The Wheels of Cady Grey
Cady Grey Mysteries Book 1
by Paul L. Arvidson
Genre: Thriller
Publication Date: August 21, 2019
Get in the way of ruthless people and it's gonna get you killed.
"Forget all you know about disabled people. This novel will blow everything you knew out of the window. A story of strength, intelligence, love and disability".
Cady Grey is invisible. One of the 'perks' of being in a wheelchair. Sometimes it's better that way, 'specially when you're a sweary, spitty teenage girl who's main aim is getting through high-school in one piece.
But then a sinister shell company wants to knock their school down and is prepared to stop at nothing. She and her friends are the only ones invested enough to care and smart enough to investigate.
Regardless of the danger, Cady finally gives up being invisible to fight. And she discovers that getting in the way of politicians and their schemes might just get her killed.
"Cady, with spark, snark and enthusiasm will capture your heart in such a way you will want her to be your best friend. She is a voice, hero and visibility for a young disabled generation, a guide for us all and a mystery to solve".
Grab your copy of a thriller unlike any other!
Chapter 1
Cady Grey lay nose down
in the soil, the wheels of her chair spun above her, the weight of the chassis
pinned her down. Rain fell in great big drops all around her. She couldn't move
her legs at the best of times, but she was sure her right shin was broken. She
was too stunned to feel much of it yet. Everything was one great bruise. Her
head felt muzzy, she must have banged it. Along with everything else.
Petrichor: the smell of
rain after a dry spell.
WTF, Cady. Where did
that come from?
The subconscious can
properly fuck with your head sometimes.
She opened her eyes.
Eye. Grass and soil close up. Some kind of edging stone, with a smear on it.
Something trickling from her fringe down her nose on the right-hand side. For a
moment, it felt comfortable. Like being held down by a massive duvet or hugged
tight in a huge embrace. She could just go to sleep.
And… BAM, here came the
pain.
Cady clenched her jaw,
at least that wasn't broken. Her lips were sticky, she could taste metal and
salt. The right shin: definitely broken. But good news, she could feel her
toes: they hurt like hell too. Head. She couldn't pull her focus to that yet,
all too stabby. Somehow she knew if she let herself focus on that too much,
she'd pass out again. And that would be bad. Really, really bad.
Shit. Shit. SHIT. Focus
on something Cady.
Noise. What was that
noise? Straining, laboring. Something's gonna break. Mechanical? Not exactly,
electro-mechanical. Chair wheels, running full tilt, with nothing to grab on.
Flailing like a beetle on its back. The chair must’ve been sat on its arm, with
its controller bent backward. Well, that was going to burn the motor out and no
mistake. She spread her awareness out, slowly. It wasn't far from the
controller and it wasn't broken. She shifted her weight from her hips to her
right arm.
Shit-shit-shit
Too much weight on her to get free,
but she could move her hand. The whole chair arm was twisted out of shape. She
could see along the profile of the chair that plastic engine cover had snapped
loose, spilling its wiry intestines onto the grass. Man, this chair was fucked
up. Dad was going to be so pissed at her. She felt for the chair controller
joystick. The golf ball she always had on the top of it had gone. Lost in the
crash. Just a metal stick left. She pushed the metal stick into the soil, back
to its neutral position. The skree-ing noise stopped. Good. Quiet now.
Not quiet. Ringing in her ears and rain sploshing. She must’ve been
lying where a puddle was gathering, because her legs felt wet.
Tic… tac… tic…
Was that in her head? She'd dreamed
about that before. Was she concussed? Another part of her brain was waking up.
Her hind brain, home of warnings, of fear, of fight or flight. But she couldn't
fly. Her wheels were broken.
…tac…tic …tac
Shit
Now she knew. That noise. Bad
brain, slow brain, now it was catching up. TicTac. A noise and a person. Bad.
Bad person. It spooled out of her like an old broken film reel, images
yammering from her brain on fast forward.
Flash—the glint of a gold ring on
someone's little finger. Insincere smile. Not him.
Flash—the joy of the chair lights
springing into life when she’d flicked the new switch, Dad was the best. Not
Dad.
Flash—bright flash, muzzle flash,
ringing noise. There, that was it.
Flash—flash—flash, but only one
bang? Ears overloaded in a confined space. Certainly a bang first time. Ears
still ringing now. A short time ago, then.
Tic… tac…
What was that noise? Getting slowly
louder, slowly closer, that was important. It was an odd noise, a stupid noise.
A WTF noise. A lazy noise, a rhythm noise, like a metronome.
Tic… tac…
Like blues. A walking blues. That
was it. Everything.
Tic… the noise was
walking.
Tac… the sound of
those stupid segs on the man's shoes.
Tic… the man:
greasy hair and arrogance. Tall, Thames estuary accent.
Tac… dots tattooed
on his knuckles. Something black, metal held firm in his hand. The smell of
oil.
Tic he was
coming. For her.
Tac… and he was
going to kill her.
Tic… tac… Bill had
called him TicTac.
Shit Bill. Where's Bill? Something
made her not want to think of that. The rear brain. Fight or flight. No flight.
There was another one. What was it? Fight, flight and—
Tic… tac… Freeze. That
was it. Fight, flight or freeze.
The air filled with noise. Her
chair back jerked. That noise. Bang never quite seemed to describe that
noise. It filled her ears with loud. Even out here, face down in the grass. And
an echo, off every hard surface of the building behind them. The town hall. No
flash this time, with her face in the grass, but at least that meant she
couldn't see what was coming. No wait, it also meant the chair body was between
him and her. Something from deep inside her chair was fizzing.
Tic.
"Oh, there you are," the
voice dripped arrogance. She hated that voice, "don't go anywhere, will
you? Oh, wait, you can't!"
"Fucker," was all she
could manage in return, but with her face in the grass, she could hardly hear
herself.
Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac.
"I don't really want to do
this, you know?" he said. God, he loved the sound of his own voice.
"Liar."
He laughed—harsh, echoing. It rang
off the walls. Harsher somehow than the shock of the gun. The gun. He really
was going to kill her. How many rounds had he fired? Could she remember? There
was something stopping her recall. Flash, flash, flash… What was it? Flash,
flash, flash… Bill. Bill falling, falling, shouting out.
Shit. Bill. How many rounds? One
just now, three at… Three from before. One before that? So… one left? Did guns
even have six rounds in them these days? How did she need to know this? But
one. One was plenty.
Tic. Tac. Tic.
Fight, flight or freeze. Her Dad
always said, ‘you never really know which you're going to do until something
bad enough happens.’ Something so bad that your insides have already turned to
water and your brain is racing in six different directions at once. And you're
going nowhere.
"Here I come, Cady! Time to
pray."
He couldn't be serious? Pray? No,
this cocky shit-bag would be all about that, wouldn't he? Bang, bang. Oops,
sorry I killed somebody. That's okay though, right God? Bit of absolution 101
and off we go again. Tough job being a killer, but someone's got to do it. God
says it's okay.
Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac.
"Nothing come to mind? Let me
choose then. Seems fitting."
Cady struggled under the chair. Her
arm flailed, she couldn't move it too far, besides, the chair in the way was
the only thing saving her. Even if all he saw was her hand, if he shot it off
that would kill her plenty quick enough.
"Bastard," she growled
into the soil.
"Oh, now. Do you want your
last words on this earth to be a curse?" But before she could answer,
"I've thought of one, how about this?"
Good God this guy could talk. At
least being shot would be a relief from his voice.
"As I lay me down to sleep… do
you know that one Cady?"
"Oh, yeah, that's great."
Keep him talking, probably too late now anyway. No-one here, he could talk all
he liked. She was delaying the inevitable.
"I pray the Lord my soul to
keep."
She heard the metallic chick-chak
of the gun being cocked.
"If I should die before I
wake.”
Cady got a whiff of excited sweat
and gun, oil. She wriggled, her left arm was free. That was both arms now,
maybe…
"I pray the Lord, my
soul—" He leaned over and stood on her left arm at the wrist. "A- ah,
stay still."
She felt the metal of the gun
rustle in against the base of her skull and press there.
"I pray the Lord, my soul to
take…"
But no one's year began that badly,
right?
PAUL ARVIDSON is a forty-something ex lighting designer who lives in rural Somerset. He juggles his non-author time bringing up his children and fighting against being sucked into his wife’s chicken breeding business.
The Dark Trilogy is his first series. He is also working on a thriller.
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