(NOTE: Look who slipped in under the wire…okay, he totally missed the wire altogether, but do we care? NOPE. So here he is, folks! Ned Hickson, with an excerpt for your reading pleasure. Take it away, Ned!)

As a humor columnist, when I mention I’ve been working on the final draft of a murder mystery, people usually assume it’s a comedy or satire. Possibly with a detective who faints at the sight of blood. And whose partner used to be a rodeo clown.

That’s actually not a bad idea.

But it’s not this book. They say for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Following that train of thought, the flip side to humor is drama. In this case, I’ve delved into the flip side of my weekly humor column to write a murder mystery that is best described as a “why-done-it.” There is no mystery behind the murder. The question is why it was committed; and what does a seemingly homeless young boy know about it? Who can he trust? And will a solitary private investigator with a dark past be able to find the answers before it’s too late for the both of them?

This is the premise behind No Safe Harbor, a murder mystery I wrote 15 years ago that has been collecting dust and waiting for its final revision ever since.

The wait is finally over for this manuscript, which I’ve begun preparing the final draft for. My goal is to have it completed by mid August. What will happen after that is the real mystery.

In the meantime, here’s a sneak peak at the first chapter. Aside from a handful of family and friends, no one has seen these pages. Please feel free to offer your suggestions and feedback.

I can take it!

Chapter 1

Flashing red and blue erupted across Lynda Bettington’s rear window, escalating her steady rhythm of panic into a mounting crescendo. Hands trembling, she held the road through a fishtail over the damp streets, pressing the accelerator closer to the mat. She raced onto Highway 99 toward Lake Washington. The roads there were dark, with streets spurring off every few blocks. She took a narrow side road as the car shot through pale lamplight and a maze of industrial alleyways. In the back seat, suitcases bounced and shifted, slamming against the rear doors as the car careened onto another pitted avenue.

Dampness just short of rainfall blanketed thin layers of oil, creating a slick skin over the asphalt. Suddenly, the car hydroplaned, pinwheeling across the roadway. Lynda’s grip locked onto the steering wheel. For an instant, red and blue flashing seemed to be all around her, until an explosion of glass and twisting metal replaced all thoughts of color.

A few yards away, the police car swerved to an angled stop.

The caution lights turned off, leaving only high beams spilling over the mangled car. Officer Dan Perkins sat forward and crossed his arms over the steering wheel. Next to him, Gerome Taylor tossed aside his seatbelt and cracked the passenger door, planting his foot on the road. He remained seated, staring at the wreck. Continue reading →