The Katrina Willams Series Book Tour & Giveaway

What
at first appears to be a brush fire in some undeveloped bottom land
yields the charred remains of a young African-American man. Assheriff’s Katrina Williams conducts her in-spection of the crime
scene, she discovers broken headstones and disturbed open graves in a
forgotten cemetery.

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The
first in a gritty new series featuring sheriff’s detective Katrina
Williams, as she investigates moonshine, murder, and the ghosts of
her own past…
 BODY
OF PROOF

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Robert
E. Dunn was born an Army brat and grew up in the Missouri Ozarks. He
wrote his first book at age eleven turning a series of Jack Kirby
comic books into a hand written novel.

Over
many years in the, mostly, honest work of video and film production
he produced everything from documentaries, to training films and his
favorite, travelogues. He returned to writing mystery, horror, and
fantasy fiction for publication after the turn of the century. It
seemed like a good time for change even if the changes were not
always his choice.
Mr.
Dunn is the author of the horror novels, THE RED HIGHWAY, MOTORMAN,
and THE HARROWING, as well as the Katrina Williams mystery/thrillerseries, A LIVING GRAVE, A PARTICULAR DARKNESS, and the upcoming A
DARK PATH.

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(A Living Grave Excerpt)

I felt like it was the end of summer. Not that there was a hint of green or the creeping red-oranges
of leaves turning. In Iraq, everything was brownish. Not even a good, earthy brown. Instead, everything
within my view was a uniform, wasted, dun color. It was easy to imagine the creator ending up here on
the seventh day, out of energy and out of ideas after spending his palate in the joy of painting the rest of
the world. This spit of earth, the dirty asshole of creation we called the Triangle of Death, didn’t even rate
a decent brown.
I had been in country for eight months. I had been First Lieutenant Katrina Williams, Military
Police, attached to the 502nd Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division for a little over a year. Pride
and love had brought me here. Proud to be American and just as proud to have come from a military
family, I was in love with what the ROTC at Southwest Missouri State University had shown me about
my country’s military. I fell in love with the thought of the woman I would become serving my nation. I
wanted to echo the men my father and my uncle were and add my own tone to the family history. Iraq
bled that all out of me. Just like it was bleeding my color out into the dust. Bright red draining into shit
brown.
It was the impending weight of change that made me feel like the end of summer. As a girl, back
home in the Ozarks, the summers seemed to last forever. It wasn’t until the final days, carried over even
into a new school year, when the air cooled and the oaks rusted, that I could feel them ending. Their
endings were like the descent of ice ages, the shifting of epochs. That was exactly how I felt bleeding into
the dirt. The difference was that I felt an impending death rather than transition. The terminus of an
epoch. In Iraq though, nothing was as clear as that. It was death; but it wasn’t.
Lying on my back, I wished I could see blue sky, but not here. The air was hazed with dust so
used up it became a part of the atmosphere. There was no more of the earth in it. Grit, like bad memories
and regret, hanging over an entire nation. I coughed hard and it hurt. A bubbly thickness slithered up my
throat. Using my tongue and what breath I had, I got the slimy mass up to my lips. I just didn’t have it in
me to spit. Instead, I turned my head to the side and let the bloody phlegm slide down my cheek.
Dying is hard.
Wind, hot and cradling the homeland sand so many factions were willing to kill for, ran over the
wall I was hidden behind. It eddied there, slowing and swirling and then dumping the dirt on my naked
skin. A slow-motion burial. Even the land here hated naked women.
I stayed there without moving, but slipping in and out of consciousness for a long time. It seemed
long, anyway. I dreamed. Dreamed or remembered so well they seemed like perfect dreams of—everything.
Green.
We played baseball. Just like in old movies with kids turning a lot into a diamond. No one does
that anymore, but we did. My grandfather played minor league ball years ago and I had a cousin who was
a Cardinals fan. Everyone was a Cardinals fan, so I loved the Royals. When the games were over and it
was hotter than the batter’s box when I was pitching—I had a wild arm—my father would take me to the
river. Later when we had cars, I was drawn there every summer to swim and swing from the ropes. We
floated on old, patched inner tubes and teased boys. That was where I learned to drink beer. My father
would take me fishing on the river. My grandfather would take me on the lakes. I used the same cane pole
my father had when Granddad taught him about fishing. Both of the men used to say to the girl who
complained about not catching anything, “It’s not about the catching, it’s about the fishing.” I don’t think
I ever understood until a good portion of my blood was spilled on the dirt of a world that hated me.
My head spun back to the moment and back to Iraq. If I was going to die, I would have done it
already, I figured. At least my body. That physical part of me would live on. That other part of me, the
girl who loved summer… I think she was already dead. Death and transition.

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