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eBook Category: Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: All signs point to murder in "The Eye of the Beholder." A wounded American pilot in WWII England discovers that a horoscope can be a deadly weapon, and that the battle he sees before him is not the only one he has to fight.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Death by Horoscope, ed. Anne Perry & Martin H. Greenberg, 2001
Fictionwise Release Date: October 2002

18 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [41 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [43 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [26 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [108 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [29 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [74 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [99 KB] , hiebook (KML) [93 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [50 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [24 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [30 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [58 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [42 KB]
Words: 8400
Reading time: 24-33 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"...a subtle, effective tale of the way superstition can influence a person's life, and of the troubles that can arise because of it"--World's Finest Mystery and Crime III, Edward Gorman and Martin Harry Greenberg, editors.

By the time Jake turned into the driveway the bombs were already falling. He stood beside the car and watched the flashes play along the bottom of the clouds like lightning. It was going to rain again--the wind was gusty, damp, scented with earth, weighing down the collar of his uniform. But lightning? No. The Luftwaffe was hammering the shipyards at Bristol, again.

Not that he could do anything about it, not now. He stabbed his cane into the mud. The movement jolted the patchwork that was his gut and he winced. He should be glad he was out of it, safe, tucked away at this old house in the Somerset countryside. He should be glad to be alive.

The conical shape of Glastonbury Tor stood in black outline against the distant fiery glow. Jake had crawled like a worm along the dark, narrow roads to get from there to here. He could've flown those few miles in seconds.

He felt again the throb of his Spitfire, full throttle, nose up, the patterns of fields and roads falling away behind him and clouds streaming over the wings--he'd break free of earth and cloud alike and see the stars strewn across the night sky, constellations marching from horizon to horizon--the sound of his engines, of his thoughts, would be lost in the mighty vastness.... He crash-landed in his own present.

He'd drunk too much scrumpy cider in Glastonbury, Jake told himself. The Brits hadn't been joking, it was powerful stuff.

The surrounding trees creaked and thrashed in the wind. Cold rain sifted down on his face. Awkwardly he felt his way up the unlit steps and opened the front door of the house. Once a butler had answered this door. Now Jake was greeted by the acrid hospital smell of disinfectant and overcooked cabbage.

A musical feminine voice asked, "Did you enjoy your leave?"

He looked around. There was the one bright spot in this dark, cold, wet, besieged country. Nurse O'Neill. Bridget. Tonight the starched wings of her cap contained her tightly-bound red hair. Last night, during her birthday party, her hair had tumbled down over her shoulders and he'd caught a flowery whiff more intoxicating than any alcohol.