by Edwin Dasso
No or mild profanity
Stronger profanity, with up to 5 uses of the f-word
Strong language
Sexuality intensity
Possible sexual references with no details
Sexual references that might include some details
Intense, descriptive sexual scenes
Violence intensity
Violence but no gory details.
Mild violence, fairly detailed with some blood
Detailed violence
Edge of Reality
A Novel by Edwin Dasso, MD
Book one of the Amanda Bass No Safe Place Series
Contents
Acknowledgments
Author’s Content advisory
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
About Edwin Dasso
Also by Edwin Dasso
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my wonderful wife who is becoming quite an accomplished editor for me, not to mention her usual role of motivator. Thanks to my children, Brittany and Leo, for their ongoing support. Once again, they were all my major motivators for this effort, as well as my life in general. Thanks to my friend, Dr. Jerry Frank, who continues to demonstrate his skill as a beta reader and editor; his comments always make my storytelling better. And, of course, thanks to my editor, Jill Noble, for assuring the book is an acceptable final product.
Author’s Content advisory
Edge of Reality
Language intensity
Some profanity, with less than 5 uses of the f-word
Sexuality intensity
No sexual references
Violence intensity
Violence but no gory details.
Prologue
Edge of Reality Summary
Jack Bass has struggled for years with his PTSD. His psyche has been battered not only by childhood abuse but also by tragic events and losses as an adult. Yet, Jack survives and thrives…until someone decides to attack his battered psyche. Can Jack’s mind survive another attack?
1
Amanda Bass was chilling on her bed after getting home from her summer job at the local Dairy Queen. Her feet hurt, and she wriggled her toes. She never expected spending eight hours on her feet would be as tiring as it was. She sent off the text to her best friend, Britney, then pulled one of her favorite stuffed animals, a large lion, from behind her pillow and wrapped an arm around it. Her cat, Boots, was warm against her thigh, purring as she stroked his soft fur and scratched his ears. She giggled as she read her friend’s response, her thumbs then flying over the keypad as she replied. They planned on doing a run that evening then going to the swimming pool to see which cute guys were there.
She set the phone aside while she waited for a response, glancing idly around her room. She was going to miss this room when she went to college in a few weeks. It always felt warm and welcoming—her sanctuary when she needed some alone time. Her taste in décor didn’t run to the typical “pink and fluffy” teen girl style. She smiled as she looked at the large rainbow she and her father had painted on one of her walls. Her gaze then slid over the trophies and ribbons that crowded shelves and the top of her dresser. She’d first become a pistol match-shooting national champion when she was only ten, soon becoming so dominant in her own age group that she had to compete against adults. She had always used her mother’s Model 1911 Colt .45 for her competitions—the same gun her mother had used for competitions when she was young.
Her phone dinged, announcing the arrival of a text, and she smiled. I wonder what silly thing that girl is going to say now. She snatched the phone off her bed, already giggling in anticipation of Britney’s response. Brit always made her laugh. Amanda cocked her head and arched an eyebrow as she gazed at the number on the text. This isn’t Britney. Who the heck is this—I don’t recognize this number? She shrugged. Probably just spam. She poised her thumb over the delete button but halted, chewing on her lip. What if it was from the college? I better check.
She hit the message to open it. The text contained only an image, and it was too large to see all of it, so she swept her thumb and finger across the screen of her phone to reduce the size. Her brow furrowed, and she stared at the screen. When she moved her fingers away and looked at the message, her heart jumped, and her mouth dropped open. Who would send such a horrible thing to me? And why?
The female corpse was bloated and had mottled blue-gray skin. The red bullet hole in the middle of her forehead was surrounded by swollen dark-purple bruising. Amanda mashed her eyelids closed and turned her head away. That’s disgusting!
She crept one eye open a slit so she could see the delete button. As she looked at the screen, something caught her eye. The woman had flowing, wavy strawberry-blonde hair—like mine. She enlarged the image to better see the face and squinted, examining every detail of the woman's face, noting the blood and brains matted in the long strawberry-blonde hair.
Tears welled in her eyes, her throat tightening so much she felt suffocated. Her heart pounded even harder.
“Mom!”
She let out an explosive sob, jumped from her bed, and raced toward the door.
“Dad!” she screamed, streaking down the hall of her home toward the living room where her father was sitting.
2
The two men pushed a heavy bough of a pine tree aside and stepped out of the dense forest onto the edge of the clearing, the dry brush and leaves crackling under their feet. The man in the lead halted and turned up his collar against the chill mountain breeze that blew clouds of dust across the open field lying before him.
“You think this is it, Mike?”
Mike wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent of the conifer forest. He didn’t like the aroma—it reminded him of Christmas at the orphanage. He glanced at his companion Ken.
“I dunno.”
Mike pulled a tattered piece of paper from his pocket, glanced at the faded scribbling on it, then dug a GPS tracker from another pocket. He flicked the screen to life then stared at the coordinates showing on the pale green screen, comparing them against the numbers written on the paper.
“I guess it is.” He shrugged quickly. “GPS says it is, anyway…”
Mike crammed the items back into his pockets and stepped up to the rusted barbed wire fence that ran around the perimeter of the large clearing. He pushed one string down with a foot and pulled the one above it up, the cold metal stinging his hand. He glanced at his colleague then nodded at the opening he’d made in the barrier.
“After you.”
After both men had climbed through the fence, they stood and gazed around the compound, brushing pine needles and dust from their camouflage outfits as they surveyed the area. The clearing was about twenty acres in size and was surrounded by a barbed wire fence that sagged to the ground in several areas. The
roofs of the ramshackle clapboard buildings were covered with heavy green moss, and a door on one of them banged against its frame with each wind gust. Mike’s gaze turned to the large greenhouse situated between the buildings and the open fields; the glass panes—the ones that weren’t broken—were covered with a heavy layer of dust.
“Let’s go take a look,” Mike said then strolled toward the nearest shack. As he looked back at Ken, he tripped over a board on the ground, falling onto his hands and knees. A large wood sliver pierced his palm, and blood oozed around it. “Dammit!” He stood and picked at the splinter as Ken kicked at the warped, weather-beaten boards littering the ground.
Ken peered at the gap in the pieces of wood then kicked them farther aside. He squatted to his haunches and squinted into the dark maw beneath the planks.
“Whoa! That’s a big hole! Too dark to see how deep it is.” He snatched up a stone and dropped it into the murk. After a couple of seconds, a thud announced the arrival of the rock at the bottom of the pit. “That’s pretty deep.” He stood, wiping his hand on his pants. “What the hell you reckon this was for?”
“Hell if I know,” Mike replied. He sniffed at the air. “Don’t smell like a latrine.” He leaned over and peered in, then tossed another stone inside, cocking his head to listen. “Don’t sound like there’s water down there, so I don’t think it was a well or a cistern.” He threw several more boards aside then pulled a flashlight from a backpack and shined it into the murk. He moved the beam around then grunted. “Looks like an old mattress or something down there.” He shook his head and stood. “Can’t imagine anybody ever sleeping down there. Maybe it’s a garbage pit.” He waved an arm at Ken. “C’mon. Let’s check out the rest.”
They worked their way around the camp, touring through the structures and walking the fields for an hour then sat on the cracked, curled boards on the porch of a building.
Ken lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of blue smoke then turned to Mike. Mike scowled and wrinkled his nose as the smoke swirled around his face and burned at his nostrils.
“Probably not too smart to be smoking around all this kindling.”
Ken shrugged and took another drag. “How the hell we supposed to get all the materials way up here?”
Mike huffed. “Look around, dumbass. Obviously, they got materials up here before…and the guy who hired us said not to worry about cost.” He smirked at Ken then punched him on the shoulder. “Besides he gave us a very nice advance.” He jabbed a finger at his coworker. “And for that kinda money, I’m sure he expects us to figure things out by ourselves.
Ken took another puff. “I suppose…”
Mike stood and stepped up onto the porch, the wood creaking with each step as he moved toward the door. “Let’s get to work.”
3
Frederik Osher stood on the edge of the stage, just behind a large curtain, nodding approvingly as the host of the event finished Frederik’s introduction. Frederik was the keynote speaker at this mental health conference for health care workers. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hand-tailored suit jacket, and pasted a big smile on his face before stepping onto the stage. The applause was like an aphrodisiac to him, and he waved enthusiastically to the crowd as he walked to the podium at center stage. The host smiled broadly at him, shaking Frederik’s hand as he arrived at his side.
The emcee leaned his head over the microphone on the dais. “Ladies and gentlemen, Frederik Osher!” He stood back and clapped his hands, backing slowly off the stage as Frederik stepped to the microphone.
Frederik ran his gaze over the filled auditorium and held his arms out to the crowd. He did a quick calculation in his head, estimating how much revenue the event would bring in. Good haul!
“Thank you, thank you!” The applause continued and Frederik eventually held his hands up. “Please, please—you’re going to make my head swell with such an outstanding greeting.”
The audience laughed then slowly quieted, a few chuckles and coughs coming from here and there in the old theater. Frederik put his hands on the edge of the podium and leaned in toward the microphone.
“I sincerely thank you for such a wonderful welcome. I can tell from your response that you all are as interested as I am in making mental health care available to more people in this country.”
The crowd applauded, and Frederik clicked on his first PowerPoint slide, showing the statistics of the prevalence of mental health issues in the American population. He proceeded through a number of slides, eventually focusing on more specific sub-populations, like the socioeconomically challenged, the rurally isolated, and his favorite, the Veterans.
“I think it’s terrible that this country shows such poor support for those who have served us, protected us…even put themselves in harm’s way to keep us safe!”
A murmur ran through the crowd, and heads nodded throughout the audience.
“I wish I and my foundation had enough money and resources to assist all people who need mental health support, but”—he held his hands in the air at his sides—“the reality is that we can’t. So…we have to make a decision. Who? Who can we help?”
He paused, and another buzz ran through the throng.
“And tough as it is, we’ve made a decision. One I hope you will support with actions, and, I hate to say it, but”—he shrugged and smiled—“generous donations.”
The crowd laughed.
“With that in mind, I’m announcing my foundation’s next mental health initiative—one that I hope will help many who have served this country.” He ran his gaze across the people seated before him, making eye contact with several of them and nodding. “Especially Veterans who suffer from PTSD. Too many of them suffer alone and end up homeless…and hopeless. That has to stop!”
The crowd stood and clapped loudly, and Frederik bowed then pointed at the entrances at the rear of the large room. Several young people pushing carts loaded with cardboard boxes started down the aisles, stopping at each row of seats, smiling as they handed out reams of envelopes.
“My associates will be passing out donation envelopes for this new effort.” He pressed his hands together in front of him, as if praying. “Please help me. Give generously!” He bowed again. “Thank you and have a wonderful evening.”
He smiled and waved at the crowd as he walked off the stage.
4
Jack Bass, MD sat in the well-worn recliner in the living room of his home, absorbed in a medical journal article about managing mechanical ventilation in patients with Covid-induced respiratory failure. He was about to jot down a note, dropping his pen when Amanda shrieked in her bedroom—a blood-curdling scream of terror. His heart instantly thumped against his ribs and he vaulted from the chair. This can’t be good! He streaked down the hallway toward her room, his heart racing.
A sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him…just as it always did when Amanda might be in danger. Because she was his daughter, she had been inadvertently exposed to dangerous people far too often—people who wanted to harm him…and anybody he loved. That reality always bubbled just under the surface of Jack’s psyche, troubling him deeply.
He grabbed the doorframe as he rounded the door to her room at speed, panting as he stopped just inside the doorway and stared at his daughter.
“What? What is it?”
Amanda was sitting bolt upright on the edge of her bed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she held her phone limply in her lap. She glanced up at him then threw the phone on the floor before jumping up and racing to him. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.
Hank Greene bolted into the room, a pistol held at his side. His gaze darted between Jack and Amanda “What the hell’s going on?”
Hank had been a homeless Veteran, addicted to drugs and booze several years prior, when he and other homeless Veterans had been kidnapped and imprisoned in an isolated marijuana-growing slave camp. Jack had sprung all of them but had been shot and seriously wounded during the escape. Hank
had since sobered up, cleaned up, and shaped up, now following the rigorous fitness routines he’d practiced during his years as a Green Beret. He’d lived in Jack’s house since and had sworn to devote himself to protecting Amanda and Jack as repayment.
“A-another picture of Mom…dead! Like the one I got last week…”
Jack growled, wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair. “Bastards!” Who the hell is doing this to my family this time? He tensed his shoulders, his muscles burning. More importantly, how could he nip this episode in the bud? “I’ve had enough!” He stomped on her phone, smashing it.
Amanda’s eyes shot wide as she stared down at her phone. “Dad!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you a new phone tomorrow—with a new number.” He stepped back, his hands on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes. “Then we’re getting you someplace other than here. Someplace where these jackasses won’t know where you are.”
