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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
This issue, we have an original mystery by dbschlosser (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), a recent tale by Bruce Robert Coffin (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), and a slightly older tale by James Holding. Our mystery novel is As a Thief in the Night, by R. Austin Freeman—part of his Dr. Thorndyke series. And, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
On the science fiction side, we have an original story by Larry Tritten, plus classics by Walt Sheldon, Winston K. Marks, and Richard Banks. Our science fiction novel is The Sane Men of Satan, by Sam Merwin—renamed, I suspect, by a very pulp-fiction oriented editor. (I can’t see any rational science fiction author giving his time-travel book that title!)
You may notice a similarity between the titles of James Holding’s and Winston K. Marks’s stories. I assure you, the similarities end at the title. I thought it would be fun to pair them in the same issue, though.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Destroyer of Worlds,” by dbschlosser [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Unlocked Room Mystery,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Fool Proof,” by Bruce Robert Coffin [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Go to Sleep, Darling,” by James Holding [short story]
As a Thief in the Night, by R. Austin Freeman [novel, Dr. Thorndyke series]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Down the Rabbit Hole,” by Larry Tritten [short story]
“The Shrine,” by Walt Sheldon [short story]
“Go to Sleep, My Darling,” by Winston K. Marks [short story]
“The Last Class,” by Richard Banks [short story]
The Sane Men of Satan, by Sam Merwin [short novel]
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Seitenzahl: 702
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
DESTROYER OF WORLDS, by dbschlosser
THE UNLOCKED ROOM MYSTERY, by Hal Charles
FOOL PROOF, by Bruce Robert Coffin
GO TO SLEEP, DARLING, by James Holding
AS A THIEF IN THE NIGHT, by R. Austin Freeman
INTRODUCTION
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
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE, by Larry Tritten
THE SHRINE, by Walt Sheldon
GO TO SLEEP, MY DARLING, by Winston K. Marks
THE LAST CLASS, by Richard Banks
THE SANE MEN OF SATAN, by Sam Merwin
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
blackcatweekly.com
*
“Destroyer of Worlds” is copyright © 2024 David B. Schlosser and appears here for the first time.
“The Unlocked Room Mystery” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Fool Proof” is copyright © 2015 by Bruce Robert Coffin. Originally published in Red Dawn: Best New England Crime Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Go to Sleep, Darling” is copyright © 1960, 1988 by James Holding. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, August 1960. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
As a Thief in the Night, by R. Austin Freeman, was originally published in 1928.
“Down the Rabbit Hole,” by Larry Tritten, is copyright © 2024 by the Estate of Larry Tritten and appears here for the first time.
“The Shrine,” by Walt Sheldon, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, December 1956.
“Go to Sleep, My Darling,” by Winston K. Marks was originally published in Infinity, November 1958.
“The Last Class,” by Richard Banks was originally published in Amazing Stories, July 1962.
The Sane Men of Satan, by Sam Merwin, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, Oct./Nov. 1953, under the pseudonym “Jacques Jean Ferrat.”
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
This issue, we have an original mystery by dbschlosser (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), a recent tale by Bruce Robert Coffin (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), and a slightly older tale by James Holding. Our mystery novel is As a Thief in the Night, by R. Austin Freeman—part of his Dr. Thorndyke series. And, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
On the science fiction side, we have an original story by Larry Tritten, plus classics by Walt Sheldon, Winston K. Marks, and Richard Banks. Our science fiction novel is The Sane Men of Satan, by Sam Merwin—renamed, I suspect, by a very pulp-fiction oriented editor. (I can’t see any rational science fiction author giving his time-travel book that title!)
You may notice a similarity between the titles of James Holding’s and Winston K. Marks’s stories. I assure you, the similarities end at the title. I thought it would be fun to pair them in the same issue, though.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Destroyer of Worlds,” by dbschlosser [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Unlocked Room Mystery,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Fool Proof,” by Bruce Robert Coffin [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Go to Sleep, Darling,” by James Holding [short story]
As a Thief in the Night, by R. Austin Freeman [novel, Dr. Thorndyke series]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Down the Rabbit Hole,” by Larry Tritten [short story]
“The Shrine,” by Walt Sheldon [short story]
“Go to Sleep, My Darling,” by Winston K. Marks [short story]
“The Last Class,” by Richard Banks [short story]
The Sane Men of Satan, by Sam Merwin [short novel]
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
DESTROYER OF WORLDS,by dbschlosser
No matter how many times she did it—shimmered in next to him—she caught Tanner unprepared. He jerked the wheel, startled, and then waved apologies at the honkers.
“I’ve asked you not to do that when I’m driving.”
“Sorry,” she said without meaning it. “You know I like to start as soon as you get a case.”
He raised the window on her side so wind wouldn’t whip her hair into her face. In the stillness, he inhaled the floral scent he’d grown used to prophesying her appearance when he couldn’t see her yet.
She flipped down the shade and checked the mirror. “What do you know?” Demurely tucked a strand of her shockingly red hair behind her ear.
“I’m still not clear on how you don’t know everything already.” Tanner turned off the radio news headlines. Another earthquake in another country too poor to recover from the last one, another market bombed by savages trying to prove more pious than their victims, another politician more interested in serving himself than the suckers who elected him.
“I’ve told you.” She pulled her harness over her and clicked it into place. “That’s not how it works.”
“More like an admin,” he recited. “Less like a force of nature.”
“That’s my mantra.”
Tanner turned onto Feneos Lane, a dead-end side street he was surprised he didn’t know, and parked behind a squad with its light bar strobing yellow and blue. He’d spent years working the Midtown beat from foot patrol to detective, and it had been three or four years since he’d been dispatched to an unfamiliar address.
“My mantra,” he muttered, “is that I don’t know why Death needs a mantra.”
* * * *
Tanner exchanged niceties with the corporal controlling access to the crime scene. He absorbed this little street, which resisted the encroaching blight to which much of Midtown succumbed as families prosperous enough to buy better schools fled west toward the lake or south toward the mountains.
While Tanner signed the crime scene log, she wandered through the recently tuckpointed brick wall into one of the building’s ground-level apartments.
Tanner kept a careful mental accounting of when she chose to obey the law, like the shade and harness in his squad, and to flout the law, like her direct route into the building. She emerged in the entry hall and waited, arms crossed and fingers drumming impatience. Years after accepting the unacceptable reality of her frequent but inconstant presence, he hadn’t settled on the level of caution he owed Death.
“What can you tell me?” Tanner talked to the corporal but looked at her.
“Homicide.” The corporal slipped the log into the box under his battered metal clipboard. “Not too messy.”
* * * *
She climbed the stairs in front of him and he hated that he couldn’t not notice the curve under her snug skirt. The sashay. He said a silent thank you that she’d worn boots instead of those heels with the hose that had an intricate swirl of ivy running up the seam.
In the years since she’d shimmered into the bathroom as he hurled out his reaction to his encounter with her, Tanner had come to terms with Death’s sleek professional seductiveness. Come to terms with it as a paradoxical metaphor for her alternative, her opposite.
She, as always, observed him as carefully as Evie observed the various insects she studied in her magnifying box while he listened to colleagues or civilians who’d found the body, talked to neighbors and passersby, canvassed for witnesses who might not know what they’d witnessed. Her curiously emerald eyes, large and wide-set and exotic, always on Tanner, on Tanner’s notebook as he scribbled facts and rumors and ideas. It was the same observational intensity she applied from across his coffee table while he pored over murder casebooks at night, muted video flickering behind her as she idly stroked the bellies of Evie’s aging cat siblings, Salt and Spice, and he wondered what her touch felt like to them.
What her touch would feel like on him.
“Found her ID in her purse.” The officer named as first on scene, Hoxley, met Tanner in the hall outside the victim’s apartment. Hoxley had been a well-regarded recruit during Tanner’s last year of patrol. “Bridget Mammon. Twenty-nine years old. Thirty next month.”
She backed away then, through the wall and into the victim’s apartment, leaving Tanner in the hall with Hoxley. Tanner considered that to be his alone time—though he couldn’t help but think of her as always with him, he worked hard to think of her more as never with him, so he didn’t slip up and talk to her.
Didn’t give everyone a reason to think he’d gone crazy.
He’d thought he’d gone crazy. When she’d introduced herself as the incarnation of what became his nemesis, his obsession. When she’d nestled herself against the cabinet beside the toilet into which he’d gagged up the remnants of his last few meals and whispered, “I’m here only to observe.”
“What else?” Tanner asked Hoxley as he wrangled paper booties over his shoes.
“It was the boyfriend.” Hoxley clenched his fists, then flexed his fingers. “Strangled, but no sign of any struggle. He just did her, right there in the living room, watching some interior decorating channel.”
“You know she’s not married…”
“Only one person lives in there. From when I cleared the apartment. Just her. One toothbrush, one razor—one of those lotion razors for shaving her legs and pits.” Hoxley guided Tanner aside as a pair of crime-scene techs came up the stairs with big cases and cameras. “She probably made him watch one too many of those owner-suite dream shows.”
* * * *
“You could call me Vishnu,” Death had told him after he’d earned new sympathy for the Midtown street people jabbering to visions only they could see.
“I’m not calling you Vishnu,” he’d replied.
Tanner never mustered the courage to print her true name. A single D was the best he could do on the rare occasions he made a note about something she told him.
He spotted her again in the kitchen, just beyond the hall closet but not yet into the living room. Instead of hers, the victim’s scent pervaded the space. Fruity, and evocative of the way his bathroom had started to smell when Evie stayed over since her last birthday, when she’d solemnly informed him she wasn’t a kid anymore and he’d jovially informed her that she’d always be his kid, no matter how grown up she grew.
The CSTs did their thing, efficient and brisk and silent, and Tanner could tell where the victim lay, on the far side of a purple couch.
D stared at him with wide, wet eyes. “You can’t take this case.”
He nodded imperceptibly to confirm he’d heard her, then shook his head the same way and approached Bridget Mammon’s body.
The CST with the camera told him to wait while he negotiated a difficult angle.
Another CST, a woman, nicked away a tear from the corner of her eye. Noticing that he noticed, she said to no one, “This shouldn’t have happened to her.”
Moving toward the body, Tanner saw the victim’s feet in fuzzy slippers. Then her legs in exercise pants. Thick, almost lush. Pajamas, he thought.
Her body stretched on the floor in front of the couch. The coffee table, jostled out of location, blocked Tanner’s view of her face, her head.
Bridget Mammon wore a wide-necked sweatshirt over something like a jog bra or tank top. It occurred to Tanner that she looked like an ad targeted at her demographic.
Except for the red and purple bruises around her neck.
Ugly and livid in her recent murder, not yet starting to fade with time.
Tanner knew without touching Bridget Mammon that her body was still warm.
“How did we find her so soon?” he said.
“Anonymous call,” Hoxley said from the hall. “Male caller from a noodle shop on Macaria.”
The boyfriend. Did her, got scared, ran, felt guilty, called.
Tanner let his eyes glide the space, searching for photos of Bridget Mammon and her boyfriend. Nothing in the living room. D stood in his line of sight to the refrigerator.
That’s where Bridget’s pictures would be. Where he posted pictures of Evie in her Warriors football uniform, sporting a cocked hip and his favorite “go ahead—try it” smile.
Tanner used his eyes to tell D to move.
She didn’t. She used her eyes, wider and wetter than before, to plead “not this case” again.
Tanner over time had gotten good at pretending to ignore D. At first, he’d feared her too much to ignore her. Once he’d convinced himself that he wasn’t hallucinating, anyway, that he wasn’t due for an appointment with magnificent doses of something psychotropic. After she’d haunted him so long, he stopped fearing she’d come for him, he started assuming whatever she said was incontrovertible truth.
On facts, he’d learned during the three—wait, has it been four?—years she’d been his invisible partner never to challenge her. He’d had to figure out how to tell her to stop giving him the answer when playing trivia at the police bar, tell her without speaking and without making a motion that would cause awkward questions from others while she pretended not to understand, a game they’d grown so easy playing that he missed it on the rare occasions she wasn’t there.
On suggestions, he’d learned she wasn’t much better than flipping a coin, and he had yet to figure out why she asked him the same series of questions—precise and detached to the point of being sterile, clinical, cold—about his observations and opinions and feelings for every case he caught.
About every victim he avenged.
Every case—every victim—except Bridget Mammon.
Yet.
“Any pictures of the boyfriend?” Tanner said.
The CSTs paused, looked around and then at each other, and responded with a universal no.
The CST with the camera told Tanner he was done. That Tanner could approach.
Tanner asked the CSTs to lift the coffee table away so he could observe Bridget Mammon’s body without obstruction.
They did.
And he saw Death.
* * * *
Tanner careened up the ramp of a parking deck used by cube-farm drones who wouldn’t return for hours. As he slotted between a black van and a red truck, he started chanting the word D had given him to summon her. “Vocato,” he repeated, louder as he turned off the engine, louder again as he banged the dashboard of his squad. “Where the fuck are you? Vocato.”
He’d chewed raw the insides of his cheeks to finish working the scene, to do his job just like any other job, just like any other body, even though Bridget Mammon, with her shockingly red hair and her curiously emerald eyes, was unlike any body he’d notched among his two hundred sixty-four cases, two hundred fifty-one cleared, the best rate in the metro, in the state. Maybe in the country.
“Vocato, dammit, vocato.”
D shimmered in his passenger seat, already shrinking toward the door, away from Tanner.
“What the fuck, D?”
“Tanner—”
“Seriously, D, what the fucking fuck?” He got stuck for a moment, realizing he’d heard his name on her lips for the first time. “Who is Bridget Mammon—I mean, who are you?”
“It’s—”
“If you say complicated, I’m going to—” He punched the roof once, twice, again and again until he felt something give between two knuckles that hurt more than his impotence. He’d long ago figured out that threats were worse than pure vanity. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t leave her behind. Couldn’t hide from, couldn’t ignore, couldn’t quit her. She appeared whenever and wherever and however she cared to, once even in his line of vision as that cute blonde actuary his sister had fixed him up with knelt before him, tugging at his buckle, and that had turned into a particularly spectacular failure to close the deal, to close any deal for the past three—no, four—years.
She twisted her fingers into knots. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
“Literally, I can’t—”
“Some higher deity won’t let you? Words don’t exist? I need to learn some magic language or some mythic horseshit? Horsefuckingshit, D.”
“You don’t—”
“You cannot say understand. You do not get to say understand.” He bashed the driver-side door with his elbow. “Not after I spent the past three—dammit, the past four—years understanding this completely not understandable situation.”
D started bawling.
Tanner had already inhaled to blast out his next furious barrage.
Her tears stopped him.
Deflated him.
Dammit, again.
He’d never been able to handle crying women. His mom, his sister, his daughter. His daughter, his Evie, whose tears shattered his retirement fund to buy lawyers that won equally shared custody, every other week. Evie, whose tears wrecked his vacation budget to prolong her cherished cats well past their expiration dates and then wrecked his eating-out budget because she’d counted on his promise that they would spend a week-long vacation touring crowded beaches and theme parks infested with her favorite cartoon characters guiding her to exit through every single damned gift shop on the southern coast.
Tanner never missed a chance to let someone else console the women affected by his victims. Always took a chance to let anyone else deal with them.
Because he couldn’t.
He’d already sent Midtown’s victim advocate after Bridget Mammon’s next of kin, even before he’d sent Britt, his partner, after Bridget Mammon’s boyfriend.
D knows I can’t—
“Stop crying,” Tanner said.
“I—”
“Shut up.” He slammed his head back against the rest, rattling the mesh behind the front seats. “There’s no crying when you’re Death.”
Her gulping, raw squalls stopped. “I have never—” Her hiccups didn’t. “Never asked for—asked for—I’ve asked for nothing.”
Tanner couldn’t stop his reflexive bark. “Nothing but to accept you as—as—as whatever you are, showing up whenever you want, making me pretend that you don’t, that you’re not in my head every minute of every case, of my fucking life—”
“I have to ask you those questions.”
“—of my you-cursed life—”
“I have—I have—to ask you not to solve this case.”
“You can’t ask that. You—she—Bridget Mammon is someone’s daughter.”
“She’s not.”
“She’s someone’s—”
“She’s no one.”
Tanner froze, clamped down on himself to control his paralyzing fury. He twisted the unyielding wheel until muscle fatigue forced him to release it. “Damn you for saying that.” He squeezed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the tracks glistening on her cheeks. “If anyone should know she’s someone, it’s you.”
D blanched. “I mean, she’s not connected to anyone in your world.”
“Except the guy who killed her.”
D sat silent.
“The boyfriend, and I know you know who he is even if you won’t tell me.”
D shook her head. “It’s not a boyfriend.”
Tanner, cranked up to hurl another charge, sagged when he recognized the misery, the agony in her negation. “You’ve never lied to me before.” That I know of.
“I’m not now. I know she’s unconnected to anyone here. I don’t know who in your world killed her. But I know he’s also unconnected to anyone in this—here.”
“Explain how you know that. Maybe then I’ll believe you.”
“I can’t. There are things about your world that I can’t—that you can’t know. Things that would change your world if you knew them.”
“Change how?”
“I’ve said too much already.”
“Change how?”
“It would be—well, bad doesn’t really convey what I mean. More like…atastrophic.”
“Catastrophic?”
“Apocalyptic.”
Tanner punched the dashboard again. “You tell me I can’t solve this case, and then you tell me you can’t explain why because the world will come to an end if you do.”
D sat up straighter, brightened, flashed Tanner a dazzling smile. “So, we’re good.”
“Get out.” Never before had anyone—not even Evie’s mom accusing him of loving the job more than his daughter, more than his wife, more than anything—ever provoked him to anger so white-hot, so all-consuming, that his vision hazed out.
D’s face collapsed from glee to confusion. “I thought you—like, you know—understood.”
“I understand that you’re full of shit and I have a murder to close.” Tanner activated his squad. “So, get out, or shut up until you’re ready to tell me the truth.” He shifted into reverse.
“I am telling you all the truth I can.” She reached toward him but stopped before her hands crossed the center console, then pulled her arms across her. “All of it.”
His phone buzzed. He shifted to park and put the call from his partner on speaker.
“I finally found that noodle shop the anonymous call came from,” Britt said. “The caller bought a meal and paid with a card.”
“You got the receipt?” Tanner opened his notebook to a clean page.
“Name is Karen Obolus.”
“Karen? Not the boyfriend?”
“Spelled C-H-A-R-O-N.”
D’s hands fluttered to cover her grimace.
“The manager pulled the surveillance video for me,” Britt said. “Pasty guy, 25 to 35, approximately six feet, slender build, black hair with a buzz cut.”
D shimmered out, leaving a scentless fog that quickly suffused his squad’s interior.
“What do we have on Charon Obolus?” Tanner said.
“How do you feel about a business card that says he’s the sales manager at River Boat Works on Acheron Boulevard?”
Tanner stopped writing. “Are you kidding me now?” He searched his spiral-bound gazetteer’s index for an address on another unfamiliar Midtown road.
“Video showed him dropping his card into the fishbowl for a free lunch. It was right on top.”
We don’t catch the smart ones. “Does that seem—”
“Like he’s asking to get caught?”
Tanner shifted into reverse again. “Gaz shows I’m a couple of minutes from that boat store.”
“Wait for the response team,” Britt said before Tanner ended the call.
* * * *
Despite D’s lingering fog, which he couldn’t get rid of even at speed with all the windows down, Tanner found River Boat Works on a dead-end side street.
A tight grid of lamps lit the showroom, so bright that walking under them hurt Tanner’s brain. Starbursts flared from every edge as he weaved through boats to the greeter’s desk.
“I’m an old friend of Charon’s and I was just in the neighborhood. He working today?”
The greeter asked his name, already dialing the extension.
“John, from school.” Tanner rested his hand over his holstered gun, invisible to the greeter behind the counter.
The greeter hadn’t returned the handset to its cradle before a pasty, slender young guy with buzzed black hair pushed through a swinging door calling, “John, you old hound dog, come on back here and let me get a look at you!” The man named Obolus retreated through the door.
Tanner approached the still-swinging door. He took his phone from his pocket and sent a message to Britt:
obolus wants me in his office
Tanner replaced his phone, drew his gun, pushed the swinging door but didn’t go through. Caught the door when it swung back to him, held it, crouched, peeked through left and withdrew immediately.
Nothing.
Peeked through right and withdrew immediately.
Nothing.
As he crept into the empty office lobby, he heard Obolus’ boisterous call: “At the end of the hall, Tanner.”
Shit.
“Ready to talk.”
Tanner flattened himself against the wall and messaged Britt:
setup
obolus knows and expected me
Tanner opened the phone’s recording app, tapped the record button, and dropped the phone mic-up in his chest pocket. He filled his lungs, then breathed out slowly, counting his pulse to slow it. “Britt,” he whispered, “if you hear this, remember to give Evie my letter. There’s one for you, too.”
Then he took another deep breath and shouted, “Charon Obolus.”
“Come on down. And don’t worry—all the cameras are running.”
Tanner glanced up to see that surveillance video covered all angles. A blaze-of-glory crackpot.
“I’m not a blaze-of-glory crackpot.”
The chill flushed the adrenaline. Tanner felt the blood drain from his face, felt himself turning white, felt his pulse in his grip on his gun.
You can’t take this case.
“But you can’t not take this case, can you?”
He visualized D’s eyes wide with terror. “Do you—”
“No. But she’ll come when you call her.”
Tanner brought up his gun. Pushed it as he charged around the corner. The hall a tunnel. The light at the end half-obscured by a beckoning Obolus.
“Have a seat while we wait. She’ll explain everything.”
Tanner rolled forward behind his gun.
“You want coffee?” Obolus stepped backward, into his office. “Maybe a beer?”
Tanner reached the door to Obolus’ office. Luxurious, gleaming wood and fragrant leather, like a rich man’s country house study.
Obolus took the chair behind the desk, then pointed to the club chairs facing them. “You’re probably gonna want a beer.” He tipped back and put his feet on the desk.
Tanner kept his gun trained on Obolus’ center mass. “Are you Charon Obolus?”
“In here.”
“I’m arresting you for murdering Bridget Mammon.”
“She’s no one.”
Tanner stomped closer to Obolus.
Obolus didn’t flinch. “My apologies.” Flashed his palms. “She tells me that you take your job very seriously.”
Tanner clenched his jaw. D never stopped telling him that he was the only person in the world who knew she existed.
“That’s true,” Obolus said. “In here—in your world.”
Tanner shook his head to clear Obolus from it. “Who are you?”
“Her husband.”
Tanner staggered, his left knee shuddering, but he kept his gun on target. Then he realized his gun was useless, that Obolus must be as untouchable as D, and he dropped it helplessly, uselessly to his side.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Obolus nodded enthusiastically. “Call her.”
Tanner holstered his gun. “So you can kill her again?”
“No.” Obolus shook his head once. “I love her too much to hurt her. Well, I mean, hurt her that way.”
“I won’t summon her so you can hurt her in any way.”
“Summon? Like, a demon?”
Tanner cocked his head. “You don’t know who she is?”
“What she is. In this one. Is she pretending to be a succubus or something?”
“You’re full of shit.” Tanner drew his gun again.
Obolus sighed dramatically. “Go ahead. I’d hoped to get her to do it, but I can shut this one down without her.” He rose, leaning over his desk.
Tanner fired twice at Obolus’ center mass. The double-tap banged in his head, the powder burned his nose, as he saw papers jump on the credenza behind Obolus’ chair. A cloud of dust blossomed there.
Obolus sat and spun in his chair, showing the ragged holes blasted through the leather, then spun back. “Ready to call—to summon her now?”
Tanner tried to think of a next move, failed to think of a next move—any move.
“Next move, you summon her, or I just put this one out of my misery,” Obolus said. “And I think—I mean, I think and feel—that she’ll handle this better if she has a chance to say goodbye to you.”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“You don’t want me to tell you.” Obolus snapped his fingers. “Believe me—you want her to tell you. So, call her.”
“Where do you think you’re taking her?”
“Out of here.” Obolus sucked in his lips. “Think? This thing really is amazing. Look—I sent everyone here to lunch and I’ve got all your cop friends busy with other crises, but it won’t be long before they figure out my diversions. Then this thing starts falling apart randomly and all of you have to suffer.” Obolus tilted his head. “You seem like a decent fellow, so I think you want to avoid that.”
“I don’t—”
“She’ll explain.”
Tanner holstered his gun to buy time to consider different moves, consider how Obolus might react. He felt he was doing everything underwater, against slowly yielding resistance.
“Chop chop, Tanner.” Obolus snapped his fingers twice. “You’re already starting to lose resolution.”
Tanner’s nephew complained about resolution when they played video games together. Tanner had so much trouble surviving monsters and aliens and enemies that he saw nothing but the immediate threat the game showed him. The immediate threat of Obolus. But he noticed the sound of Obolus’ snaps didn’t correspond to the action, the way you saw lightning before you heard thunder.
“It’s not me causing that,” Obolus said. “It’s you, figuring out why you’ve been on two streets in your precinct that you didn’t know existed until today. So, call her.”
Hating Obolus for telling him his next move, Tanner stepped into the hall and whispered, “Vocato.”
D shimmered in, right before him, eyes down. “I’m sorry.” She clutched at his hands. “Tanner.”
He jumped at her touch. Warm, electric charges shot up his arms and deep into his chest. “I didn’t—” He choked. “You never—”
“If you don’t tell him,” Obolus said from the office, “I will.”
D tried making herself small.
“Hey.” Tanner lifted her chin. “I know you’re not—I mean, I can’t—” He gazed into her curiously emerald eyes, noting again the specks of gold and crimson there. “Can I protect you from him?”
D straightened then, made herself big, squaring herself and smoothing her clothes. “No.” She stroked back her shockingly red hair, then pulled it over her left shoulder. “It’s my job to protect you.” She looked past him. “To protect your world.”
“From him?”
“From discovering the truth.” D shook her head. “I failed.”
She strode into Obolus’ office.
* * * *
“That’s your avatar?” Obolus’ voice mixed astonishment with laughter.
Tanner followed D.
“There are a dozen of us in here,” Hannah said. “You can’t ruin all their—our—work.”
Obolus threw a disgusted arm in the air. “I’d be using, too, if I made myself look like that.”
“How did you hack my credentials?”
“Do you know how many simsects I had to kill to get your attention?”
“Don’t call them that!” Hannah shouted. “They’re as real as—”
“As you in that ridiculous get-up?”
D abandoned her big squareness when she processed Obolus’ words, and she shrugged a sheepish, helpless shrug. “I just wanted to—you know.”
“How many people have you killed?” Tanner thought about the stack of cold cases they’d linked to the Blue Sky Killer.
“None,” Obolus snapped. “Okay. Maybe I didn’t tell you that you’re beautiful enough. But I love you the way you really are. Not this way. I don’t need you to look like—like whatever this”—Obolus pointed at Tanner—“finds attractive.”
Tanner tried not to visualize the intricate swirl of ivy.
“Like you wore for Mardi Gras?” Obolus scoffed.
“What’s Mardi Gras?” Tanner burned with shame for giving away his secret thought. Her secret.
“It’s a big party in our world.” Hannah encompassed Obolus and herself with a broad motion. “People wear costumes.” Hannah turned back to Obolus. “This world evolved without it.”
Evolved. Tanner’s sense of being underwater returned, but this time it came with visuals: waves of light flickered over him, over them, over—“What is he doing to me?”
“This one’s starting to fall apart,” Obolus said. “He’s as smart as you said. You’d better finish fast if you want to say goodbye.”
D reached for him again, but her hand passed through him as she passed through walls.
Tanner felt a tingle where she’d crossed him. “You’re not real.”
“I am. And as soon as I tell you what that means—as soon as you understand how that can be true—your world has to—to go away.”
“I’m having lunch with my sister tomorrow.” But he felt the waves now. “I have Evie next week.” Felt instead of just seeing them, and fought down the nausea he’d experienced the first time he’d sailed rough water. “My daughter. We—Salt and Spice need us.”
“I’m sorry for you.” Obolus drifted toward and away from them simultaneously. “She loves the world her advisor built more than she loves her own. This is the only way to rescue my wife.”
Tanner lurched for D and passed through her, warm and pulsing. “I’m the one who rescues—”
D shook her head. “He’s right. I’m—”
“Addicted,” Obolus howled. “She’s a sim junkie, and her kids need their mom more than she needs to defend her dissertation.”
The room spun around Tanner, though he knew from observation his feet were planted on—in?—what until recently had been carpet.
“I’m a grad student,” D told him from what seemed to be a great distance. “I study death and dying rituals. I’ve been observing you because no one sees more—more of the ways people die than homicide cops.”
Tanner tried to remember his stats.
“Two hundred and fifty-two clearances,” Obolus said. “The best rate in the metro, in the state. Maybe in the country.”
D framed Tanner’s face in her hands.
He couldn’t feel them, but craved them caressing him, anchoring him, knowing him, and for the first time he was glad to see a woman’s tears.
“In our world,” D said, “we create simulations of worlds like our own to conduct research. It’s more efficient and ethical to do our science—our double-blind experiments—if it’s not in the—”
“Real real world,” Obolus stuttered, shimmering out and in. “Our world is the real world world. This thing is—”
“Stop it!” D sobbed. “You’re killing him.”
And Tanner knew he couldn’t protect her. Knew the emptiness exploding inside him.
“I have to go,” D whispered into his ear. “I’ve been living in my simulation more than in my world, because I love—I love the way I feel about you.”
“But I have Evie.”
“Because I love the way you feel about me.”
“Are you doing this to Evie, too?” Tanner said. “To my mom and sister, and Britt—”
“I told you my name was Vishnu.”
“I hate how ugly that sounds. I couldn’t call someone as beautiful—”
“Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
“Worlds.”
“When you—when anyone—realizes their world is a simulation, the sim collapses.” D closed her eyes, severing their connection. “Then we have to start another one.”
Tanner saw through the walls now, through himself. Through his world, this world. “How will I find you in another one?”
“Every sim is unique.”
The emptiness poured then from his heart. “Like Evie.”
“Like you.”
Tanner fumbled through words with no meaning. “Who.”
“Moira,” she said. “I’m Moira.”
He reached for Vishnu, his creator.
“I’m Tanner.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Writing as dbschlosser, David B. Schlosser is an award-winning author and editor. He’s taught higher-education writing and crime fiction, served on boards for Mystery Writers of America, Editorial Freelancers Association, and Bouchercon, and delighted and offended people in The New York Times and Wall Street Journal as well as on Hard Copy and Inside Edition. A Kansas native now living in Seattle, he earned degrees at Trinity University and University of Texas.
THE UNLOCKED ROOM MYSTERY,by Hal Charles
Despite the ASAP call, State Police Detective Kelly Stone had to wait until the front door of the Locust Grove Senior Center was unlocked by an inside chain and deadbolt.
“Detective Stone,” said a middle-aged man in Clark Kent glasses, “I so apologize for keeping you waiting. If I had just locked my office like the front door, the theft wouldn’t have happened.”
Kelly pulled out her cell phone and began to record the conversation.
“Oh, excuse me. We’ve never met. My name is Jeff Lourde, and for the last year I’ve been manager here.”
“What exactly was stolen, Mr. Lourde?”
“Well over one thousand dollars. I can’t be sure. You see I was in my office counting the money from yesterday’s walk-a-thon at my desk when suddenly I noticed it was time for our Community Action Committee to meet in the basement. In my haste, I forgot to put the cash away and lock my door.”
“Other than the locked door I just came through,” pressed the detective, “how many other entrances are there?”
“Just one. Through the basement,” he said, stepping into the elevator. As they rode down, he said, “I locked that door, so the thief must be one of the five board members I’ve kept down here since I discovered the loss.”
As the elevator door opened, Kelly added, “Actually there are six possible suspects.”
“Oh, I see, you’re counting me. Well, let’s talk to the members of the CAC. Would you like something to drink? We always stop our meeting after an hour, and everyone goes to the break room. Just before the second half of the meeting began, I suddenly remembered the money and ran upstairs to check.”
“Standard procedure is to interview each person of interest separately,” said Kelly. “Let me first examine your office. Send the members up there in about five minutes.”
“It’s unlocked,” he said. “Unfortunately, the horse is out of the barn.”
Kelly walked back up the stairs and quickly inspected Lourde’s office. The desk was clear of everything, while the room itself was a total mess. Hearing a knock on the door, she turned quickly, her left foot popping loose from the sticky Linoleum.
Swigging from a water bottle, a blonde in a sailor’s top and yoga pants said, “I’m Melissa Mayne, youngest member of CAC. My daddy helps fund this place, but I joined up so we’d finally get some action out of an action committee.”
“You bring a purse or yoga bag to the meeting?” said Kelly.
“As I tell my boyfriends,” she said, striking a pose, ‘what you see is what you get.’”
“Thank you, Miss Mayne,” said the detective. “Could you send in the next board member?”
“That would be me, Liam Reed.” He took a drink of black coffee. “Like my coffee, there’s no sweetness in me. I heard you talking to Melissa. I got elected to the CAC solely to make this world a better place for the granny who raised me.”
“Ever been in this office before?” posed Kelly.
“”Naw. I like wide-open spaces.”
“Next,” called Kelly.
Buzzy and Gerald Lemming, obviously an elderly married couple, came in. He offered his wife his cup of tea. “Pure Earl Grey, luv. Just as you like it.”
Buzzy sipped, then said, “Believe it or not, detective, that was my first elevator ride.”
“I doubt we could have climbed those stairs even ten years ago,” said Gerald. “What can we do for you?”
“Nothing,” said Kelly with a smile, “but enjoy your second elevator ride.”
No sooner had they departed than a slender man with an almost-empty glass Coke bottle came in. “Jim Crawford. Got a hot date waiting for me, hon. What can I do you for?”
“Nothing,” said Kelly. “You’re under arrest for the theft of the walk-a-thon money.”
SOLUTION (How did Kelly identify the thief?)
Twice, Kelly found her foot sticking to the floor. Since there was no drink on Lourde’s desk, she knew two things—the sticky stuff had to be spilt by someone else recently in the office, the thief, and that which causes the sticking action is sugar. Only one of the five CAC members, Jim Crawford, carried a drink containing sugar. Confronted, Crawford admitted he needed the money for his drug connection. He is currently stuck in jail.
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, forBlack Cat Weekly.
FOOL PROOF,by Bruce Robert Coffin
Billy Firkin knelt quietly in the dark, steadying himself with his hands, as the container rocked from side to side. The claustrophobic feeling was bad, but the odor was far worse. His feet slipped on the barrel’s slick bottom. Three more miles to freedom.
* * * *
Billy had professed his innocence from the start, lying to his attorney, denying any involvement in the murder of his unfaithful girlfriend Tina and her new beau, even after the cops found his bloody shoes in the trash. Lying had always been second nature, and he was extremely convincing. As a young boy, he’d displayed an innate ability to manipulate others. His mother had cautioned friends, “That boy has the face of an angel. Just remember to check his pockets before you go.”
His string of successful cons ended abruptly the day a Portland jury, comprised of his so-called peers, spent less than two hours deliberating his fate. “Guilty,” they’d said.
During his sentencing, Justice Stratham rebuked him. “Anyone capable of inflicting as much pain and suffering as you did on that poor couple deserves to die. You sir, are an abomination to mankind. Were it within my purview, I’d sentence you to death.”
Billy caught a lucky break by committing his crime in a state devoid of capital punishment. Stratham sentenced him to life without the possibility of parole. He was shackled and carted off to the Maine State Prison in Thomaston, eleven months ago, in the summer of ’61.
* * * *
On the eve of his planned escape, he’d barely slept a wink. The excitement and promise of the coming day were nearly intolerable. All he could think about was rising early and dressing for breakfast, but he’d forced himself to wait, having learned the value of patience.
“A successful scam artist has to have patience,” his father once told him. “Takes time to gain a person’s confidence, son. You gotta earn their trust, slowly. But once you get it, you can do anything, anything at all.”
Everything had to appear status quo. The last thing he needed was for his cellmate to start asking questions or, worse still, some nosy bull—prison guard—like Jeeter smelling a rat. The seeds of his plan had been sown during his first month inside. One afternoon he’d been out in the recreation yard smoking a cigarette, when he saw his cousin, second cousin actually and only by marriage, driving a flatbed truck through the prison gates. Cousin Frank was employed by Milo Trucking, a company the State of Maine contracted to remove prison refuse.
Armed bulls, carrying rifles, removed Frank from the truck while they searched the cab, the payload, and the undercarriage using mirrors. After they finished, Frank drove around to the rear of the chow hall. Billy noted that the back of the Dodge was loaded with both red and white fifty-five-gallon drums, the same white drums the kitchen detail used to dispose of the waste grease from the fryolators. Discreetly, he continued to monitor the event until finally the truck reappeared. When Frank reached the main gate, the bulls repeated their search. They searched everything, everything except the barrels. It was on that very afternoon that he began to plan his escape.
The first step was getting assigned to the kitchen detail, but it hadn’t been easy. Prison trustees were required to stay out of trouble for their first six months—no fights, no bad disciplinary reports, and no contraband. Several times he’d turned the other cheek, when what he really wanted was to drive a homemade shiv through the guts of another convict. Six excruciatingly long months of, “yes boss, no boss, thank you boss,” until finally his request had been approved. He’d spent the remaining months meticulously planning each and every aspect, even conducting research by reading books from the prison library.
The cost of putting his plan into action had only been six cartons of cigarettes for Mel, the head of the kitchen detail, and a promise of $4,000 to Cousin Frank. Billy didn’t actually have $4,000 “hidden away from a scam,” but Frank didn’t know that and had readily agreed to help.
Like all of his best schemes, this one was simple. With Mel’s help, Billy planned to seal himself inside one of the waste containers. The barrel in question would only contain a small quantity of grease, allowing plenty of room for him and making the overall weight seem about right, should anyone become suspicious.
* * * *
The truck lurched over a pothole, slamming Billy’s head against the inside of the barrel. Dammit all to hell, Frank. Take it easy, wouldya. The pavement smoothed. He resumed his shallow breathing.
* * * *
He’d waited until the other inmates began to rise and prepare for their morning duties, before sliding out of his own bunk. Silently, he dressed in his prison gray shirt, blue cargo pants, and black shoes. He shaved, brushed his hair and teeth, everything as normal. He stood waiting by the cell door as the bull appeared.
“Morning, Firkin,” Barrett had said.
As bulls went, Barrett was a good one. He’d been professional and pleasant since the day Billy first arrived. The same could not be said of all the bulls.
Barrett’s boss, Jeeter, a horse’s ass of the highest order, was small in stature but big on bullying. Being a bully was Jeeter’s favorite pastime, frequently caving in some convict’s skull with the hardwood club he carried. He’d even named the club, carving Mabel into the side of it. Billy didn’t know if “little man’s syndrome” was a real malady or not, but if so, old Jeeter the Bull was in the advanced stages. Rumor had it that he was also king of the swirlies, the name given to Jeeter’s practice of taking a con’s toothbrush and swirling it around inside the toilet bowl, before replacing it undetected. As far as Billy was concerned, having Barrett on duty today rather than Jeeter only meant that the god of good fortune was smiling down upon him once more.
“Morning, boss,” Billy replied, needing every ounce of his self-control not to push past Barrett and run down the hall shouting, “I’m free, I’m free.” He studied the bull’s face for any indication that his excitement had been detected, but saw nothing. Billy was escorted down the corridor to the other detailees. The entire group then walked to the kitchen, where they prepared the day’s first meal.
Breakfast was always served at seven o’clock sharp. Members of the kitchen detail ate first, at quarter till. This morning’s meal had consisted of chipped beef and gravy on toast, scrambled eggs, canned peaches, and of course black coffee. Billy despised chipped beef and gravy, or what the inmates fondly referred to as “shit on a shingle,” but today was his stepping-out day and he ate a double helping that tasted more like the ambrosia his grandma Josephine used to make. Viewpoint is everything, and Billy had come to believe that his cup would soon runneth over.
Following breakfast, under the watchful eye of the bulls, the kitchen crew cleaned up. Dishes, utensils, and cookware were scrubbed, dining tables were cleared, and floors were swept and mopped. The cycle began anew as they prepared for the noontime meal. Billy worked quietly alongside the others, not wanting to draw any attention to himself, no matter how slight. He’d just finished mopping the chow hall when Jeeter appeared.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Jeeter asked with a sneer.
Billy’s heart skipped a beat. Not having seen Jeeter until that very moment, he’d foolishly assumed the bull wasn’t working. The other inmates, grateful that Jeeter wasn’t targeting them, stopped to watch.
“Just cleaning up, boss,” Billy said.
“Just cleaning up, boss,” Jeeter said, mocking him in falsetto. “Think you got it all, convict?”
Billy nodded in the affirmative.
“You sure?”
“Yes, boss.”
Billy knew what was coming, having witnessed this sadistic game before, but was powerless to stop it. Jeeter hooked his highly polished black military boot under the bucket, upending it, sending a wave of dirty water cascading across the previously clean concrete floor.
“Oops,” Jeeter said. “Looks like you missed some after all. You’d best clean that up, convict.”
“Yes, boss.”
Jeeter laughed, then walked away, spinning Mabel and whistling a happy tune.
Billy hated Jeeter. Sometimes he’d daydream about slicing the bull’s throat, giving him that nice below-the-chin grin. The same grin he’d denied carving into the throats of Tina and her boyfriend.
Escape time, 2:30, couldn’t come soon enough.
* * * *
Another pothole jarred the Dodge violently. Billy’s barrel bounced up, momentarily losing contact with the bed of the truck, then landed hard, nearly tipping over. He struggled to maintain both his balance and his composure. His legs were beginning to cramp from being bent so long. Only a couple more miles. He closed his eyes, repositioned his legs, and resumed his shallow breathing.
* * * *
Twenty minutes, according to the prison library book about Harry Houdini, is the amount of time an average-sized person can survive sealed in a fifty-five-gallon drum before running out of air. Houdini had been handcuffed, sealed in a metal barrel, and then submerged in ten feet of water. Twenty minutes later, he escaped. Afterward, when asked how he had been able to continue breathing for so long, Houdini explained that he took shallow breaths and willed himself to remain calm. Billy had practiced shallow breathing every night before falling asleep.
* * * *
Billy’s brother Darryl had come to see him at the prison once a month. Darryl was also adept at getting people to do what he wanted, although he used a gun and had done time for armed robbery. It was during one of these visits that Darryl agreed to help his brother. The two men were very careful when discussing the details of the plan as the bulls were always watching, but not always listening.
Darryl lived in Portland, over seventy miles south of the prison, and wasn’t all that familiar with Thomaston. Billy asked his brother to reconnoiter the surrounding area for anything abandoned with a loading dock. The only additional requirement was that it needed to be within close proximity to the prison, as Billy would only have a limited supply of oxygen.
Darryl located an abandoned warehouse exactly 3.1 miles from the prison, according to his odometer. It couldn’t be seen from the road, had no guards, and no gate. What it did have was a cement platform, perfect for offloading a barrel.
Billy, who’d always been good with numbers, calculated that it would take seven or eight minutes, depending upon traffic, for Frank to reach the warehouse after leaving the prison. He knew that the bulls only spent two to three minutes conducting the exit search, leaving him nine minutes. Nine minutes for Frank to load the barrel onto the truck, drive to the prison gate, then after the search, drive to the warehouse, where he’d roll the barrel off the truck and onto the platform. If everything went according to plan, he’d have a window of four and a half minutes. Two hundred and seventy seconds were all that stood between glorious freedom and death by suffocation.
During the months that followed, Billy had Darryl go over the plan with Cousin Frank repeatedly until he was confident that both men had it memorized.
Mel, the kitchen chief, was a friend to Billy. He’d taken him under his wing immediately upon joining the detail. Because of Mel, Billy always got plenty to eat and was only rarely assigned to P and P duty, convict-speak for pots-and-pans detail, considered the nastiest of all kitchen work. The slop sinks were deep, making it tough on the back, and the water was scalding. When Billy first broached the subject of trying to escape, Mel’s eyes sparkled with excitement. It had actually been Mel’s idea to mark Billy’s container.
“It should be something ironic,” Mel said. “A big F.U. to the bulls.”
Billy liked the idea initially but worried that it might be foolhardy. He couldn’t risk anything that might be detected during the exit search. In the end, he’d instructed Mel to mark a large letter B on the lid of the barrel. The marking would enable Frank to know which of the barrels to offload at the warehouse.
* * * *
The temperature inside the container was rising quickly. Billy was just beginning to feel the first prickles of fear. He willed them away like swatting at flies. Nothing to worry about. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. Less than a mile now. Shallow breathing.
* * * *
Lunch was uneventful. The menu had consisted of tuna salad, stale bread, soup, and fries. Billy’s stomach was in knots, partially because of his earlier run-in with Jeeter but mostly because the hour of his escape was nearly at hand. He wasn’t hungry, but he’d forced himself to eat. It was a necessary part of the ruse. It wouldn’t do to have one of the bulls notice he wasn’t eating, especially Jeeter.
* * * *
All of the remaining details had been worked out during Darryl’s last visit. Billy told him to pick up a sandwich, then park out behind the warehouse. If anyone inquired why he was there, he’d simply say he was eating his lunch. Billy instructed him to hang back as the barrel was unloaded, waiting until Frank drove off before making his approach.
“How will Frank know which barrel to unload?” Billy asked, testing his brother.
“He’ll know because there will be a big letter B written on the top, in black marker.”
“What do you do as soon as he drives off?”
“I hightail it to the loading dock, pry off the lid, and get you the hell outta there.”
“What else?”
“I’m to bring you a change of clothes and a trash bag for the stuff you’ll be wearing.”
They’d been over the plan again and again, until Billy was confident that everyone knew exactly what to do. Frank knew to be at the warehouse by 2:45. If he hadn’t made it by then, he would scrap the plan and get Billy out of the barrel. Billy promised that Frank would get his money either way. Greed is the best insurance.
* * * *
At 2:20, Billy and Mel were working in the kitchen along with several other inmates. Mel was cleaning out the fryolators while Billy assisted. The rest of the crew had begun to prep for supper. Billy could hear several of the bulls laughing about something, just beyond the kitchen door. At 2:25, Billy and Mel moved into the back room. They were standing at the loading dock doors when Jeeter walked into the kitchen and began hassling one of the workers.
“Dammit,” Billy whispered. “Not now.”
“Stay here,” Mel said, wiping hands on his apron. “I’ll take care of this.”
Billy waited nervously beside an open barrel. A loud crash came from the adjoining room.
“Why don’t you watch what the hell you’re doing, convict!” Jeeter yelled. “Clean that mess up.”
Mel hastily returned through the doorway, just as the truck was backing up to the loading platform.
“Now,” Mel said. “Let’s go, we’ve only got a second.”
Billy climbed into the barrel and crouched down just as he had practiced. “Wish me luck.”
Mel picked up the lid and looked down at Billy one last time. “See you on the other side.”
Then there was only darkness.
All of his senses were dampened by the enclosure. It was like being blind. He was aware of movement and heard the muffled banging of other barrels being loaded onto the truck, but aside from those things he was effectively cut off from the outside world. After a minute or so he felt the truck begin moving toward the main gate, toward freedom.
He knew the bulls would realize he was missing by supper time. He hoped they wouldn’t notice beforehand. His only regret was not being around to see the look on their faces. If all went according to plan, he and Darryl would be across the state line into New Hampshire by the time the inmates sat down to eat.
* * * *
Billy knew they were close. Frank had made an unmistakable right-hand turn. Judging by the way his barrel was bouncing, they were now traveling on the dirt drive that led to the warehouse. The air had become noticeably thinner. He felt lightheaded. Concentration was more difficult, and the leg cramps were almost unbearable.Just a little longer. The truck came to a stop.
* * * *
Darryl was parked exactly where he was supposed to be when the blue Dodge came into view. He checked his watch, 2:46. They’d done it. He threw the rest of his half eaten sub out the window and turned the key. Nothing but a click. “Shit!” This can’t be happening. Not now. He’d forgotten about the Merc’s temperamental starter. He knew it had a bad spot, but it hadn’t acted up for some time. He turned the key in the ignition again. This time he heard a loud screech. “Come on. Come on.” He watched anxiously as Frank backed the truck into position and got out.
As Frank wrestled with the barrel, he tried the key a third time. “Come on, baby.” The engine roared to life. He let out a sigh of relief. Frank got back in the cab and began driving away. Darryl shifted into drive and sped toward the loading dock. He jumped out of the car, pry tool in hand, and hopped onto the concrete platform, where a single white barrel stood. On the lid in black marker was a big letter B. “I gotcha, Bill,” he said as he pried off the lid.
* * * *
Frank was one happy camper. “I’m rich!” he yelled out the window to a passing car. “God damn, I’m rich! Four thousand buckaroos.” He reached down and cranked up the volume on the AM radio and began to sing along with Elvis’s “Jailhouse Rock.”
* * * *
Billy wasn’t sure if the lack of oxygen was muddling his thoughts or if the truck really was moving again. It couldn’t be. They’d stopped, and Frank had moved his barrel. He was positive. What if he only moved your barrel to get at another one? What if he unloaded the wrong barrel? No, it couldn’t be. The barrel was clearly marked. But muddled thoughts or no, they were definitely moving again. As if to punctuate this thought, his barrel bounced up and down on the flatbed. He opened his mouth to scream but couldn’t draw any air into his lungs. Panic set in, and unlike the little flies of fear he’d shooed away earlier, these were huge and had sharp teeth. He beat on the inside of the drum with his fists, but his arms grew heavy and the pounding ceased. With his last bit of strength, he pushed his entire body up against the lid.
* * * *
Darryl stared dumbfounded into the open barrel. It was full to the top with foul-smelling brownish lard. He checked the lid again, confirming the letter B. He checked his watch, 2:50. His brother Billy had been locked in a barrel, some other barrel, for twenty minutes. In desperation he drove his arm into the grease, hoping to feel his brother’s head but felt nothing.
He leapt off the loading dock and back into his car. He floored the accelerator. Spinning tires threw gravel everywhere. I’ve got to catch up with Frank. He locked the brakes. In a cloud of dust the Mercury skidded to a stop at the main road. Darryl looked both ways. Frank’s truck was nowhere in sight. They’d never discussed where he was headed after unloading the barrel. It wasn’t part of the plan. Darryl figured he had a fifty-fifty chance at guessing correctly. He spun the steering wheel hard left and screeched out onto the pavement.
Darryl guessed wrong.
* * * *
The two men stood out on the loading dock, enjoying the warm afternoon sun and smoking cigarettes. One wore a greasy white apron over his inmate clothing, the other a spotless prison guard uniform.
“Well, I guess he’ll think twice before he murders the nephew of a bull again,” Mel said.
The guard took a long drag off what remained of his cigarette before dropping it onto the loading platform and twisting it under his highly polished boot. “I’m sure you’re right,” Barrett said with a chuckle. “I’m sure you’re right.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
