

THE CHEMIST SERIES

GREATEST HITS

Killers, Traffickers, Liars and Perverts

JANSON MANCHESKI

Movie poster art by Jacob Arden McClure

(courtesy Voyage Media Productions, Inc.)

ALSO BY JANSON MANCHESKI

The Chemist

Trail of Evil

Mask of Bone

Shoot For the Stars

The Scrub

# DEDICATION

To William "Bill" Gates, Grant Cousineau, Richard Bronson, and the late Hugh Hefner; without their inspirational support, it is doubtful that I could have ever attained the heights I've reached today.

# INTRODUCTION

"Hi. I'm Janson Mancheski. Nice to meet you," I said, smiling at the lady in the purple hat. We were at a recent writer's conference, and I was giving a presentation on a three-person panel on "police procedurals." In essence, how not to make yourself (as a novelist) look like a dummy in describing the ins-and-outs of how law enforcement reacts when the call of a crime comes in.

"Hello. I'm one of your readers. I love your mystery books so much."

"Thanks," I said engagingly. "Do you have a favorite?"

We were standing alongside the presenter's table up front, and she nearly blushed. " _The Chemist_ ," she said. "I just enjoy the love story between Maggie and Cale."

This was an exchange I'd had recently, and it helped provide impetus in the writing of this brief book. After penning five novels now, numerous short stories, and a couple of award-winning screenplays, I decided that there was one thing missing: I'd been writing, for the most part, in a vacuum for the past ten years. With little interest in marketing or advertising, or promoting myself as a writer, I realized that I'd been writing as if entombed in a crusty cocoon. I needed to get out with the public more, change my tactics, engage with more people. I needed to promote my books rather than being shy about marketing, selling, and that whole shebang.

In my darkest hours, I pictured myself as a writer's version of Grandma Moses. Some might recall who she was: She was an elderly grandmother who had begun an art career at the age of 75 and painted masterpiece works in her attic until her death, only to be "discovered" by the general public, beyond the ritzy art world, long after she had passed.

In other words, she had become a world-renowned artist but, sadly, only post-mortem.

One might imagine the heartbreak carried by this poor lady, as she lived for seventy years with all that artistic talent bottled inside her, giving it little release. In my mind, it seemed that's where I was headed. So many stories to be told, and all being written in a vacuum. Unless . . . unless I changed tactics and became more "pro-active." So that's what this book is: An effort to highlight some of my previous works in the crime/suspense/thriller genre. _The Chemist Series_ , by name.

And what prompted such a turn in the road in the first place? I believe my epiphany came when I was contacted by a movie production company last year. They inquired about turning my first novel, _The Chemist_ , into a motion picture. Even though the book had captured first place in the Fiction category, winning the national Sharp Writ Book Awards, outside of my circle of family and friends, it was seldom read and gained little notoriety. After about six or seven years of meager sales, I began to see it fading into obsolescence.

But a movie? Of my novel? Why, yes. That seemed to kindle a new spark in me. I agreed to the terms that Voyage Media Productions was offering, and after a few months of negotiation, they also allowed me the chance to write my own version of the screenplay, which has been met—I add shyly—with great enthusiasm from those who've had a chance to read it.

Now that the movie has moved to the pre-production phase, with investors being solicitated, and A-list actors being lined up, I have decided to re-issue _The Chemist_ novel with a new cover design, created in line with the movie poster cover. To refresh the novel, as it were.

What this eBook is designed to do is to reacquaint previous readers to _The Chemist Series_ and to perhaps generate new fans into the fold. I hope it works, but if not, well, my keyboard and screen are drumming their figurative fingers, awaiting my return up to my dark and lonely attic. Where my poster of Grandma Moses awaits hanging on the wall, her self-portrait smirking at me knowingly.

— Janson Mancheski, writer, storyteller

"Life is what we make of it. Always has been. Always will be."

— Grandma Moses

Table of Contents

DEDICATION

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

AUTHOR'S CLOSING NOTE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

# CHAPTER 1

One of the questions I'm asked at book fairs, talks, festivals and signings is: "When did you __ decide to become a writer?" Years have passed, and I've written five novels, numerous short stories, and my movie script for _The Chemist_ ; the movie is currently in pre-production. Yet I still don't have a snappy or concise response for the above question.

Here's my theory as to why: The key word asked is _When?_ I guess it boils down to the good old nature versus nurture argument. Are writers born? Where some genetic instinct to produce/create stories is imprinted in our DNA? Where one day we just pick up a pen or sit at a keyboard—ala eight-year-old Beethoven—and begin to write?

Or are writers made? Where after years and years of reading, studying methods and techniques, accumulating levels of education, some light bulb finally goes off and a voice in our heads shouts: "Hey, dummy, now's the time for you to write X, Y or Z!"

Both types of writers exist in our world. And likely always have. Yet either way, whether you're a "natural," or someone who adheres to a simple hard work ethic, there's no denying that writing takes tons of time, effort, and a high degree of what I call "exasperation tolerance." In other words, what separates actual writers from those who convince themselves that "someday I'll write a novel," is the willingness to see the project through. Good old-fashioned stick-to-itiveness.

In my own case, I had always "dabbled" with writing. Back in grammar school, my favorite topics had always been some combination of history and English. Why history? Because boiled down to it, history is basically a compilation of old stories. And why English? Because it shows us the fundamentals of story structure—the systems of cobbling ideas together to build stories. Studying each of these topics requires an abundance of reading. And reading is a fundamental aspect of learning. It is my belief, therefore, that all good writers are a composite of the things in life they have experienced, combined with things they have read and, therefore, learned about.

Every good storyteller loves to read, whether it be fiction or nonfiction. The seeds of plots that ferment deep in our imaginations percolate up from similar ideas we have read somewhere along the way. Thus, I believe that reading at a young age begets writing. Therefore, one answer to the initial question of when I began writing is the simple answer: _When I had finally read enough to give writing a try._

And yet, that answer somehow doesn't seem adequate. It seems almost trite. Because we know all writers approach things differently. Some begin creating stories in third and fourth grade; others toil over diaries when they are adolescents, while others first decide to get serious after penning their master's thesis.

I needed to find a better answer. So, I pondered further. And gradually a more relevant idea began to formulate itself: It wasn't so much the _When_ of when I began to write, but more the _Why_. I decided the original question was two questions in one.

Armed with this new revelation, I set out to find the true answer.

The point is, I suppose, that after five novels (and just as many I'd never had published but instead "shelved" somewhere as "practice works"), I've come to realize that I'm more of a storyteller, than I am a so-called "writer." Which is how, by the way, I believe many fiction composers would prefer to describe themselves. Even prefer to be remembered, if so pressed, as storytellers. Stephen King? Aristotle? E.A. Poe? Shakespeare? Mickey Spillane? Aesop? J.K. Rowling? Dr. Seuss? Each a noteworthy writer, but better yet, all Hall of Fame conveyers of great stories.

I asked myself, when boiled down to their cores, aren't our creations—whether frightening or loving, enlightened or depressive—aren't all stories simply versions of entertainment? Isn't this what we, composers of fiction, at heart strive to be? Entertaining? Whether there are hidden lessons or themes, or secret reveals wrapped inside clever, colorful prose, aren't they all still attempts to entertain the reader?

Thus, without even realizing it, I've always attempted—above all else—to produce stories that are satisfying (read: entertaining) to my readers.

While it's doubtful that I will ever attain such premier heights as the Hall of Famers listed above, it's still fun to aspire. For isn't chasing the dream what we strive for?

And there we have it in a nutshell. A somewhat lengthy answer to the opening query. _When did_ _you_ _become a writer, Janson? Why do you write these stories?_

The answer is easy to answer: To entertain, my friends. Simply to entertain. 

#  CHAPTER 2

"What the heck is a 'Greatest Hits' book? Never heard of such a thing before."

This was spoken to me at a recent writing fair held in Green Bay, Wisconsin. My hometown. The downtown event is called "Untitled Town." I was speaking on another three-person panel, this time on screenwriting. Many of the questions revolved around my first novel _The Chemist_ (2009), which (as mentioned) is moving through the pre-production channels as a motion picture, being produced by Voyage Media Productions, based in Los Angeles, CA.

Most people are aware that making movies these days is very expensive. It's something we all assume, but until you are part of the process, you don't realize exactly _how_ expensive. Anywhere from $4 to $50 million dollars expensive. And up! As part of the movie marketing plan, where savvy professionals are involved every step of the way, I was given movie poster art-work concepts to evaluate, and either approve or reject. Professional cover mock-ups designed to promote the film. Today's creative movie artists are experts at what they do. And viewing their work—along with members of the marketing and production teams—I was forced to admit that most of the professional renditions seemed to be more glamorous, exciting, and aesthetically pleasing than my current, staid eight-year-old book cover.

Thus, I was open to changing my cover. Upgrading, as it were. And my further decision (in line with savvy marketing, hey-hey) came when the lightning bolt of an idea struck me: Why not use the movie poster art to re-cover my original novel _The Chemist_? That way they'll match.

I know what you're thinking: _Duh!_ Many sixth-grade kids could have thought of that. Maybe so. But to me it was a worthwhile idea. And what this revelation lead to was the common-sense follow-up: If you're going to change/modernize one cover, and the book is already a three-part thriller-suspense series, then wouldn't it make sense to change the second and third book covers as well? Again, the answer seemed obvious.

Considering the above, another savvy marketer (of which you may have already guessed, I am not) suggested that perhaps I should write a short informational blog-article to accompany the re-release of the books. Something to give away, perhaps, as a complimentary eBook. Something to generate a bit of (movie industry lingo here) _Buzz!_ I pondered the suggestion. I imagined that I could pluck out a few scenes from my three novels and turn these into a compelling short story. Or . . . I could compile several old blog posts, shovel them into an eBook format, and call it something or another. Something catchy, no doubt.

Or Door Number Three: I could do something different.

Again, I contemplated, thinking deep like Aristotle must have on most days. I wonder, I asked myself, if I might take a cue from the music industry? You know? Where some band hits it big with their debut album, then follows up a year later with album release _Number Two_ , __ then album _Number Three_. Then a year after that, here comes a smorgasbord album of Best-sellers or Favorites from all three albums called (Ta-da!) their _Greatest Hits Album_. The music industry has been doing it for fifty years. Said greatest hits album usually out-sells the first three albums. Quite often _combined._

I reasoned, therefore, that if they do it in music, then why not select several fun or compelling passages from my first three novels? Sections that reveal the themes, writing, flavor, and even provide brief glimpses of the characters? Perhaps combine this all into an eBook, and (parody, of course) call it the _Greatest Hits from The Chemist Series_?

I wondered if anyone has ever done this before. Compiled their greatest "written" hits? I'm certain it's been tried, because, as the saying goes: "There's nothing new under the sun." But if not, then perhaps I've invented an entire new category. A new marketing genre, even.

All well and good, I told myself, but why stop there? Could I add anything else? Liven it up a bit? Add some sort of reveal that might explain what each scene was and what they were about? Brief summations? Without giving away too much "spoiler," of course, so as not to ruin it for those readers who have a desire to read the full novels.

Once again, I pondered. I recalled how I often enjoy, after watching a good movie rental DVD, the bonus sections at the end that they often provide. Things like interviews with the actors or blooper highlights. Or, in many cases, discussions with the writer or producer (sometimes talking over the scenes themselves) on what took place in the story scene and why. I thought it might be a cool idea to explore in a book highlights format.

But wait! My logical left lobe stopped me in my tracks. Often hit television series are collaborative. Done by teams of writers, producers, script consultants, directors, photographers, and they thus are conducive to a team analysis approach.

Novel writers most often write alone in self-imposed solitude. They don't often sit in a team room with six other writers, all hacking and clacking away on keyboards. So other than discussions with editors, who advise and review/polish the finished product, writers dwell mostly in self-imposed vacuums. Sure, some writers use beta reading groups to assess their work at the halfway point. Or for reviewing initial drafts. But this feedback is seldom of much concrete value to the writer (my own opinion). Beta readers can tell a writer, post second or their draft, whether their story sucks or not. This is most often accomplished in the fashion of the old Roman Emperors: a fateful up or down thumb.

All this being the case, I decided I could solve this dilemma by doing what they do in the movie DVDs. Bring in a couple of "experts" to assist the writer ( _moi_ ) in analyzing the scenes of the books we are highlighting. But whom? I thought long and hard about a few possible selections. Who did I know who might not only provide a bit of astute analysis, but also exhibit a bit of _savoir-faire_ while doing so?

Thus, I settled on a couple of old literary acquaintances. Lomas Corwin (professional script consultant on movie projects _The Benson-Hurst Murders_ ; _She's Not What She Seems_ ; and _Midnight Marauders_ ). And my second choice was Wendy Sin-Waller (a literary critic, consultant, writing coach, conceptual artist, and editor of several Richard Brachman graphic novels.) More important, both had read the first three books in _The Chemist Series._ And even of greater relevance, each has a unique perspective on writing/storytelling, and each possesses a loveable, irreverent and eccentric sense of humor.

No acerbic critics allowed, thank you very much.

And that, my friends, is how the genesis of this book you hold in your hands was created. So, I hope you enjoy it in the vein of which it was written. Storytelling, make-believe, fiction—soiled and dirty, warts and all. And it's my fervent ambition, above all else, to hope you are entertained enough by the "teaser" narratives to go out and purchase the actual books. Read them in their gritty entirety.

In their shiny new covers, of course.

# CHAPTER 3

COMMENTARY AND ANALYSIS PROVIDED BY:

**Lomas Corwin (LC):** Professional writer, poet, editor, writing coach, and script consultant on the movie projects _The Benson-Hurst Murders_ ; _She's Not What She Seems_ ; and _Midnight Marauders_ , among others. Resides in Port City, Idaho.

**Wendy Sin-Waller (WSW):** Literary critic, consultant, writing coach, conceptual artist, and editor of several Richard Brachman graphic novels. Including: _Girl Got Game_ ; _Dawn Before Nightfall_ ; _Colossus:The Forbin Project IV_ ; _Slowly She Rises_ ; and _The Penguin Conspiracy_. She is currently chief editor of content at _SubStyle Magazine_. Wendy lives with her husband and two children, Rexxie and Chapman, on Long Island, NY.

**Janson Mancheski (JM):** Multiple award-winning author of novels and screenplays. His 2009 thriller novel _The Chemist_ won 1st place for Best Fiction in the Sharp Writ Book Awards. He completed _Trail of Evil_ (2010) and _Mask of Bone_ (2011) shortly after that. All three books combine to complete _The Chemist Trilogy, featuring Detective Cal Van Waring_. After that, Janson turned his attention to sports fiction, writing _Shoot For the Stars_ (2015) and _The Scrub_ (2017), both to acclaimed reviews.

THE CHEMIST

Originally published by Bridgeway Books

Austin, TX

2009

COMMENTARY (by Janson Mancheski, Lomas Corwin, and Wendy Sin-Waller.)

**Janson Mancheski (JM):** I'll kick things off with an overview on my crime fiction novel _The Chemist_. It was published in 2009 by Bridgeway Books, Austin, Texas. The story is a suspense/thriller set in Green Bay, Wisconsin. It's about a criminal who goes on a kidnapping spree, intent on utilizing his skills as a chemist to create the perfect crime. One which leaves no clues, no witnesses, and no trail for the investigators.

**Lomas Corwin (LC):** Excellent concept, Janson. I like how your criminal is a white-collar professional with an advanced degree. He's not some random slasher ala Jason Vorhees. So, that said, this is the pre-novel mindset I was in before I was asked to review _The Chemist_. The book was released with little fanfare, and my connection with Janson, here, is through Bridgeway Books. They published a previous book of mine, _Hawks Along the Gun Mo_.

**Janson Mancheski (JM):** They're out of business now. They went under a year after publishing my book—which turned out to be a positive thing for me—because I ended up keeping 100% of the original rights to my book, as well as all the movie rights. Very important, as the book now heads into the novel-to-motion picture realm.

**LC:** That is a big deal. Anyway, they sent me this crime novel to review, and I said why not. I might've been between projects, so I figured I'd spend a night or two reading it. Then write up a little report and maybe an Amazon review, and that would be that.

**JM:** (Aside to readers) By the way, we're not using a moderator here, and thus both Lomas and Wendy will jump in at any time they see fit. I'll add a couple questions or comments as our "unofficial" moderator, but otherwise (speaking here to Lomas and Wendy) you guys can jump in whenever you like. Wendy, anything you'd like to add off the top?

**Wendy Sin-Waller (WSW):** Yes. I remember I was the editor of our new venture called _SubStyle Magazine._ This was in 2009 or 2010. I'd done several book reviews before, and Amazon was just taking off as a literary sales' gargantuan. Anyway, I got this call from a friend who says she was overloaded and would I do a review for on a new novel for her website? I figured what the heck. The title _The Chemist_ sounded intriguing to me.

**JM:** During both of your initial readings, do you remember having any thoughts on how it was going? Your perceptions of the plot? Or anything else in general?

**LC:** Yes. I thought the story started off very cool. With the bad guy able to kidnap anybody he chose, anytime or any place. I thought that was a unique premise.

**WSW:** Yeah. It was creepy. Here's this guy lurking around and stalking young ladies in a parking lot in broad daylight. It took me a couple weeks afterwards to get over that. Especially any time I grabbed my car door handle. And if ever it was damp: _Yeeks!_

**LC:** (Laughs) Yup. Me too. I began looking at dudes sitting in parking lots behind their steering wheel and not doing anything. Just sitting there. When you look, you can see them all the time. To this day I still wonder what the heck is running through their minds while they're sitting there.

**JM:** Very nice. Of course, when I wrote the story it was 2007 – 08. Back then there wasn't the type of surveillance in these public parking lots that we see nowadays. Yet it still can happen, even in this modern day and age. People just disappear.

**WSW:** In fact, it might even be worse today. With the explosion of these drug gangs and human trafficking rings. The whole idea still creeps me out.

**JM:** All right. Let's dive into the story. This is the first book of three parts of the saga. The premise is of an anonymous serial kidnapper who is lurking around the streets of Green Bay Wisconsin. I chose Green Bay because I know the city, having grown up there; and further because it's symbolic of Midtown, Anywhere. Meaning that this story could happen anywhere around the U.S.A. (or anywhere in Europe or Japan, or Canada or China.) at any time. It's not a Big City crime. The perpetrator selects his victims and kidnaps them, leaving no trace or clues or witnesses, or evidence... He just makes them disappear.

**LC:** Like you said, Janson, the perfect crime.

#  CHAPTER 4

_The Chemist_ (Excerpt – Chapter 1)

On a gray Friday morning in spring, a nondescript windowless panel van sat in wait, patient as a hearse outside a church. Dirty brown puddles spotted the grocery store's parking lot, the final traces of winter snowmelt. It had taken less than thirty minutes for the chemist to spot his victim. A young woman—twenty-two, maybe twenty-three—exited her green Honda Civic and walked toward the store's entrance. She was blond and dressed in workout tights and an oversized sweatshirt. From her gait and demeanor, he calculated she would not be inside for long.

A worn leather medical bag sat on the van's passenger seat. He opened the wings and withdrew a squeezable plastic bottle filled with clear liquid. The wording on the bottle read "Compact Disc Cleaning Fluid."

Gazing out the van's front windows, checking all directions, the chemist exited the vehicle. He was a picture of calm as he strolled around his van under the pretense of checking tire pressure. He wore a ball cap pulled low over his forehead, eyeglasses, black jeans and a dark navy peacoat, the collar turned up to the cool spring breeze. His hands were covered in paper-thin lambskin gloves.

No actor in Hollywood could have feigned interest in Goodyear Polytreads with greater aplomb. From the corner of his eye he watched a handful of people as they moved toward the store's front entrance. As far as they were concerned, he might as well be invisible.

Wandering from the van, he slipped between the rows of parked cars. He sidestepped a

bumper, then a wayward shopping cart. Withdrawing the plastic bottle from his coat pocket, he

doused the driver's-door handle with a clear, semi-viscous fluid, employing practiced casualness.

Back inside his van he could barely keep his heart from galloping. His forehead was damp near the hairline; his shirt was clammy at his lower back. The trap was set. Now it was time to sit and wait.

It was beginning to mist outside. Though the precipitation was mild, it concerned the chemist. Dilution might affect the solution's effectiveness. He stared out the window of the van and watched the automatic doors of the store open and close. Dark tortoise-shell glasses framed his eyes. Patience, he reminded himself; all skilled hunters had patience. Wait for the trap to be sprung. Wait.

And while he waited, his gaze fell again on the medical bag sitting on the seat beside him. The liquid concoction inside was his finest discovery. It had transformed him. Set him on his course of . . . liberation? Yes, that was accurate. Thanks to his invention, he had never felt so free. A simple chemical compound, yet its discovery had turned him from a casual dreamer into a catcher of dreams.

"Dream catcher," he said aloud. The chemist smiled. He liked the way that sounded.

The doors to the store slid open again, and the girl in the purple workout leggings and sweatshirt emerged and moved in his direction—her own car's direction.

His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. He could discern the narrow lines of her body as she walked, dodging muddy puddles in her white cross trainers. Perfect balance. Lean and graceful as a dancer.

Lost in thought, she paid little attention to the meandering people who moved around her; and even less to the blue van parked three slots down from her car.

The chemist turned the key in the ignition.

——

Cindy Hulbreth tucked the grocery bag under one arm and fished in her sweatshirt pocket for her keys. She popped the door locks of her Civic with the remote, grabbed the door handle, and opened the door. The handle was damp with what she decided was mist. Or rainwater. She stared at her hand, rubbed her fingertips together, sniffed at them. It felt weird, but there was no odor. She smoothed the dampness off on her pants, deciding it shouldn't stain.

Cindy placed her groceries in the small backseat. She slipped inside, pulling the door closed. As she fumbled with her keys she glanced in her rearview mirror. Some idiot in a blue van had pulled out behind her, blocking the way. She exhaled, sliding the key in the ignition but not turning it. Another glance in the rearview showed the van still there.

Turning in her seat, staring out the back window, Cindy wondered what the hold-up was. The van remained in place. Waiting for someone up ahead? Some other car? An elderly pedestrian with a shopping cart?

She considered leaning on her horn. She didn't want to be rude, but her sweats were still damp from her workout and there was a hot shower waiting at home.

Cindy ran her tongue over her teeth. Her mouth felt cottony. She licked her lips for moisture and rummaged through her pocketbook for a piece of gum. She crumpled the wrapper in the ashtray and glanced again out the back window.

——

One forty-six. One forty-five, one forty-four . . .

The chemist glanced at his wristwatch above the edge of his glove. The silent countdown in his head matched the precise time on the onyx dial.

——

Becoming vexed, forehead growing warm and her neck flushed, Cindy continued to watch the van sitting behind her like a lump.

"For Christ sakes!" she cursed out loud. "Move your fat blue butt!"

She blinked. Through widened eyes she stared out the front windshield—at nothing really: cars, the parking lot, the gray April sky. Small auburn blotches, web-like, bloomed at the periphery of her vision. Shaking her head, the blotches failed to dissolve.

Should she be amused? she wondered. Brown kaleidoscopic patches were now spreading across her entire visual field. Sparkles were shooting off at the edges. Jesus! If she didn't feel so rotten suddenly, wouldn't this be entertaining to watch? Fireworks going off inside her eyeballs?

——

Thirty. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .

——

Cindy felt her chin droop against her chest in the manner of a weary prizefighter between rounds. Rubber Leg Street, she remembered her dad calling it once, while watching some TV boxing match. She remembered laughing at the term. She'd been ten, maybe eleven at the time. This moment was hardly as humorous; her head felt heavy as a concrete block.

A rush of panic made her cry out. A rasping sound escaped her blubbery lips.

——

The chemist watched the girl inside the car keel sideways in her seat, restrained by her seat belt. She reminded him of a fighter pilot who'd crash-landed.

Checking his mirrors, front and behind, he slipped the van into gear. He eased forward and pulled into an open slot some distance up the row. Exiting the van, hands tucked inside the pockets of his peacoat, he moved forward. In the open, exposed, with his head down, he walked between the cars, headed toward the Civic.

He opened the passenger door and leaned inside. Three times previous, a year ago, he had learned that the passenger-side door provided best access to the seat belt clasp. And it was easier to pull an unconscious person toward you than push one away.

He unlatched the seat buckle, and the blond-haired girl toppled toward him onto the passenger side. Grasping her beneath one arm and the opposite shoulder, he pulled her into the vacant seat.

Seconds ticked off in his head. The chemist closed her car door and edged around the vehicle to the driver's side. Employing the hem of his dark coat, he wiped the door handle clean of residue. Then he opened the door and slipped inside.

Silence.

Save for the roar of pulse in his ears. His heart was tom-tomming against his sternum, but damn if he didn't feel _alive_. With a gloved finger he felt the girl's neck. Her pulse, unlike his own, was steady. Her heart-shaped face was pretty, even without makeup. After a workout, rained upon, and face slackened from her stupor, he doubted she'd consider herself attractive at the moment. How wrong she was. How very wrong.

In the distance, a dozen people could be seen walking from different directions, moving with apparent purpose. With bored looks on their faces they were headed either toward, or away from, the store's sliding main doors.

Key already in the ignition, he started the car and eased it from the parking spot. He was careful, mindful of any traffic. After pulling free, he cast a sidelong glance at the sleeping beauty next to him. Seeing her peaceful face, he started to relax.

Moments later, the small green car turned out of the parking lot and accelerated up the road, moving away from the scene.

COMMENTARY

**JM:** OK. Any thoughts on how the opening scene played out?

**LC:** Like I said, our dude's a true sicko. Love the invisible sedation "fluid" he applies to knock out his unsuspecting victim. Then the escape vehicle is her own car. Slick.

**WSW:** He's a perv. No doubt. And thorough. A well-rounded deviant.

**LC:** I also love the implication here. When you think about it, that he could do this to anyone, anywhere. Church? Liquor store? Cinema? Any parking lot or parking ramp in the world. It could happen in real life, and who would know?

**WSW:** So now the detectives enter the case. And they don't have a clue to go on, other than another missing person has vanished without trace. Very creepy.

**JM:** At this point, we don't know how many victims he might have done this to. Or for how many years, even. It's like the recent Golden State killer case. He did his deeds without arrest for over forty years. So, let's see what happens next.

# CHAPTER 5

_The Chemist_ (Excerpt - Chapter 5)

Green Bay, Wisconsin

The day after the headless Jane Doe had been autopsied, Howard Vanderkellen—father of the third missing victim—had visited the morgue to view the remains. His wife, on Cale's insistence, remained in the waiting area.

An appendectomy scar. A small tattoo of an angel on the left shoulder. Mr. Vanderkellen, visibly shaken, had showed them a photograph of his daughter taken two summers prior at the family cottage. Along with three moles on the small of her back, these markers all turned out to be a perfect match to the incomplete corpse lying in the chilled stainless-steel body drawer. With no possibility of dental records—unless the head turned up somewhere—this was as close to an ID as they were likely to get.

Jane Doe at least now had a name.

Kimberly Marie Vanderkellen. She went by "Kimmy" to her friends and coworkers. Victim Number Three. She had vanished without a trace, along with her car. Same MO as the first pair of missing young women. But unlike the other two, Kimmy's body had floated up in the chilly waters of Lake Michigan.

Where her head might be was anyone's guess. A sick trophy? Like the way Jeffrey Dahmer collected trophies. Storing body parts in his refrigerator or freezer.

The thought made Cale's stomach clench.

He had watched the numbed face of Howard Vanderkellen as the man broke the news to his wife. Watched them clutch one another, the father's rough hand patting her hair until her wails of grief had subsided to numbed gasps for air.

One family, at least, could begin the task of making burial arrangements. One family out of three.

Cale's partner, Anton Staszak had been right: sometimes it was a sick business that they were in. This was one of those times. _  
_
__

_The Chemist_ (Excerpt - Chapter 12)

You remember the early experiments like they were yesterday.

Deciding on the proper concentrations, combining the drugs, titrating the mixture in your private lab above the boathouse. The key discovery was the "accelerant." The agent allows for multiple-times the rapidity of standard dermal penetration. Through the skin in less than ten seconds; into the bloodstream in under thirty. A breakthrough, beyond any doubt.

The practice trial with the dog, of course, was unfortunate. An accident: too strong a dose for the body weight. But there's science for you. A learning process; always trial and error.

Nevertheless, a shame about the dog.

Then the move to your first human subject. Marla had no suspicion she was to be cast in the role of lab rat. None whatsoever. She was blissfully unaware of anything amiss.

You observed her with cold fascination, the way a hawk on a high branch studies a morning dove. The exposure followed by the onset of initial dizziness. Then, predictably, her stumbling, toppling in a heap to the carpeted bedroom floor. Dazed. Then unconscious.

As far as experiments go, an excellent result.

Now the mission advances full-throttle. Though far too soon for accolades, still, it has met with unchallenged success to date. No witnesses, no evidence, no clues. And the police remain baffled.

By definition . . . the perfect crime.

COMMENTARY

**WSW:** (nervous chuckling) Like Lomas said: the perfect crime.

**LC:** Love the way we're getting into the creepo's head. See what makes his sick mind tick. The poor pooch? His wife, Marla? One ill puppy, this guy is.

**JM:** And the cops are floundering about. What I thought when writing this was how law enforcement emphasizes the initial "forty-eight hours," right? Here they don't even know if they've got a crime committed until someone, somewhere in the city, figures out that a person in their lives has gone missing. Then they must wait at least 24 hours to confirm them as missing.

**WSW:** Frightening. Just imagine society's underclass, where we always hear that someone found dead in their home, never reported even missing until after three months. The mail piles up; that sort of thing. With this type of crime, that's a real eff-ing possibility.

**LC:** Right. You pick the right person, they just disappear. And with all the homeless and out-of-work people, not to mention foreigners or non-citizens, no one even notices they're gone for weeks and weeks.

# CHAPTER 6

_The Chemist_ (Excerpt - Chapter 19)

Jerry "Scoop" Skowing was fifty-five years old with speckled hair the color of a dove's feathers. He was a former homicide detective Cale had worked with years ago, back when he'd first graduated up from Narcotics. When Skowing retired from the force, he'd taken his current position with Green Bay Packers, Inc. as Director of Security. The job encompassed a multitude of tasks: Everything from stadium security to parking lot supervision to ticket scalping control. This was in addition to keeping the players safe and secure from over-zealous fans and autograph hounders.

Entering the Lambeau Field Atrium, his footsteps echoing, Cale waved a salute as he spotted his former colleague. He watched as Skowing emerged from a set of smoked-glass doors.

The men grinned like old frat brothers, shaking hands inside the enormous seven-story high structure. In the distance Cale could discern escalators, banks of elevators, floors of private offices and suites; there were restaurants and a multitude of concession venders on the lower level. The Pro Shop down the escalator. The cavernous interior stretched on, it seemed, for a good three city blocks. The updated stadium felt more like Grand Central Station than it did a professional football venue.

"What brings the city's finest gumshoe out to our humble abode?" Skowing asked. That was Scoop all right, Cale remembered fondly. Like most former cops, he was quick with the bullshit before cutting straight to the chase.

"Nothing too pressing," Cale said. "Just crossing a couple of T's on a case."

Skowing's pale eyebrows drew together. Cale understood the man couldn't be snowed; he was also aware that homicide detectives seldom had time to stop for idle chitchat. The wariness in the man's gray eyes told him as much.

At Scoop's direction, they strode across the wide atrium. They sidestepped tourists with cameras around their necks and wearing variations of green-and-gold team jerseys and attire.

Entering a set of doors marked private, the pair proceeded down a length of green-carpeted hallway. A few twists and turns later deposited them in Scoop's inner sanctum: the main security office inside the massive stadium. The room proved modest: a wide desk, three chairs, sea coast prints on the walls.

To have landed his current job, Skowing must have proven he was above reproach in his loyalty to the organization. Cale figured it wise not to press his former colleague for details on matters sensitive to the "Packer Family."

"You still sniffin' round that pretty little arm candy?" Skowing asked the question with a wolfish grin. "One I saw you with at Rodzinski's funeral?"

"Name's Maggie Jeffers. An attorney with the PD's office."

"No shit? Beauty and a brain to boot." Scoop had fallen into his folksy bumpkin act, one he'd perfected years ago. A regular Barnaby Jones, back in the day.

"She's a sweet girl," Cale added with sincerity. He wasn't going to reveal anything of pertinence, not with a man he'd barely seen the past few years.

Skowing's eyes kept their twinkle. "Question is, what's she see in a Cro-Magnon like you?"

Cale's grin was sheepish. "I ask myself that every day."

Skowing cut back to the chase. "So, what's on your mind, Cale? You sure as hell didn't drive out here to chew the fat with my moldy old butt."

"Some of us were talking," he began cautiously, "wondering how close you keep tabs on your players." Cale crossed his legs, ankle over knee, the impression of a man resigned to casual banter. "Off the field stuff. You know?"

The security man arched a dove's eyebrow. "We try and stay clear of their personal business. But there's no denying we keep an eye out, if that's what you mean."

"Makes sense. A business nowadays. Like they say."

Skowing had a long chin and narrow chest, which rose as he sighed. "Unfortunately, there's litigation lurking around every corner. Cell phone cams, videos, security cams all over the place. Besides all this Twitter and twatter bullshit . . ." His voice trailed off.

Cale kept silent and watched as Skowing leaned forward and placed bony elbows on the surface of his desk. "Is one of our guys in trouble here, Cale?" he asked flat out.

"No, no. Nothing like that." Cale was backpedaling. "Like I said, I'm piecing together a theory. Pure conjecture."

"But this _conjecture_ of yours. It may involve one of our team members, right? Else you wouldn't be here?"

Cale understood the delicacy of the man's position. His old friend could not afford to ignore a heads-up, if that's what the cops were giving him. If a Packers player was involved in some unsavory business, the director of security would damn sure want to know about it.

"You guys keep psych profiles? On individual players?" Cale asked the question knowing the information would be privileged, part of private medical records. His desire was to make Skowing squirm.

Scoop, however, fielded the question clean. "Background checks are done on each player. Thorough. We run our own Matrix test: a mini psych eval. Besides, every player signs a medical waiver revealing any preexisting conditions before the team issues a contract."

"They could lie, though. Right? Leave out a few details they may not want known?"

Skowing leaned back in his chair and gave Cale a tight stare. "We've been waltzing like a pair of candy-asses since you sat down, Cale. You want to tell me what this little fishing expedition of yours is really all about?"

COMMENTARY

**LC:** At this point, the police are scrambling. I thought it was cool to include the white elephant in the room—

**JM:** You mean the Green Bay Packers?

**LC:** Hard to set a story in Green Bay without mentioning the football team. Right?

**WSW:** And why couldn't the kidnapper be a pro player? Hell, every season some incident comes up like this. With a drunken assault or sex stuff. Hello! Sicko alert out there! Even murder.

**JM:** Wendy's right. We all know about Aaron Hernandez.

**WSW:** So why not a player as a serial kidnapper?

**JM:** Back when I wrote the first story, the Bill Cosby accusations were just heating up. Using knock out drops to incapacitate his victims.

**LC:** He's not the only one with that M.O., though.

**JM:** There was a Packer player in the '80s named Darren Sharper, who copied the Bill Cosby playbook. When _The Chemist_ came out, people were saying, "No way. A crime like this could never happen in little old Green Bay." Now I'd tell them all: Hello! Darren Sharper?

**LC:** I remember that case. Isn't he doing time now? For real?

**WSW:** Why's it always a dude thing? You don't hear of gals using knockout drops on guys. Or other gals? Why's it always guy pervs?

**JM:** To that I'd say: Eileen Warnos. Or that recent actress; Mack something or other? Brainwashing girls and actresses into a sex cult.

**LC:** It's a sick world out there. People have got way too much time on their hands.

**WSW:** Back to the story: The hunt for the kidnapper . . . detectives chasing around after their tails, running down this suspect or that, getting nowhere.

**JM:** Meanwhile, Detective Cale Van Waring is also having problems on the home front. Girlfriend issues. Could you guys see his stress levels going up?

**LC:** That would be weird. Just sayin'. You're hunting for a serial killer, or monster, or whatever . . . and he's loose in your city. So that's your job. The task force. Or whatever it's called?

**JM:** Special Crimes Unit.

**LC:** Special Crimes Unit. And you're frustrated, you've got missing victims out there. Not to mention a headless corpse. Meanwhile at home, his girl Maggie is giving him grief about wanting to get engaged or else she's moving out? Seriously?

**SW:** What's she supposed to do? Maggie is like 33 or 34. She's got her bio clock tick-tock-ticking _._ What? She's supposed to wait until Cale catches a "perfect crime" criminal? Riiiight! Before they can tie the knot? I don't blame her for applying a little pressure.

**LC:** They're both under extraordinary stress.

**WSW:** Taken to the extreme, right? With the stuff that's happened to her in the story? With the gangbangers? In the jail? And Cale hunting for the serial killer? But I feel bad for her.

**JM:** It's one of the underlying themes. Can high-stressed people function normally in relationships? How are you supposed to turn your job off when you come home each evening?

**WSW:** That would be a problem. When your job is searching for missing girls and trying to hunt a serial killer, it's hard to come home and—flashback: rewind to Stepford Wives reset—have a cook-out like normal folks do. Maggie's not a Stepford wife. She can't just pretend things are normal, can she?

**LC:** It makes you realize how trivial our own day-to-day problems and stresses are. Especially when you see what these people are going through. 

# CHAPTER 7

_The Chemist_ (Excerpt – Chapter 47)

Three of the young man's companions charged from their seats at the bar. They were met by a handful of rising pro-football players who stepped into the fray like it was a play from scrimmage. Music continued to throb, a Tarantino soundtrack to the beat of screams and shouts and breaking glass.

The bouncer on duty proved no match for the swelling melee. He was on the floor, applying a headlock to one feisty combatant. Punches flew as the scrum of bodies joined them seconds later.

Cale said to Staszak, "I guess we gotta do something."

Staszak, needing little prompting, was already on his feet, headed across the tavern toward the fracas.

Jellybear (the bar owner) brushed past them both like a corner man rushing the ring. He entered the brawl by bear-hugging one man around the chest, lifting him as if hoisting a half-barrel from a cooler.

Tealy Weathers, all three hundred-plus pounds of him, fired a jab that sent a combatant sailing across the room. A barstool toppled. Tealy, dancing on his toes, was looking for the next chump to pulverize. He noticed the approach of the bear-like Anton Staszak, and a slow grin spread across his pumpkin face. Now here was a worthy opponent. At least in stature.

"Come and get it," Tealy said, wagging a fat forefinger. "You want summa-dis?"

Cale understood one thing: despite his advancing years, Anton Staszak lived for moments like this. Staszak had grown up stamping out testosterone-fueled brushfires in his father's tavern, called Lech's Polish Pickle. Despite Tealy being half his age and the approximate size of the first car he'd owned, Staszak moved forward like a freight train whose brakes had gone soft. He ducked beneath the larger man's roundhouse, coming up with a perfect angle on the huge player's exposed chin.

Not many bar brawlers had ever seen a professional uppercut before, and Staszak possessed one. Cale was the lone person in the tavern with the knowledge that Anton Staszak had been a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth. Once upon a time.

Seeing the look on his partner's face, he imagined Staszak thinking _No, I shouldn't_ , followed by _Yeah. I should_ , before letting the uppercut fly.

A tree branch cracked as fist met oversized jaw. Tealy's eyes rolled up. To his credit, he did not go down. Instead, he wobbled two steps backward, and his meaty hands flew up to cover his face. In time-delay, a moment later, a crimson gush began to stream from his mouth and nose.

"You bwastaad!" Tealy mewled through sausage-sized fingers. "Ahh bwit my tug!"

Ten feet away, Cale was not as fortunate. Having located the epicenter of the brawl, he was searching for Kenny O'Hern's black T-shirt. Despite the jukebox soundtrack, he could've sworn he heard a faint whistling sound behind him. Instead of ducking, he turned and caught the blow in the cheekbone. He staggered and tripped over a pair of grapplers on the floor.

Between Jellybear and the bouncer—and a handful of players turned peacemakers—the combatants were being pulled away and separated or pushed aside and held in tight bear hugs.

The pair of cute girls who had ignited things, not surprisingly, had skipped away from the skirmish.

Cale rose and touched the side of his face. It felt as if lit with kerosene. He searched around for Kenny O'Hern. The man was gone. At the back door, the regulars watched as Cale waved his shield, shouting, "Police! Where'd he go?"

Fingers pointed out the door.

_The Chemist_ (Excerpt – Chapter 32)

The greatest hoax ever perpetrated on mankind? The answer's as simple as it is obvious: The convincing of people that their live are somehow important. That they have relevance, have so-called "meaning."

You, on the other hand, recognize this falsehood for what it is: utter bullshit. The reality is that all human lives—including your own—are as insignificant as those of ants in an anthill. People, with their grandiose sense of self-importance, languish in this fantasy. They cling to the hope that they—above all other species—must be here for some "greater purpose." A thread of some omnipotent design.

Misguided ignorance, at best.

You, on the other hand, harbor no such delusions. You operate on undiluted logic. Pure reason. The undeniable truth is that there is no point to any of our lives. Put to the test, this theorem stands true. No debate to the contrary holds water. As for the theological angle? Ask yourself why God—assuming for the sake of argument there is some such entity—created the dinosaurs, then allowed them to be wiped-out.

What would be the point? The logical purpose?

The human Bible fails, conveniently, to address this evolutionary fact. The soul is man's wishful thinking.

Anyone employing a modicum of common sense, God-given or otherwise, recognizes one unyielding truism: human life, identical to all other life on the planet, is meaningless.

To enlist further debate on the topic amounts to so much logorrhea. Pointless drivel.

End of story.

COMMENTARY

**WSW:** I'll take the bar fight over the existential bull crap soliloquy. At least the bar fight was good old-fashioned fun. Like a cowboy tavern brawl.

**LC:** It was like the '60s—Townies against college athletes over a pair of hotties in a dive bar. A scene like that never gets old.

**JM:** Except the athletes are pro football players—Green Bay Packers. Only in Green Bay.

**WSW:** I like it because it flows from the story, and it's not just a toss in or amusement scene. The detectives are in the bar because they're considering one of the players as a suspect.

**LC:** Still, I do also like the existential deterioration of the kidnapper. We don't know who he is yet, at this point. But when that's your internal philosophy, that nothing in life matters, and there is no heaven or hell, then whatever we do here on the planet—good or evil—is irrelevant. I suspect it's what a lot of these serial killers and school shooters believe.

**WSW:** I would agree with that. If you think the world is irrelevant, then your life in it is equally irrelevant . . . And so are the lives of everyone else. It's warped, but there's a certain sort of logic at play. Pure "F-the-world" sociopathy at work.

**JM:** What you're saying is, both scenes advance the story?

**LC:** The detectives are grasping at straws—especially if they're chasing a Packer player around and have no evidence.

**WSW:** And we can see that the kidnapper is unraveling. So, yes, they both work excellent. We see the clock ticking on both the detectives and the killer, as well as the captive girls. Things are reaching a desperation point.

# CHAPTER 8

_The Chemist_ (Excerpt - Chapter 65)

Arriving at home that afternoon, Maggie decided to leave her car parked on the driveway apron. She now walked up the path to the back door of their house. She carried her leather satchel in one hand and heard the starlings calling from the tree tops. The on-and-off drizzle appeared to have let up over the past few hours, with the clouds clearing a little.

Her key in the door lock, Maggie grabbed the handle. She noticed it was damp on her hand and fingers. Though the drizzle had ceased, puddles remained on the driveway, and she could discern the occasional drip from the high tree branches. She thought nothing of it; after all, it was April in Wisconsin.

Maggie wiped her hand on her jacket and entered the house.

In the bedroom, she kicked off her shoes and made for the bathroom, pulling her sweater over her head as she walked. As she turned, her reflection in the mirror seemed to swim in and out of focus.

"Whoa!"

Maggie gripped the sink with both hands and waited for the sensation to pass. When she gazed back at the mirror, she noticed her cheeks and neck were flush.

What had she eaten today? Not much. She'd been either at the hospital or at her office. Her blood-sugar must be low. With her mind on making herself a sandwich, she moved back into the bedroom and peeled off her slacks. A second wave of lightheadedness swept over her and Maggie steadied herself by grabbing the dresser with one hand. Her reflection, in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, standing in bra and panties, seemed warped round the edges. A wave of nausea swam through her. It settled sourly in the base of her stomach.

So much for the sandwich.

Was she coming down with something? she wondered. A virus going around? Maybe some bug she'd picked up? It wouldn't be a surprise. Not with all the time she'd spent at the hospital of late.

A new wave of dizziness assaulted her with a head rush. Glancing up, she was surprised to notice a dark silhouette standing in the doorway. The figure—a man—was backlit against the open drapes of the window at the end of the hallway.

For a second, she thought of Juan-Julio Sanchez. Was he free from jail? Released for providing the investigators with his information? Had he found out where she lived and come looking for her?

It wasn't possible. Not a chance, she decided. No way he'd be released this soon. Regardless, hesitation colored her voice. And why was her vision blurry?

"Cale? Is that you?"

"Sorry, sweetie." The stranger's voice was low. "Look s like you got Door Number Two."

Not Cale's voice. Maggie felt her face flush, and her mouth was the texture of sandpaper. She forced herself to swallow, summoning forth every ounce of her composure.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

The man issued a half-smile as he edged forward into the room.

"Hello, Maggie," he said. "I was rather hoping you'd be a blonde."

COMMENTARY

**JM:** So that's where we leave the first book here. The detectives are closing in, and the kidnapper is desperate. Because he can kidnap any person whenever he chooses—to make Cale feel the most pain, he sets his sights on those he loves.

**LC:** The bad guy in the story is like a lot of real-life criminals—he's a total narcissist. It's almost as if he's surprised, he's even on the cops' radar. Yet as we get to know his dark personality, it's in character and believable.

**WSW:** That's what's scary. That he _so_ believable. If he walked into our room right now, we wouldn't have a clue about the craziness bouncing around in his head. His normalcy is his best disguise. And like Lomas said, his narcissism is what makes him super dangerous.

**JM:** That said, sounds like you guys enjoyed _The Chemist_.

**WSW:** Very well done. A nail-biter. It's going to make a crazy good movie.

**LC:** And before I can say I'm looking forward to the next book in the series . . . Well, I suppose that's right where we're headed next, aren't we?

**WSW:** Tally ho! 

# CHAPTER 9

"Humans are such easy prey,"

— From the movie _From Beyond_ (1986)

BOOK TWO — **TRAIL OF EVIL**

COMMENTARY

**JM:** And here we are, back again and ready to dive into _Trail of Evil_ , the second book in The Chemist series.

**LC:** Great to be back. Just so our readers know, we're trying our best with this dialogue not to spoil any of the plot lines for people who haven't yet read the books.

**WSW:** That's correct, Lomas. We're discussing the stories in broad generalities. Anyone who looks at the book covers can ascertain that these are written in the crime thriller/suspense genre. There isn't much mystery there, is there?

**JM:** Thanks, guys. But I've got very smart readers, and I know they can figure things out for themselves. Let's get going right into the second book without any fanfare. Who wants to start?

**LC:** I'll give it a go. I liked this book in the way it started. Right away we are out of the American Midwest and transported to, of all places Rome, then right after that, Liberia, Africa. Talk about a scene shift. But in the second story, we find out that Detective Cale Van Waring still has a pair of missing female victims to locate. He learns from a timely tip that instead of dealing with a lone-wolf kidnapper, his missing females are likely victims of an international human trafficking ring.

**WSW:** Which is a hot topic these days. So, this story is based in reality. And it's not just some obscure issue—normal, everyday American housewives have been kidnapped while shopping by trafficking cartels. It's happening as we speak.

**LC:** Consequently, Detective Van Waring follows the trail overseas, with the help of connections he has in the FBI. Which again, is entirely plausible, given the circumstances.

**JM:** I wrestled a little bit with this—the plausibility of a Midwestern detective with no jurisdiction outside the country borders, going off on some half-baked mission, which he has little chance of solving on his own.

**WSW:** But that's what makes it interesting. He's a fish out of water, and people do things these days if they're passionate enough about something. There's a logic to it. Cale is driven to resolve the case that is haunting him; and he's made certain promises to the missing girls' family members. I think what he's trying to do is consistent with his dogged character, because even though he's disadvantaged, he's doing it because he needs to for his own reasons.

**JM:** On that note, this looks like a good place to dive into _Trail of Evil_. So, let's begin.
_Trail of Evil_ (Chapter – 1)

Liberia, Africa

The young girl awoke in the opulent bed, tangled in satin sheets. The colonel's bedroom, she remembered. The high ceiling, the humongous poster bed, the lacquered bamboo wet bar across the room. She heard waves crash outside the open window, wind roughing the African coastline outside. She could smell the brine and sea salt. Having come from a small inland village, these were by far the most elegant surroundings she had ever experienced.

All thanks to the hospitality of high-ranking government official, Colonel Tazeki Mabutu. Her gracious and—he'd been a tiger in bed last night—loving host.

She'd seen him angry last evening, ordering his men about, and was fearful of his wrath. What she remembered most, however, were the colonel's eyes—warm and coffee colored when he smiled, but bloody daggers when angry. She did not wish to test those blades.

She didn't know where he had gone to now. Alone in the bed, she arose and searched around for her clothes, which had been folded on a nearby chair. She dressed herself.

——

Twenty minutes later, Colonel Tazeki Mobutu had showered and was sitting behind the huge mahogany work desk in his private study. The walls were covered with African artifacts: crossed long spears, thatched battle shields, colorful masks depicting a variety of gods and demons. Depictions of the Old Ones. On the mantle above the fireplace, amid pottery and knickknacks, sat a female shrunken head. Strands of what had once been wheat colored hair hovered over her blank, remorseless expression.

His young guest, now garbed in the same white shapeless dress she'd worn on her arrival last evening, sat in an armless wooden chair a few feet in front of the desk. She bore the uneasy countenance, he noted, of someone who had been summoned for interrogation.

Tazeki was holding his pewter statue of Pazuzu, shifting the object in his hands as if weighing it, like it might hold some clue to the fate of the adolescent sitting before him.

"Is everything . . ." she spoke hesitantly. "Was it all right, sir? Me? I mean last night?"

"Your performance," Tazeki said, his eyes sincere, "was satisfying. The zombie dance. It was enchanting."

"I don't remember . . . Not really." Telling the truth.

"No. Of course you don't."

He set the statue atop his desk, next to the screen of his computer. He pondered a moment while steepling his fingertips in front of his chin. "You are a very beautiful young girl." Tazeki spoke with calmness, staring into her warm brown eyes. "A work of art. Exceptional."

"Thank you, sir." She looked modestly down at her lap.

"Allow me to speak freely." His lips gave no hint of a smile, and his eyes bore into hers with intent. "Would you do me the great honor, my dear," he paused, "of becoming my wife?"

The girl could not have appeared more stunned. "You speak . . . speak for real, sir?" She hesitated. "You're not making a joke? You tease me?"

Tazeki heard her voice catch. Her eyes were cautious, wary against his playing a cruelty at her expense. "This is short notice," he said, apologetic. "After all, we just met last night. So, as is custom, I will allow you all the time you need to ponder such an important decision."

He paused. "By the way, what was your name again?"

"Saffron," she said meekly.

"Saffron. Very well."

Before the young woman could make any further reply, the colonel reached beneath the surface of his desk. He watched as a moment later she dropped through the polished wooden floor—chair and rug and all—too surprised and shocked to even scream. He pictured her body crashing against the dark stone walls, thrown into tarry blackness as the trapdoor above her snapped closed. In seconds, she would hit the deep pool of brackish water. He imagined her scrambling for bearings, inhaling as she went under, far beneath the house. She would struggle to find the surface, cling to whatever final breaths she might manage.

Before her fingers would gain purchase on the slippery rocks along the edge of the grotto, however, the eels in the pool would swarm. She would scream—a sound Tazeki would not hear, of course—and within a matter of minutes the flesh would be torn from her meager bones in raw, bloody strips. She would bleed profusely, and by the time she realized the true extent of her horror, she would be devoured.

The room was instantly quiet. A pond after a fish had jumped. Tazeki rang the bell for his servant. When Kasim appeared, wearing his customary red Nehru jacket, Tazeki ordered the young man to procure a new woven rug from the supply they kept on hand in an ornate corner cabinet. To place it in front of his large mahogany desk, where it covered the seams of the trapdoor. The servant performed this task without comment before disappearing from the room, silent as an insect.

# CHAPTER 10

_Trail of Evil_ (Excerpt – Chapter 10)

Green Bay, Wisconsin

Tuesday broke clear and clean, like the glorious summer mornings of his youth. Days of baseball and bike riding and dollar candy bars. Though Cale's head felt the size of a medicine ball, he rose and plowed through his morning workout routine. Hank sat on the nearby loveseat grooming himself, watching as Cale put himself through thirty minutes of torture aboard the rowing machine. Hank maintained the calm expression of someone comfortable in the presence of lunacy.

Afterward in the kitchen, Cale poured himself a glass of orange juice and watched as Maggie came into the room. She was wearing gray shorts and a thin tank top, and carried her tea mug in one hand, a stack of bills in the other. She appeared a little pale, her eyes clouded.

"Feeling all right?" Cale asked. "Couldn't be a bit of a hangover, could it?"

"I'm fine," she said, not looking at him direct. "Just a bug I'm fighting off." Hank sauntered into the room, brushing against her ankle, signaling it was time for his breakfast. Setting the bills atop the counter, Maggie added, "Last night I was thinking . . . when we were in bed—"

"Meaning you weren't consumed by the burning rapture of our lovemaking?"

She fetched a sigh. "It's called multitasking."

"Shatters my illusions a bit, but I'm listening."

"You mentioned that bastard Crenshaw?" Maggie spit out the name. "Giving you a tip on a suspect—the African gentlemen?"

"I'm sure he's many things, but I doubt 'gentlemen' is one of them."

"All right, killer then. Or murdering psychopath; or sadistic trafficker. Take your pick." She paused. She neglected adding _rapist_ to Crenshaw's roster of crimes. "Assuming the man Crenshaw's fingering can't be extradited back here, then you're considering going off to try and—what— locate him? On your own? Is that about right?"

Cale had a towel draped over his shoulders, gripping both ends. "If it comes to that. We'll have to see how things play out."

Maggie took a sip of tea, saying, "I was thinking . . . How about if I come with you? To Africa? Or Europe? Or wherever?"

Silence built between them, each locking eyes without looking away. Cale didn't want to bring up the incident with Tobias Crenshaw: Where only three weeks before, Maggie had been kidnapped from their home, raped, almost killed. He knew it wasn't fair.

"The point is," he said, flat, "I'll be able to do my job a lot better if I know you're right here. At home. Safe."

"I understand that, Cale." Maggie sighed. "But you're forgetting one thing: I'm a lawyer. Remember? I can help out on a lot of different levels."

"The answer is one: _Not_. And two: _happening!_ " Cale let out a breath. "I have no idea what I'm even dealing with, or what kind of snake's nest I might be wading into. I can't risk having to worry about you while I'm doing it."

He looked out the window for a long second at the sunny spring day.

Maggie considered his words. "Nobody's paying you to be a hero, Cale." Her caustic tone caused him to turn his head back to her.

He said, "Right now the FBI is running the case. Not me. There's all kind of clearance, passports, other diplomatic BS."

She smirked. "You can't save the world by yourself. Not even with Agent Redtail's help." Maggie took a sip from her mug. Cale blinked at her, watching with a defiant tenderness in his eyes. He said nothing.

Maggie added, "Besides, it's not a very healthy job choice, is it?"

COMMENTARY

**JM:** So, we're back. The story starts off with relationship tension between Cale and Maggie. Just as it ended in the first book, when she was pressuring him to get engaged. Any comments on where this is going?

**LC:** First, Cale's got the time off from his job because he's been suspended. Maggie still has a full-time job as a lawyer, so I don't see how she believes that she can fly to Europe to function as his assistant. Cale's reasoning is justified. And they've both just gone through a hairy experience in the last book.

WSW: I think there's an underlying subtext going on here. Maggie has been the victim of sexual assault by her kidnapper. Her reasoning is off-kilter. She might be suffering from PTSD. Experiencing a clinginess, wanting to keep Cale close.

**LC:** I like the concept that Cale is leaving his comfort zone. Like he's running away, but not running really. As if he needs a respite from things. The fact that he's willing to fly a-third of the way around the world to resolve the case shows a dedication beyond your average investigator.

**WSW:** Maggie's fear is plausible. That teeth-grinding sense of holding your breath without realizing it. That's what we do as females when we're under duress or suffering from some sort of trauma. We get clingy, want security. We'll find out as things go along though, won't we?

**LC:** I like that we've got a new villain in Book Two. Plus, the fact that our hero must move onto the villain's turf, four-thousand miles away. This sets up as a huge advantage for the bad guy here.

# CHAPTER 11

_Trail of Evil_ (Excerpt – Chapter 17)

Anzio Italy

"Employing a gun—a direct headshot. Or a bullet to the central chamber of the heart," said Jacek Tumag. with a nod toward Cale. "Using a silencer . . . whenever possible." Jacek was a former Czechoslovakian special forces agent who ran his own mercenary crew. He was Cale's liaison while on his European case, assigned—off the books—by the CIA.

"Have you ever tried to garrote a man, Detective?" asked Cheetah, turning her head toward them. She was Jacek's right-hand agent, a petite hundred-pound African wearing a white judogi. "Piano wire or two-hundred test fishing line work best. But still, you must control your target. He's going to fight, kick, slam himself back into you. He's not going to just sit there and let you murder him."

"And with a blade, you've got to slice the windpipe clean through." This was spoken by Pharaoh, a six-foot-five olive-skinned agent standing in the mat's center. "Or he'll scream a final gasp of warning. Of alarm. Even if it's a wheezy rattle, someone might hear. Either way, it's still very messy."

_Whoa!_ thought Cale. He realized these people had just moved way beyond reading a criminal his Miranda rights. Nonetheless, the lesson they were giving him was sobering. This was not a game to them. It was life and death. It was the mental framework with which they functioned. Their primary rule? The Rule of Survival. If they were to work as a team on this job—and he was, no doubt, the rookie here—then each was responsible for the safety of the other team members. In street parlance: each had the others' backs.

"Excellent advice," Jacek said, nodding to Cheetah, who was also in the center of the wrestling mat. She was squared off, facing Pharaoh in the demonstration. Jacek bowed his head. "Continue."

"Against a much larger opponent," lectured Cheetah, sizing up Pharaoh across the mat from her, "we use our superior quickness to 'chop down the tree.'" She issued Pharaoh a wink.

"Never stay directly in front of your opponent," she added. "That's where he wants you."

With blurry quickness—in a millisecond—she was beside and slightly behind the larger man. Her right foot snapped out fast as a switchblade, catching Pharaoh behind his left knee. The joint buckled, and he dropped one-kneed to the mat, arms up defensively, attempting to roll away.

_They're not faking this_ , Cale reminded himself. _This is not rehearsed_.

Anticipating her opponent's maneuver, Cheetah shadowed behind the larger man, moving in for the kill. As Pharaoh turned, his muscular arms levered for balance, she leapt in and raked her fingernails across the front of his neck.

"Over!" exclaimed Jacek, with a brisk hand clap. " _Fini_. Pharaoh is dead."

"What?" Cale protested. "She only grazed him. Not any harder than she slapped me earlier."

"One difference." Jacek's lips held a smirk.

"One big difference," Cheetah said.

Out on the mat, Pharaoh did a front roll and came to his feet. The only sound was the slightest quiver of air. Jacek waved Cheetah over to where he and Cale stood. Grasping one of her hands, he flipped it over, displaying her fingernails to him. Cheetah had overgrown the thumbnail of her right hand as well as the forefinger and middle fingernails. The nails were hardened with enameled lacquer and had been sharpened to knife-like points. The strength of drill bits.

"Great for a silent kill," she said, with no sense of braggadocio.

"She means his larynx," Jacek said before Cale could speak. "In real combat"—a quick nod to Cheetah— "she just ripped out his voice box."

Cale found his mouth dry and forced himself to swallow.

"And now"—Jacek's grin was wide and beckoning—"who's got a taste for fresh calamari?"

# CHAPTER 12

_Trail of Evil_ (Excerpt – Chapter 31)

Liberia, Africa

The green moray eel thrives in oceanic saltwater. It enjoys seclusion in the rocky caves and crevices found up and down the African coastline. It is considered reclusive but will display a nasty temper if harassed or threatened in its habitat. Along with beady eyes and an acute sense of smell, these creatures possess wide jaws and razor-sharp teeth. They can grow up to five feet in length and relish the taste of raw fish and fresh mammal blood. The moray eel secretes a protective thin mucus layer, highly toxic, over its smooth skin. This provides the creatures with their famous slippery feel.

From his perch on the rocks—one foot on the treacherous stone, the other on the seat of the trapped wooden chair, Cale could not have cared less about the eel as a species. What he did care about was that his muscles were cramping and that the deep pool of water inches from his feet seemed to be teaming with the slimy creatures.

Blood already in the water. My blood.

One thing he surmised regarding the carnivorous little bastards: when it comes to a fresh meal, they seem to learn fast. Colonel Mobutu's swimming pets had gained their knowledge from experience. He would not be surprised to discover a pile of polished bones at the bottom of this tepid grotto.

Human bones.

And Cale discovered he had other problems as well. Wet, hungry, shivering from his dip in the water; despite this being Africa, hypothermia was a definite concern. Upon realizing he was safe—for the time being anyway—where he stood on the rocky ledge, he decided he had better begin thinking about how to free himself from this precarious predicament.

Jacek, where are you when I need you, buddy?

As far as his bodyguard went, Cale decided he should expect the worst. He was on his own, and the realization was not a comforting thought. Weapons? He took a quick inventory: He had the penlight—fortunately waterproof—and it was turned off. His desire was not only to save battery but also provide a less visible target for the creatures nipping—literally—at his heels. In his pocket he had his cell phone. That was it. Cale wondered if his plunge into the pool might have rendered the phone useless. He pulled the item free. The orange power button was still steady. A positive sign. Flipping it open, he pressed the numbers nine-one-one out of habit and listened for a dial tone.

Nothing. He tried zero for the operator. Same result.

What did you expect, moron? You're trapped inside a granite cave at the bottom of a solid brick mansion. In fucking Africa!

The light from the phone's screen cast an eerie glow around the walls of the cavern. At the edges of the pool, the water made a soft lapping sound. Cale closed the phone, deciding it best to employ his items as needed. The penlight and cell phone provided at least a modest form of comfort, if little else. What was there to see down here anyway? Shouting, he recognized, would help little. Nor was making a swim for it a viable option. As for other weapons, he guessed he might yank the chair free if he could locate a more suitable place for his footing. Perhaps he could smash it against the rocks. He might employ one of the sturdy wooden legs as a club but doubted it would provide much help against the brigade of eels lurking just below the surface.

In a matter of hours, hunger would begin to gnaw at him. _At least I might whack one of the suckers,_ Cale thought darkly. Fresh sushi for dinner. Too bad he wasn't Japanese.

He stared up at the top of the cave, the pitch darkness there. Not even the faintest suggestion of light could be discerned from where he guessed the trapdoor to be. He listened for any sound, hearing the occasional drip of water as it echoed off the stony walls. Nothing more. Cale adjusted his foothold to ease his cramping muscles. His fingers sought a new grip on the damp, cool rocks.

What he wanted to do was scream for help, shriek at the top of his lungs: _I hate the dark;_ _I hate confined spaces; I hate insects . . . and I despise eels!_ He shouted none of this. He was a stoic detective, after all. He would not be reduced to the level of a babbling tenth-grader. The blues? He considered singing a few of his favorite John Lee Hooker or Muddy Waters songs but decided they would turn him more melancholic. Not a good frame of mind when you're clinging to the final vestiges of hope. Clinging by your fingertips.

Every time he caught himself wondering if the cavalry might be coming, the old adage his father had drilled into his skull as a boy taunted him: _God helps those who help themselves_. The saying was the antithesis of "playing the victim." It meant—to Cale anyway—that when you've exhausted every possible means of solving your problem, first then would providence, perhaps, step in and lend you a hand.

And even then, it seemed to come with a qualified _maybe_.

With the cloying fingers of darkness closing in around him, a coffin like absence of light, Cale thought of Maggie. God, how he loved the little way her nose crinkled when she laughed. And the way she always said "interesting" when he'd finished telling her about some case, confirming she honestly cared about what he was saying. But now, stuck here in the dark, Cale wasn't thinking about the good times they'd had—not the laughs, not the lovemaking, and not their future plans together. Instead, he couldn't stop thinking about one thing . . . her pregnancy.

Am I really the father?

For any number of reasons, it made him feel worse than he already did. And it amazed Cale, considering the circumstances, how that was even possible.

COMMENTARY

**JM:** So here we've explored two different scenes in the storyline. The first shows Cale learning some serious self-defense tactics from Jacek and his professional mercenary companions. The second scene shows just how much it helped him. Which is zero. He's been discarded into a rocky underground water pit filled with hungry moray eels. It's likely he's presumed dead by the enemies who tossed him into the pit. Either drowned or eaten.

**WSW:** I despise eels. Yuck! They're way too creepy to be swimming around free. Like prehistoric creepy. That said, I have great empathy for Cale in this situation. I don't care too much that he got beat up on the judo mat. _Que sera sera._ But the eel thing (shakes head). And being trapped in a dark cave, where the only thing you can think about is that you may not be the father of your pregnant girlfriend. Yikes!

**LC:** That's funny. It sounds like Wendy would rather perish than be trapped in a grotto with swimming eels. Maybe it's a chick thing. But fact is, there are a lot of guys I know who would rather face a pool of killer eels than deal with a pregnant fiancée—especially when the kid might not be your own.

**WSW:** It's called the lesser of two evils. But I don't care. I'd go all Jason Vorhees (I know we referenced him earlier) on those eels— _Eeek! Eeek! Eeek!_ with my slasher knife.

**JM:** Frying pan versus fire. I get it. But on a lighter note, it reveals to us that knowing all the self-defense tricks in the world means nothing against the forces of Mother Nature.

**WSW:** Perhaps it shows us that Maggie was right in the first book. If Cale had married her a few months ago, maybe she wouldn't be pregnant now, and even if she were, she'd likely have a great life insurance policy in case he doesn't make it out of the eel pit.

**LC:** (shakes head) Like I said, a chick thing. The poor guy's clinging to the last gasp of his life, and some readers (coughs _"ahem"_ ) are worried more about babies and financial security. Not trying to sound cold hearted here, but—

**WSW:** (laughs) Hey, I'm not sayin' anything, I'm just sayin'.

**JM:** Anything else before we move on?

**LC:** Just that I enjoy the transitional dichotomy in this story. The shifting between Maggie back in Wisconsin, dealing with her emotional issues, versus Cale in deep dark Africa, where he's dealing with the life-threatening physical challenges that he's facing.

**WSW:** Lomas is right. It does give the story a nice back-and-forth balance. And whenever writers do that—if they do it well—no matter where the reader is in the story, you can't wait to get back to see what's happening with the other storyline. So, you pull it off quite well in this story, Janson.

**JM:** Gracias. 

# CHAPTER 13

_Trail of Evil_ (Excerpt – Chapter 44)

Green Bay, Wisconsin

Creamy yellow streamers painted stripes across the unmade bed. Friday morning sunshine rendered the room an artistic golden glow, and though the buttery brightness seemed pleasant, Maggie could not appreciate the caressing warmth. She was kneeling on the floor of the upstairs bathroom, one arm draped over the toilet bowl. It felt as if a balloon were expanding inside her stomach. She thought grimly, _So much for peppermint tea_.

She vomited again.

The morning sickness, retching, the sour taste of bile in her throat. The march of a hundred tiny soldiers inside her head, pounding drums as they paraded around in a circle. Each throb gave off a twitch of pain, not quite as piercing as the Rhine wine hangovers she remembered from college, but close.

Once again, she upchucked, and this time nothing came out. The dry heaves. _Wonderful._

She wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her robe and flushed the toilet. Rising, she dosed her face with cool water at the sink and dried herself with a hand towel. She avoided looking in the mirror.

Maggie brushed her teeth. Twice. That accomplished, she felt ready to face the day.

While making the bed, she heard a rapping sound from downstairs and heard Chloe call as she entered the back door of the house. Slipping on jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, Maggie discovered her sister downstairs at the dining room table. Hank was on her lap, purring at the sheer ecstasy of being brushed. Deciding a cup of ginger tea might settle her stomach, Maggie filled the chrome teakettle and set it on the burner. Chloe declined. She was on her way to work, she said, and had just stopped in to check on her.

"How's the nausea?" Chloe asked, sizing her up.

"Same. I'm just getting so _bored_ with it."

"It'll be gone soon. Any word from Cale? After I left?"

"He called from Naples. Exhausted," Maggie reported. "I begged him to come home. Then I heard weird sounds, and we got cut off." She frowned. "I did manage to tell him about Crenshaw getting shot."

_If only the bastard dies quickly,_ Maggie reminded herself. _It will solve a lot of problems_.

"A pervert gets his due. Good riddance." Chloe's tone was unremorseful for the monster who had kidnapped and raped her sister. "How about Thing Two? The preggers part?"

"Not a good topic right now." Maggie shifted subjects. "Any more visions of Leslie Dowd and her mystery man?" Chloe had relayed the entire episode of her latest dream to her last evening.

With a bit of reluctance, Chloe said, "Just this: _He is coming_."

"Who's coming?"

"That's just it . . . I have no idea." Chloe plucked a stray piece of cat hair from her pantsuit. Four arm bracelets clanked. "No dream or images this time. I just keep hearing a repeating voice: __ 'He is coming.'"

Maggie gave her a searching look. "What aren't you telling me?"

"That's it. Nothing else. Just over and over."

The kettle whistled on the stove, causing them both to start.

Maggie busied herself pouring tea. Chloe rose from the table and tongued her fingertips, brushed the lap of her slacks for more cat hairs. "It might not be good, Mags. Wherever _he_ is, it might not be good."

Watching her sister depart the house with a wave, Maggie thought: _Just as well_. She didn't want to hear any more of Chloe's bizarre dreams or premonitions. She had her own nightmares to contend with, her own demons to wrestle.

She sat at the table and sipped her tea, her thoughts five-thousand miles away to wherever Cale might be at the moment. He said he had no phone. She had no way to even get in touch with him. All she could do was hope he was safe and pray that he'd be coming home soon.

Maggie felt herself brighten. It was as if her prayers were already being answered. Maybe _that's_ what Chloe's dream was about. The mystery was suddenly clear to her. And weren't the simplest solutions often the best?

He is coming.

It was about Cale coming home. It had to be. What else could it mean?

——

Sitting in the salon's parking lot, Chloe fished inside her oversize handbag and withdrew her cell phone. She dialed directory assistance and was connected to the number she sought. When the receptionist answered, Chloe said in a firm voice, "I'd like to speak to Father Larchezzi, please."

"Can I ask what this is concerning?"

Chloe felt her forehead furrow. "I need to know if he's qualified to perform a . . . a certain ritual."

"A ritual? Could you be more specific?"

"An exorcism," Chloe said, the word hanging in the air between them like a curse.
_Trail of Evil_ (Excerpt - Chapter 45)

Liberia, Africa

Inside the main house of the walled and guarded compound, high on the third-floor, the witch doctor kneels in the room's center. Four lighted candles surround him. Flickering flames cast shadows that cavort on the walls, highlighting the painted symbols there—along with the plastered feathers and dripping chicken blood, which streams down the walls like snaky entrails.

Log drums thumping and shakers rattling in a crazed rhythm.

Tazeki Mobutu kneels naked before the carved wooden bowl. Streaks of white paint are splayed across his face and dark, sinewy torso, stark black rings circling his eyes. From a chalice he pours warm blood over the shimmering diamond in the center of the bowl. As the gem twinkles in the firelight, Tazeki whispers in a low voice: "This is far from over, my American friend. The bones of your love ones will be cracked; the blood of those dear to you will spray forth; and their skin will be burned to reeking flesh."

He adds more blood, and when he turns his head and stares up at you, dear reader, his eyes are crimson pinpricks. "The dark Loa will be appeased." And as his lips form a sinister curl, his smile is more malevolent than the cackling laugh of a lunatic.

COMMENTARY

**JM:** So here things get sticky. Chloe's visions deepen of something evil coming. Maggie is being driven crazy by her sister's warnings and by the uncertainty of her pregnancy. And Cale's life is being threatened by a psychopathic witch doctor.

**LC:** (laughs) Of course he is. Are there any other kinds?

**WSW:** Calling a PC card here! Voodoo is a religion. Hello! A culture of belief and healing. I'm sure there are thousands of practitioners who are not psychotic.

**LC:** Tell that to every albino living on the African continent.

**JM:** All right. Points taken. The true revelation here is that our characters are under high levels of stress. Even spiritual attack from forces unseen.

**WSW:** No doubt. And the story ends in a sort of cliff-hanger moment.

**JM:** I think it's appropriate for the series. There're still a lot of dangling threads at the end.

**LC:** And that leads us into Book Three, right?

# CHAPTER 14

BOOK THREE – **MASK OF BONE**

Trail of evil, mask of bone, drink the blood and hear the moans; when shadows rise at full

moon's toll, I'll steal from you your living soul.

Now they lay thee down to rest, no rhythm beating in your chest; your coffin opens 'fore the

light, and out you walk on moonless nights.

  * _Nzambi_ hex of witch doctor Tazeki Mabutu

COMMENTARY

**LC:** And Book Three starts off with a bang. Literally.

**SWS:** I'm not surprised to see Crenshaw get his due comeuppance. Prick; pervert; A-hole! Even though he survives and is not reported dead yet. Still, I almost applauded out loud in my den.

**JM:** Justice served. The lesson here is—

**LC:** Don't trust your neighborhood witch doctor. No matter how suave he appears to be.
_Mask of Bone_ (Excerpt Chapter 1)

Green Bay, Wisconsin

The serial kidnapper stood at the top of the concrete steps outside the Brown County courthouse. Gone were the orange jailhouse jumpsuit and laceless canvas shoes he'd been wearing hours earlier. They'd been replaced by gray khaki slacks, a light button-down shirt, and a sports jacket. He was freshly shaved, his hair a little longer than his arrest photos from two weeks ago, and he was leaning on what the cops were calling a "sympathy" cane.

The man was positioned, strategically, a pace behind his attorney, who was addressing the crowd. A brown-shirted county deputy stood on each side, and the eyes of the lawmen scanned the angry, restless crowd that had gathered across the concrete walkway and clipped courthouse lawns.

From this agitated group of citizens, occasional shouts rang out. "Murderer!" "Scumbag!" "You're gonna fry, Crenshaw!"

The gathered media, their recording devices and cameras and cell phones angled to capture every nuanced word, had formed a semi-circle at the bottom of the courthouse steps. This designated "safety arc" was enforced by another pair of uniformed city patrolmen, ensuring that the man speaking—an attorney with glasses and a grandfather's wreath of gray hair—was allowed his personal space near the top of the steps.

The weather report had verified the conditions: one of those hazy June days, the sky trying to decide what to do. Cement-colored clouds could be seen approaching from the west, casting traces of shadow, bringing with them the metallic hint of coming rain. Thus far the drizzle had held off, but for how long was anyone's guess.

The attorney requested quiet, putting an end to the crowd's insolent jeers. When the voices abated, he proceeded to speak in a solemn tone about evidence, due process, and the importance of examining the relevant facts so that nothing could exist beyond a reasonable doubt. He sounded as if he were delivering a lecture on legal ethics.

"Screw you, Crenshaw! You murderer!"

Positioned behind the attorney, Tobias Crenshaw kept his expression blank. He'd been schooled in keeping it that way for this event, and he stayed frozen and unflinching, appearing almost disinterested as the small black dot appeared on his forehead, just beneath the hairline. His demeanor remained unfazed as the back of his head exploded. At the same instant, he dropped to the ground like a life-sized puppet whose strings had been snipped.

Those who had been listening close might have distinguished a faint coughing sound in the same millisecond that the black dot had appeared on the target's forehead. But this mild idiosyncrasy was forgotten by most everyone who had chanced to hear it, and it was no surprise, for an instant later, pandemonium broke loose.

# CHAPTER 15

_Mask of Bone_ (Excerpt – Chapter 9)

In Western Africa, over two thousand years ago they were referred to as _juju_. They were little woven dolls or "poppets" strung together to create a personal talisman. Sometimes they were made of pieces of twine or twigs from bird nests, dried reeds from the riverbank, or roots or stones or pieces of shell. Small chips of wood formed the eyes. Seven or nine or thirteen personal items—never an even number—were placed inside the poppet, which was then woven tight and stitched closed with human hair. Doused with urine or semen or excrement to add _umbala_ , a poppet could be employed to garner good health and well-being through the aid of the loa.

On the other hand, one could just as easily create a poppet of an enemy—either laboring alone or through a houngan or mambo or obeah man—or a dark botono (a witch doctor). The use of a poppet for evil would cast great bleakness over someone's life, plague them with untold hardship, constant pain, endless suffering. If left unchecked, these maladies would lead to a painful decline, followed by a bitter and withering death.

After the European invasion of the "cradle of humanity," the traditional poppet dolls evolved into small cloth sachets or pouches which held these same personal items. These pouches were called _gris-gris_ , and this is what botono Tazeki Mabutu preferred to use these days, when he applied his magic. The pouches were easy to employ. They could be any size and be buried in the ground without worry from weather or predators. They protected the sacred objects within. They were also easier to dispose of later, once a ransom was paid, or a debt resolved; or if the spellbinder's desires, for whatever reason, happened to change.

His personal gris-gris, which Tazeki had implanted within the base of the statue of Pazuzu, contained the dark feather of a vulture, a leopard's eye, the dried anus of a goat, the Knight of Wands, from his first tarot deck ( _his card_ ), his dried semen, and the knucklebones of an albino infant. These were the first six items. The seventh—and most significant of all—was the weathered caul from his infancy, the remnant tissue membrane which had covered half his infant head at birth.

Tazeki Mabutu, grandson of the great botono Njada, had been born a caul baby.

Rumors spread from village to village when little Tazeki entered the world. The stories turned out—as rumors often do—to be true. A caul baby. In times when superstitions held more sway, an infant born with a membranous uterine attachment clinging to its skull was deemed a child blessed by the loa. At other times, the opposite: the baby was presumed to be destined for evil. Cain, the brother of Abel, was whispered to have been born in such a manner—as were Alexander the Great and Rasputin; and Benito Mussolini; and Judas Iscariot as well, along with countless other notables down through the ages. The unofficial historical list was a lengthy one.

Tazeki's mother, he learned many years later, had been ecstatic. Her infant child, being born not only the son of a voodoo priest (and grandson of the greatest wizard of his time), but also born with a caul...why, he would be destined for nothing short of greatness. He would grow up to be a man from whom kings would seek counsel. Or, perhaps, he might rise to become a great king himself.

A celebration had been held in the village. Tales were told of how the party continued unabated until the caul fell away on Tazeki's fifth day in this world. As was the custom at the time, the women of the village went to great lengths to preserve the caul. It was dried and kept as part of the child's personal inheritance. In young Tazeki's case, it had been kept safe in his possession until that fateful day when he'd stood alone in the nighttime jungle and made his pact with the demon, Pazuzu, beneath the glow of a scarlet moon. His personal items were transferred to the demon's care as part of their pact. Inside the gris-gris, tucked within the statue's base, the objects had never been far from the botono's sight.

Until now, that is.

Tazeki sat alone in his study in silence, sipping his scotch. He pondered his grim situation. He understood how much he needed to locate his statue. _The American detective stole it from me_. And until his sacred belongings—his caul most of all—were back in his possession, the rest of the world could be damned.

Much to his consternation, the wind ghosts inside the room began to snicker, to taunt him: _What if the foreigner no longer has the statue, Obeah-mon? Maybe he's_ discarded _Pazuzu during his escape? Tossed him into the tall scrub bushes? Perhaps thinking the idol a mere insignificant piece of bric-a-brac?_

"Silence!"

Tazeki barked this to the air, the breeze, the patter of drizzle on the veranda outside the doors. Though the back of his neck felt heated, he blamed it on the whiskey.

The spirit voices had caused Tazeki to blanch with the bare uncertainty of it all. And doubt, of course, was an unfamiliar state for a powerful witch doctor. Reaching once again for his mobile, he punched in another number.

"Listen, Loba," he said, "you remember the Ualo woman? Yes. Her boy—little Chike—should be, what, four months old by now?"

Tazeki listened for a few seconds before saying, "I want you to bring the tot to me. And, Loba . . . I want him still warm."

# CHAPTER 16

_Mask of Bone_ (Excerpt – Chapter 12)

Anzio, Italy

Moon over Italy. For an untold number of people this would be cause enough for romance: a starry boat ride on calm, silver-polished waters; maybe a secret rendezvous beneath an awning of cypress trees. Or perhaps a violin-accompanied dinner on the _terrazzo_ of some quaint restaurant. Though love was in the air for some fortunate souls, such was not the case for Tebbi Qa. This was not a night for fun and games; this was instead a night for business. Tebbi had his orders. He would carry them out as dictated by Kinsella, a brutish thug whose temper he did not wish to agitate. He had witnessed firsthand the large Liberian's use of his ceremonial sword applied to the flesh and bone of a human neck. Enough said.

From his spot across the street from the empty parking lot, the dark second floor window of a furniture store, Tebbi Qa had watched the van drive up. Watched it disappear inside the wide doors of the dimly lit warehouse. One of the four people within was his target. He would wait patiently for them to settle in, and then, quiet as a cobra in the forest—with venom ten times as deadly—he would strike.

Now two hours had passed. Slipping like a black stain inside the darker shadows, Tebbi Qa crossed the street. There was little traffic. Anzio was notoriously subdued after ten p.m.

Moving in through an alley door, whose lock he had picked earlier that evening while the occupants were gone, he crept his way down a long, lightless hallway. His shoes were silent as teardrops. No noise had issued from the inner warehouse for the past hour. The inhabitants, he imagined, had turned in early. They'd be slumbering more sound than vampires in a daytime nest. If not—if he encountered any surprises—he would deal with them. Like Kinsella, he was a professional. It was the reason he'd been chosen for the task.

Employing a small penlight, Tebbi Qa slipped down a second shadowed corridor. He barely breathed, listening as he crept through the darkness. The penlight was held in his left hand; inside his tight dark jacket, he fingered the cyanide-filled syringe in the right pocket. The plastic cap was secured over the needle on the outside chance he happened to mis-step or was surprised in the dark. A needle-jab to his ribs, or anywhere else for that matter, would cause his heart to stop in less than a minute.

Tebbi Qa paused again. He listened; then he moved. Five cautious minutes later, the hallway merged into an opening, which proceeded to widen into the larger central area of the warehouse. This was perfect. The fewer doors he had to open and close, the quieter he could advance. Less chance for surprises.

He spotted a half-open office door that served as a sleeping room. He stepped like a panther in the trees, listening, then moved into the room. He saw the figure's chest beneath a thin blanket, the rhythmic rise and fall. The breaths, however, were too faint; the form appeared too petite to be that of a grown man.

Back out in the wide central area he froze against one wall, merged into shadows darker than any eclipse. Tebbi Qa waited another full five minutes, making certain no one stirred. The clouds drifted above, and a spray of silver moonlight seeped in through a high, dusty skylight. It improved the visibility from his vantage point.

A second room was further down the wall, closer to the center of the warehouse. Like the first room, its door was cracked an inch. To the right of where he stood, he spotted an open area of floor where equipment—duffel bags and canvas satchels—had been set aside. They appeared ready to be moved. Perhaps at first light.

Tebbi Qa slipped into the second room. The man's breathing was steady, as if he might be trapped in the deathlike stupor of exhaustion. A cell phone sat in a charger near his right shoulder, not far from the mattress. Was he expecting an important phone call? The charger was on, suffusing the room with a soft orange glow. Advancing, he again fingered the syringe inside his pocket. He had memorized the form and facial features of his target, which he'd gotten off the Internet after Kinsella had revealed the man's identity. So all Tebbi Qa required was a brief flick of his penlight. The dark close-cropped hair, the firm chin, sunken cheeks, the nose.

Target verified.

The cobra was ready. He withdrew the syringe, twisted off the protective cap, exposing the sharp needle.

But he was unprepared for the sudden sensation that seized his own neck. The pressure of a taut nylon cord—not letting up—pulled him upright. Feeling the large, looming presence behind him, Tebbi Qa understood what was happening. He had one chance to survive: jabbing his aggressor with the needle before he, himself, succumbed to the garrote.

Most men would have been shocked into dropping the syringe. The urge to grab at the noose around their neck would be too great a survival instinct to suppress. He was not most men. One chance was all he needed. Before he could stab the needle backward, however, he felt his opponent sidestep to his left, release the noose, and grasp Tebbi Qa by the chin and back of his head.

The echo in his ears was a hammer on steel and all went black.

COMMENTARY

**JC:** Cale learns a lesson. Sometimes it's good to be afraid of your shadow.

**WSW:** Cyanide injection kills very fast. (flops in chair, eyes closed, tongue lolling out) Not messy, either. It's the preferred way spies used to suicide out—off themselves—to avoid being tortured. Swallow a secret pill housed in your fake hollow tooth cap.

**JM:** So, Cale has survived the Chemist, a pit of killer eels, an Italian hit man, and now a professional killer with a needle. He must be doing something right.

**JC:** A strong survival instinct.

**WSW:** Thing is, he's trying to avoid conflict. He doesn't want these things happening to him. Who would? He just managed to piss-off the wrong people.

**JM:** (laughs) There's the lesson: don't piss off an African witch doctor.

**JC:** I find it amazing that despite all this, the thing that seems to bother him most is his wife being pregnant—and possibly _not_ by him!

**WSW:** Well, there's fast physical death, isn't there? Versus slow emotional death? Like I said about the spies—

**JC:** You're saying it's easier to deal with a knife in the back of your neck than the possibility your girlfriend is pregnant by another man?

**WSW:** (smirks) It's called being cuckholded! __ Hello! __ (rim shot: _ba-doom-pshiiish!_ )

**JM:** And now we're going to find out how Cale deals with all these negative vibes dancing around him. Like invisible demons on the attack. 
_Mask of Bone_ (Excerpt – Chapter 43)

Belgium Countryside

"We've got a visual," said the helicopter pilot, pointing down at the rural landscape for Prince Mir, who sat belted in the front passenger seat, headset covering his ears. They were still ten miles out from the village of Casteau, in Central Belgium, sailing above cow pastures and quilted beige-colored fields of wheat and alfalfa.

"Splendid," said the prince, adjusting his Zeiss field glasses. "Come in low. Cut them off near that fence gate a half-mile ahead. Yes. Right over there."

"Roger that."

——

"Son of a bitch!"

In the rearview mirror, Cale watched the black cloud that was the SUV come roaring out of the tree cover, accelerating after them. The pair of jeeps followed close behind. At the same time, high above the pine forest, a dark wasp with whirling rotor blades came zipping against the background of wispy white cirrus clouds. One guess—Cale thought morosely—Prince Mir Al-Sadar. And with the man's extraordinary wealth, he was sure his private helicopter would be equipped with the latest weaponry. A missile could blow them to bits. Not a pretty picture.

Still tending to the bleeding Pharaoh, Leslie lifted her head to see what nightmare Cale was cursing. "Oh my God," she whispered with disbelief.

Withdrawing his mobile from his pocket, Cale speed-dialed Agent Fronteer's number. When she answered, he shouted, "Where the hell's that ground support?"

"Belgians can't comply. Orders from—"

"Assistance requested. Urgent!" Cale interrupted, frantic. "We're seven miles out . . . hostiles closing fast. One's an armed helicopter."

"Hold on—" Cale could hear her harried voice shouting in the background. Back on the mobile, she said, "Can you attempt evasive action? Get onto a side road? Buy yourselves some time?"

"That's a negative, Agent," he said rapidly. "Repeat. Chopper's closing fast."

"Damn." She seemed to be thinking. "Do whatever you can—I'll get back to you in a sec."

"Roger that. A sec's about all we've got."

Cale rang off and glanced at the approaching enemy. The SUV was gaining fast, an exhaust cloud billowing behind it like dust on a salt flat. The chopper had crossed over to the opposite side of the road ahead, presumably to get a better angle for its rocket launcher. Cale decided he could slam the jeep's brakes a moment after the missile was fired. If he guessed correctly, at such close range the guidance might not have time to realign. Perhaps it would explode on the highway ahead of them. The SUV, coming up fast, might not be able to avoid a rear-end collision.

It was the only evasive maneuver he could think of.

——

Agent Fronteer understood it was a long shot. She also understood that she hadn't a moment to spare. She dialed the U.S. Chièvres Air Base, which was twelve miles north of Casteau. _Please, no typical Army bureaucracy_. In a crisp voice, she said, "This is SAC Amy Fronteer, ICE, Homeland Security. I need to speak to your base commander. Urgent."

The switchboard operator verified her ID. She was informed that the commander was a Lieutenant Colonel Orrie Jirele. "Tell him code word _Broadsword_. I'm requesting an immediate RRF." It stood for Rapid Reaction Force.

A moment later, Lieutenant Colonel Jirele answered. "How can I help you, Special Agent?"

Agent Fronteer kept the panic from her voice. She put in her request.

_Mask of Bone_ (Excerpt – Chapter 46)

Green Bay, Wisconsin

Maggie set her cell phone on the dining room table. She'd been pacing the room while speaking. After hanging up, she plopped down on one of the chairs. She placed her elbows on the table, face in both hands, and closed her eyes. She said a silent prayer of thanks. Cale was all right. He was coming home. It would take hours for him to get here, but who cared about time? He was alive and safe and headed back. What more could she ask for?

When she opened her eyes and looked out at the sunlight slanting through the living room windows across the way, her first thought was that she should contact Slink. Perhaps they could cobble together a welcome-home party. Maybe even make it a surprise. But the more she considered the idea, the less sense it made on a practical level. It would be too late, wouldn't it? Cale might not even arrive at the house until three, maybe four in the morning.

Maggie weighed the plusses and minuses. She needed to talk to Slink, regardless, about getting her handgun back from the police. The Kahr PM9 remained in the forensics lab. She had to admit that since she'd fired the weapon at the shooting range—becoming somewhat proficient at hitting where she aimed—she felt vulnerable without it.

Chloe's strange warnings weren't helping any on that count. That went without saying. Maggie decided she had to stop giving credence to her sister's visions of impending doom, maybe even stop listening entirely. The next time it happened, she'd shout, "Chloe! Just shut the __ hell up! I don't want to hear it, all right?"

Still, if she had her gun in the house, she'd feel much less exposed. Or was it her hormones talking again? Maggie shook the dark thoughts of vulnerability from her head, chastising herself for being paranoid. She couldn't allow her mind to go there. If she did, the next thing she'd be remembering was how Tobias Crenshaw had invaded their home, how he kidnapped her, how near he'd come to ending her life.

_Stop it, Maggie!_ she warned herself. _Stop it now, before you drive yourself crazy._

Cale would be home tonight. So what if it was late. They'd wake up together tomorrow morning. He would protect her and Hank, and everything could return to normal.

_As normal as things are ever going to be again_ , her inner voice nagged.

In a few days, when their lives became routine again, perhaps they could have their State-of-the-Relationship discussion. Maggie would tell Cale about her "situation." They could talk it over the way couples did. They'd shared many heartfelt discussions in the past—most of them months ago, when she'd questioned whether he was taking their relationship serious enough—so this would be another one, wouldn't it? Couples had them every day: about finances, chores, the kids, their future together. Sometimes you had to clear the air to move forward.

Before she could stop it, however, the small voice in her head returned. _"Oh Cale, by the way, there's an 80-20 chance you might not be the father of our baby. What's that? The real father? Ha! Funny you should ask. Remember the man who raped me? Yes? He's now brain-dead, if that's any consolation. Probably when I was drugged, tied to a bed, barely conscious. You must remember all that—of course you do. No, I'm not certain. It's some feeling women get, you know? Like intuition? I suppose you could say it's 'hormonal,' but you know how clichéd that sounds. No, you wouldn't know. How could you . . . What? Of course, I'm keeping him. He's my baby. Why on earth wouldn't I? And by the way, do you still want to get married, or what?"_

Maggie rose from the dining room chair and made her way to the kitchen. Hank was moving down the hallway, and he paused, giving his back an arching stretch. Maggie reached down and plucked him from the floor. She nestled her face against his head.

Hank began to purr, oblivious to the salty tears she was shedding on his neck.

# CHAPTER 17

_Mask of Bone_ (Excerpt – Chapter 52)

Green Bay, Wisconsin

Without warning, Slink felt his entire body jerk as if something heavy had fallen from the clouds and landed upon his back. Whatever it was, it seemed to cling to his shoulders like an invisible weight. He felt his muscles spasm, felt his face grimace and contort. His arms and legs went rigid, as if he'd been injected with some sort of neurotoxin. His body lurched, spasmed, and he felt himself propelled forward, heading straight into the thick bushes like a man walking blind into a forest.

And then Slink Dooley felt nothing.

——

Tazeki slipped from the cover of the high, bushy thicket, the elm tree branches swaying above in the night breeze. He ramped the drumbeats up a level and sized-up the _Nambe_ he had created. With the invisible loa riding his back, the man's face bore a certain similarity to the Baka serpent. It made Tazeki smile. He moved away from the bushes, striding across the grass, keeping inside the shadows and out of the glow of the security lights. Behind him, moving with a dead-legged gait, the obedient zombie followed.

When Tazeki glanced back at the thicket he could see the blonde-haired female, her head on its pike, her dull green eyes following their progress as if they held some vague and satisfying interest.

At the zombie's car, Tazeki searched the man's pants pockets, locating the set of keys. He clicked open the door locks with the remote. Leaning inside, he fished the .38-caliber service revolver from the glove box. He soundlessly closed the door.

Handing the weapon to the zombie, Tazeki led the way across the lawn, moving in silence around the dimly lit side of the house. They strode to the backbeat of drums, which pounded their rhythm beneath the canopy of stars, of curling clouds, of the peeking butter-eye moon.

FINAL COMMENTARY

**JM:** And there we have it. Tension ramped through the roof as we head into the final confrontation scene.

**LC:** The witch doctor is a frightening bad guy. Crazy is bad enough, but when we've got a psycho who is friends with demons and can control other people, turn them into zombies to do his bidding . . . well, where does it end?

**WSW:** I liked the set-up, the entire story flow, as it all keeps moving toward a final climax. A showdown. Good versus bad. And how our hero, Cale, has no idea what he's even walking into.

**LC:** I don't want to give away any hint how this all ends, Janson, but there are sequels coming down the road. Am I right?

**JM:** I've already begun work on the fourth and fifth books of the series. So, the answer is a resounding yes.

**LC:** I was a bit confused on the "flash-forward" interviews. The ones revealing Cale talking to the State Department investigators about what happened to them all.

**JM:** Yes. I was nervous writing those, as they sort of function as a "reveal." But if you remember, once the witch doctor got into his head, Cale started seeing visions. And we aren't sure if these scenes are mere premonitions, or something he's seeing happen in the future. It's sort of quantum in nature.

**WSW:** The Butterfly Effect. Like the future holds several potential outcomes. Right?

**LC:** That makes sense. Like you said earlier, Janson: "Never let a witch doctor get into your head and mess around in there."

**JM:** (laughs) A great lesson for all our readers out there. And even non-readers.

**WSW:** So just to wrap up, then. I think all three books are excellent. Recommend them to anyone who loves suspense. Well-drawn characters who have motivations and side-issues, both physical and emotional, and their issues keep changing as the world around them shifts from the first book to the third.

**LC:** Like real life. Day-to-day events cause us all to adjust on the fly. I suppose it's what makes our lives interesting. As well as the world around us.

**WSW:** Only we don't have psychos, sickos, and witch doctors chasing us around. At least I don't.

**LC:** None that we know of, anyway. But as we've just seen in _The Chemist Series_ books, that can all change in a finger snap.

# AUTHOR'S CLOSING NOTE

As I stated at the onset, the intent of this book is to offer a few highlights from my first three novels, _The Chemist, Trail of Evil,_ and _Mask of Bone_. For those of you who've read them cover-to-cover already and couldn't put them down, I hope these little excerpts bring back fond—maybe even _frightening_ —memories. For those of you who haven't dipped into the series yet, it is my hope that these small episodes, like movie trailers, allow you to see what you've been missing.

One final bit of news: As of 2017, Voyage Media Productions (Los Angeles, CA) has purchased the movie rights to _The Chemist_. They generously offered me a chance to write the script myself, converting the book into the movie screenplay format. It came out excellent, and we are now lining-up private investors and beginning to send the script out to several A-list actors, whom Voyage feels are right to play the three major leads in the film: Detective Cale Van Waring, Cale's fiancé Maggie Jeffers, and Tobias Crenshaw, aka The Chemist.

I'll continue with updates on the movie project, posted on my author's website, as things move forward. In the meantime, I'm always happy to answer reader or fan questions, which can be submitted via the website. Or call me in my attic, where I'm up there conversing with my Grandma Moses poster.

So until we talk again, I'm closing here to the thumping, guttural sounds of a voodoo ceremony in a dark African jungle, with shakers rattling and _tanbu_ log drums pounding out a relentless, driving rhythm . . . and the witch doctor—face-painted white with slashes and eyes ringed in black, terrifying—standing in the midst of it all, where he dons his mask of human bone . . . and where he summons forth the lurching, stumbling creatures of the darkness, which we cannot see yet know are out there, hiding just behind the veil of our nightmares.

Pleasant dreams to all.

Janson Mancheski, author of _The Chemist Series_.

Jansonmancheski.com

Janson Mancheski Author - FB

Janson Mancheski — Amazon Author's Page

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Janson Mancheski is an award-winning author of five previous novels. _The Chemist Series_ ( _The Chemist, Trail of Evil, Mask of Bone_ ) featuring Detective Cale Van Waring, is set in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The Chemist won first place for fiction in the Sharp Writ Book Awards literature competition (2010). Janson has also written numerous short stories and been granted awards for multiple screenplays. His recent version of _The Chemist_ movie script adaptation is currently being marketed by Voyage Media Productions, Los Angeles, CA. The screenplay version of his fourth novel _Shoot For the Stars_ (an historic Green Bay Packers "What-if" novel), was a finalist for the 2012 Writers Digest Creative Fiction awards. His most recent work is a YA fiction novel titled _The Scrub_.

Janson remains a practicing optometrist by day. He earned his undergrad degrees in biology and psychology from St. Norbert's College, University of Wisconsin–Oshkosh, and University of Wisconsin–Green Bay. And his doctorate from Illinois College of Optometry (Chicago, Illinois). In his private clinic, Janson functioned as team eye doctor for the Green Bay Packers for over a decade; and he also served in the same capacity for the UW–Green Bay men's and women's basketball teams for over twenty years. Ten years ago, Janson cut back on his eye care practice and began writing novels.

Janson can be contacted via his website at JansonMancheski.com or on his Facebook page: Janson Mancheski Author. Additional information on his novels can be found on either these websites.
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