by R. D. Brady
“I checked Jack’s prints and rolled yours again while you were out. Jack must have switched the cards years ago. No one ever noticed.”
Declan kept speaking but Steve tuned him out. He couldn’t believe it. Jack was a killer. He had framed him for murder. And he’d killed their grandmother. He was a monster—and a far worse one than people had even thought he was.
Declan was still talking, but it took Steve a few seconds to realize it—he was too caught up in his own thoughts. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Jack—he killed a lot more people than the ones in town. He had a box of trophies. We’re cross-checking missing person cases and unsolved homicides against his known travel. So far we have over a dozen possibilities.” Declan stared out the window. “He’s been doing this for a decade and we had no clue.”
“No,” Steve rasped out, feeling dizzy. He then swallowed, trying to get some moisture in his mouth.
Declan stood and poured Steve a glass of water from the tray next to the bed. He held the straw to Steve’s lips and let him drink. Steve nodded when he was done, and Declan put the cup back on the tray.
“Thanks.” Steve closed his eyes. He was exhausted.
“I’ll let you get some rest.”
Steve nodded. What had he wanted to say to Declan? His eyes flew open. “No. Not yet. You need to know: Simone wasn’t his first. My dad was.”
Declan jerked back. “What?”
“My dad disappeared when I was ten. Jack was thirteen.”
Declan’s face was full of horror. “He started at thirteen?”
“That I know of.”
“He’s going to have a lot of questions to answer when he goes to trial.”
Steve jerked, and pain coursed through him. He sucked air in through his teeth. “He’s still alive?”
“It was touch and go for a little while, but he pulled through.”
Grandma was dead. Mel was dead. Simone, Dee, Elise, and countless others. Yet his brother, the monster, lived. If Steve had ever believed life was fair, that fact would have ended it. But the truth was, Steve had never suffered from that delusion. And his brother was the reason for that as well. Because Steve had come to that understanding when he was ten—the day his dad disappeared.
Steve closed his eyes again, losing the battle against sleep. Declan leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Everyone knows you’re innocent, Steve. Take some solace in that. And your brother is going to go away for the rest of his life.”
CHAPTER 92
Steve wasn’t sure how long he slept. He vaguely remembered Declan saying he’d be back. He felt a presence next to his bed and figured Declan had returned. He opened his eyes and stared with shock.
It wasn’t Declan. It was Julie. She sat in the chair beside his bed, a hospital gown and robe wrapped around her. She looked paler than usual. She had scratches on her face and a bruise along her cheek.
She looked beautiful.
Steve swallowed. “Julie? You okay?”
She started, then leaned toward him. A small smile crossed her face. “Nothing that won’t heal. You were a lot worse off.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint everyone, but I think I’m going to live.”
“Don’t talk that way,” Julie said.
Steve tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. “Kidding.”
“Sorry. I’m a little… I don’t know, sensitive? Jumpy?”
“Well, I hear brushes with death will do that.” Steve’s eyelids tried to close, and he jerked them back open.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
“Me too.” His eyelids closed again, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stay awake much longer. “Sorry. Sleepy.”
Julie took his hand, placed a kiss on his forehead, and whispered in his ear, “Sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Steve gripped her hand, and for the first time in a long time, he had something to look forward to.
Note From the Author
This book came about differently than other books I’ve written. Usually, something strikes my interest—an ancient site, an unusual historical fact—and the story develops from there. But this book was built around an event. The change in approach came after reading Stephen King’s On Writing.
The first half of On Writing is autobiographical. Mr. King describes his childhood and adulthood. And you can’t help but wonder if those events helped hone his decidedly spooky imagination, or if he focused on those events because of his spooky bent.
Anyway, the second half of On Writing described Mr. King’s writing process. One thing that stuck for me was when he said he put people into a situation and then wrote their way out of it. To me, that sounded like fun.
The first thought that came to me when thinking about the storyline for Runs Deep was the massive flooding that occurred in upstate New York a few years back. Whole towns were cut off for days due to the massive influx of rain. So I had my situation: a town cut off by floodwaters.
Then all I needed were the people. The first person I thought of was Steve Kane. I pictured this man being released from prison and going back to the town where everyone thought he was a murderer. Then the town gets cut off and the bodies begin to pile up. How would the town react?
So that’s how the story was born. And it’s been a fun ride. This one was particularly fun to write because I got to incorporate my criminological background into the book with Jack the psychopath. Psychopaths have been a topic of fascination for me since graduate school. As described in this book, psychopaths, like Jack, are often glib, easygoing, and well liked. Contrary to popular opinion, they are not always intelligent, although Jack is. But their most defining characteristic is their lack of conscience.
If you are interested in an introduction to the world of psychopaths, try Robert Hare’s Without Conscience. It’s out of print now, but there are a number of secondhand copies floating around the internet. Dr. Hare does an incredible job of bringing the world of psychopaths to life using real-world examples. An absolutely essential read for those trying to understand the conscience-less among us.
There’s one other part of the story that I pulled from the news headlines: Flat Stanley. I read about how this elementary school was sending Flat Stanleys (hand-drawn pictures that could be put in a soldier’s wallet) to soldiers for them to carry through their tours. Then the soldier would write back and tell the students about Flat Stanley’s adventures. I thought that sounded incredible. I could picture this little friend accompanying a soldier through incredibly difficult times as a reminder that people cared. So when I was figuring out Declan and Steve’s relationship, I knew that Flat Stanley needed to be a part of it.
Usually I do a fact-or-fiction section at the end of my books, but that didn’t seem appropriate for this book. Still, there are a couple of little tidbits worth chatting about. First off, I mentioned that Steve ate breakfast in prison for a few years at around three in the morning. That is actually taken from true life. Prisons often contract out for their food services, often to restaurants. The restaurants, however, usually will arrange for breakfast to occur before they open their place. And occasionally, that is extremely early in the morning.
The information provided on the BTK killer and serial killers in general is also accurate. As Keith mentioned, there was a serial killer who was an ambulance driver. He would dump bodies before his shift so that he could then be the one who was called to pick it up. Lovely, right?
Dennis Rader, the BTK killer—which by the way stands for Bind, Torture Kill—did actually leave the killing behind in the 1990s. But then in 2004, he contacted the media, writing once again as the BTK killer. And at that time he was married with children, and a pillar of his church community.
Thank you once again for reading. I hope you enjoyed yourself. If you have the time, I would really appreciate you leaving a review. You can go to the Amazon page or connect to it through this link. And if you’d like to hear about upcoming pub
lications, you can check out my website or sign up for my mailing list.
I hope to “see” you again.
Take care,
R.D.
**Keep reading for an excerpt from the Belial Stone by R.D. Brady**
An excerpt from The Belial Stone
Two Years Ago
Havre, Montana
Kenny Coleman's dirt drive was doing a number on the Mercedes. It dipped and dived with the bumps. Watching, Kenny's stomach felt like it was doing the same. The last time he'd been this nervous, it was proposing to his Mary.
“It's just a professor. No big deal,” he muttered to himself. The butterflies in his stomach, however, ignored him, continuing their maniacal flying.
The Mercedes finally rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust in front of his porch. His old Australian shepherd came to attention and emitted a low growl.
Surprised, Kenny reached down from his rocking chair and patted him on the head. “Hush now, Blue.”
The dog quieted. But as the car door opened, he growled again. Kenny could feel the dog’s body tense. He grabbed hold of his collar. When the driver stepped into view, Blue emitted a feral snarl and lunged for the steps, nearly yanking Kenny’s arm off.
Kenny struggled to hold him back. “No, Blue, no!”
While Kenny might be pushing sixty-five, his life as a cattleman had given him muscle. He wrapped his beefy arms around the dog's torso, carrying him back to the house, ignoring the sting as claws raked his forearms.
Kicking open the front door, he half-shoved, half-threw the dog across the threshold, slamming the door shut behind him.
Kenny stepped back and gaped at the door as Blue slammed his body into it, again and again.
He shook his head, unable to believe what he was seeing. Angry red welts crisscrossed his forearms. This was an animal who’d let his grandkids flop on him while they watched cartoons. In the twelve years he’d had him, he’d barely heard him growl.
With a deep breath, he pushed his concerns for his dog's uncharacteristic behavior to the back of his mind. He felt the professor’s eyes on his back and felt the flush creep up his neck. Damn. This was not the first impression he wanted to make.
Rolling down his green flannel sleeves, he walked down the stairs and across the expanse in front of his farmhouse.
“I’m sorry, Professor Gideon,” Kenny stammered out. “He’s never like that. I don’t know what got into him.”
“No harm done, Mr. Coleman. I appreciate you taking the time to show me your find.” A polite smile graced the blond professor’s angular face, but that politeness didn’t quite reach his cool blue eyes.
Back in the day, Kenny knew he was considered a handsome man - strong and tall with thick, dark hair. The girls had loved to run their hands through it. And in spite of his full head of now-white hair, he was vain enough to think he still was.
But he knew this professor was what currently stood for handsome. Slim, with pale blue eyes perched above a patrician nose and sharp cheekbones. Dressed in expensive slacks, a brown suede jacket, and shiny loafers, he was one of those “metrosexuals” his daughter talked about.
Can’t say he ever really understood the appeal of a man who was pretty, but hell, he never did understand much about what was cool.
Extending his calloused hand, Kenny spoke a little louder than usual, trying to block out Blue's unending barks. “I’d really like to know what I’ve found. I just can’t figure out what something like that is doing on my ranch.”
The professor's hand was soft, the shake just shy of limp. “Well, let’s take a look. How did you come across it?”
“It was the strangest thing. I was looking for a stray calf one day, and I literally stumbled over the tip of it.”
“How much was showing at first?”
Kenny shrugged. “Not much. Maybe four, five inches. It was just such a strange-looking rock, all black with those brown and green veins running through it. I’d never seen one like that anywhere around these parts. So, I marked the spot and went back later to dig it out. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. I took some pictures and posted them online to see if anyone could tell me anything about it. Less than an hour later, I got a call from you.”
“Have you spoken with anyone else about it?”
“No. I wasn’t sure it was anything important.” He avoided the professor's eyes. And I didn’t want to look like some old fool grasping at straws.
“And no one else has called?” Gideon’s gaze was intent.
“No, no. You’re the only one. I thought for sure I’d get a couple more people interested. But my pictures disappeared from the site I posted them on and I couldn't re-post them.” He shook his head. “I'm not real good with the computer. It really is an amazing sight, though.”
“Well, let’s have a look, shall we?” Gideon gestured for him to lead the way.
Kenny hesitated, unsure. He glanced back at the house, where Blue’s growls had turned to desperate howls. Blue just didn't act like this. Maybe this was a bad idea.
But he knew the medical bills for his grandson were piling up. This strange rock might be his only chance of making some extra money. He sighed. There really was no choice. He nodded and led the professor towards the northwest.
They followed a trail created by wild horses and buffalo generations ago. Kenny tried making conversation. He talked about the Sioux and the Crow that used to summer in the area and pointed out where he had hunted for arrowheads as a kid. The professor only grunted in response.
Small talk about the weather and questions about the professor’s research resulted in equally unenthusiastic responses. Soon, Kenny just lapsed into silence.
For the first time Kenny could recall, he felt the isolation of his ranch press down on him. He knew there was no one around for miles. Montana was the size of New England, with only the population of Rhode Island. Generally, the isolation of his ranch was the reason he loved it. But walking next to the professor, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
It wasn’t just Blue’s reaction, which, to be honest, scared the hell out of him. It was like the dog had seen the devil himself. It was also that this man looked nothing like a professor. He was too young, too good-looking, and too well dressed.
And there was something about him that just felt off. The man had barely spared a glance at the snow-topped mountains that were a backdrop to Kenny's property. He'd never had anyone come to the ranch that hadn't commented on that incredible view.
Walking next to him, Kenny was reminded of the time when, as a kid, he’d been stalked by a mountain lion. He'd had a vague sense of uneasiness that day. But until the cat screeched as it leapt at him, he hadn’t realized the true danger he was in. That day, his dad had cut the lion in half with a shotgun. Kenny gave the professor another surreptitious glance and couldn’t help wishing he’d brought his shotgun along today.
“Are we getting close?” Gideon asked.
Startled, Kenny stumbled. Shaking his head at his clumsiness, he pointed to an arrangement of three small boulders twenty yards away that stood out in the flat, almost treeless ground. “Just beyond those boulders is where I started digging. I still haven’t been able to get to the bottom of the rock.”
Gideon nodded and picked up his pace. As he passed the boulders, he came to an abrupt stop and stared at the small excavation.
The monolith stood five feet tall, although it was obvious there was still more buried beneath the earth. At first glance, the obelisk appeared smooth. Kenny's first thought had been that it looked like one of those fancy granite countertops. On closer inspection, though, the niches carefully carved into the black stone depicting figures and what resembled Egyptian hieroglyphs became clear.
Seconds stretched into minutes as the professor simply stared at the rock in silence. Kenny’s nervousness increased. “Uh, Professor Gideon, are you all right?”
Gideon's eyes snapped to Kenny. Kenny took a step back from the man.
But when
Gideon spoke, his voice was calm. “It’s an amazing sight, isn’t it? Would it be all right if I went closer?”
The professor’s words reduced Kenny’s fears, making him feel foolish. What the hell is wrong with me today? He's just a professor interested in my find.
“Sure, sure. After all, you’re the expert.” Kenny watched the professor gracefully leap into the hole.
Gideon reverently touched the stone, tracing some of the carvings with his index finger. “Finally,” he murmured.
After a few moments of internal debate, Kenny’s curiosity won out over his uneasiness. He clambered down to stand next to the man. “So, any idea where it came from? It kind of looks like something you’d expect to find in Egypt or down in Central America or some other ancient place.”
Gideon looked over at Kenny. “Actually, this site predates those other sites by quite a significant margin.”
“Really?” Kenny asked, astonished. “Even older than the pyramids?”
“Yes. Even older than that.” He pointed to a spot on the artifact about three quarters of the way up. “Do you see this mark here?”
Kenny squinted at the etching. “That little circle?”
“Yes. That little circle is something I have been trying to find for an incredibly long time.”
Kenny's eyes shifted to the professor. The man couldn’t be any older than twenty-nine. This younger generation seemed to have a different view of time than his generation.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “What is it?”
“Why, it’s the end of the world,” Gideon said with a slow smile.
“What?” Kenny glanced over at Gideon, thinking he must have misunderstood him.
Gideon turned to face him. His smile looked almost lethal and what Kenny had thought were pale blue eyes seemed to have darkened. “You have been very helpful, Mr. Coleman.”
The words were polite, but the tone sent the fears Kenny had been shoving down right back to the surface. The professor pulled a gun from under his suit jacket. Kenny didn’t hesitate. He shoved the professor and scrambled out of the hole.
