Monday, November 14, 2016

A tidbit of terror from "A Doorway to Murder."

For our second treat of the day, I have the pleasure of introducing what looks like a great thriller, A Doorway to Murder.  Carol Pouliot has provided me with an excerpt so you can see what I mean.  As usual, thanks go to Loving the Book for the chance to participate in this  blog tour.

 Secrets lurk in a small New York town and betrayal is just around the corner. The morning after the worst blizzard of 1934, Detective Steven Blackwell takes on a highly charged murder case. The investigation starts badly: one clue, lots of lies and alibis. To make things worse, Steven is seeing visions of a woman in his house.

One night, she speaks. Her name is Olivia Watson and she lives in 2014. She believes time has folded over in the house they share. As their relationship deepens, Steven’s investigation intensifies. Soon he can no longer trust anyone in his own time. Can Olivia help crack the case—and catch a killer?

Chapter 2
The man bent forward Sisyphus-like, struggling to plow through snowdrifts already up to his knees. He was a big bear of a man bundled up in a heavy brown overcoat and woolen hat, with a long scarf wrapped around his neck and face. Thick flakes stuck to his lashes. He could barely see where he was going; but he knew if he stopped, the blizzard would bury him. He pressed on, stumbled, nearly fell into the street—it was impossible to tell where the sidewalk ended and the road began. Not that it mattered. Nothing was moving.  
                The clock in the tower struck two. Its knell echoed through the streets mingling with the howling wind.
How much further? I could still turn back.
But he didn’t.
As he fought his way down what he hoped was the Margate Road, a moonbeam reached around a cloud, striping the path before him, illuminating the way. He was on the right track. After what seemed like hours, he reached his destination and paused to catch his breath. Listening and looking around to make sure he was still alone, he turned into the alley behind the First National Bank and Trust Company.
The man took a key from the depths of his pocket and fit it into the opening. He closed the door behind him but left it unlocked. He moved to the side and quickly turned off the alarm. In near darkness, he made his way from memory to the large, walk-in vault. He flipped the switch on his lantern. Shadows leaped up on the walls and snaked across the ceiling.
In the dim light he squinted at the numbers. He pulled off his dripping hat and shoved it in his pocket, then wiped the melting snow out of his eyes. He spun the dial ten to the left, eighteen to the right, back to the left four marks. Click. He heaved the door open and entered. He unsnapped the lock on his satchel and began stuffing in bills.
As he attempted to close the over-filled bag, he heard a scraping in the hall. He froze, cocked his head to listen, but, before he could react, someone flew at him. With lightning speed, the attacker hit him hard. The man dropped like a stone, dead before his head hit the floor.

The assailant filled his own bag, took his weapon and, leaving his victim crumpled on the smooth cold floor, closed the vault. He spun the dial and moments later walked out through the bank's rear exit, pulling the door tightly shut. 

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