ADAM IMMORTAL

ADAM IMMORTAL is my 10th novel; my first science-fiction undertaking.

Here’s a recent review you may enjoy:

It is rare today to find a novel that lays out its tale in such efficient, succinct and uncluttered language. Offering a wide cast of engaging characters–several of them humanoid robots–Adam Immortal generates a narrative that clips along with unflagging pace and vigor as it imagines an entirely believable future world set in a 2056 mid-American hospital. At the outset the novel seems to be the story of Adam, an astoundingly adept robotic heart surgeon the hospital administration has purchased to control the spiraling costs of its advanced medical procedures. However, as event piles upon event, Mark, the human surgeon, colleague to Adam and narrator of the yarn moves ever more inevitably to the center as he wrestles with the ethical question: Have robots an inalienable right to develop and engage with the emotions felt by their human co-workers? Empathically engaged with Millie, his family’s robotic cook, housekeeper and child minder at one pole and Adam at the other, Mark seeks a viable answer to questions so daunting that they may not be answered short of a ruling by the Supreme Court. Author Carley Evans makes it abundantly clear that advances in robotic technology, which may free us from onerous tasks, also will impact what it means to be human. The conflict is skillfully laid out against the framework of her scientifically accurate and medically authentic description of a “brave new world.”

T.G.E.

I AM SOFIE

Published my latest novel this week. I AM SOFIE is my first historical novel, based on the diaries and letters of Hans and Sofie Scholl, two young people who stood against Hitler. These Munich University students along with their circle of friends and their professors formed the Weiss Rose — the White Rose — movement. Together they wrote six leaflets which they distributed across Germany and parts of Europe, calling upon ordinary Germans to rid themselves of their stupor and complacency and resist the Nazi Party and put an end to the atrocities.

I usually don’t publish on Kindle, but this volume is available as an e-Book as well as a trade paperback.

Additionally I am publishing a “special edition” which will contain color maps in an appendix.

Journey In the Mind of A Madman, a review of AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL

By J. Bickley on March 21, 2015

How does the mind of a serial killer work? Max Peterson gets a frightening glimpse of it as he interviews notorious killer, Richard Mock, who has renamed himself David Stone.

What I like about As From A Talented Animal is the ambiguity of the “killer.” The book is presented from the perspective of three different people, the journalist Max Peterson, the alleged killer Richard Mock/David Stone, and the prison guard Felix.

As Max interviews and learns more about Mock/Stone, the tale gets more chilling. For one thing, there is much question about whether Stone even committed the crimes. You see, he has confessed to 30 killings over a number of years. He has been convicted of eight of them, and is serving a sentence in a mental institution. The reason he was only convicted of eight of the murders is that his confession didn’t match up well enough with the other 22.

The problem is that he sporadically announces that he never killed anyone. But who is claiming that? Stone or Mock? He claims (along with the psychologist), that Stone is just a pseudonym, made up by Mock. But Max Person swears that he can tell which one he is talking to by “something in the eyes.” At one point, Max is pretty well convinced that Stone is telling the truth when he says that he never killed anyone. As the reader, I’m never quite sure.

The book is a gripping journey through the mind of a madman. Did he kill or not? You’ll have to decide for yourself.

Chapter 28 from novel AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL by Carley Eason Evans — rough draft

AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL

by Carley Eason Evans

2014 Copyright ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

28 – Simple Discipline
(Max Peterson)

David — in one of my last interviews with him — told me that when his mother, Hazel Mock punished him — it was a simple and direct punishment. She made him stand with his face close to a tree trunk in the front yard no matter the weather, no matter how many neighbors or automobiles went by, no matter if other children made fun of him or even threw things at him. Hazel Mock insisted he stand for at least an hour with his face as near to the bark of the tree trunk as possible. “She didn’t want a mark on me,” explained David. “If I pressed my face up against the tree, she’d yell at me to step back a bit. She’d scream, ‘Don’t you do that, Rich. Don’t you dare.’ My mother had a strict but simple policy.”
“So you’d just stand there?”
David nodded, “Yep in the rain, in the snow, in wind — you name it, my mother had me standing in it.” And he laughed.
__|__
Michael verified this. “Yes,” he agreed, “our mother did make Richard stand with his face toward this big tree we had in our front yard — actually I think you’ve seen that tree. You know the one —.”
With Sandy Whitehead, I later looked through photographs of the Mock residence and indeed, the oak tree was rather large but was off to the side of the front yard so I’d not noticed it when I visited. Earlier, I had asked Sandy to take a few photographs of the house surreptitiously, which she’d done, of course.
__|__
In the interview, David told me, “Once a kid threw a rock at me. He hit me here —.” David pointed to his left temple. “I stood bleeding as the kid laughed at first then got scared and ran away. My mother was on our porch, knitting I think. She saw the kid throw the rock. She knew it hit me. She just sat there with her knitting needles — I think she was knitting — and when I turned toward her, believing she’d want to see how hurt I was, she screamed at me, ‘Rich, don’t you dare.’ And I had to stand there for another thirty minutes with blood streaming down my face onto my shirt. I don’t remember if I cried. I bet I didn’t. But I do remember I was angry.”
“At your mother —.”
“At the kid mostly,” said David. “But yes, at my mother, too.”
__|__
When I spoke with Michael, he denied that Hazel Mock disciplined him in the same manner. “Oh no,” he said, “my mother never made me stand outside in the rain and snow. That was Rich’s punishment, not mine.”
I asked him, “So how did Mrs. Mock punish you?”
“She didn’t,” he explained. “My mother left disciplining me to our father.”
“And how did Mr. Mock punish you?”
Michael looked at me blankly as he’d done other times. He shook his head and commented that I was getting awfully personal, as he’d done at least one other time.
“I think it’s pertinent how your father disciplined you,” I said.
“Well,” said Michael, “it wasn’t much of a punishment. My father didn’t particularly enjoy disciplining — and that included disciplining Richard. Our father was — well, still is — a gentle man. He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t care to hit. He did on occasion wield a belt but always with a measured calmness, never in anger and certainly never in rage.”
“So why did he hit your mother?” I asked.
Michael blushed. He had a large bite of buffalo burger in his mouth and he just spat it out onto the plate. “My father never hit my mother,” he stated.
“She said he did,” I offered, cautious.
“My mother told you that my father hit her?”
I nodded.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Michael. “Richard told you that.”
“No, David — I mean, Richard — reacted like you just did. Well, he laughed actually.”
“My mother must be getting senile,” said Michael flatly.
I ventured, “Do you think perhaps it was your mother who hit your father?”
Michael knocked his cola over — the dark liquid moved across the table and over its edge. I scooted my chair back, stood up to avoid getting wet. He said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said. I took several napkins from the black holder in the center of the table and wiped up most of the cola. A waitress came with a dry cloth to clean the rest. I thanked her.
Michael sat perfectly still. He had stopped eating. He looked at me. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“What?”
“I don’t understand why my mother would say that about my father.”
“So you don’t believe it?”
“I don’t,” he said.
__|__
That weekend I drove back to the skilled nursing facility to visit with George Mock on the Alzheimer’s unit. I wanted to know if Hazel Mock had ever hit him.
George was running a low-grade fever, but the nursing staff allowed me to visit him in his room. When I came in, the old man was in his bed with its head cranked up to around forty-five degrees. He was pale but his eyes were open. He grinned at me, said, “Oh there you are.”
“Hi, Mr. Mock.”
“Call me George,” he said. “And you are?”
“I’m Max, George. Do you remember me?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” He smiled, said, “For a moment there, I thought you were Michael — that’s my firstborn son.”
“Yes, I just saw Michael the other day,” I told him.
“You did? Where? At the school?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I saw him at a cafe in Hot Springs.”
“Hot Springs?” he asked, obviously bewildered. He said, “I didn’t know Michael had moved back to Arkansas.”
I shook my head, sat in a wooden chair which I’d pulled up to the side of the bed. “Mr. Mock,” I said, “did Hazel ever hit you?”
“Hazel?”
“Your wife.”
“Is she here?”
“No,” I said.
“Where is she?”
“I imagine she’s at your house,” I answered then asked my question again. “Mr. Mock, did your wife ever hit you?”
He smiled.
“What?” I asked, almost involuntarily.
“Nothing,” said the old man, then smiled again.
“Mr. Mock, did Hazel hit you?”
“Once,” he said.
“Once?”
“Yes, she hit me with her damn Impala one Sunday morning. She was backing it up too fast and clipped me — knocked me right down on my ass.” And the old man laughed. Tears welled up in his eyes. He said, “Oh how I miss her — my Hazel.”
“But,” I said, faltering, “she never hit you with her fist or an object?”
“Oh, good Lord, no.” He frowned. He sighed and repeated, “No, good Lord, no.” Then he grew still, added, “I hit her.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Often?”
“Every time I was angry at Richard, I took it out on my sweet Hazel.”
“That was often?”
He nodded, tears flowing freely now.
“Thank you, George.”
The old man looked at me, confused. He leaned forward so that his head came off the pillows, asked, “Who are you anyway?”

Chapter 20 of AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL by Carley Eason Evans – rough draft

AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL

by Carley Eason Evans

2014 Copyright All Rights Reserved

20 – Over Distances
(David’s Journal Entry)

The pharmacy job was boring and I didn’t stay there long. I quit after six months, did an internet search and found the job I had for the remainder of the time I was ‘on the loose’ so to speak. I found employment in the large distribution center. Although I realize that sounds just as boring as stocking medications in the pharmacy, the distribution center job involved travel in a van to all parts of Rapid City and to some of the outlying areas. This travel afforded me opportunities to identify more victims — and if you haven’t figured it out yet — that was what I was searching. At all times, I searched for people over which to wield power — the power to terrify hearts, the power to take lives. Being inside a van, I was able to spot potentials — people who appeared vulnerable or deserving or better yet — both.
I tried to explain this to Max Peterson at our next interview but he was distracted by Felix, or so it seemed to me. I thought perhaps Max wanted to spend his precious time with the guard more than he wanted to spend his time with me. He kept glancing at Felix while I talked about the red-haired woman I killed soon after graduating from college. Max acted as if he didn’t know I’d gone to the University of Iowa or that I graduated with a degree in Chemistry. But, he also didn’t appear particularly interested in these facts, ignoring me when I told him I graduated with honors. While I talked, Max looked at Felix who gave him a knowing look at least once. I smiled at the two men who were attempting to communicate something to one another.
Then Max stared at me, said, “Excuse me, did you say you’d graduated from the University of Iowa with honors?”
I grinned, said, “I did.”
“My, my,” said Max; then he mocked me, “You must be so proud.”
“Well, where’d you go to school?” I paused. I’d never asked Max for any personal information so I wasn’t entirely surprised by the look he gave me or the silence that fell in the small room. Of course, Max just shook his head and told me he had no intention of sharing any of his life with “someone like you, David.”
“Someone like me?” I asked rhetorically.
Max ignored my comment, asked, “Well I guess you should tell me about the red-head.”
“I just did,” I protested. “You weren’t listening.”
“No, I guess I wasn’t.”
Felix shifted. I looked at him, said, “What’s with you?” The guard didn’t answer.
“Something’s come up, David,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“My article — well my rough draft of it — has stirred some questions about you,” I said. “At the magazine, my editor asked me the same question I’ve asked myself — why there’s no forensic evidence against you after all these years?”
“Cause I’m too good,” suggested David. Then he laughed, “Or because I didn’t kill anyone.”
Max pointed to the guard, said, “The latter is what Felix thinks. I’m thinking your brother also believes you didn’t kill anyone you claimed to kill.”
“Felix,” I said, “you old dog.”
The guard involuntarily smiled at me, then moved into the room toward Max. Felix said, “You knew that, didn’t you, Mr. Mock — that I haven’t thought of you as a killer for years now.”
“No,” I said honestly, “I didn’t know that. You always seem so paranoid when Michael is here. You act terrified that you’ll let me out instead of him at the end of our visits.”
“Well, that would cost me my position, Mr. Mock.”
“Why do you call me that, Felix?” The guard usually called me David. I wondered why he was using my given name today.
“Because you are not David Stone,” said Felix. “As Dr. Wiggins always tells you — there is no David Stone; there’s only Richard Mock.”
“But,” I said, “Dr. Smack — I mean, Dr. Wiggins thinks I’m a killer, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Max Peterson, “I think Dr. Wiggins believes you are the serial killer you pretend to be.”
“Am I that good of an actor, Mr. Peterson?”
“I guess so,” said Max. But I spotted the doubt — that nagging uncertainty — in his expression. He didn’t know for sure. He was afraid of being made a fool. He was distressed that Dr. Smack might — in fact — be correct. Max was worried that I was indeed a hideous monster. And in Max’s doubt I had my power over him. Then, I looked at Felix. The guard was looking at me with the same pity and understanding I loathed. Now I knew why I did not have power over him. Felix didn’t believe. Without belief in my monstrosity, there could be no fear and without fear, there was no power.
“Well,” I said to Max, “what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” I continued, “if I didn’t kill all those people — any of those people — then I am being held for nothing.”
Felix nodded his head, whispered, “That’s exactly right.”
“I’m not sure,” said Max. “Why don’t you do something?” he asked me.
“Not sure what I can do,” I lied.
Felix offered, “You could tell the superintendent that you lied when you confessed.”
I glared at the guard, then whispered, “I guess I could do that.”
“Sure,” said Max in a manner that sounded half-hearted, “you could do that.”
D.S. March 15, 2011

__|__
The idea of denying my confessions bothered me for the entire weekend. During the week, most inmates had assignments — essentially job tasks around the hospital. I worked in the laundry on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and in the gardens on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not surprisingly I preferred the gardens. Being outside was good. But on the weekends we each had too much time on our hands — time to worry, time to get bored, time to grow anxious and crazy.
On top of having more time with myself and with no one else, I also had another dead person calling across time and space, reminding me that I was not an innocent victim. This person I killed in Wyoming. I’d driven across the state border on a weekend excursion — I’d decided to go camping, try my hand at fishing. I had nothing better to do.
Just across the border, my old heap failed me. I stood peering under the faded blue hood pretending I might discover what was wrong when a bright red pick-up truck pulled over in front of my car. A forty-something gentleman hopped out of the cab, called out, “You need some help there, buddy?”
I put on my best smile and said, “I surely do.”
The man wore coveralls and a red and black plaid shirt making him look like a lumberjack — except that he was small in frame and wasn’t carrying an axe. He leaned in next to me to stare at the engine. He wiggled a couple of cables and grinned at me. He said, “I really don’t know much about engines.”
“Neither do I.” I smiled at the man.
“Well,” he said, “I tell you what. I’m driving into Gillette, why don’t you come along? Just lock up your car and I’ll take you to a garage I know where you can get a towing service —.”
I interrupted him. “Yes, that’d be great.”
The man hesitated, added, “It’s a ways from here, but I’m pretty sure your car will be here when you come back for it.”
“Oh,” I said, “don’t worry about my old heap. She’s seen better days, but I think she’ll survive without me.”
“Okay then,” said the man.
I excused myself from him, reached into my car to get my short blade knife which I placed in the concealed holster in the crook of my back. From the back seat, I grabbed my camping kit — a small tent, a sleeping bag and some food and water. Then I slammed the driver’s door, locked the car and followed the gentleman to his pick-up truck. I tossed my camping gear in the truck bed, and climbed into the passenger side.
The day was overcast and the light from the afternoon was fading rapidly. As we drove along, the man grew silent. He turned on the radio and we listened to country-western songs for miles. Then he turned it down, asked me, “So you live around these parts?”
“Rapid City,” I said.
“Nice town,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I agreed.
Silence fell again. The man turned up the radio so that we listened to more country-western songs. About twenty-five miles later, he turned the radio down again, introduced himself, “My name’s Bob Miller.”
“I’m David Stone,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Dave.”
“David,” I said.
Bob Miller nodded, cocked his head, said, “Okay.”
Silence fell once more. For a few minutes, Bob didn’t turn the radio volume back up, then he reached for the knob and turned it up louder than before. The music swelled and I shut my eyes.
“You going to sleep?” Bob shouted over the music.
“I doubt it,” I said.
After another thirty minutes of driving, darkness fell on the roadway. I said over a song, “I need to piss.”
“Oh, right,” said Bob.
“Pull over right here, anywhere, I mean.”
“Okay, sure.” He drove on a few miles looking for a turn-in. The road was wide and the shoulder relatively even. He pulled in and turned off the engine. As soon as he did, I reached back to the knife in the holster, pulled it, turned slightly toward Bob and stuck the blade under his right arm into his chest. He flinched as I’m certain it was a shock. He grabbed at me, but I’d taken the knife from his ribcage and made one clean slice across his jugular — the blood was already spurting against the inside of the truck’s windshield. He gurgled one word or semblance of a word before he died. As he tried to speak one more time, I pulled up his right shirt sleeve and meticulously carved a small diamond on the inside of his wrist. Then, I got out of the truck, stood, unzipped my fly and took my piss. After relieving myself, I leaned back into the cab, took my shirt corner and wiped down the passenger door, the dashboard, and the seat while avoiding the blood that was still gushing from Bob Miller. Then I gathered my belongings from the truck bed, turned away, and headed into the woods.
Flashlight on, I walked well into the night, using my compass to make sure I was heading away from the highway and not accidentally circling back which is so easy to do. I found a stream, set up the tent, rolled out the sleeping bag, ate a dry meal bar and drank a bottle of water, then slept. In the morning, I surveyed my map of Wyoming. I’d noted the mile markers as Bob clipped along on the highway and so I had a good idea where I was — Gillette would be a four mile hike west of my location.
When I arrived, I told the garage attendant my car was parked by the side of the road immediately beyond the border between South Dakota and Wyoming.
“You walked all that way?” he asked, incredulous.
“No, no,” I chuckled. “I hitched — got a few rides. But yes — I did hike a bit.”
“Why didn’t you hike back to Rapid City?”
I stared at the garage attendant as I didn’t have a ready, reasonable answer to this question. I shrugged my shoulders, laughed, “I guess because I’m not very bright.”
The attendant — who was probably twenty-five or so — laughed. I glared at him but he missed it because he was looking at his dirty fingernails. He said, “Well, it’s likely to cost you a small fortune to have your car towed from there to here. I’ll call my sister shop in Rapid City and have them pick it up. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I said, smiling.
“Now all you have to do is get home,” he added.
Getting home didn’t prove to be as difficult as I expected. I found the bus station in downtown Gillette — the garage attendant was kind enough to drop me off so that I caught a red-eye special back into Rapid City. Then I took a taxi to my house.
The next morning, the sister garage called me to tell me my old blue Ford Taurus had died.
“There’s no fixing that Ford, sir.”
“Okay,” I said, then asked what the garage would do with the Taurus.
“The junk yard will pick it up this afternoon, crush it most likely, sell off the metal.”
“What about the engine?” I asked.
“Worthless,” said the attendant. “You might come pick up the tires — they’ve got some tread left on ‘em.”
“No,” I said, “that’s okay. You can have them if you want them.”
“Well, thanks for thinking of us, sir. Have a good day.”
I surprised myself as I responded, “You, too.”
D.S. March 22, 2011