Something Down the Road

B.K. Smith


Rast is an irregular who doesn't like change. He's a high school football hero who drove one-and-a-half miles to the senior play-backwards!-to magically keep his childhood sweetheart, Holly. Then the Gulf War took Rast, and someone else took Holly. Rast is an irregular. He's also a murderer.

ISBN 1-931982-03-1,  trade paper, $14.95                Sale $7.50

ISBN 1-931982-02-3, library binding, $26.00              Sale $13.00

240 Pages

 About the Author: 

Until recently B. K. Smith taught at Bevill State Community College. Retired now, she devotes her time to writing and saving for the perfect lighthouse. Her previous story collection, Sideshows, received a starred review in Publishers Weekly. This is her first novel.

 Excerpt From the Book:

January 4, 1996, Midnight


Rast is an irregular‑‑just like his faded blue work shirt with the fine white line across the pocket, Holly thought, as she sat on the tailgate of the sheriff's Jeep Cherokee. She clasped her fingers around a hot mug of coffee and sipped slowly, watching a ghostly curl of breath and steam snake upward toward a January moon.  Blue and red lights flashed above the state police cars, disturbing the pale-lighted landscape she'd observed a few hours before. Rast had always been different.  The nightmare, grazing along the border of his irregular soul, had waited twenty years to destroy the last fence guarding Billy Raston's sanity, to burst from sacred and sinister trees down Baker Road.

Holly knew he wouldn't hurt her even when she sat alone with him hours earlier, shivering from blasts of winter wind through their tree tunnel. Even when slivers of a full moon's light rippled across the knife blade as he turned it over slowly in his hand, she knew he could not play out the dark fantasy, would not make the cut. He had been her friend, her first love, a part of her, and all that surrounded them, had bound them together as one in childhood‑‑the tree tunnels, icy streams, frozen moss, and stark winter branches that were once alive with green fragrance, the crawdads squirming with life, and young summer sounds. Just for a few moments she wanted to forget the newspaper articles, the bodies, the faces, the accusations, and the knowledge that Rast could kill, that his irregular heart could beat to such a deadly rhythm.

            She wanted to block out the sounds of bloodhounds yelping in the woods where she and Billy had played, shared the fairies' secrets, raced with leprechauns, and made promises that would last forever.

He had let her live, but she was dying with him by seconds. She could feel him running for his life, his feet pounding familiar earth, his pulse thumping in his ears. She could see the moon dancing like shiny quarters on his eyes as they darted in fear, searching for the hiding places.