Inexplicably bound—three damaged souls seek an elusive sense of redemption in the aftermath of a brutal crime in the haunting Appalachian backcountry.
Henry Clover, a broken former detective who has always existed on the border of worlds, hears a distant scream while wondering alone in the Bear Mountain Wilderness. He traces the sound to a remote cabin where he witnesses an event that changes the course of his life.
Miles from civilization, Henry must navigate this torrent as protector and jailer in order to transport both the victim and the perpetrator to the calm waters of justice. He is now on course to return to the very town where he was ostracized and beaten because of his race and his objection to a brazen police cover-up. Henry’s search for deliverance proves quite perilous in The Walk Down.
Matthew T. Petersen is currently seeking representation for this 84,000-word crime thriller. If you are an agent or publisher interested in connecting, please complete the contact form.
From Chapter 2
Henry traveled the entire day and into the long, Appalachian high-summer evening, and the only thing he carried was the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans. His sweat coated the gunmetal, and the piece felt slick against his skin. He followed the trail until it narrowed and the bushes hung over it and patches of fern grew without regard for the footfalls of man or animal. In some spots, the brush had reclaimed the right of way and Henry broke through the vines and bushes and leaves without noticing the thorn cuts he was accumulating on his exposed, sweat-soaked arms. And each time the trail reemerged it was thinner and weaker, and he and it soon became only a whisper, hinting at the memory of a known path.
From Chapter 8
About a half hour into the hills the cabbie turned his head slightly and looked with his one good eye into the rearview mirror.
“You sure you got enough money?”
“Uhh, yea.” Madyson kept her eyes on her text book.
“How much you got?”
“How much is it?” Madyson asked.
“I thought you said you knew how much it was.”
“I have the general idea.”
“Well the general idea of the thing and the actual thing are a long-ways different.” He spoke in a metered pace and an even tone, the words standing for themselves with no emotion to infer meaning.
“I guess so.”
“Well, how much you got?”
She didn’t answer. He slowed the cab and pulled onto the gravel shoulder of the two-lane highway. He turned his body all the way around. His milky grey eye floated unfocused, and his good eye peered directly at her. “How much you got? Exactly.”
Madyson looked at the stack of bills she had grabbed. “About seventeen.”
“That got you to about two miles ago.'”
From Chapter 18
Madyson turned from the railroad tracks, crossed the street, and walked down the steps to the house in which she lived—a two-bedroom row-house design that had no structures next to it. The gray paint was peeling from the tin siding, and the porch sagged towards the house, gravity slowly pulverizing it back into the ground like an ancient mountain-chain retreating to the sea.
Through the kitchen, past the piled dishes from the previous week. Past the metallic smell of opened cans on the counter—the remnants of their contents dried and flaking. A mouse scurried from the corner, and an orange cat sat balled up on the counter smelling the pilot light. You could see its ribcage as it breathed. Madyson walked past her parent’s room and saw that Evangeline was lying motionless staring at the ceiling. Her father was face down, belting the deep, hurtful snores that rip dry throats on their way out and smell rancid with alcohol.
She entered her room and pulled the clothes from her body and threw them into the trash can that was next to the laundry-covered desk where she used to do her homework. Then she went into the bathroom, turned the shower as hot as it could go, and scrubbed herself until the water turned cold, and she cried the entire time. She liked to think that she never cried.
