Excerpt, 'Moonstone Magic, by Constance 'Dusty' Milller.

 

Constance 'Dusty' Miller

Howard Johnson’s, home away from home. He had an expense account, within reason. It didn’t pay to go too nuts, and he was a rational man.

The game was on, with the volume turned down low. He had the lights mostly off, and a cold beer. The remains of a deluxe pizza, everything on there but anchovies or the kitchen sink, sat on the table, still sending out that smell. It was warm, and he had a roof over his head.

He lay on the bed, hands up behind his head, propped up on the pillows.

The score was two-one, with the Wild uncharacteristically leading the Bruins.

What with the modern highway system and a fast, reliable car, Connor rarely had to stay in a motel for more than one or two nights. It wasn’t so bad once in a while. With the big Colorado Clipper still roaring outside his windows, it looked like he wouldn’t be home for a while. This sort of enforced idleness was a rare and welcome relief from a life that had become increasingly fast-paced and stressful. Success, at first not easily-built, had accumulated and then snowballed.

They were calling for him up at head office—maybe even vice-president in charge of sales. If he wanted it—and maybe he did. It’s not like he had anything better to do.

At one time, he would have had a quick shower, changed into something a little more casual, and gone out for a prowl. It’s not like he had any real hobbies, although he owned a set of golf clubs and went out religiously, three or four times a year, early in the season. Inevitably, it always fell by the wayside as the weather heated up, both weather-wise and work-wise. That was the thing with the agricultural industry.

It was all about them solar heating units.

He might have made a pretty good golfer.

The trouble was, he just didn’t care.

The money he spent on a luxury, executive suite in downtown Minneapolis would have bought a pretty fair house, and covered the taxes at least. Admittedly, there would still be heat, hydro, water and insurance. It would make a ding in his lifestyle, and yet at the same time he’d been thinking of it—possibly, as he saw now, for all the wrong reasons. Buying a house just so you could have a pool, or a garage or a deck, a freaking lawn for Christ’s sakes, didn’t make much sense for a single man who was rarely at home.

His sister was single, she had a place and she worked full-time, retail hours. Her days off were taken up with chores, yard-work, and cleaning the eaves-troughs. She’d just laid out four or five grand for a roof. No, having a house didn’t make much sense unless you planned on making it a home. That sort of implied a wife and a kid, maybe even more than one…he was only thirty-two.

It wasn’t too late for him. It might be too late for some other guys, but not for him…nothing’s for free.

That was for sure.

Sometimes he prayed that it wasn’t too late, and that he wasn’t too set in his ways.

The phone buzzed on its charger beside his bed.

It was Reb. He touched the screen and accepted the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, buddy. Mission accomplished.”

“So. How did it go?”

“Yeah. Anyways. I drove the truck over—the thing’s a real pig, I don’t know how she puts up with it. Anyways, she drove me back and I reckon she’ll be going to work in it. She works tomorrow, she told me that.”

“Okay.”

“Are you all right?”

“What? Yeah.”

“Just wondering.”

The line went quiet for a while.

“Whatcha doing?” The weather was bad, and there weren’t too many places to go anyways.

Reb didn’t get too many calls, but sooner or later, someone would need a tow or a boost and he had to stay by the phone. Connor was fifty miles up the road, trying to keep to some kind of schedule, so drinking or a game of pool, all of that was of out of the question.

“Just watching the game.”

“Yeah. Me, too, likewise…even.”

Connor chuckled, taking a look at the clock. He planned on being out of there by seven or seven thirty a.m. at the latest. A good night’s sleep would be nice. In the meantime he had time to kill.

The other thing was to call his mother.

At some point. All part of the narrative.

“Did she ask about me?”

“Not really, but I told her you and I have been friends for a long time…since college. What if I see her around?” Reb had been known to eat at the Circle-J himself from time to time.

They made a pretty good roast-beef sandwich. There were one or two little boutique eateries downtown, and then some family-oriented places. The choices were limited for bachelors and Reb wasn’t much for cooking. Sooner or later, she had to shop for groceries, or go to the dentist, and there were only so many places in town.

“Don’t make too big a thing about it.” Connor’s plan required a bit of time, in fact it relied upon it.

There was some risk—she could meet somebody else in the meantime, but for whatever reason, he didn’t think so. She worked full time. She wasn’t rich, she didn’t get out much, and she had the kid.

The ghost of that Richard guy would always be there in the background.

“So tell me again, what’s the next part of the plan?”

“We wait.”

Reb snorted softly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.”

Left unsaid, on your own head be it.

And I sure hope you know what you’re doing.

Waiting broke with all classic theory, which said to strike while the iron was hot, and that to hesitate was fatal…on the other hand, this was no ordinary bar-fly pickup.

Excerpt: The Spy I Loved, Constance 'Dusty' Miller.

Constance 'Dusty' Miller



(Editor's Note: this is an excerpt from a work in progress, The Spy I Loved.)

With twenty-four cabins, all of them occupied, Lindsey’s attention was fully engaged. If there was something vaguely disturbing about the two dark foreign men getting into a boat shortly after Liam had gone up the river, it escaped her. The men were in Cabin Eleven. It was right across from his in the crazy hodgepodge that was The Pines. They didn’t look much different from anyone else. Just like anyone else, the one on the back was hunched over the motor. The one in front sat facing the rear, his pale face standing out against the green windbreaker. The only thing was that it had a hood. Most of them did as the weather was notoriously fickle and fishermen were out in all weathers.

Dale floated about from dawn until late, between the dock and the store. Mark worked straight days, six days a week all summer long. Mark or Dale fixed anything that was broken, within reason, which saved them from calling in expensive service people from town. Mark, nearing forty now, a perennial bachelor and scrupulously polite with Lindsey at all times, had somehow managed to never become a part of the family.

Lindsey had the impression Dale simply wasn’t capable anymore, and yet living in a shitty little apartment in Sudbury all winter just encouraged him to drink. They had tried that and she was sort of grateful when he said he didn’t want to do it again. The camp was the only real home he’d had in decades, and he saw no reason to put down firmer roots in any town. What few friends he had were around here. For Dale, to go to the coffee shop once a week, Sunday mornings regular as clockwork, was a kind of social life. But even he had reluctantly agreed that having Mark around in the winter would be a help and it was better if Dale wasn’t left alone.

Dale’s first little heart attack three years ago had been a godsend. He had woken up and realized that he really did need another man to help run the place. There would be someone there in an emergency. Dale knew that Lindsey must ultimately leave. She wondered if he had even missed her, and yet he must—he must. He simply didn’t know how to say it. To say it would be to confront that ultimate goodbye. That would be the day when she packed her bags for good, threw out a lot of childish stuff and then walked out of his life for all intents and purposes. Dale probably assumed she’d just get a job as a substitute teacher or something and stay in Espanola…

Never.

The guests were a distraction from all of that other world, that private world.

There were Japanese businessmen in Cabin Four. They were pretty easy to read. So far they had rented about half of the rather tacky porn videos on hand, in a dingy back room with an ‘Adults Only’ sign above the door. When they saw her coming and going, they would spurt Japanese back and forth. 

Nothing shocked her anymore. She took their money and handed over the receipt for the DVDs and that was all she cared.

She had her story, and she figured everyone else did too. Some were merely more interesting than others.

Hopefully hers would turn out as well as any.

Don’t expect too much—

Cabin Eight was a trio of young married couples, and they hadn’t been seen since check-in. It wasn’t all that different from a bunch of undoubtedly married Japanese businessmen, away from their docile little wives and rice-paper houses, drinking scotch with the boss and pretending they really cared about trout and small-mouth bass.

What you really want is a promotion.

A title, and a plastic sign on the door.

Suck-holing around a bad boss was the life for them.

No price was too high.

They were so bored they spent their time drinking and watching bad porn.

She tried to avoid obvious mental pictures of wedded bliss, the quiet and confident companionship, exhibited in at least one friend’s marriage,

When she took a good look at some of her other friends’ choices, it was easy to be contemptuous. 

Contemptuous for what little they had settled for. What was terrifying was how quickly some of them had settled down for the long haul, dishes and laundry and diapers, kids, kids, kids, and ultimately, a long twilight followed by death. Their menial jobs would eventually kill the men, most of whom did not enjoy a long and golden retirement. Sometimes it seemed the whole town was like that—the whole world as she had known it.

Toronto had been an education in more ways than one. Toronto was a glittering paradise, with a million desperately lonely, isolated people. They all lived close together and in the same place.

Most of them at least had somebody.

Soon, two more years, she would have no one—she’d be just starting off.

So far she had avoided all that. Not that there weren’t longings, even temptations. There was always that distant purpose—to get her degree in History and get the hell out of Dodge City as Dale called it.

Perhaps there was a smidgeon of contempt there after all. Or maybe it was jealousy. They were at least having a life. Her monthlies were almost due and that might have had something to do with her mood. The notion that one was responsible for one’s own thoughts and feelings was vile in that it just added to the problem. It was a piling-on of the guilt.

The pain.

The misery.

The thing to do was to focus on the work and push the bitter, lonely thoughts aside.

With all of those cabins strung along their sandy road under the pines, someone was always wanting something, someone always had a problem, and someone always had a question. There was always someone coming and going, always someone in the store, always someone on the dock, either setting out if it was early or coming in if the hour was late.

It was only after a long and busy day that she thought of Liam again.

End of excerpt.


(Yeah, Dusty's been real grumpy lately and we are desperately trying not to mess with her, but her book is very close to being done. -- ed,)


FUCK YOU. HAVE A NICE DAY>DUSTY.

Excerpt # 2: The Spy I Loved. Dusty Miller.

Photo by Mom, (Wiki.)

(Editor's Note: This stuff will be edited. -- ed.)





Dusty Miller

Liam pulled up to the shoreline where a portage trail led up into a tall forest of pines and black spruce, a pink and grey outcropping of bald granite looming above that on a high angle.

“Hullo.”

“Good morning.”

Ian Spencer held the boat as Liam got out. Ian was another lone wolf.

“So you think you’ve found the damned thing?” Spencer snorted softly. “Or part of it. I guess that’s why they’re paying you the big bucks, eh?”

Ian was as Canadian as apple pie and Blue Jays baseball. He was lucky to be getting five hundred a day plus expenses. Holding dual citizenship, he’d worked in Britain for many years in what was euphemistically called private security. During the real IRA years, some of those people were as tough and skilled at counter-terrorism and counter-intelligence as anyone else.

Ian’s resume was extensive.

Liam liked him well enough and he seemed tough, capable and confident.

“I’ve got a major part of her. Almost a certainty.” His morning briefing had said (essentially) that it looked good according to analysis and why not bring it up.

The radioactivity count indicated possibly the motors, or at least some part of the reactor. Brief exposure would give an increased chance of cancer later in life. The suit would only partially shield him. Getting it out of the mud would take some work.

It was the price one paid for an interesting life.

Ian went back into the bushes and dragged the first of two long duffel bags out onto the bank. Liam stowed the first one in the bottom of his boat, well out of sight as Spencer went back for the other one.

He came out of the woods, gasping and cursing.

“Jesus. I sure hope this is worth it to you.” He cleared his throat and held out a hand, palm up. “What, no tip?”

Liam just nodded and helped him get it aboard. Ian gave a sour grin and bent to it.

Kimball looked up.

“I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.” The tone was absent.

Ian shook his head.

There was another boat, a mile ahead of them up the river, and Liam wanted to get this done. There was a bend in the river and some overhanging branches, but with the powerful motors on the bass boats in particular, they could be on them in a minute, a minute and a half at best.

Ian stepped back as Liam dropped the second bag and shoved it with a good kick into the centerline. 

He had one foot in still in the water. He hopped into the boat with alacrity and Ian shoved the prow off the beach as he reached for the steering wheel and starter button.

Ian had undergone a long hike, portaging back and forth, to bring in all of the equipment. He was looking at another long walk back to his Land Rover. Shorthanded as they were, his partner was home watching the watchers.

Hopefully Liam could pull this off, while the opposition was presumably in disarray.

Ian began walking up the steep trail with barely a look back, almost enjoying himself now that the hard work was done. Sooner or later it would all have to come out again, of course.

There were places he needed to be. The sound of Kimball’s motor droned and faded and he took one last look back, seeing nothing but a patch of blue and a sea of treetops.

Almost anything could happen next. If he didn’t pay attention, he’d walk smack-dab into a mother black bear with a couple of cubs, or, what was almost worse—a big mess of poison ivy.

He’d had it once as a Boy Scout, and it was an experience he would never forget. People got it on their hands and sooner or later you had to pee.

Blackflies, mosquitoes and other biting insects buzzed and whirred and clouded his vision. Once off the lake, or off the trail or away from your camp, you just couldn’t get enough bug spray sometimes. 

With ankle length boots, high socks, and sticking to the trails, he’d been lucky to avoid poison ivy. 

There were also poison sumac and poison oak to contend with, although he’d never been able to tell the difference. Sumacs and oaks all looked the same to him, and poison ivy was one of those variable plants. You never quite knew what you were looking at. With the temperature near thirty Celsius, and with the humidity climbing, he’d failed to bring enough water. His canteen was almost dry.

The trail just went up and up and then up again some more.

His vehicle was a good thirty-five hundred metres from the water. He’d practically busted a nut getting Liam’s gear to him. His lower legs, back and shoulders just ached. When he finally rounded the last corner, he paled to see what someone had done to his vehicle. He stopped dead, jaw open. 

Every light, signal, and sheet of glass had been smashed. Every panel had been kicked in and dented, scratched, scraped and gouged…the mirrors had been kicked off as well. The license plate was missing from the front end.

“Shit.” Reaching for his phone, he checked his watch and then took a quick look up at the sun, wondering how far Liam might have gotten in the interval.

That movement saved his life. A rotten branch, blue-grey with lichens, exploded inches from his left ear and it became apparent that someone was shooting at him with a silenced weapon.

Birds twitted and cheeped as he froze in shock for a split second.

Smack.

Jesus, I’m lucky to still be alive—

With no idea of where the shots were coming from, it was all he could do to pick a direction and fling himself into the nearest underbrush, clawing at his own little gun.

Smack-smack-smack…no more.

Since he still had the time to wonder if the phone was smashed, it would seem he was still alive.

He was really sweating, now.

It did kind of put the mosquitoes in perspective, though. The nearest help was an hour away. To talk on the phone was to give away his position, to try and text a message was to lose that all-important focus.

Whoever was out there couldn’t see him at this exact moment. The shots had come from off to the right, and the trail, the logging road, led straight ahead.

It looked like a ticklish tactical picture, with the number of enemy combatants unknown, at least to the inexperienced eye.

His next move was obvious enough. At least to him. Ian drew his weapon and began wriggling towards whoever was out there.

The key was stealth and self-control.

The thing was to see the other guy first.

One shot, one kill, asshole.

(End of excerpt.) 

Excerpt # 1:  http://hotboox.blogspot.ca/2015/02/the-spy-i-loved-dusty-miller.html