He Was Dead When I Got There
Author: Cedar Sanderson; Sherri Mines; Richard Cartwright; Peter Delcroft; Sarah Arnette; Matthew C. Lucas; Ted Begley; Douglas Goodall; K. Anders; Jacob Affolter
Date: 2023-12-24 08:00:00+00:00
Description: It seems like disaster always strikes when you're on the road. Sometimes it's unavoidable but others, it's from a the actions of one of the world's dumbest and most incompetent creatures. Andrew Spurgle is at it again, complete with an explanation from the "man" himself in the Foreword.

He Was Dead When I Got There…

Edited by Kortnee Bryant

Raconteur Press

Foreword

Copyright © 2023 by Kelly Grayson

It All Started With a Raccoon

Copyright © 2023 by Ted Begley

The Scandal

Copyright © 2023 by Jake Rivers

Bollocks

Copyright © 2023 by K Anders

The Spurgle Convention

Copyright © 2023 by Douglas Goodall

The Good, The Band, and the Bedbugs

Copyright © 2023 by Richard Cartwright

Paws-Off Spas

Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Arnett

No Country For Dumbasses

Copyright © 2023 by Matthew C. Lucas

Table Manners

Copyright © 2023 by Sherri Mines

Once More, With Feeling

Copyright © 2023 by Peter Delcroft

Drema Little Dream

Copyright © 2023 by Lilania Begley

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Cover art and Design by Cedar Sanderson

Contents

Foreword

1. It All Started With A Raccoon

1. Ted Begley

2. The Scandal

2. Jake Rivers

3. Bollocks

3. K Anders

4. The Spurgle Convention

4. Douglas Goodall

5. The Good, The Bad, and the Bedbugs

5. Richard Cartwright

6. Paws-Off Spas

6. Sarah Arnett

7. No Country For Dumbasses

7. Matthew C. Lucas

8. Table Manners

8. Sherri Mines

9. Once More, With Feeling

9. Peter Delcroft

10. Drema Little Dream

10. Lilania Begley

Also From Raconteur Press

Foreword

My name is Andrew J. Spurgle III, but you may call me Lieutenant Spurgle. You may wonder why I graced this collection of scurrilous lies and slanders with my writing, and the answer is that I threatened the publisher of this tome into allowing me to rebut any false claims about my intelligence and professionalism.

I’ll say that Mr. LawDog (seriously, who calls themselves such a thing?) may be possessed of a certain low cunning, but he lacks the capacity to engage with me in a battle of intellect, and thus he was quite cowed when threatened with civil action and a criminal charge of Disrespecting a Senior Law Enforcement Officer, a felony crime in Texas.

I’m pretty sure that’s in the Texas criminal code somewhere. I was sick when we covered the law in the Police Academy.

It simply doesn’t do to insult a cop. I am the embodiment of Order, a Horatio, if you will, standing bravely at the gates, a bulwark between good and evil. Society reveres heroes such as myself, and for good reason.

Many falsehoods have been uttered about me in previous publications by Mr. LawDog, as he seems intent on nipping at my heels while I undertake the deadly serious business of protecting society. Most of his readers simply cannot fathom the burden that rests upon my shoulders, and I choose not to scorn them. I simply pity them for their ignorance and give thanks that they have not seen the things I have seen.

But enough is enough, as they say, and I refuse to endure more. Mr. LawDog and his compatriots have made sport of me for long enough. I’ve not read the things he and his compatriots write about me, but I hear about it. I have my sources, and some of them can even read.

I myself am no fan of such lowbrow fare. I’d rather read Tolstoy, Sartre and Nietzsche, Homer in the original Latin, or perhaps my extensive collection of Cathy cartoons. Cathy Guisewite was a true poet of our times, and it’s a pity that the papers stopped carrying her strip.

However, I digress. I was explaining why I’m writing the foreword to this book. The reason is simple: you people need to put some respect on my name when it escapes your lips.

First of all, like the title of the book suggests, the guy was dead when I got there. I’ve been a cop for nine years, and I graduated at the top of the First Responder class at the academy, and I know dead when I see it. I’ve never been one to hesitate in a crisis; when everyone else freezes, I leap into action.

That’s my gift.

So naturally, that day at Bugscuffle Middle School, I started CPR on Buford Mendez, the chemistry teacher, as he laid lifeless on a couch in the faculty lounge. I ignored the panicked shouts of other teachers too paralyzed by fear and indecision to do anything themselves, and focused on giving compressions and ventilations, even though the health teacher had the temerity to shout that I was doing it wrong. Even old Mr. Mendez seemed ungrateful; the entire time I was doing chest compressions, he kept trying to push my hands away, grunting, “Stop…it…you…asshole…you’re…killing…me…chingalla tu madre!”

Seriously, a lesser man than I would have given up at that point and simply let him die.

Eventually, Mr. Mendez did show some gratitude for me saving his life. Every time I passed his house on patrol for years afterward, he would point to his chest and extend his middle finger, which I can only guess is an expression of gratitude and brotherhood in his native Mexico.

Odd custom, that.

That incident brought me to the attention of the chief, who rewarded my heroism by promoting me from school resource officer to patrol. On the wall above my desk is a framed photo of Uncle Bob—excuse me, Chief Spurgle—pinning the commendation medal to my uniform. The Chief knew a star when he saw one.

I quickly rose through the ranks on patrol, and was promoted to shift sergeant within six months. I still hold the distinction for most traffic citations ever written by a patrol officer in one year, an honor of which I am quite proud. I regret that so many were necessary, but when people refused to replace their burned-out license plate bulbs or signal at least a hundred feet before turning, what was a conscientious officer to do? The public’s safety was at stake.

One day, while pursuing a fleeing vehicle, the driver threw an unknown white powdered substance out of the window. I was only 150 yards back, and sucked some of the illicit powder into my unit’s air conditioner intake. When I began to feel dizzy and my chest started to pound, I knew that I had come into contact with dreaded Fentanyl.

Still, I remained stalwart and continued the pursuit as my fellow officers joined in. The driver eventually bailed out of the vehicle and tried to flee on foot, but was stymied when I gently pinned him in place with the bumper of my patrol vehicle.

The official investigation ruled that I had forgotten to put the unit into Park when I bailed out, but the truth is I did it on purpose. I knew that if I button-hooked left as my unit rolled forward, I could distract the subject until my unit pinned him against Officer Turley’s patrol vehicle.

Why Turley chose that moment to get out of the vehicle and cuff the suspect, I’ll never know, but his cries of pain drew the attention of other officers arriving on scene, and everyone ignored me dying of Fentanyl exposure to humor Turley and his incessant caterwauling. Luckily, I still had the presence of mind to deploy the Narcan I carry on my belt and in the trunk of my patrol vehicle. I had to dose myself eleven times before the symptoms waned. That Fentanyl is powerful stuff.

After that, the chief recognized that someone who could keep his head in such a chaotic situation was wasting his talents on patrol, and promoted me to Investigations, where I could use my keen intellect and razor-sharp cop instincts to fight crime in Bugscuffle.

That, of course, is where I butted heads with the publisher of this work when my duties required that I investigate Mr. LawDog for the most heinous example of excessive force I’ve ever seen in nine years of law enforcement. The suspect barely survived the ordeal, sustaining a bloody nose and spending over an hour in the Bugscuffle Community Hospital Emergency Department being treated for his injuries. Judging from the constant references by other officers and the hospital staff that the suspect was a “devout Crystal Methodist,” I suspect some sort of religious persecution fueled Mr. LawDog’s savagery.

I did my duty, only to see the miscreant declared not guilty in a court of law. Just goes to show why we shouldn’t trust such important matters to the legal system, I suppose. Judges should leave ruling to the professionals.

Anyway, don’t believe any of the stories you read in this book. The contributors have lent my good name to all manner of buffoonish, incompetent and malevolent characters in these pages, but as you can see, I’m a man deserving of your admiration and respect.

Enjoy reading, and watch your speed.

Sincerely,

First Lieutenant Andrew J. Spurgle III

Lieutenant, Investigations, Bugscuffle Metropolitan Police Department

TCOLE Basic Peace Officer, TCOLE Basic Jailer, Hazmat Awareness Provider, First Responder, Child Passenger Safety Technician, Bugscuffle Kiwanis Club Law Enforcement Officer of the Month July 2015, Bugscuffle PD Meritorious Service Award, Parliamentarian of the Texas Senior Peace Officer’s Benevolent Association

It All Started With A Raccoon

Ted Begley

“An emergency has been declared. Please proceed to the nearest emergency exit. You will be notified when it is safe to re-enter the building.”

Judge Joseph A. Flynn, a short, stocky man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, opened the door to his hotel room and looked up and down the hallway. There was a white strobe light flashing outside of his door and the automated message began to repeat. People were exiting their rooms and heading toward the stairwells at either end of the hall. The judge pulled his robe on over his flannel pajamas, picked up a clipboard from the desk, and put on his slippers before going back out into the corridor. A majority of the people on this floor were teenagers in the fourteen-to-seventeen-year age range. The rest were like the judge: middle-aged chaperones.

The judge and two of the chaperones stayed on the floor and pointed the kids towards the stairwell until the hallway was empty. They then proceeded to check all the rooms to ensure nobody got left behind. When the teenagers had gone into their rooms at bedtime, the chaperones placed a small piece of masking tape at the top of each door. Now they methodically checked each room to ensure all the tape had been broken, which would indicate the door had been opened and the room evacuated. Only one room had its tape still intact. The judge had a master key for their block of rooms. He opened the door, and the chaperones went inside. They found two boys sound asleep, each wearing headphones. The judge woke up the students, made sure they put shoes and a robe or jacket on, and shooed them towards the emergency exit, then followed them down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor.

When they reached the lobby, the small group was met by two firefighters, who guided them into the parking lot. Once there, the chaperones gathered the students into smaller groups and began a headcount. Five minutes later, the lists had been double-checked and everyone was confirmed to be present. Judge Flynn felt free to excuse himself at that point to find out exactly what was going on. He looked around the parking lot and spotted three fire engines, three police cruisers, and one animal control truck. Animal control? Not an ambulance, as he’d expected, but an animal control truck? Something wasn’t quite right.

It was early December, and while there had been only occasional flurries so far this season, Midvale was far enough north that the nights were dropping to a few degrees above freezing. Too cold for people to be standing around outside, waiting and shivering. They either needed to go back inside or get on the busses and seek shelter elsewhere. To this end, Judge Flynn approached the police officer at the door.

“Deputy Green,” the judge addressed the man as he got within earshot, “do you know what’s happening in there?”

“Hello, Your Honor,” the deputy said, almost automatically. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be standing in a parking lot at three in the morning, either,” the judge replied, stowing the clipboard under his arm and shoving his hands into his robe pockets, “but here we are. I’m judging the regional high school speech and debate tournament as well as being a volunteer chaperone. And my duty to these students is to get them out of the cold and into some sort of shelter as quickly as possible. Can you check on the status of whatever emergency is going on so we can either go inside or get on the busses?”

“Sure thing, Judge,” Deputy Green agreed. “If you wouldn’t mind standing here and not letting unauthorized persons enter until I return.”

The judge nodded agreement and the deputy disappeared inside the lobby. While he was waiting, Joe surveyed his surroundings. The Twin Pines Lodge was the largest hotel in Midvale. The main building was five stories tall and built in front of one of the few hills in the town. The hotel’s swimming pool was in an adjacent building on the hillside, level with the third floor and accessible through a climate-controlled walkway. The exterior of the main building was reminiscent of a ski lodge in the mountains, with its log-cabin siding and green metal roof, even though Midvale was many hours away from the nearest ski resort. There were huge, rough timbers holding up the roof of the porte cochère, where vehicles dropped off guests.

The only thing that went against the decor, besides the pool building, was the old-fashioned neon sign for the hotel. It was over sixty-five years old and had been the sign for the original Twin Pines Lodge, which had been replaced with this building about ten years ago, after a kitchen fire had gotten out of control. As he stood there looking at the sign, Judge Flynn was mesmerized by the flashing neon “No” in front of the word “vacancy.” Under that, also in neon, were “Color TV in every room,” “Ice-cold air conditioning,” and “Free Breakfast.”

The message board part of the sign said, “Welcome Regional High School Debate Finals,” and below that something called “#raconteurroadtrip,” whatever that might be. The judge looked around for motorcycles, thinking it could be some sort of biker club for middle-aged men going through a midlife crisis.

Deputy Green returned in short order with Chief Wynn of the Midvale Fire Department in tow. The Chief extended his hand to the judge and said, “Sorry about running everyone out into the cold, Joe. We’ve cleared the building, and we haven’t found an immediate threat. We are going to let everyone back in, but for now you’ll need to keep the students in the main ballroom until we’ve had a chance to do a more thorough inspection, just in case. It’s probably nothing, but better safe than sorry. I’ve had the alarm reset, so if it goes off again, load the students onto the busses and go to the high school for shelter.”

“Thanks, Leo,” the judge said, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll get the chaperones together and we’ll keep the kids out of your way until you give us the all-clear.”

The Chief tapped the front of his helmet with two fingers in an acknowledging salute and went back into the building. The judge went to help gather the students and usher them to the main ballroom, where later that day the teams were supposed to begin the first rounds of the debate competition. The judge pressed Pete Winslow into service as his assistant. Pete was a junior at Midvale College, and the judge had known him for about a decade, ever since the lad first joined his scout troop. Pete was already serving as one of the chaperones for Midvale High, his old alma mater, but was happy to help the judge with the other students, as well.

Once a second headcount had been made, the judge put Pete in charge of keeping them in the ballroom and went to see if he could get any more information about what was happening. When Joe returned to the main lobby, he ran into Clarence Simon, Midvale’s Chief of Police and his longtime fishing buddy.

“Good morning, Clarence,” the judge began, “what are you and half of city services doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, good morning, Joe,” the Chief replied. He seemed to have been lost in thought and hadn’t noticed the other man approaching. When the judge’s question finally registered, he gestured around the lobby to Animal Control, the firefighters, his own officers, and one Sheriff’s Deputy and said, “I’m here for the only thing in town that can trigger such a response: Andrew Spurgle.”

Judge Flynn sighed deeply and resignedly asked, “What has Andrew gotten into this time?”

Quite a lot, but,” the Chief replied, pointing at the Christmas tree display in the lobby across from the front desk, “it all started with a raccoon.”

The Chief paused a moment to appreciate the bewildered look on the judge’s face, then continued. “Just after two this morning, Andrew called Animal Control because a rather large raccoon, maybe sixty to seventy pounds, activated the sensor for the automatic doors, waddled boldly through the lobby, and climbed into the pile of packages under the Christmas tree. In case you didn’t know, Andrew has been working here on the night shift for a couple of months now.”

Chief Simon led the judge over to the tree in question. The massive Christmas tree had to be at least twenty feet tall. It was decorated in an assortment of colors, but predominantly red, silver, and gold. There were so many multicolored lights on the Christmas fixture that the tree alone could have lit the entire lobby. On top of the tree was a large crystalline-shaped star that twinkled very much like a real star. Dozens of festively decorated packages in a variety of shapes and sizes gave the impression of a bountiful holiday, regardless of whether the boxes had any contents inside. All told, it was a beautiful display.

In addition to the presents under the tree, the judge spied a pair of legs covered in gray uniform trousers. The owner of those legs was wriggling around amongst the boxes and muttering to himself. Chief Simon walked up to the booted feet and gently tapped on the soles with the side of his shoe. “Dave, can you spare a moment?” the Chief asked.

David Chase, one of Midvale’s Animal Control officers, slid out from underneath the tree, pulling a catch-pole with him. He stood up and dusted off the front of his trousers. “What can I do for you, Chief?” he asked. Then, with a surprised expression, he looked at the smaller man dressed in a bathrobe and added, “And you, too, Judge Flynn.”

“Dave,” the Chief said, “the judge is here with the debate tournament. I’m bringing him up to speed on everything happening in the hotel right now. Can you catch us up on the raccoon situation?”

“Certainly,” Dave responded. “Andrew was correct in his assessment. There is a rather large raccoon hiding out in the packages under the tree. I’m having trouble getting the loop of the catch-pole over its head. I’ll probably need to switch tactics and use a baited live trap. The only problem with that is the raccoon won’t come out with so many people running around.”

“We’ll get the lobby cleared for you as soon as possible,” the Chief assured him. “Just try to keep the raccoon corralled in this area until then.” Dave nodded and moved towards his equipment.

The Chief began walking in the direction of the elevators and resumed his conversation with the judge. “Andrew being Andrew couldn’t just keep an eye on the raccoon and wait for the professionals. No, indeed—our Andrew sprang into action. He went up to the swimming pool area to get the skimmer, with the intention of using it to catch the raccoon himself and pull it out.”

“That boy is going to get himself seriously hurt one day,” the judge said, shaking his head. “It’s a wonder he didn’t kill himself trying to move that fiberglass bull this past summer. Or when he fell through the skylight at the peanut butter factory. Where is Andrew, anyway?” the judge asked, looking around the lobby.

“Andrew is trapped in the elevator,” the Chief said with a grin, as he stopped at the fire control panel next to said elevator and pressed the intercom button. “How are you doing in there, Andrew?” he inquired into the speaker.

“I’m okay, Chief,” said a voice emanating from the small speaker box. “I probably shouldn’t have had that thirty-two-ounce soda at the start of my shift, so the sooner that I can get out of here, the better.”

“Hang in there, Andrew,” the Chief said comfortingly. “The elevator technician just has to drive over from Springfield. I spoke to him on the phone not long ago. He should be able to manually open the doors and let you out, even if something is seriously wrong. Think dry thoughts,” he advised Andrew, “it shouldn’t be much longer.”

“How did Andrew get himself trapped?” the judge asked after Chief Simon released the button. “A fire alarm should have brought the elevator to the lobby and opened the doors. The elevator shouldn’t have just stopped.”

“Andrew panicked and got the elevator stuck before the fire alarm went off,” Clarence explained. “Until we can get inside and see for ourselves, we’re operating on the theory that he jammed the pool skimmer into the elevator at an angle and accidentally lifted the emergency hatch on the elevator ceiling, thereby causing the elevator to shut down. Chief Wynn is doing a floor-by-floor inspection just to rule out other possibilities, but we think Andrew set off the fire alarm when he was trying to press the call button, since the buttons are side by side on the panel.”

“What caused Andrew to panic?” the judge asked. “If anything, that boy stays calm when everyone else is overreacting.”

“When Andrew got to the swimming pool area to get the skimmer,” the Chief said, “he saw a body lying on the bottom of the pool.”

“He WHAT?” the judge exclaimed, with a high pitched squeak as a final punctuation.

“That’s what Andrew said when he called the police department from the emergency phone in the pool area,” the Chief said in a calm voice. “Relax, Joe,” he continued, “you don’t think I would have started by telling you about the raccoon if it was really a body, do you?” Before the judge could answer, the Chief turned to the firefighters near the elevator and asked them, “Is it okay to use the second elevator?”

The closest firefighter looked over and saw it was the Police Chief. “Sure, Chief,” he replied. “Our men are using the stairs, anyway.”

Chief Simon and Judge Flynn boarded the elevator and went up to the third floor. From there, they walked through the pedway that connected the new hotel to the only remaining part of the old Twin Pines Lodge. “It’s funny, Joe,” Clarence said as they walked over, “I haven’t seen this many emergency personnel responding to a single incident since the night that…what’s his name…the guy everyone called ‘Captain Tater-Tot’ burned down the old Twin Pines Lodge.”

Judge Flynn chuckled at the memory. “What kind of person tries to deep-fry tater-tots in a skillet on the stovetop, then suddenly decides it’s a good idea to take a nap while they’re cooking?” the judge asked rhetorically as they approached the door to the pool area. “At least no one was hurt. Thank goodness the owners chose not to have efficiency apartments again in the new hotel.”

“I’m just glad they had sufficient insurance to cover the loss,” the Chief added. “It would have been a shame to lose your business over something so dumb. And speaking of dumb, take a look at this.”

They entered the pool area and gazed into the depths of the swimming pool. At first glance, they saw what appeared to be a man’s body lying at the bottom. It was about six feet tall, Caucasian, and with obvious seams at the neck and wrists. “Is that a mannequin?” the judge asked, examining it from the edge of the pool.

“Yes, it is,” the Chief replied. “If Andrew hadn’t panicked, he might have noticed the artificial nature of the victim, too.”

The two men walked over to the equipment room, and the Chief retrieved a long pole with a hook on one end. He used it to drag the mannequin out of the water and onto the pool deck. When the Chief finished, he turned to the judge. “This has teenage prank written all over it.”

“Do you think it was one of the debate teams that did this?”

“I think it’s highly likely,” Clarence replied.

“I don’t know,” the judge said. “These young people are very studious individuals. They’ve practiced for years to get to the level they are now. They aren’t just regular debate club members. Some of them have won several state and national awards. They are masters in the field.”

“Well, Joe,” the Chief said slyly, “teenagers are teenagers, regardless of their academic achievements. I’ll bet you breakfast at the Bluebird Diner that one or more of these little master debaters is responsible.”

The judge gave him a sidelong look and raised an eyebrow at that remark. “No bet. I’ve known you long enough to realize that when you’re willing to bet, you’re almost certain of the outcome.” The judge thought for a moment longer and asked, “What do you want to do about it, then?”

“A prank is one thing,” the Chief began, “but a prank that causes emergency services to respond and panics a whole building is quite another thing entirely. I’ve got an idea for how to flush out our little pranksters, but I’m going to need your help with convincing everyone how serious this is.”

“Okay, Clarence,” the judge replied. “What do you have in mind?”

Clarence clapped his friend on the back. “Let’s swing by your room so you can change into something more businesslike, and I’ll explain the plan. If we’re lucky, we might even get a confession.”

Twenty minutes later, clean-shaven and dressed in a suit, the judge entered the ballroom. Chief Simon had spent the time discreetly segregating the debate teams from the rest of the hotel guests. Clarence had conferred with Chief Wynn, and the fire department cleared the building. Chief Simon had Pete and the other chaperones do another headcount of the debate team members while the two chiefs quietly told the other hotel guests that they could return to their rooms. By the time Judge Flynn entered the ballroom, the stage was set.

The judge proceeded to the head of the room and took up his position at the podium, which had already been set up for the moderator of today’s debate tournament. He turned on the microphone and called for attention. Chief Simon joined the judge up at the podium, and the judge cleared his throat, then addressed the room.

“Chief Simon has asked me to speak with you. As you may already know, there was an incident earlier this morning which caused an emergency response by the Midvale Police and Fire Departments. The night clerk discovered a body at the bottom of the swimming pool.” A murmur went around the room, and several people stood up, aghast at the news. The judge motioned for everyone to sit. “Calm down, please. There is no immediate danger. Let me continue. The clerk called nine-one-one, then proceeded to the elevator, where he became trapped. In an understandably agitated state, this clerk accidentally activated the fire alarm in an effort to summon help, which is what caused the evacuation of the building. Unfortunately, at this time, we have been asked to remain in the ballroom as the police begin a murder investigation.”

From the back of the ballroom, a teenage boy stood up and said, “But it was just a mannequin.”

The judge looked over at the Chief, who smiled, then back to the boy and said, “Yes, we know. But how did you?”

The young man, who had stood up with such earnestness only moments before, now slowly sat back down in his chair. The two closest of his teammates stared at him in shock and frightened disbelief that he had just outed himself—and possibly them—as the culprits in a prank gone wrong. Next to them, a drowsy and bedraggled chaperone was beginning to take more serious note of what was transpiring. The stern-looking woman in her mid-forties, wearing a Hello Kitty bathrobe, glowered at the three trepidatious teenagers.

The judge and Chief Simon walked over to the table where a guilty-looking trio sat with their chaperone and the rest of their debate team. Chief Wynn approached from behind them, where he had been leaning against the far wall. The judge then summoned Pete Winslow over to the table with a two finger “come here” gesture. With the collection of adults standing around them, the three students attempted to slide down in their seats and become as inconspicuous as humanly possible. They were not in any way successful.

“Well, now, young man,” the judge said, addressing the boy who had blurted out the impromptu confession, “why don’t you and your friends join us in the conference room across the hall?”

The three teenagers stood and plodded out of the ballroom, crossing the carpeted hall in sullen silence. Once in the conference room, they were seated at one end of the table while the adults sat at the opposite end. The judge took the clipboard with the team rosters on it and asked their chaperone to confirm which team they were on. “They’re on the Springfield High School team…for now,” Mrs. Osbirn said in response to the question. “Joey and Matthew Ferguson, and Tina Wells,” she added.

“Ferguson and Wells,” the judge said contemplatively. “Clarence, why are those names so familiar? I don’t recognize the faces.”

“If I recall, Your Honor,” Chief Simon replied, reinforcing the honorific as a reminder to the students that the judge was not just an official at the tournament, but in fact “the Judge” in this jurisdiction, “Dawn Ferguson and Tim Wells were two of the Springfield College students who were involved with the kidnapped goat incident back in the spring. The same incident that almost got Pete here in trouble.”

“I see,” said the judge. “Do the three of you have anything that you want to say about what happened tonight?” he asked the youths. “Your situation isn’t serious yet, and if you want to keep it that way, we need to know what happened.”

“It was their idea,” Tina Wells said, standing and pointing her finger at the boys. “They said it was Andrew Spurgle’s fault that my brother got into trouble, and claimed they had a way to get even.”

The next thirty seconds were lost in a cacophony of shouting from the three over-excited, overtired, and angry teenagers who were determined to lay the blame at each other’s feet. Years of experience had prepared both the judge and Chief Simon for the outburst. Chief Wynn, Mrs. Osbirn, and Pete were not prepared. Mrs. Osbirn tried to intervene, but it only seemed to make things worse. The judge brought the outburst to an end by slapping his hand, palm down, on the table.

“Be quiet,” Judge Flynn stated in a commanding voice. He didn’t shout, but the ploy was effective. “Now,” the judge began again, “let me set you three youngsters straight on a few things.”

This earned the rapt attention of the students. “Firstly, Andrew Spurgle did not get your brother in trouble, Miss Wells. Nor did he get your sister in trouble,” the judge said, turning his gaze to the boys. “Your siblings got themselves into trouble. They did something wrong, and they got caught. All Andrew did was provide assistance in clearing Pete Winslow of any wrongdoing.” The last part of the judge’s statement caused the three students to hang their heads in embarrassment.

Judge Flynn continued. “Secondly, regardless of what Andrew’s part was in last spring’s debacle, retaliation is never an acceptable response. If you feel that an injustice has been done, you state your case with words. You’re all members of the debate team, for pity’s sake. You should be able to make your point verbally by now. As it is, your little prank has caused all of the town’s emergency services to respond, making them unavailable, should a real problem occur elsewhere. You are very fortunate that there weren’t any nine-one-one calls while everyone was busy here.”

Tina Wells raised her hand and asked in a timid voice, “May I say something, Your Honor?”

The judge scowled at her. “In a moment. I’m just going to add one more thing. My third and final point is this: you didn’t think through your actions. People could have been hurt trying to evacuate the building. I know that’s not what you intended, but that’s exactly what is meant by unintended consequences.” He paused for a moment to ensure his words hit home. “Okay, Miss Wells, what do you want to say?”

Tina looked at her cohorts. The boys avoided her gaze, so she turned back to the judge. “We need to tell you about the mice.”

“What mice?” the judge asked slowly.

“Shut up,” Matthew Ferguson said under his breath. This was met with a cool stare from Tina Wells.

“I’ve listened to you enough already, Matthew,” Tina said. She then turned to Mrs. Osbirn and said, “I’m so sorry about this. We thought we were just going to frighten Mr. Spurgle a little. I had no idea it would cause such a mess.”

“Miss Wells, I repeat—what mice?” Judge Flynn said as he rose from his seat and moved around the table.

“We weren’t sure that Mr. Spurgle would go to the swimming pool during his shift,” Tina continued. “So we placed a box of white mice in the lobby as a backup plan. The mice were sedated, but it should be wearing off soon. Once it does, they’ll be able to get out. There are large holes in the box, covered only by wrapping paper.”

“How many mice?” the judge asked.

“We ordered a hundred,” Tina said, her voice becoming very soft. “We found out you can get large quantities of mice at the pet store for feeding reptiles.”

“And exactly where did you put this box?” Chief Simon asked with greater concern.

“We wrapped it like a Christmas present, and put it under the tree in the lobby,” Tina said in an almost inaudible whisper.

The judge and the Chief looked at each other and said in unison, “The raccoon!” With that, the two chiefs, the judge, and Pete bolted for the door.

After they left, Tina turned to Mrs. Osbirn and asked, “Why is a raccoon in the lobby so urgent all of a sudden?”

“Because, Miss Wells,” the older woman replied in a lecturing tone, “raccoons hunt and eat mice.”

After waiting a few moments, Mrs. Osbirn rose, motioned to her three charges, and they followed her out of the conference room at a cautious pace.

The four men reached the lobby and spotted David Chase, still rummaging amongst the packages under the Christmas tree. Dave apparently wasn’t having any luck getting the raccoon out. Off to one side of the front desk sat a pile of packages that he had removed from under the tree to gain better access to the raccoon.

Dave was making another attempt to get the loop around the raccoon’s head when, from the other side of the lobby, a bell dinged and the elevator doors opened. The elevator technician stepped out of the way and Andrew Spurgle came stumbling out, pool skimmer still in hand. Andrew seemed to be limping as he approached the tree. “Oh, hey, Dave,” he shouted, seeing the Animal Control officer first.

Upon hearing his name, Dave jerked his head upwards, causing him to miss catching the raccoon yet again while simultaneously bumping his head into the lower set of metal tree branches. Dave bent forward quickly, clutching the top of his head where it had impacted the tree. The tree itself began to turn ever so slightly. Despite being a good quality tree, it was still an artificial one, which was much better suited for indoor public spaces. However, being artificial also meant it was made to disassemble, which is precisely what began to happen, much to everyone’s surprise.

As the tree turned, the branch that Dave bumped into fell off. It landed in front of a small pile of packages, which startled the already frightened raccoon. The raccoon then made a break for the trunk of the tree, chittering loudly, and began to climb. This might have worked out better for the raccoon had the tree been real. But as he climbed steadily upwards, the pudgy raccoon knocked loose several more branches, causing them to rain down on top of Dave and the package he grabbed to hold above his head for cover. After a minute or two of scrambling up the tree, the frightened raccoon stuck his head out of the branches to look down at his pursuers.

What happened next felt like it was happening in slow motion. With the added weight of the raccoon near the top of the tree, and the reduction of weight from the bottom, the tree began to tilt. The raccoon, sensing that something wasn’t right, continued to climb higher before coming to a stop just under the star, the lowest point poking the furry head of the confused animal. As the raccoon shifted to peer down, the overburdened Christmas tree started to slowly fall in the direction of Andrew Spurgle.

Andrew noticed that the tree was now in motion and hastily dropped the pool skimmer. Until this point, everyone had been watching the raccoon, but now they focused their attention on Andrew. Before anyone realized what he had in mind, Andrew rushed the Christmas tree and tried to catch it in his outstretched arms. He got to the tree just as it reached its final tipping point and fell over, onto Andrew and the pile of packages beneath.

The raccoon jumped as the tree hit the ground, using the tree’s momentum to propel itself forward. It landed in the smaller pile of packages that Dave had stacked next to the front desk. The weight of the rotund raccoon crushed most of the packages since they were just empty boxes wrapped to look like presents…all except one. The last box slid sideways, ripping the paper and exposing several large holes from which staggered a steady stream of a hundred medicated mice.

The lobby filled with the sounds of panicked shouting. The judge, the two chiefs, and several of the firefighters near the elevator ran towards the tree to extract Andrew. Dave and Pete both made a valiant attempt to corner the raccoon. Mrs. Osbirn and her three students, who had just arrived in the lobby, started trying to catch the mice. Neither group was having much luck in their respective tasks. Andrew was struggling under the tree, making it harder to get him out. The raccoon had disappeared behind the front desk and the mice were coming out of their stupor and scattering.

The pandemonium was so great that it caused the students who were still in the ballroom to come pouring out to see what the commotion was all about. Mrs. Osbirn, being the closest adult to the ballroom doors, started directing the students to assist them in collecting the mice. This was only partially effective, as about half the students, and even some of the chaperones, squealed and ran at the sight of the mischief of mice scurrying about the lobby. Those students who weren’t afraid began chasing after the mice. The caught rodents were placed into a tall trash bin which had been commandeered for the purpose of collection.

With a bit of effort, the firefighters managed to disentangle Andrew and right the tree. They gave Andrew a quick once-over and were satisfied that he had made it through the ordeal without a scratch. Judge Flynn cautioned Andrew to take it easy until he’d had a few minutes to steady himself. Chief Wynn seconded this plan.

Andrew, for his part, was not about to let a little thing like being pinned under a Christmas tree stop him from helping get the situation under control. Back on his feet, he made his way to the front desk to help Dave and Pete look for the raccoon. Grabbing the pool skimmer from where he had dropped it, Andrew crept up behind Dave and took position, ready to net the animal should they spot it. The judge watched him go with a resigned shake of his head.

The judge turned his attention back to the students who were trying to gather the mice. Only somewhat slowed by the waning sedation, the remaining mice were becoming harder to catch. The judge enlisted the aid of Chief Wynn and his men to help secure the lobby, closing the doors to any other rooms that the mice might be able to enter, and block off any under-door gaps if any were found.

A couple of the students had emptied a few of the plastic tubs that had contained their research materials for the debate tournament and were using them to sort and count the mice so they would know exactly how many were still loose. After twenty minutes or so of frantic mice-chasing, they reported to the judge that eighty-seven mice had been recovered. The judge confirmed with Tina that there were in fact exactly one hundred mice in the box. Thirteen still remained somewhere in the lobby.

In the meantime, Dave and Pete had been maneuvering the raccoon around the lobby. They had almost captured it several times, but Andrew, despite their pleas, had attempted to net the animal with the pool skimmer, causing the frightened raccoon to elude capture. Pete pulled Andrew aside and managed to convince him that it would be more helpful if he coordinated with the efforts to catch the mice.

Andrew then began to search the lobby for the remaining mice.

The judge and Mrs. Osbirn had collected seven more of the mice from various students, leaving only six to be located. The last half-dozen rodents were apparently the smartest of the bunch, because they were remarkably well-hidden. Joey Ferguson approached the judge and said, “You probably don’t want to hear from me right now, but I think I might have an idea about how to find the last few mice.”

Judge Flynn met the boy’s earnest gaze. “Young man, you may have made an error or two in judgment, but I’m always willing to listen to any reasonable suggestion. What do you have in mind?”

Joey smiled a little crookedly and said, “I think housekeeping has blacklight wands for checking the cleanliness of the rooms. If we were to dim the lights and maybe put some cheese or peanut butter in the middle of the room—something mice like to eat—and clear most of the people out, the mice might go for it. They haven’t eaten anything in hours.”

The judge smiled genuinely at the lad. “That’s putting your creativity to work for a good cause,” he said approvingly. “Now, go ask Andrew to get us some small chunks of cheese and blacklight wands.”

Joey smiled brightly for an instant, then his face fell as he looked towards Andrew Spurgle, then back at the judge. “Do I have to?” he asked meekly.

“It’s time you faced Andrew,” the judge said sympathetically. “You’re going to have to, sooner or later. Your actions, no matter how they were intended, have caused issues for him. Fess up and ask him for help.”

Joey nodded and walked across the lobby to where Andrew was peering under a table and said, “Mr. Spurgle…I’m sorry about the mannequin in the pool.”

Andrew stood up and turned to face the teenager. Andrew looked at him quizzically, then smiled and said, “That’s okay. You didn’t mean any harm. The judge told me on the intercom before I got out of the elevator that it was just a prank gone wrong. Believe me, I understand about things going wrong. Ask the judge to tell you about what happened to his roof back in the summer and you’ll understand. I messed up pretty badly, then.”

“What happened to his roof?” Joey asked, too curious to wait until he could talk to the judge.

“It’s a long story, but I was flying a fiberglass bull and crashed it into his roof.” Andrew grinned sheepishly.

“You what?” Joey exclaimed. A look of confusion spread across his features.

“As I said, long story. But right now, we need to catch these mice,” Andrew said as he resumed searching.

“About that,” Joey said, getting Andrew’s attention again. “We need to borrow some blacklight wands from housekeeping.” Joey filled Andrew in on the plan. Andrew took Joey along with him to carry the lights. Once they were back in the lobby, Andrew handed out half a dozen of the handheld units and then went to the kitchen to get a plate filled with an assortment of cheese and peanut butter.

While Andrew was helping Joey prepare for “Operation Mischief Managed,” the judge had the chaperones take the rest of the students back up to their rooms. They had been awake for over an hour in the middle of the night already and were likely to be so keyed up that they wouldn’t fall asleep right away. Mrs. Osbirn and her three troublemakers had insisted on staying to help. By this point, even Matthew Ferguson was contrite about what had happened. The judge always felt that a penance one gave oneself was worth more than any punishment bestowed from another.

The fire department and police department had mostly left the premises, as well. Only Chief Simon and David Chase remained: the Chief, because he wanted to see the conclusion, and Dave because he still hadn’t been able to catch the raccoon, despite Pete’s help and the extra-large size of the animal. It was still wandering around the lobby, getting into and behind various pieces of furniture and other hiding places.

“I think we’re ready now,” Judge Flynn told Andrew. “Go ahead and turn off the lights.”

Andrew went behind the front desk and lowered the lights until they were off. Everyone held still for several minutes, waiting for something to happen. Just when he was beginning to think this wasn’t going to work, the judge heard a slight intake of air and turned to see Tina pointing and shining her blacklight toward the tree.

Next to one of the fallen branches was a small glowing object. It moved cautiously away from the tree and into the center of the lobby. It reached the plate of goodies and began to eat. Everyone continued to remain as quiet as possible. A couple of minutes later, it was joined by a second hungry mouse, then a third. Soon, all six mice were eating from the plate. Since the three teenagers had the most experience handling these mice, it was decided that they would be the ones to attempt to pick them up. Each one, in their sock feet, snuck up cautiously to the mice from a different direction and picked up two of the mice.

“That’s it,” the judge said. “Andrew, go ahead and turn the lights back on.”

The lobby lights rose back to its normal illumination level, and the teenagers put their mice in the container with the others. The trio began the process of recounting the mice, just to be sure they had them all. The judge decided to take the opportunity to speak with their chaperone.

“Mrs. Osbirn,” he began, “it’s entirely up to you how to proceed with disciplining them, but as far as I’m concerned, as long as they are willing to help clean up this mess, I think missing this one tournament is sufficient.”

Mrs. Osbirn thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. “I can’t speak for what additional punishment they may face at home, but academically, I agree. All three have apologized to Mr. Spurgle for their actions. They really do seem to have realized the error of their ways.”

The judge scanned the lobby. He saw Andrew clearing away the remnants of the past couple of hours. He was just picking up the plate that they had placed in the center of the floor for their last trap when he stuck his thumb in a dollop of the peanut butter. Without thinking, Andrew stuck his thumb in his mouth and licked it off. “Andrew!” the judge shouted.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at the judge, who was rushing across the lobby to Andrew. When the judge got to him, Andrew looked despondent. The judge looked at the plate to confirm what he already knew: it was indeed peanut butter. The judge turned to the Chief and said, “Clarence, help me get Andrew to your car. We need to get him to the emergency room.”

The two men started walking Andrew to the door, when Dave asked, “What’s wrong?”

Judge Flynn sighed and said, “Andrew is allergic to peanuts.”

While all of the people in the lobby were concerned with Andrew, no one noticed when the rotund raccoon emerged from a cabinet behind the front desk, where snacks for arriving guests were kept. A half-eaten bag of cookies hung from his mouth, and he dragged another bag of cookies with him as he waddled his way to the automatic doors and left the way he had entered.

As the doors slid closed, Dave turned in time to catch the barest glimpse of the raccoon. All he saw of him was the end.

The Scandal

Jake Rivers

The second I heard crashing and spluttering noises from down the hall, my hand moved for my gun. I froze for a moment, felt the spot where it should be, and swore quietly. I buttoned the last two buttons on my blouse, moved out of the room, and crept towards the sound.

I turned the corner and got a partial glimpse of the lobby of Motel Five-Point-Five. People were running in all directions and smoke was billowing from one corner. I walked cautiously forward. My hand moved again to check my gun, and I cursed the rushed job that brought me to this two-bit backwater without a local permit.

I crept into the room and surveyed the scene. Apparently, someone had tipped over the automatic waffle-maker, which regularly spat clumps of batter at the motel employees and any other poor soul who ventured to help. A toaster had caught fire, and the employees were trying to beat it out with towels, while dodging the occasional clumps of flour and milk flying across the room.

I slowly circled the outside of the lobby and breakfast area, staying as far back from the action as I could and getting no more than an occasional, “Excuse me, Miss” from employees who were rushing to take care of various disasters. The elevator music version of Lionel Ritchie’s “All Night Long” was playing in the background.

As I got near the doors, I saw that someone had tried to put out the toaster fire with orange juice, which was smoking and spattering on the rim of the toaster. I glanced over to see who would do something so stupid and almost gasped out loud. A man was standing beside the juice machine holding two mugs, stepping on stacks of cream and sugar packets that he had knocked over, and looking both puzzled and stupidly content. It was a man whom I knew well. Depending on the day, he might be my ally, my patsy, a casual passerby, or a thorn in my side. But he was always the same man, the only man that you could rely on to create this kind of chaos anywhere he went, whether in the city or the country.

He was a man named Andrew Spurgle.

This time the day before, I was inching down the highway in an old Greyhound headed for the Middle Of Nowhere, Montana. I walked a few feet to a rundown old building, woke up the nice old manager, rented a car under an alias, and circled the postage stamp of a town. I thought about showing my PI license to the sheriff, but some of these places had funny rules, and I wasn’t planning to do anything that could get me in trouble with the law. At least, I hoped I wouldn’t have to.

After half an hour surveying the town and the local parks, I found the car I was looking for. It was a midsized compact rental, black and in good condition, with out of state plates—exactly the kind that you expected with a rental car.

Before my trip, I spent days checking with various agencies, calling in favors, and occasionally flirting with the men behind the counter. Finally, I got the information on the car. Mr. Clarence Marlin had checked out a compact car and told the clerk he was planning to take it for a vacation in Montana. He did not get a car phone, which meant it wasn’t a standard business trip, unless he had gotten one of those big box phones people carried around with them. After a few more phone calls, I found out that the family had reservations for a guided hike at a national park. My old car wasn’t going to make the trip, so I got a bus ticket, talked Josh into giving me money from the petty cash fund, packed my bags, and lit out for the territories.

When I got to Montana, I headed to a local store and bought some clothing that would fit well with the local scene, both in the motel and in the parks. I traded my normal sensible skirts and flats for jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, hiking shoes, and a hat to keep the sun off my face. While this get-up was practical, blending in was not in the cards. Everyone I talked to asked me what city I was from.

At the hotel desk, a few batted eyelashes and a twenty got me the information I needed: Mr. Clarence Marlin had checked in with his grandson Michael. A quick look over the announcement board told me that the only groups visiting the place were the “Raconteur Roadtrip” and the North Central Montana Rodeo Romance Writers’ Workshop.

I was pretty sure Mr. Marlin was not here for either of these events, and his story about visiting parks might be true. I got a room down the hall from Mr. Marlin and his grandson, checked the hours for the free breakfast, and unpacked my bags.

This morning’s disaster blew my chance to quietly observe Mr. Marlin from a distance, and it landed me with another puzzle. I asked myself why, of all the people from the city, this Podunk town, and everything in between, was Andrew Spurgle at this motel, at this time? My gut told me something was wrong, and it was worth my trouble to find out what. It further confirmed my fears that something was amiss about the Marlin case.

But I had other things to worry about: Mr. Marlin was coming down the hallway.

An hour later, I had to make a decision. Mr. Marlin and his grandson had casually announced their excitement about getting their first glimpse of the national park. I watched them exit the room. Mr. Marlin was six feet tall, with graying black hair, striking black eyes, and a pale face from a life spent working in corporate offices. His grandson Michael was four inches shorter, with blond hair, green eyes, a slight tan, and an athletic build. I knew he was out of place because his whole life was spent gathering friends, business deals, and baseball trophies in the city. He was equally at home in a boardroom, a symphony concert, a sports club, a pool hall, or anywhere else, really. I doubted he had been on a hike in his life, but somehow, he managed to wear the jeans and earth-toned shirt perfectly, as if he were a born outdoorsman. In contrast, his grandfather looked like he had politely accepted an unsolicited invitation to a dude ranch and was making the best of it.

As I said, I had to make a decision. I could either follow Marlin and Marlin out towards the park—if they were indeed going to the park—or I could stick around and figure out what Spurgle was doing in town. I couldn’t think of any connection between Spurgle and the Marlins, but it could not be a coincidence that Spurgle showed up while I was tailing them. I tapped my fingers against my side for half a minute and finally decided the safest method was to stick with the original target, since they were the ones I was actually paid to follow.

I took a quick look in the mirror, adjusted my hat, and frowned slightly. At five-foot-six, I was short enough to slip into a crowd without being small enough to draw attention. My straight brown hair was nondescript, and I kept it cut almost to my shoulders. My face was oval with brown eyes, a sharp chin, and a medium-sized nose. My face was not overly pale, good enough that I only had to wear Factor Eight, or so the clerk at the store had told me. My mother, my friends, and my business partner told me I was pretty, but I’d never seen it and I only drew mild attention from the men. I smiled at this thought. If I were a striking beauty or noticeably ugly, I would have hard time following a man through a crowd, much less a state park just outside of nowhere.

I gave the Marlins five minutes and walked directly to my car. I figured I could head them off if I took a shortcut, which was a risk if they were going in another direction, but that could still give me an advantage.

Half an hour later, I arrived at the entrance to the state park, parked my car, and checked out the gift shop. A tired-looking, middle-aged woman was sitting behind the desk reading a magazine while tourists browsed the mugs and postcards. A battered fan barely stirred the dry air. I purchased a five-dollar guide to the trails and pretended to look through it.

After fifteen minutes, Marlin and grandson walked through the door. The old man approached the desk and spoke with the tour guide. She put down her magazine in a bored way, but perked up when the younger man flashed a smile at her. I rolled my eyes and straightened my hair and collar.

The elderly gentleman asked a couple of polite questions about some of the easier trails. I pretended to look at a rack of sunglasses, whose mirror gave me a partial view of the front desk. After five minutes of discussion and a number of suggestions from the woman behind the desk, they declared their intention to go down Lonesome Fir Trail. They purchased a few supplies, mostly water bottles, and headed out the door, with the woman behind the desk staring wistfully towards the window.

For the next two minutes, I dithered over whether I should try to follow them down the trail, and how much of a lead I should give them. Besides the fact that I was out of my element and in open space, there were only so many times they could spot me without being suspicious. Still, as I stood there tapping my foot, I reminded myself that whatever was going down could happen at any time. A single missed lead could blow the whole case.

I spent the next few minutes thinking through my options, forming plans, rejecting them, and looking for more. Finally, I thought of something. I walked outside and found a group of tourists reading signs, talking, and making plans. They wore their earth tones and hats much more comfortably than I, spoke the hiking jargon with obvious familiarity, and cheerfully argued about what to do next.

I walked directly up to them, stopped, and gave a curt nod. “Good morning.”

They turned collectively and smiled at me. There was a young man a bit under six feet tall with freckles and red hair, a middle-aged woman with light brown graying hair about his height, a young woman with blond hair and blue eyes, and a young man with a deep tan and striking black eyes. Their accents indicated a city or large town, but I couldn’t place the region.

The tall young man said, “Good morning, ma’am. Beautiful day.”

“Are you deciding on a trail?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m new to hiking, and I came from out of town. Would you be willing to help me explore the Lonesome Fir Trail?”

The older woman and the tall man smiled and nodded, and the other two shrugged. After a few minutes of happy discussion, the tall young man pointed the way towards the trailhead. Before we left, he introduced the whole group. “I’m Billy Parker. This is my mother Melanie, my sister Tanya, and our friend Guille. We’re visiting from Olympia.” We all shook hands and started towards the trailhead.

For the first five minutes, I stumbled along with occasional help from one of the others. I took a lot of deep breaths, blinked a lot, and kept up with them as best I could. Eventually, Guille moved into a position a little ways behind me, ready to help me if I stumbled, and occasionally offering a suggestion. I fidgeted a bit at first, but finally reached out when I needed help.

The views along the path were dramatic, the people were pleasant, and I was sure all the plants were fascinating, if you were into that sort of thing. I learned a good deal about Olympia and the differences between Washington and Montana, which kept attention off my reasons for coming out west.

After an hour or so, I stopped and pretended to enjoy the view. Young Mr. Marlin had made his way off the trail to a ridge and was scanning the area with his binoculars. Guille pointed with casual interest and said to Tanya, “Looks like someone is searching for adventure.”

Everyone turned towards the direction he was pointing. I drew in my breath and tried to step towards a place where Billy Parker would partly shield me from view. I didn’t think young Mr. Marlin would recognize me from that height, if he would recognize me at all, but I didn’t want them noticing the same person following them in multiple places.

Billy looked at the rest of the group and frowned. “Do you think we should say somethin’?”

His mother shook her head and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “We should mind our own business. Let the park rangers take care of the rules.”

Billy shrugged and laughed. We started up again, moved further down the trail, and saw old Mr. Marlin staring up at his grandson. I distracted the party with a question about Guille’s exchange program, so we only gave the grandfather a brief nod while passing by. I stopped and asked for the map a couple of times and pretended that I was trying to understand trail markers, which was partly true. Mostly, though, I was trying to get an idea where we had seen Michael so I could get a guess at what he was looking at—or for.

In total, the hike took an hour and fifteen minutes, and it was pleasant enough. I excused myself as my new friends went off to try a more difficult trail.

Half an hour later, the Marlins finished the trail, walking silently with pursed lips and their hands behind their backs. They headed for their car and spoke to each other in low tones. Old Mr. Marlin scanned the area a couple of times and his eyes rested on me for a second, but he went back to surveying the landscape. Finally, they got in their car and headed towards town.

I waited a few minutes and drove to town in a roundabout way. After five minutes, I saw their car parked near a local diner, which made my stomach rumble. I got out of my car, walked over to a nearby store, and chatted with the man behind the desk, while keeping my eye on the door of the diner. There was no sense wasting gas on an air conditioner, and even though it was much cooler here than in the city, I did not want to sit in a hot car.

For the next hour, I went through different shops along Main Street, keeping an eye on the diner as much as I could. I stood in five different store windows, tapping my heel and examining items I would never use.

Nothing of interest happened. An argument between two middle-aged men looked like it was going to turn into a fight, but the sheriff walked by and talked them down. A man in a blue suit looking slightly out of place walked down the street, checked his watch, and entered the diner.

Finally, the Marlins came out and walked up the street to the movie theater. What the hell? I could use a nice distraction.

For the next hour and a half, I mostly leaned back in my chair and watched cops and robbers chase each other across the screen, trying to ignore the holes in the plot and the hem of the female PI’s dress. Occasionally, my eyes moved in the direction of the old man and his grandson, but there was nothing, really, to see. Nobody visited them and they didn’t say a word to each other.

When the movie was over, I waited five minutes and then casually walked out of the theater and into the lobby. As soon as the door to the theater opened, I heard a loud crash. I quickened my pace and rounded the corner to witness a Spurgle-sized disaster.

Andrew was standing in the middle of a pile of boxes while his mother fussed and the delivery man fumed. Andrew, of course, attempted to restack the boxes and managed to knock a couple of them open. Little packs of Tootsie Rolls, candy bars, and Junior Mints scattered everywhere. After another five minutes of ‘I’ll help” and “Now, Andrew,” the manager and the ticket salesman pulled Andew towards the front door.

Unfortunately, their path to the door left me perfectly exposed. As they passed by, Andrew gasped and shouted cheerfully, “Miss O’Leary!”

I sighed and attempted to smile.

“Look, Ma, it’s Miss O’Leary!”

Andrew’s mother turned, straightened her back, and gave me a withering look. At least, she tried to give me a withering look. I had three inches on her, and with graying hair, dull brown eyes and little in the way of expression, intimidation was not in her playbook. She looked up at me with narrow eyes and a tight mouth.

She snapped, “What are you doing all the way out in Montana?”

I shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to see one of the national parks.”

She snorted and weakly jabbed her index finger in my direction. “You’ve never left the city a day in your life.”

I smiled and inclined my head in her direction. “All the more reason to make a change.”

She harrumphed and turned to fuss over Andrew, occasionally muttering something about “spies” and “snoops.”

I stood next to a large Schwarzenegger poster, watched them leave, and walked outside. I saw that the Marlins’ rental car was still outside the diner. After five minutes, the Marlins walked out of a grocery with some snacks and two bottles of water. They walked down the street, entered their car, and drove off in the direction of the hotel while I watched from the shade of the theater.

****

As I got into my car and drove back to the hotel, I thought about old Mrs. Spurgle and my mind drifted back to the events that brought me here.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting in the office of Berk and O’Leary, Investigators, listening to the hum of the fan, and wondering how long we would be able to pay the rent on the office. The front door buzzed. I glanced towards the stairs with my eyes narrowed, put my hand on the drawer that held my gun, and picked up the phone.

“Berk and O’Leary. Who’s visiting?”

A smooth voice with an East Coast accent replied, “A potential client, madam. May I come in?”

I sniffed, pressed the code into the phone, waited a second, and listened for the click of the downstairs latch. A moment later, I heard regular, unhurried footsteps come up the stairs and stop on the landing. Another moment later, a middle-aged man stepped around the corner. He was wearing an expensive gray suit with polished shoes, carrying a briefcase and smiling politely. His gray hair was perfectly combed, and he had a handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. I fought the urge to sit up straighter in my chair. I looked him over carefully for a couple of seconds, nodded, pointed to a chair, and said, “Have a seat.”

He nodded his thanks and sat in the old wooden chair. He placed his briefcase on the floor beside the desk and folded his hands with a content smile.

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

We waited in silence for a moment. His expression did not change.

“Can you tell me when Mr. Berk will be in?”

I glanced at the clock, which read two PM. “Probably around four.”

“Ah, well, then I can either wait or come back. I would like to speak directly to the detective.”

I sat up in my chair, folded my hands on the table, and arched my eyebrows. “I am the detective. There are no secrets between partners in this firm.”

The man nodded, as if I’d just said that it was a nice day outside. “Very good, then. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Adam Selfridge.” He pulled out a business card. It said, “Selfridge, Selfridge, and Jankowitz.” Apparently, it was a law firm based in New Jersey—although he didn’t have anything like a New Jersey accent.

I looked over the card, leaned back, and examined Mr. Selfridge. “You came all the way from New Jersey, took a taxi to a seedy part of town, and looked around for a detective. What seems to be the trouble?”

He said calmly, “There is no trouble, or at least, none for certain. We just want to investigate a curious situation that has come to our attention.”

I waited.

After a brief moment, he continued with no change in expression. “You see, we do a lot of the minor legal work for the Brazzy Corporation.”

I raised my eyebrows. I would bet that Brazzy had its own in-house counsel and slicker law firms on retainer. They could certainly afford more notable investigators than a two-man outfit in a rundown neighborhood.

He explained, “We have been asked to discreetly gather some information.”

I snorted. “In other words, industrial espionage.”

He shook his head. “A loaded term. We’ve noticed some curious behavior on the part of a certain individual. We want to make sure that nothing is amiss.”

I thought that over for a moment. Brazzy didn’t have any major presence in the city, except for one distribution center in a nearby suburb.

“And who, exactly, would we be gathering information about?”

“That would be an employee of our major competitor. A Mr. Clarence Marlin.”

I sat upright and stared at him, wide-eyed. “Clarence Marlin?”

“That is correct. I believe that he runs an office for Marque Cola on the north end of town.”

I exhaled. “Runs an office” was a massive understatement. Clarence Marlin had convinced the Marque Cola executives back in Savannah to open a major regional office in the city, start a new distribution center in the suburbs, and bus in workers from the city. His plans had brought hundreds of white-collar and blue-collar jobs to the city, not to mention donations for revitalization efforts and involvement with civic organizations. They said he was even instrumental in getting the company to debut Cherry Marque in the city, which was a boost for the local restaurant industry.

I sat back in my chair and shook my head. “You might as well ask me to put a hit on Mother Theresa. If I get caught snooping into Clarence Marlin’s affairs, nobody in this town will hire me, speak to me, or even look at me again.”

“Please, madam, we are not asking you to do anything illegal or unethical. We are only asking you to investigate certain strange activities. Most likely, you will find that nothing is wrong. If something is wrong, then you have my word that we will use the information responsibly.”

I shook my head again. “We’re not throwing away our whole business for one job.”

“You would hardly be throwing away your business. I’m sure that you could do something with one hundred thousand dollars?”

I froze. My heart beat faster.

“Did you say one hundred thousand dollars?”

“One hundred thousand dollars, plus reasonable expenses. There will be a ten thousand-dollar advance.”

I slumped back in my chair. One hundred thousand would cover the rent, our salaries, and maybe even pay for an accountant for a long time.

“And just what activities are you asking us to look into?”

“We really have no idea. Once a year, he goes on a week’s vacation with a single member of his family at a remote location. We have discreetly asked people at hotels and other places where he goes, but there’s always a time we can’t account for. We just want you to figure out what he is hiding.”

“And what will you do with this information?”

“That is our affair.”

“We won’t be involved with blackmail.”

“I can assure you that we do not intend anything of the kind.”

I sighed. “I’ll talk this over with my partner.”

He stood and bowed slightly. “Thank you, Miss O’Leary. When you have made your decision, you can reach me at this number.” He wrote the number of a downtown office on a card and handed it to me. I thanked him, and he walked lightly down the stairs and out the door.

I shook my head and returned to the present. I finished my drive to the motel, walked inside, and looked around the lobby. The motel staff had cleaned up the mess, put things in their place, and covered over the machines. I spoke briefly to the hotel clerk and started to walk towards my room. Before I turned the corner, the man in the blue suit walked into the hotel. In a very urban accent, he asked the clerk if she knew of a place where he could make copies of some papers. She said, “You know, a businessman was asking me about this today. There’s a print shop in the next town over, but that’s all I know. There’s copy machines at the library.” The man nodded and asked a couple of questions about the hotel’s accommodations and whether they had a secure safe. She pursued her lips and said that they had a standard safe, but it wasn’t very large. He thanked her, glanced around towards a couple of the hallways, nodded to me, and walked out.

A few hours later, I heard loud crashing noises and shouting from down the hall. I opened my door a small crack and listened. I heard a loud clattering sound and picked out two voices that I recognized: the front desk clerk and Andrew Spurgle. I moved into the hallway, walked quietly down the hall, and took my place near the back of the small knot of people who had gathered to survey the scene.

The main attraction, of course, was Andrew’s latest adventure. He appeared to have gone to the ice machine, dropped his bucket of ice, and somehow managed to pour out half the ice that was in the machine itself. He kept trying to scoop up the ice with a bucket and pour it back into the machine, while the clerk blocked his way. They managed to collide with each other twice, slip on the ice, and accidentally unplug the machine.

I stood, unable to keep a smile off my face for a minute, and then checked myself. Andrew’s attempts to help were a fun diversion, but I needed to stay focused on my main task. I turned slightly to keep one eye focused on the hallway and the Marlins’ door. After ten minutes, somebody wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap slipped in through a back door. Before he could knock, the door of the room opened a couple of inches. A young man’s hand—presumably young Mr. Marlin’s—reached out and took a package a little smaller than a breadbox. In exchange, he handed the man a large envelope. I stepped further back and watched as the man looked around, walked down the hallway, and exited the motel.

I closed the door, got out the phonebook, and thought for a while about my next move.

The next morning, I got up early, picked up a novel, and sat down at a table in the corner of the breakfast room. The Spurgles arrived early, got their breakfast, and sat down on the other side of the room. Andrew smiled and waved at me, and his mother shot an occasional scowl in my direction. They got through most of the meal with nothing more than spilled milk and knocked-over chairs. Maybe yesterday’s scolding had some kind of impact, not that this had ever worked before. There could be something to all those stories about the benefits of country air.

After fifteen minutes, the Marlins came into the breakfast room. They were wearing appropriate hiking gear and carrying backpacks. As expected, Michael looked like he was born for the role while Clarence appeared cheerfully out of his element. They walked over, greeted the Spurgles, and went to get their breakfast. They managed to escape with only a splash of orange juice on Michael’s hiking boots. I was almost certain that Michael’s smile faltered for a second when his eyes went past me, but he avoided any obvious sign of recognition.

I straightened a little when they walked over and sat at a table chair near me. Clarence took out the guidebook and they started to discuss the merits of different trails. Michael finally observed that there was no point in making a real decision until after they had finished today’s guided tour.

I put down my book, glanced out the window, and thought about my next move. I could follow them again, but that seemed a little too convenient. I decided to wait, look around, and see if I could gather any information from their hotel room.

After an hour, I saw that the maid had arrived at their room and taken a set of towels out of her cart. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to do this, but with a discreet change of the “Do Not Disturb” sign, I had altered the Marlins’ plans. After a minute, I walked a few steps into the room.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if I could get an extra set of hand towels in my room.”

The maid gave me an exasperated look. “Yes, ma’am. What room are you in?”

“Room 106.”

“Sure.”

I started to cough. I managed to get out, “Water.”

The maid sighed, picked up a plastic cup, unwrapped it, stepped into the bathroom, and got some water out of the tap. I decided that asking for ice was too risky. Still, I had time for a quick look around the room.

The room was clearly divided into Clarence’s space, where everything was neatly organized, and Michael’s space, where everything was clean but a little bit disordered. The only things out of place were a couple of wrapped packages, an envelope with an address, and a small cooler. The cooler was slightly larger than the mysterious item from yesterday. The mini fridge looked untouched. There were several bottles of flavored water on a cloth on the table. I didn’t have time to get a look at the address on the envelope, although I did notice a receipt from the motel safe next to it.

The maid handed me the water, staring hard at me the whole time. I drank the water, thanked her, and walked back into the hallway. So far, no laws broken. Or at least, none that really mattered.

I went back to my room, dialed a number, and waited. A minute later, a familiar voice answered.

“Carman and Toulouse, how may I help you?”

“Good morning, Jeanine, how is Mr. Carman today?”

“Crabby as always, Miss O’Leary.”

“How’s business?”

“It’s summer.”

I laughed lightly and asked, “Can you put me through to Mr. Carman?”

“Sure.”

The phone rang for a minute and Carman answered.

“How’s things goin’, kid?”

“Slow. I’m in the country. What do you expect?”

“Bugs, dirt, and boredom.”

“We’ve got ‘em all. Did you manage to check on that license plate for me?”

“Sure. Seems it belongs to a kid named Frederick Johnson. Nineteen years old. He lives at 231 Butte Ave, Flytown, Montana. Cute name.”

“Probably a cute town. Maybe I’ll visit some time.”

“You in Montana?”

“Stranger things have happened. Thanks, Sid. Tell Mrs. Carman I said hello.”

“After her bridge game. I don’t guess you’re going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Do I tell other people about your cases?”

“I hope not. Take care of yourself, kid.”

“Thanks, Sid. You’re the best.”

I hung up the phone, checked my watch, and walked to the car.

An hour later, I had a lead, and it was easy to follow. I told the lady at the clothing store that Frederick Johnson had helped me with something, and I wanted to thank him. It seemed that he worked at the local grocery.

I walked to the grocery, browsed through the aisle, and picked up a bottle of water. I spotted a kid with dark hair about the right height stocking shelves. I walked over, gave a little smile, coughed, and asked, “Excuse me, do you have toothpaste?”

He smiled, straightened up a bit, and said, “Aisle three.”

“Thank you. Say, didn’t I see you at the Motel Five-Point-Five the other day?”

His smile vanished. “Never been to the motel. No need for motels when you live in town.”

“I could have sworn I saw you there.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Huh. Well, it must have been someone who looked like you.”

“Couldn’t say. Excuse me.” He picked up his box and went to the back. I heard a phone dialing and I moved closer. There was whispering, but I only heard the words “envelope” and “exchange.” I walked away before I was caught, browsed the aisles a few more minutes and then left the store.

A minute later, I saw the man in the blue suit emerge from a real estate office across the street, looking worried. He waited for five minutes, looked up and down the street, and occasionally gave me a suspicious glance. Somebody pulled up in a pickup truck, got out, and parked. A man in a cowboy hat stepped out, walked over to the man in the blue suit, wiped some dust off his hand, and held it out. The other man shook it, said a few words, and invited him into the office. After one last suspicious glance at me, the businessman closed the door behind him.

As I drove back across town, I thought about the day that I took the case—specifically, my argument with Josh. Josh idolized Mr. Marlin, and he knew all the things that could go wrong. After an hour of yelling back and forth, he spat out, “Do what you want, but you’re on your own with this case.”

My stomach sank as he turned away. I didn’t want this case, but what could I do? Josh was a good boy, but he didn’t always face practical realities like the rent and utilities. The job was just too valuable to pass up. I decided to take money out of my own savings. I figured I could give myself a bonus if the job turned out badly. I looked out the window and watched Josh storm off towards the bar before figuring out how I was going to sell my soul.

I arrived at the state park twenty minutes before the guided tour was supposed to end. I went to a picnic shelter, sat in the shade, and opened my bottle of water.

Forty minutes later, the Marlins, a couple of people whom I’d never seen, and a tour guide came back down the trail. The Marlins headed to their car. I watched them leave, waited five minutes, and walked into the store. The tour guide was leaning against the counter, talking with the desk clerk, and drinking a bottle of water.

I walked up, widened my eyes a bit, and asked, “Excuse me, sir, are you the trail guide?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I think I missed the guided tour. Is there another one today?”

“No, ma’am, not until next week.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Can you tell me about the tour?”

“We take Old Elk Trail, the North Circle, and the Cave Trail.”

“Is it a set tour, or do you go off-path to see things of interest?”

“There is a shortcut that we take sometimes on the Old Elk Trail, and the Cave Trail has a couple of branches.”

“I see. I was talking to someone earlier, and I could have sworn that they said that there was some special detour they had taken.”

“No, ma’am. We did spend a little extra time looking at Skull Cave and Deer Run Cave, but that’s all.”

“Yes, that was it, Deer Run Cave. He told me that he had taken a special interest in it.”

I glanced up and his eyes narrowed for a second, but then he shrugged.

“Thank you, sir. I guess I’ll have to try the guided tour some other time.”

He nodded. I bought another bottle of water, thanked the clerk, and left the shop.

The next day, I skipped breakfast and got to the park early. I waited at the picnic shelter and studied the maps. There were basically three different ways that a person could go around the trail. The longest way was a big loop that had some famous buttes and a couple of scenic views. Each shorter way went by a cave. One went past Skull Cave, and one went past Deer Run Cave. That meant they had taken two small detours in order to see both. I marked them with my pen and idly flipped through the rest of the guidebook.

After an hour, two cars pulled into the parking lot and parked. The first was a local cab, and the second was the Marlins’ car. I noticed that the Marlins took care to park some distance from the cab. That turned out to be a smart move, since the Spurgles emerged a minute later, looking disheveled. From across the way, I could barely here the cab driver shouting, “And fifty dollars for the damage to the upholstery.” After ten minutes of arguing, Mrs. Spurgle paid him in cash. After the taxi had left, the Marlins got out of their car, walked over, and shook hands with the Spurgles. The four of them walked towards the trails and stopped. Clarence Marlin bent down to tie Andrew’s shoelaces. Michael walked over, held out his hand, flashed his famous smile, and said, “Good morning, Miss O’Leary. It’s nice to see a face from home.”

I deliberately sat up, took his hand, moved my shoulders a bit, and tipped my head to the side. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Marlin. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure. Andrew tells me that you are the O’Leary from Berk and O’Leary.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“We’re going to take a look at some of the caves today. Would you care to join us?”

“No, that’s fine. I’m going to wait here a bit and take one of the easy trails.”

“Suit yourself. Maybe we’ll see you back at the Motel Five-Point-Five.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

He smiled again and I relaxed. He signed off with “See you there.”

He walked over and said something cheerful to the Spurgles. The other three nodded and the whole group walked towards the trail.

I waited fifteen minutes and then followed behind them, hoping that my brief adventure with Billy Parker and Company was enough preparation.

As it turned out, they were a lot easier to track than I had expected, but less so, as well. When you are trying to follow Andrew Spurgle, you just watch for the steady stream of trampled wildflowers, knocked-over signs, and other assorted mayhem. It didn’t take Kit Carson to follow this trail.

After half an hour, I saw that the general disarray had moved off down the trail towards Skull Cave. I started to follow, stopped, and thought for a moment. It was a little too convenient that they had left this trail for me. Of course, there was always a trail when Andrew was around, but that just brought up the question of why Andrew was around. I noticed the bottle of water that Michael had been carrying—but it wasn’t dropped. It had been very carefully left in a place where it made no sense to leave it, and it was not even opened. I could hear the Spurgles shouting in the distance, and no other sounds. I doubled back a few steps, straightened my jeans, and headed towards Deer Run Cave.

When I arrived, I hesitated. After living in my tiny apartment for five years, claustrophobia wasn’t a problem. I was not used to going through caves, though. I got out my flashlight, muffled it as best I could, and slowly inched forward.

After a few minutes, I could hear Michael’s voice faintly echoing through the caves. I moved closer and got in a position where I could see forward. I heard Michael say, “Come on, Grandpa. She might figure things out and catch up to us.”

Clarence replied wearily, “I know. I just want to savor the moment. I only get to try the product once a year.”

Michael sighed. “Savor it, then, but get started. I’ll turn out the light.”

Clarence said, “No, just muffle it. I want to see as well as experience it. If I get caught, I get caught.”

Michael covered the flashlight with something.

I got out my low-light camera.

Michael walked over and fished something out of the cooler. He returned and handed it to his grandfather. His grandfather lifted it towards his face, looked it over, and took a preliminary sniff. He gave a contented sigh. I looked through the lens and took a couple of pictures.

Michael’s head snapped up and he looked around, but he shrugged it off.

After a few minutes, I weighed my options. I wasn’t going to get an opportunity like this again. I focused the lens and snapped a couple of flash photos.

Mr. Marlin spluttered, and his grandson cursed. I moved as quickly as I could to the mouth of the cave and waited. Nobody was following. I left and continued down the trail.

That evening, I sat at a campsite in the park wondering what to do next. I sat for a long time watching the sun set. Finally, I got out a cigarette lighter that I had picked up at the gift store. I took out the photos and burned them, scattering the ashes in the campfire. I got out a set of nail scissors, sliced the negatives into ribbons, and cut the ribbons crossways. I returned the rental car and took a cab to the hotel.

The next morning at breakfast, I found the Marlins sitting by themselves, idly leafing through maps and guidebooks and pretending to take an interest. My heart sank at the unheard-of sight of the Marlin grandson looking defeated. As I walked into the room, Michael glared at a spot on the wall next to me and Clarence gave me a sad smile.

I went to get some toast and a little cup of cold cereal, stepping around a clump of oatmeal on the floor that screamed “Spurgle,” although an empty, dirty table and a broken chair told me that the Spurgles had already left. I walked back to the seating area, put my breakfast down, and returned to get a glass of orange juice. As I passed the Marlins’ table, I casually dropped a small piece of plastic onto their table. It was a burned-out corner that showed the wall of the cave – the last bit of my developed photos. I finished my breakfast as Michael alternated between staring at me wide-eyed and looking anxiously at his grandfather. Clarence sat expressionless in his chair, although he began picking at his food a bit more than before.

After breakfast, I walked back towards my room, stopped, and slipped an envelope with the shredded negatives under their door.

I checked out, called a taxi, and started my journey home.

As the bus crawled across the country, I kept a novel in front of my face, but my eyes wouldn’t track the words. In a week, bills were going to come due. Of course, I had to pay back the advances, and I couldn’t accept repayment of the expenses, not when I had backed out on a client. I shook my head, closed my eyes, and leaned back in my seat.

Even if the Marlins tried to offer me some kind of payment, I couldn’t accept it. However little conscience I might have left after this outing, I wasn’t a blackmailer. Besides, if it came out that they were paying off a private eye who had been following them, who knew what gossip might come out, I was just going to have to take my lumps—and so would Josh.

Still, all of that was overshadowed by the image that I couldn’t get out of my mind. Even the most upright man, it seemed, had his weaknesses. It could have been the allure of forbidden fruit, the pressures of his job, or even a common, ordinary vice. Whatever the reasons, I couldn’t deny what had happened.

Far from home, in the depths of that cave, I had seen the sight that nobody in the world would believe unless they saw it in a photo or with their own eyes.

Clarence Marlin, regional director for the Marque Corporation, had been drinking a Brazzy Cola.

Bollocks

K Anders

“Unbelievable!” Andrew declared. “Absolutely, entirely, for all other intents, purposes, and going concerns, inconceivable!”

“No, it isn’t,” the bobby replied.

“Look, this man was most definitely dead when I got here!”

“Say again, Master Spurgle?”

“I say,” he said, “I had only gone to the lobby for the free continental breakfast, which turned out to be nothing other than biscuits and miniature sausages. When I returned to the room, I found someone had left a body on my floor.”

“Riiiight. And you expect me to believe that?” The pimple-faced constable, looking not a day over fifteen, put both hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow, as if the grandfatherly Mr. Spurgle were a very naughty boy. “And just how long were you at breakfast, sir?”

It was a very accusatory question, which Andrew found excessively trying. “Honestly?” he asked, mouth agape. “Do you think I would call the coppers if I had dispatched the man myself?”

“You could be trying to throw us off the trail. You know, coverin’ your tracks,” the boy constable said with a sniff.

“My good man—” Spurgle began, throwing his hands in the air with a bit of frustration, when, completely without warning, the corpse rolled over.

“Is it, ah…supposed to do that?” the bobby asked, pointing his baton at the oddly dressed body twisting about on the orange shag carpet.

“How should I know?” Andrew said. “I’ve certainly never seen a dead body before.”

“I think he’s comin’ back to life, guv,” the boy said, stepping closer and looking very much like he intended to whack the deceased upside the noggin with his billystick.

“Wait! What are you doing?”

“You have to brain a zombie to kill it proper, guv.”

“He isn’t a zombie, you twit, he’s just—”

“Just what?”

“Not quite…dead…yet,” Andrew allowed grudgingly.

“Then why’d you call emergency services and tell Ruthie he was dead?”

“Look, he seemed dead at the time, all right?”

“I could put you up for false reportin’— Hey,” the bobby said suspiciously, “don’t he remind you of someone?”

Andrew was about to say, “That’s ridiculous!” He was about to say, “There is no way on God’s green earth this not quite dead body resembles anyone I’ve ever met,” until he came face to face with his doppleganger. “Noooo—”

“You want me to…” The young officer motioned, as if to thump the stranger on the head with his club.

“No! Of course not!” Andrew replied, still somewhat in shock over seeing his own face on the flailing newcomer. He pinched himself to see if he was dreaming and then once more just to make sure.

“Be less paperwork that way,” the boy mumbled.

“No dead man, no paperwork. Thank you for coming,” Andrew said, impatiently ushering the young man out of his room and closing the door solidly behind him. Turning back to the un-corpse, he demanded, “Who are you, then?”

“Perhaps the better question is, where am I?” the look-alike asked, slowly cracking his eyes open, as if he expected the dim lighting of the Motel Six, Room Fourteen, to sizzle his retinas if they opened too quickly.

“Earth.” Andrew had, moments ago, made the assumption that, based on the strange silvery livery, his visitor was from a different planet, possibly even a different star system altogether. An alien, as it were.

“Yes, I bloody well know that,” New Andrew replied. (Andrew had also taken to calling the alien “New Andrew,” for lack of a better name.) “But which one?”

“Earth earth,” he replied.

“No, I mean which earth specifically,” New Andy said with no lack of frustration. (Andrew had also just taken to calling him “New Andy,” because “New Andrew” took much too long to say in his head.)

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow,” Andrew replied. “This is the third planet from the sun, a goldilocks world, if you please—” He was quite well-versed in the theories of space colonization and was, in short, making an effort to impress the visitor with his knowledge. All this, in hopes the aliens would decide against turning Earth into a slave colony.

New Andy rolled his eyes.

Just as I would have done! Andrew thought.

“What’s the name of this motel?”

“Ah. We’re in a Motel Six, I’m afraid. I normally prefer an establishment of better quality, but this quaint motel was on the way…and there was a sign with an advert for a free breakfast smorgasbord. Which, it turns out, is naught but a row of biscuits with a selection of jam or honey, miniature sausages, and tea.”

“Dammitall!” New Andy swore.

“I do agree the breakfast was disappointing—”

“I’ve gone down instead of up.” New Andy sighed. “Again.”

“Dammitall, indeed! Um, I’m not quite sure I follow?”

“Ugh. Look…” New Andy appeared confused as to how to address him, which was only fair, since they’d just met.

“Oh. It’s Andrew.”

“Look, Andrew, on my Earth—designation Motel Five-Point-Five—we’ve developed interdimensional time travel. I was aiming for Motel Five-Point-Oh, but I’ve accidentally gone down the list instead of up.”

“First of all, how do you know which Earth you’ve landed on? Secondly, I find it somewhat offensive and confusing that you would refer to my earth as down, despite being numbered more highly than your intended destination.”

“Who’s the time traveler here? Eh? Me or you?”

Andrew had no response suitable to debate the riposte, but he was beginning to suspect the newcomer had very few manners and would make less than ideal company for brunch, which he now intended to have shortly, the biscuit filling his stomach far less than a proper breakfast should, even having been smothered in peach marmalade. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a bit out of sorts after, you know,” Andrew shivered, “the biscuit ordeal…”

“Apology accepted,” New Andy said amiably. “See, it’s the motel, all right?”

“What is? What’s this blasted motel got to do with anything?”

New Andy raised a brow, his expression practically screaming, What are you? Some kind of wicked plonker? With a deep sigh and a tone Andrew found quite patronizing, he said, “The number of the Motel gives an Earth its designation in the multiverse. You really don’t know anything, do you, New Andy?”

Andrew boiled over. “No. No! Wait one second here! I’m Andrew, you are New Andy.” The alien Andy was really about to give him fits. Spurgle had rarely run into anyone he found quite so annoying as himself. That is to say, his other self.

“How do you figger that?” New Andy said, looking as though he might try to pull rank again with all the “who’s the time-traveler” business.

“It’s simple, really. This is my Earth, not yours.”

New Andy seemed to consider his logic and reluctantly came to agreement. It only made sense, after all. Andrew gave himself marks for winning the debate, but he would have to wait until later to mark the points in his ledger, having left his accounting at his flat.

“Fine. The reason I know I went the wrong direction is because you have a Motel Six and not a Motel Five.”

“Again, not following.”

Exasperated, New Andy sat down hard on the lumpy bed. “Look, the Interdimensional League of Time Travelers uses the Motel system of numbering. Since all portals must be created in a Motel…”

“You don’t say? In a Motel? My schoolmarm was way off.”

“Yes, well, it has nothing to do with physics, it’s simply League policy. It only makes sense, you see.”

Original Andrew (as he’d take to calling himself) did not see. But he was too embarrassed to admit it, so he went along. After all, it was New Andy travelling the interdimensional Motel circuit, not himself.

“The original Motel Forty-Two,” New Andy continued, “was the starting point, and then we counted off from there based on the level of civilization obtained by that Motel’s Earth.”

Andrew whistled. “Forty-two! That must be a world to see!”

“Not really. Quite backwards, actually. Lost the colonies, then had to get help from the Yanks in WW1.”

“Oh. You don’t say,” Andrew said, suddenly interested in a greenish spot of unknown origin in the carpeting.

“Yes, well, it is unfortunate, but it has happened on a few other Earths, as well. Thankfully those dimensions remain a minority. You’d never believe me, but one of the more advanced Earths, previously designated in a three-way-tie as Motel Four, was demoted to Motel Fifty-Seven after it was discovered they required assistance in both WW1 and WW2.”

Andrew choked out a guffaw.

“Don’t even get me started on the ones who let the Americans be the first to develop baseball,” New Andy said, laughing and shaking his head.

“I do have one question,” Andrew said sheepishly. “Why does the higher number correlate with a lower estimation?”

“Oh, that’s simple: the League was started by the Scots. We use golf scoring.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Indeed.”

“So, you were saying, you meant to travel to Earth Five-Point-Oh, but ended up here instead. Why not just go back and have another go?”

“I can’t. You see, what happened was Andrew Spurgle from Five-Point-Five specifically limited his engineers to creating an Interdimensional portal with a single-use clause.”

“Didn’t you say Five-Point-Five was your world?”

“I can see how that would be confusing,” New Andy said. “No. I live there now. Motel Minus-Five was destroyed, stranding me in Five-Point-Five.”

“What happened?”

“A fire,” New Andy sighed. “Which, I still contend, was not my fault.”

“A whole Earth?” Original gasped. (Andrew had taken to calling himself simply “Original,” as Original Andrew took too long to say in his head.) “Destroyed by fire?”

“No,” Andy Minus-Five sneered. “Just the Motel. Try to keep up.”

“A single-use clause? That seems…. Wait, you said his engineers? Are we a boss in Five-Point-Five?”

“Middle management, actually. You’d be surprised how many of us became middle managers, politicians, and solicitors.”

It was not, in fact, a shock to Original, as he, too, was a midlevel administrator. He hoped at least some of his alter-egos had risen above the drudgery of midlevel policy making. He’d heard, around the water cooler, Upper Management no longer even had to pretend to know what happened on the factory floor! Rising to corporate was a hope he secretly called “Spurgling the Dream,” or just “Spurgling” for short.

“I see,” Original said. He’d begun to see a lot of things over the course of this conversation, but one thing he most definitely did not see was why New Andy was looking for Earth Five-Point-Oh in the first place.

Meanwhile, New Andy had taken advantage of Andrew’s thoughtful silence and begun rummaging through his luggage until coming across a pair of green trousers that made his arse look just right. He was now in the process of trying them on—along with one of Andrew’s best cardigans.

“New Andy,” Spurgle said quietly, “what are you after in Five-Point-Oh? Or perhaps you are simply on holiday, out seeing the other Earths?” And being quite unnecessarily critical of their sporting development, he thought.

“Bond. James—” New Andy replied.

“Don’t—”

“Bond. And look, call me Andy Minus-Five. All this New Andy business is giving me a headache.”

“You’re from Minus-Five?” Original said, wishing once again England still owned at least a few of her colonies, but now for entirely different reasons. “I suppose that’s very impressive.”

“It rather is, isn’t it,” Andy Minus-Five said, grinning like a schoolboy with an eye under the locker room door of the women’s gymnasium. “That’s why I was chosen for this mission. I’m actually in the top ninety-five percent of all Andrew Spurgles.”

“And the mission is?” Andrew asked with cool detachment. He was, in fact, duly impressed, but refused to show it, since he was still smarting over the baseball comment.

“Locate and return with MI6 Special Agent James Bond. Double-Oh Seven, I believe you call him in Six-Point-Oh.”

Original cleared his throat. “Top ninety-five percent, you say?” That did not speak well for Spurgles across the multiverse. He silently ranked himself in the top ninety-six percent for knowing Double-Oh Seven was a fictional character. “Is James, ah—how does one politely say this?—a real boy in Earth Five-Point-Oh?”

“Naturally. As he was in mine and all the others.”

Original had a sinking feeling in his bowels. Earth Six-Point-Oh was about to drop even further in his visitor’s estimation. Then, something which had never suddenly happened to him before—and felt quite nice, actually—happened. Suddenly. All his indignation, boldness and pent-up creativity from a repressively dull childhood came together and Original…developed a plan.

“Only, in most universes, the villains don’t tend to be so wordy, if you know what I mean.” Andy Minus-Five was still going on. “There aren’t very many Double-Oh Sevens left. The one in Five-Point-Oh was rated nine out of ten stars by the League. Only, analyzing your Bond documentaries, yours was rated only four out of ten. Honestly, the only reason your Double-Oh Seven isn’t dead yet is the ridiculous amount of time your Six-Point-Oh supervillains spend monologuing. Although,” Andy Minus-Five said as an afterthought, and perhaps to mollify his increasingly agitated host, “the League was duly impressed with his ability to disguise himself as other men throughout the years he’s remained on active duty.”

Andrew swallowed hard to keep his biscuit from coming back up. “Is the reason you are looking for Mr. Bond… Well, is it very important? Say, a matter of life and death?”

“The importantest!” Andy Minus-Five replied. “A terrorist known as Jonathan Wick is threatening the very existence of Five-Point-Five!”

“Jonathan Wick,” Andrew repeated, “Yes… Well, I believe I’ve heard the name. Good luck, I would love to be of assistance, only—”

“Excellent! I could use the help! Together we can find your James and give Mr. Wick a Spurgling he’ll never forget!”

Andrew felt an inward desire to correct the man on his improper use of the term Spurgling, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “No, ah, I think you misunderstand. You see, unlike you, I am on holiday, and I’m meant to be in London for a party this very afternoon,” Andrew lied.

“London? That’s where I’m headed,” Andy Minus-Five said, kicking his odd assortment of clothing under the bed. “At the very least, I can try to convince you to join me on the way. We’ll take your car.”

An hour later, Original Andrew was trying to ignore Andy Minus-Five’s latest diatribe. Apparently, in Five-Point-Five and all other Earths—Ten and under—tourists had been banned from driving in England and were forced to use a taxi service, due to their nonsensical practice of driving on the wrong side of the road. An issue which would not have come up, except for the near-death experience just visited upon them by a Volkswagen bus covered every inch in a mural of cacti, sagebrush, and a setting sun.

The van came tearing out of a side street while the driver, who sounded like some sort of wild west cowboy, was screaming something about monkeys and nearly hit the two Andrews head-on. As the hippy mobile sped past, Original could just make out a bumper sticker reading, “I brake for the Three Moms of the apocalypse.”

“Whatever that means,” he mumbled after regaining his composure. “Americans and their infernal propensity for roadtripping.” He looked to Andy Minus-Five for approval, but Fancy Andy (as Original had taken to calling Andy Minus-Five, since Andy Minus-Five took entirely too long to say in his head) had already moved on.

“So, you say this Pub, ‘Duke’s Bar,’ is a likely place to start looking?”

“Quite so,” Original said innocently enough, and becoming ever more interested in the passing countryside. Since Fancy Andy insisted upon driving the restored Bentley, Original had plenty of time to message his friend and enact his plan.

The friend in question was one Wallace Hillfordshire the Third. Wallace wasn’t his first choice, but he was the best Original could manage on short notice. And in all honesty, the short, balding plumber was chosen to fill in as a temporary James Bond, mostly because he was the only friend Original had who was likely to be awake at this early hour.

Wallace, Original thought proudly, was also a proud citizen of Earth Six-Point-Oh and would be affronted to have his dimension demoted simply because a true Englishman preferred cricket over baseball. “It’s absurd, really,” he accidentally said aloud.

“What’s that?” Fancy Andy asked.

“Just that our Mr. Bond should only rate a four out of ten when he’s clearly defeated so many of the realm’s enemies.” Original smiled smugly out the window; that had been a spot of quick thinking! “It seems to me,” he added for good measure, “anyone preventing the annihilation of the Earth even once should automatically rate something above a five. Unless, of course…”

“Of course what?”

“Is the Bond ranking also done by Scotts?”

“Ahhh. I see where you’re going with that.” Fancy Andy nodded appreciatively. “Afraid not.”

“I see. In that case, I fail to see why our Bond isn’t at least a six out of ten.” Having made his point, Andrew sniffed and sat back in his seat, only to have a folded piece of paper, somewhat wrinkled, appear in front of his face.

“Go on. Take it.”

“What’s this, then?”

“Form Forty-Two. Requesting a revisitation of said ranking.”

“You just happened to have one in your pocket?”

“Look, New Andy—”

Original raised a brow.

“Right.” Fancy Andy cleared his throat. “Andrew… This isn’t my first interdimensional trip, and despite what you may have heard, the fire in Motels Nine, Fourteen, and Minus-Thirty-Four were not my fault, either. I know what I’m doing!”

It went without saying Original had not heard of those fires, since he had only just today learned of the other Motels’ existence. However, he proceeded to say it, anyway, simply to make a point. “I’m just saying it’s odd, that’s all. To carry a form like that in your pocket.”

“It’s not so odd at all…when you think about it. Ah, here we are, then. Duke’s Bar!”

Fancy Andy stepped out of the Bentley and launched the keys at a gentleman passerby.

Andrew popped out and ran to catch up with the interdimensional time traveler, his curiosity bursting with a singularly important question. “Why did you give that man my keys?” he asked, somewhat chagrined.

“Who do you mean? The bellhop?”

“That man was not a bellhop.”

“The Valet, then. Whatever you call them on this backward planet.”

“He wasn’t that, either,” Andrew protested. (He’d resumed calling himself Andrew, because his subconscious was beginning to take the new name to heart and becoming a bit too full of itself.)

“Then why was he wearing a vest?”

“How should I know? Maybe he thinks they’re fashionable. The point is, you’ve given away our keys, my keys, actually.”

“Not very honest of the fellow, dressing up as a Valet,” Fancy Andy said with furrowed brow. “At least we are now arrived at our destination, so we don’t really need a car anymore.”

“But…it’s my car,” Andrew said sadly, wondering if he might still chase after the fellow and recover his keys. “If you don’t require any more assistance, I might—”

“Of course I do!” Fancy Andy grabbed him by the sleeve, pulling him excitedly toward the bar, where sat a short, mostly bald, but impeccably dressed man. A white bowtie hung untied around his collar and a matching cummerbund hugged the beginning of a belly brought on by the man’s middle years. And in his hand, a martini. “Excuse me, sir, might I inquire your name?”

“You might,” said Wallace Hillfordshire the Third, raising a bushy brow. “But then, I’d ‘ave ta kill ya, mate.” He put the now-empty glass down next to a row of three others.

“Spurgle, Andrew Spurgle,” Fancy Andy said, shooting a conspiratorial smile at Andrew.

Andrew gave an encouraging nod and two thumbs up. He’d forgotten Wallace (whom he’d just taken to calling Fake Bond, because Wallace was too long to say in his head) pretended to be from Australia when he was drunk.

Fancy Andy pulled him aside. “He seems a bit into his cup.”

“Oh,” Andrew assured him, “Fake Bo— I mean, James does his best work when he’s tipsy.”

“Our guy was a teetotaler.”

“Where did that get him, eh?” Andrew whispered back.

“A fair point.”

Fake Bond had, more steadily than expected, stepped down from the barstool and joined the huddle. “Now then. Who did you blokes want me to knock off?” He made a slashing gesture across his neck.

“Oi! What’s this now?”

Andrew groaned. The new voice belonged to the young copper from the Motel. “It’s nothing, Officer, just having a bit of a chuckler.”

“Wait a minute,” the boy said. “Ain’t you the dead fella from this morning?”

“That was him, actually.” Andrew pointed at Fancy Andy. “And he isn’t dead; as you can plainly see.”

“I dunno,” the bobby replied. “You look pastier than he does. If I was forced to choose, I’d pick you for the dead one.”

“Nobody is dead!” Andrew huffed.

“Not yet, am I right?” Fake Bond elbowed Fancy Andy in the ribs.

“I knew it!” The Peeler planted himself firmly in front of Fake Bond, arms crossed and chin out.

“Young man—”

“That’s Constable Francis, to you, mate,” he said, tapping his badge.

“Constable Francis,” Andrew said (wanting very much to shorten his name to C. Frank in the interest of time). “I assure you, there is nothing untoward going on here. You may return to your duties without further concern.”

“I ain’t on duty.” C. Frank sniffed. “So you blokes ‘ad better tell me what’s goin’ on here!”

“If you’re not on duty, we have no obligation to tell you, mate,” Fake Bond said, turning to pick up another martini.

“Look, you,” C. Frank said, his nightstick coming out of nowhere, “we can do this the easy way, or I can take you straight to Baker Street.”

Andrew sighed. The easy way was his favorite way, but he had a feeling New Andy wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

“What do you know about Interdimensional time travel?” New Andy asked.

“Easy. The League of Time Travelers use a Motel Six as a staging area for interdimensional portals.” C. Frank shrugged. “Only, you don’t look like no time traveler to me.”

“Well, Your Honor, I can explain,” New Andy said, motioning the group toward a dark corner, and plopped himself down in a tidy booth. “We don’t actually travel through time. It’s something of a misnomer.”

“A mis-what-now?”

“It’s not the best name. Like, if someone called soccer football instead of its proper name. As if they could replace real English Football with some silly sport which doesn’t even allow you to touch the ball with your hands!” New Andy snorted derisively. “As I was saying, Andrew Minus-Seven—a very punctual man—coined the term ‘time traveler’ when he arrived at his first new Earth at the same time as he left his own. ‘Quite timely,’ he said. And thus, he became the first timely traveler, which the League later shortened to time traveler, because timely traveler takes far too long to say.”

Andrew nodded, agreeing with the decision, despite the confusion it might cause. A shorter word simply left more time for explanation later, should it be desired. He made a mental note to shorten as many words as possible in his own company’s policy and procedure manual and considered marking himself another point on the ledger.

“So you don’t travel through time, you travel on time? That’s almost unheard of,” Fake Bond said, for the first time showing any surprise at all at the unusual circumstances. “I’ve never known Mr. Spurgle to be precise in matters of the clock.”

Andrew began to think he might be the only person who found the situation perplexing at all, and now it seemed as if even Fake Bond were turning against him. He had to admit the idea of turning Fancy Andy over to the constable had started to sound better and better. Only, C. Frank was eating out of the man’s hand—now that he’d identified himself as Andrew Spurgle Minus-Five. And C. Frank was giving Original Andrew the stink eye, as if he were somehow an inferior model—simply because England hadn’t invented Baseball.

“I’m quite sorry,” Andrew said, having come in at the tail end of the new conversation. “Did I hear you mention the car?”

“Indeed,” Fancy Andy said, standing to leave. “Now that we have assembled all necessary parties, it’s time to shove off. Can you bring the car around?”

“I suppose this is a bad time to remind you about the keys?”

“What keys?”

“The keys to my Bentley, which you so cavalierly tossed to a passerby not more than half an hour ago.”

“I did no such thing,” Fancy Andy huffed. “Are you quite sure I was the culprit? Honestly, it sounds something more like I’d expect from you.”

“I’m most certain it was you.”

“Well, why did you allow it?” Fancy Andy stomped a foot, and Andrew was afraid he might make a scene. “You should have known I have time traveler’s misanthropy! I can hardly be trusted with keys. Or driving, for that matter! Next thing you know, I’ll be throwing the car at some unfortunate John just out for a midday stroll.”

“A mis-what-now?” C. Franks cut in, perhaps sensing Fancy Andy posed a public safety risk, right here in his own jurisdiction.

“You’re missing the point, Constable,” Fancy Andy said with a sigh.

Andrew judged the sigh a seven on a scale of “not so much to actually quite melodramatic” and remembered sighing similarly in a situation involving a score of company solicitors. He’d been quite innocent of that fire, as he’d explained to the crew manager from Fire Services and the neighbors for three blocks in each direction.

“Look, if Andrew has lost the car, we can hail a cab. We really are trying to keep to a schedule here and really should be going. Mr. Bond is needed in Five-Point-Five with the utmost urgency. Ah, here’s a cab now.”

“That’s not a—”

Whump.

Andrew had always appreciated the sound of squealing tires, but this morning, he found the sound positively enthralling—especially since the shrieking wheels emanated from one of London’s famed double-decker buses. The collision was spectacular if experienced in slow motion, which Andrew had. He’d watched in guppy-mouthed joy as Fancy New Andy Minus-Five rose gracefully into a Fosbury flop, cleared a pair of children—which Andrew estimated at approximately one-point-twelve meters, the taller of the two standing the same height as his cardboard Freddie Mercury standup—landing on the pavement opposite the pub.

“Blimey!” C. Frank gasped. “We should do something.”

“Do what?” Andrew knew a thing or two about first aid from watching the telly, and the team was missing the most important thing: an A&E nurse who can do minor surgery in her upstairs flat.

“Crikey!” Fake Bond flew into action, and moments later, the chunky plumber stood over Fancy Andy, muttering something about fixing leaks and the smell of a clogged-up dunny.

C. Franks was doing his best to keep the gawkers at bay and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying every second of his newfound importance.

Meanwhile, Andrew stared down at the man who might have been his twin and considered the possibility of faking his own death and assuming Minus-Five’s identity.

“I think you done him in proper, this time, guv,” C. Franks said, coming up behind him and giving Andrew yet another startle in a day which was becoming long and tedious with unexpected startles.

“Look, this man was most definitely dead when I got here!”

“Oh, yeah? Well…you coulda pushed him.”

“Pushed? Constable!” Andrew’s patience was entirely spent. “You were standing right next to me. I tried to warn him!”

“Him, then.” C. Franks pointed the Billy club at Wallace.

“What? I never…” The accusation sobered Wallace right up. (Now that Andy Minus-Five was dead—there was no reason to continue pretending Wallace was a superspy—Andrew had gone back to referring to him by his given name, although he wondered if the man might be amenable to being called Wall or simply W—to save time.)

“My good man—” Spurgle began, throwing his hands in the air with a bit of frustration when, completely without warning, the corpse rolled over.

“Is it, ah…supposed to do that?” the bobby asked, pointing his baton at the oddly dressed body twisting about on the pavement.

“How should I know?” Andrew said, wide-eyed. “I’ve certainly never seen a dead body before.”

“I think he’s comin’ back to life, guv,” the boy said, stepping closer.

“Wait! What are you doing?”

“You have to brain a zombie to kill it proper, guv.”

“He isn’t a zombie, you twit, he’s just—”

“Just what?”

“Not quite…dead…yet,” Andrew allowed grudgingly for the second time that day.

“You want me to…” The young officer motioned to thump the stranger on the head with his billystick.

“No! Of course not!” Andrew replied, still somewhat in shock over seeing his own face on the flailing newcomer.

“Be less paperwork that way,” the boy mumbled.

“No dead man, no paperwork.” Andrew pressed his palms into his eyes to settle an incoming headache. “By the way, is anyone else having a raging case of déjà vu?”

“Wait a sec, guv,” C. Franks said with great import. “I’ve just figgered out whats goin’ on here!”

Andrew didn’t want to ask. He was afraid to ask. He wallowed in self-pity as the opportunity of a new existence in a more civilized world slipped through his grasp.

“It’s an interruption in the space-timely continuum.” C. Franks tapped his wrinkled nose. “New Spurgle tossed a wrench in the works when he come through the portal and seen you face-to-face.”

The bobby’s reasoning had merit.

Andrew froze. An interruption in the space-timely continuum could spell disaster. Regaining control of his hands, he dug into his pocket, fishing out a pocketwatch, wherein was glued an old photograph of his mother. “Thank heavens. She hasn’t begun to fade.”

The trio breathed a collective sigh of relief. “See here, gents,” Fake Bond (as Andrew had resorted to calling Wallace again with the reversal of his fortunes) said. “It doesn’t stand to reason the mission is a go, what with him being mostly dead and all. So if you don’t need me no further, I’ll be in the pub.”

“Closer,” Fancy Andy croaked, “come closer.”

“He’s still alive!” Fake Bond said, stumbling back. “Mate, we thought you’d kicked it!”

“Almost kicked it,” C. Franks reminded, quite unnecessarily.

The trio leaned in.

“Must. Save. The Multiverse,” he gasped.

“Mate,” Fake Bond said severely. “You need an ‘ospital.”

“Take these.” Fancy Andy reached both hands into his pockets and presented Andrew with a radio in his right and odd-shaped device complete with a large red button in his left.

“What’s this?” Andrew asked excitedly, his dream-spark of moving up in the downward ranking of worlds rekindled.

“Find Andy Five-Point-Five. He’ll know what to do!”

“Using the radio?”

“No, you plonker! The radio is so I can guide you through the procedure of Interdimensional time travel when you get back to the Motel Six!” New Andy coughed up a bit of blood, but he kept talking. “Do not, I repeat, do not begin the process without consulting me about—” New Andy’s eyes rolled back moments before his head hit the ground.

“Huh.” C. Frank picked up New Andy’s arm and let it fall. “I think he might actually by dead this time.”

“Does it matter?” Andrew said, while trying not to appear too excited. “We have the Interdimensional time traveling device. We just push the button, then call him.”

“No, I think we call him, then push the button.” Fake Bond looked longingly at Duke’s from across the way. “You think we have time for a quick, uh, sniff?”

“Gents, how we gonna call him if he’s stone dead?”

C. Franks was really starting to get on Andrew’s last nerve. “We’ll sort that out when we come to it,” he said sharply. “In the meantime, our cab should be along any moment.”

Andrew paid the cabbie, who’d picked the team up in a Bentley strangely resembling his own late auto. He sighed, less dramatically than Dead Andy (yes, it was time to admit the truth, the man was finally all the way dead) on the scale of “not so much to actually quite melodramatic” but sufficient to mourn the smart Bentley for which he pined. He looked up at the Motel Six sign and scowled at the advert for a free Breakfast Smorgasbord. If he ever came back to Earth Six-Point-Oh, he would demand to speak with management and tell them where they could put their miniature sausages!

“This is it, then?” C. Franks looked about as if he’d never seen the place before. “It don’t look like much.”

“You don’t remember the motel?” Andrew asked, tired eyes going wide in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his surprise. “We were just here not three hours past.”

C. Franks shrugged.

“There was a dead body in room sixteen!”

“Oh yeah…” the boy said. “Let’s see if the stiff is still in there.”

“He’s not in there,” Andrew argued loudly. “He’s dead in the street across from Duke’s now!” He reached into his pant pocket for the key to room sixteen. “Where is it?” And then he remembered. The room key had been attached to the auto key to avoid losing it. His shoulders slumped and he was about to give up when he noticed Fake Bond messing with the lock.

“Are you picking the lock?” Andrew asked, once again giving his feelings leave to hope.

“Uh, no. I’ve got the key.”

“The key? Where did you get it?”

“The man driving the Bentley said I could have it.”

“How did the cabbie get a key to my room?”

“I dunno,” Fake Bond shrugged. “Guess he had a spare. You know, just in case.”

Andrew felt as if something was going on which he could almost put his finger on, only, every time he was about to grasp it, the thing turned to fog and whisked away. “No matter. We have the room and the IDTTD”—which he had taken to calling the Interdimensional time travel device, since saying the whole thing took entirely too much time—“let’s get started. Constable, you seem to know the most about the way these work…how should we begin?”

“Okay, then,” the copper said, cracking his knuckles, “First, light some candles. Then we turn out the lights and sit in a circle holdin’ hands.”

“Not another séance,” Fake Bond groaned. “Can’t we just press the button?”

Just then, the radio came to life. “Calling Andrew Spurgle Six-Point-Oh. This is Andrew Spurgle Minus-Five, over.”

“We hear you, ghost of Andrew Spurgle Minus-Five,” C. Franks said, sitting cross-legged on the ground with his eyes closed. “Why do the dead commune with the living?”

“Unbelievable,” Andrew said, not a little impressed at New Andy’s failure to die properly. “New Andy, this is Spurgle Six-Point-Oh, go ahead, over.”

“Roger that, Spurgle. Have you pressed the big red button yet?”

Andrew looked to Fake Bond, who nodded emphatically and gave him a thumbs up. Spurgle Six-Point-Oh smiled widely and pressed. He’d always longed to travel on holiday and was very curious to see what English Baseball was like, compared to its inferior American counterpart.

“Good. In a moment, the device will ask for your name and thumbprint. Each of you say your name in turn, followed by a firm press on the bit of glass. Remember, you can only use the device once, so…no tomfoolery!”

Small lights around the device began to glow, and the slip of glass flashed green. Please state your name.

“Andrew Spurgle.”

“Be specific,” Andy Minus-Five advised.

“Oh. Yes. Andrew Spurgle Six-Point-Oh.” He looked nervously at the device, hoping he hadn’t bungled the entire process.

Accepted. Please place your thumb on the reader.

Andrew stopped holding his breath and placed his thumb firmly on the glowing lens. The machine whirred and clicked. Then the lights flashed and the ITDTT came to a rest.

Next, please.

Andrew winked at Fake Bond, who seemed a bit apprehensive at the idea of interdimensional time travel, but after an encouraging pat on the shoulder, he gave in.

“James Bond, Double-Oh Seven.”

When the machine was once again ready, Constable Francis did the same.

“We’re all set!” Andrew told New Andy. “What now?”

“Right. It will take about thirty seconds for the machine to confirm your identities and then, voom!”

“Confirm our identities?” Fake Bond said, lifting an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“As you know, using a false identity to timely travel can cause a catastrophic fire,” Andy Minus-Five laughed. “How do you think I, uh, I mean, someone burned down Motels Minus-Five, Nine, Fourteen, and Thirty-Four? I certainly can’t afford to get blamed for losing Six-Point-Oh, as well. Over.”

“Say again?” Andrew could feel his eyes stretching into his forehead. “Did you say catastrophic fire? Over.”

“Indeed. Why? Over.”

Please press the red button when ready to timely travel, the device intoned, calmly as you please.

“Well, you see…it’s just that…our James may not be the real Bond… Over.”

Please press the red button before time expires.

“No? How can you be sure? Over.”

Warning! Press the red button before time expires, the ITDTT said again, this time with considerably less patience.

Andrew gave the device a thumping. “Shut up, you!” He sighed wistfully as his colorful dream of timely travelling faded to the dull black-and-white life of a midlevel administrator. “We may have lied about our Bond. Over.”

“You did what?” There was a long pause from the radio. “I see. In that case, simply do not press the red button and we’ll figger something out when the next Andrew comes calling. Over.”

“Huh,” Andrew said, realizing the annoying ITDTT voice had stopped.

“You’ve already done it, haven’t you?” Andy Minus-Five guessed. It seemed the newcomer knew him as well as he knew himself.

“I’m sure it will turn out,” Andrew said. “Things always do.” He grinned sheepishly at Wallace and C. Francis. “Surely it won’t—”

The device began to shake. Strobing lights of blinding red, yellow, green and blue spun around the walls and ceiling, turning the motel room into a disco. Self-destruct will commence in three…two…

“Oh, bollocks,” both Andrews said in unison.

The Spurgle Convention

Douglas Goodall

Andrew Spurgle couldn’t hold his nose with a martini in one hand and his suitcase in the other. He couldn’t hold his mouth, either. Why should he? It wasn’t his fault the Legal Official’s Southeastern Retreat had to share the Springfield Convention Center with a plumbers’ convention—plumbers!—and something called SpringCon, even though it was October. Usually, they shared the space with weddings or a bunch of frat boys. Fun stuff, you know?

The delay at the hotel check-in was bad enough, but he had to wait in line behind grown men wearing jeans and t-shirts. No, he couldn’t actually smell them, but he felt he ought to hold his nose, anyway. They were plumbers, right? They had the feel of stench about them. But when the plumbers gave up on the line, he took a couple steps forward and bumped into an old guy in a bathrobe carrying a giant glowstick. Spurgle’s martini spilled down his second-best shirt.

“Oh, excuse me,” the man said. He was with a guy in a ratty trenchcoat with a tree branch, a woman in fur underwear with a foam sword on her back, and a cow. Who would wear that in public? Surely there was some public decency law. He’d do a Lexis search when he finally got to his room.

As the hotel clerk said for the thousandth time that she was very sorry, but the computer system was down, and it would surely be up again any minute now, Andrew couldn’t take it anymore. “I didn’t know there was a Chick-fil-A convention this weekend,” he said.

The weirdos’ irrelevant chatter stopped. They all turned to stare at him. “Holsteins,” said the cow.

“What?”

“Holsteins,” the cow repeated. “The Chick-fil-A cows are Holsteins. I’m a minotaur.”

“We’re here for SpringCon,” the woman said with pesky enthusiasm. “This is our fifth year! We’re officially the longest running sci-fi con in Springfield!”

“And what are you two supposed to be?” Spurgle asked.

“I’m a wizard.”

“Is my costume that bad?” asked the old man in the bathrobe. Spurgle just looked at him. The old man waved the big glowstick around, making a “voom voom” sort of noise. “I’m a Jedi,” he said. Spurgle kept looking at him. “Do you really not know what a Jedi is?” Spurgle hated it when someone could tell he didn’t know a word like Jedi or Holstein.

“Do you read any books?” the woman asked.

“Sure,” Andrew said, “I always pick up a book at the airport on a trip like this.” He set his suitcase down and retrieved his latest find from the depths of the case: the incredibly awesome Fatal Carnage. The old man started laughing. Laughing! “What’s so funny?”

“Zachariah Lawrence,” the old man said. “Fatal Carnage by Zachariah Lawrence. That’s a pen name for Wendell Cobb, the Guest of Honor this year. He writes science fiction under his real name. Maybe you’d like some of his other books.”

“A pen name?” Andrew Spurgle looked at the book he was holding. He didn’t pay much attention to the author when selecting a book. He could always pick out a good book by the cover. “This Zachariah Lawrence is going to be here this weekend?”

“His real name is Wendell Cobb,” said the old man, “and yeah, he’s the Guest of Honor.”

“I bet a signed copy would be worth something,” Spurgle said. If nothing else, it would be a good breakroom story after he got back. “How would I meet him?”

“You could buy a ticket to the convention and attend his autograph session,” said the old man. “Or try to find him between panels. He really likes cosplay, so if you got a good costume, he might come up to you and ask for a photo. I got a photo with him at EverCon four years ago.”

“Dressed like that?” Spurgle asked.

“Yeah, Wendell loved it.”

Wendell wrote Fatal Carnage. He wasn’t one of these losers. There’s no way he’d ask for a photo with some guy in a bathrobe over someone dressed as Moses Byrd, the kick-ass hero of Fatal Carnage. And if there was one thing Andrew Spurgle wasn’t, it was a loser. Andrew had a plan now, a mission, just like Moses Byrd. He had it all figured out before he finally checked in to the hotel and got to his room.

He tried it the easy way first.

He got a SpringCon badge. Not by buying one, of course. He was watching the registration table, trying to come up with a plan, when the only person at the table got engaged in a conversation with two old women covered in glitter and a big thing with tentacles and eyes all over it. Andrew made sure no one was paying attention, and he walked past and palmed a badge and a schedule. As easy as that, he was in.

Once he was a safe distance away, he looked at the schedule and saw that Wendell Cobb’s autograph session was about three hours from now. He set an alarm on his phone and walked back to the LOSR side of the Convention Center. He picked a panel at random and sat down at an empty table in the back. Andrew let the speaker’s advice on contract law wash over him. The trick was to appear attentive, but not pay enough attention that you had to think. He stayed in that room for two panels, only getting up a couple times to get a drink at the open bar. He was sitting there, happily not listening, when his lack of thought was rudely interrupted.

“Hey, Andy, old buddy, long time no see, how you been?”

Spurgle looked up to an outstretched hand, then further up to a perfect face with the sort of smile you only got with lots of modern dentistry. Spurgle struggled internally and decency won, shaking the hand and forcing out a few words. “Jim. How. Are you doing. You still with. Wolfe. Wolfe. And Black.” If not for his bad luck, Andrew would still be there and on the fast track to success.

Jim sat down and his smile just grew and grew. “You’re looking at the latest junior partner, my friend. Shame about that case you got stuck with. You know, with that grandma judge. What’s her name? And the armadillo.”

Spurgle managed an almost polite nod.

“You know, Andy, I told Wolfe Senior they shouldn’t have fired you over that. No one could have won that case. Well, I could, but it still wasn’t fair. There were your clients just trying to earn a living. Heck, one of them was in the backseat, measuring and vacuum sealing while the other was driving. Real work ethic, you know? Too bad the vacuum sealer malfunctioned. But that was hardly his fault, right? The cocaine just flew all over the car. What a waste. Then they had that wreck because they couldn’t see out of the window. And then they tried to hijack that school bus. Not to mention the armadillo. Can’t talk your way out of something like that, right? I mean, they were going to do some time, even if that judge hadn’t taken such a dislike to you. But that’s life, you know? So where are you now?”

Spurgle coughed. “Slope and Gamby.”

“Never heard of them. They local?”

“Atlanta. They’re a…small firm,” Spurgle said, adjusting his tie. “Very…specialized.”

Jim looked down and saw the SpringCon badge lying on the table. “What’s this? Oh, yeah, the people in the funny costumes. That yours, Andy?”

“No, I…uh…found it. I thought I’d bring it back to them after this panel.”

“Well, that’s very nice of you, Andy.”

Andrew’s phone alarm went off. “Sorry,” he said to Jim, “I have to take this.”

He picked up the SpringCon badge and pretended to talk on the phone until he was out of the room. With a sigh of relief, he walked from the LOSR side of the Convention Center to the SpringCon side and put on the badge. Guys like Jim have all the luck, but Andrew just couldn’t seem to catch a break.

He walked past a huge line of weirdos twice before realizing it was the line for the autograph session. He looked at his phone. It was 2:10. Andrew got a good spot in line. He felt a vice grip on his shoulder and turned to see an old guy, one who had no business having a grip that strong, pointing him to the back of the line. Spurgle decided to plead no low contender. He put his hands up and went to the back of the line. He took a couple steps forward. He looked at this phone. 2:14. He took another couple steps forward and looked at his phone. 2:17. He looked at the line, then back at his phone. This wasn’t going to work.

He was about to get out of the line when some woman walked up to him and said, “Uh…Melanie?”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Spurgle muttered.

“Then you’ve got the wrong badge!” she said.

He looked at the badge he’d palmed. The name on the badge was Melanie Pruett. Damn! There was always some silly little detail that ruined everything.

“I was hoping I’d run into you! I knew someone else must have gotten her badge. Follow me back to registration and we’ll get you all sorted out.” She turned around and walked off. She didn’t suspect anything yet, but she would when there was no Andrew Spurgle registered. Spurgle followed her a short ways, ditched the badge in a potted plant, and ditched the woman by dodging into a stairwell.

He’d have to do it the hard way—just like Moses Byrd.

First, he’d need a disguise. He took the elevator up to his hotel room and looked up costume shops. After a few annoying phone calls, he drove to one and picked up his costume. No, not a costume. Only losers wore costumes, and only as long as it took to realize they didn’t need one for Halloween. People would give you candy even if you just wore street clothes. Some of them just left a bucket outside and you got a free bucket, too.

No, this was a disguise, a uniform. Moses Byrd wore a uniform. He got out the uniform and admired it. A tactical vest, a tactical belt, tactical boots, tactical pants, tactical everything. It was all black with lots of pockets, Velcro straps, and metal rings. When Andrew put it on, he looked intimidating as hell. He tried a few moves in the bathroom mirror—a wry smile, a casual lean on the towel rack, finger guns. Yeah, Wendell was going to love this. He did a couple karate chops, then pretended to hold up a gun. “Freeze!” he shouted at the mirror. Then he did a roundhouse kick, but the tip of his shoe hit the mirror, and it cracked and started falling forward. Spurgle managed to catch it and lean it back towards the wall.

The uniform needed a few finishing touches. All these pouches and straps were empty. He asked at the costume shop for some accessories, but they cost twice as much to rent as the uniform. He had a multi-tool he packed out of habit. It was stuck closed, but that had to be part of the uniform. He had a little black flashlight, which was both a flashlight and black, so obviously that got strapped on. He had a pair of handcuffs—long story—so he strapped those on, too. If he took the blades off his electric razor, it looked kind of cool, like maybe a taser or something, so he put that in a pouch. He spotted a large, black bottle next to the sink. It turned out to be scented bubble bath, but the bottle looked cool, so he turned it label-side-in and strapped it on. It could be mace or tear gas. No one would know. He took down the paracord he had hung up between the closet and the fire sprinkler to dry off his second-best shirt, wrapped it up, and strapped it on. His phone was black, so he put that in a pocket where it was partly visible. Finally, he put Fatal Carnage in the largest pouch.

He was about to leave when he had a terrible thought. What if he found this Wendell and he didn’t have a pen? So he grabbed a hotel pen and put it in the pouch with Fatal Carnage. It felt good to be so well prepared. Nothing could go wrong. He gave himself one last, admiring look in the cracked mirror and set off.

Wendell wasn’t easy to find. Somehow SpringCon was even bigger than LOSR, and Wendell wasn’t on the schedule this evening. He’d have to search for clues. After a half hour, forcing himself to talk to these losers, he only had one clue. Everyone said Wendell Cobb always went to the costume contest, which was this evening. It seemed that was his only option.

He went to the costume prep room where a staff member gave him a couple forms to fill out. They just wanted his name—Moses Byrd, obviously—and to not sue for any blah blah. He didn’t bother reading it. He was a lawyer, after all. A little deniable squiggle and he was in. Contestant Number Thirty-One. This was going to be easy. This was going to work. Wendell would see this bad boy on the stage and beg to sign his book.

Waiting in the costume prep room was dull. He was surrounded by robots and fairies and who knows what. He started feeling thirsty and kept thinking of the open bar at LOSR. He wondered what he was even doing at SpringCon, but he couldn’t give up now. He had a mission. He had to get that autograph.

Fifteen minutes before the contest, a staff member clapped and whistled until the room quieted down. “Hey, everyone,” she said. “My name is Joan. I’ll be taking your badges and keeping an eye on things in this room during the contest. You can leave your stuff here, if you want. I’m going to come collect the badges in just a moment, so let me know if you need anything when I come around to you, okay?”

No one told him this would happen. When Joan got to him, he said he left his badge in his room.

“Oh, dear,” Joan said. “You have to wear the badge everywhere in the Con, you know. You have time to go up to your room and get it. Just come by here and drop it off. I’ll point you to the stage entrance once you get back.”

Andrew left, defeated. How could he get another badge? One with his own name on it? Or, better, one with “Moses Byrd” on it? He glanced surreptitiously at people’s badges as he trudged to the elevators. There was a logo in color at the top with the person’s name just under it. They looked simple. They were laminated, of course. He remembered that story Wolfe Senior told every week about having to do an art project to explain something to a jury and how he managed to get glue, construction paper, markers, and everything else from the hotel. So he went to the front desk and asked if the hotel had a printer and a laminator.

They did. Any guest could use their small “office” space. In a half-hour, he copied the logo from SpringCon’s website, printed a few fake badges until he was happy with their look, and laminated the last one. He clipped his shiny new badge to one of the metal rings on his uniform.

The costume contest was almost over when he got back, so he waited outside the room until the audience started leaving. Wendell Cobb was sure to spot him and beg to autograph the book. Yeah, any one of these people. Any minute now. Maybe that cool-looking guy? Or maybe the military-looking guy? Yeah, that was probably Wendell. He tried to make himself noticed without making himself too noticed, but soon the audience was gone, and no one had approached him.

He went to the hotel office again and looked up Wendell Cobb. He was a chubby, balding, middle-aged guy with thick glasses and a big gray beard. He didn’t look a thing like the sort of man who’d write Fatal Carnage. He looked like a Mall Santa. Armed with this knowledge, Spurgle returned to the convention. He had his costume, his badge, and he knew what Wendell looked like. This time, he was ready.

There were lots of SpringCon people in the hotel lobby. He was getting pretty good at spotting them. He mingled. He tried to make conversation, but they were all weirdos, and he couldn’t seem to talk to any of them for more than a couple minutes. No one seemed to know where Wendell Cobb was.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and saw someone he almost recognized. “Hey! Remember me? From check-in? How are you enjoying the Con? I see you got a costume.” And then it hit him. She was the woman in fur underwear, only now she was dressed in green, had pointy ears, and wore a quiver of foam arrows on her back.

“Yeah, I got a…a…costume. Say, you wouldn’t know where to find Wendell Cobb, would you?”

“Oh, knowing Wendell, he’s either here in the lobby, the gaming room, or one of the room parties.”

“Thanks,” Spurgle said. He looked at the schedule he’d swiped earlier. The gaming room was closest. Ballroom Two. He’d try there first.

There were quite a few men in the gaming room who could get a job as a Mall Santa. He tried to wander around and read all the likely candidates’ badges, but no go. Most of the badges were flipped the wrong way. Andrew shouldn’t have wasted all that time making a badge. He should have just laminated a blank page. The rest of the badges were hidden behind hands of cards or fanny packs. Or their owner was hunched over a table with a bunch of tanks or little people. Andrew shook his head. This wasn’t the cool party. Wendell Cobb wouldn’t be here.

Then he had an inspiration. SpringCon clearly needed some help making this thing fun, and maybe there was something he could do to help them out. He looked around for some way to spice up the party. There was a stage on one side of the room. It was partly torn down, but it had colored spotlights, big speakers, a couple disco balls, and stuff like that. Yeah, that would work. He just needed to turn it on.

He wandered around the stage a bit and followed some of the power cords back to their sockets. They were plugged in. One socket had a sticky note that said, “BR Two—5,7,9.” Hm. He remembered seeing a room marked “Electrical” earlier and strode over to it. Sure enough, it was unlocked. He opened a half-dozen panels before he found ones labeled “Ballroom Two” and Five, Seven, and Nine were flipped off. He flipped them on. Then he flipped off all the ones marked as lights, except for something called “Uplights.” He liked the sound of that, so he flipped that one on.

Someone would come “fix” this, and make everything dull again. So he took out the handcuffs on his uniform, closed the panel, and clipped them through the panel lock. Yeah, that would keep the party going. This was some real Moses Byrd stuff. He’d have a great story to tell when he got back to Atlanta.

He went back to the gaming room to see how it looked. Blue lights all around the walls, music playing, and spotlights moving around. Perfect. But no one was dancing. Everyone was just standing there, talking to each other. If anything, they seemed upset. You just can’t help some people.

He went back to the lobby next and looked around to see if Wendell Cobb was there. There were a few Mall Santas to check out, and at least out here, it was easy to read their badges when they weren’t flipped the wrong way. Wendell Cobb wasn’t here, either. There was plenty of drinking going on. Indeed, some of the SpringCon people here had clearly been drinking for some time. But there was no dancing, no joy day veev. “It’s just not a party atmosphere,” he said out loud.

And then he had another inspiration. At the center of the hotel lobby was a water fountain. He sauntered over to the fountain, drew the large, scented bubble bath from his tactical pouch, popped the top off with one hand, and poured the entire thing into the fountain. He popped the cap back on and holstered it like a pro. The fountain started to bubble and foam. Yeah, that was more like it.

Spurgle looked at his schedule again. All the Room Parties were on level eighteen of the hotel, so his next stop was the elevators. There was a crowd, and he couldn’t take the first elevator that arrived, or the second. Finally, he got on one with a bunch of weirdos.

Someone dressed like a belly dancer looked at his costume and said, “Who are you going as?”

“Moses Byrd,” Spurgle replied. “From Fatal Carnage. You know, by Wendell Cobb.”

“Oh, I haven’t read that one.”

“Who are you going as?” Spurgle asked.

“Uh…Leia?” Someone else on the elevator stifled a chuckle. Spurgle felt he was being mocked again, silently, by everyone on the elevator. Eventually, the girl asked, “What’s Fatal Carnage about?”

“Oh, it’s great,” Spurgle began. “I read it on the flight here. So this guy, Moses Byrd, he’s just an awesome, kick-ass guy, the kind that works for the government. And there’s a bad guy, of course. Really, there are five bad guys, but there’s one bad guy who throws Moses out of the plane. Oh, so it starts on an airplane, right? And there’s the bad guy on the airplane, and he’s wanted, you know, trying to get out of the country. But Moses doesn’t know he’s on the plane. I mean, he knows that he’s on the plane, but not that the other guy is. I mean, he knows by the time the bad guy throws him off the plane, but not at first. So Moses is just going on vacation, but he makes the bad guy.”

“It sounds a bit complicated,” the girl said.

Spurgle was caught up in the moment and forged ahead. “No, it’s a real simple, tight novel. I guess I should explain that Moses has a great memory for faces. That’s part of what makes him so awesome. So he makes the bad guy. But the bad guy, the first bad guy, that is, doesn’t know he’s been made. There’s two bad guys on the plane, but Moses only knows about one of them. So Moses goes to the bathroom. He doesn’t really go, he just pretends to go, and he writes a note in there and passes it to the stewardess. But she misreads it and thinks Moses is the bad guy. So the stewardess tells the captain and gives him the note. And the captain knows there a sky marshal on board, so he gives the stewardess the note. You know, a different note. But the bad guy, the first bad guy, realizes something’s up and he switches seats with this other guy who turns out to be the bad guy. You know, the second bad guy. So the marshal thinks this other passenger is the bad guy and the stewardess thinks Moses is the bad guy. I mean, he is. I mean, the second bad guy is, not Moses, but Moses was talking about the first guy, so when the sky marshal comes up—”

“Yeah,” the girl interrupted again, “I can tell it’s a good book. Good costume. Excuse me.” She pushed past him and got off the elevator.

The elevator stopped a few times while he was describing the book, so Spurgle looked to see what floor they were on. They should have been at the party floor by now, but the elevator showed Fourteen…Twelve…Eleven. He must have missed the eighteenth floor in his excitement. He’d just have to wait it out. The elevator went all the way down and started going back up with a whole new crop of weirdos.

“I don’t recognize your costume,” said a guy in a frumpy hat and really, really long scarf. “What’s it from?”

Spurgle was tired of everyone asking that. “It’s not a costume,” he said. “It’s a uniform.”

“Oh,” one of the other guys on the elevator said, “is there some kind of threat?”

The elevator dinged. Finally, the eighteenth floor. Andrew remembered one of Moses Byrd’s great lines from Fatal Carnage.

“Me,” Spurgle said, “I’m the threat.”

He strode out of the elevator and down the hall, looking for room parties. He paid no attention to the odd looks everyone on the elevator gave him.

He tried to get into the first room party, but the room was full—fire code violation full, so he went to the second one. He barely managed to squeeze into the door. He was trying too hard to read a Mall Santa’s badge when he bumped into someone.

“Hey, Andy! What are you doing here?” Jim said.

“Uh, Jim. I’m trying to get an autograph. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know,” Jim said, “there’s not many options this year, if you know what I mean, so I thought I’d buy a membership to this SpringCon and try my luck here.”

“Try your luck?”

“Yeah, get lucky, man. There’s not many hot chicks at SpringCon, but…” Jim waved his arm at the room. “Look at the competition. I’m a nine, at least, but I’m a SpringCon twenty. You get me?”

Spurgle clearly did not get him. “Usually, there’s a wedding or something,” Jim explained. “You know, some place with lots of chicks. Remember three years ago when we were here the same time as that high school cheerleading competition? I didn’t sleep a wink that whole weekend. What? Age of consent is fifteen in this state. I looked it up.”

“That’s…that’s great, Jim,” Andrew said. “You haven’t run across Wendell Cobb, have you?”

“Sorry, I don’t know who that is. You haven’t seen a chick in green leather with pointy ears and a longbow, have you?”

“Oh, yeah, I did. Downstairs in the lobby.”

“Thanks, man, you’re a real bud. I’m glad you don’t hold a grudge over what happened with Wolfe, Wolfe, and Black. You ever want a reference or anything, I’m your man.” Jim squeezed his way out of the room.

Andrew asked a few more people about Wendell Cobb until one of them said, “If you’re looking for Wendell, he’s at the VIP party. Guests and Staff only. It’s in the big suite at the end of the hall. You could wait there for him to come out.”

Andrew thanked him and slowly made his way out of the room. He walked up to the door of the suite, but it was well guarded. There were a couple staff members there. One of them had a shirt that said ‘SECURITY’ on it. It shouldn’t have been more intimidating than his uniform, but he sized the guy up and didn’t like his chances. Spurgle managed to peek through the door and saw that the suite had a big balcony and a bunch of people were out there, having as good of a time as anyone at SpringCon.

That gave him an idea. A brilliant idea. He’d descend from the roof, just like Moses Byrd! That would show them he was a VIP! He was sure to impress Wendell Cobb with a trick like that.

Spurgle ducked into a little room off the main hallway with some vending machines and an ice dispenser. He looked at the schedule and the map of the hotel. He should be able to get down to the balcony from the roof, right? Once he was there, no one would be checking badges or anything. It would be easy: there were just two floors to rappel down. The hotel map said there was a fire exit right near this little room, but he didn’t see it. As he was looking for it, some people stopped right outside the door. He couldn’t quite hear what they were saying with the ice dispenser going.

“On the elevator and acting really weird, so she called security…”

“Got off on this floor, but that was maybe twenty minutes ago…”

“Like some really fake SWAT team costume or a…”

“Hotel’s looking for a guy, too, from their security footage, dressed all in black…”

“Fountain cleaning is going to ruin next years’ contract if we can’t prove…”

“Real terrorist wouldn’t do something like that, right? He’s probably just drunk or…”

They moved on down the hallway.

“Sounds like they’re looking for someone,” Spurgle whispered. “I hope they find him before it gets serious. I’d better hurry.”

Spurgle found the fire exit hiding on the other side of the vending machines. It had an electronic lock. He tried his hotel card, but no go, it just beeped and a little light on the lock flashed red. There was a sign to the left of the door, just above a fire alarm. “Door Unlocks Automatically in Case of Fire,” it said. There was no fire. What would Moses Byrd do?

You can pick key locks, right? There must be a way to pick electric locks. He started trying to pull the cover off the lock, but nothing he tried worked. He got out his multi-tool, but it was stuck, as usual. He had to take his gloves off, and broke two nails trying to get the knife blade open. Once he did, he made short work of the cover. He tried to close the knife, but gave up and slid it into his pocket. But now what? The door panel was just some green plastic with some metal lines and some wires. There was some stuff written on it, but it wasn’t words, just nonsense like “C6 S1 R2” and “MC74HC.”

Would it short out and unlock if he put some electricity through it? Spurgle had seen something like that in a movie once. He got out his electric razor and pulled the battery out. He lined the battery terminals up with some of the metal stuff and pressed it into place.

A little smoke came out of the lock. That was promising. He tried the door, but it still wouldn’t open. He put the battery back, in a different place. The battery was getting hot, really hot! He dropped it and took a couple steps back, just before it exploded up with loud pop. He kicked the little flaming ball under the vending machine. Now what? He tried to think. Did he have anything else that could make electricity? Maybe he could use his flashlight.

Then the fire alarm went off. He tried the door and it opened. Nice! Luck was on his side.

The door led to a fire escape. The stairs down were unobstructed, but Spurgle didn’t want to go down. He wanted to get on the roof. There was a ladder up to the roof, but there was some kind of cage around it and a padlock. Another obstacle! But what was one more obstacle to Moses Byrd? Spurgle was no stranger to climbing, so he tried climbing up the side of the ladder. He managed to climb just high enough to grab onto the roof and pull himself up and over.

He walked around the building, looking over the edge until he spotted the balcony where the party was going on. It looked like everyone was leaving. He’d better hurry.

He still had the roll of paracord he always brought on trips, but where could he tie it? There wasn’t much up here, other than some big metal boxes with pipes coming out. Spurgle walked up to one of the boxes, which was humming ominously, and tugged at some of the pipes. They seemed sturdy enough, even if some of them felt hot, so he started tying one end of his paracord to the pipe. “Let’s see, does the snake go up and over or around and through?” He wrapped the cord around a few times and made something that might technically be considered a knot. Then he threw the rest of the cord down to the balcony.

The fire alarm was really starting to get on his nerves, and now there were sirens, a dozen or more, all going off down in the hotel parking lot. “What the hell,” Andrew said. He looked over the roof and gave his paracord a little tug. It was only a couple floors down, and the cord was long enough, making a nice little pile on the balcony. He grabbed the cord tight and swung over the side. He was suddenly very thankful that his uniform had gloves. He thought he’d put his feet on the windows and sort of rappel down the side like in the movies, but his shoes kept slipping and he ended up just hanging there.

What would Moses Byrd do? Spurgle didn’t have an answer this time, so he started going down the paracord, one hand over the other. It was much harder than he had thought it would be. Even with the gloves, he struggled to grab the cord tight enough. His hands started cramping, and he kept slipping a little. “I must be nearly there by now,” he said and looked down. He was still twenty feet up. He tried going hand over hand some more.

He saw lights weaving around on the wall in front of him and looked down. There were guys down there dressed just like him, pointing flashlights right in his eyes. “Hey, no fair!” he shouted down at them. “Wendell Cobb belongs to me!”

One of the guys shouted something back at him. “What?” Spurgle said.

The guy repeated himself. It sounded like, “Just keep coming down slowly.”

Spurgle started trying to go hand over hand down the paracord again. He looked down at the guys. Were they pointing guns at him? Two ropes fell next to him, one on each side. Spurgle looked up to see two guys rappelling, actually rappelling, down the windows.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. These guys were showing him up. He started going hand over hand faster, but it was at this point his cramping hands slipped and he fell. He landed right on top of one of the guys.

The guy he landed on shouted right in his ear, and then he was facefirst on the ground with what felt like a dozen arms and legs all over him. Andrew’s first thought was that their costumes were better. Then he slowly began to realize they weren’t in costume. He tried to explain. He told them about the autograph, about his mission, about Fatal Carnage, about how the handcuffs were too tight. They weren’t listening at all.

Some of those ambulance guys showed up. They didn’t do a thing for Andrew. They were treating the guy he fell on for a broken rib and a stab wound. No one seemed to know how it happened. Then he felt someone messing around with his pockets. He heard cloth tearing and a guy saying, “He had a knife in his pocket.”

“Well, yeah,” said the guy who was stabbed, “it’s a pocketknife.”

Again, he tried to explain that it was old and just wouldn’t open or close, but no one seemed to care. Spurgle was a good citizen. He paid his taxes. He had a law degree! He shouldn’t be treated like a common criminal. Even worse, after they emptied his pockets into a little pile, he could see his phone screen was cracked and the hotel pen had broken and leaked all over Fatal Carnage.

He spent the rest of the weekend in jail. Early Monday morning, the police fetched him down to a courtroom for his bail hearing.

“Mm. Mm-hmm. Andrew Spurgle,” the judge said. Andrew remembered her. How could he forget? Fortunately, she didn’t recognize him.

The judge rustled a stack of paper in front of her and began leafing through them, looking down through her bifocals. “Mm-hmm. Let’s see. You’re charged with trespassing, breaking and entering, mmm, vandalism, destruction of property, arson, battery, reckless conduct…wow, there’s a lot of charges here. Lots of plaintiffs, too. Officer Lewis?” The elderly judge scanned the page. “Stabbed! How is he doing?”

“He’s stable,” said the Bailiff. “Jones and I are collecting cards and gifts. We’re visiting him tomorrow night.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m good for twenty. Where were we? Oh, yes, the plaintiffs. The hotel, the convention center, Wendell Cobb—no, really, the author? What’s the Springfield Fictional Charity Association?”

Spurgle stood up and said, “Your Honor, I can explain.”

At the sound of his voice, the judge looked at him over her glasses. Recognition slowly dawned in her eyes.

“Oh no,” she said, “not you again! Please tell me there’s no armadillo.”

The Good, The Bad, and the Bedbugs

Richard Cartwright

“Are we there yet?”

“Almost, Ewan. Quit trying to take my car apart,” Courtney growled.

“Hand it over,” Joan demanded from the backseat. He’s such a lovely man, but so in need of adult supervision, and distractions that didn’t affect the structural integrity of his editor’s car. She took the proffered multitool and put it in the bag with the other two.

“I can’t believe there is really a place called Bucksnort, and that it has a conference center hosting an SF Con,” Ewan mused as they passed a sign proclaiming that they were twelve miles for their destination.

“Mike mentioned that the conference center gave them a very good rate. According to him, the area is trying to diversify, since the trout ranch had to stop allowing public fishing.”

“Trout ranch?” Ewan interjected.

“They raise fish for sale to stores and restaurants. The demand has gotten so high they can’t allow the family fishing that used to draw tourists in till they build up capacity.” Joan replied.

“But a con?”

“Ewan, people will drive crazy distances to go to a convention. We’re driving from Texas. Plus, there’s a gun range ten minutes from the motel. That sealed the deal for Mike.”

“There’s a range trip?” Ewan perked up.

“That’s why we’re arriving a day early. It’s Friday morning before the panels start at one,” Courtney interjected.

The Motel Three was surprisingly new, given its rural location. It was across the road from an older place that had the look Joan was expecting out of a rural motel. Ewan came storming out the entrance, pushing a luggage cart like a man shopping at Target on Christmas Eve for presents.

“I can’t believe this. The idiot at the front desk thought I said two beds for three people, not two rooms for three people. And they’re sold out. So is the place across the road.”

“No big deal. We can cope. It’s a con. Not like we will be spending a lot of time in the room, anyway,” Courtney interjected.

“Very true. And save some money in the bargain” Joan added as she loaded the luggage cart with her bag and props for her costume workshop the next day, along with a portable fabric steamer and sewing box.

“Go fetch another cart, Ewan. I will push this one in.” He pulled a packet out of his pocket and handed Joan a keycard.“Room 216. The elevator is past the front desk next to the breakfast area.”

Rolling through the sliding doors revealed a standard motel lobby area with a faux fireplace, faux art and furniture that screamed, “Don’t sit on me, I’m just here for looks” to Joan’s creative eye. Not that it was stopping people with badges around their necks from sitting and talking. Across from the occupied seating area was a front desk with the plexiglass dividers that gave the area an inner-city liquor store counter vibe. Behind the glass was a scowling little man, rat-faced with long greasy hair. He looked positively offended that people were actually using the lobby. Passing the desk, she saw the man out of the corner of her eye leering at her. Normally, she was pleased that a woman of her age and stage still attracted a man’s eye. However, her finely tuned senses told her that he was sorely lacking in the man department.

The room had the same standard look as the lobby. At least the beds were king-sized. She picked the one closest to the bathroom and hung up her clothes. The sealed plastic boxes she stacked. Her travel bag she placed on the counter that ran along the wall. She broke out her small flashlight and inspected the beds, starting with the end abutting the wall. The white powder running along the baseboards was concerning. The scurrying flat brown bug scurrying under the edge of the mattress confirmed her fears. She turned to the sound of the door opening to reveal Ewan pulling in a heavily laden luggage cart.

“Stop. There’s bedbugs in here.”

“Ugh, the monkeys of the insect world,” Ewan replied as he reversed course out of the room.

The same leering man she passed coming up was still manning the desk. Joan added “odious” to her mental classification of the clerk, no, manager, according to the nametag that read “A. Spurgle.” That blue oxford cloth clashed horribly with his florid complexion, she noted.

“Our establishment maintains the highest cleaning standards. I live on the property and have the same cleaning service. Clearly you must be mistaken.”

“Then we need a new vermin-free room,” Ewan nearly snarled.

“No, we are full up. I can’t change your room.”

“Then fumigate this one!” Ewan replied.

“Very well,” Spurgle replied with a put-upon sigh, and reached under the counter to pull out a spray can of insecticide, then walked through a side door.

“I thought I was never going to find a parking place,” Courtney grumped, coming up to the gathering with a laptop bag slung over a shoulder. ”You forgot to give me a keycard, Ewan.”

“Sorry, let’s get to the room.”

The doors were just closing as they got to the elevator, obscuring Spurgle from view.

“Hold, please,” Joan called, but the doors shut and the display on the top showed the car was moving up. Ewan leaned on the down button.

“One press usually does it,” Courtney observed wryly.

“Not nearly as satisfying,” Ewan retorted, as an electronic beep heralded the elevator doors opening. Joan followed her companions into the car just in time to see Courtney cut Ewan off from assaulting the control panel, pressing the “Two” button once.

“Not as satisfying,” Ewan muttered. He was the first through the opening doors and stalking down the hall to 216. Joan broke into a fast walk as the volume of murmurs emanating from the room increased with every step.

“And I tell you again, sir, I have examined the room, and there’s no sign of any vermin.” Joan stepped into the room just in time to see Ewan jerk up the corner of nearest of the two beds and point to two scurrying bugs.

“Did you examine the beds? They’re called bed bugs for a reason,” he thundered.

“There’s just two of them,” Spurgle muttered as he sprayed the offending insects, which promptly stopped moving. “Well, that’s that. If there’s nothing else…”

“Yes, there’s something else. The other corners of this bed and the other bed. Along with the drapes,” Ewan growled.

Ewan discovered two more mature bedbugs under the other two corners. The far bed appeared to be clean, but Ewan made Spurgle spray it, as well, along with the baseboards of the room.

“Call the desk if you need anything,” Spurgle snapped as he left the room. Courtney coughed, and Joan followed as the strong smell of the pesticide tickled her nose.

“Let’s get the bags on top of the desk and luggage area. Then let’s get out of here and let the smell dissipate,” Joan said.

“Good idea,” Courtney replied as she put her bag down and started offloading one of the carts. Ewan pitched in to help Joan with hers. It took some doing, but they managed to get everything on the flat surface with nothing on the carpeted floor. Joan eyed the clear plastic bin that held her steamer and its attachments. She remembered something she’d read about bedbugs.

“When we get back, I want to steam our sheets and drapes,” Joan mused.

“That’s right. Heat kills bedbugs.”

“Burn the place down. It’s the only way to be sure,” Ewan muttered as they left the room.

“Good thing we found that Dollar General,” Courtney exclaimed over the hiss of the steamer Joan was running up and down the curtains as Courtney filled the second spray bottle with rubbing alcohol. Ewan was enthusiastically spraying the bedding with the first.

“It will evaporate before bed and it kills the buggers on contact,” he had assured them at the store. Joan noted the accent acquired while growing up overseas creeping into his voice and betraying his stress. He hated creepy crawling things almost as much as monkeys.

“As long as we get a good night’s sleep. I’m about tuckered out,” Joan said, putting the steamer down.

“I need to go down to Mike’s room to go over the schedule for tomorrow,” Ewan said, heading for the door. “I’ll be quiet coming in.”

“Hold up. I’ll go with you,” Courtney interjected.

As the door shut, Joan took a deep breath. She reveled in the quiet as she got ready for bed.

“They call this gravy? It’s like watery Elmers’s glue.” Courtney poked at the white substance in the bowl that she set down beside her plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and fruit.

“If it doesn’t have chunks of sausage in it, it’s not gravy, it’s flour paste,” Ewan interjected, as he sat down in front of his own plate heaped with bacon and eggs.

Joan had skipped the gravy for that very reason, electing to add butter and jelly to her biscuit. Looking around, she noticed several diners in the breakfast area scratching at arms and necks. The young blond in the line ahead of her had what looked like bites in the crook of her elbow. Leaning in, she whispered to her companions, “I don’t think our room was the only one with an infestation.”

“I tipped Mike off about our problem last night. He’d run into the same thing in his room. He had his own pesticide and spray bottle of alcohol. I suspect that there’s going to be a run on the rubbing alcohol at the Dollar General,” Ewan replied.

“As much as I would love to, I don’t think my steamer will stand up to fumigating every room. “

“There’s no way that Spurgle could be telling the truth about not having bedbugs in his room. I thought he was shifty when I first laid eyes on him.” Ewan huffed.

“He doesn’t have them in his room because he makes sure that he’s normally nowhere near the rooms. And has us change his sheets every day,” a new voice muttered. Joan turned to see a young woman bringing out a big dish of scrambled eggs with a look on her face that screamed, “Did I say that out loud?”

“Your secret is safe with us. There is a bedbug problem?” Courtney asked in her best “tell mom all about it” tone.

“One minute.” The young redhead poured the bowl of scrambled eggs into the chafing dish and stirred while casting glances about. She turned back to the table and pretended to be gathering their dishes while whispering.

“It’s been going on for a month now. Mr. Spurgle won’t let the exterminators do what they need to do to get rid of them because he doesn’t want to hurt his quarterly bonus. He’s not realizing that it hurts our business long term. Worse, at the rate things are going, the con is not coming back. And I hate that. I love science fiction and my favorite publisher is here, too.” Joan thought she was going to cry. She rubbed at her eyes. “I have to go. Mr. Spurgle will be here any minute and I need to start making up rooms.” She got their empty plates and rushed off.

“I think that’s the range trip crew. I’ll be off.” Ewan rose and joined a group of men and women carrying an assortment of long cases, small bags, and rifles slung over their shoulders.

Turning back to Courtney, who was draining her coffee and looking for another, Joan asked, “Do you think the dealer room is open yet? I saw David and Helen earlier and want to get our part of the table set up.”

“Speak of the devil.” Joan turned to see what Courtney was looking at over Joan’s shoulder, in time to see David Bock give his redhead wife Helen a kiss and head out the door. Helen smiled and approached the table.

“May I join you?” the attractive redhead asked.

“Absolutely. Are you not going to the range?” Joan asked.

“Not when it’s spitting snow. I admire their dedication, but I would rather be warm and dry.” She frowned. “Did you have bedbugs in your room?”

“You, too? We’ve heard the whole facility has an infestation,” Courtney interjected.

“David found some when he checked the room. Between traveling and growing up in New York, we have a kit to clear a room. David was less than impressed with that Spurgle guy.”

“Lot of that going around. Thank you again for letting us share your table,” Joan said.

“No problem. Hope it helps you market the company. In fact, as soon as I top off my coffee, I’m going to finish setting up. Care to join me?”

“That would be great. Let me go and get our table banner. I will meet you two there.”

“Get the Pinup Noir one,” Joan called to Courtney’s back as she tossed her empty juice cup in the trash and followed Helen to the coffee urns.

Joan sat next to Helen, looking out at the dealer room. Courtney was off somewhere doing editing things. Ewan and David were back from the range, holding an impromptu but well attended workshop on bedbug eradication and control in the breakfast dining area.

Friday’s attendance surprised her, not to mention how crowded the room was for the first day. Many authors she recognized occupied most of the space, although there were still one or two empty tables. Books, games, crafts, and even swords and knives were on offer. In other words, a typical dealer room.

Joan saw the young girl that they had questioned at breakfast slip in, now dressed in a gray sweater and jeans rather than the motel housekeeping uniform. She had a con badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. She made a beeline to Joan, who could make out the name “Loretta Hayes” in big black letters on the badge.

“Oh, wow, you’re a writer! What do you write?”

“Actually, more of a writer wrangler. I’m Joan Mahout, production manager for Storyteller Press.” She extended her hand, which the young girl shook vigorously.

“Storyteller Press! Y’all publish some of my favorite writers like David B…” She trailed off as she looked down at the books on David’s side of the table. “David Bock’s here? I have to run home and get my copies of his books to autograph,” she burbled excitedly, then paused. “You think he’ll sign them?” she asked shyly.

“I’m his wife. I’ll make sure he signs them.” Helen smiled.

“I’ll be right back. I don’t live far,” Loretta said over her shoulder, and rushed out the door.

“I wish David could have seen that. He has a superfan.” Helen chuckled.

“I have a what?” David said from the entrance next to the table.

“A fan. She’s running home to get books for you to sign,” Helen explained.

The look on David’s face was priceless, Joan thought. Ewan clapped him on the back.

“Good job, man. Good job.”

The moment was shattered by Spurgle interjecting himself into the group. Joan never saw him coming.

“I understand that you two have been spreading disinformation, nay, slander, about my hotel.”

“How so?” Ewan asked innocently

“Telling people that we have a bedbug problem. I will have you two know that I have no problem with evicting both of you from the property, not to mention taking legal action against you. What do you have to say about that?”

”Did we say anything about a bedbug problem, David?” Ewan replied conversationally.

“Not that I recall, Ewan. We just talked about how to deal with pests while traveling. We may have another session this evening. Would you care to join us? You seem to be an experienced pest. Oh, excuse me. A slip of the tongue. I mean, experience with the topic.” Joan admired David’s mastery of insincere sincerity.

Ewan gave the motel manager a hard, flat look that Joan suspected had been honed by decades in law enforcement. “As you can see, we were just exchanging information about topics of interests. Surely you listen to the news. Bedbug infestations are a national crisis. I’ve traveled all over the world growing up and in the military. It’s almost impossible to not run into vermin when you travel. I’ve killed vermin all over the world whenever I run across it.” The last came out as almost a whisper.

Even knowing Ewan for years, Joan shuddered. Spurgle cringed like a bully facing someone who wouldn’t back down. Defeated, the would-be bully looked ready to beat a hasty retreat.

“Apparently I was misinformed. Thank you for the invitation, but I have prior commitments. If you’ll excuse me.” The little man scurried away and out of the room.

“Well played, sir. Well played,” David said, chuckling.

“Team effort,” Ewan replied.

“Outstanding, both of you. That’s the only way to deal with bullying tyrants,” Helen added.

“I thought we had pretty much talked to everyone about how to deal with the room vermin. What did you mean about an evening session?” Ewan asked.

“I need to talk to Mike, but I think we have an extra topic for the ‘No shit there I was’ panel tonight,” David replied.

“Come over here and sit down, David. I think you have some books to sign,” Helen said, just as Joan spotted Loretta, carrying a bulging book bag, headed for the table.

Loretta turned into their local guide, leading them to an out-of-the-way restaurant after David signed her books. She purchased two more books that she didn’t have, which David also autographed. The trout was excellent, as were the hush puppies. During the meal, their guide opened up about Spurgle.

“Our uncle owns the motel, the attached conference center, and several other businesses in the county. Uncle Jim hired him as assistant manager after he got fired from the trout farm.”

“What happened?” Courtney asked.

“Andy, or Andrew…” Loretta stretched out the word. ”That’s what the ‘A’ stands for. He hates being called Andy.” She giggled. “Which is why we all call him Andy. He thought that dumping all the fish food in one pond would be easier than splitting it among all the ponds like he was supposed to. He thought since they were connected, they could all swim to the one with the food. There’s a reason why there are barriers between the ponds. Wound up killing a few thousand dollars’ worth of stock. Uncle Jim was livid.”

“He owns the trout ranch, too? And this Jim fellow is your uncle, too? Are you related?” David asked, curious.

“His mom and my mom are sisters. A construction accident killed Spurgle’s daddy when he was a baby. Aunt Dot spoiled him rotten. Wouldn’t let him out of her sight. And he could never do no wrong. Mama always said that Uncle Jim has a blind spot about Aunt Dot, seeing as she was the youngest and suffered tragedy and all, losing her man young.”

“So your uncle is always trying to make things easy for his baby sister,” Ewan observed.

“Exactly!” Loretta beamed. Then she sighed. “Uncle Jim hasn’t been able to either find a job that keeps him out of trouble or just flat fire him for good.”

After dinner, the group returned to the motel for the evening activities. The “No shit there I was” panel was heavier on the creepy, crawley stories than Joan usually heard at cons, but the audience seemed to enjoy it, despite the frequent scratching at arms and necks.

Loretta had mentioned at dinner that she wished she had the courage to write stories. Joan was proud of the encouragement that everyone around the table had given her. David seemed to have especially made an impression on her by telling stories of his struggles with imposter syndrome, that he didn’t think he was a real writer, despite his frequent sales to anthologies.

“Writing is like anything else. You practice and you improve,” Courtney observed to Loretta the next morning as they were drinking coffee while waiting for the Saturday programming to start. Joan was about to add her own encouragement when a familiar voice interrupted the conversation.

“Loretta. Sally called out sick. I need you to cover the third-floor rooms. Get to it,” Spurgle ordered.

“But I’m off today. You approved it yourself.”

“I am unapproving it. You can play when you get the work done. Don’t make me tell you twice.” With that, Spurgle turned and marched back to the front desk.

“He’s always doing that.” Loretta sighed. “Sometimes we can get people to temp, but it’s too late today. I’ll see y’all later,” she said as she got to her feet and moved to the elevator.

“The look on your face doesn’t look good for someone, Courtney,” Joan observed.

“I need to ask Loretta about something. Save me a seat for the editing panel,” Courtney replied, catching the doors of the elevator that Loretta was riding in.

Joan hoped she was quick. After all, Courtney was moderating that panel.

“Despite the little bloodsuckers, this was a great con,” Ewan remarked as he finished packing. “It’s supposed to be ninety-three tomorrow at home, according to Rita, when I talked to her on the phone. Think I will leave my bags in the car for a day or two before bringing them in.”

“That’s a good idea,” Joan replied. “Can’t hurt. Where’s Courtney?”

“Said she had a last-minute thing to do,” Ewan said.

Joan looked in the bathroom and noticed the clothes Courtney had been wearing that morning folded neatly on the countertop. She was about to mention it to Ewan when Courtney entered the room in a hotel maid outfit.

“I need to shower and change and then get the uniform and maid cart back to the storage closet on this floor,” Courtney said as she brushed past Joan, shutting the door in her face.

“What’s going on, Courtney?” Joan asked the closed door as the shower started.

“Is that Courtney in the shower?” Ewan asked. “We’re close to checkout time and the last thing I want to do is give that Spurgle character more of my money.”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Courtney called over the sound of the shower.

It was a bit more than a minute, but she was out of the shower in less than five, drying her hair with a towel in one hand while tossing a plastic bag with the maid outfit at the door with the other. She then ran a comb through her long black mane and twisted her still-damp hair into a high ponytail. “It will dry in the car,” she said. “Let’s get the luggage carts and check out. I want to be away from here before I spill.”

Exiting the room, Joan saw a maid cart. Courtney emptied the bag containing the uniform into the laundry hamper. Grabbing a towel from the stack, she wrapped it around the metal handlebar on the end of the cart and pushed it down three doors to the end of the hall. Joan followed, curious.

Courtney stopped at a door marked “Maid Service-Staff Only” and pulled a white keycard from her pocket and swiped it. She pushed open the door at the click and rolled the cart inside and shut the door behind her after wiping the push bar and door handle with the towel that then followed the uniform into the laundry bin. Looking at the card, she shrugged and pocketed it.

“What’s going on, Courtney?” Ewan inquired, eyes narrowing at his editor like the retired deputy he was.

“Later, when we are on the road.”

They lucked out and were able to snag two of the luggage carts, and Joan and Ewan were able to meet Courtney at the front entrance a few minutes later after wishing David and Helen farewell. Loretta waved at the pair from where she was cleaning up the breakfast area. Joan smiled at the little yellow duck peeking out from her smock pocket.

They had barely merged into the west Interstate Forty traffic when Ewan said, “Courtney, why did I just witness what looked like someone trying to sanitize a crime scene?”

“It’s like this. The maid who usually does Spurgle’s room called out sick today. They managed to get a temp who quit after doing just one room: his. She was a really terrible maid. She used sheets she stripped from another room, 320, to make up Spurgle’s room. Then she quit. Poor Loretta had to make up all the other rooms on that floor.”

“Wasn’t that Julian’s room? He was eaten up with bedbug bites,” Joan said.

“You know, I think you’re absolutely right about that,” Courtney replied.

“Some people would call that breaking and entering,” Ewan said with a smile.

“Or justice,” Joan added.

“Indeed.” Ewan beamed.

“I hope you like my submission. I would have never written it if y’all hadn’t encouraged me. I hope I can come to that con in Texas in September, but with my new promotion to hotel manager, I may not be able to get time off. Andy had to resign when he found out that he was allergic to bedbugs. Caused him to break out in hives. I got the job.

“The good news is that Andy may have found his niche. Uncle Jim has him running one of his septic tank pumping trucks. It’s been three months and no one’s complained. Yet.” Joan laughed out loud at the last sentence of Loretta’s email.

“What are you laughing about?” Courtney asked.

“This.” Joan forwarded the email to Courtney after filing Loretta’s submission into the open call folder. The snort from the other side of the room informed Joan that Courtney was reading it.

“I can’t wait till next year,” Courtney managed to get out between gales of laughter.

“Me, too.”

Paws-Off Spas

Sarah Arnett

“We’re going on vacation?” Mabel asks, following right on my heels. She’s a rambunctious pit bull pup who is still growing. I swear she’s going to grow forever, at this rate. Maybe she was misidentified. Maybe she’s a Great Dane mix? I heard that they come in brindle colors. Mom says she’ll eventually stop growing, but she might be able to look me in the eye before that.

Me, I’m a German Shepherd and the leader of our little family. Okay, in reality, that’s Mom. What she says goes, but I’m in charge of the pups, Amilia notwithstanding, although she is more interested in napping instead of bossing around, I mean, guiding Mabel. Someone has to do it, so that’s up to me. Who else would do it, Tommy? Tommy is too busy following Mom around to pay attention to Mabel.

“Mom said she and Dad were going on vacation. We’re big kids now, they’ll let us have the run of the house, I’m sure,” I answer. Mom and Dad are going to this place called Hawaii. They said it is an island and it is super far away, too far for doggies to go with them. I think they just want a break from Mabel. She’s a bit demanding.

“Who will feed us if we are left alone?” Mabel is no longer following me through the house. She has stopped and is looking at me as though Mom and Dad would let her starve. They wouldn’t, and she knows it, but still, her little mind imagines the worst sometimes.

“I’m sure Uncle Joseph will stop by to feed us. Or maybe Aunt Mary will feed us? I’m sure Mom or Dad will have figured out someone to feed us, take us for walks, and give us cuddles. They’re good like that,” I say.

“ANDREW!” Mom screams. Oops, I might have left a mess behind me, and Mom might have just found it. “Andrew Spurgle, get your butt in here now!” Well, now I know I’m in trouble. Mom used my full name. I’m not in top-tier trouble; she didn’t use my middle name, yet.

“What did you do?” Mabel sounds very concerned, almost like she’s the one in trouble.

“I never do anything wrong. I’m the angel. She is probably calling me so that I can ask you what you did.” I try to shift the blame on Mabel. If she looks guilty, I might be able to get away with the mess.

“Yeah, right. Everyone knows you’re always up to something. You are the trickster. You worship Wile E. Coyote.” Mabel laughs as she says this, like Wile E. Coyote is not worthy of adoration. Has she not seen the lengths he’ll go to in order to catch that roadrunner? He’ll get him someday, although what he wants with the skinny bird is beyond me. Birds look tasty, but they have a lot of feathers to get through, and once you do, there isn’t a lot of food on them.

We walk through the kitchen and into the living room. Mom is standing in the middle of a pile of dirt. There is a potted plant in the middle of the room, which was not there when I last saw it. Tommy must have moved it, because I didn’t do that. I did plant the bone that she’s pointing at, though.

“Andrew, explain this.” Mom is pointing at the bone, but I’m not stupid enough to admit to anything. That’s how I get myself into trouble.

“This appears to be a plant. I think it’s a Peace Lily, which you told me specifically not to eat because it will cause a tummyache,” I start. This explains nothing, and if I go on about this long enough, maybe I won’t have to explain anything. Sometimes I can just wear Mom down and she just lets me move on.

“Yes, I know it is a Peace Lily. I know where the plant came from. I know that you are not to eat it. I know that it is normally next to the fireplace. I know all of this. I want to know why there is a plastic bone half in the pot and why there is dirt all over the floor.” Mom redefines what she is looking for. She’s kind of taking away my talking options.

Buy time, that’s what I have to do. I have to buy some time until some idea pops into my head to get me out of this. There has to be an idea somewhere. “The bone is hiding?” Yeah! That’s a great idea. It’s the bone’s fault. It got scared and was hiding.

“The bone is hiding. And how did the bone get there?” Mom is pretending she is not amused by my answer, but I can smell it on her. Mom normally smells like love and flowers. For a minute there, she smelled like love and exasperation. Now she smells like amusement. I’ll take that for a win.

“The bone dug itself there. It sprouted little arms and legs, ran over to the pot, and started digging itself in. I told it to stop, but it got even more scared and started digging faster. Dirt was flying everywhere, so I left him to hide himself, and I figured I’d come by and clean up the mess after he calmed down. He appears to be calm now.” I spin my story the best that I can. Not bad for something I came up on the spur of the moment, if I say so myself. In addition, I made it sound like I was going to clean the mess, which might keep me from getting into too much trouble.

“You’re going to clean the dirt up?” Mom sounds incredulous. She might be right to feel that way. I am not known for cleaning. “I would pay to watch you use the vacuum.”

The vacuum? Who said anything about the vacuum? That thing is a monster. There should be a monster hunting team to come out and get rid of the thing for us. It sucks up all the carefully laid hairs that make the carpet super nice, and it screams the entire time it does this. Just thinking about the vacuum makes my eyes go wide and my feet go backward.

“Go on, get out of here. I’ll clean it up,” Mom says, watching me get worried. “Mabel, learn from Andrew’s behaviors and don’t do as he does.” Mom laughs as I stalk out of the room and into the backyard. Once we’re outside, we hear the dreaded vacuum start up, eating the dirt.

“Are we going to the Big Park?” Mabel has been asking a thousand questions since we woke up this morning. I know I should expect this from a puppy. It started out when she saw Mom and Dad putting a basket of toys in the car. Then they continued when Mom put a suitcase of blankets in the car, as well as packed four little backpacks filled with snacks.

“I don’t know. I don’t think we need blankets to go to the Big Park,” I hesitantly say. I don’t know what is going on, and I don’t like that. But whatever it is, it looks like all four of us dogs are going to be going together. I’m just hoping that Mom and Dad are going, too.

“Maybe we’re going to Grandma’s!” Mabel starts bouncing around at that idea. Grandma’s is a great place. There are cookies, snacks, and lots of human foods, and we’re supposed to stay off the furniture, but no one actually enforces that rule while we’re there. We sometimes take day trips there, but we never spend the night. It’s too much for Grandma to have to take care of us all night long.

“Maybe,” I hedge. I’m not so sure. Blankets. That is what is throwing me off. Food, toys, snacks, those could be for anything. Blankets, though… I decide to sniff around. Maybe my nose can tell me something that my eyes don’t.

The first thing my nose finds is Amilia. She’s tottering around the backyard, Tommy in tow. She’s old, like maybe a hundred years old. She’s also a chihuahua, so even if she wasn’t old, she’d still be shaky. Tommy is a Boston Terrier/Something mix and he has taken it upon himself to watch out for her, kinda like I do with Mabel.

“Mom and Dad are leaving on their vacation today,” I start once I have Amilia’s attention.

“Yes, I know this,” she says, not actually paying attention to me. She’s more intent on sniffing a blade of grass.

“Mom and Dad packed our blankets,” I simply state. If I start with my biggest concern, maybe Amilia will pay attention to me. The reaction I got was not what I was expecting.

“They packed our blankets? They’re going to be gone on a long vacation? YES!” Amilia starts hopping up and down the best that she can. I stand there, dumbfounded. I have no idea what is going on, and the last time I saw her this animated, she was the prosecutor against me during the case of the Holy Kong and the museum’s attempted acquisition of said artifact.

“I’m glad you’re happy about this, but I am at a loss. I don’t understand what is going on,” I say after watching her dance around for a minute. If she weren’t so old, I’m certain she would have Zoomies right now.

“We’re going to Paws-Off!” Amilia does not elaborate any further. Instead, she waddles into the house, tail held high and excited.

Mom has us all dressed in our cutest outfits. Mabel is wearing a pretty dress with ruffles. Amilia is wearing her favorite hot pink jacket. Tommy is dressed in his sailor outfit. I insisted on my cowboy hat, sunglasses, leather vest, and belt. Mom said I couldn’t bring the whip or the lightsaber, though. She is leading me into the unknown without my tools. At least I’m not unshod. I recently got these cute shoes, and Mom let me wear them. They look just like Dad’s sneakers. We all have our control collars on so we can talk to anyone we come across.

There’s not a whole lot of room in the back of the car. It is a big car, what Mom calls an SUV. The seats are down, and normally that means there is a lot of room for us to go back and forth, looking out all the windows. Instead, there are our suitcases and the box of toys, so there isn’t a lot of room to wander around the car. I try to get in the front seat with Mom, since Dad’s driving, but she has the puppy barrier up. I have yet to figure out how to get around the barrier. It’s such a soft plastic that it just moves with me when I push against it.

At first, it looks like we are going to the Big Park. However, it quickly becomes apparent that Paws-Off is not at the park as we pass it by. It takes us almost half an hour, but we finally arrive at Paws-Off. It looks like a hotel—not that I have ever been in a hotel. Mom says that there is no reason to inflict me upon the population, which makes no sense. Everyone loves me.

“Hopkins family checking in,” Mom says, as we walk through the doors and are immediately greeted by a woman behind a giant desk. The desk is huge and the woman behind it looks friendly. I feel like she and I should be good friends.

“Hopkins! We are so glad you could join us. These must be Andrew Spurgle, Mabel Swabble, Tommy Squishes, and the wonderful Amilia Bajilia,” the woman says, clicking on what must be a computer behind the desk. I can’t see it, but I can hear the keys. Mom has one of those things and she is always yelling at me when I try to use it.

“Ah, there you are. We have you guys set up in two rooms. I believe you wanted Mabel and Andrew to room together, and Tommy and Amilia in a separate room?” The woman confers with Mom.

“Yep. We have their stuff in the car,” Mom agrees.

“Let’s get your pups settled in their rooms, and then we can get their stuff. We want them to be as comfortable as possible. You selected the ultimate spa for all four of them. They will have so much fun while they are here.” The woman must have paged someone while she was talking, because a young man approached us and indicated that we were to follow him.

I follow right behind Mom, who’s carrying Amilia. It almost sounds like they’re going to leave us here instead of taking us to Grandma’s or having Uncle Joseph or Aunt Mary watch us. I don’t know if I like this idea. Amilia looks happy about it, but Tommy and Mabel look as anxious as I feel. I do have to admit, though, that this place smells good. It smells like the chemicals that Mom sprays in the house when she says we’re stinky.

The room the man leads us to says 105. “This is where Amilia and Tommy will be staying. It has a window into the next room so they can talk to Mabel and Andrew.” He opens the door, letting Mom lead Tommy and carry Amilia in. The room has a couple of beds, a dresser, and a toybox with some generic toys. There is also a television, a chair, and a table in the room. That must be for humans, because I’ve never seen a dog use a table.

Once Tommy and Amilia are situated on their respective beds, the man leads us to the next room, 107. It’s identical to the room next to it. “This one is for Mabel and Andrew.” We walk in and look up at Mom and Dad. Where are they staying? Is this the Hawaii that they were talking about? It’s barely out of town, which doesn’t sound like a long way away. We’ve gone further just to sit in the woods under a piece of cloth.

“Okay, guys, be good. We’ll be right back with your stuff, and then we’re going to be going. You guys will have the best two weeks of your lives here, being catered to. There will be cookie hours, play time, new doggie friends, everything. You guys will love it,” Mom says as she stands between the two doors. She’s talking to all four of us at the same time. Once she’s done, she turns on her heel and walks away. She comes back with our stuff, but she doesn’t linger. She’s gone.

It takes Mabel all of a minute to realize that Mom is not coming right back. She’s used to Mom leaving for work. She’s used to having no parents at home when they decide to go out for an evening. She is not used to being in a new place, with no parents anywhere. It is too much for her. It starts with a slight sniffle and in no time escalates to a full-out howl and racking sobs. It is heartbreakingly sad.

Luckily for her, we’re right there and in very short order, we have her in a puppy puddle, cuddled up warm and tight. Even Tommy and Amilia are in our room, cuddling the young puppy. She eventually cries herself to sleep. Everything always looks better after a nap.

Someone is tapping on our door. It’s the same young man who showed us to our rooms. He’s smiling, but I’m not. I am at the bottom of the puppy puddle, since I’m the biggest of the group. Mabel is sleeping on top of me. Tommy is sleeping next to her but on the floor, and Amilia has claimed the top spot like a cherry on a Sunday. It takes me a minute to squirm out from under Mabel and Amilia without waking them up. The man watches me the entire time. At least he didn’t walk in and wake up Mabel.

“What can I help you with?” I ask him through my control collar. I have the volume way down, almost to human whisper levels.

The man takes a hint and keeps his voice low, too. “My name is Mark, and I was wondering if you guys would like cookie hour?”

“What is cookie hour?” I ask. This might be something worth waking Mabel up for.

“Cookie hour is when all the dogs in the hotel gather in the front room and have some cookies together. It’s a mingling event,” he says. “If you would like to go, the way is marked.”

“Yeah, let me wake the kid up, and we’ll go for a bit,” I say with a sigh. Hanging out with a bunch of strange dogs I don’t know is not what I want to do this evening, but it might make Mabel a bit happier, or at least a little distracted.

Mabel doesn’t want to go at first. Amilia convinces her that it would be fun, though, and Mabel trusts Amilia. The front room is well-marked and easy to get to. The scent of a dozen dogs and a bunch of fresh cookies helps lead the way. There are not so many dogs in the room to make it feel crowded, but there are enough to mingle with.

Some of the dogs are in small packs like ours. A lot of the dogs are single dogs, though. One of the first dogs to approach us is a single dog. He is a Scottie with the most luscious black fur I’ve ever seen on a dog. “Hi there! My name is Scott Bayly. How are you guys enjoying your stay?” He seems a little nervous and anxious, but then again, a bunch of strange dogs in a room with food? I’m anxious.

“I’m Andrew Spurgle, and these are my siblings, Mabel, Tommy, and Amilia,” I answer. I have a small paper bowl with my cookies in front of me. Mabel has forgotten that she has been abandoned here by Mom and Dad and is facefirst in her cookie bowl. Amilia hasn’t touched her bowl and there is a very real possibility that it will become Mabel’s bowl soon. All I can see of Tommy is his butt. He’s busy talking to other dogs.

“Are you guys new to Paws-Off?” Scott asks. He’s settled down in a polite sit. He doesn’t have any cookies. I hope he’s not thinking of eating my cookies. There are more cookies at the table that one of the humans is standing at.

“Amilia has been here before, I think, but this is the first time for the rest of us. We just got here a couple of hours ago. This is actually the first thing I’ve seen besides our rooms,” I answer.

“Oh, so you don’t know about the cats,” Scott says conspiratorially.

“Cats? I like cats,” I say. My ears prick forward, and my tail starts wagging automatically. I’ve heard that some dogs can control their tails, but I don’t bother.

“Yeah, there are two Devon Rex cats here. They’re a sneaky lot, if you ask me. They tend to keep to themselves, though.” Scott’s voice gets low as he says this, almost like he’s telling me a secret. It also takes on an odd Scottish accent. The whole exchange leaves me speechless, and he wanders away shortly after that.

Once Mabel finishes Amilia’s cookies, she’s ready to go back to our room and take a nap. She’s in high spirits again, but it has been a long day. She practically falls asleep walking back to our rooms. She’s out as soon as she lies down on her bed, wrapped in a blanket that smells like Mom and Dad. I consider lying in my own bed. It would certainly be more comfortable than sleeping on the edge of Mabel’s bed, but if she woke up in the night, she might get scared. Curling into the tightest ball I can, I make do with the tiniest corner of Mabel’s bed and drop off into a comfortable sleep.

“Andrew! What did you do?” Amilia is standing in our doorway, screaming at me. I’m not even awake yet, and neither is Mabel. We both must have moved while we were sleeping, because I am now stretched out on the bed, and Mabel is using me as a pillow. Amilia so surprised me with her shouting that I manage to roll right off the bed, landing hard on the floor. Luckily for me, the bed is low and I don’t have far to fall.

“I didn’t do it!” I immediately shout back, waking up Mabel. Great, I was hoping for a couple minutes of peace and quiet. Instead, I’m already being yelled at, and I didn’t do anything this time.

“Right. This looks exactly like something you would do. Get out here and look,” Amilia snaps right before turning around and tottering back into the hallway. I roll over and stretch before following her, Mabel close on my heels.

The mess that greets us in the lobby is impressive. All of the potted plants had been dug up. The pictures on the shelves were knocked down, and the carpet by the door was ripped up. It looks like someone was trying to find something by using the maximum destruction method.

“This was not me. I didn’t do it.” I’m looking Amilia dead in the eyes as I tell her this. Yes, this looks like one of my messes, but it’s not. I spent the night sleeping. I have a witness: Mabel.

“Sounds like something someone who is guilty would say,” says a new voice. Sauntering forward from the back of the room comes a pair of cats. These must be the ones that Scott told me about. They look like trouble, and with there being two of them, it’s double trouble.

All of the dogs clear a path for the cats, giving me a good look at them. They look like Siamese cats, but they’re a little stockier. They have the same points on the face, ears, and paws on the cream-colored background that you would expect, though. They look alike, and the only difference is the color of the control collars.

“And who are you?” I ask. I’m pretty sure I’m looking at the guilty party, but I’m just not sure how I’m going to prove it. They were very quick to place blame on me, but then again, so was Amilia. Although, to be fair, she knows me.

“We’re the Grimalkins, and that is all you need to know. But we know who you are, Andrew. We’ve heard you were trouble,” the cat on the right says. Grimalkins: that definitely sounds sinister, and if I’ve learned anything from television, the villains always have spooky names, or are named something like “Valentine.”

“I didn’t do it. I was asleep, like a normal dog. Mabel is my witness. We are sharing a room and I protected her from nightmares all night long.” I slam my front paw down as I talk. My tail is swinging low and hard to the left.

I am angry. I don’t mind being blamed for something I’ve done, but I’m not taking the blame for something I didn’t do. Once I finish defending myself, I stalk off towards my room. I want to know what happened, just like everyone else, but I don’t feel like being around people who think I made the mess.

When the humans who run the hotel we’re staying at show up with our breakfasts, they simply sigh and clean up the mess. The manager says something about checking the video footage, but none of them come to me and make any accusations. By the time they bring my breakfast, I’ve cooled off and am well on my way to forgetting the whole incident. That is, until Amilia arrives.

“You didn’t make the mess?” she asks, quietly. She sounds like she wants to believe me. She has just known me for a very long time, and she knows what I am capable of doing when I’m bored or frustrated.

“I didn’t make the mess. I was here, sleeping on the edge of Mabel’s bed. Or at least that’s where I started out; I ended up stretched out on her bed with her. I was worried she was going to have nightmares since she was so upset about Mom and Dad leaving us here,” I explain.

“That’s true. I woke up in the middle of the night, and Andy was squishing me. He didn’t do it. I’d have woken up if he had left the room,” Mabel confirms. She’s sitting on her bed, chewing on one of the many toys Mom left us. I’m on my bed, head on my paws. Amilia is sitting, shivering as always, in the doorway.

“I believe you guys. I don’t think Andy did it. I think it was the Grimalkins. I’m pretty sure that when the humans review the video, it will show them to be the villains,” Amilia says.

“I think they’re gonna do something tonight. I think we should set a trap for them,” I suggest. I have a plan. It came to me in a flash, fully formed and ready to go. I think we can pull it off. Amilia calls Tommy over, and together, the four of us hammer out the plan to make sure that the cats know not to mess with the big dogs.

That night, after cookie hour and an exhausting evening of playing in the yard, I find myself hidden behind some boxes in the storage room. In my mouth is what was once a blanket we found in a closet. The blanket was attached to a plastic woven basket and looped over a hanging light. It was an absolute challenge to get it up there, and for a while, I didn’t think we were going to manage. But with teamwork, and Amilia’s keen sense of balance, we managed. Now it’s just a waiting game to see if my guess was right.

Just as I am about to give up and call the whole thing off, the Grimalkins show themselves. They’re obviously up to no good. They slink and slide in the shadows, getting closer and closer to the boxes of cookies that I had arranged as bait. They look like easy targets, something to knock down and scatter all over the floor, framing me. Just as they jump on the counter to wreak destruction, I drop the basket, trapping them inside. Tommy jumps on the basket, making sure the cats don’t escape, Amilia turns on the lights, and Mabel runs to wake everyone up with her barks of excitement.

Once everyone is assembled, we show them what we caught. Inside the basket are two angry cats and a box of cookies. Since we had them trapped and they knew that they’ve been caught, Amilia begins to interrogate them. “Why were you sneaking through the Cookie Bar?”

“We’re allowed to be here just as much as you. We’re guests in this hotel, just as much as you,” the first cat snarls. He’s spitting mad, but there is nothing he can do with Tommy sitting on the basket and Amilia out of claw reach.

“No, the cats have their own bar, the Grass Bar, if I remember correctly. If my memory serves me, and it always does, it’s on the other side of the building. Again, why are you in the Cookie Bar?” Amilia doesn’t even flinch when the cats spit and hiss at her. She has nerves, that’s for sure. She even has her tremors under control.

“Dogs can go to the Grass Bar, if they want, and we can come to the Cookie Bar if we want,” the second cat says.

“Okay, why did you frame Andy for the destruction in the Lobby?” Amilia switches tactics. She’s making them think we know things we don’t actually know yet. We don’t know that they did it, we just believe they did it.

“Oh, that was just fun. We didn’t have anyone picked to blame that on, but you guys made it easy, picking someone for us. We were just going to be as surprised as you guys that someone made a mess,” the second cat says. This first one sits up and looks at the second cat for a second. I wonder if that’s the same look Tommy gives me when I blow his whole defense.

“Idiot, they didn’t know we did that until you said it. You were supposed to play dumb on that one. It shouldn’t have been hard for you. Instead, you admitted to making the mess and implied that I helped you,” the first cat says, smacking the second one on the back of the head.

“But you did do it. You said it would be lots of fun, so I went with you. It was fun knocking the plants down, but you were the one with the idea. This was your idea, too, and I didn’t even get a cookie for helping you,” the second cat whines at the first one. They’re completely ignoring Amilia now.

“Shut up, idiot. Wait until Mom and Dad find out how…” I stop listening to them bicker after a few minutes. I know how sibling fights go. With four of us in the family, there’s always someone fighting with someone. No one else does anything right up until with a rip of a fart, Tommy rolls himself off the basket and onto the counter, waking himself up.

No sooner did he land on the counter than both of the Grimalkins were away. They both slam against the basket and take off running. No one gets in their way. Everyone’s so stunned by Tommy’s gastric explosion that no one even thinks to give chase to the cats. I don’t think I’ll be seeing them for the rest of our stay.

Once the cats are gone, there’s no more reason for all of us to be standing in the Cookie Bar. That is, unless someone who happens to be on the counter wants to start serving cookies. One look up at Tommy is all it takes, and he starts slinging cookie cups like he was born to serve. Pretty soon, everyone is passed out on the floor, stuffed to the brim with cookies. The look on the hotel staff’s faces when they walk in to find us all suffering from cookie comas is worth the carb hangover I know I’m going to experience.

It takes them twenty minutes, but they finally get us all to our rooms. They have to carry Mabel. She’s not getting up for anything less than a miracle. She’s fine, but she’s never had a free-for-all cookie night before. Once she sleeps it off, she’ll be good as new. A few minutes after they lay her down in her bed, Amilia comes over to check on us.

“It’s been two days, and we’ve already had a lot of excitement. Do you think I can ask for a few days of peace and quiet?” she asks, watching the pup sleep. Mabel always has the best smile while she’s sleeping.

“I don’t see why not, but I certainly can’t promise that,” I answer. I’m lying on my back, all four paws stretched to the sky. I fall asleep before she leaves. We have less than two weeks before Mom and Dad return.

I can’t wait to see what adventures we have by then.

No Country For Dumbasses

Matthew C. Lucas

The stolen Buick’s lone headlight shone across the motel parking lot. Broken asphalt reflecting auburn hues in the dusk light. Weeds sprouting from between the cracks. A two-story block building casting a long shadow. Bolted to the roof, a rusted iron frame held a buzzing white and lavender neon sign. The Motel Seven.

Ten cars in the lot, the man driving the Buick reckoned. Pickup trucks, mostly. None of them law enforcement.

He turned into the lot and cruised slow, the car’s motor sputtering. The transmission had a bullet in it. So did the driver’s side headlight.

He found a spot where the shadows grew thick. He pulled the car into a space, but he never saw the yellow parking block. It jammed the front tires so hard he hit his forehead on the steering wheel. There was a clunk in the back seat. The man turned around and saw the silver oxygen tank angled on the floor. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyebrows and opened the door and got out.

It was warm for March. His jeans stuck to his legs, and his feet were slick with sweat in his boots. The beige jacket he always wore was open, hanging loose from his shoulders, more or less covering the thick leather belt that always accompanied it.

He studied the motel, counted the doors on each level. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the torn corner of a notebook page. The man seldom wrote, and his handwriting showed it, but he found it useful when there were details to be remembered. He angled the paper to catch what sunlight there was and moved his mouth to form the words he’d written a week ago:

Motel Seven

Morado Texas

Preacher

At the bottom, where he’d run out of room, the writing trailed:

Kill him + get his bible + bring to Santa Fe

200000

Carefully, he folded the slip of paper and slid it back into the same pocket. He looked once more at the scattering of vehicles in the parking lot and found one that seemed as if it was trying to hide itself: an old Ford Taurus at the lot’s edge, with its rear end backed deep into an overgrown laurel bush. He walked over to it.

He scanned the lot again and pulled aside some of the brush and examined the car. Texas license plate. A dent in the bumper flecked with rust. Covering the dent was a faded blue and white sticker. He could just make out a cross and the word “Clergy.”

The man let the brambles fall back into place and made his way to the front office.

A metallic ting followed an angry groan of rusted hinges as the man pushed the lobby door in. Inside, a wall AC unit blew at a low roar. Country music piped in through a speaker. Sparse furnishings: a front desk, a throw rug, two threadbare chairs, and a glass coffee table with old issues of Christianity Today stacked into teetering piles.

An old woman worked her crossword puzzle behind the check-in desk. She wore a silver cross on a necklace that was buried in the wrinkles of her neck. The name plate by her elbow said “Hal Dawson,” but the man doubted that was the woman’s name.

He walked up to the desk. She erased whatever her guess for eight across had been.

“Help you?” she asked without looking up from her puzzle.

“There’s a Ford Taurus in your parking lot.”

“Uh huh.”

“What room is he in?”

“What?”

“What room is he in?”

The pencil lowered. She looked up at the man. Her readers slid down to the end of her nose.

The man stared at her and repeated the question a third time. The woman narrowed her eyes. She had a thick west Texas drawl.

“Well, I’m sure whoever owns that automobile would like his privacy respected. Elsewise, he’d have told you what room he was in himself.”

The man answered flatly. “You’ll tell me.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nostrils, like a valve releasing steam. The man reached into his jeans front pocket and fished out a quarter. It was dull, gray, the eagle almost rubbed clean.

“Call it,” he said.

“Beg your pardon?”

He flicked his thumb and sent the coin somersaulting and missed it coming down so that it rattled on the linoleum floor. When it stopped jingling, he put the toe of his boot over the coin to hide how it had landed.

“Call it.”

“What?”

“Call it.”

“I won’t.” Her hand went to her sun-spotted chest, her fingertips brushing the bottom of the cross. “That’d be like bettin’. We don’t condone bettin’ in this motel.”

“Everything’s a bet. That’s why you have to call it.”

The man locked eyes with the front desk clerk, and she shook her head. “Look here. You either rent a room or get on out an’ find someone else to ply your gamblin’ on. I got work to do.”

She shifted her bony rear determinedly in her chair, returned to her crossword, and acted as if the man and the quarter under his boot had never crossed her notice.

“Heads, then,” the man murmured.

“Whatever.”

He tilted his toe up, moved it to the side and bent over to look closer. The worn profile of a man with a high forehead and his hair in a ponytail gave him the side-eye. The man crouched down and picked up the coin and thought for a bit and made up his mind.

The woman traced the letters of a vertical word into her puzzle. The man reached for the holster on his belt and felt only empty leather. He’d left the Colt python in the Buick’s glove compartment. Then he looked to his side and realized he’d also left the oxygen tank and the stun bolt gun that was connected to it lying in the back seat. He had nothing for killing but his God-given hands.

In a hall behind the front desk, there was a noise of a refrigerator door opening and shutting and an old man grumbling.

“Where the hell are the pickles, Edna?”

She finished writing a word in her puzzle, checked it against the clue, and called over her shoulder. “Top shelf.” Under her breath, she added, “Right in front of your fool face.”

“Found ‘em.”

The man made up his mind again. He tapped the edge of the desk for Edna’s attention.

“He’s a preacher,” he said.

“Hm?”

“A preacher. Or a reverend. He’s got a Bible. That’s who I’m looking for.”

Edna cocked her head slightly and scrunched her face and then she glowed with a sudden realization. The crow’s feet around her eyes deepened as she smiled.

“Oh! You’re lookin’ for Reverend Lancaster’s Bible study. For the addicts.”

The man shrugged as if he that might or might not have been so.

“I should’ve figured,” she said, chuckling. “Why else would a strange-lookin’ fella come wanderin’ in my lobby, askin’ questions, an’ flippin’ coins on my floor. You’re one of them junkies.” She got up out of her chair and leaned closer so that she could lower her voice. “You come to the right place. Hal an’ I been lettin’ Reverend do his junky ministry ever Thursday night for two years now. No need to be embarrassed, hon. We don’t ask no questions. Don’t charge nothin’, either. That’s like our tithe to the church.”

“Bible study,” the man repeated. He checked the clock on the wall. Eight-oh-five.

“Yeah, I think they started ‘bout a half-hour ago,” said Edna. “But you just hurry on up to Room 238. Southeast corner of the second floor. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

The man had to first circle back to the parking lot to fetch the stun bolt gun he’d forgotten, a steel cylinder about the length of his forearm with a pistol grip and a curly rubber air tube. It connected to the oxygen tank cradled under his arm.

A warm breeze hit his face and stirred a plastic bag like a tumbleweed before the narrow stairwell. Up the flight of stairs, he crept. Heel to toe, fifteen steps. Then down the open hallway, passing a run of numbered doors. Swarms of moths fluttered around a fixture that lit the ceiling, wings flapping, writhing. Dying for a touch of oily light, while that light burned on, indifferent.

There was another light by the door of the last room at the end of the hallway. Room 238. He stopped just short of it and pressed his back against the concrete wall and listened.

Muffled laughter. Grunts. Moans.

This Bible study sounded like a good time of the two-party variety. Where the first party was genuinely enjoying himself and the second was genuinely pretending she was, too.

The moaning gradually died down, then the room went quiet. One time, he heard a soft questioning murmur of a woman’s voice, followed by a metallic rattle. The bedframe being jostled. More silence.

He counted to one thousand. With the end of his jacket sleeve covering his fingers, the man unscrewed the lightbulb by the door. His hand fell to the door’s lever. It turned, unlocked.

He opened the door.

Inside was a half-lit, mildewy room with a bed, a dresser, a desk lamp, and an end table. The blinds and curtains had been drawn. There was a young woman getting dressed on the other side of the bed. A man was lying half-covered under the sheets.

The woman looked up and let out a shriek. The man in the bed didn’t move.

“The hell you think you’re doin’?” she hissed. “Scared the shit outta me.”

The man stood in the doorway and said nothing.

The hooker had purple hair and a tight halter top and a very short skirt. Her head kept swiveling between annoyed glances at the man who had just barged into the room and the briefcase she had been rifling through when he’d opened the door.

“We got the room ‘til eleven,” she said, trying to nudge the case out of sight with her bare foot. She fumbled around the ground for her shoes and kept talking. “But if I was you, I’d get another room.”

He leaned against the doorjamb and set the oxygen tank on the ground. He studied the man in the bed for a moment. Only the head, neck, and left shoulder showed above the floral bedsheet. Heavyset, jowly, a pink tinge on the tip of his nose that was rapidly fading. The strands of hair he’d grown for his combover were all askew. His ball-shaped eyes were tiny, gray and unblinking. On the nightstand next to him was a plastic tray that held a pair of glasses, a wedding ring, and a gold cross necklace.

“He’s the preacher,” said the man in the door.

“Huh?”

With his bolt gun he indicated the body in the bed.

“Oh. Yeah. Maybe.” The hooker jammed her feet into a pair of high heels and buckled them and darted a fretful look. “I mean, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout him. He was like this when I come in.”

“He’s dead.”

The overdone blush in her cheeks paled for a moment. She pulled at a strand of purple dyed hair.

“I dunno.” She shook her head and stood up in a hurry. “Look, I’m just gonna leave an’—an’ you’ll just, y’know, pretend you never saw me. An’ I never saw you. Neither of us gotta stick around for the cops.”

He didn’t move, still blocking the doorway, still holding the cylindrical oxygen tank in the crook of his arm. The hooker straightened out her clothes.

“What’s with the tank?” she asked. “You an exterminator or somethin’?”

A smirk cloyed at the man’s lips. “Something like that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m outta here.”

She made for the door. He didn’t move. She drew back a step and jammed her fist into her side and cocked her hip.

“You’re in my way.”

“I’ve got a job to do.”

She snorted. “Whatever Hal and Edna are payin’ you to spray for roaches, it ain’t worth the trouble you’re gonna catch if you stick around here. You wanna deal with all this shit, be my guest. But you never saw me.”

She started to sidle past him.

“I never saw you.”

He lifted the bolt gun, brought the barrel right between her eyes, and pressed hard.

“Hey!”

A powerful blast of air blew across her face. She scrunched her eyes at it. Her forehead knitted angrily.

The man flipped the gun around and realized he’d forgotten to insert the steel bolt. Instead of cracking her skull and blowing out brain matter, all his shot had done was ruffle her hair. And pissed her off.

Two things the hooker had learned turning tricks at the Morado Motel Seven. First, if you had a bad feeling about a man, taking time to think things over would more often than not lead to things getting much, much worse. Second, the proper way to kick a man in the testicles. You didn’t want to bend your knee, just swing the whole leg, straight as a board, like the way the football punters do. Didn’t matter if you caught your man with your toe or the top of your foot or your shin, so long as you connected.

She didn’t think, not even for a moment, but kicked hard at the crotch in front of her. Her shin buried deep in the mush between the man’s legs. He didn’t groan or let out a yelp or even cuss, but he did go down. The air tank rolled to the side. The girl jumped over his crumpled body and sprinted for the stairs and never did look back.

When the dry heaving finally stopped and he could stand upright again, the man shut the door behind him and limped into the motel room. Each step throbbed in his groin. His knees warbled. The walking made him nauseous, but he was able to make it to the bed.

He laid down on top of the sheets next to the corpse and inhaled deeply and blew out his breaths slow. He turned to the preacher, whose lifeless stare was fixed on the ceiling tiles and watched the last bit of pink disappear from his nose. The Reverend’s face was now white as porcelain, and just as dead. The man watched and breathed until he’d recuperated enough to slide off the mattress and walk over to the bathroom sink.

The handle squelched when he turned on the water. With his palm, he cupped a few sips to his mouth and returned to the bedroom to examine the briefcase the hooker had been searching through.

It was small, with a brown, worn-out pleather cover, the kind of briefcase an old-fashioned door-to-door salesman might have carried when making his calls. It was also open. He thumbed through the contents.

A wallet, the preacher’s. Driver’s license said he was Jeremiah James Lancaster of Himes Street, Morado, Texas. No cash, no credit or debit cards. The hooker must have gotten those. Besides the wallet were a change of boxers, a t-shirt, a change of clothes, and a bottle of vodka. The man unscrewed the top and took a pull. Then another.

With his free hand, he felt around the briefcase’s inside pocket.

When he found what he was looking for, he smiled.

A Bible.

The midmorning sun shone through the motel room’s miniblinds. Jagged bars of light fell across the carpet, the bedsheet, the dead body. The door was cracked open, the yellow crime scene tape pulled aside for the time being. Sheriff Rod McLean slouched onto the corner of the bed, took off his hat, and rubbed his temples. He’d been up all night.

His chief deputy, Sanchez, was scribbling notes for their report and reciting the usual speech about all the constitutional rights that a woman like the young hooker sitting in the chair could exercise if she really wanted to.

“Any time you want us to stop, you just say so,” Sanchez explained. “You understand the rights as I’ve just read them to you, ma’am?”

“Uh huh.”

“That a yes?”

“Yeah.”

Sanchez was also recording the interview on his phone. McLean wouldn’t have bothered, but this younger generation, they couldn’t take a piss without memorializing it for all time on their precious phones. McLean craned to look once more at the corpse, let out a sigh, and got to work. He turned to the hooker in the chair, rested his hands on his knees, and tried to sound convivial.

“What’d you say your name was, ma’am?”

“Kylie. With a ‘k.’”

“Where you live?”

“Around.”

“Around’s a fine place, I hear. All right. You know why Deputy Sanchez picked you up?”

The hooker shrugged and blew a stray piece of hair from her face. It was purple, like she’d colored it with food dye. She wore a halter top that kept wanting to slide off her sunburned shoulders and a skirt about the size of a napkin.

The sound of Sanchez scratching notes filled the momentary quiet.

“He picked you up,” McLean continued, “on a count of this here dead preacher. Whose credit card you tried to use ‘round midnight at the Circle K. Now don’t you gimme that ‘who me?’ look, girl. Got you on video.”

She stared at the floor, at her big toe turning circles in the carpet.

“Dunno nothin’ ‘bout that man there.”

“Uh huh. Lemme ask you, Kylie with a ‘k’, ever heard of the DNA?”

“I guess.”

“It’s ever’ where. Your DNA, I mean. Lil’ tiny bits floatin’ all ‘round you. You so much as break wind on a fella, your DNA’ll stick to him. Like white on rice.”

“That so?”

“So it is.” He rubbed at his chin. “And this fella lyin’ over here? I’ll wager my pension he’s covered head to toe with your DNA.”

She shrugged again, this time as if to say that might not be the worst bet he could make.

“But I don’t need to bother with all that. Y’know why?”

“No.”

“Sanchez pulled a wad of purple hairs from his teeth, an’ I don’t need no sequencer to tell me they’re yours.”

She fidgeted in her seat. Sanchez kept on writing.

How old was this girl? Twenty-one, twenty-two, maybe. Still young enough to claim being young; old enough to have seen a thing or two. He could tell from her gaze. Another couple years turning tricks, and those eyes would calcify. But they hadn’t gone hard yet. He’d have to play her gently.

“For what it’s worth, me an’ Sanchez don’t think you killed ‘im.”

Her face shot up and she couldn’t hide the hopeful expression.

“No?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You’re not a suspect at this time,” Sanchez added, and McLean winced. Because that was the kind of idiotic thing these kids learned to say in college which nobody in their right mind would ever say in real life.

“We don’t think you killed ‘im,” McLean repeated. “Not on purpose, anyways. But we’re pretty sure you got some ideas of what may’ve happened.”

Her eyes went back to the floor, and she didn’t make any noise for a very long while. McLean wasn’t sure if she was coming around or if they’d have to arrest her to get what they needed. He hoped not. That would lose them hours, maybe days, and they didn’t have that kind of time to waste. Kylie finally whispered.

“It was the man.”

“Uh huh.” McLean put his hat back on and started to reach for his handcuffs.

“Swear to Jesus, Sheriff. I come in here an’ the preacher was already dead. I swear. There was this freaky-lookin’ man had come in the room. Had this bowl cut hair, an’ a jacket, an’ a real ugly wide face, kinda dark complexion. I thought he was an exterminator ‘cause he he was carryin’ this tank—only, it wasn’t for sprayin’. Sunnavabitch shot me with it.”

The sheriff paused, then slowly sat back down.

“What happened with that?”

“The gun? It just—just, like, puffed air between my eyes. Stung a little bit. Kinda like when the eye doctor checks your eyes for cancer, or whatever it is they blow that air onto your eyeballs for.”

“I know what you mean. Didn’t hurt you, though?”

“Nah. Not really.”

“‘Cause he didn’t have the bolt loaded.”

“The what?”

“Never mind. Tell me more ‘bout this man …”

The interview lasted another fifteen minutes. McLean went through his usual tried-and-true mode of questioning. Kindly but serious. Sometimes he’d backtrack on earlier details, or ask the same question from a different angle, but he didn’t press her. A quarter hour later, he was satisfied he’d wrung out all he could out of Kylie with a “k.” Sanchez took her picture and got her number and then they cut her loose.

McLean thought things over as the sound of her heels disappeared down the motel stairwell. Sanchez clicked his tongue.

“Not the kind of place you’d expect to find a Baptist minister.”

“Shit.” McLean chuckled. “This here’s exactly the kinda place I’d expect to find this Baptist minister. I’ve known Jerry Lancaster since he was chasin’ skirts in Sunday School. He’s been a lech since the day he was born.”

The deputy lifted the briefcase, placed it on the bed, and started writing down the inventory. “Personal articles. Bottle of spirits, half-full. Wallet. Ring. Glasses. Looks like that’s it. There was nothing in the car.”

“No.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“That ain’t it. Can’t be. Jerry always had this Bible with him. The one his daddy gave to him. He went everwhere with it. Kept it like a good luck charm.”

“Didn’t do him much good last night.”

“Maybe not. But I’m tellin’ you I knew this man. He’d have had that Bible. Someone took it.”

“Okay. Who?”

“Not lil’ Miss Kylie. She wouldn’t have had no use for it.” He massaged his temples again. “I’m thinkin’ it was the man she saw. He must’ve grabbed it. Took it with ‘im. For whatever reason.”

“Wait. You actually think she’s telling the truth about this ugly exterminator who puffed air on her face?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s telling us the gospel truth ‘bout that.”

“C’mon, Sheriff.”

McLean pointed his finger at the young deputy.

“You ever heard the sayin’, a blind pig’ll find an acorn ever now an’ then?”

“I guess I have.”

“Well. I happen to know the man she was talkin’ about. He’s come through this part of Texas before. Killed a few folks in his own way. Likes to flip a coin for his victims. Uses a stun bolt gun or sometimes a revolver. He’s a lousy shot. Name’s Andrew Spurgle.”

“Funny name.”

“Ain’t nothin’ funny ‘bout him. Spurgle’s a hitman. One that’s got no soul. No brains, either.”

“Yeah?”

“Dumb as a sack of rocks. Dumbest ass of a man you’ll ever meet.” McLean pushed his hat back so that it angled up from his forehead and said, more to the dead Reverend Lancaster than to Deputy Sanchez: “Even a dumbass’ll kill a man ever now an’ then.”

The Buick’s transmission was still knocking long after the car had died on the side of the highway, a semi-regular, high-pitched metallic clink punctuating the slow final gasp of breath of oil smoke pluming from the engine. With the hood up, it looked like a trash fire was burning. The gunshot to the engine must have blown out a rod. He’d gotten ten miles behind him, with three hundred sixteen to go.

The sun was rounding the bend on three o’clock, and though there was a thick coverlet of gray clouds overhead, the air felt sticky and hot as a sauna. Spurlge laid the contents of the smoldering car in a nearby patch of weeds. His stun bolt gun and air tank, his bookbag, a flashlight. The Colt he’d slid into his belt holster, while his most prized possession, the preacher’s Bible, he held tight in his hand.

He faced north on Texas State Highway 214, a line of concrete and shimmering eddies of heat bending all the way to the horizon. A ribbon of gray over the parcel of a beige world. Through the clouds, a jaundiced sun burned the desert land. Leafless scrubs. Pieces of blown-out tires. A flattened McDonald’s drink cup. Spurgle fingered the Bible’s cover, rubbed his perspiration into its crevasses and tried to calculate how long the hike to the next exit would take him.

He didn’t hear the electric Prius pull over and park behind him, not until the driver called out to him in a reedy voice:

“Sir? Do you need some help?”

Slowly, Spurgle turned on his heel to see who had greeted him.

A young scarecrow of a man. Sandy beard as wispy as feather grass. Tattoos and nose ring. He had the car door open and was half-leaning, half-standing by the Prius with the emergency flashers on. No more than a hundred forty pounds, Spurgle figured, and never thrown a punch in his life.

“Oh, sorry, Señor.” The young man got all the way out and took a step towards Spurgle. He left the car running. “Necesito ayudar?” His Spanish, though broken, was dripping with earnestness.

Spurgle shifted his belt around his waist to hide the revolver and cocked his head as if he couldn’t quite hear.

The driver drew another couple of steps closer. Spurgle could make out the swirling ink around the skin of the man’s elbow. A curled flourish that might have been Nordic or Native American. Some kind of tribal art. A pair of tattered beige shorts were falling off his hips. He had no weapons on him.

“Necesitamos un teléfono? Para un tow truck?”

The tattooed man brought out a phone and started to dial.

Spurgle responded in kind. With his right hand he reached behind and unbuckled the strap on his holster and grasped the handle of the Python. With his left, he went for the quarter in his front pocket.

“Hello, Triple A? My name’s Caleb Shands—”

“Call it.”

“Huh?”

“Call it.”

The coin landed on the asphalt and curled round in a lazy half-circle until it came to rest. The phone drooped from the man’s ear. He looked baffled. But a nervous smile broke through and took hold of him and kept him from running for his car, which was what he should have done all along.

“Uh. Heads, I guess?”

Spurgle glanced at the coin. A proud eagle perched upon laurels and a sheaf of arrows.

“No.”

Out came the Python, a gleam of cold silver in the hot sun. Even as Spurgle brought the man’s head within the barrel’s sight, even as he pulled the trigger and the hollow-point round in the chamber boomed like a small cannon, even as the bullet sent a spray of blood into the air, that insipid eager smile of Caleb Shands never wavered from his lips.

The hospital room stank of bleach. It made McLean’s eyes water. He rubbed at his nose and motioned for Sanchez to crack the window open. The sheriff turned a chair around and straddled it backwards while Sanchez leaned against the wall and pressed record on his phone.

“How you doin’ there, son?”

The patient in the bed moaned softly. He was a young fellow trying to grow a beard. Scrawny. The hospital gown looked two sizes too big for him. The top and left side of his head was wrapped tight in thick bandages. A couple of clear plastic tubes poked through the bandaging and dripped bodily fluids out into a saucer. An IV bag was hooked up to a syringe stuck in the top of his hand. No doubt some good drugs were flowing through there.

He was awake, though. And more or less alert.

“Sorry ‘bout your ear,” McLean said, because it seemed the kind of thing a stranger ought to say when he first meets a man who’d just had his ear shot off.

“Hurts.”

“I’ll bet it does. Need some water?”

The kid nodded. The sheriff pointed to Sanchez to fetch the Styrofoam cup on the table. The kid drank it down like a man who’d spent an afternoon bleeding on the side of a west Texas highway.

“My name’s McLean. I’m the sheriff of Gaines County. Man that just gave you that water’s my chief deputy, Sanchez. You’re in the Seminole City hospital. You know that?”

“Uh huh.”

“Your name’s Caleb Shands, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Heard you had a bad day yesterday.”

A low painful grunt or a sardonic laugh. Hard to tell.

“Mind if I ask you some questions ‘bout what happened on Highway 214?”

Caleb shifted his head trying to angle his one ear towards McLean. The movement made his body seize up. He let out a shriek.

“Easy there,” said Sanchez.

“Don’t try to move, son. You just lie back an’ relax. I’ll speak up so you can hear me. How’s this?”

Caleb’s eyes were rimmed with tears. He nodded a fraction of an inch.

“All right. I heard you got carjacked.”

“Yeah.”

“While you was tryin’ to be a good Samaritan.”

“I—I’m not Samaritan. I’m from Austin.”

“‘Course you are.”

“The man on the road. His car was smoking.”

“Uh huh.”

“I pulled over to help. He looked marginalized.”

McLean didn’t know what that would look like. He turned to Sanchez questioningly who waved at him with his pen that he had a handle on whatever that meant.

“Okay. How close did you get to him?”

“Ten, fifteen feet. I don’t know.”

“What’d he look like? I mean, besides marginalized.”

“His hair was—was dark. And like this bowl cut or something. He had a jacket on. Jeans, too, I think.”

“White guy? Black guy?”

“Um.” Caleb fidgeted with his gown. McLean waited patiently until at last the kid rasped.

“I think he was—he was Latinx.”

“Gotcha.”

McLean shot another quick look at Sanchez, who only rolled his eyes. The sheriff went down the list of what they’d verified.

“So we got a Hispanic male with a bowl haircut. He’s broke down on the side of the road. You pull over to help him. He shoots your ear off. Then he takes your car.”

“Yeah.”

McLean shifted his weight from one side of the chair to the other and thought for a moment. It was an incredible piece of fortune that this little twit was lying in a hospital and not in a morgue. That wasn’t the kind of thing you shared out loud when a man’s convalescing with a lost ear. Still.

Either Caleb Shands was the luckiest stoner ever to crawl out of an Austin head shop, or the man that pulled a gun on him was a terrible shot. McLean was leaning towards the latter.

Caleb tried to speak again:

“I remember. He…”

“Go on. What’d he do?”

“He, like… Like, flipped a coin. Asked me to call it. Before he…before…”

Sanchez finished the thought for him:

“Before he shot you?”

“Yeah.”

Same as what Edna Dawson had reported when they’d interviewed her. Dark complected Hispanic man, weird look about him, acting strange, flipped a coin and asked her to call it. Same description as what Kylie with a “k” had relayed about the supposed exterminator she’d seen in the motel room.

McLean was ninety-nine percent certain Edna’s stranger and Kylie’s exterminator and Caleb’s carjacker were the same man.

But Sheriff McLean did not like to leave any uncertainties.

“Lemme ask you somethin’, Caleb. Might seem a lil’ off the wall. Did you happen to notice if the fella that shot you had an air tank? Like a silver-lookin’ cylinder with a tube connected to it.”

Caleb massaged the unbandaged side of his head. He licked his lips, his mouth not quite shutting all the way when he was done. The morphine was starting to kick in again. One more minute and the kid would be out.

“No,” he said thickly. “No tank. But there was something else. I just now remembered.”

“What was that?”

“The whole time we were talking. He was holding this book in his hand. A thick one. Black cover. Ribbon coming out of it.”

“Like a Bible,” McLean said, getting up from his chair.

“Yeah…”

Caleb’s eyes were fluttering shut. McLean and Sanchez tiptoed over to the door and went out into the hallway.

The hospital hall was a long, white warren strewn with gurneys, IV holders, and monitors. McLean led Sanchez over to where the staff kept the good coffee. The duty nurses at the desk greeted McLean like he was their favorite grandpa who’d just dropped by on his way down to Florida. Sanchez got a more subdued and much more sensuous look from a couple of them. Truth be told, McLean would’ve preferred that kind of welcome, but he’d take being hugged as a harmless old man over a cold shoulder any day of the week.

The two men went behind the desk and made their way past the hospital workers and poured themselves a cup of coffee in a breakroom that was just barely big enough for the two of them to stand in. McLean elbowed his chief deputy, who was stirring in more sugar and creamer than a law enforcement officer ought to.

“Spurgle,” McLean said.

Sanchez kept twirling the plastic swizzle straw in his cup.

“Yes, sir. Spurgle.”

“With a Bible. Told you Lancaster should’ve had a Bible on ‘im. Now Spurgle’s seen with a Bible. What’re the odds? Still think I’m off my rocker ‘bout that angle?”

Sanchez took a sip and shook his head meaningfully.

He was a decent man, Deputy Sanchez. Needed to sprout a few gray hairs, forget a few things he’d learned in college. But with a little seasoning, he’d shape up to be a good officer by and by. Sanchez set down his cup, flipped through his notebook, started to say something, then thought better of it. He pushed his hat back on his head.

“Bible. Bowl cut. Coin flip. I think you’re on the right track, Sheriff.”

Damn straight he was.

“I sent out a BOLO alert for the kid’s car,” Sanchez continued. “I’ll add Spurgle’s description. Anything else you want me to do?”

The sheriff puffed a cloud of steam from his piping hot black coffee. “Nope. Not much more you can do with a dumbass like Spurgle. ‘Cept wait for the next body to turn up.”

Night covered the Santa Fe desert like a woolen blanket. The air was growing cold. Coyotes howling. A field of dust with a chain-link fence and a backhoe loader and a port-a-john. Otherwise, the construction site was empty.

A sign on the fence declared this would be the future home of a Motel Seven and that hardhats were required and that anyone caught stealing anything would be shot on sight. A lone streetlight shone down on a modular building just off the road, the site’s office.

The door to the modular opened without a knock. Emilio Guzman was standing inside, perched over a foldout table and studying a subcontractor’s bid. He looked up and scowled.

“You’re late.”

Spurgle said nothing and closed the door behind him. The hitman looked tired and road-worn, as if he hadn’t been in a bed or a shower for days, which he hadn’t. Hadn’t shaved, either. He wore the same beige jacket, same jeans, same loose leather belt and gun holster he’d had on for a week.

Spurgle limped across the floor, his legs stiff, his face implacable. He clutched a book close to his chest.

“That the Bible?”

“Yeah.”

Guzman stood upright and folded his arms across his chest.

“Did you look inside?”

“No.”

“Good. Let’s have it.”

“Where’s my money?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“Uh huh.”

Spurgle craned his neck, then slowly rolled his head around, cracking the joints. “I want to see it.”

That annoyed Guzman, and he was a man who seldom suffered annoyance.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Emilio Guzman.” Spurgle chewed at a hangnail and considered the man on the other side of the table. “Why’d you ask?”

Guzman wasn’t sure if Spurgle meant that as a show of bravado or as a genuine question. He snorted a laugh and pushed aside a pile of rolled up construction drawings and loose papers and fast-food bags so that all that was left on top of the table was a small black safe. The dial spun, right-left-right, and Guzman reached inside the safe and pulled out four stacks of hundred-dollar bills so Spurgle could see for himself.

Spurgle stared at the bills. Guzman stared at him.

“Give me the Bible.”

Spurgle’s eyes slitted. A strand of dark hair fell before his face. Carefully, almost reverently, he laid the book he’d brought with him on the table’s edge.

Guzman picked it up, flipped it open.

Something was off.

There were no holes in the pages, no container inside, just thin, gold-gilded pages filled with miniscule typeset. A Bible, like any other. He leafed through the whole book from the back to the front, and when he saw a faded inscription on the first page, he read it aloud, the anger steadily mounting in his voice:

“To my only beloved son, Jeremiah, on the occasion of your ordination, from your earthly father who loves you almost as much as our Father in Heaven. Keep the Word of God always by your side and you shall find eternal life.” He slammed the thing on the table, sending cash tumbling to the floor. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s a Bible.”

“Where’d you get this from?”

“From the preacher. At the Motel Seven. Just like you asked.”

Guzman tested the book again, as if he might have missed something, then threw it aside.

“There’s nothing in there!”

Spurgle looked at Guzman, as if that were of no more concern to him than the weather in Austin.

“There’s supposed to be a cut-out in there.” Guzman pointed to the holy book splayed open on top of an electrical design. “A square section with a canister taped inside. That canister has a digital coin token in it that’s worth a million dollars.”

The same look from Spurgle as before. Guzman’s face reddened. He was practically yelling.

“The runner delivering that token was supposed to be dressed like a preacher. That was his cover. He was supposed to make the delivery to the Battista family, and you were supposed to intercept him before the meeting. Kill the man dressed as a preacher at the Motel Seven in Amarillo and get his Bible. Those were my instructions.”

“You never said Amarillo.”

“The hell I didn’t.”

For the first time, Spurgle seemed mildly bothered. He scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t hear you say that. My notes said Morado. So I did the job at the Motel Seven in Morado.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ…” Guzman erupted with a string of curses that went on for a solid minute. “…You cow-faced dumbass. You killed the wrong preacher.”

Spurgle went back to the hangnail. “Didn’t kill him. Didn’t have to. The man was dead when I got there.”

“Get the hell out of here. Get out of my sight.”

For a long moment, Spurgle simply gazed unblinking at Guzman.

“I said—”

“You owe me two hundred thousand dollars.”

Guzman’s nostrils flared. He pounded his fists on the tabletop. “I don’t owe you shit, come merde. You screwed up. Big time. You’re lucky I don’t cut you up into little pieces and bury that stupid Dutch-boy scalp of yours under the foundation out there.”

Spurgle held up his index finger. “I did the job I was asked to do. I got a Bible from a preacher at a Motel Seven. That preacher’s dead. And I’ve delivered his Bible to you. The fact that you were after a particular preacher with a particular Bible, that was never communicated to me. But…” He withdrew the finger and nodded once. “I’ll allow you might have said the job was in Amarillo and I misheard it as Morado. We’ll never know for sure. So there’s only one way to resolve this.”

With his left hand, he brought out his old quarter. With his right, he reached behind his back to his holster and drew his Colt Python and aimed it at Guzman’s chest. Before Guzman could speak, before he could let out a breath, Spurgle was flipping the coin.

“Call it.”

Table Manners

Sherri Mines

It was the damnedest thing I ever saw. And as a private investigator, I saw a lot.

Thank you for the beer, ma’am. Much obliged. Is it possible to get a glass of water, maybe a wee bite of something to eat? You’re a gem, ma’am. Thank you. I’ve missed Jerry’s Pub.

This story happened back when I was a private investigator at the Masahiro Spaceport. Masahiro was a law-abiding port, forcing me to take on extra jobs to make ends meet. And the most lucrative side job turned out to be babysitting alien teenagers while they learned about the outside world.

We met our neighbors, the Ney’Jx, when their spaceship made an emergency landing on the planet Robert’s Dream. Once both sides got over the shock, they started trying to communicate with gestures, and learned a few words of each other’s language. The Ney’Jx repaired their spaceship, and everyone agreed to keep in touch and learn about each other.

The name they called themselves was long and hard to pronounce. The best I can do after a lot of practice is Neyak’ca’mu’t’jx. Someone called them the Ney’Jx and the name stuck. And any Ney’Jx who would be interacting with the sector was encouraged to take a “human name” to make conversations easier.

During a visit to Masahiro Spaceport, my sister met and fell in love with a high-ranking Ney’Jx. I traveled with the happy couple to the home planet where they formally married. Yes, my sister Linda became Lady Anastasia, and married Lord Ivan. She introduced me to the King and Queen, and arranged for some language lessons. I became an unofficial representative and tour guide for visiting Ney’Jx at Masahiro. Four years ago, my duties were expanded to assist in taking care of their teenage boys during TravelTime.

What is TravelTime? Glad you asked. The Ney’Jx decided to adopt a modern version of an Old Earth custom called rumspringa. Their upper-level children on the verge of adulthood would be sent out from the home planet to nearby human systems. The long-term goal for these future leaders was to learn how to interact with humans and human-related worlds. They would get a taste of freedom outside the hierarchy, let off some steam (with supervision), and learn to take responsibility for their own actions. Masahiro Spaceport was one of many locations chosen for these teenagers.

What about the teenage girls?

I don’t rightly know, ma’am. My job was to take care of the boys. Their TravelTime must be somewhere else.

The first few days were always the worst. The teenagers came from a feudal-style society and had a lot of problems understanding the spaceport’s more relaxed and self-directed culture. Most initial difficulties were due to the absence of servants, and dietary issues. The concept of paying people for their work and treating them with respect always seemed to cause confusion and a bit of outrage. Servants should be told what to do, and they should do it immediately!

Sigh. Every. Single. Time.

On the other hand, the job paid very well, and I felt an inner satisfaction knowing I was helping the Ney’Jx learn to navigate human culture.

And Linda wouldn’t yell at you!

(Laughter)

Yes, John. It also kept my sister from yelling at me. And as you well know, her voice can be quite piercing when she’s on a roll.

This was my fourth batch of youngsters. Two brothers this time, Duke Alexander, and Duke Pyotr. They were Level Three House Dictaro, what we would consider upper-middle class. Not high enough to become part of the ruling elite, but Manager or Director Level. Their guardian and mentor for this trip would be my friend Kal. You’ve heard of Kal Skiak’mutsn, the first decorated soldier from Ney’Jx to serve in the Space Marines? He served as unofficial security for the teenagers, and was involved in every TravelTime on Masahiro.

Pyotr, now he was the younger child. Very observant, asked good questions, soaked up knowledge like a sponge, and did things in a deliberate manner. Behind his hand, Kal said that Pyotr had been noticed by the Level Two Directors, and there were whispers he was being considered as a possible assistant to the Ambassador when he came of age. Unfortunately, his passive personality made people (including Alexander) try to push him around.

Alexander was the older brother. And he was a right pain in the— Well, you know. He was Duke Alexander, and no one was going to tell him what to do, or how to do it. He didn’t like anything new or different. He also had a bone-deep certainty that as a Duke, he was superior to anyone he would come in contact with at the spaceport.

If a teenager causes too many problems, I can force them to obey as a last resort. Brother to Lady Anastasia, Level One House Dictaro, you know. But Alexander wasn’t having any of it. I was human, and therefore beneath him, regardless of my family affiliation. He would reluctantly obey Kal, but was contemptuous of his service with the Space Marines. Idiot.

One day, Kal asked me to take Pyotr out for some creamed ice. I don’t know what was said behind closed doors, but Alexander stopped actively fighting us all the time. He even deigned to obey me, albeit begrudgingly.

Kal and I worked with the lads, and did our best to teach them the basics of spaceport life. How to have conversations (talk, don’t order people around), how to pay for items, and how to manage their weekly allowance. We also helped them with Ney’Jx-specific food issues: nutrition and table manners.

A predator species, the Ney’Jx needed the nourishment of live prey to keep their metabolism working properly. In modern times, farm-raised animals eaten with their hands and teeth became the solution.

For travelers, scientists developed M-Cakes. Light brown and shaped like small rodents, they were pre-made and stored in stasis for shipment across the galaxy. When warmed, the M-Cakes smelled vaguely of raw meat and simulated live prey, easing their bodily cravings. The boys had practiced eating the M-Cakes before leaving home, and were familiar with the taste and texture.

Nutritional issues taken care of, the next step was to work on human table manners. The boys were not used to using a knife, fork, spoon, or chopsticks for an entire meal. We ate and practiced with room service meals in the hotel suite, reminding the boys to use a knife to cut their food, and to eat with a fork and spoon instead of picking up their food and biting off pieces. And no, they may not consume chicken wings whole in public.

Get to the good parts!

Relax. Enjoy the evening. We have a warm pub, good company, and the story will end when it ends.

Sadly, my throat’s gone parched again. If it’s not too much trouble, could you get me another water, please? Thank you kindly.

After a few days of orientation, table lessons and walking tours of the spaceport, I introduced them to Andrew Spurgle.

Spurgle? Really? WHY?

I see you’ve heard of him.

Andrew Spurgle had been working on Masahiro Spaceport for three years. We weren’t friends, but more than casual acquaintances. It’s hard to believe, but Spurgle was the perfect companion for the boys. He, too, had grown up a pampered, spoiled brat from a high-ranking family on Thespian Nine. He knew all the dive bars, places to eat cheap, and where to find women to dance with the teenagers. He was the perfect choice to safely show them the seedier parts of the station. In return, we paid for his room, his groceries, and his entertainment while he was with the brothers.

Spurgle’s first foray was to take them to the Tokyo Mall Area, a disorganized warren of narrow streets full of people, shops, and food stalls. They browsed the shiny souvenirs, ate ramen noodles for the first time, watched a racy street performance, and brought back artisan chocolate drops not available on their home planet. Alexander and Pyotr both were enthusiastic about their “field trip” and wanted to do it again.

Andrew was pleased, as well. “I got plans for these youngsters. A couple of dive bars, watching netball, concerts, a nice brewery that sells low-point beer, maybe a peep show or two. What do you think, Mike?”

“Sounds good, Andrew. Did Alexander give you any trouble?”

“No, we commiserated about the contempt we have for the lower classes and got along just fine.”

I eyed him sideways, looking for a hint of humor in his face. Nope. He meant every word.

Kal and I did our best to keep the lads from becoming bored. We arranged events on the spaceport, and Spurgle took the boys out every few days. One success was an unusual entertainment from Old Earth called karaoke. Alexander and Pyotr loved karaoke, and would go out to sing whenever possible.

Spurgle promised to keep them away from the pickup bars until they were older, and were ready to meet women who wanted more than a chat. The man had few scruples, but once bought, he stayed bought and honored his agreements.

Kal thought it was time to teach the brothers something other than carousing and karaoke. He decided the perfect offset was to enroll the brothers in the local boxing club.

(Laughter)

The first shock was when they found out they had to learn to fight.

“Fighting is for lowly soldiers, not for Dukes!”

Growling, Kal asked them if they had anything against soldiers.

“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The second shock was when their sparring partner hit them (!), and continued to hit them (!) until they remembered to put their hands up.

They trained, and learned to hit back. Running true to form, Alexander enjoyed hitting people, and sulked when his sparring partner won. Pyotr was not a fan initially, but became a strategic fighter. Kal was convinced that Pyotr would win if the brothers ever fought each other.

It was time for a break from the spaceport, so we decided to take Alexander and Pyoter on a camping trip to a protected forest area. The boys had never been to a forest, and stared out the windows of the road taxi as we climbed a narrow road that wound through the hills covered in trees. After checking into the camping station, a small hover car took us through the forest to a group of tent cabins.

We spent our days hiking and enjoying the outdoors. The boys loved the smell of the pines and would spend hours walking through the forest. A beautiful lake was a short walk from the cabins, and we taught the boys how to fish with a pole and bait.

Pyotr was the first to catch a small fish. With a grin, he chomped off its head, then proceeded to chew and swallow the whole fish. Alexander was jealous. “I want a fish to eat! I’m sick of finger food.” We quickly caught a small fish for Alexander to eat.

Gross!

Not to them. Remember, the Ney’Jx are predators, and evolved to eat small live animals. M-Cakes kept the Ney’Jx metabolism going, but eating small fish satisfied their emotional well-being as well as their bodies.

By the time Kal and I cleaned and prepared the larger fish we had caught, the brothers looked uncomfortable. Kal pointed at a tree marked with a red ribbon. They got up and casually walked away from camp, headed for the tree.

Ney’Jx digestive systems had similarities to the barn owl. Their stomachs extracted the nutrients, and any undigested bits would be coughed up, looking a lot like a large owl pellet.

We cooked the fish fillets and hush puppies over an open campfire when the brothers returned. Everyone enjoyed the meal, but the boys kept looking longingly at the lake, and asked about catching more small fish tomorrow.

Two more days of fishing, then it was time to return to the spaceport. The teenagers were more comfortable with nicknames now, and I could call them Alex and Pyo now and again. They wanted to bring back live fish, and I had to explain it wasn’t allowed. Their downcast looks made me promise we could go back for a short fishing trip before they returned to Ney’Jx.

I showed the boys Forest Park after we returned from the camping trip. Straddling the Tourist and the Employee Sections, it was a popular place to spend time. The smiles on their faces, and their happiness walking around and smelling the scent of the trees, is one of my happier memories of their visit.

Hurry up! You talk too slow!

You’re quite the impatient group. It’s important to hear the whole story. What do you want? We did this, he did that, and here’s the shocking ending?

YES!

Maybe I should move on to a different bar, and visit you folks another time with a shorter story.

What’s that, ma’am? You want me to stay? And you bought me a beer? Oh, thank you, I truly appreciate it. Just for you, I will tell more of the story, and what happened to the lads.

A few days after the camping trip, Spurgle took the boys to the Oasis Grill, where they met the Raconteur Road Trip Ladies.

(Laughter)

(Whistles)

Ooh la la!

Ah, the Raconteur Road Trip Ladies. These boisterous, middle-aged women from the Teegarden system were a merry group. They told everyone their grand tour included looking for husbands, and they planned to “audition” as many as possible while visiting the spaceport.

Distinctive in their form-fitting shirts with a large, embroidered fox on the back, the Ladies sampled every entertainment venue, dancing, drinking, and taking eligible men for a spin. If a group of folks were having a good time, you could be sure one of the Ladies was making an appearance.

The Ladies adored Alex and Pyo. They enjoyed learning about Ney’Jx culture. And flirting. Heavily. They recognized the brothers’ young age and never went beyond flirting. “Don’t worry, their virtue is safe with us,” their leader Diann reassured Kal. “By the time we leave, the boys will be ready to handle the back-and-forth needed to talk to society women after they go home.”

The group arrived at Masahiro Spaceport after a visit to Rita’s Sanctuary, home to the rare Sun Foxes. One of the few known native mammals to survive terraforming, the gray and red adult foxes were the size of chihuahuas, fierce predators, and well suited to their environment. They met with a group devoted to the Sun Foxes’ survival, and discussed their plan to interbreed the foxes with colony-brought small mammals. The Ladies were interested in starting a similar program to increase their own animal population.

Pyotr was genuinely interested in the Sun Foxes, and talked to Kal about using the same ideas on Ney’Jx. Kal promised to put him in touch with the science group when they returned.

In a different type of adventure, we spent a week living near the docks. Each boy was assigned to a Dock Supervisor, and shown the intricate “dance of chaos” that moved goods through the spaceport, on their way to various planets and stations. We ate where the workers ate, and slept at the Motel Seven, a chain known for providing a plain, clean, inexpensive room, with a free breakfast and hot drinks in the morning. Forest Park was nearby, and the boys took a walk there every day.

Let me guess. Pyotr learned something and Alexander resented the experience.

I see we have yet another heckler! What’s your name, son? Jesse? Well, Jesse, you would be right, and you would be wrong.

Both brothers were resentful until Kal pointed out the strategic advantage of knowing how goods are moved between planets and throughout the system. Their attitude changed, and they paid serious attention to their guides and asked a lot of questions. Kal shared that he overheard them talking in low voices about how to sabotage an enemy’s docks and warehouses. “Now they’re learning.”

While living at Motel Seven, we wandered over to the Happy Motel kiosks. I explained that it was a clean but impersonal space where a couple can go to have some “private time.”

“You mean it’s a brothel? We have those at home.”

“No, it’s not a brothel. Most people come here to have sex, but it’s consensual, not for money. They want to be intimate and come together for a short time.”

“Will human women come here with us?”

Kal laughed. “I see you’ve been told about human women. We’ll talk about relations tonight in the room.” Male Ney’Jx had a fondness for human women. When asked about the experience, their human partners got a dreamy look and murmured about perfect anatomy. Kal had a vetted client list of women who were more than willing to accommodate the teenagers. I made a point of staying out of that conversation.

Tell us about the women! We want details!

Sorry, folks, no sex in this story.

You’re no fun!

Excuse me, ma’am, my throat’s gone dry again. If it’s not too much trouble, could you spare another water, some bread and a wee bit of cheese? A cheeseburger? Oh! You’re an angel, darling, a real angel. You treat me so well. So happy I came to Jerry’s Pub tonight.

Kal and I had taken the boys on tours, showed them boxing, camping outdoors, and the docks. Andrew Spurgle had showed them how to have a good time, the Raconteur Road Trip Ladies had made them more comfortable around humans, and encouraged their passion for karaoke.

It was time for a formal evening out.

I had previously assisted an upper-level manager with an extremely delicate situation. As a thank-you, he arranged a reservation to the exclusive Chez Louis, in the Starlight Area, and paid for the meal.

(Gasps)

(Whistles)

I know! First and only visit for me. We practiced formal table manners over and over before the big night out, and visited a tailor to acquire a set of custom suits. One hour before dinner, we checked in at the Starlight Area Concierge and were given special pins that gave us access to the Starlight Area, and the Observation Level until midnight.

The restaurant screamed Old Earth elegance, with its cream-colored walls, frosted glass chandeliers, and gold-framed artwork. Kal quietly pointed out the movers and shakers in this area of the system after we were seated.

Dinner was exquisite. We ate eight or nine beautifully presented small plates over the course of two hours. Each plate was an experience. I remember smoky mushrooms and bead-sized onions in a velvety sauce, greens with fruit and nut bits in a sharp dressing, grilled pieces of a buttery fish, and bites of marinated steak and caramelized vegetables that literally melted in my mouth. To cleanse our palate between plates, we were served bits of grilled fruit, a flavored ice, and a small glass of something herbal. The meal ended with a cup of hot spiced tea and a dessert made in heaven.

We left Chez Louis and walked around the Starlight Area to digest and recover. When we were feeling better, Kal smiled and said he had a surprise, escorting us up to the Observation Lounge. After a few moments, a distinguished-looking man in an impeccable dark grey suit with a slate blue shirt walked out and shook Kal’s hand. “Mr. Kal! Wonderful to see you again!”

“David! How are you! This is my good friend Mike, and my charges Alexander and Pyotr.”

“Welcome to Jefferson’s Retreat! Let me escort you to your table.”

Servers and guests alike smiled and nodded at Kal as we walked through the lounge to a small private room, paneled in a warm-colored wood. An intricately-patterned carpet muted our footsteps. One wall was covered by a detailed wall hanging. The hanging depicted a scene of the planet’s landscape, distant mountains covered in snow, and a dark sky covered in stars.

After we were seated, David asked us if we wished to study the drink menu. Kal laughed. “Bring us your best inspiration, suitable for newcomers to the Retreat, and newcomers to the art of the cocktail.”

David beamed. “It would be my pleasure. Your server will bring you snacks shortly.”

The lights dimmed as David left the room. The wall hanging slowly rose, exposing a floor-to ceiling glass wall. The view of the planet’s surface matched the hanging exactly, with the barest hint of sunset still lighting the sky. Breathtaking was a complete understatement. We were engrossed in the view, and barely registered a server bringing us small plates and a platter with snacks.

David came in, placed a tall glass in front of each one of us, then silently stepped away. I had never seen a cocktail that looked like the one in front of me. The drink glistened with swirls of gold, red, and amber, flecked with shards of ice. Kal picked up his glass, he and I lightly clinked glasses, then we repeated the gesture with Alexander and Pyotr.

“Cheers!”

I took a sip. Flavors exploded in my mouth: a smoky-tasting alcohol, orange, berry, sweet, sour, even hints of molasses and salt. It was almost beyond description.

You talk about that drink like it’s a woman, Mike.

Pipe down. In some ways, that drink was better than sex.

Pyotr looked stunned, and Kal gently took his drink and placed it on the table before he dropped it. Alexander seemed to be focused inward. We all recovered, laughed nervously, and covered our reactions by taking snacks from the platter. We ate spicy sweet nuts, little toasts, fresh fruit, and cubes of a flavorful meat. The flavors married perfectly with the drink. We talked, laughed, and looked out as the sunset darkened and changed to a vision of stars gently lighting the landscape, while we sipped and snacked.

It was the last time the four of us were all happy, and completely in sync. Alas, the moment ended, and it was time to go.

“Put it on my tab, David.”

“Yes, sir. Good to see you, Mr. Kal. Come by more often.”

“I will, David. I miss this place.”

Pyotr asked the question everyone was thinking. “Why does David call you by name? How do they know you here?”

Kal leaned over and whispered, “I’m one of the owners, and do a lot of business in this room.” He smiled at the boy’s puzzlement. “I’m more than your guardian. I’m the trading representative for the Ney’Jx in this system.”

Alexander was frowning. “If you own the bar, why did you pay for the drinks? Just demand quick service and walk out when you’re done.”

“Alex, you should appreciate and reward an artist so they will continue to create.”

“I don’t understand.” He was still frowning when we left.

Stop drooling over the food! Get to the end!

Keep your pants on! We’re almost there.

Talking about cocktails makes me thirsty. Is it possible to get a small glass of beer? Thank you, ma’am. Much appreciated.

It was a busy eight months, and the brothers had learned a lot. Pyotr and Alexander were due to go back home in two more weeks, so we went on one more fishing trip.

Surprisingly, Spurgle asked to come along.

The boat at the lake could only seat four, so Spurgle volunteered to stay behind, and napped while we fished. To their delight, the boys each caught one small fish apiece and enjoyed their live meal. When the boys headed off to the marked tree to take care of their fish remains, Andrew asked what the boys were doing. “Oh,” Kal said lightheartedly, “they just have an upset stomach. They’ll be fine.”

On our last night, Kal fought with and landed a huge fish he called a salmon. Andrew helped prepare dinner by chopping vegetables, while Kal demonstrated cleaning and de-boning the salmon. Everyone enjoyed their meal prepared over the campfire. Kal handed out some of the boy’s favorite chocolate drops for dessert, and Spurgle surprised us by bringing out two bottles of a Ney’Jx liqueur made from ti’mah fruits. It was delicious.

That evening, sipping drinks next to the campfire, Andrew finally opened up to the boys about his history.

“My family spoiled me rotten. I believed I was better than everyone else, and that rules didn’t apply to me. I traveled across the system as I got older, stealing, cheating, and romancing ladies for profit. I romanced the Grand Duchess of Chaney, deliberately putting her in a compromising position in return for an antique necklace and a pile of credit chips, while seducing a young noblewoman at the same time.

“A few years later, I was caught and sent back to Chaney. The Grand Duchess had retired, and the young noblewoman I had seduced was the new Duchess.” He laughed a bitter laugh. “Talk about being hoisted on my own petard! I was convicted of Grand Larceny against the Royal Family and spent the next ten years milking cows and shoveling manure. Ten years of that smell, and those horrible beasts.” He shuddered. “That experience does things to a man. Now, I eke out an existence on Masahiro. My only pleasures are a drink in the evening, occasional female company, and showing you Ney’Jx youngsters around the spaceport.”

He was so involved in telling his story, Spurgle didn’t notice Alex’s reaction went from confused, to skeptical, and finally, annoyed.

“Why am I telling you this? Pay attention to the world outside yourself. Listen to Mike and Kal. Stop thinking being a Duke makes you superior. And get your head out of your… Well, don’t be me.”

He looked at me. “Mike, thanks for letting me come along. You’re a good friend.” He grabbed one of the bottles, and retreated to his tent. It was the first time I had heard him tell the truth instead of a story designed to ask for money.

Alex sneered. “He made the whole story up.”

“It’s all true,” I said quietly. “Imagine being trapped on a planet for ten years of your life, with nothing to do but milk cows, shovel manure, and breathe in the smell. Really think about being in that situation.” Everyone got quiet after that. We doused the fire and went to bed.

I had seen images of a younger Andrew Spurgle during his trial. The planet Chaney had aged him. That previously handsome face was now coarsened by exposure to the outdoors, his rich thick hair had gone thin, and the charming seducer was now an old man with occasional flashes of his younger self.

The next morning, we all felt the effects of the night before. I passed out anti-nausea crackers and painkillers with our morning coffee and hot tea. Sometime after breakfast, Andrew showed up nursing a hellacious hangover.

I couldn’t help myself. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Want to join us on a walk?”

“Piss off, Mike,” in good spirits despite the hangover. “Maybe later, when it’s not so bright out.” He took the coffee, painkillers, and crackers, and headed back to his tent.

Alexander was quiet on our way home. Kal had learned he was upset about Spurgle’s story. “I thought he was like me.” His face hardened. “He’s nothing like me.”

The scandal occurred after we returned from the fishing trip.

It was a right mess. The lads confessed to the crime, the Space Marines were called, they were shuffled back home in disgrace, terrible things happened, Bob’s your uncle, the story’s over.

What! You can’t do that!

You promised us a shocking ending!

Yeah, what happened to the brothers?

Now you want the details? I thought you were in a hurry. Well, I don’t know…

Oh, thank you, ma’am, for the whiskey on ice. You’re an angel, you are.

Just for you, ma’am, I will tell the rest of the story.

Alex and Pyo did not come home one night, with no notice. Kal had an ironclad rule that the brothers must notify him if they would be out late or overnight. We speculated they were carousing with Spurgle and lost track of the time. When they returned to the hotel (and recovered from their hangover), Kal would have a serious chat to remind them about keeping in touch. This happened a few days after the fishing trip.

Kal called me the following afternoon. Still no word from the brothers, or from Spurgle. We both tried calling and messaging, but there was no response. After two days and nights, our concern had grown to alarm. Alex and Pyo needed to eat their M-Cakes to maintain their metabolism and health. We tried visiting some of the boys’ known hangouts, but no one had seen them.

Next, we checked in with the Sheriff. The brothers had been arrested for fighting with a customer at the Happy Motel on the same day they disappeared. After a few hours, they were released with a stern warning. She offered to formally search, but we declined. If they were too embarrassed to come home after the arrest, officers searching for them would make it worse.

Pyotr and Alexander finally returned late on the fourth day. The boys were hollow-eyed, had healing bruises on their face, and refused to tell us where they had been or what happened. They ate two M-Cakes apiece and went straight to bed. They slept for twelve hours, ate another M-Cake, and went back to sleep. We sent a message to the Sheriff that the boys were back.

Sheriff Owens immediately messaged me, needing to talk “about a private matter.” She closed the door to her office and got right to it. “Mike, I need to understand more about Ney’Jx dining and digestive habits. How often do they eat live prey, and what happens to the remains afterwards? I know the basics, but not enough.”

“Those are sensitive topics for the Ney’Jx. Why are you asking?”

“We were contacted by the cleaning crew at the Happy Motel. They found multiple piles of remains behind the building. Some of the bones have tooth marks. I may need to ask the boys some questions and search their rooms.”

“Kal would have to give permission. He’s their guardian.”

I called Kal and explained the situation. We all talked and came up with a plan. Sheriff Owens would visit the hotel tonight in street clothes, publicly invited for drinks and snacks to protect the boys’ reputations. Kal would have time to wake them up, feed them again, and make sure they were ready to talk.

“Thank you, Sheriff, for the courtesy and the help. If it turns out Alex and Pyo are involved, I have no objection to them going to jail.”

Pyotr sat shaking in the corner, clearly traumatized. Alexander was wary, looking left, right, up and down, anywhere but at us. Sheriff Owens started by gently questioning Alexander.

“Alex, please tell Kal and Mike about what happened at the Happy Motel.”

“Spurgle took us to the Happy Motel to look for rooms with their curtains open, so we could watch people having sex. A man in one of the rooms caught us watching, came out and started hitting us. I protected myself and Pyotr, and hit back. Somebody called the cops, and your Deputy brought everyone in to the station. You talked to us, then let us go. Pyotr and I went over to the Tokyo Mall, got some noodles, and talked. Spurgle was still at the Sheriff’s Office when we left.

“We were scared that Kal would tell our parents and send us home early, so we decided to run away. We used a fake name at the Motel Seven, shared a room to save money, and stole food from the free breakfast to eat later.”

The Sheriff received a message on her pad, tapped the screen, and continued. “Is that what happened, Pyotr?”

Pyotr nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We were doing okay until the cravings started. I caught a small animal in Forest Park and we split it, but it wasn’t enough. We started feeling really bad. The next time we came out of our room, Andrew was there. I don’t know how he found us. He started yelling about getting in a fight, so we walked away towards the forest.”

Alexander took over from Pyotr. “He followed us and wouldn’t stop yelling. He said we could get thrown off the spaceport. That we were making him look bad, and he would never get another job from Mike. Finally, he screamed we were useless, and trouble, and he wished he had never met us.

“Spurgle can’t talk to us like that! I hit him with an uppercut. He fell on the ground, and we dragged him behind some bushes to hide. He moaned and tried to get up. I kept hitting him until he stopped making noise.”

“What happened then, Alexander?”

“The blood smelled just like the M-Cake filling. I picked up his hand, and bit off a finger. It tasted so good. And I was so hungry. We…ate. Then we tried to cover up the body. We started walking home, but had to eject the bones, so we went behind the Happy Motel. No one ever goes there.”

“Pyotr, is this true?”

He nodded, miserable, and whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do it. But the cravings… I ate two fingers. Alexander ate the rest.”

“Shut up!” Alex yelled. “It was Spurgle’s fault! He yelled at us and was disrespectful! He acted like he was one of us. He’s nothing like me.” His voice devolved into mutters. “Peasant in a nice wrapper. Deserved what he got. Liar.”

“That message was from my Deputy. They found a body in Forest Park. The eyes and other pieces of the body are…missing. It has been identified as Andrew Spurgle.” Sheriff Owens stood. “Put a few personal items in a small bag, boys. We are going to the jail.”

Kal loomed over them. “You make me ashamed to be Ney’Jx. After you are formally arrested, I will contact your parents.”

The brothers walked to the jail under their own power, Pyo subdued and shaking, Alex still muttering. Duke Alexander was charged with Murder. Duke Pyotr was charged with Accessory to Murder. They were held until the Space Marines could escort them back to Ney’Jx. Kal went along as guardian and witness. I was not invited.

Duke Alexander and Duke Pyotr, Level Three House Dictaro, were formally disgraced and banished from Ney’Jx society.

Kal returned resumed his regular duties after a few months. The warm friend I knew was gone, replaced by a guarded but professional stranger. We rarely spoke. No other teenagers were sent to Masahiro Spaceport for TravelTime.

Pyotr immersed himself in the sciences. Last I heard, he was part of a project to bio-engineer small animals that could be put in stasis and safely transported live to other planets to help traveling Ney’Jx. We still exchange an occasional message.

What happened to Alexander?

Alexander remained under house arrest for the rest of his short life. He died of an incurable wasting disease two years after he returned to Ney’Jx. An autopsy determined that Spurgle must have picked up a rare prion infection from his years working with the cows. This was passed to Alexander when he ate Spurgle’s flesh.

In the end, I guess Andrew Spurgle just didn’t agree with him.

Once More, With Feeling

Peter Delcroft

“You have your lines down now?” Kin’si tried to keep the exhaustion out of her voice as she spoke. The last thing she needed was these prissy actors giving her any more trouble.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be on point for whatever he throws at me. It’s this stupid skin suit. How in the world they use these flappy things to shape sound waves is beyond me. Cut me some slack, okay?” Ponfoy whined as he pulled on his skin suit’s cheeks. The heavily muscled frame he was wearing jiggled at his prodding and made his movements look clunky.

“Of course, of course.” Kin’si hoped her tone mollified the fishman. Despite the efforts by the Federation to make the outer holograms the whole crew used undetectable, every actor needed to wear a rough skin-suit layer underneath the illusion for it to take full effect, all to fool their target. This meant cramming some very specific-shaped alien species into skin suits not meant for their physiology. “Let’s just take five on this rehearsal, then go from the top again, okay?”

Kin’si walked away as she spoke, striding up to her production assistant. He was busy directing a few of the craft service workers to drop their tables for the upcoming lunch.

“Some slack, eh?” Kin’si gestured for her assistant to follow, all the hangers-on coming with before a shout from her sent them scurrying away. When the two of them were a decent distance from the press of people, Kin’si vented all her frustration. “Igbi, did you know that if this goes wrong, the entire galaxy will know just how incompetent the Federation has become?” Kin’si began pacing, her assistant following her with his eyes. “We fail and the Federation looks weak, maybe the Vonsins decide to start nipping away systems near the border and wham-o, we have another war brewing.” Spurgle had been off Earth for months, and the Federation was still busy dealing with the mess he had made out of galactic space. “But the actors, they want slack.”

Igbi stared at Kin’si over the top of his clipboard, his diminutive furry form shrinking under the heat of the deluge she was letting loose. When he was sure she was done, her assistant lowered the clipboard and adjusted his glasses before speaking.

“Yes, boss, you’ve mentioned it once or twice.” He moved forward and tapped her on the arm with a hairy palm. “We’re all worried, Kin’si. It’s affecting the whole crew, not just the thespians. No one in the Federation had ever even heard of this ‘Earth’ before Andrew Spurgle came along. Humans talk weird. Their languages are silly and fractured. The actors have only had a few weeks to nail accents, dialect ticks, you name it, for a huge array of his species, all to make this work. They are just as stressed as you, so maybe some slack is in order.”

Kin’si bit her lip to avoid spitting out a rebuttal, knowing he was right. They were dealing with a very complicated job. Everyone involved knew the stakes and had been chosen because they were all the best. If they did this right, the humans would never realize anything had been amiss. Andrew Spurgle’s multiple months missing from his home planet would be chalked up to his own character flaws and not the truth. His insane followers, his “Spurgleites,” would have no leader, no figurehead to rally around. He would be back on Earth to wreak havoc on his own people with his idiotic ability to cause catastrophe. Kin’si walked over to the door and out onto the set, resolute in her goals.

Everywhere she looked, Kin’si could see Federation propagandists spread throughout the complex of buildings that made up the large human waystation. It had been “commandeered” from the humans by the Federation, just for a short time, for their attempt to reintegrate Spurgle with Earth. They called them “Hotels.” The large square plastic sign had been buffed until the number “Seven” in the hotel’s sign shone like a mirror. The huge dugout section behind the largest building, the one with blue glazed tiles, was filled with water and chemically modified to the proper human standard. The holo-videos the crew all studied to make the set perfect had shown humans splashing in the water like various other aquatic sentients across the galaxy. Large lounging chairs were strewn throughout the area. Everything the production could ask for was theirs.

Kin’si walked over to a production manager and gave her orders for the initial scene. They immediately fanned out and delegated what tasks they could, sending the set into a last flurry of movement. The production had many scenes and scenarios planned if Spurgle didn’t buy the first. They were the best of the best, after all. Three weeks of rehearsal should mean they got it right.

Kin’si rounded up all of the extras and gave them their first scene direction. When she was halfway through the instructions, a hand fell on her shoulder. Kin’si spun to find one of the production assistants handing her a tablet. Following behind her was an agent of the Federation Secret Police carrying a briefcase. At least, Kin’si assumed the agent was Secret Police. They were the only government agents she had spoken to who knew anything about Spurgle’s current whereabouts. She opened it to find the worst news she had received in days.

Inside were test results from the first solution suggested by the Federation military brass to what had come to be known as the “Spurgle Problem.” They had been giving Spurgle drugs since bringing him back to Earth in secret and taking over the human waystation. Videos from a secret room showed Spurgle in frame, struggling to remember what he had gotten up to in the stars when questioned by Federation doctors. Occasionally, a memory would rise to the surface, and Spurgle would begin shouting and would need to be subdued. From the report summary, Kin’si could see that his memories weren’t gone, just suppressed or obfuscated.

Not what she was looking for. His almost-memories would make their scenarios more difficult to pull off. Kin’si wrapped up her direction and called for attention on the set.

“All right, everyone, the doctors just got back to us with not-great news. While he is responding to the chemicals, they aren’t working well. Please keep in mind he will remember certain things about his time in galactic space, so adjust as you need with your improv.” Kin’si walked through the pool area to stand on a diving board. All eyes were locked on her. “We’ll be opening with a group scene, all actors present. You have your canned lines, but you all must improv if needed. Now, everyone, to their places. Remember, he’ll be carted into his room still tranqued. Then it’s show time.”

A tornado of activity followed. From the make-up artists to the set designers, they all finished up the last of their work and got into their places, either behind the gear or out of the way. Actors got into their spots and started “mingling.’” Then he got carted through.

Despite themselves, members of the production stopped to stare at the procession that moved through their presence like a shark in a school of fish. Everyone wanted to get a chance to see the man, the myth, the moron: Andrew Spurgle.

While sedated, he looked almost plain, not at all the same man who had cost the Federation over one hundred million credits in his first thirty minutes inside official Federation space. Not the man who had somehow evaded a three-month-long galactic hunt by always doing the wrong thing at the right time and somehow still coming out on top. His eyelids fluttered slightly as he passed Kin’si, just before he was carted up the stairs, onto the large wraparound mezzanine balcony and into the room he had been renting before he had been accidentally taken by that star’s-forsaken crew.

Kin’si wondered what that crew thought, the one who’d started this whole mess with their choices, now that their stupid accidental stowaway had caused so much trouble. She wondered if they felt guilty, or maybe they didn’t care. The galaxy was a big place: hard to care about all of it.

Spurgle was loaded into his room and the doctors and handlers rushed out. They gave the all-clear that he had been administered his wake-up serum.

Minutes passed, while everyone moved around the complex. Maids mopped and swimmers flopped. Little “children” ran around, jumping into the pool or demanding snacks. Kin’si had to call out one actor for putting a space in the middle of the word “Doritos,” but overall, everyone was doing well.

The door to Spurgle’s room burst open, and the man of the hour stumbled out. The propagandists had shaved him a day or so ago, just so they could get a good layer of unwashed and unkempt stubble on his cheeks. He was supposed to be on a three-day depressant bender, after all.

Spurgle staggered over to the railing and practically fell down the stairs on the way to the ground floor. A few more unsteady steps, and he was grabbing one of the actors by their skin-suit’s arm. If he was paying attention, he might have seen his hand pass just barely into the hologram. Luckily, the drugs were still in his system, making him groggy. He began babbling about being drugged and having weird dreams. The actor shrugged him off, calling him crazy before walking over to a nearby table and sitting down. Kin’si did a double take when she realized Spurgle’s manhandling of the actor had messed up their skin suit and thus the integrity of their hologram. The nose wasn’t settling correctly. Spurgle rounded on the actor, a look of anger as he raised a finger to object to his treatment.

Kin’si called mayday into her earpiece. Another actor, this one bearing a tray of depressant drinks, approached and stepped into the path of Spurgle, proffering up the tray to block his view. Kin’si breathed a sigh of relief as the actor whose suit had been affected adjusted on the fly and manually fixed the issue, yanking his nose back into place before standing and shuffling away.

Spurgle, drink in hand, had by this point wandered away from the second actor and had grabbed another. Kin’si moved closer to hear what he was saying.

“Ook, I swear, man, they put something in the booze here. I had the most insane lucid dream ever!” Spurgle gestured with his drink glass for emphasis.

The actor handled it well and brushed him off. “Look, I really don’t care about your dreams. Besides, I’m not interested in talking to you, especially after last night.” The actor walked away, purposefully not looking back.

Spurgle kept up his attempts, again and again being rebuffed by the actors till he had worked his way through everyone around the pool. Kin’si watched with bated breath to see if their strategy would work.

Quickly becoming exasperated with the other hotel “guests”—in particular, when an Omnikan posing as a beautiful brunette turned down his attempts to talk—Spurgle hurried towards the hotel’s main offices in a huff.

“Okay, Fi’ota, he’s on his way.” Kin’si brought up her tablet, switching the view to that of the camera feed from inside the hotel’s main offices. Spurgle stormed up to the counter and began tapping his foot. Fi’ota, one of their best actors, pretended to be on an Earth phone while ignoring Spurgle.

After over a minute of waiting, Spurgle rang the bell sitting on the counter. Fi’ota knew the intent of this scenario, so he didn’t respond. Another minute and another ding were met with equal enthusiasm from the Federation thespian. Finally, Spurgle snapped.

“Excuse me, do you know who I am?” His tone promised retribution if the answer was anything but yes.

Finally, Fi’ota acknowledged him.

“Yes, sir, I know who you are.” The actor lifted his arm and splayed out his hands, counting off on his “fingers” as he continued.

“Your name is Andrew Carnegie Rockefeller Spurgle.” The words dripped sarcasm.

“You were named for two of the greatest Americans ever to grace the US of A.

“You are the second best used-car salesman in the entirety of the northern part of the southern section of Atlantic County, home to the one and only Atlantic City.

“Oh, and you know a guy who knows a guy, so maybe I should just be careful.”

Spurgle watched, the expression on his face going from rage to embarrassment to shame to cold calculation. The color of his skin shifted with his emotions, like he was some sort of oversized mood ring. Fi’ota continued the tirade.

“Look, sir, I don’t know what you took last night, but trust me, there are no aliens here. Nothing from outer space is coming to get you. You, seeing as you seem to have forgotten, agreed to check out today, sir, to avoid the police getting involved. Remember?” Fi’ota then spun the desk’s computer screen around and hit play on the “tape.”

It was obviously a forgery. It showed Spurgle being an absolute ass to everyone at the hotel. He was practically chasing the other guests around the pool. The hotel security cam caught some of his ramblings, which had of course just been recordings of him rambling that a team had edited to sound like he was talking. Even a man like Andrew Spurgle, from all they had learned of him, wouldn’t risk his reputation back on his home planet.

Kin’si and all of the crew collectively held their breath. Come on, Spurgle. Take the bait.

Spurgle stood rooted in place, his brain seeming to turn over the information they had provided in such a short time. If they were lucky, he would go check his room and discover the various narcotic and hallucinogens they had carefully planted that he had missed when he stumbled out still drugged.

“Can I get a glass of water?” The calm tone shocked Kin’si. She could tell it affected Fi’ota, as well, but he was a great actor. He took it in stride, walking over to a nearby water dispenser and filling a disposable cup, then returning to hand it to Spurgle.

The odious man took out a flask, beginning to pour an amber liquid into the cup.

Kin’si called into her communications unit. “Where did he get that? There should have been nothing in his room but what we left there.” Panicked answers came back quickly. Kin’si began to call for backup to assist Fi’ota.

All the while, Spurgle remained calm. After emptying the entire flask into the cup, he took a single sip, then tossed the concoction into Fi’ota’s face.

Immediately, the hologram equipment around Fi’ota’s neck short-circuited from the harshness of the mixed liquid. The electrical shock caused Fi’ota’s skin suit to rupture. Then, one of his species’ facial manipulator tentacles popped out of the now ruined eye socket of the skin suit.

Spurgle stopped and stared. Two hands went to his head and he fell to his knees.

“Tentacle face? This isn’t Japan…wait, where have I seen that befo—” Spurgle fell to the ground, spouting nonsense about rutabagas and far-off planets before passing out.

The entire set was silent, save for the sounds of Fi’ota yelling in pain and the many boots of the ambulance service running towards the emergency with their anti-grav stretcher in hand. They were in and out in under five minutes, silence returning as their ambulance ship zoomed away. Kin’si called into her earpiece.

“Tthat could have gone better. Let’s reset the domicile, re-drug Spurgle and go from the top. Scenario Two, everyone.”

“…Lograms were not made to be dunked in ethanol, or whatever was in that flask. Turns out no one thought he would have stashed things in the room before he was taken. We’ve made some adjustments to the holograms, so they should continue projection, even if he does that again.”

Kin’si had demanded a solution after seeing the burns on Fi’ota’s face. The last thing they needed was a scandal from their attempts to kill another scandal.

She had also dealt with another round of calls for “slack.” Kinsi rounded up the crew for another chat. “Look, I understand where you all are coming from. Another week of practice would make this airtight, but we don’t have a week. The Federation has given us a month to get this done: a month to end this stain on the reputation of the polity. It took over a week getting everyone here. No more time. No more waiting. The Spurgleites must lose their leader. We’re doing scenario two right now. Everyone into your places, please.”

The set was a flurry of activity. They had double and triple-checked his room for hidden belongings, emptying any receptacles down the sink. He had a few other things from his luggage lying around, but no one could drink or eat them, so they shouldn’t come up.

Spurgle took longer to leave his room this time, likely a result of the heavy tranquilizers they had used to knock him out. When he emerged from his den, his eyes swung back and forth across the pool area. When they settled on the banner that had been erected for scenario two, his eyes immediately lit up.

Splayed across the long white fabric were the words “Raconteur Road Trip ’23.” The actors were scattered around the pool, all “engrossed” in conversation.

Spurgle walked up to one group of actors and joined their talk, eager to join what looked like a party. They welcomed him warmly, speaking to him like they were old friends. The scenario in fact called for it, as Spurgle had already “met” them the previous night. Spurgle seemed taken aback at first, but settled into the gladhanding with ease. However, after half a minute, the look on his face said it all. He walked to the next group and got the same reception.

Four more groups of actors ended with the same results. Spurgle looked dejected, walking over to the main desk, casting his gaze around at the various “people” filling up the lobby.

He knocked on the desk with his knuckles, where an actor was reading a newspaper, and spoke before they could respond.

“Hey, yo, helper man. What’s with these boring eggheads all over the place? They claim to know me and they won’t stop droning on about books and publishing and other crap. Everyone knows books are a thing of the past. TV is the top dog in this country!”

The actor smiled, baring teeth at Spurgle in a gesture that any other species would consider threatening. “Oh, this group is heading to a writer’s convention. The whole hotel is booked. Sorry, sir.”

Spurgle looked like someone had slapped him. “You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s the big game this weekend! Where are all the fans? These boring dorks are gonna ruin my vacation with their boring conversation!”

Kin’si spoke into her earpiece, signaling the actor to make their move.

“Really, sir? You seemed enamored with their conversations last night.”

Spurgle scratched his chin. “I was?”

“Oh, yes, sir, I was working the late shift and saw you chatting with them all for quite some time. You asked a lot of questions about their work. Something about space aliens?”

Spurgle’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. A half-minute passed before he could speak again, muttering all the while. “But that’s nerd stuff. Is that why…” Spurgle slowly trailed off, his voice getting tiny and reserved as his brain processed the information.

“I’m sorry, sir, I missed that. Why what, sir?” The actor emphasized the last word, pushing the syllable for the honorific out till it felt like it hung in the air between them. Kin’si’s heart was in her throat. Come on, Spurgle. You have to buy it. Please!

Spurgle seemed to weigh his options. A few shakes of his head and the choice was made. “Nothing. You don’t need to worry about it. Well, not about that, at least. Look, I can’t stay here now. I’m going to be bored out of my skull!”

The actor put on an apologetic expression and held out two pieces of paper.

“Again, sir, very sorry. We apologize for any inconvenience. Here are vouchers for half off your next stay with Hotel Seven.”

Spurgle stared at the paper as one of the groups of actors talked away behind him in the lobby, debating the pros of writing in first or third person for epic fantasy. Kin’si could see Spurgle’s eyebrow twitching even through the video feed. He snatched the papers and stalked back out into the open air.

Walking like a man on a mission, Spurgle disappeared into his room and all the actors breathed a sigh of relief. The phone at the main desk began to ring. After several hours and three or four calls to room service, he emerged again, visibly annoyed.

Another trip down the stairs and across the pool area took Spurgle back into the main room. Actors called out to him by name, but got no response. Once at the front desk, he was told he “drank” every single bottle in his mini bar the night before, and that the hotel could send someone to refill it soon. No staff was currently available, but they would prioritize him to the best of their ability. Spurgle tried to cajole with cash, but met the brick wall that was an underachieving “employee” enforcing hotel policy.

Spurgle stomped out once again, this time making it halfway across the pool before he found an isolated pool chair and fell into it. He pulled out his phone and set himself to a flurry of Internet surfing. All of his devices were bugged and tracked, so Kin’si got a live feed of what he searched.

The last three months of his “life” were thoroughly combed through, as Spurgle checked over his calendar, made calls and looked through his emails. The calendar appointments had been faked, his friends’ numbers were spoofed with a trained actor on the line using a vocal changer, and all his emails were forgeries. No matter what Spurgle did or who he contacted, he seemed to be coming more and more to the conclusion they wanted.

Kin’si couldn’t help but grin. They were so close! Kin’si could see the award they would give her now. Maybe she could use this to work her way onto a new project? The story of Spurgle was dying to be told on holovids across the galaxy. Who better to direct than the woman who had brought them all closure?

Calls across the comms pulled Kin’si again back to the moment. Apparently, Spurgle had approached an actor and attempted to initiate a romantic encounter. She turned him down, but asked if he wanted to continue their conversation from last night, the one about Space Cats. Spurgle said yes, surprising the actor and everyone else in earshot, before asking her to wait there, then disappearing up the stairs and into his room.

Actors around the area slowly moved towards their colleague, ready to support her if need be. No one had any faith that Spurgle wouldn’t try something.

The man in question returned to the actor’s side and began to speak to her. Even from where Kin’si was positioned on the mezzanine balcony, tablet in hand to watch over and supervise the proceedings, she could see the look of disgust, then confusion wash over the actor’s features. She began to cough, waving an arm to dispel something in the air. A few of the other actors also began to cough, moving away from Spurgle and their colleague. Almost at once, they all stopped and spun on their heels, beginning to slowly walk back towards the conversation. Spurgle paid them no mind, focused on the actor he had hit on earlier.

“Igbi,” Kin’si muttered, “what’s happening?” She could see her assistant standing not too far from the base of the stairs leading up to the balcony. Spurgle would have had to pass him to reach the actor.

“Boss, Spurgle was wafting off some nasty smell. Really pungent, too. He must have sprayed on some of that scent bottle we found, the stuff no one could sniff for longer than a second without gagging.” Igbi waved a hand in front of his skin suit’s nose to emphasize his words.

Out of nowhere, movement near Spurgle caused the entire production to break down into chaos.

First, the actor he had hit on leaped into his arms, planting kisses all over Spurgle’s neck, even beginning to lick skin around his neck and jaw. Another actor grabbed his shirt, shoving their face into the back of Spurgle’s hair and grabbing a handful, yanking his head back in the process. Then, a third grabbed at his coat, reached up and tore open their skin suits mouth. A long proboscis, marking out the actor beneath as a Prokonian, came out and wrapped around Spurgle’s arm, leaving a heavy coating of mucus and drool. More and more crazed actors began to pile on. The whole lot began pushing and pulling Spurgle this way and that until he disappeared under a mob of out-of-control aliens. By the time security had pulled them off the human, he was unconscious from the combined pheromones of so many alien species and had to be resuscitated.

“…Two separate kinds of aphrodisiacs for the Prokonian species alone were found to be in the bottle in large quantities, not to mention the other species that make up the cast and crew. It was inevitable that it would trigger a reaction.” With that, the Federation Secret Police member walked off with his toxicology report, talking into his own earpiece as he did so.

No word on why the Federation Secret Police had missed that little detail when they’d had his belongings in custody for so long. They were the ones in charge of checking his bags and goods. Kin’si knew she wouldn’t get answers if she asked the agent, but sometimes it felt like the universe was set against her.

Igbi patted Kin’si on the arm as she put her head in her hands. Her assistant sat silent for a moment, then spoke. “Perhaps we go with the food scenario?” Kin’si nodded, feeling hollow. Why not? Nothing could be worse than half the cast and crew trying to mate with him.

By now, the day had passed into late evening. The night would soon be arriving. Kin’si and the production had a few nighttime scenarios, one of which involved the food served at the hotel—specifically, its free breakfast option that was supposed to be served in the mornings only.

The crew reset and waited for Spurgle to re-emerge from his rooms.

Spurgle’s door banged open and he emerged, looking like he had seen a ghost. The drugs they were using to force the memories from his mind must not have been working well, because the first thing he did was run down the stairs and grab an actor for an impromptu interrogation about aliens.

This time Kin’si was on the ground floor, waiting near the bottom of the stairs, so she overheard the conversation. The proboscis was brought up, as was all the licking. The actor improvised, leaning into an already planned speech.

“You, too? Geez, whoever spiked those eggs this morning is gonna owe us all big! You need to go to the front desk, get their info down. We all plan to get in on a class action.”

Spurgle looked taken aback. “Wait, what eggs? You saw the aliens?”

The actor nodded emphatically. “Saw ‘em? I wrestled one. It had a wet, spongy ten-ti-cle wrapped around me, good and fierce. I fought it, good Lord, did I fight it, until finally, I was able to separate myself from the thing. It turned out to be my buddy Barry holding a pool noodle. Turns out, he thought he was beating up an alien with its own ten-ti-cle, but it was just yours truly.”

Spurgle’s expression stayed fixed on abject confusion. The actor patted him on the shoulder. “Like I said, you go talk to the front desk. No one knows what got put in them eggs, but we all know it sent us all straight into the stars. If ya don’t believe me, go ask around.”

The actor walked away from Spurgle, calling after his friend “Barry.” Spurgle sat down hard in a pool chair and pulled out his phone.

The scroll session went on longer this time. The same details were perused. By the end, Spurgle dropped his phone onto a nearby table and leaned back, looking up at the night sky slowly darkening above him. He didn’t approach anyone else. He never went inside to complain. He just sat, staring up at the stars in quiet contemplation.

The entire time, Kin’si was losing her mind. What was he doing? What was he thinking? She herself walked by him a few times, trying to get a feel for his energy. He paid her, nor anyone else, any mind.

Far above, the stars began to twinkle and shine, speaking to a galaxy waiting with bated breath. Everything seemed to be at a stillness in that void of dark, glittering dots. Then movement, little bursts of light. At first, the flashes were small, and then they began to grow in intensity. The comms channel bubbled with voices in her ear, all exclaiming in surprise. Kin’si looked at Spurgle and noted his brow furrowing as he took notice.

She spun her gaze around, only to spot the Federation agent fast walking towards Spurgle with his hand on his belt. Kin’si moved to intercept him, blocking his path to the pool chair and grabbing onto his arm.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing!” Kin’si berated the agent. “You could ruin a perfect attempt!”

The agent shoved her out of the way. “Move, Director, or I’ll shoot!” His hand never left his disguised plasma pistol.

“Not if you don’t explai—” The flash in the sky above cut off her words, lighting up the night like a meteor breaking the atmosphere. In this case, it was something much smaller than your average falling star, more the size of a freight ship. Kin’si, the actors, and the agent all tracked the space ship as it cleared the last layer of the atmosphere, on a direct course for them and the hotel. One more battery shot from the Federation ships cloaked in the atmosphere above clipped its engines, sending it into a tailspin.

Kin’si didn’t move as the agent slipped past her and dived onto Andrew Spurgle. She couldn’t take her eyes off the ship cruising down towards them, visible for any human who gave a damn to see. It broke apart into multiple pieces, the fragments crashing into areas of the city. The main piece, the bridge and nose of the vessel, flew unabated towards them, before slamming into the city streets and gouging a track along the roadway until it came to stop fifty or so feet from the Hotel Seven.

Several alien heads popped out the front hatch, looking battered but shouting at the top of their lungs.

“Leader Spurgle! We braved the blockade to save you!” The three who emerged first were immediately swamped by random humans drawn to the crashed craft and the fact that they were very obviously aliens from outer space.

Kin’si ignored the chaos beginning to take over the scene, and likely the city at large. It was over. Her career. Her life.

Kin’si walked over to the pool chair Spurgle had been lounging in, occasionally looking down at Spurgle as he struggled beneath the Federation agent on the ground nearby, screaming the whole time about how he had been right all along. She ripped off the head of her skin suit, letting her mottled Omnikan skin feel the fresh air for a little while.

Igbi sat down next to her, stripping himself of his skin suit and turning off his hologram. The two Federation citizens glanced at each other, then at Spurgle, who was looking at them from his prone position with wide eyes.

Kin’si thought for a moment. Her career was over. No hope for being a big director anymore. She might as well salvage what she could.

“Hey, Spurgle, got any tips on selling used vehicles?”

Drema Little Dream

Lilania Begley

Drema woke up to find herself alone in bed. That wasn’t extraordinary in and of itself, but…

She sat up, slowly, letting the pain flow through her, and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. The morning sun was coming in around the edges of the heavy curtains. She paused, listening, and didn’t hear movement in the house.

Scuffing her feet into slippers, she went in search of coffee. He was probably sitting on the porch in the sunshine, couldn’t sleep, he’d say. The coffee pot was full and hot, having been programmed to do its duty the night before. He was also good about that. Predictable, her husband of forty years. No, it wouldn’t be a full forty for a week. Still, she liked the sound of the word, and said it out loud.

The house soaked it up, empty other than her. The last of the good dogs had crossed the bridge in the winter. They’d talked about a puppy, but the chewing, and the energy. Well.

Drema carried her cup with her through the kitchen and into the entry of their snug home. She couldn’t see the porch from here, so she opened the door and looked through the glass of the storm door. The porch chairs were empty, and a cold chill trickled from her brain down her spine.

She stepped out, and saw that the car was gone, too.

She put the coffee cup down on the porch table and went after the keys to the old farm truck. It didn’t need to take her far. He’d drive into town to the all-night comforts of a bottomless cup of coffee and his crosswords, some nights when he couldn’t sleep. Many a night she’d woken to hear him pull out, or into, the driveway, or feeling him climb into bed with her, chilled. She’d never minded. It wasn’t like he was reeking of alcohol, just that he was restless.

The truck took its sweet time getting started, and Drema cursed under her breath that he’d been too stubborn to carry a cellphone. Not that there was reception at home, but she could have called him and read the riot act.

She pulled into the truck stop a half-hour later, and circled it. Their car wasn’t in the lot. It was too late for any of the night shift to still be on, so she didn’t bother going in.

Steve had always joked the car knew the way better than he did. She headed for home, and once she was out of town, slowed to a crawl with her emergency flashers on, peering into the ditch.

She almost missed it. Two streaks of flattened grass and a greener place where the dust had temporarily been knocked off. There was a patch of mesquite and prickly pear just here. The tracks led into the scrub.

Drema felt her heart kick into overdrive, as she scrambled to put the truck in park while jumping out of it. She didn’t call out. What good would screaming do?

The car was sitting quietly in the middle of the trees, nose just up against one of the wiry mesquite trunks, barely touching it. He can’t have been going very fast.

She opened the door, and his arm didn’t even fall down. His head was resting on the top of the steering wheel, and she knew, before she even touched him. His skin was all wrong, pale and blotchy. The freckles on his scalp where his hair had thinned to nonexistence stood out shockingly against bone-white skin.

Drema was trembling as she fished her phone out of her pocket and checked. She had a signal.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

The voice was familiar. “Dawn, honey, this is Drema. It’s Steve…”

“Drema? Take a breath, tell me what is going on.” The excited tone cooled into a smooth professional timbre after the first word.

“It’s… He’s in the car. Off the road. Not a car accident, his heart…” Drema lost her breath. She didn’t have anything left to make a sound with. She couldn’t breathe.

“Where are you? Can you do CPR?”

“Honey, he’s stiff.” Drema responded without thinking. She gasped, sucking in the air. “He’s gone. He’s gone.”

“Stay right there. I have you. Keep talking to me, okay?”

“Okay.” Drema’s knees were giving out. She didn’t want to sit on the cactus, so she leaned on the car, looking away from the body of the man she’d loved. “Dawn, it’s pretty here. I don’t know if he got to see it, looks like he just kinda drifted off the road. Would have been dark, though. Oh… Oh, I don’t know…”

“Hang in there. The deputy is on his way, and for that matter, so’s the sheriff. He wasn’t on call, but I know he’d want to be there.”

“Thank you.” Drema felt like she was on autopilot. She wasn’t really there; she was sort of off in the distance watching.

“It’s only going to be a few minutes now. Where are you?”

“With him. I don’t want to leave him.”

“Come up to the road so they can see you?” Dawn suggested.

Drema closed her eyes, picturing the slender young woman’s face, full of concern. It helped a little. “The truck’s on the shoulder. I think I didn’t even close the door.”

“I’ll tell them that, then. You don’t have to leave him.”

“You think I’m a silly old woman.” Drema tried to make a joke to ease Dawn’s concern.

“I do not. I know you. I know Steve. He’s the one that’d call you silly with his heart in his eyes.”

Drema turned and looked down at the back of his head, the bald spot he’d usually covered in a gimme cap. “He would. He’d be right here making jokes, if he was going to haunt me.”

She heard a distant siren. “I hear someone coming.”

“Good, they said they’re a minute out.” A second of hesitation, then Dawn reported, “Deputy says he sees the truck.”

“Thank you, Dawn. I’m glad it was you.” Drema slumped back against the car again. She heard the deputy, now, shouting for her. She dropped the phone to her chest, holding it so Dawn wouldn’t be blasted with the sound, and shouted back. It only took a minute for the young man, oddly bulky in his body armor, to come into sight. “Dawn, he’s here. I’m gonna hang up now.”

“I’ll send Mom around to check on you.”

“Thanks.” Drema hung up the phone and met the deputy, who nodded at her before going to Steve’s side, and reaching for his neck to see if there was a pulse.

“Thank you,” Drema repeated to him. She didn’t know why, just then. It was just something to say.

“Drema!” The bass rasp was Bill Whitterly, the sheriff and their friend. Her and Steve and Bill, together since kindergarten. “Drema…” He lumbered up and slowly to a halt. “Damn.”

“Bill, thank you.”

He looked at her funny. “Drema, do I need to call the bus for you?”

Drema felt herself swaying. “I’ll be okay. I don’t need an ambulance. I’ll be fine. Just…not yet.”

Three Years Later

Drema put her fists on her hips, just at the corners of her apron, and scowled down at the laughing face. “Dawn Carolyn Keene, if you think…”

Just what it was her young friend wasn’t supposed to be thinking about was cut off by a ruckus at the front of the small diner.

Both of them turned to look. Dawn had been sitting facing the door, but turned to look at Drema, so neither of them had seen the big black SUV pull into the small parking lot. They could see it now, parked in the poorly marked handicap space, and no tag in sight on the rearview mirror to justify its position right by the front door.

In the entryway was the source of the noise. Two men in suits, so stereotypical that Drema felt her eyebrows try to crawl up off her forehead. And one old farmer wearing a faded red hat.

Words rang clearly out of the confrontation now that she was looking at it and could hear. “…Impeding the paths of justice!”

Drema stalked forward. “What’s going on here?”

One of the men in a suit, the short one with the doughy face, turned and looked down his nose at her. That took some effort, as he was only an inch or so taller than she was.

“I,” he announced after a moment and a contortion of his face she took to mean thought, “am Agent Spurgle, and zie is Agent Ilvan.” A hand gesture, like the flop of a dying fish on the riverbank, indicated the quiet suit topped by a pale face and a shock of neon green hair. That made Drema blink. She didn’t know when they started allowing unnatural hair colors.

“Agent of what, then?” she asked. She’d assumed Feds, but that hair!

“Chaos, maybe?” Dawn showed up at Drema’s shoulder, with a quirky grin and a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Spurgle stiffened and his lips thinned to a smeared line across his face. “I am a federal agent.”

“With…?” Drema prompted. “That don’t thin it down much.”

“Drema?” The quiet voice came from behind the agents. Her eyes shifted focus to the man who’d just opened the door. “Are these men bothering you?”

Fred had managed to disappear, no surprise there. The old farmer was hell on wheels until the rubber actually hit the road. He could work any man into the ground, but he did like to pick fights and then duck the punch right out the back door. Drema’d seen him do that before.

“No, Gray, it’s all right,” she answered him after a moment. “I don’t know why they came in.”

“Perhaps for pie and coffee?” Gray moved forward, and the agents moved out of his way. There was something about Gray Maquire that made people sit up and pay attention to him. Always had been. Drema felt herself relax as he came to stand on her other side. Flanked by Dawn and Gray, there was nothing could touch her.

“I have a fresh pot on,” Drema offered. The agents unsettled her, but business was business.

“We did not come in for coffee.” Spurgle was still stiff and tight-lipped. Next to him, the younger agent gave him the side-eye.

“Pie sounds good, though.” He spoke for the first time in a high voice. “I’d like pie.”

“Can do. Have a seat where you’d like.” The polite professional mask slid into place. “Gray, I’ll bring you a cup. Dawn, honey….”

“I’m just heading out.” Dawn shook her head. “I’m on duty in an hour and I have to let the dogs out first.”

The agents looked at one another, then Spurgle huffed a sigh and followed Ilvan to a table.

Drema turned her back on them and headed for the kitchen. Gray sat at the counter, and she could see him out of the corner of her eye as she grabbed the coffeepot and a mug. Dawn had dropped cash at her table, then leaned over Gray’s shoulder to talk to him. Drema couldn’t hear what she said, but she could guess.

“I can take care of myself.” She poured into the heavy mug, then handed it to him.

“Yes’m,” he agreed meekly. “May I have a piece of that pie while you’re serving?”

She raised an eyebrow and he chuckled. “The ticker is doing fine, and the doc told Irina he’d like to see me put on some muscle instead of losing more weight. So…pie?”

“All right, then.” She smiled at him, and he grinned back. He was looking better than he had a few months back when he’d finally come in after the heart attack. She agreed with his doctor: he’d lost too much weight and was looking gaunt.

“Just one slice?” she asked, taking a few more steps to stand at the agents’ table, coffee pot poised and mugs in hand. “And wouldja like coffee?”

“I’ll take pie. And unsweet tea, please?” The neon hair didn’t indicate a lack of manners, at least.

“Oh, all right.” Spurgle didn’t look like he’d ever heard of the word gracious. “Coffee if you have non-dairy creamer, I prefer soy-based, and pie if it’s gluten-free, which it probably isn’t in this, er, place.” He sneered, looking everywhere but at Drema.

“It’s not gluten-free,” she informed him. “Only cream we got is straight from a cow.” She didn’t tell him that they could make a gluten-free pie, but the cook needed twenty-four hours’ notice. Hopefully, the agents of mystery wouldn’t be in town that long.

“Ugh. Sweet tea, then, nothing else. And no plastic straw!”

On that note, she retreated. As she passed Gray’s position at the counter, which he’d swiveled enough to keep an eye on both her and the agents, she topped up his mug.

“Sounds like trouble.”

Drema snorted. “Just out-of-towners. We do get them in Bluehills from time to time.”

“Like Prius guy, more’s the pity.”

“Didn’t he upgrade to a Tesla?” she asked while getting the pie out of the display cooler. It was sliced already, but she still had to get it on a plate and make the teas up.

“Not for long. Charging station wasn’t workin’ proper and did something to it. He’s back to his old Prius and I hear it cost him thousands just to get a new battery in.”

“He means well,” Drema pointed out, filling her hands with glasses and balancing the small plate of pie expertly. She knew that after the big fires the summer before, there was worse feeling than the contempt towards the environmentalists prior. Having self-proclaimed ecoterrorists setting fires that endangered people and killed stock would do that.

“Eh. Can’t see it, myself. Meaning well and doing good’re two different things.”

Drema served her other patrons efficiently. Ilvan rewarded her with a sliver of a smile, but Spurgle just wiped his glass all the way around with a napkin, frowning.

“Glass of ice water,” he snapped. “You didn’t bring us that.”

Drema bit back her response that he hadn’t ordered one, and silently went to get it. Only when she was carrying the glass back to their table did it dawn on her she had never gotten a straight answer from them about their agency. Spurgle had out a phone and was glowering down at it. She didn’t get a response from him when she put down the water glass, but Ilvan did that glimmer of a smile again. He hadn’t yet started on his pie.

Drema opened her mouth to ask if they needed anything else when Spurgle reached over, grabbed his partner’s silverware, and dumped it unceremoniously into the ice water he’d asked for. She stared as he swished it around for a moment before shoving the glass back toward the younger agent.

Agent Ilvan looked up at her, a sickly expression on his face. “He’s…a bit of a germaphobe.”

Drema turned away, walking toward the big window, which was blocked by the way the black SUV was parked outside. She wasn’t sure she could say something nice, and if a body couldn’t say something nice, better to say nothing at all, she’d learned.

“What are you looking at?” Spurgle was twisted around in his chair.

“There’s a butterfly at the window again.” She pointed at the little thing beating its wings along the glass. “Guess I’ll go shoo him off.”

She made for the door, grateful of the slimmest excuse to escape her unpleasant patrons and grab a breath of fresh air. Also, as she stepped out, flapping her apron at the hapless butterfly, who took the hint and tumbled gracelessly upwards and over the low Diner roof, a way to pull the phone out of her apron pocket and surreptitiously snap a photo of the license plate. She meant to find out more about these men, if they came back again.

Drema walked back into the room; her shoulders squared.

“The pie is delicious.” Ilvan looked up at her, with a real smile.

“I’ll tell the cook, he’ll be real happy to hear it.” Drema saw that he’d cleaned his plate. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No.” Spurgle looked up, his eyes narrowed. “How do you stay in business with so few customers?”

Drema blinked. “Just quiet now, not always.”

“I was hoping to talk to some locals.” He pushed his chair back. “Pursuant to our investigation.”

Drema bit her lip for the second time since she’d met them. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking a leading question about just what that was. Hopefully, they’d leave and never darken her door again.

“Can I have the check?” Ilvan asked quietly, so she almost couldn’t hear.

That, Drema was happy to get them.

As soon as the door swung closed behind the agents, Gray got up from the counter, making a face as he worked out the stiffness from sitting for so long.

“You all right?” he asked.

Drema sniffed and got her disinfectant and clean rag to do the table. “Why wouldn’t I be? I get snotty folks in from time to time. Come to think on it, some of them live here, too.”

“Something about those two was…off.” Gray dropped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I worry about you in here by yourself. Emily quit?”

“Emily went off to school at the end of last summer.” Drema finished her task and looked up at the clock on the wall. “I can manage just fine, and Cookie is just in the kitchen. I’m not here all by my lonely, Gray. I’d like to hire someone in, but, well…” She shrugged. “Not a lot I can do about that right now.”

“Well, if you need help, just holler.”

“Give Irina and Dev my best.” She smiled at the thought of the couple. They’d married on New Year’s Day, with Irina teasing her new husband that he’d never forget their anniversary.

Gray grinned. “Irina is expecting me to bring back a rototiller so she can get the garden in.”

“And you aren’t?” Drema put her hands on her hips and pushed out her chin. “That young woman does…”

“I’ve hired Stan to drop by with his tractor.” Gray interrupted her, laughing. “He’ll get it done in a shake of a lamb’s tail. I didn’t want her trying to do it all herself.”

“Ah.” Drema shook her finger at him. “You baited me!”

“But you’re so cute when you get mad!” He ducked out of the door, narrowly escaping the damp rag she fired off at him.

When the sheriff walked through the door after the lunch rush, Drema realized that Dawn had been talking behind her back, and in the next thought, that perhaps she’d missed something about those two “agents” she should have caught.

“Jed,” she greeted the younger man, remembering not to call him “Young Jed.” Bill, before his retirement the year before, had always referred to his deputy that way. “Can I get you something?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a coffee, Miss Drema.” His slow drawl and wide smile got her to smile back at him.

“So why are you in today?” She got a mug in front of him at the counter. “And don’t tell me it’s for pie. I heard what Debbie said to you.”

He laughed. “My wife’d kill me if I had pie, yes. I came in t’ask for more information on those folks you had this morning.”

Drema pulled a face. “One of them wasn’t so bad, the other was rude as.”

“Which wouldn’t have my dispatcher all in a tizzy. She’s no fainting flower.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Drema shrugged. “They said they were agents, but I notice they didn’t specially say which agency. Might be BLM, they know how most country folks feel ‘bout them. I did take a photo of their license plate.”

“Oh, really?” He leaned over the counter when she pulled her phone out of her apron pocket and pulled it up for him. “Well, it’s a government plate, so they aren’t complete fakers, then.”

“I didn’t think they were.” Drema tucked the phone away again. “Just…they said they were investigatin’ and they didn’t check in with you?”

“Ayup. That’s what got me to wonderin’, too. Can you send me that plate? I think I’ll make a few phone calls.”

“Likely they are long gone.” Drema shrugged.

“Nope. Bill Whitterly called in a suspicious black SUV down his pasture road about an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Drema got the phone back out. “I’ll text it to you.”

Jed finished his coffee, talking to her about his two boys, the oldest having just made the peewee football team, and then he left again. Drema had been tending to the only table of customers when he left, and just waved.

There was a steady trickle of work through the afternoon, and her temporary helper came in for the dinner hours. Drema finally locked up the Diner as the sun was setting, and then she leaned against the entry table for a second, staring at the wall but not seeing the business cards pinned up all over the board. She was thinking about calling Bill. No, she should call Nancy instead. Her friend would be more informative than her husband when it came down to it. Bill was liable to treat it like a professional matter and button his lip.

The little house was always so still when she pulled into the carport. Drema had a routine down pat. Turn the car off and sit there in the dark, breathing, for a little. Then, she’d get out of the car and go inside. Turn on the light, push the switch on the teapot, and put a bag of chamomile lemon blend in her mug to wait for the hot water. While the kettle was heating, she walked through the rest of the house, turning on lights in each room, then off again as she left it. Living room, bathroom, spare room that was her project room, and bedroom always last. From there, back to the kitchen where the water was bubbling in the electric kettle. She didn’t let it come to a boil. The chamomile didn’t do well with boiling water.

Sitting at the kitchen table with her mug, she called Nancy Whitterly.

“Drema!” The other woman’s voice sounded happy, but with an edge of something else. “Drema, you would not believe the day we’ve had here.”

“Do tell.” Drema had the phone on speaker, all the way up, and now she picked up the mug and cradled it in both hands. Spring wasn’t coming fast enough for her arthritis.

“Well, this idiot fed got stuck up the creek road. Bill got out there with the tractor to give him a tow, and when he got there, there’s no one in the vehicle.”

“What happened to them?” Drema pictured the pair in her head. She really couldn’t imagine why they would have tried to walk back to town from that far out. It was at least ten miles.

“Them? Bill said they found one, on top of the feeder. We think the cows chased him up there. City folks.” She finished with a snort of disgust.

“On top of the feeder?” Drema repeated. “If the agents are the same as were in the Diner this morning, there were two, a young green-haired fellow, and a doughy rude guy.”

“Yeah, the cattle feeder out there has a shelter over it, for storms. Must be the same guys. Bill said he looked like he’d fallen in the pond and come out all green.”

“So where is the other one?”

“Good question. I’ll let Bill know we missed one. He won’t like hearing that.” Nancy laughed.

“But it’s dark already. Surely he can’t still be wandering around out there. Why didn’t his partner tell you guys about him?”

“He fell off the feeder and hit his head. I told you, it’s been a day. Had the ambulance out and he must still be unconscious. They took him to the hospital.”

Drema put her mug down and started giggling.

“What? It’s a tragedy!” Nancy started to giggle, as well. “I should…”

“Go tell Bill,” Drema finished for her when the other woman couldn’t finish her sentence. “I’m sure I’ll hear all about this tomorrow when the old guys come in.”

“Night, Drema!” Nancy didn’t hang up right away, and Drema heard her faintly shouting “Bill!” before the phone clicked off.

Drema stared at the phone for a moment. She hadn’t expected that, and yet, somehow she’d known the agents meant trouble when they’d walked into the Diner. Tomorrow she’d get it all from those aforementioned old guys, who were the town’s main source of gossip. Old ladies had nothing on retired old men with time on their hands.

What was it they’d been saying to Fred? About the course of justice? That didn’t sound like one of the other agencies. It sounded to her like something an FBI agent would say. And why would that agency be in town? The ecoterrorism cell had not been based in Bluehills, and the fires had mostly petered out before getting this far.

None of it made sense. Drema finished her tea and rinsed the mug, then headed towards bed. On a bad night, she’d sleep on the couch. Tonight, she thought that the bed would be a good idea. She’d debated for some time after Steve passed about getting a different bed and sleeping in the spare room, but…he’d felt close, still, in their bed. The last year or two of his life, they hadn’t slept together often with his insomnia, but it had felt like a treat when they did.

She crawled into bed and pulled the quilt over her, falling asleep almost immediately. It didn’t last long, though. Her bladder didn’t wake her, but something had, and the bladder took advantage of that momentary arousal. Drema swung her legs over the edge, grimacing against the arthritic joint pain. Summer was coming, with a temporary ease. It was taking its sweet time, though.

She shuffled into the bathroom and when she came back out, got the heavy robe off its hook. Sleep would be elusive for a while, she knew. Turning on the light over the sink, she got a glass of water and looked out of the kitchen window, and into a pale oval blur.

She didn’t scream. Drema was rather proud of that, later. She may have squeaked, but it wasn’t one of those dramatic screen shrieks. She jumped back from the window and whatever…whoever was outside, they got close enough for her to make out it was a human in the light of the window, but a very dirty one with dark smears all over its face. Then it disappeared again.

Drema went for the shotgun, and her cell phone, in that order. She dialed 911 with a trembling hand and put the phone to her ear.

A familiar voice intoned the greeting.

“Dawn, honey, it’s Drema. There’s a…a person outside the house.”

“Drema!” Dawn’s voice got warmer. “I’m sending someone. You stay inside, now?”

“I am. I have the shotgun.” Drema remembered something. “I didn’t lock the door!”

“Drema!”

“I never do. Way out here? Who’d…” Drema dropped the phone on the rug and raised the shotgun to her shoulder as the door knob started to rattle.

“Go away!” she shouted. “I’ve called the police!”

There was an angry, inarticulate yell from the other side of the door, and the knob turned all the way.

“Don’t come in here! I have a gun!” Drema shouted desperately.

The door swung open, and she fired a single barrel as the dark figure came through it.

From the recordings, later, they determined that the deputy, and on his heels the ambulance Dawn had dispatched based on the sounds she was hearing through the phone lying on the floor, had arrived seven and eight minutes later, respectively. A lifetime, Drema said, when you’re holding a kitchen towel to the guts of the man you’d just shot breaking into your house.

“Next time,” Bill Whitterly had said, all out of patience in his concern for her. “Pull the trigger again!”

But that would be much later. For the immediate aftermath, Drema had forgotten about the dropped phone, so Dawn shouting at her didn’t break her focus on trying to save the life of the idiot who’d thought she was posturing at him.

“Or,” Bill had added. “Load slugs. I have slugs in that gauge, I’ll bring a box ‘round to you.”

At the time, Drema had been muttering that she’d oughta loaded birdshot, she didn’t really want to kill him. Just…why had he been so stupid to open the door? She’d warned him!

Agent Spurgle’s eyes rolled into his head and he writhed, screaming like a little girl. He was a mess. Not just from her shot, but now she had a good look at him, he had blood and bruises all over his face. His black suit coat was gone, and his white shirt hung in rags. His tie looked chewed, half of it was missing, and what was left was so tight around his throat Drema couldn’t get it loose with only one hand, and finally gave up because it was apparent from all the noise he was making that he could breathe.

He was also cursing a blue streak in between screams. Drema tuned that out, but the recordings were educational, Dawn reported on playback.

When the flashing lights appeared in the dark, Drema felt a rush of relief, but she kept holding her makeshift compress in place. The Deputy pounded up her front steps, gun in hand, then stopped and holstered it.

“Miss Drema!” He knelt on the other side of the man. “What happened?”

“I shot him, what does it look like?” Drema snapped. “Is the ambulance coming? I really don’t want him to die, even if he has made a godawful mess on my rug.”

“Shot him? He looks like he’s been beaten to a pulp.”

“I don’t know what that’s about. He looked that way when he fell through the door.” Drema shuddered.

The young officer misinterpreted this. “Do you want me to take over holding pressure on the wound?”

“I’d like you to check and make sure there’s no one else lurking out there!” Drema knew she was more than a little tart, but she was really upset. “I’m sorry, I just…”

“No, ma’am, you’re right.” He got to his feet, pistol out again, muzzle safely away from her. “I was worried about you.”

“I appreciate that. Now, git!”

The ambulance showed up about then. Drema was relieved when the paramedics took one look at the situation and came with the gurney.

The soft drawl of the Louisiana transplant made her shake her head.

“Drema, darlin’, you know you coulda’ let him bleed out.”

“I could not, Kelly Dawson.” She glared up at the tall paramedic. “I am a Christian woman and it is my duty to…”

“Not finish what you started?” He grinned. “Let me get my hands in there and take a measure of your work. Damn, woman, did you buttstroke him, too?”

“Language!” Drema snapped, relinquishing her position to his expertise. “Did no such thing. Someone else beat the livin’ daylights out of him. All I did was put a load of Number Four shot in him.” She looked up for the first time at the door. “Well, most of it’s in my door. That’s going to be a mess.”

“I think I need to take you shootin’ and teach you about premature trigger pull,” he joked, his hands busy with his patient. “Cher, you got that IV bag?”

The other silent medic had it all ready. He handed it to Dawson, who held it with his free hand while Jay Grace got the needle in and started.

“Nice stick, Jay.” The garrulous medic looked over at Drema. “We’re going to load this piece of scum, but do you want us to check you over, too?”

“I’m fine.” Drema felt her knees wobble, belying her words. “You get him somewhere else. I don’t want to see him again.”

Five Months Later

Drema had hoped to never see Agent Spurgle again, so she tried not to look in his direction as she walked into the courtroom. Her lawyer walked beside her, and chuckled, then informed her in a low voice, “He won’t even make eye contact.”

“I’m right here, Drema.” Gray squeezed her hand, then let it go. She tried to take a breath, but her chest was too tight to get it in. She smiled at him, then joined her lawyer at the defendants table in the front of the tiny courtroom. Gray, Dev, and even Irina, whose baby bump had turned her elegant stride into a waddle, sat right behind her.

The Diner was closed, so Cookie was there, too. He sat slouched in one of the fabric and bent-metal chairs, his heavily inked arms folded over his narrow chest, scowling at Spurgle. The surprising face was Hector Ilvan, who had showed back up in Bluehills a month after the incident, and had walked into the Diner asking if they minded teaching him how to wash dishes.

He’d run his thin pale hand over his even paler stubbled scalp, and dug at the linoleum tiles with his toe.

“I feel bad. And they fired me. And…you were decent to me.”

“Plus, Cookie makes good pie.” Drema had put her fists on her hips. “Just how long do you plan on stayin’?”

The comment about pie had gotten her that sliver of a smile, but now she got wide eyes. “I don’t know. I…I don’t have anything else to do for now.”

“Hmph. We’ll see.”

He’d turned into a very quiet, hard worker, and was Drema’s right-hand man, and she’d caught Cookie teaching the kid how to make piecrust just the other day. It was going to be interesting.

Drema smoothed her skirt and looked up at the empty judges’ dias. This was going to be far more interesting than she’d wanted it to be.

“Drema!” Nancy’s voice, even at the volume Nancy considered muted, and Bill’s equally loud “shh!” behind her got Drema to look around. Her friends were settling into the second row, and the courtroom was nearly full. Dawn wasn’t there, nor Jed, nor the young deputy. They were all to be called as witnesses.

“All rise.” The invocation caught her by surprise, and she lurched to her feet, her lawyer’s hand steadying her elbow. He shot her a concerned look, so she mustered a smile for him.

Judge Bertholomey walked into the court and looked around. His usual cheerful smile was absent, and he looked older and grayer than the last time Drema had seen him. He took his seat, and then they took theirs, the whole room rustling, sounding of falling leaves.

“Your Honor.” The prosecutor no sooner touched his seat than he was back up, like there was a spring in his pants. “Move to dismiss, as this case properly belongs in a federal court and is therefore out of jurisdiction.”

“Denied.” The judge didn’t even look up from the papers he was arranging in front of him. “This court has jurisdiction, as the victim was not on official duty at the time in question, and was not pursuing a federal investigation.” He looked up and over his silver-rimmed reading glasses at the portly lawyer. “In short, he was on his own personal time, and minding his own personal business, and in that light, will stand in front of this court.”

Drema blinked. She’d known, from the newly-shorn Ilvan, that the whole thing had been a rogue operation. Even though he was simply following his partner’s lead and orders, it had been laid down that he should have questioned what was going on. And he had been suspended, then terminated, from the agency where he’d only been in his probationary period. Spurgle, on the other hand, was put on administrative leave, then on desk duty. Life was not fair.

The charges were read out. Drema knew them. Grievous assault, attempted murder…it was nonsense. She hadn’t even known who was opening the door until far too late.

Her lawyer stood in his turn. “Not Guilty.”

Drema tuned out much of the wordplay that took up the court’s time.

“The bruising was not caused by my client,” the tone was dry, “but by a guard burro, when the, er, victim attempted to trespass into a livestock pasture.”

Drema looked over at Spurgle for the first time, noting that his face was still as puffy and misshapen as it had been, just not so bruised any longer.

“The victim’s injuries were severe,” the prosecutor was saying now. “We enter into evidence the medical records from the night in question.”

Judge Bartholomey leaned forward and took the file, then flipped it open. In taking a bench trial rather than a jury, Drema’s lawyer had counted on a fair and reasoned man, which Drema had heard about the judge. He didn’t live in Bluehills, of course. They’d had to have this at the county seat. She shifted in her chair.

The judge’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he read, then he looked up. “I see that the injuries inflicted by the shotgun were…two?”

“That’s correct,” Drema’s lawyer confirmed. “Only two pellets from Mrs. Moran’s weapon actually hit, ah, the victim as he entered her home.”

“And including Mister…” The judge very slightly emphasized the honorific and added a pause to drive home his point. “…Spurgle’s complete emasculation, which I imagine was painful beyond words, the rest of these injuries were already present when he attempted to unlawfully enter the defendant’s personal residence.”

“Well, yes.” The prosecutor started to sputter.

“We would like to enter the 911 recording into evidence at this time.” Drema’s lawyer was on his feet, his voice calm and smooth. “It should be quite enlightening as far as the chronology of the evening goes.”

Drema hadn’t remembered her phone until long after she’d dropped it. Dawn, being a brilliant young woman with great foresight, had kept the line open and recording until Drema had finally come back to it. The entire thing, from her warning, the gunshot, and then the exchange with the paramedics, had been caught. Including Drema’s conversation with the young deputy after Spurgle had been carted away, where Drema told of her seeing the horribly strange face through her window, and then someone trying to open the unlocked front door.

It was surreal to listen to it, and even more strange when the judge, frowning, locked eyes with her after the recording ended and silence fell in the room.

“Mrs. Moran, I trust you now lock your doors?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she answered.

“Good, I’m glad to hear that. It terrifies me to think what could happen if you did not.”

“Judge…” The strangled outburst ended in a yelp, from his lawyer kicking Spurgle sharply in the ankle.

The judge ignored Spurgle and looked at the prosecutor, his eyes narrowed. “I should ask pointed questions about how you got this case past a grand jury. However, I shall simply ask if you have anything pertinent to add to your case, such as it is.”

The prosecutor gaped a couple of times, like a landed fish. Spurgle shot to his feet.

“She shot me!”

“Indeed, she did.” The judge glared down at him. “You should count yourself very lucky that she did not discharge both barrels, and she was decent enough to apply prompt and efficacious first aid. I am not certain that I would have been so restrained in the face of a home invasion, Mr. Spurgle.”

“Sit down!” the prosecutor hissed at Spurgle.

Spurgle ignored him.

“This is a farce!” His voice broke and ended on a squeak. “I am an Agent...”

“Bailiff.” The judge’s low, firm command came before Spurgle could announce what he was. “Please…”

The burly officer frog-marched Spurgle, who was now screaming incoherently, yet somehow profanely, out of the room. Silence fell again.

Neither lawyer said anything, and the judge was staring upwards at the ceiling for a couple of minutes. Finally, he lowered his eyes.

“I have been trying,” he said, “to come up with a good legal reason this case came before me in the first place, and failing. However, since Mr. Spurgle will be enjoying the hospitality of this court until such time as he has repented of his gross contempt, I cannot call it a complete miscarriage of justice. Mrs. Moran, please stand.”

Drema got to her feet, feeling the same wobble in her knees that she’d had when Spurgle had been carried away from her porch, leaving behind him only bloodstains.

“Rest assured that this will not leave so much as a blot on your record.” The judge leaned his elbow on the desk in front of him, and crooked his finger. “If the prosecution and defense will approach?”

Drema sat again at a nod of approval from her lawyer as he went around the table to join his compatriot in a huddle with the judge. It went on for some time in such hushed professional tones that Drema couldn’t make out what was being said. She didn’t care. She was out from under the cloud of the last several months. She took a deep breath, then another.

The rest of it was anticlimactic. The judge said a few words, which blurred together for Drema. Then the whole room rose to their feet again while the judge left. Then, it was a babble of sound. The prosecutor, Drema saw, slipped out the side door. Her lawyer offered her a handshake, and then the next person in her vision was Gray, holding out his arms. She leaned into him, feeling a little bubble of a hysterical sob rise and pop to the surface.

“Hey, now.” He tipped her chin up. “You’re all right now?”

“Yes.” She clung to him, feeling people pat her shoulder and back. “Yes, I’m all right.”

“Come home with us tonight,” he suggested.

Drema felt her cheeks heat, and he chuckled. “That’s not what I meant, we do have a guest room. Unless you want…” He winked.

“Gray! Behave!” Irina smacked her father-in-law on the bicep. “Drema, please do come home with us. We…we’re a little worried about you.”

“I’ll be all right,” Drema repeated stubbornly. “He’s going to be in jail.”

“Miss Drema?” That was Hector Ilvan, less pale than when he’d come to work for her, his cheeks flushed. “I think it would be a good idea.”

She blinked. “All of you ganging up on me?”

Cookie nodded, looming over the slight Ilvan. Drema threw her hands in the air. “All right, I give. I’ll go with the Macquires tonight.”

“And…” Bill Whitterly pushed his way to the front. “Jed said to tell you that one of his boys will run by your place a couple of times to keep an eye on it.”

“I…” Drema couldn’t find a word, and then her eyes welled up.

“We should get you someplace quiet.” Gray tucked her hand into his elbow. “Dev, if you would?”

Dev took point and used his cane to make it clear that the crowd should give way, and Irina fell in behind Drema. They got out of the courthouse and Gray tucked her into the truck.

“Drove in separate from Dev ‘n Rina,” he said gruffly, climbing in on his own side. “Was hoping I’d get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Take you home with me.” He pulled onto the road out of town. “I know you’re a strong woman. Admire that. I’d…like to spend more time with you. Most of it, matter of fact.”

Drema looked over at him, at the lean face with the shock of silver hair above it. He’d cleaned up for court, and looked distinguished. She thought of Steve, and a faint echo of masculine laughter rang through her memories.

“I’d like that, too, Gray.”

She unbuckled, earning a startled glance from him. Scooting over quickly on the benchseat, she buckled into the middle belt. Gray got an ear-to-ear grin on his face before draping one long arm over her shoulder and drawing her near. She nestled into his side and felt him ease up on the accelerator.

They would take their time getting back to the house. They had time.

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Table of Contents

- Foreword
- 1. It All Started With A Raccoon
- 2. The Scandal
- 3. Bollocks
- 4. The Spurgle Convention
- 5. The Good, The Bad, and the Bedbugs
- 6. Paws-Off Spas
- 7. No Country For Dumbasses
- 8. Table Manners
- 9. Once More, With Feeling
- 10. Drema Little Dream
- Also From Raconteur Press