Today we have Rubble and the Wreckage by Rodd Clark. Rubble and the Wreckage is Book 1 of the Gabriel Church Tales series.
Blurb
Gabriel Church knows you can’t take a life without first understanding just how feeble life is, how tentative and weak it stands alone. If you desire murder, you hold a life in your hand. Whether you release it to grant life or grip tighter to end it, it is at your command and discretion.
Gabriel is a serial killer with a story he wants told.
Christian Maxwell studied abnormal psychology in college but chose instead to focus on a career in writing. His background comes in handy when he thinks of writing about a serial killer. He can’t think of anyone more qualified to write the story of Gabriel Lee Church, and do so in the murderer’s own words. It’s been done before, but never with a killer who has yet to be captured or convicted.
There was never anything more than a gentleman’s understanding between the two men that Christian would record Gabriel’s life story. The killer did not ask for his complicity in any crimes, nor did he ever ask for his silence. Christian’s interest in the man, though, is fast becoming something more than academic. When the writer and his subject become unexpected friends and then lovers, the question remains: What is Gabriel’s endgame . . . and why does he want his story told?
Please enjoy this sample chapter from the book . . .
CHAPTER SIX
“I’VE BEEN CAREFUL not to ask before now, but how many would you say you’ve killed?”
It had already whispered in his brain. There were ramifications to the answer
that he didn’t really want to explore. But how could Christian complete his
manuscript without knowing the answer?
“An actual accounting? I suppose I
can understand why that number might be important to you, but people who become
victims are not necessarily just numbers in my eyes. Think of it as a journey,
and they’re not people . . . but mile markers.”
With that cold, analytical retort,
Church had once again slipped into another persona. His grin faded with every
flash of memory he was forced to relive. His posture seemed guarded and closed
at first, but as he reclined back into the salon chair with his naked chest
exposed and the writer’s eyes darting uncomfortably back and forth, another
unseen personality found its way to the surface. This one wanted nothing more
than to unbalance Christian and gain some sadistic enjoyment in watching him
squirm under all that unspoken pressure.
Church rested his head inside the
crux of his massive intertwined palms and set out to witness Christian dance
under his manipulations. Church reminded him of an old tomcat he once had that
loved to catch mice but when he caught one, spent almost an hour batting the
poor thing from paw to paw while the rodent breathed its heavily labored final
breaths from its many failed attempts to escape death. Eventually that old barn
cat would tire of his own game and pull the mouse’s head off with a single bite
before dragging it off to the shadows, presumably to eat. It was just like the
game Church enjoyed playing with him. And as it went . . . was
proving effective. Christian didn’t like being in Church’s company when both
were relaxed, when both could shed the professionalism of their relationship
and become friendly. He also did not like the distraction of such a tantalizing
figure sitting so close to him. He expected by now he would’ve been more
composed and calm, and given it all, it was rather amazing just how collected
he appeared, given that Church was still just a few feet away.
It had only been a couple of hours.
The tea pitcher was draining and the sandwiches were growing stale. He’d hoped
by then he would have gotten used to being in the killer’s company, and that
he’d be accustomed to the sensual way Church would bite his bottom lip when he
remembered something painful, or that he didn’t get a tad panic-stricken when
the man would brush past him or reach over him to grab another quarter-cut club
sandwich from the tray. But time refused to alter his nervous state.
“I think the readers would like to
know if there had ever been time for romance during all the killings?”
Christian carried the pretense of writing and never raised his head.
“Yes. I’m sure the readers
want to know that . . . but I would have to tell them I never
had much interest in what you call romance. I got laid. I found occasion to
blow my jizz wherever I wanted, yes. But ‘romance’ is for fourteen-year-old
schoolgirls, don’t you think?”
“So, during the height of the
murders, or before, there was never any person who you were involved with? No
one who might have altered your . . . err . . .
homicidal course at any time?”
Church stared over the rim of his
glass of tea at Christian. There was an unfamiliar look in his eyes. He seemed
to be both exploring the man’s question and considering for the first time the
possibility that someone he might have loved could have changed his destiny,
for the better. But the black cloud reassembled somewhere on his face.
“I was never in love, so the point
is moot I suppose. Since I have never loved another person, then I guess
my destiny was, as they say, pre-ordained. I didn’t become a better man because
no one ever mattered enough to me. Then again, that works on the assumption
that I’m not a good man, even currently . . . doesn’t it?”
“Do you consider yourself a good
man?” Christian decided, rather resolutely, that he wouldn’t get answers to all
of his questions, but he traveled the path forward and trained his eyes on the
killer to await a reply.
“Good is a relative term. I’m
good at what I do, I don’t hurt the ones I kill unnecessarily . . .
so I suppose it’s up for debate.”
“I beg to consider that the families
of your victims may not agree with you.”
“Unbiased are we? You speak of
morality now, but your question wasn’t whether I consider myself moral or not;
you asked if I was good.”
“Semantics . . .”
Christian folded his hands on the notepad he placed in his lap and leaned back
to allow the discussion to reach its apex.
“Morality is reserved for stupid men
of the cloth. It doesn’t suit the rest of us, those who crawled out of the mud,
then learned to climb trees, all until we could stand upright, to fashion tools
or weapons.”
“You said in the beginning you
believed in God.”
“Incorrect. I asked you if you
believed in God. I said it may prove somewhat providential as our talks
continued.
“Then we are back to square one. Do
you, Gabriel Church, believe in an almighty God?”
“If there was a
God . . . you wouldn’t need to be having this conversation with
me now. I would simply not exist.” Church curled his lip in a barely
noticeable sneer. It was his rebuke against the whole point of it. He believed
he had indeed become the singularity that disproved a greater god. For
Christian, he was truly mad. Being a man with a rapidly failing faith, the
writer could only stare blankly at the killer across the room. He was
dumbstruck how maniacal the man was becoming while right in front of him.
“So there is no God, and Gabriel
Church exists . . . then what is his purpose? Why does he
exist?”
“I answer to a calling. In truth I
don’t know if it is God’s or the Devil’s or some alien
influence . . . but I am here, and my purpose is to answer the
white light commands. Beyond that, I don’t know my purpose.”
“So you, like the rest of us, still
wrestle with the big picture issues . . . interesting.”
“I’m a murderer in your definition.
I am not inhuman.”
There was little reason to travel
that road further; it might nullify their unspoken contract and most assuredly
get the killer riled-up. Christian placed the pad on the table and grabbed his
pen.
“I’d like to go back a ways and look
at your influences. Do you mind?”
“Your dime,” was all Church said as
he repositioned his body for a longer discussion. But even though he
acquiesced, it didn’t appear that he enjoyed where that might lead.
“You began with your father, Bennett.
Was he the first influence? Were there others you’d like to share?”
GABE CONTEMPLATED slowly before speaking, pulling back images from a past he didn’t
enjoy discussing. His feelings for Bennett Church had been laden with
revulsion, and there were many stories that he had yet to bring to light where
Bennett might appear even less a savory character.
He began telling Maxwell of a time
when he was only eight years old. It was a period of confusion for him. The boy
was beginning to recognize how dangerous a man his father truly was. He had
been a lonely child, he didn’t have many friends, so therefore didn’t go to
their homes for sleepovers or camp in their backyards in pup tents while
telling ghost stories. Because he didn’t have those companionships, he equally
didn’t see how other boys reacted to their own fathers, or how their fathers
were supposed to act with them. But there had been one time he remembered.
It was during the annual street
carnival aptly named The Spring Fiesta. The community he lived in operated the
carnival each year as a fundraising event for the local charities. There were
church booths and tiny rides, cotton candy and sodas. There was a dunking
booth, where a popular minister might be placed on a pad and positioned above a
tank of four or five feet of water. Youthful sinners might rejoice in tossing
softballs at the bulls-eye ring just to submerge their favorite pastor in the
smallest bit of water. There was laughter and bliss for the religious; one
would never find a person of ill-repute running a booth or a ride. There were
never any drugs or drinking allowed. It was good wholesome fun. At least until
the year Gabe was eight and ran excitedly to the carnival hoping to ride the
tilt-a-whirl ride. He assured himself he would ride it over and over, even if
he puked.
The boy had raced ahead of his
sister, leaving his mother trailing both of them. When he hit the midway, he
saw the tossing games. He spotted the brightly colored booths with the
over-stuffed, plush neon animals tied up with string at the top of booths set
with basketballs and straw buckets, rings over bottle tops, and bean bags and
bulls-eye paddles to throw against. He was delighted. But in less than a
quarter hour, while he was running around like any eight year old released
inside a carnival, he then ran smack dab into his father who had shown up
unexpectedly.
He first noticed the stench of
bourbon, then his father’s hand as he grabbed the boy by the hair just to
steady him from falling when he bounded into his old man.
“Whoa there little camper,” he said
as his big hand palmed the boy’s scalp. From a distance it might have appeared
sweet, in a traditional sense, but then again you needed to be standing close
enough to smell the booze, as Gabe had been, and to have known how mean his
father could be when drunk.
Bennett had never attended the
carnival before, even though it was close enough to their house that one could
walk there. He did allow Sissy to take the children each year, and each year
she would return with two exhausted kids, only to find Bennett drinking bourbon
or beer from his comfy chair in the den. Whenever she found him there and
realized he’d been drinking for hours, she’d back-step into the kitchen and
then quietly herd her children off to their rooms to sleep. She would do
exactly the same by seeking refuge under the covers of their marital bed and
lie there in anticipation of his changing mood.
To see his father at the carnival
was shocking, to run into him headlong was unfortunate. Bennett crouched down and
gripped his son tight in his arms. By the casual appearance of any passerby, it
seemed he was happy to run into his boy, excited to see him happy and so full
of life. But Bennett Church was a master of deception.
He smiled as he leaned and whispered
to his son, inaudible to anyone close, “You’re one little fucker who should be
in bed by now. You know, son, this is a big carnival . . . a
little boy could end up hurt, or even dead here, and nobody would be the
wiser.”
Gabe’s face drained of any color,
and he stopped his squeal of delight instantly.
“What do you think people would say
if they found a dead little boy crammed into the mechanics of one of these fun
little rides? Ya think anyone would be shocked at the dead little boy?” Bennett
chuckled sadistically under his breath but never once lost his smile or the
tight way his arms encircled his boy.
“I’m going home now. I expect to see
you and your sister in bed by the time I get home. If you’re not
there . . . the preacher’s gonna be giving me some pretty
condolences for my recently dead baby boy. You understand?”
His voice was cold and matter of
fact, he meant business, and even though Gabe had never gotten a chance to win
a toy, or ride the tilt-a-whirl, he raced home, past his mother and even past
his sister, then crawled under the covers in his room and cried himself to
sleep. The next morning Bennett was sober, albeit grumpy. He never acknowledged
threatening his son, never once apologized, and although the boy never told his
mother, he knew . . . somehow she knew. He never went back to
the carnival again and vowed then that one day he’d kill his father.
THERE WERE other stories Church shared with Christian, some worse than others,
but each one was sad and pitiful. Christian wrote silently as he told each
story. He knew Church wasn’t asking for understanding, and he wasn’t requiring
his sympathy. He was fulfilling his part of the contract by telling his account
exactly as it was, unvarnished and open like an oozing sore. Christian wasn’t
going to pity him. It was what it was, a factor in the development of a
sociopath, and it was as expected as any segment making up the whole. It was
simply a fragment of that shattered psyche that was Gabriel Lee Church.
It was getting later in the day,
both men felt a little weary from either writing steadily or sitting for too
long in one position. Church suggested they take a break, and Christian agreed.
When the killer stood up, he stretched his back muscles and raised his arms
high, pulling at each elbow to ease the tension in his shoulders. Christian was
struck silent by what he saw—a true sense of a masculine authority that was the
figure standing before him. He looked up to see Church had caught his gaze. The
man was smiling, as if the two shared a common secret . . . and
it was delicious. As Church finally pulled the shirt over his head, he mumbled
something about getting a drink at a bar on the street. He said he could use a
stiff one, and his smile reappeared from over the neck of his pullover. The game
was becoming old, yet somehow, every time, it still grasped Christian’s heart
and held it tight inside an icy grip.
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If you loved Rubble and the Wreckage you won't want to miss Book 2 - Torn and Frayed
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