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Copyright © 2015 by Kristen Elise, Ph.D.

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ISBN: 978-0-9893819-4-9
NEW ENGLAND AND THE MID-ATLANTIC

Marred

Sue Coletta

A Psychological Thriller/Mystery

Set in Alexandria, NH

Murder is Academic

Lesley A. Diehl

A Cozy Mystery

Set in Susquehanna River Valley, NY

Doha 12

Lance Charnes

An International Thriller

Set in Philadelphia, PA, Brooklyn, NY, Manhattan, NY, Washington, DC, Detroit, MI, Burbank, CA, Beirut, Tel Aviv, Rotterdam, Modena

The Death Row Complex

Kristen Elise, Ph.D.

A Medical/Science Thriller

Set in Washington, DC and San Diego, CA

In the Dismal Swamp

Patrick Balester

A Cozy Mystery

Set in Great Bridge, VA

SOUTHEAST AND THE DEEP SOUTH

Cypher

Cathy Perkins

A Romantic Suspense Novel

Set in Greenville, SC

FURtive Investigation:

A Psycho Cat and the Landlady Mystery

Joyce Ann Brown

A Cozy Mystery

Set in a small town in Arkansas and Kansas City, MO

East of the Pier

Janet Elizabeth Lynn

A Murder Mystery

Set in New Orleans, LA, Tampa, FL, and Los Angeles, CA

Just Another Termination

Linda Thorne

A Cozy Mystery

Set on the Gulf Coast, MS

FLORIDA

Deadly Fantasies

Kelly Miller

A Detective Novel, Female Protagonist Romantic Thriller

Set in Tampa, FL and Ybor City, FL

So Many Reasons to Die

Carole Sojka

A Traditional Mystery, Police Procedural

Set on the Treasure Coast, FL

THE MIDWEST

Counteract

Tracy Lawson

A Political Thriller, Young-Adult Dystopian Action/Adventure

Set in Columbus, OH, Knox County, KY, and Washington, DC

Alpha

Stephen Brayton

An Action Mystery, Private Investigator Novel

Set in Des Moines, IA

CATastrophic Connections

A Psycho Cat and the Landlady Mystery

Joyce Ann Brown

A Cozy Mystery

Set in Kansas City, MO

THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

Mustard's Last Stand

Kathy McIntosh

A Humorous Suspense/Mystery/Thriller

Set in North Idaho and Spokane, WA

Playing the Game

Sara Rickover

A Corporate/Legal/Financial Thriller

Set Near The Rocky Mountains, CO

TEXAS AND THE SOUTHWEST

A Ton of Gold

James R. Callan

A Contemporary Suspense/Cozy Mystery

Set in Dallas, TX and East Texas

Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer

Elaine Faber

A Cozy Cat Mystery

Set in Eagle Pass, TX

Atomic Medium

G.G. Collins

A Paranormal Mystery, Historical Thriller

Set in Santa Fe, NM

Night of the Chupacabra

Michael Hebler

A Historical Dark Thriller

Set in the New Mexico desert, NM

THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST

Help Me Nora

Diana Deverell

A Legal Thriller/Mystery

Set in Spokane, WA, Oregon, and Idaho

CALIFORNIA

Return of the French Blue

Pamela Boles Eglinski

A Romantic Suspense, Spy Thriller

Set in the Napa Valley, CA, Berkeley, CA, and France

Wolf Castle

gay toltl kinman

A Historical/Gothic Novel

Set in San Simeon, CA, London, England, San Francisco, CA, and Los Angeles, CA

A Snitch in Time

Sunny Frazier

A Police Procedural, Amateur Sleuth Novel

Set in the Sierra Nevada Foothills, California

What She Saw

Sheila Lowe

A Psychological Suspense Novel

Set in Southern California

Go Down Hard

Craig Faustus Buck

A Noir, Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction Novel

Set in Los Angeles, CA

Rhodes The Mojave-Stone

M.M. Gornell

A Literary Mystery

Set in the Mojave High Desert, CA

Fatal Debt

A Dana Mackenzie Mystery

Dorothy Howell

A Cozy Mystery

Set in San Bernadino County, CA

The Final Checkpoint

Will Zeilinger

A Mystery

Set in Southern California

The Vesuvius Isotope

Kristen Elise, Ph.D.

An Archaeological and Historical Mystery/Thriller

Set in San Diego, CA, Campania, Italy, and Egypt

South

Lance Charnes

A Near-Future Thriller

Set in Southern California, Yuma, AZ, and Mexicali, BC

Murder, U.S.A.

A Crime Fiction Tour of the Nation

Marred

Sue Coletta

A Psychological Thriller/Mystery

Set in Alexandria, NH
Chapter One

Monday, July 17, 2006  
1:30 p.m.

I used to believe people were inherently good, if only at their core. I saw the brokenness of the homeless. I respected the overachiever in the football star hoping for Daddy's approval even if he'd never get it. I saw the heart of sinners, the souls of lovers. Shattered dreams of an abandoned child. I saw good in evil, spirit in the unholy. I understood the complexities of love, marriage, life. Hell, I welcomed the challenge. I had hopes and dreams and affirmations. I did.

Then, that all changed. My views shattered, or my eyes finally opened.

That's what Niko said, though devastation also filled his eyes. No longer did he think of me as his optimistic wife who loved life. I missed our blissful marriage. I missed our baby. I missed my blindfold. If only I could put it back on. Most of all, I missed...me.

Living on autopilot was the only way I could survive.

After my third shower of the day, I hobbled down the stairs, clutching a load of laundry. White-hot pain shot to my right knee and folded me in half. The basket of clothes tumbled to the floor—socks, T-shirts, jeans, shorts, and Niko's sheriff's uniform strewn about the living room.

I fell back against the stairs, twined my arms around the railing, and stared at the white lines on my forearms. I straightened, and a thick scar on my jugular tugged at the skin. After three never-ending years, hours and hours of counseling, one small reminder—scars from the knife—and I relived that night in Boston.

The phone startled me when it rang.

I didn't want to answer, but for the Sheriff's wife that wasn't an option. "Hello?"

"Who's this?" A man's voice, distorted, disguised.

"Who's this? You called me."

"I think I have the wrong number."

A dial tone sounded.

That was weird. I shrugged it off and reloaded the clothes in the basket. When I headed down the hall, the phone rang a second time. I'd had it with this guy. "Hello," I answered, firm and harsh.

"Sheriff Quintano, please." Same voice.

"Didn't you just call here?"

"Sheriff Quintano, please."

"He's not home. He's at work. Who is this?"

The line went dead.

"Jerk!" I slammed the handset in the cradle, and a chill sheathed my arms in goose bumps. I'd announced to a stranger that I was alone in the house.

The cordless phone's musical trill resonated through the hall. Ruger and Colt jolted to their paws and took notice. I winced, not wanting to answer.

Third ring.

I rushed over. "I told you he's not home. What do you want? Why are you calling back?"

"Do you want to live forever?"

A cold sweat broke across my back. "What'd you say?" This cannot be happening. Not again. Unless...evil followed us here.

"Do you want to live forever?"

He found me. How? We were so careful. Niko and I hadn't left a forwarding address. Our phone number wasn't listed in the book. Neighbors asked where we were moving, and we refused to disclose any details. If questioned, I said north and left it at that. We escaped clean and faded into obscurity. Yet, he called.

I dropped the handset in the cradle, disconnecting from the past.

Adrenaline masked my pain, and I sprinted from room to room, closed and secured all the windows and double-checked the locks on the front and back doors, bolted upstairs, and pressed my foot on the sliders' security bar. Colt and Ruger watched me zip around the house, not knowing what was wrong. Ruger gave up and laid his head on crossed paws while Colt bounded over and stayed on my heels.

When I returned to the kitchen table, the phone rang again. My gaze locked on the handset, and I froze. Colt's face ping-ponged between me and the phone. He put the pieces together in his mind, trotted over, and knocked the receiver off the cradle, gently clasped the handset in his lips and carried it to me. By using his training to aid me, he was trying to help, but at that moment, it was the last thing I wanted him to do.

I didn't speak.

The man panted like Ruger after an exhausting game of fetch. I slapped a hand over my mouth and held back screams, refusing to give him the satisfaction of terrifying me. I also couldn't hang up. His breath held me hostage. My fingers lost feeling around the handset, knuckles white from lack of blood flow. Unable to move, I was in his thrall.

"Do you want to live forever?"

I gaped left, right. He could be outside my home hiding in the bushes. If I didn't respond, he might come inside. Perhaps he'd stalked me for days, weeks, months. Maybe he'd always been here. Out of reach, in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Planning.

Why, oh, why was this happening again?

Razor-sharp pain shot to my right knee, ribs, arms, and stomach, his haunting question conjuring the injuries from the fateful night. I cringed. "What do you want?"

His demon-like cackle shot through my core like a poison-tipped arrow.

If only Niko had killed him that night...if his guts had splattered my living room walls, dousing me in his death...if he'd taken his last breath and his evil soul plummeted to hell...perhaps then I could breathe without his ghostly fingers around my throat.

How did he survive?

Niko had emerged outside the sliders and shot through one of the doors. The bullet struck the masked man in the shoulder. Glass shattered everywhere. The dogs barreled inside and over to me, whimpering, licking the blood off my face. They were so preoccupied with tending to my wounds, the intruder got a shot off before he fell.

The bullet struck Niko in the shoulder, and he flew backward and landed in the garden I'd made around the apple tree. It had taken me days to edge the garden in slanted bricks. When Niko fell, those bricks drove into his spine and incapacitated him long enough for the assailant to scramble to his feet and flee.

But not before he hovered over me and offered one last warning. "I'll see you soon, Sage Quintano."

That night he cackled too, as though he foresaw this day. After the attack, I hid for weeks, months. I lost track of how long I made myself a prisoner in my home. January slowed my heart rhythm to a manageable pace. Niko said that was when I healed. Not true. I'd never be the same. He'd stolen my child, my soul, my very being. The person I once was—outgoing, funny, adventurous—no longer existed. With his wrath and venomous, malevolent acts, he'd marred me for life.

For that, he should pay.

Deep in his throat, he chortled, sounding like the devil incarnate.

I bolted into the living room. In the corner by the sofa a grandfather clock ticked, slow and loud like a dying patient's heartbeat. Disconnected from my tormentor, I thumbed the button for a dial tone. Niko's cell rang twice before I hung up. Because I hadn't shared the intimate details of the assault, if I explained how I knew this was the same man, there would be questions. Lots of questions. Questions I was unwilling to answer. If my husband heard the truth, he might leave.

I was trapped. Perfect prey. Nowhere to run; no place left to hide.

~~~

Two hours later, I was searching through old records. The moving van we'd rented in Boston, utility shut-off notices, a letter I wrote to the Boston Herald to stop the newspaper—every receipt from the weeks before the move to see if Niko or I had mistakenly given out our new address.

I found nothing.

A hospital bill caught my eye as I loaded the papers back in the box. In the corner of the bill was our phone number. This number. The woman in the billing department had demanded a way to contact us, and as I recovered at home, I overheard Niko rattle off the digits.

He glanced at me and mouthed, "It's fine. Don't worry."

Only now, it wasn't fine. This was how he'd found us. Found me.

Someone knocked at the front door, and Colt and Ruger howled. I whirled around, my heart sinking in my chest.

Another knock.

I approached the front entrance. One step. The other. I cracked open a peek-a-boo window at the top of the oak door.

I exhaled.

Our mailman, George, wore a smile that spread across his chubby face. "Need ya to sign fer this, Mrs. Quintano." He passed me a clipboard and a gold pen.

I signed my name on the line and passed it back. "Nice pen, George. Was it a gift from your wife?"

Small towns. Even though we'd only lived here a short while, we knew the key players—employees of the post office, police station, library, and supermarket. Hard not to. If the librarian heard me cough, she'd tell every patron to be wary of my cold. She couldn't help herself. All the more reason I offered a warm smile in public and nothing more.

"Yup. Betty found it at Carl's." Carl's Cool Stuff, our local antique/junk/pawn shop. "Ol' Carl sold it fer a buck. A buck! Ain't that a hoot? Real gold too." George shook his head. "Poor Carl. He's gettin' old." George was getting old, too. He forgot to hand me the priority mail envelope. "Whoops. Here ya go, Mrs. Quintano." He tipped his hat. "Ya have yerself a great day."

"You too, George."

I carried the envelope to the kitchen table, and a thrill zipped up my spine. I loved presents. The smudged return address made it impossible to tell who sent it, but I presumed Niko.

When we were first married, he sent me gifts all the time. He'd say, "Just because I love you." Or "Just because you make me happy." He called them his just because gifts.

I tore it open.

Inside the sleeve was a necklace I recognized immediately. As ten-year-olds, my sister and I saved our allowances to buy two necklaces, each with a silver-and-turquoise angel pendant. When put together they formed Gemini. Being identical twins—Chloe two minutes older and she never let me forget it—these necklaces professed our unity. A sacred bond we thought would endure through anything, no matter how old we got or what transpired in our lives.

I tossed it back in the mail sleeve.

We'd had words a few weeks ago over something stupid. I guess this was her way of saying she wanted nothing more to do with me. As I set the envelope on the kitchen counter, I couldn't imagine what had prompted Chloe to do this. But I intended to find out and dialed her number.

Her cell phone rang and rang. I called her landline and got her answering machine. "I got your message, Chlo, but I wish you'd reconsider. Call me back so we can talk about this. I'm so sorry. I should've never judged you. Please, Chlo, I miss you. I want my sister back." I sniffled. "Love you to the moon, 'round the world, and back again."

I waited to see if she answered. "Okay. I've said my piece. Call me." I was about to hang up when a man answered.

"Chloe isn't here."

I bit back the anger. "Joe?"

"Yeah."

"Tell Chloe her sister called...please."

"Yup," he said, but there was something in his tone that made me think otherwise. "This Sage?"

"Since you're sleeping with her, you ought to know." I dialed back the attitude in case he told Chloe. "Yes. It's Sage. Tell her I called...please."

"You can bet your sweet ass I'll do more than that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Bye, Sage."

Before I could respond, he slammed down the phone, a crash that nearly broke my eardrum. As I re-cradled the handset, a familiar suspicion reared its ugly mug, a haunting question screaming through my senses—was Chloe safe?
Chapter Two

3:00 p.m.

Sheriff Niko Quintano drove down Bailey Road in Alexandria, wringing the steering wheel in his hands, upper lip twitching. A murderer roamed free in his sleepy community, muddying the lake's shoreline, stinking up the fresh pine scent, evil overshadowing glorious mountain ranges. Lack of violent crime was a large part of why he and Sage decided to move north. Niko was not as young as he used to be, and working round the clock to catch a scumbag who got his kicks slaughtering innocent lives was not what he had in mind for life after fifty.

He'd done his twenty years at Boston PD—thirty, actually—and earned enough of a pension to support his family. He wasn't the type of man to sit around all day. Unlike his wife, who had the perfect excuse to do nothing and still refused to succumb to rheumatoid arthritis, his health was near perfect. Except for an ache in his left shoulder from where a bullet had sliced his rotator cuff.

When it rained or snowed, the old wound forced him to recall the night he almost lost Sage and to question himself. What, if anything, could he have done differently, when a serial killer decided to get even by torturing the one person he loved most in this world? No, dealing with a multiple murderer was not what he had in mind when they chose Alexandria from the other rural towns in the area. Far from it.

In the passenger seat, Deputy Frankie Campanelli stared out the window watching the world sail by. Swiveling toward him, she clicked off the stereo. "You look like you're a million miles away this morning. Is it cause of this?" She jabbed her chin toward a dirt road on the left, the latest murder site.

"I dunno. Just thinking about Sage. This morning we—" He paused, rephrased. "I thought things would be different here, is all."

"Hey, I get it." She flashed a flat hand. "Preachin' to the choir."

These murders must be getting to him. For a split second, he did a double-take as the sun illuminated reddish highlights in his deputy's raven hair and the breeze from the open window whisking her wispy bangs. He cleared his throat, erasing the image from his mind.

He hung a left onto a dirt road that climbed at a forty-five-degree angle, up a steep hill. "I'll never get used to these friggin' cliffs. Lookit this shit. Half the town's flat, the other half's like driving up the side of Mt. Rushmore."

"That's because we are, genius."

Niko banged a right at the top and Frankie took hold of the J-strap to keep from falling in his lap—thank God. "I meant a mountain," she said. "Mt. Rushmore's a mountain, right?"

"You're kidding, right?"

Gravel and ledge caused the Ford Police Interceptor to buck like a wild stallion, and he tightened his grip on the wheel as he set his sight back on the road. "The shocks are getting a great workout today."

Frankie stared out the windshield, no doubt resisting the urge to toss another wise remark his way. Why she showed some self-control wasn't clear.

At the peak, Niko swung in front of a deserted barn with natural siding, the clear coat peeling in narrow strips. Pine needles masked dead, straw-like grass. A heavily wooded lot surrounded the property with dense foliage, and Niko couldn't tell if the place was swarming with reporters yet. The faint scent of barbecue chicken lingered in the air from a smoldering campfire, smoke billowing through treetops. Illegal, no doubt.

The press had probably camped out to snag a shot of the murder victim. Damn vultures. They could care less about the victims' families. A bunch of frickin' monkeys, the whole lot of them, climbing trees, lying flat behind brush. Anything for a story.

Squinting out the windshield, he slid the shifter into park. "Think the vultures are around?"

She threw her head back. "Hah! Probably. They don't give a rat's ass. But we usually spot a van on the main drag. Haven't seen one. You?"

"They probably paid the neighbor to stash it behind his house." He swatted the air. "Ah, who the hell knows with this crew? I'll tell ya, they'd never get away with this crap in Boston. But here..." There was no point in finishing. No amount of bitchin' would get them to stop. He was the sheriff, and he couldn't get them to back off. Frankie probably stopped listening, anyhow—her usual MO.

One hand on the door handle, he twisted at the waist. "This time let's avoid the topic of Colebrook. There may be unfamiliar faces here, and I don't want them to get the wrong impression." Ever since Frankie transferred in from farther north, whenever someone asked about Colebrook, New Hampshire she used her favorite line to describe her quaint, rural hometown. "Where sheep are sheep and men are scared." Every time she did, Niko wanted to dive under the nearest desk and bury his face, mortified.

She rolled her lips. "Whatever. I'm only kiddin' around."

"That's fine when it's you and me. But cops who don't know you might not...appreciate...your humor like I do."

"Fine. Can we go?"

"What's the rush? You got a cow tippin' party to get to?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Sure, it's fine for you to use hillbilly humor but not me."

Niko stuck his tongue out and exited the truck. Over the roof, he said, "Seriously. Let's keep it professional."

"Why do you always say that? Since when am I not professional?"

He raised one eyebrow and spun on his heels. Henry Reed, the officer who arrived first on scene, followed Niko and Frankie into the barn.

"Whadda we got?" asked Niko. "This our guy?"

At the mere mention of the crime scene, Reed turned a nice shade of green.

It was only a matter of time before he puked all over Niko's new Italian loafers that Sage bought him with the publisher's last advance. Eyes wide, the young officer slapped his mouth, cheeks puffed—a panicked stare, asking permission to leave.

"Go," he urged. "I can't have you contaminating the scene." As Reed bolted from the barn, Niko shook his head, muttering, "Damn rookies."

Raising his chin in greeting, he passed the Medical Examiner's assistant, Billy Michaels, the mayor's only son. His sniffed the air. Aramis cologne. That could only mean one thing. "Doc Gaines beat us here," he said to Frankie. "That's new."

The inside of the barn had a small loft that overlooked the first level. Decrepit wood walls crumbled over time, scattering pieces of timber across a faded wide-pine floor. Different size footprints ran back, forth, and diagonal, over the wood. With patrol strolling in and out at will, it was impossible to tell if the mutt left any prints of his own.

Decomposing flesh left a rank taste in his mouth, and the unmistakable scent of death filled his sinuses. He surveyed the empty room.

Where'd Frankie disappear to now?

His sight narrowed on the letter H painted in blood on the center pane of a side window, and his eyebrows drew together.

Frankie called his name. From where, wasn't clear.

No corpse was hanging from the rafters. Why would the mutt change his MO? Beneath the loft floor, an elaborate lacing of ropes stretched from a pulley system to a ten-inch wooden beam, halfway up the cathedral wall. Shredded ivory material dripped off stakes in a board, like pieces of raw meat, and zip ties dangled from the rope where the woman's feet must have been bound.

Now it made sense. "Where are you?" He figured Frankie was behind a massive wooden box, large enough to hold a body, toward the back of the main floor. But he couldn't see her or the ME.

Frankie rose to her feet—her shoulder length hair now clipped in a loose ponytail. With her olive complexion and radiant green eyes, some might call her a looker. Once she opened her mouth, however, the illusion was over.

As he approached the box, his mouth fell open. Beneath her Sheriff's Department windbreaker, Frankie was wearing skin-tight black jeans, a fiery-red T-shirt with a deep neckline, and a leather vest. Not exactly what he had in mind for his deputies. He wasn't strict with the dress code. Hell, even he despised the uniform. The only time he insisted was when they worked a crime scene or testified in court. Otherwise, all he asked was that they presented themselves as professionals. Leave it to Frankie to be the nonconformist. He gave it a shot anyway. "Where's your uniform?"

"How can anyone look good in that thing?" Her five-inch heels clicked around the front of the box, the sound muffled from disposable booties. Tap, tap, tap coiled through the barn.

Niko pulled his jaw closed and strode over to the ME, squatting next to a dead woman, behind the box. "What happened?"

Frankie hovered over his shoulder. "Freaky, right?"

Niko glanced back. She was a little too close for his liking.

"Lookit how her hands ripped right down the middle," she remarked. "That had to hurt, huh? Ooh, there's somethin' else." She hip-checked the ME out of the way and yanked down the front of the woman's gown. "She's still got her tits. Whassup with that?"

"This isn't right. Why wouldn't he—" With a slight shake of the head, he waved his hand in front of his face, erasing his comment. "This isn't right. He doesn't make mistakes. He knows exactly where to drive in those spikes. He wouldn't be careless enough to clip them right after the fingers. Last time, he drilled straight through the palm. And it worked. So why change it? Something's not right here."

Frankie pointed out, "Maybe he was in a hurry. Maybe someone was comin'. Maybe he knew her. It could be any one of a gazillion things."

"I suppose." He scrutinized the victim's injuries. "What'd we withhold from the press last time?"

She touched the back of her hand to Niko's forehead. "You all right? You're the one who said we should say she was murdered and not give specifics. So that's what we did. We didn't tell 'em shit." She lowered her voice. "Frickin' vultures."

When he parted his lips to respond, she wedged her fingers under the center of her bra, wiggling, adjusting the cups. "This thing's been riding up on me all day."

He shielded the side of his eyes with his hand, and a flush crept across his cheeks.

"So," Frankie called him back, "what're you thinkin', partner? Copycat?"

"Nah." In the hopes of erasing the last two seconds from his mind, he cleared his throat. "You'd have to be a sick pup to copy this guy. Besides, how would someone know the signature? No. This is our guy, all right. He got sloppy. We figure out why, we'll be all that much closer to catching him." He paused. "Oh, right. Someone said there's a witness? Where's he?"

"Childs has him in the cruiser. Why? You think he saw somethin'? It's my understanding he only found the vic."

The Medical Examiner, Dr. Christian Gaines, a brilliant black man who must spend half his salary on Aramis cologne, straightened the dead woman's face. Black Xs stitched over the eyes and mouth appeared as though the killer was trying to erase her features.

See no evil; speak no evil? Nah. Too easy.

Deep indentations left red rings around her wrists and ankles from being handcuffed and shackled for hours before death, identical to the first victim, Shelly Winters. Long blonde hair clumped with dried blood matted crimson strands to the sides of her face.

Tiny freckles speckled her nose and high cheekbones, and for a flash, she reminded him of Sage at that age. He erased it from his mind. The last thing he needed was to emotionally relate. If he did, he'd never be able to investigate with a clear head. Stitch holes had trickles of dried blood, but the rest of her face was washed clean. Contusions and abrasions scarred her arms, and cigarette burns scabbed the soles of her feet.

Frankie gasped. "Whoa. She's way younger than the first one. What's she, Doc, 'bout eighteen?"

Gaines cut the stitching around the girl's mouth and examined her teeth. "As you are aware, I do not specialize in odontology. That said, if you are looking for my opinion, I would say..." He leaned in. "Approximately eighteen years of age, yes."

"What's with this box?" Expecting a hollow sound, Niko knocked on the top.

Thud.

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About Sue Coletta:

A member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, Sue Coletta is a crime thriller author who lives with her husband and spoiled Rottweiler in rural New Hampshire. When she's not writing, which isn't often, she enjoys trips to the bear show, petting zoo, or anything that involves animals or crime—her two biggest passions.

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Murder is Academic

Lesley A. Diehl

A Cozy Mystery

Set in Susquehanna River Valley, NY
Chapter One

In the fading light, my eye caught a flash of yellow on the shore. It looked as if someone had dropped an article of clothing next to the stone pile near the bridge construction site.

"This is stupid," I said to my friend Annie. "Let's head in and give it up for the evening. We're losing the light anyway." From my position in the back of the canoe, I watched her head of short, brown curls bob up and down in agreement, and we paddled for the shoreline. We hit the sandy bottom of the Susquehanna River and jumped out to haul the canoe onto the bank. I headed up the shore toward the construction equipment parked in the clearing near the project trailer. Wow, I thought as I walked past a mountain of rock, they sure are using a lot of gravel.

"What is that?" I walked over to what I spied from the canoe. Probably a construction crew member dropped it or threw it down during work today. I'd leave it on the steps of the trailer for the foreman to find when work got back underway in the morning.

Ugly plaid. Reminded me of the pants some golfers wore along with their Kelly green shirts and white patent leather belts. Not my idea of fashion. "I'll give Frank a call to come get us." Annie pulled her cell phone out of her shorts.

"Good. I'm beat."

It was stupid, this paddling thing. Annie and I were a couple of middle-aged professors, both carrying more fat than muscle, delusional that we could compete in the upcoming canoe regatta. Frank, my nearest neighbor on the lake, shamed us into giving it a try by pointing out he competed last year and was ten years older than we. Of course, Frank was all stringy muscle and lean body mass, and he liked to take on any challenge. This was our first day of training, and I knew my muscles might never forgive my overindulgence. The most I ever required of them was to lift a coffee cup.

"Frank said to sit tight. He'll be right here."

I pulled at the clothing to dislodge it from under the gravel and touched something far more substantial than cloth. I felt flesh. Not warm, living flesh, but cold, hard skin, the kind you read about in crime novels. Dead flesh.

"Annie! Come here. Quick!"

We both looked down at the body, most of it still buried under the gravel.

"Ugh," said Annie. "What do we do now?"

Annie was no more eager than I to share our resting spot with a dead body, but, until Frank arrived, we were stuck. We debated calling the police, but thought we'd like Frank to be here when we did that. I don't know why. It just seemed safer somehow. But we did feel compelled to sit with the body until he showed up. As if someone would carry it off?

I wished Frank would hurry. The sun was setting, shrouding the construction area in shadows and making me shiver with apprehension. I didn't believe the body found its way under that gravel pile by accident. Someone put it there and moved rock to hide it. That someone could still be around. I scooted closer to Annie on the downed log and picked up a rock in each hand for defense.

Annie got up.

"Where are you going? Don't leave me."

"I'm going to get our paddles. They could come in handy."

"What's up, ladies?" said a voice out of the darkness behind us.

Annie sat back down with a thump. I started with fear and dropped both of my rocks.

"Oh, I know you." A tall man dressed in a tee-shirt that clung to his muscled chest approached us and, when he got nearer, I recognized him too.

"You work on the bridge crew," I said.

"And you drive by the site on your way into the college every day. Right?"

"How did you know that?" Annie's voice shook with fear, but I heard suspicion too.

I stood and pulled her up with me. "What are you doing here? I mean, now, at this hour? When the construction is over for the day?"

He smiled at me, and I couldn't help but notice his straight white teeth. Was it better to be accosted by a killer who brushed and flossed daily and had regular checkups than someone who couldn't take the time for dental hygiene?

"I stopped by to make certain the foreman locked away the keys to my road grader once he moved it. He didn't. Here they are." He dangled a set of keys from his fingers. "Can't have the public going for a joyride on the equipment. They might get hurt."

Annie and I exchanged looks and moved closer together.

"You two seem on edge. Anything I can do for you?" He took a step towards us. We moved further toward the end of the log. "This is a work area, you know. The company wouldn't be happy to find you here. There are 'no trespassing' signs out front."

"We came by canoe," I pointed toward the river. "And we should be going."

"It's too dark to paddle now. I'd give you a ride, but..."

Annie held up her cell. "Someone's coming for us."

"Good. Great. I'll wait with you until your ride gets here. For protection. Just in case."

"In case of what?" It occurred to me that, if he didn't know we found the body, then we had nothing to worry about. I really was stupid tonight. He knew someone would find the body, and then we could tell the authorities we had seen him here. I had to take action.

It had been twenty years since my martial arts classes in graduate school, but maybe self-defense was like riding a bicycle or swimming. Maybe you didn't forget it.

"How rude of us. Let me introduce myself. I'm Laura Murphy." I got up and pushed Annie back down onto the log. I put out my hand to take his. I intended to pull his arm up and over my head while I moved under his armpit, turned and flipped him over my back. It didn't quite work out that way. Once his hand touched mine, I remembered I'd flipped someone a total of maybe two times with the help of my instructor. I got in close enough to get a whiff of woodsy aftershave, which distracted me for a moment, making me forget to turn. His hard chest slammed against my breasts, a position I wouldn't recommend when trying to subdue a murder suspect. We must have looked like a jitterbugging couple in the middle of a twirl.

The headlights of a car pulling into the parking area caught a puzzled and somewhat amused expression on his face as I twisted and pulled his hand, grunting and groaning in impotent frustration. He let go of me, and I fell on my ass in exhaustion.

"Annie, Laura," called Frank. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Grab him, Frank. He just killed someone, and he buried the body under that rock pile. He was going to get us next." I was breathless with the fatigue of my martial arts maneuver, but I managed to raise my hand and gesture toward the leg peeking out from under the rocks. Mr. Road Grader's eyes followed my pointing finger, and his smile faded.

Frank jumped out of the car, leaving the headlights on. They illuminated the three of us, me on the ground, Annie motionless on the log and the construction guy standing over us. Frank ran toward us, stopping just short of the bridge worker, to take up his karate stance.

"Get away from the women," Frank said.

Mr. Road Grader shook his head. "This guy your rescue party? Did he take any more martial arts classes than you did?"

Frank lowered his arms. "Take me, and let the women go."

"No, Frank. You've got a new grandbaby. Take me," I said. We both looked at Annie who continued to sit silently on her log.

"Take one of them. Either one. I don't care." She looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

The man reached into his pocket. I expected a gun, or at least, a knife. He withdrew a cell phone, walked away from us and talked to someone.

"He's calling his buddies to help him," I whispered to Annie and Frank. "There are too many of us. Let's rush him." But before we could act, he turned and called back to us.

"I called nine-one-one. Now, if the three of you crazies will just stay where you are until they arrive, I'd feel a lot better. Somebody could get hurt here with all your physical flailing around. I think you dislocated my thumb." He wiggled it back and forth.

"I wasn't 'flailing'. That was karate or judo, one of those defense moves. Very deadly." It was deadly when it worked.

~~~

"Okay, let me get this straight. You found the body. Right?" Lieutenant Detective Derek Pasquis, Onondaga Police Department, "Der" to me, and an old friend, addressed the question to me. I nodded, happy to be away from both the crime scene and the man we encountered there. I think the three of us, Annie, Frank and I were feeling a bit foolish about our behavior at the construction site. I confided my embarrassment to Der.

"If I were in your situation, I might have jumped to the same conclusion. You still might be right, you know. He could be the killer."

That didn't make me feel any better.

"What I wouldn't have done," Der continued, "was to try out twenty year old judo moves on someone his size."

"I was scared he was going to kill us."

"That was a good plan then, to get him angry at you."

Here we go again, I thought. Every time Der and I got together, we argued. It was good-natured. He was the brother I never had, someone I could fight with, no romantic or sexual attachments. We met through his ex-wife. A social worker with the county mental health clinic, Sylvia, along with me, was a member of the county-wide committee on substance abuse. After the divorce, she moved to Washington, DC, but we were in constant touch, and Der remained one of my closest friends. Neither of us questioned our odd friendship.

A uniformed officer approached Der's cruiser where we were gathered. Headlamps of the ambulance and crime scene investigation vehicles lit the area for a hundred yards down the road. From a distance, the red, yellow and blue lights made it look like a party on the river. I shivered a bit to think that the guest of honor was in no condition to enjoy all the activity.

"The construction worker's name is Guy La France. He's a Canadian citizen. Works in the US summers. He wants to know if you're going to charge these three here with murder," the officer said.

"That jerk! Of course we're not being charged. He might be though. Huh?" I looked at Der for confirmation.

"I'm not charging anybody with anything tonight. I'm taking names, and I'll be checking your whereabouts at the time of death. And I've got to identify the victim."

"You're going to check on my whereabouts? You know me and Annie and Frank. How could you possibly think we'd have anything to do with murder?" I felt aggravated by his cop attitude. He could try to act like more of a friend.

"I think we have the name of the victim, sir." The officer handed a wallet to Der who flipped it open and shone his flashlight on the contents. I tried to look over his shoulder, but he blocked my view.

"One more thing, sir. Mr. La France said that if you weren't going to arrest Dr. Murphy here, that he'd like to take her to dinner tomorrow. I can relay your reply if you'd like, Dr. Murphy."

My reply, my reply. Oh, I had a reply all right. I wanted to go over there and bend his thumbs again.

"Tell him to shove—"

Der interrupted me. "I won't be arresting her, so you can tell him yes to dinner." A quiver of a smile worked one corner of his mouth. "But perhaps I should charge you and your sidekick here too." He nodded toward Annie. I saw her large, brown eyes grow round with worry. "Look at this." He held the wallet out to us, open to the plastic window displaying the owner's license.

The license of the victim was that of Thomas Talbot, president of the college where Annie and I were professors.

"Didn't you tell me just the other day that the two of you had an argument?"

I stared at the photo on the license, recalling the conversation to which Der referred, and I gulped. President Talbot had turned me down for an increase in my research space, and I had slammed out of his office in a rage, yelling loud enough for his administrative assistant and everybody near his office to hear my threats.

"And you told me what you said, Laura. You were hot about doing something to President Talbot." Der ended his comment on a high note as if he expected me to fill him in on how I might carry out my threat.

"But I meant I was going to go to the union for support. That's all. And maybe get my own lawyer and sue him." I popped my mouth open and closed like a guppy out of water. "But, but, you can't believe..."

"Mr. La France is single. You're single. He's interested. Find out what you can about him." Der thought he could order me around. Ha! I needed to remind him I didn't follow commands well.

"I'm not desperate enough to date someone who's committed murder."

Der walked with me to Frank's car where Annie and Frank were loading our canoe onto the roof.

"Once the medical examiner determines the time of death, I'll be able to check his alibi. That should be by tomorrow." Der stopped and took my arm, turning me to face him. "I was joking about the date. I doubt he's our killer. You don't have to go out with him, although it might be of help to me."

Oh, not a command performance, but a plea for help on the case. Well, that was different.

"You sly fox. Say no more. I'll pump him for any information on the road crew that might be useful. And you know I'm willing to do what I can on campus, too."

"I'm counting on it. You know these people. They don't trust me because I'm a cop and... different. You're my inside source, but hold it down a bit, would you?" He turned and walked back toward his police cruiser. I understood what he meant. His only reservation about my helping him was my no nonsense, Yankee manner. His was the island way, learned in his native Haiti, a gentlemanly approach to people with deference to their positions. We were so different. How had we become such good friends?
Chapter 5

A herd of deer grazing in a meadow raised their heads to look at Guy and me as we swung by on the bike. I smelled the sweet grassy odor of cut alfalfa lying in wait for baling the next afternoon. The motorcycle rounded a curve and began its descent into a small valley, the temperature changing from warm to cold as the trees hanging over the road trapped a pocket of evening air beneath their branches.

"Now I'll bet you understand why I like this better than a convertible. The engine is so quiet even the deer aren't offended by the noise." Guy downshifted as we headed into another curve.

"Hmm." I sighed and wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my nose in his neck.

"And the smells. Corn and alfalfa and wild flowers."

"And aftershave." I took a tentative nibble of his neck.

"Hey, no interfering with the driver's driving!"

I giggled and gave him a quick peck on his neck. "Hey, we're at the site of the proposed boat launch."

"So let's take a look around." Guy braked to a stop.

We could look up the hill and see the lake condominiums which were positioned just north of the proposed launch.

We dismounted and, holding hands, began to walk down to the lake.

During the school year, Guy taught high school biology in a small community just outside the city of Gananaque, Ontario and supplemented his small teaching income with the higher paying roadwork that New York State offered in the summer. I had suggested we ride up the lake to the Biological Field Station. I thought Guy might find the site interesting.

There was another reason I wanted to visit the station. Stanford, the director, might be there, and I could have a few words with him. Just nosing around as usual, I chided myself, then salved my conscience by reminding myself Der was encouraging my snoopy nature.

"Whew! Smell that." Guy waved his hand in front of his face as if he could flap away the odor. "Smells like dead fish combined with sewage. The condos can't be dumping their waste water into the lake, can they?"

"Of course not. If they were, the college would be the first to know. The Biological Field Station has responsibility for monitoring the water quality in this lake, and it's always been good according to reports published every month in the newspaper and submitted to the state."

"Well, there's been some problem. Look at all those dead fish." Guy pointed toward the shallow water. Sure enough, bloated bodies of fish bobbed in the water. "Must have been some kind of recent incident with their waste water."

"That smell certainly does ruin the mood, doesn't it?" I said.

"Let's get out of here." Guy grabbed my hand and we headed back to the bike.

We rounded the tip of the lake where the road made its way through marshlands and headed south again through fields cleared for raising crops and for grazing milk cows. The scent of cow manure seemed like a pleasant change from the dead fish smell.

Guy turned in at the sign marked "Biological Field Station, Upstate College". We cruised down a paved road and parked in the lot near the newly constructed two-story brick building. A figure walking across the grass turned at the sound of the bike and waited as Guy and I moved up the sidewalk to the building entrance.

"Dr. Murphy." The tone of the man's greeting was cold.

"Good evening, Donald. I'd like you to meet Guy LaFrance, a friend of mine. Donald Hall, assistant to the director of the station here."

The two men shook hands. Donald scrutinized Guy's face with interest.

"Have we met somewhere before?" Guy inquired.

Donald squinted up at Guy. "You seemed familiar somehow, but now that I see you up close, I don't think so. I must need glasses."

Donald always looked as if he needed a good meal or someone to iron his clothes or tell him to shampoo his thin, oily hair. A girlfriend might do him some good. Well, it was none of my business, but I ran a list of single women at the college through my head just the same. Laura Murphy, resident snoop and part-time matchmaker.

"Dr. Stanford around?" My gaze travelled around the grounds.

"No, he's out in the boat, pulling the water samples for this evening."

"Someone should take a look at that proposed launch site across the lake," Guy spoke in a friendly tone. "A lot of fish dead there."

"Yeah, we noticed that yesterday. Sometimes the condos have trouble with their waste water system, and we get a release of inadequately treated effluent into the lake. Usually the amount is small and no harm is done, but it looks as if there has been a problem that hasn't been corrected. Dr. Stanford is collecting some water samples tonight to see how far-ranging it is. We'll notify the condominium management and the state to see that it's addressed."

"If it continues long enough, it could affect the entire lake." Guy's words were more authoritative now.

"You a water resources expert?" I caught a note of defensiveness in Donald's voice.

"No, just an interested citizen and high school biology teacher." Guy's cordial tone seemed to reassure Donald. He relaxed and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Could you give us a brief tour, Donald? I mean, if you're not too busy?" I smiled, hoping to smooth any offense Donald may have taken at Guy's comments.

"Things are locked up for the night, and I'm just leaving. Perhaps some other time."

At that moment, the sound of the station's research boat could be heard nearing the dock.

"Sounds like Dr. Stanford is back." Donald turned toward the water.

We saw Stanford tie up the boat and signal to his assistant.

"Hall, come help carry these containers to the lab." Stanford glanced at Guy and me and the smallest of smiles crossed his thin lips. "Laura Murphy, what are you doing here?"

"Hi, Will. Hope you don't mind. I brought a friend to see your operation. I know it's after hours, but we were in the area. Will, meet Guy LaFrance." The two men shook hands.

"Nice to meet you, Guy. Say, didn't I see you working on that bridge project at the south end of the lake? What's your interest in the station here?" Stanford wore a bush shirt and matching khaki colored shorts. The outfit showed off his muscled arms and legs. In the setting sun his long hair, drawn back in a ponytail, shone a metallic grey, the color of his eyes. He was the picture of a man who kept in shape. He had that healthy outdoorsy look, appealing to both men and women.

"Says he's some kind of biologist." Donald passed by us toting the containers from the dock to the nearest building.

"I teach high school biology during the year and earn my motorcycle money by doing road and bridge construction in the summer."

Stanford nodded. "Good work, good pay. I used to work the road crews in the summers when I was in graduate school."

The three of us headed for the building Donald had entered.

Stanford looked back at Guy's motorcycle parked next to the two cars in the parking lot. His gaze came back to me. "Never knew you to be a motorcycle fan, Murphy."

"I just became one."

He held the door open. "Well, let me give you the fifty cent tour. You can't see much of the lake or the swamp in this light, but I'll walk you through our new labs and classroom complex. It's small but adequate for our operations here."

"Maybe you'll need more space if what I heard is true." I thought I'd begin wheedling information out of him with an innocuous comment.

"What's that?" A fleeting look of concern crossed his features.

"Rumor has it Talbot finally decided to move the Biological Field Station under the auspices of Dr. Pruitt and Water Resources."

Stanford continued walking down the hall ahead of us, and I couldn't see the expression on his face. When he stopped and faced us, he laughed. "That's preposterous. Pruitt is making it up, and how convenient he can use the president's death as an excuse for there being nothing official. I really don't think that verbal promise will hold much sway with the next president. That Pruitt, he'll try anything to get his own way."

"Murder?" Guy's comment stopped Stanford in his tracks.

"Good God, no! Pruitt? You've got to be kidding me." Stanford's expression was at once both horrified and amused.

We turned into one of the labs where Donald was working on the water samples brought in that night.

"That water sample from around the launch site will probably look bad, and we'll monitor that closely." Stanford stood over his assistant, a move that seemed to irritate Donald. "They must be having trouble with their system again."

I tried a direct question. "Does that happen often?"

"Not really. We'd like it not to happen at all, but it hasn't done any permanent damage. It's probably related to the enormous amount of rain we've had lately. Continued monitoring and testing of the water will establish it's an anomaly and only temporary."

"I had an appointment with my physician today as a follow-up on some antibiotics she prescribed for earaches I had earlier this summer. She said she's been finding a rash of earaches and suspects some water source. Not the lake, of course."

"Yeah, I know. I got a call from her just this week. We're being extra vigilant and doubling our water samples. So far nothing with the exception of that stink over by the condos, but that'll be taken care of in the next few days. That's not long term so we've ruled out this lake as the problem. I sure wouldn't want people to be getting sick swimming in these waters."

Donald nodded his head in agreement.

We spent some time looking around the lab and then continued on to the biology laboratories. Here glass aquaria housed fish, mussels and other animal life taken from the lake. Samples of lake vegetation took up a considerable amount of space in the last area while a smaller laboratory was reserved for microbiological work. I had toured the wetlands and swamp area the previous spring. Animal and plant life in the wild was vastly more interesting to me than specimens in a lab, and I said so to Stanford.

"I'd have to agree with you. I'm more of an ecological researcher, looking at the interrelationship among plants and animals in an ecosystem such as the wetlands around here. However, a significant portion of my time in the field is made up of obtaining water samples for testing because we were awarded the contract with the state to insure the safety of these recreational waters. That'll change soon."

"How's that?" I hadn't heard of this before.

"A public boat launch has been approved, so the college will be partnering with the state to monitor the lake waters. We'll see if that reduces our work load or increases it."

Purchase the Full-Length Novel:

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Also by Lesley A. Diehl:

Poisoned Pairings (Book 2 of the Microbrewing Series)

Angel Sleuth (standalone cozy mystery)

About Lesley A. Diehl:

Lesley retired from her life as a professor of psychology and reclaimed her country roots by moving to a small cottage in the Butternut River Valley in upstate New York. In the winter she migrates to old Florida—cowboys, scrub palmetto, and open fields of grazing cattle, a place where spurs still jingle in the post office, and gators make golf a contact sport. Back north, the shy ghost inhabiting the cottage serves as her literary muse. When not writing, she gardens, cooks and renovates the 1874 cottage with the help of her husband, two cats and, of course, Fred the ghost, who gives artistic direction to their work.

She is the author of a number of mystery series (Microbrewing Series, Big Lake Mystery Series, Eve Appel Mystery Series and the Laura Murphy Mysteries), a standalone mystery (Angel Sleuth) and numerous short stories.

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Doha 12

Lance Charnes

An International Thriller

Set in Philadelphia, PA, Brooklyn, NY, Manhattan, NY, Washington, DC, Detroit, MI, Burbank, CA, Beirut, Tel Aviv, Rotterdam, Modena
BACKGROUND:

  * Jake Eldar and Miriam Schaffer are expat Israelis living in the U.S. Mossad used their identities, along with those of ten others, in an operation to assassinate a Hezbollah commander in Doha, Qatar.
    * Eve is Jake's daughter; Rinnah is his wife.
  * Fadi Alayan is the leader of a Hezbollah hit team assigned to kill the "Doha 12." Gabir, Kassim, Sohrab and Ziyad are members of his team.
  * Refael Gur leads the Mossad squad sent to eliminate Alayan's team. Amzi, David, Kelila, Natan and Sasha are part of his team.
  * Alayan's team has tracked Miriam to her office in downtown Philadelphia.

FORTY-ONE

5 DECEMBER  
PHILADELPHIA

A cold, gray day had become a drizzling twilight by the time Miriam pushed through her building's heavy glass doors to face the going-home tangle of Market Street. In a few minutes, she'd be part of the logjam. She hated driving to work, but she'd started late this morning and missed her train. She belted her raincoat, turned up the collar against the saw-toothed wind and joined the scurrying crowd on the sidewalk.

She checked over her shoulder as she trotted across 21st Street on the yellow light. No one waved an RPG at her, but she knew she'd never spot a lurker in the mob.

As she marched head-down across Market, she shifted her pepper spray from her purse to her coat pocket. She'd thought all afternoon about what Eldar had told her. This was America, and she was an American now. Hezbollah didn't kill random people in America. Or did they?

~~~

David keyed the radio. "Got her?"

Amzi's voice squawked back, "Yeah. Tan raincoat, southwest corner."

"Breaking off." David stepped up on the southeast corner of Market and 21st. He glimpsed Amzi's broad back in a green field jacket ten meters down 21st Street. David turned left at a steel-and-glass shoebox of a vacant office building and hurried east.

~~~

"Say again?"

Sohrab's voice gargled through Kassim's phone. "She's coming."

Time for work. Kassim started the van's engine, turned up the heater. He checked the rear-view mirror. "Ready?"

Ziyad rolled up his prayer rug. He'd finished his fourth prayer of the day just moments before. "Yes, I'm ready."

~~~

The foot traffic on 21st thinned dramatically only half a block off Market. The clack-clack of Miriam's heels on cement sounded like someone hammering a large nail. At least she'd get more exercise walking this fast.

She glanced over her shoulder. Across the street a big man hurried through the drizzle, hands jammed in the pockets of a green field jacket, the brim of his Phillies baseball cap shrouding his downturned face. He didn't seem to notice her, just heading the same way.

The handful of people behind her also appeared to be wrapped in their own affairs. A little of her tension drained away. She was just short of the corner of Ludlow; the parking lot's entrance was maybe fifty feet away.

~~~

"Almost there. Fifteen, twenty meters."

Kassim checked the right side-view mirror again. The woman's dark-green Honda Prelude slept two parking stalls behind the van, facing the side of a splotched-brick building. A sticker on the bumper read, "My Husband is a U.S. Marine."

~~~

Schaffer appeared in the Suburban's side-view mirror as she entered the car park. Gur pressed the transmit button on his radio. "Schaffer's at the driveway. Where's the attendant?"

"Shuffling cars," Kelila answered.

"Van," Natan said. "Seven or eight meters east of her car."

Gur twisted hard in his seat to look. "That's the target. Stand by. How many in the van?"

"One."

One? That wasn't right. "The others are here somewhere. Wait for them."

"One by the west end," Natan said.

"We can terminate them?" Amzi asked.

"It would be nice to get one alive, but don't risk yourselves."

~~~

Miriam dug her keys from her purse. She noted the white van idling near her car.

A white van. Near her car. She paused a moment, her scalp tingling. She twisted to look behind her. The man in the green field jacket stood near the parking lot entrance, staring at the sign. Following her? If not, why was he just standing there?

She turned back to the van. The white van. She'd have to walk by it to reach her car. Don't be silly, she scolded herself. Half a dozen white vans had passed her on Market Street just a few minutes before. Get in the car. You're safe in the car.

~~~

Kassim said over his shoulder, "Wait for my word. She's almost here."

Ziyad squatted next to the back doors, his hand already on the latch. His lips were moving. A prayer for going into action?

The plan was simple for one of Fadi's productions. Ziyad drags the woman into the van. Kassim drives away from the car park while Ziyad strangles her, then tears her clothes to make the police think someone tried and failed to rape her. They take her purse and jewelry, go to the river, dump her body. If she somehow escaped, Fadi, Gabir and Sohrab waited at her apartment block to try the same ploy. One way or another, they'd finish her tonight.

That was the plan.

"Today is Ashura," Ziyad said. "We should be mourning Hussein. We should be fasting."

"We have work to do," Kassim told him. "Remember him in your heart. Be careful."

Ziyad glanced back at him, gave him a small smile. "How hard is it to kill a woman?"

The target circled around the back of the van.

"Go!"

~~~

The Honda beeped when Miriam tweaked the alarm. The van's driver hadn't even looked at her when she passed. However, the man in the green coat still trailed behind her, maybe fifty feet back. Miriam's heart bashed at her ribs. Get in the car!

She felt rather than heard the van's back door open. Before she could turn, a man's gloved hand clamped across her mouth, and an arm vise-gripped her neck. The man yanked her back, almost off her feet.

No!

She mule-kicked, buried the back of her heel in the man's shin, heard him swear in Arabic. She tried to raise her leg high enough to jackhammer his knee, but her skirt was too tight. Damn it! She jerked to her left, then right, elbows flailing, trying to break his grip, but he ratcheted down his arm on her throat, making her choke as she screamed into his palm. Leather and old sweat from his glove filled her nostrils. She drove an elbow into his ribs, but his layers of clothing and the awkward angle robbed the blow of its strength. Her right hand dove into her coat pocket, groped for the little metal canister, found it, lost it, grabbed it again.

The man dragged her back a step. She tried to snap her head back into his face, but his grip was too strong. She knocked the side of her right foot against the inside of his, then stomped down as hard as she could with her heel, spiked the arch of his foot. Then again. And again.

He choked out a scream.

~~~

Natan saw the struggle, drew his pistol. "It's started," he told the radio.

He stepped out from behind the brick wall, wound up to dash across the alley, climb the meter-tall retaining wall and vault the iron railing, then take down the man in the black hooded sweatshirt who had grabbed the woman.

An instant later he was on his back, clutching his collarbone, gasping against the pain.

A young man loomed over him. Persian features, short black coat, blue jeans, a collapsible black metal baton in his hand. "Good night," he said in English, then brought down the baton again.

~~~

Kassim could hear the struggle—the woman's strangled cries, then Ziyad's wail—saw Sohrab knock down a man who'd appeared from nowhere, noticed the man and woman edging through the parked cars about twenty meters away. Police?

He took his pistol from the console and focused his mind on action.

~~~

Miriam fumbled with the pepper-spray's flip-top safety cap.

The man jerked her backwards another step. The van appeared in the corner of her eye. One more good yank and she'd be inside.

The cap popped open. Miriam closed her eyes, held her breath, snapped the canister to her shoulder, then sprayed wildly behind her. The man screamed full-out. His hand slipped from her mouth.

She shrieked as loudly as she could with the man's arm still blocking her windpipe, then blinked open her eyes.

Jake Eldar skidded to a halt in front of her.

What?

His fist grazed past her hair and connected with something just behind her, a wet crunch loud in her ear. The arm fell away from her throat.

Jake shoved her behind him. She spun in time to see him wrench a pistol away from a dark, bloody-faced man in a black hoodie, punch his jaw, then kick him in the groin. Her attacker doubled over, coughing, grabbing his injuries with both hands. He stumbled aside but stayed on his feet.

"Put him down!" she barked at Jake. "Get that bastard!"

~~~

Eldar? Here? How?

Kassim, stunned, watched through the van's back door as Eldar tore the pistol out of Ziyad's hand and kicked him viciously between his legs.

The plan was unraveling in front of him.

Kassim bolted from his seat and charged toward the open door. Time to finish this.

~~~

"Move in!" Gur shouted into the radio. "Move in!"

"That's Eldar!" Amzi's voice bellowed from Gur's radio. "He's got a gun!"

Gur tumbled from the Suburban, raised his binoculars. He couldn't see past the van.

Amzi couldn't be right. There was no reason Eldar should be here. But what if he was? And with a gun?

What will he do when he sees us?

~~~

It hadn't been hard for Jake to find Miriam's car. He'd lurked in the nearby alley, running down his phone's charge talking to a still-silent Eve, until the van pulled into position.

The few seconds it took to reach Miriam lasted for hours.

Miriam yelled, "Jake! In the van!"

He looked up in time to see a man in a heavy coat just inside the van's rear doors, raising a pistol.

Jake's training came back all at once. He snapped up the gun he'd taken from Miriam's attacker, fired twice into the center of mass. The man inside the van collapsed backward.

Miriam's attacker bellowed in Arabic as he crashed his shoulder into Jake's side. Jake staggered back two steps into the open van door, blasted out a lungful of air.

A bullet thunked through the van's wide-open door, just inches from Jake's head.

"Jake! Another one! He followed me!"

~~~

Harah, Amzi thought, great place for a firefight.

Eldar had a gun, fired twice, the shots echoing sharp and hard off the brick walls. Shooting at who? Is he in on it? Put 'em both down, get it sorted later.

Amzi jinked to his right, took cover behind a car. The van's open back door shuddered. He aimed, fired, scrambled to the next car, fired again.

~~~

The Arab's attack took Jake off-guard. But the man fumbled a follow-up punch, his fist glancing off Jake's ribs. Jake was too revved to feel it. He smashed the pistol butt down on the Arab's head, once, twice, three times, shoved him away, then whipped the barrel across the man's face. Jake staggered back a step to get his footing. Miriam appeared next to him, aimed a small metal canister and shot of stream of pepper spray into the man's eyes and mouth. The Arab screamed and tumbled into the back of the van.

Another bullet winged off the door latch. Jake pushed Miriam behind an SUV for cover, dropped flat, peered beyond the rear tire. A big guy in a green coat a few yards away, pistol aimed across the hood of a car. Jake saw a flash.

How many are there?

Green Coat circled the car's nose and scrambled for the next. Too slow.

He made a big target.

~~~

"Amzi's down!" Kelila's voice on the radio, high and fast. Gur watched her burst out from between the parked cars, weapon ready, head snapping back and forth.

"Who got him?" Gur demanded.

"Couldn't see."

Gur crouched behind a car at the lot's eastern end, tried to figure out what was happening. Where was Schaffer? What the hell was Eldar doing here?

~~~

Jake watched Green Coat go down, checked for the next threat. Nothing obvious. He lunged upright, pistol sweeping the lot.

"Come on!" he shouted, holding out his hand. "Let's get out of here!"

She didn't hesitate.

By the time they reached the driveway ten yards away, they were running at full speed.

~~~

Gur saw them pelt around a corner as if all the bulls in Pamplona were after them. The man was definitely Eldar, and definitely armed.

The drizzle roared into rain. Someone in a black bomber jacket popped up from behind a car near the van, dashed through the murk to the driver's door, leaped in, screeched away.

Kelila stepped forward, pumped shot after shot into the windshield. The driver swerved the van's punctured nose at her. An unfamiliar panic shot through Gur. He sprung to his feet, screamed "No!" and ran toward her.

The van was right on top of her. She stood her ground, fired a round low, into the grille.

"Move!" Gur roared. "Get out!"

At the last moment, Kelila threw herself onto the hood of the silver sedan behind her, then rolled off out of sight. The van jerked away, picking up speed.

Gur put three shots through the driver's side of the windshield in a tight group. Blood spattered the side window. He dived into a pickup truck's bed just as the van whooshed past, a sliver away. It jolted out the driveway and blasted down Ludlow, disappearing into the now-pouring rain.

David dashed into the lot, pistol at ready, as Gur stood up. "Sir! What happened?"

"Get the car!" Gur jumped to the asphalt. "Pick up Natan and Amzi! Now! Go!" He splashed toward the last place he'd seen Kelila, mashing down the radio button as he ran. "Sasha, do you see them?"

"Yes, they turned left at 20th. I'm on them."

Let Sasha go? Bring him back? "Stay with them. Don't go back to the hotel until you hear from me, understand?"

"Okay, boss."

Distant, whining sirens closed in. Good God, what a disaster. A firefight in downtown Philadelphia, two men down, the Arabs escaped. Schaffer and Eldar on the run.

Kelila leaned back against the sedan that had saved her life, breathing hard, wet hair plastered to her face. "Are you okay?" he asked, out of breath.

She nodded. "We need to get out of here."

"Yes, we do." The Suburban heaved to a halt next to Amzi's still form. Gur's reactions collided: relief that Kelila was unhurt, anger that Amzi was flat and bleeding. "Pick up your casings. We've got to clean up this mess."
FORTY-TWO

5 DECEMBER  
PHILADELPHIA

They sprinted down Van Pelt—an oversized alley hemmed in by red brick—until Miriam yelled, "Hold on! Stop!"

Jake twisted to look behind him. "What? Are you hurt?"

"I can't run in these heels!"

He buttoned his raincoat against the enthusiastic rain while he waited for her to catch up.

Miriam palmed the streams of melting mascara and blush from her face, craned to look over her shoulder. "I don't see anyone behind us."

"Come on, let's get out of this."

They squelched down Sansom Street until they found a broad overhang in front of the tan-brick-and-gray-marble Weinstein Geriatric Center. There they huddled against the locked front door, catching their breath, dripping on their shoes. The rain pounded the street in front of them. The gun in Jake's pocket weighed down the right side of his coat. He zeroed in on every passing car, searching for anyone too interested in them, hoping to see them first.

"You okay?" Jake finally asked. He couldn't push the shake from his voice.

"Yes. My neck hurts." She frowned at him. "I thought you were going home."

He studied the iron railing in front of them. "I was worried about you, so I waited. Then the van showed up."

If he'd gone home, Miriam would be dead. He'd shot two men for a woman he didn't know. Jake took stock of her face. Blinking too fast, jaw working, eyes focused a mile away.

More silence. Then she whispered, "Thank you."

"Yeah." The adrenaline was nearly gone from Jake's system, replaced by rising fear and the awful realization he was a killer—again. The more he thought about it, the sicker he felt. He hadn't planned any of this. He could've died back there, left Eve alone. Was Miriam worth it?

Was it just about her? The asshole who attacked Miriam—did he shoot Rinnah? Did the big bruiser by the car? Had he struck back? Did it matter?

"Are you okay?"

He nodded, too quickly. "Fine. They didn't touch me."

"Jake." She grabbed his coat sleeve, turned him to face her. "You just shot two men. Are you okay?"

She had to remind him? He tried to think of something brave to say, but eventually went with "No."

"At least you're honest." Miriam let go of his sleeve, smoothed out the creases with a shaking hand. She shouldered deeper into her coat. "So what's the next part of your plan?"

"What plan?"

"Don't say that!" she snapped. "I need to know there's a plan, it's the way I am."

A shadow of something flitted through her eyes before she could hide it—fear. For an instant, she looked vulnerable. Then her eyes hardened again. She looked away, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. Back on parade.

Jake sighed. "Sorry." Long pause. "I'm a little out of practice with this kind of thing."

"So am I."

He waited for her to explain. "What did you do for your national service?"

"Magav."

"Border Police?"

She turned her head fractionally. "Is that a problem?"

"Noooo. Explains how you kicked the shit out of that guy."

"Not well enough." She heaved out a sigh. "I should've taken him down."

They watched the rain settle from a deluge into a steady shower. Jake's mind kept running the action over and over. Rifle fire at long range was a lot different from a pistol up close and personal. Bile sloshed in the back of his throat, but he didn't dare throw up in front of Miriam. "The cops are probably there by now."

"Probably."

"I need to turn myself in."

Miriam looked his way. "Are you sure you want to do that?" Her voice was gentler than he'd expected from someone as tough as she seemed to be.

"There were witnesses. Someone'll put my picture on TV. I'd better go in under my own power." He tried to give her a brave smile. "You can walk away if you want."

She shook her head. Her eyes were softer than at any time since he'd met her, leather instead of wood. Her lips weren't pressed flat anymore, either. "I'll go with you. It's the least I can do. I can tell them what happened, that you only did what you had to."

"Thanks." The condors circled Jake's gut again. He took a deep breath, swallowed the rock in his throat, and fought to smother the mental picture of Eve visiting him in jail. "Walk you to your car?"

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Lance Charnes has been an Air Force intelligence officer, information technology manager, computer-game artist, set designer and Jeopardy! contestant, and is now an emergency management specialist. He's had training in architectural rendering, terrorist incident response and maritime archaeology, but not all at the same time. Lance tweets (@lcharnes) on shipwrecks, scuba diving, archaeology and art crime.

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The Death Row Complex

Kristen Elise, Ph.D.

A Medical/Science Thriller

Set in Washington, DC and San Diego, CA

November 29, 2007  
6:57 a.m. PST

By the time they caught up with him, he had forgotten to keep running. Lawrence Naden was incoherent and scarcely recognizable—the sloughed, discarded skin of a human being.

It had been a rainy week in Tijuana. A small river of brown water carried trash along the gutters of the squalid street. Piles of refuse collected in rough areas, creating dams that would eventually break with the weight of the water and garbage behind them.

A burst of static abbreviated the heavily accented warning from a megaphone. "You've got nowhere to go, Naden!" The officer holding the megaphone motioned, and several federales carrying M16 rifles moved steadily across a sloping yard.

Except for a handful of onlookers, most of them ragged children, the street was deserted. The majority of adults had characteristically fled at the first rumor of approaching law enforcement.

This time, however, the uniformed team filing through the barrio was not in pursuit of drugs. The federales were looking for a single individual.

A few stepped onto the porches of flanking shacks, peering suspiciously through dirty windows or through plastic taped over holes where windows had been. But most congregated at one rickety house. As they surrounded it, they shouldered the rifles and instead began drawing pistols.

Another burst of static. A brief command from the megaphone. And the front and back doors of the house were kicked in.

The men entering the house were greeted by the rank combination of sweet-smelling rotting food, human waste, and burning chemicals. The front room was abandoned but had recently been occupied, as evidenced by a smoldering spoon on a card table against one wall. Needles and syringes, plastic bags, and glass pipes littered makeshift tables, moldy couches, and the concrete floor.

Silently, the federales crept through the house with firearms raised. As those behind him assumed formation along the wall of a narrow hallway, the leading officer kicked a bathroom door, and it flung open as he shrank backward against the doorjamb.

The evasive maneuver barely saved the officer from being shot in the face.

As the bullet cut through the thin drywall behind him and embedded into a rotting wall stud, the officer instinctively leaned in and flicked his index finger three times. The brief staccato of semi-automatic fire rang out, and the shooter fell gurgling into the bathtub.

The officer lowered his pistol to look down at the body. Then he turned to his team. "Esto no es lo," he said coldly. This isn't him.

Two additional doors were visible along the narrow hallway. One was wide open. The leading officer caught the eye of the man nearest it and cocked his head toward the room. The flanking man stepped in, gun drawn. He strode to the closet and opened it, then stepped back out into the hallway and shook his head.

The attention of the team turned to the other hallway door. It was closed.

After making eye contact with the rest of the team, the leading officer repeated the motions of kicking in the door and then stepping out of the line of anticipated fire. This time, there was none. Cautiously, he followed the barrel of his weapon into the room, noticeably relaxing as he did.

Across the room, a man was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall, his gaunt body slumping to one side. A trickle of fresh blood flowed down the inner part of his forearm from a newly opened wound. The entire area of flesh was scarred, scabbed, and bruised. As the officers entered the room, the man's half-opened eyes registered a slight recognition. A needled syringe dropped from his hand and rolled toward the officers in the doorway.

The brief lucidity that had graced Lawrence Naden's eyes faded as the heroin flooded his bloodstream. His pupils fixed into a lifeless gaze onto a spot on the floor, and then the rush overtook him.

October 12, 2015  
2:13 p.m. EDT

The image was lovely in a somewhat odd, geometric way. A bouquet? Or maybe a tree? The flower heads were a jumbled mess, but the stems were perfectly arrayed—an intertwined cylinder spiraling downward from the wad of flowers on top. The overzealous rainbow coloring of it all was unlike anything existing in nature.

The leaves around Washington, D.C. were turning, and it was already getting cold. Rain was beating against the windows, and White House intern Amanda Dougherty scratched her back with a letter opener while frowning curiously at the bizarre image on the front of the greeting card.

The card had probably been white. It was now a slightly charred sepia from the UV irradiation. Despite its ugly signature on the paper, Amanda had felt much more comfortable about taking this job after Mr. Callahan had explained that decontaminating irradiation was a mandatory process for all incoming White House mail. It was done in a New Jersey facility after processing and sorting at Brentwood, the facility that had made national headlines years earlier when anthrax spores intended for U.S. government officials had infected several people and killed five.

Today, by the time the mail reached Amanda, it was safe.

Amanda flipped open the greeting card. "Oh, my word," she said quietly. The handwritten text was small and neatly aligned, but Amanda most certainly could not read it. She thought the repetitive squiggles before her might be Arabic, or Hebrew, or Farsi—she could not tell those languages apart.

After a moment of thought, Amanda got up and walked to Mr. Callahan's office, where she rapped softly on the door.

He yelled through the door for her to come in.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Amanda said timidly. "We got a greeting card in a foreign language. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with these."

"What language?"

"I don't know. Something Middle Eastern. It has all those funny double-you looking things with dots over them."

Mr. Callahan motioned for her to enter and took the card from her. He glanced briefly at the brightly colored bouquet on the front and then flipped the card open to look at the text inside.

"It's Arabic, but I don't speak it. I'll give it to an interpreter. Thank you, Ms. Dougherty."

~~~

On the other side of the country, a prison guard watched from across the visiting room as a man and a woman conversed at a small table.

Both leaning forward, the couple spoke intimately, his dark hands enveloping her black-gloved ones on the table. The standard-issue solid blue jumpsuit of the prisoner was a stark contrast to his visitor's traditional Muslim attire—her formless black robe and the headscarf that shielded her downcast face.

Their conversation seemed hurried, urgent.

The guard nonchalantly crossed the room, slowing ever so slightly as he passed by the couple in a casual effort to overhear them. For a few seconds, he could hear the man impatiently reassuring his mate.

"It's OK, I've taken care of it. You don't have anything to worry about. So shut up already."

The woman said nothing. She glanced up, and her dark face was partially revealed for just a moment from within the folds of the headscarf. She looked afraid. The inmate's expression was one of defiance. To the seasoned guard, it was a familiar combination. He strolled away to watch over another visiting couple.

Overhead, electric eyes were faithfully recording the scene.

~~~

Ten minutes later in Washington, D.C., Jack Callahan handed the greeting card to an interpreter who had just entered his office.

The interpreter frowned.

"What?" Jack asked.

"This card may have a cute bouquet on the front, but the text... " The interpreter trailed off, skimming silently down the card. Then he began to read aloud, slowly translating from the Arabic:

Dear Mr. President,

Your nation of puppets will soon know at last the price of fighting against our Islamic State. Those of you who survive Allah's justice will reflect upon 11 September of 2001 and consider that date insignificant.

A small taste of the pain we promise has already been put to course. Make no mistake that the blood that will flow is on your hands. Let it paint for you an image of our strength and resolve. Let it serve as a reminder that you cannot defeat Islam.

You will stand powerless and witness this small shedding of blood, and you will then have the privilege of living in fear for two months, as our faithful brothers and sisters have lived in fear of your Christian Crusaders.

And finally, on your Christmas Day of this year, there will begin a cleansing of your country unlike any you can possibly imagine. It will blanket your nation and no man, woman, or child will be safe. Only Allah will decide who may be spared.

Our Muslim brothers and sisters have been imprisoned by the western leaders for too long. The world will now see that you are the prisoners, and Allah will praise the final victory of ISIL.

October 16, 2015  
1:12 p.m. PDT

Katrina Stone sat in her office obsessing over her latest rejected grant application to the National Institutes of Health. The February 1 deadline for resubmission was already less than four months away.

Katrina was thrilled with the first reviewer's comments. The reviewer had enthusiastically wanted to fund her project. She read over the comments several times to highlight and commit to memory the specific points mentioned as favorable.

But the sentiment conveyed by the second review contrasted starkly. As she examined the reviewer's comments, Katrina wondered, Did this jackass even look at my data?

Katrina's attention was diverted from the grant review when Oxana Kosova poked her head in.

"Some guys are here to see you," Oxana said.

The two men entered the room and Oxana closed the door behind them on her way out. They fanned out and stood in front of Katrina's desk.

She visually dissected them both. Both wore full suits, which none of her colleagues ever did unless they were presenting at a scientific conference. Clearly, these were not scientists.

One of the men was slightly shorter than the other and looked quite young in the face but was balding considerably. Katrina could not decide if he was young and his balding made him look older, or if he was older and his baby-face made him look young. He seemed uncomfortable.

The other man was taller, and muscular, with salt-and-pepper waves and kind green eyes. A vertical scar ran partially down his left cheek, and his face was weathered and tanned. He extended his hand, and the tip of an old tattoo peeked out from beneath his cuff.

"Dr. Katrina Stone?" the taller man asked in a slight Southern drawl. Katrina nodded and smiled. As she reached forward to shake his hand, he said, "I'm Agent Sean McMullan and this is Agent Roger Gilman—"

Katrina's smile disappeared and she pulled her hand away as if a spider had landed on it. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" she interrupted. "I just talked to Homeland Security two weeks ago, for an hour!"

"What do you expect, lady?" the short one named Gilman blurted out.

"You work with anthrax!"

McMullan gave his partner a scowl and lowered his hand to his side following Katrina's rebuff. "I'm sorry, Dr. Stone," he said. "We are with the FBI, not Homeland Security. This is not a routine review of your research."

Katrina flinched. "I'm sorry for my rudeness; please sit down." She gestured toward the two seats facing her desk. "What can I do for you?"

The agents sat down, and he continued. "Dr. Stone, before we proceed, I need for you to very fully understand that we will be discussing matters of strictest confidentiality. Please, do not repeat this information to anyone.

"We are here to solicit your help. A new strain of anthrax has been discovered, and this strain contains an unusual element. There is a plasmid incorporated into its DNA that encodes a potent activator of anthrax lethal factor. What does that mean to you?"

Katrina was silent for a long moment. She cast her eyes between one agent and the other, sizing each of them up before speaking. "That sounds like a biological weapon. A plasmid is a mobile DNA element that can be inserted into a cell at the will of the researcher. And lethal factor is the toxin that causes the clinical symptoms of anthrax. A strain of the bug carrying a plasmid-encoded activator of lethal factor would presumably be much more virulent than wild-type—I mean, eh, ordinary anthrax."

"It is," McMullan said and shuddered slightly.

Katrina glanced down at the rejected grant application on the desk before her. When she looked back up, she was scowling slightly. "What do you want with me? I have recently been reminded once again by the NIH that many other researchers worldwide are working on the anthrax problem, and that most of them are more experienced and better equipped than I am."

McMullan and Gilman exchanged a glance. "One of our scientific consultants was on the review committee for your last grant application to the NIH," McMullan said. "The preliminary data for inhibitor compounds generated in your lab stood out in his mind as exceptionally promising."

"He wasn't impressed enough to fund the project," Katrina said bitterly.

"Actually, he did want very much to fund it. He was overruled by others on the committee."

Katrina thought back to the critiques and realized that McMullan was referring directly to the two reviewers who had provided the comments for her grant application.

McMullan continued, "Anyway, that was before the discovery of this new strain. Your grant application has now been reviewed once again in light of the discovery of the new strain of anthrax. And the NIH committee believes that your compounds have the potential to be developed rapidly into effective therapeutics. So the government has decided to offer you whatever you need in terms of funding, equipment, and staff, to complete the project detailed in your proposal as quickly as possible..."

~~~

Twenty minutes later, Gilman and McMullan stood to leave Stone's office, and each of them shook her hand politely.

"It is a lot to consider," said McMullan. "Your lab will be effectively turned upside down. It will be a very large intrusion into your life and the lives of your staff. However, we will need your decision as quickly as possible." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "We'll be in touch." He handed her the card. "And, again, please do not discuss this matter with anyone except Agent Gilman or me. Do not discuss it over the phone or the Internet with anyone."

"OK, I understand," Stone said. She took the business card and peered at it quickly before opening her top desk drawer to tuck it inside.

Gilman was glancing absently at the framed degrees on the wall behind her. There were three of them, all from different schools across the nation.

Next to the diplomas was a full-sized poster of what looked like a subway map. The subway stations were nonsense words, such as "mTOR" and "p53." The caption at the top of the map read, "A Subway Map of Cellular Pathways." Another full-sized poster on the wall to the left was a jumbled mess of overlapping, zigzagging, crossing and merging arrows and brightly colored shapes. It was entitled "Apoptosis Signals."

Gilman shook his head and turned to leave, but then he stopped short. For a few moments, he could only gape in disbelief at the large poster on the wall next to the door that had been at his back through their entire conversation. He turned to his partner who was also staring at the artwork.

Wordlessly, Gilman reached into his briefcase and took out a document. It was his copy of the greeting card from the White House. The one with the funny bouquet on the front.

The high-resolution poster on Katrina Stone's wall was in full color. The small picture in Gilman's hand was the smeared black and white of a cheap photocopy. Otherwise, the two images of the bouquet were identical.

The agents whirled back around in unison, guns drawn.

"Get your hands up, NOW!" yelled McMullan.

4:56 p.m. EDT

In Washington, D.C., United States Postal Inspector Teresa Wood stepped out of an underground Metro station. A tall black-and-white pillar announced that she was at the Archives/Navy Memorial station.

In Teresa's right hand was her briefcase; with her left she was shoving the entire second half of a hot dog into her mouth. A fierce gust of wind blew past her at exactly the wrong time, sending a shoulder-length tuft of her fine straight black hair directly into her mouth along with the food. Rubbing her face onto her shoulder to detach the hair from her mouth, she crumpled the foil wrapper from the hot dog and tossed it into a trashcan on the sidewalk as she passed. She did not stop walking.

Still chewing the large bite, the USPIS Assistant Director of Forensics progressed briskly up the familiar stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue, her long legs taking half as many strides as those of a man walking nearby to cover the same distance.

The Navy Memorial was spread out on her right beyond the fountains separating it from the sidewalk. A former Navy girl herself, Teresa liked to refer to the memorial as proof that the US is at the center of the globe. The joke was a tongue-in-cheek jab at the large map of the world stretching across the concrete, with North America clearly defined in the center and the other continents fading out around it. And at The Lone Sailor—a Navy man, of course, standing over it.

West of the memorial, Teresa ignored the signal at Ninth Avenue and dodged traffic as she headed across the street toward the main entrance of J. Edgar Hoover Building. As she did, her cell phone rang.

"Shit," Teresa muttered through the half-masticated food in her mouth. Hurrying to swallow, she absently wiped her face as if her caller could see her. When she could speak somewhat clearly, she answered the phone, "Wood here."

"Teresa!"

Her caller sounded a little distressed. "Ken?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's me," said her colleague from the graphics department. "You're not going to believe this."

"Ken, I'm in D.C. I have a prioritization meeting at FBI headquarters." She dusted the remaining hot dog crumbs off of her suit jacket where they had come to rest upon her sizable breasts.

"Well, they're going to want to see this, too. It's going to change some of your prioritizations. Look at this."

Teresa's cell phone clicked as Ken hung up. Bewildered, Teresa stared at the face of the phone for a moment until it began to vibrate. A bubble on the screen indicated a new text message.

Teresa opened the message. The small embedded graphic was one she had seen the previous day for the first time. The little bouquet. How cute, except that it came with the threat of a nationwide terrorist attack by ISIL.

As Teresa began reading Ken's text message beneath the image, her rapid pace toward FBI headquarters slowed to a standstill. Her heart began to thud in her chest and she sank heavily onto a nearby bench.

"Holy Christ," Teresa said aloud, still staring at the screen of her phone.

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About Kristen Elise, Ph.D.:

Kristen Elise, Ph.D. is the author of the Katrina Stone novels, The Vesuvius Isotope and The Death Row Complex. A professional drug discovery biologist and life-long travel addict, Elise takes the inspiration for her novels from real-life mysteries and discoveries made both in and out of the laboratory. She lives in San Diego, California with her husband, stepson, and canine children. When not investigating historical and scientific mysteries, she continues to hunt for drugs and the stories they tell.

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In the Dismal Swamp

Patrick Balester

A Cozy Mystery

Set in Great Bridge, VA
Chapter 8

"Thanks," Greg said and took the pictures from the clerk.

"Are you a cop?" she asked.

"Yeah, with the Fish & Wildlife Department," Greg replied.

"Oh, I guess that explains it. I was wondering why someone wanted double prints of a body. I never saw one before," she confessed and shivered.

"Not my favorite part of the job," Greg admitted. He decided to wait until he was back at the Refuge headquarters before reviewing them, although the temptation was strong. As he drove, it occurred to him that, other than funerals, he'd never seen a dead body either. Even when his father had died suddenly, he'd been in college, and hadn't seen him until the wake. Perhaps that was why he felt so angry when first viewing Ashley's corpse. Now that a little time had passed, he felt calmer and was running down a list of things to do...visit the victim's husband, her office, and debrief the staff who had been at the scene. He would also have to call Floyd, sooner or later. Greg wasn't sure if USFW even had jurisdiction in this case. It may belong to the Great Bridge police, perhaps even the FBI. A phone call to them might clear it up. Add that to the growing list, he thought.

He pulled into the headquarters and rushed into the building, noting a strange car in the parking lot. No one, to his knowledge, drove a late model blue-gray Lexus sedan. Not even Floyd Culpepper, the refuge manager, could afford a vehicle like that. He greeted Cindy, who pulled him aside.

"There's a man from the FBI waiting for you in Floyd's office," she whispered.

Scratch one chore off his list, Greg thought. "Good, that'll save me a phone call. Anyone else around?" Greg asked.

"Sarah and Brad, the rest of the team is back in the field," Cindy explained.

"OK, send them in, would you? I want to review these photos, and might as well have them here."

"And I called Floyd," Cindy added. To Greg's look, she grimaced and said, "Sorry. I didn't want to steal your thunder."

Greg shook his head. "I just didn't want him to think I was ignoring him."

"Actually, I had to leave a message. He was at the hospital with his mom, so you'll still get to fill him in," she said with encouragement.

"Thanks," he said with a smile, which earned one in return.

He entered Floyd's office to find a tall, broad shouldered man studying a map of the refuge. The man wore a dark blue suit, red tie and white shirt. His hair was cut almost to resemble a crew cut. This, along with a thick neck, served to give his head a bullet-like appearance, the shape interrupted only by a strong chin. He turned when Greg entered the room and extended his hand.

"Mr. Parnell? I'm Dan Brennan, FBI," the man explained.

"Pleased to meet you," Greg said, and shook his hands firmly. "Didn't expect to see you so soon," he added with mild surprise.

Greg sat at Floyd's desk while Dan sat opposite him. "I suppose you want to see these?" he said, and held out his credentials. He slipped them back into his suit coat pocket at the wave of Greg's hand. "We got a call from the Great Bridge Sheriff's Department when your missing woman turned up dead. Since she was found in a federal refuge, we got involved," Dan explained.

"That's just as well. I was just about to look over these photos from the crime scene," Greg said and dropped the pictures on the desk.

"Crime scene? The way I understand it, this was a drowning. Sounds pretty routine," Dan said. Greg noticed that he made a quick glance at the watch on his wrist as he spoke. The man stifled a yawn as he finished.

"Well, I'm not sure about that," Greg said with some hesitation. "What office do you work out of anyway?"

"We're in the Norfolk office," Dan said and crossed his legs. Greg noted the leather soles on a pair of Bill Blass dress shoes. "This is more or less a courtesy call, you know. To see if you need any help."

"Slow day at the office, huh? How'd you get the lucky straw?"

Dan frowned. He suddenly became more attentive, leaned forward and asked, "Aren't you a little young to be a...what did you say your title was?"

"I get that a lot," Greg explained, and sat back in his chair, straightening his shoulders. "I'm a Special Agent with the US Fish & Wildlife Department."

"So, you're kind of like, a game commissioner, right? Or a forest ranger?" Dan asked. His voice held a hint of condescension.

"Actually, I'm a field agent," Greg countered.

"A field agent? Out where the buffalo roam? What kind is that?" Dan asked.

Greg leaned forward and folded his arms on the desk. "The kind that tracks poachers in ten degree weather through two feet of snow, armed with a 30-06, because the guy you're up against is also armed to the hilt, and there's no cell phones or backup around to help you if you get in trouble. No FBI agents either, but that can be a blessing, not a handicap," Greg added with sharp, grim eyes.

Dan played stonefaced, and then his nonchalant expression widened to a slight smile. "Fair enough, Special Agent Parnell. I'm just here to offer my assistance...if you want it," he added with a subtle tilt of the head.

Greg smiled. He relaxed and leaned back in his chair. "Actually, I was planning on calling you, and yes, I'd appreciate any help you can offer."

As this apparent truce was reached, a knock on the open door caught both men's attention. Sarah and Brad stood at the edge of the office, Brad's hand just drifting off the door which he had knocked upon.

"C'mon in guys. Meet Special Agent Dan Brennan," Greg said and waved them in. They shook hands all around while Greg removed the photos from their sleeve. He passed a set to Dan and shared the second with Brad and Sarah.

"Anything you can add to what we saw this morning, speak up," Greg urged. He passed the photos one at a time to Brad, who then gave them to Sarah.

"Who found the body?" Dan asked.

"That was me," Brad explained. "I was driving down Jericho Ditch when I noticed a break in the foliage that lines the banks of the canal. It didn't look right, so I stopped. When I got out, I saw her blue windbreaker. I first, I thought it was garbage, until I noticed her hair. I just dove in and pulled her out. I started CPR, but realized after a minute that she'd been dead for several hours."

Greg snapped his fingers. "Where's that cast, you know, the one I found by the water's edge?" he asked. Brad rose and left the room for a moment while Greg fingered through the rest of the photos and pulled out his snapshot of the boot print to show to Sarah and Dan.

"How do we know it wasn't someone at the scene?" Dan asked. Brad returned with a large cloth and set it heavily on the desk. He unwrapped it to reveal a cast of a boot print, which everyone bent forward to examine.

"I've already eliminated our staff," Greg explained. "I still need to talk with the sheriffs who were there, but I'm sure they didn't leave it. They seemed to know crime scene procedures pretty well."

"She was wearing some kind of sneakers," Dan mused as he held up a photo, "so that eliminates her." He returned his attention to the cast. "What do you make of the style? I've seen that logo before."

"Timberland. I have a pair, myself," Greg answered.

"It has a distinctive wear pattern on the sole. We shouldn't have any trouble identifying this if we actually find the match. Can I take this and ship it to our lab?" Dan asked.

Greg thought for a moment. "To tell you the truth, I don't know. It may fall under local jurisdiction."

"Are they investigating?" Dan asked.

"They seem to think it just a drowning," Greg admitted. "Open and shut."

"A drowning?" Dan asked skeptically. He pulled a picture from the middle of the pile and passed it to Greg. "Looks like some bruising on her face. Did you take this close-up for any particular reason?"

"The sheriff and I thought her nose looked broken," Greg said.

"And her teeth were dirty, like she'd been shoved in the mud," Brad added suddenly. "I actually had to pull a lump of dirt out of her mouth, trying to give her mouth to mouth."

"Where is it?" Dan asked excitedly. "Did you save it?"

Brad's face turned red. "Should I have? I thought, I mean, I didn't think that was important," he confessed.

Dan frowned, but then tried to hide his disappointment. "Well, it might have given us something, maybe DNA, but there's no guarantee. It couldn't be helped."

"There might be more, still, in her throat maybe," Sarah said with hope. Her hand reached over to squeeze Brad's arm, lending a measure of encouragement.

"Good point. When's the autopsy?" Dan asked, turning to Greg.

Greg shook his head. "I already talked to the coroner. He's satisfied that it was an accidental drowning."

"Hmm," Dan uttered. "These locals don't waste any time, do they? Can you give me his number? I might need to talk to him. Personally, I think you've got more than enough evidence here for an investigation. Nice work," he added, and surveyed the room, making quick eye contact with everyone. Greg only smiled, but Brad and Sarah mumbled their appreciation for the compliment. Dan pushed the photos together and stood them on edge, tapping them into a neat pile. "Oh, one more thing. What's the significance of this?" he asked. He held up the photo of Ashley Myrtle's sleeve.

Greg pointed to the flower petal he had photographed. "I believe this flower is a woodland species, which doesn't grow around water. In fact, it doesn't grow anywhere near where her body was found...if I've identified it correctly."

Sarah glanced at the photo over Brad's shoulder. "That looks like a petal from the dwarf trillium!" she exclaimed. "Good grief, I've never seen one before, except in pictures. They're quite rare, you know."

"That's what I thought," Greg admitted, "but I wanted to be sure before I said so."

"What's the significance," Dan asked, and then tapped his forehead. "Of course," he said in answer to his own query, "She may have been killed elsewhere and her body moved. Can you prove this flower is whatever you said it is?"

"The coroner agreed to send the petal to our forensics lab in Oregon. They specialize in identifying plants and animals. If anyone can identify it, they can. I was going to scan this photo and email a jpeg to a friend of mine as well, see if he couldn't give me a positive ID."

Dan nodded slowly. "Not bad, Special Agent," he said with a smile. "You would have made a fair FBI man," he teased.

"So, I take it we've piqued your interest."

Dan stood and handed him the photos. "Enough to recommend to my supervisor that we open a file on this one. Can I get copies of all the evidence you've collected?"

"You can probably have ours," Greg said. "I've got to call my boss, but I don't think this is in our jurisdiction. He'll probably be eager to drop this in your lap."

"Still, I might need your help, seeing as she was found in the refuge," Dan admitted.

"Anything you need, just ask," Greg said.

"Good. Thanks again," Dan said to Brad and Sarah.

Greg escorted him to the door. "I'll let my boss know that you're investigating. He'll be relieved, I think. He doesn't want a lot on his plate right now."

"You feel the same? I was planning to visit the dead woman's husband, get his statement. Interested? After all, you did find her," Dan conceded. "Unless you've got something better to do, like, count turtles, or something," he cracked.

Greg's expression must have given him away. "Right, I'll wait in the Lexus," Dan said. Greg nearly trotted back into the building and yelled, "Cindy, I'll be back in a couple of hours." He entered the parking lot just as Dan pulled alongside and Greg heard the click of an electric door lock being opened.
Chapter 9

Jonathan Myrtle lived in a rebuilt section of nearby downtown Portsmouth, near the banks of the Elizabeth River, in a section known as Old Towne. A few years ago, unwilling to follow so many other urban downtown areas into decay, the city fathers had undertaken a massive investment to turn the city's history and architecture into a showcase of stylish apartments, eateries, shops and art galleries. Although a few blighted areas remained, the centerpiece of this effort, High Street, had become an important draw for families, students, artists, and tourists.

As Dan and Greg emerged from the downtown tunnel that carried them safely beneath the muddy waters of the Elizabeth River, Portsmouth revealed herself. From High Street, Dan turned left onto Dinwiddie Street, past a four-story hotel of the same name that had seen better days. At the end of the street, Dan pulled over next to a three-story apartment building with white pillars out front, which framed the royal blue painted doors that marked each separate apartment unit. A dogwood stood guard in front.

"Here's the address," Dan said. They got out and Greg noticed a dark-haired man with a bronze face sitting in a rocker on the porch, his hand on a glass of iced tea. His hair was cut short in a flattop style and he wore a dark gray suit, despite the warm and sunny day. He took no notice of them until they had climbed the stairs and walked over to stand by him. Dan was the first to speak.

"Mr. Myrtle? I'm Dan Brennan, special agent with the FBI, and this is Greg Parnell, with the Fish & Wildlife Service."

He looked up at Dan with weary eyes that were moist. He didn't answer, but merely gestured towards two chairs on the porch across from his rocker. He set his iced tea on a small wooden table that stood between the rocker and the chairs. A small set of wind chimes tinkled as a breeze toyed with it. They waited a moment. Greg wanted to express his condolences before Dan started asking questions about the investigation, but Mr. Myrtle still took no note of them, and Greg felt the opportunity either hadn't arrived, or had already been missed, like the fleeting glimpse of an animal in the evening dusk.

Then he finally spoke. It was really an inquiry.

"Fish & Wildlife?" he asked, looking at Greg. Greg nodded.

"You must have been one of the men who found my wife," he said.

"Yes sir, and I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss," Greg said.

"I do appreciate that," Jonathan Myrtle announced. "Both of you, thank you for coming," and turned to address Dan as well. The he returned his gaze to the street, where children could be seen playing hopscotch, and a pair of men changed the tire on a Chevy Corsica.

"Many's the morning when Ashley and I would sit here on the porch and drink iced tea before the day got started. I bought this building twenty-five years ago. It was fallin' apart back then. Took us a few years of hard work to get it into shape. Just sold the whole thing for a half million dollars last week. Wish she could have been here today," he said sadly. "It's such a nice day."

"Is there anything we can do for you?" Greg said suddenly. He thought this probably wasn't the time for an interview. Perhaps another day would be better. He was about to suggest that to Dan, when to his surprise, Dan jumped right in with both feet.

"Mr. Myrtle, I realize this isn't the best time for this, but we had a few questions that we need to ask you," Dan said, drawing out a notebook and pen from his suit coat.

Jonathan glanced at him quizzically. "Did you say you were with the FBI?" he asked.

"That's right, sir. And I was just wondering—"

"Why would the FBI be visiting me about my wife?" he asked, almost to himself, and placed a hand to his chin. He turned and looked at Greg.

"You, I can understand, but..." and turned to face Dan, the sentence left unfinished.

"Well," Dan said and cleared his throat, "your wife died on federal property, and Greg, being with Fish & Wildlife, they're not really equipped to investigate this, which is why I'm involved."

His explanation only seemed to baffle Jonathan more. "What?" he asked.

Dan straightened himself in his wicker chair, which continually threatened to slide him unwillingly onto the porch. "That is to say, we investigating Ashley's death, and we just need to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind," Dan explained.

"Perhaps," Greg said and stood, "we should come back tomorrow." Dan's face displayed his feelings about that, but Jonathan took the ball from them both.

"It's all right, gentlemen," he said. "Although I don't think I can help you. The coroner's the man you want to see." He glanced at Greg and added, "I do appreciate your condolences, however." Then he tapped his forehead. "Where are my manners? Can I get you gentlemen some tea?"

"That's OK, I don't need anything," Dan replied.

"I'm fine," Greg said.

Jonathan nodded, and then spoke. "I had 400 dollars to my name when I left home. But I worked hard, saved my money, and bought my first building...this one. And of course, met my wife, whom I married 24 years ago. This week would have made 25 years," he said, wistfully. He sighed and then added, "Along the way, I've learned a thing or two about people. What have you learned, Mr. Brennan?" He returned his gaze to Dan, who studied his host intently.

"I've learned," Dan began, while he kept his gaze on Jonathan Myrtle, "that your wife's death by drowning, may not have been an accident."

Jonathan's expression changed from certainty to confusion after a few moments. "How's that?" he said, and for a moment his veneer was cracked. He turned to look at Greg, and asked, "Is that what you think as well?"

Greg shifted forward in his seat. "It's just that, well, we can't assume anything until we've examined every possibility, Mr. Myrtle. Every time we have a death without an attending physician, we must investigate. It's our job, I'm sure you understand."

Jonathan shook his head with vigor, and pulled himself back in his own chair, lifting his height by a couple of inches. "No, no, gentlemen, I'm afraid you misunderstand. There's no mistake, although I wish I could blame someone for my wife's death. But the truth is, her own stubbornness did her in."

"Hers, or someone else's?" Dan quickly countered.

"What exactly do you mean, sir?" Jonathan asked and his voice was stern and threatening.

"Well, for instance, the initial report that Greg received stated that she drove to the Dismal Swamp refuge in a white truck, which later turned up at her office. I'm not a physicist, but I know that vehicle didn't drive itself back to her office."

"Is that true?" Jonathan inquired, turning to face Greg. Greg affirmed it with a nod, then added, "We still need to question her co-workers about it, but—"

"Well, then you still have some people to interview. I won't hold you gentlemen up any longer," Jonathan concluded, seizing the opening to end the interrogation. Dan gave a look of dismay, directed at Greg, paused for a moment, and then began to rise from his chair. Greg placed his cap, which he had been cradling in his hands, on the table and he shook Jonathan's hand as the two men rose.

"I'll keep you apprised if we learn anything," he said, to which Jonathan muttered his thanks. He then shook Dan's hand, and held it for solidly for several seconds while he spoke.

"My wife was always venturing into that swamp, often alone. I didn't like it because I was afraid something like this might happen one day. When you two are done, I'm sure you'll come to the same conclusion as the sheriff."

"Why are you so sure, if you'll excuse the question, that your wife accidentally drowned?" Greg asked.

Jonathan placed a guiding arm on the young man's shoulder as he escorted them to the steps of the porch. "Because, my wife," he explained, "didn't know how to swim." He nodded as he caught Greg's surprised expression, while Dan wrote in a notebook.

"Wait, wait a minute," Dan begged, as he finished scribbling. "Your wife couldn't swim...at all?" he asked with genuine surprise.

"Not a stroke," Jonathan replied. "With all her busy projects and charity functions, and the demanding career I had, it's just one of those things she never got around to learning."

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About Patrick Balester:

Patrick Balester is a mystery writer and book reviewer living in Kansas City, Missouri. His first novel, In The Dismal Swamp, features a special agent for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Department, who must uncover the secret behind a woman's drowning in the swamp. Was it an accident, as some claim? Or was it murder?

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Cypher

Cathy Perkins

A Romantic Suspense Novel

Set in Greenville, SC

David Morris paused outside Room 309. An alto voice rose and fell in a gentle pattern. He touched the wooden panel, silently widening the opening. Caroline sat beside her mother's bed, reading aloud. He caught an occasional word, a phrase, but mostly he listened to the rhythm of her words. Her voice soothed; the cadence captured him.

With a mental shake, he withdrew from the spell. How long had he been standing there listening?

He watched her, trying to maintain a professional distance. In the property manager's office, after a rough night and a tougher morning, he'd thought she was pretty—better looking in person than in her pictures. Today...wow. Dark hair cascaded around her face. He could see its lustrous texture from the hallway. Unconsciously rubbing his fingers, he imagined it slipping through them.

She wore jeans, a dark shirt, and sneakers. Girl shoes, not tennis or running shoes. A lightweight jacket hung on the back of her chair. Simple clothes, not intended to draw attention, but he noticed the figure beneath them anyway. All the right curves, in all the right places.

He studied her features. On the surface, she looked a lot like Natalie, but he only had to look at her to see they were nothing alike. Natalie was a party girl, through and through. Caroline—

He jerked his thoughts away from that slippery path. Caroline was off-limits, a potential victim, a potential witness, and—his lips twitched—according to Pennell, a potential murderer.

Feeling like a voyeur, he tried to see her as a suspect. He drew in a breath, gathering impressions. She appeared completely under control. Competent. Used to handling emergencies with her mother and at work. A far cry from the confused woman the officer on the scene had described, the woman who'd nearly fainted over crime scene photos.

Could she have arranged the murders?

He had to ask the question.

He still didn't know the answer.

Maybe he could interview the mother later. She might know if something was going wrong in her daughter's life—and be willing to tell him about it.

He shifted, uncomfortable with his next thoughts. Why had Caroline agreed to this meeting? What did she hope to accomplish?

What did he?

Caroline must have heard him move or felt the change in the airflow through the open door, because her head suddenly turned, angled in his direction. Her finger rose to her lips in a silencing command. His mouth struggled with a smile at her audacity. When was the last time a civilian told him to do something? And when had he paid the slightest attention? Caroline rose and bent over the prone figure, murmuring words too soft for him to hear.

As he entered the room, she straightened and smoothed the blanket. His gaze followed her fingers. They slid across her mother's shoulder and eased down her arm. When was the last time a woman touched him with that gentle a caress?

Focus, he chided. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong woman.

He passed the bathroom and stopped short when the sleeping woman fully registered. The woman in the bed looked eighty-three instead of fifty-three. He took in the wasted limbs and sparse hair, wondering if he'd stumbled into the wrong room.

He flicked a glance at Caroline. Right room, right mother, wrong assumptions.

A flicker of anger bloomed. The mother was closer to death than life. No wonder Caroline spent so much time here. What was Mr. Wainwright thinking, running around the country with his wife in this condition?

"Detective."

He turned back to Caroline. At her gesture, he stepped into the hall. She closed the door behind them. Her brief smile never reached her eyes.

"I want to do whatever I can to help," she said.

Her voice resonated in the hollow of his chest. Ignoring the reaction, he said, "Good. Is there a cafeteria here? Some place we can sit?"

Her blue eyes focused on him. They studied him, as if he were a puzzle she couldn't figure out. "I arranged to use the conference room on this floor."

He studied her with equal frankness. Beyond the physical attraction, he noticed the intelligence and awareness in her posture. Was Pennell right? Was she capable of murder?

His hand swung open. "Lead on."

They passed the nurses' station and turned into a side corridor.

"Do you have any idea who did it?" she asked.

She had a nice walk, confident, like she knew where she was going and what she was doing. "We're investigating several possibilities." It was a rote answer, the one he always gave.

She stopped. Her head tilted and her forehead puckered in a searching expression. "Let me see if I have this straight. I'm supposed to tell you everything I know or suspect about my friends, but you aren't going to tell me anything."

He couldn't treat her any differently than he would another witness. "Well, basically, that's the way it works. We have to play it close to the chest. We can't risk leaking information."

She propped a hand on her hip. "Oh, you mean like you did yesterday, practically calling a press conference to announce I was your main suspect?" Color rose in her cheeks, and she bit the corner of her lip.

Damn. Don't bail on me now. He softened his expression. "We really don't know much right now, but it does look like drugs might have played a part."

"I saw that speculation in the papers too. Really playing those cards close. You know"—she pivoted, turning back toward the main hallway—"maybe this isn't a great idea after all."

"Ms. Wainwright. Caroline. I need what you can tell me. It might not be drug related, but how am I going to figure that out if you won't talk to me?"

She stopped, her hands fisted at her sides.

He watched the rigid line of her back, practically hearing the mental debate, hoping her internal battle would lead her in the right direction. The confident façade was a front, he realized, only partially masking how much the past few days had taken from her.

Her shoulders sagged under the load she carried. "Sorry. I'm a little overwhelmed." She turned around.

"I'd be surprised if you weren't. Is this the conference room?" He gestured at the only open door on the corridor.

Moments later, he faced her across a small round table. He wanted to ask about her mother but wasn't sure he had the right, especially given their fragile truce.

She picked up on it. Or else she was so used to the question, she answered it automatically. "Cancer."

Like that said it all. And given the way Mrs. Wainwright looked, the big "C" pretty much covered it. "I understand you spend a lot of time here."

She gave him an odd look. "You understand?"

What had he meant by that? He'd thought it was a way to get her talking about Saturday night at the hospital. From there he could ease her into Sunday morning and the murders. But from her expression, she was asking if he understood why she spent the time. Which was a question he wanted to discuss over a quiet drink, not in the context of a murder investigation.

He gave a silent sigh. Whatever he said next would probably ruin any chance of that drink ever happening. "If my mother was that sick, I'd want the chance to say good-bye. To know I'd done all I could."

Damn, what was wrong with him? That wasn't what he meant to say. Her friends had just died, and here he was reminding her about her mother's impending death.

He forced his hands to remain flat on the table rather than scrub them over his face. He wasn't above using anything to coax a suspect or witness to talk, so why did he feel like such a jerk?

He wasn't manipulating her. He'd told her the truth. Doing so had offered her far too personal an insight. Clearly, he was the one who needed the distance, not Caroline.

The next second, he realized something had shifted in the room, as if a physical barrier had lowered. The tension had lessened. Another emotion—Sympathy? Understanding?—replaced Caroline's distant expression. With his simple observation—he loved his mother—Caroline had moved from flat-out suspicious of him to a tentative trust.

And for some equally ridiculous reason, he trusted her. Pennell was going to kill him. His sergeant would bite his head off. But he believed her. There was no way this woman had arranged a murder for hire.

Stalling, giving both of them time to adjust, he removed a notebook and a recorder from his briefcase. "Why don't you start at the beginning and tell me what happened?"

"There's not much to tell." Caroline frowned and twisted a lock of hair. She ran through the events leading up to Sunday morning.

"Tell me about your friend. What's her full name?"

"Natalie Anne Jennings. She lives in Atlanta, but her parents are in Macon."

Present tense, he noticed as she gave him the address. It still wasn't real.

"I called them." She stopped, her composure cracking. Her lips thinned and her throat worked as she fought tears.

He waited a moment, remembering the call from the Macon P.D. he hadn't returned. "You called her parents?"

She nodded. A muscle in her cheek twitched as she struggled for control.

Notification calls sucked. Obviously, the conversation had been difficult for her. Her hands clenched her upper arms; her fingers were white. If she didn't ease the pressure, she was going to leave bruises.

"Reese's parents already knew."

"You called them too?" Calling the deceased's family was one of the worst parts of law enforcement. Bethea's parents had taken the news hard, and he could imagine how they reacted when Caroline called them. His respect for her rose another notch.

"I had to."

Most people wouldn't. He moved things around on the table for a minute, giving her time to recover.

He led her through the ordeal, in detail this time, from Natalie's arrival on Friday to this meeting. After probing for details about the various relationships, he took her through the weekend several more times, looking for holes, but her story matched the evidence he'd found. He made notes as she talked, listening for the little signs that indicated she might be lying. All he heard was her bewilderment and determination to find the murderer.

"I still can't believe they're dead." She traced a circle on the table with her finger.

"Ms. Wainwright, there's one area we haven't discussed." He waited until he'd recaptured her attention. "This took place in your home. Is someone trying to hurt you?"

She met his eyes. "I don't know."

He waited for more.

Her hands rose and fell in a frustrated gesture. "Don't you think I've asked myself that a thousand times? Ever since it happened, I've asked why? Was it random? Were they after me? One of them?" A flush climbed her cheeks, but her eyes didn't waver. "Natalie looks a lot like me. She was in my bed."

She stopped, her lips pressed tightly together. He was intently aware of her—how she held her head, her hands. The way she stood and sat. He didn't want to be aware of her on that level, knew it couldn't go anywhere. He also recognized the sensation wasn't going to go away.

"Nothing makes sense." Her fingers clenched the edge of the table. Her expression said she was remembering more than she was saying. She was finally feeling the events. Until now, her emotions would've been too numb. Her friends had died, violently. Nothing he said could touch that pain.

Biting her lip, she again blinked back tears.

Morris stalled, reading through his notes. He sometimes felt awkward when a victim or witness cried, but Caroline's struggle to control her emotions punched through his professional skin. He wanted to take her into his arms and let her sob, but he couldn't. Instead, he had to be heartless. "Caroline, I know this is hard, but I'm not the enemy. I need your help to find whoever killed your friends."

Swallowing hard, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry for your losses. All of them," he said—and meant it.

She took a deep breath, visibly setting her grief aside.

He waited a beat, but she didn't speak. "Can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt your friends?"

"No." She looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed but focused. "I've tried to think through the possibilities." Her forefinger flicked out. "One, Natalie got mixed up in something in Atlanta. Trouble followed her up the road."

"That's possible," he said. They hadn't really considered that angle. He needed to call the Georgia officers.

Caroline shook her head. "She never mentioned any problems. And believe me, Natalie can't keep a secret. If something were wrong, she'd have told me."

Another finger came out. "I'm sure you've heard the stories—Reese and his women. That was before Natalie, but even if he made a massive error in judgment about some woman's mental state, I can't believe she'd break into my condo. Or if he slipped up and got involved with a married woman, her husband would have the same problem. How would he know where to go, that Reese would be at my place?"

Before Morris could ask her to explain the "error in judgment" or prod her about Reese's drugs, she said, "There may be another possibility."

"Oh?" His attention immediately sharpened. They'd already covered his primary motives.

Her fingers drummed the table. "As far as I know, no one hates me. My family has money, but most of it's tied up in Cypher. The company's never been an active target before."

Before? "Is something different this time? Have there been threats?"

"I'm not aware of any."

She was hedging. "Anything from a disgruntled employee?"

"It's just a feeling. That something's going on. With the company."

He found himself in the uncomfortable position of pulling a Pennell. He couldn't take her instincts to court. He needed something solid. "You aren't involved in the company?"

Caroline shook her head. He tried to focus on the subtext of her words rather than her perfume and the way her chest rose and fell sharply when she tried not to cry.

"It was a mutual decision. I enjoy my work with Robeshaw Advertising. I called Crystal earlier today. She said the police were there. Was that you?"

He wasn't going to let her off that easily. "I could talk to your father about threats to the company."

Her body language said, Good luck with that one.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Already tried that, huh?"

"He's big on Need to Know."

"What about you?" He tried to say it neutrally. He didn't want to be attracted to her, but he wasn't looking forward to hearing about her love life either.

"Me? I've already told you, nobody's threatened me."

"This could be directed at you personally rather than your family. Maybe an old boyfriend?"

She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. "Bill would never—"

"If it is directed at you," he interrupted, "the guy could try again. We need to consider the possibility."

For a long moment, she stared at him. Then she released a slow breath and relaxed her shoulders. "You can take my old boyfriends off your suspect list." A wry expression twitched her mouth. "I can think of one guy who broke my heart back in college, but I didn't exactly leave a trail of crushed men in my wake."

Don't sell yourself short.

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So About the Money

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About Cathy Perkins:

An award-winning author, Cathy Perkins works in the financial industry, where she's observed the hide-in-plain-sight skills employed by her villains. She writes financial-based mysteries and loves raising the emotional stakes through her characters' relationships. When not writing, she can be found doing battle with the beavers over the pond height or setting off on another travel adventure. Born and raised in South Carolina, the setting for CYPHER, HONOR CODE and THE PROFESSOR, she now lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, children, several dogs, and the resident deer herd. Visit her at http://cperkinswrites.com. 
FURtive Investigation: A Psycho Cat and the Landlady Mystery

Joyce Ann Brown

A Cozy Mystery

Set in a small town in Arkansas and Kansas City, MO
Chapter 10

July, Seven Years Earlier—Frog Springs, Arkansas

Rob Turley grabbed the can of beer from Caitlin's hand with a vacant, unfocused look on his haggard face and zigzagged toward the front door. The pop top landed on the dingy carpet, not even close to the wastebasket toward which he flung it. Rob dug around in his pants pocket for his car keys. "Gonna get a big commission for the deal I make tonight, Martha. You'll be proud of me," he slurred over his shoulder. "Don't wait up. I'll be celebratin' after."

Caitlin had observed, more and more lately, her dad getting loaded even before he went off to the bar. But this was the first time he'd called her by her dead mother's name. Caitlin, despite her usual inaction for fear of the consequences of contradicting him, reacted on impulse to the shock of having him call her Martha.

"Dad!" she shouted after him as her father wobbled like an unsure bowling pin down the sidewalk, "You shouldn't be driving." When he looked around with a confused look on his face, she said in a quieter manner, "You're a little unsteady on your feet. Why don't you come back inside and rest a little? I can drive you to your meeting on my way to work."

By this time, Caitlin had reached her dad, ready to give him a guiding hand back to the house, expecting a vehement argument, but driven on by her dread of what would happen on the road if he drove anywhere. Her promise to her mother that she'd look after her father stared her in the face. It was as much a guiding force in her life as if she were three years old and her mother was telling her to play nice with the kids on the playground, especially those little slow ones who might get hurt if she wasn't careful.

The change in Rob's attitude was immediate and his response vicious. "Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?" Rob said, as, all of a sudden steady on his feet, glassy eyes turned to stone, he grabbed Caitlin's arm in a steely grip. "You plannin' to go to that bar and sell your body, like those other sluts down there? I'm the man of this here house, ya hear me? I'm goin' there to do business, and you're goin' to stay here and keep house. That's what a woman is supposed to do."

His beer splashed out and onto his shirt when he shook Caitlin. The wet shirt seemed to infuriate him beyond measure. He backed away as if she had thrown acid on him. "Now see what you did? Go get me another beer. A clean shirt, too."

Caitlin stood there for a moment, stunned, feeling the ringing in her ears caused by the brutal shaking she had just received and rubbing her bruised arm. She saw her father coming toward her and started to take a step backward. "Now!" he growled, and with all his 185 pounds behind him, he gave her a powerful shove in the middle of her chest with his open palm, sending her sprawling backward onto her bottom in the middle of the sidewalk. In one fluid motion, Rob raised his right arm and propelled the almost full can of beer with all his might, his daughter the target, as if finishing her off might eradicate his feelings of pain and guilt. He darted to his old green sedan, which was parked in the cracked and weedy asphalt driveway, backed so far out that he spun into the curved driveway on the other side of the street, plowed across that yard to the road, and screeched around the bend, without looking back.

When Caitlin came to, Mrs. White, the seventy-five-year-old lady from across the street, whose hair matched the color of her name, was holding a wet towel to the side of her young neighbor's throbbing head. The smell and taste of beer and blood assaulted Caitlin's senses as she cautiously rose to her elbows. She pushed herself to a sitting position while fighting a nauseous feeling caused by the brutal pain in her head. Her immediate and overpowering emotional reaction was embarrassment.

"Thank you, Mrs. White. I—I guess I fell down and hit my head." Even as she said it, it sounded silly to her. How did a fall explain the beer can she spied on the grass a few feet away and the beer that soaked her hair and shirt?

"You fell, alright, dear," said Mrs. White, with a wry look. "You're just lucky the rock that bounced off your head is made of aluminum."

~~~

The plucky little lady had not witnessed the actual attack. She had looked out her front screen door when she heard Rob's tires rocket into her driveway, back out, and squeal away down the street. Seeing her young neighbor bleeding on the sidewalk, she quickly soaked a towel in cold water and ran over to help. Calling 911 was somewhat foreign to Mrs. White's rural roots, but now, looking at the mass of blood and hair on Caitlin's scalp, she thought of getting medical help and looked to see if anyone else was around to make the call while she continued to monitor the hurt girl.

The Turley's ranch style house stood in a desirable area on the outskirts of Frog Springs, where the private and secluded lots consisted of an acre or more and were separated by shrubs and trees. The houses were set back from a curvy road running up and down hills. When Caitlin and Quinlin were young and their mother worked at the Community College in town, the family would often have backyard cook-outs and parties.

Since Martha's death, the back yard and the driveway had gone to weeds, the house needed painting, and Rob wouldn't spend money on water and fertilizer to care for the old flower beds. Mr. and Mrs. White, living directly across the road, were the only neighbors who could see the shabby condition of the Turley residence on a regular basis, but they hadn't complained.

~~~

"Caitlin, dear," Mrs. White said, looking around. "Are you able to hold this towel to your head while I go in and call for help?"

"No, I mean, you've been help enough, Mrs. White. I'm okay, really. You don't need to call anyone else." Caitlin took the towel from her neighbor and slowly got to her feet. Her head hurt like crazy, but it felt like a surface wound. "This looks worse than it feels. I'll go wash it off and it'll be fine." Caitlin forced a smile. "Please don't worry any more about me. I'll wash your towel out and bring it back tomorrow."

Her neighbor wasn't easily talked into leaving. Caitlin ended up letting Mrs. White walk her inside, get her a drink of water, put some antiseptic on her wound, examine her pupils to see if they were dilated, and help her remove her bloody shirt and put on a clean one. Finally, after promising she would call immediately if she felt dizzy or needed any kind of help, Caitlin stood in the doorway faking a smile while she watched Mrs. White cross the road at a snail's pace and make her way up the rise to her house.

Half way up, the little lady turned around and shouted, "Please call me, Caitlin, if you need help, help for any reason. Mr. White and I will be here for you!"

Caitlin raised her hand and strained to sound upbeat as she shouted back, "Thank you so much for your help today, Mrs. White. I'll call if I need you."

She waited until her neighbor disappeared into her house before she sagged to the floor of the living room. No tears came. Instead, Caitlin's mind started racing. In every e-mail he sent, Quinn stressed his willingness to have her live in Kansas City with him. She might have to work at a low-end job for a time, he warned, until his band started making good money and she could go to school. If Dad became impossible to live with, if he made it unbearable for her to fulfill her promise to her mother to take care of him, they could still honor their promise to take care of each other.

No matter how many times, in her e-mail replies, Caitlin had assured Quinn that she was doing fine, Quinn remained skeptical. He knew his father's abusive nature too well. Until now, however, neither had feared that Caitlin's physical well-being might be threatened.

From the time Caitlin was able to earn money from babysitting, she had always saved part of her earnings. She kept her money in a shoe box under her bed until she was fourteen, when her ailing mother helped her and her brother obtain savings accounts of their own. Their father's name was not on the accounts, and Caitlin had regularly added to her savings during her years of working after school, on weekends, and summers while in high school. Over the years, the money had grown to several thousand dollars, interest adding to the amount until rates dropped to near zero percent when the recession hit. At least it would help her get started.

First, she needed to withdraw her money in some form she could carry with her. The people at the bank would know, and they stayed open until five o'clock. Next, make the difficult, last minute call to Taco Bell to say she they needed to find someone to fill in for her. There was time. Caitlin grabbed her purse and keys to the old jalopy she drove, tied a clean strip of cotton cloth around her injured head, covered it with a ball cap, and headed to town.

No panic, no regrets, no second thoughts. This wasn't the first time Caitlin had rehearsed this departure in her mind. She had the route to Kansas City memorized. A printed map and directions from Frog Springs to Quinn's address on Sycamore Street in Kansas City had been hidden in the back of her closet for a year. The preparation list rolled through her mind as easily as the car's tires rolled into the tiny burg—withdraw her money, fill up with gasoline, drop in to the library and send an e-mail to Quinn to let him know she'd be coming, pack the trunk and back seat of the old car with clothing and a few personal items, grab a sandwich to eat on the way, leave a note for Dad... No, she'd call or write to him later, after she was safely with Quinn and had time to think about what to say. Her father probably wouldn't even realize she was missing until tomorrow sometime, maybe not even then. And he most likely would never remember what he did this afternoon.

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CATastrophic Connections

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About Joyce Ann Brown:

Joyce Ann Brown owns rental properties in Kansas City with her husband, but none of their tenants have so far been involved in theft, kidnapping, or murder. Her two cats, Moose and Chloe, are cuddly, not psycho. Besides being a landlady, Joyce has worked as a storyteller, a library media specialist, a Realtor, and a freelance writer. Her writing has appeared in local and national publications.

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East of the Pier

Janet Elizabeth Lynn

A Murder Mystery

Set in New Orleans, LA, Tampa, FL, and Los Angeles, CA
Chapter Three

Connie visited Marcello at his office to ask him to be a character witness. She explained that Johnston suggested it due to a possible lawsuit by Brad's father.

Marcello smiled and agreed.

Connie mentioned Johnston and Dolly's upcoming wedding. "She's planning a real society event. Perhaps the season's most anticipated event on Catalina Island. She's thinking of redoing the garden in Tuscan decor." She quietly remembered her own wedding plans last year.

"You know, to find love at seventy years old is an amazing thing," Marcello said.

"You romantics. Give me a break."

A black cat strolled into his office and hopped up on the desk. He purred and ran his side along Marcello's arm.

"So what's this?" Connie ran her hand a long his back.

Marcello put his arm around the cat and picked him up. "Captain's cat, actually his girl's...names Vamp. He's been here a week."

Marcello gently put him on the floor. Connie didn't notice the litter box or bag of cat food earlier.

"So Daddy Marcello has a pet. How about that?"

"It's temporary," Marcello barked.

He invited her to visit the lab. It was her old stomping grounds when she was a full time CSI. The M.E., Jim, welcomed her with a big hug. Kyra smiled, she missed Connie's wit.

"Come; let me show you what I have." Jim pulled up two chairs for his visitors.

"For one thing, our John Doe has well-developed lungs. He's a swimmer or scuba diver. I can't tell if he was pushed, fell, slipped, or jumped into the ocean. Salt water was in his lungs, so he was alive when he went in. His face was bashed in; rocks maybe. He had some shark bites on his face and left arm, missing a right arm. Finger prints are difficult to get because of prolonged salt water erosion."

"How long ago was he killed?" Connie asked.

"Maybe a week; hard to tell."

Kyra began, "We found a fifty dollar bill sewn into the hem of his pants and these in the other leg." She held up three odd-looking gold pieces. "They're gold doubloons circa 1733. From my research, I discovered they were minted in Mexico City. I'm not clear how they got here."

Marcello said, "You couldn't tell at the crime scene the large coins were—"

Connie interrupted. "Wow. They are beautiful. Are they the real thing?"—examining one with her gloved hand.

"You betcha. We also found these"—pointing to more bills laying flat on the table—a twenty, another fifty and several one hundred dollar bills. "They were inside of his cummerbund, and all counterfeit."

Connie examined the portraits of presidents Hamilton and Jackson.

Jim pointed. "The victim's stomach contained a high alcohol content and remnants of lobster and potatoes. He also had signs of an early ulcer." He handed the folder to Marcello. "Make good use of it."

Kyra fingered the label on the jacket. "Tuxedo is from a Key West manufacturer, vintage 1980's."

"So," Marcello summarized, "we got a drunk guy without a right arm, dressed to the nines, at a fancy dinner party with illegal money and stolen artifacts in his clothes."

"Don't forget he had a great set of lungs," Connie said, sidestepping Marcello.

"He could have maintained himself for a while in the ocean before the shark got him." Jim continued, "With these lungs, he could have stayed in water for long periods of time. Whether he was drunk or not, he was in excellent shape. I have a call into the FBI for an expert facial reconstruction."

~~~~~

Connie was intrigued by the clues. She could feel the blood rush to her head just remembering the time she spent there.

Marcello walked her back to his office. He found himself taking an occasional glance at Connie's lovely legs. He didn't often see her in shorts.

The cat had curled up on his chair. Marcello stood for a minute and watched Vamp, then ignored him and turned to Connie. "Can I get you some coffee?"

Connie knew this was a segue to more burning questions. She wanted to make it hard for him so she played along. She shook her head. "I have to leave now."

"Wait! Are you...still seeing the therapist?" She knew it was a difficult question for him to ask.

Connie paused for a moment to let him squirm a little. "No," was all she said.

He nodded as if he understood.

As she walked to the door, she said, "I finally sold my catering business. Now I'm officially a full time grad student. I'll have my long time dream of getting an MBA soon."

"Congratulations, I remember when...."

Marcello was paged to the captain's office. He turned and asked, "Want to come?"

After seeing the clues she couldn't refuse.

A tall, willowy blonde in a gray pantsuit stood by the Captain's desk. When the captain saw Connie he smiled and nodded.

"Detective Prado, I'd like you to meet Agent Marteen Shaw, FBI." Captain said, under what seemed like duress. "I want you to cooperate with her and the FBI."

Marteen emphasized, "We need one-hundred-percent cooperation!"

Captain stared down at his desk and recited, "Regardless where it takes you. Understood Prado?"

Marteen nodded toward Connie. "Who's this?"

Connie introduced herself and extended her hand.

Marteen smirked and kept writing. Marcello explained Connie's work on prior cases. Captain nodded.

Marteen went on to discuss her experience, listing herself as former Interpol, former CIA, and now FBI. Captain did not respond.

Vamp sauntered in, circled around Captain's chair then jumped on Marteen's lap and curled up. She stroked his back as he purred.

"Vamp's my daughter's cat. They're into vampires," Captain explained. "His real name is Vampire Black."

"Name is too long," Marteen added, not taking her eyes off of him. Vamp played with the long blonde hair hanging off her shoulders.

"Prado here has been kind enough to be his guardian when I'm away." Captain nodded at Marcello.

Marcello asked, "Why is the FBI involved?"

"I'm here for the facial recognition project and follow through with the counterfeit money on your John Doe."

"But why now? A bit early isn't it?" Marcello asked.

"Like I said, we need one-hundred-percent cooperation from both of you," Captain repeated.

On the way back to the lab, Connie mentioned to Marteen her experience with Interpol in Guatemala. "They were helpful and what I considered very fair. Out of curiosity with all of your experience, why did you choose to work for the FBI?"

Marteen didn't respond.

"I take it you are not impressed with FBI?" Connie asked.

Marteen shrugged, put Vamp's leash on him, and handed it to Captain March.

Back in the lab, Marteen took measurements of the victim's head and limbs. "I'll have an answer for you in three hours. You want to hang around?"

"Good," Jim said, "Now listen. I want to talk to you two about the case." He focused on Marcello. "I want to recommend that you go to the Scripps Institute of Oceanography in San Diego. They can give you information on the possible places the murder may have occurred. I'm sensing it may have been on a cruise ship."

"Sensing?" Marcello questioned.

"Look at the evidence—formal dress, the lobster, drunk on wine...."

Kyra interrupted. "Scripps is closed on Mondays."

Everyone stared at her for a minute, trying to connect Kyra's statement.

"I'm sorry, but this is Friday. Scripps is closed on Mondays so you have to go today or wait until Tuesday afternoon, if they have time, or Wednesday morning. I just spoke to them."

"A bit presumptuous aren't we?" Marcello said to Kyra.

Marteen looked at her watch. "It's 10:00. We can make it in two hours. The facial recognition project will have to wait," Marteen stated. "We need to leave now."

"But the ID is important..." Jim interrupted.

Marteen glared at Jim. "He's not going anywhere, is he?"

~~~~~

Marcello drove the three of them to San Diego. They made it by 2:00.

A Dr. Carr was waiting for them in his long lab coat with a colorful Hawaiian shirt peeking out of his collar. He'd prepared and posted charts on the wall with lines and arrows drawn on them. He explained the movement of the ocean current in the last seven days.

"There were storms off Hawaii and mid Pacific Islands. These show the undercurrents one hundred miles east of Catalina between Catalina and St. Nicholas islands." He pointed to the map. "If it was more like nine days ago, this body would have ended up in Baja. It had to have entered the water here"—pointing to Catalina—"and no longer than five days ago."

"Maybe he was on a cruise when he fell," Marcello commented, "or was pushed."

Marteen mumbled while she examined the map.

Connie remained quiet.

"Well, what do you think?" Marcello asked Connie.

"I seem to remember something on the news about a missing person on a cruise line somewhere off the California coast. But I can't remember which cruise line or the day."

"Make a note of that," Marteen ordered. She glared at Marcello until he took out his notebook.

~~~~~

Marteen worked through the night and got the facial recognition images she wanted. She called Marcello at 2:30 in the morning on his cell phone. "Wake up mister. I got a face for you."

Marcello moaned. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"No. You will talk to me now or come to the station now. Make a choice."

Marcello wasn't at all awake and tried to get his bearings. "Go ahead; I'm listening." He pushed Vamp away from his face.

"He's of Middle Eastern descent; light brown hair. His eyeballs are gone, but I assume by his skin coloring he has medium brown eyes. His strong jaw and pronounced nose verifies my assumption. I'd say he's about 5' 7" and his bone density makes him about 40-ish."

Marcello waited. "Okay."

"Your assistant found a copy of the news report about the man missing from the Brilliant Cruise Line. The Star Gazer ship cruised past Catalina Island about seven days ago. The victim's name was Brian Woods, from Tampa, Florida."

Marcello was trying to figure out whom she meant by "his assistant." Connie? Kyra?

She waited for a response. "Wake up Prado or come down here."

"Okay, so what do you want me to do at 2:45 in the morning?"

"Start planning our trip to Miami; maybe Key West."

"What does that have to do with Catalina?"

"Just get on it." Marteen hung up.

~~~~~

Johnston was worried about the karma surrounding Dolly's property and offered to fly Dolly and Connie to Tampa to stay with him and his household a few days. "Besides," he said, "it's about time my boys meet you two."

He warned Dolly and Connie about his faithful housekeeper and business manager. "Lulu is a bit eccentric but she's a great women. I'll have her call you before you leave. Now, don't let Lulu scare you. She is the glue that keeps me and my company together—she and her husband Larry, that is."

"I don't understand," Dolly said.

"Lulu's eccentricity is a bit much for most people, but don't let that fool you—she's sharp as a tack."

Johnston called back that night. He was needed at a business emergency in Tampa and had to fly out that night much earlier than planned. He made arrangements for Dolly and Connie to fly commercially the next morning.

~~~~~

The phone startled Connie out of a deep sleep. She didn't want to wake Aunt Dolly, so she grabbed it on the first ring. She glanced at the clock. It was 3:30am. This can't be good at this hour.

"Bonjour Connie! It is me, Lulu, from Tampa, Florida," a raspy voice said with a charming accent.

"Lulu!" Connie was still semi-comatose.

"Monsieur Johnston asked me to call you."

"Oh, yes"—remembering Johnsty's warning of her eccentricity.

"I apologize for calling you so early in California, but my spirit would not allow me to call you sooner. Once I convinced my spirit to call, my right hand would not cooperate. I had to forcefully convince my left hand to dial the phone. So you see, I had to call you before my right hand persuaded my left not to push the buttons on the phone."

"Oh," was all Connie could muster up in a daze.

"Wake up, Mon Ami."

"Larry told me that I am rude for calling you so early. Personally, I resemble that remark."

Resemble? Johnsty wasn't exaggerating when he said that she was eccentric.

"I will send my spirit to you. This will prevent your vital organs from marinating on the plane trip." Marinating? Connie felt her stomach to be sure all was okay.

"Oui, with all those sour people on the plane, your organs will certainly marinate. You do not want that to happen. My spirit will guard."

Connie was speechless, to say the least. Marinating organs? She imagined white spirits swinging around her and through the plane. Her favorite childhood ghost, Casper, came to mind.

"Now you must follow my instructions very immaculately." She must mean explicitly. "I need toenail clippings from you and everyone coming, cut at dawn. Since it is before dawn on the west coast, you will have time."

Connie's toenails were beginning to feel weird under the sheets, probably screaming, "No! Don't do it! Don't!"

"You cannot wet your feet for four hours before you clip them. No showers, baths or walks in the ocean. Nothing like that."

"We are flying out this morning, Lulu." Connie sat at the end of her bed trying to make sense of this.

"Oh, then you must not eat citrus fruits or any yellow, red or orange foods. Blue and green are fine. This will help my spirit to sift through the acid from the molecules in the air and prevent them from attacking your vitals. Can you remember all of this, Mon Ami?"

"I don't know Lulu. I..."

"Do not worry, I will type out the directions and fax it to you."

"Is all this necessary, Lulu?"

"Absolutely. Au revoir."

Putting down the phone, Connie had to ask herself if that conversation really occurred or if she was dreaming. She pinched herself. It really hurt.

~~~~~

Marcello was summoned to his supervisor Perry's office at 7:00am. He found Chief Khan present as well.

"Sit down, Prado. We have something to discuss."

Perry was too serious for this to be a routine issue. Marcello had a sense that something unpleasant was about to happen.

"According to the State of California, we are required to conduct this informal meeting with you regarding the harassment complaint by Kyra Dennis, CSI. Keep in mind this is an informal meeting."

"Harassment?" Marcello shook his head.

"According to Ms. Dennis and a witness, you have been degrading her with deliberate and inappropriate insults regarding her professional competency in front of staff and the public."

"Who? What witness?"

Perry stopped briefly then read the complaint.

"Are you kidding? It was all in jest! So what now? Does she want an apology?"

"Actually, she said nothing about an apology. She just wants it to stop. Can you do that?"

"What, you're just going to slap my hand. That's it? It's a matter of perspective."

"Prado," the Chief stood up. "You're getting off easy. She just wants you to stop picking on her...period. I suggest you take this seriously and stop acting like an arrogant ass."

Marcello was quiet—more like stunned—that Kyra would file a complaint.

"I think this is a waste of time. Kyra is just being too sensitive. She's not used to the joking around we do here in the precinct. If she wants to work in a crime lab, she'll need a thick skin."

"We are not recording or making notes of this inquiry, but we do need to write a report at the conclusion to this meeting. Would you like us to include that comment?"

"No," was all Marcello said.

"In conclusion, you have been informed of the complaint and no questions or concerns were stated."

Marcello signed the form. "What now?"

"Stop being an ass!" the Chief insisted.

~~~~~

Marcello called Connie's cell phone. "You need to get down here. I need to talk to you."

"I'm flying out at 11:00. I'll be gone for a week. Can it wait?"

"No. Stop by on your way to the airport. Please."

Before heading to the mainland, Connie discussed Lulu's phone call she had with Dolly over breakfast. Dolly was intrigued by the diet order but she had just had a pedicure and didn't want to remove her nail polish.

They chose to eat celery and peanut butter for breakfast and skipped their usual orange juice just in case.

They were loading Dolly's best friend Fanny's cart for a ride to the Catalina Airport, when Deena showed up with two packed suitcases. "I'm going with you two." She tossed her luggage in the cart.

Dolly and Connie were dumfounded. "Your father," Connie asked, "is he...?"

"Dad said, 'Fine. Whatever.'" Deena waved her hand.

Fanny interrupted. "Carl called me last night and agreed to send her with you. He bought a ticket for her plane fare. He feels his daughter needs an adventure."

"You didn't think to call us?" Connie was getting upset.

"Why?" Dolly asked.

"I'm tired of putzing around the island waiting for Will to propose," Deena replied.

"Hey, you're working for me in my store. I don't call it 'putzing around,'" Fanny barked.

"You know what I mean, Fanny. I need a break; an adventure."

Fanny threw up her hands. "Whatever!"

"Sure," Dolly responded, hugging Deena. "Besides, it would be nice to have a young one along."

Connie stopped by Marcello's office at 8:00am while Dolly and Deena went shopping. Agent Marteen Shaw was sitting at Marcello's desk. She nodded to Connie.

"I have exactly 30 minutes. Make it quick," Connie insisted.

Vamp was noisily lapping milk from his bowl. He then put his paw in the food dish and flipped it over. Marcello closed his eyes for a second, trying to calm down. Then he went to fix the food bowl. Vamp jumped on Marteen's lap and lay down.

"Detective Prado here feels you're the best CSI for this job." Marteen began stroking Vamp while he played with her hair.

"What can we do to convince you to be a part of the investigation?" Marcello asked.

"Boy, talk about getting to the point quickly," Connie stated.

Marcello continued. "We need someone with your experience who's not connected...well, not tightly connected to the department. That's you, Connie. Any chance we can get you to be involved?"

Marteen sat back and smirked. "Atta boy—sugarcoat it. She's not a wuss, buddy. She's a professional. Treat her like it."

Marcello was on the edge of his chair, the vein in his forehead protruding. He was going to lose it at any second.

Connie replied, "Okay, enough...enough."

She gave everyone a moment to calm down. "I'm about to finish my MBA, so working full time is out of the question. My studies are online, so I'm physically mobile. I'd be more than happy to consult, but that's all. Understood?" She looked at Marcello and Marteen.

"Consult is a large umbrella." Marteen held her stare at Connie. "Specify."

Connie was about to go on the defensive but that was just what Marteen wanted. "My record as a CSI speaks for itself."

"So does your...resignation, first time around."

"Old news," Connie snapped back.

Marcello was about to intervene, but Connie put her hand on his shoulder. "And why do you need someone 'not attached to the department?' "

Marteen crossed her arms. "You're good, kiddo—real good."

Connie continued to stare back at Marteen. "For your information, I'm the Captain's ex-wife. I don't want complications in the department."

"Complications?"

"Captain's idea—separate work from personal life," Marcello added.

"That's part of it," Marteen added. "You in or out?"

"I believe I said I'm in part time. Take it or leave it."

"We'll take it. Anything you can give," Marcello insisted while staring Marteen down.

Connie stood. "I'll be in Tampa for a week. You have my cell number."

"Hey!" Marcello was excited. "We'll be in Key West for a few days..."

"That's enough out of you, buddy," Marteen interrupted while picking Vamp up. She attached the leash and led Vamp out the door.

~~~~~

The early morning docking of the Star Gazer Ship at the West Los Angeles Port made it available for police to question the crew at noon.

Marteen checked the messages on her phone. "They found the victim's I.D. from partial prints. Brian Woods, but his address is in Miami."

Marcello and Marteen boarded the ship. Two L.A County Sheriffs met them there at Marteen's insistence.

Marcello slowly followed behind and braced himself. Marteen was embarrassing him more and more with her unprofessional attitude.

Marcello had never been on a cruise ship before. He remembered the old TV show The Love Boat. That was the closest he had ever come to going on a cruise. He had never considered going on one, either.

Captain Nick of the Star Gazer met them on board. He was a short, black haired Greek, with a heavy accent, dressed in white. He introduced his Cruise Director, Brae Cummings, as the person to act as their guide. But told them he would be available any time that morning.

Brae had long, flowing auburn hair that cascaded down her back and gathered on top of her head. She had dancing marble green eyes any male could get lost in. Her dimpled smile was infectious.

"Detective Prado and Agent Shaw." She shook both their hands, smoothing her thumb across his hand. "Welcome aboard."

"I have the security tapes queued up ready for your viewing. This way please." Brae extended her arm. "I made a copy of the passenger manifest." She handed a copy to each of them. "I assume you have a copy of the original investigation?"

Marteen Shaw nodded and looked down the list of two thousand guests from the last cruise.

"I've prepared a video from that particular voyage." First, Brae put up the I.D. photos for everyone to view. "I thought you may want to match the face of the victim with his body. She put up Brian Woods driver's license.

"That's him all right." Marteen only had to glance at the picture. "Not a bad looking guy," she mentioned.

Brae gave her a copy of his passport and driver's license. "Now, let me take you to the security room." Again, she extended her arm to lead the way. She smiled every time she looked at Marcello, and his heart couldn't stop thumping when she did.

"The first one, I believe, is from the security camera during our formal dinners." She pushed some buttons as they sat by the screen. Brae stood by the door. The camera was focused on the dining table where Woods sat.

"Wait," Marteen ordered. "Back up." The security tape was rewound and she watched.

"What you're seeing now is people leaving at the end of the first dinner seating," Brae narrated. "Next shows the staff setting up for the next group."

Eventually, a few people began to wander in. Then, a tall women dressed in a beige coat and long bell bottom pants strolled in and sat down. She was the first at the table.

"Here, we see the rest of the dinner partners assembling at the table."

A tall blonde woman with long hair sat with her back to the camera. The way she wore her hair covered her profile each time she turned to talk to Woods or the gentleman next to her. As each one came in and sat down, she waved and leaned forward to say a few words.

When Woods strolled in, she signaled for him to sit next to her. She handed him a wrapped gift and they spoke throughout dinner. Marteen had the tape sped forward to the end of dinner. Carefully, the woman stood, moving her chair to avoid facing the camera.

Woods escorted her out.

"Where could they be going?" Marteen asked.

Brae consulted her papers. "There were several activities later that night from arts, movies, live performances or the piano bar. We didn't have a dessert room that night."

Marteen stared at the last frame of Woods and the woman leaving. "Go back a few frames."

She had them stop on a frame showing the woman about leave. "Enlarge," she ordered.

In frustration, she pushed Brae's hand away and began working the controls. She zoomed onto the woman's hand on the back of the chair. "Slender fingers covered with rings and a cuff long enough to cover her wrist," Marteen summarized. "She has well-polished, long fingernails."

Brae came close to look at the enlarged shot. "I don't see any hair on her hand."

"Someone is either adept at costuming and is covering up their identity, or"—Marteen diagnosed—"she's really a man."

"She seems to be wearing heels, too." Brae mentioned.

"And you know that how?" Marteen was sarcastic.

"Well, if you look at her size in the chair, she's not that tall."

Marteen manipulated the still image and looked.

"She has awfully broad shoulders for her size," Brae said.

"Where was Woods' cabin located?"

"Inside lower deck; no view. Would you like to see it?"

"Probably not. There will be nothing left of the evidence since the cabin was cleaned by housekeeping. What about the rest of the guests? Does anyone matching the description of our mystery women?"

"According to police reports in your folder"—Brae was precise—"witnesses at the dinner table said her name was Eve and that she spoke with a deep voice. Some described it like a woman with a cold. They all said she was charming and friendly."

Marteen ordered the two deputies from the sheriff's department to search the guest boarding card photos for a woman who looked like her. "It's probably going to be a dead end. She obviously didn't want to be identified. But I would rather leave no stone unturned."

"We assign people to the dining room. Let me look," Brae offered, smiling at Marcello. "Hmm, that's odd." She shuffled the pages of her file. "We have a D. Bloon assigned to the table but no one is listed on the manifest with that name." She immediately sat by the screen and scanned the pages and lists. "Nope, nothing here. No name or face. I don't understand."

She was quiet as she looked through her file folder. "Actually, it would be fairly easy to masquerade as someone else, or as two different people."

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Also by Janet Elizabeth Lynn:

MURDER MYSTERIES

North of Pier

South of the Pier

West of the Pier

COZY MYSTERIES

Eggnog

Crepes Suzette

Charlotte Russe

NOIR 1955

Slivers of Glass

Strange Markings (December 2015)

About Janet Elizabeth Lynn:

Janet was born in Queens, and raised in Long Island, New York until she was twelve years old. Then her family escaped the freezing winters and hurricanes to the warmth and casual life style of Los Angeles.

It has always been her dream to write novels. Finally, in 2001 she decided that if she didn't try, she'd never know. After many classes and seminars, much blood and sweat, her first novel, South of the Pier, was published in 2011. That was it—she can't seem to stop writing and researching.

Janet is a retired Clinical Speech Pathologist and has enjoyed her profession since 1980. She has traveled to the far reach of the planet for work and for pleasure ending up with wonderful memories, new friends and a large basket of shampoo and conditioner samples from hotels.
Just Another Termination

Linda Thorne

A Cozy Mystery

Set on the Gulf Coast, MS
Chapter 1

October 2004:

When the plant manager told me Alma Guerra hadn't shown up for work, I should've walked away from my quarter-century long career in human resources right then. But the thought didn't enter my mind. Why would it? I couldn't recall a single incident of a no-call-no-show amounting to much more than some trifling issue. Sure, you get those who've quit without notice, but they're always the ones you're glad to see go.

Not more than an hour after his announcement, Andy Holman waltzed back into my office with a new issue. "Judy, we've got to term Lester Robichaux."

"What now?" I asked. In Lester's mere six weeks of employment, he'd already damaged two machines, putting them out of operation for weeks.

"He dropped a motor on the plant floor. It's done for, and so is he."

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "I'll prepare the discharge papers and meet you in your office."

I'd gotten as far as opening the blank termination form and typing in Lester's name when Millie Landry rapped on my doorframe. "I'm worried about Alma. I've been calling her all morning."

Having a bout of hot flashes, I didn't want to deal with it so I waved her off. "Maybe she overslept, or had car trouble."

But I knew Millie couldn't be pacified. She was Alma's supervisor, and a motherly one at that. No doubt she had visions of Alma getting in a car accident, or a random fire at her house.

Millie cited a list of possible calamities before dropping dramatically into one of my straight-back chairs. "Alma was due in at seven. Judy, I'm telling you something's wrong." Her Southern Mississippi drawl cut across my desk without losing a note. "For land sakes, the girl's worked here ten years with no attendance issues."

I gulped. "Ten years?"

"Yes. If you knew her, you'd be in a panic, too."

I'd only worked for this packaging manufacturer for less than two months and hadn't met most of the two hundred plus employees yet.

Millie scooted closer, her dark hair, chocked-full of gray, hardly moving. "I'm going to drive over."

I held up a hand to keep her in her seat. "Let's pass it by Andy first." I leaned toward the phone, hit the speaker button, and tapped in Andy's extension. When he answered, I said, "Millie's here, upset about Alma, and—"

"You mean she still hasn't shown? Alma's never late."

"I want to check in on her," Millie piped in.

"Hold off," he said. "Judy, look through Alma's file. Try her emergency contacts first. Millie, we'll get back to you, but we've got another issue at the moment."

~~~

On the personal information form Alma had completed upon being hired, she'd listed her parents. At the time, they'd lived here on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, but she'd noted a change, showing their address was now in Texas, along with a new out-of-state phone number. I flipped through the rest of her file, looking for local contacts, then went back to completing Lester's termination form.

With the papers in hand, I pushed the door leading out to the plant open. Rows of machines stretched out before me. Their warning lights flashed, reflecting off the rusting, thirty-foot ceiling, while an array of noises roared in my ears.

Millie stood near a cluster of box-folding machines, holding a clipboard, a stocky, uniformed woman beside her. "Millie!" I called over all the grinding and clacking. She glanced up then transferred the clipboard to the woman and serpentined around the machines.

I led her to a slightly quieter spot. "Her parents are her only contacts, but they're out of state. I'll get back to you after Andy and I handle this other matter."

Millie bit down on her lower lip. "I don't like this. I don't know of anyone who could look in on her 'cept me or one of her co-workers."

I had to admit I didn't like it either. The memory of another young woman surfaced for the first time since I took this job, intensifying my feeling of unease. I'd hoped to shake the tragic memory by changing jobs, yet here she was with me once more. I shuddered and rubbed my brow.

"Are you okay?" Millie asked, laying a hand on my shoulder.

"It's kind of hot in here," I said. Memories of Jolene Cromwell frightened me. Would the whole thing be permanently carved into my psyche, my being? I shook my head to clear it. I couldn't let myself get trapped in the past. I had a termination to deal with. Holding up the papers in my hand, I said, "Anyway, I'll get back to you once I've taken care of this."

I walked away and headed for the long corridor to the back offices. Stopping before the door with a plaque that read Plant Manager, I gave a quick knock then pushed the door open. Inside, Andy sat at a small table.

I pulled up a chair. "Did you send him for a drug screen?"

"Yeah, but I'm not waiting for the results," Andy said. "This is a terminable offense."

"Shouldn't we include Bert? He is Lester's supervisor."

"Bert's at a doctor's appointment. He'll be here soon, but we don't need him."

As I handed Andy the termination form, Millie passed by the open door. Andy leapt out of his chair and stuck his head into the hall. "Hey, Millie. Could ya run by the machine shop and send Lester in?"

While we waited, I told Andy about the no-show employee's contacts not being local.

He heaved a sigh. "I know Alma. She's in trouble or she'd be here. Something must have happened."

Unlike the last couple of places I'd worked, this management team showed respect and concern for their employees, traits I admired. And I'd already begun to feel camaraderie with my co-workers, as well as my boss.

Lester peered in through the open door. The scowl line across his forehead looked deeper than when I'd hired him. He lumbered forward, a shrunken man who wore his pants hiked halfway to his chest. He plopped into a chair, gravity tugging at the corners of his mouth. His dishwater-blond hair looked tousled, unkempt like the gray stubble on his face. His gaze caught mine and he swiveled his head twice in reaction, realization dawning on his face. "You're the HR lady."

"You've had one too many accidents, Lester," Andy said. "And you're still in your ninety-day trial period. So, I'm sorry, but your employment ends today."

"No. Please, Mr. Holman. Don't fire me."

I looked across the table at Andy. Since I'd started, no one had ever addressed him as Mr. Holman. I figured it was due to the fact that he didn't look old enough to be a plant manager.

Andy sighed and handed Lester the discharge papers. "Unfortunately, it all comes down to numbers, I'm afraid. It's costing us more to fix the damage you've caused than what your salary is worth. Sorry, but this is irreversible. If you have comments, please write them here and sign."

With an uneasy feeling, I led Lester down the hall to the supply room. I'd endured more than my share of bad terminations and had a feeling this one wasn't over yet. I just hoped my gut feeling was wrong.

I pulled out a checklist while he transferred any company property from his locker to the supply table—spare uniforms, keys, and gloves. When he turned over his name badge, he started mumbling incoherently.

I gritted my teeth, trying to not let my anxiety take over. "Let's stay focused, Lester. You're almost done."

"I am done," he muttered. "I'll have to eat a bullet now."

My efforts at remaining nonchalant flew across the room, along with the pen I'd been holding. Feigning calm, I said, "I'll be right back."

Dropping the checklist, I sailed down the hall to Andy's office, slammed my hands against his doorframe and swung my head in. "He's threatening suicide," I said, shouting over Andy's telephone conversation with someone on speakerphone.

Without waiting for a response, I shoved off and sprinted back to Lester. The poor man was folded over the supply table, sobbing.

A moment later, Andy burst in. Resting his hand gently on Lester's shoulder, he sat down beside him at the supply table. "This isn't personal," he said. "But you had another accident, and it's our policy—"

Lester looked up, his face dripping with tears and his shoulders heaving. "This always happens to me."

Andy put one hand out, palm up. "Lester, try to calm down. We'll get you some help. We have an employee assistance program—"

"But you fired me."

"You're covered through the end of the month." Over Lester's head, Andy signaled to me and I quick-stepped to his side. "Get the EAP on the phone," he whispered in my ear. "Speed-dial number three."

Once more, I hurried down to Andy's office. A woman who introduced herself as Dottie Salazar answered after the second ring.

"I'm Judy Kenagy, the new HR manager for Rockhold Packaging in Ocean Springs, Mississippi," I said in a rush, gripping the receiver with both hands. "We just terminated an employee, and now he's threatening suicide."

"Can you get him on the phone?" she asked in a choppy tone.

"I—I'll try," I said, my voice trembling. This can't be happening. Not again, I thought.

Shoving images of Jolene's tortured face from my mind, I put Dottie on hold and stepped into the hallway. Just then Lester came out of the supply room, Andy steering him toward me from behind.

As they approached, I fell into step beside them. "We have someone on the phone you can talk to," I said.

Together, we nudged Lester into Andy's office, sitting him down in Andy's desk chair. I took the phone off hold and handed him the receiver then we returned to the hallway, leaving the door open.

"I don't think he's leaving without a police escort," Andy whispered.

Hearing a clicking sound, we looked back at the door to find it closed. We swapped glances, but before either of us could move toward the door, an earsplitting crash-bang-clank came from inside the room. We jumped back just as Lester bounded out, bumping my shoulder and knocking me backward into Andy. He paused long enough to shake a fist at us, his tear-streaked face tensed and pink, then he turned and sped toward the back of the plant.

"Don't leave," Andy hollered after him.

Lester steamrolled past his supervisor, Bert, who had just arrived through the back entrance. Bert tumbled to the floor as Lester bolted out the door and into the parking lot.

"Wait," Andy yelled as he sprinted past Bert sprawled on the floor.

"Shove it up your ass," Lester shouted. "I ain't talkin' to you people no more."

I joined the chase, scolding myself for wearing heels to work that day. When I got to Bert, I stopped and offered a hand, helping him into a sitting position. He dangled a pair of crushed eyeglasses in my face and groaned. I patted his shoulder then stumbled back into a run.

By the time I reached the parking lot, Lester had climbed into a rust-colored Ford pickup at the far end of the lot. Andy stood near the truck, jotting the plate number onto a tiny notepad.

I darted down the ramp then knitted in and around parked cars, jogging over a long stretch of empty parking spaces to the outer edge of the blacktop. The little truck coughed and choked, vibrating in tune to the clatter of its engine.

The driver's side window rolled down and Lester stuck his head out, his face burning red, his scowl line compressed into a dark, double-fold. "Andy Holman, you bastard! I'm going to git' my gun and come back here and kill you! No faggoty-ass sonovabitch is gonna fire me."

The pickup reeled forward, its tires squealing as he raced out of the parking lot.

Andy cocked his head to one side and gave me a lopsided grin. "Hmmm. So much for thinking Alma Guerra was the problem of the day."

I'd forgotten all about Alma but now my earlier dread returned. Praying whatever had kept her from work that day was trivial, I glanced back at the building a football field away. I felt small standing beside Andy on the vast expanse of asphalt, watching the pickup careen out the front gate and out of sight.

As we walked back, Andy had his cell against his ear, talking to the police. After reading off the license plate number, he hung up and sighed. "They've got an APB out for Lester so hopefully they'll pick him up before he can hurt anyone. And they're sending a patrolman over to get our story."

Once back inside, Andy heaved the back door closed, sliding the thick steel bolt into place.

"What a reversal," I said. "The man was crying suicide one minute and threatening to kill you the next."

"And he called me a faggoty-ass."

"But you handled him as any practiced manager would."

Andy threw his hands out, palms up. "Call me the consummate professional."

I laughed. I'd gotten used to his flippant remarks. They could take me out of a serious situation in a flash, but only for the moment. We still had another issue to deal with. "Call Millie and see if she's found out what's up with Alma Guerra yet."

"Let us worry about her. I need you to brief George before the cop gets here. Oh, and update the EAP rep about Lester." Andy whipped around and headed for his office.

Going through the plant on the way to George's office, I tripped on a wooden pallet. Stumbling to get around it, I stepped inside the yellow caution lines on the cement floor and had a near miss with a forklift.

God, what else can go wrong today?

"Are you h-hurt?" Bert asked, standing next to a cutting machine. Cardboard dust covered the floor at his feet.

"No, but I could've been." Pointing, I said, "That pallet needs to be moved."

"Sorry. Without my glasses, I c-can't see much m-more than the brightness of the lights. Heard the forklift's horn and barely made out your image." Turning his head toward another employee, he raised his voice to be heard over the cutting machine. "D-Dixie, c-could you help me over here with this p-pallet?"

A huge shadow fell over me and I looked over to see a muscular hulk. He skulked over and plucked up the stray pallet with one hand. Dangling the pallet against his side, Dixie took it to a nearby stack and dropped it on top. Then he returned to his machine in silence, not looking at either of us.

"Is that R-Robichaux fellow g-gone?" Bert asked.

"Yeah. Andy had to report him to the police."

He shook his head. "Sure c-caused a r-ruckus. And my glasses..." He sighed. "Pulverized."

With all Bert's stuttering, I found it interesting that he could throw out a big word every once in a while and have it come out as smooth as silk. "Well, you can't work if you can't see. How are you getting home?"

"My w-wife's on her way."

"All right. I'll help you out to the front." Taking him by the arm, I led him to the front entrance where I left him waiting on a bench then headed to George's office. As general manager, George Nichols was my direct boss, overseeing our plant in Ocean Springs.

I updated George on the sequence of events leading to Lester's discharge and what followed, expecting some kind of concern for what we'd been through. I also told him about Alma Guerra's absence.

The mention of Alma's name instantly brought George to his feet. "Why wasn't I informed?" he said. "If Alma hasn't shown up or called, something bad's happened."

Considering I'd been hit with surprises all morning, I shouldn't have been shocked that my boss seemed more concerned about Alma than the impending interview with a police officer over a potentially violent ex-employee. "She may be in now," I said. "Andy's getting an update from Millie." Leaning forward, I spun George's desk phone around, punched in Andy's extension, then pressed the speaker button. Andy's lack of any news didn't help matters.

I set the phone back in place. "I'm sorry, George. At first, this seemed like a regular no-call-no-show. And then we had the whole Lester Robichaux fiasco."

George just stared at me in silence.

Backing out of his office, I tried for a reassuring smile. "I'll try calling her house again. If she doesn't answer, I'll go over there myself."

~~~

Alma's house was in an older section of Ocean Springs, where the homes were modest but maintained with pride. Most had only slender driveways and no garages, as they were built at a time when owning more than one car was common only for those in upper middle class or rich neighborhoods. As expected in the midst of a workday, the majority of the driveways were empty, so the sight of the Honda Civic in Alma's set off an alarm inside my head.

I parked at the curb. A sign stuck into the small front lawn read John Kerry for President. I glanced around. Across the street, a man unlocked his front door and let himself in. A young couple, with two dogs, strolled by. Down the block, a mail truck stopped in front of a house, the driver hurrying up the front walk to deliver a package.

Nothing out of the ordinary, I thought. Nothing to warrant the sense of impending danger I kept feeling. Was I still that traumatized by my memories of Jolene?

Only the presence of the Honda suggested Alma was home. The heavy curtains covering the large picture window were still drawn, not leaving so much as a half-inch gap.

I climbed out of my car and crossed the lawn to the wooden porch. Taking the three steps up, I made my way to the door, the planks squeaking beneath my feet. I nervously looked around once more then knocked.

The door drifted open on the first rap with a sharp squeal from the old hinges. I shrank back, my breath catching. It's okay, I told myself. This isn't like that time. Steeling myself, I peered through the opening and called inside. "Alma Guerra? This is Judy Kenagy, the HR manager from Rockhold Packaging. We were worried about you."

I touched the door lightly and it creaked open farther. I stepped in and froze, staring in horror and disbelief.

A woman's body lay sprawled out on her back right there on the living room floor. As much as I wanted it to be otherwise, she had to be Alma Guerra. She wore the company's standard issue brown uniform and black safety shoes, Rockhold's logo embroidered across the chest pocket. Her head was cocked at an odd angle, her face covered with a mass of coagulated blood. Long, black hair, splotched with dark red goo, fanned out around her head.

I covered my mouth, stumbling backward until I bumped into the doorframe. Then turning, I bounded down the porch steps and bolted across the lawn.
Chapter 2

Ignorant of oncoming cars, I raced across the street and pounded on the neighbor's door. My heart beat a fast staccato, my breath coming in pants like a hound after a two-mile run in the Arizona desert.

Come on! I thought, knocking again. I know you're home. I just saw you go inside!

Finally, a slightly older man opened it, leaving the screen door latched. My panic and vulnerability must've shown on my face because the moment I told him I'd found a body he flipped the latch, pulled me inside and locked the door with its deadbolt. He brought me a bottle of water while my shaking hands reached for his phone and called the police.

I was barely able to give the operator the needed information. The man finally relieved me of the responsibility and handled the rest of the call. After he'd hung up, he insisted I sit at a small wooden table by the window. I stared through the glass at Alma's small bungalow, memories of Jolene overlapping with the fresh ones of Alma.

What felt like an eternity later, two patrolmen finally arrived. "Where's the body?" the younger one asked as they flashed their badges and entered. I pointed toward Alma's home. "Is there anyone else inside?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I—I don't think so. That's my Camry parked out front."

Without another word, they left. I watched through the window as they drew their guns on Alma's porch, paused, then disappeared inside.

A moment later, a black Crown Victoria pulled up, parking behind my car, and three men in suits climbed out. As the three made their way onto the porch, the two cops exited. The younger one began wrapping yellow and black crime scene tape around trees and fence posts, cordoning off Alma's property, as the other joined the three men in suits. The cop paired up with one and headed back across the street while the other two suits snapped on latex gloves and ducked under the tape.

"Are you all right, ma'am?"

I looked up to see the patrol cop and the suit standing over me. Realizing my hands were pressed against my cheeks, I let them fall. "I was, then I wasn't...and then I was again, but..."

The two gave me looks as though they thought I was nuts.

Perhaps I am, I thought.

"Ignore that," I said. "Alma should've been a regular no-call-no-show. All the statistics will tell you that, but...she was killed. Why?"

While the officer jotted down notes, the other man asked, "Why as in why did this happen to you?"

"No." I put my hand up, palm out. "This shouldn't be on the report." But now, both men were scribbling notes.

I sighed. I had meant why me, but he didn't need to know that. Not only did it sound childish, it was irrelevant and would only make them ask questions I'd rather not answer.

I'd worked hard to escape bad bosses, dreadful work environments, and the tragic past that still haunted me, but my luck just kept running out no matter where I went.

Taking a deep breath, I tried again. "You see, this morning I found out that Alma Guerra, uh, the woman over there"—I tipped my head toward the window—"hadn't shown up for work. I'm the HR manager for the company she works at—I mean, worked..." I swallowed hard. "I didn't think much of it—no-shows are pretty common occurrences—but everyone else kept insisting her absence was like the sun not rising. Then what should've been a routine discharge spiraled into chaos."

I told them about the events surrounding Lester's termination, followed by how I'd ended up here. They scribbled faster, flicking notebook pages at a regular beat.

After asking every question imaginable, they sent me on my way, calling the neighbor over to question him.

As I slowly walked back outside into the hot afternoon sun, a WLOX TV news van pulled up. I quickened my pace, getting into my car just as a newswoman with a cameraman at her side approached.

"Ma'am? A few questions, please," the reporter asked.

Not on your life. "Sorry," I said. "The police asked me not to discuss anything with anyone."

As I drove away, wailing sirens announced the arrival of another black and white. As I turned onto a side street, an Alabama TV news truck fishtailed past me.

Knowing a phone call would be easier to handle, I pulled over and called George, bracing myself for the news I had to deliver. When he answered, my vocal cords shut down.

"Judy?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I, uh, found Alma, but—she—the body—" I lost it. Tears spilled down my face as I blubbered into the cell phone. "It was so horrible. She didn't have a face. Oh, God! Someone brutally murdered that poor girl."

"What? But—I just talked to her yesterday. This can't be."

"She's dead, George. The police already confirmed it." An image of the woman's mutilated face surfaced. No. The police didn't need to confirm it. There was no way someone could have survived that. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my emotions. "I'll tell you everything when I get back."

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About Linda Thorne:

Linda Thorne began pursuing her true passion, writing, in 2005. Since then, she has published numerous short stories in the genres of mystery, thriller, and romance. Her debut novel, Just Another Termination, is the first in a planned series of mysteries that tell the story of Judy Kenagy, the first career human resources manager to turn sleuth. Just Another Termination was released by Black Opal Books on August 29, 2015. She is currently writing the second book in her series, A Promotion to Die For.

Like her lead character, Thorne is a career human resources manager. She has worked in the HR profession in Arizona, Colorado, Mississippi, California, and now, Tennessee. She holds a BS degree in business from Arizona State University and has completed a number of graduate-level courses in her field.
Deadly Fantasies

Kelly Miller

A Detective Novel, Female Protagonist Romantic Thriller

Set in Tampa, FL and Ybor City, FL
Chapter 19

"Sorry to hear about your car, Patrick." I stood on Jessup's front porch bathed in the light shining from his opened door.

"Like I don't have enough to worry about right now. Plunking down a couple grand on a new transmission was not in the budget."

"I have a guy who might be able to give you a good deal. Want me to give him a call?"

"Patrick Jessup, where are your manners?" Alina pushed her husband out of the way, waving me inside. She was a petite brunette with an equally sweet and saucy side. "You'll have to excuse Señor Rude here." Alina let out a soft whistle. "Look at you," she said, gesturing to my dress.

I glanced down at the black mini hugging my curves in all the right places. "Too much?"

"No way. Good thing I know my husband as well as I do, or I might be a jealous woman."

"Yeah, right." I laughed.

Alina knew Patrick was as loyal as a Labrador. He adored her. Even when beautiful women walked by, Patrick's eyes never wandered.

"Auntie Kate?" Patrick's middle child, Lanie, walked into the living room rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "I didn't know you were coming."

I bent down on one knee and gave the nine-year-old a big hug. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed, little one? You have to get up early for church."

"But I wanted to tell you the good news."

"What news? Straight A's again?"

"No, even better. Mommy's going to have another baby. Isn't it exciting? Maybe I'll finally get a little brother."

Patrick inhaled sharply. I stole a glance his way and saw hands fisted at his sides. He struggled to keep his composure. His hardened stare was directed toward Alina, but she wouldn't meet his searing gaze. So much for keeping the baby news a secret.

Patrick headed toward Lanie. With the mood he was in, I thought he might scold her for being up late. Instead he swept her off the ground and cradled her like a newborn. All knees and elbows, she overflowed from Patrick's arms. Lanie broke out into a fit of giggles.

"A baby brother, huh?" Patrick teased. "No such luck in this family."

Lanie kissed her father on the cheek.

"Now tell Auntie Kate goodnight. I'm getting you back into bed so I can finish getting dressed."

I told Lanie not to let the bed bugs bite after she blew me a kiss.

Patrick shot Alina one last disappointed look before he left. Once he'd closed the door to their bedroom, she grabbed my arm and led me to the couch.

"Kate, you have to talk to me. I don't know what to do."

"What do you mean?"

"You know Patrick as well as anyone. You're with him more than I am."

"I'm sorry, Alina, I—"

"No, that's not what I meant. It's just... oh, damn. There goes the waterworks again. Ridiculous hormones!" Like a magician pulling a coin out of thin air, Alina had a tissue. She took a corner and dabbed at her tear-filled eyes. "Ever since I told Patrick about the baby, he's been so angry, always on edge, even snaps at the girls. Little things that never seemed to bother him send him into a tailspin—toys left out, the girls bickering at each other, new shoes on the credit card bill. His reaction wasn't what I'd hoped for. I don't know what to do."

"He loves you, Alina. You and the girls. He'll love this new baby, too."

"It's why I finally told the girls. I wanted to celebrate, to enjoy the excitement of having a baby on the way. Patrick didn't want me to tell them yet, but I couldn't help it. He keeps saying the most hurtful things. Like he wants me to give up the baby or even worse, terminate the pregnancy."

Sly move on her part. Since the kids knew about the pregnancy, Patrick would be forced to stop pressuring her. "He needs time, Alina. Time to adjust to having another mouth to feed, another body to clothe."

"Is that what he told you?"

"You know how men are, Alina. They want to fix things. Patrick can't fix this, and he feels powerless. He wants to provide the best for his family, and he feels like he's already spread too thin financially."

Patrick walked in the room. A chill settled in his wake. "It's getting late, Kate. We need to get this over with." Patrick stormed out the door without saying another word.

I looked over at Alina and saw the hurt in her eyes. "Don't worry, I'll work on him."

~~~

"Let's park in the garage on 5th Avenue and walk," I suggested to Patrick as we approached downtown Ybor City.

The bumpy drive down the red cobblestone road transported me back to a time when Ybor was known for its industry of hand-rolled cigars. Now the nights belonged to Tampa's disenfranchised youth, inebriated partygoers, and a trannie or two.

"I find it interesting that Bethany Dunbar didn't object to a damn thing until the conversation got around to Jonathan's enemies," I said. "Seemed like Dunbar couldn't care less about keeping Dr. Grace out of jail. Even the worst lawyers object more than she did. If nothing else, to make themselves look good in their clients' eyes."

"Dr. Grace sure hired counsel at lightning speed."

"At first, I thought it was a rich thing. You know, high powered couple has lawyers on speed dial. Then I found out Bethany Dunbar approached Dr. Grace at the hospital. Guess the barracuda had worked for Jonathan in the past."

"I wonder why he needed a criminal lawyer," Patrick said. "He didn't have a record."

"You should have seen Dunbar after you left. Made me think she has a vested interest in covering up for someone. Whether it was for Jonathan's previous dealings or for someone he worked with on a land deal, I don't know, but there's definitely something there."

"Dr. Grace seemed pretty on edge during the interview. And she didn't seem too broken up over her husband's death."

"You heard her shrink," I said. "Acute Distress Disorder manifests itself in a variety of ways. Emotional detachment, irritability. You saw how Dr. Grace reacted to the knock on the door."

"I guess. I know I couldn't read her nonverbal clues very well. I have to say, though, she sure has the wounded wife act down. That is until I got around to asking her about the divorce. A question, by the way, she never answered. Did you see how she deflected the whole thing back on me?"

I rolled my eyes.

"She is a psychologist, Kate. An expert at steering the conversation in the direction she wants it to go. Look how quickly she pointed the finger at Jonathan's enemies."

"All valid if she's not guilty."

"Did you ask Dr. Grace about a life insurance policy or prenup?"

I parked the car in one of the last empty spaces and mumbled no as I turned off the engine. "The woman was spent. It was all I could do to get her to finish talking about the people she thought held grudges against her husband. I'll follow up with her soon. Maybe pop in, check on her when her lawyer's not around."

"Bad idea, Kate."

"Why?"

"You have a past relationship with her. You don't want any hint of impropriety on your part. Without a third party present, she could accuse you of all sorts of things."

"Are you kidding me? Like what? Planting the murder weapon in her purse? Give me a break, Patrick." I opened the car door and got out.

"I'm serious." Patrick slammed his door. "Tell me you won't meet with her unless her lawyer is present or I'm there."

"Sure, fine."

Patrick sighed.

I clapped him on the shoulder as we walked toward the stairwell. "By the way, you didn't let me tell you. I may not have gotten to the prenup or insurance policy, but I did ask Dr. Grace about the ring under the couch. It wasn't Jonathan's. His ring doesn't have an inscription."

Patrick opened the door for me. "Something's been bugging me about the interview though. Dr. Grace said she never met Tammy or Bobby Hildabrand. Yet, when he railed on her in front of the elevators, she knew his name. If they've never met, how did she recognize him?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"What? It's a valid question."

"Bobby is a little mini-me of Jonathan Grace."

"I guess." Patrick shrugged his shoulders. "I just think it's pretty suspicious both our prime suspects happen to be in the precinct at the same time and happen to run into each other on the way out of the building."

"Oh," I said, mocking Patrick. "I think I smell a conspiracy. Dr. Grace is actually having a lurid love affair with Bobby Hildabrand. She convinced him to knock off Jonathan so they could finally be together, five million dollars richer. They're geniuses, throwing us off their trail by making us think Bobby hates her. You figured it out, Sherlock."

"Very funny."

"So... are we going to talk about what happened tonight at your house?" This time I opened the door for him.

"It's a lovely evening, don't you think? A little on the warm side but still nice." Patrick looked up in the dark night sky and sucked in a deep breath.

"Don't change the subject."

"There's nothing to change. We're not discussing anything."

We were silent as we reached 7th Avenue. The neon lights covering Centro Ybor lit up the night. I looked down and noticed the sidewalk pavers below our feet. Tiny hexagons engraved with messages from loved ones. Ybor's "Walk of Fame" for the average Joe willing to shell out eighty bucks for a lifelong sentiment.

"Where's the paver you dedicated to Alina?"

Patrick grumbled something under his breath, obviously not wanting to let go of his anger yet. It didn't matter. I knew it was only a block away. I'd brought it up in hopes of reminding Patrick of the love he had for his wife. Memories of when they were first married.

When we reached his paver, I stopped walking. The crowd behind us split apart, moving around us. I read the words decorating the paver aloud. "'Alina Mendoza, will you marry me? Love always, Patrick.' This is where you proposed, isn't it?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Dammit, Patrick. Why can't you see what a good thing you've got with your family? Yes, it might be difficult, but you cut back. Fewer gymnastics class, not as many Christmas presents, but you make it work. The kids won't suffer. As long as they're loved by both parents, living in a happy home, they'll be fine.

"Kate—"

"No! You don't know how good you've got it, buddy. You're ready to ruin it all just because life's not going the way you planned. Don't you know I'd give my right arm to feel half the love you're surrounded with every day!"

Patrick looked away. We started walking again, both of us quiet, lost in our own thoughts. Love. Only four little letters, but a word layered with so many expectations. I yearned for it, yet was frightened to death of the feeling. For me, love had always come with strings attached. As a young girl, I quickly learned how to play the game—you've got to give a little to get a little.

I still didn't know the rules of a healthy relationship, much less know how to play in one. A relationship where love is given freely without a hidden agenda. Carlos's love felt different from anything I'd ever experienced before. It filled me with uncertainty, made me uncomfortable. I always felt slightly off kilter when I was around him. Like standing inside a kaleidoscope where the view kept changing.

For months, my heart had been pleading with my mind, hoping to persuade it to let me accept what Carlos had to offer. To try out a real relationship and see where it would lead. I don't know what it would take to finally allow myself to let go of control, to free fall into love. I offered up a silent prayer to a God that had never answered me before, hoping this time he'd respond.

"Patrick, how's it hanging?"

I looked back over my shoulder. Patrick had stopped walking to talk to... Cher?

Patrick laughed. "Long and to the left. How about you?"

"Tucked in high and tight," Cher said with a signature whip of a curly, black wig.

Patrick clapped the man on the shoulder. "Tell my cousin I said hello when you see him later tonight."

Cher said he would and the two parted ways.

I waited for Patrick to catch up. "How is Keith doing?" I asked. "Is your cousin still impersonating Barbra Streisand at Cheeseburger Sally's?"

"Yep. Belts out Memories five nights a week."
Chapter 20

We arrived at the Sext Club a little before 11 pm. The only indication of the debauchery housed inside was a golden placard with the name of the club written in an ornate font. The place was located a few streets away from the main drag in a nondescript red brick building.

Patrick fidgeted with the front of his shirt. "You ready?"

"Of course." I grabbed his hand. "Just remember we're a couple. Pretend like you're not mad at all women right now."

The door to the building opened up to an opulent waiting area. Deep reds and dark woods filled the room. Smoky glass doors separated us from the sights and sounds of rest of the club. Patrick and I walked by two couples seated at tables filling out paperwork. One of the couples started arguing. The woman punched the man with a hard right to his shoulder then walked out.

Behind the counter, a raven-haired beauty smiled at us. "Welcome. I'll be with you two in a moment." Her gaze lingered a little longer on Patrick, and then she turned her attention back to the two women holding hands standing in front of her.

While we waited, I leaned into Patrick, acting like I was playfully talking dirty into his ear. "Look up. In the corner over the greeter's head." A camera was expertly camouflaged inside the frame of an ornate mirror. I'd only noticed it because of the slight movement out of the corner of my eye. I'm sure if the patrons knew they were being videotaped, most wouldn't come.

Patrick snuggled into my neck. "What'd you say?"

I swallowed my sigh. Instead I giggled, masking a whisper to repeat what I'd seen.

"How may I help you?" the woman asked us.

"I believe my good friend Lauren Tyler called on our behalf," I answered.

"Yes, Ms. Tyler. Will she be joining you tonight?"

"Hopefully. Lauren said she'd try to make it here a little later. In the meantime, she said you'd take good care of us. Gina, isn't it?"

The young lady flashed a brilliant smile. "Of course. First, I'll need you both to fill out some paperwork. Afterwards, I'll explain our handheld devices."

Patrick and I sat at the recently vacated table. We each had a clipboard with a three-sheet questionnaire. We planned on filling out the forms using an alias created for us on another case. Mr. and Mrs. Reed. If they ran a background check on us while we were at the club, it wouldn't raise any red flags. Kate and Patrick Reed were two married folks from Dunedin, Florida. No kids, but they raked in a combined income of $650,000 a year.

"This is going to be more difficult than I thought, considering the eyes in the sky," Patrick said softly.

"Remember that. You need to lighten up. Every time I look over at you, there's a scowl on your face. We're shooting for old married couple looking to spice up the love life not scorned lovers looking to step out on one another."

"Right. I think that's the answer to question number nine. Have you read these yet?" Patrick blushed. "I'm no Puritan but some of this stuff is... not appropriate to discuss outside the confines of the bedroom."

"You mean fantasizing about masturbating in public isn't a topic for discussion in Sunday school?"

Patrick laughed. "No, but if it were, I bet there'd be more converts."

Once we'd completed the questionnaires, Gina handed us two electronic devices similar to high-tech e-readers. She gave us a demonstration using the one in Patrick's hand.

"I don't know how much Ms. Tyler told you, so let me give you the basics. First, choose your avatar," she told Patrick. "This will be the electronic version of you that all of our patrons will see and interact with. Make it look like you or have fun with it. Become the character of your dreams." After a few selections of hair color and clothing choice, a cartoon-like James Bond character popped up on the screen.

"Devilishly handsome." Gina caressed Patrick's hand with her finger. I had to bite my tongue. My first instinct was to tease Patrick about flirting with the help, but it wouldn't do to play the jealous wife. Not here. Though the Sext Club catered to exhibitionists and voyeurs, it was better known for swinging.

Still, I couldn't help myself. I seductively touched her hand with my own. "Any suggestions for me?"

Gina tensed slightly. "Try choosing a completely different look. Half the fun is figuring out who is who."

"Honey?" I told Patrick. "You pick. Now's your chance to make me into the woman you've always wanted."

Patrick made his choices on the touch pad and a cartoon representation of his wife appeared. Definitely a loyal Labrador.

"Gina, my husband and I are very guarded with our privacy. How secure are the chats with the other folks in the club?"

"You have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Reed. Everything's internal. The devices won't work outside the club. Once the chat reaches the top of the screen and disappears, you can't scroll back to read it again. The copy's been wiped clean. "

"And video?"

Gina swiped Patrick's new credit card. "We require all our members to leave their cell phones at the desk. Don't worry, you'll get them back once you leave. It's only a precaution. We don't want anyone taking pictures or videotaping what happens inside."

It wasn't the members I worried about. She had deftly sidestepped my question. If the club videotaped its members, I wouldn't be surprised if they also recorded all the chat logs.

"I can tell you're nervous, Mrs. Reed. It's okay. First time jitters, I completely understand. But let me assure you, once you step through those doors, you'll be among like-minded people. People who don't judge, people who like... experimenting."

"You're right, I'm being silly. Patrick, dear, are you ready?"

He nodded, linking his arm with mine.

Gina opened the doors to the inner sanctum of the club. "Welcome to Eden. A playground to fulfill your every fantasy."

I closed my eyes, internally shoring up my confidence. Once I felt Patrick lead me through the doors, I opened my eyes expecting to be greeted by naked bodies writhing on top of one another. Instead, I was shocked at the tameness of the room.

This wasn't your average nudie bar found along the blue-collar industrial corridor of Route 60. No fat, middle-aged men creaming their pants as half-naked women showered them with attention. No frat boys in their cut-off shorts and sandals, whooping it up during a bachelor party. This upscale clientele wore designer labels and sipped champagne from crystal flutes. Here couples stretched out on oversized couches, most looking down, typing on their handheld devices. Others stood near the bar. A massive structure that looked like it was plucked right out of an old western movie.

"Where are the naked bodies?" Patrick asked.

"Maybe this is a kind of holding area. Foreplay if you will."

"Let's sit over there and strike up a conversation with the others."

Patrick and I found a loveseat for two, and I snuggled in against his chest. Immediately, our devices pinged. We were both asked to join separate private chat rooms.

"The vultures are circling," Patrick said.

"Fresh meat."

"Decline their request. We need to put out some content for the whole club. See if we can hook up with someone who's met Jonathan Grace, get a nonbiased insider's point of view."

Our avatars continued to chat back and forth with other couples. From time to time, I would look over at Patrick's conversation. His sexting was a little too tame to garner much attention, but I took advantage of the situation, exchanging raunchy banter with four strangers probably sitting in this very room.

I laughed, wondering who hid behind the moniker, sexycowboy21. "This is like a virtual orgy room, Patrick."

"At least dirty talk is one of your fortes."

While sexting, I'd noticed many of the couples heading to the opposite end of the room. From here it looked like a wall blocked their way, but no one had ever come back. They must have disappeared somewhere.

"Come on, Patrick. This isn't getting us anywhere. Let's go check out the rest of the club."

More cameras were expertly hidden around the room camouflaged inside various wall hangings. Unless someone searched for them, they'd go unnoticed.

I squeezed Patrick's hand, nodding my head at the lady who walked by us. "Have you noticed the single ladies initiating contact with the couples?"

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

"Everyone here is gorgeous. I mean hell, money buys a lot of lipo, but look at her." I stared into the corner where a tall blonde with wavy hair, cascading down the middle of her back, laughed at something another woman had said. "She's supermodel gorgeous. Don't you find it odd all these beautiful women are here by themselves?"

Patrick fussed with the collar of his shirt. "This club definitely attracts a rich crowd."

When we reached the end of the room, I saw a hidden exit. To the right, tucked in at an odd angle, were stairs heading up to another level. At the top, Patrick and I had to maneuver around a large, muscular man wearing a tight t-shirt proclaiming his job as security. We'd seen his look-alike down on the first floor. These beefcakes were probably stationed around the club in case encounters got out of hand.

A long hallway shot across in front of us, about sixty feet. Couples stood outside rooms on both sides of the hallway, gazing through windows at the carnal activities happening inside. As the mesmerized couples watched, they grinded their bodies against each other, ignoring the clothing that acted like an unwelcomed barrier.

The doors to the first two rooms were shut and the blinds were closed, ensuring a modicum of privacy. The next room encouraged viewing with a nearly floor-to-ceiling sized glass window. Inside, bodies entwined together like a multi-colored snake. I couldn't tell where one person began and another ended. A sign on the door read, JOIN AT YOUR LEISURE. THE MORE THE MERRIER.

"Here are your naked bodies," I whispered to Patrick.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Oh, my."

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Also by Kelly Miller:

Dead Like Me

Splintered

About Kelly Miller:

Although Kelly Miller loves to vacation as much as she possibly can, she sets her novels in her own little slice of paradise, Tampa, FL. Deadly Fantasies, the second book in the Detective Kate Springer Series, was written as a stand-alone novel. Dead Like Me is the first in the series and was named a semi-finalist in The Kindle Book Review's 2013 Best Indie Books Awards competition. Visit www.kellymillerauthor.com to find out more about Kelly Miller.

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So Many Reasons to Die

Carole Sojka

A Traditional Mystery, Police Procedural

Set on the Treasure Coast, FL
CHAPTER ONE

The first thing Greg saw as he stood in the doorway of the motel room was the blood—spilled on the rug, splashed on the headboard, spattered on the wall. Blood soaked the lacy blue nightgown and matted the long red hair of the woman lying on the bed. Her body was curled to one side, turned toward him. Her eyes were open, and she looked startled, as if she'd expected a better ending.

He caught his breath. When last he'd seen that face, it had been contorted with fury. Then later, in the dark, they had made love with savage intensity, and the next day she was gone. Now, looking at her body, Greg couldn't bring himself to touch her cold flesh.

The room was small and anonymous: a bed with a night table on either side, each holding a lamp; a console with the television set next to a small dresser with a mirror; a round table and two chairs by the window. A small duffle bag sat open on the luggage rack. How many times had he seen that bag when she'd come and gone without notice?

The Medical Examiner was bent over the body.

Greg spoke. "I'm Greg Lamont. I don't think we've met."

Ron Torres, the M.E., stood up from his work and said, "Greg. You're new in Burgess Beach, right?" He took off his glove and shook Greg's hand.

"You got here quick," Greg said.

"Yeah," Torres answered. "Quiet day." He put on a fresh pair of gloves and bent back over the body. Torres was in his forties, a short, compact man with neatly combed dark hair and a small moustache.

Greg checked the room and the bathroom before he beckoned to the patrolman who'd been first on the scene. He had only been in Burgess Beach a few months, and the young patrol officer was not someone he knew.

Greg reached out his hand. "Detective Greg Lamont. You are?"

"Pete Carlson, sir." Carlson was in his early twenties, tall and thin, still with some of the lankiness of a teenager.

"You touch anything?"

"No."

Greg noted that he sounded annoyed, as if Carlson knew enough to keep his hands off murder victims. Maybe uniforms were better trained here than in Miami. He'd see.

"Who reported this? What time did the call come in?"

"The manager, a guy named Ben Patel, reported finding the body around two, about an hour-and-a-half ago."

"Why'd he come in?" Greg made notes as he questioned the young cop.

"She didn't vacate the room by noon, and she didn't answer the door. Patel used his master key. When he saw the body, he could see she was dead. Nothing's been touched."

"Did you call anyone else?"

"The M.E."

"Just keep the nosy neighbors away." Greg turned away from Carlson and asked the Medical Examiner, "You figure time of death?"

"You can see rigor is fixed, so I'd say at least twelve hours ago, although it could be more. But don't quote me."

Greg asked the patrolman, "Patel say when she checked in?"

"Ten o'clock last evening," said Carlson.

"So time of death is between ten p.m. Friday evening and two or three a.m. Saturday morning."

"About that," said Torres.

"Okay. I'll call for a photographer and the crime scene techs. You ready?"

"I will be by the time they get here," Torres said.

"Let me know when you're done. I'll be downstairs."

Greg headed down to see Ben Patel. The day was hot: September in Florida, and the air clung to Greg's skin with moist tentacles. He paused at the foot of the stairs for a moment where no one could see his face. The dead woman had come and gone without warning in his life. She was trouble—he'd always known that—but he'd never thought she would be murdered, let alone that he'd catch the case. He knew he should tell Captain Bradley and have the case reassigned, but he couldn't. At least not yet. The decision wasn't one he had to think about. He owed Miranda that much, to find out who had killed her.

The office was in front of the U-shaped motel, and the parking lot was still nearly empty except for the police cruiser, the M.E.'s sedan, and his own. The office was small and dark, but there was a full pot of coffee that smelled fresh. Brightly colored posters and a vase of silk flowers decorated the room.

Ben Patel stood up when Greg entered. Patel was about fifty, Greg thought, dark skinned, his dark hair mixed with gray and cropped close to his head.

Greg showed his badge. "Detective Greg Lamont, Burgess Beach Police Department. I've been assigned to the murder in Room 204. I need to take a look at the guest register."

Patel produced the register and turned it around so that Greg could read it. The second to last entry for the night before had been Karen McCloskey with an address in Miami. That wasn't the name under which Greg had known her.

"Did she use a credit card?" he asked.

"No. She paid cash. She had quite a bit of money in her wallet." Patel spoke with a strong Indian accent.

"She have a car?"

"Yes. It's parked around at the back of the motel, next to the laundry room."

"How come?" Greg asked.

"She asked if she could park in a spot where it couldn't be seen from the street."

"Did she seem nervous?"

"Yes. She kept looking over her shoulder, and she wanted a second-floor room. When she wanted to park her car where it couldn't be seen from the street, I figured she was running away from a man who beat her or something."

"You get lots of runaways here?" Greg asked.

"Two or three times a month. Sometimes the same women."

"Anything else you can tell me?" Greg asked. "She just had the one piece of luggage—small duffle, right? I didn't see a purse."

"She took her wallet out of a purse. And she had another suitcase. It was heavy, and she had some trouble with it. I carried it upstairs for her."

Greg considered the room. He'd look again, but he knew he hadn't seen a purse or suitcase.

"Did you see her go out after she checked in?"

"No."

"Could she have moved the suitcase out of the room?"

"I didn't see her."

"Thanks," Greg said. "You'll be here the rest of the afternoon?"

"Until eleven o'clock."

Greg went back upstairs before he called for transport. The M.E. was packing up when he entered the room.

"When will the autopsy be done?" Greg asked as Torres turned to leave.

"I've got to call Fort Pierce to schedule."

"Oh. Right," Greg said. After years of working in Miami, he wasn't yet accustomed to the four-county sharing of morgue and coroner that was the case in Burgess Beach. "Let me know."

"Sure," said Torres. He left the room and headed down the stairs.

Greg looked again at the body of the woman who called herself Karen McCloskey. He tried to distance himself from the woman he had known, tried to see her only as a murder victim. Her wrists and legs showed no signs of having been bound. The murderer would have gotten blood on himself—or herself—as well as on the surroundings from the spurting carotid artery. There were no defensive wounds on her hands, which lay at her sides, and it seemed likely that she had been surprised in her sleep by her attacker. From a distance, he checked the floor around and under the bed. There were some smears in the blood on the rug which might have been footprints.

The photographer and the two crime scene techs arrived and greeted Greg. He didn't know any of them well, although he'd met them when he'd first arrived in Burgess Beach. They introduced themselves, donned their latex gloves and set to work, the photographer shooting the crime scene, the two techs measuring and cataloging each item of evidence.

Greg pointed out the bloody footprints on the floor and said, "I doubt there's much to be gotten from those."

Ginny, the female tech, said, "You'd be surprised."

"I guess I would," Greg said. "I'll call the morgue for transport," he said. "By the way, she had a car. It's in the back. The manager can show you. Check it for prints, then I'll have it towed."

Greg asked if they'd fingerprint and photo the duffle first so he could examine it. They did so and when they were done, he examined it carefully. It held a change of clothes and some cosmetics, but nothing else. The heavy suitcase and the purse containing her wallet were definitely gone.
CHAPTER TWO

Andi Battaglia stared at the stack of papers on her desk and sighed. What had made her want to be a detective? When she'd been a patrol cop in Tampa, she'd always been busy: answering calls, checking out neighborhoods, making arrests. There was paperwork, too, but the days flew by. Nights—well, not so much. Still, time had gone swiftly on patrol.

When she'd gotten the detective job in Burgess Beach, not only had she moved from the Gulf to the Atlantic coast, she'd moved from a city to a small town. It wasn't like Tampa.

But almost her first case in Burgess Beach had been a homicide. Of course she'd had to get her boss, Captain Bradley, to believe it was a homicide, but then, sorting through the six suspects and their motives and the final chase on the beach had been exciting. She knew that couldn't happen every day, but there were too many open-and-shut drug cases and car thefts in Burgess Beach and not enough challenge. And lots of paperwork. Too much paperwork.

Andi yawned, caught herself nodding, and sat up straight, glancing out the door of her tiny office to see if anyone had noticed. No one had. The detectives who had been there for years—McClain and Garcia—didn't seem to mind the paperwork. They didn't mind making phone calls on their cases and filling out forms. She wanted a little more action.

The new guy, Greg Lamont, had come from Miami, so maybe Burgess Beach would be dull for him, too. He was someone to talk to, and they'd had dinner a couple of times. He hadn't said he was bored, but from his stories, she gathered his life in Miami had been pretty exciting. Maybe he liked the change.

When he tried to pursue a relationship with her, though, she'd discouraged him. She knew better. She'd fled from a cop in Tampa. Cops were trouble. Not that Greg was married. Not like Jim. Still, he had his own baggage. She could tell. Maybe an ex-wife or a girlfriend.

She got up and walked over to the coffee pot, but the sludge at the bottom discouraged her from pouring a cup. Should she make a new pot? Hardly anyone there. McClain, who was retiring soon, had already left for the day. She'd noticed he was taking long lunches and working short days. Lamont was gone, too. He must be out on a call.

She returned to her office, finished reading an analysis of crimes committed by men under the age of twenty-five compared with crimes by men twenty-six to forty in the United States between 1960 and 2000. She decided that was enough torture for one day. She'd stop at the ladies' room and leave. It was almost five o'clock.

On the way home she thought about dinner. Nothing much in the refrigerator. Bread and eggs. Some on-their-last-legs mushrooms. She'd make an omelet.

The door to her apartment opened before she turned the key, and she nearly fell into the living room.

"What the hell!" she said. Then she saw Jim sitting in front of the television, remote in one hand and a drink in the other. "How did you get in?"

"Showed the manager my badge. He let me in." He grinned. His voice was slightly slurred.

She stood in front of him. "Well, you can just let yourself out," she said. "I told you I'm through. Go back to Tampa. Go back to your wife."

"And I told you I left. I told her about us, and I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen. You kept hanging up on me." He smiled again. "Sit down, sweetheart." The word sounded like schweetheart.

"I'm not your sweetheart. I told you I've had enough. You and I are through."

"But now we can be together. I've left my wife. I've moved to an apartment. I'm free." He smiled up at her.

That smile had always gotten to Andi, but now it had lost its magic. She wasn't even angry at him. She felt nothing. It was hard now to remember his pursuit of her and her reluctant, then enthusiastic, capitulation. She'd been such an idiot!

She perched on the edge of the chair across from him. "Look, Jim. The last time I saw you I told you I was tired of waiting. That was a year ago. It's too late. Go back to her, or not, I don't care. I'm here now. I have a new life." She watched his face. He'd been so sure of her. Now he looked as though he'd given her a present and she'd thrown in his face.

He shouted, "You can't do that! You ruined my marriage! She's suing me for divorce! My daughter hates me. Everybody I know looks at me like I'm scum. I did it for you! It's your fault!" Then he spoke in a lower tone. "You have to come back. I love you."

"Jim, that's enough. You're shouting. I'm not going back to Tampa. I'm not leaving the life I've built here to go back with you. If you'd left your wife two years ago—or even last year—I might have been waiting. But I've moved on. It's time for you to leave." She spoke quietly, hoping her tone would calm him down, but instead it seemed to inflame him more.

He stood up, towering over her. "Who is he? Who's the new guy? Somebody here, in Burgess Beach? Who is he? I'll kill him." His fists were clenched.

"Stop it, Jim. Don't be ridiculous. There's no one else. I have a new life here. I'm away from my family. I'm finally on my own. And I'm away from you. It's too late for us." Her reasoned tone wasn't calming him.

He stepped back and paced the floor behind her. She walked toward him, reaching out a hand to his arm. He pushed it away. "Leave me alone," he said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did, Jim. I told you again and again I was through."

She stepped toward him, and he slapped her hard across the face. "Bitch!" he said.

Her head snapped back with the force of the blow, and her face stung. "Get out! Now!"

He turned. "We're not done." He flung open the door and stalked out, leaving it open behind him.

She didn't start to cry until she heard his car leave the parking lot. Half an hour later, she mopped her eyes and checked her face in the bathroom mirror. Her cheek was bright red and starting to swell. She made an ice pack and sat with it for a few minutes before she walked downstairs to the manager's office. She knocked, and a voice said, "It's open."

She opened the door, and Arnie got up to greet her. He was in his fifties, short and plump, and as he stood, he hitched up his trousers around his belly.

"Ms. Battaglia," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"You had no business letting that guy into my apartment."

"He said he was an old friend, and he showed me his badge. I thought you'd be glad."

"Well, you thought wrong. That was stupid. How did you know who he was? Would you let some murderer in, too?"

"No, no. Of course not. I thought you'd want him to have a place to wait for you."

"I'm going to be moving. You can take this as my notice that I'll be out by the first of next month. Do you need that in writing?"

"Why? Because of that guy?"

"Not your business, but I don't want to live in a place where the manager lets strangers in to my apartment."

"Look, he was a cop. He showed me his badge. We're supposed to let police in."

Andi's voice rose. "Just because he was a cop didn't mean he had a right to go into my apartment. He didn't have a warrant."

Arnie held out his hands in defense. "Hold on, Ms. Battaglia. I don't think I did anything wrong."

"Well, you did." Andi turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her. What an asshole!

Upstairs in her apartment, she poured herself a stiff scotch and drank it slowly, holding the ice pack on her cheek, until she could feel the tense muscles of her face and neck ease and she was able to relax. Jim was an asshole, too.

Her omelet tasted like cardboard, and she stared at the pages of the book she'd been reading, thinking only of Jim. She had a bad feeling he wasn't gone.

In bed, she finally dozed off at nearly one o'clock, only to be awakened by the phone.

"Hello," she muttered.

"Hello, sweetheart." Jim's words were slurred, and she could hear the sounds of people talking and glasses clinking.

"Don't call me again," she said. "I mean it."

"I love you," he said. "I'll always love...."

She hung up, cutting off his words. The phone rang again a moment later, and she picked it up, pressed "off," and put the phone on silent mode. She was going to have to get a new phone number, too.
CHAPTER THREE

After the attendants took away the body of Karen McCloskey, Greg and Pete Carlson canvassed the other rooms in the motel in case anyone had seen or heard anything during the night. Nothing. The techs had finished, and the photographer was gone. The car had been dusted for prints, but there was nothing of interest in the glove compartment or the trunk. No purse, no heavy suitcase.

Nothing more to be done here, but in case, Greg left the yellow tape in place and told Ben Patel not to have the room cleaned until he cleared it. Patel protested that would scare customers away, but Greg, while he was sympathetic, insisted.

It was after eight by the time he was ready to head home. He called Captain Bradley to update him. "I'll type up my notes in the morning and brief you, if you have the time."

"First thing," the captain barked.

"Yes, sir." Greg took a deep breath. He needed to be prepared for an interrogation.

Greg had lived in Burgess Beach for about four months, but home was still temporary. He wasn't sure if he wanted to stay. He'd wanted out of Miami, but Burgess Beach was pretty dull—or had been until today. Now that Miranda Duncan, the dead woman known as Karen McCloskey, had been murdered, he knew he wanted to stay and find out who had killed her. Miranda's death was linked to Miami, and he wanted to find Miranda's killer, no matter what it cost.

When he got to the apartment, he ordered a pizza. He thought about a drink, then decided against it. He wanted to be clear headed when he planned how he would deal with Miranda's death. He knew her real identity, but she had had no ID on her. Her purse was gone, and there was nothing in the duffle to show who she was. So for now, she'd be Karen McCloskey. She'd given an address in Miami, which might or might not be legitimate. He'd check for Karen McCloskey, then when her fingerprints showed her real name, he could go from there. He would stay on the case as long as he could.

He'd been with Miranda four years, off and on. A long time, he thought, but they'd parted a long time ago, too. When he'd known her, Miranda skirted the line between legal and illegal, sometimes slipping over, and Greg knew she had a police record—for writing bad checks on one of her forays away from him. She'd known some unsavory people, but who would kill her? What had she been involved in? Probably drugs, although she'd never been a user. Her body didn't show the traces of addiction. What had been in the suitcase? It was heavy, Patel had said. Heavy with drugs? Guns? Money?

Miranda's slashed throat haunted his dreams. On the way to work, he planned his morning. First, he'd write up his notes, then see Captain Bradley.

He knew Hank and Ed would be curious about the case, and of course, Andi Battaglia. He'd really thought he and Andi might get together at some point, but she'd made it clear she didn't like cops in her personal life. She'd obviously been bitten, probably in Tampa, but he didn't know what it was about.

Hank McClain was at his desk when Greg arrived. More than ready for retirement, he was reluctant to take on anything new, just marking time. Ed Garcia was out, and Andi was off today, so he didn't have to do more than tell Hank he'd picked up a murder at the Hibiscus Motel and was going to see the captain, then find out about the post-mortem. He wrote up his notes, then, report in hand, he headed for Bradley's office. He knocked.

"Enter."

Bradley's desk was, as usual, empty of anything except a telephone, in-and-out-boxes, both nearly empty, and a photo of his wife and children. The photo was an old one. Greg knew his kids were no longer teenagers, and Andi had told him Bradley's wife had died of breast cancer. Bradley's computer sat on the console behind him, the screen showing the Burgess Beach Police Department logo. In Greg's experience—and he'd confirmed this with Andi—Bradley's screen never had anything on it except the screen saver whenever anyone came into his office. No chance of finding him playing games or watching porn or even writing a memo to some hapless employee. They wondered if he ever used the computer.

Bradley indicated that Greg should sit, and said, "What do you have?"

When Greg finished his report, the captain barked, "Keep me posted," and turned to the computer behind him, dismissing Greg.

Greg headed back to his desk. So far, so good.

The address Miranda/Karen had used to register at the Hibiscus Motel had a phone number in the Miami directory. He'd been sure the address was a phony, but when he called, he got an answering machine. A woman's voice, not Miranda's he was sure, asked him to leave a message. He hung up before the beep. He cross-referenced the phone number and got an address in Miami and a name−Kathryn Forbes.

He called the Medical Examiner's officer and learned the autopsy was scheduled for the following morning.

He decided to call a couple he and Miranda had known when they were together. Miranda had worked with Angela Ramirez at an insurance company in Miami, and she and her husband, Joe, had invited them to dinner a couple of times. He'd liked Joe, a contractor who built dry cleaning plants in the Miami's ever-expanding mini-malls. Greg wondered how business was since the recession of the last two years. When he called, he found the number was no longer in service.

The directory had seven listings for Joseph Ramirez, and he tried them all. Four rang to answering machines, and he left messages asking if he had reached the Joseph Ramirez he had known, and if so, would he call Greg Lamont. One call disturbed what sounded like a woman who didn't sound like Angela Ramirez and yelled at him in Spanish for bothering her. Two others simply rang and rang.

He tried to think of anyone else Miranda might have kept in touch with. She had held her private life pretty close, well hidden from him, but there was a woman she had stayed with once when she'd left Greg after a quarrel. The woman's first name was Cynthia or something similar, he thought, and at the time she sang in a band. Not enough to follow up on.

He checked on his other pending cases and made a few calls. Sunday wasn't a good day to reach people, so discouraged, he headed home at five o'clock. The only thing he'd learned was that the phone number Karen McCloskey had left wasn't a phony, although it might have nothing to do with Miranda.

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A Reason to Kill

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Carole Sojka grew up in New York, spent two years in Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer, and returned to Southern California where she worked as a law office administrator. Now a mystery writer, she is the author of A REASON TO KILL and its sequel, SO MANY REASONS TO DIE. Both novels are set on Florida's Treasure Coast.

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Counteract

Tracy Lawson

A Political Thriller, Young-Adult Dystopian Action/Adventure

Set in Columbus, OH, Knox County, KY, and Washington, DC
Chapter 1

9:10 AM  
Day 1: Friday, October 27, 2034  
Quadrant OP-439 (formerly suburban Columbus, Ohio)

Careen Catecher was just a few steps from the front door of the history building when a wave of panicked students poured out, driving her back into the quad. Someone's backpack knocked her coffee mug out of her hand, and a guy she didn't know grabbed her roughly by the elbow and spun her around without breaking stride, dragging her with him as he ran. "Come on! Didn't you hear? We're supposed to go to the Student Center."

"Why? What's happening?"

The first wail of the disaster siren drowned out his answer, and she cringed as they fled across campus in the growing stampede, thinking in a detached way that she'd picked the wrong day to be late for class.

A frightened crowd gathered outside the university's student center, pressing toward the doors and shouting over the siren. Careen fought to keep her balance in the undulating mob. The shrieking siren cut off abruptly, and in the unnerving silence, phones all around her pinged with incoming messages. She dug hers out of her back pocket.

"Campus alert. Shut up—it's a campus alert." The murmurs spread and seemed to calm the crowd. Hundreds of phones played the voice message in near-unison, magnifying the audio so it was easily heard:

"The Office of Civilian Safety and Defense confirmed that a chemical weapons attack against the United States is imminent. Terrorists have released a latent cocktail of poisons into the atmosphere, where it can remain, inert, until such time as they choose to detonate it. You are directed to report to a designated distribution center in your area to receive an antidote that will protect you. Weekly allotments of this antidote will be provided free of charge for as long as the threat persists. The OCSD expects the terrorists to mount repeated attacks, so it is essential that you take the recommended daily dosage. Compliance is a small price to pay for your safety."

Every face turned toward the cloudless, blue sky as someone's sobs cut through the silence.

9:47 AM

Careen fidgeted as she stood in the slow-moving queue. She'd been anxious to get inside the building and away from the danger that lurked overhead, but the informational video playing in the vestibule did nothing to quell her fears. According to the video, an attack could occur at any time; when it did, there would be no flash, no warning, no odor...and no place to hide. But taking the Counteractive System of Defense antidote would render the poison ineffectual. According to the video, the OCSD had the situation under control, and there was no reason to worry.

But Careen could think of plenty to worry about. For starters, she worried that, unlike her, most of the people in line seemed to dismiss the danger after they watched the video message. A group of girls behind her were chattering like they were at a party. She could hear people all around her telling each other not to worry; it's just another attack. It's no big deal. We hear about them all the time. They wouldn't say that if they'd ever been in real danger. They honestly don't believe anything bad can happen to them.

The workers distributed the antidote so slowly that Careen feared the attack would be long over before she made it through the line, and though she hoped she'd be done in time for her afternoon classes, she knew she had no choice but to wait. Denying the threat wouldn't help, and a 4.0 GPA wouldn't save her.

"Our protest might even get coverage on PeopleCam! My mom has a friend whose daughter knows a guy that works there. They're probably sending a crew over."

Careen looked around in amazement. "What are you protesting? Are you against taking the antidote?"

The girl wrinkled her nose. "No! We're protesting against terrorism. Terrorism should stop. Right. Now. So once we take our antidote we're going to stand outside and sing songs and show those terrorists that we're not afraid. Like the flower children in Vietnam a hundred years ago."

"Umm...wow. Some of the pertinent details aside, Vietnam was still a totally different situation." Idiot.

"We can make a difference if we ask all the terrorists to give peace and understanding a chance."

"Oh my gosh! I bet none of our leaders ever thought to try that. You ought to call the president." The girl looked smug, and Careen, already on edge, exploded.

"Have you been living in some kind of reality-free zone? What do you know about protesting or terrorism—or anything, for that matter? You might as well be a herd of sheep."

The girl turned away and spoke loudly to her friends. "Did you hear what she just said? She's an authority on terrorism." Several people were staring in their direction, and one of the distribution workers patrolling the lines looked Careen up and down and noted something on her clipboard. Defiantly, Careen got out her own notebook and scribbled a few lines, mimicking the woman's actions. Soon the woman dropped her gaze and moved away, leaving only the buzz of quiet conversation to fill the void.

Careen tried to shut out the memories that replayed in her head, but she'd never forget the way shards of glass and other debris had rained down on the café table that sheltered her. How her ears rang from the blast and her eyes watered from the cloud of smoke and dust that lingered. Most of all she remembered the blinding flash of light and her father's hands on her back as he shoved her to the floor, hard. She hadn't seen that attack coming. She'd been a kid. Now that she was on her own, she had to take care of herself.

She was startled out of her unpleasant meditation by an exasperated voice nearby.

"But what's in it? Is it safe? Can you at least tell me if it's been tested?"

A young couple was at the front of the line. The man leaned toward the distribution worker, palms planted on the table. "My wife is pregnant. She's not taking anything unless we know it's safe for her and the baby. Let me talk to whoever's in charge here!"

The people around Careen began to shift and crane their necks to get a better view. She stood on tiptoe, hoping to hear the answer to his question, and watched with growing horror as a security officer grabbed the man and forced his arm back into a painful hold. His wife burst into tears as the guard shoved him through the crowd. He tried to twist free, but more guards surrounded them. Careen heard the thwack of a nightstick—once, twice, three times. Two guards dragged him toward the exit, while another took his sobbing wife by the arm and forced her to follow.

The door banged shut behind them, and the remaining guards returned to their positions along the wall. No one in line made a sound. Careen clutched her notebook to her chest and bowed her head.

9:59 AM

Tommy Bailey lay tangled in his blankets, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. He usually slept soundly, thanks to his pain meds, but not today. He opened his eyes, blinking back the bright sunshine that filled the room. What the hell was that noise? He glanced at his bedside clock. Only 10 AM? He'd have slept much later if not for that siren howling outside, but now that he was awake, he was curious enough to roll out of bed and hobble downstairs. The television in the living room was on, which was no surprise since it powered up automatically any time there was an important announcement or mandatory programming. He lowered himself onto the sofa to find out what was going on.

"OCSD expects repeated large-scale attacks. The National Weather Service, in cooperation with the OCSD, will monitor the atmosphere and report discernible toxin levels. The Emergency Broadcast System will conduct practice drills and notify the public in the event of an actual chemical attack. Remember, the antidote will counteract the effects of hazardous toxins if taken every day, so for the next three weeks the Emergency Broadcast System will issue morning reminders to help everyone acclimate to the dosage schedule. Take action to protect yourself and your family. Your safety is our greatest concern. Go directly to the distribution center in your quadrant."

The OCSD's PeopleNet address and an information hotline number flashed on the screen.

Tommy shook the cobwebs from his head. Do I want to live or die? Shit. Not again.

10:48 AM

Tommy limped down the porch steps, crutches in hand. It was almost a mile to the nearest distribution center, and in his current state, traveling there and back on foot was going to take hours. He hadn't been that far from home on his own since before the accident.

Just then the mailman came up the walk with a pile of catalogs. Tommy knew without looking that they'd be addressed to Lara Bailey. The mailman glanced at him uncomfortably, and stepped around him to put the mail in the box.

"Thanks."

"Sure. You doing okay?"

"Yeah." Tommy busied himself with his crutches.

"If you wanna stop getting all them catalogs, you just gotta message the companies, ya know?"

"Yeah. I'll get around to it."

The mailman nodded and continued on his way. Tommy swung onto his crutches and headed toward the university campus, a little surprised that he wanted to live badly enough to go get the antidote. I guess I still have some fight left in me, even after everything that's happened in the last four months.

After the accident, he'd spent two weeks in the hospital, most of it a hazy memory distorted by pain and whatever it was that dripped numbingly into his veins from an IV line. Four surgeries later, the shattered bones in his right leg were held together with metal plates and screws. His visible scars were healing, but the doctors offered no guarantees that he'd ever walk normally, let alone make a full recovery. To Tommy, a full recovery seemed impossible.

He'd turned eighteen while he was in the hospital. He hadn't been able to attend his parents' funeral. He wasn't sure how to live without everything he'd lost, but he guessed he hadn't given up. Not yet.

12:02 PM

Careen sighed with relief when she reached the head of the line, put her notes away, and fished out her ID. The middle-aged woman at the folding table peered through her reading glasses, found Careen's name on the distribution list, and then weighed her and took a DNA swab. The employee with the clipboard approached the table and bent close to whisper something in her ear. The woman who was helping Careen studied her through narrowed eyes for a moment, seemed to reach a conclusion about her, and applied a red sticker next to her name on the list. Then she held out a small, white, cardboard box.

"What does that mean?"

"What, dear?"

"The sticker next to my name. What does it mean?" She pointed at the list. There was only one other red sticker on the page.

"Oh, nothing. Just a discretionary dot, is all."

"A discretionary what? Whose discretion?"

"Mine." The woman pushed the box into her hand then looked to the girl in line behind her. "Next!"

Careen clutched the box and glanced around as she stepped away from the table. Most people were taking their doses immediately. Some of the girls were crying. Can this stuff really keep me safe? She tore open the box, pulled out her bottle, and quickly read the label. 'Three drops daily. Mild side effects may include headache, dizziness, unusually vivid dreams...' Great, whatever. It doesn't really matter. I have to protect myself.

Careen dropped the bottle in her bag as she strolled past the guards, the tiny orange drops leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.

As she crossed the lobby, she noticed a guy on crutches struggling to squeeze his way through the heavy doors. In her hurry to help, Careen's leg became entangled with the young man's crutches, creating a near-catastrophic pile-up.

He shook his blond hair out of his eyes and focused on righting himself, his narrow, angry gaze fixed somewhere over her head as she steadied him.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry." Her brain felt fuzzy, and she was lightheaded all of a sudden. Am I slurring my words? So embarrassing.

"Don't worry about it." He shifted his weight and took a step.

"No, I mean it. Just trying to help." Even though he was obviously trying to get away from her, she kept her hand pressed to his chest as her own pulse thudded in her ears. What is going on?

"Look, can you maybe get out of my way?"

"Umm, yeah. Sure." She swayed in his wake as she let him pass, and when he was out of sight, she walked out of the student center into a blinding pink light. She could see herself in full color, unaffected, and as everything else receded into a pink fog, a sense of calm and well-being washed over her. The light warmed her face, and she breathed in the sweet smell of cotton candy.

She wandered across campus, smiling blithely. At first she felt alone, as if she were in a spotlight, but soon she noticed other people out walking, too, and it was fun to watch them grow closer and materialize out of the bright cherry haze. Her messenger bag was getting heavy, so she took out one of her thick notebooks and tossed it in a trash bin. That was when she recognized a guy who was in one of her classes; and as she noticed his broad shoulders and how his dark hair curled out from under the edges of his baseball cap, it was like she was really seeing him for the first time. She stared at him, acutely aware of the nerve endings in her spine, sure that the tingling rush of energy spreading through her body had to be coming from him. She boldly caught his eye.

He walked straight up to her, grabbed a handful of hair at the base of her neck, tilted back her head, and kissed her. When the kiss ended he smiled, and she followed him into the fog.

2:28 PM

The distribution center's line was long and inched forward almost imperceptibly. Tommy wished he'd brought something to eat. He felt faint from exerting himself on the long walk, and was pretty sure he'd collapse to the floor without his crutches to hold him up. Someone jostled him from behind, and he turned around, irritated.

"Sorry, dude. Oh...hey, Tommy." It was one of his teammates from high school. The boy extended his hand uncomfortably, and when Tommy didn't respond, he settled for a halfhearted fake punch on Tommy's shoulder.

"Hey."

"I heard about...what happened. Sorry about your folks. I mean, I meant to stop by, you know; a bunch of us were going to come see how you were doing but things got so busy...what with starting university and all. Umm...so how you been? I mean...oh God, sorry. That was stupid." He avoided Tommy's eyes.

"I'm great. You?"

"Yeah, really great, except for this whole thing today. Everyone's freaked out, you know? They even canceled the party at my frat house tonight. Some crazy shit, huh?"

"Yeah. Some crazy shit."

"Well, take care of yourself, right? See you around?"

"Sure."

4:16 PM

Tommy tottered through the front door, using a crutch to slam it shut behind him. He was sweating from head toe, and his recently healed incision hurt so much he feared it had pulled apart somewhere along the fifteen-inch scar. It was definitely past time for a pain pill. Too bad there wasn't a pill to help him be around other people without feeling conspicuous and defective. Why is it that every interaction I have with anyone focuses on my shortcomings? I couldn't even open the stupid door by myself.

He knew it was partly his fault that he was alone. Art and Beth Severson, his parents' best friends, had encouraged him to stay with them after he was discharged from the hospital, and he'd taken them up on the offer for a couple weeks. They'd infiltrated his drug-induced fog with good intentions and regular mealtimes. Beth hovered over him with a cheery efficiency that he found annoying, and Art asked so many questions about the accident that Tommy had finally gotten tired of saying "I don't remember" and clammed up. Every evening Art watched the SportsCam channel on TV, which only served to remind Tommy, the former athlete, of his new physical limitations. Maybe Art had felt obligated to be there for his dead best friend's son, but Tommy wished he didn't. He'd found the whole situation intolerable, and as soon as he was able to get around on his own, he'd gone home.

He pulled the little white box from the pocket of his hoodie and removed the amber bottle inside. Three drops daily. Not just for him...for everyone. Everyone was in danger; everyone was scared. He wasn't alone in this fight.

Tommy limped into the kitchen for a glass of water and a pain pill. With three tiny drops of the antidote swirling in his glass, he washed down the pill with a single gulp. Back in the living room, he flopped on the sofa and closed his eyes, and soon the sofa was breathing softly, and he was somewhere else, his body rising and falling in time with the sofa, like waves on the lake he'd frequented with his parents. He was afloat on sunlit water, the bright light sparkling and changing in kaleidoscopic patterns as he drifted aimlessly. In the distance, a pretty brunette walked alone on the shore.

5:12 PM  
Quadrant BG-098 (formerly Knox County, Kentucky)

Wes Carraway flipped over the sign on the diner's window to CLOSED, locked the front door, and drew the blinds. He crossed the room and slapped the counter to get his older brother's attention. Mitch came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron, and pulled a little amber bottle out of his pocket.

"This is the one, Wes. The one he warned me about. This chemical- weapons attack is all over the news! Of course there's nothing to report so they're all saying stuff like 'up next, a live report from so-and-so at blah-blah-blah.' But if you ask me, the whole thing feels staged."

"Just so you know, you sound like the true disciple of a conspiracy theorist."

"Yeah? Well, if this is such a huge threat, why are the alleged terrorists holding off until we've all had time to take the antidote? Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned sneak attack? Shoot, that's what I'd do."

"You'd make a great terrorist."

"Hell, I'd make a great world leader, 'cause I understand peer pressure and threats. If you tell people they're being attacked, they'll stand in line for hours to let you take away their freedoms. All you need is a rallying point like—"

"How about, 'it's a small price to pay for your safety'?"

"Or something like that. Nice observation, Mr. Quadrant Marshal."

"Ha, ha." Like I'd dare say anything else in his presence. "So since I came all the way out here to see you, how about you make me some pancakes before I go? I'm starting a new assignment tomorrow: babysitting the little darlings over in the university quadrant. OP-439."

"Yeah? Going uptown, huh? Well, babysit all you like. You're no older than they are, so have some fun with a debutante or two, but don't forget why you're really there. Get us back in the loop so we can get to work."

Wes spun the antidote bottle on the countertop. It stopped with the cap pointing between them. "You figure we're safe when we take this stuff?"

Mitch laughed. "I figure I'm safer when I don't take it."

"You're not going to?"

"Aw, come on, little brother. We're so far behind the times in this corner of West By-God that if the world ends tomorrow, we won't even hear about it for a couple years."

"What if they come in after you?"

"They who? The OCSD or the terrorists? Either way, let 'em try. I can hide out back in the hills if I need to."

Wes rolled his eyes but grinned in spite of himself. "Yeah, I know you can. So how about those pancakes?"
Chapter 2

The United States had slumped into a prolonged recession during the first three decades of the twenty-first century, and different terrorist groups took advantage of the nation's preoccupation with its economic woes, relentlessly attacking stadiums, shopping malls, airports, and high-rise office buildings. In desperation, the president ordered the creation of the Office of Civilian Safety and Defense in 2019. The OCSD immediately implemented a quadrant marshal system to increase security, and the nation was re-platted into a grid of two-square mile quadrants, with marshals assigned to do everything possible to safeguard homes and citizens from small, localized attacks. Often this included monitoring the activities of the people they were there to protect. But it was a small price to pay for everyone's safety.

Everyone was strongly encouraged to work at home and shop online, and soon most shopping malls and office buildings stood vacant. When the OCSD restricted air travel for pleasure, people accessed the larger world solely by watching the government-controlled PeopleCam, SportsCam, and VacationCam networks on television.

The changes seemed to work for a while, so when the attacks began again, the OCSD countered with more safety-enhancing Civilian Restrictions.

In 2021, the OCSD foiled a plot to blow up bridges in ten different cities simultaneously. Because the bombs were made of ordinary items purchased at hardware stores, the OCSD recommended that cash be abolished and all purchases be made with government-issued debit cards so the OCSD would be able to monitor and track anyone who bought items that could be made into something dangerous.

A deadly airborne virus, released at one hundred supermarkets in 2024, prompted the OCSD to recommend the creation of the Essential Services Department to make weekly home food deliveries so no one would have to risk his or her life shopping for groceries. Though the plan faced some opposition from the public, Congress passed the necessary laws without hesitation, and all grocery stores became off-limits to the public. The Essential Services Department's nutritionists planned menus and determined how much each family needed to eat. Logistical engineers organized a weekly delivery schedule, and the Payables Department automatically deducted the cost of food from everyone's government-issued debit accounts. The program turned out to be more costly than anticipated, and those who couldn't afford to spend additional money on food ate only what was delivered to their homes. Before long, a great many restaurants were out of business.

A rash of car bombings in 2027 led the OCSD to outlaw personal vehicles, except for government employees and a select group of wealthy and powerful civilians in the private sector. It was too risky to allow ordinary citizens access to such large potential weapons. Just two years before, the OCSD decreed that, since large public gatherings attracted terrorist activity, concerts and sporting events should be closed to live audiences.

But even with the all the safety measures in place, random attacks were still commonplace, especially in the urban quadrants. Stress and worry eroded the people's will, and they lived in constant fear. Parents forgot to teach their children to be brave.

In October 2034, OCSD director Dr. Lowell Stratford advised the president and Congress of a plot to use chemical weapons in a widespread attack against the entire nation. Stratford promised the president that the OCSD's elite team of scientists wouldn't rest until they'd developed an antidote—and they would do it before the terrorists could put the finishing touches on their deadly chemical weapon cocktail.

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About Tracy Lawson:

Once upon a time, Tracy Lawson was a little girl with a big imagination who wanted to write books when she grew up. Her interests in dance, theater, and other forms of make-believe led to a career in the performing arts, where "work" means she gets to do things like tap dance, choreograph musicals, and weave stories.

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Alpha

Stephen Brayton

An Action Mystery, Private Investigator Novel

Set in Des Moines, IA
Chapter XVII

THEN

I hate when my alarm wakes me in the morning because the hellish thing always jumpstarts my heart. The same held true whenever my phone trilled at unexpected times. I waved a hand over the nightstand and knocked the book to the floor before finding the phone.

"Hello." I groaned and noticed the clock display glowed 3:24.

"Miss Petersen," I heard my secretary say, "this is Darren."

Yes I know, you little twerp.

"If my office is not on fire, I'm going to rip out your nostril hairs with hot tweezers. If it is, I can't do anything anyway, so let me sleep."

"Miss Petersen, Elena has been sighted."

Grogginess vanished as if I'd been smacked on the cheek.

"What? Where?"

"The shopping complex along MLK, north of Urbandale Avenue."

"Right," I said, paging through my mental metro map.

"A patrol officer spotted her, thought she looked suspicious, and decided to investigate. He only realized who she'd seen after she disappeared again."

I tried to hold the phone to my ear as I all but prat-fell hoisting up my jeans.

"Hold on!" I thumbed the speakerphone button. "Okay, what else?"

While Darren answered, I donned the rest of my clothes.

"He called for backup, but so far, he hasn't seen her again."

Damn it! How does the woman evade Des Moines' finest? The boys in blue can run down a fleeing gazelle of a suspect over fences and through several backyards, but can't track one mentally unstable woman?

"Don't speed, Miss Petersen," Darren warned.

"Thanks, Mom."

Tomorrow, I'd thank him for being ever vigilant, even in the wee hours of the morning. I don't know why he wasn't sleeping instead of monitoring the police scanner, but maybe his persistence would pay off.

I fingered the disconnect button and rushed to my car. Traffic was sparse so I pushed the speed limit. All right, I flagrantly disregarded it. I slowed at the red lights only long enough to ascertain the absence of cross traffic then raced on.

I started scanning for Elena as soon as I turned onto Martin Luther King, Jr. Parkway from University, a few miles away from the shopping center. I concentrated my focus on every shadow and alley. By the time I reached Hickman, residential reluctantly segued into business at least along the main drag. Broadlawns Medical Center and the western section of Prospect Park lay to my right.

Just north of Payne Street, on the right, a concrete drive descended to a parking lot and maintenance building for area school buses. Security lights bright enough to illuminate the Principal Park baseball stadium bathed the lot in white. Chain link fence surrounded the entire lot with a double swinging locked gate. I removed my foot from the accelerator and studied the spaces between the buses, sickly yellow under the lights. Just as I turned my head back to the road, I caught a furtive movement in my peripheral vision. I tapped the brakes and squinted. Someone had stepped near the rear exit of a bus parked in the middle of the lot.

Medium frame, dark hair down to the shoulders. Similar to my quick view of the watcher on the far riverbank who accepted the drug payment, I had a two second window of opportunity to recognize the Austrian-influenced features of my landlord's daughter.

Elena!

The woman knew me, but apparently not my Dodge and I must have spit gravel lurching into the lot. She took one look and her face transformed into instant fear. In a second, she darted around the corner of the bus.

"Elena!" I slammed the door and ran up to the fence. "Wait! It's Mallory."

The narrow gap between the swinging gates didn't allow my frame to slip through. I desperately looked around for another entrance. If she had gotten inside...

Around the corner, the ground dropped from street level to a parking area behind the plumbing and heating business next door. The fence line followed the decline and where it leveled out, did a short zig-zag before heading east down to the tree line. Near the end of the parking area, I spied a torn portion of fence just visible behind a flatbed trailer of the size used to haul lawn tractors or ATVs.

I raced down the hill, enlarged the gap in the fence, and squeezed through, careful not to rip my trench. Inside, I ran to the end of the bus where I'd seen Elena to find...empty space. Where had she gone?

"Elena," I called, stepping lightly along the length of the vehicle. "It's okay. Everything is all right. I'm here to take you home. Your father misses you, baby. Come to Mallory."

I squatted and peered under the bus, scanning for legs in other rows. Nothing. Damn, the woman was part magician. She could disappear faster than a steak nugget under a hungry dog's nose.

A search through the rows of school buses and around the maintenance buildings netted exactly the same as an investment with Bernie Madoff. Zilch. I concluded Elena either had hidden herself so completely I'd never find her without backup or had found another exit. A few more half-hearted entreaties went unanswered. I flipped open my cell phone, dialed the police, and explained the situation. The dispatcher promised a follow up.

I trudged back to the fence, squeezed through the opening where I met two youths, aged in their late teens, dressed in tattered jeans and faded flannel shirts. They stepped out of the shadows of the plumbing and heating building. The stark streetlights paled their pallid skin and glinted off dark messy hair. The leaner one bore acne scars on his cheeks and chapped lips. The other hulked larger, the way misuse of steroids might create unattractive muscle bulges, and displayed a neck tattoo of a grinning skull over red and yellow flames.

"Hey, baby," the former cooed as he and his buddy moved to block my path, "Nice ride you got up there."

Great, I thought. I lose Elena and now these jerks are going to give me a bad time.

"Glad you like it," I said from my side of the trailer. "Save up enough money, you can buy one for yourself."

Scarface straightened. "Listen to her mouth, wouldja', Gorp?"

"Yeah," the other mumbled as if he had marbles in his cheeks. "Pretty nice mouth."

"Betcha it could all do kinds of things."

I turned to the larger man. "Are you kidding me or are you really named after trail mix?"

"What?"

"Never mind," I said. "Listen guys, let's call it a night. Step away and let me pass."

"Or else whatchu gonna do?" Acne Face whipped forth a switchblade.

I rolled my eyes and reached for my .380. I had it half raised when I heard the snick of a cocked gun hammer behind me.

"Think again, bitch," said a menacing voice.

I turned my head slowly and saw two other youths who had maneuvered to block the way behind me. One aimed a large black Glock 17 at me. The hand holding the weapon remained steady as the man slowly closed the distance between us.

"Just lose the piece, babe," Scarface said. "Then we can have some fun."

The four men slid into positions effectively centering me in a box. The gunman stood so he wouldn't shoot his buddies in any crossfire. My only option was the gap in the fence, but I didn't want to risk getting caught on the jagged edges. Besides, I didn't think I'd have enough time.

I had one hope in my favor. Our little group lay almost in plain view from the street, and hopefully the cops would be along soon to break up this party in their search for Elena. Surely, I thought, I wouldn't have to wait too much longer.

I couldn't risk a bullet in the back. These guys, unlike Brougham's stooges, would react in a split second. If I made the wrong move at the wrong time, they'd shoot first and scatter like cockroaches under sudden light.

Slowly, holding the .380 away from my body in full view of everyone, I crouched and gently laid the gun on the ground. My heart pounded as adrenaline surged through my bloodstream. Fear tried to clench my stomach, but I focused on transforming the fear into potential energy. Give me one opportunity, I silently urged, slip up just once, and I nail your asses.

"Kick the gun away from you," Scarface said.

I complied, but only edged it about six inches. I still wanted it in reach.

"Further, bitch. Come on, hurry up."

I hated doing so, but I flipped the .380 with my shoe. It landed a dozen feet from me. Too far to dive if given the chance.

"Get her piece, Larry," ordered the leader. The dark red and black scars on his cheeks looked ready to burst forth with new pus every time he spoke.

"Yeah, then we get our own piece." Gorp laughed.

The thud of footsteps behind me clued me in on what path the guy with the Glock was taking. First mistake. One of the others should have retrieved my weapon while Larry kept me covered.

A second mistake came when Larry relied too much on the threat of a bullet. Instead of circling around me, he came straight on.

As he passed, he slapped my butt with his free hand. I took one step to my right, dropped to my hands and knees, and lashed out with a sidekick. His right knee cracked as my foot forced the joint the wrong direction. A bellow of unimaginable pain filled the night. When he doubled over, I re-chambered, delivered the second kick and broke his nose. Blood gushed as he fell away.

The others wasted no time advancing and I didn't screw around, either. Too far from both my gun and Larry's, I scrambled to my feet. The trailer blocked my way and Scarface and Gorp circled on either side. Larry had been at the back corner of the square and by taking him down, I'd created an opening. I took it. Just before I reached open ground, the guy on Larry's left made a grab for my trench coat. I extended the fingers of my left hand and tucked my thumb tight against my palm. With a snap strike, my ridge hand hit his throat. He halted in his stride, clutching his damaged Adam's apple.

I didn't go out for track in high school, but my taekwondo instructor made us run our butts off. Regular exercise with weight machines had strengthened my legs. I felt certain I could outrun these clowns. However, I was headed in the wrong direction, away from the street and toward the trees.

I heard pounding footsteps and shouted threats behind me. A shot rang out. Someone must have retrieved Larry's weapon. The bullet zinged against the fence. Another shot whined by my ear as I reached the tree line, the northern strip of Prospect Park separating me from the Des Moines River. Shadows loomed thick and eerie. Without a second thought, I raced blindly into the trees as more bullets thwacked into trees. In a few seconds, they'd emptied the clip. I ducked to avoid low branches and held my arms in front of my face. My pursuers didn't give up and they, too, crashed into the woods.

"We're coming for you bitch!" Acne-man's voice tittered maniacally through the branches while Gorp's, "We gonna fuck you up!" was low and mean.

To the east the Des Moines River flowed so I veered north. I estimated I kept a good thirty yards in the lead but I had to keep running. I didn't want to stop and try to fool them. The undergrowth and the trees made for close fighting with these guys. Too close.

Branches slapped at my arms and caught in my trench coat. I worried more about tripping on an unseen root. My thighs ached from running on the soft undergrowth and uneven ground. My knees protested the sudden depressions littered with the usual assortment of limbs, leaves, various other detritus. I just knew my blonde hair acted as a guide to my location and I pictured me as a lass of Victorian England fleeing into the night to haunt the surrounding woods, spawning legends of various ghostly sightings.

I heard only two sets of feet coming after me. Larry would be still writhing in pain with a dislocated knee and blood pouring from his face. The other must also have been incapacitated enough to sit out the chase. I liked two better than four, but these two could pose a problem. A big man difficult to hurt and the other wielding a knife.

I didn't like my chances. The Fire Fly lay upon my dresser at home. I'd neglected clipping it onto my belt before I dashed out of the house after Darren's call. A momentary twinge of guilt passed through me. He wouldn't be happy with me if he found out I had forgotten his gift. My martial arts skills would have to suffice and in those I held the utmost confidence.

A root, hidden by leaves reached out to trip me. I barely managed to keep my balance before I stumbled against the ground banking upward. Scrabbling up the four-foot incline, I found myself clear of the trees and clomping onto asphalt. To my left I saw more security lights and the long buildings used by one of the numerous storage businesses. They're as common as coffee houses in this city. Who knew Americans could accumulate so much crap to spawn an entire industry.

Before me, the ground dropped again, this to a narrow channel of open ground I thought might be a floodplain, then more woods with a serpentine branch of the bike and walking trail I'd stumbled upon. To my right, the river and, what's this? The bike trail from the west continued across a narrow bridge over the river. I didn't know this existed. The things one discovers in one's own city.

I chose the bridge because Gorp and his friend could come at me from only one direction. Just before I reached the bridge, I leaned over and scooped up a section of broken branch about five feet long and not thick enough I couldn't wrap my hand around. Perfect.

The bridge, supported by four trestles, measured about ten feet in width, just enough space for two bicyclists to pass each other comfortably, and for me to easily swing my weapon. At the entrance, in the middle of the blacktop, a thick three foot post had been sunk into the ground to prevent morons from driving compact cars onto the bridge. I backed up and studied the chain link fence creating a barrier between the walkway and the open struts and support beams of the bridge. The top of the fence rose perhaps four and a half feet from the ground.

The chase was over and I had them right where I wanted.

I stopped and turned. Shadows still loomed, but the haze of ambient metro light combined with the illumination from the storage units provided ample vision. Gorp and his buddy stepped out of the woods up onto the asphalt, looked both ways, and spotted me waiting. They halted one step beyond the guard post and doubled over gasping for air. Meanwhile, partially recovered, I focused and controlled my breathing. Sweat ran down my face, but I loved the exhilaration. I had the edge.

"We–we've got you now, bitch," Zit face wheezed.

I shed my trench for easier maneuverability, and keeping the branch behind me, I said, "I think not."

Gorp stood large and ugly. He spread his arms. "Where you gonna go? You can run, but you ain't gonna get far."

"Come on," I taunted, "let's get this over with. I'm tired and I didn't get much sleep tonight."

"Shut up!" The shorter now pointed the knife at me. "Gorp, take her down and I'll do some nice cutting. Mess up that pretty face of hers." He slapped Gorp's back in encouragement and the big man stepped forward.

Ever since I saw my first Robin Hood movie starring Errol Flynn, my favorite weapon has been the long staff twirled by merry man Friar Tuck. I'd started practicing long before my instructor showed me the proper exercises and techniques. While most others mastered the flashy ssanhg jeol bong (the nun-chucks), I've won more trophies with the wooden jong bong.

The branch felt solid, maybe still green at its core. I had no worries about brittleness turning my weapon into useless kindling. I'd already gauged the balance of the branch. Gorp charged me with a gravely growl, intending to thunder like a rabid bull right over me. When he came within five feet, I simultaneously whipped the branch around with my right hand and went down on one knee. Adding my left hand grip, I swing the makeshift staff and clipped the big man behind the knees. He toppled hard to the asphalt. Kneecaps hit hard, and he scraped his forearms red. Standing, I swept a one-two strike against each temple. A quick jab to the back of his head knocked him out cold.

No time to celebrate. I had just enough time to turn, position the staff vertically to execute a sweeping block of Scarface's thrust of his knife. For an instant, I thought he had over extended, but he recovered and backed off. He realized I had a longer reach, but he was too pissed and stupid to call it quits.

He feigned left and right with two short stabs, then stepped back a pace. His smile glinted evil in the low light and his black eyes narrowed in hate. I didn't like the look and liked the situation even less as I divined his intention. With deliberate slowness, he switched his grip to hold the blade between thumb and index finger. Like a carnival showman, he planned to throw the knife followed by a lineman's rush. He couldn't miss such a big target like me at this close range. The switchblade would be coming too fast for me to knock it out of the air or imbed it in my branch. Hey, I'm not that good. You see those stunts only in the movies.

He snapped his wrist and I shifted left. The knife sliced the outside of my right shoulder and dangled from my sweatshirt. I was madder at the hole in my clothes than the one in my shoulder. I felt searing pain and flowing blood. I ignored them both and flipped up the lower end of the branch as he stepped close, catching him squarely between the legs. He froze and the evil expression turned to wide-eyed shock. I reversed the strike and bashed his forehead. As he stumbled back, I poked his stomach and pushed him against the trestle struts. I drove upward and my momentum lifted him over the fence between two struts and into open air.

He pedaled his feet like Wile E. Coyote realizing he'd run off a cliff. After the fleeting comic moment, he disappeared, a cry of terror descending away from me until I heard his body make contact with the river. The impact sounded more like he had smashed against concrete than water. Maybe he'd hit a sand bar, but truthfully, I didn't care.

Gorp sprawled on the bridge, a noiseless heap. Removing the dangling knife from my coat, I touched the button, snicked the blade back into the handle, retrieved my coat, then put the weapon in one of its pockets. I pressed my palm against my wound, the other hand holding the long staff. I stepped away from the big man lest he made a slasher movie killer's sudden recuperative grab for my ankle. My weapon became a supportive walking stick as my adrenaline high began to ebb, the arduous run and the lack of sleep causing a few missteps along the bike path toward the avenue. When I reached the sidewalk, lights flashed dim and bright in a quick succession with weird blurry colors of red and blue in the distance.

I smiled when I realized the cops had responded.

The smile faded as another thought intruded like an imp at the window with one last trick in mind. The explanation to the boys in blue would delay my returning to my bed.

What a crappy night!

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About Stephen Brayton:

Stephen L. Brayton lives in Carlisle, Iowa. He owns and operates Brayton's Black Belt Academy in Oskaloosa, Iowa. He is a Fifth Degree Black Belt and certified instructor in The American Taekwondo Association. He began writing as a child; his first short story concerned a true incident about his reactions to discipline. During his early twenties, while working for a Kewanee, Illinois radio station, he wrote a fantasy based story and a trilogy for a comic book. He has written numerous short stories both horror and mystery.

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CATastrophic Connections: A Psycho Cat and the Landlady Mystery

Joyce Ann Brown

A Cozy Mystery

Set in Kansas City, MO

In the Nighttime

To the individual working in near darkness, the place felt like a basement at midnight, illuminated only by a dim light bulb at the top of the stairway. No. Better. It felt like a mortuary in the middle of the night, the perfectionist mortician preparing a corpse for a starring role at its own funeral. An undertaker is an artist, after all, who must exult in the unveiling of the handiwork—or creative artwork—as gawkers pass by the open casket.

The lone figure's grin appeared as grotesque as the thoughts in its wearer's head, illuminated as it was by the dim glow from the flickering computer screen. The only other light in the room came from distant street lamps through two small office windows. During workday hours this large room, which housed the construction company's accounting and human resources departments, suffered from harsh fluorescent lighting and the constant noise of clicking keyboards, telephone conversations, and inner-office communication. But now—stillness, dark shadows, the circumspect use of a muted flashlight, necessary for finding the correct workspace.

Overtime work, even late into the evening hours, was common here when a big project came toward a close. All essential employees knew the door codes. But at two o'clock in the morning, no one else was likely to be around the building to observe this covert operation. To make sure, the lone operative had parked on a residential street three blocks away among autos belonging to apartment dwellers. The car wouldn't be associated with anyone headed for Renfro Construction Company. Being discovered would require an explanation, and the prepared story might appear a little thin.

This task wouldn't take long. The transaction had been set up earlier on a computer in a different room. All that remained to be done was to make sure the last of the payments to Master Flooring duplicated to a bogus Masters Flooring account located in a Virgin Islands bank—a slight variation in name. Brilliant. But it had to be routed before the company's annual audit began the next day.

A few final gloved keystrokes, a couple final minutes of frequenting this gloomy place during the wee hours, and all those pesky money problems would be solved. The collaborator would be set. People who cared would be impressed. A few million dollars would bring not only security, but also respect.

Oh, there might be some old so-called friends sacrificed along the way. All for the greater good, of course. Besides, people who left, who lacked loyalty, who were more concerned about their own interests—those people deserved whatever happened to them. It was a dirty shame most of them would never know the details of the careful planning or of the clear execution of this scheme. Foolproof. The money had disappeared. The getaway was assured. By the time connections were uncovered, if ever, there would be too many miles to work across and too many scapegoats to investigate.

One last check, at a different desktop. One couldn't be too careful. Yes! The transaction would be recorded at the Kansas City bank early next morning and received in the Virgin Islands a little later in the day. Some people claimed accounting work and bookkeeping were slow and boring occupations. It might be true when dealing with someone else's money, when working for a company and doing the same work over and over. But this clandestine bookkeeping activity sent a thrill straight through the body. Now—now, all the uncertainties, all the disappointments, and all the humdrum days were about to end.

Banging and bumping sounds reverberated through the empty building. The edgy computer user logged out and shut down while peering back and forth into the darkness and listening for noises—sounds that could be heard beyond this individual's own thumping heartbeat. The wind. Damn. It had blown open the dumpster out back. That was all it was.

The computer screen faded like a shimmering dream interrupted by a harsh alarm clock. Its final pinpricks of gray light illuminated the thief's deep frown, focused squint, and clenched jaw.
Chapter 1—Caterwauling Cat

"Cats are cats... the world over!

These intelligent, peace-loving, four-footed friends—who are without prejudice, without hate, without greed—may someday teach us something.

\- James Mackintosh Qwilleran"

\- Lilian Jackson Braun, The Cat Who Saw Stars

The low resonance of three low funereal organ notes reverberated throughout Beth's body. She shuddered, stopped with a gasp, and clutched her knees in the middle of the Trolley Track Trail where she power-walked several days a week. Beth shook her head to fend off her feeling of foreboding and straightened up when she heard, or rather felt, the unnerving tones again. Then she rolled her eyes. Arnie had been switching her mobile phone ring tones again. This one was spooky. As she caught her breath and dug her cell phone out of the pocket of her windbreaker, she made a mental note to devise an evil plan to get him back. She held the phone to her ear.

"H—puff—hello?"

"Is this Mrs. Stockwell?" the caller said in a high-pitched and shaky voice.

"Yes, this is Beth Stockwell."

"This is Eva Standish. I live in the condo next door to your tenant Adrianna Knells. I got your number from the Condo Association."

"How can I help you, Eva?" She bent over again to massage her left calf.

"You know about Adrianna's cat?" Eva asked.

"Sure."

"Well, it has been yowling for the last two days, maybe longer. Do you know where Adrianna is? I tried calling her but got no answer and no return call. Can you do something? The Condo folks told me to ask you to handle it first before they step in and require her to get rid of the cat. I'm not normally a complainer, but I can hardly hear my television set, let alone sleep, with that noise."

Beth looked skyward, as if asking for help from beyond, and resumed her walk on the trail at a pace more leisurely than before. The eerie phone tone was appropriate. A call from Eva definitely qualified as a creepy thing.

"Well, I'm sorry about the disturbance," Beth said. "I'll be right over to find out what's ailing the kitty. He's usually so quiet and good." She mentally crossed the fingers of both hands—since that last part could have been a little white lie. "Thank you for calling me about this. I wouldn't want Adrianna to lose the pet that she loves so much."

"I hope you make it soon. My nerves can't take this much longer."

"It'll only take me a few minutes to get there, dear. Thanks again for calling."

Beth remembered other run-ins she had with Eva Standish, the tiny seventy-five-year-old with the white fly-away hair who lived next door to the rental units Beth and her husband, Arnie, owned on the sixth floor of the funky West-Gate Condos in the Brookside subdivision of Kansas City. The locals called it the Puce Goose, as it was sided with salmon-colored panels. It restricted its residents to people twenty-one and older but contained mostly senior citizens. Every time Beth saw her, Eva, a long-time resident, wore a scowling expression that made her look like a grumpy leprechaun guarding a pot of gold.

Was Eva Standish a complainer? Sheesh. When Beth was renovating the condo unit Adrianna now rented, hadn't Eva Standish complained about the smell of paint and the noise of the power tools? When a nice computer guy lived there, didn't Eva grumble about the young man coming in late at night? Adrianna said Eva left notes comprised of crazy predictions about how soon she would marry her boyfriend, when she might have a terrible bicycle accident, or even how a pretty girl like her might be kidnapped by some evil man she wouldn't suspect—notes Adrianna laughed about and threw away. Now Eva complained about the pet. Well, the best bet was to find out at once what was going on with Psycho Cat, the unpredictable cat that seemed to have a sixth sense.

Erratic as a funnel cloud better described the feline. Adrianna Knells, Beth's tenant and also her step-niece, could set the whole family rolling on the floor at family gatherings with her stories about Sylvester, dubbed Psycho Cat early on. How he could be sweet and lovable to visitors one minute and then attack with his claws bared the next, sleep without moving for hours and then charge around the apartment knocking over lamps and vases for half an hour, jump into a bathtub full of water while his unsuspecting owner was in it, and undertake any variety of other crazy antics. Maybe the yowling was merely a result of one of the cat's moods.

Only a few blocks north of Brookside on her midtown walking trail, Beth turned and caught the toe of her running shoe on a crack. She almost fell, but only almost. She headed toward the condo building. On the way, she called Adrianna's cell phone but got no answer. After sending a text message that she was going to check on the cat, she followed the trail past the cafés and shops of Brookside. In ten minutes, Beth stood under the awning at the entrance to the ten-story building, becoming dizzy with the sweet aroma of the blooming red azaleas and violet lilacs that bordered each side. Before she could find her front door key, Chuck, the hunky security guard, opened the door for her, greeted her with familiarity, and recorded her visit.

"Hey, Chuck," said Beth. "I've got to take care of something up in my rental, but when I come back down I want to find out how your family is doing."

"No problem."

Beth wanted to linger long enough to have a little chat with Chuck as usual. This time, however, she felt obligated to get up there and find out about the cat. Without thinking, she took the stairs to the sixth floor—another way she jammed exercise into her daily routines. However, she sprinted up the stairs at such a rapid pace she stumbled and fell rounding the corner on the third landing.

"Ow! What a klutz." she said out loud. Why did she do this to herself—rush up here so fast she could have killed herself because of the convoluted whim of Adrianna's neighbor? She knew why. She always went out of her way to avoid conflict, to appease people. Beth continued up the steps at a slower pace, favoring her skinned knee.

The yowling became audible as soon as she stepped into the sixth floor hallway. She unlocked the condo door with her landlady key, peeked inside, and came to a dead stop. Her step-niece's usually clean neat apartment now smelled like a dirty litter box. Papers, pictures, and pillows littered the floor. Psycho Cat went bonkers when she entered, exploded toward her, hissed when she reached down to pet him, and then tried to climb her leg. She put her arms around the seventeen-pound, yellow, tiger-striped kitty and hefted him to her shoulder in an attempt to pacify him. Beth's soothing had little effect, and he continued his plaintive meow.

When she put him down, Psycho Cat darted toward his food and water bowls in the kitchen. They were both quite empty. Beth filled the water bowl and then found the expensive cat food Adrianna preferred and poured a bunch of it into a hand-painted blue ceramic cat dish. Psycho Cat chowed down, lapped up some water, and finished by licking his chops and then his paws in prissy cat fashion. The litter box in the bathroom was foul, and it took a while to find clean-up supplies. After she scooped the box, added clean litter, and sprayed the condo with some air freshener, the atmosphere improved, as did Psycho Cat's manner. In fact, he rubbed around her legs and purred so loud she thought Eva Standish might start complaining again.

Finally, after giving the kitty what she hoped was a reassuring pat, Beth determined to give the condo a thorough inspection. As the landlady of several properties, she normally respected her tenants' privacy. If she, or she and her self-taught handy-man hubby, Arnie, had to go into one of the rental units to do some repair work, she would glance around and admire or disdain the decorating and housekeeping. The tidiness, especially, caught her eye because she knew how hard it was to clean a filthy apartment in order to rent it again after a tenant moved out.

This condo was different. Beth had been here several times for friendly visits, because Adrianna was her sister Meg's step-daughter. Since childhood, Adrianna had known her as Aunt Beth and her children as cousins. Adrianna kept her one-bedroom apartment very clean and as well decorated as a twenty-seven-year-old single could afford.

Now why would she suddenly leave her cat alone so long that he would wreck the place? When she went on a vacation or a business trip, Adrianna always put her step-mom in charge of the kitty. Adrianna's step-mother, Beth's sister Meg Knells, had raised Adrianna and was more of a real mom than Adrianna's birth mother, who hadn't raised her daughter since Adrianna was about three years old.

It was ten-thirty in the morning. Meg would be at school where she taught social studies to middle school students. Since Beth had received no reply to her text message to Adrianna, she called Meg's cell phone, knowing Meg checked her messages around noon when she had time. "Meg, call me on my cell phone, please. Nothing to worry about, but I need to ask you about Adrianna's cat." That wasn't much information, but she guessed it would be enough to get a return call.

Meanwhile, what would Beth do about Psycho Cat? She picked him up. He nuzzled her ear and started purring again. There was no doubt the kitty had been left alone for several days. Beth realized she would feel bad setting the appreciative kitty down, and she couldn't walk out and leave him there alone. Maybe she should carry him the short distance to her house. That might also avert another call from the irritated condo neighbor, Eva Standish. Beth could hand the cat over to her sister or, better yet, to Adrianna later this afternoon.

Eva Standish opened her door a crack while Beth was shuffling her load of cat and cat paraphernalia in order to lock up. Beth turned her head toward the opening and glimpsed Eva raise a shaggy eyebrow before she yanked the door closed with her tiny wrinkled hand.
Chapter 2—Missing Step-Niece

"Cats are fond of mooning."

\- Lilian Jackson Braun

All the way back on the trail to home, Psycho Cat squirmed and howled. Good grief, was she glad she'd found the cat carrier for this big cat.

If Beth had carried him in her arms along with the little zip-lock bags of litter and cat food she brought along too, there's no telling what would have happened. She might have been found later lying on the ground, her chest and head tattooed with paw prints. Beth giggled to herself while she clipped along at a good pace in the sunshine and approached the tennis courts on the outskirts of the shopping center.

No, you don't owe me an award. I'm naturally resourceful. It's just my nature to rescue...

Her grandiose inner-speak came to a sudden halt when an unidentified flying object dropped like a meteorite directly on top of the cat carrier and knocked it out of her hand. A half second of complete silence followed, and then there came a hair-raising wildcat scream, amplified by the container. Two elderly gentlemen, one of whom had hit the tennis ball over the fence, stared at Beth and her carrier with suspicion. She returned the look and then knelt to examine the damage.

"It's only a kitty cat—really," she said. Beth righted the box and turned the front toward the men. "Your ball hit his carrier and scared him." Psycho Cat had crunched his body deep into the back of the box where he was hard to distinguish. Both men came to the fence and squinted. Their expressions changed to mere skepticism.

The elder of the two, a man with scrawny legs on which the sagging remains of muscle definition suggested the probability of their owner at one time being able to chase tennis balls all over the court, pointed at the offending sphere. "Uh, would you mind throwing our ball back over the fence, please?"

Beth did as she was asked, in only two attempts, with no naughty comments about how the men should keep their balls on the court. She made it almost all the rest of the way past the little brick buildings of the Brookside shopping district and to her two-story Tudor with nothing more tragic than several stares and a few pitying smiles from joggers and bikers on the Trolley Track Trail.

Then, when she was about to cross the street to her house, a rabbit ran across the trail right in front of her, and hot on its tail came a big black cat. Psycho Cat meowed and shook the cat box so hard it caused Beth to drop everything. The door of the carrier flew open, and Psycho Cat catapulted out.

"No, Sylvester," Beth yelled. She lunged for the cat and landed on the trail in a head first slide. Anyone watching would think she was practicing to join the Kansas City Royals baseball team.

Beth sat up and wiped pea gravel off her hands while visions of chasing the cat through the neighborhood danced through her head. However, Psycho Cat ran only a short distance towards the cat and its prey when he stopped, sat still with his tail thumping, and hissed. The rabbit disappeared into the bushes, and the black cat turned to take stock of the huge, tiger-striped cat. An almost certain feline confrontation threatened. However, it took Beth only a few careful steps to reach Psycho Cat. With one more hiss and a disdainful look toward the more experienced bunny chaser, he allowed her to return him to the carrier without a fuss. Beth avoided the steady green-eyed stare of the black cat.

Hmm, was this the start of a beautiful friendship, or the beginning of a series of unfortunate events? Surely Adrianna would show up soon.

Beth picked up the rest of the cat gear and tramped across the street and into the house. Around noon, she picked up her ringing phone, which showed "Meg" on the caller ID. "Hi Meg, about time you called back. You know, I could have died by now if this had been an emergency." She and her sister had always been saucy with each other.

By then, Psycho Cat had curled up on the window seat in a sunny window and was sleeping, oh so sweet and innocent-looking, as if he had not spent the past few days tearing apart an apartment. It had taken awhile to get the kitty settled, but Beth was glad she could now tell her sister Psycho Cat was fine.

About the welfare of Adrianna, she couldn't give such a good report. She and her sister joked around, and Meg wasn't all that fond of Psycho Cat. But Adrianna's whereabouts would be a big concern to her protective sister.

"I'm sorry I didn't return your call sooner." Meg was practically shouting and sounded a little harried, not in the mood for a sass contest. "I'm at a state social studies conference in Wichita. My friend and I presented our plan for the unit on Asia we developed in our K.U. class after the school district helped pay for our trip to China last summer. She and I spent the last forty-five minutes answering questions from teachers who want to incorporate our unit plan into their curriculum. It's so amazing! But, hey, what's this about Psycho Cat?"

Beth answered in a voice duplicating Meg's, loud enough so Meg might hear her over the boisterous noise level audible in the background. "Oh, I didn't know you were out of town. Do you know where Adrianna went or how I can get in touch with her? I left her a message, but she hasn't replied. I was called over to the condo today by Eva Standish, Adrianna's next-door neighbor, and it looked as if Psycho Cat had been alone for three or four days. I brought him home with me so he wouldn't continue to disturb the folks in the condos. He's okay here, but I want Adrianna to know where he is."

Meg raised her voice a pitch. "You're kidding. Adrianna didn't tell me she was going anywhere. She always tells me, and she always asks me to take care of her cat. Let me call Paul and find out if he knows anything. I'll get away from this crowd and call you back after I get in touch with him. It might be after our presentation this afternoon before I can get back to you, though. Is that alright?"

"It's fine. Call when you can."

Paul Knells, Adrianna's father, worked arduous hours in the electrical business he had started fifteen years before and was normally so tired at the end of each day that he dropped in front of the TV while his wife Meg checked school papers. Beth and Arnie had started using the nickname "Poppa Paul" early in Paul's relationship with Meg because he brought his baby daughter Adrianna along with him so often. Since then, the couples had practically raised their families together.

Only minutes after Beth put down the phone, Arnie appeared. He worked for an insurance firm in an office very close to their house, and he occasionally changed into sneakers and walked home to eat lunch. Immediately after he entered the front door, Arnie's eyebrows shot up and he gave his wife a "what now?" look. Beth explained why Adrianna's cat was making himself at home in their living room.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, "I got hold of Meg, who's out of town and doesn't know where Adrianna went. Adrianna hasn't answered the message I left for her. Meg is going to call Paul to find out if he knows what's going on but won't be able to let me know what she finds out until this evening."

"It's fine," Arnie said. "Strange that Adrianna would leave the cat without telling her mom, though."

While Beth told Arnie more about the condo fiasco, she disturbed the sleeping cat only slightly by caressing his silky fur. Psycho Cat opened his eyes a crack and then closed them tightly and wrapped one paw around his face.

"I could go ahead and call Paul at work to find out about this," she said, "but he's so busy. Anyway, he doesn't always pay good attention to his girls and their plans." Beth lapsed into the cutie talk she reserved for small animals, small people, and sometimes for bantering with her husband. "Especially concerning poor li'l ol' Psycho Cat."

"Oh yeah...that poooorrrrr cat...he gets more attention from you three women than Paul and I do." Arnie grinned at Beth and then looked at the cat. "Paul undoubtedly knows where Adrianna went. He probably just hasn't had time to tend to the cat. Meg will call later today. I agree you shouldn't bother Paul."

After lunch Arnie stooped to scratch the cat behind the ears before he kissed Beth and headed back to work. "Don't worry your head about this ol' Psycho Cat, Sweetie. I've no doubt you'll manage to give him a good home until Adrianna comes to get him. She'll be apologizing all over the place for causing you trouble."

While the cat slept, Beth spent a large part of the April afternoon working in her backyard vegetable garden where beans, potatoes, salad greens, and a whole variety of herbs sprouted. The Red Bud trees were in bloom, and the grass sparkled emerald thanks to the early spring rains. She stood to stretch and admire the yellow daffodils, pink tulips, and tiny violet crocuses that graced her flower beds and reminded her of a Monet painting. Her cell phone was in her pocket, and she wasn't thinking much about Adrianna and her cat—that is, until Meg finally called her back around four-fifteen P.M.

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Joyce Ann Brown owns rental properties in Kansas City with her husband, but none of their tenants have so far been involved in theft, kidnapping, or murder. Her two cats, Moose and Chloe, are cuddly, not psycho. Besides being a landlady, Joyce has worked as a story teller, a library media specialist, a Realtor, and a freelance writer. Her writing has appeared in local and national publications.

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Mustard's Last Stand

Kathy McIntosh

A Humorous Suspense/Mystery/Thriller

Set in North Idaho and Spokane, WA

Not That Kind of Help

Joseph Graham tossed the last of his belongings in the back of the humble white van. The humble, unassuming, nondescript, dull, dull, dull, white van. He hated it. No, you couldn't hate something with zero personality. Damn, he'd miss his sparkling blue, dashing Mini Cooper, but it wouldn't survive Idaho potholes. Plus it didn't pass the "wholesome new pastor" test. He threw the CD carrier full of religious CDs onto the passenger seat. He hummed a few bars of "Shall We Gather at the River?"

A new flock. Ready to fleece.

A frown tightened his forehead. Nothing to worry about. One more scam in a lifetime of scamming. Spend a little time in the wild and perhaps head east or south after stockpiling a nest egg. Key West sounded good.

Taking a last quick tour of the apartment, he stopped at the bathroom mirror. "Damn!" Another grey eyebrow hair jutted out. He spit on his forefinger and tried to smooth it down. No such luck. In fact, he spotted another one.

He retrieved his toiletry kit from the van and used his tweezers to extract the offending eyebrow hair and a couple protruding from his nose.

Holy Hannah, was he starting to look like his father? Slivers of silver scattered through his hair added that distinguished, prosperous touch. Nose hairs and out of control eyebrows added up to scruffy old fart.

He patted cool water on the ever-so-slight puffiness beneath his eyes. He appraised himself. Good. Joseph's Filipino mother and English father had borne striking children whose looks far surpassed their own. Uniquely shaped hazel eyes, tawny skin and dark hair with a russet hint led to frequent inquiries about his ancestry.

To Joseph, his appearance was part of his arsenal and had to be maintained, ready for action at any time. He turned sideways. "Looking good, Brother Graham," he told himself, patting an almost-flat stomach. Thank the good Lord for whoever came out with the Mirdle. His male compression body shaping underwear helped him create that oh-so-important good first impression, without all those god-awful sit-ups.

He did a 360 for the mirror, checked his buns over his shoulder. Yes. Hair, torso, expression all added up to the sincere, you can trust me appearance he'd need in Idaho. With sex appeal. Not bad for a man in his mid-40s. Forty-seven still counted as mid in his book. In anyone's.

He pulled out his cell phone. Dialed. Waited. "Brother Naismith, Joseph Graham here. About to take off on my long drive north."

He listened, peering into the mirror, tilting his neck upward. No way could that be the start of jowls beneath his chin.

"Yes, I agree. The Lord is definitely smiling on our new venture. As I told you, I've been in North Idaho a few times, and it is God's country. The trees, the grasslands, the people, all are symbols of our Lord's bounty." All deadly boring, all predictable.

"You're right. It will be cooler. Even here by the Pacific Ocean, it can get hot. Beastly hot." Especially when your mark gets cautious and tightfisted.

"I'll see you in a few days then. I plan to take my time, meditate, pray, prepare myself to take on Destiny's flock."

He exchanged more inane pleasantries with his future employer and ended the call. He'd definitely need the drive time to transform from investor and suitor to humble, fervent Reverend Joseph Graham. He sighed. These days, it took more and more energy to re-invent himself. And provided less adrenalin.

Sitting on the front steps, Joseph considered his recent failure. Not failure, never failure. Setback. He'd seen it coming. Still, it stung to lose Penny. And her money. He'd misjudged her, pushed too fast.

Was he losing his touch? She had a sharp tongue and demanded much of him, yet he'd grown fond of the woman. He'd miss her. Not smart, Joseph. Never fall for your mark.

He pushed fast dial 7 for Penelope. Definitely not the jackpot he'd been hoping for. "Sorry, Penelope, my dear. I've been busy."

"What kept you? I've left six messages."

He lowered his voice. "Gathering a reliable and committed group of investors takes time, Penelope. I assumed you would have plenty to entertain you in Palm Springs."

"Plenty to worry about. You know I had some doubts about your plans, Joey. I talked to an old friend here and he's not sure your investment consortium is a good idea." She paused and Graham heard her take a breath. "I want my money back, Joseph."

Graham forced himself to lighten his tone. He'd known it was coming, but hearing the abrupt demand gnawed his pride like termites. "If that's how you feel, darling. I wanted you to be in on the ground floor of this one. I'll have it ready for you upon your return tomorrow."

"Good. And, uh, I'd appreciate your returning the money I loaned you for your rent last month. I think a relationship works better when we're on even footing." Penelope giggled. "Not that I stay on my feet for long when I'm around you, sweetheart."

"I can't wait to see you, either, Penny-heart."

"You won't have long. I couldn't wait, so I'm home."

"Home? Now?"

"Yes, goose. Home, now. Why don't you come over? Maybe bring that champagne you've been promising me."

Graham didn't answer. Couldn't answer.

"Or shall I come to your place?" Penny continued. "Joseph?"

Graham inhaled a sharp breath. Where was that adaptability, that flexibility so essential to the game? "You've surprised me, my love. A terrific surprise. I'll come to your place, with champagne and a check."

The giggle vanished and a harder woman spoke through the cell. "Take the time to stop at the bank. Cash would be best."

"I'm on my way, my love. On my way."

Maybe it wouldn't be that hard to get over Penelope. Somehow he doubted she'd shed as many tears over him as she would her money. Even though the sums he'd borrowed were miniscule compared to her net worth. "Penny ante." His attempt to smile failed.

Graham began the long drive north, sounds of Steppenwolf bouncing against the metal walls of his van. Plenty of time for hymns.

Four

The Brothers Schramm Go Shopping

Roger Schramm wondered if anything topped an afternoon at Sears. Sex, maybe. In Sears you didn't have the hassle of dressing up or worrying about saying the wrong thing, spending the night or heading home. Meandering the well-stocked aisles, nodding away friendly employees, eased the tension in Roger's shoulders.

Best of all, Dean was shopping for clothes and Roger didn't have to watch over him. What kind of trouble could his dufus brother get into at Sears, for heck's sake?

Roger ogled the tidy shelves and bins of tools. He reached out a work-worn, muscled hand and stroked a 10-inch pair of Vise-Grips. He let out a sigh of pure bliss, and ignored that little ping of anxiety about Dean that forever rode on his shoulder. Dean's downstairs. I told him I'd meet him there. No worries.

Roger gave their boss points for sending him and Dean to Spokane for supplies. Almost made up for shoveling wild animal crap and doing carpentry work on one of Naismith's crazy construction projects. Christ, did the guy plan to cover up every inch of dirt on that ranch? Given enough time and money, the old man would have the place a copy of his old stomping grounds in L.A.

He guffawed, then stifled his laugh. A car sales lot, only with tigers and zebras and gazelles instead of Cougars and Jaguars and Vipers.

Funny how the people in Hancock thought Naismith's plans were great for their little town, while most of the men who worked there joked about trying to bring the jungle to a pine forest.

Roger forced himself to take his time, to make a check by each item he found on the list of supplies. He inhaled through his nose. Even the smells were all Sears: the scent of floor wax mingled with the motor oil and rubber from the lawn mowers and small tractors.

When he finished with Naismith's list of supplies, he headed for Automotive. He remembered how Dean had spent the trip here popping pills from his stash in his backpack in Roger's truck, scoffing at Roger's protests. If Roger threw them out, Dean would find more. Maybe steal to fund their purchase. I can't watch him every minute. Yet a prickle of nerves worked its way up his spine. He shrugged it off.

He picked up some all-purpose terry towels for washing the truck, an American-made brand of car wax and a baseball cap, then made his way to Sporting Goods and chose a couple of free weights. Staying fit mattered.

He headed to the register to pay and stepped aside to let a shortish young woman with dark hair pass. She smiled up at him and Roger almost registered that it was a nice smile before his eyes took in her enormous breasts. Gorgeous breasts that swelled proud and high, even hidden as they were under a loose navy polo shirt. The Sears logo jiggled high on one boob. On the other her nametag said "Welcome to Sears. I'm Lacy."

Roger moved his eyes back to her face quick enough to catch her frown before she passed. He shook his head in wonder. Some knockers. He moved to the cashier.

The girl at the register peered up at him through lashes thick with mascara. Through her flirty smile, she chattered like a chimpanzee. "Nice tattoo," she said. "I'm saving up for a gecko."

Roger's left hand reflexively covered the tattoo of a bear claw on his right forearm. Usually he wore long sleeves. "Surprises me that Sears allows them tongue studs." That shut her up and turned her sullen. People didn't understand the importance of following the rules.

He switched hands on the heavy shopping bags and headed down the escalator to check on Dean's progress finding clothes for his so-called date. Clothes, hell. Dean's time would be better spent getting his greasy blond hair cut and washed.

What a world. If that woman kept her date with his freaky, drugged-out brother, she qualified for the loony bin. Well, duh. Who but a nutcase would accept a date with Dean?

Downstairs, he stood by the escalator and scanned the various departments. When he didn't see Dean in Men's, his nerves began an anxious beat in his temples. He told himself his brother could still be trying stuff on. Above, a fluorescent light hummed and flickered. He shook his head and turned to take in the rest of the floor.

He caught sight of Dean, hunched over a shelf, intent on something. In Housewares? Uh-huh. Dean Schramm, Mr. Happy Homemaker.

Roger headed for his brother. Dean seemed to be admiring himself in a mirror, God alone knew why. Not much to admire in that skinny, pock-marked face with a red nose that dripped snot most of the time. The shopping bag on his arm said Dean had bought something. In one hand, he held some sort of metal object.

Roger paused. Might as well let Dean find him, not let his brother know he doubted for a minute he could do his own shopping. He'd wait here by the towels and bedspreads.

A guy with a black long-sleeved Tool Department employee shirt headed toward Dean at a deliberate pace. Jesus, had Dean swiped something from Tools? What the hell for? Why hadn't Roger seen him and stopped whatever trouble he was bound to get in before he got into it?

He mentally slapped himself for assuming the worst. Probably nothing.

The black-shirted man, tall and broad-shouldered, approached Dean. "Son, that's not a good idea."

Dean looked up at the man and preened, so proud he'd like to bust. "'Course it is. Couldn't have Earleen see that snaggly tooth," he said. "And I ain't your son."

Dean ducked to take another peek in the mirror and tilted his head up to speak to the big clerk. His mouth dripped blood and he gestured with something in his right hand. "This ugly old tooth scared the hell out of some kid in the dressing room. Screamed to his momma about a monster in there. Me. Can't have that."

Behind Dean on the shelf several mirrors reflected him and the big clerk.

Dean pumped the arm wielding the pliers in the air. "So I borrowed your tool here and I plucked that sucker out." He grinned.

Jesus Christ. Dean had pulled his own tooth. With stolen pliers. Roger chuckled, low, maybe some shock in the sound. Nothing predictable about his little brother.

"Very bad idea," said the clerk in a quiet, strangled voice. He crumpled to the floor.

Roger's chuckle curdled in his throat. Exhaustion poured down his body and weighted his feet. Maybe he could walk out the door, alone, unburdened by his brother. Instead he stared, frozen.

Dean peered down at the big man in black. "Well, now, I would of returned these here pliers. No need to excite yourself." Blood dripped from his mouth to the man's shirt. "Oh. Sorry." He took another look in the mirror. He muttered something, a worried expression on his face.

Dean's befuddled gaze focused on a display of kitchen towels. When he crossed the main aisle toward them, a small, dark-haired woman holding a cell phone to her ear marched up to him.

Dean gawked. Roger swallowed. Damnation. It was the woman he'd noticed upstairs, the one with the huge set of melons. She said, "Sir, you'll need to come with me. I'm Lacy from Sears Security. We have first aid equipment in the back."

Roger's breath hitched and he hiccupped up acid. Shit on a shingle. Half an hour in Sears and Dean's got himself tangled up with the store cops. Should he barge on in? What could he do? Something, idiot. You gotta stop Dean from getting in deeper.

He ran toward the pair. His legs wobbled like a newborn foal's and the heavy bags snarled up between them. The free weights banged against a shin. Roger winced and jerked to a stop. If only he could reverse time, or freeze it. He couldn't, so he waited, poised for flight, not sure which way to run.

The big clerk groaned and shifted on the floor and Dean and the woman stared at him. The woman glanced around her, wiped her forehead with the back of one hand, knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. She talked into the cell phone, her voice high-pitched and quivery. "I'm going to bring him in. I'm in control, but send some backup. We need first aid on the floor. Housewares."

"Hold on a minute," Dean protested. "I didn't do nothing to him. He fainted or something. I'm fixin' to return these here pliers." He waved the tool aloft and now Roger could see it held the stump of Dean's broken tooth. "You don't mind me mentioning it, ma'am, you could get a better job at Hooters."

The woman stiffened and Roger saw color claim her cheeks. She crossed her arms under her boobs. "I mind." She took a breath. "Let's talk about your tooth and those pliers," she said. "You need first aid. If you'll come with me." She extended an arm to Dean.

Don't touch him, thought Roger. Whatever you do, don't touch him. He forced his legs into motion. If he was fast enough, he could stop him.

She grasped Dean's free arm.

Roger wasn't fast enough.

Dean hauled back the arm that held the open pliers, gripping them like a cop's baton. Behind him was a display of wire whisks and plastic spoons, innocent little kitchen implements.

The woman's mouth opened. Dean swung his arm down, toward her head.

No, Dean, don't. The words died in Roger's head, as useless as they would have been said aloud.

Why didn't she duck? Cover her head?

The pliers connected with her shiny black hair. Roger knew he'd never forget that sickening thud. A thud he heard even at a distance.

Roger held his breath. Bit his bottom lip. The woman crumpled, knees, hips, torso, shoulders, head, all aiming for that linoleum floor. Roger hoped she'd go down chest first. Plenty of protection there.

The woman toppled to her side and landed on the clerk from Tools.

Dean hung over her, mouth open. His blood and spit trickled onto her still form.

Roger's heart pounded in his ears so loud he wasn't sure he'd hear a siren beside him. He scanned the area. For the moment, no one seemed to have noticed the little spat.

There was a chance no one would. A chance they could escape. A chance she wasn't badly injured. He forced himself to move toward his brother instead of hightailing it out of the store alone.

Roger's stomach pulled in on itself. How had his adorable little brother, who had once galloped the living room on an imaginary horse firing his toy gun, turned into a drugged up moron who waded into trouble faster than a Labrador retriever found a scrap of food?

Jesus Christ, Mom, why did you ever make me promise to watch out for this lowlife piece of pond scum that in no way could be a Schramm?

"Dean," he said softly as he neared. He didn't want to join that pile on the floor. "Time to get out of here."

Dean's head turned toward his brother's voice in a stiff, robot-like motion, the rest of his body stock still. His gaze darted from the downed employees to his brother. "It wasn't my fault."

"Let's go home, little buddy," Roger said. He rummaged in one of his Sears bags and pulled out a terry towel and the ball cap. Handed the towel to Dean. "Drop them pliers in the bag."

"I didn't pay for them. I borrowed 'em."

"Least of our problems. Drop 'em in."

Dean dropped them in. He listened to his brother, once he got in hot water. Never before.

Roger plunked the ball cap on his brother's greasy head, tucking the tags inside. Together, they strolled out the door, just a couple of guys after a shopping trip to Sears.

Schramms on the Lam

Roger's pickup reeked with the combined aromas of oil of cloves, b.o. and blood. His own body stank of fear, rank and nasty, instead of the familiar smell of healthy hard work or exercise sweat. Thank God his breathing finally approached normal.

They'd strolled out of Sears, casual as can be, and he'd almost relaxed, almost convinced himself they'd made their getaway. With Dean's record, he'd not catch easy county jail time for this one. He'd end up serving hard time.

Roger thought they might be home free when the cop cars had wheeled up to the curb and four cops ran toward the store. Right at him and Dean. He'd moved in front of Dean and murmured, "Keep walking, slow and easy. Follow my lead."

For a second, maybe less, he considered turning his no account brother in. Serve the lamebrain right to have to pay for his dumb ass move. But no. Brothers took care of brothers. Their momma had pounded it into Roger. He'd moved on toward the lot, glancing at the cops with the same interest any good citizen would, then glancing away. One officer gave him a slow look-over, then must have decided clean-cut Roger didn't fit the description, and besides, there were two of them, not one squirrelly guy who'd attacked the security chick.

He didn't breathe until they reached the truck. Made Dean slide down onto the floor while he drove out of the mall parking lot, sedate as a drunk Sunday school teacher on a Saturday night. Told Dean to stay on the floor while he stopped at a drugstore and ran in for the oil of cloves and some gauze.

When he got back to the truck, bloody drool and snot decorated his leather car seat like some kind of weird, thin icing. Dean, whimpering, shame-faced, whined that Roger should of bought ice for his swelling face.

"What kind of a wimp was that big guy to faint, anyway?" Dean mumbled after he'd stuffed gauze and cotton in his mouth. "So he saw a little blood. Man, I sure as hell pulled that old snaggle tooth clear the heck out of my mouth. Not many folks could do the same."

Roger drove. "Not many folks could." His focus danced between the road and the rear-view mirror. He saw no problems in either direction. The problem crouched beside him in the truck. He bit back so hard on his rage he figured he could break a tooth as large as the one the moron yanked out.

"Hurts like hell now. Didn't then," Dean said.

"Odd place to pull a tooth, middle of Sears," Roger said, his tone mild. No point in hollering.

"Hey, man, I was flyin'. May not have been thinking straight. You know. I'm sorry, Roger, but that little kid started in crying at the sight of me. No tellin' what Earleen would think." Dean rocked back and forth, back and forth in his cramped little cubbyhole on the truck floor.

Roger changed lanes and headed for the next off-ramp. "We're heading back."

"To Sears? No way, man. You wouldn't turn me in, would you?"

Roger had to laugh. "No, dickhead. I'm not going to turn my own brother in. Back to Camp Destiny." He'd been so angry, so upset he'd headed to the first on-ramp and now they were driving west instead of east. "God, I hope you didn't kill that little black haired woman from Security. Why the heck you have to thump her like that?"

"She was going to call the cops on me, man. All's I was doing was some personal hygiene, for Christ's sake. A man deserves a little privacy. Wasn't my fault that guard wouldn't listen."

"Right. Never your fault."

"Oh, man, don't you go being Momma. Aaaah. This hurts like a mother." Dean reached out a hand and put it on Roger's thigh. Roger jerked and his foot came off the accelerator. "I sure could use some ice."

"We'll be in Idaho soon. I'll stop then. I want to keep movin', for now." His eyes cha-cha'd between the rear mirror and the road.

One thing about Dean. He had a pulse on his older brother's feelings. Roger guessed that was so he could take advantage of his good moods and be wary when he was short tempered.

"Sure, bro. Whatever you say. I can hook up with Earleen another day. My mouth's too sore for action, anyhow." He removed the clove-oil-and-blood-and-drool-soaked gauze and patted his swollen cheeks with dirty fingers. "Look, don't you go worrying about that guard lady in Sears. She'll be fine. Sure, I pack a wallop, but she'll be fine. Hair protected her and them Vise-Grips wasn't that big."

"I sure as hell hope so. Mr. Naismith won't be happy, he finds out."

"You see that set of melons on her? Love to get my hands on those little girls." He made the universal male gesture for cradling a woman's boobs.

Roger shook his head. Politically incorrect? His brother would be booed off the stage of a redneck bar.

His brother crawled up the seat and rummaged behind it, chattering to himself.

Roger reached out with his right hand to swat at Dean. "Hey, I told you to stay down."

"I... Yesss. Come to papa, baby." Dean tilted his head back like a baby bird and dry-swallowed some pills. When he swallowed, his Adam's apple jerked in his scrawny chicken neck.

"Christ on a biscuit," Roger said. "Hasn't that shit got you in enough trouble today? Chuck it out the window."

"This pain's about to kill me. I need this stuff. 'Specially since you won't stop for ice." Dean scrunched back down on the floor, his head on the seat like some yellow-haired mongrel dog. He wiped his running nose with a bare forearm. "I stay off the pills back at the compound. Almost always."

"Old man Naismith catches you on drugs, we'll both be out of jobs."

"Chill. Mort smokes more'n Marlboro's and I've seen him popping some working man's cocaine. Naismith's too busy setting up that freakin' Camp Destiny to worry about how his employees get their jollies. You gotta admit the guy's a nut case. Who in his right mind would try to set up a game preserve for Af-reekin' animals in North Idaho? It snows, for chrissake. It gets cold. Cold enough to freeze the balls off them poor lions."

Roger had a sudden mental image of lions running around clutching their privates with their back paws. He turned to the side so Dean couldn't see his smile. "The boss is building that heated barn. He's thought a lot about it." Roger wasn't going to admit he shared his brother's doubts about Naismith's plans. He'd never hear the end of it.

"Ask me, it's some crazy version of Noah's Ark."

"Noah's Ark? When you start quoting the Bible?"

"That long-hair who decked the boss shouted it when the cops hauled him off. Got to admit, he had a point. Jesus, we gotta be in Idaho by now. Pull over at the next mini-mart. I need ice."

Roger shot his brother a surprised stare. "You were there? Why the hell'd you let that tree-hugger hit Mr. Naismith? You never—"

Dean crawled up on the seat and peered out the window. "Take the next off ramp. I gotta pee and a gas station's sure to sell ice."

"I'm not stopping till you tell me how you let that guy get to Naismith."

Dean giggled. "Me and Mort came over when we heard them hollering, but it was too late. We grabbed the guy and called the cops, and Naismith told us not to talk about it." He laughed and moaned. "Shit, that hurts. Guess Naismith was embarrassed that the guy had the nuts to pop him one with all of us within calling distance. Now will you pull off? I'm about to piss all over your truck."

Roger turned off the Interstate at the cutoff to I-95 and headed for a gas station. No cars followed. Looked like they'd made a clean getaway from Sears. He rolled his stiff shoulders. Maybe his brother's luck was changing.

And his.

Maybe this time they'd made a clean escape from trouble.

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Kathy McIntosh is addicted—to words. She loves the way words sound and the way they look on a page. In addition to creating offbeat adventures for the zany characters in her novels, she writes and speaks about words and writing. Kathy transplanted from Idaho to the Sonora desert, gleefully abandoning her long johns and snow shovel. She shares space with a hairy cat, a large, lazy, dog and a husband who most of the time is neither hairy nor lazy.

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Playing the Game

Sara Rickover

A Corporate/Legal/Financial Thriller

Set Near The Rocky Mountains, CO

Chapter 1: Sunday, January 7

Play the game for more than you can afford to lose... only then will you learn the game.

Winston Churchill

Rick Players looked up from his snowmobile at the jagged peaks of the Rockies. A cold wind stung his cheeks, and he smiled at its bite.

It was the last afternoon of his twin teenage sons' winter break. For this day only, Rick had ignored his job as CEO of PlayLand, the toy company his family owned. Just one afternoon with his boys. That's all he wanted.

Well, if he were honest, he wanted out of the job altogether. He hadn't realized when he took over from his father that leading PlayLand would cost him his freedom. There was more to life than work, he was coming to realize. But two thousand employees and all the children who bought the company's toys depended on him. Even today, he had his damn cell phone clipped to his belt.

Rick shifted his snowmobile into gear, and gunned the engine to launch himself across the deep powder.

"Race you!" he yelled, as he rocketed past the two fifteen-year-olds sharing another machine. He could still beat them, he knew he could. And that wasn't the beer he'd had at lunch talking either.

Rick glanced back. The boys had narrowed the gap. Damn, they're good, he thought, feeling both pride and competitiveness. He went full throttle and felt the surge of power. Speed! He loved it.

One of the twins whooped a challenge as the boys drew closer.

Rick veered down the hill to head them off. Too late to stop, he saw a ditch yawning in front of him. He tried to turn, but the snowmobile pitched forward. His body flew. Shit! This is going to hurt.

But he didn't feel a thing.

$ $ $

Maura Ramirez sat in her office at PlayLand's headquarters on Sunday afternoon. She liked to begin her Mondays with flexibility, so she worked most Sundays.

Her phone rang, and she answered.

"Maura, it's Kevin. Rick's in a coma at St. Luke's."

"Good God! What happened?" Rick was Maura's boss. Her friend, too.

"The old fool was snowmobiling," Kevin said. "Racing with his kids. He's in ICU. Doctors say he has a fractured skull. And broken bones."

"Will he be all right?"

"Doctors won't say." Kevin's voice shook.

"God, I'm sorry. How can I help?"

"Christ, I don't know."

"Is his family there?" Maura asked.

"Yeah. Paige and the boys. Vince, too."

"Who else needs to know?" Maura asked. "Employees?"

"I guess. Can you handle it?" Kevin asked. "I've got my hands full."

"What about the media?" Maura tried to put her concern for Rick aside to think logically. "We'll need to be ready if word gets out. Can you get me an update from the doctors?"

Kevin sighed. "I'll text you what I can. We don't know much."

"I'll shoot you a draft when I get it done." Maura hung up and dropped her head in her hands. Christ, Rick!

Rick was the best boss Maura had ever had. He drove his staff hard, but passionately promoted the games and dolls PlayLand made, grinning as much as the kids who bought the company's toys. Over the years Rick had developed the company's most successful product lines, making PlayLand a national force in the toy industry.

And he treated employees fairly, which made Maura's job running Human Resources easier. She wouldn't be able to push the employee changes needed to keep the business afloat without Rick to back her up.

What would PlayLand do if Rick died? He was the business.

$ $ $

Maura left her office much later than she had planned. It had taken hours to work with Kevin on the press release and employee communications. By the end of the afternoon, Kevin reported Rick was still in critical condition. The hospital had done a CT scan on Rick's brain, which showed a skull fracture, with rising intracranial pressure.

"The neurologist says he's a three on the Glasgow Coma Scale, whatever that is," Kevin told her. "He's not responding, even to pin pricks to his arms. No movement at all."

"Jesus. Is he at least breathing on his own?" Maura asked.

"Yeah, that much is good. They'll do an MRI tomorrow. Maybe we'll know more then."

"Let's hope so."

"He also has three broken ribs and a broken leg," Kevin continued. "The doctors say it's a miracle he doesn't have more internal injuries. The snowmobile must weigh six hundred pounds. The twins found it on top of him."

As she walked down PlayLand's empty halls, Maura thought again about how dreadful losing Rick would be—to employees, to the company's financial status,... and to her personally.

And where's Vince? she wondered, thinking of the middle Players brother. All afternoon she had only talked to Kevin, the youngest of the three brothers. Vince seemed to stay out of critical corporate issues, even though he managed Product Development, the lifeline of the business.

Maura drove out of the employee parking lot in the dusk and glanced back at the low, bulky profile of PlayLand's headquarters. Red, blue and yellow stripes matching the company's bright logo lined the exterior walls—a playful expression of the company's creative mission. Maura enjoyed the fun environment. Too bad there were so many financial problems this year.

And no one to fill in behind Rick. As head of HR, she should have focused on leadership development, but Rick had always said there would be plenty of time. She should have pushed him.

On her drive home, Maura worried about all the things she had on her plate. Succession behind Rick would be a major issue, if Rick's health were permanently impaired. Improving employee relations. Management training. Increasing the diversity of the employee base as consumers themselves became more diverse.

The current financial environment wouldn't let her do everything she wanted, not when PlayLand needed to cut payroll and benefits costs. Cost reduction was hard. Could they do it without Rick?

$ $ $

Maura walked into chaos at home. Between her husband Carlos and her two kids, one of them was always on the outs with another.

"Mom," her fourteen-year-old daughter Liz said, "Rafe wants Dad's car, so Dad can't take me to soccer practice. We need to leave now."

"Can't Rafe wait and drop you off?" Maura asked.

Liz rolled her eyes. "Dad said he didn't have to. He said you'd do it."

"I don't need this now, Liz." Maura sighed. "Carlos?" she called, "Can you take Liz? Sorry I'm late. Had a crisis. Rick's in a coma."

"Rick? Good God, what happened?"

"Tell you later. It's bad."

"Yeah, I'll take her." As usual, Carlos would come through.

Maura fed Liz a late dinner after practice. Her daughter prattled on about her upcoming quinceañera, while Maura listened with half an ear and watched her cell phone for email so she could field questions about Rick's condition.

It was after ten o'clock before Maura and Carlos were alone, and then only because they went to their room and shut the door.

"What happened to Rick?" Carlos asked, rubbing Maura's feet after she collapsed on their bed.

"Snowmobile accident. Some broken bones, but Kevin says the doctors are more concerned about his head."

"Rick's got a hard head," Carlos said. "He'll pull through."

"I hope so. Kevin's worried. Me, too. For Rick and his family. And it's a terrible time for the business. Rick's the only one who can handle most of our problems."

"You can't handle them?" Carlos asked, nibbling her neck. Carlos, a tall, dark and handsome Latino, had attracted Maura since they met as juniors in college.

"Nope," Maura said. "I'm just the HR person."

"I thought you said HR ran the show."

"I only say that to make you think I'm important."

"Oh, I think you're important," Carlos said, as he bent to kiss her.

$ $ $

Grant Mason sat in front of the fireplace in his den, sipping a single malt Scotch. What would Rick's injury mean for PlayLand? he wondered.

Ten years earlier, Rick had recruited Grant from a small plastics firm to reengineer PlayLand's manufacturing and sourcing functions. Now Grant was Vice President of Operations. At fifty-eight, maturity gave him an air of assurance. But his stern expression made people nervous, and he often had to remind himself not to frown so he wouldn't seem threatening.

Grant frowned now. Operations employees knew Rick was the force behind PlayLand. Rick didn't hide in his office like a lot of CEOs. He visited the plants and talked to people. Employees would fret about Rick's condition.

Production would plummet. Grant would have to get out to the Lakeview plant to keep employees focused on churning out product.

He began to relax as he planned his week. Grant might look like an executive, but he was a tinkerer at heart. He smiled at the prospect of time at the plant.

His wife Linda entered the room and sat beside him on the sofa. "You got Maura's message about Rick?" she asked. Linda, the Staffing Director at PlayLand, reported to Maura. "We'll have to decide on a successor for Rick."

"He's not dead," Grant replied. "Just hurt."

"Make sure Maura knows you want the job."

"Do I?" Grant's scowl returned.

"You know you could do it. Better than Vince or Kevin."

"Oh, so I wouldn't be supplanting Rick. Just his brothers?"

"If Rick comes back, there's no need for a successor," Linda said. "But even if he gets better, we need a contingency plan. Neither Vince nor Kevin would be a good CEO. It's my job to make sure the company deals with this, even if the Players family doesn't want to. I'm going to talk to Maura tomorrow."

"If you're going to talk to her, why do I have to?"

"Well, I can't speak for you. She'd think I'm out for our self-interest."

"Aren't you?" Grant asked. Linda often pushed him to get involved in corporate politics. He stayed out of her plotting when it didn't involve Operations. For months, she'd told Grant he should be the next CEO, even though it didn't seem likely Rick would leave the family's business. At least it hadn't been likely until today.

"Will you talk to Maura?" Linda pressed.

Grant scowled. "You're really scheming, aren't you?"

"Just thinking ahead. Maura's resisting succession planning. But she'll have to deal with it now."

"I already manage a huge budget and the biggest division. Why should I take on more responsibility? PlayLand isn't in great shape. Being CEO is asking for trouble."

"You know you're the best one to do it."

"All right. I'll talk to Maura."

$ $ $

Late Sunday evening, Kevin Players sat on a plastic chair in ICU beside his brother Vince. Machines beeped rhythmically, monitoring Rick's heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, and brain waves. He heard the constant patter of voices from the nurses' station and the squeaks of carts rolling down the hall.

The doctors hadn't given a definite prognosis. "He has some injuries in the cerebral hemispheres," the neurologist had said. "His brain is still swelling, though not as rapidly as earlier. If it continues, we may need to surgically extract some of the dead tissue. Or at least relieve the pressure caused by the swelling. All we can do is wait."

Now Kevin and Vince sat waiting. Kevin leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. They needed to make some plans about the business. Kevin didn't want an argument, but Vince wouldn't do a damn thing unless Kevin brought it up.

Kevin squinted at Vince. "We have to decide what to do about tomorrow's officer meeting."

Vince grunted.

Vince was forty-six, several years younger than Rick, but eleven years older than Kevin. Vince's hair was thin on top, Kevin noticed in surprise. Rick hadn't lost any hair yet. Kevin ran a hand over his own head. Would he go bald like Vince in another ten years? Would he get Vince's paunch, or Rick's six-pack abs?

"If we cancel, it'll seem like no one's running the show," Kevin said.

"But you heard the doctor. How can we go on, business as usual?"

"The doctor said anything could happen," Kevin argued. "We've got to think about how people will react. Employees. Customers. Lenders. What'll they do if they think no one's in charge?"

"How can we keep going without Rick?" Vince asked.

"I don't know," Kevin said. He stretched again. He'd expected some resistance, but Vince wasn't helping at all. "We have to give the impression things are under control. Starting with the meeting tomorrow. Can you lead it?"

"Me?"

"You're head of Product Development. You're next in the family after Rick. People will expect you to do it."

"Christ!" Vince groaned. "What's on the agenda?"

"How the hell should I know? Rick keeps his own agendas."

Vince grimaced. "What should we say? You're the great communicator."

Kevin shrugged. "Give the group an update on Rick. Then ask everyone for status reports. It's mostly for show. So the rest of the company thinks we know what we're doing. Even without Rick."

Vince nodded. "Okay. But you back me up."

"Sure." Kevin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. With his eyes still closed, he asked, "What's on your plate this week?"

"Nothing much Monday. Staff meetings. A couple of new product meetings on Tuesday and Wednesday. Don't remember after that."

"Paige gave me Rick's cell phone," Kevin said. "I looked at his calendar. There's a big meeting with Toy Mart sometime this week with our Sales group. One of us should go. I think it's mostly about marketing programs. I can get up to speed. I'll go."

Vince grunted again.

Kevin decided that meant Vince didn't care who went to Toy Mart. "He was also getting ready for the bank meeting next week," Kevin said. "It'd look pretty weird for me to go. No reason for Marketing to be there. You'll have to cover that one. Alex will know the details. Talk to him."

Vince glared at Kevin. "Hell, you know I hate financial crap."

"Alex can handle the numbers. Just act like an owner," Kevin replied. Sometimes he didn't think Vince cared about the family business. Kevin had been the kid brother all his life, but now he spent half his time pushing Vince.

"All right." Vince belched. "I'll call Alex."

Relieved that he had covered the immediate business issues, Kevin turned to the family problems—the bigger challenge, he thought. "We're going to have to watch Paige," he said.

"Why?" Vince asked.

"She was hysterical this evening," Kevin said. "She's worried about Rick, obviously. And pissed at him for racing with the boys. She said he must have been drunk. But his blood alcohol was legal." Kevin shook his head. "I don't know if she can cope."

"Christ," said Vince. "I couldn't deal with a wife when I was married. How can we handle Paige and PlayLand both?"

Kevin squirmed to get comfortable in the small chair. Paige had always been a handful. Spoiled her whole life, first by her father and then by Rick. She'd freaked out when Jason broke his arm last year. "I don't know," he said. "But we've got to."

$ $ $

Throughout the night, the hospital monitors continued to beep, assuring the nurses that Rick Players was alive, at least for the time being.
Chapter 2: Monday, January 8

Maura Ramirez went to work early on Monday. Kevin had said the officers' staff meeting would go on as scheduled, but she wasn't sure what to expect. What was there to talk about, other than Rick? She had planned to bring up cutting labor costs. But without Rick, the group couldn't—or wouldn't—decide anything. Should she even raise the issue?

When Maura arrived in her office, the voicemail light on her phone blinked. Her email held a screenful of unread messages. Most were from people wanting information about Rick. She responded to as many high-priority calls and messages as she could.

Before she knew it, it was 8:30. Time for the meeting.

Maura grabbed her headcount reduction file, still not sure whether to talk about it, but wanting to be prepared. She headed down the hall to the executive conference room near Rick's office.

Alex Draper, the Chief Financial Officer, sat in his usual seat at the conference table, files and calculator and laser pointer arranged in front of him. Alex was a good number-cruncher, his analytics as precisely trimmed as his dark curly hair and bristly mustache. But Maura had never seen him smile at any of PlayLand's products.

Dewayne Jefferson, General Counsel, loomed over Alex with a cup of coffee and a coconut doughnut in his hands. "Lining your pencils up, Alex?" Dewayne said. "Too bad you can't get profits to line up as neatly."

Dewayne, a large African American, wore a dark grey suit, blue button-down shirt and red foulard tie—impeccably attired as always. Maura suspected he used his imposing size and intellect to intimidate his adversaries, in the courtroom and at PlayLand.

As Dewayne twitted Alex about his pencils, Grant Mason, the Vice President of Operations, strode into the room. Despite being one of the older officers at PlayLand, Grant radiated energy. Employees told Maura they were afraid of his furrowed eyebrows and stern mouth. Only those who worked closely with Grant knew that, though he was hardheaded, he considered new ideas thoughtfully.

He was one of Maura's favorites on Rick's staff. She smiled at Grant as he sat.

Grant shot her a quick grin back, then frowned. "Any word on Rick?"

She shook her head.

Leo Benson sauntered in about eight forty. Leo had spent his entire career—over thirty years—in the Sales group. He hustled customers, but reacted negatively to his peers' ideas. For Leo, it was Sales against the rest of the world, and Sales was always right.

Leo settled into his seat. A gold chain flashed around his neck and another shone on his wrist. His right hand sported a heavy diamond ring, an award from early in his career for achieving top sales for five years running.

"Where are Vince and Kevin?" Leo asked. "They called this meeting."

No one answered.

At 8:45, Kevin and Vince walked in together.

"Any word on Rick?" Grant asked as the others murmured the same concern.

Kevin shook his head. "Nothing new."

The Players brothers all had the same nose and ears, but whenever Maura saw them together, she noticed how different they were. The injured Rick was the oldest and also the broadest, built like the football player he had been in college.

Vince, the tallest, had not kept himself in shape. The green plaid sweater and rumpled corduroy slacks he wore today emphasized his generous stomach. Maura stifled a sigh as she glanced at Vince.

Kevin's ready grin made him the most attractive, in Maura's opinion, though he was the least physically imposing. She also found him the most personable, the easiest to get along with.

Kevin motioned Vince toward the head of the table where Rick usually sat.

Vince cleared his throat as he took Rick's chair, then said, "Thanks, everyone, for your concern about Rick. We really appreciate it. He's still in a coma. Doctors don't say when he'll come out. We'll let you know if anything changes." Vince looked toward Kevin, who nodded.

"Let's go around the room," Vince continued. "See what's happening. If you needed anything from Rick this week, we'll figure out what to do. Where we can, we'll wait until Rick's back. Who wants to start?"

Leo stirred his coffee, diamond ring flashing. "Rick and I were supposed to meet with Toy Mart on Thursday," he said. "I'll handle it. Just preliminary. To feel them out about our new action figure line. Rick was only going because Toy Mart's our largest customer."

"I'll go," Kevin said. "They'll expect special marketing terms. But we have to be sure we don't overcommit. We can't afford much this year."

Leo shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "No need. But if you want to go, I've leased a jet. We leave at seven thirty Thursday morning."

"I'll be there," Kevin said.

Alex tapped his pencil on the files in front of him. "Haven't you seen the financials, Leo? No money for jets."

"The plan was for Rick and me and a couple of Sales guys to go. Toy Mart's in a podunk town in Wisconsin. If we fly commercial, we end up spending three days out of the office for a three-hour meeting. Our time's worth something."

Alex stood and passed copies of a spreadsheet around the table. "Kevin's right about not overcommitting. We can't promise Toy Mart or anyone else anything this year. These projections show the trouble we're in."

Alex turned on a projector displaying a PowerPoint slide of the spreadsheet he had distributed. He flashed his laser pointer at the bottom line. "We're losing money. Cash flow is eroding every week. At this rate, our whole line of credit will be used up by June."

He showed another slide. "Every division needs to control costs until we negotiate a bigger line. Rick and I have—or had—a meeting scheduled with the banks next week. What do we do about that meeting? How will the banks react if they think Rick is incapacitated?" Alex's diction was as precise as his sculpted mustache.

"Vince will work with you and the banks until Rick is back," Kevin said.

Vince looked up from his hands. "Yeah," he said. "Let's talk later this week, Alex. You can show me specifics. Even if Rick wakes up today, he can't travel next week. Not with broken bones."

"Okay," Alex said, his head bobbing up and down. He peered around the room above his glasses. "Does everyone understand? We can't spend any money this year." He tapped his pencil on the table to emphasize his words.

"Oh, come off it." Leo waved his hand dismissing Alex, his ring flashing. "How can I sell new product without marketing dollars?"

"We have some ideas to keep the marketing costs down," Kevin said. "Isn't that right, Vince?"

"Got my staff brainstorming," Vince replied. "Both the New Ventures folks and Jennifer Scott in Dolls."

Leo snickered. "That sweetie's a doll herself. But what does she know about action figures?"

"Give her a chance," Kevin said. "She's pretty sharp."

"Okay, Alex," Vince said, "Anything else we need to know from Finance?"

"Keep costs down, and let me know ASAP about budget overruns." Alex turned off the computer screen and went back to his seat.

"Grant?" Vince asked, turning to the Vice President of Operations.

"So far, we're on track with production planning. We've only seen specifications for the first few action figure SKUs, but we should get the others soon from Product Development. I assume we're still on schedule?" Grant frowned at Vince.

Vince nodded.

"Everything else is in good shape," Grant continued. "Costs for raw materials are up, but we've switched to some cheaper vendors. I think we'll hold product costs level with last year." He scowled. "But labor costs are up. That's the weak link in our projections."

That was her cue, Maura decided. She wished Rick were there to back her up. She leaned forward. "Both salary and benefits costs are shooting up. We'll probably need to reduce staff this year. But as a first step, I recommend we don't hire anyone unless absolutely necessary."

"But I have open sales territories," Leo said. "Turnover in the field is sky-high. I need to fill those jobs."

"If you have to, you have to," Maura said. "But if we lay people off later, you'll have a bigger mess then. Better to hold the territories open."

Alex tapped his pencil nervously. "Maura's right. Labor is the fastest growing item in our budget. Why would we hire more employees, given our current projections?"

Grant glared, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "Leo and I have the most people. I hear what you're saying, Maura, but sometimes we have to fill open jobs."

Maura shook her head. "I'm not telling you to cripple the business. Just be careful. My staff's working on a headcount reduction plan. We'll have it ready soon." She wouldn't present the plan now. If they wouldn't even agree to stop hiring, no way would these guys lay people off. Only Rick could make them do it.

"Can we agree to be careful?" Vince asked. "If it seems like we need to get tougher, we'll revisit the issue. Maybe when Rick is back."

Maura watched in disgust as the rest of the group nodded. Vince had cut off the debate without reaching resolution. Leo would do as he damn well pleased. Grant wouldn't add employees unnecessarily, but he would run Operations the way he thought best. Only she and Alex seemed concerned about the rising labor costs. Typical.

(chapter 2, to be continued)

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About Sara Rickover:

Sara Rickover is a former manager, human resources consultant, attorney, and mediator. She has investigated many suspicious occurrences throughout her career. Her debut novel, Playing the Game, became a #1 financial thriller in the Amazon Kindle store. You can find out more about Sara on her Amazon Author Central page.
A Ton of Gold

James R. Callan

A Contemporary Suspense/Cozy Mystery

Set in Dallas, TX and East Texas
Chapter 16

The funeral took place at the Wooden Nickel Baptist Church. With considerable misgivings, Glothe had agreed to let the funeral go on as if Eula had been the victim in the fire. Her safety, he rationalized, warranted bending the rules.

"Hope I don't get disbarred over this," he told Eula. Crystal refrained from mentioning that he wasn't a lawyer.

Crystal and Melva attended the funeral together, the grieving granddaughter and the best friend. A sad and depressed appearance came naturally for Crystal; she understood the killer would try again as soon as he found out Eula was alive.

A lady from the church spoke first. Melva, the logical choice, had begged off, saying she was so emotionally wrought she wouldn't even try to speak at the funeral. Travis Logger, Eula's lawyer, gave the eulogy.

Eula had been unhappy when she heard he was speaking. "He's just going to be trying for more customers, if I know Travis. 'Course, he'll have to say some nice stuff about me, and he'll probably say it better than most. Can't get new clients by bad-mouthing someone at her own funeral."

Crystal decided Eula had been right. Logger's choice of words could not be faulted, but his manner and delivery made him sound like a politician running for reelection. He looked the part, too. Most of the men were dressed in conservative black or gray suits. Logger wore a powder blue, three-piece suit with a power-red tie and highly polished wing-tip shoes. What caught Crystal's eye, though, was a heavy gold watch chain. She couldn't remember when she'd last seen someone with a watch chain draped across his vest.

Sam Teeter spoke at the graveside. For ten minutes he talked of the woman he had known for fifty years. Half the town had come to the funeral, and few eyes remained dry. Sam's soft eloquence revealed feelings so deep that Crystal found herself wiping her eyes more than once. Sam ended by saying, "Eula Moore was as tough as a two-dollar steak, and as soft as a mother's kiss. Those who didn't love her were those who didn't know her."

#

Crystal had firmly refused to have any sort of a visitation, and told no one she was staying with Melva. After the funeral, Bill Glothe drove them to Melva's house, where Eula was hiding.

"Well, how was my funeral?" asked Eula, as soon as the three got in the door.

"It was beautiful, Nana, particularly since you aren't dead."

"Too sad," said Melva. "Needed more music. And food."

Eula chuckled. "Well, since it was really Bessie's funeral, it's appropriate that nobody cooked."

"Sounds like Travis is planning to run for office soon," said Glothe.

"That man talks so much I don't see how he breathes. What did Sam have to say about me?"

"Let me put it this way, Nana. I knew you were alive and healthy, and Sam's eulogy still brought tears to my eyes."

"And everybody else's," added Glothe.

"Bill, did you see anybody suspicious? Or any strangers?" Melva asked.

The sheriff reached up and scratched his large, right ear. "Nope. And I scoped the crowd pretty good."

"Course not. They believe I'm dead and what's a closed coffin gonna tell 'em? They've already been back to The Park, messing around."

Everybody stared at Eula.

"What are you saying, Nana?"

"I'm saying I went out there to look around during the funeral. Figured nobody'd see me."

Glothe shook his head. "Thought we agreed you'd stay out of sight, Eula. Some curious folks might have been out there, and seen you."

"Anybody interested enough to go look should've been at the funeral. Anyway, I was about to tell you before I got interrupted. Somebody's been there, yesterday or last night."

"How do you know that, Nana?"

"Anything missing from the house?" Bill asked.

"Nothing missing. But the boat's been moved. Not much. Like maybe they tried to put it back where it was, but missed by a mite."

"Now Eula," Bill began, both hands up with palms facing her. "Don't get your back up, but how can you be sure? The house has been burned and you haven't been in the boat in a while."

"Suddenly I look senile or something? Crystal and I went over the house pretty good Wednesday. They might've been in the house but they didn't move anything. But they moved the boat between yesterday morning and today."

Her chin was set and no one challenged her.

Bill chose his words carefully. "You think of any reason somebody'd move the boat? Some kids wanting to fish, maybe?"

"Can't think of any reason. It's rarer 'n hen's teeth for kids to sneak in and fish without asking me first. And then it's off the bank or the dock. I've never known 'em to use the boat. Not in forty years."

"Well, I'll run by and check on it." Bill got up to leave.

"Don't you want to stay and eat dinner?" Eula asked. "Got chicken 'n' dumplings on the stove."

"I'm ready," said Crystal.

"Mighty tempting. But I'd better get back to work. See y'all. Nice funeral, Eula."

#

With the midday meal finished and the dishes washed and put away, Eula and Melva sat on the back porch shelling purple hull peas. Crystal changed from her funeral attire to comfortable jeans and a blouse and settled down in a big easy chair in the living room, eyes closed, her mind looking for answers. She didn't doubt for a moment that the boat had been moved. But why? What did burning the house have to do with moving the boat? Unless someone wanted to get rid of Eula so they could check out the lake. For what? Certainly not fish.

She had already made it clear she had to go back to Dallas today because of the upcoming visit by the investors. She would take Nana's car and arrange to get it back over the weekend. Eula was in hiding and wouldn't need it. Besides, she could use Melva's car if she got desperate.

Crystal decided she would swing by The Park on her way to Dallas. She went back to talk with her grandmother.

"Guess I ought to be heading back to Dallas, Nana."

"So soon? I haven't even had a chance to talk with you about Mark. He looks like grade A."

"Yes. He's nice to work for. Is your car——"

"When I called you the other night, I talked with your roommate."

"Housemate. Is your car okay to drive to Dallas? "

"Of course. She didn't sound like what I expected."

"What do you mean?"

"Not as educated as you."

"Well, she's really nice. And funny. We get along great." Crystal thought about Brandi's assessment of Dr. Krupe. "Besides, she's very smart. Smarter than I am about a lot of things."

"That was Friday night. She said you were over at Mark's. Anything I ought 'o know? Or'd like to hear?"

"No." It came out sounding defensive. "I needed to ask him something about work." That sounded weak, Crystal thought.

"On a Friday night?"

"Strictly business, Nana. Got to go. I'll call you tomorrow." She gave her grandmother a hug, said good-bye to Melva and left.

#

She parked the car under the carport behind the house and made her way down to the lake. The cobalt blue water made the trees appear even greener. Once more, the lake cast a sense of tranquility over Crystal. Easily her favorite part of The Park, it might have been her favorite spot in the world.

Why would anybody want to search the lake? Probably nobody does; just a dumb idea on my part, she thought. Nonetheless, she tried to imagine possibilities, even wild and silly ideas: a Loch Ness monster, a twenty foot bass, sunken treasure, the body of a famous mobster, the underwater entrance to a cave which had prehistoric drawings on its walls, the gun that killed Lincoln. None seemed even remotely possible.

The ten-foot rowboat was beached a short distance from a floating dock. As Crystal untied the boat from a small tree, something on the ground caught her eye. She reached down to pick up a short, dark brown cylinder. The brand name was lost, but it was one of the cigarillos gaining popularity in Dallas. Not the kind of tobacco sold in Wooden Nickel. And it was relatively fresh. Crystal guessed it had been there no more than a day or two. Would she have noticed it when she was here Monday? Maybe; maybe not. Didn't matter. This butt didn't look like it had been here that long. She dropped it back on the sand, launched the boat and hopped in.

For thirty minutes, Crystal paddled around, looking for any signs of activity, anything unusual. Across the lake from the dock, she checked an inlet where the tranquil reed-covered shallows and a marshy bank gave way to the steep, pine-covered slope. It offered no insight into the mystery. Near the east end of the lake, a small stream trickled in. Today, it was barely running, but the bed and banks gave testament to the greater volume of water it sometimes carried.

Generally, the shoreline was dotted with bushes and small trees, in keeping with the manicured appearance maintained around the house and lake. Occasionally, there was a brushy area to contrast the predominantly tidy landscaping.

Floating near the steep bank, Crystal's mind drifted back to lazy summer days, sitting in the boat, her granddad teaching her how to bait a hook, cast the line under the shade of a cypress tree, and how to set the hook when a fish rose to the bait. She grinned, hearing in her mind her granddad saying, "If you want to catch a fish, you gotta get your line wet." Crystal loved catching the big catfish, but always threw them back into the lake. Once she'd caught an eight-pounder not far from where she sat right now.

She was smiling at that memory when the bullet ripped into her.
Chapter 17

Crystal heard the shot and saw her blood on the side of the boat at about the same instant. Without thinking or looking around, she grabbed the side of the boat and rolled into the water just as another bullet ripped into the boat. Splinters showered her head as she went under the surface of the water.

She'd hardly had time to get a good breath, but her dive was shallow and she quickly returned to the surface. The boat drifted between her and the shooter, rocking lazily from her sudden departure. Her arm throbbed, but her mind ignored it, focusing rather on staying alive.

She eased along the boat until she could just peek under the bow. A man stood near the dock scanning the area around the boat. He held a rifle, clearly ready to fire again, looking for a target. Looking for Crystal.

Another man came into view. He was armed with a handgun of some sort. From this distance, Crystal could not tell much about the weapons.

Slowly she raised a finger and wiped water from her eyes. She had a rather poor view of the two men, but as far as she could tell, she couldn't remember seeing either before. The shooter wore a camouflage tee shirt and cap. Crystal guessed he might be five feet eight inches tall. The other man, a little taller¾maybe six feet or so, looked to be older, but at this distance, she couldn't be sure.

Now, past the initial terror and adrenaline surge, her mind acknowledged the pain in her left arm. She wiggled her fingers, then moved her forearm, and finally flexed the entire arm. It seemed to work okay. She paddled back near the middle of the boat, then pulled her left arm out of the water. Blood dripped from a gouge about two inches long that ran across the outside of her biceps. The bullet had missed the bone. And her heart, she noted. She reached in her pocket, pulled out a soggy tissue. It came out a wet glob and she started to drop it in the water. Instead, she pressed it on the bleeding wound and held it there. That's a waste of effort, she thought. But it did seem to slow the bleeding.

Careful not to rock the boat, she floated back to the bow of the boat. The taller man now had the rifle and still stood near the dock, but the shorter man was gone. Where? Crystal inspected the hillside but found no sign of him. Cautious not to touch the boat, she moved to the stern and looked around.

He's coming around the lake to look for me, Crystal thought, as she picked out the shooter moving east along the bank. I can't stay here. I can't stay under water very long. I can't crawl out on the bank. He'd either see me or find my tracks. She peeked again at the stubby man trudging along the shoreline. He's got a gun, he's already shot me once, and now he's coming to finish the job. And I'm waiting here like a fish in a rain barrel.

A picture of Nana's burned house materialized in her mind. She remembered Mark's feeling that Bessie was murdered. They aren't trying to scare me off. A shudder ran through her body as her mind spelled out what, down deep, she already knew, but had refused to face. They mean to kill me.

Her mind raced through various options, searching for some way to hide from these killers. He'll have to go around that inlet, still... .

Crystal slipped under the surface and began swimming for the eastern inlet, where reeds poked up several feet above the water. If she could get there, they might provide enough cover. Her lungs began to burn and she struggled to keep from inhaling water. She eased her head up, barely exposing her mouth and nose, took a deep breath, checked her directions, then sank below the surface again.

The next time she came up for air, she was at the edge of the inlet. The gunman was only three hundred yards away. Crystal submerged and carefully worked her way in among the reeds. She was crawling on the bottom by the time she felt the cover sufficient. With great care, she turned over and sat on the bottom, her eyes and nose barely above water. She scooped some mud off the bottom and slowly rubbed it on her forehead, cheeks and nose. My first mudpack. She started to smile at that, then the smile vanished. Maybe my last.

The murky water provided excellent camouflage for the blue and green plaid shirt she wore. Her legs, encased in blue jeans, were virtually invisible stretched along the bottom silt.

Crystal listened to the gunman crashing through the underbrush surrounding the inlet. It sounded like he was less than a hundred feet away when the noise stopped.

The sudden silence became more frightening to Crystal than the noise of the gunman trashing toward her. Why had he stopped? Was he at this instant taking aim on the back of her head? Her mind raced through various scenarios, all terrifying.

Careful not to move her head at all, Crystal cut her eyes to the left as far as possible, trying to locate her predator. Not fifteen feet away, studying her, lurked a cottonmouth. The black snake raised its triangular head above the water and folded its jaws back, revealing the white lining of its mouth and its needle sharp fangs. Crystal recognized the snake's primordial warning. This was its territory and Crystal was intruding. Sweat formed on Crystal's forehead. A knot formed in her stomach. She knew cottonmouths were deadly poisonous. Worse yet, they were very aggressive.

Slowly, the snake began floating toward Crystal.
Chapter 18

Conflicting thoughts flooded her mind, only to be shoved aside by sheer panic. Her eyes were so fixed on the snake, her attention so riveted, she could not manage a clear thought. Its slow movement hypnotized her.

The water was shallow. But if she got up and ran to escape the poisonous predator, she would face an even more deadly killer. If she stayed still, she would be bitten. And she would not even be able to rush to a hospital for antivenin.

A slight tremor ran through her body and fear seemed to permeate the interior of her mouth. She wanted to cry, to scream, "This isn't fair. I can't deal with two threats at the same time." But any sound she made could be fatal. Her stomach twisted, threatening to expel its contents.

The sound was deafening. The bullet slashed through the water right above Crystal's outstretched legs, sending droplets into her eyes. Then another blast. Weak, trembling and terrified, she sank beneath the surface of the water.

Even as the water covered her, a ray of hope brightened her thoughts. Both shots were way off the mark—-if he were shooting at her. If he was shooting at the snake, he probably had not seen her.

Crystal had little air when she sank into the water. She had to come up. But she knew the shooter might be looking to see if he had hit the snake, maybe even wading in, hoping to take home a trophy.

Her lungs burned and threatened to suck in something, even if it was water. She pulled her hair over her face, leaned back until she was almost horizontal, then eased up until her nose barely broke the surface.

"See her?" the man across the lake yelled.

Crystal could hear the shooter breaking through the thick brush.

"Naw. Just a goddamn moccasin."

She took a quick breath and sank back down.

He hadn't seen her. Thank you Lord. The guy had to be looking in my direction.

With a jolt, she remembered the snake. Where had it gone? She inched up until her bronze eyes were above the water line and peeped between strands of wet, black hair, searching for the snake. The cottonmouth was nowhere in her field of vision. With infinite care, she swiveled her head to look in a wider arc. Still, she saw no cottonmouth. Far to her right, the shooter was moving away. She said a quick prayer that the snake kept moving away also.

For several minutes Crystal could see the man thrashing through the brush, occasionally slipping on the steep slope and letting out a string of curses. Then she lost sight of him, but could still hear him yelling to his partner. "Think I got her. Blood on the boat, some in the water by it. Don't see no body. Can't see no place she climbed out on the bank."

"Get the boat."

"Naw. Get all wet. Don't need it. Coming back."

"I said, get the boat. Leave it there, stupid, someone's gonna start looking around and find the body. Bring it back. Now."

The chubby man began splashing out in the water, cursing all the way. Then, Crystal decided he must be swimming, since the complaining stopped. After a while, she heard him paddling the boat across the lake. Slowly, she eased up on her knees and turned her head to watch. He had reached the far bank. She shifted to get a better view. The two men beached the boat, turned their backs to Crystal and started up the hill.

After she heard a car start and drive down Eula's road, Crystal washed the mud off her face and waded out of the water, all the while keeping a close watch for the cottonmouth. She plodded around the lake, feeling weak, her arm aching, still bleeding slightly, and water squishing out of her shoes with every step. She desperately wanted several aspirin and a hot shower.

#

Bill Glothe took one look at Crystal and shook his head. "You look like you been rode hard and put up wet."

"Thanks. All compliments accepted," Crystal said. She was sitting in the emergency room of the Wooden Nickel Community Hospital. As soon as she had reached Eula's house, Crystal had called the sheriff and asked him to meet her at the hospital. She had located a towel and dried herself. In the closet of her old room she found some jeans and a shirt that smelled of smoke but were dry. She was thankful for that.

The doctor was stitching her wound when Bill arrived.

"If you had any doubts, forget them," Crystal said. "Those men meant to kill me. Not scare me off. Not warn me. Kill me. And if the one guy had been a better shot, or a little faster, I'd be dead right now."

"Sounds like you're luckier'n a three-legged chicken. You get a good look-see?"

"I think I could pick one of them out of a line-up. I only saw the other one from across the lake." Crystal twitched a little.

"Sorry," said the young doctor sewing up the wound. "That should be the worst one."

"What kinda car were they driving?"

"I didn't see it."

"Well, give me a description of the man you saw." Glothe took a pad and pen from his pocket.

Crystal described him as best she could, aided by some prompting from the sheriff. Maybe five feet eight inches, dark hair, potato nose, right-handed, fatigue pants, boots, camouflage tee shirt and a cap. Without a doubt, she could give a better description of the snake. Its image was burned into her brain. But she didn't think Bill would appreciate it.

"Anything else?"

"Only that they also had some sort of handgun. Had a long barrel. I don't know much about guns." Crystal thought for a minute. "There was some writing on the cap. Can't remember what it said. Something about a bar, I think." She shrugged. "That's about it. Oh, maybe one of them smokes cigarillos. Maybe."

"And that's about it for me," the doctor said. "You need to have your regular doctor check it in a couple of days, make sure no infection sets in. Other than that, keep it clean, don't use this arm too much. If the pain bothers you, any over-the-counter pain reliever will do. I don't think you'll have any problems with it. But do have your doctor look at it."

"Thanks. Looks like a neat sewing job." Crystal didn't have the heart to tell him she didn't have a regular doctor—hadn't seen a doctor since moving to Dallas. She slid off the table and followed Glothe into the hallway.

"Called your grandmother yet?"

"No. I'm not going to. And you aren't to call her either. She's had enough. What can she do if she knows, except worry?"

"Don't wanta be around when she finds out we didn't tell her."

"I'll handle her. On the...," Crystal searched for a word. "... thugs. What can you do, Bill?"

"Truth is, not much. We'll keep a lookout for the guy you described. But it's a pretty general description. Don't know what kind of a car to look for. We can swing by Eula's once or twice a day." He sighed. "Just don't have the manpower to put someone out there. Could be days or weeks 'fore they come back. Course, could put a chain 'cross the drive."

Crystal shook her head. "That'd only slow them down and make them wary, not keep them out. Better to let them in, then catch them." She looked at the sheriff and her eyes were suddenly moist. "Bill, these criminals tried to kill Nana and they'll try again."

"I know. Wish you'd gotten a look at the car. While I'm wishing, wish you'd got the license plate number." The sheriff put his arm around Crystal's shoulder. "Hell, we'll get by there more often, but I just can't promise too much. There's always something pulling us in some other direction."

Crystal stopped at a vending machine, purchased two items, said good-bye to Glothe and headed for Dallas. Glothe was right, Crystal knew. There was no telling when the gunmen would be back. The Park needed continuous surveillance, long-term, and not subject to gunshot wounds.

She had just crossed into Dallas County when she decided what to do.

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Also by James R. Callan:

Cleansed by Fire

Over My Dead Body

Murder a Capella

About James R. Callan:

After a successful career in mathematics and computer science, James R. Callan turned to his first love – writing. He has had ten books published, with his eleventh due out in the spring of 2016. His author page on Amazon can be reached at: http://amzn.to/1eeykvG
Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer

Elaine Faber

A Cozy Cat Mystery

Set in Eagle Pass, TX
Excerpt from Chapter Two (Brett and Kimberlee)

Brett stood and walked to the fireplace to examine the painting over the mantle. He turned. "I've been thinking. Are you sure you want to go to Texas for a vacation...or are you thinking about the inheritance?"

"How can you ask that? I hadn't really even considered the inheritance. Grandmother said she wants to leave her estate to someone who will run the ranch the way her husband wanted. We couldn't do that. And I sure don't have any intention of giving up our home here in Fern Lake to live in Texas. I just want to get away for a while and meet my family, that's all. Besides, she paid for the airline tickets. What have we got to lose?"

Brett turned to look at the painting again. "I'm not so sure."

"I think it would be fun to take Thumper with us." Kimberlee glanced toward the kitchen where Thumper crouched by his bowl. The crunch crunch of kibbles sounded like mini-firecrackers as he plowed through the tiny morsels. "Grandmother said we could bring our pets. She probably wasn't thinking about a cat, though." She laughed. "But I'll bet he'd love it at the ranch with all those country mice to chase. He's so easy-going, I'm sure he would handle the trip. Amanda would love taking him along."

"Are you trying to convince you or me? It sounds silly taking a cat all the way to a Texas horse ranch, but you're the boss, so whatever you want. You can arrange for Mrs. Wilson to take care of the bookstore. And we can ask Jack to keep an eye on the house. Call Jack and let him know what we're planning. Maybe Dorian will drop by the store a few times, just in case Mrs. Wilson needs anything."
Excerpt from Chapter Four (Thumper – the Cat – Meets His Soulmate)

Four white feet tucked beneath his belly and his fluffy black tail whipping, Thumper peeked out from beneath the sofa. He heard voices—Brett and Kimberlee—out on the patio. He sniffed, savoring the unfamiliar smells of hay and horses drifting in from the open window. Another delightful scent wafted across the room and sneaked beneath his hiding place, teasing his nostrils and making the hair on the back of his neck stand erect. The scent tasted familiar and yet...evocative and foreign.

Oh, moment of discovery, sweet love's fantasy revealed. He poked his head from beneath the sofa and lifted his nose, drew in the bouquet, rolled it around his tongue and teeth, seeking to identify the direction of the tantalizing bouquet. After several long minutes, he crept from his hiding place and followed the enticing aroma. Aha. The flavor of a feminine flower, not a figment of his furtive fantasy.

She drew him as if by magic−teasing, taunting, beguiling him until his senses reeled. He padded through the house, but to his dismay, was unable to locate this unseen temptress, this invisible goddess, this captivating illusion that occupied his mind.

He followed the fragrance into the library, his gaze traveling up the bookcases where he spied Lillian Braun's Cat Who series and a complete collection of Rita May Brown and Sneaky Pie Brown. Kimberlee often displayed the titles in her store window, examples of inspired modern day mysteries for ailurophiles.

Their eyes met as the fascinating creature peered down from the top of the bookshelf, her front toes curled beneath her breast. The sun streaming through the window shimmered off her silken ears. Her fur, like rows of buttercups set in a field of marigolds, shot through a summer sunset. Her eyes, midnight slits peeking through golden moons. Her sensuous tail coiled around her nose, rising and falling in a hypnotizing rhythm, matched the thud of his heart.

Electricity crackled through the library. She was not a gossamer dream, but a lissome feline goddess. She stared down from atop the shelf with total insouciance−a living, breathing, challenge to his masterful art of woomanship.

During his bachelor days at Fern Lake, he had always preferred a darker-colored girlfriend as opposed to the lighter tabby-marked variety. His interest in this golden-haired vixen with stripes the color of marigolds was both perplexing and titillating.

He'd had his share of lady friends, though he was not obsessed with romance. He fancied himself a diplomatic lover, not given to one-night stands, but more discerning in his treatment of female companions. He disliked the idea of love 'em and leave 'em, having heard tales of his father's abandonment issues following mother's whirlwind romance. Mother had shared stories of her lonely nights on the fencepost, waiting in vain for his father's return. Thumper vowed he wouldn't be that kind of cat or cad. But, this enticing, exotic creature was something a cat could sink his teeth into. This lady begged a more committed long-term relationship.

Now, to put his best foot forward...but which foot? All four of his nimble black legs ended in elegant, snowy white feet with multiple toes. He stretched out his front legs, raised his rear to display his muscular posterior and tight glutes. He then twisted into a three-point pretzel-like position and licked his inner thighs. These contortions were calculated to demonstrate his strongest attributes and yet reveal a willingness to concede control, a maneuver that he had perfected. It had never failed in his effort to impress a lady cat yet.

"Howdy, stranger. New in town?" The sound of her voice, like the thrum of a hummingbird's wings, sent shockwaves through his heart.

He stared into her enchanting face−the angle of her teasing whiskers−the slant of taunting ears−her tantalizing eyes, tinged ever so slightly with green, glittered in the sunlight. Her tiny pointed teeth−perfection.

She breathed a sigh and twitched her tail in a seductive manner.

Okay, you're up, Thumper. Remember, you don't get a second chance to make a first impression. "Thumper's the name. Brought the family to visit the grandmother for a few days. Care to show me around?" He licked his bib into a conflate of black and white, turned and stared out the window. "Not that it matters one way or the other if you do or don't, you understand. Just sayin.'" Please say yes, oh please, please, say yes...

"Thumper? What kind of name is that? Sounds like a rabbit."

His heart crumpled at the distain in her voice. There it was again, that silly name. Thumper−like the bunny. How many times had he wished that Amanda would have named him Butch or Cruncher. Or even Felix. But no−since Kimberlee came into his life, he had to go through life as−Thumper. His dream of a romantic fling with this straw-colored vixen had as much chance now as a balloon at a porcupine's birthday party. He sighed.

Might as well leave before things get ugly. He hung his head, turned and shuffled to the door.

"Wait."

He stopped at the sound of her velvet voice. His ears perked, whiskers taunt. He glanced back. "Yes?"

She stood and rearranged her sumptuous body on the top shelf. No question. All her curves were in the right places. "Don't go yet, Thumper. I like rabbits."

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Perhaps something blowing through the desert air made her receptive to his advances. Perhaps it was his calculated humbleness and winning personality, or perhaps it was just destiny.
Excerpt from Chapter Six (Thumper Faces Humiliation)

Just humiliating! That's what it is. Downright humiliating. Thumper rose and shook his long black coat. So much for lunch beside the water fountain. Crashing into each other and knocking her into a heap—how embarrassing. She'll think I'm a California country-bumpkin.

Thumper wracked his brain. How could he re-ingratiate himself back into Noe-Noe's good graces? Since cruel fate had interfered with a demonstration of his hunting prowess, perhaps he'd be better served by impressing her with his bod. "Wanna' go for a walk, mi amour?" He stretched his front legs, enhancing his rippling shoulder muscles. That should do it.

Noe-Noe blinked, tipped her nose and sniffed. "Roast swine."

The hair on the back of Thumper's neck bristled. "Alright, so things didn't work out like I planned and we didn't get capon al dente like I promised. There's no need to call me names." He turned toward the barn where men and women from a local catering service scurried like scalded ants between the kitchen facility in the barn and the picnic area. Just a hint of the aroma of roasted pork drifted across the barnyard from the barbecue where fat dripped off the spit, sizzling and popping as it struck the hot coals.

Thumper wiggled his nose. "Oh... roast swine. Got it." Once again, he'd stuck all six toes of his snowy white foot in his mouth. His whiskers warmed. Was there no end to his humiliation with this female?

Noe-Noe minced forward on her golden feet. "I could show you the barn. It's quiet inside. We could be alone and...talk. There might be mice near the feeding troughs, but be careful around the horses. If they step on you, you're toast." Noe-Noe stopped to scratch her ear.

Thumper paused to wait for her. His whiskers twitched as he admired her fetching figure.

Noe-Noe stopped scratching and glared, her ears bent back. "No. I don't have fleas. I have allergies!"

"Hadn't entered my mind, my little butterball." Thumper leaped into a pile of hay just outside the barn door. "Let's stop here. It looks so inviting. I love to nap in the sunshine."

"Sounds lovely." Noe-Noe climbed to the top of the haystack and kneaded the straw into a soft bed. She flopped onto her side.

Thumper lifted his head and sniffed. "We can watch the caterers from here and monitor the progress of the main course...which reminds me..." He stretched out beside her, nudging her shoulder. "Perhaps you'll join me for dinner and a tete-a-tete later?"

Noe-Noe tipped her head. Her pupils dilated. "Dinner? You wouldn't try to take advantage of an innocent country girl, would you?"

Thumper flicked his ear. The skin beneath his mustache tickled. "A gentleman would never tempt a lady to go beyond the lengths she wished to go."

"So, you're telling me, you're a gentleman?"

"I'm shocked and appalled that you'd think otherwise." Was he that transparent? My nonchalant meter must need a tune-up.

"A lady wouldn't turn down an invitation from a gentleman who professed such honorable intentions. Dinner and umm...would be lovely."

A tune danced through his head. Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you... What a wonderful song... Half asleep, Thumper kept a watchful eye on the barnyard proceedings in general and the barbecue spit in particular. He leaned his shoulder gently against Noe-Noe's ribs. So, this is what love feels like. Yowwza!

The scrunch of footsteps and voices invaded his reverie. One eye popped open. What yonder blackguard presumes upon my wooing?

"That's Mrs. Lassiter's attorney, Wilbur, and Harold, the stable master," Noe-Noe whispered.

The men wandered toward the barn, deep in conversation.

Harold paused beside the haystack and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, lit one and took a puff. "I hope you know what you're doing. I'm concerned about Kimberlee and her husband. What if they figure out what's going on?"

"My decision, not yours." Wilbur pulled a lighter from his pocket, turned from the wind and lit his own cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut and shoved it back in his pocket. He took a drag and exhaled through his nose.

"I'm really uncomfortable with Mrs. Lassiter bringing the girl into this." Harold's cigarette bounced with each word. "She'll be asking questions and sticking her noses into everything. What if they figure out what's going on?"

Wilbur snorted. "In that case, one less grandkid to compete for the old lady's money wouldn't be a bad thing, would it?" He blew a puff of smoke over his head.

"So, you'd rather have the sheriff poking around because some damn city kid is dead? How stupid can you get?"

Wilbur wrinkled his brow. He threw the cigarette down and ground it into the dirt, muttering. He straightened his tie, turned on his heel and stomped away.

Harold wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and stuffed it back into his overalls. "Damn fool and his cockamamie ideas. Should never have gotten mixed up with him in the first place."

He glanced up at the cats, picking his front tooth with a fingernail. "So, you've got a girlfriend already, huh? Nice work, kitty." He grinned, took another puff and blew the smoke toward the haystack, and then crushed out the cigarette under his boot.

Thumper's whiskers pulled back as Harold disappeared into the barn. He coughed and jumped to his feet, "Noe-Noe, wake up. They were talking about Kimberlee. What's he mean about something going on? What's going on? Are my persons in danger?"

"Not if they don't stick their noses where they don't belong and stay out of Wilbur's business." Noe-Noe rolled on her back and closed her eyes. "Now, don't ask any more questions, mi amour. The day is too beautiful to discuss it any further."

Thumper's stomach lurched. The aroma of roasted pork mixed with cigarettes and danger was enough to spoil anyone's appetite.
Excerpt from Chapter Seven (Grandmother Margaret Plots Evil)

Margaret grabbed a couple of week-old chocolate chip cookies from the bottom of the cookie jar and hurried up the back stairs. Enticing the grandchildren to Texas with the promise of inheriting her fortune was the easy part. While they were here, she'd strategize on the best way to keep Amanda, over Kimberlee's dead body, if she had to, figuratively speaking, of course...

The idea had come to her several months ago, gaining momentum the more she pondered the plan. The idea of having another child to carry on the family traditions−her own blood descendent and rightful heir−sent a rush of warmth into her chest. She stopped on the stairs to catch her breath. She'd made too many mistakes with her own children, Mark and Melody, and lost both of them. If she had another chance to raise a child...

From the first glimpse of Amanda, she knew she'd made the right decision. She couldn't wait to have Amanda all to herself. This time, things would be different. Shall I have her call me Mama? Better to wait a while until Amanda felt more at home on the ranch and forgot her mother.

Margaret had wasted the better part of the afternoon talking to Kimberlee and Brett. It took every ounce of disciple not to rush to the nursery to see Amanda, especially after Kimberlee left the patio. It was obvious Kimberlee wasn't fit to raise a child. All the expense and the planning to arrange this week would be worthwhile once she got rid of Kimberlee, even if it meant putting up with them for a few days. The only reason they came in the first place was because of the promised inheritance. As if she'd trust her precious ranch to that foolish girl.

She tiptoed down the hall toward Amanda's room, patting the cookies in her pocket. What would it be like to raise another little girl? No doubt, little girls were sweet, with hair ribbons, dolls, tea-parties and frilly dresses, but they did grow up. Then you had to deal with the teen years.

Her daughter, Melody, had never been interested in girly things and always wanted to wear overalls and chase after her brother. Too bad children didn't come with written instructions or a guarantee of how they'd turn out. Girls could break your heart. Melody had certainly done that, running away at the age of seventeen to marry a no-good guitar player, what's his name? Dilham? Dildong? Dilman.

All those tears when Amanda first arrived. Clearly, Kimberlee had babied the child−made her timid and weak. She'd have to buck up around here. Life could be tough on the prairie. A girl had to be tougher.

She'd keep Amanda on a tighter rein than Melody. This time, she'd make all the right decisions. Dance classes, proms, college and the girl would marry a doctor or a veterinarian from Eagle Pass and they'd live right here on the ranch.

She tiptoed past Kimberlee's door and stopped to listen. Inside, she heard the murmur of voices, but no discernible words.

Margaret opened the nursery door and peeked inside.

Amanda pushed a little train around a track on the rug, while the nanny flipped through a magazine nearby.

"Nanny Sally. Go on down to the kitchen and have some coffee." Margaret gestured toward the stairs. "I'll stay with our little darling for a while."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am." Nanny Sally scurried out the door.

Margaret slid open a cupboard and snapped on the tape recorder hidden inside. She closed the cupboard and leaned against it. "Now, Amanda, come to Nana and give me some sugar. Nana has brought you a nice chocolate cookie."
Continued – Grandmother Pursues Her Plans

Margaret hurried to her room and flopped onto the edge of her bed where Noe-Noe lay napping. Noe-Noe chirped a greeting and ducked her head into Margaret's hand.

Margaret stroked Noe-Noe's tummy, in answer to the unspoken demand. "What else can I do to discredit Kimberlee? I've got it." She reached for the telephone and dialed information in Santa Barbara.

"Information, how can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a reputable detective agency. Someone in the Santa Barbara area?" Margaret drummed her fingers on the nightstand.

"I can't recommend anyone, ma'am. I only provide phone numbers."

"Then just give me the first agency listed." She scowled and shook the phone.

"Yes, ma'am... That would be Ableman's Detective Agency. The number is 555-0147. Shall I connect you?"

"What do you think I called for?" Margaret flung a throw pillow across the room. "Connect me!" Blast! Idiots, everywhere she turned.

The phone rang three times. No answer. She started to hang up, when a gruff voice answered. "Ableman Detective Agency." A thick hacking cough spewed through the receiver. "'Scuse me."

Margaret closed her eyes, pushing the disgusting sound from her mind. "This is Mrs. Lassiter from Eagle Pass, Texas." She stuck out her tongue at the phone. "I need some information about a woman who lived in the L.A. area this past year. Is that something y'all can do?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's our specialty. Before we begin commencing, let me explain some of the technicals to you. I'll need a $500 fee retainer, to get started. Our customary fee charge is $100 an hour to commence investigating and we'll give you the first initial report within 48 hours. How's that?"

Margaret's shoulders slumped. "$100 an hour? That sounds a bit pricey."

"Not when you consider the benefactual recompense of my investigation, so to speak. Can I get your credit card number?" The detective wheezed.

"My credit card? Don't you think you should find out who−?"

"Ma'am, I've come to cogitate that it's a good idear to collect the fee retainer up front and find out the perticalers after. Sometimes we don't deal with such honest folks, such as I'm sure you're one of...if you grasp my meaning." His chuckle ended in another wheeze.

Margaret dabbed her forehead with a tissue. "I suppose I see your point, but I'm not comfortable...." She shook her head. "I'd rather not-"

"And, in addition to your credit card, ma'am, I'll requite your phone and fax number, so's I can fax you a contract. We can start commencing on your perticaler problem as soon as I receive the signed contract and your fee retainer charges. Heh.Heh."

"Umm." Margaret glanced around the room. What had she gotten into? She sighed and gave the requested information.

Papers crinkled. "Now that we have all that out of the way, let me complete this intake form. To whom do you want us to perform our investigation on?"

Margaret rolled her eyes. An English major, no doubt. "Kimberlee Clarke, my granddaughter. She divorced her husband, Douglas Larson. They lived somewhere in the Los Angeles area, and...and...she has a child, but I think she's an unfit mother." Her cheeks tingled. She hunched her shoulders.

"And this Clarke dame...I mean, your granddaughter, heh heh. Tell me what in perticaler you're looking for?" The detective snickered. "She a blonde? I'll bet she's a looker. A slut, you say?"

Margaret shuddered. She imagined him reaching for his groin. She put her hands over her eyes. Was she actually having this conversation? "What? Don't be impertinent. I don't see how the color of her hair, or whether she's... Now pay attention. She's got a little girl, Amanda. I want information that would convince a judge... I mean, information about her divorce from Mr. Larson. You know. Like, affairs, drugs, debt, questionable associates, anything to prove she's, well, she's not... Do you understand or not?"

"Uh-huh, I get it. Sexual affairs, no doubt. You wanna' know like if she ever registered at a motel, or had any indiscrete ron-dez-vows, and so forth." His words gushed in a sing-song rapid stream and his heavy breathing ended in a gurgle. "Ahh...hhh."

Margaret's cheeks flamed. "Now, see here. Don't get the wrong impression. I'm the child's great-grandmother, and my only concern is for her welfare. I want to know why Kimberlee and her first husband divorced. She's married again, but who knows what kind of influence he has on my child, er, rather, her child. I'm afraid she's abused."

"Of course, Mrs. Lassiter. Heh...heh. I understand all right. Yessiree. I'm sure I can dig up something. Everything you want to know. Let me fax that contract right over. Just fill in all the blanks, send it back and we'll get to work this afternoon. We won't let this slut...heh. heh... I mean your, umm... abuse that poor child for even one more day. Now, just a little more information... Let me get your phone and fax number. Sexual affairs, you say? Yessiree. Heh. Heh. You wouldn't happen to have a picture of the slu...um...Mizzuz Clarke, would you?"

Margaret verified the requested information and hung up. She put her head in her hands, imagining a fat, bald man sitting in a smoky room with his shoes on the desk, a cigar clamped in his teeth, and several weeks' grime under his fingernails. What have I done? Well, too late now. Why had she made such an arrangement with a man who earned his living searching through garbage cans, and selling dirt to the highest bidder? She could almost see his twisted smile... his hand busy at his zipper... His words echoed in her head. Bet she's built...a slut, you say.

Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose. I'm not going to cry, I'm not. She pressed her face into Noe-Noe's fur and wept.
Excerpt from Chapter Thirteen (Thumper Overhears a Murder Plot)

Harold unhitched the horses from the hay wagon and led them beneath the willow tree where the cats hovered on a low branch. He tied the horses to a low branch.

Meow!

Harold glanced up. "Hi, cats. So you hitched a ride, did ya? Now don't get lost when we head back." He walked back to the jeep where Wilbur struggled to pull the heavy ice chest from the back of the jeep.

"Need some help?" Harold grinned and took hold of the ice chest, pulled it out of the jeep and set it in the grass. "Here, take the other end."

Wilbur took hold of the opposite side and together, they carried it into the shade. "There you go, Mrs. Lassiter." His face crinkled into a Halloween grin.

"Thank you, Harold, Wilbur," Grandmother said.

Stepping away from the ladies, Harold slapped Wilbur's shoulder. "What's up with you? You're grinning like you just won the lottery."

"Come with me. We need to talk." Wilbur glanced back toward the women, clutched Harold's arm and dragged him toward the river.

Noe-Noe scrambled down the tree.

Thumper jumped off the branch, leaped sideways and scampered toward the river. "Ha. Bet you can't catch me."

Noe-Noe followed in hot pursuit. Halfway down the trail, they passed Harold and Wilbur and reached the riverbank ahead of the men.

Thumper hunkered behind a log. The forward guard approaches. I'll lie in wait, prepared to do battle to the death. I shall leap at my unsuspecting enemies as they come down the trail. Death to the scoundrels. Thumper crouched as the men approached. What fun. He'd scare the be-jammers out of them.

The men ambled nearer, until Wilbur's voice could be heard over the sound of rushing water. They paused near Thumper's hiding place.

Noe-Noe slipped up on little cat feet and lay down beside him.

"...done something before these damn kids showed up. If only the old woman had died before she decided to change the Trust to her granddaughter." Wilbur struck his palm with his fist. "She says she's going to sign the papers this week."

"What are you babbling about?" Drops of perspiration popped out on Harold's forehead. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

"Unless something happened to her first," Wilbur mumbled. "It would have to look like an accident." He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a drag.

Thumper glanced at Noe-Noe, his ears lowered. Were they talking about killing Grandmother? I don't like her much, but I don't want to see her dead! The fur rose on the back of his neck and he gurgled a low growl.

Harold stepped back, his face white. "This is nonsense. How can you even...? Mrs. Lassiter has been good to us. I don't think−"

"That's the problem. You don't think. What do you suppose happens to our little scheme when she changes the blasted Trust?" Wilbur's face turned a mottled grey.

Leaves crackled under Thumper's feet as he shifted position.

Wilbur jerked his head toward the bushes. "What was that? I thought I heard something." Wilbur walked toward the shrub and pulled down a branch. "It's nothing. Just those damn cats." He turned back.

A vein in Harold's forehead throbbed. "Screw the Trust." He flung his hand back toward the picnic tables. "I don't want no part of this!"

"What's up with you? You wearing mama's lacy underpants today? If these kids figure out what's going on with the Children's Program... Well, I'm not the only one going to jail. We have to do something quick, before the old battle axe changes her will."

Harold wiped his hands on his jeans. "What...what exactly are you suggesting?"

"We'd have to make it look like an accident. You know, at her age, unexpected things happen. "Now, what kind of accident should we arrange?"

Purchase the Full-Length Novel:

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Also by Elaine Faber:

Black Cat's Legacy

Black Cat and the Accidental Angel

About Elaine Faber:

Elaine Faber is a member of Sisters in Crime, the Cat Writers Association and Inspire Christian Writers. She has published three mystery novels. Her short stories are in multiple anthologies. She lives in Northern California with her husband and multiple feline companions, the inspirations for the Black Cat Mysteries.

Website
Atomic Medium

G.G. Collins

A Paranormal Mystery, Historical Thriller

Set in Santa Fe, NM
Chapter 25

"He who wants to fight must first count the cost."

- Sun Tzu

After an exhilarating climb with breathtaking switchbacks and heart-stopping drop-offs, the two finally reached the top of The Hill.

"Thank god they paved it," Rachel said, flexing her fingers after the white-knuckle drive.

"And to think we'll have to take that back down to get home," Chloe remarked.

The women fell silent because the entrance to Los Alamos came into view. In front of them was a small frame building. A large sign attached to the roof of the shack declared: "Los Alamos Project Main Gate Passes Must Be Presented To Guards."

Rachel took the two passes she had stolen while entering the portal and looked at them for the first time.

"No names," she observed. "I guess we'll try them out and see what happens."

"I hope it doesn't involve those guns," Chloe said of the men patrolling the entrance.

"The moment is now. They're motioning us to come up to the gate."

"Passes," the soldier said gruffly.

Rachel handed them over.

"We're expecting two secretaries. That you?"

"That must be us," Rachel said and tried a slight smile. However she was so nervous it felt more like a grimace.

"Duplex or apartment? We're nearly full up; one of each."

"We'll take the duplex," Chloe said.

The soldier pulled out a map and showed them where it was.

"See the water tower," he pointed. "Go past that and make a right here. There are no street names, but this is where you're going."

"Thank you."

"Let' um through," he bellowed. Rachel gave the truck some gas and left the guards behind them.

"That feels awfully final," Chloe said looking back.

"Yup."

Rachel squinted from anxiety as she drove past the commissary and the Fuller Lodge until she came to the road that led to the duplex. It was a frame building on the corner. There was row after row of housing that all looked the same: wooden boxes with inexpensive shiplap siding, central chimneys and devoid of landscaping—unless you counted the many clotheslines. A plank sidewalk led to the door.

"This is it," Rachel said. "Home, sweet, home."

"Yeah," Chloe looked at the tiny house. "I guess were lucky they had a house left."

"Duplex," Rachel corrected. "We only get half of this."

"Okay then. Let's see inside. Maybe it will surprise us."

"Uh-huh."

They gathered what little they had brought along and took the wooden walkway.

"Do you feel as if we're walking the plank?" Chloe asked.

"I'm thinking the same thing."

Rachel opened the door, stepped inside and stopped.

"Oh good lord," Chloe said as she wiggled around Rachel. "This well, uh, has character."

"Let's look at the kitchen." Rachel led the way.

"Wow. It resembles today's kitchens in that there is a stove, fridge and sink, but that's where it ends."

The small Pullman style kitchen was also white. The fridge was shorter than 21st century refrigerators and rounded at the top. There was only one door. The stove looked a bit scary in its obsolescence.

"Someone's in the house," Chloe whispered, hearing the front door close.

"Maybe they've already discovered we're imposters," Rachel said worried.

"What do we do?"

"About all we can do is go see who's there."

"I knew you would say that," Chloe replied.

When they reached the living room, there was a woman standing inside the door. She was a small woman dressed in grey trousers and a white shirt. Her brunette hair was short and had pin curls all around the lower half while the hair on the crown was straight. She looked like she'd walked right out of 1945—and she had.

"Hi," Rachel tried to sound casual. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so. If you're Rachel, I'm your cousin Catori."

"Holy shit!" Rachel was dumbfounded. "Truly?"

"Yes, I don't remember how many times removed our family connection is, but we are related on your father's side."

Rachel shook hands with her and introduced Chloe.

"Lordy," Chloe said. "I'm new to the time travel thing and this is all incredible. How do you do?"

"Well, thank you. I should tell you why I asked you to come."

"Let's all sit down," Rachel said.

"Because you come from the future I'm hoping you can tell me what is going on here. I know there are people here who don't belong and may be dangerous, but I'm not sure who I should be protecting. The people who work here are mostly scientists and engineers—and of course, their wives and families. As you can see, the place is a fortress, patrolled by the US military and enclosed in barbed wire. I badly need some background on what is going on."

"The lab with the high fences surrounding it is the site where the first atomic bomb is being designed," Rachel said.

"Atomic bomb?"

"Yes. It will be used on Japan, twice, after first being tested in White Sands, southeast of Albuquerque."

"How is it different from the bombs we already have?"

"It uses nuclear fission and can level an entire city with only one bomb," Rachel explained. "After the explosion, radiation rains down on whoever is left alive. Most of them are already horribly burned or will die of radiation sickness in a week or so. I think about 200,000 Japanese were killed."

"My god," Catori said. "What kind of nation do we become?"

"The kind of nation that has to defend itself I guess," Rachel said. "The Russians and Germans were, are, also trying to develop these bombs, but we do so first. Sadly, we annihilate two cities in Japan: Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It's in retaliation for the attack on Pearl Harbor. Emperor Hirohito refused to surrender."

"And after that we have what is called the 'Cold War' with the USSR. It goes on for decades," Chloe added.

"What is a Cold War?" Catori asked.

"It's the idea if two countries have weapons that can destroy the world, neither of them will dare use them. But the threat is always there."

"These bombs are that powerful?"

"More powerful ones are developed after the initial ones made here. And I doubt that anyone knows now, er, in 2015, how many of these monsters populate the world."

Catori looked at the two women from the future and could hardly believe what they told her. "These weapons are being built right now? Here, even while we sit here talking? It is a lot to take in. I hate that so many more people will be killed, but WWII is right now for us. We don't have the luxury of a distant perspective. The pain of Pearl Harbor is still fresh. We want revenge, but we also want the war to be over.

"What else has happened in the twenty-first century?"

"Well, we have a black president," Rachel begins.

"Seriously. Has a woman been president yet?"

"No. There was a near-miss, but she lost out. But women only make 73% of what men make so we still aren't equal."

"But you can be more than a secretary?"

"Oh yes, I'm a journalist and Chloe owns her own real estate agency."

"Tell me more?" Catori sat transfixed by the revelations.

"Gasoline is about two fifty a gallon," Chloe said.

"Two fifty?" Catori exclaimed.

"We think that's cheap," Rachel said. "Gas has been far higher."

"And we carry phones with us." Chloe pulled her cell out and showed Catori.

"This is a telephone?"

"Yes, it won't work here because it requires satellites to work."

"Satellites?"

"They are scientific instruments that relay signals from space," Rachel tried to explain.

"We go to space?!"

"Oh yes, in the 1960s. Now we have a space station where astronauts from various countries live and work."

"My word. Has cancer been cured?"

"Sadly no, but detection is earlier and treatments are better."

"And marijuana is legal in some states," Chloe added.

"Reefer!" Catori said with disbelief. "So it doesn't cause madness after all?"

"On the contrary, it is used medicinally by many."

"Have people stopped having war?"

"No, I don't think that will ever stop," Chloe said.

"I wish I had time for more," Catori said. "It's fascinating.

"Okay," she seemed to reset herself. "Then these people must be after Oppenheimer. He's the biggest fish here. Do you suppose they want to kill or kidnap him?"

"We don't know," Rachel said. "But I've seen two men in 2015 and one thing I know without a doubt, they are evil; the kind of evil that our country has been fighting in both the European and Pacific theatres. I believe they are here."

"Time travel?" Catori asked.

"We think so," Chloe said.

"If they get the formula—or Oppenheimer himself," Rachel continued. "Germany can rise again and take over the world. Hitler may be gone, but there are many evil men who worked with him who are fleeing to places like South America, Spain, Britain, even the States."

"I feel strongly that whatever they have planned will happen tonight or tomorrow," Catori said. "My dreams have been occupied by fireballs and people running, screaming. Although people don't know entirely what's going on here, we can sense that it is big and about to come to completion."

"When you say fireball, can you describe how that looks in your dream?" Rachel asked.

"I can draw it," Catori said. "Do you have... ?"

Rachel produced her reporter's notebook and a pen.

Catori looked at the pen with interest. "What type of pen is this?"

"It's a gel ink pen," Rachel said. "It's more difficult to counterfeit checks when they're written with a gel pen."

"But what does this mean?" Catori pointed. "It says 'JAPAN.'"

"That means it was made in Japan."

"Oh?"

"We're friends now," Rachel said.

"Friends! With the Japanese!"
Chapter 26

When Catori finished her simple drawing it looked like the signature mushroom cloud atomic bombs create when exploding. Rachel and Chloe's eyes met knowingly.

"What is it?"

"That's what happens when one of these bombs releases energy after splitting an atom using uranium or plutonium," Rachel said. "The explosion looks like your drawing."

"Good golly, and that's what's being made here?" Catori was shocked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Then we must stop these men from their mission. There isn't any choice."

"How can we help?" Chloe asked. "We're three women from two different centuries, trying to save the world from oblivion. I don't know about you, but that's way above my pay grade."

"Such a simple question," Catori answered. "I wish I knew, but we must be ready for anything."

A feeling of dread so thick it seemed to envelope the room descended over them. They were quiet for a few minutes. Rachel's attention turned to the wall clock that ticked audibly. Each second was one closer to obliteration if they couldn't figure out how to stop it from happening.

Catori stood up. She was so petite it was difficult to believe that she could face a problem like this one and not cower.

"Are you hungry? You should go to the mess hall and eat. I'll be in touch later."

"How will you find us in a mess hall full of people?" Rachel asked.

"The Hill is a small town. It won't be difficult."

"Okay, we'll try to eat something."

"If you can, catch a nap, you may be up most of the night."

"Nap? Okay, we'll try."

"I almost forgot," she pulled something from her trouser pocket. "Mari-Lynn asked me to give this to you. When you go to White Sands to watch this bomb test, leave these in the sand to help clear the site of contamination. Now that you've explained, I understand why she thought it important."

"But how?" Rachel asked. "How did you get it?"

"You will learn how to visit people in their dreams. There is a realm where you can meet in the physical. This stone is called atlantasite. It brings peace when nature is disturbed."

Rachel took the greenish, spotted stones. She rolled one in her palm and noticed the specks resembled mold, but the surface was smooth. There were vague suggestions of pink and umber making it one of the most interesting crystals she had seen.

"I'll see you soon."

"Wait," Rachel said. "Why do I need this? We aren't going to the blast site."

"Yes you are."

The screen door closed softly behind her.

Rachel tossed a crystal to Chloe who examined it with interest.

"Do you get the feeling we've crossed some kind of threshold into new lives?"

"You think?" Rachel turned reflective. "I don't know whether to mourn it as a loss or..."

"You know," Chloe interrupted, "it's nearly always better to find a way to be grateful rather than view things as a loss. You have been gifted, however unenthusiastically you choose to view the gift. I don't think it's going away. We might as well be appreciative and learn to use it to help wherever possible."

Rachel was quiet for a few minutes, trying to evaluate what Chloe had said.

"What the hell?"

Chloe laughed at her response. "Just thought I'd try. And remember, you can't swear in 1945. You know the road to perdition is lined with profanity."

"Then guess what I'm thinking."

"Really, Rachel!"

* * *

The mess hall was large with long wooden picnic tables, row after row of them. Condiments sat in the precise middle of each table. Large "Y" supports held the building together. Heaters were mounted near the high ceiling. Rachel wondered what possible good they could do there since heat rises. Surely one of these scientists knew this. Windows let in natural light supplemented by overhead lighting.

"What's on the menu?" Chloe asked.

"Looks like a choice of meatloaf or fried chicken. Not to worry though, they have green beans, canned corn and whipped potatoes for you."

"I suppose asking for a veggie burger would be in vain?" Chloe asked.

"Look at the pie!"

At the end of the cafeteria line were two large pans of deep dish pie. Rachel looked back at the menu posted on the wall.

"Yum. Peach and cherry. I'm having seconds."

"I bet the pastry is made with lard," Chloe said skeptically.

"Even better," Rachel replied. "Try to enjoy this rare opportunity to eat real food. You know, before preservatives, before we had to worry about fat and sugar. My mouth is watering. Oh good god, there's gravy!"

An hour later, Rachel and Chloe were still scraping their plates and licking their fingers.

"Good heavens," Chloe whispered. "I don't think I've ever had gravy before. And this cherry pie is decadent." She licked off the last of the filling from her finger.

"You should have tried to meatloaf. Delicious!" Rachel tapped her lips with the real cloth napkin. "I didn't know people used to launder napkins instead of tossing them."

"I understand it used to be the same with diapers."

"Ooooooohh," said simultaneously.

"That's too gross to contemplate." Chloe dropped her refolded napkin on the table.

The mess hall was beginning to fill as they relaxed for a few minutes. The early shift was ending their day. And true to Catori's predication, virtually everyone was looking, some pointing, to Rachel and Chloe; the new people.

They were about to leave when Catori slipped onto the bench beside Rachel.

"Oh good, you've eaten. I have news."
Chapter 27

"I've been in contact with one of my spirit guides," Catori said.

"No kidding," Chloe exclaimed. "You have spirit guides?"

"Oh yes. You'll get around to that too, Rachel."

"Can't wait," dismally.

Catori smiled patiently and rushed on. "They feel you should take a walk at dusk."

"Where?" Chloe asked.

"I don't always get the whole picture. Just walk and see where you end up. We don't want to miss our opportunity to stop these men, if they are indeed looking to steal secrets or are planning some other atrocity."

"I read one of the spies here actually babysat the scientists' kids and then snooped through their houses for information about the project," Rachel said.

"Really?" Of course Catori couldn't know that yet. "I knew they are on guard because spies are expected to try to infiltrate, but babysitting?"

"Right," Chloe added. "No one would suspect an offer to watch the kids as an overture to espionage."

"But back to what you were saying," Rachel said. "What do you think we should do?"

"Wait until sunset and start walking," Catori said. "I've always found the spirits to be helpful. I have a very strong feeling tonight is our opening to stop this.

"And thanks. I mean it; for coming."

"You're welcome," Rachel said. "Maybe we can stop this and go home tomorrow."

"I think you will need to plan on at least one more day according to my spirit advisors. Day after tomorrow is the test. You'll need to drive down—you have a vehicle?" They nodded. "Stay the night nearby. The test is scheduled for dawn. Watch the detonation."

"Okay if you think it's that important, we will." Rachel agreed. As usual, she felt in over her head.

"Rachel." Catori took her hand. "I know you have doubts. I remember them well. In fact, I still have them from time to time. You'll become more confident."

"Thank you." But Rachel wondered just what she was thankful about.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow. Take that walk. You'll know the right way." She slipped out a side door and they were alone in a sea of mostly men doing what men do: looking, whistling, and raising eyebrows.

"Had enough?" Chloe asked.

"Yeah, let's go."

* * *

They strolled out the door as if they really were taking an evening constitutional. Even this late in the day, the air was still, dry and thin, but smelled of the almost constant dust that drifted around The Hill.

"Which way?" Chloe asked.

"I've been wondering if the direction would hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks."

"And?"

"Oddly, I feel as if I'm being coaxed into heading for the water tower."

"That's easy."

They kept their pace slow so as not to look as if they had a destination.

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

"We need to remember how horrifically important all this was," Chloe said.

"Yeah. The novelty is wearing off and the gravity of it all is settling in."

The water tower loomed ahead. They stood in its long shadow awaiting inspiration.

A wolf howled nearby.

"Did you hear that, Rachel?"

"That's Kiyiya. Something's going down and soon." Rachel could feel her leg muscles tighten in readiness.

"Your white wolf? Do you see it?"

"Not yet, but sometimes I only hear his warning."

Within seconds, they heard a scream.

"Tell me that's a kid playing." Chloe said.

"Don't see anyone but us."

"Where did it come from?"

"Hard to tell; maybe over there?" Chloe pointed to a large building. "Other than the laundry, I don't see any other options."

"Let's go see." Rachel felt the trepidation welling up inside. "Is that a window? It's difficult to tell in the dark. It may be covered with something."

They crept up to the window. A faint glow seeped between the boards which had been neatly nailed across the opening like bars, but with only a scant quarter-inch separation. As they approached, the escaping light brightened significantly.

Chloe reached the window first, stood on her toes and looked inside.

"Oh my god!" She flattened her back against the wall, hand to her mouth. "I've never seen anything like that."

Rachel willed herself to look. Inside, a man was tied to a chair. His head was bloodied and it had dripped onto his white T-shirt. His wrists were tied behind his back. Blood oozed from beneath the rough rope. He had obviously tested the bonds repeatedly. She couldn't see his face. But she saw what terrified Chloe.

There was fire inside the storage area where boxes were stacked high. But nothing was ablaze, except the man who stood within the large plume of flame. Rachel couldn't believe it either. The conflagration was a man, except he wasn't burning!

"Do you see it?" Chloe asked. "Did I imagine it?"

"No, you didn't."

"Why isn't he screaming?"

"Because he isn't on fire."

Chloe took another look. "He isn't burning! How could that be?"

Rachel tried to see the man in the flames better. Slowly he changed shape. She recognized the face that was forming.

"That's the alien," Rachel said. "Look at how his face is changing."

"He looks like... ET," Chloe said. "Oh my god, what is he doing?"

The man Rachel thought to be alien had changed into what she could only believe was his original self. He advanced toward the man in the chair. A fiery hand reached out to touch the man's head. The captive tried to pull away but nearly fell over. He managed to catch himself. Maybe he should have fallen. One finger made contact with his cheek. He screamed in pain and horror. The man on fire only laughed. When he did, his mouth stretched into a twisted orifice at once cackling and blowing fire. The poor guy in the chair could only scream.

"Rachel, we've got to do something!"

"Maybe we could create a diversion; anything to give that guy a chance. These men would do anything to cause pain."

"I wasn't expecting this," Chloe said. "How can you be so calm? Aliens, men on fire, 1945 Nazis in 2015? What the hell are we supposed to do about it all?"
Chapter 28

Chloe's eyes pleaded with her for explanation.

"First, I'm not calm. My pulse is tachycardic." At the same time she was talking, Rachel tried to think what to do. "As to the next step; this is on-the-job-training. Look around and see if you can find anything to use as a weapon."

Chloe pulled two crystals from a medicine bag in her pocket. Her hands shook as she held them. "Here, take one of these opals."

"I forgot. What do these do?" Rachel rolled the cool crystal in her hand, and then slipped it into a pocket.

"Mari-Lynn said they would make us invisible in dangerous situations."

"Do you think it will work?"

"She was right about the blue lace agates," Chloe reminded her.

"Good enough. We're here so there must be a reason, maybe just save this man's life. We figure it out as we go. Let's find a way in."

The front door was locked, but another window wasn't as secure. It was covered in lath rather than 2x4s. The thin strips of wood came off with little resistance. Both women crawled through the opening and landed lightly on the floor inside. Boxes were everywhere. They remained in squat position, listening.

Convinced they had not been heard they crept toward the light and the whimpering man in the chair.

"Didn't Mari-Lynn tell us we would find a man in trouble?" Chloe asked.

"Yes."

"Didn't she also tell us we could not save him?"

"Yes."

"Rachel. Then why are we here?"

"Because we can't walk away from someone being tortured, no matter who said to do exactly that?"

Chloe nodded in agreement.

"Okay, do we confront them, try to reason with them, because I don't know about you, but we don't have a chance in hell of overpowering them."

"Do you think Mari-Lynn meant literally we couldn't be seen?" Rachel asked.

"I took it that way. She said under dangerous circumstances they would make us unnoticeable."

"Is that the same as invisible?" Rachel asked.

"I don't know."

"I'm going to test it. You stay here. Go for help if I fail."

"What are you going to do?"

"Try to untie his hands. Then maybe we can all get away."

"Take my opal. Give it to him. I'll leave by the window and meet you outside."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Chloe nodded forcefully, pushing the opal sphere into Rachel's hand before she could change her mind.

Rachel moved behind the hundreds of boxes storing the thousands of supplies necessary to keep the Atomic City running. She moved close enough to hear.

The Nazi officer yanked the gag from the captive's mouth. The poor man lurched in agony.

"Where is the formula for the Gadget? You can tell us now or later; up to you. I promise you, later will be much more painful."

"I don't have the formula," he protested weakly. "I've told you and told you, I don't have it. No one gets that close to Oppenheimer. No one. Besides, it's already been built."

"They are that far along?" the officer demanded.

"It's going to be tested soon, within days." He could barely hold up his head; beaten and bloodied. The burn on his cheek was red and swollen. He couldn't take much more.

"Where?"

"Someplace called White Sands," he said. "It's southern New Mexico. That's all I know." His head fell forward in complete defeat.

When she was directly behind the man in the chair, she swallowed hard and stood. Fully expecting to be seen, she was encouraged that no one seemed the least bit interested in her. She moved stealthily trying to keep the captive between her and his torturers.

Rachel couldn't get enough air. Her chest heaved and her skin prickled with sweat. She was just feet away when the alien torch touched the man's thigh. His finger burned through the trouser leg and into his skin. Smoke rose from the fabric. He screamed again; the gag was shoved quickly back into his mouth to mute his cries.

She took one large step and slid to the floor behind him.

"Take this," she whispered and slipped one of the opals into his hand. "Whatever you do, hold onto it. I'll untie this rope."

He tried to reply but couldn't do anything but groan.

"Don't say anything. I'm here to help. Don't drop the marble. It makes you invisible to them." She tugged at the knot, tried again and finally untangled it. His hands were free.

"Okay, get up and we'll walk out of here. I'll get the gag."

"I'm Rachel," she spoke softly, supporting his arm. "What's your name?"

"Dave," he whispered. "Who are you?"

"Someone trying to help."

The men stared in astonishment. They had seen the rope fall to the floor, but their prey was gone. The alien's flames evaporated from his body.

"This can't happen!" the alien said. "Humans are not that advanced."

"Maybe they've come up with more than a weapon," his associate replied.

"This is not possible!" the alien shouted, enraged. His body enveloped in fire again. The roar was deafening and it helped cover their movements toward the exit.

They were steps from the door when Dave dropped the opal. It hit the concrete floor and began to roll.

"There he is!"

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Reluctant Medium

Lemurian Medium

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About G.G. Collins:

Years of serious reporting found G G Collins writing fun paranormal mystery/thrillers. An assignment about the Hopi ignited her imagination and the Rachel Blackstone Paranormal Mystery series resulted. Collins has won journalism awards and a Duke University fellowship.

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Night of the Chupacabra

Michael Hebler

A Historical Dark Thriller

Set in the New Mexico desert, NM
Chapter V

Drake stood at the door and would not step inside until he had a chance to evaluate the room. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, and as interim accommodations went, it was of a decent standard. He spotted the bed, which rested against the dresser that held a lit candle on its surface. Then, tucked into the far left corner, a chamber pot sat in front of a balcony window, and although it was too dark outside to distinguish what lay beyond, Drake felt certain that it was just a backdrop of more hills. As orderly as everything appeared to be, he did find the chair, which nearly blocked his entrance, to be curiously placed.

While Drake finished analyzing his surroundings, Suzanne checked herself in a mirror nailed to the wall just above the inquisitive chair. She tucked a loose hair into the ivory comb behind her ear then perched expectantly on the bed. Her mannerisms appeared rigid and routine for a woman who looked so young in age.

"You can set your belongin's there," and then motioned to the chair, which might have explained its purpose, but Drake still was confounded by its placement.

He stepped inside and could not help but to glance into the curious mirror. He tried to avoid looking at his own reflection, not liking the way he looked any better than the next person, but it did not help that the glass was cleaner than the one in his hotel room. His singular purpose for gazing into the mirror had been to ensure an ambush did not wait for him behind the blind corner, which appeared to be all clear.

"How old are you?" Drake asked as he removed his hat and coat.

"Nineteen."

Defiantly, he set his belongings near the candle on the dresser instead of the proposed chair then turned to Suzanne, who looked more nervous than earlier. Either this profession was new to her, which he sincerely doubted by her textbook mannerisms, or he just scared the bejeezus out of her.

"How long you been a whore?"

"'Bout a year."

Drake stood in front of her as he greatly admired her appearance. Suzanne kept her eyes on the man's boots; not being able to muster the courage to look at any other part of him just yet. He reached out to caress her cheek, and although his touch gave her chills, the shudder did not bother Drake, far too involved with the idea of stroking a mirage that closely resembled...

Suzanne shattered his fantasy once she began to strip. She continued to avoid any eye contact; therefore, the whore was unaware of the disapproving look on her client's face. As she unlatched the third clasp of her bodice, Drake demanded, "What do you think yer doin'?"

Suzanne hesitated like a frightened child waiting for punishment. She did not dare take her hand off the hook.

"What yer payin' fer," Suzanne reminded.

"I ain't payin' fer that." But then, Drake began to disrobe, further confusing the poor girl.

Suzanne kept frozen, not sure what he wanted her to do next. In the past, any action that was not to the paying customer's satisfaction generally was noted by a hearty smack to the face, and in Suzanne's estimation, this man did not look like he was a stranger to sound beatings.

Having not looked at him for so long, her curiosity finally got the better of her. She peered at more of the same scars which further covered his torso. There was some normalcy on his right side around the midsection; however, the vast majority of skin looked as it had been sewn back together after being ripped to shreds. And then on top of that, there was a creepy looking pendant that dangled around his neck.

Drake removed his necklace then tossed it, along with his shirt, on top of his hat and coat. He turned around to find Suzanne still as stiff as a rock.

"Climb in."

She released the bodice hook then spun around to lift the top sheet. Drake noticed her own hidden disfigurement; scars that crisscrossed her back, which appeared to be healed lashings.

"Those marks a hazard of your profession?" Drake asked as he let his trousers drop to the floor, and presented himself to her in long john bottoms.

"Those marks a hazard of yours?" Suzanne bit back before she climbed into the sack.

"My mistake."

"They didn't come from my work here, if that's yer meaning? I'd be dead by now if Miss Christie and Paulie ain't taken me in. I'm grateful for what they done," she stated, not only failing to convince Drake but also herself.

As Suzanne lay down, her gaze shifted from the floor to the ceiling. Drake towered his half-naked body over hers while he took a moment to admire her dark blonde tufts that spread beneath her head like a pile of hay, and her milky white complexion that glistened in the soft candle light. Unlike him, she still was beautiful despite her scarring.

"Move over."

Taken aback, Suzanne did as instructed anyway, and scooted to the opposite side of the bed. She lay rigid and braced herself for what customarily came next.

Drake blew out the candle then crawled beneath the sheet. He began to tuck himself in when he ordered, "Put yer arm around me."

Suzanne knew she had not been in this occupation as long as Lupe, and certainly not as long as Miss Christie, but she was sure she had been the first to hear that demand at this stage of the services.

"It's what I'm payin' ya for," Drake clarified.

She rolled onto her side and laid her arm across Drake's chest. Once she settled, Drake closed his eyes to catch up on his long overdue shut-eye.

~ ~ ~

A gentle whistle echoed through the valley as the wind continued to garner more speed. It was not yet strong, but the current brought with it an extra chill. Raul knew he should have taken his heavier coat when he had stopped by home to retrieve his lantern, but his mind had been preoccupied at that moment; determined to see, with his own eyes, what Charles had accused him of. Thankfully, he was nearing the Rouse homestead and suspected it would take but only a minute to confirm the allegations before he could head back to the warmth of his own home.

A small gust blew into him, and gave Raul the shivers as he walked deeper into the valley. He reached Charles' farmhouse, and having not calculated traveling against the wind, he did not anticipate that the journey would take fifteen minutes on foot. He would have ridden his horse if he still had one to ride, but somebody had shot it dead last week. Of course, Raul had his suspicions as to who had pulled the trigger and tried to educate the sheriff about his theory, but Dillmore would not believe any accusation without evidence, which was the purpose for Raul's visit to the Rouse residence.

Even though the wind whistled its own tune, there was an eerie silence at the farm. He poised the lantern above his head to illuminate a wider scope. No working farmhouse should be so quiet. It was not just a missing goat or two; there was not a single animal noise: no cows, goats, chickens—nothing.

Raul looked down at the loose chicken feathers that fluttered past his feet. He followed their path to an empty coop and still found no chickens. All that remained was a cluster of molted tuft. Initially, Raul thought they might have been slaughtered, but after picking up a handful of the plumage and inspecting them more closely, he noticed a lack of blood. In fact, there was not a speck of red anywhere, and that conclusion did not ease Raul's distress one iota.

He continued to slink around the building where he came across another lifeless pen. He held the lantern up higher. Goat carcasses strewn across the ground, legs and heads ripped from their bodies that littered the enclosure. The animal pieces were scattered in every direction, like a puzzle of entrails, but still no blood. Raul wished he could say he had never seen anything like this before, but he had. This revelation now confirmed the one word in his thoughts that slowly had grown louder and louder since Drake's arrival: chupacabra.

Whether he had been too preoccupied being astonished by the massacre, or the wind obscured the approaching footsteps, the sound of Dillmore's voice took Raul by surprise.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Raul spun around. Unfortunately, he had not found the evidence to prove Charles' malicious lie, but moreover, he only had made matters worse for himself by being caught snooping around a widespread massacre. Explaining his probing about, especially to Dillmore, would be difficult. The sheriff never believed a word that came out of his mouth.

"It's not what you think."

"Oh, it's precisely what I think, and what Charles Rouse thinks, too."

Raul thought there was no better time to give Dillmore a taste of his own medicine. At this point, he had nothing to lose anyhow. "There is no evidence to prove that it was me."

Dillmore flashed a smile and asked rhetorically, "Well, who's to say otherwise?"

~ ~ ~

Lightning lit the room like the Fourth of July. Although easier on the eyes when sleeping, Drake still was not an attractive man by any stretch of the imagination. However, Suzanne thought there was something distinctive about him other than his appearance. When she could not put her finger on what it might be, she dismissed her suspicion altogether, ready for this job to be done with already. Miss Christie never schooled her on how to handle a man who only wanted a warm body to sleep next to. This unknown territory made her fidgety. And worse yet, gave her such boredom, her mind began to wander.

Drake's earlier questioning had stirred some long-forgotten memories that ought not to have been stirred. She began to recall such things as her first customer and the tears she had shed during the business transaction—and then the whipping she had received afterwards for crying. She remembered the seven years she had spent in an orphanage, where Miss Christie and Paulie had rescued her with promises of hot meals and a warm bed. At only twelve years of age, she had not been old enough to turn tricks. Her first job with Miss Christie and Paulie was a matchstick girl. She had hated that too. But as she thought about her life before the orphanage, the memories grew hazy. She recollected her parents, or at least the shadow of a mother and father, but the images of their faces were unclear. It had been so long ago, and she had been through so much since, all she could remember was the fire that took them and her siblings.

Drake stirred, but more than a restless slumber as his body snapped and jolted in a brief, nightmarish seizure. Suzanne waited until he relaxed, then delicately tried to slip her arm away. She had moved only an inch before he clamped down on her with a bear-like grip. Unaware if he knew of her attempt, or if his fit was evoked by the horrors inside his head, she watched him. There was nothing else to do.

A scraping noise came from across the room, a sound so low that if Drake had been awake, he might have still missed it, but to Suzanne it was loud and clear. She looked towards the door. Too dark to see anything, she waited for another bolt of lightning to flash, and when it did, she glimpsed the room. The mounted mirror moved to the side and a caramel colored arm, with a minor scratch, poked through a concealed hole from the next room.

Suzanne could not understand why Lupe was reaching for the empty chair below, searching for Drake's effects. She had not given Lupe the signal that the coast was clear: two short taps on the wall just loud enough to be heard, but soft enough not to alert the patsy. For all Lupe knew Drake still could have been awake; even Suzanne did not know if he truly was asleep or not. Furthermore, Drake did not fall for Suzanne's suggestion to leave his belongings on the chair.

She shifted her focus to Drake's possessions; they were well out of either woman's reach. Lupe withdrew her arm, and then squeezed her head through the small hole. Suzanne could not help but smirk at the thought of the mirror falling down and lopping off Lupe's head like a guillotine. After all, it made no difference to her, Lupe was far from a friend; in fact, Suzanne had no friends.

She snapped out of her daydream, concerned about how lax she felt about the dangers of this con, and then quickly reminded herself that ignoring the risks was the greatest risk. Suzanne wanted to communicate to Lupe to go back into the room and forget about this job, but one arm was being held captive in Drake's hold while the other was pinned under her own body weight.

Drake jolted again from his worsening condition; however, he released Suzanne's arm when he rolled onto his back.

To make sure his eyes were still closed, Suzanne waited for the next flash before she signaled Lupe to abort this ruse, but her partner in crime gestured back that she had better pull off this job or else. It did not surprise Suzanne that Lupe demanded she complete the assignment. If the scheme were unsuccessful, it would be both their asses getting the belt.

Lupe disappeared, only to poke her arm through the hole again with a burning candle. The room lightened, but thankfully, not enough to wake Drake. Lupe placed the candleholder on the chair then poked her head back through to oversee the impromptu plan.

Suzanne targeted Drake's coat pocket, just beyond an arm's length away. She remembered Drake had placed his billfold inside that exact pocket; however, it would not be easy to retrieve with the shirt and hat on top of the pocket's flap.

She lifted her arm to reach over his body. Her gaze bounced between the coat pocket and his eyes. Praying they would remain closed, she extended her arm towards the dresser ever so slowly. Suzanne repeated to herself, do not rush, control your breathing, concentrate, and you won't make no mistakes. But that did not stop her heart from racing like a fox hunted by wild dogs.

She extended her arm as far as it would stretch with the coat pocket just out of reach. In her determination, Suzanne leaned over Drake without realizing she had until feeling his hot breath graze her cheek. She hesitated and watched his eyes, terrified that they might open at any moment.

A loud whisper from Lupe slapped her out of her statuesque state. Suzanne resumed stretching over his body when Drake jolted. She immediately dove back to her spot on the bed then hid her face in the pillow, feigning sleep.

Drake did not stop stirring. His feet kicked as his body convulsed, but then it was over in a matter of seconds.

Suzanne lifted her face from the pillow, relieved to discover that Drake had not awakened. She peered over to Lupe, who rolled her eyes at Suzanne's childishness.

Suzanne felt herself unfolding under the pressure. She needed to get a grip as Lupe's patience was wearing thin. Then, with the sudden confidence of knowing that she at least could reach the pocket, Suzanne repeated her previous moves quicker than before and without error. Her fingers slid the pendant out of the way, and her nails scraped the pocket flap.

She struggled to remain steady while Drake let out a soft moan from the agony of his evolving nightmare. Suzanne leaned in further, finding it increasingly difficult to keep her balance, but then managed to slip her hand inside the pocket and wrap her fingers around the billfold.

Lupe withdrew her head through the wall's hole and replaced it with an outstretched arm. Even if by some miracle Suzanne succeeded in accurately throwing the billfold, Lupe would not be able to see it coming to catch it. Suzanne always thought the Mexican was crazy as a loon; now she had proof. But she could not deny what needed to be done.

Suzanne first made sure that she would not lose her balance before she aimed the best she knew how, and then let go. The billfold flew through the air towards Lupe's hand, which somehow had clasped around the wallet in the exact moment she needed to. It was truly miraculous, and Suzanne never would have believed it without seeing it.

Lupe's arm disappeared with the wallet for a brief moment then reappeared to throw the empty wallet back. Suzanne's previous excitement dissipated, and before she could figure out how she would catch the case, it was on its way back towards her. For a moment, she lost track of the wallet as it flew through a dark void, but then shot out of the shadow. She closed her eyes and grabbed the air. Opening her eyes, Suzanne found the empty billfold back in her hand; even more impressed with her catch than she had been with her partner's.

Lupe poked her head back through to verify that Suzanne had the billfold when the building suddenly trembled under another roar of thunder; sounding more animalistic than a storm and serving as a catalyst to the stranger's nightmare.

Drake jolted out of sleep and hollered as though it were still the night of the wagon attack.

Lupe quickly blew out her candle, leaving Drake and Suzanne in near darkness. Disoriented and alarmed, he could not distinguish who or what lay on top of him. Drake catapulted the body off of his then heard a woman yelp once she crashed hard onto the floor.

"Ruffian! Ruffian!" Lupe cried from the next room, sounding the alarm.

It took Drake a moment for his senses to return, and once they did, he recollected he was inside the whore's room. Then, feeling his billfold lying on top of the sheets, he had a pretty good idea what had been happening while reposed. Drake reclaimed his wallet and leapt out of bed.

"I'm sorry!" Suzanne cried from inside the darkness.

Drake reached for his clothes and felt his necklace first. He pulled it around his head quickly then began to gather the rest of his belongings when the barreling sound of heels clanked up the staircase told him he was in need of more than Suzanne's sentiments; he was going to need protection.

With his trousers half way up his legs, the bedroom door burst open. She was silhouetted by the chandelier's candlelight, but Drake knew it was Miss Christie standing in the doorway with a peacemaker aimed at his chest.

"Nobody beats on my girls but me," shouted Miss Christie.

"Tell her I didn't mean you harm!" Drake demanded.

"Didn't you?" It was the one card Suzanne had to play that could cover her botched job and make sure Drake didn't rough her up any further. She rubbed her head as a ploy to make her wounds appear more severe than they felt. But once she pulled her hand away to see the very real blood that covered her palm, Suzanne fainted.

"Drop yer trousers."

"Yer makin' a mistake."

Miss Christie cocked the gun to deliver her final warning. "I said, drop 'em."

"Jus' git the sheriff," he requested calmly.

"He's already comin'!"

Paulie and the customers had listened to every word while they gaped up at the standoff beyond Suzanne's bedroom door. Upon hearing Miss Christie's testimony, Paulie realized the sheriff wasn't coming because nobody was getting him.

He reached under the bar and pulled out his Henry rifle, but with no intention of going for the sheriff himself; instead, Paulie had been contemplating other ideas. He pawned off the duty to the first man who caught his eye, and whispered hard to Smitty, "Git Dillmore!"

Paulie charged out the saloon door with his weapon while Smitty created a deafening racket—knocking over chairs and bumping into tables—to follow the rotund man outside.

"I ain't tellin' ya ag'in," cautioned Miss Christie; it truly was her final warning.

Drake heard the pistol cock, but it did not come from Miss Christie's gun. Hers had clicked into position already. This clack came from behind the wall.

He did as ordered and released his trousers, but while keeping a tight grip on his Bowie knife's handle. His dropping pants unsheathed the knife for him, and in one swift motion, Drake flung the blade at the mirror. The steel tip shattered the glass and continued into the next room, and only stopped once it lodged in Lupe's throat. Her body hit the floor with a resounding thud.

Drake dodged Miss Christie's first bullet when he dove behind the bed, but he did not duck for cover without taking a boot.

Miss Christie shot again; the protecting bed frame erupted splinters from its wood structure.

"I'm gonna add my mark to yer filthy mug."

Drake reached inside his boot, disappointed to discover that, in his haste, he had grabbed the wrong fucking one.

Not underestimating the stranger's deception, Miss Christie inched her way inside carefully. Her instinct proved correct when Drake hurled the boot at her. The projectile struck the gun and knocked her arm to the side, forcing the next bullet to sink into the wall.

Quickly, Drake exposed himself when he reached for his other boot before Miss Christie had a chance to recover from the setback. She fired her next round. The bullet would have struck Drake's head, if not for the bed post between them.

"I sure hope yer a religious man, 'cuz you ain't nuttin' but a finger 'way from God."

Drake sprang from behind the bed and fired his one and only shot from the Derringer pistol. The bullet struck her gun then dropped to the floor, but not before she had fired another wild shot.

While the pain in her shooting hand distracted the madam, Drake dove for her gun.

Miss Christie ducked out of the room immediately. Drake followed but was engulfed by a hailstorm of bullets. Chunks of wood flew in every direction as the doorframe and catwalk railing were shredded to pieces by the army of gunfire coming at him from the parlor. Drake dodged the bullets by leaping back into the bedroom.

The patrons ceased fire.

Miss Christie plodded down the staircase as she screeched, "He got my gun! There ain't but one bullet left! Go git 'im!"

Drake heard her loud and clear. He checked the chamber and discovered that she had indeed counted correctly. There was no chance of escape with only one bullet. He wracked his brain for another way out, but the only option that came to mind was his ace card, and he was not willing to play it just yet. There was still much to learn from these people, and to use that weapon prematurely would destroy any chance of learning more about what had happened to his Lucy. No, that would remain his last resort. Right now, he just needed to find a way out and saw only one possibility.

He scurried to the back window then poked his head out to see that the balcony stretched across three rooms before it wrapped around the side—most likely to the front of the building. He set one foot out the window when the balcony exploded and propelled him back into the room.

Paulie released the smoking shell then reloaded. He aimed the rifle back at Suzanne's window to keep the stranger ambushed.

Charles had pulled John Norton and Robert Mitford from their billiards game, and they approached Suzanne's bedroom door cautiously by hugging the wall. Drake would not have a clear shot if he were so tempted.

"Give it up, Drake! You ain't goin' nowheres."

"It's a mistake yer makin'! I didn't do nothin'!"

Charles felt some comfort to hear an implication of distress in Drake's voice. The brute was well aware of his odds. Charles never did mind a good fight, but that was when he was fighting someone or something familiar, like Raul for instance. Drake was unfamiliar territory and, therefore, unpredictable.

"He's lyin'!" Miss Christie screamed from below. "He knocked Suzanne out cold!"

Drake did not care nor think twice about her lie. It was evident that Miss Christie had her legs wrapped around the town, and nothing he could do or say to the folk below would loosen her grip. Besides, the more pressing issue was to find an escape.

He peered through the trick hole in the wall and spotted Lupe's outstretched hand lying on the floor with the gun still in her grasp. Although there was no chance in hell he could reach the pistol, it did not stop him from trying.

"Don't make this any harder on yerself than it needs ta be!" Charles shouted, showing signs of agitation by Drake's prolonged silence.

It was no use; the gun was too far. Drake contemplated once more about playing his last card, but still, he knew the timing was not right. If he could not escape, he figured his best plan of action might be to give himself up; however, that proposed another problem: he did not believe Charles, Miss Christie, or any of these other folks would let him survive long enough to explain the situation to the sheriff. He did not trust Dillmore by any means, but Drake figured the sheriff was his best chance of living through this predicament. The irate patrons needed to be held off just long enough for him to get here, which proved more difficult as time ticked away.

Drake heard shifting on the catwalk; they were getting itchy. He watched the open door and expected Charles and the others to rush inside with guns blazing. But it was while he peered beyond the doorway when it struck him what his next move would be.

Miss Christie watched the three men motion to each other in preparation to charge the room, when a gunshot rang out. The chandelier's rope snapped in two and released the large, iron fixture that plummeted towards her. Along with the others near her side, Miss Christie had dove out of the chandelier's path just before it impaled the floor. The candles extinguished in the fall, and the room went black.

Drake took Charles by surprise when he rammed into the man and tossed him into John and Robert. The three men stumbled over each other and allowed Drake enough time to vault inside Lupe's room then slam the door shut.

Gunpowder explosions lit the darkened parlor like fireworks as the splurge of gunfire sent Charles and the two men into a panic for cover.

"Don't shoot us!"

Charles tripped over John's feet, or possibly even his own, during the frantic scramble to avoid the bullets.

"Ain't anyone gettin' the goddamn sheriff?!" Miss Christie's voice shrilled from somewhere inside the parlor.

~ ~ ~

Drake checked Lupe's six-shooter as the ruckus of galloping footsteps could be heard coming up the staircase. The weapon had a full chamber. He hustled to the back window but used more caution than previously, now aware what waited on the opposite side. Drake kept within the shadows beside the open window and peered through the large fresh hole in the balcony to see Paulie standing vigil on the ground below Suzanne's window. The man had no knowledge of his changing rooms; a welcomed advantage.

The slew of footsteps circled outside the bedroom door. Drake began to reconsider his idea about waiting for the sheriff. He weighed his options once more: either the mob of ten or so men who came fully armed to his door, or the plump man with a rifle who thought Drake was someplace other than where he actually was. Although the choice seemed obvious, his odds still felt bleak. But just then, Drake happened to glance back through the balcony's hole and learned that the last flash of lightning had revealed his position to Paulie.

Drake stood frozen in his spot, and gaped at the shotgun barrel aimed at him when Paulie was promptly tackled to the ground by a familiar blur. Drake's breathing hastened, and his gut began to twist in knots. He spun around to the bedroom door, the only barrier holding an arsenal of armed men back. And even then, he could hear one more marching across the catwalk.

"It's over. Come out quietly," demanded Dillmore.

Drake could not see the attack below but heard the crashing of barrels beneath the balcony as the creature finished off the large man.

"There's nowhere for you to go, Drake. Come out with yer weapon down and hands in the air."

Drake leaned against the wall. He racked his mind to determine his next move when scratching came from the balcony. The thing was at the window. Drake stood perfectly still as he listened to the beast sniff the air. It was searching for him.

The next lightning strike produced the creature's shadow across the inside wall. The monster extended its neck through the window then twisted its head to Drake. Both man and beast stared into the others' eyes.

The brown coat of fur the creature once wore had been replaced with black, burnt, leathery flesh that closely resembled Drake's own skin. Its piercing red eyes were still bright as fire and on top of a face like that of an old, old man. A succession of exposed bone fragments ran over its scalp and past two large ears that continued down its back and tail.

"Drake?!"

The creature's focus spun to the door. Its ears reared back like those of an angry cat, ready to strike, while its claws dug into the wooden sill. The thing began to climb inside.

Dillmore threatened, "I ain't givin' you but five seconds more."

Drake's pistol clicked. It turned the monster's furious, red glare back onto him. Drake closed his eyes, not wanting to witness what would come next when the bedroom door burst open. Dillmore led the mob of men inside.

Drake opened his eyes, and once he noticed the creature was nowhere to be found, he dropped his pistol and surrendered his empty hands into the air. It was dark, but Drake could still make out the men's waning excitement as they realized Drake was no longer putting up a fight—none the wiser to the other presence that had scampered off.

Dillmore took a step further. The lightning lit his face as he smugly affirmed, "Wise choice."

Purchase the Full-Length Novel:

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Also by Michael Hebler:

Curse of the Chupacabra

Legend of the Chupacabra

Dawn of the Chupacabra

About Michael Hebler:

Prior to becoming an award-winning author of his dark fiction Chupacabra Series, Michael was a full-time international film publicist who had worked on multiple titles for Walt Disney, Pixar, Lionsgate, Lakeshore Entertainment, Warner Bros., Summit Entertainment, and the 2013 Academy Award-winning Best Foreign Language Film, "La grande bellezza" (The Great Beauty).

Born in the early 1970's in Los Angeles County thanks to a salesman and homemaker, Michael dreamed of following his passions for entertainment and storytelling with acting. It was while studying theatre arts at Orange Coast College in Costa Mesa, California, did he realize his penchant for stories were better suited on the page rather than the stage. But creating tales with suspense, laughter, and heart is not Michael's only love. Hebler also enjoys volunteering in his local community, as well as aid in the capture/spay/neuter/release feral program.

To date, Michael's publications include Books I-IV of the six-part Chupacabra Series (NIGHT OF THE CHUPACABRA, CURSE OF THE CHUPACABRA, LEGEND OF THE CHUPACABRA, AND DAWN OF THE CHUPACABRA) as well as his first publication, THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS, a holiday picture book for believers of any age.

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Help Me Nora

Diana Deverell

A Legal Thriller/Mystery

Set in Spokane, WA, Oregon, and Idaho
Chapter 6

At four o'clock on Friday afternoon, Nora reached the summit of Fourth of July Pass. Her spirits lifted. She'd be out of the Coeur d'Alene Mountains before the predicted snowstorm hit. Damn fog was bad enough. Chaining up to drive through a blizzard would've been a nightmare.

She should've left Kellogg, Idaho, before noon. But Holly Nelson was still fretting over the consequences of changing her earlier testimony against her ex-husband. Would she be prosecuted for perjury? Would Jared Nelson try to pay her back for putting him in prison?

Questions that would keep anyone awake at night. Especially terrifying for a battered woman who couldn't get out of bed without help.

Nora couldn't abruptly abandon a shaky—and shaking—key witness.

Instead, she'd lingered with Holly, sharing lunch and talking her once again through the most likely scenario. Neither the prosecutor nor Jared would want Holly to suffer more. She was a brave woman, doing the right thing.

Nora hadn't left the care home until she'd done her best to make sure that the witness would stand firm.

Outdoors, warming up her ancient Buick, she'd phoned her Spokane Law Center colleague Channing Palmer. Eagerly passed on the good news that she had the affidavit with Holly's revised testimony in hand. And learned the bad news.

The head of the Washington Attorney General's Capital Litigation Unit, Marianne Freemantle, would depose Nora next Wednesday.

The Center coordinator, Quinn Isaacs, wanted to meet with Nora and Channing on Monday to discuss strategy.

For the past hour, Nora'd pushed that problem to the back of her mind and focused only on the highway in front of her. As she guided the Buick to lower elevations, her thoughts crystalized.

A strategy meeting? It would take two minutes.

Stopping Freemantle was the only strategy that mattered.

And she wouldn't wait until Monday to make her first move.

At six-thirty, she was meeting Washington State Patrol Trooper Sergeant Kent Harper.

He could help her. She had to make him want to.

She glanced down at the tired jeans she'd been wearing for the last two days. Past time for a change. She'd stop at home and add a little Friday-night pizzazz to her appearance.

* * *

On foot, she reached the Cooler Tavern at six thirty-five. The hot-buttered-popcorn scent was strong and her mouth watered.

Damn, she should have grabbed something to eat. But achieving the look she wanted had taken too long.

She unbuttoned the tailored cashmere coat she reserved for special occasions and craned her neck, searching for Harper.

The place was busy, all the seating occupied. Half a dozen casually-dressed student-types were roaming with drinks in hand, talking loud as they competed to be heard.

She spotted Harper in the same booth they'd shared before. She waved to make sure he saw her and pushed through the crowd at the bar to collect a beer. As the bartender filled her glass, she admired the silver letters and streamers dangling in the air above him.

She'd forgotten that New Year's Eve was four nights away, but the Cooler hadn't.

Carrying her pint to the booth, she tucked her coat and shoulder bag onto the far end of the seat, and slid in next to them to face Harper.

"Howdy." He didn't add "Little Buckaroo," his quaint nickname for her, but his amused expression told her he was thinking the words.

He grinned at her over his beer. Only an inch remained in the pint glass. Either he was one thirsty dude or he'd been waiting more than five minutes.

His blond buzz cut had grown past that just-back-from-the-barber precision she disliked. She caught a subtle whiff of musk. A fetching man. And devious, she reminded herself.

"Thanks for coming," she said.

"My pleasure."

He studied the freshly-washed curls she'd teased into a reddish cloud around her face. Let his gaze drift downward, taking in the tangled ends she'd artfully arranged on the grass-green fabric hugging her figure, and raised his glass.

"Nice dress."

"Too fancy for the Cooler." She enjoyed his admiration and the smoothness of the lager. "I have to be someplace else at eight o'clock."

When he put his glass down, his appreciative gaze had taken on a hint of calculation. As though he suspected she was lying. Yet, his tone remained amiable.

"Heard you're going to pull a corpse out of the grave."

"Going to try," she said. "'Preciate you giving me the idea."

"Glad you appreciated it," he replied. "Marianne Freemantle didn't."

"Oh? You want to tell me why you're so sure she didn't?"

"Be glad to."

He slid his beer glass to one side and leaned toward her, lowering his voice. "And you can tell me why Freemantle's so damn interested in you."

She puffed out air, a snort of disbelief. "Like you don't know."

"Why would I?" His tone was mildly puzzled.

"You can drop the act. You know what she's up to. Only reason you met me last week was because she told you to."

"Asked me to. She's not my boss. But I couldn't see any harm in doing her one little favor. So I said I'd try to find out what you had in mind for Jared Nelson's appeal. Ended up giving you more on the Gustavo Ochoa appeal than I got from you on Nelson."

She lifted her chin. "You know she's rooting around in my past. How come she told you?"

"She didn't. I heard she sent a Bellevue cop to interrogate your mother at the regional justice center. I asked him what Freemantle was after. No help there. She didn't tell him why she wanted Patty-Jean Thomas questioned. Just told him what to ask her."

Nora turned the coaster beneath her glass so the lettering was at the top, staring at it to hide her thoughts. No point trying to find out how he learned that Freemantle had sent someone to interrogate Patty-Jean. Nor what her mother had said to the cop. The law enforcement gossip network was tight-lipped with outsiders. But information zipped through it in megabyte-size chunks.

Harper likely knew every detail of her past as rewritten by Patty-Jean. Why had he bothered to contact the Bellevue cop? Eager to hear a racy story? Or did he have another reason?

She could think of one that might make them allies. Gambling, she raised her gaze to his face.

"Your exhumation idea pissed off Freemantle. She might decide to pay you back. I'm guessing you called your cop buddy looking for something you can use to protect yourself."

"You're sharp." His judgment rang with approval. "Her checking up on you isn't what I'd call routine. Maybe she's engaging in unprofessional behavior."

"What type of 'unprofessional behavior' do you mean?"

"Be easier to work that out if I knew what she was after." Harper shrugged. "Why she's trawling in the sewer to get background on you."

"Fifteen years ago, I made some bad choices. Ran off to Portland with three people who turned out to be on a multi-state crime spree. We were all busted. Luckily, my court-appointed lawyer was brilliant. I only served a little over two years in Oregon's correctional institution for women. It was all on my application to take the bar exam."

"So that information's in official records." He rubbed the back of his neck as though trying to stimulate his brain. "Freemantle didn't have to go to your mother to get it," he said. "My guess is she wants to know if she's missing anything. Useful stuff that may be in the full police investigation file. She might bend rules to get that."

"So I can't object to the release of information." Nora stared at her beer glass, trying not to make it obvious that juicy details studded the police report. Looked up to find Harper's gaze trained on her. She had to say something. "My mother rarely tells the truth."

"Cop in Bellevue says she's full of smutty stories." Harper made a disgusted noise. "Woman doesn't come across as trustworthy. Freemantle isn't likely to quote her. But she might try to get copies of the paperwork your mother filed." He kept his gaze on her, checking to be sure she was following. "When your mother sought the restraining order against the guy who molested you—"

Nora squirmed and interrupted. "He didn't."

Despite the comfortable room temperature, she shivered. She avoided revisiting that part of her past. Letting go of the beer glass, she tried to warm the icy fingers of her right hand by covering them with her left.

"He copped a feel," she muttered.

"Big guy, little girl. He should've been shot. Your mother, too. Bringing him into the house."

Harper leaned forward, put one huge hand over both of hers. "I have kids. My daughter is four. My son is two. They live with my ex-wife. I never worry they'll come to any harm when she's looking after them. She's a good mother. She protects her children. Yours wasn't and didn't. I meet parents that worthless, I can hardly stand to be in the room with them."

His skin was warm and dry, his touch as comforting as his words. Yet she didn't like him getting so close to her secrets. She pulled her hands from under his. "You think Freemantle might bend more rules to get a copy of Patty-Jean's application for the restraining order?"

"She might. Worth watching for. See if you spot it sticking out of her files."

Nora sat back, studying Harper. "You've looked at her hard. Put a lot of thought into what her actions mean. You have enough to cover yourself. Why go any farther?"

"I'm a criminal investigator. I see a potentially criminal situation that needs investigating, I check it out." The grin took over his face. "You can't accept that, fine. But if you can, maybe we should put our heads together and figure out what's going on."

Pretty straightforward. And his apparent dislike of Freemantle's tactics was convincing. Trouble was, he might be a very good actor. Still, his guesswork so far had been insightful.

"We can give it a try," Nora said. "Here's another piece of the puzzle for you. She also sent someone to interview my former cellmate."

"Your cellie still in prison?" He registered her nod and asked, "She's the one told you?"

Nora nodded again.

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds before he continued. "She tell the interviewer anything that can be used against you?"

"Nothing to tell." Nora smiled primly. "I jailed well."

"Doesn't surprise me. You seem to do many things well." Harper lifted his glass, emptied it. "So that was a dead end for Freemantle. Still, she's throwing her net wide. A clue in its own right. Anything else?"

"There is. But first, we have to talk about Jared Nelson. You claim you were only trying to get a sense of how I'd investigate his case. So why'd you think describing Jared as a cold-blooded criminal would get me to tell you anything?"

He raised his right shoulder, let it drop. "Yeah, well, sometimes my honest opinion interferes with my trying to be slick. Personally, I think you're wasting tax dollars by forcing the State to fight that appeal. I spotted him in the courtroom last time he was up here. One look at him, I had no doubt he did it. I couldn't pretend otherwise. He has career con written all over him."

"Jared has prison tats all over him. And he's bulked-up and muscle-bound because he has nothing to do other than work out. And he's mad as hell that he's there. But the man has no history of violence. And no prior criminal record. Not even a traffic violation."

"Hell, the victim testified that he assaulted her." Harper folded his arms. "Case closed."

"Did you hear Holly Nelson testify?"

"No," he said. "I wasn't at the original trial. I read the transcript. But I haven't seen her."

"I have." She sanitized any hint of 'gotcha' from her voice. "I spent the last forty-eight hours with her. She doesn't know who assaulted her. She has absolutely no memory of the incident."

He held up his open hand, palm towards her, a wait-a-minute gesture. "Medicos said she was competent to testify."

"Medico. Only one, the prosecution psychiatrist. No second opinion was allowed. Remember, the cops had no other suspect. They were convinced Jared had done it. Holly had no idea who else could have. And if her assailant was Jared, he might kill her if she didn't get him put away. So she named her husband."

"You've been busy." Harper slapped the table. "How'd you find out what course I'm teaching this term?" he asked.

Nora blinked. Where had that come from? "You teach?"

"You drop the act," he said. "I'm not stupid. You've heard I know something about eyewitness misidentification. Shazam, you produce an eyewitness testifying that she lied at trial." Harper shook his head as though to clear the mind she'd boggled. "Sister, you are some piece of work."

"Whoa, boy."

Nora snagged his empty glass, picked up her own, and stood. "You cool down while I get us refills. Then you can fill me in on this teaching gig. I swear it's news to me."

By the time she returned, a bowl of popcorn had appeared on the table and Harper had decided she might not be jerking him around. As she nibbled at the salty kernels and sipped her beer, he told her he was substitute teaching a six-week course at Eastern Washington University focused on improving the reliability of eyewitness identification.

He summarized the topics covered and the relevant science dictating reforms. "I specifically deal with mistakes that arise when the eyewitness has a memory gap," he concluded. "A person who can't remember what happened but feels a need to make an ID at all costs. And the kinds of subtle clues law enforcement officials give unintentionally that may prompt a witness to make a false ID."

"Okay, I understand why my remarks sounded rigged." She grinned and held up two fingers in a Scout salute. "Honest injun, I had no idea you'd see her as a textbook case."

"I should invite her to make a guest appearance," he said.

"She can't leave her bed. And she won't cross the Washington state line for fear she'll be arrested for perjury."

He shrugged. "Holly won't come to Spokane, she can't do old Jared much good."

"Actually, she can."

Harper was proving to be a great sounding board. Excellent investigative skills.

"Holly put her changed testimony in writing," Nora continued. "Quinn notified Freemantle that he'll be submitting it. She served me with a subpoena this morning. She's deposing me next week. Of course, she'll bring up my arrest and incarceration. She'll get as much derogatory information as she can on the record. She'll try to use those facts to impeach me. So I won't have enough credibility with the court to vouch for the authenticity of Holly's statement."

"Damn." Harper lengthened the curse into an expression of surprise. "That's one hell of a legal maneuver."

"You think she'd at least entertain the idea that Jared might not have committed the crime. The only evidence against him at the trial was Holly's testimony. And that's changed."

Harper frowned at the ceiling. "There was no corroboration?"

"None was produced at trial. The file does refer to vaginal slides taken from Holly. They showed the presence of spermatozoa. But there's no indication the sperm was tested."

His eyebrows went up. "Cops didn't run a DNA test as part of their investigation?"

"Apparently not. The prosecution had no reason to ask for one. They didn't need more evidence to convict him."

Harper's smile was knowing. "And the defense must not have been convinced by Jared's insistence that the sperm couldn't be his."

"True." She paused, working it out in her mind. "But one of the few things Holly remembers is why they were fighting that morning. He was mad because she'd refused to have sex with him for a month. He wanted it right that moment. She didn't. He stomped out of the apartment."

Harper's smile broadened. "I see we've ended up in the same place as we did last week. You have a piece of evidence some human deposited on the victim. Your client swears it wasn't left by him. A DNA test could confirm it was left by someone else. You believe your client is innocent, you get that piece of evidence tested."

Was he trying to make her angry? She stalled to give herself time to think. "I need Jared's permission to run that test."

"You bet you do. I'm glad to hear you're open to the possibility that your client is a liar. As well as a wife-beater and a baby-killer." He paused, his eyes on her.

She felt like they'd been playing a card game where only he knew the rules. A beginner, she'd shown him what she was holding.

He looked like a man who'd realized he might have the winning hand.

She wasn't saying another word about her cases until she understood what had happened. "I have to go," she announced, getting to her feet.

He stood, too, his hand reaching for her arm. "Don't be in such a hurry."

She stepped out of reach and pulled on her coat. Spotting the wall clock, she was relieved to see it was seven forty-five. "Will you look at the time?"

He glanced from her to the clock. Back again.

Her hands busy buttoning the coat, she added, "Thanks for the chat."

"We should talk again," Harper said. "Soon."

"I'll call you." She hurried to the exit without looking back. When the door closed, her breath came out in a rush.

She hadn't realized she'd been holding it.

She walked as fast along the slippery sidewalk as she dared in two-inch heels. Jittery, shivering with cold and nerves, she glanced over her shoulder. Harper hadn't followed her. No reason he should. Or that she had anything to fear if he did. So why was she shaky?

She slowed her pace. Fumbled in her shoulder bag for cigarettes. Got one between her lips and lit it. Drawing in the soothing smoke, she stared up at the full moon. The weatherman had lied to her too, with his winter storm prediction.

She couldn't trust Harper.

Moonlight reflected off the snow piled at the roadside, lighting her slow walk home.

* * *

As soon as she was inside the apartment, she turned the thermostat up, removed her coat and dress, and hung them carefully in the closet. She'd worn the clinging jersey for only ninety minutes. She could wear it once more before she had to have it cleaned.

Though she didn't know if she could bear to put on the green dress again, a vivid reminder of the fool she'd been tonight.

She pulled on baggy gray sweats and heavy socks. Still shivering, she took a hand-crocheted afghan from the closet, bundling it around her.

Despite the dropped stitches, being wrapped in her grandmother's needlework was as comforting as a hug. But not enough to offset her unease.

Standing by the closet, she surveyed the apartment. A rectangular table large enough to accommodate eight diners was shoved against the wall opposite the entry door. Not that she'd ever cooked and served a dinner for eight.

She'd allowed only a few special visitors into the studio. The first-ever place that she hadn't shared. Where she made all the rules. Her kingdom—okay Queendom—and her throne was at that table.

A wooden chair perched at the end farthest from the kitchen, facing her laptop. File folders, law books, and loose papers spread from the computer across the tabletop, leaving only one bare spot at the kitchen end where a second unmatched chair waited. A place to work, a place to eat—add in a place to sleep and she had all she needed.

Her paperwork was stacked in orderly piles, the file folders closed as tidily as the folded-up sleeper sofa gracing the left-hand wall. Except for the overnight bag she'd dumped by the closet and the dirty laundry draped over it, everything was as she'd left it last Sunday when she headed out to Pendleton, Walla Walla, and Kellogg.

Her plug-in air fresheners had done their job. The room smelled only of citrus, giving no hint a smoker lived in it.

Her orderly well-organized home hadn't changed since Sunday, but her professional life was a wreck.

She cracked open the window above the table, lit another cigarette, and sat in the chair nearest the kitchen, staring morosely at the files in front of her.

She'd dropped her guard with Harper. She'd been too busy enjoying the give-and-take with a smart investigator. And his sympathy had seemed sincere.

He talked like he shared her interest in discovering the truth.

Naturally, she mentioned the slide. She wanted to hear his reaction.

She heard.

He'd dropped any pretense of respect for her as a lawyer. He was a cop and she was the enemy. She was on her own.

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Also by Diana Deverell:

Right the Wrong

Hear My Plea

Casey Collins Counterterrorism Thrillers

FBI Special Agent Dawna Shepherd Mysteries

About Diana Deverell:

A native Oregonian, Diana Deverell was a US Foreign Service Officer and served in Washington DC, San Salvador, and Warsaw, before she moved to rural Denmark to write full-time. She debuted as a published writer in 1998 with 12 DRUMMERS DRUMMING, her first Casey Collins Counterterrorism Thriller. Her current project is the Nora Dockson Legal Thriller series, featuring a feisty appeals lawyer. The first three books are HELP ME NORA, RIGHT THE WRONG, and HEAR MY PLEA. Diana also writes short fiction starring FBI Special Agent Dawna Shepherd. Dawna's fourteenth published adventure "Shaken, Not Stirred" is in the Jan/Feb 2016 edition of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. To hear what's next, Sign up for news on Diana's website.

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Return of the French Blue

Pamela Boles Eglinski

A Romantic Suspense, Spy Thriller

Set in the Napa Valley, CA, Berkeley, CA, and France
Chapter 1

Blue Stones Vineyard  
Napa Valley, California

It was a burglar's delight.

Once a year, the vintners of Napa Valley welcomed wealthy patrons to their private homes. The occasion: celebrate the bounty of California's wine country and raise millions of dollars to help the poor. Reputations were at stake and wine sales at risk. At $2,500 a ticket, everything must be perfect.

Catalina checked last minute details. The family villa was festooned with tiny white lights. On the expansive patio, small round tables were covered with linen tablecloths and set with fine china and gold-rimmed crystal goblets. Lucas and Christiane Syrah, Catalina's parents and owners of Blue Stones Vineyard, anxiously awaited sixty dinner guests.

Catalina, or 'Cat' as she was known to family and friends, delivered orders like a police sergeant. But, unlike most sergeants, she was spectacularly gorgeous. A blend of French and Italian ancestors, her eyes were dark and large, skin rosy pink and hair the color of ebony. Tall and thin, she raised eyebrows wherever she went.

"Sam!"

The head caterer jerked to attention.

"Make certain the bars are well stocked with the '94 Syrah and a good selection of liquor, and don't forget the ice."

"Got it covered, Ms. Syrah."

"And what about the centerpieces? I don't see the flowers yet."

"They just arrived. Here they come now, straight from the florist."

Cat glanced over her shoulder to see a parade of Japanese iris, mixed with polished greenery, making its way to the tables. The deep blue color was emblematic of the vineyard.

"Gorgeous," she whispered. Then the sergeant returned. "The food, the wine, the lights, the flowers." She was ticking them off on her fingers as she moved about the patio.

"Flip the switch on, Sam. I'd like to see the lights. I want to get a sense of the ambiance."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ah," said Cat, "we need another string of lights around the base of the white oak. Can you do that? Just a small string."

"Of course. I'll do it immediately."

"And don't forget about the background music. I want the stack of CDs next to the player, playing throughout dinner. They are all 1980s songs. That is our theme for the night. Be sure to have someone ready to place Graceland on the CD player just before I begin to dance. I want 'Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes'. Got that?"

Sam nodded.

"Any questions?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I need to get dressed. I'll be back downstairs before six."

God, she's a force of nature. Sam mopped his forehead.

It was Cat's nature to plan, and double check the plan. Five years in the CIA had developed these skills and it was doubtful she'd ever forget.

This year, the Syrah family had added a precious keepsake for the guests. A small program and menu had been printed for everyone. The cover was gold foil embossed with the Blue Stones Vineyard logo: a very large blue diamond entangled by grape vines.

On the back cover was a photograph of the family heirloom, a necklace made of diamonds cut from Louis XIV's French Blue. Originally purchased from a diamond dealer who had acquired it in India, Louis ordered his court jeweler to cut the one hundred and fifteen carat diamond into a heart shape, reducing it by forty-eight carats. Louis stored the small stones that fell away during the cutting, in an ermine bag, then hid them where he thought no one would ever look.

Just inside the cover of the program was a short paragraph on the history of the Syrah family. Cat hoped this would address the inevitable questions about her family's last name. She'd heard it a million times. "Why is your family named after a grape?" Yuck yuck. The truth was her grandparents chose the name. They came to the United States aboard an old steamer just after World War II. Antonio DeFabrizzio carried one small grape vine with him, the Syrah grape. Catalina—Cat's grandmother—and Antonio planned to begin their lives anew in California, but first they had to pass through Ellis Island. On the voyage across the Atlantic, the two lovers married. They chose a new name—a simple name, they thought—one that the inspectors at Ellis Island could pronounce: Syrah.

Nearly seventy years later, the Blue Stones Vineyard was among the preeminent wineries in California. The estate was nestled against the foothills of Napa Valley, facing east. Envied by the world, the rich expansive valley of twisted vines and luscious grapes competed with vintners in France, Italy, Chile, and Australia.

***

Grandma Catalina, or Nonna as she was called by her family, stood in her private suite on the second floor of the villa, watching guests arrive. Rich wine aficionados from across the globe arrived in designer clothes and exquisite jewels. Valets parked highly polished Mercedes and convertible BMW's. Limousines cruised into designated slots. Hostesses escorted guests into the villa and out onto the patio.

Nonna watched as one uninvited guest made his way into the crowd. Dressed as a caterer in a formal white linen uniform, Nicholas Bonhomme, secret agent with the French Directorate, slipped into the mix of guests and waiters on the patio below. Glancing up, he caught Nonna's eye. She nodded.

Bonhomme joined the bartenders, just to the side of the backyard patio.

Tall and muscular, he looked like a cover model for a romance novel. Black hair tossed with mousse gave him a rakish look. His tan indicated time in the sun: golfing, playing tennis, swimming—maybe all three. Bonhomme was a magnet for women of all ages.

Sam advanced with clipboard in hand. "There are too many bartenders here. You," he said, pointing at Bonhomme, "follow me." Stopping just inside the patio door, he asked, "What's your name? You're a new hire. I want to make note of your assignment."

"Nick Edwards."

"Edwards, Edwards. Hmm, don't see your name listed," Sam said, looking up at Bonhomme.

"I believe I was the last hired," offered Bonhomme. "Perhaps my name is at the bottom of the sheet."

Sam ran his finger down the list and onto the second page, where late hires were penciled in.

"Not my handwriting, but maybe you were added by Ms. Syrah. Doesn't matter. Let's get you working. I want you at the wine bar, inside the villa, until it looks like the guests have moved through. Then go back out to the patio. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now get to work."

An ultra-thin wisp of a woman in a scoop neck black dress approached the bar. "Where'd you come from, Mr. Gorgeous?"

Touching his hand, she asked, "You're new, aren't you, sweetie? You've never been to our house. Don't we rate?" A lock of copper-colored hair slipped over one eye.

"I'm new, just started today. May I serve you a drink?" The woman fit the image of a trophy wife: too much money, too much makeup, too little purpose.

"I'd like something that'll warm me to my toes. There's a little chill in the air, don't you think?" she asked, pulling her hair back behind an ear. "Do you have anything behind the bar that can help me out?" she purred.

"I have just the thing, a splash of B&B, straight up."

"Sure," she smiled, "straight up is perfect." Taking the drink from Bonhomme, she wrapped her fingers over his, locking his hand around the glass and beneath her palm.

Bonhomme heard the quaint tinkle of a delicate porcelain bell, signaling guests to take their seats. The trophy wife let go, smiling.

"See you later, gorgeous."

Bonhomme clenched his teeth.
Chapter 2

Blue Stones Villa  
Napa Valley, California

The room was a sea of movement. Guests searched for assigned tables; bartenders poured Riesling into the elegant stemware; waiters lined the far wall, ready with the chilled cucumber soup.

In the midst of the churning activity, Bonhomme scanned the room. It looked like a good chance to slip out. Mumbling something to the nearest waiter, he exited down the hall.

"Not so fast," Sam said, catching Bonhomme by the sleeve as he exited down the hall. "Listen, if you think you're off to take a leak, it couldn't be a worse time. New hires," he groused. "Suck it up and get back in there!"

Merde!

Twenty-five waiters began a well-choreographed routine. They served a dollop of thick creamy soup in the center of large white bowls, followed by a delicate petite farcis, then a small goblet of rosemary sorbet to cleanse the palate.

With each course came a fresh glass of wine, the one most suitable for food and palate. Bonhomme moved from table to table, quietly pouring a deep red Syrah, chosen by Luciano, known to all as Luc, to complement the next course.

Cat watched Bonhomme as he approached their table. Leaning over, she whispered to her father, "Who's the new waiter?"

"Don't know. Must be one of the extras hired for tonight. You'll need to ask Sam if you want the guy's name. You interested?"

"Dad!" She whispered, shaking her head.

The entrée, a crown roast of lamb, was carved at each table. Waiters brandished sharp knives, slicing through the meat like butter, placing three small chops on each plate. A side dish of fingerling potatoes drizzled with olive oil and roasted rosemary was added, along with a small bowl containing slices of poached pear sprinkled with balsamic vinaigrette.

The women groaned, gripping their midriffs and gasping in chorus, "I can't possibly eat it all!" Husbands responded in unison with words of encouragement, "Give it a try, honey." Everyone set to work on their respective servings, planning to leave only decorative parsley and lamb bones on their gold-rimmed Lennox plates.

While the guests lingered over a salad of lightly tossed greens, the waiters caramelized the crème brûlé. Servers cleared dishes. The well-scripted performance was nearly complete, when Bonhomme finally saw his moment.

Bonhomme glanced around for Sam. He was nowhere in sight. Slipping down the dimly lit hall, Bonhomme entered the nearest bathroom. He unsnapped his uniform, stuffed it into a towel bin, and covered it up. He'd transitioned from waiter to jewel thief.

***

Cat turned to her father. "Excuse me for a moment, Dad, but I need to check on something."

"Catalina, we're about to begin a round of introductions and toasts! You can't leave now. We'll be addressing the guests in a few minutes."

"But Dad, I'm worried..."

"Everything is fine, dear. Sam is taking care of things. That's why we pay him. The microphone is on. We need to get started."

As Cat walked to the podium, she scanned the patio. Where was he? First, he was everywhere...now nowhere. I don't like this.

Wearing black slacks and a tight-fitting crew neck sweater, Bonhomme stepped out of the bathroom and moved toward the Pinkerton guard at the end of the hall.

"Gotta cigarette?" Bonhomme asked casually. "I hate these fundraising events, can't even enjoy a good smoke."

Chuckling, the guard replied, "I know what you mean, but smoking is not..."

Bonhomme's hand came down hard on the side of the man's neck. The unsuspecting guard slumped over. Nicholas propped him up in a nearby chair. The guard looked a little like a Duane Hanson sculpture, just not as waxy.

Bonhomme moved up the side stairs, waited a moment, and slipped into the sitting room. Breathing softly, he listened for anyone who might have followed. No one came.

Back in the hall, he tiptoed toward Luc's study. The Directorate's floor plan was accurate. The study was four doors down the hall and just beyond the sitting room.

He was there in seconds.

Bonhomme scanned the room. Luc's mahogany desk was hard to miss. Directorate files indicated a small safe in the floor, right where Luc would normally place his feet.

Twilight left the shade-drawn room dark. Retrieving a flashlight from the small tool kit in his hip pocket, Bonhomme pulled the armchair out from behind the desk and crawled under. Flashlight on, he pulled the tiny Oriental rug back, revealing the old safe. He had the combination. Nonna had helped with that, too. He worked the dial, listening for the telltale clicks as he twisted to the right, to the left, and back to the right. Holding his breath, Bonhomme opened the safe. And, there it was...Louis XIV's ermine bag. He untied the strings and poured the necklace into his hand. The liquid blue diamonds sparkled, even in the dimmest of light.

No time to admire. There were two other bags in the safe. Perhaps he should look in them, too. He must be certain he had the right necklace. There would be no coming back.

Voices came from down the hall. Damn, they must have come up the central staircase. The guards were making their rounds, opening each door and briefly inspecting the rooms. He closed the safe and hunched under the desk just before the overhead light went on.

From his hiding place, Bonhomme listened as feet moved about the room. The guard hummed to himself, turned around, switched off the lights, and exited.

Wiping cold sweat from his forehead, Bonhomme exhaled. Reopening the safe, he explored the other bags. None contained anything comparable to the necklace in the ermine bag.

A sharp click and the safe was secured. He slipped the bag into his pocket and moved to the study door. Opening it a crack, he listened. A conversation came from down the hall. The men were attempting a conversation with the Pinkerton guard, teasing him from the second floor. Suspecting he was just napping, they moved off, laughing.

A bedroom door opened. Through a tiny slit, Bonhomme watched as Nonna exited her room wearing a silver chiffon evening gown. She asked the guards to help her down the central staircase, where she would join the party for dessert and to watch Cat dance. The perfect diversion, thought Bonhomme. Nonna chatted as the men escorted her downstairs.

He inched his way back down the hall, then down the stairs and past the unconscious guard. Bonhomme slipped into the restroom where he planned to switch back into his uniform, but someone was in the private stall.

Merde! Just stand at the sink and wash your hands.

Music played in the living room. It sounded like Paul Simon. The man in the stall wasn't about to miss anything. Quickly zipping his pants, he scurried out without stopping to wash.

Bonhomme returned to the dining room, once again in his uniform, with the necklace tucked into his pocket.

On his way to the front door, he gathered up a half-empty case of wine and made his way to the exit. He looked around the room one more time, hoping Sam was nowhere near, and turned to leave the room. Nearly colliding with Cat, she locked eyes with him, and moved on.

"What the hell are you up to?" Sam whispered from behind. "We don't clean up until all the guests have left. You've been wrong-footed all night. Now get back over to the patio bar and don't leave until I tell you."

The music of Paul Simon's 'Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes' filled the house. With a little flourish, Cat and her partner began to dance. She looked deliciously seductive. Her shoes glittered with flecks of silver and she wore a short spaghetti-strap dress the color of Burgundy wine. The room quieted to whispers, as she danced the East Coast Swing. The guests were captivated.

Her eyes glistened, her movements fluid as water—or perhaps wine. She swayed, following her partner's lead. All but one member of the audience was mesmerized.

"Hey, sweetie pie, you're drooling," the drunken trophy wife whispered in Bonhomme's ear.

He stiffened.

Cat moved toward them. Silver shoes glistening, she swirled across the floor. Pausing a second, she took a handful of glitter from the sideboard and began dusting the guests, liberally sprinkling dear Nonna. She smiled. Cameras clicked.

Bonhomme recalled the Directorate reports. Cat, Nonna's namesake, was once a CIA agent but she gave it up to study art history.

How could she abandon the CIA for a reclusive academic life? He shook his head and imagined her...a scholar wandering the dark recesses of libraries and museums researching obscure paintings and boring academic treatises. Cat was far too beautiful for such a life. She was danger laced with intrigue.

The music ended. A moment of silence followed, then robust applause. Bonhomme stepped around the trophy wife, now collapsed in a chair, legs sprawled out.

He made his way to the patio and slipped through the wrought iron gate and onto the dark path behind the villa. Finally reaching his car, parked just behind the white oak, he slid in, inadvertently scattering sliver glitter on the floor and the gearshift. The motor came to life with a soft roar.

Bonhomme exited the estate, lights on low, heading down the back roads toward San Francisco International Airport. He patted his pocket once again. The French Blues were on their way home.
Chapter 3

The Left Bank  
Paris, France

Gul Mazeer balled up the front page of Le Figaro and tossed it into the corner of his apartment. Food cartons, newspapers, and rubbish littered the floor. Without a plan or a team, he could do nothing. He festered.

Then a smile crossed his lips, remembering the glory years of terrorism and the September 11th attack on America. He idolized the charismatic leader Osama bin Laden and he worshiped his brotherhood, al Qaeda, 'the base'. More than a decade ago, he had volunteered for an Afghan training camp. It was there that he learned military skills and the systematic techniques of terrorism. He proved himself a devoted follower of bin Laden—the terrorist leader that SEAL Team Six had killed in 2011, leaving al Qaeda headless and terrorist cells without direction.

Mazeer thought of his family, those who paid the ultimate price for his radicalism. His mother's dead eyes never left him. Unable to drive the sight away, never wanting to drive it away, he swore vengeance. Who were these killers that had destroyed his family? Western, yes, but American? It was never known. It didn't matter. He fed on hatred.

Mazeer laughed. He was a rogue terrorist now. He could make his own plans. It was time to prove himself, and rise to the top of a new al Qaeda.
Chapter 4

Berkeley, California

The phone rang from across the room. The clock registered 3 a.m.

"Why didn't I turn that damned thing off?" Catalina mumbled, stumbling across the room. She picked it up on the third stanza of Beethoven's Fourth.

"Cat, we need to talk." It was Tadeo, from the CIA.

"Not at this hour we don't," she said, reaching for the 'off' button.

"Hold on. Hold on. I know it's late, early, whatever, but you'll want to hear what I have to say."

"If you're trying to draw me back into the CIA, you can forget it. I'm done with that chapter in my life. Remember? I'm not coming back."

"Catalina, we need you. So does your family."

A chill ran up her spine. "What's this about my family?"

"Homeland Security has elevated the alert to the highest classification—the old Code Red. Terrorist cells are in constant chatter. We think an attack is imminent. The team wants you at the Pentagon as soon as you can get here. Tomorrow."

"Gee, thanks for the advance notice," she said mockingly. "And let's go back to my family. What's that all about? Just a ploy to get me there? My skills are rusty, Tad. I've been a grad student at Berkeley for the past five years. Remember?"

"You're still the best jewelry thief we've ever had."

"Family, Tad, family. I need an answer."

"Cat, talk to your father and then call me back."

"Now wait a minute! What in hell is going on? You don't call me at three in the morning and tell me to talk to my father! What's this all about?"

"Just talk to him, all right? I'd rather he told you."

"CIA agents are all alike...classified papers, Code Red, assassination watch, blah, blah, blah. Okay. Okay. I'm driving up to the house this afternoon, and there damn well better be a good reason for pulling my family into this! And Tadeo, don't ever call me at 3 a.m. again!"

Purchase the Full-Length Novel:

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Also by Pamela Boles Eglinski:

She Rides with Genghis Khan

Code Name: Purple Fire

The Third Knife

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About Pamela Boles Eglinski:

Born in San Francisco, Pamela Boles Eglinski is the author of three novels in the Catalina and Bonhomme Spy Series. The Third Knife is the prequel to Return of the French Blue and She Rides with Genghis Khan. All books begin in California. The Third Knife is the newly-published prequel to the Catalina & Bonhomme Spy Series. A boxed set of the three novels will be available in early 2016.

Code Name: Purple Fire is Eglinski's first novella in a Special Ops series.

Enjoy these suspense-packed stories—based on historical fact laced with legends from the past. Eglinski entertains her readers, takes them to places rarely seen, and engages them in missions they never imagined. Two new novellas in the Special Ops series will be published in 2016: Code Name: Yellow Fire and Code Name: Crimson Fire. These will also appear in a boxed set.

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Wolf Castle

gay toltl kinman

A Historical/Gothic Novel

Set in San Simeon, CA, London, England, San Francisco, CA, and Los Angeles, CA
Prologue

America/1926

I stand on the roadway looking up at the castle as it sits in the mist on the hilltop, part substantial, part ethereal.

Leaning against the roadster, I try to relax as the soft ocean breeze washes over me, ruffles my bobbed hair and scatters my thoughts. The only sounds come from the seagulls and the waves. So peaceful.

In spite of the warmth of the sunlight the thought of those darkened hallways chill me.

The first Baron Von Reiner was said to be mad, and stories about him and the castle abounded in the village.

The castle, brooding over the cloud-shrouded coast of the Pacific Ocean, was the home he built. I say 'home,' but the word is not right. 'Home' should not describe this castle, nor the use made of it. Call the structure a place and tell how the maker poured some of his madness into the mortar fashioning the building so that it oozed out between the stones affecting all who lived within its walls.

Suddenly, time sweeps away, and I am that impetuous girl again, seeing the castle for the first time from Hennessey's horse and wagon. I am that girl again, frightened in a new country, ill from the voyage, struggling to be full of courage.

The old horse hitched to the wagon is Fate pulling me to my destiny. How unaware I was of what is to be, unaware of the power of Fate.

I remember every jolt of the wagon on that day. Faster now by car, the jolts less, but I know the journey up there can undo none of the past.

Pacific means peaceful. On a sunny day like this one I remember the ocean, as it was then, a playful friend, cuddling us, making different sounds for us, entertaining us.

Yet, on other days, I felt it was a giant, prehistoric amoeba trying to get at us in the castle. I never shook the feeling that the ocean was a giant monster straining to break the invisible barrier that let it go no further than the sandy beach.

All at once the cry of the seagulls is now menacing, the muted wash of the waves, sinister, and a cloud covered the sun's warmth. The girl I was dissipates.

What now? Should I drive to the top of the hill as I promised? To the castle?

I feel paralyzed, as immobile as the parked roadster. I will my body to move but I cannot make it do so.

I picture what it must be like up there now. The big oak tree, split and scarred by lightening, delivered its own kind of justice. Is it lying dead, a home to maggots? What of the rest of the grounds? Has nature reclaimed her own after all this time?

Are all the dead souls satisfied with the justice meted out to their murderer?

What of...?

My leg aches again. All of that night comes back. My heart beats fast and I steady myself on the car. I shiver in the sunshine but perspiration sprouts on my forehead and hands.

The wolves come to mind.

I can't do it. I can't take the trip up there. Not now, not alone.

I step into the roadster and drive shakily back to the Inn.

Twenty-seven years isn't long enough.
Chapter One

1899/London

The year 1899 was the end of an era for me, the end of a world, of a lifetime; not 1900 as the historians state, nor 1901 when our beloved Queen Victoria died. But that year, that eternity, 1899.

The year began ominously with the death of my father, my dearest companion. I wept all my tears dry, straightened my shoulders and did what I had to do. I, Lavinia Fergusson Cathcart, and the congregation buried him on a wind-biting day in January. No family attended. There was none of my father's side. My mother, Medine Fergusson, had journeyed from a little town near Glasgow to work in the great hotels of London. She had fallen in love and married an Englishman, and a High Anglican at that. It was a sin too unforgivable and her family had disowned her. If she had any living relations, I had no inkling of who they might be. My mother had died shortly after I was born, and I knew not whether my father had informed them or nay. We never discussed that topic. With his death, the income from his work as a clergyman ceased. My job as a teacher at St. Margaret's, the parish school, did not produce enough remuneration to sustain myself. I could remain in the small cottage which we had called home until the next minister and his family was hired. Then I would have to vacate. Bless the Council members because they were slow in their selection.

Several were interviewed, and asked to preach as of a Sunday, until they all agreed on a choice. But time had passed and their first choices had taken other positions. So it came to one Mr. Dudley to whom the offer was made.

Procrastination. Although I must admit to other faults which Father was at me about quite often, delaying something was not one of them. Usually I was off doing it before it needed to be done. Even Father would admit that. But I fear grief had stilled my energy and with a false set of my mind, I told myself that something would turn up and I need not prepare to move. I dragged myself around that winter.

Something did turn up.

Mr. Dudley accepted the post. He came to visit with a fat son, as pasty-faced as I have ever seen. I had them to dinner to show them about the cottage, not that it was so grand, and to introduce them to all in the neighborhood, as some of them he would not be seeing in church come Sundays. No discredit to him. They were not of a mind to church-going, but the truth be told, they were as good as any Christian in their heart.

At dinner, Mr. Dudley kept saying how delicious it all was, the mutton, the dumplings, even though it was a plain meal. I was not a cook. My Father took all the credit for that. He was not here and I had to eat, so with a little help from the neighbors, I presented a respectable meal.

His son treated the bowls of food, after we had served ourselves, as his portion.

I was glad to get rid of them. However, the next day, and the next after that, Mr. Dudley returned to measure. Rooms, windows, doors, whatever. I noticed he did not write any figures down. Finally on the third day, he stayed so long that I offered him a cup of tea. He held the cup and saucer on his lap as he sat on the chesterfield. I sat forward in a straight-back chair. I drank my tea quickly. I wanted him on his way. He would be taking occupancy of the house soon enough.

"Er, um, Miss Cathcart. It seems that we have not time for the niceties." He looked at me. I had an ill foreboding. "Er, that I would prefer, of course. Yes. So I will come right to the point. You are a comely girl and keep a good house. Your tongue may be a bit runaway I have heard but, I'm sure with time and the proper tutelage you'll overcome that."

These might be the words of my father about my tongue. It was true that I tended to blurt out words that had not steeped in my mind for even a moment. The words came down from my brain before I even knew I had the thought and out of my mouth before I even knew I had opened it. It was quite an embarrassment for my father. But to have this stranger tell me thus and in my own home, at least it was at that moment, did not set well.

"And you being a clergyman's daughter so you know all that job entails." He paused and cleared his throat.

"More tea, Mr. Dudley?" I said, although he had not touched a drop thus far. Did I think I could fill him with tea so that he would not speak his words?

"Er, um, no." He set the cup down. "What I'm trying to say is that, you do not have to move. I'm offering to marry you. You'd be a fine mother to my son, and you could continue your good works in the parish. And your teaching, if you've still a mind to do that." He eyed me much as a hungry cat on a plump sparrow.

There must have been something of the outrage in my mind that showed on my face because he stood quickly. "And I'll be giving you time to think it all over. I know this is quite sudden, but I've given it a great deal of thought."

I stood too.

"I'll see myself out," he said somewhat hastily. "Separate rooms until you get used to the idea, that is. Good day, for now, I'll be back in the morning." He threw the latter words over his shoulder as he speedily found his way out.

I stood there for a moment and then ran to the kitchen basin and threw up.

I wiped my mouth and face with a cold cloth. I would be a slave to him and that whey-faced child of his. And yes, I could teach all day and then come home to make their dinners and wash their clothes.

Another dollop of lunch came up and plopped into the basin. I rinsed my mouth out with water. Had I any brandy in the house I would have used that instead to get the taste of Mr. Dudley out of my mouth.

Separate rooms, indeed.

I looked at myself in the window's reflection. "I must find another position," I said to the reflection.

It is all your own fault, the reflection's eyes said. You kept telling yourself something would turn up. And it has. Mr. Dudley.

With that thought I had to laugh. "You," I said to the reflection, "are looking as pasty as Claude.

Mrs. Waterfield, my neighbor, aware of my circumstances, but not of Mr. Dudley's offer, told me that she had heard from her friend, Gladys, about a position. Gladys was a 'daily' for Mr. Menzies, a solicitor, and he was interviewing for a governess. Not for himself, Mrs. Waterfield hastened to inform me but for SOMEBODY else.

"You know who he is, dearie. Consorts with nobility. So, ducks, you can bet your best bit of finery that he's interviewing for a Governess for SOMEBODY. Sure to have lots of money, them's the only kind can afford Mr. Menzies. He certainly has lots and not stingy with the household expenses, Gladys tells me. You should see his digs. It's something. Went in there with Gladys one day while they was all out. Everything's the best. Wish I could get me a situation like that dusting all those posh things. I told Gladys about you before, about your father, God rest his soul, such a good man, never a better minister have we had, and how you were all alone in the world and today she upped and told me how he was interviewing come Monday and I was to tell you about it. She has his card with the location and all..."

She stopped for a breath and looked at me with hesitant eyes as though she had offended me beyond recall. I took that moment to thank her excessively, grasped the card and gave her my promise to present myself to Mr. Menzies.

My dress, of course, was appropriate. An all-purpose brown merino that I wore when teaching. A little brushing of that, and much more of my red hair that seem to spring all over in fat coils like Medusa's. I finally squashed it all down with a bonnet, tied the ribbons near to choking and I was ready for whatever the world had to throw at me. So under a rain of good lucks and pats from Mrs. Waterfield and Gladys I started off into the light mist of an April morning in London.

The mist felt so refreshing that I lifted my face to it, and the air smelled so clean that I took huge breaths of it.

London in 1899, it seemed to me, was at its zenith. All that was good and worldly and cosmopolitan and voguish was there. The theatre was alive, the shops had the latest fashions. Whatever one wanted—food, entertainment, attire—anything and everything was at hand. Paddington, Victoria and Waterloo stations could take one anywhere in the world. But London was all the world to me, and I never wanted to be anywhere else.

I felt the magic of the city. It filled me with energy so that my steps were faster. I was off on an adventure. Although I would miss the children at St. Margaret's and the enjoyment of seeing them learn, I would have new children to teach. Somewhere in London, of course.

Today I offered myself a treat. After the interview, I would take myself off to a matinee in the West End. A whole show, not just slipping in during intermission as Phyllida and I did. Very conversant on second and third acts, we were.

Phyllida had proposed the idea originally. I laughed, as it was so like her to come up with something outlandish. However, I should have realized that she was the impulsive doer and my laugh had spurred her on. Her plan was to mingle with the playgoers as they milled about outside the theatre during intermission smoking their pipes, drinking cups of tea, or sipping flutes of champagne.

The first time we set our plan in action, the crowd pushed me in front of Phyllida, but hesitant I was to move. She prodded my spine with the handle of her parasol, "Go in, Vinney, act like you just came out for some air," she hissed behind me.

"Oh, Phyl..." I said, about to tell her I didn't think I could go through with it, but I was in the doorway by then. "A breath of fresh air," I heard my voice saying to the usher who looked at me rather strangely, I thought, but he responded with, "Yah, it can get stuffy in here." It was a heart-stopping moment for me before he spoke for I was about to confess all. But the crowd surged and the tip of Phyllida's parasol jabbed the back of my leg.

We hurried down the stairs to the stalls in fits of laughter. It was our first time and it was so easy. Several empty seats were available which we glided into when the house lights dimmed. It was the most daring thing we had ever done, and we gripped each other's hands in the excitement of our triumph.

Our families would have been appalled if they knew. But they did not.

It was the beginning of several such visits. It didn't matter what the play was. We were entranced, fascinated by the actors who created another world for us, different with each play. And so different from our own lives.

Thinking about Phyllida slowed my steps on my route to Mr. Menzies. She had met and married a former Captain of the Guards, now a mill manager in the north of England, Burnley near Manchester, to be exact. I was deliciously happy for her but sad for myself. With my father dead and Phyllida gone, I truly felt alone.

And I felt the sharp division of my life passing from girl to woman. Now I was on my own and had to earn my own keep. No more could I giggle in the stalls with Phyllida.

Earning my own keep brought me back to the interview. I felt that I had no chance of obtaining it, but went to please Mrs. Waterfield, and also as a bit of practice for future interviews. I planned to make the rounds of the agencies who placed governesses. Surely there would be a vacancy somewhere for me. All I needed was one.

When I entered Mr. Menzies' waiting room and saw so many others there, I was about to leave, but having nothing else to do nor any place to go at least until a matinee started, I stayed. Besides, I reminded myself, you promised Mrs. Waterfield. A chair was vacated so I promptly sat on its edge.

I knew we were all there for the same purpose because from the look of us, none could afford the services of this solicitor. We were all genteel ladies, educated beyond our station, of modest means, and we must hire ourselves out as governesses or marry.

I did not consider the latter as an alternative. For I planned to marry only for love as my parents had, and, even with their destituteness, they never regretted their action.

Each of us tried to appraise the others without being observed. Ostensibly hands and minds were occupied with needlework or 'improving' books. But—so many darting eyes!

From time to time, a clerk came out. He was perhaps fifteen, with a dark brown cowlick of hair plastered to his forehead. He looked not at any of us but through the window at the end of the room and called out a name as though reading it from the neighboring brick wall. Someone would arise and follow him through the door. Several minutes later the woman would exit and the process would be repeated. However, the waiting room never emptied as the exiting woman usually held the door for another who entered.

"Miss Cathcart." The announcement of my name in the silence startled me so, that the book which had been lying unopened upon my lap thudded to the floor. Scooping it up, I followed the boy with as much dignity as was possible.

He ushered me into an expensive and tastefully-decorated study as might be found in someone's home. Mrs. Waterfield was right, only the rich and noble would be allowed into this room.

Our cottage could fit into its space with an area left over for a kitchen garden. It seemed to take a long time for me to traverse the ornately-designed carpet to reach the high-backed chairs placed before the desk. The chairs and desk were large when viewed up close, but in proportion to the room. There was a large alcove to my left, in shadows, so that I only had an impression of a polished wood standing cabinet, the size of the altar in my father's church.

On my right was an area decorated as a parlor with settee, fireplace, upholstered chairs, paintings of gilt frames, and a heavy wooden sideboard beautifully carved. The whole room invited one in, offered to surround one with comfort. It put me at my ease rather than awed me, for they were lovely things to be admired.

For a moment I thought I was alone, then a figure rose from the highback chair facing the window. He continued to look out of the window for a moment more before turning to me. I had the feeling that it was not so much a lack of courtesy as it was that he was deep in thought as though a problem consumed him.

He was about to greet me, a hand raised to shake mine, a smile forming, then it all stopped and he just looked at me. His good breeding would not allow an opened-mouth, wide-eyed stare, but he was mentally doing just that.

I should have checked my hair and my hat before I entered the waiting room, I thought. What a mare's nest my hair must look like.

Then the mechanics of greeting me continued as though they had not been suspended for a moment.

"Please...sit down." He touched the back of the chair facing his desk. "Miss Cathcart...well...Lavinia is a beautiful name." I acknowledged the compliment although I thought he was just being a gentleman.

I waited expectantly for the questions of my qualifications.

"Yes, it's a beautiful name." He seemed to be searching for something to say to fill the void of silence, but I thought his mind to be elsewhere. So I sat and waited for this wealthy, handsome, mildly eccentric solicitor in his mid-thirties to begin. He stood by the side of his desk, fidgeting with his monocle.

I knew I had only a few minutes, judging by how long each of the other candidates was in his office. Since talking was what I did best, I began. I told him about the subjects I liked to teach and about some of my brighter students. I spoke quickly, related a couple of incidents I thought were humorous, as I had told them to my father at the end of the day. I reached a point where I knew I was babbling, so nervous I was. I clamped my mouth shut, biting my tongue as something to concentrate on. I swept all thoughts of what he must be thinking from my mind.

He glanced away and looked out the window for a moment giving no sign that he had heard any of my words.

"As you know, I am interviewing for a governess. The child in question is a ten-year-old boy. He's quite a good chap, I'm told, and very...well, I think you'll find him quite compatible."

I would find him quite compatible. Did he mean...

"My client is the Baron Gregor von Reiner." He paused. He seemed to wait for me to recognize the name, but I did not. I nodded anyway. I thought he might be referring to an English Barony, the lowest of the nobility chain. However the name sounded Germanic.

"What you do not know, and this may change your mind, as it has all of the other women I have seen thus far..."

I held my breath. What horrible vice was he going to relate to me about this man? Could I put up with it?

"...is that the position is in the United States of America."

"America!" Surprise ejected the word from my mouth.

"I'm afraid that has deterred most of the young ladies who have been in here this morning. That and....well...."

I sat firmly in the chair, my mind absorbing the geographic fact while he paused in speaking. It had not occurred to me that the position would even be outside London. The United States of America was just a place in a book.

"California, to be exact," he went on. "Are you still interested?"

"Are you still interested?" I shot back. I had not meant to say that. Here I had been going on and on and all he was doing was politely waiting for me to finish so he could tell me where the position was. I felt like a ninny. I was a ninny.

"I am," he said. "And you?"

I nodded, afraid to voice anything that might change his mind.

"Good," he said, "then the matter is settled."

And with that exchange my fate was sealed.

Dear Phyllidia,

So much has happened in the time since your marriage to your handsome Captain. I know you must be terribly happy as I am for you.

I write this note in haste because I am about to sail - yes! - to America - yes!! To be the governess to the son of a Baron. It's all so exciting, I am beside myself.

I will write you more during the crossing. How funny that my letter will be written on the way to America and may come back on the very same boat.

Keep well - I miss you dreadfully.

Love, Lavinia

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Also by gay toltl kinman:

Death in Rancho Las Amigas

Death in Covent Garden

Death in a Small Town

About gay toltl kinman:

Gay toltl kinman has nine award nominations for her writing, including three Agathas; several short stories in American and English magazines and anthologies; two collections of short stories, three children's books, Y.A. gothic novel, four adult mysteries, a novella, several short plays produced and published; articles in professional journals and newspapers; co-edited two non-fiction books; and currently writes a children's book column; and edits a book review newsletter. Kinman has library and law degrees.

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A Snitch in Time

Sunny Frazier

A Police Procedural, Amateur Sleuth Novel

Set in the Sierra Nevada Foothills, California
CHAPTER 2

Christy Bristol lightly touched the steering wheel of her Saturn as she guided the car around the gentle curves embracing the foothills of Eastern Central County. Every so often the hills parted and Christy got a breathtaking view of vast orange orchards below, their leaves a vibrant forest green against tan scrub.

California was anticipating another drought. Winter snow pack was scarce this year as the Sierra Nevadas disappointed both skiers and farmers. Early April and the grass was already dried out. Reminders of past fires dotted the hills. Blackened tree trunks stood barren and forlorn, a forest of charcoal.

None of this ruined Christy's mood today. The smog of Central Valley was left behind, along with her office workload. Ahead, lupine grew in thick clumps along the road, their spires of purple petals reaching for the sky. The Stones belted out "Get off of My Cloud" over the airwaves.

She was losing the signal from the oldies station. Christy glanced down to press the "seek" feature, searching for another station. Mariachi music blared, the Mexican om-pah beat pounding like a German polka on speed. Religious talk radio, an ad for a furniture close-out sale—EVERYTHING MUST GO!—and Waylon Jennings crooning about Luckenbach, Texas.

The blare of a horn made her jump. Riding her bumper was a truck, frantically signaling her to move her Saturn ass over. There wasn't much of a shoulder and a curve coming up.

"Idiot!" she swore as she inched as far as she could to the right.

The truck barreled past going twenty miles over the posted limit. The redneck behind the wheel signaled her with a hand gesture that was either a wave or the bird. Within seconds, he disappeared leaving her covered in his dust.

Not exactly the local welcome Christy expected.

The people here are quirky, Lennie had e-mailed weeks before when she sent Christy an invite to visit. Christy interpreted the description as colorful, folksy, somewhere between Mayberry and The Dukes of Hazzard. If the rude driver was any indication, Burlap's habitants more closely resembled America's Most Wanted.

Christy forced herself to shrug off her irritation. The sky was still cloudless, the curves hair-pinned as the car climbed higher into the foothills, pine-scented air breezed through the open windows, and red and blue strobe lights flashed in her rear view mirror.

The wail of sirens caught up with the lights and echoed around the Saturn like a tsunami of sound.

"What the hell?" Christy glanced at the speedometer, doubled-checked to make sure her seatbelt was buckled, put on her turn signal, and eased right on the shoulderless road.

The patrol cars sped past the Saturn. Whatever laws had been broken or trouble loomed up ahead, Christy wasn't the culprit.

She waited until the dust cleared, the wail of the sirens evaporated, and her heartbeat was back to normal before pulling onto the road.

So much for a start to a quiet weekend in the country.

~ ~ ~

The directions to the trailer were like Lennie: colorful, jumbled, and based on amusing landmarks. "Go right at that half-round house, past the vulture tree, take the turn where there's this weird cement thing on the side of the road, and continue until you see a rickety old store. The Burlap Bag is a little ways across the street. We live there, too."

Christy spotted a geodesic house peeking out from weeds on the side of the highway. There was Ronnie's Roadhouse across the street advertising biscuits and gravy. Why Lennie ignored the restaurant for a building she couldn't even describe made no sense, except to people who knew how Lennie's thinking process worked.

The buzzard tree was harder to spot. Good thing there was nobody riding her tail because Christy was going fifteen miles per hour. She looked from side to side, wondering exactly what she was looking for. A foreboding dead tree looked out of place in the middle of a schoolyard. On the top was a large nest. She watched as a buzzard glided in, catch of the day in the scavenger's mouth. Feeding time for the chicks.

The weird cement thing was a sculpture of some sort: a pink block and a square box tilting to one side with a window cut into the box. Modern art looked out of place in the shadowy woods, yet strangely primitive at the same time.

A country store appeared over the tip of a rise. The planked walkway wound around the front and side of the building. Weathered signs advertising RC Cola and Bull Durham snuff competed with the neon of Miller beer.

To get to the trailer, Christy had to steer the Saturn down a primitive dirt drive. Potholes tested the car's shocks and an untrimmed hedge scraped the sides. She pulled in next to a silver Land Rover and cussed under her breath.

As soon as she got out of the car, she checked for scratches on the midnight blue paint job.

"Hey, you got here. I was afraid I'd get you lost and you'd wind up at Kings Canyon National Park." Lennie, dressed like a lumberjack in blue-plaid flannel, clambered down the metal steps and swept Christy up in a big bear hug. She let go and held Christy at arm's length. "Something's different about you. Did you change your hair? Lose weight? You're still not wearing makeup. What's different?"

"No glasses."

"Hell, that's right. You aren't wearing specs! Laser surgery?"

"Contacts."

Blue contacts. For once, her light blue eye color, which drew too much attention for their paleness, now looked like normal blue eyes.

"Nice to see you're not hiding behind those big ol' frames of yours. Now people can actually see your face."

Christy shrugged off the compliment. Praise on her looks still was something she had to work on. One change at a time was all she could handle.

Christy slipped out of Lennie's grasp and walked over to the passenger side of the car. She ran her hand over the doors.

Lennie followed behind. "Whatcha looking for?"

Christy straightened up. "Scratches. Don't you ever trim the hedges?"

"Well, hello to you, too."

"I'm just saying."

"I bought you the damn car. Don't you think I'd spring for a paint job?"

Sometimes Christy forgot the only reason she had wheels was due to Lennie's generosity. There were no scratches and Christy felt silly. This wasn't the reunion she envisioned with her former co-worker and roommate.

"I notice you didn't bring your vintage Jaguar up here."

Lennie patted the hood of the Land Rover. "I went with rough and classy."

Christy popped the trunk and took out her overnight bag.

"Here, let me have that." At five feet, eleven inches and sturdy, Lennie had the annoying habit of persistently being the strong one in the relationship. She grabbed the overnight bag out of Christy's grip. "What do you have in this thing? Boulders?"

Christy followed Lennie up the stairs. "You told me to bring my astrology books."

Lennie swung open the door with a grand gesture. "Me casa, your casa."

The front was a newspaper office. A counter blocked public access, but Lennie led her through a swinging door at the far end that clicked shut with a magnetic lock. As she trailed behind, Christy quickly looked over Lennie's new work environment.

Three oak desks crowded the room. One was messy with papers, a tin can holding an assortment of pens, a Rolodex, telephone, three staplers, a thesaurus, and an empty Big Gulp cup.

The second was ridiculously tidy. Papers were collected in a stacked and labeled file. A blotter sat squarely on the desktop. Notations in precise printing filled the calendar squares. A photo of a calico cat scowled out from a plastic frame, and a mug with images of sunflowers rested on a warming cup holder. The mug didn't have a stain or lipstick smear marring the inside. Inside a dime-store candy dish was a collection of herbal teas.

A computer dominated the third desk: flat screen, ergonomic keyboard, laser printer on a table next to the workstation. In the corner of the room was a large copier/FAX machine. The set up out-shone what Christy worked with at the substation.

She couldn't picture Lennie working behind any of the desks. While they were co-workers, Christy marveled at Lennie's ineptitude with anything electronic. The woman could jam the copy machine in ways not even the repairman could figure out. Hunting and pecking at 20 words a minute was Lennie's top speed when she sat down long enough to type. Her ability to erase documents accidentally was an unwelcome office skill. While with the Central County Sheriff's Department, Lennie had only two useful assets: her great telephone voice, as long as she didn't have to transfer calls or take messages, and a body that wouldn't quit. Lieutenants wanted the tall redhead as their office assistant and deputies wanted to take her for a spin in bed.

The feeling was mutual.

Christy followed Lennie through the relatively unused kitchen—empty pizza boxes and packaging for microwave meals overflowed the garbage can. Lennie's cooking prowess rivaled her office skills.

Through a narrow hallway was a small bedroom stuffed with a twin bed, a white, faux-French dresser and office supplies stacked in one corner. Lennie set the overnight bag on the bed with a thump.

"Guest room," she announced, as if Christy couldn't guess. "Bathroom across the hall. The hot water takes a while to heat, so run the shower for a few minutes. Not too long. Burlap's big about conserving water."

"We're having drought conditions in the valley, too," Christy assured her.

"Yeah, well, up here it's all about brush fires. Season's starting early this year. Plus, as owner of the newspaper, I have to be a role model."

Christy turned to the task of unpacking. She didn't want Lennie to see the smirk on her face. Lennie and role model didn't fit in the same sentence.

"Jacob and I are down the hall. There's a sunken tub with a window looking out over the mountain ridges. Pretty cool when you're naked and soaking in a bubble bath. Room enough for two."

Too much information.

"I think I'll stick to the shower. I'm only staying a couple of days."

"Oh man, I planned for the whole week," Lennie whined. "You're gonna miss the local festival. I'm offering you a once-in-a-lifetime experience." She gave Christy a light punch on the arm, knocking her on top of the bed.

"Cut it out." Christy rubbed her arm. "I have to get back to Shamus."

"Why? Is your new roomie allergic to cats or just too lazy to change his litterbox?" Lennie took her role as the feline's godmother seriously.

"No, he's bonded with Trina. She gives Shamus baby shrimp when I'm not looking."

Lennie was clearly miffed at being replaced in the animal's affections. "You shoulda brought him here. I'll bet he'd love chasin' after squirrels."

The front door slammed.

Lennie grabbed Christy's hand and jerked her off the bed. "Come on, I want you to meet Jacob."

She bounded down the hall. Being in love made her almost unbearable to be around. Her voice went to a higher range, she giggled, wore pink—a color that clashed with her hair—became coy as a virgin and seductive as a vixen. Christy preferred Lennie the user-and-abuser, her love-'em-and-lose-'em girlfriend. Not that she would ever admit that she found bad-girl Lennie more appealing. Lennie expected her to be judgmental, a character trait embedded in their relationship. Christy sometimes wondered if they fell into these old roles simply because the territory was familiar.

At the end of the hall was a gangling man checking phone messages on the recording machine. He held up a single finger, signaling Lennie to stop and stay quiet. She obeyed like a well-trained puppy. At least she didn't pee on the carpet.

Don't be snarky Christy admonished herself. She reminded herself she was a guest and therefore must accept this new life Lennie had invented for herself.

She took stock of Mr. Wonderful. His thinning brown hair was offset by a precisely manicured goatee partially disguising thick but unsensual lips. Eyeglasses doubled as magnifying glasses and several moles on his neck drew attention to an abnormally long Adam's apple. He wore a tweed jacket with worn patches on the elbows. Too many viewings of Goodbye, Mr. Chips? Academia gone to seed? Starving writer? Or did he subscribe to the Woodward and Bernstein Fashion Tips For Journalists?

Stop being critical. Christy gave herself a mental kick on the shins. She hid her amusement behind a wide, friendly smile.

Messages over, Jacob allowed Lennie to give him a hug. Over her shoulder, he scrutinized Christy. She briefly wondered what his assessment of Lennie's best bud would be.

Lennie gestured them to connect. "Christy, Jacob."

Jacob offered a limp handshake. His hand was clammy and nicotine-stained. He stayed mute, leaving Christy to open the dialogue. "Lennie's told me a lot about you."

"She can't shut up about you. 'Christy this, Christy that.' I'll bet she's asked you to cast my horoscope."

He was right, of course. She refused to comply for two reasons. First, once Lennie heard a bit of astrological information, she'd hammer for more details until Christy wanted to shove the Zodiac down her girlfriend's throat. Secondly, Christy couldn't fudge the facts. She didn't want to be the bearer of bad news if there was something negative in Jacob's chart. No woman wants to hear the real download on the man she's enthralled with at the moment. Save reveals for later, when reality set in and blinders came off.

"Where are my manners?" Lennie became a flustered hostess. "You must be dry as burnt toast after that long drive up the hill." She headed back to the kitchen, leaving the two awkwardly in each other's company.

"So, this is the newspaper." Lame, but an opening.

Jacob straightened like a rod was shoved up his spine. "Just a one-man operation, but the voice of reason for Burlap. Small papers are the backbone of America. We preserve the Second Amendment, freedom of speech."

"The First Amendment," Christy said automatically. "The Second is the right to bear arms."

He froze. "I meant the First. Up here, carrying a gun is almost a prerequisite."

Lennie sailed in, saving everyone from embarrassment. "Here." She thrust a can of Diet Dr. Pepper at Christy, a Red Bull at Jacob, and headed back to the kitchen, emerging with a bottle of Bud Lite in hand.

"So, what kind of stories do you cover?" Christy asked.

"We're a weekly, so we can't compete with TV for breaking news," Jacob said. "Not that there's much going on up here, of a serious nature, anyway. We concentrate on articles that are important to the lives of the people of Burlap: school board meetings, town council, church announcements, community events, high school sports."

"We post the school lunch menu for the week," Lennie proudly interjected. "I think that gets read more than anything else in the paper."

"Yes, well." Jacob flushed self-consciously. "That's only one service we supply."

"We get a lot of calls if we put pizza on the wrong day. Isn't that right?"

"People expect accuracy in their local paper." Jacob reached for a pile of newspapers, pulled one out, and handed the issue to Christy. "You can see what we publish."

On the front page was a child holding a trophy. BUZZ OVER SPELLING BEE CHAMP read the headline.

"I made up the headline," Lennie said with pride. "I'm pretty good. I try to make funny ones, give people a laugh when they open the paper."

An article announcing new Happy Hour hours at The Jerry-Rig and admonishments to pick up trash along the roadside completed the front page. On the sidebar was the lunch menu. Tuesday was pizza day. Fish Sticks Friday. What else did a person need to know to live in the foothills?

"There's an editorial page," Jacob quickly pointed out.

"Jacob writes it all," added Lennie. "He's very opinionated and likes politics."

"Hmm." Christy noticed Jacob's articles leaned to the left and wondered if his opinions collided with the locals'.

"How do you think this column on astrology you want me to write will go over with the locals?"

"Most of the folks will get a kick out of it," said Lennie.

"Not Reverend Adair," Jacob quickly added. "He's all fire and brimstone, sees the devil everywhere. I told Lennie she was going to get on his bad side with this idea for a feature."

The front door opened and a slight woman walked in. She gave a shy smile and nod to Christy before sitting down at the tidy desk and dropping a heavy hobo bag on the floor.

"This is Linda, our part-time reporter," Lennie reported.

Linda rippled her fingers in the air to indicate a wave.

"She just graduated from college. This is an internship before she applies at a larger paper," Jacob said proudly. He acted like he'd given birth to the woman or was intent on playing Henry Higgins to the budding journalist.

"I've got the minutes from the school board meeting," Linda said breathlessly. "I'll have the story finished in a few minutes." She looked warily at Christy. "There's some ruckus going on at the Lehman place. Sheriff cars everywhere. They were using yellow tape again."

"Another crime scene," Jacob said with excitement tinging his voice.

"Several patrol cars passed me on the road," Christy confirmed.

"What the hell are we standing around with our thumbs up our butts? This is still hot." Lennie grabbed her car keys and Christy's arm and headed out the door. Jacob was fast on their heels.
CHAPTER 3

A trailer squatted in a stand of pines, looking drab and out-of-place against a breathtaking background of forest green hills reaching far into the distance. Yellow crime scene tape looped around several trees, surrounding the home with festive ribbons. Six patrol cars filled the short driveway and spilled out into the road. Lennie and Christy pulled up to the end of the line of vehicles, with Jacob following seconds behind.

Deputies clad in tan and olive shuffled around outside the perimeter. They hung in groups of two and three, watching the scene and talking in quiet voices. They shielded their eyes against the sun and tried to make out who was approaching.

"Hey guys," Lennie called out.

A few men recognized her from her days at the substation and shouted back a greeting. Christy hung back, preferring not to be noticed.

Lennie sashayed past the men, giving them a good rear view of her tight jeans. She headed straight for the top ranking deputy. She held her hand out expectantly. "Lieutenant Brandt, we meet again."

He ignored the gesture. "The news didn't take long to reach you."

Jacob ambled in next to Lennie. "Crimes are becoming a regular occurrence, Lieutenant."

The lieutenant looked at both of them, annoyed by their existence. "Get away from my crime scene."

Jacob got his pen and pad ready for a quote. "Sir, we have some questions to ask for the newspaper. Can you fill us in?"

"Hell, no. Nobody knows what the hell is going on, and if we did, you'd be the last on the list to know." The lieutenant's face reddened and his temper flared. "Now, I repeat. Get away from my crime scene."

"Where's the Public Information Officer?" demanded Lennie. She looked around at the group. "Who's doing PR for the sheriff these days?"

"Sousa," volunteered a deputy standing nearby.

Lennie gave him a saucy smile, raised an eyebrow, and said in a knowing voice, "Good. That's a man who will give me what I need."

Hoots of laughter were followed by a voice yelling, "You go, Lennie!"

"Shut up and get back to work." The lieutenant turned back to Lennie. "I know who you are and you've got no pull with me. Get back to your vehicle and wait for the press release."

Lennie, used to having her way around deputies, turned on her boot heels and stomped off to the truck. Christy got ready to climb back in the passenger side when she felt a hand on her arm.

"Aren't you pretty far from home?"

Christy knew the voice much too well. She turned around. "Hello, Wolfe."

Sergeant James Wolfe gave her the same sly grin that once made Christy cave to whatever he wanted from her. Over the past two years, she'd built up a shield against his amorous overtures. He was married now—happily or not, it wasn't any of her concern. They'd both walked away from their doomed relationship intact. But, with the size of the Central County Sheriff's Department, paths were bound to cross.

"I didn't know you transferred to Area One," probed Wolfe.

"I didn't know they unchained you from your desk job at Headquarters," Christy retorted.

"Something's different about you." He studied her face. "Where's your glasses?"

"What do you care?"

He looked closely at her irises. "You went from pale blue to normal blue. Your weird eyes were your best feature. A shame you hid them behind glasses. Lose the bangs and maybe people will finally get a look at you." His teasing didn't stop there. "Or does your DEA boyfriend want to be the only one to see your face these days?"

Before she could think of a response, Lennie hustled over to the couple. "Hey, Wolfe. Tell me what's going on inside."

"Good to see you too, Lennie." He gave her long legs in skintight jeans an appreciative stare. "Seems to me you don't work for the sheriff anymore, so I'm afraid everything is confidential these days."

"Don't play the civilian card on me," Lennie said in a sultry voice. "We go back too far."

"Excuse me." Jacob pushed his way between the women. "Has there been another murder?"

Wolfe gave him a hardened glare before looking at Lennie. "Get him out of here."

"Come on, Wolfe. We need an exclusive before The Kearny Sun and all the TV stations get their people up here," Lennie cajoled.

Wolfe turned and called out to the rest of the deputies, "Hey, we've got Lois Lane covering the story. Anybody seen Superman?"

Guffaws rang out. Instead of being embarrassed, Lennie playfully flipped them off using both hands for a double bird.

"Power of the press," she yelled back. "Now, somebody give me somethin' to write about. Do you have any leads on who's committing all these recent crimes?"

"Be more professional," Jacob snapped.

"Back off, buddy." Wolfe shouldered him out of the way and turned his attention back to the women. "Last time I saw you two you were working as private investigators," he drawled. "Both of you were doing a little undercover work—or should I say, un-covered work."

Lennie gave him a punch in the arm. "You can forget that little sex club episode. Just wipe the mental picture out of your dirty mind."

"What sex club?"

All three looked at Jacob. When neither woman spoke, Wolfe went for the kill.

"The ladies didn't tell you about their adventures in Pornoland?" He wagged a finger at Lennie and Christy. "Naughty, naughty. Oh yeah, these two got busted in a raid and got hauled off to jail wearing nothing but leather, lace, and a smile. Best mug shots ever. I volunteered to do the strip search."

"Wolfe!" The lieutenant's voice thundered. "Get over here. Now!"

"Gotta run. Catch you later. Stay out of trouble." He took off at a trot to join the rest.

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About Sunny Frazier:

Navy Veteran Sunny Frazier trained as a journalist and wrote for a city newspaper as well as military and law enforcement publications. After 17 years with the Fresno Sheriff's Department, 11 with an undercover narcotics team, it dawned on her that mystery writing was her calling. Her Christy Bristol Astrology Mysteries are based on actual cases with astrology added, a habit Frazier has developed over the past 42 years. For more, go to http://www.sunnyfrazier.com

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What She Saw

Sheila Lowe

A Psychological Suspense Novel

Set in Southern California
CHAPTER ONE

The first thing she noticed was the sound. Steel wheels rolling on rails, thrumming in time with her heartbeat. Instinct whispered that if she could only screw up the courage to pry open her eyes, she would see the world hurtling past with the breathless rush of a roller coaster. But that kind of courage had deserted her.

How long had she been sitting upright, hands clasped in her lap, knees and ankles pressed together as tightly as if they were bound? Hours? Days?

It would be so easy to pretend she had the answer; to continue drifting on a sea of passivity and give in to the lethargy that threatened to consume her. But somewhere deep inside, a voice insisted, You have to come back.

Leave me alone.

Even in her head, the protest sounded weak. She sighed, recognizing that she had no choice but to accede. And once she came to that understanding, a gradual unraveling began, thread by delicate thread, of the veil that separated consciousness from the abyss.

With consciousness came a sharpened awareness: refrigerated air on flesh stippled with goosebumps. At least her sensory perceptions were in working order.

She began to take inventory. Olfactory: the ropy odor of a pot smoker somewhere nearby—check. Hearing: Valley Girl chatter behind her—check. Taste—the dregs at the bottom of a Mezcal bottle were less toxic than the inside of her mouth. Check.

With just one sense left to test, a sudden primal fear brought the self-inventory to an abrupt halt. Don't open your eyes. The truth is too grotesque to name.

But when the raucous blare of the train's horn rudely snatched away the choice, her eyes flew open of their own accord. It took only a split-second to squeeze them shut again, but a split-second was time enough to absorb the sight of gauzy mist floating above grey, choppy water.

Words that failed to attach themselves to any personal meaning filled her brain.

Ocean. West Coast. United States. Pacific.

A thousand desperate questions tried to form, but she pushed them all aside, listening instead to the voice, which began to whisper instructions: Breathe. Relax. Focus.

Five times...ten...fifty, she mouthed the mantra until the outside world receded and the abyss welcomed her back.

A loud clanging jerked her awake once again as the train thundered across a railroad crossing. She pressed her cheek against the cold window, straining to see up ahead. No point in trying to keep her eyes closed anymore.

How long had she been unconscious this time? Long enough for the scenery beyond the window to have changed. Scrubby weeds and dirt had replaced the ocean. Beyond the tracks, patches of dense fog brooded low to the ground, like a ghost cat on the prowl...an eerie landscape where anything might be lurking.

There was the coastline again; there, a neat patch of yellow rental umbrellas and beach chairs lined up on the sand; a long wooden pier jutted out over the ocean.

Rounding a bend, the train slowed for a truss bridge that had been used as a canvas for some urban artists' particular brand of graffiti. Then the sand-colored walls of a hotel came into view on the promenade, with a sign identifying it as the Crowne Plaza.

Vaguely aware that her fellow passengers were beginning to stir, she arched her back and wiggled her toes inside her shoes; stretched out the kinks in her legs as the conductor announce the next stop: Ventura Station.

At the far end of the carriage the EXIT sign beckoned.

Like a prisoner whose cell door has unexpectedly swung open, she lurched to her feet and stepped into the aisle.

Everyone thinks you're crazy.

That's because you are crazy.

Faltering, discomposed by the new murmuring in her ear, she gave her head a sharp shake. But instead of ceasing, the insidious whispers morphed to a loud buzz, exploded into a harsh cacophony.

She reached out, grasping at the closest seatback, swaying with the motion of the train, and attempted a few unsteady steps forward before slumping into an empty aisle seat, gulping like a landed fish. Her hands were slick with sweat.

A voice—not the one in her head—an elderly male, said, "Are you okay?"

Ignore it. You're hallucinating.

"Miss? Do you need help?"

Sane people don't act like this.

A hand touched her shoulder. "I'll call the conductor. You don't look..."

Not a hallucination. Twisting her head sideways to look at him, she pasted on what she hoped would pass for a smile, though she suspected it emerged more as a grimace. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You sure? I'd be glad to..."

"No," she cut in more firmly. "I'm fine."

The truth was her skin was hot and tingling and she was shaking like a dry drunk. A completely inappropriate giggle slipped past her lips. An image had flashed in her head: a chorus line of pink elephants in tutus.

The man gave her a look of concern, but sat back in his seat across the aisle without further comment. She could feel his eyes still on her, and the scrutiny made her uneasy.

She pushed herself to sit up straight and began to count silently, focusing on each number through sheer force of will as if it were a buoy to cling to. By the time she reached thirty, the din in her head had begun to subside and her breathing leveled out.

You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.

What am I? The goddamn little engine that could?

Watch your language!

Shut up.

She pulled herself to her feet again, determined she was going to shut out the voice, and resumed her march to the EXIT sign—a tightrope walker on a high wire who must reach the termination point without losing her balance. Ahead of her the carriage bent and elongated; a hall of mirrors stretching to infinity.

She passed the Valley Girl still yakking on her cell phone. Passed the pot smoker, who tipped his chin at her as if to catch her attention. The sickly sweet odor of marijuana wafted off him, like the dirty cloud hanging over Pigpen's head in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Refusing to change her focus, she ignored him and continued on her way as if she were just a normal person on a train, preparing to alight after a normal journey.

Except this was no normal journey and she was no normal person.

By the time the train ground to a halt she had reached the exit. The carriage doors slid open and travelers maneuvered past, debarking around her. Yet, she found herself unable to follow them, staying where she was, fingers wrapped around the handrail as if permanently attached.

New passengers climbed aboard. Then a conductor was heading her way. She could already read the questions on his face: Is this your station, or are you staying on the train? Where are you headed? And the one he would leave unspoken: What are you doing, standing on that step?

Her need to avoid those questions was stronger than her need to remain in the relative safety of the train.

Three—Two—One—Go.

As soon as her feet touched the platform she turned her back on the conductor and walked briskly in the opposite direction.

The station, a mere strip of concrete 50 yards long; nothing more than a couple of benches, an electronic ticket machine, and a sign reading "VENTURA." She hurried to the end of the wrought iron fencing that separated the tracks from the street.

"You're late."

She swung, breathless, to face the man who had spoken the accusation. Not much taller than her, wearing short-sleeved shirt and slacks, he was slight in stature. He didn't look particularly threatening, but it was with an odd sense of relief that she realized his scowl was directed, not at her, but the Valley Girl.

"Oh, like I was driving the train or something," the girl retorted, earbuds still plugged in. "It's only five-thirty anyway. We're not all that late."

They hurried off and climbed into an SUV parked at the curb. As she watched them drive off, behind her, the train's engine began to rev. At the same moment, a sudden sharp breeze sprang up from the ocean, nipping at her bare arms, reminding her that she had no jacket to cover her thin t-shirt.

No purse, either, she realized in confusion. You don't get on a train without some means to buy a ticket—cash, credit card—something... She jammed her fists into the pockets of her Levi's clawing at the denim; first the front, then the back. No ID. Nothing but lint. Not even a dime hiding in the seams.

How could you be so stupid?

Whirling, she dashed back onto the platform, but the behemoth was already on the move.

"Hey!" she shouted, running alongside the train, heedless of the massive wheels turning mere inches from her feet. Her fist beat uselessly against the siding. "Hey, wait! Wait!"

The last compartment lumbered past, forcing her to jump back as the train picked up speed, watching in dismay as it disappeared from view. What now?

Alone on the platform she turned in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. Across the street was a huge empty field of concrete, a parking lot that, according to a marquee on the corner, served the Ventura County Fairgrounds. To her right, the road that ran alongside the railroad tracks dead-ended.

Fighting back tears, she bit down hard on her lip and turned left, walking away from the station. And as she walked, the thing that had been clamoring at her all along struck her with the force of a body blow: the terrifying truth that refused to be silenced; a truth she had been warding off since the first inkling of consciousness on the train. A truth from which she could no longer protect herself. And with that emerging truth, the question to which she had no answer: Who am I?
CHAPTER TWO

The street sign read 'Harbor' on the Amtrak side and 'Figueroa' as the cross street.

The names meant nothing to her; she might as well be on Mars. Questions reverberated in the vacant space where her identity should have been.

What was I doing on that train?

Where did I travel from?

Where do I live?

What day of the week is it? What month? What year?

Omigod, why can't I remember anything?

It was light now, but in a couple of hours it would be dark and cold. What then? Was it safe to sleep on the beach? What about the tide? Would it cover the sand and rocks, leaving no place for someone lost and alone with no place else to go?

The voice mocked her.

You're not going to get any help standing here, dumb shit.

She turned on Figueroa, where two highway overpasses spanned the small, empty street. Etched in the concrete was the word DOWNTOWN. Maybe she could get some help if she headed that way. Or maybe by the time she reached 'downtown' a brilliant idea would have inspired her and she would know exactly what to do.

A pair of long mesh screens stood beneath the overpasses, which would otherwise have been dead space. At some other time it might be interesting to examine the colorful children's drawings posted there, but this was not the moment. The unnerving sensation of being watched was giving her the creeps.

With a furtive glance over her shoulder at the lengthening shadows already falling across the empty sidewalk she scuttled past the first screen. She had made it halfway past the second when she heard a coarse laugh.

"Hey, sweet thing; you friendly, honey?"

Like a puppet on a string she jerked to a halt. Her imagination had not been playing tricks. She could feel them sniffing her vulnerability: two men sprawled on the incline, half-hidden behind the screen.

The scumbag who had called to her rubbed his fingers together, as if suggesting a financial transaction. "Come on over here, girlie."

The second creep hoisted his can of Budweiser in solidarity. A scattering of battered empties lay between them. "Yeah, cutie pie, how about it?"

Why couldn't she make her feet move? Her brain was sending commands to her legs, but fear had completed its circuit and shut down her ability to respond. An angry retort stuck to her lips: Do I look like a hooker?

A pulse bumped hard in her throat. Oh God, am I?

Scumbag number two stuck out his tongue and wiggled it at her, like some obscene species of overgrown lizard. The other, more aggressive, pushed to his feet and began to stagger down the hill making wet kissing noises that caused the bile to rise in her throat. His hands, outstretched like claws, were aimed at her breasts. "What's ya' name, cutie? C'mere..."

He was close enough that she could smell the beer on his fetid breath. All at once he halted, staring over her shoulder. For an instant his eyes widened. He swung on his crony and hissed, "Hide that shit, dude."

Moving with the urgency of a man on fire, Scumbag Two shoveled empties under a bush, whatever fantasies he'd had of a hook-up vanishing as fast as the beer cans.

A half-second later, when a black-and-white patrol car pulled to the curb, she knew she ought to be grateful for the intervention. But for no reason she could identify, she was not grateful at all, and for a tense moment her paralysis remained.

One hand rested on his nightstick as the patrolman climbed out of his vehicle, ignoring their protestations of innocence as he sized up the two scumbags. The cop turned to her, his square jaw jutting. "Is there a problem here, miss?"

She opened her mouth, but her voice seemed to have deserted her as completely as her memory.

"Miss? Are you—"

"No," she managed to gasp. "No problem."

Without stopping to question why his appearance had shaken her more than the threat from the two men, she spun on her heels and started running back the way she had come, tearing up the sidewalk like a witless thing pursued by a pack of the undead. The cop yelled something, but it didn't matter, she had no intention of stopping.

At Harbor Boulevard, turning away from the train station, she ran until the air was rasping in her throat and painful shin splints forced her to flop against a wall, panting.

Trying to catch her breath, she rummaged in her mind, frantic for something to hang on to, some morsel that would provide a clue to who she was, where she belonged—anything. But a memory as empty as her pockets had nothing to give.

What if those men had raped and killed her? When her body was found, no one would know who she was. She didn't even know who she was. But something else nagged: the appearance of the policeman had completely and irrationally unnerved her.

Why? Why? Why?

The closest public building appeared to be the Crowne Plaza. She started walking towards the hotel, about a quarter-mile away, rehearsing what she would say to the smartly-uniformed clerk she imagined would be manning the front desk. I have no money and I don't know who I am. In a burst of harsh reality she saw her circumstances for what they were. Would that front desk clerk look at her worn Levi's and scuffed running shoes and take her for a homeless person?

They would certainly call the cops to haul her away to a psychiatric hospital. Was that why the sight of a policeman had scared her so badly? Maybe she was an escapee from a mental institution.

By the time she reached the hotel's front door, her resolve had melted like ice cream on a hot day and she had talked herself out of entering.

What now?

She was still searching for an answer when a group of tourists following their guide filed past her to the crosswalk in front of the hotel. Obeying a sudden impulse, she attached herself to the end of the group and crossed the road with them. Chattering among themselves, no one seemed to notice her as the group continued its trek up California Street. She let them go, lingering on a pedestrian footbridge, mesmerized by the traffic speeding on the road below.

The 101.

The words flashed in her head with a little thrill of recognition. A small victory. She had conjured up the slang name for this segment of the interstate highway. She knew something.

But it took only a moment for the excitement to fade. She was still the same nameless nobody. All of those people actually driving on the highway—those people in their Mercedes' and Toyota's, their trucks and motorcycles—they all knew where they were coming from, where they were going.

Was anyone wondering where she was?

A sudden flurry of sound made her turn as a crow alit on the guard rail only a foot from where she stood. The sharp black eyes seemed to bore into her soul, as if it could read her despair and found her wanting.

The big bird looked straight at her for a long moment, then, with a flap of its powerful wings, rose gracefully into the sky, circling away on an updraft.

How wonderful it must feel, she thought, watching the crow disappear into the clouds. What if you could spread your arms like those wings? You could lean over the edge until you were soaring on the wind...

As the image formed in her mind, her arms stretched out to her sides. Her left foot lifted onto the ledge and she started to lean...

...A passing motorist blew his horn.

What the hell are you doing?

She was well aware that the voice was in her head, but it was loud enough to jar her back to reality. Appalled by how close she had come to following that insane urge, she flung herself to the far side of the walkway and sank to the edge of the curb, trembling violently.

Am I suicidal? Dear God, what happened to my mind?

The questions replayed over and over. Maybe if she concentrated hard enough, she would get some answers.

The answer is, you're nuts.

That can't be right.

Nuts.

Once her hands had stopped shaking and her heart rate slowed to something resembling normal, she got to her feet and debated where she might go next. Having no better ideas, she decided to follow California street in the direction the tour group had gone.

The strobe in her head started flashing again when she crossed Thompson. Names of what she somehow knew were local businesses clicked into place: the white building with rust-colored awnings was the Hamburger Habit. Beyond the Habit was Clark's Liquor. Right after the liquor store, a small rectangular building constructed of red brick was home to the Bombay Bar and Grill. The thump and strum of a live band reached her while she was still passing the liquor store.

The sound of rhythm-and-blues spilling into the street drew her. She paused to watch the band performing on a tiny stage in the Bombay's front window. The husky-voiced singer was named Joe Wilson, and the song he was belting out was called Bad Behavior. That piece of information earned a triumphant little fist pump just before misery overwhelmed her again. How could she know these trivial things but nothing about herself?

More pressing was the setting sun, whose dimming rays were rapidly bringing dusk.

What the hell am I going to do?

"Jen! Hey, Jennnnna!"

She paused mid-step at the man's voice behind her. She knew, of course, that he could not be yelling at her. But the voice came again, louder, more insistent. "Jenna! Wait up!"

Fully expecting to see someone else responding to him, she turned. A man was standing outside the Bombay's door looking directly at her, his palms upturned in a question. She quickly took in the shaggy black hair, the t-shirt and surfer shorts on the lanky body. Thirtyish, she guessed, breaking out in a cold sweat of hope as he jogged nearer.

"Hey, chicklet, what's the rush?"

Nothing about him felt familiar, but she was too elated to care. Someone knew her. She had a name. He'd called her Jenna. She tried it on for size and found it slightly uncomfortable, like a too-tight pair of high-heeled shoes. But she clung to it, fearing he would take a second look and utter an embarrassed: Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.

"What's up with the haircut?" he asked, appraising her. "I almost didn't recognize you."

Her hand went up and raked a mass of thick locks cut boyishly short. She opened her mouth to tell him that she had no idea who he was, or even who she was, but the words refused to come out.

"Uh, thought I'd try a new look," she heard herself say. Her voice felt rusty, as if it hadn't been used in a while.

"It's cool," he told her. "Just...different."

"Thanks, I guess."

"So, where you been, chicklet? You didn't get that bug, did you?"

Rule Number One: Tell the truth whenever possible.

And when it's not possible?

Lie like a mutha.

Where did that come from?

She pounced on the convenient excuse he had provided. "Yeah, I was pretty sick; really out of it." Being down with a flu bug sounded a lot better than riding around unconscious on a train. It had come out so easily. Did that mean she was an accomplished liar?

He nodded sympathetically. "You shoulda called me. I would've fixed you some soup." Then he grinned. "No, I wouldn't. I'd be a fucked-up nurse. But I coulda picked you up something.... Hey—are you okay?"

He had caught her staring at the artwork on his black t-shirt: a tortured stone angel, crimson lips dripping blood, a Rorschach splash polluting its robes. She pulled her eyes away and shook her head. She had to tip her face up to look at him. "Still not feeling so great."

"That sucks. So, I guess I'll catch you later, then." He started to turn away, then wheeled back. "You need help with that flat tire?"

"What?"

"I noticed your ride's out of commission. If you want, I'll change the tire for you."

Hardly daring to believe it, she rapidly digested what she had just learned: He had not only supplied her with a name, but he'd told her she owned a car. He also knew where she lived, which was volumes more than she had known five minutes ago.

"If you wanna call in late to work tomorrow," he added, "I'll do it in the a.m."

Sure. I could call in...if I had a phone and knew where I worked.

"That's great, thanks," she heard herself say.

"Okay, cool. You want a ride home?"

For the first time, she smiled. "I'd love a ride home."

Oh, that's really smart, "Jenna." What are you gonna do when you get "home?"

Figure it out later. At least I'll know where I live.

And you're gonna get inside, how?

Shut up! Figure. It. Out. Later.

The conversation inside her head had diverted her attention and she'd missed what the man said. He put a hand on her shoulder, looking at her with speculation in his dark eyes. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look kinda sick, chick. Let's get you home."

He guided her to a parking structure around the corner on Santa Clara. When he pointed his key fob at a big black Dodge Ram, for a nanosecond Jenna—she had accepted the name as her own since she had no other and he seemed so sure that's who she was—questioned the wisdom of getting into the vehicle with a stranger. But in a world where everyone was a stranger, herself included, and with no ID or money, she could think of no better alternative. One thing she knew for certain, turning herself over to the police was not an option.

Besides, this guy already knew where she lived, and he was acting like they were friends. He opened the passenger door and boosted her into the cab as easily as if she was a child.

"Just toss that on the floor," he said, referring to a thick manila envelope resting on the passenger seat.

She picked up the envelope, and as he circled around to the driver's side, read the name scrawled in black marker across the front. "Zach," she said softly.

He shot her a cheeky grin as he climbed in and fired up the engine. "That's ma' name, don't wear it out."

"It suits you," she said, sneaking a glance at his profile. She thought he looked a bit like Keanu Reeves.

"So you always say." He drove down the ramp and made a left. "Hey, what happened with Mr. Mystery the other night?"

Her stomach twisted into an acrid knot. What was he talking about?

"C'mon," Zach prompted. "Give it up. Tell your Uncle Zachie."

Why don't you just tell him the truth?

No!

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "You sure that guy exists?"

"What—what do you mean?"

"I keep waiting to see him, but..."

She reached into the darkness for an answer; didn't find one. "It's, uh...it's complicated."

"Riiight." Zach threw her a sidelong glance. "Okay, no more tough questions."

She sat back, trying to read the street signs as they passed. He'd hung a right on Chestnut and a left onto Thompson, a wide boulevard that changed in character as it meandered through the beach town of Ventura. Plaza Park, where children scrambled over playground equipment. Old growth trees, modest houses, a few custom homes. Café Nouveau, a veterinary hospital, a used car lot.

Less than five minutes after they left the bar, Zach slowed and flipped his left turn signal. He drove into an alley that ran alongside a small apartment building—an attractive Spanish casa—and braked at the four-car carport in the alley. Three spaces stood empty, the fourth was occupied by a Nissan coupe whose front driver's side tire was puddled on the ground.

Seeing it, something dark flashed across Jenna's vision. The flat tire was somehow connected to the black hole of her memory. She knew it, and the knowledge terrified her.

"Probably ran over a nail," Zach said, not noticing the shudder than ran over her. "That friggin construction across the street. You got a good spare?"

"I—I'm not sure." She opened the door and jumped out of the truck. "Thanks, Zach."

"No problemo, chicklet. I'll be down in the morning to take care of the flat."

He scrunched down in his seat and gave her the squint eye. "You sure you're okay? You look kinda—what my grandma calls 'peaky.'"

"Really," she insisted. "I'm good. Thanks for the ride." She wasn't going to admit that her head was spinning yet again and she was sick to her stomach.

There were no numbers, no indications on the carport that indicated to which apartment the Nissan belonged. Jenna followed Zach's truck back out of the alley and down to the bank of mailboxes she had noticed on the sidewalk.

A label maker had been used to emboss a first initial and last name on brown plastic strips on each of the boxes, and she took her time examining the names. Apartment one and two both had J names: J. Kroh and J. Marcott. Apartment three was Z. Smith—apparently Zach was her upstairs neighbor. Number four was R. Mendoza.

She rolled the J names around in her mind a couple of times to see whether something stuck. Jenna Kroh. Jenna Marcott. Not a twitch. That her choices were limited to the two ground floor units simplified things, but which one was home?

Following her gut, she walked through the alley, avoiding looking at the Nissan with its flat tire, and went around the back of the building to the rear apartment. Reaching over the wooden gate in the stucco wall she lifted the latch and entered the pocket-sized yard.

No certain memory told her that she had chosen the correct unit, but she knew right away that she had. It was the garden gnome that did it; a foot-high statue on the front porch next to a terra cotta planter filled with geraniums. The paint on his tall red hat and white beard was faded and chipped, as though he had been guarding the door for a long time.

Led by an overpowering sense of recognition, Jenna tilted the gnome on end and reached into the opening on the bottom. Felt no surprise, only satisfaction when she gave the little man a shake and the key fell out into her hand.

Purchase the Full-Length Novel:

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Also by Sheila Lowe:

Inskslingers Ball

Poison Pen

Written in Blood

Dead Write

About Sheila Lowe:

Like her fictional character Claudia Rose in the award-winning Forensic Handwriting Mysteries series, Sheila Lowe is a real-life forensic handwriting expert who testifies in court cases involving handwriting. The author of the acclaimed The Complete Idiot's Guide to Handwriting Analysis, Handwriting of the Famous & Infamous, and Handwriting Analyzer software, she is president of the American Handwriting Analysis Foundation, a nonprofit organization that promotes education in the area of handwriting. Sheila holds a Master of Science in psychology and lectures around the country and in Canada and the UK. Her analyses of celebrity handwritings can be seen in various media, such as an LA Times article where she discusses what the signatures of the Dodgers and the Angels players reveal about their personalities.

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Go Down Hard

Craig Faustus Buck

A Noir, Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction Novel

Set in Los Angeles, CA

Chapter 1

Eve whispered to Adam

Have some fruit from our yard

It'll fire up your blood

For when we go down hard

Lord have mercy

Gonna go down hard

—Lana Strain

I look through the spyhole. Gloria has a bottle of gin in her hand and a pair of cuffs hanging from her belt loop. A deadly combination.

I open the door. "Evening, Lieutenant. You got a warrant?"

"Here's your warrant." She grabs the back of my head and sticks her tongue down my throat. I'd like it better if she didn't taste like Cheetos.

She walks in followed by her dog, Runt, who's not too bright but gets by on his looks. The strapping whelp of an Irish Setter and a Rhodesian Ridgeback, I suspect his red coat is the inspiration for Gloria's dye job.

Gloria gives me that crooked grin that always gets to me. It's the coy curl that promises exotic pleasures if you're lucky enough to have those lips engage just about any part of your anatomy. I've known more than a few guys who mistook that grin for an invitation and got decked. Gloria throws a mean left hook.

She heads into the kitchen for ice. I hear the clink of those steel-chain positive swing-through bracelets with every sway of her hips. She wears them in a cuff pouch at work, but tonight she's accessorizing. At the station, a cop might absently pick up the wrong set of cuffs from time to time, but Gloria doesn't have to worry about hers since they're powder-coated hot pink. They're also backloading for fast closure, the kind of closure I could have used when my marriage collapsed.

I watch her pour a fist of gin. Five-eight and lean, she has on the same pair of jeans she wore sixteen years ago when we first met at the Academy. I've been married and divorced since then, but they still fit her, even if they used to be a bit looser, lazier in the thigh. She looks damn good.

"Still seeing the boyfriend?" I ask.

She cups her hands and pushes the lever of the icemaker with her knuckles.

"Why? Are you jealous?"

About a half dozen ice cubes spit onto her palms but she can't catch one. They scatter across the floor like cockroaches in a blast of light.

"Just making conversation." I grab a beer from the fridge.

Gloria picks an ice cube off the floor and throws it in her glass. She only has room for the one cube without causing the booze to overflow, so she leaves the rest to melt on my linoleum. I debate picking them up but decide it's a bad precedent.

The boyfriend is a dentist she met at a Baptist Church. Not that she's religious but she loves gospel music. He calls her his girlfriend; she calls him her Baptist with benefits. Gloria is philosophically opposed to monogamy. As she puts it, "If we were wired to be monogamous, the honeymoon would be a lifestyle, not a phase." The Baptist doesn't like it, but his only alternative would be to live without her and she's an addiction that's tough to kick.

For more than a decade, she's been my best friend, except we sometimes wind up in the sack. Or on the kitchen table. Or on the floor. Or just rammed up against a wall somewhere. That doesn't happen with any of my other pals. Not that I'm complaining. Sex with Gloria is wild and thrilling and sensual and full of surprises, even after all these years, but it can also be unrelenting. If the woman tracked her orgasms, she'd need an Excel spreadsheet. Friends shouldn't give friends performance anxiety.

Gloria takes a hefty slug of gin. "I've got a present for you," she says.

"What did I do to deserve a present?"

"Nothing yet, but if you're a bad boy, maybe I'll give it to you."

She moves in and kisses me again. This time she tastes like gin. A big improvement. I slide my hand up inside her blouse to feel her nipple trying to punch through her bra. She's already primed.

"It involves Lana Strain," she says.

My heartbeat spikes. Lana Strain was my adolescent wet dream, that perfect goddess who stamped the mold for my ideal woman. In concert she was high-voltage all the time, a blues-rock Tesla coil. Her songs exploded out of her with dead-on pitch sanded rough by too much smoke and rye whiskey then torched with raw emotion. Her heart-wrenching delivery left me burning to rescue her from the demons in her life, to make it all better for her, to wrap her tight in my arms and comfort her, preferably naked.

Then, when I was seventeen, some douchebag saw fit to splatter the back of Lana's head across her million-dollar Lichtenstein.

I was a four-point-oh heading for the Ivy League, a swim-team star, a party animal, invincible, immortal, at the top of my game. Nothing could take me down, not even my father's death six months before. I'd managed to ride out that trauma on a wave of denial, but a second wave never came when Lana got shot and I needed one bad. The night they broke the news, I sat crying in my room, listening to Lana Live at the Hollywood Bowl, over and over. Or was I crying for my father? I used to think I knew. These days I'm not so sure.

"What's this present got to do with Lana Strain?" I ask.

"You want to find out? Let's see how bad you can be."

We migrate toward the bedroom, entwined like tango dancers. Runt makes a half-hearted attempt to herd us back into the kitchen, knowing he's about to be ignored for a while, but when his efforts fail, he pads off to my office to sleep on his favorite sofa. He's been chewing on it for months now, slowly ripping it to shreds. At first that upset me, but then I just gave up. Once Runt's pea-brain settles on a project, nothing can stop him.

Gloria rips off my clothes with a sense of urgency. She's ready to rock. I take my sweet time, savoring her, button by button, inch by inch, opening her up like a Chinese puzzle box. It drives her nuts. She heats up, I back off. She cools down, I crank up. It's an excruciating equilibrium.

I work her this way for maybe twenty minutes, until she sounds like an amplified asthma attack, then I pull out the stops. She wails, she howls, she growls, then she goes off like a rocket. Multiple stages.

I'd like to take responsibility for satisfying Gloria but she's as easy as a bottle of Coke—just shake and pop the top and she starts spurting; my finesse is just for show. Still panting, she turns the tables and devours me like a rabid beast. A highly skilled rabid beast. It doesn't take me long to detonate but she doesn't stop, she just slows and teases to keep the after-surge going on and on. Nice.

Gloria flicks my ear with her tongue, still breathing hard. "You ready for your present?"

"Sure." I guess I was bad enough. And we didn't even use the cuffs.

Our clothes are scattered across the floor. She rolls over and finds her blouse. She pulls a thin chain from her pocket. It has a little gold half-heart on it with a jagged edge. It's the kind of pendant that comes in a matched pair for best girlfriends or maudlin lovers to fit together like puzzle pieces so that their heart can only be complete when they're together.

"You can't keep it," she says, "but you can have it for tonight."

I try to take it but she closes it in her hand. "Uhn uhn," she says, shaking her head. "No hands."

She drops it in her crotch.

"Are you telling me that was Lana's?"

"Probably. But no one ever saw her wearing it."

As I lower my head to retrieve my prize, she adds, "Until they found her body."
Chapter 2

It's not even eight but the view through my office window already shimmers in the heat from the dew baking out of the San Fernando Valley floor. I'm supposed to be writing five hundred words for the Enquirer about a sixteen-year-old girl who managed to stab the spike of a compass through her geometry teacher's chest and into his heart. What do I really know about this girl?

My eyes flit to Lana's pendant which now hangs from my desk lamp. I grab a pencil and start to sketch it as my mind strays from my work. What do I really know about Lana?

I force my thoughts back to the job at hand. I put down the pencil and turn my eyes back to the screen. Despite nine outstanding queries, this stabbing story is the first assignment I've landed in two weeks. I need the money. I need to focus. What do I really know about this girl?

What do I really know about any woman? They use you up and throw you out, that's what. I type, Fuck you, Holly.

My mood sinks just seeing my ex-wife's name on the screen. She was the love of my life when we tied the knot. I'd just become a cop and was riding high. Four years later I watched another cop do something he shouldn't have. I turned a blind eye. Holly thought I was better than that. I wasn't. Things kept sliding downhill from there. It took her a year to divorce me. Two months after that I left the Department. The rise and fall of the Nob Brown empire.

Gloria walks in buttoning her top.

"Sleep well?" I ask.

"What are you doing up to so early?"

"What do you think?"

"Writing."

"You should have been a detective."

"How's it coming?" She glances at my screen.

"Not too bad. If you don't mind starving for work and drowning in debt."

She swivels my desk chair and sits facing me on my lap. Her freckled brown eyes stare into mine. I feel like she's poking around inside my head, opening drawers, peeking under rocks.

"You okay?" she asks. "You've seemed a little down lately."

"Haven't you heard? Down is the new up."

She gives me that grin and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is soft, uncharacteristically gentle for her, unsettling. She pulls away and I feel like she's picked my pocket even though I can't find anything missing.

"I need to drop Runt off before work," she says. "I've been saving something special for your birthday, but I think I'll give it to you early, maybe get your motor running."

She plucks Lana's necklace off my lamp and walks out with Runt on her heels.

* * *

Two hours later I watch Gloria close her office door to spare me the prying glares of the detectives in the bullpen. I don't have too many friends left on The Job anymore.

Gloria sits down behind her battle-scarred desk which is so tight to the wall she has to lift her feet over the seat of her chair to get her long legs into the kneehole. That's the only configuration that leaves room in front for a folding chair to accommodate visitors. Steel. Unpadded. God forbid I should get too comfortable and overstay my welcome.

A glass nameplate on her desk is engraved with an LAPD Detective badge beside the name Lieutenant Gloria Lopes, which rhymes with "hopes," even though she's descended from an Argentine. I guess the culture didn't stick.

She pulls an eight-by-ten glossy from a bulging file and it immediately curls into a cylinder. She hands it to me and I stretch it taut. The image is like a sucker punch.

Lana Strain's body sits dwarfed by the wall-height painting. Her brain has exploded across the canvas of the Dotted Babe, the perfect spacing of Lichtenstein's half-tone dots disarrayed by the spray-painted blood. I have to take a deep breath to keep my stomach at bay.

The crime scene photos were never released so the faded still-life is not just a shock but a revelation. Lana slumps against the bottom of the painting like a life-size rag doll, her Streamline Moderne body vacuum-packed in a black halter dress of dotted swiss. I've pictured her dying in jeans and a camisole top, in sweats, in leather, in tight T-shirts, in torn T-shirts, in wet T-shirts, in men's dress shirts, in shorts, in slit skirts, in bikinis, in teddies and, of course, in nothing. But fifties vintage never crossed my mind. Dotted swiss just doesn't seem right.

Lana looks drunk with her head twisted at an awkward angle, chin on chest just above that half-heart pendant. Her face is covered by an onyx wave of silky hair, falling slightly open at the part to reveal one eye, a startling mosaic of greens and golds. Her other eye is hidden beneath her hair but I doubt much of it survived the bullet's entry.

I can feel Gloria watching for my reaction. My primal love for Lana outlived her gruesome murder, outlasted my adolescence, persisted through many a romance and survived the carnage of my marriage—and Gloria knows it. She knows me too well. She's waiting to see some eruption of emotion like a Roman lusting for a gladiator's blood. I don't give her the satisfaction.

"The shot heard 'round the world," I say softly.

She allows a smirk.

The colors of the photo have yellowed with age, the reds faded more than the cooler hues, turning blood-red into a pale tangerine. I can see a vanity in the background, but everything on it is too blurred to be recognizable. Something that looks like an open umbrella, maybe a lamp. Something that looks like a human head, maybe an oval mirror.

"Too bad about the painting," says Gloria. "I wonder if they ever got the bloodstains out."

Some cops just don't get it. "Why would they want to? A good story just jacks up the price. Dotted Babe, now in red."

"You don't think like a cop anymore," she says.

Under the harsh light of the ancient fluorescent fixtures, Gloria's red mane looks amber, like my eyes, though she says they're hazel.

"Ever find the gun?" I ask.

"No."

I lay the eight-by-ten like a priceless papyrus on her desk and lean my six-foot-one frame back in the rigid chair. I feel a bump where it hits my back. Someone must have kicked a dent in the steel. Gloria can have that effect on people.

"I loved her voice," I say. "Reminded me of Janis Joplin, only Lana Strain was better built."

"They both died drunk."

"They both lived drunk, what do you expect?"

During my high school years I had the famous swimming pool poster on my wall where I could see it from bed, the one where Lana's arms and legs covered just enough of her body to make the poster legal to sell to minors. Her piercing, carnivorous eyes haunted my dreams. Now I have a new image to haunt me.

My gaze drifts back to the photo, again curled into a scroll. Twenty years later and I still can't believe Lana's dead. In every city she toured, she'd go to blues bars in parts of town the cops were scared to drive through. She'd get drunk and start brawls. She should have been shot in one of those. That would have been a death in character, a death with flare. Getting shot in her Laurel Canyon bedroom wearing dotted swiss was too suburban middle-class for Lana Strain, too mundane. It just wasn't her style. I find it hard to swallow, as if someone covered up the truth about how she died.

"I know you've been slobbering over her since you were old enough to jerk off, Nob, so Happy Birthday."

Gloria uncurls the photo, slips it back into the several-hundred pages of file and pushes the gorged folder toward me.

"You don't use three-ring binders for murder books anymore?"

She shrugs. "I took it apart so it wouldn't be so obvious. Keep it organized."

"You're letting me take it home?"

"Like I said, you're looking depressed. With the twentieth anniversary coming up, maybe you can sell a retrospective. Maybe a gig will perk you up. I worry about you."

I can't help but smile, amused. "You worry about me?"

"Go ahead and laugh. But no one knows you like I do. Not even Holly. I know when you're in trouble. And that worries me. You know I love you."

"You must if you're willing to put your badge on the line."

"It's my good deed for the decade so don't make me regret it. I can only check the book out for seven days so I want it back in six. And don't use any direct quotes or descriptions. Background only. You never saw this file."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. And I mean that literally."

"I'll have to tell Mel."

"No one else." Gloria knew my assistant Melody before I did, and knows she can trust her. "I'm counting on you to not be your usual fuck-up."

"I'll do my best."

I reach for the yellowed file half-expecting it to sear my hand. The overstuffed folder looks almost bronze, like it was baked in an oven, the edges so well-thumbed they feel soft to the touch. It may be two decades old, but it's still the hottest unsolved murder of the twentieth century.

For a Lana Strain worshipper who makes his living as a true crime writer, this is gold bullion, a guaranteed magazine piece, if not a book and maybe even a movie. I can't help but savor the irony that the first love of my life has returned from the grave to save me from the financial divorce havoc wreaked by the second.

Gloria pulls a plastic shopping bag from her garbage can and hands it to me so I have something to hide the file in. I wrap it and tuck it under my arm.

"I owe you one."

"Don't worry. I won't let you forget it."

As I leave the station I pass from conditioned comfort into one of those unforgiving L.A. days where the summer sun makes you feel like an ant that some kid is broiling with a magnifying glass.

I head down the street, hugging the building to catch its small skirt of shade, savoring the heat of Lana Strain's file on my forearm. It occurs to me, for the first time since Holly dumped me, that I've got something to look forward to.

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About Craig Faustus Buck:

Author/screenwriter Craig Faustus Buck's debut noir mystery novel, GO DOWN HARD, was published by Brash Books in 2015 and was first runner-up for the Killer Nashville Claymore Award. His short stories have received numerous award nominations. He is President of Mystery Writers of America SoCal.

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Rhodes The Mojave-Stone

M.M. Gornell

A Literary Mystery

Set in the Mojave High Desert, CA
Preface

Between Needles and Victorville, California, many Mojave Desert locations have called out, "Stop awhile. Listen to what I have to say." Special places, where one can envision future dramas unfolding and evolving, while simultaneously eavesdropping on tales from long gone times. Then, add into such flights-of-fancy kaleidoscope-like memories of Chicago mansions and childhood neighborhoods, followed by the improbable thought of a homestead—indeed, a whole town—rising out of the rugged and desolate ridges along a familiar stretch of Route 66.

All these images commingled to tickle my imagination.

There are many events and stories hidden underneath shifting desert sands, and quite possibly many of these tales are doomed to ride ad infinitum on relentless desert winds—ghosts trapped on a plane-of-existence they can never escape. The town of Shiné (Shy-knee) is a fictional concatenation of several of these magical places, fanciful thoughts, and hidden dramas. A place where provocative and unanswered questions actually escape the entrapment of Mojave winds and take center stage.

Hopefully, the small fact Shiné does not exist will not dissuade you from visiting...

What Leigh Cooper Rhodes Started

December 25th, 1990, Shiné, California

Leigh Cooper "LC" Rhodes knew this was a singular day—and he, a singular man. It was a Tuesday.

Swaddled as he was in the comfort of his massive and plush four-poster bed, in Rhodes Castle's warmly appointed master-suite, and surrounded by two generations of offspring, LC remained mentally strong enough to ponder for the last time a concept he'd recognized and embraced from his earliest of days. A concept he considered the guiding principle of his life. Somehow, someway, he knew even in childhood: the perceived traumas of his youth, egregious or slight, could end up controlling his life. Further, if he let himself become so consumed, hurt, or even victimized, it would destroy his chances for achievement far beyond his days of youth.

LC's eyes were closed, the air on his face cool, while his body was cocooned in warmth. Just the way he liked it.

Admittedly, there must have been a few others like himself, who instinctively knew to brush away early negative experiences as trifles. Knew they were nothing more than unavoidable annoyances based upon ignorant words and ill-conceived acts of the uninformed. Or most probably, just plain stupid children doing hurtful things. For a moment, he thought of the Coopers, and quickly dismissed their part in his early life. Now was the time to let past slights and disagreements slide into the universe.

Also quite early on, he further concluded such cruel acts and taunts of youth were actually a primeval "outsider" reflex—disguised as "boys will be boys." And girls too—he'd learned later in life.

Thinking about his perceived wisdoms, LC thought he smiled, but wasn't sure. He also thought he heard Everett click out the corner of his mouth—just like he was also prone to do. But again, he wasn't sure. His mind felt sharp as ever, but LC realized his hearing was failing, he wasn't fully in control of his muscles, and his visual focus was turning fuzzy. But even though all his familiar senses might be fading, there was a new sensation, a kind of electricity LC wasn't familiar with—seemingly charging and intensifying every molecule of reality he was still able to experience.

For example, he could still make out the vision of Viola sitting beside his bed, almost glowing, and most importantly, feel the pressure of her hand in his—the touch of her skin, the pressure of her fingers feeling slightly electrical. Magical, almost. Near sixty years of marriage, two sons—one waiting for me in the hereafter—and four grandchildren, of course I know about the other one.

It was faint, but he could still smell the warm fragrance of one of Viola's spice blends "lightly dancing on the air," as she might say; becoming part of his final breaths. Part of him.

Viola—just thinking her name touched his heart and made him feel like he might have shivered. Funny to feel a shiver that probably didn't actually happen.

A small family by some standards. But my family.

Continuing to look back over his life, his guiding principle, and the subsequent building of his family, LC remembered again how his early years were peppered with youthful persecutions—and how such experiences had not destroyed. No, those episodes had in fact fostered in him the determination, strength, and cunning needed for his eventual successes. Even pushing him not to remain just a Cooper, but to change completely, and become a Rhodes.

Luck also played a role, he knew. Even now, LC still marveled how just at the right time, Doc Rhodes gave him the money to head out into the world to make his fortune—and most remarkably, lent LC his surname along with the funds. An amount meager by today's standard, but a phenomenal amount to him at the time. Twenty-one years old, heading west out of Chicago, a new name and a "no return required" grub-stake of sorts.

My life ahead of me.

LC sighed with pleasurable pride, but doubted any of his family members gathered around him heard. His breathing felt too shallow. An odd feeling, that—but not particularly unpleasant. For a moment LC's eyes found and rested on his grandson, Leigh-Everett Rhodes, and for a flickering moment, he felt something, but didn't know what, or why.

LC next thought he might have sighed once more—but again, doubted anyone noticed.

On many fronts, his life had been event-filled, sometimes tumultuous—but immensely fulfilling. And in these, his waning moments, he was a happy man. It is a blessed man indeed, he thought, who can pass into the hands of the Lord having accomplished everything he'd set his mind to.

Oddly, his bedroom seemed to take on a glow, no, more like a brightness of its own making. LC sighed for the third time since he'd started counting, knowing this time, his breathing was slight—barely noticeable. His son Everett had placed his leather-bound bible under his left hand—now resting on his stomach. And though his grasp was slight, LC could feel the leather, experience its weathered smoothness more deeply than ever; indeed, the touch of his favored book was more comforting than any time in the past. He considered the bible a story-book of sorts, "But the best damn story ever written," he'd proclaimed to family and friends on numerous occasions.

Then quite dramatically, as if orchestrated by what he called a "Director of the Universe," a biblical God I hope—though even at this special moment LC wasn't unequivocally sure—he could somehow see outside his room, his home. See the sun setting; its glow dramatically exuding red, orange, and turquoise brilliance across his piece of the Mojave. And with some sense he didn't know what to name—he not only saw, but also felt the world surrounding him.

It is indeed a singular day.

And Shiné—my addition to the Mojave is aglow and shining. No matter what his critics wanted to say. Oh yes, LC knew quite well, many only considered him a hard businessman. But he hoped, even those with that view of him, also saw his toughness was modified by fairness to all—and most importantly, appreciated his Shiné legacy.

Few though—maybe one besides his dear Viola, knew the sensitivity of his true soul. Knew like him, sometimes you just needed to stop, take pause. Smell the roses, or flowers—similar to what that golfer Walter Hagen said. And LC hoped his touches of appreciation for the softer parts of life would survive the generations through his offspring. He could no longer tell where Leigh-Everett was standing, but he sent him a thought, a message of sorts.

And now? Well, today everything was as it should be—his family, his land and house, his substantial wealth, his town, his journal, and his jewels. He wanted to smile at the thought of the jutting and lovely hills behind his house, Lookout Loop across what was now called Shiné Valley, and his row of Pindo palms out front—which he could amazingly now see, spread panoramic and vivid across his mind's eye.

All possessions paled, however, when compared to his legendary Mojave-Stone. Thinking about his "treasures-of-treasures," LC took a few seconds to thank back across the years the unknown Humboldt County miner who had bartered away his chunks of rocks.

LC sighed a last time—more like catching a deep breath. Leigh Cooper Rhodes felt at peace with all his memories and accomplishments. He closed his eyes and imagined he was floating peacefully on the surface of a small lake in a black-pearl darkness. It was a moment like no other in his entire life. A moment when nothing mattered, where nothing could harm. He thought it the first, last, most sensuous, and only true moment of unadulterated contentment in his whole life.

But before leaving this world, LC once again reflected upon his singularity among men, and once again fleetingly wondered, who among my offspring's offspring, or maybe even further down the road—will read my journal and understand? About Viola, about lingering intents, about destinies? And who, like himself so many years ago, would gaze at a seemingly worthless handful of rocks—all potential fiery opal Mojave-Stones—and become mesmerized and transformed for life.
Chapter One

From LC's journal: Got to have all the old things from Europe. Not a fancy place without the "things." Learned that way back in Chicago doing yard work for rich folks in Winnetka. Fancy folks, fancy house, fancy stuff. Thank God I have my Viola to help me.

"You want another?" Leigh-Everett "Leiv" Rhodes asked while making a pouring-gesture with a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Crème. He'd just topped-off his own cordial glass. "It's a brand new bottle." Nice stuff, he reminded himself as the sherry's aroma reached his nostrils. A throat warming and sweet smelling counteractive to the dank odor and pervasive feeling of coldness Rhodes Castle often exuded. Especially in winter. Especially tonight. Tonight he was worried, but couldn't quite put a name to what was nagging at him.

"You know I never have more than one. Besides, I still have to write my sermon for tomorrow." Pastor Lloyd Apply shook his head and absently brushed the front of his sweater as if there were crumbs needing immediate dispatch.

Leiv saw real anguish in his friend's expression, and guessed it wasn't because he couldn't have another sherry, but concern over what to put in his sermon tomorrow morning.

It was Saturday night, a special time for Leiv. A time to enjoy his Shiné friends, good food, and his favorite sherry. He was forming a new life here, and these gatherings were crucial to making it work. And yes, it was also a time to play dress-up and don his vintage-styled and admittedly pretentious smoking jacket. A present from his wife before she died. Didn't matter he didn't smoke; Melissa had thought he would like the era it represented—and for him now, wearing it was his way of reaching out and touching her memory. Remembering all her kindnesses. Dear, dear Melissa, he mentally whispered across the years.

Outside and unseen, but visually imagined from the reality of many such evening shows he'd seen, Leiv knew a richly-colored sun was setting across his grandfather's Shiné desert. Another hot winter day turning into the cold of a desert night.

Mojave winter days often flipped from scorching hot to bone-chilling cold in less than twenty-four hours. Consequently, Leiv didn't mind they were cloistered inside, warm and comfortable. Shut off from the rest of the world on many levels. He was happy "imagining" the sunset from the comfort of an armchair.

Yes, his special Saturday nights were made for sharing with company inside, in the comfort of his great-room. As with much in Shiné, Leiv learned about them from LC's journal. This larger-than-life room's purpose was suggested by Viola. A room his grandfather started calling the "withdrawing room." Pompous and folksy at the same time. "That was Leigh Cooper Rhodes," Leiv said aloud.

"Were you actually talking to me?" Lloyd shook his head again and smiled. "Or completing one of your internal thoughts in the external world?"

"You know me too well." Leiv chuckled. "Guess that's why you're a priest."

"Pastor," Lloyd said, with an exaggerated sigh. "And you know the difference."

"You could be a priest."

Lloyd laughed. "Does that mean you want me to hear your confession?"

Leiv liked the sound of them laughing together. "Heck, NO."

They were ensconced in identical well-worn leather armchairs, and with his friend's refill refusal, Leiv sat the bottle of Harvey's on the small Edwardian nested side table between them. He'd done his part to be a good host—now he could sit back and further enjoy Lloyd's company. Leiv wiggled his rear-end around in his armchair's deep cushions. Yes, he was quite comfortable—and as he often was—reminded of LC. The chair frames were original, purchased by his grandfather in the nineteen-forties, then his father Everett had the leather and cushion-stuffing replaced in the sixties. And still comfy.

After exhaling a long slow breath, Leiv let his neck relax against the plush comfort of his chair's headrest. Healing and reflective moments. The kind of moments he'd come to expect from his Saturday nights with Lloyd and his father's old friend Margaret Deers.

"Too bad Margaret couldn't come tonight." He missed her. Indeed, her pleasant and often smiling oval face, silver hair, and Fifties styled attire were comforting on several levels. Since his return to Shiné, Margaret, like Lloyd had become a cherished inner-circle friend. And probably more, he reflected. I need them both.

"Not quite the same without her, is it?" As if toasting their absent friend, Lloyd raised his almost empty cordial glass several inches into the air.

Leiv followed with an identical gesture.

They sat facing a monster-sized wrought iron grate-protected fire burning modestly in the quite immodest fireplace Leiv called "grandfather's stone monument." More often than not, Margaret would have been sitting on the settee to their side. Her view: the two men and that floor-to-ceiling rock fireplace with its centered, circular, but rather disappointing plain rock pattern above the firebox. Almost a star with a center stone, and almost a circle, but not quite either.

"Well, at least we have Dobie," Leiv said, pulling his attention from the fireplace to his rescued female Doberman. She was stretched out across the fireplace hearth on a handmade Anatolia Terrain hearth-rug—snoring. He thought, she's finally comfortable enough to relax and enjoy her new home. Margaret had suggested it might take awhile, but Dobie surprised them both, quickly making Rhodes Castle her home without missing a doggie-beat. The simple fact of Dobie's perceived doggie-happiness caused Leiv to inwardly smile. Nonetheless, despite all the pleasantness surrounding him, he couldn't shake the feeling tonight was the beginning of something very unpleasant. And I don't have a clue what it is.

Lloyd interrupted his reverie with, "I'm worried about Tucker." His friend paused and also placed his aperitif glass on the highly polished surface of the antique table between their chairs. "I want to say something tomorrow that might help him." Then lightly running his hand over the table's corner, the pastor mumbled absently and with characteristic wonderment, "You're lucky to have HM."

That's it, Leiv thought. Tucker's problem is also what's worrying me. Leiv knew Lloyd was referring firstly to the pastor's proposed Sunday sermon at Shiné Community Church and the circumstances surrounding Shiné's mayor, Tucker Oakes; then secondly, to the Rhodes housekeeper, Hester Miller Junior, dubbed affectionately and un-affectionately, depending upon the speaker—as HM, aka, Her Majesty. He couldn't remember a time when a "Hester Miller," mother or daughter, hadn't been around.

The pastor having led him to a likely source for his apprehension, Leiv relaxed more and allowed his thoughts to continue meandering. Rhodes Castle was one of the few things he, Lloyd, and Margaret shared past memories about. Lloyd explained more than once, how as a child, he was told by LC personally the significance of this room, along with the importance of the care required to maintain everything. Leiv, himself, was told by his own father, Everett, years later—furniture, tables, fireplace, everything—remained just the way LC wanted it. And that was due to Miller women dedication. A thought Leiv tried keeping in mind when HM was at her most annoying.

Silence between the men was easy, and in the quiet of the next few moments, Leiv's thoughts turned to the comfortableness of their friendship. It seemed as if they'd become instant friends after Leiv's return to Shiné. Often intuiting each other's thoughts or intentions. Indeed, they seemed to share a kindred philosophical and emotional view of the world. Except when it comes to religion. Leiv's past history as a lawyer, then as a judge, didn't seem to matter to Lloyd. He was LC's grandson—and consequently okay.

For his part—even with Lloyd's prior relationship with his mother and father—he liked Lloyd for himself, not because of past connections. Though it was nice they could share pieces of the past.

Like tonight regarding HM.

Breaking their silence, Leiv asked, "Is your sermon going to be about Naomi's death in particular?" He certainly hoped not. Leiv was uncertain Tucker could handle a direct assault on his guilty feelings. Feelings, he feared that could lead to terrible consequences.

"No, I can't be that direct." Lloyd made a kiddingly-derisive sound. "Have you never heard of parables?"

Ignoring Lloyd's provocative tease, Leiv said, in a reflective tone, "You want to say something general that Tucker will take personally." Circumspection, Leiv mentally mused while remembering several defense attorneys in particular.

"That's the idea." Seemingly reading Leiv's mind, the pastor added, "I need to be circumspect, you know. Infer, not tell."

Leiv knew Tucker felt responsible for Naomi Hall's death. Regardless of their mayor's "feelings," he and Lloyd agreed early on the young man's guilt was self-induced. Leiv also knew, some in town were of a different mindset. And guilt, manufactured or real, was a heavy burden. Indeed, his days in the courtroom had taught him a lot—and seeing "guilt" up close and personal, and in many of its manifestations had convinced him of its corrosive effect. My own guilt and regret included.

"Can't you just talk to him in private?" A smidgen of tease edged Leiv's question. "Isn't that what a pastor's for?" Not a believer or follower of anything religious, levity sometimes crept into his comments. It was not a serious impediment to their relationship; indeed, Leiv knew full well the positive effects of churchly counseling from back during his days on the bench. He would also never forget watching his father give LC his bible on his grandfather's death bed. Never forget, the look of peace on LC's face.

"I did," Lloyd said, then turned his head to look at Leiv directly. "He says everyone thinks he killed her, you know, because of the land feud thing. Even though there isn't any evidence he did. And he can't remember doing it." He sighed.

Tucker being flat-out drunk—without one single memory during the time she died. But there really wasn't a shred of evidence implicating Tucker. Of course, Lloyd had a personal interest in the situation, being Naomi Hall's distant cousin and the executor of her estate.

"Bad situation." Leiv took a deep breath, and for a second, he felt the oddest sensation. Like he'd gone back in time and was in an Edward Hopper painting of two men and a dog—centered on a massive fireplace in an European styled and appointed great-hall. A picture emotionally capturing a moment of time marking the beginning of something—if that was possible. A flight of fancy of course, but Leiv felt throughout his being something was starting—and this was the moment. He felt an urge to shiver, but controlled it. Leiv did reach for his Harvey's bottle.

Well, whatever he was sensing couldn't be anything bad, could it? He felt too good sharing sermon-talk and sherry with his friend.

After Leiv replenished his cordial glass—he reckoned a full shot this time—he patted his smoking jacket pocket. Yes, the letter he received this morning was still there. The return label had been clear, hand written in neatly aligned capital letters—Nadya Rhodes Collins. His deceased Uncle André's daughter. My first-cousin. He'd considered discussing the implications of her letter with Lloyd. The pastor had met her when they were children, and maybe he could help him decide how worried he should be.

But for some reason, Leiv pulled his hand away from his pocket like it held a hot potato. Not tonight. Leiv's instincts told him whatever Nadya was bringing into his life wasn't good—but he certainly couldn't know that. No, he would not spoil tonight with conspiratorial silliness. Nonetheless, another sliver of a shiver surfaced, and this time washed over him quite thoroughly. He was surprised, but quickly recovered.

I am definitely not the same man who sat on the bench for so many years. Good or bad—he wasn't sure.

To further mock Leiv's perceived sturdiness of his former self, somewhere in what he knew to be his emotional being, fear took hold—in particular, he suddenly realized, Sunday, tomorrow, scared him. Tucker was not the entire explanation. Nadya? Something unknown? It took Leiv several moments to cajole his emotions back into enjoying Saturday evening with Lloyd and Dobie.

Purchase the Full-Length Novel:

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Also by M.M. Gornell:

Uncle Si's Secret

Lies of Convenience

Death of a Perfect Man

Reticence of Ravens

Counsel of Ravens

About M.M. Gornell:

Madeline (M.M.) Gornell has six published mystery novels—PSWA award-winners Uncle Si's Secret and Lies of Convenience (also a Hollywood Book Festival Honorable Mention), Death of a Perfect Man, Reticence of Ravens (a finalist for the Eric Hoffer 2011 Fiction Prize, the da Vinci Eye for cover art, and the Montaigne Medal for most thought provoking book), Counsel of Ravens (a London Book Festival Honorary Mention and LA Book Festival Runner-Up), and Rhodes The Mojave-Stone, her latest released April, 2015 has received Honorable Mention in the 2015 San Francisco Book Festival.

Madeline is a lifetime lover of mysteries, and besides reading and writing, she is also a potter with a fondness for stoneware and reduction firing. She lives with her husband and assorted canines in the Mojave High Desert near the internationally revered Route 66.

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Writers in Residence
Fatal Debt  
A Dana Mackenzie Mystery

Dorothy Howell

A Cozy Mystery

Set in San Bernadino County, CA
Chapter One

"Repo the Sullivans' TV," Manny said, gesturing to the printout on his desk.

"What? The Sullivans? No way," I told him.

"Today," he said. "They're too far past due. We can't carry them."

"Come on, Manny, not the Sullivans," I said. "They're nice people. They've had an account with us for twenty years, or something. I can't repossess their television."

Manny Franco who, technically, was my supervisor—though I disagreed with the disparity in our positions on many levels—lowered himself into his chair and dug his heels into the carpet to roll himself up to his desk.

"We never should have made that loan. They can't afford it," he said, swiping his damp forehead with his palm.

Manny was always stressed. He was only an inch taller than me—and at five-feet, nine-inches I'm tall for a girl—and outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. He wore his black hair long and slicked back in waves. His suits always looked a little rumpled and his collar a size too small.

I was sitting in the chair beside Manny's desk in the office of Mid-America Financial Services, a nationwide consumer finance company that granted personal loans, second mortgages, and did some dealer financing for things like TVs, stereos, and furniture.

I'd worked all sorts of jobs in the past few years. Data entry, waitressing, sales clerk, then a good job as an admin assistant for a major corporation that went under, taking me with it. Piercing ears at the mall landed me the job at Mid-America.

Something about snapping on latex gloves and driving a metal spike through the flesh of infants and children had impressed Mr. Burrows, the branch manager, and he'd hired me several months ago as an asset manager.

While that might sound like a fabulous job—that came with a fabulous salary—not so. But the big three-oh was on the horizon, I'd been unemployed forever, and I was still working on my B.A., so I didn't have a lot of options. Like many other people in the country, I'd been desperate for a paycheck. Besides, I hadn't decided what my future held—beyond taking over the world, the only thing I knew for sure I wanted to do with my life.

I liked justice. I liked the scales to balance, which was one of the things that appealed to me about my job with Mid-America. It gave me a chance to be judge, jury, and executioner, at times, to mete out a little justice for my customer's benefit and, sometimes, for Mid-America's benefit.

I didn't like it when things didn't even out.

According to Mid-America, the position of asset manager required that I telephoned customers who were behind on their payments and work with them to get their accounts up to date. I was okay with helping people get back on their feet, financially—I remember well the Summer of Spam, as I thought of it, when I was ten years old and my dad lost his job.

I was also expected to take whatever steps were necessary to collect Mid-America's accounts, including pursuing legal action and repossessing collateral. No way was I doing that, so I put my own twist on the position.

"The Sullivans are doing okay," I said to Manny, even though I knew they weren't. But I liked them, two sweet old people, both in their sixties.

"Repo the TV, Dana," Manny said.

"Mr. Sullivan lost his part-time job," I said.

Manny was unmoved. He'd heard this story a zillion times.

"He has another job lined up," I said, even though I knew it wasn't true. "They'll have the money soon."

Manny's gaze narrowed, studying me, like he thought maybe I was just shining him on—which I was. But I'm as good at the stare-down as anybody so I gazed right back at Manny without blinking an eye.

"I have to answer to Corporate on this," he said.

Corporate. What a bunch of jackasses.

"Pick up the TV, Dana. Now," Manny said, then turned to his computer. I gathered my stuff and left the office with one thought burning in my mind: how the heck was I going to get out of repoing the Sullivans' television and still keep my job?

* * *

I fumed as I drove out of Mid-America's parking lot and headed for the freeway. Luckily, I had on a favorite pants and jacket outfit, the sun shone bright, and I was treated to a gorgeous late October day here in Santa Flores.

The city was, admittedly, not one of Southern California's finest, even though it was situated halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs, at the base of the mountains leading up to the Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead ski resorts. But don't let that prestigious location give you any ideas. A few years back Santa Flores was dubbed the Murder Capital of America.

Yes, the Murder Capital of America was my home. A place where you could get killed for your shoes. I'd lived there all my life. My whole family lived there too, except my older brother who'd married and moved up north about a year ago; Mom's still giving him "another month or so" before she's sure he'll move back.

Like a lot of other places, things had gone badly for Santa Flores in the last few decades. The steel mill shut down, the railroad yard moved, the Air Force base closed. Gangs moved in from L.A. The real estate bubble burst. Businesses closed. The only thing on the upswing was the number of people out of work.

I took the 215 freeway north and exited on State Street—the Sullivans had been behind on their account so many times I knew the way to their house without my GPS—then made my way to Devon, a nice area—once—but that was before I was born. Gangs had brought drugs and violence. Some of the houses were abandoned, long ago falling to ruin. A few families valiantly kept up their yards and painted over the graffiti on their fences; most just hung on.

As I parked outside the chain link fence that surrounded the Sullivans' little stucco home, I noted the place needed painting. The grass was dead. Old lawn chairs and broken flower pots were overturned beside the porch.

Despite everything, Arthur and Gladys Sullivan were sweet, loveable old people, the kind you couldn't say no to—though Mid-America should have said "no" to their last loan request. They were on a fixed income; their budget was tight. They'd needed five hundred dollars to fix their car, and Mr. Sullivan needed that car to get to his part-time job. Mid-America had approved the loan, picking up their 42-inch Sony television for collateral.

They'd fallen behind on their payments a few months ago but I'd let it go—thus, the twist I'd put on my job description—giving them time to get some money together. Now Manny—and Corporate—thought I'd held off too long. I had, but that didn't mean I was going to take their TV.

I got out of my Honda. The front gate squeaked when I opened it, the boards of the porch groaned, the screen door rattled. I knocked, hoping the Sullivans wouldn't be there. They were.

Mr. Sullivan opened the door also squeaking, groaning, and rattling. His file indicated he was 67. He looked older. His hair appeared more white than gray against his black skin. He wore denim jeans and a red flannel shirt buttoned at the collar; he walked on the backs of his corduroy house slippers.

He squinted at me and smiled, showing a missing bottom tooth, then turned back inside.

"Look who's here," he called. "It's that Mid-America girl."

I'm here to repo his TV and he's glad to see me. Great.

"Dana Mackenzie," I said, reminding him of my name.

He led the way into the living room. The house was neat and clean, decorated with lace doilies and pictures of Jesus. It smelled like boiling beans and linoleum.

Mrs. Sullivan sat on a worn sofa wearing a floral house coat with snaps up the front. She was watching television, of course.

"Hi, Mrs. Sullivan," I said.

She glanced up at me. "Hi, honey."

"Mama's watching her stories," Mr. Sullivan said.

A soap opera, I realized, glancing at the screen.

Mr. Sullivan eased onto his threadbare recliner and I sat in a straight-backed chair beside him. We exchanged pleasantries and I stalled, but finally came to the point.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but my boss reviewed your account, and he wants me to pick up your television," I said.

He just looked at me, taking it in, making me feel worse, then shook his head.

"Well, if you got to, you got to." He looked over at his wife. "But how's Mama gonna watch her stories? She loves her stories. What's she gonna do?"

He wasn't so much asking me as musing aloud how he'd let her down.

If ever I'd been tempted to give a customer some money, this was it. They were old people. They didn't have much. The home they'd bought when they were young was decaying. The neighborhood they'd invested their time and emotion in had fallen to criminals. Their health was about gone. Not much was left for them—except Mrs. Sullivan's stories, and Mr. Sullivan's ability to let her watch them.

I'd be fired on the spot if I made a payment on a customer's account. A partial payment, a few cents, it wouldn't matter. Even if I loaned it to them, I'd be gone. And I couldn't afford to lose my job.

"We don't get money again until the first of the month," Mr. Sullivan said. "I've got Mama's medicine money. I could give you that."

I cringed.

"I'll call Leonard," I said.

Leonard was their grandson. He'd had an account with Mid-America some time back. Lots of families had accounts with us. It wasn't unusual. They passed us around and talked about us over holiday meals.

Leonard was about my age. He had trouble holding a job—not finding a job, like most people, just holding onto it. He'd been late on his payments more times than not, yet there was something very likeable about him. I had no problem calling him and asking for money on his grandparents' behalf.

"He's a good boy," Mr. Sullivan said. "We raised him, me and Mama, after his daddy died and his mama took off. He's got a new job. I'll call him. He'll help us out."

I felt more relieved than Mr. Sullivan appeared.

"I'll tell him to come by the house after he gets off work," Mr. Sullivan said. "Maybe he can drive me down to your office."

I didn't want to take the chance that something might come up, so I said, "I'll come back out and pick up the money."

"You come on back at supper time," Mr. Sullivan said.

I waved to Mrs. Sullivan, who didn't seem to notice, thanked Mr. Sullivan, and left.

* * *

In the short time I'd worked for Mid-America, the company had been bought out by a major conglomerate, then a mega-conglomerate, neither of which had done much except cause everyone a lot of unnecessary headaches.

Our office was located in downtown Santa Flores in a two-story building on Fifth Street. Just down the block were the post office, the courthouse, and all sorts of restaurants, bars, and office buildings.

Mid-America had one of the offices on the ground floor that offered great "signage," according to a guy in a thousand-dollar-suit who'd come out from the corporate office in Chicago to evaluate our location and formulate an enhanced marketing plan, and then had, apparently, forgotten we existed.

All I cared about was keeping our current location so I could look out our big plate glass window all day.

When I got back to the office Manny was more concerned with a possible foreclosure on a house out in Webster, a town about twenty minutes east of Santa Flores. He accepted my explanation of why I wasn't carrying a 42-inch Sony television with only a brief nod, and I got on with my work.

My desk sat at the rear of the office, near Manny's. This placement was Corporate's decision, not mine. According to Mid-America's seating chart, the cashier who took payments from our walk-in customers sat at the counter up front. Just behind her were the two financial reps who handled the lending end of the business, along with Inez Marshall, their supervisor who was, thankfully, not in the office today. The beige furniture, walls, and carpet, and seascapes in plastic frames, were about as generic as an office could get.

The mail had been delivered while I was out, and I saw a neat stack of envelopes centered on my desk—Corporate had not bestowed upon us online bill-paying capability, despite our fabulous signage. I got to look at the mail before anyone in the branch because I was anxious to know which of my customers had paid. Getting money together to make a payment was tough for my customers. I didn't want to be calling them if their payment was at the cashier's desk waiting to be posted.

I'd just about reached the bottom of the stack when a familiar return address leaped off the envelope and smacked me between the eyes.

Nick Travis.

My breath caught and I felt a smile spread across my face. Oh, yeah, this was the boost I needed right now.

I'd known Nick Travis in high school. Everybody knew Nick Travis. Football team captain, student body president, gorgeous hottie. He'd dated my best friend, Katie Jo Miller, for a short while—a very short while—when Katie Jo and I were sophomores and Nick was in his senior year.

Nick got her pregnant, made her have an abortion, then dumped her and left town.

Imagine my surprise all these years later to find an account on Mid-America's books from Nick Travis. He'd financed a high-end television and sound system. I hadn't even known he'd moved back to Santa Flores.

When I'd seen Nick Travis's name on the computer screen that day—and after I got myself up off the floor—I accessed his file and proceeded to learn everything there was to know about the man who'd ruined my best friend's life.

The copy of his driver's license that the TV dealer had provided indicated Nick was six-three, two hundred twenty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. He'd moved back to Santa Flores a few months before the application was taken. He had checking and savings accounts at a credit union, two Visas with small balances, a Chevy that was financed, and a mortgage payment.

The mortgage surprised me because according to the application, Nick was unmarried. He had no dependents and paid no child support or alimony.

The shocker was that Nick worked for the Santa Flores Police Department as a detective. I guess they're pretty desperate these days—especially here in the Murder Capital of America.

Katie Jo's abortion had been rough. Her parents had been supportive but they were disappointed in their little girl. There were religious issues.

She stayed home for a long time. She wouldn't return phone calls. She refused to talk to anyone, even to me, her best friend. She was never the same after that. Neither were her parents. Neither was I.

The only one unscathed was Nick Travis.

I logged onto my computer and pulled up his account. A lot of people waited until the last minute to make their payment, getting it in to us just before it was considered late. Nick Travis was one of those people. According to his due date, today was the last day he could make his payment and avoid a late charge.

I looked at the computer screen, looked at his payment, and thought about Katie Jo Miller.

I ripped Nick Travis's check into tiny pieces and dropped it into my trash can.

* * *

At 4:50 I pulled up Nick Travis's account on my computer and called his office.

"Travis," he barked, when he came on the line. He sounded as if he was just short of a bad mood. I was about to make his afternoon.

I identified myself with my sweetest voice.

"I'm calling because I was looking over your account and I noticed that today is the last day to avoid a late charge," I said, "and we haven't received your payment yet."

Silence. The cold, hard kind.

"I made that payment," he finally said.

I pictured cartoon-steam coming out of his ears.

"Well, it hasn't come in yet," I said. "You can bring it in, if you want to avoid the late charge."

"You close in five minutes."

I gasped—an Academy Award winning gasp—and said, "You're right. Looks like you'll have to pay that late charge."

I hung up feeling pleased with myself, and pleased for Katie Jo, too.

At five o'clock on the dot Carmen Chavez, our cashier, locked the door and began to count her cash drawer. Carmen was a few years younger than me, but was already married with a small child.

I was about to take off for the Sullivan place when a face appeared through the glass on our front door.

Nick Travis.

My heart did a little flip-flop.

I recognized him because he'd been into the office on previous months to make his payment. He'd changed so much I'd never have recognized him from high school.

Nick was taller now, bulkier as men got after their teenage years. In high school he'd been drop-dead gorgeous; now there was a blunted, more angular look to his face. Square jaw, strong chin, straight nose. Still good looking, but in a more rugged way.

He had on gray trousers, a navy blue sport coat, and a tie that actually looked good together. I wondered if he had a woman dressing him.

I was pretty sure Nick had recognized me from high school when he'd come into the office a few months ago and I'd waited on him at the counter. I'd seen that flash of recognition in his face, but he hadn't said anything. Maybe he didn't like being reminded of high school—or Katie Jo Miller.

Or maybe he was just being a jerk.

I unlocked the door and peered at him, pretending I didn't know who he was.

"We're closed," I told him.

"You called me just now about my payment," he said.

I stared, still pretending.

"Nick Travis," he said.

"Oh, right. You're the one with the late payment," I said.

"I sent my payment," he told me. "In plenty of time."

"It was never received, obviously," I said. "You can make your payment, if you'd like. We'll post it tomorrow. You'll have that late charge by then."

He glared at me. "Fine."

I let him in and couldn't help but take a long look as he headed toward the counter. My heart did a little pitter-pat. To compensate, I stepped to the power position behind the counter.

"You might want to stop payment on that check you claim you sent," I said.

He pulled his checkbook from the pocket of his sport jacket and said, "That will cost me another twenty bucks on top of the late charge."

I gave him my too-bad-for-you shrug.

"This is the fourth time this has happened in the last five months," Nick said. He dashed off his check, then ripped it out of the book.

I made him stand there and hold it out for a few seconds before I took it.

My stomach felt a little queasy, but that was probably because I'd trashed his check this morning, though my I'm-feeling-guilty stomach roll was a little different from what I experienced at the moment.

Or maybe it was Nick. I always felt a little nervous when he came into the office, but that was because he was in law enforcement. Policemen always made me feel as if they knew everything I'd done wrong, like they could somehow see inside me and know about the lipstick I shoplifted from Wal-Mart when I was fourteen.

"I need a receipt," Nick said.

Carmen was busy counting the day's payments so I wrote out a receipt. When I looked up again I caught him eyeing the office, using his police detective X-ray vision to check out my trash can, no doubt.

"Here," I said, distracting him with the receipt.

Nick tucked it inside his checkbook, then headed for the door. I followed. Once outside, he looked back and gave me a half grin.

Nick had a grin other men would have paid serious bucks for. The kind of grin that made women melt into their shoes. For a second, I got lost in that grin. I started to melt.

Katie Jo had reacted the same way. How many other women had, too?

I locked the door, shut down my computer and left the office.

* * *

The neighborhood seemed oddly quiet when I pulled up in front of the Sullivan house. No one was outside. No kids played in the yards. No music blared from the nearby houses, no dogs barked. The sun was going down, the light fading.

I got out of my car and climbed onto the porch. The front door stood open a few inches. I knocked and the door swung open a little more. A lamp burned in the living room and the television played softly; it sounded like a basketball game was on.

"Mr. Sullivan? Hello?" I called.

I figured I'd find him asleep in front of the TV so I stepped inside and leaned around the corner.

No one was there. I walked farther into the room. Movement off to my right, down the hallway, caught my attention a fraction of a second before a man barreled into me. He hit me on the right shoulder and knocked me backwards. I stumbled over something and sat down hard on my butt, my feet flying into the air, my head thumping on the side of the recliner. Stunned, I sat there for a second or two, then scrambled to my feet more mad than hurt.

"Hey!" I shouted. But I was talking to myself. The man was gone, the front door slammed shut.

I straightened my clothes, restoring some sort of personal dignity. A minute passed before it occurred to me that I still hadn't seen the Sullivans.

"Mr. Sullivan?" I called.

I crept down the hallway and peered into the first bedroom on the left.

Mr. Sullivan lay on the floor. Dead.

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Also by Dorothy Howell:

Fatal Luck: available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Fatal Choice: available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble

About Dorothy Howell:

Dorothy Howell is the author of 39 novels. She writes the Dana Mackenzie mystery series as well as the Haley Randolph mystery series. Dorothy also writes historical romance under her pen name Judith Stacy.

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The Final Checkpoint

Will Zeilinger

A Mystery

Set in Southern California

When I drove up to Marco's place early the next morning, I found him sitting outside on his front step caressing a cup of hot coffee.

"Seriously?" he looked up and whined, "You conned my poor grandmother into waking me up at God knows what time to go out there again?" He dragged himself up to his feet and shuffled to my car. Before he slid down into the seat next to me I stopped him and said, "Thanks for coming along Marco, but if you spill a drop of that coffee in my car I'll kick your butt and leave you out there with the coyotes."

As he slowly became fully awake, I told him how that TV news interview seemed to have boosted my reputation in the eyes of the women in Seagull Beach, and how his crazy Antonio Banderas impersonation brought his down a couple of notches.

His eyes popped wide. "Well, that sucks! How am I gonna fix that?"

"Well, you could talk up your volunteer firefighter experiences and drop the creepy lounge lizard act. Y'know... be yourself."

"What do you mean be myself? This is myself."

"Exactly. Just talk to people like you're talking to me."

He looked at me like I was speaking Urdu or something. "Just be me? That would never work." He reasoned, "I have my game and it's worked for me in the past so why should I change?"

"Well for one thing, you aren't seventeen anymore."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

I nodded, "Damn right." I watched him process what we discussed for some time. It must have been difficult for him to realize that he wasn't the charming young stud he was at seventeen. Marco had to realize he was an adult and maybe a few embarrassing, on-air experiences like the one he had with Ms. Eastman of the Eyewitness News is just the medicine he required.

We wheeled into the parking lot of the Riverside County Sheriff's station. There were, maybe, half the number of cars as yesterday and only one local news van. The reporter was doing a remote follow-up story in front of the fenced area where the abandoned Fiat Spider had been impounded. Marco put on a big smile and walked over to them with his coffee. I watched his shoulders slump after the reporter shook her head, apparently not interested in talking to him. The rest of the camera and sound crew brushed past him with their equipment and got into their van. I went to him and put my arm on his shoulder.

"Let's go in and talk to the Sheriff before we go out to the search site." I knocked on the office door and heard a muffled, "Yeah? What is it?"

I pulled open the heavy door and stuck my head inside. "Excuse me, Sheriff, but I know someone who recognized the two missing women."

He put down his clipboard. "Thanks, but we got their identities from the rally organizers and car registration, and we've interviewed their neighbors and anyone else who might have known them, so we have a pretty good idea about their routines."

"So you already know their stage names?"

"Stage names? What are you talking about?"

"The names they use in the adult films they both do on the side. Eva goes by Pinkie Blossom and Mikela uses Nikki Velvet. They apparently appear in porn films."

He picked up his clipboard. "Sit down and tell me how you know this. Who told you this information?"

"I'm a photographer and one of my contacts gave me the information after they saw me interviewed on the news yesterday, but I can't tell you my source yet. If you check into this, you'll find they both worked for the same adult film production company in the San Fernando Valley but they didn't give me the name."

"I see. I'm going to need your name in case I need to contact you about your theory."

He didn't seem convinced. I thought he was humoring me. The Sheriff stood and went into another room. Marco and I headed for the van that would take us back out to the site.

Marco eyed me with suspicion. "I heard what you said to the Sheriff back there. You've been holding out on me—my good buddy Ben. You know hot porn stars and you never even told me about it. That is just plain selfish. C'mon—give the details. Is that what you shoot in your studio at night? At least let me watch sometime."

I shoved him away. "No! It's not what you think and I don't shoot porn in my studio. My business is legitimate and I do well enough. I don't want or need to do that."

"Ben, Ben, Ben. This is me... Marco. You don't have to play games, just let me watch you work sometime."

"Okay, I have a shoot a week from tomorrow night, but you are going to be disappointed."

As we got off the van where we were handed our hard hats and day-glow orange vests, a Sheriff's car rolled up in a cloud of dust. "One of you Ben DeCastro?"

Of course Marco pointed at me without even blinking.

"The Sheriff would like to see you back at the office."

I looked at the kid from the Conservation Corps that gave us the equipment. He shrugged. "Just turn them in at the office," and went back to what he was doing as we rode away with the deputy.

"C'mon in gentlemen and take a seat." The Sheriff was very polite. "First, I'd like to apologize for blowin' you off earlier. Says here on your registration form that you're both volunteer firefighters." We nodded. "Well, you probably know when somethin' like this happens, all the freaks on the planet converge on this place. I made a couple of calls and it seems there's some truth to what you told me about these women and their secret lives. Even their close friends didn't seem to know they're mixed up in the adult film business."

"I appreciate the fact you took this seriously Sheriff, but that's all I know about them."

He shuffled a couple of papers and shoved them into a manila folder. "Listen guys, the LAPD Vice guys tell me the missing women were working for some really bad dudes, an Armenian bunch. So don't go sticking your noses into this case. There's a lot more going on here than you know."

Marco jumped in. "Oh, don't worry about me—I like my life just the way it is."

The Sheriff eyed me. I stood up. "No problem, Sheriff. Would you like us to rejoin the search?"

"Actually... it might be best if you distance yourselves from this investigation. Since the news report showed the photos of the missing women, we have more than enough help. Just leave your gear with me and go on home. We have your contact info if we need you."

Marco kissed his fist and looked at the ceiling. "Thank you, God. I had a taste of Hell yesterday and I truly appreciate the favor."

I shoved him out the door towards my car.

"What a stroke of luck!" Marco spread his arms up toward the sky. "I really didn't want to go back out there again."

I looked at him and punched him in the shoulder hard enough so it hurt a little. "What if you were the one missing out there?"

"Ow. Okay, okay. But you have to admit, it's pretty hot in the desert."

He was quiet for a while until we transitioned from the 10 West to the 605 South, when Marco turned to me. "Y'know, when the Sheriff was telling us they were bad dudes, I thought I was gonna crap my pants. I've never seen a law enforcement officer be so serious except on TV. What are you gonna do, Ben?"

"I don't know. That headless body in their trunk changes everything." Marco was not the person to tell about my sister's connection to the two missing women. But all the way back to Seagull Beach Marco would not shut up about porn actresses.

"You seem to know a lot about this stuff, Marco. How much time do you spend looking at that stuff on the web anyway?"

"Well, the really hot women are... Hey, wait a minute. I'm not some lonely sleazeball pervert. I just appreciate a beautiful woman—they're like art, y'know? Besides, everybody does it."

I raised my eyebrows and looked over the top of my sunglasses at him. "No... everybody does not do that. Most people have real lives and actual relationships with real people. Besides, if you pay to go on those sites, you're just supporting and perpetuating that business. It's all big business and even the Sheriff realizes that a lot of it is funded by organized crime."

"Thanks, Reverend Ben. I didn't think I'd get a lecture from you. After all, you are living a dream and get to spend every day looking at beautiful women in your job."

"At least I have a job. My grandma isn't supporting me."

"That was a cheap shot. Real cold. I thought we were friends."

"We are Marco, I'm just sayin' you need to do something more than surf the Net and play computer games... get out more. Meet actual people."

——————————

Marco walked home from my place while I headed to the Superman Cafe and sat at the counter for a quiet breakfast. Marco's grandma probably made him his favorite dollar-sized pancakes for breakfast. I often wonder how he'll survive when she dies. He'll probably find some poor unsuspecting woman to mother him until he drives her crazy.

Cassie, on the other hand, needed my help. Not that she ever listened to my advice, but I was worried about her. My mushroom omelet stared up at me from its comfortable spot on the warm plate. "What are you looking at?" I whispered, as if eggs could help me think this out.

"Oh, this can't be a good sign." A woman wearing large dark glasses, a tightly wrapped headscarf and a big floppy hat slid onto the stool next to me. "You're talking to your food." When she took off her shades and scarf, I was surprised to see Jessica from number 360.

I blushed and stammered, "I don't usually do this," as I tried to salvage my dignity. "I was just trying to work out a problem."

"I didn't mean to disturb your thoughts, but talking to your breakfast in a public place is kind of weird. Is there anything I can do to help—or do I need to be hard-boiled to contribute?"

"Ha ha. That would be great, but it's nothing I can talk about."

"Your omelet seemed very interested, but then mushrooms are known to be good listeners."

"Okay, have you ever quit a job because you thought your boss was psycho?"

"I thought you were a volunteer firefighter."

"Actually I'm a freelance photographer—the firefighter thing is just a... it's volunteer."

"Well if you're a freelance photographer, then you are your boss. Are you psycho? I mean, you were talking to your food, after all."

"What? No. It's not me. I have a... friend who needs help leaving a job."

She winked at me. "A friend, huh? Excuse me a second." She stopped the waitress and ordered tomato juice and rye toast.

"That's not much of a breakfast."

"I can't eat too much"—she patted her incredibly flat stomach—"I'm an actor and part-time model." Her eyes got wide, "Just a minute—you said you're a photographer... You're Ben DeCastro the photographer! How dense can I be? You shoot those romance novel covers."

All of a sudden she seemed interested in me.

"I didn't make the connection—especially after you said you were a firefighter, I never thought... " She reached into her purse and handed me a business card with her headshot on one side. "I've never done that kind of modeling, but you never know."

Well, I thought, there goes my quiet breakfast. It seems like no one in Seagull Beach has a regular nine-to-five job.

"I work in film, commercials and model part time—mostly catalog and ad work."

"You do anything I'd recognize? Y'know—movies or TV shows."

She looked down at her plate, "Right now it's mostly character parts and minor roles, but I've been in some films with big names like Jennifer, Brad, George, y'know—and some of the parts were big enough that I got my name in the credits and not just 'girl number 3' or 'redheaded nurse.' I'll drop a few samples by your place later. Maybe you could use a redhead on one of your covers."

I was thinking I'd like to have her under my covers instead of on one of my covers, but my plans for asking her out just evaporated since she confessed to being a model and I do have my rules. Crap.

"Sure," I answered while lying to her. "I'd be glad to keep your samples on file." I was saying that to be polite, but I wondered about her costume. "If you don't mind my asking, what's with the Jackie Onassis getup?"

She took a nibble of toast and took my hand. "Here—feel this." She put the back of my hand against her cheek. "I have an extremely fragile complexion. The sun could ruin my skin. I have to protect it or I'd fry like a strip of bacon then how could I work?"

I sighed. "Why do you live at the beach if you can't go out in the sun?"

"Probably for the same reasons you do—fresh air, beautiful views, beautiful people and privacy. I just walked down to our little post office and picked up my mail before coming here." After she finished eating and slathering on more sunscreen she turned to me. "So, why don't you work in the business?"

"What do you mean? I'm a photographer—I don't do motion pictures."

"No, I mean on the other side of the camera. Like I said, when you came by my apartment that day, you're not a bad looking guy; tall, nice eyes, great hair and you look like you work out a lot. It's a shame you don't model or act."

"I don't—er, can't act. I'm really, really bad at it."

"Thank God. I won't date actors, and male models are—well, most of the ones I've met are more interested in my shoes and clothes, if you know what I mean."

Jessica smelled great. Maybe it was the sunscreen. Maybe it was pheromones. I got this rush down below that percolated up to my chest but the feeling appeared mutual that nothing physical was ever going to happen between us—ever. We walked back to the apartment building together, though I felt like I was escorting some celebrity who didn't want to be recognized.

A few days later, Cassie called back.

"I think I'm going to quit now. I can't make money if I'm permanently disfigured or worse, and I can't tell the police. I'm scared."

"Maybe you should move back home with Mom and Dad for a while."

"What? No. I'll have to think about that. I'll talk to you later. Love you, Ben."

"Wait, wait. Don't hang up. I have an idea. If you're really serious about quitting, I can drive you the next time you have a gig with these guys. I'll drop you off there and wait for you. So when you quit, I can take you home and they won't see your car."

"Isn't that a little cloak and dagger? Anyway, they'll see your sports car and get your license plate."

"I'll rent a car for the day."

"Like I said brother, let me think about this."

I wish I knew how my sister's head worked. She's a lot more scared than she likes to admit. I could sense the panic in her voice, but she'd never let me know that. She's always been that way.

I worried about Cassie and the people she was mixed up with. She really needs to get out of there, but I know she hasn't told me everything, so there's nothing I can do to help her. I wonder why she didn't just stop showing up? If she calls me, I'll ask her, but I know what she'll say: "Just this one more shoot. I almost have all the money I need."

She called me a couple days later with her decision and directions to the studio.

"Ben, I thought about what you said and I've got to get out of this situation. I don't know what's going on but things have changed. The producers are acting very strange."

"What do you mean, 'strange,' and why are you whispering?"

"I've only got a minute. I'm in the restroom. I've got to get out of here. They seem very rushed, like they're planning on moving or something. Everything is rush, rush, rush and they're very abrupt when you ask a question. Something's up. I have to get out of here today, can you help me?"

"How did you get there? Did you drive?"

"My car wouldn't start, I think the battery's dead. I took a cab."

"I'll pick you up in about an hour. Can you wait that long? I'll ring your cell once when I'm out front."

"Okay, they want to shoot one more set then I'll get my money and get out. See you then."

I rented a very boring, silver Chevy Malibu at the airport and followed Cassie's directions to the address she gave me out in the Valley. I called her phone and waited across the street. You'd never know what was going on in that unmarked, beige warehouse type building on Victory Boulevard in Panorama City. All the windows were painted over the same color as the rest of the building the only identification was a small set of black street numbers on the door behind the folding iron security grill.

After about ten minutes, I saw Cassie in an orange wig, rush out the front door with a pink sports duffle over her shoulder. I tapped the horn once. She saw me and ran across the street. I popped the trunk so she could toss her bag in the back. As soon as her door was closed, I punched the accelerator and sped down the alley. We turned right and headed for the freeway onramp toward Ventura.

"So"—I glanced at Cassie slumped down in the seat, sweating and red-faced—"Did they give you a bad time?" I was concerned these guys might not like having one of their stars bail on them. I've heard from some of my buddies that most of the porn industry is run by organized crime and Armenian gangs are pretty ruthless.

She pulled off the wig, "He made a lot of noise, but I think it'll be okay." She panted, "I really didn't mind jiggling my boobies and acting all sexy on camera. It was like stealing and they were all so appreciative, I mean the whole crew would applaud after each shoot... and, they paid me a lot of money."

While Cassie buckled her seatbelt, she looked out the windshield and asked, "Why are we going north?"

"Just in case they had people watching the parking lot, I thought we could throw them off and drive the opposite direction for a few miles, then head back to Mom and Dad's place."

"Why Mom and Dad's? I want to go home."

"I don't think that's such a good idea. Are you sure those movie people don't know where you live?"

"It's not that simple. Don't take me to Mom and Dad's."

"You still haven't told them yet, have you?"

She shook her head. "No, and I don't ever plan to. It would kill them."

"What are you going to do now? You'll need to find a real job and you sure as hell can't put what you've been doing on your resumé."

"With all that's been going on, I think I made the right decision."

"I think so too. Take a deep breath. You know you can always call me if you need something. Are you sure you don't want to go to Mom and Dad's?"

"Just take me home—please."

I shrugged, and headed for her place. "I think you're making a mistake, but I'm not going to fight you over this."

She sat silently for a few minutes and just stared out the car window.

"Okay," I sighed, "so tell me what happened."

Cassie explained, "After the video shoot, I showered and dressed. Then I waited to be paid. When Armen, the producer, came out of the office and put the cash in my hand, I put it in my bag and told him, 'This is probably my last shoot. I'm gonna be unavailable for a while.'

"He looked at me like I just kicked him in the balls. 'What?' he shouted. 'You gotta give me more notice than this. Who am I supposed to put in your spot?'

"I picked up my sports bag and headed for the door. Armen grabbed the strap and held tight. 'Hey Crystal, don't do this. You've been good for business. I was even getting ready to give you top billing and you know that means a lot more money.'

"I tell you Ben, I was never so glad as I was right then that I never gave them my real name. "Think about it." Armen says, 'My big bosses are expanding their line and they like you very much.'

"It's nothing personal," I told him. "I've got to quit, that's all."

"'What is the problem? Is another studio trying to steal you away from us and get you to work for them?'"

"I shook my head. 'Then what?' He yelled. 'Did you find God or something? That seems to happen with a lot of my girls.'

"It's nothing like that." I said, "This just isn't who I am. Now let go of my bag!"

"'Someone is bothering you?' He put his hands on his hips. 'That happens. We get crazy fans that don't know fantasy from reality and try to meet you in person. My bosses can make those guys disappear—they can make them go away... permanently.'

"'No one is bothering me... Look Armen,' I told him, 'Everyone here has been professional with me. It's just that I've made the money I needed, but I have other plans and I need to move on. It's nothing personal.'

"The veins in his neck were bulging. He clenched his fist in my face and called me an ungrateful little cunt. Then he said, 'You can forget about asking Armen Haroopian for help if you ever need money or a job—and you will someday. Just remember, our company owns all your videos and images. They'll be online for the world to see forever. Forever. If you're gonna go, get outta my place now.' Then he shoved me towards the door and called me a cheap whore." Cassie was in tears when she said those words.

We pulled up in front of her apartment building, "Are you sure you'll be okay here? You can change your mind. I won't judge."

She gave me a quick peck on the cheek, "Yes, big brother, I'll be fine."

"You should move real soon. You may not think so, but I would bet they know where you live."

Maybe I shouldn't have said that. She rolled her eyes and hopped out of the car, grabbed her duffle bag from the trunk and hurried into the building. I sat in the car for a moment until I was sure she was inside. One more check of the rear view mirrors to see if anyone had followed us. She left the orange wig on the floor of my car. I guess she wouldn't be needing it anymore. To be sure no one followed her, I drove around the block twice before heading back to LAX to return the Malibu. I don't know how people can drive one of these things every day, they're so boring. They might as well be sitting on their sofa watching Wheel of Fortune. It's no wonder they get distracted and push the accelerator instead of the brakes.

Back in my old MG, I turned on the radio for traffic and news. "Still no break in the case of the missing rally drivers," the reporter read with little emotion. "Riverside County Sheriffs are baffled and have few leads." I sure hope they didn't get themselves killed for doing what Cassie did.

Lori was waiting outside my place with Lord Donald on a leash as I pulled into my garage. I thanked her for cat sitting and took the leash.

"You never told me what your client thought of the new and improved Lori that you were enhancing for that book cover."

I closed the garage door. "Oh, they loved it," and walked with her around to my front door. "Is that all you wanted to ask?"

"Well, yes and I was wondering if we could do another car rally sometime."

"You mean... I didn't think you enjoyed the last one. Especially with what's been going on in the news with those missing drivers."

"To be honest Ben, it was pretty exciting. Maybe I could drive next time and you could navigate."

"Sorry, I'm strictly a left seat guy."

"Seriously, I would like to try it again sometime." She gave me a wink and went off down the alley.

Purchase the Full-Length Novel:

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Also by Will Zeilinger:

The Naked Groom

Something's Cooking at Dove Acres

Slivers of Glass

About Will Zeilinger:

Will Zeilinger has been writing for twelve years. His novels run the gamut from romantic comedy to mystery. He has recently had a short story Under the House, featured in the anthology Haunted Tales: Stories from Beyond the Grave in the U.K. Other books include The Final Checkpoint, Something's Cooking at Dove Acres, and The Naked Groom.

In addition to being an author, Will is a freelance graphic designer/illustrator with a degree from California State University, Long Beach. Will has traveled the world and, as a youth lived in Turkey for five years.

Will is on the board of Sisters in Crime, Los Angeles Chapter.

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The Vesuvius Isotope

Kristen Elise, Ph.D.

An Archaeological and Historical Mystery/Thriller

Set in San Diego, CA, Campania, Italy, and Egypt

Prologue

Ashes were already falling, not as yet very thickly. I looked round: a dense black cloud was coming up behind us, spreading over the earth like a flood. "Let us leave the road while we can still see," I said, "or we shall be knocked down and trampled underfoot in the dark by the crowd behind." We had scarcely sat down to rest when darkness fell, not the dark of a moonless or cloudy night, but as if the lamp had been put out in a closed room.

-Letters of Pliny the Younger  
(ca. 61-112 CE)

Thousands perished in the ashes the day the darkness fell as if the lamp had been put out in a closed room. So, too, was buried a medical breakthrough that today, nearly two millennia later, could save thousands. Six weeks ago, it emerged.

The person who rediscovered the ancient isotope did not at first realize the magnitude of the find. Except for the curious property of restoring life, it is inert. It is harmless to humans—indeed, to all living things. It survives for only moments. Yet, despite its transient nature, it appears to bring death as well as life; a trail of cadavers has followed the isotope through the centuries.

Is it magic, as believed by the ancients? As a scientist in 2023, I have a more logical hypothesis. But when it comes to murder of the strictly mortal variety, I must admit, empirically I know for certain of only one. My husband, Jeff.

When I find it, or recreate it in a lab as the case may be, I will name the isotope Vesuvium. I think Jeff would appreciate that. Like the erupting volcano, in fact, like Jeff himself, it is as majestic as its lifespan is fleeting.

He was my world. I loved him more than anything. I hope he would forgive me for all that I have done.
Chapter One

You could hear the shrieks of women, the wailing of infants, and the shouting of men; some were calling their parents, others their children or their wives, trying to recognize them by their voices. People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness for evermore.

-Letters of Pliny the Younger  
(ca. 61–112 CE)

There is a crash. I feel wetness, and pain. I see a thousand memories.

My husband was naked the first time we met. The image of him at that moment has not faded from my mind in our five short years together. Now, as I feel myself slipping beneath the surface, there is another image as well—of the last time I saw my husband. He was lying dead from two gunshot wounds. Again, he was naked.

~~~

The first time I saw Jeff, I was sprinting along Black's Beach in La Jolla, California. The secluded strip of coastline is world-renowned as a runner's paradise, with its intense four-mile loop of steep mountain switchbacks and deep sand. Black's has long been my favorite place to jog, despite the fact that it is a clothing optional beach.

That morning, as I rounded the corner into a nook beside a jutting shoreline cliff, I almost crashed into him before managing to change course. My first impression was beach bum, not nudist as I later liked to teasingly call him. At five o'clock in the morning, the beach appeared totally abandoned. I assume he thought he was alone and, therefore, felt comfortable stripping out of his wetsuit to dress after his morning surf session. Black's was, after all, a nude beach.

He was no more than five feet away from me, so nothing escaped my attention. Seawater was running down his lean surfer's body as he tossed a dripping wetsuit onto a boulder beside him and then reached for a towel lying next to a pile of clothing.

He glanced up. As he did, a lock of sandy hair fell over his forehead. His eyes met mine, and then he flashed a mischievous grin of straight white teeth.

"Whoops, that's embarrassing!" The handsome nude man with the smoky blue eyes chuckled while belatedly bringing the towel up to shield himself.

"Morning," I said casually, continuing past him with a smirk.

~~~

Less than a month later, it was my turn to be caught off guard. I was at the International Conference on Emerging Infectious Diseases delivering a lecture about biological terrorism. The conference was held in Paris that year, and attendance was at an all-time high. I was at the podium in the main lecture hall speaking to an audience of approximately five thousand. In the midst of my speech, I glanced up from the microphone, and one audience member sitting front row center of the auditorium caught my eye.

My voice faltered when I saw him. The handsome, well-dressed man with the smoky blue eyes looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. Then he flashed that mischievous grin, and our brief moment on Black's Beach returned to me.

I completely lost my train of thought.

My presentation trailed off mid-sentence. A few people in the audience cleared their throats. I felt my face flush. I took a few well-rehearsed steps to recover my composure—three deep breaths, a sip of water from my glass on the podium, another deep breath.

"Whoops, that's embarrassing!" I said into the microphone. I could feel myself smiling.

Later, as I sat sipping coffee and reviewing my notes between sessions, he approached me. This time, with the advantage of seeing him coming toward me, I was prepared.

"Dr. Stone," he said with a professional nod.

"Naked surfer," I said and nodded back.

A pair of women at an adjacent table glanced toward us. He acknowledged them with a smile before returning his attention to me.

"I'm surprised you recognized me," he said.

"I was looking at your face, for the most part."

It was then that I noticed his conference-issued name badge. Jeffrey Wilson had been granted the Nobel Prize in Chemistry a few years prior for the creation of a new chemical element, one of the very few so-called superheavy elements in existence at the time. He had received the Nobel both for creating the new element and for the ground-breaking method by which it was created.

I remembered the media circus that surrounded his winning the Nobel. The majority of press attention was concentrated at The Scripps Research Institute where Jeff was a principal investigator. That facility is less than a mile from Black's Beach.

~~~

Jeff must have known immediately that he would die.

The shot to his back passed all the way through his body. The bullet had to have come from within our bedroom.

He was still standing. The waist-high wrought iron railing enclosing our bedroom terrace stopped him from falling forward. As he stood naked, leaning against the railing, with a bullet hole through his middle, a steady red river gushed from the exit wound. The blood gathered along the edge of the railing and then trickled down, tracing the intricate ironwork like lava flowing through a vertical maze. A small crimson pool formed on the edge of the terrace's natural stone floor, but the majority spilled over.

Down it poured, past the second and first floor windows of our house and onto the forward deck of my yacht.

Jeff's right hand went first to the exit wound in his bare stomach and then to the terrace railing, where it left a bloody handprint. It must have been at that moment that he turned to look at the shooter behind him.

The second bullet hit him in the upper chest, sending my husband—the most handsome, brilliant, kind, charming, Nobel laureate chemist in the history of the prize—plunging backward over the terrace railing to his death.

~~~

The yacht was a gift from Jeff for our first wedding anniversary, but I always teased him that Teresa was as much his gift as mine. While the small yacht was easily maneuvered by one person, Jeff and I almost always took her out together.

I was standing on our bedroom terrace enjoying the panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean when I first saw her. I was wearing a backless evening gown of shimmering royal blue, a color Jeff loved on me for the way it accentuated my blue eyes and long auburn waves. The dress was floor length and fitted to my slender, petite frame. A single alluring slit in the gown exposed my left leg to the thigh.

Jeff stepped out of our bedroom and joined me on the terrace. His standard attire of jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes had been transformed, and Jeff was dashing in a black jacket and tie. The thick sandy brown hair that almost always fell over his forehead was now smoothly slicked back. In each of Jeff's hands was a glass of champagne. He handed one to me and appreciatively ran his eyes over my dress before pulling me close for a kiss.

"Happy anniversary," he said. "You look gorgeous."

I set my champagne down on the terrace railing to embrace my husband with both arms. "Where are we going for dinner?" I whispered between kisses.

Instead of answering, Jeff stepped away from me and leaned casually against the railing. He glanced down at the water below, and his face lit up with the same mischievous grin I had first seen three years earlier on Black's Beach.

"You know what has always bugged me?" he said.

"What's that, love?"

"That we had a boat dock but no boat."

Instead of thinking to look down, I looked at Jeff. He dipped his eyes downward once more. This time mine followed, and I saw her for the first time.

The yacht was directly beneath us, moored unassumingly in the formerly empty space as if she had always been there. On Teresa's forward deck was an elegantly set table for two. Standing next to the table was a man in a chef's hat who announced, as if on cue, that dinner was served.

~~~

It was upon that very same spot on Teresa's deck that Jeff's body landed after falling from our bedroom terrace three years later.

~~~

The front door was unlocked, so I was certain my husband would be there. "Jeff," I called as I entered the house, "I'm home." I was not surprised there was no answer. If he was still in the shower, he would not have heard me. Or maybe he was out on our private terrace lost in his own thoughts. Or perhaps he had simply ignored me.

I dropped my purse and my laptop on the living room sofa and began climbing the stairs.

It had been a chilly three days between us. We had barely spoken since the biggest fight of our marriage, and I now wondered if our relationship could ever return to the way it had been. A part of me wanted so badly to just forget the events of three days prior and to surprise him on the terrace in the nude, as I had done so many times before.

I opened the bedroom door, and I was stopped in my tracks. On the floor near my nightstand was a small metal object. The back of my neck came alive with chills.

I recognized the gun immediately. It was mine.

I stepped timidly toward it as a light breeze ruffled the curtains framing the French doors to our terrace. A sudden gust of wind brought the curtains billowing into the bedroom. One of them kissed the pistol lying on the floor before shrinking back again.

I glanced up. The glass doors were standing wide open, as if beckoning me out between them. Slowly I moved toward the terrace.

There I saw it. The blood on the metal railing, framed theatrically by the ruffling curtains. It had already begun to congeal. The pools along the top of the railing and upon the stone floor beneath it were a brighter red than the thinner traces down the vertical metal. The handprint smeared along the top rail was a sickening blotchy swirl of multiple hues. It appeared to be the exact size of my husband's hand.

My mind was not my own as I stepped forward and crossed the terrace.

~~~

Naked and vulnerable, Jeff's body was displayed in the center of Teresa's forward deck. All four of his limbs were jutting out unnaturally from his torso. Also radiating out from the center of his body were two overlapping ovals of varying shades of red, one from his chest and the other from his abdomen.

The expression on Jeff's face was one of horror, and there was something else there as well. I think it was sorrow.

I could make no sound. I could only stare. I have no idea how long I stood there.

A flash of light roused me. Another gust of wind had just blown past, and the boat was now rocking gently. A single ray from the setting sun danced mockingly into my eyes, drawing them to the small object from which the light was ricocheting. Until that moment, I had not noticed the pistol silencer lying beside Jeff's body. It was nearly concealed within the pool of blood that had flowed from my husband's heart.

The message to me was clear: Be quiet.

~~~

It was perversely fortunate that Jeff's body had landed on the yacht. Our dock was built on a private, narrow canal that led directly out into the Pacific Ocean. It would be surprisingly easy, albeit very expensive, to hide his body. And I knew I had to hide his body.

So I bribed a mortician.

~~~

I pulled Larry Shuman's information from a hasty Internet search on one lone criterion: his business was still open that late in the evening.

Shuman greeted me with a professional handshake, but his eyes were sympathetic as he offered condolences for my loss. He then ran a pudgy hand through the sparse hair on his head and motioned for me to sit across from him as he sat behind his desk. He looked at me questioningly, as if wondering what I had not said on the phone.

The easiest way to explain what I wanted from Shuman was to show him. I opened my purse and pulled out my iPhone, where I had stored a collection of photos. Shuman examined them academically for quite some time before speaking. "Why, may I ask," he said finally, "did you call my funeral home instead of the police?"

I took a deep breath before answering. "Because I need this to remain unreported for a short period of time. You can still do the necessary post-mortem work-up, but I'm asking, please, do not report this. Not yet."

Shuman stood up from his desk so abruptly that his chair tipped over backward behind him. He pulled the receiver of his desk phone off its cradle and began to dial.

"I have heard quite enough, Dr. Stone."

I lunged forward.

Shuman jerked back in an effort to escape my clutching hand, but I was quicker than he was. My hand closed around his, and we began to struggle for the telephone receiver. As we did, the unclasped purse dangling from my arm banged across Shuman's desk with sufficient force to spill its contents.

Several thick wads of rubber banded cash fell out onto the desk.

My strength was no match for his, but Shuman replaced the receiver of the phone, his eyes dropping once or twice to the cash on the desk and then returning to meet my own. Finally, he reached backward and righted his chair to sit down again.

"Dr. Stone, I know who you are. I have read about you and your husband several times over the past few years. Your biotechnology company, founded on the very science that earned Dr. Wilson the Nobel Prize, is among the most successful in the history of the industry—"

"And today," I interrupted, "I became its sole surviving founder, and one of the wealthiest individuals in California.

"Mr. Shuman, the murder weapon is my own gun. The only prints on it are certain to be mine. The murderer walked into our home through an unlocked front door. And if the police are called, they will quickly discover the same thing that I myself have recently discovered..."

My voice cracked, and I paused and looked down at my lap for a moment before continuing. "I have reason to believe that Jeff might have been having an affair.

"I don't know with whom, but I believe that if I can find that person I might be able to identify Jeff's killer. I'm not asking you to cover this up indefinitely, only to allow me a brief sliver of time to come to terms with the loss of my husband. And to find some answers."

"Absolutely not," Shuman said, reaching again for the telephone on his desk. "At best, I would be interfering with a criminal investigation. At worst, I would be aiding and abetting a murderer." He began dialing.

"One million!" I shouted. Shuman hesitated and looked up. I reiterated, this time calmly, "One million dollars. With proper preservation of the body and no cause for suspicion after your examination, that sliver of time will make no difference to you whatsoever. Except, of course, that you'll be a million dollars richer."

Shuman replaced the receiver once again. He glanced around the dingy office as if regarding it for the first time. He looked back down at the money lying on his desk, and then he met my gaze again.

"And what if I personally doubt your innocence, especially given that you are now attempting to bribe an undertaker?"

"You say you know who I am. If you should doubt me for even a moment, then, by all means, turn me in."

Shuman shook his head. He looked weary and sad. "Dr. Stone, I don't believe you are behaving rationally, which is completely understandable under the circumstances. I may know who you are, but you don't know anything about me. You have no idea what I might do. Why would you deliberately put yourself at this kind of risk? Your reputation? Your career? Your very freedom?" He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. "Please, just follow the rules. Report your husband's murder."

"Mr. Shuman, if you know my history as you claim to, then you should already understand why that is something I cannot do."

~~~

I next saw Larry Shuman at two o'clock in the morning. We met that very night on Fiesta Island, a small stretch of barren coastline within San Diego's Mission Bay. I pulled Teresa as close to the shore as I could, and Shuman collected my husband's body.

I had covered Jeff with a blanket, and I was grateful that I did not have to view him again in that condition. I turned away as the chubby middle-aged man grunted while hoisting Jeff's body onto a gurney. He then heaved the gurney through knee-high waves and onto the shore.

"You have two weeks," he said, and, not waiting for my response, he returned to his hearse.

Without looking back, I turned Teresa and sailed out beyond the edge of the bay, where I cast the silencer overboard.

I will not remain quiet.

~~~

It was seven days ago that I placed my trust and my husband's corpse, only weakly insured by a million dollar bribe, in the hands of a total stranger. Now, as I feel myself slipping beneath the surface, my two weeks have been cut short. I am out of time to find Jeff's killer because the authorities have just found his body. 
Chapter Two

He had seen him favoured by the woman whom he imagined he loved, and whose possession he had been promised by the secret science of the Egyptians, whose power to unveil the mysteries of the future he firmly believed.

-Cleopatra  
Georg Ebers (1837–1898)

There are hundreds of them, thousands. Agonized, nameless faces and ransacked bodies writhing in desperation on white mattresses. An IV drips into one arm of each.

The beds are clean, the facilities immaculate. The glaring lights upon the brilliant white beds only accent the appalling conditions of the patients. They are crammed together, side by side and end to end. Thousands of adjacent hospital beds.

A phone is ringing. I ignore it and walk like a zombie down the rows of beds; my eyes cast from one face to the next. Beside me, a feeble plea comes forth from a teenaged voice.

"Please..."

~~~

I jerked awake. The familiar dream began to fade. I could feel a rocking motion beneath me, and I rolled over onto my back. Directly above me was the underside of our bedroom terrace. I slowly became aware that I was on my own yacht, lying in the center of the pool of dried blood that was now all that remained of Jeff. I could not remember how I got there.

My left hand hurt, and I realized my fist was tightly clenched. As I opened it, four tiny trickles of blood seeped from indentations in my palm as my husband's wedding ring fell from my hand. The boat rocked again, and a subtle rattling broke the early morning silence as the small gold circle rolled across the smooth wood of the yacht's deck.

~~~

I sobbed endlessly as I scrubbed Jeff's blood from our terrace floor and the wrought iron railing. While sopping up the blood on Teresa's deck, twice I had to pause to vomit into the bucket I was using to clean. When I had finished erasing the evidence of my husband's death, I began clawing through our home in search of clues to his life.

I rifled through the pockets of Jeff's work attire in our walk-in closet. I yanked his weekend clothes from our dresser drawers and shoved the upper mattress from our bed to examine the space beneath it.

I began ransacking the entire house, pulling out every drawer, climbing shelves in every closet to access the highest nooks, shoving items haphazardly to the ground. I bored through dusty boxes in our garage and clambered over old furniture in our attic, using a flashlight to peer into every dark corner.

I scoured Jeff's side of the ocean view office we shared. I had never looked anywhere in Jeff's desk except the front center drawer where he kept a checkbook and some house money. This time, I frantically tore through his desk, his file cabinets, and his bookshelves. Nothing.

I began looking through the files on his computer desktop, and then I realized that his iPhone had been sitting on the desk the entire time. How stupid! Here was the true record of his most recent, most personal activities. My hands were shaking as I picked up the phone.

~~~

I had never previously suspected that Jeff was cheating. His behavior had never been that of a cheater. In recent weeks, he seemed distracted, but that was not unusual for a man so dedicated to his work that he retained his academic position even while leading a successful biotechnology company.

But even in those recent weeks, Jeff did not exhibit the sudden, complete detachment of someone who is straying, the obvious physical revulsion in the presence of a woman he used to love. I never would have considered my husband capable of infidelity. Until three days before his murder.

~~~

Three days before his murder, I was clearing our dinner dishes from the table when the phone rang. Jeff had just retired to the living room with a stack of paperwork, and I could hear the sounds of a football game coming from our large-screen TV. I put the plates I was holding into the sink and reached across the kitchen island for the telephone receiver.

"Well, hello, my lady," said a familiar voice. "And how are you doing this evening?"

"Hi, John. I'm great!" I said to my husband's best friend. "You?"

"I'm fine... except... well... I have a lot of patients these days asking about the latest advancements in superheavy-isotope-based therapeutics. Especially the people that—you know—have, uh, failed other therapies and don't have many options left. So I was really looking forward to Jeff's presentation at the conference in Seattle last week.

"When Jeff didn't speak, and then when I couldn't find him anywhere, I went to the conference organizers to ask if his time slot had changed. They said he had not checked in..."

~~~

The cheers coming from the living room TV grew to a roar as a touchdown was scored. Two commentators began shouting over each other.

I, too, wanted to scream. The familiar background noises of our home, normally so comforting, had just become unrelenting cacophony.

I slid off the barstool at the kitchen island where I had sat down in a daze while listening to John. I felt sick to my stomach. I took a few deep breaths, but they did little to quiet my nerves.

I stepped out of the kitchen.

Jeff was in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and socks, reclining beneath a blanket on the living room sofa. In his lap was a stack of papers. His eyes moved up and down between his work and the football game on the TV mounted on the wall.

I took another deep breath. "That was John," I said.

Jeff's face paled, and he looked up from his papers. "What did he need?"

"He was calling about the conference in Seattle. He was wondering why you missed your lecture."

Jeff's eyes dropped back down to the pages in his lap, and he continued to shuffle through them. His complexion was now changing quickly from white to red. "I'll be sure to call him back."

I stood motionless.

"GO!" Jeff shouted suddenly at the TV, and the audience in the football stands began to cheer wildly. The redness on Jeff's face deepened.

"So why did you miss your lecture?" I pressed, and he paused before answering.

"I decided my presentation wasn't ready for prime time yet."

"Since when are you unprepared to deliver a lecture, especially one scheduled months in advance to be given to several thousand people?"

Jeff tossed the papers onto the coffee table and sat up. "What is this, Katrina, the third degree?"

"Of course not. But why didn't you tell me? I thought you were really looking forward to presenting. You love presenting! And it's not like you to flake out without even extending the courtesy of canceling."

"I've had a lot on my mind," Jeff said with a shrug. "I guess I just forgot."

"You just forgot?"

"Yes."

"You just forgot that you skipped the entire conference?"

Jeff's eyes flashed. "What the... this is unbelievable! You checked up on me?"

"I didn't check up on you," I found myself explaining. "John blurted it out. He said he started looking around for you when you didn't speak and ultimately found out that you had never checked in at the registration desk. He obviously didn't think you would have lied to me about your whereabouts. He was just worried about you. And now, so am I. Frankly, I'm also worried about the future of our relationship! What were you doing in Seattle all that time? Did you even go to Seattle? Did you even intend to go to Seattle?"

Jeff stood up from the sofa and switched off the TV. "Of course I intended to go to Seattle!"

It was the first time I had ever heard my husband shout in anger.

"I registered for the conference, Katrina. Do you want to see my receipt? Is that how it's going to be now? I had every intention of going... it's just that I... I..."

"Are you cheating on me?"

"No!" he shouted. "Absolutely not! Of course not!" His voice softened. "Honey, listen. Don't you remember those nights? Don't you remember talking to me every night like we always do when one of us is away? Sometimes we talked late, late into the night. Long conversations. Remember?"

I did. I also remembered that he had looked tired.

Jeff and I used video calls to keep in touch when one of us was away on business. At that moment, I distinctly remembered that when Jeff was allegedly in Seattle he looked exceptionally tired.

I remembered lying in bed one night, my bare breasts covered with our comforter, and watching him through my phone's video screen. I remembered Jeff leaning his own iPhone against something so that he could speak to me while also rubbing his eyes, his shoulders, his temples. And behind him, I remembered that I could see the nightstand of his hotel room with a Marriott welcome package upon it.

I remembered him smiling, shaking his upper body as if shaking off a rough day, and asking me what was beneath the blanket...

~~~

"Come on, Katrina!" Jeff began shouting at me again in our living room. "Use logic. Ask yourself if I am behaving like a cheater."

"You mean like disappearing for four days solid?"

Jeff swallowed and looked down. Then he approached me and put both hands on my shoulders. He looked into my eyes, and in his I thought I saw desperation for the first time since meeting him.

"I meant that a cheating man is not interested in the conversations we had while I was away," he said quietly. "A cheating man is eager to get off the phone with his wife."

"Sure," I scoffed, "unless his lover knows he's married! Maybe she's also married and has something to lose. Maybe she would sit there and wait for you to talk to me. Maybe she was off somewhere talking to her own husband at the same time. You're not stupid, Jeff! You would know exactly how not to get caught. God, I can't believe we are actually having this conversation!"

But in my heart, I also could not believe Jeff would want that, any of that. It was not Jeff. Either I was wrong now, or I had been wrong about my husband all along.

"Where were you for four days, Jeff?"

He let out a sigh and sank back down onto the living room sofa. There were tears in his eyes.

"Sweetheart, listen," he said quietly. "I can't tell you. I am sorry for that, I really am. I have never lied to you before. I have never kept anything from you. I am sorry for lying to you about the conference. I hate myself for that. But I can't tell you now, either. Please, you just have to trust me..."

~~~

Four days later, the silence of the empty house was maddening. Apart from my own ragged breathing and the steady, persistent ticking of our grandfather clock—a nagging reminder of the transience of time—there was only a void where a couple in love had lived.

I sat down heavily on the carpeted floor next to Jeff's desk in our office. My eyes were burning from a morning of almost constant crying. My fingers were swollen and sore from scrubbing Jeff's blood from our terrace and the yacht, and they trembled as I scrolled through the screens on Jeff's cell phone.

In Jeff's recent call history was an international phone number. I did not recognize the country code, and I might not have noticed the number at all—except for the fact that it appeared fifty-six times over five weeks.

The record began with an incoming call to Jeff. After that, both incoming and outgoing calls between Jeff's cell phone and the international number occurred daily, sometimes several times daily, with the exception of a single four-day time span.

I recognized the dates immediately. They were the same four days as the conference in Seattle. This was the number of the person Jeff was with over those four days.

For a few long moments, I only stared at Jeff's phone as if the number itself would suddenly speak, explaining to me the inexplicable. Finally, I dialed the number.

"Dr. Wilson!" a woman answered with an excessive enthusiasm that made me prickle. Her voice held a barely perceptible accent.

"Actually, this is Dr. Stone," I said coolly. "Jeff Wilson's wife. With whom am I speaking?"

There was a long pause, and when the woman spoke again the enthusiasm was gone. "I'm sorry, Dr. Stone," she said. "This is Alyssa Iacovani. I am an old classmate of your husband's from UCLA."

Jeff had done his undergraduate work at UCLA, and we kept in touch with several of his college buddies. None of them had ever mentioned an Alyssa Iacovani.

"I am the director of the Piso Project," the woman went on. "This is an antiquities research project with Il Museo Archeologico Nazionale, the National Archeological Museum in Naples, Italy. I apologize for my sense of urgency, Dr. Stone, but I was expecting a call from your husband several hours ago, and he has not called. I was just about to phone him instead. I must see Jeff immediately."

For a moment, I struggled to comprehend her audacity as well as her statements. Antiquities research? Italy? What could she possibly need to speak to Jeff about?

"I'm sorry," I said finally. "My husband has been called away on family business and will be unavailable for at least the next couple of weeks." Another lengthy pause ensued, and I began to wonder if she was still on the line.

"In that case," the woman said at last, "Dr. Stone, I apologize again, but I must see you immediately."

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About Kristen Elise, Ph.D.:

Kristen Elise, Ph.D. is the author of the Katrina Stone novels, The Vesuvius Isotope and The Death Row Complex. A professional drug discovery biologist and life-long travel addict, Elise takes the inspiration for her novels from real-life mysteries and discoveries made both in and out of the laboratory. She lives in San Diego, California with her husband, stepson, and canine children. When not investigating historical and scientific mysteries, she continues to hunt for drugs and the stories they tell.

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South

Lance Charnes

A Near-Future Thriller

Set in Southern California, Yuma, AZ, and Mexicali, BC
1

SATURDAY, 25 MAY

Luis Ojeda scanned his binoculars along the rusty sixteen-foot fence to the dirt road's visible ends. Nothing. A dead floodlight at the curve over the arroyo left a patch of twilight in the line of artificial day. The lights on either side leached all color from the night.

The patrol was late. He'd been out here face-down in the dirt for over an hour, waiting for the right time. These desert mountains turned cold after sunset, even this late in a nasty-hot May. He was prepared for it. Army field jackets and winter-weight ACU trousers like he wore now got him through January in the 'Stan all those years ago. He could wait all night. Usually, the travelers couldn't.

He glanced downslope over his shoulder. Five brown faces stared back at him, their eyes glowing orange in the floodlights' glare. This run's travelers. Each wore a backpack holding everything they could bring with them from their old life to their new one.

The young mother lay at the group's left edge. Her dark anime eyes stared at him from under a road-weary hoodie. Her little girl—four, maybe five tops—pressed her face into her mom's shoulder, the woman's hand wound through her tangled black hair. Luis usually tried not to bring kids this young, but they had nobody else anymore, and when Luis looked into the girl's eyes he saw his daughter at that age, scared, sad and trusting. So here they were.

Back to the binoculars. Dust shimmered in the floods to the west, then a whip antenna, then a tan cinder block on wheels crawled up the rise. The BRV-O's six-cylinder diesel clattered off the rocks around them. It swung around the dogleg over the arroyo, chunked along at around fifteen, then trundled east.

It stopped.

Two men heaved out. Tan utilities, helmets with no covers, desert boots: contractors. Mierda. They strolled back the way they'd come, M4s slung across their chests, hands resting on the grips. One lit a cigarette. They stopped at the edge of the pool of dark to look up the pole.

The one not smoking leaned into the radio handset on his shoulder. Then he turned to look straight at Luis.

Luis became a rock. The guard was probably half-blind from the light; Luis doubted the guy could see him in the semi-dark, even if he knew someone was out here. Chances were the gringo was going to take a leak. Then the guard's hand went for the tactical goggles hanging around his neck.

_¡Chingado!_

As the guard seated the goggles over his face, Luis went flat. As long as he didn't move, his infrared-suppressing long johns and balaclava would defeat the goggles' thermal vision and make him fade into the petrified sand dune under him.

The travelers didn't have that gear. Luis peered back into the dark. All five travelers should be shielded by the ridge, but "should" didn't mean shit if the guard caught the bright-green return of a warm human body on his scope. If he did, they'd all find out at 2900 feet per second.

The area around them hushed, letting the little sounds fade forward. The breeze rattled the creosote and pushed pebbles around. Luis could hear the contractors' voices—an off note in the wind—the shush of rubber boot soles on gravel, his heart going crazy, his sweat plopping on the sand.

Fucking contractors. Border Patrol agents had a code, they were civilized, they had to be nice and usually were. These contractor assholes shot people for fun, the way he had in the 'Stan before Bel reformed his sorry, angry ass. A month ago, these idiotas were probably losing hearts and minds in the Sudan with every full magazine. Now they were doing the same thing here.

A whimper. Luis cranked his head back to check the kid. She squirmed, a little dark bundle rocking against a dark background. The mom forced her daughter's face tighter against her shoulder. Her big, terrified eyes found Luis.

Chill, he told himself. Be the rock. The travelers could smell fear. If he was calm, they'd be calm; if he stressed, they'd scatter like sheep. He tried to smile back at the mom, hard as it was to do with crosshairs on them all.

Boots scuffed gravel at his ten o'clock, then at nine. Voices mumbled a few yards off. Somewhere out there, the sound of a huge mosquito buzzed the border. Had they called in a drone? If they had, game over. Dirt lodged in Luis' nose and mouth, ants crawled on his right hand, something sharp dug into his hip. Twenty-plus years after Afghanistan and here he was in the same shit, just with different players. Be the rock.

A laugh. Then the night exploded.

The first bursts were recon-by-fire, looking for what came bouncing out of the dark. Disciplined soldiers know to hunker down and wait it out, but the travelers weren't soldiers, and they weren't disciplined. Two of the men broke and ran the instant bullets sprayed off the ridge top. Luis yelled "Get down!" but it was too late. He jerked his face back into the sand at the next burst, but not before he saw a runner throw up his hands and fall face-first.

The little girl started screaming. Her mother's eyes went all white and she tried to stuff her sleeve into the kid's mouth, but the girl wouldn't stop shrieking. Bullets churned the dirt in front of them.

_¡Mierda!_ _¡Chingado!_ "Don't do it!" Luis hissed to her. "Stay there!" His voice sounded like he'd huffed helium. He didn't care if he drew fire as long as that pretty young mom with that sweet little girl kept her head down—

The woman bolted.

He screamed "No!" and before he could think, he was charging toward her. More shots. Dirt kicked up around his feet. A line of bullets tore across the woman's back, each one marked by a splat of blood. She let out a little "Ah!" and went down hard.

A burning-hot something slammed into his back, knocked him ass-over-heels down the slope and hijo de perra, it hurt. He spit out the sand he'd eaten and rolled onto his back. A bloody hole in his chest on his right side, a weird noise when he breathed, pain when he did anything.

Luis tried to catch the breath running away from him, but it was hard and it hurt and he wanted to just lie there. Little sharp spikes of fear stabbed at him. The gunshot echoes faded away into the breeze. Those animals up there would come out to see what they'd shot. If they found him they'd arrest him, or maybe just shoot him again. Or they'd call in a gunship drone and kill anything bright green. Any way this went down, he'd never see his wife or son or home again. That thought hurt worse than being shot.

He wrenched his head to his right. The mother and her child lay roughly twenty feet away, two dark, still shapes against the sand. You cabrones, he fumed. You killed a baby.

Or had he killed her by bringing her here? Get away. Think later.

The oldest traveler—slight, late fifties, his hair mostly gone to silver—took Luis' hand in both of his. He had dark smears on his face and upper arm. "Mister? We go."

Go? Luis could hardly breathe. He waved toward the lights and fence. "You go. Keep heading south. Mexico's that way, you can still make it. Go down the arroyo, through the culvert. Understand?"

The old man nodded. The floodlights glimmered in his eyes as he looked toward the two dark shapes just upslope. He'd protected and comforted them even though they weren't blood.

"I'm sorry," Luis said.

The old man nodded again and shook Luis' hand hard. "As-salaam alaykum."

"Alaykumu as-salaam."

Then he was gone.

Luis managed to get two magnesium flares out of his pack. They might blind the guards long enough for him to get over the next rise and for the old Arab to make it down the arroyo to safety. Just before he popped the first flare, his eyes snagged on the mom and her daughter. So small, so dark, so still. Another bad picture to add to his collection.

This used to make sense. This used to feel worthwhile. He used to be able to tell himself it was worth the risk to stand up to the locos who'd wrecked his country and caused all this—risk to himself, to his family, to the travelers. But the camps filled and spread. It was all so futile, not worth that little girl's death, or his own.

If you let me live, he told the sky, I'll stop. I'm done.
2

FRIDAY, 30 APRIL  
TWO YEARS LATER

The U.S. ranks 103rd in the 2032 Corruption Perception Index, one below Madagascar and far below all its OECD peers. Gross underfunding of government at all levels, elimination of public-sector pensions, and widespread contracting of public services to unscrupulous private firms, has led to an epidemic of corruption reminiscent of Russia under the late Vladimir Putin.

— "Release of the 2032 CPI," Transparency International

Luis opened Coast Conversions' front office at six-thirty to give the techs time to set up for the day's work. One of them—Tyler—already waited outside, as usual. He was one of two who lived in a former self-storage place three blocks away. "Where's Earnes?" Luis asked.

"Angels Stadium. The free clinic." Tyler limped through the door, stowed his pistol behind the counter, then passed into the shop and started turning on lights and compressors. Fluorescents glinted off shiny SUVs and luxury sedans at each station, waiting for their armor and ballistic glass.

Luis began to ready the front office for what he hoped would be the morning rush. A full shop and one man down. Great. Earnes could be waiting in line all day to get into that Doctors Without Borders clinic. Luis would have to ding him a day's pay, too, something he hated to do.

That was the downside of managing this place: having to knock heads without being able to hand out rewards. The upside? Routine. Safety. Some thought "same shit, different day" was a curse. For Luis, it meant not having to cross deserts or climb mountains. Not being chased or shot at. Not having people's lives in his hands—and fumbling them.

He leaned against the doorway, watched Tyler make his rounds through the work stations. "How're you doing? Leg okay?"

"Okay, sir."

Tyler left half a leg in Yemen. All five of Luis' techs were vets; they had good work habits, and it was the only way to get guys with mechanical and metalworking skills now that most community colleges were closed and the unions were long gone. Luis made it a point to hire guys out of flops or Ryantowns. A down payment on karma? He hoped he'd never find out.

The strip lights cast shadows on Tyler's hollow eyes and cheeks. He worked full-time and still didn't eat enough. Like everywhere else, the pay here was shit even for Luis, and he was the manager, but Xiao, the owner, wouldn't cough up a cent more.

The door chime's synthetic bing-bong broke Luis out of his thoughts. He called out "Not open yet" before he looked back over his shoulder. A cop swaggered to the counter. Mierda.

The cop—Schertzer, unfortunately a monthly regular—leaned an elbow on the blue laminate countertop, chewed on his gum. "How's it hanging, Ojeda?"

"You're two days early," Luis growled as he stalked to the counter.

Schertzer shrugged. "So call a fucking cop. You got it?"

It wasn't like this steroid-square cucaracha was a real policeman, just one of the contractors the city pretended was a police force. Dark-blue utilities, black tac vest, jump boots: all Luis saw was a school-crossing guard with a gun.

"Yeah." Luis opened the lockbox with his key, pulled out a white envelope, and slapped it into Schertzer's outstretched hand. La mordida, El Norte style. "Now get out."

The cop waggled the envelope to get the feel of it. Apparently satisfied, he shoved it into the patch pocket on his right thigh. "The widows and orphans appreciate your money, Ojeda." He smirked, then turned toward the doors and waved over his shoulder. "A-dios." He stopped with his hand on the push bar, looked back. "By the way, a road crew's coming through in a couple days. They'll want their cut, too."

"They're finally going to pave the street?"

The cop shook his head, bottling up a laugh. "Shit, no. They'll get their taste, you know how it goes. That's why I'm early, make sure we get what's coming to us. See you soon."

Luis watched Schertzer ooze off to the right, no doubt to collect his bite from the other garages and workshops along this light-industrial strip off Newport Boulevard. He'd bled money into these pendejos for years. He'd run across people like Schertzer in Mexico and the 'Stan, but it burned his gut to see them in this county. It was easier for the kids; they weren't old enough to remember when cops and fire marshals and road crews weren't all on the take.

He sighed. That was old-timer talk. "There goes the lowest bidder," he said to himself.

#

Luis glanced up from taking a customer's payment to catch Ray's face outside the window. Ray raised his hand; Luis nodded to him.

The customer—a big-busted Newport Beach trophy blonde in tiny clothes—paid up and wiggled off with her bodyguard to claim her husband's newly up-armored Range Rover. Ray turned to watch her go, then let out a long breath through pursed lips as he ambled through the front doors. He was a big, square outline against the morning sun. His thumbs hooked in the pockets of fashionably tight, white churidar slacks, their calves stacked just so over expensive new designer boots. Just like he'd stepped out of a vidboard ad, if those models had faces that looked more Aztec than conquistador. A long way from his old caballero style.

Ray gave Luis his crooked smile. "Hey, hermano. All your customers look like that?"

"Enough do." He shook Ray's hand, which felt like a brake drum. "Oye, compa. Long time. How's it going?"

Ray rocked his hand side-to-side. "About normal. How's Bel?"

Luis shrugged. "Fine. The usual."

"Nacho hanging in?"

Nacho—Luis' son Ignacio—was a Marine on his first deployment to Sudan. "Yeah, he's okay. The stories he tells me, it's like what we did in the 'Stan."

"Never ends, does it?" Ray's dark dataspecs scanned the office's lights and corners. The gray that used to be in his hair was gone now. "Have any bug problems in here lately?"

"Stopped getting it swept two years ago." They weren't talking about the six- or eight-legged kind. Luis used to have to worry about those things; no more, thank God. He peered closer at the corners of Ray's nose and mouth. "Are you taking tighteners?"

"A couple months now, yeah. Like it?" Ray turned his face to let the strip lights flash off his shiny, smoother skin. "You could do with some too, hermano."

First he'd lost his tattoos, now this. "Can't afford them. Besides, I like looking like a grownup."

Ray shrugged. "Look, the boss wanted me to talk to you. He's got a job for you."

Luis put up his hands. "Save it. I'm out, remember?"

"I know, I know. He told me to ask, so I'm asking." Ray leaned in, laid a hand on Luis' shoulder. "This job, it's a special one, you know? Some good coin. Check it out." He tapped the phone pod on his left ear.

A few moments later, the store slate peeped. Luis brought up the email, then the attached picture. A studio portrait: a dark-haired man and woman, two cute kids, nice clothes, healthy-looking. The guy could almost pass for Latino, but the woman had the sharp features of a high-caste Arab. After fifteen seconds, the picture dissolved into empty black, literally blown to bits.

"Which one?" Luis asked. "The guy or gal?"

"All four. Told you it was special."

That was strange. Back when he was in that business, Luis moved a lot of older people and young women, since the young men were usually dead or in a camp. Still, not even the money got his interest. "No way. Besides, I thought you guys had some new kid doing that."

"Federico? Yeah." Ray planted his hands on the counter. "We did until he got dead a couple nights ago." He leaned forward and dropped his volume. "The boss is pretty hot to move these people. He'll make it worth your—"

"I said no." Luis heard the heat in his own voice, backed off. "Even if I survive it, Bel will kill me."

Ray smiled and straightened up. "Yeah, and probably me too right after." He scratched the back of his neck. "Look, this puts me in a bind, you know? He asked for you specifically. Tavo trusts you. You maybe have some bargaining room here. At least say you'll think about it."

"Bargain? With a cartel sub-boss? Are you crazy?"

Luis noticed a gray Ford Santana parked across the street, screaming "surveillance." Cops following Ray? Or were they after Luis because of Ray? Either way, he wasn't going through all that again. He needed to care for his parents, help provide for his family. He'd already sacrificed enough for a lost cause.

"I'm not thinking about this. No. Do I need to spell that?"

Ray sighed, shook his head. "Tavo's gonna be pissed." He stuck out his hand. "Come down to the bar sometime. I never see you anymore. Salma misses you, too."

And Luis missed them. But every time he went to visit Ray and his long-time girlfriend, Bel's temperature dropped thirty degrees and Luis got frostbite. "Sure, compa," he said as he shook Ray's hand. "Soon."
3

FRIDAY, 30 APRIL

Since the 10/19/19 terrorist attack, approximately 430,000 people have been imprisoned in over 220 known facilities associated with the Terrorist Detention Program (TDP)...an estimated 90% identify with one of the Islamic sects and approximately 75% are U.S. citizens...Only 27 are known to have faced charges in a court of law, and three have been convicted of any crime.

— Introduction, Held Without Hope, Human Rights Watch

McGinley lounged in his rain cloud-gray government sedan across the street from Coast Conversions, a gray, flat-roofed, cinder-block of a building with a faded green awning and half-dead flowers in a planter out front. Two Mercedes SUVs and a big Merc sedan sat outside with grease pencil on the windshields, next to a Maserati SUV, a Range Rover and one of those new Cadillac Olympias, big as a tank. All of them waiting to get armored up. Must be a lot of scared rich folk in these parts.

Two weeks away from his home turf and McGinley was still doing basic legwork for the local law, the useless sacks of shit. This Luis Ojeda character would be the sixth ex-coyote he'd corralled in the past four days. The other five were tired old duffers who hadn't crossed the border since gas was only five bucks a gallon.

But this Ojeda was in his forties, not much older than McGinley according to his file, though McGinley couldn't say he was real impressed with that file. And that big Mex who'd come out twenty minutes back was Ramiro Esquivel, what they used to call a plaza boss back in the day before the cartels got all corporate and started using titles like "area manager." Maybe Ojeda was still in the game. Worth a look-see, at least.

How to play this? McGinley didn't expect much this first meeting; this was rattling the cage to see what the animal would do. A badge wouldn't ruffle Ojeda's feathers, most likely. He was probably used to the local ICE crew, and McGinley reckoned most of them went native a long time back. Hell, if they'd been doing their jobs, the Joint Task Force boys wouldn't have dragged him all the way out here to look into why they couldn't keep their rags in the camps where they belonged.

Something alien to Ojeda might rile him up. Back home in Texas, McGinley could dress up nice and lose most of his accent and go talk sense into some peckerhead CEO who's busing in illegals instead of just paying good Americans the same shit wages. But here, in California? The big asshole redneck seemed to shake up everyone. That was easy; all McGinley had to do was be like his dad.

McGinley ambled across the cracked asphalt and through the shop's glass doors. Streaming news about the Presidential primaries scratched away in the empty front office. He skirted the counter, peered through the window set in the back wall, then pushed past the half-opened door into the workshop. Five service bays, all full of expensive cars being taken apart or put back together, loud music, louder tools. He felt eyes on him, none of them friendly, not that he gave a shit. McGinley strolled toward a familiar face next to a bronze Lincoln Discovery SUV in the second bay, its glass and doors all gone.

He flashed his badge once he'd closed in. "Luis Ojeda? Jack McGinley, ICE."

"Yeah?" Ojeda looked up from the slate perched on his forearm. He'd aged since the file photo; his short, wiry black hair had a fair sprinkling of gray around the ears now. Five-ten or so, fit, decent-looking enough squarish face, respectable blue button-down shirt and chinos. The pistol on his belt hinted at something harder under the surface. He said, "I was born here," then waved toward the young bucks working on the cars. "So were they."

McGinley shrugged like it didn't matter, which it didn't anymore. "Why, congratulations, amigo."

Ojeda frowned. The accent? Good.

"What I'm looking for here is five rags. In your 'hood four-five days ago, now they're gone." The runners hadn't been seen anywhere since they broke out. "Y'all know anything about this?"

Ojeda glared at him, working his jaw. "Why would I?"

"Because you're a coyote, Ojeda." McGinley swayed in another pace, trying to crowd Ojeda, push him out of his comfort zone. No reaction. Harder with the Latins than with whites; they didn't have the same personal-space issues. "Just like your daddy was. If anyone 'round here knows how to get them rags over the border, it's you."

Dark spots began to bloom under Ojeda's armpits. Just what McGinley wanted to see. "Your intel's shit if that's what you're hearing. I'm just a guy trying to make a living. Besides, it's illegal to leave the country now? I thought you people wanted them out."

The air wrench behind McGinley had stopped screaming. He glanced back to catch a shaggy-headed wrench monkey staring at him over the hood of some fancy-ass four-door McGinley didn't recognize. McGinley showed him how a stare was really done, and after a minute the kid stalked to the workbench behind him.

"It's illegal to skip on a camp," McGinley told Ojeda. "These five came out of Barstow, two weeks or so ago? Got told these boys were headed this way. Sound familiar?"

"Heard about it on the news. More people must've got out than they said."

"Well, don't believe anything you hear on the news." The engine was ticking over behind Ojeda's eyes, but he was still way too cool; time to rile him up. McGinley half-turned and waved across the cars. "I reckon it's way too loud in here for you to think right. How 'bout I just shut this place down a spell, so me and you can talk private-like."

Ojeda's neck flushed red. "That's money out of my pocket, cabrón. This a shakedown?"

Score. "Should it be?" McGinley read the sudden heat coming off Ojeda and dropped back a couple steps, resting his right wrist on the pistol butt in his belt holster. Casual, just a reminder. The file said Ojeda had been Army in Afghanistan back in the day, so he'd probably been carrying as long as McGinley and knew how to use that weapon of his—what was it, a Sig Sauer? Serious piece, nothing cheap. Ojeda looped a thumb over the belt in front of his holster. Casual, just a reminder.

For a long few seconds, McGinley stared at Ojeda, waiting for a twitch. Well, the man had some balls. Would he really draw down on a Fed? Hard telling. These days, people did what they had to to protect their turf or their lives, and a badge didn't carry the same weight it used to.

Finally, McGinley smirked and dropped his hand. He'd rattled the cage enough. "Well, then, Ojeda. Y'all keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything about these Muslim former Americans, you let me know right quick." He stepped forward and flipped a business card out of his shirt pocket up into Ojeda's face. "Meantime, I reckon I'll find out where you've been the past few nights. Just curious, you know. Your daddy smuggled a lot of people into this country back in the day, and, well, like father, like son, right?"

The red crept into Ojeda's hairline. He might look respectable, but hit the secret button and he spun up right nice. "That business is over. Nobody wants to come to this country anymore. People like you saw to that."

"That so? Say, your son's a Marine, ain't he? Damn good training for the family business. All them long marches—"

"Leave my son out of this," Ojeda snapped. "Yeah, Dad was a coyote. That's long done. Nacho's got nothing to do with this, and he never will." He snatched the card out of McGinley's fingers. "Watch the door on your way out."

McGinley snorted, shook his head, looked around. "Some place you got here. It yours?"

"No. I'm the manager. A Chinese guy up in Sierra Madre owns the chain."

"You don't say." He had to poke one last time. "Just wondering. If we ran an ID check on your boys yonder, how many do y'all think you'd lose?"

Ojeda's eyes had turned black and ice-cold. "Have a shitty day, McGinley."

"I often do, amigo." He slapped Ojeda's shoulder, turned and strolled outside.

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About Lance Charnes:

Lance Charnes has been an Air Force intelligence officer, information technology manager, computer-game artist, set designer and Jeopardy! contestant, and is now an emergency management specialist. He's had training in architectural rendering, terrorist incident response and maritime archaeology, but not all at the same time. Lance tweets (@lcharnes) on shipwrecks, scuba diving, archaeology and art crime.

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Marred

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Murder is Academic

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Doha 12

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The Death Row Complex

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In the Dismal Swamp

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Cypher

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A Psycho Cat and the Landlady Mystery

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East of the Pier

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Just Another Termination

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Deadly Fantasies

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So Many Reasons to Die

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Counteract

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Alpha

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Mustard's Last Stand

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Playing the Game

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A Ton of Gold

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Night of the Chupacabra

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Help Me Nora

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Return of the French Blue

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Wolf Castle

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A Snitch in Time

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What She Saw

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Go Down Hard

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Fatal Debt

A Dana Mackenzie Mystery

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The Final Checkpoint

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The Vesuvius Isotope

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South

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