 
Warm Hands Cold Heart

And Other Stories

by Ray FitzGerald

© 2017 Ray FitzGerald. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at RayFitzGerald@Gmail.com

Cover design by April FitzGerald

Illustrations © 2017 April.FitzGerald@Gmail.com. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

one

Regrets

by Ray FitzGerald

In a city built from rust and blood sits a bar that caters to the lowest of the population. Bob Johnson's table was red from a neon sign that bathed the street in an angry glow. Any other night, he wouldn't come near this side of town. Still, he waited impatiently, squeezing a briefcase between shaky knees.

The tasteless concoction he ordered ten minutes earlier was almost gone when the man arrived at the table. Calling him a man was putting it lightly. Helicopters could land on his shoulders. A shiny baldhead was attached to a gold earring the size of a baseball. A tattoo of an anchor looked actual size on his right forearm. He didn't ask for permission to take the other seat at the table.

Introductions weren't needed, although it was their first meeting. He came highly recommended as the most efficient contract killer in town. He placed his thick fists on the table and clasped the hotdog-sized fingers together.

"Got the money?" he asked.

Bob pulled the briefcase from between his knees and placed it on the table. It made a scraping sound as the man pulled it closer. The metal locks popped and he smiled at the contents inside.

"It's all there?" he asked.

"It's all there," Bob said.

The man closed the case with a thud and put it on the floor by his feet. His hands returned to the folded position on the table.

"Say," he said. "Not that it's any of my business, but why are you wanting this done?"

Bob's glare moved towards his left hand and the pale strip of flesh that used to be covered by a wedding ring.

"She's cheating on me," he said. "I've known it for months, but I just now found the proof."

The man made a ticking sound with his tongue. "Too bad," he said. "You know, you just can't trust women any more. They don't make 'em like they used to."

Bob didn't respond. He just stared at his pale finger.

The large man broke his concentration. "Why don't you just have the guy dealt with?"

"Don't know who he is. I just know his name starts with an R." He found this out when he uncovered a stash of love letters under the mattress signed with a swirling letter R.

"Geez, that could be anybody," the man said with a shake of his massive head. "Either way, I'll handle this tomorrow night. Remember, don't come home until at least nine. I don't want no surprises."

Bob assured him there would be no surprises. No one in their right mind would try to surprise a man this size. The man tapped his hands on the table, collected the briefcase and stood to leave. Before turning away, he slid a piece of paper across the table.

"This is my emergency number. If you change your mind, use it."

Bob abandoned the drink, and his hopes, at the table and drove home in silence. He lit a cigarette and stopped before dumping its first load of ash in the car's tray. The moonlight reflected off the wedding ring he'd dropped in there earlier. He no longer liked the taste of the cigarette.

What am I doing? This is crazy.

He circled the neighborhood three times to clear his mind. Fifteen years was a long time. It was wrong what she did, but did she deserve this?

As the car pulled into the driveway, he made up his mind. It wasn't too late to call and cancel. Sure, the deposit money was gone – you don't ask a guy like that for a refund – but his conscience would be clear.

He smoked another cigarette. The lights were off in the living room. Martha was out again - probably with "R." The cat needed to be fed. He pulled the keys from his pocket and fought the darkness to find the keyhole. The lock clicked and the door slid open. Warm air scuttled out from the house. His fingers walked along the wall until they found the light switch. The house came alive with electricity and he followed it to the kitchen.

Standing over the dinner table, he removed the slip of paper with the emergency number and flattened it on the blue tablecloth. Seven digits were scrawled in black ink above a swirling letter R – the same R he'd seen on the love letters under the mattress.

Bob's eyes widened and the air drained from his lungs. A knocking sound came from the corner of the room, where a shadow moved into the light to reveal a baldhead attached to a gold earring the size of a baseball. The arm with the anchor tattoo was holding a gun.

"You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" the man said.

two

Keep Your Eye on the Hanging Man

by Ray FitzGerald

Dark sparkles of morning dew burned on the sidewalks. The first onlookers showed before the sun was up. Now, the sea of bodies covered nearly all of the grass in Higgins Park. The object of affection that afternoon dangled wildly a hundred feet above their collective heads. From there, he seemed so small. But Harry Houdini was anything but a small man.

The straight jacket wrapped tightly around his frame to show the definition in his arms and shoulders. The beads of sweat gathered on his dark forehead and glistened like a halo. Graying hair appeared a shade of blonde in the noonday sun. If what they say is true, that fear tends to age a person, then Houdini seemed twenty years younger at that height.

Either five minutes or five years passed - the crowd couldn't tell. Gasps and screams from the terrified onlookers rattled the ground and shook the trees. Bodies pressed in closer, towards the makeshift wooden stage where the escape artist was lifted by his feet on a crane bound for the heavens. Everyone fought for a closer look at the man newspapers wrote gospels about for two decades.

A corral of journalists and cameramen gathered on a hill and awaited the inevitable. Eventually the superhuman magician would fail and they would be there to collect the scoop that newspapers around the country would pay dearly for.

Typically, Houdini saved these sort of public stunts for weekends. Upon hearing of young Sally Harris' sickness, and the final wish of seeing her hero escape a straightjacket while shackled and dangling above the town, he couldn't say no. The publicity was phenomenal and the crowd wanted nothing more than to see Houdini and Sally cheat death and emerge victorious.

Bob Jenkins called his work and said he was sick just so he could be there. June Utley decided to forsake her housework for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Amateur photographer Harry Sutter closed his pharmacy early and brought his camera to the hill near the journalists. None traveled farther than Victor Sands. The father of three loaded the family up in his beat-up Ford and drove nearly three hours to see the spectacle. As Mary, his wife, held a tiny hand in each of hers, Victor balanced his son, Henry, on his shoulders. As the crowd pressed in further, he nearly lost sight of Mary and his two girls. Even Mayor Johnny Potts was among the masses, with his typical routine of shaking hands and patting kids on the head. Victor's eyes pointed upward, towards the man he'd read so much about. With Henry's legs gripped tightly around Victor, the father pushed outward with his arms and tried to create some kind of elbow room. It was no use. Instead, the crowd pulled in harder and nearly knocked him off his wobbly legs.

"Say, what's the big idea?" Victor said as he pushed on a man that nearly took his feet out from beneath him.

"Beat it, buddy," the man said with a sneer that would scare a snake.

Houdini, oblivious to the crowd below, went through his meticulous routine. Some of the writhing and wriggling was for show. Truth is, he'd broken out these same jackets and chains in hundreds of different towns. He could - and did - do it it blindfolded and under water. Most of the time he spent up there was to build anticipation. And boy, did it work.

During one particularly intense moment, the magician twisted awkwardly like a hooked fish. The rope holding him swayed, bringing him with it. Henry, still on his dad's shoulders, kicked wildly in fear for his hero, but hit a woman's head in the process. Victor apologized for his kid, but never took his eyes off the skies.

The dangling body shook and shivered above, and the crowd loved every moment of it. Time stood still as every second the body hung above seemed one moment closer to a grisly fate.

The pharmacist snapped fuzzy pictures washed out by the sun. Bob Jenkins, unafraid of being caught by his boss, clapped uncontrollably at the shoulders of the spectators around him. Most didn't seem to notice the man's grasp. Half of the town's elementary students ran around, calling out to Houdini. Even their teachers played hookie for the event.

On the outskirts of the park, men sold balloons, cotton candy, and caramel apples for a dime each. Business was good before Houdini showed up, but now even the salesmen couldn't keep their eyes off of the show.

Mother Nature made sure she was in attendance, too. Her occasional gasps of wind sent birds fleeing from trees and turned Houdini into a human pendulum on his flimsy rope. Sweat leapt from his face as he used what little energy he had in a futile effort to stop the swaying. His face was red. The seams of his jacket confined him tighter with every struggle he attempted. This wasn't part of the plan.

On the hill, the pharmacist Harry Sutter snapped pictures in a frenzy. As Houdini began to sway in the wind, he turned his camera's attention to the sea of wide eyes, drooped jaws, and dark hats below. It stretched as far as the camera could see and grew by the minute.

Bob Jenkins, now close as ever to the stage, chewed his bottom lip like a steak. As the winds blew the magician around, a fit of nerves forced him to grab the shoulder of the woman next to him. She yelped in fright. Time, and the crowd, marched closer and closer to the stage towards an inevitable ending that everyone sensed was coming.

A man with a dark coat and a long, twisting gray mustache walked to the center of the stage with a megaphone. He checked his pocketwatch and barked over the chatter of the crowd, "Fifteen minutes, Mr. Houdini. Fifteen minutes."

A group of local firemen appeared from the hill, dragging a net with them that they stretched below the gaze of the crane, upsetting the star of the show.

"Send them away," a weak voice called from the sky, as if from God himself. Houdini had spoken.

The crowd roared its approval as the firemen retreated with their net in a ball.

The body of the great Houdini dangled lifelessly three stories above the park. It stayed there, limp, until the man with the megaphone started up again.

"Twenty minutes, Mr. Houdini. Twenty minutes."

Normally these escapes finished in ten. What was the matter? The crowd demanded to know and was nearly unglued with tension when the magician pulled his best trick yet. In a flash, his head disappeared into the jacket like a turtle under attack. His shoulders spun counter clockwise as the jacket crept into a cream-colored mass around his neck. The shackles around his wrists now dangled from his arms in defeat.

The onlookers roared their approval. The journalists cursed their bad luck. Little Henry's feet beat a drum solo on Victor's shoulders. June and Bob, strangers on any other day, hugged in excitement. This, Bob thought, was worth possibly getting fired over.

June Utley's house chores couldn't be further from her mind. Before today, she was sure that Houdini's escapes were all show business trickery. As the straight jacket fell from the sky and fluttered to the stage, and the celebration erupted around her, she became a believer. This would be a day she would never forget.

As the crane moaned back into action, lowering its load towards the ground, Houdini was once again wired with energy. The crowd delighted as he waved and blew kisses all while dangling from his string. The firemen, no longer needing their net, righted the man once he was within reach. The joyous admirers fawned over their idol as he resumed a standing position, proving once again that a determined man can defeat science.

With his composure fully regained, Houdini made his way to the corner of the stage, shaking every hand within reach. Little Sally Harris, whose wish made the day a reality for everyone, was rushed to the stage by Mayor Potts to greet her idol. The magician kissed her on the cheek. The journalists ate it up.

"No fair," a young boy's voice rose over the crowd. "How come Sally gets to go up there with Houdini?"

"Because," his mother called back from somewhere nearby. "Sally's dying and you're not."

"Shucks," the boy said. "I wish I was dying."

A small sputtering of chuckles took over the crowd, but it became obvious the boy's desires were shared with others.

Those near the stage, desperate to touch the hand of the famous man, pushed in tighter. Air became rare and screams of pain and pleasure overtook the cheers. Among those grappling for space was Bob Jenkins. As the crush became too much to bare, the man who'd fought so hard to get closer to the stage wanted out. The harder he struggled to obtain freedom, the further he was sucked into the abyss of arms and legs.

His ears rang as the man with the megaphone blasted his commands to those below.

"The show is over, folks," he said. "Please leave in an orderly fashion. No pushing. No fighting. Anyone breaking the law will be arrested."

To prove his point, a dozen uniformed police officers were unleashed into the throng, carrying billy clubs and big muscles. Whistles pierced the air as they pushed, pulled, and pried bodies apart. A hand attached to an unseen arm shoved Jenkins towards a woman to his right. The lady toppled into the dirt with a yell and a thud. Jenkins broke his fall by grabbing onto the arm of the woman next to him. He helped the fallen lady up and began to dust her off, but when a hole opened in the crowd, he opted for a safe escape and darted through it. The woman, still in shock, reached towards her side, where she sensed her purse was a little lighter.

"My wallet," she screamed. "That man stole my wallet. Stop him."

Jenkins heard the yelling, but didn't know where it came from. He struggled for each step of freedom, pushing past anyone in his way.

"Say," a deep voice protested. "My wallet. It's gone too."

"Mine, too," yelled the housewife June Utley.

The crowd, it seemed, had a new reason to be excited.

Near on the outskirts of the hysteria was Victor Sands, who removed Henry from his shoulders and reclaimed Mary and his daughters. Not everyone there was as lucky. The family locked limbs as Victor guided them towards the dirt lot where their car was parked. They were oblivious to the problems around them and wanted only to return to the safety of their vehicle.

"My legs are tired, Pa," Henry protested as he went limp. "Pick me up."

Victor didn't heed the call. Instead, he limped on and urged his son to walk faster as the crowd grew louder and more unruly. A war, it seemed, could break out at any moment. In the distance, Houdini's faint voice could be heard through the megaphone, begging the people for order.

Jenkins, unable to figure his location among the crowd, vanished into the shrubbery along the edge of the park. He wasn't sure which direction the parking lot was and wasn't in any position to ask for directions. In the brush, he felt safe. The pressure from the crowd had him close to cracking. He watched in secret as people shoved and clawed their way out. Mothers called for their children. Husbands for their wives. Overturned apple carts spilled their produce all over the dirt. Police were everywhere. It takes very little for ecstasy to become agony.

If moving on foot was difficult, leaving by car was darn-near impossible. For the Sands, though, the wait was no problem. They were just happy to be back in the safety of the Ford. They sat there for nearly two hours and watched in amazement as thousands of feet walked around the car and towards their own version of safety. Fights broke out. Clothes were torn. Nasty names were yelled. The cops tried directing the crowd, but it was no use.

It took at least another hour until the foot traffic died down enough for the cars to move. By then, the children were asleep, the park was mostly empty, and the sun started its fall from the sky. Victor pushed a button and the Ford sputtered to life. That startled a shadowy figure behind the trees by the car. Bob Jenkins, who by now wished he'd gone to work, skulked out of the brush in front of the Ford. He stopped for a moment and locked eyes with Victor, who reached next to him and grabbed Mary's arm.

The look in Jenkins' eyes was familiar to Victor. Though he'd never seen the man before, you never forget the look of pure desperation. He'd had it himself before, during the war. Everyone held their collective breaths for some time until Jenkins disappeared into a black Coupe not far from the Ford. The car's engine roared with approval and the tires destroyed the gravel road as it roared off towards the highway. Mary exhaled loudly and looked at her husband. His face was a pale shade of ghost.

"How'd we do?" she asked softly.

Victor reached into a coat pocket and pulled out billfolds made from several types of materials. Each was stuffed with paper money in different denominations.

"Eleven," he said. "Better than last week."

Mary nodded in approval and said "Where to next?"

"He has an escape show in Kansas City next weekend. It's a long drive, but the crowd should be good. Plenty of dough in the city."

Mary smiled. It was a soft smile, not different than the one Victor fell in love with years ago. Before the war. Before he lost his job because no one wanted to employ an ex-soldier with a bad leg. Her voice was supportive and reassuring.

"Then I guess we're going to Kansas City."

Henry snored as the Ford pounded its bald tires towards the setting sun. He dreamt of Houdini's great escape, and how it never got old to see it every weekend.

three

Big Thunder

by Ray FitzGerald

Ten thousand people ride Big Thunder every day. That's nothing compared to Disney, but in West Virginia, ten-thousand people may as well be the whole world.

It was early morning of the best day of Jimmy Rogers' life. Ten years he spent scrubbing puke off the Gravitron and collecting cigarette butts from sidewalks. Today, he was in charge of maintenance for Big Thunder. The 500-foot drop on the roller coaster makes her the star attraction at Happytown Amusement Park.

He couldn't sleep the night before and was at the park before the sun was up. He smiled at coworkers that didn't return his greeting of "G'morning." Jealousy, he thought. Some people spend their whole lives trying to get a job on Big Thunder, he went and got it in only ten years.

The groan of his rusty blue locker sounded like a symphony when he dropped his lunch pale in with a clang. He reached in the front pocket of his greasy overalls and unfolded a piece of paper that he'd be working on the night before. Carefully, he went over every item in the checklist of things to do before the park opens. The toolbox his wife bought him for Christmas last year stood at attention on his workbench. Today, it would finally get the workout he'd planned for it.

He started checking each of the twenty thousand bolts that ran along a half-mile of track. Each glistened in the rising sun that climbed above them. The smell of fried foods settled in the breeze and rose to Jimmy's nose at the highest point of the park. A glance at the large clock in the horse show amphitheatre said it was less than an hour before the gates opened. He tightened, greased, and cleaned his work of art. At the top of the steep incline, just before the big drop, he found it.

Three wooden boards that stabilized the rails were cracked down the middle. Metal bent into awkward lines, stretching in three different directions –all of them the wrong direction. He wrestled the radio on his belt and called the boss.

"Sir, there's a problem on Big Thunder."

Bosses don't like messages like that. Especially on a Monday. Even more especially when three thousand anxious customers buzzed behind the gates, ready to start their day of fun at any moment.

The boss was quick. "What is it?"

"The railing. It's busted. The coaster can't run today. We need to shut her down."

That didn't sit well with the boss, who sat hunched over a large wooden desk in his office. Thick hands rubbed circles around his cheeks to wake his pale flesh. He stared for a moment at the cracked two-way radio in his hand and pressed the button the talk.

"No can do," he said. "Too many people out there. The coaster runs."

"But –"

"But nothing. The coaster runs."

"It's not safe."

The boss sighed and tapped the radio on the surface of the desk. He looked out the window, where hundreds of young kids swarmed around a teenaged kid dressed as Happy the Hound Dog, Happyland's official mascot. That job was almost as coveted as a gig on Big Thunder – except for during the summer when you'd sweat to death in the suit. He clicked the button to talk, but then released it. His eyes closed and he clicked it again.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Jimmy. I like you, a lot, but your services are no longer needed."

The radio clicked and went silent.

Jimmy's soul seeped from his skin. Every part of his stomach twisted into knots and he felt his breakfast coming up for an encore. Otherwise, he was numb. So numb that he didn't hear the gates open and a thousand feet rush toward the green sign that read, "Ride the Big Thunder."

Happy the Hound Dog guided his pack of young friends towards the centerpiece of the park. They pushed and shoved and dragged their parents by the hand towards the front of the line.

Robert Morrison, a member of Congress that Jimmy recognized from television, led the way. At his side was a fuzz-haired blonde girl that looked about eight. Naturally, they had their choice of seats. The girl picked two up front.

The cars climbed into the heavens. Dozens of feet dangled in nervous circles as the cars ascended towards the clouds. Sunlight threw a sharp glare off the freshly polished rails. Banging, clanging, and jumping of aged wheels on the track synched with Jimmy's heartbeat. Accordion music on the midway acted as a soundtrack. Faster and faster the cars went, until they sat atop Big Thunder Mountain, looking straight down. Then everything stopped. That always happened. Suspense is the key to a good ride and Big Thunder was the best.

The little blonde girl was in the lead car. Her hair glowed in the sunlight. Her tiny hands stretched toward the ground, as if to grab at something invisible. Clank. The wheels started again. Clank. The cars crept forward, ready for the famous drop. Joyful screams were thin at such altitude, but Jimmy still recognized the change in their tone and the sound of wood cracking. Metal popped. The blonde girl grabbed at her dad's shoulder. Jimmy closed his eyes.

It was all Jimmy's fault, the boss told the newspaper reporters that afternoon. After all, he was in charge of maintenance.

four

Warm Hands Cold Heart

by Ray FitzGerald

Murderers are everywhere. In the grocery store or at your favorite restaurant. The person sitting next to you at the movie theater - they're probably a murderer.

Haven't you ever driven down the road when someone flies in from the other lane and cuts you off? Or what about the person that sits next to you at work, blabbing all day on her phone? Don't say you haven't at least thought of it. Why, you're practically a murderer yourself - premeditated at that.

But some take their murderous thoughts and turn them into actions. Some even get away with it.

Take for example the brutal strangulations of three people in 1953. It wasn't just how they were killed that was brutal, but why the trio was murdered. All three were just living their lives. They had no idea they were about to become key players in a story to be told for decades to come. They didn't know that every breath they took was like a grain of sand falling from a near-empty hourglass. But time, like our murderer, has no alibi. It's always running and, as soon as you think you've caught it, it slips away.

\----

Maria Manley's last three weeks were spent enjoying all the trappings that come with being a twenty-something newlywed. The wedding rentals were returned and most of the bills were paid. The newly minted husband, Michael, was spending the evening in his actuary office. Maria finished a late lunch with friends at a cafe when she began her final walk home.

Of course she didn't know that she was walking towards her own demise. If she had, she would have slowed down a bit. Maybe she would have stopped and tried on the summer dress she admired in the window at Stengel's Department Store last week.

But she knew Michael would be home soon. Her mother made sure to explain before the wedding that every good wife must have dinner waiting for her husband when he returns home from work.

Dinner would have to wait.

She first noticed the footsteps about two blocks from home. She paid no attention to them, focusing instead on the menu for the evening. The plodding sound of shoe heels soon grew louder and harder to ignore. Maria clutched her purse and avoided looking back. Home was close enough.

She turned onto Nelson Street. By now, the white picket fence that surrounded her and Michael's small cottage was in view. There were still tire marks in the grass from when their families packed the place last weekend for their housewarming party. Her feet moved swiftly along the pebbled street. Gravel crunched and dissolved under the shoes that thumped behind her. Maria's heart knocked against her chest. Under her breath, she whispered to herself, "Just get home. You're almost home."

It was at the entrance to the fence that a hand latched onto her elbow. She gasped and dropped her purse. Thoughts of running never came to her - she wasn't very fast to begin with, especially with heels on. It all happened so quick, there wasn't time to flee. Instead, Maria spun around and aimed her eyes on the hand that captured her. Then to the arm, the chest, and eventually the face now in front of her.

Her shoulders dropped and her breath evened out. There was relief in her voice.

"Oh, it's you," she said. "Why didn't you say something?"

The next few seconds were silent - too silent. Maria felt the need to break the uncomfortable air with a smile.

"I'm about to start dinner," she said. "If you're hungry -"

Before she could finish, a pair of strong hands wrapped around her neck. Maria sucked in her final breath. Words stuck in the collapsed void that used to be her throat. She attempted a half-hearted kick, but the leg, like her remaining time, was short. She died thirty feet from the brown matt that sat at her front door giving a "Welcome" to visitors.

Less than an hour later, neighbors were startled by a yell. It was more like a scream - the kind that comes from an area of your lungs that's only called upon in these types of situations. A neighbor found Michael on his doorstep, looking down at the heap that was once his wife.

\---

Detective Cary Jenkins pulled his unmarked police cruiser against the curb on Nelson Street. There were five other unit vehicles there, as well as a station wagon that he recognized as belonging to Tribune reporter Harold Grant.

Grant, as is usually the case, was the first on the scene. Detective Jenkins heard enough yelling from the police chief over the last few weeks about getting scooped by the local reporter. He drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment, knowing that he'd have to hear the speech again once he returned to the station.

Grant had half a notebook page filled with scribbles by the time Jenkins saw the body. Maria Manley was stretched across the threshold of the house. The door was opened just enough to see Michael sitting on the couch in the living room. His eyes were glazed over, staring into nothing as an officer pelted him with questions. Maria's neck was eggplant purple. Her eyes were fixed in a suspended moment of terror. Two thin, red lips formed a small "O" shape that time wouldn't help the detective forget. The reporter was the first to speak to him.

"What a mess," Grant said with a shake of his head. "Just married. A young kid."

Jenkins grunted and crouched down to get a closer look. He'd seen these things many times before, but they never got easier. He tiled Maria's head to the side. Deep, long streaks of red bruised her flesh where the fingers of her killer gripped her. Everything else was in place. Her hair wasn't messed, her purse lay on the street near the fence with nothing missing. He came to the conclusion that whatever happened was quick and unexpected.

"Death doesn't know age," he said to Grant without looking at him. He rose back to his feet and made his way inside. Michael didn't bother looking up at the new figure entering his home. They all looked the same to him.

Grant followed close behind. Years as a writer on the police beat honed his eyes as sharp as any detective on the force. He saw things that went unnoticed by others. For example, the swarm of officers digging through the dresser drawers in the Manley's bedroom paid no attention to the three envelopes sitting atop the oak piece. They were messily opened, each stamped with a large red "Late Notice" warning across the front. All three were empty. Grant made a note in his book and stuffed it into his back pocket as Jenkins approached him.

"Don't go blabbing about this in the papers yet," the detective said. "We haven't notified next of kin. The father is on his way."

Grant was preparing to leave, but decided to stick around, figuring he could get some good details from the father. His editor loved juicy stuff like that.

\---

The black 1950 Dodge Coronet that contained Maria Manley's father arrived as soon as Grant stepped out of the cottage on Nelson Street. The father was a large man, bigger than most of the detectives that greeted him at the curb. Bad news like this has a way of making big men small, though.

Jenkins took the man aside. It was obvious to him that something was wrong, but a parent has a way of blocking out the potential worst news of their life until it's actually laid on them. When that came, the man fell to one knee, covering his face with a broad hand that blocked out every sign of emotion. Detectives patted the man on the back, waited a moment, and then turned back towards the house.

Grant took the sympathetic journalist stance and gave the father a few moments to compose his thoughts. He watched as the large man returned to his feet and struggled with the urge to go inside and the desire to just run away. Wanting to make sure he got a few quotes before the decision was made, Grant approached the man.

"Excuse me, sir," he said with palms showing in a sign of peace," I know this has to be a very tough time for you, but my name is Harold Grant. I'm a reporter with The Tribune."

The large man flashed a glance, then offered his hand for shaking. He had a weak grip, like someone that had given up on the remaining years of his life.

"Ben Peterson," the man said. "Excuse my condition right now."

Grant shook his head with a thin grin. "Totally understandable, sir. I can only imagine what's going through your head right now. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Peterson had yet to respond when Detective Jenkins stormed out of the house like his feet were on fire. His voice was loud and hoarse and sounded like artillery fire.

"Grant, get the hell away from here," he yelled towards the reporter on the lawn. "Have a heart for God's sake. Stop badgering people."

Peterson looked at the detective, then at the reporter. His eyes were red and looked like the dam would be breaking again soon.

"I better not," Peterson said. "Besides, I'm in no shape to -" he stopped. The hand went back to his face and Peterson's voice cracked. "I have to go," he said.

And just like that, the large man was back in his car. Tires squealed as the Dodge pulled away from the house. Peterson disappeared with his face covered, in shame of his own emotions.

Grant's stare at the man was broken from the front door. "Damnit," the detective barked. "You just scared him off before we had a chance to talk to him. If you're not out of here in five seconds, I'm running you in for disturbing the peace."

Grant took the cue and left before Jenkins could finish his countdown.

\---

The next morning, on page 3B of The Tribune, sat Grant's five-inch story about the "Nightmare on Nelson Street." He was especially proud of the catchy headline, but not thrilled about the placement of the story, buried among society pieces.

Maria Manley was on her way home from a relaxing afternoon with friends. Little did she know it was the last time she'd see them.

Manley's body was found at approximately 6 o'clock in the evening when her husband of three weeks, Michael, returned to their home on Nelson Street from work. The obvious shock of the newlywed's discovery was heard throughout the neighborhood.

Manley was strangled in a surprise attack. Neighbors claimed they heard and saw nothing. Maria's husband and father weren't available for comment as of press time. Police are working on few leads as to the identity of the strangler.

That's it. Twenty-four years of life summed up in 103 words in black and white, right next to a story about Mrs. Beatrice Anglin's tea party to bid farewell to her son before he leaves for college.

Maria's funeral was scheduled for Friday.

Two hours before the funeral, Paul Samson sat in his dressing room at the Humboldt Theatre. It was night six of an eight-day run of Sabrina Fair, where he played the lead of Linus Larrabee Jr. For Samson, it was the culmination of eight years of hard work and bit roles in bad plays. He'd finally made it. His name was above the title and in lights on the Humboldt marquee. Little did he know, he didn't have enough time left in his life to even finish his makeup for that night's performance.

Samson, as was his usual routine, was sipping a gin on the rocks at his makeup table. It was the only way he'd found to control his nerves before a performance. He hummed a tune from the production soft and low as he began the process of laying out his makeup for the show. He was two fingers from the bottom of his glass when there was a knock on the dressing room door.

"Enter," he said with his typical commanding stage voice. The door didn't budge.

"Enter," he repeated a little louder. Ten seconds later, the door cracked just enough to let in the sounds of stagehands pulling props across wooden floors.

Samson spun on his seat and arched his neck just enough to catch a glimpse of the man standing behind the door. "Can I help you?" he offered.

Harold Grant stood at the door, leaning in with his right ear. "I'm sorry, Mr. Samson," he said. "It's so loud out here, I couldn't hear if you were in your room or not."

"Well, here I am," Samson said. "What do you need?"

Grant introduced himself. The regular theatre critic caught a cold and he was the substitute for the evening. Naturally, Grant wanted an interview with the star of the play. Samson was all too willing to oblige.

For the next twenty minutes, the actor regaled the journalist with stories of his youth and his grand return home to star in a major play. It was nearly a decade in the making, and everything he'd hoped it would be. Grant couldn't separate the fluff from the facts. He was a much better crime reporter, but rent was due in a few days and he needed every extra dollar he could scrape together.

At the end of the conversation, Grant excused himself, thanked Samson for his time and wished him luck in the evening's performance. The actor replied with a look of disgust.

"You're obviously green to this," Samson said. "Never wish an actor luck. That's the death nail for a performance. I may as well be cursed for the evening now."

If he only knew.

Once Grant was clear of the room, Samson finished his gin in one gulp and began applying his makeup for the night. He started with the white foundation that would give him the appearance of a slightly older man. He was applying powder to his his cheeks when there was another knock on the door.

"What is it?" Samson barked, less enthusiastically than before. He heard the door open, but didn't bother to turn around. He glanced at the entryway from his mirror and continued his work.

"You're back" he said. "Did you forget something?"

He never heard the answer. Before the visitor could speak, the door snapped closed. Two hands lunged towards the mirror. Before Samson could react, the blood was squeezed from his neck, causing a tremendous pressure in his head. He tried to breathe, but it was no use. The hands pulled him back, lifting the front of the chair from of the ground. Samson clawed at the squeezing fingers and tried to peel them from his flesh. He didn't stand a chance.

Before he blacked out, he caught a glimpse of a loose tile on the ceiling. He died flat on his back with his legs tangled in an awkward fashion around the chair.

There would be no refund on tickets.

\---

It was almost comical by now. Detective Jenkins arrived backstage of the Humboldt to find Harold Grant standing nearby the star corpse. The veteran officer clenched his teeth and spit a little towards the wooden floor.

"Christ," he said with a voice filled with leather and nails. "I'm starting to think you might be killing these people, Grant. How come you're always the first to the scene?"

Grant was lighting a cigarette as he surveyed the area. He shot a sly grin towards his rival. "I've got an alibi this time, Jenkins," he said. "I'm covering this play for the paper. I just happened to be backstage when a crew member found Mr. Samson here all deflated."

The detective grunted under his breath. "Well, this is one way to get you out of the societies and onto the front page."

"Death is a living," said Grant.

The room was silent for a while after that. Jenkins explored the contents of Samson's makeup table. Grant stood by, watching the gathering group of officers look for clues. They examined the body and how its legs wrapped around the chair. Samson's head was turned sharply to the left, his purple neck looking ridiculously bright against the white foundation spread partially among his face.

His jaw was clenched closed and there was only a small peek of his blue eyes showing through closed lids.

He was dead alright. Deader than Shakespeare.

Just as the stretcher removed the blanket-draped corpse from the room, a young man shot through the door. His face was almost as round as his belly. His arms were thick and covered with hair. His eyes wide with shock.

"So it's true," he said with sagged shoulders. "It's all true."

The officers ignored the man, but Grant didn't. He'd been in business long enough to know when a good quote could be had.

"Who are you?" Grant asked.

"Me?" the man said, looking around as if someone else was in the room. "Oh, I'm Jim Sanders. I'm Mr. Samson's understudy."

"Understudy, you say?" Grant asked. "It looks like you'll be the star tonight."

That word, "star," brought a crinkled smile to Sanders' mouth. It spread, despite his attempts to tamper it down.

"I guess so," Sanders said. "I didn't expect it to happen like this though."  
"Then how'd you expect it to happen?"

"I don't know," Sanders said. "I always supposed I'd work my way up. Small roles become bigger ones. Bigger ones become leads. Leads become... well... I guess that's it. I mean, I was just in here talking with Paul an hour ago. He was so happy."

"And it looks like you took a short cut to the big leagues without even playing in the minors. Your turn to be happy, I guess." Grant said.

"Don't say it like that," Sanders said. "You make it sound like I did it on purpose."

"Did what?" Grant asked.

"Did all this. All of this mess."

"Did you?"

That question sent Sanders back on his heels. Green eyes cleared up and his expression changed to a look of concern.

"Say," said Sanders. "I didn't get your name."

"Harold Grant. Tribune."

"If that's the case, then I'm leaving."

Without a goodbye, Sanders swiped some of the makeup from Samson's table and made his way out of the dressing room. As he stormed out, he passed the entering Detective Jenkins and nearly knocked the bigger man off his feet.

"Say Grant," Jenkins said. "You better get to your seat. I don't want you around when we talk to his family. If it's anything like the other day, I might have to notify your family to come identify you.

Grant didn't respond. He tipped his hat and made his way into the growing crowd. Word hadn't spread yet from backstage. Instead, an announcer entered from stage left and told the crowd that "Mr. Samson is not feeling well tonight. He will be replaced in the cast by Mr. Jim Sanders."

As the crowd groaned its disapproval, Grant was busy scrawling Samson's obituary in his notebook. There would be no review of Sanders' performance in The Tribune the next morning.

\---

By the time the morning editions hit the streets, rumors were spreading about Paul Samson's condition. Grant's version of the evening settled the stories.

Jenkins was right. The story made the cover. In block letters, just below the fold.

Paul Samson was a local boy made good. He'd conquered some of the biggest stages in America and was proud to return home a star. His role of Linus Larrabee Jr. in the current run of Sabrina Fair at the Humboldt was likely to earn him a spot on a Broadway marquee. But someone didn't want to see that happen.

For the second time this week, a murder by strangulation happened in this town. As Maria Manley was being laid to rest, someone entered Samson's dressing room and choked the actor to death as he prepared for Friday's performance. Police are as baffled by the second murder as they are the first.

Samson was applying his makeup for the night when his murderer entered the dressing room and attacked him from behind. Deep fingertip imprints on the front of his neck show that he may have never even seen his attacker. He was found by a stagehand 45 minutes before the curtain was to be opened for the evening play.

As word spread in the local theatre community, actors and actresses rushed to the Humboldt to confirm the rumors, only to be turned away because of the evening's performance. As word moved into the crowd, some attendees decided to leave at intermission, fearful that the strangler was among them.

Samson was replaced in the cast by Jim Sanders, a longtime understudy.

"I didn't expect it to happen like this,' Sanders said when learning of his mentor's death.

Funeral arrangements are to be determined.

The baseball box scores were all James ever read in the newspaper. Of course he knew about the stranglings. Everyone in town did. Why read about them and ruin breakfast? That time was dedicated to the scores page.

His eggs and coffee let off enough steam to haze the first hints of sunlight that peeked through the kitchen window. It was a rough month for James, but the Dodgers were winning again and only two games out of first place. It would be a good season if they could keep hitting the ball. James wouldn't make it to the end of summer, though. For him, there were two outs in the bottom of the ninth.

The drive to work wasn't noteworthy. Traffic was the same as always. All the lights were red and the crosswalks packed. He coasted into his office ten minutes late. When you're the youngest executive in company history, you can do that.

June, his secretary, was waiting with a smile and a handful of missed call notes.

"You're early," she said with a smile that spread across her painted lips. She knew what he'd been through lately and tried to start the day with a joke. "Better not make a habit of this."

"I guess I'll just have to leave a little early to make up for it," James returned with a smile of his own. He grabbed the notes and shut the door to his office. It was a big number with thick carpeting and a desk cut from an overpriced hunk of wood. Windows stared into downtown, where business was starting to pick up for the day. The swivel chair behind the desk was well worn to his specifications. It creaked its greeting as he sat down and hit the intercom button on the desk.

"June," he said, "cancel my meetings for the morning. Turn away all customers. I'll be busy."

There was a moment of silence before the electronic crackle of June's voice clicked back. "I already did. I had a feeling."

James nodded his approval. Good help was hard to find, and June was the best. He made a mental note to give her a raise when all of this was over. She'd never see that raise.

After a few minutes of pushing papers around the desk and calling no one back, James headed back into the lobby. The bakery on the corner was about to open and it was time for the morning walk for a doughnut. He promised to bring June back a cup of coffee and made his way through the glass door that held his name in gilded letters.

The streets were fairly quiet for a Thursday morning. The walk to the bakery was about three blocks and James only passed a few people on his way there. By the time he started the walk back to the office, he'd eaten two doughnuts and saved one for later. The other three were for June.

A lot of people wondered why James never married. His job was all the wife he needed. It took up nearly all of his time anyway. The spare minutes leftover were dedicated to the Dodgers.

It was his favorite baseball club that he thought about on the walk back to the office. He walked a little slower this time, looking to waste a few extra minutes before getting back to work. The smell of June's coffee sunk itself deep into James' nose and he breathed it in with long, slow drags. It was the first moments of peace he'd felt in a month. It was so peaceful that he almost didn't feel the pair of hands grab him and drag him into an alley a block from the office.

James never had a chance to see who grabbed him. Things went black too quick. The air flew out of him and the spilled coffee burned his chest. He blacked out in a few seconds and was left on the side entry door to Giuseppe's Tailor Shop. A few months later, the Yankees would beat the Dodgers in six games to win the World Series. At least he wouldn't have to live through another heartbreak.

\---

If there was any consolation to a third murder by strangulation, it was that Detective Jenkins beat the reporter Grant to the scene this time. After all, Giuseppe's was only a few blocks from the police station. Still, Grant arrived to the scene before the coroner or crime scene photographer.

"Is it safe to call it a serial killing yet?" Grant asked the detective, who was busy combing through the pockets of the deceased.

"Don't get too excited," Jenkins said. "Everyone in town is anxiously awaiting your next story. They'll call it whatever you name it. Such is life."

"You mean such is death," the reporter said. "That's the power of the press."

"If that's power," said Jenkins, "then count me out."

The two didn't talk for the next several minutes. They'd seen enough of each other and exchanged enough pleasantries in the last two weeks to satisfy a year's worth of meetings. Instead, Grant eavesdropped on the uniformed officers that tended to chat a little too loud. It wasn't long before he had the address and name of the office building where James worked.

While a group of officers headed to the office, Grant fed a dime in a payphone around the corner and chatted for a few moments with a co-worker. No one noticed as he exited the scene in the opposite direction.

\---

Thoughts tumbled around and mixed with new bits of information in Grant's head as he took the fifteen minute drive to the outskirts of the city. Several neighborhoods dotted the way. The houses grew larger the further he drove. After double checking the address he wrote on the back of his notebook, he settled his car along the curb of a two-story brick home, partially hidden behind a row of bright green bushes. The sunlight reflected off of windows blanketed with drawn curtains. If there was a way to see inside, Grant couldn't find it.

Several moments passed after Grant rapped his knuckles on a hunk of wood that doubled as a door. The sound echoed and disappeared into the house. No answer. Before he could draw his hand back from the second knock attempt, a lock clicked and the door slid open about a foot. A hulking figure in a long coat and hat peered back at him through the opening. Grant nodded his head in a greeting, but the man inside didn't return the favor.

"I told you I've got nothing to say," the raspy voice bit into the air. "Now if you don't mind, I have somewhere to be."

"You sure do," Grant said. "You must be getting used to this by now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This whole 'next of kin' thing. Three times this month you've had to go down and identify a body. It must be getting old."

Ben Peterson tried to slam the door closed, but Grant's foot was conveniently blocking the way. The journalist wanted to yelp in pain, but his manly pride wouldn't allow it. Instead he caught the much larger man by surprise and pushed his way into the home.

The place was even larger inside than out. A massive staircase faced the front door and pointed to the second floor with it's thick padding of red velvet. Stone railings glistened in the light that snuck in through the opened door. Peterson wasn't amused.

"What's the meaning of this?" he snapped. "I have the right mind to -"

"Call the cops?" Grant cut him off. "Go ahead. Call them and tell them how you strangled your daughter Maria Manley - the former Maria Peterson - in front of her house.

"What?" Peterson yelled.

"Sure," Grant said with a sneer. "And then how you visited your son, Paul Samson, just before the curtain of his new play. I called the paper this morning and found out that Samson was just a stage name. Paul Peterson was his real name, but he changed it because he didn't like the alliteration. What happened when you visited him?"

"Get out" Peterson yelled. His voice cracked and his face was as red as McCarthy's nightmares.

"I'll tell you what happened," Grant continued. "You came in and told your son to skip the performance to attend his sister's wake. When he refused, you stormed out. Then you came back a little later and did to him just what you did to your daughter."

Peterson took a step towards Grant. His hands were spread open and as big as catcher's mitts. Grant readied himself for an attack. He'd come this far. Why stop now?

I hadn't pieced it together until this morning, when I overheard the officers talking about searching James Peterson's office for clues to why he was killed. You know they're going to start suspecting you soon. I hope you have a good alibi."

"Of course I do," Peterson barked. I was here this morning. All morning. I...I..."

Before he could finish, Peterson's hands shot up around Grant's neck. The journalist struggled to work his fingers into the mammoth grip of his attacker. His face felt warm and he could feel his heart beating a quick rhythm in his head. Time slowed down as Peterson jerked Grant's head from side to side. The anger and violence lit up his eyes in the dim entryway to the home.

"You don't understand," Peterson hissed. "My whole life I worked for them. When their mother died, they didn't even show up here to check on me. Paul out on his plays. Maria planning a wedding. James busy at work."

Grant balled his fists and tried pounding on the arms that decided whether he lived or died. It was like trying to punch a brick wall.

"Then," Peterson continued without thought, "Paul won't even come to Maria's wake. James still doesn't come to check on me. His secretary says he's not taking any calls. They're all ungrateful brats. All of them. They deserved everything -"

Before Grant could learn what exactly they deserved, he used the last ounce of energy he had stored to drive his left knee into an area no man should hit another man. But when you're seconds from death, and you're starting to see the light of the pearly gates, certain rules no longer exist.

Peterson loosened his grip just enough for Grant to fall backwards and gasp for air. He had but one short moment to gather himself before the giant man was back on top of him. Grant used his smaller size and quickness to spin away from Peterson, sending the bigger man to the floor empty handed. Grant rose to his feet and swayed in a dizzy haze as he threw his right foot into his foe's side with all of his strength. A wheeze came from Peterson's ribcage. He jerked onto his back to avoid more blows. Grant continued to pummel away with his foot until the big man grabbed his leg and pulled him onto the floor.

An exchange of punches wasn't going in Grant's favor. The writer felt the affects of the knocks and tried to crawl away from the battle, but Peterson's large hands wrapped tightly around his shoulders and pulled them back. The hot-dog sized fingers crept slowly back towards Grant's neck as he gripped at the marbled floor and fought for enough traction to get away. He slipped and the side of his head slammed against the hard ground. The world began to spin. Something warm tickled the side of his head. Peterson's grip tightened. The contents of Grant's coat pocket spilled with a clatter in front of him. A notebook, a set of office keys, and his pen.

The pen. It's all Grant had, but it was sharp and in reach. He grabbed the gold-tipped fountain pen and drove it as far as he could into Peterson's arm. His yell echoed down the hall, through the windows, and out into the neighborhood. It was a terrifying scream, probably similar to the one his children would have let out if they'd had the chance.

The tool was stuck in Peterson's right arm like a lamppost. The red that soaked through his coat sleeve wasn't ink. The big man gripped at the pen and tried to pull it from his flesh. That brought on more yells of pain. Grant didn't wait to see his pen returned. He jumped his foe from behind and wrapped his entire right arm around Peterson's neck. He squeezed tighter than he'd ever squeezed before. His hands were barely big enough to fit around the man's neck, so the entire arm was needed for the proper pressure. It seemed to be working.

Peterson moaned and gripped on Grant's elbow. A ripping sound came from the sleeve wrapped air-tight around the massive neck. Peterson gurgled. He grunted. He weakened. David, meet Goliath.

Was it seconds, minutes, or hours until Peterson went slack around Grant's arm? Time had no meaning. The loser of this battle had no more time to use. Grant first began to smell victory when Peterson's arms went limp. The large man, on his knees with a fountain pen all but an inch into his arm started to sway. Grant, crouched down behind the behemoth, braced his legs for the extra weight he was forced to hold.

Eventually, Grant's arms and legs weakened under the stress. Peterson, completely dangling at this point, no longer struggled or moved. He slid to the floor with a thud as Grant loosened his grip. Both men's faces were as red as the word "stop," but only one was breathing.

Grant hobbled the rest of the way to his feet. He had no idea where all the blood was coming from, or if it was even his. Walking was a hard enough task. With the help of the wall, he held himself upright just enough to make it to the door. He pulled it open just as a clicking sound tickled his ears from the staircase. He turned around to see Peterson, sprawled across the floor.

His dinner-plate sized eyes bulged from his head. His hair was a mess. He looked dead if not for the revolver that dangled in his right hand.

Grant was trained as a writer, not a gunfighter. Most people's first instinct might be to run. His was to charge the big man. Speed wasn't his strong suite at the moment, though. Just two steps in the gun exploded in violence and shook the house. Grant felt something sharp and warm on his left side. It didn't hurt. It was just warm. He took three more steps towards Peterson. A second explosion made Grant's ears ring. More warmth covered his arm. Peterson almost smiled.

Grant was dizzy. The room was darker and it was too early for the sun to set. Peterson pulled the trigger a third time and the click of an empty barrel tapped a sweet melody in Grant's ears. The gun slid from Peterson's hand and his head fell to the side. Something in the angle of his neck wasn't right. Both men had all they could take, but Grant couldn't give up that easily. He fell in a heap on top of Peterson and realized there was much more blood on the pair than there was before. His hands slipped as he gripped the large neck that bent awkwardly to the left. Peterson didn't fight. Grant's strength was almost gone, but he used what was left to finish what he started.

As the Grandfather clock in Peterson's hall struck three o'clock, both men lay atop each other in the foyer, as dead as chivalry.

\---

There wasn't much of a write up the in the evening edition of The Tribune. News was just as scarce the next morning. Peterson's neighbors combed each page to see what the fuss was about the day before. No one knew. That was the police force's plan. After being scooped by the press throughout the coverage of the serial killer, they wanted to bask in the glow of their triumphant solving of the case. There was a press conference set for noon Friday on the steps of city hall. Half of the town showed up to hear the news. Most hadn't left the house in days, fearful that they'd be the next victim of the strangler. As word spread that the killer was caught, a sigh of relief blew through town.

Mayor Aaron Hill was first on the microphone. He verbally applauded his men's work in closing the case that had everyone in the city stumped. He reminded the voters that election day was around the corner, and if they wanted to continue to be safe that a "vote for Hill would make that happen."

After he finished patting himself on the back, he introduced lead detective Jenkins. The veteran cop's buttons were a little shinier than normal and his hair combed a little tighter to the side. He'd shaved for the occasion.

The detective took the podium from his boss and soaked in the applause. Once the clapping stopped, he started.

"At approximately three-fifteen in the afternoon yesterday, my officers responded to a disturbance at the home of Ben Peterson on 35th Lane. We responded quickly and found two men dead in the home. One was Mr. Peterson and the other was Tribune reporter Harold Grant. There were signs of a struggle and neighbors reported hearing gunshots.

"Mr. Peterson had already lost his daughter and son to the strangler. Earlier that morning his third and final child was also found strangled to death. We found evidence that Mr. Grant continued to Peterson's home yesterday morning to complete his task of killing the final Peterson family member. While his motive is yet unknown, the marks of strangling around Mr. Peterson's neck are similar to the marks of the other killings. In self defense of his own life, Mr. Peterson shot Grant twice. Those shots were fatal, but not before Peterson also met his end."

Jenkins didn't take questions from the reporters or citizens in attendance.

\---

A week later, Ben Peterson was laid to rest in a funeral attended by nearly everyone in the city. Local television and radio covered the event. Later that morning, Mayor Hill dedicated a plaque in honor of Peterson outside of City Hall.

On the other side of town, Harold Grant's mother and father stood by and watched as the undertaker dropped the final shovels of dirt on their son's grave. Because of the threats and hate-filled letters they'd received in the last week, they decided to leave his final resting place unmarked. Harold would have wanted it that way.

five

Nothing

by Ray FitzGerald

All my life they said I'd be nothing. In high school, Ms. Chamberlain nominated me most likely to show up drunk to the ten-year reunion.

She was a 24-year old blonde, fresh from college with the world by the tail. I was a 19-year old dropout prevention student. It didn't prevent much. Two months before graduation, I stopped showing up.

Do dropouts go to reunions? That's what I wondered as I eyed the invitation. It was one week and three states away. Wouldn't they be shocked to see me there, though?

What the hell. I canceled my appointments and booked a flight. Ms. Chamberlain still worked at the school. I reintroduced myself through email and sent over a lunch invite for Friday. A quick response said she'd "love to catch up with an old student."

What'll she think when she finds I run the largest robotics development company in San Francisco? Last quarter's profits beat the gross domestic product of most small countries. Our research has led to some of the biggest technological breakthroughs in the last decade. I own houses in California, New York, and a flat in China.

Friday was cool. A breeze rolled downtown like tumbleweeds in Western films. The café was packed, so I grabbed a patio table and ordered a coffee. It tasted just like one I had two months earlier in France. Ms. Chamberlain was five minutes early.

Her blouse looked painted to her skin. A black skirt quit above her knees. She was a brunette now, but I'm not one to complain. The ten years were kind to her.

We talked for two hours, some about her recent divorce and her dream to visit India this summer. I showed her a ring I got there last year. She apologized for her words during senior year and blamed them on "youthful idiocy." She admitted to Googling me before accepting my invite. That's how she found out about my business. It took the fun out of the reveal, but she seemed genuinely interested in robotics and our most recent research.

When the café closed, she invited me to her place. We chatted in the kitchen, then the living room, and then the bedroom. The next morning, I collected my clothes and left quietly.

I decided to skip the reunion. I had more than enough fun already. Besides, they'd ask questions when Ms. Chamberlain didn't show. Maybe they'd find her before the reunion. I felt in my pocket and pinched the lock of hair I cut before I left. She didn't need it anymore and it would go well with the rest of my collection.

I killed time in the airport thinking about high school. They spent more time labeling students than teaching them. Sociopath was my label. A compulsive liar. Can you believe they called me a liar?

"Excuse me sir," a redhead at the ticket counter called. Her hair glowed under the light of the kiosk. "Your seat change fee - "

"Charge it to my business account. I own an architectural firm in Texas. I'm headed to survey a property I designed."

"An architect. Wow. I'm in engineering school. Do you take interns?"

And they said I'd be nothing.

six

Top-40 Hit

by Ray FitzGerald

Bless me father, for I have sinned.

The darkness of the thin-walled booth couldn't hide the shame in Edgar Johnson's eyes. It was years since his last confession, but he needed it now more than ever.

The scent of candle fumes burned his nostrils. Sounds of an organ seeped through the wicker slats of the confessional door. The voice on the other end of the partition was calm – possibly Irish. Edgar couldn't place it. He hadn't been to church since his mother dragged him there every Sunday as a kid. To celebrate his first confession when he was ten, mom gave him two chocolate bars and a five-dollar bill. He ended up with a cavity, debt, and a guilty conscience.

"Continue my son."

Edgar tried to continue, but couldn't put the right sounds together in his throat. It was an unfamiliar feeling for a man who once had all of the right words at his disposal.

Eight years as the top radio personality in Austin, Texas, made him somewhat of a local celebrity. In line at the grocery store, at the movie theatre, or in the drive-through at lunchtime, he had the voice that everyone knew and a face no one could recognize. Maybe that's what helped him get away with it all.

\---

For twenty years, Hank Rollins pulled two-bit jobs around Austin – mostly blackmail. There were a few big scores, but a penchant for spending money faster than he made it ate at the profits. He'd been caught in a few jams along the way, but his saving grace was his cousin, Eddie Jordan. Jordan was the biggest racketeer in town. He had his hands in every silk tailored pocket within a hundred miles. No one messed with Hank, because that means you're messing with Eddie. Hank knew that and took advantage of every benefit that came with the association.

That included threatening a well-known do-gooder like Edgar Johnson.

Most of it started when Edgar's wife, Kaycee, was diagnosed with cancer. The couple kept it quiet for a few months, but as treatment became more severe, they could no longer cover their personal and emotional scars. Their eight-year old daughter wasn't spared either. Third graders can be brutal when you have a frail, bald mother.

Despite having a voice that millions listened to every afternoon from four to seven, radio didn't pay much. When Kaycee could no longer work, the bills became heavier than Edgar's shoulders could carry. Extra gigs doing live remotes on the weekend at car dealerships and fast food joints helped. A little voice-over work put some bread on the table. That didn't stop the pink foreclosure envelopes from being delivered.

With three mouths to feed, one paycheck, and hospital bills that grew every day, Edgar wasn't exactly a prime candidate for a bank loan. That's what brought him to Eddie Jordan's doorstep.

His plan was simple – a five grand loan for three months. It would catch up the bills and get Kaycee through her next round of chemo. Edgar would pay it off by picking up some extra work. His friend already offered a shot at painting houses on the weekend.

Jordan's office was more castle than office. White carpeting made ivory statues look dusty under the bright lights. A gold-trimmed desk accented the rings that sat sloppily on his thick fingers. A pair of shoulders were longer than a first down and his neck round like a watermelon. His wrists were the kind of things killers put on their Christmas list. They could snap a spine without flexing.

The two guys flanking his high-backed chair were even bigger. Together they looked like the Three Stooges, if the Stooges were on Death Row.

Edgar had trouble asking for the loan. He wasn't the type to admit he needed help, especially to guys like Jordan and his gang. The bluish revolver that sat in silence on the desk didn't make it easier.

It happened faster than Edgar imagined. Eddie outsourced the loan to Hank. He never touched a handout less than fifty thousand. Hank, on the other hand, was more than happy to collect thirty-percent interest over the next ninety days.

The money relieved Edgar's pressure almost immediately. With the bill collectors off his back, he started to rebuild the family's nest egg. That is until Kaycee's progress slowed and treatment stopped easing the effects of her disease. More aggressive treatment was prescribed – at twice the current price.

Hank raised the interest rate to forty-percent when the first payment was missed. It jumped to fifty percent the second time. The third time Edgar missed a payment, an envelope was left on his desk at work.

It was a plain, manila type. No different than ones used every day in offices to ship memos from room to room. It was scuffed and scarred and had handwriting scratched over with two different colored pens.

Edgar held it for a moment before bending in the metal clasps that held the top flap down. He judged the weight – which wasn't much – and tried to guess the contents. His fingers grew stiff as he worked the flap up slowly. The sides of the envelope puffed wide to open the top. With twisted wrists, he turned it upside down. A single sheet of paper slid out and fell face-down on his ink blotter. Edgar's hands shook as he turned it over.

The face of his daughter looked back at him in three-by-five color printing. The picture was taken from a distance, but she was clearly on her school's swing set. The white shirt, pink shorts, and black shoes she had on were what Edgar dressed her in that morning. She didn't have a worry in the world besides wanting someone to push her higher on the swing. A note underneath the photo was written deliberately by a shaky hand.

"You may want to make your payments on time."

Edgar's heart sank. His lungs pushed all of their moisture through his eyes. He crumpled the paper and hurled it at a wall near the door, just below his plaques for winning the last three "Disc Jockey of the Year" awards. The paper fell silently on the carpet and mocked him until the phone rang.

The sound made him jump an inch from his seat. He grabbed the receiver and squeezed it so hard it almost cracked the plastic. Kaycee's voice on the other end sounded weak and dejected.

"Honey, I'm sorry," she said. Edgar cut her off to find out what was wrong. He still claimed the loan came from the bank. She wasn't aware the payments were late. Was there a matching envelope on their doorstep this morning?

"It's the doctors," she said quietly. The sound barely squeaked through the phone wires. "They won't continue treatment until the next payment is made."

The clock on the wall read forty minutes before Edgar was on the air. He glanced at the crumpled paper on the floor and the checkbook on the desk. The papers between the faux-leather cover were growing thinner than the blood circling his brain.

He thought fast – more with his heart than his head.

"Come pick up a check," he said to assure his wife that everything was fine. "I have to be on air soon. I'll leave it with Melinda at the desk. You remember her – the secretary from the Christmas party?"

Kaycee didn't answer. She just cried. That got Edgar's tear ducts active again.

He hung up the phone and scribbled a check to the local hospital for three thousand dollars. The couple's checking account had roughly seventy-two dollars in it and payday was eleven days away.

He gave the check to Melinda and made a comment aloud about going to prepare for his shift. His airtime was thirty-four minutes away when he slipped out the back door unnoticed.

The door led to an alley where disc jockeys went for a smoke or drinks during the redundant top-forty tunes the station played. The cracked pebble sidewalk was littered with squished cigarette butts and discarded snack-sized bottles of vodka. The bar where Hank spends most of his time was four-blocks and seven minutes away.

The place was emptier than a dentist's office on Halloween. With twenty-six minutes to spare, Edgar spotted Hank in the corner of the room shooting a game of pool alone. A grin spread across Hank's thick lips when he saw Edgar.

"Well, well," he said. "It's the man with the golden pipes. I wondered how long it would take you to get here. Did you get your mail today?"

Edgar didn't answer. He asked if they could talk somewhere private. The place was empty, but Hank had an office out back. Edgar followed the larger man behind the wooden bar and through a narrow door that led to a hallway with plenty of cobwebs and not enough light. They passed two closed doors. Hank threw a hand to stop Edgar before the third. The hand moved slowly to the doorknob, where a jiggle of the brass fixture set the door to creaking.

It was a sparsely decorated room. Two metal chairs sat in front of a desk that had a blank notepad, a gold pen and eight bundles of twenty-dollar bills packed tightly together. Hank's large feet were added to the table after he fell into the throne behind the desk. A dull silver handgun appeared from Hank's belt and was carelessly tossed on the desk. Hank motioned for Edgar to take one of the metal chairs in front. Twenty-two minutes until airtime.

"I suppose you're here with my money," Hank snorted. His lips parted just enough to show the tip of a gold tooth. He relaxed like a man with few problems and fewer debts. Edgar's eyes lowered to the floor.

"No," he said. "I need an extension and some more money."

"More –"Hank stopped short. The walls shook from his laughter. Edgar closed his eyes to block the look on the face across from him.

"You can't afford what you owe me now and you want more?"

Edgar unclenched his teeth and asked again – nicely. Hank responded similarly.

"No dice," he said. "Now, about the money you owe me. I'd hate for something to happen to that pretty daughter of yours. What would it be like for that bald wife of yours to bury her only child?"

Edgar looked up and saw all of the gold tooth and the scar that ran along Hank's cheek from a bottle fight as a teenager. Hank winked one iron-black eye at him real slow.

Something snapped inside of Edgar. His muscles tightened and everything went red. The next two minutes were a blur. When he came to, Edgar was holding the pistol in one hand and a stack of cash in the other. Hank was spilled on the floor behind the desk. A hole in his chest poured red fluid faster than his hand could push it back in. Hank gurgled and wheezed and stared at his previously immaculate shirt. He tried to speak, but nothing came out but bubbles that took the place of words. He died with a twisted grin and pale skin.

Edgar panicked, but had sense enough to grab the remaining cash. He slipped out of the room, back into the bar, and onto the street without encountering another person. He was back at the studio with three minutes to spare.

He went though his shift with the pulse of a sleepwalking grandmother. Shaky hands cradled the stacks of bills stuffed in his jacket pockets. When he arrived home, Kaycee was in the kitchen making dinner. Their daughter was in the living room watching cartoons. Both greeted him at the door with ferocious hugs. Edgar kept his hands hidden, sure not to drop the secret under his zipped coat.

He used a free hand to pat his daughter on the head and kiss his wife on the cheek before excusing himself to the bathroom. Behind the locked door, he removed the money from his jacket and spread it along the counter under the medicine cabinet. He looked at the stacks of cash, then into the mirror. His face was ragged and in need of a shave.

It took ten minutes to count the money. It was more than he'd ever seen in one place. In the end, it totaled thirty-two thousand dollars. He put it between two towels under the sink and went back into the kitchen.

The money was the miracle Edgar needed. Over the next two months the bills disappeared, Kaycee's condition improved, and no word of Hank's murder was reported in the papers. Gangsters don't get obituaries. None of that helped Edgar's mental state.

He couldn't sleep. He barely ate. When he did go out, he didn't talk. One night, after dinner, he and Kaycee had their first argument in years.

That's when Edgar decided to go to church. He called to find out confession times and drove to the large stone building on a Wednesday before work. Seated in an ancient-smelling pew, he watched two older men and a younger woman take their turns in the box. He went over the script in his head. It had been many years since he'd confessed his sins.

The young woman emerged from the booth and smiled with eyes that showed renewed faith in the world. It was Edgar's turn. His knees shook and his palms leaked sweat as he opened the wicker door to the dark, cramped confessional. He closed it behind him, kneeled in front of that partition, and felt the world melt away.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned."

He wasn't sure how long the silence lasted, but it felt like years. The priest continued the proceeding with a gentle nudge.

"Continue, my son."

Edgar put his brain back together like an impossible puzzle.

"I – I killed someone," he said. "At least I think I killed someone."

The priest sighed and released a small moan. "Who did you kill?"

Edgar panicked. He considered making a name up, but knew you couldn't lie to a priest. They weren't allowed to go to the cops, right? Wasn't there an oath or something they had to take? All of the sudden, he questioned his decision to come there. He thought about running out of the booth and peeling out of the parking lot, but knew he'd already been seen. It was now or never.

"Hank Rollins."

He started to explain his actions, but knew there was no excuse for what he did. He folded his hands towards his knees, closed his eyes, and waited for his penance. This was going to take more than five Hail Mary's and an Our Father.

What he didn't expect was for the screen that separated priest from sinner to slide open. In the darkness, Edgar spotted a fully robed priest covered in blood and slumped in the corner of the booth. The next thing he saw was the wicked face of Eddie Jordan staring at him from the good end of a nickel-plated .45 revolver.

"You're not forgiven," he said as he pulled the trigger.

When he didn't show up for work that day, the station ran a "Best of Edgar Johnson Show" episode.

seven

Bound by Hate

by Ray FitzGerald

The figure moving across the soggy pasture moved better than an old man should. He was familiar with every bump and divot on the land and didn't need an umbrella, although the skies had cried most of the night. The clothes that hung on his frail frame were dark with dampness when he reached the large oak tree by his front door. The house was warm and dry and everything he wasn't.

Three towels waited for him in the foyer. Each worked wonders on drying his thinning skin. As he dabbed his arms and neck with the warm cloth, he talked aloud to no one particular.

"Who would do such a thing?" he said. "The world is going to hell."

Hearing the voice, Pablo the butler scurried into the hall with a warm cup of coffee and two more towels.

"Were three enough?" Pablo asked. "I assumed you'd like a drink."

"You know what happens when you assume?" the man snarled.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Plimpton," Pablo said. "I'm sorry."

Plimpton dropped the towels on the marbled floor and headed for his library. Pablo followed behind and scooped the damp rags up in one motion.

"Oh," Plimpton added as he marched up the stairs without looking back. "Call Murray. Tell him the detective he sent is laid out in a puddle by the stable. They need to come claim him before he drowns. I won't have any death on my property."

"Yes, Mr. Plimpton."

Plimpton spent evenings in his library since his wife died. In those seven years, he invested all of his heart in his book collection. The only thing he loved more were his race horses – all four of them. None so much as his newest purchase, "Bound by Desire." He was a cinch to win the Derby, Plimpton would say.

Pablo wasn't always Mr. Plimpton's butler. Until he was twenty, he worked as a mechanic in Mexico. Plimpton found Pablo on a trip to purchase a different horse, "Lucky Liberty." Two weeks earlier, Pablo's wife left him, along with their two children, for a wealthier man. In a rage, he quit his job and spent the contents of his pockets on tequila. Each day, he worked his way down to the worm, which he swore mocked him as he drank. Plimpton needed a hand getting the horse home. Pablo needed to escape.

After the horse was delivered, Plimpton invited Pablo to move into the guest house out back. The seventeen room fortress was only occupied by Plimpton and his twenty-seven year old daughter. He wasn't getting any younger and Pablo's skills would come in handy. Karen, Plimpton's daughter, hated the thought of a "filthy foreigner" moving onto her property. She tried to talk her father out of the idea, but once his mind is made up, it's settled. He'd always been that way. She threatened to leave. He called her bluff.

"Where will you go?" he laughed. "You. With no job, no money, and no discernable skills."

She left. Then she came back. Then she left again. That continued for the next several years. Presently, she's back in the house after six months spent "finding herself" in Europe. She brought a man home with her, Edward. Plimpton wouldn't allow the unwed couple to live in his house, so Edward was given a room with Pablo in the guest house. The whole imperfect setup was starting to work – until Plimpton found the note.

This whole mess started on a Saturday morning. While taking his walk to the stables, Plimpton found the lock unlatched. With a yell, he threw the doors open and took a head count. One, two, three. The large dent in the hay of Bound by Desire's stall was warm, but empty. In the horse's place was a note scrawled in hard penciled handwriting that looked like it belonged to a child. "$3,000 or the horse dies. Leave it in the stall. No cops. We are serious."

Plimpton's first instinct was rage. His next was to blame Pablo. The incompetent idiot obviously hadn't locked the barn when he made his rounds cleaning the stalls the night before. If anything happened to Bound by Desire, the fool would suffer.

The house was mostly empty when he returned with the note crumpled in a fist. Karen and Edward were out for an early Saturday brunch. Pablo was in the rear field, repairing the leaky roof above his room in the guest house. He heard Plimpton yelling from two hundred yards away and came running.

Sweat dripped from his brow when he entered the home. Plimpton paced the foyer, leaving dirty footprints behind every step. His face was the color of hate, his hair a disheveled mess.

"YOU!" Plimpton yelled at the butler. "This is all your fault. Where is he? Where is Bound by Desire?"

Pablo's eyes were the size of dinner plates. He raised his arms and showed the palms of his hands, as if the horse could somehow be in his grasp. His jaw dropped and a few garbled words fell out.

"Mr. Plimpton... I don't... What are you talking about? The horse is in the barn where he-"

"No he's not," Plimpton didn't let him finish. He rarely did. "You left it unlatched last night and someone got in and stole my horse. Maybe it was you. You've always been jealous of me."

"No!" Pablo started to yell, but caught himself. "I'd never do that to you Mr. Plimpton. You gave me a home when nobody -" he stopped short. Smoke rose from the back of Plimpton's neck.

"When nobody wanted you," the old man yelled loud enough to shake the walls. "And that was my mistake. I should have listened to Karen and left you in Mexico. You can go back there for all I care. Leave. Leave _now_."

Water built up in Pablo's eyes. His knees were weak. The dark skin on his face hung like wet laundry on thick bones. He said, "I can't. I've nowhere to go."

Plimpton's eyes shrunk into narrow slits. His cheeks puffed like a squirrel preparing for winter.

He stared hard at the butler looking pitiful in the doorway and wanted to laugh. His words were a hiss of hatred. "I don't give a damn."

Plimpton charged up the steps to his library and sealed himself in the room with a slam of the large wooden door. He waited there, fuming, until he heard Pablo leave the house.

It wasn't long after he heard Pablo leave that the sound of the door opening again jarred Plimpton from his thoughts. Karen and Edward had returned. The sound of footsteps climbing the stairs were followed with a knock on the door.

"Go away," Plimpton blasted.

"I won't," said Karen's small voice through the door. "I'm coming in."

She didn't wait for her father's refusal. The knob clicked and the wooden slab slid carefully over carpeting as thick as a two-dollar pork chop. Sinatra was playing on the record player and Karen didn't ask permission when she removed the needle from the platter.

"What's going on?" she asked. "Pablo is packing his things. He said you fired him."

The red came back into Plimpton's face. The heat in the room grew by three degrees just off his anger.

"You're damned right I fired him," he said, throwing the crumpled note at his daughter's feet. "He stole Bound by Desire. He's fleecing me for my money and my horse. I have the right mind to call up Murray at the precinct and have him locked up. In fact I think I'll do just that -"

Karen interrupted his plan. She was looking at the note and shaking her head. "Father, please," she pleaded in a low, calming tone. "You know Pablo didn't do this. There's no way he could."

Plimpton hurled a few cuss words into the open air.

"Pablo is illiterate," she continued. "You know this. He couldn't have written this note. He can't even write his own name."

"Then he had someone write it for him."

"Who? He doesn't know anyone. He never leaves the house. And where would he put a horse if he'd taken it from you?"

Plimpton's eyes lowered. His words were sharp, but poorly formed. He tripped over his own thoughts. Karen didn't wait for him to piece together an excuse in his head.

"Then it's settled," she said. "Pablo stays."

Plimpton threw a few more curse words at his daughter. Back on his feet, his eyes bulged. He looked ready to spit nails and leather at his daughter.

"Don't argue, father," she said. "I've already told him to unpack. Besides, you'll be hungry soon. Who's going to make your lunch?"

"If that filthy bastard wants to work here, he'll sleep in the barn. He isn't allowed to rest for one moment in my home. Let him take Bound by Desire's stall. Tell him, he _might_ be allowed back in when my horse is returned."

Karen made a clicking sound with her teeth that sounded like nickels hitting hard wood. "Really, father," she said. "It's just a horse."

Plimpton picked up a vase that he'd overpaid for many years earlier at an antique store. The priceless hunk of porcelain fit snugly in his hand when he cocked his arm back like Warren Spahn ready to throw a fastball. Karen ducked out of the room just before the vase crashed into the wood behind her. Her father's yelling carried down the steps and onto the front porch.

Pablo made lunch as quietly as he could. Plimpton remained in the library, but not totally removed from the outside world. The telephone he had installed in the room was working overtime as the old man worked his way up the chain of command at the police station. His call eventually landed on the desk of chief James Murray.

The chief is a gravelly voiced man, who sounded like he'd swallowed too many marbles as a kid. His tone was gruff and his patience short. He said a lot without saying much.

Plimpton's pitch was simple - send a few men over to investigate without making it an official record.

The way he saw it, if word got into the papers, it'd give more bright boys the idea to make an easy target out of his horses. A few men investigating - without actually putting it on paper, should more than suffice for a job like this. If they catch the thieves and get his horse back, a tidy contribution to the policeman's ball would come their way, with a little extra for Murray's personal account. Not one to dicker on details, Murray promised a detective would be over that evening - off the record, of course.

Edward brought lunch up to the library. He and Karen knew it was too soon to put the old man and Pablo in the same room alone. Karen's beau wasn't too fond of the idea of being the patsy waiter, but he relented when Karen started to pout. He was a sucker for that sort of thing.

The door to the library absorbed three of Edward's knocks, and two more just like it. There was no response from inside the room. The sound of the record player tickled the floor under the door and gave the room just enough personality to convince Edward to try the handle. It turned and clicked. He drew in a deep breath and felt both lungs expand as the door opened slowly. Light from the room jumped out and threw yellow triangles all over the dark hallway. A maroon chair faced the window, away from the door. All Edward could see from his vantage point was the top of Plimpton's balding head reflecting in the day's glory.

He waited until the song on the record player stopped. Nerves rattled around in his throat and he was about to speak up when Plimpton beat him to it.

"What the hell do you want?" The old man's voice was low and calm - nothing like what Edward expected.

"I'm sorry to bother, sir," Edward started. "But I have your lunch here."

"You eat it," Plimpton replied. The tone was a little louder and more sincere. "That sonofabitch probably spiked the food with arsenic."

Edward cleared his voice and tried to be as sympathetic as he could. It wasn't a trait typically instilled in the English, but he was learning to fake it as he spent more time in America. "Come now," he said. "We both know Pablo wouldn't do that. The man adores you and feels simply dreadful about what happened."

"Then tell him to bring my horse back."

"He would if he could. He has no more information than you do, though."

Edward remained in the doorway. Plimpton didn't budge from his seat. The needle on the record player skipped and hopped over the label, making a fuzzy sound in the room.

"Leave the food on the table."

Edward did as he was told. That's the first rule of residing in the Plimpton household. He closed the door gently and stood in the darkened hallway. Not long after, Sinatra's voice entered the air again. It was joined by the sounds of silverware tapping on porcelain plates.

Edward made his way down the marble staircase and past Karen, who waited at the foot of the steps still pouting. He didn't speak to her as walked out the front door and to his room in the guest house.

The house remained mostly quiet for the rest of the afternoon. As the sun fell away for it's evening slumber, the glow under the library door threw shades of orange into the hall. The colors disappeared into the white of the dirtied dishes that sat on a tray on the hallway floor. Inside the room, Plimpton tried to calm his nerves with a book. He couldn't concentrate. Every two paragraphs, he stopped to glance at the clock. There was no sign of the detective Murray promised earlier in the day.

Outside the library, Pablo wrung his hands as he paced the foyer. Occasionally, he'd stop to eye the tray of dishes at the top of the staircase and argued with himself if he should venture to the second floor to retrieve them. He decided that his job was more important than his pride.

The soles of his shoes made a kissing sound against the marble stairs as he climbed slowly towards the tray. The ticking from the grandfather clock in the foyer synched with his heartbeat by the time he reached the top step. The metal handles of the tray were cold against his sweaty hands. A cup rattled and clinked as he held them closer to his chest. He nearly dropped the tray when the door to the library threw open. All of the air in the hall was sucked into the large room that smelled of leather and sawdust.

Plimpton's shoulders sagged towards his feet when he eyed the butler. A small growl that sounded more like a moan knocked around in his chest.

"Oh," he said. "It's you. I was expecting someone else."

Pablo hurried to piece together the right words. They came out in a mush.  
"I'm sorry Mr. Plimpton, I just... I am..." He gave up and let the tray settle in his limp arms around his waist.

"I don't care what you're doing," Plimpton said in a low, exhausted breath. "Good for nothing -" he let the rest of the sentence trail off in the air. Pablo didn't need him to finish it to know what he meant.

The old man turned his shoulder away from the butler and started back into the room. Pablo began to turn away, but stopped halfway.

"Mr. Plimpton," he said with what little confidence he'd been able to muster. The old man froze in place, but didn't look back at the butler. Pablo didn't wait to see if he would.

"You said I didn't lock the stable," he started. "That's not true. I always lock it. I check it three times a night. I get up from my sleep to check it every night. It was locked all night when the horse left."

The hall was silent for a moment. Pablo stared at the back of the wrinkled head until he saw a slight nod from the old man. Plimpton grunted something under his breath and shut the door. When the lock clicked on the knob, Pablo let out a deep breath he'd been holding in for what seemed like forever. His shoulders loosened and relaxed. The dishes clicked their approval. The walk back down the stairs and into the kitchen was silent.

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when a knock on the front door sounded like the cavalry coming home. The old man jumped from his chair in the library, unaware that he'd fallen asleep. He did that most evenings nowadays. It disturbed Karen and Edward's alone time in her bedroom. Pablo heard it from his new room in the stable, but he still managed to throw on a robe and get to the door before the third set of knocks.

He introduced himself as Detective Earl Mundley. A beige suit wrapped well around his tall, lean frame. Sandy hair sat atop a chiseled face with a pair of eyes so light they were almost translucent. A few stray freckles dotted his cheeks. The dark handle to a revolver stuck out from his belt.

Plimpton greeted Mundley at the foot of the staircase, he motioned the man to follow him towards the dining room. They took seats at a massive slab of mahogany in front of a window that overlooked a sprawling pasture with a stable. Pablo served coffee. Mundley's face was drawn. His eyes were heavy and he looked like a man that had already put in an honest day of work and just wanted to go home.

"You see that over there?" Plimpton said, angling a crooked finger in the direction of the stables. "Nearly a half million in race horses sleep in there every night. The best of the best. There isn't a collection on the whole coast that matches it, but I don't like to talk about them. It'd make me a target of shysters."

Mundley pointed out the recent story in the newspaper about the horses, which got a hiss out of the old man. He waved a limp hand towards the detective. "I can't help what those rags print. They'll say anything to make a few extra dimes."

For the next twenty minutes, the two men went over every detail of the day, from the stable being unlocked to the crumpled up note left behind. All the while, Mundley jotted down details onto a clean page in a well-worn notebook. After Plimpton had exhausted himself from talking, he took over.

"So what would you like us to do, Mr. Plimpton?"

"Get my horse back. And arrest the men that did this."

"But you want us to keep it off the record?"

"Absolutely," Plimpton said in a raised voice. "If word got out that I'm a quick pay for these type of things -"

Mundley interrupted, "so you're going to pay?"

Plimpton's face tied into knots. He swallowed a lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball. His eyes surveyed the room.

"Well, I suppose I don't have much choice," he said. "The horse is worth more to me than the three grand they're asking. As long as they don't -"

Before Plimpton could finish his thought, the conversation was torn apart by a faint scream and the blast of a gunshot upstairs. The sound made Pablo jump in the foyer. A coffee cup hopped from the tray he carried and crashed to the floor. The sound of heavy things falling rumbled the ceiling above the men, who were already up and moving with speed towards the stairs.

Their ears took them to Karen's room, where Edward lay shirtless in bed, grasping a shoulder that leaked crimson all over the white silk bed sheets atop him. Karen, though, was nowhere to be found.

"Where is she? Where is my daughter?" Plimpton demanded. Edward pointed with his good arm towards an open window, where soft pink curtains fluttered in the breeze that entered the room.

Edward's voice was scratchy with shock. His words were quick and out of order. "I don't know what happened," he said. "A guy - wearing a mask - he came in. Must have climbed the trellis. Grabbed Karen. I tried to fight, but he shot. Got away."

Mundley listened as he rifled through the room and inspected the contents of the outside world from Karen's window. He worked with the speed and skill of a veteran detective. Plimpton was impressed, but not willing to admit it.

Pablo called Plimpton's doctor at home while the other two men hunted for clues on the ground below Karen's window. A muddied pair of barefoot tracks died off about ten yards from the house. A broken bracelet of Karen's was laying in the grass. Nothing else was visible in the pitch black of night.

"Stealing a horse is one thing," Mundley said as he gazed into the distance with his hands planted firmly on his hips, "but I don't think we're going to be able to keep this out of the papers."

Plimpton's response was delayed when Pablo's head poked through the window above. "Dr. Thurmond is on his way," he called to the men.

Plimpton growled back, "don't interrupt us unless it's something important."

Mundley stared down old man through a crooked eye, tightened his hat down around his sandy head, and went back towards the house. Pablo showed him to the phone in the library, where he called the station. Plimpton ordered the butler to brew some more coffee. Edward lay groaning in the bed, ruining the sheets even more with his steady flow of blood. Soon after, Dr. Thurmond was at his side, inspecting the wound.

It was, according to the doctor, not life threatening. The small caliber bullet wasn't strong enough to penetrate the arm very far. Amid the loud groans of protest from Edward, the doctor was able to remove it in the bed. In less than thirty minutes, the shoulder was cleaned, bandaged, and cleared for a return to duty.

That return wouldn't take long. About an hour after the doctor left for home, a gaggle of detectives littered the foyer. With the steady flow of bodies in and out of the house, the men almost ignored the entrance of Karen Plimpton through the doorway.

She was disheveled. The nightgown that sat loosely on her shoulders was ripped in several places. Her right cheek was red and puffy. She'd been crying. Her hair was a mess of mud and leaves.

She didn't speak as she shuffled on bare feet onto the marble floors. Shock set up home in her eyes. Her left hand held the open front of her nightgown tightly around her breasts. The right hand held a wadded piece of paper. Plimpton approached his daughter with a look of half-satisfaction on his face.

"Where are they? Where are the men that have my horse?" he demanded.

Karen looked towards her father, but her gaze went right through him. She weakly lifted her right arm and aimed the paper towards him. Before he could grab it, it tumbled from her hand towards the ground. She soon joined it on the cold marble as she fainted into a heap.

The detectives moved around like a swarm of agitated bees. Pablo was once again on the phone with Dr. Thurmond and Plimpton and Mundley were crouched down on the floor examining the paper.

It was folded three times. In the center was a lock of hair the exact color of Bound by Desire's mane. On the paper was the same hard-penciled scribble writing from the original note - only this time it was larger and more determined.

"I said no cops. If you want the horse now, it'll cost you $6,000."

Plimpton looked at the lead detective, who bit at his lower lip in thought. Mundley rose to his feet and called a huddle of other detectives. The old man crumpled a letter for the second time in one day, only this time he tossed the hunk of paper as hard as he could towards the front door. He didn't rejoin the other men on his feet, though. Instead, he stayed in a crouch, running his thumb over his prized horse's hair.

"Pablo," the old man yelled without taking his eyes off of the locks in his hand. The butler's head popped over the banister above. "Call my banker. Tell him to draw up a check for six-thousand dollars immediately."

"But Mr. Plimpton," Pablo said sympathetically. "It's almost one o'clock in the morning."

Plimpton deep-set coal eyes shot up and were trained on the butler's sleep-deprived face.

"Do I look like I give a damn?"

Time refused to slow down as the night turned into early morning with a dozen or so detectives still swarming around the Plimpton home. Edward excused himself a few hours earlier to rest his wound while Pablo and Plimpton tended to Karen. Around five o'clock, their work paid off.

Some of the color was back in the young blonde's cheeks. She'd changed into less-tattered clothing and managed to hold down a full meal. That gave Mundley and his boys a chance to get some information from her.

The questions were typical and predictable - the who, what, when, where and why of police work. Karen remained patient (at least more patient than her father) and tried to recall everything she could about the evening.

One man entered her room with a gun. He grabbed Karen and began pulling her out the window. She tried to hold onto the window frame and broke her bracelet in the process. She wasn't strong enough and eventually was pulled through.

He dragged her to a car where two other men drove her in darkness through the woods. She said they had accents, but couldn't tell if they were English, German or something else. A blindfold kept her from knowing where they went. Resigned to her fate, she waited in the car when it came to a stop. She wasn't sure how long she sat there - she wasn't exactly in the mindstate to be counting minutes - but after a while, a man shoved a note in her hand and pushed her out of the car onto the dirt road. She heard it speed off as she removed the blindfold. It was too dark to get the make, model, or license plate of the car as it tore through the woods.

She walked in bare feet for a few miles until a good samaritan stopped to pick her up. That's how she got home.

Plimpton listened with disgust on his face as his daughter gave the information to the detectives around the dining room table. He paced the floor with his hands clenched in a red-hot grip behind his back. He bit his tongue as long as he could until he thought he tasted blood. He couldn't hold it any longer.

"What _IS_ the use for all this, gentlemen?" he roared. "All of these questions and all of this note taking. We're sitting here getting cozy while these men take off to God knows where with my horse."

No one tried to console the old man. The time for that was over. It was time for action, but that was hard to do in the detective's current state of sleeplessness. Mundley was the one to deliver the unpopular news to Plimpton. Being in charge requires such duties from time to time.

"Look, Mr. Plimpton," he started. "It's late. Real late. We haven't slept or eaten in hours. There's nothing we can do right now with the information we have. I'll keep a man posted on your barn. Maybe they'll come back looking for the money. We'll be ready for them if they do. In the meantime, get some rest. Call us when your banker draws up that check."

The other detectives scattered from the home before Mundley could finish. Plimpton's face was as sharp as knives as he stared down the young detective. The words he wanted to say built up in his throat, but Mundley didn't stick around long enough to hear them. Karen's head rested heavily on the table. Pablo stood nearby at the ready. Plimpton's silent death stare trained on the door that closed behind the cops.

"Pablo," he said, "get Chief Murray on the phone."

In a flash, the butler was gone. Within minutes, he got the connection from the operator and handed the phone to his boss.

Murray wasn't happy to hear from the old man. It was too early for business talk that didn't involve dead bodies or bomb threats. Murray was a man who enjoyed the peace of breakfast time. Plimpton didn't care if he interrupted the moment.

He tore into the chief, blaming him for the evening's events. If he would have sent a more competent detective, and earlier in the day, none of this would have happened. The chief patiently listened before revving up his charcoal voice for a response.

"Look Plimpton," he said. "I told you I'd do what I could do. This type of thing isn't easy to pull off without the necessary paperwork. We're not talking about horse theft anymore, this is armed kidnapping. If you want us to track these guys down, we'll do everything in our power to make that happen - but it'll have to be on the record from now on."

The line went silent. Murray waited a few moments before checking to see if Plimpton was still on the line. The old man cleared his throat to show that he was.

"One more night," Plimpton said. "I'll have the check drawn up this morning. Keep your man staked on my stable this evening. These people want money. They'll come out here to get it. You'll be ready for them and then it'll be over. If it isn't over by tomorrow, we do it your way."

Murray wasn't the type of man that stood for negotiations, but he wanted back to his breakfast and cared little for what happened to some rich man's horse. He agreed to the terms and hung up the phone.

Soon after, the Plimpton household was bathed in sleep. It stayed that way until nearly noon. By that point, a certified bank check for six-thousand dollars was sitting in the hands of a pimple-faced delivery boy at the front door. Karen, afraid to sleep in her own room, was in the guesthouse with Edward. Pablo wrestled with a bucket of paint as he repaired the window frame in Karen's room. He signed for the check and brought it up to Plimpton's bedside, where the old man conducted a symphony of snores. He placed the check on an end table and crept quietly across the carpet and out of the room.

Pablo continued to walk on silent feet down the stairs and into the front yard. He crossed a small patch of grass with a garden and entered the guest house. Karen and Edward were wide awake. Four large, leather suitcases sat on the bed, opened up and half-filled. The two shuffled around each other while tossing random items into the bags.

They eyed Pablo, but didn't stop their dance.

"The check is here," he said in a whisper so low that it was barely audible. "I put it by his bed."

"Good," Edward said. "That should settle it then. Tonight, we pick up the check from the stable. You keep the old man in the house. Karen, you keep lookout outside. I'll go pick up the horse and bring it back. Once the check is cashed, we'll split the money and be on our way."

Karen gave Edward a look of admiration. She stopped for a moment, sighed, and planted a kiss on him that made Pablo blush. He flinched towards his wounded arm. The pain wasn't as bad as he expected. He made sure that when they staged the kidnapping, the gun used to plug his shoulder was a pea shooter.

Karen cooed, "I'll be so happy to be away from that man. And we'll finally have the money we need to start our life together."

"Insufferable bastard," Edward said. "We should kill the horse and leave its carcass in the stable."

"No!" Pablo protested. "No killing. We take the money and leave the horse. That's it. No killing."

Edward's lips curled up to show his teeth. He shook his head at the butler in the doorway. "Still sticking up for the old man," he said. "What'd he ever do for you? He bullies you and bosses you around like you're some kind of slave."

"Please," Pablo said. "Don't talk that way about Mr. Plimpton. He helped me when I needed him most. Let's just get him his horse back and split the money. Then I can get my wife and daughter back and you two can go to England."

"England," Karen said with a look of romance in her eyes. "I can't wait."

The couple started to kiss again, but Pablo didn't stick around for the encore. When he re-entered the house, Plimpton was standing at the top of the stairwell in his pajamas, his eyes still fuzzy from sleep.

"There you are," he said. "Where's my breakfast?"

"Right away, Mr. Plimpton."

That afternoon it rained like it hadn't rained in a long time. Pablo sloshed through the mud to the stable to feed the three horses their lunch. He passed a soaked detective in a raincoat that looked none-too-pleased to be on horsesitting duty. The two men exchanged nods and went about their business. Around five o'clock, Edward took off in his Packard convertible near the woods. Karen stood in the doorway of the guest house and watched him leave. She spotted Pablo on the front porch of the house and gave him a wave.

Plimpton was in the library listening to the rain and counting the minutes until the sun set. The certified check was sealed in an envelope and placed in a plastic bag to keep it dry. He was to put it in the stable at seven that evening and wait until morning to check on the horse. Any funny stuff and the horse wouldn't make it. He was assured the detective staked on the stable was the best on the force. During a slight break in the rain, he took the check to it's place. It was about six-thirty.

Pablo cooked Plimpton's favorite beef stew for dinner. It was rare that the old man ate any of his meals outside of the library, but tonight he sat at the mahogany table in the dining room. He sat in silence and watched the barn between streaks of rain that chased down the window. A small light showed the wet ground underneath the stable door. The detective on duty stood just outside the spotlight near a bush in the darkness.

The minutes ticked by like hours until it was almost ten o'clock. Pablo watched from the kitchen as Plimpton's head nodded up and down in a battle against sleep. When he heard the sound of snores, he crept onto the porch with a flashlight. The sound of rain assaulting the roof above was all he heard as he flashed the light on and off three times. A moment later, the light above the stable door cracked and popped and sunk the area into pure black darkness. A muffled groan broke through mother nature's handiwork. There was a slight splash and nothing else.

Around eleven, Pablo carried a cup of coffee, purposely making a clatter on his way into the dining room. Plimpton shot up from his slumber and wiped some dampness from the side of his mouth.

"Oh, Mr. Plimpton," he said, "I didn't realize you were asleep. I brought you some coffee."

Plimpton didn't hear a word the butler said. He struggled to focus his waking eyes on the stable, which was now invisible from the window in the dining room.

"The light," he yelled. "My horse."

Plimpton rose to his feet like a man twenty years his junior. He shot through the door and darted over puddles and threw open the wooden plank that locked the large red barn. His sigh echoed through the wood building when his flashlight beam found the brown, muscular body of Bound by Desire, safe and sound. He stayed in the barn for several minutes before emerging once again in the rain. He jumped and hopped and danced across the puddles like a kid heading home from school.

Three towels waited for him in the foyer. Each worked wonders on drying his thinning skin. As he dabbed his arms and neck with the warm cloth, he talked aloud to no one particular.

"Who would do such a thing?" he said. "The world is going to hell."

Pablo stood in the foyer with the same cup of coffee and two more towels.

"Were three enough?" Pablo asked. "I assumed you'd like a drink."

"You know what happens when you assume?" the man snarled.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Plimpton," Pablo said. "I'm sorry."

Plimpton dropped the towels on the marbled floor and headed for his library. Pablo followed behind and scooped the damp rags up in one motion.

"Oh," Plimpton added as he marched up the stairs without looking back. "Call Murray. Tell him the detective he sent is laid out in a puddle by the barn. They need to come claim him before he drowns. I won't have any death on my property."

"Yes, Mr. Plimpton."

Before entering the library, he stopped and looked down at the butler at the foot of the staircase. For a moment, Pablo swore he saw a smile on the man's face.

"And open a bottle of champagne," he said. "I have to make a call, but afterwards, we celebrate. My baby is back."

"Yes, Mr. Plimpton," Pablo responded with a grin as wide as a windshield. "That's wonderful news, Mr. Plimpton."

The bottle of champagne didn't last long as the four revelers celebrated the return of Plimpton's prized pony. The old man was in rare form, cracking jokes that sounded like the last three days never happened. As the grandfather clock in the foyer struck three o'clock, the mood in the room slowed to a crawl. Karen and Edward sat quietly at the table, while Pablo cleaned the mess around the dining room. The old man's head bowed in defeat to the Sandman. Snores came shortly after.

Pablo finished his duties before excusing himself to his room. He still had to pack and needed to be ready to leave quickly once the check was cashed when the bank opened. Karen and Edward, already packed and prepared, waited until Pablo was at the stable to make their way out of the home.

Sleeping in the stable for the last two nights was uncomfortable and humiliating to Pablo, but he took solace in the fact that this would be his last night there. By this time tomorrow, he'd be headed back to Mexico with three grand in his pocket. Surely his wife would return to him with that kind of money.

As he threw off the lock to the barn, he was startled by the movement of the horses inside. The old man wasn't the only one having a welcome home party, he thought to himself. Pablo dropped his suitcase on the hay near Bound by Desire. It fell with a thud and stirred a piece of paper that sat near the butler's makeshift bed. He picked it up and read it by candlelight in the dark room. The thick blue ink soaked through the paper showing excellent penmanship on both sides.

It read:

Dear Pablo,

I hope you don't hold my actions against me over the last few days. It's been a very trying time and I've been under an incredible amount of stress. With the return of my horse, I hope everything can go back to normal.

Pablo stopped for a moment and wiped some moisture from the corner of his eye. He sighed and carried on.

But getting back to normal means coming clean. Putting everything on the table so that the new start can be a fresh one.

You're an ungrateful son of a bitch. I gave you a second chance at life and how do you repay me? You steal my horse and my money. Did you honestly think I'd not know? You pose as an illiterate, but had no problem signing for the check when the delivery man came today... in the same idiot handwriting that the notes were written in.

Mexico is beautiful this time of year. I hope your wife is enjoying her new life. As for you, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. Let me know what you think of him.

  * Plimpton

Pablo clenched the note in his hand and tossed it near the candle, where it popped and exploded into a small flame atop a metal table. The flames from the candle danced along the wall and wrapped around a dark figure that grew larger by the second. Pablo couldn't make out its features, but smelled the odor of sweat and dirt in the air.

"Who's there?" he demanded to no response. "I said who's there?"

The candle light peeled back to reveal a large round face as pale as a full fishbowl and smiling like the devil himself. Sharp teeth carved out jagged shadows in an open mouth. A diamond big enough to hit off a tee was plugged in his left earlobe. Something shiny flickered in his small hand. Pablo gasped and the gun exploded. The butler landed with a thud in the hay next to Bound by Desire.

Near the guest house, the explosion made Karen nearly jump from her shoes. She grabbed Edward by his bandaged arm and caused a yelp from the man.

"What was that?" she begged.

"Who knows?" Edward said with a slightly drunk drawl. "Probably the old man lighting off some firecrackers to celebrate his precious horse returning home." He unlocked the door and tugged the woman in with him by the shirt sleeve, kissing her neck in the process. Her giggle smelled of alcohol.

Karen flipped a switch that brought the room alive with electricity. Edward stood near the bed, holding a piece of paper that wasn't there when they left. His eyes moved like a typewriter as he scanned each line. After he finished reading, he dropped the note at his feet. It fluttered to the carpet, where Karen was able to see the final handwritten line - _I didn't take it from your mother and I surely won't take it from you_.

Edward's eyes were hollow and his jaw sagged. She pleaded with him to talk, but he wouldn't. His gaze was set over her left shoulder, where a large man with a gun stood in an opened closet.

In the dining room, Plimpton finished his glass of champagne and watched the final drops of rain run down the window. It was still dark outside, but not for long. He waited until he heard two large booms come from the direction of the guest house. The windows went dark. He smiled and brought his empty glass to the sink in the kitchen. Then he went to bed.

