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Read-a-Chapter: Before He Kills Again, by R. Barri Flowers

Read a Chapter is *NEW* added feature at As the Pages Turn! Here you’ll be able to read the first chapters of books of all genres to see if you like them before you buy them. Today we are featuring the suspense thriller, Before He Kills Again, by R. Barri Flowers. Enjoy!

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Before He Kills Again_Cover

From R. Barri Flowers, award winning crime writer and international bestselling author of Dark Streets of Whitechapel and Killer in The Woods, comes a gripping new psychological thriller, Before He Kills Again: A Veronica Vasquez Thriller.

FBI psychologist and criminal profiler Veronica Vasquez returns to her hometown of Portland, Oregon to assist police in apprehending a ruthless serial killer dubbed “The Rose Killer,” who kills beautiful women in pairs, leaving a rose on top of each corpse.

Heading the investigation is homicide Detective Sergeant Bryan Waldicott. Veronica must win him over, along with the entire task force, and prove herself worthy of the job. Since losing her husband three years ago, Veronica had been focused on her work to escape the pain of loneliness and separation. A romance with Waldicott, who has issues of his own, complicates things for them both as they try to stop a serial murderer before he kills again.

When she begins to suspect that the new husband of her estranged sister Alexandra could be the killer, Veronica pursues that delicate angle and, in the process, becomes a target herself.

Before He Kills Again is tense thriller that will keep readers on edge till the very end.

Amazon Trade Paperback / Kindle /Kindle UK / Kindle CA / Barnes and Noble Nook eBook / Smashwords / Kobo

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PROLOGUE

He walked around inconspicuously, nodding in a friendly manner to other shoppers who nodded back and smiled as if they really meant it. There were flowers of every type imaginable—Dutch tulips, pretty campanula, fresh lilies, and magnificent daisies—giving him ample choices. But he already knew what he wanted long before he got to the store. In fact, he had known for months now…the notion was etched in his mind. After a suitable time spent wandering around like a lost puppy, he walked up to the counter and waited to be helped.

The florist flashed him an exaggerated smile and said: “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’d like a dozen of those white roses,” he said cheerfully, pointing at a large vase behind the counter.

“Sure thing,” she said.

He watched her ass jiggle as she walked over and pulled out twelve long stemmed roses.

“White roses seem to be pretty popular these days,” she commented.

That was exactly what he was counting on.

“With good reason,” he said, pouring on the charm. “I think they are the prettiest roses.”

“I agree,” she told him.

He knew she would have said that no matter what color roses he had chosen to buy. But that was fine with him. She was just doing her job.

The woman pulled out some red paper from beneath the counter, set the roses atop it, and began to wrap them. “Looks like some lucky lady will be grinning from ear to ear this evening,” she said.

He smiled. “You’ve got that right.”

As always, he paid for the flowers with cash, was careful not to touch anything else, and left the store humming. In the parking lot, he walked over to a black van. Once inside, he tossed the flowers on the passenger seat.

“Bought something for you lucky ladies,” he said, glancing in the back of the van at his guests. “But you can’t have it yet. I’m sure you understand. You’re not exactly in a position to show your gratitude right now.”

He laughed, pleased with his dry humor, started the engine, and took off. Within minutes, he was on Interstate 5 heading south from Portland. Dusk had settled in like sand in the desert and he turned on his lights to cut through the newly formed darkness.

In the back, he could hear one of his prisoners starting to moan and squirm, as if this would somehow lead to her rescue. Sorry, but that’s not gonna happen, he thought gleefully. Though her hands and feet were bound securely and her mouth taped shut, he could not get to his destination fast enough. Alerting the attention of a nosey passerby with a cell phone could ruin his plans in more ways than one.

“Save your breath,” he shouted at her, hiding the fact that he could never be totally at ease. Not until the job was done. The bitches had to pay…with their lives. All in good time. “Believe me,” he admonished the moaner, “you’ll need it later when you really have something to whine about. And don’t even think about getting away. Escape is damn near impossible! Hell, there is no way out—at least not in the way you think.”

The prisoner increased her moaning and wriggling with the desperation of a terrified person who knew she had nothing to lose at this point. If she only knew. He turned up the volume and sang along to Louis Armstrong’s gravelly rendition of “Mack the Knife,” effectively drowning her out.

“And the shark bites,” he sang along, “with those pearly white teeth, dear…”

Looking into the rear view mirror, he observed the woman. She was in her late thirties with almond brown skin and thick curly black hair that reminded him of a baby lamb’s wool. Taller than most women and slender in all the right places, she was just the way he liked them. She had on well-worn jeans and a bright pink blouse that was so tight across her large braless breasts he was surprised it had not ripped apart during her valiant struggle to elude capture. Of course, he had been one step quicker, physically superior, and more determined to have what he wanted.

He glanced at the other prisoner. She was motionless, obviously still under from the isoflurane he’d used to sedate her. The woman, in her mid-thirties, was white with permed auburn hair and somewhat on the slim side. She was a few inches shorter than his other captive and wore a faded, oversized jersey and jean shorts. Her bony legs were less than appealing, but he knew she would have to do.

Both bitches would do tonight. They had to pay the ultimate price for what she had done to him.

And that whining bitch will be the first to get it, he thought, eyeing the squirming, moaning black woman.

The speedometer read sixty-five and he was tempted to kick it to eighty, maybe ninety. He loved going fast and feeling the pungent air hitting his face as if to snap him back to life. Instead, he let up on the pedal, bringing his speed down to the limit of fifty-five along this stretch. He couldn’t take any chances that the cops might pick his vehicle randomly amongst the many speeders to stop.

That would certainly interfere big time with his plans for these two.

Not to mention put him on a one-way trip to prison—or worse.

As if to validate his paranoia, or perhaps ensure that he would not go down without one hell of a fight, he leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a .357 Magnum. The cool steel felt good in his hands. He rested it against his face for a moment or two before putting it back in its resting place…knowing it was ready to grab at a moment’s notice.

He took the exit for Hillcrest. Soon he was passing by the familiar gas station and a strip of stores and places to eat. He turned onto an unpaved road and headed down about three miles, made a right, and went past farmhouses, pastures, and pine trees. It was about as far away from Portland as you could get and still be within a short drive of the city.

Soon he reached his destination. He drove onto a winding gravel road that led to his property. The one story western red cedar log cabin sat on two acres of overgrown weeds and tall evergreens. The nearest neighbor was a mile away, which suited his purposes just fine.

He pulled up to a dirt path in front of the cabin that served as a sidewalk and shut off the engine.

“Welcome, ladies,” he told his captives, “to my own little private hideaway. Now it’s your home, too…at least temporarily.” He chuckled nastily.

He dragged the black woman into the cabin first, enjoying her resistance.

“Scream your pretty head off,” he spat. “It won’t do you one bit of good—except maybe give you some pointless satisfaction that you didn’t go down without making your whiny voice heard.” He laughed. “Too bad I can’t understand a thing you’re saying with that tape strapped across your lips.”

In the back room, he left her on the floor with her arms and ankles still secured while he went out to get the white bitch. She had begun to stir, as if coming out of a bad dream.

But he knew her nightmare had only just begun.

She joined the black bitch in the room. He left them to contemplate their fate while he got the roses out of the van. He put the flowers on a small wooden table in the front room. As usual, he needed only two, tossing the others in a wastebasket to rot.

He put one of the roses on some newspaper and grabbed a can of black spray paint. After shaking it, he sprayed it liberally on the rose till it was as black as charcoal.

Perfect, he thought, nodding with approval. Just perfect. It would be nice and dry by the time he finished with his captives. Then the black and white roses could be presented to them appropriately for their cooperation and participation in his game of life and death.

The mere thought of killing them infuriated and excited him like nothing else he could imagine.

Except the thought of his next kill…

And the terror in the eyes of those who would soon become his next victims.

CHAPTER ONE

Veronica Vasquez was admittedly a bit nervous as she waited in the office of Homicide Detective Bryan Waldicott of the Portland Police Bureau. At the Bureau’s request, she had been loaned to the department as a criminal psychologist and profiling member of the FBI’s Serial Killer Unit. She was proud to have earned her stripes as a certified FBI profiler and determined to stay one step ahead of those who would like to see her “put back in her place.”

Her current assignment was to help track down a vicious sexual serial killer terrorizing Portland, Oregon and its surrounding neighborhoods. Dubbed by the press as “The Rose Killer,” the unsub had murdered six women thus far. The murders occurred in pairs, involving a Caucasian woman and a woman of color. The women had all been severely beaten, disfigured, and strangled. Most had also been sexually assaulted.

As grisly and unusual as this was, Veronica’s frayed nerves were not due to the morbidity of the case or being uprooted from her home in Washington, D.C. at a moment’s notice. Nor was she shaky at the prospect of having to deal with a temporary new boss who had once been one of the FBI’s most brash and bright special agents, until he inexplicably walked away from Quantico three years ago.

It wasn’t even the fact that she had just turned thirty-five and was already a widow with seemingly the best years of her life behind her.

No, what disturbed Veronica more than she cared to admit was returning to her hometown of Portland for the first time in nearly eight years. Not too coincidentally, that was the last time she had seen her sister, Alexandra, who was two years her junior. In fact, the two had not seen eye to eye on much of anything ever since their parents died when the sisters were in their late teens.

If the truth were told, they were about as different as night and day in Veronica’s mind, leaving little ground for a stable, steady relationship, much less a bona fide sisterly bond. It had just seemed better all the way around if they went their own separate ways.

Or at least one of them.

And it ended up being her.

Now, against her better wishes, she had come back. She knew she would have to face Alexandra sooner or later to see if they could possibly salvage anything out of their kinship or if they would remain lost to each other forever.

Veronica forced these thoughts aside as she saw a tall, well-built man approaching the office. Even from a distance, she could see that he was handsome and looked to be in his late thirties. Thick hair that was as black as the night surrounded a chiseled face with a long, pronounced nose. When he got closer, she could see that his eyes—never parting from hers as if in a trance—were pools of deep blue with an intensity that probably matched her own green eyes with gold speckles. He wore a navy suit that was only slightly wrinkled, as if to indicate that he refused to go more than a few days without having it pressed. His striped tie was only loosely fastened over a crisp, white shirt.

Veronica immediately sat up in the chair, as if she had been slouching and did not want to make a bad first impression. She had chosen to wear a gray suit that flattered her five-foot-seven inch slender frame, along with a pink shirt, and black low-heeled pumps. Her straight black hair hung across her shoulders, bordering a heart-shaped face.

She rose to her feet as the man entered the office, self-consciously pulling down her jacket. Her mouth opened to a soft smile after she saw him do the same.

Don’t let him see you sweat, she told herself. You’ve done this enough times. No reason to be intimidated now.

“Mrs. Vasquez—?” he asked in a strong baritone voice.

Veronica hadn’t been called Mrs. Vasquez much in recent memory. Not since Daniel died three years ago. Did the detective think she was still married? Had he forgotten that she was an FBI agent and should be referred to as Special Agent Vasquez, if not simply Vasquez? Or, if the conversation was strictly informal, he could just call her Veronica.

Perhaps he was just being polite out of respect. Whatever his rationale was, Veronica realized that the formal title of Mrs. had the effect of dating her current status more than she wanted it to as a single woman. Though she was not looking for love, per se, she was no longer close-minded to it.

She gave a slight nod. “Special Agent Veronica Vasquez at your service,” she said, realizing too late that she had sounded as if it was a military pronouncement. She quickly tried to correct her tone. “And you must be—?”

“Detective Sergeant Bryan Waldicott, Homicide Division, Portland Police Bureau,” he said with obvious amusement. He stuck out his hand, which Veronica shook in an obligatory show of greeting that seemed to last longer than either of them had probably intended. Waldicott was the first to pull away, while giving her a hard look. “Right off the bat, Special Agent Vasquez, I think I should be perfectly honest with you and say that I was initially opposed to calling in someone from the FBI to help with this case. I figured the last thing we needed was to have the Feds looking over our shoulders while we try to get a handle on a murder case that’s strictly local as far as I can tell.”

Veronica thought about the word initially. Why should he, of all people, be opposed to assistance from his former employer? Was there a story there? Did she need to know it? She hadn’t heard specifically that there had been bad blood when he left the Bureau. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t any.

“So what changed your mind?” she asked, assuming that he had made an about face.

Waldicott ran his hand the length of a square jaw and sculpted chin with a deep cleft its centerpiece and sighed thoughtfully. “Well, I guess I came to realize that at this point we could really use all the help we can get. Even from the FBI. We’ve got a ruthless serial killer on the prowl and he’s not only elusive, but he’s frightening the hell out of the women in Portland. And a few of us men, too. So who was I to tell my boss, much less the families of the victims, that I wasn’t willing to do anything and everything in my power to bring this monster to justice?”

“I’ll be happy to do all I can,” Veronica promised, feeling somewhat relieved that she hadn’t apparently made an enemy of the man she had been assigned to work with. “And, just for the record, I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes, Detective. I just want to fit in as part of the team working on this case. Fair?”

He looked at her for a moment as if weighing his options, before cracking a slight smile. “More than fair, Agent Vasquez.”

Veronica flashed a tiny smile of mutual cooperation. So far, so good, she thought. Realistically, she knew there was only so much a profiler could do—no matter her skills and intuition. Yes, she could draw a composite of the killer and the likely victims. She could even tell them all they ever wanted to know about the psyche of a serial killer. But the real blood and guts work was performed by the people who had to follow up on leads, which often went nowhere, and sort through mounds and mounds of evidence and would-be evidence until they ultimately captured or killed the serial killer. Or stood by helplessly as the trail went cold while he continued to evade and taunt them.

“Please, sit down,” offered Waldicott with a sweep of his long arm.

Veronica sat again in the black leather chair. She watched as Bryan Waldicott sat at a desk that somehow seemed too small for a man his size. A file folder lay open on it. Waldicott looked up at her, down at the folder, and up again.

“So this is a homecoming of sorts for you,” he commented with a brow cocked whimsically. “It says here that you grew up in Portland.”

Veronica shivered. “Yes, on both counts.”

Waldicott looked at her curiously. “So why did you leave? In many respects, this seems like the ideal place to live and raise a family.”

Veronica wondered if this was a chauvinistic statement against women being in the work force, much less law enforcement, which was still mostly a male dominated profession. On the other hand, she could also imagine that Bryan Waldicott had a knock against FBI agents, in specific, as a former member of the ranks himself.

As if he sensed the implications of the question, Waldicott answered it himself with a shrug. “Why does anyone ever move away? Usually because they found something—or someone—better elsewhere. So which is it?”

Veronica considered the question and decided to reverse the tables. “Is that why you left the FBI?” she asked bluntly, seizing the moment. Or maybe it was the mystery behind the man himself that made her curious. “Because you found something…or someone better?”

Veronica could see that she had definitely struck a nerve, as Waldicott’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed to little more than razor slits. Immediately, she wished she had kept her mouth shut, if only because he was technically her superior. She had placed a courtesy call to the FBI field office in Portland and they had made it very clear that her current orders and assignment came from the man before her. A sinking feeling told Veronica that she had no more right to pry into his personal life than he had to pry into hers.

Waldicott’s mouth had become an irregular line, but then softened. “Looks like you’ve done some of your own homework, Agent Vasquez. I suppose that’s only fair, all things considered.” He took a breath. “If you must know, I left the Bureau because it seemed the best thing to do at the time. I have no regrets.”

Veronica could tell that he was clearly troubled by this, whatever the issue was, but managed to put on a brave face. His smile returned and he seemed to be waiting for her to respond to his original question of why she’d left home and the idyllic setting of the Pacific Northwest for a life elsewhere.

I’m not ready to share the intimate details of my personal life with him or anyone else at this time, she told herself.

After Veronica thought about it, she realized she could be just as succinct and mysterious with her response as he was, while keeping her own little secrets to herself. “I had an offer to join the FBI in D.C.,” she said simply. “And I took it.”

“All right,” Waldicott said. He seemed content to settle for that.

Veronica breathed a sigh of relief. As far as she was concerned, you could ask her anything about her profession or skills and she would be happy to respond, but her private life was to remain a closed book. It was too painful to open. Especially for someone she just met. Even though Bryan Waldicott seemed like he was used to getting what he went after sooner or later. She was determined to be the exception to the rule.

Waldicott closed the folder and stood up in one motion. “I’ll introduce you to everyone you haven’t already met. Then we’ll put your psychology and profiling skills to work—”

Veronica was sure she detected no sarcasm in his tone, which would make it much easier to work with him. She indicated her readiness by standing up. As they locked eyes, she had an uneasy feeling that they had not finished what they started. Strangely, she was not really even sure what that was.

Waldicott proffered his arm toward the door like a perfect gentleman and Veronica walked out ahead of him, lightly brushing against his jacket sleeve. She instantly felt electricity pass between them, causing the hair on the back of her neck to rise. She wondered if he felt it, too.

 

 

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Interview with Hans Lindor, author of “I Am Going Where I Belong”

Hans Lindor

Hans Lindor, novelist, screenwriter and playwright, has a singularly unique perspective on life and has earned many accolades for his fiction and poetry.

Hans Lindor has used his extraordinary life experiences to inspire young people, and has given motivational speeches and workshops to students in Michigan, Ohio, Indiana and Florida, advocating against guns, drugs and violence and giving students hope for rising above hardship and social struggles.

For more information about Hans, you can visit his website at www.hanslindor.org

Q: Thank you for this interview, Hans. Can you tell us what your latest book, I am Going Where I Belong, is all about?

A: Thank you for the opportunity. Haiti has always been in the news, and not in a good way. The country is battling a cholera epidemic that has already killed thousands living in remote areas, and is still in the recovery and reconstruction stage after the devastating earthquake. Now there are reports that earthquake survivors, mostly children, are being smuggled into the Dominican Republic and used as prostitutes, drug peddlers, and beggars. It is astonishing to see innocent individuals at the mercy of their grim circumstances. I am Going Where I Belong begins in Haiti where 14 year old Hans Leger is a member of a privileged family. A detour by the family chauffeur one day has Hans and his younger brother seeing a part of Haiti that had been hidden from them. Not long after this chance encounter, Hans’ father is brutally gunned down during a violent coup d’etat, and he, his mother, and younger brother are forced to flee to Miami in search of peaceful refuge. Little does Hans know, though, that upon his arrival in the States, the real challenges of his life are only just beginning…

Q:  Can you tell us a little about your main and supporting characters?

A: Marie, a rape victim at eleven years old, is now a fifteen year-old homeless mother who considers her life to be worthless. She never went to school. She doesn’t know how to read or write. Her parents are dead. She is forced into prostitution. Edouard, Hans’ father, a former US Marine, is 42 years old. He works for the Haitian government as Finance Minister. Chriscile is a piano teacher, painter, and choreographer. Edouard dies during a coup d’etat. After his death the family fortuitously fled the country to live in Miami.

Q: Do you tend to base your characters on real people or are they totally from your imagination?

A: Yes. I am very passionate to write about real people, however, my characters are totally from my own imagination. My goal is always to make my characters as real as possible so that any readers can relate to them in some way. The response and reviews that I am getting from readers about this book “I am Going Where I Belong” are that it reads like a heartrending memoir. I have several readers who emailed me to send me their sympathy after reading this book, to let me know how sorry they are that I had to go through all of this drama in my life. Some even sent me their prayers. I truly appreciate that there are still some people in this world who care about one’s suffering. One reviewer even gave me three stars. When I contacted that reviewer to ask how could I have made the book better, she told me, “You have a wonderful story about your life that is so inspiring, but you chose not to fully share it with others. I wanted to know more about your life story.” I smiled when I read that. However, this book is not about my life. This book is not my memoir or autobiography. My goal was to write a book that is inspiring. I wanted to write a book to make people feel the pain of the Haitian children and people. I hope I succeeded in doing so, and I would also like to thank my editor for helping me to achieve this objective.

Q: Are you consciously aware of the plot before you begin a novel, or do you discover it as you write?

A: My way of starting to write a story is abnormal. I always start my story from the ending, and then skip to the beginning, and from there I let the story unfold. I really never know what I am going to write about until the story starts developing itself. I never know my plot, or what I am going to write about, even though I am deep in the middle of the story. However, I let my inspiration guide me throughout the whole writing process. I am the slave of my inspiration. When I am writing, I become a different person. I want to be the character that I am creating.

Q: Your book is set in Haiti. Can you tell us why you chose this city in particular?

A: I started writing this book back in 2006. Just like in the book, my friends and others kept asking me, “Hans, why don’t you write about your story?” I always answer, I can’t write about my story while I am still alive. Each day that passes, basically opens a new chapter in my life. Therefore to me is worthless for one to write about his or her own story. Anyhow, that’s how I ended up writing a story that is based on Haiti. Haiti is a torn country, and today, after a democratic presidential election, two dictators decided to return to Haiti. Both claimed they have returned to bring their moral and intellectual support to the country. Don’t get me wrong, they both have the right to return to the country. No one should ever be forced to flee or leave his or her country. My only hope is that they will only do what they said they came to do. Enough is enough. The country is moribund and it has suffered for decades after decades, all at the mercy of its own politicians and people. The victor will inherit a torn country that is still in the recovery and reconstruction stage after the devastating earthquake. Described in more vivid and grim terms in the book, I sum up Haiti’s existence in one sentence: “The existence of the Haitian people seems based on despair, vicissitudes, and destitution.”

Q: Does the setting play a major part in the development of your story?

A: Throughout the book Haiti is front and center. The American people and others know two things about Haiti as it’s always being described by the media: poverty and violence. The media tend to forget that the country has some good things about it as well. I blame the Haitian so-called politicians for shamefully giving this image about the country. Let’s take Jamaica, Dominican Republic and Mexico for examples: not to denigrate them, but these countries have some downsides with violence and poverty as well, yet they are always portrayed as vacation/romantic getaways. Why is that? They simply have better politicians who somehow care about their country’s dignity. I think it is now time for our ostensible politicians to search within their souls to make the right choices and finally move the country forward, but I doubt it will happen. I am an idealist. I am Going Where I Belong gives my point of view on my solution for Haiti. The book explains and shows a different side of the country.

Q: Open the book to page 69.  What is happening?

A: The main character, Hans, is hanging out with his friends. He is telling them that he caught his cheerleading girlfriend with another. But Johny, an ex-Marine friend of Hans, wants to talk about something else while drinking his beer. He is expressing his disdain toward the American government’s foreign policy. His belief is that the USA is being the cop of the world, going to the Middle East and killing other nations for oil, and that America is responsible for all the trouble in the world. He believes if the American government really wanted peace in the world, we would have it by now. Instead, they choose to spend billions making nuclear bombs while millions of children are starving to death in Haiti and Africa and other places, even here in the USA itself. He is getting very frustrated pouring out these fearful words. It’s fun!

Q: Can you give us one of your best excerpts?

A: The excerpt that I am giving you is about Marie, the girl I wrote about in the book.  At 15, she considered her life to be worthless. She never went to school. She didn’t know how to read or write. Her parents were dead. She was forced to sell her body as a way to save her life, or she would have faced death if she refused to comply. When hunger became unbearable, Marie begged, hoping to get some change to be able to feed her son, whom she had after she was raped. She was a young woman in despair, buried in the human meanness of society. People don’t know that child prostitution is the second biggest income in the world. There are many young girls like Marie around the world, who forcefully sell their youthful bodies to survive each and every day. I wanted the readers to hear their voices. Here it is:

 

     I walked by an abandoned park where another group of suppliers installed their merchandise. A rusty fire hose poured out water onto the street. I had to walk on my tippy toes to avoid getting my shoes wet when I crossed the street to get to the cemetery. I looked all around for the girl. She was nowhere to be found. As I walked among the gravestones, I saw a girl pulling up her panties, then a white man in his late thirties or early forties zipping up his pants. The white man handed the girl some money. She looked at me with teary eyes as she mumbled, “Mesi blan” (“Thank you, sir”) to the man. My heart pounded as rage ran through my veins. The foreigner left and the girl walked out of the cemetery. She handed over the money to a Haitian man who was waiting for her by the exit. I guessed he was her pimp.I am going to where I belong

     “Good job,” the Haitian man said to her. Yet again, I wanted to confront this guy but I had to bear in mind that in this country, death is just a game; you can easily get killed before you even take your next breath. I looked up to the blue sky and whispered a few words to God. Out of nowhere, the little boy whom I’d seen crying yesterday ran up to her.

“Manman(“Mommy”)” he cried in Creole, hugging her with jubilation. I was shocked yet contented to see that naked little boy with a swollen belly and dry skin in high spirits that day. I walked up to them and handed some money and my lunch to her.

     “Thank you, sir.” She bowed her head to thank me.

     “You are welcome,” I said to her.

     The little boy snatched the lunchbox from her and was fast to unzip it.

     “Wait!” She seized the box back from him. He got angry, throwing himself on the dusty ground next to a homeless man sleeping on three pieces of cardboard. “Here, here. You are never fully satisfied. Leave some for later.” Embarrassed, she tendered the box back to him.

     He got to his feet, eyes filled with light tears, and smiled at his mother. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He unwrapped the sandwich and took a huge bite. I stood there thinking how at home we wasted food every day when there were so many men, women and children dying from malnourishment in this country. Watching this little boy fighting his mother for a lunch I probably would have wasted made me realize how fortunate I was. To them, this egg sandwich was a treasure, and to me it belonged in the trash.

Q: Thank you so much for this interview, Hans.  We wish you much success!

A: My pleasure. My name is Hans Lindor, author of I am Going Where I Belong. I wrote this novel because I believe every child has the right to live, and that women are the beauty of life and face of nature. They should never be abused, whether it is in the mental or physical sense. Every human being should have the right to freedom. I Am Going Where I Belong demonstrates that one can overcome social hardships. The message of the book is clear and simple: never let racial barriers, poverty, depression or hopelessness rob you of your dreams and prevent you from achieving greatness. Please find an organization of your choice to make a donation, whether it is to help fight hunger, human trafficking, abuse, prostitution, or violent acts against women. There is a legitimate non-profit organization one that I personally recommend, “Serving Our World.” Please visit their website to make a donation, www.servingourworld.org. I can also be contacted via my website at www.hanslindor.org or http://www.goodreads.com/hanslindor.

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