Michael R. Shoulders
The Competition is a new kind of novel -- a fast-paced, sophisticated architectural thriller. The book’s dry humor and intriguing characters, along with its intricate, suspenseful plot, provide all of the necessary ingredients for a brilliant new genre.
When washed-up architect William Lightstone Travers enters a design competition for the new Governor’s Mansion in Indianapolis, he discovers graft and murder are part of the process. Can Travers save his troubled career and win the competition, despite corrupt officials determined to ruin him? Or will the large Chicago firm, where his daughter works, buy its way to the winning competition entry?
In the end, Travers must choose between a victory that could save him or a secret that might kill him.
Michael R. Shoulders is an architect, digital artist, city planner and writer who lives, with his wife Becky, in Southwestern Indiana and on the Gulf Coast of Florida. Sons Ben, an athletic administrator, and Jon, a musician, live in Bloomington, Indiana. The author’s professional interests include affordable housing, neighborhood design and urban agriculture. His digital photographic art is displayed throughout the Midwest.
Michael’s short fiction has been included among the top 30 in the Writer’s Digest Writing Competition and his articles have been featured in professional magazines concerned with design, planning and the environment.
The Competition is his first full-length novel.
Shortly after Travers signed in with the receptionist, Monsignor Klaus came striding through double doors that led from the administrative offices into the lobby. Along with his collar and short-sleeved black cassock, the priest wore a sardonic grin, a mocking smirk that promised their meeting would not be friendly. They did not shake hands.
“You appear to be a much-hated man, Mr. Travers,” said the priest, his white teeth glistening under the intense spotlights that rimmed the front reception counter.
“Oh?” said Travers.
“Yes, Steven Mobley called to say you would be touring our facilities this morning. He told me to be careful. That you were not to be trusted.” Klaus’s jaw jutted forward, challenging Travers to respond. “Of course, I told him I knew you to be a deviate. And then he informed me you had relatives and friends in the prosecutor’s office who swept your sins under the carpet and covered for you.”
“I wouldn’t put much stock in what Mobley tells you, Monsignor,” Travers said. “He’s an idiot.” Travers moved a step closer to Klaus and met his gaze. “It’s surprising to hear an intelligent man like you extolling the word of Steven Mobley.” Travers lowered his voice. “But maybe I’m giving you too much credit, Monsignor. Maybe your hand is in the public till with his.”
Klaus turned toward the receptionist, who glanced the other way, and then he focused his attention back on Travers.
“Listen to me, Mr. Travers,” Klaus said, the twisted grin gone from his face. “You will conduct yourself with respect when you are on this property. This is a holy place. Do you understand?” His jaw protruded like the butt end of a weapon.
“The only thing unholy about this place is you, Klaus,” said Travers, himself now smiling. “Tell me something. The woman I brought back to you -- what’s her real name?”
Travers could tell the priest was seething under his cleric’s collar. Klaus gritted his teeth and gnashed them from side to side. And then, in a snap transformation, he thoroughly composed himself.
“We have some rules you will follow, Mr. Travers.” His words poured out smoothly. “You will stay on the prescribed path of the tour. You will be accompanied by Mr. Buford Dundee, the manager of our buildings and grounds.” Klaus wagged his finger at Travers. “You will not deviate. You will not ask impertinent questions. And you will display some basic human dignity, even though it is not in your nature.” Sticking his nose within six inches of Travers, spittle at the corners of his mouth, the priest whispered. “If you make a false move, we will carry you out of here on a stretcher.”
“Are you threatening me, Monsignor?” asked Travers, leaning an elbow on the counter.
“Yes sir, I am. So watch your step.” Klaus’s eyes were large round orbs. The Monsignor turned his back on Travers. “Hail Mister Dundee, please,” Klaus said to the receptionist. “Tell him our guest has arrived.” He looked over his shoulder at Travers one last time. “Tell him to bring his stun gun.”
