The Bone Breaker

By John Savage

Talking to ghosts is a strange way to make a living, but for Melody Lane it was better than waiting on tables. And she had the skills for it. Having always been psychic to a degree, and wanting to help people, it seemed natural to contact the dearly (or not so dearly) departed – for a fee.

When a young girl wants her to confirm that her missing sister is dead, Melody becomes enmeshed in a dangerous web of murder and torture. The sister is dead, and the man who killed her plans to do much more than just that one killing. Even worse, he does much more than just kill his victims: he smashes every bone in their bodies, one by one, while they are alive.

Melody can talk to ghosts but will that help her combat this fiend? And when he comes up with a weapon to counter all she can bring against him, the stakes become much higher. She may soon become a ghost herself...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Wolf Books
• Release date: Feb 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463713662

John Savage

John began his writing career in 1969 with an article written for Barbara Behr of House of Milan. But before he began writing novels, he was the photographer and editor of several B&D magazines with such titles as "Best of Bondage," "Taskmaster," "Bondagemaster," and the politically incorrect "Teenagers in Bondage." (None of the models were underage, despite the title.) In the early 80's he edited, wrote for and photographed a magazine series called "John Savage's Notebooks." These long-ago magazines today command a high price, if you can find them. He has worked with Barbara Behr, Bob Bishop and F.E. Campbell, well known names in the B&D field. It was through his friendship with Frank Campbell that he became involved in the writing of B&D novels. Frank was considered the most prolific B&D novelist, credited with 100 books written for HOM. As Frank became older and had trouble typing, he began dictating books on audio tapes. John Savage then transcribed those books to computer disk for the publisher. Then came a time when Frank no long wished to write. At that point John began ghost-writing Frank's novels. After Frank's death, John began selling novels under his own name to House of Milan. He also wrote for Sandpiper Press, Olympia Press and Bon-Vue, all being published as paperbacks. With his computer background, it was an easy switch to ebooks when they became popular. He is currently writing B&D novels and occasionally non-B&D books under a different penname. As of this publication, he has a total of 140 novels to his credit. As to the man himself, he was born in 1943, is married, has two grown children and (so far) three grandchildren. He is a Viet Nam era veteran. Before taking up writing full time, his main career had been in computers, ranging from programmer to systems analyst. He still programs computers and enjoys it. He has a B.S. and an M.S. in computer science. Today he lives in Solana Beach, California, with his wife of forty-three years, enjoying his hobbies of astronomy, fishing and fast sports cars and, of course, writing.

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The Bone Breaker

by John Savage

Published by Running Wolf Books

Copyright 2009 John Savage

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means except by prior and express permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used as an element of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter I: Ghost with a Surprise

Chapter II: The First Victim

Chapter III: Fear and Dread

Chapter IV: Memories

Chapter V: Pain, So Much Pain

Chapter VI: Memories

Chapter VII: Return to Pain

Chapter VIII: Return to the Scene

Chapter IX: Fleeing the Scene

Chapter X: Lady of the Night in Trouble

Chapter XI: Second Victim

Chapter XII: Return to Pain

Chapter XIII: Ghost to Ghost Encounter

Chapter XIV: Third Victim

Chapter XV: Confrontation!

Epilogue

Other Books by John Savage

Prologue

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning danced over the not too distant mountains and the pounding of heavy raindrops against the car roof masked all other sounds and blurred vision. The car rocked gently with the wind gusts, as if the heavens were angry. A young girl huddled inside, dry and safe and, yet, very angry.

Why the hell didn’t you fix this damned car, she muttered, the oath directed at her father, the caregiver for all things automotive in their family. I told you I need a new one. Shara got a new one last Christmas. I should, too. I need one more than she does.

Once again she checked the cell phone and once again the tiny dark bars on the right side told a sorry story of nearly depleted electrical power for the instrument. Even as her thumb moved to press a key, the lit screen faded. She tossed the phone aside with another curse. Damned thing, she muttered to no one in particular, always having to charge it. Battery doesn’t last even a full day.

With a terrible sigh of self-pity she looked out into the darkness. The distant lightning revealed only occasional glimpses of wet desert, black asphalt and power lines alongside the road. Summer did not bring much rain to Southern California but when it did, it often made up for the scarcity with intensity. Thunderstorms seemed to like wandering around the California deserts.

There’s no way in hell that I’m going to walk all the way back to that town! Hell, that must be five or ten miles back there. I’ll just wait here. Someone will be along soon.

As if to emphasis her hope, a tiny pair of lights appeared in the distance. The oncoming car slowed as it neared her vehicle. It was creeping as it passed within a few feet of her door but then drove on, the red taillights disappearing around the curve.

Damn! She pounded the steering wheel as if that would help. Bastard won’t stop to help a stranded girl.

For a long time she sat there, hopefully inspecting the horizon for more headlights and hoping that she would not have to get out of the car and into the pouring rain to flag the next one down. Almost immediately, as if in answer to her unspoken request, the rain began to taper off, and the lightning sought better targets on the other side of the mountains.

Suddenly there was a click and the door next to her swung open. A hand grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the car. There was only a moment before the other hand pressed a cloth hard against her face. She had not even had enough time for a tiny scream before the strong fumes began to fog her mind. A minute later she was lying on the wet ground, unconscious.

The man drove his car back from around the curve and put the young woman into the trunk. He locked a pair of handcuffs on her wrists but doubted they would be necessary. He would have her in a place of security long before she regained her senses.

Chapter I

Ghost with a Surprise

Are you the one who sees ghosts?

The question came from what appeared to be a society matron. She was closer to fifty than forty, dumpy beyond anything an expensive dress and even the panty girdle could fix, and tacky enough to wear half a dozen flashy rings on assorted fingers. Real pearls encircled her neck and hung down to rest on an ample bosom covered by the hideous purple and green dress. Her double chins quivered when she spoke.

Well, are you? she repeated in a voice used to ordering servants around.

I don’t usual see them, Melody replied coolly. But I can sometimes talk to them.

Humph! Well, come on it. We’ll see about you talking to Henry.

Melody stepped through the door and into a house that spoke of moderate wealth wasted by a total lack of good taste. The floor was marble while the walls were paneled oak half way up and a blue and gold striped wallpaper the rest of the way. An attempt had been made to decorate in French Provincial furnishings but the mixture of periods and styles would turn the stomach of any self-respecting interior decorator.

She was led into a formal living room awash in shades of soft blue and pink. Several landscapes occupied the walls, mostly apparently chosen for their large size rather than pleasing appearance. They seemed to shout, hey, look, I collect art!

The sofa she was waved to was covered in a pattern of robin egg blue which might have been okay had it not been for the pink lace arm covers. When Melody attempted to sit there, she found herself sinking into the plush material until she feared her bottom would be resting on the floor. With an effort she worked her way out of the sofa and chose instead a reasonably firm looking chair. Her hostess flopped into a chair on the other side of a coffee table.

Would you like some tea? she was asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, the heavy set woman clapped her hands loudly.

A maid appeared. Melody had to hold in her amusement because the maid was dressed in the classic French Maid costume, complete with high heels, fishnet stockings, a short skirt of silky black material, matching blouse and a tiny white apron.

Yes, Ma’am?

Tea. And be quick about it.

Melody had the feeling that the maid was simply a part of what this woman thought should be the lifestyle of the rich if not so famous. She felt sorry for the young girl having to put up with being so treated, but then reminded herself that it was a job. And in these bad economic times, just having a job was something. She should know.

The tea came on a silver serving-tray in a china pot decorated with roses. The maid poured, first to the owner then to the guest. Then she did a quick curtsey and left.

Henry talked me into having French maids, the woman began. One for serving and such, and one to take care of the upstairs. I’m sure it was so he could look at their legs, she confided, but I found that they add a touch of elegance to the house. Don’t you agree?

Mrs. Bonner, Melody began, perhaps if you simply told me what it is you want?

Call me Edwina. My dear Henry, Edwina began but paused for a sniffle as if she were fighting back a tear of grief. My Henry died three months ago. After twenty-three years of wonderful marriage. Most of the money I inherited from my Daddy but Henry was a good businessman and the estate grew nicely. She paused for a sigh. Was it because she missed Henry, wondered Melody, or because she missed his moneymaking skills?

We never had children, mores the pity, she went on. I would have liked to have children but it wasn’t meant to be. Then she leaned forward to confide, I think he had a low sperm count. Then she sat back. Oh, well, they were wonderful years, she continued. Spring in Paris, summer at the cape, and wintering here in sunny California. Then Henry went and had a heart attack, she accused as if he had done it just to spite her.

You want to contact him? Melody prompted.

Oh, my, yes! exclaimed Edwina. You see, when I had an audit done of the estate – for tax purposes, you know – they found that some of the stocks and, ah, bearer bonds, I think they called them, were missing. They should have been there but weren’t. A sizeable chunk of money, too. She paused to noisily sip at her tea. Henry was too good a businessman to just lose them. I think maybe he put them someplace and I haven’t found them yet.

So you want me to ask him where they are?

Of course. I’ve got a lot of years left and I will need all the money I can get. Everything is so expensive, you know.

Melody recalled hearing that the price of a Mercedes Benz had gone up again, but just nodded agreement.

So I want you to get a hold of him and find out where that missing money is.

I can try.

Edwina glared at Melody as if try was not what she expected to hear.

Do you need a table? A dark room? Candles? Edwina asked.

We’re not doing a séance. What I need is a photo of the deceased. And to be in a place that he or she was associated with. Their home is best.

The fat hands clapped once again and the high-trained maid appeared. She must have been waiting just behind that door, thought Melody.

Go up to my bedroom and get that photo of Henry off my dresser, she ordered. Another curtsey, and the maid was off on her errand.

The photo must have been taken