APOSTLE RISING by RICHARD GODWIN

                         PRESS RELEASE

Publication Date: MARCH 2011

Contact: Rose Carrano 646.638.2181 (NYC)

rosecarrano@earthlink.net

“A brilliant new cop duo with a plot to die for and a killer that will terrify you."  

--Sheila Quigley, author of Thorn In My Side.

"Engrossing, exquisite, and extra-scary. Richard Godwin has accomplished a rare literary achievement with his full-length debut novel, Apostle Rising. It is at times by the numbers cop procedural, at other times horror so disturbing but beautifully and uniquely written, I could almost feel the cold sharp steel blade slowly entering my own flesh. Inspector Frank Castle and his partner Jacki Stone speak to every man or woman who is both fallible but determined to uncover the truth and to right a grave wrong, even if that determination becomes an obsession so profound, they lose all that is dear to them in the process. Including their sanity. Apostle Rising is not just another detective novel. It is also not for the faint of heart. It is noir tour-de-force that will leave you breathless and teary-eyed." 

--Vincent Zandri, best-selling author of The Remains and The Innocent     

"Richard Godwin's 'Apostle Rising' is a police procedural and psychological thriller of the first order. If you love Ken Bruen and John Connolly, Godwin's the man you'll be following next."

--Scott Phillips, author of The Ice Harvest, The Walkaway and Cottonwood

                                                         APOSTLE RISING

                                                                          by

                                                             Richard Godwin

A serial killer is targeting British politicians and the crime scenes are signature replicas of the Woodland Killings that took place twenty-eight years earlier. The case became an obsession for Chief Inspector Frank Castle, a case he was never able to solve and which led to his nervous breakdown, his vilification by the press and the end of his marriage. 

As Castle and his partner Detective Inspector Jacki Stone start their investigation, they run into the eerie figure of Karl Black, Castle’s nemesis and the man he still believes is responsible for The Woodland Killings. In the years since the original Woodland Killings, Black took up residence in an ancient parish on the outskirts of London where he trains “recruits” in the teachings of The Last Brotherhood, a sinister and mysterious cult that is out to change the world, as we know it. 

Now years later, again mauled by the press, and traumatized by nightmares, Castle is faced with a copycat killer with detailed inside knowledge of the original case. They call in a profiler who tells them they are dealing with a religiously motivated psychopath with an obsession about politicians and who is working along with someone else. 

As they work with this profile, the killer changes direction and kills one of Castle’s colleagues, placing the Met under great strain.  With the aid of their colleagues on the force they begin to dig into the original case for clues. A second serial killer now emerges, leaving mutilated bodies of prostitutes in Richmond Park and another series of killings is soon underway that are even more brutal and torturous.

The killer starts to play dark mind games with the police. The profiler digs deeper into the killer’s psyche as Castle and Stone try to figure out whom he will target next. 

In a race against time they try to catch him before he can kill another high profile figure and a huge shock awaits Castle when they do. 

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Richard Godwin is a novelist and playwright. He writes dark crime fiction and his stories have been published in A Twist of Noir, Pulp Metal Magazine, Danse Macabre, Disenthralled, South Jersey and Gloom Cupboard among others. 

His play ‘The Cure-All’ has been produced on the London stage. It is a dark satire about a group of confidence tricksters using the New Age to rip off their greedy venal customers. His works in print include ‘Chemical’, in the Anthology ‘Back In 5 Minutes’, published by Little Episodes Publishing in February 2010, and ‘Doll’, in ‘Howl: Tales Of The Feral And Infernal’ by Lame Goat Press in March 2010 and ‘Face Off’ in Crime Factory Issue #5, by CreateSpace in October 2010.

Richard Godwin received his B.A. at King’s College London University and went on to receive his M.A. there with distinction in American and English Literature. King’s College awarded him a teaching scholarship and a stipend for lecturing. He continued lecturing and obtained an MPhil in English and American literature.  He taught in and then ran the English department at Davies’s College. 

He lives in London and APOSTLE RISING is his first crime novel. 

Richard Godwin's Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are interviews he has conducted with other crime and horror writers and can be found at his blog on his website here http://richardgodwin.net/ where you can find a full list of his works.

APOSTLE RISING

Richard Godwin

MARCH 2011

$14.95 – Trade Paperback Original

ISBN: 978-0-9567113-0-4

Published by: Black Jackal Books, 143 Kingston Road, London SW19 1LJ

Distributed by: Book Masters/Atlas Books

WHOSE BIRTHDAY IS IT ANYWAY? by Salvatore Buttaci

Papa, Mama, and me in 1985

“Is that what you think Christmas is all about?” Papa asked me that long-ago 1950 Christmas in Utica, New York.  I was nine years old.  What did I know!  As with most children, my idea of Christmas was the one the media made millions of dollars promoting with their steady barrage of newspaper toy ads, radio spot ads, and even television commercials, primitive as they were back then.

My father was a man short in stature, perhaps 5’6,” but standing over me, straight as a board, he seemed a giant.  When he spoke, we listened.  We knew beyond a doubt he loved us, and like our mother, would do only what was best for us.  “Presents?” Papa was asking me now.  I nodded.  “All those expensive toys the stores sell at prices who knows how people could afford?”  I stood there, no longer nodding.  I could hardly look my father in the eye.

He was a hard worker who was holding two jobs: one in the daytime as a welder at the railroad yard, the other in the night hours baking bread in a local Italian bakery.  He never complained, but now especially, this Christmas season, though he slaved away, he did not earn enough to buy beyond life’s necessities.  My mother tried hard to stretch the money he brought home so we lived on a tight budget.  I didn’t have a clue about our family finances back then because life seemed good and the family laughed a lot.  Along with my parents, sisters Anna, Joanie, Baby Sarah, and older brother Al, we seemed to me to be wealthy enough to make Christmas something to remember.

On the sewing machine the scrawny little tree sat decorated with an excess of colorful ornaments that only last year dotted a much grander Christmas tree.  But now it stood there, a bit askew, and under it a few neatly wrapped presents––enough for each of us–– 

in boxes too small to fit the gifts I had jotted down on my Dear Santa list.  No pair of boxing gloves for me.  No wooden sled.  On each package tag in my father’s florid writing each of our names after a huge drawn “TO.”  And on all of them another largely drawn “FROM” and under it “With Love from Papa and Mama.  Merry Christmas!”

But I had spoiled it all.  We had just returned from midnight Mass at St. Agnes Roman Catholic Church on snowy Blandina Street, anxious to rip open our presents that traditionally were safely locked away somewhere––our parents’ closet?  Under their bed?––and now suddenly appeared like a disappointing dream under that embarrassing tree.  

“Is that all the presents?”  I had asked as I headed quickly to the sewing machine console upon which sat that tree with its skimpy needled branches hanging over the gifts.

Looking at the faces of my sisters and brother, it was apparent they too were disappointed, but Al, the oldest and wisest, said, “Look, there are lots of presents for everybody!”  His words may have been wise but nowhere near consoling.  I knew without tearing through the wrapping that my Christmas present would be none of the items I had told Santa, in whom I no longer believed, that I wanted.

We were all hungry.  In our family an after-midnight dinner followed midnight Mass.  As we did daily, we would say grace before meals and then feast on Mama’s lasagna and her braccioli, beef stuffed with salami, cheese and eggs.  It was a gastronomical treat, but now as Papa loomed over me, disappointment with a touch of anger on his face, no one

dashed for the kitchen. Except for my mother fixing places at the kitchen table, we were waiting for Papa to go on or maybe my sisters and brother were waiting for me to all at once start crying.  At nine I was too big for that.  Still, inside me a little boy was sorry he had spoken out of place.  That little boy was crying.

“Pa, I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t mean––”

“What did you mean?  Was I right?  Christmas with lots of expensive toys?”

I shifted onto my other leg.  I still do that when I am nervously uncomfortable.  Then I shifted back on the other leg.  “It’s just that we wait all year.  And I wrote that Santa letter.”  Papa nodded.  He had found it on the closet shelf above where he hung his winter coat.  “I figured maybe I could have––”

Papa interrupted with a  raised voice.  “’I could have!  I could have!’” he mimicked.

“Christmas.  The day Jesus was born.  In a poor stable with donkey hay for his mattress.  His mother who brought God’s Son into the world.  What presents for Him?  The Three Wise Men brought––”

Papa turned to my sister Joan and shook his head.  He was not about to explain the gifts of the Magi.  

Papa ran his hand through his wavy black hair, tamped down his moustache, and continued.  “This is Jesus’ birthday!  What do you think?  It’s yours?  It’s the birthday of every kid in the world who’s crying for presents?”  Then Papa folded his arms the way he did when the punch line was coming or the life lesson or the gist of his stories.  We all waited attentively.  “Jesus Himself was the gift!  Can you understand?”  Then he turned around and looked at all of us kids, not just me.  “He came into the world to save us all.  You’re looking for big presents I cannot afford to give you.  I don’t have the money to make Christmas the Big Day of Toys.”  At this point my sisters are all crying.  I want to but I can’t.  Al and I stay strong.  “He died for us so we could go to heaven someday.  He did not die so we can all buy presents and forget why He was born on Christmas Day. The only true Christmas tradition is thanking Jesus Christ for being born!”

I stood there learning one of the most profound lessons of my lifetime.  I wanted to say again how sorry I was, but once was enough because words don’t always do what we mean them to do.  Instead I hugged my father and let the tears come and wet his white dress shirt.  He bent down and hugged me back.

Then Papa stood up, his hand on my shoulder, and winked at me.  “Come on,” he said to all of us.  “Don’t keep Mama waiting.  Let’s sit down now and eat.  Later we can open some presents.”  We all followed him into the kitchen.

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Salvatore Buttaci, author of Flashing My Shorts