A Killer's Secret

by Stanley Gray

  A Killer’s Secret

  By: Stanley Gray

  A Killer’s Secret by Stanley Gray Published by William Gray 375 Cherry Dr., Eugene, OR 97401

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  © 2018 William Gray

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address above.

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  Ebook ASIN: B07DWR4H2P

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Please respect and support indie authors. Buy only authorized copies from reputable retailers. Stanley Gray is available for speaking engagements and author interviews. Please text or call 5416320690 for information on how you can obtain premium bulk discounts for book clubs, corporate wellness programs, or other large groups.

  OTHER TITLES BY STANLEY GRAY

  TRAITS OF DARKNESS (GEMS OF PARADISE: BOOK ONE)

  Author’s Note

  Aliens fascinate me. The idea that there may be worlds and civilizations out there, far off in a distant and foreign land so unlike our own spreads goosebumps over my body. Even as a kid, I wondered about Jupiter, with its red spot, and fantasized about the things- and creatures- that might be lurking out in space.

  The various types of theorized aliens, especially in mythology and fiction, often reveal more about us, as individuals and our culture, than about them. Those that know me know my life has not always been roses. I can actually chart the spectrum of my own ideas of aliens. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise that, during hard times, I often view aliens as more sinister, ominous. When I feel overwhelmed and besieged by problems, aliens become bellicose foes to be feared. When I feel happy and content, they may be more peaceful, curious beings.

  Many people much smarter than me have long expressed the belief that extraterrestrial life of some form is not only possible, but even probable. In a May 2, 2018 National Geographic article published online, Stephen Hawking, one of the world’s most respected and preeminent voices on the cosmos, was cited as just one source that believes aliens exist. Nonetheless, the existence of aliens is of dubious scientific merit, and still exists at the very fringes of the credible scientific community.

  I do not take a personal stance on the matter, and present alien tales as fun fictional stories that are intended to be provocative, scary as hell, and incisive social commentary. Nonetheless, as I have waded into the world of science-fiction and fantasy, I have had the privilege and pleasure of encountering a good number of alien enthusiasts. I ask that skeptics and the general public, anyone that may be reading this, not bully or discredit those who claim some sort of contact or abduction. It may be true that some supposed abductees suffer from a mental illness; that fact, if true, would make it even more imperative not to marginalize or ridicule them.

  This is a work of fiction. While I have made every effort to create a compelling story that retains a high degree of verisimilitude (a fancy word for authenticity, basically), the reality is, this is not reality. This story is fake. I made it up. Any errors are mine, and I apologize in advance. The timelines for storytelling in the modern age have changed, and this fact may have increased the chances that I slipped up on naming a road or describing how a body is disposed of.

  To the people of beautiful Klamath Falls, Oregon, thank you for giving me such a wonderful setting for this novel. In the book, your great town is not always depicted in the best light. Please understand that the protagonist, or main character, in this work was basically forced into relocating there, and had different expectations that perhaps did not always align with the values and lifestyle of your quaint city. I apologize profusely in advance for any errors in this area. I sincerely hope any readers with the means will visit southern Oregon, and especially Klamath Falls at least once in their lives. It is perfect for all. From the nearby Crater Lake and various outdoor activities to the arts and great cuisine, Oregon and Klamath have it all.

  Moving on, this book depicts some violence. Some of this violence is directed at ethnic female sex workers. The choice was an artistic one, and only was meant to serve the narrative. It is important that I be up front about this, because some of the content may prove disturbing or offensive to some. In no way did I ever intend to make any part of this book a political or other statement. I do not endorse, condone, or in any way support domestic violence or the mistreatment of women in any way. If I were honest, I would like to see prostitution legalized in America, if only to ensure that consenting adults who engage in the sex trades have access to a safe and regulated marketplace. I also do not condone or endorse any sort of racism or the marginalization of minorities.

  On a related note, this book at times makes peripheral commentary of a political nature. I do not endorse the politics of Alan Grunke, the main character. Nor do I oppose them. Because the protagonist is a highly educated bureaucrat from New England who eventually moved to California, it is more than reasonable to assume his character would reside on the progressive-left end of the spectrum. This is merely a reflection of the character. None of this book, a fictional work designed to be as entertaining as possible, is meant in any way to make a political statement. For those readers who care about such things, I understand that we live in troubling times. My intent is to help people move through and beyond those hard times by allowing them to escape them, if even for a moment. Please try to see past this and read this book for what it is: a work of fiction, by a flawed human describing other flawed fictional humans (and aliens) through prose.

  To wrap things up, there are many people who made this work possible. Beyond my faith, Miriam Major, my beloved sweetheart, is my rock. She is far smarter, kinder, patient, stronger, and more organized than me. She spent time listening to me drone on and on about this book while I was writing it, even as she was pregnant. She helped improve the story with her insightful critiques. Writing is an inherently solitary and depressing task. Trying to squeeze money from the publishing turnip is even worse. I can say without a shred of doubt that I would not have been able to complete this work without her help. I also want to give a special mention to Susan Szymanowski Shirey, for it she who gave Xenobia her name. I spend a lot of time engaging with my very special readers on Facebook, and Susan won a contest by providing her creative talents. I’d like to think I’m smart, but the reality is, I have smart friends and fans.

  I also want to thank some people who are not around to enjoy this work, the fruit of many months’ labor. My mother died in front of me when I was a teenager, and I want to thank her for all that she did while she lived and tried her hardest to care for me. My mom suffered from a horrible disease, Multiple Sclerosis, and that ailment stole her from the world. She read to me without fail as a child, every night. She took delight in those tender moments, and I felt immersed in the story as I listened to her distinctive voice.

  There was a time when my mother was able to walk freely, long before I was born. Even though she refused to talk about it, a beautiful brown wooden desk and hutch that dominated one corner of the townhouse I grew up in in Indianapolis, Indiana hinted at that past. Sometimes, as the tender quiet of the early morning caressed her and softened her feat
ures, I would sneak downstairs and see my mother at that desk. She just sat there. Sometimes she cried while there. My mother had worked for several summers as a teenager, stocking shelves at a pharmacy so she could buy that desk she cherished. Before a cruel and enigmatic disease stole her future and happiness, before she descended into depression, my mom was a writer.

  I owe my passion for storytelling and my love of the English language to her. I grew up a poor mixed-race kid in a neighborhood that placed zero emphasis on the value of education. Statisticians still consider me an outlier. When I feel fatigued on my trek through the savanna that is publishing, I think of this strong woman who gave me so much. This book is dedicated to her honor and memory.

  There are plenty of other people to thank, but…they know who they are. You didn’t obtain this book to hear a long list of thank-yous.

  As a final note, I want to thank you, yes, you, the reader. Without you, I would have no voice. You mean the world to me, and I appreciate your time. I hope this novel entertains you and exceeds all of your wildest expectations.

  Please leave a review for this book, however you came to read it. Reviews help me, the author, understand what went well, and what didn’t. Please only leave honest feedback. Those five and four-star reviews provide an amazing confidence boost. As an independent author, it can be inordinately burdensome and difficult, to continue creating original content for a diverse group of people. Knowing someone enjoyed the book really helps lift one’s spirits. In addition, reviews help authors. They are free to leave, and can be as simple and easy as you want to make them. After a certain number of reviews, Amazon and other outlets may provide additional exposure. Many of the top promotion sites take reviews into account. Reviews also help provide a signal to other potential readers. Few people want to take a risk on an untested commodity.

  Please only read authorized content from verified distributors, such as Amazon. This book is and will continue to be competitively priced so that it remains affordable and accessible. If you are experiencing some difficulties in life, email me at: authorbsgray@gmail.com. Text me at: 5416320690. If you truly do not have $5 or less to purchase the book, I will either send you a free copy or link, or inform you when any free promotional days will occur. I spent many long hours working on this book, over the course of several months. I spent money I don’t really have, as a student, partner, pet-owner, and renter in this insane housing market. Obtaining pirated copies from questionable sites not only hurts me, but it also opens the door for potential viruses on your devices. That’s right, according to some, many of the book piracy sites have been infected with malware. The book costs less than a cup of coffee that took mere minutes to make. It’s likely you probably even tip your barista. The only tip I would ask for is a kind word to your friends about the book, and a review.

  Enjoy.

  Chapter 1

  “The fat fucker bit me.” he said.

  Alan Grunke leaned against the bar with one hairy arm, leaning away from the blonde beside him in a vain attempt to hide the sweat trickling down his neck, tickling him as it moved on its sinuous downward path. Low lighting created an intimate atmosphere. Thick bluish-gray clouds of acrid smoke hovered in the air, mingling with the vaguely predatory aromas of the casino bar and grill. People laughed around him as they enjoyed their lives. Just outside the din of the small restaurant resided the cackling money-sucking machines and thin, tired server girls with trays full of drinks for the overweight retirees. Bright, flashing lights and the thrill of seeking the elusive magic that is easy money.

  She spun her thin pink straw in the large drink and flashed another look at her watch. A dinky plastic thing with a narrow little faux leather band. Natalie, he thought her name was. She chewed gum incessantly with her mouth open and possessed a black tattoo that peeked out from under her shirt whenever she leaned forward.

  “Okayyy…” she said.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asked.

  “Yasssss….” she said.

  The bartender, a rough-looking guy with a red beard and angry eyes materialized, rubbing a glass aggressively with a dirty towel, his forearms bulging with each motion. “Jameson.” The blonde said.

  Before Alan waded back into his dramatic retelling of only slightly exaggerated historical events, he felt a stabbing sense of annoyance at the explicit haughtiness of this tart. Order the most expensive hard liquor on the menu, he thought, fighting to conceal the frown that wanted to emerge with the mental recrimination. He took a swig of amber liquid, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat like some molten elixir. Inhaling, he rushed back into his tale.

  “There I was, in the middle of the woods, miles from any cell reception or anything. I’d gone out without telling anyone at camp that morning, so no one knew where I was or what I was doing. When there are all the trees and things up above, it can be so hard to remember to look down.” he said.

  The burly bartender appeared, sliding the dame’s drink to her silently before vanishing like a whore’s innocence.

  Sweat began to bead and trickle down his clammy, red forehead. Alan felt dampness under his arms. He fought the urge to grimace. Alan looked up at one of the many angled mirrors above the bar and saw he had turned a deeper shade of crimson as he struggled with the instinct to lift his arms and inspect his pits for any tell-tale yellowish stains. Swiveling slightly on his wobbly stool, Alan saw that the attractive little blonde had escaped.

  Jaundiced pride burning its brand into his temples, Alan motioned for another drink. Garth Brooks, stale sweat, and desperation filled the evening air in the 2-star restaurant trying a little too hard to pretend it wasn’t hours away from the heart of Vegas.

  “How the fuck did I get here?” Alan Grunke asked, slamming one hand down on the paneled bar. He winced and shook his fist, looking at it as if it were some obscene alien presence.

  The burly redhead appeared. His scowl lent credibility to the threats he communicated silently with his malevolent blue eyes. “Problem?” he asked.

  Alan examined the man, temporarily emboldened by some arcane force. He tried to find a name tag, some sort of identifying markers, but saw none. Alan shook his head. “Another round.” He said, his voice a wounded bunny in the jungle.

  He extracted his phone, a slim thing with a thick green case, and unlocked it. Alan began swiping through memories. Buried in the mausoleum of this next-gen device were photos…of a time when he had actually smiled.

  A brush of air and some sound made Alan turn. He blinked. He debated briefly if the exorbitantly priced insipid cocktail were actually worth the time, money, and effort it would take to mindlessly consume it. Clucking his tongue, he tossed the adult beverage back. He puckered his lips and squinted his eyes. Then, he pivoted. He began to scan the crowd anew.

  As his eyes flitted over the thin and hungry-looking girls trying to work the crowds, Alan reflected. Klamath Falls, Oregon was a long way from home. Did they even have a casino in Hanover or Montpelier? He never remembered seeing any. The people here seemed distant. Troubled.

  Floyd Mayweather appeared on one of the large television screens overhead, and Alan smirked. He almost wanted to pay attention. The thought of him consuming sports entertainment in a casino bar alone seemed both doleful and amusing.

  Alan jumped. An exuberant lithe woman with luscious dark hair sat down beside him. Her fragrant perfume, smelling of exotic spices and citrus, swept him up and took him on a carpet ride of testosterone. He couldn’t help but stare.

  She laughed. Looked directly at him with no sense of abandon or shame. Her smile revealed a healthy set of even, too-white teeth. The plunging neckline of her green shirt told a tale of two repressed beauties aching for release.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” she asked.

  At that very moment, Alan wasn’t sure. His mouth felt dry, and his hand seemed to lifelessly dangle at his side.

  The woman leaned forward and reached out, grabbing his phone before he could regist
er what was going on.

  “Give it back.” he said.

  She smiled. A playful smile. She dared him with her eyes.

  “What kind of secrets you have hidden in here, secret danger man?” she asked. Her tongue darted out and flicked across the top of her upper lip before retreating back into its moist cave.

  All this time, Alan had been trying to find a woman, any woman to just pay attention to him. He’d been willing to even pay a premium for the charade. Now that one was right in his lap, actually flirting with him, he honestly felt bereft and betrayed by his senses. Witty repartee evaded him and desire fled like disturbed vultures.

  “I really need that back.” he said.

  She handed it back, suddenly cautious. Something in her body language, the rigidity and confusion struck a chord with Alan. He looked at his device for a long second before placing it into his pocket. He sat back down and tried to ignore the deafening silence lingering in the small space between them.

  “Um, my name is Alan Grunke.” he said, after a moment.

  The brunette made a sound. Sort of a laugh. She turned to face him. “Alan Grunke. That’s an…interesting name.” she said.

  “Thanks, I guess.” he responded.

  “You from around here, Alan Grunke?” she asked.

  “Hey, wait a second. You didn’t tell me your name.” he said.

  She giggled. Her manner seemed more relaxed now, though vestiges of the anxiety and fear remained. She twirled a few strands of her shiny hair with one finger as she pretended to think. Somewhere in the background, people were cheering and clapping as a loud bell went off. Burned onions and fried stuff sent their vaguely satisfying odors out from the confines of the kitchen in a hot mass that assaulted his nostrils. She wore thin glasses.

  “I’ll tell you. But…” she glanced around, eyes darting furtively. Leaning closer towards him, gaze still directed at some arbitrary point at the other end of the bar, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’d never believe me.” she said.