WHILE THE SAVAGE SLEEPS the bestselling supernatural thriller from Andrew E Kaufman.
TWO STRANGERSCameron Dawson's got a past he can't seem to shake, but he's hoping to change that. He's moved back home to Faith, New Mexico and taken a job as assistant sheriff. What he doesn't realize is that his newest nightmare's about to begin. Strange things are happening. People are disappearing, and for others, it's far worse...
DISTANCE SEPARATES THEM
Miles away in Albuquerque, Kyle Bancroft's life is spinning out of control. She's seeing, hearing, and dreaming things she can't explain: Flashbacks to World War II and an eerie hospital ward with locked doors, empty gurneys, and guttural screams. To make matters worse, a ghostly green-eyed girl is complicating her visions with an urgent message: Time is running out.
A DARK SECRET CONNECTS THEM
Kyle's otherworldly encounters are driving her straight toward Faith... and right into Cameron's life. The body count is rising, the pressure is mounting, and the clock is ticking as they rush to uncover a dangerous secret hiding just below the surface of this all-American town - one that's threatening to destroy Faith and everyone in it. A secret they must hunt down quickly... even if it costs them their own lives.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE WILL DRAW THEM TOGETHER
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WHILE THE SAVAGE SLEEPS broke out on four of Amazon's bestsellers lists, taking the #1 spot on two of them and third on their movers and shakers list, passing up heavy-hitters like Stepen King and Nora Roberts. Autographed copies are available through the author's website. This title also available on Kindle.
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Chapter Two
Saddleback Ranch
Faith, New Mexico
When Assistant Sheriff Cameron Dawson arrived on scene, he barely recognized the dark, obscure object hanging stiffly in the distance; it looked like an old blanket left out to dry. But as he drew closer, he began to see what—or who—it was. As soon as he made the connection, he felt the bile rise up, burning through his throat.
The scent of death hung heavy in the air, a coppery, metallic odor—blood, and far too much of it. The corpse dangled upside-down from the roof of the shed, suspended by a hook lodged into the scrotum.
Cameron gazed at the two deputies standing guard, their expressions somber, then returned his attention to the victim. The weapon of choice: a pair of hay hooks—thick, curved metal fashioned into crooks with spear-like tips, and at the other end, heavy, wooden grips resembling shovel handles with leather cuffs draped around them for better grabbing power. Ranchers use the implements to move large bales of hay weighing more than seventy-five pounds, thrusting the sharp, honed hooks into each end to lift them.
The killer had stripped the body nude, exhibiting it in a manner so peculiar, so hideous it barely looked human. Bent in two at the waist, it gave the illusion of being half its normal size. As Cameron moved his gaze downward, he noticed the ankles and wrists were sliced vertically, then hogtied. This caused the spine to bow and the body to bleed out, while giving it a grotesque, humpbacked appearance. The hook lodged into the groin came straight up between the legs, past the buttocks, with a rope tied to the handle. The other hook stuck out of his mouth, which hung wide-open, leaving the eerie impression of an eternal, silent scream.
Cameron moved closer. On the back of one arm, a dried ribbon of blood ran down past the wrist to a drooping hand, and then alongside the index finger. From there, it had broken away, where it joined a large pool on the ground.
The killer had created a crude hoisting device to lift the body, tying one end of the rope to the steel push-bars on Witherspoon’s squad car. The other went toward the shed, where it looped over a steel-beamed roof support, then straight down to the hook’s handle. The perp only needed to back the vehicle up, hoisting the body, where it remained suspended in midair.
This was not the Bradley Witherspoon Cameron remembered, athletic, vibrant, good-looking. This object—this tangled mass of flesh hanging before him like a side of beef—bore no resemblance to the man with whom he’d worked.
Cameron’s horror turned to disgust, which quickly erupted into rage. He looked up at the deputies almost as if demanding an explanation for what had happened. They answered back with blank, hesitant expressions, breaking eye contact, looking off to the side—anywhere but across the path of his glare. Realizing he’d unnerved them, he looked away.
Cameron moved behind the body, and something instantly caught his attention. He tilted his head, knelt, then focused on a spot just below the right rear shoulder blade.
“Sir?” offered Deputy Jim Avello, wondering what his boss had seen.
Cameron didn’t respond. He just stared, eyes narrow, head jutted forward, gaze immovable.
“Sir?” Avello repeated.
“Jim,” Cameron finally said, his attention fixed on the body. “Go and get the metal briefcase from my car.”
Avello hurried toward the vehicle, pulled out the briefcase, then came back.
“Tweezers,” Cameron ordered, holding out his palm, eyes still focused on the one spot.
Avello flipped open the briefcase, found the tweezers, and placed them in Cameron’s hand.
With great care, the sheriff moved the implement toward the victim, mindful not to disturb the dried blood, debris, or scratch marks on the skin. He pinched something, then held it up to the light.
Resting between the tweezers was what appeared to be a tiny gemstone fragment, black, and no bigger than the tip of a ballpoint pen. Cameron wiped it clean on his pant leg, then tilted it back and forth, watching it twinkle in the reflected morning sunlight.
“Evidence bag,” he said, loudly, to no one in particular.
Avello reached inside the briefcase, producing a clear plastic bag. He handed it to Cameron who lowered the chip inside, then sealed it.
Avello glanced up at him.
Cameron said, “Looks like our killer left us a little surprise.”
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