Page 14 of Nightcrawler
Review/rating by Nightcrawler: 3 stars
Synopsis:
This story takes place in a courtroom somewhere in the southern part of the U.S. It’s told in first person by a lawyer who is defending a man accused of murder. The man in question has been accused of staring at, stalking, and following a young victim, by several witnesses. None of these witnesses can positively identify him as the murderer and yet all say he was near the home where the victim was found, on or about the time and date of the murder.
My Review:
My three-star review can be summed up in four words, revolting and yet poignant…thus the reason I’m giving it more stars than you, my dear readers, have come to expect from me. For an Indie, I thought it was well written. The only thing that drops it from a four-star to a three-star is the endless back and forthinside the lawyer’s head as he tries to convince the jury that Tommy-boy Gallager, the supposed killer, is innocent. Personally, I felt that Gallager was portrayed as sympathetically as a character ever could be, but this was only half of it.
What makes this oddly familiar tale a little strange is how the lawyer in this story, Marcus Thorndyke, appears to be going mad when he is visited by the ghost of the victim who cries out for justice he’s not sure he can deliver. He is so conflicted that he feels like he’s losing his mind at times and stays up all night long, nearly every night during the trial, wearing out his area rug as he paces. He cries out, “To be or not to be” so repetitively, I grabbed the Pepto-Bismol every time the book cut away to a scene where he is alone.
Blake has written a book that teachers will probably assign as required reading to every high school class for the rest of eternity. They will expect their students to not only read it, but write comprehensive papers about it, fully understanding the underlying pathos of what he’s trying to say.
They’re going to be fully disappointed.
Most of these poor bastards will take the book home and put it on their bedside table where their helicopter parents will expect it to be, and not under their beds to join a multitude of crusty socks their mothers won’t find until they leave for college. They will escape out their bedroom windows to bone their pimply girlfriends causing them to get Ds on their assignments, before learning that they’re grounded, prompting them to roll the world’s smallest burrito, and get faded.
In conclusion, I didn’t hate this book.
I chuckled as I read the most recent review posted by Nightcrawler, only to look up sharply as a throat cleared. Raven Mathis was staring at me with sleepy eyes from the bed—my bed—where he’d slept the day away.
“It sounds like you’re reading something good,” he said with a smile before wincing as he tried to roll toward me.
“My favorite book reviewer on my favorite book review site,” I said, leaning forward in the recliner next to the bed. It was the only place to sit in my dreary apartment other than the two uncomfortable wooden chairs at my small kitchen table. I put my tablet on the bedside table between us and stood, holding up the palm of my hand. “Don’t move, Mathis. You could open the wound. You remember being shot, right?”
He nodded and I watched him slip his hand beneath the sheet, in an unconscious response to my words. He grimaced, and I looked over at the bottle of painkillers Vonne had left for him.
“How bad is the pain?” I asked, picking up the bottle and showing him the Motrin. “Vonne left these for you, and I have some acetaminophen if you want to layer the two drugs.”
“Layer them?” Mathis asked, looking up at me as he tried to sit up.
I put the bottle down and bent to help him. The quilt fell to his waist, pooling around his hips as he scooted back in the bed with effort. I repositioned my favorite feather pillow behind his back and added a second, firmer one, so that he could sit up and lean against them. He kept his groin covered with the quilt and for that, I was grateful.
“Vonne said you can take one of these 800 milligram Motrin and a 1000 milligrams of Tylenol at the same time if you need it. I don’t have anything stronger in the house, but that combination usually works for me. It’ll definitely take the edge off now that the local has probably worn off.”
“Let me have a Motrin and we’ll see if that works,” he grunted. His face and bare chest were beading with sweat just from trying to get comfortable.
“Hang on, let me get you a glass of water.” I gave him the pill bottle and got some tap water from the kitchen, handing it to him. “I don’t have any bottled. Sorry.”
“This is fine,” he said, taking the glass from me. I watched him take the pill and drink the whole glass of water with shaky hands. “Thank you, Trigg.” It felt weird to hear him call me Trigg and for a split second, I really wanted to hear my real name on his lips and not Trigg—short for Trigger—the nickname I’d had since my days in the Corps. He smiled at me as he handed the glass back. “Is that amazing smell the hobo stew you were making?”
I smiled, a little surprised that it felt almost normal to do so. “Yeah. I guess you’d like some, right? It’s kinda late and you haven’t eaten all day.”
He nodded. “I’d love some.”
My gaze went to his long fingers as they rubbed across his belly. For the first time, I noticed a silver and turquoise ring on his left ring finger, and it felt like a light switch flipped on in my brain.
“I’ll get you some and I’ll give you a little privacy if you want to call someone or something…just so you can let…you know, someone know you’re alive.”
He frowned a little. “Yeah, I do need to call someone. And I need to pee.” He tried to roll to get out of bed and then went still, grabbing his side, and wincing again. “Shit.”
“Here—” I said, putting the empty glass on the bedside table before stepping forward. “You’re going to need a little help for a couple of days.” I bent and took both of his hands, helping him scoot to the edge of the bed and then stand up. As the quilt and the sheet fell away, I could see that his wound had soaked through the bandages front and back. A circle of blood stained the sheet where he’d lain but it was just one more spot on an already ruined set of sheets…my only set of sheets.Fuck.
“Damn. I’m bleeding,” he said, looking down at the bandages.
“Yeah, Vonne said the wounds are small enough that they should close without stitches, but they may leak for a couple of days. If you feel like you can sit up in the easy chair or at the table while you eat, you should probably do that beforehand. It’s useless to change them first since any movement is going to open them up again.”
“I think that’d work.” He gave me a helpless look and I could tell he hated the entire ordeal.