The Errant Ricochet: Max Raeburn's Legacy: And Other Tales of Suspense, Humor, and Fantasy

By Paul Mark Tag

Before Paul Mark Tag discovered his niche writing thrillers, he honed his storytelling craft by penning short stories. This medley includes fourteen of Paul's favorites, written over a period of five years.

Expect to experience a range of emotions as you page through this engaging and eclectic collection. You'll feel the trepidation of two boys delivering Christmas cookies to their scary neighbor in "The Curious Miss Crabtree." You'll wonder if six-year-old Mary's girlfriends-who visit at night!-are real or imaginary in "Mary's Secret." You'll recognize the conflict of feeling different in "A Matter of Honor," as an immigrant accepts his heritage. In "Double Exposure," you'll indulge in the curiosity and resolve of a spunky teenager who's been told she's always been too smart for her own good. Her instinct to investigate draws her into a neighborhood mystery. And "The Long Walk Home," at only 128 words long, will touch your deepest emotions.

These stories, many previously published, will warm your heart, keep you on the edge of your seat, and make you cry. The book's crowning jewel, "The Errant Ricochet: Max Raeburn's Legacy," will induce you to do all three.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 13, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595610013

Paul Mark Tag

Paul Mark Tag worked as a research scientist for the Naval Research Laboratory until his retirement in 2001, when he jumped headlong into pursuing his dream job of writing fiction. Before 2001 and for another year afterward, he prepared for that possibility by writing short stories exclusively. Some of them found homes in various literary magazines, including Story Bytes, Potpourri, Green’s Magazine, and The Storyteller. Tag’s first novel, a thriller called Category 5, debuted in 2005, taking advantage of his scientific background in meteorology. Prophecy and White Thaw: The Helheim Conspiracy followed. Trying something different, Tag next tackled an historical novel revolving around the Japanese internment of World War II: How Much Do You Love Me? At that point, realizing how much he missed writing thrillers, he penned Retribution Times Two, the sequel to the thriller trilogy. Tag lives with his wife, Becky, in Monterey, California. Please visit him at www.paulmarktag.com.

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THE ERRANT RICOCHET:

MAX RAEBURN’S LEGACY

and other tales of suspense, humor, and

fantasy

A Collection of Stories

Paul Mark Tag

Author of the spellbinding thrillers Category 5

and Prophecy

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington Shanghai

The Errant Ricochet: Max Raeburn’s Legacy and other tales of suspense, humor, and fantasy

Copyright © 2008 by Paul Mark Tag

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in these short stories are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-49194-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-49140-7 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-61001-3 (ebk)

Contents

Author’s Note and Acknowledgments

The Curious Miss Crabtree1

Mary’s Secret

A Matter of Honor1

Under Penalty of Prosecution

Double Exposure1

Jailbait1

The Long Walk Home1

Jimmy Boy

Lemonade or Iced Tea?

The Necklace, #326

Just Deserts

Millie’s Dilemma

Heaven First

The Errant Ricochet: Max Raeburn’s Legacy

ENDNOTES

In memory of my fathers, Luther and Herb

Author’s Note and Acknowledgments 

I wrote the fourteen short stories that I’ve included in this book over five years, during a period when I was learning the art of storytelling and before I started my first novel. If the reader is looking for a unifying thread between the stories, there is none. During my short-story period, I tried several different genres: humor, fantasy, young adult, romance, mystery—and thriller. I concluded that I had the most success and fun writing thrillers, which is why my first two novels, Category 5 and Prophecy, are both of that genre.

My principal thanks go to my mentor—author and publisher Arline chase. She provided invaluable input and advice as I developed these stories. She taught me the essence of storytelling: how to create a yarn a reader would find interesting and couldn’t help but finish.

Several others contributed significantly to this book’s completion. I mention my wife, Becky, first. Beyond providing input on each of my stories, she gave me encouragement and had the patience to allow me to pursue my dream. My thanks go next to my primary reader, Robin Brody, with whom I’ve shared countless lunches at which we dissected the composition of each story you see here. I also wish to acknowledge other secondary readers, in alphabetical order: Michael Guy, Kris Hoffman, Fran Morris, and Ann Schrader.

Everyone I’ve mentioned helped me with extraordinary advice and commentary. Any errors that remain in the manuscript are mine.

The Curious Miss Crabtree¹ 

Laconia, New Hampshire December 1957

Yes, I admit it. After all these years, I cop to the fact that I was scared that afternoon. Scared to death! I was ten years old. I also recall, though, that I wasn’t about to show any fear to my younger brother, Jimmy, age seven.

I remember that it was cold, and the snow on the sidewalk was ankle deep as my brother and I trudged toward our assignment. I didn’t want to go, but our mother gave me no choice. It was almost Christmas, and she made it clear it was the neighborly thing to do. I asked Mom if Jimmy could go along—not because I wanted his company, but because I figured Miss Crabtree would think twice before killing both of us, knowing it would be that much harder to dispose of two bodies.

The shuttered windows that faced us looked scary, as did the dark entryway. Miss Crabtree had been our next-door neighbor as long as I could remember. As a liberal, mature grown-up, I can now say she had a right to her ways, strange as they were. But back then, her behavior was foreign and frightening to me.

My knock on the door was timid. I hoped she wouldn’t answer. We could go home and tell Mom she never came to the door—and avoid serious bodily harm.

Do you think she’s sick? Jimmy looked up at me. Seconds elapsed with no sound at all from inside the house.

Could be.

Unaware of the considerable danger lurking within, Jimmy suggested, Why don’t you knock harder? No way could she hear your knock.

This time I used the large doorknocker, in the shape of a woodpecker, producing a sound that was capable of raising the dead.

What seemed like minutes ticked by, and I felt that we had given it our best shot and were off the hook. I don’t think she’s home, Jimmy. We can come back another time.

Then, unfortunately, we sensed movement. The door creaked open, just an inch, and then a few seconds later, a bit more. A pale face with no body attached peered out at about the five-and-a-half-foot mark—several inches above my line of sight.

You boys selling something? Get lost! The door began to close.

No, Miss Crabtree! It’s us, Tommy and Jimmy, your neighbors. We’ve come to wish you a Merry christmas. Mom made you some cookies. Shaking, and not from the cold, I lifted the plate high so she could see.

Miss crabtree’s eyes looked us up and down. She then stared beyond us, in front and to both sides, no doubt to make sure we weren’t harboring other juvenile salesmen.

Oh, yes. I remember now. You two broke my bathroom window last summer, throwing your baseball back and forth. Never did understand how a pitched ball could go that far off course. children, cats, and dogs were all in danger. Has your aim improved any?

Yes, ma’am. I’d say both Jimmy and me can now hit much more than the broad side of a barn, as you doubted back then. I was hoping you hadn’t remembered that.

I remember a lot more than that about you two. Most of it unpleasant.

No one said anything. The silence added to my discomfort, but it seemed to me that, although she had spoken last, the conversational ball was still in her court, and it would be rude to speak until she reacted to our offering her cookies. Miss Crabtree, apparently unaware of my keen understanding of social etiquette, continued to stare back at us while occasionally glancing down the sidewalk.

Jimmy looked up at me, across to Miss Crabtree, and back to me again. Unsure of what to do next, he took off his left glove and pondered the wart that had grown on the back of his middle finger.

I was about to set the cookies on the stoop and beat a hasty retreat when the door opened fully, to reveal that Miss Crabtree was still in possession of her body. It was a thin one, dressed in blue corduroy pants and a red plaid shirt. Even though it was winter and cold, she wore open sandals, over red socks. Her sharp facial features and straight black hair reminded me why she was a favorite for Halloween pranks. It didn’t help that her last name fit her nature and elicited various unflattering observations from the neighborhood kids.

You might as well come in. I can’t afford to heat the sidewalk.

Uh-oh. I wasn’t counting on this. Should we turn tail and run? Too late! Jimmy stepped inside. I steeled myself.

Miss Crabtree held open the door to the high, stone entryway. Her house was older than anyone else’s on the block, with massive rock walls surrounding the property. Ivy, now lifeless from the winter cold, grew on the sides of the house and made it look ancient. Some said the house was older than Miss Crabtree, but I found that hard to believe.

With Jimmy to the rear and me in the middle, Miss Crabtree ushered us past the stairway, past the living room, and past the den. The air smelled moldy, and it was dark, particularly after our eyes had gotten used to the bright snow outside. Jimmy grabbed hold of my jacket to avoid getting lost. We arrived in the kitchen, and Miss Crabtree stopped suddenly. I stopped as well, but Jimmy ran into me and knocked me down, whereupon I was able to study closely the rear-side construction of Miss Crabtree’s sandals. Although some of the cookies fell from the plate, I avoided complete embarrassment by retrieving most of them before she turned around.

Miss crabtree turned and looked intently at us. I was beginning to wonder whether she wasn’t used to looking at someone the likes of my brother and me. compared to our neighbor friends, though, I never thought we looked that unusual.

Thinking that it was now my turn to talk, I stood and raised the plate of cookies. Here are your cookies. They’re real good. Jimmy and me ate two on the way over.

It seemed to me that words took a long time to travel through the air in Miss crabtree’s house. They eventually arrived, and she took the plate.

Would you boys like some hot tea?

Jimmy looked up at me, and I knew what he was thinking. Hot tea? Why can’t we have cocoa? But our parents had taught us always to be polite, particularly to anyone senior to ourselves, which meant most of the rest of the planet.

That would be nice, Miss Crabtree. We’d love to have tea. When Miss Crabtree turned to the stove, I kicked Jimmy to bring him into line. Because we had survived this long, my courage was coming back.

Go. Sit. I’ll get the water boiling. With the gas on the stove now turned to high, Miss Crabtree sat down opposite us at the kitchen table. Staring ensued. Up until then in my life, I had wondered about the saying, A watched pot never boils. It was then that I discovered its meaning.

Recognizing a lull in the action, Jimmy went back to examining his wart. Miss Crabtree then noticed it, too.

What’s that? Where did you get that? she demanded.

Jimmy was quick to reply. It’s a wart. Mom says I must have touched a toad.

The air must have gotten thicker because Jimmy’s words took an extra long time to travel across the table. But when they