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  Divine Rebel

  The bullet smashed into the tree two seconds before the crack of rifle fire carried the distance. Angel and I were standing in the parking area trying to decide which of us would drive when we reacted to the sound. We darted to a space between our two cars and ducked down behind hers. Staying low, we waited for more shots to be fired, although I was fairly certain the shooting had ended. I felt we were out of harm’s way. At least for the time being.

  I peeked over the car and saw a man coming around the corner of the building, a puzzled look on his bearded face. My initial impression of the man was that he probably worked for the motel in some capacity. Not in a managerial position, but more like a maintenance worker.

  “Was that gunfire I heard, or did a car backfire?” he asked when he saw me.

  “Gunfire,” I answered. Having fought in Iraq, I definitely know the difference between the two.

  “Oh, my goodness. Was anybody hurt?”

  “No. But you should call nine-one-one, get the police here.”

  He reached into a hip pocket, took out his cell phone, and began punching in the three digits. Not willing to take a chance that the shooting had ceased, he stepped inside the back door to deliver his message. Can’t blame the guy for being cautious.

  “Stay down, Dad,” Angel pleaded, still squatting behind her car. “The next shot might not miss.”

  “There won’t be another shot,” I said. “This one wasn’t meant to kill, it was intended to scare us.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  Angel stood and nervously looked around. By this time word had spread and the motel’s manager made an obligatory, albeit reluctant, appearance. He was absolutely mortified by what had just happened. And he had good reason to be. Having guests shot at isn’t exactly good advertisement for future business. It would always require a miracle of messaging to entice travelers to lodge in your motel if there’s a chance they might get gunned down in the parking lot. But to the man’s credit and to his professionalism, he did say the right things.

  “Praise God everyone is all right,” he said, walking in our direction. “Do you think it was intentional, or did someone accidentally fire the shot?”

  Not wanting to go into great detail, I said, “Could be either one. We’ll leave it to law enforcement to make that determination.”

  “Yes, yes, by all means.”

  “There can be no doubt who did this, Dad,” Angel commented after the manager left us. “It had to be Dorsey McElwain.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why do you say maybe? Who else could it be? We interviewed McElwain last night, practically accused him of spiking Todd’s drink on the night Zack Felton was murdered, and the next morning someone takes a shot at us? Come on, Dad. Common sense says McElwain was the shooter.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Angel. But let’s withhold judgment until we have more facts.”

  “Withhold judgment? Are you kidding me? You know I’m right.”

  Table of Contents

  Divine Rebel

  Table of Contents

  Divine Rebel Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapters

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Meet Tom Wallace

  Divine Rebel

  Tom Wallace

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Mystery Novel

  Edited by: Jeanne Smith

  Copy Edited by: Joan C. Powell

  Executive Editor: Jeanne Smith

  Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald-Jung

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  www.wingsepress.com

  Copyright © 2020 by: Tom Wallace

  ISBN 978-1-61309-421-1

  Published In the United States Of America

  Wings ePress Inc.

  3000 N. Rock Road

  Newton, KS 67114

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Marilyn Underwood, Julie Watson and Sarah Small. Three strong, brave,

  marvelous ladies.

  Chapters

  One

  The sun, a bright orange globe nestled within reddish-blue clouds, dangled dangerously above the edge of the horizon. In a matter of minutes, it would disappear completely, leaving darkness trailing behind while bringing with it the promise of tomorrow for those on the far side of the world. Every sunset was beautiful in its own way, but this one was majestic.

  Over the years, I have often been asked this question: If I could have been anyone who ever lived, who would it be? My answer is always the same: Adam on that first morning. Kabbalah teaches that when Adam opened his eyes, he could see from one end of the world to the other. I doubt that’s true, but does it really matter? One can’t help but wonder how Adam must have felt, standing there alone, bathed in God’s holy light. Surely, he marveled at what he beheld.

  Of course, I don’t believe the Garden of Eden/Adam and Eve story. Nor do I believe in a serpent that talks, the Cain and Abel murder mystery, the Tower of Babel, or Noah and the Great Flood. And I chuckle when told Methuselah lived nine-hundred-sixty-nine years. They are myths and tall tales, wonderful fiction written for us to read, study, enjoy, and learn from. Fabulous fables with a serious purpose.

  For countless millions, myself included, our history begins when Abram answered Yahweh’s call to leave his homeland and begin a journey that would eventually result in the world’s three great religions… Judaism, Christianity and Islam. By this time, Abram, which means “exalted father,” had become Abraham, “father of a host of nations.” Tragically, those nations, those three great religions, have been killing each other for thousands of years. I doubt Abraham would be pleased with his progeny.

  Those are the kinds of thoughts I have when I drink too much, which for the past several years has been a frequent occurrence. Here’s the irony: I’m fifty and I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol until my early thirties. Not in high school, college, or during the first Gulf War. I stayed away from booze on all fronts, in every situation, no matter the crowd I was hanging out with. Jake Kaplan, an editor at Delacorte Press and a close friend since our days as Creative Writing students at NYU, opines that I’m now trying to make up for lost time. Hard to argue with that, based on the circumstances.

  Here’s a second irony, or mystery, if you prefer to call it that: I don’t drink because of my great love for alcohol. Far from it. I drink because I’m bored. Having too much free time and too much money is a great catalyst for boredom. But I don’t complain. Better to be a bored, rich drinker than a busy, poor alcoholic.<
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  I’m sitting at the bar in the Old Salty Dog on Siesta Key. This has been my favorite watering hole since I moved here seven years ago. The food is good, the drinks are honest, and the majority of folks who come in, especially the regulars, are an interesting collection of Homo sapiens. The Old Salty Dog is only a mile or so from my condo on the beach, easily within walking distance, should I choose to walk rather than pedal over on my bicycle.

  When I mentioned that the majority of regulars were interesting, I wasn’t referring to Rory Killion, who was currently sitting next to me at the bar. Unlike most of the regulars who see me as I see myself…a very lucky fraud…Rory was overly impressed by my past. He thought I was big cheese. That’s because Rory, who claimed to have studied acting in New York City, had seen the one play I had written—Divine Rebel: An Evening with William Blake. Every conversation with Rory invariably came around to the subject of my play. Or more specifically, to the actor who portrayed Blake…Anthony Hopkins.

  “So, tell me, Nick, what was Sir Anthony like?” Rory asked, bestowing upon the actor his full title. Rory was drinking his usual gin and tonic. I had long ago lost count of how many he’d already consumed but it was at least a half-dozen. “Is he a regular dude, or a pompous asshole?”

  “He was a nice guy,” I answered, hoping my terse reply might shut down the conversation. It didn’t. And I knew what Rory’s next question would be.

  “When you were with him, did you get the feeling you were looking at Hannibal Lecter? That had to be weird, wasn’t it?”

  “Actually, I saw him as William Blake.”

  “Still, though, weren’t you ever tempted to get him to say, ‘I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti’? I would have pleaded with him to say that line.”

  “If you see him, Rory, you do that. I’m sure he’s only heard it a million times.”

  Thanks to Hopkins agreeing to take the role, my one-man play was a big success, financially and critically. Another superb actor, Jonathan Pryce, took over for Hopkins, first as his replacement on Broadway, and then when the play moved to England. Divine Rebel earned a Tony nomination for Best Play, as did Hopkins for Best Actor. Neither won, but like they (usually the losers) say, it’s the nomination that counts. I wasn’t excluded when praise was being passed around by the critics. I received great kudos for writing the play, which I’m not sure I deserved. While I did structure the play, and add a few connecting paragraphs that moved things along, every word of dialogue came straight from Blake. If anyone deserved praise, it was him.

  Rory had been silently nursing his drink for the past ten minutes, fueling my hope that our little chat was finished. Didn’t work out that way. I may as well have been hoping Charlize Theron would stroll into the Old Salty Dog, spot me, walk over, give me a kiss, and then take me by the hand and lead me outside and into her waiting limo.

  “Hey, Nick,” Rory said, “you spent all that time in film land, you must’ve been big pals with some of those movie stars.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Ah, come on, man, don’t be so modest. Share the juice with me. Did you know George Clooney or Brad Pitt? What about Sean Penn? He’s one of my favorites.”

  “Never met any of them.”

  “You write all those movies and you want me to believe you don’t know any of the big stars? I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “Working with an actor doesn’t mean you know him or her. Those big stars reside in a galaxy far away from the lowly writer. They rarely ever notice us.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Rory persisted. “Then tell me about that war movie you wrote. I love that damn flick. It’s a true classic.”

  “Can’t do it, Rory. See, when you contract to work on a big movie, the producers and studio executives require you to sign an NDA—a nondisclosure agreement. Legally, that binds me to silence. If I ignore the NDA and talk about the movie, they could force me to return the money I was paid. Plus, they could also charge me with a crime. I could end up broke and behind bars.”

  I have to admit that’s one of my all-time best lies. That one should earn me a plaque in the Liars’ Hall of Fame.

  “Ah, shit, Nick, you’re no fun,” Rory complained. He ordered another gin and tonic, took a sip, and began to sulk. How long this period of silence would last was anybody’s guess.

  Now don’t get me wrong, Rory’s not a bad guy; he just can’t let go of the movie shit. He’s obsessed with it. That’s why every conversation with him begins in the Old Salty Dog and eventually ends up in Hollywood, where I spent ten years of my life working in the film industry, just not in the capacity Rory claims I did. I never “wrote” movies. I was that mysterious creature known as a script doctor.

  ~ * ~

  While I achieved my greatest critical success with Divine Rebel, it wasn’t the play that padded my checking account to the extent that I could afford to buy a beachfront condo on Siesta Key. It was the decade spent in Los Angeles that made me a wealthy man. Those Hollywood folks hand out cash faster than Texas judges hand out death sentences.

  Let me backtrack and explain how it all came about. After mustering out of the Army, I spent the next three months writing a novel, a detective mystery. I landed an agent, who pitched the book to several publishing houses. One of the smaller houses quickly agreed to publish the book. It was only a modest success (and that’s being generous), but it did garner some positive reviews.

  Even more important, it was noticed by a movie producer, who quickly secured the rights to the book. Naturally, when that happened, dreams of glory ran rampant in my head. I’m thinking Scorsese or Spielberg or maybe Oliver Stone as director. You know, one of the giants. The cast? Big-name stars for sure. And in my scenario, the movie would play in theaters all across the country.

  Man, did I overreach on that one. None of that stuff happened. The producer was always about two hours away from bankruptcy, the director was a lush, and the screenwriter was a butcher. As for the cast, well, they signed one mid-level actor whose claim to fame was portraying a doctor on one of the daytime soaps, and then surrounded him with a bunch of no-name performers looking for a big break. And did the movie play in theaters? No, it didn’t. It was seen on the Lifetime Movie Channel. Talk about a dream deferred. That was mine.

  However, despite my personal disappointment with the entire experience, the movie wasn’t all that bad. It was certainly a far cry from the story I had written, but I’m not the first author to complain about his or her book being poorly translated to the movie/TV screen. And I won’t be the last.

  But out of that mixed-bag experience came the call that altered the course of my life. (And lined my pockets with big bucks.) A major movie producer/director, Benjamin Schiller, had read and appreciated my novel. He especially admired my prose and my ear for dialogue.

  Ben told me he had two movies in pre-production but still wasn’t completely satisfied with either screenplay, both of which had been worked on and altered many times over the years. He wanted to know if I would be interested in making the trip to L.A., to see if I could make some improvements that might save the two films. He estimated I could get the job done in three weeks. Those three weeks turned into ten years, during which I worked on—or “doctored”—more than fifty screenplays.

  Along with doctoring scripts, I also answered the call when an actor, almost always a male, wasn’t satisfied with his role in a particular movie. Really, what the actor wanted was more screen time alone. This translated into wanting his role expanded. Either he or his agent would contact me with a request that I write the actor a couple of big speeches that would put him front and center of whatever action was taking place within the movie at the time. It wasn’t much of a challenge, and I didn’t get much joy out of doing the work, but the money was too great to turn down.

  A script doctor is seen as a court of last resort. He’s the ninth-inning closer a baseball manager brings in to seal the deal. The script doctor may be valuable to the
producer or the director, but he is typically considered the enemy by the original screenwriter, who almost always thinks his work is perfect and therefore in no need of being “improved.” Probably I would feel the same way if I were in his shoes.

  But after ten years of laboring over works done by other writers, I decided I’d had enough. I was burned out and worn down, and I’d accumulated more money than I could ever hope to spend. Also, I had a fierce desire to be creative for my own purposes. As William Blake said, “I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man’s.” With that in mind, I once again put my fate in my own hands.

  So, I packed up, relocated to Florida, bought the condo on Siesta Key in the Sarasota area, and went back to work on the Blake play, which I had begun several years earlier.

  I finished it within six months, and the rest, so the saying goes, is history.

  As Rory turned to hit me with another question, I was saved by my buzzing cell phone. I lifted it off the bar and checked the caller ID, which said Unknown Caller on the screen. Next, I checked the number. I didn’t recognize it, but I did recognize the area code—270. That’s the area code for where I’m originally from. Curious, I answered the call. That turned out to be questionable judgment on my part.

  Remember what Martin Sheen’s character, Captain Willard, said early on in Apocalypse Now? “I wanted a mission, and for my sins they gave me one.”

  That line didn’t come to mind at the time, but later on it would. Overly dramatic? Probably. Self-centered? You bet. But factual nonetheless. No one knows the future, or the secrets it keeps hidden. We live our lives bound within the confines of certain mysteries. We have no choice but to wait until those mysteries, those secrets, are eventually revealed to each of us, as they surely will be.

  But little did I know at the time that future events would closely conspire to echo Captain Willard’s lament.