Science Fiction
Date Published: March 24, 2022
Publisher: MindStir Media
Two photographs taken on a spring evening in 1950 that seem to show the
impossible-we are not alone. A thirteen-year-old girl disappears the same
evening, but returns thirty years later without aging a day. A dying
detective on the hunt for the answers to one mystery falls afoul of a more
profound mystery that calls into question all of human history and the
science on which the universe is based. McMinnville is the story of one
man’s coming to terms with his mortality and the inconceivable, while
falling in love for a second time, something he thought was
impossible.
Ray Baker is a retired NYPD detective, dying of cancer and dealing with the
crushing loneliness after the death of his wife. He wants to make the last
few months of his life count by traveling cross country to the places where
he grew up. Along the way, he stumbles upon a cold case that took place on
May 11, 1950, a few hundred yards from his childhood farm outside of
McMinnville, Oregon. At a little past seven in the evening on that day,
Evelyn Forsyth was feeding her rabbits when she looked up to see a craft
floating soundlessly toward her. She called for her husband, Glenn, to come
with his camera. Over a span of a few seconds, he took two photographs
before the craft tipped up on edge and sped away. That was the story that
appeared in the Telephone Register, McMinnville’s local paper under the
heading “At Long Last-Authentic Photographs Of Flying Saucer[?]” A
month later, the photographs were featured in the June edition of Life
Magazine. Were they real or a clever hoax? Ray takes it upon himself to
answer this question, applying his considerable detective skills. But in
doing so, he steps through the looking glass into a world that makes him
question everything. If that was not enough, he also discovers that there is
a clock and it is ticking down.
McMinnville is the first book in a trilogy that follows Ray Baker’s pursuit
of life, love, and the truth, which is most definitely out there.
EXCERPT
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Henry pushed the car to go faster, looking in the rearview mirror. Houses sped by his window as he barreled down South Bridge Street, headlights cutting through the dusk.
“Can you see them? Oh, God. . . . please!” Debra was losing it, afraid to look around, eyes fixed on her rosary beads.
“Shut up!” Henry shouted. Then he realized his tone with his new bride. “Sorry, I don’t see anything . . .” Blackness.
What Henry Roberts remembered decades later as he sat homeless in a cardboard box in a city he did not recognize was something else.
The road was dappled with shadows and light. Trees formed a canopy above the road as he sped along in his brand new DeSoto. The setting sun threw shards of light through the passing trees. Debra sat next to him with her head on his shoulder. A warm breeze came through the window smelling of pine and juniper. Life was perfect.
The newlyweds had been on the road for nearly a week. California gave way to Oregon. The honeymoon in San Francisco now gave way to a drive through the lonely countryside outside McMinnville, Oregon.
He first saw the rabbit from nearly a hundred yards away as the road turned round the bend. It walked on hind legs and stood around five feet tall. As the car drew closer, the rabbit slowed its walk, its swinging arms coming to a stop. It turned its head toward the oncoming car and grinned a grimacing smile that revealed a mass of gnarled teeth. It appeared to snarl.
Henry slammed on the brakes, and things began to move in slow motion. Then all sound stopped, except for the radio, which had been playing “Mule Train” moments before. Now all that came out of the dashboard was static. Walking outside the car but keeping pace with the moving vehicle was Debra. She had somehow gotten out of the car. “How’d she do that?” he thought. She was outpacing the car, which had to be going fifty. Her voice split the silence and the static. “Don’t worry, Henry. They won’t hurt you.”
On May 12, 1950, the police, acting on an anonymous tip, found the black DeSoto overturned and concealed in the bushes off the side of the country road. All indications pointed to a high-speed accident. Except, strangely, there were no skid marks on the road. No scuff marks on the tires. No signs of a rollover. Just a busted top and crushed windshield. And, no bodies.
About the Author
Derrick McCartney was born in El Paso, Texas and grew up in Tennessee
before moving to the Washington, DC area. Despite a degree in Soviet and
East European studies, he made a name for himself as an expert on North
Korea. After a stint in the US Government, he has spent most of his career
in defense think tanks. He has published several books and articles on
international security affairs under his real name. This is his first work
of fiction.
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