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Here's an excerpt from Bud Bradshaw's "RIVERWALKER", Chapter 19: "Nightmare."  To find "RIVERWALKER" on  www.amazon.com/kindle , go to the search bar and enter "Riverwalker", then  "Bud Bradshaw." 

Excerpt:

"Burdened by thoughts of missing and dead children, Brother Bob falls into a fitful sleep, twisting and turning until sheets, damp with perspiration and saliva, become entangled in arms and legs.  In his dream, a rope coils around him, constricting, tightening around his abdomen and chest.  A group of tiny children's heads, arranged in the form of a cross, gradually appear.  Faceless and with small children's voices, the tiny heads ask an unseen tormenter for mercy, plead for their tormenter to stop, cry out for Brother Bob to stop the pain.  Gradually, adult heads with men’s faces, lined and leathery, grim and humorless, replace the tiny heads.  The lips flap, voices intermingle in an incoherent jumble of police jargon, muttering descriptions of crime scenes, decedents, evidence collected, laboratory testing, possible suspects, FBI profiles.  Then, one by one, the noses, mouths, and eyes of policemen's faces soften until all detail melts away, save for the head structures which reassume childlike form.  The cross formation of heads extends its extremities, crawling, hooking in wormlike fashion until it forms a grotesque swastika.  Adult voices fade and again become children's voices.  These voices don't talk, babble, plead or mutter. 

     They scream. 

     Brother Bob whimpers.

     Downward into darkness he is pulled, away from the heads and the voices, away from crosses and swastikas and into a cool quiet place, remote and isolated; into the Night and Fog; into the black and wet; a place where, as a child, he had bled and soiled himself; a secret place where he had been in the dirt, and the dirt had been in him.  Blute und Boden.  Blood and Soil.

     Still in his dream, he hears water sounds.  River sounds.  A white-smocked man looks at Bob's little boy body and shakes his head from side to side, muttering something unintelligible.  Then, the words: "Not right.  Not good."  Over the shoulder of the man in white peers a second man, Bob's father.  He studies his son's body and without moving his head, shifts his frosty-blue eyes toward his son.  "Not mine," he says and continues to say, over and over, as he and the man in white step backward, retreating in disgust, away from Bob, away and away until white smock and blue eyes fade into grey mist at water's edge."

End of excerpt

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