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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
This issue, on the mystery side of things, we have original stories from Brendan DuBois (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), E Senteio (crime in the library!), and Cody Goodfellow (has the classic villain Fantomas finally met his match?)…plus Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has unearthed a gem by Eve Fisher. Our novel is Behind the Bronze Door, by William Le Queux, and of course we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
As if that weren’t enough, we also have science fiction stories from Lester del Rey, Philip Jose Farmer, and T.D. Hamm. Rounding out the issue is a Jules de Grandin novelette by Seabury Quinn.
Our cover is by Ron Miller. I’ve had to twist his arm (he’s far too humble for self promotion) and next issue, we’re going to have an illustration feature—a portfolio of his best and favorite book covers. Something to look forward to.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The Million-dollar Recovery,” by Brendan DuBois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“An Historic Heist,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“Wind Power,” by Eve Fisher [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Damned If You Do, and Damned If You Don’t,” by E Senteio [short story]
“The Black Hand of Fantomas,” by Cody Goodfellow [short story, Fantomas series]
Behind the Bronze Door, by William Le Queux [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Battleground,” by Lester del Rey [short story]
“Tongues of the Moon,” by Philip Jose Farmer [short story]
“The Survivors,” by T.D. Hamm [short story]
“The Jewel of Seven Stones,” by Seabury Quinn [novelette, Jules de Grandin series]
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
THE MILLION-DOLLAR RECOVERY, by Brendan DuBois
AN HISTORIC HEIST, by Hal Charles
WIND POWER, by Eve Fisher
DAMNED IF YOU DO, AND DAMNED IF YOU DON’T, by E Senteio
THE BLACK HAND OF FANTOMAS, by Cody Goodfellow
BEHIND THE BRONZE DOOR by William Le Queux
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
HUSH MONEY!
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
BATTLEGROUND, by Lester del Rey
TONGUES OF THE MOON, by Philip Jose Farmer
THE SURVIVORS, by T.D. Hamm
THE JEWEL OF SEVEN STONES, by Seabury Quinn
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2024 by Black Cat Weekly.
blackcatweekly.com
*
Cover art is copyright © 2024 by Ron Miller.
“The Million-dollar Recovery” is copyright © 2024 by Brendan DuBois and appears here for the first time.
“An Historic Heist” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Wind Power” is copyright © 2012 by Eve Fisher. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Damned If You Do, and Damned If You Don’t” is copyright © 2024 by E Senteio and appears here for the first time.
Behind the Bronze Door, by William Le Queux, was originally published in 1923.
The Black Hand of Fantomas,” is copyright © 2024 by Cody Goodfellow and appears here for the first time.
“Battleground,” by Lester del Rey, was originally published in FantasticUniverse, July 1954. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Tongues of the Moon,” by Philip Jose Farmer, was originally published in Amazing Stories, September 1961.
“The Survivors,” by T.D. Hamm, was originally published in Amazing Stories, August 1961.
“The Jewel of Seven Stones,” by Seabury Quinn, was originally published in Weird Tales, April 1928.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
This issue, on the mystery side of things, we have original stories from Brendan DuBois (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), E Senteio (crime in the library!), and Cody Goodfellow (has the classic villain Fantomas finally met his match?)…plus Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has unearthed a gem by Eve Fisher. Our novel is Behind the Bronze Door, by William Le Queux, and of course we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
As if that weren’t enough, we also have science fiction stories from Lester del Rey, Philip Jose Farmer, and T.D. Hamm. Rounding out the issue is a Jules de Grandin novelette by Seabury Quinn.
Our cover is by our art director, Ron Miller. I’ve had to twist his arm (he’s far too humble for self promotion) and next issue, we’re going to have an illustration feature—a portfolio of his best and favorite book covers. Something to look forward to.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Cover Artist: Ron Miller
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The Million-dollar Recovery,” by Brendan DuBois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“An Historic Heist,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“Wind Power,” by Eve Fisher [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Damned If You Do, and Damned If You Don’t,” by E Senteio [short story]
“The Black Hand of Fantomas,” by Cody Goodfellow [short story, Fantomas series]
Behind the Bronze Door, by William Le Queux [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Battleground,” by Lester del Rey [short story]
“Tongues of the Moon,” by Philip Jose Farmer [short story]
“The Survivors,” by T.D. Hamm [short story]
“The Jewel of Seven Stones,” by Seabury Quinn [novelette, Jules de Grandin series]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ART DIRECTOR
Ron Miller
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Paul Di Filippo
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Enid North
Karl Wurf
THE MILLION-DOLLAR RECOVERY,by Brendan DuBois
After being released from The Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Maryland, Turner was sent north on an old Air Force C-21 executive jet, where he was set up in a farmhouse rented for him by New Horizons Cell Technology Company in a remote town in northern New Hampshire. Even though Turner had been making good progress in his recovery, the Company had set up a sliding staircase to give him access to the second floor.
But Turner didn’t bother.
The first floor was big enough, and he got around well with his smart cane. The refrigerator and cabinets were filled with all kinds of foods and snacks, although there was not a drop of alcohol to be found.
After he had been dropped off with a single bag, he spent about an hour searching through the house, looking at fields of fire through the windows, checking the locks and the lights. There was a dark and cramped basement he didn’t bother to explore—not ever—and when he was in the kitchen, getting a drink of water, there was a heavy knock at the door.
That was unexpected. One of the Company women had told him aboard the Air Force jet that he would have quiet and perfect privacy at his new home, with nobody bothering him.
But there it was, a knock on the door.
Part of him was running through the weapons availability in this farmhouse, but he came up empty.
The knock returned.
What?
Ignore?
Lay down?
Pretend the visitor wasn’t there?
Turner walked out of the kitchen, leaning heavily on the cane, and opened the door. It led to a wide farmer’s porch and a large man was standing there, wearing black sneakers, black jeans, and short-sleeved dark blue polo shirt.
“Yes?”
The big man showed him ID from the Company. “I’m Oliver. Your cook, driver, and assistant.”
Turner said, “Bodyguard, too?”
Oliver smiled. He was bald, a good third of his face was shiny and wrinkly burn tissue, and his left ear was gone.
“If you need one, sure.”
“Good to know. Come on in.”
Turner stepped back and Oliver walked in, neatly ducking as he went through the door. Turner sized him up once more and said, “Iraq Three or Iraq Four?”
Oliver lowered his bag to the floor. “Iraq Two.”
Turner whistled. “Man, don’t take this wrong, but you don’t look old enough.”
He shrugged. “What can I say, good genes.”
“What was Iraq Two like?”
“Fast at first, then sheer killing drudgery,” Oliver said.
“Did you go to Three and Four?”
“Talented guy like me? You bet.”
Turner said, “Which one fucked you up?”
Oliver smiled. “Drunk driver out on I-95, north of Boston. You feel like eating?”
“You feel like cooking?”
“Part of my job description.”
* * * *
Later, Turner ate with Oliver in a small dining room adjacent to the old-fashioned kitchen, so old-fashioned it still had a landline telephone in bright yellow near the refrigerator. Dinner was thick cheeseburgers and hand-cut French fries, tossed down with bottles of root beer made by a local bottler.
Turner insisted on helping Oliver with the dishes—no dishwasher, just two deep white porcelain sinks—and when the dishes were put away, Oliver asked, “How’s the leg?”
Turner stamped his left leg. “Still attached. What, you expect it to fly off?”
Oliver wasn’t sure if Turner was joking or not. “No, no, I read up on what I could about the surgery and procedures you went through. Just wondering if…”
“You want to take a look?”
Before Oliver could protest, Turner put his smart cane up against the wooden dining room table and rolled up the left pants leg of his khaki slacks just below the knee. At about six inches below the knee was a deep pink and purple furrowed scar.
Turner maneuvered his leg so Oliver could see that the scar circled entirely around the lower leg, like an armband.
He slapped the scarred flesh. “See? One hundred percent guaranteed to stay together, or double your limbs back. The bones there are held together by titanium plates and screws, but eventually—once everything fuses back into place—then they can take out that scrap metal.”
Oliver said, “What happens after that?”
“I retire from this man’s Army on full disability.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
* * * *
Oliver tried again to get him to sleep upstairs but Turner would have nothing to do with it. By then a small fire was grumbling along in the old fireplace and they had watched a movie from TCM on the obsolete 2-D Toshiba set hung on the far wall.
Oliver said, “Going to give the perimeter a sweep.”
“Do you need back-up?” Turner asked.
“You still on sick leave?”
“What do you think?”
Oliver said, “Hang tight. I’ll be back in a while.”
Turner couldn’t help himself.
With Oliver out on the property in the dark and all alone, Turner sat on the couch, quivering. The man was doing a surveillance, a probe, a sounding.
He was alone.
You never go out on a mission like that alone.
Never.
Lots of thoughts were racing through Turner’s mind—memories of training, about his last deployment, the hard and fast rule that nobody went out alone—and the door leading outside slowly opened, and Oliver called out, “All clear, Oliver coming in.”
Turner let out a breath. “Everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” Oliver said. “Supposedly we have external security, but I wanted to add another level.” He held up his handheld and gave it a wiggle. “I set out my own perimeter stations, make sure no one gets within a hundred meters of the place without me knowing.”
“Thanks,” Turner said, feeling warm relief. “I’ll sleep a bit better knowing that.”
“Just a bit better?”
Turner said, “It’s the dreams. You know how it is.”
“Shit, don’t I then.”
* * * *
Turner stretched out on the long couch with a flowered comforter over him, and with a nightlight here and the lights on the stove and refrigerator remaining on in the kitchen, he felt pretty snug. Earlier he had surveilled the old farmhouse with Oliver and made sure windows and the two doors were locked, as well as the outside bulkhead leading into the basement.
Oliver came to him in the living room, holding a pill dispenser in one hand.
Turner said, “You my night nurse as well?”
“Somebody’s gotta do it.” He snapped open the pink lid. “I’ve got everything from anti-anxiety to painkillers to nightmare killers. What’s your pleasure?”
He shook his head. “Don’t feel particularly anxious, the pain is tolerable, and my dreams and nightmares are my own.”
Oliver said, “Don’t be a hero. I know what it’s like. The dreams are so damn real you think you can hear rounds going off and smell the dirt and feel the ground shudder from a near miss.”
“I’m the furthest thing from a hero on this world.”
Oliver snapped the lid shut on the pill dispenser. “A couple of hundred million people would disagree. Sleep as best as you can. I’ll be upstairs if you need me…or I could sack out on the floor. I’ve done that plenty of times.”
“I’ll be fine, honest.”
“Good lies,” Oliver said. “See you later.”
* * * *
Oliver had been right, of course, for as soon as Turner fell asleep, the dreams snapped to and started tugging at his hand, like they were saying, come see us, come hear us, come play with us.
They were all war-related, of course, for what else would Turner dream about? Growing up on a dairy farm in the Adirondacks with his still-alive and quiet parents? Two years of community college? Enlisting in the army and eventually becoming First Sergeant Robert Turner, 1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Light Laser Brigade Combat Team, of the famed 10th Mountain Division? That made more sense, since that was what the majority of his life was about, after three combat tours in and around the Luxembourg Line.
By then the trenches were a stable fixture of the battleground, with lots of cover to conceal their firing locations from the various drones and light aircraft that managed to penetrate or sneak in or through their A/D System, which was always being hacked, spoofed, or otherwise occupied so it couldn’t fully do its job. The trenches were old-fashioned for a newly-fashioned war, and the dreams that slid through his mind every night were like watching a streamer movie that had data interruptions, just giving you bits and pieces of visuals.
Like:
The first air drop from the Assembly Area, starting out in the heat and harsh sunlight of the dry Mojave Desert in a jump transport, and then being curved over about two hundred miles up and descending into what was reassuringly called a “safe” LZ, only to have two troopers—God, what were their names again?—being lased to a crisp with their quick-descending Delta-chutes spiraling them to the ground in seconds, the seconds taking way too long.
Like:
That night when the Corps of Engineers pumping system in his AO were hacked, and instead of pumping the trenches dry, they reversed course and pumped water into the trench system manned by First and Second Platoons. The water flooded them so quickly that some drowned in the bunkers, and Turner remembered sloshing through water without being geared up, seeing rats scrambling to keep up with the sudden flow.
Like:
One day after a supply drop, Corporal Henrietta Lopez opened a black hardcase bearing her name, rank, and last four digits of her SSN that still had a Lockheed-Martin Exo Suit in its factory wrapping. She dragged it under a stealth tent top, scanned her dog tag at the Q code on the side, and it popped open.
“About damn time,” she muttered. “Feel naked without it since my last exo crashed.”
Harlan said. “That’s a sight I’d like to see.”
“Sorry, bud, you’ll die disappointed,” she said, and other members of the squad laughed. Turner keyed in the serial number of the exo suit, and it whined into life, lifted itself out of the package, and stood there in the mud and brown grass. Lopez slipped on her anti-flash suit, zipped it up, and slid the anti-flash hood over her shaved head, zipped it shut as well, and backed into the exo suit. Recognizing her ID and her physical stats—all loaded into the Lockheed Martin facility in New Delhi—the exo suit started to contract onto her body. Later attachments would be snapped on the weapons rails, bearing a variety of ordnances and surveillance systems.
But later never happened.
The exoskeleton started tightening around Lopez.
Tightening.
Tighter.
“Hey!” she called out, voice nervous. “The damn thing is too tight! Somebody shut it down, power it off!”
Turner and a corporal named Billings rushed forward, undogged the instrument panel at the rear, Turner pounding at the power switch.
The exoskeleton kept on contracting.
“Power it off! It’s crushing me!”
Billings punched in an override code on the small keypad.
The whining of the contraction continued.
Lopez screamed.
Turner heard something snapping and crushing.
His face was sprayed with Lopez’s blood.
A later CID investigation revealed a manufacturing defect and software corruption at the New Delhi plant, which led to the exo suit’s OS thinking Lopez was two sizes smaller. The battalion commander later reported her as KIA.
As Turner explained to Randolph, the newest and youngest member of the platoon: “Her family gets better benefits if she’s listed as Killed In Action.”
Randolph looked awkward in his own exo suit, like an oversized teenager pretending to be younger so he could play dress-up for Halloween. “Isn’t that a lie?”
“Whole damn place and war is a lie,” Turner said. “What’s the difference?”
* * * *
In the morning, he woke to the smell of coffee and cooked bacon. He washed himself, avoided staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, and dressed in fresh clothes. Turner went into the kitchen and Oliver was working at the old-fashioned induction stove, lifting off pancakes from a griddle.
Oliver was wearing a light green apron that said Kiss The Cook in white italic script, and said, “You sleep okay?”
“Seems that way,” Turner said, sitting at the round dining room table. “Smells good.”
Oliver placed a full plate before him, with pancakes and bacon. The pancakes steamed in the cool air. “Look at this,” Oliver said, placing a small glass container on the table. “Real maple syrup. Not that crappy cane syrup with maple flavoring.”
“Is there a difference?”
Oliver sat down across from him. “Yeah, big difference.”
“How big?”
“Like the difference between pleasuring yourself with a hand and sleeping with a woman.”
Turner dug into the pancakes with his fork. “Some difference,” he said. “Haven’t done either in months.”
* * * *
Turner again insisted on helping Oliver with the dishes, and he was drying them when the door swung open without warning. Turner dropped a plate on the floor—where it shattered—and grabbed a sharp knife.
A redhead woman stood in the doorway, wearing a two-piece gray skirt and jacket combination, with an ivory blouse, carrying a black leather dispatch case.
“The name’s Kelly,” she said. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do on your recovery, Sergeant Turner.”
“Hello, Kelly,” he said, squatting to pick up the broken plate pieces. “Where are you from?”
She stepped in, closed the door behind her. “I’m your case worker.”
“You with the V.A., then? Or New Horizons?”
“Both,” she said. “I’m an employee of New Horizons Cell Technology Company, and a contractor with the V.A.”
At the sink, drying off a frying pan, Oliver said, “Some difference.”
Kelly agreed. “Some days, no difference at all.”
She put her dispatch case on the round kitchen table.
“How are you doing?”
“Quite fine,” Turner said.
“Good to hear,” she said. “We’ve got a boat-load of cash invested in that right leg of yours. We want to make sure it all works out.”
“Left.”
“What?”
Turner said, “It’s the left leg.”
She shrugged. “Whatever. Ready to leave?”
Turner said, “Do I have time to take a shower?”
Kelly picked up her dispatch case.
“No,” she said.
* * * *
Kelly took her own vehicle, a dark and low-slung GMC sedan with government plates, and he and Oliver had a brief but heated discussion about leaving in his tank-like Lincoln Escalade, as he leaned on his smart cane.
“Rules are,” Oliver said. “You ride in the rear. More protection back there.”
“Screw the rules.”
“Can’t do that,” he said. “Army regulations.”
Turner laughed. “All this time, all those deployments, you still believe in Army rules?”
“Gotta believe in something,”
“Then believe this,” Turner said. “I need the extra leg room. End of story. Unless you want me to make an official complaint.”
Oliver sighed. “Front seat it is.”
* * * *
The ride to Turner’s morning appointment seemed to take twenty minutes or so, and Turner should have enjoyed it, because it reminded him so much of his town back in the Adirondacks. The tall pines. The green round peaks in the distance. The open pastures of the farmers and a few mobile homes.
Truth was, he felt squirrely and uncomfortable, traveling in the open like this. Back on the Luxembourg Line, one never traveled at day—which was mostly habit, since the latest and greatest surveillance gear knew nothing about day or night—and here, on this narrow country road, his feet and hands were tingling. There was concealment behind the stone walls, the trees, even overhead and up in the hills.
Lots of concealment.
And here they were, driving out in the open in daylight!
Oliver glanced at him. “Hard to say but try to relax.”
“I’m trying.”
“Remember, you’re stateside. There’re no hostiles out there.”
He remembered his brief meeting earlier with Kelly.
“So says you.”
* * * *
In the small town of Montcalm—near the Connecticut River and across from Vermont—Oliver pulled into a small strip shopping center. There was a coffee shop, laundromat, comic book shop, and something called STEVE’S FAMOUS FITNESS CENTER.
Turner said, “If my post-recovery is supposed to be kept quiet, why are we going to something called a famous fitness center?”
“It’s an inside joke,” Oliver explained. “Steve wanted to use a catchy phrase to get people’s attention, and he’s done so, for at least this part of the county.”
“But it’s not a V.A. facility.”
“Every V.A. hospital, clinic, or spare garage that has a fitness program is being staked out by the media, legit or otherwise,” Oliver said. “This one is under contract, that’s all, and they’ll do their very best to continue your recovery.”
Oliver parked the SUV and switched off the engine. “Come on, you don’t want to be late for your first day, do you.”
Turner opened the door, used the smart cane to get him out of the front seat, and limped with Oliver into the gym.
* * * *
About ten minutes later, Turner was with the gym’s owner, Steve Josephs, who was about Turner’s age, but in much better shape. He wore gray slacks, black sneakers, and a tight black polo shirt with his gym’s logo written in white script over his left chest. He was bald and his skin was tanned.
His handshake was brisk and to the point. “Sergeant, glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Thanks,” Turner said, looking into the gym, seeing a variety of weights, complicated machines with various pullies and block weights, six recumbent bicycles, two treadmills, a large-screen HD hanging from the ceiling showing a cooking show, and no other people.
Just Turner, Josephs, and Oliver.
Turner asked, “Where is everyone?”
Josephs said, “Special circumstances. My entire gym has been rented out for the hour, and blocked out so only you can use it.”
“Who paid for this?”
“The V.A., I think. Or it could have been New Horizons. Not sure. How are you feeling?”
Turner said, “I feel fine.”
A soft slap to the shoulder. “Good. Let’s get on with it.”
* * * *
A couple of minutes later he was on a recumbent bicycle, gently pedaling to nowhere. A warm compress was wrapped around his lower leg by Josephs, where the pink and bulbous scar was located.
“Is this ride necessary?” Turner asked. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Feel all you want, but a ten-minute ride like this gets the blood circulating. And that’s a good way to keep the healing process continuing.”
“Whatever,” Turner said.
* * * *
As he pedaled, he winced occasionally when a bolt of pain struck his lower leg, like the old wound was trying to keep him aware that it was still there, deep down. He looked around the gym as he pedaled, feeling out of place, out of sorts, having this place to himself. As he continued the pedaling, he watched a large HD monitor hanging from the far ceiling, showing a cooking show.
It was soothing to watch. Turner hadn’t watched any news program since coming back stateside and had no regrets.
He saw enough news upfront to last him the rest of his life.
There was a bingas a timer somewhere sounded off, and Turner looked down at the console of his recumbent bicycle.
Ten minutes.
Went by pretty quick.
Josephs came over, removed the warm compress. “How do you feel?”
“I feel great.”
“Okay, let’s start your workout.”
For the next half-hour, Josephs led him through various moves where he exercised and stretched his lower leg. The weights went from five pounds to fifty, and not once did he go over five pounds.
Stephens said, “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine.”
“How’s the phantom limb pain?”
Turner said, “There’s none.”
“Why are you lying?”
He felt cross, and there was a throbbing feeling to the side of his leg, like he had two limbs past his knee.
He felt like he had been caught hiding something.
Turner asked, “What do you know about phantom limbs?”
Josephs stared at him for a moment, and then lifted his right trouser leg.
It revealed the latest syntho artificial limb, with the fake skin colored to look almost identical to the real deal.
He leaned down, rapped his knuckles against the fake leg.
“I know a lot,” Stephens said.
* * * *
Over the next several days, he fell into a sort of pattern, of sleeping as best he could on the couch, having good meals prepared for him by Oliver, and going to the gym every day. In the afternoons he had to do his own exercises, no matter how much his lower leg—or lower legs, depending on the phantom pain—ached and throbbed.
Sometimes he took his smart cane and went out to the rear of the farmhouse, where there were fields, stone walls, and little gatherings of woods. Occasionally, he saw turkeys in the fields, and in the early mornings, a couple of deer would wander by.
Oliver always went with him, and kept quiet during most of the walks, though every now and then, would come up with the occasional statement of observation.
One day they sat on a stone wall, stretched out their legs, and Oliver sighed and said, “Never thought I’d be walking again.”
“Say what?”
Oliver said, “When I was serving, I always thought an IED or one of those early lasers would take me out. And when I got out, I swore I’d never walk again. Too much walking in the PBI…poor bloody infantry. But here I am. Walking and babysitting you.”
“I don’t need you, and I don’t need a babysitter,” Turner said.
“Surprise, here I am.”
* * * *
Another time they scrambled over a low stone wall, and Turner dropped his smart cane. Oliver picked it up and said, “Want a learning experience?”
“Not sure,” he said.
“Look around, at all these trees. Fun fact…these trees and those forests are pretty much new.”
“What?”
Oliver said, “In the early 1800s, about eighty percent of this state was cleared farmland. Then land opened up West, and the farmers bailed out from this rocky place to land that could be farmed without breaking a plow. Now the state’s about eighty-five percent forest.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Things change,” he said. “Borders change. Wars change.”
And Oliver gently tapped Turner’s lower leg with his booted foot.
“Bodies change as well.”
* * * *
Two weeks into his recovery phase at the farmhouse, an Army Major Cliff Woodson came by for a visit, dressed in Class A uniform with appropriate medals and ribbons. Turner wasn’t going to talk to him but saw the wreathed musket that meant a CIB, Combat Infantry Badge, meaning the major was at one time in a place where he could be shot, blown up, or lased to pieces.
He was a slim officer, all put together, and he put his cover on the couch next to him as he talked to Turner and took notes in his large green issued Army handheld.
Major Woodson said, “You’re up for a Silver Star, Sergeant Turner.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Captain Barnes of your Company recommended you,” the major said. “According to the requirements, the Silver Star is to be awarded for gallantry, said gallantry displayed must have taken place while in action against an enemy of the United States, while engaged in military operations involving conflict with an opposing foreign force.”
He looked up from his handheld. “That’s a fair approximation of what happened during the Battle of Grid Square Brave Zulu Fourteen on March 14th of last year, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” Turner said.
“You don’t remember?”
“Not really.”
* * * *
Liar, liar, liar, for Turner recalled everything about that operation, called together in the last minute. It was a mission full of peril and stupidity, like most every job they had gone out in the past muddy and rainy months, and he recalled everyone involved.
There was Corporal Tennyson, from Idaho, a college professor in European history, who had been called up from the last draft session. Despite his arthritis, age, and bad eyes, with his exo he was considered One-A.
He liked to laugh about the absurdity of the situation while sprawled out in one of the few dry areas in the trenches. “I’m a pacifist. My parents were pacifists. My wife’s a pacifist. About the only soldier in our family was my great-granddad, who was here during the last big one.”
Grady said, “Which one was that?”
“Fighting the Nazis, you dope,” Tennyson said. “I’ve read his diary. Scary stuff. German armor better than ours. Shell bursts fired into the trees, so you’d get shards of wood cutting you down, along with the metal shrapnel. Frozen ground that you had to hack at with shovels for hours to get cover.”
“But we won that one, right?” Grady asked.
Tennyson said, “Now you’re baiting me. Oh yeah, we won that one, but at a cost. A couple of times my great grand-dad mentioned how guys in his platoon would pray for the million-dollar wound, anything to get them off the line. Most of them had been a year in combat, day after day of slugging it out with the Germans.”
Grady asked, “What’s a million-dollar wound?”
He shook his head. “Giving out a free seminar like this, it’s against my union’s rules. But what the hell. Million-dollar wound. Something bad enough to get you off the line—a bullet through a hand, a flesh wound to the side, maybe even a foot shattered—but not bad enough to kill you. Get off the line, into a hospital tent, and you get clean sheets, pretty nurses, and if you get a sympathetic doc, you’re permanently disabled.”
Grady nodded. “With inflation, that’s about twenty million dollars, not a mil.”
Tennyson said, “Anyway you price it, it’s worth it.”
That night, during their platoon’s action, Tennyson’s defensive hood drifted up his forehead and a half-second laser bolt from the enemy boiled his brain and cut him down.
* * * *
And on that night action, the target was a low-slung auto tank, stuck in deep patch of mud, one track blown off. It was of a make and model Intelligence had never seen before. Turner’s raggedy-ass platoon was tasked to go out at night, in the No Person Land between them and the enemy, and see what could be recorded and salvaged.
In the mission prep, they were shown what few schematics were available from Intelligence on their respective handhelds, the screens flickering as the enemy’s jamming continued.
Their Ell Tee—man, Turner can’t remember his name, he was only with the platoon for two weeks before getting crisped—was doing the best with his briefing. About the only apparent bright spot was a promise, passed along by the Ell Tee from company command, that they would have air cover and support from a joint Air Force/Space Force unit.
A nearby corporal, Rodriguez from Old Mexico, working to get her green card by volunteering, said, “The fuck? You mean they’re going to do something else besides stabbing each other in the back and fighting where it counts, in D.C. for more funding?”
A few laughs from that and the Ell Tee struggled to get back on track, when it happened, the first recorded incident of this new weapon on the Luxembourg Line.
Turner was next to her and saw almost everything, and he later wished he hadn’t.
Ell Tee was talking, and it was like the side of the trench behind Rodriguez collapsed and exploded out, showering her with dirt and sloppy mud.
She shouted, “What the—”
Her words were cut off when the burrowing weapon—something never seen before—hammered out through the dirt and sent out razor sharp metal lines with memory molecules, meaning it would wrap around a near target and then reel itself back in.
Even with her exo suit, Rodriguez was sliced into bloody chunks that fell to the mud of the trench.
Later Intelligence announced that the weapon—now nicknamed the Burrower—had taken nearly a month to go through No Person Land until it got to the nearest trench, when it broke free and cut down Rodriguez. Intelligence reviewed weeks of seismic records for their AOO and found indicators of the Burrower’s travels.
But they were so minor they were overlooked.
The next Ell Tee said, “Intelligence says that since the Borrower can only kill one soldier at a time before being destroyed, it’s basically a psychological weapon to instill fear among nearby soldiers.”
An old timer, Clark, said, “I guess the fuck it worked.”
* * * *
The Major in the farmhouse said, “Can’t you remember anything about that night?”
“Well, a bit,” Turner admitted.
* * * *
Even though the difference between day and night pretty much didn’t make any difference, Turner’s depleted platoon went “over the top” at zero dark thirty, a popular operation time for some obscure reason.
Turner could see every platoon member, from the Ell Tee to Oliver, via an eye-screen HUD that showed their location, along with a topo map of this part of No Person Land, and a small yellow square denoting their target. Little bites on a rear molar could switch the display from tactical to local to even each other platoon member’s medical status.
“Busy night,” Corporal Cooper said over the net.
The Ell Tee said, “Let’s cut the chatter.”
But Cooper was right. Overhead there were brief flares of light and trails of sparks as the Air Force and/or the Space Force eliminated the overwatch of the enemy’s drones. There was also a distant thunder on the horizon, as the trench lines and fortifications of the enemy were struck by mobile artillery or space-based tungsten rods.
Diversionary fire, of course, meaning it was hoped the enemy was stupid enough to fall for it.
Whatever.
The thinned-out platoon slowly ambled through the mud, the shell holes, the twisted strands of the barbed wire, occasional wrecked civilian vehicle, and their target grew into view. It was a late model T-2002 autonomous tank with sensors, inputs, 150 mm smoothbore gun and various anti-personnel weapons on the side, from shotgun barrels to grenade launchers.
Turner’s unit had studied available schematics of the tank’s design, and their mission was to reach into its guts and take out the CPU and whatever hardware was removable, as well as take as many high-quality and hi-depth photos of everything near and far.
Earlier the platoon had gotten a fuzzy and distorted Zoom briefing from Intelligence, telling them of the T-2002’s importance, basically ending up with the phrase, “It’s essential.”
Turner bit down on his left rear molar and said, “Giles, what kind of emissions are coming from that auto tank?”
Giles said, “Nothing, sarge. As cold and dead as a rock.”
“All right.”
They came at it in a standard L-shape approach, explosions still sounding in the distance, while overhead, a flight of fireflies continued, little shapes weaving and bobbing, sometimes illuminated by flares of light and sparkles as shattered bits and pieces of combat drones tumbled down.
Turner said, “Mack, pull up some. Everybody else, keep up the momentum. Let’s get this done nice and quick.”
A series of clicks-clicks-clicks as the platoon members acknowledged his last message.
The Ell Tee said, “Who’s point? Raymundo? Get there and—”
Giles broke in. “Sarge, sarge, I’m getting all sorts of electrical activity coming from the tank, something’s up!”
Turner said, “Pull back, pull back, pull back!”
The Ell Tee said, “Belay that order. Raymundo, keep—”
Turner said louder, “It’s a fucking trap, move it!”
From the display screen Turner saw squiggling lines marking the platoon members retreating as ordered, except for the Ell-Tee who kept on advancing.
“Take cover, flatten, take cover!”
Then the world exploded.
* * * *
Later it was determined from Intelligence that the auto tank had in fact been a trap, designed to draw in units and then to explode, scything down any soldier advancing.
The Ell Tee, Raymundo, and Tennyson were the first KIAs, and with the explosion, pre-planned and pre-arranged tube charges fired into the grid square from the auto tank. A short-based EMP pulse took out most every soldier’s electronics system, and Turner kept focused, knowing anything offensive was a waste of time, it was recovery and recovery only.
With his optics dead, Turner went back to Mark II eyeballs, the battlefield lit up by the explosions and incoming rounds, and he moved on his belly, best he could, and dragged each survivor into a large shell hole that managed to keep them under cover. One by one he brought them in, most bleeding or broken. Kylie and Rooks died on the way, and with the survivors in some sort of cover, he went immediately to first aid work.
From each soldier and exo-skeleton, he activated their MDPak, which burst open like a flower bud, immediately and automatically distributing bandages or tourniquets, running IVs where needed, and when he had two or three seconds free, he crashed down.
God, Turner thought, God.
Four KIA and everybody else—save him, for some reason—wounded.
A burst of static and a crackling sound.
In his earbuds he heard, “This is Sword, Sword calling Third Platoon. Third Platoon, acknowledge.”
Turner took a series of breaths, said, “Turner, Third Platoon. Go.”
“Status.”
“Third Platoon struck by explosive device. Four KIA, all others WIA save for self.”
The voice said, “Battalion wants retrieval of auto tank remains soonest.”
Turner said, “Impossible. Platoon is out of action.”
“Are you operational?”
“What?” Turner asked.
“Are you operational?”
Turner looked at the good men and women wounded around him. The battlefield was coming alive, and his defense detection equipment caught an occasional laser strike coming from the enemy’s trench lines.
He took another series of deep breaths.
“Repeat, are you operational?”
He pushed a series of switches that released him from his exo-skeleton, wiggled out into the bed, took out a K-Bar and cut away his armored pant legs. He crawled up the shell hole, reached the lip, and then swung himself so his bare left leg was exposed.
It only took seconds.
He collapsed and rolled back down to the med and his exo-skeleton. Clenching his teeth, he forced himself back into his exo-skeleton and then activated his own MDPak.
The pain started to fade away.
“Repeat,” the voice said. “Are you operational?”
“Sergeant Turner here,” he whispered. “No, not operational.”
Not for a million dollars, he thought.
* * * *
Major Woodson brought him back to the farmhouse.
“Thanks for the review,” the major said. “Matches the official reports. Everything should go smoothly now.”
“Good,” Turner said.
The major stood up and so did Turner and Oliver. The major put his cover back on and slid his notepad back into his case and said, “One more thing, sergeant.”
“Yes?”
“May I see your leg?”
Turner instantly thought to say no, but why piss off the major?
“Sure.”
He lifted up the left pants leg, and there it was, his wound in all its healing beauty. The major whistled, knelt down.
“That’s a hell of a job,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I overdo it during rehab.”
Oliver interrupted. “Speaking of overdo, Sergeant Turner is due for another rehab visit.”
The major stood up, offered his hand.
Turner shook it.
“If it were up to me,” he said, “you’d be getting the Medal of Honor.”
Turner said, “Just doing my job.”
* * * *
After the major left, Turner said, “Thanks for getting me free.”
Oliver said, “The major knows his stuff, but doesn’t know your rehab schedule.”
“Thanks again.”
“No worries. Hey, you okay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You were talking a lot. He was asking you about what happened during your last deployment. I know that can stir up a lot of shit, make you anxious, sleepless.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Turner said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t get wound up by fake shit I sling around.”
* * * *
Two weeks later he came back from his morning walk—he had gotten strong enough so he could walk on his own and without checking the tree line for snipers—and Oliver met him at the farmhouse’s rear door, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.
He passed the coffee mug over. “Congratulations,” Oliver said.
“Congratulations on what?”
“Your one-week anniversary.”
Turner took a sip of the hot coffee. It tasted good and warmed him right up.
“Sorry, anniversary of what?”
Oliver went back into the farmhouse and came out a few seconds later, holding Turner’s smart cane.
“Seven days you’ve been walking without your smart cane,” Oliver said. “Sounds like a celebration to me.”
“You’d think,” Turner said, walking past Oliver and going in for breakfast.
* * * *
The next morning, he heard Oliver talking to someone while he was in the kitchen. Oliver’s voice was low and determined. Twice Oliver raised his voice and, as he got dressed, he wondered what the hell was going on.
Breakfast and their usual trip out to Steve’s Famous Fitness Center went as usual, save for one thing.
After Oliver parked his SUV, he pulled out his handheld and said, “Looks like this is your last PT appointment.”
Turner smiled. “For real?”
“For real,” he said.
Turner sensed something in his voice, the way he sat next to him.
Oliver sighed. “Just to know… I had no control over what’s going to happen next. I’m sorry.”
Turner felt uncomfortable in the smooth seat. “What’s going to happen next?”
Oliver checked his watch. “You need to go, sir. You don’t want to be late for your last appointment.”
For only the second time, he held out his hand to Turner.
The handshake was strong and to the point. “Good luck, sir. It’s been a privilege working with you.”
* * * *
Inside the gym it was more crowded than usual, with at least three times the number of employees, some he had never met during his workouts. Instead of one of the coaches—like Lillian, Fatima, Tom, or Fred—Steve Josephs, the owner took him through his last session.
When his time was up, Steve said, “How are you doing? Any pain, stiffness, burning sensation?”
“No, no, and no,” Turner said.
Steve made some notes on his pad. “When was the last time you had phantom pain from your missing limb?”
Turner thought and said, “Shit, I don’t think I can remember.”
“That’s a damn good sign,” Steve said. “But you know, despite that and your current circumstances, I don’t envy you.”
Steve offered his hand, which Turner shook. “I’ll have your discharge paperwork couriered over later today.”
“Why not now?” he asked.
Steve turned away. “There’s a schedule to follow.”
* * * *
Then it was time, and he walked well out of the gym, went outside, wondered if Oliver was waiting for him and—
Chaos.
The lot was crowded with parked cars, news vans from television stations as far away as Manhattan, throngs of people—most with cameras, notepads, finger cams—and there was a flying and diving bubble of news drones overhead.
Oliver was nowhere to be found.
Police tape and taser stations were set up in a semi-circle around a lectern, and a woman standing at the lectern turned and came to him.
Kelly, of New Horizons Cell Technology Company.
And also, the Veterans Administration.
Depending on one’s point of view.
She came to him, wearing a two-piece black suit, high heels, and a frozen smile.
Kelly extended a hand, and he didn’t move.
“Come along, Sergeant Turner, please…so many want to see you.”
She moved around and grabbed his left arm, started propelling him to the lectern.
“What…what...”
Kelly leaned into his right ear. “New Horizons spent nearly a billion dollars in R&D to get you here,” she whispers in a fierce voice. “Now it’s time for you to pay back your debt.”
He’s up next to the lectern, blinking at the bright lights and flashes coming at him, and he looks up and spots all the flying and diving drones, and his legs are shaking.
Take cover, take cover, take cover a voice inside him screamed.
He barely heard Kelly next to him.
“…proud to present our first fully-recovered patient in our new healing system, Army hero First Sergeant Robert Turner...”
He desperately looked around.
Where’s Oliver, his protector?
“…months after being wounded on the battlefield, Sergeant Turner is completely healed, not with an artificial leg, a powered prosthetic, but a human leg that is identical to the one he sacrificed...”
Two of the drones swooped in closer, and his arms were shaking as well.
“…through our patented and classified human cloning system, future service men and women who go into battle to defend this great country, will do so confident in knowing that if they are wounded and lose a limb, it can be replaced with one created from their own DNA, their own flesh...”
Run, run, run.
“…now it’s time for your questions...”
Kelly stepped back, and with a firm hand, pushed him in the small of his back, propelling him.
He shaded his eyes from the glare and flashes of the light.
“…how do you feel...”
“…can you show us your scar...”
“…does your new leg feel the same as the old one...”
“…do the toenails grow at the same rate...”
Turner moved his head left to right, left to right, staying quiet...
“…do you think your fellow soldiers will be happy to see you...”
“…how much did you miss being with your unit...”
“…are you eager to return to combat...”
The words taste like ash coming out of his mouth.
“I’m going back? You’re sending me back?”
Kelly grabs his arm, pulls him back from the lectern. “You certainly are, Sergeant Turner, and we’re so pleased we’ve been able to heal you so you can do so.”
* * * *
The next thing he knows, Turner was back at the farmhouse, and three times he called out, “Oliver?” until he was convinced his escort and protector was gone. He went stumbling through the house, Kelly and another man with her—Young—both of them following him and talking to him, but it was like his ears were clogged because he didn’t hear a damn thing.
Going back!
He went into his room, closed and locked the door behind him.
Not going back!
Kelly was pounding on the door. “Come on, Sergeant Turner, come out! We can talk about this!”
No talking.
None.
He grabbed what he needed, opened the door, and Kelly came in, face red and lips twisted, and said, “What the hell are you doing—”
Turner punched her hard in the throat.
Choking and gagging, she fell back, entangling herself in the legs of Young, who was trying to draw a weapon. Turner punched him twice over the heart, making him wheeze and fall back, and Turner grabbed the man’s right arm, twisted it, and took the 10 mm pistol away from him.
He shot the man twice, in each foot.
He ran out of the farmhouse, a distant part of him proud that he was running on two fine legs, no pain.
* * * *
At the near stream he took a breather, sat down.
Sirens were sounding in the distance.
As well as the thrum of helicopters.
He took his shoes and socks off, eased them into the stream.
“Aaah,” he said.
He looked around at the green and trees and hills and a few birds.
The pistol in his lap.
His little medical bag at his side.
Which way shall we go, he thinks.
Could do both.
One after another.
Defense in depth.
The humming noise of drones was getting louder.
Turner took the medical bag, dumped out all the prescription meds.
Just the one way.
He hated thinking about his parents finding out that their only son had blown off a chunk of his head.
Turner bent over, scooped up water from the cold stream, and started swallowing the pills, one handful after another, until the helicopter and drones got louder, and his eyesight grew fainter.
* * * *
Turner woke up in a hospital bed, one wrist handcuffed to a railing.
“Shit,” he said, his mouth dry.
He waited.
His bed was the only one in the room.
He jangled his wrist.
A young nurse in blue trousers and a blue smock came in, her deep brown hair tied up in a simple ponytail. She checked the near instrumentation and Turner said, “What’s going on? How long have I been here?”
The nurse didn’t reply.
Walked out of his room.
Minutes passed.
Another woman came in.
The redhead Kelly sat down. It looked like she was wearing the same executive suit as before.
He said, “How’s your throat?”
She said, “How’s your ass? Because I can tell you it’s in one hell of a sling, and that sling is fraying. A word from me and you are under arrest for assaulting a federal official and for attempted murder on another.”
“I shot your man in his feet.”
“Perhaps you were aiming higher.”
“I hit what I aim at,” Turner said. “What’s the big deal? You can just clone him two new feet. Though, knowing how you operate, the poor bastard might end up with two left feet.”
“You think you’re funny?”
“On occasion,” Turner said.
Kelly smiled. “Then laugh at this, Sgt. Turner. You belong wholly to us now. The Army is tripping over itself, wanting to cooperate. You’ve been medically examined and determined fit for duty. Congratulations, you’re going back to what’s left of your unit on the Luxembourg Line.”
“I’m not going back,” he said.
“Funny, me and the Army think otherwise,” she said. “And if you think of deserting, there’s so many tracking chips and software implanted in you that you’d be picked up in an hour. Then off to Leavenworth, which I hear is such an undesirable and overcrowded place that military inmates there beg to be released to serve their sentences overseas.”
Turner kept quiet.
So did she.
“There are other ways out,” he said.
“Like your pathetic suicide attempt?” she asked. “Let’s make one thing clear. The names Eli and Molly Turner must mean something to you.”
His cuffed hand started feeling cold and tingly. “My parents...”
“Yes, your parents,” she said. “Still operating a failing dairy farm, over there in upstate New York. The only way they survive in the only life they’ve ever had is on the generosity of government grants, programs, foundations, and other charitable institutions.”
Kelly paused. “How long would they last if all of those assistance programs were zeroed out?”
His voice was low and shaky. “Not long.”
Then her smile grew wider. “Good answer. Now ponder this, Sgt. Turner. Prior to yesterday’s events, you might—I repeat, might—have convinced me and the Army to send you someplace safe. Maybe a support role in Paris or London. Or a PR tour to Army medical facilities around the world, to give amputees there hope for a better life. But no, you had to be an asshole, and an asshole to me, personally.”
She stood up. “I won’t stand for that. You should be ready for release in another day. Then you’ll be lifted back to Mojave for re-training and by this time, in two weeks, you’ll be exo-upped and ready to be airdropped.”
Kelly left.
Turner rattled the handcuff once more.
* * * *
As promised, two weeks later under the heavy light of the Mojave Desert, Turner was getting one last medical check before backing into his exo unit. He was in an open hangar, other troops being prepped as well, and he stood quietly as the suit techs left and a woman captain wearing a set of caduceuses on each uniform collar tab came up to him, carrying a small black bag.
The nametag said Fallon, and he said, “Captain Fallon, what’s up?”
She took out her sensor kit, fastened sensors on Turner’s throat and wrists. “Just doing one last check before you head out.”
Turner looked out at the far transport craft being fueled. Plumes of steam rose into the desert sky. It belonged to the Space Force, whose members hated this deployment mission. They were into orbital snooping runs, satellite killing, and long gliding hits-and-scoots against the enemy.
Beyond the transport craft was a line of SAM sites. Even this far from the front, the enemy still had a vote.
“Thanks,” he said. “Tell me, you real Army, or are you a contractor from New Horizons?”
The captain’s face was lined, and she looked tired. “No, don’t belong to those ghouls. They’ve tried to recruit me a half-dozen times, but fuck’em. My mom was an Army medic, my dad was an Army medic, his dad was a medic, and my great-grandfather was a medic, went ashore on the second wave at Omaha Beach.”
Ah, the good ol’ days, Turner thought, when if you lost a limb or had a disabling wound, or maybe a stubborn disease, it was the million-dollar wound that could get you out.
Turner wondered how many soldiers under her great-grandfather’s care managed to get that precious and now very rare million-dollar wound.
The captain looked up from her display. “You’re pretty healthy…all things considered.”
“Meaning?”
“I know who you are Sergeant Turner, and what you’ve been through,” she said. “The word unfair doesn’t even go far enough.”
He took note of her strong hands and fingers as she removed the sensors.
“You know about the cloning then.”
She nodded. “Yep. Brave new world of combat, they can replace a foot, leg, hand, or arm, and be sent back to the front. You’re Patient Zero, Sergeant Turner. I’ve read your service record. You’re a good guy. You don’t deserve this.”
He stared at her as she put the sensors, and a handheld was placed back into her bag.
“Fingers,” Turner said.
“What?” she asked.
“Can New Horizons replace fingers?”
The captain shook her head. “No, not yet,” she said. “Too complicated, too intricate. Fingers can’t be cloned and replaced.”
Turner said, “Thanks for letting me know.”
* * * *
When it came time to board the drop craft, Turner was first in line.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brendan DuBois is the NYT bestselling author of twenty-six novels, including Countdown and Cross Down, both co-authored with James Patterson. His next novel, Terminal Surf, will be published this June. Brendan’s short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, The Strand Magazine, and numerous anthologies, including The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century and The Best American Noir of the Century. He has thrice won the PWA’s Shamus Award, two Barry Awards, two Derringer Awards, the Ellery Queen Readers Award, and three Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations. In 2021 he received the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer for Lifetime Achievement from the Short Mystery Fiction Society. He is also a “Jeopardy!” game show champion.
AN HISTORIC HEIST,by Hal Charles
Detective Dani Harlow had planned to visit the Times Past curio shop the next day for the unveiling of the George Washington letter that Caleb Becton, the shop’s owner, had discovered at a yard sale. Unfortunately, earlier that morning Becton had called Dani’s station to report the letter stolen.
As Dani entered the tiny shop, she found a distraught Becton slumped at a desk toward the rear. “Mr. Becton,” she said, “I’m so sorry to hear about the theft.”
“Detective Harlow,” said the pudgy man, “I’ve owned this shop for thirty years and only dreamed of a discovery like the letter.”
“If I might ask, what was the letter about?”
“I’ve kept the contents secret from everybody to add a little drama to the unveiling,” said the shop owner, “but I guess I can tell you, considering the situation. It’s a correspondence from Washington to his wife, Martha, only days before the historic crossing of the Delaware River. It gives us an insight into our first president’s emotions before one of the defining events of his career.”
“When did you realize the letter had been taken?” said Dani.
“This morning about 8:00 I placed the letter in my desk and locked the shop before I went to the diner for some coffee,” said Becton. “When I returned around 9:00, the letter was gone.”
Noticing no signs of a break-in, Dani said, “Besides you, who has a key to the shop?”
“Helen Fletcher, my former clerk,” said Becton.
“Former?”
“With the economy what it is, I had to let Helen go earlier this week. She was a bit upset, but said she would drop off her key sometime this morning.”
“Anyone else?”
“My old friend Samuel Decker,” said Becton. “I gave him a key so he could keep an eye on things when I’m out of town searching for inventory. I hate to say it, but Samuel seems a little unhappy with the attention I’ve been getting since the discovery.”
“Is that everybody?”
“Mr. Shelton, the owner of the building, has a master key. I’m his oldest lease, and he’s been trying to convince me to move. I think he wants to turn the building into condos.”
“I guess I’d better talk with the three key holders,” said Dani.
A quick call to Oren Shelton’s office eliminated him as a suspect. The businessman had been out of town all week.
Dani caught up with Samuel Decker at his stationery shop across the street from Becton’s. “Mr. Decker, could I have a minute?”
Looking up from behind a counter, Decker said, “What brings our local law enforcement to my humble shop?”
“I’m afraid my visit is professional,” said Dani. “There’s been a robbery at Caleb Becton’s, and I understand you have a key to his shop. Could I ask your whereabouts earlier this morning?”
“I arrived at the shop at 7:30,” said Decker, “and I’ve been here all morning.”
Returning to the Times Past, Dani spotted a car pull up in front of the shop and a young woman get out. “Ms. Fletcher?” she ventured.
“Yes,” said the woman.
Dani identified herself then said, “Could you tell me where you were around 8:00 this morning?”
“At home with my husband packing for a trip. I’m here to return a key to Mr. Becton before we leave for the beach.”
Frustrated, Dani ushered Helen Fletcher into the shop.
Just as Helen handed Becton her key and told him how sorry she was for his loss, the front door opened and Samuel Decker rushed in. “Caleb,” he said, “Detective Harlow told me about the theft. You must be devastated. But take heart, even old George faced disappointment before that historic crossing.”
“Mr. Decker,” said Dani, “I think you and I will be crossing town to the local lockup.”
SOLUTION
When Decker referred to Washington’s historic crossing, Dani realized Decker could have seen the letter Becton had taken pains to keep secret only if he were the thief. Confronted, Decker confessed that he had seen Becton leave the shop that morning and had taken the letter out of jealousy over the attention his friend had been receiving for the historic find. A true friend, Becton forgave Decker and refused to press charges.
The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases
