Table of Contents
Title Page
Legal Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademark Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Read more like this
Get your copy now
More exciting books!
About the Author
BLOOD FROM A STONE
DAVID M. SALKIN
Blood from a Stone
ISBN # 978-1-83943-499-0
©Copyright David M. Salkin 2021
Cover Art by Louisa Maggio ©Copyright April 2021
Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2021 by Totally Bound Publishing, United Kingdom.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.
Totally Bound Publishing is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.
A dream house to share with his love becomes a nightmare when an old diary reveals a dark secret that brings a wounded warrior out of retirement.
When Special Forces veteran Cory Walker purchased the home on Harkers Island, he knew it came with a history. Two white marble angels in the rear yard stand sentinel over the house where Casey Stone and her mother had lived—and died. But that was decades ago, and Cory is now in love with both the house and his girlfriend Amanda. He’s determined to build a new life on the quiet island to readjust to civilian life and enjoy his new love.
Cory’s decision to build a wine cellar turns his dream house into a nightmare when he discovers the hidden diary of Casey Stone. Casey, only sixteen, had been raped and murdered many years earlier, the only horrible crime that had ever occurred on the small island. Her mother was so devastated that she hanged herself, hence the two angels in the yard placed there by Earl Stone. As Cory reads the journal, he discovers that the truth may be much different from what was ever believed.
The wrong man is sitting in jail, and as Cory begins to ask questions about the case, he soon realizes he is opening a box of secrets that may get both him and Amanda killed.
Earl Stone, the formerly grieving husband and stepfather, may be the next President of the United States, and when a man that powerful wants secrets to stay buried, the dangerous possibilities are endless.
Dedication
Dear Readers,
It’s been three years since you read my last story. This book is dedicated partly to you, with my thanks for reading my books. It’s also dedicated to a few very special people who left this Earth since my last book hit the shelves.
My dad, my hero and my rock, left me on my birthday in 2018 after we watched the sun come up together. It was the proper ending to an amazing life. I miss him every day, and still reach for the phone to call him.
A week later, one of my best friends, Kristian Rex, joined Dad in the great beyond. Kristian left us way before his time and left a huge hole. His talent and larger-than-life persona are so greatly missed. The “two Martys”, Marty Moore and Marty Strumpf, also left too soon. These were all great human beings. A solid reminder to have fun every day, because this trip is so damn short.
Thanks to my editor, Jamie Rose, for surgically repairing any issues in the manuscript, as well as Totally Bound Publishing, for believing in this novel. A few friends will find their names in these pages, and no, I never asked for permission. They usually don’t resemble the real person, although Colonel Cantor is a sommelier, cook, great friend and somewhat Cory-like. If you see your name, it just means I love ya…even if I kill you on paper.
Last, and certainly not least, this book, like all others, is dedicated to my family, my friends, and the countless Americans who have worn the uniform of my beloved nation.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
FN SCAR: FN Herstal
Sig Sauer: Sig Sauer Inc.
Mossberg: Mossberg & Sons Inc.
Apache: Boeing Defense, Space and Security
NFL: National Football League Association
Sam Adams: Boston Beer Corporation
GI Joe: Hasbro Inc.
Snoopy: Charles Schulz
Grizzly Adams: Charles Sellier
Deliverance: James Dickey, Warner Brothers
Technicolor: Technicolor Trademark Management SAS Corporation
Percocet: Endo Pharmaceuticals Inc.
The Elephant Man: Joseph Merrick, Columbia-EMI-Warner, Paramount Pictures
Oprah: Harpo Inc.
Back Door Man: Willie Dixon
Old Bay: McCormick & Company Inc.
Realtor: National Association of Realtors Corporation
Robert Mondavi: Constellation Brands US Operations Inc.
Joseph Phelps: Joseph Phelps Vineyards LLC
Humvee: AM
General LLC
Carolina Banks:
Jacuzzi: Jacuzzi Inc.
Victoria’s Secret: Victoria’s Secret Stores Brand Management Inc.
Oscar: The Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences
Mason Jar: Ball Corporation
Google: Google Inc.
Norman Rockwell: Rockwell Family Properties LLC
CSI: King World Productions, CBS Television Distribution
Gazin Pomerol: SCEA Chateau Gazin GFA
Hatfields and McCoys:
Siegfried and Roy: S & G Productions IP, LLC
Twinkies: Hostess Brands LLC
Coke: Coca-Cola Company
Carteret Inquirer:
Pulitzer Prize: Joseph Pulitzer, Columbia University
The Deadliest Catch: Debmar-Mercury
Budweiser: Anheuser Busch Incorporated
B-52: The Boeing Company
FedEx: FedEx Corporation
K-Bar: Cutco Corporation
MP5: Heckler and Kock GMBH LLC
Styrofoam: The Dow Chemical Company Corporation
Sea-Tow: Joe Frohnhoefer
Kevlar: EI Du Pont Nemours Company
Sleeping Beauty: Disney Enterprises Inc.
Chapter One
Harkers Island, N.C.
Amanda was driving down from Twin Oaks. I had a bottle of Italian red, a Super Tuscan called Le Volte by Ornellaia, decanting in the kitchen. I’d made a puttanesca sauce, and the garlic, red peppers and crushed anchovies sautéing in olive oil had perfumed my new home. The sizzle was a magical noise. Into that, I’d added diced Kalamata olives, capers, tomato paste and crushed tomatoes.
The spaghetti alla puttanesca was just a little taste—a traditional Italian pasta before the main course. The secondi would be a huge bone-in rib-eye steak, grilled out back on the patio. I had dry-rubbed the steak with my list of secret ingredients. It’s a secret because I never make anything the same way twice, so it’s a secret to me, too. A little sautéed broccoli rabe and badda-bing, dinner would be served. It would be our first meal together in the new house. I was trying to cook my way into her staying with me forever.
In my other life, I had eaten MREs on a regular basis—government-supplied packets of food designed to make you angry enough to kill people. ‘MRE’—Meals Rejected by Ethiopians, Meals Rarely Edible, Meals Requiring Enemas, Massive Rectal Expulsions. You get the idea. They weren’t very good. As a result, I learned to cook—foraging and becoming a creative genius to turn the rancid packets into something my comrades and I might actually eat.
Amanda arrived right on time, and with her, a breath of fresh air and an aura of positive energy and bright light that I’d been missing all my life. Her mere presence made me smile. I was hoping my cooking skills would make up for whatever other shortcomings I have. It seemed to be working. I have two great skills—cooking and killing people, and I planned to leave the death and destruction part in my former life. I was determined to be a kinder, gentler version of myself going forward. I would gourmet my way into Amanda’s heart.
Dinner was a smashing success, with conversation that covered a hundred topics and had us both smiling like lovestruck teenagers as we caught up on each other’s weeks. It was pretty darn perfect. After dinner, we finished that great bottle of Ornellaia, opened a bottle of port and decided to take a walk to the beach.
It was the kind of peaceful night that reminds one of how amazing life can be when everything falls into place. We ended up in the warm, flat ocean up to our knees and I asked her yet again about moving in. This time she didn’t say ‘no’. Instead, she talked about maybe trying to find a physical therapy job down here, closer to the island.
We walked home and sat outside in the back garden, looking at the stars. The moon lit the white marble faces of the two angels who resided in my yard. The pair had stood sentinel there for years before I’d purchased the house. They came alive softly in the moonlight, and with them, their sad story hung in the still air. The house had a history—one that the folks on Harkers Island wanted to forget.
On Sunday, after a late, leisurely brunch, Amanda left. It was like the air had been sucked out of the house. Loneliness snuck back into my soul and once again I had to fight off the ghosts of those last days in Afghanistan.
I needed a mission to focus on. And this time, it would be for me. A wine cellar… It would be a surprise for Amanda when she came back down in two weeks.
When I had purchased the house, I had been surprised to find it had a basement. The island is only a few feet above sea level. When this house had been built, the foundation had been set on a man-made hill, making the house one of the tallest on the island. It made the stately home regal, perched slightly above the rest of the houses like a castle above the serfs. It had an attitude—and I probably had one of the only basements on the island. There were plenty of newer and fancier homes, several worth seven figures, but this house had character—along with that dark history.
The basement was cool, the perfect temperature for wine. I’d sketched out a design and purchased lumber and some tools. The first thing I did was put in some overhead fluorescent lights. Then I scrubbed the poured concrete floor. The walls were cinderblock, with a few open crawlspaces.
Channeling my energy into something positive, I was going to finish making a rack system against one of the walls. Nothing too fancy. I would have the shelves slightly pitched forward. That way I could see the labels and keep the corks angled to the floor. It was a great way to design a wine cellar, but I couldn’t take credit for inventing it. Back in my days with Special Forces, a buddy and I used to kill time talking about our dream houses, and all of them included a great wine cellar. He would have built it someday—I’m sure of it—if some fanatic wearing a bomb vest hadn’t run into his tent one morning in Kabul and killed him and a few other great guys I knew. I’d build it for him. And that first bottle would be used to toast my friend.
I was cleaning off the cinderblock wall, getting ready to nail in the studs, when the beam of my flashlight caught the edge of something inside the crawlspace. That was when my dream house turned into a nightmare and ancient history became my new reality.
Sitting on the sand behind the top of the cinderblock wall was a small leather-covered book. Old and worn… I picked it up and looked at the cover. It must have been covered with doodles and cartoon flowers years ago, but the ink had faded, and insects and moisture had damaged it. When I opened the front cover, it cracked slightly at the binding.
Casey A. Stone 1991.
It took me a moment to realize what it was—a diary.
The paper was stiff and crinkly in my hands. The penmanship was neat and feminine…
My brain started playing catch-up, making the hair on the back of my neck stand.
Casey Stone.
She was one of the angels in my yard.
Chapter Two
Afghanistan—Back in the Day
A million miles away and maybe three centuries back in time before that day I found the diary, I was with the 75th Ranger Regiment in Afghanistan.
Near Khost.
In August.
With a hundred pounds on my back and a hundred degrees blasting in my face.
I served in the 75th Ranger Regiment for nine years before being selected for 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta. Delta operators simply referred to our organization as ‘the unit’ and we filled a variety of counter-terrorism roles, all of which relied on speed, surprise and extreme violence. Because of our specialized missions and covert activities, we were given a lot of latitude when it came to weapons, uniforms and haircuts while in the field. That was a nice way of saying we didn’t look like American soldiers. We looked more like a bunch of terrifying, long-haired, bearded mercenaries from Hell. Or Afghan locals.
We started out early to take advantage of the darkness and avoid the heat. The day went longer than planned because this was the Army, and nothing ever went according to plan. A quick recon a
nd raid to take out a few high-value targets ended up being a full-scale battle against superior numbers high in the mountains.
We came under withering fire from the mouth of a cave above us. I grabbed my guys and a half-dozen Rangers and started heading up the steep slope toward the cave to eliminate the machine guns and RPGs.
I was in command of my three-man Delta team. Sanchez and Watters, outstanding NCOs, were both staff sergeants. Sanchez reminded me through his shooting why I was glad he was on our side. We led the Rangers quickly and silently up the steep left flank, following a goat trail, weaving through the rocks, while the bulk of our Ranger force kept up fire support to our right.
It took twenty minutes to get close to the cave.
I carried an MK-16 SCAR assault rifle and a Sig Sauer P226 pistol, but it was my compact shotgun that I wanted in my hands when I was going to be up close and personal. Ice, a Mossberg Compact Cruiser. While a sawed-off shotgun isn’t exactly sexy in a world of fancy automatic weapons, I loved that shotgun. And its vicious firepower had saved me too many times to count. I wore it across my back on a strap when not in use, like a samurai warrior, and could have it in firing position from my back to forward-fire in one second.
As we picked our way through the boulders and got closer, the enemy soldiers in the cave spotted us and readjusted their fire. The tracer rounds looked like spears of light coming out of the hot sun. Incoming rounds were bouncing around us.
“Watters! With me! Sanchez, kill that motherfucker on the PK! Cover fire!”
Watters was bigger and faster than me. I’m no slouch, but Watters should have been making ten million a year playing linebacker in the NFL. The two of us started sprinting while Sanchez used his sniper rifle on the targets around the cave. The Rangers were laying down suppressing fire as they followed us up through the rocks.
When we got closer to the mouth of the cave, the goat trail ended. Moving forward exposed to enemy fire required some trickier climbing. Sanchez was popping off targets near the cave, but that damn PK machine gun was raining down holy hell. The Ranger closest to me, one of the newer guys in his platoon, decided to be a hero. He ran to my right and cooked off a grenade to toss up into the cave.
Blood from a Stone Page 1