When Dead Shadows Live
D. J. Boshard
Copyright © 2013 D. J. Boshard
No part of this novel is based on any person, place or thing. This is strictly fiction and should be read as such.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2013-05-13
Dedication
To my wife Carole, who has be stuck with me for 50 years.
Acknowledgments
Pitrice Sandford who created the cover.
Chapter 1
Happiness and moral duty are inseparably connected. George Washington The light desert wind talked softly to the cactus and sagebrush as dust clouded around his boots. He blended with nature along the path, hardly a shadow in the wind. He loved night in the desert; he was alive and aware of nature and his surroundings. The Joshua Trees stood sentinel protecting their realm from intruders. The barren hills around Beaver Dam, Arizona were his and he loved his time there. Beaver Dam home of nothing but it was where he grew up. They had lived there since his father retired from the Marines, and it was home. Calling it a thriving city was like comparing an ant and an elephant, size was not important unless you need food and then you would rather be an ant. Beaver Dam was a suburb of Littlefield Arizona, which was a thriving metropolis of 308 people. You could say it was an enchanting place, but that would mean that you were partially blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other, but this was his home and he loved it. The desert and the mountains surrounding the little town were his second home and when tracking the open spaces his senses were alive, able to recognize the slightest movement, as if he were part of the desert. The eyes of the coyote would send vibrations down his spine. A mountain lion once in a while would pass by him and send pulsing plungers of blood through his veins. He mostly felt a kinship to the wolf, they were his friends and mentors, he knew they were with him all the time, maybe not rubbing his leg to be scratched but close enough he could sense the air moving in and out of their lungs. Most of what he learned he learned from nature, every lesson was perfect, there is no better teacher than Mother Nature. Braydon did not hunt. He honored life and besides that he had the Bambi syndrome, he didn’t like to kill anything, not that he couldn’t get his dander up, but never to the boiling point, he knew what could happen.
During their stay in South Africa violent mode swing and had been diagnosed as Bipolar, although not sever, the doctors thought it best he take a mild medication to protect any one around in case Mount St. Helen or in this case Mount Braydon blew it’s lid; chances were slim but there was no sense in taking chances, besides that he would probably hurt himself instead of others.
Germany was his place of birth since his gypsy military family had traveled the world. By the time his father retired they had lived in six different countries. Although he wasn’t fluent in those languages, he at least could understand and speak in general terms.
His second love was river running which he had served as a tour guide during the summer months. The Colorado and Green rivers were like the desert to him, he loved the challenge of the trip down the rapids, fighting every minute to keep the raft straight and upright, the spray in your face, muscles straining so taught they felt like they could bust. The constant pulling and pushing of the ores against the current developed his upper body strength, pulling oars through the currents and keeping the bow fast down river was a body and mind tester.
He loved to exercise but the closest Gym was Gold’s Gym in St. George. That was a great place, but at $25.00 a month which was out of his price range. Most of the year he only had a part time job at the RV Park in Littlefield, which paid him the outstanding amount of $7.50 an hour and working four hours a day, he was wealthy. So his workout program was one tested and approved by Mother Nature herself, and had thousands of years development. He would challenge himself with pull-ups on a tree branch and he could do one hundred twenty five. If he thought they were getting too easy he got his backpack and put rocks in it, strapped it to his back and started again, increasing the weight as things got easier. Getting down and dirty with push-ups in the desert sand, his head downhill to stress the impact on the upper body, it was a natural, he loved mother earth and after a hundred and fifty reps, what did a little dirt matter, what did a little dirt hurt, besides that it is good for the digestion. When it got to be easy he cut his repetitions in half and raised his feet above his head rest them on a tree. He could do curls with heavy logs and rocks, a little harder to work with than dumbbells, but you make do with what you have available and there were all weight sizes, finding the right ones was hard. Curls and bench presses with rocks were a little more challenging since it was tough to find racks to hang the rock in or log on and they were hardly the same weight so he got two burlap bags from the Farm store in St. George and gathered a pile of rocks that seemed the same weight. Then all he had to do is put the same number of rocks in each sack and strapped them to a good size pole. You just took your chances as to whether you might become miss-shapes and lean more to one side than the other. Since he had plenty of time and he loved exercise he would go for one or two hour’s straight each day. In his mind he was going to have the best body in Arizona, or maybe the United States, which he knew was a wild stretch of the imagination, at 6 foot 4 inches and one hundred and seventy five pounds he was more of a bean stalk than a Jolly Green Giant. His brown hair and dark eyes were perfect for tracking the hills, allowing him to meld with the heavens and move silently along the sands and into the foothills. His eyes seemed to be like those of an owl, able to pull in as much light as was left after sunset. He had a ruddy complexion that only supported his good looks. He knew the sun was not good for him but he loved it. He loved the hours alone with his dreams and aspirations. He could imagine moving stealth fully riding the thermals with the hawks, cruising silently in the dusk and worshipping the sun rise.
Over the first 15 years he had lived here, friends had taunted him about his name and nick named him “donkey” and hee hawed at him as if he were a Jackass. He would only take it for so long then made fast work of anyone that thought it funny and didn’t run faster than him. When he caught them they were air borne crashing to the earth with him right on top. “How would you like to be one with the sand idiot?” The kids learned fast but it was still a thorn in his underwear. The same taunting inspired his greatest desire, to show his skills to become a Seal or a Ranger. He would even take the Marines. He had lived in the wild for weeks on end and had run with the deer and strained himself to his physical as well as mental breaking point and then kept going.
“What are you going to do in the metropolis of Littlefield Arizona?” He asked himself. He knew the answer, “nothing”. He knew his skills would be an asset to any of these military branches. His skills would give him talents no one else had or would have and his service to his country would be invaluable. He knew he would be the bulldog for the Seals or anyone else, a
