Reading souls is a dangerous business

                       The Soul Reader by Gerard D. Webster 

Book Description

“In The Soul Reader, Ward McNulty is a man torn between seeking justice or forgiveness. It is in discovering the true identity of his father's murderer while protecting the woman that he loves that he finds both.”

My Review:

The Soul Reader is the second in a series, but although I would have liked to know exactly what went on in the first book and slowly get to know the characters better, it wasn’t necessary. The author did a good job of giving glimpses of the past without bogging down the storyline with a lot of explanation.

Ward McNulty has a gift. He can look into someone’s eyes and see the condition of their soul. In this sequel, Ward has lost pretty much everything. He is crippled from a car accident, his father was murdered, he’s lost his job and his girl and he’s left with this gift that he really doesn’t want.

His ex-girlfriend asks him to work on a book with her, exposing the very people who caused his downfall. He agrees, only because she won’t drop it, and he’s afraid she will get hurt too. Their investigation inevitably stirs up old secrets that important people wish never to come to light and once again a professional killer is sent to shut them up.

The Soul Reader is a quick moving story with enough suspense to keep you turning pages and wondering just what will happen next. It takes you on a journey with Ward as he struggles with the darkness of his own soul, unable to forgive the man who murdered his father, but knowing it is the only way to truly live in freedom. The characters are well drawn out and believable in most of their actions. It’s a good book for some light reading on your day off.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com <http://BookSneeze®.com> book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own.

Debutant Ball for virgin novel, "Split Sense"

You are invited to the official preview ball of my newest baby, Split Sense! Download the free sample and take her for a spin across the dance floor. But there's no waltzing here. This book is in high gear. So put on your blue suede shoes and Rock and Roll!

Let's start this party off with the official book cover blurb:


Split Sense

“When a senator and pharmaceutical giant partner to experiment with a new drug on pregnant women, they tap into a world they never knew existed – the supernatural touching the natural – and it will cost the innocent more than they know.”

Zander Howard has been able to hear the thoughts of those around him for as long as he can remember. Sometimes he is overwhelmed with feelings of anger, joy, or fear that is not his own. He tastes words, feels sounds, is surrounded with voices in the dark of night. He is Howard Pharmaceutical’s prize guinea pig. He wishes to be free of the company and their mind games, but his father is caught up in their web of deceit and can’t bring the Company down without destroying his family in the process.

Emma Tatum has been sheltered in a small town with loving parents who have no idea she’s not their own flesh and blood. She also has a gift. The ability to heal with music. She sees colors of mercy and grace fly from her fingers with each note she plays.

When the twins are reunited, nothing will stop them from seeking the truth about their origins, but someone is willing to commit murder to keep the project secret, while others want to possess the power of the twins.

For a boy who has been used his entire life, learning to trust isn’t easy. But through Emma, Zander has a glimpse of a loving God whose plan of providence has brought them together at just the right time.

Split Sense interweaves the lives of two families, twins separated at birth, and two different but powerful gifts that each child discovers which impacts their lives and others in unbelievable ways.

For those of you who need a little more enticement––here is a sample chapter of Split Sense:

Chapter One

1995

Darla stumbled through the busy lunch crowd on Nicollet Mall. Sweat dripped from under her bangs and trickled down the sides of her face. She tugged at the hem of her top, a flaming orange knit; the thin fabric stretched insufficiently over her pregnant belly. The baggy denim skirt she wore restricted movement, wrapping around her legs at every step. She stopped to catch her breath, sucking air like an out-of-shape marathon runner, and glanced back.

Her gaze pinpointed on a man in the shadow of the bank building. No…she wouldn’t let him take her….the babies…

“You can’t have them!” she screamed at him.

Men in business suits parted around her and a young couple stepped off the curb to navigate away from her. In their haste, they bumped a BMW and set off the car alarm. Darla used the diversion to move again. Her sandals smacked the pavement in a fearful staccato.

She picked up her pace as she neared the intersection, gently stroking her swollen belly. A tiny foot pressed back against her hand as the babies moved and stretched in their compact world. “I won’t let them take you from me,” she promised.

A man stopped her from stepping off the curb. “Hold on. The light hasn’t changed, lady.” His glance slid quickly over her in the way most people avoided eye contact with the homeless and indigent.

She pulled back and wrapped her arms around her bulging midsection. “You can’t have them!” she hissed between clenched teeth.

“Have what?” His voice was kind and reminded her of Dr. Kapoor.

“Watch out, Mister, she might bite!” someone called from the back of the group waiting at the curb.

Laughter rippled forward and the older man turned. “You might show a little compassion…”

Darla felt a hand on the small of her back, and she was shoved directly into the path of an oncoming minivan.

*****

Dr. Alicia Brock turned her back on the nearby nurse’s station and lowered her voice. “She didn’t make it,” she said. She adjusted the phone against her ear and scribbled a notation on the chart in her hand. “The male infant can be discharged by tomorrow afternoon, but the girl is experiencing problems. Her lungs are still weak. She’ll need to be watched closely in neonatal for a couple more days at least. There may be other complications. Twins usually have low birth weights, but being that they’re also five weeks premature…” There was no sense explaining everything to him. He didn’t want medical jargon. He wanted results.

The stress of the last few hours had forged a knot between her shoulder blades. She stretched to ease the tension and released a quiet sigh. The price this man was exacting from her would finally be paid, but would she be able to live with herself?

There was no choice. Dwelling on the past never helped anyone or changed anything. A woman died because she fell asleep at the wheel one night and mowed her down. If she’d called an ambulance, maybe things would be different. But she hadn’t.

Face to the wall, she surreptitiously wiped at her eyes with a crumpled tissue fished from the pocket of her white coat. Doctors don’t cry; they’re hard like flint. They encounter pain, death, and shattered lives, but never let it get to them. She had an instructor once say, “plastic-coat your heart if you have to, because feelings are a waste of a physician’s time.”

She listened stony-faced, and then cleared her throat. “You want me to do what?” she asked, gripping the pen so tightly she heard the crack of plastic. “But they’re twins. They should be together.”

The line was disconnected and she stood silent, unable to move or act naturally. Her heart continued to beat like a mechanical toy even as anguish moved in and took up residence.

*****

Steven stood at the window of Frank’s corner office staring toward the cityscape. The Minneapolis IDS building rose above all others, reflective glass gleaming in the afternoon sun. It was an amazing view of the city from this vantage point, but he doubted his uncle took much time to enjoy it.

He turned around when Frank ended the phone conversation. His uncle shot him a look of triumph, but Steven felt a knot form in his stomach. The young doctor’s voice on speakerphone had been filled with enough tension to string a bow. He hated the fact that he was part of the reason for it.

“Are you sure this is the right course of action?” Steven asked. “Maybe we should wait. Give the infant a couple days to…”

“Are you questioning my authority?”

“No, I just…”

“Glad to hear it.” Frank laced his fingers on the desktop. “The baby is weak and sickly; a child with insurmountable problems, given its origin. We can’t take the chance that a doctor or nurse will notice something… and blood work would be done, experts dragged in to examine her, and the truth would come to light, destroying carefully laid plans that has taken years to conceive. Besides–it probably wouldn’t survive the week. So look on the bright side. The woman planned to have an abortion before we stepped in. We’re saving a life rather than taking one. Without our intervention, both babies would have been aborted.”

“Will she do what has to be done?” Even though the room was air conditioned, Steven felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of his neck.

As nephew of the founding owner of Howard Pharmaceuticals, Steven was accustomed to being obeyed, but this request exceeded his level of authority. He knew what was necessary, but was relieved he didn’t have to voice the order. Let his uncle Frank play God, the position reserved for arrogant doctors and CEO’s.

Frank Howard reached for the intricately carved box on the corner of his desk and lifted the lid. He very carefully chose a cigar, leaned back in his chair and clipped the end with a guillotine cutter.

“She’ll comply. Her future in medicine depends on it,” he said. “When you control their fate, you control a person’s will. Any natural tendencies Doctor Brock may have to save that baby’s life are eclipsed by a much baser inclination. Self preservation.” He eyed Steven across the desk, a smirk of enjoyment on his thin lips. “The very same reason you’re doing what you’re doing.”

Steven frowned and straightened his shoulders within the confines of his suit coat. “I don’t think so,” he said, but he felt the truth squirming like pinworms beneath the surface.

Frank merely smiled and puffed, letting the silence speak for him. And it did, floating through the air like the smoke from his cigar, an ephemeral haze of inculpation.

He tried to rise above his uncle’s needling. The old man knew how to push all the right buttons. Perhaps this was a bad idea, but too much time had passed and whether or not he felt a twinge of remorse for what they started, he must go on. Like Uncle Frank said, “self preservation.” But he didn’t have to concede to it.

He stood, intent on escape. Frank always made him feel stifled, like a boa constrictor wrapped around his chest. He made decisions that affected dozens of employees everyday and still was unable to breath easily in his uncle’s presence.

“I don’t know what you have on that doctor, but I came into this of my own free will. I believe in this project and plan to see it through,” he said with a show of confidence to match his uncle’s cynicism.

Frank smiled, his tobacco stained teeth eerily yellow in the dim light of the desk lamp. “Of course you do. And you also want to make certain Serena never leaves. You believe a baby will insure that. That’s the basest form of self preservation.”

“How dare you!” His anger flashed bright, a flare of self-righteousness amid dark self-doubt. “My wife has never threatened to leave me.”

“Your wife is weak. Just because she hasn’t packed her bags doesn’t mean she hasn’t checked out. She’s only a breath away from pulling a Marilyn Monroe, and you know it. What kind of a mother will she be?”

The thought of his wife taking her own life was more than he could endure. He planted his palms on the desktop and leaned forward to glare into his uncle’s face. “You promised me that Serena and I would raise that baby as our own. You will not back out of our deal now. Serena will be just fine. She’s not as weak as you seem to believe. Don’t underestimate her–and don’t underestimate me.”

“Are you threatening me, son?” His uncle’s steel gray brows rose with the question, hovering like two birds of prey, although his voice held a touch of amusement.

Steven straightened and released a puff of frustration. He ran a hand over his close-cropped beard. “When can we have the baby?”

Frank took his time answering while he puffed on his cigar. “Andrew will have the necessary papers drawn up tonight to satisfy the hospital and your wife, and tomorrow afternoon you will have the son I’ve always dreamed of.”

“Fine. Then I’m going home to tell Serena.” Steven strode to the door, eager to be gone. The old man constantly pushed and then gloated when he lost his temper. The age-old game of power and control. He hated it. But without Frank he would probably be pushing paper at some entry-level position, trying to make ends meet, and he never would have convinced Serena to marry him.

But things never stay the same. They shift and morph and sometimes slide into a living hell. This baby was their last chance. He couldn’t stand to live any longer with those two D words hanging over him: death or divorce. Yes, he was afraid his wife would leave. He just wasn’t sure which road she’d take. After the last miscarriage, Serena had disappeared into herself. Her performance around the house was perfunctory, her attention divided between the daily rituals of here and now and someplace he wasn’t allowed access. She no longer spoke of children and evaded physical interaction like a virus.

She probably blamed him. He blamed himself. Was there a weak strand in his genes, something undetectable but deadly, that caused his children to die within months of their conception? The question haunted him, kept him up nights, as his wife sat rocking in the nursery across the hall from their bedroom, the creaking of her chair playing a lonely duet with the dull thud of his heart.

“I’d love to hear you explain away the absence of all the normal hoopla involved with adoption,” his uncle said. “Although, I’m sure you’ll do fine. A woman that desperate is usually quite open to deception. She probably won’t even ask the hard questions.”

The remark punctured Steven’s conscience like a Doberman’s fangs. He wished he didn’t have to lie to Serena. Perhaps someday she’d be able to understand that what he did, he did for her, and even accept the truth about the baby as a good thing. He assuaged his guilt by remembering that what mattered now was his wife’s mental state. She needed this baby to bring her back from the brink of despair and he’d already proven that lying was just one of the sins he was willing to commit to do so.

“You’re right,” he said. He turned to face his uncle. His fingers gripped the antique door handle. “She probably won’t. But that’s my job–to ask the hard questions. And now it’s too late.”

He pulled the door closed behind him and hurried past Frank’s secretary. Out in the hall he stopped to take a deep breath and exhale.

How could he feel doomed and elated at the same time? Was it the way his father felt when his plane went down, the moment before he died, knowing he was leaving this life but believing in a better one to come? Steven didn’t share that hope, but he thought he could relate. Being able to tell Serena she would finally have the child she longed for would make up for all the lines he’d crossed achieving that goal. At least he hoped the black marks against him would be erased. Good for bad. Even Steven.

*****

“What are you thinking, letting my daughter and your idiot nephew adopt one of our test subjects? Are you crazy?” Senator Marcus Dunbar couldn’t contain his fury at Frank’s decision. He pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped at his shaved head, damp with sweat. “I told you before I didn’t want Serena involved in this. She’s fragile enough. Another loss and I don’t know what she’ll do.” He paced to the window and back, breathing loudly through flared nostrils. He’d gained seventy pounds or so around his middle in the last couple of years, and was a heart attack waiting to happen.

Frank leaned back in his desk chair and laced his hands behind his head. He watched the senator puff and snort around his desk like a dog defending his turf. A sense of elation filled him. He finally had the upper hand. “I think you may have forgotten that the name on this building is Howard, not Dunbar. I’m in charge here.”

“If Serena would’ve listened to me, she’d be married to Devlin now and all of this would be moot,” he said, ignoring the jibe.

Frank laughed. “That’s old news, Senator. When are you going to get past it?”

“Never!”

“My nephew is not the idiot you like to portray. He’s a decent businessman and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt your daughter. But beyond that, he isn’t stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds him. Unlike his father, he has ambition, a dream of someday running this company. Whether or not that pans out is yet to be seen, but the possibility keeps him towing the line.”

“Maybe for now, but what happens down the line when he becomes attached to this child and decides to come clean with Serena?” Marcus stopped before Frank’s desk dead center and stared him down. “Hmm, what then?”

“He’ll tell her what he knows.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“But what he thinks he knows isn’t necessarily the truth.” He picked up his lit cigar from the ashtray and puffed. “He doesn’t know about the other mentally-ill women Devlin recruited from your precious homeless shelters, if that’s what you’re worried about. So you can rest at ease. Your daughter will never know her father–the great philanthropic senator–was involved in baby stealing.”

“Nobody stole anything.” Marcus settled into a chair on the other side of the desk, crossing his arms over his wide chest. He lost some of the blustery tone from his voice, sounding almost placating. “Those women agreed to become impregnated in exchange for room and board. They’d sell their own mothers for less. Believe me, those types have no business with a baby.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” Frank lifted the lid of his cigar box and offered one to Marcus, who declined. He relaxed back in his seat, and watched the big man across from him. “What are you so afraid of anyway, Marcus? That being a grandfather will make you appear old to your constituents or that your daughter will cheer up and be content to stay with my nephew forever?”

“I just don’t want to see everything fall apart now. I have a lot riding on this.

Frank grinned around the cigar clamped in his teeth. The senator was putty in his hands. Ever since he lost the democratic nomination for the presidency three years ago he’d been set on payback. And a man willing to do anything for revenge was a man he could use.

“Keeping the child in the family is like keeping our cards close to our chests. You have nothing to worry about. Everything’s in hand. Steven knows only what he needs to. Dr. Devlin and Dr. Kapoor are completely trustworthy, and the only woman to have her baby outside of this facility had a most unfortunate but fatal accident. Loose ends are my specialty. I never leave any untied.”

  
Available now at Amazon for Kindle and at Smashwords in all other ebook formats. Split Sense will be available in paperback this December. Watch for it!
Remember, books make great Christmas gifts! Just click any of the Amazon covers on my sidebar and purchase for family and friends --------->


Leave a comment and let me know what you think about the debut of Split Sense!

FREE Personal Painer

Winning something for FREE just by signing up has once again been my downfall. I learned my lesson years ago about those freebie drawings at the county fair. I never won anything except sales calls from roofers and window installation experts. But a couple of days ago I was at my exercise gym and like a fly drawn toward a spider’s silken web of death, I approached a small table set up in the corner. On the table was a jar with little folded pieces of paper inside, and beside it was a sign that said, “Win FREE sessions with a personal trainer!”

I don’t know about you, but the title “personal trainer” sounds very posh and Hollywood to me. Only important people like movie stars have personal trainers; basically someone to exercise for them and make sure they look fantastic in front of a camera. I’d like that.

I always wondered how that worked, but figured the star was paying a trainer cause obviously it was easier than doing all the work themselves.

So I put my name into the jar.

If I’d known that having a personal trainer would make the pain of childbirth seem like a paper cut…I’d still be able to walk today without clenching my teeth and hanging onto the banister whenever I go up or down the stairs. But I was lulled in by the word FREE.

The muscular, twenty-something, young man told me I’d won three free sessions with him. He informed me that muscle burns fat calories, so I would need to work on building muscle. Up to this point in my life, I was satisfied with the muscle I had, but lately it had turned a mite flabby. So, the dream of muscle in all the right places outweighed my normal common sense, and I did all the leg weight training exercises that he showed me. Toward the end of my thirty-minute session I was feeling a bit wobbly but I knew it would all be worthwhile in the end. This middle-aged woman would be as buff as a 30-year-old movie star without ever seeking out a doctor’s scalpel.

The dream didn’t immediately change into a nightmare, although when I tried to step up on the treadmill after my thirty minutes of weight training and continue my usual workout, I felt paralyzed from the waist down. My legs refused to cooperate and speed up into a run, and I ended up doing some kind of embarrassing walk/stumble for about ten minutes before giving up and limping out to my car. That should have been my first clue that the future did not bode well.

The next day, I just wanted to die.

And today, the second day after my torture training, I’m still unable to tie my shoes or get out of a chair without groaning like Frankenstein.

Was my FREE session worth it? Will I return for my 2nd FREE session and do to my top half what I did to my bottom half? Is being fit really important to me or should I be satisfied to live a quiet, painless, flabby life, eating donuts and watching buff movie stars on a big screen television? These are the questions I am now faced with.

Oh, the pain and agony of defeat…

By the way, my winery mystery novel, Entangled, is now FREE at Smashwords & Amazon, B&N, Sony, Apple, etc. This may be the only painless, uncomplicated, no strings attached, FREE offer, you may ever get. TAKE IT! 

Just cause you're paranoid, doesn't mean...

Accused by Janice Cantore

(The Pacific Coast Justice Series Book 1)

Accused is an action-packed suspense novel with just enough police procedural to give it an authentic feel without being overloaded with information. The heroine, Carly Edwards, is a tenacious and believable female officer trying to come to terms with her recent divorce, the death of her father, and a demotion from the streets to a desk job through no fault of her own.

When the city’s mayor is found murdered and a young man is obviously being set up to take the fall, she gets caught up in a string of events that could be the death of her and the people she cares about. With talk of dirty cops and city council members, she doesn’t know who to trust––her ex-husband, Nick, least of all. After all, once a cheat, always a cheat. Right? But something about Nick is different now and she finds herself starting to trust him.

Accused is a story about hope and redemption, as well as justice. Officer Carly Edwards is on a journey of discovery, a search for faith and trust. The spiritual aspects of the story were knit in with a deft hand and not preachy. The character, and her anger against God for letting her father die and her marriage fall apart, were believable and true to life. I look forward to reading the next book in the Pacific Coast Justice Series to find out where her search leads her next.

I was given a copy of Accused in exchange for an honest review.

A baker's dozen and then some...

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;

Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.

I just read that the reality show clan, The Duggar family, is expecting their 20th child. I can’t even fathom how one woman could survive that many stretch marks and live to tell about it, but she has definitely paid her dues into the cult of the “barefoot and pregnant” club.

Truthfully, the story is not heart-warming to me, but rather sad and scary. The whole “go forth and multiply” thing seems to have been taken way too much to heart, while the “love your wife as yourself” was not, or he would have gone to the doctor and had something snipped a long ways back. I doubt that if he were capable of having children himself, he would desire to do it twenty times over.

You may ask, “Who are you to judge this couple and their ever-growing brood?”

My answer: “If they want to be on national television and promote their unusual lifestyle then they should expect myriad opinions from bloggers such as myself. Besides, my words come free of charge. It’s not as if they’ll owe me their twenty-first born child or anything.

Large families are a puzzle to me. I mean “large” as in group home. A family of five or six kids isn’t puzzling, just loud and boisterous. Get up past a dozen and you have to own a dairy farm to make sure everyone gets enough calcium. I’m pretty sure the first cattle rustlers were just hungry children from a large family.

Being born into one of these extra large families must be a very lonely existence. No one really knows your name. They will definitely not yell, “Norm!” when you enter a room. Your own mother could stutter and sputter names for five minutes and never get to yours. You’re so far down the line, they’ve switched to the Greek alphabet. Forget having to suffer through hand-me-down clothes. By the time they get to you they'll only be useful as rags for washing the car. You’d probably just run around naked until some neighbor took pity and gave you an old shirt from her ex-husband’s closet.

Large families tend to be home-schoolers as well. This concept completely baffles me. As a mother, I would not want to herd children day in and day out. Cattle rustling classes aside, teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic to a dozen or more kids with my stubborn genes and overactive imagination would just be asking to be thrown into a padded room without a view.

Regardless of my personal opinions on twenty-something children, I wish this family all the best and a safe pregnancy to this poor woman. I also have one last thought. Perhaps tattooing a first name to each of their children’s foreheads would make their lives a whole lot easier. That…and some of those magic beans that Jack traded the cow for.

Whipped into a Curling Frenzy

I went to the store to purchase a new curling iron the other day. I know I’m sharing pretty heady and intoxicating information about my personal life here–maybe more than you all wanted or needed to know–but hear me out.

You know what a curling iron is, right? I only ask because when I went to the aisle with the small electronic hair appliances, simple curling irons had become nearly obsolete. I’ve been using one of these technological wonders since I was a teenager. How could they just quit making them? I now know what it must feel like for my mother’s generation who can’t seem to find one of those hairdryer bonnet things to put their roller clad head under for two hours. I think it was their version of a day spa. Anyway…

There were still a couple of cheap curling iron models left for old fashioned folks like myself who obviously can’t stand change or learn to use the newest technology, but most of the aisle was filled with strange, twisted, metal contraptions that looked like torture devices that might be hanging from the wall of Osama Bin Laden’s cave dwelling.

One such device said that it was for twisting your hair to make ringlets. Since I don’t have long enough hair to twist and it sounded painful, I passed on that one.

Another said it blew hot air through holes in the metal while curling. I get hot enough just wearing socks these days. Hot air blowing through my hair is off the table.

The next device was for straightening hair. It was flat and wide and looked like the paddle my grade school principle threatened students with back when it was politically correct to administer corporeal punishment. Pass.

The last one I looked at was a narrow flat iron with ceramic grippers. I wasn’t sure why anyone would want their hair to look bent into flat sections but didn’t think that would be a look that would go well with my saggy chipmunk cheeks.

I eventually returned to stand before the same brand, same style curling iron I had purchased the last half dozen times I’ve replaced it. An elderly woman stood beside me gazing with confusion at the wall of metal electronics. “Where are the bobby pins and curlers?” she asked. I had no answer.