Tethered Souls

by Beth Flynn

  Beth Flynn is a fiction writer and USA Today Bestselling Author who lives and works in Sapphire, North Carolina, deep within the southern Blue Ridge Mountains. Raised in South Florida, Beth and her husband, Jim, have spent the last 20 years in Sapphire, where they own a construction company. They have been married 34 years and have two daughters and a temperamental pit bull named Lady.

  In her spare time, Beth enjoys writing, reading, gardening, church, and motorcycles, especially taking rides on the back of her husband’s Harley. She is a seven-year breast cancer survivor.

  Beth Flynn

  P.O. Box 2833

  Cashiers, NC 28717 USA

  Email: beth@authorbethflynn.com

  Website: www.AuthorBethFlynn.com

  Facebook Group: Beth’s Niners

  Also by Beth Flynn

  Nine Minutes (Nine Minutes Trilogy Book 1)

  Out of Time (Nine Minutes Trilogy Book 2)

  A Gift of Time (Nine Minutes Trilogy Book 3)

  The Iron Tiara (A Nine Minutes Standalone Spin-Off Novel)

  Bonus From Nine Minutes

  Prologue, Chapter One and Two

  I hope you enjoyed Tethered Souls. If you'd like to start at the beginning, this excerpt will take you back to where it all began.

  NINE MINUTES

  Book One of the Nine Minutes Trilogy

  Prologue

  Summer 2000

  I’d never attended an execution before. Well, at least not a legal one. My husband sat to my left. A reporter for Rolling Stone was on my right.

  The reporter, Leslie Cowan, fidgeted nervously, and I looked over at her. I’m pretty sure this was her first execution of any kind. Rolling Stone had an upcoming issue dedicated to celebrity bikers. They thought it would be interesting to include a real biker story in that issue. The story of a girl who’d been abducted by a motorcycle gang in 1975.

  That girl was me.

  The remnants of Leslie’s accident three weeks before were still visible. The stitches had been removed from her forehead, but there was a thin red line where the cut had been. Her eyes weren’t quite as raccoonish as before, but it was apparent she’d recently suffered two severe black eyes. The swelling of her nose had almost gone down completely, and she’d been to a dental surgeon to replace her broken teeth.

  When we’d first started the interview, she’d told me she wanted me to be completely honest about my experience with the man who was about to be executed. I’d spent the last three months with her and held almost nothing back about my relationship with him. Today was supposed to be the culmination of the interview, a chance for her to truly understand the real side of that experience. To see the unpleasant alongside the rest.

  Of course, a man’s death should be more than just unpleasant.

  I knew as well as he did that he deserved what he was getting. It was strange. I thought knowing it and believing it would make it a little easier, but it didn’t. I thought I would get through his execution unscathed emotionally. But I was only fooling myself.

  Just because I hadn’t been with him for almost fifteen years did not mean I didn’t have feelings for him. He was my first love. He was a true love. In fact, he was the biological father of my firstborn, though she would never meet him. He wanted it that way. And deep down, so did I.

  The curtain opened. I was no longer aware of anyone else in the small viewing room around me. I stared through a large glass window at an empty gurney. I’d read up on what to expect at an execution. He was supposed to be strapped to the gurney when the curtain opened, wasn’t he? I’m sure that was procedure. But he was never one for following rules. I wondered how he’d managed to convince law enforcement to forego this important detail.

  With a jolt, I realized someone had entered the sterile-looking room. It was him, along with two officers, the warden and a physician. No priest or pastor. He didn’t want one.

  Him.

  His name was Jason William Talbot. Such a normal-sounding name. It’s funny. I’d known him almost twenty-five years and it wasn’t until his arrest fifteen years earlier that I learned his real middle and last name. That is, if it was his real name. I’m still not certain.

  He was always Grizz to me. Short for Grizzly, a nickname he’d earned due to his massive size and brutal behavior. Grizz was a huge and imposing man. Ruggedly handsome. Tattoos from neck to toe covered his enormous body. His large hands could crush a windpipe without effort. I knew this from experience. I’d personally witnessed what those hands could do. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them now.

  He had no family. Just me. And I was not his family.

  I immediately sensed when he spotted me. I looked up from his hands into his mesmerizing bright green eyes. I tried to assess whether those eyes held any emotion, but I couldn’t tell. It’d been too long. He’d always been good at hiding his feelings. I used to be able to read him. Not today, though.

  As he looked at me, he lifted his handcuffed hands and used the fingers of his right hand to encircle the ring finger on his left hand. He then looked down to my hands, but couldn’t see them. They were in my lap and blocked by the person seated in front of me.

  Would I give him that last consolation? I didn’t want to hurt my husband. But considering I was the reason for Grizz’s impending death, I felt the stirrings of an old, old obligation to comfort him in those last moments. At the same time, I felt an uncomfortable thrill in having some control over him. In having the ability to be in charge of something, to be the decision-maker, the empowered one. For once.

  Perhaps I was the empowered one all along.

  I felt my husband’s hand on my left thigh, just above my knee. He gently squeezed. A memory almost twenty-five years old rushed over me of another hand squeezing my leg. A harder, crueler hand. I turned to look at my husband, and even though he was looking straight ahead, he was aware of my glance. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. He’d decided for me. I was okay with that.

  I removed my wide wedding band and lifted my left hand so Grizz could see it. He smiled ever so slightly. Then he looked at my husband, nodded once and said, “Let’s get this shit over with.”

  The warden asked if he had any last words. Grizz replied, “I just said ’em.”

  Leslie had caught the exchange between us and mouthed, “What?”

  I ignored her. That was one part of my story that wouldn’t make it into her article. Even though I’d vowed to be completely forthcoming, some things, no matter how insignificant, had to remain mine. This was one of them.

  Grizz wasn’t an easy prisoner, so the guards assigned to him were super-sized, just like him. Much to their surprise, this day he put up no resistance. He lay down and stared at the ceiling as his handcuffs were removed and he was strapped tightly to the gurney. He didn’t flinch when the doctor inserted the IV needles, one in each arm. His shirt was unbuttoned and heart monitors were attached to his chest. I wondered why he didn’t fight, wondered whether he’d been given a sedative of some sort. But I wouldn’t ask.

  He didn’t glance around. He just closed his eyes and passed away. It took nine minutes. It sounds quick. Less than ten minutes. But for me, it was an eternity.

  An elderly woman in the front row started to sob quietly. She said to the woman sitting next to her, “He didn’t even say he was sorry.”

  The woman whispered back to her, “That’s because he wasn’t.”

  The doctor officially pronounced Grizz dead at 12:19 p.m. One of the guards walked over to the big window and closed the curtain. Done.

  There were about ten of us in the small viewing room, and as soon as the curtain closed, almost everyone stood up and filed out without a word. I could still hear the elderly woman crying as her companion placed her arms around her shoulders and guided her toward the door.

  Leslie looked at me and asked just a little too loudly, “You okay, Ginny?”

  “I’m fine.” I couldn’t look at her. “Just no more interviews for the rest of the day.”

&nb
sp; “Yeah, sure, that’s understandable. I have just a few more questions for you before I can wrap this story up. Let’s meet tomorrow and talk.”

  My husband took my hand, stood with me and told Leslie, “It’ll have to wait until we get home. You can reach us by phone to finish the interview.”

  My knees felt wobbly. I sat back down.

  Leslie started to object, then noticed the expression on my husband’s face and stopped herself from saying more. She managed a smile and said, “Okay then, until Sunday. Have a safe trip home.”

  She left the room.

  My husband and I were the only ones remaining. I stood to leave and couldn’t move. I fell into his arms, sobbing. He gently lowered me to the floor and sat down with me, holding me against him. I lay like that in his arms, crying, for a long time. A very long time.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  It was May 15, 1975. A typical Thursday. A day just like any other day, nothing extraordinary or even remotely exciting about it.

  But it would be the day that changed my life forever.

  I’d gotten up a little earlier than usual that morning and done some chores before school. I didn’t have to do chores, but I was used to doing for myself, and there were certain things I wanted done. I had a quick breakfast of toast and a glass of orange juice, then loaded up my little backpack. It wasn’t really a backpack, more like a baggy cloth purse with strings that I could arrange around my shoulders and wear on my back for easy carrying. It looked small but could hold a lot.

  That morning it would hold my wallet with my driver’s permit and four dollars. I wasn’t old enough to have an official license yet; I’d just turned fifteen three months before. The bag also held my reading glasses, a hairbrush, apple-flavored lip gloss, two tampons, a birth control packet and two schoolbooks: advanced geometry and chemistry. I’d finished my homework the night before, folded the notebook papers in half and stuck them between the pages of my books. Everything else I needed for my classes I kept in my locker at school.

  I wore hip-hugger, bell-bottom blue jeans with a macramé belt, a flowery peasant top and sandals. I had on the same jewelry I wore every day: silver hoop earrings and a brown felt choker that had a dangling peace sign. Even though this was South Florida in May, the mornings could still get a little cool, so I wore a red and white poncho Delia had knitted.

  That morning my stepfather, Vince, had driven me to the bus stop. I could’ve walked, but it was far, so I grabbed rides from Vince whenever I could. He would’ve taken me all the way to school, but he had to drive in the other direction to do that, and I had no problem riding the bus.

  I might have asked Matthew for a ride, but something was off with him. Matthew was a senior I was tutoring, and we’d become close. We weren’t a couple, but I knew he was interested. I was also becoming close to his family. I actually spent more time with them than my own. Less than a week ago, he’d kissed me goodnight on my front porch. But now he was telling me he wouldn’t need my help with tutoring and he didn’t have time to be my friend. Before, he was always offering to give me a lift to and from school. Not anymore, I guess. But like I said, I didn’t have a problem with the bus.

  “See ya later, kiddo,” Vince said as I jumped out of his rickety van.

  “Later, Vince.”

  That day was a regular day at school. I was spared the awkwardness of running into Matthew. We didn’t take any of the same classes and didn’t hang with the same crowd. But still, it would’ve been nice to ask him the reason behind the abrupt halt to our friendship. I was more curious than hurt. I mean, it was just a simple goodnight kiss.

  I’d finished all my homework by the time Study Hall ended, which meant I could allow myself to go to the public library after school. If I’d had homework, I would’ve gone straight home or to Smitty’s. But on days I didn’t have homework, I loved to go to the county library and immerse myself in books. I’d been going there since grade school, and I’d made friends with everyone who worked there. I’d just need to take a different bus from school. We weren’t supposed to swap buses without a signed permission slip each time, but the bus drivers all knew me, and Delia had given her approval earlier in the year. I did it so often they’d stopped asking for a slip.

  “Hey Gin, no homework today, I see,” Mrs. Rogers, the librarian, said as I walked through the doors. I just smiled and nodded at her as I headed for the card catalog. For a long time I’d been meaning to look up some books on John Wilkes Booth. We were studying President Lincoln’s assassination in school, and I’d already devoured the books from the school library. I wanted to see if the local library had anything else to offer on the subject. I was in luck.

  By five o’clock it was time to start packing things up, so I hauled my three books to the desk to check out.

  “Need to make a call?” Mrs. Rogers asked.

  “Yes, please,” I replied. They were used to letting me use the phone to call Delia or Vince for a ride home.

  Vince must have been running behind on his delivery schedule and wasn’t back at the warehouse yet. I left a message saying I needed a ride home from the library, but that I’d try calling Delia too. Which I did, but there was no answer where she worked. That could’ve meant a few things: She’d left, or she was talking to a customer and didn’t want to pick up the phone, or maybe she was in the back room and didn’t hear it. Oh well, this had happened before. No big deal.

  “You going to be okay, Ginny?” Mrs. Rogers asked. “I don’t want to lock up and leave if you don’t have a ride. I’d be glad to take you home.”

  She was sweet. She offered this every time I didn’t have an immediate lift home.

  “Oh, no problem, Mrs. Rogers. I’ll walk over to the convenience store and get a drink. Vince knows to come by there if the library is closed.”

  And that’s what I did. Like I had done a hundred times in the past. I bought a soda and sat out front with my back against the entrance. I drank my soda and was so engrossed in one of my books I barely noticed when a noisy motorcycle pulled up.

  It wasn’t until the person driving turned it off and started walking toward me that I realized someone was talking to me. I heard a little chuckle and then, “That must be some good book you got your face buried in. I’ve been asking you what you’re reading since I got off my bike and you didn’t even hear me.”

  I glanced up. He looked like a typical motorcycle guy. Average height. Brown, shaggy hair that just touched his collar. He wore jeans, boots and a white T-shirt under a leather jacket. He smiled then, and I answered with a smile of my own.

  “History. Lincoln.” That was all I said. I wasn’t a flirt and didn’t think he required any more than that. I immediately looked back down at the book I had propped up against my knees.

  That answer seemed to suit him because he didn’t say anything else as he swung the door open and proceeded inside.

  He came out a few minutes later with a Coke. He squatted next to me and looked at the book I was reading as he drank his soda. Without any prompting he started to engage me in conversation about Abraham Lincoln and more specifically about Booth. I found what he said interesting so I closed my book and turned to give him my full attention. He was nice and seemed like an okay guy—nothing like what I’d expected a man on a motorcycle to be like.

  After a few minutes of discussing John Wilkes Booth the conversation turned personal, but not in a disturbing way. He asked how old I was and seemed genuinely shocked when I told him fifteen. He asked me what grade I was in, where I went to school, my hobbies, stuff like that. He seemed really interested and even teased, “Well, I guess I’ll have to come back in three years if I want to take you on a real date or something.”

  Oh, my goodness. He was flirting with me. I had boys at school flirt with me all the time. They’d say things like, “Gin, how come you’re not out there cheering? You’re just as pretty as the cheerleaders.” They were always offering to give me a ride home or asking if I wanted to h
ang out after school.

  The boy I’d been tutoring, Matthew, had seemed interested, too. At least up until a couple days ago. He was a popular senior and our school’s star running back. He went by the nickname Rocket Man. He was cute and sweet and flunking two classes. I was tutoring him in English and math. Truth was, I liked boys, and Matthew was growing on me. I liked the kiss we shared. But I wasn’t interested in a serious boyfriend, especially one who would be leaving for college in the fall. I had too much to accomplish before I could get involved in a relationship.

  But this was a man flirting with me, not a boy. And I realized I was more than a little flattered that he was taking an interest in me.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to flirt back, so I reopened my book and just pretended to keep reading while he talked.

  After he finished his soda he asked, “So, what are you doing sitting in front of the convenience store? You waitin’ on someone?”

  “Yeah, my stepdad is supposed to pick me up. He should be here in a minute.”

  He stood up and looked around. “Well, I can give you a ride home. How far ya live?”

  “Oh no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want him to show up and me not be here. He would worry.”

  Actually, that wasn’t true. Vince wouldn’t see me here and assume Delia picked me up, and he would just go home.

  “Can you call him or somethin’ and let him know you’re gettin’ a ride?” Before I could answer he said, “You ever been on a motorcycle before? You’ll like it. I’m a safe driver. I’ll go real slow and let you wear my helmet.”

  Again I didn’t answer, just looked at him.

  He laughed then and said, “It’s not like I can do anything to hurt you while you’re on the back of my bike. Seriously, it’s just a ride home. If you don’t want me to know where you live, I can drop you at a corner close to your house. C’mon. Make an old guy’s day.”