Black Cat Weekly #34

By Sarah M. Chen, Stephen D. Rogers, Marsheila Rockwell and 7 more

Here is the 34th issue of Black Cat Weekly, packed with more than 500 pages of great reading, with contents ranging from mystery to adventure to science fiction and fantasy. The complete contents includes:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
"Skin," by Stephen D. Rogers [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
"Booked for Murder," by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
"Grateful Touring," by Sarah M. Chen [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
The Case of Shem Packer, by Hulbert Footner [novel]
"The Dragoman's Secret," by Otis Adelbert Kline [novelet]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
"Skin," by Stephen D. Rogers [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
"A Single Feather," by Marsheila Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
The Case by Case Casebook of Emily Silverwood, by Mel Gilden (Part 3 of 4) [Serial Novel]
"Towers of Death," by Henry Kuttner [novelet]
The Hill of Dreams, by Arthur Machen [novel]

Non-Fiction:
Arthur Machen: Weaver of Fantasy, by William F. Gekle [author study]
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667699950

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

SKIN, by Stephen D. Rogers

BOOKED FOR MURDER, by Hal Charles

GRATEFUL TOURING, by Sara M. Chen

THE CASE OF SHEM PACKER, by Hulbert Footner

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

THE DRAGOMAN’S SECRET, by Otis Adelbert Kline

A SINGLE FEATHER, by Marsheila Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte

THE CASE BY CASE CASEBOOK OF EMILY SILVERWOOD, by Mel Gilden

Case #7: Linky Lonko

Case #8: Jake None’s Burgers

Case #9: The Man From New York

TOWERS OF DEATH, by Henry Kuttner

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

THE HILL OF DREAMS, by Arthur Machen

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

ARTHUR MACHEN: WEAVER OF FANTASY, by William F. Gekle

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

BIBLIOGRAPHY

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Skin appears here for the first time and is copyright © 2022 .by Stephen D. Rogers.

Booked for Murder is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

A Single Feather is copyright © 2017 by Marsheila Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte. Originally published in Mech: Age of Steel, July 2017. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Grateful Touring is copyright © 2016 by Sarah M. Chen. Originally published in Windward: Best New England Crime Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Case by Case Casebook of Emily Silverwood (Part 3 of 4) is copyright © 2022 by Mel Gilden and appears here for the first time.

The Dragoman’s Secret, by Otis Adelbert Kline, originally appeared in the Spring, 1931 issue of Oriental Stories.

Towers of Death, by Henry Kuttner, originally appeared in Weird Tales, November 1939.

The Hill of Dreams, by Arthur Machen, originally appeared in 1907.

Arthur Machen is copyright © 1949 by William Francis Gekle.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #34.

We are away at the mystery convention Malice Domestic as I write this, selling books in the dealers’ room. There are lots of new faces here, as well as lots of familiar ones. Wildside Press is debuting the 2022 Malice Domestic Book, Mystery Most Diabolical, so please check it out—its a hefty anthology of devilishly fun mystery stories (many of them also fantasy).

I don’t have as much time as usual for the Meow, so without further ado—here’s this issue’s lineup:

Non-Fiction:

Arthur Machen: Weaver of Fantasy, by William F. Gekle [author study]

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Skin, by Stephen D. Rogers [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Booked for Murder, by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

Grateful Touring, by Sara M. Chen [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Case of Shem Packer, by Hulbert Footner [novel]

The Dragoman’s Secret, by Otis Adelbert Kline [novelet]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Skin, by Stephen D. Rogers [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

A Single Feather, by Marsheila Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

The Case by Case Casebook of Emily Silverwood, by Mel Gilden (Part 3 of 4) [Serial Novel]

Towers of Death, by Henry Kuttner [novelet]

The Hill of Dreams, by Arthur Machen [novel]

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

SKIN,

by Stephen D. Rogers

I was watching myself rob a bank on the live feed when there was a knock at the door. Tearing myself away from the unfolding drama long enough to place my thumb on the pad, I opened up to a uniformed police officer.

Fred Trask?

The one and only. I wasn’t sure whether his being here was a good sign or not, but at least the officer would provide an alibi.

His face was blank as he pointed at the small camera attached to his badge. Please be aware that anything you say or do is being broadcast to the police station for recording.

Just as he had probably been numbed by repeating those words so many times, I had trouble not feeling I’d stepped onto a movie set. How can I help you officer?

Officer Klaar. He glanced past me to the living room. I see you’re following the robbery.

I stepped away from the door so he could enter my apartment. I don’t know if you’ve had the odd experience of not recognizing a playback of your own voice, but today that sensation pales in comparison.

Officer Klaar walked toward the video screen. So how do you explain the likeness?

The FreeCam dogged the robber as he moved through the bank, capturing him in one close-up after another. I’ve been asking myself the same question.

And what’s the answer?

I don’t know. Stretching the truth somewhat, this wasn’t a complete lie.

That’s not a good answer.

The robber set one of the hostages free, and my muscles tensed as she ran sobbing through the front doors. I waited for him to shoot her, but he didn’t. He would have if this were a movie.

Officer Klaar cleared his throat. Playing a hunch, I conducted a quick background check. You don’t have an identical twin and it seems unlikely that you’re an illegal clone.

Two for two.

I noticed that you’re carrying quite a bit of debt.

What’s your point?

Motive.

Now that I have a well-paying job with a financially stable company, I’m slowly paying off my debt. My personal information began scrolling along the top of the screen, the word ALLEGED appearing at the end of each sentence. At least I hope I still have a job.

While Officer Klaar managed to keep a straight face, he was unable to keep the smirk out of his voice. I doubt that Entertainment Industries is particular about the morality of their employees.

I pointed at the video, remembering when identity theft meant stealing a charge card number. But that’s not me.

Video matching has a proven 99.999% success rate. Odds are, that is you. How else do you explain my being here?

I had to be missing something. I knew I wasn’t robbing the bank. Why didn’t he? You can see I’m in my apartment while the robbery is still in progress. How soon before I’m cleared and my name comes off the video?

As soon as I’m satisfied. I am far from satisfied.

But I’m standing right in front of you.

So you say. Officer Klaar took a glance around the room before starting for the door.

What does that mean? You have to correct the misunderstanding before some vigilante group jumps the gun.

He turned to face me. There’s no way you’re not involved in this, not with a perfect video match. Maybe you want to talk now before your partner disappears and leaves you to hang.

I don’t have any partner.

Officer Klaar stared at me with empty eyes. He probably thought he had heard it all. Well, he hadn’t, at least not from me, and he wasn’t about to.

After forcing me to break eye contact, Officer Klaar continued toward the door. I’ll be watching you.

Haven’t you already seen enough?

He merely grunted as I thumbed him out.

By the time I returned to the video, the bank robber had somehow escaped the police encirclement. The stream of my personal information now included a bounty amount and the warning ARMED AND DANGEROUS.

I dialed Entertainment Industries and asked for Dan. Maybe he could explain how a SkinScan image of me had been parlayed into a three-dimensional bank robber.

I’m sorry, but Dan is in a meeting.

If he was in a meeting, then the one person who might help me probably wasn’t the bank robber. That was my first good news of the day.

Since it was a mistake to stop for coffee, I settled on swallowing a nutripill as I rode the elevator down to the garage.

How soon could I expect to see my first vigilante? Thanks to the media coverage, I was a paycheck waiting to be cashed.

After ensuring that no one was waiting to jump me in the garage, I climbed into my car and called out my destination. Then I picked up the telephone.

Dan’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?

Is this the same meeting or a different one?

Excuse me?

Hanging up, I peered out the windows to see if Officer Klaar was following me. He wouldn’t know where I was going, so he had to manually drive his car. I almost envied him the skill as driving would give me something to do.

I turned on the video and immediately turned it off. Safe for the moment, I didn’t want to be reminded of the I mess I was in.

Six companies in a row had laid me off. The systems analyst position at Entertainment Industries was no great shakes, reading performance logs and analyzing network traffic, but I’d almost rather go to prison for something I didn’t do than suffer through another humiliating job search.

My stomach clenched as I recalled shuffling from company to company: stuttering under the bored stares, repeating my experience, justifying my age. It wasn’t fair, being a has-been at twenty-seven, but that was the computer industry.

We couldn’t all be bank robbers.

I wondered how my duplicate was doing, whether he was still free, whether sightings of him would draw vigilantes in the opposite direction long enough for me to find answers.

It had been so strange watching myself rob the bank. Even though the robber appeared to be an identical copy, I could never have robbed the bank the way he did, fully in command of the situation, cool as a nitrogen switch.

A FreeCam dropped down in front of my windshield and then bounded out of view to record the commuter behind me.

Despite the mandated markings, the FreeCams moved too quickly for identification. Had that one belonged to the police, the media, some student who was producing a video collage?

I instructed the car to turn left at the next intersection and include Underwood Avenue in the route. While I was in a rush to reach Dan, it was better to take the long way to work than to not arrive at all.

Feeling a smile for the first time today, I imagined marching down the halls toward Dan—the R&D team openly impressed by my bravado, the telemarketers whispering to one another through their headsets, Patty risking eye contact to catch a glimpse of me. The payroll clerk would be so enthralled with what I’d done that I’d feel comfortable asking her for a date.

Traffic slowed to a stop.

I was sure the bank robber wasn’t sitting in a similar jam. No, he had a plan all worked out, brilliant in its simplicity. Even now he was entering a spaceport with just enough disguise to get past the monitors, selecting a moon where extradition was an empty threat, where a bank robber would be treated with respect. Earth might be too hot for a decade or two, but what did he care?

I almost turned on the video to see whether there was a roadblock ahead. If my duplicate did escape, Officer Klaar was right in saying I’d be left holding the bag.

Traffic picked up, and I continued toward Dan and the answers he represented.

Most of the R&D hotshots thought life ended at twenty. Whenever I ventured into their office to check a network connection, they’d ask when I was going to retire and open a use

d-

parts store, pat themselves on the back with their laughter.

Dan was different, treating me with at least a little respect, probably because he was the oldest of the bunch. When he came to me asking if I’d volunteer as a SkinScan subject, emphasizing that there was money in the budget to pay me overtime, I agreed, thinking it might make me one of the guys and cement my position in the company.

Of course, my involvement didn’t produce the desired result, the hotshots snickering the entire time I lay naked in the modified MRI. That was the last I heard of the SkinScan project until today.

Dan had some explaining to do. Until Officer Klaar knocked on the door, I had been thinking the live feed was a fake, Dan creating the bank robbery in the studio and hacking it into my media system to show me the possibilities of SkinScan. Nothing else made sense.

I suppose it was possible to hack my image into the live feed, possible but unlikely. The bank, police, and media utilized their own equipment. If the bank robber was somehow able to hack all three systems, overwrite his image with mine, the video evidence would outweigh if not supplant the memories of the people on the scene.

How did the bank robber get my image off the R&D server in the first place? If I had failed to keep that system secure from the outside world, then I deserved all the trouble I got.

Another FreeCam dove at me from the trees. That was the second one today. Either I usually didn’t notice them, or I was in trouble.

Two men stepped from behind a boulder. I was in trouble.

Recognizing the orange weapon carried by the one on the left, I shouted for brakes, but he fired before the car had a chance to slow. All systems immediately died as the engine seized, and only the car’s momentum kept me from smashing my head against the windshield.

An oncoming truck delayed them long enough for me to scramble out the window and run for the woods. The men weren’t wearing uniforms, which meant they were vigilantes.

I crashed through the underbrush. If they followed, I could try to double back. I couldn’t picture what was on the other side of the woods.

Reaching a patch of heavy coverage, I stopped and tried to control my breathing so I could hear better.

They had separated, searching the woods in fits and starts, the pulses of noise and silence becoming unsynchronized as they lost sight of each other.

Of course, it was convenient to speak of vigilantes as a group, but they were usually lone individuals competing for bounty money. I’d never heard of two banding together.

The one in the lead was passing on my right. The second was coming straight at me. If I moved now, they’d hear me.

Crouching, I felt through the leaves for a weapon. A heavy branch broke as I lifted it, crumbling from the rot that deposited it on the forest floor. It was just as well. I’d swing and miss and probably hit myself by mistake.

The nearest vigilante was visible through the branches, and I froze, trying not even to think too loud.

He passed me. Then he was moving further away.

The politicians always promised to do something about the gray area of vigilantism, but it made too much economic sense to pay bounties instead of keeping so many officers on town payrolls. Justice was sometimes short-circuited, but people only had to be reminded of their tax savings whenever an unfortunate incident occurred.

Tracking by the sound, I waited until the vigilante was almost out of earshot before I started picking my way back to the road, stepping slowly and carefully so that I made as little noise as possible.

My car was now junk, which meant I needed to take theirs. Was a third vigilante waiting? For that matter, where was the FreeCam? Was it waiting by the road, or had it flown away, mission accomplished?

The vigilante on my left called off the search and commanded a regroup at the car.

Cursing, I started to run.

If I slipped on the leaves, I was dead, but if I took the time to watch my step, they’d close the distance and catch me. I didn’t want to find out what other weapons they carried. I couldn’t risk being careful.

Breaking through a final prickly brush found me in the open, no FreeCam in sight, with their car visible just beyond the boulder. Not seeing a third vigilante, I ran for it, driven by the sound of the others crashing through the woods behind me.

They hadn’t expected trouble. The front door was unlocked, and the security system wasn’t engaged. The car started without a problem, and the computer began reading a list of words for me to repeat because it didn’t recognize my voice.

Finally synched, I called out the address of Entertainment Industries. Then, as the car accelerated, I turned around to catch a glimpse of a vigilante emerging from the woods just before the car turned the next corner.

I was no longer an innocent man trying to prove it. If not a bank robber, I was at least a car thief.

Had the FreeCam captured my burst of criminal activity? Had I stolen the car with as much charisma as the bank robber? Had the video already been sold to the media outlets, my coworkers white-knuckled at my latest adventure?

I imagined people starting a pool and hoped Patty bet that I wasn’t caught. Maybe that’s what Dan’s meeting was about. He was in charge of the betting slips.

As Entertainment Industries became visible through the trees, I instructed the car to bypass the parking lot and take a left onto the road that wound behind the buildings. Security was usually a joke but today I couldn’t count on them simply nodding me through the lobby.

At least I didn’t see any police.

Parking the car between dumpsters, I slipped through the back door and started up the hall toward R&D.

Despite what people might expect, Entertainment Industries was no bordello. The company was housed in a corporate building like any other entity. The halls were gray, the carpeting was just noticeable enough to show wear, and the potted plants looked best when they were fake.

While the stars who paid the bills graced the walls of the plusher meeting rooms, I’d never seen one in the flesh. At my interview, I was told that Ann Geddit might attend the next holiday party but if she did, I didn’t recognize her from the posters.

I burst through the door of R&D and the hotshots looked at me with none of the respect I had imagined earlier.

Where’s Dan?

In a meeting. In unison, they turned away.

Now what? When he comes back, tell him I’m in my office.

As I made my way to the computer room, I had an unsettling thought. Assuming that Dan knew something about my duplicate, why hadn’t he called me this morning?

Thumbing the pad next to the door, I entered the computer room to the comforting smell of great coffee. Deciding to brew a pot while I waited for Dan, I opened the bag of ground beans to breathe in the rich smell of hazelnut.

If my body chemistry had been different, I would have smelled blueberry or Madagascar Roast or something that no one else in the world would smell. Every cup was always perfect, a claim nothing else in my life could match.

The coffee started, I turned toward the servers. Maybe Dan wasn’t available right now, but his files were. As systems analyst I had access to everything.

I found the data that represented my image, the program that Dan used to add clothing and create the simulation of motion. Then I discovered a series of emails between Dan and the people upstairs.

Originally, the SkinScan project was about inserting images of clients into movies, people who would pay big money to have footage of themselves screwing Ann Geddit. Between my blushing participation and now, the direction had changed.

If a client could be digitized with SkinScan technology, why not the stars themselves? Even better, instead of the expense of inserting the star’s image into every frame, why not develop a hologram projector that could be worn by someone willing to act for next to nothing?

That’s how a duplicate me robbed a bank.

There was a final email this morning. A prototype had been stolen last night and used in the commission of a crime. While the thief would be discovered and punished in due course, the immediate problem was me.

If I talked and exposed the SkinScan technology, Entertainment Industries would lose incalculable revenue. One of the vice-presidents suggested hiring vigilantes to silence me before the police had a chance to learn the truth.

In his favor, Dan promoted a non-violent solution. That’s probably what the meeting was about.

I had the answer I had been seeking, but it didn’t help a bit. Even if I told Officer Klaar the whole story, Entertainment Industries would simply deny the project. They could offload the data, wait for the investigation to cool, and then fire up the project again.

I stepped away from the R&D server and reached around back. If nothing else, I could throw a monkey wrench into their plans. Unplugging the machine from the network, I deleted all the files and reformatted the drives.

Backups went into the microwave for thirty seconds. Then I dumped them into the trashcan and emptied three bottles of cleaner over whatever data might remain.

Dan could probably recreate the prototype, but at least he wouldn’t be using my image. While this may have been a watered-down version of justice, it was all I had.

My telephone rang and I answered, ready to gloat.

Officer Klaar again. Your partner dropped a silver box here at the bank. It’s about one inch by four inches square, clips onto a belt. Whoever wears it can press a little button, and guess what?

What?

They become you. Isn’t that strange?

How much did I tell him? Even if Officer Klaar said he was willing to help, his superiors might have a different agenda. If I was killed and declared guilty of robbing the bank, the authorities would have time to assimilate the law enforcement implications of SkinScan before they went public with the story.

And I suppose it was one of your duplicates who stole a car over on Underwood. Chuckling, Officer Klaar disconnected before I could respond.

Seeing that the coffee wasn’t quite done, I began checking the logs to calm my nerves. Except for the R&D file server, all systems were functioning normally. Then I thought to check the security file.

Unless Dan took his work home, the prototype had probably been stolen from the R&D office. Who else but an employee would know about the project?

I quickly discovered that only one other person started late enough today to have robbed a bank on the way to work.

Pouring coffee into a to-go cup, I slapped on a cover and left the computer room to step down the hall.

Patty jumped when I entered the payroll office. You startled me.

I know what you did.

She paled, started fumbling through papers. Was there a mistake in your check this week?

We get paid tomorrow.

Patty froze. Licking her lips, she asked what I was talking about.

I’m surprised to find you sitting at your desk when freedom is as close as the nearest spaceport. That’s where I would have gone. How much did you get from the bank today, a couple hundred thousand?

Nothing.

I want half. I paused. What do you mean nothing? Before I left this morning, I saw you on the live feed holding bags crammed with money.

I turned off the projector to escape. Patty grimaced. I couldn’t very well leave the scene with the money.

I placed my coffee on the corner of her desk before I dropped it. You left the money in the bank.

She nodded. And the projector. She suddenly looked up. They’ll— What happened to your face?

What do you mean? I reached up with my free hand, came away with spots of blood.

Your cheek.

I was trying to stay alive.

You have nothing to worry about. Once the police find the projector and turn it on, they’ll know you weren’t the bank robber. You’ll be cleared.

No, I won’t. Truth has taken on a life of its own. I could taste the bitterness as the words passed through my mouth. Why?

Patty cleared her throat. Believe it or not, working at a porn company was not my first career choice. After the bank lied to justify firing me, however, EI was the only option left.

So, you decided to rob your ex-employer.

It’s easy so long as you’re willing to be captured on video. The employees are trained to give a robber the money before customers can decide to take their business elsewhere. Since they fired me, not a night went by that I didn’t dream about revenge.

And then you somehow learned about the SkinScan project.

She nearly smiled. It was your overtime justification form. I finally saw my chance.

I understood what she meant, remembering my fantasies in the car. I had created a hero of mythological proportions out of the bank robber and Patty had done the same with my image. So, what went wrong?

Patty laughed. I overstayed my welcome. I should have left as soon as I had the money, but it felt too good. I was someone else. I was powerful.

Standing, I tried but failed to forgive her. You destroyed my life for an illusion.

No, it was real. She looked around her office. More real than this.

On that note I left and retraced my steps toward the back exit. I didn’t know how Patty had stolen the prototype but imagined it wouldn’t be difficult to prove. Despite my anger at what she’d done, I hoped Entertainment Industries wouldn’t press charges.

I paused when I saw the R&D hotshots gathered outside the computer room door.

Quickly reversing direction, I tried to picture another exit other than the lobby.

The cafeteria had a door to the outside and I headed that way with my head ducked low. I needed to get out before someone decided to report they’d seen me. I had destroyed company property, a technology worth untold wealth.

Forget about licensing images instead of paying salaries. SkinScan holograms would decimate the multi-billion-dollar health, beauty, and diet industries. Entertainment Industries might make more money extorting other companies to keep the technology under wraps than it could make selling the projector to consumers.

I ignored the hairnet cafeteria staff and pushed my way through the outside doors, weaving between the picnic benches toward the parking lot. I was heading for the street faster than I could decide what to do when I arrived.

Add clothing and jewelry to the list of endangered businesses. Scratch the admissibility of video matching. Forget about trusting your eyes.

I rounded the corner of the building to see myself walking across the parking lot. Patty hadn’t left the projector at the bank after all.

She probably hadn’t dumped the money either and only came to work to tie up loose ends before she disappeared.

I broke into a slow jog, hoping to reach her before she reached her car. She had sat at her desk and lied to me. I’d almost felt sorry for her.

Patty looked over her shoulder and then began to run. Either I had more at stake, or I was angrier because I quickly closed the distance.

Patty slowed and turned. Then I was on her and we were rolling on the ground trading blows.

She was fighting me, but I was fighting a hologram image that didn’t match the person beneath, which was even more confusing than fighting a duplicate of myself.

When Patty suddenly curled up, I realized I must have kneed her in the stomach because the fight went out of her. I disengaged and quickly stood, hoping Patty wasn’t reaching for a gun behind the hologram. Turn it off.

I was breathing so hard I couldn’t hear what she said, but then my duplicate shimmered and Dan lay in front of me in a fetal position, one hand cradling his privates.

Dan? I leaned against the nearest car. What did this mean, that there were two prototypes? Why stop there? At this moment there could be hundreds of me running around, any one of whom could have robbed the bank. What would Officer Klaar think of that?

Dan nodded. Yes, it was me.

I must have spoken my thoughts aloud. So, you robbed the bank. Had Patty lied to protect him, made a fool out of me?

Dan took a deep breath. No, Officer Klaar. I was Officer Klaar. Testing you. He slowly straightened, grimaced. I needed to know if you would talk.

You were Officer Klaar? I thought he’d been wooden. Now that I played the scene back, I realized I should have recognized the voice.

Actually, I was a duplicate of my brother Tom pretending to be Officer Klaar. Sitting up, Dan shook his head. It didn’t make any difference though. The brass still sent the vigilantes after you.

Why? I kept my mouth shut.

I know but they didn’t trust you to stay silent forever. Dan sighed. There’s too much money involved at this point. Imagine a world where anybody could be anybody and nobody would necessarily be who they seemed. The people who controlled that technology would be gods.

No, they’d still be pornographers.

Dan snorted, unclipped a silver box from his belt and handed it to me. Save yourself.

Are you serious?

He waved the projector. It’s over.

Why were you being me just now? I took the projector from his outstretched hand, slipped it into my pocket.

As I was leaving the meeting room, I heard them tell Security to keep me from leaving the building. No one expected you to come back so I knew Security wasn’t watching for you. Dan struggled to his feet. I’m sorry how this worked out.

I asked Dan the same question I’d asked Patty. Why?

Because I could. Unfortunately, meeting the technical challenges outweighed the ethical considerations.

Is there a third projector?

No, I just built the two. Standard procedure when developing a working prototype. You always want a second in case something goes wrong with the first.

Maybe he was lying but I was more concerned with saving my skin than clearing up the details. I’m taking your car.

As soon as I remember where I parked. Dan craned to look over the tops of vehicles. Oh, yeah. The spot reserved for Employee of the Month.

At least you experienced that thrill.

He shrugged. I suppose you’re going to the police to blow the whistle and save yourself.

I just thought of something better.

And I had. Entertainment Industries might be the bottom of the barrel, but I still had years to fall. It was time to stop my descent.

In Dan’s car, I parroted the word list before instructing it to drive the least traveled roads to the nearest bank.

Then I robbed it.

Patty was right. Even though I was playing myself, it was a rush. I was free to be who I’d never been, free to do things that I’d never dared.

The world would never be the same if this technology was made available.

I was in and out of the bank before the police had a chance to respond, and I dropped the projector in a trashcan so the robbery would be blamed on my duplicate. Eventually the trick would unravel but by then I’d be safe.

Although I didn’t think Dan would talk, I stole a car that was double-parked and idling. I took it because the windows were tinted. Even though the car might quickly be reported stolen, the fact that no one could look inside was a welcome relief.

Again I resisted turning on the video. If I was about to be caught, I didn’t want to know about it until the last moment. I felt good for the first time in years.

When I arrived at the spaceport, Patty was waiting for me outside. I saw you on the live feed. Nice job not dawdling.

In the end I had no choice but to become the image that other people projected. I scanned the crowd for signs of danger.

The police are looking for a lone man, not a couple. That’s why you’re taking me.

And why should I trust you? I gripped the bag of money.

Patty took a deep breath before answering. I could have brought the police, could have split with a vigilante.

I nodded toward the entrance. Okay. So, tell me, how did you manage to steal the prototype?

Who do you think keeps the thumbprint records?

I laughed. Okay. Since you’re so smart, you decide on our destination.

Patty removed the last of my lingering doubts when she held out a to-go cup. You left this in my office.

Grinning, I finally took my first sip of the day. Apparently, I was a changed man in more ways than one. The coffee may have been cold, but it definitely tasted like mint.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephen D. Rogers is the author of Shot To Death and more than 800 shorter works. His website, www.StephenDRogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

BOOKED FOR MURDER,

by Hal Charles

As Detective Meredith McCall stepped into the lobby of the Fairfax Inn, she reflected on the irony of the situation. A lifelong reader of mystery fiction, she had always imagined attending a mystery writers convention as a fan, not as an investigator of a murder.

Across the room buzzing with crime scene personnel, Meredith spotted a familiar uniformed officer talking with a tall man in a gray suit. As she approached the duo, the officer said, Detective McCall, this is Sheldon Avery, Milo Swanson’s agent. Mr. Avery found the body.

The agent shook his head. I can’t believe he’s gone. One minute he was at the banquet celebrating winning this year’s Maltese Falcon Award, the next I find him dead, struck down by the trophy he was so proud of.

Exactly where did you find the body? said Meredith.

In his room on the second floor, said Avery. I went up to congratulate him, and when he didn’t answer the door, I had the night clerk let me in.

Detective, said Officer Jeremy Benton, we’ve tagged and bagged the trophy, and you’ll be interested in something else we found on a nightstand next to the bed. Benton gestured toward a wallet lying next to a handgun on the counter to their right.

Putting on a glove, Meredith opened the wallet. Sergeant Brice Turner, she said, looking at the badge and ID. Who is this Turner and why was his badge and handgun in Swanson’s room?

Milo Swanson was Turner’s pen name, said Avery. Since Brice was one of Capital City’s chief investigators, it was a closely-guarded secret known only to me and his publisher.

So, Mr. Avery, said Meredith, you discovered the body?

If you think I could have done this, said Avery defensively, I can only ask why I would kill the goose that has been spitting out golden eggs for years?

When did Swanson. . .Turner leave the banquet?

About 1:00 am, said Avery.

And when did you discover the body?

A little before 2:00.

The night clerk informed me that only three individuals went upstairs during that time frame, said Officer Benton, pulling out his notepad.

Good work, said Meredith.

Dillon Cash, a kitchen employee, took a room service order to Swanson’s room. A young woman who identified herself as Emily Dexter, president of Swanson’s fan club, asked for his room number then grabbed the elevator, and William Fields, who is a registered guest.

Well, said Avery, clearing his throat, I don’t know the kitchen help, but William Fields was runner-up for the Maltese Falcon, and he and Brice have had some bad blood between them. That Dexter woman has been following Brice around like a lovesick puppy the entire conference.

For what it’s worth, said Benton, the clerk told me that Dillon Cash has worked for the Inn for about three years, and other than losing his temper occasionally is a good kid.

Thanks, said Meredith, spotting a young woman sitting alone in the lounge to the left. The clerk confirmed it was Emily Dexter.

Seeing Meredith approach, the blonde said, Don’t try to make me leave. I’m waiting here till Milo comes down. He wouldn’t answer his door, but he’s got to see me sooner or later.

Without a word, Meredith left the tearful Emily, certain that she had not committed the crime, and headed toward the elevator.

When the door to Room 220 opened, Meredith was greeted by a balding man in a soiled t-shirt. She identified herself and said, Mr. Fields, there’s been a crime committed down the hall, and I’d like to know if you’ve seen or heard anything suspicious.

Detective, Fields said, not inviting her in, I came straight to my room from the banquet, and I haven’t left it. I was on the phone with my wife in L.A. for over an hour trying to explain why I didn’t win the Maltese Falcon. My cell is on the fritz, so I had to use the room phone. You can check at the desk. Now, I have an early flight and need some sleep.

One more person to check, thought Meredith as she entered the Inn’s kitchen. Spotting a young man wiping down a counter, she called, Dillon Cash and flashed her badge. I have some questions.

Is it about the commotion earlier? said Cash.

You took a room service order to room 212 around 1:00, said Meredith.

That’s right, said Cash, rubbing his hands on his jeans. Sirloin steak with fries and coleslaw. I knocked on the door, but Mr. Turner didn’t answer, so I left the cart in the hall. Is something wrong?

Meredith nodded as she reached for her handcuffs.

Solution

When Dillon Cash identified the guest in Room 212 as Mr. Turner instead of Swanson, the name the writer was registered under, Meredith knew Cash must have entered the room and seen the sergeant’s badge and ID after he murdered him since Turner wouldn’t have shown them to him willingly. Arrested, Cash admitted that he struck Turner with the trophy when the writer flashed a huge wad of cash, then then gave him a measly two-dollar tip. Later, officers found Cash’s blood-splattered apron stuffed in a dumpster behind the Inn.

GRATEFUL TOURING,

by Sara M. Chen

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

When the motor coach cruised by the familiar eagle statue in Dock Square, Jack finally relaxed. In a few minutes, his tour group would be exploring the seaside town of Kennebunkport for the allotted hour, and this temp driver, Bob, would hopefully have to take a piss. Then Jack could dig around the passenger cargo bay to make sure the money was safe before he had a meltdown.

It all started a couple hours ago, back at South Station in Boston, when a stocky guy marched up to Jack with his suitcase, announced his name was Bob, and said he was driving the New England foliage route for King Tours today. The guy was around Jack’s age with a chest the size of a VW bus.

Where’s Chris? Jack asked, alarm bells going off. He’d been waiting a good ten minutes for Chris, his usual driver, to arrive with the keys to the coach so he could throw the bag of money into the driver’s bay like he did before every tour.

Bob heaved his massive shoulders up and down. How the hell should I know? He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and opened the driver’s cargo bay, tossing his suitcase inside.

Who called you to fill in?

Carly.

Okay, she was their tour manager. Serge, the owner of King Tours, trusted her without question. Jack felt a little better but not much. He knew Carly wasn’t aware of the less legal aspects of their job, so Jack was going to need more from Bob to trust he was in on the plan, something like, Hey, you know that whole smuggling thing? Yeah, Serge told me about it. Something.

You drive foliage before?

Bob nodded.

At least he wouldn’t need to give Bob directions. What companies did you drive with?

Bob shrugged. A bunch. He shut the driver’s cargo bay and opened up the other two for the passenger luggage. Where’s your bag?

Jack pointed to the black duffel bag on the ground. The one with the Stealie pin stuck to the nylon strap. It was his favorite Dead design—a blue-and-red grinning skull with a lightning bolt across it—and the cover of the Grateful Dead’s live double album, Steal Your Face.

Bob picked up Jack’s bag and threw it into the passenger bay. Jack had the other bag—the one filled with the cash—slung around his shoulder. The one that always went in the driver’s cargo bay. Bob pointed to it.

That one too?

Jack instinctively clutched it to his body, then handed it over. Bob threw it into the passenger bay, and Jack fought the urge to dive in after it. Passengers were already trickling in, chatting and eager to start their trip. Bob greeted them with a polite nod as he threw in their bags in front of Jack’s.

It was time to find out what was going on. Jack dialed Chris’s number. It went straight to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message, then shot Chris a text asking where he was.

After staring at his phone, he decided to call Serge. But as soon as he heard ringing, he knew he’d made a mistake and hung up. What if Chris was sleeping off a hangover and called in sick to Carly and now Jack nearly blabbed to their boss that the kid was a no-show? Serge would be livid. Chris could end up like Ray, their last driver, thanks to Jack’s big mouth. He thought the kid was an asshole, but he sure didn’t want his death weighing on his conscience.

Shit, Jack muttered, running his hand through his thinning hair. Nothing he could do but put on a smile and greet his tour. He’d figure out what to do later, hopefully by the time they reached Kennebunkport, their first destination.

* * * *

But here they were, and Jack still had no clue if Bob was part of the smuggling gig or not. At least now they were stopped and Jack could make sure the money was safe, maybe move it into the driver’s cargo bay, away from the passenger luggage.

Okay, folks, we’re in Kennebunkport. The best bathrooms are over there by Federal Bill’s. Jack pointed south. They’ve got good lobster bisque too. Be sure to order the Thumper IPA with that. He glanced at the driver. Bob, you got a favorite beer here?

Bob blinked at Jack like a kid who was called on in class and hadn’t done the homework.

Jack turned back to his group. Okay, I guess Bob likes all beers. That got a few chuckles. At twelve thirty, we’ll meet here to head on up to White Mountain, where we’ll check in and meet up later for dinner. You all have my cell, so call if you need anything.

Silence followed. When everyone realized Jack was done, the passengers stood up and shuffled toward the front of the coach. Jack helped the frailer ones negotiate their way down the steps. When the final passenger disembarked, Jack stepped back into the coach, hovering on the stairs. Bob remained seated behind the wheel.

I wasn’t kidding about Federal Bill’s. The best bathrooms. And the farthest, Jack thought. A good twenty-minute walk. Gave him plenty of time to check the bag.

I gotta get gas, Bob said.

What? But we just left Boston. You should have plenty to take us up to New Hampshire. Jack peered at the gas gauge, but with the engine off, there was nothing to see.

The driver shook his head. The tank was almost empty when we left.

Why didn’t you get gas back in Boston? Didn’t they teach you that at driver’s ed or whatever?

Bob glared. I went to Road Leaders.

That surprised Jack because Chris went to Road Leaders too. Maybe you know Chris Hargrove then?

Bob didn’t say anything.

Tall pretty boy? Listens to the worst music in the world, that EDM shit?

Bob looked confused. What’s EDM?

Electronic dance music.

Bob snorted. Yeah, that’s the guy.

Is that how you got this gig? Chris referred you?

Bob shrugged. I guess.

Where was your last tour?

Nowhere. I just got out of the joint.

Jack’s shock must have shown because Bob changed the subject. So, I’m gonna get going.

Jack scanned the area. Well, there’s no truck stop around here. The closest one is… Jack realized he had no idea. This was something Chris always took care of.

I know where one is. It’s about thirty minutes up that way. Bob pointed north toward Portland. You stay here, and by the time I get back, it should be time to go. I’m sure you’d like to use the bathroom at Federal Bill’s.

Jack did have to use the bathroom, but he didn’t want to leave Bob with the money. Jack could always go with him, check on the money while he pumped gas, but that would be difficult to do without Bob wondering what he was up to. Plus he hated to leave his group stranded.

Fine, Jack grumbled, exiting the coach. He’d just have to wait until New Hampshire to check on the money.

Bob started the engine and shut the coach’s door, Jack glaring through the window at him like a scorned wife. The lumbering vehicle made a U-turn and exited the lot, heading north.

Shit. Jack looked around Kennebunkport, debating what to do for the next hour. He was too keyed up to enjoy his usual bowl of bisque. He wished he’d brought his pipe and weed to calm his nerves, but getting stoned on the job was something he’d never do.

Sighing, he trudged to Federal Bill’s. He pulled his company blazer around him, shivering in the brisk fall air. Or maybe it was his paranoia.

After this, he was going legit, no doubt about it. This smuggling gig wasn’t worth the trouble.

He hadn’t always felt this way. When Serge first brought him in to King Tours three years ago and told him you could buy a pack of cigarettes in New Hampshire for six bucks and that same pack would cost almost thirteen dollars in New York, Jack couldn’t believe it. What was even more unbelievable was how easy it was to smuggle these cigarettes on a motor coach hauling thirty elderly passengers. He’d signed on for foliage immediately.

While their tour group was tucked away in bed looking forward to a day of leaf peeping in White Mountain, Jack and Chris would haul ass in the coach to meet up with Boomer. They’d buy five thousand cartons of cigarettes and fifty thousand counterfeit tax stamps to make the black-market cigarettes smuggled in from Canada appear legit. Then, when they made their way to New York, the final leg of the tour, they’d exchange the cigs and stamps for cash. A quarter of a mil to be exact.

It was a thing of beauty until you didn’t want to do it anymore. Even Jerry Garcia told him it was time to get out. When Jack smoked enough Purple Kush and cranked up his favorite Dead song, Scarlet Begonias, Jerry spoke to him in that nasally voice every Deadhead knew.

Follow your dream, Jack. Be the authentic you.

And Jack finally had enough money to be his authentic self. It had taken a long time to save up. Serge was a greedy prick who refused to increase Jack and Chris’s small percentage. Jack knew better than to complain, something Chris couldn’t seem to comprehend. He bitched constantly.

Why don’t we go out on our own then? Jack had suggested after their last tour. He and Chris always grabbed a couple beers at Old Pete’s. Unfortunately, that night he’d had more than a couple. I’ve got enough to launch Grateful Tours. You can be my driver, man.

Chris snorted. And listen to that shitty music all day? No thanks.

Jack should have popped Chris in his perfect nose, but he wasn’t the violent type.

Be the authentic you, Jack.

Jack’s phone rang, bringing him out of his thoughts. He stopped in front of Federal Bill’s and looked at the caller ID. Serge.

What’s up, boss? Jack tried to steady his wobbly voice.

You tell me. The Serbian sounded bored. At least he wasn’t screaming. You call?

Shit. Jack had completely forgotten about that. Uh, yeah. Sorry. It was a mistake. The smart thing to do was to let Serge bring up Chris and Bob.

After a painfully long silence, Serge finally said, Everything a go for you and Chris, yes? No problem?

Jack’s mind raced. That meant Serge wasn’t aware that Chris no-showed and Bob was here in his place. Uh, yeah. Everything’s fine. Jack knew he’d regret covering for Chris.

Good. Serge hung up.

Jack stared at the phone. He’d seriously screwed up. He’d have to do the deal by himself now. Serge would be expecting it to get done. But how? The only way was to steal the coach keys from Bob. Drive the thing himself.

Shit. He could definitely use some weed now.

* * * *

Eventually, Bob made it back to Dock Square with a tank full of gas. He was ten minutes late, but Jack held his tongue. They made it to Cheshire Inn in White Mountain in record time, which both terrified and impressed Jack. This Bob guy could drive a tank in the Indy 500 if he needed to. Only a few elderly passengers looked like they were going to puke up their bisque.

After checking everyone in, Jack hurried to his room to make sure the money was still in the bag, which it was. Now he had to figure out his next move. He decided that in the middle of dinner, he would pretend he needed something from the coach while Bob stuffed his face with lobster. He’d switch out the keys. Give Bob a dummy key.

But Bob never showed up for dinner. Jack would have to come up with a new plan. For the first time, Jack wished he carried a gun. Serge always gave him the option, but he never felt right about it.

When Jack opened the door to his room, he wondered why he smelled musky cologne. He flicked the light on, and there was Serge, dressed in his usual all black, perched on the edge of his bed. Jack jumped at the sight of him.

Shit, boss, you scared me.

Serge’s dark eyes gave Jack chills. A toilet flushed in the bathroom, and Chris emerged, drying his hands on a towel.

Hey there, buddy, Chris said.

Chris! What the hell? I’ve been texting you all day.

Chris tossed the hand towel to the floor and looked surprised. Oh yeah? He shrugged. Never got ’em.

Serge cleared his throat. You lie to me, Jack.

Jack swallowed. His mouth was dry as if he’d just smoked a bowl. Yeah, I wasn’t sure… Shit, he was just going to tell the truth. He pointed to Chris. I was protecting this pinhead. I knew you’d be upset he was a no-show this morning. He glared at Chris. I should have just thrown you under the bus, I guess, huh?

Chris looked puzzled. What are you talking about? You called me this morning. Left a voicemail that the tour was called off. He shrugged. So I went back to bed thinking I had a free day.

Jack was flabbergasted. I didn’t call you and you know it! He felt Serge’s death stare and turned to him. Boss, come on. He’s flat out lying to you. He felt the back of his neck getting hot and stripped off his blazer, throwing it on the bed.

Like you lie to me earlier? Serge’s voice was razor sharp.

No, no, not like that at all. I didn’t— Jack paused. He had to calm down. Look, I showed up at South Station this morning like always. And this Bob guy tells me that Carly sent him, so I figured Chris called in sick or something.

Serge looked to Chris, who shook his head. I don’t know what he’s talking about, man. I wasn’t sick, and I sure as hell would have done the tour if I didn’t get Jack’s message. He pulled out his cell phone, showing it to Serge. Look, he called me at nine thirty.

Serge glanced at it and nodded. He looked at Jack. Yes, you call him.

Because I wanted to know what was going on. I got his voicemail and hung up. I didn’t leave any message. Let’s hear it then, okay? Play my message.

I deleted it, dude.

Oh, isn’t that convenient. Jack rolled his eyes. Well, I texted you too. Where’s that on your phone, huh?

I didn’t get any texts from you.

Oh yeah? What are these then? Jack pulled out his phone to show Serge the texts he sent Chris. Serge glanced at Jack’s phone. He looked at Chris.

He send texts.

Chris shrugged. I never got them.

Jack threw his hands up. This is unbelievable. He turned to Serge. "I’m the one telling the truth here, boss."

Chris’s eyes widened. I have no reason to lie. I’m telling you, Serge, Jack’s the one who’s shady. Which is why I had to share my concerns with you.

Serge nodded.

What concerns? Jack asked. Sweat trickled down his temples.

That you were going to take off with the money. Start your own loser hippie tour company. I mean, come on, Jack, it was kind of a dumb thing to admit to me last week. I’m no rat but stealing from Serge? Chris shook his head. I can’t keep something like that to myself.

Jack was so shocked that he could only stare with his mouth hanging open.

Chris continued. I put two and two together and decided you were going to steal the money on this tour. He looked at Serge. It makes sense, right? He tells me some lie about the tour being canceled so he can run off with your money.

Jack finally found his voice. Then why would I be standing here then? If I stole the money, wouldn’t I be in Canada by now, smart guy?

Serge raised his eyebrows at Chris who snorted. Come on, boss. He’s waiting for the big score in New York. He looked at Jack. And I bet you’ve already squirreled some money away. Boomer never counts that shit.

Jack shook his head. Fine, go ahead and check the money. I haven’t touched it since Serge handed it to me. He knew it was all there.

Serge nodded. Let me see money.

Jack bent down and retrieved the bag from underneath his bed. He tossed it next to Serge.

Open it.

Jack unzipped the bag. For an agonizing second, he was afraid it’d be gone. When he saw the stacks of hundreds nestled inside, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Serge peered inside the bag and looked up at Chris. All here.

Chris smirked. You sure about that?

Jack glared. Where was Chris going with this?

Serge pursed his thin lips. He reached inside the bag and pulled out a stack of hundreds. Only it wasn’t a stack of hundreds but a handful of newspaper. It was cut and shaped like money. A few hundreds were on top, which is what Jack had seen earlier. Serge tore through the rest of the bag, hurling newspaper at Jack as he went. Where is my money?

Jack shook his head, unable to comprehend how easily Chris had set him up. He was a dead man. It was there earlier, I swear. I—

Enough! Serge leaped off the bed and screamed in Jack’s face. No more lies. Where is it?

I—I don’t know—

Serge backhanded Jack. He landed at the foot of the bed near the bathroom. Perhaps you need help to remember, yes?

Jack lay on the threadbare carpet, curled up in fetal position. His face stung. He stared at the dust and feathers underneath the bed.

Get him up.

A kick to his ribs sent shock waves of pain rippling through his body. He groaned.

Get up, dickbag, Chris said.

Jack slowly got to his feet, feeling like he was going to puke. He winced as he straightened, the pain in his ribs almost crippling him. Chris shoved him from behind. Let’s go, he ordered.

Jack whirled around, ignoring the wooziness in his head. Don’t fucking touch me, he hissed.

Chris smirked but didn’t touch him again. Jack shuffled toward the open door. Something metal dug into his back, and he knew Chris had a gun.

Keep walkin’, Chris said from behind.

They headed out into the chilly night and circled around the inn toward the poorly lit parking lot. It was dead quiet except for the sound of their shoes crunching in the gravel. The motor coach sat on the far side of the lot, practically camouflaged underneath a giant oak tree.

Jack recognized the car nearest them. Chris’s Mustang. They’d probably throw him into the trunk and drive him to the middle of nowhere so they could torture him. Jack prayed for someone to come outside, but it was after nine. Most folks were already in bed. Leaf peepers liked to get an early start.

When they reached the car, Serge stopped. I ask you one more time. Where is my money?

Jack shook his head. If I knew, I’d tell you, boss. He shivered, wishing he had his blazer on, then figured it wouldn’t matter soon enough.

Serge looked disappointed. I always like you, Jack. You never make trouble. He sighed. Until now. He nodded to Chris. Put him in trunk.

Chris popped open the trunk. He pointed the gun at Jack’s head. Jack noted the silencer. Get in.

Jack glanced inside the trunk. It was lined with plastic sheeting. Now was the time to make trouble. "If I were you, boss,