Black Cat Weekly #85

By Phyllis Ann Karr, O'Neil De Noux, M.E. Proctor and 5 more

Our 85th issue is quite the treat—three original tales by three top authors, a time-travel story, a fantasy bar story, two novels, and more! I leave it to you to explore this issue and find out what’s what, which is whose, and whodunit. (Or did they?) It’s a fun issue and one of our best.

Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman is still on leave (she’ll be back in May), so again Michael Bracken is filling in for her. And we hope to have a new selection from Acquiring Editor Cynthia Ward shortly, too.

Here’s this issue’s complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Of Average Intelligence” O’Neil De Noux [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Steering Clear of Trouble” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“Cottonmouths” M.E. Proctor [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“The Contagious Killer” by Bryce Walton [short story]

Nick Carter at the Track, by Nicholas Carter [novel, Nick Carter series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Pannin’ Pete,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story, Bart Maverel series]

“Moon of Memory,” by Bryce Walton [short story]

“Turn Backward, O Time!,” by Walter Kubilius [short story]

“The Perverse Erse,” by Adrien Coblentz [short story]

Second Stage Lensmen, by E. E. “Doc” Smith, Ph.D. [novel, Lensman series]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667682037

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

OF AVERAGE INTELLIGENCE, by O’Neil De Noux

Steering Clear of Trouble, by Hal Charles

COTTONMOUTHS, by M.E. Proctor

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE CONTAGIOUS KILLER, by Bryce Walton

NICK CARTER AT THE TRACK

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

PANNIN’ PETE, by Phyllis Ann Karr

MOON OF MEMORY, by Bryce Walton

TURN BACKWARD, O TIME!, by Walter Kubilius

THE PERVERSE ERSE, by Adrien Coblentz

SECOND STAGE LENSMEN, by E. E. Smith, Ph.D.

INTRODUCTION, by Karl Wurf

HISTORICAL

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 9

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

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Of Average Intelligence is copyright © 2023 by O’Neil De Noux and appears here for the first time.

Steering Clear of Trouble is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Cottonmouths is copyright © 2023 by M.E. Proctor and appears here for the first time.

The Contagious Killer is copyright © 1966 by Bryce Walton. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, January 1966. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Nick Carter at the Track was originally published in New Nick Carter Weekly No. 28 (July 10, 1897).

Pannin’ Pete, is copyright © 2023 by Phyllis Ann Karr and appears here for the first time.

Moon of Memory, by Bryce Walton, was originally published in Future, November 1950. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Turn Backward, O Time!, by Walter Kubilius, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1951.

The Perverse Erse, by Adrien Coblentz,was originally published in Fantastic Universe, March 1960.

Second Stage Lensmen, by E. E. Doc Smith, Ph.D., was originally published in Astounding Science Fiction, Nov. 1941 to Feb. 1942.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 85th issue is quite the treat—three original tales by three top authors, a time-travel story, a fantasy bar story, two novels, and more! I leave it to you to explore this issue and find out what’s what, which is whose, and whodunit. (Or did they?) It’s a fun issue and one of our best.

Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman is still on leave (she’ll be back in May), so again Michael Bracken is filling in for her. And we hope to have a new selection from Acquiring Editor Cynthia Ward shortly, too.

Here’s this issue’s complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Of Average Intelligence O’Neil De Noux [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Steering Clear of Trouble is copyright © 2022 by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Cottonmouths M.E. Proctor [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Contagious Killer by Bryce Walton [short story]

Nick Carter at the Track, by Nicholas Carter [novel, Nick Carter series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Pannin’ Pete, by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story, Bart Maverel series]

Moon of Memory, by Bryce Walton [short story]

Turn Backward, O Time!, by Walter Kubilius [short story]

The Perverse Erse, by Adrien Coblentz [short story]

Second Stage Lensmen, by E. E. Doc Smith, Ph.D. [novel, Lensman series]

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

OF AVERAGE INTELLIGENCE,

by O’Neil De Noux

No offense, Officer Kintyre. But I’m smarter than you.

Attorney Matt Glick leans back in his garden chair and smiles at Jodie Kintyre. The two sit across a wicker table with a glass top on the patio of Glick’s house, their glasses of iced tea sweating in the afternoon heat.

Detective Jodie Kintyre refuses to let him rattle her as she looks at her notes for her next question. In a crisp tan suit, her 9mm Beretta dangling in its shoulder holster beneath her left arm, Jodie brushes a strand of blond hair from her face, turns her wide-set hazel eyes back to Glick and asks, When was the last time you saw your wife, counselor?

Glick blinks his pale blue eyes, taking his time before responding, prim-looking in his silver shark-skin suit, his brown hair slicked back. He sits at ease in the sunlit, brick patio of his exquisitely furnished, three-story Creole Townhouse with its yellow stucco walls and wrought iron, lacework balconies and quaint roof dormers overlooking Royal Street. Matt Glick is unperturbed as he gives this formal statement. Earlier, before beginning his statement, Glick explained how his house was built in 1795, shortly after the last great fire that nearly destroyed New Orleans.

Glick answers slowly, as if he’s talking to a child, Around 7:30 a.m., July fourteenth. We kissed goodbye as she left for work, and I spent the day in court. Judge Winslow tells me you’ve confirmed this.

Behind the viewfinder of the video camera recording Glick’s statement, Detective John Raven Beau grits his teeth. This is Jodie’s show. He’s just running the camera as he stands quietly in his black suit, black shirt and tie, his own 9mm Beretta riding in its canvas holster on his right hip. Beau focuses his light-brown eyes through the viewfinder and waits patiently. At least the fans on the patio keep the air flowing.

Jodie asks, She didn’t come home that evening and you called the police at 10 p.m., correct?

We’ve gone over this before. Can’t you come up with a more interesting question?

Jodie stares at him until he finally says yes, that’s what happened.

Glick sighs and follows with a question of his own. Kintyre. Is that English? Welsh?

Scottish. What’s Glick? Jodie asks, knowing full well it’s German.

Prussian. It was von Glick before my great grandfather changed it during the first World War. Glick takes a sip of tea.

Jodie flips through her notes as she catches the scents of the flowers in the garden surrounding the patio.

Take your time. Glick patronizing now. "As I told my lawyers when they strongly advised me not to give you a formal statement, I’ve nothing to hide. You didn’t have to advise me of my rights like you did. Lawyers know our rights."

He’s relaxed enough, Jodie thinks. Good. Comfortable on his home turf.

How did your wife’s blood get into the trunk of your El Dorado?

Glick lets out a long breath and explains how his wife, a graphics artist, sliced her left index finger with an X-acto razor-knife two days before she disappeared.

She used my car the night before she was killed to visit a potential client in Mandeville. Got a flat on the Causeway, drove to the nearest turn-around and changed the flat. That’s probably how the strands of her hair got inside the trunk. It was a hot night. She was all sweaty and said she finally had to put her hair in a ponytail to keep it out of her face.

His answers are smooth, Jodie thinks. Well-rehearsed, most likely in front of a mirror.

When she got home, she had to change the bandage because her cut reopened. Which explains her blood in the trunk. I told her she probably needed stitches, but she wouldn’t listen. Glick leans back and brushes something off a leaf of one of the banana trees.

Why didn’t she call Triple-A? You’re members.

Finally. A new question. Glick sits up. She forgot her cell phone at home.

There’s an emergency phone box at the turn-around.

Glick sighs. My wife was the impatient type. She liked doing things herself. He waves his hands around. Like this garden. She did it all herself.

Jodie looks at the rows of rose bushes, dotted with white and red roses, neatly trimmed azalea bushes and rows of red geraniums, banana trees and dwarf palms.

What about her blood we found in your bathtub?

Glick puts his elbows on the table and cups his chin in the open palms of his hands. The cut finger.

We found blood on the floor.

As I told you. The X-acto cut was deep. She changed the bandage several times. The wound probably dripped.

What about the scuff marks, from the soles of shoes, on the bathroom tile floor?

What about them?

Jodie shuffles her papers for nearly a minute before pulling a long sheet of paper to hand to Glick. His eyes reveal a recognition, which he tries to hide.

That’s a warrant for your arrest, counselor.

You’re arresting me?

After we fill out the paperwork.

Glick’s face flushes. He drops the paper on the table and clears his throat. "Again, no offense Office Kintyre, but you’re of average intelligence. You have to know this’ll go nowhere. You can’t prove this." His voice rises as he scoops up the arrest warrant again and looks at the bottom.

I can’t believe you got a judge to sign this.

He doesn’t comment that Judge Winslow signed the warrant. Jodie sees the man’s eyes dart as he reads the paragraph explaining the probable cause for arrest, primarily the blood and hair evidence. It does not mention the cab driver who ID’d Glick’s car diving at a high rate of speed on Almonaster Boulevard, not far from where his wife’s body was found, nor the tire mark evidence, nor the statements of friends about the turbulent Glick marriage. Let his lawyers learn that during discovery hearings.

Jodie pulls out another sheet of paper and a pen.

This is an NOPD arrest report form. I’d rather fill it out here than at parish prison.

Glick folds his arms and leans back in his chair. He closes his eyes.

Jodie puts the date and time at top of the arrest report. She puts in the victim’s name.

Age? How old was your wife?

Thirty-five. Glick’s eyes remain shut.

Jodie’s age, exactly.

Height? Jodie reaches for the coroner’s report but Glick answers first.

Five-four. Weight, one-ten.

Jodie writes in the word red under hair color and brown under eye color.

Clothing? She digs out her notes and writes in yellow jumpsuit and brown pumps. The jumpsuit wasn’t yellow when they found her in that ditch along the Almonaster Industrial Corridor three days after she disappeared.

Date of Offense? Jodie pauses and flips back through her notes. We found the body on the seventeenth. Damn, wish the coroner could have been more specific about how long she’d been dead?

Glick remains motionless as Jodie digs through her notes. She watches him surreptitiously as she continues flipping through the pages. The seconds tick by.

Are we about done, Officer?

Almost.

He’s impatient. Good. Jodie continues flipping papers, letting nearly a full minute to pass.

Date and Time of Offense, she says aloud. What’s the damn date and time? She waits a second before adding, When did you kill her?

Midnight. The fourteenth, Glick answers with his eyes still shut.

Thanks. I’ll put that in.

She keeps talking as she fills the form.

Matthew W. Glick, white male, date of birth?

He gives her his date of birth and social security number and other vital statistics as he puts his hands behind his head, his eyes shut tightly. As she’s finishing up the form, he yawns.

Charge will be Second Degree Murder.

Glick shakes his head.

Can you initial this?

He opens his eyes and says, What?

Check it for accuracy and sign it. Jodie passes him the form as she tries to look as though she’s calm.

Glick checks it over and pulls out a Mount Blanc fountain pen from his coat pocket.

Sign where?

She points to an open box at the bottom of the form. Jodie says as she purposefully drops some papers and leans over to pick them up.

When she sits back up, Glick slides the arrest report back to her. Lifting it, she checks that he signed it and carefully tucks it in her notepad.

Not the neatest confession, but it’ll stand up in court.

Confession? He sits bolt upright. What confession?

I asked you when did you kill her and you gave me the date and time. We have no idea the date or time of her death. Only her killer knows.

Glick’s eyes narrow and he leans back and laughs.

Jodie shrugs and says, It was worth a shot.

Glick continues laughing, nervously now, hands returning to the back of his head. Beads of perspiration dot his forehead.

Jodie starts digging in her purse and lets out a befuddled noise. She comes up with a set of keys and asks Beau if he’ll get her handcuffs out of the car.

I left them in my briefcase.

Beau catches the keys and steps back through the house. He returns a minute later with only the keys. This is a planned move. He could offer his handcuffs but that isn’t part of Jodie’s plan.

They’re not in my briefcase? Jodie’s voice rises.

Beau shakes his head.

Jodie gets up, bringing her notepad with the signed arrest report, but leaves her other notes on the table. She turns back to Glick and asks, You’re not going to try and run off, are you counselor?

No, Officer Kintyre.

Jodie and Beau step back into the townhouse and wait in the kitchen. They slip back to the French doors to peek through the curtains. It takes a minute before Glick sits up and slaps himself on the forehead. Can’t believe I’m this dumb!

Noticing Jodie’s papers, he scowls toward the French doors for a second, rises quickly and starts rifling her papers. Jodie pulls the arrest report out of her notepad as she steps back onto the patio. Looking for this, counselor?

She holds up the arrest report as she moves in front of the video camera.

Glick steps around the table and folds his arms. Beau remains in the doorway to the kitchen.

Jodie sits. Is there anything you wish to add or take away from your statement?

Glick seems to notice the camera.

It’s still running, she tells him. I liked the part when you slapped your forehead. And yes, you can be this dumb, counselor.

Glick’s face reddens. This won’t stand up. It’s all trickery!

Not even you searching for the arrest report you signed? What were you going to do, tear it up?

Glick leans forward and grabs the end of the table. He glares into Jodie’s eyes.

She tells him, Counselor, you know full well trickery is acceptable in a court of law.

He shakes so violently, the table quivers.

Jodie nods at the camera. You forgot it was on, admit it.

Glick lunges for the camera but Beau is faster and steps between the counselor and the tripod. At 6’2", Beau is a good six inches taller than Glick. At twenty-seven, he’s a good ten years younger.

Don’t know if I mentioned it, but my partner, Detective John Raven Beau is half Sioux.

Quivering as Glick stands face to sternum with Beau, Glick looks up, tries staring Beau down. Big mistake. Beau returns the stare with his own, well-practiced, cold-eyed stare of the plains warrior. Jodie thinks of mentioning how her partner’s killed three men, all good shootings, but looking at Beau’s eyes, she knows it isn’t necessary.

Glick finally backs off, hands clenched in fists and shouts, This is bullshit!

Is there anything you wish to add or take away from your statement?

Glick points to the camera. I guarantee no jury will ever see this film.

Jodie announces, This concludes the statement of Matthew W. Glick. She turns to Beau and nods to the camera. Beau reaches around to turn it off, misses the button and lets it run a little longer.

If you’d be so kind at to cuff him, Jodie asks her partner.

Beau reaches around for his handcuffs, tucked into his pants at the small of his back and Glick explodes. He tosses the table at Jodie, who falls straight back.

You damn bitch! Glick kicks at her. You tricked me!

He lifts a chair over his head and Beau tackles him, sending him hard to the bricks. It takes Beau three seconds to cuff and lift him.

Had enough, counselor? Beau’s voice is heard on the tape for the first time. Turning Glick around, Beau searches him as Jodie shoves her skirt down, brushes herself off and moves back to the camera.

You all right? Beau asks.

Jodie nods.

The red light’s still on, she says. Thought you turned it off.

I thought I did.

The jury probably got a good view up her skirt. The men should enjoy the flash. Jodie looks back at Glick and says it seems they’ve recorded his attack.

Go to hell! Glick screams.

Jodie faces the camera, but before she turns it off, she says, You know, counselor. Only the guilty can be tricked.

I want my lawyer! Glick shouts.

Jodie turns off the camera and finally lets a smile cross her face.

* * * *

Eleven months after his statement was taken, a jury finds Matthew W. Glick, Attorney-at-Law, guilty of his wife’s strangulation murder. Although the circumstantial evidence was presented, the videotaped statement of the defendant, played in open court, seemed to be the most persuasive piece of evidence presented by the prosecution. Glick is currently serving a mandatory life sentence at hard labor in Angola State Penitentiary without benefit of parole, probation or suspension of sentence.

His wife is buried in a walled tomb in St. Louis Cemetery No. 3 on Esplanade Avenue, Mid-City New Orleans. Jodie Kintyre and her partner visit her every few months. There is no satisfaction in their visits, no closure, no peace of mind. It doesn’t make them feel good to visit.

But they still visit.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

O’Neil De Noux (www.oneildenoux.com) has 47 books published, more than 400 short story sales, and a screenplay produced in 2000. His writing has garnered a number of awards including the Shamus Award twice, the Derringer Award and Police Book of the Year (awarded by PoliceWriters.com). Two of his stories have been featured in the The Best American Mystery Stories (2003 and 2013). He is a past Vice-President of the Private Eye Writers of America.

Steering Clear of Trouble,

by Hal Charles

Detective Randi Robbins was enjoying her day off when she received the desperate phone call from her nephew. Mike had been arrested for theft and was being held at Randi’s precinct.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time her sister’s son had had a brush with the police. In the past Mike’s commitment to, as he put it saving the planet had set him at odds with local law enforcement, but his previous protests and pranks were usually innocent, if a bit misguided, never resulting in an arrest.

Randi had tried her best to steer her nephew in a positive direction, praising him for his purchase of an electric car and his move to an apartment powered by solar energy. But Mike couldn’t resist pushing the envelope and had become a thorn in the side of the town’s police chief, her boss.

Well, Detective Robbins, came the booming voice of Chief Remalely, it looks like your nephew has finally crossed the line.

What exactly is he charged with? said Randi, approaching the bear-sized officer.

No bubbles in the town square fountain this time, said Remalely. The charge is grand theft.

What happened?

Last night after closing, someone emptied the safe down at Motley Finance. Got away with several thousand dollars.

Mr. Motley gave Mike his first job, said Randi. I can’t believe Mike would do anything to hurt him.

It’s been my experience that people can surprise us, said the chief.

What makes you think Mike is responsible?

Look, Detective, said Remalely, I know your nephew and I have had our differences, but Motley tells me only four people know the safe’s combination, and Mike is one of them.

That doesn’t make him guilty, said Randi.

Yes, but your nephew was the one Motley saw leaving the building right before he noticed the cash missing.

What about the other people who knew the combination?

I thought about that, said the chief. As soon as Motley reported the theft, I scooped up your nephew and one of the other two who knew the combination.

And?

Della Rhodes, the office manager, had a dinner date across town right after work. She was long gone before the money was taken.

You said you ‘scooped up’ one of the others beside Mike. The other?

Rachel Cummings, Motley’s accountant, said Remaley. She’s been laid up in the hospital for the last week with complications from a broken leg.

Chief, said Randi, I’d like to see my nephew now.

Aunt Randi, said an exhausted-looking millennial as the detective approached the cell, am I glad to see you. They arrested me for robbing Mr. Motley, but I was nowhere near the office when the money was taken.

Can you prove that?

You mean you don’t believe me either? said Randi’s nephew.

Of course I believe you, Mike, said Randi, but Mr. Motley says he saw you leave the building around the time of the theft.

I hate to accuse him of lying, but—

Chief Remaley says Mr. Motley’s coming to the station to make an official statement, and I plan to talk with him. You just hang in there.

Randi found Chief Remaley and Carl Motley in the station interview room.

Mr. Motley, said the chief, I think you know Detective Robbins.

The lanky man in a rumpled suit looked up from the stack of papers on the table. Detective, I hate to accuse Mike. You know how fond I am of him, but . . .

You said that you saw him leave your building around the time of the theft? said Randi.

Yes. Our office is on the first floor. When I found the money missing, I rushed to the front door. That’s when I heard the car start up. I looked out the window and saw Mike as he drove beneath a streetlight.

Randi stared down at the seated businessman. Mr. Motley, I believe you’ve been steering the chief in the wrong direction.

Solution

When Motley claimed he heard the car start up, Randi knew he was lying. Mike owned an electric car that makes no noise when it starts. Confronted, Motley confessed that in fact no money was taken from the safe. Having financial problems, he planned to collect for the theft from the insurance company.

COTTONMOUTHS,

by M.E. Proctor

It was the third night in a row that Leon Teller had seen the two-tone pickup parked in front of the old Crawford place. The truck might have been there before, he just hadn’t looked out of the bathroom window. He wasn’t curious about things when he needed to take a leak at three in the morning, but the truck looked like the Chevy his older brother used to drive, dark red and ivory, damn pretty before rust took the shine off it, and it caught his attention. It was too dark out there, without the streetlights working, to see the colors or the rust on this one.

The truck was never parked there during the day. Only in the middle of the night.

Leon leaned on the narrow window sill, the urge in his bladder forgotten for a moment. What the hell was going on over there? Nobody had lived in the Crawford house for at least ten years. It was an eyesore, the roof had caved in on one side, the walls were full of holes and streaked with mold black as soot, with Virginia creeper and poison ivy poking through the cracks. It was amazing no kid had yet sent a firebomb flying into it. Leon was tempted to give it a go. He’d always wondered what sending a Molotov cocktail soaring felt like. Something he should check off his bucket list before it was too late for him to throw anything.

A twinge in his groin reminded him why he was standing barefoot on the bathroom tile. When he was done urinating, a process that irritated him because it was getting more protracted every time, he gave another look at the street. The pickup was still there, nobody around, no lights, no movement of any kind. Leon went back to bed, ruminating.

* * * *

I’m of a mind to go take a look at the Crawford place.

No, you’re not, Nell said.

Leon had told her of the pickup and the questions cricket-hopping in his head. She’d shrugged with a roll of the eyes. Nell believed in people minding their own business.

She put a plate of fried eggs and toast in front of him. It’s full of critters. It’s so rotten the roof will fall on your head, and then what?

Nell was right about the wildlife. The Crawford house was on the creek, at the very end, shallow water right there, only mud when the lake level went down. It must be crawling with enough cottonmouths to scare away a full revival tent.

I’ll call the sheriff, he said.

Be my guest. Nell stood with her fists on her hips. Leon’s beloved wife of fifty-eight years last St Patrick’s day, small and fierce. How will you feel when the cops bust a couple of teenagers going at it?

Leon didn’t believe kids chose that location, not with Lakewood Drive around the corner being the perfect date spot. Lots of trees and shadows and a romantic view of the lake to boot. He pretended to agree with Nell. He had long learned that life was much easier when he went along with whatever she said.

He didn’t mention the sheriff again. Instead, he called his friend Harry and invited him to spend the weekend. The crappie were biting, Leon said, and he didn’t like to fish alone.

* * * *

Harry McLean was an Army vet and former cop. Both occupations didn’t fit the man’s temperament. Old-fashioned personality tests of the kind Leon remembered from when he was looking for a job out of college would have pointed that out in screaming colors. Maybe Harry was never tested, maybe he faked it. Leon could picture Harry bluffing his way through any kind of screening. He was one wily customer. His current job at DG Investigative matched his lie-sniffing talents. He didn’t bite into Leon’s fish tale.

What’s the rub, Leon? he said on the phone as soon as the invitation was proffered.

I’d rather tell you when you get here.

That serious, uh?

Well, that’s part of the problem, maybe it’s nothing.

Harry said he would drive up on Friday afternoon. Okay, Pops. Nell’s in on it?

She thinks I’m a geezer with an overactive imagination to match my excitable bladder.

That made Harry laugh. He was still years away from worrying about his prostate. Their friendship was the result of a nasty investigation when Harry was with Houston PD and Leon witnessed a crime. They found out they’d both done a stint in the military, Leon in Vietnam, Harry in Afghanistan, and that clinched the bond. They’d kept in touch after Nell and Leon moved out of town and Harry moved out of HPD.

You’re going to bug Harry with that pickup truck? Nell said.

If I’m off my rocker, he won’t make any bones about telling me, hon.

She sighed. I’ll run to the store. You need charcoal for the grill?

Leon wrote down a shopping list.

* * * *

They didn’t fish on Friday. They took a cocktail cruise on the lake as an appetizer before digging into Nell’s lasagna. Grilled steak was on the menu for Saturday. Leon explained his predicament after dinner, when they plonked down on the back porch with a nightcap. Harry smoked. Leon had given up the habit twenty years ago.

They might be cooking meth, Leon said. I hear it’s all over the countryside.

Not likely, Harry said. It isn’t the kind of thing you do in the dark in a ramshackle building. And it smells. Did you smell anything?

On top of rotting fish, septic tanks, and standing stinky water? No.

You knew the Crawford family?

"I saw the old lady a few times when we were coming up here for the weekend. She’d been a widow for a while. Ill-tempered. She looked down her nose at us. We were city people, that said it all. She was in a retirement home when we moved in for good. He leaned forward in his chair to close the distance with Harry. I looked at the property records after calling you. A Kenneth Crawford is listed as the owner. No idea what the family relationship is. In all the years we’ve lived here, I never saw anybody over there."

What’s the best place to watch? Harry said.

The upstairs bathroom. The way our house sits, all the other windows are useless.

They shoved an armchair between the toilet and the shower stall. With a pile of cushions stacked on top of a collection of encyclopedias, Harry was at a good height to observe the Crawford house.

I’ll use the guest bathroom tonight, Leon said.

Good thinking, buddy. You may want to check on me, in case I doze off. Nell had set up Harry with coffee and cookies.

As it often happens, according the law of immanent absurdity, Leon slept the whole night through. He was still drowsy when he padded into the kitchen at seven in the morning. Harry was sitting at the table doing a crossword puzzle. He looked far too bright-eyed for a man who had just pulled an all-nighter. He also had a glass of rye by his elbow.

Ain’t it a bit early for the hooch? Leon yawned.

Or kinda late. Slept well?

Too well. So?

Harry put down his puzzle. The pickup pulled up a little before midnight. Two guys got out. They entered the house through a broken window. I didn’t see a flicker of light. They left four hours later. He took a sip of his drink, smiling. We have a mystery on our hands, Leon.

You glad I called you?

It’s a fun way to spend a weekend. No offense but it’s more exciting than fishing. I went out and got the license plate. I’ll soon know who the vehicle belongs to.

Might be stolen.

Harry shook his head. They wouldn’t use the same stolen vehicle every night. Can we take your boat up that creek, have a look at the place from the back?

Too shallow. But we could take the kayaks.

It looks like a perfect morning for it, Harry said.

* * * *

It would have been faster and shorter to cross the street and walk to the Crawford house but this was more fun, and safer, even if Leon spotted a couple of slinking shapes in the murky waters of the creek. He was careful where he dipped his paddle. God, he hated snakes. He saw that Harry was similarly cautious, not venturing too close to the collapsed bulkheads and dingy docks. The water was soupy, a greenish brown spotted with slime and bird droppings, reeking of corruption. No wonder there were no houses built that deep along the creek. A couple of ruined trailers, long abandoned, skulked under the trees, surrounded by weeds high enough to hide a man. This was a part of the lake real estate agents didn’t show to prospective buyers. It made Leon uneasy to think it was so close to his neat home, like a hidden room behind a closed door. A room where something nasty happened. He watched Harry take pictures, and itched to get out of there.

That’s a massive deck. Harry said, when they were back at the house. He was scrolling through his pictures.

Nell looked over his shoulder. You could hold a debutante ball on that dance floor. Must have been pricey, all that planking.

Some people would do anything to avoid mowing, Leon said. The deck of the Crawford house stretched from the back wall to the edge of the bulkhead. It covered more square footage than the house itself.

That piece of land is so muddy, I doubt grass could get a foothold, Nell said. Are you guys going out fishing?

You’re game to go drift on cleaner water, Harry?

Sure.

Ten minutes after pulling away from the dock, Harry was asleep with his feet up on the side of Leon’s pontoon boat, his fishing rod forgotten. It didn’t bother Leon. He enjoyed the quiet, and the crappie were indeed biting with gusto.

* * * *

Leon was firing up the grill when the truck information came in, with a scan of a driver’s license. The pickup was registered to one Daryl Maher, eighteen, living in an apartment building three streets over.

Kids, Leon said. I worried for nothing.

And kids are incapable of mischief? Harry smiled. I’m curious. What are they doing in there? I’ll borrow your kayak tonight, Leon.

Are you nuts? You can’t get out there in pitch darkness.

All I got to do is follow the bulkhead. The moon is almost full. There’ll be more light than I wish for.

What do you expect to see from the water? They’re in the house.

I expect to see a light that’ll tell me where they’re pottering around.

Probably smoking weed. Leon wasn’t interested anymore. He should have listened to Nell and dropped the whole thing.

They didn’t talk about the Crawford house again. Grilled steak and cocktails and good conversation needed tending to. When Leon went to bed, he was convinced Harry had given up on the kayak excursion. The armchair and the encyclopedias were no longer in the bathroom.

It turned out he didn’t know how stubborn Harry could be. When he got up, at three in the morning again, and saw the pickup parked in its usual place, he thought of checking on Harry in the guest room. The bed was empty. With a pinch in the chest, Leon turned on the back-porch lights, and sure enough, the red kayak was missing. He considered waiting for Harry downstairs but didn’t want to worry Nell, so he went back up and, despite his best resolutions, fell asleep.

The scene at breakfast was a repeat of the morning before. Harry with his crossword puzzle and a drink, and way more awake than Leon. This time however Harry went straight to the matter at hand.

They’re dismantling the deck, he said. Digging in there. It’s mucky work.

What are they looking for?

I don’t know, but judging from their gesticulations last night, they found it.

Leon sighed. Okay, that means it’s over. No more pickup trucks at night. You think they found a pot of gold?

Harry drained his glass of rye and filled a coffee mug. Let’s go take a look. I’m sure they rummaged enough to scare all the snakes away.

Seriously?

No better time than now, Harry said.

If they found something, it’ll be gone. Leon wasn’t eager to go. He couldn’t get scaly critters out of his head. He watched Harry pull out a pair of rubber gloves from his jeans pocket. We’ll need something thicker. I’ll get us garden gloves.

And two shovels.

The crumbling house was everything Leon thought it would be. He held his breath, convinced he would inhale mold, roach droppings, and bat guano. They stepped around holes in the floor and piles of debris. The back door hung off its hinges. The long back deck was spread out in front of them, disjointed and rotten in places but mostly intact.

I thought you said they tore it up, Leon said.

They must have put the planks back. I watched them for a while but I didn’t sit there all night. I couldn’t feel my butt in that kayak. When I saw them all excited, I figured they were done. Harry made a face. My mistake.

Where were they working?

Harry pointed to his left. Lined up with that stump, I think. Hard to pinpoint precisely in the dark, but we should see traces of their handiwork.

It turned out the planks had been put back in place but none of them were fastened. As they walked on the deck, the floor shifted under their feet. Leon was grateful for the shovel he used like a crutch.

They must have lifted every single board, Harry said. Hell of a job. He paused, got his bearings. That’s about where I saw them. Best I can tell. He inserted the tip of the shovel between two planks and pushed.

It was easier than Leon thought. In a few minutes they had moved three long planks to the side and uncovered the ground underneath. Harry went down on one knee and stared at the opening.

Now, that’s unexpected, he muttered.

What does it mean? Leon leaned on the shovel. If he went down on the deck, he knew he couldn’t get up without help and he had his pride.

I know what it reminds me of, Harry said. He pulled out one of the little pink flags, looked at it, and stuck it back in. Except for the color. This is more festive.

Harry stepped into the hole, careful to stay out of the flag-marked perimeter. The dirt was loose and he pushed it to the side, delicately. Like an archeologist with broken pottery, Leon thought. He knew what the dirt covered. He had seen enough movies.

* * * *

There had been very little discussion about what to do next. Nell argued for doing nothing, of course, but she didn’t sound convinced. They all agreed they had to call the sheriff.

That’s unfair to the kids, Leon said. They did all the work.

They also have a few questions to answer, Harry said. If we call the cops, we’ll never hear what the kids have to say. Call me silly but I want to know what drew them to the house.

That sealed the deal. By the time the boys showed up that night, Harry and Leon were in position on the back deck with big flashlights and a couple of shotguns, just to make sure nobody did anything stupid.

The kids saw Leon’s face first, lit from below by the flashlight, and they freaked out. He was a tall, spare guy with lots of bony ridges, a walking scarecrow with a gun.

Meet my friend Leon Teller, Harry said, with a barely repressed chuckle. He’s a concerned neighbor.

The boys huddled together, weak in the knees.

Did you do this? Daryl, the one with the driver’s license, said. You gonna kill us too?

Leon moved the light to the side. He felt a tinge of shame at playing the boogeyman.

Settle down, Harry said. From what I saw, these bones have been down there a long time. Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?

They were brothers, Daryl and Ben Maher.

Graverobbers, Harry said, deadpan.

That got Ben’s hackles up. There’s twenty-three bodies buried down there, mister. Maybe more, ’cause we ain’t searched everywhere yet. That ain’t grave robbing… He turned to his brother for help.

We’re exposing a crime. Daryl straightened up. We put the flags, like they do on TV. We haven’t taken anything. Who are you to ask anyway?

Harry McLean. I’m a Houston detective.

Leon grunted.

Harry sighed. Private detective.

You know about this? Ben said.

Not until this afternoon, we didn’t, Leon said. Twenty-three bodies, you say? He had trouble picturing what that meant. A graveyard under the Crawford deck, what the hell?

Harry gave the boys a little bow. You know more than we do. What do you say, shall we find a more comfortable place to get to the bottom of this expedition of yours?

They walked across the street to Leon’s house and were greeted with the aroma of freshly baked cookies. Nell knew how to make people feel welcome.

Ben was the better storyteller of the two. They overheard a couple of old guys talk about the Crawford family at the barbershop. Words like blood cult, satanic rituals, missing girls. Enough to get their imagination going.

I’d never heard of the Crawfords, Ben said. I did a little research at the library and I found this article from like fifty years ago about a girl that went missing after a party. There was a picture of the dance floor. It was a big deck by the water. I looked at Google maps. I had no idea the house was still standing.

Barely. What possessed you to look under the boards? Harry said.

It’s because of the cottonmouths, Daryl said. We were out there, looking around, and I saw one slide between the boards. I can’t stand the damn things. I wasn’t going to walk on a nest, so I crushed the plank, and, I swear to God, I saw a bone poking out.

What would you have done in our place? Ben said.

Leon leaned back in his recliner and said, Call a detective.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M.E. Proctor