This is the first full length novel I acquired and edited for 4RV Publishing.
Kay, a reporter for the Barber Gazette, stood outside in the blistering heat, her nose scorched red by the blazing sun. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down her cheeks, but nothing could keep her from witnessing Skeeter’s old bulldozer crush the tar out of the abandoned county jail, not even the burning assault of a sultry Arkansas afternoon. She needed the story for the local paper.
Once the building became a pile of rubble, she discovered words on a block of plaster, a haunting poem, written by a young man who died in his cell. His cry from the grave led her on a journey to find the truth about his family and rumored Confederate treasure. The quest, which led her from Arkansas to Texas and back through history, lay covered by the Dust of Lies.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
I stood in the blistering heat, my nose torched red by the blazing sun. The air hung heavy with stifling humidity. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down my cheeks and the back of my neck, collecting in a sweat-slick between my shoulders. But, nothing could keep me from witnessing Skeeter’s old bulldozer crush the tar out of the abandoned county jail, not even the burning assault of a sultry Arkansas afternoon.
As the only reporter for the Barber Gazette, I felt a duty to record the demolition of one of the few remaining relics of a bygone era. I needed take a few pictures, write my column, and give Thursday’s weekly paper a headline to commemorate its historic passing.
A small band of locals milled around as Skeeter aligned his ancient machine head-on with the crumbling edifice. He revved the engine twice, sending soot clouds billowing out of the exhaust and, with great deliberation, inched the lumbering dozer toward its target. The blade grabbed the base of the rickety structure, lifting the stucco and timber off its foundation. The jail resisted the onslaught with the stamina of a primal warrior. Again and again, Skeeter retreated and took aim. Gears groaned as the iron beast waged battle against walls of ancient brick and mortar, sending rotten timbers crashing to the ground in a tangled mass of metal roofing. Broken slabs of plaster teetered on heaps of debris, encased in a powdery fog of dust. Slowly, the dust settled, signaling the end of the primitive house of incarceration.
The sun had passed its prime, sinking low in the west. The fiery ball now rested on the shoulders of Sugar Loaf Mountain, allowing evening shadows to stalk the little valley town of Barber. I panicked. The demolition consumed most of the afternoon, and I still had work to do. I snapped pictures and interviewed a few spectators. As I turned to leave, a string of words scrawled on a busted block of plaster caught my eye. The broken block reminded me of a weathered grave marker, like the ones found in long-forgotten cemeteries. Bending, I traced the letters with my finger, revealing the words of a poem:
Here I hang
With my face to the wall
Ora Price was the cause
Of it all!
I stopped and stared at the poem; the words resonating in my head. What happened here?
Here is an article I wrote about this story prior to its publication.
Series: Dust Chronicles (Book 1)
Paperback: 236 pages
Publisher: 4rv Fiction (February 3, 2020)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1950074072
ISBN-13: 978-1950074075
Available now at:
