Red Sleeper
The Berlin Fraternity Universe,
#2
by
Brian Downes
Genre: Historical
horror
Date of Publication:
December 1st, 2017
Cover Artist: Miriam
Medina
Tagline: A
cold war after dark.
BLURB
In the horsepower town of 1950s Detroit, FBI
agent Christopher Haigwood is raising his Catholic family and hunting Soviet
spies. Then a communist fanatic who was arrested with a lot of guns, dynamite,
and heroin breaks out of jail right before his eyes, and Haigwood is plunged
into a terrifying labyrinth of plots, informants, liars, and the horrifying
revelation that vampires are real, and that some of his KGB quarry are undead.
Red
Sleeper is set in the world of The Berlin Fraternity.
Buy Link: Amazon
Excerpt:
Haigwood had read Walter Swale’s file several times. He’d written sections of
it. White. Brown eyes, brown hair, approximately 5’6”, 175 pounds estimated
weight. Father born in Poland, 1893, changed the family name to Swale from
Szwarc on arrival in the USA. Haigwood had studied photographs of Swale to
memorize the high chin, the bulging lips, the distance between the eyes, the
widow’s peak that pointed out of the receding hairline. He had once sat at
Swale’s kitchen table with the curtains drawn and copied names out of his
address book while Swale was out at the movies. Now Swale was sitting in jail,
having been brought in the night before for resisting arrest, along with possession
of: four ounces Mexican heroin, ten sticks dynamite, one M1 rifle with two
hundred rounds of ammunition, one police revolver with ammunition, and
twenty-three copies of a Communist Party pamphlet urging workers to revolt
against their bosses and their elected leaders in Washington, D.C.
Haigwood had been at home with his wife, Annie, over the Thanksgiving weekend.
He’d gotten the call last night at dinner. Now he was walking into the jail at
eight on Monday morning to get his first eyeball-to-eyeball with this Red they
had been watching for more than six months.
There was a jail guard stationed at the front desk. Haigwood smiled at the man
as he unwrapped his scarf from around his neck. “Good morning! How’s everything
with you fellas?”
“Good morning,” the guard answered, looking him up and down warily. “Is it
snowing already?”
Haigwood took his fedora off, tapped the snow dust off its brim, and ran his
hand through his hair. “Yes, it’s brisk out there!” He pulled out his
credentials. “I’m Christopher Haigwood, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m
here to see Swale, Walter, a prisoner brought in about 2100 hours last night.”
The guard, whom Haigwood saw was about ten years younger than he was, focused
on Haigwood’s ID. He reached his hand out tentatively to touch the wallet. “I
heard about that. So you really work for J. Edgar Hoover, huh?”
“And the American people,” Haigwood answered with a smile. “Now do you think
you could get someone to show me to Swale?”
The guard picked up a telephone receiver from a handset at his station and
dialed a number. Haigwood toyed with his hat, smothered his impatient sigh, and
looked around at the signs in the jail’s foyer. The signs told him to be on the
alert for any men dressed in black and gray stripes, because they might be
escaping inmates. And that he was going to have to surrender his revolver if he
wanted to go any further. He looked out the window and saw the snowflakes
floating gently downward, their numbers growing. From further inside the jail
he could smell the morning coffee, but he’d just finished off a Coca-Cola in
the car.
He was really angry at Swale for getting himself arrested like this. But he was
very much looking forward to speaking to him personally.
A second guard appeared and took Haigwood inside the jail. This one older than
him, and not shy at all about staring at the G-man with frank curiosity. He had
a nametag that read, “G. Cantor”. Nobody asked Haigwood for his service weapon,
so he kept his overcoat on and didn’t mention it.
“So I read this guy’s sheet,” Haigwood’s guide said indifferently as they
walked.
“Yeah, you did?”
“Yeah,” Cantor nodded, looking like he didn’t care, but watching Haigwood’s
face carefully. “You know we don’t get a lot of dynamiters in here.”
“Oh, you don’t?” Haigwood put a chime of surprise in his voice.
“No,” the guard said, warming up to explaining his job to someone he had
expected to be smarter than him. “We don’t get too many commies, either.”
“I guess you’ve got one today, though?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ve sure got one today. It’s an unusual day. Here he is, on the
end.”
They had been walking down a chilly, second-level row of cells as Haigwood
parried Cantor’s efforts to pump him for information. It was cold enough that
Haigwood was quite comfortable with his overcoat on. Morning light, turned a
cottony gray by the snow coming down outside, slanted in through the high,
narrow, barred windows.
Swale was up early, and had heard them coming. Haigwood could see him pressing
his face up against the bars of his cell, craning his neck to see them
approach. But Haigwood stopped first at the cell adjacent to Swale’s, and
looked down at a little man wrapped in a blanket on one of the cell’s two
bunks. “Who’s this?” He asked Cantor.
“Who, him? That’s Hobson. He stays with us sometimes, three or four times a
year.”
“What brings him in?”
“Tuning up his wife.”
Haigwood gestured at Hobson’s sleeping cellmate. “And what about that one?”
“That’s, uh, Gomez. Got drunk and stabbed a fellow over a game of cards.”
“OK,” Haigwood said, reassured that the two men who might overhear his
conversation didn’t much matter. He told the guard, “Thank you very much, Mr.
Cantor, I’ll be fine here,” as he took the final few steps that brought him
face to face with Walter Swale through the bars of his cell.
Author Info
Brian Downes learned to read at a
young age. He is now a novelist who lives in Orlando, Florida. His other novels
are The Berlin Fraternity and The Carrefour Crisis. He also writes for the
website Florida Geek Scene.
The Book Junkie Reads . . . Interview
with Brian Downes
How would you describe you style of writing to someone
that has never read your work?
That is a question I have never considered before. Let me say, vivid, gripping, transformational, you’ll never want to read another book again, after reading me.
I didn’t put that very well.
That is a question I have never considered before. Let me say, vivid, gripping, transformational, you’ll never want to read another book again, after reading me.
I didn’t put that very well.
What mindset or routine do you feel the need to set when
preparing to write (in general whether you are working on a project or just
free writing)?
The mindset is bloody-minded stubbornness. Steel-trap tenacity. Hammer at it every day until you have bent it to your will.
The mindset is bloody-minded stubbornness. Steel-trap tenacity. Hammer at it every day until you have bent it to your will.
Do you take your character prep to heart? Do you nurture
the growth of each character all the way through to the page? Do you people
watch to help with development? Or do you build upon your character during
story creation?
Characters get planned, of course. Then characters get executed on the page. Invariably, some changes happen in step two. With luck, the changes are improvements. I study psychology, sociology, and human nature to help with development.
Characters get planned, of course. Then characters get executed on the page. Invariably, some changes happen in step two. With luck, the changes are improvements. I study psychology, sociology, and human nature to help with development.
Have you found yourself bonding with any particular
character? If so which one(s)?
I have not.
I have not.
Do you have a character that you have been working on
that you can't wait to put to paper?
I am rarely impatient about the work. I will come to that
when I come to that, and in the meantime I should concentrate on what’s before
me.
Have you ever felt that there was something inside of you
that you couldn't control? If so what? If no what spurs you to reach for the
unexperienced?
We can’t control most of what is inside of us. The post hoc rationalization is our species favorite pastime; we do things, then tell ourselves afterward that we reasoned it out.
For example, there’s no rational reason for me to write.
We can’t control most of what is inside of us. The post hoc rationalization is our species favorite pastime; we do things, then tell ourselves afterward that we reasoned it out.
For example, there’s no rational reason for me to write.
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