Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Seriesby D P Lyle
When Dub Walker’s close friend Sheriff Mike Savage becomes the victim of a gruesome murder, the forensic expert is called upon to track down the serial killer who's been terrorizing the county. Having been involved in more than 100 cases of foul play and witnessed the bloody remains of rape, torture, and unthinkable mutilation, Dub thought he had seen it… See more details below
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When Dub Walker’s close friend Sheriff Mike Savage becomes the victim of a gruesome murder, the forensic expert is called upon to track down the serial killer who's been terrorizing the county. Having been involved in more than 100 cases of foul play and witnessed the bloody remains of rape, torture, and unthinkable mutilation, Dub thought he had seen it allyet the killer is unlike any murderer Dub has ever encountered. Vacillating between wildly divergent personalities fueled by post traumatic stress disorderat times calm, cold, and calculating; at others maniacal and out of controlthe psychopath taunts, threatens, and outmaneuvers Dub at every turn. The stakes are suddenly elevated as Dub uncovers a deadly conspiracy tainted with unrestrained greed, corruption, and ties to the military establishment and the medical community.
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By D.P. Lyle
Medallion Press, Inc.Copyright © 2010 D.P. Lyle
All right reserved.
Chapter OneSunday 11:36 p.m.
He relished the moments before the kill.
When his heart thumped against his chest. When sweat slicked his skin and stung his eyes, his breathing coarse and raspy. When the muscles of his shoulders tightened and his hands tingled as if awakening. He closed his eyes and took several breaths, the night air warm and sweet. No hurry. He had time. Time to enjoy the anticipation.
Squatting behind a thick, five-foot row of hydrangeas, Brian Kurtz leaned against the cool brick wall. Its roughness tugged at his T-shirt. Inside, his victim slept. The deep, peaceful sleep of someone who thought the future held many such restful nights. Not so, Mr. Michael Savage.
Savage. He liked that name. It possessed power and passion and violence and rage. It conjured images of the old man at the Russel Erskine and the little fag over in Madison. Savage. They had learned the meaning of the word. Tonight the man beyond the wall would, too.
"Very soon, Mr. Savage," he murmured.
He often talked aloud to himself, though at these times his voice sounded foreign. Tinny, flat, muffled. His pulse hammered in his ears, and the familiar rage-fueled knot expanded in his stomach. The anger wanted out. Not yet.
God, he loved this feeling.
He shifted his weight. The marble-sized gravel beneath the shrubs crunched softly. His shoulder shook loose a few petals from one of the ball-shaped flowers. They floated to the ground, joining others that had already taken the fall.
His plan looped through his mind for the hundredth time. Every step a crisp picture. Jump the fence into the backyard. Through the side garage door, the kitchen, and down the hall to where Savage sprawled on his bed, easy prey. The gun, the soft pop, the recoil. Then, Savage was his. The images kicked his pulse up a notch. Sweat collected on his face, and he swiped it away with the front of his shirt.
It was time.
Excerpted from Stress Fracture by D.P. Lyle Copyright © 2010 by D.P. Lyle. Excerpted by permission.
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