$20 Gift Card – The Devil You Knew by Mike Cobb @partnersincr1me @mgcobb

Posted on June 3, 2024 by fundinmental

THE DEVIL YOU KNEW

by Mike Cobb

June 3 – 28, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

THE DEVIL YOU KNEW

by Mike Cobb

June 3 – 28, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Atlanta. 1963.

Three adolescent girls go missing. And a killer is on the loose.

Young Billy Tarwater, eleven years old at the time and infatuated with one of the girls, thirteen-year-old Cynthia Hudspeth, finds himself caught up in the drama and suspense of the kidnappings.

Fast forward to 1980. Tarwater, now an up-and-coming newspaperman, sets out to find the killer and free an innocent victim of injustice.

THE DEVIL YOU KNEW masterfully combines coming-of-age poignancy with the cliffhanging suspense of a noir thriller.

The reader is taken on a journey of twists and turns to an unexpected end.

Praise for The Devil You Knew:

“A sinister, masterfully penned drama. Supported by a rich cast of three-dimensional characters, a host of red herrings, and a looming suspicion that readers have known the culprit all along, this is a powerfully written thriller. Cobb has constructed a complex procedural mystery with poignant historical accuracy, never letting readers forget about the timeless issues at the novel’s core, resulting in a dark and enthralling historical thriller.”
~ Self-Publishing Review, ★★★★½

“A dynamic cast drives this striking, historically rich crime thriller.”
~ Kirkus Reviews (Recommended Book)

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: September 1, 2022
Number of Pages: 480
ISBN: 9780578371436 (ISBN10: 057837143X)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I, Billy Tarwater
1963

“Won’t you come.”

The Reverend Virlyn Kilgallon’s baritone reverberated in a thunderous cannonade, his voice at once magisterial and dark. The altar call always came at the end, when the congregants were sufficiently energized by his twenty-five minutes of prophecy and supplication. The sermon was timed with precision. I know because I clocked it with my Caravelle self-winding, a gift from my Granddaddy Parker.

The year was 1963. I was a tow-headed eleven year old, not quite ready to make the lonely walk to the chancel rail, but old enough to feel pangs of guilt, accompanied by a generous dollop of fear. Looking back, I now understand that my anxiety was borne of both a dread of the curtain-cloaked water vessel behind the choir loft and a sense that I was missing out on something big.

Was there some great, liberating secret lurking behind the curtain––a secret shared only by members of the club, manifest in a covert handshake or a knowing back-channel glance––a secret that I dared not ponder until I made The Walk myself? The Walk. The dreaded Walk. Each Sunday I would steel myself and stand on the edge of the precipice. But every time, I would throttle. Back away. No, not yet. Not ready. Not today. Maybe next week.

What lies behind the curtain carries great weight, conjuring all sorts of images, both good and bad, hopeful and foreboding. But more often than not, when the curtain is finally drawn back, the ordinary, the mundane, dispels any notion of mystery. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, the Wizard said. A part of me yearned to ignore the Wizard––to throw open

the faux velvet. But another part of me reveled in the impenetrable mystery.

My ignore-the-Wizard self would sometimes conjure memories of the fourth grade experience at the Nathan B. Forrest Elementary School, a two-story red brick on the edge of my neighborhood, around the corner from the public library and Fire Station No. 13, and a block away from the A&P. Downstairs were K through 3, upstairs 4 through 7 (we didn’t have middle school back then). In ’60, as a third grader, I had never been upstairs. We of the lower classes were forbidden to make the journey to the upper reaches––our day would come, we were told. The two fourth grade teachers, Misses Throckmorton and Sexton, both spinsters, looked––to my eight-year-old eyes––to have been at least a hundred, maybe a hundred and one. In the minds of all of us third graders, they were the oldest, meanest creatures we’d ever known. We feared what lay ahead for us next year. And believe me, the images we concocted were not pretty. But then, when we finally made it to the top, we learned that upstairs was really no different from downstairs––just a little more worldly, a little more challenging. And Miss Throckmorton, my teacher, was an innocent compared to the ogre I had imagined. I should have learned a lesson from that.

The liturgical plunging into the depths at the hand of the reverend––there wasn’t much to it, really, as I would later find out.

* * *

“Won’t you come.”

We always sat in the second pew from the front, in the very center, facing the reverend head-on so that, when he proclaimed the inerrant word of God, we would be assured he was speaking directly to us, as if we were the only souls in the room. I would be flanked by

Grandmother Tarwater on my left and my mother on my right. My brother Chester would be somewhere in the balcony, where the teenagers sat, surely to enjoy some semblance of privacy for whatever-they-did-up-there. It was only on the rarest occasion that my father would grace us with his presence, even though it was his mother who sat beside me and who would, on occasion, retrieve a stick of Doublemint gum from her purse and slip it to me when her daughter-in-law wasn’t looking. I can still remember the pear green packaging with its dark green and white logo. Her beam of diabolical satisfaction as she surreptitiously passed it. The double-strength peppermint juice coated my tongue and drifted down my throat. Somehow, that seemingly simple indulgence allayed the discomfort of my bony frame against the hard mahogany surface (I was skinny back then––would that I could recapture that aspect of my youth), the cold clime of the sanctuary, the jarring from the sermon that, as it went on, bore more opprobrium than good news.

* * *

I wasn’t Billy back then. I was Binky. Not a nickname I would have enthusiastically chosen. But it was given to me when I was much younger and, to my abiding chagrin, it stuck. The name had nothing to do with pacifiers, by the way––I’m told I would puff my cheeks and eject the tasteless abomination, formed of rubber and plastic, across the room whenever my mother tried to force it on me––a poor excuse for the real thing, I must have thought. Rather, the moniker had derived from my odd habit as a tot, hopping restlessly, doing a little twist, and sticking my backside in the air like a lapine doe in heat. Anyway, the nickname stuck, and I lived with it until the age of twelve-and-a-half, at which time Binky left home for good and Billy arrived, standing at the door, shuffling back and forth, raring to be let in.

* * *

“Raise a hand. I see your hand…and your hand…and your hand.”

I would sit on that cold, hard bench and watch the hands go up throughout the congregation. Some old and wrinkled. Some young and firm. Some worn and calloused. Some pale and smooth like mine. Within minutes, most of the fold would have both hands in the air, waving them back and forth and beckoning the firmament.

“Now rise before God.”

My grandmother would reach down and pull me up by my bony elbow as she leapt from her seat. My mother followed suit. The entire congregation stood before the reverend and swayed like a mighty wind casting back and forth on a restless sea.

“Won’t you come. Your name was written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. Show Him you love Him. Confess before all.” He swept his hand across the room in a wide arc. “And you. You who have not found Him. Will this be the day you cross the line of faith?”

The choir would open up with the invitational hymn, their sotto voce voices gradually rising to a crescendo that rattled the twelve-station stained glass windows along the side walls of the sanctuary. On Christ the solid Rock I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.

One by one, damned near half the flock would leave their rows, sidle gingerly in front of their more reluctant pewmates to the aisle, and promenade to the chancel rail, their hands clasped before them or, on occasion, still raised in the air. One or two of the petitioners my age or a year or so older would profess his or her lust to be gulfed in that big, awesome tank of water. The occasional adult, finding himself having reached maturity without knowing God’s salvation, would plea for the gift of immersion, tears streaming down his cheeks.

My grandmother would sashay to the front of the sanctuary, a queen pink lace handkerchief held tight in her hand. My mother would follow. I would sit alone, with my palms flat against the seat, my thumbs and forefingers slightly under my scrawny thighs, wondering when I would be ready to make The Walk, stand before the congregants who would have chosen on that particular Sunday to remain in the pews, and profess my love of the Almighty, praise be.

At the time, I reckoned that all Southern Baptist churches behaved like my grandmother’s. I would later learn that some preachers assumed God didn’t require multiple trips to the rail––one profession of faith, followed shortly thereafter by the dunk in the tub, was sufficient. But not Virlyn Kilgallon. He expected it every Sunday––I once heard him refer to it as “hitting the sawdust trail,” something about a reference to tent revivals. But thank God he didn’t require multiple dips in the bath. Otherwise, we would have been in church all day on baptism Sundays.

* * *

When the altar call was not afoot, I amused myself in assorted ways, some harmless, some not so much. My diversions of the latter kind shall remain, at least for the time being, unadvertised. But they often involved some clandestine desecration of the hymnal pages. As for the former, my favorite distraction involved carefully examining the odd members of that motley group that called themselves a choir, for whom I made up aliases. There was No Neck Nancy––the woman (she must have been in her early thirties) whose head literally sat smack-dab on her shoulders with nothing in between. Whenever she wanted to look to the right or the left she had to turn her entire body. I now know the malady for what it is, or was (I have no idea where she is today or, for that matter, whether she is anywhere)––Klippel-Feil syndrome. But at the time, she was just one more freak, likely having escaped from a carnival midway somewhere. And there was See Me Sylvia. My grandmother claimed she came to church primarily for one reason––to show off her fancy hats and jewelry––but there didn’t seem to be much there worth flaunting. Launchpad Leonard would, out of the blue, produce the loudest, most explosive belch you’d ever heard––so loud, in fact, that it sounded like one of those Atlas rockets blasting off from Cape Canaveral. And whenever I saw him do it outside the choir loft without his robe, his quaking beer belly spilling over his belt buckle, my first instinct was to run for my life.

How would I have survived Sunday mornings without diversions? My brother, perched high above the sanctuary floor in the balcony with his friends, no doubt had his own amusements. More than once, I suspected him of sneaking out of the church just as the service began, sitting in the back seat of the Brookwood Wagon reading Mad Magazine, only to scurry back in a few minutes prior to the service’s ending so he could walk out with the rest of the assembly and my mother would be none the wiser.

* * *

Almost every Sunday, Reverend Kilgallon’s mien and comportment would take a bleak and sinister turn about halfway through the sermon. It was as if he became a different man altogether. Not the paternalistic pastor calling his flock to salvation, but, rather, a demonic, truculent savage condemning all in his presence to a life of eternal damnation.

I would always see it coming. He would remove his wire-rimmed bifocals and whack them onto the lectern––I awaited some Sunday when he would send shards flying across the room. His face would redden. The veins in his temples would pulse. A curious tic would come upon him––an emergent twitching around his right eye. Then he would let loose, pointing to the

balcony and setting free a stentorian roar. “Sinners all. The whole vile lot of you. You will roast in Hell––like sizzling bacon at the men’s fellowship breakfast.” (Okay, he didn’t really say that last part about the bacon––I made that up––but the thought may have crossed his mind.) Then he would turn on the assembly at large, sweeping his finger across the room and damning every single one of us.

An electric charge would run down my spine as if I had been sitting on metal, rather than mahogany, and the Almighty Himself had let loose a bolt of lightning onto the church. I would give a little shake and look back at the balcony.

Is my brother up there? Or is he in the station wagon, reading The Lighter Side or Spy vs. Spy, oblivious to the judgment, the condemnation, that has just been leveled on him?

On all of us.

***

Author Bio:

Mike’s body of work includes both fiction and nonfiction, short form and long form, as well as articles and blogs of literary interest.

While he is comfortable playing across a broad range of genres, much of his focus is on historical fiction, crime fiction, and true crime. Rigorous research is foundational to his writing. He gets that honestly, having spent much of his professional career as a scientist.

Mike splits his time between midtown Atlanta and a lake in the North Georgia mountains, far away from the rat race of the city. The balance between city life and mountain life inspires his writing.

Catch Up With Mike Cobb:
mikecobbwriter.com
Goodreads
Instagram – @cobbmg
Twitter/X – @mgcobb
Facebook – @MGCobbWriter

Tour Participants:

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Giveaway – Mercy Creek by M E Browning @MickiBrowning @partnersincr1me

Posted on November 1, 2021 by fundinmental

Mercy Creek

by M.E. Browning

October 11 – November 5, 2021 Tour

Synopsis:

In an idyllic Colorado town, a young girl goes missing—and the trail leads into the heart and mind of a remorseless killer.

The late summer heat in Echo Valley, Colorado turns lush greenery into a tinder dry landscape. When a young girl mysteriously disappears, long buried grudges rekindle. Of the two Flores girls, Marisa was the one people pegged for trouble. Her younger sister, Lena, was the quiet daughter, dutiful and diligent—right until the moment she vanished.

Detective Jo Wyatt is convinced the eleven-year-old girl didn’t run away and that a more sinister reason lurks behind her disappearance. For Jo, the case is personal, reaching far back into her past. But as she mines Lena’s fractured family life, she unearths a cache of secrets and half-lies that paints a darker picture.

As the evidence mounts, so do the suspects, and when a witness steps forward with a shocking new revelation, Jo is forced to confront her doubts, and her worst fears. Now, it’s just a matter of time before the truth is revealed—or the killer makes another deadly move.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Crooked Lane Books
Publication Date: October 12th 2021
Number of Pages: 288
ISBN: 1643857622 (ISBN13: 9781643857626)
Series: A Jo Wyatt Mystery, Book 2 || Each mystery in the A Jo Wyatt Mystery series is a stand alone novel.
Purchase Links: Penguin Random House | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Everyone had a story from that night. Some saw a man, others saw a girl, still others saw nothing at all but didn’t want to squander the opportunity to be part of something larger than themselves. To varying degrees, they were all wrong. Only two people knew the full truth.

That Saturday, visitors to the county fair clustered in the dappled shade cast by carnival rides and rested on hay bales scattered like afterthoughts between games of chance and food booths, the soles of their shoes sticky with ice cream drips and spilled sodas.

Detective Jo Wyatt stepped into the shadow of the Hall of Mirrors to watch the crowd. She grabbed the collar of her uniform and pumped it a few times in a futile attempt to push cooler air between her ballistic vest and sweat-sodden T-shirt.

The Echo Valley Fair marked the end of summer, but even now, as the relentless Colorado sun dipped, heat rose in waves around bare ankles and stroller wheels as families retreated toward the parking lots. An older crowd began to creep in, prowling the midway. The beer garden overflowed.

Within minutes the sun dropped behind the valley walls and the fairground lights flickered to life, their wan orange glow a beacon to moths confused by the strobing brightness of rides and games. Calliope music and the midway’s technopop collided in a crazed mishmash of notes so loud they echoed in Jo’s chest. She raised the volume of her radio.

The day shift officers had clocked out having handled nothing more pressing than a man locked out of his car and an allegation of unfair judging flung by the second-place winner of the bake-off.

Jo gauged the teeming crowd of unfamiliar faces. Tonight would be different.

Carnival music was creepy, Lena decided. Each ride had its own weird tune and it all seemed to crash against her with equal force, following her no matter where she went.

The guys in the booths were louder than they had been earlier, more aggressive, calling out, trying to get her to part with her tickets. Some of the guys roamed, jumping out at people, flicking cards and making jokes she didn’t understand while smiling at her older sister.

Marisa tossed her hair. Smiled back. Sometimes they let her play for free.

“Let’s go back to the livestock pavilion,” Lena said.

“Quit being such a baby.” Marisa glanced over her shoulder at the guy running the shooting gallery booth and tossed her hair. Again.

Lena rolled her eyes and wondered how long it would be before her sister ditched her.

“Hold up a sec.” Marisa tugged at the hem of her skintight skirt and flopped down on a hay bale.

She’d been wearing pants when they’d left the house. The big purse she always carried probably hid an entire wardrobe Momma knew nothing about. Lena wondered if the missing key to grandma’s car was tucked in there too.

Marisa unzipped one of her boots and pulled up her thin sock.

Lena pointed. “What happened to the bottom of your boot?”

Her sister ran her finger along the arch. “I painted it red.”

“Why?”

“It makes them more valuable.”

“Since when does coloring the bottom of your shoes make them more valuable?”

Marisa’s eyes lit up in a way that happened whenever she spoke about clothes or how she was going to hit it big in Hollywood someday. “In Paris there’s this guy who designs shoes and all of them have red soles. He’s the only one allowed to do that. It’s his thing.”

“But he didn’t make those boots.”

“All the famous women wear his shoes.” She waved to someone in the crowd.

“You’re not famous and you bought them at Payless.”

“What do you know about fashion?”

“I know enough not to paint the bottom of my boots to make them look like someone else made them.”

Marisa shoved her foot into her boot and yanked the zipper closed. “You bought your boots from the co-op.” She handed Lena her cell phone.

“You should have bought yours there, too.” Lena dutifully pointed the lens at her sister.

“Take a couple this time.” Marisa leaned back on her hands and arched her back, her hair nearly brushing the hay bale, and the expression on her face pouty like the girls in the magazines she was always looking at.

Lena snapped several photos and held out the phone. “All those high heels are good for is punching holes in the ground.”

“Oh, Lena.” Marisa’s voice dropped as if she was sharing a secret. “If you ever looked up from your animals long enough, you’d see there’s so much more to the world.” Her thumbs rapidly tapped the tiny keyboard of her phone.

In the center of the midway, a carnival guy held a long-handled mallet and called out to people as they passed by. He was older—somewhere in his twenties—and wore a tank top. Green and blue tattoos covered his arms and his biceps bulged as he pointed the oversized hammer at the tower behind him. It looked like a giant thermometer with numbers running along one edge, and High Striker spelled out on the other.

“Come on, men. There’s no easier way to impress the ladies.” He grabbed the mallet and tapped the plate. “You just have to find the proper motivation if you want to get it up…” He pointed with his chin to the top of the game and paused dramatically. “There.” He craned his neck and leered at Marisa. Lena wondered if he was looking up her sister’s skirt. “What happens later is up to you.”

Never breaking eye contact, he took a mighty swing. The puck raced up the tower, setting off a rainbow of lights and whistles before it smashed into the bell at the top. He winked in their direction. “Score.”

Twenty minutes later, Marisa was gone.

Lena gave up looking for her sister and returned to the livestock pavilion. Marisa could keep her music and crowds and stupid friends.

Only a few people still wandered around the dimly lit livestock pavilion. The fireworks would start soon and most people headed for the excitement outside, a world away from the comforting sound of animals snuffling and pawing at their bedding.

Marisa was probably hanging out near the river with her friends, drinking beer. Maybe smoking a cigarette or even a joint. Doing things she didn’t think her baby sister knew about.

Lena walked through an aisle stacked with poultry and rabbit cages. The pens holding goats, swine, and sheep took up the middle. At the back of the pavilion stretched a long row of three-sided cattle stalls. The smells of straw, grain, and animals replaced the gross smell of deep-fried candy bars and churros that had clogged her throat on the midway.

Near the end of the row, Lena stopped.

“Hey there, Bluebell.” Technically, he was number twenty-four, like his ear tag said. Her father didn’t believe in naming livestock, but to her, he’d always be Bluebell—even after she sold him at the auction to be slaughtered. Just because that was his fate didn’t mean he shouldn’t have a name to be remembered by. She remembered them all.

She patted his hip and slid her hand along his spine so he wouldn’t shy as she moved into the stall. She double-checked the halter, pausing to scratch his forehead. A piece of straw swirled in his water bucket and she fished it out. The cold water cooled her hot skin.

“You did good today. Sorry I won’t be spending the night with you, but Papa got called out to Dawson’s ranch to stitch up some mare.”

He swished his tail and it struck the rail with a metallic ring.

“Don’t get yourself all riled. I’ll be back tomorrow before you know it.”

If she hadn’t been showing Bluebell this afternoon, she’d have gone with her father. Her sutures had really improved this summer and were almost as neat as his. No one would guess they’d been made by an eleven-year-old. If nothing else, she could have helped keep the horse calm.

Instead, she’d go home with Marisa and spend the night at Momma’s. She wondered if Marisa would show up before the 4-H leader called lights out in the pavilion or if Lena would have to walk to her mom’s house by herself in the dark.

She reached down and jiggled the feed pan to smooth out the grain that Bluebell had pushed to the edges.

“That’s some cow.”

The male voice startled them both and Bluebell stomped his rear hoof. Lena peered over the Hereford’s withers. At first all she saw were the tattoos. An ugly monster head with a gaping mouth and snake tongue seem to snap at her. It was the carny from the High Striker standing at the edge of the stall.

“It’s a steer,” she stuttered. “And my sister isn’t here.”

“Not your sister I wanted to talk to.” He swayed a bit as he moved into the stall, like when her mother drank too much wine and tried to hide it.

Lena ducked under Bluebell’s throat and came up on the other side. She looked around the pavilion, now empty of people.

“Suspect they’re all out waiting on the fireworks,” he said.

The first boom echoed through the space. Several sheep bleated their disapproval and Bluebell jerked against his halter.

“Shhhh, now.” Lena reached her hand down and scratched his chest. “All that racket’s just some stupid fireworks.”

“Nothing to worry about,” the man added. He had the same look in his eyes that Papa’s border collie got right before he cut off the escape route of a runaway cow.

A bigger boom thundered through the pavilion. Halter clips clanged against the rails as uneasy cattle shuffled in their stalls. Her own legs shook as she sidled toward Bluebell’s rear.

He matched her steps. “What’s a little thing like you doing in here all by yourself?”

“My father will be back any minute.” Her voice shook.

He smiled, baring his teeth. “I’ll be sure to introduce myself when he arrives.”

A series of explosions, sharp as gunfire, erupted outside. Somewhere a cow lowed. Several more joined in, their voices pitiful with fear.

“You’re upsetting my steer. You need to leave.”

“Oh, your cow’s just fine. I think it’s you that’s scared.”

He spoke with the same low voice that Lena used with injured animals. The one she used right before she did something she knew would hurt but had to be done.

“You’re a pretty little thing,” he crooned. “Nice and quiet.”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She stood frozen. A warm trickle started down her leg, and the wet spot expanded on her jeans.

He edged closer. “I like them quiet.”

Jo ran.

The suspect veered off the sidewalk and slid down the hillside toward the creek.

She plunged off the side of the embankment, sliding through dirt and duff, closing the distance. She keyed her shoulder mic. “Entering the creek, heading west toward the Animas. I need someone on the River Trail.”

Narrow-leaf cottonwood and willows shimmered silver in the moonlight and wove a thicket of branches along the water, herding the suspect toward the cobbled stream bed.

Jo splashed into the ankle-deep water. Close enough now to almost touch.

Her lungs burned. With a final burst of speed, she lunged. Shoved his shoulder while he was mid-stride.

The man sprawled into the creek. Rolled onto his feet with a bellow. A knife in his hand.

Without thinking, she’d drawn her gun. “Drop it!”

Flashlight beams sliced the foliage. Snapping branches and crashing footsteps marked the other officers’ progress as they neared. Estes shouted Jo’s name. Her eyes never left the man standing just feet away.

“Over here!” She focused on the man’s shoulder, watching for the twitch that would telegraph his intentions. “You need to drop the knife. Now.” Her voice rose above the burble of the stream. “Or things are going to get a whole lot worse for you tonight.”

She shifted her weight to her front leg and carefully shuffled her rear foot until she found firmer footing and settled into a more stable shooting stance. “Drop the knife.” She aimed center mass. Drew a deep breath, willed her heart to slow.

The knife splashed into the creek near the bank.

“On your right.” Estes broke through the brush beside her.

“Get down on your knees,” Jo ordered. “Hands behind your head.”

“It’s my friend’s truck,” the man said.

Jo holstered her gun and moved forward while Estes covered her. She gripped his fingers and bowed the suspect backward, keeping him off balance while she searched him for weapons, then cuffed him.

“Not according to the owner.” She double-locked the cuffs while Estes radioed dispatch they had one in custody.

An explosion above the treetops made Jo flinch. Fireworks slashed the darkness and burst into balls of purple and green and dazzling white that sparkled briefly, then disappeared.

***

Author Bio:

M.E. Browning writes the Colorado Book Award-winning Jo Wyatt Mysteries and the Agatha-nominated and award-winning Mer Cavallo Mysteries (as Micki Browning). Micki also writes short stories and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in dive magazines, anthologies, mystery magazines, and textbooks. An FBI National Academy graduate, Micki worked in municipal law enforcement for more than two decades and retired as a captain before turning to a life of crime… fiction.

Catch Up With M.E. Browning:
MEBrowning.com
Goodreads
BookBub
Instagram – @mickibrowning
Twitter – @MickiBrowning
Facebook – @MickiBrowningAuthor

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

ENTER TO WIN:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for M.E. Browning. There will be TWO winners. ONE winner will receive (1) Amazon.com Gift Card and ONE winner will receive one (1) physical copy of Mercy Creek by M.E. Browning (U.S. addresses only). The giveaway runs October 11 through November 7, 2021. Void where prohibited.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

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Giveaway – Silent Meridian by Elizabeth Crowens @ECrowens @partnersincr1me

Posted on September 18, 2019 by fundinmental

The Time Traveler Professor, Book One:

Silent Meridian

by Elizabeth Crowens

on Tour August 18 – September 21, 2019

Synopsis:

The Time Traveler Professor, Book One: Silent Meridian by Elizabeth Crowens

Book Details:

Genre: Alternate History, Mystery, Fantasy Noir
Published by: Atomic Alchemist Productions LLC
Publication Date: June 12th 2019
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 9781950384 (ISBN13: 9781950384044)
Series: The Time Traveler Professor #1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Edinburgh, 1898

Scotland was just barely crawling its way out of the nineteenth century. I was a naïve, but ambitious student studying music at the University of Edinburgh hurrying over to meet Arthur Conan Doyle, the man who would change my life forever.

“John Patrick Scott, sir,” I said and approached Mr. Doyle, who was already seated at a back corner table of the Deacon Brodie, the pub that inspired the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

I extended my hand to greet him and removed my rain-soaked hat, while my overcoat slipped out of my hands and fell on the floor by accident. It was still hard to believe that good fortune finally brought us together, but we were both nervous. “Mr. Conan Doyle, or should I call you Doctor Doyle?” I was unsure how to address him.

Doyle scrutinized me from top to bottom as he signaled the waiter. “John, call me Arthur.”

“Sir, I’m so honored that you agreed to discuss this matter. Perhaps you can enlighten me in a way that I’ve failed to comprehend.”

I wanted to ask him about my unusual turn of events straight away but he caught me off guard and was dead set on pulling me into the swift current of an unexpected conversation.

“Can I assume you believe in the transmigration of souls?” he asked.

“Until now, I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” I said, unsure as to which direction he was leading.

“Did you ever read those books about that Swiss doctor who felt his body and soul had been taken over by a Benedictine monk? That presented a curious case. He claims that he was approached by the spirit of an elderly monk before he died, and that the monk needed to rent his body to continue his spiritual mission.”

“Rent?” I choked in disbelief.

“We truly don’t take anything with us when we pass on, do we? This monk knew he was dying and therefore needed to replace his physical body with something more youthful and vital.”

“That’s incredible. It debunks the theory that you need to die and be reborn as an infant to carry on your spirit.”

Mr. Doyle had the tinge of excitement in his voice.

“John, here’s another instance. I’ve had my suspicions about a famous musician who had an obsession about a notorious and controversial mystic. You’d surmise by his overwhelming attraction to that person he might’ve been him in a previous lifetime, but facts were clear he was born three years before the mystic died. My understanding is the mystic was aware he didn’t have long in his present incarnation. Therefore he made plans for some sort of partial soul transference while he was still alive to imprint his essence upon the child. That would’ve allowed him to carry on and accomplish unfinished business, which couldn’t have been executed otherwise. Essentially he had the ability of being two places at once.”

“Sounds more like Spiritualism,” I replied.

“Honestly, John, I don’t think there are any steadfast rules when it comes to this matter. That’s what makes it so intriguing.”

I sensed he had a secret agenda.

Doyle reloaded his churchwarden pipe with fresh tobacco and continued, “This is not at all like anything you’ve ever read from H.G. Wells or Jules Verne. We’re poking holes in every treatise written on the subject — the idea of being able to reincarnate a part of yourself while you are still alive into another soul.”

Our conversation was quickly becoming like a speeding train ready to jump the tracks. Realizing this, Doyle slowed down the pace and took a deep breath. He carefully composed his next statement.

“Fiction it may seem to be but it’s not hocus pocus. Don’t you also find it strange that you somehow found yourself initiated into a mystical order on a commuter train bound from London to Edinburgh when the instigators kept on mistaking you for me? There are no accidents.”

I became silent for a moment, stalling for time as I slowly raised my glass of ale to my lips. As soon as I fished a small red book out of my coat pocket and placed it on the table in front of us Arthur eyed it intently. It had been the source of intrigue, which led me to Doyle in the first place and piqued his curiosity as much as it did mine.

“Could I have done something terrible in my youth that caused this to happen?”

“You have no recollections, John?”

“I remember so little of my childhood. I wish I could.”

“You’re a smart young man. I’m sure you’ll come up with a clever deduction.”

Mr. Doyle paused to relight his pipe. He had an unnerving look in his eye, which I vainly tried to read into, but he took me for a spin when he brought up the next topic.

“On another note, John, have you ever considered that people are capable of communicating without speech, and I’m not talking about writing letters?”

“Pardon me?”

“Imagine communicating by mere thoughts. I’ve always wanted to experiment with someone open to these concepts. God knows — my brothers at the Society for Psychical Research certainly talk enough about it. My wife, Touie, has been an unwilling subject and is not the most objective choice.”

I looked at him, somewhat perplexed. “Are you asking me to accurately guess what you’re thinking?”

“Come now. We’ll play a game. I’ll form an image in my mind, and for the next minute I will try to project it into yours. Clear your thoughts of any distractions and be as receptive as possible,” he explained.

As much as I tried, I couldn’t have been more preoccupied. Images of that fateful event flashed through my brain. My recollections revealed my rain-soaked train ticket. I kept arguing with the steward about putting me in the wrong cabin. An erroneous judgment had been made when three strangers insisted I was Arthur. We were so different in physical appearance. He was a large, athletic man with a distinguished moustache. On the other hand, I had baby smooth skin and couldn’t grow facial hair to save my life. I was nearly twenty years younger and much shorter with wild auburn hair that resembled Maestro Beethoven’s with the exception of premature strands of gray.

So why was I singled out? Was there laudanum in my brandy? Details spun like a whirlwind. I must’ve been in a drug-induced stupor but I was initiated into some secret Masonic-like society, and when it was all over those mysterious men were gone. What remained were an engraved silver ring on my finger and an ominous red book on the seat beside me.

“Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” Arthur broke my trance and realized my thoughts had been elsewhere.

“I felt like I had.” Barely able to articulate, I tried to tame my wild mane in place. Visions faded in and out. Timelines jumped. So I gulped down another swig of ale to focus on the present.

Arthur leaned in closer. “I can see you’re still worried about that event on the train. Those men have been after me for some time. Why? It’s hard to fathom. I’ll dilly dally with notions here and there about Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Watson, who fancy themselves as detectives. Me? I’m just a simple doctor and writer with interests in Spiritualism trying to find scientific explanations for the unknown.”

“Arthur, what would anyone want with an unassuming music student like me?”

“Personally, I don’t think this was A Case of Identity,” Arthur replied with a smile.

Obviously he meant to say my dilemma was not a case of mistaken identity, not the name of one of his famous Sherlock stories. He was pleased I caught the humor of his play on words.

“Perhaps it has something to do with that book,” he said pointing to the one I brought.

“I’m concerned it’s dangerous, that it’s a curse. I wish I had never found it.” I shoved it back into my pocket and drained my glass.

* * *

One week later as I was returning home from school, my landlady, Lydia Campbell, yelled from the kitchen as I trudged my muddied shoes through the front door of her boarding house. “John, a letter from Undershaw arrived for you today! I wonder whom it could be from? You don’t know anyone from Undershaw, do you?”

Oh, yes I did. I grabbed the letter and ran upstairs so fast I nearly tripped on my muffler and fell on my face. I poured myself a glass of port to calm my nerves, doffed my wet garments and sank into my most comfortable brass-studded leather chair I affectionately named my thinking chair, where I created many a melody in my head, could think deep thoughts, and drift off to dreamland.

* * *

Dear John,

I wholeheartedly enjoyed our conversation at the Deacon Brodie and kept my promise of a prompt reply. By now, you are well aware of my passion to explore the realms of Spiritualism and related paranormal phenomena far surpasses any personal interests involved with Sherlock Holmes. Public demand for my writing, however, exerts a strain on how much I can overtly reveal to even my most trusted colleagues. Whenever I indulge in any activity, be it a simple séance, investigating a revered medium or attending a meeting of the British Society for Psychical Research, it never fails to raise the eyebrows of my wary publishers and critics. It’s God’s honest truth that I believe in many of these inexplicable accounts. Even my father painted beautiful renditions of fairies, which I trust he witnessed with his own eyes. The betterment of mankind rests on embracing such theories once they are proven to exist by the scientific community. Thus, I’ll have to continue more controversial and debatable endeavors in utmost secrecy, or at least for the time being until more evidence can be brought to light.

Since you seem to be an open-minded young man who has already experienced some effects of the preternatural, this is my proposal: At midnight every night, we should conduct a variety of remote operations with the primary purpose of communicating through means of telepathy. Since I have a tendency to travel, we’ll have to make some sort of adjustment to take into account the different time zones. Of course, you must share this secret with nobody. Besides us, only my wife will know, although she will not participate.

When you shared the account of the strange commuter train incident that was enough to convince me that you would be the perfect partner for this private undertaking. Most assuredly, there was something you did in the past in the realm of the arcane to warrant such a chain of events. That was not mere happenstance, and now since you possess that enigmatic red book, I’m sure it will affect your life in ways you’ve never imagined.

My intentions have been to perform similar trial and error enterprises with Harry Houdini, a rising star whose stage performances have been astounding audiences, but his busy schedule has made it nearly impossible to coordinate such engagements with any sort of regularity. One of these days we’ll catch up. Meanwhile, I collect whatever news comes from across the herring-pond. At one point, he and I will develop a special relationship based on mutual interests.

Regarding the two of us, however, we’ll back up our observations with letters or telegrams as often as possible as proof of results, but those must be destroyed as soon as they are read. Once again, I cannot over emphasize the importance of confidentiality. Regardless, we must keep a faithful agreement, as skill will come with practice.

If you are willing to put aside any apprehensions regarding trains, I’ll pay for you to travel down to Undershaw and visit me on weekends whenever possible. My driver can meet you in London at a pre-arranged time. You’ll stay in one of our guest bedrooms, and as long as you don’t mind the children and can tolerate what our kitchen staff provides, you’ll be well taken care of. That’ll give us the opportunity to expand our repertoire and commence further psychical experimentation with ectoplasm, spirit photography and astral projection. And bring the red book. I’d like a chance to look at it.

I’ve also desired a partner to accompany me for ghost sightings and occult investigations. For all we know with the knowledge gained, we might even break through the barriers of time. That would certainly give Bertie (H.G. Wells) a shock to the senses, proving his imagination does not merely dwell in the realm of fiction. We’ve been at odds on this topic for years.

Regarding telepathic technique, I can only suggest you conduct yourself in a way as you see fit. Personally, I don’t give credence to things like magical amulets, but if it helps to have an etheric link, use this letter you hold in your hand, as it contains my heart, soul and signature with a drop of blood, which I added to the ink. You might wish to reciprocate.

Let’s raise our glasses to honor the quest of conquering the unknown.

Arthur Conan Doyle

* * *

So, Arthur was serious when he first brought up the subject. When he and I left the pub, I really didn’t know what to think. After all, he was a famous author, and I was merely a student. What possessed him to choose me for such an engagement?

I shuffled through my schoolwork to find my pen and ink and a fresh sheet of paper. Blood, I needed blood. Ah, my razor! That would work. I fetched my shaving kit and winced as I drew a few drops. I scribbled a swift, affirmative reply with the blood-tainted ink, mailed the letter the following day and looked forward to our first otherworldly encounter.

***

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Crowens

Crowens has worked in the film and television for over twenty years and as a journalist and a photographer. She’s a regular contributor of author interviews to an award-winning online speculative fiction magazine, Black Gate. Short stories of hers have been published in the Bram Stoker Awards nominated anthology, A New York State of Fright and Hell’s Heart. She’s a member of Mystery Writers of America, The Horror Writers Association, the Authors Guild, Broad Universe, Sisters in Crime and a member of several Sherlockian societies. She is also writing a Hollywood suspense series.