Rubicon Ranch: Necropieces

By Second Wind

Residents of Rubicon Ranch are finding body parts scattered all over the desert. Who was the victim and why did someone want him so very dead?

Everyone in this upscale housing development is hiding something.

Leia Menendez has a plan: get to Rubicon Ranch, get in, get what was hers, get out. But does her plan include murder?

Egypt Hayes knows there are secrets hidden in Rubicon Ranch and she intends to use them in her next film. And maybe even use them to get revenge.

Moody Sinclair once killed an eight-year-old boy. Has she killed again?

Her brother Jake is searching for redemption. Did he find it in the death of another?

Eighty-two-year-old Eloy Franklin sits on his porch and watches. But does he do more than watch?

Ward Preminger was electrified by his encounter with the victim. Did find a way to get even?
Forty-three-year-old Melanie Gray stumbled on the first necropiece. But is she as innocent as she seems?

Sheriff Seth Bryan is bitter and cynical at having lost everything he values. Is he manufacturing crimes to bring him the notoriety he craves?

Seven Second Wind Publishing authors collaborated to write Rubicon Ranch: Necropieces

• Language: English
• Publisher: Second Wind
• Release date: May 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781938101670

Second Wind

"We are storytellers. We have fulfilled an integral role for the human race ever since there was a spoken language. Storytelling is time travel and teleportation; it is prophecy; it is philosophy; it is not just the elimination of barriers but the co-mingling of perceptions; storytelling allows us to emotionally, spiritually and intellectually suspend barriers and relearn our humanity."– Mike Simpson, PublisherIndigo Sea Press, LLC, is an independent press that produces quality novels by talented authors with readable, distinctive voices. Each author was chosen to be a part of the ISP family based on his or her ability to tell a wonderful story.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Melanie Gray

by Pat Bertram

Melanie Gray woke with tears on her face. She sat up in the bed she’d shared with her husband Alexander, put her elbows on crossed knees, and cradled her face in her hands. The pain she tried to hide even from herself erupted, filling her chest with such agony she could only breathe in shuddering gasps.

She’d been doing so well, concentrating on shooting the photographs to finish their coffee table book on desert life, photos that Alexander should have taken, would have taken if he hadn’t died. So why the upsurge in grief? Then it came to her—today marked the third month since Alexander’s death.

Three months! Melanie saw the months marching on, one by one, each carefully counted while she grew old alone. She was only forty-three, which meant a lifetime of loneliness ahead of her.

I can’t do this.

But she’d already been doing it—living each shocking day as it came.

First, she’d found out that Alexander had died in a one-car crash under suspicious circumstances—maybe an accident, or maybe something worse, something she couldn’t bear to think about. Then she had discovered that he’d been texting a woman when he died, a woman who claimed to be his mistress. Finally, she learned that somehow he’d managed to spend the considerable advance they’d received for their book, leaving her with a six-month paid lease on this house, barely enough cash for groceries, and a book contract she needed to fulfill. No savings. And no car.

At least the desert was close, so she didn’t need a car to do her job. Rubicon Ranch, the bedroom community where they’d rented the house, bordered on the high desert of inland California, and offered gorgeous vistas, wildlife . . . and death.

Damn you, Alexander! Why did you have to die? You were the one who was supposed to shoot the photos. I only wrote the words. If you’d paid attention to your driving, you’d still be alive, and I’d never have found that little girl’s body.

Poor little Riley Peterson. Kidnapped as a baby, dead at age nine without ever knowing that her biological parents had spent her whole life searching for her.

Melanie let her tears fall for a few more minutes, took one more shuddering breath, and hauled herself to her feet. As bleak as her life seemed, as sad and as lonely as she felt, she was still alive. And she had work to do.

As always, she dressed in white—loose cotton pants, billowing long-sleeved top, wide-brimmed straw hat, flowing scarf. She checked her pockets to make sure she had her cell phone, camera, and extra memory card. Then she grabbed a canteen of water, slung the strap over her shoulder like a bandolier, and stepped outside.

A perfect early fall day. Clear blue skies, the deepest blue she’d seen since she’d moved to Rubicon Ranch. A hint of a sweet-scented breeze wafting up Delano Road. Temperatures in the high seventies, though they would probably rise to the mid-eighties by noon.

The grizzled homeowner across the street picked up a newspaper from his driveway, waved it at Melanie, turned, and stood still. Wondering what had caught his attention, Melanie followed his gaze.

A tan bullmastiff towed a pretty woman up the street. The woman’s dark hair, drawn into a ponytail, swished jauntily as she ran to keep up with her exuberant dog. What should have looked like a carefree moment seemed one of desperation to Melanie, as if the woman were running from demons only she could see.

Funny how art often imitates life, eh? came a deep voice from behind Melanie.

She jerked her head in the direction of the voice, and gaped at Morris Sinclair, her next-door neighbor, who had managed to sneak up on her without her noticing.

Morris, an international bestselling horror novelist had been a suspect in Riley Peterson’s death. The sheriff had declared the author innocent of the murder but guilty of buying stolen crime scene photos. And guilty of feigning Alzheimer’s. Melanie didn’t know how the sheriff had come to that conclusion. As far as she could see, if Morris had been feigning Alzheimer’s, he must have been trying to hide the truth—that he was insanely evil. Or evilly insane.

Or maybe, in her case, life is imitating art, Morris said.

What are you doing here, Melanie demanded. Does Moody know you’re on the loose? Moody, Morris’s daughter, had spent time in prison for the accidental death of a child. You’d think a man as perverse as Morris would be proud of her for that accomplishment, but he treated his daughter with even less regard than he treated everyone else.

Am I my daughter’s keeper? Morris intoned.

Melanie backed away from him. I’m sorry. I don’t have time for this.

I know. You have to go out into the desert to shoot more of your little photos. He bared his long, old-ivory-colored teeth at her in what might have been meant as a smile but came across as a predatory leer. Pointing a bony finger at her camera, he added, You know how to use that thing, right?

Melanie lifted her chin. I do.

I’ll offer you the same arrangement I had with your husband.

You had an arrangement with Alexander?

Yeah. Alexander. Did you have more than one husband?

Melanie stared at him in confusion, but when his dark opaque eyes met her gaze, she ducked her head.

Alexander used to take certain . . . photos for me. Morris raised his voice. Photos of body parts.

Body parts? Melanie asked. You mean like arms and legs? You can find photos of those anywhere.

But I need amputated body parts. Dead parts. Lots of blood and gore. Necropieces.

Melanie recognized the name of Morris’s most famous horror series—Necropieces—but none of his other words made sense. You’re telling me Alexander took photos of amputated limbs for you?

And entrails. And organs. He loved shooting the images. Had a nicely developed sense of the macabre.

No, Melanie said in a normal tone of voice. Then, all at once, the agony of the past few months gathered itself and launched a scream. Nooooo.

The word seemed to echo up and down the quiet street. She caught a glimpse of movement on the porch a couple of houses away, and she realized the old man who lived there, Eloy Franklin, had heard her shriek, but she didn’t care. She had enough of insanity and things that didn’t make sense.

You leave me alone, Sinclair, she shouted as loud as she could so that Morris would get the message, or I’ll be shooting your dead body parts.

Every one of you bastards wants me dead! Morris screamed, matching her decibel for decibel. He threw his arms wide as if to address the neighborhood. "Kill me! Kill me! Kill me. Cowards, every one of you! None of you have the guts to do anything but sit in your dark little caves and try to wish me away. Cowards! And

you— He turned to face Melanie. I dare you. Kill me like you killed Alexander."

Melanie gasped. Alexander died in an accident.

An accident you created, Morris said calmly, as if he’d never raised his voice. Before that little girl died, she told Moody you’d messed with your car.

You’re lying. Melanie’s words barely squeaked through her clenched teeth.

Ask Moody. Morris put a finger to his chin and cocked his head to one side. So, will you take the photos for me? I’ll pay you well.

Chapter 2: Ward Preminger

by Dellani Oakes

Rubicon Ranch lay stretched out on three sides of Ward Preminger as he stood on the balcony of his cozy two-story house. As he sipped his coffee, Ward breathed in the early morning air. A tang of vegetation met his nostrils. His neighbor was mowing his lawn and had already trimmed his bushes, trees and shrubs. Ward couldn't understand the obsession some people had with their yards. He did as little as he could in his own and was thinking seriously of having it covered in gravel with only a few desert plants for decoration. The austerity of the desert appealed to him. He spent as much time out there as he could.

Finishing his coffee, Ward went inside to get ready for work. He had a 30-mile drive to the bookstore in Rojo Duro, the closest town to Rubicon Ranch. Since he'd moved from tornado-ridded Kansas two weeks ago, he'd been working at the family owned store. His boss, Jane Fitzsimmons, and her sister, June, owned the building, which had once been the only hotel in town. One side was a book and gift store, the other a pack and ship center and DVD rental. In between the two, their children ran a coffee shop that also sold music CD's.

Ward and the Fitzsimmons boys were cleaning and rearranging a portion of the store in order to set up a new display. As they worked, an older man with dark hair, walked into the shop. He glanced at their activity, frowning and mumbling to himself. As no one else was around to assist him, Ward left the crew and greeted the man with a smile and handshake. What he got was a glare. The old man swatted Ward's hand away.

Ward's fingers tingled unpleasantly making him want to wash them. Rubbing his hand on his pants, he tried to focus. The old man glared at him. Taking a step closer, his craggy face loomed in Ward's vision. Thin lips arced in a snarl and spittle sprayed in Ward's face.

Don't touch me! Idiot! Surprisingly strong, he shoved Ward away.

Another charge accompanied the blow. Ward went flying into a display, toppling books and collectables. Feeling like a turtle on its back, he tried to rise. His arms and legs refused to move properly. Terrified and disoriented, Ward couldn't speak. His vocal chords worked—he could hear himself grunting, trying to form words. A loud ringing distorted sound.

He opened the door, the air deceptively calm. Finding it hard to breathe, he looked through the gaping hole in the roof. A thick, black wall of cloud spiraled above him. Green lightning slashed across from side to side as smaller funnels ebbed and formed along the sides. The maw of the tornado dipped down, grabbing him. The force of the wind pulled him upward, his body dancing like a crazed marionette. His breathing was labored and he watched helplessly as the green lighting surged toward him from all sides....

Strong hands lifted him, carrying him to the sitting area of the coffee shop. People surrounded him, all of whom should be familiar, but none he recognized. Soon, men in uniforms with starched white shirts came in and took over. Bright lights flashed in his eyes. One of them squatted in front of him.

Can you hear me? Do you know your name?

Ward saw his lips move. He heard the man's voice, but he couldn't decode the words. Shaking his head, he tried to stop the ringing in his ears. Instead, vertigo slammed into him making him gag.

He's gonna blow, the man said calmly over his shoulder.

Ward felt a plastic rim lightly touch his chest just before he vomited. Blackness descended.

Some time later, Ward woke to an irritating beeping. The room was dim and fuzzy. It took a moment to realize that was because he wasn't wearing his glasses. He was in a hospital room. The nurse's buzzer lay near his left shoulder. He tried to raise his right hand to grasp it. The left moved instead, clumsily. Closing his eyes, he mentally reversed the process and successfully depressed the buzzer.

Yes? A cheerful female voice answered.

Ward tried to speak, but words wouldn't form. He grunted, his mouth was dry.

Mr. Preminger?

Yes, he managed to whisper.

I'll be right down.

A minute later, the door opened and three people walked in, all female. The lead woman came at him with a bright flashlight. Giving him a thorough check, she smiled at him.

I'm Doctor Clemens, Mr. Preminger. I'm a neurologist. I'm going to ask you a few questions.

She proceeded to ask his name, the date and where he was. I need you to squeeze my fingers, Mr. Preminger. Right hand to my left. She held up her hand, two fingers sticking up.

Taking a deep breath, Ward concentrated on the movement. He sent a mental message to his right hand to take her fingers. To his dismay, his left hand moved. With a groan of despair, he burst into frustrated tears.

God, not again, he groaned.

It's all right, Ward, the woman with the water said. Take your time.

I can't. Don't you get it? Who was that guy?

Which guy? Dr. Clemens frowned.

At the bookstore. The one who did this to me.

No one did anything, Ward. You had a slight altercation with Morris Sinclair, but he didn't do anything but shove you, the doctor replied.

No. He did something. This is his fault! I'm gonna kill him! He tried to get out of bed.

The women restrained him, not difficult as weak as he was. The nurse to his left injected something in his IV. Toto, he croaked. I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore. And darkness descended once more.

Ward was released from the hospital when the MRI came back normal. In a nutshell, they had no idea why his limbs didn't work correctly. There were no signs of trauma or brain damage.

It's like your brain rewired itself, Dr. Clemens told him. Maybe when you were caught in the tornado back in Kansas.

How's that even possible? he grumbled.

I don't have answers for you, Ward, I'm sorry. No one's been through what you have. Your case is unique.

Ward's sardonic laugh sounded weak in the echoing hospital room. Great! I always wanted to be different. Now I am.

On the plus side, you're healthy and strong. Your muscle tone is good, your reflexes superior. Your mental capacity hasn't been damaged. In fact, as far as we can tell, comparing to cognitive tests you volunteered for in college, your abilities have actually improved.

Getting sucked up by a tornado and electrocuted made me smarter? He chuckled, but it sounded cold to him.

Something like that. You can function on your own now, so I'm sending you home. She took his hands in hers, squeezing gently. It's going to be all right, Ward. We'll get you through this.

Ward nodded, agreeing with her, but he wasn't convinced.

Jane gave him a few days off from work, so Ward spent much of the day reading. He became obsessed with Morris Sinclair. He read everything the man had written, convinced that by so doing, he could figure out what the old man had done to him. Hardly sleeping and eating very little, he lost weight, his already lean body turned gaunt, his face drawn. Dark circles ringed his eyes.

The doctor finally insisted that he get out of the house and walk around the neighborhood. He took to shuffling about, a rambling skeleton of a man, until he spotted Morris Sinclair. Seeing the source of his obsession, Ward felt mild elation. He hadn't realized the old man was so close. Morris lived less than a mile from Ward's house.

Turning abruptly, Ward headed home. His fixation had changed. He'd now made it his goal to exact his revenge on Morris Sinclair.

Chapter 3: Eyana Saleh (aka Egypt Hayes)

by Mickey Hoffman

Now that you’ve seen the whole property, Ms. Hayes, what do you think? Isn’t it everything I promised?

Eyana Saleh tore her eyes away from the false eyelash that threatened to detach from the young realtor’s left eyelid and pointed her camera at the pool house instead. Let’s go inside and talk, Nancy. I’d like to see the dining room again, if you don’t mind. I’m not sure fifteen people will fit in there. And call me Egypt, please.

Nancy eagerly led the way into the kitchen, closing a pair of French doors behind them. As she moved through the filtered light, the room’s plantation shutters cast a pattern of stripes across her angular body. Tiger Nancy circling in on her meat—the lease agreement for this seven bedroom villa.

Eyana hitched herself up on a bar stool, propped her elbows on the marble peninsula, and sucked in as much cool air as she could. Her sinuses throbbed like a vacuum hose was trying to suck out her brains. Her genes kept forgetting they were Arab-Carib, to use her Jamaican mother’s words. The way the heat affected her it wouldn’t surprise her if her dad had run home to the Bering Straits and not the gulf of Oman. If so, she wished he’d taken her along. Damn the desert. And this place felt even drier than her home in Las Vegas. Well, home until last week. She forced those thoughts from her mind. If only her headache would go with them.

She took a wide-angle shot of the eating area with her Nikon, gave her best professional smile and said, All right. I guess this room could work if we use a set of circular tables. Glancing past the covered patio to the hills beyond she added, And I must say, the view is outstanding. Our clients will definitely be able to feed off the pure energy of the desert.

While Nancy prattled on about sacred cacti or something, Eyana thought that if she actually had clients, perhaps they’d go out there to . . . what, meditate among the dead bodies? Actually, that wouldn’t be a bad opening scene. And if the articles in the BarstowDesert Dispatch were true, it might not even have to be faked.

Nancy had turned to point out the landscape to the north. There’s hiking access not far from here, just up Delano Road. I’ll run you up there for a little hike if you’d like.

Eyana looked down at her feet which barely reached the foot rest even in her four inch heels. Maybe her petite but sturdy legs could take the punishment, but she wasn’t about to ruin a pair of two hundred dollar shoes, especially now that she’d taken an