Excerpt Saturday - Basques and Bad Guys

Why Basques? I could have made the victims of White Power hate African Americans, Native Americans (Paiutes are featured), Jews, or Latino migrant workers. White Power is an equal opportunity hate organization.

I'm not even sure when I decided to make my missing man a Basque shepherd. I was, of course, researching the Malheur County extensively. After all, I had to know which town is the county seat (Vale), if deputies patrol out of small towns (they do), what the environment is like, and I needed to know about the small unincorporated towns (there are several), and just how these towns might function.

There is plenty of opportunity for a "boss" type of person to run their own little kingdom. The fictional town, Rosewood, has a grand population of 12 souls. Don't laugh. French Glen, just on the west side of the Steen Mountains has about the same population and does a thriving business from tourists and hunters. If you're ever in the area, try to stay the night at the French Glen Hotel. It's quite an experience.

I have traveled through Malheur County more than once and the area impressed me with its rugged beauty. Some people like beaches and others like forests, but I get a kick out of high desert. I knew from my travels that a person can get lost, and a whole lot of bad things can be hidden.

In other words, Malheur County is a perfect place to commit murder. Not that they do that much, but it can happen.

I also was aware that the eastern side of Oregon and western Idaho is a favorite hangout for the Aryan Nations or White Power groups. They find the sparse population and wide open spaces perfect for attempting to raise up their own little Third Reichs.

As I mentioned before, the White Power groups hate just about everybody who isn't white. When I discovered that eastern Oregon was a target destination for Basques fleeing from the Spanish Civil War, and I found out a big reason for this was Generalissimo Franco's cozy friendship with Adolph Hitler, the whole thing came together to become "Missing, Assumed Dead."

Excerpt:

After the ending prayer, the judge led a group to the local watering hole to discuss the situation some more. It was only at the tavern that George realized the judge was talking about Salvadore Vasco. He noticed Cole Bristow standing next to the judge. George wondered how the judge felt about his son-in-law when he run out on Mirabel and left the judge to raise her. They acted friendly, though, so George figured they’d mended any broken fences.

Cole walked over to George and threw a heavy arm around his shoulders. “How’s it hangin’, cousin?”

George edged away but forced a grin and shook Cole’s hand. “Hangin’ fine. How ’bout you?”

“Good, good.” Cole leaned forward and tapped the lip of his beer bottle on George’s chest. “Say, George, I didn’t want to ask the judge, but how’s that little girl.”

“Mirabel?”

“Yeah, yeah. I wanted to know if she’s come out dark or light.”

George shook his head, confused by what Cole was getting at. Then a light bulb lit, and he realized Cole wanted to know if Mirabel was his daughter. “She’s fair-skinned, Cole. Looks like her mom.”

Cole chuckled deep in his throat and tapped his beer on George’s chest again. George took a step back and glanced down at the spot Cole left behind. “Miranda was a hot number, all right.”

George nodded but thought Cole talking about his dead wife like that was, well, it was disrespectful. Before Cole could tap him again, George made his way to the judge’s side. “Shouldn’t we go home soon? It’s a long drive.”

“In a minute, George. Find yourself another beer.”

George looked at the group of men standing around the judge, all practically foaming at the mouth talking about going out and ‘taking care’ of Vasco. The judge grinned and clapped them on the back, sayin’ he’d be grateful to whoever helped him out in sendin’ a message to the Basques around Jordan Valley. No good white folks wanted them around, and they’d best move along.

When they drove back to Rosewood, the judge was laughing and happy. “It’s about time something was done about Vasco. Teach the Basques to keep their dirty paws off white women.”

Excerpt Wednesday - High Desert

Malheur County abuts Idaho to the east. This is why my main character, Kam McBride, flies into the Boise Airport even though she's heading for Oregon.

Malheur is 9,930 square miles. Only 43 square miles of it is water. I think you can add 2 + 2 and get the idea that this is a very dry part of the world.

Sound bleak and uninviting? If you're not prepared for the desert, then you go touring in Malheur County, and your car breaks down, you've got a high probability of dying from heat prostration and lack of water.

But that's unlikely because you'd be smart enough to prepare for travel in the desert. However, Kam didn't think it through. She assumed the roads would be good, rest stops should be every few miles, and distances that are short as the crow flies, might be much longer by car.

The county is 94% range land with the principal owners being you and me. Much of the land is administered by the Bureau of Land Management, a federal agency. Range land can be used by the ranches for grazing. For one thing, it takes a whole lot of acres to support even a single cow.

I'm sure you have better things to do than reading a geography lesson on a very surprising part of Oregon, one of the greenest (meaning wet) areas of the US.

One can easily imagine getting lost and dying out there. Maybe you'll just go missing, and being assumed dead after seven years. Kam gets lost, but she had the good luck to be rescued by a Malheur County sheriff's deputy.

Excerpt

The sky had turned a deeper blue as the sun continued its trip behind the mountain ridge. The shadows lengthened on the east side of the scraggly shrubs. The faint hum of a car engine drew her eyes southward. “Good, I could use some directions.” But she was alone on an otherwise empty road. Maybe the approaching vehicle held a friendly soul, but it could just as well carry a serial killer.

Using her shirttail as a hot pad, she gingerly took hold of the door handle again and climbed back into the car. Goose bumps rose on her arms when the still blasting air conditioning hit them. She turned on the emergency flashers then opened the glove box, looking for something to use as a weapon. “Ah ha!” Kam pulled out a two-inch canister. “Pepper spray? Crap, just hair spray, but that shit burns eyes. Better than nothing.” She tucked it between her right thigh and the console to hide it from view, her finger ready on the button.

The vehicle grew larger and revealed itself to be a Ford Expedition SUV painted Oregon green. The lights on its roof flashed blue and red for a moment then went off. “A cop. Excellent.” On the other hand, she’d heard of guys who decked out their rides to look like cop cars.

The SUV pulled up behind her and stopped. After a long pause, the door opened. A man in khaki climbed out and walked forward. He stopped behind the car and wrote something, probably the plate number, on a pad. Aviator glasses hid his eyes, but the rest of him looked pretty good. Tall. Well, maybe not too tall. Slim and dark, just how Kam liked them. Watching him approach, she wondered idly how he managed to keep the razor-sharp creases in his uniform in this heat.

When he reached her side window, he gestured for her to roll it down. Kam cracked the window a couple of inches. She noted the badge and the Smokey Bear hat. “I don’t think I was speeding, Officer.”

The man chuckled, showing fine smile lines at the corners of his full mouth. He had great teeth. “No, you weren’t, but I wondered if you might be lost. A lot of people get themselves turned around out here.”

Kam gave him a rueful grin. “Yeah, lost isn’t the half of it. I’m looking for Cork Hill Road.” She hoped he was the real deal, but she sure as hell wasn’t opening her door. Tin badges were easy to buy on eBay.

“License and rental agreement?”

“Sure.” She opened the center console and pulled out the papers with her left hand, then shoved the rental agreement through the two-inch opening. She couldn’t figure out how to extract her license out of her purse without letting go of the spray.

“Your license?”

“Why don’t you just direct me to Cork Hill, or if that’s too hard, how about Rosewood.”

“I’d be happy to, miss, but I really do need to see your license. Paperwork, you understand.”

Kam released a deep breath breath. She stretched her arm across her body trying to reach her purse on the other seat. She grabbed the strap and pulled it toward her. It slipped out of her left hand. She automatically lifted her right to grab it. “Shit!”

Instantly, the officer’s manner changed. The smile disappeared, and he took a step back, pulling his gun from his left-handed holster. “Drop the canister out the window,” he ordered. “Do it now.”

Kam squeaked and threw her hands up. The canister flipped out of her hand and flew at the windshield. It bounced back and landed in her lap. “Now what?”

“Pick it up and push it out the window. Slowly.”

“You already said that.” She picked up the spray with two fingers and dropped it out the window. “Hey, I don’t know if you’re a real policeman. Anyone can play cops and robbers.”

“Please step out of the car. Use only your left hand to unlatch the door and keep your right hand where I can see it.” The barrel of his pistol never wavered from her torso.

“Take it easy. I’m opening the door.” He stood outside the reach of the door’s swing. Kam decided she’d rather fight outside the car, than be shot inside it. She got out with her hands still raised.

“Now move to the rear of the vehicle,” he ordered. When Kam obeyed, he took a step forward, never taking his eyes off her, knelt, and picked up the canister. Straightening, he glanced down at the canister then back to her. The corner of his mouth twitched as he re-holstered his pistol. “Sorry, but…hairspray?” He took off the aviators and smiled.

MISSING, ASSUMED DEAD

Prejudice, murder, insanity, suicide: Every small town has its secrets.
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When Kameron McBride receives notice she's the last living relative of a missing man she's never even heard of, the last thing she wants to do is head Oregon to settle his affairs. En route, she and her rental car run afoul of a couple of hillbillies and their pickup in an accident that doesn't seem...accidental. Especially when they keep showing up wherever she goes. Lucky for her, gorgeous Deputy Mitch Caldwell lends her a hand, among other things. With Mitch's help, she peels away the layers of prejudice, suicide, murder, and insanity.

Excerpt Monday - Guernica

Guernica, the Basques, and Picasso

In "Missing, Assumed Dead," the Kam McBride's mother mentions a painting by Pablo Picasso in reference to the Spanish Civil War and the treatment of the Basque people. Franco hated the Basques for many reasons, the least of which is their firm stand to maintain their unique culture. They spoke Euskara, not Spanish. They had their own traditions, and even worshipped in their own way. Franco began a campaign against the Basques equivalent to Hitler's treatment of the Jews in World War II. The Basques had an extensive rebel underground, but they were just too few to fight back against an organized army.

Franco enlisted the support of Hitler's Luftwaffe Airforce, the same airforce that inflicted the Blitz on England. Hitler agreed to the loan. Some say he viewed it as a way to "test" his airforce's capabilities at destroying cities.

On April 26th 1937, a massive air raid by the German Luftwaffe on the Basque town of Guernica in Northern Spain shocked the world. Hundreds of civilians were killed in the raid which became a major incident of the Spanish Civil War.

The bombing prompted Pablo Picasso to begin painting what many say is his greatest masterpiece...Guernica.

The painting became a timely and prophetic vision of the Second World War and is now recognised as an international icon for peace.

Read more on Guernica and its symbolism at:
http://web.org.uk/picasso/secret_guernica.html

Excerpt from Missing, Assumed Dead
 
She (Kam) examined a grainy, slightly out of focus picture labeled “Vasco Family, Jordan Valley, OR.” A short, middle-aged man with dark hair and complexion and a pretty, light-haired woman stood by a wagon with a donkey harnessed to it. Sheep dotted the landscape behind them.
 
“A shepherd in Oregon? That’s kind of, um, rural.” Kam squinted at the picture and wondered whether she needed glasses. “The rest of Dad’s family lived in the Midwest, didn’t they?”


“Yes, but some of the Vasco line emigrated from Spain to Oregon as well.”


“They’re Spanish?”


“Not Spanish but Basque. I did a bit of research on their immigration to the U.S. when I learned your father had Basque cousins. A lot of them moved to eastern Oregon to tend sheep.”


Kam rolled her eyes. She sensed a lecture coming. “Why did they leave Spain?”


“Escaping the Fascist takeover during the Spanish Civil War, I’d imagine.” Eileen tapped the joystick on her chair to face Kam. “It was terrible for them. Franco teamed up with Hitler, who let his air force practice bombing on civilian populations. Guernica—you remember the Picasso painting—was almost destroyed, thousands of Basques slaughtered.”


“I didn’t know about the Hitler connection. What did he have against the Basques?”


Eileen frowned. “I suppose he was just pandering to Franco to gain an ally. The Basques were thorns in Franco’s side.”

Excerpt Wednesday - The Rashomon Effect

The recent articles on the MuseItUp's June Conference blog (http://museituppublishing.blogspot.com/ ) are loaded with wonderful information. The last in the series is on switching point of view (POV).

One multiple POV method not mentioned is called the Rashomon effect because of the excellent way it was used in the Japanese film, Rashomon. A Wiki article lists several more examples of the technique used in popular culture.

This quote from Wiki is quite good: The Rashomon effect is the effect of the subjectivity of perception on recollection, by which observers of an event are able to produce substantially different but equally plausible accounts of it.

In "Missing, Assumed Dead" several characters are telling the main character, Kam McBride, what had happened in the past (a flashback). To avoid simple telling, I switched to another character's POV. I delineated these flashbacks into scenes, and even made them italic to set them off from the narrative.

The fun part is that the characters are relating the same incident to Kam, but each one has a slightly different view of the events, usually making themselves a bit more heroic than the other people in the same scene. This allows the reader to be suspect of the truthfulness of the characters.

It's not my original idea. That's why it already has a name, Rashomon Effect, in honor of the great Samurai movie of the 50s, directed by Akira Kurosawa and starring the wonderful Toshirō Mifune.

In the film, a crime occurs, and the film maker presents it four times, each from a different character's POV. Needless to say, the versions of the events vary, sometimes wildly, from each other. By the end of the film, you still don't know exactly what happened since none of the characters can be fully believed.

In addition to the contradictory retelling of the events by the different characters, there are two additional flashbacks. By the time they appear in the book, I hope the reader will be looking at everyone with suspicion.

Here are a couple of excerpts from "Missing, Assumed Dead," illustrating the Rashomon Effect in action. Two characters, Ray and George, describe their meeting to discuss the disappearance of Salvadore Vasco, the missing man of the title. Same event, but a big difference in the perception.

Ray's Story:

Ray went up the three steps into the Courthouse and turned left into George’s office. The self-appointed police chief sat behind his desk with his boots propped up on it. He raised his eyes from the Zane Grey novel he’d been reading.

“Hey there, Ray. What can I do you out of?” The fat man’s belly jiggled when he laughed at his own stale joke.

“I come about Salvadore.”

“Vasco?”

Ray shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at the chair on his side of the desk. His legs ached, but he didn’t want to settle in for a long chat. George tended to run on some. “Only Salvadore in these parts far as I know. Anyways, has a habit of comin’ to town once a week, but he didn’t come last week nor this ’un.”

“So, what do you want me to do about it? Man’s gotta right to come to town or not.”

“True thing, but you know us old fellas like to stick to a schedule. It ain’t like him to not come in. I think someone oughta go up there and check on him.”

George glanced at the copy of Riders of the Purple Sage on his desk. “Why don’t you go, Ray? You’re his friend.”

“Yep, but he’d think I was buttin’ into his bizness if he’s okay. If you go, you can say sumthin’ about looking for someone else or what not.”

“So, I should lie to him but really just be checkin’ on his welfare, eh?”

“Yep. That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

George's Story

George sat in his office reading the latest statewide all-points bulletins for wanted criminals and stolen vehicles. Old man Ray from the Jack and Jill’s came in looking worried.

“Chief, I ain’t see Salvadore in a couple a weeks. I thought I’d better tell ya, since you’re the police and all.”

“Now, don’t get yourself all worked up, Ray. Old Salvadore prob’ly just don’t want to eat no more of your burnt burgers.”

Ray shook his head. “I don’t know what to do, George. Can you go check up on him?”

“Why sure, Ray. I’ll head up tomorrow morning for a welfare check.” George stood and walked around his desk. He patted Ray’s shoulder to comfort him. “You go on home and don’t fret. George is on the job.”