“A lightning paced, intriguing novel…” that “flies by in a flurry of subplots…I give five stars to Killer Fog.”
  –Don Sloan, indie reviewer

Killer Fog — Mystery, adventure, intrigue

 Can Killer Fog’s hero, Clay Cantrell, uncover the treacherous scheme hidden in a fog of lies and deceit, before the conspirators turn on him? Bruce Wetterau’s new mystery thriller pits Clay against cold-blooded killers who will stop at nothing to steal a world-changing scientific discovery destined to flood the world with cheap, clean energy. But Clay doesn’t know who they are, or even what they are up to, only that somehow he’s become involved. Good luck. His search for the truth about that evil conspiracy becomes something like opening a set of Russian nesting dolls. Solving one mystery, Clay discovers, only leads to another, deeper mystery within the first, and then yet another concealed inside that one.
     Clay unwittingly stumbles onto the fringes of this shadowy underworld as the scheme is taking shape. He is no hapless victim though. Clay and his long-time friend, Mac Harper, are both ex-Army Rangers and know how to take care of themselves. These days, they run a company that restores old houses, even though they are now rich beyond anything they ever imagined, thanks to a cache of lost Confederate gold they discovered on a previous adventure. Their newfound wealth hasn’t changed them–they still are not the kind of men to back away from a fight, or to let go of a mystery until it’s solved.
     That’s good, because this mystery has a long tail–from the scion of a wealthy family and his fanatical jihadi allies of today all the way back to 1940 and a fanatical Nazi spy ring operating in prewar America. With all the bad actors lined up against them, one mistake could cost Clay and Mac their lives. Meanwhile, the fate of that world-changing discovery, based on an amazing new cold fusion device, hangs in the balance.
     Killer Fog, inspired by some of today’s hottest hot-button issues, is the second novel in Bruce Wetterau’s mystery series, Clay Cantrell Mysteries. The first is Lost Treasure, a treasure hunt mystery adventure. The third book in the series is The Girl Behind the Wall–Edgar Allan Poe, the Girl, and the Mysterious Raven Murders.

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excerpt from killer fog

Chapter 1.  Pea Soup

“Not today!” Susan complained as she eighty-sixed a news broadcast from Canada about a Muslim terrorist ramming his car into two soldiers. She punched another button and settled on the Bee Gee's oldie, "How Deep is Your Love."
    Hah! Good song, Clay thought. My Dad's music, but what they're saying.... He smiled, thinking about Susan while keeping an eye on the cone of light probing the darkened highway ahead. He and Susan hurtled into the night at seventy miles per hour along this lonely stretch of I-64, heading home from a road trip to Charlottesville. Thick woods, shrouded in black, lined both sides of the two westbound lanes and for the moment not another car was in sight. Up ahead, a herd of fallen leaves stampeded across the pavement, stirred to life by a rogue gust of cold wind on this moonless, mid-October night.
     Clay knew this road like the back of his hand. He'd traveled the forty-five-minute drive on his way home to Staunton hundreds of times before. Lulled by familiarity perhaps, he never gave a second thought to making the trip at any time of day or night, always taking for granted that nothing would happen. But tonight he would find out just how much could go wrong on a trip he and Susan would never forget.
     For now, the Bee Gee's sweet harmonies took Clay on a different tack as they  sang "...'Cause we're living in a world of fools breakin' us down, when they all should let us be..." Clay turned those lyrics over in his mind. He and Susan had had a fine time in Charlottesville today. The trip didn't have to be anything special--it was, but it didn't have to be. They could've had fun just doing nothing, they were that comfortable with each other. Why spoil their date now with the sad news of another senseless murder by some harebrained religious fanatic? Yes, not today.
     That's cold, Clay scolded himself a moment later. Innocent people had died just because they  happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He'd seen plenty of that in Iraq and Afghanistan--innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. Sometimes his crossfire. A moment of guilt came and went, all he would allow himself. The past was past. He'd done his duty. He couldn't change any of that now.
  And nothing would change over there. Not in his lifetime, of that he was sure. Maybe it was the desert heat. Religious fanaticism and outright savagery in its service had somehow become a virtue in that scourge-ridden corner of the world. People tried to blame us Americans for tearing those countries apart, Clay thought. But we knew it was the hardline religious fanatics who were to blame. And they would gladly do that here too, any chance they got. He told himself the problem was containment: keeping the wars against--and yes, among--the fanatics over there in their homelands. He'd done his part. All Clay wanted now was to get on with his life with Susan--a million miles away from those nutcase hadjis.
     "And you come to me on a summer breeze..."  The Bee Gee's pulled Clay back to Susan. He looked over at her, a beautiful brunette in her prime. You come to me on a summer breeze...that she did, he thought. Sure, she was a knockout but everything else had clicked with them too. Like they were made for each other. He realized now that the time  probably also had been right for them both. At thirty-three, he'd played the field enough to know how lucky he was to have found her.
     The Bee Gee's almost sighed, for the last time, "...How deep is your love."  Clay remembered how happy she'd been today. She had practically glowed at the jewelry shop and that made him smile. He liked seeing her happy. Clay was about to tell her that when the flashing headlights blinking in his rearview mirror distracted him. An oncoming car bearing down on them kept flicking its brights up and down.
    “What is with that guy?” Clay grumbled. Looking at the rearview mirror, he watched the car swoop up behind them fast, then quickly switch to the left lane to pass. The light-colored, older model Mercedes four-door sedan, slowed sharply as it pulled up alongside and then wavered,  edging dangerously close.
    “What the--? Is he drunk or what?” Clay growled as he and Susan focused on the driver. The old man had turned on the interior light so that they could see him mouthing words and signaling with wild gestures.
    “What’s he saying?” Clay asked, turning his attention back to the road. The Mercedes was definitely too close. This was Susan’s Volvo they were in and she wouldn’t appreciate getting it banged up. Clay edged farther to the right.
    Startled, Susan put her hand up to her throat. “I think he’s saying ‘Help.’ Something must be wrong, Clay.”
    Clay checked his rearview mirror. The road behind them was dark, not another car in sight.
    “Call police,” Susan said after a moment, then exaggerating, nodded her head yes to the man.  The old man immediately floored the Mercedes and disappeared with a roar into the darkness.
    “Clay, can I use your phone?” Susan asked after nervously rummaging through her purse. "I forgot, I left mine at home. I didn't want the office calling me while we--"
    “Mine’s at home too. Dead battery. Wouldn't you know--”
    “Can’t we get to a phone? He looked like he really was in trouble.”
    Something was going on, but Clay couldn’t be sure just what. Suddenly he was all too aware that they were indeed out in the middle of nowhere, a long way from home. They wouldn’t be able to get to a phone for about ten minutes, until after I-64 took them up and over the Blue Ridge Mountains at Afton. The way the old man was driving, he would get there way ahead of them. So there wasn’t much Clay could do but wonder what the old man’s emergency was. 
    Clay glanced up at the rearview mirror as a new set of headlights stabbing the darkness closed fast. “Jeez, another one! He’s really hauling too,” Clay exclaimed, edging Susan’s Volvo rightward again. Light filled the Volvo’s passenger compartment as the speeding car whooshed by at what seemed like 120 mph. The airstream rocked the Volvo, forcing Clay to correct to bring it back into the lane. Angered by that driver’s recklessness,  Clay’s first instinct was to floor it to try catching the S.O.B. Clay willed the muscles in his right foot to relax. “From the look of the taillights, I’d say that was an old Dodge Charger. Guy’s in one hell of a hurry.”
    “Maybe he’s chasing after that old man. We really should call the police.”
    “Could be, but I didn’t even get his license plate. For all we know, the old guy could have gotten off at the Crozet exit.”
    “I still think we should stop and call,” Susan insisted gently.
    “Okay, but there isn’t any place around here where we can get to a phone. We’re past the Crozet exit, so we’ll have to wait until we get over the mountain. I’ll get off at Waynesboro and call from a gas station.”
    “Thanks, honey. It wouldn’t be right if we didn’t do something to help.” Relieved, she sat quietly, watching him as he concentrated on the road.
     They were heading uphill now, climbing the long grade up the east side of the Blue Ridge Mountains. What had begun as a thin, wispy mist was quickly thickening into dense fog. Crossing over the mountain in fog was not one of Clay’s favorite experiences, since it could get thick as pea soup up around the top. Clay slowed to fifty to keep his distance from the two blurry taillights of a car in front.
    “Looks like it’s going to be really thick tonight,” Clay said as much to himself as Susan.
    “Maybe you should slow down, Clay.”
    “I just did. Can’t go any slower or somebody will get me from behind. I’m going to follow those taillights. If he hits something then I’ll have time to stop.”
    “Oh, great! It took me a long time to pay off this car, Clay. Please don’t wreck it.”
    “Not going to happen, Susan. Just have to be extra careful that’s all. We’ll be fine.” 
    Being extra careful was getting harder to do, though. With the fog closing in, Clay could barely see the taillights up ahead and his headlights did nothing to pierce the thickening billows of silky white mist. Clay felt like a cocoon of blinding white had descended around him, allowing only fleeting glimpses of dim shadows here and there--of highway signs, an overpass, and eerie unidentifiable forms.
    “Shouldn’t we pull over Clay?”
    “We’d be sitting ducks, Susan,” Clay answered matter-of-factly.  “Sooner or later somebody would lose the road and run right into us.”
He was having trouble now keeping to the center of the lane, even though I-64 had nothing worse than gentle curves going up the mountainside. The visibility was so bad Clay was navigating partly by what he could see of the little fog lights embedded in the roadbed, partly what he remembered from his many trips up this mountain, and partly by the sound of his tires drifting onto the road’s rumble strip.
    The first time he hit the strip, Susan put her hand on the arm rest as if to brace herself. Clay knew she was worried. But he wasn’t about to let anything happen to her. So he doubled down on his concentration, focusing intently on the blinding white, looking for even the slightest hint of a shape in the murky white froth. The mist swirled, now a solid wall of white, now thinning enough to see a little farther ahead, as Clay pressed on at fifty, keeping pace with the taillights leading the way, his guiding star.
    Though it didn’t seem possible, the fog got even worse as they approached the top of Afton Mountain. Both Clay and the car ahead slowed to forty miles per hour. The red taillights now sometimes disappeared altogether and Clay couldn’t see much beyond the Volvo’s hood. That was nerve-racking.  He turned the windshield wipers up to high, a futile gesture, he knew, but he needed every bit of visibility he could get. The dim shadow of an overpass appeared in the mist like a sudden realization and Clay, relieved as he passed under it, knew they were finally getting close to the top.
    “Almost there Susan. This fog should thin out as we head down the other side into the Valley.”
    “I hope so, Clay. I can’t see a thing.”
    Neither could he, but he didn’t want to say that. He edged closer to the car in front to keep the taillights in view, but the fog only thickened again, completely blanketing the red blurs here and there. Faced with a solid wall of white and a few fleeting shadows, Clay was simply guessing where the roadway was now, trusting to blind luck until the dim red of the taillights reappeared in the heavy mists. 
Then they were gone. Clay saw the faint shadow of another overpass before the realization hit him.
    “We’re on our own now, Susan. Our guiding star just got off at the Afton Mountain exit.”
    Clay barely had time to think about the tight curves coming up as I-64 headed down the Shenandoah Valley side of the mountain. A strange flickering light in the thick white wall caught his eye. His foot jumped to the brake pedal, but it was too late. The outlines of two wrecked cars splayed across the two westbound lanes popped out of the mist right in front of him. Flames spewed from the left one.
    “Oh Jeez! Hang on, Susan!” Clay exclaimed and desperately swerved toward the right shoulder. A strange mix of shock, fear, and anger swept through him as he spun the wheel. This was not supposed to happen. Not to him. Not to Susan.
    Susan’s cry of “Clay!” hit him at the same time the adrenaline surged into his veins. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion now and he became strangely detached from it all. He had almost cleared the wreck when the Volvo lost traction on the wet pavement and slid sideways. He knew it immediately but there was nothing he could do. With a tremendous bang  the Volvo hit the Camry, crumpling the Volvo’s rear quarter panel. Clay spun the wheel the other direction to miss the shadow of the guardrail now coming right at him. The Volvo’s back end kicked out to take the brunt of that glancing blow and now the Volvo slid, screeching metal against metal, along the guardrail.
    Clay saw Susan being thrown against her door. Again, nothing he could do. Another shadow popped out of the fog. Dead ahead. 
    Wide-eyed, Clay watched Susan’s Volvo slam into a wrecked Chevy pickup so hard that he felt the Volvo’s rear end lift up off the ground. The deafening bang! as they hit nearly drowned out Susan’s scream. Clay’s seatbelt dug into his shoulder as he lurched forward and then bounced back against the headrest. The billowing airbag slammed into his face. For an instant he sat there disbelieving, then found himself staring at the Volvo’s now uplifted hood as the airbags deflated. He shook his head and came around. It had all happened so fast.
    “Susan, are you all right? Susan!” She was dazed, but turned her head at the sound of his voice.
    “I--I think so, Clay. Where are we?”
    “In the middle of a big accident. Looks like a chain reaction pileup, and I don’t think it’s over yet. We’d better get out of the car. Can you open your door?” He turned off the ignition as he watched her. She lifted the handle and banged her shoulder against the door but it was no use. Clay tried his, but he succeeded only in getting it unlatched. Something kept it from opening.
    Feeling trapped, Clay’s attention shifted to flames leaping out of a wrecked delivery van. No way, he thought. We’re getting out of here. He pushed himself over to Susan’s side of the car.
    “What are you doing, Clay?” she cried out. He practically shoved her against her door and then dragged his legs out from under the steering wheel.
    “Got to get that door open,” he grunted and, swiveling his legs up onto the driver’s seat, starting kicking the door with both feet. On the third whack, the door sprung open and he slid out.
    “Give me your hand,” he called out and helped Susan slide out the driver’s side. “We’d better get on the other side of the guardrail. It’s not safe standing out here.”
    “Clay, this is awful,” Susan gasped, looking at the mist-shrouded shadows of three or four wrecks vaguely illuminated by the flames engulfing the van. The noxious smell of burning oil, plastic, and rubber assaulted their nostrils. Stifling a cough, Clay took Susan by the hand and together they stepped over the guardrail. He turned to look at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, pushing her hair back to check a scratch on her forehead. She was shaking, so he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her gently.
    “I’m okay now,” she said after a minute. “I was just really scared.”
    “Thank God you’re all right. I saw you getting banged around in your seat.”
She settled her head back on his chest, gazing at the flickering lights in the mist. “Those two people out there might be hurt, Clay. Shouldn’t we do something?
    Clay spotted the shadowy outlines of two people sitting on the ground next to their wrecked car. “If you’re okay, I’ll get them to come over here.”
    Clay yelled at them, then let go of Susan, and stepped over the guardrail. With mist swirling around him, he walked out into roadway to help. Both women were pretty badly shaken up, but otherwise seemed okay. After helping them to their feet, Clay herded them toward the guardrail.
    Heading back out onto the roadway to check another wreck, Clay heard a dull thud and turned to look uphill. A wrecked car whipped sideways and suddenly Clay found himself staring into the headlights of yet another car coming out of the fog. It slid directly at him at thirty mph, wheels locked and skidding.
    Clay heard Susan scream and did the only thing he could. At the last instant he jumped up in the air to come down with a crash on the car’s hood. His head banged against the windshield, putting him almost nose-to-nose with the terrified driver. Dazed but still conscious, Clay hung on for dear life, locking his fingers on the back edge of the hood below the windshield. The car slid another fifty feet, coming to a stop within spitting distance of a burning fuel oil tanker lying on its side.
    “Quick, mister. Get out, and get behind the guardrail,” Clay yelled at the driver after sliding off the car’s hood. He yanked open the driver’s door and helped the man out, almost shoving him toward the roadside. The dazed man walked uncertainly for a few steps, then turned to watch Clay head toward a burning wreck.
    Clay heard Susan yelling for him and then another thud and breaking glass farther up the roadway. Then two more, and a horn started blaring. “I’m okay, Susan! I’m over here. Come down here, but stay behind that guardrail. They’re still coming, but they’re hitting farther up the hill.” 
    “Clay, you should come over here too. That truck, it’s burning.”
    Heating oil, Clay thought, not much chance it’s going to explode. He hoped. Then another wreck lighted by that fire suddenly caught Clay’s eye. An old model Mercedes sedan lay flipped over on its roof. Could that be? Clay wondered. Two men knelt beside the driver’s side window, apparently having trouble pulling out a struggling man. Clay hesitated for a second or two, waiting to see if they needed help. Then he called out, “Hey, I’ll give you a hand,” as he started toward the Mercedes.
    Now half in and half out of the driver’s side window, the old man growled angrily and seemed to be trying to punch the men. One of them, with dark hair and a dark full beard, stood as Clay approached. Incredibly, the other quickly pulled out a knife and plunged it twice into the man’s chest. Shocked, Clay couldn’t believe his eyes. Square in the middle of this carnage, the stark realization raced through his mind, They’re murdering him!