Thriller
Date Published: April 1 2018
A grieving father – known to the reader only as Teacher – takes on a new identity after the brutal murder of his teenaged son. Masquerading as a substitute teacher, he tracks down the killer – a high school senior – and methodically builds a web to entrap him. Teacher does not desire simple justice or death for the killer; he wants the killer to endure what his son endured. But Teacher’s plan takes a life-shattering turn when he must save his son’s former girlfriend from the clutches of the brutal MS-13 gang.
A taut, suspenseful thriller, Red Rider explores the depths of revenge and the strength of human bonds.
Excerpt
Excerpt 1
RED RIDER by Gerrit Steenhagen
1
A priest once told him: “Tragedy teaches us life is short and there is no time for hate. Sometimes in tragedy we find our life’s purpose.”
He told the priest: “Life is long without my son and there is only time for hate. My life’s purpose is to avenge my son’s death.”
Sleeping inconvenienced him. Sleeping took time from hate. He spent his night in a cemetery, lying atop a grave, bare-chested. His pressed shirt was draped over the headstone. His head rested on a bulletproof vest. His eyes were open and catatonic. He could be dead.
His phone vibrated. He didn’t blink. His phone flashed an event: Henry’s birthday, April 20th, 4:05 a.m. His eyes dried out. His vision blurred. Tears were stimulated. He blinked.
He sat up and dismissed the event. His phone blinked the time: 4:06 a.m. He strapped the vest to his torso. His hands shook again. He pulled the pressed shirt from the headstone. The name and date on the headstone matched the name and date that had flashed across his phone. Henry would’ve been eighteen today.
He buttoned his shirt. A price tag dangled from the sleeve. He tugged at it, gone. He looked for more tags. One dangled from his waist. He tugged at it, gone. He stood.
A streetlight shone upon a red motorcycle. A red helmet hung from one handle grip, a satchel hung from the other. He straddled the motorcycle, slid on the helmet, harnessed the satchel to his shoulder, leaned into the seat, twisted the grips, tapped the clutch, and kick-started the bike.
Excerpt 2
7
Her name was Girl Gonzalez-Gonzalez. She wore bandages from her forehead to her cheeks. She wore sweats that were cut unevenly into shorts. She wore a thin, unflattering T-shirt three sizes too big. She wore depleted shoes and mismatched socks. She lay on her stomach on the last section of carpet in her room. She copied a math equation from a high school textbook into a notebook under a desk lamp. She headed her paper: page 169, #26. She wrote the steps. She boxed her answer: 3.605.
She referenced the papers in her notebook. Each had the same heading, the exact equation, using a variety of steps to get 3.605 every time. She thumbed through the book in search of the answer key, every equation in the text completed, except page 169, #26.
The key listed 2.11 as the answer. She closed the book, Calculus II. There was a window where the desk used to be. She looked out above the rooftops at the liquor-store sign, scrolling winning lottery numbers, the weather, and time. Enough time passed to remove the bandages.
There was a closet where the bed used to be. A lock and chain secured the doors. She removed a key chain from her neck and unlocked the chain. Dried blood coated the inside edges of the doors.
In the closet she kept an extra set of clothes, a towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste, body soap, deodorant, a compact mirror, and a blanket. She exchanged the textbook, lamp, and notebook for the compact mirror, towel, and soap. She wrapped the chain around the closet handles and locked it. She tested the lock. It held. She slipped the keychain over her head. She put her fingers in the hole where the door knob used to be and pulled open the door.
Looking in the compact mirror, she pressed on the bandages. She twisted the handles on the bathroom sink. There wasn’t water. She tried the kitchen sink.
There wasn’t water. She went into the garage. The wall was opened. Copper piping was gone.
RED RIDER by Gerrit Steenhagen
1
A priest once told him: “Tragedy teaches us life is short and there is no time for hate. Sometimes in tragedy we find our life’s purpose.”
He told the priest: “Life is long without my son and there is only time for hate. My life’s purpose is to avenge my son’s death.”
Sleeping inconvenienced him. Sleeping took time from hate. He spent his night in a cemetery, lying atop a grave, bare-chested. His pressed shirt was draped over the headstone. His head rested on a bulletproof vest. His eyes were open and catatonic. He could be dead.
His phone vibrated. He didn’t blink. His phone flashed an event: Henry’s birthday, April 20th, 4:05 a.m. His eyes dried out. His vision blurred. Tears were stimulated. He blinked.
He sat up and dismissed the event. His phone blinked the time: 4:06 a.m. He strapped the vest to his torso. His hands shook again. He pulled the pressed shirt from the headstone. The name and date on the headstone matched the name and date that had flashed across his phone. Henry would’ve been eighteen today.
He buttoned his shirt. A price tag dangled from the sleeve. He tugged at it, gone. He looked for more tags. One dangled from his waist. He tugged at it, gone. He stood.
A streetlight shone upon a red motorcycle. A red helmet hung from one handle grip, a satchel hung from the other. He straddled the motorcycle, slid on the helmet, harnessed the satchel to his shoulder, leaned into the seat, twisted the grips, tapped the clutch, and kick-started the bike.
Excerpt 2
7
Her name was Girl Gonzalez-Gonzalez. She wore bandages from her forehead to her cheeks. She wore sweats that were cut unevenly into shorts. She wore a thin, unflattering T-shirt three sizes too big. She wore depleted shoes and mismatched socks. She lay on her stomach on the last section of carpet in her room. She copied a math equation from a high school textbook into a notebook under a desk lamp. She headed her paper: page 169, #26. She wrote the steps. She boxed her answer: 3.605.
She referenced the papers in her notebook. Each had the same heading, the exact equation, using a variety of steps to get 3.605 every time. She thumbed through the book in search of the answer key, every equation in the text completed, except page 169, #26.
The key listed 2.11 as the answer. She closed the book, Calculus II. There was a window where the desk used to be. She looked out above the rooftops at the liquor-store sign, scrolling winning lottery numbers, the weather, and time. Enough time passed to remove the bandages.
There was a closet where the bed used to be. A lock and chain secured the doors. She removed a key chain from her neck and unlocked the chain. Dried blood coated the inside edges of the doors.
In the closet she kept an extra set of clothes, a towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste, body soap, deodorant, a compact mirror, and a blanket. She exchanged the textbook, lamp, and notebook for the compact mirror, towel, and soap. She wrapped the chain around the closet handles and locked it. She tested the lock. It held. She slipped the keychain over her head. She put her fingers in the hole where the door knob used to be and pulled open the door.
Looking in the compact mirror, she pressed on the bandages. She twisted the handles on the bathroom sink. There wasn’t water. She tried the kitchen sink.
There wasn’t water. She went into the garage. The wall was opened. Copper piping was gone.
About the Author
Gerrit Steenhagen grew up in San Diego, California. He wrote, produced, and directed the indie drama If Tomorrow Comes. He currently resides in Los Angeles.
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