Black Cat Weekly #45

By Wildside Press

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #45. This is an fun issue, and I’ve selected Tobias S. Buckell’s fantasy “The Fisher Dragon” as the cover story. (I must admit to having a fondness for dragons. The very first story I sold professionally, way back at the dawn of time when I was 16 years old, was about a dragon. And they appear in several of my novels, most notably Master of Dragons.) Thanks to acquiring editor Cynthia Ward for selecting it.

Black Cat’s other acquiring editors are represented in this issue, too—Michael Bracken selected an original mystery from John M. Floyd, and Barb Goffman has a tale about a retired detective by Steve Hockensmith (whose “Holmes on the Range” series of historical mystery stories are must-reads, as far as I’m concerned. Check then out if you get a chance.) And last (but not least), Darrell Schweitzer unearthed one of his paleo-interviews for us—this time with Craig Shaw Gardner. It's from the 1990s, when Gardner had just become a best-selling author, thanks to his Batman movie novelization.

And we have classics by George O. Smith, Henry Kuttner, and many others, including a 1915 Nick Carter mystery novel. And, of course, a modern solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet).

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“From Ten to Two” by John M. Floyd [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“An Eggceptional Solution” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Frank” by Steve Hockensmith [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
The Bush-Rancher, by Harold Bindloss [novel]
The Suicide, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Non-Fiction:

“Speaking with Craig Shaw Gardner” [Interview with Darrell Schweitzer]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Fisher Dragon”by Tobias S. Buckell [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“Catspaw,” by George O. Smith [short story]
“The Half-Haunted,” by Manly Wade Wellman [short story]
“The Sea-Witch,” by Nictzin Dyalhis [short story]
“Chameleon Man,” by Henry Kuttner [short story]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jul 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781479476893

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

FROM TEN TO TWO, by John M. Floyd

AN EGGCEPTIONAL SOLUTION, by Hal Charles

FRANK, by Steve Hockensmith

THE BUSH-RANCHER, by Harold Bindloss

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

THE SUICIDE, by Nicholas Carter

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

SPEAKING WITH CRAIG SHAW GARDNER, Conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

THE FISHER DRAGON, by Tobias S. Buckell

THE CATSPAW, by George O. Smith

THE HALF-HAUNTED, by Manly Wade Wellman

THE SEA-WITCH, by Nictzin Dyalhis

CHAMELEON MAN, by Henry Kuttner

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

From Ten to Two is copyright © 2022 by John M. Floyd. It appears here for the first time.

Frank is copyright © 2012 by Steve Hockensmith. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.

An Eggceptional Solution is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Bush-Rancher, by Harold Bindloss, was originally published in 1923.

The Suicide, by Nicholas Carter, was originally published in Nick Carter Stories No. 158, September 18, 1915.

Speaking with Craig Shaw Gardner interview is copyright © 1993 by Darrell Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Fisher Dragon is copyright © 2021 by Tobias S. Buckell. Originally published by Patreon, 2021. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Catspaw, by George O. Smith, originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, September 1948.

The Half-Haunted, by Manly Wade Wellman, was originally published in Weird Tales, Sept. 1941, under the pseudonym Gans T. Field.

The Sea-Witch, by Nictzin Dyalhis, was originally published in Weird Tales, Dec. 1937.

Chameleon Man, by Henry Kuttner, was originally published in Weird Tales, Nov.-Dec. 1941.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #45. This is an fun issue, and I’ve selected Tobias S. Buckell’s fantasy The Fisher Dragon as the cover story. (I must admit to having a fondness for dragons. The very first story I sold professionally, way back at the dawn of time when I was 16 years old, was about a dragon. And they appear in several of my novels, most notably Master of Dragons.) Thanks to acquiring editor Cynthia Ward for selecting it.

Black Cat’s other editors are represented in this issue, too—Michael Bracken acquired an original mystery from John M. Floyd, and Barb Goffman selected a tale about a retired detective by Steve Hockensmith (whose Holmes on the Range series of historical mystery stories are must-reads, as far as I’m concerned. Check then out if you get a chance.) And last (but not least), Darrell Schweitzer has unearthed one of his paleo-interviews—this time with Craig Shaw Gardner, from the 1990s, when Gardner had just become a best-selling author, thanks to his Batman movie novelization.

And we have classics by George O. Smith, Henry Kuttner, and others, plus a 1915 Nick Carter mystery novel. And, of course, a modern solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet).

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

From Ten to Two by John M. Floyd [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

An Eggceptional Solution Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Frank by Steve Hockensmith [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Bush-Rancher, by Harold Bindloss [novel]

The Suicide, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Non-Fiction:

Speaking with Craig Shaw Gardner [Interview with Darrell Schweitzer]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Fisher Dragonby Tobias S. Buckell [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

Catspaw, by George O. Smith [short story]

The Half-Haunted, by Manly Wade Wellman [short story]

The Sea-Witch, by Nictzin Dyalhis [short story]

Chameleon Man, by Henry Kuttner [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—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

FROM TEN TO TWO,

by John M. Floyd

At exactly 11:45 a.m. on July 12, 1995, Police Chief Scott Landon entered the B&F Café in Serenity, Mississippi and took a seat at his usual table against the wall. Before looking at his menu, which was already there alongside a glass of sweet tea, he took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose, and lit it, all in motions so practiced they took only a few seconds. Exhaling a plume of blue smoke, he stared down at the tabletop and thought about his crime.

It had happened two days ago, after a call about a fiery single-vehicle accident just outside the city limits. Landon had been in the office at the time, and arrived late at the scene—the sheriff and a county mounty were already there. It was a bad one, a collision between a whitetail deer and a Ford Taurus, which had apparently been flying low at the time and had wrapped itself around a pine tree at the edge of the road. Its driver, the car’s only occupant, was dead at the wheel. Hours later, after both the literal and figurative smoke had cleared, Landon had returned to the scene, drawn by the bleak memories it spawned of another tragic accident not long ago. It was only by chance, as he was about to leave again, that he noticed a gleam of metal in the green distance.

He climbed out of his cruiser and trudged alone across the dry and weed-choked field. Lying there in a sunny patch of johnsongrass almost thirty yards from the mangled tree was a shiny steel briefcase, dented but still closed. Out of shape and out of breath from the walk, Landon tried the latches. It was unlocked.

For a long, stunned moment he stared down at stacks and stacks of rubber-banded bills. Mostly hundreds, some twenties, all of them old and worn and wrinkled. Almost certainly drug money, thrown clear of the flattened and charred Taurus.

To his credit, Landon hesitated—but not for long. He looked around at the field and the woods and the deserted road and found no one in sight, then looked into his own conscience and found nothing there either. The tragic incident six months earlier had changed not only his life but his outlook. He was a different man now, and he knew it.

He had a short Army shovel in the trunk of his cruiser, and half an hour later the steel case and its contents were buried in a thick stand of oak and sweetgum a hundred yards from the highway. He was sweating like a field hand when he returned to his car, and not just from exertion. His imagination was working overtime. For months he’d been wishing for a way to get out of this town, away from its heartbreaking memories, and start over. Now he had it.

All this was churning through his mind as he sat at his regular lunch table at the café two days later, staring at nothing. As it turned out, he’d been right about the source of the small fortune in the case—the body of the Taurus driver had been identified as one Juco Martinez, a known dealer and runner for a gang out of Memphis. Even so, taking the money weighed on his mind. Not enough to make him go dig up the cash and turn it in, but enough to bother him. He was mulling this over when he heard the jingle of the bell above the café’s front door and raised his aching head to look, and that was when he saw her.

He froze, not believing his eyes.

Helen Mayweather. Standing there framed by the open door, her face tanned and her dark hair plastered to her forehead by the summer heat and humidity. A year ago, this would’ve been a common sight. Today it wasn’t. Helen Mayweather had been dead for six months.

When he’d recovered from his shock Landon rose from the table and walked toward her on stiff and unsteady legs. His eyes were wide, his heart thudding. Only later would he realize that he’d dropped his cigarette before leaving the table, its glowing end burning a neat yellow-black circle on the plastic lunch menu.

As he approached her, she was already turning to leave—the place was packed—but then she saw him and their eyes locked and he understood. This wasn’t Helen. These eyes were green, not blue, and the mouth was wider, and there was no scar on her forehead, the scar Helen had gotten when she and Scott Landon dove laughing into Bud Purley’s pond in the summer of ’74 and she cut her head on a submerged plow blade that had probably been buried there for years. But those were the only differences he could see. The two women looked almost exactly alike.

Helen’s sister? A sister he never knew about?

By this time he was standing in front of her, staring.

Chief Landon, she said.

He cleared his throat, not sure yet whether he could speak. Finally he said, his voice trembling, "Who are you?"

He was answered by a smile so brilliant, so familiar, it sent a chill up his spine. I’m Fran, she said. Frances Holloway.

Holloway. Helen’s maiden name.

Moments later he’d led her through the throng of diners to his table, and she took a seat while he did a hasty cleanup of the mess he’d made with his menu. When he had the cigarette safely stubbed out in an ashtray and had sagged into the seat across from her, he found he didn’t know what to say. Luckily, she did. You’re wondering, she said quietly, how I knew you.

He was wondering a lot of things. It crossed my mind.

Another smile. Helen had told me you were the police chief. And I’d seen pictures of you. Her face turned solemn. You find a lot of pictures after a relative dies.

He nodded. He realized he was sweating, partly because of his recent misdeeds, partly from last night’s two bottles of cheap wine, and partly because of this blast from the past. He wiped his forehead with a shirtsleeve. Looking at you…it’s like seeing a ghost, he said.

I understand. It seemed to occur to her then that others might make the same mistake, and she took a moment to smile pleasantly at a few diners who were openly staring at her. They still looked confused, Landon thought. So was he.

How is it I never knew? he asked. Helen and I were close—he paused, realizing how that sounded, since Helen Mayweather had been married for ten years, and not to him—"and she never said a word about a sister. A twin sister. Right?"

Yes. I lived in New York, with our aunt Mary. I almost never saw Helen, or our parents either. She waved a hand in dismissal. It’s a long story.

He didn’t press the issue. A long-lost twin made more sense than a ghost or a clone.

But we did keep in touch now and then, Fran said. I knew how she felt about you.

Landon felt his face heat up. He thought he’d known how Helen felt about him, too—until he didn’t. After dating almost nonstop throughout high school and college and several years afterward, never actually tying the knot because they saw no reason to mess up a good thing, they had suddenly broken up and Helen Holloway eloped with a local businessman named Joe Mayweather. She and Joe had a child, Allie, and she and Landon went their separate ways for a few years. Then the inevitable happened: they started seeing each other again, meeting in secret, and since Joe never really seemed to catch on, things went back to almost the way they used to be. Scott Landon and Helen were still together, in every way except legally, and Joe and Helen were still together in every way except emotionally. Even Allie seemed to understand that Landon was special, and the two of them grew close. When he managed to be selected as police chief in 1991, the strange three-way arrangement—Landon, Helen, and Joe—continued. Most of the townspeople knew about it; they weren’t blind. Everyone just looked the other way.

And then, on New Year’s Eve 1994, during an argument with Helen, Joe Mayweather tried to beat the signal at the railroad crossing on Rosemont Street, and the two-hundred-ton locomotive pulling the 10:30 freight run out of Hattiesburg hit Joe’s two-ton Lexus dead center at just under sixty miles an hour. He and his wife were killed instantly, and the accident changed two other lives as well: Little Orphan Allie was sent to live with her paternal grandparents in Birmingham, and Chief Scott Landon crawled into a bourbon bottle and stayed there. That was half a year ago, and his drinking had grown steadily worse. He was holding onto his job and his sanity, but just barely. Despite his secret lightning-strike of good luck two days ago—if it really was good luck—this encounter with a mirror image of his one and only true love wasn’t helping. Every time he looked at Fran, every time he heard her speak, his heart ached all over again.

Are you okay? she asked him.

He didn’t know if she was referring to his bloodshot eyes and wrinkled uniform—those were normal, for him—or the effect of her sudden appearance. I’m fine, he lied.

He became aware that even more people had noticed her now, and were gawking like schoolkids. Do I really look that much like her? Fran whispered to him.

Absolutely. You look like Allie, too. Though I haven’t seen her since the graveside service. One of the worst days of his life. How is she, by the way?

Allie? All right, far as I know. As all right as a ten-year-old living with grandparents can be. I wish my own mom and dad—the Holloways—hadn’t been too old and infirm to take her in. She paused. I wish other things too. I wish—

You wish you’d gone to the funeral? he said. A double funeral, as if one wouldn’t have been tragic enough.

Yes. I was on an outing in the mountains. I learned about the accident a week later.

There didn’t seem to be much to add to that. After a while the two of them ordered from the burn-spotted menu, and when the food arrived they picked at it and make small talk.

At one point she said, I can’t believe everybody’s smoking in here.

Smoking? Why wouldn’t they be?

Because it kills people. She sighed. It just surprises me, that’s all.

"You have been away a long time," he said.

She didn’t reply. They fell silent again, until Landon decided to say what he’d been thinking for the past twenty minutes: So tell me, Fran Holloway…what are you doing here?

For several seconds she looked uneasy. Then she said, as if remembering a rehearsed line, I came to visit my parents. Mine and Helen’s.

This too made sense. Of course. Ennis and Esther. He looked at his watch. You should go see them. It’s twelve-twenty—I’ve probably kept you too long.

She shook her head. No, I arrived in town at ten—I’ve already stopped by their house. There was a note on the door intended for one of their neighbors—apparently they’ve gone to Jackson for the day. A doctor’s appointment for Daddy. I should’ve called ahead but I only knew for sure yesterday that I was coming, so...

You mean your trip was for nothing?

No, she said. I walked all over town before lunch, just looking at everything. I can’t even remember when I was here last. She paused, then smiled again. "Besides, I met you."

Landon didn’t know how to respond to that.

After a moment she said, her cheeks reddening, My parents and I were never close, Chief Landon. I wasn’t close to Helen either. As I’ve mentioned. She heaved another sigh. Water under the bridge.

He said, I still can’t believe Helen never told me she had a sister.

Well, I probably wasn’t much of one, was I. The lightness in her mood was gone; he saw the gleam of tears in her eyes. What a cheerful conversation, he thought. And was a little surprised at how much he wanted to make her smile again, the way she’d smiled earlier.

They talked for ten more minutes, long enough for the owner to begin giving Landon dark looks. The perks of being a cop went only so far. When do you have to leave? he asked.

The two o’clock bus. Fran must’ve seen the next question in his eyes, and added, I live in Manhattan, Chief. I don’t even own a car, and the nearest airport from here is—

Tell you what. I’ll drive you there. To the bus station, I mean. He realized he was babbling, but he’d discovered something else that was surprising: he didn’t want her to leave. Or at least he thought he didn’t. He wasn’t sure what he wanted.

No, I still have an hour and a half. I think I’ll walk around some more. She hesitated, then said, You’ve been so kind to me. I’m sorry I hit you with all this, out of the blue—

I’ll walk with you, he said. Again her face reddened. I’m serious. Things are slow at the office today. He didn’t add that things were always slow at the office, and besides, Peggy Sue and his deputies were used to covering for him. I can find a pay phone later, and check in.

She said, Couldn’t you just use a cell ph— And stopped in midsentence.

Cell phone? he said. We don’t have many of those yet, around here. I’ve heard local service isn’t bad, but we make a lot of calls out of our area, and at almost a dollar a minute—

Of course, she said, looking strangely embarrassed. I wasn’t thinking.

Landon studied her awhile, puzzled, then put some bills on the table and drained his tea glass. Ready when you are.

Her eyes sparkled. Let’s go.

The two of them left the café and headed south, on foot—the Holloway house was behind them, north of downtown, and the bus station was to the east. It was still hot and steamy, but cloudy now. The effects of Landon’s hangover, thank God, seemed to have eased. He soon became aware that he was watching Fran more than he was watching where he was going, and she seemed to be doing the same. He felt like a kid on a first date. What the hell is happening to me?

I think I remember this street, she said, as the stores on each side became houses. Who lives along here? Friends of my parents, maybe?

I’m sure they are. He pointed at the homes as they passed. The Bronsons, the Pronzinos, the Smiths, the Ingrams, the Stewarts... She seemed sincerely pleased to be here. Again, he wondered why she’d left.

They were five blocks from the café and he was trying to coax his clogged brain to come up with something clever to say when a young blond woman jogging behind a stroller overtook them on the sidewalk. As they moved aside and she was about to pass, the woman stopped suddenly. Hey, Chief, she said. You headed for the park?

Afternoon, Debbie. I heard you guys were moving.

In three weeks, she said. My husband’s new job starts in August.

Landon introduced her to Fran. We’re just strolling, he said, but yeah, the park’s on our way. Why?

Well, we’re going there too. Those Girl Scout cookies you bought from my Jenny came in yesterday.

"Where is Jenny?"

Visiting my mom in Laurel. The thing is, if you’re going to the park, I’m gonna run back home, load your cookie boxes into the stroller with my little one here, and try to catch you there in a while. Would that be okay?

Sure, he said. Thanks.

Good. She smiled at Fran. Nice meeting you. She hesitated, then said sadly, You so resemble your sister, Ms. Holloway. We all miss her.

With that, the woman turned the stroller around and jogged back north, her blond ponytail swinging like a metronome. As they watched her leave, Landon could picture the kid inside the stroller, probably hanging on for dear life. Helen was special, he said, without knowing he was going to say it. People here loved her.

Fran looked at him. They love you too. That lady’s face lit up as soon as she saw you.

He grinned. That’s because I bought her daughter’s cookies.

Two blocks later they entered Trinity Park, a hilly green island near the south edge of town. Even greener now, Landon explained, after almost a week of rain. The grass was high, the ground soggy. The clouds overhead had thickened, and a gusty wind out of the west made the heat bearable as they followed a concrete walkway into a tall stand of hardwoods. For a second it reminded him of the place where he’d buried the steel case, out on the other end of town.

Tired and breathing hard, Landon had opened his mouth to suggest they take a rest at a wooden picnic table ahead—he wished it were a bar; he badly needed a drink, and a cigarette too—when something BEEPed. Fran stopped in her tracks, and grabbed his arm to stop him too. The beeping continued. Clumsily she fumbled in her purse and took out the source of the racket: a flat black device the size of a skinny deck of cards. As he watched, she pushed a button that lit up a screen of small colorful squares, then pressed one of them. The wild beeping stopped.

Don’t move, she said to him.

At that moment a loud cracking sound filled the air, and before Landon knew what was happening a tree with a trunk four feet thick fell across the footpath twenty feet ahead of them. It landed with a crash that shook the ground and caved in the walkway and smashed the nearby picnic table into a thousand pieces. An explosion of mud and sod and concrete and wood splinters made them both stagger backward. When the air had cleared he turned and stared at her.

"What in blazes was that?" he asked.

Her face this time didn’t turn red; it turned pale. I believe it was an oak tree.

I don’t mean the tree.

She looked from him to the device and back to him again. The beeping? It’s nothing. Just something I set to remind me I have to leave soon.

A reminder? Sounded like a run-like-hell alarm, to me. He paused, giving it a hard look. What is it, anyway?

Just a gizmo I bought awhile back. A toy, really.

But she was not a good liar. Even Landon, who did not consider himself an efficient cop, was efficient enough to spot that. He took a deep breath and said, Tell me what’s happening, Fran. Twice you’ve mentioned things that sounded out of place. The smoking, the cell phones, now this. What’s going on?

A silence passed. Then she said, in a small voice, I’m not supposed to tell anyone.

Landon felt his stomach lurch. On the one hand, he didn’t want to hear what she would say next. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. On the other hand, he needed her to tell him. He’d already suspected that whatever she was keeping from him was important. Maybe he could help her. More than anything, right now—more than his sanity, more than his getaway money in the hidden briefcase, more than anything—he wanted to help her.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for what she said next.

I came here to save my parents. Ennis and Esther Holloway.

What?

Still holding the device, she sank to a sitting position on the mud-spattered walkway. He sat beside her, eyes focused on her face.

This morning after breakfast, she said, before the two of them left the house, Mama—Esther—must have forgotten to turn off the gas in the kitchen stove. Neither of them noticed. If it had stayed on, the gas would’ve built up in the house all day, and when they got back this afternoon and walked inside, Ennis’s cigarette—he smokes from dawn to bedtime—would’ve ignited the gas as soon as they stepped through the front door. They would’ve both been blown to bits, along with the house.

So you’re saying—what? You came here to town, to their house…to prevent that?

I’ve already prevented it. I crawled through their kitchen window this morning at ten-thirty, shortly after they left, turned off the gas, and aired the place out. There’s no more danger.

Another silence. Landon wiped a hand over his face, then looked away and back again. Are you going to tell me how you knew to do that?

She looked him straight in the eye. It was in the report that you wrote, you and the fire chief. About the explosion, and the Holloways’ deaths. Actually, the one you will write. Two days from now, when the investigation’s complete.

Another silence.

The one I will write.

Yes. You and Chief Morris.

Two days from now.

On July fourteenth, she said.

And you’ve read this report.

Yes. It’s in a public file, for anyone to see. That’s how I knew about the gas leak.

Landon stayed quiet a moment, watching her eyes. What you’re saying is, you came here...

From the future, she said.

The park was dead silent. Twenty feet away, a brown squirrel—probably homeless, now—scampered along the trunk of the downed tree. The gusting wind whipped Fran’s hair about. She and Landon sat and stared at each other.

I know how it sounds, she said. But think about it. You’ve seen my phone. She handed it to him. Yes, it’s a phone. But it can also take photos and videos, record voices, send messages, answer spoken questions, give me directions, do a dozen other tasks. You think that kind of thing’s available now? She paused. This came from the future, Chief. Like me.

And that beeping I heard…?

It meant there was imminent danger ahead.

He looked at the phone as if it were a live cobra. "But—how could it know?"

I’m not sure about the how. But it knows. It has access to weather information, and topographical maps, and a GPS—

A what?

A positioning system that knows where I am at all times. It knows what areas are heavily wooded, and with what kinds of trees, and probably knew about these strong winds, and their direction, and the recent rains you told me about. Even I know that softened ground from a long rainfall can weaken root systems. That can make a tree tip over, especially in a windstorm.

Landon gulped. He looked at the phone, looked at her, looked at the giant oak lying on the ground in front of them. He cleared his throat and said, How far in the future?

She hesitated. Thirty years. Twenty twenty-five.

What?

Two thousand twenty-five. That’s the year I came here from. And where I’ll go back to, later today.

But…how?

"A time-travel device. Did you see Back to the Future?"

The movie? No. I just recognize the name.

Not even on DVD?

DVD?

"Never mind. Remember The Time Machine? Rod Taylor?"

That one I’ve seen. He fought the Morlocks.

Same principle. No Morlocks here, though. Just you, and the rest of Serenity. And the Holloways.

Landon moaned aloud. This is insane.

It sounds that way. But it’s real. She paused. There are restrictions involved, and rules—but it’s real.

Landon stayed quiet for a full minute, turning this over and over in his head. Could this get any crazier? Here he was, sitting on the ground talking with someone who looked just like the love of his life—and finding out that this person had beamed in from the next century?

But it must be true. He’d seen too much proof for it not to be. Except...

Wait a minute, he said. Something’s wrong here. If you’re Helen’s twin sister, and you came here from thirty years in the future…you wouldn’t be forty. You’d be seventy.

For a long time she said nothing. At last she nodded. You’re right.

"So—you were lying."

Not about the time travel. Only about who I am.

Let me guess: You’re not Helen Mayweather’s sister.

No.

His mind was whirling. How could that be? Who else could look that much like her?

Then it hit him. He felt his heart skip a beat.

Good Lord, he said. You’re Allie. You’re little Allie Mayweather, all grown up.

She nodded. He saw tears welling in her eyes. I’m your age now because I was ten years old then.

Landon had stopped breathing. After a moment he gasped as if surfacing from a dive. So—there is no sister Fran, he said. That’s why you didn’t want to explain more about her—you made her up. Why’d you do that? It was obviously planned. Why’d you spin such an elaborate tale?

Because I was afraid someone might do exactly what you did—see me and think I was my mother. I needed a believable story. I sure couldn’t tell anybody the truth.

"I’m not just anybody, Allie. You could’ve told me."

No. I couldn’t. You wouldn’t have believed the truth. Not at first.

He paused, realized she was right. What about now? he said. Why should I believe you now?

Because you have to. She leaned forward. Look at me—you know I’m Allie. And if I am, how else could I possibly be here?

Landon studied her carefully. Yes: it was true. This woman sitting here beside him was the precious little girl he had known, all those years ago.

Then he had another thought. What’s the real reason you’re telling me everything? Is it because I caught you knowing facts you couldn’t know, using things that haven’t been invented yet? Are you afraid I’ll reveal it to the world?

No. I’m afraid that otherwise...

Otherwise what?

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. I’m afraid I’d lose you.

Lose me?

Fran—Allie—took both his hands in hers, and squeezed. Come back with me, Chief. When I go back, at two o’clock—go with me.

What? Go with you? To two thousand twenty-five? Why?

Why do you think? Because I’m Allie. Because, even at ten years old, I had a crush on you. I still do. Her face crinkled, and she sobbed aloud. Don’t you see?—I didn’t plan to run into you today. That thing in the café, that was Fate. Her eyes were blazing. Come with me.

Another long silence. Finally he shook his head. It won’t work.

Yes it will.

I don’t think so. There’s something—

Behind him, a voice shouted his name. Landon rose to his feet; so did Allie.

What happened here, Chief? Are you okay?

He nodded, held up a hand. I’m fine, Homer. We’re fine. Do me a favor, would you? Find a phone and call Public Works. They need to come clean this up.

After they’d watched the man hurry away, Allie turned Landon toward her and said, Why won’t it work? Why can’t you come with me?

He looked away a moment, then faced her. You’ve told me a lot of things—a lot—that I didn’t know. But I have something to tell you too. He paused, choosing his words. The Allie I knew wasn’t just the child of someone I loved. She was more than that.

Her eyes narrowed. What are you saying?

You say that Allie—you—had a crush on me? When you were ten?

Yes. And I meant it.

Well, there’s a good reason for that, he said.

Her face went still. What…?

He gripped her hands tighter. She looked as if she was holding her breath.

Allie Mayweather is—you are—my daughter.

He watched her as this sank in, as she understood that this, also, was true.

Helen told me, he said. As soon as she got pregnant. It was our secret—we never told anyone. Especially Joe. But I think he knew anyway.

Allie released his hands, clapped hers over her mouth. He could see that she was thunderstruck, and only slightly more than he was. But when, minutes later, she lowered her hands and spoke, her eyes were dry and her jaw was set and her voice was firm and certain:

It’ll still work.

He frowned. What will?

You can still go back with me. Now it’s more important than ever.

Allie, you’re my little girl.

So we’ll live as father and daughter. She stared at him, her eyes searching his. I run a computer design company, okay? It’s mine. I have enough money for both of us, enough for ten lifetimes. We’d be happy. You’ll see.

He found that his heart was pounding again. Could it work? Then he had another thought.

What if I can’t?

What? Can’t go with me? Why couldn’t you?

Maybe it won’t let me. Maybe, because of our relationship, it won’t allow it. You said there are restrictions. Has a traveler ever done this, retrieved a friend? A loved one? A relative?

I don’t know. But we could try. She grabbed his wrist, twisted it to look at his watch. We have almost an hour.

Landon blew out a breath. This was too much, things were happening too fast. What about the money he’d hidden away?

But what she was saying…it made sense. As impossible as it was, Allie—his daughter—was here with him. They were together. And if this worked, they could stay together. She stood there silent, her hair flying in the wind. Watching him.

He rubbed his forehead, tried to think. What happens when it—the system, whatever—prevents something like we’re talking about? What would happen?

I’m not sure, she said. I’ve heard that time would undergo a reset of some kind—it’d go back to a point before the offense, before the complication. I’m not sure how much would be remembered, retained, and so forth. But I’m still right: we could try.

Landon thought a moment, thought about his life here, the fact that he had never really accomplished anything, never finished anything that he’d started. Wouldn’t this just be another way of quitting? Even the money he’d found—found, not stolen, he reminded himself; it was probably stolen already—could he leave that behind? Should he try to go fetch it now? No. He didn’t want the kinds of questions that would bring up, from this newfound person in his life.

Maybe he could leave it behind. Maybe this could be a real getaway, a window to a new existence, a new world full of wonders he could never have imagined, alongside someone he loved. He’d had a daughter for ten years now, but not in reality—she’d never known he was her father, and he’d never been able to tell her that, to spend as much time with her as he wanted to, to get to know her. Now things were different.

Why not do it?

Together they headed east, to the bus station. And spent the next forty minutes talking about the program, the process, the restrictions. Clearly thrilled, Allie occasionally stopped and laughed aloud, and Landon quietly got her back on track. He had to know how all this worked.

One of the rules, he learned, was that time-travelers were forbidden to reveal any details to anyone (so much for that rule, he thought), and another was that they could not alter anything that might affect later events. That, Allie explained, was out of the traveler’s hands; the concept itself would not allow it. That was why she couldn’t have just come back the day before Joe and Helen Mayweather’s train accident and kept them from attending the New Year’s Eve party. It would’ve saved their lives, but it wouldn’t have been permitted. The problem was, her parents were still fairly young and active. If Allie had saved them, one of them might’ve gone on to do something that would later be important, something that might change the course of the future. They might’ve had another child, or—intentionally or accidentally—found a cure for a disease, or financed a crucial discovery, or intervened in the actions of a serial killer, or helped to make a product that would benefit, or harm, mankind. Who could know what might happen? Any interference in the lives of possibly-productive people was simply not allowed. (Allie listed some world-famous examples and told him about them: heart surgeon Lester Evans, Army General Arthur May, astronaut Francesca Smith, cancer researcher Marianne Dawson, etc.) But Allie’s seventy-six-year-old grandparents were a different matter. She’d been permitted to come back and rescue them because their presence or absence would probably affect no one but themselves. Why not give the elder Mayweathers a chance to live out their years in their beloved home?

She also told Landon why this kind of expedition wasn’t done more often. Each trip was incredibly expensive—her current four-hour visit to Serenity was costing her almost a million dollars, and even in 2025 that was a lot of moola. One didn’t drop in on the past the way one occasionally visited the zoo or the symphony.

By 1:50 Scott Landon felt he had received a thorough crash-course in time travel. He still had doubts, but was now fairly confident that he’d be allowed through the portal. Yes, he was still relatively young, at forty, but he wasn’t a politician or an economist or a scientist or a physician, and he had no power, influence, or special talents. He was, in fact, a consistent underachiever whose only accomplishments in life were a multi-year affair with another man’s wife, getting appointed police chief in a small Southern town, and stumbling upon a stash of drug money that had survived a freak accident. It was doubtful he would change the world in any way, for better or worse, and the sad truth was, no one would miss him if he was gone.

At five minutes to liftoff, he and Allie walked to a clearing in a wooded area behind the bus station. Standing there, partially hidden by limbs and brush, was the time-travel vehicle. It was shiny and greenish and resembled an old-fashioned glass-sided phonebooth, maybe one that had been redesigned to match the décor in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.

Landon examined what he assumed was the door. Are we actually going to try this?

Yes, Allie said. She looked as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning.

What’ll happen, exactly?

She pointed. We get inside and stand right there. There’s plenty of room for us both.

Do you push a button or something?

No need. At two o’clock it leaves. Whether we’re aboard or not.

He wondered what kind of booze or cigarettes would be available thirty years from now. And whether Allie would allow him to have any. Maybe, he decided, he wouldn’t need them anymore.

He checked his watch. 1:57. Should we get in now?

They did. Landon kept his eyes on the time.

At 1:59 he said, You really think this’ll work?

She grinned. I do, she said.

But it didn’t.

* * * *

At exactly 11:45 a.m. on July 12, 1995, Police Chief Scott Landon entered the B&F Café in Serenity, Mississippi, and took a seat at his usual table against the wall. Before looking at his menu, which was already there and waiting for him alongside a glass of sweet tea, he took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose—and stopped. He studied the cigarette a moment, then looked at the lighter in his right hand, his thumb already poised on the striker wheel. He was vaguely aware of the welcome bell dinging above the front door, but paid it no mind. On impulse, he snapped the lighter shut, returned it to his pocket, and crushed the unlit cigarette in the ashtray. And, for some reason he didn’t understand, he felt good about doing it. What he didn’t feel good about were his thoughts about the car crash two days ago, and the unexpected bonus he had found afterward, and had buried in the dirt like the treasure that it was. He pondered that awhile as folks chatted and smoked around him.

When he finally looked up at the crowd, a woman with dark hair had apparently seen no available tables and was turning to go out the front door. He saw only her back, but there was something familiar about her, about the way she moved. Even in that glimpse, she had reminded him of Helen. Not surprising; he thought about Helen all the time.

He picked up his menu, and as if by magic a waitress appeared at the table. He ordered the Thursday lunch special, with peach cobbler for dessert—he loved peach cobbler—but found that his mind was already on other things. Strange things like gas stoves and cell phones and grandparents and heart surgeons and computer companies and bus schedules. Once again it occurred to him that it was too smoky in here.

He took far longer than usual to finish eating, and around 12:40 had a zinger of a thought that made him drop his fork and sit up straight in his chair. For several seconds he stared without seeing at his half-eaten cobbler. What he was seeing, in his mind, scared him silly.

The next few minutes were a blur. He leaped from the table, rushed to and through the front door without even a thought of paying his check, and sprinted down the sidewalk, headed south. At the edge of his consciousness he realized heavy clouds were moving in from the west, and the wind had grown so strong it almost pushed him off the sidewalk into the street. He paid no attention. Businesses and houses and driveways and intersections flew past—he was running as hard as he could, his out-of-shape lungs heaving, his hung-over head throbbing, his heart hammering in his chest. Four blocks, five, six, seven, then off the road and into the park, following the concrete footpath into the trees, which were waving and bending in the wind.

Then he saw the ponytailed blond woman, at the picnic table ahead. Sitting on the wooden seat, leaning over the stroller to play with the child inside. Debbie, he shouted, waving his arms as raced toward her. "Debbie, get the baby and run. Get away from the table!"

At first she just stared at him, shocked and gaping. Then—bless her, he thought—she jumped to her feet, snatched her child from the stroller, and dashed toward him. At that instant he heard the somehow-familiar crack of old wood, and from the corner of his eye saw the oak begin its ponderous fall. He reached the woman and baby just as the tree landed; it shook the ground underneath them, smashing the walkway and the table and the stroller to rubble. For half a minute or more he stood and held the young woman tight, her face buried in his chest. Between them in her arms, gurgling and squirming, was the baby. Thank God, he heard himself say, in his head. You’re both alive...

She pulled back and stared with amazement into his eyes. Chief Landon, she said, as if seeing him for the first time. His hands held her shoulders now; he could feel her trembling. She looked at the tree, then down at her baby girl, then up again at his face. "How did you know?"

That he couldn’t answer. Even after they’d left the park, after he’d walked them north up the windswept street to their home, Scott Landon had no idea what had allowed him to see what was about to happen in Trinity Park. But something had.

And then, when he was saying goodbye to the young mother and her child, he understood. He understood—and began to remember—because of something Debbie had said.

At first he and Debbie had just stood there at her doorstep, stunned and still shaking a bit. Thank you, she whispered. Thank you for saving us.

We were lucky, Landon said. He looked down at the baby in her arms and added, I don’t think this little gal was scared at all. The child was grinning at him. What’s her name? he asked.

Francesca, Debbie said.

Landon froze. Francesca?

Trying to sound casual, he said, Where’d you say you’re moving to?

Houston. Bob’ll work for NASA there.

Of course he would.

On the way back to the café to fetch his patrol car—and carrying two newly delivered boxes of Girl Scout Thin Mints under one arm—Landon began to recall other things as well. By the time he arrived at the restaurant’s parking lot, most of it was clear.

He hadn’t been allowed to go with Allie because he was needed here. He’d been left behind so he could save the life of Francesca Smith, the first female astronaut to walk in space. But would he have known to save her, if he hadn’t already been to the park with Allie and seen the tree fall? Who knew? This time-hopping thing was enough to make a sober man’s head hurt.

What he did know was this had been the most amazing day of his life. With a sad smile he remembered the forty-year-old version of Allie Mayweather, and what had happened between the two of them in those precious few hours she’d spent here today. Was she still here now, walking the city streets after her disaster-averting stop at her absent grandparents’ house? Would he and she run into each other, and meet and talk as