Authors: Erica Spindler
Storm Season
Storm Season
Copyright © 2012
Erica Spindler, Alex Kava and J.T. Ellison
All rights reserved. Prairie Wind Publishing
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
ISBN 10: 0983676143
ISBN 13: 9780-0-9836761-4-0
Cover art by
Becky Hicks
Edited by
Jennifer Brooks
Compiled and Formatted by
Deb Carlin
Photo Credits:
J.T. Ellison by Chris Blanz of Cabedge
Alex Kava by Deb Carlin of Prairie Wind Publishing
Erica Spindler by Hoffman Miller Advertising
Excerpts reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
BOOK EXCERPTS
JUSTICE FOR SARA - Erica Spindler ~ 2013
FOREWORD
by Deb Carlin
Ivan, Dennis, Katrina, Sandy – storms worthy of a name.
Killer storms.
In July Erica, Alex, J.T. and I started brainstorming about a follow-up to SLICES OF NIGHT. The authors knew they wanted something to link all three stories again. But what? Another killer? A theme or ritual? I suppose I should back up a bit for those of you who might not be familiar with SLICES OF NIGHT and how three bestselling authors decided to collaborate on a project together. Quite honestly, it was one fan, an avid reader who loves each of their novels and decided to nag them until they wrote a novella together.
Yes, if you haven’t guessed by now, that avid reader, that nag, was me. I even offered my services of organizing, managing and publishing the enovella. Of course, I was warned that bringing three authors together to write one project might be like trying to herd cats. Especially three Type A personalities.
(Make that four Type A’s when you add me into the mix.) But I knew what a treat the result would be for other readers like me.
In SLICES OF NIGHT one killer travels from New Orleans to Nashville then Omaha. Each author showcased her protagonist and her city while dealing with the same killer. The novella – done in three parts – also allowed readers a sampling of each author’s style and technique in storytelling. It was a huge success. So much so, that the Polish edition was just published last month. And because all three authors are not just seasoned professionals, but also friends of mine, the project was a lot of fun. Not at all like herding cats.
However, success beyond all expectations is always fun. The difficulty can be following that up with an equally amazing project. But that’s exactly what Erica, Alex and J.T. have done with STORM SEASON.
Back in July during that first brainstorm teleconference one of us made note about hurricane season just getting underway. All three authors and I have experienced catastrophic storms from hurricanes and floods to ice storms and blizzards. So we understand how one storm system can affect a wide swath of the country.
We started asking what if the thread between all three stories was one massive storm system – one that stretched from the Midwest down to the Panhandle of Florida and back up the eastern coast? Keep in mind this was in July 2012 before Hurricane Sandy devastated an entire section of the country with everything from ice and snow to flooding and damaging winds. Yes, it’s a bit unnerving to listen to authors dreaming up things before they happen.
With the storm as the tie-in, each author, once again, could showcase her protagonist as well as her own storytelling style. In follow-up emails, Erica started calling the project STORM SEASON and soon we couldn’t imagine it being called anything else.
SLICES OF NIGHT was one novella in three parts. STORM SEASON is twice as long and is three novellas with one killer storm. Each is an amazing story on its own. Together they are STORM SEASON – another superb treat for readers. I know you will enjoy it as much as I did.
Erica Spindler
Rockford, Illinois
Monday, October 7, 2013
7:40 a.m.
“ANYBODY ELSE NOTICE IT’S the end of the frickin’ world?”
Violent Crimes Bureau Detective Mary Catherine Riggio, crouched beside the dead girl, glanced up. Nick Sorenstein, one of the ID guys. Their resident doomsday prophet. Today the end was coming via the effects of global warming.
“It certainly has for this girl,” she said.
A jogger had spotted the vic about an hour ago, half in and half out of the water. In an effort to ‘save’ her, he’d hauled her out and turned her over. Then promptly tossed his cookies.
“You keeping up with the weather, Riggio? You aware that yet another ‘freak’--” he made quotation marks with his fingers “--storm’s moving in?”
“Yeah, I noticed. It’s cold, then hot, then cold again. I never know whether I should wear my black jacket or my black jacket.”
Sorenstein snorted, not amused. “Your global view’s about the circumference of a dime.”
“Not at all." She indicated a circle around the victim. “Right now, I’d say it’s about ten feet.”
“Time to wake up. We keep fucking with Mother Nature, we’ll end up like the dinosaurs. Extinct.”
Jackson, one of the crime scene techs, laughed. “Sorenstein, buddy, you off your meds?”
“Screw you, man. I’m not gonna end up like T-Rex. Adapt, man. Adapt or die." Jackson laughed again and he scowled. “Just shut up and take your little pictures."
Jackson pointed the Nikon at him and snapped a shot. “Works of art, asshole.”
M.C. forced their bickering out of her head and focused on the young woman. Long brown hair, wet and matted. Face scraped and muddy. Eyes open. Other than her face, no outward signs of trauma.
Her partner arrived. Kitt Lundgren, mentor, partner and best friend. They had been through some seriously twisted shit together.
“What’s Sorenstein’s problem?” she asked squatting beside M.C.
“Either the end of the world’s here or he’s off his meds.”
Kitt grinned. “I know Sorenstein and I’ve seen the weather report, so I’m thinking we’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at both." She indicated the vic. “What’s her story?”
“Jogger found her face down in the water. She probably got herself good and juiced, ended up in the water and--”
“Goodnight Gracie." Kitt nodded. “Wha’d’ya think? Drugs or alcohol?”
“Toxicology will tell the tale.”
“Hello, Detectives.”
Frances Roselli, coroner’s chief pathologist. As far as M.C. was concerned, the man was a freaking genius.
“Goody,” Kitt said. “The gang’s all here.”
He fitted on gloves. “Either of you see this morning’s weather report?”
M.C. rolled her eyes. “Not you, too, Roselli.”
“Jim Cantore’s butt is already parked in Madison, Wisconsin.”
“Our cheese loving friends up north must be Ground Zero,” Kitt said.
“Seems to me
this
is Ground Zero,” M.C. snapped. “Could we get to it?”
He knelt down beside them. “You’re a little cranky this morning, Detective. Anything I can help with?”
“Just don’t have the patience for this whole ‘World’s coming to an end’ thing. We’ve got a job, let’s work it.”
“Right you are." Frances cleared his throat. “This young lady have a name?”
“Whitney Bello. Twenty-three years old. Rock Valley student. ID was in her wallet. Also twenty dollars.”
He nodded. “Give me a few minutes with Ms. Bello. I’ll see what she has to say.”
M.C. and Kitt stood. The Rock River Recreation path ran along the east side of the river and meandered through the city. This particular spot fell behind the Ice House, home of the IceHogs, Rockford’s AHL team.
The parking lot was empty save for one vehicle, a small sport utility vehicle. They started for it.
“Since when does Sorenstein’s craziness get under your skin?” Kitt asked.
M.C. let out a long breath. She could dodge the question with an evasion, but Kitt knew her too well for that. “Erik asked me again. Last night.”
“And you said no.”
Her response was neither a question nor a judgment. M.C. responded as if it were both. “I’m not ready. It’s too soon.”
“Three years.”
“Thanks for counting.”
“Just keeping it real, partner." Kitt paused, then looked at her. “I think Dan would want you to be happy. Both of you.”
“I don’t want to talk about this."
To her credit, Kitt let it drop. They reached the SUV. A Ford Escape, pretty dinged up. A Rock Valley College parking sticker on the windshield.
M.C. peered in the driver’s side window. It definitely belonged to a female. A pink disaster. Clothes and boots. Backpack open, books, papers and notebooks spilling out. A half dozen take-out coffee cups, a yoga mat. A good bit of light-colored dog fur in the back seat.
“Looks like our vic’s vehicle.”
Kitt nodded. “If she lived alone, Fido’s going to need a trip to the nearest tree.”
M.C. walked around the car, scanning the area. Nothing jumped out at her. “I’m thinking drugs. She meets her connection here, makes a buy and uses.”
“Maybe it’s bad stuff?”
“Then we’ve got a whole other problem."
They returned to the pathologist. The body handlers were preparing to transfer Bello to the morgue. Frances signaled them to wait.
“Take a look, Detectives." He inched up the sleeve of Bello’s jacket. She wore a watch, one of those flashy, fashion pieces young women were wearing. The face was cracked; the time had stopped at 12:42 a.m. “Voila. time of death.”
“Too bad all our vics aren’t so considerate,” Kitt said.
“Her hands are interesting as well." He carefully manipulated the right, then left. The fingertips were raw, dirt and vegetation packed under her nails.
She had been clawing at the river bottom.
“It means she was alive when she toppled in,” Kitt said. “And that she tried to claw her way out.”
“Exactly.”
M.C. frowned. The bank wasn’t steep, and free of both snow and ice, not slippery either. Just a nice, downy cover of grass. “What stopped her?”
“Probably loaded." Frances stepped away from the body and motioned the handlers to continue. “Sad but it happens all the time.”
“Could she have had some help?” M.C. asked.
Kitt drew her eyebrows together. “Falling in? Or staying down?”
“Either. Both.”
Kitt glanced at him. “What do you think, Frances?”
“From what I’ve seen so far, possible but not likely.”
“You’ll get back to us ASAP?”
“As always. Though the weather might slow things down.”
M.C. grinned. “Already making excuses?”
He laughed. “You can’t fight Mother Nature, Detective. Although if there was anyone who’d try, I believe it would be you.”
Bello had lived in a third floor, east side apartment. The box-style buildings had a retro feel and judging by the worn edges, had been around for awhile.
M.C. introduced herself and Kitt to the dark-haired young woman who answered the door.
She scooped up the madly yapping terrier at her feet. “Police?"
“We’re here about your roommate, Whitney Bello.”
“She’s not home.”
“Rhonda, who’s at the--" The blonde who emerged from the kitchen with a mug of tea stopped and stared.
