Black Cat Weekly #106 E-Book

Brendan DuBois

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 522

Beschreibung

For our 106th issue, we seem to have developed a television theme, with a pair of great speculative fiction stories about TV: Norman Spinrad’s “Prime Time” and Henry Slesar’s “The Show Must Go On.” Spinrad’s tale is a look at a future where people can retire to relive television. And Slesar’s is a darkly cynical look behind the curtain of television production. Jack Vance, H.B. Fyfe, and Joseph Payne Brennan round out our SF and fantasy contributors this issue.   “Prime Time,” incidentally, is Norman Spinrad’s fiction debut in Black Cat Weekly, and it won’t be his last story for us. He kindly went through his short fiction and selected 10 favorite stories for us to reprint in coming issues, so you’re in for a real treat.
  And speaking of treats, our editors are already working on some special Halloween surprises for October. I know you’ll be thoroughly spooked by some of them. Something to look forward to, as we approach my favorite holiday season. (There’s a reason we have a black cat for a mascot.)
  Our novel this issue is a mystery: Scarhaven Keep, by Golden Age British author J.S. Fletcher. Also in mysteries, we have an original from Nikki Knight (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman) and a terrific crime story by Brendan DuBois, who remains a mainstay of short mystery fiction. Of course, no issue is complete without a solve-it-yourself short from Hal Charles.
  Great stuff indeed.
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The New York Goodbye,” by Nikki Knight [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Last Shot,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The Road’s End,” by Brendan DuBois [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Scarhaven Keep, by J.S. Fletcher [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Prime Time,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“The Show Must Go On,” by Henry Slesar [short story]
“The Visitor in the Vault,” by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]
“The Night of No Moon,” by H.B. Fyfe [short story]
“The Men Return,” by Jack Vance [short story]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE NEW YORK GOODBYE, by Nikki Knight

LONG SHOT, by Hal Charles

THE ROAD’S END, by Brendan Dubois

SCARHAVEN KEEP, by J.S. Fletcher

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

PRIME TIME, by Norman Spinrad

THE SHOW MUST GO ON, by Henry Slesar

THE VISITOR IN THE VAULT, by Joseph Payne Brennan

THE NIGHT OF NO MOON, by H.B. Fyfe

THE MEN RETURN, by Jack Vance

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“The Road’s End” is copyright © 2000 by Brendan DuBois. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 2000. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Last Shot” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“The New York Goodbye” is copyright © 2023 by Nikki Knight and appears here for the first time.

Scarhaven Keep, by J.S. Fletcher, was originally published in 1922.

“Prime Time” is copyright © 1980 by Norman Spinrad. Originally published in Omni Magazine, November 1980. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Show Must Go On,” by Henry Slesar, was originally published in Infinity, July 1957.

“The Visitor in the Vault,” by Joseph Payne Brennan, was originally published in Scream at Midnight (1963).

“The Night of No Moon,” by H.B. Fyfe, was originally published in Infinity, June 1957. Reprinted by permissionof the author’s estate.

“The Men Return,” by Jack Vance, was originally published in Infinity, July 1957.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

For our 106th issue, we seem to have developed a television theme, with a pair of great speculative fiction stories about TV: Norman Spinrad’s “Prime Time” and Henry Slesar’s “The Show Must Go On.” Spinrad’s tale is a look at a future where people can retire to relive television. And Slesar’s is a darkly cynical look behind the curtain of television production. Jack Vance, H.B. Fyfe, and Joseph Payne Brennan round out our SF and fantasy contributors this issue.

“Prime Time,” incidentally, is Norman Spinrad’s fiction debut in Black Cat Weekly, and it won’t be his last story for us. He kindly went through his short fiction and selected 10 favorite stories for us to reprint in coming issues, so you’re in for a real treat.

And speaking of treats, our editors are already working on some special Halloween surprises for October. I know you’ll be thoroughly spooked by some of them. Something to look forward to, as we approach my favorite holiday season. (There’s a reason we have a black cat for a mascot.)

Our novel this issue is a mystery: Scarhaven Keep, by Golden Age British author J.S. Fletcher. Also in mysteries, we have an original from Nikki Knight (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and a terrific crime story by Brendan DuBois, who remains a mainstay of short mystery fiction (courtesy of Aquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Of course, no issue is complete without a solve-it-yourself short from Hal Charles.

Great stuff indeed.

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The New York Goodbye,” by Nikki Knight [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Last Shot,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“The Road’s End,” by Brendan DuBois [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Scarhaven Keep, by J.S. Fletcher [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Prime Time,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]

“The Show Must Go On,” by Henry Slesar [short story]

“The Visitor in the Vault,” by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]

“The Night of No Moon,” by H.B. Fyfe [short story]

“The Men Return,” by Jack Vance [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE NEW YORK GOODBYE,by Nikki Knight

A JAYE JORDAN MYSTERY

When my friends promised me an only-in-New York farewell dinner, I didn’t think it would include gunfire.

But nothing in my life has turned out the way I planned, so why should my last night out with my radio pals be any different?

That thick August evening, I’d left my bags and boxes packed, and my daughter with her dad, for probably their final bachelor night in our Westchester home. All I wanted to do was forget the divorce and the upcoming move to Vermont for a few hours.

Dinner at Angeli’s was the perfect way to do that.

If you don’t recognize the name, you’d definitely recognize the signed photos on the wall, including Sinatra and several assorted Sopranos stars. Angeli’s is a classic white tablecloths and red sauce spot, the place for a certain kind of New Yorker.

My colleague Lucia Franco has an in.

Lucia would deck you if you called her an elder stateswoman, but she’s been at WEBC, Edison Broadcasting’s flagship news station, for decades. She knows where the bodies are buried, who put them there, and how much of the story is suitable for broadcast. When she found out that I was leaving the City under, shall we say, challenging circumstances, she informed me, with a wicked gleam in her amber eyes and a determined smile, that I deserved a proper send-off.

What we thought that meant was a big, fun, calorie-loaded, and wine-soaked Italian feast in the inimitable atmosphere of Angeli’s. It certainly started that way.

My closest Edison pals, Ruby Sinclair, the managing editor, and Greg Olsen, the Voice of God anchor, met me at Grand Central for the short cab ride. Even though I’m a DJ, I trained as a journalist, and most of my friends are news folk at the AM station. At the restaurant, we had more of my FM music co-workers, but it was still a newsroom-heavy crowd.

I suspected at least a few of the guests had invited themselves when they heard what Lucia was planning. Not for me, but for the special dinner at Angeli’s. My ex and I ate there once on our anniversary, but it’s a very different experience as a friend of Lucia’s.

Everyone seemed to smile and nod at us on our way through the crowded, white-draped tables, and the place itself practically embraced us like someone’s nonna.

No wonder people who barely knew me, like Griff, the General Manager’s assistant, were more than happy to glom on for this.

I wasn’t even really surprised to see Ray Rabinowitz, the General Manager himself. He’s a good guy, and actually smart enough to run two FMs and the top news station in the City. Sometimes he even remembers my name.

On the air, I’m Jaye Jordan. My legal name is Jacqueline Jordan Metz, at least for now, but no one ever calls me anything but Jaye.

Until last year, I had a pretty good deal: midday DJ at the top light-rock FM in the City, morning and night suburban mom. Then came cancer. David survived but our marriage didn’t.

The divorce hit at the same time as the latest round of corporate cuts, so I took my severance and bought what was left of the old Vermont radio station where I’d had my first on-air job. Maybe I’d have better luck with the moose.

First, though, a classic New York goodbye.

Farewell parties have a protocol. Radio people aren’t normally huggy, but we bust out full New York-style embraces and cheek kisses for this.

Everyone dresses, too.

Greg, our silver-haired elder statesman, was dapper in a navy blazer and khakis, standard male formal in the business. He puts it best: “suits are for GM’s and funerals.” Most radio guys, though, would not have a Frank Lloyd Wright tie. His husband picked it out; he’s the one with the eye.

The other radio guys (aside from Ray, whose wife has almost as good an eye as Greg’s husband) were in whatever they’d been able to find online.

The ladies, as we so often do, more than made up for it.

Ruby favors jewel tones to set off her ebony skin, this time a perfect, simple purple sheath, with a gold statement necklace and sky-high heels. Lucia’s dress was red, with gold buttons, an inch or so shorter, her heels even higher. Both the fullest expression of New York elegance.

Me? I can’t play in their league and I know it, so I did my own thing. Tuxedo pants, white blouse, silver wing-tips. It worked, with my curly black hair down and much more red lipstick than I’d ever do on a normal day.

We were looking good and feeling saucy. If you have to say goodbye to the City, this is the way to do it.

As the bread arrived and the first glasses of wine were poured, everyone circulated the way you do when you’re trying to make sure you get a chance to talk to all your pals. Somehow, I ended up at Lucia’s spot, marked by her perfect vintage Coach bag. Ray and Ruby had switched places, during an intense conversation about breaking news coverage, and Greg was now across the table talking to the sports guy about the playoff prospects of his beloved Cleveland Guardians. Griff had tried and failed to wriggle into everyone’s conversations and had apparently given up and disappeared.

I didn’t really care. Lucia was regaling me with a story of an earlier dinner at Angeli’s after a mob trial, and I was hanging on her every word.

The fellas at the next banquette, who were more the usual Angeli’s crowd, fortunately seemed to find us amusing rather than bothersome. I was quite sure that was Lucia’s influence.

I should have paid better attention to where everyone was because that’s when the shooting started.

It’s New York, so everyone knew exactly what was happening—and more importantly, exactly what to do.

We hit the floor, almost as one.

After the second shot, there was a long, eerie quiet…maybe a full thirty seconds. That’s when I realized Lucia and I were on the floor together, unhurt, with a fella from the next table between us, equally unharmed. As he looked at me, he gave a wry grin that suggested considerable experience under fire.

“Can’t say you’re not leaving with a bang.”

* * * *

The good news was, nobody was dead.

The bad news was that Ray Rabinowitz would not being going back to his corner office anytime soon. He’d taken a bullet in the shoulder, which is no big deal for a TV character, but for a corporate guy in his late 50s is a pretty serious thing. Especially since Ray had all the usual radio health habits: lots of coffee, pizza, and booze—not much yoga or salad.

Still, he was lucky in one respect. He got to leave.

The rest of us weren’t going anywhere until the cops finished with us.

We were, after all, witnesses, even if it was quickly clear that nobody saw anything. Or at least the radio folk hadn’t. If the staff or their usual patrons had, they didn’t seem inclined to say.

The best we could figure, somebody walked in, fired a couple of shots, and ran off in the chaos. But good luck finding them.

That wasn’t our job anyhow. We stayed in a loose circle around Ray as long as we could, Lucia holding his good hand, Ruby and I keeping close and offering the occasional reassurance, and Greg dropping in a few wry digs that he didn’t have to go this far for a day off because he ran the place.

Ray is one of our own, and we’ll take care of him as much as they’ll let us.

Pretty soon, though, the medics shooed us away, and we had to return to the table. It was the only place to go.

Griff hadn’t been anywhere near Ray when it counted, apparently running in from the bathroom after the shooting stopped. So, he had to distinguish himself afterward. Because he’s a desk jockey who’s never worked a scene, he walked up to the officer in charge and officiously informed her that he was the assistant manager and had to get back to the station.

Sergeant Waters, as her nameplate and stripes identified her, smiled charmingly, and informed him that she didn’t care if he was the Pope, he was going to wait until the detectives were done.

Griff, a standard pudgy bro with ruddy white skin and receding brownish hair, puffed up in annoyance and kept trying: “But we’re Edison Broadcasting.”

“And we’re proud of you back home, sir. Now, please, go sit.” There was nothing even remotely threatening about her stance or the pleasant expression on her coffee-colored face, but there was a steely glint to her black eyes that wilted Griff.

He slouched back toward the table. Greg, Lucia, Ruby, and I exchanged glances. We’d all had our run-ins with him over the years, usually when he felt the need to impart some bit of wisdom from a consultant who’d never been inside a studio. Not that he had.

The divide between line people who do the actual work and the front office people who run the business is especially sharp in radio, because there are a fair number of folks who get into power from the sales side without ever taking air. Part of the reason everyone has such respect for Ray Rabinowitz is that he worked his way up from street reporter at a tiny Hudson Valley station that no longer existed.

Griff would not have lasted a day on the street, and his one shift of attempting to run the newsroom was such a legendary failure that people still laughed about it ten years later. But he was somebody’s nephew or somebody’s kid…and the fact that he could call that hitter for help saved him every damn time.

Even Ray didn’t like the guy. He only tolerated him because he couldn’t get rid of him. Ruby ran the newsroom, with Ray’s interested supervision, and Ray mostly left the music stations to the consultants, partly to stay on Corporate’s good side, and partly because he was a newsman, not a jock, by trade.

Griff started to take a chair near Lucia, and she just looked at him. He mumbled something and went to sit with the production assistants.

“Thanks,” Ruby said to Lucia.

“Don’t think I could stomach a desk jockey right now, Lou.” Greg, the former Network titan, is the only person with standing to call Lucia by a nickname.

She nodded and cast a rueful glance at the table, clean, but empty of wine or bread. “They’re not going to let us drink until they get some answers. So, no.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I hope Ray’s okay.”

“He’s not likely,” Ruby said, invoking the police and newsroom slang for ‘likely to die’ almost as a prayer.

“No,” Lucia agreed, “it was a through-and-through, and he’ll be back before we know it.”

“Good.” Greg shook his head and turned to me. “Helluva thing for your last night in the City, kid.”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s me. I’m starting to think I’m bad luck.”

Because of course none of us thought what had happened to Ray was anything other than bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time. Right?

Lucia’s eyes flashed. “Indeed, you are not, young woman.”

Whoa.

“She’s right,” Ruby said. “If anything’s bad luck, Jaye, it’s this crazy place.”

“New York?” I asked. “Not Angeli’s.”

“No, Edison.” Greg’s mouth took a wry twist.

“It’s not just rumors, then, Lou?”

“Can’t be, not in this economy.” She sighed, flicked her eyes again to where the wineglass should be. “Not enough people took buyouts, so I hear Corporate’s going to cut at least one reporter and one anchor on the news side. Probably find a way to pare down the front office, too.”

When in doubt, revert to shop talk. It’s scary, but it’s a safer kind of scary than a shooting.

“Ugh.” Ruby let out a breath. “Well, if they eliminate my job, I can still edit or write.”

“If someone has to go, it definitely should not be you.” Lucia shook her head. “You do a brilliant job as managing editor.”

“You sure do,” I agreed. “It makes me sick to think about it, but if they want to cut, they could voice track some of the music shows on the FM. Maybe not replace me.”

“We are New York. We do not record things.” Greg’s authoritative tone stopped that debate.

Lucia sighed. “Even New York isn’t New York anymore.”

Head shakes all around.

There was a stir, then, as everyone turned to see two people in simple dark suits at the entryway, a bored older white guy, and a younger woman with caramel skin and brown eyes crackling with interest. The detectives had arrived.

“See, Connie, I told you Angeli’s was a trip,” the older guy said to his partner.

“Thanks, Seamus.” She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you check out the Sinatra pics while I get started with the nice radio people?”

“Nah, Sinatra will still be here once we straighten this out.”

They exchanged the same dry smile my friends and I often shared.

“Detective!”

Griff had clearly been waiting for his chance.

But he hadn’t gotten any better at reading the room. He steamed up to the male detective. “I’m the acting station manager at Edison right now, and—”

The guy laughed. Griff turned an ugly shade of fuchsia.

“I’m not running the scene, pal. Mercado is First Grade. It’s her call.”

“Do we have a witness, Hurley?” the detective in question asked.

“Got a radio guy wants to leave.”

Detective First Grade Mercado flicked her gaze to Griff.

He deflated a little.

“No one,” she said, in cool command tone, “is going anywhere until we get a statement.”

“Well, can I at least go first? I really need to get to the station.”

Griff looked more like he needed to get to the men’s room.

“In the interest of good media relations,” the lead detective began, nodding to her partner. “Start with him, Hurley. I’ll take the restaurant owner first.”

Hurley shrugged and pulled out his notebook.

“What is going on with that weasel?” Greg asked, as quietly as a man with a voice that many people expect to hear from their Maker could.

Ruby rolled her eyes.

Lucia narrowed hers. “I think he’s planning to solidify his position while Ray’s out of commission.”

“Pretty cold,” I said.

“It’s Griff.” Ruby shrugged. “Cockroaches survive everything.”

“They sure do.” Lucia reached over me to get her purse. “We do not, however, have to confront this in less than optimum condition.”

Greg grinned. “You’re never less than optimum, Lou.”

“And we keep it that way.” As she turned the brass hardware on the buttery vintage black leather bag and pulled out a classic Dior lipstick and matching compact, I remembered noticing the purse just before the shooting started.

It had been at her seat.

But none of us had been at our seats.

No one was where they were supposed to be because we were all meeting and greeting and hugging. Most of us, anyhow. Griff wasn’t a greeter.

“Um, guys, do you remember where you were when it happened?” I asked.

Greg, then Lucia, and finally Ruby, turned their eyes to mine.

“You don’t really think one of us…” Greg began.

“Well, of course we were the target.” Lucia closed her lipstick with a snap. “Damn it, I should have seen it.”

“You’re right,” Ruby said.

“This place has always been kind of a safe zone.” Lucia’s voice took on the smooth rhythm of her on-air delivery as she spun out her thoughts. “Disputes are checked at the door for a good meal and sit-down. Any number of truces and deals are worked out here.”

“So, nobody would just start shooting here.” Ruby nodded.

“Not without approval from somewhere high up in the tree,” Greg said. “Or considerable risk.”

“Considerable risk.” Lucia subtly looked to the fellas at the next table as she put her makeup back in the bag. They were no longer watching us with amusement, but sitting stone-faced with icy stares toward the entryway, the body language unmistakable, and more than a little scary.

“Why would anyone want to hurt Ray?” Ruby asked.

It was only then that I remembered where she had been, right next to him. And Ray standing where she had been a breath before. “It wasn’t Ray, Ruby. It was you.”

Her jaw dropped.

Greg and Lucia tensed protectively.

“Who?” Ruby asked. “Why?”

“I need to get down to the station, Detective!” Griff’s plea came out almost as a wail.

For a moment, we stared at him, and then we turned to each other.

Motive. Opportunity. Cockroach.

“Under the banquette, Jaye.” Lucia gave me a little shove. “You’re in pants.”

“What?”

“The gun, silly.”

That note in Lucia’s voice had sent any number of production assistants into battle, and it sent me right under the table, where there was indeed a suspicious dark shape just visible under the red leather seat. Probably the first and only smart thing Griff ever did, kicking it there.

And this was probably the only place in town he’d have even had a chance at getting away with it. Everyone would just assume it was a mob thing, and never even look at him.

Not quite everyone.

“It’s here,” I said as I came up.

“Detective Mercado?” Greg called.

As she and her partner turned, Griff tried for it. He didn’t even make two steps before the manager tripped him.

“I didn’t mean to hit him!” Griff shouted. “I just meant—”

“You meant to kill me.” Ruby was up, her eyes blazing. “He was in my spot.”

And now, caught, trapped, and sure it was over, Griff showed us who—and what—he really was.

“Corporate’s going to get rid of one of us, and I damn sure wasn’t losing out to a—”

“That’s enough.” Mercado cut him off and grabbed his arm before he could say the word, even though we all knew what it was.

It was only after Griff had been dragged away that we remembered to look back at the fellas at the next table. They were serene.

Order restored.

“Come on, Jaye,” Lucia said. “The kitchen is still open, and they won’t let us into the hospital to see Ray for hours, so we might as well have a good plate of Sunday gravy.”

“Damn right.” Greg nodded.

“I’m not sure I can eat after this.” Ruby’s voice had an entirely uncharacteristic wobble. And no wonder.

“He doesn’t get to win, Ruby.” Lucia gazed at her with all the determination and force of a lifetime as the toughest girl in the room. “You let him ruin your night, you let him get inside your head, you let one drop of his poison seep into your life, and he wins. You can’t do that…and we won’t let you.”

“What she said.” Greg patted Ruby’s arm. “You know she’s right.”

“I do.” Ruby’s voice was steady, and her posture back to her usual perfect alignment. “And I don’t really need you guys to tell me that. We can’t give those fools like that an inch.”

“Not a millimeter,” I agreed as the four of us shared the small, sharp nod that means we’ve settled things. “Besides, I want my farewell dinner.”

“And speaking of farewells,” Lucia contributed, returning her purse to her lap, “Griffy-boy better make his.”

We stared at her for a second.

“Remember, this is a special place. Nobody—especially some desk-jockey nobody—is allowed to profane it.”

“Oh,” Ruby said, as Greg and I nodded.

Lucia smiled. Not the warm one that she gives us, but the scary one. “Let’s just say things happen.”

We were still absorbing that thought when the manager appeared with a tray.

“It usually comes after dinner, but the gentlemen over there wanted to send you this now, with their compliments.”

He set out shots of sambuca. On this night, no one was going to argue timing.

The fellas at the next table, including the wry one who’d dropped with Lucia and me, smiled. Not scarily.

We raised the little glasses to our new friends. They raised theirs and nodded.

The wry one grinned at me, then winked at Lucia.

All in good fun. I hoped.

“To better from here,” Ruby said.

We could all drink to that, and we did.

And suddenly, it really was a classic, only-in-New-York farewell, even if getting here had been ugly. But that’s New York, too.

“Ya don’t get this in Vermont,” Lucia put her glass down with a click…and that magical grin of hers.

I laughed. “That may not be a bad thing.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nikki Knightdescribes herself as an Author/Anchor/Mom…not in that order. An award-winning weekend anchor at New York City’s 1010 WINS Radio, she writes short stories and novels, most recently Wrong Poison, from Charade Media. Her stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, online, and in anthologies. As Kathleen Marple Kalb, she writes the Ella Shane and Old Stuff mysteries for Level Best Books. She’s Vice President of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and Co-VP of the New York/Tri-State Sisters in Crime Chapter. She, her husband, and son live in a Connecticut house owned by their cat.

LONG SHOT,by Hal Charles

“Hey, ‘Pebble.’ Think fast!”

Detective Kelly Stone had just crossed the three-point line in her old high school’s gym when she heard the challenge. Turning swiftly, she caught the basketball and with muscle memory kicking in launched it toward the rim.

CLANG!

“A few years ago you would never have missed that shot, ‘Pebble,’” exclaimed Kayla Keith, her companion guard on the state championship team.

“Kayla…coach,” returned Kelly. “Whatever you do, don’t tell me how long ago that was, and nobody but you still calls me ‘Pebble’.”

They hugged on the foul line.

“Hard to believe you now coach at the alma mater,” said Kelly.

“Or that you’ve become our little town’s answer to Sherlock Holmes.”

Blushing, Kelly said, “The police tip line just received a cryptic message about something being stolen here.”

“All the money the team earned from conducting summer camps,” admitted Kayla. “We were going to buy new uniforms and use the rest to travel to some out-of-state tournaments. The gym is locked, and only I have a key, so the thief had to be one of next-year’s five starters, who had come here to help me count our money.”

“How was it taken if you were all together?” asked Kelly.

“After the count, we came out here to play a little one-on-one and HORSE. Somebody must have gone back into the locker room, found where I put the money, and taken it. I have all the girls in my office so you can question them.”

“Show me the scene of the crime first.”

Gone were the old metal lockers and in their place sat wooden lockers. The cracked chalkboard had been replaced by an electronic drawing board. A new water dispenser protruded from the back wall. On the training table sat trig, history, econ, and algebra textbooks. But the piece de resistance was an ice-water tub facing a large TV screen.

“After all the years,” said Kayla, reading her mind, “we finally have a booster club.”

Kelly smiled, suddenly recalling the tipster refused to give her name, but claiming the solution to the crime was in plain sight. “O.K., bring in the suspects.”

“I‘ll start with ‘Road-Runner’ Rodrigues. On the court her OCD becomes in-your-face defense.”

Despite Kelly’s best efforts, Rodrigues never let out a peep, not even a beep-beep as she nervously paced around the locker room. Kelly couldn’t picture the player sneaking into the locker room and patiently looking for where Kayla had placed the money.

“I’ll bring in ‘Poet’ next,” said Kayla. “Her real name is Evelynn Allan Poe, but she likes to read and write, so her nickname was inevitable.”

‘Poet’ proved to be desperately shy, not even looking Kelly in the eye. She reluctantly admitted returning to the lockers to use the adjacent bathroom.

The next to come in was Thea Too-Tall Elvsted, the biggest team member and co-captain. Thea admitted only to cramping up and returning to the locker room to hydrate.

Kayla then sent in Sloan ‘Six-O-Clock’ Sexton, who looked as thin as the hands of a clock. Sloan claimed she had never left the gym for the locker room, a claim Coach Kayla could neither confirm nor deny.

The last player was Sophia ‘Queenie’ Belofski, who kept checking her make-up in the electronic drawing board. She denied stealing the money and swore even if she knew who did, she would never rat out a teammate. Besides, she said, her family was rich.

Afterwards, as Kelly huddled with her former teammate, Kayla asked, “You never told me exactly what the tipster said.”

“That the solution was ‘in plain sight.’” As the detective gazed around the locker room, she suddenly saw a long shot she could make.

SOLUTION

Thea was the thief. Evelynn Allan Poe was the tipster, whose shyness prevented her from directly identifying a teammate. Instead, ‘Poet,’ like her namesake, Edgar Allan Poe, the mystery writer, provided a clue ‘in plain sight.’ The four textbooks, the only non-permanent items in the locker room, were arranged top to bottom to spell out T(rig), H(istory), E(con), A(lgebra)—THEA. Thea confessed her dad needed money for an operation, so the team forgave her and held the largest yard sale in town history to help pay his medical bills.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

THE ROAD’S END,by Brendan Dubois

The meet took place at a small café next to the Hemingway House in Key West. It was a hot day for April, and I sat outside on a small wooden deck at the café, sipping a frozen strawberry fruit drink. I had on a blue knit polo shirt, khaki pants, and deck shoes. At my feet lay a small knapsack that held bottled water, maps, and a 9 mm Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol. A lot of the traffic going by on Whitehead Street were sunburnt tourists in bathing suits on motor scooters, hooting and hollering at each other. I thought for a moment about speeding traffic and what a spill on asphalt would do to all that exposed flesh, and decided that while messy, it could definitely improve the species’ gene pool.

Across the way was a block of apartment buildings, painted a dull yellow. Chickens pecked slowly at the dead lawn, as laughing young men in shorts and lots of gold jewelry polished their motorcycles and BMW convertibles in the shade. Nice what crack cocaine sales can do to the local economy. There was movement to my left, and she sat down, dropping a large Vuitton purse to the deck floor. She carried a Corona beer with a bit of lime floating in the liquid, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that particular drink wasn’t in this year.

Her dark black hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. She had on aviator sunglasses, a round straw hat, and a light cotton sundress with lots of tiny blue flowers. I wasn’t close enough to see what kind of flowers, but I was close enough to see how nicely she filled out the dress. She got right to the point. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Nice to see you too,” I said.

“I’m paying you for information and results,” she said, quietly adjusting the folds of her sundress. “Not for idle chitchat. So. He’s here, isn’t he.”

“Yes, he is. Staying at a bed-and-breakfast a couple of streets over, on Simonton. Arrived yesterday.”

“Do you think he knows I’m here as well?”

“Probably. A lot depends on what you do. I still think—”

She smiled at me without an ounce of compassion or humor. “Mr. Foss, I pay you for a lot of things. Thinking isn’t one of them. The time is still set for tonight, at Mallory Square. During the sunset.”

“Lots of people there,” I pointed out. “Tourists, street people, performers. Lots of witnesses.”

She took a delicate sip of her beer. “That’s all right. I like crowds.”

“I don’t.”

“Too bad,” she said, and then she left.

* * * *

As he took his shower, he thought of being in Key West and couldn’t get over the flatness of it all. Monroe had grown up in the Green Mountains of Vermont and liked the lively nature of the landscape. The rolling hills and mountains. The dirt roads that led deep into the dark woods. The craggy notches in the steep hills, water streams coursing down the granite rock. But here… This whole place seemed like an amusement park for adults. Everything was too flat, too bright, too loud. The spindly plants and trees with odd leaves looked like they had been dropped as spores from outer space, there was not a high point to be seen, and the sun felt way too close.

But he had to be here.

He shut off the shower and stepped out, toweling himself, feeling tired yet again. He knew he should take a nap—God, had he ever had a good night’s sleep these past months?—but he had work to do if he was going to find her tonight. Lots of work. He looked at himself in the mirror, and as before, did not like what he saw.

He knew what he should look like: the youngest detective ever in the Vermont State Police, lean body muscled and trim after hours of work in the gym and jogging on the narrow mountain roads, dark brown hair cut short, brown eyes sharp and inquisitive. What he now saw was something different. His body had grown soft after long hours on the road and lots of late-night fried meals and no time for exercise. His eyes were tired and often red-rimmed, and even his hair was different. It was now streaked with gray, and it was longer, reaching his shoulder blades. He gingerly reached up and touched the shower-wet hair, at the right side of his head.

There. The ridge of scar tissue that snaked around the side of his skull, the fold of flesh that was a reminder, every second, every minute, every day, of when he had been shot down in his unmarked cruiser, shot down and left for dead. Lucky for him the EMTs had been quick that day. What he saw in the crime-scene photos should have led to a gravesite. He recalled one photo—thankfully black-and-white—with him lying to one side, the seat belt still cinching him in. The side of his head was a mess, with blood, bone, hair, and bits of brain tissue leaking out. His right arm was extended, hand curled, as if it was reaching for some sort of ghost weapon. He had looked at the photo a number of times and was always surprised at what he felt at seeing it: nothing. Not a thing. It was like he was looking at some life-sized and realistic mannequin of himself, made up and bloodied for a training program. Not real.

He touched the scar tissue on his head again. That was real. That and another photo.

Monroe went out to his room, got dressed in dark-green shorts and a Hawaiian shirt that was black with bright-pink flamingos. He let the shirttails hang over the shorts. He put on a leather belt and fastened his weapons: Mace canister to immobilize, plastic handcuffs to prevent movement, and a six-inch knife to wrap things up. It was too dangerous nowadays to try to move firearms across state borders, and during the last year, he had moved across many of them.

He sat down, went through some of his belongings on the nightstand, locating a torn sheet from a Key West guidebook. Mallory Square was circled, with the word “sunset” written next to it. The sheet had been placed into an envelope and slid under the door in his hotel room last week, five hundred miles ago, as the long chase proceeded south. He also pulled out a blurry Polaroid photo. It showed a woman with dark black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a white turtleneck sweater, and she was at a bar, talking to someone. A partner? A confederate? He put the photo down on the bed, touched his head again. Monroe wasn’t sure.

But he was sure of two things. That woman in the photo, whom he had chased south to this place for many months, was the one responsible for the bullet in his head.

And if he was lucky, tonight he would pay her back.

* * * *

On Simonton Street I leaned against a utility pole, a tourist’s guide of Key West in my hands, my knapsack at my feet. The small two-story homes and buildings along the street were built an arm’s width apart. Up the block was a place called the Sleepy Cat Inn, and when I saw him step out its door onto the sidewalk, wearing shorts and a shirt that looked it belonged on Maui, I made my move. I walked to the inn, which consisted of a handful of reconditioned two-story bungalows set around a swimming pool now empty of swimmers. I went up to Room 12, and after a quick moment or two with some unique tools that are against in the law in most states, I was in. The room felt damp, as if its occupant had just taken a shower. I quickly toss the room, finding the usual clothes, bundles of maps, guidebooks, and a couple of paperback thrillers. On the nightstand I saw an old photo, one I picked up and examined. My client. How nice to have everything confirmed. I put everything back in its place and within another minute or so, I was outside in the sunshine. In the pool a slim blonde was treading water, wearing something skimpy and orange. She smiled and winked at me, and I smiled and winked back and then walked away.

Sorry. This evening my heart belonged to another, one who was paying the bills.

* * * *

Monroe planned for a quick meal at one of the dozens of restaurants that lined Duval Street, shoved in between T-shirt emporiums and stores that sold jewelry, painted conch shells, and sand sculptures in glass bottles. He sat out back, near an exit door, away from the throngs of people and loud traffic that moved along Duval. The restaurant featured Italian food, and thirty seconds after sitting down, he had forgotten the name of the place. That had been a recurring problem ever since the shooting. Forgetting most things and, at odd occasions, remembering unimportant things. Like right now. He remembered smelling fresh chalk, wiping down a blackboard during recess at his Catholic grammar school, with Sister Mary Fatima working at her wooden desk, writing something with a big black fountain pen, the rest of the room empty. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering everything about that day. Lunch was a bologna-and-cheese sandwich on white bread. Potato chips in a little plastic bag. Small chocolate bar for dessert. He had on gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue tie.

Quick, now. Last week. Where was I last week? One of the Carolinas. North or South? Couldn’t remember. He clenched a fork in his hand. Could not remember.

Last year, then. The day I was shot. What was going on?

His eyes were still closed. He remembered odd snippets, as if he was watching a show during a windstorm, the television cable cutting in and out. He had been working a case, something involving smuggling across the Canadian border. Then that day—it had been fall, that’s right, fall, because the leaves were changing color—the woman in the photo… Somehow she came to the forefront. He was on his way to talk to her, to confront her. Then—

“Here you go,” the waitress said, sliding a plate onto the table. “Enjoy your meal.”

He opened his eyes, now remembering. A roadblock on a small county road. A pickup truck. That had been it. And then…

A blow to the head. Darkness. Some lights, some weeks in the hospital. More darkness.

And then the chase began, the chase to find the woman, the one who’d set him up.

Monroe picked up a fork, began eating his pasta.

Tonight. It would all happen tonight.

* * * *

I munched on a couple of pizza slices out on the crowded sidewalk of Duval Street, waiting for him to leave the restaurant. This was my first time in Key West, and I wished I had more time to poke around and enjoy it. I grew up in Boston, in one of the neighborhoods where you’re identified by which church parish you attended rather than by what street you lived on. It was an okay place, but it still had that old New England reserve and narrow focus. Feuds were passed down from generation to generation, like some awful heirloom that you hated but felt honor bound to accept. And there was a chilly way of dealing with neighbors that seemed to match the cold winds that came off Boston Harbor in January. My father, for example, knew our upstairs neighbor in our apartment building for more than thirty years, yet he still insisted on calling him Mr. Schwartz. I think he died without even knowing the man’s first name.

Tourists and real conch residents strolled by me, heading toward the free show at Mallory Square. If there was one word to describe Key West, it sure wouldn’t be reserved. There was a bright energy to everything, a sense of anticipation that tomorrow would be an even better day than today. I looked past the ticky-tacky of the tourist shops and the bars with the loud music and signs advertising wet T-shirt contests. Instead I focused on the tiny homes with decorative wood scrollwork around the windows and the bars that seemed to attract the locals, people with leathery skin and wide smiles and a cheery attitude that said they were living in paradise, and if you were too dumb to know that, you were probably too dumb to keep on breathing.

I finished my pizza, wiped my hands on some paper napkins I had stuck in my pants pockets. My knapsack came off the sidewalk and went back over my shoulder. Keep focused, keep focused on the job and the client, I thought. A lot could go wrong in the next few hours, and I was being paid quite handsomely to ensure that it didn’t.

Nice to know someone still had trust in my skills and abilities.

* * * *

Monroe left the restaurant and joined the throngs of people going up Duval Street, heading in the general direction of Mallory Square. It felt like some great migratory movement and—

He remembered a nature show on the old black-and-white TV set up in the corner of the living room one Sunday night. Eating fresh popcorn that Mom had made on the stove, watching a Disney program and a nature special about caribous moving across the tundra, and that’s what it was like, this movement of people.

He stopped for a moment, closed his eyes, and then opened them and kept walking. Damn his memory. Damn it to hell.

But then he remembered the present and felt better. He knew some things for sure, and one was that the woman would be here tonight, in just an hour or so. Under his shirt he gently caressed the knife scabbard and kept going up Duval Street.

* * * *

I reached Mallory Square ahead of schedule and waited. My client was nearby, somewhere well hidden, I’m sure. I scanned the crowd and spotted the target with no problem, thanks to the Hawaiian shirt he was wearing. I sat on a stone park bench and tried to relax, taking a series of long, slow, deep breaths. I hoped this would wrap up quickly and without too many problems. It had been a long haul, and I was tired, but the money had been good, quite good.

I folded my arms, keeping an eye on the target. The money had been about the only good thing about this whole nutty affair. I had been reluctant to take the case, until my client eventually wore me down with her entreaties.

“It’s dangerous, you know,” I had said, back in my Boston office. “Lots of opportunity for things to go wrong.”

“I don’t care,” she had said, hands clasped firmly around that same Vuitton handbag. “I hear you’re the best at what you do.”

“Who told you that?”

She shrugged. “Word gets around.”

Sure does, I thought, opening my knapsack and taking out a bottle of water. After nearly a decade of patrol work, I had been a Boston detective for a few years and quickly realized that without kissing the right butt or supporting the right city council member, my career was doomed. I cashed out, opened my own private investigation business, and quickly found an affinity for a certain type of work. I guess it has to do with my upbringing, being the oldest with four sisters. My sisters—though sometimes a torment and a tease—came to depend on me to help them out when asked. Being who they are, they didn’t ask often. But when they did ask for help, I jumped in with both feet and both fists.

My first client was a woman I had dated years ago while on the job. She’d gone to law school at night and got her degree. She and her small firm specialized in family cases, the ugly stuff that people whisper about in office hallways or household kitchens, tales of domestic abuse and custody fights and stalking. Very shortly I learned to enjoy resolving stalking cases the best, when an ex-boyfriend or ex-husband refuses to take no for an answer. My lawyer friend and client, who no longer dates men, doesn’t ask me for too many details, which is fine. I just promise that the problem will be taken care of, and within a day or two, it usually is, after a lengthy and to-the-point visit. Occasionally, though, the ex-boyfriend or ex-husband doesn’t quite understand my message to leave their former girlfriend or wife alone, which has prompted a repeat, more thorough, visit on my part.

On those few occasions, I hear that those ex-boyfriends and ex-husbands are now doing well—after months of physical therapy.

This case, which had brought me to Mallory Square, had seemed initially to be just like others I had handled dozens of times before.

But tonight, well, tonight was going to be something out of the ordinary.

I finished my water and waited.

* * * *

Monroe looked around at the crowd, everyone pushing to get as close as possible to the docks and wide expanse of water at the edge of Mallory Square. He was dismayed at how many people were there. They were almost shoulder to shoulder, watching the glowing sun head to the western horizon, watching each other, or watching the performers and the tables and booths, selling everything from painted T-shirts to hot dogs and popcorn. The performers included a dog that walked on a tightrope, a man who would take a running start and dive through a plastic hoop, and a muscled, cursing man in black shorts and a tank top who balanced a washing machine on his face.

How to find her, he thought desperately, how to find her in this circus?

He closed his eyes again, forced himself to relax. He would find her; he knew he would. And though he was by himself in this packed square, he knew he wasn’t alone. All the way on his trip down south—from Interstate 91 in Vermont to I-95 in Connecticut and New York, along the old and narrow Route 1, all the way down the East Coast—he had gotten help here and there. A quick phone call to his motel room at night. A newspaper clipping left on the front seat of his truck. And like last week, that guidebook page slipped under his door at night, a page that had brought him to Key West.

Monroe wasn’t sure who was on his side, but he could guess. It had to be his old buddies on the force, ones who couldn’t come out and say they were helping him. He remembered odd bits from the time after the shooting, from a medal award ceremony at his hospital bedside with the governor of Vermont, to an uncomfortable meeting with doctors, lawyers, and senior state police officials, where he was officially put on medical leave for the rest of his life. No word about the woman who had set him up. No one would talk to him about it, which told him she had to be powerful, influential, someone who could squash a case like that.

So in Vermont he had started looking for her on his own, and after a month or two, the little tips came, the little hints, signals that he had not been forgotten, signals that he still mattered. Hints and signals that had sent him south on this long chase.

He turned and there she was.

* * * *

Two young ladies in braided ponytails and wearing white shorts and white bikini tops, and who were juggling flaming torches to the appreciative claps and shouts from the crowd, were threatening to break my concentration, and they were doing a very good job of it.

So I tossed a dollar bill on the blanket before them and looked to the south, and there was my client, walking up from Front Street. She had on the same wide hat but was now wearing a white sundress, so white that it made her stand out. I swiveled my head and there he was, heading to her, his eyes focused like twin spotlights, heading right to her.

* * * *

There, she was there, just like they had promised.

A brief touch under his shirt to his knife and he started walking, then trotting and then running, trying to get past all of the people in the square, all of the people here just to see a goddamn sunset and they were in the way, all of them.

He brushed past them, bumping and jostling, and there she was, still there at the edge of the square, and he saw that she had now noted him. There was a look there, of recognition, of…something else, and then fear.

She turned and started running as well.

He tried to move faster, tried to get to his knife, as the people behind him started clapping and cheering as the sun began to set.

* * * *

For a guy who had been living out of motels for the past year, he sure moved fast. He plowed through the crowd like an icebreaker going through a frozen lake, and I moved with him, flanking him from the right. I took a series of deep breaths, getting focused, keeping an eye on my client—who had now turned and had walked quickly around a brick building—and then on the target—who had broken out in a sprint. I started running as well, unzipping the knapsack while on the move, reaching in with my free hand. Then the target moved around the building’s corner, and I tried to catch up with him, the two of us now on Front Street.

* * * *

Monroe lost sight of her for a second, and then there she was, the white dress making her stand out as she dashed down the street. He could feel himself getting closer, so close that he could make out the way she moved, the dress flapping against her legs, as she rushed toward a parked car, a black limousine, about twenty yards ahead.

So close!

He willed himself to run faster, make those out-of-shape legs pump and race and force himself to catch up, to get within range.

He pulled out the Mace canister, ran through his mind what he was going to do next, because he knew he was going to make it, he was so close, just another yard or two and he’d grab her and Mace her face, and then—well, there were a few quiet alleys around here; so many people were on the square, watching the sunset—then, he’d get to work.

A few more seconds, that’s it.

Yes!

He reached out to grab her shoulder and—

He was back in the front seat of the police cruiser, closing in, and his head exploded in pain.

* * * *

In my years on the Boston police force I did a few things I’m not proud of, from not saying anything as a rookie as some of the older cops traded favors with the working women in the Combat Zone, to when I was a new detective and looked the other way as seized drug money mysteriously shrunk from $10,000 at the bust site to $5,000 when it was inventoried at the station.

But that was nothing compared to how I felt when I caught up with the target, pulled out my 9 mm, and smartly rapped him on the side of the skull, where I knew he was weakest.

He fell like a sack of lead shot, and as I put the pistol back into my knapsack, I said out loud, for the benefit of whatever witnesses were sober enough to see what was going on, “Jack, I told you not to drink so much. Here, let me help you.”

Which is what I did, I guess. I half dragged, half carried him over to a park bench. I propped him up and checked his breathing, which was steady. He started murmuring, moving around, and I looked up and saw my client staring at me, hate in her face, and then she got into her limousine and disappeared down the street.

I checked the target’s breathing one more time, and then left, feeling like I was going to throw up.

The things I do for a paycheck.

* * * *

Monroe walked slowly for long minutes, hand touching again and again the raised bump on the side of his head. So close, damn, he had been so close and then—

What had happened?

He touched his head again. Ambushed, that’s what. Ambushed just as he was within a few yards of settling this thing, once and for all. Damn that woman.

He wandered for a few minutes, trying to let the pain in his head ease away, as the other pain inside him grew in dismay at what had happened. Damn it, so close, so close. Would he ever have a chance ever again?

Before him there was a knot of laughing tourists and flares of light as pictures were taken around a large object that looked like an ocean buoy, marooned on land. Monroe stepped closer to see what all the interest was about, and then he saw it was a marker. Painted red, black, and yellow, it said SOUTHERNMOST POINT, and a sense of failure grew inside of him, and he remembered something else: when he was in fifth grade, trudging home from the school bus stop, report card soggy in his sweaty fist because it had two Ds listed inside, a D in English and a D in math. How was he going to tell Mom and Dad he had failed like that? How was he going to do it?

He stared at the monument, at the laughing tourists, the taste of failure strong in his mouth. The road’s end. He had chased her here, all the way south, and for what?

And would he ever have the chance to catch her again?

* * * *

I made a quick stop at my motel room and then met up with her at a marina on the other side of the island, not part of Old Town and not particularly attractive. There were a lot of chain motels and chain stores and chain fast-food restaurants, as well as lots of bright neon. I wished I was back in Old Town.

We were upstairs in a private bar, and she looked up at me, her attractive face still soured some by the look of hatred I had seen a half hour ago, the look of hatred that had been directed at me and not the target. There was an empty glass by her elbow, and I saw she was working on at least her second drink of the evening.

“And?” she said, her voice sharp.

I sat down and looked for a bartender, but the room was empty. No drinks for you, I thought, as I said, “As well as could be expected. I kept him under view after you left, and he got up and started walking.”

“So he wasn’t seriously injured?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“And you think that’s as well as could be expected?”

I stared at her, forgetting for the moment how much she was paying me. “Yes, I do. And considering what he had planned for you, I’d think a bit more appreciation on your part would be expected.”

She took another stiff swallow, grimaced. “You do, do you.”

“Yes, I do.”

Then she sighed and her brittle exterior seemed to melt away. Then she looked away from me for a moment, and her eyes filled. “Damn. You’re right. It’s just that… Damn… It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it, when you have to worry about being killed by someone you love?”

“It is,” I said, remembering our first meeting, back in my Boston office. “It certainly is.”

“It’s because of that shooting,” she said defiantly.

“Yes.”

Then, she retold me the story, as if making up for whatever guilt she was feeling, I guess. “Late last year, a selectman in our town snapped after he lost an election. Took his collection of guns and started hunting his enemies. I was the editor of the town paper and probably right on the top of his hit list. Monroe… He was in the area, heard on the scanner what was happening, went up to my house and was ambushed…shot right in the head.”

Lord, I needed a drink. She kept on looking away from me.

“He suffered some brain damage, including memory problems. And the other thing.”

“I know,” I said. “For some reason, whenever he thought of you, he remembered the shooting. And he thought the two were connected, that you were behind it.”

She nodded, took another sip of the drink. “That’s right. At first he was kept in a secure hospital but he…he kept trying to escape, trying to set himself free, trying to go after the woman he thought had injured him. He was like a caged animal in there, getting worse and worse, and finally, I signed him out, in my own care. It took a lot of work and some affidavits, but I let him loose. I had to. You have sisters, don’t you, Mr. Foss?”

“I do.”

“Then if you’re close to them, you know what it’s like. You’d do anything for them, anything at all. And since I had come into some money earlier… Well, I had the means to take care of him.”

“By letting him chase you across the United States?” I asked, repeating again the same question I had asked her in Boston.

“Yes,” she said, now looking at me, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Because he’s my brother.”

* * * *

Monroe stepped into his motel room, saw the plain brown envelope on the floor. His heart started racing. Could it be? Could it? He picked it up, his hands shaking, and opened it up.

Inside was a picture of an old fort, something from the Southwest. It was a postcard of the…

Damn, the Alamo, that’s it.

San Antonio. He flipped the postcard and on the back a date was scribbled, a date just a month away.

He smiled. The chase was still on.

* * * *

She asked me, “Will you continue your work for me, in San Antonio?”

“No. I can’t keep on doing this. It’s…it’s too difficult. I’m sorry. I’m more used to black-and-white cases. This one’s too gray for my tastes.”

“I understand,” she said.

“And there’s nothing else you can do? No other doctors, therapy, medicines?”

She shook her head no. “My brother is a cop, Mr. Foss. That’s all he knows. He thinks he’s doing something important, something that keeps him going. I can’t stand the thought of him being locked up somewhere as a vegetable. At least this way, he’s alive, he thinks he’s performing a vital service.”

I looked at her one more time. “Do you intend to keep on doing this, year after year?”

“I do.”