Phantom Carriage: A Novella

By T.C. Bennett

Little did San Francisco detectives, Mackenzie and Fergusson know, that there was achilling and restless secretin a couples back yard. The detectives however, would later find out about the forty-one-year-old mystery first hand.However, during the investigation it was clear that they were after anescaped mental patient on a murder spree.

Also, thediscovery of major cover-ups, by oneof San Franciscos elite Doctors, fifty-eight years ago, would proverevengeful and deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 16, 2004
• ISBN: 9781414069487

T.C. Bennett

Writer, T.C. Bennett, lives and works in Los Angeles, California. He’s a freelance writer and devotes the remainder of his time to his daughter, family and friends.   His work has been featured in two literary magazines, ZYZZVA and the First Northwoods Anthology, as well as in the American Eagle News.  

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© 2005 by T.C. Bennett. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 06/01/05

AuthorHouse revision 03/19/2009

ISBN: 1-4140-6948-0 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4184-1818-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 13: 978-1-4140-6948-7 (eBook)

Acknowledgments

I want to thank my precious daughter Mackenzie, my Mother Vivian, my Father George, my brothers Dwayne and Vance, Ann Miller, Chico and the rest of my family and friends.

In Memorandum Jack Nelson, this book is for you.

Contents

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

Guy Young left the brightness of the waning sunset behind as he sped along the San Francisco streets. He felt like a knight in chrome-and-black armor, capable of delivering 192 horsepower of sleek German ingenuity with a purr that quivered like a starved feline.

Suddenly, he braked to a stop and found himself face-to-face with small, impatient eyes that grew tired wending their way through different futures. As a result, he became hypnotized and judged by an unblinking red stoplight that stared at him like a one-man jury.

Also confronting him was the pulsating enemy of aches in his vein that vehemently paralyzed him. Any chance of returning to normal what the sins of business had altered was wishful thinking, as was the possibility of ever escaping his addiction. He felt trapped by the towering, ornamented structures of wood, brick, stone, and steel around him.

The other cars communicated with snarling replies through their horns as they boxed him in on all four sides. Mouthfuls of car exhaust crept into his lungs as he hopelessly tried to untie the knot in his satin, multicolored tie.

He curiously glimpsed a woman waving wildly at him in his rearview mirror. Her face looked grave and distorted but still agelessly beautiful. She rose from the bus-stop bench a few moments earlier and shouted at him, running toward his car, but he couldn’t understand her words.

Suddenly, she was beside him, making him jump in surprise. Only the BMW’s passenger window stood between them. The woman desperately yanked on the door handle while her other hand rapped hard and fast on the glass. He watched as she slowly and sloppily slid her face down the window, leaving behind what appeared to be the moist outline of a pig snout and large oval mouth.

Her behavior baffled him, and his first instinct was to get the hell out of there. Instead, he pressed a button and lowered the window.

Can I help you? He tried to sound calm.

You sure can. I need a ride not far from where you live. Her tone set the hair on his head on end.

You’re quite a persistent hitchhiker, he said with a smile. Yeah, sure, but how do you know where I live?

I have to be honest with you. My sister knew your father very well and told me the route you take home.

What’s your sister’s name?

Elizabeth.

Come on in. Guy opened the door, and the pretty older woman plopped into the passenger seat. The fragrance of her shampoo permeated the car, jogging a teenage memory of a girlfriend he once had. He loved that scent.

That name doesn’t ring a bell, he said. Not that it would. I mean, my father’s friends are, let’s say, not too conversational with me. I wouldn’t have a clue who she is. If dead men could talk, I’d call him on the cell phone, but he died a couple years ago.

I’m sorry to hear that, she said.