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    Murders in Summer
    Murders in Summer
    Murders in Summer
    Ebook104 pages1 hour

    Murders in Summer

    By Claudio Hernández

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    About this ebook

    Peter Bray, the boy who has "The Shine", is only eight years old when he uses his gift for the first time. He touches that hand that has been desmembered and he is covered with darkness. Three murders in which three girls' bodies have been chopped up (and their heads are not found) are causing Sheriff Aston a lot of trouble. He does not know how to act in this kind of situations. The Big Bob's daughter, Carietta, has disappeared. Everyone wonders whether she is dead or not. The Mayor, Bob's friend, is also looking for her.In two parallel universes, Peter hides his secret from his gang, while the Sheriff, his officers, Bob and the Mayor are trying to get to the truth. But only Peter can find it out. Before the murders committed in the cold winter, 34 years later. 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBadPress
    Release dateApr 7, 2019
    ISBN9781547580118
    Murders in Summer

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      Book preview

      Murders in Summer - Claudio Hernández

      Murders in Summer

      Claudio Hernández

      First published in October, 2018.

      Title: Murders in summer

      ©  2018 Claudio Hernández

      ©  2018 Higinia María

      ©  2018 Illustrated by Higinia María

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this publication, including its cover, may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, chemical, mechanical, optical, recording, online or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the editor or the author. All rights reserved.

      How many books have I already written? And to whom do I dedicate it? I dedicate this book, one more time, to my wife, Mary, who puts up with silly things like this one every day. And I hope she never stops doing so. This time I have embarked on an adventure that I started when I was a child and, with determination and support, I could finish. Another dream that comes true. She says that, sometimes, I shine... Sometimes... It even frightens me... I also dedicate this book to my family and, specially, to my father; Ángel... Please, help me in this marshy ground...

      Murders in summer

      1

      ––––––––

      The head eyes were open, but the head was not there. In the place where everything had happened. Instead, it was on the other side of the Boad Hill wood. It was 1983 and the thick and humid air was consumed by the heat. That morning, on 3rd August, the sun was not perceived by those glassy eyes. Even though sunlight filtered through the tree branches - ash trees -, those eyes could not blink even once.

      Peter Bray, who was only eight years old, was near the train track. On the other side of the wood and beyond the LakeHill. His eyes were fixed on a purple hand that stuck out among the bushes and the dry leaves. Its middle finger was extended, while its other fingers were curled. It seemed that, after death, this hand was telling him to fuck off.

      Being innocent as any child, Peter bent down slowly towards the hand, until it was close to him. He extended his hand up in the air. It was shining because sunlight did not have to filter through the damn tree branches. It was a section of the train track that was in the open air, there were no even grebes. And at the back, there was a bridge that was shining like a diamond.

      Although his temples were throbbing, Peter’s fingers brushed that repulsive rough skin of the back of that hand and it was when he found out there was something living inside him.

      He saw a long dark tunnel, felt terrified and, finally, started to see an image of a man wearing a thin beard. Those extremely dark eyes that had the most insane expression he had ever seen were engraved on his memory, like fire.

      In one of his hands, the right one, he was holding a rusty saw.

      The other parts of the six-year-old girl's body were laid out and hidden in a one kilometer area of that thick wood.

      And Peter Bray had seen the murderer's face.

      He took his hand out immediately and his heart was hammering. He felt an excruciating pain flaring from his neck to his head and it was ridiculously evidenced by his jaw, due to his expression.

      His mother knew it. So did his father. He didn't.

      It was «The shine».

      2

      They poked around every single corner of that damn wood. They carried out a thorough search and pulled up the bushes to find, in nearly all of them, a part of that poor wretch. The green and red lights of that fair – two patrol cars – were reflecting the leaves. Their thin faces seemed to be a lampshade.

      And Peter Bray was also there.

      After he had walked approximately two kilometers, coming back there sitting on his bum on the back seat of one of those noisy cars was not funny at all. They bounced so much that they seemed to be fair cars.

      At that time, Boad Hill was ruled by the so-called Aston Halloran, well, honestly, Aston was a nickname because he was all day long talking about that mattress factory. And no, it was not a Plymouth factory. His real name was Robert. Sometimes, he got angry when his wife, at that time, called him by his first name, until, one year later, she cheated on him with a stranger just called Dick. Twenty years younger than her.

      Then, Aston called her whore.

      But now he was putting his hands on his hips, staring at the spot and the way the sunlight was filtering through branches and, consequently, cutting everything on the bias and, therefore, the place seemed to be a disco because branches were moving due to a damn wind that had risen like the lid of a coffee pot. Suddenly. And the brazen lines drew strips on the ground that was already full of damn yellow tapes. Obviously, with little figures.

      They looked very lovely.

      Especially the plastic bags that David –the boy from the ambulance that didn’t stop bawling like a wretch– had to pick up. That damn skinny guy had forgotten to turn off the alarm.

      Aston, whose lenses of his brown glasses were shining impressively –at least they seemed to be brown–, moved his tongue inside his mouth and, forcing his throat, summoned saliva and spurted a spit that was as big as a frog. Green and jellylike. After that, his dark eyes were searching the so-called David’s pale face and he frowned when that wretch’s face wrinkled, like a raisin, to take on an odd expression.

      Aston was pointing his plump finger at the damn ambulance.

      Everything was crap.

      Because nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened in that ghost town, which had been gradually accepted by a nearby town, where very strange things happened. But this had happened there; the so-called Castle Pock, or something similar.

      Aston was not wearing moustache or thin beard. That stupid man was well-shaved every day. He was almost obese, it could be said he was quite sturdy, and he had dark brown eyes. His eyes were so dark and deep that, sometimes, he seemed to be a bitter person about to commit suicide. He was almost 1.80 meters tall and was not pot-bellied. That was alright. He could still lift his fat legs without tearing the back of his trousers.

      He was surrounded by useless people. Like everyone, he used to say. The so-called Arnie, Jack and Andrew. Their mothers didn’t work their fingers to the bone to choose their names. Their surnames... There, everyone was called Hill. It was an old tradition, like letting a long fart that had sounded like a chain saw.

      The truth is that, from that day on, Boad Hill got serious, nobody knew Peter Bray very well, but they did know his father, John Bray. A man who was famous for knowing his place and for his long walks around the wood and, of course, around the houses that he had built with his callused hands.

      None of them had collapsed yet.

      It was the only murder in all the summer in Boad Hill. But not in the surroundings. In other words, the nearby towns. Obviously,

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