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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
We have another great issue this week, with original mysteries from N.M. Cedeño (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Brian Rieselman, plus a terrific tale by David Dean (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Our classic mystery novel is The Winning Clue, by James Hay, Jr. (A note to the sensitive: it has some dialog in racial dialect, which was common in novels of the era.) And, of course, we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
On the science fiction and fantasy side, we start with an original tale by Jack Ritchie, best known for his crime stories. It was unpublished at the time of his death, and his estate has allowed us to publish it. We also have classics from Henry Slesar, Harlan Ellison, and a fantasy by E. Hoffmann Price. Our SF novel is by Jack Williamson.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Cover Art: Ron Miller
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Wedding Vibes,” N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Random Numbers,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Sofee,” by David Dean [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Crystal Goblet,” by Brian Rieselman [short story]
The Winning Clue, by James Hay, Jr. [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Wedding Vibes,” N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Return,” by Jack Ritchie [short story]
“Space Brat,” by Henry Slesar [short story]
“Cosmic Striptease,” by Harlan Ellison [short story]
“A Jest And A Vengeance,” by E. Hoffmann Price [short story]
The Prince of Space, by Jack Williamson [novel]
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Seitenzahl: 651
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
TEAM BLACK CAT
THE CAT’S MEOW
WEDDING VIBES, by N.M. Cedeño
RANDOM NUMBERS, by Hal Charles
SOFEE, by David Dean
THE CRYSTAL GOBLET, by Brian Rieselman
THE WINNING CLUE by James Hay, Jr.
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 19
AT THE ANDERSON NATIONAL BANK
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
THE REVELATION
CHAPTER 28
CONFESSION VOLUNTARY
CHAPTER 29
THE LAST CARD
THE RETURN, by Jack Ritchie
SPACE BRAT, by Henry Slesar
COSMIC STRIPTEASE, by Harlan Ellison
A JEST AND A VENGEANCE, by E. Hoffmann Price
THE PRINCE OF SPACE, by Jack Williamson
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Black Cat Weekly
blackcatweekly.com
*
“Wedding Vibes,” is copyright © 2024 by N.M. Cedeño and appears here for the first time.
“Random Numbers” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Sofee” is copyright © 2018 by David Dean. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March/April 2018. Reprinted by permission of the author..
“The Crystal Goblet” is copyright © 2024 by Brian Rieselman and appears here for the first time.
The Winning Clue, by James Hay, Jr., was originally published in 1919.
“The Return” is copyright © 2024 by the Estate of Jack Ritchie and appears here for the first time.
“Space Brat,” by Henry Slesar, was originally published in Fantastic, Jan. 1958.
“Cosmic Striptease,” by Harlan Ellison, was originally published in Fantastic, Jan. 1958, under the pseudonym “E.K. Jarvis.”
“A Jest And A Vengeance,” by E. Hoffmann Price, was originally published in Weird Tales, Sept. 1929.
The Prince of Space, by Jack Williamson, was originally published in Amazing Stories, Jan. 1931.
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 CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
We have another great issue this week, with original mysteries from N.M. Cedeño (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Brian Rieselman, plus a terrific tale by David Dean (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Our classic mystery novel is The Winning Clue, by James Hay, Jr. (A note to the sensitive: it has some dialog in racial dialect, which was common in novels of the era.) And, of course, we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
On the science fiction and fantasy side, we start with an original tale by Jack Ritchie, best known for his crime stories. It was unpublished at the time of his death, and his estate has allowed us to publish it. We also have classics from Henry Slesar, Harlan Ellison, and a fantasy by E. Hoffmann Price. Our SF novel is The Prince of Space, by Jack Williamson.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Cover Art: Ron Miller
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Wedding Vibes,” N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Random Numbers,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Sofee,” by David Dean [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Crystal Goblet,” by Brian Rieselman [short story]
The Winning Clue, by James Hay, Jr. [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Wedding Vibes,” N.M. Cedeño [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Return,” by Jack Ritchie [short story]
“Space Brat,” by Henry Slesar [short story]
“Cosmic Striptease,” by Harlan Ellison [short story]
“A Jest And A Vengeance,” by E. Hoffmann Price [short story]
The Prince of Space, by Jack Williamson [novel]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
WEDDING VIBES,by N.M. Cedeño
While trying to maintain a picture-perfect smile for the photographer, Lea Saroyan whispered, “The ghost of Mariah Collinsworth Beaufort is here.”
Her new husband, Patrick Garcia glanced at her, but kept a similar smile plastered on his own face. “Where?” he whispered back without moving his lips.
Around them, family and friends sat at circular, white-clothed banquet tables raising their glasses as Patrick’s best man, Ram, proposed a toast to the bride and groom.
“She’s by the cake.” Lea tried not to stare at the ghost. Up until that point, their entire wedding day had been perfect. The ceremony at the church in Killeen, Texas, had unfolded at three o’clock without the slightest misstep. The reception venue, a remodeled barn at a Living History Farm Museum, looked spectacular. The guests were happy and appeared to be enjoying the festivities. The food was hot and delicious, which shouldn’t have surprised her since the best man’s catering company had supplied it. But perfection had its limits.
Maybe she was overreacting. The ghostly Mrs. Beaufort might simply want to watch the proceedings. After all, she’d been dead since the 1840s. Maybe she felt like attending a wedding reception. No one but Lea, who had been able to see ghosts since childhood, would notice her as anything more than a chilly spot in the room.
“We’re supposed to cut the cake next,” Patrick whispered into Lea’s ear. “Do you think she’s waiting to speak to you?”
“Who knows? Maybe she was bored hanging out at the farmhouse across the yard.” The wedding planner signaled for them to approach the cake for the ceremonial cutting. “I’ll ask her in a minute.” Lea lifted the edge of her white, lace-trimmed, satin gown to avoid stepping on it, hoping her smile didn’t look strained to her guests or the photographer.
During previous encounters, Mrs. Beaufort had been a stickler for the etiquette and decorum of a bygone era, believing herself to be entitled to aristocratic authority in a society divided along class lines. Her raised chin, tight lips, rigid posture, and habit of looking down her nose at others reflected a self-righteous and arrogant personality. As they approached the cake, Lea acknowledged the ghost’s presence and attempted to project a look of gracious welcome. Ignoring Mrs. Beaufort was never an option.
Mrs. Beaufort, who was transparent but still a substantial and chilly presence to Lea, inclined her head majestically and said in a clear voice, “Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage. However, with deep regret, I must inform you that someone is stealing from you and your guests.”
Lea’s smile faltered. “I’ll be free to speak with you in a moment, ma’am.” Lea tugged Patrick’s arm and whispered, “Mrs. Beaufort says someone’s robbing us and our guests. I’ll talk to her after we cut the cake.”
After posing for the photographer and sharing a bite of chocolate fudge cake covered in vanilla buttercream icing, Lea murmured to Patrick, “I’ll be right back.” She walked toward Mrs. Beaufort and whispered, “Please accompany me, ma’am, so that we may speak in private.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Beaufort replied.
They slipped into an empty hallway connecting the remodeled barn to a kitchen. Lea stopped and hugged herself as goosebumps rose on her arms in the ghost’s chilly presence. “Mrs. Beaufort, please tell me what you saw.”
“A dark-haired man in a black suit coat and white shirt took several letters addressed to you and your husband from the gift table. He asked about the diadem you’re wearing, too. Upon learning that it was a replica, he lost interest.”
Lea’s hand went to the diadem set in her black hair which was arranged to imitate a hairstyle shown in a portrait of Cleopatra. The diadem, featuring a Heracles knot clasp and dangling tendrils, was a beautiful but inexpensive replica of one found in Alexandria, Egypt. It was Lea’s “something borrowed,” loaned to her by the professor who’d overseen her master’s thesis on hairstyles, clothing, and daily hygiene habits in several ancient civilizations. “What did the thief steal from my guests?”
“After he removed the envelopes, he walked outside, going from vehicle to vehicle attempting to open the doors. If a door opened, he removed items.”
Lea’s stomach clenched. “Thank you for telling me, ma’am. I’ll have someone investigate. Is the thief still here?”
“Yes. The man returned to the party and began conversing as if he were a guest.”
“Will you direct me to him?” Lea asked.
“I will have to find him again. I see that your employer, Mr. Montgomery, is present, as well as your colleague, Miss Kamika. With so many investigators present, I’m certain you will be able to apprehend the thief.”
Lea had to smile, in spite of her worry. She, Patrick, Montgomery, and her maid of honor, Kamika, had solved dozens of cases working either for Montgomery Investigations or for its sister company, Bad Vibes Removal Services. This thief had crashed the wrong wedding. Lea said, “Thank you, ma’am, for your assistance.”
“You are quite welcome, Mrs. Garcia.” Mrs. Beaufort vanished.
Lea blinked at hearing herself addressed by Patrick’s name for the first time. In Mrs. Beaufort’s day the name change would have been automatic.
Hurrying back to the reception, Lea searched the crowd, but saw nothing unusual. Her gaze fell on her boss, Montgomery, seated at a table with Dr. Jenny Tremayne, the professor who had loaned Lea the diadem. Montgomery, surprisingly light on his feet for being six feet tall and over three hundred pounds, could help with corralling the thief. The best man, Ram, Patrick’s army buddy, would also enjoy taking down a thief.
Patrick moved through the crowd to Lea’s side. “What did Mrs. Beaufort say?”
Seeing him, Lea grinned in spite of herself. Her husband was handsome in his tailored black tuxedo with his dark hair waving across his forehead above cobalt blue eyes. “You look wonderful,” Lea said, taking his hand.
“Mrs. Beaufort said I look wonderful?”
“What? No.” Lea leaned to whisper into Patrick’s ear. “Mrs. Beaufort said that someone stole gift envelopes and then took things from several of the cars in the parking lot. The thief is still here. She went to find him. She’s going to tell me where he is.”
Patrick turned his head, studying the room. “This place has security cameras. We can notify the on-site security officer. Then, we can call the police or county sheriff, whoever’s jurisdiction this is.”
Music began to play, and the wedding planner beckoned to Lea and Patrick. They were supposed to have their first dance.
Lea said, “Let’s ask Montgomery to handle that. We need to keep the program moving. Once we get through the dancing and throwing the bouquet, we’ll be finished with the reception’s scheduled events, and we’ll be free to deal with the thief.”
Patrick took her hand. “Agreed.”
As he led Lea toward the dance floor, Patrick paused by the table where Montgomery was seated with Dr. Tremayne. In a hurried whisper, he explained the situation.
“I’m on it. You two carry on with your reception.” Montgomery strode from the room as Lea and Patrick twirled to music.
Patrick pulled Lea close as they danced. “If the thief hasn’t left yet, maybe we can recover the stolen items before the reception ends.”
“You tell Ram, and I’ll tell Kamika. We may need more help.” Lea glanced at Kamika, her maid of honor and colleague, standing on the edge of the dance floor with her date, a graduate student named Parker Poulsen. Lea only had to give Kamika a worried look to let her know something was wrong.
Kamika stopped smiling and responded with a look of concern.
As the formal dancing ended, Lea found Kamika at her side. “What’s wrong, dear bride? Your maid-of-honor is at your command,” Kamika said.
Lea explained what Mrs. Beaufort had told her.
Kamika uttered an oath that Lea didn’t understand. Of Japanese, Nigerian, and Finnish ancestry, and gorgeous in her curve-hugging, green bridesmaid’s dress, Kamika could curse in several languages. She shook her head, causing the bronze curls piled high on her head to bounce. “I can’t believe Mrs. Beaufort is being helpful. She wasn’t cooperative in our previous encounters. Remember that sick feeling I felt when she argued with her son, Henry?”
“Yes, but most of the trouble was from Henry. Mrs. Beaufort is all about moral rectitude, remember,” Lea said. “Her world view involves punishing wrong-doers to the fullest extent.”
Kamika put her hands on her hip and surveyed the crowded dance floor and the room full of tables around them. “I don’t know Patrick’s extended family, and I’ve only met a few of his army buddies. How do we figure out who doesn’t belong?”
“Mrs. Beaufort is supposed to let me know where the thief is, and Montgomery is checking the security video with the security officer.”
“I’ll ask him if Parker and I can help. We got this, girl,” Kamika said before grabbing her date by the arm and explaining the matter to him as they left the dance floor in search of Montgomery.
* * * *
The bouquet had been thrown, but Mrs. Beaufort had not reappeared. Grainy black and white security video revealed the thief removing items from the gift table and flitting between cars in the parking lot. He hid his face from every camera angle, and the poor quality of the video eliminated fine details. From the posterior view, he resembled every other average height, dark-haired man in a black suit, white shirt, and black dress shoes.
Lea searched the reception area. Half the men wore black suits, white shirts, and black shoes, though some had removed their jackets for the dancing. No one seemed out of place. What if the thief had left?
Patrick, who had been mingling with guests while searching for the thief, returned to her side and slipped his arm around her waist. “Hello, beautiful.” He looked into her troubled eyes and said, “Try not to worry. We’ll solve this.”
“The thief could be miles away already.”
A voice behind her answered, “And if he is, I’ll track him to the ends of the earth. But I don’t think we’ll have to go that far.”
Lea turned to find her employer standing behind her. Montgomery’s bald pate reflected the colorful dance floor lighting, making the blond hair encircling the rest of his head glow like a halo, but the look on his face was serious. He said, “Kamika and I found something.”
Montgomery gestured for Lea and Patrick to follow him and led them to the hallway where Lea had spoken to Mrs. Beaufort earlier. He opened a door to the kitchen. “Come with me.”
Lea followed Patrick into the commercial kitchen area, where they were greeted by Kamika, who was holding one of the tablet computers designed to accept data from the sound and energy scanners Montgomery had invented for use in solving crimes.
Kamika waved at Lea, “I didn’t think I’d be doing scans to catch a thief during your wedding reception, but Parker is doing a great job operating the scanner for me.”
Kamika’s plus-one for the wedding, Parker Poulsen, raised the scanning device in his hands. “I’ve learned all about how sound waves leave a pattern as they rearrange electrons when they pass through soft materials, like this wall board. It’s kind of like early music recording principles, how the sound leaves patterns to read, only the device reading the patterns is this scanner.”
Lea asked, “Why are you scanning the kitchen? No wait, let me guess: the security video showed the thief came in here and made a phone call?”
Kamika nudged her date, “See. I told you she’d figure it out without us telling her.” Kamika handed Lea the tablet computer that analyzed the scan results.
Lea skimmed the results and looked at the others in astonishment. “The thief said he needs a ride? What kind of thief has to be dropped off and picked up?”
Kamika danced in her stiletto heels, curls bouncing. “We have a thief who failed to maintain his vehicle. It won’t start, so he’s stuck here. The good news is that his ride won’t be here for another half hour, at seven o’clock. We have time to catch him.”
Montgomery spoke from his position by the door. “I’ve already arranged for police to handle the arrest. They are en route. All you and Patrick have to do is enjoy your wedding reception. We have this covered.”
Another voice, firm, but feminine, came to Lea’s ears, “I have found the thief.”
Lea turned toward the voice. Mrs. Beaufort was standing in the kitchen not far from Parker Poulsen.
Parker shivered. “Did it just get cold in here or did the air conditioner turn on? I feel a draft.”
Lea said, “That’s Mrs. Beaufort. She’s standing near you. She says she knows where the thief is.”
Parker took a hesitant step back, then stopped. “Is she in front of me? Behind me? I wouldn’t want to walk into her.”
“She’s in front of you.” Lea nodded to Mrs. Beaufort. “Hello again, ma’am. We have law enforcement officials coming to take the thief into custody.”
Mrs. Beaufort’s patrician mouth pinched into an impatient line. “The thief is compounding his crimes and endangering lives. Someone has joined him. They must be stopped now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Some of the gold found hidden inside the farmhouse is on display. The thief and his companion have taken it and are searching the house for any other portable, valuable items. The thief mentioned that the place will burn easily. His friend has glass bottles with rags sticking out of them.” Mrs. Beaufort radiated urgency. “The ground is very dry. If the house burns, the grass may burn as well, endangering this building.”
“We have to stop them.” Lea’s voice rose along with her heart rate.
Montgomery, unable to see or hear Mrs. Beaufort, put up a hand. “Hold on. We don’t need a confrontation with all these guests around. It’s too dangerous. The police can handle this.”
Lea fought back panic. “We can’t wait. The thief’s partner arrived, and they are robbing the museum displays in the farmhouse. Mrs. Beaufort says the partner brought Molotov cocktails with him. They plan to burn the farmhouse.”
Patrick turned to Montgomery in alarm. “The grass is dry. They could cause a wildfire.”
Montgomery barked out orders, “Kamika, call nine-one-one and get the fire department. Lea and Patrick, this is your party. Keep all the guests inside and out of the way. Mr. Poulsen, I may need some assistance. Can you come with me?”
Parker swallowed and stared blankly at Montgomery. “To confront the thieves?”
“Possibly. I’m hoping we can distract them, separate them, and take them down one at a time. We’ll take the security guard, too.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Parker handed Kamika the scanner he’d been holding and put on a brave face.
“I will assist in distracting the thieves,” Mrs. Beaufort announced.
“What? How?” Lea asked her.
“I have my ways.” Mrs. Beaufort vanished.
As Kamika took out her phone and Parker and Montgomery moved toward the door, Lea called out, “Mrs. Beaufort says she is going to help distract the thieves. I don’t know what she’s going to do, so be prepared.”
Parker shot Lea a confused look, but Montgomery merely nodded. “Fine.”
Patrick stood in front of Lea and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Once we notify the guests not to leave the building, I’m going to help Montgomery. If these crooks are willing to set a fire in the middle of a Texas dry spell, they are stupid and dangerous.”
Lea hugged Patrick, burying her face into his chest. “I didn’t think you’d be willing to stay out of the action. Take Ram with you.”
“I will.” He kissed her hard and fast, leaving her lips warm even as a shiver of fear ran down her spine.
Patrick went straight to his best man, Ram. Together they assigned people to each door, to keep the guests from leaving the building.
Lea approached the DJ and asked for the microphone. “May I have everyone’s attention,” Lea said in as authoritative a voice as she could muster.
Many guests turned toward her, but some were still holding their own conversations.
“Everyone, please listen!”
More heads turned to see her.
Lea swallowed and tried to remain calm. “We have been informed that a robbery is in progress at one of the other buildings here in the living history museum complex. We need everyone to stay inside this building until the police inform us that it’s safe to leave. Please continue enjoying yourselves, but don’t leave the building!” She tried to sound cheerful, as if not being able to leave was only a minor inconvenience. As she finished speaking, Lea glimpsed Ram and Patrick slipping away to join Montgomery, Parker, and the security guard.
She handed the microphone back to the DJ and recommended he play something that would get as many people on the dance floor as possible. “Maybe the ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ or ‘The Chicken Dance.’”
The DJ nodded and returned to his post.
Kamika ran to Lea as the music for “The Chicken Dance” began to play. “The fire department is coming.”
Lea noticed some guests were approaching the windows, curious about what was happening outside. “Help distract people.”
“I’m on it.” Kamika grabbed guests and signaled for others to join in while Lea did the same, shooing the curious away from the windows.
As Kamika wriggled to “The Chicken Dance,” drawing attention to herself, Lea backed away toward the kitchen. Out of view of her guests, she gathered her white satin wedding dress in her hands, raised it to her knees, kicked off her white pumps, and began to run in her stockinged feet, pausing to get her bearings after bolting out the kitchen exit.
Twilight had fallen as the last hint of sun painted the sky pink and indigo. The farmhouse stood thirty yards from the converted barn that served as a wedding reception venue. Light flooded from the windows, creating areas of brightness and deep shadow around the house.
As Lea searched for movement in the house, a car raced into the parking lot and stopped. A statuesque blonde wearing well-fitted jeans and a wrap shirt that accentuated her cleavage jumped from the car.
Lea recognized the woman as Marla, the museum’s curator. She beckoned for Marla to join her. “Marla! Over here!”
Marla took a few steps toward her before recognition lit her face. “Lea? You look lovely! Is your wedding reception being held in the barn?”
“Yes, but we have a problem. The police are on the way.”
“Does it have something to do with the alarm going off at the farmhouse? I received a notification that someone had tampered with the exhibits.” Marla shot a worried glance at the farmhouse.
“Yes. Montgomery, the security guard, my husband, and a few others have gone to try and stop the thieves. The ghost of Mrs. Beaufort reported that the thieves are planning to set fire to the house.”
Marla gasped and put her hands to her mouth. “Oh, no!”
Lea put a reassuring hand on Marla’s arm. “The fire department is coming, and Montgomery is hoping to stop the thieves before they start the fire.”
A man’s scream echoed from nearby. The front door of the farmhouse burst open. A man in formal black attire erupted from inside and vaulted from the wrap-around porch. He held a glass bottle and was attempting to light the rag stuck into the top of it with a cigarette lighter as he ran toward the parking lot.
“We can’t let him light that!” Marla raced toward the man.
Lea followed, hiking up her wedding dress.
The man, intent on lighting the Molotov cocktail, didn’t see Marla barreling toward him. She hit him full speed from behind just as the flames from his lighter ignited the rag on the bottle.
As the man tumbled face down into the grass with Marla on top of him, the bottle slipped from his hand and shattered. The gas within it spread into an instant circle of flame, blackening brittle, yellow grass.
Lea raced to a water trough under a restored pump behind the house and grabbed a replica wooden bucket. She dipped the bucket in the trough, raced back, and dumped the water, dousing part of the spreading circle of flames. Lea ran to refill the bucket.
Marla sat astride the thief bending one of his arms behind his back. “You are going to jail!”
Sirens sounded as a fire truck and police cars roared into the parking lot.
As Lea dumped more water on the fire, the fire fighters arrived, pulling out hoses to extinguish the grass fire.
Lea, relieved the fire was under control, turned to search for Patrick.
A shot rang out from inside the farmhouse.
Police ran toward the house. An officer grabbed Lea and prevented her from entering as Montgomery came out with his hands raised and yelled, “The gunman has been disarmed, but we need a medic.”
Terror ripped through Lea, and she struggled against the officer detaining her. “Let me go! Someone is hurt.”
Police flooded onto the porch toward Montgomery as Lea squirmed and fought to free herself.
The officer holding Lea kept repeating, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t let you go in there.”
* * * *
As the clock approached midnight, Lea sat waiting with Marla inside the renovated barn. The last of her guests had said their goodbyes. She had convinced her parents to go back to their hotel. They had volunteered to stay with her, but since they’d had a long day, Lea insisted they leave.
Lea’s phone rang. She fumbled to answer it, then put it on speaker for Marla to hear, too. “Hello. Kamika? How’s Parker?”
Kamika answered, “The bullet grazed his leg just under the skin, hardly even touched the muscle beneath. He needed stitches. They’ll release him soon.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Marla said.
Kamika’s voice wavered, “No kidding. How are things on your end?”
Lea said, “Patrick and Montgomery are still giving statements. I’m hoping we’ll get to leave for our honeymoon. The plane for Italy leaves at noon, a little over twelve hours from now.”
“Montgomery knows y’all have places to be. He’ll hurry things along with the police if he can. He knows everyone from the chief on down, and he can talk anyone into anything.”
Lea laughed and felt tears form in her eyes. “I know. Tell Parker how sorry I am that his happened.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Lea. Blame the crooks.” Kamika’s voice sharpened. “I mean it!”
“I hear you. Thanks for the update.”
They ended the call.
Lea’s eyes began to droop closed, but popped open when Marla made a small choking noise.
“I see a woman in a blue dress!” Marla said in a breathless voice. Her eyes were fixed behind Lea.
Lea turned and saw Mrs. Beaufort standing in the barn, semi-transparent, but dignified as ever. “Mrs. Beaufort, thank you for your help today.”
Mariah Collinsworth Beaufort inclined her aristocratic head. “I was glad to be of assistance. I am sorry that young man, Mr. Poulsen, was injured. The thief was aiming for me.”
Lea glanced at Marla. She was staring and gripping the table in front of her with enough force to crack a walnut. Marla could see Mrs. Beaufort, and the thief apparently had seen her, too. “You managed to make yourself visible to people other than me.”
For the first time since Lea had met her, Mrs. Beaufort laughed, causing some of the heaviness that filled the atmosphere around her to dissipate. Laughter changed her entire demeanor, taking her from dour to light-hearted in a blink. Mrs. Beaufort said, “I succeeded in distracting the thieves and your gentlemen did the rest. Such bravery was wonderful to witness. Your husband is very courageous.”
“Thank you.” Lea swallowed a lump forming in her throat. Marla hadn’t moved, but her breathing had sped up. Lea patted Marla’s hand. “Marla, please meet Mrs. Beaufort. She has been occupying the farmhouse, remember?”
Marla released her grip on the table. “Yes, I remember you told me. I’m... I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Beaufort.”
“I have admired your work restoring the house,” Mrs. Beaufort said to Marla.
“Thank you,” Marla squeaked.
Lea said, “Mrs. Beaufort, could you tell me what happened at the farmhouse earlier this evening? I only heard a partial report.”
Mrs. Beaufort clasped her hands in front of her waist and drifted closer to Lea and Marla. “The thieves were searching the house. While one was in the parlor, I appeared in front of him and screamed in a most unladylike voice. He tried to hit me and realized he couldn’t. He ran from the house in terror.”
Lea nudged Marla, “That must be the man you tackled.”
Marla managed to say, “Mm-hmm.”
Mrs. Beaufort continued her story. “Your men surrounded the other thief in the kitchen, but he brandished a gun. I screamed at him as I had done at his partner. He was quite startled. He fired the gun, injuring that poor young man’s leg. Then your husband and his friend knocked the thief to the ground while Mr. Montgomery took his gun. Will the thieves be hanged?”
“Hanged?” Lea said. “No. He’ll be going to jail.”
“I suppose that is sufficient.” Her translucent eyes searched Lea’s face. “He seemed quite desperate. I overheard the thieves discussing how much they needed to steal to be able to pay a debt.”
“They probably felt they had no choice.”
Mrs. Beaufort’s form wavered. “Perhaps that is what my son felt when he killed me, that I had given him no choice. I didn’t realize that he would so dislike my choice of a bride.”
Lea, who’d heard that story before, said, “He wanted to control his life and choose his own bride. He should have faced you, not killed you, ma’am.”
“I wasn’t inclined to listen to his objections to my plans for his future. He’d made so many poor choices up to that point.”
“I know. And you protected him from the consequences of his actions.”
Mrs. Beaufort’s face fell into a frown. “I did. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. If a... a malefactor is not punished for his crime, how will he learn? Henry learned to take the easiest route, not the correct route, which led him to kill me.”
Lea didn’t know how to answer. She could feel mixed emotions emanating from the ghost. Finally, she asked, “Are you still angry at Henry?”
“I feel sorrow and regret. I failed him, too. I must forgive him. I hope he may forgive me.”
“Maybe he will some day.” Having witnessed the raging violence engulfing the ghost of Mrs. Beaufort’s son Henry, Lea doubted he would learn forgiveness any time soon. However, she hadn’t thought Mrs. Beaufort would ever see the error of her ways either.
Mrs. Beaufort’s head turned as if she was hearing something. “Someone is calling.”
A brilliant light appeared, and Mrs. Beaufort’s wavering form evaporated before Lea’s eyes.
Marla grabbed Lea’s arm. “She’s gone. Did she... ? Is she... ? Where did she go?”
“I hope she went to whatever the next place is for her soul.”
“Heaven?” Marla asked.
Lea shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe. Or maybe she’s simply gone to the next waiting area. I can’t see past this world any more than you can.”
Marla shuddered and hugged herself. “That was incredible.”
At the end of the room, a door opened, and Patrick and Montgomery walked into the building.
Lea leaped to her feet and ran to greet her husband.
Patrick wrapped her in his arms before releasing her and examining the imitation golden diadem around her historical hairdo, the soot stains on her gown, and her bare toes poking through holes in the hosiery covering her shoeless feet. “You look beautiful. Good news. I have the stolen gift envelopes. Everything was recovered from the thieves. Our guests will be able to reclaim their belongings from the police.”
Montgomery spoke to Marla, who had risen from her seat and trailed behind Lea. “Madam Museum Curator, the police say you can inspect the inside of the farmhouse now.”
“It’s about time. I need to assess the damage.” She marched around Montgomery and through the door.
Montgomery laid a hand on Lea’s shoulder. “You and Patrick are free to go. Enjoy your honeymoon. I’ll see you both back at work in two weeks.” He grinned at them both. “I am also free to go. So, good night and congratulations.”
He left, following Marla out the door.
Lea put her arms around Patrick’s neck. “It’s only midnight. Plenty of time to get to our hotel.”
Patrick wrapped his hands around Lea’s waist. “Rome, here we come. And this time, I’m hoping you won’t find any ghosts on the airplane.”
“I’m hoping whatever wedding prank Ram arranged for your car isn’t too insane.”
“Whatever it is, after a wedding day like this, we’ll survive it.” He pulled her closer and kissed her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
N. M. Cedeño (nmcedeno.com) writes crime fiction novels and short stories, including the Bad Vibes Removal Services series. She is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and Sisters in Crime: Heart of Texas Chapter. Her work has appeared in anthologies, including the Crimeucopia series, and in magazines, including Analog: Science Fiction and Fact, After Dinner Conversation, Black Cat Weekly, and Black Cat Mystery Magazine. She blogs at InkStainedWretches.home.blog.
RANDOM NUMBERS,by Hal Charles
When her beloved 86-year-old grandfather, Papa Terry, died in his sleep, Serena Swan asked her best friend, State Police Detective Kelly Stone, over for tea at his house.
Kelly hugged her friend and said, “I was so sorry to hear about Papa Terry’s passing. I know you two were very close.”
“My dad died when I was young,” said a teary Serena. “He and Grandma Willow helped my late mom raise me. I wouldn’t have become a lawyer if it weren’t for his presence in my life.”
They sat down in the den, and Serena poured Kelly a cup of tea, then said, “I need your help.”
“Of course.”
“More as a detective than a friend.”
Kelly took a sip of tea. “I can be both.”
“I know this is going to sound crass,” admitted Serena, “but Papa Terry always invested well and became a wealthy man.”
“I didn’t know that,” admitted the detective.
Serena handed Kelly a piece of paper. “I found it on the desk blotter in his study yesterday.”
The detective read the note out loud. “‘Let this letter serve as my will. As both my wife and only daughter have predeceased me, I leave title to all my possessions to my beloved granddaughter, Serena, under one condition. If she is as smart as I believe, she will be able to figure out the four-digit code to open the lock box in my desk’s bottom, right-hand drawer.’”
“I guess I’m not as smart as he thought,” confessed Serena. “I haven’t a clue, and my chances of going through all the number probabilities are one in ten thousand.”
Hearing the mixture of grief and despair in her friend’s voice, Kelly said, “Why don’t we go to Papa Terry’s study. People keep the essences of their lives in that room, so it might help us get some good ideas.”
Once in the study, the detective sat down in Papa Terry’s chair behind his desk and glanced around.
“I looked under the blotter . . . behind all the photographs . . . in all the drawers already,” said Serena, “and found nothing.”
“I see a lot of stuffed fish on the wall,” said Kelly.
“Mostly bass,” said Serena. “When I was young he used to take me fishing up at Lake Serenity. He once told me the lake was named after me. I think I was with him when he caught that bass by the window.”
Kelly walked over and checked the mounted bass, hoping for a clue in its small mouth, but found nothing. Beside it, she saw a framed photograph of a slightly younger Papa Terry and a camera crew by a lake. “What’s so important about this picture?”
Serena laughed. “For the past ten years, his favorite TV show has been that one on cable, the Michigan Cottage Makers.”
“Never seen it. What’s it about?”
“Bunch of carpenters in Michigan who go around building and rebuilding cottages on all the state’s various lakes. Years ago, Grandfather ran into them on one of his fishing trips and became an instant fan.” Serena smiled at the memory. “You know, when he passed, his housekeeper found him the next morning, lying in bed, clutching a coffee cup with the show’s MCM label. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he were also wearing one of their T-shirts.”
“I seem to recall that Papa Terry liked music,” said Kelly, spotting some framed ticket stubs.
“I grew up listening to that old doo-wop music. You know, the kind with all the nonsense sha-la-la boom lyrics?”
“I seem to remember Papa Terry playing ‘Earth Angel’ for us when we were growing up. He not only knew all the lyrics, but could actually carry a tune.”
They both laughed together.
“You know, even if we didn’t find that four-digit code,” said Serena, wiping a tear from her eye, “you’ve been really good at helping me remember some good moments with Papa Terry.”
“Actually,” said Kelly, opening the desk’s bottom, right-hand drawer, “I figured out the code a while ago.”
SOLUTION
Kelly picked up on Papa Terry’s dying clue. He was grasping a cup with MCM on it. MCM is Latin for 1900. And when the detective had Serena punch 1-9-0-0 into the lock box, it opened.
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.
SOFEE,by David Dean
Blaise squatted in the damp patch of woods studying the candle he had lit. It was a long white taper and he had found a discarded soda bottle to act as a holder. Though there was little breeze, sometimes the flame guttered and smoked before once more flaring into brilliant life. Brushing a lock of his dark-brown hair from one eye, the nine-year-old boy waited as the late afternoon darkened toward evening.
Something white glided into the edge of his vision, and turning, he found Sophie had joined him. They often met here after school, though he could never be sure when, or if, she would show up.
Their first meeting had been seven months before, when his mother’s latest boyfriend had chased him out of their two-bedroom rental house in a drunken rage. Escaping into the woods that bordered their neighborhood, Blaise had come to the spot he was at now. Weeping, he had not seen, or heard, the seven-year-old girl follow him; he’d only become aware of her presence when she touched his hand. Startled, he had snatched it back, turning his face from her. When she took his hand a second time, he did not object, and they sat in silence until his tears had ceased.
Blaise had seen Sophie often on their street, wandering without apparent purpose or company, had been aware of her in the corridors of their school like a wan, ragged phantom.
Pale, with smudges beneath her ice-blue eyes, Sophie squatted next to him now without a word, wrapping her thin arms around her knees. Blaise noticed that her lank blond hair was damp with droplets of moisture, her pastel-pink sweatshirt and tights stained and streaked. She coughed.
The two sat side by side watching the dancing flame in silence until Blaise asked, “You want to wear my jacket?”
Sophie shook her head and said in her small voice, “Where’d you get that?” meaning the candle.
“Father Gregory gave it to me at church,” Blaise lied.
“Why?”
“It was for me helping out at Mass.” Reaching inside his jacket, he removed another candle from an inside pocket and held it out to her. He had stolen both on his way out of the sacristy. “He said you could have one too. It’s even been blessed.”
This was the second time he had given Sophie a gift—the first had been a plastic tiara he’d stolen from the backpack of one his classmates. All the girls had them because of some movie everyone had seen.
Taking the candle from him with a slight smile, Sophie looked the gift up and down as if she were unfamiliar with such things. “What do you do with them in church?”
“We blessed throats with them today.”
“Why?”
Shrugging, Blaise explained, “Cause it’s Saint Blaise’s Day and he was like the best saint for blessing throats. It’s supposed to be done with candles.”
Sophie scrutinized Blaise for a moment, her brows knitting in confusion. “You’re named Blaise,” she observed.
Feeling his cheeks grow warm, Blaise answered, “Yeah, I know. I’m named after him. It’s kinda stupid, I guess. That’s why it was such a big deal for me to be the altar server.”
Sophie coughed into her hand, then wiped it on the sequined unicorn on the front of her shirt. “Oh.”
“Let me show you,” Blaise went on, blowing out his candle and removing it from the bottle. Taking Sophie’s from her cool fingers, he crossed the two like an X, holding each by its end. “It’s like this,” he explained, placing the scissor-like arrangement to either side of her throat. “Then you say the blessing.”
“Okay,” Sophie said, holding very still, looking into his face.
Blaise concentrated, trying hard to recall the words the priest had used. “We pray for the intersection of Saint Blaise, bishop and martyr, to bless Sophie’s throat and... and...” Up close he could see several purplish bruises around her neck, almost hidden beneath the shirt. “And keep her from being sick... or anything bad... and... and just, you know, take care of her and don’t let anything happen to her, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”
Lowering the candles, he added, “That’s not exactly right... but it’s pretty close.” He gave Sophie her candle back.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“You won’t get a sore throat now, prob’ly.”
He wished he could invite her to stay at his house, but he knew his mother would never agree, even though there was no boyfriend currently living with them—the last had left after noticing a portable electric heater sitting on the edge of the tub as he ran his bath, its coils faintly glowing—it had been late summer.
It bothered Blaise that Sophie would have to go home to whatever awaited her there. It was rumored that her parents cooked meth in the house. Blaise’s mom had warned him to never go there, that it was dangerous and unhealthy.
He pointed at the smudges on her skin. “How’d you get those?”
Sophie’s face tilted down, and she said nothing in answer.
After a few moments, Blaise looked around and realized it had grown almost dark. “Well, I have to go home now.”
Sophie nodded, then Blaise took her hand and led her out of the woods and onto their street. Releasing her, he watched as she walked away without a word, taking very small steps as she made her way home. She did not look back. Just before turning onto the cracked, uneven pavement of her walkway, Blaise saw her slide the candle up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Then she was gone.
Hiding his own candle within his jacket, Blaise waited for a few moments longer, studying the titling mailboxes, the sagging fences, the jumble of cars parked along their street, then set out for his own home.
* * * *
The following day Sophie did not appear at school. When she had not returned for two more, Blaise went to find her.
Still wearing his backpack from school, he halted on the sidewalk in front of her house. The tiny dwelling was not much different from his—the roof shingles were curling, and a chest-high chain-link fence enclosed the yard. Blaise noticed that black plastic garbage bags had been taped over the windows from inside. One casement was missing a window altogether and had been boarded over with a sheet of plywood. Swallowing hard, he pushed open a gate that hung by a single hinge and went through.
He did not see the blunt-faced, big-headed dog until it came charging round the corner of the house snarling and grunting, its pink-and-black mouth thrown wide, fangs bared. Without time to cry out, he backpedaled, tripping over his own feet in his terror. Reaching the end of a long chain at the same moment, the slavering canine, with a surprised yelp of pain, was snatched back to land with a thud on its slat-ribbed side.
Scrambling back to his feet, Blaise saw the front door fly open and was confronted by a tall shirtless man with ribs as prominent as his beast’s, his long patchy hair swept back from his cadaverous face with what appeared to be a handful of petroleum jelly. “Who the hell are you,” he asked Blaise, “and what are you doing on my property?” He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the weak, wintry daylight.
There was no part of this man that was not decorated with a colorful swirl of intertwining images, everything from motorcycles to guns, naked women to fire-breathing dragons, gravestones to angels. Blaise didn’t know where to look first to make sense of it.
“You better not run,” the man warned, flipping a cigarette butt onto the wiry grass. He nodded at the dog, now back on all fours, barking and straining at the chain. “I cut him loose, you won’t get ten feet from here.”
Blaise shook the hair from his eyes and forced himself to speak. “I need to see Sophie. She hasn’t been to school... and I brought her homework—her teacher told me to.” This last part wasn’t true, but Blaise thought it might add weight to his presence there.
A short blond woman materialized out of the darkness of the foyer behind the man, peeking round him at their visitor. “Who is that kid?” she asked him in a deep, raspy voice that seemed too heavy for her slight frame. Like the man she sported a number of illustrations, as well as piercings through her ears, nostrils, lips, and sparse eyebrows.
“I’m Blaise. I go to school with Sophie.”
“She’s sick,” the woman replied, still staying out of the light.
“Can I see her?”
“No, you can’t see her,” the man answered. “She can’t do no homework for Christ’s sake. Her mother just told you she was sick.” The man’s lips appeared to stick together, making a smacking sound each time they parted. His pupils were so large that Blaise thought he looked like a marmoset at the zoo.
“Just leave it with us,” he heard the woman croak.
Thinking hard, Blaise countered, “I’m supposed to have her sign that she got it. The principal says so.”
“Oh bullshit,” the man spat out. “Get your scrawny ass down the road before I lose my patience. Nobody sent you here. You’re just that little punk she’s been sneaking off to see, ain’t you?” He took a step out onto the porch. “What do you two do out there in those woods, anyway? What—you think I don’t know about that—I’ve got eyes everywhere.” He came down two steps. “Have you kissed her yet, Studly Do-right—what else you done?”
When he stepped off onto the muddy lawn, Blaise took off running, his short legs pumping, his lungs sucking oxygen.
Two houses away, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the man had not followed, heard his braying laughter.
Blaise stopped.
Licking his lips, he raised one small fist above his head, then allowed its middle finger to spring up. “Screw you, crank-head!” he sang out as loud as he was able.
His laughter breaking off in the middle, the man leapt toward the dog and its collar.
This time Blaise didn’t stop running until he was home.
* * * *
On Friday Blaise approached the office with almost as much trepidation as he had Sophie’s house. Though familiar with the school’s administration personnel, it was not a welcome relationship. In this place he had few secrets and even less leverage.
Mrs. Reeves snorted when she noticed Blaise standing at the counter, reminding him of a water buffalo—huge, skittish beasts he had seen on TV programs. Her great winged hairdo did not lessen this impression.
After rearranging a stack of mail to her satisfaction, she finally turned her attention to Blaise. “Did Mrs. Chamberlain send for you again?” she asked, referring to the principal of the school.
Blaise shook his head, his thick hair swinging across his eyes.
“Who did then?”
“Nobody...”
This gave her pause. “Then why are here? Are you sick? You should go to the nurse if you’re sick.”
“I’m not sick—Sophie is.” Blaise felt his voice catch at her name. He took a deep, shaky breath. “I was just wondering when she’s coming back.”
“I see,” the water buffalo answered, drawing in her horns a little. “Well, Blaise, I’m not sure that’s something I can tell you. You see, we’re not allowed to give out medical information on students, providing that we even know it in the first place. I wish I...”
“Her name is Sophie,” Blaise repeated without hope.
“Sophie... what... sweetheart—I’d have to have her last name to even begin...”
“Caldwell,” the admissions secretary called out through the open door of her office. “He’s talking about Sophie Caldwell. Her mother withdrew her from school two days ago. She’s gone to live upstate with her natural father.”
“Well... I guess that’s that then,” Mrs. Reeves said, regarding the top of Blaise’s head for a moment before adding, “At least you know she’s not sick anymore, Blaise.”
“She wouldn’t go...” Blaise spoke to his feet, but loud enough to be heard.
“I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Reeves began.
“She wouldn’t go without telling me,” he went on, looking up now at Mrs. R and the admissions officer, who had just stepped out to see if she could help. “Sophie would’ve have said goodbye.”
“I’m sorry, young man, but I’ve got the paperwork in my office,” the admissions lady assured him. “It was kind of sudden, so maybe she just didn’t have time to say good—”
“That’s bullshit,” Blaise announced with firmness, his face set and tough, an intimation of what he might someday be.
“Blaise O’Connor!” the water buffalo snorted, her horns lowering once more. “You go right into Mrs. Chamberlain’s office and tell her what you said! Do not turn your back on me, young man! If you go out that door...”
Never looking back, Blaise flew through the hallways and out the main entrance, mounting his secondhand bike on the fly and standing on the pedals. Though he knew he had no hope of escaping the school’s retribution, he was content to postpone it. He needed time, though for what exactly, he didn’t know.
* * * *
Bumping and jolting his way along the root-filled trail, Blaise made his way through the band of woods that ran through his neighborhood. Here and there, candy wrappers and cigarette butts festooned the path along with crushed beer cans and condom wrappers. Skirting the local cemetery, he spotted the flickering of candles, their flames dancing inside red jars that had been left on some of the gravestones.
Emerging onto his own street at the same spot he had last seen Sophie, he halted to ensure that no police cars, or other agents of adult authority, were present. Satisfied, he thrust a pedal downward and launched himself ahead, swerving round the garbage cans that had been placed out at the curb.
Jumping his wobbly steed up onto the sidewalk as he neared Sophie’s house, he spotted a bicycle leaning against the cans out front. He slowed to a stop to examine it. It was a small, pink bicycle with a bell on its loose handlebars, the grips sporting tattered plastic ribbons—Sophie’s bike.
Whatever plan that had been formulating in Blaise’s mind evaporated like a waking dream.
Then the dog spotted him.
Bumping back out into the street, Blaise made a clumsy U-turn as the dog announced his presence. Snarling and flinging itself against its restraints again and again, it seemed determined to either reach Blaise or kill itself in the effort.
Moments later, Blaise attained the shelter and concealment of the woods once more, the demon hound’s ragged barking grown faint. Panting with exertion, he hung over his handlebars trying to understand what he had just seen. He couldn’t imagine Sophie leaving her bicycle behind. Always a late starter, she had only recently shed her training wheels. If she really had been sent to be with her dad, why hadn’t they sent the bike with her instead of throwing it out with the garbage?
He knew now that he had to get inside Sophie’s house.
* * * *
Even with a week of in-school suspensions as a result of his behavior on Friday, Blaise found time to prepare his plan. Each evening, after his mom had gone to bed, he eased himself out his bedroom window carrying whatever packaged meat he had succeeded in shoplifting from the supermarket on the way home. It wasn’t hard. All he had to do was a find a woman alone who was about his mother’s age and follow behind her, stopping along the way to look at the kinds of products kids liked, such as sugary breakfast cereals and packaged doughnuts.
To the store clerks it appeared he was just lagging behind his mom, something they were accustomed to seeing. If anyone was monitoring the security cameras, it would look much the same. The only dicey part was the actual snatching of the packaged meats and concealing them in almost the same motion, but Blaise was both practiced and bold. And his luck had held.
When he rolled up to Sophie’s house, the dog was looking for him.
The first night Blaise had only flung the meat within reach of the baying creature and then pedaled off again into the darkness. The second night, the dog ceased barking when he saw Blaise withdraw the package from his jacket, his eyes glittering in the moonlight, then fell upon the offering as if he had not eaten since the boy’s previous visit. The third night he was waiting, staring in the direction he had seen Blaise arrive from before, rising up to place his forepaws on the fence in anticipation of his evening treat. Though he began to growl as Blaise dismounted the bike and drew closer, he didn’t bark, scarfing the sliced bologna with a huffing noise, his terrible teeth mere inches from the boy’s fingers.
Tonight, Blaise risked touching the creature’s round wrinkled head for the briefest of moments before giving him his meal. The dog allowed it with only the smallest of rumbles from somewhere deep within him. When he was done with the meat, he looked up to see that Blaise was still there, and his whip-like tail sliced back and forth.
Blaise held his hand over the fence and waited. Lifting himself up onto his hind legs, the dog sniffed his benefactor’s fingers, his flat snout dripping and cold. For several seconds the brute danced round the proffered hand, taking careful draughts beneath the pale light of the moon. Then, satisfied at last, he licked Blaise’s palm.
Smiling at the animal, Blaise whispered, “Good boy, Tony.” He didn’t know why he named the dog Tony, except that it was the name he wished he had been given. “You’re a good boy.” Tony’s tail whipped the cold air with increasing velocity as Blaise stroked the dog’s scarred, concave skull.
From within the house there came the bass pulse of rock music being played at great volume. Stars of light leaked out from tears in the ad hoc window coverings and seams where the cheap tape had fallen away. Seeping through the rotten window frames was a poisonous stench, part hospital disinfectant, part paint remover, a pong both nauseating and euphoric. Within, Blaise heard a male voice laughing, a laughter that dissolved into a ragged cough.
Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Blaise noted that the tiny house was completely lit but for the far rear corner. This was the room that corresponded to his own bedroom at home; the room that he believed must be Sophie’s. “Tomorrow, boy,” he promised Tony with a final pat on his furrowed skull.
Glancing over his shoulder as he rode down the moonlit street, he could see the silhouette of the dog watching his departure with concern.
* * * *
When Blaise arrived the following night he found Tony busy digging, his broad forepaws tossing dirt this way and that, his chain stretched to its limit in the shadowy backyard. The house, like the other nights, pulsed with bass, glowing like a jack-o-lantern round its windows and through its cracks and seams, the evil smell a pall of dread.
Approaching the fence, Blaise whistled softly, causing the dog’s head to come up with a snort, his wet nose caked with earth, his eyes fierce with alarm. When he saw who it was he gave up his solitary occupation and trotted to the fence, eager for his nightly feeding.
Blaise fed him by the slice, taking time between each offering to stroke the dog’s big head. When there were only a few pieces left, Blaise let the dog gobble up the rest in a single gulp, then petted him once more. “Good boy, Tony,” he whispered, before circumnavigating the fenced yard to arrive at the opposite corner. The dog walked along with him as far as his tether would allow, following the boy’s progress with interest.
Removing his jacket, Blaise laid it across the wire prongs that lined the top of the fence. Then, with one more glance at the dog, heaved himself atop it and over, landing on his sneakered feet. Tony was silent, the chain straining, only the side-to-side motion of his hindquarters revealing his delight with Blaise’s company.
Blaise breathed out, his exhalation a silvery mist. Removing the screwdriver from the back pocket of his jeans, he moved toward Sophie’s darkened window, noticing that unlike the other windows in the house it was uncovered. As he neared, he could also see a cinderblock standing on end beneath the window and instantly grasped its significance—like him, Sophie liked to come and go as she pleased. It would make his task both faster and easier.
Stepping up onto it, he placed his face against the cold glass, attempting to peer in, but could see little other than the suggestion of a dresser and a bed in the darkness. When he attempted to raise the sash it slid upward with bumps and shudders, and he returned the unnecessary screwdriver to his pocket. Framed in the now open window, the thudding music grew in volume and the man’s and woman’s hoarse, drunken voices surfaced through the sound, their shouted words disjointed and incomprehensible. Like the time he had huffed gasoline, the chemical stench rocked Blaise’s senses.
Stretching his pullover shirt to cover his mouth and nose, he slid over the sill and into the room. When nothing resulted from this, he whispered, “Sophie, are you in here?” At the same moment, he risked switching on the tiny LED light he had removed from his mom’s keychain and swept it round the room. The brilliant beam revealed brief black-and-white glimpses of a rumpled, unmade bed and a small dresser with a cracked mirror and a mismatched chair in front of it. A hairbrush lay on this last, strands of fine blond hair caught within its bristles. Coming to an open closet, Blaise saw several of Sophie’s Goodwill outfits hanging haphazardly within, an equal number lying in a pile on the dusty floor beneath.
