Black Cat Weekly #59

By Steve Liskow, Justin Gustainis, Darrell Schweitzer and 7 more

Our 59th issue puts us firmly into one of the happiest seasons of the year, Halloween! So fun and frights abound, with extra spooky content—starting with “Ghost Writers in the Sky,” an original tale by Steve Liskow, courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken. (It does double-duty as mystery and fantasy, as does Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman’s pick, “Deal Breaker,” by Justin Gustainis.)

Alas, we have no selection from Cynthia Ward this time, but hopefully she will be back in short order. I picked up one of my favorite dark fantasies by another Acquiring Editor to fill the hole: “Peeling It Off,” by Darrell Schweitzer. Plus an uncanny tale by A.R. Morlan that would have been at home in Weird Tales, then a Victorian-era occult novel by Marie Corelli round things out.

For fans of traditional mysteries, we have a pair of great private detective novels: About Face, by Frank Kane, and a vintage Nick Carter novel from 1903. On the science fiction side, we have contributions by Murray Leinster and a novel by George O. Smith.

Overall, this is one of our most eclectic issues, but there is bound to be more than a few tales to suit everyone’s taste.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Ghost Writers in the Sky,” by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Point, Set, Match,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Deal Breaker,” by Justin Gustainis [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Toying with Fate, by Nicholas Carter
About Face, by Frank Kane [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Ghost Writers in the Sky,” by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Deal Breaker,” by Justin Gustainis [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Peeling It Off,” by Darrell Schweitzer [novelet]
“The Cat Tracker Lady of Asad Alley,” by A.R. Morlan [short story]
“The Nameless Something,” by Murray Leinster [novelet]
The Hellflower, by George O. Smith [novel]
The Sorrows of Satan, by Marie Corelli [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Oct 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667640167

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

GHOST WRITERS IN THE SKY, by Steve Liskow

POINT, SET, MATCH, by Hal Charles

DEAL BREAKER, by Justin Gustainis

TOYING WITH FATE, by Nicholas Carter

INTRODUCTION

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

ABOUT FACE, by Frank Kane

INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PEELING IT OFF, by Darrell Schweitzer

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

THE CAT-TRACKER LADY OF ASAD ALLEY, by A.R. Morlan

THE NAMELESS SOMETHING, by Murray Leinster

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

THE HELLFLOWER, 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 10

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 24

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

THE SORROWS OF SATAN, by Marie Corelli

INTRODUCTION

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Ghost Writers in the Sky is copyright © 2022 by Steve Liskow and appears here for the first time.

Point, Set, Match is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Deal Breaker is copyright © 2013 by Justin Gustainis. Originally published in Weird Detectives: Recent Investigations. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Toying With Fate, by Nicholas Carter, was originally published in 1903.

About Face, by Frank Kane, was originally published in 1947.

Peeling It Off is copyright © 1990 by Darrell Schweitzer. Originally published in Borderlands, edited by Thomas F. Monteleone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Cat Tracker Lady of Asad Alley is copyright © 2013 by A. R. Morlan. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Nameless Something, by Murray Leinster, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1947, under the pseudonym William Fitzgerald.

The Hellflower, by George O. Smith, was originally published in Startling Stories, May 1952.

The Sorrows of Satan, by Marie Corelli, was originally published in 1895.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 59th issue puts us firmly into one of the happiest seasons of the year, Halloween! So fun and frights abound, with extra spooky content—starting with Ghost Writers in the Sky, an original tale by Steve Liskow, courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken. (It does double-duty as mystery and fantasy, as does Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman’s pick, Deal Breaker, by Justin Gustainis.)

Alas, we have no selection from Cynthia Ward this time, but hopefully she will be back in short order. I picked up one of my favorite dark fantasies by another Acquiring Editor to fill the hole: Peeling It Off, by Darrell Schweitzer. Plus an uncanny tale by A.R. Morlan that would have been at home in Weird Tales, then a Victorian-era occult novel by Marie Corelli round things out.

For fans of traditional mysteries, we have a pair of great private detective novels: About Face, by Frank Kane, and a vintage Nick Carter novel from 1903. On the science fiction side, we have contributions by Murray Leinster and a novel by George O. Smith.

Overall, this is one of our most eclectic issues, but there is bound to be more than a few tales to suit everyone’s taste.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Ghost Writers in the Sky, by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Point, Set, Match, Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Deal Breaker, by Justin Gustainis [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Toying with Fate, by Nicholas Carter

About Face, by Frank Kane [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Ghost Writers in the Sky, by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Deal Breaker, by Justin Gustainis [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Peeling It Off, by Darrell Schweitzer [novelet]

The Cat Tracker Lady of Asad Alley, by A.R. Morlan [short story]

The Nameless Something, by Murray Leinster [novelet]

The Hellflower, by George O. Smith [novel]

The Sorrows of Satan, by Marie Corelli [novel]

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

GHOST WRITERS IN THE SKY,

by Steve Liskow

Chase Crittendon’s agent got in touch with my agent, who called me in to discuss ghostwriting his memoirs.

Three publishers want it badly enough to start a bidding war. Andrew’s fingers twitched as though he counted invisible money. Starting at seven figures. You’d get ten per cent of the advance, plus the royalties.

Which meant Andrew, my agent, would get fifteen per cent of my ten percent.

Before reaching thirty, Chase Crittendon sold over 100 million records. He owned four mansions in three different countries, each with a swimming pool, tennis court, and a barbecue pit half the size of an SUV. He owned a yacht, two jet planes, and had a golf tournament named after him.

How come he can’t write it himself? I asked. Too busy touring?

Andrew’s fingers moved faster. "The guy can write a hit song while he’s taking a shower, but he can’t write a decent sentence without a back beat. His prose is crap. Those are his agent’s words, not mine."

I knew Crittendon gave millions to various charities and had fans bring food and supplies to his concerts to help the homeless. Even if he turned out to be a jerk in real life, ten per cent of seven figures is six figures.

Two weeks later, Andrew and I met Crittendon and his agent at the house above the Pacific Ocean. Crittendon had a broken nose from falling off a bicycle when he was nine, and it was all that kept him from being perfect. Six feet tall, wide shoulders, sparkling eyes, curly brown hair, a smile like sunshine and a voice like maple syrup. We left the agents to work out the details, but I agreed to write the book under his name.

I looked at a list of people he compiled for interviews: musicians, former classmates, relatives, even his ex-wife.

It’s going to be hard to make this seem like a strict memoir if I mention all these people, I said. It might work better as a biography in third person. We’d have to change the byline to something like ‘with,’ or ‘as told to... ’

Fine, he said. Money doesn’t care who spends it.

A week later, I moved into a spare bedroom in his mansion. I’ve seen smaller basketball courts. I watched him rehearse and work on new songs with his band. His studio was state of the art, including acoustic tile, which was a good thing because they rehearsed at full volume.

These are just our practice amps, he said. About a tenth of what our PA is like when we tour. I wondered if seismographs up and down the coast picked up the noise and decided I knew enough about his process after one session. I dug through hundreds of photographs, going back to when he was learning to tie his own shoes. I interviewed all the band members, too.

Shane, the keyboard player, had a shaved head so he resembled a pale Tootsie Pop.

Chase, he can play every instrument in the band, he said. But not at the same time. Which is why we’re here.

But he writes all the songs alone, right?

Shane stretched his legs and leaned back in the chair. That’s what the copyrights say.

Rimshi played bass and some of the more exotic percussion. He remembered times where someone else in the band suggested a lyric or a melody phrase that Chase used.

Why don’t you call him on it? I asked.

Seriously? We all make more at one gig than my family used to make in a whole year. Rimshi was a head shorter than me, with fingers that made me think of spiders, and hair pulled back in a licorice-colored queue. All his syllables had equal stress.

Normandy Beach—I assumed that wasn’t her real name—had a room next to Chase’s, even bigger than mine. The guys in the band called her Normandy Bitch. She had hair the color of a fire hydrant, eyes the color of eight balls, and no tan lines. She and Chase had been together for three years.

No talk of marriage? I asked.

Her lips tightened. Her tank top matched her hair and she sat in a lotus position that made her gym shorts ride up her thighs. She was several inches shorter than my own five-ten.

Chase is a tomcat on tour, she said. He’s laid more pipe than all the union plumbers in California.

So why do you stay with him?

She looked at me like I was an idiot.

It’s really good pipe.

I forced myself not to think about that.

How did you two get together in the first place?

She told me a convoluted story about being room service and delivering to his hotel room one night and never leaving. Later, she told another about working on his website. There were a couple of others, each one more outrageous.

How many of his songs were inspired by you? I asked.

I don’t ask. She looked at the sun blasting through the windows over her bed.

You want to join me in the pool when we’re done here?

* * * *

Three weeks later, I had notes from about twenty interviews, all on Zoom, and I’d talked with the entire band and Normandy—still hadn’t found her real name—several times. Chase was helping me go through the photographs to identify people. The earliest ones were from a real camera with film, the names in pencil on the back, many so smudged he had to decipher the writing.

Even at rest, Crittendon exuded the energy of his concerts. Being in the same room with him was like standing in front of a Marshall stack at full volume. When he talked, I almost felt my hair blow in the breeze.

This is great stuff, I told him. But the more I look at it, the more I think the book should be third-person, a bio instead of a memoir. We talked about that before.

I remember. He wore a faded polo shirt and cargo shorts that showed legs the color of medium toast. He and Normandy were spending lots of time in the pool and I was glad my windows didn’t look down on them. That’s fine if you think it’ll be more natural.

It’s your story, I said. I don’t want to mess with your vision.

He rolled his eyes. Vision. Right. We both know my writing sucks. You’re the pro here, so it’s your call.

When he closed the door behind him, his energy still filled the room.

I flew home the next morning. I’d reached the point where more research was a way of putting off the real job of putting words on paper. I still had to eliminate dozens of photographs or the book would be the size of a Jersey barrier, but I told myself to dive in and hack my way through the material as I went. That’s what first drafts were for.

Four days and about forty pages into the mess, I found the voice and got that little energy burst. Chase and the band would go out on tour in another week, and I hoped to have a complete first draft to show him when they returned two months later.

The next day, Andrew, Normandy, and Thornton, Chase’s agent, all texted me, but I’d already seen the news online.

Normandy and one of Chase’s maids found him floating face down in his swimming pool.

* * * *

Four days later, I sat in the fifth row of the church and watched rock and roll royalty parade past the flower-bedecked coffin and deliver stunned eulogies. Normandy’s eyes told me she was tranked into the middle of next month, her voice a soft monotone barely audible over the PA system. Thornton, two band members, and a woman who resembled her without the flaming red hair all hovered over her like they expected her to fall apart, but she made it back to her seat in the front row.

I followed the line up to look at the body, which still seemed to exude that same energy. Chase’s eyes were closed, but I expected him to look at me and ask how the writing was going.

I was two steps from the casket when I heard someone say:

We need to talk later.

I turned, but nobody was near me. It sounded like Chase’s voice.

We watched the coffin disappear into the earth, then Thornton, Normandy, and the woman who I decided was her sister shared the limo with me back to the mansion.

Excuse me, I said. I was working on Chase’s memoir before... this. I’ve interviewed a lot of people, and I don’t recognize you, but you’re clearly someone he knew.

She gripped Normandy’s fingers. Not well. I’m here for Norma more than I am for him.

Norma? The redhead turned her head like a dog recognizing its name.

My real name is Norma Andrea Bach. This is my sister Trish.

Okay. Now I see where Normandy Beach came from.

Clever you.

When we reached Chase’s mansion, the food and drink could have fed a third-world country. People talked about what a great guy Chase was, what a talent, what a tragedy, and all the things you usually talk about at funerals. Rimshi and the drummer drifted away and reappeared a few minutes later with dilated pupils. I carried a glass of chardonnay around for nearly an hour without raising it to my lips. Normandy was doing the same, Trish not quite holding her upright.

I drifted over to Thornton, Chase’s agent. He was about my height, with retro sideburns that made his face look too wide for his thin body. His eyes seemed to watch everyone in the room without moving his head, and his suit probably cost more than my car.

They think he hit his head when he jumped into the pool. Knocked himself out.

I felt myself frown.

They aren’t sure?

He shook his head. He was naked, too, but hell, it’s his house and his pool. If he wanted to skinny-dip, who was going to complain? He and Normandy probably did it a lot.

The crowd gradually thinned out, but not until the platters were empty and the bartenders looked exhausted. I found Normandy and Trish standing near the fireplace that probably had never had a fire in it, even though logs the size of my legs rested in an elaborate stand.

I’m terribly sorry, I said. I know that sounds lame.

This is my fault. Normandy’s voice wobbled.

Um, the police think it was an accident.

Trish gave me a look that could have cracked a brick. I went out onto the terrace and ignored the smell of weed drifting over the flagstones in the breeze. The musicians saw me and hurried back inside. Trees rustled softly and a shadow sat on the stone wall on the far side from where the band had been smoking.

Normandy. That bitch.

I drew closer and the shadow stood up. Chase was naked, and the moonlight washed through him in a faint bluish glow.

Um, what are you—?

Those idiot cops. Normandy got me so pissed, I went out for a swim to calm down. I think she followed me and slugged me.

I told myself I was drunk on two sips of good wine. I had to be. Either that or I was crazy.

The cops think you hit your head.

Chase shivered.

Damn breeze. Let me borrow your coat.

I took off my suit coat. He reached for it and it fell to the stones beneath us.

Hell, I was afraid of that.

I picked it up and dusted it off, trying to keep things casual. Everyone talked to dead men, right? Especially at their own funeral.

You saw Normandy hit you?

He shook his head. No, but who else could have done it? I mean, who else would have any reason?

I’m missing a lot of backstory here, Chase. I put my coat back on. Did you have a fight or something?

I asked her to marry me.

She turned you down? I tried to wrap my head around that. Considering that I was talking to a ghost, it wasn’t that much of a challenge.

It’s complicated, he said.

Whoa, maybe that could be a lyric in a new song.

He tried to glare at me, but I could see through him, which ruined the effect.

Or maybe not, I went on. Can you play anymore?

Prove it, Vince. Prove she killed me, and you’ve got your book, all for yourself. You’ll be as rich as I am. Was.

I’m a writer. I know how to ask questions.

You’ve got a will, right? Who’s your main beneficiary?

Normandy, of course.

Motive. And she definitely had opportunity. Now all I had to do was find her method.

Have you noticed that there aren’t any windows on the first story that face the swimming pool? We swam naked a lot, if you want to put it in the book.

You know I’ll never be able to unsee that, don’t you?

Perks of the job.

The shadow drifted away and I went back inside.

The caterers were cleaning up while Thornton talked to Normandy and her sister near the stairs. When he joined two other men with stern faces and expensive suits, I approached the women. Their faces were pale as a... never mind.

Norma, I began.

God, she whispered. I hated that name. I went by Andrea, Andy, most of the way through school. Then I thought of combining them.

Okay, I tried again. Andy? What did Thornton want? You look even more upset.

He wants me out of the damn house. Now that Chase is gone, his accounts are frozen until the estate goes through probate. Thornton’s the executor, and he’s given me a week to leave.

Creep, Trish added.

I rescued a bottle of wine from the bar when the bartenders weren’t looking.

Can we go upstairs and talk?

Normandy frowned at the bottle. You think that’s going to get you somewhere?

No, but if I’m going to finish the book, I have to know what really happened. And you can help.

Only if Trish stays, too.

Unless you’re more twisted than you look, Trish added.

Normandy’s king-sized bed rested below third-floor windows that did look down on the swimming pool, and the furniture was more comfortable and less outrageous than I expected. It looked like a normal person’s bedroom, only exponentially larger. A walk-in closet was bigger than my own living room, and the vanity across from it was dark wood with a large mirror.

The women sat on a love seat, and I chose an armchair across from them. Wall sconces threw reflected light off the ceiling and lit the whole room evenly.

You found Chase early in the morning, right? Did he like to swim then?

She looked down at her tasteful black dress, much less garish than I would have expected. She tucked her legs up under her before she answered.

We both did. But we got into an argument and he stormed out. I figured he’d cool off, and I took a sleeping pill before he came back. I thought... I don’t know...

What was the argument about?

Chase materialized near the door and walked over near the bed. Both women were facing that direction, but neither of them reacted at all.

He asked me to marry him. Normandy looked at her hands, devoid of any rings.

Yeah, he told me about that. I caught myself. I mean, he told me he’d asked you several times.

And I always told him the same thing. If he gave up the groupies, I’d do it. But I didn’t want to share him, and I definitely didn’t want to share any tiny livestock.

And you told him that?

Trish wandered over to the closet to check out the dresses. She walked through Chase on the way.

I made a deal with him. I told him that if all the band members would swear that he hadn’t had any strange on the tour, I’d marry him. I didn’t think that was a big deal. I mean, he expects me to fly solo for two or three months when he’s out there playing music every night, what’s different about him going without, too.

So you didn’t see anyone when he was away?

She brushed back her hair and looked at the bed. Her face looked like she was running out of steam, and who could blame her. I wondered if she’d let her hair go back to its natural color now that Chase was dead.

I asked him about going on a tour with him when we first hooked up, and he said no. I stayed here. But I heard stories from the other guys. It pissed me off and we argued, but I stayed.

You said you’ve been together three years, so that must have been quite a while ago.

It was. Normandy glanced over at her alarm clock. It was almost midnight. I couldn’t hear any noise downstairs and figured the caterers and everyone else except the regular servants had left. I... saw a couple of guys that first time, but I didn’t mention it. Then I began to believe we were really a couple, and haven’t been with anyone else since then.

Trish pulled a dress off a hanger and held it in front of her. Chase looked at her and whistled. Neither woman responded. Trish put the dress back.

This was an ongoing issue, then. Chase sat on the bed and looked at Trish, patting the pillow next to him.

Will you stop that? I snapped.

Both women jumped and Trish’s eyes widened.

I’m just looking at my sister’s clothes. What’s the big deal?

Sorry. I wasn’t talking to—never mind. I shook my head. I guess I’m just tired.

Must suck to be you. Normandy looked toward the window overlooking the pool.

I was going down to breakfast the next morning and Karina, the maid, dashed in. She was setting breakfast places outside and saw him. I went out with her and...

The call to nine-one-one came from your phone, I said.

Yeah. We managed to get him out of the pool, but he was already stiff.

Wasn’t I always? Chase grinned lasciviously on the bed, and I wanted to flip him off.

Normandy shifted on the love seat.

Is this going to take much longer? I’m wiped. I’d like to get some sleep.

Sorry. Let me make sure I’ve got this. You offered to marry Chase if he stopped chasing other women, and he got mad.

Pretty much. We got kind of loud, and finally he stormed out down to the pool.

Naked, like he was when you found him? I hoped I could find a flaw in her story. Or were there other clothes by the pool? You know, a bathrobe, jeans, whatever?

She hesitated. I... don’t remember. Well, he’d been in bed with me, right? His room is down the hall, he might have grabbed something on the way.

Do you know that you’re his main beneficiary, in his will?

She nodded. I get more money than I could spend in a century, and I don’t know where the rest goes. But Thornton’s waiting for the will to be probated, and he wants me out until then. Jerk. He probably gets a cut, too.

She looked at me seriously. I don’t even know how much Chase was worth, but it’s enough so you’re thinking I’d have a motive to kill him, right?

I didn’t say that, I said.

You don’t have to. She looked at the clock again. Go write your friggin’ book.

If I find out what really happened, it might help them probate the will more quickly, I pointed out. That can’t hurt you if your story is true.

I walked down the hall to Chase’s room, even bigger than Normandy’s. It wasn’t locked, so I went in and closed the door behind me. I turned on the lights, the same diffused sconces as the other room, and opened the drawer of his nightstand. A small velvet box sat on top of a box of tissues. When I opened it, I saw a diamond as big as the Ritz.

I returned to my own room. My pre-funeral clothes hung in a closet almost as big as Normandy’s, emphasizing both the size of the closet and paucity of my wardrobe.

Chase materialized by my bed.

You call that investigating?

I’m tired, I said. But I don’t think she had anything to do with your death. Except maybe getting you so steamed you went out to swim.

How do you figure?

I tried to remain calm and logical. While talking to a ghost.

If she was guilty, wouldn’t she have seen you, too?

He shrugged. I’m new at this. I don’t know all the rules yet.

I didn’t either.

* * * *

The next morning, I woke up long before the sisters and went downstairs. Two women bustled around the kitchen, and I recognized Karina, the woman who found Chase’s body along with Normandy. The smell of coffee filled the space, along with cinnamon from the rolls in the oven.

I poured my own coffee and waited until Karina removed the baking sheet from the oven. Cerita tended scrambled eggs in a pan. Both women were small, nearly petite, Karina with pale blond hair and gray eyes and Cerita with hair and eyes like tar, and olive skin.

You and Normandy found Chase, didn’t you?

Karina spread frosting on each roll without looking at me, her hands shaking the tiniest bit. I let her finish before I asked again.

I don’t want to talk about it, please.

I’m writing the book on Chase’s life, remember? I want to make sure I get the facts right. You were there when he died.

She shook her head and her chin trembled.

No. He... he was already dead. I remember how c-c-cold he was. I was so scared, but Ms. Beach jumped in the water and pushed him to the edge of the pool so we could get him out. His skin was all... wrinkly.

She turned away and her shoulders shook.

I’m sorry, I said. But I only have a couple more questions. How did you know he was out there?

I didn’t. It was a beautiful day, and Mr. C always liked his breakfast out on the terrace when it was sunny. I went out to set two places at a table when I saw him. I came back in, and Ms. Beach was in the kitchen getting coffee. I told her, and we both went out.

Do you remember seeing anything else out there? A bathrobe, a towel, anything like that?

She shook her head.

Only Cerita and I were awake. The other servants work later, and Mr. Thornton was still asleep. He came by late the night before and stayed over.

Does he do that often?

She pushed her hair back off her forehead, her face shiny from the oven.

When Mr. Crittendon is going to tour, they talk a lot. Mr. Thornton is a... what do you say? A control freak.

Normandy and Trish appeared, both in cut-offs and T-shirts and sandals. Normandy’s eyes looked red and her sister’s eyes looked heavy. Cerita poured them coffee and put napkins and silverware at their places.

Thornton stomped in a few minutes later, his lips tight and his eyes narrow. Even for breakfast at Chase’s mansion, he wore pinstripes with a matching tie and pocket square. The vertical stripes made him look eight feet tall.

The promoters want me to arrange the refunds for the cancelled tour, he complained. Christ, what a mess.

How many tickets had you sold?

A shit ton. He stood across from me while Normandy and her sister avoided eye contact. We had thirty-six concerts scheduled, about two-thirds of them were already sold out. The others probably would have, too.

He pulled out his phone and swiped across the screen.

The new CD is gonna be released in four weeks. They were going to play most of the songs from it every night.

I remembered John Lennon’s double LP selling millions of copies after he was shot. Chase’s CD might do even better.

So who gets the royalties?

The estate will get fifteen percent, and so will I. The band guys, they get a cut, too. But the tour is gone, so they’ve lost a bundle.

What’s going to happen to them now?

He sat and waited for the women to set him another place and pour him coffee, his eyes on his phone. When he looked up, he seemed disappointed I was still there.

They’ll all find other bands to play with. Or maybe do session work. They’ll be okay.

How much of the planning did you do personally? For the tour?

Thornton looked back at his phone. The big stuff. Finding the venues. My staff handles the details. Hotels, transportation, taking care of the equipment.

I remembered seeing the band in concert with a sound system that would drown out a nuclear blast. The musicians and crew all wore ear plugs.

How much equipment do—did—they move from town to town?

Not a lot. We rent—rented—a PA and the big speaker cabinets for each town. The musicians had their instruments and one or two smaller amps they used for practice in the hotels, but the big stuff, that weighs tons. It would’ve been insane to transport it all.

Was it hard to find equipment? Did you need lots of advance notice?

Thornton looked up again. Chase, Rimshi, and Shane had their own pedal boards, but we signed up for the rentals in every venue months ago so we had what we needed. Which reminds me, I’ve got to cancel all that, too.

He went back to his phone. I sipped my coffee and waited until he looked up at me again.

How long do you think it will take the will to go through probate?

Wish I knew. They’ve got to do an audit, and Chase has so many sales and downloads that the figures keep changing. It would be easy if we froze sales for a few weeks, but, that’s big bucks. I don’t want to lose it.

He glanced at the women, whose eyes never left their plates.

The court might tell us to do it anyway.

He put his phone away and looked at me.

You’re going to have to be out of here in a day or two, too.

I took another cinnamon bun and took a long time chewing so I didn’t reply in front of the women.

Back in my room, I banged out a few pages on my laptop before I decided I needed more distance. I needed to find the answers, too. Since Normandy and her sister didn’t see Chase’s ghost, I decided they had nothing to do with his death. The servants seemed pretty broken up, too, but none of them acted as if they’d seen anything unusual, like a transparent naked man tooling around the mansion.

I took the long walk to Normandy’s room next door. She let me in, and I saw piles of clothes on the bed.

I’m going to have to ship some of these, she said. Or have a gigundo rummage sale or something.

How many of these do you wear often? I know, a guy response. I own one good suit and spend most of my time in jeans. I have three pairs of sneakers, though.

Seriously? Most of the gowns, like, once. An award banquet, something like that. Maybe out to dinner if we were giving the tabloids a photo op. I’ve got really narrow feet, so it’s hard to find heels that are half-way comfortable.

You’re more a Tee and jeans girl anyway, Trish said. Me too.

I helped her stuff a suitcase and she sat on it while I closed the latch.

How much attention did Chase pay to his financial affairs? I asked.

She looked at the mound of dresses still burying the bed. Not a lot. He cared about his music and playing and composing. He said money’s what the agent is for, and Thornton did it. Paid his bills, arranged the tour, stuff like that.

I helped them wrap a few vases in newspaper and wished I could ask them more about Chase’s death. Except for the ghost, which was the whole wild card. Chase thought someone killed him and blamed Normandy, but she didn’t see his ghost. Either she didn’t kill him and someone else did, or he drowned all by himself. The ME found a contusion on the back of his head that might have come from his bumping his head on the side of the pool. But it might not.

I went down to the kitchen and took an apple from the refrigerator. Karina frowned, so I offered her one, too.

Will you and the others have to leave here now that Mr. Crittendon is gone?

She chewed her apple, the tip of her nose wiggling so she resembled a baby bunny.

Mr. Thornton has said so. But not right away. He expects us to prepare the house so he can sell it.

I thought Ms. Beach might inherit it. I chewed another bite of apple myself. If she does, would you stay on?

Perhaps. She is nice.

Was Mr. Crittendon nice, too?

Oh, yes. He was always polite to us. He even knew our birthdays.

Really.

Normandy said she would get a big piece of the estate, but didn’t mention whether that would include property. Since Thornton wanted to sell the house, he probably knew the answer to that.

You don’t like Mr. Thornton, do you?

Karina’s face turned pink. He is not kind. And he does not respect us.

Somehow, that didn’t surprise me.

* * * *

When I returned to my room, Chase sat on the bed. The mattress didn’t sag under him, and the covers didn’t wrinkle.

How’s your ‘investigation’ going? His fingers formed air quotes.

I’ve got an idea, I told him. Tonight, I’m going to try to get as many people as I can out at the pool. Watch from your room until you see me take off my shirt. Then come down and join us.

What’s that going to do?

We’ll see, I said. Or maybe I should rephrase that.

What do you mean?

I crossed my fingers.

"Maybe someone will."

I spent the rest of the day plowing through Chase’s old photographs and leaving texts for his accountants, who didn’t get back to me. If tonight went well, it might not matter.

The sisters emerged from Normandy’s room looking exhausted, depressed and pissed off. I couldn’t blame them.

You look like you need a break, I commented.

No kidding, Normandy said. Preferably Thornton’s arms and legs. And maybe his fingers and toes for good measure.

After we eat, let’s all go out to the pool and relax a little.

I can’t relax. Normandy looked smaller and her red hair was losing its luster. I told myself it was the light in the hallway. I still think about how I blew it when Chase and I last talked.

I don’t think you did, I said. And if you come swimming tonight, I might be able to prove it.

Really. Trish looked at me as if I’d told her I was Santa Claus. And how do you plan to do that?

It’s going to be easier to show you than to explain it. Or not. I remembered the swimming trunks still in my suitcase. Do you both have bathing suits?

Oh, nice try, sailor.

It’s not for me, I told them. They didn’t look like they believed me.

It’s for Chase.

Excuse me?

Never mind.

* * * *

The sun was sinking behind the trees, and citronella candles kept the mosquitos at bay. The shadows made everyone look taller than the Marshall stacks the band used on tour, and we settled around two tables, the women maintaining as much distance from Thornton as possible. I should have asked Normandy if she’d ever had to fight the guy off like Karina hinted that she had, but I didn’t think of it until I saw him leer at her over his martini.

Normandy sipped her wine like she wanted it to last all night. She wore gym shorts and a loose T-shirt over what I assumed was a bikini. Trish had a Tee and yoga pants, her hair tucked under a baseball cap and a Bud Lite on the table next to her.

How’s the packing coming? Thornton didn’t quite sneer.

Peachy. Normandy didn’t quite flip him off, either.

How much do you think you’ll get for this place if you sell?

I sipped ginger ale because I wanted to keep a clear head for the proceedings. If I was right, nobody else would be a reliable witness to anything that happened. If anything did happen, of course. If Chase’s death really was an accident, nothing would, but the more I thought about it, the less likely that seemed.

Thornton slid the last olive into his mouth and it looked incredibly obscene.

I’ll ask fifteen million. The place is beautiful, it’s got a great provenance, and you can’t beat the location.

Normandy’s throat muscles moved and I could tell she was struggling not to say anything. Trish adjusted her cap and looked at me.

Is the entertainment coming soon? she asked. I mean, you got us out here to unwind, right?

What did you have in mind? I asked. I don’t play guitar very well, and nobody in their right mind would want to hear me sing.

She sighed theatrically. Well, that kills that, doesn’t it? How about juggling or card tricks?

Oh God, Normandy said. Please. But I guess that’s better than charades, and we don’t have enough people for that, anyway.

We could swim, Thornton said. Hell, I know you can swim. You and Chase got lots of practice.

Normandy looked at him as if she’d found him stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I’d rather run across the LA Freeway blindfolded than feel your eyes on my ass.

Oh, don’t be that way, sweetheart. You play your cards right, you might not have to move out.

He put two fingers into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Karina appeared with her mouth a tight thin line.

Hey, honey, make me another martini. Three olives.

She snatched his glass and retreated again. Normandy and Trish watched him study Karina’s ass until she slammed the door behind her.

If you looked at me that way, Normandy said, I’d break out in a rash.

You want to stay here, you should be nice.

Trish turned to me again.

You’re a writer, Vince. The least you can do is tell us a story.

All right.

I stood and pulled my polo over my head. I draped it over the back of the chair and walked near the edge of the pool.

Oh, swell, Trish commented. Strip story-telling. Is that a thing now?

Not really. But I’ve trying to figure out how Chase died, and I’ve got a couple of ideas to run by the three of you.

Thornton snorted. The guy was buzzed. He and the bitch here had a tiff, he came down to chill, and he hit his head diving into the pool.

Maybe, I said. But there are a few loose ends. First, Normandy here admits they had a fight, but he’d asked her to marry him. I think he might have come down here to think about things a little, then maybe go back and patch things up. Normandy, did he ever do that before?

The sunbeam between two trees zeroed in on her hair and turned it into a flaming red burst you could probably see from a satellite.

Sometimes, she said. He’d come down here to work on songs, too, sometimes. He’d get stuck on piano or guitar, and he’d move out here and swim, let his mind go blank until he got another idea.

Okay, I said. And he wasn’t buzzed. The medical examiner says he had almost no alcohol in his blood. Or anything else.

Karina reappeared with Thornton’s martini on a tray and put it on the far side of the table from him.

Hey, bring it closer. How do you expect to get a good tip?

I did not spit in it. That should be enough. She stalked back into the house.

Something else that didn’t occur to me until I talked to Karina earlier, I said. Normandy didn’t go down to the pool, but that doesn’t mean Chase was alone.

Thornton peered over his glass at me, minus the leer he had for Normandy earlier. Chase materialized behind Thornton’s table, five steps away from Trish, who didn’t stop sipping her beer.

You mean little Miss Domestic there? Yeah, good point, I’ll bet she looks great in a bikini. Or even less.

Actually, I was thinking of you.

Thornton froze with his glass in mid-air.

Yeah. I watched Chase walk across the water in the pool behind Thornton. Karina told me that you got here after everyone ate that night. She fixed you a sandwich and you went up to your usual room. Chase would have passed you on his way downstairs, and I think you followed him.

And why would I do that?

Because you’ve been dipping into his money. He didn’t look at his accounts very carefully, but you did. I’ve called his accountants and asked them to send me a copy of the audit they’re preparing for the probate court. I expect they’re going to notice a few irregularities.

That’s crap. Thornton sipped his martini again, a little too fast.

You bastard. Normandy stood up and I could see a flaming red aura around her. Maybe it was rage, or maybe it was just the sun sinking lower behind her. Either way, it was pretty impressive.

That’s why you want to sell the house. Her voice dropped an octave, into pit bull register. You’ve got to replace all the money you stole. That’s why you want me out so fast.

Bull, Thornton said. Sit down, sweetie. You’re not doing yourself any favors.

He turned back to me. Even if that were true, there’s no way in hell you could prove it.

Maybe there is, I said.

Chase stood across the table from Thornton, the waves rippling through his former six-pack abs.

Look over there.

Everyone followed my pointing finger. Thornton leapt to his feet.

What the—?

He threw his glass. It sailed through Chase’s rib cage and splashed in the shallow end of the pool. Chase took a step toward him and he stepped back.

No. This is... it can’t be...

Trish stood next to her sister and they stared at Thornton, then toward where he was looking, then back at him, their eyes getting wider and wider. Chase took another step toward Thornton, who retreated another step. Chase reached out and Thornton stepped off the edge of the pool, his arms windmilling for balance as he fell backwards, the splash soaking all three of us.

I pulled out my phone and called the cops. Fortunately there were still some guarding the property to shoo away sightseers, and they appeared before Thornton could even crawl out of the water.

Nobody helped him.

* * * *

A week later, Norma Andrea Bach and her sister stretched on towels by that same pool in the bikinis they wouldn’t model for Thornton. I wore trunks too, painfully aware that I wasn’t cut like Chase Crittendon.

The accountants have found three dummy accounts Thornton set up, I said. And he owed a Vegas bookie big time. Chase must have noticed something because he asked about the tour the day before he died. When he went out to the pool, Thornton followed him, but stayed out of sight so he could slug him and make it look like he drowned.

I didn’t say it out loud, but Chase never saw Thornton, which is why he thought Normandy hit him. He remembered the blow, though.

So I’m going to get the house, Normandy said. Houses, really. What in God’s name can I do with four mansions on three continents?

Sell them, Trish said. Or turn them into something more useful.

That sounds good. Both women looked at me.

How did you figure this all out?

I struggled for something that wouldn’t sound bat-shit crazy. Before I write someone’s bio, I try to get into their mind and really understand them. When I get it right, it’s almost like they’re talking to me.

Yeah, right. Trish poured lotion on her hand and ran it up and down her leg. That sounds a little too woo-woo for me.

Hey, I said. Chase originally hired me to be his ghost writer, didn’t he?

Oh, she said. Nice catch.

She held up the bottle and rolled over. Do my back?

I took the bottle and watched her untie her bikini top.

God, I love my job.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steve Liskow has published 16 novels and nearly 50 short stories, winning the Black Orchid Novella Award twice, and short-listing for the Edgar Award, Shamus Award, and Al Blanchard Story Award.

POINT, SET, MATCH,

by Hal Charles

As Amanda hurried up the walkway, she wondered what in the world had caused the excited phone call that morning from her sister requesting that she come over immediately. All Nicole had said was, You just have to see it!

When Nicole opened the door, her face revealed anything but excitement.

What’s wrong? said Amanda, stepping into the front room.

It’s missing, said Nicole.

What?

The beautiful tennis bracelet Kev gave me for our anniversary this year. That’s what I wanted you to see.

When did you notice the bracelet missing?

Right after I called you, said Nicole. Kev gave it to me last night, I put it in my jewelry box, and when I went to get it this morning, it was gone.

Are you sure you placed it in the jewelry box? said Amanda, realizing that her sister could be a little scatterbrained at times.

Absolutely! said Nicole defensively. I had finally managed to get Sammy into bed. He’s been a handful since he got his new puppy. Wants to spend every second with Tippy.

Where is my favorite nephew? said Amanda, looking around. He usually greets me with hugs and kisses upon my arrival.

I’m afraid Mr. Sammy is enjoying a time-out in his room. For a six year old, he can be awfully strong willed. We promised him we’d take him to the pet shop this morning to pick up a leash and collar and maybe some toys for Tippy.

What happened? said Amanda.

Kev got a call from his office and needed to drive in to sign some papers. When we told Sammy he’d have to wait for the trip to the pet shop, I’ll just say he didn’t take the news well.

Let’s go back to your bedroom and look around, said Amanda. Maybe you misplaced the bracelet or dropped it on the floor.

Believe me, said Nicole as they walked down the carpeted hallway, I’ve searched that room like a CSI detective. I’ve looked behind and under every piece of furniture.

Could Kev have the bracelet with him for any reason?

I thought of that. The bracelet was a little large for my wrist, and Kev promised to take it to the jeweler for adjustment. But when I called him, he assured me that he hadn’t seen it since last night.

Amanda scanned the room, her eyes falling on an empty wastebasket by the chest on which the jewelry box sat. Don’t you have trash pick-up this morning?

You’re thinking your absentminded sister dropped the bracelet in the wastebasket and took it out with the trash.

Well? said Amanda.

I emptied the wastebasket right after dinner last night, long before Kev gave me the bracelet.

Just then they heard a noise from upstairs. Jenny must be awake and stirring, said Nicole.

Do you think she could know anything about the bracelet? said Amanda.

A peculiar look came to Nicole’s face. She did admire the bracelet last night and asked if she could borrow it sometime. I know she has a big date tonight . . .

Amanda and Nicole ran into Jenny as they headed up the stairs toward her room.

Aunt Amanda, said a surprised Jenny, what are you doing here so early?

I came over to see your mother’s anniversary gift, said Amanda, looking at her teenaged niece.

Isn’t it gorgeous? Mom said I could borrow it, maybe for my date tonight.

You wouldn’t have given it an early test drive by any chance? said Nicole sternly.

The bracelet is missing? said Amanda, seeing the surprise on Jenny’s face.

Mom! said Jenny with a frown. I guess you automatically blame me as usual. Well, the closest I’ve been to your jewelry box was this morning when I chased Sammy and his puppy out of the hallway downstairs. I didn’t want Tippy to have an accident on the carpet.

Amanda smiled, remembering something her sister had said earlier. I think I can ace this one.

Solution

When headstrong Sammy was told he’d have to wait for the trip to the pet shop, he took matters into his own little hands. Nicole’s tennis bracelet made a lovely collar for his new puppy. After a gentle scolding, Nicole allowed Amanda to take her favorite nephew to the shop, where he selected a cute rhinestone collar for Tippy.s

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.

DEAL BREAKER,

by Justin Gustainis

You’re not an easy man to find, Mr. Morris, Trevor Stone said. I’ve been looking for you for some time.

It’s true that I don’t advertise in the usual sense, Quincey Morris told him. But people who want my services usually manage to get in touch, sooner or later—as you have.

Although there was a southwestern twang to Morris’s speech, it was muted—the inflection of a native Texan who had spent much of his time outside the Lone Star State.

I would have preferred sooner, Stone said tightly. As it is, I’m almost... almost out of time.

Morris looked at his visitor more closely. Stone appeared to be in his midthirties. He was blond, clean-shaven, and wearing a suit that looked custom made. There was a sheen of perspiration on the man’s thin face, although the air conditioning in Morris’s living room kept the place comfortably cool—anyone spending a summer in Austin, Texas, without air conditioning is either desperately poor or incurably insane. Morris thought the man’s sweat might be due to either illness or fear.

Are you unwell? he asked.

Stone gave a bark of unpleasant laughter. Oh, no, I’m fine. The picture of health, and likely to remain so for another—he glanced at the gold Patek Philippe on his wrist—two hours and twenty-eight minutes.

Fear, definitely.

Morris kept his face expressionless as he said, That would bring us to midnight. What happens then?

Stone was silent for a few seconds. You ever play Monopoly, Mr. Morris?

When I was a kid, sure.

"So, imagine landing on Community Chest and drawing the worst Monopoly card of all time—one that reads Go to Hell. Go directly to Hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200."

It was Morris’s turn for silence. He finally broke it by saying, Tell me. All of it.

The first part of Stone’s story was unexceptional. A software engineer by training, he had gone to work in Silicon Valley after graduation from Cal Tech. Soon, he had made enough money out of the internet boom to start up his own dot.com company with a couple of college buddies. They all made out like bandits—until the bottom fell out, taking most of the dot-commers with it. That was how, Stone said, he had found himself sitting alone in his company’s deserted office one afternoon—bankrupt and broke, under threat of lawsuits from his former partners and divorce from his wife. He was wondering if his life insurance had a suicide clause when a strange man appeared and changed everything.

I never heard him come in, Stone said. "Which was kind of weird because the place was so quiet you could have heard a mouse fart. But suddenly, there he was, standing in my office door. I looked at him and said, ‘Buddy, if you’re selling something, have you ever come to the wrong place.’

And he gave me this funny little smile and said, ‘I suppose you might consider me a salesman of a sort, Mr. Stone. As to whether I am in the wrong place, why don’t we determine that later?’

What did he look like? Morris asked.

Little guy, couldn’t have been more than five foot five. Had a goatee on him, jet black. Can’t vouch for the rest of his hair because he kept his hat on the whole time, one of those homburg things, which I didn’t think anybody wore anymore. Nice suit, three-piece, with a bow tie—not a clip-on but one of those that you tie yourself.

Did he give you a name?

He said it was Dunjee. What’s that—Scottish?

Maybe. Morris’s voice held no inflection at all. Could be any number of things. After a moment he continued, So, what did he want with you?

"Well, he was one of those guys who take forever to get to the point, but what it finally came down to was that he wanted me to play Let’s Make a Deal."

Morris nodded. And what was he offering?

A way out. A change in my luck. An end to my problems and a return to the kind of life I’d had before.

I see. And your part of the bargain involved... ?

Nothing much. Another bitter laugh. Just my soul.

Doesn’t sound like a very good deal to me, Morris said gently.

I thought it was just a joke, man! Stone stood up and started pacing the room nervously. I only listened to the guy because I had nothing else to do, and it gave me something to think about besides slitting my wrists.

Morris nodded again. I assume there were... terms.

Yeah, sure. Ten years of success. Ten years, back on top of the world, right where I liked it. Then, at the end of that time, Dunjee said, he’d be back. To collect.

And your ten years is up tonight, I gather.

At midnight, right. That’s actually a few hours over ten years, since it was the middle of the afternoon when I talked to him that day. But he said he wanted to ‘preserve the traditions.’ So, midnight it is.

Did he have you sign a contract?

Yeah.

Something on old parchment, maybe, smelling of brimstone?

"No, nothing like that. He had the template on a flash drive in his pocket. He asked if he could use my PC to fill in the specifics, so I let him. Then he printed out a copy, and I signed it.

In blood?

No, he said I could use my pen. But then he pulled out one of those little syrettes they use in labs, still in the sterile wrapper and everything. Dunjee said he would need three drops of blood from one of my fingers. I said okay, so he stuck me, and let the three drops fall onto the contract, just below my signature.

Then what happened?

He said he’d see me in ten years plus a few hours, and left. I told myself the whole thing was going to make a great story to tell my friends, assuming I had any friends left.

You felt it was all just an elaborate charade.

Of course I did. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of my former partners had sent the little bastard, just to mess with my head. I mean, deals with the devil—come on!

Morris leaned forward in his chair. But now you feel differently.

Well... yeah. I do.

Why? What changed your mind?

Stone flopped back in the chair he had left. "Because it worked, that’s why. My luck changed. Everything turned around. Everything. My partners dropped their lawsuits, some former clients who still owed me money decided to pay up, a guy from Microsoft called with an offer to buy a couple of my software patents, my wife and I got back together—six months later, it was like my life had done a complete one-eighty."

So, you decided that your good fortune meant that your bargain with the Infernal must have been real after all.

Yeah, eventually. It took me a long time to finally admit the possibility. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, you know what I mean?

I do, for sure.

But the bill comes due at midnight, and I’m scared, man. I have to admit now that I am really, big-time terrified. Can you help me? I mean, I can pay whatever you want. Money’s not a problem.

Well, I’m not sure what—

"Look, you’re some kind of hotshot occult investigator, right? There’s a story about a bunch of vampires, supposed to have taken over some little Texas town. I heard you took care of that in four days flat. And yesterday, I talked to a guy named Walter LaRue. He’s the one told me how to find you. He said you and your partner saved his family from