventh grade. Now, I was a mature woman of fourteen, and ready for something a lot more up close and personal. Kissing in the moonlight for starters.
“I wonder if he has any spaces in his agenda?” Tanella said.
I snickered. “I wonder if he’s got any spaces in his harem?”
Two hotel workers—tallish black guys, one with nice cornrows—emerged from the shade of the porch to unload suitcases from the trunks of the limousines onto a rolling flatcar. Someone called to him and he smiled, answering in a foreign language. That smile made my knees wobble. The Arab party floated up the steps into the glass enclosed porch, and I watched his black robe until it melted into the air conditioned shadows.
Without a word, Tanella marched after him. I flashed to her side. “Where you going?”
“To meet the Arab boy.”
“You can’t just—you can’t do that!”
Tanella stopped on the lower deck, waiting for the bell hops to finish stacking floral print suitcases on the flatcar and roll the pile to an open elevator.
“He probably speaks English. Or French. And I know a few words of Arabic.” With the baggage out of the way, she bounced up the steps to the check-in porch.
“Tanella, that’s the most gorgeous slice of black-haired divinity I ever seen. You can’t just walk up to a guy that hot and say—”
“Hello, I’m Tanella Blake.” She extended a hand.
Now, you really had to be there. I was jabbering in Tanella’s ear, hopping along beside her, never looking ahead. It wasn’t my fault—I didn't see him coming down the steps from the glassed-in porch. Like a normal teenager, he decided to get his iPad from the suitcases, so he left the others at the check in desk and met us coming up the steps.
Met is a really, really gentle word for what happened. As Tanella stuck out her hand, I looked up in time to see two big white eyes, a thin mustache and a white headdress—just before the Arab kid and me crashed. I shrieked. We tangled in a ball of white cloth and flailing arms. Two of us rolled bump-bump-bump down the steps to the lower porch, and I landed on top of him.
“Mar Habtayn! Kayf il-Haal?” Tanella said, never moving from the steps, which she later told me means, “Hello to you! How are you?” in Arabian. She switched to English. “Could we talk about your country sometime today?”
When Tanella gets rolling, she’s unstoppable.
Next thing I knew, two big, sneering goons in white grabbed me by the elbows, pulled me off the boy, and I was treading air.
“Highness! Are you hurt?” the bearded fat guy said.
“Highness?” I said. He was a Prince! I nearly fainted.
“Oh, no. It is nothing.” He dusted his knees.
“We should have you checked by a medical doctor.”
“You are very kind, Abdu’l, but I am well.”
“Shall I call the American President and have this one executed for attempting to a
ssassinate you?”
I gulped. Tanella smiled slightly and shook her head.
“I am quite well. It was an unfortunate accident. I’m certain this young lady meant me no harm.”
Abdu’l snapped his fingers and the two stooges plopped me on the porch. “You should be more careful.”
The Prince looked at me. “I am Ahmad. Youngest son of—”
“Youngest son of Hasan Al Kuwari,” Tanella said. “Emir of Utaybah, richest Emirate on the Persian Gulf.”
The young man glanced up the steps at her. His pupils widened and he smiled broadly. “You are too generous. My poor country holds but a bucketful in the sea of oil beneath the Arabian peninsula.”
“Thirty billion barrels of proven reserves is hardly a bucketful, your Highness,” Tanella said. “The only reason Saddam Hussein didn’t annex your country when he invaded Kuwait in 1990 was because Utaybah is too far for his military to—”
“Enough already, Tanella!” I wanted to slap her. Here’s the best looking guy on the planet, and my best friend is arguing social studies with him! “Are you a real prince?” I can’t believe I asked that. What am I, backstage at Disney on Ice?
Abdu’l murmured something in Arabic and Ahmad nodded, then he turned to Tanella. “Perhaps I could tell you more about my country another time, Miss..?”
“Blake. Tanella Blake. Certainly. I’d love to hear your views on the Arab-Israeli peace process. Utaybah was drifting toward political accord with the West before we invaded Iraq in 2003.”
“I’m Sally Ann Palmer. I’ll be here all week,” I said. “My uncle is teaching a class at the conference. He's a professor.”
