Steven Long, a Texas-based true-crime author, longtime journalist, and fearless animal activist has covered some
of the most important criminal cases of the last two decades.
Now, he's taken his talent for narrative writing to the
pages of fiction with the The Sauceda Trilogy. Best known for his true-crime bestsellers Out of Control, Every Woman's Nightmare, and Death Without Dignity, which
won a 1987 Gavel Award from the State Bar of Texas, he majestically spins fact-based fiction.
Below is an excerpt from Sauceda,
the second of three books in Long's trilogy. It is the tale of
three generations of the wealthy Patchcock family in a narrative certain to
leave readers asking for more. You're in for a treat:
Excerpt from Chapter Six
Monsignor Juan Antonio Francis Xavier Villarreal was also
disturbed by the drunkenness, cursing, and even fistfights that had broken out
in Bean’s tiny courthouse and barroom. His wagon was as handsomely equipped as
Patchcock’s, perhaps even more so. The floor of the Conestoga was covered by a
Persian rug. Silver candlestick held tall tapers next to the kneeler by his
bed. A Pullman chair reclined next to a table for reading the Holy Scriptures
prior to saying the divine office as was his priestly duty at certain hours of
the day. On the table next to his well thumbed Roman Breviary sat a copy of
Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper, a novel released by the popular
American author the year before, but which had only now reached his rectory.
Villarreal felt no guilt at reading the American humorist. He believed all
priests must have a heart filled with laughs and songs as well as Psalms.
The monsignor wondered if the Baptist preacher who had
joined the trip read Twain, or was he as dour as he had found so many of the
sect? The man seemed pleasant enough to be sure, yet he appeared to be rough
hewn and unlettered. Perhaps he didn’t read at all. The priest looked across
the wagon floor at the chamber pot making sure it was empty for the night. It
was. He had no intention adding to its contents so shortly after dusk and
decided to put on his greatcoat and pee behind the wagon. He drew the strings
open at the back and eased his great girth down onto the snow-covered sand. The
bite of cold was refreshing to him as he climbed down the steps. As Villarreal
stood wetting a wagon wheel he looked toward the river and saw lantern light
and wondered who could be foolish enough to leave the comfort of camp to sit in
the snow while the flakes continued to fall – even if there was the raucous
sound of inebriates breaking the quiet of a cold winter night.
The moon was full over Langtry as Villarreal shook off the
final drop of urine and tucked his manhood back into the front flap of his
winter underwear expertly buttoning as he did so. He looked away from the man
and at the lighted windows of Bean’s courtroom and bar then turned back to the
man sitting by the river with a glowing lantern. He then looked at
Patchcock’s wagon, the candle and lantern glow from inside creating the
unmistakable silhouette on the white canvass of two figures in the rhythm of
making love. The priest looked away, but then looked back, stealing a furtive
glance at the act forbidden to him. It was something he had never witnessed,
and believed he would never have the opportunity to see. The temptation was
powerful as he felt himself becoming aroused and cursed his weakness as he ran
toward the river to get away from the mortal sin he was without absolute doubt
committing. It was a sin that could banish him to hell and he needed the rush
of cold air on his face to rid himself of the cursed sight he had just
witnessed.
Halfway to the river he bent down and scooped up snow,
brushing it on his face to chill himself.
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” he recited, “Blessed art thou
among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus, Holy Mary, pray for us
sinners now and at the hour of our death.”
Loathing his frailties, Villarreal cursed himself. Returning
to the Holy Mother’s loving bosom had always saved him from lust and it did so
again as the fever left him as soon as it had come. He looked toward the river,
again watching the figure with the lantern. The man raised both arms in the air
as if giving praise, and then he heard the faint singing of a Protestant hymn
vaguely familiar to him in the crisp clear early night air.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch
like me,” the preacher intoned toward the night sky.
Villarreal turned his back to the man, now knowing it was
the Baptist preacher.
How different they are, he thought as he took the first step
back toward the camp. No Catholic priest would be demonstrative in such a
way.
“I once was lost, but now I’m found,” the Baptist continued.
“Was blind, but now I seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”
The song became a scream as Villarreal whirled
to see a giant figure tower above the man, and then lift him from the ground
into the air. The creature’s bare white canine teeth sparkled with their
whiteness in the moonlight as the wifwolf then went for the man’s neck,
instantly cutting off all sound, and then came away dripping with blood falling
white upon the snow. Terrified, yet mesmerized, the priest stood motionless,
then backed toward the camp as the giant beast again raised the flailing man
toward his lips this time ripping away the throat and then holding the hair and
flinging the body until it was separated from the head. The creature held the
head in triumph as Villarreal watched horrified remembering the revulsion he
had felt the first time he saw Caravaggio’s Medusa in the Uffizi in
Florence.
Now instead of a Baptist preacher singing, the priest heard
the howl of a wolf pierce the night sky as he bolted toward the wagon of
Patchcock and Margot, then even in his fright thought better of the idea and
burst through the doors of the judge’s bar.
“Holy Mother of God,” the priest shouted. “The Baptist is dead from a monster
that has beheaded him. Holy Mother of God. Come with me, I must pray over him.”
Sauceda is available now from Amazon.
