Authors: Steve Gannon
A
bout
the Author
STEVE GANNON
is the author of
A Song for the Asking
, a bestselling novel
originally published by Bantam
.
Gannon lives in Idaho, where he is the Executive Director of Sun Valley Artist Series, a nonprofit organization devoted to the promotion and encouragement of the art of classical music. He spends his time skiing, presenting an annual series of classical music performances
and educational programs
,
hanging out, and writing
a new novel.
To contact Steve Gannon, purchase books, or to join his email list to receive updates on new releases,
please visit his website at:
http://stevegannonauthor.com
Other
STEVE GANNON
Books
A Song for the Asking
Kane
Allison
Glow
(2013)
Los Angeles is terrorized by a grisly series of murders.
One man can stop the killer: Detective Daniel Kane.
But for Kane—devastated by personal tragedy and haunted by a secret that could destroy his family—to do so may cost him everything, including his life . . .
An
excerpt from
Kane
A
Kane
Novel
S
teve
G
annon
P
rologue
H
e had been right to change the game. Of that he was certain. Still, he was increasingly troubled by the danger inherent in his recent actions, danger he’d precipitated by breaking rules that had long kept him safe. Nevertheless, this new game simply felt . . .
right
.
He stood motionless, slowing his breathing as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gradually he began to discern dim shapes across the room: refrigerator, stove, dishes piled by the sink. In an adjacent alcove, a desk sat littered with papers, pencils, pens. Riding invisible currents, smells came to him as well. The aroma of stale pizza. A hint of fabric softener. A waft of perfume.
Her
scent.
Outside, a breeze stirred in the night. Swaying with the wind, skeletal limbs of a nearby sycamore scratched at the roof. Upstairs, a sudden creak.
He froze, his senses straining.
Someone getting up, like last time?
Another creak.
He waited, palms slippery inside the latex gloves.
Silence.
He relaxed his grip on the pistol. Quietly, he pulled a dishtowel from a drying rack by the sink, stepped to the alcove, and lifted a telephone from the desktop. After punching in several random digits, he wrapped the towel around the receiver and set it back on the desk. Next he made his way to an electrical breaker panel behind the laundry room door.
Do it quickly, but don’t let them snap.
Covering the power panel with a wad of clothes from the laundry counter, he sequentially flipped off the toggles. Upon finishing, he heard a tinny voice sounding from the kitchen: “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again.” Then came a series of beeps, muffled by the towel but still alarmingly audible.
Careful not to make a sound, he quickly returned to the kitchen and found more dishtowels, further encasing the phone.
Better.
He stood in the dark, listening.
Nothing.
Satisfied no one had heard, he crept to a freestanding chopping block in the center of the room. After setting his knapsack on the maple surface, he reached for a rack of knives hanging by the stove. On his first visit he had noticed the black-handled utensils marked with the
Zwilling J.A. Henckles
imprint. Pulse quickening, he selected a razor-sharp utility knife with a four-inch blade. Next, with growing excitement, he reshouldered his knapsack and eased through the living room to the front of the house. There, a staircase led to the second floor.
Now?
Not yet. Give it a few more minutes.
Better safe than sorry.
He forced himself to wait on the bottom tread, an exquisite pressure building within. He pictured the woman as he had last seen her, long limbed and glistening with sweat, exercise tights clinging to her torso like a layer of paint.
Time to move.
In the rooms above, the family slept, unaware they were about to embark on a short but singular journey, one he was certain would prove the most intense of their otherwise insipid existence.
A moment later he started up the stairs.
End of excerpt.
Like what you read and want to keep reading? Visit Amazon to purchase “Kane” at:
http://www.amazon.com/Kane-A-Novel-ebook/dp/B0
0
5LEJF1U/ref=pd_sim_kstore_1
Allison Kane, a journalism student at UCLA, takes a summer job as a TV news intern—soon becoming involved in a scandalous murder investigation and the media firestorm that follows—a position that pits her squarely against her iron-fisted police detective father . . .
An excerpt from
A
llison
A
Kane
Novel
S
teve
G
annon
1
F
riday, July seventh, on the fourth anniversary of my rape, I awoke feeling unsettled and depressed. Rolling over in bed, I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, plagued by a vague sense of disaster that always accompanied my unwilling observance of that day four years past.
Until the summer I turned sixteen and my brother Tom died and I was attacked and everything changed, I always believed I was more than the things that had
happened
to me, or that I had done, or that I hoped to do. Deep down, I believed I was more than that. I believed an essential part of me, a core part of me, was immune to the forces of life. I believed that the part of me that was truly
me
would remain forever unchanged, no matter what. Looking back, I realize now how naïve I was.
Years ago, in the telling of one of her stories, my mother tried to impart to me something about life. Her tale involved a group of people who were offered a magical gift: They were given the opportunity to rid themselves of their most painful, heartrending memory. Gladly accepting the offer, everyone piled his or her greatest sorrow in the center of the room. Newly unburdened, each person was then told to select a sorrow from the pile. In the end, without exception, everyone there once more embraced their own heartbreak.
At odd moments since, I’ve thought about my mother’s story. I’m not certain I would want to forget what happened that summer. Once rid of the memory, however, I don’t know whether I would have the courage to pick it up again. One thing is certain: I was forever altered by losing my brother Tommy and by my sexual assault and by the other things that happened that year. I was changed, essentially and indelibly. Until then I had been living a dream—a careless, carefree dream in which I thought that nothing and no one could touch me. Afterward, it was as if a veil had been lifted. I had crossed a threshold from which there was no turning back. No matter how much it hurt, I had joined the human race.
Outside my dorm window, the first fingers of dawn were beginning to light the sky over UCLA.
Resolving to think of something else, I eased up on one elbow and squinted at the clock on my nightstand: 5:25 AM. Reaching over, I flipped on a lamp and swung my legs from beneath the covers. Time to get up.
Though reluctant to admit it, I knew that rising early was a trait I had picked up from my police detective father, along with my powder-keg flashes of temper, disregard for authority, and a near obsessive resolve to succeed at whatever I attempted. Despite hating to leave a warm bed, I also conceded that if nothing else, rising early gave me time to write before getting caught up in the distractions of the day.
After slipping my feet into a worn pair of slippers, I stumbled to the adjoining bathroom, used the toilet, splashed cold water on my face, and brushed my teeth. During my freshman and sophomore years at UCLA, I had always had a roommate. Most of the girls with whom I’d lived in the defunct Delta Zeta sorority house—a sorority row structure that had eventually been converted to a private boarding facility when the Delta Zetas moved off campus—were gone for the summer. My most recent roommate, a petite, bright, messy young Asian named Janice, had left as well. In her absence, my customarily crowded living quarters seemed almost spacious, especially the bathroom.
My reasons for deciding to remain at school for the summer, rather than returning to my parents’ beach house in Malibu, had been threefold: First, I would be transferring to the USC School of Journalism in the fall, and taking one last upper-division literature class was necessary to complete my transfer credits. Second, staying at school for summer quarter provided me a final opportunity to enjoy the atmosphere of exploration and freedom that I had enjoyed at UCLA over the past two years. And third, and possibly most important, it gave me an excuse not to move home.
Gathering my hair in a ponytail and securing it with an elastic band, I inspected myself in the mirror. In the image peering back I saw startling hints of my mother, Catheryn—a strong chin, high cheekbones, and large, inquisitive green eyes—qualities that in Mom appeared refined and beautiful, but that in myself, at least to my eye, seemed subtly coarsened by my father’s Irish lineage. True, my long reddish hair—a genetic gift from my father that as a child I’d despised—had ultimately mellowed to a deeper auburn similar to my mother’s. Around the same time, a rash of freckles across the bridge of my nose and cheeks had faded as well, but my body, spare and lanky over the course of several explosive teenaged growth spurts, had continued to grow, and at nearly five-foot-eleven in my bare feet, I stood inches taller than my mother and almost every other woman I knew.
Ruefully, I turned from the mirror and marched back to my bedroom, trying to recall where I had left my running shoes. In the wake of Janice’s departure, I had spread out in the cramped room—my clothes, books, and other personal items expanding into the vacuum of my roommate’s absence. My eyes traveled the small space, taking in my rumpled bed, an oak dresser I had brought from home, a pair of Churchill swim fins, and a bodysurfing wetsuit heaped by the door. Beside the room’s single window, a small TV and a DVD player sat on a bookcase I had also brought from the beach house, along with a maple table that doubled as a desk. Atop my makeshift workstation was a Mac laptop, HP printer, and a full-sized ergonomic keyboard—a refurbished computer setup that my father had given me several years back. Nearby lay stacks of writing projects in various states of completion. Guiltily, I remembered that I still hadn’t finished an article I was writing for the
Daily Bruin
, the UCLA school paper. The deadline was Tuesday. Promising myself to work on the piece as soon as I returned from my run, I continued my search, at last spotting my Nikes beneath Janice’s bed.
Kneeling, I retrieved my running shoes, kicked off my slippers, and shrugged out of the oversized tee shirt I had worn to bed. The room was chilly and I dressed quickly, pulling on underwear and shorts, a nylon windbreaker with yellow UCLA letters blazed across the back, and my shoes. Next I checked my jacket pockets. My fingers closed on the comforting cylinder of pepper spray I always carried when I ran. The campus was relatively safe, but in early morning when almost no one was around, it didn’t hurt to take precautions.
Moving quietly so as not to wake any of the other girls living in the house—or worse, Mrs. Random, our resident housemother—I grabbed my cell phone, locked my room, and descended the staircase to the main floor. After easing out the front door, I made my way down a flight of tiled steps to Hilgard Avenue. There I paused on the sidewalk, breathing in the crisp morning air. Across the deserted street, in the cactus section of the Mildred E. Mathias Botanical Garden, the shadowy arms of forty-foot-high euphorbia, stands of aloes, and acres of spine-covered succulents rose in thorny thickets into the dawn skyline. I stood a moment enjoying the view, then started off at a brisk clip. After crossing Hilgard, I cut left onto a walkway bordering the garden. Another turn brought me past the botany and plant physiology buildings and onto UCLA’s main campus. Upon reaching the Health Sciences Center, I turned right.
I routinely varied the routes of my morning jogs, not only for safety, but also because I liked visiting different parts of the university’s lush campus. After passing the inverted fountain near Franz Hall, where water spilled down a huge central hole, I proceeded north to Dixon Plaza, skirting its sprawling sycamores and stately fig trees. Briefly I contemplated circling the Murphy Sculpture Garden as well, then decided against it. I had taken that route yesterday. Besides, going that way would lengthen my run, and I had things to do before my 10 AM literature class.
Increasing my pace, I turned west past a procession of older, ornately bricked buildings and descended to the athletic fields flanking Sunset Boulevard. After passing Pauley Pavilion, I continued west to the student recreation center and the encircling dorms that comprised UCLA’s western border. Until then I had seen almost no one. Fighting an encroaching sense of unease, I remained alert as I headed back past the tennis courts and made another circuit around the athletic fields. As always, my eyes and ears took in everything around me. Since my assault, caution had become second nature: parking in well-lit spaces, approaching my car with my keys out, wearing sensible shoes in case I had to flee, and carrying pepper spray when alone. I hated living in fear of another attack. On the other hand, I was determined it would never happen again.
Three quarters of an hour after starting out, following a final sprint along a dirt path paralleling Sunset, I returned to my dorm. Dripping sweat, I punched the entry code into the keypad outside and opened the front door. By then Mrs. Random, a prim woman in her early forties, was working at her desk in the housemother’s office, just off the entry. She glanced up from her paperwork as I stepped inside.
“Morning, Mrs. Random,” I said, trying to sound cheery.
“Good morning, Allison. How was your run?”
“Great.”
Peering over half-moon glasses, the older woman studied me thoughtfully. “For the life of me, Ali, I don’t understand all this exercise you do,” she said. “I realize you have more energy than any other three girls here put together, but you already have a perfect figure for a young woman your age, and—”
“I just like doing it,” I interrupted. Although I knew she meant well, we had tilled this ground before, and I knew no good would come of it,. Actually, I liked Mrs. Random a lot, for despite her strict demeanor, the housemother cared about all the girls living under her charge, including me, and had proved it many times.
“Hmmph.”
“Why don’t you join me sometime?” I offered with a grin. “Who knows? You might enjoy it.”
Mrs. Random frowned, clearly peeved at having her advice go unheeded. “I don’t think so, dear,” she replied, pursing her lips like a disapproving librarian. “Don’t wake the other girls on your way up.”
“I won’t,” I promised. “I’m going to fix some tea,” I added. “Maybe some breakfast, too. Want me to make you anything?”
“I don’t think so, Ali,” she answered, finally gracing me with a smile. “I’ve already had my coffee. But thanks.”
After returning to my room, I stripped off my running clothes, showered, and pulled on a thick pair of socks and a terrycloth robe. Still drying my hair with a towel, I descended to the first-floor kitchen. Meals, normally provided to house residents during the school year for an all-inclusive boarding fee, had been suspended until fall, but students staying over the summer still had refrigerator and hotplate privileges. I put a kettle of water on to boil and rummaged hopefully through my assigned section of the refrigerator, coming up with a partial package of bagels and an apple that somehow the other girls hadn’t pilfered. Although each student was responsible for her own food, in actuality the refrigerator was considered fair game by most, especially late at night, and I was pleasantly surprised to find anything left at all. Resolving to eat a more substantial lunch at the student union after my literature class, I toasted two of the remaining bagels and brewed a cup of peppermint tea, sweetening it with a teaspoon of honey.
Food in hand, I returned to my room and plopped down at my desk. There, after booting up my laptop, I worked steadily for the next hour roughing out a first draft of the
Daily Bruin
piece. Deciding I would have plenty of time for a rewrite and polish over the weekend, I next turned to a project with which I had been struggling for the past two years: my novel. A world apart from the school newspaper articles and a handful of short stories I’d had published, my novel had undergone interminable rounds of revisions, each new draft seeming to engender a host of previously undiscovered problems. Glumly, I suspected that the revision process could go on forever.
So what if it does?
I thought, my mood plummeting as I highlighted and then deleted a paragraph that yesterday I had struggled hours to write.
No one’s ever going to read this anyway.
So why
am I
writing it?
I wondered.
As usual, no answer came.
At 9:45 AM I glanced at the clock, surprised to see so much time had slipped by. After saving my work, I closed the computer. If I hurried, I would just have time to make it to class. Rummaging through my dresser, I selected a clean white blouse, fresh underwear and bra, and a faded pair of jeans. As I slipped out of my robe and began pulling on my clothes, my cell phone rang. I hesitated, then crossed to the bed. Retrieving my cell phone from my jacket pocket, I answered on the sixth ring. “Hello?”
“Hi. I’d like to order a super large deluxe pizza,” a girl’s voice announced on the other end. “Sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms, and extra cheese. And throw in a six-pack of beer, too.”
“McKenzie!”
“Home from Dartmouth at last.”
I finished wiggling into my jeans, phone wedged between my shoulder and chin. McKenzie Philips and I had grown up together, been best friends for most of our childhood, and gone off to college at the same time—she on scholarship to Dartmouth,
I to UCLA. Though we hadn’t seen much of each other since, our friendship was one we could pick up exactly where we’d left off, no matter how much time had passed. “When did you get back?” I asked, buttoning my blouse and jamming my feet into my tennis shoes.