Mr. V: A Serial Occult Mystery — Part 3

An ongoing serialized novel about an ex-cop, a small town, and some very dark goings on. From the author of “The Hole.”

All prior and future installments of Mr. V, as well as a quick introduction to the novel, can be found here:

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Feargus’s restaurant turns out to be a little Cuban joint next to a pawn shop. One of those places with probably a lot of regulars, a good chunk of them homeless. Shabby, but you suspect the food’s pretty good.

Along to the right is the alley where the kid died — if Ricky and Izzy aren’t just making shit up. Enough bums stumble through the neighborhood that poking around back there shouldn’t draw too much attention.

So I start by standing right inside the alley, and I observe.

Immediately I get a funny feeling. A tingle and metallic taste in the back of my mouth. Throb in my joints. The throb is shit you expect when you get old, but this comes on strong. The metallic taste I’ve never had before. I back out of the alley to get some air and it subsides — but comes back as soon as I step in again. Anxiety. Ricky’s bringing back memories of the job.

I see blood. A little ways in, on the cracked concrete ground, and then next to it, along the wall, a bundle of hair. Don’t know if it’s Feargus’s, but it’s too much hair to just be sheddings. I crouch down next to it but I don’t know what I’m looking for. It’s not like evidence of a murder’s just sitting there.

And that’s the thing, really. Because if Izzy and Ricky are telling the truth, then evidence of the murder wasn’t there when the cops showed up, either. Sometime between Feargus buying it and the police arriving on the scene, somebody took the corpse. Or, more sinister and conspiratorial, the cops hid the corpse themselves, secreting it away as soon as Izzy reported the crime. And the more I think about it, the more I figure that second one’s probably the case, because this was broad daylight. You don’t steal a dead guy in broad daylight, and you sure don’t do it without the police, showing up right after, knowing a body’s been moved. At the very least, they’d cause a sink about it. So if there’s silence on that matter, the silence begins with the police. Which means they’re in on it?

It’d be easier to think the junkies are feeding me a line. Not like it’d be out of character. Fucking junkies. You’d think kids would see where the drug use goes, how it fucks up everyone who starts on it, and they’d decide that’s a dumb road to go. Wouldn’t bother me much — to each his own, everyone sleeps in the bed he makes, and so on — but I keep getting sucked into their orbit. As a cop, sure, but even now. Goddamn Ricky.

So the hair. There’s scalp still on it, a wrinkled nub, tacky a little. Did Izzy tell me Feargus’s hair color? I can’t remember. I’ll ask. This stuff’s brown, with a couple white strands. Age or stress or both. Somebody tore it out or cut it off, and it hurt like hell if the owner was alive when it happened.

Blood on the wall behind it, more off to the left, further into the alley. Splashes. Big ones. More than you’d get from punching a broken nose. This is severed artery level. Again it’s weird the cops didn’t take this more seriously. Even if they didn’t find a body, this much evidence of violence you don’t ignore.

I pull out my phone, take some pictures. Thinking maybe that’s a mistake, because if things go bad and I get arrested and searched, they’re going to wonder why I have photos of a crime scene. Not a huge risk, though. It’s all out in public, and I’m an ex-cop. Still, makes me think I should tread carefully if I stay with the case. I don’t even have a PI license. This is straight up vigilante stuff I’m pulling.

The taste and the throb are still there, but fading maybe. Can’t be sure. Maybe I’m just getting used to it.

I leave the hair. My instinct’s to bag it, but I’m not official anymore, and if the good guys would spook over photos of a crime scene on my phone, they’d have a delightful time finding me with a baggie of bloody scalp. Nothing more to do here. I’ve confirmed — sort of — Izzy’s story. Somebody suffered a whole lot of violence here, and recently. Somebody probably died. I could confirm it was Feargus by asking around in the Cuban joint, see if he’s turned up for work. See if he even ever worked there. And there I am again with the not trusting Izzy or not trusting Ricky. Instinct. Gut.

I’m not going to ask, not going to stick my neck out that far. Too risky. Too much telling other people I’ve involved in whatever the hell I’ve got involved in. So I stand up, my knees pop, and I head back to the hotel, done for the night.

Back at the hotel, I remember Ricky telling me about the politician, Connolly, who’d been asking around about the junkie murders. If he knows about Feargus, maybe he knows something too about why the cops didn’t look into it more. It’s almost nine o’clock, but if the guy’s running for office, he’s probably still at it. I google for him, find a number for his campaign headquarters, and give it call.

He picks up on the second ring. Not a secretary or campaign volunteer, but the man himself. Which means he’s not all that important, has no chance of winning, or both. I tell him my name’s Stevie Winthrop — a kid who used to work at the station and got killed by a drunk driver — and I’m working on a story about the local election for a new blog. Can I come by to talk with him a bit?

“A blog?” he says.

“A new one,” I say. “Hasn’t launched yet. We’re hoping it’ll be pretty big.”

“What’s it called? You sound old for a blogger.”

“Damn kids putting us out of work,” I say. “Can’t beat ’em, join them. It’s called D-mocracy, without the ‘e’. Stupid name, I know. Not classly like the Something-something Herald or the Something-something Register. But that’s how shit goes now. The internet, you know?”

Connolly says, suspicious, “Why do you want to talk to me?”

“I’m writing up a piece — a post — about the local election, trying to do profiles on all the candidates who aren’t the crazy ones. You think I could come by? I still like doing interviews like this in person. Old fashioned, and all that.”

There’s a pause. I hope he’s buying it. I need to see him when I ask questions. It’s the only way to know for sure if he’s on the level. The silence drags. Then he says, “Sure, okay. I’m going to be here maybe another hour. You know where it is?”

I find it pretty easy. In fact, it’s only three blocks from my hotel, which I guess isn’t too surprising when you’re talking about a “downtown” the size of this one. It’s the bottom floor of a three story brick building wedged between other three story brick buildings, all on a street perpendicular but only a little ways off of Main Street. You get the sense they build these back when they figured coal mining would grow forever and that the town would grow with it and then things didn’t turn out that way.

The building has an opolstry company’s name carved into the brownstone along the top, but they’re long gone, replaced by a computer repair shop, a dance studio, and Connolly’s campaign headquarters. Which has a couple of lights on. The door’s propped open with a brick.

I go in, saying, “Hello?”

Connolly’s voice says from far away, “Back here, Mr. Winthrop,” and I follow it to a tiny office hidden behind stacked boxes of sticker, fliers, and yard signs. The ceiling above them’s missing tiles and one light off to the right flickers. A classy joint.

Connolly’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the jam. He’s a big man, stocky but not fat, maybe in his early 40s. Old to have only made it this far in politics. Must be bad at it, or made mistakes that cost him. He’s ruddy and has three days’ worth of beard. He holds out his hand. “This’ll be a friendly profile, I hope?”

“I’m not doing gotcha journalism here, “ I tell him. Then smile. “That’ll come later, you get far enough in the race.”

He laughs. “I’m not too worried about it. Nobody takes blogs seriously. Not in these parts.”

“A bad story can follow you,” I say.

He laughs again, and waves me into his office. Which is just two folding chairs and a card table, stacked with papers and an old laptop computer. No matter his prospects for elections, the guy’s clearly not vacuuming up donations.

He tells me about his upbringing, about how he learned the value of hard work helping his grandparents on their farm during summers away from the city. How he got a sense of the hardworking men and women who make this country great, and how government should serve them as they’ve served the rest of us. It’s dull and cliche and makes me think of 30 second ads of horses and cornfields and sunlight through glasses of iced tea. I let him go with it because you get a politician talking and he’ll keep talking, and there some things I want to hear him talk about.

Connolly says, “And I know how elusive and fleeting opportunities can be. Which is why I want to be sure nobody falls through the cracks,” and that’s my opportunity.

“Like the homeless and the drug kids?” I say.

“Of course. So many of them are where they are because the economy’s not working for them or because of bad luck.”

“It’s good,” I say, “when a politician takes an interest in them. In the local street kids.”

“Everyone needs help sometimes.” But he’s clearly suspicious now, leaning back, eyeing me. I used to be better at this.

“Seems like things have been particularly bad for them lately.”

“How so?”

“The animal attacks.”

He stares at me.

“I heard about it from one of them I was talking to. He actually mentioned you. Said you were the only person running for office who seemed to care about about him and his friends. He thought maybe you could get the police to do something about it.”

Connolly says, slow, “Who was this?”

I give him a cocked smile. “Not going to reveal my sources, right?”

Then the politician’s veneer is back, that sheen of charm. He says, “Of course I’ve heard about that. Difficult to know if it’s for real with people like that. They’re down and out, but a lot of them it’s because of mental issues. Some of them run off, or overdose, and others start telling stories about it. But, yes, I’ve talked with them about it. If it’s happening and the police aren’t taking it seriously, that’s a problem the people of this town ought to know about.”

“What have you heard?” I say. “This blog launches and I’ll do a story about it to get the word out.”

“Who else have you talked to, Mr. Winthrop? I’m curious. Am I the first person you’ve profiled?”

“I haven’t profiled anyone yet. You’re the first I’ve talked to.”

“Because of what that street kid told you?”

I nod. I’ve fucked this up. He’s not buying my line. Time to get out of here before things go any worse. “Things I’ve overheard,” I say. “Place I spend time, they do sometimes too. You hear things. These kids get excited, they talk loud. But you’ve confirmed it, right?”

“I’ve confirmed they’re telling the same stories to me you heard them telling each other. Like I said, Mr. Winthrop, I don’t know if what they’re saying happened happened.” He leans forward. This is going bad. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Winthrop. I beginning to wonder if what you’re saying, about this blog and you being a reporter, I’m beginning to think perhaps that didn’t happen either. Is there a blog, Mr. Winthrop? Or do you have some other motive for being here?”

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” I say, standing up. Sticking my note pad in my back pocket. Clicking the ballpoint pen closed. “I won’t let these accusations color anything I write in the profile.”

I turn and walk out and behind me I hear Connolly’s chair slide back and then footsteps in the big, empty room. “Mr. Winthrop,” he says, his voice low enough that I have to cock my head back to make it out. “I’m going to recommend you don’t ever lie to me again. I’m going to recommend, in fact, that you don’t speak to me again or write anything about me. For your sake more than mine.”

Then I’m out the door and standing in the street. My knees hurt like hell and my mouth states like aluminum foil. I should leave, go home, forget all this, and let Ricky’s junkie friends die one by one. Fuck them. Fuck this. I’m retired. At least with old lady Prideaux, I got paid.

But I’ve got the goddamn bug. I’m in this shitty city, away from the quiet and peace of my small town, a place populated, it seems, entirely by assholes, and yet I need to see this through. Which makes me an asshole, too?

I look back. The lights are out in Connolly’s place. I hope the fucker gets clobbered in the election. Because he’s hiding something, obviously, and knows more about the murders than he claims, obviously. And I’m going to find out.


Aaron Ross Powell’s Fiction

Horror, mystery, crime, and science fiction novels and short stories.

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Mr. V: A Serial Occult Mystery — Part 2

An ongoing serialized novel about an ex-cop, a small town, and some very dark goings on. From the author of “The Hole.”

All prior and future installments of Mr. V, as well as a quick introduction to the novel, can be found here:

View at

Now on to Part 2.

Ricky walks me out of the museum and down the street, past the park and another block. The whole way saying, “Not here,” when I ask for more about these murders. “People could be listening,” he says.

Which is why it’s confusing when we end up in a coffee shop, not a Starbucks or anything like that, but one of those neighborhood joints where everyone’s got a laptop and looks like they’ve been there hours going on days.

But then Ricky points to the back, a smaller room you’d think is employees only but is really just a bunch more tables. He says, “We can talk in there.”

And we do. Neither of us orders anything and the folks who run the place don’t seem to care. Ricky says, sitting in a chair that doesn’t match any of the others in that stylishly eclectic way, I guess, “Clint, I got friends around here. We… Well, some of us still deal, Clint. But that’s not the point. What is is it’s not like this town’s dangerous for people like us. It’s all low key. But not anymore. Three of us have died, Clint. Not oh-deed. Killed. More are just missing.”

I wonder if maybe this place can make me an Irish coffee. “How do you know they were killed?” I say.

“Ones gone missing, I don’t. But the three I mentioned, they was definitely murdered. Right around here, too. In fact, two of them, their bodies turned up on the museum grounds we were just on, Clint. Those I actually saw afterwards, before the cops found them and the city took them away. They were all cut up.”

“Cut up like how?”

“Tears all over. Gouges. On their faces, hands.”

“Like bites?”

Ricky thinks this over. “Yeah, maybe,” he says.

“So like they were attacked by wild animals? Or chewed up after they’d already died from something else? Because, Ricky, you know there are mountain lions all through here. One of your friends smokes too much, keels over dead — even just passes out — it’s not crazy to think one of those big cats sees an easy meal and takes advantage of it.”

But Ricky says no, it can’t be mountain lions. “Because Clint, we’re not talking bites — if that’s what they are — bites of that sort. I’ve seen mountain lions. They’re too small.”

“Mountain lions are pretty big, Ricky. So how big of bites are we talking here?”

Ricky sits up and holds his hands apart, curling his fingers, miming jaws. “Like this,” he says, and his palms are a good thirty-six inches away from each other. “Like a fucking alligator, Clint.”

And I see the blood on the museum steps. More, if I’m honest, than you’d get from cracking your head really good falling off a skateboard. I say, “What about the police?”

“You mean are they on it?”

I nod. “You said they showed up, took the bodies. They doing anything?”

Ricky says, “Shit, Clint, you think cops care about junkies? Dealers? I mean like care about what happens to ’em, and not just about locking ’em up?”

“If they’re being murdered,” I say.

Ricky shakes his head. “No,” he says. “The cops sure aren’t doing anything about it. I mean they said something about it back when the news guys did a story. Cop lady on TV, she says about how it’s like what you said, probably an animal attack. But they only talked about one of ’em, Clint. And there were three.” Ricky stops. Stares at me. “You don’t believe me.”

I shrug. “You say one of your buddies died, I’m sure it happened. That he was eaten by something as big as an alligator? I don’t know. Ricky, how often you get high?”

He leans back, looking at the ceiling. Rolls his eyes. “I knew it. You think because I cooked some crank, because you pinned distribution of it on me even though I did no such thing, and you think because I got a problem I sometimes smoke the stuff, all that means I’d lie about something killing my goddamn friends?”

“Didn’t say lying, Ricky.”

“So you think I’m crazy, then? Out of my head on dope and I don’t even know my friends haven’t been eaten?”

“Ricky, calm down.”

The front legs of his chair slam back on the hardwood and he’s right in my face, all yellow teeth and watery eyes. “I need your help, Officer Varne. I’m not shitting you. This is all real. We’re dying.”

“Okay, Ricky,” I say, leaning away from him. “Okay.”

Ricky says, “But it’s not just me knows about it. You gonna be here I bit? Let me round up a few of us haven’t been killed and let them tell you. They know about it, too.”

I get dragged along to a Denny’s, where I’m now sharing a booth with Ricky, this other guy who looks even more like one of the walking dead, and a slip of a girl pretty enough but with hair on her legs and sprouting out her armpits.

“I don’t sell it,” the girl tells me, her voice slow, like some charlatan just hypnotized her. “If you were thinking I did, I don’t. Hooked on it, yeah, but that don’t hurt nobody.”

“Sure don’t,” the other guy says.

The girl says, “I just wanna clear that up so you don’t go thinking you need to lock me up or nothing. Because Ricky says you’re a cop.”

Ricky, who’s on the bench seat with me across from these two lunatics, reaches out and touches her wrist. “Used to be a cop. Tell him what you seen, Izzy. He don’t care about the drugs. He’s here to help.”

Izzy inhales big and dramatic. “It was like two nights ago, maybe. I’m out with Feargus — “

“Her boyfriend,” Ricky says.

“ — and we’re hanging out in that park, one across from the museum. It’s late. I don’t know what time. Feargus wants to score us some pot and so he tells me to wait for him. He’s sweet like that, buying it for me but not wanting me talking with those people myself. So I’m sitting there by the fountain, Feargus running over across the street, where the restaurants are, because the guy he buys from works dishes in one of them.”

Ricky’s hand still on her wrist, she says, “I don’t see him for like ten minutes. Feargus never takes that long because it’s not like this dishwasher goes on break to sell it to him or anything. It’s real quick. So I’m sitting there and I’m getting nervous because what if they got caught, busted by the manager or something? What if somebody called the police?”

Ricky says, “But then tell him what you saw.”

The other guy, the real skinny one, he’s staring at Ricky, but he says, “Yeah, Izzy. It’s okay.”

“I decide — I don’t know, it’s been like twenty minutes now — but I get up and start walking over there. It’s not like I’m gonna go in, so I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I can’t just sit there any more with Feargus maybe in trouble. And it’s when I’m still in the middle of the street when I hear people talking in the ally next to the restaurant. Feargus and another guy, I’m pretty sure. Not like I can hear what they’re saying, but the voices, I know one’s Feargus.”

All this and she’s staring right at Ricky, gaze not moving from his, and her eyes keep getting wider until I can see white all the way around her irises. Fear.

Izzy goes on, “Feargus says something like, ‘You sick?’ Maybe ‘disturbed,’ I can’t remember. He says it like this other guy wants him to do something fucked up and then Feargus is saying, ‘Stop it.’ I hear him say that: ‘Hey, wait’ and ‘Stop that!’ And then — “

She stops. We all wait for her. I see tears on her cheeks. Ricky says, “I’m here, Izzy. We all got you. Nothing’s gonna happen, you here with us. It’s safe.” Ricky pats her hand. “You need to tell him, Iz.”

Izzy moves that weird, wild gaze from Ricky to me. I lock eyes. Try to look encouraging.

Izzy sniffles. “It’s just that it’s so awful,” she says after another fifteen seconds of staring. “You know how there’s things, you see them, but even after you can’t believe it really happened? Like it’s so bad that you just go on thinking it must’ve been a dream?”

I nod.

“Feargus, I see him come out of the alley. He’s looking scared. Never seem him like that before, not even the time we were squatting and high school kids broke in with gasoline. He was always so tough.”

“Did you recognize the other guy’s voice?”

She takes a second to process the question. She shakes her head. “Didn’t hear it good enough.”

“What happened next?” I ask her.

“It’s like Feargus was pushed out of there,” Izzy says. “Like someone behind him gave him a big shove. Because he kind of stumbled, coming right toward me, and then I saw — “ She breaks off her stare, pulls her hand away from Ricky’s, covers her face. “Oh, God,” she says.

I’m about to pat her, give her coffee, something to comfort her, when she wipes her face with the back of her hands and says, “He got eaten, Mr. Varne. That’s what happened. Something ate him and it wasn’t no animal, either.”

They’re all junkies, I think. Get enough of that shit in your system and you think anything’s anything. Feargus could’ve got mugged, nothing special about it, and Izzy would swear she saw a minotaur do it.

But I don’t say that. Instead I say, “You’re sure?”

She nods. “I saw its arms. This thing grabbed Feargus right around his chest and its arms were human.”

“In a jacket and everything,” Ricky says. “A fancy one. Kind of businessman wears.” Izzy glances at him, her look blank.

“You said he got shoved out, the pulled back in. Are you sure about that? Could he have been trying to run away instead of pushed? He’s running, panicked, that might be why he stumbled.”

“I guess so,” she says. “I don’t know.”

“So someone beat him up, is what you’re telling me. Maybe knifed him?”

“No. Feargus got eaten. I saw it. This mouth, big and coming out of the dark.” Izzy stops, and brushes Ricky’s hand off hers. “I can’t talk about this anymore. Jesus.”

Ricky looks at her, then inches away, embarassed by the rejection. He tries to cover by taking charge of the conversation. “That’s when we called the cops, Clint. We told ’em Feargus got killed and they had to make this shit stop.”

“What’d they do?”

“Nothing. Not a fucking thing. I mean, they sent someone out there, but he tells Izzy there’s nothing to see. Like Feargus is gone. There’s some blood. No real ‘physical evidence’ he says. And everyone knowing Feargus smokes and shit, the cop says he probably just ran off. Is high or doesn’t want to pay whatever he owes somebody. Junkies disappear, you know? Maybe the blood’s from him stabbing himself wrong shooting up.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“And it’s the same shit they gave us the two times before. Run off and maybe got taken out by a mountain lion out in the woods. They don’t give a shit about us.”

“They don’t,” Izzy says.

“You didn’t see anyone take the body?” I say. “It really just vanished?”

Izzy nods.

Ricky says, “Gone when we got back. Next time, we’ll maybe leave someone to watch. Because, Clint, I just know there’s going to be a next time.”

“I don’t see what I can do,” I say. “The cops think it’s nothing, it’s not like I’m gonna tell them different. You say you saw something, sure, but if they’re right and there wasn’t any sign of foul play in that alley, then maybe Feargus did just run off. Sorry, Izzy, but it’s not unlikely.”

She shrugs and starts to cry and Ricky tries to put his arm around her, but she gets up and walks off. The guy sitting next to her, who hasn’t said a thing this whole time, he just keeps on sitting, but looks at me as shrugs, apologizing. Ricky starts after her, but stops before he’s even out of his seat. He decides to stick around and says to me, “Clint, really, you gotta help us. I’m not making this shit up. Neither’s Izzy. I know what you’re thinking. I ain’t stupid, Clint. I know what you think me and Izzy are. But we still got a right to protection. We still got a right not to be killed.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Just give it a few days. Please, Clint. Stick around and I’ll get some other people you can talk to. It’s not just us seen this stuff. You give me a few days to prove it to you.”

The thing is, it’s not like I was planning on heading home tonight anyway. Who wants to drive home in the dark?

But I make Ricky think I’m doing him a favor. Because it’s Ricky.

“Yeah,” I say. “You don’t have anything for me tomorrow, I’m leaving. I’m not wasting my time more than that.”

“Right, Clint. Right. I can do that. You’ll see.”

He tosses some cash on the table to cover the coffee. He says, “Oh, hey, I do got one thing, Clint. Not sure if it’s anything, but I know you cop types thing anything’s important, right? It’s this guy, Connolly. Don’t know his first name. Only know his last name on account of all the TV ads he’s running because he wants to get himself elected to something or other.”

“What about him?” I say.

“Well, here’s the thing, Clint. This Connolly, he’s been talking to my people.”


“You gotta call ’em that, yeah. Junkies. He’s been talking to them, asking them if they’re okay, if they need anything from the city.”

“He just wants something to campaign on,” I say.

“Yeah, except here’s the thing about that. Guy’s been running for a while, because I’ve seen the ads going back a while, too. But it was only recently be started talking to us. Only in fact right after the murders started.”

“Junkie deaths just put you kids in the news. He wasn’t ‘empathizing with your plight’ until he hear about you getting killed.”

“You’re probably right, Clint. But I thought I’d tell you about it even if it’s nothing. Because it might be something, right?”

“Sure, Ricky,” I say. “It might be something.”

I’m heading out when I turn glance back at him. “Before I go, Ricky, tell me where the restaurant is. The one Feargus worked at. Where’s the alley?”

Continue to Part 3…


Mr. V: A Serialized Occult Mystery Novel

An ongoing serialized novel about an ex-cop, a small town, and some very dark goings on. From the author of “The Hole.”

My first novel, The Hole, began life as an online serial. I published a little every week as I wrote. It worked well and lead to a publishing contract. For my next book, I’d like to try it again.

Mr. V continues the adventures of ex-cop Clinton Varne, who first appeared in the short story, “Old Lady Prideaux’s Terrible Menagerie.” Mr. V takes Clinton’s involvement in weird occultism and mystery a good deal deeper.

A quick note on the nature of this serial: I’m publishing as I write. That means what you’re reading is a work-in-progress, with all the caveats about occasional mistakes and lack of polish that go along with that.

To be continued…


Mr. V: A Serial Occult Mystery — Part 1

Clinton Varne, ex-cop, meets a man he locked up years ago, and gets dragged into investigating more than few murders.

My first novel, The Hole, began life as an online serial. I published a little every week as I wrote. It worked well and lead to a publishing contract. For my next book, I’d like to try it again.

Mr. V continues the adventures of ex-cop Clinton Varne, who first appeared in the short story, “Old Lady Prideaux’s Terrible Menagerie.” Mr. V takes Clinton’s involvement in weird occultism and mystery a good deal deeper.

A quick note on the nature of this serial: I’m publishing as I write. That means what you’re reading is a work-in-progress, with all the caveats about occasional mistakes and lack of polish that go along with that.

Links to all current and future installments of Mr. V can be found here:

View at

I’m in my living room and Deputy Neblett tells me I should get away for a while. After what happened with old lady Prideaux, he has a point.

He says, “There’s this exhibit, Clint. In the city, at the big museum they got there. Artifacts.” He looks around my living room. “The kind of stuff you like, right?”

I nod. Neblett had come over to give me a check from the county, payment for “consulting services” they called it. He could’ve mailed it, but that’s not Deputy Neblett’s style. He’s the hand-deliver sort. Likes to be old-fashioned.

Neblett continues, “I saw the flier, up at the post office, Clint. Real pretty flier. Full color, even. With pictures of spears and masks, all that.”

“Yeah?” I say. He hasn’t actually given me the check. Still has it and he’s gesturing with it. “Spears?”

“And masks.”

“They got an admission fee?”

“Think so. You can pay it out of this,” he says, finally handing me the envelope.

I take it but don’t bother opening it, knowing it’ll be less than I’d like but as much as they can afford. “I just might,” I say.

“The museum?”


“Bet you’re gonna love it, Clint. Masks and spears and artifacts. Bet you’re gonna split.”

So that’s how I ended up driving three hours, stop to eat at a shitty diner growing out the side of a gas station, and then another two hours. Getting a hotel, because there’s no way I’m driving back, on those roads, at night.

And now I’m standing in front of the museum, the building looming, bricks covered in old soot stains from when the city burned a hundred years back, and I think maybe the dark stain there on the steps is blood.

A kid cracked his head skateboarding’s what it is. I don’t bother giving it another glance as I walk past. Up the stairs and through the front doors, propped open with a concrete planter full of half-dead geraniums, there’s a cramped foyer. A desk sports a bored security guard and a narrow hallway forces visitors single file if they want into the museum proper. I queue up, pull out my wallet, and pay fifteen bucks when I get to the front of the line. Which, Jesus, they expect kids to get an education in the ways of the past if it costs sixty bucks for a family of four?

Then I’m through and Neblet’s right. They’ve got spears and masks and all sorts of things, and I have to admit it was a good idea coming here. I think maybe I’ll tell Neblet when I get back, seeing how much he’s always after my approval. Kid never served under me — I retired from chief a couple of years before he showed up — but he’s trying to live up to my example is what he told me once. “You’re a legend, Clint. The best there was.” Which is another thing Neblet’s right about, mostly. I’m by no means a legend, but I probably am the best chief the little department ever had.

I wander. You always get the sense in places like this that the past knew something we don’t. That they cared about better things. More fitting things. Love and soil and hunting and gods. Simplicity and focus. I know I’m the one being too simple when I think that way. That I’m the one focusing on the stuff that’s survived, on the artifacts worth keeping and displaying. That most of the past was as much crap as most of the present. But still. One can dream.

I finish in the special exhibition and still have an hour or two before I’m going to feel like lunch. So I wander to the museum’s permanent collection and end up looking at the bones of the earth’s last rulers. I’m standing there, staring up at a skull the size of my bathroom, when I see him. Ricky Hepburn. I remember because that last name, who could forget? Kid used to live in my town, back when I was still a cop. Homeless most of the time, and rumor said he cooked meth up in the hills. Nobody knew for certain, and Ricky never went around saying it’s what he did out there, but it got to be an urban legend, and then assumed truth. Except you couldn’t find the place and Ricky never got caught selling.

But I found him eventually, found his little shack and his equipment and his drugs, and sent him away. For just three years on account of how young he was and how the judge had a son about the same age.

You want to think, when they’re as young and strung out as Ricky, that they’ll thank you for busting them. Like maybe it’s a state-funded intervention. Rehab. But it’s never like that.

Which is why when I see him standing close to the rope barrier, craning to look up the neck of the museum’s big tyrannosaurus rex, I don’t for a minute consider saying hi. Who wants to cause a scene? I’m on vacation.

But then Ricky, he’s still looking up, but he pivots, like he’s trying to make himself dizzy, and he’s staring right at me. Over the heads of a pack of school kids, I give him a tough nod and stroll in the direction of the pre-historic sea life.

Ricky shouts, “Hey, Mr. Varne! That you?” And I smell him behind me, knowing by that smell the kid’s still hooked on crank.

I turn. He’s got scars on his face and he’s skinny like a dead fashion model. He says, “Jesus, finding you here, what’re the odds?”

I say, “Ricky.”

He’s not smiling. Ricky always smiled. He says, “It’s fucking fate, Mr. Varne. Gotta be. Because I really need your help.”

“When’d you get out?” I’d put him away for longer than this. Even if he’s the good behavior type.

Ricky shakes his head. Dismisses my question. “Little ways back.” Then he’s glancing around, making sure nobody’s in ear shot even though of course there are, how crowded it is. Not going to stop Ricky, though. “Listen Mr. Varne,” he says. “We gotta talk. I’m serious.” He whispers, “It’s about murder.”

I think, Shit. I say, “You kill someone Ricky?”

A scrawny mom walking by with her fat kid goes wide eyed at me at me. Flashes irritation. Ricky says, “Oh, Jesus, no. Not me. There’s been a murder. Murders, actually.”

“Who?” I ask. The scrawny mom pulls her kid close and shuffles him away.

“Dude I know, most recently. Some other people I know, too.”

He’s fucking with me. I don’t want anything to do with it, real or not. I say, “You should tell the police, Ricky. I’m retired. This isn’t even my town anyway.”

Ricky grabs my hand, starts pulling me. His grip’s cold. “Not here,” he says. “We gotta talk and it’s gotta be somewhere else. Here isn’t safe.”

That tug, the look on his face when he does it. His eyes. You’re a cop, you get a kind of sense about these things. You know when someone’s bullshitting you. Ricky’s not. He’s legit. Which means I can’t ignore him, even if It’s not my job anymore. People getting killed, the police here need to know. If Ricky’s not going to tell them, I need to know enough to do it myself. I’m stuck. Ricky’s dragged me in.

So I let him lead me to the front of the museum and then outside, telling myself the exhibits weren’t that good anyway. Saying again and again this is the right thing to do. Even if it’s Ricky. It’s the right goddamn thing to do.

Ricky says, “Place is just up the block.”

Read Part 2… (but please clap for this first)



A cyberpunk detective story.

She looked at me in a soon-to-be-emotional way that meant I should get to the point as quickly as possible.

“Those are my fees,” I said. “I’m not flexible regarding them and I expect to be paid on time.”

She nodded and inhaled through her nose, a wet, stuffy sound made more pathetic by the tears. I didn’t have a Kleenex to give her.

I continued, “Mrs. Wynett, I’m aware this is difficult for you.”

“You don’t know anything,” she said.

I looked at her without speaking. She wore an outfit out of the latest fashion feed: ribbons of bioluminescent fabric hung from a plastic ring around her neck, covering nothing and pulsing colors in a caricature of chromed reflections. Her skirt was barely opaque and pale green, veined with darker shades. She looked like a flower gone to seed.

I nodded. “You might be right. But this is my job and I deal with situations like this every day. So while I may lack your subjective awareness, I certainly have a keen objective grasp of the in’s and out’s.”

“I’m beginning to not like you, Detective Pegg.”

“You don’t have to like me,” I said. “You’re hiring me to find your husband, not replace him.”

I think she would’ve slapped me if she’d been close enough. Instead, she sat up straighter and crossed her arms, grabbing her elbows. “You must find it difficult to keep clients if you say things like that to all of them.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I mean it. I added, “That was out of line.”

“It was.” She hugged herself tighter. “I’m willing to put it behind me, though. I need to find my husband, Detective.”

“I’ll do my best. It’s a big city. I can’t make any promises but — ”

“Is there some sort of refund if you don’t find him?”

Normally I’d say no, but I still felt bad and didn’t want to lose the client. “Fifteen percent. But that’s only if I decide to call it quits, not if you just think I’m taking too long.”

She reached for her purse. “I assume you don’t make a habit of dragging out investigations?”

“No. I’m honest, Mrs. Wynett.”

“I do hope so.” She pulled out her credit card and handed it to me. “Please take the retainer. I’d appreciate it if you’d begin immediately.”

I took my card out of my wallet, pressed it against hers, and thumbed the amount. “Of course,” I said. “My client list’s thin right now. I’ll start some digging tonight.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. I liked it and said so.

“You’re here to find my husband,” she reminded me. Mrs. Wynett stood, turned around, and left my office, the door banging shut behind her.

I leaned back in my chair and looked at the ceiling. A moth flew from the top of a shelf and got caught in the currents of the fan mounted at the center of the room. It moved in tight circles for a dozen revolutions and then broke free, fluttering down a helix path. It immediately returned to the fan.

I opened a window, waved my arms, and after much trial and error, guided the moth out.

I looked at the clock. 3:30. I palmed my desk into phone mode and rang up Wendell Nest at the police department. His smooth, baled, brown face — like an old boxer’s — appeared in an eight-by-eight square next to my coffee mug.

“Pegg. Good to see you.”

“Hey, Wendell. I need access to the citizen DB.”

“Is this for a case?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Good. I had to ask. Procedure.”


“Okay,” he said. “I’ll send you a temporary access code.”

“Thanks.” I reached over to hang up.

“It was good to hear from you, Ian.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Nest said, “Good luck,” and hung up before my hand hit the button.

I finished my coffee while I waited for the code. The desk beeped its arrival a couple of minutes later. I loaded up the DB, fed in the sequence of numbers Nest had sent me, and entered Robert Wynett’s name.

His picture loaded in the upper left corner and text began to fill in the space around it. I told myself to remember to renew my speech synth subscription soon.

Robert Wynett was a thin man in his mid-thirties. His Past Grievances Amendment registration photo was a couple of years old and showed him with wavy brown hair of the sort that can only come naturally and the sharp features of health and low body fat. He looked like someone I’d probably like.

His CV said he was currently employed by Accelerated Conduction, Inc. at a fifty-eighth story research park nine miles from the coast. The salary listed was higher than I’d expected but made sense in light of the clothes his wife had been wearing. Her name was listed under the heading “Spouse” and next to it was “unemployed.”

Wynett’s criminal record was short and boring. He’d been busted a decade ago for sex with a minor just before it had been made legal. It said he had begun the process of getting registered as an offender, but his lawyer had argued him out of it.

There was nothing to explain his sudden disappearance.

I pushed my chair back from the desk and stood. Then I quickly sat back down, looked for, and keyed Wynett’s mobile number. It rang eight times before someone picked up. In the background I could hear club music, a polyrhythmic thumping and the hiss of synthesized exhaust.

“Hello?” I said.

I got nothing for several seconds, just the music and, once, people shouting. Then: “And you are?” The voice had the strange modulations of heavy drug use.

“My name’s Ian Pegg. Is this Robert Wynett?”

Another few seconds went by before he responded, “Not anymore.”

“Mr. Wynett, I’m a detective. I was hired by your wife — ”

“She’s dead to me,” Wynett said.

“That may well be, sir, but she’d like me to find you. And I guess I sort of have. And, frankly, that has me a little confused.”

Wynett coughed. I heard him take a drink. He said, “I’m tired, Ian. I’m going to hang up.”

“Wait! Just one phone call, Mr. Wynett, that’s all I had to do. Why couldn’t she have done that?”

Robert Wynett killed the connection and I stood up for the second time, grabbed my coat, and left the office.

Outside the humidity was spiking. The beach just east of my building was covered with people holding what looked like a body mod festival, and the monolithic shadows of the cell generators half-a-mile out to sea cut the crowd into bands of light and dark.

I hailed a cab and gave the Native American woman behind the wheel Rebecca Wynett’s home address. As we drove, I thought about what I’d say. I couldn’t spook her; that was important. I couldn’t show her the same confusion I’d expressed to her husband. The more I thought about it, the less I was sure exactly why I was on the way to her apartment.

I hadn’t made any progress by the time the cab stopped. I got out and dug in my pocket for my card to tip. The woman pointed at the union policies sticker on the windshield and shook her head. I shrugged and put the card away.

The Wynetts were in the third-mile middle class: rich enough to avoid the worst of the humidity but not yet able to afford a lawn. I was as jealous as I usually get in these neighborhoods.

Their building rose a hundred stories, the windows tinted, the plastic between black and greasily reflective. I stretched my neck, looking up. The last quarter of the floors faded into the low clouds. Against the soft haze, the shadows of dehumidifier ports looked like bicycle tires.

I was buzzed in and rode up in the elevator. The Wynetts’ door was the forth along the hall. I rang the bell. A red light flashed on at eye level, switched to green, and the door opened.

Rebecca Wynett had changed her clothes to a more modest corset that rose just high enough to horizontally bisect her nipples, leaving red half circles on pale skin over the jade satin, like the bizarre double negative of an ocean sunset.

I accepted the drink she offered and sat down on the couch after draping my coat over a large, grey cushion. Mrs. Wynett sat on the floor in front of me, her legs crossed, and looked up at me.

“You haven’t decided to drop my case already, have you?”

I shook my head. “No. In fact, I’ve had a break. A big one.”

She crinkled her brow, confused. “I only spoke with you an hour ago. That seems quite fast.”

“I called him.”


“I looked up your husband’s record in the citizens database to see if maybe there was anything that might help. There wasn’t, but as a ‘what the hell?’ I called the personal number listed. And your husband picked up.” I leaned back to wait for a reaction. I didn’t get much of one.

“You’re wondering why I didn’t try that? I did. Of course I did. I’ve called him constantly since he went missing. He hasn’t picked up for me.” Her voice got quieter. “Perhaps he doesn’t wish to speak to me.”

“Actually, Mrs. Wynett, I was just passing on information. There wasn’t any question implied.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m on edge.”

“I imagine,” I said.

“What did he say?”

“Not much. He sounded high and he was drinking.”

“Where was he?”

“I can’t be sure. I think he was in a club. Or some other place with lots of people and loud music.”

“Robert doesn’t go to clubs,” she told me.

“Mrs. Wynett, I think it’s a good bet he didn’t know where he was.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

I raised an eyebrow and continued, “He said he was tired and when I asked if this was Robert Wynett, he said ‘Not anymore.’”

That startled her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, her voice rising.

“Means he was high. As a kite or a trans. That’s my guess.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Mission hasn’t changed. But the circumstances have. A little. In light of recent events,” I said and sipped my drink for effect, “I’m thinking he doesn’t want or need to be found.”

She stood up and shuddered. “That is not acceptable.”

“How long has he been missing?” I asked.

“A week.”

“Right. A week. We know he’s alive. Why don’t you just wait this out? Wait another week. See if he comes home. Give him some time. He probably just needs to sulk for a while.”

“I’m paying you.”

“And I’ll give you a refund. Don’t waste your money on an investigation that it looks like you don’t need.”

“I’ll double it.”

This time I was startled.

“I’ll pay you twice your asking price,” she said, “and all I ask is that you find him. You don’t even need to bring him home if he doesn’t want that.”

“I couldn’t do that anyway,” I said. “But, Mrs. Wynett, are you sure you want to do this? I mean, the money’d be nice and I’m loath to turn it down, but why don’t you just call him again yourself? Maybe he’ll pick up. If he doesn’t, call him from a public terminal. Hell, you can call him from my phone, you want.”

“No,” she said, walking over to the table by the door and picking up her purse, “No, I’d rather that you do it. I feel more comfortable that way.”

I shrugged. “Okay. It’s your tab.” I set down my drink and got up. “I’ll track him down. You want an image or just my word that I found him and talked to him?”

She hand me her card. “You can record it if it’s not too much trouble, but your word will suffice.”

I charged her my usual deposit for the second time and gave the card back. She took it and made brief eye contact, her face flashing some expression I couldn’t make. I smiled and somehow tried to nod and shrug at the same time. I probably looked like an idiot.

“I’ll call you if I find out anything more,” I said.

Rebecca Wynett thanked me and walked me to the door, her hand pressed lightly between my shoulder blades.

In the hall on the way to the elevator, I passed a short man — a gaudy sculpt — standing with his back to a ficus. He was engaged in a telepresence meeting, his hands gesturing and occasionally typing. As I got close, he stopped talking and looked at me, grinning with teeth like a ferret. Before I could say anything, he plunged back into his long distance conversation.

I slid my glasses down from the top of my head, indexed the guy, and set a spider to find out more about him. It was bound to be a waste but the CPU cycles were just sitting there.

The elevator ride down was quiet, twenty-six floors going by with only the calming blink of the progress indicator. The rent in the place must’ve been high to be so conspicuously spam-free.

My phone rang as I stepped out into the lobby.


“Ian, it’s Wendell.” He sounded borderline upset.

“What’s up?”

“You didn’t mess with anything while you were in the database, did you?”

I was almost to the doors. I stopped. “No. What do you mean?”

“I mean, the data you looked up, the logs show you accessed it, checked it out for a little while, and then deleted it.”

“I can’t delete it.” The elevator behind me dinged. I turned around and saw the gaudy sculpt step out. He smiled again, with just as many teeth.

Nest was saying, “I know. At least, you shouldn’t be able to delete anything.” He paused. “You can’t, can you?”

“I said I couldn’t.” The guy walked by me, close. I could smell disinfectant. I pulled down my glasses again.

“You haven’t paid anyone to up your access? Dicks do that — ”

“Hey, Wendell, I send you a shot of a guy, can you look it up for me real quick?”

“Yeah, sure. But we gotta talk about this, Ian.”

“We will. Just do this for me.” I sent him the index flag I’d already made and did another one as the guy went out the doors. Sometimes a rear view could bring up something a front shot missed.

“Huh,” Nest said after a half-minute pause. “System shows he’s a standard. There’re thousands just like him out there.”

“A standard? It’s kinda ugly for that.”

“No accounting for taste. But — Can you do a remote print on him?”

“No, I don’t have the equipment with me.”

“Okay. With a stock genome, visual’s not going to give us much. But I’ll run it anyway.” Nest paused. “Ian, seriously, you didn’t delete Robert Wynett’s information?”

I sighed loud enough for him to hear. “I’m gonna keep saying ‘no’ and you’re only gonna like it less and less the more you ask.”

“I know. Sorry. I trust you but this type of thing the department has to look into. If it turns out you were involved, I’m the one who gets fined, demoted, or fired.”

“I wasn’t. But I’ll look into it. Don’t worry.”

“Great. Keep your phone on. I’ll get a hold of you if the department starts getting pushy.” He hung up.

I pushed open the doors and left Rebecca Wynett’s apartment building. I put on my hat and thought about food.

The neighborhood was too upscale to support the sort of thriving street vendor economy that kept everyone with a couple of bucks well fed on my block. After some looking, I found a little Cantonese dive and told the remote waiter I wanted something with noodles in it. When the food showed up, I ate slowly, doing research on Wynett and Accelerated Conduction between each spoonful.

The studying didn’t net me much. Back in my office at a little after six o’clock, I decided to go with another approach.

My search through the ad feed backlogs yielded two results. The song I’d heard in the background had been used in an ad-synchronized feed bought by a club in the north end at the same time I’d been talking to Wynett. Another place, this one only a mile or so up the coast, had bought the same feed.

I went with the closer one first.

It was a small joint, more a bar than a club, and they didn’t charge me cover when I pushed through the heavy red door. The walls in the little entrance hummed. I felt a tickling, the hairs on my arms shifting around, like I had walked under high power cables. The weapons scan finished, a speaker over my head beeped twice, and the child-sized gate in front of me slid to one side.

The red of the door continued inside. The walls were padded and dimpled in a two foot grid where the fabric was attached to the concrete behind it. The ceiling was low and pulsed in a hellish chessboard pattern. I walked past the small and nearly empty dance floor and over to the bar. Behind it stood a short man with orange skin and grey stripes tattooed down his cheeks. “Yeah?” he said.

“I’m looking for a guy.” I held up Wynett’s picture.

The bartender looked at it, rubbed his chin, said: “I ain’t see him.”

“This afternoon, maybe?”

“Lot of people come in here. Post-lunch rush. Most of ’em don’t stand out like you.”

I laughed. “It’s obvious?”

He shrugged. “You police? Or private?”

“Private,” I said. “This guy, he would’ve been in around three, three-thirty.” I looked around. “He was at a place playing some band called ‘Shapelessness and the Thick.’ He got cut off but he sounded in bad shape. So I’m trying to find him, make sure there isn’t any trouble.”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Okay, sure.” I put the picture of Robert Wynett back in my pocket. “Sorry to take up your time.”

The bartender waved his hand at the empty bar and said, “I got nothing but time. Still, you’re sorry, maybe you could buy a drink?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” I sat down. “I’ll take a light beer. Whatever you have on tap.”

I drank my beer quietly. When I’d finished, I thanked the bartender and went outside to hail a cab.

The inside of the second club was like the skin of a frog; deep greens and browns waved across the smooth surfaces and blended into each other or were lost in the high gloss reflections from the bioluminescent tapestries that hung as gauzy divides. I guessed there were a couple hundred people dancing, drinking, or flirting and a lot of them, in that warm light, could’ve been Robert Wynett.

Wynett’s lack of prior felonies meant he wasn’t tagged, so even if I had access to the tracking system, I wouldn’t have been able to find him that way.

A large man was standing by a gate in the steel cage that separated the entrance from the club proper. He looked bored, yawning twice in the time it took me to cross the distance from the door to his station. It was still early enough that there wasn’t much of a line.

When I got up to him, he pointed a meaty finger at the card scanner on a pedestal next to his leg and looked at me with complete detachment. I pulled out my ID and scrolled through it to my licensed investigator badge. The bouncer wasn’t impressed.

“You gotta pay if you wanna get in,” he said.

His voice had clearly been augmented to carry over the music.

I leaned in close to respond. “I’m looking for someone.”

He nodded, his blue hair staying in place like the top of a moving spring. “Customers only.”

I took my cash card out of my pocket, scanned it, and walked past him through the metal gate.

This place was much classier than the first, the clientele dressed in the latest fashions, the sort that put more emphasis on the flow of clean lines than the covering of skin. It was a good thing it rarely got cold; most of them would freeze before they could flag a taxi home.

I found the bar: a huge, a sweeping curve of creamy, transparent plastic with lights moving like fish along its surface.

I waved down one of the dozen bartenders and showed him Wynett’s picture. He didn’t know, but called over a couple of his coworkers to give a second and third opinion. One of them nodded, said, “I think he’s here, back through there in one of the private rooms,” pointing off to my left, and then asked if I wanted a drink. I said no, thanked him, and wandered through the crowd.

The third room, behind a glowing curtain, held what I was looking for.

Robert Wynett was thinner than his picture had shown. If he was lucky, he was a hundred-and-fifteen pounds and most of the weight seemed to be exhaustion. He had his back to me as he sat alone at a table for two and he rocked smoothly from side to side, shrugging his shoulders in the middle of each cycle.

“I ain’t goin’ home,” he said and I thought maybe he knew I was there. But it turned out to just be the first line of a chorus as he continued, “No, I AIN’T goin’ home! Not EH-ver!” He clapped his hands together and, as I came around the side of his chair, reached forward for a drink with both palms touching at the wrists, like he was grabbing a hot mug of cocoa.

“Mr. Wynett?” I said and he started, dropping the heavy tumbler, sloshing a few drops of something clear and probably cheap and probably strong.

Wynett looked at me. He said, “I said, on the phone — ” His right eye blinked with each syllable.

“I’m not here to take you home.” I sat down in the chair opposite him. “I just want to talk.”

He took a drink and shrugged out of sequence. Out in the hall, I could hear some trans I’d passed arguing about sapience. “You, you’re a detective. You said so on the phone.”

“I am.”

“What you detectin’, Mr. Detective?”

I pulled the chair in close to the table. “That you’re drunk. And that you can’t sing.”

“Ha!” He put the glass down and pushed it away towards me. “It’s a ruse. Like the Trojans and their horse.” He rubbed his head. “It’s big and wooden and it hides a world of little men.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “What have you been taking?”

“I’ve been taken,” he said. “But you’re not going to take me.”

“Mr. Wynett, your wife is very worried. If you could just call her — ”

“No!” He drank again, looking nervously around the room. “No, I won’t talk to her,” he continued. “I can’t do that. I can’t hurt her. She mustn’t let the horse through the gates.” He scratched behind his ear. “Have you ever seen a horse, detective?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Beautiful animals. So pure and majestic. If you ignore what’s hiding in their belly.”

“Yeah, I get it. The Trojans. The horse. The Greeks sacking Troy. It’s called a leitmotif and you’re dragging it out a bit too far.”

“What do you know?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking. “That you worked for Accelerated Conduction. That you ran off a week ago.”

“Not that,” he said. “That’s not important.”

“Okay. What is?”


“Right. Okay, Mr. Wynett, that’s enough of that I guess. You want to stay here and drink, that’s fine by me. I’d recommend you go through a toxic rebuild before you go home to your wife, but I’ve got what I need to earn my fee.”

As I stood up, he did the same. He came around the table and grabbed my arm. “You can’t leave.” His voice was sharp.

“It’s not safe. Rebecca, she’s — ”

I shrugged out of his grip. “Goodbye, Mr. Wynett.”

He grabbed me again and I pushed him away, hard. I shouldn’t have but I did and when I turned around, there was a young transient couple standing in the doorway, the curtain pushed aside. They looked at me startled and scared and rushed back out into the club’s main room.

I put my chair back and walked out.

I went home, put a little food in my stomach, watched the news, and went to sleep. My girlfriend came home a few hours later and woke me up briefly, but only briefly. I was exhausted and didn’t feel much like hearing about her day.

It was early morning and my phone was beeping. I rolled over in the wrong direction at first, bumped into Eve, sighed, and reached back over my shoulder to grab the thing. The clock on Eve’s little table read 4:21.

It was Nest.

“Ian?” he said, his voice sounding more like forced air than anything else. “Ian, did I get you?”

“It’s early, Wendell,” I said. As I spoke, I got up and walked across the small room to the door and closed it behind me, putting the couple of inches of wood between me and Eve to muffle the conversation.

“I have to ask you a question.” Nest was calmer now. His tone was artificial. “When was the last time you saw Robert Wynett?”

I thought for a moment, counting back the hours. “Would’ve been around nine-thirty last night. Ten, maybe. I can check my logs if you want it exact.”

“And he was — Was everything fine when you left him?”

“What’s happened?”

“He’s dead.”

I leaned against the door. “How?”

“Shot. From a distance. We don’t know much more than that.”


“An hour ago. Maybe less. It’s hard to tell for sure in places like that.”

“I’ll get out there,” I said and opened to door to the bedroom.

“I wouldn’t, Ian.”


“From what the boys are telling me, you’re a suspect. I wouldn’t be too surprised if you get a visit from them soon.”

I stepped back out into the hall. “They think I did it?”

“They have witnesses who placed you with the victim.”

“But that was last night.”

“And it sounds like they saw you hit him.”

“Not hard and I left right after — ”

“I don’t think you did it, Ian. They probably don’t for sure, either. But they’re still gonna want to talk to you.”

“Okay. Should I go down to headquarters?”

“You don’t need to now. I think I can buy you some time. You’re white, the victim’s white, I think I can tie it up a bit in Equal Opportunity procedures for maybe a day before they move forward with it or pass it off on someone private.”

“What am I going to do in a day?”

Nest said, “Find out something. You’re the brilliant detective. Crack the case.”

I crammed a quick breakfast and headed to the office. When I got in, my desk was beeping softly with the results of the spider I’d set on the ferret guy outside of the Wynetts’ apartment. I made myself some coffee, sat down, and read through what it had to say.

The ferret guy, like Nest had told me, was a stock job, a body type and feature set picked from a catalog for rapid genome reconstruction. But his teeth were custom. The spider had dug through all the photographs the search system had indexed and returned three results with teeth like that. Two of them were women. The last was my man.

I scanned through the associated articles. He was a member of a group called the Human Ascension League. They were a pretty standard AI rights group, their mission statement to advance humanity through the field of artificial sapience. I’d run into some of them before, handing out literature at the airport.

The pictures came from events they’d sponsored. The best one was of the ferret smiling wide for the camera and holding an oversized check HAL had won from some private charity.

I ran another search. I told the spider to find me, within three degrees of separation, links between Robert Wynett — or Rebecca Wynett — and HAL. I killed the hour it took by paying bills and cleaning the office. Eve was supposed to drop by for lunch tomorrow and I didn’t want her complaining about the dust.

I got one result and it was better than I’d hoped for. A year ago, Robert Wynett had written an article about an advancement in computer sapience he’d been working on. I skimmed the article but most of it was way over my head. It did, however, contain a quote from a coworker, Sebastian Sable, who worked at Accelerated Conduction as a ghost shrink. Sable was listed as having a Gold Level membership with HAL.

A hunch struck me and I called Nest.

“Wendell Nest, PD,” he said.

“You sound like a vid show.”

“Ian! I’ve been talking to an EOC attorney. They’re making the case private, so you’ve got a couple of days before anyone hauls you in.”

“I don’t think I’ll need that much.”


“But I need you to do me a favor.” I told him what I’d discovered and asked if he could have the medical examiner check if Robert Wynett had been fixed up with a rider AI. Nest said he’d call me back.

A half hour later, he did.

“Yeah, Ian, Wynett had a rider. Company installed. The ME said something was broken about it, though. Some shorts and other problems that wouldn’t have been caused just by Wynett being shot.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s what I was hoping for. I’ll call you back when I’m sure, but this is falling together.”

“One of those detective epiphanies?”

“Uh huh. I hope so.”

It all made sense in a sad and sick way. A less-than-legal check of Rebecca Wynett’s phone records and an hour of additional research confirmed it. I put on my coat, left the office, and hailed a cab to my client’s apartment.

After she opened the door, Rebecca Wynett moved cautiously away from me, her eyes on the floor and her shoulders sagging. I stepped into the room and said, “I wish this’d all turned out better.”

She lifted her head up and looked at me. “I shouldn’t have involved you.”

I walked around her, down the short hall, and into the kitchen to look for glasses. She needed something. “You didn’t have a choice,” I said over my shoulder. “You didn’t know what they’d do to Robert.”

She came up behind me and leaned against the door jam. “I still don’t know what they did to him. Not really.”

I pulled two crystal tumblers off a shelf. Rebecca pointed over my head at another cabinet. I found several bottles including a large one of scotch that seemed to fit the mood. As I poured, I said, “I can tell you all of it, from the beginning, if you think it’d help.”

She nodded and took the drink I held out to her. We stayed in the kitchen as I began:

“Straight up, it was corporate espionage. No real moral complexity or political agenda. What little there was was all a cover. Do you know what your husband was working on?”

“Computers. Computer sapience — or sentience; I don’t remember.”

“Sapience. I don’t have all the details. They’re hard to get or else none of this would’ve happened. Anyway, that’s what these guys were after. The details of your husband’s work. They went after him by what should’ve been an easy route: Robert’s rider AI.” I paused. “You knew he had one, right?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“I guess it was standard at Accelerated Conduction. The whole R&D staff had them to aid memory, cross-checking, that sort of thing. Usually a rider’s pretty stable. It sits there in your brain, waits for instructions, and helps out when it’s programmed to. No reason you ever would’ve noticed he had one.” I drank and shifted so I was propped against the counter. “Problem was, these guys — ”

“You don’t know who they are?”

“No. Well, I mean, there’s the doc — the ghost shrink — who set it up and the group HAL — Human Ascension League — that he was working for, but they’re only sellers. I don’t know who commissioned the job, but there must’ve been a buyer.”

She blinked and I saw fear flash into her eyes.

“You’re safe, Rebecca. This was pro. They’ve got no reason to bother you.”

She jerked her head and sipped nervously.

“Again,” I added quickly.

Rebecca sighed. “No, it’s okay. I trust you. Though,” she paused, “you obviously don’t have any reason to trust me.”

“You did what you had to do. You didn’t know what they were planning.”

“Just go back to the story,” she said without looking at me.

I did. “Riders need check-ups. As I said, they’re pretty stable — there aren’t many records of them going bad — but it’s usual policy to have them looked at occasionally. Monthly, bimonthly, sometimes annually. Riders are great recording devices. They have huge amounts of memory, they’re always on, and they have access to everything the host sees, hears, touches, that sort of thing. If you’re going to conduct industrial espionage, they’re a nice way to do it. Problem usually is, the encryption schemes buffering the riders are strong as hell and brute force attacks don’t work because you’re dealing with a living host. You can’t just plug him in to a cracking box for six to eight weeks. Not that that would really work anyway. The encryption keys are too big.”

Rebecca had stopped paying attention and was staring into her drink. I picked up the pace of the explanation.

“They hit Robert through his rider. To do it, they used a man on the inside, the doctor who did the semi-annual examination. Robert was put under and they snuck in an update to the software, installing a data tap. I think the way it was supposed to work, the system would override him at regular intervals and report in. That would seem to make the most sense but it didn’t work out. Best I can figure, Robert was put through a routine scan at some point after the placing of the tap and the rider went into passive mode to avoid the detection of — ”

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca cut in, “but this — I guess can you just give me a little less detail?”

“Sure,” I said. “Yeah, I can trim it down. The software they installed broke. It messed with Robert’s head. It looks like he knew it, that he recognized something was wrong, but couldn’t seem to make that known. He freaked out and ran. Whether it was to seek help or to protect you, I can’t be sure.”

Her eyes closed for a couple of heartbeats. Then she opened them and said, “And they used me — and used you — to find him. So they could kill him.”

“That’s what it looks like. They probably figured they could more easily hide their own responsibility if they got me involved and tried to make it look like I took him out at your request. I’d have had to keep my mouth shut because of privilege and if I did say anything on your behalf, it would’ve only look like I was protecting my interests and yours.”

“They told me they were from the company.”

“I know.”

“That they were trying to help him. They said he’d be spooked if he thought someone from AC was looking for him and said I should get a detective to do it. It’d put Robert more at ease.”

Her drink was almost empty. I reached behind me for the bottle and held it up to her but she shook her head, putting her glass down on the counter.

I said, “This wasn’t your fault.”

Rebecca shook her head.

“It wasn’t,” I said again. “When you came into my office, you were concerned about your husband. You wanted him found. That was genuine. You were doing what you thought was best for Robert.”

“If I’d left him alone, if I’d just — If I hadn’t come to you and had just told those men to go to hell, he’d be hiding out somewhere. Safe. He’d be alive.” She picked up the glass and gestured with it at the scotch. I poured. Her eyes were shiny and she looked away from me to hide it.

“Rebecca, I am sorry. I don’t know what else to say. This is hard, I understand that, and no matter what the motives behind it or who’s at fault, you’ve still lost your husband.” I felt like I was spinning my wheels. I’d gone past the point of helping her but everything felt so uncomfortable and silence would only make it worse.

“He loved you,” I said.

She looked up at me quickly, then back down at the glass, and drank a large swallow.

“He told me, when I saw him in the club the night he was killed. He was pretty incoherent — he’d been taking drugs and drinking to get away from the pain in his head — but he was clear on this. He said he loved you, he wanted me to tell you.”

Rebecca put down her drink and turned, walking out along the hall and into the living room.

I waited a moment before following her.

She turned to look at me. A tear hung from the corner of her mouth.

I reached over the back of the couch, grabbed my coat, and before putting it on, pulled a card out of the pocket. I walked past her and put the card down on the table by the door. Then I looked back, paused, and took a couple of steps so I was close enough to put my hand on her shoulder.

“You call me, you need anything,” I said.

Rebecca Wynett nodded and went slowly back down the hall and into the kitchen. I let myself out, rode down the elevator, and left the lobby, taking off my coat and draping it over my arm in the damp heat.


Snowed In

A short story of bad people, murder, mystery, and horror.

Hank stared through the windshield at the snow. His wipers shoved fat clumps. Where they didn’t reach, the slush piled two inches thick. Hank squinted and leaned forward over the steering wheel. The light from the bar’s sign barely came through.

He checked the clock. He didn’t know why. It didn’t matter what time it was. It did matter that he hadn’t driven far enough. Even with this storm, they could still be following him. If they were following him. He looked into the backseat at the duffel. Three-hundred grand. Not bad.

Hank popped the driver’s side door and climbed out. Cold cut through his jacket and snow stuck to his face. He brushed it away and opened the back, pulled out the duffel, and slung it over his shoulder. Fuck it. If he had to wait this thing out, at least he could do it with a roof over his head and a beer in his hands.

He trudged the thirty feet to the bar’s front door. Only one other car in the parking lot: a station wagon some distance away, obscured by snow. At the bar’s entrance, Hank stopped. Was there someone in that other car? He glanced back. Too much goddamn snow. But he didn’t think so. No, only shadows.

He had a gun in the duffel. He thought about taking it out, but didn’t. Jumpy. You’re just jumpy. Cut it out, get a beer to settle your nerves. This’ll blow over soon. Then you can get back on the road and drive. The safe house is only a few hours further. After that, you wait for the bigger storm — the shit storm you and your buddies just stirred up — to settle. This snow is nothing compared to that one.

Hank pushed open the bar’s door and stepped inside. Light and warmth and a jukebox playing the Talking Heads. He stood in the entrance, brushing snow from his hair and his jacket. He stomped his feet, knocking more snow from them. The small room held six tables. Along the far wall ran the bar proper, yards of polished oak and worn stools. A man in a turtleneck stood behind it, gaunt, with high cheekbones.

The man looked up, cocked his head, and chuckled. “Cold out there, innit?” he said, rubbing the bar with a rag.

Hank nodded, walking over. “Fucking cold as hell,” Hank said. He pulled out the stool nearest the bartender and sat down, putting the duffel on the next stool over, within easy reach.

“Amazed we still got power — ” the bartender said. “It gets like this, the lights are liable to go out. Stay that way, too, ’til the city gets someone out to fix ‘em.”

Hank shrugged. “Your cooler still working?”

“It is. What’ll you have?”

Hank ordered a Bud Light. This’d be the only one, though. The storm could quit any time and the last thing he wanted was to be swerving over the center line and get pulled over by some country cop.

“You just passing through?” the bartender asked after he’d set the bottle of beer in front of Hank.

“Anyone come by not just passing through?” Hank asked.

The bartender laughed again. “That’s the way of things, innit? Way out here, we never get more’n a handful of folks at any one time.”

“Sure,” Hank said.

“Where you headed after just passing through?”

“Logging job,” Hank said. His standard line. People told him he looked like a logger or a football player — and a logger was less prone to provoke interest.

“I’ll bet.”

“What’s that mean, ‘I’ll bet?’”

The bartender shrugged. “You just look the part.”

“Yeah?” Hank said. “Well, right now I want to look the part of drinking my beer without telling my fucking life story.”

The bartender smiled and nodded and walked to the far end of the bar where he picked up a rag and resumed polishing.

This was happening for a reason. She’d asked the Universe to provide. She’d put out positive thoughts. The Universe returned them with a snow storm and a busted engine.

Maggie adjusted the vent to blow warm air on her face. She leaned back into the seat. She put her hands behind her head, laced her fingers, and closed her eyes. Maggie imagined how this might be what she’d been waiting for. This snow storm, forcing her off the road. This bar, with its off-kilter sign. This unexpected — and actually kind of shitty — stop on what was supposed to be an easy trip to her sister’s cabin to stay a while, while her sister was out of town.

The Universe liked to play pranks, of course. She’d asked it for a man to sweep her off her feet and it’d given her William. He was good and kind and dependable, and so she’d asked the Universe to make him her husband and it’d provided that, too. William was dependable, if you depended on him to do whatever didn’t need to be done and neglect entirely whatever did.

Like the car. He’d promised to fix it, but half an hour ago she’d been cursing his name as black smoke leaked from under the trunk and the engine sputtered. She’d still been cursing when the snow hit.

But the Universe provides. It always does. This was all happening for a reason. Maggie just needed to figure out what that reason was and how she could best use it.

She got out of the car, shocked at the cold as the door popped and the wind hit. She walked around to the trunk, opened it, and glanced inside. Everything was where she’d put it. Nothing had come undone in the bumping and shaking from the road and the gusts. At least that wasn’t screwed up.

On the way across the parking lot, she passed an aging Ford pickup. She peered in the windows, clearing a hole in the snow with her hands. Nothing. Maggie had thought there was someone inside when she’d pulled up. Must’ve been shadows. She stood for a moment, watching the snow fill the spot she’d swept clean, telling herself to stay positive because the Universe rewarded positivity with positivity and compounded negativity a hundred fold.

It could be worse. There could be no bar, just mile after mile of empty road and snow coming down even heavier. She could’ve been stopped for speeding and then she’d have to deal with a ticket and everything else. The Universe gave her the bar at least. Maggie offered a quick thanks before stepping inside the building.

Warmth. She loved it. She stood, enjoying it for a moment, not even looking around. Then she noticed the two men watching her and smiled, waving. “Hey there,” she said, heading toward them.

The one behind the bar laughed. “Another?” he said.

Maggie said, “That’s me. I am another.”

The bartender said, “Storm’s good for business, innit?”

Maggie liked the other guy’s looks. Maybe forty. Forty-five. Tall. Burly, like a construction worker or a biker. Leather jacket like a biker too, and would you just look at the size of him? He had to have ten pounds on William, and without a bit of fat. The Universe was good, she thought. Very good indeed.

She took the stool to the left of him, seeing that the one on the right was occupied by a large duffel bag. She said, “I’m Maggie. What’s your name, honey?”

The guy turned. He looked at her. He said, “Hell of a storm.”

Maggie nodded. “Oh, it sure is. It most surely is. I’m so glad I found this place. I think the snow got stuck in my radiator, made the engine clog up, however those things work.” She sighed, trying to sound flirty. “Anyway, the car’s broke.” She put her hand on the burly man’s arm. He didn’t pull away. “Don’t suppose you know much about cars, do you honey?”

He shook his head. “Not a goddamn thing.”

The bartender said, “We got a phone, you want to call for a tow.”

Maggie pulled her attention from the biker and grinned at the bartender. “Oh, that’d be perfect, honey. There someone close by could fix it up?”

The bartender shrugged. “It’s gonna be a while,” he said, “in this weather.”

Maggie looked back at the biker. “I can wait,” she said. She still had her hand on his arm. She said, “You got a name, honey?”

The biker was quiet a moment. Then he said, “Hank.”

“Well, Hank, it’s a real pleasure to meet you.” Maggie held out her hand to shake.

Hank took it, tugged it up, then down, then let go. He said, “Pleasure.”

“You a local?” Maggie said.

Hank shook his head.

“He’s just passing through,” the bartender said.

Maggie said to Hank, “Fancy that. So am I.”

The bartender said, “I get you anything?”

“Can you do a cosmopolitan?” She smiled at Hank. “I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well splurge on something fancy, isn’t that right, honey?”

“Sure,” Hank said, staring straight across the bar at the row of bottles. “Might as well.”

While the bartender mixed her drink, Maggie asked Hank, “If you’re just passing through, where you passing through to?”

“A logging job,” Hank said.

“You’re a logger?”

“Yeah,” Hank said.

“That’s just a hoot.”

“Yeah?” Hank said.

“I was thinking to myself when I came in that that man’s in construction or maybe a biker. But now you mention it, you look exactly like a logger. Just like I always pictured them.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Hank said.

Emery licked his lips. He rubbed his eye with the back of his wrist. He scratched his arm — hard — and pulled at his fingernails. He grooved on the pain.

He’d killed them. Finally. He’d liked the feel of stabbing the woman. He’d loved the feel of bludgeoning the man.

Emery ran hot water over the wrench, watching blood and hair swirl in the sink and wash down the drain. The man’s blood and hair. He’d already cleaned the woman’s blood and bile and shit from the knife.

He couldn’t wait to do it again.

He checked the wrench. Clean. He picked up the knife and carried both over to the toilet, the tank open, the lid sitting on the closed seat. He lowered his tools carefully inside and put the lid back. He checked the toilet and the sink for blood — for evidence — and found none. Excellent job. Practice makes perfect.

Downstairs, the bar’s door opened and Emery heard wind before it slammed shut. He stood still, waiting. He heard the bartender say something, muffled, and then a man’s voice, deep. That voice sounded… No, he thought. Just a man. Just a new customer.

Emery stayed still. He listened to the new man and the bartender talk. He heard a stool scrape on wood. Emery scratched his arms and chewed his fingernails. He opened the toilet again, checking his tools. Still there. Still clean. A man has to respect his tools, Emery thought. Otherwise, they won’t respect him.

Emery made sure the toilet was back to the way it’d been. He gave the whole bathroom a once over. No mistakes. He was good at this.

He left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Emery was curious to meet this new man, but he had something to do first. He walked down the short hallway to the room at the end, opened the door a few inches, and looked inside.

Moonlight came through the windows along the far wall. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to see the shape of the queen size bed, to see the jumble of sheets. The light reflected off blood, which dripped from linens and pooled on the floor. Emery let out his breath. Everything was just as he’d left it.

Softly, he pulled the door closed, feeling it latch. He hoped he’d never see them again. Somewhere, in the back of his head, in those parts of his mind he couldn’t control, a voice said, “Oh, but you will, my boy. You always do.”

Emery hissed, “Quiet.” He took a breath and added, calmer, “Leave me alone.”

He was walking back down the hall toward the bathroom, on his way to the stairs that lead to the bar, when he heard another new person come in. She said, “Hey there.” The bartender said something Emery couldn’t make out. The woman said, “That’s me. I am another.”

That voice… Again, no. A woman. Nothing more.

Emery made another stop in the bathroom. He looked in the mirror above the sink, spit in his hands, and slicked back his hair.

A new woman.

He took his jacket off the hook and shrugged into it. He adjusted his bow tie.


The stairs creaked. Hank turned on his stool. A kid, no more than twenty five, came down the steps. He wore a tweed jacket and sported a bow tie. He had his hair greased back like a 1950s nerd. The kid stopped at the bottom, looking across the room at Hank and Maggie.

Hank thought, what the hell’s wrong with this guy? The kid stared at them. He closed his eyes, opened them, stared long and hard again. He blinked, ran his hands across the top of his head and down to his neck. The kid looked like he might faint. It’s shock, Hank realized. Shock and surprise.

Maggie said, “Oh, there’s another one trapped here, too?” Then she said, “You okay, sugar?”

The kid licked his palm and rubbed his hands together. He hugged himself. Then he smiled and waved at them. “I apologize,” he said, crossing the empty bar. “The weather has me nervous and I admit to feeling a little sick besides.” He added, “Terribly glad to find I’m not the only one here, though.” He looked at the bartender. “Besides my buddy, of course.”

The bartender said, “You want anything to drink now?”

The kid shook his head. “No, I’m afraid my stomach couldn’t handle it.” He stared at Hank again. Then at Maggie, then back to Hank. What the hell was wrong with him? Hank thought again.

The kid took the open stool next to Maggie. He said to the bartender, “You wouldn’t by chance have some tea? That could go a long way towards making me feel better.”

The bartender grunted and nodded. The kid said, “Thank you so very much.” He turned to Maggie. He peered at her a moment, then at Hank. He said, “I’m Emery.”

Hank could see sweat beading on his forehead. Does this kid know me? Hank thought. He could be with the police. With the FBI, even. He looked young, but they start them young, and this kid looked so unimposing that he might just be undercover. But how could the feds figure out Hank would be here? Of all the places he might stop after nabbing the cash, there’s no way they could pin him down to this shack.

Unless they followed him. Hank said, leaning in front of Maggie, “Where you from, Emery?”

Emery looked at Hank. His face flashed worry. He blinked and swallowed. He said, “Out east. Just passing through. In all honesty, I’ve been hitchhiking, if you can believe it.” Emery licked his palm again, rubbed his hands together. The bartender brought his tea. Emery poured it carefully from the metal pot into the small cup. He lifted the string on the bag, pulled it out of the water and dropped it back in. He did this again. And again. Emery’s eyes kept flicking from the tea to Hank, from the tea to Maggie.

He knows us, Hank thought. He’s not a cop, he’s not FBI, but he knows us. And then he thought, Us? Maggie and I don’t know each other, so how can he know us?

Maggie felt bad for this kid. Maybe he’d come down with something like he said, but she bet it was more likely he was just wrong in the head.

And he kept staring at her.

She said, “Hitchhiking’s kind of risky, don’t you think, sugar? Lots of weirdoes out there.”

Emery nodded. “I’m careful,” he said. “Besides, ‘hitchhiking’ usually turns into a great deal of taking the bus. Not many people jump at the opportunity to pick up someone standing along the side of the road, if you can believe it. He could end up being a weirdo.” He flashed Maggie a nervous smile, then went back to his tea, but not before giving her a quick glance up and down.

Maggie always granted the Universe the benefit of the doubt. If it took the time to provide her with something, she’d err on the side of thinking it was for the best. But this guy, Emery, made her feel totally uncomfortable. She shifted away from him on her stool, closer to Hank.

She liked Hank. She imagined herself doing a whole lot more than just liking Hank and had to bring a hand up to her mouth to hide an embarrassed giggle. If Emery turned out weird in a bad way, she knew Hank would protect her. The Universe wouldn’t put her in an awful situation without providing a means to overcome it.

Over the next half hour, she tried to talk to Hank, but he stayed strong and silent, drinking his beer and keeping an eye on the duffel. Maggie told herself that even if it were drugs or something equally bad he had in there, she wouldn’t hold it against him. The Universe dealt everyone a different hand and you had to make the most of it. If Hank had drugs or guns, he had a reason.

She also tried talking to Emery, drawing out a bit more about the hitchhiking. But that creepy vibe came on even stronger. Maggie needed a break from it. So she said to the bartender, “You got a washroom, sugar?”

“Up the stairs, first door,” the bartender said.

Maggie excused herself.

It’s them, Emery thought. Jesus, it’s them. He played cool, the best he could. He drank his tea and made small talk and tried not to stare at the man and woman. But it was most certainly them. The same ones. All his life. Over and over and over. And every time — every goddamn, fucking time — he beat them or cut them or otherwise hurt them so bad that they died. And just as soon as he washed the blood off his tools — off himself — he’d find them again. Another couple. The same couple.

Except, as always, the man and the woman pretended it wasn’t them. They pretended not to recognize him. Emery acted like he didn’t know this, that he hadn’t figured out their game. But, inside, he was trembling, terrified.

The woman — “Maggie” she said her name was — pushed her drink away, stood up, and excused herself to use the bathroom. Emery turned on his stool, watching her go, apprehensive about his tools.

He stared at her back as she crossed the bar. He thought, angry and afraid, Why won’t you stay dead?

The kid, Emery, was twitching.

Hank watched him, revulsion making his skin crawl. Maggie got up to use the bathroom and the kid dunked his tea bag again, picked up the cup, hands shaking, slopping hot water over his fingers. He didn’t seem to notice. Hank watched the scalding liquid turn the kid’s skin pink.

Hank thought, Maybe it’s time to leave. Get back in the car, not worry about how bad the snow is, and just drive. Better than being trapped here with this jumpy, sweaty, creepy little shit.

Emery was staring at him again.

“Yeah?” Hank said.

Emery said, “Really bad weather, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Hank said.

Emery broke eye contact. His fingers were streaked red with tea burns. He lifted his other hand, slicked back his hair. He said, “What’s in the bag?”

Hand didn’t say anything.

Emery set down his cup, stood, and walked around Hank, stopping behind the stool with Hank’s duffel. “Is it something special?”

Hank looked up at him.

“What I mean is,” Emery said, “you took the effort to bring it inside, out of the cold. You didn’t leave it in your automobile.” He glanced at Hank. “Is it something alive? Perhaps you didn’t want it to freeze?”

“It’s not alive,” Hank said.

“No, I expect not.” Emery lifted his burned hand to his chin, a contemplating gesture. “If it were alive, I’d expect it to be moving, at the very least. That is, if it’s an animal. It could be plants, I suppose. Is it plants?”

“Plants are alive,” Hank said. “This ain’t. You want to sit back down, drink your tea, and leave me and my bag alone?”

Emery turned his head, staring out the corner of his eyes at Hank. He said, “Sure, of course. I’m only making conversation. That’s what you do — what people do — when in these circumstances. They make conversation.”

Hank put his hand on the bag. He said, “I ain’t the sort for conversation.”

“Funny, that,” Emery said. “I feel a connection of a kind to you. Do you agree?”

“Fuck off,” Hank said. He glanced around for the bartender, who’d apparently wandered off.

“That’s not the sort of conversation I had in mind,” Emery said. He returned to his seat and dunked his tea again.

Hank thought he saw him use the cup to hide a dry heave.

Maggie stared at herself in the mirror. The Universe does provide, she thought. Her hair looked absolutely perfect. The snow hadn’t messed it up at all.

She pinched her cheeks, raising rosy spots. Hank would be fun, a perfect target for her feminine charms. “You’re a beautiful girl,” she said to her reflection, “and the Universe recognizes your beauty. It will bring you beautiful things.” Like that big man downstairs.

On the wall across from the door and to the right of the sink, a small window let in pale light. Maggie leaned toward it, looking through. Snow. Nothing but snow and the moon’s glow. Her breath fogged the glass. She rested her forehead on its cool surface. The Universe had provided her with so much bounty, bringing this new life she’d just embarked upon.

She breathed out, making the fog thicker. Maggie traced a heart.

The storm would fade, she’d get back in the car. She’d drive. Soon. Soon, Maggie’s past could be left entirely behind. Soon she’d become who she was always meant to be.

The Universe provides.

She turned away from the window. She flipped down the toilet seat , grabbed a handful of tissue, and wiped the surface. Maggie sat down and leaned back against the tank, its lid shifting behind her. She closed her eyes, put her hands on her knees, and tilted her head back. She imagined she could hear the snow falling. Great, fat flakes settling and crunching, burying who she’d been. With the Universe’s help, she’d emerge from this winter as fresh as the spring.

Maggie cleared her mind of everything but the silence of the snow.

Her meditation was deep. She didn’t know how long it had lasted before she heard someone out in the hall. She was standing up when a fist knocked on the door and Emery said through the thin wood, “Open up, you resourceful little whore.”

Emery’s mouth had gone dry. He dropped his teabag into the empty cup and looked over at Hank. At the man who was calling himself Hank but who Emery knew wasn’t Hank at all. Wasn’t even human.

That bag. Emery glanced at it, hanging over the edge of the stool. Why did he bring that?

Emery licked his palm and slicked back his hair. Hank ignored him.

Emery had to get out of here. He had to think.

He stood up. Hank didn’t move.

Emery looked around for the bartender, but didn’t see him. Emery headed upstairs, walking quietly up the steps, not wanting to disturb the other one. Not wanting to scare her. Not yet.

Past the bathroom, its door closed, down the hall, and to the room where he’d laid the bodies to rest. Emery twisted the knob and stepped inside.

They were gone. He ran to the bed, threw away the covers, tore off the sheets. Blood soaked the fabric. But they were gone.

Emery bit down on his lower lip, willing himself not to scream. He rubbed his palms against the sides of his head, pulling painfully at his hair. Sweat popped. Chills ran along his back.

He fell to his knees, holding his face, worrying his lip with his teeth. Tasting blood.


He’d killed them. Was he going mad? He’d killed them and put them here and the evidence was right there in front of him. He kicked out at the sheets. All that blood. But was he imagining that, too? Was it really there? Or, like the bodies, was it gone as well, and now only an afterimage in his frayed mind?

Emery spun, staring out the open door into the hall. Or had they lived? They had. He hadn’t actually killed them.

And they were mocking him now.

But no. He’d checked them. They’d been dead. The man’s head he’d cut almost all the way off. He’d used the pliers on the woman’s windpipe. They had to be dead.

But then where were the bodies?

Emery stopped. He dropped his hands from his face. He let go of his lip.

They’d taken them. They’d come in from out there and, when he wasn’t looking, they’d come up here, into this room, and stolen themselves.

And now Emery would make them show him how they’d done it.

Hank turned. The kid came slowly down the stairs and crossed the room to the bar. When he was only a few feet away, Emery stopped and stared at Hank.

The kid’s eyes were different now. Harder.

Hank stood up, facing Emery. Hank could see sweat bead on the kid’s face.

Emery smiled. A huge, false smile. Emery said, “How ever did you do it?”

Hank took a step back, putting his hand on the duffel, ready to go for the gun he’d stashed inside. He saw blood on Emery’s knees.

Emery moved toward him, saying, “You two have it figured out. You must. How else to explain it?” He laughed. “How else, indeed?”

Hank said, “The fuck’s wrong with you?”

Emery cocked his head. “I’d expect more civility from you.”

Hank grabbed the bag’s handle.

Emery said, “Really, Hank, we have a relationship. We shouldn’t use such language.”

Hank yanked the bag up, pulling at the zipper, ripping it open, reaching for the gun. Emery’s hand came away from his side, holding a knife. He slashed at Hank, but the bag was in the way. The knife tore through the bottom of the duffel. The bag split. Stacks of cash tumbled.

Hank pulled the gun free, a heavy Browning automatic, its barrel tight in Hank’s palm, held upside down like a club. He dropped the bag, raised the pistol, and lunged forward, over the bills, swinging the weapon at Emery’s head.

But the kid ducked away. The knife darted at Hank, slicing the arm with the gun, then slicing the wrist with the gun.

Hank’s fingers let go. The Browning dropped. Hank balled a fist with his other hand and swung at Emery. Again, the kid moved too fast. The knife came up, raking Hank’s knuckles. Emery stepped into the space between Hank’s arms.

He stabbed Hank in the gut.

Maggie said, “Pardon me?”

Through the door, Emery said, “Oh, Maggie, I’m sure you heard what I said. Now please just do it.”

Maggie felt panic. She said, “Emery, sugar, are you alright?”

He hit the door with something heavy. She saw it shake. A moment’s pause and then, “Maggie, please. I need to speak with you. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

Maggie said, “I don’t think so, sugar. You wanna talk, just do it through the door, okay?”

“Oh, Maggie…” Emery said and then the door cracked and splinters flew. Maggie flinched away, falling from off the toilet, and landed on the floor. Her ears rang. A gunshot.

Emery had a gun.

She stared at the hole in the door, at the wood chips and dust. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, I’ll come out. You hurt me, sugar. Give me a moment to get up, okay?”

“Okay, Maggie,” he said from the hall.

Maggie grabbed the sink, pulling herself to her feet. He leg throbbed. Where was Hank? He must have heard the shot.

Her eyes came level with the toilet tank. She saw its heavy porcelain lid, slightly ajar.

The Universe provides.

Maggie reached. She lifted the lid from the tank.

She approached the door, holding the club, ready to swing. She said, “Okay, sugar, I’m coming out.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” Emery said.

Maggie pushed her toe under the bottom of the door and dragged it open a few inches. Hefting the toilet lid made her muscles ache. She said, “You put away that gun, okay?”

Maggie hooked her knee into the opening and flipped the door open the rest of the way. She charged forward, bringing the lid down.

Emery watched her, the gun at his side. He saw the blow coming and twisted. The lid missed his head and slammed into his shoulder. The gun flew. Emery screamed. Maggie lifted the lid again, brought it down, but Emery avoided it easily.

With his good arm, he yanked the lid from Maggie. It hit the floor and tumbled down the steps. Emery said, “You hurt me, Maggie.”

Maggie tried to run past him, toward the stairs. He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her against him. Maggie said, “Please don’t kill me.”

Emery threw her off the landing. Maggie snatched for the railing but couldn’t find it. Her arm hit a step. She felt bone break. Her head hit a step. Pain rang.

She tried to stay conscious, but couldn’t manage it.

Emery walked downstairs, rubbing his shoulder. Maggie had always tried to hurt him. Now she had. He looked at her, crumpled at the foot of the steps. She’d live — long enough. He glanced across the room at Hank, still slumped by his stool.

Emery would have answers.

He went back upstairs to get his tools.

Hank heaved. And immediately felt like he’d die. He opened his eyes and looked at his stomach. Blood. Too much blood.

Wire bound his wrists behind his back. He tried to stand up, pushing away from the stool, but the pain in his abdomen made him fall back, biting his lip, drawing more blood.

He looked around. Maggie lay on the ground next to him, hands similarly bound. Blood caked her scalp and face. He watched her breathe.

“Hi, Hank,” Emery said. The kid was behind the bar. Hank couldn’t see him.

“You really fucked up, you little shit,” Hank said.

“We all really fucked up,” Emery said. Hank heard him hop onto the top of the bar and then saw him jump down, landing a few feet away.

“Wake her up,” Emery said, pointing at Maggie.

Hank shook his head. Emery shrugged. He walked over and kicked Maggie in the thigh. “Wake up, Maggie,” he said.

Maggie stirred. She moaned. She opened her eyes to just slits — and then wide. Maggie jerked, coming to her knees, but Emery forced her back down with his foot. “Be still,” he said. Maggie closed her eyes.

Emery took something from the top of the bar. Hank’s gun, Hank saw. The one he’d had in his bag.

“We’re all going upstairs,” Emery said. “To my room. We’re going to have a discussion.”

He pistol whipped Hank in the jaw.

Moonlight on bloody sheets.

Maggie gasped. She couldn’t breathe. Pain spiked her brain.

She peered again through blood gummed eyes. But for the light from the window, the room was dark, the overhead lamp turned off. Hank sat next to her, his hands behind his back, his chin on his chest, unconscious. His shirt and pants looked black. More blood.

Maggie rolled onto her side. Her hands were also bound, wire cutting her wrists.

They both sat on the floor in the middle of the room. Gore-caked sheets piled high between them and a hotel bed. More blood streaked the hardwood. It couldn’t all be Hank’s, could it? It couldn’t all be Hank’s — and hers?

“Familiar, isn’t it?” Emery said. Maggie quickly glanced in the direction of his voice, but didn’t see him. Then Emery stepped forward, out of the gloom of the hallway and into the faint glow from the window above the bed.

Emery held a knife. And pliers.

Maggie squirmed away from him, sitting up and kicking back. She pushed through the sheets until she hit the bed. Emery watched her. Maggie got her legs under herself and stood up.

Emery shook his head. “You’re only going to wear yourself out,” he said, “and you’ve got quite an ordeal ahead of you.”

Hank moaned. Emery said, “Hank wakes.” He squatted on the floor in front of the bound man. “Can you hear me, Hank?” Emery tapped Hank’s jaw with the knife. Hank flinched, but didn’t open his eyes. “We have much to talk about and I need you fully alert.”

Maggie looked past Emery and Hank and at the open door. Emery said, “Maggie, don’t. I will cut you. Quite badly, if that’s what it takes to keep you here and an active participant.”

Maggie said, “What do you want?”

Emery slapped Hank. Hank reeled, coming awake. Emery said, “Hank, are you listening? Maggie asked me to explain myself. A fair request, considering the circumstances. But I’d like to be certain you hear me too, as I’d rather not repeat myself.”

Hank said, “Fuck you.”

“I’ll choose to take that as both a response to my query and an ill-considered outburst.” Emery stood, put the pliers in his pocket, licked his now empty palm, and slicked back his hair. He stared out the window. “I swear,” he said, “that we’ve done this before. Every time I do this, I swear it’s not he first time.” He looked back at Maggie. “Or am I quite nuts?”

Maggie said, “I’m sure — ”

“Really, Maggie, please.” He gestured at her with the knife. “What I brought us together for is to ask the two of you — nicely if you’ll let me, not so nicely if you make me — what you did with the dead people who used to be in this room.”

Maggie gaped. Hank moaned.

Emery said, “I’ll clarify. I killed two people earlier today.” He pulled the pliers out of his pants. “With these, as a matter of fact. I made quite sure they were dead.” He held the pliers out toward Maggie, level with her neck, clamped them shut just inches from her, and mimed twisting against resistance. Maggie tried to take a step back but the bed stopped her.

“After killing them, I put them there, in that bed.” He pointed. “Wrapped them in those sheets.” Pointing again. “And yet, as you can clearly see, they are not wrapped in those sheets and they are not in that bed. In fact — and this has been the story of my life, really — they are right here, quite alive. Hank there and Maggie right there.” He looked at Maggie. “Care to explain?

Maggie said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Emery said.

Hank looked up. “I’m going to kill you.”

“I hope not,” Emery said. He stopped, considered, then laughed. “Though I do suppose it’d be fair. Tit for tat. Seeing as I already killed you.”

“What are you talking about?” Maggie said. “We’re alive, sugar.”

She doesn’t understand, Emery thought. She didn’t the last time, either. Or the time before that. She never had. All his life he’d been killing these fucking people and every goddamn time they didn’t understand why.

His head suddenly ached. His vision blurred. He licked his palm. Slicked his hair. He regained his composure.

Emery smiled at Maggie. “We really must stop this,” he said.

Maggie sat down on the bed. She didn’t seem to notice — or care about — the blood. Emery saw her wince at the pressure on her bound wrists. Maggie said, “I’m sure we can work this out, sugar. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you can tell us. We’ll help.” She paused. “We’ll get you help.”

Emery laughed and step toward her, raising the knife. “I’m almost certain I need help of the very kind you’re implying, Maggie. But there are things that need to be taken care of first.” He put the point of the knife under her chin and lifter her head until she looked directly at him. “I want to end it this time, Maggie.” He tilted his head. “You hear that, Hank? I want this to be the last time.”

Emery slashed the knife across the soft skin under Maggie’s jaw. She screamed.

His stomach hurt like hell and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t live. Not with wounds like this. Not without getting to a hospital.

Hank tried to focus. He watched as Emery approached Maggie, raising the knife. Hank couldn’t make out what the sick fuck was saying, though. Blood pounded in his ears.

But when he saw Emery cut Maggie, Hank decided he didn’t care if he was dying. He didn’t care about the money, or the people he was meant to split it with, or the cops and FBI who were coming after him. All he cared about was pounding this little shit, no matter what the kid’s deal was.

Hank shoved off the ground, launching himself at Emery. Emery held the knife high, watching Maggie bleed and fall back onto the bed. Hank hit him solid, his shoulder connecting with Emery’s kidney, driving the kid away from Maggie.

Hank heard Emery start to shout, but then the air rushed from the kid’s lungs as the two men slammed into the floor, Emery’s head cracking off the wood. The knife Emery still held punctured Hank’s jeans and sunk deep into his thigh. The pain made Hank bite down on his tongue — almost through his tongue — but he ignored it.

Hank, laying on top of Emery, lifted his head and slammed his forehead into Emery’s nose.

More blood. So much blood. This time Emery screamed.

Again, the Universe provided.

He’d cut her and it hurt so bad Maggie had to force herself not to pass out. She could feel the blood washing down her chest, soaking her shirt. Her jaw burned.

Maggie swayed on the bed, telling herself if she died here, that was okay, because at least she’d done what she’d planned to do. At least she’d accomplished that.

But then, as always, the Universe provided.

Hank — she couldn’t imagine how he had any strength left in him, not with those wounds — jumped up and into Emery, knocking both of them down. And then Hank head-butted Emery in the face and Emery’s nose exploded. The Universe would not have put her in this situation without a way out, and here it was. This fine and wonderful man had saved her.

Maggie stood, unsure on her feet, and stepped over the two men, still struggling on the floor. Neither seemed to notice her. She walked around the bloody sheets, swaying, and then out into the hall. Where was the bartender? Hadn’t he heard any of this? Had Emery killed him?

She stopped at the top of the steps, looking down. She could make it. She wouldn’t fall. Except that she couldn’t hold the railing, not with her hands still wired behind her back.

Maggie sat down and began inching forward, lowering her feet onto a step, then scooting until her butt fell, then doing it again. Like a child descending. Each thump made her want to scream, pain lancing through her chin and up to the top of her head, and the wire cut deeper into her wrists.

Slow, she thought. Do it slow.

Behind her, she heard shouting and stomping feet. She heard Emery say, “Fuck, that really does hurt,” and Hank say something, she didn’t know what, his voice oddly thick and mumbling. Then she heard the two of them come out into the hall and she looked back and saw them, Emery dragging Hank by the hair, Hank trying to get up. But his boots couldn’t find purchase on the wood floor, the heels slipping in the streaks of blood from Maggie’s jaw.

She started down again, faster, not ignoring the pain, but trying to imagine it elsewhere, happening to someone else. Maggie called out to the Universe.

“Where are you going, Maggie?” Emery said behind her. She felt his hand come down on her shoulder, grabbing hold of the fabric, pulling her back from the stairs.

No. She wouldn’t let him win. Not after everything she’d been through. Not after this fresh start she’d given herself.

Maggie jumped, jerking from Emery’s grip and rolling, tumbling, falling down the steps. A stair struck her elbow and she shrieked as bone cracked. Another clipped the side of her head, catching her ear and tearing it partially away. Maggie bounced and plunged.

And stopped.

She lay at the bottom of the steps, on her back, her arms pinned underneath her. Blood from her chin and ear covered her face, gummed her eyes. She coughed and sobbed. She felt the wire on her wrists, looser now, sliding off.

Then something else fell down the steps, something heavy and awkward. She could see only the vague shape as it flipped and rolled, banging into step after step after step.

It thudded beside her and lay still. Maggie turned her head, the pain awful, and looked at it.

Hank. His neck twisted, bent. Broken.

“One down,” Emery said. “One to go.”

Emery watched the bitch try to run. Beneath him, at the bottom of the steps, Maggie pushed herself away from Hank and struggled to her feet. She stumbled, nearly fell, but stayed up and limped toward the door.

“Oh, Maggie,” Emery called down to her. He dropped the knife, letting it bounce away down the steps until it hit the floor next to Hank’s head. “Oh, Maggie,” he said again when she didn’t look back.

This had gotten so fun, he admitted. Yes, it’d be good to have the cycle of killing over with, to return to his regular life, before things got so fucked up and out of hand. Before he ended up here. But he had come to enjoy the work.

He took a step down, again pulling out the pliers. With Hank, he’d needed to make a quick kill. With Maggie, he wanted to take his time.

Maggie got the door open and was immediately knocked back by the rush of wind and snow from outside. Emery laughed. But Maggie fought and managed to make it through, out into the parking lot. She pulled the door closed behind her.

Emery hopped the rest of the way down, leapt over Hank, and followed. The cold, as the door swung open, tore at his face. Blowing ice stung his shattered nose. He didn’t mind. He liked it. The pain helped him focus.

Maggie was little more than a rough outline in the moonlight and swirling snow — and she faded quickly the further away she got. She’s headed to her car, he thought. “You won’t get far, Maggie,” he whispered into the blizzard. “You’ll never leave this place, my dear.”

He chased after her. The snow covered the ground, almost six inches thick. Emery’s loafers failed to keep it out and his feet were quickly very wet and very cold. “Maggie!” he shouted. “Where are you going, Maggie?”

He jogged. Her shape reemerged, standing behind a station wagon. Maggie dug in her pockets and, as he came within a few yards, she pulled out keys, jammed them into the trunk’s lock, and popped it open.

She glanced back, saw him. “Get away from me!” she screamed.

Emery laughed again. “I could say the same to you, Maggie,” he said, not shouting, but loud enough for her to hear. She reached into the trunk. Emery took three steps toward her, then lunged.

He wasn’t fast enough. Maggie lifted the gun and brought it around. Light from the moon and the bulb inside the trunk reflected off polished steel. As he fell toward her, Emery saw simple calm on her face. He saw blood and hair caked on the butt of the gun.

Maggie fired once, the pistol jumping. The shot took Emery high in the chest and to the right, spinning him in the air. He tumbled into the rear of the car and collapsed against it, his upper body in the open trunk.

Emery smelled something. He knew the bullet had inflicted terrible damage. His ears rang. His arms were numb. He smelled something in the trunk.

Emery strained to lift his head — to see. Beneath him, under a tarp that’d been pushed away, eyes stared up at Emery from a bloated face. Middle age, fat, balding. The dead man smiled a rigor grin.

Maggie dropped the gun. Her broken left arm hung at her side. Blood covered her neck and shirt. Her torn ear had gone numb. She stared at Emery as he bled into the snow.

He shuddered. His breathing slowed. Stopped. He sagged over the open trunk. Maggie grabbed his hair and pulled him away, letting him fall into the crimson snow.

Her knees gave out and she collapsed beside him.

No. She wouldn’t let herself be weak. Not after the Universe gave her the tools to win. And she had won. First over William and her old life, and now over Emery.

Maggie put her hand on the bumper and pulled herself up. She reached to close the trunk, but paused, looking down at William. He’d been a good husband once, but only for the briefest time, and then he’d turned dull. Maggie needed excitement. The Universe wanted her to have excitement. But it told her that such pleasure wasn’t given. She need to take it. So she had — and it was wonderful.

“Thank you,” she said to the thick clouds above. Glancing up messed with her balance. Maggie took a step back to steady herself and nearly tripped over Emery. The Universe had nothing for him.

She slammed the trunk shut on William, then turned and began walking to the bar.

The storm seemed stronger. Maggie felt near death from cold by the time she got to the front door. She pushed it open.

The bar was empty. She looked to her right and saw Hank’s body at the bottom of the stairs. Maggie called out, “Hello? Bartender?”

Nothing. She walked around the side of the bar and along the back until she found a door to the employees-only portion of the place. But when she opened it, she found only a small room, ten feet square, the walls, ceiling, and floor painted a uniform white.

Maggie walked back across the main room, around Hank’s corpse, taking the knife that lay next to him, and up the stairs. Her hip throbbed. Her arm ached. She’d wash up, make a sling for her arm, and get out of here. She wouldn’t wait for the storm to stop.

Every room except the bathroom and Emery’s room was locked. Maggie inhaled, readied herself, and stepped into that awful space where she’d been tortured and nearly killed.

Still no sign of the bartender. He must’ve fled, she thought. When things turned violent, he took off. But where?

Maggie used the knife to cut a clean strip from the sheets. She carefully wrapped her arm and then, with considerable difficulty, tied the ends of the sling behind her neck.

She left the room and went down the hall toward the bath. She stopped before entering. She glanced down the steps.

What the fuck?

Hank was gone. Blood covered the wood where he’d lay, but his body wasn’t there.

Maggie shouted, “Hank!” Her call echoed. She ran down the stairs. “Hello!” No Hank. No bartender.

I have to get out of here, she thought. Now.

Maggie ran out into the snow.

Wind whipped at her, nearly knocking her down. Maggie leaned into it, willing her muscles to push, willing her legs to get her the hell away from this place.

Snow nicked her face, stung her eyes. She sent her thoughts out to the Universe, begging it to provide one more time. To offer her a way out — or to giver he the means to find one.

She passed the Ford pickup in the lot and saw her own car loom out of the blowing snow. It could drive in this. It could at least make it to the road, far enough away to then wait out the storm.

Maggie reached numb fingers into her pocket for the keys. And found nothing. She checked again, digging, feeling only the fabric of her jeans. She tried the other one.

She’d lost them. They must have fallen in the snow when Emery attacked her. She ran the rest of the way to the car and look down at the snow behind the back. Blood. Shoe prints. No keys.

No Emery.

Maggie spun around. He was dead. She’d watched him die.

Maggie fell to her hands and knees. She rooted around in the snow, desperately searching for the keys.

She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder. What was that? She strained to hear.

Whispering. Voices.

Maggie stood up and peered hard into the blowing snow. She could see them. Figures in the storm.

“Who are you?” she screamed at them, but the figures didn’t respond. Maggie turned and saw more of them, obscured by the storm, indistinct. But there, right there. And whispering.

Maggie forgot about the keys and the cold and Hank and Emery. She forgot about the bartender and her own wounds. Maggie ran, away from the bar. Away from her station wagon.

She passed more of the figures, dozens of them, then hundreds. They didn’t move, only watched her as she fled by. Eventually the paved parking lot disappeared from under her feet and she was running on snow-covered grass. The terrain was flat. No bushes, no trees, no hills.

Maggie ran. The cold was so awful. Soon, she didn’t feel it anymore. She didn’t feel anything anymore. Maggie fell. Her head bounced off a rock. She rolled over onto her back. The figures — just shapes, without features, without faces — stood over her.

They watched her close her eyes. They watched her until she lay still.

Maggie knew this all was happening for a reason. The snow, the storm, having to get off the road. She leaned forward and peered through the windshield at the lights of the bar.

She’d wait here until it blew over. She’d finish the drive to her sister’s cabin and bury William out in the woods. Then she’d begin her new life.

The Universe provides.

Maggie gathered her things, climbed out, and walked around to the trunk to check on William. He was still there, right where she’d left him, appearing, if anything, more alive than he ever had when actually living. At least now his face had an expression.

She slammed the trunk, then looked down. Was her car leaking oil? Maggie crouched. No, not oil. She reached out and touched the dark spot in the snow, and lifted her finger to her face. Blood? She shook her head. Some hunter had let his kill leak, she thought. It was disgusting.

Maggie trudged across the parking lot, noting the Ford pickup that appeared to be the only other car here.

She pushed open the bar’s front door, delighting in the warmth from inside as it washed over her.

On the far side of the large room, two men sat at the bar. They turned to look at her as she came in. The one on the right was large, in a leather jacket, with a duffel on the stool next to him. Maggie like him. He was so not like William at all.

The one on the left was just a kid, in his mid-twenties at most, wearing a tweed jacket, with slicked-back black hair. The kid nodded at her and lifted a teacup to his lips.

“Boy it’s cold,” Maggie said, walking over to them. When she’d gone half way, she heard someone coming down the stairs. She turned to look. He was a tall, gaunt man in a black turtleneck. He carried a garbage bag, stuffed full.

“Oh, hey,” he said, waving with his free hand. “I’ll be with you in a second. Just gotta finish changing the sheets.”


Some Crime Fiction Recommendations

A friend asked me for a list of crime fiction he should read. Then he suggested I turn it into a blog post. So here goes. The list isn’t comprehensive. Nor is it a bunch of hidden gems. If you’re a crime and mystery fan, you’ve probably read these already. It’s more just the works that have defined the genre for me. Everything and everyone on here is worth reading, I promise.

Edgar Allan Poe, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”

This short story is where it all begins. Wilkie Collins gets credit for inventing the mystery novel with The Woman in White and The Moonstone, but Poe invented the detective story. C. Auguste Dupin is the model for every detective to come, including Sherlock Holmes. “Murders in the Rue Morgue” is short and great and atmospheric—and very weird. One of the most memorable, if a bit nonsensical, “solutions” ever. Poe’s other Dupin story, “The Purloined Letter,” is much shorter—and much worse.

Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Holmes’s adventures really begin with two short novels, A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of the Four. But those pale compared to the short stories. So start with this first collection, and read as many as you enjoy. (Which means you’ll likely read them all.) Raymond Chandler dismissed Holmes as “mostly an attitude and a few dozen lines of unforgettable dialogue,” and he’s partially right. The mysteries are often silly, but they’re always intriguing. The appeal of Holmes, for me, is mostly the atmosphere of the stories, but what atmosphere it is. These stories are fantastic.

Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None

I’m not a fan of Christie, for reasons Raymond Chandler expresses far better than I could. I find most of her novels trite, the characters dull, and the crimes and their solutions too neat. She writes crimes that have never happened and never could happen. And her novel lack the atmosphere to get away with it like Poe and Doyle can. In short, Christie’s books are boring.

But And Then There Were None rocks. You’ll want to read it in one sitting. Great setup, great conclusion. And no Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot in sight. Yes, the book still suffers a bit from being maybe too precise in it’s happenings, but that’s forgivable.

It’s also a perfect mystery, one of only two on this list.

Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon, Red Harvest, and The Thin Man

There’s a reason I named one of my children after Hammet and another after one of his characters. Of the major, early hardboiled authors, he’s the finest writer. He didn’t write many novels. All of them are worth reading.

The Maltese Falcon kicks all kinds of ass. Sam Spade’s an icon for a reason, and this is very likely the best MacGuffin story there is. Red Harvest gets called Hammet’s best novel. There’s little mystery, and what there is ends up solved in the first few chapters. Then it’s just double dealing, brutality, and tough guy (and gal) dialog like nobody’s business. Plus, Red Harvest features the Continental Op, my favorite of the hardboiled detectives. (Sorry, Marlowe!) The Thin Man gets a mention because it’s funny as hell and has the best married couple in all of literature.

Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely

Dashiell Hammett invented the hardboiled detective. Chandler made him unforgettable. Hammett’s prose is simple and straight and wonderful in a Hemingway sort of way. Chandler’s is lush and funny— and has better similes than anyone’s ever written, except for maybe Roger Ebert.

Philip Marlowe is one of literature’s great creations. Like Hammett, Chandler didn’t write many novels, and all of them are worth reading. The Big Sleep is his first, and introduces Marlowe. The Long Goodbye is his last (finished) work, and many consider it his best. I may agree, but it’s also quite a bit different from his usual stuff. So I recommend starting withFarewell, My Lovely. It’s probably the best mystery of the bunch.

James M. Cain, The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity

So far, everything on this list has been a mystery. Cain wrote straight up crime. Both are stories of bad men getting involved with bad woman and things going south very quickly. Cain writes spare prose and wonderful dialog.

Ross MacDonald, The Chill

MacDonald is the heir to Hammett and Chandler. His Lew Archer (named after Sam Spade’s murdered partner in The Maltese Falcon) is more melancholy than his predecessors, and MacDonald’s books are more novel-ly. His mysteries focus on corruption within families and rot hiding under the facade of high society. The Chill is widely regarded as the best in the series.

Ed McBain, Cop Hater

I chose Cop Hater because it’s the first in the 87th Precinct series. But, really, you could grab any of them (there are a lot) and be good. With this book, McBain invented the modern police procedural. His books feature fun mysteries, a terrific and huge cast of characters, and the best dialog this side of Elmore Leonard.

John le Carré, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold

I’m maybe cheating by putting this here because it’s espionage instead of strictly crime. But it’s also the second of only two perfect mysteries I’ve ever read—see above for the first—and it’s goddamn amazing. Le Carré is a hell of a writer. Plus it’s a book about bad people doing bad things and destroying each other in the process, which is crime fiction’s M.O.

James Ellroy, The LA Quartet

Crime fiction doesn’t get better than this. Hell, fiction doesn’t get better than this. Ellroy is my favorite author, period. And I’d argue he’s not only our best living writer (in any genre) but as quintessentially an American writer as they come.

The first book in the quartet is The Black Dahlia. It’s also the least mind-blowing. (But still mind-blowing.) Ellroy’s ambition and obsession choke every page—and the books only become more ambitious and obsessive as they go along. The prose evolves heavily, too, something most authors don’t try—and fewer still are capable of. But Ellroy updates his style with every book—and his prose in the latter half of the quartet is utterly unique. Most think he reaches his peak in L.A. Confidential, the third book. I prefer White Jazz, the fourth.

The L.A. Quartet are perhaps the four most masculine books you’ll ever find, and not at allin a glamorizing way. They’re about men destroyed by their masculinity, by their obsession with—but also power over and powerlessness in the face of—women. They’re violent, emotional, and angry books And, on top of all that, they’re incredible mysteries.

Even if it means reading nothing else on this list, read all four of these books..

Elmore Leonard, [Really Anything]

Leonard’s an easy writer to underestimate. His prose isn’t flashy, and his books aren’t deep. But I challenge any author to write as smoothly and elegantly. Reading Leonard is like watching one of those world class chef cooking shows and thinking, “Boy, that looks pretty easy.’ Then you try it.

I’m in awe of Leonard’s craft. And nobody writes better dialog. It’s difficult to pick a single book to recommend— in part because they’re all pretty much the same book. Take one or two good people, mix them up with a lot of bad and stupid people, throw in one or two bad and smart people, and have them all get into a lot of trouble. He’s written some very fine westerns, but you want his crime stuff. I love City Primeval. Lots of people think Killshot is his best. But grab anything from the middle period (i.e., stay away from his last five or six books unless you’re a serious fan) and you’ll love it.

This essay originally appeared at I don’t just recommend fiction. I write the stuff, too. If you’d like a free ebook of my short story collection Animus, you can join by very low volume mailing list.