Seduction of the Spirit

By Karl Tutt

Long before the Ghostcatcher appeared there was a mild-mannered professor of English Literature at a small private university in North Carolina. His name was T.K. Fleming. He had a beloved friend on the faculty, a man of unique intellect and unfathomable sensibilities . . . even powers. The friend died, but it wasn't that simple. He may have been murdered, . . . or just consumed by his own forbidden passions. As Fleming tries to assemble the broken pieces, the puzzle come together in ways he can hardly comprehend . . . much less believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Tutt
• Release date: Dec 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370301263

Karl Tutt

Karl Tutt is a retired English teacher from a dropout prevention program in Florida. He is a veteran cruiser who has published several sailing articles in national publications. His two new offerings, The Children of the Wolf and The House at Hull, continue the mastery of murder and mayhem demonstrated in the Ghostcatcher series with T.K Fleming, and his female sleuth, Dee Rabow, in the Diabla series. Quick, engaging, and satisfying . . . those words describe the approach that has lured thousands of readers to the pages of his murder mysteries.

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Seduction of the Spirit

By

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2017

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

I just entered the Gulf Stream. It’s a huge swath of deep indigo that runs from the south Atlantic up the east coast and finally meets the Labrador Current off North Carolina. The dial on my watch glows in a yellow moon that is full and vibrant. It’s midnight. The phosphorous gleams like magic dust in the bow wake. KAMALA, nee EXCALIBUR, my graceful and sturdy O’Day 31, clips through the dark seas under a full main and reefed genoa, the southeast wind blows 10-12 knots off of the starboard quarter. I am making a steady nine knots. I left Key West, the perfect hideout for burned out sailors, reformed pirates, and misfits of all descriptions, before sunset. I’m on my way to meet Sunny in Marsh Harbour in the Abacos, the northern star of the Bahamian island nation. I am alone. The gentle swells caressing the hull and the breeze whispering in the canvas infuse me with a balm like that from the ancient land of Gilead. It should heal.

Yet I am haunted. There is a howling in me that cannot be silenced. An abyss that is fathomless. I am confused and tormented. The death . . . almost four years ago. The murder of the Perfect Man, one who contained all of the things that make a man a god. And those that ultimately consign his fitful soul to the bowels of hell for an eternity.

This is a book that writes itself. I call it that, but it is really an interior dialogue . . . an investigation into myself . . . a feeble attempt to create some order out of black chaos. The will is not even mine. I don’t know what else to do but tell the tale . . . let the sorcery weave its wicked enchantment. It will torment me until I set the words on the page. Even then, I don’t expect any peace, or resolution.

There is a story. You probably won’t believe it, but that choice is yours. Many of the facts cannot be verified. It certainly borders on the bizarre. I’ve taken more liberties than I should have . . . tried to recall, or create what might border on truth. The hell with it. Call it poetic license or lies . . . whatever suits you. I’ve changed all of the names except mine, to protect those who need protection. Most of us long to bury our demons so we can lead normal lives . . . love and be loved, forgive or be forgiven, work in some palatable way, be respected . . . even admired. That’s the paradigm we all hope for, but it is elusive, a path fraught with unexpected detours and obstacles. The best we can hope for is some proximity to a meaning, and even that is difficult to define.

The truth of existence is more complicated . . . more confusing. Most of us exist in the gray twilight, essentially alone. Martin did. His life was a series of contradictions. It is probably foolish to try to reconcile them in some way. But I must. His daily journal only made it worse. This is a meager attempt to sort through the morass. Read on, if you will. Forgive me for the liberties I take. Then decide for yourself.

Chapter One

I’m not sure why she agreed to talk to me. It was over everywhere . . . except in my mind. I assured her that her identity would never be revealed or that the tale she told would never be traced to her. I wasn’t sure where to start, but something that stuck led me to her. She knew things I had to know. She’d been a student in an English Lit class I was teaching at the university. She’d come to my office during consultation hours several times. We talked about books, poems, and other things that got more personal. She was always curious and always sensuous. It flowed through deep mahogany eyes and her boyish body. Her quiet voice and the scent that filled my office when she entered served as insistent reminders. I was her professor and no longer a hormonal 19 year old boy. She was definitely off-limits.

I’ll call her Eleisha. It suits her. Like the name, she had a rhythm and a mysterious musical quality embedded in a package that exuded innocent femininity. She had taken my Women in Shakespeare class. A good student, enthusiastic and active, the kind that makes teaching a joy rather than a burden. Her skin was the color of burnished olives, with more than few a freckles embedded in the glow. Small breasts in firm rounds, but hips with generous curves, and a sumptuous butt that no one of the male gender could miss. Her auburn hair hung over her shoulders, teasing its way just below her nipples. The simple sexuality burst out of her like a rose bud struggling to bloom.

I think the key came late one afternoon when she asked me about Martin. He was still alive then. I’m not sure what it was, perhaps