Black Cat Weekly #49

By Brendan DuBois, Y. S. Lee, Linda D. Addison and 5 more

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #49. This is another strong issue, and we lead off with an original tale by celebrated mystery author Brendan Dubois (courtesy of acquiring editor Michael Bracken). We also have a powerful crime story by Y.S. Lee (courtsey of acquiring editor Barb Goffman), and a pair of novels by Edgar Wallace and Nicholas Carter. And, of course, no issue would be complete without a solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side, acquiring editor Cynthia Ward has selected a great story by Linda D. Addison—plus we have more from George O. Smith, Poul Anderson, C. Shook, and Robert Moore Williams. Good stuff!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

“Obsession” by Brendan DuBois
“Ghost of a Chance” by Hal Charles
“In Plain Sight” by Y. S. Lee
The Fellowship of the Frog, by Edgar Wallace
Driven from Cover, by Nicholas Carter

Science Fiction / Fantasy

“The Power” by Linda D. Addison
“Rat Race,” by George O. Smith
“The Temple of Earth, ” by Poul Anderson
“The Band Played On,” by C. Shook
“The Impossible Invention” by Robert Moore Williams

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Aug 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667659879

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

OBSESSION, by Brendan DuBois

GHOST OF A CHANCE, by Hal Charles

IN PLAIN SIGHT, by Y.S. Lee

THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE FROG, by Edgar Wallace

MEET EDGAR WALLACE

FOREWORD

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

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

DRIVEN FROM COVER, by Nicholas Carter

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

THE POWER, by Linda D. Addison

RAT RACE by George O. Smith

THE TEMPLE OF EARTH, by Poul Anderson

THE BAND PLAYED ON, by C. Shook

THE IMPOSSIBLE INVENTION, by Robert Moore Williams

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Obsession is copyright © 2022 by Brendan DuBois and appears here for the first time.

Ghost of a Chance is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

In Plain Sight is copyright © 2019 by Y. S. Lee. Originally published in Life is Short and Then You Die. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Fellowship of the Frog, by Edgar Wallace, originally appeared in 1926.

Driven from Cover, by Nicholas Carter, originally appeared in Nick Carter Stories No. 159, September 25, 1915

The Power is copyright © 2004 by Linda D. Addison. Originally published in Dark Dreams: A Collection of Horror and Suspense by Black Writers. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Rat Race, by George O. Smith, was originally published in Astounding Science-Fiction, August 1947.

The Temple of Earth, by Poul Anderson, was originally published in Rocket Stories, July 1953.

The Band Played On, by C. Shook, originally appeared in Astonishing Stories, June 1942.

The Impossible Invention by Robert Moore Williams was originally published in Astonishing Stories, June 1942.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #49.

This is another strong issue, and we lead off with an original tale by celebrated mystery author Brendan Dubois (courtesy of acquiring editor Michael Bracken). We also have a powerful crime story by Y.S. Lee (courtsey of acquiring editor Barb Goffman), and a pair of novels by Edgar Wallace and Nicholas Carter. And, of course, no issue would be complete without a solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side, acquiring editor Cynthia Ward has selected a great story by Linda D. Addison—plus we have more from George O. Smith, Poul Anderson, C. Shook, and Robert Moore Williams. Good stuff!

This issue’s whimsical cover is by Atelier Sommerland.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Obsession by Brendan DuBois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Ghost of a Chance by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

In Plain Sight by Y.S. Lee [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Fellowship of the Frog, by Edgar Wallace [novel]

Driven from Cover, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Power by Linda D. Addison [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

Rat Race, by George O. Smith [short story]

The Temple of Earth, by Poul Anderson [short story]

The Band Played On, by C. Shook [short story]

The Impossible Invention by Robert Moore Williams [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

OBSESSION,

by Brendan DuBois

The day it ended, attorney Kyle Foster was in his office on Dartmouth Street in Boston when his secretary, Tara Lillington came in, a file folder held up to her impressive chest. Kyle looked at her with a quick glance, knowing that in this day and age, anything more than a five-second glance could get your ass in front of the firm’s standards committee quicker than you could spell harassment, so he tried to be a good boy, at least in that.

Kyle? she asked, in a heavy South Boston accent that for some reason he found adorable.

Yes, Tara, what is it?

There…there’s a man and woman here to see you. From the FBI.

Really? he said, glancing over the paperwork piled on his desk, looking for a deposition that he needed to review for a pre-trial hearing next Thursday. What do they want?

They want to talk to you, she said.

Well, I figured that out. Which client?

And the look on her face said it all.

No client, Kyle. They…they want to talk to you.

Oh.

And despite it all, he looked at his computer, there in his office.

Busted, he thought. Oh, so busted.

* * * *

It had all started a year ago. One of his clients had come in, months overdue on a bill. His name was Stanley Skiffington, and he had slouched in his chair and said, Sorry, the green ain’t there. All right?

No, it’s not all right, he said. Stanley, you’ve got to make some progress on payment, or…

Stanley laughed. He had rings through his nose, eyebrows, and ears. Kyle had gotten him off on a fraud case involving an Internet scheme—thank God for elderly jury members who didn’t know the difference between a bit and a byte—and now he had a dark fantasy of how to solve this particular problem.

Or what? Gonna sue me? Have your own lawyer try to squeeze my skinny ass? C’mon, dude, you’re boring me.

There. That had been it. He reached into a bottom desk drawer, pulled out a thick file. Passed it over. Here. Take a look. Another client I got off two months ago. Charming gentleman that pays his bills on time. Named Ivan ‘Icepick’ Ronson. He has a means of enforcing his loan sharking business. Involves a wooden table, a client’s hand, and an icepick. Take a look at the photos in the first part of the file.

Stanley opened the folder, glanced in, and then quickly closed it. His face seemed to change color.

Still bored, Stanley?

No. The voice had lost its cockiness.

Good. Let’s try it again. I want a guarantee on a payment schedule.

I don’t have anything.

Then you better get something.

Stanley scratched at the back of his neck and said, Trade.

What?

Trade. Offer you somethin’ in trade, take care of my bill. Does that work?

Kyle tried not to laugh. So many times this offer had come his way, offering everything from fur coats to TV satellite dishes to jewelry, and every time, of course, he had turned it down. Oh, he was under no illusions about the work he did—he had grown into being a slippery shark indeed at this Boston firm, but he was never tempted with such an offer. Too much risk for too little payout.

Until now.

What kind of trade.

Stanley motioned to his computer. Networked, right?

Kyle turned. Sure.

Networked so that everything is monitored by your IT guys and gals.

Of course.

Besides the usual blocking software, there’s lots of rules and crap, am I right? No going to offshore casino sites, no shoppin’ for Christmas, and oh yeah, no porn sites. Right?

Stanley, you’re showing a stunning grasp of the obvious. Look, I’ve got an appointment coming up and—

I can get you off the network. Let you go anywhere you want. Total privacy, no way to be tracked by your IT guys. Go to the deepest and blackest parts of the Dark Web. So, if you want to go visit hot cam babes or whatever, you can…and nobody here can see you. Whaddya think?

Kyle stared at the bejeweled creature before him, wondered what it must have been like, back in the golden age, when defense attorneys dealt with simple stuff, like bank robberies and assaults and car thefts. When the attorneys were as smart, if not smarter, than their clients.

I think you’re giving me a line, to avoid paying. That’s what I think. How the hell can you do something like that, get me off the network?

Stanley shrugged. It’s tricky but it can be done. Your machine’s got a wireless modem. You just switch around to use the wireless instead of your firm’s network. Then…well, I manage to do a bit of encryption, so whatever wireless network you’ve hijacked in the neighborhood doesn’t know you’ve been there…and I can put a frequency enabler, so you don’t spend too much time on only one wireless network, get people suspicious and all that.

Nice mumbo-jumbo, Stanley. Bottom line?

Bottom line, give me an hour or so, and you’re off the network. Total freedom to go anywhere you want, without being traced or monitored. And in exchange…well, you give me a few more months to pay your bill.

He thought for a bit. Looked at Stanley, looked to his computer.

An odd little tickle at the base of his skill.

Deal, he had said. But if you screw me…remember my buddy Icepick.

I won’t forget, had come the eager reply.

* * * *

Now the door to his office opened, and a man and woman stepped in. Both seemed to be in their early thirties, the man in a dark gray suit, the woman in a dark gray pantsuit. He had short black hair, fair face, and his companion had dark blond hair, pulled back in a simple ponytail. Each carried a thin leather briefcase. Something was churning about in his belly. FBI agents came to the offices of Healy, Tapply & Fitzgerald all the time, but only in reference to a client. Not a member of the firm.

Mister Foster?

Yes, he said, standing up behind his desk.

The man reached into his inside coat pocket, pulled out a leather wallet, which he opened and displayed. Kyle glanced at the identification, having seen similar identification so many times before. The man said, I’m Special Agent Thomas Benson. This is Special Agent Melanie Reisinger. Thanks for seeing us without an appointment.

He pointed to two empty chairs before his desk, and they sat down, putting their leather cases down on the carpeted floor. He sat down and leaned back in the chair, glad the two FBI agents couldn’t see his legs, for they were trembling.

Still…always a chance.

Always glad to help the Bureau, he said. Within reason, of course.

Agent Reisinger smiled. Of course.

So, he said, looking over to the male agent. How can I help you? Something involving one of my clients?

No, I’m afraid not, Agent Benson said.

Oh?

Benson looked to Reisinger, who looked down at her lap. Like she was embarrassed or something.

Oh, Lord, he thought.

Benson cleared his throat. No. We’re here to talk to you, Mister Foster.

About what?

He reached down, grabbed the briefcase, opened it up. About your on-line activities, Mister Foster. That’s what.

He kept silent, knowing that if he were to open his mouth, he might just get violently ill.

* * * *

So, after Stanley the hacker had set him up, he had done a bit of experimenting, going to those places that were verboten in the rarified world of Healy, Tapply & Fitzgerald, and sure enough, he had done so without any snarky memos or phone calls from the IT wizards. Buying books at Amazon.com, visiting a couple of offshore casinos, and yes, going to some naughty naked sites that would have gained its owner a three-to-five-year sentence in the so-called good old days of Boston’s blue laws. It had been a bit of fun, to go someplace forbidden and a bit dangerous, and to know that he was getting away with it.

And it might have ended there…except for Carol.

His wife.

Well, sure, he had thought to himself at two a.m., lying awake in bed, it was so easy to blame his better half. He had met Carol when she was a reporter for the Boston Herald, trying to squeeze info from him about a case involving his client, an eccentric yachter from Marblehead whose nineteen-year-old au pair had been found in his squash court with her head cut off, and that initial meeting had let to the usual and customary romance, marriage, and honeymoon.

And when had the honeymoon exactly ended?

Maybe when she had quit her job at the Herald to become a romance novelist, and a somewhat successful one.

And maybe when she spent a lot of her time at romance writers’ conferences, or foreign locales doing research, or in New York with her editor, agent and other writers.

Maybe.

And maybe it was that drunken time a couple of years back, when—frustrated by all her traveling and weekends away, the stilted conversations at home, and, let’s face it, her lack of enthusiasm for bedroom acrobats—he had threatened her with divorce.

And that’s when she had smiled, kissed him on the nose and said, No, I don’t think so. This arrangement suits me fine.

And he had said, Well, I don’t care.

And another kiss to the nose. "Honey Chile, the day you take me to court, is the same day I drop a dime to my gossip columnist friends at the Herald and the Globe, and all of your rough and tough criminal clients—the ones that pay for the house in Maine, the BMW and your nice Italian suits—and they print in their papers, for all of New England to read, how you get all teary-eyed while watching old Disney movies. Somehow, I don’t think that’ll help your career any. Capisce?"

Oh, yeah, very much capisce, and one long day—when a judge had razored him mercilessly during a lengthy cross-examination, when Carol had called, bitterly complaining about a leak in the condo ceiling and why he hadn’t done anything about it, being the man of the house and all, and when one of the senior partners at Healy, Tapply & Fitzgerald had buttonholed him in the kitchen and had asked him why in God’s name he had to defend that schoolteacher charged with molestation—he had been in his office late at night, and went to a chatroom.

Just to see what happened.

And what happened after lots of naughty talk, was…well, a college student with a cam had said,

And pausing just for a moment, knowing he was crossing a line, some sort of line, but there was a pounding at the base of his skull, a pounding that went on and on, and he had typed back.

And that’s how it had begun.

* * * *

Agent Benson pulled out a thick printout and held it in his lap. Mister Foster…Agent Reisinger and I have been working on a computer crime task force this past year. And I need to ask you two questions. And of course, you don’t have to answer either question. That’s your right. But how you answer these questions…well, may go a long way to how this case is resolved. Am I making myself clear?

Quite.

The FBI agent cleared his throat. First question. I need to ask you…are you familiar with the term handle? As it is applied to computer chat systems?

His mouth was dry. Yes. A handle…an on-line pseudonym.

Very true, Agent Benson said. He turned to his companion, and she said, Mister Foster?

He could not look at her. Could not look at her face.

Yes, he said, looking at Agent Benson. Go ahead. Ask your second question.

Are you familiar with a handle called…called The Baron?

He couldn’t answer. His hands were squeezed together.

All he could do was nod.

* * * *

So, it had developed in a kind of habit, that’s all, though in those calm times offline he knew what it was: an obsession, that’s all. But an obsession that served a need. After days of dueling in the courtroom, handling the knife-edge politics among the partners in the firm, and dealing with a cool roommate who pretended to be his loving wife, he found that a couple of hours traipsing through the darker side of the internet calmed him down, made him feel better. And Lord knows, he was under no illusion: he had an addiction of sorts, a computerized monkey riding his back, and he had a host of buts to make it all seem all right.

But at least it wasn’t booze.

But at least it wasn’t coke, or crystal meth, or prescription painkillers.

But at least it wasn’t hookers from the Combat Zone.

All the nice buts to make everything seem oh so fine.

* * * *

Agent Benson said, Thank you.

For what? he managed to croak out.

For not playing games. Because if you had played games, we would have wasted both of our time, with me detailing the technical means in which we determined that the on-line handle of The Baron came from your office, and from your computer.

His hands were clenched under his desk. No doubt his secretary Tara Lillington was gossiping about what was going on with the others in her pay grade, and for God’s sake, he hoped that the gossip wouldn’t percolate up to the elite regions of Healy, Tapply & Fitzgerald, for if one of the senior partners were to come in right now, hear about ten seconds of this on-going conversation, he’d be out the door in about ten minutes.

So, move it along, he thought, move it along.

Fine. Games aren’t being played. What’s the problem? Since when is sex chat against the law?

Agent Reisinger’s turn, her face showing a trace of distaste, as if she was smelling something foul coming from his office desk. You’re quite correct, Mister Foster. Sex chat isn’t against the law, especially when two consenting adults are involved. There’s other chat…that we’re concerned about.

Oh yeah, he thought. Oh yeah.

* * * *

So, like all addictions and obsessions—and sometimes, staring in the mirror, shaving in the mirror, he’d say, today, be a good guy today, and at least stay offline—there always came a time when he needed the extra kick, the extra jolt, and he’d well…he’d go places. He recalled a time when he was eleven or twelve, finding an adult magazine in his older brother’s bedroom. Seeking a naked woman for the first time led to hours of obsession, of going through the pages again and again, memorizing each pose, each facial expression, each square inch of photographed flesh…and of course, eventually, seeing a naked woman like that didn’t give the jolt. Which led to more, um, explicit things, which led to more explicit things, and so forth and so on.

Just like his time on the Internet.

So random sex chat led to…well, elaborate fantasies and games and roleplays, and even then, after some months, it wasn’t working anymore. The little buzz that undid the knot at the base of his head, made him relaxed, it just wasn’t there anymore, and he couldn’t have that. Not after days in the courtroom and in his office, not after nights and weekends with his ice authoress.

Nope. He needed that—oh God, let’s say it—he needed that fix.

Right up to the point one night, alone in the wood-paneled and honored offices of Healy, Tapply & Fitzgerald, he was chatting with a woman who said she was from Australia—could have been Mars, for all he knew or cared—and things went, well, they went into a dark place, and it was almost like the woman—whose handle was Bitesized—kept egging him on, egging him on, and then…

It came right up on his screen, the little phosphor letters seemingly burning holes in his forehead.

Bitesized:

Oh my, there was a place.

There was a place he had never been before.

An on-line correspondent, tempting him, begging him, to murder her…

The letters were so bright they almost hurt.

His hands couldn’t move. A tiny part of him wanted to shut down, step away, and forget it all. Just take a deep breath and step back, old boy, because you’ve crossed some lines before, some very strange ones indeed, and this line was about the size of the Southeast Expressway, and there’s no way to be caught, no way anyone would find out, but still…

What a line to cross.

He looked to the letters.

Took a breath. The thumping at the base of his skull felt like another heart was at work back there, pouring blood into his brain, making him light-headed, excited, furious…

His hands went to the keyboard, almost on autopilot.

The Baron:

* * * *

Now Agent Reisinger said, We have transcripts of many hours of chat involving…well, the most vicious and bloody fantasies concerning women. All coming from your computer.

He kept quiet. Looked to her and then Agent Benson. The male agent said, Well?

Yes?

Don’t you have anything to say?

He shook his head. No, I don’t. I didn’t hear a question.

Oh, that got a bit of attention, and maybe he was being a bit snarky, but he was starting to gain his footing again. He knew the laws, always made sure that whenever he started a chat that the woman on the other end was over eighteen, and the few times that people or handles claimed to be teenage girls, he dumped that chat without hesitation.

Lots of things were allowed out in the wild and wooly world of the Internet, but chat involving minors was still forbidden. And he had stayed away from that.

So, what was the crime? Why were they here? If he could get them out without any of the senior partners finding out, well, maybe he could salvage this day.

Agent Benson crisply nodded. All right. Here’s a question for you. Do you know a handle called HotSquirt. Do you?

His mouth was still dry. There was a name, and oh my, what nasty things they had done online together.

Yeah. HotSquirt. So what?

Agent Benson went to his leather case, and his legs started trembling again.

* * * *

And what a surprise, when Carol was leaving one morning for another conference, and she had smiled at him, all dressed up and pulling her wheeled suitcase to the door, ready for a cab to take her to Logan, and she had kissed him and said, Hey. What’s up?

What do you mean, what’s up?

She smiled. You seem…oh, I don’t know. Happier. Less grumpier. Why’s that?

And the naughty thought had come to him, oh, my sweet one, don’t you want to know? All the frustrations of the days and nights I have, either at work or in this condo, I work them out online, using a gun or garrote or—more often—a sharp knife—and that accounts for my happy mood, that’s why.

So, he had kissed her. Things going my way, I guess.

She had kissed him back. Good. Glad to hear that.

And then she was off, and for the usual reason, he went to work and stayed late that night, in his office, off in cyberspace, enjoying every bloody minute.

* * * *

Agent Benson took a folder from his briefcase, held it in his lap. Do you know who HotSquirt is, Mister Foster?

No, I do not.

He opened the folder, looked down and said, HotSquirt is Annie Nicholas. She’s thirty-one years old, a single mother of two, and lives in Berwick, Maine.

Silence. It just seemed…odd, to put a real name to a handle. HotSquirt had been something else, that’s for sure, and it’d been a while since he had chatted with her, and oh—

Oh, no.

Oh, my God.

The folder was now on his desktop, and Agent Benson opened it up, picked up a sheaf of black and white photographs, which he spread out in a type of grisly card game

For before him was the same thing, taken from different angles.

A woman.

Murdered.

Blood everywhere.

Agent Benson retrieved the photographs. Mister Foster…she was murdered two weeks ago. In her home. With a knife. In a manner matching some of your more…descriptive chats.

All he could do was nod.

It was time for the female agent to speak up. Mister Foster…

He coughed. Yeah?

Mister Foster…where were you, two weeks ago on this day, between eight p.m. and midnight?

His hands were clenched together so tight they hurt.

* * * *

And the strange thing was, it took a client to point out to him the source of all that dark chat.

The client’s name had been Sam Grayson, and Kyle had gotten him off just before Christmas on a murder charge that stemmed from a knifing in a Charlestown bar. The forensics evidence had been reasonable against Sam, but what worked in his client’s favor was the famed Charlestown code of silence. Funny bar, that. During the knifing, it seemed that its two restrooms managed to service every single drinker and bartender, meaning nobody saw a single thing. Which meant reasonable doubt. Which meant that three days before Christmas, Sam was in one of the quiet conference rooms of Healy, Tapply & Fitzgerald, a contented smile on his beefy face, scarred hands folded across the chest of his dark blue Armani winter coat. On one lapel, marking the holiday, was a cheery Santa Claus button. Knowing Sam and what he did for a living, it was an odd mix, like seeing one of those yellow smiley buttons on a Nazi stormtrooper’s uniform.

Kyle went through a few formalities and said, I guess it’s too much to ask that you keep your nose clean for a while, Sam. Right?

Don’t worry about me, counselor.

Worry? I never worry about you, Sam. You’re my bread and butter. You help pay for a lot of things.

Sam grinned. Glad I can provide a service.

Sure…everything else all set?

Yep, Sam said, and then cocked his head, still smiling. Glad I also provided you something else.

Kyle looked up from his paperwork. What do you mean?

You know what I mean, counselor.

No, I really don’t.

Sam gently shrugged his wide shoulders. You should listen more. Then you’d know what I’m talking about.

He lowered his pen to the polished surface of the conference room table. Then enlighten me. What are you talking about?

His client said, Times I spend waiting for you to get off the phone, I spend a lot of time in the reception area. I’m big but you know what? I blend in. I stay quiet. People forget I’m there. Pretty helpful in my line of work…and helpful in other ways. So, I hear things. I hear things about cases, about other clients. And I hear things about you.

It was like cool air was playing across the back of his hands. What things are they, Sam?

Another gentle shrug. You know what your nickname is here? Do you?

Kyle said, I never knew I had a nickname. What is it?

Bob, Sam said.

Bob? That’s a nickname? Doesn’t make any sense.

Sure, it does. ’Cause it ain’t short for Robert, I can tell you that. It stands for something else. Bob. The Baron of Blood.

His hands were even cooler. The…Baron of Blood.

Sam said, Sure. You tell me, Mister Foster. Why do you handle all the nasty criminal cases for your firm? Hunh? Ones involving murder and knifings and shootings and assaults and rapes. This is a pretty high-class Boston law firm. You’d think they’d want to spend their time doing real estate deals, wills, crap like that. Keep their hands nice and clean. But you seem to like having your hands nice and dirty and bloody. Why’s that?

Even when he spoke, he knew his voice was faint. Because I’m good at it.

Hah, Sam said. It’s because you love it. You get to play in my world and see what lies beneath, the anger, the blood, the death, the violence…but at the end of the day, you can shower and have a nice drink with your nice wife in your nice condo. Pretend you’re above it all. But secretly, you love it, don’t you? Tell me the truth, counselor.

He hadn’t replied.

* * * *

And he hadn’t replied to Agent Reisinger, either. She repeated the question, Mister Foster, two weeks ago. Between the hours of eight p.m. and midnight. Where were you?

Kyle reached out, his hand feeling like the blood had been replaced by liquid lead, and he picked up his appointment book, flipped through a couple of pages. It’s…it’s clear for that night. Which means…well, either I was working late here, or was home.

Are you sure of that.

Yes. Which is true.

Was your wife home at the time?

Another glance at the book. No…it seems she was at a writer’s conference that week.

Do you think you have any witnesses that can verify you were home or in your office? Agent Reisinger asked.

And although he knew the answer, he had to ask the question. Why is that?

Agent Benson’s turn. The both of them, part of him coolly observed, were quite, quite good. Because, Mister Foster, there’s a witness in Maine who says he saw a man fitting your description, in the area of Annie Nicholas’ home. HotSquirt, if you prefer. This man was driving a dark blue BMW, with Massachusetts plates. You own a dark blue BMW, with Massachusetts plates. Do you not?

He just nodded.

Another magic piece of paper from Agent Benson, slid across the desk. Your BMW maintains an electronic toll paying system, commonly known as the EZPass. The toll authority for the state of New Hampshire recorded your BMW passing through the main tolls in Hampton at 9:04 p.m., two weeks ago. That’s the main thoroughfare one takes to get to Maine. And there’s a return record, at 11:53 p.m. Yet you say you were either home or at work. And your wife was away. I take it you’re not in the habit of loaning out your BMW, am I correct?

He stared at the paper, which started out nice and clear, and which was now fuzzy before him. He swallowed, swallowed again, and finally found his voice, which he should have done, long minutes ago.

I’m through here, he said.

Excuse me? Agent Benson asked.

His voice a bit stronger, he said, This interview is finished. Please leave. Now.

The FBI agents glanced at each other, and there were the faintest of nods exchanged between them. He looked and thought, get a grip, he thought, get a goddamn grip, and then, a bit of a surprise.

They gathered their belongings, and both stood up. Kyle remained seated.

Agent Benson said, You’re a fine lawyer, an intelligent man. We’ll be returning here tomorrow for a follow-up interview, Mister Foster. In the meantime, I’d like to suggest a few things. Don’t leave Boston. And don’t think that by destroying your computer over there, that you’ll be destroying any evidence. We have the evidence that you were conducting those chats, hundreds and hundreds of pages. And…one more suggestion.

Yeah?

Agent Benson headed for the door, followed by Agent Reisinger. When we do return tomorrow, you may think of having counsel with you. That’s your right. But that’s only delaying the inevitable. Prepare yourself for some serious charges, some serious changes.

And then they were gone, through the door.

He sat there, alone, staring at the closed door, his messy desk, and then, to his computer, happily murmuring to itself, sitting there.

A tool. That’s all. Just a goddam tool.

A goddam tool for destruction.

* * * *

And back then, Sam Grayson had pressed him one more time, and had said, Go ahead. Ask away. You know what you want to ask me.

And despite the urge not to, with a voice inside screaming at him to leave the conference room already and retreat to his office, but he did say, Ask you what, Sam?

Sam grinned again. We’re still lawyer-client privilege, but I’ll spell it out, nice, educated man like you. You want to know what it’s really like. You don’t want to ask me questions about witnesses, possible alibis, explanations of how my fingerprints ended up on a murder weapon. You want to ask me what it’s like. What’s it like to shoot someone, see blood and brains spray out against a car windshield. What’s it like to hold someone tight, to slit his throat, to hear the gurgles and the sighs and the burps. What’s it like to push a woman down, put your hands to her throat, strangle her and feel her struggle against you, getting weaker and weaker. That’s what you want to ask me. Isn’t it?

My God, the pounding in his head…he should leave, step right up and tell this creature before him that he was through with him as a client, that it was time for him to find other legal representation.

But instead…

A thought.

One chance. A chance to ask. When would he ever have this chance, ever again, to get an answer like that.

Just like that.

* * * *

Now he was home, in their stainless steel and stained oak kitchen that was used for re-heating takeout dinners. Kyle sat at a butcher block table, a bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey before him, getting drunk.

Let’s face facts, he thought. No wonder how this was going to play out, he was ruined. Being charged with homicide was one thing—in fact, for his particular client base, it might be considered a badge of honor. But everything else? All those chat transcripts, for the entire world to see? Fired from the firm at minimum, disbarred most likely, set up for humiliation and embarrassment from everyone he had ever known, from classmates to people at the firm to his family and to Carol, of course, always Carol, and no doubt the ice queen would quickly divorce his sorry ass, with her patented smirk to light the way.

He poured himself another drink. He hoped those FBI bastards were having a hell of night.

* * * *

In the dining room of the Copley Plaza Hotel in Boston, Benson sat across from Reisinger, both having a cognac after Chateaubriand for two, feeling full, feeling well. Reisinger raised her glass, swirled the amber liquid about, and said, Well?

I think we did okay. What do you think?

Maybe, she said. But…well, I don’t know. He seemed to take it pretty hard.

Yes, yes he did, he said. Which is to be expected.

She took a small sip, smiled sweetly at him. And tomorrow?

Benson took his own sip. Tomorrow? Tomorrow we go in. We talk to him some more. We say we believe he’s involved in some illegal activities, but it’s unsure whether we can prosecute or not. And if he were to make a hundred-thousand-dollar payment to a certain numbered account in the Cayman Islands, then we go away and nothing else happens.

Her smile wavered. Suppose he takes it to the next level. Makes some phone calls and finds out we’re not FBI, that there wasn’t a murder in Maine, that this was all a set-up…

He shrugged. Then there’s still Plan B. Leak the chat transcripts to his friends, family and the news media, unless we get paid.

She shook her head. I still think this whole FBI thing was too complicated. Too many holes. We should have gone straight in with Plan B. Much more simple.

Benson smiled at his dear heart and said, Already been talked about and settled. We go in as a couple of blackmailers, always a good chance we get tossed out on our butts before we can say more than a sentence or two. We go in as FBI, it rattles his cage something fierce. Softens him up. He was one scary, sleepless night…he’s happy to pay us off the next day. C’mon, it’s going to work. Damn fool couldn’t tell that it was you in those photographs, even with a wig. Old HotSquirt, you.

She briefly stuck her tongue out at him. Smarty pants.

Truer words, he said, and that wasn’t a lie. He and his sweetness had worked long hours in a variety of start-up companies here and in Silicon Valley, always just missing those goodies at the end of the eighty-hour-a-week rainbow, and both deciding to try something else. Which was trolling and trolling the internet, finding a nice juicy mark with a deep, dark secret, and then taking it to the next level. This Boston lawyer was their third mark, and he promised to be just as successful as the other two.

Don’t be cocky, she said, though I have to say, breaking into his BMW and stealing the EZpass transponder for the night…driving north and then back. That was genius. Pure genius.

He smiled at her. Darling, you’re killing me. Please stop.

All right, she said. But one quick question.

Sure, Benson said. Go right ahead.

* * * *

Then, as the bottle level dropped some more, the door to the condo was unlocked and Carol swept in, wearing black leather boots, a knee-length skirt and heavy sweater, carrying a computer bag and a leather purse that looked big enough to hold supplies for two for a week, and she came in and said, Oh, there you are. You would not believe the flight I had, it was—

She stopped. Stared at him. He stared back. She pursed her lips.

Drunk?

Oh, yeah. Very drunk.

You…I come back from a trip to LA, make my own way back here…and I find you drunk. Are you happy? Are you?

And then the lecturing, the hectoring, the yelling broke out, and he did his best to tune it out, as she went on and on, and he remembered, oh yeah, he remembered, that time with Sam, in the conference room.

What’s it like, he had said. That’s what you want to know. What’s it like.

Correct, counselor?

He nodded, picked up his drink.

So correct.

* * * *

And Sam had said, It’s the best. The very best. You’re god on earth, you have this tremendous power…holding this tremendous power of life and death in these two hands—and he had held up his hands in a demonstration—and there’s nothing like it in the world. No drink, no drug, no erotic experience. It’s the very best.

And he had kept quiet, and Sam laughed and leaned across the conference room table. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

* * * *

The man called Benson said, All right, one question. Go ahead.

Reisinger said, This lawyer fellow… I don’t know, he just seemed odd. Don’t you feel… I don’t know. Don’t you feel like we should tell somebody? About that violent chat? Maybe his boss, or the cops?

Words, Benson said. Just words. Nothing to get worried about.

Still… I don’t know. Even with you in the office with me, he gave me the creeps.

Benson sipped from his cognac. Don’t worry, dear. It’s just words. That’s all. That’s all we deal with, just words.

And feelings, she said. We’re dealing with people’s feelings.

Benson said, Just a moment ago, you were calling him a creep. Now you’re worried about his feelings?

Reisinger picked up her glass, thought for a moment, and then put it down. No…just worried. That’s all.

He reached across the table, touched her hand. Then just worry about where we’re going to park our next hundred-thou payout, all right?

She squeezed his hand. All right.

Good.

* * * *

Eventually Carol moved out into the living room, though the yelling continued. So much noise. So very much noise, and his head was really throbbing, and he thought about the chat being made public, about his humiliation, about his possible arrest and trial and sweet Jesus, he was innocent, no doubt about it, but if he was going to appear in a Maine courtroom, as a Massachusetts resident—and a lawyer to boot, God save us—what was the possibility that he would be found guilty?

He took a heavy swallow, the whisky cutting a fiery trail down his gullet.

Possibility was pretty high.

Damn high.

He looked out to the living room. Carol was still yelling about responsibility and drinking and being a real man, blah blah blah.

Another swallow.

And Sam, in his mind, telling him…

The best.

The very best feeling in the world.

He rubbed at his face. He was going to pay for that chat, going to pay for everything, and there was a good chance he would spend the rest of his life in prison for something he hadn’t done.

Hadn’t done at all…

But had thought about it.

Had fantasized about it.

Had fantasized a lot about it…

Another big swallow of whiskey.

He got up, reached down, opened the center drawer of the table.

Nestled in there, all sharp and shiny, a collection of carving knives.

Not fair, he thought. Not fair to be humiliated and sentenced to jail for something he hadn’t done.

Not fair at all.

And just feet away, Carol continued her harangue.

But he thought of how to make it all fair, to make it all come out even, and with a smile on his face, reached in to pick up the sharpest blade of all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brendan DuBois is the New York Times bestselling author of 26 novels, including Blowback, co-authored with James Patterson, being released September 2022. Brendan’s nearly 200 short stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, including The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century and Best American Noir Stories of the Century. His stories have thrice won him the Shamus Award from the PWA, two Barry Awards, two Derringer Awards, the Ellery Queen Readers Award, the Golden Derringer Lifetime Achievement Award and three Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations. He is also a Jeopardy! game show champion.

GHOST OF A CHANCE,

by Hal Charles

Detective Joan Stanley wished that she could sleep through October 31st every year rather than having to deal with the Halloween madness that descended on her small town. She had survived the previous night’s chaos, but here it was 10:30 the next morning and she hadn’t slept a wink all night.

The calls had started a little after nightfall and not let up until the early hours of the morning. Pumpkins smashed out on Route 21…cars egged at the mall…even a late-night report of a ghost sighting not far from where she had just parked her cruiser after getting a desperate call from her Aunt Tilly.

Joan rubbed her eyes and wished she had a double espresso as she entered her aunt’s bungalow.

Seemingly out of nowhere, her aunt appeared, wringing her hands and babbling under her breath. Oh, Joanie, she blurted out, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been worried sick.

Joan took her aunt’s trembling hands. Now, Aunt Tilly, just calm down for a second and tell me what’s wrong.

It’s Susan.

Where is she? said Joan.

That’s what has me so worried, said Tilly, a tear forming at the edge of her eye. I don’t know where she is, and I can’t contact her.

Susan’s a big girl, a college woman, said Joan, still hoping to calm down her aunt. I’m sure everything’s okay.

You don’t understand, dear, said Tilly. Susan’s theater group finished their final performance last night after a week-long run. She planned to get a good night’s sleep, then drive home from the University early this morning.

That’s it then, said a relieved Joan. She just overslept this morning and will be home any time now. It’s only about a two-hour drive.

Tilly sank into an overstuffed couch. When I couldn’t get her on her cellphone—the number kept going to voice mail—I called her roommate.

And?

Kate said that Susan hadn’t returned to their dorm after the play, and while we were talking, she looked out the window and Susan’s car was sitting in the lot.

Joan didn’t want to upset her aunt further, but she was getting an uneasy feeling. With Susan’s car still at school, she didn’t need to check for auto accidents on the two-lane state road that ran between their town and the University. Still, her law enforcement gene was telling her something was wrong.

Perhaps Susan decided to spend some time with a friend and plans to check in later, tried Joan.

Tilly shook her head. I don’t think so. She had a big day planned with her boyfriend, Devin. They made reservations several weeks ago for lunch at that new restaurant across town. She’s been talking my ear off about it.

Have you contacted Devin? Maybe he knows something.

Tilly seemed at the point of total collapse. I called Devin as soon as I hung up from Kate. He hadn’t talked with Susan since before the performance last night and has gotten only her voice mail this morning.

Trying to gather her thoughts, Joan walked to a window that faced her aunt’s backyard. When she spotted the large barn that sat toward the back of the property, the same barn around which the terror-struck neighbor had sworn she saw a ghostly figure floating in the wee hours that morning, Joan asked, What was the play Susan appeared in?

One based on Bram Stocker’s Dracula, said Tilly, a bemused look on her face. She had the starring role of Mina.

Joan smiled. I don’t think there’s a ghost of a chance that anything’s wrong.

What has Joan figured out?

SOLUTION

When Joan heard that Susan had starred as Mina, things fell into place. She led her aunt to the barn where they found Susan, still in her white gowned costume, sound asleep on a pile of hay. Awake, Susan explained that after the play she had decided to drive back home that night. When her car wouldn’t start, she hitched a ride with another performer who had a long drive home and had to leave campus immediately. When she got home, it was so late that she didn’t want to scare her mother and decided to sleep in the barn as she had many times growing up. Exhausted, she turned off her phone and fell into a deep sleep.

IN PLAIN SIGHT,

by Y.S. Lee

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.

Kingston Penitentiary

Portsmouth Village, near Kingston

Ontario, Canada

January 1884

It’s the screaming that wears you down. Not in daylight: that’s for silent labor, droning sermons, the bump and clank of the laundry press. It happens at night, once we’re locked into our cells. Goderre does battle in her sleep, grunting and hurling French curses. Rochon sobs as much as she shrieks. Only the new girl, to my left, is silent. And I? I once woke myself with my own cries, but even then I couldn’t remember the dream.

In the morning, nobody makes eye contact. Ice round the edges of the chamber pot, west wind moaning through the windowpanes, pinch of shoes that are too small (but I’ve had my pair for the year, and Matron Palmer says, You’d think her feet were big enough already). At breakfast, the inevitable bowls of rough gray porridge. We bow our heads to say grace, and everyone’s eyes slide toward the new girl. Corrigan. Her name ripples up and down the bench in whispers.

She’s maybe twenty. Big-eyed, pale-skinned, dark hair shingled like a man’s. They do it to all the new inmates. For hygiene, they say. I think it’s so we don’t recognize ourselves, but the joke’s on them—Corrigan is beautiful anyway. I can’t look at her for long; it’s like staring at the sun. She must feel our gazes, but she keeps her eyes lowered. She’s a statue: Woman Seated.

Washington passes me the milk jug, and I hand it on quick to Corrigan, who lets it bounce off her palms and smash to the ground. Thirty pairs of eyes on me. Bluey-white fluid bleeds into the crevices between the flagstones.

Matron’s pale eyes narrow. Pierce. I hope that wasn’t on purpose.

N-no, Matron, I reply.

You’ll scrub the flags to make up for the damage.

Yes, Matron. I make my voice as bland as skimmed milk.

Now.

I glance at Corrigan, still examining the contents of her bowl. Unhearing. Unseeing. This is her fault too. She should offer to help. Ought to acknowledge, at least, that I’m cleaning up her mess. She doesn’t. I won’t look at her again.

After a few seconds, breakfast resumes: clink of spoons against tin bowls, Matron’s voice droning a psalm. I collect fragments of glazed clay in my apron. Corrigan hunches over her porridge, spoon moving steadily from bowl to mouth.

Hard luck, mutters Washington, as I pick a large sliver from beneath her feet. I clench my jaw. I’ve never known what to do with sympathy.

I sweep up the splinters, scour the floor. By the time I’m finished, the meal is over. While Matron’s looking the other way, I gulp my coffee anyway and then, like a good girl, tip my congealed porridge into the swill bucket and follow the others to the laundry.

There’s a bright line of red on my palm from a particularly long shard of clay. I curl my hand tight, into a fist.

* * * *

Here’s what my prison record says: Sarah Jane Pierce, number 9207, born Ontario, religion Church of England. Eyes gray, hair brown, complexion sallow, height four feet two inches. That last bit’s a laugh. I wasn’t yet ten when I got seven years for larceny, but it’s in the big book, written in the curly, slanting letters it hurts my eyes to read. I’m sixteen now, and tall with it. I’d change the rest too, if I could—eyes, hair, skin, name. I’d ink out that