Cranked (The Rose Garden Arena Incident, Book 6)

Contents

Introduction

Previously in Rose Garden

Wednesday, April 7

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Thursday, April 8

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Friday, April 9

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Coming Up Next

Book 7: Swan Song (Finalé)

Sneak Preview

Acknowledgments

About Michael Hiebert

CRANKED

(THE ROSE GARDEN ARENA INCIDENT, BOOK 6)

Copyright © 2017 by Michael Hiebert.

All rights reserved.

Published by Dangerbooks, British Columbia, Canada.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblances to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Edited by Dawn James Walker

Book and cover design by www.professionalindie.com.

Cover image © Rommel Canlas

ISBN-13: 978-1-927600-16-0

ISBN-10: 1-927600-16-2

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dangerbooks Smashwords Edition

First Printing, March 2017.

RG6-022

Also by Michael Hiebert

Sometimes the Angels Weep—Short Fiction

Nashville Beaumont (and The Hyperbole Engine)

DOLLS

Alvin, Alabama Mystery Novels

Dream with Little Angels

Close to the Broken Hearted

A Thorn Among the Lilies

Sticks and Stones

Previously in The Rose Garden Arena Incident

Mosh Pit

Media Frenzy

80 Proof

Ballads

Stalker Fan

Introduction

WRITERS THESE DAYS ARE thrown into two categories: planners and pantsers. The planners outline their stories before they write them, breaking the story down into broad strokes so they can fiddle with and figure out any major problems in advance. Then, when it comes time to write, they more or less stick to their general outline. That outline may be vague or very detailed. Different planners work in different ways. Those times I outline, I rarely do it the same way twice. Some books call for serious planning and others gain spontaneity from letting more of the story develop organically between the major plot points. Pantsers are called pantsers because they refuse to plan ahead. They fly by the seat of their pants. This can be a scary way to write, although it is often an exciting way to write as well. Not knowing what’s going to happen in the next four pages leaves lots of room for apparently random ideas to gel and coalesce in the manuscript, but it also leaves a huge margin for carpet-bombed devastation when your story basically crumbles to goat dung right before your eyes. With short stories, I am generally a pantser. You can afford to be when you’re only investing in seven– to ten–thousand words. If you mess it up, that’s not so bad. You only wasted maybe a week. With novels, I usually have at least some idea of where I’m going laid out before I start the actual writing. It may just be two pages of bullet points, but at least I have a slight feel for the territory. And in the far majority of the times, I have a pretty clear picture in my head of the beginning and the end.

The Rose Garden Arena Incident is the biggest book I’ve ever written and one would probably think it would help to work out the intricate plot lines ahead of time, especially in a work such as this where all the different subplots weave in and out of each other in a crazy complex orchestration of story. And one would probably be right.

But that’s not how I did it.

I pantsed the whole freaking thing.

When I write short stories, I call it throwing a bunch of balls in the air and then figuring out how to catch them. Each ball is a different plot element. Over the course of seven– to ten–thousand words, you can toss three, maybe even four, things out there and manage to figure out a way to resolve them by the end. On lucky days, they all resolve somewhat together and ultimately develop some deeper meaning you didn’t initially see. On unlucky days, the story becomes pretty uneven and moves rather jerkily through a segmented arc.

With Rose Garden, I can’t even count the number of balls I had flying by the time we hit the third installment. And as far as each storyline colliding with the others, I have no idea how I managed to even keep the train on the tracks. It was like the story just took over the job of writing, and I simply typed as fast as I could to keep up. Like I said, pantsing can be scary. With this book, it’s been downright terrifying.

But here we are at book six, the double-sized penultimate installment of our series, and I’m starting to trust that the story knows where it’s going. I’ve got one more to write to bring everything to a close, and I’m starting to think the balls are all going to wind up being caught in a way that ties everything together and naturally takes on that greater meaning that comes with identifying similar themes and structures. Not that I want to jinx anything. I’m still another forty– to forty–five thousand words away from the finish line and there’s still a lot of room for error, but I can also see some light in yonder tunnel. Time will tell if it’s the vast expanse of the other side, or the deadly white eye of the train.

Whatever happens, I will say right here that I am proud of this book. This is me playing at my best. Nothing I’ve ever written, in my opinion, comes close to this work. I only hope I haven’t set the bar so high that everything from here on in slides frustratingly downhill. In a perfect world, The Rose Garden Arena Incident marks a shift in my craftsmanship; the point where I break through to the next level. I feel like a different writer after all this. I have a trust in the process I never had before. I think I’ve matured as a wordsmith and hopefully this maturity will continue into my future projects. I mean, it has to, doesn’t it? Isn’t that how life works—that every success is the foundation toward new success and every fallback is a lesson that allows you to become better? And all along the way, the stakes get raised and the pile of chips in the middle of the table continues to grow? It’s certainly how story works and, in my experience, life follows art far more than the other way around.

At any rate, I’m forty-nine years old. I spent most of this forty-ninth year writing this book. I don’t plan to eject myself from this flight any time soon, so I’m going to assume Rose Garden marks my move into the majors. Up until this point, I’ve been playing everything from T-ball to varsity.

Now it’s time to go up against the big boys.

I’m all in.

And with that, it’s time to get Cranked . . .

Michael Hiebert

December 2016

British Columbia, Canada

Previously in Rose Garden

MARSHALL CONTINUES HIS VIGIL, waiting for his friend Reggie Hines and thinking the worst possible things must’ve happened to him. Otherwise why wouldn’t he be here in Portland? Reggie’s always kept his word with Marshall, even those times it seemed like he wasn’t there, Marshall knows now he always was. He just wasn’t always visible. But he was always there, including those really bad years right after Marshall’s momma and baby sister got shot. So why isn’t he here now? And the part that really has Marshall upset is that it’s not even just him who’s worried anymore. Reggie’s Uncle Joe and Aunt Fanny—the people Reggie arranged for Marshall to live with when he came to Portland—are also worried, and that scares Marshall almost to death. He really, really hopes his friend Reggie is okay.

Turns out, Reggie is less than okay. A few days ago, he was abducted by a gang member he knew back in St. Louis named Jonesy who worked for a really bad guy named Davy. Davy is the one responsible for the drive by shooting that killed not only Reggie’s friend Keef—who actually worked for Davy—but also inadvertently killed Marshall’s momma and baby sister in the process. Reggie himself never worked for Davy. Nor has Reggie ever been in a gang. The only thing he’s guilty of is guilt by association, but that doesn’t mean shit to Jonesy, who is convinced that Reggie and he crossed paths because Davy sent Reggie after him. For what, Reggie has no clue. He barely knows Jonesy. He doesn’t even know the guy’s last name. For all he does know, it could be Jonesy.

All Reggie does know is that the man is crazy and that crazy’s being fueled by what appears to be a non-stop smorgasbord of crystal meth and whiskey.

Life has been kind of exciting since Reggie ran into Jonesy. The man has shot two people in cold blood right before Reggie’s eyes. Then he stole all the booze and smokes he could find from the truck stop where the murders took place. He then duct-taped Reggie to the passenger seat of his truck before pulling over to the side of the interstate and knocking Reggie unconscious after repeated blows to Reggie’s head with the butt of his pistol. When Reggie woke up, he was duct-taped to a wooden chair in some room somewhere near the sea. This is where he’s remained ever since. Jonesy shows no signs of letting Reggie go anytime soon, but this doesn’t bother Reggie so much. What does bother him is that he knows Marshall, the kid he’s sort of taken under his wing since Marshall lost his family in that drive by, is worried and waiting at his home in Portland, and he’s also slightly bothered by the secret thing Jonesy apparently has tucked under his bed. Even though Jonesy is a few bricks short of building a house that would keep out any wolves, the thing under the bed is an unknown and Reggie’s learned to be cautious when it comes to unknowns.

Tony and Dawn Benedetti’s relationship has been pulled tighter than usual lately, but Dawn figures it’s probably natural with her being pregnant. You change when you’re pregnant. She doesn’t exactly agree with her husband’s reasoning about it all being due to her hormones, but she does agree things aren’t exactly perfect right now. Hopefully, it will all go back to normal after she has their son. At least that’s what she’s hoping the baby will turn out to be—a boy. She’s due for an ultrasound. She’s hoping to find out once and for all if she’ll get her wish. Well, at least one of her wishes. She has two big ones right now: the gender of the baby, and a wish that her husband would take a break every so often from playing detective and give more of his time to her.

But Detective Benedetti is up to his armpits with work right now. He and his partner, Detective Dennis Martin, are working on a double homicide case. There’s not much evidence, other than a grainy video from an old security camera. While watching the tape, however, Benedetti spots a frame where the license plate of the assailant’s vehicle reflects in the store window. He asks the tech guy at the station to clean it up as best he can, but even after that it’s still far too grainy to get a reading. They need better video equipment if they want even a chance at deciphering the tags, so Benedetti asks Martin to make a call down to his old friends in California, the ones he worked with back when he was LAPD. Only, Martin is reluctant to call because of the events that led up to his eventual leaving of California that brought him north here to Portland with a souvenir scar down the side of his abdomen constantly reminding him of why he left Los Angeles.

Then there’s the small matter of a missing person report Martin took on the phone a few days back, regarding someone named Reggie Hines. Apparently, he was driving west to Portland from East St. Louis and the caller, one Joe Hines, said he had expected him to have shown hours before he called the station. Martin had laughed at this. Nobody could drive that distance in the time frame Hines gave him, but again, that was days ago. Martin’s not sure what the status of this Reggie person is now because not only has the case he and Benedetti been put on obscured the missing person report completely, he had forgotten to even enter