A Trace of Smoke
by
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Thirty minutes to the explosion. Barbara Dare wore a freshly-picked apple blossom in her hair as she trotted across campus toward the gym, confident there were no pictures of her in existence. Not one. Not even in the university’s yearbook. For four years she’d managed to elude the school’s photographer on picture day. She had known all her life that one day some men...and they wouldn’t be nice men...would be coming for her. She just didn’t know it would be today. The campus was unusually quiet, considering all that was about to take place; the heat had chased most people inside. Somewhere in the distance, probably at the stadium, she could hear the band practicing "Rocky Top." Wonder if they know "Here Comes The Bride?" Intoxicated with thoughts of last night’s proposal of marriage, she bent over, peeled off her sandals, and walked the rest of the way to the gym barefooted, her shoes dangling, one from each hand. The freshly-watered grass between her toes made her feel light-headed and frivolous and sent her skipping and dancing and whirling across the lawn. How wonderful, this moment of frivolity, this moment of escape. Once inside the gym, she hurried through the smell of stale sweat to her locker, removed the calf-length, navy-blue skirt she was wearing, and slipped into her orange racing shorts. She straddled the bench in front of the locker, unbuttoned her white frill blouse, removed her lacy bra, and pulled on her much sturdier sports bra. Then, for good luck, she rubbed the beads on the Cherokee mud-bead necklace around her neck, unaware that though they had no description of her, they did of the necklace. Twenty-nine minutes and counting. Barbara Dare had been old enough to vote for two years and a bit, occasionally watched CNN, and less occasionally read the headlines in the Knoxville News-Sentinel. She had paid only slight attention to the President’s impeachment trial, and, in general, had little interest in politics. She had never heard of the "tobacco cartel," and the cartel had never heard of her. But all that was changing by the minute. She toyed with the engagement ring on her finger, getting used to its feel and promise. Then she reached inside her locker for her orange-banded socks. When she leaned over, the white apple blossom in her hair teeter-tottered, so she tucked it under her orange and white sweatband. Twenty-eight minutes and counting.
In Washington, D. C., that city where people take their dreams to have them whipped, the tobacco cartel was in trouble. The FDA was hot on the heels of the tobacco industry. The impeachment trial was all over, and the Senate hearing on "regulating nicotine" had become the hot potato. The explosive hearing had just taken a thirty-minute recess, twenty-eight minutes left. None, save one, had ever heard of Barbara Dare. Within the hour her name would limp through the Senate like a singed rabbit running from a Smoky Mountain brushfire. Down a couple of halls from the Senate Hearing Room, bushy-browed Krandall Kaufman, the tobacco cartel’s head watermelon on the vine, hid in a closet and watched it all on closed circuit TV from his wheelchair...arthritis in his knees and hemorrhoids where people have hemorrhoids...a headset propped cockeyed over his thick black hair. For thirty years now he’d been building the bomb. He, too, had never heard of Barbara Dare, but he was minutes from dogging her the rest of her life. Or until she knelt before him. The Dare family secret had been lying dormant all these years, like a powder keg next to a smoldering campfire, waiting for someone to kick a hot coal its way. The tobacco cartel was in the business of kicking hot coals at powder kegs. Everything was all set for the explosion. It would appear tiny at first, little more than a Fourth of July firecracker, hardly enough to knock a man in a closet out of his wheelchair, and the word count would take up less space than if someone had whispered at an all-day-singing and dinner-on-the-ground that the preacher had run off with the piano player, but the fallout would be massive. The Great Smoky Mountains would be hit worst of all, especially the apple blossoms. Twenty-seven minutes, one second.
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A Trace of Smoke: "O.J. Bryson's writing combines an engrossing plot, vivid characterizations, and deftly-paced action into a genuinely pleasurable read. But even more importantly, he manages to capture the sites and sounds of the Tennessee/Carolina mountains and their people. His ear for natural dialogue adds a dimension to rival the best . . ." --William Thompson, Editor Emeritus for John Grisham and Stephen King "O.J. Bryson’s "Trace of Smoke" is both a gripping thriller of political intrigue and a tale of personal courage. It’s also prescient in predicting the fallout from the machinations of the tobacco lobby--how did he know this stuff before the headlines? Bryson has created an appealing and credible ingénue--no, let’s call her a superhero--because she’s smart, attractive and a very strong woman fueled by integrity. Bryson’s ear for dialogue is uncanny. And his descriptions of the places where the action is set in the heart of the Smoky Mountains brings the scent of burning (oak?) firewood to the reader’s mind. The action in this novel is fast-paced and holds suspense to the very last page. I can’t wait to see what else Mr. Bryson is writing." --Rosalie Muller Wright, Consulting Editor, Sunset Magazine When the tobacco cartel suddenly learns it is one vote shy on a winner-take-all bill in Congress, it taps Todd Carrington as its tie breaker. But Todd hates the tobacco industry. So the tobacco boys go after his fiancée, Barbara Dare...if she’s hiding anything, they’ll use it to pry loose his vote. Barbara Dare is hiding something all right...hiding it in the mountains. The Dare family secret has been lying dormant all these years, like a powder keg next to a smoldering campfire, waiting for someone to kick a hot coal its way. The tobacco cartel is in the business of kicking hot coals at powder kegs. Everything is all set for the explosion. It will appear tiny at first, little more than a Fourth of July firecracker, hardly enough to knock a man in a closet out of his wheelchair, and the word count will take up less space than if someone had whispered at an all-day-singing and dinner-on-the-ground that the preacher had run off with the piano player, but the fallout will be massive. The Great Smoky Mountains will be hit worst of all, especially the apple blossoms. Barbara Dare has known all her life that one day some men...and they won’t be nice men...will be coming for her. She just doesn’t know it will be today. She has always planned to run when they come, so running is what the beautiful young coed does best. Thirty minutes and counting.