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Black River

by Richard Cucarese

397 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0090; ISBN 1-4120-2262-2; US$30.50, C$35.00, EUR25.00, £17.50

"Every river has its secrets, hidden away under its dark, rapid currents..."

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about the book      about the author      excerpt      catalogue info

About the Book "Every river has its secrets, hidden away under its dark, rapid currents..." It is December 23, 1999. The dawning of the Millenium approaches with fears of worldwide computer shutdowns, and possible terrorist strikes on popular New Year's Eve locations. In the quiet river town of New Hope, Pennsylvania, Police Chief Tom Miller has another worry. The mutilated body of a prominent, homosexual nightclub owner has been dumped at Ferry's Landing. Making matters worse, the ritual markings left on the body are stikingly similar to those of eight homosexual victims from a case Tom has cracked fifteen years earlier, while he was a New York City Police Detective. The murderer of seven of the victims awaits his execution on New Year's Eve, but not before claiming the murders of homosexuals will begin again, thus ushering in an even more chaotic beginning to the new century. Will Tom Miller be able to stop this new killer? Will he be able to dodge roadblocks thrown his way by a possible copycat killer, a self-centered Mayor, and other individuals? Will he discover there's more to the murder than the fulfillment of a madman's prophecy? Most importantly, after fifteen years, could the new murderer be the one who killed the eighth victim? Could Tom Miller finally have a bead on the individual responsible for the muder of his homosexual father?

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About the Author After a brief stint as an English major at the Pennsylvania State University, Richard Cucarese labored at a local steel mill, which, before it closed, was the lifeblood of the local area. It was the interesting and colorful lives of the people he worked around which gave him the impetus to continue his writing. Three years ago, he began writing pages of notes while walking around his favourite spots in New Hope. Those notes became Black River, his first novel. Born in Brooklyn, New York, he moved to Yardley, Pennsylvania and lived there through most of his youth. He currently resides in Levittown, Pennsylvania, with his wife and baby daughter. He is currently working on his second novel, Steel Town.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

"EVIL HAS COME HERE TO DIE!" The haphazard, scrawled writing on the buildings sidewall was what caught your attention even before your eyes drifted towards the lifeless, bloodied body that lay at the Ferry Landing walkway this morning. The ominous color of death looked as if it bled from the wall. As Police Chief Tom Miller surveyed the crime scene a dull, hammering feeling started to pound his skull. That there was a murder in this quiet town of New Hope was chilling enough. The murder, on the surface, showed all the makings of a hate crime and it was enough to make Tom's skin crawl. "AIDS, DIE FAG, DIE" was written on the blood soaked cloth mercilessly driven through the victims chest with a long knife adorned with a wood and jewel encrusted handle.

"It looks like the knife was plunged almost to his spine," stated Sergeant Al Jeaneau. "We're showing at least ten knife wounds. His skull was split wide open, and his face is so badly beaten we can't even tell if it's a local resident. We're searching for the victim's identification now, Tom. You have to be pure evil to do this, just because someone is a homosexual. And why in this town, of all places Tom? Just to prove some sort of sick point?" The Sergeant had seen enough. As he turned to head back to search for any more reasons as to how this despicable display of violence took place, Tom heard the low growl of Al's voice. "Why? Why here?"

The angered, questioning reverberation of Al's voice only made Tom's skull pounding turn thunderous. It was bad enough Tom understood the ramifications of this crime, but for Sergeant Al Jeaneau and many other openly homosexual members of the writers and artists' community of New Hope, this heinous act took on an even more painful and chilling reality. The hatred of the big world had found their small hamlet.

New Hope, Pennsylvania is a truly old time picturesque town nestled in between the hills of Upper Bucks County, and along the banks of the Delaware River. During the cold days leading up to the Christmas holidays, it takes on all the trappings of a scene from a Dickens holiday story.

In its heyday of the 1940-50's, a number of homosexual writers and artists flocked here to revel in its serene and peaceful nature, while at the same time, escaping the fears involved with big city living. It was a great fit for these individuals since the town had many artisans in its mix since the 1800's. The residents of New Hope take great pride in their town, and their ability to have diverse cultures, points of view, and lifestyles mix together in a very homogenous setting.

Now, Chief Miller achingly thought, the fabric of this composed setting was about to be torn apart. Tom had seen this before, while he was a Homicide Detective in New York City. His beat was Greenwich Village, a very openly homosexual community in Manhattan. When there had been a "gay bashing" or even worse, a murder in the Village, Tom knew the uproar and the repercussions that would ensue. The finger always pointed at the police for not being vigilant, or even caring. Then, the demonstrations and rallies would follow. The Mayor, and the other assorted, ass kissing, "need the gay vote" politicians coming out of the woodwork like termites, with their "we feel your pain" speeches. Now, he wondered how a small community such as this would handle such an atrocious crime.

Joining Chief Miller and Sergeant Jeaneau were Officers Robert Pagano, Jenn Gates, and Andrew Rose. While Jeaneau and Pagano had been with the force fifteen and eight years respectively, Gates and Rose had only two years of service under their belts. While they all had been busy in this bustling tourist town writing out speeding tickets, breaking up minor altercations at some of the clubs, or moving along the local teens loitering on some of the street corners at night, none of them could have fathomed that this grisly murder would take place in this quaint borough. The numb feeling gripping all who were involved with the crime scene would pale in comparison to what would soon transpire.

Tom had already sent in the obligatory call to the Pennsylvania State Police barracks, considering the magnitude of the matter at hand. Sergeant Jeaneau took Pagano and Gates to help him search the Ferry Landing area by the river to see if they could find any identification of the brutally beaten victim.

As he moved his hands through his sandy-blonde hair, the rubber sole of his shoe met the Marlboro he'd been inhaling. Damn cigarettes, I'd better give them up soon. Tom possessed the youthful look and physique of a man a good ten years younger than his forty-eight years of age. Today though, his body felt twice as old. The damn banging in his head, damn familiar crime scene. Al was right, why in this town? He looked past the crime scene, and his ice blue eyes met with the equally ice blue water of the frigid Delaware.

Within a few minutes of the dispatch, the unit of State Trooper John Boyle came hurtling into view. He came to a screeching halt at the intersection of Main and Ferry Streets, and some onlookers and a local member of the press came rushing towards him.

"Good morning, and I have no comment to make at this time Miss Mary Mc Guigan!" Boyle yelled in the direction of the well-dressed young woman from the New Hope Gazette.

"Good morning to you too, and I haven't even asked you anything yet Trooper Boyle. But since you're here, what's going on down by the river, John?"

"Why it looks like an investigation is goin' on by the river, Miss Mc Guigan! Now, I'm goin' down to converse with one Chief Tom Miller and assess the situation, if you'll excuse me," and on that note, John Boyle, the barrel-chested Irish immigrant and combat proven Marine, strode off to do just that with the, got-you-again-Mary grin firmly affixed to his face. To anyone who was familiar with the history of these two, it was not unusual for these sparring matches to take place, and John Boyle just landed the first punch.

"God damn you John, what is going on by the river!" the exasperated reporter yelled. From the crimson color shooting up her neck, it looked like an eruption of Vesuvian proportions was about to take place.

"Miss Mc Guigan, for shame! And with Christmas being this Saturday! That's the problem with you Yankee micks, so hot tempered..." and again with the grin, and off to the scene he went. And the winner, by knockout in the first round.

Tom managed a wry smile as the Irishman approached. "Are we done fucking with Mary this morning, John?" Tom inquired, as he shook John's hand.

"Aye, no I am not! She needs to learn proper protocol. And you, with the mouth too! Forgive them Father," John said as he put his hands together and looked up to the heavens. "Heathens, the whole lot of them Lord, they know not what they do." His eyes caught Tom's and again the leprechaun's smile appeared. "Now Tommy, let's have a look, shall we?"

Trooper Boyle's frame of mind underwent a chameleon like change upon approaching the murder scene. A former Philadelphia Homicide Detective himself, he was all business now. "Do we have an approximate time the victim was discovered, Tommy?"

"Estimated time was around six A.M. Ken Coverdale found him. The poor guy was out for his morning jog before he opens his restaurant, and he comes upon this horror. He ran all the way to the station. He's probably still sitting down there shaking."

Tom's head began to pound even harder while viewing the body. On the victims' badly beaten face, brownish, caked blood had iced up over the eyelids and lips. So brutal, and yet so familiar. Too damn familiar. Sergeant Jeaneau made his way over to the two men with a very quizzical look on his face. "We found the wallet thrown in the bushes." He paused to catch his breath. "Cripes, Al, you look like you're going to pass out, man! What's wrong?" asked John Boyle.

"You're not going to believe who this is," was all that Al could say. He handed Tom the picture license from the deceased man's wallet. They looked intently at the beaten skull, while a resemblance to the photograph began to transform. "Sweet Lord!" John exclaimed. "That's Luke?"

The victim of this wretched slaying was Lucas Stone, owner of the hottest jazz joint on New Hope's Main Street, 'The "A" Train'. "Why Lucas?" Tom asked in hushed tone. "He was one of the most loved and respected men in this town."

Al stood next to Tom, nodding his head in agreement to Tom's statement. He then began to shake his head copiously. "Oh God! Phil!" exclaimed Al. "This is going to kill him. They were inseparable." Al began walking to the beckoning call of Officer Rose. Tom knelt down next to Luke's body. He began thinking about what Al said. They were inseparable. Phil Antos was Lucas Stone's companion. For all of Luke's Nordic looks and muscular build, Phil was much more diminutive in stature. Phil had the features of a light skinned Pole, the most piercing green eyes and raven black hair.

The two of them had met when Phil moved here twelve years ago. Lucas was already well established in the community, and 'The "A" Train' was drawing in a considerable amount of business. Phil found Lucas very approachable, an equal to Phil in his love and appreciation of jazz. Both of them had dabbled in jazz music in their youth, but with no major success. Lucas discovered his forte existed in promoting area talent at his fledgling club. Soon, word had spread to the big names about this jamming club in the middle of nowhere. In the ensuing years, Cassandra Wilson, the Marsalis brothers, George Benson, and the late Miles Davis, just to name a few, would be booking for engagements at his intimate club.

Phil found his niche in design. When 'The "A" Train' was in need of expansion, and the inner sanctum needed a makeover, Phil offered his services to Lucas, gratis. What emerged from this dynamic combination of talent were the hottest area and big name jazz talents, playing in the trendiest designed club this side of Miami Beach. The club had all the best elements of New York City resonance, and South Beach Art-Deco style.

The two of them knocked the design and jazz world on its ear. They were a success, a team, in business, but more importantly in each other's lives. They were inseparable and remained that way for years to come. Now they had to tell Phil that love was lost, and it was taken from him in the darkest and cruelest way man had created.

As Tom righted himself, Sergeant Jeaneau again approached the area where he and John Boyle had remained. "Tommy, John, you may want to see this." Al led them further down the Ferry Landing walk. "Gentleman, I've never seen anything like this. This goes beyond a hate crime. This is like a cult or ritual sacrifice." Down on the Landing's stone steps was a small cloth, neatly folded. "Drew found this and unwrapped it. Okay Drew, undo the cloth." As Officer Rose unfolded the cloth, neatly placed in the middle of it were two eyes. As Rose bagged them for evidence, Tom reluctantly picked up the cloth. On the cloth was the same scrawled writing that was on the wall back on Ferry Street. He began reading, "Homosexuals are blind to their sins, but God sees you, and he DAMN'S YOU." The cloth, the eyes, Jesus, it's happening again. The pain in Tom's head was reaching a breaking point. His ears felt like they were sizzling from the pressure.

Tom looked up at Rose and the others. "Did you happen to find the victim's tongue?" The question caught them so off guard that Officer Pagano questioned Tom on everyone's behalf. "Excuse me Chief, but did I hear you right? Did we find his tongue?"

Tom glanced at Pagano and the others almost apologetically. "Yes, Rob you heard me right, his tongue." Pagano glanced at Tom. You could tell he was becoming visibly shaken by Tom's question. "No, Chief. I can definitely tell you we have not found the victim's tongue. Tom, what the hell is going on here? What are we dealing with here, man?"

Tom leaped to his feet, his mind racing too quickly to answer Pagano's question. Al Jeaneau and John Boyle were following Tom, almost on his heels now. He was right beside Lucas' beaten body again. "John, give me some gloves please." His ears were hissing, his mind flashing the darkest images of horror. Somewhere, from the depths of his mind, he could hear the voice. Every second, it was getting clearer. It was right by Tom's shoulder. "You're remembering everything, aren't you Tom? I told you it would happen again. I have come back with a vengeance. I will turn your dreams into nightmares." He expected the knife, but it never came. His head shot up quickly, but no one was directly behind except for Jeaneau and Boyle.

"Tommy, you okay pal? You look like you've seen the devil, himself," said John, with visible concern. "What are you thinkin' lad? Is there something to all of this?"

"I'll tell you soon enough, John." Tom affixed the sterile gloves and knelt down directly next to the head of Lucas Stone. Again, the voice came. "With a vengeance...a vengeance...a vengeance." Tom pried open the blood encrusted mouth, and as he peered in, the town of New Hope became a little colder, a little darker, in Tom Miller's world. He pulled the bloody cloth from the orifice recently housing Luke Stone's tongue. His mind exploded into a kaleidoscope of forbidding thoughts. He was back. Jesus Christ, he was back.

Tom's systems were about ready to overload. He couldn't be back. Get hold of yourself, man. He's been put away for almost fifteen years. He's going to die in seven days. But if not him, then who? Who would want to renew this chain of evil again? Another one, God no! His sick mind, fueling a prophecy through another disciple? But, even the writing on the wall and the note he just read; exactly like the son-of-a-bitches. Seven days, and he'll die. This note, don't open it. Don't open it, and maybe it will all go away. His brain felt like it was hemorrhaging from the pressure.

Al was trying to snap him back to reality. "Tommy, what is it, man? What's on the cloth? Do you want me to look?"

Tom gathered his composure back somewhat, but his hands still trembled a bit. He began to peel open the cloth. "That's all right, Al. This is for me."

"For you? But, how do you know... Who would do this and write to you? Who did this, Tom?" Al was as perplexed as anyone in the vicinity of the murder scene.

You have to look. Tom was still trying to convince himself. He looked down, and there it was, spread out in front of his eyes like the pillager returning home with the spoils of war. "VENGEANCE", was boldly written across the top. "I will come from the wilderness, with a vengeance. This is just the first. In the next seven days, I will make you remember." It has begun, Tom thought. Even if it wasn't him in body, it was his sick handiwork being carried out. He had brought evil back into Tom's house.

"Tommy," John said, looking very concerned. "For the life of me, you look like you've seen the Almighty, or a ghost. What's goin' on lad? Who is this?" He paused for a second and then looked at Tom again quizzically. "Tommy, you're not thinking about.."

Tom got up, and placed the blood soaked "scripture" in John Boyle's gloved hands. "You had it right a while back, John. It's a note from the devil himself, and he's back." Tom lit up another Marlboro and walked to the river's edge to be alone, amongst all this chaos. John Boyle looked, opened up the cloth, and quickly closed it. "Christ, Tommy, the son-of-a-bitch! It can't be him!" Who though, he thought. Who?

While Tom looked out over the Delaware River, a hard, bone chilling rain started from the east; hard enough to wash the blood from the pavement of Ferry Landing. As it rolled down like waves around Tom's shoes and into the cold, black depths of the frigid river, the river now knew what Tom did. Death had seen her waters before, but never with such evil as this. Yes, death had come to her again, but this time it wouldn't leave. Not just yet.

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Catalogue Information

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