Black Cat Weekly #51

By Michael Bracken, Bev Vincent Vincent, R.T. Lawton and 6 more

   Our 51st issue is another strong one one, with four of our acquiring editors finding tales for us. Michael Bracken has an original Bev Vincent mystery, and Barb Goffman has a winner from R.T. Lawton. Cynthia Ward turns the tables on fellow editor Michael Bracken and selects a haunted house story by him! And too-long-absent editor Paul Di Filippo has picked a powerful story by Sheree R. Thomas. Good stuff.

   As if that’s not enough (which it never is for the Black Cat!), we have gone back to the pulps for some historical mystery-adventure tales by Harold Lamb and Philip M. Fisher, and dived even deeper for a collection of mysteries by Dick Donovan called The Chronicles of Michael Danevitch of the Russian Secret Service.

   On the science fiction front, we have novellas by Arthur Leo Zagat and George O. Smith, plus Skylark Three, by E.E. “Doc” Smith.

   Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Death Sentence,” by Bev Vincent [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Letter Perfect,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Tightening of the Bond,” by R.T. Lawton [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Man Who Measured the Wind,” by Harold Lamb [novella]
“The Yangtze Horde,” by Philip M. Fisher [short story]
The Chronicles of Michael Danevitch of the Russian Secret Service, by Dick Donovan [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Little Spring,” by Michael Bracken [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“Thirteen Year Long Song,” by Sheree R. Thomas [Paul Di Filippo Presents short story]
“The Faceless Men,” by Arthur Leo Zagat [novella]
The Kingdom of the Blind, by George O. Smith [novella]
Skylark Three, by E.E. “Doc” Smith

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Aug 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667640112

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

DEATH SENTENCE, by Bev Vincent

LETTER PERFECT, by Hal Charles

TIGHTENING OF THE BOND, by R.T. Lawton

THE MAN WHO MEASURED THE WIND, by Harold Lamb

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

THE YANGTZE HORDE, by Philip M. Fisher, Jr.

THE CHRONICLES OF MICHAEL DANEVITCH OF THE RUSSIAN SECRET SERVICE, by Dick Donovan

INTRODUCTION

THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A MILLION ROUBLES

A MODERN BORGIA

THE STRANGE STORY OF AN ATTACHÉ

THE FATE OF VASSILO IVANOFF

THE MERCHANT OF RIGA

THE GREAT CONSPIRACY

THE CROWN JEWELS

THE STRANGE STORY OF A SECRET TREATY

HOW PETER TRESKIN WAS LURED TO DOOM

THE CLUE OF THE DEAD HAND

LITTLE SPRING, by Michael Bracken

THIRTEEN YEAR LONG SONG, by Sheree R. Thomas

THE FACELESS MEN, by Arthur Leo Zagat

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND, by George O. Smith

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

SKYLARK THREE, by Edward E. Smith, Ph. D.

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

EPILOGUE

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Death Sentence is copyright © 2021 by Bev Vincent. It appears here for the first time.

Letter Perfect is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Tightening of the Bond is copyright © 2012 by R.T. Lawton. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, July/August 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Man Who Measured the Wind, by Harold Lamb, was originally published in Short Stories, March 10, 1923.

The Yangtze Horde, by Philip M. Fisher, was originally published in Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 7, 1922.

The Chronicles of Michael Danevitch of the Russian Secret Service, by Dick Donovan, was originally published in 1897.

Little Spring is copyright © 2014 by Michael Bracken. Originally published in Haunted. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Thirteen Year Long Song is copyright © 2020 by Sheree R Thomas. Originally published in Nine Bar Blues: Stories From an Ancient Future.

The Faceless Men, by Arthur Leo Zagat, is copyright © 1948 by Popular Library, Inc., renewed 1976. First published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, April 1948. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Kingdom of the Blind, by George O. Smith, was originally published in Startling Stories, July 1947.

Skylark Three, by E.E. Doc Smith, was originally published in Amazing Stories August, September and October 1930.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 51st issue is another strong one one, with four of our acquiring editors finding tales for us. Michael Bracken has an original Bev Vincent mystery, and Barb Goffman has a winner from R.T. Lawton. Cynthia Ward turns the tables on fellow editor Michael Bracken and selects a haunted house story by him! And too-long-absent editor Paul Di Filippo has picked a powerful story by Sheree R. Thomas. Good stuff.

As if that’s not enough (which it never is for the Black Cat!), we have gone back to the pulps for some historical mystery-adventure tales by Harold Lamb and Philip M. Fisher, and dived even deeper for a collection of mysteries by Dick Donovan called The Chronicles of Michael Danevitch of the Russian Secret Service.

On the science fiction front, we have novellas by Arthur Leo Zagat and George O. Smith, plus Skylark Three, by E.E. Doc Smith. [And my apologies for presenting the Skylark books out of order—I relied on my memory. Skylark Three, against logic, is the second in the series. As you no doubt know, the Golden Age of Science Fiction is 13, and I read the series during it, some 45 years ago...)

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Death Sentence, by Bev Vincent [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Letter Perfect, Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Tightening of the Bond, by R.T. Lawton [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Man Who Measured the Wind, by Harold Lamb [novella]

The Yangtze Horde, by Philip M. Fisher [short story]

The Chronicles of Michael Danevitch of the Russian Secret Service, by Dick Donovan [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Little Spring, by Michael Bracken [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

Thirteen Year Long Song, by Sheree R. Thomas [Paul Di Filippo Presents short story]

The Faceless Men, by Arthur Leo Zagat [novella]

The Kingdom of the Blind, by George O. Smith [novella]

Skylark Three, by E.E. Doc Smith

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

DEATH SENTENCE,

by Bev Vincent

Shortly after The Seer started dispensing her prophecies, we had more business than we could handle. We were hiring several new employees every month to keep up with demand, and it was only a matter of time until my partners and I were forced to look for larger offices. It was like we had a license to print cash, and there was no sign the bubble was going to burst any time soon.

Take, for instance, Mr. Frank Fortenberry, a typical example of the dozens of new clients we processed on any given day. He was thirty-five, looked to be in good shape and had no health issues. Married for eleven years, with two children. Good job. Plenty of friends. Hobbies. In the prime of his life.

A sheet of exquisite vellum paper sat on my desk. KILLED BY BROTHER, it said, in The Seer’s distinctive, ornate handwriting, a prognosis delivered after she scrutinized a vial of the client’s saliva.

Isn’t there anything I can do to stop him? Fortenberry asked.

I took a deep breath. I’d been over this hundreds of times, so I had to focus to keep from sounding bored while I delivered the spiel. Our years of experience tell us, Mr. Fortenberry, that The Seer is never wrong. Often vague, sometimes misleading, but ultimately always accurate.

What if I killed my brother first?

You wouldn’t be the first person to suggest that, I said. Doesn’t work.

Why not?

Something always goes wrong. I sat up straight. Take it from me—we’ve seen this more times than you could imagine. I wish I had better news.

What if I moved to a remote South Pacific island for the rest of my life?

I shrugged. That’s been tried, too.

Is that all you’re going to do? Shrug and tell me there’s nothing I can do? What am I paying you for?

You are paying us, Mr. Fortenberry, to investigate your death when it happens. To make sure the guilty party is arrested, charged and convicted of the crime.

That’s not what happens in films. If a guy goes to a private detective saying someone is trying to kill him, the detective finds a way to prevent it.

There’s a reason they haven’t made many PI movies since The Seer. I picked up the sheet of paper. We’ll include this in your file and keep tabs on your situation.

Wait for me to be stabbed or poisoned or shot or whatever, that’s what you mean. I don’t even know how it’s going to happen. Or when.

I looked him straight in the eyes. Then you’re not any further behind than you were before you decided to visit The Seer, are you?

Not any further ahead, either. I wish I didn’t know.

Who does? I asked myself. Who honestly believed their life would be improved by knowing how they were going to die? Even if The Seer declared someone’s cause of death would be OLD AGE, that wasn’t necessarily a comfort. Some miserable people hoped for a hasty end to their sorry existences. The Seer’s message condemned them to live. Or the universe did, with The Seer acting as its emissary. The philosophers were still debating that.

Then, of course, there were the twists. The Seer’s pronouncements were sometimes frustratingly ambiguous. Did it mean Fortenberry’s brother, or someone else? Perhaps Fortenberry had an old Brother typewriter perched on a shelf, waiting to fall on his head. I’d seen stranger things. That was why we were still detectives and not simply ghouls waiting for people to die so we could sign off on the paperwork.

I handed him off to an associate who would enter his information into a computer that scanned news reports, obituaries, blogs, and social media for matches against our client list.

An attractive woman of about thirty clutching a manila folder to her chest waved me down in the corridor when I was returning to my office. Mr. Cannon? I have one, she said. Vera was one of the newer employees assigned to confirm database matches. She wore a dark blue dress that clung to her generous curves and stopped just above her knees. My eyes were drawn to the long stretch of legs below the hemline.

If she minded the attention, she didn’t show it. She handed me the file.

This is your first match, isn’t it? I asked.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. She nodded.

Thought so. I’ll walk you through the process.

She followed me into my office. I indicated the chair Mr. Fortenberry had recently vacated. She crossed her legs and tugged at the hem of her dress.

I forced myself to concentrate on the paperwork. The top sheet in the folder was our standard intake form. The client was Loraine Odegaard, wife of Charles Odegaard. The next page was The Seer’s prediction: STABBED BY SISTER WHILE ARGUING OVER INHERITANCE. More detailed than most, and relatively unambiguous, unless sister meant nun.

You’d think a person with this much information could avoid arguing with her sister over an inheritance, but greed and anger were strong motivators—stronger than a sense of self-preservation, apparently. From the moment of her birth, Mrs. Odegaard’s life was one long, inevitable journey toward the fatal argument predicted by The Seer. Were we all just actors in a drama scripted for someone else’s benefit? That was a question I seldom contemplated. It had no answer and led only to more questions.

The next page was a copy of a news item that summarized, in two column inches, the demise of Loraine Odegaard. Her neighbors had reported hearing cries of anguish and pain. The police arrived on the scene in time to arrest her sister, Eleanor Tisdale, red-handed. The final document contained the police report. Everything appeared to be in order. I noted the lead detective’s name.

Good work, I said, although this was as straightforward as they came. The computer could have handled it automatically, but we always had an employee confirm the results. Multiple people can have the same name, even something like Odegaard. E-mail a copy of Mrs. Odegaard’s intake documents to Detective Rayos.

Vera beamed at the compliment. Then she frowned.

Something wrong?

That’s it?

I nodded. Pretty much.

She paid us a lot of money.

I glanced at the file. The standard fee at the time. It’s more than that now.

And that’s all we do?

I gave Vera my warmest smile. This document guarantees that Eleanor Tisdale will be punished for her sister’s murder. Courts accept statements from The Seer as conclusive evidence, the same as DNA or fingerprints. This one even establishes the motive.

Mrs. Odegaard could have just stored it in a safety deposit box, Vera said, to be opened upon her death.

I put an index finger to my lips. Shh, I said. That’s our little secret.

Her brow furrowed.

Not all cases are this clear-cut. Often the police don’t know who the killer is. We can supply that information—or at least a clue. Occasionally, a murder is committed so cleverly that it looks like an accident or suicide or natural causes. We alert the police that they should treat the death as a homicide.

I see, Vera said. She scrunched up her nose. What if Mrs. Odegaard had more than one sister and the killer wasn’t caught at the crime scene?

I could tell she had been giving it a lot of thought. The new ones usually did. After notifying the police, we would conduct our own investigation and do our utmost to make sure the culprit was identified. I hesitated, wondering how much information to give her. The truth is, we only have to look closely at about five percent of our cases. Most are like this one. You confirm the identity of the client against the news report or obituary, match the cause of death with the known facts, and send the documents to the cops. Make a note in the file to check for updates on the status of the prosecution. End of story.

Her face didn’t reveal her thoughts, but I enjoyed examining it for clues all the same.

You want to ask something else, I said after our eyes met for the third time in as many seconds. Don’t worry. You won’t make me mad or risk your job.

She bit her lip. Is it fair? She paused, as if searching for the right words. That we charge people all that money and do so little in return?

Think of it as a life insurance policy. There you pay year after year, never knowing when or if you’ll use it. The Seer shook up that industry, let me tell you. Not in a good way, either. I grew serious again. For those five percent, we definitely earn our fee. Complicated investigations that last for weeks. Months, sometimes. Besides, if we didn’t do it, someone else would. We’re not the only agency out there. We were just the first.

She seemed to ponder that for a moment, then nodded. She uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet in one fluid motion. I opened my mouth to ask her something, but she beat me to the punch. Would you like to have dinner with me? Tomorrow night, maybe?

How could I resist?

* * * *

Once people started visiting The Seer, the police were swamped. They were used to handling at most a few homicides on a bad day. Almost overnight, many of the murders that were going to be committed over the next fifty years were reported to them all at once.

Their resources were limited, and they had other crimes to handle, including actual, unpredicted murders. At first, they tried to prevent the future homicides, but they soon discovered that was futile. Finally, they established a new policy. They wouldn’t investigate murders reported by The Seer until after the fact.

Identifying a new and potentially lucrative business opportunity, my partners and I decided to run TV and internet ads, and put splashy banners on every bus and park bench in the city. We were careful about what we promised: we couldn’t prevent the inevitable, but we would make sure the killers didn’t get away with it. The idea caught on like wildfire. Life was good.

* * * *

Vera rapped on my office door one morning a couple of weeks later. I thought she wanted to thank me for dinner the previous evening, and the bedroom gymnastics that followed, but she had a file folder in her hand and I realized her visit was business-related.

Come in. Have a seat, I said.

I think I found one of those cases, she said, after her long, lanky legs were properly crossed and her short skirt duly tugged.

What kind’s that?

The ones you told me about. The five percent where we actually earn the client’s fee.

I ignored the implied criticism. We had talked a little business over dinner that first night, and she had peppered me with questions upon waking the next morning, but since then she hadn’t raised any more concerns about the nature of our business. Show me, I said.

According to the file, Erik Watrous had become a client nearly four years ago, shortly after we got into the future homicide business. The document attached to his intake form said: DROWNED BY LOVER.

I flipped to the police report. Watrous’s naked body had been found in his swimming pool. No one else was home at the time of his death, which had been classified as an accident. According to the obituary, he left behind a wife, two daughters, and a son. Funeral services were pending.

Okay, I said. First, we notify the police. I checked the report for a signature. Start with Officer Puentes.

This is going to destroy her.

Who?

His wife, she said. She thinks it was an accident. She probably doesn’t even know he had a lover.

I nodded because she seemed to need a reaction of some sort.

Do we really have to... ? She tugged at her skirt again.

My eyes widened. This was unexpected, considering her ethical qualms. You don’t think we should tell?

I don’t know, she said, staring at her knees. I didn’t blame her. They were lovely. It’s just that... I let her struggle with her thoughts. Finally, she looked up. Wouldn’t telling her do more harm than good?

Erik Watrous was our client, I said. Not his wife. Our obligation is to him. He knew the nature of the information we’d have to expose.

No matter what it does to his family?

Do we let a murderer get away with it? To spare someone’s feelings?

I don’t know. Her voice was soft. She chewed on the inside of her mouth.

Suppose the killer doesn’t stop there.

She looked up again. What do you mean?

Maybe our client’s wife is next on her to-do list.

You don’t know that.

No. Neither do you.

She gave her hem another tug. Who’ll tell her?

I reviewed the intake form. In the Next of Kin Notification box, Watrous had written Wife. I sighed. He wanted us to.

Can I do it? she asked.

Want company? It won’t be easy.

No, she said. I can handle it.

* * * *

The case turned out to be more complicated than it seemed. I let Vera run point, because she was so invested in the outcome. When she came to my office door to report the detectives’ findings, she had a sheepish look on her face.

Apparently Watrous had taken The Seer’s prediction to heart and had lived an exemplary, faithful life. His wife, on the other hand, wasn’t as squeaky clean. She’d had a string of lovers over the years, and it was the most recent of these who, fueled by jealousy, ended her husband’s life. Our detectives turned their findings over to the police, who dug up all the evidence they needed. They arrested the lover and obtained a full confession. Case closed.

She looked me in the eyes and lied, Vera said. And I believed her.

I was tempted to say something about how we provided a valuable service but, when I saw the humiliation and disappointment in her eyes, I kept quiet.

* * * *

Have you visited The Seer? she asked.

It was late, and I’d been on the verge of falling asleep. No, I said. People never tired of that question. It was what they asked at parties after one drink too many or on dates when the conversation lagged.

Why not?

I contemplated the darkness for several seconds. Her arm rested against mine. The warmth and pressure were comforting. Having someone that close made everything seem all right with the world. Most of the time it didn’t even matter who it was. Just someone.

It’s empty information, I said at last. "You can’t do anything with it. You can’t do anything about it. Why bother?"

Aren’t you going to ask me? The bed shifted as she turned to face me.

I stayed on my back. Legally, I’m not allowed to, I said. You’re my employee. The law is very clear about that.

Is that what I am? An employee.

I shrugged, although she couldn’t see the gesture. That, too. I rolled onto my side, feeling compelled to dig myself out of the hole that had materialized around me. I reached out and found her face in the darkness and brushed the hair away from her cheek. I was surprised to find moisture there, so I brushed that away, too. I can’t ask. But you could tell. If you wanted to.

No, she said.

I didn’t know if that meant she hadn’t been tested or that she didn’t want to tell me. I kissed her and held her tight until we found other ways to make the dark, empty night pass.

* * * *

We didn’t last long. She was always trying to get inside my head. Women like her expected to find something meaningful in there and ended up frustrated and angry when they discovered it was a hollow, vacant place. But still they tried. After a while, I got frustrated, too, and pushed them away.

I started referring her files to my associates. I stopped taking her calls. She got the point, eventually. I had enough experience with broken relationships to know how to keep it from being awkward. For me, at least.

I buried myself in a new case. The sheet of paper in the file said MURDERED BY YOUR HUSBAND. Not one whit of ambiguity there. However, the client had died of a heart attack when her husband was overseas on business. He was reportedly devastated by her loss. The client had no ex-husbands, so he had to be the culprit. The Seer said so. All hail The Seer.

The medical examiner repeated the autopsy after we contacted the police, but it only confirmed the original results. Neither the police nor our detectives could find any proof that her husband played a part in her death. We had a partners’ meeting to review the paperwork to make sure no one had screwed up at our end. The signature on the intake form matched the victim’s. Payment had been authorized to her credit account. Everything was in order.

The husband’s lawyer advised him to plead guilty to avoid the death sentence. That sheet of vellum was all the court needed to convict. He took the deal but refused to confess. The case nagged at me because it felt wrong. But no two fingerprints were alike, and The Seer’s predictions were always accurate.

It happened again two weeks later. The computer kicked out one of our clients’ names for confirmation against an obituary. The funeral home write-up said the man died after a lengthy illness. His intake form said POISONED BY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. That told us the cause of death and narrowed the suspect pool. However, the client lived in one of those suburban neighborhoods where everyone waved at each other, but no one really knew anyone. The client’s wife was adamant that there was no conceivable reason for any of their neighbors to kill her husband. The police and our detectives couldn’t identify a suspect. None of the neighbors had purchased poison and the medical examiner found nothing toxic in his system. The case remained open.

The number of irregularities mounted.

* * * *

One afternoon, Vera knocked on my office door. She’d left me alone recently. If we passed in the hallway, I nodded and continued to my destination—usually to a meeting to review the details of another death that seemed at odds with The Seer’s prediction. I was tempted to tell her I was busy, but I couldn’t keep avoiding her. Yes? What is it? Professional. Nothing to make her think I’d had a change of heart. Another lesson I’ve learned: people cling to hope and can convince themselves of anything if it’s what they want.

I have a new intake, she said.

I looked up from my paperwork. Petersen can handle it, I said.

She seemed pale. Her cheeks had lost some of their fullness and there were dark circles under her eyes. Breaking up had taken a toll on her, I thought.

I think you should take this one. Her brow was furrowed.

I knew how determined she could be, but surely we were past that by now. I don’t—

You really need to see this one, she said. She sat without invitation and placed the documents on my desk. Her dress was long, almost to her ankles, and she didn’t cross her legs.

I shrugged. Best get it over with instead of getting into an argument. Who knew where that would lead? I didn’t want to air my personal business in the office. We had enough problems.

The name on the form caught me by surprise: Vera Paulsen. I looked at her. She met my gaze. I raised my eyebrows. She nodded. I reviewed her information, trying to figure out why she needed our services. Cause of death? I asked.

She plucked a sheet of paper from her purse and handed it to me. There was a hint of a smile on her lips. Our fingers brushed when I accepted the document. It seemed deliberate. I pretended not to notice.

I leaned back. Adjusted my shoulders into a more comfortable position. Then I raised the page and read its pithy death sentence: MURDERED BY FORMER BOSS/LOVER.

I inhaled sharply but there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. What is this? I demanded, getting to my feet. I threw the offending paper on the desk.

A prophecy? she said. Her inflection rose at the end, turning her words into a question. By the way, I quit.

I’m not going to kill you, I said.

According to this, you will.

Never. What was the catch? The loophole. I’d faced dozens—hundreds of people—in denial about The Seer’s results. You’re young, I said, grasping at straws. You’ll have other bosses. Other lovers.

I doubt it, she said.

I’m not going to kill you, I repeated.

How are you doing with those other cases? she asked.

I towered over her, seeing her—really seeing her—for the first time in weeks. She looked terrible. Nothing at all like the beautiful young woman who had succumbed to my charms. Or was it the other way around?

What cases?

The ones where you can’t verify what The Seer predicted.

What about them?

Did it never occur to you that The Seer documents clients bring in might not be their own, or forged.

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

She continued. Suppose a vindictive man wanted his ex-wife or former lover to take the blame for his death. The Seer is never wrong. The courts accept her prognoses as absolute proof. You told me that.

I could tell where she was going, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. Once I saw it, though, it seemed so obvious. I was surprised it had taken someone this long to figure out the angle.

Or suppose a spurned lover with total access to your database took it upon herself to research obituaries and forge client files. What would happen then?

I knew what would happen. It came to me in a flash, like a doomsday vision. We’d be discredited, I said. Our business would go up in smoke.

She sat back, a smug look on her face.

I felt sick. You?

She shrugged. Given sufficient motivation and time, who knows how many files such a person might fabricate?

Hundreds, I said. I swallowed. Perspiration formed on my brow.

Maybe even thousands, she said.

I grabbed for the sheet of paper on the desk—very possibly the firm’s death sentence. Or mine, if her scheme worked out.

She beat me to it. Did you know there’s a black market in these things? You can find almost anything if you look hard enough. She gave me a strange look. I think I’ll hold onto this, she said, slipping it into her purse. Put it in a safe place. To be opened after my death. She got to her feet, though the motion was nowhere near as fluid as I remembered. Did I mention that I’m not well? Bad prognosis. Didn’t need The Seer to tell me—the doctors were clear enough.

She turned to leave. I needed to stop her, but I didn’t know how. If I exposed her, our business would collapse overnight. The courts would be thrown into disarray. Every case ever decided by The Seer’s predictions would have to be reviewed. If the firm survived, we’d be back to where we were in the old days, struggling to make a living stalking philandering husbands and wives, and hunting down deadbeat dads.

I always knew the bubble would burst eventually, but I’d thought we could ride it a little longer. Milk it for all it was worth. Step up the intakes and then sell the business to some unsuspecting sucker before the shit hit the fan. Retire to Costa Rica.

All this went through my head before she took her first step toward the door. Was she really dying? Soon? How soon? When she did, that little single sheet of paper would brand me a killer. How could I prove it didn’t belong to her without ruining the lucrative business that supported my extravagant lifestyle?

If I had myself tested, I suspected The Seer would say something simple, like A LIE.

I had to do something before she planted her time bomb.

A prophecy, she had called the document. Maybe it was.

Perhaps The Seer wouldn’t say A LIE after all.

Maybe she would say THE TRUTH.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bev Vincent is the author of several non-fiction books, including The Road to the Dark Tower and Stephen King: A Complete Exploration of His Work, Life and Influences. He co-edited the anthology Flight or Fright with Stephen King and has published more than 120 stories, with appearances in Ellery Queen’s, Alfred Hitchcock’s and Black Cat Mystery Magazines. His work has been published in twenty languages and nominated for the Stoker (twice), Edgar, Ignotus and ITW Thriller Awards. Recent works include The Dead of Winter in Dissonant Harmonies with Brian Keene and The Ogilvy Affair. To learn more, visit bevvincent.com.

LETTER PERFECT,

by Hal Charles

As Sheriff Becky Thornton entered the study of the Villier estate, she was assaulted by a cacophony of loud voices and a group of people pointing fingers and waving arms chaotically. Her good friend Norma Villier had begged her to come over because she feared that trouble was brewing owing to a family dispute.

Becky, shouted a petite woman dodging an accusing finger aimed in her direction, thanks for getting here so quickly.

What seems to be the problem, Norma? Becky said, trying to remain calm in the storm.

It’s my cousin Herbert. Everything was going so smoothly before he showed up. Now all our plans for Uncle Simon’s legacy are shattered.

Just slow down a bit, said Becky, and tell me what’s going on.

Looking in the direction of the two men engaged in heated confrontation at the center of the room, Norma said, You know about the new museum being built downtown.

Becky nodded.

That museum could be a game changer for Connorsville, especially if it had something special to attract people to this part of the state.

I’m not sure I understand, said Becky, keeping an eye on the battling duo.

As you know, Uncle Simon recently passed after a long battle with the disease that left him bedridden and hardly able to lift his head for weeks. Austin and I made plans to donate his collection of rare books and documents to the museum. Then Herbert showed up, claiming that Uncle Simon wanted him to have the collection and that he had no desire to donate the materials.

Becky studied the heavyset man whose face seemed growing redder by the minute. Does your cousin have any proof that your uncle wanted him to have the collection? I know Mr. Villier was civic-minded, and I can’t imagine his wanting such a valuable collection to leave Connorsville.

Just before Uncle Simon passed, he touched my cheek with his trembling hand and told me he wanted his collection to serve as a legacy by providing the new museum with a strong foundation exhibit. Norma let out a troubled sigh. But Herbert has a letter that Uncle Simon sent him that clearly states my uncle’s desire that Herbert have the materials.

Are you sure the letter is genuine?

I’m quite familiar with Uncle Simon’s handwriting, said Norma, and the letter is definitely from him. It’s even on his stationery complete with the family crest.

Moving toward the two men who seemed almost at the point of physical combat, Becky cleared her throat. Gentlemen, if you could just tone it down for a minute, perhaps we can come to some sort of resolution.

Becky, said the bearded man she knew as Austin Villier, I wish Norma hadn’t bothered you. We can settle this ourselves.

Becky raised an eyebrow.

Who are you? said Herbert Villier gruffly.

Not resorting to a show of authority at the moment, Becky said simply, Just a friend of the family.

Well, friend of the family, said Herbert, I didn’t fly all the way from St. Louis to have my cousins take what is mine.

Would you mind if I looked at the letter your uncle sent you? said Becky.

I certainly would mind, said Herbert, glancing at the open letter lying on the table next to a parchment-colored envelope.

Becky flashed her badge and identified herself before saying, I must insist. Then she scooped up the single sheet and read the elegant script aloud: Herbert, since you have always been the scholar in the family, I’d like you to have my collection of books and documents after I’m gone. Regards, Uncle Simon.

That seems pretty straightforward to me, said Herbert.

When did you receive this letter? said Becky.

Three weeks ago, said Herbert. I guess Uncle Simon knew the end was near.

As they talked, Becky’s eyes caught something on the envelope near the address. Herbert, I think you’ll be flying home to St. Louis emptyhanded.

Solution

When Becky saw the elegantly-scripted words in the letter, she knew that Simon Villier couldn’t have written it in his weakened condition. Her suspicions were confirmed by the 37-cent stamp on the envelope. Closer inspection revealed a 2006 postmark beneath a smudge. Confronted, Herbert admitted that his uncle had sent him the letter when he was working on his doctorate in American Literature, long before Simon’s illness and the new museum.

TIGHTENING OF THE BOND,

by R.T. Lawton

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.

It seems our friend the copper is in trouble.

Cletis Johnston, the proprietor of the Twin Brothers Bail Bond Firm, sat forward in his executive leather chair with his elbows resting on the mahogany desk and his ebony hands tented at eye level. Facing him from the other side of the polished mahogany top stood his executive secretary, Moklal Feringheea, and the firm’s solitary bail agent, Theodore Oscar Alan Dewey.

You’re referring to our friend the station captain? Theodore ventured.

"The only copper we have in our pocket," replied Cletis.

Theodore thought he detected a slight amount of sarcasm in that reply, a somewhat disconcerting situation for him to be in. Undercurrents in conversation always left him slightly queasy, causing large beads of sweat to pop out on his pink, bald head. When he thought no one was looking, Theodore used his left hand, the one with the once broken and improperly set little finger, which now stood permanently straight out like a wayward flagpole, to squeegee off some of the moisture.

News such as this recent occurrence meant the office would be in turmoil until circumstances had been remedied to the satisfaction of the proprietor. As the proprietor did not like loose ends, Theodore frequently found himself being the person designated to ensure that all endings were tied up with finality, no comebacks. And, with the way things had gone the last several years, Theodore sometimes wondered how he hadn’t completely dehydrated through excessive perspiration during one of these problem-solving sessions in the bail firm’s Inner Sanctum.

May I inquire what the captain’s problem is?

Cletis paused in reply as he untented his hands and straightened the sleeves of his light tan suit coat of shantung silk. The cuffs of his dark-cranberry shirt now displayed the proper amount of exposure, according to his personal tailor based in Hong Kong. As he reached for a document lying near at hand, soft light from baby spots in the ceiling glistened off his twenty-four-karat gold cuff links, which were inset with polished ebony stones. His dark eyes barely skimmed over the sheet of paper before he spoke.

According to this note delivered to our office a few minutes ago by an anonymous messenger, our friend the captain has been charged with the crime of murder.

Who’d he kill? asked Theodore.

The deceased appears to be an Internal Affairs detective looking into alleged corruption within the department.

Oh, was all that Theodore could say in reply. This was definitely not good. He then tried drying the wet palm and damp fingers of his left hand by wiping them on the left pant leg of his brown slacks. Didn’t work. A small dark spot now showed in the cheap cloth, which meant the sweat on his balding dome would get worse unless he switched hands. Some days, nothing seemed to go right.

To protect our asset within the police department, continued Cletis, we must take immediate action before the situation worsens.

Theodore wondered how the situation could possibly evolve into circumstances worse than a murder rap, but he knew better than to inquire on that subject. He had asked similar questions over the years about other situations and had found to his dismay that circumstances could always get worse than they first appeared. He decided to stay with the action part of the proprietor’s statement.

What type of action did you have in mind, sir?

First, said the proprietor, we must run our own investigation to determine what really happened. He turned his attention to the firm’s executive secretary. Moklal...

At the mere mention of the Hindu’s name, Theodore felt his upper body inadvertently withdrawing from the immediate vicinity of the tall cadaverous man descended from generations of thuggees in northwest India. At least that was part of the information listed in the background report that the proprietor had received from his connections at Interpol when Moklal had been taken on as executive secretary.

Oh course, in his own defense, Moklal claimed said data was based on a mere reference to an alleged thuggee family. He preferred to consider the situation as a family reputation smeared by frightened officials from the old British Colonial Empire during a turbulent time long past, a time when the English held sway over the subcontinent.

But Theodore knew better. He had observed the Hindu’s long muscular fingers sometimes twitching as if they longed to be massaging someone’s throat. And once, while rummaging through Moklal’s desk, Theodore had accidently discovered a yellow silk scarf with a knot tied securely in each end. Curious, he conducted a search on Google and found that according to the official records of The Thuggee and Dacoity Department of the 1830s, plus information from their reputed expert, one Captain Sleeman, this particular type of item was known as a rumal or strangler’s scarf. On the following morning, the scarf had disappeared from Moklal’s desk drawer; however, there were certain subsequent times when Theodore swore he caught a glimpse of yellow silk barely showing from inside one sleeve of the executive secretary’s suit coat. Theodore figured he didn’t need to end up strangled in order to convert that referenced thuggee allegation into an engraved fact. Nope, if he knew how to work a hammer and chisel, he’d put it into stone himself.

Moklal, continued the proprietor, will go to the county jail as a representative of our bail firm and proceed to interview the good captain to see what he knows about this charge of murder against him.

The Hindu nodded.

And me, sir, inquired Theodore. What do you want me to do?

The proprietor made notes on a small square of paper and slid it across the desk.

You, Theodore, will meet with a certain secretary for Internal Affairs at this address. She will provide you with an envelope containing all reports typed up so far that concern this case. In doing so, you will make no attempts to see her face or to identify her in any way.

The bail agent bobbed his head up and down in understanding of the order he’d received.

Do I need to pay her?

That will not be necessary, Theodore. There are other ways to engender one’s cooperation under these circumstances. I have already taken care of the matter.

Theodore bobbed his head again. He knew all too well how these matters worked. He now switched hands to surreptitiously run his right fingers and palm over the top of his perspiring head, especially since conditions now appeared to be getting even more slippery.

The proprietor went back to his paperwork.

Theodore took this as his cue to leave and get about his own business. When he turned to go, he noticed that the Hindu was already nearing the doorway leading out into the front office. Theodore hurried to catch up and pass him.

Tough luck for the captain, getting crosswise with Internal Affairs, he murmured, trying to maneuver through the doorway first. Them guys are going to make our work much more difficult.

Moklal effectively hip blocked any quick exit by the bail agent and moved his own body first into the doorway. His head inclined slightly forward as if to speak in confidence.

As the master Mahatma Gandhi tells us in his sayings, ‘Blaming the wolf would not help the sheep much. The sheep must learn not to fall into the clutches of the wolf.’

Theodore came up short. His brow furrowed.

Wait a minute. Which one are you calling the wolf? I’ve seen the results of some of the captain’s actions, and he didn’t act like no sheep to me.

Moklal grinned. And who is the one getting caught here?

Theodore contemplated the image of a white woolly sheep and then one of a black wolf with red glaring eyes and long white fangs. The two images slowly morphed into a dark wolf covered in the purity of a white sheepskin. Their bent captain had definitely played both sides quite well. Or had, up until now.

* * * *

Theodore had been in the process of paying for his sandwich and something to drink at the food court in the mall when he was rudely bumped on his left shoulder. He turned quickly in that direction to see who had committed this infraction to his person, but there was no one beside or behind him. When he finally faced forward again, he noticed a woman hurrying away off to his right, but from her backside he didn’t recognize anything about her other than she appeared to be dressed for office work. Not wanting to give up his almost-purchased lunch and possibly be late for his pending meeting with the Internal Affairs secretary, he let the woman go. Some people just never apologize for their transgressions, he thought.

It was only a few seconds later, when Theodore reached into his right-side sports coat pocket for enough change to pay the cents portion of his food bill, that he realized there was something more than just coins in that pocket. His stubby, almost webbed-fingered hand drew out a locker key with a white number on its red plastic handle. He stared. He’d known he would be contacted but not how. The bump-and-run sleight of hand by the office-dressed woman was evidently it.

Excuse me, sir, said a snide young male voice on the opposite side of the order counter, you’re holding up the line.

Theodore glanced behind him for the second time. Oh, there were several people lined up there now. He hadn’t been paying attention.

Plus, continued the voice, you still owe me seventy-nine cents.

Theodore counted out the proper change right down to the penny, careful not to lose the key in the process, took his bagged lunch, and hurried away. Holding the bag with one hand and feeding four salty french fries at a time into his mouth with the other hand, he searched for any lockers there might be in the mall. He could only hope that the key wasn’t for lockers at a bus or train station somewhere. Seemed airports had already removed all lockers in their buildings as a safety precaution in these terrorist times, so that option wasn’t feasible.

Finally, in the last place he wanted to look, near the mall security office, he located a long corridor with a wall of bright-yellow lockers, where shoppers could store their coats in cold weather or even extra bags of purchases while continuing to shop in comfort.

There it was.

Number 23.

Theodore inserted the key and turned.

The door dragged open with a slight creaking sound.

Suddenly remembering the airport scene with John Travolta playing Chili Palmer in Get Shorty, Theodore held the door only partially open while he quickly peered in both side directions to see if anyone was paying attention to him and locker 23.

At the far end of the corridor, a door to the ladies room opened. Metal banged on metal as the door swung shut.

Theodore flinched.

But it was only an elderly lady in an electric, three-wheeled vehicle with a single rubber-tipped handle for steering and a small red triangular flag flying from atop a long whip antenna, which stuck up from one corner of the cart’s rear bumper. Its driver appeared to be attached to a green oxygen cylinder by means of a clear plastic tube, which ran from the cylinder strapped in the rear of the vehicle to a clear plastic line under her nose. She breathed heavily and motioned frantically at Theodore, as if he had committed some unknown sin just by being there.

He quickly deduced that she wanted him to get out of her way. Theodore stepped forward toward the locker as she drove past behind him, steered around the corner at the other end of the corridor, and disappeared from sight. He told himself to relax. Surely the police department wasn’t so hard up that they had resorted to enlisting senior citizens in their police auxiliary in order to fill current gaps in the Thin Blue Line, gaps caused by budget cuts in these hard economic times. Removing a large manila envelope from the locker, he hoped he was correct in his assumptions and hurried out of the mall.

As extra insurance to ensure he was not being followed by anyone, Theodore drove four times around the same block before returning to the offices of the Twin Brothers Bail Bond. For a moment, he had been concerned about the multitude of moving yellow cabs behind, beside, and in front of him, but then he reminded himself there were a lot of taxis operating in the city. They couldn’t all be surveillance cars. Upon closer observation he also noticed that the cabs had different numbers stenciled on them, and none of the same numbers seemed to be parading after him during his around-the-block countersurveillance tour. As a final measure, he parked three blocks away and walked to the office.

Inside the Inner Sanctum, Theodore found that Moklal had already returned and was finishing up his verbal report to the proprietor with the words, Unfortunately, he has no alibi.

By that, Theodore assumed that Moklal was referring to the captain. And if the captain had no alibi for the murder, then the Twin Brothers Bail Bond Firm would lose its inside man at the police department. Which meant there would be no further warnings of pending raids on questionable businesses owned by silent partners, no intelligence reports on which criminal organizations various sections of the police department were currently investigating, and most important to Theodore, there would be no further protection from arrest during one of his tying up loose ends for the proprietor escapades if something should go awry, as sometimes happened. For a brief moment, Theodore pictured some of the firm’s previous clients who had inadvertently fallen from high places, carelessly gone deep-water swimming without appropriate underwater breathing apparatus, or had been struck by a wayward taxicab, and each time, the firm made an exorbitant amount of profit on their special bail transactions. Although, as Theodore reminded himself, those rendered deceased by an errant cab had been jaywalking outside the officially recognized crosswalk at the time of contact. In any case, perhaps he was right to maintain a certain paranoia toward city taxicabs. One never really knew.

Are you daydreaming? inquired the proprietor.

Theodore glanced quickly at his boss, realizing that Cletis Johnston was staring directly at him and had his palm extended as if he were expecting to be handed something.

Oh, the report.

The proprietor took the manila envelope, removed the contents, and commenced to read.

According to this report, he said, the Internal Affairs detective was having a couple of drinks in his favorite bar two nights ago with fellow associates. At approximately nine fifteen he received a phone call and left immediately to make an appointment with one of his secret informants. He didn’t come into work the next morning.

Where’d they find him?

Patience, Theodore, we are coming to that part. Yesterday afternoon, the deceased was found lying beside his unmarked police vehicle at the end of a dirt road in the county. He’d been shot three times with an automatic pistol, nine-millimeter. Three casings were recovered at the scene.

Three times, muttered Theodore. Somebody really wanted him dead.

Forensics ran a ballistics test on the three slugs removed from the body, Cletis continued, but there were no matches in the national files and no fingerprints on the three casings.

Then how, questioned Theodore, did they pin the rap on our bent captain?

In a later report, said the proprietor as he finished shuffling some of the documents, it seems an anonymous caller suggested that the police department check their own internal files for a ballistics match. They did, and up comes our captain’s department-issued nine-millimeter as a perfect match.

That didn’t sound right to Theodore. You mean the police department keeps its own special ballistics files?

A mere precaution, Theodore, in some of the larger law-enforcement organizations these days when it comes to department-issued weapons. A newly received firearm is discharged into a water barrel to ensure it works properly, the slugs are retrieved from the water barrel, and a ballistics record is made before the weapon is issued to a particular officer. That way, in any questionable shootings involving a policeman, the department can quickly determine from which officer’s weapon the bullet was fired. It’s like having a DNA data bank already in place, except this one’s established for guns instead of people.

That’s sneaky, muttered Theodore. What’s the captain got to say about things?

Our good captain says he didn’t shoot this particular detective, so Moklal had him go over all his recent activities, trying to find an alibi or a reasonable explanation for the charge.

I already heard Moklal say there was no alibi.

Quite right, Theodore, which leaves us with finding a reasonable explanation for the charge.

Theodore waited for more, but Cletis Johnston only stared off into the darker recesses of the Inner Sanctum. Fearing to interrupt the proprietor’s meditation on the situation, Theodore turned to Moklal and whispered, So what do we know about an explanation?

Not much, replied Moklal in a normal voice. Yesterday and the day before, the captain was involved with his mandatory semiannual firearms qualifications. During the first day, he fired standing from the fifteen-, twenty-five-, and fifty-yard lines for a numerical score, and on the second day, he shot a tactical combat course.

Theodore shrugged. That doesn’t tell us anything.

Actually, it does, injected the proprietor. Moklal, return to the jail and ask our good captain who else was on the firing range with him. I need more details. When you have him in the interview room, call me on one of our throwaway cell phones so I can ask him all the right questions.

Nodding his head in a short bow, the Hindu turned and was gone.

What about me? inquired Theodore.

Go wait in the outer office while I contemplate a strategy. I think you will soon be dining at the food court in the mall again.

As Theodore backed away, he noticed that the proprietor had resumed staring off into the dark recesses of the high ceiling at the far end of the Inner Sanctum. Turning abruptly, Theodore hurried his steps toward the door. Even after all his years at the firm, he had never turned his vision upward toward those dark recesses like the proprietor did. In truth, Theodore was afraid of what he might find lurking there. He strongly suspected it was the lair of something sinister.

* * * *

With a bulky sealed envelope in hand, Theodore returned to the mall food court for an early supper. His instructions were simple: Purchase something that would be placed into a food bag, eat the food, and place any remnants back into the bag. Then, before he threw it into one of the trash receptacles in the food court, he was to surreptitiously insert the envelope into the bag, roll up the bag’s top, and then dispose of it like any other customer getting rid of his trash.

Since the envelope had already been sealed, Theodore had no idea what was written on the paper inside. All he knew was that the heavy envelope contained instructions from the proprietor to the Internal Affairs secretary, and that these instructions were very important to the outcome of the captain’s dire situation. After throwing away the bag, Theodore was to leave and not look back.

All had gone almost as planned.

While consuming something allegedly from the chicken family—he had declined to return to the sandwich-and-fries shop because the snide young man was still working that counter—Theodore mentally picked out one of the nearby large metal trash cans as a drop. The only problem as he saw it was that the mall janitor was slowly moving through the food court, emptying all the receptacles.

Theodore ate slower. He didn’t want to finish too soon, throw the bag away, and then have the mall janitor pick up his food bag containing the important instructions along with all the other garbage. In that case, they would lose the valuable services of their bent captain, and he, Theodore, would be in serious trouble with the proprietor. Theodore figured he already had one broken and improperly set left pinkie. He didn’t need a matching finger on his right hand.

The mall janitor seemed to be working slower.

Theodore ate even slower.

Finally, the janitor emptied the receptacle nearest to Theodore and wandered off with an overfull trash cart.

Theodore breathed a sigh of relief, inserted the sealed envelope into his food bag, and tossed it carefully into the large metal trash can. With all that empty space now in the can, Theodore could hear his bag hit bottom with a muffled thud, but then that bulky envelope of instructions had been rather heavy, heavier than just paper. Before leaving, he glanced all around. None of the other food-court patrons seemed to be paying any attention to him.

He left the food court, walked a short distance, and then turned where he could still observe the trash receptacle. Nobody made a move toward that particular can. After ten minutes of boredom, Theodore decided to leave his post and go on up to the mezzanine, where he’d have a better view of the entire food court. True, he wasn’t supposed to look back in order to identify the receiver of the bag, or even to see what happened after he left, but this delivery was important and needed to go correctly. Besides, who would know other than himself? He took the escalator up.

If it hadn’t been for the large crowds of shoppers on the escalator, plus those taking their own unhurried time along the elevated walkway, Theodore figured he would have arrived at the mezzanine rail earlier. As it was, he showed up just as a second janitor was making his rounds of emptying the same trash receptacles. Didn’t these guys coordinate with each other? And, sure enough, there was Theodore’s own food bag with the rolled-up top now joining garbage from several other cans.

Hey, shouted Theodore.

Without turning in the direction of Theodore’s voice, this second janitor, pushing his semifilled cart, slowly meandered off in the same direction the first one had taken. By the time Theodore fought his way back through the crowds and down the escalator, the janitor had vanished. And so had the food bag with sealed instructions for the Internal Affairs secretary. Theodore wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this to the proprietor.

Dragging his feet, Theodore once more returned to the office. Mulling circumstances over in his head en route to the Inner Sanctum, he decided that denial was the best defense. As far as he was concerned, he had done as he was told. Except for the last part, of course, but then he could deny sticking around to see who picked up the bag. That it turned out to be one of the mall janitors instead of the Internal Affairs lady, well, this particular error was clearly not his fault; therefore, he’d remain silent on that part.

The proprietor glanced up. I see you’re back. Did you make the drop as instructed?

Yes, sir, envelope in the bag, bag in the trash.

Good, then all should go as planned and our captain’s murder charge will soon have a different explanation.

Excuse me, sir, but how exactly do we provide a different explanation for his murder charge?

Cletis Johnston came as close to a smile as Theodore had ever seen on the proprietor’s face.

Having a working knowledge of semiautomatic pistols is of immense assistance in determining a very rational set of circumstances as to how our captain’s gun fired the deadly bullets.

Theodore, himself, carried a six-shot revolver. Having the extra duty of remembering to thumb the safety on an automatic pistol to an off position was just one more thing that slowed him down when he needed to use a weapon. As he saw it, committing crimes was difficult enough without having your weapon fail to fire because you forgot to flip off the damn safety. A guy could