Did you have a favorite book you read as a child?
Huckleberry Finn
Is there one you've read you wish you had wrote? If so why?
That’s a tough one. But I wish I wrote Charlie Huston’s Hank Thompson Trilogy. It’s some of the best noir writing out there, and I based much of my Moonlight series on it.
You've written a number of chilling thrillers. Is there one that sticks out as a favorite?
The Remains came out of nowhere is sort of uncharacteristic of my macho, if you will, style. A woman’s POV and a plot revolving around paintings and an autistic savant. I definitely explored new territory there and I feel I succeeded in that it’s been perpetual Amazon bestseller for more than a year, having reached the Top 20. It’s also been bought out from its initial publisher by Thomas and Mercer, Amazon’s new major publishing arm.
When did you first decide you wanted to write a book? And why thrillers?
In my late teens and early twenties I knew I wanted to write novels for a living. I started out by writing newspaper articles and developed my skills from there.
The success of The Innocent this past Spring, spending almost 8 full weeks in the Amazon Kindle Top 10. At one point it reached No. 3. I was selling more books than Stephen King and James Patterson. It’s all lead to a major deal with Thomas and Mercer.
What was the most interesting research you did for a book?
Spending a night in Sing Sing Prison comes to mind. Also, I just returned from a month in Florence, Italy researching Blue Moonlight, the follow-up to Moonlight Rises.
What do you think makes a good story?
Three dimensional characters, tightly written paragraphs, pile-driving plotting and plenty of action.
I heard you have a new release. Please tell us about it.
Scream Catcher is a novel I’ve been writing for 5 or more years. It’s about a former cop turned author who, along with his family, is stalked by a video game designer/serial killer who records the screams of his victims before killing them, then places the real screams in his violent video games.
Do you have a short excerpt you'd like to share with us?
Prologue
Sweeny’s Boxing Gym
Lake George, New York
Tuesday, August 15, 6:10 A.M.
The man is hiding. Has been for a long time now, since his life—his physical body--became reduced to a shadowy reflection of his own fear. A fear so real, so palpable and heavy, it seems like there are times it might be possible for him to unzip it like you would a second skin and maybe hang it up on a sixpenny nail to dry. If only that were possible.
But his fear is more than skin deep. It is an internal demon and it is lodged inside bone and flesh like a cancer. It is what he has in the place of a soul. Rather, it is what has replaced his soul. Only when he least expected it, did it reveal its beastly head of pale white skin, black eyes and fang-like teeth before entering into his body and holding him hostage.
Ever since that day he has since been trying his best to purge the demon from his body. But he does not use a priest for his exorcist. He does not use a shaman. He does not use a psychiatrist. He does not use God.
Instead, he uses only physical exertion.
He attempts to push the fear out through his ribs by improving his physical body with exercise. Grueling exercise on a daily basis. Running, lifting, boxing, stretching, sweating, groaning, pushing, pulling, crying, bleeding, sucking air and, on occasion, passing out.
It’s bad that those closest to him no longer trust him. It’s worse that he no longer trusts himself. And a man who cannot trust himself, can never know what it is to truly love or be truly loved in return.
Yet, he lives and carries on as if today—this very moment in time—will be the end of something bad and the beginning of a new life free of the demon.
But today will not be one of those days.
Because today, Jude Parish, forty-five year old ex-cop turned bestselling true crime writer, gets to be the eyewitness to a murder.
Here’s how it happens:
He’s just exited Sweeney’s Boxing Gym by way of the back door. It’s raining, the new summer dawn hidden by a black and blue sky; its heat by fierce wind gusts; its calm by lightning and thunder. The early morning workout--six rounds jump rope, six rounds speed bag, six rounds heavy bag—is all but historical fact. Now oxygen starved lungs crave the fresh air; tired muscles and joints welcome cool rain. Kissing the sky, Jude allows the rain to pelt his stubbly face, to soak his cropped hair, to dampen his gray sweats.
Mounted to the block wall behind him is a reflective exit sign and a lit spotlight. To his right a blue dumpster, the letters B.F.I. printed on the four metal side panels. To his left, an open sea of cracked and blistered blacktop. Beyond that, a too dark nothing that stretches all the way beyond the Canadian border.
Dead ahead he spots two people.
What at first glance appears to be a longhaired man chasing a T-shirted man from out of the old Malloy gravel pit. Two grown men who stumble down the pit embankment, crash through second growth woods like two hunted deer, until spilling out onto the flat lot.
Back pressed up against the block wall, Jude watches, listening to his heart beat inside his temples. He’s no stranger to the pit. As a boy he used to play Johnny Quest inside the big dig during the day, but never at night when the Lake George dark monster came out of hiding. Standing in the rain his mind recalls deep craters, jagged shale, abandoned automobiles, empty beer bottles, used condoms and rock piles galore. The images flashback while he works up a smile. Black Bear’s Bar and Grille is located on the opposite north end of the old pit. Black Bear’s is open all night for the commercial salmon and charter fishermen and their pickled livers.
As for the running men?
They must be drunk as rabid skunks.
Pulling himself away from the wall, he sucks in a wet breath, prepares for the two mile jog back home to pregnant wife and child when the T-shirted man drops to his knees on the pavement; when Longhair raises up a hand exposing a silenced automatic.
What happens next takes forever and an instant.
Longhair extends the right arm, presses the automatic to T-shirt’s head.
“Scream,” he orders in a strange, high-pitched voice. “Scream. For. Me.”
The man on his knees hesitates. Peering slowly up at the longhaired man, he doesn’t scream. He produces only silence and a frightened smile. Until Longhair thumbs back the hammer on the automatic.
“Scream. For. Me.” he repeats, bringing a hand held device to the mouth of the T-shirted man.
T-shirted man loses his smile. He lowers his head, swallows a deep breath.
He screams.
Screams so loud the guttural shriek bounces off the side of the gym and rattles Jude’s bones.
He screams directly into the hand-held device. A device that by now, Jude is certain is an iPhone.
When the scream is finished, and the T-shirted man’s lungs are empty of oxygen, silence returns to the lot. That’s when two muzzle flashes light the dark sky for two brief instances.
Longhair takes a step back.
T-Shirt falls face first. French kisses a rain puddle.
“God almighty,” Jude whispers to himself.
But there’s nothing God almighty can do now.
Longhair slides the automatic into a shoulder holster, and pockets the iPhone. Sensing another presence, he turns, laser beams a gaze in the ex-cop’s direction.
It’s then that Jude’s body becomes the suddenly pin-pricked balloon.
All strength bleeds out of his feet.
He drops down onto the wet lot, rolls his body behind the BFI dumpster, hides himself behind stacks of cardboard and rain-drenched newspapers.
Heart beats a berserk rhythm. Hands tremble. Adrenalin filled brain becomes an orchestral symphony warming up inside the skull, until the roar of a car engine and burning rubber kills the music.
Longhair is getting away.
What’s the ex-cop gonna do?
Ex-cop is gonna listen to the demon inside his chest, and he’s going to sit still, play dead.
The car approaches, downshifts to a crawl, then brakes to a hard stop some fifteen or twenty feet away. As soon as the passenger window goes down, Jude can’t miss it: gunmetal death staring him in the face.
Longhair’s got an unobstructed shot.
When the hammer comes down the ex-cop never sees the flash. Never feels the pain.
What’s it like to die?
It’s like the lights in a room being turned out. It’s about silence and stillness and darkness. It’s freedom from the demon. It’s like falling . . .
. . . falling into a deep and painless sleep.
Sweeny’s Boxing Gym
Lake George, New York
Tuesday, August 15, 6:10 A.M.
The man is hiding. Has been for a long time now, since his life—his physical body--became reduced to a shadowy reflection of his own fear. A fear so real, so palpable and heavy, it seems like there are times it might be possible for him to unzip it like you would a second skin and maybe hang it up on a sixpenny nail to dry. If only that were possible.
But his fear is more than skin deep. It is an internal demon and it is lodged inside bone and flesh like a cancer. It is what he has in the place of a soul. Rather, it is what has replaced his soul. Only when he least expected it, did it reveal its beastly head of pale white skin, black eyes and fang-like teeth before entering into his body and holding him hostage.
Ever since that day he has since been trying his best to purge the demon from his body. But he does not use a priest for his exorcist. He does not use a shaman. He does not use a psychiatrist. He does not use God.
Instead, he uses only physical exertion.
He attempts to push the fear out through his ribs by improving his physical body with exercise. Grueling exercise on a daily basis. Running, lifting, boxing, stretching, sweating, groaning, pushing, pulling, crying, bleeding, sucking air and, on occasion, passing out.
It’s bad that those closest to him no longer trust him. It’s worse that he no longer trusts himself. And a man who cannot trust himself, can never know what it is to truly love or be truly loved in return.
Yet, he lives and carries on as if today—this very moment in time—will be the end of something bad and the beginning of a new life free of the demon.
But today will not be one of those days.
Because today, Jude Parish, forty-five year old ex-cop turned bestselling true crime writer, gets to be the eyewitness to a murder.
Here’s how it happens:
He’s just exited Sweeney’s Boxing Gym by way of the back door. It’s raining, the new summer dawn hidden by a black and blue sky; its heat by fierce wind gusts; its calm by lightning and thunder. The early morning workout--six rounds jump rope, six rounds speed bag, six rounds heavy bag—is all but historical fact. Now oxygen starved lungs crave the fresh air; tired muscles and joints welcome cool rain. Kissing the sky, Jude allows the rain to pelt his stubbly face, to soak his cropped hair, to dampen his gray sweats.
Mounted to the block wall behind him is a reflective exit sign and a lit spotlight. To his right a blue dumpster, the letters B.F.I. printed on the four metal side panels. To his left, an open sea of cracked and blistered blacktop. Beyond that, a too dark nothing that stretches all the way beyond the Canadian border.
Dead ahead he spots two people.
What at first glance appears to be a longhaired man chasing a T-shirted man from out of the old Malloy gravel pit. Two grown men who stumble down the pit embankment, crash through second growth woods like two hunted deer, until spilling out onto the flat lot.
Back pressed up against the block wall, Jude watches, listening to his heart beat inside his temples. He’s no stranger to the pit. As a boy he used to play Johnny Quest inside the big dig during the day, but never at night when the Lake George dark monster came out of hiding. Standing in the rain his mind recalls deep craters, jagged shale, abandoned automobiles, empty beer bottles, used condoms and rock piles galore. The images flashback while he works up a smile. Black Bear’s Bar and Grille is located on the opposite north end of the old pit. Black Bear’s is open all night for the commercial salmon and charter fishermen and their pickled livers.
As for the running men?
They must be drunk as rabid skunks.
Pulling himself away from the wall, he sucks in a wet breath, prepares for the two mile jog back home to pregnant wife and child when the T-shirted man drops to his knees on the pavement; when Longhair raises up a hand exposing a silenced automatic.
What happens next takes forever and an instant.
Longhair extends the right arm, presses the automatic to T-shirt’s head.
“Scream,” he orders in a strange, high-pitched voice. “Scream. For. Me.”
The man on his knees hesitates. Peering slowly up at the longhaired man, he doesn’t scream. He produces only silence and a frightened smile. Until Longhair thumbs back the hammer on the automatic.
“Scream. For. Me.” he repeats, bringing a hand held device to the mouth of the T-shirted man.
T-shirted man loses his smile. He lowers his head, swallows a deep breath.
He screams.
Screams so loud the guttural shriek bounces off the side of the gym and rattles Jude’s bones.
He screams directly into the hand-held device. A device that by now, Jude is certain is an iPhone.
When the scream is finished, and the T-shirted man’s lungs are empty of oxygen, silence returns to the lot. That’s when two muzzle flashes light the dark sky for two brief instances.
Longhair takes a step back.
T-Shirt falls face first. French kisses a rain puddle.
“God almighty,” Jude whispers to himself.
But there’s nothing God almighty can do now.
Longhair slides the automatic into a shoulder holster, and pockets the iPhone. Sensing another presence, he turns, laser beams a gaze in the ex-cop’s direction.
It’s then that Jude’s body becomes the suddenly pin-pricked balloon.
All strength bleeds out of his feet.
He drops down onto the wet lot, rolls his body behind the BFI dumpster, hides himself behind stacks of cardboard and rain-drenched newspapers.
Heart beats a berserk rhythm. Hands tremble. Adrenalin filled brain becomes an orchestral symphony warming up inside the skull, until the roar of a car engine and burning rubber kills the music.
Longhair is getting away.
What’s the ex-cop gonna do?
Ex-cop is gonna listen to the demon inside his chest, and he’s going to sit still, play dead.
The car approaches, downshifts to a crawl, then brakes to a hard stop some fifteen or twenty feet away. As soon as the passenger window goes down, Jude can’t miss it: gunmetal death staring him in the face.
Longhair’s got an unobstructed shot.
When the hammer comes down the ex-cop never sees the flash. Never feels the pain.
What’s it like to die?
It’s like the lights in a room being turned out. It’s about silence and stillness and darkness. It’s freedom from the demon. It’s like falling . . .
. . . falling into a deep and painless sleep.
What are you working on now?
Blue Moonlight, the third full-length Moonlight novel. I’ve also just finished Murder by Moonlight which will be the fourth. Both will be published by Thomas and Mercer. I’m also rewriting all of my most successfully anthologized short stories for a collection that StoneGate Ink will be doing something this late Fall or early Winter.
Do you have any writing quirks?
I always write in the nude.
Would you rather have the power to be invisible or be able to fly, and why?
Fly. I wouldn’t have to give so much money to Delta or USAir.
You’ve won a talent show! What act did you perform?
I played my drums.
What fun answers! Thanks so much for joining us today, Vincent. It's been a blast getting to know more about you. In closing, please tell us where we can buy your books. Where can we go to learn more about you?
Just go to http://www.vincentzandri.com/ for both and thanks for having me…Better put some clothes on, I guess…
Book Details: Moonlight Rises
Genre:Adult Suspense, Mystery, Thriller
Publisher: StoneGate Ink
Publication Date: August 13,2011
AMAZON
BARNES AND NOBLE
The Next Stop:
October 13th-Review&Guest Post@A Good Day To Read
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