Tag: The Alibi

The Alibi is presenting me with several learning opportunities. I wrote about what I’m learning about Toing and Froing in Parts 1, 2 and 3. I previously learned about plotting and today it’s reinforcing “Less is More,” something I learned (obviously not well enough) when writing Search and The Shaman(I’ll no doubt write about it later when I’ve learned enough worth sharing), and kind of a specific part of Toing and Froing.

As they say in German Rast ich, so rost ich.

Read The Alibi‘s:

• Backstory and Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3

As always, let me know what you think.

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BRIC and HSU – Boston Regional Intelligence Center and the BPD’s Home Security Unit respectively – broadcast a Red-Level alert to every federal, state, and municipal law enforcement and governance group within the 128 beltway. The T stopped in its tracks, literally. Logan, North and South Station, and all bus depots went into lockdown. MassDOT blocked all roads south of the Charles to 203 north of Mattapan and west to 9 in Brookline east and south. Other alerts went statewide, throughout New England, the northeast to Ohio, south to Virginia, and north to Atlantic Canada. Governor Hanson ordered the National Guard’s Joint Force Headquarters to patrol the streets.

Cranston’s cell flashed Leddy’s “U OK?”

“K U?”

Marete pointed at the room’s bigscreen. “Somebody’s streaming this as soon as we get the call?”

Cranston’s gaze went from his cell to the bigscreen. Leddy flashed “R U Cing this? Sold 2 NTWRKS!” His fingers clenched and his eyes closed. “That’s Leddy.”

Marete turned to Cranston. “Maybe UAS should hire her. She got there faster than our own drones did. Tell her we’ll want that video. And anything else she got.”

His boxer’s thumbs fudged a reply. “I’m on it.”

Leddy TXTed back “$$$$$?”

He tapped Leddy’s image and put the phone to his ear. “Keep filming and send it to me. And anything your friends pick up, too.” He listened. “Who? Tell her she’ll be arrested if she doesn’t.”

Marete kept his eyes on the bigscreen. “That’s AirCon headquarters. And whatever happened it looks tactical.” His deskphone rang. A moment later he came out of his office. “Bill, the big boss says your frontman on this because you already have a history with AirCon and Dunn.”

“That’s a homicide, not a bombing.”

“I said frontman, not lead. You don’t have the background to lead this. You do have the contacts and experience to front it so nobody bothers the lead.”

“Who’s lead?”

“FBI, DHS, MSP and BPD are fighting over that now. And I’m sure AirCon’s people are stomping all over everything with news crews close behind.” Marete pointed at Rhinehold. “Take Tonto with you.”

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Read The Alibi – Chapter 5.

The Alibi is presenting me with several learning opportunities. I wrote about what I’m learning about Toing and Froing in Parts 1, 2 and 3. I previously learned about plotting then came “Less is More,” something I learned (obviously not well enough) when writing Search and The Shaman(I’ll no doubt write about it later when I’ve learned enough worth sharing), and kind of a specific part of Toing and Froing, and today it’s “if you’re not sure, remove it” dealing with revision

As they say in German Rast ich, so rost ich.

Read The Alibi‘s:

• Backstory and Chapter 1
• Chapter 2

As always, let me know what you think.

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Cisily Throne lay on her stomach on a white and black checkerboard beach towel. The Lady Eglesia‘s Volvo Penta IPS occasionally thrummed gently when Throne’s seventy-five foot power sail’s thrusters adjusted its position over its Boston Harbor anchorage. The low vibration transported Throne back home, to one or two elders clapping, others singing, and the didgeridoo.

She missed being washed in the didgeridoo’s sound, of feeling the Old Ones take semi-human shape and walk into camp.

But that was thirty-five years and half a world away.

Today she let the sun warm her back and stretched out until her fingertips and toes touched the Lady Eglesia‘s forecastle deck’s treated wood. Her left hand touched her mobile and she shoved it so hard it skidded to the fore-railing before banging to a stop.

She seldom took time off and when she did, it was understood – Nobody bothers the Big Dog.

Cisily let the sun warm her back and chuckled.

The Lady Eglesia served as her vacation while at work. A short dinghy ride from dock to boat, a stripping of her work clothes, and she could close her eyes and be back home protected by the brilliant magenta shield of Hamersley Range swimming in pools of still, clear water, listening to the birdcalls of tiny white corella and pink galahs as they flew overhead. At night she would power out into deep water where the city lights grew dim. She’d shut down the Eglesia‘s running lights, lie on her back and watch the stars, so different from her northern Australia home, and remember the stories of her Banyjima, Yinhawangka, and Kurrama ancestors.

A passing launch tooted its horn. Throne rolled sideways on the towel and waved. Boys lined the lauch’s deck and applauded. She smiled, shook her head and lay back down. Both men and women still appreciated her late forties body. Long legged, full hipped, narrow waisted, and with just enough breast to keep a partner satisfied without getting in the way. Her skin glistened without needing oils or balms or ointments, she was the best match of her biracial birth. Growing up she was desired and hated, a dark skinned lubra in a white goddess’s body, assumed the child of rape and none knowing her black father and white mother cherished her and each other, she used all that she was wisely.

And today and for the past ten years she was Chief of AirCon security. When BHP Billington’s people came to the States to evaluate AirCon’s electronic frontier solutions, they brought Cisily with them to keep them safe. AirCon CEO Leo Dunn admired her and what her Billington employers said about her.

Would she like a new job here in the States?

Sure and here are my terms.

His smile grew wide and he laughed. “You’re not one to be fucked with, are you, Ms. Throne.”

A smile creased her lips but she kept her eyes on the AirCon CEO’s. “Depends on who’s doing the fucking, doesn’t it, Mr. Dunn?”

Her mobile alarmed.

She raised her head and saw a cloud of gray smoke climb AirCon’s thirty story Innovation Square headquarters like some Wind Spirit King Kong with swirls of denser smoke pulling and pushing like the great ape’s arms and legs.

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Read The Alibi – Chapter 4.

The Alibi is presenting me with several learning opportunities. I wrote about Toing and Froing in Parts 1, 2 and 3. Today big learning is plotting (I’ll no doubt write about it later when I’ve learned enough worth sharing).

The individual chapters are short. Or at least shortish. To me, anyway, yet they seem to work fine.

Of course, I’m still in the rough draft mode. Who knows what I’ll do in the rewrites.
Read The Alibi‘s:

• Backstory and Chapter 1

As always, let me know what you think.

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Rexall Shaul stood quietly at the top of the thirty flights of stairs from his AirCon corporate office to the garage. He waited, quietly, meditatively, listening to the pneumatic cylinder ease the door shut. The click of the latch would be the runner’s starting pistol.

He slowed his breathing and relaxed his gymnast lean body as he waited.

He hesitated. Lift his arm to check his Omega Dark Side of the Moon or not?

Lifting his arm would raise his pulse a beat, maybe two.

The hesitation alone raised his pulse a beat or two.

He feared he was losing his edge.

The sound of the pneumatic piston increased imperceptibly as it reached the last moments of its transit.

Quick glance at the Omega. The gun sounded.

Off.

He walked quickly but not hurriedly.

Steady pace. People wouldn’t think twice, let him pass. A burst of speed once in the garage if necessary and never necessary before.

Break a sweat and he revealed too much.

Keep it all inside. Maintained.

He opened the door to the garage, glanced at his watch.

Two-hundred-forty seconds. Eight seconds per flight. Not breathing hard. Didn’t break a sweat.

Good.

His best time made use of gravity and dropping down the stairwell, his hands working the railings like descending uneven bars.

He smiled and walked to his black Lotus Exige. Two parking spaces were assigned to him as part of his package. He parked over the center line of the two so the Exige had three feet on either side clear.

He walked around the Exige like a pilot inspecting his craft before takeoff and smiled, his personal mantra topmost on his mind; a risk anticipated is a risk avoided.

He retraced his steps back around the Exige.

Satisfied, he pulled out his phone and tapped a number.

The Exige rumbled to life, the driver’s door opened, the bomb went off, and Rexall Shaul was no more.

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Read The Alibi – Chapter 3

I finished editing The Book of the Wounded Healers in early July (2022). After taking a few days off, I went through my files to find my next project. One short story, The Brick and originally written in Jan 2020, was close enough to finished I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t already sent it out. More than that, I completely forgot I wrote it. Ever have the joy of discovery when you find a new author? Compound that with discovering you’re the author you found.

A few first readers and an editor later and off it went.

The next item I hit was The Alibi (originally written on 25 Sept 1994). I couldn’t get past the first few paragraphs. It was okay. I’ve seen lots worse get published these days.

I’m being gracious.

It sucked.

I must have written it as part of a class assignment or by following instructions in some book. Reading through the first few paragraphs I could imagine myself ticking off a checklist:
main character described ✔
main setting described ✔
secondary character described ✔
situation described ✔
conflict identified ✔
…

Oy, it was painful to read.

But the core idea?

That I liked. So I decided to rewrite the core idea.

That’s when things went…different.

The Alibi wanted to be a novel. I wanted to write a short story. No, The Alibi wanted to be a novel. Or at least something recognizably longer than a short story (a short story being something one can read in less than an hour).

So again, a completely new work-in-progress, unedited (exciting, isn’t it?). Let me know what you think.

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Cranston entered the precinct offices and saw a small crowd hovering around his desk. Captain Marete called out, “There he is, Man of the Hour.” Everybody laughed and went back to work. He smiled and nodded until he saw what was so interesting. His workstation had been replaced by a throbbing, humming, blue, oversized shitake mushroomy thing. A too thin, early thirties man with poorly trimmed dark black beard and thick brown hair tied in a ponytail half way down his back sat at Cranston’s desk wearing dVids.

Or something like dVids. They looked like the things his daughter, Leddy, kept asking him for.

A green folder rested square on his desk with a slightly larger than normal, light blue business card stapled to it. The card showed a wizard sitting on a tree trunk, crescent moon over one shoulder, dragon at his feet, and a computer on a tree trunk in front of them. Opposite the wizard, in script, was RBFH, Inc., with some titles underneath.

Cranston reached for it and The Kid’s – Cranston didn’t know who he was and “The Kid” seemed to fit – hand snaked out and caught Cranston wrist. “Please don’t. Not yet. A few more minutes tuning.”

Cranston pulled his hand back and The Kid let go.

A moment later the dVids came off and The Kid blinked the bluest eyes Cranston had ever seen. He kept looking around, blinking and squinting, blinking and squinting. “Can I help you?”

“You’re sitting at my desk.”

The Kid kept looking around, blinking, squinting, and not focusing on anything.

“You alright?”

The Kid nodded. “Takes a minute for the eyes to adjust.” A few more blinks and he stood.

Definitely too thin.

His improperly knotted tie had a picture of a cat on it, his clothes off-the-rack office regular. He focused on Cranston and offered his hand. “Howdy. I’m John Rhinehold. Are you Detective William Cranston?”

“Bill. Yes. What’s all this about?”

“Umm…”

Marete’s voice came up behind them. “This is about you getting the latest crime solving tech.”

“When was this decided?”

“You volunteered.”

“I don’t remember volunteering.”

“And you still volunteered. Get this to work for you, everybody’ll get one.”

“Why did I volunteer again?”

“Because you don’t even open your emails or check the schedule unless they’re printed out and handed to you.”

“I’m being punished for being a luddite?”

Rhinehold perked up and spit out words like a bright-eyed machine gun. “You’re a luddite? Wow. You’re the first one I’ve met. And you admit it, too. Amazing. This’ll be fun.”

Cranston and Marete kept their eyes on each other. Both said, “Shut up.”

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