The four Boston clairvoyants, blessed—or cursed—with special powers, must fight a ruthless enemy and stop injustice. In ‘Dead Cat, Run’ the Sisters of Fate drove them together, but at what cost? The God Apollo wasn’t playing around. He’s still dead set on vengeance
Duke Montague Marshall squinted into the harsh rays of the sun as they beamed with a strobe-like effect through his front windshield. Behind the wheel of his silver Toyota RAV4, he looked at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes to arrival.
“Nice up here,” Fiddler said, looking around. “Lots of trees.”
Duke felt no need to reply to his riding companion’s inane comment about the dense pines and spruce trees of the Superior National Forest. The forest, covering 3.9 million acres of land in Minnesota, also had about 2,000 lakes around the Superior National Forest and Boundary Waters region between the United States and Canada.
He looked in the rearview mirror at the vehicle following them. Five minutes to arrival.
“Run down the Monday-morning setup for me again,” Duke said.
“Assembly takes place in a green, industrial-type shed to the right past another shed-like main office with an awning and signage. They’ll be having their bullshit, Monday-morning meeting. Every fucking Monday the heads and general labor have a bull session. Donuts. Coffee. That kind of thing.”
Focusing on the task, Duke said, “We’re sure everyone will be there? No one in the quarry yet?”
Fiddler shook his head, his longish hair pulled back today. “Nah. Just the two places. Main office with the awning and the big green shed next to it.”
Not really worried about how things would go down, Duke told him to cut the noise once Fiddler started chattering about his planned trip to Turks and Caicos.
They’d arrived. Granger’s Quarry, a trillion-dollar shithole.
Annabelle Lewis—a pseudonym for the author—lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Regrettably? Perhaps. She still believes she’s a Texan even though the math no longer supports that. Nor her birthplace. Nor her residence. No offense, Minnesota. You’ve got your good points too, but only about six months of the year.
In her youth, Annabelle was a complete failure. Ask anyone who knew her. Any of her teachers and family would tell you this. High school graduation was a sad day for all when Annabelle walked proudly off the high school stage, her thoughts consumed with boys, beer, and after-parties, and later into the arms of her parents. Her father’s laughter and singular remark? “I didn’t think you’d make it. Get a job at the post office, they have a good retirement plan.”
A high bar and words to live by, but Annabelle wanted more. She needed to flunk out of college too. But damn, she sure did have a good time. Trivial arrest records not-withstanding, it was a growth period for our girl. And if you look closely, you’ll see a bit of what was to come when she majored in criminal justice. Her lifelong aspiration was to become a judge. Hmm.
For better or worse, Annabelle didn’t graduate from college but did find gainful employment and a fulfilling career. This path ended when she became a mom. Married to her wonderful George, who to this day can hardly remember an actual proposal, Annabelle finally became a mother. She didn’t have a clue how hard she would need to work to keep those self-imposed requirements of Downey-fresh, iron-pressed sheets, home-baked meals, and mom-of-the-year awards arriving. She composed a small self-affirmation song and made her children sing it to her for money. She was a very good mom.
After clearing the largest hurdles of motherhood and regrettably, begrudgingly, and not-without-tears, launching her children onto the world, she looked around and realized she had a lot to say. Picking up a laptop, she got to work.
Annabelle spends her days continuing to tackle the challenges of motherhood, for both her humans and canines. She also writes. And reads. And cleans. And cooks. And bakes. And cleans again. She also supports her husband, George, in an administrative capacity for their small business. She’s in charge of payroll and cuts George’s checks. This leads to no marital acrimony.
In the beginning, with the blank page staring at her and possibly in a hostile mood after being literally mauled by a dog and by the world in general, she had an idea. What if she could wield a force of good upon unsuspecting evil-doers? What if she had the resources to get the job done without dealing with committee and anyone else’s whiney-ass opinions?
It was gold. It took off. Annabelle sat down and began to write and couldn’t stop. To date, having written over a million words in the Carrows Family Chronicles and her second series on the Boston Clairvoyants, several items have become quite clear. Annabelle had a lot to say. Annabelle really enjoys writing. And although she hates all things technology, she begrudgingly pounds her head on her desk daily as obstacles are thrown in her path. Almost a hero.
Since entering her world of make-believe, she has rebelled against all intrusion of real-world responsibilities. Her house is a mess, but she tries. Her family is fed, but more often than not, on takeout. She vows to shower every day, but no, it’s a vow she’ll never keep. Her friends are neglected, but not in her heart.
Read her mordacious blog! Read her books! Follow her on social platforms! Sign up for her newsletter! These are all good things. What are you waiting for? Jump into bed with Annabelle. She’s having a swell time. You should join her.