Deadly Wish
Brendan Scully just celebrated his eightieth birthday. Ashley, his adult daughter, discovers him dead in his kitchen the following day from a single gunshot wound to the head. All the evidence suggests suicide. Local law enforcement, friends and the surviving family refuse to believe a happy, healthy Brendan would kill himself. Funeral arrangements and a possible criminal investigation occur simultaneously in the days to follow. Ashley, her husband Jack, and her brother, Alex, struggle with the reality of Brendan's death and the memories of his life. Is it suicide, homicide, or ....something else?
A brief Excerpt:
Aging fingers are clumsy. It is evident as they struggle to grasp the bullets to be loaded into the chamber. Arthritic and shaky with an intention tremor, the first bullet is grasped from the pile dumped inauspiciously on the dining room table. With timeless precision it is lifted, rotated point first and slid into its place within the .38 revolver. The second will be easier as it is located in the appropriate position on the table free from the pile and easier to grasp. With much concentration, it too, would find its place in the chamber. The right hand holding the revolver shakes as well, though not as bad, as the left. The rhythmic dance of picking up a bullet, moving it over the chamber and waiting for the synchronous tremor to align each bullet with its finally resting place continues for bullet three, bullet four, bullet five, and bullet six. Finally, five minutes after it begins, the task of loading the weapon is completed. The loaded weapon in the aged right hand is heavier now that it is loaded and both hands are needed to lift it and place it on the table. A final look is taken about the room. A flood of memories begin dating back more than forty years.
“I believe. Yes, I believe,” he says, uttering his last words.
Two trembling, shaking hands reach for the gun on the table. The right hand is the first to grasp it, the left follows. To support the weight of the now loaded weapon requires a combination grip. Each hand wraps around the handle interlocking and both index fingers find the trigger. The gun is lifted off the table almost effortlessly and raised to the left temple. Simultaneously, the left and right index fingers contract and pull the trigger. The hammer strikes the butt of the bullet in the chamber with a fiery spark that propels the bullet into the barrel. Nanoseconds later, the bullet exits the barrel and finds flesh. Piercing the flesh with a ferocious tear, it finds bone. The skull is breached as the blood begins to flow from the wounded flesh. Racing through the one-fourth-inch skull, the bullet enters the brain, the left temporal lobe. Gone in a flash are the memories of childhood, adolescence and adulthood. Continuing through the temporal lobe and into the inner workings of the brain for all intents and purposes, life is over. The bullet makes its way out through the right temporal lobe of a now lifeless body and with a thunderous crack emerges from the right side of the head, taking with it a three-inch-by two- inch square of skull. The bullet continues its unrelenting journey before lodging itself in the china cabinet in the other room some forty feet away. As brain and blood escaped unimpeded, the body slumps to the kitchen floor. The gun is released as the body dies and it, too, falls to the floor, finding itself in a puddle of blood. All life has ceased to exist in the household. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. The answering machine picks up.
“I’m sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave your name and a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,” the outgoing message blares into the lifeless house.
The machine beeps and the caller speaks. “Hey, Brendan. It’s me, Brad. Just called to wish you a happy eightieth birthday. It is today, right? Anywho, call me when you get this message. I’ll be up late. It’s now about 8:30. Bye.” He hangs up.
In another room the mantle clock confirms the time of death and the call by signaling thirty minutes after eight. There would be no return phone call.
Five more messages would be left, all wishing a happy birthday and all requesting a return call that would never be received. The evening is uneventful. Dark becomes dawn and dawn soon becomes daylight.
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A brief Excerpt:
Aging fingers are clumsy. It is evident as they struggle to grasp the bullets to be loaded into the chamber. Arthritic and shaky with an intention tremor, the first bullet is grasped from the pile dumped inauspiciously on the dining room table. With timeless precision it is lifted, rotated point first and slid into its place within the .38 revolver. The second will be easier as it is located in the appropriate position on the table free from the pile and easier to grasp. With much concentration, it too, would find its place in the chamber. The right hand holding the revolver shakes as well, though not as bad, as the left. The rhythmic dance of picking up a bullet, moving it over the chamber and waiting for the synchronous tremor to align each bullet with its finally resting place continues for bullet three, bullet four, bullet five, and bullet six. Finally, five minutes after it begins, the task of loading the weapon is completed. The loaded weapon in the aged right hand is heavier now that it is loaded and both hands are needed to lift it and place it on the table. A final look is taken about the room. A flood of memories begin dating back more than forty years.
“I believe. Yes, I believe,” he says, uttering his last words.
Two trembling, shaking hands reach for the gun on the table. The right hand is the first to grasp it, the left follows. To support the weight of the now loaded weapon requires a combination grip. Each hand wraps around the handle interlocking and both index fingers find the trigger. The gun is lifted off the table almost effortlessly and raised to the left temple. Simultaneously, the left and right index fingers contract and pull the trigger. The hammer strikes the butt of the bullet in the chamber with a fiery spark that propels the bullet into the barrel. Nanoseconds later, the bullet exits the barrel and finds flesh. Piercing the flesh with a ferocious tear, it finds bone. The skull is breached as the blood begins to flow from the wounded flesh. Racing through the one-fourth-inch skull, the bullet enters the brain, the left temporal lobe. Gone in a flash are the memories of childhood, adolescence and adulthood. Continuing through the temporal lobe and into the inner workings of the brain for all intents and purposes, life is over. The bullet makes its way out through the right temporal lobe of a now lifeless body and with a thunderous crack emerges from the right side of the head, taking with it a three-inch-by two- inch square of skull. The bullet continues its unrelenting journey before lodging itself in the china cabinet in the other room some forty feet away. As brain and blood escaped unimpeded, the body slumps to the kitchen floor. The gun is released as the body dies and it, too, falls to the floor, finding itself in a puddle of blood. All life has ceased to exist in the household. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. The answering machine picks up.
“I’m sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave your name and a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,” the outgoing message blares into the lifeless house.
The machine beeps and the caller speaks. “Hey, Brendan. It’s me, Brad. Just called to wish you a happy eightieth birthday. It is today, right? Anywho, call me when you get this message. I’ll be up late. It’s now about 8:30. Bye.” He hangs up.
In another room the mantle clock confirms the time of death and the call by signaling thirty minutes after eight. There would be no return phone call.
Five more messages would be left, all wishing a happy birthday and all requesting a return call that would never be received. The evening is uneventful. Dark becomes dawn and dawn soon becomes daylight.
Deadly Wish
Brendan Scully just celebrated his eightieth birthday. Ashley, his adult daughter, discovers him dead in his kitchen the following day from a single gunshot wound to the head. All the evidence suggests suicide. Local law enforcement, friends and the surviving family refuse to believe a happy, healthy Brendan would kill himself. Funeral arrangements and a possible criminal investigation occur simultaneously in the days to follow. Ashley, her husband Jack, and her brother, Alex, struggle with the reality of Brendan's death and the memories of his life. Is it suicide, homicide, or ....something else?
A brief Excerpt:
Aging fingers are clumsy. It is evident as they struggle to grasp the bullets to be loaded into the chamber. Arthritic and shaky with an intention tremor, the first bullet is grasped from the pile dumped inauspiciously on the dining room table. With timeless precision it is lifted, rotated point first and slid into its place within the .38 revolver. The second will be easier as it is located in the appropriate position on the table free from the pile and easier to grasp. With much concentration, it too, would find its place in the chamber. The right hand holding the revolver shakes as well, though not as bad, as the left. The rhythmic dance of picking up a bullet, moving it over the chamber and waiting for the synchronous tremor to align each bullet with its finally resting place continues for bullet three, bullet four, bullet five, and bullet six. Finally, five minutes after it begins, the task of loading the weapon is completed. The loaded weapon in the aged right hand is heavier now that it is loaded and both hands are needed to lift it and place it on the table. A final look is taken about the room. A flood of memories begin dating back more than forty years.
“I believe. Yes, I believe,” he says, uttering his last words.
Two trembling, shaking hands reach for the gun on the table. The right hand is the first to grasp it, the left follows. To support the weight of the now loaded weapon requires a combination grip. Each hand wraps around the handle interlocking and both index fingers find the trigger. The gun is lifted off the table almost effortlessly and raised to the left temple. Simultaneously, the left and right index fingers contract and pull the trigger. The hammer strikes the butt of the bullet in the chamber with a fiery spark that propels the bullet into the barrel. Nanoseconds later, the bullet exits the barrel and finds flesh. Piercing the flesh with a ferocious tear, it finds bone. The skull is breached as the blood begins to flow from the wounded flesh. Racing through the one-fourth-inch skull, the bullet enters the brain, the left temporal lobe. Gone in a flash are the memories of childhood, adolescence and adulthood. Continuing through the temporal lobe and into the inner workings of the brain for all intents and purposes, life is over. The bullet makes its way out through the right temporal lobe of a now lifeless body and with a thunderous crack emerges from the right side of the head, taking with it a three-inch-by two- inch square of skull. The bullet continues its unrelenting journey before lodging itself in the china cabinet in the other room some forty feet away. As brain and blood escaped unimpeded, the body slumps to the kitchen floor. The gun is released as the body dies and it, too, falls to the floor, finding itself in a puddle of blood. All life has ceased to exist in the household. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. The answering machine picks up.
“I’m sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave your name and a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,” the outgoing message blares into the lifeless house.
The machine beeps and the caller speaks. “Hey, Brendan. It’s me, Brad. Just called to wish you a happy eightieth birthday. It is today, right? Anywho, call me when you get this message. I’ll be up late. It’s now about 8:30. Bye.” He hangs up.
In another room the mantle clock confirms the time of death and the call by signaling thirty minutes after eight. There would be no return phone call.
Five more messages would be left, all wishing a happy birthday and all requesting a return call that would never be received. The evening is uneventful. Dark becomes dawn and dawn soon becomes daylight.
A brief Excerpt:
Aging fingers are clumsy. It is evident as they struggle to grasp the bullets to be loaded into the chamber. Arthritic and shaky with an intention tremor, the first bullet is grasped from the pile dumped inauspiciously on the dining room table. With timeless precision it is lifted, rotated point first and slid into its place within the .38 revolver. The second will be easier as it is located in the appropriate position on the table free from the pile and easier to grasp. With much concentration, it too, would find its place in the chamber. The right hand holding the revolver shakes as well, though not as bad, as the left. The rhythmic dance of picking up a bullet, moving it over the chamber and waiting for the synchronous tremor to align each bullet with its finally resting place continues for bullet three, bullet four, bullet five, and bullet six. Finally, five minutes after it begins, the task of loading the weapon is completed. The loaded weapon in the aged right hand is heavier now that it is loaded and both hands are needed to lift it and place it on the table. A final look is taken about the room. A flood of memories begin dating back more than forty years.
“I believe. Yes, I believe,” he says, uttering his last words.
Two trembling, shaking hands reach for the gun on the table. The right hand is the first to grasp it, the left follows. To support the weight of the now loaded weapon requires a combination grip. Each hand wraps around the handle interlocking and both index fingers find the trigger. The gun is lifted off the table almost effortlessly and raised to the left temple. Simultaneously, the left and right index fingers contract and pull the trigger. The hammer strikes the butt of the bullet in the chamber with a fiery spark that propels the bullet into the barrel. Nanoseconds later, the bullet exits the barrel and finds flesh. Piercing the flesh with a ferocious tear, it finds bone. The skull is breached as the blood begins to flow from the wounded flesh. Racing through the one-fourth-inch skull, the bullet enters the brain, the left temporal lobe. Gone in a flash are the memories of childhood, adolescence and adulthood. Continuing through the temporal lobe and into the inner workings of the brain for all intents and purposes, life is over. The bullet makes its way out through the right temporal lobe of a now lifeless body and with a thunderous crack emerges from the right side of the head, taking with it a three-inch-by two- inch square of skull. The bullet continues its unrelenting journey before lodging itself in the china cabinet in the other room some forty feet away. As brain and blood escaped unimpeded, the body slumps to the kitchen floor. The gun is released as the body dies and it, too, falls to the floor, finding itself in a puddle of blood. All life has ceased to exist in the household. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. The answering machine picks up.
“I’m sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave your name and a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,” the outgoing message blares into the lifeless house.
The machine beeps and the caller speaks. “Hey, Brendan. It’s me, Brad. Just called to wish you a happy eightieth birthday. It is today, right? Anywho, call me when you get this message. I’ll be up late. It’s now about 8:30. Bye.” He hangs up.
In another room the mantle clock confirms the time of death and the call by signaling thirty minutes after eight. There would be no return phone call.
Five more messages would be left, all wishing a happy birthday and all requesting a return call that would never be received. The evening is uneventful. Dark becomes dawn and dawn soon becomes daylight.
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Deadly Wish
Deadly Wish
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940012881601 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Brian M. Scully |
| Publication date: | 06/20/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 154 KB |
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