[To whet your appetite for my new novel, which I hope (but can’t promise) to have out by Christmas, here’s a snippet. I’ll post them here from time to time until the book is released. Every Friday, and possibly more if I’m feeling generous. lw]

PROLOGUE:

THE PRESENT.

Shane Anderson woke up in a room he didn’t recognize. He had no idea where he was, and no idea who was with him.

This was not unusual for him.

Never before, however, had he awakened in an attic room (he could tell by the slanted ceiling) in what was clearly a very old house, with no company but a very big Native American in a gray sweat suit, sitting in an armchair and reading a Bible.

“Where am I?” Shane asked. The bed he lay in didn’t go with the room, which had old-fashioned figured wallpaper and carved woodwork around the doors and windows. It was a modern adjustable bed, with some kind of control panel on a side rail. A hospital bed.

The Native American looked up from his reading and said, “You’re home. Or it will be your home someday. At least legally. If you don’t O. D. or break your neck.”

“The big house in Epsom? What the—ʺ

“No profanity, son. I have your mother’s instructions to wash your mouth out with soap if you speak profanities or curse. It’s one of the things in your life she’s particularly concerned about.”

“My mother? What’s my mother got to do with this?”

“This is an intervention, son. Your mother hired me to dry you out, physically and spiritually. You will spend the next month in this room, with me or alone. You will go through withdrawal. You will shake and sweat, and you’ll try to get past me through that door, but you won’t succeed. It’ll go best with you if you understand this from the outset, though I realize you won’t, and don’t take it personally.”

“You’re keeping me prisoner here? You can’t do that! Wait till I call my lawyer—ʺ Shane fumbled for his cell phone, but found there was nothing in his pockets. In fact, he had no pockets. He was wearing a sweat suit like the Native American’s, but in red.

“No phone. No internet. No TV or radio,” said the Native American. “You’re headed for the early twentieth century, son, you can’t get a signal there.”

“That doesn’t make any sense! You listen to me! I’m a fu-ʺ

The Native America moved faster than Shane thought any human being could move. In a second he had stuffed a small bar of Ivory soap into Shane’s mouth, and was holding his jaws shut while Shane choked on its bitter taste and felt its acrid fumes in his nose. When he thought he’d choke on it, the man let him go, then collected the soap he’d spit out with a wash cloth.

“JE—ʺ he started to say, between coughs, and then stopped when the Native American turned back to him with the soap ready.

“What are you doing to me?” he demanded instead. “Why are you here? Why am I here?”

“Because you’re a boozer and a druggie, son. You’re a degenerate. Your mother, in spite of everything you’ve done to break her heart, wants to save your life. She hired me to dry you out. I don’t come cheap.”

“You can’t keep me here, you know. It’s against the law. I’m an adult.”

“Actually no. You know Judge Scarpelli, your mother’s friend? She was able to get an order of committal for you from him, after that last stunt of yours with the Ferrari and the sixteen year old girl. You’re entrusted to my care. I am Robert Swallowtail, owner and sole director of the Robert Swallowtail Clinic, which just now has its home office and sole facility here in this room.”

“Mom hired a fu—ʺ Shane glanced at the soap, and re-cast his sentence. “Mom hired a nursemaid for me. Look dude, I don’t mind a guy making a buck off his own con, and maybe you even know what you’re doing. But I’ve done this dance. I’ve done Hazelden, Betty Ford, you name it. Whatever you think you got, it’s not gonna help me. I was born to live fast and die hard and leave a bloody corpse. It’s too late to do anything about it.”

“This time it’s different.”

“What? You got some patent medicine? Meditation? Acupuncture? Native American sweat lodge?”

Robert Swallowtail turned back to his chair and picked up the Bible. “I’ve got this,” he said.

He went to a table by the wall. A stack of yellow paper sat on it. He picked the stack up and handed it to Shane.

“I also have this.”

Shane looked at the manuscript. The title, in old-fashioned, elegant copperplate handwriting, said, “Troll Valley: The Memoirs of Christian Anderson of Epsom, Minnesota.”

“Your great-great-grandfather’s book,” said Swallowtail. “You’ll be reading it, because it and the Bible are all the entertainment you’ll get this month. Also, don’t call me a Native American. I’m an Indian, or an Ojibway if you want to get technical.”