We are delighted to welcome Diane Schulman to Omnimystery News today. Diane's husband, Martin Schulman, recently passed away and while he was a profilic author, he wrote only one novel, The Conscience (November 2014 trade paperback). We are pleased to introduce you to it with an excerpt, the prologue and first two chapters.
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Prologue
If there is one thing that cannot be seen or touched, yet, is so powerful that it rules one's life, determining what direction it will go in, what road it will travel on, what choices will be made along the way …
If there is one thing that sets the sail on a course of deliverance or lost in the seas of worthlessness, tossed about by the ever changing winds of despair …
If there is one thing that holds fast and true, never wavering, deceiving or betraying, or luring one astray, that cannot be stolen, that shines with the brilliance of highest truth …
It is the Conscience.
Chapter 1
The late afternoon sun peeked through the twenty-foot high skylight, casting a bright beam of dusty haze, as it found its way downward, onto the old mahogany scratched table near the center of the otherwise shaded room.
An ornate balance scale, replete with bronze curved arms reaching out of a delicately sculptured stem, rising from the carefully inscribed base, rested near the center of the table. Off to both sides of the scale there were several colored piles of a sandy grain like substance, almost as if small rocks had been crushed first into pebbles, then into smaller chips and after much more effort, into tiny particles that almost, but not quite, hinted at an attempt to be powder.
One of the piles was a deep reddish brown, another a grayish tone with hints of blue speckling, as if the pile needed further mixing before the disparate colors in it would blend into an agreeable hue.
The table itself looked heavy, dark and old, as if built when the human labor of hand carving was a lifetime's dedication of pride and effort. It's edges, ribbed with several rows of curved and modeled grooves and indents culminated at each corner in finely carved catlike faces, while the legs reached down from inside and under the corners, curving first out then gently sloping inward, slowly thinning, until out again at their bases, in the shape of four firmly planted claws.
Hunched over the table, sitting in a straight high backed cane and mahogany chair, was the figure of a careful and attentive man in his fifties, wearing a striped blue and gray long sleeve cotton shirt covered partly by an open saddle leather vest that hung loosely at his sides. His dark brown trousers and laced leather shoes were barely visible under the shade of the heavy table, but the sunlight highlighted his short gray hair and mustache. He pulled a small metallic tool from his vest pocket and leaning to his right used it to press the gray blue pile into submission, crushing it, grinding it downward onto the table, listening to the brittle particles crack into finer, smaller, tiny grains. He kept doing this until the gray and blue colors slowly gave up their differences and blended into a soft bluish-gray tone as if one color had now been made from two. Then, with slow measured movement, he used a flat wooden palette knife to scoop some of the reddish brown powder up onto the left side of the scale, carefully centering it on the round metal platform. With the same care, he repeated his efforts on the right platform with a smaller amount of the bluish gray powder, carefully watching the balance of the scale as he gradually kept adding to the right platform until both sides reached perfect balance.
Then, he reached inside the vest and removed two envelopes from a shirt pocket placing one on the table and holding the other widely open under the edge of the left circular platform, as he scooped the reddish brown powder into it, before sealing the envelope and placing it on the table. Picking up the other envelope he repeated this process with the right platform then sighed with satisfaction as both envelopes now lay side by side, filled and sealed tightly on the table before him.
Cam looked down at his left shirt cuff, then raising it slightly with his right hand, glanced at his watch. It was just after 4 p.m.
Good he thought. It was time to to wash the powder that always stuck under his fingernails and itched and gnawed at the inside crevices of his palms. Then he would have a warm cup of tea before leaving for home, a routine he had followed for years, ever since forensic analysis had become such a demanding part of his job as Art Authenticator.
He slipped the two envelops inside his vest and into his shirt pocket as he pushed the wooden chair back and feeling a soft cushy nudge against his right trouser leg, looked down to find Miss Lion, the tiny kitten that had adopted him a few weeks ago and had ever since developed a habit of totally ignoring him all day, each day, as if he didn't exist at all until quitting time, when she would creep silently under the table and mustering up almost eight hours of stored affection, somehow managed to express it all at once in a slow yawn-like stretching pose she would assume over the front of his right shoe.
He bent over to give Miss Lion a gentle pet on the head before standing up and checking his shirt pocket to make sure the envelopes had not fallen out.
As he pressed his hand against the pocket, something seemed strange. He had done this a thousand times before yet, this time, something felt different. At first, it didn't register in his mind as the long ingrained routine of doing something the same way every day and expecting and getting the same results greatly overpowered any sensitivity to the reality of the moment. Yet, his finger tips felt warmer than they should.
He moved back, startled, looking at his hand as he held it closer to his face. Nothing seemed wrong. He touched the pocket again. It felt warmer now, ever growing warmer, faster, reaching hot until he couldn't hold his hand there for even a scant second, the intense heat forcing him to pull it away quickly.
In another second the shirt pocket was feeling hot against his chest. In another second, it flashed into flames, burning into the vest. He tried to take the vest off hoping to pull the shirt away from his body, but now the flames were licking at his sleeves, his shoulder, his collar.
The searing heat was drying up his skin, taking every ounce of moisture out of his pores, tearing every shred of strength from him as he tried desperately to free himself from what was quickly becoming a raging crackling inferno engulfing him on all sides.
Chapter 2
The early morning sun shone brightly through the gentle swaying branches of spring shade maples that lined both sides of wide pebble sidewalks, as it streaked across the road, glistening off pavement to find stark reflections in the rear windshields of perpendicular parked cars, pickup trucks and the occasional shiny metallic chimney of a new John Deere, each in its own white lined space, each at its own meter, as if to give attention and purpose to the long rows of two and three story flat roofed, red and beige brick and gray stone buildings that lined both sides of Lincoln Drive, the main thoroughfare in the small quaint town of Fairmont, Nevada, just a three hour drive south of Lake Tahoe.
The street sprawled gradually into the distance, past a dark-haired figure in a white full length apron, intently turning long handled clicking crank that opened a royal blue duck canvas awning with the script letters Fairmont Bakery gracing its center. Just beyond that, it crossed the intersection of Center Street where the angled corner facade of the First National Bank of Fairmont proudly rested on marble steps leading to its one-inch thick shiny reflective glass doors, surrounded on both sides by massive round columns that rose to support a carefully sculpted stone frieze with white layers of white wood molding joined by the proud finial at its triangular peak.
Beyond that, the one-mile stretch of downtown shops and storefronts, each identified by its own colorful design either carefully etched in its window or proudly displayed on a sign above it, had the weathered but sincerely personal feel of last century rural America with its hopes and aspirations during a time when manual labor and crafty artisanship were the admired values of life.
Past there, a spinning red and white striped pole announced the local barber shop on the left being guarded confidently by a sleeping German shepherd with its nose to the sidewalk who would raise his eyes from time to time at the sound of familiar footsteps from the occasional passersby.
The high eight inch curbs separating the sidewalks from the road, had a reminiscent formal look that spoke of an earlier time, when the difficult act of crossing a then dirt street, between horses, buckboards and cattle drives, meant that reaching the sidewalk and actually ascending onto it in one piece, brought a well earned sense of accomplishment, pride and self-respect.
There were eateries, quaint establishments for women, a county sheriff's office between the craft shop and the computer store while directly across the street an entire block of neatly trimmed lawns and bench lined sidewalks framed the step raised impressive and foreboding presence of Fairmont's county courthouse. The building appeared old, yet architecturally efficient, sound and well-maintained and since this was a fairly calm and somewhat respectable town, most of its business would be the filing and keeping of records, issuing licenses, recording deeds and assessing the legality of all kinds of transactions between the people of Fairmont.
The town had virtually little crime to speak of and the residents prided themselves in how well everybody got along with each other.
The full stretch of Lincoln Drive reached a dead end at the intersection of da Vinci Road, which formed the perpendicular top of a letter T. Here, a two hundred and fifty-foot-wide marbled walkway bordered on each side of its one-hundred-foot depth by three-foot-high and one-foot-wide marble walls adorned by curved benches with small neatly trimmed trees between them leading the way to several landings atop marble steps, ascending to a roman styled stone and marble building, its columns rising two stories high. Its huge twelve-foot-high doorways in the front, bespoke of a sense of importance and dignity. This was the jewel of Fairmont, its pride and joy, a formidable, impressive icon of cultural learning, standing proudly with grace and grandeur, at the head of its main thoroughfare.
It had been bequeathed to the town almost a century ago upon the death of Alvin Smithminder, who had been born here, then left to make his fortune in the railroads, but never forgot how much his childhood meant to him.
Under the massive facade of the Fairmont Gallery of Fine Art the ornately inscribed, high glass doors opened to reveal a huge marbled hallway. On each side two carved statues framed a fresco portal designating the entryway to a unique exhibit. Going straight back between the two portals, the hallway opened into a larger, central portal where a simple black sign etched with white letters that said "The Gallery of the Masters" hung on chains below the formidable Greco-Roman frieze that crowned the wide entryway to the museum's featured exhibit. In the middle of the entryway, a black marble stand provided the base for a large glass encased black sign with movable white lettering designating a map of all the museum's services, rooms, exhibits and offices.
In front of it, two aluminum three-foot-high stanchions rested on firm round bases. From hooks near the top of each, were parallel rows of velvet cover chains, hanging freely, yet authoritatively linking to the semi round marble and glass ticket booth just inside the museum's doorway. A black rubber grooved mat covered the floor between the parallel chains, clearly marking the way for visitor's entry.
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This is the first novel by Martin Schulman who was known as the Father of Karmic Astrology with more than 50 books published in English and foreign editions worldwide and sales eclipsing over hundreds of thousands of copies sold. The Conscience, a mystery novel encompassing themes of karma and redemption, was Martin's fulfillment of a lifetime work empowering audiences of all kinds to enrich their lives with the lessons from this story. Unfortunately, he passed from this earth plane recently. Martin's wife Diane, with the help of his daughter, Penny Schulman Toren, and son-in-law, Jeff Toren, are now fulfilling his vision with the publication of his final book.
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The Conscience by Martin Schulman
A Novel of Suspense
Publisher: CreateSpace
Jack is on vacation from his job as Internet Web Marshal. He has come to a small museum to see a special exhibit of paintings on loan from The Hague in The Netherlands. No sooner does he meet a woman viewing a 17th century masterpiece, when all hell breaks loose. The museum's ceiling is falling and Jack becomes embroiled in the most dangerous and baffling case of a mysterious murder.
Without any weapon or clue to go on, we soon find out that nothing is at it seems, as Jack gets drawn into a mystifying web of intrigue that spans two continents and three centuries, unexpectedly leading him into the beautiful eyes of Sophia who brings him to a deep transformational experience he wasn't prepared for.
This fast-paced mystery action thriller gives us a glimpse into what happens when a billionaire's drastic decision causes 5,200-mile shock waves that set the paths of the cleverest evil genius and the unsuspecting lives of innocents on a collision course. All are bound together by Johannas Vermeer's Dutch Master Painting, "Girl with a Pearl Earring" and are forced to face the enormous inimitable power of the Conscience.
— The Conscience by Martin Schulman
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