The Tesla Effect Novelization. |
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It all started with two gunshots.
I watched from the back seat as Chelsee was shot in the neck and crumpled against the window. Then I saw the barrel of a gun pointed at me and felt the impact of a round in my chest, like a fist punch. I was instantly flooded with adrenaline, my heart racing and brain spinning with panic and horror and disbelief, but more than anything, confusion.
Why is this happening?!
Then everything went black. I heard another shot, a muted pop, and it seemed to flip some sort of internal switch. My conscious and subconscious overlapped for several moments and then I realized I was waking up. I felt a wave of relief. It was just a nightmare.
Then I heard more gunfire. The shots in my dream had been muffled with a silencer. These were loud and real and very close.
I tried to open my eyes, but couldn’t. I was lying on my back, with something metal digging into my shoulder blades. When I tried to shift, I realized my entire body was paralyzed – by sleep or drugs, I couldn’t tell. All I could do was listen and even that was foggy.
Two different weapons were exchanging rounds, the blasts echoing all around. I heard a man bark out a command, something like “Get him” or “Get in”, then the heavy thud of a speeder door slamming shut. Two more shots were fired and I thought I detected the faint crunch of cracking glass. A powerful engine began to rumble, followed by repetitive beeps warning that the speeder was lifting off. More gunshots, hitting metal. And then a roar of acceleration as the vehicle sped up and away. I listened until it faded in the distance. Everything went deathly quiet.
I felt myself slipping back into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
I was jolted awake by the vibration and sound of heavy, clanking footsteps. I had no sense of how much time had passed, but I hadn’t moved an inch, still lying on my back with the same metal underneath me. My face was baking in sunlight. I raised a hand to shield my face and opened my eyes. Blue sky and a brilliant afternoon sun. The most dangerous time of day. I was being exposed to high levels of radiation…and had been for who knows how long.
With a huge effort, I managed to roll onto my side. As I did, I felt a bowling ball burp out of the ball return at the base of my skull and smash into my frontal lobe. Grey specks danced in front of my eyes and I braced myself as the tsunami of pain inundated me and then gradually receded. I pulled myself into a seated position and finally got my bearings. I was on the landing of the fire-escape outside my office/apartment on the top floor of the Ritz Hotel. Not a clue how I’d gotten here. It felt like there was a big black hole where my short-term memories should be. The last thing I could remember was being on a stakeout…outside a steakhouse, ironically enough. I had no idea how long ago that had been or how I’d ended up here.
It had been a long time since I’d woken up somewhere unexpected. More than a year, around the time I met Chelsee and decided she was a good reason to quit trying to drown myself in tiny glasses of bourbon.
Two uniformed cops were trudging up the fire escape. I didn’t recognize either one. I slid over into a swath of shade against the door and patted my pockets in search of nicotine. I found a crumpled pack of Llamas in my shirt pocket and fired one up. As the chemicals hit my bloodstream, I felt the brain fog start to lift. Thank god. I’d had at least a half-dozen serious concussions and I was pretty sure this was unlucky number seven. I knew that a common side effect of head trauma was impaired or lost memory. That’s why they ask if you know what year it is or if you can name the president. I was pretty sure it was June of 2043. The president? Who cares.
The lead cop stopped a couple steps below the landing and leaned onto the railing. He was middle-aged and mostly round. The three-story climb had left him red-faced and short of breath.
“Sorry to wake you up,” he gasped. “You looked like a corpse from down on the street.”
“Yeah, that’s my bad side,” I said, exhaling a long stream of smoke.
“Are you all right?” he asked without much concern.
“Just dandy,” I replied, despite all evidence to the contrary.
The cop sized me up, trying to get a read on the situation. Behind him, his junior partner was young, fit and raring to go. “Sir, we’re investigating a report of shots fired somewhere in this vicinity. We’d appreciate any information you could give us.”
I considered whether or not to tell them what I’d heard. Two gunmen, a big speeder and, possibly, an abduction. But no idea who, what or why. The one thing I knew was that me being k.o.’d on the fire escape while it was going on was probably not a coincidence. It might justify another entry into my long list of ‘P.I. Rules’: If you regain consciousness in the middle of a gunfight, you’re probably involved. I needed to investigate, preferably before these beat cops mucked up the crime scene or, even worse, found an actual clue. Telling them what I’d heard wouldn’t be much help, but might just encourage them.
“The only shots I know about were in a bar last night,” I said, probably lying. I know what it feels like to wake up from a black-out bender. This was different, but it was the most plausible explanation for my suspicious circumstances. “It was a hell of a shootout".
The cops exchanged looks. The older one seemed inclined to believe me. The younger one, not so much. He glanced at the door behind me and read what was written there: “Tex Murphy, Private Investigator.” He looked back down at me. “You Murphy?”
“Solid deduction.”
“Let’s see some I-D.”
The older cop waved him off. “We don’t need I-D. This is him.” He pulled out a handkerchief and used it to dab sweat from his forehead. “He’s pretty well-known downtown.” He turned to me. “You know we could take you in for questioning.”
I flicked ash off the end of my cigarette. “Sure. I’d be happy to. It’s been a while since I tossed cookies in the back of a squad car.” For added effect, I put a finger to my pursed lips and suppressed a burp.
No one likes vomit – a fact I was banking on. The last thing I wanted was to go downtown. I had a somewhat precarious relationship with law enforcement. Every time the cops got called to anything within a mile radius of Chandler Avenue, they’d end up knocking at my door, assuming I was involved, hoping I was a suspect. This time was the same, only more so. My convenient ‘amnesia’ would make me even more suspicious than usual.
I pulled myself up and lost my balance, staggering back against the door. It wasn’t an act. I wasn’t drunk, but my skull was getting jackhammered. My knees and back felt like they were in rigor mortis. The left side of my ribcage and the inside of my right arm were burning.
What the hell had happened to me?
“OK, Murphy,” said the older cop. “We’re gonna go take a look around. If we find out you’re not bein’ straight with us, we’ll be back. We could get a warrant on you pretty quick.”
They turned and headed back down the stairs. When they got to the bottom, they conferred quietly, glanced back up at me and then walked further into the alley, toward where I’d heard the shots fired. A moment later, they disappeared into the parking lot behind the Ritz.
I took a long, last drag off my cigarette, flicked the butt and watched it float lazily down to the ground and land in a tiny explosion of sparks. I gritted my teeth and started down the stairs. As I made my way down, I scanned the area. It was maybe twenty feet wide, separating the Ritz Hotel and the Electronics Shop, and sixty feet deep, running from Chandler Avenue and ending at a tall concrete retainer wall. There was no evidence of a shootout that I could see.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and headed down the street. The cops either didn’t hear or care. Chandler Avenue was deserted – not surprising considering the time of day. Most people wouldn’t be waking up for another hour or two. With no other witnesses to interview, the cops would probably do a cursory search of the area and leave. If I was lucky, all I had to do was lay low for a while and wait for them to clear out. Then I could come back to the scene and try to find out what l I’d just slept through.
Under a Killing Moon. Soon to be back in print.
It's December 2042 and Tex Murphy, last of the old-style PIs, has hit rock bottom. A run of tough luck and a soured marriage have left Tex nursing a bottle of cheap bourbon and wishing he could sink right into the pavement. Then a priceless statuette is stolen. From the shadowy back streets of post-apocalyptic San Francisco come rumors that an ancient evil, foretold by prophecy and worshiped by an ancient blood cult, has mysteriously reawakened. When Tex is hired to find the statuette, he plunges into a labyrinth of deceit, manipulation, and murder. He'll need all of his PI instincts and every ounce of Murphy savoir faire to resist the seduction of darkness and stop the forces of evil before the terrifying prophecies become reality.
Good Reads rated Under a Killing Moon 5 of 5 stars |
David Kerr rated Pandora Directive 5 of 5 stars |
The Pandora Directive. Soon to be back in print.
It’s the year 2043 and post World War III Old San Francisco is a seedy, radioactive dive, but P.I. Tex Murphy calls it home. The women in Tex’s life are either washed up or shipping out, and this private dick is singing the lonesome gumshoe blues. Jack Daniels seems more like family everyday. Until one night at the Brew & Stew . . .Project Bluebook was the official government investigation of Unidentified Flying Objects that examined, among other things, the "incident" at Roswell, New Mexico. The official story has been told: The Roswell crash was a balloon, nothing more. Project Bluebook was closed. But the real story is that Project Bluebook became Project Blueprint and helped start World War III.
How does Tex get involved? Well, he meets an old Cubana-smoking gent who’s looking for a missing friend. It doesn’t seem like much of a case at first, but then Tex Murphy has never been very good at staying out of trouble . . .
How does Tex get involved? Well, he meets an old Cubana-smoking gent who’s looking for a missing friend. It doesn’t seem like much of a case at first, but then Tex Murphy has never been very good at staying out of trouble . . .
Interested in giving the novels a try? Here are the first few chapters. Give a click on download to read, and back arrow to come back here seamlessly. Or just scroll down a bit. They are posted on site below. Stay tuned...this will be the place to get a sneak peek at the next novel. |
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Under A Killing Moon Novel Excerpt.
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Pandora Directive Novel Excerpt.
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In addition to the novels, there is a screenplay of Pandora Directive written and pitched to movie executives.
It is available to read in it's entirety below. 35 meg file.
A Black Sun Ascending |
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