Blood from a stone, p.1
Blood from a Stone, page 1
What readers are saying about The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone
Easily the best of the series so far! Can't wait for book 4... – Steve
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Definitely another thrilling installment in the Rembrandt Stone series and I'm looking forward to the next one. Start with book one and you'll be hooked like I am! – Kelly, Best in Suspense
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My favorite one in the series so far! That may be because I have become so invested in this story line and these characters. – Nicole
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All I can say is, jump on the DJW train. Best new author I've read in a long time. Thank you, Mr Warren for a few hours of life distraction. I appreciate it. – Todd
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Like every Warren story, Rembrandt faces incredibly high stakes, and he battles all sorts of physical challenges, dangers, and threats to save the day. They’ll keep you on the edge of your seat – and isn’t that, really, the very best place to read? – Amy
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Just when I think the authors can’t turn Rembrandt’s life more upside down, they throw in a major TWIST! – Sarita
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Goodness. I feel like Rembrandt Stone is ruining me for other books. Like, nothing compares to Rem. Seriously, nothing compares. – Kelly
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There is plenty of action and adrenaline...for how could this book be a Rembrandt Stone book without the chills-racing-down-the-spine suspense? – MJSH
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It keeps getting better. This whirlpool we seem to have thrust ourselves into that won't let us quit. – Ochegba
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I got my copy of this book at midnight last night, stayed up until 4 am reading it because I couldn't put it down, and still don't regret it this morning! – Linda
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The combination of Susan May Warren, James L. Rubart and David Curtis Warren is, without a doubt, one of the best groupings I have ever read. – Jessica
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Once again, I am sitting here, a bit at loss for words. This incredible, crazy, absolutely outstanding, thriller of a series...it continues! – Rosalyn
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An engaging protagonist and a thrilling story will continue to entrance fans of the series. Definitely one to check out if you like cold-case fiction or suspense with a sci-fi twist. – Tressa
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Sticks and Stone is fascinating and compelling. I cannot wait for the next installment. Read the first three books in this series...and I'm sure you'll agree with me! – Wren
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Again, another winner!!! These books are phenomenal!!!!!! Don’t miss a one!!! Rembrandt and Eve are so remarkable!!! – Carolyn
The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone
Cast The First Stone
No Unturned Stone
Sticks and Stone
Set in Stone
Blood from a Stone
Heart of Stone
Blood From a Stone
David James Warren
Soli Deo Gloria
Tristone Media Inc.
15100 Mckenzie Blvd
Minnetonka, Minnesota, 55345
Copyright © 2021 by Tristone Media
ISBN: 978-1-954023-08-6
www.RembrandtStone.com
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or as provided by US Copyright Law.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Heart of Stone - Preview
Meet David James Warren
1
This is not my world.
Not my life.
Not my time.
Sure, it resembles a life I knew—from the snow piled up along the blackened, salted streets, the icy wind buffeting the frosty diner window, to the sound of Celine Dion singing how her heart will go on, and even the smell of oil in the fryers of the late-night diner. It could be any one of the diners I used to frequent in downtown Minneapolis after a long day of investigations.
But this is not my life.
My life is twenty years in the future, and right now, if fate were kind, or even fair, I would be reading Llama, Llama, Red Pajama to my seven-year-old blonde cherub as she clutches a ratty one-eyed bear named Gomer and tells me to slow down, to read it again.
My gorgeous wife, Eve, would be standing in the doorway of our partially remodeled craftsman located in a suburb of Uptown. Or maybe she’d be across the hall in our king bed, bundled up in her wool socks and thick bathrobe, her reading glasses down on her nose, deep in the latest issue of the Journal for Forensic Scientists.
Downstairs, the light in my den would be on, the cursor at my computer blinking, waiting for me to continue my half-finished novel.
And I would be happy. Until now, I wouldn’t realize how happy, but as I sit here, I know.
I had a happy ending.
This is not it. But this time around, if I’m smart, I’ll win.
I must win.
To a time traveler, until you’ve been someplace for a long time, rewriting the past feels like a game. We jump into the moment, armed with knowledge we shouldn’t possess, the older and wiser versions of ourselves, with the goal of rewriting our lives, this time for the better.
For us, the game isn’t win or lose, but rather, scored on the what-ifs that we grab, the shouldas we accomplish. And, all the while, in the back of our minds, if we make a wrong move, we’re buoyed by the surety it can be reset.
It’s taken me four rounds, but this time I know.
This is not a game.
Time is playing for keeps and there’s no reset if I fail.
But don’t worry—this time, I will not be bested.
I swear it on my life.
I keep that information tucked inside, my countenance cool, as I sit in a booth, across from a man long since dead, but now very much alive, Minneapolis Police Chief John Booker. My mentor, friend and the man who will save my life in roughly six minutes and forty-two seconds.
In Jin’s Liquors, the store next door, right now, a robbery is going down, and if we don’t leave now, the owner will be shot in the chest by a Colt .38. He’ll bleed out in less than five minutes, but before collapsing, he’ll pull his alarm.
And because Booker and I are next door, we’ll respond.
I should probably mention that I’m a homicide investigator with the Minneapolis Police Department. When I left my world, last time around, I was also the interim police chief, so at this point I’m pretty good at this game.
I’ll go in first, breaking through the front doors, and see the downed owner. Going immediately to his aid, I won’t see the perp coming out of the back room hauling the contents of the safe. I also won’t see him aim his gun at me and pull the trigger.
I especially won’t see Booker push me away, behind a display of Seagram’s wine coolers.
The gunshot will hit the chief.
He’ll die beside the owner within the next two minutes, leaving a legacy of heroism, and taking with him a slew of questions I now need answers to.
But we’ll get to those.
Because this time, he will live. I’ve studied every detail of this scene.
I know how to win.
“So, tell me, Rem, how’s she doing?”
We’re talking about my current partner, rookie investigator Shelby Ruthers. In my time, at least my most recent version, she’s the Minneapolis police chief.
Here, I’m tasked with training her. And apparently, Booker is keenly interested in her progress.
At least, I think that’s why we’re sitting in a diner on a Friday night at 10 p.m. eating pie.
Maybe he has something else on his mind—I don’t know. I’ve never lived this rewrite of time before.
The details of his death I learned from his jacket, the one included in my stack of cold case files, his killer never apprehended.
But that file is never going to be made.
Like I said, things will go down differently this time.
This time, I’ll get there early. And maybe I won’t be able to save the life of the owner, but John Booker will not die.
Neither will I.
The perp will get away, at least for the next forty-eight hours. I know what you’re thinking, but he will go down for his crimes. Just not yet.
Before then I have to bring another murderer to justice.
The man who killed my wife.
It’s a long story, so wait for it. Because, right now, I just need to answer Booker, then figure out how to get next door before the alarm sounds.
Before history repeats itself.
“She’s nailing it,” I say to his question about Shelby and take a sip of coffee. I like this place—it’s a tucked away diner in a strip mall near Chicago Avenue and 36th just outside of Downtown Minneapolis. They serve killer pies, and sometimes Booker and I sneak away for the house special—Grandma Lou’s Lemon Angel
The place is unimpressive—a long counter display that shows the various pies, a few drugstore stools mounted in front of the Formica counter, retro tables with vinyl yellow chairs and cafe curtains at the window.
But the pie—oh, I’d forgotten how the lemon tart dissolves in your mouth with just the right balance of salty, lard-based crust, and a hint of fluffy meringue. It’s almost enough to distract me.
Not quite. I have an eye on the parking lot, looking for movement. Last time, the perp escaped out the back, and I’ve already spotted a door to the back of the diner.
But, like I said, I don’t want to catch the shooter. Not yet. He’s not why I’m here. Just a by-product, collateral justice, as it were. But the moment he’s caught is the moment this ride through time ends.
And I’ve got stuff to do, places to be before I close the books on this jump.
“That’s good,” Booker says, still talking about Shelby, “because Danny hired her on your recommendation. But we need to get her trained because Burke is finished with his assignment with Danny’s task force, now that Hassan Abdilhali is dead. His gang is in disarray, and the Minneapolis drug trade is ripe for a new regime.”
“So, Burke is looking for a new partner?” I take another bite of pie—my last one, because I’ve gotta figure out how to leave in about forty seconds.
Booker gives me a wry grin. He’s always seemed a man from a different time, as if he walked straight from the pages of Lonesome Dove, fresh from leading a posse, a wizened look of battle in his eyes. He is tall, with slightly graying hair, and speaks with a low baritone, his words slow, thoughtful. But his dark brown eyes are always studying, weighing.
I wonder if I measure up.
“Burke will always be your partner, Rem. You know that.” Booker takes a sip of his coffee.
It’s then I notice he’s wearing a wedding ring, and my mind flips back to the woman I met back in my real time, a reporter named Frankie.
The daughter Booker never had in our original timeline.
So, he’s married, although if my memory of Frankie’s story is correct, he and her mother are separated.
Frankie will lose her father tonight if my rewrite doesn’t take.
I glance out the window, toward the street and frown. A ruse, but Booker notices. “What?”
“Thought I saw something…” I get up, move toward the door, and he follows.
“What did you see?”
“Isn’t the liquor store closed?” I push out into the night, knowing he’ll follow.
Around the force, I’m known for my hunches. You know by now what they are—foreknowledge. And maybe Booker knows it too. But he’s on my tail because I’m also a cop and I see things that shouldn’t be.
It’s late January, and my breath fogs the air, the chill finding my nose, slithering down my neck. The fresh snowfall is piled up around the perimeter of the lot, and an icy layer of danger coats the steps and sidewalks.
Streetlights shine against the dark windows of the liquor store, but as we walk down the sidewalk, a light flashes in the back.
Cheater, you say, but gimmie a break, I need an edge if I hope to pull this off.
We pause outside the window, and it’s then the gunshot barks.
No alarm, not yet, and I hoof it down to the door. It’s locked, the closed sign on it, but a glance inside shows the owner down, writhing and bleeding out.
He might live if we can get to him. In my previous go-round, according to the file, I kicked the door in.
This time I say, “Call it in!” Then take off for the back of the building.
The back door is open, and if I stage this right, no one will die.
I figure, if Booker can’t get inside, he can’t get shot, right?
I spot a car idling in the back. It’s a Toyota Supra, a hotrod wanna be, but it has nothing on my Porsche, bless her, now a sooty shell back in my time. I snapshot the license plate in my mind and move toward the door.
It’s unlocked.
My plan is simple. Slip inside, making enough noise that the perp hears me and flees. And I’ll let him go, for now. I’ll pull the owner behind the counter—maybe save his life—and only after the perp has escaped will I unlock the front door.
And Booker will live.
One game point for Rembrandt Stone.
I steal in and spot a light on in the back office, a lamp. The alarm is still sounding, so it might mask my noise, but even so, I hustle to the front of the building, grabbing a towel off a mop and rack sitting near the door.
The owner is groaning, laying near the front checkout desk and I kneel before him. He’s a middle-aged Korean man, and the shot has hit him in his upper right side. “Hang in there,” I say as I shove the towel against his wound.
He grabs my wrist, and it’s stronger than I would imagine. “Help.”
The words still me because he’s a ghost from the grave.
“Jin-Sun…my…daughter…”
My eyes widen because I don’t remember a daughter in the report.
“Where?”
“In…office…
I bite back a word, then swallow and nod.
And that’s when I hear the voice that chills me through. “Rem. We have backup coming.”
Booker has come in the front. I don’t know if he’s broken the lock, or simply slammed through the glass, but he now stands between me and the perp, who, by my estimation, is still emptying the safe.
With Jin-Sun hiding nearby.
And now the game has changed.
Booker is the target. And time is trying to win.
I can almost hear the laughter.
I figure one of two things could happen.
Booker will still get shot. And Frankie will grow up without her father. And the recent past will spool out like it did before—with Danny Mulligan becoming police chief, and his daughter, Eve, who I love, moving to Florida, out of his protective reach.
I will lose her all over again to a Miami cop named Val.
And Val will lead us to a serial killer who takes Eve’s life.
And sure, there are thousands of ways that might change, but with each variation, each rewrite, my life veers even further off course. Brings me back to another world that has been rewritten into another unlivable version of the life I should have.
No. Not this time.
This time, everything will be different.
Of course, there is option two, where Booker will hear—and catch the perp—before he gets off his lethal shot. Maybe even kill him.
Which means this cold case is solved.
I will then immediately return to the dismal future I left, with me sitting in the rain outside the graveyard where my daughter and my wife are buried.
If that happens, I won’t have time to track down Leo Fitzgerald, the serial killer who, in my time, has murdered thirty-eight women, including my daughter. I won’t have time to propose to Eve, and keep her from moving to Florida. I won’t even have time to chop down the massive elm tree that will someday take out the craftsman home Eve and I love.
I know this is not about a tree, but as long as I’m counting my losses…
Thankfully, fate and I have been in the ring together before. It tried to steal my wife from me, three different ways.
Stole my partner from me.
Killed Booker in every timeline so far.
And swept my daughter and her memory from the face of the earth.
But what fate has forgotten is that I don’t know what’s good for me. And I’ll keep swinging no matter how many times I get knocked flat.
I possess all the cheats.
