It's May 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog
tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an
author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!
and his book:
Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
RobertLiparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and
short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His
work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers
Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications.
In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing
Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as
Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three
screenplays.
Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader,
traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado
with his wife and four children.
Here are some of his titles:
Comes a
Horseman
Germ
Deadfall
My Review:
I thorougly enjoyed reading this book. I soon grew attached to each of the characters and was quickly engrosed in the plot. All the twists and turns occupied my mind and I frequently found myself wondering about certain mysteries in the book. I can't wait to read book two!
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
A house of which one knows every room isn't
worth living in.
-Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
Prologue
Thirty years ago
The walls of the house absorbed the woman's screams, until they felt to her as muffled and
pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house.
She knew where they were heading, but not where she would end up. In this house, nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her taking would be untraceable. She would be unreachable
to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her family� and that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death.
But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm
of her fate was more than she could stand.
"Go back," she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak.
The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor.
Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, "Mom!" His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in
the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped
on the hardwood floor and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped.
She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her
brother. He clambered up and started to run again.
A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back.
The boy's father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He past the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction.
Thank God, she thought.
He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her
wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner
now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him
with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as
well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped passed.
She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor
walls, mostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with
her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It
was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to
a disruption in the way things were supposed to be, a glitch in reality.
"Henry," she said, pleading, hopeful.
His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lamp�s heavy base
down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If
he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it.
What he did was
stop. He spun around so quickly, the woman�s husband lost his grip on her. And
now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her
husband�s visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he
was face to face with the man who�d taken her, and that felt like watching him
step off a cliff.
"Nooo!" she screamed, her voice finding some volume. "Henry!"
His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall.
The lights went out completely . . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blistery day.
She tasted blood. She'd bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him,
calling him. Her son's eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw,
pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his
father�s legs, coming to her rescue. Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He
reached for the boy, but missed.
Over the huffing breath of the
man, the soft patter of her son's feet reached her ears. How she'd loved that
sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away,
away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice.
The boy kept coming.
She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off.
Her assailant turned again, into a room, one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the real room. He strode straight toward the next threshold.
Her son reached the first door, catching it as
it was closing.
"Mom!" Panic etched old-man lines into his young
face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the
jamb, trying to hurry in.
"Stay!" she said. She showed him her
palms in a �stop� gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She
took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the
depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms,
but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The
door was swinging shut behind him.
The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of
the boy's irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He
wore his favorite pajamas, little R2D2s and C3P0s all over them, becoming
threadbare and too small for him.
"I–" she started, meaning to say
she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her
stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal chords, tongue, lips. Just
air.
"Moooom!" her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching. Almost
to the door.
"Mo–!"
The door closed, separating her from her
family forever.
1
Now
Saturday, 4:55 P.M.
"Nothing but trees," the bear said
in Xander's voice. It repeated itself: "Nothing but trees."
Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face,
with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. He said, "I mean it, Toria.
Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off."
His sister's hands moved quickly over the teddy bear's paws, all the while keeping it
suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear said, "I mean it, Toria. Get
that–"
At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it.
"Mom!" Toria yelled. "Make him give Wuzzy back!" She grabbed
for it.
Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his
body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but trees�as he had said and
Wuzzy had agreed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This
time, it was The Edge, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening
shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush
forest. Nothing but trees.
A month ago, his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. It was a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from
their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pinedale. The name
itself said "hick," "small," and "If you don't die here, you'll wish you had."
Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in
the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and
twelve-year-old brother.
The longer they drove, the thicker the
woods grew and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough, leaving his
friends, his school–everything!–but to be leaving them for hicksville, in the
middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart.
"Mom!" Toria yelled again, reaching for the bear.
Xander squeezed closer to the
door, away from her. He must have put pressure on the bear in the wrong place:
It began chanting in Toria's whiny voice: "Mom! Mom! Mom!"
He frantically squeezed Wuzzy's paws, but could not make it stop.
"Mom! Mom! Mom!"
The controls in the bear's arms weren't working.
Frustrated by its continuous one-word poking at his brain–and a little concerned
he had broken it and would have to buy her a new one–he looked to his sister for
help.
She wasn't grabbing for it anymore. Just grinning. One of
those see-what-happens-when-you-mess-with-me smiles.
"Mom! Mom! Mom!"
Xander was about to show her what happened when you messed
with him–the possibilities ranged from a display of his superior vocal volume to
ripping Mr. Wuzzy's arms right off–when the absurdity of it struck him. He
cracked up.
"I mean it," he laughed. "This thing is driving me
crazy." He shook the bear at her. It continued yelling for their mother.
His brother David, who was sitting on the other side of Toria and who
had been doing a good job of staying out of the fight, started laughing too. He
mimicked the bear, who was mimicking their sister: "Mom! Mom! Mom!"
Mrs. King shifted around in the front passenger seat. She was smiling, but her
eyes were curious.
"Xander broke Wuzzy!" Toria whined. "He won�t
turn off." She pulled the bear out of Xander's hands.
The furry beast stopped talking: "Mo–" Then, blessed silence.
Toria looked from brother to brother and they laugh again.
Xander shrugged. "I guess he just doesn't like me."
"He only likes me," Toria said,
hugging it.
"Oh, brother," David said. He went back to the PSP
game that had kept him occupied most of the drive.
Mom raised her eyebrows at Xander and said, "Be nice."
Xander rolled his eyes. He adjusted his shoulders and wiggled his behind, nudging Toria. "It's too cramped back here. It may be an SUV, but it isn't big enough for us anymore."
"Don't start that,'' his father warned from behind the wheel. He angled the
rearview mirror to see his son.
''What?" Xander said, acting
innocent.
"I did the same thing with my father," Dad said. "The
car's too small . . . it uses too much gas . . . it's too run down . . . "
Xander smiled. "Well, it is."
"And if we get a new car, what should we do with this one?"
"Well . . . ." Xander said. "You
know. It'd be a safe car for me." A ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner wasn't his idea
of cool wheels, but it was transportation.
Dad nodded. "Getting you a car is something we can talk about, okay? Let's see how you do."
"I have my driver's permit. You know I'm a good driver."
"He is," Toria chimed in.
David added, "And then he can drive us to school."
"I didn't mean just the driving," Dad said. He paused,
catching Xander's eyes in the mirror. "I mean with all of this, the move and
everything."
Xander stared out the window again. He mumbled,
"Guess I'll never get a car, then."
"Xander?" Dad said. "I didn't
hear that."
"Nothing."
"He said he'll never get a
car," Toria said.
Silence. David�s thumbs clicked furiously over the PSP buttons. Xander was aware of his mom watching him. If he looked, her eyes would be all sad-like, and she would be frowning in sympathy for him. He thought maybe his dad was looking too, but only for an opportunity to explain himself again. Xander didn't want to hear it. Nothing his old man said would
make this okay, would make ripping him out of his world less awful than it was.
"Dad, is the school's soccer team good? Did they place?" David
asked. Xander knew his brother wasn't happy about the move either, but jumping
right into the sport he was so obsessed about went a long way toward making the
change something he could handle. Maybe Xander was like that three years ago,
just rolling with the punches. He couldn't remember. But now he had things in
his life David didn't: friends who truly mattered, ones he thought he'd spend
the rest of his life with. Kids didn't think that way. Friends could come and go
and they adjusted. True, Xander had known his current friends for years, but
they hadn't become like blood until the last year or so.
That got him thinking about Danielle. He pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket
and checked it. No text messages from her. No calls. She hadn't replied to the
last text he'd sent. He keyed in another: "Forget me already? JK." But he wasn�t
Just Kidding. He knew the score: Out of sight, out of mind. She had said all the
right things, like We'll talk on the phone all the time; You come down and see
me and I'll come up to see you, okay? and I'll wait for you.
Yeah, sure you will, he thought. Even during the past week, he'd sensed a coldness in
her, an emotional distancing. When he'd told his best friend, Dean had shrugged.
Trying to sound world-wise, he'd said, "Forget her, dude. She's a hot young
babe. She's gotta move on. You too. Not like you're married, right?" Dean had
never liked Danielle.
Xander tried to convince himself she was just another friend he was forced to leave behind. But there was a different kind of ache in his chest when he thought about her. A heavy weight in his
stomach.
Stop it! he told himself. He flipped his phone closed.
On his mental list of the reasons to hate the move to Pinedale, he
moved on to the one titled "career." He had just started making short films with
his buddies, and was pretty sure it was something he would eventually do for a
living. They weren't much, just short skits he and his friends acted out. He and
Dean wrote the scripts, did the filming, used computer software to edit an hour
of video into five-minute films, and laid music over them. They had six already
on YouTube–with an average rating of four-and-a-half stars and a boatload of
praise. Xander had dreams of getting a short film into the festival circuit,
which of course would lead to offers to do music videos and commercials,
probably an Oscar and onto feature movies starring Russell Crowe and Jim Carrey.
Pasadena was right next to Hollywood, a twenty-minute drive. You couldn't ask
for a better place to live if you were the next Steven Spielberg. What in God's
creation would he find to film in Pinedale? Trees, he thought glumly, watching
them fly past his window.
Dad, addressing David's soccer concern,
said, "We'll talk about it later."
Mom reached through the
seatbacks to shake Xander's knee. "It'll work out," she whispered.
"Wait a minute," David said, understanding Dad-talk as well as Xander did. "Are
you saying they suck, or that they don't have a soccer team? You told me they
did!"
"I said later, Dae." His nickname came from Toria's
inability as a toddler to say David. She had also called Xander Xan, but it
hadn't stuck.
David slumped down in his seat.
Xander let the full extent of his misery show on his face for his mother.
She gave his knee a shake, sharing his misery. She was good that way. "Give it
some time," she whispered. "You'll make new friends and find new things to do.
Wait and see."
No comments:
Post a Comment