Thriller Fiction Podcast

The sixth season of THE THRILLER FICTION PODCAST! We're back, this time reading all five of the LAYNE PARRISH RESTAURANT STORIES Want to know more? Make sure you visit www.jimheskett.com and poke around to learn all about the author, the show, and the secrets of the universe.

Visit jimheskett.com/seasonfive for podcast episode show notes. __________ The fifth season of THE THRILLER FICTION PODCAST is nigh behind us! Let's chat about what's came before and what it's all about. Want to know more? Make sure you visit www.jimheskett.com and poke around to learn all about the author, the show, and the secrets of the universe.

Visit jimheskett.com/seasonfive for podcast episode show notes. __________ Want the inside scoop on each Layne Parrish novel, including info on how it was created and the inspiration for each story? Want to read the first chapter? You're in luck! Harry Boukadakis gasped for air. Strong hands pushed him along what he assumed was a hallway. He had to assume, because the bag over his head prevented him from seeing anything. One foot in front of the other, barely able to keep pace with the person or persons forcing him to some unknown destination. He’d been able to gather a few pieces of intel about his current situation, though. They had snatched him last night, right after leaving his weekly Dungeons and Dragons tabletop gaming session with Ethan and Danny. The last time he would see his friends for more than a week before embarking on his planned vacation. Harry had felt a pinch in his thigh walking out to his car, then a sudden and severe feeling of heat. Flushed, like pins and needles. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he lost control. He remembered the sensation of his legs crumpling, then blackness. When he awoke, he’d been bound, gagged, and walking up stairs. Short stairs. Eyes too bleary and head too foggy to make anything out. The thrum of airplane engines had filled his ears. That led to an involuntary trip on an airplane, where he had been secured to a seat the entire time. Hard to say how long, exactly. Maybe four hours. The bag had been over his head for the duration, even when they had escorted him to the bathroom mid-flight. Four hours was enough time to travel from Virginia to any number of destinations. When he deboarded the airplane, though, he had a better sense of location. The dry air told him desert. Possibly. New Mexico, Arizona, maybe Utah. And then, a far off voice from a loudspeaker told him he was in Sedona. As soon as the loudspeaker had sounded, they ushered him along faster. He wasn’t supposed to know. Then, a forced ride in a car, and now shuffling along a hallway. Until this point, his captors had not said a single word to him. They pushed him to his right and then turned him around. Rough hands shoved him down, and Harry felt the hard wood of a chair connect with his butt. A splash of pain worked up his back. The bag whipped off. His eyes slammed shut from the sudden appearance of light. In a couple of seconds, he creaked them open, slowly letting them adjust. Chest heaving, feeling the weight of his belly push against his arms, still restrained. “Good morning, Harry,” said a musical male voice. He blinked a few more times until he could open his eyes all the way. He found himself in a bedroom. A single bed, queen-size, with metal piping for a headboard. Nightstands on either side, no clock or lamps. A small bathroom in a side room near the bed. There was a dresser and the chair he was sitting in, and a single piece of art on the walls. A framed print of a sun setting between two red rock spires. His hands were cuffed together. Red welts covered his wrists. He didn’t remember trying to resist and pull free from the cuffs, but he had, apparently. “How was your trip?” said the man. There were two of them. One, younger than Harry, maybe mid-thirties. He stood back near the door. Tall, white, a wiry frame with jet black hair and emerald eyes. A wicked sunburn had turned his light skin pink. Cheeks gaunt and hints of faded acne scars gave him dozens of pocks like dimples. His arms were crossed in front of him, a deep scowl on his face. Harry assumed this was the one who had brought him here. The other, the speaking man, was older. Fifties, probably. A sharp black suit on his average build. Gray and thinning hair sat atop a wrinkly face, with patchy stubble poking through. Huge hands, though,. Too big for his body. This man had kind brown eyes and a warm smile. He also held a copy of The New York Times in his hands, rolled into a tube.

Visit jimheskett.com/seasonfive for podcast episode show notes. __________ Want the inside scoop on each Layne Parrish novel, including info on how it was created and the inspiration for each story? Want to read the first chapter? You're in luck! LAYNE PARRISH ALWAYS loved a good rumpus. Nestled in a cramped bed next to a little girl named Cameron, he flipped to the last page of Where the Wild Things Are. “Daddy,” she said. “Yes, little one.” “Why did Max go home? Why can’t he stay with the wild things?” “Because he missed his family.” Cameron stared at the page, an illustration of the protagonist sailing across the water toward home. Pale brow creased, her face riddled with confusion. Thinking. Her eyes were kaleidoscopic puddles of blue crystal, glistening under the meager light of the bedside lamp. The young child readjusted herself on the twin bed, and Layne had to pivot his weight to keep from slipping over the side. “He missed his mommy and daddy?” Layne nodded. “He did.” In his pocket, a phone buzzed. He slipped it out to find a call from an unknown number lighting up the screen. Unknown to the phone companies, but Layne had a strong suspicion who was on the line. The same person who had been calling and texting him relentlessly for the last two days. “Daddy, put it away. You said no more screens.” “You’re right,” he said as he jabbed it back into his pocket. “Watching screens after dark makes our eyes cross, right?” He crossed his eyes and let his tongue loll out. She giggled and poked his chest with a finger not much bigger than a toothpick. “Daddy, stop.” Cameron traced one of her fingers along his arm, gliding across one particular section of the tattoos that covered it from wrist to shoulder. A cherub in the middle of his forearm, obscuring a gunshot wound from long ago. The cherub now appeared faded and blurry on his forty-year-old arms. The phone squirmed inside his pocket again, demanding attention. A repeat call. This time, though, he ignored the eager person on the other end of the line. “It’s time for bed,” he said. She pondered this for a moment and then frowned. “Are the wild things going to get me?” “You’re a wild thing,” he said, and his fingers leaped to her belly for a tickle. She cackled, writhing, and he instantly regretted it. Bedtime was supposed to be calm time. But he couldn’t resist torturing such an easy target. “Okay, okay, little one. Time for bed, for real.” She pushed out a breath, the remnants of tickle energy fading. Her lids were heavy, her motions thick, like a person wading through swampy water. She was an inch away from sleep. Layne anticipated no bedtime false starts tonight. “I love you much, Daddy.” He kissed her forehead as he drew the covers up to her shoulders. “And I love you much, little one.” He sneaked across the room and rested a hand on the light switch. “I’ll be right downstairs, okay?” “Okay, Daddy.” Layne flicked out the light and stole one last look at her, a miniature head nestled on a Thomas the Tank Engine pillow. He closed the door behind him as his phone buzzed yet again. Didn’t bother to take it out. Next, a knock came at the front door, downstairs. He paused for a moment in front of his daughter’s room to make sure she wouldn’t call out. No way she was asleep already, but maybe she hadn’t heard it. The excitement of someone coming to the door would turn bedtime into a circus requiring a whole new set of little kid cooldown routines. She made no sound. No vibration through the door. Layne held perfectly still until another knock came. He wasn’t unreachable in this small town, but he almost never had visitors. And never unannounced or after dark. The neighbors knew about bedtime policy and wouldn’t betray Layne’s evening ritual. He hustled down the stairs, past the fireplace, and through the living room to the front door. Keeping his large body close to the wall, he eased toward the framed art print of a stretch of highway c...

For more: www.jimheskett.com/thrillerpodcast On this episode of The Thriller Fiction Podcast, we dive into a conversation with thriller author Nick Thacker! Why? Tune in to find out. Want to know more? Make sure you visit www.jimheskett.com and poke around to learn all about the author, the show, and the secrets of the universe.