The year is 1994, and Jackson Fosterâs life is about to change forever.
After an encounter with a drunk driver leaves him scarred and depressed, Jackson is desperate to find a way out of his personal hell. When he discovers the thrill of punishing criminals the law canât or wonât deal with, he thinks heâs found it. But what if he gets a little too much enjoyment from meting out justice? And what if his âjusticeâ is anything but?
There is a wicked line that vigilantes must never cross. Jackson is heading straight for it.
The year is 1994, and Jackson Fosterâs life is about to change forever.
After an encounter with a drunk driver leaves him scarred and depressed, Jackson is desperate to find a way out of his personal hell. When he discovers the thrill of punishing criminals the law canât or wonât deal with, he thinks heâs found it. But what if he gets a little too much enjoyment from meting out justice? And what if his âjusticeâ is anything but?
There is a wicked line that vigilantes must never cross. Jackson is heading straight for it.
April 22, 1994
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The garbage truck came out of nowhere.
Jacksonâs ears popped. A flash of white seared his eyes as coarse nylon canvas raked across his face. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. His arm slammed against the underside of the dashboard, his brand-new Motorola beeper, still illuminated with his wifeâs last message to âpick up milk,â tumbling to the floorboard. Metal twisted around him like warm taffy.
A second deafening crash chased the first, this time from the passengerâs side. His head whipped toward the center column and then back against the driverâs side window, shattering the glass with the sound of a blown-up paper bag popped by a prankster.
His lights went out for a secondâor a yearâhe couldnât be sure which. An intense ringing in his ears followed. And then everything went quiet. What happened? he wondered. His head throbbed worse than the nastiest hangover, yet he hadnât been drinking. It was a deep, encompassing hurt, the kind where he just knew that something in his brain was broken. A cloud of chalky dust burned his eyes. He struggled to focus on the steering wheel in front of him. The vomited remains of a deflated balloon hung from a gash in the center. He gagged on his next breath of lingering airbag dust.
God, his head hurt.
The world calmed for the longest second before he could hear people talking, though he couldnât make out what they said at first. They sounded distant and deeply concerned.
âDid anyone call 9-1-1?â someone asked.
âI think so,â someone else answered.
He heard far-off sirens, quiet at first, but growing louder than mating cats. He hoped they were for him because something was seriously wrong. They stopped somewhere behind his car, though he couldnât turn his head to see where. Red lights danced across his dashboard. He tried to blink away the haze. Blood ran down his face and his head felt like someone had torn his scalp apart.
âHold on, buddy,â someone shouted from behind.
Pushing past the pain in his head, he noticed a new pain in his chest that pierced from his sternum through to his spine. âWh-wh-what happened?â he asked.
âYouâve been in a wreck,â the strangerâs voice answered, this time right beside him. âIâm with the Fire Department. Iâm here to help.â
Thank God.
The fireman shouted, âWorking extrication, Lieu.â
Just outside his door, a sound like a lawnmower engine choked to life. The motor rumbled and then revved to a shrill, relentless screech.
âCover his face,â another man shouted. âWeâre gonna cut the A-post.â
What the Hellâs an A-post? Maybe he should just climb out and get a ride home. Jenna was waiting for him. He tried to move his leg, but knives stabbed his ankle.
âHold still,â a woman shouted over the engine noise. Her voice carried a Southern twang. He wondered how she had climbed into the back seat without him noticing. She cupped gloved hands around his head. âHold still, cowboy. Youâre trapped in your car and weâre gonna cut you out. Whatâs your name?â
âJackson,â he answered, gasping at the pain in his chest.
âJackson what?â
âFoster ⌠Am I dying?â
Her breath tickled his ear when she spoke again. âWeâre doing everything we can to keep that from happening, Jackson. Now stop moving your dang neck.â
âMy âŚâ A muffled grunt interrupted him. A moment passed before he realized it was his own. âMy leg hurts,â he struggled to say.
âI know. Weâre gonna help you, but you need to stay calm.â
He thought he was staying calm.
Someone else shouted, âMake sure the carâs in park and kill the ignition.â Jackson surmised they werenât talking to him.
He wanted to rub his burning eyes, but his arms wouldnât move, pinned to his sides by a straitjacket made of jagged metal. All he could do was blink until he could see clearer.
Through his smashed windshield he saw a tool that resembled a giant metal alligator clip with hoses protruding from all sides resting on the hood. It looked like something made for a Mad Max movie. A fireman lifted it with a grunt. It looked heavy.
Someone draped a white sheet over Jacksonâs head, which was quite alarming. As far as he knew, thatâs what they did when you were dead. Or dying, maybe. He took as deep a breath as he could.
âJackson, my nameâs Jennifer,â the woman behind him said. She was under the sheet with him.
He chuckled, making his chest hurt even more. âThatâs like my wifeâs name.â He wasnât sure why he was telling her that, but felt like it was the right thing to say.
âThen itâll be easy for you to remember,â she answered. âNow, you gotta hold still.â
He had never heard metal being torn apart before, but it was a unique cacophony of squealing, grinding, and crinkling. Any glass that hadnât broken in the crash crackled and popped as the machine revved and ripped at the car door. The car jerked and rocked with each powerful crunch of the alligator jaws.
The jagged metal straitjacket pinning his left arm to his chest popped loose, though it didnât completely break free.
The car jolted again. Then the lawnmower engine sputtered and stopped.
âIs he dead?â a man asked.
âBack up to the curb,â a stern voice snapped back.
The sheet lifted away from Jacksonâs face, revealing the crowd that had formed. He was embarrassed that everyone was looking at him and didnât want them seeing him carried away. I should climb out now, he thought.
âHold still,â Jennifer reminded him. âWeâre gonna lift you out, but let us do all the work. Itâs important not to move.â
This was the first clear look he had gotten of the garbage truck. Flashing lights flickered across the side. Other than the front tire being flat, he couldnât see any damage. 1989 Chrysler LeBarons were obviously no match for garbage trucks. The driver stood hunched over, rubbing the back of his neck. A paramedic leaned over beside him, talking.
âIs he okay?â Jackson asked.
âYeah,â Jennifer answered. âDonât worry about him.â
A police officer climbed out of the cab, waved a flask in the driverâs face, and ordered him to put his hands behind his back.
Someone in the crowd yelled, âHoly shit, that garbage manâs drunk.â
Someone else answered, âWho gets drunk this early?â
A fireman shoved something hard, flat, and uncomfortable under Jacksonâs left hip. The fireman said, âAll right. Pivot him.â Gloved hands grabbed his arms and legs and pulled. He spun to face the passenger door.
The only thing worse than the pain in his leg was the pressure growing in his head. He hadnât thought it could hurt any worse, but it did. He slid onto a flat wooden board. The pain in his lower leg briefly eclipsed the pain in his chest and head. He gritted his teeth and groaned.
âHold his leg together,â one of the firemen said.
That didnât sound good.
As they carried him from his car, he saw a fireman hauling his door away. He started to panic.
âYouâve gotta control your breathing,â Jennifer said in his ear and then leaned into his field of vision. He looked into her hazel eyes. She gave him a comforting smile. âThere you go. Now focus. Just breathe.â
He wanted to do as she asked, but it was too hard.
âWeâre gonna move you now,â she said.
As he seemed to float from his car to the stretcher, he looked past her to the sky. It was a clear, chilly morning and he marveled at how nice a day it was for everyone not named Jackson. His eyelids suddenly dropped as if they wore weights. Maybe he could just sleep for a little while.
âStay with us, buddy,â one of the firemen said as he tightened a seatbelt across Jacksonâs already tight chest. It was nearly impossible to take a deep breath now. But Jackson was too tired to care. As they slid him into the back of the ambulance, his thoughts turned fuzzy. The paramedics were talking to himâhe could see their lips movingâbut their voices came from the other end of a long tunnel and didnât make any sense. They sounded like Charlie Brownâs teacher. His body went numb. At least the pain had gone away.
He was so tired.
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A Wicked Line by Douglas R. Brown is the story of a man who turns into a psychopath after heâs mentally and physically incapacitated in a gruesome car accident. Following the accident, he finds heâs unable to resume his past life despite his feeble efforts to regain himself. He is angry with the drunken garbage-truck diver who caused the accident and the police because the police let the driver off without adequate deterrent punishment. Law enforcement having failed, to get even, he turns into a self-styled vigilante who punishes the criminals in his neighborhood (alone). At first, his intentions are noble and just, but slowly, intoxicated by the taste of manly power and invincibility, they give way to an uncontrollable urge to become a superhero. He was a weakling before, so the opportunity to turn into a strong âmacho-manâ is irresistible! It goes to his head and drives him to perform dangerous, daring, he-man activities he shied away from before. Pursuing the superhero image in his mind blinds him to reality. So, he doesnât notice when his judgment starts erring and when he attacks/kills innocent people, his mind being severely deluded, he defiantly believes heâs right!
This is another sad story of good intentions going bad and thus, another opportunity for readers to reflect on where to draw the line in their own lives in the matter of how far theyâll go to serve punishment on wrong-doers themselves before handing things over to the police.
Police apathy toward crime rightly infuriates the public conscience. We erupt when we can no longer control our anger/resentment and take the law into our hands. Even so, the well-intentioned Robinhoods who set out to right wrongs for others sadly donât last for long. As this story tells us, they are at the risk of destroying themselves in the process!
This book is brilliantly conceived and equally well-narrated in addition. Youâll find in it a uniquely crafted blend of fast-paced action, humor, the dark thoughts that dwell in us, mercurial twists, etc. cast against a creepy background thatâs unquestionably enjoyable!
Without a doubt, I recommended this book to C/T/M/H readers (especially lovers of crime/psychological thrillers), fans of fictional vigilantes like Spiderman and Batman, film/TV serial producers, and any who have a role in law-enforcement/the legal system (the police force, of course, coming first!). Itâs a kind of story that wonât lose its sinister appeal if translated, so I recommend translation to other languages too. Bottom line: This bookâs a superb, original, and new psychological thriller. Donât miss reading it at any cost!