The Shepherd by Ethan Cross
Publisher: Fiction Std.
Publish Date: March 16, 2011
Paperback, 400 pages
Fiction, Suspense
ISBN: 978-1936558063
Fiction, Suspense
ISBN: 978-1936558063
***My review will come later this week - and this book starts off with a bang and has me entranced so far.***
About Ethan Cross
When a fireman or a policeman would come visit his school, most of
his classmates’ heads would swim with aspirations of growing up and
catching bad guys or saving someone from a blazing inferno. When these
moments came for Ethan Cross, however, his dreams weren’t to someday be a
cop or put out fires; he just wanted to write about it.And his dream of telling stories on a grand scale has come to fruition with the release of his new book, The Shepherd.
Ethan Cross is the pen name of a thriller author living and writing in Illinois with his wife, two daughters, and two Shih Tzus.
For more information about Ethan, you can visit her website at www.ethancross.com
About The Shepherd
Marcus
Williams and Francis Ackerman Jr. both have a talent for hurting people.
Marcus, a former New York City homicide detective, uses his abilities
to protect others, while Ackerman uses his gifts to inflict pain and
suffering. When both men become unwilling pawns in a conspiracy that
reaches to the highest levels of our government, Marcus finds himself in
a deadly game of cat and mouse trapped between a twisted psychopath and
a vigilante with seemingly unlimited resources. Aided by a rogue FBI
agent and the vigilante’s beautiful daughter -a woman with whom he’s
quickly falling in love- Marcus must expose the deadly political
conspiracy and confront his past while hunting down one of the most
cunning and ruthless killers in the world.Book Excerpt
The dream always started the same. With the darkness, came memories
and pain. Every night, Marcus Williams found himself trapped in a
prison without walls. His recollections painted a dark portrait that
didn’t simply reside somewhere deep within his subconscious. He had
seen it with his own eyes. The world of his memories and the setting of
his nightmares had left a stain on his soul and blood on his
hands—neither of which could ever truly be washed away.
Like countless others before him, he had begun his career as a young police officer with a head filled by ideals like justice will prevail and good always triumphs over evil. It didn’t take him long to discover that the old cliché of justice being blind was fairly accurate, and more often than not, evil was better funded than good. He had sat on the outside, looking in on a world fueled more by money and power than by the long-forgotten concepts of honor and virtue.
During his time as a protector of the peace, he witnessed many atrocities. He beheld injustices that consisted not only of the acts that men committed, but also of the punishment, or lack thereof, that they received. He had seen good people, who had committed crimes out of desperation and necessity, sentenced to the harshest degree of the law. By the same token, he witnessed justice turn a blind eye to certain individuals because of the size of their bank account or the amount of power that they wielded.
His time as a caretaker of chaos had left him not only haunted by painful memories, but also plagued by soul-shaking visions that tormented him upon entering the deepest recesses of sleep.
His heart raced as the events of a fateful night from his past played out deep inside his mind. He knew that he was dreaming and that nothing could erase the events recorded forever upon the pages of his memory. The fact that it wasn’t real didn’t make the experience seem any less authentic. He could feel the same chill in the air. He could smell the same scent of the river nearby. And he could hear the same scream that called to him on that night; a scream that his dreams would never allow him to forget.
Through the endurance of countless nights of restless sleep, he had learned that if he focused hard enough and screamed with enough ferocity inside his mind, the echoes from his subconscious triggered a reaction in the conscious side of his brain. Through the act of silently screaming, he could break the chains of sleep and save himself from reliving the painful events of his past.
He awoke alone, drenched in sweat from forehead to rib cage. The clock read 5:15.
He stumbled down the hallway to a room containing the device that would transport him from semi-consciousness to alert coherence. Entering the kitchen, he headed to his trusty coffee pot. Caffeine…every aspiring insomniac’s best friend.
Moving to the living room, he flipped on the television and cycled through the channels. He sat on a folding chair. Unpacked boxes surrounded him. The television and the coffee pot had been the first items to be unboxed.
Only five channels came in clearly, and he found himself forced to choose between a multitude of infomercials or a local news program. Since he had yet to come to the place in his life where he felt the need for knives that could cut through a tin can as easily as a tomato, a boxed set of the greatest country songs from the 60s, or a can of spray-on hair replacement, he switched to Channel Four News.
As he sipped his coffee and watched, an image flashed onto the screen that drew his attention. He was certain that he had never seen the face that stared back at him, but he sensed a vague familiarity in the man’s features that he couldn’t pinpoint. He also recognized something in the man’s eyes that he knew all too well. The man’s gray eyes reflected a hunger that dwelled in the darkest regions of a tainted soul. He saw a raging fire inside the man and knew that neither food nor drink could quench his thirst or appease his never-ceasing appetite. He had seen a similar hunger on a night from his past that he could never remember to forget. He turned up the volume.
“Most recently, Ackerman is believed to be responsible for the brutal murders of three men, including two Colorado State Troopers. But there was an unexpected twist to the story. Ackerman allegedly took one of the men’s family hostage and forced them to play a sadistic game. This is what a representative from the Colorado State Patrol, Major Christian Steinhoff, had to say at a recent press conference.”
The image cut to a man at a podium who expounded upon the details of the incident with the family, describing the miraculous survival of one of the victims, a woman named Emily Morgan. A picture of the woman flashed onto the screen. Her pale features seemed luminescent.
“Francis Ackerman Jr. is considered armed and highly dangerous. He is believed to be responsible for the brutal slayings of an undetermined number of men and women since his recent escape from a mental institution in Michigan and is wanted for questioning in several other ongoing criminal investigations. In an interview yesterday afternoon, a representative from the Dimmit County Sheriff’s Department told one of our reporters, Julian Harms, that this man will likely be remembered as one of the most prolific serial killers in U.S. history… In other news, presidential candidate and front runner, Paul Phillips, will be speaking in San Antonio…”
In the last moment before politics replaced the killer’s image, Marcus felt frightened and yet curious in regard to the killer from the TV. What could drive a man to commit such terrible acts? He realized that the world was a vast sea of infinite possibilities. Any number of circumstances could account for an ordinary man’s departure from the world of the mentally stable and socially acceptable into the realm of the criminally insane.
He considered that—sometime in the not too distant future—a scientist might discover that the root of all serial killers and violent offenders did not stem from a connection with an abused childhood or dark suggestion from the realm below. Perhaps, the root of insanity was actually yellow dye number five or red dye number forty, either of which could be found in the common Twinkie.
The concept of Insanity by Reason of Twinkie brought a smile to his face and allowed him to stop thinking about the killer from the TV and, if only for a few precious seconds, the dark deeds of his own past.
Like countless others before him, he had begun his career as a young police officer with a head filled by ideals like justice will prevail and good always triumphs over evil. It didn’t take him long to discover that the old cliché of justice being blind was fairly accurate, and more often than not, evil was better funded than good. He had sat on the outside, looking in on a world fueled more by money and power than by the long-forgotten concepts of honor and virtue.
During his time as a protector of the peace, he witnessed many atrocities. He beheld injustices that consisted not only of the acts that men committed, but also of the punishment, or lack thereof, that they received. He had seen good people, who had committed crimes out of desperation and necessity, sentenced to the harshest degree of the law. By the same token, he witnessed justice turn a blind eye to certain individuals because of the size of their bank account or the amount of power that they wielded.
His time as a caretaker of chaos had left him not only haunted by painful memories, but also plagued by soul-shaking visions that tormented him upon entering the deepest recesses of sleep.
His heart raced as the events of a fateful night from his past played out deep inside his mind. He knew that he was dreaming and that nothing could erase the events recorded forever upon the pages of his memory. The fact that it wasn’t real didn’t make the experience seem any less authentic. He could feel the same chill in the air. He could smell the same scent of the river nearby. And he could hear the same scream that called to him on that night; a scream that his dreams would never allow him to forget.
Through the endurance of countless nights of restless sleep, he had learned that if he focused hard enough and screamed with enough ferocity inside his mind, the echoes from his subconscious triggered a reaction in the conscious side of his brain. Through the act of silently screaming, he could break the chains of sleep and save himself from reliving the painful events of his past.
He awoke alone, drenched in sweat from forehead to rib cage. The clock read 5:15.
He stumbled down the hallway to a room containing the device that would transport him from semi-consciousness to alert coherence. Entering the kitchen, he headed to his trusty coffee pot. Caffeine…every aspiring insomniac’s best friend.
Moving to the living room, he flipped on the television and cycled through the channels. He sat on a folding chair. Unpacked boxes surrounded him. The television and the coffee pot had been the first items to be unboxed.
Only five channels came in clearly, and he found himself forced to choose between a multitude of infomercials or a local news program. Since he had yet to come to the place in his life where he felt the need for knives that could cut through a tin can as easily as a tomato, a boxed set of the greatest country songs from the 60s, or a can of spray-on hair replacement, he switched to Channel Four News.
As he sipped his coffee and watched, an image flashed onto the screen that drew his attention. He was certain that he had never seen the face that stared back at him, but he sensed a vague familiarity in the man’s features that he couldn’t pinpoint. He also recognized something in the man’s eyes that he knew all too well. The man’s gray eyes reflected a hunger that dwelled in the darkest regions of a tainted soul. He saw a raging fire inside the man and knew that neither food nor drink could quench his thirst or appease his never-ceasing appetite. He had seen a similar hunger on a night from his past that he could never remember to forget. He turned up the volume.
“Most recently, Ackerman is believed to be responsible for the brutal murders of three men, including two Colorado State Troopers. But there was an unexpected twist to the story. Ackerman allegedly took one of the men’s family hostage and forced them to play a sadistic game. This is what a representative from the Colorado State Patrol, Major Christian Steinhoff, had to say at a recent press conference.”
The image cut to a man at a podium who expounded upon the details of the incident with the family, describing the miraculous survival of one of the victims, a woman named Emily Morgan. A picture of the woman flashed onto the screen. Her pale features seemed luminescent.
“Francis Ackerman Jr. is considered armed and highly dangerous. He is believed to be responsible for the brutal slayings of an undetermined number of men and women since his recent escape from a mental institution in Michigan and is wanted for questioning in several other ongoing criminal investigations. In an interview yesterday afternoon, a representative from the Dimmit County Sheriff’s Department told one of our reporters, Julian Harms, that this man will likely be remembered as one of the most prolific serial killers in U.S. history… In other news, presidential candidate and front runner, Paul Phillips, will be speaking in San Antonio…”
In the last moment before politics replaced the killer’s image, Marcus felt frightened and yet curious in regard to the killer from the TV. What could drive a man to commit such terrible acts? He realized that the world was a vast sea of infinite possibilities. Any number of circumstances could account for an ordinary man’s departure from the world of the mentally stable and socially acceptable into the realm of the criminally insane.
He considered that—sometime in the not too distant future—a scientist might discover that the root of all serial killers and violent offenders did not stem from a connection with an abused childhood or dark suggestion from the realm below. Perhaps, the root of insanity was actually yellow dye number five or red dye number forty, either of which could be found in the common Twinkie.
The concept of Insanity by Reason of Twinkie brought a smile to his face and allowed him to stop thinking about the killer from the TV and, if only for a few precious seconds, the dark deeds of his own past.
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