Read an Excerpt
The Full Moon Slayer
By Michel Vamrell
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2012 Michel Vamrell
All right reserved.
Chapter One"At the Scene of a Crime"
June 4, 2012, ten o'clock on a Full Moon
The blue and red lights of the police vehicles illuminate the trees' dark demonic features, bringing a chill to the summer air. The moonlit shadows chaotically dance upon the front lawn of the place I call home.
I'm sitting in the back of the ambulance facing my house, focused on my bare feet. I hear the news media pulling up in my driveway as the police are trying to piece together what happened on this summer night.
I feel the itchy wool blanket across my shoulders. Why do they give you a blanket when you're not cold? I wonder as I take a puff off my cigarette. Still looking down at my feet, I hear the crackling of grass enter my left ear. I look up in the direction of the noise.
Deputy Brown–who has only been in Oblong for six months–and old Sheriff Routzon are headed right towards me. I want to cry, but tears do not fall. How can I tell them what happened here tonight? About the past three years my family and I have lived here. They will never believe me. What I've seen! Old Sheriff Routzon is like a father to me.
These thoughts are crashing into my head like waves hitting a shoreline. Suddenly, bright lights flash in my eyes! I close them to block the light, but when they close, I still see the lingering lights that were once there, as if they are within the darkness of my eyelids–dancing dots of reds and blues. My eyes had only adjusted to the police vehicles, and the full moon.
I open my eyes ever-so-slightly, only to be blinded again by the obnoxious video cameras' lights. It's Indianapolis' own Indy 2 CCB Station, with Nicole Richards reporting on Indy's Hard Stories.
Ms. Richards walks swiftly towards the Deputy and Sheriff Routzon. Following her are cameras and one extra lighting instrument. That bright yellow light is hovering in the air over the news reporter. They want the camera to capture every facial expression on film for the viewers in their homes to witness on this full moon night.
Deputy Brown hears the clanking sounds of the electronics as he walks in my direction. He turns towards the news crew's footsteps that are mashing the grass. He looks at them, then turns back to old man Routzon, who is now a couple of yards from me. I hear the Deputy call out to the Sheriff,
"Do you want me to talk to them?"
The old Sheriff stops and turns his whole body to his left, answering in a deep tone, as a father would to protect his little girl from ridicule.
"Yeah, yeah. They don't need to be talk'n to Alice right now!" He continues, "I will be over here talk'n to her about what in the hell happened here tonight!" Pointing in my direction with his right arm.
"What do you want me to tell the news station?" The deputy asks, nervously.
"Tell them we don't know anything yet!" The old Sheriff replies with bewilderment.
The two officers turn together as one, facing the opposite direction; Deputy Brown faces Nicole Richards, and old man Routzon back to facing me. I am sitting here with the cigarette (now at its filter) still in my hand.
The Deputy stops right in front of Nicole's path. She and her crew stop. Now they are facing each other with lights hovering over both the news reporter and the Deputy. The news camera is behind her left shoulder, pointing towards Deputy Brown. He speaks before she could even utter one word.
"We don't know much here. Or what happened!" Deputy Brown's southern drawl rings into my left ear. Then I hear this country boy's voice explain that they just arrived on the scene of a crime and haven't received statements as to what happened at my house tonight.
Finally, my eyes fully wakened to see who is all at my home. My eyes are fixed on Sheriff Routzon walking towards me. My hands begin to shake and I start feeling my body get clammier. I throw my cigarette down with my right hand.
I reach into my left shorts pocket to pull out my pack of smokes and a lighter. As I am gripping my cigs and lighter, the green wool blanket that the paramedics gave me 30 minutes ago falls off my shoulders, exposing my skin and blue tank top.
Looking down towards my hands, I pull another smoke from the pack with my right hand. I place the fresh unsmoked cigarette between my thin shivering lips. I grab the lighter from my left hand with my right, and look up to the right while my right hand and the lighter follow my cigarette in an upward motion. My left hand is now empty and moves up towards the end of my cig to protect it from the wind (which might not allow me to light it.)
With one quick motion, my right thumb flicks the needed orange and red flame. I place the fire to the end of my cigarette, inhaling deeply. The end is red-hot, resembling a sparkler firecracker with even the slightest movement of my head.
The Sheriff is coming ever-so-closer to me now. What do I tell'm? How can he believe me! What will happen to me if I tell him the truth? I need to stay calm! I think to myself, frantically. I watch his every step as he heads right for me to ask what happened here.
The blood in my veins is rising in temperature; my body feels as if it's on fire. What do I say? What do I say? This mantra keeps repeating in my head, like a fading echo.
With every thought running through my head, one would think–just by looking at me–that I have no emotions to what is happening around me; as if I wasn't thinking at all. But the truth of the matter is, I feel my whole life–and body–going straight to hell.
To maintain control over these feelings, I must continue puffing away on that newly lit smoke, but my hands are crippling with fear and rage, into the abyss of sadness.
They can't stop shaking!
The Sheriff of Oblong seems to be moving towards me in slow-motion. With oafish feet, he stops and places his big right arm on the east side of the ambulance over my head–appearing like a shadow ghost.
Old man Routzon is a burly man and looks even larger in his Sheriff's uniform. My mind is racing. Fuck! What just happened? He starts to kneel down ever-so-slowly on my left side, so as not to intimidate me.
I feel warmth emanating from his body; I am completely covered by his presence. No one can see me because this large old man–whose heart is bigger than he is–has blocked my body from any other viewers. Suddenly, I lose control, as if something in my head just broke; like a twig that even a child could break.
"Marty, Marty, Marty!"
My sudden outburst lets out a waterfall of tears that nothing could hold back. I can't control my body, my tears, or the screaming of my lover's name—Marty! I sob and sob.
The Sheriff kneels even closer-to where I can feel his breath on my left shoulder. His two strong–but aged–arms hold me like a bear; I feel this unleashing of pain and rage. There, in the back of the ambulance, Sheriff Routzon is helping me release these psychosis tears.
I cannot hear or see anything. I am lost in pure emotions: of fear from what just happened; of the past three years living here in the small town of Oblong, Indiana. Like a clock in my head that has chimed–ding!–suddenly I'm aware of what really happened here tonight. My tears stop pouring from my eyes, as if someone just turned off the water.
Thoughts of these last three years living in this house: my husband Marty, my step-daughter Jessica, and me, Alice Sandra Blake. Our lives together were wonderful–but so traumatic. I am all that is left of my family, whom I love very much. I must be strong and live on for them, Marty and Jessica.
At this very same moment–as these thoughts race through my head–I hear Old Sheriff Routzon's voice bellowing deeply through my eardrums. His voice like drums, repeating,
"Marty? What happened to him, Alice? ... Alice, Alice?"
My sub-conscious and conscious minds converge at the exact moment my eyes meet Old Sheriff Routzon's big, worried blue eyes. They have a hint of confusion as to why I was screaming for Marty in that way.
His face is strong, with a square jaw. He has wrinkles around his face and neck that bring wisdom and kindness to his facial expressions. As he gazes into my eyes, there is a look of bewilderment on his face. He sits down to the left of me on the back of the ambulance. His Sheriff's hat is tilted to the left.
A paramedic is standing to my right. He bends over at the waist, gripping my right arm to put a blood pressure gauge on it. After realizing who has my right arm, I slowly turn to look back at Old Routzon, with my left hand still on his right shoulder.
Out the corner of my eye, I see my half-burned smoke still between my index and middle fingers. I let go of the Sheriff's shoulder and look down to my right hand as it's bringing my mouth the cigarette; but my arm stops. I see the red hot butt of my smoke, watching it rise from the filter.
Still looking down, I think to myself, What the fuck do I say!! How can I even describe it in words?
Words cannot even come close to explain how my life and my world have been turned upside-down. I take a puff off the cigarette and allow the smoke to smother the cancer inside of me. That is to say, the cancer known as death; and death is all I have known in these past few years.
The smoke I inhale through my mouth and into my lungs comes out in one cloud. I still feel the Sheriff next to me. His body heat lets me know that he's still waiting for a response; ready to listen to every word that I am going to say.
What am I going to say to him? Do I tell him the truth? I had to do what I had to do. They should've listened to me and this wouldn't have happened!! Everyone I have ever loved is dead, including my husband! Do I tell him the whole truth? I think to myself as I'm raising my head towards the right, following the smoke.
As my head and gaze continues upwards, I see the left arm of the old man's brown uniform. The smoke is now above the Sheriff's left shoulder.
My eyes fixate on the paramedics walking down my second driveway, and the foldaway stretcher they are carrying.
Sheriff Routzon still wants to know what happened to the man in Marty's Hot Rod garage.
The shadow from the feet of the paramedic checking my blood pressure darkens the green summer grass and my blood-splattered feet.
The Sheriff notices my stare is obsessed with the foldaway stretcher. He turns his sight to the left, like the moment of truth was about to be known. I'm still focused on that body bag, heading towards the morgue's vehicle down my driveway. From the corner of my left eye, I can see the old Sheriff's head turning right, to face me once more.
Now I feel his eyes upon my face, and only peering through my left eye, I see his lips start to open. His lungs take a deep breath and speak in his deep voice,
"Does this have anything to do with Marty, Alice?"
I take another drag from my cigarette as he sits there looking at every expression in my face. The lights from the cameras and the moonlit night are waiting for me to explain why there is a dead man on my property.
I blow out smoke from my cig once more as I watch the paramedics with the body bag. Nicole and her crew start to approach me, but Deputy Brown blocks their path.
The microphone in her hand drops down the right side of her body. She has impeccable posture. Her left hand is perfectly parallel to the right side of her stylish mulberry and silver striped business skirt. It matches her dark cappuccino skin. I could never beat her skin tone, but I can come close.
Her mulberry short-sleeve suit jacket is in perfect alignment with her collar, lying flat against each side of her body. Under her suit jacket, she is wearing a classy silk silver tank top. Her fashionable heels are mulberry to match her business skirt. She looks like a respectful rock star.
Deputy Brown is standing with his left hip slightly tilted upwards and his left hand on his hip. He looks to the right with his right palm facing the sky.
What is Nicole going to do? I thought, as she motions to her camera man to lower his camera. She has a stern but worried look upon her face.
One tear rolls out of my right eye. She allows the two paramedics to walk swiftly between her and Deputy Brown while her concerning gawk follows the body bag. The Deputy follows that same bag with his head. The paramedic at the end of the stretcher is walking forward as his backside passes Nicole and the Deputy.
At that very same moment in time, Ms. Richards and Deputy Brown look right up to each other. Face to face, the news reporter walks up, with her microphone still in her right hand, to the Deputy. I can see her lips begin to open.
"Who is that? Who has died?" she asks, worry in her voice.
"It's Mrs. Blake's neighbor," Deputy Brown replies, without thinking. "We don't have any statements from her as to why a man is dead in her husband's garage."
He continues, "She hasn't said a word and the Sheriff is over there talk'n to her right now. And I don't think you should be botherin' her!"
"Okay. We'll be in the van if she wants to talk," Nicole responds in a low, concerning voice.
I watch her turn around towards her left and walk to sit in the front seat of the van. Deputy Brown turns around to his left and is now facing me. He starts walking towards the Sheriff and I.
I turn my head back, facing the old concerned man with deep blue eyes, to answer his question: why I was screaming for Marty ten minutes ago.
I look into his eyes, hoping he will believe me. My brown eyes are serious, with a hint of fear. Not looking away from him, I take one more drag off my cigarette and blow the smoke out the right corner of my mouth.
I open my mouth, but only these words come out,
"It has been an odd three years," I say in a low, dark tone of voice.
Chapter Two"The Blake Family"
The feeling of dismay hovers in the air. This feeling will cause a great change in the Blake family. Especially for Marty, whose father had just passed away from a heart attack back in March. However, the feelings of sadness are masked by hopefulness for the future.
My life has always been bittersweet. The sweetness lies within dreams of the future; the bitterness from misfortunes that came before. And now there is another journey with my family that will change my life forever. The Blake family is about to move out of the old ... and into the new.
My husband Marty's real name is Darrell Tod Blake. The reason why family and friends call Darrell "Marty" is because of his big brother, Ty Blake. When Darrell was a little boy, he watched a movie that was about a teenage boy who traveled to the future, and played a guitar. Whenever Darrell saw that teenage boy on the TV screen, he would leap off his parents' couch while playing his air guitar, just like his on-screen hero. Ty said to their mom,
"You're just like Marty! Look at little Marty go, Mom!"
Ever since then, the name Marty just stuck to him like glue. The name Marty fits him so well; it should have been his name when he came into the world.
He grew up in a little town called Springsville, Indiana. The town was so small; the population was less than 700 people. It is about an hour and a half south of Hardford, Indiana, where I grew up.
At age 19, Marty married his high school sweetheart, Michelle. He wanted the best for his family, so he joined the US Army Reserve. He enlisted as an 88 Mike for four years, which is a truck driver for the US Armed Forces.
He chose this duty and job in the military because his dad, Ryan Blake, was a truck driver. But, Marty's dreams were to become a Hot Rod shop owner and mechanic. He loved old classic cars, and the power of their engines.
Every time Marty saw an old 1970's bright yellow Chevelle with two big black racing stripes, his face lit up. His eyes sparkled with a smile big enough to show his teeth seeing that one toy he really wanted.
He loved hearing the heart-stopping power of that Chevelle's engine. He wanted so badly to drive and work on that block, to make it run perfectly. He just didn't have the money when he was young. He needed to support himself and Michelle, hence he joined the Army. But, he still had that dream in his head.
Marty and Michelle had a baby girl they named Jessica Angela Blake on October 23, 2001. The little girl was the reason why Marty desperately wanted to stay together. They loved each other, but they didn't know one another. One thing they had in common was the love of their child, Jessica.
Excerpted from The Full Moon Slayer by Michel Vamrell Copyright © 2012 by Michel Vamrell. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.