by Christopher J. Ferguson
We are delighted to welcome debut novelist Christopher J. Ferguson to Omnimystery News.
Chris's first thriller is Suicide Kings (L & L Dreamspell, May 2012 trade paperback and ebook formats).
Today Chris tells us about a trip to Florence, the setting for his new book, and its inspiration for the murder mystery storyline. And he has provided us with an excerpt from Suicide Kings, the first chapter titled "The End at the Beginning".
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Most writers get the question from time to time, "Where do you get your ideas?" That can be particularly true when your ideas tend to be dark, twisted, macabre and you, yourself seem to be an upstanding citizen, at least on the outside. The question seems tinged sometimes with a hint of suspicion as if you might have bodies buried under your crawlspace. As someone who tends to write often on the darker side of humanity, it's a question I get often.
Photo provided courtesy of
Christopher J. Ferguson
Truthfully, in most cases, by the time I've managed to write out a story, even a short story, I no longer remember where the idea came from, or how long I had it. My mind tends to be a constant maelstrom of potential story ideas. Most of them are very, very bad, insipid notions that deserve never to see the light of day. They percolate in a kind of primordial morass, gelling, evolving, most dying a natural death, but a precious few eventually emerging to see the light of day. The process tends to be both so slow and chaotic that it's difficult to pinpoint an exact point in time that an idea developed. Even as I write the story may evolve into what becomes the finished product.
With my first novel, Suicide Kings, things were different. I can pinpoint, at least to within a few days, the origin of the story. The novel represents a rare occasion when not only the writing of the story quickly followed the inception of the idea, but the motivation for writing it was something more than the typical issuance from that morass of ideas endlessly percolating.
As it happened I had the opportunity to go to Italy for an academic conference (I study the psychology of violence, appropriately enough). I was able to spend some time in Rome and some time in Florence, where the conference actually was. This was in late March. I also went alone, my wife and son staying in Texas while I travelled.
Like most Americans I had an image of Italy involving rolling hills of grapes and beaches warmed by a life-giving sun. So I put on my shorts and tee-shirt and bounded outside only to hit 45 degree weather which sent me scurrying inside for more reasonable clothing. Turns out Italy is rather cold and rainy in late March.
Florence, itself, is a city both dark and beautiful. Those who have been there will know what I'm speaking of. Particularly in the central, old parts of the city, the buildings haven't changed much in appearance in hundreds of years. Between the tall buildings and the tight streets, Florence has a looming presence. You can feel it's murderous history still alive within the pulsing veins of the city street.
Although I generally love to travel, in this weather, in the dark city, and away from my family I began to feel homesick. And so I began to think, "This would be a great city to get murdered in …"
That thought was the genesis of Suicide Kings, which is set in Renaissance Florence and follows the story of a young woman who learns her mother has been murdered and decides to find out who is responsible. What became ultimately the second and third chapter of the book were written right there in Florence (well part of the 3rd chapter in Heathrow airport on my way back). Florence might be a great city to be murdered in, but I managed to make it back. Not all have been so lucky …
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Firenze, February, 1497
The sun filled the horizon with angry rays glinting across a thousand lethargic flakes of snow that flurried down from a passing bank of dark clouds. Diana Savrano held a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare. Her eyes, rimmed with red, already stung. The new flakes made the going treacherous, her black boots unsuitable for the slippery stone streets.
Late as usual. She'd found it difficult to dress herself, to hook the laces of her black dress, to adorn herself in such a dark and depressing garment. For such a complex article, she'd usually count on her mother's help. Though a young woman, she'd never quite managed the dexterity for the most complex formal garb and somehow the designers managed to make things ever more difficult. More hooks, more loops, more layers, more madness. Her mother would not offer her any assistance this evening. Isabella Savrano already waited at the Basilica of Saint Zenobius.
Once, Diana had called out for her mother to help, forgetting her mother was gone. Frustration had reduced her to inaction, and for a while she could only stare at herself in the mirror. Finally she'd summoned up an absolute store of energy, and gotten herself dressed properly. By then the rest of the household had already gone. Her father had left behind one of their Swiss mercenaries as an escort. The young man had kept his eyes averted from her.
Now she scurried along the city streets as quickly as she could. She did not want to keep her mother waiting any more than she already had. Other citizens parted way before her, a fury of black, black dress, black boots, black hair, pounding her way across the crowded streets and piazze. She must have made for quite an odd sight.
Her breath came in rasps, and tears formed at the edge of her eyes, but these only froze into beads of ice, to drop away and mix with the snow. Behind her the Swiss mercenary kept pace easily, silent, watching, assuring she progressed to the Basilica unmolested.
At last the building loomed into view, the great Basilica rising high above the surrounding buildings. The marbles and other stones around the outside were designed in such a way the edifice radiated a faint combination of light green and faint crimson hues, particularly in the fading light. The face consisted of so many statues, frescoes, gargoyles and etchings the building seemed almost coated in spines. Huge wooden doors promised mass inlet for the penitents of Firenze, although in practice only the smaller doors to the sides were ever actually opened.
Diana chose one of those now. She burst into the church, huffing and puffing from exertion, eyes blinded by the oppressive dark within. She stopped short, realizing she'd made too much of an entrance. She wiped her eyes, gave them a moment to adjust.
Candles struggled to light the interior of the Basilica. At the best of times, with midday sun streaming through the ungenerous stained glass windows, the nave felt cold and oppressive. Sculptures from the finest artistic talents of Firenze did little to assuage this atmosphere, for too often the themes of these sculptures focused on the suffering of martyrs and the ease with which life transitioned to death. Indeed most of the artwork in the church had been commissioned for the many tombs that lined the walls, the exalted dead of Firenze marking their passage with the finest, if morbid, decor.
One of those tombs now sat open, the funerary plaque not yet hoisted into place. Before the black void waited an open casket. As Diana's eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could see a small congregation gathered around that casket. They turned to look as she entered. Most averted their eyes upon seeing who it was, no doubt made uncomfortable by the grief written on Diana's face. Her father watched her without expression. After a moment he turned back to two luminaries with whom he seemed engaged in discussion. The congregants near the tomb milled about, speaking, or sat quietly in prayer in the wooden pews set up near the tomb. Cardinal Michele Lajolo had been asked by her father to officiate at the service and he now stood off to one side, conversing quietly with several mourners.
With a sinking heart, Diana realized she'd missed the service. Fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled over and down her cheeks. Could this day possibly get any worse? She must seem like such a horrible human being to the other mourners. And they were right. Her mother would be so disappointed in her.
She sucked in a deep breath, one arm going defensively across her chest. She couldn't make eye contact with the others present, tried to imagine there were no others in the room besides her. The least she could do was move forward to the sarcophagus and pay her respects. She could spend a little time alone with the dead, ask her forgiveness.
So she proceeded up the little impromptu aisle between the wooden pews, shivering in the cold. A nun stood as she moved past, a thin, sad bird of a woman. Their eyes locked for a moment, but it was the nun who looked away, seeming chastened somehow. Diana focused ahead, one small step after another, making her way forward to greet her mother who awaited her.
When Diana's fingers touched her mother's she found them cold and waxy. They felt unreal. Much unreality needed to be made real tonight. Instead of sitting side-by-side as they always did, fingers entwined as they prayed together for a dead acquaintance, her mother tonight had awaited her with the greatest of patience. For her mother lay in the ornate sarcophagus in quiet repose, her fingers cold because no more warm blood flowed through them. Her mother was dead. And it just could not be so.
"Mother?" Diana pleaded quietly, looking down into the sarcophagus. In death, Isabella Savrano wore the finest deep green dress with a string of diamonds around her neck. Her skin seemed the color of snow, set off against rivulets of dark hair, black with some strands of grey. Diana might have mistaken her for sleeping and hoped even now her quiet entreaty might awaken her from this deep slumber. A drop fell from Diana's cheek down onto Isabella's dress. A last gift from daughter to mother.
Diana collapsed to her knees besides the casket, her legs unable to hold her upright any longer. A great sob burst from her chest, the reality of her mother's death inescapable. Never could Diana have believed this possible, even as Isabella Savrano had sickened with fever, Diana had believed fervently in her mother's immortality. She'd been wrong to believe.
Diana sat arm in arm with death itself. Past marble images of angels, she reached her hand up and over the lid of a sarcophagus to stroke her mother's face. Her other hand held the rosary, fingers ticking off the prayers in deepest grief. Her mother's flesh drew warmth out of her.
Behind her still was most of the funerary procession: the Cardinal Lajolo, her father Signore Savrano, dozens of others who blended together like ghostly strangers through blurry eyes. They gave her time to say goodbye to her mother before the tomb was sealed and Isabella Savrano vanished forever into the wall of the Basilica.
God had taken her mother, stolen her. Her death had come during the bitterest days of winter and the cold had taken away her life. Now she was gone. The thought of it still came as a shock. It could not be possible, still so beautiful, now dead. Marsh fever had been the cause. The disease had come on quickly, progressed fast and ended in these unimaginable consequences. Diana could not fathom that her mother died so, taken in the prime of her life by the natural and loving hand of God.
She wiped her eyes. Her breath trembled as she inhaled. Without her mother she felt lost.
A presence loomed behind her, a dark shadow. Diana ignored it. Nothing anyone could want from her would be enough to pull her from this deepest moment of despair. Let them speak with her father, whatever they needed. A moment passed. The figure remained, felt more than seen. Diana remained turned away, forehead against the marble.
A hand gently brushed her shoulder and she tensed. Still she didn't turn to look. Perhaps they'd leave if she didn't respond. Instead, fingers brushed her long hair aside from her right ear. She felt breath, warm and moist against her throat. Diana's fingers gripped the lid of the sarcophagus in surprise. Otherwise she froze, unable to move, unable to turn. She behaved like a child hiding under covers in hopes not to be seen by some imaginary witch. The person, whoever it was, seemed to hesitate. A heartbeat passed. At last came the fateful words, whispered in Diana's ear.
"Your mother was murdered."
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Dr. Christopher J. Ferguson is an associate professor of clinical psychology and criminal justice at Texas A&M International University. He is department chair of Psychology and Communication and licensed as a psychologist in Texas. He was involved in organizing an amicus brief of scholars to the US Supreme Court during the Brown v EMA (2011) violent video game case in which California sought to ban the sale of violent games to minors but failed to provide evidence such games were harmful to minors. He has several published short stories in magazines such as Orion's Child, Nefarious, Midnight Horror, Blazing! Adventures, Stories That Lift and Fantasy Gazetteer, and is a regular contributor to Time.com.
He lives in Laredo, Texas with his wife and young son. You can learn more about the author and his book on his website, ChristopherJFerguson.com.
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Suicide Kings
Christopher J. Ferguson
Publisher: L & L Dreamspell
Dark secrets lead to murder. Can Diana avenge her mother's death before she becomes the next victim?
As a young woman in Florence, Diana Savrano's life is a privileged one of elegant balls, handsome suitors and frivolity. But the sudden death of her mother leaves her adrift and abandoned. As she sobs over her mother's casket, another member of the procession reveals the awful truth.
Before her last days, Diana's mother had joined a Luciferian cult. Despite knowing little beyond her pampered world, Diana determines to unmask those responsible for her mother's death.
But someone does not want such secrets revealed, and they are willing to send assassins to keep her silent. Paranoia and loneliness set in as even her closest friends reveal hidden agendas. Worst of all, the further she follows the intertwined threads, the closer they appear to lead to her own father.
