where the writers are
The Serial Killer's Daughter
The Serial Killer's Daughter
Amazon.com Amazon.com
Powell's Books Powell's Books

Heywood gives an overview of the book:

This is so typical of me. I make a sex- for term papers- deal  with a whacko chick in my American Lit. class. She sticks around just long enough to make me fall crazy in love then disappears. Six months later she’s back like nothing happened. But then the weirdness starts. My apartment is invaded. Bodies are found in a dumpster. Thugs try to run me off the road.  One night she confesses: she’s the daughter of a notorious serial killer, doing life in a super max for eleven murders. Somebody is trying to kill her and I’m the only one who can protect her. But now they’re stalking me, too. On the road, in hotels, everywhere. The cops don’t believe us. They think we’re renegade drug mules being hunted by the cartel. I get so freaked out I kill a dude who’s been tailing us. Now the cops are after us, too. Our only chance is to figure out who’s after us and get...
Read full overview »

This is so typical of me. I make a sex- for term papers- deal  with a whacko chick in my American Lit. class. She sticks around just long enough to make me fall crazy in love then disappears. Six months later she’s back like nothing happened. But then the weirdness starts. My apartment is invaded. Bodies are found in a dumpster. Thugs try to run me off the road.  One night she confesses: she’s the daughter of a notorious serial killer, doing life in a super max for eleven murders. Somebody is trying to kill her and I’m the only one who can protect her. But now they’re stalking me, too. On the road, in hotels, everywhere. The cops don’t believe us. They think we’re renegade drug mules being hunted by the cartel. I get so freaked out I kill a dude who’s been tailing us. Now the cops are after us, too. Our only chance is to figure out who’s after us and get them first. And the only person who can help us is this insane, vindictive mass murderer-- her dad.

SPECIAL OFFER FROM THE PUBLISHER: http://www.nightbirdpubs.com/

Purchase your pre-publication copy (or copies) of  THE SERIAL KILLER'S DAUGHTER during the month of March and receive a 20% discount off the $25 cover price. Heywood  will sign and date your book(s) when he is in Atlanta April 30-31. Books will be shipped the week of May 1st. The offer ends at midnight, March 31. Please send an e-mail to me at  jeff@nightbirdpubs if you would like Heywood to include a personalized inscription.

Read an excerpt »

THE SERIAL KILLER'S DAUGHTER by HEYWOOD GOULD

                                               I Didn't Ask For This

I'm sitting crossed-legged on the shag carpet of a Motel 9 (I can't say where) pecking away in the glow of my laptop. The shades are drawn. The pencil flash between my teeth is shining on the keys.

A minute ago I was coming back with a pizza and thought I saw one of them. It could have just been a random guy, but he was lurking between the cars and it looked like he was watching my unit.

I parked behind him. He felt my eyes and turned. Starring straight ahead, I took the gun out of the laundry bag and put it on the seat. He stood there for a second like he was trying to decide what to do. Then, he about-faced and walked around behind the units. A minute later, a white Focus peeled out onto the freeway. I couldn't see who was driving.

So I came in here and started writing.

It's like I'm putting a message in a bottle. If something happens they'll find the whole story on my hard drive. It's also on my USB stick, which I'll keep on a chain around my neck.

Have to hurry. The dying sun is seeping under the shades. Shadows crosshatch the floor.

Have to get it all down before the room goes black.

Me

I was good, but I wasn't lucky. My buzzer beater rolled off the rim. My walk-off line drive screamed over third, but the left fielder made a diving catch and became the hero instead of me.

The other benchwarmers went geeky or Gothic, or just got tragic on drugs. I kept trying. I wanted to be the All-American boy. Star on the field, brain in the classroom. The dude in the flashy tux escorting the Prom Queen.

There were eleven hundred in the senior class of 2003 at John C. Fremont High. Graduation day we lined up in the heat on the football field, all capped and gowned and giggly from bong hits behind the gym.

My name is Peter Vogel (in the class photo I'm the oblivion sandwich in the last row.) The kid before me was Felipe Velez, the star striker of the soccer team. He got a roar from his teammates and "whoo whoos" from the hoochies who thought he was hot. I walked out to a pathetic smattering from my mom, my faculty advisor, and the few good souls who applauded every grad. On my heels came Jenny Voorspan, the editor of the newspaper, volunteer in the Feeding the Homeless project, scholarship to Princeton, She got a standing ovation. The kiss ass teachers on the dais stood up and cheered.

I spent the summer working at Blockbuster, getting blasted and watching the worst movies I could fine. The Tuesday after Labor Day I started at a big UC (can't say which one.) I had no plans. My ambition was to stay drunk and have meaningless sex. Girls walked by me like I was invisible.

Tutoring My Fetish

A UC is a universe of parallel galaxies—jock world, frat world, geeks and politicos. English majors whirl in aimless nebulae, disdained but left in peace.  We have a pleasant life pretending to write, learning to drink and trying to hook up which is tough when you have no money and can only talk about dead authors and old movies.

Senior year a girl appeared in my America Lit class.  She was almost as tall as me, pale and skinny with big breasts that stirred at her slightest movement.

I tried to be cool and unimpressed around women but couldn't stop sneaking sidelong looks at her.  She had long legs that led to a tight, perfect ass. I'd seen that body type a thousand times in porno flicks and knew exactly what she looked like naked, right down to the mane that led from her pubes to her navel, which I would have bet my scholarship she never shaved.  She daydreamed in lectures, eyes half closed, mouth half open.  There were coffee stains on her blouse and wisps of black hair curling out of the stubble in her armpits. At night I was tormented by a vision of her eyes widening and her mouth flopping open in astonishment as I stood over her, naked and masterful. My body would throb and it would feel as if my brains were going to burst out of my head. Next morning I would pass her in class like nothing had happened and shoot her a casual "hi." I got a dismissive smile in return.

And then one day she chased me down in the quadrangle.

"Is William Dean Howells the most pointless shit in the world?"

I had read that if you masturbated thinking of the same girl every night she would feel your energy and be drawn to you. Had that happened? Her eyes were dark, almost black, and impossible to read.

"All writers with three names are boring," I said. "Wait'll you get to Ralph Waldo Emerson."

She squinted like she didn't get the joke. "I'm an Economics major and I've been putting off taking these Lit classes, but now I need them to graduate."

Don't worry, this is English you don't have to know anything. Just show up and hand in a paper."

She jumped out in front of me, walking backwards. "I have to get at least a B to keep my three point five so I can get into a decent Law School. I've been watching you in class. Professor Katz always perks up when you start to talk."

I'm an English major. I know the code."

"You get A's on all your papers. Even an A-plus…"

She laughed and answered the question I was about to ask. "My roommate is seeing Katz's teaching assistant. He says you're the smartest guy in the class."

            "I want people to love me for my body, not my mind," I said

            "Your body is workable," she said. When she leaned forward I could see the imprint of her nipple on her sleeveless blouse.

             "I need someone to write my papers for me," she said. "Will you do it?"

             "People are getting three or four hundred bucks to ghost papers," I said.

              "I can't pay you, I'm broke," she said. "I'll let you fuck me. That's the best I can do."

              I was shocked at how casually she said it. "Let me get this straight," I said with a knowing smile that implied I fielded propositions like this all the time. "You'll let me…" I wanted to say fuck with the same nonchalance, but couldn't get it out "….sleep with you if I help you write a paper."

             "Only if I get an A."

heywood-gould's picture

Note from the author coming soon...

About Heywood

Born in the Bronx and raised in Brooklyn, Heywood Gould got his start as a reporter for the New York Post. Later he financed years of rejection with the usual colorful jobs - cabdriver, mortician's assistant, industrial floor waxer, bartender and screenwriter. He has written...

Read full bio »

Published Reviews

Aug.27.2008

As many readers know, I love a good thriller/mystery. Some are your conspiracy, big government types where the main character is a rogue agent trying to save themselves and the world. Others involve a...

Aug.27.2008

So here comes Heywood Gould again with another exciting tale. Gould, author of "Fort Apache, The Bronx," "Boys From Brazil" and other novels and screenplays, now gives us a super-charged story...

Author's Publishing Notes

The master of the pulse-pounding literary thriller is back. Heywood Gould, award-winning screenwriter and novelist, author of bestselling novels/screenplays FORT APACHE, THE BRONX and COCKTAIL, returns with his biggest tour-de-force yet. This one is a supercharged road trip that takes our two protagonists on a dark thrill ride to some very dangerous places... Novelist Gould (Fort Apache, the Bronx; Cocktail) is back with a noir thriller, full of action, dark humor....This high-caliber redemptive road trip is quick-witted, stylish, and highly entertaining...Seamus Scanlon, Library Journal... Gould is a movie guy (screenwriter for Boys of Brazil, among other writing and directing credits), and it shows in the big-screen style he brings to this novel. No essayish exposition, just snappy dialogue and narrative set forth in sentences bursting with energy...The reader gets to “watch” a fine thriller unfold...Don Crinklaw, Booklist