 
Malicious Mysteries

A Dedication to the Memory of Patricia Ann Davis

Published by GCD Publishing on Smashwords

Copyrighted Material

Each story is ©2016 and is owned by its respective author.

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

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Cover Art by Andrew Allen

Cover Layout by Timothy Johnson

Fiction

Published by GCD Publishing

http://gcdpublishing.wordpress.com

The weekend after Dad died, I found my mother weeping in the bathroom. She looked up at me, her eyes overflowing, and said, "I'm going to miss him so much."

You don't have to miss him, anymore, Mom. You're dining with him in the presence of Jesus. But we're all going to miss you so much.

Malicious Mysteries

# The Reason for This Anthology

It was the morning of August 20, 2015, and the doctor had just pulled our world out from under us. The stroke that our mother had experienced the day before had been—so we'd been led to believe—a minor one. We had spent the 19th with her in the hospital room, talking with her and listening to her tell each of us that she loved us. The nurse had told us what to expect when she was going through physical therapy and she had even swallowed a little apple juice.

But, sometime during that night, she stopped responding to any of us. So they did another CAT Scan and discovered that the entire right side of her brain was dead and the blood was slowly leaking into the other side.

In less than twenty-four hours, we went from having hope that our mother would live to knowing that her death was imminent.

Since Mom had three children, the doctor said that he needed signatures from two of us to take her off of life support when she stopped breathing. Knowing that there was no chance that she would ever wake up—and not wanting her to suffer—Greg and I tearfully signed the paperwork.

My wife drove from the hospital in Poplar Bluff to St. Charles to get two of our three children and my mother's two sisters. My ex-wife, seven months pregnant, drove my daughter down to say goodbye. Friends and relatives called and came in.

Saturday, August 22, after two and a half days of not moving at all (other than to breathe), she sat up in the bed to take one final, deep breath, then laid down and died. I sat next to her as her heart stopped, surrounded by family who loved her so much.

The funeral was eye-opening. People with whom I hadn't spoken in years came from all over to pay their respects to a woman who rarely lost her temper and who had endless love to share with everyone. The pastor who led my father and me to Christ, Phil Tanner, just happened to be at the hospital that day and agreed to preside over the funeral. He told us that we hadn't "lost" our mother. We know exactly where the sweet, loving, Godly woman is. And she'll be waiting for us.

Unfortunately, she had never taken out life insurance. With only one sibling who was younger than she—and the older ones all in poor health—none of us expected for her to pass so suddenly. Logic dictates that we should have prepared. But life just gets in the way.

I'm not sure which of my friends suggested this anthology as a means of raising money to pay toward the funeral costs. What I do know is that the outpouring of love from these dear friends, some of whom I haven't even met in person, has filled my heart with immeasurable grace. And I truly love these friends. I simply told them that my mother enjoyed watching true crime mysteries on television and they took it from there. We have super heroes solving murders and fighting killers. We have CSI-esque stories. We have stories that are rooted in reality.

All are truly enjoyable.

Also, I'd like to thank the friends who worked double-time as editors. And, I can't forget my good friend, Bradley Schlemmer, for also jumping in and taking some editing duties. A couple of the authors in this collection have picked up a new fan for this very reason.

A couple of mornings ago, I dreamt that I was standing in the kitchen with my mother. We were partaking in small talk when I realized that she was supposed to be dead. For the first time in my life, I realized that I was dreaming. So, before I could be forced to wake up, I threw my arms around her and told her that I love her and miss her so much. Then I woke up in tears.

-Jeffrey Allen Davis, 1/31/2016

# Case Clothed

by J.L. MacDonald

The first thing I did after Inspector Sorowski assigned me the case was to go to the hospital and interview the first witness, who also happened to be the victim. There really wasn't much to go on at this point, other than that the victim, Ms. Tonya Clarke, was suffering from chemical burns from an unknown source at an unknown time. All the doctors could tell us was that they were caused by hydrofluoric acid and that the chemical burns on skin don't always show up right away. The incident could have happened a day ago or as little as an hour ago.

"Ms. Clarke?" I knocked gently on the open door of her hospital room. I could hear her quiet weeping. "My name is Detective David Rayner, and I'm with the Grace City Police Department. May I come in?"

She looked over to me, half her face covered in bandages, tears running down her exposed cheek.

I took a step into the room, holding up my police badge as I did. "I'd like to help find who did this to you."

She quickly turned her gaze away, her mind obviously still in shock from the traumatic event.

"May I sit down?" While she didn't explicitly say no, she didn't say yes either. I sat down anyway and took out my notepad and pen.

"I know this is hard, and I appreciate your willingness to see me. Is it all right if I ask you a few questions? You can take all the time you need to answer."

She burst into tears. "No offense, Detective, but do you really know how hard it is for me?"

I said nothing, knowing she was about to say more.

"In an instant, my life has been turned upside down. Yesterday I knew what I wanted in life; now my priorities have changed. And my family lives two provinces away and can't afford to be here with me."

"What can you tell me about what happened?"

"I would if I could, but I don't know!" she sobbed.

"Did anything unusual happen recently? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"No, not really," she thought about it for a minute. "I mean there was that stupid freshman prank yesterday, but that was all."

I jotted it down in my notepad.

"Can you describe what happened for me?"

Tonya grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped the tears away.

"I was walking out of GCU with some friends of mine. The main entrance for the biology wing." I wasn't overly familiar with the layout for the Grace City University. I knew I'd have to find out where that wing was located so I could search there after the interview.

"Four guys, I think they were guys, I don't know, jumped out of nowhere and shot us with water pistols. We all screamed because it was so cold."

"Can you tell me the names of who was with you?"

She rattled off the names as I wrote them down.

"Were you able to get a good look at the people with the water guns?"

She shook her head. "Not really. They were wearing hoodies and scarves. Most of their faces were covered up."

I asked for a description of what they were wearing. Tonya told me what she remembered about them and that was about it. There wasn't much more to the incident other than she woke up this morning and felt like her face was burning.

Before leaving, I reassured Tonya I would do everything I could to find out what happened. I called in the description of the suspects to the communications officers back at headquarters so Patrol could be on the lookout for anyone matching the description, even though it was a bit vague. Comms also gave me the location of the bio wing, though I'd be stopping off at the main office first as a courtesy.

I hopped in my unmarked police and my cell rang as soon as I put the key in the ignition.

"Detective Rayner," I answered.

There was a laugh on the other line.

"Why do you pick up like that? You have caller ID so I know you know it's me calling." Dana Harker, my girlfriend, was right of course, and I did it more to get a reaction out of her. "I was just giving you a call to see if we were still on for lunch. You mentioned earlier you had a new case."

We had a lunch date planned but when Sorowski gave me the case I had texted Dana that there was a chance I wouldn't be able to make it.

"I'm going to have to take a rain check on that. There's a few things I need to look at and the sooner the better so no more evidence gets compromised."

Dana was always good that way. She was used to my erratic work hours and didn't take it personally when I didn't tell her the details of a case unless I needed help from her alter-ego, Nightcat.

"If you're free we can do dinner tonight instead. Up to you."

"Make it a late dinner and you got yourself a deal. So long as you're not the one cooking." I couldn't help pestering her. It was a no secret that she lacked cooking skills.

"You'll have to come over to find out," she teased.

We said our goodbyes and I drove to the university. I talked to one of the secretaries at the main office, who told offered to take me to the biology wing. She was friendly enough, but I preferred to not have someone looking over my shoulder and asking questions I didn't have answers to. It made it harder to find what I needed, especially if I had no idea what I was looking for.

I took a quick look around when I arrived, but nothing jumped out at me. The stairs were wide and made out of concrete, and the railings were made of the same stone as the walls. A person could easily hide on the ground in the corner beside the stairs.

I walked up on the right side of the stairs, trying not to compromise any evidence that may have remained. I didn't see much other than a few spots of discolouration on the stone wall. I ran police tape around the entrance and at an angle to cordon off the area where the stairs and the building met.

I called it in. "This is Detective Rayner. I need a Forensics unit here as soon as possible."

I searched the area until the Forensics team arrived. I filled them in and they got right to work collecting potential evidence. With the area secured, I could search further away from ground zero.

I came across some commercial sized dumpsters nearby and I had a look inside. At first glance it looked like the regular run-of-the-mill refuse. I put on the gloves I carried in my back pocket and gently moved some of the bags aside to reveal several articles of discarded clothing. Not suspicious by itself, but I knew from long experience that it was the little things that could lead to a conviction. I called Forensics and let them know so they could photograph the evidence and do the rest of the technical stuff they did, much of which was far beyond my pay grade.

If any trace of the acid was found on the clothing, it could certainly be a break in the case. Unfortunately life didn't work like the movies. It'd be a couple of weeks at best before any analysis would be done on it. As much as I disliked police and forensic movies, I found myself envious at the fictional turnaround times. For now I'd jot it down in my notebook, like any other piece of potential evidence I found. At the very least, when forensics was done photographing it, they could tell me the size, colour and make of the clothing. It'd be a start anyway.

* * *

"I'm glad you decided to show up," Dana said as she handed me the box of chow mein.

"I did as much as I could. I'm sort of in the 'hurry up and wait' mode right now," I replied. "I have a few more interviews I can conduct, but until Forensics gets back to me, I don't have that many leads."

It wasn't uncommon for me to talk to Dana about my cases, but I never gave confidential details unless I needed Nightcat's help. It wasn't a trust issue; it was a protocol issue. I trusted Dana completely. I did from the first day I met her, even though she was in her alternate form at the time. I had walked right into a drug deal and they were about to put a bullet in my head when they realized I was a cop. Luckily for me, Nightcat was nearby and took down the crooks before anything bad happened. Admittedly, I wasn't quite sure what to think when I first saw her. Her feline form was surprisingly human, more than I thought would have been possible from someone mutated with cat DNA. Regardless what her form, I loved her just the same.

"You know, if you need any help..." her voice trailed off and I knew what she was getting at.

I smiled at the gesture, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I'll let you know."

She never pressed the issue. She never did. There was this mutual respect between us. Dana had her day job, a computer consultant, and while she was much stronger and faster than me in her feline form, I made a habit of not asking for help unless it was something I couldn't handle. And after being on the force for over a decade, I've seen a lot and can handle most of it.

"Any inkling as to who it might be?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. I'd wager that it's someone who knows the victim. It was personal what they did to her. There would have been a lot of hate, or unrequited love, involved."

"And this is exactly what makes you a great cop," she stated.

"It does bug me, though. This poor woman is new to the area, no family around, no one to take care of her when she gets out of the hospital. And she'll likely need reconstructive surgery."

Dana inched her chair closer, wrapped her arm around me and leaned in closer. "You are the only person I know that can remain objective in a case, yet still care for everyone involved. Most times people have to detach themselves emotionally in order to cope with all the stuff you go through."

"Well, I do have a good support system," I leaned over, pressing my temple to hers while I held her hand.

* * *

The next morning when I got to the office, I had already planned my day; finish interviewing Tanya's classmates, and then chat with forensics about the dumpster hoodie. I didn't expect them to finish processing any DNA traces on it, but at least a size might narrow the search a bit. Problem was it was a Grace City U hoodie, so quite common. Still, I couldn't dismiss anything without first seeing if it got me any more leads.

I headed back to the University and had a chat with the other witnesses. Their stories differed only slightly, which is what I would suspect if people were telling the truth. If you have a group of people who give exactly the same details, there's a good chance they're all lying.

Before leaving the GCU, I made a quick stop at the main office. It was a shot in the dark, but I asked for a list of the students who purchased that particular GCU hoodie. Luckily for me, they recently rebranded their merchandise so the list of people who owned this new style of clothing was less extensive. The secretary also gave me the name of the supplier: Cal's Custom Stitchery, conveniently located here in town.

It's one of the things I liked about being a cop. When you woke up in the morning you had no idea what the day would have in store. The hoodie list wasn't a smoking gun, but it gave me something to look at. Which was good because I was running out of ideas.

A half hour later I showed up at Cal's Custom Stitchery. They had several locations in town selling novelty t-shirts and the like, but it was their main office that did bulk orders.

I walked in, flashed my badge and asked to see the manager. The employee manning the store took me to the back room and introduced me to Cal. I introduced myself once again.

Cal got up from his desk and waved me to the chair opposite his desk. As he sat down, I could faintly hear the crackling of his joints.

"So what brings you by, Detective?" he asked.

I told him the gist of what happened, omitting the victim's name. For a minute I was afraid the old man would have a heart attack. He leaned back in his chair, obviously digesting what I had just said.

"Who would do such a thing?"

"That's what I'm hoping to find out. What can you tell me about the rebranded GCU hoodies?"

He sat there for a minute, staring far off into space in an attempt to bring the memories forth.

"They asked us to redesign a logo for them. Just a bit different from what they had previously. Most people wouldn't have even noticed the change, quite frankly."

I scribbled down what he had just said.

"How was it different from the original design?" I asked.

"I can print it out for you if you like. Probably better than me trying to describe it." Cal turned to his computer and with a few mouse clicks the printer fired up and spat out an image.

Cal handed it to me. "The one on the left is the original. The one on the right is what we redesigned."

I didn't immediately notice the difference.

"The font was changed slightly," Cal explained. "And the colour was changed a bit. Nothing drastic, but to a graphic designer the change would be as plain as day."

I hauled out the photo of the discarded hoodie.

"What can you tell me about this?" I asked.

Cal put on his reading glasses and studied the image for a moment.

"Now, I can't say for certain because of the difference in lighting, but this certainly looks like the proof that we sent the university." He looked up at me and explained. "Whenever we do a new design for a client, we like to print off a small run, or at least a one-off. It's part of the setup cost. We give it to the client and they can either approve it or not. If they approve it, we go into production. If they don't, we make changes and run off another proof."

"And how many changes did you have to make for this?"

"Just the one."

"Do you require the client to return the proof if it's not to their liking?"

Cal shook his head. "No. We'd have no use for it. Besides, the client already paid for it so there'd be no reason for us to ask for it back. Usually what happens is the client will sell it at a discount to recover some of their cost."

That got the cogs in my head turning.

"And how many proofs do you run off each time?"

"Just the one."

Perfect. If I could figure out who bought it, I could possibly track down the perpetrator.

I stood up. "Thank you for everything. Here's my card if you need to get hold of me." I reached inside my inner jacket pocket and handed him my business card.

And back to the university I went.

The secretary was a bit surprised to see me twice today. I had asked for a printout of all their hoodie sales, including the person who would have bought the proof at the discounted price. She didn't have the information handy but said she could give it to me in the morning, either by fax or email.

When I got to the office the next morning, it was sitting in my inbox. I printed it out and read it before adding it to the case file. At least now I had a name of the hoodie owner: Shane Wilkins. I'd definitely be having a chat with this individual in the very near future.

I headed down to the basement where the forensics lab was and talked to the man in charge of the hoodie, Dr. Kyle Simmons. He had been with our Forensics lab for a couple of years and though my interaction with him was limited, we were on the same page.

"Any time I see one of you cops down here, I know you're wanting an update," he said as he waved me over to one of the desks.

"I know you haven't had it long, but is there anything you can tell me about it? I have a person of interest but I'd like something concrete tying him to the evidence."

"We haven't completed the DNA record yet, but I can tell you the donor is A positive blood type and the hair colour is red."

"That narrows it down a bit."

"This should help you, then. The hair is red, but dyed purple."

That piqued my interest. A positive was one of the more common blood types, red hair made up about 2% of the population, and while unnatural hair dye was more common nowadays, the combination of all the factors was singling out the culprit.

"And the size of the hoodie was XL. Not indicating that the wearer was male, mind you, but it helps with identifying the build of the person."

"Thanks Dr. Simmons," I said as I gave him a friendly handshake. "This will really help."

Back at my desk I did a background check on Mr. Shane Wilkins. It appeared as a child he rather liked conducting science experiments with household items. After one such experiment started a fire in the back yard, Shane's parents were on record as stating that he was trying something he saw on TV and that he was, even at that age, a bit of a chemistry nerd.

I wasn't one for holding someone back from their full potential, but it appeared Shane's parents had found it increasingly difficult to curb his chemical obsession. In recent years, he went from childlike curiosity to attempting to manufacture drugs on a small scale to sell to friends. I had a look at a mug shot from three years ago. He was of average build, a bit on the tall side, with a grommet in each earlobe and a small Chinese tattoo on his neck under his right ear. He struck me as the type who wouldn't hesitate to dye his hair an off colour.

There was a lot of circumstantial evidence around him, but I needed a bit more to make an arrest. But lack of evidence didn't stop me from talking to him.

* * *

Mr. Wilkins lived on campus so I got in my car and drove back to GCU. His room was in the Stanton Wing Residence, not that far from the bio wing. Certainly another piece of circumstantial evidence.

Wilkins was assigned to room 106, on the main floor just a few doors down from the elevator. I could hear a TV going in the room.

I always prefer to knock once before announcing who I was. I've found that announcing myself as a police officer right away will sometimes scare the occupants into doing something stupid, like running or shooting.

After my first knock, I heard someone shuffle to the door. He opened it wide and I saw his purple tipped red hair, red eyes and a reefer in his hand. Once I stated who I was, his eyes widened and he fumbled back in, trying to make a really pathetic escape.

He shuffled backwards on his hands and feet as I walked into the room.

"I didn't do it! Whatever you think I did, I didn't do it!" he pleaded.

I knew he was Shane Wilkins, but I asked him to confirm his name anyway.

"Shane Wilkins, you're under arrest for possession of marijuana." I motioned for him to stand up. When he stumbled, I helped him up and placed the handcuffs on him. I didn't bother cuffing his hands behind his back. It'd look bad if he injured himself while in police custody.

I read him his rights as he stood there, almost in tears. As soon as I mentioned Tonya's name, he immediately got agitated and started screaming at me.

"Mr. Wilkins," I tried to calm him down. "You're already under arrest for possession of illegal drugs. It's best if you cooperate."

It took him a minute, but he eventually heeded my counsel.

"So you obviously know Ms. Clarke?" He nodded slowly as he started crying.

"I loved her," he sobbed. "But she couldn't even remember my name when she saw me."

I wasn't that surprised. More often than not the motive was related to jealousy, money or sex.

Even on the ride back to the station he didnt confess to the crime. But I was more than positive that I got my guy. It was fortunate. His being held in custody gave Forensics more time to identify him as the offender, though I didn't need any more convincing.

* * *

"Ms. Clarke?" I knocked gently on her hospital door.

She glanced over and invited me in.

"I know you mentioned you were having a tough time and how your family was unable to be here to help you through this difficult time...I hope you don't mind, but I brought along a friend of mine who's offered to help," I said as I waved her in.

"Nightcat?" Tonya was obviously surprised when Dana walked into the room.

"Detective Rayner told me about you, and I wanted to help," she said.

"Not that I'm not grateful, but how?" Tonya was still in disbelief.

"Well, I should let Detective Rayner first tell you the good news."

Tonya glanced over at me.

"I arrested a man last night."

Tonya immediately started weeping.

"Wh....who?" she managed to squeak out.

"Shane Wilkins."

I knew the name didn't register in Tonya's mind so I showed her the mug shot.

"I know this face...I mean I've seen him around," she replied. "He did this to me? Why?"

"He had strong feelings for you and was quite upset when his affections weren't returned," I said gently.

I nodded to Dana, who sat on the bed and held Tonya's hand in an effort to comfort her.

"David said things were tight financially for your family, so he and I have decided to raise money to fly them here."

Tonya's sobs turned into streams of tears as she hugged Nightcat tight. "Thank you," she whispered in Nightcat's ear.

"We'll make sure you're cared for and that Shane never does this to anyone else," Nightcat replied.

Being a cop investigating difficult cases was never fun. But at least I could go to bed with the satisfaction of knowing justice prevailed. It made the job worthwhile.

THE END

# Psycho!

by Brandy Goodman

She watched as he wiped the bloody knife on his jeans. Reality was becoming all too real. Jennifer hadn't known that David held that kind of darkness inside him. Two months ago when she had first gone on a blind date with him, it had seemed like she had finally found that special someone. As the weeks progressed, Jennifer had noticed things here and there that began to worry her about David. He would call at all hours of the day and night. He always seemed to be checking up on her. There were even times when Jennifer had thought she had seen him watching her from outside of the store where she worked. Then he began to ask her questions about moving in together.

One night, Jennifer decided she'd had enough. She told David that things were moving too fast and she thought that they needed a break. He seemed to take it well. Today she had been doing some shopping and stopped into a local music store. She was scanning the titles when the man who worked there came up and asked her if she needed any help. She said that she didn't, but he hung around talking to her. About five minutes later David came storming through the door. He was ranting about Jennifer cheating on him with the clerk. There was a faraway look in his eyes as he neared them. As frightened as she was Jennifer stepped between the two men. She tried to soothe David, saying that she would never dream of cheating on him and that she didn't even know the clerks name.

Jennifer thought she had succeeded in convincing David that she had never met the clerk. She turned to the frightened clerk and thanked him for his help and taking David's hand she headed toward the door. About two feet from the door David stopped moving. Jennifer turned back to look at him and the look on his face chilled her to the bone. He yanked his hand from hers and shouted "I'm not stupid!" David turned around and headed back toward the clerk. The clerk was a very small man; David outweighed him by at least sixty pounds. As David advanced on him the man turned to run. Jennifer had no idea where the knife had come from; it was just there in David's hand. He grabbed the clerk by the back of the shirt and plunged the knife deep into his back. Jennifer stood frozen in place while she watched David stab the man over and over. Finally the limp body of the clerk fell to the floor and David turned back toward Jennifer wiping the bloody knife on his jeans.

Jennifer was so shocked by what had just happened that she didn't even have the sense to run. David walked up to her and grabbed her hand.

"Never lie to me," he said with an eerie calm. David eased his grip on Jennifer's hand and became sunny. "Let's go get something to eat. I know the perfect place." Still in shock Jennifer let David walk her out of the store toward his car. "We'll come back for your car later." David held the passenger door open and helped Jennifer into the car before walking around and getting in himself. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the street.

They were both silent for a long time. David was the first to break the silence. "What's the matter with you? You act like you've seen a ghost." Jennifer turned to look at him, stunned that he would ask her such a question. He smiled at her and Jennifer realized that he thought he had done nothing wrong.

"I'm fine," she said, trying to smile.

A frown slid onto his face "You're not lying to me, are you?"

"Of course I'm not," Jennifer said, trying to be more convincing. She decided that a change of subject would be a good idea. "So, where are we going? I'm starved."

The smiling David was suddenly back "Oh, its great place I know of. You'll love it. It's a surprise though so I can't tell you."

A couple of miles later, Jennifer saw a car on the side of the road with two old ladies. They looked like they had a flat tire. David started to slow down.

"What are you doing?" Jennifer asked.

"I'm going to help the little old ladies."

Jennifer gulped down some air. She wasn't sure that David was really stable enough to be around people. "Maybe we could just call them a tow truck. I really am hungry David."

"Nonsense, this will only take a minute." David pulled to the side of the road, pulled his knife out of his pocket and dropped it on the seat as he exited the car. Jennifer stayed in the car and watched David through the rearview mirror. David walked over to the car with the two little old ladies and talked to them for a moment, and then went around to their trunk. He pulled out the spare tire and a tire iron. David placed the tire and the tire iron on the ground and went back to the trunk. After a few moments spent looking for something, he went back to the little old ladies and asked them a question. Both women shook their heads. Jennifer could see the aggravation on David's face as he made his way back to the driver's side door. He flung the door open and Jennifer jumped. "They don't have a jack!" he barked "Stupid people driving around unprepared." David reached down and pulled the lever that popped his trunk and eyed the knife lying in his seat. Jennifer became even more frightened. She could not have the blood of these women on her hands along with the clerks.

"I'm sure it was just a simple over sight. It's very nice of you to help those ladies. You're going to be their knight in shining armor."

David looked over at Jennifer and smiled, "You're right," he said matter-of-factly. Jennifer had successfully averted any bloodshed, but she wasn't sure how long she could keep him from killing. He had obviously snapped and she wasn't sure what to do next.

Minutes later David was waving to the women as they drove away. He placed his jack back in his trunk and got back in the car. "I bet you're really hungry now." David said. Jennifer nodded. "Well then, let's be on our way. We still have a ways to go." Silence resumed between them as they drove. Jennifer was wracking her brain trying to figure out what to do. Soon someone would find the body of the clerk and the police would come and find her car. She would be the prime suspect. Jennifer needed to get away from David to call the police and let them know what was going on. But the terror of what David might do to her had her almost paralyzed.

Up a head Jennifer saw red lights flashing. Her heart leapt; maybe there was a road block or something. As they neared the lights, though, her hope died. It was only a set of railroad tracks.

David screamed an obscenity. "All these delays are really getting on my nerves!" Jennifer looked around as they came to a stop for the train. There were no other cars on the road, but there was a couple standing on the side walk with a stroller, also waiting for the train to pass. There was a strip mall on Jennifer's side of the car and a fenced in field on David's. The road looked deserted.

The longer the train took the more agitated David became. He began to finger the knife on the seat next to him. Jennifer was trying to think, but her thoughts were still muddled. Suddenly David began to mumble next to her. Jennifer looked over at him. He was staring at the couple stand on the sidewalk; his hand was now gripping the handle of the knife. Jennifer was having trouble figuring out what he was saying. Finally she heard him say, "Their fault." He flung the driver's side door open and leapt from the car.

"David!" Jennifer yelled. But he didn't stop. He was heading for the couple and their baby. Jennifer couldn't let this happen. What was she going to do? Jennifer jumped from the car and yelled "Look out!" The couple turned at the exclamation and saw David advancing on them. The woman screamed and they began to run with the stroller. David turned his attention back to Jennifer. He was livid. Any of the sane David that had been there was gone. He slowly began to walk back toward Jennifer, knife still in hand. The terror that had gripped her was still there, but she knew if she continued to stand there she would die. She turned and ran toward the strip mall. A lot of the shops were empty and the doors were locked. Jennifer looked back over her shoulder to see David still slowly advancing on her. He was taking his time; it was like he thought she had no chance of getting away.

Jennifer finally found a door that opened. She yanked on it and sped through the door. She engaged the lock behind her and ran down the hall, yelling, "Help! Please help! Is there anyone here?"

Jennifer heard a noise coming from an office near the back and headed straight for it. Behind her she heard the sound of breaking glass. There was no time to look behind her to see how close he was. She had to escape. Jennifer blew through the office, closing and locking the door behind her. The woman sitting at the desk looked up at her. Jennifer pleaded with her to call 9-1-1 and told her that she was being followed by a psycho.

Jennifer pressed herself as close to the wall as she could get, hoping that David had not seen where she had gone. There was a set of brown blinds over the window on the door, so she knew that he couldn't see into the room. The woman at the desk hung up the phone and told Jennifer that the police were on their way. Just then the door knob began to jiggle.

"I know you're in there." The voice was David's, but it no longer sounded like the David she had come to know. Jennifer began to shake. She heard a thunk and then the knife scraping down the window. Jennifer glanced to her left at the door and saw between the blind and the window. David's head was leaned against the glass and he was staring maliciously at her. Jennifer jumped away from the door.

"I'm coming in!" he yelled. The woman at the desk grabbed Jennifer by the hand and ran around the corner of her office to a door that led out the back of the strip mall. Once outside Jennifer ran in the opposite direction from the woman; she knew that when David made it out he would follow her and she didn't want to put the woman in anymore danger.

Jennifer ran as fast as she could toward the end of the strip mall. Her brain finally began to work through her fear. David had left his car in the street with the keys still in it. If she could just get back to it, she might be able to get away. Jennifer rounded the corner of the mall but could hear David's foot steps behind her. He must have realized where she was headed, because he was finally running after her. Jennifer could see the car. It sat there shining in the sun light. She rounded the front of the car, jumped into the driver's seat, and locked the doors.

She had just thrown the car into reverse when David jumped onto the hood. Jennifer sat in shock for moment looking into the eyes of a man who had completely lost his mind.

David leered back.

Jennifer stomped on the gas and spun the wheel to the right. David lost his balance, dropped his knife and grabbed onto the hood. Jennifer swung the car back and forth trying to knock him loose. Finally his grip slipped and he flew into the road. Jennifer stomped on the brakes and sat there looking at David lying in the road. She could hear the sirens of the police as they grew nearer.

All of a sudden, David began to stir on the ground. Jennifer watched in horror as David got back to his feet. He slowly began to walk back toward the car. Jennifer did the only thing that she could think of to protect herself and everyone else; she stomped on the gas and drove right into him.

Jennifer watched David's body fly through the air. He landed in the road and skidded to a stop right in front of the police cars.

Jennifer spent the next couple of hours describing her day to one officer after another. David's injuries were not as severe as Jennifer had expected. He had a broken leg and one side of his face had been skinned by the asphalt on the road. Jennifer felt a wave of relief wash over her as the ambulance drove away with him. However, when the police dropped her back at her car, she couldn't help but feel that her experience with David was far from over.

THE END

# The Hunted

by Jeffrey Allen Davis

Blunderbuss was a humorous word, as far as Seigi was concerned. What wasn't so humorous was being shot by one. The lead ball that had hit her in the left side of her abdomen burned fiercely, with the pain shooting throughout her stomach and into her upper leg.

She ran into a blind alleyway between a Chinese takeout and an auto supply store. Ducking behind the large dumpster that stood next to a side door to the restaurant, she took a deep breath and examined her wound. The hole was about an inch and a half below her ribcage. She leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant and slid to the ground, groaning in pain the whole time.

It looked like a toy, she thought as she gasped in pain. She had interrupted a burglary at an antique store. There were six robbers, the largest of whom had been playing with the strange, antique weapon that looked like something right out of a pirate movie. She had taken down one of the men—with a simple tap to the neck—before the others had noticed her. The large one had aimed the gun and fired. Luckily, the weapon had not been on target and the shot had missed Seigi's heart.

She reached behind her back, underneath her cape. There was no hole there.

The bullet was still inside of her.

I've dug things out of myself before. She pulled a dagger from the sheath on her leg, clamping her teeth down on the braided handle. Taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, she shoved her index finger and thumb into the wound. She growled as the pain in her side quadrupled in intensity. Where is it?!

Finally, she felt the metal ball touch her thumb. Grasping it, she pulled it free and dropped it to the ground. The clinking sound of it hitting the concrete was almost drowned out by the rain.

She risked a moment to catch her breath and let the stars in her field of vision die down. I almost lost consciousness, she realized. Looking at the wet ground, she was temporarily relieved to hear the water pouring down the drain nearby and into the St. Louis sewer system. At least they cannot follow my blood trail.

She looked down at her wound. But if those ambitious punks don't kill me, I'll die from blood loss. At that moment, she heard the door to the restaurant open and a child's voice singing. She struggled onto her knees, crawling forward to look out from the side of the dumpster. A young girl of maybe twelve years of age was throwing trash bags into the dumpster.

I've no choice. "Excuse me," said Seigi, in perfect Mandarin Chinese.

The girl jumped with a start.

"Please . . . don't run," Seigi pleaded weakly. "I need your help."

The girl narrowed her eyes and took a hesitant step forward. "Are you . . . really Seigi?"

Seigi nodded weakly. "Please keep as quiet as possible. The men who did this to me may still be looking for me."

The girl charged forward and crouched down. "What happened?"

Seigi glanced down at her wound. "Some bad men shot me." She gestured to where the lead ball had come to rest a few feet away. "I've gotten the bullet out, but I'm still losing blood."

"What can I do?"

Seigi looked across the alley toward the other store. "Is the auto store still open?"

The girl nodded, so Seigi unsnapped a pouch on her belt and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. "Can you get me a road flare?"

"Why?"

Seigi took a deep breath and released it. "You'll see."

The girl took the money and ran around to the front of the alley, while Seigi sank back into the shadows.

A few minutes went by as Maori Kabayashi, the masked vigilante who had adopted the name of Seigi, floated in and out of consciousness, her mind still listening for any sign of danger. That was when she heard the men's voices, coming from the end of the alley.

"The Italians have a major price on her head, Tommy," one was saying. "If we can catch the mysterious Seigi, we'll be set for life."

"I don't like it, Ray," said another. "She took Bill down without even a punch."

Another voice. "I'm fine, Tommy. She just knocked me out."

"WITHOUT HER THROWING A PUNCH!" restated the one called Tommy. "If she can take you down by tapping your neck, what else can she do?"

At the moment? thought Seigi with a quiet, bitter chuckle. Not much.

"She got the drop on me," said the one called Bill. "Even so, there's three of us now."

"There should be six," responded the one called Ray. "I agree with Tommy, at least on that. We shouldn't have split up."

"If it wasn't raining," said Bill, "we wouldn't 've." A clicking sound . . . a lighter? . . . floated down the alley. "If we could'a followed'er blood trail, we would'a all stayed together. She's hurt. She used that smoke thing and got away because she was afraid of us after Gary shot'er with that . . . that . . .."

"Blunderbuss," suggested Tommy helpfully.

"Yeah," continued Bill, "the antique gun."

"Hey kid," said Ray. "Have you seen a weird woman running around in a cape and mask tonight?"

Seigi's eyes widened in shock. The girl!

She could hear the girl say, in her native tongue, "I don't understand."

"Awe, Ray," said Bill, "she don't even speak English."

"Maybe we should head inside and ask her parents," said Tommy.

Seigi climbed slowly to her feet. I cannot let them hurt anyone because of me. "I'm down here!" she yelled as strongly as she could.

One of the men . . . probably Bill . . . yelled a very bad word.

After uttering another minor swear word, Tommy said, "She just called out for us. Maybe she's not as hurt as we thought."

She heard clicking coming from the end of the alley as the men armed themselves with pistols that were probably much more accurate than the antique gun had been.

* * *

Chan Li stood next to the man who had waited with her at the end of the alleyway, watching the two men walking slowly toward the hiding place of the wounded vigilante. As they disappeared into the darkness, she feared for Seigi.

There was an unspoken order by the one who had stayed with her that she wasn't supposed to move. But this one, Bill, seemed to be afraid. The woman in the alley scared him. She scared all of them.

A gunshot rang out from the alley along with a flash. "Tommy!" she heard Ray yell just before she heard the sound of something striking the dumpster hard, the metallic GONG echoing out of the alley.

"Hold still, you!" shouted Tommy, just before he growled in pain. The metallic sound of something hitting the dumpster rang out again.

Then, silence.

Bill peered into the darkness, his eyes wide with fright. "Tommy? Ray?"

Nothing.

"Tommy?!" he called again, his voice cracking.

A form materialized out of the darkness. "No," said the woman's voice. Before either of them saw her move, a four-pointed throwing star buried itself in Bill's hand, making him cry out and drop the gun.

Chan Li took the initiative and swept the man's legs out from under him. He cried out in pain as one of his knees met the pavement.

"I guess she can do a lot more than just knock you out with a tap to the neck," said the girl in perfect English, just before she kicked him in the face, knocking him unconscious.

* * *

Seigi watched the girl in wonder. "Not bad, child."

The girl smiled at her and said, in English, "My grandfather's been teaching me Wushu since I could walk."

Seigi stumbled over to the unconscious man and grabbed him by the arms. "Help me drag him back into the alley. They have friends and I don't want them to find him here."

They pulled Bill back to the dumpster where his unconscious comrades were sprawled out around it.

Seigi took a step back toward the wall and used it to steady herself. "Were you able to get the road flare?"

The girl nodded. Reaching into the bag, she pulled one out and handed it to her. "I'm Chan Li, by the way. And you don't have to speak Chinese to me. I was born in Illinois."

Seigi activated the flare and glanced at the girl. "You may not want to watch this."

Chan Li gave her a brave smile. "I can handle it."

Seigi closed her eyes. Merciful Father, give me strength. Then she applied the flame to the wound.

Over the course of her childhood with the Waruiyatsu, her father's training and the punishments that came with it—all of which would have easily been considered "child abuse" by modern society—had taught her to take a great deal of pain. The scars on her back and the backs of her legs from her father's canings were proof of that. But nothing could have prepared her for the agony that she felt now. The searing heat that engulfed her wound and made it something that she likened to Hell itself made her childhood traumas seem mundane by comparison.

She didn't remember dropping the flare from her numb fingers. Nor did she remember hitting the ground. All she could remember was Chan Li kneeling over her prone form in concern and yelling, once again in Mandarin, "Grandfather!" just as she closed her eyes and let the darkness overtake her.

* * *

Oh, my head. Seigi slowly opened her eyes to find herself lying on a cot. Surrounding her were shelves of canned foods, all labeled in Chinese letters. A single bulb, hanging from the ceiling gave her a decent amount of light. In a wall in the direction of her feet was a large metal door which probably led to the refrigerator. In the wall to her right, a slightly ajar door seemed to be the only exit.

She sat up, grimacing in pain, and laid her hand over her wound only to find that it had been expertly bandaged. The white of the gauze made her realize that she was no longer bleeding.

She also realized that she was no longer wearing the top of her costume. It was lying in the floor next to the cot.

The door opened and an elderly Chinese woman stepped in, carrying a plate with what looked like lo mein noodles and vegetables. "No . . . no!" the woman said as she hurriedly rushed to Seigi's side.

"Where am I?" asked Seigi, again in perfect Mandarin.

The woman stopped and her eyes widened in surprise. Also in her own native tongue, she said, "Oh, you speak Chinese?"

Seigi rolled her head around, feeling the tension popping in her neck. "Both Mandarin and Cantonese."

The old woman nodded and handed the plate to her. "Here, eat this. You've lost much blood and need to regain your strength."

Seigi took the plate and, with her free hand, reached up to pull the mask down from her mouth. It, too, was gone.

She sighed.

"Don't worry," said the woman, "your secret's safe with us. You protected our granddaughter from those thugs."

Seigi used a pair of chopsticks to eat a bit of the lo mein. "Trust me, that child did NOT need protecting."

"Nevertheless, you do much to protect the law-abiding citizens of St. Louis from those who would harm them."

Seigi took another bite. "You know, these are the best noodles that I've ever tasted."

The woman bowed. "What's the Japanese word? Arigatou?"

"No, thank you." Seigi was feeling her strength slowly returning with each bite.

"My name is Mei Ling," said the woman. "My husband and I have run this restaurant for ten years." She pointed at Maori's neck. "I see you wear a cross."

Maori looked down to where the broken symbol of the Waruiyatsu ninja clan and the cross pendant that Yoshika Funakoshi had given her on the night of her salvation dangled by a silver chain just above her bra. "Yes, I'm a follower of Christ."

Mei Ling smiled. "My husband and I are Christians, too. We are raising our granddaughter to know the love of our Savior."

Maori glanced back up at her. "Where are Chan Li's parents?"

Mei Ling shook her head, her eyes pools of pain. "They were murdered in Chicago three years ago."

"I'm sorry," said Maori. "I shouldn't have pried."

"It's okay. That's the reason why Chan Li looks up to you so much. You fight men like those who did that to my son and his wife."

Maori finished the plate and handed it to the woman. "Thank you, Mei Ling. That was delicious."

"Would you like more?"

Maori climbed to her feet, glad that she felt so steady. "I must go. My being here is putting your family in danger."

"Don't worry. My husband and I put the men that you fought in the dumpster outside and put several cinder blocks on it. They're trapped until the police get here."

"But they had three more accomplices," replied Maori as she retrieved her mask, gloves and top from the floor. "If they find a way to contact them . . .."

The door opened suddenly and Chan Li stepped in, closing it quietly behind her. "There are three more men out in the restaurant. They're asking about you."

"I have to lead them away from you," stated Maori as she finished getting dressed.

"You're still not strong enough, Seigi," whispered Chan Li. "We've called the police. They should be here any moment."

"WE KNOW SHE'S HERE!!!" yelled a man's voice. "We heard her screaming outside!"

Seigi chuckled as she heard an old man's voice say, again in Mandarin, "You're friends stink like dead pigs."

"I don't speak your language, old man! Get that brat of yours back out here!"

Seigi replaced her mask and grabbed her cloak, which she'd been laying on, from the cot. "This has gone on long enough." Then she stepped past Chan Li and Mei Ling and opened the door.

She stepped out into a kitchen. Two large woks stood over open flames on one side of the room. In the back of the room was a massive, two-sided sink. In the wall opposite the sink, a window overlooked the dining area. Seigi carefully peered around the side of the window. In the small dining area, which had tables and chairs for twenty people, three men threatened an elderly Chinese man. One of them, who had a black ponytail and sunglasses that were unneeded in the rainstorm, held a pistol. Standing next to him was a man with dyed-blue hair who looked around the shop, nervously chewing his bottom lip.

And then there was him . . . the muscle-bound, pale-haired bruiser who had shot her. The grin that stretched across his face was anything but friendly. "Well, old man? What's it going to be?"

In what Seigi guessed was faked, broken English, the man said, "I get you General Tso's Chicken?"

Gary grabbed the old man by the collar of his button-down shirt and pulled him close. "Where . . . is . . . she?"

"Right here," Seigi said calmly as she stepped into sight behind the window. "Let him go!"

Gary's smile widened even farther. "Well . . . well," he chuckled, "there's our little super hero." His eyes narrowed dangerously at the old man. "I'm not buying that you didn't speak good enough English to understand me when I was asking for her." With his free hand, he reached behind his back and produced a pistol that was similar to the ones that "Ponytail" had.

But, before he could aim it at anybody, the old man shoved his straightened fingers directly into Gary's armpit.

Gary growled in pain and dropped the gun.

Seigi leaped over the counter, her extended foot slamming into Ponytail's chest. His gun fell from his hand, going off as it hit the floor and sending a bullet flying harmlessly into a picture on the wall with the Chinese word for "Peace".

Grasping Ponytail by his hair, she turned and flipped him to into the nervous one. They landed on the floor in front of the door in a heap.

Spinning to see how the old man was doing, her eyes widened at the sight. He was deftly avoiding every one of Gary's punches. The smile on his face forced her to realize that the old man was really enjoying himself.

"Hold still, geezer!" growled Gary.

"I am not an old sneezer," replied the Chan Li's grandfather as he ducked another punch. "I am feeling quite well, young man."

"I'm gonna kill you when . . .," Gary seemed to notice something on the floor. Seigi followed his eyes to the gun that he had dropped. He lunged for it at the same time as she did.

She reached it first. Dropping into a slide on her left side, she grasped the gun, extending her right foot out and catching Gary in the gut. As he doubled over with a groan, she grasped him by the collar and used her hand and the foot that was holding him to flip him over her.

It was not a pretty maneuver but, for an improvisation, it worked. He sailed over her and landed on a table, smashing it.

Flipping to her feet, she handed the gun to Chan Li's grandfather. Then she crouched and examined each man. They were all unconscious.

Looking back at the old man, she said, "I'm truly sorry about the damage."

The man let loose a belly laugh that shook his entire body. Then, in English, he bellowed, "Are you kidding? I haven't had that much fun in years!" He pointed at the broken table on which Gary was still sprawled. "That is what insurance is for!"

A ringing sound caught Seigi's attention. It was coming from Gary's jacket pocket. Before she could move, Chan Li ran up and grabbed a cell phone out of it. Opening it, she said, "County morgue . . . You stab'em, we slab'em!"

Seigi cocked an eyebrow as the girl conversed with the person on the other end. "Yes, Bill, I understand that it's dark in there. Yes, you'll see Gary as soon as the cops get here. Yep, he's sleeping on one of our tables. Uh-huh, it was Seigi." Then the girl's eyes narrowed, "That's not a very nice thing to say to a twelve-year-old, Bill!" Then she hung up.

Seigi smiled and shook her head, noting the faint sound of approaching sirens. Looking at Chan Li and her grandparents, she said, "Thank you all, but I must leave. The police don't really like me that much."

Mei Ling, who had been picking up the dropped weapons and had even relieved the nervous one of a knife, said, "Of course."

Chan Li hugged Seigi. "Will we ever see you again?"

Seigi smiled warmly at the child. "Of course. Your grandparents make the best lo mein I've ever had."

THE END

# Medieval Murder

by Samuel E. Campbell

It was fall and the hint of the coming winter made the air crisp, cold and miserable for Detective Stubbs. She had been 23 years on the force, moving up through the ranks from street patrol to sergeant and finally to detective five years ago. She had earned a name for herself on her first murder case in the Homicide Department. She had seven years till retirement and she wanted nothing more than to have a simple case tonight. She turned her coat collar up to block out some of the freezing wind off of her neck. Her pixie haircut didn't cover her neck much and the chill made her shiver.

She hated her last name, and all of the jabs and jokes she had to take over it. So what if she was five foot and two inches tall? That didn't mean she was "stubby". She bristled at the mere thought of the nickname. She was slim and turned quite a few heads at the precinct, which she secretly liked. She might have weighed 105 pounds soaking wet in an overcoat, and she was proud of her figure. She worked on it daily at the Officers Gym and could handle herself well against those larger and taller than herself. That thought warmed Detective Stubbs a bit as she looked both across the street at the address she had been called to, and up and down the street.

The crisp air made her nose run and it was starting to drip as she quickly took a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped her nose, just catching the drip, as she walked across the dark street to the house. There were two patrol cars with their red and blue lights flashing, parked in front of the house at 2854 Lancing Street, along with them the Crime Scene Investigator van. It concerned Detective Stubbs because this was a quiet and fairly crime free area of the city. Yellow crime scene tape scarred that reputation and had been wrapped from the entrance to the driveway and around to the side of the house.

Officer Kieslowski was standing by the front door smoking a cigarette. His coat collar was turned up to block the brisk breeze that was blowing the fallen leaves around. He rubbed his hand together and stamped his feet in an effort to warm himself. The sound of the leaves rustling in the breeze made Officer Kieslowski shiver down to his toes; their sound reminded him of the death rattle of a dying victim he once tried to give first aid to.

"Officer Kieslowski, what do we have tonight?" Stubbs called out as she walked up to the porch.

"Oh, hey Stubby... I mean Detective Stubbs." He corrected himself. "It's a mess in there. You may want to put on some booties before you step inside." He rubbed his hands together again and exhaled a large cloud of cigarette smoke. "There are two victims, a white female and a white teenage male." Kieslowski shivered from both the chill in the air and the image of what he saw inside, as he gave Detective Stubbs the rundown. "It looks like a murder suicide to me, but I'm not the detective, Detective." Kieslowski had taken the test for Detective the same day as Stubbs and she got the promotion over him. He had five years on Stubbs and thought he deserved the promotion over her. These five years later he still held a grudge.

Kieslowski handed her a pair of booties as he stepped away from the door and away from the porch. Stubbs put the booties on and steeled herself for the reveal.

"Kieslowski, when did CSI get here?" Stubbs asked.

"Hmmm, come to think of it, the van was here when we arrived, he must have been close when the call went out." Kieslowski shrugged.

"But who called it in?" She asked.

"I don't know, you would need to call dispatch for that info." He replied sarcastically. "Do us beat cops have to do your work for you too?" he carped.

Stubbs didn't respond to the sarcasms or the carping of Kieslowski. She faced the door and turned the knob slowly, opened the door and stepped in. The lights were on and it was a cozy little house. The owner had put themselves out to decorate the inside in fall colors, pumpkins, and gourds. Nothing seemed out of place here in the living room. Stubbs called out, "Officer, where are the bodies?" Officer Kieslowski didn't hear her, but the crime scene investigator who was in the other room answered her, "Oh... Detective... in here... in the bedroom." Stubbs moved toward the voice and found the bedroom at the end of the hall and to her right. It was a medium sized room, 'likely the master bedroom,' Stubbs thought as she stopped at the door and observed.

"Hi ya, Detective Stubbs," CSI Joe Allen greeted her in a tone that was way too chipper for the scene that lay before him. "Just stay right there for a few minutes, I'm about done here, and then it's all yours."

Stubbs looked all around the room. There was a double bed against the wall to her right, a chest of drawers against the wall just inside the door, a single lamp stand on the right side of the bed across the right corner of the room, and an overstuffed chair in the corner opposite the door. There on the carpeted floor, she saw the body of the male teenage victim laying face first wearing blue jeans and no shirt. He had no shoes on and his t-shirt was lying on the foot of the bed. He lay facing the door and his feet extended to about the middle of the foot of the bed. A pool of blood, at his left side, had finished growing and shown crimson in the light of the single ceiling light.

The CSI was on the far side of the bed and that is where Stubbs assumed the female victim was. "How was the male killed?" she asked.

"I don't know yet, looks like a stab wound, but I need to get the autopsy report from the Coroner before I can determine what kind of weapon was used." CSI Allen said, still keeping a laser concentration on what he was doing.

"And the woman?" Stubbs asked.

"Well, she's in the basement and I haven't processed that scene yet."

"Two scenes? That seems weird." Stubbs said under her breath.

"What's that?" CSI Allen asked.

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud." Stubbs remarked. "I don't see anything turned over, no sign of a struggle. I would surmise from that, the male victim knew his killer. How do you read it?"

"I noticed that too, I did find some gravity drops of blood that show direction. It looks like he was stabbed by whatever caused the wound, here on this side of the bed and only got to where he is now and collapsed." CSI Allen said. "Funny thing, there's no murder weapon. Maybe the perp took it with them?" he said, watching how Stubbs would react.

Stubbs just nodded and continued to observe the room from the doorway and noticed that there was a book on the lamp stand. She made a mental note to see what it was when the CSI was finished.

CSI Allen picked up some evidence bags and put them in his kit then snapped the kit shut and stood up. "It's all yours now. I'm ready to process the basement unless you have any questions before I go downstairs."

Stubbs nodded her head and let the CSI leave the room. She moved slowly into the room and stooped down at the right side of the teenager, avoiding the pool of blood. She took his left arm and pulled it toward herself and rolled him up to see the wound on his left side. The wound was just under the left arm and looked like it went in at a down angle toward his heart. She could see why the CSI couldn't definitively say what made the wound. It was jagged and looked like a three-pointed star. It was definitely a stab wound, but what was used didn't look like anything she had ever seen before. Stubbs took out her flashlight and turned it on and examined the wound in a better light. Just as she was looking closer, "Detective!" a booming voice called out and Stubbs, with a start, almost dropped her flashlight in the pool of blood.

She cussed, then snapped, "Hey, knock before you yell out! You almost had victim number three laying here!" She said as she looked towards the door. There stood Officer O'Reilly, with a smirk on his face. He chuckled as she got herself together. "What do you want O'Reilly?" she said, irritated at the childish prank.

"Just wanted to let you know, I've canvassed the neighborhood and no one heard a thing, and these are good folks, and they are not trying to be uninvolved." Officer O'Reilly said making quote signs with his two hands. "They just didn't hear anything."

"Any signs of a break-in?" Stubbs asked.

"None that we could find. The CSI may find something we missed, but with my experience, I would say that someone in the house or a friend that they knew was the perp." O'Reilly opined.

"Do we have the ID on the two vics?" Stubbs asked.

"Oh, yeah," O'Reilly leafed through his notebook," The boy is Erik Morgan and the woman is his mother, Rita Morgan." He put the note book in his left breast pocket.

"Good, and thanks for the info. Oh, and O'Reilly, for the future, just give a person some notice before you scare them half to death, would ya?" Stubbs said with a laugh.

"Gotcha!" O'Reilly said with a laugh and a wink. Stubbs shook her head and grinned. O'Reilly and she had been a thing several years back, but quit dating because they both knew that dating co-workers didn't work out in the end, especially for cops. The both still had feelings for each other, but kept the relationship as friends. He was always the prankster, though, and he just couldn't stop pulling pranks on her. It was his way of showing her some affection.

Stubbs finished her examination of the victim and moved to the side of the bed where the blood trail started. She noticed the book on the lamp stand again and picked it up. Medieval Weaponry and Armor was the title and the book lay open to diagrams of metal armor and weaponry. I wonder if this has any connection to this murder, thought Stubbs. She put the book down and followed the blood trail. Just as CSI Allen had said, they showed direction as the victim moved around to the foot of the bed from the lamp stand. There was a lot of blood. Satisfied with her examination of the scene she moved out of the bedroom and motioned for the Coroners team to take the body and then moved toward the kitchen, where the steps to the basement were. Stubbs kept her eyes on the floor looking for any blood drops on the carpet. Since there was no weapon at the first scene, there may have been drops that fell from the weapon as the perp moved through the house. Seeing none, she moved down the stairs to the basement.

As she reached the last few stairs, she caught the smell of gunpowder, which meant, guns were in play here. Along with the cordite, there was the acrid coppery odor of blood. That's not a good sigh, Stubbs thought. She stepped into the basement and was met with the sight of a middle aged woman sitting in a chair with a shotgun laying at her feet and the back of her head missing. Stubbs shuddered. There was no way to ever get used to seeing this. No matter how long she had been on the Homicide Squad, it never got easier. CSI Allen was at the wall behind the female victim taking samples of blood and brain matter.

"Ah, hem!" Stubbs cleared her voice to get CSI Allen's attention.

"Oh, hi!" he said. "Don't be fooled, looks can be deceiving. It looks like a suicide, but look at the gun. It's too long for this woman to reach the trigger with her hand and keep the muzzle in her mouth. I don't know if she could even have done it with her feet, she has shoes on." He was right; this was a homicide, not a suicide.

"Can you see if there is a fingerprint on the trigger?" Stubbs asked.

"I haven't processed the shotgun yet to give you an answer on that, but that is my next priority."

"Okay." Stubbs said, almost absent-mindedly, as she observed the woman and the blood spatter and grey matter on the wall. She suddenly realized the gun must have been held horizontally, not at an angle, as most suicides like this would have been. "Allen, can you check something for me?"

"Sure, what do you need?" CSI Allen asked.

"The angle of the shot, it looks to me like the gun was held horizontal, meaning someone was standing in front of the victim when the shot was fired." CSI Allen stepped back for a second and looked closely. Taking an orange fiberglass rod, about six feet in length he centered one end on the splatter and the other end at the center of the gaping hole in the back of the victims head.

"Yep, you're right, how'd you see that? I hadn't seen it myself." Allen said in amazement.

"Oh, you know, after seeing five years worth of this stuff, you pick up a thing or two." Stubbs said in a self-deprecating manner but still focused on the scene. "So it looks like it could have been one perp who did both murders. The first, upstairs, was quiet, and the second seems like a 'no witnesses left', type of killing." But this wasn't enough for Stubbs. She continued to put the story together in her head. Either the female saw the murder of the teen male or was down here when it happened. She looked around and saw over in a dark corner of the basement, a basket of clothes next to a washer and dryer. She may have come down to do laundry, Stubbs was thinking. But why would she submit to sitting in a chair and let someone put a gun barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger? It made no sense to her.

"Was the victim bound?" Stubbs asked.

"No, not at all, but I suppose she could have been and the killer then released her hands to make it look like a suicide. Let me check her wrists for any residue from a rope or tape." CSI Allen said as he stooped down to get a flashlight and tweezers from his kit. Slowly, he looked at each wrist, first turning it over carefully and looking closely. "No rope fibers here. And I don't see any bruising or ligature marks to indicate that she had been bond." He then got a cotton swab and some alcohol to check for adhesive. He finished swabbing and found nothing. "No tape either; duct tape would have left a residue that I would have been able to find."

"Odd," Stubbs said in an almost hypnotic state of focus, as she continued her focus on the basement scene. What am I missing? Come on, you can figure this one out. Then a thought that was lurking in the back of her mind came to the forefront and she asked, "Oh, hey Joe... When did you arrive at the scene of the crime?" she asked as she imperceptibly released the latch holding her gun in its holster.

"What's that?" Joe asked.

"When did you arrive at the scene of the crime?" she asked again.

"Oh a few minutes before the squad cars arrived." He answered, watching for her reaction. "Why do you ask?" he continued.

"Just curious, is all." She paused. "You guys usually get to the scene after I have been at the scene for a while. I know you are usually pretty busy, but you beat the officers and me to the scene this time. You must have been in the area?" she asked, trying not to sound like she was interrogating him.

"Oh, that. Well, I was out on a break to pick up some coffee and heard the call. The coffee shop is just around the corner about three blocks." He lied and turned a suspicious eye at Detective Stubbs.

"Well, lucky for us. We get to see first hand how you operate." Detective Stubbs said as she noticed that he had his jacket sleeves pushed up above his elbows. "You usually push your sleeves up like that?"

"Sure, I do it to keep from getting gore on the sleeves. I'd go through a lot of jackets if I didn't." he said. Now CSI Joe Allen was sure that she suspected something about him as he picked up the shotgun to examine it.

"Why don't you just roll them down for me, if you will?" Stubbs asked.

"After I'm done here if you don't mind." He said a little irritated. "I'm processing the shotgun now for fingerprints." His voice was a little more forceful.\

Detective Stubbs pulled her service nine millimeter from its holster and held it on CSI Allen. "Just put the shotgun down Joe. I need to see your sleeves." Joe just stared at her with the shotgun firmly in his gloved hands. "I'm telling you to put the gun down, NOW!!" she shouted.

While she held the gun on CSI Joe Allen, she pulled her radio from her left pocket and called for O'Reilly. "O'Reilly, get down to the basement NOW! Officer needs help!" she yelled. The radio chirped and O'Reilly responded with a, "I'm on my way."

"Think you're so smart Stubby?" Joe Allen asked, his voice dripping in sarcasm. "YOU KNOW NOTHING" he yelled, spitting as he yelled. "What, you think I did this?" he said mocking her. "TELL ME HOW I DID IT!!" he continued to yell. "TELL ME!!" he yelled as he racked a shell into the shotgun and aimed it at Detective Stubbs's head.

Without blinking, Stubbs looked at CSI Allen; her eyes squinted and stared at him hard. "I recall you telling me once that you enjoyed going to Renaissance Fairs and reenactments. Is that not true?" he nodded his head in agreement. "You even built your own chainmail to wear to these fairs, is that not true?" she continued the interrogation.

CSI Joe Allen again nodded his head, which was dripping with sweat now. "What's that got to do with this?" he asked, a little less boisterous.

Detective Stubbs took a short glance toward the stairs to see if Officer O'Reilly was coming yet. Seeing no one, she continued to buy some time as she was complying to Joe Allen's questions of how any of this has anything to do with these two murders. "There was a book on the lamp stand by the bed upstairs. Did you see it?" she asked. Joe shook his head, no. "Well, I did and what do you think it was about?" she asked not needing an answer. "'Medieval Weaponry and Armor' was the name and I think you knew the victim upstairs, Erik Morgan, and his mother, Rita Morgan. Erik was an enthusiast for Renaissance Fairs too."

"WHAT OF IT!!" Joe Allen yelled, a little less confident as he was before. "THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE THAT GO TO THOSE FAIRS!!"

"Yes, but not any that were murdered and you were just around the corner? I think you came over to show Erik a new weapon you build and you demonstrated how it was used, killing Erik." Stubbs narrowed in.

"HOW COULD YOU KNOW THAT, STUBBY?!" Joe asked with panic in his voice.

"I didn't until you just told me." Stubbs said. "I think the weapon used was a Rondel Dagger. It has three points like a star and is used as a mercy dagger. When the enemy has been wounded, this dagger would fit through a gap in the armor just under the arm and would penetrate the heart of the enemy and put them out of their misery." Stubbs said.

"You know that kind of thing?" Joe asked with a shaky voice, almost weak.

"Joe, you know that we get weapons training in all kinds of weapons, even medieval weapons. What do you think we do, sit and twiddle our thumbs?" She laughed. "We have to know what kind of weapons there are so we can solve crimes. That's why that book kept bothering me. I kept asking myself, what the connection was." she said.

"Well, that is amazing. I didn't know that you knew about those kinds of weapons." Joe sounded almost ready to give up. "BUT YOU CAN'T PROVE IT WAS ME! THERE AREN'T ANY FINGERPRINTS OR OTHER EVIDENCE TO PROVE IT WAS ME!" he yelled in desperation as he lowered the shotgun at Detective Stubbs and slowly put pressure on the trigger....

BOOM..... BOOM..... BOOM.....! Joe jerked three times and dropped the shotgun as he slumped to the floor.

"Stubbs, are you all right?" O'Reilly yelled through the now broken basement window.

"Yes, I've never been better." Detective Stubbs said as she picked herself up off of the floor. She had hit the floor just as O'Reilly shot through the basement window and hit Joe Allen three times in the chest. She got up slowly and brushed herself off. Walking over to where Joe Allen lay, she looked at the CSI kit and saw wrapped in plastic, the Rondel Dagger Joe had used on the boy, Erik. What would remain a mystery to Detective Stubbs was how he was able to convince Rita Morgan to sit in the chair and let Joe put a gun in her mouth and blow the back of her head off. All she could figure is that she found her son stabbed and Joe took her to the basement where she didn't want to live without her only son being there for her. She got on her radio and called dispatch, "Send a CSI unit to 2854 Lancing Street, we have two murdered and the perp is dead too." The radio chirped and Detective Stubbs turned and climbed the ladder out of the basement. Officer O'Reilly was at the top of the steps and met her with a hug. They walked out of the house together and waited for the CSI to arrive.

THE END

# The Break-In

by Stephanie Welch

The window opened easily. The people in this neighborhood had been so trusting, until a month ago. With all the murders, the people had started getting alarm systems installed. The companies could only install them so quickly but, before long the Bluff's first serial killer would, by necessity, be forced to end his run . . . or at least move on.

Truthfully, Bill had been surprised to see no indication of an alarm system in this house. But he was not one to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. Stepping quietly into the dark room, his gloved hands reached into the pocket of his black windbreaker, producing a small mag light. The flashlight was indispensable to him and he had taken it with him on every job.

He turned it on and directed the beam around the bedroom. A queen-sized bed stood in the center, occupied only by a disheveled blanket and an army of plush dogs.

How cute.

The scent of lilacs filled the air. The light moved to the wall opposite the head of the bed. An antique dresser, beautifully carved with cherubs on each drawer, held a variety of womanly items. The flowery scent was coming from a scented candle, a slight amount of smoke still wafting from its recently extinguished wick.

The woman of the house must have just left the room. Interesting. With no lights on, he had assumed that the owner was not home yet.

Walking silently across the room, he grasped the doorknob and opened the door, peering out into the hall. He could see the living room at the end of it, bathed in the moonlight that was shining in through the picture window.

It would be just like every other house in this neighborhood. Each house in the "clone estates", as he loved to call this subdivision, had the same floor plan.

He heard the sound of water running in the kitchen. He moved quietly down the hall, turning left in the living room and padding into the dining room. An elegant table stood proudly in the center of the room, bare except for an unlit candelabrum. His trained eyes examined the antique. It was made of fine silver and would fetch several hundred dollars. He smiled, opening a black sack that hung from his belt and shoving it inside.

He shone his light across the living room and into the kitchen.

He could hear movement in that room. It was curious that the person had not bothered to turn on the light. He could hear someone walking toward him, so he turned off his flashlight and ducked under the table. A woman stepped into the dining room, the delicate fingers of her left hand holding a glass. Her dark hair spilled over her nightgown and a blue pendent of a dolphin hung from the silver chain that dangled over her bosom.

He felt a stirring that he had not expected when he had broken in. The woman was beautiful. He just wished that he could make out her eyes in the darkness. Her other hand hung at her side opposite from him, holding what he did not know. Perhaps a snack with her drink?

She reached the living room and turned right, heading back into the hallway. After a few moments, he climbed out from under the table and made his way back into the living room. He looked around for anything of value. A crystal goblet and matching glasses sat on a table next to a recliner. He switched the flashlight back on and picked up one of the glasses. It was made of Hungarian crystal. Each of the glasses would be worth five hundred dollars, easily. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he pulled several white cloths from his sack and wrapped the items gently, depositing them with the candelabrum. He looked at the plastic ice bowl with the pick that lay across it. Those two things were worthless.

He backed up and stepped on something. A click sounded from the television and the sound of bullets bouncing off of Superman's chest blared from the set. Bill lunged for the remote and clicked the power button, holding his breathe in the new silence.

"Who's there?" demanded a woman's voice from the hall. He whirled around to find the owner of the house, her left hand clenching her nightgown closed. Her blank eyes moved over the room . . . over him . . . without recognition.

His own eyes narrowed as he moved his right hand up and down slowly. She could not see him. He turned the flashlight up to shine into her eyes. The light blue irises did not contract and the lids did not even blink.

She was blind.

He smiled. He might get away with this after all.

He slowly backed away from her and toward the front door. He looked down at the deadbolt as he slowly reached up and turned it. But a click of a different sort brought his gaze back to the woman.

She was smiling and pointing a handgun right at his chest. "I may be blind, but I can hear very well," she said, her voice like honey mixed with vinegar.

"There's no reason to do this," he croaked. "I'll leave the sack with all the stuff I took."

"Oh, no," she returned, her full, red lips curving into a dangerous smile. "It's actually good that you're here."

Fear gripped his heart. "What?"

"You see," she explained, "with all of the houses in the subdivision having the same layout, it was easy for me to find my way around my neighbors' homes. But my little hobby had the unfortunate side effect of causing everyone to put alarms in their houses. I'm going to have to give up my fun hobby."

Bill tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. "You?"

She nodded. "A blind woman would be the last person that anyone would suspect, wouldn't you agree? But the investigation will just go on and on—and I can't have that." Even before Bill heard the gun's report he felt the bullet bury itself deep in his stomach. The pain shot out, reaching every nerve in his abdomen as he dropped to the floor.

He held his hand to the wound, feeling his life pouring out of it. His eyes followed the woman as she walked to the ice bowl, and sat the gun down. She reached out and felt around until she found the ice pick. She picked it up and slashed it down the front of her nightgown, hissing in pain as it cut one of her breasts. Blood started dripping from the nasty-looking but non-fatal gash. Then she walked toward the front door—until her foot connected with the Bill's prone body.

He could barely breathe. Over the pounding of his own heart roaring in his head, he could barely hear what she was saying as she felt her way up his stomach to his arm.

"When the police arrive, they'll find the man who broke into my house and attacked me." She felt her way to his hand and placed the ice pick in it, forcing his now numb fingers closed around the handle. Holding it with her left hand, she felt her way up to his face with her right. Then she smiled. She leaned closer and a befogged part of his brain realized that she was pressed up against him. Her lips met his and she kissed him passionately. Then she pulled back. As the shadows closed in on him, the last thing he saw was her unseeing eyes, wild with madness and cunning.

The darkness had completely taken his sight, when he heard her whisper in his ear.

"Thanks. You were a big help."

# DOWNSTATE, DOLLARS, AND DANGER

by Brian K. Morris

The policeman looked along the length of North Vermilion Street, first one way then the other, before he motioned for the driver to roll down his window. However, the well-dressed man behind the wheel paused to light a cigarette before he complied. The driver had encountered far too many police up north to take a downstate traffic cop anything close to seriously.

"Casey Dragelli?" Even when the trolley car moved behind him, the uniformed cop didn't react to the vibration and the noise as he waited for an answer. "A little south of your usual paper route, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Dragelli was a member in good standing of the Chicago Outfit. He'd been part of the Black Hand around the time Prohibition began several years ago. After a couple of years, once Johnny Torrio negotiated a pact between his Outfit and the Hand, Dragelli moved over to Torrio's gang as a wheel man just before the entire operation was handed to the current capo, Al Capone. "What can I say, Officer? It's a lovely evening for a drive."

The policeman didn't reply as he studied the driver's license, "Yeah. How you gonna keep 'em on the farm once they've seen Vermilion Grove?" The cop pulled his fingertips along the edge of the license as if teasing its return. "I know your name, Mr. Dragelli. And your reputation. Business or pleasure?"

Dragelli grinned insincerely. "My life is devoted to pleasure, officer," which was the truth. Whether it was cavorting in one of Al's brothels or running downstate to check on some stills that supplemented their Canadian hooch suppliers, Dragelli enjoyed his work. The driver kept his smile and his gaze steady, hoping to Heaven that the boy in blue didn't check for Vermilion County booze in the trunk or the fake back seat. "So can I expect a ticket, Officer? Or am I free to go?"

Instead of pulling out his ticket book, the policeman withdrew a notebook from his jacket pocket and tore out a page from the back. Quickly folding it into a tiny square, the officer gave another swift glance from his left to his right before handing the paper to Dragelli.

The mobster's smile faded. "What's this?"

In a stage whisper that could barely be heard above the passing of a nearby train, the cop said, "Give that to your boss. I don't care if you read it or not." He glanced around once more before pocketing his notebook. "You'll wonder what I want. When this is over, I just want Mr. Capone to remember me appropriately." He stepped back from the car and touched the brim of his cap in a mock salute. "Now get going. You've got a long drive ahead of you. Drive safely, sir."

As the policeman returned to his vehicle, Casey Dragelli adjusted the choke and turned the ignition key. With that square of paper feeling like an ember in his shirt pocket, Dragelli pushed the accelerator to the floor and didn't touch the brakes until he reached the southern suburbs of Chicago two hours later.

Before the mobster could reach the north edge of town, the policeman returned to the station house just a few blocks away. Fifteen minutes later, the man already had the uniform off and folded neatly with a crisp twenty inside the pants pocket for the cop normally assigned to the downtown beat. This "rental" was cheap at twice the price, the man thought as he dropped his detective's badge into his coat jacket.

After making a second attempt to tie a Windsor knot with shaking fingers, Danville Police Detective Mike Boen hoped his broadening smile would calm his wildly pounding heart.

* * *

"Danville?" Al Capone loosened his silk necktie while laboriously lifting his feet from the floor to the corner of his oak desk. "I know I've been to Champaign. Danville's close, right?"

Dragelli nodded. "Danville is under an hour to the east, right on the Indiana border. We've got some bootlegging going on a little south of there. But that's not the scoop."

Unconsciously running a finger along the scar that gave him the nickname he despised, Capone read the paper once more. "So they've been holding out on us? Our own banks?"

"Yeah, 'fraid so." Dragelli shuffled his feet. "You want I should go downstate and collect?" He paused while his boss pondered the elements of the situation. "I mean we don't necessarily do heists, right?"

"True." Capone contemplated his Windy City empire, handed to him when his mentor was wounded and bequeathed Al this business before any remaining luck terminally ran out. Girls, drinking, gambling, making the public happy brought more money into Capone's pockets and helped spread his influence beyond the confines of Cook County. Murder and extortion just helped his Outfit stay where it belonged locally, one step ahead of the law.

"The note says this delivery can happen in a couple of days. But..." The crime boss spoke slowly as his thoughts came together. "... we can branch out... send a message... no one is safe from Capone..." He stood up from behind his desk. "Get some sleep, Casey. In the morning, collect a couple of our muscle." He smiled softly. "We're going on a nice, leisurely drive tomorrow night."

* * *

Mike Boen reported for his shift early the next day. He wore his special "lucky tie," the one he got married in. Unfortunately, it was also the one he wore to court when she divorced him, just before she took their kids to Rantoul, an hour and several light years away. She wanted the finer things in life and somehow got it in her head that a policeman earned enough to supply them. Well, the honest ones didn't and Mike was honest to a fault. That's what he told himself every morning while shaving.

It didn't help that Mike liked his beers with the boys. A lot of beers over a lot of nights, actually. But when prohibition started, he gave up on the after-hours celebrations, just like a good cop. However, his evening plans changed too late for his wife and the twins.

Elsie never remarried. Their friends said she still talked about him. They also said all the movies were going to become talkies any day now too so what did they know? Mike spent enough time every day with people breaking the law and lying straight to his face to know when he was hearing utter bull.

Still, it didn't hurt to hope. Maybe he could give her that life she dreamed about one day.

Checking his revolver, his badge, and his identification, Mike closed his locker and strolled to the far corner of the room where a half dozen uniformed officers stood talking. When Boen approached, most of them smiled and all of them fell quiet.

"Are we still on?" The guy with the biggest grin and the widest eyes was the cop who loaned Boen his uniform yesterday. His name was Joe Fletcher and if Boen had a best pal on the local force, Joe was it. The patrol cop was so honest, he wouldn't even allow a suspect to light his girlfriend's cigarette in case it looked like he'd owe a crook a favor.

"You bet." Boen wiped his palms together, surprised they were so moist. "I'll take the point when it happens. Now when I see the man, you all come running. I'm going to be pretty embarrassed if I'm out there by myself, don'tcha know?" He gave a small grin to convey a confidence he didn't truly feel.

The beat cops chuckled. Joe said, "You think we're gonna let you carry the rewards all by yourself, old man? You're gonna need help."

Boen smiled and nodded, bristling against that "old man" remark. He was only about fifteen years older than most of them, making detective while they were still in grade school. And if this plan went off, he'd probably never have to drive that police-issued jalopy with the second gear that refused to engage on hot days, nor would he have to deal with punks, liars, alkies, and the rest of the Danville lowlifes.

"Yeah," Boen said. "I'm going to need all the help I can get." He knew you didn't mess with the most powerful crime figure in America solo. But this affair was so perfect, almost foolproof.

If only that "almost" didn't concern him so much.

* * *

"They actually cheer for me," Capone said with a broad grin. "Last time I watched a football game in that University of Illinois Stadium, they actually announced my name over the public address system. The crowd cheered like I'd scored the winning touchdown. They must still believe I'm some kind of boxing promoter." Capone laughed robustly, his merriment echoed in his henchmen's appreciative chuckles.

Big Al held the steering wheel with one hand, letting his other elbow rest on the door while enjoying the spring wind on his face. When taking long trips where the level of anticipated mayhem was at a minimum, the boss liked to take the wheel.

Casey Dragelli rode shotgun, literally. Under his seat was a sawed-off double barrel model that had seen so much action, the varnish on the stock was almost completely worn away. Behind him sat three of Big Al's toughest guys: Frankie Parker, Jerry Simmoni, and "Boxcars" Bochello. Just mean enough to be dangerous, but not smart enough to be ambitious, the gunmen carried enough artillery under their jackets to take out the average police precinct house. And while none of them were candidates for a Rhodes Scholarship, they each possessed more than enough weapons skill to have bullets left over.

Just in case, there were a couple of boxes under the fake back seat with the materials to create three or four bombs. Al got pretty good at using those to clean out speakeasies that didn't consider him as their supplier. In fact, Casey noted, Al was good at quite a number of things which was why the organization moved him from New York to Chicago.

Al's former boss, Johnny Torrio, originally brought Al in as a bartender and bouncer for one of his speakeasies before moving the man up to strong right arm and heir apparent. During the previous administrations of The Outfit – the branch of the Mob that employed them – various warring crime factions stopped battling each other in the streets of Chicago because of a complex series of treaties and truces negotiated by Torrio. Al maintained those alliances while presenting a public image as a businessman and philanthropist.

However, the law knew differently. They saw through Emperor Al's new clothes clearly and eagerly awaited the day he allowed his guard to drop. But until that black day...

Capone talked on, confident in his audience's enjoyment. "Yeah, me. What those hicks downstate think is beyond me." He glanced over towards Dragelli. "You sure about that time at the bank?"

"I checked it out, Al." Dragelli held his hat on his lap, not wanting it to blow away and end up in some mud puddle along State Route 1. "I'm glad we set up that distribution line with those guys south of D-ville. One of them had an account at the bank and he verified the delivery time with a teller, some skirt he'd been seeing when his wife was out of town."

"Good. I hate to make this drive for nothing." Capone allowed the threat to hang in the air.

"Boss?" Bochello asked from the back seat. He was built like he could replace two football players in the front line and had eyes as dead as the Whig Party. He was one of the last of the enforcers from Torelli's reign as capo and wasn't clever enough to understand that his inquisitive nature wasn't appreciated by his superiors. "May I ask a question?" The muscle on either side of him started studying the Illinois scenery intently, swallowing nervously.

"Sure," Capone answered, his expression neutral.

"What are we going down south for? We gonna put the fear of God into someone?"

Capone laughed heartily, which did little to ease the tension in the vehicle. "Not at all, my friend, because God will forgive your transgressions." The gang boss' expression took on a darkness that seemed to gather from another world. "Instead, I want them to feel the fear of Capone."

* * *

An hour later, Capone and his entourage settled in for a meal at the hotel restaurant after signing autographs for the first ten minutes following their arrival. The manager waved his gleeful staff away to return to their duties, but not before he had the crime lord sign a linen napkin that would never see another customer, much less a washing.

Dragelli, as Capone's right-hand man, constantly surveyed the immediate surroundings wherever they traveled, mindful of any challenges to their continued existences. Big Al smirked and winked when Dragelli's gaze caught his. The men had been under observation so many times, they could almost describe the feel of a cop's gaze. Capone scratched his nose with two fingers.

Nodding, Dragelli darted a glance towards the kitchen where a bus boy appeared to be waiting for a fresh pitcher of iced water to be poured. However, his red-and-black jacket fit him poorly, a tell-tale sign for a fancy establishment like this.

Probably one of the rookies, Dragelli thought.

With a grin, Capone tipped his wine glass towards the front window where a vagrant stood outside, watching the restaurant's customers as they supped. But his face was too clean. He also stared for too long a time the special table where Capone and his men sat and not enough on the various plates like a real beggar might do.

"Good thing I love an audience, eh?" Capone asked as he raised his goblet. "To new cities and old business."

All five men smiled after emptying their glasses.

* * *

"They're in place," Joe Fletcher told Boen as the detective closed his locker. "We've got our visitors under constant observation and they don't suspect a thing."

Boen nodded. It had taken him months to plan this career-altering caper and while there was plenty of room for things to go wrong, there was also lots of potential glory to be had. Like his daddy taught him, get the juiciest bait, let that line play out, but be ready to give that pole a hard yank before reeling in your dinner.

However, the hardest part of the plan involved finding enough cops who weren't on the take. Even in a city the size of Danville, there were business elements that didn't mind lining an officer's pockets in exchange for a case of selective blindness further down the road. That wasn't to say that Boen's collaborators didn't have a price. But there were some expenses that even the deepest mob pockets couldn't cover, he was relieved to learn.

The detective clapped Fletcher on the shoulder. "Good work. I'm going to hit the pillow for a few." He allowed himself a smile. "With any luck, we're going to have a very busy evening tomorrow."

* * *

The janitor pocketed the C-note once he'd concluded his handshake with Dragelli. "Welcome, men. Welcome to the Fischer Theater."

Starting out as The Grand Opera House in 1884, it changed its name to the Fischer in 1913. Ray Crandall had been the janitor and maintenance man a couple of years before the theater changed its name. He grinned like a kid on Christmas morning as he peered over his wire-rimmed glasses at his celebrity guest who acknowledge the attention with a slight nod and a thin smile.

"I brought a thermos filled with joe," Ray said cheerfully. "Can I pour you guys some? The wife makes it great."

"Not today, thanks." Dragelli glanced back again to make certain the janitor locked the front doors. "Is your brother here yet?"

Ray led the Capone entourage towards the large crimson doors beyond which lay the theater itself. He pulled open one of the doors and motioned for his five guests to enter. "Make yourself at home. My brother's outside in back. I'll let him in, then you guys can talk business in peace."

"Thanks," Capone said with a smile, "but I'd like it if you stayed. I'll make it worth your while."

Capone sat down in the center of the theater, his bulk easing into the padded seat. Parker, Bochello, and Simmoni took their positions around their boss instinctively, their beady eyes constantly moving around the brocades and carvings of the theater, continually searching for potential danger. Whether they truly respected and feared their boss was anyone's guess. However, if a hit occurred, the trio knew that if they didn't die with Capone, the capo's successor might not gaze upon their failure with the proper spirit of sympathy. However, the odds were just as good that the new boss wouldn't. So it became more than professional pride that kept Capone's earthly spark alight.

The janitor returned from the rear doors with a guest right on his heels. The man was almost Crandall's spitting image, but with fewer lines around his eyes and mouth.

"Guys," Ray announced, "This is my brother Ronnie. He's involved in..." The man's voice trailed off.

"We've met." Dragelli rose to shake Ronnie's hand. He clapped the newcomer on the shoulder. "Al, this is the man I came down two days ago to talk business with. He's probably the finest producer of alcohol south of Kankakee."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Capone." Ronnie wiped the nervous sweat from his palms onto his slacks. "I live east of Georgetown, not that you've probably heard of it."

"I know all about the place," Capone stated as he shook the man's hand firmly. "Laid out with a grapevine, right?" He gestured for Ronnie to sit in a cushioned seat in the row beside him. "Anyway, I'm proud to have you as a member of our business family, Ronnie." He smiled at Ray. "Both of you. Truth is, the Feds might clamp down on me for importing Canadian hooch so I need another line of product. So why not keep the money in-state, right?"

The brothers nodded enthusiastically. Ray scratched his head. "So aside from giving us a thrill and a half, why did you want to meet us?"

Capone and his men shared a grin. "I want you to join our gang for a half hour."

* * *

Outside, Boen checked his watch before resuming tapping his fingernails atop the steering wheel of his squad car. The trolley rumbled down North Vermilion Street as it did every half hour, carrying passengers northward. A train whistle sounded nearby, a breathy announcement of passengers leaving the confines of the city for new destinations.

Joe Fletcher kept his eyes towards the front door of the theater, blinking only when he had to. "So how long do we have, Boen? The group's been in there quite some time."

Boen nodded. "Keep watching. When Capone moves, so do we." He checked his fingernails, trying to conceal his nervousness. "Just keep in mind, Al didn't rise to the top of the crime pyramid in Chicago by being soft or stupid. We have to be every bit as clever as him, maybe more so. A lot is riding on this."

As if timed to punctuate his statement, Capone exited the front door of the theater, his four men in tow. Dragelli pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes to match the goons that helped keep Capone alive.

Squinting at the quintet, Boen muttered, "They running a sauna in there?"

Fletcher studied the goons accompanying Capone and Dragelli. "Must be. Looks like two of those monkeys shrunk while they were in there."

While Capone's party entered their automobile, Boen glanced at an undercover officer stationed at the corner of the theater. That officer, now off-duty and in plain clothing, turned around and waved his arm to another cop stationed within eyeshot of the rear of the building. The corner lookout left his position to casually stroll towards Boen's car.

The officer leaned in through the passenger's side window and spoke quickly, "A guy entered via the back door. I got a quick look at him. I think he's the super's brother, some still jockey from Georgetown, lives in the woods east of town by the Little Vermilion River."

Boen took in the information as the Capone vehicle turned West on North Street in front of the Commercial-News newspaper building. He pulled a watch fob from his shirt pocket and checked the time. If Al's going to move, he thought, it has to be soon.

* * *

Behind the theater, Frankie Parker and Jerry Simmoni cautiously surveyed the alleyway in one direction, then the other. Satisfied that the coast was clear enough, except for one obvious cop who studied the underside of the clouds too fervently, the pair emerged from The Fischer. However, they were minus their jackets, the ones that now draped over the shoulders of the Crandall brothers.

Parker checked his watch. "Time to get down the street. We've just got a few minutes. You ready?"

Simmoni hefted the carpet bag, the twin to the one Parker carried. "Let's keep our appointment."

Appearing as nonchalant and as at home on the streets of Danville as anyone born in that city, the pair made their way south via the alleyway. Once on Main Street, the men walked with purpose towards the bank whose location matched the map in Simmoni's meaty hand.

Parker nudged his ally when he saw their boss' vehicle moving down Walnut Street, followed immediately by a cop car. It didn't matter how carefully the police tried to make their conveyances look just like any other set of wheels on the road, the stink of John Law practically poured from the exhaust.

Simmoni couldn't help but grin at Parker as he saw an armored car pull away from the front door of the bank, right as planned.

Meanwhile, in his own car, Boen chuckled as he kept the criminals' sedan within eyeshot. "Yeah, those big city crooks think they've got the wool pulled over our yokel eyes. I guess Scarface Al's gonna return to the Windy City a little sadder, but a lot wiser... in about thirty-five to fifty years."

Turning east on Main Street, Capone fought the urge to put the moving trolley between himself and the cops. He laughed aloud. "Those small town Keystone Cops think they can play at the same table as the Outfit? I bet the Gusenbergs put them up to this."

"Maybe, Al," Dragelli mused. "But I have a good nose for this sort of thing, I really don't smell their stench on this affair." He shrugged. "It won't matter. In less than half an hour, we're heading back to Chicago."

Capone nodded. In the distance, he could hear the sound of a train approaching. "Yeah, back to Chicago." Something was out of sorts about this, but his brain wasn't wrapping around the problem as it normally did. He sighed and eased his car into a parking space beside the bank. He checked his watch. Two more minutes before we move.

* * *

Entering the bank, Parker and Simmoni opened their carpet bags and pulled out a pair of .45 automatics, followed by a pair of domino masks that they donned just before sprinting into the building. If the ebony coverings didn't do so, merely raising the pistols into the air captured the attention of every teller behind each black-barred window.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Parker announced. "We understand that you have some money from the north. We need to take it back home."

Simmoni watched the tellers move their hands towards their cash drawers. He leveled his weapon at the closest woman, a middle-aged lady who peered at the world from over the top of her thick glasses. "Excuse me, ma'am. But I won't have you bruising your delicate fingertips on those alarm buttons. So if you'd keep your hands in the air, that would be just keen."

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Capone pulled out a pair of fifties and handed one to each of the brothers. "Gotta let you guys out here. Thanks for your help. Big Al won't forget you for this." With a quick word of farewell, the Crandalls stepped out from the car, pulled off their borrowed jackets, tossed them into Bochello's lap, and slammed the doors shut. With a brief wave to Capone and Dragelli, the men strolled towards the theater and back to their normal lives.

Without wasting a moment's time, Capone opened his door and jumped to his feet. "C'mon, Dragelli. Your turn at bat, fella." The capo's right-hand man sprinted around the car to throw himself behind the steering wheel and fire up the engine. With Capone in the front seat beside him, Dragelli threw the gearshift in reverse before moving towards the vehicle towards the front entrance of the bank.

Inside, Parker delivered his instructions to a nervous man with a pin-striped suit, a poorly-executed comb-over, and a constant look of worry. Holding out the pair of carpetbags, the muscle punctuated his commands by waving the barrel of his pistol in his hapless audience's face.

"You'll fill these with specific bills, guy. You one of the big wigs here?" Parker motioned towards the vault.

In response, the well-dressed man drew himself up to his full height, moving his hands up to quickly adjust his necktie. "I am the manager of this facility, sir. I'll have the cashiers empty their money drawers for you. There is no need for violence."

The gangster chuckled. "I agree, pal. But I don't want to get into the ladies' drawers, so to speak." He paused. "I want the Cook County money."

"Excuse me?" The manager attempted to force a note of nonchalance into his voice and failed spectacularly. "I have no idea what you're –"

"I said!" Parker shouted, his face close enough to the manager's that the latter's eye wear fogged from the former's breath, "I want the cash that the banks in Chicago have been sending here. In fact, I know you just got a delivery from Michigan Avenue that arrived about three minutes ago. Truth is, just the latest drop off is enough for our needs. So Mister, you can either play along and stay alive... or you can play stupid and be dead. Now fill the bags with the good stuff and make it fast."

The manager didn't hesitate as he snatched the bags from Parker's grasp before racing towards the back so quickly that the thief immediately lost sight of his captive. By the time the muscle strode to the vault, the manager already had the carpetbags stuffed with money and even dragged another canvas satchel behind him, one labeled with the brand of a prominent Michigan Avenue bank.

Simmoni ran from the front of the building to grab all three bags, but not before punching the manager in the chest, knocking the well-dressed man onto his hindquarters.

Parker looked towards the front windows and grinned. "Ah, we must be off. It seems our ride is here. Have a good day, everyone." The two moved towards the entrance with purpose. Parker flung open the varnished oak door so Simmoni could toss the booty through the open rear door of the car awaiting him.

A moment later, Parker slammed the car door shut as one of the tellers squealed excitedly, "Oooh, is that Al Capone?"

Capone overheard the question and grinned just as Parker and Simmoni removed their disguises and dropped them into the street. The busy traffic that moved along Vermilion Street would grind any possible fingerprints into something not even the Feds could locate with a dozen crime labs and a fleet of bloodhounds.

The vehicle's tires squealed as Dragelli pushed the accelerator against the floorboard, sending a cloud of dust, loose stones and burned rubber behind them. Capone turned the side view mirror so he could assure himself that any pursuit was slow in reacting. "To the east," he commanded. "We stick to the route, then make our way north."

Dragelli nodded. He and Al spent an hour going over the Illinois State Maps, studying even the country roads that criss-crossed Vermilion County. Dragelli knew that heading into Indiana could mean Federal attention – as if robbing a bank didn't, right? – and the Outfit already had as much of that particular action as it could barely handle.

Boen's car pierced the curtain of dirt as Capone's car shot up North Jackson Street towards the high school. He keyed the radio transmitter. "Attention all cars, attention all cars. Be on the lookout for –"

"He's going onto Williams," Officer Fletcher stated, his finger and right arm extended as much as the windshield would allow.

Smiling grimly, Boen replied, "Good." The noose tightens, Al, he thought to himself. He turned the police car in a tight arc to keep his unwitting prey in sight.

Boen straightened out the steering wheel just as his prey slammed on their car's brakes, almost fishtailing into a slowly-moving railroad train that denied access to the other side of the street.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Capone shrieked at Dragelli. "You trying to push me out this window?"

"There was a train blocking the road," Dragelli stated through gritted teeth. "We can't go that way. Didn't you see that?"

Capone took a quick breath. "Find another way for Bowman?" That route would take them north, eventually to hook back up with Route One, then pretty much a straight shot to Cook County.

Dragelli nodded tersely, concentrating on his driving with the occasional glance at their pursuers who'd given up any pretense at blending into the background. "North on Vermilion, then the Fairchild overpass to Bowman, north until the road curves back to Route One." The vehicle swerved to the right, heading away from downtown.

But as they approached the railroad tracks that intersected Vermilion, they saw another passenger train cross their path like the blackest cat any guilty man could imagine. Dragelli spun the wheel hard, not letting up on the accelerator for even an inch. Everyone in the car felt centrifugal force pull them violently towards their left. Capone held onto the ledge of his door while Dragelli clutched the steering wheel desperately and silently hoped that most of the tires stayed on the road as he plotted a route to the south.

"Maybe the train passed," Capone called out. "Back onto Williams."

Without arguing, mostly because Big Al won most of his disagreements by way of his trigger finger, Dragelli turned back onto East Williams. However, the train not only continued to block their path, it had actually slowed down.

Just as one of the guys in the back emitted a brief shriek that was neither courageous nor manly, Dragelli and Capone both noticed that their pursuer hadn't made that last turn yet. "Did we lose them?" Capone wondered aloud.

However, the path ahead was blocked by two police cruisers parked so that to pass them, Dragelli would have to drive up onto one of the sidewalks that ran parallel to the street, hopefully preventing a collision with a fire hydrant on one side and a majestic oak on the other.

Capone gripped the driver's hand firmly and briefly. In response, Dragelli brought the car to a halt, a dozen feet from the parked vehicles. The wheel man wrapped his hand around the gearshift, his foot was halfway ready to allow the clutch to rise when he looked up in the rear view mirror to see the main pursuit car pull up so close that its headlights vanished from view. Dragelli turned to his boss, sweat starting to pool on his upper lip.

With the grimness of an undertaker, Capone raised his hand. "I'll handle this." He opened his door and stepped out slowly.

Dragelli watched Capone casually approach the two police cars with the crime boss' hands raised and a smile on the man's lips. Dragelli patted the bulge under his left armpit, certain his .38 was fully loaded. Then he slid out from behind the wheel cautiously, ready to cover his mentor.

"Hello, boys," Capone stated with his friendliest smile. "So what can I do for you today?" His voice carried over the rattle of the steel wheels of the rail cars upon the tracks just yards away.

"Surrendering would be good, Mr. Capone."

Boen emerged from the vehicle that blocked the Outfit car from behind. He held a Thompson sub-machine gun in his right hand and approached the capo slowly, as if savoring a victory that had yet to be declared.

Parker, Simmoni and Bochello leaped from the backseat of Capone's car, their hands hovering over their concealed firearms, waiting for Big Al's command. Bochello glanced towards the bags of money resting on the floorboards and kicked the rear door shut. But from the confident look in Boen's eyes, there was no doubt whatsoever that he knew what they had and how they'd acquired it.

Dragelli turned around quickly to take in the newcomer to the scene. And just as swiftly, he did a double take. "Al," he whispered. "That's him. That's the guy who pulled me over. Only he wasn't wearing a suit."

"And he gave you that paper, huh?" Capone turned to face Boen, his smile gone. "So what's your story?"

Boen came almost face-to-face with Capone, a confident smile on his face. "I want you to remember me, Al. You'll always remember the lawman who takes you in."

"I would agree," Capone admitted. "But it ain't gonna happen here or today." The crime boss tilted his fedora backward to allow the cool breeze to dry his brow. "You didn't tell me about the money just for my own health."

"Far from it." Boen grinned. "The bank manager can't hold his liquor for anything. He told too many people about the Chicago banks sending their liquid assets down here to keep the money out of your hands." When Capone didn't react, Boen added, "Because Danville is surrounded on all sides by the rails. We're a hub for lines that head out to Chicago, Indianapolis, Peoria, St. Louis, Memphis and all over the Midwest."

"So you somehow got a line on when one of my guys would be in town." Capone grinned at Dragelli humorlessly. "Then you figured out a time when the money would show up, but the trains' movement would keep me from taking it on the lam, eh? All based on people whose business lives and dies by the clock." Capone laughed heartily. "A lot of work, cop. But for what?"

The detective took in a full lungful of evening air. "This podunk berg doesn't even have an 'up' to go to. I'm stalled here and I want to be remembered for bringing justice."

"So you thought you'd do it using my rep? You really believed that you could do what The Bureau of Prohibition and Hoover couldn't?" With that, Capone released a laugh that went on for far too long. "You want me to remember you, huh?"

For a moment, Boen envisioned Capone's hoods pulling out their rods and ventilating as many cops as they could before the surviving officers mowed them down. He also realized that as the obvious leader of this crew, he'd take the first, and most, lead.

Turning on his heel, Capone strolled over to the policemen from the two cars that blocked his escape. As Boen watched, but couldn't overhear, Capone spoke conversationally to the uniformed policemen. The men nodded slowly as Big Al spoke. Finally, they holstered their firearms. Capone strolled back towards his car with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, eyes that locked onto Boen's with the tenacity of a rattlesnake.

However, Boen found himself distracted when the officers entered their vehicles, started the motors, backed up, and drove away.

Capone cheerfully stated, "I offered your boys the choice of... early Christmas presents." When Boen shook his head with confusion, Capone continued, "They got to pick a shoebox full of dough to buy presents for their kids... or a box that ticked, personally delivered while Daddy was at work... when their wives were alone... or with the children."

Boen felt the plasma chill in his veins because he knew Capone's reputation of icy cold murder, often with bombs. Instinctively, the detective turned toward his partner for support.

However, Officer Fletcher sat in the front seat of the squad car, his eyes wide with a palpable terror. Leaning against the passenger side window, Parker and Simmoni grinned, one muttering to the policeman, then the other mobster, as the officer trembled in his seat.

"Bochello," Capone called out, "pull the money out of the car. Our pal here," he indicated Boen with a stubby thumb, "can return the loot to the bank, maybe send our apologies to those nice bankers we scared. I think we made our point." Bochello laughed out loud as he pulled the bags from the back of their escape car to drop them onto the asphalt.

"See?" Capone called out with an edge in his voice. "No missing loot, no crime. Not unless you want to keep it for yourself, pal." He added with a whisper, "It's not like anyone would believe me if I said you snatched the loot when I wasn't looking. After all," Capone added with an edge in his voice, "I have a... reputation."

With the two squad cars long vanished, Capone pointed

Boen watched the two squad cars turn the nearest corner and pointed towards the remaining vehicle where Officer Fletcher sat in the passenger's seat, his eyes closed and tears flowing freely down his cheeks. Parker and Simmoni shook hands and laughed as they returned to their car. "Ah," Capone stated with a cold smile, "I see your partner's just gotten the same offer as the other guys... maybe even more of it."

Suddenly, Boen felt smaller than a speck of dirt and more alone than any man should ever be. Without firing a shot, Capone robbed a local bank and then broke the will of half a dozen good, honest cops. The detective felt sweat pooling at the top of his starched shirt collar as he realized how outgunned he truly was at this moment.

Capone moved so close to the detective's face that Boen could smell what the capo had for lunch. He forced his trembling hands into his pockets. "What about... me?"

"Precisely," Capone stated mirthlessly. "What about you?" He took a deep breath. "Cop, I have fingers in pies that go to the coasts, north of the border, and many more that you'll never find out about. I didn't get them because of my cheerful personality. I got them because people remember me and what I will do to get ahead. Like I said, I have a reputation... and I earned it." Capone brought his face even closer to Boen's, savoring the detective's terror. "You wanted me to remember you? I will. Believe me, I will."

A smile slowly spread over Capone's features, one that turned into a grin which gave no warmth, no cheer. "Now I'll make you a deal. If you do nothing to remind me that you tried to set me up for a fall, maybe I won't try to find out the names of your friends and your family. You got family, right?"

Without meaning to, Boen flinched and Capone nodded. "Everyone has family. Mine trims families like yours down to size. And if you have a wife or girlfriend or both, we have ways to entertain them before we make them curse the day they ever met you."

Thinking of his ex-wife, Boen drew up his fist. "You stay away from my Elsie."

"And you," Capone interrupted calmly without moving to defend himself, "remember who I am. You ever go beyond the north edge of Danville, your children disappear. You move out of town, this Elsie entertains my boys until they get bored with her. You even move out of your house, I hope you have a good photograph of your parents to remember them by. Do I make myself clear?"

Boen nodded.

"And THAT is what happens when you play games with Capone." He tipped his hat. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with some Chicago bankers tomorrow who need to hear what I just told you. They need to learn that trying to out-trick Capone comes with a big, big cost. You learn your lesson, flatfoot?"

Boen nodded vigorously, blinded by his tears.

Capone added with the tone of a crypt door closing, "I have no desire to return to Danville. Don't give me a reason." He paused again. "I trust this will be our last conversation, Detective. Good day."

Boen stood in the center of the road for a half hour after Capone's car vanished from view. In the distance, a train whistle blew as the sun dropped below the Danville skyline. The detective's knees still shook as he fought the cravings to call Emily and to see if a local speakeasy needed a new best customer.

THE END

# Fast Fate

by T.W. Johnson

Long ago, Othveria Isle was transported from Earth to a planet in an alternate universe called Zirageth. There the people encountered a crystalline, humanoid species who introduced them to Velacrite: valuable gemstones of eldritch power. Eventual mining expeditions led to vast quantities of the energy source, but also many alien threats.

As dusk approached, Eddie LaForge's twenty mile trip from Nulbira to Dilsturi was nearing its end. Suddenly, a rainstorm manifested, and pelted his windshield with a vague, purplish tinge, caused by the world's bizarre light spectrum, or possibly from something entirely different. Either way, one thing was for certain: the scientific laws which governed Earth, and its universe, did not apply here.

Eddie flipped a switch, and after a moment of bad reception, it connected to the nearest sky mast.

"...God knows it's scary out there, but we can't let fear take over. Families must grow stronger; neighbors should draw nearer. Reliance upon one another is essential if we're to survive the ever-present dangers to our nation. Just consider what I've said, folks. Okay? Well, here's a beautiful, lengthy compilation of soft music to hopefully set your minds at ease. I'm Alex Mendel, and this is OYE Light-Tron Airwaves."

Gentle, hypnotic sounds spilled through the speaker system, mixing with the droplets on Eddie's windshield. Mere fragments of Ethrysil's Maritime Madness catastrophe resurfaced though one indelible thing stayed. He glanced at the passenger's seat. There, on a piece of paper was a colored sketch of a golden, ornate amulet, with an intense sunset hue. He remembered it being in his possession; and that, somehow, it was the key to unlocking everything forgotten since that dreadful night.

Before long, Eddie entered Dilsturi and eased down Main Street toward the local law enforcement building, Outpost 6. Few vehicles lined the road. Fewer were at the Outpost because they were more than likely on patrol.

Eddie settled near the entrance as the rain subsided.

***

A pulsing sound triggered as he walked in, which drew the attention of a fair-complexioned, red-haired women, who sat in a windowed room a few feet away.

"May I...help you?"

"Yes," Eddie said. He retrieved his credentials, then added, "Eddie LaForge, of the PSF."

"No way," she said. "The Paranormal Science Force?"

Eddie spotted her name tag. "Pleased to meet you...Cindy Myers," he said, reaching through the small opening to shake her hand.

She nodded. "That's her...me. Do you need the chief?" Cindy bit down on her lower lip.

Eddie pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat and handed it to her. "Well, maybe you can help me."

"I'd love to...oh...wow," she said, unfolding it. "It's beautiful. Unusual, but I like it. Who's the lucky girl?" She facepalmed herself and shook her head. "Person, I meant to say." She handed the drawing back.

"No one in particular. I had it, but it's gone now. I've been looking everywhere, going from town-to-town, hoping to get lucky myself."

A door from down the hall opened. Heavy footsteps followed.

"Cindy," a voice said. "Any word yet on Marcy Ashbrook from Billy or the others?" A tall, husky man wearing a light blue uniform walked around the corner. "Oh, a visitor, huh? And judging by your appearance, I'd be willing to bet you're a PSF operative."

Eddie stepped forward, hand extended. "PSF Aegis One, Eddie LaForge, but please, call me Eddie."

"Chief Maximilian Wright. And just Max, please."

"So I'm that noticeable, huh?"

Max nodded. "You stick out like a sore thumb." He motioned downward. "It's the boots. Black nano-weave armor—a dead giveaway. And beneath that silly trench coat you're wearing, a full suit of it, I'd say. Nevertheless, what brings you to our little retreat?"

Eddie gave Max the sketch.

He looked at it, shook his head, then frowned. "Not exactly a missing person or suspect, is it? So, you here on official business, or—"

"Official," Eddie said, then handed Max the papers signed by an Admiral Conrad Drex.

"Well, I guess so. Don't understand it, but that's what you guys are for, right? Tell you what: if you help search for this teenager, I'll spare extra muscle for...whatever you're doing." He folded the drawing up, returned it to Eddie, then gave him the photo of a beautiful young girl. "Her most recent picture. Keep it."

Eddie carefully studied the girl's features.

"Marcy Ashbrook," Max said. "She's seventeen, and causing her folks lots of grief. Frankly, I'd rather be dealing with those slimy Qwaugulan fish-heads, or have a pair of crusty Theckinokian pincers at my throat. Ah, the good old days."

The station's audio system suddenly came alive. "This is Officer Hansen requesting backup. There's a situation at the Red Moon Cafe."

"Gotta go," Max said. He grabbed the portable comm unit from his belt and spoke into it, "On my way." The captain collected his N-45 Maser, set it for stun, holstered it, then headed for the exit.

Max left, someone else entered, and the station's video comm sounded an alert.

Cindy tapped on a lit panel and said, "This is Outpost 6."

A beautiful, long-haired blonde with bright blue eyes manifested on the screen. "Cindy...my daughter was seen near Felquist Chapel with her friend Felecia Flowers. Please make sure she's safe."

"Okay. Hold tight, Darlene. We'll handle it."

The image faded away.

"What's going on?" the new arrival asked.

"Perfect timing, Debra," Cindy said. It's Marcy again. We're short on help tonight. Can you hold down the fort?"

"Of course. Now shoo."

"Wait," Eddie said. "You're coming?"

"I most certainly am. Now, I've got a VX4 Skimmer, but it's kind of slow. We have an Outpost Hover Tram. It's not much faster, though. Neither would shorten the thirty-five-mile trip."

Eddie smiled wryly, then said, "Well, then you're in for a treat."

***

"I've heard about them," Cindy said. "I've seen pictures. But even now, it's still unbelievable. Love the crimson color."

"The PSF-A1. Each PSF agent and their vehicle are assigned the same unique number. Easier to remember everything that way, I suppose." Eddie pressed a button on his micro remote, which initiated the pneumatic hiss of the PSF-A1's gull-wing passenger door as it opened upward. "Ladies first."

Cindy stepped in.

Eddie helped her with an intricate 4-point safety belt, closed the hatch, and then joined her on the other side.

"She's an evolved prototype," Eddie said.

"Oh, thanks," Cindy said. "Now you tell me."

He started the engine, and the PSF-A1 rose three feet off the ground. "Setting course for Felquist Chapel off Highway 2."

"That place is practically in ruins," Cindy said. "They shouldn't be there."

Eddie pulled the picture of Marcy from his coat pocket, then faced it toward the dashboard. "Bridget, sync image with data of Marcy Ashbrook from Dilsturi, Othveria. A funnel of dim, white light engulfed the photo."

Cindy raised an eyebrow. "Bridget? Who's she?"

"I am," a digitized female voice said. "Synchronization complete. Marcy Ashbrook; age: seventeen. Height: 5'6". Weight: 134 lbs. Hair: dark blonde. Eyes: dark blue. Currently enrolled at Dilsturi High School. Since kindergarten, Marcy has missed 27 days, and—"

"Good job," Eddie said, "but right now, we just need to find her."

"Yes, Eddie."

"By the way, this is Cindy Myers from Outpost 6."

"Uh, hi there," Cindy said, wiggling her fingers.

"I have eyes, Eddie," Bridget said.

Cindy stuck her tongue out.

Bridget paused for several moments. "Cindy Myers; age—"

"Don't even go there," Cindy said.

Eddie grinned. "Bridget, focus on Marcy."

"Yes, Eddie. Sending data to nearest PSF sky mast."

"Step it up, Bridget."

"But I have no feet. How can I—"

"Bridget—"

"Process complete. Target is approximately thirty-five miles away off Highway 2."

"I knew that ten minutes ago," Cindy said.

Bridget added, "Marcy Ashbrook's heart rate is elevated, which can stem from anxiety, physical exertion or a medical condition. It's all about the details, Cindy Myers."

"Good work, Bridget," Eddie said. "Let's hit the road."

"Eddie, why do you want to attack the pavement?"

"Figure of speech. Let's go."

"Yes, Eddie."

Eddie looked at Cindy and smiled, then gestured. "Watch this, no hands."

The PSF-A1 drifted onto the street, flawlessly adhering to signs and signals as it traversed block after block.

"It's gonna take us forever at this speed," Cindy said. "I figured this thing was fast."

"Intersection of Highway 3, 6 and 9 reached," Bridget said. "Engaging turbos."

"What?" Cindy said.

The PSF-A1 took off, achieving 240 mph in 2.3 seconds.

With the back of her head plastered against the seat, Cindy did all she could to stifle a scream.

"Relax, Cindy Myers," Bridget said. "Your emotions are illogical."

"Illogical? Oh, you just wait..."

The PSF-A1 leveled off to 160 mph.

Trees on either side of Highway 3 whizzed along. The unusual weather returned, first as a mist, then a drizzle, and finally a torrent.

Eddie noticed that Cindy's breathing was irregular. He eased his hand over hers and gave it a soft squeeze. "It'll be all right."

Cindy's eyes widened. A lump formed in her throat. She stared straight ahead, breathed a bit harder, then relaxed some. "I'll bet you've said that to all the girls."

"Nope," he said. "You're the first. Well, there's Bridget, but she doesn't count."

"I heard that, Eddie."

"Now, now, you're important too."

"Is that so? Well, I have something important to say, then. Radial scans detect an object directly ahead, one thousand yards and closing. The current time of impact: 8.78 seconds. Adopting evasive maneuvers."

Three seconds before contact, Bridget moved the PSF-A1 to the left.

Eddie strained for a good look.

"It was a man," Cindy said, "I think; with long, strangely colored hair. Like something from a carnival—like cotton candy."

"Detailed analysis, Bridget," Eddie said.

"Unavailable."

"You did get a reading, right?"

"Affirmative, but the results are negative. However, the object has regained its position behind us."

Cindy's heavy breathing returned. "How...how's that possible?"

Eddie said, "Bridget, deploy the OEP."

Atop the vehicle, a fist-sized metal sphere ejected from a round, circular hatch.

"OEP?" Cindy said. "What's that?"

"Organic Elemental Probe. If our pursuer is either, or—heaven forbid—some odd combination, we'd receive a reading."

Keeping pace with the PSF-A1, the OEP ascended three feet above the roof, then flew from side to side.

"Bridget," Eddie said, "I need that reading."

"Retrieving data. The subject is an anomaly."

The PSF-A1 shook from a sudden, forceful impact.

"Eddie!" Cindy said.

"It's okay. Bridget is as tough as they come. It'd take more than a tank to bring her down."

Another jolt tossed them around. Then, a metallic screech-moan came from the vehicle's rear.

"Hull integrity impaired," Bridget said.

"Unbelievable!" Eddie said. "Bridget, we need to know what we're dealing with here!"

"Subject is an anomaly."

"There has to be more! Clarify!"

"Subject is an anomaly: eccentric, outlandish, freakish. I am sorry, Eddie. There is no definitive answer."

The OEP quickly docked with its launching area, and just in time...the PSF-A1 rocked again as if hit by a giant fist.

"Release autopilot."

"Are you certain, Eddie?"

"Do it!"

"Autopilot released."

"Cindy," Eddie said, "Do you trust me?"

She vigorously nodded.

"Okay, then close your eyes, and whatever you do, don't open them until I say so."

"We are approaching some trees," Bridget said.

"Trees!" Cindy cried.

"Current time of impact—"

"Forget the calculations," Eddie said. "Just keep a lock on Marcy, the thing behind us; and get ready for defensive measures. We're taking a shortcut."

"Yes, Eddie."

The PSF-A1 swerved around a giant oak, then began to weave from side-to-side, dodging trees at every turn.

The storm started to ease.

"Deploying burnout mines," Bridget said.

Small discs fired from a thin rear slit, machine-gunning out. They hovered at staggered positions, detonated and caused a massive, fiery explosion, which instantly died out.

The vehicle juddered twice: once from the blast, the other from suffering another attack.

"Anomaly unfazed," Bridget said.

Eddie squinted at the control panel. "Bring our assailant on-screen?"

A hazy, humanoid figure appeared on the dashboard's display with, a massive, dark cloud surrounding it. The image vanished from the screen, over and over, re-materializing at random locations.

"Initializing anti-ectoplasm pulse," Bridget said.

A wave of strange, green energy ballooned out from the PSF-A1, it tripled in size, then faded away.

"Anomaly has absorbed the discharge. I am analyzing the data; conclusion: all onboard weapons will be ineffective."

"We're going skyward, Bridget."

"Flight mode has not been tested, Eddie."

"Skyward?" Cindy said.

"Stay with me, Cindy. Just a little longer."

"Warning: Velacrite levels are at 50% capacity. Recharge time required."

"We're not going to fly, Bridget. Think of it as one big leap."

"But Eddie, that will require flight mode and turbos at maximum. Such a feat will drain me before target arrival."

"Thanks for the dire prediction. Now switch to flight mode."

"Yes, Eddie. Flight mode activated."

Cindy sank low.

The PSF-A1 tore through the thick oak branches, emerging into the alien sky.

Something crashed into the back of the vehicle, causing it to lurch forward.

"Hull integrity breached."

"Turbos now, Bridget!"

"Turbos activated."

The vehicle throttled to 320 mph, began to rattle, but soared over a significant cluster of dark trees.

"Levels are at 10%. Warning: large structure incoming. Collision imminent."

"The Felquist Chapel!" Cindy said. "We're going to hit it!"

"Bridget, disengage turbos and flight mode, engage glider mode and discharge parachute."

The PSF-A1's booster rockets went out. Short, aerodynamic wings unfolded from the vehicle as if it were transforming into a giant bird. A silver-foiled parachute ejected from the rear then slowed the machine with a jounce.

"I hope Felicia isn't in there," Eddie said. "The tracker shows Marcy several yards away from the building. Here it comes! Cindy, hold on!"

"Danger," Bridget said. "Safety harness and hatch malfunction."

The vehicle ripped through some tree limbs and hit the ground with a slight nosedive. It skidded across a grassy clearing, passenger side first, rolled multiple times, landed upright and slid into the chapel's old wall. Cindy's door flew open, and she careened onto the sanctuary's dirty floor. A loose wooden beam fell from the ceiling and across two piles of rubble, effectively pinning her in place.

"Cindy! Dear, God, no! Cindy!" Eddie wrestled to undo his harness. He crawled through passenger's side, then scrambled to help. "Cindy!" He leaned close and felt the shallowness of her breath.

Something warm and wet pooled around his fingertips.

"No...Cindy!"

Eddie sniffed the air. "Smoke," he said, then saw a vicious, verdant flame. He rushed over to the PSF-A1. "Bridget, is the OEP still operational?"

"Yes, Eddie."

"Head back to HQ now!"

"But, Eddie, I cannot leave you."

"Now, Bridget! Cindy needs medical attention!"

"Yes, Eddie. I will send help. Departing now. I am sorry for being jealous. Please tell Cindy."

Eddie nodded, laughed, then teared up as the small metallic sphere once again launched itself.

He reached for the vehicle's fire extinguisher but found it jammed. He then grabbed his trench coat and tried to smother the flames, but they'd grown too high. Eddie raced over to Cindy once more and began to pull on the wooden beam, but it was far too heavy.

His shoulders slumped forward, and he broke down again. He looked up, and through bleary vision yelled, "Please, don't let her die!" A golden sparkle invaded his eyes. He turned away, wiped the tears dry, then re-focused on the glimmer.

There, high above the PSF-A1, and dangling from a broken piece of wood was the golden amulet he'd lost several months ago.

Eddie ran over to the vehicle's hood, climbed, then jumped off, snatching the amulet free. He looked it over, then stared at its black jewel, which lay embedded in the center. "I–I don't understand your purpose. Just...please, don't let her die."

A single tear fell on the amulet, and the jewel awoke, turning a tense, fiery orange. It glowed brighter and bigger until a most unusual phenomenon occurred.

The amulet leeched off the flames, pulling the natural element inward with a strong gust of wind until nary an ember remained. Then a tentacle of fire lashed out from the jewel, entrapping Cindy's wooden prison. In a split second, the entire beam lit up, then turned to ash. The same tendril quickly weaved itself around Cindy's body, cocooning her in luminescence. Seconds later, it unraveled and retracted into the amulet, where the jewel continued to glow, only now much dimmer than before.

"Ed..." she managed to say.

Eddie rushed to cradle her. He drew near. A teardrop landed on her face. He kissed her cheek.

The pool of blood was gone; he was unable to find a single blemish.

Her face stretched into a crooked smile when she saw the amulet in his hand. "Who's the lucky girl?"

Eddie laughed, then passionately kissed her cheek.

Her eyes grew wide, her heart raced but calmed just as fast. She closed her eyes. "So...tired."

"Yeah," he said. "You just rest. We'll be out of here soon."

Within seconds, Cindy had mysteriously fallen into a blissful sleep.

"Eddie," a voice whispered.

A cold chill engulfed him; every hair on his body bristled. "That voice. I know it."

The amulet renewed its robust glow as if suddenly angered.

Eddie stepped outside the chapel and encountered a flood of memories. "It's you. I remember now. You did this—sent our island to this world. And look at Cindy; it's all because of you!"

The one standing just a mere twenty feet away crinkled his purplish nose and lips, which seemed so out-of-place against his yellowish skin. He reached up and tipped his dark brown top hat, straightened his pumpkin-orange, brown-trimmed dress coat, adjusted his teal bow tie and vest, then dusted off his orange pants.

"Oh, stop it. You flatter me," he said—his voice an odd and unsettling baritone. "Let's look at this from a different viewpoint. I mean, in hindsight, don't you think you might be just a teensy bit responsible? After all, as of now, you've been in possession of that beautiful piece of jewelry. Ah, if only you'd left it alone." The man's cyan eyes flashed with a sudden fierceness. "Look how much trouble it's caused you."

"What is it you want, Melfaxus?" Eddie said. "What's your agenda?"

"Agenda? Why, my dear boy, wherever did you get the idea that I have an agenda? It seems you've got the wrong chap." Melfaxus threw his hands out in surrender. "I'm just a teacher, you see...and class is now in session."

Hands still in the same position, Melfaxus wiggled his fingers. Eerie, turquoise light emanated from them, then poured out like fairy dust, which blanketed the surrounding area. The ground rumbled, and up from the dirt emerged thirty, early twentieth century, ghostly school desks, all facing Melfaxus.

"Well, how unfortunate," he said. "They're empty. There can't very well be a lesson without students." Pure dark energy flowed from his hands, creating the forms of seated, shadowy children. An undulating, blue-green chalkboard materialized next to Melfaxus, and a luminescent pointer of like color appeared in his left hand.

He tapped the board a few times, which emitted a low-pitched thud while rippling, then said, "Now let's see...where to begin. Ah, yes, a long time ago, in a strange reality far, far away, there existed a lovely, abysmal, black nebula that swirled with heavenly blue. Innocent, peaceful, and sweet it was." Melfaxus swept a seemingly magical hand through the air, causing the nightmarish children to gasp with wonderment. "But one day, the detection of a cryptic fallacy awoke the nebula and a hero—yours truly—was born..."

Melfaxus stopped, pretended to look at a wristwatch, then said, "Uh...well, that's all we have time for today, kiddies. Class dismissed."

At once, every apparition pivoted to stare at Eddie. Their mouths opened wide to reveal needle-like teeth. Without warning, they leaped to their feet and charged forward at lightning speed.

With the pointer and chalkboard now gone, Melfaxus cupped his hands together, shook his head and smiled. "Just look at them—so much potential."

An army of claws and fangs descended on Eddie's flesh, but a sudden burst of flame from the amulet scrambled over his entire body. The ghost children collided with their target. Their fingernails and teeth melted away as they dug deep into the fire. Seconds later, the spirit-like ghouls turned to vapor, then to nothingness.

Mouth and eyes wide, Eddie looked his body up and down, unsure of how to respond, and as to why he felt no heat or pain.

Melfaxus approached him and said, "Well, aren't you special. You've got that whole glowy wavy thing going on. Your poor, poor mind, unable to comprehend the power you now wield. It must be awful being you. Here, let me lend a hand."

Melfaxus snatched the amulet from Eddie's grasp, then flew high into the night sky.

His aura doused, Eddie stood helpless as the singular entity departed.

The amulet burned its way free, then hovered in place. Its center jewel glowed a blinding yellow, building in strength. The intense light erupted at point blank range, spewing out like a geyser.

With his hand already restored, Melfaxus made a grand gesture, erecting an invisible barrier, which absorbed the power. He braced himself, pushing back with all his might as teal and black light erupted from his fingertips. The opposing forces clashed, producing a creepy, ethereal hue, and then exploded, temporarily dazzling the exotic atmosphere with an array of gloom.

Moments later, the environment cleared. But Melfaxus and the amulet were gone.

***

The evening went by quick at first. But now, after the drama and terror, a relative peace blanketed the town.

Marcy and Felicia had fallen in a shallow well inside a nearby barn on the Felquist grounds. Their reason for being there: a typical challenge from high school peers.

The Red Moon Cafe situation had been dealt with too. Marcy's uncle, Franklin Matheson, was enjoying a nice, quiet meal when extreme hysteria had overcome him. He claimed to have seen a tiny, blue boy with red eyes and fiery hair. And somewhere, the body of a young murdered girl. But the claim was ignored due to his prior condition.

The PSF responders left a replacement vehicle for Eddie, clean clothes, and made preparations for the Hollow Crater bed and breakfast.

Eddie and Cindy ate at the Green Rock Escape—an independently-run cuisine. They also managed to catch an old black and white film at a traditional drive-in theater, then later found themselves on Cindy's antique porch swing, rocking back and forth in the light of an exotic moon.

***

Snuggled close, Cindy looked into Eddie's dark blue eyes. She reached up and ran a hand through his brown hair, then sighed. "It's strange, Eddie, but I feel like I'm falling in love."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Me too." Then he kissed her lips.

"I'm sorry you lost it," she said. "The necklace."

Eddie looked skyward. "It'll turn up."

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

"Tonight, I pleaded for your life, and was heard a universe away."

"Faith," she said. "If it can move mountains, then it can move stars."

The two kissed once more, then embraced under an ocean of rich, nighttime lavender. For the moment, delight, serenity, and love abounded.

But what of tomorrow?

THE END

# CONSEQUENCE

by Jim Robb

I started hearing the voices about a week after the car accident. I went to a psychiatrist to see if he could fix whatever had come loose inside my skull and he changed my life -- just not the way I had expected.

I told him about how I was about to say something to a guy at the ball game the night before, and two of the voices in my head told me it wasn't a good idea. I had said it anyway and won myself a black eye and a fat lip. The shrink looked at my face and said, "Maybe you should have listened to the voices."

This made more and more sense to me every time I looked in a mirror, so I tried following the advice the voices were giving me. At my next session I lied to the doc and told him I wasn't hearing the voices any more, and I never saw him again. I had decided that I didn't want the voices to go away after all.

By this time I had figured out that the voices were predicting the consequences of my actions. Occasionally they described outcomes in detail, although most of the time it was nowhere near that exact. Still, at the very least they would let me know whether whatever I was thinking about doing would lead to a good, bad or indifferent result.

It didn't take me long to convince myself that I had a superpower. It wasn't the greatest superpower, but it still put me head and shoulders above everybody who didn't have any super abilities at all. And if I had a superpower, why shouldn't I become a superhero?

#

One night last fall I was sitting at the supper table running through my options for the evening. I considered kicking back and watching TV but Jenny, the voice I'm most comfortable with, didn't approve. Then I thought about being a superhero for the evening and Bob thought this was a great idea. I told my wife I had to catch up on the books for my business and that I'd be at the warehouse.

I entered the small office at the north end of the building and locked the door behind me. After firing up the computer and opening my accounting software I picked up the telephone handset and set it on the desk, because somebody was sure to try calling me before I got back. Then I went into the warehouse proper, walked the length of the floor and took the secret passage to the neighbouring building where I kept my crime-fighting gear.

I changed into a grey turtleneck sweater and black denim jeans and laced up a pair of Canadian army-surplus boots. They were like combat boots, complete with steel toes and shanks, except they were made from smooth black leather that cried out for spit-shining. Worn underneath my jeans they didn't look too out of the ordinary, but they could be the difference between a sprain and a broken ankle. A dark brown leather jacket completed my superhero outfit. I liked to keep it low-key.

The next task was to pick out my ride for the evening. I walked right past the muscle car, the sports car, the motorcycle, and even the four-wheel-drive. The one that got Bob's vote was at the far end of the line, a rusty old minivan that I kept around in case I had to do surveillance work.

Now I had to find out what was so important that I had to be out on the street instead of at home with my lovely wife. The normal way to do this would have been to consult with a network of paid informants but my snitches were in my head, not on my payroll. I just drove around considering various actions and waiting for one of them to speak up. When Jenny finally told me that parking the minivan was a good idea I was in the low-rent district north of the tracks. At least now I knew why I was driving the minivan -- it would still be there when I came back. Any of my other vehicles would have been boosted for sure.

I wound up at the bar of a tawdry strip club, holding a glass of watered-down scotch and pretending to watch the surprisingly ignorable entertainment. After a few minutes a couple of lowlife types plunked themselves down next to me and ordered beers. They had to shout to hear each other over the music and I had no trouble listening in.

It wasn't long before one of them mentioned that Joey Slater was in town.

I knew Joey Slater by reputation. He was a minor-league hood, about as far from being an arch-villain as you could get. The problem, according to my unwitting informant, was that some unnamed and recently deceased party had been foolish enough to point out to Joey exactly where he stood in the regard of his fellow felons. Determined to improve his standing in the underworld pecking order, he was planning on making some big play the following day. They were agreed that this was probably going to be good for a laugh, because while Joey was a dangerous psychopath, he was sorely wanting in traits like intelligence and common sense.

This didn't even look like a job for me, much less you-know-who, and I seriously thought about tipping off the cops and going home to watch the game. This earned me a rare visitation from Lorne. In a way he's the one I like the least because he always comes off as patronizing, but his redeeming virtue is that his deep TV-newsreader voice always gives me the clearest picture of the future. This time he told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn't deal with Joey before morning a lot of good people were going to die, including a superhero that I had a lot of time for. She was way out of my league superhero-wise, but I'd always hoped that some day I might get to meet her, and maybe even get her autograph. Now Lorne was telling me that it would never happen unless I did something about Joey Slater that night.

That settled it for me. I abandoned my drink and set out to hunt him down.

It took a while to find him, even with Jenny telling me when I was getting warmer and Bob mocking me when I was getting colder. I finally spotted Joey walking down a street lined with seedy bars, disreputable pawn shops and hotels that rented rooms by the hour. I considered all the options I could think of and the best one turned out to be just to stay in the van and tail him.

Eventually he figured out that he was being followed, or more likely somebody tipped him off, and he ducked into a liquor store and out the back way. I just kept driving around and before long I found him again a few blocks away. He lost me again by going down an alley that was mostly blocked by a dumpster. The next time I found him he hailed a passing taxi, and I let the cabbie lose me without putting out a great deal of effort. I just kept homing in on Joey and caught up with him again in the middle of the downtown business district.

That's when the girl entered the picture.

She must have been working late because she was wearing a smart business outfit when she emerged from the classy office building at exactly the wrong time. Joey had just spotted me again and that, combined with the sound of the chrome-and-glass door closing behind the girl, startled him. True to form, he reacted by doing something stupid. He pulled a gun out of his jacket, grabbed the girl and dragged her into the nearby alley.

Stay in the van and wait? No, Bob told me to follow him into the alley on foot. I reached toward the glove box to retrieve my mask and pistol but Jenny told me not to bother. I got out of the van and trotted after Joey.

The alley ran most of the way down the block and then turned at a right angle. I rounded the corner and found Joey a few yards away, his back to a dumpster, holding the girl around the neck with his left arm and pointing his gun at my chest. This didn't bother me; Bob was telling me not to worry.

Joey's hostage was nowhere near as calm. He was keeping her in front of him, using her to shield himself from me. I'm not sure what he expected me to do. Shoot lightning bolts at him from my fingertips? Freeze him with a cold, icy stare? Call him a nasty name? Well, the last one I could handle, but Jenny said it wasn't time for that yet.

"Who the hell are you?" Slater asked.

"Just your average everyday superhero," I said. I could tell that he didn't believe me. I got that a lot.

"What's your superhero name, then? And why ain't you wearing a superhero outfit?"

"I don't have a superhero name. I've never really needed one. As for the outfit, I'm not into the whole cosplay scene. Besides, I'd have to reveal my secret identity to my tailor."

"Okay then, superhero," Joey said, "you're going to fly away, or disappear, or whatever you do, or I'm gonna blow this little chickie away."

"If I could fly do you think I'd be driving around in a thirteen-year-old minivan?"

"Then get in your minivan and drive!"

"That's not going to happen." Jenny was firm on that point.

Joey raised his gun and made sure I could see it. "Don't think I won't do it!"

The girl must have believed him, because she pushed Joey's arm up and sank her teeth into his wrist. He yelped in pain and instinctively pulled his arm away from her, which had the effect of flinging her away from him. She let go with her teeth and ran for it.

I didn't have time to do anything. Joey's Browning went PAM-PAM-PAM-PAM, flame spurting from the barrel and brass spinning from the ejection port. The pistol climbed from the recoil and Joey ended up with his arm pointing almost straight up.

The first bullet hit the girl in the back, just to the left of her spine. The second caught her in the back of the head, to the right of centre. The third may have struck the windowless brick wall of the building across the alley, though I didn't hear a ricochet. The fourth one was headed for the moon.

"What the...?" Joey said as what passed for his reasoning process kicked in. "What kind of a superhero are you anyway? You didn't do nuthin! Ain't you got super-speed? Ain't you invenerable?"

"That's 'invulnerable,' you idiot," I said after Jenny agreed that now was the time for name-calling.

"Hey, I'm the guy with the gun here and you're calling me an idiot? I don't think you are super, you know? I bet you ain't super at all. So long, sucker!" Well, he didn't actually call me "sucker", but it was close.

This time the Browning went plak-pa-BOOM!

I found out later that the Browning Hi Power gets its name not from the characteristics of the rounds it fires, but because it holds so many of them. The magazine inside the handgrip holds 13 rounds in a zigzag arrangement. Joey was dumb enough to carry with a round in the chamber, so he would have started with 14 rounds. He'd used four on the girl, which left him with ten.

My guess is that he pulled the trigger twice. The first bullet didn't clear the barrel, maybe because the cartridge was underpowered, maybe because Joey hadn't cleaned the gun in forever, maybe both. It was Joey's bad luck that it still managed to chamber the next round from the magazine. The second bullet struck the back of the first, plugging the barrel tight. This left the hot expanding gases with nowhere to go and the gun exploded from the pressure. The eight rounds still in the magazine must have cooked off as well, because when the smoke cleared there wasn't anything resembling a pistol in Joey's hand. For that matter, there wasn't anything resembling a hand at the end of his arm.

Joey stared wide-eyed at what was left of his hand. He dropped to his knees and when he said, "Huh?" it was despair, not surprise. He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand and sucked in a lungful of air to let out a full-volume scream.

It was one of those rare times when I acted without considering the consequences. I caught him square on the point of the jaw with the steel-reinforced toe cap of my boot.

I took a moment to confirm that the girl was dead, which required only a glance, and that Joey was still alive. Then I looked around at the sad little scene, thought about how it would look to the cops, and came up with what I thought was a pretty good idea. With Bob's admiring approval I hunted down two of the casings and pocketed them. I patted Joey down until I found his cell phone, knocked it out of the inside pocket of his jacket and scooped it up with a piece of cardboard from the dumpster. Then I kicked Joey again, just because. I limped past the girl's body -- I'd kicked Joey hard -- and back up the alley to the street, dropping the cell phone in the gutter. Then I got into my minivan and drove away.

A quick stop at the warehouse to shower and change, and I was home in time to catch the late newscast. There were reports of gunshots downtown, and the police were investigating.

They didn't find Joey until morning. They found the girl too, still lying where she'd fallen after Joey killed her. Her name was Cheryl Jameson, and she was 23 years old. The cops found her tooth marks in Joey's arm and decided it was a mugging gone wrong. Based on the number of casings they found they concluded that Joey's gun had exploded while he was shooting at Cheryl.

Joey had regained consciousness after I left. He'd ripped a hole in his jacket looking for his cell phone before he started crawling toward the street. He hadn't gotten far before he bled out. The tourniquet he improvised with his belt didn't get the job done.

I don't know how the medical examiner explained away what I really hope was a fractured jaw and broken ribs from where I'd kicked Joey. Maybe he didn't care. I know I wouldn't have.

#

All my friends have been congratulating me on how well things have been going for me since that night because the voices have gone out of their way to be helpful. My business has been generating serious profits, my wife says we have a baby on the way, and I even got to meet that superhero at a children's charity event. I wrote a cheque for five thousand bucks, and she got a photographer to take a picture of the two of us together and print it then and there. "To Mack Farmer, Superhero," she wrote on it before she signed it.

I don't feel like a superhero. Whenever I think about being a superhero I think about Cheryl Jameson.

I haven't done any more crime-fighting since that night. Whenever I consider staying home for the evening Jenny is just fine with it. Who knows? Maybe I haven't been needed; maybe nothing has been happening where my particular gift would have made a difference.

Or maybe the voices have figured out that I don't fully trust them any more.

THE END

# HAMSOKEN

by Jim Robb

"Proved, and so the reeve owes the lord abbot two shillings six and one half pence."

I was sitting in the great hall of the manor house, reading by the light of a fire which gave off far more light than heat, following the words on the parchment with the end of the quill I held in my right hand. Having reached the end of the document, I laid it on the table. "For the manor of Pilton Bridge to profit by such a sum is a good year indeed. And that," I continued as I tossed the quill aside, "is the last of the audits for this, my first year as steward."

Thurstan, the bailiff, was sitting across from me at the massive oak table. "A good year, at long last," he sighed. "Shall we then celebrate this good year, and the end of your labours, Sir Roger?" Without waiting for my reply he rose from the table and disappeared into the buttery, the room next to the pantry where beverages were stored.

Thurstan was the eldest son of some Saxon nobleman. This of course counted for nothing, but for whatever reason the lord abbot held him in regard so I had to remain polite. Besides, except during my visits and those rare occasions when the lord abbot himself might make an appearance, Thurstan was the head of the manor house, and probably felt himself obliged to play the good host. It was likely no more than that, I decided, for I was reasonably sure he did not like me overmuch – not that I cared, of course.

He returned with a bottle of wine, a jug of ale, and two cups. He would drink the ale. I, Roger Mortain, am a knight, so I would drink wine; my station demanded it. Otherwise I might have considered the local ale, which enjoyed a good reputation. The wine was French, of course, and would be a good one, certainly the best in the house; but something about the English air makes even the better wines taste like a by-product of oxen rather than grapes.

I was keeping company with a Saxon bailiff and drinking wretched-tasting wine in the great hall of a cold English manor house two months after Michaelmas, because I am a third son. With little hope of inheriting my father's estate in Normandy, I had to find another way to establish myself. By swearing fealty to my uncle's old friend the lord abbot I gained a knight's fee, an estate which, while small, was sufficient to support a suitable household and to equip me and my retainers with weapons, armour, and horses. In return I owed the lord abbot aid. Normally this would take the form of military service, but instead the lord abbot appointed me his steward, a calling I had learned from the steward of my father's estates.

As a man of the Church, the lord abbot normally would have appointed a cleric rather than a knight to serve as his steward. However, in addition to being less than competent, the lord abbot's previous steward had plotted to murder both him and the prior in hopes of becoming lord abbot himself. The plot had failed only through the timely intervention of a crusader knight lately returned from Outremer. This had inspired the lord abbot to choose for his next steward a knight, who would not be in line to succeed him as lord abbot.

The lord abbot held a large honour – an estate held directly from the king – consisting of many manors. In return, he owed the king military service in the form of an agreed-upon number of knights, mounted and armed, for up to 40 days in each year. To obtain these, the lord abbot bestowed some of his manors on knights in return for providing the military service he owed the king. The lord abbot had bestowed a few more manors on others, myself included, for various reasons, but he himself remained lord of the majority of the manors within his honour.

Similarly, within each manor the villagers held about three-quarters of the land in return for their labour plus various taxes and fees. The remaining land formed the demesne of the lord abbot, which he farmed largely by means of the labour the villagers owed him. For a freeman, these services were relatively light; for a cotter, an unfree tenant who held only enough land for a cottage and perhaps a large garden, they were not much heavier. A villein, a member of the largest class of unfree tenants, owed considerable week-work, the amount of which depended on the size of his holding: just over a day per week, on average, if he held a half-virgate of land, and twice that if he held a virgate or more.

As the lord abbot's steward my primary duty was to oversee the operation of his demesnes. A secondary duty was to represent him in the travelling courts of high justice which enforce the king's laws, and in the hallmotes, the manor courts which handle petty crimes and local disputes according to the customs of each manor.

The services I owed required that I visit each manor thrice each year for one or two days per visit. Given the extent and complexity of a manor's operations, my work consisted mostly of reviewing the work of subordinates. One of these was the lord abbot's clerk of the accounts, a monk who received verbally the accounting for each demesne and wrote it out in organized fashion for me to review. The others were the bailiffs.

Each manor had a bailiff like Thurstan. He acted as the manor's peace officer, but his major responsibility was to oversee the manor's day-to-day operations. In that role many villagers worked for him, the most important of whom was the reeve.

The reeve was chosen annually by the villeins of the manor as being the best farmer among their number. His two main duties were to supervise the villagers' labour services and to maintain the accounts for the demesne. Since he could neither read nor write, he kept these accounts by carving notches into sticks. In return for these services he was excused from the week-work that he owed as a villein, and received other minor compensations besides.

The reeve's job is not an easy one, especially on a less prosperous manor like Pilton Bridge, and many would have turned the position down. Nevertheless, the office had been filled by members of one family for so long that they had taken Reeve as a surname.

This year, however, Thomas Reeve had unexpectedly declined to let his name stand. Instead, the villeins elected a relatively young man named Walter. At Michaelmas Thomas had followed the custom of the manor and, in a small ceremony, handed over to Walter the symbol of the reeve's office, his bushel measure, a basket made from thin flat strips of wood woven together.

Indeed, I reminded myself, I had not quite completed my audit just yet, because I had not checked the accuracy of the bushel measure. Many stewards did not bother to do this, but my father's steward had always done so, and I could see the wisdom of it. I had arranged with Walter to check it first thing in the morning, before I departed for my own manor.

I was rescued from having to drink the rest of my wine by someone beating on the door of the great hall. Thurstan himself went to answer it, and I took advantage of the distraction to toss the contents of my cup into the fire, where they disappeared with a quiet hiss.

Thurstan opened the door to reveal a villager in a state of extreme agitation. "Someone has done hamsoken upon Walter!" he shouted.

Hamsoken was the crime of assault within the victim's own home, one of the most serious crimes which could be dealt with by the hallmote. I jumped to my feet and followed Thurstan as he ran after the villager, gesturing for two of my two men-at-arms to follow. It occurred to me as I ran that I might not be able to leave Pilton Bridge tomorrow after all.

#

From what we could see by the light of the torch that one of them carried, most of the village had gathered in front of Walter's cottage. We shouldered our way through the throng to the door and discovered what appeared to be the rest of the villagers crowded inside.

"Everyone get out! Now!" Thurstan bellowed as he started grabbing villagers by the shoulders and shoving them out the door. I motioned for my men to help, which they did with great enthusiasm, and in a few moments the room was clear except for Walter, the village priest, and two women, one holding up a candle while the other tended to Walter.

The cottage was modest, in keeping with Walter's status. Its builder had taken three trees, cut away everything above the main branch from each, and then split each tree in half. Then he had set the halves into the ground in pairs opposite each other, a dozen feet apart, so that each half-trunk became an upright and each pair of half-branches met in the middle to form the arches which supported the roof. The walls between the uprights were of willow wands woven together and plastered on each side with mud mixed with chopped straw and, in all likelihood, cow manure. The roof was of thatch; the floor, of hard-packed earth.

The wide door was secured to the left edge of the centre upright. Immediately to the right of the door was a partition which divided the cottage in two. A doorway in the partition, just far enough from the front wall so the open door did not block it, was covered by a ragged blanket. The sounds and smells coming from that end of the cottage told me that it was used as a byre, where Walter's oxen spent their nights. This was common practice, for if a villein was sufficiently well-to-do to have oxen, they were his most valuable possessions. Above the byre was a loft which served Walter and his wife as their sleeping quarters. It was accessed by a near-vertical ladder tied to the top of the partition.

The other half of the cottage, while cramped, was neatly kept. The hearthstone was far enough from the partition and the base of the ladder to keep them from catching on fire. An earthenware fire cover was in place for the night. A small hole in the roof directly above the hearthstone served as a smoke vent. A good-sized window was set into the back wall, unglazed of course, but with stout shutters which were closed and barred. The furniture, set against the end wall, consisted of a table supported on trestles, two benches, a wooden chest, and a rude cupboard holding an assortment of pots, bowls, cups and wooden spoons. To the left of the door was a modest stack of firewood and a large bowl containing shavings and small scraps of wood intended for kindling. Beneath the window, looking somehow forlorn, the reeve's bushel measure lay bottom-upward on the floor among a scattering of kindling.

Walter was lying on his side on the table, his back to us. Even in the candlelight I could see that he had taken a blow to the back of his head. The frantic woman holding the candle was obviously his wife; the other one would be the village healer.

Thurstan stood at the end of the table and spoke into Walter's ear. "Who did this to you?"

"What...who ...", Walter spoke in a half-whisper.

"Did you see who did this, Annora?" Thurstan asked of Walter's wife in a voice surprisingly gentle after his earlier shouts. Incapable of words, she could only shake her head.

Thurstan turned and stalked to the door. He raised his voice again to make himself heard by the crowd outside. "Did any of you see who did this?" He waited for a moment for a response, but none came. "Whoever among you first answered the outcry, come forward."

Three villagers edged to the front of the crowd, partly of their own volition, partly nudged forward by the other villagers.

"You," Thurstan barked, pointing at the one in the middle. "What happened here?"

The villager looked left and right at his fellows before he spoke. "I heard Annora cry out, so I threw on my clothes and rushed to help. The three of us got here at the same time. We made to enter, but the door was barred from within. We beat upon it, and Annora hastened to open it to us. Walter was lying on the floor on the other side of the hearthstone, and we moved him to the table. Thomas Reeve arrived next, and ran to fetch the healer. Everyone else gathered soon after."

"You three, and you," Thurstan ordered, gathering up villagers by word and gesture, "carry Walter to the church. He can best be tended there. You, give me that torch. You and you, keep watch over the cottage for the rest of the night. Allow no one to approach it but me and Sir Roger. The rest of you, search the village. Bring any strangers to me at the manor house. If you find no one, send one man to report to me. Then return to your homes. We will sort this out in the morning."

My men and I followed Thurstan as he walked completely around the cottage. There were no other doors or windows, and even by torchlight we could see that the walls were intact. We made a cursory search of the cottage to ensure no one was within, but we were loath to examine the inside of the cottage by torchlight for fear of setting it ablaze. I posted my men to help keep watch over the cottage, one at the door and the other at the window, and Thurstan and I returned to the manor house for the night.

#

Walter was still in a bad way in the morning, confused and incoherent, so Thurstan and I returned to Walter's cottage. The daylight revealed nothing helpful. We confirmed that there was no way anyone could have come through the walls without leaving sign. I leaned against the back wall and toyed with a few scraps of kindling I picked up beneath the window while Thurstan searched for footprints in the croft, a long, narrow garden of perhaps half an acre that lay between the cottage and the woods beyond. I thought this a futile task, for even on this sunny morning the bare, frozen ground would take no footprints, but Thurstan was nothing if not thorough.

We had more success inside the cottage, where we discovered a spade with blood upon it leaning against the wall behind the door. Walter's assailant had struck him with the flat of the blade, or it would have cloven his head in two. Thurstan questioned a handful of Walter's friends, who were agreed that all of Walter's possessions were accounted for.

We finished by examining the cottage thoroughly, inside and out, but we could not find how an intruder could have made his escape other than through door or window, for the walls, floor and roof were undisturbed. A few minutes' experimentation proved that it was impossible to bar either the door or the shutters from the outside. Neither was the smoke hole in the roof a possibility, for it was too small and there was no way to reach it from within, even with the ladder. Besides, since it was visible from both the living area and the loft, Annora would have seen anybody who had tried to get out through it.

We returned to the manor house to find the villagers gathered in the great hall, waiting for us. They had decided to take advantage of my presence to form the hallmote, the manor court. The issue, of course, was the assault done upon Walter. The accused, to my surprise and Thurstan's dismay, was Walter's wife, Annora.

Since Annora was a villein, the villagers had elected a jury made up of a full dozen villeins, who would act as judges and prosecutors as well. My role was primarily supervisory but also symbolic, for as the lord abbot's representative my presence would lend the weight of his authority to the jury's verdict. My clerk was also needed to keep a record of the proceedings.

The jury's foreman, Thomas Reeve, immediately laid down the foundation of the case against Annora. This was simple and straightforward. Both the door and the window were barred from within, and since Annora was the only one other than Walter inside the cottage, she was the only one who could have assaulted him.

To this Thurstan reacted with anger and scorn. "Then let me tell you how else it might have been done," he spat. "Walter's assailant might simply have hidden in the byre, just behind the blanket. It would have been easy enough for him to slip back into the living space in the confusion, either while everyone was crowding into the cottage or while we were throwing everyone out. He could have been there all the time, and left through the door along with everyone else. Had you but protected the door we might know who the guilty party was."

The villagers were silent.

"Now get out of my sight," Thurstan growled.

After the villagers filed out I found myself alone in the great hall. I was about to look for Thurstan when he emerged grim-faced from the buttery with the same bottle of wine, jug of ale, and two cups that he had brought out last night. He filled my cup with wine and handed it to me; I waited until he had poured his ale, and we drained our cups together.

"You don't believe that Annora did it either, do you?" I asked.

"I know Annora. I know all of these people, or at least I thought I did. I cannot believe that Annora would do that to Walter. She loves him dearly, and she was so proud of him when he was elected reeve. And I can scarce believe that her friends and neighbours have accused her of this."

"That may well have been the shortest hallmote ever held in this shire, and I can never recall one being dismissed by a bailiff." I sat and thought for a moment. "If Annora still stands accused, it is only because no one can think why anyone else might have done it, a question that yet remains unanswered."

Thurstan and I looked at each other for a moment before he replied. "I have no answer for that question either. But I am sure we will not find the answer here."

#

"That isn't much wood for the winter, is it?" I was staring at the small pile of wood by the door of Walter's cottage, waiting for an epiphany that would not come.

"The villagers hope for trees to be blown over by the winter winds. They have to pay a tax to cut down a tree, but by the custom of the manor they can gather firewood from fallen trees without fee. They even burn dried manure from their oxen to save on wood." Thurstan, who was leaning against the door, pointed to the bowl beside the pile of wood. "You can see how even kindling is precious to them."

I looked at the bowl for a moment before turning to look at the floor under the window. Then I went to the cupboard and took from it the largest bowl there. Returning to the window, I set the bushel measure aside and started filling the bowl with the scraps of wood nearby.

"Thurstan, summon the villagers," I said over my shoulder. "Tell them to wait for us in the great hall. And then I have another errand for you."

The epiphany had come.

#

I sat at the table in the great hall waiting for Thurstan to return. The villagers conversed in low whispers, but none dared question me.

When Thurstan arrived he shouldered his way through the villagers until he reached my side, and in a low voice told me that which I had expected to hear. I nodded and stood up.

"We are met to consider the assault made upon Walter. I believe I can now say what happened last night."

I waited for the excited buzz to die down before I continued.

"After Walter and his wife went to their bed the culprit entered their home through the window. The shutters may not have been closed and barred, or he might have slipped a blade between the shutters and lifted off the bar; it matters not which. While inside he made a noise that roused Walter and Annora from their sleep. He backed away and crouched in the dark by the door, taking up the spade that was leaning against the wall. When Walter made to close and bar the shutters, with his back to the door, the thief – for thief he was – struck him with the spade.

"At this time our thief could have made his escape by door or window, but his purpose was such that none could know he had been there. Instead he took a desperate chance – he closed and barred the shutters and hid in the byre, just as Thurstan suggested. There he stayed while Annora came down the ladder, found Walter, and cried for help.

"Because both door and window had been barred, and because nothing would be seen to be missing, he hoped that none would know of his earlier presence, and that suspicion for the injury done to Walter would fall upon Annora."

The villagers whispered excitedly among themselves for a few moments. Then one of them turned to me and asked the question I was waiting for. "But how can we know who this thief was? Many were in the cottage last night, and no one marked who left or was thrown out when you arrived."

"This is true, but nevertheless I know exactly who the thief was." I paused and looked him in the eye as I accused him. "It was you, Thomas Reeve."

Although he reacted with angry words, I marked well that Thomas's face turned white rather than red. "I deny this," he said. "What reason had I to enter Walter's home and assail him?"

"Your last steward, I am told, was none too diligent. I am willing to wager that he never bothered to check the accuracy of the reeve's bushel measure. Doubtless Walter told you yesterday that I had arranged to do that very thing this morning before I left the manor. Imagine your shock when you discovered that when you gave up the office of reeve, you had handed over the wrong basket – the one that gave dishonest measure. You knew then that you would have to switch the two baskets that very night, or fall under suspicion.

"I would also wager that when you entered Walter's cottage last night, you didn't know that Walter had set the bushel measure on the floor beneath the window. When you climbed in through the window you set your feet upon it and smashed it. That was what awakened Walter and Annore.

"You snatched up the remains of the basket and tossed them out through the window, setting the honest measure down in its place. But now Walter was about to come down the ladder, and you could not leave through the window, as had been your plan, without him seeing you and raising the hue-and-cry. You hid in the shadows until Walter reached the bottom of the ladder and turned to bar the shutters; then you struck him on the back of the head. You bolted the shutters yourself, moaned loudly to draw Annora down the ladder, and then hid in the byre.

"You remained in hiding until the three villagers were carrying Walter to the table; then you made your appearance, announced that you would fetch the healer, and left. But you didn't wait for the healer and accompany her back to the cottage. I know this because I stopped at the church on my way here and confirmed this with her. Instead, you circled through the woods and approached the back of the cottage through the croft. None saw you in the dark, for only one villager had a torch, and he was at the front of the cottage. You gathered up the smashed remains of the bushel measure, took it back to your dwelling, and then returned to join the crowd."

"But this is a mere tale," Thomas objected. "There is no proof that any of this happened. I will have no trouble in finding eleven good men to swear for me."

"Ah, but there is proof. In the darkness you left several small pieces of the basket on the floor of the cottage. At first I thought them to be kindling, but Walter kept all his kindling in a bowl by his wood pile, and there was no reason for pieces of kindling to be on the other side of the hearthstone. I gathered those pieces, and several more that I found outside the window. I have them here, in this bowl.

"The reason that we had to wait for Thurstan was because I sent him to your cottage. Had you been sufficiently careful, you would have burned the remains of the other bushel measure -- but then, a careful man would not have given Walter the wrong basket. Again I wagered, since wood is something not to be wasted, that you would not burn it immediately, but instead break it up and use it for kindling. Thurstan and one of my men went to your home, Thomas, and gathered up your supply of kindling. My man is guarding it at this moment."

"But he had no right..." Thomas objected.

"You forget yourself, Thomas," I said, cutting him off. "You are a villein. All that you possess is in fact and in law the property of the lord abbot -- your lands, your cottage, your oxen, even your kindling. I am the lord abbot's steward, and Thurstan is the lord abbot's bailiff. We had every right."

I dumped the contents of the bowl of kindling onto the snow-white cloth that covered the table. "I had my clerk stain the pieces of wood from Walter's cottage with ink, so that they can be told from the pieces taken from your cottage. I will ask the lord abbot to assign a monk the task of reassembling the basket from the broken pieces. Monks are known for their boundless patience. My final wager this day is that within a month, or two at most, he will have made sufficient progress to establish that the pieces I gathered from Walter's cottage, and the pieces Thurstan took from your cottage, are from the same basket."

"A month? Two months?" Thomas was a good actor; he feigned indignation well while hiding his fear. "I cannot stand under so vile an accusation for so long a time without trial. The custom of the manor forbids it." All around him, heads nodded in agreement.

I stared Thomas down as I delivered the final blow. "The custom of the manor does not apply to your case."

There came a collective intake of breath from the villagers, followed by complete silence.

"I regret to tell you all that Walter died while I was with the healer. Therefore, Thomas, you stand accused not of hamsoken but of murder, which must be tried by the royal court. Thurstan, when does the justice itinerant next convene his court in this hundred?"

"A year from next February," Thurstan answered.

"That should leave more than ample time for the monk to do his work, I should think."

Thurstan pushed through the villagers and took a firm grip on Thomas's upper arm. Thomas, for his part, looked like a sleepwalker as Thurstan led him away.

#

And so it was that I again found myself spending the evening in the great hall of the cold manor house in Pilton Bridge. The wine was still deplorable but I could no longer regard the company so. Thurstan had acquitted himself well in this affair; even had he been a Norman, his actions could not have been found wanting.

"So why do you think Thomas declined the post of reeve this year?" Thurstan asked as he emerged from the buttery with a fresh jug of ale. "It seems to me that his downfall flowed from that act."

"He had probably been cheating both his fellow villagers and the lord abbot for years, and indeed it is not unlikely that his father had been doing so as well. I suspect that he had gathered resources sufficient to achieve his end, which was to purchase his freedom. Since the reeve cannot be a freeman, he would have had to give up the office anyway."

"But how can a villein purchase his own freedom?" Thurstan asked as he refilled our cups. "As you said, everything that a villein possesses is the property of his lord. He would be buying freedom from his lord with his lord's own money."

"There are ways, if a villein has resources that cannot be accounted as his lord's. He could pay a freeman to purchase him and then grant him manumission. He could also flee to a town and use those resources to live on. After a year and a day living as a freeman, he would become a freeman."

Thurstan nodded and took another draught of ale. "I have sent the hayward to notify the coroner," he said. "Should he choose not to come -- and I doubt that he will, since you have done his job for him -- Walter can have his funeral. I have also made an accounting of Thomas Reeve's possessions, because if he is found guilty they are forfeit to the crown." Thurstan paused and thought for a moment. "What else is left to be done?"

I picked up my cup, looked at it, and chose to speak again rather than drink. "All that is left is to deal with Thomas Reeve himself. The evidence will convince the jury to make accusation of murder against him, but it will not figure in his actual trial, for murder is tried before God through the ordeal of water. Should Thomas fail the ordeal, or refuse to undertake it, he will be proven guilty and be punished by having one foot and his right hand struck off, and all his possessions seized. Even should he not fail the ordeal he will, as one accused of murder, be exiled from the kingdom. Thus might he gain his freedom after all, which would be grim irony indeed."

Thurstan picked up his cup of ale and raised it to me. "Be that as it may, you have set things right today in Pilton Bridge. I drink to you, Sir Roger Mortain," he said, and drained his cup.

"My thanks, Thurstan Cerdicson, but I have done no more than my duty."

"Had it not been for your sharpness of wit we might never have found Walter's murderer. Surely that was more than mere duty?"

"Indeed, it was no more than my duty to her, and to Walter, and to all those living on this manor," I replied. "They have all done their week-works and their boon-works, paid wardpenny and heushire and tallage and their other taxes, and in all ways met their obligations to the lord abbot. In return they have a right to expect what is due them in return: the use of their lands, their boons and their feast days, a church where their spiritual needs can be met, protection from thieves and outlaws, preservation from the savages who dwell beyond the northern and western marches – all of these things the lord abbot owes them." I sipped from my cup of wine and managed not to make a face. "But more important than all of these, they have a right to receive justice when one of them is wronged. If I as the lord abbot's representative do not meet this, his most important obligation, then I fail in my duty." To my surprise, by the time I finished speaking I had almost lapsed into my native tongue.

"If I may be so bold as to say so, you have the seed of greatness within you," Thurstan said. "You have earned your good French wine this day."

I stared into my cup for a moment, and then tossed its contents into the fire.

"Why don't you fill this with ale?" I said as I handed the empty cup to Thurstan.

THE END

# Author Bios

Stephanie Welch values her privacy. She spends most of her time writing fan fiction and agreed to write her story for this anthology out of love for Pat. She lives in the Midwest. And that is all that she is willing to admit.

* * *

By day, Jim Robb is a mild-mannered accountant for a multinational jewellery company. By night, he becomes a mild-mannered accountant who writes a story every so often. He and his wife Donna live in Saskatchewan, Canada with their dog and an assortment of cats.

* * *

Brian K. Morris was born in Danville, Illinois, just like many of the celebrities that emerged from Vermilion County. Unlike Dick and Jerry Van Dyke, Brian is a full-time author of books such as Bloodshot: The Coldest Warrior and Conflict: A Study in Heroic Contrasts. In addition, Donald O'Connor and Gene Hackman never read Brian's comedy Santastein nor his Vulcana contemporary fantasy series. Brian is also an actor, an "award winning" playwright and a freelance comic book writer/editor for Silver Phoenix Entertainment, BiMOR Comics, and Pwhack Comics as well as his own Rising Tide line. Brian eventually emigrated to central Indiana, unlike Bobby Short, where he lives with his wife Cookie, no children, no pets, and too many comic books.

* * *

J.L. MacDonald is a computer programmer living in Saskatchewan, Canada with her personal zoo consisting of two Jack Russell Terriers, a Chihuahua cross grey tabby cat and two domestic rats. Highly influenced by superhero comics and cartoons in her youth, the idea of Nightcat first came to her when she was in her mid-teens. Some time later, Nightcat found her way onto virtual paper, appearing in several short stories and starring in a series of novels

To learn more about Nightcat, visit http://www.Nightcat-Online.com or http://lionssharepress.com.

* * *

T.W. Johnson grew up watching classic science fiction and horror reruns via a Saturday afternoon TV series called 'Creature Feature', which debuted in 1973, and ran for twenty-two years. Innately talented, he gave writing a try in 1995 after reading a short horror story his wife had written for a high school English assignment. He locally self-published a short story collection in 1998 as a personal experiment, then naively tinkered with Internet publishing in 2003. One year later, a hurricane devastated his hometown, which replaced all aspirations with years of recovery. After obtaining an AA degree in 2011, he began writing once again. Visit him online at www.phasmafic.com.

* * *

Brandy Goodman is a worker bee in the retail industry with aspirations of becoming a full time writer. She started writing in high school for a class and the rest as they say is history. She lives in Springfield, Missouri with her husband and daughter. Besides her family, reading, writing and music are the greatest loves of her life.

* * *

Jeffrey Allen Davis was born on March 2, 1975, in St. Charles, MO.The youngest of three boys, he was sheltered by his loving mother. Instead of going out to parties when he was in high school, he stayed at home and watched 80s ninja movies or played RPGs with his fellow geeks (a term that he uses affectionately). These experiences have found their way into his writing. His first book, "Invasion of the Togakura", was released in 2003 by Publish America. It's sequel, "Klandestine Maneuvers", was published by the same company in 2005. After a five-year hiatus from publishing, Davis founded a new press for his third book, "Lily's Redemption." A rewrite of his first book, retitled "Invasion of the Ninja," was released in 2013.

Davis is a licensed Baptist preacher and lives in the St. Louis area with his wife, daughter and two stepchildren. http://www.jeffreyallendavis.tk.

* * *

Samuel E Campbell was born in Beaverfalls, Pennsylvania. He was raised in San Diego, California and was fascinated with comic books from an early age. In High School he was invited to a writing workshop with a published author. That workshop sparked a desire to be an author. Still working on his first book, he has published an Orthodox Christian "Book of Prayer." His desire to be a published author has grown since he retired.
