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The Way Life Should Be: A Novel By Terry Shaw

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Sales Rank: #1787743 in eBooks
Published on: 2010-05-08
Released on: 2010-05-11
Format: Kindle eBook

Review
"... gets a number of things right: life, the nature of friendship and how little we really know about each other." -- Erie Times-News, September 13, 2007

"Funny, wry, sad, suspenssful ... It's just the kind of book everyone in the book club is dying to read." -- Portland Press Herald/Maine Sunday Telegram,October 14, 2007

"He knows how to assemble the right elements, weaving plot and back story together seemlessly." -- Publisher's Weekly, August 6, 2007

"Shaw has a good sense of pacing and surprises that make for a good mystery ... a promising debut." -- USA Today, Sept. 18, 2007

"The book is a fast-paced thriller -- one worthy of the suspenseful journey to publication." -- Nashville Scene, Sept. 27, 2007

About the Author
Terry Shaw has worked as a newspaper reporter and editor in several states, including Maine. He lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.

PROLOGUE

It was three a.m. and anything was possible -- all he needed was a little luck. At least that's what Paul Stanwood tried to tell himself as he turned his Range Rover onto the wet, sandy road and its headlights bounced through the shadows and fir. He knew he shouldn't be there. He just couldn't help himself.

When the Rover began to stall on the ruts, Stanwood downshifted to let the tires grab hold, which seemed to do the trick. He was nervous but kept going until a sign on a steel gate read: "Sullivan Park Closed at Dusk. Violators Will be Prosecuted to the Fullest Extent Allowed by Law."

Whatever that meant.

He wasn't sure but was willing to take a chance, so he cut the ignition, got out, and began walking the footpath through the gently swaying spruce before reconsidering. He stopped and took a deep breath. The rot drifted up from the clam flats below and a full moon burned like a bare bulb off the dark water of Penobscot Bay.

The park was at the end of a long peninsula, a tangle of rock, surf and pine that had once been a saltwater farm. Now it was just a road through the woods, a small, unpaved parking lot and an oddly out-of-place payphone. Past the clearing where he stood, a few scattered picnic tables and a cinder-block bathhouse completed the scene -- not much, really, given the recent sensation. Of course, there was the boat launch.

"The only place in town to get off at low tide," according to John Quinn, who'd come home to run his family's newspaper. He said the park was an embarrassment and that grown men -- no matter their sexual preference -- should have a sense of decency.

Quinn had no idea what was at stake. After being gone a decade, he was clueless about the changes taking place in their hometown. Paul planned to tell him as much, once he was sure of everything himself, though he'd been warned against it. He shook his head at the thought, when something cracked behind him.

"Who's there?" he asked.

Nobody answered.

For a moment he listened to the waves lap the granite shore, the whole time wondering if those had been his own steps echoing in the darkness. He stopped and spun around. Damn. He couldn't believe how paranoid he'd become. He took another deep breath and tried to relax. Easy now, he told himself. The sun would be up in a few hours and everything would be safe and fresh with the new day.

Keeping that in mind, Paul walked toward the bathhouse and stepped inside. The place was a mess. He could make out overturned benches and a cracked toilet. The urinals reeked and it was hard to believe the spot had become the object of such fierce debate. Men were being arrested. The cops were under fire. Neither side would listen to reason and somehow Paul was caught in the middle. What was he supposed to do?

As he shuffled his sandals along the gritty concrete and lit a Camel, the flame shined briefly on a wall covered with crudely drawn slogans and promises that made him laugh out loud. The whole thing seemed suddenly absurd, and by the time he was halfway through the cigarette and beginning to relax, the gravelly sound of tires came from the road.

A car door slammed and someone began walking his way.

"Helllloo!" Stanwood's voice echoed off the low, flat ceiling.

"You alone?" came back.

"I was."

The other voice hesitated. "I thought I saw someone else poking around."

"That was just me, admiring the scenery."

"Glad to hear it." A figure appeared in the doorway. "I was hoping you'd be here."

"I'm flattered," Stanwood said once he recognized the voice. "But you're the last person I'd expect to turn up in a place like this."

"I wish I could say the same about you."

Stanwood ignored the shot and asked what he had in mind.

"A little surprise." The man reached into his nylon Windbreaker.

"So what's that?"

"This?" The man flicked on a steel Maglite the size of a nightstick and stepped toward him. "Why, it's the surprise."

Stanwood held up his hands to shield his eyes from the glare. "Look -- I'm not here for what you think."

"Then what are you here for?"

He wasn't sure. "To tell you the truth, this whole deal has become a little too complicated."

"Maybe I can simplify things." The man swung the Mag in a small, fast arc, catching Stanwood on the collarbone and sending him to the floor.

That knocked the wind out of him.

Stanwood forced himself to his hands and knees but the man swung again, connecting with the side of his skull and causing everything to blur. Stanwood rolled onto his back and tried to cover himself. The man swung a third time and shattered a forearm. Stanwood curled into the fetalposition and tried to smother the pain. "Jesus Christ," he muttered before another crack sent him under.

"That's right," the man said, his breath heavy from the effort. "It's time to go home to Jesus."

He swung again and the light went out.

Quinn snatched the phone on the first ring.

"John, it's Ginny Sewell."

He groaned, fell back onto his bed and waited for her to continue. He was used to calls at odd hours, but this was a little early, even for Ginny. "Well, what is it?" he asked when nothing else followed.

"It's Sarah," she finally managed.

"Is she all right?"

"No," Ginny said. "She's not."

Sarah was the police reporter at the Stone Harbor Pilot and Ginny was her mother. Since she was sobbing at the other end of the line, Quinn thought the worst -- that her daughter had been in a horrible accident rushing to a crime scene or fire.

"Tell me what happened," he said slowly but firmly.

"She -- she -- she's been arrested."

Quinn relaxed. "That's it?"

"What do you mean, that's it?" Ginny couldn't believe his attitude.

"You made it sound like she was dead."

"Don't yell at me!" Ginny shouted.

"I'm not yelling at you!" he said, though suddenly he realized he may have been. He had a temper and his heart was still racing from being jarred awake so early on a Sunday morning. The glowing numbers on his alarm clock read 6:00 a.m.

He took a deep breath as Ginny blew her nose into the receiver and tried to compose herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know who else to call."

"Don't worry about it," Quinn said. "You just scared me. That's all."

"Well, I'm scared, too."

"I bet." During the next awkward moment, Quinn looked around the bedroom. His wife, Maria, was on the other side of the sheets, lying perfectly still in the early morning light, which could mean only one thing: she was pissed.

"John, you still there?" Ginny asked.

"Yeah. I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing important" was probably the wrong thing to say. By then it didn't matter. Anything he said could -- and would -- be used against him. He knew by the way his wife's whole body was stiffening beside him. "So what did Sarah do?" he asked Ginny.

"They charged her with disturbin' a crime scene," she said. "At Sullivan Park. It happened an hour ago."

"Jesus." Quinn could just imagine the call they'd answered. The park was the biggest pickup spot on the Maine coast and had been making headlines all summer. In the past month alone, twenty-three men had been charged with public lewdness as part of a police crackdown. Despite the arrests, they kept coming, up and down Route 1, from Belfast to Bath. Tourists, locals, it didn't matter.

"Don't you have anythin' else to say?" Ginny asked.

"I hope she was wearing rubber gloves."

"That isn't funny."

"I know." The full effect was beginning to hit him. "And I'm not laughing."

Neither was Ginny. "The police chief says she'll have a criminal record!"

"Oh, he's just trying to scare her. Trust me."

"He's serious!" she sobbed.

"Calm down. I'll be right there." Quinn hung up and shook his head.

"Where are you going?" his wife asked.

"The police station." He smiled and ran his hand along her soft, bare shoulder and down her arm. "But don't worry -- this won't take long."

Maria turned on her side, away from him. "It's them again, isn't it?"

He didn't answer as he got up and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He couldn't just leave one of his reporters in jail, especially when she was only doing her job. It wasn't her fault she usually beat the cops on calls and they were tired of being embarrassed. Given her crap salary and the hours she worked, driving down to the station was the least Quinn could do. He was probably going to stop by the office later that morning anyway, which would make his wife just as mad. With the way things had been going, he really didn't have a choice.

Besides, no matter how much of a pain Sarah could be, he admired her. She was twenty-two and had worked her way up from part-time librarian to news clerk to reporter. She had real passion. She was always in a rush, always carrying a handheld scanner and always running down fires and accidents and random police calls. The only drawback was she didn't have a license and her mother had to drive her everywhere.

The whole arrangement may have sounded strange to the uninitiated, but Ginny had a lot of time on her hands and didn't mind waiting around in her ancient Lincoln Continental, scoping out men, reading the racing form or working on a romance novel that had occupied her free time, on and off, for the past five years. That's how long she'd been on disability after ruining her wrists stitching moccasins at a local factory.

Driving in, Quinn went right past the place. Now converted into an outlet store, the building's brick exterior had been painted, polished and given newfound charm. As he descended into the lower part of town, the streets were quiet and empty, save the occasional shriek of a gull, with block after block of wooden frame homes, brick sidewalks and cluttered storefronts stacked on a waterfront dating to the seventeenth century.

Boats of every size filled the harbor, from Boston whalers and dories to the hulls of navy destroyers and the three historic schooners that tied up each summer at the maritime museum. It was a picturesque setting, one that made him feel like he was driving thr...

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