Law and Order, page 21
His answer was enough to start whispers of “no way, this has to be a movie going on” and “freak show come to town,” running through the air like an electric current, and when Angela drove up and got out to stand beside him, mass panic broke out with the crowd dispersing in every direction. “I have that effect on people,” she murmured, while Paul stifled a laugh.
The mood turned serious when Commissioner Masters emerged from the building with six armed officers in tow. They carried weapons that suspiciously resembled modified Spear Pistols, and the sun glinted off their barrels, blinding some of the passersby. “You and your kind usually come out at night,” Masters said.
“I need a little color,” Angela replied, which earned her a laugh from the civilians who’d decided to stay. They had their cellphones out and were snapping away, determined to get the first up close and personal shots of the real Nightmare Crew and not the imposters—or so they clearly hoped.
Out of the corner of his eye, Paul spotted two news crews pulling up in their vans. They got out, cameras rolling, and Masters put on his best sneer. “So you do, young lady, so you do… That is, if you are a young lady.”
“What else would I be?” she asked.
“What else would you be?” he retorted. “You’re a monster, and I’ve had my fill of you and your kind for the moment.”
The answer stunned her, and a snarl formed around her lips. She started forward, but Paul put his hand out to stop her, as the commissioner’s men were fingering their weapons. At this range, they couldn’t miss.
Instead, he decided to fire back with a salvo of his own. “You said on the news that you wanted to see us face-to-face to tell us what you were going to do,” he said. “So start talking. If you don’t, I’ve got another story the press might want to hear.”
Masters’ face got a look of uncertainty on it. After a moment, he nodded and said to his men, “Stand down.”
They obeyed, and he waved his hand toward the building. “Come inside.”
Following him in, he led them through the lobby, where cops and crooks alike congregated, then up to the second floor. Shocked faces were the de rigueur look, but Paul ignored them. Glancing out of the corner of his eye at his girlfriend, he saw that she held her head high and proud.
Masters stepped over to the first door on his left, opened it then ushered them inside. It was cooler in here, and he took a seat behind a large maple wood desk. A laptop, a few empty Styrofoam coffee cups and some papers sat on the desk and nothing more.
While Paul and Angela stood before the desk, Masters reclined in his chair like some erstwhile potentate. He wore the smile of a man who had the world at his feet. “I could have you arrested—right now—then imprisoned. What do you hope to gain from coming here?”
Since leaving home, Paul had been counting the minutes and by his estimation, the time was now. “I’m going to suggest you turn on your computer and check for an email,” he said. “You’re going to want to see this. Don’t bother searching for an IP address. It’s been rerouted.”
Masters gave a snort of derision, but turned on his laptop. A look of disdain crossed his face, but a few seconds later, it faded as he opened the mail Ooze had sent. Now bewilderment covered every line and crack and crevice around his eyes and mouth, and a shadow of doubt crept in. “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“No joke,” replied Angela with a triumphant tone lacing both words. “Check the numbers and your bank account. We can make this public. We have the information stored on a number of discs. It’s an election year, remember?”
Now Masters’ face turned ashen, and he looked to be on the verge of having a stroke as his lips began to tremble. A tic formed over his right eye, and he put his hand up to massage it away. “What… What do you want?”
Paul leaned over to stare straight at him. “We want to be left alone. No charges against us. We want our freedom to go and help out anyone who needs help. That’s all. If you try to stop us, guess who gets the info?”
Going over to the door, he opened it. “We’re leaving now.”
Angela tossed off a parting shot. “But we’ll be watching. Think about it.”
They walked outside, leaving the shaking and fallen man behind. Emerging into the bright sunlight, they found the news crews waiting for them, microphones at the ready. “Uh, guys,” one of the reporters began, “what are your names?”
“I’m Paul, and this is Angela,” Paul said, feeling slightly ridiculous at using his name. He’d considered some kind of superhero name, but right now he couldn’t think of one. “It’s Paul Wiseman, actually. She doesn’t have a last name. We’re part of the Nightmare Crew, and we’re here to help.”
More questions came their way, and he did his best to answer them. When he couldn’t, Angela picked up on his words. They answered honestly and simply. It was the best policy. “We’re just like you,” he said. “Just… We’re a little different is all. But we are here to help, and the police are going to back us. You can talk to Commissioner Masters. He’ll tell you.”
At least, Paul hoped the commissioner would do the right thing for once in his career. They had enough damning evidence on him to put him away for the next thirty years. He’d play ball.
Taking Angela’s hand, he walked her through the crowd and back to the van. Everyone kept yelling questions, but he’d answer them later. For now, he simply wanted to go home and sleep. It had been a long two weeks, and his personal nightmare was just about over.
Angela started up the engine. “So, what do we do now?”
He shrugged. “Take a nap, watch television and hunt for food.”
As they drove off, she began to chuckle. “Yeah, back to the mundane life for us.” Abruptly, her laughter faded, and she swiveled her head around. “Actually, I thought we could go on patrol tonight.”
“We could do that.”
“And after,” she continued, driving steadily, “there’s a certain Goth club I’d love to try out.”
He had two left feet, but no way was he going to pass up a date with her. “Sounds like a lot of laughs,” he answered, trying to keep a straight face. “And what happens after that?”
In a flash, she pulled the van over to the side of the road and killed the engine. “This,” she said, and launched herself into his arms. “It’s your birthday today. Don’t you remember?”
No, in all the confusion he’d forgotten it, but this made up for a lot. Her lips were warm and moist, and it had been a long time since he’d kissed her. Really, even holding her meant everything, and he figured looking like an inept clod on the dance floor would be worth it. Everything would have to wait. Tonight was theirs, and that was all that really mattered—at least for now.
Also available from Finch Books:
The Menagerie
J.S. Frankel
Excerpt
Chapter One
Memories of days past
Karen Fox rubbed her right leg—the bad one—sighed, and figured that she might as well get out of bed. Hospital beds weren’t all that comfortable, so she turned over onto her left side, slid out of bed and stood up. She gripped the cool tiles with her toes while she teetered unsteadily for a moment. Once she regained her balance, she limped over to the window. Scents of summer—fir and pine trees, hollyhocks and azaleas—drifted in through the window along with the sounds of shouting. She muttered, “It would be a nice day today.”
Today was the middle of July, the time was around noon, and although the Portland weather was hot and dry, a cool breeze swirled around her. It was different from the air conditioner. It was natural and pleasant, whereas the air-conditioning unit put out a steady stream of dry air that made her cough. Pleasant or not, it didn’t matter. Instead, she shifted her gaze to the sky and prayed for rain.
Since being brought here roughly two months ago, Karen had grown to despise sunny days and hate the summer season. What she hated more than anything was the idea of people going around in shorts and tank tops and riding bikes and everything else sixteen-year-old kids did when they were fully capable.
Now, all the fun of life had been taken away and she just wished—selfishly so—for it to rain and dampen everyone else’s fun. Let Mother Nature do her worst and not just rain but storm. Bring on a flood, a volcanic explosion or something else equally dire. If she couldn’t enjoy life, why should they?
“Don’t be selfish,” she whispered a second later, and took back her wish. Thinking about it, it was just plain mean. Even if life didn’t work the way she wanted it to, she couldn’t go around blaming anyone for what had happened. Part of her said that it would be fun. Everyone deserved a little misery in their lives. However, the other part, the rational and decent part, said no.
“Hey, what’s up, Megan?”
The question floated up to Karen’s position, and she followed the source. There, a few people she knew from her school rode by and she moved away from the window, flattening her back against the wall. Doubtful they saw her, as she was on the second floor, and who looked up while riding along, anyway?
After sneaking a peek, she saw their bicycles disappear down the road and breathed a faint sigh of relief. The breeze blew some strands of her long, dirty blonde hair around her face and she brushed them away with an impatient flick of her hand.
Letting out a series of grunts as she moved back to the bed, she winced with every step. The accident had been a bad one. She’d been in the back seat of her father’s car, enjoying the ride and then…then the bright light had come from the onrushing car. She’d heard her mother screaming, her father yelling “Get down!” and the sound of metal being crushed…
* * * *
May fifteenth, two months ago
“You’ve had an accident,” one of the nurses told her in a kindly voice. A middle-aged woman, heavy with a tangle of dyed black hair, she wore a strained smile.
“What happened?”
Karen’s first words…accident victims always said that, didn’t they? This had been her first real accident. Biking and running and roller skating had always been part of her life. Bruised knees and elbows came with it, but now, this was major, so she asked the obvious question.
The lights in the room were dim and shadows lurked in every corner. Moonlight came through the drawn shades. A smell of antiseptic hung in the cool air and stabs of pain lanced through every fiber of her being. Her right leg hurt and had a heavy cast on it, suspended by a sling that hung from a support bar attached to the bed. Thick bandages had been wrapped around her right forearm. An intravenous tube ran from a bag in an overhead support and fed into the vein in her right arm.
She didn’t take much note of that, though. Instead, she focused on the pain. Her right cheek hurt monstrously, and bringing her good arm up to feel her face, her fingers encountered more bandages.
“You were in a car accident,” the nurse gravely intoned. “You don’t remember it, do you?”
“Not much,” said Karen, struggling to think. “Where are my parents?”
“I’m sorry.”
Just two words, but they carried a lot of meaning, and the meaning knifed into Karen’s head with all the immediacy of a thunderbolt. A second later, the tears began. “I want to see them,” she sobbed out. “Where are they?”
As she struggled to get off the bed, the nurse gently pushed her back and said, somewhat reluctantly, “They’re…in the morgue. You just had an operation and you need to rest.”
“I want to see them!” Karen screamed and once more tried to get up, lashing out with her good arm. Her fist connected with the nurse’s cheek. She heard the nurse grunt then another nurse ran in, a needle at the ready. Karen felt it stab her arm then…nothing.
Waking up the next day, pain still there but somewhat more manageable, Karen noticed the sun streaming in and she felt a little stronger. The nurse whom she’d belted walked in with a massive bruise on her cheek, but a professional smile in place. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.” Karen nodded and mentally steeled herself for what she was going to ask and what she had to see. “I’m sorry about hitting you.”
The nurse inclined her head slightly. “You were upset. I understand.”
It was good that someone understood. “Can I…see my parents now?” Karen asked in a faint voice.
“I’ll get the doctor.”
Long story short, the doctor—a reed-thin man somewhere in his fifties—took her in a wheelchair down to the morgue. Along the way, he said that his name was Doctor Jensen. She had to be strong. There was nothing that anyone could have done, and once she saw the words Hospital Mortuary, she choked up and began to sob once more.
There they lay on separate tables. Karen’s tears fell faster when she saw the bodies of her parents lying still and quiet, cried some more as she touched her mother’s face and begged her to wake up, all the while knowing that her mother would never wake again, then the doctor wheeled her back to her room. There, the nurse helped her into bed.
“What happened?” Karen asked after she’d semi-composed herself.
“You had a very bad accident,” Doctor Jensen said, taking a chair and sitting next to the bed. “Your right leg was shattered, and we’re worried that there might be some nerve damage. We’re not sure yet. You have major abrasions on your right forearm, and you might have a slight concussion. You also lost a lot of blood. Things were touch-and-go for a while, but we got you back.”
Facts given and manner grave, he got up from the chair and delivered his prognosis. “You’re young. You’ll heal. In time, you’ll be capable of doing most things.”
Going over to the door, he turned back with a somber expression on his face. “I’m truly sorry about your parents.”
With that, he walked out, and feeling totally bereft, Karen began to cry all over again. Capable, she’d be capable of doing most things, the doctor had said.
Capable…she hated that word. It implied that if one was not capable, then they were no one. She suspected that in spite of all the rehab they had planned, in spite of all the water walking and weight training to come, in spite of all that and the fact that she was young, she wouldn’t be all that capable.
A couple of days later, she got the details from the police, and they placed the blame squarely on the young driver who’d decided to get drunk, hop in his car and cruise at a hundred miles per hour down the highway. “He got drunk. He went too fast, and he lost control,” said the policeman, who came in to fill in the missing pieces.
That was it, eleven words summing up the death of her parents. Blame it on the same kind of moron who decided to speed up, like he was thinking, “I can handle it!” and stepped on the accelerator, jumped the concrete divider, and slammed into her parents’ car at high speed, killing them in a flash, just like that, and trapping her in the back seat, her right leg crushed and broken into something resembling a jigsaw puzzle…
Order your copy here
About the Author
J.S. Frankel was born in Toronto, Canada, a good number of years ago and managed to scrape through the University of Toronto with a BA in English Literature. In 1988 he moved to Japan and started teaching ESL to anyone who would listen to him. In 1997, he married the charming Akiko Koike and their union produced two sons, Kai and Ray. J.S. Frankel makes his home in Osaka where he teaches English by day and writes by night until the wee hours of the morning.
Email: jesssfrankel@gmail.com
J.S. Frankel loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.finch-books.com.
Also by J.S. Frankel
The Menagerie
The Nightmare Crew: Beginnings
J.S. Frankel, Law and Order
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The mood turned serious when Commissioner Masters emerged from the building with six armed officers in tow. They carried weapons that suspiciously resembled modified Spear Pistols, and the sun glinted off their barrels, blinding some of the passersby. “You and your kind usually come out at night,” Masters said.
“I need a little color,” Angela replied, which earned her a laugh from the civilians who’d decided to stay. They had their cellphones out and were snapping away, determined to get the first up close and personal shots of the real Nightmare Crew and not the imposters—or so they clearly hoped.
Out of the corner of his eye, Paul spotted two news crews pulling up in their vans. They got out, cameras rolling, and Masters put on his best sneer. “So you do, young lady, so you do… That is, if you are a young lady.”
“What else would I be?” she asked.
“What else would you be?” he retorted. “You’re a monster, and I’ve had my fill of you and your kind for the moment.”
The answer stunned her, and a snarl formed around her lips. She started forward, but Paul put his hand out to stop her, as the commissioner’s men were fingering their weapons. At this range, they couldn’t miss.
Instead, he decided to fire back with a salvo of his own. “You said on the news that you wanted to see us face-to-face to tell us what you were going to do,” he said. “So start talking. If you don’t, I’ve got another story the press might want to hear.”
Masters’ face got a look of uncertainty on it. After a moment, he nodded and said to his men, “Stand down.”
They obeyed, and he waved his hand toward the building. “Come inside.”
Following him in, he led them through the lobby, where cops and crooks alike congregated, then up to the second floor. Shocked faces were the de rigueur look, but Paul ignored them. Glancing out of the corner of his eye at his girlfriend, he saw that she held her head high and proud.
Masters stepped over to the first door on his left, opened it then ushered them inside. It was cooler in here, and he took a seat behind a large maple wood desk. A laptop, a few empty Styrofoam coffee cups and some papers sat on the desk and nothing more.
While Paul and Angela stood before the desk, Masters reclined in his chair like some erstwhile potentate. He wore the smile of a man who had the world at his feet. “I could have you arrested—right now—then imprisoned. What do you hope to gain from coming here?”
Since leaving home, Paul had been counting the minutes and by his estimation, the time was now. “I’m going to suggest you turn on your computer and check for an email,” he said. “You’re going to want to see this. Don’t bother searching for an IP address. It’s been rerouted.”
Masters gave a snort of derision, but turned on his laptop. A look of disdain crossed his face, but a few seconds later, it faded as he opened the mail Ooze had sent. Now bewilderment covered every line and crack and crevice around his eyes and mouth, and a shadow of doubt crept in. “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“No joke,” replied Angela with a triumphant tone lacing both words. “Check the numbers and your bank account. We can make this public. We have the information stored on a number of discs. It’s an election year, remember?”
Now Masters’ face turned ashen, and he looked to be on the verge of having a stroke as his lips began to tremble. A tic formed over his right eye, and he put his hand up to massage it away. “What… What do you want?”
Paul leaned over to stare straight at him. “We want to be left alone. No charges against us. We want our freedom to go and help out anyone who needs help. That’s all. If you try to stop us, guess who gets the info?”
Going over to the door, he opened it. “We’re leaving now.”
Angela tossed off a parting shot. “But we’ll be watching. Think about it.”
They walked outside, leaving the shaking and fallen man behind. Emerging into the bright sunlight, they found the news crews waiting for them, microphones at the ready. “Uh, guys,” one of the reporters began, “what are your names?”
“I’m Paul, and this is Angela,” Paul said, feeling slightly ridiculous at using his name. He’d considered some kind of superhero name, but right now he couldn’t think of one. “It’s Paul Wiseman, actually. She doesn’t have a last name. We’re part of the Nightmare Crew, and we’re here to help.”
More questions came their way, and he did his best to answer them. When he couldn’t, Angela picked up on his words. They answered honestly and simply. It was the best policy. “We’re just like you,” he said. “Just… We’re a little different is all. But we are here to help, and the police are going to back us. You can talk to Commissioner Masters. He’ll tell you.”
At least, Paul hoped the commissioner would do the right thing for once in his career. They had enough damning evidence on him to put him away for the next thirty years. He’d play ball.
Taking Angela’s hand, he walked her through the crowd and back to the van. Everyone kept yelling questions, but he’d answer them later. For now, he simply wanted to go home and sleep. It had been a long two weeks, and his personal nightmare was just about over.
Angela started up the engine. “So, what do we do now?”
He shrugged. “Take a nap, watch television and hunt for food.”
As they drove off, she began to chuckle. “Yeah, back to the mundane life for us.” Abruptly, her laughter faded, and she swiveled her head around. “Actually, I thought we could go on patrol tonight.”
“We could do that.”
“And after,” she continued, driving steadily, “there’s a certain Goth club I’d love to try out.”
He had two left feet, but no way was he going to pass up a date with her. “Sounds like a lot of laughs,” he answered, trying to keep a straight face. “And what happens after that?”
In a flash, she pulled the van over to the side of the road and killed the engine. “This,” she said, and launched herself into his arms. “It’s your birthday today. Don’t you remember?”
No, in all the confusion he’d forgotten it, but this made up for a lot. Her lips were warm and moist, and it had been a long time since he’d kissed her. Really, even holding her meant everything, and he figured looking like an inept clod on the dance floor would be worth it. Everything would have to wait. Tonight was theirs, and that was all that really mattered—at least for now.
Also available from Finch Books:
The Menagerie
J.S. Frankel
Excerpt
Chapter One
Memories of days past
Karen Fox rubbed her right leg—the bad one—sighed, and figured that she might as well get out of bed. Hospital beds weren’t all that comfortable, so she turned over onto her left side, slid out of bed and stood up. She gripped the cool tiles with her toes while she teetered unsteadily for a moment. Once she regained her balance, she limped over to the window. Scents of summer—fir and pine trees, hollyhocks and azaleas—drifted in through the window along with the sounds of shouting. She muttered, “It would be a nice day today.”
Today was the middle of July, the time was around noon, and although the Portland weather was hot and dry, a cool breeze swirled around her. It was different from the air conditioner. It was natural and pleasant, whereas the air-conditioning unit put out a steady stream of dry air that made her cough. Pleasant or not, it didn’t matter. Instead, she shifted her gaze to the sky and prayed for rain.
Since being brought here roughly two months ago, Karen had grown to despise sunny days and hate the summer season. What she hated more than anything was the idea of people going around in shorts and tank tops and riding bikes and everything else sixteen-year-old kids did when they were fully capable.
Now, all the fun of life had been taken away and she just wished—selfishly so—for it to rain and dampen everyone else’s fun. Let Mother Nature do her worst and not just rain but storm. Bring on a flood, a volcanic explosion or something else equally dire. If she couldn’t enjoy life, why should they?
“Don’t be selfish,” she whispered a second later, and took back her wish. Thinking about it, it was just plain mean. Even if life didn’t work the way she wanted it to, she couldn’t go around blaming anyone for what had happened. Part of her said that it would be fun. Everyone deserved a little misery in their lives. However, the other part, the rational and decent part, said no.
“Hey, what’s up, Megan?”
The question floated up to Karen’s position, and she followed the source. There, a few people she knew from her school rode by and she moved away from the window, flattening her back against the wall. Doubtful they saw her, as she was on the second floor, and who looked up while riding along, anyway?
After sneaking a peek, she saw their bicycles disappear down the road and breathed a faint sigh of relief. The breeze blew some strands of her long, dirty blonde hair around her face and she brushed them away with an impatient flick of her hand.
Letting out a series of grunts as she moved back to the bed, she winced with every step. The accident had been a bad one. She’d been in the back seat of her father’s car, enjoying the ride and then…then the bright light had come from the onrushing car. She’d heard her mother screaming, her father yelling “Get down!” and the sound of metal being crushed…
* * * *
May fifteenth, two months ago
“You’ve had an accident,” one of the nurses told her in a kindly voice. A middle-aged woman, heavy with a tangle of dyed black hair, she wore a strained smile.
“What happened?”
Karen’s first words…accident victims always said that, didn’t they? This had been her first real accident. Biking and running and roller skating had always been part of her life. Bruised knees and elbows came with it, but now, this was major, so she asked the obvious question.
The lights in the room were dim and shadows lurked in every corner. Moonlight came through the drawn shades. A smell of antiseptic hung in the cool air and stabs of pain lanced through every fiber of her being. Her right leg hurt and had a heavy cast on it, suspended by a sling that hung from a support bar attached to the bed. Thick bandages had been wrapped around her right forearm. An intravenous tube ran from a bag in an overhead support and fed into the vein in her right arm.
She didn’t take much note of that, though. Instead, she focused on the pain. Her right cheek hurt monstrously, and bringing her good arm up to feel her face, her fingers encountered more bandages.
“You were in a car accident,” the nurse gravely intoned. “You don’t remember it, do you?”
“Not much,” said Karen, struggling to think. “Where are my parents?”
“I’m sorry.”
Just two words, but they carried a lot of meaning, and the meaning knifed into Karen’s head with all the immediacy of a thunderbolt. A second later, the tears began. “I want to see them,” she sobbed out. “Where are they?”
As she struggled to get off the bed, the nurse gently pushed her back and said, somewhat reluctantly, “They’re…in the morgue. You just had an operation and you need to rest.”
“I want to see them!” Karen screamed and once more tried to get up, lashing out with her good arm. Her fist connected with the nurse’s cheek. She heard the nurse grunt then another nurse ran in, a needle at the ready. Karen felt it stab her arm then…nothing.
Waking up the next day, pain still there but somewhat more manageable, Karen noticed the sun streaming in and she felt a little stronger. The nurse whom she’d belted walked in with a massive bruise on her cheek, but a professional smile in place. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.” Karen nodded and mentally steeled herself for what she was going to ask and what she had to see. “I’m sorry about hitting you.”
The nurse inclined her head slightly. “You were upset. I understand.”
It was good that someone understood. “Can I…see my parents now?” Karen asked in a faint voice.
“I’ll get the doctor.”
Long story short, the doctor—a reed-thin man somewhere in his fifties—took her in a wheelchair down to the morgue. Along the way, he said that his name was Doctor Jensen. She had to be strong. There was nothing that anyone could have done, and once she saw the words Hospital Mortuary, she choked up and began to sob once more.
There they lay on separate tables. Karen’s tears fell faster when she saw the bodies of her parents lying still and quiet, cried some more as she touched her mother’s face and begged her to wake up, all the while knowing that her mother would never wake again, then the doctor wheeled her back to her room. There, the nurse helped her into bed.
“What happened?” Karen asked after she’d semi-composed herself.
“You had a very bad accident,” Doctor Jensen said, taking a chair and sitting next to the bed. “Your right leg was shattered, and we’re worried that there might be some nerve damage. We’re not sure yet. You have major abrasions on your right forearm, and you might have a slight concussion. You also lost a lot of blood. Things were touch-and-go for a while, but we got you back.”
Facts given and manner grave, he got up from the chair and delivered his prognosis. “You’re young. You’ll heal. In time, you’ll be capable of doing most things.”
Going over to the door, he turned back with a somber expression on his face. “I’m truly sorry about your parents.”
With that, he walked out, and feeling totally bereft, Karen began to cry all over again. Capable, she’d be capable of doing most things, the doctor had said.
Capable…she hated that word. It implied that if one was not capable, then they were no one. She suspected that in spite of all the rehab they had planned, in spite of all the water walking and weight training to come, in spite of all that and the fact that she was young, she wouldn’t be all that capable.
A couple of days later, she got the details from the police, and they placed the blame squarely on the young driver who’d decided to get drunk, hop in his car and cruise at a hundred miles per hour down the highway. “He got drunk. He went too fast, and he lost control,” said the policeman, who came in to fill in the missing pieces.
That was it, eleven words summing up the death of her parents. Blame it on the same kind of moron who decided to speed up, like he was thinking, “I can handle it!” and stepped on the accelerator, jumped the concrete divider, and slammed into her parents’ car at high speed, killing them in a flash, just like that, and trapping her in the back seat, her right leg crushed and broken into something resembling a jigsaw puzzle…
Order your copy here
About the Author
J.S. Frankel was born in Toronto, Canada, a good number of years ago and managed to scrape through the University of Toronto with a BA in English Literature. In 1988 he moved to Japan and started teaching ESL to anyone who would listen to him. In 1997, he married the charming Akiko Koike and their union produced two sons, Kai and Ray. J.S. Frankel makes his home in Osaka where he teaches English by day and writes by night until the wee hours of the morning.
Email: jesssfrankel@gmail.com
J.S. Frankel loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.finch-books.com.
Also by J.S. Frankel
The Menagerie
The Nightmare Crew: Beginnings
J.S. Frankel, Law and Order
