The Secret in Defiance

By Jeff Bennington

"Page Turner!" ~ Rebecca Taylor

"WOW MUST READ!" ~ Rhonda

SOME SECRETS ARE WORTH DYING FOR.
When Andy Harper is entrusted with a powerful secret from his dying neighbor, Mr. Beasley, he discovers that Defiance (the small town where he lives) is not what he thought it was. There are secrets, legends, hauntings, and dangerous men with dangerous plans. Suspicious of Beasley and the Harper family, members of an old mob syndicate, connected to Al Capone, will stop at nothing to recover the riches lost 30 years ago.

While unraveling the mystery of the "secret", Andy must defend his family, dodge bullets, and find out what happened to his missing father, whilst under the watchful eye of evil men. Can he uncover the power of the secret before the mobsters pump him full of lead? Or is there something more sinister lurking in Defiance that he needs to worry about? 

This supernatural mystery/thriller weaves the struggles of growing up poor in 1959 with a "Tom Sawyer" like thriller and then electrifies it with a paranormal twist. Think Stephen King's "The Body", "Tom Sawyer" and "The Last Child" by John Hart, and you'll get THE SECRET IN DEFIANCE.

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"I was so wrapped up in the story I couldn't put it down!" ~ Vivian

From Patrick Bousum and Jeff Bennington, best-selling author of REUNION, TWISTED VENGEANCE, and CREEPY.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nexgate Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497778948

Jeff Bennington

Jeff Bennington is the bestselling author of supernatural thrillers like REUNION, TWISTED VENGEANCE, CREEPY, CREEPY 2, and CREEPY 3. The CREEPY series is a unique paranormal collection that blends true ghost stories with short supernatural tales that will keep you up at night. Jeff's novels have been compared to Koontz and King by his dedicated fans, and although many writers would love to hear such praise, Jeff simply turns red-faced, shakes his head and walks away. Mr. Bennington is a student of the craft, and hopes to perfectly pen a novel that balances fear, hope, tension and the state of the human condition so that every reader who reads it, weeps for days, nearly suicidal that it had to end. But until then, join him on the journey, and discover the many stories that have ravaged his brain in their struggle to get out... and they will escape... at any cost. LATEST NEWS: The Secret Tree, co-authored with Patrick Bousum is NOW available in the Kindle store and print. Coming to audio soon! WHAT'S COMING NEXT? Jeff will release MISSION UNDER FIRE in late summer - 2013. Mission Under Fire is a memoir co-written with Jeff's father-in-law, Rex Byers, about the terrifying events that unfolded on a mission trip to Haiti. After arriving in Port au Prince, the team endured a violent gun battle with a Haitian gang of bandits, with nothing to defend themselves except knives, coke bottles, and prayer. This is truly an amazing story of determination, faith, love, and ultimately forgiveness.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Andy Harper sat on his front porch thinking about his grandfather. Pops used to say It's rainin' hay bales and bull yearlings when it came down this hard. And boy, did it pour. Thunder beat through the clouds like a B-29 bomber, and water flowed over the eaves, forming a water-shield across the front porch. The gush and splash of the rain exploded in puddles of muck, creating a chorus of drips and drops so loud Andy had to shout just to hear himself think.

He thought about the many things Pops would say like, ‘Always keep your girl and your pocketknife close by, and If you can’t beat a greedy man, get outta his way, and let him beat himself’.

Andy grinned a boyish smile, when he thought about Pop’s white hair and briskly whiskers glistening when he laughed—and Pops laughed often. He had a permanent smile, worked hard as an ox until his dying day, and poured everything he had into his grandson.

That moment of joy faded when Andy glared into the rain, sulking, dreaming of how life could have been. Life went on without Pops, but the real damage was done when his father, Michael Harper, left three years ago without a word, without a trace. And there wasn’t anything Pops could’ve done to patch the hole that had been drilled in Andy’s heart the day his father disappeared. It was a horrific day, an emotionally grueling month, a year that ended in a cold paralysis; the year Pops took over the fatherly role in Andy’s life.

Memories of Andy’s dad had begun to fade, and that too, left a sorrowful gash in Andy’s spirit. He stared into the rain and tried to piece his father’s face together by mentally arranging raindrops just so as they hit the grass. He’d have to go inside and sneak a quick glance at the family pictures if he wanted to remember. But he didn’t want it that bad. Looking back hurt too much; even Andy, at the tender age of thirteen, knew that.

He sat with his knees pulled under his chin and looked into the storm. It had been raining for two days straight, and Andy felt like the summer was ruined. Independence Day was great fun, but two days later the clouds rolled in and never looked back. Any thought of swimming in the river, or fishing with his buddy Tom was laid to rest the moment Andy heard thunder roll only three Mississippi’s after lightning struck. The year was 1959 and his thoughts were as dreary as the driving rain.

The Harper home was simple—nothing fancy at all. The roof leaked in a couple places, but the house kept them warm and dry. Aesthetics were the least of their concerns. They lived in the small town of Defiance, Indiana, by means as modest and honest as one could expect from a single working mother with two children. Andy, the eldest of the two, had an unquenchable fire burning in his soul.

If he could only muster the courage to set out on his own, to tell Mama it was time for him to venture into the wide world to find his father. If he could do that, he might overcome that nagging feeling that something was missing in his life. He imagined the dangers that awaited him. His mind teased with thoughts of Tom-Sawyer-like adventures, rafting down the Wabash in search of pirates, buried treasure, and giant catfish. His musings stirred fear, dread, and a childish excitement that made him giddy with dreams of racing his Schwinn Tiger (the smart new cantilever model with front headlight) to the ends of the earth.

Oh, I gotta get outta here, he thought. I’ll turn into a square if I sit here all day. Andy peeked inside. Mama’s not paying attention and Lucy’s busy playing with her Tiny Tears baby doll, so I ain’t got nothin’ to lose.

The moment of swirling emotions and pent up energy roused him to his feet. He jumped off the couch and ran across the front porch, pounding loud enough to imitate the rumbling thunder. He grabbed his Tiger, spinning it around until it faced the front yard, on the verge of escape. He glared through the waterfall pouring in front of him and threatened the driving rain with gritted teeth and squinted eyes.

He’d do it, by God. He would. He’d ride that bike as fast as he could through water, wind, and crashing waves until he came to the edge of town, maybe farther. The radiant-red Schwinn with pointed grips could fly, and he was ready for lift off.

Air in tires? Check.

Head light on? Check.

Chain lubed? Check.

Andy almost turned and peered through the screen door, tempted to ask his mother for permission. She was working diligently in the kitchen, probably blowing a hair away from her eyes, and stirring something with one hand while lifting a steamy lid with the other. He heard his stomach grumble but he refused to listen. Food could wait, he insisted.

Although buried deep in his subconscious, a distant and aching thought persisted: I need to know what it feels like to up and leave without looking back—not once—just like Dad. He squeezed the grips... he lowered his chin... and his courage burst into flames. Andy Harper is ready for lift off in 3, 2, 1... blast off!

He shoved the bike over the edge of the top step, leaped forward, and to his amazement, floated in the air for what seemed like minutes. He felt clouds beneath his feet, weightless, soaring. Thoughts of his grandfather, his dad, and Tom Sawyer faded for an instant. He closed his eyes. He felt free. He felt brave. He felt like an eagle soaring over hungry waters. And then... he landed... with a thud.

So much for clouds.

His right shin ground against the pedal, and he felt a burn climb up his leg. But that didn’t stop Andy. He pushed harder, ran faster, and hopped up on his seat like the bareback-bronco riders he saw at the state fair the previous summer. His wheels circled through the sloshing grass and ankle-deep puddles, until he finally emerged onto the street.

The rain pelted his face, and the wheels on his bike spun murky water up his back. The wind blew a gust up his shirt and for the first time, he accepted how bad the conditions really were. I ain’t afraid of the rain, he thought, blinking water from his eyes. And I ain’t afraid of the cold, or the wind or the storm, he said under his breath.

Within seconds, Andy’s hair was soaked and hanging over his eyes, his clothes saturated through to his underwear, sticking to his young skin. He squinted and felt the water drip over his cheeks and lips. They reminded him of the tears that he had shed over the course of the last three years.

He looked through the driving sheets, studying the neighborhood, and noticed that the little pink and yellow houses and all their flowery colors seemed gray and dingy. He never thought of rain much, but in that instant, a thought whizzed by, teaching him that all things were equal in a storm; judged by lightning and the flood; all of our stuff, new and old were just dying things that really weren’t all that impressive. The homes and cars that glistened in the sunshine seemed dull and insignificant. The neatly manicured lawns looked muddy and spongy. The neighborhood seemed like it had been flushed down the toilet.

As he navigated through rough waters, a Buick Electra splashed by and honked as it drove on. He watched a small boy waving, wiping fogged glass, smiling through the rear window. Andy lifted a wet hand and waved back, and then a feeling that he, Andy Harper, was actually a big kid washed over him. He could see that the little boy admired him, and that felt good.

Andy rode on, impressed by his insight, unimpressed by his neighbor’s things. He wanted to tell Mama about his grown up thoughts. She’d be proud, by golly.

He felt like he owned the neighborhood, a lonely soul weathering the conditions. He was the master of the storm, racing block after city block past one-story, two-story and three-story houses that marked the age of his hometown, dating its founding somewhere in the mid 1800’s by the Victorian and Craftsman style structures that mama said looked old and drab. Still, some of his neighbors lived in little pink houses, little brick houses, and some were shingle sided, too.

He felt safe in his town, free to fly.

Look at me now, Pops. Andy said out loud, Look at me now...  Woo hoo! he shouted with dripping, smiling lips, although no one could hear him over the rain. Of course there may have been a few who noticed, but they would have turned away, shook their heads and thought him a fool.

He let go of his handlebars and stretched out his arms, free, alive, grown-up, heading for his river of dreams. Waterlogged shorts stuck to his legs and then a brief thought of Mama, and what she was doing, ran through his mind. He knew he’d get in trouble if he returned soaking wet, so he simply plucked the thought out of his head. He didn’t want to spoil his fun by considering the consequences. Pfft. That would be adventure suicide. That would kill the deal. He alone could zip past stop signs and sail through gale-force winds. And only he could—c-c-c-c-c-c-crash!

The sky cracked open and white light blinded him momentarily. Lightning struck a tree to his right. He turned. His handlebars twisted. His front wheel jerked hard to the left. Andy felt confused for a split second, and then his situation became absolutely crystal clear when his rear seat lifted high off the ground, sending him sailing hands first onto an ocean of concrete. He rolled and tumbled, banging bones and bruising muscles.

A car honked and screeched to a stop. Andy instinctively balled up, covering his head with his hands, preparing to die, sure that he’d be squashed like a worm. But he was not squished, and he was not squashed. He lifted his head and uncoiled his body, half lying and half sitting, looking for whatever stopped so suddenly.

He heard the whoop of a siren, and turned around.

Darn it, was all that dared come out of his mouth.

Andy Harper? said a man with a deep, scratchy voice, followed by a slamming door.

Andy thought he could stand up, but for some reason it felt right to sit a spell. Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe he split his skull wide open and his brains were spread across the road and he hadn’t discovered the mess yet. He looked at the wet ground and there were no brains spilled, only a wet pair of shiny black shoes standing next to him. The shoes were attached to brown slacks, and the slacks were attached to Sheriff Hodges, who stood there scowling with his hands pressed against his hips. His thick, round head looked part pig, part human half-breed. His tiny black eyes had a way of saying, You have the right to remain silent, without speaking a single word, without a single snort.

You okay, son?

Andy blinked out a splash of water from his eyes, and said, Yes, sir, even though he knew he’d feel the burn from his knees and elbows for days. I think so.

The Sheriff reached down, and Andy gripped his thick hands and felt the man’s strength lifting him effortlessly.

Get in the car. I’ll grab your bike.

Okay.

Andy sloshed to the squad car, limping, grumbling to himself. He opened the back door, the door for crooks, wise guys and runaways like Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, and Andy Harper. He never felt so embarrassed, so condemned. He ducked inside like the criminal that he was. Andy sat there dripping water all over, wondering why he hadn’t considered lightning for Pete’s sake. I know better, he thought. How could I forget about that? And how much jail time comes with getting the Sheriff’s seat wet?

He sat still, shivering, watching the Sheriff walk around the car, eying him the whole time. The Sheriff stepped inside and closed the door. He pulled the rear-view mirror down and glared at Andy.

Andy looked away.

Your mother know where you are, son?

No, sir, Andy said, turning back.

Hmm. The Sheriff looked forward and then back at the mirror. You in a hurry to get somewhere?

Andy shook his head and tried to remember where he was going.

What you doing out there, Andy?

I don’t know... I... going for a ride I guess.

In a lightning storm?

Yes. Andy felt like a squashed pea. I guess.

You guess?

Yes, sir.

Hodges looked at Andy a long while, his silver unibrow waving like the ocean tide. Andy looked at him again but turned away, ashamed. He knew the Sheriff was looking him over, studying his every move. But all he really wanted the Sheriff to do was start the car, take him home and get the scolding and punishment over with. He knew that Mama was going to whip his butt.

Well, I suppose I should take you home, the Sheriff said.

Sheriff Hodges shifted the car into drive and drove a few blocks down Mulberry, and then turned right on Clover Street until he came to Andy’s house.

The next few minutes were a blur. Andy could only recall that he was standing at his front door, listening to the Sheriff breathing, laboring for air. His thick body pressed tight against his uniform and Andy couldn’t help staring at his gut. He glanced at the big man’s belt; awe inspired by the girth of the leather, the .38 caliber Smith and Wesson, and those shiny handcuffs. Hodges looked down at Andy while he waited for someone to come to the door. Andy caught his eye, and quickly turned away.

Lucy answered, raised her head, and stared at the Sheriff. Her eyes grew bigger than two silver dollars and she screamed, Maaaaama!

Chapter 2

Earlier that day Andy had stormed out after arguing with Lucy over how long a person can actually sit on the can before it’s okay to report a missing person. His mother, Dorene Harper, overheard the spat from the kitchen, tilted her head in his direction and said, You're thirteen years old, Andrew! For crying out loud, leave her alone! Then she spilled something onto the floor, and Andy heard her grumbling under her breath, with towel in hand, and her brow wrinkled with aggravation.

Andy sighed loud enough for Mama to hear and then stomped through the kitchen and out the front door. She let out a grunt and bent down to clean up the mess, and that was that.

Dorene was a patient woman, and her patience had been tested often since Andy’s father had left, but she couldn’t let her boy bully his little sister or run wild in the streets. Andy knew that and respected her for it. Too old for a whipping, Mama gave him a good scolding for running off, and grounded him to the house for a week. All that seemed fair enough. He had felt his father’s belt only once when he was younger, but the sting of Mama's reprimand earlier that day, however, left a different kind of hurt—a heart kind of hurt—and those could exude a pain far worse than a paddling if spoken in the right tone.

So Andy was lying in his bed next to his dog, Fudgesicle, a chocolate lab, petting him on occasion, lying on his back, feet on the wall, thumbing through his Batman comic book: The October, 1948 issue, number 49, where Batman brings down the Mad Hatter, that mind controlling evil villain, in his DC Comic’s rookie appearance. He flipped through page after page of action sequences... WHAMM! ZAP! BOING! and WHACK! SWOOSH! BAM! He eagerly waited the final moments... would Batman snap out of The Mad Hatter’s mastery over his mind? He couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.

Andy’s father introduced him to action heroes when he was ten years old, away from the watchful eye of his mother, and he collected them ever since. Santa gave Andy the first five issues of The Rawhide Kid the Christmas before his dad vanished. They sat together on the living room floor, in their old house on that holiday, reading story after story of Johnny Bart saving the Wild West. Andy remembered listening to the strength of his father’s voice, barely paying attention to the words that came from his lips.

He recalled that his father closed the comic book, turned toward him, smiled and asked Andy what he thought. Andy couldn’t remember his reply because what his father said next completely overshadowed the whole experience. His bright blue eyes, that looked just like Lucy’s, studied Andy’s childlike face and said, I used to read like this with Pops when I was a boy. Ain’t nothing better than a boy spending time with his dad, is there? Andy shook his head and felt a rush of delight. "You’re a good boy, Andy. A real good boy, and I’m proud of you. Don’t you ever, ever forget that. You hear?"

Andy lay there on the living room floor with his knuckles buried deep under his chin and smiled. I love you, Dad, he said. His father tousled his hair. You remind me of Johnny Bart. Did you know that?

I do?

Sure you do. You got what it takes to be a real hero one day. Not like those frauds you see in comics with super powers and x-ray vision, but the real deal, the kind that does the right thing no matter what.

Really?

Yeah, really.

Andy thought about that, and imagined himself doing something spectacular.

Listen, his father said. I love you, too. And you got somethin’ inside of you that I never had, somethin’ that I... I wished I did.

Like what, Daddy?

His father lay silent for a second and said, Courage... You got courage, Andy.

W-what’s courage?

It’s what Johnny Bart’s got... that thing inside that makes him do something no one else can.

Andy sat up, excited. You got courage!

No I don’t. Not like I should.

Yes you do! Andy said. You popped old man Rafferty in the jaw when he cussed in front of Lucy... Remember that?

Andy’s father laughed, and turned his chin down. Yeah, I remember that.

See? How much courage do you need?

Well... And here’s what really stuck with Andy. Sometimes a man needs more courage than he can keep inside himself... Sometimes there’s situations... situations bigger, and scarier than a man ever thought possible... bigger than all the courage in the world stacked in a big old pile.

Andy thought about that too, and then asked, Stacked in a pile of what?

His father laughed out loud and threw his arm around Andy and that’s about all he remembered about that day.

Looking back, it seemed as if his father was trying to teach him something—teach him that a kid could be a hero, a boy wonder, or at least stir his imagination. Andy laid there, curious how a man like that could just up and leave. And now that Andy knew how it felt to walk away, or in his case, ride away, he didn’t really like the feeling all that much. He missed Mama and his dog while he was gone, and much to his surprise, his baby sister. Leaving without notice, or a care in the world, it seemed, wasn’t such a great idea after all, landing him in a squad car within minutes of venturing off. So how could Dad do that? he wondered.  How could Dad just leave?

Dad seemed happy enough. For someone who knew so much about super heroes, Michael Harper sure didn’t know much ‘bout being a father.

When his dad left three years ago, for whatever reason, no one really knows why, Pops had become the center of Andy's universe, filling a void in his needy soul. Andy’s pain eventually diminished because of the time and energy Pops poured into him. But when Pops died last year in a roofing accident, Andy fell apart.

His life felt like a jigsaw puzzle scattered in a thousand pieces. He often wondered when he was going to get a break, figure things out? Rainy days made him feel especially sad because those were the moments when he got lost inside himself, staring out the window, hoping his father would return. He felt abandoned and insecure. Sunny days seemed to help, except when the other boys were playing catch with their dads. And Katie, the cute girl who lived six blocks down the street, would often help him know what side was up. But rainy days did him in faster than you could say The Creature from the Black Lagoon. And that evening in his bedroom was no different.

≈≈≈

Mama pushed open Andy’s bedroom door when a tear started welling up in his eyes.

Honey, why don’t you put some food and fresh water out for Fudge and then wash up for supper?

Fudgesicle whined and wagged his tail.

Andy raked his sleeve across his blue-green eyes and stood to his feet, stroking Fudgesicle as he slid across his bed. He walked past Mama, and she reached out to him, pulling him close. She ran her fingers over his head and said, You've got your father’s sandy-blond hair... and freckles. She smiled, and Andy looked up at her pretty red lips, and light-brown curls. Her face looked much younger than most moms Andy knew. Her eyes sparkled with a green brilliance that assured him of her affection, her tenderness. She pulled him close and he felt her heart beating through her chest. You got other qualities, too, Andy, she said. Good qualities.

He felt the cotton of her stained apron rub against his face and her breast against his ear. She squeezed, and he couldn’t resist the warmth of her sweetness. He put his arms around her and enjoyed the embrace, a moment that he had always cherished but could never allow his buddies to see, not now, not as a thirteen-year old, no way. But in the privacy of their home, a strength and comfort remained from his early days when the family was intact, when everything made sense, before the puzzle fell to pieces.

Mom? said Andy. Would you ever leave sis and me?

She took a deep breath, pulled away slightly, and then looked at Andy with glassy eyes.

No... never... I would never do that.

Didn’t think so.

Mama smiled, but her chin showed signs of quivering.

Can you bless me? he asked.

Now? It’s not your bedtime.

I know.

Dorene sighed, and put her hands on his head. Andy didn’t overlook the fact that she was fighting the urge to cry. She closed her eyes and said, Andy Michael Harper, The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.

Andy could feel himself relaxing in her arms, a place he could hide all day if Mama would let him.

I love you, Andy.

I love you, too.

No matter what.

No matter what?

No matter what.

So you’ll un-ground me? he asked playfully.

No, Mama said, laughing, rubbing his back. I love you too much to do that. She pulled away and turned Andy toward his bedroom window.

Look, she said. It's rainin' hay bales and bull yearlings. Remember that?

Andy looked outside, through the wet glass. I hate the rain.

Me, too.

Mama threw her arm around her son, and they walked to the kitchen.

Chapter 3

Vernon Beasley gripped the steering wheel tight, his brown hands thick and dry, and fingernails blackened from working with oily parts on his '48 F-1 Ford pickup. He stared at the road ahead, silently glaring, his forehead wrinkled with a permanent V between his eyes, carved from years of drinking and being nasty. Addie hated his eyes. He wasn’t her father, that’s for damn sure. The back of his neck shimmered with sweaty beads, and his left elbow hung out of the window, wind swirling, flapping his dirty shirtsleeve. He grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand and reached for his flask on the bench seat to his right.

Addie was fourteen. She sat in the back of the truck watching, observing his ways. The wind blew and her eyes welled with water. She sat very still, careful not to upset Vernon.

As the truck rumbled down the highway Addie turned away and noticed a sign that read Chattanooga 120 Miles. She looked back inside the cab and Vernon took a swig of whisky, glancing at Rhinda, Addie’s mother. Rhinda kept her hands in her lap and leaned against the passenger side door, still as a mouse in a rat-trap factory.

Addie sat in the driver’s side corner of the truck bed. She tucked her knees in close to her chest, and pulled a wool blanket tight over her shoulders, fighting to keep it from blowing away.

The sky dropped shadows upon the truck every few miles or so when a cloud floated overhead, and she’d start to shiver. Then when the sun burned the clouds away, the cold metal on her back would heat up and she’d feel warm again.

She looked to her left and smiled at her brother, Hollis. He was cuddled up in the other corner, sitting behind his mother. His purple lips shivered and snot hung from his nose. Addie motioned for him to wipe it away and he did.

H-h-how long ‘til we g-get there? Hollis said, yelling against the wind.

Addie shrugged her shoulder and shook her head.

They sat still for a moment until Hollis asked, He drinkin’?

Addie looked in the cab and turned back. Yeah.

Hollis sighed. He stared forward, which was actually backwards in relation to the direction they were moving, and his eyes looked haunted, frightened. He lifted the blanket and covered his head.

Addie watched her mother and Vernon talking although she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Vernon drove with one hand, flipping open a map with the other. He was loud, and Rhinda recoiled when he spoke. She’d never admit it, but Addie knew her mother’s subtle movements, the way her shoulders would sink at the sound of his voice, the way her lips would tighten when he’d say certain things. She had familiarized herself with the way her mother blinked nervously when she sensed that Vernon would get out of control.

Addie counted the number of times she blinked between telephone poles as they drove down the highway. One. Two. Three. Four... Seven.

She heard Vernon cuss through the glass. He was still flipping the map around. The truck began to swerve a little, and then it slowed down.

Vernon pulled over to the side of the road and the crunch of the gravel popped under the tires. Addie bumped up when they hit a rough spot. Hollis grimaced.

Addie’s hair was put up in two braids; one hung to her left and one to her right, but they bounced down to her shoulders when they hit the bump. Her teeth were perfectly straight, her eyes bright and sad. She lifted her right hand out from under the blanket and grabbed the side of the truck to keep from bouncing around.

We won’t be there long, Addie