Born to Serve Justice (Preview)

Chapter One

Randall Royce held up his hand. The cool night wind was blowing against him, black duster flapping behind him. The people of St. Louis, Missouri cowered behind him, most in their homes or in the saloons and hotels. Some were courageous enough to stand on the street, clutching rifles or pistols or even pitchforks, as if they could do any good at all.

Randall cried out, “Unclean spirits! Whatever brings you to this place, a place of Godly men and women, innocence, begone! Go back to the afterlife! You’ve no place here any longer!”

A great moan echoed over the street, clanging like metallic thunder ringing in the distance.

“Torture these good people no more, unclean spirits! Abandon the chains of your delusion; accept your fate!”

The terrible call of other-worldly suffering doubled, more than one voice echoing over St. Louis.

Randall held out his massive book, bound in black leather. “By the power of the Christ almighty, I cast you out!”

Ka-booooommmmm!

A massive explosion ripped through the church across the street. A huge cry rang out from the community, Randall’s seconds stepping back and clutching their arms, looking around in terror.

A cloud of blue wafted up from the church after the eruption but before the flames. He pointed it out, calling, “Look, there! The damned are fleeing, and from the House of the Lord!” The community withdrew even further, the din of a thousand prayers underscoring the crackling of the flames.

“The fire department,” somebody cried out.

“No, friends,” Randall called, “stay back! It’s not yet safe! I feel that there are many more spirits here, and they could yet be anywhere here!”

The din became a stew of screams, people shouting and tramping, wooden clacks echoes as the citizens scrambled for safety. They poured out of the buildings and down the thoroughfare away from the church. Randall could see at a glance that they were already trampling over one another to escape.

“Friends, please,” he called. “Do not show the spirits that you’re afraid!”

“We are afraid,” somebody shouted. “Save us!”

Randall knew there was no controlling the panicked crowd. He turned to face the burning church and called out, “I do not fear you, spirits! I cast you out in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!”

Another pair of loud wails cued another explosion, this time from the building across the street: an abandoned livery in severe disrepair.

Ka-boooooooommmmm!

The explosion was followed by billows of blue clouds, churning amid the black smoke.

“Yes, spirits, rage on and go to your maker, as all things must do! Leave these good people in peace and torment them no longer!”

With a loud, shrill screech, one spirit seemed to leap out of the building and then explode above in a shower of blue sparks. The remaining townsfolk screamed again, storming out of town with even greater fury.

“Hold, friends, I beg you! We’ve almost won!” Randall turned back to the twin fires before him, another blue spirit shooting up from the livery and exploding. “Yes, yes, go to your otherworldly reward, oh tormented spirits! Accept your fate!”

More thick clouds of blue burst up from the livery before the fire overtook the crumbling building.

“Yes, find your eternal reward, good spirits. Leave these gentle people to their lives!” The livery began to crumble, the church already nearly consumed.

Randall stood in the center of the thoroughfare between the two fires. He turned and faced the townspeople, most of whom had paused from sheer curiosity to see how divine judgement would be meted out.

But what they were facing was Randall Royce, arms up and out at his sides, a bible in one hand and the other, an empty palm.

“Friends, behold! Just as the Lord brought down the punishing fires onto the heads of Sodom and Gomorrah, these two buildings stand as testament to the sacrifices, the burn offerings, of humankind.”

They stepped closer, huddled together but gaining confidence in the growing quiet. “These poor souls have been liberated from their suffering, and so too are you all liberated from your own! No longer will they burden you with their idle terrors!”

The community got closer, Randall’s volunteer seconds standing taller, chests out with greater pride.

Randall went on, “You have all done well, taking a stand against the forces of evil! You’ve helped to cleanse your own land, make right the path of your own community. Rejoice, my friends, as the souls of the living are returned to the living; the souls of the dead are returned to the dead.”

The crowd threw up a few calls of joy, some nodding and others embracing.

“But do not thank me. It is by the Lord’s grace and by your own courage that you are saved! I am but a humble servant, glad to be able to help my fellow man. For a man can never stand so tall as when they stoop to help those in need. If I stand tall tonight, friends, it is only because I stand upon your own shoulders. You have entered the lion’s den.”

The crowd cheered louder, those who fled returning to fill the street to absolute capacity.

Randall went on, “The spirits have been excised from your midst, but be mindful and be faithful, or they may return. They were once people like you, but they took the wrong road and became trapped. Learn from their fate, my friends, heed the words of the bible, love one another, and God bless us all.”

The crowd bowed their heads and a solemn calm came over them. Randall had them in his palm, he knew that. He knew the feeling well.

“But for now, my good and noble fellow Americans, now…rejoice! You’re free, my friends, free to return to your lives, to sleep well at night, to rebuild and make new, to make clean that which was soiled. Congratulations, my friends, you’re free!”

They threw up a mighty cheer, itself almost powerful enough to bring down the crumbling remains of the church and the livery both. They embraced on another, cheering and waving their hats.

Then they moved in on Randall, surrounding him with pats on the back before lifting him above their shoulders to parade him around the thoroughfare. Randall laughed, holding his top hat with one hand and shaking hand with the other.

“Please, friends, please…” But there was no calming their excitement, nor slaking their gratitude. But Randall was willing to give it a bloody good try.

Chapter Two

Camden Teech paced in front of the fury box. He knew he was addressing more than those ten sour-faced citizens of Jefferson City, Missouri. He could read it in their faces, but he hardly needed to. The fact that he was able to address them at all was a modern miracle, as ancient as the law was and as central to human development. It had been around before the telegraph, before the railroad, before the gun. And it would be around long after.

But the law meant little to men the like of which he was facing, and he knew that too. They were fixed in their minds and set in their purpose.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” Cam said, turning to the spectators. “Indeed, good people of Jefferson City. We’re called upon in this state’s capital city to decide the fate of a man. He stands accused of a most heinous crime: the deaths of two little girls, out playing in the woods.”

In the crowd, citizens shook their heads as they murmured and took in the spectacle of the trial. Among them were friends of the young victims and their families. Others were concerned parents themselves, or justice-loving citizens. Some, though, had become embroiled in the sheer drama of the law. It seemed a relative novelty to the area, and often a better amusement than the dancehall or the saloon, though both were open for much longer hours.

“We’ve seen the prosecution present its case,” Cam went on, “but it’s notable that he has produced no eyewitnesses, nothing other than circumstantial evidence.”

The defendant, Henri Tusseaux, sat at the defendant’s table, a hulking mountain of bruised skin, tangled hair, and layered animal-skin clothing.

“True, the defendant is a man of the mountains, and it can be argued that he doesn’t make the most…civilized appearance. But there are a lot of men like him in the mountains. And if those girls fell victim to such a man, there is no evidence that this is that man. Only the timing of his arrival makes the case for his guilt. That, and your own prejudices—wild stories you might have heard which took on a life of their own in your imaginations.”

Bart Rutherford, of the Jefferson City Star, scribbled on his pad, thinning hair falling over his round face. He was a reliable enough scribe, though Cam knew most of his words would be lost to the readers. He had to make his point to those sitting in the jury box, and, if possible, to the others in attendance. Only then would the principles he was fighting for truly survive, perhaps even prevail.

“But this is a man’s life we’re talking about,” Cam went on. “We don’t hang a man because we think he might be guilty, not in this country.” Cam paced a bit more, focusing his attention on the spectators. “And we don’t take the law into our own hands! Trials like this one are not merely demonstrations of civility, only to be followed by the brutal savagery of the lynch mob, dolling out vigilante justice. This, here, in this room right now, is where and when we decide what is lawful, what is punishable, and how.”

The honorable judge Yule Cousins looked down from his bench. His bald head and bony face gave him the skeletal look of the grim reaper himself, though we wore an eternal frown to send waves of fear into defendants from all over the state.

“Yet it is not we who decides,” Cam continued. “The law guides us; the law, and common sense, instruct us. We serve the law, in this way—I do, you in the jury box, the other officers of the court.” He turned to the spectators to add, “The rest of you as well. Because the law will outlive us all, and makes living possible. And the law tells us that, without evidence to prove this man’s guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt, he must be set free. The law demands this. Whatever anybody may think of this man or men of his ilk, this is why lady justice wears a blindfold. Because it must be the facts and the facts themselves which decide us. We cannot let our…our imaginations run away with us. However strongly we may feel, whatever horrors we may be faced with. We must put our faith in the facts and the facts alone. Otherwise, we’ll be led astray by our emotions, our fears, our deep-rooted beliefs. And those are not bad things, ladies and gentlemen—emotions, beliefs, even fears. Fears keep you from running into the path of a horse and carriage.”

The spectators nodded.

From the first row, behind the defendant’s table, Jenny Teech and her father, Pastor Walter Bailey, watched with their eyes on Cam. Jenny watched her husband with adoring green eyes peering out of her freckled white skin, red curls tucked demurely under her bonnet. Behind them, venerable matron Dorothy Gray watched, eyeglasses affixed to a long, thin wand she held with her right hand.

“But even common sense tells us that you must rely only upon the facts. Imagine yourself, anyone of you here today, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, who happens to be in a certain…a certain class. You could be a man scorned by women, or a woman loathed by men. Perhaps you’re too tall for some, too Irish for others. Perhaps you’re fat in a room filled with thin people, or tall in a room full of Chinese. Would that be the basis upon which you would have them determine whether you went free, or hanged by the neck until dead?”

The jurors looked at one another, then around the room.

“Wouldn’t you want—wouldn’t you insist—on concrete evidence to be presented and considered? Wouldn’t you want the very least that the law allows? Of course, you would. You wouldn’t settle for the least, you’d want the maximum consideration, you’d want the most protection that our judicial system allows! And there that is precisely what we owe my client here today. Look past his mottled appearance, people of Missouri, and see…yourselves.”

Cam stepped away from the jury box and returned to the defendant’s table. The members of the jury shared glances as Judge Cousins said, “Members of the jury, you are hereby instructed to retire to your designated quarters and come to your decision.”

The foreman and the other jurors quickly conferred, and the foreman said, “Your Honor, we’ve come to a verdict.”

The judge asked, “How do you find?”

“We…we find the defendant—”

“Wait!”

The foreman stopped and all eyes turned to a new figure in the back of the courtroom.

“Hold on!”

Judge Cousins asked, “What’s all this?”

“Hughie Barns, Yer Honor. I came as fast as I could. I know I ain’t supposed to barge in, but I came into town, and heard ‘bout all these doin’s, an’ I—”

Cam asked, “What is it, Hughie?”

Everybody watched and waited for the young man’s report. He was thin, dirty, long brown hair hanging over his sloped shoulders and stooped posture. “We washuntin’, me and Droop-eye Daryl. You know Droop, Mr. Teech?”

“Hughie, you didn’t burst in here to ask me if I knew your friend.”

“Get on with it,” Judge Cousins said, banging his gavel. “You’ll be held in contempt!”

“Well, sir,” Hughie said, “we shot this big bear, me an’ Droop, big black momma bear, we figure. An’ we was cleaning it fer butcherin’, an’, well, we…we…”

“What, Hughie?”

“We found…in the bear’s belly…bones, and…a piece of…of clothes, Mr. Teech, with a pattern, flowers, like a little girl would wear.”

The crowd erupted in a murmur, conferring with one another until the judge’s gavel quieted them.

Cam turned to Judge Cousins. “Your Honor, considering this new evidence, I insist that you declare a mistrial.”

Judge Cousins looked around the courtroom and then back at Cam. “No need to insist, counselor. The defendant is free to go, case dismissed.” He wrapped his gavel and everybody stood. Henri wrapped his big arms around Cam, who awkwardly smiled and patted his client on the shoulder, withdrawing far enough for a professional handshake.

Cam turned to Jenny and her father, standing with the others. She gave her husband a coy little smile. “Congratulations, Mr. Teech.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Teech.”

Pastor Bailey said, “Another proud performance, Cam. You should consider taking to the pulpit.”

Cam huffed up a little chuckle. “I couldn’t hold a candle to you, Walter.”

Bart Rutherford leaned up to Cam. “How do you feel about the verdict, counselor?”

“I’m glad justice was done. As you can see, there was a…another explanation, terrible though it was.”

“Yes, and thank goodness that information came to light when it did,” Bart said. “But—coming as it did just before the verdict was announced—now you’ll never know what that verdict will be.”

Cam gave it some thought. “No, I guess I won’t.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“No, Mr. Rutherford, it does not. What matters to me is zealously protecting my client’s rights. He was innocent, and the evidence proved that out. Now he’s free. Justice has been done. That’s all that matters.” He glanced at Jenny and added, “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner date with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Chapter Three

Cam led Jenny and Walter out of the courtroom, the spectators emptying out into the street around them. Jenny walked with her arm slung inside Cam’s, her gentle weight against him. It was a feeling he cherished; his natural place was by her side and hers by his.

And his natural place was in front of that courthouse, and inside that courtroom. He never felt so good about himself as when he was leading the charge for justice. And when he stood alone, against the heated throngs of the ignorant, that was when he felt best. He knew the law required champions to stand up for the innocent, to stand against ignorance and superstition and corruption. Without it, they would scarcely have a world to live in, or a world worth living in.

Walter turned away to clear his throat, struggling with a cough which Cam noticed hadn’t escaped his daughter’s attention.

Cam surveyed the street, crowded with carriages and horses, pedestrians lining the raised wooden sidewalks. The shops and restaurants and hotels were proliferating, the town growing every day. Progress brought new people through, many of them staying. They raised families and worshipped God and went about the business of building the country. They were fifty years into the Nineteenth century, less than one hundred years into the young nation’s life, still in its youth.

But it was maturing fast, and Cam knew there would be plenty of chances for the law to protect some and prevent others. He needed more time, more capable men in his office. He looked at Jenny’s sweet face, and suddenly that was all he needed.

“Hey, slick.”

Cam, Jenny, and Walter turned to see two familiar men approaching through the crowd.

“Darby Gills,” Walter said. “Haven’t seen you in church of late.”

“Real sorry ‘bout that, Pastor,” Darby said, wiping his grimy arm on his grimier nose. “Been busy workin’ hard, workin’ the land.”

“That’s a blessing for us all,” Walter said. He turned to the other man and said, “Morris Whitfield. How are things on your ranch?”

“Busy,” Morris said, “but life’s still a lot simpler there than here.”

Cam and Jenny exchanged a worried glance before returning their attention to the two men. Jenny seemed to know as well as Cam did where the lantern-jawed rancher was going. He tipped his hat to her and added, “Miss Bailey.”

“Mrs. Teech,” was all Jenny said, pulling herself just a little closer to Cam.

Cam said, “If you gentlemen will excuse us—”

“Not sure we can,” Darby said.

Cam asked, “And why’s that?”

“Way you talk,” Morris said, seeming to be chewing on his own teeth. “S’real pretty.” He glanced at Jenny and repeated, “Real pretty.”

“Make your point,” Cam said.

“But you don’t talk like one o’ us,” Darby said. “And them little girls, they died!”

“But my client didn’t kill them,” Cam said.

“A fact you did not know to a mortal certainty,” Morris said. “You know ‘bout that bear?”

Cam had to admit, “No, I…I didn’t.”

“So you didn’t really know if that feller kill’t them girl’r not,” Darby said.

“Not to a mortal certainty, no.”

The two men shared a glance and shook their heads. Morris said, “That sounds like the devil’s doin’st’me, boy.”

“That’s the law,” Cam said. “I don’t make the laws; I only remind jurors of what those laws are.”

“Sure, yeah,” Darby said. “Ain’t that just what real devil would say.”

Walter said, “Jesus turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns.’”

“That says it rightly, preacher.”

Morris slapped Darby on the arm. “You fool, he was makin’ small of us!”

“I was not,” Walter said. “Why don’t you fellows come with me to the church and we’ll—”

“What if he really had kill’t them girls,” Morris asked Cam. “Then you fancy-talked him loose an’ he did it again?” Cam had no answer, and Morris clearly knew it. So the antagonistic rancher went on, “You’d be responsible, that’s what. Maybe somebody might should do somethin’, make sure that don’t happen again.”

Cam said, “If you kill me, another lawyer will replace me. And that lawyer will see that you hang for my murder. That also presumes that I don’t kill you myself in your attempts at my life…or anyone I hold dear.”

The two men chuckled. “A dandy like you? Maybe you’ll bore us t’death with yer talkin’.” Morris glared once again at Jenny. “We don’t do so much talkin’.”

Cam moved quickly. He eased Jenny away and threw the first punch, square into Morris’ face. The man snapped back, but stayed on his feet. Cam threw a fast kick into farmer Darby’s groin. The man cramped forward, eyes bugged and knees locked, body bending and falling slowly to the ground.

Walter pulled his daughter back to a safe distance.

By then, Morris was launching his counterassault. He charged Cam fast, but Cam sidestepped the charge and smashed Morris further on his course and straight into a support beam of the newspaper office next to the courthouse. Morris snapped back, stunned by the blow. But both he and the beam remained upright.

He turned, clearly gathering his wits to refocus on Cam. Cam said, “Take yer friend and go home now.”

Morris looked at Darby, writhing on the ground. Morris himself swayed on his feet. He clearly made his choice, waving Cam off and shambling away to leave Darby on his own and on his back.

Cam rejoined his wife and father in law. The erstwhile pastor glanced at Darby and said, “I must help the man up, see him to the doc’s. Why don’t you two go on ahead.”

Cam glanced around, then at Jenny, and then back at Walter. “You sure?”

Walter shrugged. “It’s my duty. And who’s going to come against a pastor?”

Cam glanced at Darby, then in the direction where Morris had stumbled away. “We’ll all see him to doc’s together,” Cam said. “As a family.”

Chapter Four

The roast beef was tender and juicy, a thick crust of peppercorns giving it zest and spice. The red wine was full-bodied, the roasted potatoes crispy and airy. Butter dripped off the asparagus tips, the garden salad was crisp and colorful under a warm almond dressing.

“Dinner is lovely, dear,” Cam said, raising his glass. “You make a perfect home.”

“Well,” Jenny said, becoming wistful, “hardly perfect.”

Cam knew what she meant, and he was quickly sorry he brought it up. He didn’t want to pressure her, knowing how desperately she was hoping to be in the family way. But the Lord just didn’t seem to think she was ready, at least according to Jenny and her father. Cam felt differently, but he chose not to discuss it—certainly not at the table.

Walter said, “That poor fellow, Darby Gills. He won’t be doing much work on his farm tomorrow, I shouldn’t think.”

“It’s his own fault,” Cam said.

“I wonder if he’s learned his lesson,” Jenny said. “Either of them.”

“Don’t fear them,” Cam said. “That’s what they want.”

“All that leering,” Jenny murmured. “Those remarks. It sickens me.”

“That, I encourage,” Cam said. “But men like that, they’re all bluster, I find. Like a dog that likes to bark, a good swat on the snout sends them off with a whimper.”

Walter said, “Let’s just hope they stay away.”

Cam nodded. He didn’t even want to think about the ramifications if they did not. Lawyers were notoriously unpopular among some people, and others were just looking for a reason to draw blood. Cam’s lovely wife gave others more than one good reason.

But he’d shown them that he was no mere fast-talking dandy, and they weren’t the only ones. If they failed to learn their lesson, he was ready to teach them in ways they would have little time to remember.

One glance at the massive, black dog sitting near the front door of the house reassured Cam that Jenny would be looked after while he was away. The dog was descended from the same breed the Ancient Romans used to guard their camps, called a rottweiler.

Cam and his little family had named him Shadow because he stuck so close to the family. He’d have to be killed before he’d let anything happen to Jenny. And Jenny herself was well-enough trained in a few basic moves to take any male combatant off guard. She was not a bad shot either, the equal of many men Cam had known.

It was a comfortable home for a loving family, but even Cam could not help notice the lack of a child’s voice, that happy shriek and those playful questions. And his wife was suffering for the lack even more than he was. He knew she felt it was her responsibility, her place, to give him children. There was also her desire to love and be loved by her own—a natural impulse which Cam understood and shared.

But Cam knew he could not convince God to give them a child. He could not plead the case. There were limits to his skills, to the law. The law of God would prevail and the desires of man reduced to hopes and prayers.

Cam shared a silent smile with his wife and father-in-law. He had to admire their faith, their certainty in the Lord’s will. Cam had long tried to do the same. He could see evidence of divine creation, such as in the twinkle of Jenny’s green eyes. But he’d seen too many people dedicated to the law of God subverting the laws of men. He’d known men who’d slaughtered and enslaved and abused and destroyed while claiming God’s favor. But those were not the actions of any god that Cam could understand, much less believe in, much much less worship. For him, it seemed like a source of strength and guidance for those who needed it, in a time when such things were in high demand.

He shared a wink with Jenny, but he could see that even their family succor could bring her no solace. If anything, it was only turning their domestic bliss into a kind of tender torture. She was brave, always dutiful and putting on a happy face. But she didn’t fool Cam. He wondered if he himself wasn’t the cause of the problem. He even wondered if it wasn’t a matter of his own faith, or lack of it.

Can it be, he wondered, that I’m being punished for my skepticism, denied children for my doubting? Isn’t that why we have free will: to choose? If that were a crime, why tempt us by giving us the means to commit it?

But even his father-in-law, Jefferson City’s most respected pastor, would have little to say on the matter. He had verses about patience, about faith, about the altar of the Lord. Cam and Jenny had both heard them all before.

But she had listened.

Cam tried not to think about it. His years of training as a lawyer told him that the facts were what mattered. There were reasons for what was happening, there were reasons for everything; everything everybody did and said. His life was predicated on that concept. Other forces would have to look out for themselves. The law was Cam’s province, the facts. They weren’t always pleasant, but they were always there and they always would be.

For better or for worse.

Chapter Five

Dorothy Gray sat in the parlor of her stately home, reading a copy of the Jefferson City Star. It was filled with the advertisements she enjoyed glossing over, the news stories which read more like gossip columns. But it was a fascinating insight into the development of the city, which had been little more than a camp when her father brought her and her mother in from Philadelphia. The land grant the government had paid out to them in settlement for his services seemed to be slim pickings at the time. But the farmland was fertile, and a steady stream of people to buy, rent, or work that land had made the Gray family wealthy.

Their deaths had left Dorothy in charge of the empire at a fairly young age, and she’d managed it from the shadows, creating even greater wealth. But she also spent her whole life seeing to those operations, that fortune, becoming a pillar of Jefferson City in the meantime, investing in local businesses and patronizing local building projects.

All of it had left her tired, bloated, lonely. She was so revered for her wealth and generosity that nobody approached her as an equal. Indeed, she had no equal. At the same time, she had no friends. Her servants kept out of sight, they were obedient and quick and silent. So it was for all the world as if she was alone in that world, night after night after night.

Still, she had the newspaper to keep her appraised of goings on in the town she and her family helped build, and which she continued to develop. She had trials to watch, time to walk up and down the thoroughfare and be treated with respect and deference.

A long, lone moan leaked in from outside. Dorothy lowered the paper and looked around, the whale-oil light flickering behind her. She looked around the empty room, and then out the window. The few lights of the city below glowed distant, the Gray mansion perched on the hill above.

A metallic clang shocked Dorothy, her flinch knocking the tea cup off the little round table. It shattered on the polished pine floors. Dorothy’s heart skipped in her chest, but silence returned to the little upstairs room. She peered out the door to the hallway, seeing nothing to alert her.

But the long, low moan returned, a voice that was distinctly human, yet echoed with a twinge of the other world. Dorothy peered again out the window, seeing nothing in the yard around the house.

She called, “Tobias? Winnifred?” No answer came back, but that was hardly surprising. She’d never known a negro not to cower at the drop of a hat. It seemed to be a failing of their kind, but it did make them good servants.

Dorothy would have to take matters into her own hands, as usual.

Must be a reason for it, she thought, pushing herself out of her little chair.

Another loud clang interrupted her, another loud moan sending a ripple of fear through her fat body.

Dorothy waddled away from the window and into the hall, calling, “Toby, Winnifred?” Her two servants came creeping out of the kitchen downstairs, huddled together, a graying man and woman.

“We’s right ‘chere, ma’am,” Toby said.

“What’s all that racket?”

The two servants shared a worried glance, and fat Winnifred, who did the cooking and cleaning, answered, “Don’t rightly know, ma’am. Must be—”

Another loud clang from outside interrupted her, two unearthly wails echoing around the house.

“Oh laudy,” Winnifred said, pulling her Toby closer and they both looked around the house with the expressions of sheer terror on their faces.

“Ohlaudylaudylaudy…”

“Go into hiding,” Dorothy said. “Both of you!”

Toby asked, “What about ‘choo, Mrs. Dorothy?”

“I’ll get to the bottom of—”

“Aaaaaahhhhhhhh!” The echoing wail took a more distinct air, words forming from the either. “Doooooooorrrrrrrroooooothththththeeeeeeee!! Doooooo…rrrrrooooooo…ththththeeeeeeee!”

The servants screamed and ran to their room, the door slamming unseen.

Dorothy called out, “Who are you? What…what is all this?”

“Dooooooorrrrrroooothththththeeeeeee…”

“I know my own name,” Dorothy called out. “What is yours?”

After a haunting silence, the voice answered in a low, long pace, “You…know…my…nnnnnaaaaaaammmmmmmmmme!”

Dorothy’s heart pounded in her chest, fat sweating under her robes. “Harold?” Dorothy looked around, waiting for an answer. “Harold? But…it can’t be!” The metal clanged again, moans screaming louder around the house. “What…what do you want from me, Harold?”

“Freedom…” was all the voice answered back.

“Freedom? For…for Toby and Winnie? They’re not slaves, I pay them a good wage! They like working here. They miss you, Harold…we all do.”

“Ffffrrrrreeeeeeeee-dooooooommmmmmmm!” More clanging, like the chains of eternal torment, encircled the return of the wordless howls. It was as if there was more than one voice, more than one soul trapped in that house.

Something in the window caught Dorothy’s eye. She turned and went stone cold to see the face that looked at her from the yard. It was a huge face, but a face only, the size of a man’s body. It seemed to hover above the ground, lit in stark blue. The face looked vaguely like Harold, but bent into a twisted mash of otherworldly anguish. It screamed, mouth wide and downturned, brows bent, voices and metallic clanging piercing Dorothy’s ears and burrowing straight into her brain.

It was too much to take, too much to understand. Dorothy’s senses danced and the room seemed to swirl around her. Her head became light and her body became heavy. Her legs gave out, the floor seemed to rise up to meet her. She hit hard, her vision going black and her hearing receding to a dull hum.

The last words she heard were, “Mrs. Dorothy? Mrs. Dorothy?”

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“Born to Serve Justice” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Camden Teech, the leading attorney in Jefferson City, is a man who puts the facts and the law above faith, even though he is married to the local pastor’s daughter. When a series of strange so-called hauntings throw the town into turmoil, Cam is determined to solve the mystery and prove that it is neither ghosts nor beasts that threaten to destroy the town. Will he find the answer to all the dark incidents before it’s too late?

Where will Cam find himself when the forces of fate finally come to collect their due?

Cam’s mission becomes even more challenging when his own wife becomes the first female pastor in the town of Jefferson City. This is when Cam realizes that if he wants to serve justice and make everyone see the truth, he’d better fight alone. What he did not expect though was that very soon blood would be spilled, leaving him with no choice but to let his gun say the final word…

A dauntless soul on a quest to achieve the impossible…

With danger at every turn, and death just a heartbeat away, Cam needs to find answers soon, if he wants to stay alive. Trouble keeps coming though, and when a traveling preacher claims to be able to cure the town, Cam’s skills and wit will be tested for one more time. Will he get to the bottom of a dark mystery, or will it become the whole town’s undoing?

“Born to Serve Justice” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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