

Short Stuff

By

Lyndee Roberts

Short Stuff

Copyright 2012 by Lyndee Roberts

Published by Lyndee Roberts on Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Adult Reading Material

A big thank you to Debbie and Kim for catching my typos and making some great suggestions.

Table of Contents

Ashes to Ashes

Betrayed

Brigantine

Bus Riders

Deadly Bore

Double Cross

Everlasting

Kleptomaniac

Midnight Revenge

RunningWithTheBulls

Second Chance

The Pond

Where Antelope Play

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INTRODUCTION

There is a baker's dozen short stories in this ebook. Some of them you may like more than others. That's okay. Although I like them all, there are some that are my favorites. No, I'm not telling you which ones. Choose your own favorites!

There are several involving mystery or crime; a bit of humor here and there; even a science fiction story that could actually happen someday.

Personally, I enjoy a book of short stories occasionally, especially if there's a doctor or dentist appointment on my agenda, or a long line at the bank. Taking something to read has proven to be the antidote to frustration at having to wait and otherwise waste time. I invite you to try it.

Since this ebook is free, you have nothing to lose by downloading it. I hope you enjoy the stories and would love to hear from you. Contact information is at the end of the book.

Read on!

Lyndee Roberts

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Ashes to Ashes

A simple act of charity prodded Homer Eckertt into action. Meadow Lea Gardens generously donated several crypts for the interment of unclaimed ashes currently held by Central Counties Mortuary Services, usually referred to as CCMS.

Homer began implementing his plan, confident the neighbors would think nothing of seeing the utility van at his home; he often checked on his dear mother. They often commented that he was such a good and thoughtful son, always seeing to Ruby Eckert's every need or whim.

And there were many ‒ a never-ending stream of demands, all uttered in strident tones.

"Homer, get me some more ice cream."

"Homer, bring me that box of chocolate creams."

"Hooo-mer! Hurry up, Homer. What in the world is keeping you? I asked for a cup of hot chocolate five minutes ago. And don't forget the whipped cream again."

Ruby filled her days and nights snacking, watching television, and napping in her lounge chair, too obese to get to her bed.

"Small thanks I get," she frequently whined. "What I suffered bringing you into this world and how do you show your gratitude? Can't even do a simple thing like get me a glass of cola. And open the window, Homer, I'm burning up."

Oh, how he wished she _would_ burn up! Did he have a life of his own? No, it centered around Ruby Eckert and her incessant demands. What chance did he have of pursuing a relationship with that attractive clerk in the hospital morgue who openly flirted with him?

Homer had agreed to work the weekend alone so Stanley and the rest of the employees could fly to Las Vegas for the convention of the International Funeral Directors' Association. Next fall, Homer would get his turn when the convention moved to Hawaii. He didn't mind a bit working forty-eight hours straight. It served his purpose very well to have the building all to himself.

At one o'clock Saturday morning, Homer answered a call to Shepherd of Mercy Hospital to pick up a deceased male. Leaving the hospital morgue, he turned left toward home.

He had remembered to bring the garage door opener with him and thumbed the button as he approached the house. The pale flicker of the television set glowed around the edges of the living room window drapes. He drove into the garage and clicked the door closed.

Climbing from the vehicle, Homer clicked across the cement floor in his hand-tooled cowboy boots. He always wore them for the added height they afforded his slender, five-foot, six-inches.

He entered the kitchen, met by the sickening odor of vomit. The smell grew stronger as he moved toward the living room, pausing in the doorway. Ruby sat slumped in the lounger, head lolling to one side, tongue protruding between bluish lips. He tried to block out the stench of death as his fingers searched for the absent pulse. The extra dosage of digitalis had done its work effectively.

He hurried to the utility wagon and pulled out a second gurney, wheeling it into the house and positioning it beside the 'deceased.' Homer broke into a sweat as he struggled to slide more than three-hundred pounds of inert flesh onto the gurney. Heaving and gasping, he finally managed it, wheeled the remains of Ruby Eckert into the garage, and maneuvered the gurney into the van.

Back at CCMS, Homer drove inside the building and closed the automatic door behind him. The Shepherd of Mercy cadaver went into the embalming room; Ruby's gurney stopped before the crematorium.

It took considerable effort to push and tug his mother into a cardboard container specifically designed to hold the remains so the body lift could raise and propel it into the crematorium. Trembling from the exertion, Homer hit the conveyer switch and Ruby started on her last journey. He slammed the door shut and latched it. Almost there. Only a little while to go before the flames reduced his nemesis to ashes.

Homer moved to the controls, turned on the gas and set the temperature at 2,500 degrees. The flames ignited with a roar and he turned away, clicking across the concrete toward the embalming room. Laying out the trocar, needles, sutures, and fluids to prepare the corpse would keep his mind occupied.

By five o'clock, Homer had finished embalming the man's body. The crematorium popped occasionally as it cooled down. It would take better than two hours to cycle, an additional hour before he could open the door. He pushed aside his continuing exhaustion and descended to the basement. Gathering up several of the cardboard containers housing all that remained of John and Jane Does, as well as those of some who had not been claimed by their families, he placed them on a cart and wheeled it into the elevator. Upstairs, Homer aligned the boxes on a work table and began opening each one. Adding a few ounces of ashes to the couple of pounds already in the containers would never be detected.

Homer opened the crematorium door when the cool-down completed and raked the ashes into a pile. He placed the remaining pieces of bone in the bone processor and flipped the switch, waiting the few moments it took to pulverize them into powder. Next, he transferred all that remained of Ruby Eckert into a plastic bag and used an old measuring cup to apportion her among the boxes, making sure each one was carefully resealed. A sense of enormous satisfaction and relief filled him when he placed the last container back on the basement storage shelves.

Next week, local clergy, donating their time, would conduct the proper rites at Meadow Lea Gardens, consigning the boxes to their permanent resting places. Unknown to anyone, Ruby Eckert would dwell eternally among them, no longer able to make his life a living hell.

Homer used the shower facilities, changed into fresh clothes and lay down for a nap, hoping it would be a slow day so he could get some rest.

Over the next couple of weeks, he explained to coworkers and the two or three interested neighbors that his mother had gone to be with her twin sister in Santa Fe who had taken ill. He didn't bother explaining that the sisters hadn't been on speaking terms since Ruby had married Samuel Eckert some thirty years before.

Ruby had often gloated over tricking Pearl. "Sam never could tell us apart," Ruby would cackle gleefully. "So when I found out they were eloping, I locked Pearl in the bathroom and married Sam instead. Never thought she'd get so all-fired mad. I offered to share him, but no, it was all or nothing with Pearl."

Sam, employed by the railroad, had been killed in a work-related accident just before their first wedding anniversary, leaving Ruby with a newborn son and a tidy pension.

Life for Homer now settled into a pleasant routine of work, a blossoming relationship with the morgue clerk, and most delicious of all, a peaceful home life . . . until the telephone shattered it one evening a month after Ruby's supposed angel-of-mercy trip.

Chewing on a mouthful of pastrami sandwich from his favorite deli, Homer mumbled 'hello' into the receiver.

He nearly dropped it when a familiar voice demanded, "Homer? Where is Ruby? I haven't been able to reach her for a month now."

A glacier began forming in the pit of his stomach as he stammered, "Who . . . who _is_ this/"

His mother's voice but she was gone, her ashes safely tucked away at Meadow Lea Gardens.

"This is your Aunt Pearl. Put Ruby on. I need to talk to her."

"But . . . but . . ."

"Stop butting and let me talk to your mother."

"She . . . she isn't here."

"What do you mean, she isn't there?" the strident voice demanded. "I know for a fact she hasn't left that house in years." Suspicion sharpened her voice. "What is going on there, Homer?"

"Uh, mother left here a month ago. To visit you," he added desperately, the cold spreading from his stomach up through his chest.

"Bull! She did no such thing. She would have told me." Pearl's voice grew even nastier. "We were planning to surprise you. I'm moving there. Ruby and I have been talking on the phone for the past three months. We made up our silly difference over that worthless scumbag, Sam Eckert."

"You were coming _here_ to live?"

"That's right I've sold my house and have my plane ticket. I'm leaving Wednesday. Meantime, I got worried when I couldn't reach Ruby, knowing she never leaves. So, young man, you better explain where she is."

"I told you, Aunt Peal, she decided to surprise you and left a month ago. I don't understand it." Homer decided to brazen it out. "Maybe I should call the police."

"No, wait until I get there," Pearl ordered. "You might as well pick me up at the airport. West Coast's flight 548. Gets there at three-thirty in the afternoon. No, point my taking a taxi. There's no surprise now."

Somehow, Homer managed to acknowledge her instructions and hung up the receiver with trembling fingers. He collapsed into the new lounger in front of the television, his thoughts chaotic, unable to formulate any sort of plan.

On Wednesday, he dutifully met Aunt Peal's flight, escorting her and a mountain of luggage to the car. Not only was her voice identical to that of Ruby Eckert, Pearl weighed only slightly less than her twin had.

Once in the house, she immediately commandeered the new lounger and demanded that he bring her a cola, plenty of ice.

Her eyes, nearly buried in folds of fat, pinned Homer to the sofa as he reiterated the story of coming home to find Ruby's note.

"Let me see the note."

"I . . . I didn't keep it. Saw no need to. It just said she was taking a taxi to the airport to catch a flight to Santa Fe for a surprise visit to you."

The unblinking pale blue eyes continued to stare at him. Homer fidgeted uncomfortably, swallowing convulsively. He had almost gotten away with it. The perfect, undetectable crime. But for Aunt Pearl, no one would ever have suspected.

Much to his relief and astonishment, Pearl made no further mention of her twin's disappearance. Nor did she correct the neighbors who stopped in when they addressed her as 'Ruby.'

Life settled back into the familiar routine.

"Homer, bring me that box of chocolate creams."

"Homer, dish me up some more ice cream."

"Hooo-mer!"

Nothing had changed after all. He stopped seeing the morgue clerk; gave up any thought of acquiring a life of his own; accepted his return to hell . . . at least until next fall when he wouldn't be going to the Hawaii convention after all.

Meanwhile, ashes of more John and Jane Does and the unclaimed accumulated, waiting patiently for the day when those of Pearl would join them.

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Betrayed

In spite of his size, the man walked like a cat, rolling up on the balls of his feet with a litheness that belied his 235 pounds and gave the impression of unleashed power held under careful control.

He stepped out of the San Francisco International Terminal into the biting chill of rapidly thickening fog, shivering slightly in the thin tropical suit jacket. He should have remembered to put on his sweater beneath it. Even in summer, San Francisco's sea air was many degrees cooler than Arizona.

Queuing up at the downtown bus stop, he waited impatiently while the driver stowed the bags, boxes, and parcels in the luggage compartment before opening the door for boarding.

The man was tall ‒ six foot, four inches ‒ his large-boned frame encased in strong sinewy muscles. He carried no excess fat, even though he had just passed his forty-third birthday the month prior. Passed, not celebrated. He had gone out, gotten drunk that night, and suffered a hell of a hangover the next morning.

He paid the required fare to the downtown terminal, swung easily aboard, and selected a seat midway of the bus. His cool gray eyes did not invite conversation from the elderly woman who sat down beside him. In fact, once underway he closed his eyes. He could sleep any time, any place, under nearly all circumstances, something he had trained himself to do early on in his profession.

The man awoke at the downtown bus terminal feeling rested and refreshed, ready to enjoy a good meal and perhaps even call the telephone number in his wallet, thanks to Shorty back in Phoenix. Shorty had raved on about what a looker she was.

Claiming his small bag, he took a cab to the San Remo Hotel. He had two whole days of comp time before he needed to transact the business that had brought him to San Francisco. Time to enjoy dinners at Fisherman's Wharf and Chinatown; check out some of the entertainment in North Beach. He might even rent a car and drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito. Or perhaps, depending upon how busy she was, he might spend some time with that telephone number.

In his hotel room, he unpacked his bag and dug out a sweater to put on under his suit jacket. After a shower, clad in a bath towel, he sat on the bed while he dialed the telephone number Shorty had so thoughtfully provided. The phone was picked up after three rings and a soft, throaty voice said, "Hello."

"Hi," he rumbled. "The short one in Phoenix suggested I call. Can I come out for an hour tonight, Vicky?"

"Ah, yes. The short one, huh? Nice of him to recommend me. Has he gotten a haircut yet?"

"A haircut? The short one is bald!"

"Okay," the pleasantly musical voice laughed. "I think you're legit. Can't be too careful in my line of work you know. Let me check my schedule . . . I can see you at ten thirty if that's okay with you."

"Sure," he responded. "What's your street address? Shorty told me you're out on Geary."

She gave him the address and they agreed he would identify himself as Mr. Pope. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to grab a shrimp Louie and a beer on the wharf then cab it to the address on Geary.

He stood, stretched, and then dressed, remembering to include the sweater. Carefully he removed several large and small denomination bills from his wallet before placing it, his watch, and a turquoise ring from his left hand in the bag, carefully closing, locking, and shoving it under the bed.

The man glanced down at his right hand and growled, "Damn, what the hell do I have to do to get this stupid ring off?" Glaring down at the ring brought back all the rage and resentment. Someday soon he would have to get the thing cut off his finger. He had gained enough weight in the past fifteen years to prevent its removal. Becky had given it to him on their fifth wedding anniversary. She had designed and made it in a class she took at a junior college. The central motif was flanked on each side by his initials. Only hands as large as his could successfully wear a ring of such size. He'd worn it for many years with pride in Becky's creativity. Now he found himself frequently twisting it on his finger, burying the design from sight by turning it inward to the palm side of his hand. Yeah, he'd definitely get the unwelcome reminder cut off his finger when he got back to Phoenix.

How he hated that woman. Scheming, lying, two-timing bitch. Bitterness and rage washed over him, twisting his insides into knots. He wished to God he could forget Becky and the thing that bugged him the most ‒ her custody of their two children.

Unbidden and unwelcome, the memory of catching his lovely wife in the arms of her art teacher returned to torment him. He couldn't forget any of it, much less forgive. Especially not forgive. She had so cleverly manipulated the judge, convincing her that she should have the kids; cleverly pointing out his constantly rotating work shifts, the overtime, the danger. Once she had assured the judge that she was going to marry that dam fop, the judge all too readily agreed to her custody request.

The bile rose up in his throat every time he drove up to get his kids for the weekend. Even after six months, the pain of seeing the neat little home he and Becky had bought on the outskirts of Phoenix was nearly unbearable. And now that son-of-a-bitch used _his_ garage as a studio, slept with _his_ wife every night, and played father to _his_ kids.

"Bastard!" he roared and crashed his fist down on the top of the dresser. The ashtray jumped and clattered and the mirror quivered in its frame. He drew in a deep breath. "What the hell, forget it, man. Go get your shrimp Louie."

He pushed through the hotel exit into the cool, damp evening. The shrimp Louie was every bit as good as he remembered. Finishing off his beer, he pulled out a bill and tossed it on the counter. "Keep the change," he told the sturdy, rosy-cheeked waitress.

Outside, he strolled to a taxi stand and directed the cabbie to drive out Geary. The man got out six blocks from his intended destination and strolled the rest of the way, shrouded in the Richmond District's usual white carpet of fog.

The address turned out to be a luxury apartment building with a tastefully decorated foyer. He politely stepped aside for the two middle-aged women who exited, avoiding eye contact and keeping his head down.

The door to the apartment opened seconds after he pushed the buzzer. The smile on the face of the petite, but curvaceous brunette died as she saw his suddenly grim expression. He had been half smiling as she opened the door but it vanished and his eyes turned steely gray and cold.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, involuntarily stepping back, a slim, well-manicured hand going to her throat.

He stepped inside, closed the door and leaned against it. "No, it's just that you look remarkably like my ex-wife and it rather startled me for a moment."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Pope," she said.

Having recovered her composure and warm smile, she asked, "You are Mr. Pope, aren't you?"

"Yes," he responded, still leaning against the door.

"Please sit down and let me get you a drink. What would you like?

"A brandy, if you have it, otherwise a beer is fine."

"A brandy coming up," she replied.

She returned with two brandy snifters containing a generous portion of excellent Cognac and slipped gracefully onto the couch beside him. He couldn't take his eyes off her and he realized his scrutiny was making her nervous. A tiny crease between the delicately arched eyebrows betrayed her anxiety.

He smiled at her reassuringly. "Relax, Vicky. I'm not one of those kinky birds who dig the whip and chain routine."

She laughed in obvious relief and slowly extended the brandy snifter toward him, raising her own to full, rose-red lips. He reached out a large hand and took the drink without moving his eyes from her face.

Deep inside he could feel the conflict of the red-hot core of rage pitting itself against the surging fire of his need for this woman. It would be like having Becky again. Holding her in his arms, kissing her, stroking her, loving her.

He shook his head to clear his vision and shuddered slightly. _Get a grip on yourself. This girl is_ not _Becky. This is Vicky. A $100.00 an hour San Francisco call girl_. He tried to obliterate the unwelcome thought that there wasn't much difference between his Becky and the beautiful Vicky. Both whores.

He downed the brandy in two gulps, the fiery liquid vying with the banked volcano that struggled to erupt.

"Like another?" Vicky asked. At his nod, she arose and moved gracefully to the bar. Her soft, clingy deep rose hostess gown intimately caressed her body. He watched her through half-closed eyes as she poured him another drink. The slit up the side of her gown offered a tantalizing glimpse of firm, lightly tanned thigh and further fueled the flames burning within him.

He was a man of large appetites. He loved food, good liquor, and beautiful women. It had been a while between women. He had to be so damn careful in Phoenix who he saw and what he did. Too close to his retirement to take unnecessary chances.

Vicky seemed to sense his need and suggested that they finish their drinks in the bedroom. He followed her neat backside into the flagrantly sensual room. He couldn't resist the temptation to reach out and give that appealing little bottom a pat. She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a wickedly impish grin.

"I'm not really such a bad guy, ya' know," he smiled down at her, a huge, strong hand reaching for the zipper on the rose gown.

But it _was_ bad. He wanted to be tender and gentle. But whether he opened or closed his eyes made no difference. Becky's face kept swimming into his vision. If Vicky had not cried out, it would have ended quickly. But in spite of her obvious effort not to, she had moaned, not in pleasure but pain.

Her face, cradled in the satin pillow, mirrored anxiety that slowly evolved to terror. It was Becky's face and he knew great pleasure at the growing horror he saw there.

"You lying, cheating, two-timing little whore," he groaned. His vision blurred as a red haze descended over him. At last he would get even with her. She would never double-cross him again; nor take away his kids; or drive him out of his own home; make love to someone else in his bed.

"Oh no, Becky. Never again," he sobbed as his huge hands tightened their grip around the slender throat and began to squeeze and squeeze.

Later, he poured himself another brandy, then washed and put away both snifters. He used his handkerchief to wipe his fingerprints from the brandy bottle. He sank down on the couch and slowly regained control, knowing that his very existence depended upon his remaining in command. Methodically he retraced his steps from arrival. Handkerchief in hand, he opened the door and peered out. No one there. He quickly wiped the buzzer button clean of any telltale prints, then the doorknob. Slowly backtracked through the apartment, obliterating every trace of his presence. The bedroom was simplest. He hadn't touched much in there, only the woman. Oh God! Only the woman.

He couldn't bring himself to look at the bed for a long while. He knew he'd be sick and he was. Sick to the very depths of his being. A lump of ice formed in his stomach and ice water seemed to course through his veins. He wondered if he would ever feel warm again.

One last detail before leaving. He drew out his pocketknife, opened the thin, short blade, and carefully cleaned beneath her fingernails. Although she had left scratches on the backs of his hands, he could find no spot of blood anywhere.

Eventually confident that there was no way of connecting him with Vicky, he cautiously removed himself from the apartment, walked several blocks in the swirling white fog and caught a bus to Union Square.

Gone were his plans to enjoy himself in San Francisco, taking in the sights, the food, the ambience he so loved. He kept to his hotel room until Monday morning, ordering from room service and asking that the Chronicle be included. There was a brief mention of her on a TV newscast, then more important things took her place. He read all the newspaper reports regarding one Anita Lang, professional name, Vicky Vance. The photograph showed a smiling face with a turned up nose and wide-set eyes, a mass of dark hair tumbling around her shoulders. Obviously a high school graduation picture. The story was quickly relegated to the inside pages after the first day. The reports indicated that the police had no clues as to the identity of the strangler, nor a motive for the crime. They could find no connection between the beautiful call girl and any organized crime ring, a pimp, or drugs. The murder promised to find its way into the voluminous files of unsolved cases.

He knew he would soon have to complete his business and return to Phoenix. There was little doubt in his mind that he was in the clear and any danger negligible.

The uniformed rookie, assigned to light duty, limped into Lieutenant Danner's office and dropped a file on his desk. "Coroner's report on that call girl murder," he commented. "Kinda' interestin' item in there, lieut."

"Yeah?" Danner asked, lifting one eyebrow. He grimaced as he tasted the cold, bitter coffee in his mug and hastily plunked it back onto his desk. "Like what, for instance?"

"Seems the guy who did it was wearing some kind of signet ring with a raised design. Sort of a horse with a horn on its head. Anyway, the ring left an imprint in the victim's neck. The guy probably didn't even know it."

Danner leaned back in his chair and smiled grimly. "Well, well. So we do have a clue after all. Not much, I'll grant, but something at least. Now what we need is a helluva' lot of luck."

Swiftly he glanced through the report and then turned back to the stack of cases requiring his initials before shift ended. Rubbing a hand wearily across his eyes, he got up to pour another cup of coffee. His phone buzzed and he scooped up the receiver.

"Yeah," he barked.

"Lieutenant, there's a Sergeant Warren Knight out here on an extradition. We need your signature on the release form."

"Okay. Be right out."

The man at the counter looked up from the forms he held in a large, strong hand.

"So you're after the Moffat killer, huh?" Danner inquired pleasantly.

"Yeah. Think I've got all the papers executed properly." He shoved them across the counter toward the lieutenant.

Danner glanced down, then paused as he reached for the forms. He looked up at the man. "Interesting ring you've got there. What do you call those little horses with the horn? And your initials too. You have it specially made?"

"Unicorns," replied Sergeant Knight. "My ex-wife made it years ago in a jewelry class she took."

"Sergeant, I think we have some matters to discuss. Specifically, a woman known as Vicky Vance."

Warren Knight glanced down at the hated ring, then up into the eyes of Lieutenant Danner. What he read there was chilling and the realization grew that he had lost again. Becky had won as usual. Apparently she always would.

He signed wearily and moved heavily through the door the lieutenant held open for him.

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Brigantine

Just as the sun dropped below the distant rim of ocean, a ghostly ship drifted silently into the shadowed cove. Jonesy gazed blearily at the two-masted brigantine with its tattered sails. He hiccupped and took another swig from the bottle clutched firmly in one gnarled hand.

Not a single light glimmered on the black ship as it moved silently toward shore and the drunken man standing there weaving back and forth. The square-rigged sails hung limp in the motionless air.

Jonesy rubbed a dirt-encrusted hand across the gray stubble of his seamed face. Was he seeing things? He closed blue-veined lids over rheumy eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the black brigantine still moved steadily toward him.

Jonesy's trembling legs seemed rooted in the sand. He managed two steps backward. In his haste, he fell to the beach, landing on his rump with a resounding thwack. He hastily tilted the bottle to his cracked lips and gulped heartily, a soft croon rattling in his throat.

"Eeeeeeehhhhhh," he sang to himself. "Now what ya' spose' that thing is doin' here?" he asked of no one in particular.

Absently, he scratched at sparse gray chest hairs. The unbuttoned filthy blue chambray shirt did little to protect his emaciated body from the rapidly cooling night air.

As the brigantine bore down on him, he scrambled backward, hips leaving a swath in the sand as his hands and feet propelled him crab-fashion. Slowly the ship came to a halt as its bow struck the sand and it listed slightly to one side with a creaking groan.

Jonesy blinked and rubbed a hand across his face, attempting to wipe away the apparition. He lowered his hand, leaving tiny granules of sand peppering wrinkled skin. The ship still remained, swaying softly on the incoming tide.

Then they came, silently and swiftly, to line the rail, followed by their captain. His cap sat squarely on his skull and his uniform hung in tatters as ragged as the sails. He stared down, his hollow gaze pinning Jonesy to the beach.

In his terror, the poor derelict desperately clutched his bottle, muttering in a voice hoarse with fear, "Go way. Go way, damn you. Go way."

The first mate joined the captain, leaning bony arms upon the rail and likewise gazed unblinkingly down at Jonesy.

"What do 'ya want?" the old man quavered, unable to tear his gaze from the ghostly crew standing at the rail above him.

Silently and relentlessly, the captain and first mate raised their arms and pointed skeletal fingers toward him.

"No!" Jonesy wailed. "No! I ain't ready yet. I ain't goin'."

Spittle ran down his chin onto his thin, naked chest. Now he knew why the ship was there in the silent cove. It was there for him. He raised a shaking hand and willed his fumbling fingers to touch his forehead, his chest, and finally, though his arm felt wooden and lifeless, he managed to complete the sign of the cross.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," he wheezed. "Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

The whiskey bottle fell unheeded from a nerveless hand and rolled across the hard-packed sand to the water's edge. Tide fingers reached out and caressed it lovingly, tugging it gently into the sea.

Jonesy continued intoning, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

He fell sideways onto the sand, sobbing as he brought arthritic knees to his scrawny chest, clasped his stick-arms around them and rocked back and forth. Eyes tightly closed, he refused to face the specter looming above.

The ear-piercing scream of a tern roused Jonesy. Light bathed his face and his eyelids twitched and jerked. Slowly he forced his eyes open and gazed about him with overwhelming relief as he realized he still lay on the beach.

The small cove lay bathed in brilliant sunshine and a soft breeze crocheted white lace edgings atop the gentle waves. Terns wheeled and screeched overhead, occasionally plummeting to the water in search of breakfast.

Jonesy struggled to a sitting position. His bottle of whiskey was nowhere in sight and for once he didn't care. With a great effort he rolled over, thrust his hands into the sand, his rump into the air, and heaved himself erect. Glancing down at his clothes in distaste, he noted his khaki pants covered with sand and yellow stains where he had wet himself during the fearful night.

"Hallucination," he told himself. Or was it? Had they really come for him? Perhaps elected to give him another chance? Or had it been a horrible nightmare brought on by the cheap rum? He didn't know. All he really knew was that he was still alive, if you could call the way he'd been living the past few years as truly living.

The vivid memory of the skeletons aboard the black brigantine made him shudder. He had no desire to become a part of that crew.

For a moment he watched the terns above the serenity of the small cove. The sun bathed him in its warmth and he felt the stirrings of hunger. He needed a drink. Badly. No, what he needed was some food and a cup of strong, black coffee.

He had a choice, a choice given to him last night. Jonesy turned away from the shore and trudged through the sand to climb the ancient wooden stairs leading to the street above. Irresolute, he paused at the top, glancing up toward the grocery store where he could buy fixins' for breakfast. Then he looked longingly across the road to a small bar and grill frequented by the neighborhood's seafaring populace. He'd just have a teensy little eye-opener before picking up some grub.

Hitching up his trousers, he stepped off the curb and felt the roll of the brigantine's deck beneath him.

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Bus Riders

Pain forked its agonizing arrows through her body and she turned her head from side-to-side in protest. A voice whimpered. It took Tina a few moments to realize the soft, mewling sound originated from herself.

"No, no. Please. Don't."

A soothing voice reassured her, "It's all right. Just relax. You're safe."

"Hurts," Tina managed to say. "Thirsty."

Something smooth and cool slid over her parched lips. "Try to suck on the ice cube," the disembodied voice instructed.

Greedily, in spite of the pain, Tina obeyed, swallowing several gulps before exhaustion forced her to stop.

"That's better. Now I'll give you something for the pain and you can rest."

Tina felt the firm hands grasp her arm and smelled the pungent odor as the alcohol soaked cotton sterilized a small spot. A tiny sting as the needle entered, followed by the firm pressure of the cotton.

"Can't see." In growing alarm she gasped, "Why can't I see?"

"Of course not. And it's truly all right. Your face is quite bruised and your eyes are only swollen shut. You'll be able to see just fine in a day or two. Now you rest. You're safe and everything's going to be okay."

"Thank you," Tina whispered.

So very tired. Every bone and muscle in her body seemed to ache or hurt. Some places the pain was more acute. Floating . . . she seemed to be floating and the pain was less intense. So tired; so sleepy. She was dimly aware of someone smoothing the sheets and covers.

A door opened and Tina heard a familiar male voice say, "Good evening" . . .

. . . Tina returned the pleasant greeting with a smile and a hello as she tapped her Compass pass against the box. Normally, when riding a bus, she sat near the exit toward the back. She couldn't explain why tonight she seated herself on the side seat adjacent to the front door.

The driver deftly maneuvered the huge bus into the traffic lane and it sped smoothly across the I-5 freeway overpass. Tina stole a look at him. A touch of gray at his temples, a pleasant face, laugh crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes.

He turned his head briefly and caught her watching him. He grinned, revealing strong white teeth with a slight space between the two front ones.

"What are you studying this semester?" he asked.

"Oh, well, accounting." She rushed on in explanation. "I work for an insurance firm and if I want promotions and more pay, I need to upgrade my skills."

Tina abruptly stopped talking. How often had she warned her children about talking to strangers and here she sat, chattering away.

The driver was too busy to respond as he made the stop in front of Balboa Naval Hospital where several sailors alighted and a couple more got on. As he waited for the signal light to change before proceeding up Park Boulevard, he again glanced toward Tina.

"It'll happen," he assured her. "You look like the kind of woman who makes up her mind and goes after what she wants."

Tina laughed self-consciously and began idly surveying the remaining passengers. The two sailors, of course, a couple of other City College students who had boarded when she did; a young couple snuggled in a corner in the back of the bus, clutching and pawing, giggling and cooing.

Diagonally across from her, in the first seat, sat a tired-looking man, his longish hair and beard in need of a trim. From the stained white cotton pants, she surmised he was a restaurant worker. Behind him, occasionally huh-huhing to himself, sat an elderly man, gray stubble of whiskers peppering his seamed face.

What a cross section of humanity, Tina thought as she transferred her gaze out the window toward the closed carousel in Balboa Park. The dim outlines of the fabricated landscape for the miniature railroad loomed beyond. The faint trumpeting of one of the zoo's elephants floated through the night air.

She shifted her backpack and pulled her keychain from her purse. The next stop was hers and she reached above her head to pull the buzzer cord, noting the time on her wristwatch ‒ ten-twenty.

The old man rolled his eyes upward in his lowered face, watching as she stood to alight. The two sailors grinned and exchanged a comment too low for her to hear. Just as well, she mused.

The driver frowned. "Do you have far to walk?"

"No, I'm in the third house from the corner. One of the reasons I chose the location. Even though it's expensive, it's safe."

"Good night," the driver called after her before the swish of the closing door shut out her view of the smiling face.

Tina hurried the few yards up the street to the two-story white house converted some years ago into apartments. She extracted a couple of bills and a handful of advertising circulars from the row of black mail boxes before making her way to the rear of the house and her own small, snug apartment.

The nightlight plugged inside the entrance door cast a pleasant glow over the small living room. She didn't pause as she dropped the mail on the coffee table and shrugged off her backpack. It had been a long day and she was ready for sleep.

Tina enjoyed her weekly Thursday evening classes and by mid-October felt she was making good progress. So far, she had met the many challenges it offered.

When she caught the bus after classes, Tina sat directing behind the blue-eyed driver where they could chat more easily during her brief rides. She learned that Cliff was a veteran and hoped to make supervisor over the next few months; that he was going through a painful and bitter divorce.  
She tried to curb her inclination to chatter on about herself, but in spite of her resolve, Tina dropped the fact that she had moved to the area from Missouri after her husband had died. Her adult children lived in the Los Angeles area and she enjoyed being close enough to visit occasionally.

October gave way to November and the end of daylight savings time. It was now dark by the time Tina reached school. Riding the bus, she still observed fellow passengers with interest, wondering what they did, where they lived. Sailors got on, sailors got off. Young lovers were oblivious to everything around them. The old man still rode every Thursday, huh-huhing as usual. And the unkempt-looking bearded man occasionally raised glazed dark eyes to survey Tina as she got on and off the bus.

The first Saturday in November saw a hot Santa Ana wind pouring its heated breath across the city. The freeways were jammed as residents took to the beaches under the hot blue of the clear sky whose blazing sun sent the thermometer soaring to ninety-nine degrees.

Tina dug out white shorts, a tube top and a thin shirt to wear over them. She braided her long, dark hair into one thick plait, plopped a wide-brimmed straw hat atop her head and walked the two blocks to Balboa Park where she planned to spend the day browsing through the museums, art displays, and gardens.

As she passed the school campus abutting the park, Tina caught sight of a familiar figure. It was Cliff tossing a Frisbee with a smaller version of himself.

"Tina!" he called as he caught sight of her. "Come join us."

She strolled across the grass to where the two waited for her.

"Meet my grandson, Billy Allen. He belongs to my youngest son. Tina . . . ," Cliff stopped and grinned sheepishly. "What _is_ your last name?"

Tina felt her face stretch in astonishment, then she burst out laughing. "Allen!" she gasped. "Tina Allen."

"Whatdaya' know, suppose we're long lost cousins?"

"Your family come from Missouri?"

"No, New Jersey," Cliff said.

"Probably no relation, then. Anyway, Allen is my married name and I'm a widow."

Billy stood patiently, smiling throughout the exchange.

"We're going to wander around the zoo today. Come with us?" Cliff invited.

"Well, if Billy doesn't mind."

The accepting grin the young boy gave her was assurance enough and she gladly put aside the museum and art displays for another day.

Over lunch in the zoo restaurant, while Billy browsed in the souvenirs, Cliff told Tina he was moving into the roomy half of a duplex owned by his parents.

"I'll be your neighbor," he grinned at her. "Dad and Mom live on Florida, about two and a half blocks from where you are."

"Oh. I take it the divorce is about final?"

"Yes, end of this month. I'm giving her the damn house. It isn't worth fighting over. She can go off and find herself now." The normally friendly blue eyes were bleak and cold.

Tina felt relieved at Billy's timely return to the table as it broke the tension and restored Cliff to his former mood.

The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering through the zoo. Twelve-year-old Billy scorned the children's petting zoo as being too babyish for his grownup status, but he relented when Cliff and Tina said they were going, with or without him. Billy chortled gleefully as a small black and tan kid ate the Kleenex tissue from the side pocket of Tina's purse.

Late that afternoon, licking on rapidly melting ice cream cones, the threesome trudged across the school campus. They utilized the tunnel under Park Boulevard, walking slowly to savor the dim coolness and emerged a few yards from Tina's apartment.

"See you Thursday night," Cliff told her before he and Billy started down the hill toward Florida Street.

Thursday evening, Cliff informed Tina that he would be spending his off-duty hours moving into the duplex. As Tina chatted, her eyes roved over the bus riders. The old man had dozed off, his head jarring against the window as the bus thumped over an occasional bump. The bearded man occasionally raised his blue stare toward her. He seemed more spaced out than usual ‒ pot or something stronger?

As she alighted from the bus, Cliff called after her, "Come by for a beer this weekend if you get a chance."

"Might do that," she replied, flipping a casual wave as the door hissed shut.

Sunday dawned a delightful warm day with a few clouds climbing high into the blue sky and a light breeze wafting off the ocean.

Tina shampooed her hair and decided to let the heavy mass dry in the warm air. Dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, she strolled down the hill toward Florida Street. A cool beer would go nice today.

An empty U-Haul trailer stood in the driveway of the duplex. Tina wandered toward the rear of the house where she could hear a hum of voices. Her rap on the screen door brought a pause in the conversation and Billy's smiling face greeted her. Inside the pleasant, roomy duplex, Tina met Mr. and Mrs. Allen. Cliff thrust a cold beer into her hand, apologizing for the lack of glassware.

"We've got it all moved," he explained. "Now all we have to do is the worst part ‒ unpack and put it all away.

He grinned ruefully and Tina noticed that he looked very tired. The lines at the corners of his mouth seemed to have eroded deeper into his face. He had little to say as he leaned against the kitchen counter drinking a cola and listening to the relaxed conversation between his parents and Tina. A few moments later, he excused himself to shower and dress for work.

Once the sounds of the shower could be heard, Mrs. Allen shook her gray head sorrowfully and said, "I wish he didn't have to work today. He's so tired. I'm sure he hasn't been sleeping well lately."

Mr. Allen cleared his throat. "He gets to thinking about the war. Even after all this time, he gets an occasional flashback. The divorce hasn't helped any either. All those years they were married. Had to 'find herself' she said. I just don't understand it."

As Billy entered the room, the worried elderly couple changed the topic of conversation.

Feeling oddly depressed, Tina excused herself and climbed the hill back to her apartment. She felt restless and found it hard to settle down to her homework and shorthand practice.

The following week was a busy one in the office and before she realized it, Thursday rolled around again. Tine grabbed a sandwich in the school cafeteria and went off to class.

After class ended, she waited impatiently at the bus stop. She wanted to offer her help to Cliff in unpacking and putting things away in his new apartment. The welcoming smile on her face faded, however, as she climbed aboard the bus. A strange driver sat behind the wheel.

Tina paused as she tapped her Compass card. "Where's Cliff?"

"Took the night off," was the laconic reply.

She moved down the isle of the nearly empty bus. Where was everyone? This was only mid-November. She supposed many of the sailors were already on Thanksgiving leave. The old man was in his accustomed spot, huh-huhing as usual. The bearded man was not aboard but the lovey-dovey couple were billing and cooing on the back seat.

Tina though of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. She hadn't accepted any of the invitations from office coworkers as she planned to spend the long weekend in Los Angeles with her children. Idly she wondered why the evening seemed so oppressive. She had to admit she was disappointed at Cliff's absence and hoped everything was all right.

Absently she got off the bus at her corner and walked the few feet to the white house where she found the usual advertisements filling her mailbox. She heard the door click behind her as she stepped into her dark living room. Apparently the bulb had burned out in the nightlight. She headed to the kitchen for a new bulb and to heat water for a much-needed cup of tea.

Tina reached a hand toward the light switch and froze in horror as fingers clamped over her wrist and a hoarse whisper shattered the serene quiet of her apartment.

"Don't make a sound, bitch, or you're dead."

The venom in the hissing voice sank its fangs of terror straight to her heart, which began thudding against her rib cage, reverberating in her ears.

The man deftly twisted her arm behind her back and she felt the cold, sharp steel of a knife blade against her throat.

"Pull the drapes," he commanded.

She numbly obeyed, wondering if she would ever open or close them again after this night ended.

In a voice hoarse with fear, she asked, "What do you want of me?"

A sudden thrust sent her sprawling to the floor and she screamed. The click of a lamp switch shattered the dark.

She lay huddled, gazing up in horrified recognition into glittering blue eyes. Tina remained quiet and motionless as she caught sight of the slim bright blade of a French chef 's knife.

"Get up," he barked.

She sat up, desperately trying to recall if there had been lights on in the adjoining studio apartment. The bachelor who lived there was seldom home. Did she dare scream? _Could_ she scream?

A hand reached out and grasped her hair. "You Ay – rab women do have purty hair.

Tina realized in horror that this crazed man was reliving a war.

"You know what we do to the likes of you? Sending your children out with bombs strapped to them to blow us up? What kinda' mother does such a thing? I guarantee you won't do it again."

His fist smashed into her face and she crashed to the floor again.

She tried to think despite the excruciating pain. If she were to survive, she must find a way to calm him. How could she bring him out of the flashback? She knew he would kill her instantly if she tried to resist him physically.

Through rapidly swelling lips, she managed to say, "I agree. I would never do that to my child. We don't put bombs on our children here."

The man frowned, the glitter in his eyes fading to confusion.

Overwhelming relief flooded through her as she heard the sound of footsteps and voices outside. Summoning all her strength, she screamed again.

As someone began pounding on her door, the man looked at it in bewilderment.

Tina scooted backward on the floor, trying to get farther away from her assailant as she screamed, "Help! Help me. He's got a knife!"

A voice shouted her name, followed by the sound of splintering wood as the door burst open.

"Mrs. Allen. Mrs. Allen."

Tina moved her head in irritation at the insistent voice. She quickly stopped the motion as pain shot through her head.

"Ah, you're awake. Good. Can you talk now?"

"Yes," Tina said, her voice sounding strange and hoarse.

She tried to open her eyes and felt relief as a tiny slit of daylight glimmered. The narrow tunnel of vision showed her a restful off-white wall, punctuated by a wide door. She caught a flicker of white movement at her side as the nurse deftly checked her pulse and stuck the end of the thermometer between her painfully sore lips.

She closed her eyes again, dimly aware of sounds and sensations as the nurse bathed her and freshened the bed. She wondered if the woman had any idea of how much it hurt to be moved and touched. At last all the activity subsided and she could lie quietly, floating in a purgatory of half wakefulness.

Her eyes flew open when the nurse said, "Your husband should be back in a few minutes. We chased him off to the cafeteria while we got you freshened up."

"My . . . my husband?" Tina asked in bewilderment.

"Yes. Poor guy was beat. He slept all night right there in that chair. You're lucky he arrived when he did and called an ambulance."

Tina's mind was a turmoil of rioting thought. Was she who she thought she was? Tina Allen. But the nurse had just spoken of a husband off getting a much-needed cup of coffee. Had she dreamed the horrible nightmare of last night?"

"What day is it?" Tina asked.

"Friday, and it's about three-thirty."

"Not Thursday night?"

"No, dear. I know things seem a little disoriented for you right now but that will pass in a day or so," the brisk voice assured her.

Again, Tina forced her eyes open and watched as the nurse picked up a tray and walked toward the door. She paused in the opening to smile. "You just rest now. Your very worried husband will be back in a few minutes."

"But . . ." Tina started to say, then fell silent as the nurse disappeared from view.

The sound of her voice reached Tina through the partially open door.

"Ah, Mr. Allen, you look as though that cup of coffee helped a bit. You go right on in. She's awake now."

Eyes riveted on the slowly opening door, Tina peered anxiously at the man who paused there.

Tears welled and flowed down her swollen cheeks. A sob caught in her throat as total recall flooded over her.

She surrendered herself to the comforting arms until the storm of emotions passed. She grateful accepted the tissue thrust into her hand, dabbing at her eyes and nose.

"The last thing I remember," she said, "is your voice calling my name. What happened?"

"As you know, I took the day off. It was the hearing on my divorce. Afterward, I had dinner with my son and his wife, and Billy. I was puttering around the house, unpacking stuff and putting it away. It must have been about ten forty-five when I got this really strong urge to see you and tell you I'm a free man."

Tina managed a painful smile at the implication of the words.

"Thank God!" she whispered.

Cliff gave her hand a squeeze and returned her smile. "So I got in my car, drove to the liquor store and bought a bottle of champagne. Figured if your lights were on, I'd knock; if not, I'd go on back home."

Cliff continued slowly, a frown creasing his forehead.

"There was another couple just going around the corner of the house toward their apartment over the garage. We were exchanging 'good evenings' when we heard you scream."

Tina grimaced at the recollection of those terrifying moments. That she he had survived the ordeal was a miracle.

She griped Cliff's hand as he continued. "Your neighbor and I broke the door in while his wife called the police."

"And that awful bearded creep who rides the bus?" Tina quavered. "What happened to him?"

Cliff paused for a moment before continuing, as though reluctant to answer her question. "Apparently I broke his wrist when he came at me with the knife. The guy totally flipped out. Seemed to think he was back in Iraq. He's now in a VA psychiatric ward. He won't harm you or anyone else again."

Tina sighed her relief. "It's all very sad."

She peered through her still-swollen eyes at Cliff's tired, stubbled face and shyly asked, "Why does the nurse keep referring to you as my husband?"

With a wide grin, Cliff answered, "They wouldn't let me in until I proved I was Clifford Allen. They just assumed I was your husband and I was in no mood to disabuse them of the idea.

"By the way, I hope you don't mind, but I went over to your apartment to make sure it was secure and to find phone numbers for your kids. They'll be arriving later today. It may be another hour or two, since they'll be running into the Friday traffic."

"Oh, thank you. I truly appreciate that."

"And now, Mrs. Allen, since I've joined the ranks of single men, I'd like to spend a lot of time getting to know you better. My intentions are strictly honorable." Grinning, Cliff added. "Well, mostly!"

Tina laughed. "I think I'd like that a lot, even the mostly."

"And don't forget how convenient it would be," he teased. "You won't have to go through the bother of changing your name on all your records and identification."

"Hmmm, that's a good point. Sounds like a deal-maker to me."

She closed her eyes and smiled as Cliff gently kissed her on the forehead.

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Deadly Bore

Willie Telfer was purely a bore. In fact, I often thought Willie was the worst bore I ever knowed.

Willie figured he was an expert on just about everythin' under the sun. He'd be the first to tell you so ‒ had this annoyin' habit of always expoundin' on somethin' or other. And somethin' else. He never worked. Always had plenty of money but he never worked a lick. Just hung around George's barbershop most days, borin' George and his customers near to death.

Claimed he came from Chicago. Clem Hooper, he runs the general store and the post office, says Willie don't never get no mail ‒ from Chicago or no place else. Not even a post card or one of them advertisin' circulars.

The other mornin', though, Willie was anythin' but borin'. Bunch of us was sittin' around George's, Jimmy Spencer gettin' a shave ‒ rest of us waitin' our turn. Couple of us just hangin' around, shootin' the bull.

Then we see this big black Cadillac limousine come drivin' up Main Street real slow, just sorta' crusin'.

Willie was shootin' off his mouth as usual. Once in a while, somebody else managed to get in a word edgeways. He was explainin' to all of us about that acupuncture stuff where they stick all them needles in you. Willie stops right smack in the middle of a sentence and turns white like he'd seen a ghost.

Willie says, his voice kinda' squeaky, "Excuse me, fellas, I gotta' go to the can."

He takes off out the back door like a rabbit into a bolthole.

Well, we don't see no more of Willie until a little bit ago, along about two o'clock or so.

Sheriff's car comes screeching up in front of Doc Tucker's office across the street and the Sheriff goes barrelin' into the Doc's like he had a seat full of cockleburs.

Pretty quick like, Doc comes out still puttin' on his coat and gets in the car with the Sheriff.

By then, me and Bert, and Bud, and Johnny, and a whole bunch of the regulars is all waitin' at the police car.

Bert, he says, "Whatinhell is goin' on, Sheriff?"

Sheriff Cuker yells out, Willie Telfer got hissef killed."

Before we can find out any more, Sheriff takes off up the street burning rubber.

Don't rightly recollect who suggested it, but we all pile into Johnny's stake truck and head out to Willie's place.

We get there right behind the Doc and the Sheriff but Cuker don't let nobody but Doc in the house. He leaves the door open though.

Let me tell you, that weren't no purty sight. Whole dang room, what we can see, is plumb tore up. Couch all ripped open, pichers tore outa their frames, rugs throwed ever which ways, floor boards tore up.

But that ain't nothin' too what they done to poor Willie. He sure as hell won't be borin' us fellows down at the barbershop no more.

Bert, his stomach cain't take it and he makes it over to the lilac bush just in time. We can hear him behind it a pukin' up his toenails.

And Johnny ‒ thought for sure he was gonna' pass right out. Face whiter than a crock of lard. I didn't feel too dang good myself.

Whoever worked Willie over musta' lookin' for somethin', I'd say.

Puttin' two and two together, I figure it was money. Sheriff comes out pretty quick and he thinks the same thing.

"Yeah, Lem, reckon 'yore right. Probably them Mafia thugs. More'n likely Willie took off with some of their money seein' as how he never worked and lived real good. Better'n most folks around these here parts."

I nod my head. "Looks like those big-time criminal types finally caught up with Willie."

Sheriff's got fire in his eye, I can tell you. "I purely don't cotton to thugs comin' into my county. Dang! They've probably clean got away by now. 'Scuse me, Lem. I gotta' get on the radio with a description of that Cadillac you fellers saw."

"I'm standin' there by the police car listenin' to Cuker talk to Barney Harper, the sheriff over in Murphy County.

"Okay, Buddy," Barney radios back. "We'll keep an eye out for them fellers."

Well, me and my friends are standin' around the back of Johnny's truck, havin' a few swigs outa' a jug of corn likker. Johnny always has one stashed away behind the seat. Sheriff, he's pretendin' like he don't notice. Purty soon, we hear the radio a spittin' and a sputterin'.

We hustle on over to the car and hear Barney yellin', "Buddy, that fancy Caddy them city fellers was drivin' broke down 'tween here and Rock Creek Gap. We got 'em."

Sheriff Cuker starts in a laughin'.

"They're all handcuffed, Buddy. You can come pick 'em up any time."

Sheriff is chucklin' so hard he can hardly talk. "Good work, Barney. See 'ya shortly."

Sheriff takes off fer Murphy County after askin' Johnny to see that Doc and the corpus-de-lec-ti gets into town. None of us is especially happy 'bout ridin' into Rock Creek sharin' the back of that stake truck with a corpse. Ain't exactly our idea of joy ridin'. Anyways, we get Doc back to his office and poor Willie over to the undertakers.

We're standin' out front, across from the jail, kickin' at dirt clods and sneakin' looks up the road fer the police car.

Ain't none of us feelin' too good 'bout then. Sure, Willie was purely a bore but that don't give them city dudes no leave to come into our valley and do him in like that.

Purty soon we see the black and white comin' up the road. The Sheriff pulls up in front of the jail and we all crowd around while he helps the two handcuffed fellers outa' the back.

Now them is two mean-lookin' characters in their fancy clothes. They're talkin' to the Sheriff, yellin' somethin' 'bout callin' their lawyer and their rights and they ain't done nothin' and they ain't sayin' nothin'.

Sheriff don't seem in no hurry to get 'em inside the jailhouse. Just stands there kinda' smilin' like.

Don't recollect who says it, but somebody mentions there's a rope in Johnny's truck and Bert, he ambles over to get it.

Well, them two city types turn pale and start sweatin'. By the time Bert gets back with that rope looped over his shoulder, them two are really yellin'.

Sheriff, he just stands there, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, still smilin'.

Now we all know blamed well the Sheriff don't stand for no lynchin' in Rock County but we figure them two deserve a little shakin' up after what they done to Willie. So we just kinda' keep edgin' in closer and they keep backin' up till they're right smack up again the jail house door and cain't go no further.

Sheriff Cuker, real quiet like and wearin' that smile, allows that, "Maybe you might wanta' tell us why you done Willie in."  
Them two near choked tryin' to outtalk one another. The gist of it was that Willie used to work for the 'Family' some place back in New Jersey in the numbers and one day, he just disappears with a whole lota' money ‒ enough to last him the rest of his life in a place like Rock Valley.

So the head of the Family, he don't forget nothin' and they keep lookin' for Willie. Seems like some feller out this way last winter on a huntin' trip sees Willie and tells the big boss. The boss sends these two fellers to check it out and get his money back. Only Willie don't never tell and they don't never find it.

We all kinda' look at one another and then Johnny heads fer his truck, the rest of us right behind 'em. Ain't nothin' left standin' at Willie's place now, nor an inch a ground that ain't been dug up.

Sheriff Cuker, he ain't so dumb though. He checks the banks over at the county seat in Murphy and danged if Willie didn't have one a them locking boxes them big banks has. After gettin' some kinda' paper from the court, he gets the bank to open that box and it was plumb stuffed full of money.

Ain't quite the same down at the barbershop these days with no Willie expoundin'. Five whole years he bored us fellers here 'bouts.

One thing for dang sure, though. Willie had a mighty excitin' finish.

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Doublecross

Margaret peered around the edge of the drawn shade, watching Peggy cross the street. She glanced at the other occupant of the bedroom. It would take hours to straighten up the mess of overturned chairs, contents of drawers strewn about, clothes ripped from hangers. She had not tried to stop the man from creating havoc. He firmly believed he had created the perfect cover up for a burglary gone badly.

Margaret motioned for the man to follow her and calmly walked into the living room and sat in her favorite easy chair, watching him intently.

The whoosh of the elevator door signaled Peggy's imminent arrival. Seconds later, the sound of her key in the lock alerted both occupants of the room.

"That will be my stepdaughter now," Margaret hissed.

The man nodded, bouncing nervously on his toes. He leveled the .22 caliber Ruger Mark II automatic as Peggy opened the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. They widened in fear at the sight of the masked man who held a gun aimed at her chest, its suppressor adding to its length.

She stood cemented in the half-opened door, a white, terrified thing frozen in time and space. The man's high-pitched voice ordered her into the room. Peggy just stared at him, uncomprehending.

Margaret watched through unblinking eyes as the man walked toward his victim, grabbed her arm and yanked her into the room. The bag of groceries fell from unresisting arms to the floor, the recycled paper bursting to scatter the contents in all directions.

The man kicked the door closed, cocking his head to one side, listening for any sounds of alarm from the other three apartments. Satisfied no one had heard Peggy's arrival, his hands shook slightly as he pressed the end of the suppressor against the terrified young woman's chest and pulled the trigger. Her body absorbed the muzzle blast, the suppressor muffling the detonation.

Incredulity registered a moment on Peggy's face as her body jerked backward to strike the door. Then she slid slowly, inexorably down the white-painted wood, a rivulet of blood staining the front of her pink tee shirt. Her arms and legs twisted in different directions.

_She looks just like a discarded rag doll_ , Margaret thought.

The man knelt beside Peggy, retrieving the purse that had fallen partially under her body. He laid the gun beside him on the pale carpeting and began to rifle through the purse contents.

Margaret rose quietly and went to stand beside him. She bent down and picked up the gun. He glanced at her, startled, his blue eyes widening in alarm as Margaret pointed the gun at him.

"Hey, we have a deal. What are you . . . "

The rest of his sentence was cut off as Margaret pulled the trigger and watched his face dissolve in red pulp. Without direct contact, the muzzle blast was slightly louder.

Margaret waited a moment to see if anyone in the adjoining apartments had heard. When no sounds of alarm were forthcoming, she picked up the telephone and dialed nine – one – one. When the voice of the dispatcher answered, Margaret became hysterical.

"Oh God. Come quickly. It's terrible. Just terrible."

"Calm down, ma'am. Calm down. Just tell me what has happened. Help will be on the way."

"It's my stepdaughter. He's killed her. He thought I was unconscious. I . . . Oh God, while he was going through her purse, I got the gun and shot him. Please! Please hurry. Send someone."

"You're at 1161 North Elm, Unit six?"

"Yes," Margaret said and again begged the dispatcher to send help.

Assured that patrol cars and an ambulance were on the way, she hung up the phone. Only one thing remained. She pulled her husband Jeff's note from her sweater pocket and made sure it would easily be found in his desk. Plot to do away with her, would they? Well, she'd shown them.

Returning to the living room, she again sat in her easy chair, mentally calculating how she would invest Peggy's $100,000 double indemnity insurance. She taken that policy out on her stepdaughter years ago and now it was going to pay off. Not only that, she had just saved herself $20,000 in kill fees. She smiled, remembering how easy it had been to offer the fledgling hit man a bonus to change his intended target.

Jeff was due home tomorrow, expecting to find himself a widower. Instead, he would get to pass home and go directly to jail, arrested for a murder plot that had gone awry.

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Everlasting

The sign atop the credit register at the back of the bar reads 'Gordie Jenkins, Host.' That host part is a fancy name for 'bartender' but since I'm the owner, what does a title matter? Everyone calls me 'Gordie' and that's the way I like it.

I'd just rung up credits on the register and picked up one of the pink-tinged bar glasses to dry. All the glassware on Mars is pinkish since local sand is used in its formulation. And everything else is coated with red dust.

Anyway, I start drying the glasses when the airlock whooshes open. Obviously, the stranger entering is new to Mars. His Earthside clothing reveals that and when he pulls off his Oximask and hangs it on a peg beside the green EXIT sign, his collar-length hair really gives it away.

As he turns toward the bar, I note a thin line of red-blond mustache. That anomaly won't last long either. No one on Mars retains head or facial hair. Just too darn much trouble keeping out the red dust. Even our women shave their heads. I suppose to a stranger it's a real shock to encounter all those smooth, shining skulls. Our women are still lookers, though. Most of them wear exotic eye makeup and dress to show off their assets, if they have good ones.

The stranger swings up onto the plasticine barstool and I rest a hand on the bar top.

"Whata' 'ya have?" I ask.

"What' ya' recommend? he replies.

I shrug mentally, figuring he might as well get initiated right at the start.

"Try our local beer. Cheap and sure drowns out the dust."

He nods his blond head, extracts a sheaf of credits and places them on the bar. A man set for some serious drinking, I surmise.

I place a cold bottle of Red Devil in front of him, adding a chilled glass.

Holding out my hand, I say, "Name's Gordie Jenkins. Welcome to Mars and the Red Dog Saloon."

His grip is firm ‒ nothing bone-crushing nor limp-wristed.

"Russell Cook, here." He grins, a tinge of embarrassment evident. "Guess I do stand out like a sore thumb in these baggy clothes and all the hair."

I grin back. "Not to worry. You'll find what's right and comfortable for you in due time. Guess you're here to stay. We don't usually get tourists at the Red Dog."

"Uh, yeah. Signed a contract for eighteen months. Engineer with the Mars Cooperative Mining Corporation."

I nod again. "Good outfit. Fair, competitive. Man could do a lot worse."

"That's what I hear." He lifted his glass. "Here's to a successful venture on Mars."

Russ, as he asked to be called, drank several bottles of beer over the next few hours, watching the dancing with interest. Anyone unaccustomed to Mars dancing might find it a bit unusual the first time. He frowned at first and gradually realized couples have to grapple with each other to stay together in the lighter gravity. Only thing is, it looks pretty suggestive and I'll be the first to admit it can get a man, and a woman too, pretty fired up.

Along about twenty-four hundred hours, Russ started getting talkative. Red Devil can do that if you're not used to it and sometimes when you are.

By then most of the couples dancing had cleared out to continue their grappling somewhere else and only the serious drinkers were left scattered along the bar and at a few tables. I told my waitress to go on home. One of those nights when it just isn't too busy.

Like bartenders the universe over, I listen, putting in the appropriate, "That right?" "So what happened then?" "No kiddin'!"

As the hours wear on and the beer loosens Russ Cook's tongue, I grow more and more puzzled. I've had enough contact with Earthsiders for me to know when something doesn't ring true. He talks about things that happened a couple of centuries ago as if he'd been right there.

I pour myself a glass of Red Devil and lean against the back cabinets, careful not to bump any of the liquor bottles sitting there.

"You a history professor or buff before you decided on engineering?" I ask.

For a long time Russ just stares down into his glass. He picks it up and tosses down half its contents, replacing the glass carefully on the bar in its circle of condensation.

He looks at me then. A straight, piercing look from sad, gray-blue eyes. The only signs of age are a few faint lines etching crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes.

His voice is low, flat. "I was there."

I feel little prickles at the nape of my neck. This guy can't be over thirty-eight or so. Top shape physically. Maybe, considering the remark, he's not in such good shape mentally. Or is it just the beer talking? Somehow, I don't think so. While he's put away plenty of Red Devil, he's certainly not drunk.

I manage a reply. "Hey fella', you can't be forty yet. Come on now, don't pull my leg."

"No, Gordie. It's the truth. I was born in 1959 in Illinois, USA."

Where he originated doesn't mean a lot to a third generation Martian, but the year of his birth sure'n hell does. If this guy isn't blowin' smoke, his age figures out at 328 years, this being 2287 last time I checked a calendar.

_No way, man_ , I think, then say it aloud, "No way, man. No way!"

His grin is crooked as he shrugs those broad shoulders. "Truth, Gordie. So help me, God. It's the truth."

"Hey, I grant you there's people livin' longer now. Some of 'em clear up to 150, 160 easy like. But 328 and you still look thirty-eight? Can't buy it, Russ. Can't buy it."

He finishes pouring Red Devil from the bottle and pushes it toward me. I pull one from the cooler beneath the bar and exchange the empty for the full one.

"It's a long story, Gordie."

I shrug. "I got the rest of the night if you wanta' talk about it."

Russ draws in a shuddering breath, downs a third of his glass of beer and licks specks of foam from his moustache.

I was twenty-eight when Dora and I met in Peoria. I sold automotive parts; she ran the donut shop near a factory. Gorgeous looking woman. Slender but curves in all the right places. Lots of long, ash-blonde hair, big blue eyes. Men literally panting after her. My buddy, Chuck Harris, and I always stopped in for our morning coffee and a couple of donuts.

Both of us tried dating her. Finally, after a lot of talking and begging, she let me take her out one Saturday night. Then the middle of the week, we went roller-skating.

Before long, we were seeing each other every other night but she kept me at arm's length, telling me she didn't want to become involved in an shabby affair.

I didn't like the idea of suggesting a motel or hotel room so I gave notice on my studio apartment and leased a nice little one-bedroom cottage, furnished pretty good for a rental.

One evening I took her to the new house for dinner. She liked the place. After a few glasses of wine and a darn good dinner (I'm a fair enough cook), she really mellowed out. One thing led to another and we ended up in the bedroom.

I proposed to her the next morning over coffee but she turned me down. Said she wasn't quite ready to get married yet.

That same week, my territory was changed, which meant I'd be out of town part of the week. Didn't make me feel too happy but the extra income would be welcome and just might help convince Dora of my prospects. I made Chuck solemnly swear that he would keep an eye on Dora who had moved in with me by that time.

God, those nights when I was home with her were pure heaven. She was so little, and sweet, and loving. Just couldn't get enough of her. She was always so glad to see me when I'd walk in the door and sweep her up in my arms, heading' straight for the bedroom and that big king-size bed. After a couple of months, I talked her into quitting the donut shop because I had plenty of money to take good care of her. She still wouldn't agree to make it legal, though.

Back then, we still had marriages, not these contracts couples enter into now when they want to have a baby. And it sure isn't easy to get a permit to have a kid on Earth these days. Different on Mars, I hear. Anyway, I kept hoping she'd get pregnant but it just didn't seem to happen.

I remember it was Thanksgiving week and I hadn't told Dora I'd be home on Tuesday. Wanted to surprise her. Bought her a pretty sweater, all shades of peach.

I opened the front door quietly but they wouldn't have heard me anyway. The giggles and the creaking of the bedsprings filled the whole damn house. My blood just went cold. Who? My mind kept screaming. Who? Who is she making love to in our bed?

I somehow managed to get down that hallway without making' a sound, everything inside me shriveling up at those moans and cries.

Just before reaching the bedroom door, I heard the one thing that tore me completely apart.

"Oh, Chuckie. Oh, darling!" she cried out.

I froze in the doorway, stunned by what I heard and then saw. My best friend and lovely Dora. In _our_ bed. The bed we'd made love in so many times.

They looked up then and saw me, a sick expression coming over Chuck's face. Dora just looked surprised. Her full lower lip thrust out in a pout as she pulled up the sheet.

No one said anything for several seconds. Chuck made rattling sounds in his throat as he tried to talk but couldn't. I turned on my heel and walked into the living room, sinking into a chair and burying my face in my hands, shoulders shaking as I sobbed.

If I'd killed them right then in the bedroom, my sentence would have been bearable. Crimes of passion in such cases are not punished as severely as cold-blooded, premeditated murder.

Oh, I made them pay, all right. Never said a word of condemnation to either of them. Tried to act as though everything was okay; that I didn't mind sharing my woman with my best friend.

So when I suggested we all go away for a weekend together, they reluctantly agreed. I could tell they were uncomfortable about it but under the circumstances didn't dare raise objections.

And vengeance _was_ mine. At the end they knew what I was doing to them. I just went on with it, ignoring their pleas and later, ignoring their screams. Afterward, I was sick outside the cabin in the flickering glare of the flames as it destroyed what was left of the two people I loved most in this world.

My sentence was a stiff one. It was a period of growing conservatism; people had grown tired of crime and penalties had become harsher. Mine was life without the prospect of parole.

It was ten years into my sentence that the call went out for volunteers for a scientific experiment. We were told it could be very dangerous ‒ life threatening, in fact. By then I didn't much care if I lived or died. There was no hope and this offered at least consideration for parole at some future date. Mostly lifers entered the program.

Jersey, my cellmate, and I were bunked together in the prison hospital. They explained that the injections would alter our DNA structure. If it worked, no more aging process. Our cells would keep on reproducing perfectly for the rest of our lives. None of the scientists could predict what our new life spans would be.

And who the hell cared anyway? We sure didn't. We were not going anywhere. Anything to relieve the boredom and hopelessness and earn a chance at eventual consideration for parole. That was the clincher.

Jersey and I played poker by the hour in our room. The food was better than in the cafeteria. Three or four days into the program, Jersey began complaining of headaches and nausea. I still felt fine but grew uneasy as he became sicker. It seemed obvious that Jersey was one of the failures.

I lay on my cot trying to shut out the sounds of his moans. Every time I looked at him, his body was drenched with sweat, his teeth clenched in agony. It wasn't a pretty sight.

If you're up on history, you know the story. Congress called and investigating committee together and such scientific experiments were outlawed. It all blew over eventually. Nobody really cared that forty-nine prisoners died. I'm the only survivor. Me. The only one out of fifty volunteers.

You wouldn't believe the times I've come close to death. Been knifed, shot, run over by a car. You name it, it's happened to me. Always, though, my body repairs itself within a few hours and I'm completely whole again.

Probably a direct hit with a bomb would eliminate me. A copula' times I've tried to commit suicide but can't even do that.

Oh, yeah. Guess it was around 2060 that some prison administrator discovered how long I'd been around. The parole board wrangled for days over my case. They finally said I could go free provided I swore to keep the whole thing a secret. They didn't want some immortal bloke wandering around raising questions in people's minds.

So that's how it is. I've been everywhere Earthside. Always moving on in a few years to avoid suspicion. Spent a long hitch on the Moon Colony. Buried all my friends and went back Earthside for a while.

I've done everything ‒ been a teacher, musician, poet, dancer, chiropractor, dentist, writer ‒ you name it, I've done it.

After a while you run out of interesting things to try. Your mind gets filled to bursting. One thing I can't forget no matter how hard I try, or what kind of therapy I undergo ‒ the last screams of Dora and Chuck. I wake up some nights screaming myself. That's my story. I'm the everlasting man. Yeah, everlasting life. I've got it. You want it?

It's obvious that Russ is feeling all that beer now. Tears trickle from the corners of his eyes and I feel sorry for the guy.

I clear away his bottle and glass, wipe down the bar and ask if he'd like me to call a Marscab.

He looks up at me from those haunted gray-blue eyes. "Sure, fella'. 'Preciate it."

His laugh is shaky. "Sorry if I've been boring you all evening. I get wound up in these stories I tell, you know. Once a writer, always a writer."

I manage a grin. "Well, you're quite a tale spinner. Be sure to come in again. Enjoyed talking to you. Not many around with your vivid imagination."

Russ slides off the cool, slick plasticine stool, weaving slightly until he regains his balance. He gives me a two-fingered salute, pulls a wad of credits out of a pocket and throws them on the bar.

"Have a good night, Gordie. Thanks for listening. See ya' 'round."

At the exit, he fumbles his Oximask down, pulling it over his face and fastening the strap securely. Without a backward glance, he pushes into the airlock. That's the last I ever see of Russell Cook.

Some months later, a couple of engineers from the Mars Cooperative Mining Corporation spend an evening in the Red Dog Saloon.

We get to talking and when I find out where they're employed, I mention Russ.

The two exchange glances. One of them clears his throat a couple of times.

"Yeah, well, you see he's the guy got himself blown up down in the mine a couple of months back."

I feel the shock clear to my toes. "No kiddin'!"

The other engineer adds, "Had plenty of time to get out but something must have gone wrong. Wasn't anything left but little pieces."

I open three bottles of Red Devil. "Drinks are on the house this round," I say, carefully pouring the bitter, cold brew down the side of my glass.

Raising it in salute, I add, "Here's to Russell Cook. May he rest in pieces."

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Kleptomaniac

My friends call me "Tab." The police refer to me as the "perp." I'll confess to being a kleptomaniac, which has led to my becoming an expert thief. I can't seem to resist pretty baubles left lying about for the taking.

The police are puzzled that none of the loot ever turns up in a pawnshop. They suspect the stolen items are going to an out-of-town fence. Actually, none of the jewelry ever leaves the neighborhood. It has been disbursed to a couple of gorgeous creatures – one in the penthouse; the other next door in 2-D.

Ginger, the bubbly redhead in the penthouse, went absolutely gaga over the diamond choker I lifted from one of the condos across the alley.

Oh, Tab, you darling!" she cooed, batting long eyelashes over those sparkling green eyes. "You are sooo extravagant and sooo good to little ole' me."

When she does that, I forgive her baby talk and stoke her long, silky red hair. She cuddles right up just like always. Now don't get the mistaken impression that Ginger only snuggles up to me when I present her with an expensive gift. She's just as affectionate when I arrive empty-handed, which is most of the time. I only lift the stuff when it's safe to do so.

Ginger and Donna, her roommate, welcome me any time. Donna is older and getting a little gray and not ashamed of the fact. She dithers a bit but is a generous soul and always includes my roommate, Randy, and me on her guest list. She loves to cook and in spite of living in the penthouse, doesn't throw her money around.

"It's like this, Tab," she tells me as I'm perched on a kitchen stool scarfing down some of her shrimp scampi "I live well, but I'm not above taking a few shortcuts. Now this caviar, for instance."

My mouth being full of scampi, I couldn't tell her I would be glad to.

"For a couple of dozen people, you need three jars of black caviar, including the juice. Add minced hard-boiled egg, minced onion, breadcrumbs, and a splash of red wine.

"Use a wooden spoon and stir it all together, being real careful not to break up any of the caviar. The secret is to stop adding the other stuff when the color begins to gray."

Donna pats that whole mouth-watering mixture into a mound about the size of a baseball and by then I'm drooling.

"Oh, yes," she cautions with a twinkle in those blue eyes. "Keep your mouth shut and no one is ever the wiser."

She scoops a big dollop off one side with a cracker and hands it to me. Pure bliss! I give her an affectionate buss on the tip of her nose to show my appreciation.

Well, that's the story on Ginger and her roommate, Donna. The other gorgeous creature is Yvonne, a truly sophisticated lady. She pretends to be an ice maiden, once even yawning delicately when I presented her with an exquisite ring of aquamarine that matched her eyes. She wears her tawny hair short, creating a perfect frame for her classic features and those vivid eyes.

Yvonne knows perfectly well that her sensuous movements drive me wild and I risk the wrath of discovery by her wealthy gentleman friend when I sneak over to see her, timing my visits to his frequent absences.

Randy and I live in 6-B at the back of the Heritage Arms. The view is limited but what the hey. It's a good address and I have a great flat-mate, although he is a bit of a slob. He lives up to his name and sometimes one of the processions of females takes pity on two bachelors and neatens the place up a bit. Randy isn't much on cooking and I am totally inept in a kitchen. Ginger and Donna's frequent invitations are greatly appreciated by both of us. The rest of the time, we go around the corner to The Rendezvous where the chef is a special friend of mine. His broiled salmon is to die for.

Being a gregarious guy (and not too repulsive to look at), I have made friends with practically everyone in the building, including the doorman. It's through his propensity for gossip that I always know what's going on and who's away on a trip. Handy information for a person of my larcenous bent. Naturally,

Randy has no idea of my extracurricular activities. He and I do television commercials, which brings in sufficient bread for our needs.

I stepped off the elevator recently, ducking behind a big planter box in the lobby when I spotted the super going at it with Max, the doorman.

"I ain't got enough to do, now I gotta' help this insurance investigator move inta' 1-D."

"Yeah?" Max sympathizes. "That's that little efficiency toward the back, ain't it?"

"Yep. The insurance company sure ain't gonna' pop for nothin' with a view, a course. Well, I'd better get goin' here 'fore I get any further behind.'

The super left, shaking his head at such an imposition. Of course, both Max and I knew perfectly well he'd be sprawled in front of his TV with a bottle of lager watching a ball game all afternoon.

With a snoop in the building, it meant I had to play it cool and lie low. I felt sure the investigator would give up after a few weeks and go away frustrated.

About a month later, Donna decided to throw a party for her nephew who had finally landed a good part in a TV movie. She was so proud she invited nearly everyone in the building up for a bash. Jeez! Talk about putting on a gala event. She even hired a string trio that fiddled and plucked away behind the potted palms on the terrace. Since that is one of my favorite haunts, I got rather well acquainted with them, as did Ginger who tends to hang out with me at these affairs.

She was looking gorgeous as usual, her red hair all silky and shiny, and those green eyes gleaming with excitement. We were both mellowed out; in part due to the second-hand smoke we were inhaling, courtesy of the trio who used every break between sets to hand a roach back and forth.

Donna spotted us out there and brought us a plate of hors d'oeuvres. Those little ham roll-up things weren't bad. The quiche tarts were tasty but I avoided the meatballs in tomato sauce.

The insurance investigator had somehow managed an invitation and he lurked in corners, his close-set eyes flitting about, obviously on the lookout for the perp. I managed to behave myself, even though there were opportunities galore with everyone in the building congregated in the living room of the penthouse. That is until Mrs. Oldfeld from down in 4-A ate too many salty chips and her hands and feet started swelling. I followed her into the master bedroom suite where she slipped off her shoes and sat back on Donna's chase lounge for a few minutes.

"Oh," she exclaimed to me, "my feet are killing me. And my fingers." She held out puffy hands. "Just look how my fingers are all swollen."

That pudgy lady then proceeded to pull and tug and twist off a stunning emerald ring surrounded by about five karats worth of diamonds and plopped it into her beaded evening bag. After a bit, she tossed the bag onto the bed and made a quick foray into the bathroom.

Meanwhile, I sprawled out on the vacated chaise, hoping a few moments of relaxation would cure a bit of a headache from all the noise, perfumes, and cigarette smoke.

I lay back and closed my eyes, thinking how nice that emerald would look with Ginger's red hair. Mrs. Oldfeld came bustling out of the bathroom, pausing to pat me on the head.

"You look tired, dear boy," she cooed. "Oh, my! You've got something on your white vest."

She rushed back to the bathroom and I inspected my formerly spotless front. Sure enough, a bit of caviar had actually dried there. Before I could even scratch it off, Mrs. Oldfeld returned with a wet washcloth and scrubbed the spot clean. I expressed my thanks and leaned back, closing my eyes. She took the hint and returned to the party, thoughtfully dimming the lights.

I tried to take a little catnap but images of that emerald ring kept flashing behind my eyelids. My kleptomania won and I jumped up, moved over to Donna's California king bed and fumbled the evening bag open.

I had just extracted the emerald ring when the lights came up on bright and that insurance snoop shouted, "Aha! Caught you right in the act, you little thief."

He grabbed the ring in one hand and me by the back of the neck with the other. I have never been so humiliated in my life. Randy just stood in the doorway, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

The next morning at breakfast, having successfully circumvented my being hauled away the night before, he showed me the newspaper with its headline. Now the newspaper had a name for me: "Cat Burglar Nabbed at Party."

He read to me from the article:

A rash of jewelry thefts at the Heritage Arms was solved last night when insurance Investigator Lloyd Close caught the perpetrator red-handed – er, red-pawed.

Handsome TV commercial star, Tab, was apprehended in the act of filching an emerald ring from the purse of Mrs. Hiram Oldfeld when Close surprised him in the act.

Randy Owens, owner of the black and white feline, stated, "I am shocked and amazed at Tab's kleptomaniac behavior."

Close stated that all of the stolen jewelry has been recovered. "I learned that Tab keeps company with two female felines. A search of their apartments turned up the stolen items.

" _Several pieces were recovered from the tree house of Yvonne, a Siamese owned by Stewart Falon who occupies a unit in an adjacent condominium complex. The rest of the stolen jewelry was found buried under the cushion in the cat bed of Ginger, a red Persian belonging to Donna Langley, resident at the Heritage Arms._

" _I can't guarantee that Tab won't revert to his thieving ways," Owens said, "but at least we will know where to look should the burglaries resume."_

Randy dropped the paper on the floor and gave me a stern look. "No more cat burglaries for you, old boy," he admonished.

I just gave him an unblinking stare, walked over to the paper and used my claws to shred it.

Made great litter material.

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Midnight Revenge

Kate finally managed to relax her weary body enough to drift into a light sleep when a soft, scrabbling sound jerked her wide-awake. She lay still, trying to place the sound. There it was again, coming from the closet. Drowsily she murmured, "Midnight, you better get at your mouse duties. Show Henry what a good cat you are."

The glossy black animal peered at her from beneath the hind leg stretched over his head. In the dim glow of the night-light, she could see the silken fur was damp from his grooming efforts. He leisurely resumed bathing when Kate made no further comment.

Kate tried to will herself back to sleep. Every muscle in her body seemed to ache. What a lousy time for John Hake to decide Henry would have to

accompany him to the sales conference in Chicago. That had left her with the task of unpacking and putting things away in the lovely old Victorian house she and Henry had just purchased.

She yawned and snuggled deeper into the bed, tucking the blanket close around her shoulders. Midnight purred contentedly and she could feel his front paws moving rhythmically as he kneaded her leg.

Kate had just reached that moment in sleep as the conscious mind crosses the threshold into oblivion when the scratching sound came again. This time a long, deep sigh accompanied the noise.

Her eyes flew open, her heart thudding in her chest, its beat accelerating as adrenaline pumped. She lay rigid for a moment, ears straining to hear the misplaced sounds again. Nothing. Cautiously she eased her arm out from beneath the covers, her stiff, cold fingers searching for the bed lamp switch. She fumbled the light on and anxiously checked out the room. Midnight raised his sleepy black head and blinked green eyes at the sudden glare of light. He gave a questioning meow, yawned and resumed his normal pose, chin resting atop his paws, purring softly.

At first glance, everything appeared normal in the room. Henry's highboy stood between two tall windows, her dresser lined up against the opposite wall. Its mirror reflected the motionless white sheets hanging from the curtain rods as temporary drapes.

Kate's hand clutched at her throat. She could feel her pulse racing and knew the unreasonable fear was not doing her delicately balanced heart condition any good. She reached for the nightstand drawer, fumbled anxiously, and clutched the bottle of nitroglycerin tablets in trembling fingers.

"Damn," she said aloud as she struggled with the cap of the new bottle Henry had picked up from the pharmacy the previous day. She shook out one of the tiny white tablets and put it under her tongue, waiting for the swift throb of the slight headache normally experienced as the medication began its work. Somewhere a detached part of her brain made note that her head didn't hurt but her chest did.

Her eyes wandered to the open closet. Henry had promised to get the sliding doors up after the painting was finished. Why did he have to go to that darned conference now, of all times?

No one in the room other than she and Midnight; no breath of air stirring – yet an empty clothes hanger on the rod swayed back and forth, clinking against an adjoining hanger. The slight noise seemed like the clash of cymbals. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and Midnight's tail lashed back and forth as he stared unblinkingly at the closet, his purr now silent.

A lancing stab of pain arched through her chest and down her arm. With frantic haste she shook out another small white pill and put it under her tongue. She kept her eyes fastened on the clothes hanger while she waited for the heated sting of the nitroglycerin. There was no familiar warm blast to bathe the delicate tissue beneath her tongue. She grimaced at the odd bittersweet taste. Had the pharmacy mixed up her prescription somehow? Her ears rang and her vision blurred.

The scratching in the wall grew louder and the sigh seemed like a blast of sound in the otherwise quiet room. The hanger kept swaying, careening drunkenly on the clothes rod. Midnight stood, tail bristling, and moved to the head of the bed, mewing anxiously.

She turned toward the nightstand and reached for the phone to call 911. But there was no telephone there. Now she remembered. She had gotten a bit testy with Henry when she returned from a doctor's appointment and found he had neglected to have an extension run to the bedroom. Apologizing profusely, he had promised to arrange for the installation. Oh, why wasn't he here when she needed him so much?

As Kate struggled for breath, she carefully scooted across the bed and swung her feet to the floor. Clutching the nightstand, she lurched upright. If only that elephant tap dancing on her chest would just go away. In spite of the crushing weight, she needed to get downstairs to the telephone.

She managed to totter to the doorway where she paused a moment, gasping for more air, swimming in a dark sea of pain. She stepped into the hallway, stretching her hand towards the banister.

Behind her came the now familiar scratching sound, accompanied this time by a low moan. Like an echo, her own moan rang out as a rocket exploded in her chest. Ears roaring, brilliant light flashing behind her eyes, she fell into blackness and crumpled into a discarded heap on the floor, inches from the stairway. Faintly, she could feel Midnight sniffing her face, his rough pink tongue licking her nose before all awareness emptied from her body.

Henry Cole stood staring down at the frail, middle-aged woman lying on the floor. He bent and, distasteful as it was, checked for a pulse. The sightless blue eyes stared at his highly polished brown oxfords. Satisfied that no flicker of life remained in the inert figure, he pried the tiny bottle from the clutching fingers of his late wife. Without haste, he walked into the bathroom and poured the saccharin tablets into the toilet. Henry extracted a twist of tissue paper from his pocket and poured its contents back into the small vial. The tissue joined the dissolving tablets in the toilet bowl and it all disappeared in a swirl of water when he pushed the lever.

He returned to the hallway and placed the bottle of nitroglycerin tablets in the cooling fingers. Henry caught a glimpse of Midnight as the sleek animal darted into the bedroom. Come morning, he'd get rid of that damn cat.

He moved to the bedroom closet, untied the invisible nylon sewing thread from the clothes hanger, and retrieved a garment hook from the shelf above the clothes rod. It had been so simple to remove the hook, extend the hole through into the closet of the adjoining bedroom and run the thread through. Now a few turns of the hook and it was screwed firmly into its original hole. He wound the nylon thread back on the spool and dropped it into Kate's sewing basket.

Casting one last glance around the bedroom, he failed to see the glowing, angry eyes of the cat watching from his hidden post beneath the bed. Perfect. Now all Henry had to do was contact their daughter Kathy. He would make his telephone call as the grief-crazed, bereaved husband. Oh yes, everything was right on schedule according to his carefully laid plan.

As he stepped over Kate's lifeless body, he paused at the top of the stairs and glanced down at the limp form. "Sorry, Kate, but Melody is waiting for me in Chicago."

Henry smiled in satisfaction at his handiwork and placed a foot on the second stair riser. A black juggernaut streaked toward him. A growl, an unearthly shriek, and four sets of sharp claws dug into Henry's back. His arms flailed in a vain attempt to grasp the safety of the banister.

His flight down the stairs ended with an ominous crunch as the back of his neck struck the edge of the bottom step His agonized scream rang through the house as a red ball of flaming pain pierced his body. Then all sensation below his broken neck stopped as the damaged spinal cord ceased relaying messages.

Midnight stalked around the helpless man lying sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Henry lay on the cold wooden floor in the foyer, unmoving until the strong odor of urine permeated the air. His eyes flew open and he moaned an anguished "NO!" as cat urine trickled down his face. Midnight, tail held high, turned and bounded lightly up the steps.

Henry could see the hated cat at the top of the stairs sniff anxiously at Kate's still form and butt her gently with his head. He lay down beside her, folding his front legs in front of him.

While Henry lay helpless at the bottom of the steps, the cat, like a miniature sphinx, began his long vigil through the remainder of the night until morning and the arrival of Kathy's daily visit.

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The Pond

The pond drew Tom Jordan to its brink morning after morning as he walked his yellow lab. Salty loved the exercise, frisking along at Tom's side like the pup he used to be a few years back. He seemed to think the walks a special treat just for him. Tom didn't bother to disillusion Salty. No need for him to know the doctor had ordered Tom up and about for a two-mile hike at least three times a week.

Salty cooperated wholeheartedly, which is more than Tom could say for his young wife, Olivia. He distinctly remembered hearing Dr. Bisher in the hallway outside his hospital room.

"Mrs. Jordan, Tom will need a cholesterol-free diet, moderate exercise, and avoid any stress."

The walks soon expanded to daily ones; it got Tom out of the house and away from Olivia. He'd stand on the bank of the pond, gazing out across its placid surface, listening to the deep-throated roar of a bullfrog. While he never managed to catch so much as a glimpse of the fellow, Tom surmised he must be huge. The frog always hit the water with a mighty splash whenever Salty and Tom started poking about his territory.

The pond seemed fairly shallow along its edges, the murky depths in its center hiding a wealth of secrets. The skeleton of a long-dead eucalyptus three thrust its bony arms from the middle of the pond, fingers pointing skyward in what? Supplication? Derision? Impudence?

"Salty, ya' see that white, dead thing out there pointing at us? Giving us the finger, I reckon. Maybe jealous because you and I, old Salt, are still among the living."

Salty always answered with an eager whine, thumping his tail against Tom's leg.

Strange, the things one noticed when life is nearly snatched away and a second chance granted. Suddenly it's time to watch ducks swim around the pond, quacking to one another, flicking their tails in and out of the water. Time to listen to a bullfrog serenade the world.

So it went through the spring, the water alive with tiny swimming things; the ducks feasting, mating, nesting; the bullfrog presenting his bass solo. And Salty enjoying his second puppyhood, pink tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth, eyes bright and eager, nose quivering as he investigated the edges of the pond.

One morning in July, Salty sniffed suspiciously at the edge of abruptly green-covered water, drawing back in distaste. He and Tom stood for a while gazing out across the pond. The viscous green seemed intent on smothering the teeming life. A deep sadness wrapped itself around Tom for in the pond he saw a reflection of his own life over the past months.

Olivia. Olivia with the russet hair and green eyes. She'd been his secretary only a few months when Tom asked her to stay late to work on a brief. He'd never intended to cheat on Nancy. Sure, that first spark of chemistry had waned, but the marriage was solid enough, content enough, Nancy still attractive and vivacious.

Until Olivia. Olivia whose satin body and warm, seeking mouth created so much excitement.

Tom sighed, absently patting Salty on the head. The dog's wet tongue found the palm of his hand, returning the caress. Salty had missed Nancy at first. Tom missed Nancy even yet. But Nancy had behaved in a civilized manner and he'd been generous in the settlement, and monthly alimony, trying to compensate for the hurt so apparent in her eyes. She'd gone back to college, gotten her masters, found an interesting job and made a new life for herself.

At the pond's edge a couple of weeks later, Salty raised his hackles and growled deep within his chest. Across the scum-coated water, in the bare, white branches of a half-dead tree, roosted a pair of vultures. Tom shivered, staring in fascination at the two ugly creatures. They possessed a bizarre beauty of their own, moving slowly along the tree limb, stretching, hunching their backs as their droppings further polluted the pond.

They stared back at Tom in unblinking disinterest ‒ like Olivia since he'd retired and adopted a laid-back lifestyle. Salty whined and Tom shushed him, dropping hand on his head. The lab leaned against him, relaxing at the sound of his voice. Tom seemed to be talking a lot to the dog in recent months.

"Well, old boy, seems our lovely Olivia is up to something, eth? Eggs for breakfast every morning. Pork chops and gravy for dinner, cake or pie for dessert. What do you think, Salt? What do you think?"

Soft brown eyes looked up at Tom, love mirrored in their depths. Tom knew he should have taken his cue from the dog in the beginning. Salty and Olivia barely tolerated each other. On more than one occasion, when she thought no one could observe, Tom had watched her push the lab away, speak sharply to him. Salty avoided her whenever possible. Smart dog.

Now that the continuous round of social engagements and weekend trips were things of the past, Olivia's petulance, her impatience, grew steadily. Tom felt sure that when her obvious plan failed, she'd resort to more drastic measures. How frustrated she became as he refused to gorge himself on forbidden foods, refused, in fact, to gorge himself in any area.

And she who cared nothing at all for gardening suddenly displayed an avid interest in fertilizers, insecticides, and gopher poison. Oh, Olivia!

A few mornings later Tom stood at the edge of the pond, formulating his own plan. Salty and he watched as the vultures floated slowly toward their tree limb, settling into place to wait patiently.

Lord knows he'd never wanted to do this thing but the argument with Olivia left no choice. Should he have gone to the police in the beginning? With what? Nothing but suspicions and Olivia a consummate actress. How cleverly she could have convinced them that he'd become a paranoid, senile old man.

His hand trembled as he fondled Salty's ears, recalling Olivia's strident voice. How quickly it had crescendoed to near hysterical screeching. At the end, he'd only been trying to defend himself from her raking fingernails. Never had he intended to push her hard enough to cause the accident. Even now, the sound of her skull thudding against the raised-brick hearth reverberated in his head.

He hoped he'd thought of everything, left no detail uncovered. The reservation was made, the eticket printed out, along with her boarding pass, her bag packed. That evening he'd drive to airport. Since he couldn't go beyond the security check-in, he'd tell the authorities later that he had dropped her at the curb. A week from now, when she didn't return or contact him, he'd become quite concerned and alert the authorities.

In the meantime, the vultures were feasting in the underbrush at the edge of the pond.

Tom gently tugged Salty's collar. "Let's go home, old boy. Let's go home."

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Running With the Bulls

The hot sun reflected off the white buildings and red tile roofs, adding to the edginess of the milling animals behind the heavy gate. The bulls seemed to have picked up the vibrations of the excited crowd lining the street. They sorted, stamped, and blew restlessly, tossing their wickedly sharp horns in anticipation ‒ or so it seemed to Raoul as he waited with the rest of the runners for the gate to open.

His dark eyes searched the crowd for a glimpse of Maria but he was disappointed. He could see no head of long black hair with auburn highlights, one side caught up with a crimson rose that matched the full, petulant mouth.

No matter. She would be somewhere along the route of the run, black eyes flashing eagerly as she watched him go by, the bulls in thundering pursuit. Then she would have to retract her taunts. He would prove to her that he was a real man, as macho as Jose, or Emiliano, or Juan. Then she would allow _him_ to walk her home, his arm about her waist, head bent to hers, laughing together. _He_ would be the one to slip through the door of her casa and ‒ a shiver swept through him as he ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips at the thought of her heaving breasts and shapely, entwining legs. Heat radiated from his loins, spreading through his eager body.

Yes, today he would show her that he was no coward. Had she not promised him that he could walk her home tonight if he was brave enough to run with the bulls?

A restless murmur swept through the runners and the excited voices of the crowd swelled and pulsed from wall-to-wall along the street. An official moved to open the gate, photographers aimed their cameras, and the runners tensed, ready to start. Raoul was confident. One advantage of being a coward ‒ very early in life he had learned to run swiftly. Today he would outrun the bulls. And the door would close behind him tonight as he took Maria to her bed and experienced the delights of her warm thighs. He swallowed convulsively in anticipation.

Sudden confusion enveloped the street and the hot air filled with shouts, snorts, laughter, and shrieks. Raoul stood, bound to the cobbles, staring in terrified fascination at the oncoming melee. Someone beside him shouted "Run!" and he turned away from the sight of wild eyes and sharp horns bearing down upon him and fled.

There was exhilaration in his terror. He had never known such fright as he ran past the screaming crowd. Who were they encouraging? The runners? The bulls? Perhaps both. But it did not matter; today it was all right to run. In fact, it was heroic to run. That knowledge lent further speed to his feet.

Ah, it was wonderful to run, the hot air rushing past his sweat-drenched body. It offered little in the way of relief to the oppressive heat, but it did not matter. The only important thing today was his moving feet carrying him closer and closer to his destination ‒ Maria.

He ran, chest heaving, breath gushing out through his open mouth. His eyes searching from side-to-side as he passed the people crushed against the buildings, out of the pathway of the on-rushing hooves. She must be here somewhere for she had never missed a run. And hadn't she promised to watch for him, to reward him at the end?

Faster, faster his mind urged his tiring legs and labored breathing. Only a little way now, his destination in sight. Yes! Yes! There stood Maria, the sun glinting off the black, waving hair, catching and reflecting the reddish light. Her full breasts thrust against the tight cotton of her blouse, its scooped neckline revealing the apricot swells of flesh. Her eyes flashed and the tip of her pink tongue ran along her crimson lips, wetting them. Their gleaming enticement was his beacon in the roaring crowd.

Then he stumbled, arms flailing desperately as he sought to regain his balance. The smell of perspiring people, the acrid odor of the oncoming bulls assailed his nostrils as he catapulted forward onto the street.

Quickly he lurched to his feet but a blaze of pain pierced his ankle. He could not run ‒ only hobble. The other runners brushed past him, grunting and gasping, their bodies, like his, drenched in sweat. But he must finish; he must. Tears of frustration mingled with the beads of moisture wetting his face. He forced himself to ignore the excruciating pain in his ankle.

The drumming beat of the hooves drowned out all other sound and he could feel the hot breath of the bulls close behind. He tried to angle toward the safety of the white-walled buildings. Dimly he grew aware of a hulking body passing him on the right; another lumbered by on the left. He felt the material of his shirt part as a tossing horn caught a sleeve. What mattered a shirt, he thought as his body ricocheted off the steaming side of a glistening black bull.

A searing pain lanced through his side. It grew suddenly hot and sticky. Raoul glanced down in bewilderment at his torn white pants, at the spreading, deep-red stain. The same red as Maria's lips.

Another frenzied bull brushed past him, its massive shoulder knocking him to his knees. He knelt there, swaying, his hands clutching the gapping tear in his groin. His fingers pressed the edges of flesh together but the blood spurted between them, dripping onto the street.

A wave of blackness shimmered across his eyes. He blinked and through the misty haze saw Maria still just ahead, her arm linked with that of a man all Spain recognized ‒ the season's most promising young matador. She laughed up into his face, her teeth gleaming whitely between the lips Raoul would never touch.

Crimson lips. Crimson like the cobbles on which he knelt.

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Second Chance

Delores West heaved a sigh of relief and tossed her books onto the back seat of her messy small car.

She slid onto the hot seat and pushed the key into the ignition. Her ears buzzed and rang uncomfortably. To add to her distress, her eyes stung and watered, making it difficult to see clearly.

"Need sleep," she muttered.

But sleep was not something that would come easily in spite of her lack of it during the past three days of finals. She had lost track of the uppers she had swallowed. They had enabled her to study and stay awake through the tests. Now she wanted to come down ‒ just sleep.

Delores moaned softly. "Gotta' get to Billy's. He'll fix me up."

She braked to an uncoordinated stop at a signal light, glancing in the rear-view mirror at her reflection. Delores raised a shaking hand to smooth the tangle of dark hair, grimacing at the sloppily applied makeup on the pale oval face. There were pools of blue beneath the hazel eyes, not due to any cosmetic.

The impatient sound of a horn behind her broke Delores free of the contemplation of her ravaged face. She made a clashing shift of gears, vague thoughts floating in her mind.

"When was the last time you ate, Delores?" she questioned herself. She couldn't remember. "Yesterday? The day before?"

Concentrate. Must concentrate on getting to Billy and his magic pills and their sweet relief.

Traffic thickened around her and she pushed all thoughts aside as she gave her full attention to driving.

Delores resisted the urge to pull the little red car to the curb and run down the street. Run. Run away. Away from everything. From everyone. Throw herself down on the cool green grass and roll. Relieve the terrible clawing sensation beneath her skin.

Oh God! Would this signal light ever change? Delores tried to peer around the flatbed truck in front of her. She impatiently drummed on the steering wheel, trying to hum Taylor's latest hit.

"Come on! Come on light. Go, go, go."

She exchanged stares with the occupants of the car beside her, muttering imprecations under her breath/

So close. Only three blocks. "Why doesn't the light change? What's holding it up?" she fumed, glancing at her watch again.

"This is ridiculous," she challenged the signal. "You've been red for an entire five minutes."

Delores pressed down on the horn. Drivers of other waiting vehicles joined in, a spate of angry blasts filling the intersection.

The red signal light began pulsing on and off and one by one the cars filtered through the intersection. The tight squeezing in her chest began to subside as Delores drew abreast of the signal, paused and took her turn. She depressed the accelerator and sped up the street.

This would be her last buy from Billy. Not only was she graduating, but she was graduating from any dependency on uppers and downers she reassured herself. At least the uppers had gotten her through the past few weeks. She had Billy to thank for that. One last time, now. Just enough to get her down from this all-time high.

Delores turned right at the first corner past the light and drew in her breath. Her foot hesitated on the accelerator and then pushed down in panic, her mind drumming a warning.

"Get outa' here. Get outa' here. Just keep right on driving."

Police cars lined the street in front of Billy's house and uniformed officers spilled across the yard. Billy, in handcuffs, an officer on each side, plodded down his front walk. Three other young men were making the same trip with their special escorts. One young woman struggled against the firm grip on each of her arms.

Delores drove for two more blocks before turning off on a side street and pulling to the curb. She sat, her body shaking as uncontrollable sobs shuddered through her.

"Oh God!" she moaned. "It could have been me. It would have been me except for that signal light."

She searched through her carryall for a tissue and blew her nose. Delores raised her eyes to stare into the mirror, grabbed another tissue and wiped them.

"My folks would have killed me," she said in a voice that still shook with fright.

Why now? When she so desperately needed to come down today? She wanted to scream. To beat on the roof of the car. To claw at her skin stop the crawly things that crept there.

"Gotta' think," she scolded herself.

She sat for several more minutes, drew a deep breath and started the car. No more. This was absolutely the last time.

Delores pulled from the curb and headed back toward University Avenue. Carlo lived only six or seven miles across town. He'd have a downer. Good old Carlo. Barring malfunctioning signal lights, she'd be there in ten minutes.

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Where Antelope Play

My stepdad swaggered back to the red pickup, his lips curling around a foul-smelling cigar stub.

"Okay, Tommy, old man Turner says we can hut his property," Jim chortled. "He reckons the antelope need culling anyways."

I just sat on the cracked plastic-covered seat of the pickup and nodded my head. A cold, sick feeling gnawed at the pit of my stomach at the thought of seeing one of the beautiful creatures slaughtered. For sure, none of my shots would find a mark in a defenseless dumb animal, even if I liked the taste of wild game, which I don't.

Jim claims antelope are really dumb. They just follow along a fence line and don't jump or go under it. He says they're just stupid goats. Takes one to know one.

He climbed back in the truck, pumping the throttle a few times before coaxing the old heap into starting. Even my un-mechanical ear could detect the miss in the engine. Jim didn't much believe in preventive maintenance. A set of spark plugs five thousand miles ago would have helped.

He drove through a gate that Mr. Turner opened and I watched in the side mirror as the old man closed it behind us. Jim barreled down the dirt track, leaving a billowing dust cloud behind despite the light snow that frosted the ground.

"Turner says to just make sure we shoot an antelope and none of his cattle," Jim said. "Course I don't have to worry about you. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces. Keepin' your eyes open 'stead of closin' 'em when you pull the trigger might help a whole lot."

I didn't reply. No use riling him up and getting clobbered.

I learned long ago to keep my mouth shut and stay out of his way as much as possible. My mother isn't as lucky. She learned to keep her mouth shut, but being his wife, has to spend time with him. Most nights, I can hear him grunting like a billy goat down the hall in their room. Later, Mom tries to stifle her sobs in the bathroom.

It didn't take her long to learn never to tell him no about anything. I was six when she married him. He'd been charming while courting her, taking her to movies and out to dinner. Even brought flowers a few times. Probably stole them out of someone's garden or even the cemetery.

All that changed quickly once he got a ring on her finger and moved into our little two-bedroom home. Mom had kept the place up after Dad died. Hadn't been all that easy, but she'd managed. Didn't take Jim long to fill the yard with junky trucks and cars. He yelled about the expense of watering the lawn so it died.

First time, about a week after the honeymoon, that Mom suggested we all go out to dinner, he yelled, "Christ, woman. What ya' think I married you for? Rattle them pans and skillets and fix some chow."

So much for charming.

Within a couple of months, the extent of his drinking came out too. Unfortunately, he wasn't a funny drunk. He often bragged, "I'm meaner than a pit bull."

I still don't know why Mom lied to the hospital the first time he hit her and broke her nose. I sort of figured she was too ashamed of making the mistake of marrying him. That was eight years ago and it sure hasn't gotten any better.

Jim comes home from his job at the sand and gravel pit, swearing and punching out anyone within range if supper isn't on the table when he walks in the door. Never mind if he stopped off at the tavern to tank up and staggers in three hours late.

First time he came home late, Mom and I went ahead and ate. She cleaned up the kitchen and we went to bed. Jim came in roaring drunk and dragged her out to the kitchen by her hair while she screamed and cried and begged him to stop. That's when my nightmares and bed-wetting began. I often wake up crying, praying to grow up as big as my real Dad so I can defend Mom.

Too bad for me that I take after her side of the family ‒ average height, small boned, fair skin and hair. Jim calls me a sissy, of course. I'd rather read, paint, or study dramatics than play football or hunt and fish. Now that I've reached fourteen, Jim insists that I learn to hunt. He's given upon the football. I just don't have the size. All summer he made me practice with his Ruger .22-280, telling Mom he's gonna' make a 'man' outa' me yet.

We bounced around on the seat as Jim herded the truck over some rough terrain. How I envied Mom back home in California. It was a lot colder here at the base of the Mingus Mountains in Yavapai County, Arizona. Beautiful country, though. Blue sky overhead punctuated with puffy white clouds. Now that the sun has been up for a couple of hours, the snow was melting rapidly and I could dispense with my jacket.

Jim must have driven a good eight miles before he parked and yelled, "Haul your ass outa' there and get the gear together."

I knew better than to argue so got out, reaching back to the gun rack to take down the Ruger assigned to me, as well as Jim's Winchester .30-07.

Jim wore a camouflage jumpsuit and a red cap. I'd scrounged up some ratty old jeans and wore the new plaid wool shirt and green cap Mom gave me for Christmas. Sure wouldn't blend into the background and I hoped the Antelope would see me coming and make their escape.

We soon sighted a half dozen grazing antelope near a small creek that meandered through an arroyo.

"You head up stream a ways," Jim commanded. "I'll sneak down and come up behind 'em. If they spook and come your way, fer Christ sake, shoot one of the damn things. Think you can handle that?"

I nodded my head, silently vowing to fire too high to hit anything. Following orders, I set off up the arroyo. No doubt Jim would take home an antelope, which Mom would have to help butcher, package, and later, cook.

Everything smelled clean and fresh and sweet as I ambled down the arroyo. Birds twittered and chirped in the brush along the creek. I wanted to find a spot and just enjoy the sunshine and the sounds of the water trickling in the creek bed; listen to the birds and watch the hawk high overhead as it caught an updraft, soaring effortlessly, its wings spread gracefully.

I heard the bark of Jim's Winchester and bile rose in my throat. One more antelope that would never again roam and play over this range.

How to avoid helping Jim bleed out the carcass and load it on the truck? No way, really, but at least I could put it off for a while. Better to put up with Jim's yelling at me, even cuffing me one on the side of the head.

I squatted at the edge of the water, picking up pebbles and skipping them across the creek. Something small, tan, and furry skittered among the rocks. I stayed quiet, hoping to catch a better glimpse, but whatever small creature had been there must have slipped away, frightened by my aimless pursuit.

It grew warmer and I pulled off the wool shirt, using the sleeves to tie it around my hips. I felt comfortable enough in my tee shirt. Reluctantly I turned up the arroyo toward Jim, trudging along in the brilliant sunshine, wishing I'd remembered by sunglasses. I began sweating a little under the weight of the Ruger.

A good mile down the arroyo brought no sign of Jim. I began calling and his answering shout came from a nearby thicket. I floundered along, the rifle under my arm, my finger stuck through the trigger guard. Rounding a bend in the creek, I saw Jim's beefy rear end pointing skyward as he bent over an antelope lying on the ground. Bitterness at the sight of him and the dead animal overwhelmed me for a moment, blurring my vision. I stumbled over a rock, instinctively jerking the Ruger up, my finger squeezing the trigger. When the echoes of the shot died away and I regained my footing, I looked fearfully toward Jim, knowing he would give me a royal chewing out, if not worse.

To my horror, he lay sprawled across the antelope, red staining the brown and green seat of his jumpsuit. I dropped the rifle and ran to him.

"Jim? Jim!"

Only the sound of his labored breathing answered me. He groaned as I managed to roll him off the antelope and onto his back, sucking in my breath at the sight of what had once been his groin and belly. Dark red blood spurted and I turned away to vomit the hearty breakfast Jim had insisted I eat.

With my retching finally under control, I bent over Jim, wondering what I should do. His face had taken on an ashen hue, his lips bluish. Cripes! Was he going to die right here? I didn't want to touch him, but squatted down and held my hand over his mouth, feeling the faint whiff of air sucking in and out.

"Jim?"

I sat back on my heels, staring at him. His eyelids flickered and then opened, his pupils dilated in shock. He managed to focus on me, his lips moving soundlessly. I bent closer to hear.

"Tommy . . . I'm hurt . . . real bad." He groaned, then gasped, "Take the . . . truck. Get help."

"Okay," I replied, jumping up. "Uh, do you need anything before I go?"

But Jim seemed to have lost consciousness so I took off in the direction of the truck. Now where was it? Oh, yeah. In line with a butte to the west. Jim had made a point of lining up landmarks so we wouldn't waste time finding our way back.

I headed toward the truck, my steps growing slower, my thoughts whirling. Obviously, Jim needed immediate medical attention. Otherwise, he would bleed to death out there where the antelope were supposed to play. I tried to remember everything I had ever studied or read about bleeding to death. My first step should have been to stop the bleeding but Jim had told me to take the truck and go for help. I never argued with him.

It took me a good forty-five minutes to find the truck. Jim had left the key in the ignition so I climbed in and tried to start the engine. It coughed and sputtered but didn't start. I pumped the gas pedal several times and tried again. From the smell of gas, I must have flooded the carburetor. I waited a few minutes and began grinding on the starter until it barely turned over.

I gave up on the truck and started down the dirt track toward the ranch house, not relishing the long walk. It was early afternoon before I arrived at the house, hot, thirsty, tired, and dusty.

Mr. Turner answered my knock on the kitchen door, took one look at me and exclaimed, "What's happened son?"

I bent over, wrapping my arms over my stomach, gasping for breath. "It's my stepdad. He's hurt bad. Real bad."

Mr. Turner gave me some water and asked, "What happened?"

I started bawling and mumbling over and over how I had stumbled and accidentally fired the gun.

Mr. Turner patted me on the shoulder. "Now, now, son. No use feelin' guilty. It was an accident and they do happen. In fact, all the time. People just keep gettin' shot while out huntin'. Think you can find the way back to where it happened?"

I nodded and after Mr. Turner placed a call to the sheriff's office, we climbed into his jeep and headed back up the dirt track. It didn't take long to reach the arroyo, where we climbed out and I led the way to Jim's body.

We reached the two carcasses and a couple of vultures flew reluctantly away. Flies buzzed over both man and beast, both quite dead. I started bawling again and Mr. Turner tried to comfort me.

There was no need for him to know I was weeping tears of relief that Jim was, indeed, quite dead.

I wandered back down the arroyo a ways while Mr. Turner waited for the sheriff and ambulance, which soon arrived.

Mom got a neighbor to drive her over to Arizona. Mr. Turner was kind enough to let us stay in his spare bedrooms until the inquest, which went as expected: Accidental death by gunshot.

When we returned to California, Mom sold all Jim's guns.

Oh yes, I've never had another nightmare nor wet the bed either.

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The End!

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About the Author:

As a journalism major, Lyndee Roberts consistently won top awards at both the local and state level. She followed that up by devoting the past twenty years to helping authors prepare their manuscripts for publication. To-date, over thirty have made it into print, from simple little booklets, on which she did the design and layout, to hard cover and paperback books, including _Chicken Soup for the Soul_ , as well as a Military Book Club of the Month selection _._ Along the way, she managed to do some writing of her own.

You can contact Lyndee at:

http://www.lyndeeroberts.com

http://www.lyndeeroberts.com/blog/

Your comments are always appreciated. Thank you!

And here is the prologue of what's coming up next: _Journey Into Love,_ a romance novel.

Prologue

Santa Barbara, California:

When Elaine Kramer groggily answered her telephone at four twenty-five in the morning, she assumed it meant bad news.

The caller ID read "Val Verde Medical Center." She swallowed past the sudden constriction in her throat and managed to say, "Hello."

"Elaine? It's Jeannie."

"Oh my God! What's happened? Why are you calling from a hospital? Has there been an accident? Are you hurt? Are you . . .?"

"Elaine, shut up for a minute so I can tell you before they take me to surgery. I have a ruptured appendix and they need to operate _now_."

"What can I do? Do you want me to fly down there to be with you? I'm sure I can catch a plane this morning. Where are you anyway?"

Since her cousin, Jeanne Kramer, worked for a Swiss entrepreneur, she could be anywhere in the world.

"I'm in Del Rio, Texas where my folks are wintering. They're right here with me. What I need from you is a big favor. I was supposed to fly in and meet the _Athena_ at the port in San Pedro day after tomorrow. Obviously I can't. It'll be at least three weeks before I'm back to work. I know your passport is up-to-date so please, please say you'll fill in for me."

Elaine frowned. Jeannie's voice had become slurred so obviously she was being prepped for surgery.

"Okay, I can do that," she reassured Jeannie. "Who do I call to make the arrangements?"

Jeannie managed to give her a contact name and telephone number. Before Elaine could ask for more information, she heard a voice in the background say, "You'll have to hang up now, Ms. Kramer."

"Gotta' go. Bye."

Elaine stared at the telephone in her hand. What had she gotten herself into?

She started a list of what needed to be done before boarding the ship. Running a hand through her wavy dark hair, she decided it would have to do for now and she could always get a trim onboard the cruise ship.

Passport retrieved from the floor safe in her closet, along with emergency cash, she began assembling a suitable wardrobe. The new sea-green chiffon blouse that matched her eyes so nicely would work well with her standby black palazzo pants.

Elaine went online to check out weather along the route. She would need a few pieces of warm clothing for San Francisco and Vancouver, but tropical wear for Hawaii on to Sydney, which was entering its summer season and could be blisteringly hot.

Last time she had talked to Jeanne a few weeks before, her cousin had given her an itinerary, which included getting together with Elaine in San Francisco during the ship's three-day stopover. The ports-of-call during the forthcoming weeks would be Vancouver, British Columbia; Honolulu, Hawaii; Pago Pago, American Samoa; Suva, Fiji; Auckland, New Zealand; and Sydney, Australia. By that time, if all went as planned, Jeannie should be able to rejoin the _Athena_ in Sydney.

At five-thirty that morning, Elaine placed a call to the offices of the Zurich Global Investment Group in Switzerland where it was already afternoon. A Frau Mueller was quite sorry to hear of Jeannie's illness. After quizzing Elaine on her qualifications as a temporarily replacement, Frau Mueller assured her that all arrangements would be made. Elaine would fill in on the San Francisco to Sydney leg of the journey and a ticket provided for her to fly back home at her leisure. She rapidly took notes of when and where the _Athena_ would be docking in San Pedro.

"You will not be required to begin your duties until nine o'clock the morning after leaving San Francisco, so you can enjoy some free days aboard ship and take tours if you wish. The company will provide free passes for all tours.

"There is also a very nice stateroom on the B deck that Ms. Kramer has been using. We make sure our employees are comfortable when they have to travel. Now, Ms. Kramer," Frau Mueller paused a moment. "This could get quite confusing, you and your cousin both having the same last name. Just report to the purser when you board and he will see to everything. It is, indeed, fortunate that you are well qualified and available to replace Jeannie while she recovers. Contact me if you find there is a need. Do have a nice trip. Good bye."

Elaine hung up the phone feeling slightly dazed as well as thrilled to be starting a working holiday.

By the following morning, a messenger had delivered a package containing all the paperwork she would need to embark on her journey ─ a journey that would change her life forever.

Author's Note: Join Elaine Kramer as she journeys across the Pacific Ocean and falls in love along the way. This novel should be ready for your reading enjoyment in the spring of 2013.

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