The Digger's Rest
Rave Reviews
K. Patrick Malone
*****
THE DIGGER’S REST
*****Honorable Mention Hollywood Book Festival, 2008 *****
*****Honorable Mention New York Book Festival, 2008 *****
*****Honorable Mention New England Book Festival, 2009 *****
*****4
“When people search for proof of the legendary King Arthur, few think to hunt down his skeleton. "The Digger's Rest" is a story following a team of archaeologists as they dig through the ruins of an ancient medieval castle for the body of Arthur. While they begin to shine new light on one of history's mysteries, it isn't the one they were looking for.
“Adventure blended in with a large bit with horror, "The Digger's Rest" is a solid pick for suspense readers.”
……………. Midwest Book Reviews
*****
~~~INSIDE A HAUNTED MIND~~~
*****
*****Honorable Mention Hollywood Book Festival, 2007 *****
*****Honorable Mention Arizona Authors Assoc. 2008*****
*****Winner, USA Book News National Best Books Awards, Horror, 2008 *****
***** Honorable Mention, San Francisco Book Festival, 2009 *****
*****Wild Card Winner, New England Book Festival, 2009 *****
***** Honorable Mention, Paris Book Festival, 2010 *****
*****Honorable Mention, Beach Book Festival, 2010 *****
*****
“One may get so lost in this story that the conclusion comes as a somewhat of a shock. One factor that gives this story its tone—almost missed due to its subtleness—is Malone’s uncanny ability to portray Chagford’s downward spiral toward insanity. It is as if he himself has experienced what it is like to be ‘inside a haunted mind’. The book is an excellent work, but only those able to handle graphic descriptions of depraved violence should enter Malone’s world of terrifying horror.”
… Nelly Heitman … ForeWord Magazine Book Review.
*****
“This is a good, old-fashioned ghost story complete with an old, creepy house, spirits and flying furniture. Or is it? Could it be nothing more than the illusions of a haunted and disturbed mind? The reader will have to pay close attention to figure it out. At times the vividly created characters wrap readers up in their stories and eventually they are all tied to a set of long-ago murders…overall, a good read.”…Chattanooga Times Free Press.
*****
“Inside A Haunted Mind is …a suspense-laden deconstruction of a good man’s mind gone terribly wrong, laced with shocking revelations and edge-of-the seat tension.”
……………………………Midwest Review, Page Turner Publicity
THE DIGGER’S REST
By
K. Patrick Malone
Argus Enterprises International
North Carolina***** New Jersey
THE DIGGER’S REST All Rights Reserved © 2008 By K. Patrick Malone
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
A-Argus Better Book Publishers, LLC
At Smashwords
For information: A-Argus Books
9001 Ridge Hill Road
Kernersville, NC 27284
ISBN: 978-0-6155362-9-3
ISBN: 0-6155362-9-8
Book Cover designed by Dubya
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Trisha (Goddess) Moore for believing in me throughout; to Mike and Rona Abramow, every writer should have such angels on their shoulder; to Mark, David and Jay of The Digger’s Rest Pub in Woodbury, Salterton, England, for welcoming a stranger from a strange land into their midst with a rare generosity of spirit, strong ale and fine brandy, and who, by allowing me to pry into their lives, inspired me in ways I could never have envisioned without them; to Steve Donohue for being a kindred spirit on this unusual journey we casually call life. Your words and thoughts have opened my eyes in a ways no other could have achieved; to Kyle Brown for his unfailing ability to make me laugh in my dark days when laughter would otherwise not have been an option, and reminding me that, in our modern-day world of throw-away friendships, the old fashioned qualities of trust, respect and loyalty are alive and well in you; to George Henry Esler IX, with special fondness for lending me his eyes. I hope you approve of the condition in which I returned them, George; and finally, to Will Lobo, Merry Christmas, Will.
You have all been with me each and every day as I’ve traveled into the deep, dark heart of The Digger’s Rest and you will never be forgotten for your companionship along the way. It would have been a dull, barren and lonely trip without having all of you to color it for me.
KPM
Dedication
To adoptive and foster parents throughout time everywhere for having hearts in their home and home in their hearts. They make more of a difference than we realize. To mentoring programs everywhere like Big Brothers/Big Sisters (bbbs.org) and Community for Youth (communityforyouth.org) for picking up the dropped ball and running with it. The lesson here being; a biological parent, by that very virtue alone, does not make one the best parent, or even a good one. It takes more; it takes heart and home, which can very often be the same thing and found in the same place.
KPM
BOOK ONE
Human Clay
…the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the
ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life,
and the man became a living being.
………..Genesis, 2:7, The Holy Bible
Setting: Nickleby, a young schoolmaster in Victorian England has unwittingly taken a job in a brutal northern boys’ school. He meets the most impoverished and mistreated of the boys, Smike, lamed by a clubfoot. To prevent Smike from receiving yet another violent beating from the school’s owner, Nickleby thrashes the school’s owner, rescues the boy and runs away. After a night in a cheap boarding house, Nickleby awakes to find Smike hiding in his room, having followed him from the school. Smike kneels to him.
“‘Why do you kneel to me?’ said Nicholas, hastily raising him.
“To go with you---anywhere---everywhere---to the world’s end--to the churchyard grave,” replied Smike, clinging to his hand. “Let me, oh do let me. You are my home---my kind friend--- take me with you, pray.”
…………Charles Dickens, from Nicholas Nickelby (1839)
Chapter I
The Trouble With Boys
(Christmas Eve 1986)
“Trouble me; disturb me with all your cares and your worries.”
Trouble Me
……….As performed by 10,000 Maniacs
The light flurries of the first snow of December in New York City had just begun to change into the predicted snowstorm as the Lenox’s town car pulled up to one of the most fashionable addresses on Central Park West. As the chauffeur opened the back door of the car, Evelyn Lenox appeared in her usual flourish of mink, not bothering to wait for her husband, and pranced regally to the front door to ring the bell. A tall, shapely, blonde woman of about forty opened the door wearing a cobalt-blue cocktail dress with a short ruffled train.
“Annette, Dahling! You look absolutely divine. From the look of those sparklers I’d guess Santa has been good to you. You must have been a very good girl this year,” she said to her hostess with an intentional air of affectation common among her circle of friends, the talent-less wives of ridiculously wealthy men entrenched for generations like the Chanel-robed gargoyles on Fifth Avenue, Central Park West and t
he Upper East Side.
Annette Edgeworth just batted her eyes dramatically in the doorway, exaggeratingly stroking the enormous blue diamonds hanging from her neck and ears. “Yes, Dahling. And you can believe I’ve earned every carat, with Jack leaving his filthy clothes all over the house for eight out of every twelve months and touching me with his dirty hands; you better believe I did,” Annette replied, imitating Evelyn’s voice pattern measure for measure as they gave each other air kisses on each cheek.
“Really dear, you should have added it to your invitations: black tie required, sunglasses recommended,” Evelyn said, and they laughed together as Evelyn dropped her ton of mink on the arm of the brown-skinned maid she didn’t bother to acknowledge before taking Annette’s arm to walk into the marble-columned entry hall, her husband, Oliver Brant Lenox, a smallish graying man old enough to be her father trailing dutifully behind them. “Dior?” Evelyn whispered quietly into Annette’s ear as they strolled.
“Oh, this old rag? Valentino, dear,” Annette replied, and they laughed again.
As the two women walked into the dining room set with a feast befitting the Royal family, Evelyn spied Jack Edgeworth on the opposite side of the room near the set of terrace windows overlooking the park, making hasty greetings to the guests until she reached the windows. “Merry Christmas, Jack,” she said lowering her voice to an almost sultry purr.
“Merry Christmas, Evie,” he said, barely taking his attention from the storm brewing outside. “How nice of you to come. I’m sure Annette is thrilled.” Determined to have all of his attention, Evelyn took Jack’s hand and stood next to him to look out the window, but not before looking down at it to see that it was certainly not dirty, manly and rough, yes, from twenty years of digging in deserts around the world. After all, he was one of the country’s foremost archaeologists, not a crusty old dilettante like Oliver.
She looked up at him to see Jack’s patrician features made rugged from years of working in the sun contrasting against the panels of silver hair at his temples and thought to herself that she would crawl over Annette Edgeworth’s dead body to have him instead of that increasingly decrepit and endlessly tiresome husband of hers, but Jack paid no attention.
Jack only seemed to notice her when he went to look down at his watch and had to make her release his hand. Where is he? He should have been here by now, he thought to himself and went back to staring at the storm rapidly intensifying into a blizzard. After a few minutes, Annette joined them by the window.
“Jack, we do have guests for the evening. Remember?” she said with her hands on her professionally-toned hips, annoyed.
“Yes, dear,” he answered absently, and turned to join the group of twenty or so of her guests, just then beginning to seat themselves around her enormous Louis XIV dining table.
The next time he looked at his watch it was almost fifteen minutes later. Where is he? he thought. That was when the little voice in the back of his mind told him, Something’s wrong, and kept repeating itself to him over and over for the next ten minutes until he knew in his heart it was telling him the truth.
He left the table and went into the kitchen, dialing the servants’ wall phone nervously. When he heard the answering machine pick up, panic welled up inside him. He went back to the table mechanically and excused himself politely to those seated on both sides of him, then headed for the entry hall.
“My overcoat, Mimi, if you don’t mind,” he said in Spanish to the small, brown-skinned woman dressed in the standard black-and-white maid’s uniform.
“Si, Senor Edgeworth. Aqui,” she replied, smiling and nodding as she handed him his black winter overcoat. She always appreciated the fact that he spoke to her respectfully in her own language, unlike Mrs. Edgeworth, who seemed to believe that if she spoke louder in English, her Spanish-speaking maid would understand her better.
“And please tell Mrs. Edgeworth that I’ve gone out and will be back as soon as…” Before he could finish his sentence, he heard Annette’s voice call to him from the other end of the corridor.
“Where are you going?” she asked, as close to rushing as she ever got.
“I have to go out, Annette,” he said hurriedly.
“What could be so important that you would leave your guests and your family to go out on Christmas Eve?” she asked, almost shouting then stopped to think for a second. “You’re going to that boy again aren’t you? You’re leaving me with a house full of guests to go to that…boy.” The distain in her voice made him angry, but Annette didn’t give him time to answer. “I’ve held my tongue until now about him, Jack, but enough is enough. He’s not your problem and he’s certainly not mine. For the life of me, I just don’t understand what kind of hold he has over you.” She paused to think again for a moment, her hands on her hips then raised her head, her eyes aglow with the dawn of an original thought. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? That’s it, isn’t it?” she hissed at him.
He stopped dead in his tracks, shaken by the incredible selfishness of her accusation.
“Why you blistering bitch! The fact that you would even ask me that after twenty years of marriage shows how very little you know me,” he said turning to glare at her, the color of years of restrained fury at allowing himself to be taken for granted by her for so long coming up in his face, “…and after all I’ve done for you: loved you, taken care of you, that’s the best you can come up with? But I guess that’s what it’s always been about for you, what I could do for you, being Mrs. Jack Edgeworth of Park Avenue instead of just my wife. Did you ever love me? I don’t suppose so. Sometimes I wonder if you even have a pulse anymore.”
He stopped then, his little voice speaking to him again, shouting, Something’s terribly wrong. Hurry. Another bolt of urgency shot through him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, pointing his finger at her commandingly, direct, cold, staring her straight in the eye, “…and we’ll talk about this then.”
“Jack,” she said, grabbing his arm. “If you walk out that door now, I’m taking the girls and I’m leaving. I’ve had enough.”
“Well, that goes for the both of us,” he said, yanking his arm away from her roughly. “And as for the girls, you took them away from me the day they were born, spoiling them rotten, teaching them that I was nothing more than a fat wallet held by…dirty hands,” he sneered and walked out the door, slamming it behind him, leaving her with her mouth agape and realizing she’d finally overstepped herself.
Jack Edgeworth was never a man to be threatened…by anyone.
A yellow cab was cruising by just as Jack rushed to the curb, his hand out. The snow was coming down so heavily by then that the driver was going slow enough to pull over right where Jack stood. He jumped in. “A Hundred and Tenth and Fifth, and there’s a fifty in it for you if you hurry. Please hurry. It’s important,” he told the driver, blood coursing wildly in his veins, his little voice repeating over and over, Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, SOMETHING’S VERY TERRIBLY WRONG!
“Yes, sir,” the driver replied and tore off, leaving a shower of muddy snow flying in the air.
As soon as the cab pulled up to the corner of a Hundred and Tenth and Fifth, Jack jumped out, flinging a fifty dollar bill at the driver and shouting “Thanks” back over his shoulder as he ran the two houses down the block to the cheap, five-story, student housing walk-up.
He flew up the front steps three at a time, jamming the buzzer furiously when he reached the top. A short, round, balding man in a gray superintendent’s outfit came to the door, scratching his head sleepily. “What is it?” he groaned as he opened the door.
“I’m Dr. Edgeworth, from the college. Something’s wrong up in 5E. You must know the young man. I may need you to help me get in,” Jack shouted, his panic growing every second as he leapt up the stairs, the building super lagging behind him. “Hurry, man!” Jack yelled back over his shoulder. “It’s an emergency.”
Jack reached the door of 5E first, banging wildly
with his fist, “Mitchell! Mitchell! It’s Dr. Edgeworth. Are you in there? Please let me in!” No response. By then the super was behind him clumsily jangling the ring of keys in his hand. Jack kept banging. “Please, Mitch. Let me in.” Still no response.
In the brief silence that followed, Jack heard strains of music coming from underneath the door, recognizing it immediately, Melanie Woodward’s Christmas song, ‘Poor in New York at Christmas.’
“Oh no, no. Please, my boy, no!” he mumbled to himself, adrenaline shooting though his body like a raging river, his panic peaking into a flood. “Help me, man. Help me. Now!” he shouted at the bewildered super. The two men butted their shoulders against the door and began slamming. The first time it didn’t budge. The second time, it bowed and shook. The third time it burst open, splinters flying everywhere. They were in.
The inside of the tiny college apartment was almost completely dark except for a small table lamp on a desk in the far corner by the window, casting a dim, shadowy light on travel posters of ancient ruins from all over the world. Jack scanned the room looking for some sign of the boy, focusing on the only other light in the room, from underneath the closed bathroom door. “Oh God, no, please, no!” he cried to himself as he threw himself at the bathroom door.
The lightweight, hollow door flew open. Jack’s mind scattered at what he saw, dashing itself in every direction for what to do. Instinctually he leapt to the boy’s body in the water-filled bathtub, unconscious, blood pumping from a deep gash in his right wrist, a puddle of it forming on the white tile floor, an empty pill bottle having rolled a few inches from the outstretched arm.