Brown Black Valley

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-5440-1
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 355 Seiten

On the night of a raging electrical storm, a group of teenage boys gather on a secluded hill in Oregon to bury one of their own . . . alive. It isn't murder, though, because the 'victim' is a willing participant. For sneering, knife-wielding punk Whitey Dobbs it's just a gang-initiation stunt. For the others, however, it's a carefully planned act of revenge - designed to give Whitey Dobbs the fright of his life. But even the best-laid plans can go wrong. And when this joke is over, nobody will be laughing . . . except maybe Whitey Dobbs. 'Black Valley is . . . utterly terrifying. Ferociously creative, twisting and curving like a serpent, this story kept me awake and turning the pages until the very end.' Best selling author - Tess Gerritsen 'Black Valley has it all--an ingenious premise, engaging characters, masterful storytelling, and hair-raising scenes that chilled me to the marrow. Jim Brown is clearly a rising star in this new golden era of suspense fiction.' Best selling author - John Saul 'Terror runs amok in Black Valley - a Dean Koontz - style thriller pulsating with suspense, intrigue, and a twenty-year old vendetta that rises (literally) from the grave.' Best selling author - Katherine Neville 'Black Valley is an incredible story - I'm still reeling.' - Best selling author Douglas Preston 'A classic page-turner, Black Valley is an intense, intelligent, fast-paced, first-rate thriller. Jim Brown's new novel will grab you on page one and keep you up late into the night - making your imagination work overtime after the lights are out.' Best Selling author - Joe Weber. 'Brown heaps on one outrageous twist after another, yet there is no doubt he knows his way around a nail-biter. His many cliffhangers teeter just right, his tone strikes a convincing balance between ominous and terrifying, and many of his character

Autoren/Hrsg.

Brown, Jim

Leseproben

1 Whitey Dobbs giggled as dirt struck the top of his coffin. Not a giggler by nature, he was surprised by his reaction but continued to snicker in reply to each flat, dull thump. The coffin shook at first, then settled in as the sound began to recede, dirt on wood, dirt on dirt, becoming fainter, farther, until – nothing. Quiet as a grave. He laughed aloud, shattering the new silence, the sound of his own voice rushing back to him, a reminder of his close confines. Whitey put his hands over his mouth to stifle a snicker, chiding himself for his lack of control. Get a grip. Don’t waste oxygen. Tentatively, like a newborn, the teenager explored the parameters of his world. His head rested on a thin pillow; his bone-white hair touched one end of the coffin, his feet just two inches shy of the other. The sides, padded and laced, pressed against his shoulders. Add in the extras and there was barely enough room for a body. . . his body. How do the dead tolerate it? Nicely, he supposed. No one had ever complained. Maybe he should suggest that as a motto for Perkins Funeral Home: Eight hundred buried – no complaints. The laughter came like vomit, swelling in his throat, rising up and rushing out. He fought to hold it back but feared he would choke. Get control, get control. He blinked to see if his eyes were open. Nothing. It was the blackest dark he had ever seen. Can you see the dark? He touched the lid of the coffin. It was just inches from his face, yet completely invisible . . .so close, so oppressively close. No, since I can’t see it, it ain’t there, he decided. It’s easy to fool yourself in the dark. Or go crazy. Snicker. Get control. Despite the restrictions he managed to work his right hand into the pocket of his jeans. His fingers touched the smooth wood exterior of the knife. With the touch came control. This wasn’t so bad, not bad at all. He was only seventeen, but he had already seen real horror. He’d looked right into its bloodshot eyes, smelled the liquor on its fetid breath and fed it to the blade. Nah, this wasn’t bad at all. He eased the knife out of his pocket, his fingers caressing its contours like a man touching a woman’s breast. In his mind he traced his movements, seeing the knife’s cherry-wood handle, painted a glossy ruptured-blood-vessel red, balanced by chrome caps on each end. On one side was a small, flat button – the switch. He pressed it. Click. Flip. Click. Flip. Not the smartest thing to do when you’re as blind as the dead and confined to a coffin, but he wasn’t worried. He knew this blade. Like a teenage boy knows his dick, his father would say. Only his father couldn’t say that, seeing how he was dead and buried in a coffin all his own. Snicker. This switchblade was his friend, protector, collaborator. It would never hurt him. And maybe when this was all over, he would feed it, give it a special treat, a taste of a sassy, spoiled little rich kid. There was a prissy bitch down at the college; he’d his eye on her for some time. Maybe she should be next? Yeah, definitely the next. He giggled aloud. Where were they now? He wondered. Where were his four new friends? Had they finished? No, it was a very deep hole, six feet under. They were still up there. He just couldn’t hear them anymore. Must be working up quite a sweat, shoveling all that dirt. The thought of them – four strapping rich kids in expensive shoes and sporting twenty-dollar haircuts – actually breaking a sweat appealed to him. And what was he doing while they worked, while they performed physical labor for perhaps the first time in their pampered little lives? Nothing. Just lying, here, me and the worms; as still and quiet as a dead man, while you boys . . .alive. He couldn’t hold it back; the laughter came in waves. John Evans dumped the last shovelful of dirt onto the fresh grave, then patted it down with the back of the shovel. The other three watched silently. Even trading off among the four of them, they were bone tired. John took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped sweat out of his eyes as the last red fingers of sunlight clawed at a purpling sky. His cousin Mason took a beer from the cooler and opened it. “Hell of a deal,” he said, taking a long, deep drink. He belched. “Hell of a deal.” “Damn. I can’t believe we did it,” Clyde Watkins said. “We really, really did it.” Clyde Watkins said. Thick locks of auburn hair fell across his forehead. He pushed them back with his fingers. “We?” Mason snorted. “Screw that. Me and John did most of the work.” “Hey, I helped,” Clyde said, brushing dirt off his trousers. “You couldn’t do shit for bitching.” “So? I don’t like rutting around in the dirt like a pig. Shoot me.” He straightened up, smoothed his shirt with the back of his hand, and smiled. “I have to save myself for the ladies.” “Screw you,” Mason said. He looked at the grave and laughed nervously. “Screw you.” Nathan Perkins sat on the tailgate of the truck, kneading his hands. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, seemed tethered to the fresh mound of earth. “You okay?” John asked. Nathan nodded, then pushed his glasses up the slope of his nose. His hand shook. “Did we have to . . . to – you know, bury him so deep?” “Six feet. No more, no less,” John said, rolling his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck. His muscles ached and burned. At six two, with a chest that could be rented out as a billboard, John Evans was an imposing figure. Still, standing on the crown of Hawkins Hill, with the town of Black Valley, Oregon, spread out before him like ruined stars banished from heaven, he felt positively tiny. John stomped on the grave, his heavy boots packing the dark brown earth. “Jeez, I can’t believe the son of a bitch is down there,” Nathan said. Mason Evans grinned, his teeth iridescent in the twilight. “He’s down there, all right. You can bet your sweet ass on that.” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “How’s it going down there?” he yelled to the grave. “Shhhh . . .” Nathan said, casting a cautionary glance at the mound of earth. “What?” Mason challenged. “You think the son of a bitch can hear us?” Beer and saliva escaped with the words. “You worried big, bad Whitey Dobbs is going to dig his way out and get you?” He laughed, then looked at the others to join him. But John was too tired, his thoughts coiled in a knot of confusion and anger. Clyde just shrugged and smiled. John watched the encroaching night, the slow, subtle saturation of dark, the elongating of shadows and pools of indigo and purple expanding languidly. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Nathan said, running his finger between the collar of his shirt and his neck. He licked his dry lips. “I mean, what good can come of it? What’s the best we can hope for?” “Hey, we talked about this, and you agreed,” Mason said, pointing with his beer bottle for emphasis. “You agreed. We all did.” “I know, I know, it’s just, well . . . If Dad finds out I’m the one who took the coffin, he’ll kill me.” “He’ll never know,” Clyde assured him, speaking with a confidence that always gave added weight to whatever he said, even when it was bullshit. He put an arm around Nathan’s shoulder. “Besides, if he does kill you, I bet he would do the embalming for free.” Mason laughed too loudly. Nathan simpered. John Evans said nothing, crossing his pylonlike arms across his broad chest. There was little that worried John, less that scared him. Still . . . He looked around the crest of Hawkins Hill. The darkness beneath the Douglas firs was slowly but aggressively crawling toward them. John took a beer from the cooler. He put the cold bottle on the back of his neck and rolled it with the palm of his hand, letting it cool his tired muscles. A fresh wind moaned in the night, bringing an unexpected chill. He shuddered. A chill? Why did it always seem colder on Hawkins Hill? Dean would have known. He looked down on Black Valley. Not much of a town, John thought, but it suited him. He liked the sameness, the continuity. Besides, when outsiders came - He looked at the mound of earth. Anger flashed anew. He closed his eyes to let it pass. He opened them and looked at the sky. Thick clouds blotted the ambient light,...