Faith Lost
By Jerry Gerold
Genre: Suspense,
Thriller
Benjamin Bracket, owner of pawn shop that specializes in
vintage movie memorabilia has no idea his life is about to be turned upside
down the day a mysteriously familiar woman walks through the door of his pawn
shop wanting to sell a gun, or more precisely simply get rid of it.
The instantaneous attraction between Ben and Faith results
in a whirlwind romance that has Ben's friend and employee Veronica concerned
that her big-hearted boss is being played. Seeing a losing battle in attempting
to caution her friend, she steps back and plays along while watching to see if
this woman is truly what she appears to be, or the con-artist Veronica
suspects.
Soon Ben begins to have puzzling dreams featuring silent
film star Stanton Orloff, these dreams take him back to 1961, 1913, 16th
century Timbuktu, and 1st century B.C. Egypt. Could these dreams be a result of
his imagination after acquiring a rare collection of vintage films and movie
memorabilia featuring the star or could they be dire warnings about what is to
come , providing clues to follow when Faith suddenly disappears?
About the
Author
Jerry Gerold was born
and raised in Oregon where he’s lived most of his life. He grew up near Mt.
Saint Helens and lived through the 1980 eruption where he endured two years of
falling ash. A voracious reader since grade school – reading Shogun and The
Exorcist at age 11 – he began writing stories at an early age, often mixing
genres and tossing in musical references and a little – very little – humor. He
has been self-publishing novels and short stories since 2000.
Author’s Website: https://jerrygerold.com
EXCERPT
Stanton
Orloff was pissed.
His
suit jacket flapped violently in the wind as he stomped along the mountain
road. He took his hand off his hat to hold his jacket down, and the wind
whipped it off his head. He cursed.
The
sun was going down, a few rays sneaking through the forest ceiling to
periodically blind him. He had only another mile to go, but it was uphill on a
winding narrow road. He didn’t care. He was running on pure adrenaline.
It
started to rain. Hard.
When
he reached the dirt road veering off to the right, he paused for a moment. He
checked his shoulder holster one last time. The gun was still there, and it was
loaded. He was going to use it this time. It was long overdue.
The
rain pelted him now, soaking his clothing. He marched up the drive, the wind
and rain having chilled him to the point of numbness. He couldn’t feel his legs
or the gun in his hand.
He
halted at the porch steps, gazed at the house. If things had been different, it
could have been Stanton living here. The ’39 Cadillac in the drive could be
his, too. Charles LaSalle didn’t deserve any of this. He should be dead,
executed in the electric chair.
A
lamp was on upstairs, and a flickering glow came from the downstairs living
room. A fireplace, perhaps. Stanton decided LaSalle would be here, relaxing for
the evening. A surge of anger overcame him, and he rushed through the unlocked
front door.
“You
murdering son of a bitch.”
LaSalle
turned his head, his face obscured by the smoke of his cigar.
“Well,
if it isn’t good ol’ Stanton Orloff. This is an unexpected surprise. What
brings you here at this hour?”
Stanton
shuffled closer; the gun suddenly heavy in his hand. He was conscious of all
the grooves in the grip, the coolness of the trigger. He brought it up, pointed
it in LaSalle’s direction.
“What
brings me here?” he asked, his voice a little high-pitched. “Justice. Pure and
simple justice.”
LaSalle
blew a smoke ring and chuckled. “Oh, really? So that’s what cold-blooded murder
is called nowadays? I wasn’t aware of that.”
“It’s
my only option left. You know that.”
LaSalle
eyed him coolly. “I served my time, Stanton. Alice’s death was an accident, but
I couldn’t fight it. My attorney was incompetent.”
“I’m
not here about Alice, but thank you for bringing her up. We both know it was no
accident. She told me with her dying breath that you shoved her over.”
“Ah,
the dying words of a fair maiden,” LaSalle said. “How many times did we use
such a device in our work, Stanton? It’s a heart-touching moment. Too bad
people don’t take into account that a dying word can also be a lie.”
“It’s
her word against yours.”
“That’s
what it boiled down to, yes. But since she couldn’t testify, there was no way
to prove her intent.” LaSalle sighed. “I didn’t appeal and accepted my
verdict.”
“Ten years,” Stanton spat. “You should have been executed.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now, because I’m going to kill you
myself.”
“Well,
my dear boy, if you feel you must, you must, but I have to warn you...”
“Warn
me?” Stanton asked
incredulously. “Warn me? I’m the one with the pistol pointed at your
head. I warn you.”
“You
may do that,” LaSalle said. “But it wouldn’t do you any good.”
Stanton
saw belatedly that LaSalle had a gun in the shadows of his easy chair. He saw
the barrel suddenly pointed at him, saw the burst of sparks as it was fired. He
moved, and the bullet grazed his left arm. He returned fire, the bullet
imbedding itself in LaSalle’s trachea. LaSalle fell sideways out of the chair,
his pistol spinning across the hearth toward the fireplace.
Stanton
stood over LaSalle, watched him claw at his neck while he struggled for air.
“I
know you had Clara murdered, you fucking bastard. I saw the letters.”
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