Pushback
~Publisher: ReAnimus Press
~Released: November 1, 2018
~Length: 336 Pages
At his ten-year high-school reunion, Colorado investment counselor Dave Barlow, who suffers from PTSD, finds he doesn’t know one person there, and soon realizes he must outwit an unknown antagonist before he winds up dead.
“Some people dream about going to their high-school reunion in their underwear. Dave Barlow goes to his and finds himself worse than naked — unrecognized. A lovely, twisty thriller that moves like a roller coaster — racheting up the suspense, then plunging into crisis, or doing a swift loop-the-loop through flashbacks of PTSD before the climb stars again.” — Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of the Outlander series.
“PUSHBACK is a fast-paced crime novel guaranteed to keep you reading into the night. Accelerating through enough twists and turns to keep you guessing, PUSHBACK ramps up to a heart-pounding ending that will leave you breathless. Stith, known for his award-winning science fiction, really brings it home in his debut mystery. Bring on the next installment!” — Chris Goff, author of RED SKY
Science fiction and mystery author John E. Stith writes across many worlds. His books have been translated to French, German, Italian, Japanese, Portuguese and Russian and are even available in braille for the sight-impaired. His science fiction stories have been categorized as “Hard science fiction,” a label given to those stories thoroughly researched to play fair with the rules of science; something any die-hard SciFi fan can appreciate. Pushback is his debut into the mystery, though readers will find both suspense and thrills in his SciFi novels, as well.
Stith holds a B.A. in physics from the University of Minnesota, has served as an Air Force Officer, where he worked at NORAD Cheyenne Mountain Complex. The passion for science runs in his family, as his father George worked at the White Sands Missile Range on such projects like the rocket sled.
He has appeared on a live nationwide PBS broadcast or Science-Fiction Science-Fact (SF2) and his work has also been sold to film and television. His novel Reckoning Infinity was chosen as one of Science Fiction Chronicle’s Best Science Fiction Novels, Redshift Rendezvous was picked as a Nebula Award nominee and Manhattan Transfer received an honorable mention from the Hugo Awards and a nomination from the Seiun Award in Japan.
Stith is a member of Science-Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA), Mystery Writers of America (MWA), Writers Guild of America (WGA), International Thriller Writers, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers (RMFW), Colorado Author’s League and Mensa. He currently lives in Colorado Springs.
~ Connect with John E. Stith Online~
Around this time I started feeling paranoid. After the hit and run and the poisoning, I was now in a world where things that used to seem impossible now seemed possible. I pulled over onto the shoulder.
I could turn around right then. I wondered if I was having a spidey-sense moment or if I was acting like a scared rabbit. Were these people going to make me fearful of every shadow, or was I going to live my life? I knew Sharon was a friend of Allison’s. It wasn’t like I truly knew her as a person, but I’d been introduced once at a party. I could play safe and blow off this appointment. Then, assuming for the moment that this really was legit, she would look elsewhere for an investment counselor. And she might tell all her friends about “unprofessional behavior.”
I finished chiding myself for being so quick to start living in fear. Having a backup plan couldn’t hurt, though. I dialed Bruce’s line. I would tell him where I was and ask him to call the police if I didn’t call him back in twenty minutes.
No bars. Crap.
I resolved to go a little farther and call when I had service.
Minutes later the green street sign for Goshawk appeared. A left took me onto a narrow dirt road leading through the trees, through a clearing, and deeper into the forest.
I stopped again. Still no bars. I resumed my journey.
Fences lined many of the properties. I got the feeling people this far out valued their privacy. I remembered visiting a client in the Springs who lived next door to a home that sported a warning sign with an image of a gun, along with words to the effect that nothing in the house was worth dying for. My reaction had been that probably no possession in the home was worth killing a human being for, but we all see the world differently.
I was definitely going to be late, but since I had no service, going back to call Bruce would make me even later. Goshawk. I knew that was some kind of bird of prey, but I couldn’t picture anything but a generic image of a falcon. Now that I thought about it, I was probably ten or fifteen miles north of the town called Falcon. I wondered what it was with killer birds out here.
About a mile farther along the road, it turned to the right. Finally a dilapidated fence and a neatly lettered sign saying “Kelso” appeared. The sign felt comforting. I turned in. The driveway was deeply rutted and overgrown with grass, angling deeper into the woods. I didn’t bottom out in the Ford despite it not being a truck or an SUV, but it felt close at times. I pulled up in front of a slightly run-down log farmhouse that didn’t feel in keeping with the smooth, polished voice I’d heard on the phone.
I checked my phone for a signal. Still no bars.
I shut off the engine. My hand stayed on the key. I felt like going home, and then felt foolish. But I also started feeling even more paranoid. I surveyed my surroundings.
No other car was in the driveway. Rutted tracks led around the side of the house, so Sharon could have parked around back. I got out of the car and listened. Wind through the pines was the loudest sound. The air held no hint of booming woofers, growling mufflers, ringing phones. Instead of the sounds of civilization or the uncivilized sounds of civilization, the faint sounds of bird calls were all that reached me. I just about got back in the car and got out of here.
This visit was seeming like an even worse idea all the time, but I walked to the porch. Three wooden steps led up to a wooden porch about six feet by ten. It was bordered by a railing.
The wood’s appearance suggested one of those scenarios where you plant a foot and it goes right through a plank, but the flooring felt solid enough.
The house didn’t have a doorbell. Instead, a small pull cord was mounted next to the door frame, presumably to ring a bell inside. I stood in front of the door and reached for the pull. And I hesitated.
The pull cord looked new.
I was feeling like a finicky cat who had found medicine in the mix too many times. I’d seen too much stuff like this in the movies and my thudding heart pounded louder. Instead of pulling the cord, I knocked. Loudly.
The sound was jolting in the quiet. I found myself reviewing the pros and cons of staying. On the pro side, if Sharon were legit, I could make some money. On the con side, everything else. No sound of footsteps came from inside. No “Coming!” rang out.
I peered in the window. Rising hair on the back of your neck is actually a real thing.
The interior was hard to resolve, partly because it was dim, and partly because the window was dirty. I shifted position, thinking about how foolish I would look. Fear of looking foolish had probably motivated more bad decisions than I could count. And after those bad decisions, I always felt worse than foolish.
I moved my head again, trying to see inside. And then I felt chilled. I was sure I was looking at a line that stretched from near the door to a dark doorway eight or ten feet away. I couldn’t be sure, but a faint gleam looked to me to be a barrel. A gun barrel. Pointing at the door.
My brain replayed a gun scene from the past. I saw muzzle flashes as my mother shot my father. I don’t know if the muzzle flashes were there in reality or if my memory had been enhanced with scenes from action movies. I felt sick and afraid.
I took some deep breaths and looked around. I saw no one. I could see no one in the house either, but that made sense if the door was booby-trapped.
