Twilight Times Books logo


cover design © 2001 Judith Huey.


Book Excerpt


To order this book:
Format: PDF, HTML, Palm
    Payment Method
PayPal -or- Credit Card -or- Fictionwise
List Price: $4.50 USD ebook

Format: Trade Paperback
    Available at
Amazon;;  Barnes & Noble;  Borders;  other Bookstores
List Price: $15.50 USD




Rick Buda


Chapter One

"Car Oh-twenty-one-" The sh-h-h-i-i-ip sound of static breaking contact signaled the officer his chance to respond.

"Oh-twenty-one . . . Go."

"Oh-twenty-one, proceed to Valley Road and WolfPointe Road. Multiple reports of a construction accident about one hundred eight WolfPointe Road. Copy?" Dispatch was always wary of directions given for a new part of town.

"Ten-four, dispatch, One-oh-eight WolfPointe, ten-four." The patrolman, though young, was familiar with the area.

He drove near the scene and slowed, the midnight blue Chevy Caprice creaked from bouncing onto the rough cut road. There was a small knot of people, all men from what Mac could observe, standing about, with their heads down. A fair amount of conversation seemed to be occurring, but no one assumed any form of leadership.

Movement of the masses toward his car interrupted any momentary thoughts, once the vehicle gained recognition. It is a fact of life; everyone tries to avoid the police, until they need one, then they want to be near a cop, quickly.

"It's over here, officer!" Cried one man, pointing franticly.

"Yeah, couldn't figure that out on my own." The uniformed driver said quietly, to himself. He slowed the vehicle, there didn't appear to be any pattern or protocol in the parking arrangements, just pick a spot. The cerulean car, with a red, white and blue strobe bar secured to the roof flashing frenetically, jerked a bit as he threw it into park. Prowl car still in rocking, he opened the door, grabbing his dayclub and patting his shirt pocket, assuring himself there was a pen and pad in there.

He twisted in his seat, planted both feet on the dry, dusty exposed clay of an excavation site. With just a slight push from his right hand, still on the lower ring of the steering wheel, he stood. He held the dayclub in his left hand and deftly slid it into the rear loop. The finely made ash club resembled a hard, black tail, as it slid into position. The side handle stopped the baton with a muted click against its' metal loop.

"Officer, Earl is dead!" The man, apparently a friend or fellow worker, had approached the car, stood at the front bumper and spoke excitedly.

"God it's awful! He is all burnt and swollen." The young man appeared a bit unsteady. Officer MacKurghdy (Pronounce it Mac-urdy, he'd say and most people spelled it that way as well) had to reach out and grasp the right shoulder of the man. The potential witness was decidedly pale, but contact with an authority figure steadied the fellow a bit and he looked somewhat calmer.

"I come here to work an' ol' Earl is dead!" The man's eyes seemed to be pleading, searching for some logic from a sudden, violent act.


The morning light was just breaking as Earl pulled up. He had a company owned pickup and washed it to a shiny, waxed, perfection as Sugg liked it. He felt it represented the Company, their name inscribed in paint, in Olde English Script: Ace Underground Specialists, the address under that and enlarged phone number, glistening in gold, as well. Earl Sugg wanted everyone to be as proud of the company as he was, working for them since he was just out of high school. He kept the truck as clean as his work record.

Earl enjoyed getting to the job-site early. He savored a hot cup of coffee, right from his thermos. Betty, his wife, rose with him each morning and made a fresh pot for her husband. She would continue, he felt, until one or both of them died. He leaned against the Chevy pickup, using the extended front bumper as a seat. It contained a winch that proved invaluable for retrieving parts, tools and sometimes men from the bottoms of excavations. He held his cup in one hand, looking for his third cigarette of the day out of a pack of Winstons, started that same morning. He shook one up and snagged it between his lips. He put the package into his shirt pocket and set his coffee on the bumper next to him. "Damn, he thought, gotta find my lighter." He remembered not being able to find his good lighter, a gift from Betty, this morning and grabbing a pack of matches from the gas station. He retrieved the small book and pulled one match from its mates. Carefully, he closed the folder and struck the incendiary device on the rough surface along the bottom. It flared. He tucked the matches into his shirt pocket, in front of the cigarette pack, so sweat wouldn't soak them. He hoped he'd find his lighter on the ground somewhere nearby. He drew the flame into the cigarette and it lit easily. Without shaking out the flame, Earl Sugg tossed the match into the gully the crew had cut yesterday.



The sound wasn't loud but it contained the blast force of a cannon. Propane, trapped in a low pocket of the ditch, formed when the men had set one length of pipe and brought it up to the proper height from the floor of the excavation. Then they filled in the furrow and around the end of the pipe, plugging it with a load of earth poured in by the backhoe. This morning, they'd open the end again and begin with the next piece.

On one end of the gully was a hole, twelve feet deep and fifteen across, settled in the middle was the first ring of a sewer box, its round base turned to have the opening aim at the section of pipe laid. There was an identical opening on the other side. The side targeted the laid pipe, partially blocked with the dirt formed a long tube. The open end pointed at the sloping sides, toward the man seated on the bumper of a new Chevy pickup truck.

The superheated air shot up the embankment and hit Sugg square in the face. His hair, thinning as it was, crisped immediately. His olive complexion showed red and blistering just before the matches in his pocket and the rest of his shirt ignited. He tried to scream the instant he saw the ball of blue-yellow flame approach. He succeeded in sucking the fiery gases into his lungs and they became swollen. Earl, gagging, his hair briefly flaming, collapsed. The paint on the front of the truck bubbled, blackened, but the metal couldn't kindle. The ball of blistering gases had passed. Earl died, drowning in his own lymph, bursting from lung sac ruptures.


Bobby Sithers (The first man on the scene and the one who would run to Mac's car when he pulled up), drove down what would be WolfPointe Road to where it soon would be Waters Edge Drive. He smiled to himself, amused that no matter how early he thought he'd be, Earl would always beat him!

Bobby saw a puff of smoke, black in the morning light, against the light blue sky. It seemed to bubble upwards from near the truck. Sithers saw also, a thinner trail of smoke issuing from the front of the truck.

What the Hell is Earl up to? He thought, as he parked behind the Ace truck driven by Sugg. He grabbed his thermos, and a bag containing two chocolate frosted doughnuts, both his and Earl's favorite.

It had contained three pastries earlier, but Bob Sithers wolfed one down waiting at traffic lights, during the drive. He'd share the remaining trio with Sugg, as they waited for the rest of the crew to arrive.

Bob walked around the truck, still puzzled by the smoke plainly rising from the front. When he saw the blistered and burnt paint, he wondered what might be wrong with the vehicle.

Damned engine ignite? he wondered. Where's Earl? As he rounded the front of the pick-up, he saw Earl. The black, shredded remains of an all cotton work shirt, still smoldered against red-brown skin, blistered and weeping. The smell, like burnt pork and more, filled the still, morning air. Suddenly, next to Earl's body, all three of the chocolate doughnuts were tossed to the ground.

The only sound was the twitter of a mated pair of Goldfinches, the tick of cooling metal, and the retching of Bobby Sithers.



Mac responded to the call from Captain Dave Strickland with almost Pavlovian immediacy. He had a hunch this would be a bit more than the average office pep talk.

The Timber Park Police Department had moved into newer, more spacious digs just months before all this. Every cop on the force and the five newest ones, newer even than MacKurghdy, had a home base that was "state-of-the-art," Mayor Wilson kept calling it.

In front was a lot for civilian cars to park. This entry point made the station look non-threatening and friendly. The Desk Sergeant's pulpit had a chrome bar, projecting almost two feet from the raised wooden lectern. It allowed a view, unimpeded, of the entire entry and waiting area. This further assisted the Sergeant (one was always on duty) to be protected from, shall we say, agitated complainants and suspects, by the wide, clear space. Also, an additional three eighths inch thick armor-plate, mounted inside the podium, made sure only the wood would get injured if there was ever gunplay.

Timber Park was the picture of a quiet growing suburb. However, even they could experience crime. In fact, with the fast growth, there had been some increase, most decidedly burglaries and theft from construction sites. Violent crime, beyond a few domestic cases was a different story. Earl Sugg was the first unexplained dead body in almost six years. To find a really suspicious death in Timber Park, one had to search the records to the 1960's when Henry Canning's kid set fire to a barn and died in the blaze. Young Hank, the twelve-year-old was a junior; both in age and mentality, could not have survived, yet the body found was never positively identified. Of course, who else's could it have been?

"Sit MacKurghdy," The Captain waved to the leatherette chair in front of the metal desk of the Watch Commander, "I'll be with you in a minute."

Mac had knocked on the open door too late to notice that his Watch Commander was talking, to the mayor no less, on the phone. Strickland looked up and directed the young officer to the seat.

As he waited, Mac tried not to listen in.

"Yes, Gene . . . No problem- - -. I am going to dish it off right now." The fifty-ish senior officer made a face in reaction to what he heard, as if to imply - God I hate this shit - to Mac.

"I have the Officer here, right now. Yes, right here at my desk ---. No, he cannot. . . . Fine, Gene. I will call you right back." With a G'bye, only murmured, as the black plastic handset traveled to the cradle, Captain David Strickland turned his attention toward the near rookie cop seated before him.

"MacKurghdy, you were fist on the scene, right?" Barely waiting long enough to acknowledge the nod from Mac, the fit, crewcut Captain continued. "I noticed on your file -" he gestured to a manila folder laying open at his right hand, "that you have not had a chance to head an official investigation. Am I right?" This time the military glare demanded a verbal answer.

"Yes, sir, that is correct. I have participated in a few but have nev--"

The busy Captain had heard enough. "Fine, as Responding Officer, you get this one." Strickland, with his left hand, snatched another manila folder, thinner than MacKurghdy's personal file, and half tossed, half slid it toward the junior officer. He even got it to rotate 180 degrees, stopping in front of Mac, right side up.

"Prelims say, accident. Check the facts and sign off as RO on this bitch." Mac wondered silently if Strickland's uniform had to be ironed with the ex-Marine in it. Neither wrinkle, nor rumple disturbed the creases set into the light tan shirt. In Timber Park every officer from rookie to Chief wore a uniform and none wore one better than Dave Strickland.

From Patrolmen's deep indigo, through the light blue of Sergeant, switching to brown for Lieutenant, on to the tan of Captain, even to the white of Dep-Chief and Chief, Dave Strickland would always the epitome of COP. While he now wore tan, everyone knew he'd be Deputy-Chief very soon and Chief soon after. That, if another suburban force didn't whisk the man away.

Mac had met the Captain a few times in his fourteen months on the force. Strickland interviewed every new officer as he joined patrol on his watch. As Senior Watch Commander (SWaC to everyone on the force), Strickland tried to interview every new cop, no matter the shift. From what Malcolm had seen and all he heard, the Captain was a tough as he talked.

A master at command and one in politics as well, Strickland, while an employee not an appointee, immersed himself into the political administrations of the village. He knew who to rub and who to pet. Rumor held that he had something on more than one village committeeman. Strictly military but a political dog as well, the white shirt might just be a formality.

"I was on the phone with our Mayor." Mac nodded as his SWaC continued. "He wants this, ah, unfortunate incident, to be cleared up quickly." The words implied an intense desire to diminish the impact upon the citizens. They did not purchase homes starting at more than a half million to have scorched corpses draped about their sanitary sewer works.

"I'll follow the procedures and get the paperwork right back to you, sir." Mac clipped his words, trying to sound as official as he could.

"Good. Don't get rookie-itis on this and try to find things that don't exist. Okay?" Strickland's hands slid out to the sides of the pad on the desk. With a fluid motion, he stood, an unspoken invitation, no a command.

"When do you need get the work-up?" Mac asked as he moved toward the door.

"Medical Examiner will have autopsy results in a few days. Make sure we are waiting for him." No uncertain directions here. Mac nodded, silent. "Any other questions?" The SWaC inquired.

"No sir, er, yes, sir." MacKurghdy sputtered, almost too nervous to ask.

"Which?" Strickland spat.

"Am I to do this on duty, or overtime?" Mac was unsure.

"The policy here is simple, Patrolman. You are on working duty. That means I notify Dispatch, they blue flag your car. You are off Traffic and will respond only to emergencies and related calls. Calls that I approve." Mac must have had a puzzled look on his face after the last item, for the Captain, looking bemused at the ignorance of one of his charges added, "Like if someone else gets roasted. - - -Got it?"

"Got it, yes sir." Mac stood and Captain Strickland waved him away, a bothersome fly, nothing more.

MacKurghdy walked to the report room, a bright, almost cheerful, place where an officer could work with some modicum of privacy in the many cubbyholes. Each hide-away contained a desk and a phone. About half had computers and the other half, in a nod to those who might be technologically impaired and in case of power outages, had type writers, half again manual the rest electric. Mac chose a computer. He picked "Word Processing" from the menu and selected a template for the reports he'd need.



"Explain to me, once again, what happened?" Leaning back in an expensive, leather office chair, the back a full foot higher than the rather tall man that sat in it, Clinton Delevan's ice blue eyes drilled deeply into the worker that stood before the desk.

"I'm not sure, sir, the man was killed, burned up by some kind of explosion. I think they said the propane tanks may have leaked." Henry Canning stood, literally hat-in-hand. The man fingered his old, dirty newsboy cap as he spoke. He acted somewhat familiar, but respectful as he detailed the events of the morning.

Clinton Delevan, the man behind the desk, nodded with understanding as his quick mind absorbed each element related in the narrative. He never interrupted his foreman as the aide spoke. Finally, as the sixtyish looking man completed his chronicle, Delevan leaned forward and stood. He paced slowly for a minute, then spoke.

"Henry, I have to ask a few questions here." Clinton Delevan stood a bit over six feet, unstooped, even with his eightieth birthday just months away. Whip-thin and with sinuous strength, Delevan made an impressive sight as he paced. "I distinctly remember speaking with you, asking about the progress at WolfPointe." Henry nodded, Delevan continued. "Did you have anything to do with this, ah --accident?"

Canning shook his head emphatically as he answered. "No sir, nothin'. It was a coincidence, that's all, a coincidence."

"An unfortunate, yet happy, incident if it keeps too many people from going into the swamp though. Am I correct?" Clint suspected his long-time straw boss of some connection to the fiery explosion that still rocked the village with its implications. Implications that ran like rays of light, differing angles, contrasting shades of importance and intrigue. Only one person died, but away from the scene many people could be hurt.

"Oh no, Mister Delevan, I was nowhere near the area. Safe in bed at home, I was." Canning flashed a shy smile. "I drive the area, doin' my job for Misters Binder and Case, you know, supervisin'. I stopped by the diggin' made sure everything was locked up. Then I went home." This seemed to be all he had to say so after a pause, Clinton Delevan sat, leaned back once more into his luxurious chair then asked.

"Have the police spoken to you yet?" After Henry's nod, Clint continued. "Have you mentioned to them, or anyone else our little deal?" A quick shake in confirmation. "No one, even my grand-niece knows that you report to me, even though you work for Binder and Case?"

"That is correct, sir. The fine young men that are building WolfPointe have me working as the Project Supervisor. I do as they wish, and report to you any, ah, goings on that you need to know about." Henry grinned.

Many people were easily swayed by the simple talk, the hint of a brogue, to think that the mind behind the gray hair and cap was no less cunning than the administrator of Delevan Enterprises.

Canning was a spy within the organization. The land where WolfPointe was being built belonged to Delevan. It sold in pieces, as luxury house lots. He controlled its sale through his grand niece, Taylor. While he trusted his beautiful, brilliant niece, Clint always made sure he had an inside man, someone unknown to all but he. Henry Canning was that man.



Mac managed to get a few hours sleep before his over-night eleven to seven-thirty shift began again. He'd spent hours after the gruesome death of Earl Sugg, typing preliminary reports and filling in the necessary forms to assure that information pertaining to the case would be directed toward him. MacKurghdy did not get home until almost one, that afternoon.

Mac had always wanted to be a police officer. Unlike most young men, he never outgrew that vocation. Raised in Chicago, everyone believed he would join that city's force. Mac had other plans.

As he reached a decision to enter the occupation of peacemaker, Mac also decided he wanted to help people more than catch badguys as most people imagined a policemen's life to be. With that in mind and only a year after the wedding, he and Laura, searched the far southern suburbs and landed in Timber Park along with their newborn daughter, Jane.

Once on the force and just months after the couple had moved, Laura too made an important decision. She waited for him one night, Mac was on the afternoon shift then, getting home around eleven-thirty at night. She sat on the couch in the newly painted living room of the simple, but neat ranch they had purchased. Janie, as Mac called his newborn daughter, slept soundly in her tiny room. She had always been "The happy baby" as Mac referred to her.

The young wife waited for Mac to settle, a cold beer in hand and a kiss to his wife, Mac finally sank into an overstuffed chair directly across from Laura.

"Mac, I've been thinking." She forced a smile, bright blue eyes and sand-yellow hair attracting his attention.

"You decide how to handle getting around town, learning where everything is?" Mac had tried to encourage Laura to get out more, explore the village and make some friends. "You'd like it more if you just got out more."

The subject she broached was not unheard of. Very soon after making Timber Park home, Laura began to complain about life in the suburbs. Mac was sure this was another round of gripes, easily dissuaded. Her demeanor seemed more serious today, but it was late and both he and she were tired.

"I know, but I really don't want to look around. I just don't like it here. I want to move back to Chicago. I miss our old neighborhood." She was serious, resolute. "Everything to do out here is a car-ride away. Even the corner store is over a mile down the road." Mac smiled at the remark, but noticed Laura had not reacted to her own light-hearted comment.

"You'll get used to it, Honey." He tried the balm he coated her with in the past.

"I don't want to get used to it. Why should I?" She looked deeply into her husband's eyes. She knew she was going to sound selfish and unmoving, but she needed to say it. "I want to move back. I think Jane would like to see her grandparents every day." It wasn't a selfish remark, since Mac knew Laura loved his parents as well as her own and both sets of doting grandparents lived only blocks apart, back in the city.

"Dear, you know I can't. I have to live here to be a policeman. I am tied to Timber Park now and I like it." He tried to be encouraging, but was as set in his way as Laura in hers.

"That's what I've been thinking about." Still solemn, still resolute. "Maybe it would be better if you stayed and I went back to the city." She paused.

The discussion lasted longer than that night, longer than his next shift change. Added to Laura's feeling of remoteness was the fact that Mac loved his job, often working extra time and trying to learn more and more.

On night, after another, more heated exchange, Mac realized that his wife might be right. He also grasped that he was more than married to his job. He loved Laura, and adored Janie, but he lived his job. Perhaps in time he'd be ready, but he too admitted that he needed the freedom to do what he wanted. Inside him was some voice, some urging. It was as if he was guided towards something new, bigger.

Soon after, the tiny but neat ranch home was all Mac's, well his and the mortgage company's. He signed generous child-support and maintenance agreements for his soon to be ex-wife and true daughter. Laura was happy to give generous visitation and even let Mac keep Jane on his days off from time to time. She agreed that, as Janie got older, he could have her stay for more time, like during summer vacation.

For now though, it was a solitary life. Solitary, but for Mac, mostly fulfilling. He missed his family when he was home, but was so busy with his job that he rarely spent much time in the house. Meals were usually out, he spent time running, going to the gym to work out and sometimes attending classes at the community college.

Now, Mac savored his first assignment as OIC, Officer in Charge. He knew exactly what had to be done, he had looked up the procedures as spelled out in the policies manual at the station. A voracious note-taker, MacKurghdy even made sure he copied, or jotted down every step, before he left for the day. Already he had planned his next steps. Finally, even though it seemed cut-and-dried, he had some real police work to do.

As he labored, MacKurghdy barely noticed that he spent more time thinking, planning and organizing the reports and investigation than anything else.

That night, he skipped his mile run, his forty-minute workout. He jumped into the squad car and drove to the Mini-Mart to get something to eat. All he left with was a six-pack of Red Dog and a pack of Winstons. They were the first of either in a long time.



"WolfPointe" Copyright © 2001. Rick Buda. All rights reserved by the author. Please do not copy without permission.





Author Bio

Rick Buda

The year 2000 was big in Rick's life -- he turned Fifty on August 3rd of 2000 and seventeen years ago he had made a vow to have a book published before he was fifty. Well, he missed it by only a few months.

With the release of WolfPointe pending, he begins a new chapter of his life that has included writing in it along its various stages. He has been involved with home computers for many years and used to publish what was then the largest magazine of its time concerning Play-by-mail, computer moderated, wargaming.

He says this got him "hooked" as far as having people read what he wrote, rather than writing for his own enjoyment. He did mundane things like -- answer questions about new games and game reviews, and it taught him to be entertaining in his writing. He had great fun.

The Magazine, The Nuts & Bolts of Gaming (NaBOG) had over two thousand subscribers including one issue faxed to a nuclear sub and another sent to Washington DC to be included with the diplomatic pouch to a Central American country!

He has always been a fan of thrillers and stories that make the reader feel "This could happen, but please, not to me!" He is also an Internet disk-jockey playing classic Rock & Roll.

He has traveled the world over and still calls the Chicago area home -- although a confirmed suburbanite now. Married, with three kids, and his only daughter's wedding looms ahead later in 2001.




To order this book:
Format: PDF, HTML, Palm
    Payment Method
PayPal -or- Credit Card -or- Fictionwise
List Price: $4.50 USD ebook

Format: Trade Paperback
    Available at
Amazon;;  Barnes & Noble;  Borders;  other Bookstores
List Price: $15.50 USD

  Author News



by Rick Buda

Ace Underground Specialists Earl Suggs prides himself with always being first at the job site, but this time when he tosses his match into the ditch a fire ball erupts and engulfs him. Timber Park Police Department Officer Malcolm "Mac" MacKurghdy arrives at the scene as the first responder to investigate. He realizes that the case is not quite a negligent accident as some things involving the “gas” fails to fit the circumstances. Still his superior Captain Dave Strickland informs him the case is resolved as a stupid tragic incident.

Veterinarian Dr. Elaine Johnson alarmingly wonders about a geometric increase in the number of animals tortured, mutilated and murdered. She and Mac make inquiries that lead to wealthy Clinton Delevan, who has under construction over one hundred homes that will sell for $500,000 each, but only town leaders and Delevan know that underneath the exclusive site is a toxic swamp. Ironically unbeknownst to these avarice souls the toxin in the swamp has dramatically magnified the Ojibwa Indians’ Windigo deep hatred of humanity, as the spirit wolf speaks for the swamp desecrated by mankind.

The cast turns this intriguing supernatural police procedural into a must read for fans of both genres. The story line mixes everyday rural living with greedy investors and an otherworldly essence into an action-packed tale. Interestingly Mac is a terific character struggling with his who-done-it inquiries that is difficult enough since the evidence seems illogical, but also with his superior yanking him off his investigation for reasons that just fail to make sense to him. Rick Buda is on the environmental side of the development debate, yet any fan of a supernatural tale will appreciate his cautionary thriller.

Reviewed by Harriet Klausner for Midwest Book Review.

Something deadly lurks in the swamps -- Highly recommended

Deep in Midwestern swamps, time and mutation gives birth to the Windigo. The Ojibwa warriors feared and respected the legends surrounding the Windigo, a fantastic being that appears as a man-wolf, with glowing red eyes and a heart of ice. Over time, the Windigo has acquired a hatred of man for his desecration to its life force and food source. As toxic dumping effects the Windigo, its changes become increasingly strange and dangerous.

As unexplainable violent deaths among pets and people accrue in Timber Park, Officer MacKurghdy and veterinarian Ellaine Johnson soon realize that something supernatural is at work, as well as a conspiracy among the town's leading citizens to keep a toxic dump secret. Unfortunately, the unexplained violence seems to center around the town's newest development, where 108 homes will eventually be completed and sell for upwards of half a million dollars each. It seems to be in the town's best interests to solve the suspicious occurrences quickly, and to allow development to continue unimpeded -- no matter what it takes.

If you like Dean Koonz's blend of the mundane and the macabre, you'll enjoy Rick Buda's WOLFPOINTE. With a colorful cast of characters sweeping across the spectrum to include politicians, law enforcement officials, millionaires and common criminals, WOLFPOINTE dynamically confronts the deadly results of toxins in our environment. The overweight professor who lends his research skills and unexpected survival abilities to the quest for the truth is an especially memorable secondary character. Further, with a pointed social message that never interferes with the intrigue and suspense, Buda crafts a memorable novel that blends the fascinating and the fantastic in equal measure. WOLFPOINTE is a must read that comes very highly recommended.


Cindy Penn
Senior Editor:

Since WolfPointe is from Twilight Times Books, I was expecting a great book, and I wasn’t disappointed. The publisher of Twilight Times Books, Lida Quillen, publishes a few select books a year and chooses only fantasy and science fiction stories that are high quality and a bit outside the norm. I should know, since she published my own Eyes of Truth.

...Rick Buda took an Ojibwa legend of a creature of the night, both of the dream world and the real world, and wove it into a creation of great interest and fascination which leaves the reader accepting the reality of such a creature in what basically is typical police procedural /suspense novel.

Reviewed by Linda Suzane, author of Eyes of Truth for Suite 101.

Take a wealthy man with a deep secret, a rookie cop who's on his first case, mix them together with the Ojibwa legend of the Windigo, and you have the haunting thriller, WolfPointe.

When officer Malcolm MacKurghdy (Mac) is called to a construction site to investigate the mysterious death of Earl Sugg, a construction worker, it's his first real case as such, and he intends to do a good job. He's a bit put out therefore when his superior officer, Captain Dave Strickland, tells him to sign off the investigation even though there are some facts that don't add up. When horrific deaths to residents' pets begin to occur in the same neighborhood Mac's suspicions deepen, but again he's fobbed off by his superior officers.

Together with Doctor Ellie Johnson, the veterinarian who is called in to investigate the animal deaths, Mac quietly pursues the issue and comes up with very disturbing findings. He is led to Clinton Delevan, the man who owns most of the surrounding land, the town, the stores … and many of the people. Clinton's ambition is to keep things just the way they are so that he may hand on his dynasty to his grandniece and he doesn't take kindly to being threatened.

Throughout the book the author manages to maintain an aura of mystery while peeling off layers of facts, and he brings the book to a very satisfactory conclusion with still a hint of mystery. Mr. Buda's characters were very real for me, and I quite fell in love with Mac, not only because his principles make him a good cop. The author says, "A sequel is planned for WolfPointe – working title Syntax. If people like Mac – he will be back." Well, Mr. Buda, I liked Mac a lot, and I sincerely look forward to his return. I also wonder where--or whom--the ghastly, ghostly spirit of the Windigo will visit next.

Reviewed by Celia A. Leaman, author of No More Regrets and other stories and Mary's Child, Frankfurt eBook Nominee, for




Back to the Featured books

Back to Twilight Times Books main page 





  A special note to TTB readers. All contents of this web site are copyright by the writers, artists or web site designer. If you discover any artwork or writing published here elsewhere on the internet, or in print magazines, please let us know immediately. The staff of Twilight Times Books feels very strongly about protecting the copyrighted work of our authors and artists.


Web site copyright © 1999, 2000 - 2009. Lida Quillen. All rights reserved.

"WolfPointe" cover design © 2001 Judith Huey. All rights reserved.

This page last updated 03-05-06.

Twilight Times Books logo design by Joni.