AuthorsDen.com   Join Free! | Login    
   Popular! Books, Stories, Articles, Poetry
Where Authors and Readers come together!

SIGNED BOOKS    AUTHORS    eBOOKS new!     BOOKS    STORIES    ARTICLES    POETRY    BLOGS    NEWS    EVENTS    VIDEOS    GOLD    SUCCESS    TESTIMONIALS

Featured Authors:  D.L. Carroll, iWilliam Cottringer, iJames McClelland, iW. Craig Reed, iKathryn Perry, ial squitieri,sr, iDavid Hamilton, i

  Home > Mystery/Suspense > Books Popular: Books, Stories, Articles, Poetry     

Ric Wasley

· + Follow Me
· Contact Me
· Books
· Articles
· News
· Stories
· 5 Titles
· 4 Reviews
· Add to My Library
· Share with Friends!
·
Member Since: Sep, 2006

Ric Wasley, click here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.


Acid Test
by Ric Wasley   

Share this with your friends on FaceBook
Books by Ric Wasley
· Shadow Of Innocence
                >> View all

Category: 

Mystery/Suspense

Publisher:  iu/mrp ISBN-10:  0595329829238 Type: 
Pages: 

232

Copyright:  October 3,2004
Fiction

See larger image

Amazon
Barnes & Noble.com
McCarthy Family Mysteries

Set in 1968 at the peak of the psychedelic 60's, a pair of 20-somethings; Mick a Harvard drop-out and Bridget Connolly, his cute gutsy girlfriend, find themselves in the middle of murder involveing red China and a 'Black Ops' section of the CIA.
They must somehow find out what is the mysterious substance that was smuggled out of the jungles of Southeast Asia, and why is it important enough to the waring super powers to kill for. Time is running out for the pair of friends and lovers, becasue they are next on the list.
They must find the answer amidst a trail of false leads and blind alley's ...or die.

Excerpt from Acid Test:


C H A P T E R 36
Central Square
Cambridge
May 7, 1968
6:33PM

The dozens of layers of peeling paint, scraped Bronwyn’s knuckles and gave the
old muddy-brown door a muted, hollow sound when she pounded on it for the
third time in half as many minutes.
“Damn,” she muttered to herself, “where is he!”
After she’d spooked Quang at the MIT lab, and he’d almost freaked out, he’d
called her the next morning and profusely apologized, citing stress, overwork, and just the sheer surprise at, “looking up from 10,000 power microscope and into the eyes of someone so lovely.”
“Yeah right,” Bronwyn thought cynically,” boy, he wasn’t even from this country but it sure hadn’t taken him long to learn how to ‘B.S.’ with the best of them.”
“On the other hand,” she thought to herself, “it was certainly nice to know
that he thought enough of her to care to feed her a flattering line…even if it was nine tenths B.S.”
She stepped back from the still silent doorway to apartment 4C and looked
around the dingy fourth floor landing of the rundown five story walkup located
in an equally rundown section, of almost always run down…Central Square,
Cambridge.
She felt a momentary small chill shiver down the middle of her back as she
realized how quiet and dark it really was in the silent, musty hallway.

“Wow,” she half whispered to herself, “this is just the kind of place you’d expect to find the Boston Strangler lurking in the shadows. Just standing there, all dressed in black, with that creepy black knit cap he always wore. Standing there with that nylon stocking that he always used to strangle those poor girls,
and…stop it!” she said to herself, “get a grip girl or next you’ll be seeing…”
And something from the other end of the hallway, moved.
Her intake of breath caught in her throat and she froze stark still.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, petrified in that same position.
Straining her eyes to pierce the gloom on the other side of the fly and dust darkened forty-watt bulb.
After what seemed like hours, but could have only really been twenty or thirty
seconds, she realized that there was nothing there and was actually glad that no one else had been around to see how stupid she was acting. She let her pent up breath out with a whoosh, raised her hand to knock on the door again and…
The shadow darkness at the other end of the hall moved again.
This time there could be no question, because the movement was accompanied
by a soft but unmistakable shuffling sound and Bronwyn could see rising
dust motes floating in the forty-watt gloom.
She stood paralyzed. Rooted to the spot with terror. Frozen. Hypnotized like a
bird in front of a snake. She tried to scream and was actually surprised when the only sound that came out was a little mewing sound, like a kitten about to be drowned.
The slowly approaching shadow was now starting to coalesce into man form
and her wildly darting eyes moved back and forth, looking for the nylon stocking she was sure he held in his hand. And as the form stepped into the periphery of the dim hallway light, Bronwyn’s most horrible nightmare came true!
The form was dressed in black, right down to the black ski hat and ski mask
and…the nylon stocking looped around one hand.
“Oh my God in heaven,” Bronwyn mumbled hysterically to herself, “please
don’t let it end like this! Oh please, God help me!”
Suddenly her mother’s voice came back to her, snapping through her paralyzed
terror.
She had a flash of remembrance, when she had wanted ‘oh so badly’ to make
the freshman cheerleading squad and had beseeched divine intervention. “Oh
please God,” she had prayed fervently with fourteen-year-old intensity in her
pink and gold bedroom, while clutching her favorite girlhood stuffed Pooh Bear
for moral support, “let me make the JV team.”
God hadn’t answered, but her mother had. Felicity Parker Prescott (formerly
McCarthy) had answered sharply with all of the self assured certainty of three
hundred years of puritan heritage, “Bronwyn, don’t ever call upon the Lord for something trivial and silly. He is quite used to answering the important prayers of Parker’s and Prescott’s. But let me also remind you my dear of the first rule of
your heritage, before you call for the divine intervention that your lineage entitles you to. In fact it was engraved on your christening cup…and those of your brothers too. Here, come with me dear,” her mother had said leading her down the grandly sweeping staircase to the high ceiling living room below, where she paused in front of the floor to ceiling fireplace.
Bronwyn hesitated and her mother had pointed to the tarnished old silver cup
and said, “take it down my dear and read it.”
Bronwyn had reached up to the cracked and warped mantle of the Brattle
Street house’s parlor and plucked the small silver cup with her name engraved on the front. She had slowly turned it over and read the spidery, ornate script… ”The Lord helps those who help themselves.”
All the memories and childhood reminisces passed through her brain in a split second and seemed to bounce off the inside of her skull as her shaking tongue mouthed the words…” Oh God, please help me.”
Then all her childhood memories answered back for the Lord and reminded
her in the imaginary voice of her mother, that the lord was most favorably disposed towards those who, “helped themselves.”
The memory broke the scream loose from her throat, and as the black clad
form reached for her, she found her voice and screamed…” No!”
The shadow hesitated for a moment, seemingly stunned by the force of the
scream, but when only the silence of the dust motes around the forty-watt bulb answered, it came on again.
A hand reached out across the weak hall light, clutched Bronwyn’s arm, and
the spell of immobility was broken.
Suddenly she remembered a night from last year’s Thanksgiving, after the
food and dishes had been cleared away, when amid the laughter and teasing wrestling of childhood, her brother Mick had showed her some army judo moves that he said were “guaranteed to make any horny, rat-bastard, SOB, forget all about ‘bothering my baby sister’.”

Older brother Francis had shaken his head as he walked away, but Brom had
listened while she laughed, and now… she remembered.
As a black gloved hand came out of the glare induced shadows to fasten
around her throat, instead of screaming and running away, as every instinct told
her to do, she took a step forward, pulled the black gloved hand towards her and fell backwards, letting her own momentum drag her over and away from the
apparition.
The respite was only momentary as the terror form twisted and slithered like
some kind of cat\snake and almost instantly, righted itself again. But Brom had used that instant of pause to good advantage and vaulted the fourth floor landing railing. She hit the stairs in between the third and fourth floor and broke into a desperate, dead run. She ran down the creaking, wooden treads two and three at a time, too terrified to look back at what she sensed was behind her.
She reached the second floor landing and now could hear the pounding of feet
just inches behind her. A hand grabbed her shoulder causing her to lose her stride for an instant before she twisted out of her Lowden coat and with a desperate push, rolled herself over the second floor landing railing falling heavily on to the cracked linoleum tiles of the apartment foyer.
She lay there for a moment stunned and out of breath. Then as she desperately
pushed herself up on to her knees, she saw to her horror that the black clad
shadow was between her and the buildings entrance door.
Bronwyn looked at the now impossible and impassible front door for an
instant and in one final desperate gamble, launched herself into a dead run down the first floor corridor towards the apartment building's back door. She heard the feet pounding after her and prayed she would make it…
But she didn’t.
A black-gloved hand caught her by her long, dark, curly hair and dragged her
down with a short, sharp, sudden tug.
Brom stumbled and crashed down onto the filthy linoleum, knocking the breath from her. When she looked up again, she was staring into to cold, black,
lifeless eyes, and she felt something slip around her throat, constricting her windpipe and slowly but inexorably, start to squeeze.
She tried to scream but couldn’t. She managed to slip two fingers between her
throat and the strangling tool. It brought her a moment’s respite of air and a tiny, desperate breath, but in the long run she knew, it would only mean that her fingers would be crushed, right along side of her windpipe. Her vision was blurring as she stared up into the two shiny black, lifeless, dolls eyes.

“Dear God…This was it? This was the end?” All the things that she wanted to
do…and had never…or told anyone about, and now never would. And now…
The blood flow was cut off from her fingers and throat. She couldn’t fight
anymore. She was going out…like a candle in the wind.

There was a loud thud of footsteps in the hallway. Then a sudden shift of the
weight on her chest and shoulders. A light, shuffling sound, a click and slam of the back door to the apartment building. And then…strong arms lifting her up.
The smell of peppermints and Lucky Strike cigarettes. A smell from her childhood.
Bronwyn slowly opened her eyes and saw her own gray/blue green eyes reflected back from those of a timeworn, broken nosed, but still loving face.
Her father.
Excerpt
Quote to come


Want to review or comment on this book?
Click here to login!


Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!



Popular Mystery/Suspense Books
  1. A Twin Mystery
  2. Wicked Players
  3. Forbidden Garden
  4. Blues in the Night: The First Chronicles o
  5. Student Body
  6. The Purgatory Inn
  7. The Madonna Ghost
  8. Blowin' up a Storm: The Second Chronicles
  9. Stranger Lurking in the Shadows
  10. Troubled Water

Mind Games by Claude Bouchard

Book #3 of the Vigilante series..  
BookAds by Silver, Gold and Platinum Members

Authors alphabetically: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Featured Authors | New to AuthorsDen? | Add AuthorsDen to your Site
Share AD with your friends | Need Help? | About us


Problem with this page?   Report it to AuthorsDen
© AuthorsDen, Inc. All rights reserved.