Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Author's Note
Dedication
Quinn
Ancestors
Susan
Quinn
James
Ancestors
Quinn
Pizza
Lewis
Saab Story
Quinn
James
Quinn
Meals
Coffee
Meeting
Detectives
Quinn
Mo
James
Sonya
Quinn and Sonya
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
Keep Reading
About the Author
Blood Rust Chains
A Novel by:
Marco Etheridge
Blood Rust Chains
ISBN: 9781981061099
Copyright © 2018 by Marco Etheridge, All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at: [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or were used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
First Edition: May 2018
Back cover photo by the Author. Cover Design by the author using Canva.
Cover Photo by JKraft5 (used by permission)
This book was written and formatted in Scrivener.
www.MarcoEtheridgeFiction.com
Author’s Note:
Hello and welcome to my novel, Blood Rust Chains. This novel began its life in a fit of compulsion. The first draft of the novel was written in 2016 for the Nano-write Novel Challenge. Other drafts continued after that first one and, in time, this novel was the result.
The experiment in writing a novel within the framework of a set time period was a new endeavor. The experiment in compulsion was one that I was all too familiar with.
Several drafts, rewrites, and rounds of editing later, the little monster born of a thirty-day first draft became this novel. For the most part, I had a great deal of fun writing it. I hope you enjoy it.
Happy reading! Thanks for stopping by my small corner of the literary world.
Marco Etheridge
May, 2018
Vienna, Austria
For Liam
Chapter 1
Quinn
Quinn Boyd stared out the window at the autumn light, the narrow alley, and the back of the opposite building. A fat tabby dozed in one of the far windows, soaking up the precious sunlight of a Portland afternoon, sunlight that would soon be a rare thing. Strung across one of the decrepit wooden balconies, a tattered string of prayer flags stirred in the breeze. Quinn’s left hand fiddled with a loose stack of papers, pushing idly at their edges. Stock images resolved and faded across his laptop screen. Piles of assorted file folders, magazines, and reference books rose in a drift across the back half of the table. The tide of paper flotsam remained on the tiny table by the slimmest of margins, pushing against the bulwark of the windowsill.
Dropping his eyes from the window, Quinn tried to concentrate on the work at hand. He poked at the keyboard to bring up a screen. A frown worked its way across the lean face that should have freckles, but did not. Quinn ran a hand through his sandy hair, which immediately sprang back into an unruly mop. He tried to bring his focus back. His focus wasn’t having any of it.
Hey-Zeus, Bucko, you’re making this harder than it is. Two thousand words, human interest story, no problem. This beats wrenching on old motor bikes, or chasing shitty handyman jobs, right? It’s what you’ve been working towards for years, so what’s the problem? Quinn’s laugh broke the quiet of the tiny room. There’s no problem, he said to himself. It’s just the usual battle of my overly developed writer’s ego versus my clever self-doubt. The voice of an imagined ring announcer filled Quinn’s head.
“Lay-dieees and Gentlemen! For our next bout, we have a tough match. In the blue trunks, weighing in at 97 pounds and barely able to lift his gloves, let’s have a big Portland welcome for Quinn’s Ego!”
A smattering of applause, some muttered comments, general crowd murmuring.
“And in the red trunks, weighing in at 225 pounds of punishment and pain, I give you our champion: Self-Doubt. Self-Doubt, Ladies and Gents!”
The crowd goes wild with the anticipation of a sound pummeling.
Okay, okay, I know how this is going to turn out. Quinn swirled the last of his coffee, gave it a try, and grimaced at the result. With a sigh, he forced himself to work on the outline for the assignment. Little by little, ideas began to take shape. The inner voices fell away. Time fell away. There was only the clicking of keys and the occasional pause while Quinn rifled through the nearest of the teetering stacks of paper.
Electronic bamboo chimes sounded from somewhere on the table. Quinn dug his phone out from under a folder. Cradling the phone with one hand, he thumbed the tiny electronic keys.
Hi Baby!! Hws the writers life?
Hi S. Ok, slow start. Better now. Why arnt U in court?
Looks like a postpone. So Im free. Want some company?
Yes OK Absolutely
OK, maybe an hour K? Oops. Gotta go. Luv U!!
K. Luv U2!!
He continued his work. Eventually, without noticing the passage of time, Quinn heard Sonya’s knock on the heavy wooden door of the apartment. Shave-and-a-haircut without the two bits. Then there was the sound of her key slipping into the lock.
“Hi Honey, I’m home.” Her best chirpy sit-com wife voice.
“I’m in the cave Baby.” Quinn swung his office chair around and braced for the onslaught of Sonya.
Then she was into the small room and onto his lap, wrapping around him. The hello kisses threatened to upset the rolling chair. Quinn managed to keep the chair upright, pulling back to look at her smiling face. Her white business shirt accentuated her olive skin and almond eyes. Dark hair plunged down her shoulders. She snared his eyes with hers, mesmerizing him. It was an uncanny power she seemed to be able to deploy at will.
Sonya Matos, dark, lovely, tall. Even after almost two years together, the first shock of her caused him to reel. While my ancestors were scrabbling to grow potatoes in the poor Irish soil, your forbears were being accused by the Inquisition. The blood of Portuguese and Spanish Jews mixed with the colonial legacy of Indonesia. This terrible Eurasian beauty was the result.
Quick as a cat, Sonya popped herself out of Quinn’s lap and folded her lithe frame onto the stool next to Quinn’s writing desk. She wrinkled her nose at the cluttered mess of random notes. Bits of scrawl spidered across assorted papers, awash in a sea of scraps torn from magazines and newspapers. The laptop occupied the only clear space on the table.
“A masterpiece of organization, as always. So what is this piece you’re working on?”
“Human interest story. They want two thousand words on the genealogy craze that is sweeping America. People getting back to their roots, learning about their immigrant ancestors, that sort of crap.”
“And why is that crap? Isn’t that what your sister does, tracing your family ancestry with one of those online sites?’
“Yeah, exactly, and please don’t remind me of that. I’m going over to her place tomorrow to pick her brain
about all of this. The great family lineage, the famous and wonderful historical folks that our poor line is somehow related to, blah, blah blah.”
“So, what’s the matter writer-boy? You’re getting paid for this gig, right? Would you rather be pulling espresso shots while some lawyer smirks into his smart phone?” She reached over to rumple Quinn’s hair, knowing how much this would discomfit him.
“Dammit, S!” Quinn rolled his chair back from the table and swiveled away from her. He tried to push his unruly hair back into some semblance of order, then gave it up. Sonya perched on her stool, grinning her wicked grin.
“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but what are you doing here? I thought you were wrapped up in that big case?” Quinn reached over to hit the save button on his article, then closed the laptop. He turned back to face Sonya, catching the brunt of her grin full on. It danced on that olive skin, twinkled in her oval eyes. Exotic, that was the word that would spring to his fingers if he had to write about her. Exotic and mysterious. Too dangerous to put into words, that was sure. He couldn’t stand the thought of Sonya reading something he had written about her. He could never make the truth of her true enough. Besides, she would only laugh, just as she would laugh at any idea that she was mysterious or exotic. The sadness behind her laugh, that was buried deep, rarely visited.
“We got a postponement. Everyone is sick of this case, so the head counsel sent us all home for the day, including his lowly paralegals. We’ll be back at it bright and early, but no more work for today. So my afternoon is free and I thought I might pry your grouchy self away from this horrible toil of yours. But not before you tell me what’s bugging you about this piece. It seems simple enough.”
“Yeah, it is, and that’s part of the problem I guess. Simple, direct, to the point. I just need to do the research, format the piece, and then write it down. I’m having trouble developing any interest in this crap, that’s the rub. I get the impression that the reason folks are doing this is to establish bragging rights on their cherished ancestors. ‘Oh, my family is related to Zachery Taylor. Oh, how nice for you dear. Did I mention that my research has linked my maternal line to Queen Victoria?’ That kind of thing. No one wants to know about the garbagemen in the family tree, or the drunks, or the horse thieves.”
“Hey, what do you know? Maybe there is a certain cachet to having a horse thief in the family lineage, especially if they were hanged for their troubles. You know, the whole Americana roots thing? I bet people love that outlaw stuff. Anyway, who cares if people are hunting for hidden gems amongst the skeletons in their closets? At least those folks are learning something in the process. It beats another inane reality show on the tube.” Sonya took a long look into Quinn’s face, searching his eyes. “What’s really bugging you about this?”
Quinn reached up to massage his face. Dropping his hands, he let out a sigh, which caused Sonya to roll her gorgeous eyes. Before he could say a word, she was on him.
“Wait, wait, is this going to be the lament about time wasted while you could be writing your novel? Oh holy cripes Q, I took my afternoon off for this? I could be out shopping for lacy underwear, or being flirted with by well-dressed lawyers. Tell me the truth before I stomp out of your lonely garret and strut my stuff down the street.”
“Okay, okay, yeah, I feel like I’m wasting my time. Is that a crime? Instead of messing around scribbling this pap. I could be working on my novel, doing something real.”
“Q, if you want to work on your novel, then by all means work on your novel. Your choice. I think it’s important for you to remember, however, that this pablum you write so well is what keeps money in your pocket, money that you can then spend on me to keep me happy. I’m not too sure how thrilled I’d be with a truly starving writer as opposed to an imagined starving writer. This stuff pays the bills, and not too badly I might add.”
“Wait, you’d leave me if I was just a starving writer? I was a starving writer when we met!”
“No, I wouldn’t leave you because you were a starving writer, but I might leave you if you become a whiny starving writer. Besides, you were a starving motorcycle mechanic, handyman and barista when I met you, and a damn cute one at that.” Sonya could not contain the smug look that washed across her beautiful face. “Come clean with me Quinn, there’s more to this than the usual ‘I should be working on my novel’ rant. What else is going on?”
There was never an out with her, thought Quinn. Dammit. “Okay, the truth is I don’t want to talk to Susan about this, but she is probably my best resource for this article.”
“So this is about your sister? At last, maybe we can get somewhere with this and salvage a perfectly good afternoon. And why don’t you want to talk to Susan? She will be thrilled that you are including her in an article.”
“Exactly, she is going to be thrilled. Which means I will be subjected to hours of peering at her genealogy charts while being pummeled by her perkiness.”
Sonya laughed out loud, a good laugh that filled the small room. “Okay, she is a little on the overly-perky side, but she is who she is. It’s not like she’s an axe-murderer or anything. Besides, from what you’ve told me, you may learn something from her about your family. Would that be so bad?”
Quinn’s eyes grew hard. “I know enough about my family.”
Sonya softened and reached for his hand. She pulled him, rolling the chair to face her, and took his face in her hands.
“My Love, I am going to tell you two things, one you already know and one you should know. First, you are not your father. You are a good man, not a drunken asshole. He’s dead and gone. You know how to let it go, so please, let it go. Second, you have a beautiful woman sitting in front of you who loves you very much. Don’t you think it would be a wise idea for you to find some way to entertain her since she has suddenly found some time off from work and chooses to spend it with you?”
Sinking into her dark eyes, Quinn felt the knot loosen. Sonya was right, the bastard was dead and gone, and good riddance. He would call his sponsor to check in, maybe catch a meeting and lighten this load. The old man didn’t get to call the shots from the grave. He may have called all the shots while he was alive, but not anymore. His ghost privileges needed to be revoked. Quinn felt his face breaking into a grin.
“Strong case, well made. Are we staying in or going out?” He tried his best leer, but it fell flat.
“Oh no writer boy, you are most definitely taking me out. I am feeling a strong need for some girly stuff, so I believe you are taking me shopping. And no groaning about it either. If you play nice, there may be some modeling time later on.” Sonya rose from the stool, stretching her leonine form. “I’ll give you five minutes to get presentable, otherwise I’m going out to look for stray lawyers.”
Quinn headed for the bedroom, peeling off his shirt as he went. “The condemned man ate a hearty meal…” he muttered.
“I heard that!” The reply echoed after him. He quickened his search for clean clothes.
Chapter 2
Ancestors
Quinn lay sprawled across the couch with his laptop on his chest. Rain pattered against the windows in the gray morning light. His second cup of coffee was going cold on the low table in front of him. He was engrossed in an email from his sister, pondering the document she had attached. She had sent it the night before, but he had not seen it until this morning. Soon he would have to drive up into the wet suburban hills to his sister’s house.
Hey Big Brother,
I’m really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Here is some of the stuff I have been digging up on the family history. The attached document is from a historical society in Illinois. I hope it gives you something to chew on for your article. I’ll have lots more to show you when you get here.
Love,
Susan
Quinn clicked a button on the laptop. The attachment Susan had sent flashed up on the screen. He began to read it for a second time.
Interview: Transcript
of Witness. William Hanks Murder. Anna, Illinois, 1912
It was the damnedest thing I ever seen yet, I’ll tell you that. Poor old Bill Hanks a’laying there on them hotel steps damn near cut in half by that scatter gun. I never knew what two barrels of 12 gauge could do to a man but B’God, I do now, and it was a sight. Charlie never even let him get to the bottom of the stairs, just blasted him where he stood. He never said nothing to Bill Hanks, didn’t cuss him or even say good morning. Charlie, he just raises that A.H. Fox and lets go with both barrels. I never seen a man fly up stairs, but I did today. Mr. Hanks ain’t no small man, but I swear to you, he flew two steps back up them stairs when that buckshot caught him.
Where was I standing? Well Sir, I’d been leaning on the iron fence right out front of the hotel, fixing to have me a smoke. I had just rolled it and put away my makings. My shift was done at the hotel and it was a bright morning. I like to watch the folks walking by in their Sunday-go-to-meetings afore I head off to home. Yes Sir, I was right there when Charlie Boyd walked up. I was mighty surprised to see him since it weren’t his day to work at the hotel, being Sunday and all. I started to hallo him, but Charlie didn’t pay me no mind, like he didn’t even see me. Then he swings that Fox double-barrel out from under his coat and points it up them hotel stairs. I look up where Charlie’s pointing that thing and here’s Bill Hanks and two other fellas I don’t know walking down. They’re all three busy talking, or mostly Bill Hanks is busy talking and the other fellas is busy listening. They’re so busy talking and listening they don’t see Charlie or that big shotgun, not right off anyway. Then Bill Hanks, he looks straight down them big wide granite steps and sees what’s awaiting on him.
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