Black Cat Weekly #162 E-Book

Phyllis Ann Karr

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 544

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

It’s our annual Halloween kickoff—for the next four Black Cats, extra spooky stories will be creeping and crawling into every issue. This time, we have vampires and scarecrows and werewolves (oh my!) as well as sinister strangers for your reading pleasure. Plus other tricks and treats.

   Here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Skip Trace,” by Angela Zeman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
    Skip Rose swore he’d never return to his childhood home, but a desperate family hires him to find out why their daughter was murdered.

“The Treasure Map Intrigue,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
    Can you solve the mystery before the detective? All the clues are there!

“Special Delivery,” by Linda Cahill [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
    When a young girl takes over her friend’s paper route, she encounters strange men, dark stories, and a house feared by all the neighborhood kids...

“Ol’ Crowbait,” by Bobbi A. Chukran [short story]
    When pranksters target Minnie Tate’s farm, they uncover more than Halloween mischief—triggering events that unravel a long-buried secret...

Scotland Yard Can Wait, by Zenith Brown [novel]
    Inspector Lord investigates a decades-old bank heist. As bodies pile up, can he unravel the mystery before the cunning mastermind escapes with the loot?

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Howl At the Moon,” by John S. Glasby [short story]
    A cursed castle, a full moon, and an ancient, terrifying secret!

“He Who Stakes,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
    In Prince Vlad’s cruel court, Father Clement’s faith is tested when martyrs rise from their stakes. Can mercy and justice prevail over a ruler blinded by righteous fury.

“Waystation,” by Hannah Birss [short story]
    In a rundown bar on Space Station SOL, a lonely miner share a fleeting, intimate encounter with a mysterious woman on a pilgrimage for a new sun.

“The Jackson Killer,” by Philip E. High [short story]
    Sent to a frontier planet to track down a highly intelligent and dangerous mutant, Lassen must outwit his prey while grappling with the morality of his own role as an Eliminator.

“The Scientific Pioneer,” Nelson S. Bond [short story, Horsesense Hank series]
    A farmer with uncanny “horse-sense” shocks university scholars by solving complex scientific problems. But when offered fame and fortune, unyielding logic leads him on a different path.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE CAT’S MEOW

SKIP TRACE, by Angela Zeman

THE TREASURE MAP INTRIGUE, by Hal Charles

SPECIAL DELIVERY, by Linda Cahill

OL’ CROWBAIT, by Bobbi A. Chukran

SCOTLAND YARD CAN WAIT, by Zenith Brown

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HOWL AT THE MOON, by John S. Glasby

HE WHO STAKES, by Phyllis Ann Karr

WAYSTATION, by Hannah Birss

THE JACKSON KILLER, by Philip E. High

THE SCIENTIFIC PIONEER, by Nelson S. Bond

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

“Skip Trace” is copyright © 2010 by Angela Zeman. Originally published in The Back Alley Webzine, Volume III, No. 2. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“The Treasure Map Intrigue” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“Special Delivery” is copyright © 2014 by Linda Cahill. Originally published in The Whole She-Bang 2. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Ol’ Crowbait” is copyright © 2024 by Bobbi A. Chukran and appears here for the first time.

Scotland Yard Can Wait is copyright © 1933, 1961 by Zenith Brown. Originally published under the pseudonym “David Frome.” Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Howl At the Moon” is copyright © 1963 by John S. Glasby. Originally published in SupernaturalStories No. 79, under the pseudonym “A.J. Merak.” Reprinted by permission of Philip Harbottle of the Cosmos Literary Agency (U.K.).

“He Who Stakes” is copyright © 2024 by Phyllis Ann Karr and appears here for the first time.

“Waystation” is copyright © 2024 by Hannah Birss and appears here for the first time.

“The Jackson Killer” is copyright © 1961 by Philip E. High. Originally published in New Worlds Science Fiction, May 1961. Reprinted by permission of Philip Harbottle of the Cosmos Literary Agency (U.K.).

“The Scientific Pioneer” is copyright © 1940 by Nelson S. Bond and originally appeared in Amazing Stories, March 1940. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR & PUBLISHER

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

EDITORIAL BOARD

Thomas A. Easton

Ryan Hines

Vicki Erwin

Paula Messina

Richard Prosch

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Yes, it’s our annual Halloween kickoff issue—for the next four Black Cats, extra spooky stories will be creeping and crawling into every issue. This time, we have vampires and scarecrows and werewolves (oh my!) as well as sinister strangers for your reading pleasure. Plus some other tricks and treats.

As always, special thanks to our Acquiring Editors for helping round up great stories, and to the volunteer readers who keep discovering great stories for us. If you’re a writer (published or not) we welcome appropriate submissions through our portal at blackcatweekly.com.

Here’s the complete lineup—

Cover Art: Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Skip Trace,” by Angela Zeman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Skip Rose swore he’d never return to his childhood home, but a desperate family hires him to find out why their daughter was murdered. His investigation drags him back to dark memories and deadly secrets.

“The Treasure Map Intrigue,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

After her uncle’s death, Marcy and her cousins find a cryptic note attached to an old map. As they search for treasure, Marcy discovers a hidden clue. Can you solve it before Marcy uncovers the truth?

“Special Delivery,” by Linda Cahill [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

When a young girl takes over her friend’s paper route, she encounters strange men, dark stories, and a house feared by all the neighborhood kids. What begins as a simple errand turns into a chilling mystery.

“Ol’ Crowbait,” by Bobbi A. Chukran [short story]

When pranksters target Minnie Tate’s farm, they uncover more than Halloween mischief—triggering events that unravel a long-buried disappearance. As Sheriff Josie Miller digs deeper, eerie scarecrows and strange whispers lead to a chilling discovery.

Scotland Yard Can Wait, by Zenith Brown [novel]

Inspector Lord investigates a decades-old bank heist. As bodies pile up, can he unravel the mystery before the cunning mastermind escapes with the loot?

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Howl At the Moon,” by John S. Glasby [short story]

A cursed castle, a full moon, and an ancient, terrifying secret. When Robert Temple arrives, determined to unearth the truth, he finds himself face-to-face with a horror beyond his worst nightmares.

“He Who Stakes,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]

In Prince Vlad’s cruel court, Father Clement’s faith is tested when martyrs rise from their stakes. Can mercy and justice prevail over a ruler blinded by righteous fury.

“Waystation,” by Hannah Birss [short story]

In a rundown bar on Space Station SOL, a lonely miner share a fleeting, intimate encounter with a mysterious woman on a pilgrimage for a new sun.

“The Jackson Killer,” by Philip E. High [short story]

Sent to a frontier planet to track down a highly intelligent and dangerous mutant, Lassen must outwit his prey while grappling with the morality of his own role as an Eliminator.

“The Scientific Pioneer,” Nelson S. Bond [Horsesense Hank series, short story]

A farmer with uncanny “horse-sense” shocks university scholars by solving complex scientific problems with ease. But when offered fame, fortune, and love, his unyielding logic leads him on a different path.

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

SKIP TRACE,by Angela Zeman

Skip Rose strolled down a street in the warmth of a late-spring afternoon, a street he remembered, surprised to find himself almost enjoying it. Very surprised. His home as a child. He’d sworn decades ago to never return.

Plus, Skip wasn’t a man who “enjoyed” things.

Oddly, a recent trick of fate had caused a job to intersect with memory lane. After long fruitless waiting for the police to unravel the details of a woman’s murder, her family, in desperate desire to know why their daughter had died, had hired Skip to find out. Like Skip, they lived in New Mexico. To them, Gary, Indiana, was a world away, too far to contemplate for themselves.

At first, he’d said no. But the woman’s grandfather pressed. Explained until Skip couldn’t look at him. No need to “solve” the murder, he’d insisted. “We must know only ‘why.’”

Trouble was, he understood a need to know why. He owned a few of those himself. So…okay. A crackerjack prize. Long as he stayed focused on the job, he told himself.

* * * *

That was yesterday. Today, curiosity pricked as he rolled in his soundless heel-toe walk through one of Gary’s oldest bedroom communities. The too-narrow streets were still too narrow. Pot-holed, the curbs crumbled, the shabby buildings as undersized as he remembered. Nothing alive in sight, not even a stray cat. Forgotten and forsaken, it looked to Skip.

Gary’d been a filthy, over-crowded, dissatisfied mill-town in the sixties and seventies, when he’d lived here. Greedy for the distractions of vice. He remembered a mob—well, a small, organized crew—squeezing the area lifeless.

He gazed upward, marveled at the blue skies. Brown sulfuric air from the steel mills used to blanket Gary, visible for miles. Ripped out a citizen’s lungs. Not now, with the surgeon general cracking everybody’s nuts. And the mills closed.

Home.

Whole blocks he didn’t recognize, but a few things fit eerily with his memories. St. Jerome’s RC Church, right there.

The mope heading up the local mob, uncle—whoever—had taken down a rival there in that exact gutter, the spot shadow-printed by St. Jerome’s cross every afternoon. The rival, a steel mill supervisor with ambition, had lain panting, sprawled on his back, while his blood pooled in the gutter, then dripped down through the grill into the sewer. Though the fuzz had eventually, indifferently, removed the corpse, for two weeks his blood stained the gutter black, reminding everyone how Uncle Tupe rewarded independent thinking, until the next rainstorm scrubbed it away. That was the name: fat little Uncle Tupe, mean as a snake. You could get dead for just about nothin’, those days.

On the correct street, he looked up to check the number then suddenly ran out of oxygen. He stared at the tattered tar-paper shingles, still faintly green. Binny’s Tit. Binny’s Tit-For-Tat, really, but nobody used the whole name, it being more crib than bar back when. Beer in a bottle all you could get, cold if you were a regular. Nothing on tap, no hard stuff, no sodas. Young Binny behind the bar would toss you a bottle on your way upstairs if you held up a finger. From Skip’s own growing up, the free-standing building seemed shrunken, but otherwise looked the same. He pushed on the wood-framed screen door. It screeched as the rust ground in the hinges.

The funk hit him hard. Urine, cigarette butts soaked in beer, and that indescribable mix of body odors of those who spend hours every day in places like this. A blowtorch couldn’t clean the linoleum. While his eyes adjusted to the cavernous dark, he became ten again. Rage swept over him, a tidal wave. He shouldn’t have come back. Should’ve refused the job. Blast his stupid and now irreversible foolishness. His word was all he owned in this world, and he’d given it and now had to deliver. For a moment he closed his eyes. Mother of God.

Ten years old.

Binny did everything then, what little that got done. Old Binny should’ve long ago been shelved in a home, but spent his days tied with soft rags to a chair in the corner, drooling over a peanut butter jar half-full of beer with a straw. His son would exchange the jar for a fresh one when he thought of it. Old Binny was the only one in the joint that got anything resembling a glass.

The stairs Skip remembered in the back of the room were now concealed behind a sagging, fake wall of panel-printed fiber-board, a home-made job. Skip stared at that wall so hard he should’ve been able to see through it.

The man behind the bar now was old, bald and yellow-skinned as a plucked stewing chicken. Thin sloped shoulders, fleshless arms, and forty pounds of belly beneath his stained golf shirt. Young Binny, Skip decided, shaken at the realization. The image of his father, but some years short of being tied to a chair.

Skip let the door smack shut and did his silent rolling walk toward Old Binny’s table. He pulled back the chair facing the room, Old Binny’s chair, and sat. Binny curled his lip as he studied his new customer.

“Beer, Binny,” said Skip. No need to raise his voice to be heard across the empty room. “Cold,” he added. Binny’s eyes widened. He reached low, snagged a long-neck from a hidden bed of crushed ice, and pitched it. Skip grabbed it out of the air as if he’d been fielding wet beer bottles all his life. Binny nodded, a silent compliment at the neat catch.

“We met?” Binny asked.

Skip looked around. “Where’s the clientele? Religious holiday I forgot?”

Binny contemplatively moved a damp rag that used to be an undershirt across the bar’s peeling veneer. “Can’t place your face. What’s the name? You know mine.”

“Dad gone?” asked Skip.

Binny gave a black-lunged hack. “You knew Dad?” He gave a twisty crooked-neck nod. “Heart finally popped. In ’73.”

“Before or after Rosie was murdered?” Skip twisted the cap off the bottle, spraying a soft pssh of fresh beer into the funk.

“Rose—? Oh. Rosie. Right. Wan’t murdered. Killed ’erself.”

“Murdered.”

“Whatever. Whores never live long.”

“Whores never live at all.” He took a long pull at the beer.

Binny’s eyebrows raised with his shoulders. “Just whores.”

“Still keep some upstairs?” Skip’s gaze bored straight at Binny across the room while he took another long drink.

Binny breathed faster, bringing color into his cheeks and neck. “Nah. Times are different. Too much heat.” He reached for an open pack of Marlboros, shook one loose and stuck it in his mouth. His other hand scrabbled for matches, as if moving independently.

“Old Binny went the same day as Rosie, as I remember it. In the afternoon.”

Binny froze, cigarette still unlit. “You remember, why you askin’ me?”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Look at what?”

“Upstairs.”

Binny dropped matches and cigarette. “Yeah, I mind!”

Skip rose, headed for where he knew the stairs once began. Where he’d raced up and down most days as a child, running errands for the women penned upstairs like sheep. As he reached for an ill-fitting plywood door, Binny sidled from behind the bar and lurched forward. “Whoa. You can’t just walk in here and—”

Skip turned to look at Binny, which stopped Binny in the middle of the room. “Why so nervous?”

Then he listened. Dead silent. Binny’d told the truth. Nothing live up there now. Maybe even the rats had bailed. But he’d bet something was upstairs. “Stolen goods?”

Binny let out a shrill screech. Bingo, thought Skip.

Binny scurried back around behind the bar, began to fumble down low on a hidden shelf.

“Binny!”

Binny’s head snapped up.

“Put your hands up on the bar where I can see them. That’s it. Now. I don’t want to hear any funny noises, like you cocking that .38 special you used to keep under there, or maybe something newer?”

Binny didn’t move but stared bug-eyed at Skip.

Skip turned his attention again to the door. He hesitated. This had nothing to do with his case. So it has nothing to do with me.

He walked toward Binny, pulled out a square of paper, unfolded it, laid it on the bar still wet from Binny’s rag. “I’m hunting info on a different woman, not Rosie. Feather Whitecloud, she was called. Remember her? Gunshot here in…February 1973. Same year as—as your dad.”

Binny’s voice trembled. “Christ on a crutch, the same month.”

“Same as what?”

“That Rosie—and not an hour later, my dad’s heart give… Bad month to be on the planet, I guess. Wadn’t shot here, though.”

“Feather Whitecloud. Husband named Dave.”

“Got a picture? They all lied on their names, y’know.”

“Bin, two women and your dad, same month? Think.”

“I swear! Rose and my dad was enough!” He leaned away, narrowing his shoulders protectively. Readying for a blow, although Skip hadn’t moved.

“Her folks have a police report.”

“Lissen. If I lied to you, my guess is you’d kill me.”

“Bet on it.”

Bin shuddered. “So…so a typo on the report. Different crib, I bet. Who cares by now anyway?”

Skip studied the paper as its creases relaxed from the dampness of the bar top, thinking. Her family cared. “Who’s at the precinct from the neighborhood? Age around forty.” His age.

“Lessee…uh…uh…Marvin Lip—Lipwhatever, he’s about 40.” He stared down at the bar. “An’ one named, uh, Panzer, like the tank.” He raised his hands. “Best I know.”

Skip stared one last time at the back of the room. “Shocked you’re still alive, Bin.” He dropped a dollar bill on the bar, picked up his paper and slid it back into his pocket. He walked away.

Bin cleared his throat. “Day shift rolls in at seven, you want cops.”

As Skip pushed open the screen door without answering, Bin shouted at his back, “And beer’s gone up. More’n a dollar! Next time…” Bin’s voice trailed away. He shuddered and hunted for another smoke.

* * * *

Skip thought hard on his walk to the precinct house. Each glance at his surroundings dragged him back into his old life, into memories he’d buried after a good deal of effort. From Binny’s Tit to the precinct house was only a block downhill when he was a kid. It still was. So much, still the same.

“Panzer around?” he asked the desk officer.

The desk man was blond and blunt-featured, showing his Polish roots. Thick-necked and heavily muscled. He looked up from a stack of forms. “Whom shall I say is calling?” Skip nearly smiled. Gay lib had hit the Bible belt? Hope for humanity yet. At least in this precinct.

“Say Skip Rose, Officer—” he strained to read the name tag. “Derzhy.”

“Dewey, Hon.” His voice was disconcertingly basso, deepened even more by smoke and alcohol. “Uh, don’t tell ’em I called you ‘Hon,’ y’don’t mind. I promised I wouldn’t.” He flicked one of a row of switches and growled a request for Detective Panzer. He flicked the switch back to off without waiting for a reply.

Skip’s eyebrows raised. Dewey noticed. “Think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

A tall blonde in motorcycle boots, jeans, and a brown tweed blazer clattered down narrow wooden stairs that let out behind the front desk.

“Dewey, I was on the goddamned phone! I hate when you switch off before I can say no! What!”

Dewey calmly pointed his pen at Skip.

Her rich brown eyes narrowed. She examined his clipped black hair culminating in a widow’s peak, top front teeth wedged like a small prow. Eyebrows like black gashes across skin as pale as bone, eyes a startling gold-flecked turquoise. Nose thick and a little crooked, his body not tall, but too thin. Neat black pants, not denim. Black rubber-sole shoes, could probably carry him up walls, the tread so deep. Black tee tucked behind a dressy belt. Black coarse weave jacket, an odd thing, sort of Asian, with pockets and folds, not fancy, but complicated. Good to hide a shoulder holster.

She whipped back the edge of his jacket. Sure enough, an elastic holster, but empty. “Where’s your weapon!”

Skip, overcome by a fast-blooming private pain, said absently, “In the car. Licensed. You Panzer?”

“We have business?” When he didn’t speak or move, she wheeled to leave. She said, ill-humored, “Dewey, one more and you’re on school crossings.”

“Skip Rose,” Skip blurted.

She peered at him over her shoulder. He admired the thick swatch of 24-karat hair pulled into a ponytail that swung with her movements. High cheekbones, heavy jaw. Big-boned and strong, this woman. Panzer. A tank, but a female tank. Suddenly an image slid into place, a sucker punch. “Patsy.”

She stared. After a long moment she blinked. “Skip Rose?”

He nodded.

She breathed out. “Blessed Mary.”

He knew his smile was tight and defensive when it should’ve been happy.

“You’re alive!”

He stood there helplessly.

She commanded Dewey, “Tell Russo to finish my call, and log me out for the day.”

Dewey reached for another lever. “The day! Russo will burn.”

She hustled Skip out, stopping at the sidewalk. She jerked him around so they were face to face. “How’d you know I was here!”

Skip paused, searching for an explanation that would leave out the painful parts. As usual, words eluded him. He stared up into that face, glowing because he was here. He knew he’d let her down. He’d practiced letting people down for a lifetime.

She pulled him into a tight embrace. “I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe you’re here.” Her voice throbbed with emotion. He clung, trying to return the hug.

Just as abruptly, she released him. “C’mon. You’re not saying a word. We need a drink.”

“Where.”

She gave a glum laugh. “Oh, that got you talking? Binny’s seems appropriate.”

She pulled until he followed, and they climbed the hill.

Inside, Binny gave a start at seeing them, but said only, “Beers?”

“Like you have anything else,” snarled Panzer. “Cold.”

He tossed and they both caught the slick wet bottles neatly. A neighborhood quirk the Cubs should’ve taken advantage of, thought Skip.

“So, okay. You’re alive,” said Patsy, after her first swallow. She’d calmed down.

She’s had time to think.

“Why didn’t you contact me before now?”

Skip tried to take another drink but couldn’t swallow. “Ma dropped me at a Catholic orphanage in New Mexico the—couple days before. Didn’t occur to me anyone thought I was dead. Not much occurs to a ten-year-old.” Just the basics, he thought. Like, that my mom didn’t want me anymore.

“But you never came back!” Hurt swirled in her enormous eyes.

“To what? I mean—” He wanted to say he knew Patsy loved him, but the words stuck.

“You swore undying love for me, guy.”

“Ten-year-old passion.” He grimaced, despising himself for belittling their history.

“You didn’t come to see me even now, did you. I’m an accident.”

Always quick. “I’m a PI. On a job. It sort-of collided with…with ah—”

“With your past. So sometime or other, you found out your mom died, yes?”

He looked away. The nuns had told him, tired of him hanging around the front gate, waiting, ready with his forgiveness. So sure she’d miss him, come back to say she was sorry, she’d had too much to drink, a mistake. They’d told him she was dead in exasperation, to make him quit hoping. It worked.

Patsy looked off into the distance. Sighed. “So why are you here? Just tell me.”

“February, the same month my ma—” he flicked a glance over at Binny. “Same month Old Binny died…a woman was shot to death, a Feather Whitecloud, married to Dave something.”

“Gunshot?”

“Supposedly here, in the Tit.”

Patsy raised her voice. “Binny—”

“Already asked. Bin says it didn’t happen here, some mistake in paperwork. I have a copy of the police report with me.”

Patsy held out a palm. He pulled the paper from his pocket. She looked at it, squinting at places where the print had faded. “Well, that’s what it says. Maybe Binny’s right, somebody recorded an error.” She raised her shoulders. “I can check. Meet you here around seven, I’ll give you what I find.”

They left.

* * * *

In half an hour, Skip was at the Bureau of Records, thumbing his way through tattered paper files in boxes, records not yet entered into the new computer system. The clerk explained that they were going backward from the present. Hadn’t hit the seventies yet.

He burrowed. Purchase or sale of property, utility bills, marriage, birth or death certificates.

While digging, one corner of his mind mulled over Jake Ransom, the man who’d hired him. One of the People, he’d called himself. Meaning, Skip knew from his life in the Four Corners, a Shoshone. Ransom had shown up one day in Fairville, New Mexico, a flyspeck on the map where Skip had landed some years ago.

The ancient Shoshone had approached him in the diner, appearing out of nowhere. Somehow, this apparition knew who Skip was and what he did for a living, but Skip didn’t ask how. Discretion was a requirement for citizenship in the ironically named Fairville.

She’d left the rez in 1959, age sixteen, he said. She’d met a man named Dave and announced she would travel to Gary, Indiana, to be his wife. Mr. Ransom felt certain from his knowledge of Feather’s unshakeable honor, she would have married the man or come back. And she had not come back. And then she had died. At the place of the address printed on an old, much-worn paper Ransom had held out to Skip.

A daughter of the People, Feather Whitecloud of the Snake clan and for the Eagle clan. Meaning her maternal and paternal clans, respectively. No photograph, but he’d described her as having mixed blood in her ancestry, therefore her skin was not as dark as most Shoshone, and she’d grown up taller and slimmer. He had extended his old, sun-withered hand, showing his pale fleshless palm to demonstrate her skin color, and had stood to exhibit to Skip how tall she’d been in comparison.

In thirty years, no police had clarified many unanswered questions and, in the tribe’s opinion, never would. Now her mother was ill. Many of the People were aging, dying. Soon, all who remembered Feather as a girl would be dead. Something had to be done. They wanted—needed—to know why their daughter had had to die.

“She must not vanish from our hearts. We need the peace of understanding to complete our clan-memory of her.” And, although as her grandfather, Jake Ransom felt the responsibility heavy upon himself, he was very old. He’d decided to appeal to Skip.

* * * *

Skip eventually found a marriage license filed for a DavenRossinsky and Feather Whitecloud. Daven, he noticed. Mr. Ransom’s Dave. So, they had married. The grandfather was right, he thought, and wondered just exactly what “unshakeable honor” meant. He moved to death certificates and found hers easily. But no matter where he searched, nothing appeared about the husband. Alive or dead, Rossinsky seemed to have left Gary, Indiana.

He drove his rental car to the library, settled in front of a computer and typed in a public information search for DavenRossinsky, limiting himself to Indiana. It bombed.

On a hunch, he asked for a search of Illinois, since Gary was basically parked on the Illinois border. A DavenRossinsky had owned a house in Evanston, a town near Chicago. He’d moved twice after that, staying in the general Chicago area. Mr. Rossinsky was not an adventurous guy.

The last address was a tiny berg named Oakland. South of Evanston, not far. He searched for a phone number, utilities. Nothing. No phone?

Skip considered whether he should still search other states. The guy had hung out in the Gary/Chicago area most of his life. He could still be in Oakland. If this was his DavenRossinsky. How many could there be?

It was only two p.m. According to his map, Oakland would be only an hour’s drive, depending on traffic.

He easily located DavenRossinsky’s address—a modest seven-story condo. The manager there directed Skip to another address in Oakland. A place where no one had private phones.

Minutes later, Skip found DavenRossinsky. Feather’s husband. Daven, Skip concluded, had either lived too well or too hard. He was sixty-eight. An oxygen bottle stood ready on a stand in a corner, its rubber hose attached to a face mask—a still-life tribute to emphysema. Daven, in plaid shorts and a yellow T-shirt, sat in a gray bicycle-wheeled wheelchair, although from the way he twitched and jiggled his stick-thin legs, he obviously still had some ability to use them.

“Exertion stresses his lungs, Mr. Rose,” Miss Caroline had explained as she led him down the hall. “And his arthritis acts up. Also, his arteries have hardened something fierce, so he might drift off. Just a warning. Give him a minute, he comes back.”

“Back?”

“To reality. He thinks he’s a character in those gangster movies he loves to watch. Oh, he loves his gangster movies!” In the next moment she peeked into a room off the hallway. “Mr. Rossinsky? You have a visitor, dear!”

And Skip found himself face to face with DavenRossinsky, who sat clutching a mug of lukewarm tea and a half-eaten cookie to his bony chest. Miss Caroline bustled away and returned holding a cup of tea and a cookie that looked like oatmeal, placing it all on a saucer on a chest of drawers within reach. Skip shook his head. She left it anyway.

Skip noted that Daven didn’t mind his presence. Daven sank yellowed too-perfect teeth into the cookie and sighed in bliss. Skip winced. For a man who loved cookies, the skin that draped Daven’s bones looked alarmingly empty of flesh. His bald, brown-spotted head had shrunk to a skull, and his eyes had kept only a suggestion of blue.

Daven’s room was roomy and private, painted in saccharin pastels. Despite its obvious cleanliness, his room smelled of old man, unflushed toilet, and earlier meals.

Skip cleared his mind. “Mr. Rossinsky.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t look at Skip, his whole attention focused on the cookie.

“You had a wife. Pretty Indian girl named Feather. Remember Feather?”

Daven grimaced at him slyly, his lips stretching open on one side of his mouth. The masticated cookie was still unswallowed. Skip glanced away in revulsion.

Daven asked, mouth loaded, “Who’re you?”

“Nobody to worry about.”

“Nobody,” repeated Daven. He nodded in agreement, then swallowed.

“You remember Feather?”

Daven shrugged. “A cutie.” More cookie.

“You married her. Why?”

“Couldn’t get her in the sack, otherwise. Too—straight arrow.” He laughed, mouth wide, loving his own joke. “Indian, get it?”

“Divorce?”

Silence. Daven gulped down the last of his cookie. “Caroooowline! More cookies, damn it!”

“Did she die, Daven? How’d she die?”

Daven suddenly focused on Skip, eyes narrowed. “Morrie send you?”

“Who’s Morrie?”

“Greatest man in the world,” said Daven. “Morrie Jersey. I was his top gun.”

Skip sat back. Daven had evidently disconnected. He waited, following Miss Caroline’s orders, who evidently had no intention of bringing Daven another cookie. His eyes wandered to the window. He glimpsed flashes of blue, a lake, not far away, between tree trunks.

“So, what’d you do for Morrie?” asked Skip, deciding to play Daven’s game until he returned to the present.

Daven perked up. “Never got nailed, not for anything! Not many can say that, my job. Kills people.” He began to giggle. “My job kills people, get it? Never nailed?”

Skip shook his head. “Hey, Dave.”

Daven looked Skip lucidly in the eyes. “Yeah?”

“Feather.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you love her?”

“Why?”

Skip sighed, then gestured toward his uneaten cookie. Daven snatched it and began devouring it. Suddenly he stopped chewing and said eagerly, spraying cookie crumbs, “Cigarettes?”

After an incredulous glance at the oxygen tank, Skip shook his head no.

Daven flapped a hand at Skip, dismissing him.

* * * *

Skip flagged down Miss Caroline in the hall. “Does he get any other visitors?”

She eyed him shrewdly. “He went off about Morrie Jersey, didn’t he. And said he used to kill people?”

Skip shrugged.

Miss Caroline’s lips puckered. “Anyway…only one friend, till you showed up. Father Frank. They were neighbors. He comes once a week or so.”

“I’m no friend. Only looking for information about his deceased wife. He ever mention her? A woman named Feather?”

“Ooooh, I’d remember a wife named Feather!”

Skip gave her his card, circled his cell phone number on it, handed it to her. “If he says anything about her, call me? I’m not here to make trouble, her family would just like to put her memory to rest.”

“Well…”

Skip saw what was needed. He pushed his lips into a smile, patted her hand. “Her name was Feather,” he repeated. “You’re an angel. Thanks.”

She beamed and tucked the card into a pocket.

Smiles work but money costs less.

He headed back to the condos.

* * * *

Father Frank Passaic pulled Skip inside and led him through sliding glass doors to the ledge which served his apartment as a terrace. Soon they flanked a glass table, each teetering on the bowed legs of a white molded plastic chair. Only a rusted railing kept them from plummeting to the flowers and shrubbery seven floors below. The fragility of railing and chair worried Skip but he forced himself to sprawl, and made his face take on an expression of riveted interest. A portrait of someone with hours to spend listening to an old man’s stories. He sipped the cold beer fetched for him. Father Frank didn’t drink—“today,” he added with a chuckle, a drunk’s jibe revealing AA affiliation. He chain-smoked, flicking ashes and live butts over the railing. Skip imagined the garden below stunted and scorched from a steady rain of smoldering butts.

Father Frank was in his seventies, a tall gaunt man with leathery raddled skin. Skip wasn’t surprised when the Father began unreeling his story to him, a total stranger. Long time AA alcoholics lose discretion after relating their stories at hundreds of meetings. One more telling makes no difference.

At the story’s ignoble end, Skip asked him about Rossinsky.

Frank replied through exhaled smoke, “You know he was an enforcer?”

“Nurse said that came from the movies, and lack of oxygen to his brain.”

Frank stared at him.

“Delusions,” added Skip.

Frank slowly shook his head, dropping his eyes to the garden below. “Nope. Morrie Jersey was a hood, East Chicago. Morris Zherzincsky. Dave ran off from an orphanage, least that’s what he says. Said Jersey took him off the streets, got to be a real father-son thing. Dave grew up to be the most trusted guy in Morrie’s mob. Not that that’s saying much.”

Skip frowned, digging through those old memories again. Morris Jersey. East Chicago?

“You and Dave friends a long time?”

Father Frank shrugged. “I been here…since ’78. Diocese retired me.” He grimaced. “Firmly retired, you could say. Installed here instead of a retirement home. They got their reasons.”

Skip patiently pulled his attention back to Daven. “And you met Dave when?”

“Dave?” As if they hadn’t mentioned him before. “He moved in right after me. Riddled with bullets. No kidding.” Short laugh. “Like a gangster in Miss Caroline’s movies.”

“Gunshot wounds?”

“Holed up to give himself time to recover. Only he didn’t. Too much damage.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Never asked.”

Skip considered Father Frank. A man of God, life dedicated to serve the lambs, his Father’s flock. Too self-involved to inquire about wounds suffered by a man who seemed to be his only friend.

“Ever talk about his past?”

“All the time.”

“His wife, Feather?”

Frank tried to laugh, inciting a cough that wracked him hard. He clung to the railing, which shook alarmingly, flakes of rusted iron dislodged by the tremors. Skip wondered whether he should pull them both back inside to safety, but then the cough morphed into a controlled choking.

He lit another cigarette. “Said he never met anyone like her. She had ‘honor.’ That’s what he called it. ‘Honor.’”

“Meaning what?”

Frank dragged deeply on the current cigarette. “Didn’t ask.”

Skip shook his head in annoyance. “You two take an interest in each other at all? Or you just take turns talking out loud?”

Frank gazed down over the railing again. “Too many ghosts. Too many debts, and nothin’ we could fix.” He rubbed his nicotine-stained lips. “So yeah, neither of us wants to hear, but we talk. Hell is here and now, guys like us.”

Skip stood up, mouth twisted.

“Okay, we’re soulless bastards.” Frank glanced up at him, eyes dull. “But we know it.”

Skip let himself out. What do I know? My mother gave me away… He recognized his awful similarity to Frank and Daven. “Nothin’ we can fix. Hell is here and now for guys like us.”

* * * *

He drove too fast back to Gary. He glanced at his watch. Not quite five, library was still open. He swung north.

Settled in again in front of the computer at the library, he typed in Morris—then froze over the spelling of the last name. Google picked it up third try. Morris Zherzincsky aka Morrie Jersey.

He scrolled articles pulled from the Chicago Times, magazines, and a website dedicated to Chicago mob history. He limited the search to the ’50s through the ’70s, since Feather had died in ’73. Not knowing if he’d find a tie-in, he doggedly read everything. Some of the website articles made him shudder, the sycophantic descriptions of the mob, as if ruthlessness, gore, and greed were admirable manly traits. Morris had been a busy guy, flashy and often in the news. Keeping to chronological order as he read, Skip noticed a trail of growing complacency. The more Morris got away with things, the more careless he grew. And finally, the grand shootout with the Chicago police aided by the FBI. Morris and some of his lieutenants had been killed, some indicted and convicted, and a few disappeared. Like DavenRossinsky.

He leaned back in his chair. Clearly Daven had worked for Morris but must not have fallen into the trap of complacency with him. While Morris and many of his lieutenants became media stars, Daven avoided publicity. Maybe Daven told the truth about his history. He certainly hadn’t been captured in the final bloodbath. Skip executed a different search and found no indictments, no outstanding warrants for DavenRossinsky.

Suddenly the date of the final showdown leaped to his attention. The summer of 1978. Exactly when Daven had limped into Oakland with multiple bullet wounds. Going at the numbers a different way, Skip found that although Morrie Jersey’s career could be traced back to 1964, he’d become a focus of police action beginning in 1972. And in 1973 Feather had died.

Had Feather become a threat to Morris? To Daven, her husband? Unshakeable honor. What did that mean?

In his car, Skip dialed on his cell the phone number given to him by Jake Ransom. A man answered. “Yes?”

“Mr. Ransom?” asked Skip, confused.

“This is Elliot Spotted Horse. You calling Elliot’s Drugs and Sundries?”

“Um, Jake Ransom gave me this number—”

“That’s probably right. Jake uses my number if it’s important. Is this Skip?”

Startled, Skip said, “Yeah.”

“I’ll find him and have him call you back. He doesn’t have a phone of his own.”

“Thanks. But just tell him I have more questions, would you? Don’t let him get excited. I haven’t finished the job.”

“Gotcha.” Click.

Skip slid back behind the wheel of the rental car.

* * * *

By the time he pushed open the door to the Tit, he felt tired all the way to his bones. Just inside the room he paused, wondering what his problem was. Normally nothing could wear him down to this. The room swirled with smells and noise. Bodies filled the tables and stools, with a few hanging two-deep waiting for a place to land. Young Binny—Skip caught himself thinking the name and grimaced. Old Binny now. Binny was hustling, striding between the bar and the standup refrigerator at a speed Skip would never have believed possible.

“Skip Rose!” A sharp male voice pierced the din. Faces turned Skip’s way.

An arm from the back waved, and Skip pushed through, ignoring curious looks. But when he saw who’d shouted, his heart banged to a stop. “Boland.” He didn’t even know if he’d spoken the name aloud.

Dark hair had been replaced by white, the trim waist and bulky shoulders had reversed conditions. But the sapphire eyes seemed untouched by time or burdens, and Skip, when he looked, saw bottomless pools of compassion. Forgotten until now.

Although still big enough to scoop up Skip bodily, Boland only grabbed Skip’s right hand with both of his and pumped. Skip let him. Behind Boland, Panzer stood, eyes glittering. Whether from anger or sorrow, Skip was beyond knowing. Too many emotions crowded in on him as suddenly a whole sheaf of those snapshots from the past sharpened into focus. He’d remembered both Binnys, but not Boland. Not Patsy. What was wrong with him that he’d done that?

Sergeant Boland, GPD, had adored Rosie and Skip. He’d mentioned adoption once, shyly, but Skip had bolted. Boland had had to entice him back with a joke. Skip never could handle deep emotions. Even back then, thought Skip.

Boland had done what he could to make things easier for both mother and boy. A task impossible even for him, under the conditions of life then.

What conditions! Skip froze between present and past in Boland’s grasp. Boland himself couldn’t seem to let go. And then he did.

Skip let his arm drop limply. For the third time that day he forced an upward curve upon his mouth, despising his inadequacies.

Boland spoke, his voice gruff. “Panzer says you’re here on a case?”

Skip could only nod. Patsy edged forward. “He’s looking into the death of a Feather Rossinsky,” she said.

Skip stared at Patsy. “I never mentioned her last name. I just found that out myself.”

Patsy darted a look at Boland. “The name was in the file.”

“So there’s more than the form I had?”

Boland said, “Get a beer, Skip. Tell us your life story.” Boland’s eyes reminded Skip of the lake in Oakland. Clear blue. Brimming with understanding. He stopped looking at them.

“Sure.”

Patsy rousted the occupants to vacate Old Binny’s table, and they sat.

Desperate to avoid discussing history, Skip came immediately to the point. “What else did you learn?”

“Feather had a child,” blurted Patsy.

Skip drew back. “Her folks know?”

Patsy’s eyebrows raised. “They didn’t mention it?”

Boland twisted off the cap of his beer and swallowed deep. Skip couldn’t think, too distracted by half-memories and newly resurrected pain. A child?

“Kid dead, too?” he finally asked.

Suddenly Binny loomed at his shoulder. “Pay up. Nobody on the arm, even you, tough guy.”

Skip stared at Binny. “Name’s Skip. Skip Rose.”

Binny’s face twisted in shock. “Wha—by God. The whore Rosie’s little bastard?”

Skip didn’t respond.

“’Aa-at’s not what I meant to say,” squeaked Binny, palms up. “I uh, meant, the whore Rosie’s little boy.”

“Wanna talk over old times, Bin? Like how you made me scrub urinals to buy my mother’s lunch?”

“Hey. We all worked to get by. Little Skippy. If God don’t make miracles!” Binny grabbed up Skip’s left hand and folded it between his own dirt-creased clammy ones, his face betraying a sly disappointment that Skip not only allowed the touch, but let Binny keep holding the hand. “Your mom was a angel, that pretty gal. We all loved her.”

“Yeah, love. Twenty minutes per, and seventy-five percent to the house.” Skip’s stare held Binny captive.

Sweating despite the dank coolness of the room, Binny flung away Skip’s hand. He scrubbed his palms against his thighs. “So. Where’d you disappear to? Prayed on you at church, you know.”

“I bet.”

“Friggin’ odd. You and Rosie do a flit. Then she’s back. But then school let out and you din’t show. Next thing, bang, she’s—she…left us. We thought, well, you musta run off and her heart was set so hard on you—maybe she coun’t take you bein’ gone. No blame t’you,” he added hastily.

Skip’s face swelled and purpled with rage. Patsy let out a ragged squeal, then snatched a handful of Boland’s shirt to pull him back into his chair. “Let it happen,” she said. She turned to the rest of the room, which was frozen with tension. “Let it happen! He deserves this!”

Skip grabbed Binny by the neck and threw him to the ground. His fists pounded the bloated body like blunt hammers, the dull thuds loud in the silent room. Binny howled, “No, no!” He rolled to avoid the fists, only to receive blows to his face. Blood spurted from his nose, landing in a red lattice across the brown floor. Finally, Bin curled up into a fetal position. Skip kicked at Binny’s kidneys twice, then backed away, panting. He blotted the perspiration from his eyes with a forearm.

Binny whinnied with terror. “I’m an old man, you’ll kill me!”

“I’d kill you even if you were young, you piss-stinking turd. You killed my mother. You killed those poor young girls, slaves, filling that cash register with their bodies. Dues to pay, Bin!”

“Jesus you growed strong. I don’t know ’bout owin’ no dues, though—”

Skip’s short jab snapped Binny’s chin back hard, sweat, saliva, and blood splattering shoes of the nearby watchers. Binny went limp on the linoleum.

Suddenly Binny began a backward crab-scramble toward the bar. Patsy sighed. “Can’t allow guns, Bin.” She stepped over and pop-punched him on the mouth without exerting herself.

Binny sprawled flat and stayed there.

Patsy sat back down at the table. She and Boland sucked at their beers as if nothing unusual had happened. Skip scanned the crowd, many of the cops still in uniform. Nobody seemed inclined to move. Skip raised his eyebrows at Patsy, impressed by her evident power over her peers. She flashed him a sad smile that mysteriously enabled him to breathe easier.

Now able to meet Boland’s eyes, Skip said, “I didn’t run off.”

“I know,” said Boland.

Skip crouched by Binny and shook him until his eyes opened. “Sit up.” Skip walked over and, reaching over the bar, snagged two fresh beers from the ice. He swung an empty chair around and straddled it. When Binny managed to sit up, Skip held out a bottle. “Feather Rossinsky.”

Binny twisted off the cap, took a short swig. “Ow!” He fingered his teeth where Patsy had punched him. He dabbed at a cut on his chin, whimpering each time he touched himself.

“Bin.”

Binny shuddered. “Feather, she hid out here. She, uh, had run off from her husband. He was a—a strange one. Like no feelings about anyone or anything except his boss.”

“Morrie Jersey.”

Bin nodded. “Morrie was East Chicago, but Dave made collection runs in this area for Morrie, pickups from Tupe. Anybody run across Feather, they clammed tight. If Dave’d found out she was hooking for a living, he’d a killed us for just knowing it. Jesus. ’Specially me. He’d a killed me for hiding her, even though she was kind of hiding in plain sight.”

“I talked to Dave, Bin.”

Binny jerked back. “You didn’t!”

“He can’t hurt anybody now.” Skip sat still for a minute. “Why’d Feather run off?”

“She was—everybody did love her. I wasn’t makin’ nice… Way I heard it, when she found out what Dave did for a living, she ran.”

“Why didn’t she go home? She had a huge family. Why’d she—hide—here?”

For the first time Patsy spoke up. Tears shimmered unshed. “He was a raging paranoid. Wherever she was, anybody close to her would be killed, too. She knew it. She was a hero, Skip. She knew he’d find her eventually, so she stayed away from her family to keep them alive.”

Skip gazed at her for a long minute. “Why do you know that?”

Boland and Patsy and Binny all looked at Skip. He blinked, disconcerted, around him at the silent room. What was wrong here? What…

“Tell me!” he demanded.

Bin shrugged. “He found her.”

“And…?”

Nobody spoke.

Boland had tears rolling down one cheek. “She made a deal with him.”

Skip stared at him.

“She had this—integrity. Wouldn’t let me marry her ’cause she was already married, even though it was a farce. Wouldn’t even accept my help, ’cause it mighta put me in danger. Except she let me be a friend to you. She knew you needed more than just her. You were her world.”

Skip felt the blood leave his face.

Patsy said, “She convinced Dave you knew nothing, not even his name. So, he gave her time to stash you somewhere. Not with her folks. She worried Dave might change his mind later, hunt you down. Dangerous for both you and them. But where her family could watch over you from a distance. And where Rossinsky wouldn’t think to look for you. None of us knew where you were.”

Patsy swallowed hard, then continued. “He knew her word was gold. We all knew. That’s howshe traded her life for yours.”

Boland said, “Bin let uh, Dave…wait for her here, in her room, until she got back.”

Bin, eyes huge, watched Skip nervously. “He gave me no choice, Skippie!”

Patsy continued. “Then she allowed Dave to shoot her. Have to hand it to the freak. One bullet. She didn’t suffer.”

When Skip didn’t move, Boland finished, “She was a loose end. Rossinsky never left loose ends.”

Skip’s cell phone began to ring. Automatically, he pulled it from his pocket, flipped it open, but didn’t speak. In the silent room, however, all could hear the old man’s voice. “Elliot says you have questions?”

Skip’s voice came out hoarsely. “Why now?”

“Aaahhh, you have solved it. Why now? Because all these years later, your wounds still bleed. Just watching over you has not been enough. Come home, grandson. We need you. And you need us.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Angela Zeman wrote one novel (The Witch and the Borscht Pearl) and many short stories (some collected in Tales of the Witch) before her too-brief life ended in 2020. She was a regular contributor to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and her story “Green Heat” was selected for The Best American Mystery Stories 2002.

THE TREASURE MAP INTRIGUE,by Hal Charles

Marcy Bingham pushed open the rusty gate and entered the unmown front yard of her uncle’s home. Roger Bingham had passed away the previous week, and this would be the last time she walked onto the rickety porch.

Roger Bingham had spent his early years as an explorer and treasure hunter. Marcy had grown up listening to her dad recount his brother’s adventures and reading the letters and cards her uncle had sent from exotic locations around the world.

On his stops back home, her uncle would dazzle the family by carting out some object he had picked up on his latest travels and regaling them with an often larger-than-life tale of how he had acquired the prize. Marcy had announced that she wanted to be a treasure hunter just like him when she grew up.

As the years passed, however, her uncle’s trips became less frequent. During Marcy’s high school days, he had purchased the tiny bungalow and declared his traveling days were over.

In recent years Marcy had seen her family grow smaller until only her uncle and two cousins remained. When she had called Meg and Kevin to give them the news that their uncle was near the end, she hadn’t really been surprised at their seeming lack of concern.

She had been surprised, however, when both her cousins had shown up a few days after her uncle’s death. Roger Bingham’s lawyer had informed them that his client had left the three cousins his house and an enigmatic note attached to a framed map he called his “treasure map.” It had hung over his desk for years.

As the three of them stood in the bungalow’s cramped kitchen, Marcy peeled the note from the map and read aloud the strange verse:

I’ve been a lot of places,

And I’ve told a lot of lies,

But the treasure of a lifetime

Is right before your eyes.

“I always thought he must have brought back something valuable from his trips other than all those stupid knick-knacks,” said Kevin, looking down at the map. “This old map must point to where he hid it.”

“It’s a map of the old Virginia territory from Revolutionary times,” said Meg. “It covers way too big an area.”

“Maybe there’s a code or something hidden in the writing,” said Kevin, grabbing the map. “I don’t see anything but a bunch of rivers and mountains. There aren’t any towns or even any X’s to mark a spot.”

“I know,” shouted Meg. “I read about a famous document some guy found behind a cheap painting he bought at a yard sale. Let’s look behind the map.”

Marcy carefully pried the back from the frame. “Sorry,” she said, “nothing here.”

“He said he told a lot of lies,” said Keven. “It would be just like that old coot to make up a story to lead us on a wild goose chase. He was always telling tall tales to make himself look important.”

“As a kid I never liked it when Mom made us visit him,” chimed in Meg. “He was kind of creepy.”

“You two should be ashamed,” said Marcy. “He lived in this house for so many years, and neither of you ever took the time to visit him.”

“You were always his favorite,” said Kevin, “and what did it ever get you? I’m not going to waste my time looking at some dumb map. If our dear uncle had any treasure, he must have hidden it somewhere in the house.”

“Yeah,” said Meg as the two of them headed out of the kitchen.

Marcy grimaced as she heard her cousins ransacking the bungalow, opening drawers and overturning furniture.

Studying the map more closely, she spotted some faded letters toward the bottom of the parchment: Th. J. She recalled something her uncle had once quoted from his favorite mystery writer, Edgar Allan Poe: “Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault.” Marcy smiled. Roger Bingham treasure was, indeed, right before her eyes.

SOLUTION

The map didn’t point to a treasure—it was the treasure. An expert later confirmed that Roger Bingham’s “treasure map” was a rare surveyor’s map drawn by none other than Thomas Jefferson, who often signed documents with a simple Th. J. The map was valued at close to $100,000. Marcy had become a treasure hunter just like her uncle.

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

selected by one of the most acclaimed

short story authors and editors in

the mystery field, Barb Goffman.

SPECIAL DELIVERY,by Linda Cahill

“She howls when the moon is full and asks for blood to drink. Now, hand me those inserts,” Ricky said as he instructed me on how to sort and deliver papers for his route. Ricky and his sister Giselle, my best friend, were going on a school trip, and I wanted to earn some money.

She, the witch of Cranholme Street, was known to tear off her clothes while walking to the store. She yelled at kids playing in the road. When they threw stones at her, spitting and squinting, she foamed at the mouth, pulling at her dress and letting her boobs hang out.

Or so Ricky told me.

One thing I knew for sure, the witch lived in a creepy old cottage behind a weeping willow and some high bushes. I knew because the cottage was only a half block from my house. Kids crossed the street to avoid her. Once on my way to school, I saw her talking to herself in her garden, twisting bits of grass in her fingers, dirty hair hanging over her face. When she saw me she shrieked as if someone had stabbed her, and I took off.

The cottage had been there my whole life, all ten years of it, before the other houses grew up around it. Ricky said someone had put a hex on the witch while she was young.

“Drinking blood? Come on!”

“The blood of a young child, to give her back her youth. She stabs them in the throat and drinks their blood. Like this!” Ricky growled and clamped his teeth on his arm making sucking noises. He laughed as he did it so I knew he was kidding.

Still, our parents were always telling us about people or things to fear. Lately it was some story about a young couple who were trying to entice boys and girls into their car after school.

“I heard it from John’s mom at St. Anne’s,” my mother had said. St. Anne’s Church is the only Catholic church in Sterling, the town we lived in along the St. Lawrence River. It had services in French and English. “She heard it from Emile’s dad—it happened to his sister’s son.”

“Emile doesn’t go to our school.”

My mother gave me the look.

“Okay, I’ll be careful.”

My mother wasn’t keen on kids running around in the dark to deliver papers. On other occasions I’d helped out, I had persuaded her because there would be three of us, Giselle, Ricky, and me. Nothing to fear. This time I’d left out the fact I was going alone.

I woke at five a.m. the next morning to a heavy snowfall. I dressed quietly so I wouldn’t wake anyone and hurried out to pick up my papers in the lobby of the Tivoli Court apartments, Ricky’s drop-off point.

The company agent looked suspicious. “Where’s Ricky?” he demanded.

“Sick,” I lied as I tugged at my tuque. “I’m helping him.”

Ricky hadn’t told the man he would be gone for the day. He’d thought the guy wouldn’t like me taking over for him. From the look on the man’s craggy face, Ricky had been right.

“Hmph. Can you carry that bag?” He pointed to the canvas holdall I’d brought announcing “The Journal” in big blue letters.

“’Course I can,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

“Don’t forget the inserts. Make sure you deliver every paper—and hurry!” He yanked the door open, mumbling about Ricky needing to clear this with him, and was gone, leaving a cold air blast and a line of snow drift in his wake.

I was excited. I had never done the route by myself. But I had a printed list of apartment buildings with subscriber numbers and the addresses of homes on my street and the next street. I also had notes from Ricky. “Back door, Mrs. Simmons doesn’t want papers on her porch,” and “Tivoli Court, Miss Allen wants hers on the mat, not in the mailbox,” and “Elegante Suites, leave Mr. Burke’s paper with the super.” Nothing I couldn’t handle.

But the papers were heavy, and the wire cutter anything but sharp. Try as I might I didn’t have the strength for the quick twist of the wrist Ricky used. I struggled for ten minutes to open the package of papers. Ricky started his route at the Tivoli Court, but he was supposed to be gone before some tenant objected to a kid taking up space with papers and a bag at the foot of the stairs.

Finally I put my knee on the papers to hold them down and tried turning and lifting the wire cutter at the same time.

Brilliant.

The papers flopped noisily to the floor. As I huddled over my task, I was glad no tenant left early for work and decided to start his day by chasing me out. My fingers would freeze if I had to do this outside. And the witch’s home was nearby, and Ricky and Giselle weren’t with me…

Quickly I inserted fliers into each paper and loaded the stuffed papers into my bag. Lucky thing it was Tuesday. Tuesday was a skinny paper, maybe forty pages, and there were only thirty-two subscribers on my route.

The first four papers went to Tivoli Court. Easy. Grabbing the four copies,I risked leaving the precious bag of papers by the building’s front door and raced to the fourth floor. Ricky always started at the top.

I left Miss Allen’s paper square on her mat, as requested, then dropped two on the third floor on my way down and one on the second.

Banging down the stairs in my big boots, I glanced at my watch. Almost six a.m.

Pulling my tuque down over my eyebrows and ears, I buttoned my coat up to my chin and pulled on my thick mitts. Then I pulled the bag onto my shoulder and almost fell over under its weight. Ricky was three years older—and a boy. He made it look easy. I was beginning to see why he liked having Giselle and me help him.