Taylor Jackson is a serial killer He murdered his first victim at 13. Now as an adult, he abducts women keeping as slaves for a short time then killing them. As part of his diabolical plan, he forces his 10-year-old son to participate in the killings. Trapped Globe sees only one way out of this nightmare. Kill or be killed.
Pastor Jeremiah Fuller believes he can rescue the child, however; it may cost him his life.
Hands of The Father Prologue
Metcalfe County, Kentucky July 1, 1929
Globe straddled the woman's chest, his knees jabbing into her ribs. She grunted under his weight. Her red, leaking eyes fixed on him. Her face was flushed and swollen. She made muffled pleading sounds behind the rag stuffed in her mouth. Globe wanted to run from the barn and go back to playing with the puppy. Papa would kill the puppy tonight. Papa killed everything Globe loved. The ten-year-old started to crawl off the woman, this pretend mother. She was sobbing now, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged snorts through her nose. Her moans were quickly absorbed by the rag. Her eyes left the boy and traveled to the tall, barrel-chested man towering over them. Taylor Jackson grabbed his son and plunked him back down on her chest. “Now ye stay put boy ‘til I tell ye different.” He glowered at the child. “Hear me?” “Yes, Papa,” Globe said, his eyes beginning to trickle. Taylor brought the willow switch down across his son's back to make sure he understood. The boy cried out. He reached a small hand around to his back and was rewarded with a throbbing red stripe across his fingers. Two more delivered to his shoulders and Globe sat still. Taking aim, Taylor whipped the young woman on her bare thighs. She began to heave and buck, giving the child the ride of his life. Five minutes later, Taylor stopped. The
Hands of The Father
gag in her mouth was coming loose. He reached down and yanked it out. Wracked with pain, she sobbed uncontrollably. She choked out the words almost incoherently. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. The boy is so lonely. I thought─” That afternoon while Taylor was in the pasture and Globe was roaming the woods, a boy of about ten came into the barn lot pulling a wooden wagon. Hanging over the sides were three brown and white puppies. Seeing a lady in the kitchen through the back screen door, the boy hollered, “My momma says if I don’t git rid of ‘em she’s gonna drown ‘em. Can ye please take one?” Stepping as close to the door as the chain around her ankle would allow, the woman stared at the squirming puppies. Go get your mother! Tell her to help me! Her mind screamed the words, but her mouth would not say them. Half a minute ticked by while she stood mute and conflicted. “Ma’am?” “Okay. I’ll take the runt.” The boy handed the pup through the door to her. With a big, gap-toothed smile and a wave, he went on his way. “Shut yer trap, ye stupid cow!” Taylor seethed.“It ain’t yer place to think. He ain’t yer kid. It ain’t yer business. Understand? Put yer hands around her throat, boy.” Globe twisted around on the woman's chest and looked miserably up at the man. “No Papa. Don't make me do that.” Taylor backhanded the boy along the side of his head. “Now do as I say!”
Hands of The Father
The child fell sideways, striking his elbow on the straw covered floor. He straightened up and reluctantly put his small hands on the woman's throat. Try as he might, he couldn't fit his fingers all the way around her neck. He pressed his thumbs into her windpipe. “Squeeze!” Taylor demanded. Fearing his father's fury, Globe pretended to press harder. “Put yer back into it, boy.” “Please, Papa, she didn't know. Can't we give her another chance?” Taylor seemed to consider this for a few seconds. Stepping up to the two, he leaned over. Slapping his big, calloused hand over his son's soft ones, he pressed. The woman’s breath whined out of her. She began to buck and writhe more than when he whipped her. Globe tried to pull his hands away. His daddy's iron grip held them. “Papa, please. No, Papa.” “Shut up, boy!” Taylor screamed. His eyes were glazing over. “Hold ‘er fast or I'll whip ye within an inch of yer life.” Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. His face was fixed in a snarl as vicious as a rabid dog’s. Globe clasped the mother’s throat until she stopped breathing. He felt a few short puffs of wind come from her mouth. They stopped. He thought she must be dead. His father hauled him off her, tossing him to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Taylor picked up the pail of water he had carried in from the well. The boy knew it would be cold, even on this hot July evening. His father upended the bucket over the woman's face. She gasped and sputtered and began to sob anew. Reaching down, Taylor cut the ropes binding her hands and feet. He folded the Barlow and slipped it back into his pocket. “Now git in there and git me
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some supper and be quick about it!” The woman struggled to her feet and straightened her dress. In a half subservient, half conciliatory gesture, she picked up the rag and held it out to the man. Taylor snatched it from her hand and stuffed it into the back pocket of his overalls. Raising his foot, he kicked her in the backside. The woman staggered out of the barn door, still sobbing. Taylor followed. Globe lay on the floor in a heap, his heart breaking, aching for a love he would never find.
paperback | 258 pages
| 5.5 x 0.6 x 8.5 inches
| October 19, 2016