Pelham Fell Here

By Ed Lynskey

MP and part-time gunsmith Frank Johnson finds his cousin Cody Chapman killed by a twelve-gauge shotgun. Enraged, Frank wants some answers, and fast. Was Cody involved in an arms smuggling scheme?

The mystery grows when a pair of murderous deputy sheriffs ambush Frank. Killing them in self-defense, Frank must take it on the lam while he continues his investigation.

Eventually he discovers a group of Neo-Nazis, holed up at a remote castle, who may be behind his cousin's murder. Luckily, a couple of bounty hunter pals throw in with Frank to even up the odds.

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About the Author

Ed Lynskey

Ed Lynskey's fiction has appeared in Mississippi Review, HandHeldCrime, and Plots With Guns. A short collection, Out of Town a Few Days, appeared in 2004 and a novel titled The Blue Cheer is scheduled for 2006.

Reviews

"Ed Lynskey's new novel PELHAM FELL HERE is a delight. With a plot as complex as your grandmother's crocheted doilies, Mr. Lynskey creates a portrait of the rural hill country that rings as true as the clank of a Copenhagen can on a Pabst Blue Ribbon can, as does his handle on guns, love, and betrayal. This is a novel well worth the read and makes me want more." —James Crumley, Hammett Award winning author of THE LAST GOOD KISS

"Ed Lynskey's PELHAM FELL HERE is as hard-bitten and hard-boiled as they come. The dialogue crackles with such sharpness that you'd swear sparks were jumping off the pages. And P.I. Frank Johnson is a character cut from the Tarantino mold: tough, wounded, conflicted, and bad-ass. Pick up a copy today!" —James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of THE JUDAS STRAIN

"PELHAM FELL HERE is a gritty, fascinating thriller with colorful characters, snappy dialogue and plenty of plot twists. Ed Lynskey has created an interesting hero with Frank Johnson, a man with a mission who becomes a man on the run after killing some crooked cops. PELHAM FELL HERE kept me guessing--and on the edge of my seat." —Kevin O'Brien, New York Times bestselling author of ONE LAST SCREAM

"Nobody captures rural America like Ed Lynskey . . . a thoroughly engrossing and satisfying read." —Anne Frasier, USA Today bestselling author of PALE IMMORTAL

"Ed Lynskey writes in a voice utterly unique to the crime genre. His language cracks like a whip. His dialogue pops like fireworks on the Fourth. In PELHAM FELL HERE, he's crafted a story Indiana Jones would kill for, full of humor, action, neo-Nazi thugs, and the marvelous countryside of rural Virginia. If you haven't read this guy, drop everything right now and do it. You'll be very happy you did." —William Kent Krueger, Anthony Award winning author of THUNDER BAY

"Ed Lynskey's followup to THE BLUE CHEER is another lean, tough slice of rural noir. Lynskey reminds us that for every mean street in the city, there's an equally mean dirt road out where the buses don't run. The writing is pure joy to read; he can evoke more powerful imagery with a single perfectly chosen phrase than most writers can with a half page of descriptive prose. Strong stuff, but always satisfying." —J.D. Rhoades, author of SAFE AND SOUND

"PELHAM FELL HERE bears the richest nicotine and bourbon stains of the hardboiled genre, yet also bristles with vitality. The plot sings, the characters are twisty and textured and the violence brutal but inevitable. All of these elements would be more than enough yet Ed Lynskey offers so much more in the form of a perfectly pitched prose style that swings effortlessly from back-country grit to Appalachian poetry and back again." —Megan Abbott, Edgar nominee author of QUEENPIN

"Ed Lynskey's PELHAM FELL HERE is top drawer PI fiction. Lynskey has a stark, original voice and he is not to be missed." —Jason Starr, Barry and Anthony winning author of THE FOLLOWER

Excerpt

By quarter to seven, I was speeding down Rogue's Road—muggers had waylaid na�ve travelers here in Colonial days—and hauled by a sprawling copse of oaks. Garm Castle, the top of its yellow brick parapets towering into view, sat couched further back among the oaks.

Garm, a homesick Scotsman, had erected the castle in the late 1890s and then sent for his new bride. They lived in the manor over a happy interval, but then Mrs. Garm contracted tetanus from pricking her finger on a rose thorn and died childless.

They said Garm went insane and followed her to an early grave.

The disused castle became Pelham's most exotic landmark, and its imperceptible driveway offered our teenagers a lover's lane. I'd parked on it.

I recalled when proud Sears homes and shady maples had flanked our town streets. Blondes wearing hot pants and flawless tans lounged on porch gliders, sipping on colas through bent paper straws. Cannas bloomed red as claret above the wrought iron fences, and the swept sidewalks sat even. But Pelham had turned shabby at the edges, and so had I. Here a few months shy of the new millennium, I'd fallen short of the brass ring. This truck and the leaky doublewide represented my sole wealth.

I passed a road sign advertising a new housing tract and frowned. Like I said, Pelham had turned shabby.

Eight minutes early, I docked across the way from Rennie's apartment building, my truck engine idling to run the heater. The old Shepherd place squatted on the desolate end of Main Street. The out-of-town landlord had diced up the Victorian two-story into four cubbyhole apartments. The Shepherd's oldest boy, Whit, had played star shortstop (a scholarship to Arizona State waited in his future) next to my serviceable third base.

My disaffection with Pelham started when Whit ran his VW off the rain-slick pavement into a telephone pole, died of his injuries, and his parents sold the house. I never saw the Shepherds again, but they were better off—bailing from Pelham offered a shot at redemption.

Not long afterwards, I'd also left to serve in the Army MPs. MP work wasn't sexy, but it was satisfying enough to take pride in doing well. After graduating from Military Police School, my beat was Fort Riley. I patrolled its gates and streets, writing up tickets (even for the brass) and arbitrating domestic disputes. Something of a barracks rat, I read a ton of pulp paperbacks. Prisoner escort duty sent me on trips throughout the mainland to fetch AWOLs back to face court martial. Most were scared kids, not much different from me.

The main rub was the lack of RnR and I burned out. Three years and three stripes later, I ejected from the MP Corps, vowing I'd never do police or criminal investigative work again. Instead, I returned home when I should've learned better. Lonely, I'd next tried marrying and then divorced the two-timing Marty. I curbed that unpleasant memory.

No lights blazed in the ground windows to the apartments rented by the old widows. The bright upstairs window had to be Rennie's bedroom. I could picture her at the mirror dabbing on perfume before debating, then leaving her top blouse buttons undone. I grinned at my wishful thinking.

The truck cab had grown stuffy. I cut off the heater, slid out, and heaved the tool chest into the bed. The unscrewed gun rack went under the seat. The half-empty pint (I'd had no drinks all afternoon) fit in the glove compartment.

Whistling, I tuned in to WKQK, the last old-time bluegrass radio station in Virginia. Vintage Jim & Jesse, Reno & Smiley, Flatt & Scruggs, and Mac Wiseman wailed those mountain ballads pinching your heart in a forceps of woe and misery. Were they that far off the beam?

The night of my parents' fatal auto smashup had brought a young deputy sheriff knocking on my aunt's door. A few years older than me, Cody was off at summer camp. Sending a uniform to give a notification of death, I later learned, is standard police procedure. I hopped out of bed and beat her to answering the door.

The deputy sheriff had slouched in a yellow slicker on the stoop. The torrent drowned out his words until my aunt in her robe invited him into the foyer. He smelled of motor oil and dripped rainwater from his yellow slicker to pool on her terrazzo tiles. Stammered words spelled out the tragic reason for his visit—

A cant of my head saw the upstairs window blacking out. Rennie came skipping downstairs and through the door. Wearing no scarf or hat left her pretty face distinguishable. She'd dressed in a parka over a short, plaid skirt and black hose. Only she wasn't alone.

Turning, she peered down. Two small children trailed her.

"For Christ's sake, can you believe this?" I muttered.

Rennie tugged down the stocking caps over their ears. Their breaths created miniature haloes in the frosty air. The longhaired, little girl pointed at the glitter of stars. With a nod, Rennie glanced up. She clutched their small hands in hers and led their parade to the streetside Prizm. They piled inside it. The tailpipe smoked and the taillights reddened. I saw her take off and turn at the next block.

She'd scoot back in a few minutes—"seven o'clock, no earlier please". Did I take off like that fool of a fox on the run?

Maybe. Cody's sly omission of Rennie's kids angered me, but I'd had a stomachful of moping. I cuffed off the radio, ranged out, and paced across Main Street to the apartment building's porch.

Waiting, I fished out the cigarette I'd bummed off Cody and lit it.

I exhaled the smoke, looking up at Orion the Hunter poised in our town's night dome and marveling how a mother of two could stay so damn trim.