Black Cat Weekly #84

By Stacy Woodson, Bev Vincent, Hal Charles and 7 more

    Our 84th issue features original mysteries from Bev Vincent and Stacy Woodson, plus a Bryce Walton Hollywood crime story and a Frank Kane mystery novel (featuring detective Johnny Liddell). And, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

   On the science fiction side, we have an anti-war story from Richard Wilson, a UFO story from Paul Torak, a rather silly science fiction/detective story from Noel Loomis, and a time-travel tale from Lester del Rey. Plus a pre-Golden Age science fiction novel from oldtime master Ray Cummings: The Man on the Meteor, which appeared in Science and Invention in 1924, two years before Amazing Stories and the genre of science fiction were launched!

   Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The River Heights Ripper,” by Bev Vincent [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Jellybean Justice,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Before the Highwaymen,” by Stacy Woodson [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Actor’s Showcase,” by Bryce Walton [short story]
Crime of Their Life, by Frank Kane [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Day They Had a War,” by Richard Wilson [short story]
“Flight 18,” by Paul A. Torak [short story]
“Remember the 4th!,” by Noel Loomis [short story]
“Absolutely No Paradox,” by Lester del Rey [short story]
The Man on the Meteor, by Ray Cummings [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667682013

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE RIVER HEIGHTS RIPPER, by Bev Vincent

JELLYBEAN JUSTICE, by Hal Charles

BEFORE THE HIGHWAYMEN, by Stacy Woodson

ACTOR’S SHOWCASE, by Bryce Walton

CRIME OF THEIR LIFE, by Frank Kane

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

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE DAY THEY HAD A WAR, by Richard Wilson

FLIGHT 18, by Paul A. Torak

REMEMBER THE 4TH!, by Noel Loomis

ABSOLUTELY NO PARADOX, by Lester del Rey

THE MAN ON THE METEOR, by Ray Cummings

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

The River Heights Ripper is copyright © 2023 by Bev Vincent and appears here for the first time.

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

Before the Highwaymen is copyright © 2023 by Stacy Woodson and appears here for the first time.

Actor’s Showcase is copyright © 1966 by Bryce Walton. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1966. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Crime of Their Life, by Frank Kane, originally appeared in 1962.

The Day They Had a War is copyright © 1971 by Richard Wilson. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 1971. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Flight 18, by Paul A. Torak, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, August 1953.

Remember the 4th!, by Noel Loomis was originally published in Future, July 1951.

Absolutely No Paradox, by Lester del Rey, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1951. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Man on the Meteor, by Ray Cummings, was originally published as a 9-part serial in Science and Invention in 1924.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 84th issue is the first to appear without a story selected by Barb Goffman, as she is taking a brief break from editing to catch up on other projects. She has promised to return in a few months. As promised, we have a surprise editor filling in for her…our own Michael Bracken! Michael is going to do double-duty for the next six issues, selecting a pair of stories for each. This time he has selected original mysteries from Bev Vincent and Stacy Woodson. Rounding out the section, we have a Bryce Walton Hollywood crime story and a Frank Kane mystery novel (featuring detective Johnny Liddell). Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side, we have an anti-war story from Richard Wilson, a UFO story from Paul Torak, a rather silly science fiction/detective story from Noel Loomis, and a time-travel tale from Lester del Rey. Plus a pre-Golden Age science fiction novel from oldtime master Ray Cummings: The Man on the Meteor, which appeared in Science and Invention in 1924, two years before Amazing Stories and the genre of science fiction were launched!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

The River Heights Ripper, by Bev Vincent [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Jellybean Justice, Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Before the Highwaymen, by Stacy Woodson [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Actor’s Showcase, by Bryce Walton [short story]

Crime of Their Life, by Frank Kane [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Day They Had a War, by Richard Wilson [short story]

Flight 18, by Paul A. Torak [short story]

Remember the 4th!, by Noel Loomis [short story]

Absolutely No Paradox, by Lester del Rey [short story]

The Man on the Meteor, by Ray Cummings [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

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE RIVER HEIGHTS RIPPER,

by Bev Vincent

The call came up on Officer Amanda Hodges’s onboard computer screen as an assault in progress. The address was only a few blocks from her present location so she keyed in her response code and made a right turn at the next intersection. Her destination was an affluent neighborhood, one not usually known for this kind of call-out. In addition to meriting a higher-than-average police presence, River Heights employed its own private security firm.

Hodges ran her lights to make sure other vehicles cleared a path for her, but she kept the siren off. She wanted to catch the offenders, not frighten them off.

When she arrived, she witnessed a scene that could have come straight out of a science fiction movie. Two security guards were holding a disheveled man in a firm grip between them while a third attended to the supposed victim, which—at first glance—looked like the love child of a Dalek and R2-D2. The five-foot-long, bullet-shaped device was lying on its side near a storm drain. Red lights flashed around its perimeter. Its wheels spun helplessly in the air, and a loud commanding voice repeated the same phrase over and over. "Step away from the machine now."

Hodges approached the private cops and their captive, a man of about forty with shaggy brown hair and badly in need of a shave. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Hodges could smell the booze from three feet away. If the two guards hadn’t been holding him up, he probably would have been flat on his back next to—whatever the hell that thing was.

What’s going on, gentlemen? she asked. It paid to be polite. These private security guards might act like pompous asses sometimes, but they were a good visible deterrent, and every little bit helped.

He tried to make a run for it, the guy on the right said, but he’s not very steady on his feet, so he didn’t get far.

Hodges tipped her head at the recumbent machine in the gutter. Is that the victim?

The private cop nodded.

What is it?

Security robot, his partner said. Our friend here—he claims he’s an engineer and he was just ‘testing’ our robot—knocked it over. That set off the system’s alarms and we responded.

Did he break it? Hodges asked.

Floyd is still running diagnostics, but it seems OK, other than some scratches and a dent or two.

A little help here? called the guy named Floyd.

Will you take him into custody? We’d like to file a complaint for damage to our property and for prowling.

Hodges flashed her Maglite in the suspect’s face. He grinned and flinched. I think I can add public intoxication, she said. What’s your name, sir?

Ivan Abbott, the man said. What’s yours, good lookin’?

I’m Officer Hodges of the Houston Police Department, and I’m placing you under arrest. She circled behind him and secured his wrists after donning a pair of latex gloves, a precaution she always took before putting her hands on a civilian. She then went through the ritual of searching him before depositing him in the back seat of her cruiser. If you puke in my ride, I’m going to be very unhappy—do you read me?

Loud and clear, Officer Hottie. The man couldn’t keep the sloppy grin off his face.

By the time she returned to the scene to get the details she’d need for her report, the three guards had the robot upright. Now it looked more like the nose cone of a futuristic rocket. It was dotted with lights and sensors, but no effort had been taken to make it resemble a human being.

What does it do? she asked.

Her anomaly detection software surveys the neighborhood for suspicious activity, Floyd said. She has thermal imaging and night vision, so she can see someone hiding, even in the dark. Using the latest OCR technology, she can read license plates and access a database of suspicious or unwanted vehicles. She can also recognize faces and records video 24/7, all uploaded to the cloud.

Floyd seemed overly fond of the robot, Hodges thought. Sounds like it’s going to be replacing you guys soon, she said, deliberately refusing to use a female pronoun to refer to it.

One of the other guards shrugged. She’s out here all day long, patrolling the neighborhood in the heat while we’re in our nice, air-conditioned office watching live video on the monitors. You won’t hear me complaining.

* * * *

A few weeks later, after roll call, the sergeant waved Hodges aside. Are you up for an undercover assignment?

Hodges paused, but only for a second. Female officers didn’t often get the chance to go undercover, and even though it probably meant she would be going on a prostitution sting to round up johns, it was always a pleasant change from routine patrol work. Sure, Sarge, she said. Should I iron my hot pants?

He raised an eyebrow, which was about as demonstrative as he ever got. This is a little different. Some creep has been assaulting women in River Heights. Broad daylight, he comes up and grabs them. At first he was only grabbing ass, but now he’s fondling and rubbing up against them. Five victims so far—at least, five who’ve filed complaints. Guys like him are hard to catch, and he has all the signs that he’s escalating, probably working his way up to rape. Someone this active in such a short period of time, he’s not likely to change location, and he’s not going to slow down. He gave her a meaningful nod. You fit the profile of his targets pretty well.

Hodges wasn’t sure how to take that. Given the neighborhood, she imagined dowdy women dolled up in high fashion, wearing too much jewelry, too much makeup and too much perfume. Perhaps with a miniature dog tucked under one arm and an oversized bag—adorned with a haute-couture label—hanging over the other. Assaulted en route to their Porsches, no doubt. The composite sketch didn’t give her much to go on. It could have matched anyone, including the Unabomber.

That evening, she was quickly disabused of her—admittedly snobbish—preconception. Detective Fitz Holland introduced her to two of the five victims, who had agreed to be re-interviewed. They were pretty but not overly done up. Both were in their early forties, a few years older than Hodges.

The press is starting to cover the story, Holland told Hodges privately. They’re calling him the River Heights Ripper, but we’re hoping that doesn’t catch on. Too sensational for this neighborhood. And ‘ripper’ sounds too much like ‘rapist,’ don’t you think? He’s not there…yet.

Hodges nodded, but she couldn’t concern herself with press matters. Her duty was to the victims. She escorted the women to a lounge rather than an interrogation room. They told similar stories of how they had been jogging when confronted by a male wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. Their first indication of his presence was when he laid his hands on them. One woman was the first reported victim. The perp had grabbed her buttocks with both hands, clinging and squeezing for several seconds. She was wearing ear buds, so she hadn’t heard him approach. The assault took her so much by surprise that she was momentarily frozen in place. When she wheeled around to confront her attacker, he scampered off down the side street and was long gone before security arrived.

The other woman was training for a half marathon and stopped at a fence to catch her breath, stretch her muscles, and take a drink of water. She had her back to the street, one leg propped up on a fence, when she became aware of someone approaching. Not interested in starting a conversation that would interrupt her routine, she pretended to be preoccupied with her wrist computer.

The man grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her torso to fondle her while he ground his pelvis into her backside. She could tell he was excited, she told Hodges with a shaky voice, and was certain he intended to rape her. A passing driver honked his horn and frightened the attacker off. Police and security arrived in due course, but again the perp managed to escape.

Hodges thanked the women for sharing their stories. I’m going to do my best to catch this creep, she told them.

* * * *

The attacks had all occurred between three and six in the afternoon. Hodges reported for duty in River Heights the following afternoon shortly before three. The department had given her a small budget to buy clothes for the assignment, so she’d spent the morning at the mall. She was wearing a yellow V-back boxy T-shirt over a black sports bra and tight Capri leggings. Sufficiently fashionable for the neighborhood and deliberately form-fitting to entice, but comfortable enough for an extended jogging session, too. She had decided against new sneakers because she didn’t want to have to break them in.

Meet your new partner, Detective Holland said after he oriented her to the part of town she would be covering.

Good afternoon, a voice behind her said. Would you like to take a selfie with me?

Hodges turned. A bemused smile crossed her lips. Oh, we’ve already met, she said, after a fashion. She looked at the surveillance robot. Last time I saw you, you were lying on your back in the gutter.

Blue lights flashed on the robot’s front panel, but it did not respond. She told Detective Holland about the assault. She recognized the man standing next to the robot with what looked like a remote control in his hands. Floyd, she thought he was called.

We’ll have backup nearby, Holland said. But in a neighborhood like this, anyone lingering too long without good reason looks out of place.

Hodges nodded. When she worked as a decoy in prostitution stings, her backup detail usually pretended to be taxi drivers or homeless people, neither of which would work in River Heights. We’ll have a couple of people dressed as gardeners, but you’ll be on the move, so they won’t be able to follow you closely. Our guy seems to have a thing for athletic woman of a certain age. He gave her a long appraising block. I think you’ll get his attention. You’ve got that MILF vibe.

Hodges bristled but refused to let the detective get under her skin. She was used to having crude and lascivious comments directed at her by coworkers and colleagues. Before becoming a cop, she had tended bar in a place frequented by cops, so she had plenty of experience fending off unwanted advances and discouraging guys from trying to grope her. The police department was still very much a man’s world, though, and women who entered it had to put up with a lot of sexist crap to get ahead. Only once in her career had Hodges filed a complaint, when a former sergeant pursued her relentlessly, refusing to take no for an answer. Her superiors had taken her accusations seriously, but she was the one who was transferred, not the persistent sergeant. All he got was a few sessions of sexual harassment training.

You’ll need to carry your badge, Holland told her, but a sidearm would look a little conspicuous in that getup, don’t you think?

Hodges said, I found a place for this, though. She showed him a Mini-Griptilian folding knife that had been a Christmas gift from her husband. She tucked it into her waistband.

All right, then, Holland said. You know your perimeter, right? All five attacks have taken place in this twelve-block area, although in different places, so he’s probably not lying in wait. Just keep on the move, cover as much territory as you can, and try not to look like a cop. His smirk told her he didn’t think she ever looked much like a cop.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Robby the Robot here will shadow you as much as possible.

Can it keep up with me? Hodges asked.

Oh, yeah, Floyd said. Although Molly normally operates at 1 to 3 miles per hour, she has a top speed of 18.

Molly?

Floyd blushed lightly. Yes, well, we have to call her something, don’t we? We had a contest.

And Molly won?

Floyd frowned.

Its voice doesn’t even sound female.

Oh, I can totally make her do that. She just sounds more serious with a man’s voice.

Hodges shook her head and rolled her eyes. Is it armed?

Floyd’s mouth popped open. No way! She’s not meant to be a replacement for a security guard. She’s an enhanced surveillance device. A user interface to the video monitoring system back at HQ. He puffed up his chest with pride as he recited her attributes, as if he was listing her vital stats for a Playboy pictorial. She has five different kinds of sensors. A laser array lets her create a 3D map of her surroundings every twenty milliseconds. He pointed at a couple of dark patches on the robot’s surface. These are ultrasonic sensors for proximity detection—like the collision warning system on new cars. There’s an inertial measurement unit, GPS, of course, and odometers on each wheel. All this tells Molly what’s around her and where she is in space, so she can figure out how to navigate without hitting anything.

Holland guffawed. I need to get my wife some of those gadgets. She gets lost in the mall parking lot.

Hodges frowned at him. How does any of that help me? If I get attacked, which is the whole point of this operation, after all, what’s he…she…it going to do?

Floyd waved both hands in the air. She’s constantly recording the ambient noise level, so anything out of the ordinary—like if you scream—will cause her to send out an alert.

So, basically it’s not Robocop. More like a glorified mall cop. Overweight and out of shape, with no real power and not even a toy gun.

Floyd glared at Hodges. Some models have concealed weapon detection capability.

Hodges glared back. But not this one.

Floyd looked at his feet. Uh, no. Not this one.

And as I’ve already seen, it can’t exactly defend itself if someone decides to rough it up.

Floyd didn’t look up.

Great, Hodges said. Just great.

The security robot must have gotten bored by the conversation. Excuse me, it said before spinning around and trundling off, whistling to itself as it went.

Hodges gave Holland another look, rolling her eyes in exasperation. This assignment wasn’t quite as dangerous as dressing up like a streetwalker and hanging out in a sketchy neighborhood late at night, surrounded by pimps, johns, and drug dealers, but she was still making herself a target for a serial sexual predator. The fact that her primary backup was a glorified Roomba didn’t make her feel any safer. She could take care of herself in many situations, but she was probably smaller than her target, so if he took her by surprise, she could be in trouble.

One of the realities of being a female police officer was that she rarely ended up grappling with a perp. Physics wasn’t on her side. She—and others like her—relied more on their batons, Tasers and side arms. Experienced crooks knew there was a greater chance they’d get shot or zapped by a female cop, so they usually didn’t resist. She couldn’t be sure this guy would behave like that though.

Hodges’s first day undercover was uneventful. She didn’t expect to strike pay dirt right out of the gate, but she really wanted to get this guy off the street. She jogged the sidewalks of River Heights for over three hours, covering the full range of the attacker’s territory and the time window during which he’d been active. She met dozens of people as she ran—slower than her normal pace to conserve energy—and got a few appraising glances from by-passers, including one guy who resembled her grandfather and one well-appointed woman—but encountered no one threatening or aggressive. She also saw one guy she thought she recognized from high school, but managed to avoid him to keep her cover intact.

She noticed the surveillance robot out of the corner of her eye every so often, but she didn’t pay much attention to it. She had a hard time thinking of it as a Molly, though. It reminded her more of Chappie—eager to please. People often approached it to take selfies, and the robot cooperated, up to a point. If someone delayed it too long from its rounds, the calm blue lights flashed red, and a stern (and most definitely male) voice told the person to step back. Presumably this was a feature to prevent miscreants from distracting it from its appointed rounds.

* * * *

When Hodges got to work the next day, she found an article taped to her locker door. The headline read:

Security Robot Quits Job by Drowning Itself in Fountain

The accompanying tongue-in-cheek report from a Washington newspaper explored the existential angst of menial jobs. A grainy photograph showed a robot exactly like Molly immersed headlong in a fountain at a shopping mall, where its sensors had failed to detect the shallow steps leading down to the water. A sidebar story told of another incident where a similar robot had been accused of running over a toddler’s foot, tripping him, and then simply turning and driving away.

Mandy’s new partner, someone had written in marker on the margin of the printout. How long before it commits suicide, too? There was a smiley beneath, which Hodges supposed was meant to soften the dig. She shrugged it off—this kind of banter went on all the time—but it didn’t instill confidence in the robot’s ability to do anything helpful. She didn’t need Marvin the Paranoid Android for backup.

Hodges’s next few days were as uneventful as the first. She remembered similar nights dressed up as a prostitute when no one approached her, making her wonder if she looked too much like a cop—even out of uniform—or if she wasn’t attractive enough for johns. Or, in this case, a sexual predator.

Compared to those assignments, though, this one was a breeze. No one had ever trained her how to act like a prostitute, so on her first time out, after only a few days on patrol, she had showed up to work the street looking like something out of a bad porno movie. The real hookers had laughed at her. Dressing up like a jogger was more to her liking, especially in the fancy new outfits she’d bought for the assignment. Plus, she was getting a good workout. Thankfully, it was October and not August, so the Texas heat wasn’t as much of an issue. She could get used to this—it was much better than rousting vagrants or driving drug-addled miscreants to the lockup.

She was getting used to the robot’s presence, too. It was almost a comforting figure, so long as she didn’t entertain thoughts of rampaging Daleks or suicidal robots. Although it could last for up to twenty-four hours on a single charge—according to Floyd—it nipped off for a session at one of several charging stations every two or three hours. She once worked with a fellow officer who behaved similarly. The main difference was that the robot didn’t come back reeking of booze.

By the middle of her fifth day, Hodges was beginning to think this was all a huge waste of time. There’d been no further attacks since she started, and she hadn’t seen anyone suspicious around the neighborhood. The most exciting thing that happened was when a car backed out of a driveway and the driver—she was pretty sure he’d been ogling her—narrowly missed colliding with the security robot, which had swiveled nimbly and darted out of the way just in time, whistling indignantly, lights flashing red.

Shortly before five p.m., Hodges was jogging in place at an intersection, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green, when someone grabbed her from behind. He wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug, his hands pawing at her. His face was buried in her neck, licking and kissing, while he ground his crotch into her backside.

Hodges tried to squirm free, but he was too strong and he had her arms pinned. He started dragging her off the sidewalk toward a nearby hedge. She knew what he would do once they were out of sight. He was already dry humping her, and his hands were now under her shirt, trying to push up her sports bra.

Hodges stiffened her body, locking her knees to make her harder to maneuver, but her attacker simply picked her up and carried her toward the hedge. She lashed back with her feet, but he took her blows without slowing down. His utter silence dismayed her. He was as quiet and determined as…

As a robot, she thought, emerging from her stunned silence. Help! she yelled as loudly as she could. Her attacker couldn’t grope her and silence her at the same time. Help!

The man threw her to the ground, knocking the breath from her and stunning her momentarily. He was pulling down his jogging pants to expose himself when a loud and authoritative voice came from nearby. Cease and desist. Cease and desist.

Hodges’s attacker turned to face the security robot. It had no arms to grapple with him, and no legs to trip him as he yanked up his pants and made ready to flee the scene, but it did have a loud voice and ear-splitting whistles to disorient him.

Hodges couldn’t let him get away. Capturing him was the whole point of this operation, and she doubted she’d get a second chance. She scrambled to her feet, fumbling at her waistband for a weapon. She found and passed over the Navy Seal knife, opting instead for the other item she had brought along. The one she hadn’t shown Detective Holland because it wasn’t strictly regulation: a personal Taser her husband had given her for her most recent birthday.

The assailant pushed his way through the hedge onto the sidewalk. There, he was again confronted by the robot, who, at apparent odds with its programming, stepped in front of the fleeing man, deliberately causing a collision instead of avoiding one.

The 300-pound robot teetered precariously but did not fall over. The delay gave Hodges time to catch up and apply a debilitating blast of high voltage to the man’s shoulder. It took two zaps to bring him down, at which point Hodges was able to secure his hands and feet with plastic zip ties, also part of her limited supply of gear. The robot had presumably sounded the alarm, because a River Heights security vehicle pulled up shortly thereafter, with one of her protective detail officers on its heels.

* * * *

Of course, the robot got all the credit. Its manufacturers sent out a flood of press releases, and the story was picked up by the national media. Molly—or a robot very much like her—made appearances on Today and on Jimmy Kimmel Live! Hodges’s part in the capture of the River Heights Ripper was relegated to an undercover HPD officer who assisted in the arrest.

Granted, the reams of footage Molly had captured in which the predator’s face was clearly visible would seal his fate in court. Hodges didn’t mind not being in the limelight, though. Her sergeant knew the truth and the arrest looked good on her record. At the end of the day, she’d accomplished her mission—a bad guy was in jail, the residents of the neighborhood would be able to sleep more easily, and the other victims would know that their attacker was out of circulation. She received letters of thanks from three of them.

She wasn’t as amused by the cascade of toy robots that greeted her when she opened her locker a few days after the story went viral. It pained her to think she was going to need to buy a padlock. In a police station, of all places.

She glanced around the room, wondering if, perhaps, the perpetrators have been caught on a security camera.

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 King and has published over 120 stories, with appearances in Ellery Queen’s, Alfred Hitchcock’s and Black Cat Mystery Magazines. His work has been published in more than twenty languages and nominated for the Stoker (twice), Edgar, Ignotus, and ITW Thriller Awards. To learn more, visit bevvincent.com.

JELLYBEAN JUSTICE,

by Hal Charles

When State Police Detective Kelly Stone arrived at the scene of the crime, the Jericho Electrics warehouse, she found Deputy Sheriff Rick Peters taking cellphone pictures of the victim, still in his desk chair, but very dead.

Assistant Coroner Bowdoin sends her regrets, Peters said. She says it’s been a busy night.

Tell me about it, said a tired Kelly, who was double-shifting. Who’s the victim? she asked, pointing to the figure in the chair.

James ‘Jellybean’ Jericho, said the deputy. Actually, I knew Jellybean quite well. When I was a kid, he wired my parents’ house.

His girth notwithstanding, said Kelly, I understand why he was nicknamed Jellybean. She pointed to a basketball-size jar on the desk filled with a rainbow of colored candies.

Jellybean was the great success story, said Peters. Started out as a gofer for his electrician father and ended up owning the biggest electric warehouse in the tri-county area.

Murder weapon?

.38. Peters pointed to the hardwood floor where a gun sat. According to his wife, the pistol was his.

So probably the killer was someone he knew, someone who could get close to him and take his gun.

His wife, who’s sitting in my cruiser, said only three people other than Jellybean had keycard access to his office—she, her son, and his brother. The other two are also in my car with Deputy Grigsby watching them.

Good work. We’ll question them in a minute, but tonight is Sunday. Any idea why a warehouse owner would be working at night?

His brother, Shorty, said that at this time of the year, Jellybean liked to cloister himself in his office to do the business’ taxes.

The State Police detective said, Sounds like old Jellybean didn’t trust anybody and that he was suspicious of something happening in his warehouse.

That’s one possible motive, Peters agreed. Rumors around town were that Maeve, his wife, was going to divorce him.

Any reasons?

Seems like other than keeping himself supplied with jellybeans, the old man didn’t like to spend a dime. He kept plowing profits back into his company in order to expand the business.

Well, as long as we’ve started down the rumor road, what else are people in Woodhole saying? posed Kelly.

Shorty’s a big drinker with loose lips. Always felt squeezed out of the business. Felt he should have been a partner, not an employee.

No sign of forced entry anywhere, said Kelly, who had been examining the room as Peters talked. What about the son?

Herky’s the wayward son, replied Peters. Jellybean spent a small fortune paying for the kid’s rehab. Like a lot of the county, he got hooked on opioids, and we both know the recidivism rate on that.

For the first time, Kelly approached the desk. Beside the computer keyboard she noticed six jellybean arranged in two rows of three, one directly above the other. The top row consisted of a black bean, a green bean, and a white bean. The row directly below it contained a white bean, a green bean, and a white bean.

Seeing the focus of Kelly’s eyes, Peters said, I took a picture of that too. Don’t know why. I figured old Jellybean was rewarding himself. Finish one form, you know, get a jellybean reward.

Makes sense, said Kelly. I can’t think of any other significance for six jellybeans, she said, other than as a clue to his killer.

A dying clue? said Peters incredulously.

Sure. Jellybean knew his killer, who perhaps grabbed his gun. Jellybean wanted to leave us a clue without the killer catching on.

Sounds pretty far out, admitted Peters.

Actually, said Kelly, I’ve got a pretty good idea who the killer is.

SOLUTION

Having learned Jellybean Jericho had been an electrician caused Kelly to look not at all six beans but at their placement and color. In an electrician’s world of modern circuitry, the black is the hot wire, the white is neutral, and the green is ground. The top three beans represented a wire connecting to another wire, the bottom row. However, the black was above the white below; if connected, a short circuit would occur. She arrested Jellybean’s envious brother, Shorty. He confessed to murdering the brother who found evidence of him stealing from the business. Luckily, for him, the state did not have an electric chair.

BEFORE THE HIGHWAYMEN,

by Stacy Woodson

I’m going to crush you at the Wheaties game, Becca, Dougie yells. He’s on his hands and knees next to a six-inch hole, the crack of his pasty white ass peeking above the waistband of his jeans. He flips the penny over, massages it with his thumb, clay dirt staining his gloves. This one is toasted. Tough to make out the year. 1930, maybe? Doesn’t matter. Still makes five Wheat cents for me.

I turn up the volume on my metal detector, try to focus on my grid.

Keep sweeping.

But Dougie walks over. He hovers so close that I can smell the tuna and rye he had for lunch. He lifts an ear cup to my headphones. King of the Hunt, he whispers.

Day isn’t over yet. I grab my headphones before he lets go and they snap against my head.

King of the Hunt, Dougie yells this time, arms raised like he’s channeling Leo DiCaprio. He backpedals toward his grid still grinning.

Watch out, I yell. You’re fixin’ to trip in one of your holes.

But my warning is too late.

He stumbles. Cusses. Recovers.

Stumbles again.

He finally steadies his feet, hikes up his cargo pants, sees me staring, and flips me off.

It’s your own dang fault for not putting that dirt back, I tell him. But he doesn’t seem to listen. Dougie can never be bothered with detecting etiquette or personal hygiene or a belt for his pants. It baffles me the two of us share DNA, let alone that we’re twins.

I scan the churchyard and find our older brother, Skeeter. He works next to the abandoned church. I look at the crumbling stairs, the weathered clapboard, the broken stained-glass windows, the collapsing roof. I question if this church is old, if this place has some real history, or if it ended up on the wrong side of a tornado. Usually, it’s my job to pick our detecting location. I go online, look through old maps, consider the history, decide if a site is worth our time. But with school, the SATs, and my shifts at the Allsup’s, I couldn’t do it this week. Skeeter picked this site.

So far, I’ve only found some clad, a shell casing, and a Matchbox car. I wonder if he did some research, or if he simply discovered this place on a fishing trip to the Red. I shift my grid, move closer to an oak tree, start working again.

My detector chirps. Maybe this time.

I sweep again.

A squeaker.

Excitement bubbles up in my chest. I try to tamp it down. It’s probably more trash. I put the detector aside, pull a hand shovel from my utility belt, dig a plug, and use my pin pointer.

It squeals.

I dig a little more. And then I see it.

Silver.

At least it looks like silver. It’s tarnished the way silver looks when it’s exposed to the elements. But only an edge peeks through the dirt, and I can’t be sure.

I hope it’s a ring.

I’ve always wanted to find a ring—a college ring, a wedding ring. It doesn’t matter. Something with an engraving. So, I can locate the owner and return it. A ring return is a bucket-lister for detectorists like me. It certainly would be more interesting than Dougie’s stupid coins.

I lean in closer, pinch the metal. Tug. My fingers slip under my gloves. I strip them off. Try again.

But it doesn’t move.

It can’t be a ring—not with this kind of resistance. I let go, and this time I see patina. A rare coin, maybe? A Barber quarter? Excitement bubbles up in my chest again. This time I give in to it.

Becca Kincaid unearths rare Texas artifact near Wellington.

I can see the headline now. UT’s archeology department wouldn’t care about my SAT scores. With this kind of find, they’d fast track my college application for sure.

I work the edges, clay building under my nails. It’s wider than I anticipated—not a coin. Still, it could be something special.

I grab it again.

I have a firmer grip this time without the gloves. I pull, lean back, put my weight into it. The soil gives, the momentum nearly knocking me on my backside.

It’s out.

And it’a…a metal dirt clod.

That’s what it looks like in the palm of my hand anyway. I knock out the debris. It’s about two inches wide. But I’m still not sure what I’m holding. I go back to my utility belt, pull out a brush, dust off the piece.

Look again.

A shield with a star. A badge, maybe?

I rub it against my jeans. There’s an engraving.

I frown. That can’t be right.

I