Joylene Nowell Butler

                                Joylene Nowell Butler, Métis Canadian, has been writing for 25 years. A retired emergency responder, she was born in Manitoba, moved to Maple Ridge, B.C. as a child, attended Douglas College and Simon Fraser University. She and her husband Ralph moved to Prince George in 1979 where they raised their five sons. In 1992 they built a cottage on Cluculz Lake, near Vanderhoof.

In her spare time, Joylene teaches Tai Chi. 

Where to buy.

Chapter 1

Camera in hand, Valerie McCormick stepped from the bus into intense daylight. She put on her sunglasses and crossed the grass to the edge of the hill. Seattle's skyline loomed in the distance like a giant sandcastle. Closer in, waves rocked elegant yachts, sailboats, and cruisers docked at brown scribbled wharves, jutting along the waterfront. Fifty feet below her, a chain linked fence enclosed acres of quiet warehouses, buildings, and small sheds in both directions. Just inside the gate was the marina office.

Glancing over her shoulder to the air-conditioned bus disappearing into traffic, Valerie took off her wind-breaker, zipped up the pocket with her wallet in it, and tied the jacket around her waist. The driver had warned that if she missed the bus at the stop across the street at ten to three, fifteen minutes from now, she'd have to wait an hour for the next one. No problem. She'd find the boat, snap several photographs--there was only one on this roll of film of her standing in front of the hotel--and be back at the bus stop in plenty of time.

She slid sideways down the hill on the soles of her running shoes, walked through the gate, and stepped inside the marina office. The only person present, the man behind the counter, wore heavy green coveralls. Was he nuts?

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck and forehead. "You're the Canadian wanting to buy the 35' Bayliner?"

"Oh, no. It's way too expensive for our tastes. We own a very small logging company. I'm just here to take some photographs for one of my husband's clients."

He frowned. "You came all the way to Seattle to do that?"

 * * * * *

from chapter 4:

Special Agent in Charge of the DeOlmos Investigations in Florida, Mike ‘Candyman’ Canaday parked his car on the street in front of the tiny stucco house with its red tiled roof and tall palm trees. An outside light shone on the flower bordered driveway and pebbled sidewalk leading to the front door. There was only one car in the double carport.

Canaday's gut churned. He avoided looking at the clergyman who sat quietly beside him. Good thing the man wasn’t in any hurry to move. Canaday’s legs seemed frozen.

Yeah, he hated this part of his job.

His job? It was getting harder and harder to remember why he’d joined the Bureau.

Two tours in Nam, and he’d decided the only thing left for him was to hunt bad guys. He’d been damn tired of losing people he cared about. Like Sergio. The first to tag him, Candyman.
Candyman, the nickname that stuck like the bits of blood and fragments and stink of Vietnam. "Hey, GI, you got candy?"

Candyman, always a pocketful of candy for the kids with the almond eyes.

Candyman, the Special Agent at a crime scene. Always searching his pocket for a piece of candy, something to do with his hands, something to suck on while his stomach felt as if it would empty its contents right there in front of everybody. While his subordinates, who never knew what he was thinking, kept their distance, afraid to speak.

 * * * * * 

 From  chapter 11:

She stopped to let a ‘78 Rabbit pass, then continued to her van, unlocked the driver's door and climbed in. She tossed the grocery bags on the passenger's seat and ignored the figure crouching behind her. FBI or hired gun, what did she care? She was through trying to convince herself she was a good mother. It was time to prove it. She pulled the keys from her pocket and shoved one into the ignition.

"Ma’am, I'm going to open the van's side door. When I do, climb through to the other vehicle. Ready?" The young man didn't wait for her answer. The door opened and he left.

He was safe now.

Valerie's eyes filled with tears. She remembered her precious girls, Megan, Christine, Brandi, one last time. Would they understand it was the only way to save them? She gripped the key and stared out the windshield into the mist. She felt deadness approach like a dark cloud on a windy day.

"Lord, if you're listening. Please forgive me. I have to do this. I can’t let him hurt them."

She started to turn the ignition key.

  A great debut book from a fellow Canadian writer. Well worth the read!
          ⎯ Darlene Oakley, Freelance Editor (Lachesis Publishing)

  The writing style is crisp and dynamic and consistent, perfect for a thriller. This novel gets all the stars I'm allowed to give it.
          ⎯ Keith Pyeatt, author of Struck, due to be released July 2009

  Ms. Butler is as talented as those whose names are featured on the bestseller list.  Pack up your beach bag, suntan lotion, and a copy of Dead Witness—then lean back in your lounger and enjoy the ride.
          ⎯ W.R.PARK, author of the highly acclaimed suspense-thriller COMA
 
  Dead Witness is a true suspense novel. Butler is a name to watch in the thriller genre.
          ⎯ Award-winning writer, Lisa Haselton

  Joylene Nowell Butler is an author to put on your watch list. Her books are packed with non-stop suspense and I look forward to reading more.
          ⎯ J. Kaye Oldner, reviewer for J. Kaye Book Blog, where reading takes priority!

excerpt from Kiss Of The Assassin

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