Surviving the Fall by William Potter (Sample Sunday)

Chapter I

DECEMBER 26

James Goodal jarred the oversized revolver from a dying man's hand and then tossed the weapon across his living room. Even in the after-midnight darkness, he could see blood, soaking red the beige carpet near his feet. The man no longer stirred so James averted his gaze to the top of the staircase and to his surprise, he couldn't see or hear her.

"Ashley," he called.

No answer.

"ASHLEY!" he yelled as loud as his voice would allow.

Still no answer.

Fear held James in place; fear of what he would find if he ascended to the second floor of his home. He thought he heard a faint, weak whisper calling to him. A shiver went through him, and he knew he had to move.

He stepped over the body and charged up the stairs for the second floor, and after an instant, he found her a few feet from her bedroom.

"Oh god, Ashley, no!" The teenager had both of her hands clutching her left thigh a few inches below her crotch. Blood was seeping between her fingers. James knew that if the bullet had cut the main artery in the leg she could bleed out.

His mind was adrift in panic, searching for what he should do. Then it slammed into his brain. "I'll call an ambulance." He jogged for the phone next to his bed and quickly dialled 911.

"Ambulance!" he blurted when the operator asked for his emergency.

"My roommate was shot in the leg. It's bleeding badly!"

While sprinting back to where Ashley lay, he pulled off his pajama top and placed it on Ashley's leg.

"Apply pressure!" the operator said.

"I am!" He kneeled next to Ashley with one hand on his portable phone and the other holding the shirt to the wound.

"Is she breathing?"

"Yeah, she's looking right at me." The horror in Ashley's eyes sunk into him and panged his heart. He had never in his life felt so worried for another human and so utterly useless to help.

"The ambulance is just a few minutes away, sir," the operator said.

Then the operator began asking about how Ashley was shot, about the kind of firearm, and who fired it.

"Is the shooter still in the house, Mr. Goodal?"

"Yes, I think he's dead."

"Dead, sir?"

"Yes, I killed him."

James set the phone aside and took Ashley's hand in his. "It's okay, Ashley. They're coming. Just hold on, sweetie. Hold on."

"I love—you—James," Ashley said almost silently, and then her body wilted and her eyes rolled back and closed.

"ASHLEY, No!"

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DEAD of KNIGHT by William R. Potter for Sample Sunday

1000 words from Dead of Knight by William R. Potter

Jack Staal lay in his bed, propped against the headboard. He held a half finished Scotch neat in his left hand. He didn’t normally take a drink to bed, but lately he’d had trouble sleeping. In his lap were numerous photos and 3x5 index cards with notes and bits of information about what he was beginning to think might turn out to be the most important case in his twenty years on the job.

Two women violently raped and murdered on their birthdays. The media, mayor’s office, Chief Constable and the public were all buzzing about a serial killer in Hanson and the department’s lack of progress. He glanced at the cards.

Stephanie MacKay, 32, found in Discovery Park, ambushed while jogging, brutally assaulted and left for dead on March twenty-third. Gabriella Haywood, 31, a realtor, found dead nine days later in the basement of a townhouse she was supposed to be showing. Research had turned up no link connecting the two women. Clues, tips, trace evidence, and leads went nowhere.

Staal tossed the file folder aside and shook his head when he realized how much time he had spent on the cards. The case was not officially his. Just minutes after he responded to the first victim, Max Barnes—the Staff Sergeant in charge of the Criminal Investigations Branch of the Hanson Police Service had called in the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team.

The IHIT combined the skills of homicide specialists from the RCMP’s “E” Division with those of the experienced detectives from local law enforcements agencies. They were in charge of working homicides, attempted murders and all unexplained deaths across Metropolitan Vancouver.

Staal’s former partner, Lesley Degarmo, had been assigned to one of the seven IHIT teams only five months earlier. She was the one who had kept him up to date with the case, going so far as to e-mail him copies of the case files.

Analysis done on footprints at the park scene revealed that the killer probably stood around five foot eight, weighed 150 pounds, and was perhaps a teenager. In the house where Haywood died toys had been scattered around the children’s bedrooms, presumably played with by the suspect. When that bit of information had leaked out, the press had instantly dubbed the murderer “Birthday Boy.” Now it was June 29. Almost three months had passed since the last victim’s death. Experience and his gut told him the killer would strike again, and the waiting made him uneasy.

Lying next to Staal was Gina Hayes She had fallen asleep shortly after their lovemaking, and neither his restlessness nor the rustle of his paperwork seemed to disturb her. He’d worked with Hayes for almost two years, but her muscular, athletic body still excited him. He could get lost in her deep brown eyes, and he marveled at how beautiful she was, even when asleep. She was a cop, not Staal’s partner; however they were both assigned to the Major Crimes Section and worked closely.

Gina held a black belt in Karate, and when she expressed an interest in boxing professionally, Staal had volunteered to train her. She accepted. Long hours in the gym had moved their relationship quickly from colleagues to good friends, and now Gina spent most nights at his place.

Gilbert, an aging black tabby, lay at the foot of the bed. The feline had kept him company on many late nights as he mulled over difficult cases. Staal set his drink on the side table, slid the cards into the drawer, and slid further under the covers.

“Go to sleep, old man,” he whispered to Gilbert. He closed his eyes and drifted off thinking of the way Gina had smiled down at him as they’d made love.

Staal struggled against the dream, thrashing as if he could prevent the vision from stirring in his brain. He saw a children’s playground surrounded by dense bushes and evergreen trees. A man lay dead near the swings.

Staal fought the unfolding images.

Three injured children.

Blood.

Screams.

A young woman begged him to save her daughter as the child died. A man cradled a limp arm and screamed as he ran.

Staal looked beyond him to see dozens, then hundreds of tiny faceless forms. Some of the injured struggled in agony, while others were as motionless as mannequins.

“Jesus Christ!” He bolted upright and took a deep breath. He sat hugging his knees. The wall clock thumped steadily and Gilbert’s purr sounded like a diesel engine.

Gina put her hand on his shoulder. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

“Just a damn dream.” He reached for the cocktail glass on the night table and swallowed the last sip.

He glanced at Gina. She smiled and sat up in bed beside him.

“Dream? About the shooting?” She ran her fingers up and down his leg.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s been a while since the last one?” Gina asked.

“Yeah, a couple months,” he lied.

Staal often wondered what Gina saw in him. He wasn’t the best looking guy around. At forty-two; he was still in good shape despite the recent adding of over twenty pounds to his normal 200. The job and over a hundred amateur and twenty-six professional boxing matches had left him with his share of scars and blemishes, and a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. She didn’t seem to mind.

He slipped out of bed and headed for the kitchen where he poured himself a shot of whiskey. He downed it in one long swallow, shuddering as it burned his throat. Too bad it did little to calm his trembling hands. He fumbled to light a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew nine months of surviving without nicotine.

Staal stared at the calendar. “Shit, thirteen straight nights, that God-damn dream!” He shook his head and poured another shot.

Jack hated stereotypes, especially cop stereotypes. He struggled against the overweight, doughnut chomping, two-pack-a-day habit, bottle-of-hooch-in-the-desk-drawer cliché. The cop dinosaur so often played on television by Dennis Franz. He looked at the glass in right hand, the cigarette smoldering in his left and shook his head.

“Have you been keeping your appointments with Dr. Connelly lately?” Gina asked.

Jack poured himself a glass of ice-water and moved into the living room where he slumped in his Lay-z-boy. “Missed the last two.”

“You’re gonna hear about it from Barnes.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He had never known Gina to nag or push. This time was no exception. She kissed him on the cheek and left him alone.

Staal didn’t have time for therapists, didn’t believe in their ability to help him, and hated talking about his personal stuff. He preferred to go it alone. He remembered his first visit with Dr. Janet Connelly, Hanson Police Service’s Staff Psychologist. His career as a cop was on the rocks; his superiors at the Vancouver Police Department had removed him from the street after failed stints in the Auto-Theft unit and Vice, and set him behind a desk. Then an opportunity with the Hanson surfaced.

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Surviving the Fall by William Potter

"Surviving the Fall” is a homerun with emotional ups and downs that had me on the edge of seat. It was scary, lustful, and tender, as the plot pushed the ethical envelop of underage sexuality.

Okay, so what is the story about? It is the story of two lonely and needy people that find each other, find true love and compassion, in a perverse and evil world.

James Goodal, love the pun by the way, is a software programmer. His wife has left him, left him the house and a closet full of her cloths that she will never claim. James is lonely. He has a big heart and a lot of love to give. When James was a child he collected displaced animals and cared for them, nursed them back to health.

It was no surprise that when James saw Ashley Metcalf tossed from a moving car into the middle of the street that he had to help her.

Ashley is a complicated, oversexed fifteen-year old. Ashley has been a prostitute since her mother tricked her out when turned ten. So, it is no wonder that she is afraid to trust James and except his help. However, she gets into even more trouble that sends her to live in James’ guest house to the shock and disgust of James’ sister.

James and Ashley’s relationship is a rocky one. James is very frank with Ashley that she is underage; he only wants to help her get back on her feet. However, James sees Ashley as a sexual creature that has had more experience that he ever will. Meanwhile, Ashley can not except that he doesn’t want her. She sees how he looks at her. She wants to give him what she has; what every man she has ever known wants from her. For the first time in her life she wants to have sex with someone. The tension created between these two well written characters is the stuff of great literature. by Aaron M. Wilson Soullessmachine.com

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Surviving the Fall is a heart-warming tale of a wayward teenage prostitute and a gentleman with a rescuer complex. It's a great, intertwined plot where all the characters come together, in the same spirit of the Academy Award winning movie, Crash. Potter showcases his writing talent with skillful interspersing of critical backstory in such a way as to avoid slowing the plot. I urge you to take note of the writer's talent for character development and I'm sure you'll be impressed. In fact, I shouldn't think it'd be long before a major publishing house snaps Mr. Potter up because he belongs on the bookshelves with the likes of Jeffery Deaver and Peter Abrahams. Highly recommended by reviewer: Jan Evan Whitford, Allbooks Reviews.

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Bent, Not Broken-A Modern Romance by William R. Potter

Dwayne Johnson knows he is different. He lives in a world that can always be depended on to remind him of his strangeness. Despite his social awkwardness, Dwayne meets a beautiful woman at a bus stop and soon his entire life transforms. Unfortunately his obsessions work against him, keeping the couple apart pushing Dwayne to the point of alcoholism and insanity.

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I really want to tell you about “Bent, Not Broken" a story that should not be missed.

Dwayne suffers from OCD. I think that after finishing the story that some of my own compulsive tendencies have flared, but I’m not Dwayne. Dwayne must live in a world of odd numbers preferring 3s, 5s, and 7s. One of the more touching moments is when Dwayne is out on a date and he needed an extra chair and place setting at the table in order to feel comfortable, and I think that I’m hard to live with.

Dwayne is excellent at his job. He calls people that he refers to as “marks” and asks them about their preferences, surveys them about food, TV, etc, and rewards those who answer them with valuable coupon books. He holds the record for the most completed surveys in one shift. He is loved by his boss; hated by his co-workers. To Dwayne, his co-workers are the terrible trio. They play games with this desk, putting an extra pen in his up so that they number 4 or 6 or 8. These games make it impossible for Dwayne to focus.

The one thing that Dwayne has going for him is a mysterious woman that he calls Black-Coat Girl who is at the bus stop everyday at the same time he drives by on his way to work. Dwayne has made up several stories about Black-Coat Girl, who she is, what she does, why she takes the bus.

What is really nice about this story is that it has a very Punch-Drunk Love romantic twist that takes a seven car pileup on a snowy day to kick off. Dwayne has to take the bus, the very same bus that Black-Coat Girl takes. And on that day, Black-Coat Girl sits down beside him and admits that she thinks of him as her 20-Second Boyfriend.

The writing is really well done. The descriptions of Dwayne’s inner experience are strange and wildly detailed. They have a bumpy start to things, but their story ends well, not the happily ever after kind of ending, but an ending that suits the characters and left me wanting for more.

by Aaron Wilson www.soullessmachine.com

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