He scanned the first aisle and saw three yellow boxes. Quick checks showed they bore the wrong numbers, and he moved to the second aisle. Here, there were a couple of dozen yellow boxes, and Carver became engrossed in checking the numbers. It took him a moment to realize he was being sniffed.
Category: fiction
Fiction: Angels We Have Heard While High
Erik knocked lightly on Craig’s front door and walked in.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. How was Christmas dinner with the family?”
“About like always. Lots of food. My sister’s kids running around like maniacs. Everyone asking me when I’m going to get married and have kids. When I’m going to get a better job, a better place to live, some get up and go.”
“Grim,” Craig said. “I just got off work. People sure can be bitchy on Christmas. Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
Craig provided each of them with a bottle of beer.
“And,” he said, “I’ve got something else that will put the mellow back into the holiday for both of us.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I got a nice little Christmas present in the mail yesterday from my brother.”
“Your brother the big-city cop? What is it?”
Fiction: Some Slight Provision
A uniformed officer backed through the door to the detective division. He turned around and everyone could see he was carrying a box.
“Detectives Okuno and Haycock?” he called. “Here’s that little present for you.”
“Presents are supposed to be wrapped, Pinkus,” Haycock said.
“Actually,” Pinkus said, “it’s a lot of presents. How many wallet snatchings are you working in the financial district?”
“Twenty-seven,” Okuno said.
The officer set the box on Haycock’s desk. “Well, here are twenty-seven wallets, so you’re covered.”
Fiction: The Wrong Tool
Bijou lay in the middle of the living room, exercising the principle of center control as a chess player would. Her humans sat on the couch in front of her. They exchanged occasional words, but the cat did not recognize any of them, nor were they in tones that attracted her attention. She stretched her legs out a bit more for comfort and to take up more space.
“Okay, let’s just see what happens,” the male human, Seamus, said. The female human, Ruri, sighed.
Fiction: Exposed
The problem in dealing with scum, Cable thought unhappily, is that they force you down to their nasty level. He looked at the former grocery store where he was to meet the informer. A neon sign announced that he had arrived at the Show-Off Gentleman’s Club.
Now there’s an oxymoron, he groused to himself. No gentleman would get within fifty feet of this place. But I have to go in; it’s my job.
Fiction: The Last Reunion of the Capper Gang
As the day wore on and the chloroform wore off, Silas Capper regained consciousness. He wanted to rub the bump on his head but found he couldn’t move his hands. He shook his head to clear it and felt something around his neck that brought him fully awake.
He opened his eyes and looked down to see three former associates standing near the horse he sat atop. This forced a great bellow of laughter from Silas.
“Well, now! Haven’t the three of you gone to some kind of trouble for this reunion. I’d been thinking just last month that it’d been too long since I’d seen any of you. And now, here we are, with me on my horse, hands tied behind my back, the guest of honor at a necktie party. You sure gone and arranged quite a meeting, I’ll say!”
Capper’s former associates – Juan, Luther, and Beak – stared up at him silently.
Continue reading “Fiction: The Last Reunion of the Capper Gang”
Fiction: At Death’s Door
Conor had seen this in a comedy program once, and it had been amusing. Now, it was puzzling.
He had discovered the little lane – a seldom-used back route to town – almost ten years before. It was a pretty and pleasant walk between green fields, and it provided just enough exercise to keep his old body limber and the blood flowing. He took it daily, had a cup or two of tea in town with friends, and then walked the lane back home.
Today, the path had a new feature: a doorway.
Fiction: A Halloween Interlude
“Pumpkin! Pumpkin! Come here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Pumpkin!”
As twilight approached, Karen zipped up her jacket against the chilly wind and searched for her cat. He had managed to slip past her as she gave a candy bar to an early trick-or-treater.
Karen pulled the flashlight from her jacket pocket and used it to search the places where evening’s shadow had already fallen. When she reached the end of the block, she aimed the light at the porch of the long-empty house just in time to see Pumpkin enter through a broken window. She huffed and trotted up the sidewalk.
It was an early ranch-style house and wouldn’t have required much work to make it look nice again. But silly rumors about odd noises and spooky sights combined with the horrible economy to keep the “For Sale” sign permanently at curbside.
Karen was surprised that the real estate company hadn’t put a lock box on the door. The doorknob turned easily and she went inside.
“Pumpkin?” She walked in, shining the light around the floor. “Kitty, kitty, kitty?”
She turned to look down a hallway. There was Pumpkin, placidly considering the ghost at the far end.
Fiction: Odd Man Out
Jonathan sat perfectly still in his cubicle, staring at the computer screen but not seeing the numbers as they scrolled by. He was trying to maintain a façade of normality in the face of an enormity. His reputation for being a little odd generally kept his co-workers from stopping in to chat, and he was glad of it now.
Jonathan knew – firsthand – that extraterrestrials were making plans to conquer the Earth.
Fiction: Released from the Morgue
The seating hostess led Emily and her mother, Amelia, to a booth. In due course, a waiter took their luncheon order and delivered drinks and salads. When he disappeared again, Amelia opened the conversation.
“I am growing weary of that measured look you’ve been giving me since we met outside, Emily. You have something on your mind. May I know what it is?”
“Do you know what the Herald has been doing over the course of the last several years, Mother?”
“That’s a rather oblique answer to my question. No, I don’t believe I do know what the Herald has been doing. Does it have anything to do with your unusual mood?”
“Indeed it does,” Emily said. “The Herald, bless its editor, has been steadily working to put all its past issues – the newspaper’s morgue, as it’s called – online. They’ve gotten at least as far as 1957.”
Amelia swallowed a forkful of arugula dressed with raspberry vinaigrette. “Have they?” A silent moment passed, and Amelia sighed. “Dear, if there is some point to be made here, please make it. I’m too old to play guessing games.”
“Nothing about that year rings a bell?”
“That was the year the Russians launched their Sputnik, as I recall.”
“And you launched something else.”