The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (64 page)

A disembodied voice surrounded him (translated as follows). "So,
Zorgestal 347397458, what are your conclusions from your
reconnaissance? Should we admit the planet to the Intergalactic
Federation or annihilate it?"

(Just for you skee-fee junkies. Live long and proper. JD)

And Yet ANOTHER Alternate Epilogue

(For you fans of a button-down brain. JD)

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

7:06 a.m.

A luxury riverfront gated community

Bonita Springs, Florida

Marion Herman awoke to George's snoring and apparently laughing in
his sleep. "George, wake up; you're dreaming again."

"Wha?"

"You're dreaming again."

After coming a bit more awake, George was able to say, "Oh,
geez, Marion, this was a GREAT dream. There was this assassin who
pretended to be a beach bum who was writing this book about a guy who
bought the country, and then he met --"

"Oh, George, not another one of those. I am NOT letting Lurlene
fix you that chocolate peanut butter turkey noodle tofu casserole
ever again. The last time you had it, you dreamed about some young
spy with amnesia, the one who looked like Matthew Bordrick."

"No, that was Matthew ... Dillion?"

"Whatever. No more of that casserole, ever!!! And if these
dreams keep up, I'm gonna have to take you back to Dr. Deb."

"No, not Dr. Deb. Please!"

"Just a warning, George. But now we've got to get dressed and
go vote. We've got to cancel out the kids' votes. And in four
years, the grandkids'll be eligible, too, and they'll probably vote
for that liar or his party, too; don't know what we're going to do
then. Geez."

“Wait, wait. I've got to make some notes on that dream. Maybe
I'll write a whole book about it.”

“Well, don't take too much time. I don't like long lines.”

Marion rolled her eyes and climbed out of their adjustable,
temperature-controlled bed. George grabbed his spiral notebook and
began scribbling.

An hour later, on their way to the precinct, George piped up: "And
we watched a speech on TV at Slinky Joe's." Marion rolled her
eyes.

On the way back from voting, George mumbled: "No, not Dillion
... Damion?"

Marion rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Whatever."

And Yet ANOTHER Other Alternate Epilogue

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

8:23 a.m.

A small farmhouse near Lancaster, Pennsylvania

Sarah Durgenmueller stalked into the kitchen, threw an
oilcloth-wrapped packet onto the wood-hewn table, placed her stolid
hands on her stolid hips and planted her 180-pound,
five-foot-three-inch body stolidly in front of her husband, who was
sitting placidly on a stool beside the table.

“Jacob Durgenmueller, thou hast defilethed all that is holy
with what thou hast writteneth there. The foul language, the rampant
recreational procreative acts, spies, killers and guns, oh, my. And
Pamela is not even a biblical name, not to mentioneth Mitzy, Bitsy or
Ginny May. And that defilement you callethed a Suzanne? Thou
musteth haveth visitethed that heathen harlot Heather again.

“I submitteth to you, as iseth my holy and sworn duty, once a
year, solely for procreation, as our holy Father and our elders have
proclaimethed, but that certainly iseth NOT recreational.

“And Florida, Paris, London, Vienna, Bangkok? Thou hast never
travelethed further than the ten miles from this farm to the city.
And all the newfangled things that thou hast includethed in there.
What is a PC? A CD? A tablet? A three-way? Interpol? A bullet in
the butt? And a tail and seven arms? An Alzheimer's dream? Satan's
work! And what makest thou thinketh that thou knoweth anything at
all abouteth nathional polithy or economicth? Thatan'th work!!!

“Thou shalt certainly getteth uth shunnethed by the elders if
they findeth out what thou hast wroughteth. I cannot believeth that
such dreck cometh from thy brain. And your handwriting iseth awful,
too.

“I shalleth burneth this trash immediately when the fire
getteth goingeth, and thou shalt milketh the cows so I mayeth
churneth the butter and maketh the ice cream for the children's
monthly treat. Then thou shalt driveth the buggy into Lancaster and
get the lantern repairethed, and returneth immediately to this
house.”

Jacob rose from the stool, picked up the packet from the table,
towered momentarily over his wife, said, “I divorceth thee, I
divorceth thee, I divorceth thee. Thou canst milketh thine own –
oh, fucketh it. You can milk your own fuckin' cows, you fat, ugly,
self-righteous bitch, and I hope one of them kicks you in the fuckin'
head,” and headed for the door.

“I will take with me one fifth, not half, of our savings,
leaving you with eight thousand dollars for the winter. I will take
the buggy into town and get Caleb to repair the lantern and return
the buggy to you. He's always coveted you, and I'll let him know
you're his if he still wants you. I'm outa here. And if I ever
again have to add 'eth' to plain old English verbs, I think I'll
puke.” And he left, taking only two thousand dollars and the
oilcloth-wrapped packet with him, leaving a finally speechless
ex-wife spluttering behind.

When he arrived in Lancaster about eleven, he left the buggy and an
explanation with Caleb at the feed store, trudged down the street to
a thrift store, where he paid twelve dollars for a short-sleeved knit
shirt, khakis, socks, tennis shoes and a brand new pair of underwear.
He changed into all that and left his baggy coat, shirt, trousers
and hat as a donation; he threw his underwear and socks into a
trashcan.

He continued down the street to a barber shop, where he got his beard
shaved off and his hair cut in a short, stylish cut the barber
recommended, all for another twelve dollars, then sauntered another
two blocks to a fast food restaurant, where he purchased a double
cheeseburger, soft drink and small fries, the first in his 38-year
life; he did not purchase an apple pie. He sat at the only empty
table in the crowded restaurant, enjoying his first moments of
freedom after years of virtual slavery on his now-ex-wife's family's
farm.

Savoring a second bite of the cheeseburger, his eyes closed in
delight, he did not see the source of the gentle, melodious voice
that said, “Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”

Perflutzed, his mouth full of cheeseburger, his eyes opened, but he
could only manage a welcoming gesture.

“Thanks.”

Jacob chewed and swallowed as rapidly as he could, but then could
only mumble, “You're welcome,” as he watched the
bewitching, perfectly figured 40-ish blonde slither into the plastic
chair across from him, giving him a winning smile and batting her
dazzling blues at him over her elegant sunglasses.

Jacob licked his lips, then brushed at them with his thumb.

“You missed a bit, there on the right,” she said, and
reached over with a napkin and wiped the last bit from his lower lip.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, still perflutzed.

“No problem,” she said. “By the way, I like your
hair style.”

“It's new, just this morning.”

“Did you have a beard? Your chin and jaw are very white.”

“Yup, just had that shaved off this morning, too.”

“Really? Why?”

“Oh, I got divorced and left the farm.”

“Oh; sorry to pry. I didn't mean --”

“It's okay.”

“But you're a big, strapping guy, fairly good-looking. Why
would your wife divorce you?”

“No, the other way around. I just needed some freedom.”

“Really? Wow. And now what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to Florida, if I can find the bus … uh ...
station? Depot? I haven't been off the farm very much.”

“Hey, I'm going to Florida, and I could use some company on the
drive.”

“Really?”

“You're not a serial killer or anything, are you?”

“Nope, just a simple far- – ex-farmer.”

“You'll need some sunscreen on your face. I'm driving with the
top down.”

“Sunscreen? What --”

“Oh, you really are naïve, aren't you? It protects your
skin against sunburn. I've got some in the car. So would you like
to ride with me?”

“I guess so; thank you.”

“I've got a condo overlooking the beach, and I'm going down for
the winter. A snowbird.”

“A what?”

“A – just a name for winter visitors there.”

“Oh,” Jacob said, taking another bite of his
cheeseburger.

“I hate to leave the family, but they can always come for a
visit.”

“Family?” Jacob mumbled.

“My sons, Bruce and Stephen, and their wives, May and Ginny,
and the brand-new grandkids, Mitzy and Bitsy.”

Jacob choked on his cheeseburger.

“Are you all right?”

Jacob nodded and managed to swallow. “Sorry.”

“You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Thanks.”

“Look, it's almost noon, and rush hour traffic in Baltimore can
be a bitch. Okay if we go now and take this with us?”

“Sure.”

“Is that all you've got for luggage?”

“Yup, just that packet.”

“Good, 'cause my car is pretty full. I'll have to clear some
stuff off the front seat, but you should be able to fit in.”

“This is very nice of you.”

“Don't sweat it. I can use the company; it's a long drive.
Maybe you can spell me part of the time.”

“Spell you?”

“Drive some of the time, give me a break.”

“Oh. Sorry, I don't know how to drive.”

“Really? Wow. Okay. Hang on while I clear the seat off.”

“Okay.”

Once they were settled in the car, the woman pulled her hair back
into a ponytail and slid her T-shirt off, revealing a black bikini
top with a golden ring in the center, fetchingly holding two perky,
firm breasts.

Jacob gasped.

“Oh, sorry; I just like to feel the wind and sun when I drive.”

“No problem.”

“Here's the sunscreen; it's creamy, not oily. Just smear it
on.”

“Thanks … uh, what should I call you?”

“Oh, my name's Pamela, Pamela Brooks, but you can call me Pam.
And you?”

“Jacob Durgen- – uh, Devlin, but thou mayest – I
mean you can call me Jake.”

“Very nice to meet you, Jake Devlin,” Pam said, holding
out her hand, which Jake shook. She held his hand a bit longer than
Jake thought was usual.

“So, Pam, what is it you do?”

“I'm an agent.”

“What? FBI, CIA, Secret --”

She laughed, a deep, throaty, open laugh. “No, no, no, I'm a
literary agent. I try to find new writers and market them.”

“Really? That must be interesting.”

“Only about eight percent of the time. The other 92 percent is
just dreck.”

“Oh.”

“By the way, Jake, do you like Neapolitan ice cream?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I do,” Jake said, as he leaned back in the
leather seat, closed his eyes and smiled … and smiled …
and smiled.

And the Absolutely Positively FINAL* Epilogue

Friday, October 5, 2012

1:34 p.m.

Bonita Beach, Florida

The man sitting sideways on his homemade PVC lounge, fringe free, as
it always had been, took a final puff of his little light cigar and
stubbed it out, putting the butt in the empty blue-and-white pack
with the others, then coughed deeply for half a minute. Then he
pulled a container of mostly melted chocolate ice cream out of his
cooler, took a sip, swallowed slowly, then took a sip from his water
bottle and applied some lip balm, SPF 45.

Lying back on his lounge, he picked up a non-spiral notebook, made
some notes, set the notebook and pen back down, chuckled, reached
into his cooler, popped a chocolate-and-orange-covered tofu ball into
his mouth, then lay back, put his ecru beach hat over his face and
fell into a deep, deep sleep, not the slightest bit perflutzed.

The notes read:

“Book 2:

“A: When Pam and Jake arrivethed in Bonita --

“B: When Pam and Jake arrived in the Indian Ocean ...

“C: When Pam's butt had healed and they arrived IO/Somalia ...

“D: When Pam and Jake and JJ arrived IO/Som …

“E: When P/J started on her memoirs …

“F: While Pam's butt healed, P/J started on her memoirs ...

“G: When the Mimosa twins accepted the job in ____, they had no
way of knowing that …

“H: When the phone rang, Amber …

*For one more “filters-totally-off”

final epilogue, visit this link:

JakeDevlin.com/alt

So you think you know Bonita?

If you're familiar with Bonita Springs

and think you know the real names of the

places in this book, as well as some other

general stuff, you might want to visit this link:

JakeDevlin.com/quiz

Enjoyed this read? Tell your friends.

JakeDevlin.com

Hated it? Tell me.

[email protected]

Now, here's an excerpt from the

second novel in the quatrology

“Devlin's Defiance”

- 1 -

November 12, 2012
2:27 a.m. local time

On the Aegean Sea

Two modified, high-powered jet skis sped silently across the choppy
surface, the heavily armed riders cloaked in black wet suits, black
multipocketed vests and black ski masks, their eyes covered by night
vision goggles; on their backs, each wore a harness with a
complicated array of hoses, bars and nozzles.

Two miles ahead, their destination perched precariously atop a craggy
outcropping that rose eighty feet straight up from the sea, an
isolated, irregular, natural obelisk. But the ancient monastery had
thumbed its nose at gravity for over seven hundred years and would
probably last another seven hundred.

“Two miles to target, Fiona.”

“Roger that, Becks. Drone shows no outside activity.”

“Copy that, Fiona.

“So, Cam, how's Blake doing?”