Product Description

They said, “He’s a nobody.”
They were dead wrong.

When reporter Hudson Ambrose hears an early morning call on his police scanner about an injured person at a bus stop on Las Vegas Boulevard, he rushes to the scene to get the scoop.
His world is blown off its axis when he discovers a murdered homeless man with a bankbook in his pocket showing a balance of almost one million dollars. Should he wait for the police, knowing the case will get lost in reams of red tape, or swipe the bankbook and take the investigation–and perhaps a chunk of the money–into his own hands?

With sirens bearing down on the scene, Hudson makes an impulse decision that whisks him on a frantic search for answers, not only about the mysterious dead man, but about the lost soul lurking within himself.

Uncovering bizarre links between a plane crash, a Las Vegas pit boss, a dirty cop, and a widowed Atlanta business mogul, Hudson is forced to find out: who was Chester Holte, what was he doing on the streets, and why are his homeless friends convinced he was an angel in disguise?

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #796651 in Books
• Published on: 2007-09-11
• Released on: 2007-09-11
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 400 pages

Review
“Nobody was absolutely riveting from the opening scene to the final page. With compelling characters, a plot that surprised me at every turn, and a subtle, yet profound message that moved me to tears, this book goes straight to the top of my highly recommended list.”
- Deborah Raney, author of Remember to Forget and Within This Circle

“A taut, entertaining novel of mystery, intrigue, and spiritual truth. Creston Mapes delivers a winner in Nobody.”
- James Scott Bell, bestselling author of No Legal Grounds and Try Dying

“Creston Mapes has served up a savory tale sizzling with deceit, greed, and selfish ambition–and seasoned with just the right measure of grace. Nobody offers an inspiring reminder that it is only when we empty out our hearts for others that we can be truly filled. Highly recommended!”
- Kathy Herman, bestselling author of The Baxter, Seaport Suspense, and Phantom Hollow Series

“Nobody had me fascinated from the first paragraph and kept the surprises coming to the very end. Somehow, as the pages flew by, it also managed to convey a beautiful picture of faith the size of a mustard seed. From now on I’ll read anything by Creston Mapes the instant it hits the shelves.”
- Athol Dickson, Christy Award—winning author of River Rising and The Cure

“Creston Mapes sculpts a story of suspense and beauty while guiding the reader to the ultimate ending–redemption. The story is built layer upon layer until the full meaning of Chester Holte’s life is clear and the mystery is solved in a wild ride, combining deep emotion with a page-turning thriller .”
Patti Callahan Henry, bestselling author of Between the Tides

“Creston Mapes has given us a wonderful gift with Nobody. The story compels, the pages fly, the city of Las Vegas pulsates with life, and the twists keep coming. We can all benefit from the message of this book, and once you start it, you wont be able to put it down. Nobody rocks!”
- Jud Wilhite, author of Stripped and pastor of Central Christian Church in Las Vegas.

“Nobody has a unique way of showing you the life of a homeless man and how he impacted so many lives with simple compassion. We should all strive to be more like that. Perfectly done, Creston!”
- Jesse Garcia, guitarist for Building 429

“Creston Mapes has delivered another remarkable story. Beat reporter Hudson Ambrose rises from the pages and comes to life in this fast-paced, gripping tale that pierces the heart. Nobody is a must-read!”
- Mark Mynheir, homicide detective and author of The Void

“In Nobody, Creston Mapes spins a tail about the kind of impulsive foolishness we’ve all considered at one time or another. The kind of foolishness that launches into deceit and shame and fear and that ultimately brings a thinking man to his knees. Creston Mapes has a way with words. And a way with characters. And a way with dialogue. And a way with story. Read this one. If you can stand the glimpse in the mirror.”
- Melanie Wells, author of When the Day of Evil Comes, The Soul Hunter, and My Soul to Keep

“Nobody is a touching and intriguing thriller. Creston Mapes tackles a subject that most of us would prefer to walk right by–and he does it with skill, suspense, and a lovely measure of grace. While entertaining us, Nobody reminds us of our own ‘homelessness’ and shines brightly on the blessed way home.”
- Kathryn Mackel, author of Vanished

“With Nobody, Creston Mapes once again demonstrates what happens when writing talent, an intriguing plot, and won’t-let-you-go characters converge: You get a thoroughly entertaining read that’s tough to set down. Nobody is for everybody who enjoys gritty noir with heart.”
Robert Liparulo, author of Deadfall, Germ, and Comes a Horseman

“Nobody can give you intrigue, memorable characters, and an unpredictable plot with quite the same flair as Creston. And he delivers it with a one-two punch that will stay with you long after you close the book with a satisfied smile. Mapes holds a mirror in front of each of us–and then gives us Chester Holte to guide us to The Door. When it comes to thrilling, fast-paced, and provocative, I didn’t think Creston could ever top Dark Star, but he has! And it’s Nobody!”
- Wanda Dyson, author of Intimidation

“Once again, Mapes gives us a thought-provoking story, a challenge to every churchgoing reader. Told in the style of a mystery, Nobody is a modern parable full of life-affirming truth and eternal consequences.”
- Eric Wilson, author of A Shred of Truth

“Have you ever looked at a homeless man and wondered, “What’s his story?” In Nobody, Creston Mapes has crafted a thriller that will guarantee you’ll be asking that question with every street person you see–a brilliant way of ending the invisibility.”
- Tom Morrisey, author of In High Places

“A great thriller, with many twists and turns. Creston has the ability to take you right where the action is. Don’t miss this one.”
- Linda Hall, author of Dark Water and Black Ice

“Nobody by Creston Mapes was more than a terrific mystery novel–which it was. It also made me look at my own life and how I put my faith in action. This is a book that everybody should read.”
- Colleen Coble, author of Abomination

About the Author
Creston Mapes is a talented storyteller whose first two novels, Dark Star and Full Tilt, made him a finalist in the American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year awards and the Inspirational Readers Choice awards. Creston has written for major corporations, colleges, and ministries, including Coca-Cola, TNT Sports, Oracle, Focus on the Family, and In Touch Ministries. Committed to his craft and his family, Creston makes his home in Georgia with his wife, Patty, and their four children.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I’d seen stiffs at crime scenes before, one flat on his back in the middle of his garage with a twelve-inch meat cleaver sticking straight up out of his rib cage like a Halloween prank; self-inflicted, to boot.

But this one beat all.

I got there before the cops. Saw the guy from my Mustang GT. It was 5:54 a.m.

He was positioned upright at one of the dozens of covered bus stops along the Strip. Beneath flickering fluorescents, it looked as if he was just sleeping, like a thousand other bums scattered like garbage across the sand-blown outskirts of “fabulous Las Vegas.” I rolled down my passenger window and leaned closer. Blood, dark like burgundy wine, but thicker–a pool of it, absorbed into the seat of his pants and ran shiny down the concrete block he was perched on, forming another smaller puddle beneath his black Converse high tops.

I shivered, remembering the call I’d heard on the scanner in the newsroom at the Review-Journal. Las Vegas Metro Police got an anonymous call about a potential shooting at the Civic Center North bus stop. I was wrapping up the obits and crime beat from the night
shift and had some time to blow, so I headed out.

Leaving my car parked in a vacant lot along Las Vegas Boulevard, I did a three-sixty as I approached the body but saw no one. There was plenty of traffic, because Las Vegas was always pulsating with life, but this was not an obvious crime scene yet.

For more than eight minutes I waited, finally sitting right next to that dead man, with the cops nowhere to be found. That’s the way they were in Vegas, slow as sludge, especially if it had anything to do with the homeless. For all I knew, it might have been another hour before they showed.

That’s when I thought about searching him. Nothing bad, just find the wound, maybe get an ID, see if he had anything else on him. It was a fleeting thought. But as another minute, two, then three crept by, the vapor of the idea began to crystallize. I pictured how everything would come to a painful standstill once the cops finally arrived. They would boot me, tape off the area, and withhold the bum’s identity and cause of death until it was old news.
My heart rate kicked up a notch. I had no gloves. Would I leave prints? On what, clothes? It’s not like they’re going to go over this nobody with a fine-tooth comb. At first glance I wasn’t sure where the wound was. Blood covered the upper quarter of his torso. Ignoring my own sick disregard for the human being next to me, I scoped the area again, saw no one near, and gently leaned his 150-or-so-pound frame forward six inches.

To the touch, his body felt normal, as if he were still alive. There was no exit wound on his back. Dropping to one knee, I examined the bloody mess at the upper left portion of his chest. His coat was torn there, and yes, there was a bloody hole. Whether it was a messy knife wound or a bullet hole, I wasn’t sure.

That was as far as I should have gone. In fact, knowing myself–that I would dare to do more if the fuzz didn’t show up soon–I passed the time by jotting notes on the pad I always kept in my back pocket.

He had a thatch of red hair, bleached the color of sand by the scorching Nevada sun. The city had felt like Hades lately, going on seven consecutive days of 109 degrees or better. His peaceful, middleaged face, the side part in his hair, and the back of his hands and neck were a burnt brownish red; not raw sunburn, mind you–he was way beyond sunburn.

The stubble on his face was speckled blond and gray. He wore a gold T-shirt with dirty creases and a black, lightweight overcoat unbuttoned. Funny thing is, he didn’t smell bad. In fact, he smelled clean, like laundry soap. The pants were navy Dickies, and each sneaker had a hole just above the big toe. He wore two pair of thick gray socks on each foot. Perhaps most odd were his left ear and wrist. The skin on each looked melted, as if it had been surgically repaired with some sort of skin graft.

I was still within the bounds of the law. I’d taken my time with the notes, describing the scene, the wound, and the slumping corpse next to me–and hoping the LVMPD would hurry up and get here before I did something both stupid and illegal.

A steady flow of cars darted north and south, their drivers oblivious to the dead man twenty feet away. As always in Las Vegas, nightlife rolled seamlessly into morning within the mammoth hotels up and down the Strip.

My time limit had expired. The cops didn’t care. Likely, no one cared about this destitute beggar. A few hours ago he’d probably been as nasty and senile as the rest of the riffraff who shake their fists and wag their heads at me when I drive past them on Owens or D Loop.

Who would know if I searched the guy? My editor didn’t know I was here, no one did. My eyes darted about. My heart stormed high in my chest. And then I just did it–reached into his shallow outside coat pockets. Nothing there. Easing back his thin coat, I found an inside pocket–empty. I scanned again for onlookers and saw none. I was doing him and his family a favor by trying to identify him. As I braced him at the shoulder with my left hand, I jammed my right into his pants pocket. Again, nothing.

Convinced the Las Vegans breezing up and down the Strip were both oblivious to the crime scene and in a colossal hurry, I filled my lungs with morning air and took another plunge. Being careful to swing around the puddle of blood in front of him, I changed sides, leaned him forward, and slid my hand beneath his coat and into one back pocket, then the next. No wallet. The guy had nothing. Or so I thought, until I propped him up firmly by the opposite shoulder and stuffed my hand into that last front pocket of his navy Dickies.

Bingo.

He had something. Not much, but something.

Getting my fingers around what felt like some folded papers, I pulled, but my fist caught. My prints were on whatever was in that pocket. The sound of sirens arose far off from the south. My head jumped, and sweat started to bead on my forehead. Seeing no police lights, I braced him again and twisted my wrist back and forth, yanking hard. My heart almost catapulted from my throat as the man’s stomach gurgled and his head dropped and swung toward me, as if he’d decided to watch.

Trying awkwardly, desperately, to square the man’s hunching shoulders and swivel his jaw back to where it had been, I panicked, as his entire upper body started to collapse, quite unlike I’d found it.

Blue police lights canvassed the neon skyline.

I rehearsed excuses, lies, the truth–any way out of the developing mess. Then I realized the only way out was to get out.

But the object I’d ripped from the man was still in my hand. I looked down. It was a tattered bankbook with a worn maroon cover. As the screams from the sirens grew louder, my trembling fingers found the last page and the handwritten balance: $689,800.

The bus stop spun.

I felt my fingers press firmly into my forehead, as if trying to steady the ship.

He was rich.

It didn’t compute.

Figure it out later. Get out!

I stood to run, but something fell from the book, splattering into the puddle at the man’s feet. A key, now three-fourths covered in blood.

I froze.

The sirens beckoned me to look up.

A squad car was in view, maybe a mile down the Strip.

Something inside told me to give up, wait for them, explain what happened.

Something else jolted me to the ground where I plucked the blood-drenched key from the crimson puddle and bolted toward my car.

Sprinting faster than I had since I was a boy, my mind wound down to slow motion, and I became disgusted by the cool, thick liquid Making my fingers stick grotesquely to the palm of my clenched hand. But I was even more repulsed by the type of man I’d become– stealing from a bum.

After scrubbing hard at my hands and the key in a long, hot shower back at my place–a stucco two-story in a cluster neighborhood west of the Center Strip–I put on some old cutoffs, went downstairs, popped a can of Dr Pepper, and examined the tattered bankbook at my kitchen table. It contained no name and little writing but was stamped with the address of a First Federal Bank of Nevada branch near Arville and Flamingo, not too far from my house.

Periodic deposits had been made in amounts ranging from $155 to $12,650 with no indicator of where the funds had come from. A number of withdrawals had also been made, mostly in the three- and four-digit range; on those occasions, the only word ever written in the memo area was “cash.”

One transaction stood out, dated the day before I found the body. The word “cash” was scribbled in the ledger. The amount withdrawn: $425,000.

“Hmm.”

I took the flat, gold key that had fallen from the bankbook over to a lamp in the living room and studied it closely. Although it was shaped like an old-fashioned key, it appeared to be brand-new, imprinted with the name of a well-known security company.

Tossing the key on the table, I studied the bankbook once more, this time searching specifically for any information about a safedeposit box. When I was almost through, I spotted the number “1510” penned neatly in black ink on the bottom corner of the inside back cover.

Did I want money? Was that what this was about? Was I following the footsteps of my old man? At least he had a reason to steal; I had none. My life was okay. I’d done well as a journalist. I was planning to get away, write novels at a cottage on the beach, perhaps marry someday. One way or another, I would show the old man I was somebody, that I could make something out of this life, on my own, with or without him.

Wandering into the garage, I flip...

Customer Reviews

Storytelling you expect from Creston Mapes
Far from the glittery world of superstar Everett Lester explored in his first two books, The Rock Star Chronicles, Creston Mapes takes us into the not-so-glamorous lives of the Las Vegas homeless community in his latest release, Nobody.

Hudson Ambrose, a reporter for the Las Vegas Review-Journal, responds to a call on the police scanner about a potential shooting at the Civic Center North bus stop. First on the scene, Hud finds the dead body of a homeless man sitting on the bus stop bench. When the police are slow to arrive, Hud decides to go through the man's pockets, looking for any information that might help him with a story. When he finds a bankbook with a balance of $689,000 and a safe deposit box key, he is shocked. While disgusted with himself for stealing from a homeless man, Hud flees the scene with the items; certain there is a blockbuster story in the making. But Hud has no idea what a hornet's nest of trouble his split-second decision will stir up, and how his investigation into the life of one homeless man will alter his own life forever.

If I were to give Creston Mapes' books an underlying theme, it would be Romans 3:22: "We are made right with God by placing our faith in Jesus Christ. And this is true for everyone who believes, no matter who we are" (NLT). From rock stars to homeless men, Mapes has a special talent for creating genuine and compelling characters on authentic journeys of faith--powerfully portraying Christ's love, mercy and redemptive power for all of His children. Creston Mapes, with consistently skillful writing, has become one of the authors whose new books are automatically included on my to-be-read list. If you enjoy page-turning suspense and well-written characters--a story that will not only entertain but also challenge your thinking--then Nobody is the book for you.

Armchair Interviews says: Creston Mapes does it again.

Creston Mapes At His Best
Early one morning Las Vegas reporter Hudson Ambrose stumbles upon a dead homeless man. After a quick search of the body, Hudson discovers the bum is named Chester Holte, and apparently Chester is loaded. On the body Hudson finds a bankbook with a staggering balance, along with a key to a safe deposit box. Curiosity and greed take over as Hudson makes a bad decision that will turn his world upside down.

Creston Mapes has proven once again what a talented storyteller he is. This is a terrific tale full of suspense, mystery, and heart that had me churning the pages at a rapid pace. As Hudson Ambrose investigates the life of Chester Holte, we are taken on a revealing and inspirational journey that will challenge us all.

Nobody thrills and entertains, and long after the last line it will stay with you. Who would have thought redemption and hope could be found in a place like Las Vegas and within the heart of a nobody? This is Creston Mapes at his best.

Does My Life Matter?
Humanity deals with several major questions often wrestling with them at two a.m. or during crisis. The big one is "Does God exist?" But the more troubling, "Does my life matter?" steals more sleep.

Nobody is a book that explores the second question through compelling storytelling. Creston Mapes has grown as a writer and the tightness of his prose makes Nobody a tense read as Chester, a millionaire "nobody" manages to change lives as a homeless man on the streets of Las Vegas. More amazing is the effect of his murder on the people left behind.

Told as a multiple first person narrative the plot moves smoothly from the first minutes after Chester's murder to the beginning of justice for his murderer.

Nobody works well as a modern retelling of the parable of talents. It's worth digging into and scratching the "Does my life make a difference?" itch.