Anopheles: A World War II Tale

Chapter 1

Frank Harper came awake with the slapping of the halyard against the main mast. He tasted the sourness of his mouth and batted at an intrusive fly. The day was starting as poorly as yesterday had ended for the skipper of the derelict coastal cruiser, Anopheles. The gaff rigged schooner bobbed on oil-slicked waters between the South Carolina coast and some nameless barrier island. He reached up to the boom, pulling himself to his feet, his joints, popped and creaked with the effort. The Captain, as he termed himself, scratched at his bare chest, and fumbled in the debris-strewn cockpit. Where's that damn bottle. He picked his way through empty oil cans, discarded cigarette packs, and partially consumed tins of tuna and baked beans. Old Grand-dad where are ya? He kicked at the litter and swore, "God damn mess!" grabbing a backstay he eased himself down, sitting on the cockpit locker, he felt the sun beating down on the mangrove canopy above. It would be another hot day. His head hung low between his knees, he shook his thatch of grey hair, "Take me now God, know your going to send me below anyways." He rasped out the words. "No man deserves damnation more than me. Can't git much lower than this. No Grand-dad, can't go on without Grand-dad." He rubbed the back of his hand across dry lips.

Frank and Anopheles plied the waters of the South Carolina and Georgia Intracoastal Waterway, carrying supplies to small unserved towns and villages on the barrier islands. When favorable winds blew he saved his fuel, when they didn't he relied on his balky, diesel consuming engine. The Captain glared at his tattered flag, Old Glory fluttered at the occasional passing breeze.  With an empty cargo hold he could not afford the expense of running the engine, with no wind he was going to drift with the currents and rot in the devils own hotbox. And he with no whiskey to ease his thirst.

The Captain pulled a plug of tobacco from his back pocket, using his teeth he chawed off an edge and returned it to its place of hiding. "Ain't gonna git to Savannah by just sittin' here." Frank moved forward to the main-mast where he began hauling up the sail. He grunted on each pull, his back muscles straining at the effort. Amos Cole his mate usually handled the rigging, but the birth of a grandchild had taken Amos off to Charleston. Family causes no end of problems. He spat off into the channel. A bachelor, relations were a hindrance to him. It was only because of his mate's skills, and his willingness to endure Frank's humiliations that he was kept on. "Family!" Frank shook his head, and heaved again at the weight of the main-sail.

The sail filled, and fell with the weak winds. Scanning the sky to the East, out over the island there was blue sky and a scud of cloud along the horizon. "It's early, 'bout noon might get some real wind." He set the wheel and went below. In the dark he found his way to the box of provisions, tuna and baked beans, no need to heat, spoon out of the can. He began grumbling as he hunted around some more, just hoping that he would find a bottle of misplaced whiskey, Old Grand-dad was strong and cheep, just the way he liked his.

Back in the cockpit, he opened the can of beans. Out on the water there was no concern with social miscues, not that Frank was hindered by such niceties. Now Amos would comment on the Captain's explosive gusts of wind, saying that they could carry the Anopheles to Savannah and halfway back again.  He rested his back against the cabin, shaded from the sun, spooning out the last bit of beans and the sweet brown syrup.

Standing he stretched at his muscles , he thought of bending over to take care of his back, but the last time he did that he was laid up for a week.  Out here without Amos he could die waiting for a waterman or a Gullah, better a waterman.  Frank had a way of offending the local Gullahs.  A steady breeze filled his sail,  now we can get underway.  He tightened up on the main, and went forward to raise the fore-sail and jib.  Returning to the cockpit The Captain tightened the lines, the sails filled, and the Anopheles sent a spew of white foam aft as she cut through the water.  He liked the feel of being under sail, the firmness of the wheel, and the billowing of the sails.           

Couple hours I'll be in Savannah.  Frank would fill his hold with supplies.  Village stores and town markets needed fresh produce and packaged goods.  Gullah towns ordered up special items, black beans, salted mackerel, and pecans.  There was always the person needing a worn part for their truck or the windmill.  And so it went back and forth between Charleston and Savannah, filling orders and getting requests for the next pass through.

The Anopheles sat low in the water below the Savannah warehouse, her hold was filled and Frank was itching to return north to Charleston.  Night would be coming on, only a few more hours of wind, enough for sailing.  Then I'll use that infernal engine and waste money.

Frank would navigate the Savannah channel as far as the Mud River, then head over to Turtle Island, finding a place to overnight about midnight.  That, if all went well.  It didn't.  Half way down the Mud River a storm blew in, Anopheles was battered by heavy winds and rain.  Frank lowered the sails and cranked up the diesel engine, it sputtered, and belched, refusing to turnover.  All the while the Captain thought over the many maintenance items he had failed to do with this vile, stuttering contraption.  He growled at, and along with the engine, Amos had bin here woulda got done.  One more effort and it took.  The motor thumped, and throbbed and at last took on something that sounded of rhythmic pulsations.

Under power the Captain of the Anopheles had better control of his vessel, It was still a battle with wind and rain, but attempting to tack through narrow channels in the dark was near to imposable.  Holding fast to the wheel he kept to the middle of the river, hoping that he would avoid sandbars or tree snags that could pull him to the bottom.

It was about midnight the wind subsided.  Frank could relax a bit, he still had the darkness and rain to contend with, and those snags.  He needed a place to layover for the night, he was getting tired, and tiredness could lead to mistakes.  He was wearing out his neck looking from one side of the river to the other, and peering ahead into blackness.  Out of nowhere hands were grabbing at him, he was being pulled from the boat.  His hands grasped the wheel, but the hands were too strong.  Just as he was going into the river he caught hold of the side rail, he ducked down freeing himself from the alien, and clawed his way aboard.  His chest heaved, he sucked in air, and pulled leaves and twigs from his hair.  He steered the boat away from the bank, and the overhanging trees.  Wake up you fool, he chided himself.  He whistled, he stomped his feet and he thought about what to do with Amos if he returned.

His head snapped up, he was drifting off to sleep again.  He slapped at his face and adjusted the throttle; anything to keep him awake. Ahead he could see a dim light come through the drizzle, "Gonzo's, I'll tie-up and get some sleep." A single light hung from a post at the end of the fuel dock, a curtain of rain angled-off across the cone of light cast below.

He cut the engine and let the Anopheles coast up to the dock.  Bang!  He went in too fast.  Gonzales would be mad as hell if he heard this assault on his property. Don't need no ol' Cubano gettin' on my ass, taking a looped line he lassoed a cleat and fastened it to the dock. He scanned his boat, pulled off his water soaked t-shirt tossing it on the deck and headed below. Clothing, magazines, and gear were pushed aside as he fell into the birth.  The Captain wouldn't hear the water lapping at the hull or the rain drumming on the transom (?), sleep overtook him immediately.

"Frank Harper! Frank Harper, is that your no-good-for-nothing ass down there?" Through bloodshot eyes all Frank could see was a massive shadow blocking the hatchway. But he knew the voice to be that of Gonzo, Enrique Gonzales. And why is he waking me so damn early.

"Go away you crazy Cuban. I was up all night."

"And you ran into my dock...should go get my gun and sink this old scow and you in it." Gonzo kicked at the refuse in the cockpit and mumbled as he stepped onto the dock, "Be concerned with all his rats coming ashore and attacking me." He shivered at the thought, and Frank supplied the food and goods sold in his small store, that and black-market fuel when supply was lean.

Frank hauled cargo from the boats hold up to a cart on the dock.  His back was pulsating as the last sack of rice was tossed atop the other supplies. The sun beat on his back, thin strips of sinew stretched and torqued below his brown skin  as the cart was pushed up the dock, wheels bouncing and the load shifting. He would stop, push, and pull to keep the load straight, didn't need to have a spill in the water, and lose income. This was Amos' work. Last time I'll let him off. The cart was pushed up a short ramp and into the store. "Where's Amos? I see you working for once, Amos run off on you. He finally have enough of your mouth."

"Amos knows when he's got a good job...an' he's like a brother to me."

Gonzo laughed. "Yeah, and that's why I never seen you with family."

"Amos' daughter is having a kid. First grandkid, an' wasn't bout to miss out." Frank spat out the window into the woods. "If he wasn't like my brother I woulda let 'im go."

"Last night I heard a tanker was torpedoed off Quincy Island. You see anything coming up?"

"Huh. Yeah, don't know the island, but lotta oil. Amos knows the islands, names who lives there, who lived there hundred years ago." Frank didn't understand the use for all those names and dates, who was married to who. Relatives.  He spat out the window.  His navigation charts got him where he needed to go.

"This damn war is gett'n to be a problem ration'n whiskey, tabacca and fuel, how's a guy sposed to make a living, have a little fun."

The shopkeeper shook his head. There was no reasoning with Captain Frank when he got into his rant about how the war was an inconvenience to his life. Gonzo thought about the men that died on the merchant tanker, the inconveniences this would mean for their families and friends.

"You better watch out for those German U-boats. Had fishermen in, said they've seen periscopes, even one said he saw a submarine diving out in the deep water off Tybee Island.

Frank chewed on that. Tybee, I got no reason to be out in the deep water, 'specialy not around Tybee. "I stay inside the islands, I ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout." Frank pulled at his belt, and walked down the dock to his boat. Damn war ain't doin' me no good. If Frank made money off the war, if it didn't get in his way it would be okay. But with rationing, military inspections of boat traffic, and limitation on where he could go and when, just rubbed his independent soul the wrong way. He spat in the water and castoff.

Dogs and Cats by John Coultas

This is a scene from Tripping Over Murder

Darleen pulled at a wayward strand of hair, twisting it around her finger as she read. “Darleen, did you read it?” Emma, tall, thin and blonde gushed. “Wasn’t it just the best?” Darleen head dropped, I don’t need this, not now.

Darleen pushed aside the remains of her lunch as she looked up to her friend. “Emma, have a seat.” How do I do this without hurting her feelings, but stay true to my beliefs? “Did you eat?”

“You know me, energy drink is all I allow myself,” Emma asserted her oft repeated mantra. Darlene should have known better. Yeah, one of the many sacrifices to be made while searching for Mr. Right.

“So, the book? Wasn’t he just such a man, strong, take-no-prisoners type.” Emma swooned a she sat next to her friend.

Darlene leafed the pages of the textbook she had been studying. “I’ve been working on my Trig assignment.” She rubbed at the side of her head to emphasize the mental demands of the work. Graduation just weeks away, major trigonometry test, and my good friend can only think of Mr. Hunk.

“Yeah…whatever…about the book?” Emma was not going to let an inconsequential trig test get in her way.

Darlene sighed. If nothing else Emma was tenacious. “Well, it was an interesting story.” Yes all those body parts flying here and there propelled by the macho hero, not to mention women tossed in and out of his bed chambers.


“Makes me think of dogs and cats,” Darlene offered.

“Dogs and cats? There weren’t dogs or cats in the story.” Emma was bewildered.

“No, something I remember…think it was Mark Twain…” Emma crossed her arms, knowing Darlene was on a major rant. “He said that dogs can be abused by their owner, time and time again, they stay loyal to the end. A cat, if abused just once, will never forget, and their loyalty is held back.”

“Huh?” Emma was puzzled. “That has nothing to do with the story…did you read it?”

“It has everything to do with the story. Your hero abused the heroine, cheated on her and she kept going back, pleading for more abuse. A woman should be more like a cat, not accepting ill treatment, being strong within herself.”

“Wha…but what kind of story would that make? That’s not interesting…not exciting.” Emma’s forehead crinkled recklessly.

“A woman should hold her head high, take pride in her self-worth. In a relationship she should be a coequal with her partner, they should respect and support one another.”

Emma was numb; Darlene’s response deflated her enthusiasm, what good was a story if you couldn’t share it with your best friend. Shoulders slumped, she drifted off to another table.

Darlene went back to her text book, flipping pages but not seeing the numbers and formulas. “That’s not exciting” kept echoing in her head. War, the clanging of swords, the ships scuppers flowing with blood, now there were images that over heated the brain. Living at peace within a community, or with a mate, how so very dull. She exhaled a sigh and went back to her study in earnest.

Down On the Farm

This is a scene from my Tripping Over Murder mystery, enjoy!

Janeane was unsure if this was such a good idea, stopping by Ian’s place unannounced. She found the turnoff that would take her there, a sign over the road announced Shangri-La. The sign didn’t seem to match the north woods; a tropical setting might be apropos. She paused to study the sign; it was a broad wood panel, the letters being composed of metal rosettes pounded into the wood. They appeared to be identical to the one in her possession; several of the metal ornaments were missing. She considered the implications, then shoved off down the hill.

She took her feet off the pedals allowing the bike to coast down the dirt drive to…well through the trees she could see a clearing and at the far end a manmade structure. The road opened out at the edge of a meadow, she identified orange hawkweed and the ever present lupine. Her wildflower study was progressing. And then there was the rustic cabin, nuzzled up amongst the trees. She got off, and walked toward the homestead.

“Hello!” He called out as he came on to the porch, hand waving a welcome. He extended his hand as she approached the steps.

“This is beautiful,” She looked around, in awe of the setting. “I don’t want to speak; I just want to listen to the quiet.” She kicked down the bike stand, and walked along the edge of the drive, she stooped to look at some of the small flowers hidden in the tall grass. “So small, so delicate,” her fingers reaching in to better view the varied colors and shapes.”

Ian crouched next to her, and whispered, “May I speak now?” He smiled, and she returned his.

“Yes, You may speak…but this is just so breathtaking, the openness, the colors, and the mountains off in the distance. To own this, to be a part of it is so special.”

Ian’s brow furrowed, “I don’t really own the farm, yes I have a deed with my name on it.” He stood, along with Janeane, “Some day someone else will come along, hopefully they will feel the same way about the land and the woods as I do. The farm should honor our ancestors, nurture those today who will eat our produce, and it should be fostered to sustain future generations.”

Janeane’s shoulders slumped, Ian had the habit of sucking air out of a rising balloon, or raining on parades, ever the philosopher. “Would you like to see our gardens,” He motioned with one hand. At a turn in the road, beyond an apple orchard stood acre after acre of vegetables. Janeane was able to recognize some of the basics: carrots, turnips, and spinach. Everything was so green, so tall, and so delicious to look upon. “We practice permaculture, no chemicals. The soil was thin here; we built it up with organic amendments, manures, and plant matter. Now we have soil that will produce quality produce as long it is cared for and loved.”

The word loved caught her attention, loving the land, is he a people lover, one who could have a relationship, Janeane wondered. “I hear you saying we.” She looked around, “Who else is involved with the farm.”

“I have a network of friends; you know that I write articles, for conservation and permaculture magazines? Friends will come up when I plant or harvest. We sell at farmers markets as well as bartering.” He chewed on the end of a weed. “It’s not about me; it’s about nurturing the land and having a community that lives in a sustainable way. It is all about we.”

Janeane nodded, damn he is a philosopher, one that likes to get his hands dirty in the soil, She had difficulty responding. “I know that you are from Boston, did you have farming experience before you came up?”

“No, I heard a lecture at my college that changed my life. My parents, many people I know strive to make change through politics; but nothing seems to change. This professor suggested that change needs to come from the bottom up. People should build communities that are autonomous, self sufficient. Everyone sees the big corporation coming to town as the answer, that only last a generation or two. Sustainable communities can go on forever, people nurturing one another’s needs. Buying local, building local, drawing upon local resources.”

God there he goes again, I need to keep my mouth shut. Her eyes glazed.

Ian stooped down, grabbed a handful of the dark earth, feeling it in his palm, “local resources for the local population.” Janeane noticed a tire track near his foot, that same tire, not with the rosette, but the same model. Mr. Flynn at the garage said it was a common tire for older cars, especially imports, like that VW van.

“You must have to do a lot of weeding, and spraying for bugs.”

Ian popped up like he was sprung from a jack-in-the-box, a frown on his face, “We have no sprays here, no chemicals.” Now she had done it, she had fallen down a deep dark well, and he would not help her out. If she hadn’t been thinking about that tire she wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question. Damn.

She melted back a step or two, his laser like gaze was more than she could handle. This was a wasted trip! There was the missing piece from the Shangra-La sign, and maybe that tire track. If only.

Ian realized that he had scared the hell out of the girl from the big city, she didn’t know any better. “I’m sorry.” He offered an apology. “And you made that long ride from town, you must be tired.” He looked up at the sun, “We can sit on the porch, I have juice in the frig.” He smiled.

Janeane gave him a tentative nod, and a sideways smile. “Okay.” Well I get a second chance here. Don’t blow it Janeane!


 Sitting on the steps in the shade Janeane thought about who comes and goes on the farm and what sort of vehicles might be involved.

“Here you go,” Ian handed Janeane a glass filled with a greenish liquid. She thought about asking what it was, her statistics with questions was abysmal. She smiled and drank. Then she gave an honest smile.

“Taste good.” But she was not going to ask, if he offered that would be fine, but no questions. She clicked the toes of her shoes together.

“It’s a natural fruit powder, from the health food store.”

Janeane nodded, deep in thought, “Do you use a tractor to plow your fields?”

“Oh, no, Mac Dill down the road has a team of mules. I do work for him and he lets me use his team. That kind of makes me a part-time mule.” He made a slight chuckle; the closest Janeane had ever seen him get to a laugh. Lighten up Ian.

“Have you had anyone helping you in the fields lately?” Janeane held her breath, she wasn’t sure if she was pressing too hard, asking intrusive questions. Please, please!

“Popper and his family have been here off and on.” There was another almost laugh, as he thought about Poppers work ethic. “Out beyond the gardens there are several camp sites, the Popejoy’s, Popper, his wife Natasha and the kids have been staying. I haven’t seen them for a few days. Like I said they come and go. He will help some.”

Janeane let that rumble around in her head. That’s it, no more questions; thank him for the farm tour, and the drink and you are on your way. She thought about what she had gathered from this outing: The source of the rosette, another tire track, and a name, the Popejoy family, not confirmed but possible.

The Picnic by John Coultas

This is a scene from Tripping Over Murder

Dan drove up past the old lighthouse, an abandoned cider mill and then into a parking area adjoining a meadow. He took Janean's picnic basket from the trunk, the detective leading the way along a trail through the knee high grasses and yellow sun flowers. He stopped, "This is the spot." Grabbing the ground blanket from his date he flung it out letting it settle onto the green stalks. She took in the setting, listened to the distant ocean and the calls of the seabirds.

Smiling at Dan she asked, "How is it you knew of this place?"

Taking on his professional face he imparted, "Many a time it was necessary to come up here to rescue an underage lover."

"Ah, so you brought me to a place where young women are known to be debauched." She feigned innocence for his benefit. "Some date this is." this

"One can only hope." He replyed with a shrug.

Janeane laid back on the blanket, staring at the fleeced clouds passing above. “Librarians are a lot like detectives,” She began her well rehearsed quest for details on Detective Kane’s investigations. “We need to be aware of the territory, what went before, what may be coming down the road.” Sitting up she looked at the seascape spread out to the east, pulling for elements to add to her waning train of thought. Her head nodded, deep in thought. “We need to look below the surface…” The tranquility of place, the grass, the bay below, the cloud dappled sky washed away her designs.

“And?” He asked.

Her head bobbed along with the fishing boat, her point of focus. “Hmm.”

“And?” His query came again.

“Oh, where was I?” She looked at Dan, surprised at her lapse in thought.

“I’m not sure where you were going; you were talking about looking deep, like below the surface; at what I am not sure.”

“Now I remember. Librarians deal with a vast amount of information, we sift through it, determine what is and isn’t relevant, and voila, the answer is found.”

“But you are searching for someone else, a customer. The customer asks the question and you find what they want, they determine the truth in a sense.”

“Truth, interesting, I never thought of it in that sense.” Her chin wrested on arms crossed at her knees, her eyes back on the bobbing fishing boat. “Hmm, truth is the answer…librarian think in terms or right or wrong, correct or incorrect…funny how truth carries such a strong, noble sound. Truth, justice,” Her head began the rhythmic bob, “They demand a lot of a person, of a system.” She looked at Dan who was rolling a stalk of grass between finger and thumb. He nodded.

“I try,” Was his somber response. “I work for the chief and the county prosecutor, they are my customers, they evaluate what I come up with.” He looked at the picnic hamper, “All these deep thoughts are making me hungry, how about lunch?”



Dan helped Janeane, putting the remains of their lunch into the hamper, a crust of hard bread, the last of the wine, and pieces of cheese rind. "I can’t imagine a more wonderful picnic,” She inhaled the ocean air, giving the officer-of-the- law a satisfied smile. He leaned to her, kissing her neck. Gasping she fell backwards and he on top. He rolled to her side, kissing her mouth, to which she pushed away. “No, not here. You never know who might pass by.” She sat up, and looked toward the parking lot.

“Are all librarians like this, so concerned with looking prim and proper?” Dan brushed grass from his slacks

“It’s just so public here; I mean someone could drive by.” She again stared at the road. “I don’t care for it, having to be circumspect, but it comes with the job. It feels hypocritical. Teachers and librarians are held to high moral standards.” She stood, “Help me with the blanket, and you can come back to my apartment, we will draw the curtains tight, finish off the wine, and what you started here.”

Dan offered a lascivious leer as he grabbed one edge of the blanket, “I think I can live with that.”



Janeane’s apartment was dark; she sat in the corner of the couch with Dan. He had returned to where he had begun, exploring her neck with his lips, moving on to her mouth; their arms and legs were entangled as the level of heat built between the two. She relaxed allowing the emotions to wash over her. “I’m going to be in need of help here.” He suggested. How could he need help, his practiced fingers lightly strummed her body?

“How is that?”

“I’ve never done it…you know…with a librarian.” He said. She couldn’t see his face but she could sense the wide grin.

“Well I have all the parts that other women have, and I hope they respond as they should.”

“They are,” He purred, “Oh, how they are.” His hands groped and her body arched and ached in kind.

“Oh Dan, I have never been stimulated like this before. Oh Dan, do it. Don’t stop.” Her body rose and fell against his.

“No! No!” Dan seemed to be losing control, “Damn!” His hands went to his pockets, Janine fell back panting; wanting more, not wanting the moment to end.

“Why did you stop it was so good, you were just…”

He pulled the cell phone from his pocket, “It was on vibrate.”

He scowled at the device, opened the clam shell and growled, “Kane!”

Barbarian Invasion by John Coultas

A scene from my Tripping Over Murder story

The nose of the skateboard skimmed along inches above the sidewalk, Grunge the navigator shot across the curb into Main Street traffic, avoiding collision with irate soccer moms and cautious seniors. There was the squealing of brakes and shouted epithets from startled drivers. At the opposite curb he jumped his board high in the air, spun and gave a flourish of the hand and a bow as he landed for the benefit of the not so amused motorists.

“Grunge!” Flyman called out, “Cool spin, and did you see that old broad flip you off, thought she was going to have one of those stroke things.” He snorted as he laughed.

Grunge flipped his board in the air, caught it with one hand and swiped at the hair hanging in his face. “That was Mrs. Egan, lives on my block, I'll hear about it from my Mom.”

“Not so cool dude.” Flyman offered. “Hey, there's Tops.”

Tops approached, and leaned back on his board bringing it to a stop, “What's going Dudes?” He mumbled, he was not a man of many words. “The cops chased me off Main Street, The big guy.”

“Officer Dan, he’s okay, didn’t write you up did he. I heard he knew how to raise hell in his day. He knows what it’s like.” Grunge informed, “That new librarian starts work today. I talked to her at the Burger Barn the other night, kind’a cute for a librarian I guess, lot nicer than those old ladies that work there now.” He shot out with his board, “Let’s go see what she’s doing over there, might be cool.” Flyman and Tops shrugged and followed.

They shouted, jumped and spun their way to the old Carnegie building. Stopping at the front, they eyed the eight steps leading up to the entrance. “What do you think, can we do it.” Grunge asked. Tops and Flyman thought it over looked out to the street and down the sidewalk.

“Don’t see that Officer Dan guy,” Was Flyman’s thought on the subject.

“Dude, don’t be such a weenie,” Tops didn’t care about cops; he had a reputation to maintain. They spread their legs wide on the boards and began a much practiced walk up the steps, shifting, twisting, and lifting the nose then the tail. It would have been quicker walking, but this demonstrated to the world who they were, and what they could do.


Miss Morrissey was behind the counter sorting cards. She took great pride in her work, for over sixty years she interfiled cards into the libraries catalog. Some would have considered such an assignment, “Cruel and Unusual Punishment.” The frail senior made of it an art form, not to mention it gave her lifetime job security. No other staff member could be convinced it was not a mind deadening occupation. Just as she was considering her next card, the broad oak paneled door was flung open. Standing in the door way, back lit by the afternoon sun were three imposing silhouettes. Boards in hand, gladiator-like figures stepped forward. Morrissey’s birdlike body shook, her quivering hands went to her face,” They’re here, oh my god they're here!” A trilling gasp could be heard reverberating around the sacrosanct reading room.

”Were here for the young librarian,” Tops proclaimed, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“Yeah dude, that cute one.” Grunge added giving a melodramatic effect.

Morrissey’s body verged on shaking its self to pieces, her lips formed words but nothing came out. At last she gained control of her mouth, “Rape, murder,” She screamed.

Miss Morrissey ran from the counter, past the parting boarders, screaming her way out the front door. At the top step, in front of Somerset’s venerable library the octogenarian shouted, “Murder, help, crazed murderers.”

The Stalker by John Coultas

This is a scene from my story Tripping Over Murder

She hummed to herself as she wound along the forest road. John had offered to ride into town with her, she was insistent that she was an accomplished rider; she would have no problems, finding her way or avoiding catastrophes.

On the paved main road she sensed a car behind her, she kept to the shoulder to avoid a collision, giving the driver room to pass. Back to her humming she forgot about the car and focused on John. The warmth he generated in her. And what an accomplished person, building his cabin, surviving in the woods, baking and cooking, what a guy. He was the true Renaissance man.

Back to the real world she thought about that car, it never passed. Quick glances over her shoulder would reveal a flash of color behind or she would hear a distant crunch of gravel.

There was a rise above, at the top she would stop and look back to see who was following her. At the high point she did just that, she looked back upon vacant pavement, but around a bend there were wisps of vapor, such as that made by an idling vehicle.

There was a good grade down this side of the hill, she would put distance between herself and whoever it was that was following. She pushed off, and began pumping the peddles, keeping her head low, she whipped around the first curve. She could feel the tires slip a bit but she came out fine, ahead she was going to go through a dark tunnel of overhanging pine and oak. She remembered this turn, not as tight as the one above, another look over her shoulder, she thought her stalker was still there.

Inside the tunnel it was night like, and cold, again she pumped at the peddles, she knew that she would be going into the curve just as she came out into the light. Her eyes adjusted rapidly, she forced the handle bars into the turn, God no! Her peripheral vision picked up a brown blur, she was hit from the side, the impact felt like a Mack truck.


“Janeane,” She could here someone calling her name, from far away. It was dark, nighttime or was it a thick fog. “Janeane,” The voice called again, maybe closer. There was pain all over, her head felt as if it had exploded. Someone was pulling her arm, shaking it. Don’t do that it hurts, everything hurts, go away leave me in my pain! “Janeane, its Dan, are you okay?”

Her eyes flickered to narrow slits, “Ouch,” She complained, “No I’m not okay. Go away! Just let me die here.”

“Good, I thought you might really be injured,” Dan leaned back holding on to her hand.

“What hit me, all I remember was the force...and then my rough awakening? You need to work on your bedside manner.”

“A herd of deer came across the road. Lucky they butted you to the side, otherwise you would have been road kill.”

“Oh, deer," Janeane groaned,"Who would of thought Bambi could be so careless?”

“Lot of people get injured up here...even killed...by our deer, not to mention elk and moose.”

“So, how did you know that it was a deer that hit me?” She gave Dan the quizzical look.

“Oh, I saw, I was up the road.” Innocence planted on his face.

She winced as she sat up, “You were behind me? You were the one following me? You were the one that made me ride like a maniac down this deer infested road and almost killed me? Some help you aren’t.” Her hands went to her throbbing head.

“You want me to call the paramedics?”

“No, just take me and my bike back to town. Where is my bike?” She looked around.

“Like I said you were lucky they nudged you to the side...you could have died." His hand scrubbed at his ten o'clock shadow," The bike got trampled. I’ll put what’s left in the trunk and drive you back to town.” He offered shoulders slumping.

“My bike!” She began sobbing. That bike had been so important to her, her only means of transportation for years. She wasn’t sure she could survive without it. She gritted her teeth, restraining herself from putting all the blame on Dan. And why was he following me. She looked at him through her tear filled eyes.

All of this would have to be resolved in time. Right now she would have to shape up for work on Monday. Miss Chambers would disapprove of a battered and bruised librarian. She felt her face, a bump on the forehead, an abrasion on the cheek. With a sweep of hair across the bump, and the cheek would be covered by a slathering of makeup, that should do it.

The Bike Ride by John Coultas

This is a scene from a story Tripping over Murder

Janeane's hair flew out behind her; she inhaled the cool country air as she pumped at the bike pedals, swishing along the grass lined road. The green of the fields was broken by the occasional farmstead or the fiery colors of the woodlands. The track steepened forcing her to stand on the pedals, Stairmaster style, bursts of breath coming from her mouth. At the crest of the hill she stopped and looked down upon Somerset, the stiletto like white church spire, the somber brick town hall and further out on the cape the solitary lighthouse; she felt a warm surge from the picture card beauty, and from the exertion of the ride.

Putting her finger tips to her carotid artery she checked her pulse. If she was going to kill herself she wanted to know that the effort had been worth it. She smiled at the results, satisfied she had gotten a good workout. She flipped the bike around and headed downhill. The slope carried her along at a good speed, just coasting, enjoying the ride. She savored the g-forces going through the curves, and the breeze mussing her hair. And then, on the next curve there was a flash, something metallic on the road surface, then a bump, and a thump, thump, thump as she came to a halt with a deflated front tire.

Getting off she gave the wheel a spin, a thick screw was impaled in the tire. No spare tire obviously, no spare tube or tool kit, this was going to be a long walk back home pushing the bike. On the ride up she had not seen any cars, at one of those farms, she would phone. But who would she phone. Mary Smart? Officer Dan, he would give her a good chewing, going out without tools and a spare inner tube. She would have to get to a phone before that decision would be made.

She tried to make the best of the situation, there was warmth in the sunshine, the field exuded a fresh sweet aroma and the birds trilled from the groves. An explosion behind her shattered the quiet. She jumped. Turning she saw the source, bearing down upon her was a massive wall of yellow, splotched with flowers of multicolors, red, purple and blue. It screeched to a halt, smoke spewing from where the brakes probably were housed or not. As the window was rolled down, a sweet, heavy fog oozed forth; and a bandana wrapped head and sunglasses popped out to view the deflated tire, "Man, your bike is dead," The wearer suggested.


"Flat tire," Janeane countered.

"That too man," His head started nodding, it just kept going, it didn't want to stop. His hand came onto the scene with a funny, thin twisted cigarette, he sucked, and then it disappeared into the van. The head continued the bobbing, his lips pursed, "Yeah man, dead. Put it in back; give you a lift to town."

Janeane froze. Standing with the bike between her and the head bobber she could run for the field, maybe find her way to a farm before she became just another crime statistic. Bobber cracked his door open just as Janeane heard the drivers side pop as well. God, now she was in deep stuff. Two of them chasing her, she remembered the nature films where one pursuer comes on strong while the other holds back, then comes on for the kill, she shuddered. But then it was too late. Around the front of the bus came a figure, maybe six-four, muscular, denim vest, tight jeans, Harley cap snugged down over long flowing blonde hair. "Sweetheart let me help you with that." She gripped the crossbar with one hand, went to the back, flipped up the door and popped the bike in. Janeane's feet shuffled in the roadside grit unsure what to do; The Bobber just continued the bob, interrupted by intermittent drags on his smoke. Muscle girl/woman came forward to slide the passenger door open, exposing two children quietly sucking on their thumbs.

"Jump in," Muscles suggested. Behind the children there was space where camping gear and duffels were stacked. "We'll take you down to Somerset, that okay?" Muscles inquired.

Janeane gave this some quick consideration. They had her bike, there were kids on the scene, they wouldn't bump her off in front of the kids, would they? She summoned a wan smile and slid onto a low-lying duffle as the Bobber rolled the door closed. Then Mom and Dad sat themselves up front. Muscle Mom looked to her cargo, assured all was in order. From her vest pocket she pulled a cloth bag and a packet of Bugler roll-your-own paper. She pulled out a sheet, making a trough, sprinkled something from the pouch, folded and licked it sealed. Looking in the rearview mirror she held up her project, "Want one?" Muscles asked.

Janeane declined with a soft, "No thanks." She thought to herself, “Am I coming over prissy, Is that how I sounded...judgmental,” She tried to return a pleasant neutral smile. Mom lit-up, took a deep drag and then turned over the engine, it gave a pop, shudder and then the engine smoothed out to a gentle rumble. She eased on to the road, and the Bobber began rolling another, a family that ... well a family they are. Janeane was just glad to be on the way home. The open windows pushed the smoke to the rear, little wonder that children were so mellow. She ran her hand across her mouth hoping to avoid the smoke, somehow.

As the road descended into town the smokes were crushed, but saved to a pocket,

Janeane gave directions to the coffee house; she needed her drug of choice. The bus rattled to a stop. Bobs jumped out to open the side door and Mom got the bike from the back. Janeane gave thanks for her deliverance, and found her way to her coffee hangout.

The bike was pushed with one hand, Janeane's other held the paper sack with coffee latte and oatmeal cookies, that would be dinner, not nutritious but a dinner of sorts. Down the sidewalk to her house she went. "Oh, no!" Her interior voice shouted, at her house she saw the stakeout. Officer Dan in civvies camped on her front steps. She approached with caution, kicking down the bike stand, awaiting the critical assessment of her condition and that of her personal eco-transporter. He stood back taking in the disheveled hair and the flattened tire. "Appears you had one tough day," He exhaled as he stood, pulling Janeane close his nose twitched, and he pushed her back. "Where have you been and what have you been doing?" Came the gruff, professional cop voice. Frown lines grooved his forehead, hands on hips he hovered over her, and sniffed like a DEA drug hound.