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Excerpt from Trick or Treat, A Halloween Carol

The full moon played hide-and-seek behind the billowing black clouds rushing across the night sky. Its pale beams lent a drizzle of light to the dozing lawn as the moon rose above the yard’s shivering oak. As Emily Breakfield slammed closed the shutters and extinguished the porch lantern, the whispering wind tugged at her skirts and tossed leaves from the yard about her feet. This was the type of night she expected. Hooligans all. Even the wind. She stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind her.

“That’ll be enough of that.”

She was in August Grove to visit her uncle, Luther Bradford Killgore, the owner and publisher of the August Grove Herald newspaper. August Grove Herald. She allowed the name to rest on the tip of her mind for a moment. Her uncle had some kind of inspiration… or stroke… last year and changed the paper’s name from the August Grove Tribune. She found neither name more inspirational than the other, but Uncle Luther had been odd of late. He’d taken to feuding with an old black woman over the oddest things, including the name of his newspaper. And the ownership of his house. So bizarre.

Tonight, he insisted the house stay alight all evening for any children who might come seeking candy. “Trick or treating” is what he’d called it. She’d never heard the like. And with that, he had retired for the night, leaving her with the duty of doling out treats.

“Utter foolishness. In my opinion, the law should punish any parent who allows their child out tonight.” Emily crossed her arms, mimicking her mother’s favorite stance. She had no children of her own, but she was certain all—adults and their little ones—ought to be home in a warm bed on a night like this, just as she was going to be. She had extinguished all the lights because she had no intention of entertaining rapscallions all evening. “Halloween and… what is it again? Trick or Treat?” She snorted. “Absolute rubbish.”

She crossed to the desk in the alcove beyond the foyer. She picked up her uncle’s photograph and considered his face. In the years of her childhood, she had found her uncle dashing with his firm jaw and deep-set eyes. But he had changed so much. Most of his altered appearance had to do with age, of course, but the odd and furtive ways his eyes moved, the sour set of his mouth… she felt certain there was some sort of emotional malady he was coping with, and the family had sent her to… well, to keep watch over him.

“Such a shame.” She replaced the photograph and reached for a book from the shelf above. This was a novel she’d been wanting to read. She took it and went back to the door. It didn’t hurt to check the locks one more time.

“Look at yourself, Emily Louise Baily. Uncle’s oddness is beginning to affect you.”

She shivered.

Luther had told the entire family about the ghosts who supposedly changed his life. Her mother had laughed and told him we had all read Mr. Dicken’s Christmas Carol. But he shook his head adamantly. “This is no Christmas story,” he said. “And who would want you to believe such an occurrence happened at Christmas? There might have been a shred of credibility to that story if Scrooge’s encounter with the sheeted dead had happened on Halloween.”

Her uncle had slapped his palms on the dining room table, startling even the maid. “No. She did it. That so-called herald. She sent those things… ghosts… to tell me of the wrongdoings of our grandfather, and to warn me I was on the path toward much the same. They were civil war soldiers and—”

“Brad!” Mother was the only person on earth who could call her brother by his childhood name. “Please control yourself. No one is questioning your veracity, but you must admit, ghosts… in your…” Mother raised an eyebrow. “Where did this… event… occur?”

He sat back and straightened his tie, but the harsh, haunted look in his eyes remained. “The event, as you call it, happened in my home, of course. This past October, on Halloween. All Hallows Eve, as some refer to it, the—”

“Luther,” father said, “is this some sort of joke?”

“Sam, you’ve known me over thirty years,” my uncle said. “Have you ever known me to joke?”

Daddy frowned. “No. No, I can’t say I have. Not even at university.”

“I’m not a joking man. That woman… that witch… she sent them because I changed the name of the paper to Herald. I had found a note in father’s papers, one written by Grandpa Earnest. Grandpa had intended to change the name of the paper, but he died that very night. So, to honor him…”

“That’s a wonderful reason to change the name,” mother said. “What is this woman’s objection?”

Perspiration beaded on my uncle’s face, and he wiped it away with his dinner napkin. “She says she is the only herald in August Grove, and as long as the paper bears that name, I can expect to have… trouble. Troubles. That’s what she said. And I have. From broken gears in the press, to my employees coming down with strange maladies, to—”

“But those are just normal inconveniences,” father said.

Luther cast his eyes around the table as if searching for help. “Yes, and I treated them as such. That’s why she sent the ghosts.”

“That’s quite enough,” mother said. “We… we believe you, Luther. All right? Let’s just finish dinner before we discuss this further.”

But they didn’t.

That was three years ago.

There were plenty of stories her uncle might have told that night. “But ghosts?” She loved the old man, but balderdash. All of it. Yet he persisted with the tale every time one of them asked.

She took her dripping candle from the desk and, as she passed, grabbed her shawl from the nearby settee. Uncle Luther was every bit as stubborn and cheap as that character, Scrooge. To her mind, he could do with a dose of generosity, wherever it came from. Emily drew the shawl around her shoulders and shivered as she muttered, “This house is like a tomb.”

But two bowls of fresh apples and treats sat on the console table beside the door. Real candies! She couldn’t imagine what he paid for those. “He should have spent that money on coal.”

The pendants on the table’s astral lamp tinkled at the rapping on the door. Emily snorted and moved off toward the sitting room, where she had a warm fire by which to read her book.

However, the rapping persisted. Unable to settle into her novel with all the noise, she returned to the door. “Go away!” she shouted through the wooden panels.

“Trick or treat!” came the cheerful replies.

Emily cracked the door. Three tiny children, less than waist high and draped in white sheets, stood with their pillowcases held high.

“We have nothing for you. Go away!” She started to close the door.

“Mr. Scrooge always has treats for us,” one of them said.

“It’s a bargain he made with our brothers,” said the second.

“If you don’t give us our treat, our brothers will come next with a trick,” said the third.

“Balderdash and malarky! Get off my porch.” Emily slammed the door.

By 10pm, Emily was deep in her book. No children had called after the ghosts, and she’d enjoyed the evening. Only embers glowed in the grate when, again, there came a sharp rapping at the door. “Why aren’t the little monsters in bed?”

She flung open the door to find three full-sized ghosts, white sheets drifting, with baleful red eyes peering at her. “Trick or treat,” they said.

She glared at them. “You three are too old to be out begging. Begone.”

“We came for our bargain,” one ghost said.

“You treat or we trick,” said the second.

Said the third in a grumbling tone, “Treats and good fun or our fathers will come.”

“And they’ll face my gun!” Emily slammed the door. “Face my gun.” She laughed all the way up to her bedroom.

The chiming of the old clock woke her at midnight. That clock hadn’t worked since she was a child. She sat up in bed, a shiver scurrying down her spine. Sounds… No, words… booming like claps of thunder.

“Trick or Treat!”

Three creatures of horrible countenance, perhaps ghosts since they were translucent, hovered at the foot of her bed, accompanied by the near-deafening clank of chains and howling wind. Curtains swung out and away from windows, and the bed’s heavy drapes billowed and flew. Emily cowered beneath her quilts, too terrified to move or scream. Where was her uncle?

“The bargain was broken,” said the shortest.

“You provided no treat,” said the one in the middle, his head speaking from beneath his arm.

“’Tis the trick, then,” boomed the tallest.

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Excerpt from HOLE Cards, Chapter 1

Something like a tingle, then more a twinge, centered itself between Dash Coffin’s shoulder blades. She squirmed, the sensation deepening to a hot, not-quite-agonizing slice. As the pain worsened, she considered what Nietzsche meant when he said, "If looks could kill.” Glaring pricks. Hate-filled gazes. Staring daggers into someone’s skin…

That kind of stuff.

The stabbing pain in her back, directly over the spine, intensified.

Perhaps mirroring her unease, all fifty-three cards of the poker deck she carried in her jeans pocket riffled slightly. Dash patted the pocket, but the gesture did little to reassure her or her cardboard companions. The atmosphere in the musty hallway felt too much like a stroll to an execution.

Dash shrugged and rotated her shoulders as she trudged along, and all the while, her mother’s titanium-sharp gaze continued to slice into her flesh. That brand of animosity was not unanticipated. Her glowering and suspicious parent was preparing for her youngest child’s next lie. But there wouldn’t be one. Not today. Her mother was doing Dash a favor by letting her move back home. Lying to the person doing you a kindness was bad juju.

Even if the provider laced that kindness with venom.

As a child, Dash questioned how her mother seemed able to inflict pain upon her without a single touch. After leaving August Grove, she convinced herself it had been her childish imagination. But the pain had always felt so real. She wondered if her mother’s hatred of her had become an actual weapon. Was that even possible?

Shivers barged their way into her already aching back. The ability to weaponize an emotion into a physical threat was a terrifying idea.

At the doorway to her childhood room, Dash’s stomach pinched. The place was even smaller than she remembered. With its raw wooden floor, unpainted planked walls, and single exposed bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling, Dash could think of only one word to describe it. Unfinished. And like her, an afterthought. She took a deep breath and sought the shinier side of the coin. That poor wizard boy had slept beneath the stairs. As a child, that lovely bit of fiction always reminded her there were worse places to sleep than a butler’s pantry. At least she’d had a window.

Dash once again patted her pocket, trying to calm the squirming deck within. When the cards were this nervous, it was never a good sign. But they had a lot of nerve getting antsy now. That damned near sentient set of cardboard hustlers and heifers was the reason she was in this current mess. Completely their fault. Must go home, they said. Must hurry, they said. Return now, they said. They had nagged her night and day until she relented.

Not something she wanted to do at all, but she came. She had packed her duffle and got on a plane, another thing she wasn’t all that crazy about. The cards had only ever pressed her so hard about one thing, and she hadn’t listened. And she’d paid dearly for that mistake. With them raising such a ruckus, she knew whatever was happening was serious. Dash sighed. It damned well better be. She could be somewhere enjoying something. Anything. Anywhere. Except back here in August Grove.

She sighed again. “Home, sweet home.”

The words, though hollow in her mind, sounded less like a lie than Dash expected. Maybe because, somewhere beyond the brazen bull of not giving a damn, she didn’t lie. She wished it was home. It just wasn’t. The cramped and decrepit room held too many ghosts. They collected in the corners like frightened dust bunnies, crumpled boxes of them—church programs and religious pamphlets and “good girl” indoctrination paraphernalia—all reminders of the person her mother had wanted Dash to be.

And the innumerable times Dash failed her.

Louise continued to stand in the hallway, bent over like an owl, eying Dash as she always had, as if her child were a zoo specimen or lab rat. The woman would never come into the room; at least not when Dash was in it. She would come and prowl around, search Dash’s things, and sometimes trash a book when her daughter was at school. She’d use house cleaning as her reason for being in there, except she never so much as swept an inch. Maybe she’d done so when Dash was a baby, but from the time Dash could remember, her mother never cleaned her room or otherwise stepped foot in it to care for her. Never. She spent all her affections on her sons.

“Just like you left it. Ten years ago.” Her mother leaned on her crutch and frowned into the space. “Still your room… Dashira.”

Dashira was her given name, of course, but only a handful of people ever called her that. And no one ever said it with the same intonation, uttered it with the same inflection, as her mother. She said “Dashira” as if the very word left a foul taste in her mouth. Louise Williams spoke her only daughter’s name like it was a curse.

Suddenly, for Dash, ten years away didn’t seem nearly long enough.

A cold, hard lump formed in the back of her throat as she tried to ignore the old feelings her own name conjured for her. Bad feelings, and that was so terribly wrong. No one should ever make a child hate their own name. Dash fought back her mounting rage. Anger, and the cold need to lash out, served no purpose in the here and now. She’d done enough of that in her nightmares. No, she needed to be in the moment. This moment. Instead of giving in to the scream collecting in her throat, she nodded, summoned a rebellious smile, and surveyed her old accommodation.

So much stuff in such a small space. Dash marveled at the amount of junk she accumulated as a child. More surprising was how much of it remained in the eight-by-ten-foot space. She had never attributed sentimentality to Louise—

Funny. Now that she was back home, groveling for a roof over her head, calling her mother by her first name didn’t sit right in her mind’s mouth. She tried it out. Louise… Mother… Neither felt right, but she knew instinct would fill in the blank when the time came.

Again, the books, plaques, and awards drew her eye. She’d never considered her mother to be a sentimental woman. In fact, sentimentality was a disease her entire family seemed immune to. Except her. Dash had to learn, the hard way, that letting your heart rule your actions could get you killed. She shook her head. Now was not the time to relive that memory.

But oblivious to her desires, as usual, her heart went there. “Is Pete still around the house?”

“Who?” Her mother straightened. “Who’s Pete?”

“You know… that one-eared dog that used to hang around.” Dash smiled at the memory. “I used to sneak my food from my plate so I could feed him at night. He was a nice dog.”

Louise frowned. “That mangy thing is probably dead. I had Animal Control pick it up as soon as you left.” She snorted. “Might have called the next day. At any rate, ten years gone. Thing would be dead now, anyway.”

“Yeah.” Dash sniffed, hard, and turned her back to her mother. That dog had lived under the house, beneath her little room, and they would fall asleep at night—her on the floor with her blanket, staring down through the cracks between the floorboards at his shiny eyes. He always seemed so happy to have company. As was she. Dash hadn’t been a little kid back then, maybe ten or eleven, but Pete was still the doll, teddy bear, and old stuffed animal she never had, all rolled up into a warm, living thing. Back then, if she could have found a way to do it, she would have dragged him, fleas and all, up into her bed.

Dash sniffled again. The day she ran, she couldn’t… she didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to Pete. If only she had taken him with her—

A hard sneeze dragged Dash’s attention back to the present.

“That’s the dust.” Louise rapped the doorframe with her metal crutch causing chunky bits of gray to drift to the floor. “I don’t get around so well anymore. The entire place needs a good cleaning.”

She had told Dash, even before allowing her to enter the house, how arthritis had plagued her for all the years Dash had been gone. In recent months, she’d said with lowered eyes, the disease threatened to immobilize her as it ruthlessly attacked her lower spine.

Dash had recognized the guilt shot and the follow-on play for sympathy. As she scanned the room, she acknowledged her mother might have a legitimate excuse not to clean. Now. But as her tear-filled eyes danced across the dresser, chest-of-drawers, and bookshelf—each covered with a ten-year-old layer of dust, that was as close to sympathy as Dash could manage. Something less than charitable within her concluded Karma was a bitch.

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The Painted Trunk, Chapter 1

People started and turned… some even stared. I guess I was making quite the racket with the sharp pop-and-clack of my heels striking the sidewalk. The sound ricocheted off buildings despite early evening foot traffic and noisy vehicles. I imagined the hard wooden heels chanted, resounding for everyone to hear, “The woman is pissed… the woman is pissed… the woman is…”

And I was. I’d left angry, maybe even furious, a quarter-block back. “That sorry, pinched-nosed, pencil-necked asshole!”

And my father… “Oh, that… man!” He had set me up. Again. A date with the offspring of a buddy. A cop’s kid who wasn’t a cop. Dad’s son-in-law of choice, apparently. And like the many times before, this guy was an absolute ass. But make no mistake, he far excelled the other idiots. This one was extraordinary.

He began the evening by criticizing my wardrobe, followed by snide comments about my hair. He even wondered, out loud, if I really had to wear glasses. Maybe I wore them because I thought they made me look smart.

“UUUGGGGHHHH!” I should have punched his ugly smirking face right then.

But no. I tried to smile it all off, to just once, make it through one of these nightmare encounters. But he had more to say.

The ass insulted my name. He didn’t like the name Tabitha. “Why didn’t you pick another name to put on your books? I mean, Tabitha… what a stupid name. Spencer’s not too bad, but that’s not your name, is it? Do you even sell books with a corny name like that?”

How desperate would I have to be to spend a nanosecond in that jerk’s company?

Someday, I'd get Dad to understand that all I needed was time… if he'd only give me a break. And I had to wonder… if my mother hadn’t died when I was nine… if my dad hadn’t nearly died… would any of my issues be issues… now?

***

Cleopatra traced a gentle finger along the raised imagery on the sarcophagus. Embossed with gold by a master craftsman, the ornate coffin was indeed a resting place for a queen. Perfect lighting illuminated the carved aspects of the elaborate lid, highlighting not only the gold, but the inlay of crushed rubies and emeralds. With its face so much like her own, the figure on the sarcophagus stood sentry at her door, its eyes gazing beyond time into the Afterlife. Cleopatra stared into those eyes, transfixed, the faint murmurs of servants and the aroma of food for the night’s feast easing her away…

Shrill tones from her cellphone startled her. The ringtone shouted in the corridor, despite the sound dampening effect of people working in the main gallery. She supposed that was the penalty for stone-covered walls in a technological age. The raucous noise reverberated in the high, arching ceiling.

Cleopatra groaned. She had insisted on the best energy-saving products for the building. Heating and cooling a space with twenty-foot ceilings was costly, even in Georgia. “I should have thought of special soundproofing, too.” Signs asking visitors to silence their phones might be necessary, but she’d have to come up with something discreet. Yet another thing to work out.

Again, the phone rang.

“Ms. Gleason?” someone called out from the floor.

Cleopatra sighed and nodded before responding to the call from PRIVATE CALLER. She tapped the speaker button. As soon as the line opened, a vitriolic stream poured from the device.

“Listen, you egomaniacal...”

All she had wanted was to get the preparations for the gala done. There were only a few paintings left to be hung, but she had a miles-long list of all the little things that assured an event’s success. Things that had to be done in a short two hours. Cleopatra frowned.

That’s all she wanted—to complete the arrangements—in peace. Which meant a day without another death threat.

“You can’t steal from me, bitch! I’ll kill you before I see…”

So much for that. Cleopatra sighed. There were days when life didn’t care who you were. You just couldn’t catch a break.

--- End ---
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Excerpt, Death & Agrimony

There was no way to describe the passage of time other than to say instantaneous. Louis Epps materialized at the base of the stairs in the Gombs Boarding Establishment, after having thought about where he wanted to be. And then blinked.

For an itty-bitty part of a second, he felt his grave’s dirt, like it was part of him, or he’d passed through it, but that feeling didn’t last long enough for him to consider it. It had happened faster than he could think it. Yes, he disappeared and reappeared in the blink of an eye. Lou grinned. “Damn! I’m getting good at this.”

Some things, however, hang on from life. Like the sensation of adrenaline spikes. He started, ducked, and clamped his lips closed, unsure if anyone was about who might see or hear him. But then came reality, sanity, and embarrassment. “Oh, come on!”

Lou smacked the back of his head. Because who was going to see him, right? Clearly, mortification, along with fear, hadn’t been laid to rest with his bones.

The new, not-quite-resurrected detective straightened and sighed. It was true, no one could see him. But he had already decided invisibility was a double-sided blessing. He was an asset to the team, able to go places, observe and listen, all without being detected. He had electronic surveillance, in that respect, beat all to hell.

But he missed being seen, being heard, being… alive. You know who you are when you see yourself reflected in other people’s eyes. Frank and Reggie saw him, however that worked; But he had no reflection.

Still, his existence could be something far worse, like out of a horror movie worse. Him haunting Frank… Frank losing his mind… So much worse; it gave him chills to think about it. Lou trembled. This must be the dead-equivalent of being morbid. Whatever, it was a rabbit hole he didn’t want to explore.

“Get your mind on the job, Epps.” He shook himself and floated in a tight circle. “Now, where is everybody?”

A quick scan of the living and dining rooms found them empty, but voices issued from the kitchen. He drifted through the wall from the hallway. “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

Mrs. Landlady sat at a small prep table, glaring up at Detective James Lyons. This didn’t appear to be a friendly conversation.

“Say that again.” The woman had a paring knife in her hand where she’d been slicing potatoes. She laid it down, leaned forward, and stared up at the police officer.

Lyons blanched. “Mrs. Gombs, this is an official call this time. I have cause to believe a member of this household, or at least a paid employee of this household, stole an item from me when I was last here. I’m here to search the premises until I find it.”

“Is that right?” Mrs. Gombs straightened on her chair. “And what is this stolen item you need to find?” She held his gaze, unflinching.

Lyons cleared his throat. “Uh, it’s an ink pen. Actually, it’s an antique fountain pen. Very expensive.”

For almost a minute, the old lady didn’t move or speak. Lou drifted back against the wall, watching. This was a showdown between two hostile gunslingers. Who was going to draw first?

She did.

And probably not the way Lyons expected. The woman threw that head of red hair back and cackled so loud, it even startled Lou. She howled until tears ran from her eyes. Every time the policeman opened his mouth, she’d start laughing again.

“Mrs. Gombs, you don’t appreciate the—”

Off she went.

The chuckling was contagious. Lou laughed as Lyons stood there, pale and fidgeting; punked by a little old woman because his lie was weak. And she knew it.

Finally, she wiped away her tears and let her face settle into that sneer she ought to patent. “Detective Lyons, you want to search my entire house, including the apartments, because you lost your wittle old fountain pen.”

“That’s right.” He straightened his back. “This is an official—”

“Bullshit!”

“Ma’am?”

“You heard me,” she said. “Bullshit. Show me your warrant.”

“I wanted to keep this casual, uh, because, well, after last night, I… uh, you don’t need the stress of a search. I mean, not a full squad.”

“Oh, ain’t you a sweetheart, all worried about me?” She got up and took her pan of potato peelings to the garbage can near the rear kitchen door. She spoke as she dumped the contents into the trash. “I’m moved by your kindness. So much, I won’t call your boss… and the mayor and the chief of police and tell them you’re here trying to search my home without a warrant.”

“Ma’am I…” Lyons balked when she turned back to him.

And Lou didn’t blame him. Her face was almost as red as her hair, and so were her eyes. She was terrifying.

Her hateful expression only worsened as she screamed at him. “Who in the hell do you think you’re talking to? Huh? I ain’t no fuckin’ bumpkin off the turnip truck. I know my rights, and one of them is to kick your sorry ass out of here.”

She marched back to the table and slammed her pan down. “What do you want? What are you really after? Are you the guy who’s been sneaking into my house? Who sent you?”

“Mrs. Gombs, I can get a warrant—”

“Then get one! And quit bothering me.” She picked up the pan again, but this time she raked the sliced potatoes into it.

Lou hoped Lyons wouldn’t go. He was enjoying the show.

The performance did indeed continue. After a long pause, the detective regrouped and played a different card. “If I request a warrant, I’m going to search every inch of this house.”

That’s damned near extortion. And check her out! Lou didn’t miss the reflexive straightening of her back. She’s hiding something.

Mrs. Gombs carried the future French fries to the sink and opened the tap. “What’re you after, cop?”

“Like I said. I only want to retrieve my property.” Lyons adjusted his tie. “In fact, if you let me look for it, I won’t press charges against the person who took it.”

She turned the water off and turned back to stare at him. Once again, Lyons lost the chicken game. The police officer adjusted his tie some more and shuffled his feet.

Lou laughed. “She owns you, clown.”

“Stay here,” she said. “And don’t you touch a thing.” Mrs. Gombs left the kitchen and headed down the hall toward her bedroom. “And I mean nothing. I don’t give you permission to move inside my house.”

Lou wanted to watch that sneaky ass detective, but his instincts, which somehow survived his demise, insisted he follow the woman. And so, down the corridor he floated, following the flippity-flap of her flip flops. She slammed the door behind her, right in Lou’s face, but it passed through him.

“What’s his game?” She paced back and forth alongside her bed. “What does he want?” She was on her third lap when she stopped at the bedside table. She picked up the pen Lou had swiped off Lyons the night before.

Lou laughed. “Why, you little klepto. You really do have it.”

Gombs shoved the pen into her apron pocket and started for the door. But then she stopped so abruptly, Lou almost passed through her. “Use your damn hand signals, woman. I don’t want to freeze your skinny butt.”

But then Lou looked at her expression. That was a Eureka face if ever he’d seen one. She spun back and hurried to the side table. She pushed around ash and trash until she found…

“A poker chip? What’s so…” Lou stared as the woman rubbed the dust off of it, kissed it, and then shoved it deep into her pants pocket.

“You saw it, didn’t you, Lyons? Well, you ain’t so smart.” She cackled. “You ain’t smart at all.”

She took off up the hall with a full throttle, a big yellow grin on her face. She walked into the kitchen and tossed Lyon’s pen onto the table. “There’s your fountain pen.” She couldn’t have made that phrase sound more like an obscenity if she’d tried.

Lyons lost all his color and a fair amount of his composure as he gawked at the pen. His mouth moved, his words silent, but even a ghost could read those lips.

Lou burst out laughing. “Well, look at that. Checkmate, asshole. You really believed Frank had your damned pen, didn’t you?”

“What are you waiting for?” Mrs. Gombs said, glaring at Lyons. “Take it and get out.”

“Uh…” He toddled up to the table and took the pen. He examined it from every possible angle before putting it into his coat pocket. “Uh, thank you. But I’ll… I’ll still need to search the premises.”

She stared at him, speaking slowly and much softer. “Why? You got what you came for.”

“Yes… yes, I did, but remember, it was on the condition that I search that I’d leave without pressing charges.” He shuffled, but then must have decided he had regained the upper hand. “If I can’t search, I’ll have to arrest Gamble for theft.”

The woman leaned forward and glowered at him. “Gamble? What the hell does he have to do with this?”

Lyons straightened, his flat face taking on an air of defiance. “You can’t protect him, Mrs. Gombs. I know he took it.”

The wall behind Lou trembled. “You sorry son of—”

“What the hell are you talking about? I ain’t protectin’ nobody. Least of all, Frank Gamble. Shit, he ain’t doing nothing for my kitty.” She laughed, rude and loud as she straightened, shrugging her shoulders. “Arrest him. I don’t care. Then he’ll have fun suing your ass because he ain’t done nothing wrong. I found your pen out there in the living room where you dropped it. Got that? You lost it with your clumsy ass.” She turned back to the sink. “Now get out of my house.”

Lou thought Lyons would explode. He clenched his fists as his face heated to fire-engine redness. He half expected the detective to stomp his feet and scream. But Lyons got it together before he spoke. His voice had a certain chill in it. “Well, look at you, Jimmy, calling on your dark side.”

“I want the casino chip you have on your nightstand. It might be evidence in a robbery case.”

“And?” She turned slowly and faced him. That red-faced demon was back. “You got a warrant for it?”

Lyons fumbled, trying to regain his footing under that hellacious assault. “You’re not concerned—”

“No, I ain’t concerned. I don’t know where the damned thing came from. It’s been here forever. I picked it up after some clown like you lost it. Probably one of the contractors I had working on the house. Been more than twenty years, that’s for sure. I picked it up, just like I picked up your pen. You came looking for your property. Whoever dropped this…” She pulled the chip from her pocket. “Whoever dropped it never came looking for it. Now it’s my good luck charm.” Her glare intensified. “And you can’t have it.” The landlady shoved the chip back into her pocket.

For a moment, Lyons looked as if he might leap across the table and take the chip from her. He was puffing like one of those old boilers, his face getting more and more red, and he had clenched his fists so tight, his knuckles threatened to pierce the skin.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Lyons spat the words out like watermelon seeds.

This is going sideways! His inner hero rose up in the ghost, and Lou drifted over to be closer to Lyons. He didn’t like the old lady, but he wouldn’t watch Lyons hurt her, even if whatever the ass did got him stuck in prison and out of FOG3’s life forever. He wouldn’t wager the woman’s life.

As Lou watched, the standoff continued. The detective glared at her. Gombs glared back, clearly not afraid of a man a foot-and-a-half taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier. Not to mention thirty or more years younger. The old hen didn’t back down. She stuck her gaze and stayed with it.

“You could end up in jail,” Lyons said.

“I doubt it. You, on the other hand,” Gombs said, “are harassing a poor old lady who is all alone and has health problems… giving her grief about a casino chip you’re not even sure is stolen. So, let’s do this, Detective. Let’s see who ends up in jail.”

“Wow! That’s one tough old woman,” Lou said. “She’d give Regina a run for her money.”

“You’ll regret this,” Lyons said. “I will get a warrant.”

“Whatever. Now get out of my house, or do I need to call a real cop?” She had her hands on her hips like she was ready to throw down.

The ghostly detective couldn’t stop laughing.

Lou, I need you here.

“Oh, come on, Frank. Not yet.” Lou resisted the tug on his essence. He wanted to make sure Lyons left the house.

Lou, are you alright?

“Well, shit.” Lou faded away as Lyons slammed both palms on the table.

--- End ---
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Excerpt, Even Bones Lie

“Hey! That’s Armani!” The man spun around as if seeking the source of the flying chunk of metal. He didn’t seem to realize a bullet didn’t give a damn about who his designer was.

The second bullet left a scorched patch across the upper arm of his client’s high-dollar jacket. Frank Gamble reached up and snatched the man down to a squat behind the car Frank was using for shelter. “Stay down until I tell you to move.”

With his eyes widened to the size of golf balls, Thomas Belk nodded. He grabbed the arm that would have had a bullet in it if his assailant had been a better shot. When he brought his eyes back to Frank, some of the privilege Belk thought came with having money returned. “I hired you to protect me, Gamble. You’re the private detective. Get out there and stop that lunatic!”

Frank, who had already drawn his weapon, considered assisting the man shooting from across the parking lot. This guy was one of those idiots that not only got himself shot, but got other people killed because he lacked an appreciation of the moment. The moment in which someone else had a gun in his hand and a strong intent to use it. Thomas Belk was the fool who insulted the mugger who held a gun under his nose.

Over the hood of the car, Frank could see glints off the bullet casings that had ejected from the shooter’s rifle. It was such a nice day, with the noon sun high overhead, but still cool in the median days of autumn. Would have been, could have been, without this nonsense. Now he was stuck behind a car, the scent of motor oil giving him a headache, and a client giving him a pain in the butt. He slapped a hand on his client’s shoulder to keep him on the ground, filthy or not.

Thank God most people had more sense. In the surrounding stores, people had retreated behind counters and any other solid cover they could find as random bullets crashed into brick and through glass. He was glad to see most of them were smart enough not to run out and toward harm. Again, he considered the value of the man beside him compared to those innocent bystanders. Frank returned his gun to its holster.

“You hired me to find the man threatening to kill you, Mr. Belk. I did. But you can’t pay me enough to die for you.”

Belk reached for his wallet. “How much would it take?”

Frank laughed. “You still aren’t listening. If you had taken my recommendations, this wouldn’t be happening. All Mr. Smote wanted was what any man would want; for you to stay away from his wife. Easy, right? But you believe you should have whatever you want. Are you feeling the want to catch a bullet right now?”

The man’s thin lips poked out in a sullen pout. “She’s too good for him.”

“She’s too good for you, too.” Frank blew out the heat building in his mouth with a thin sigh. “Look, Mr. Belk. I’m trying to wait for the police to arrive. I don’t want to shoot Mr. Smote. The man’s got every right to want your head on a plate. But I won’t let him shoot you, either. So just keep your head down. When he’s spent his rounds, I’ll move.”

Arrogance radiated off the man in waves. As Frank studied him, it was clear the need to take orders warred with the man’s desire to give them; but Belk finally nodded and ducked closer to the pavement.

Frank watched Belk for a second before glancing back over his shoulder. “OK, now.”

***

Out in the parking lot, Mr. Everett Smote leaned against a car and fired off three more shots. One bullet found the bakery window, but the other two added more holes to the blue Chrysler shielding Thomas Belk. Smote gritted his teeth. He had never fired a weapon before today, but he was improving with each attempt. And he had plenty of ammunition. The goal was to keep shooting, no matter how long it took, until Belk was dead in the street.

The man squeezed the trigger twice more.

Poor man’s playboy, that’s what Belk was. He had just enough money to mesmerize a poor woman like his wife. She worked in one of Belk’s business offices because… well; they needed the money. He lost his job almost four years ago, even before the pandemic struck. He couldn’t seem to get it together anymore. And now this jerk was tempting his Linda with flowers and perfume and invitations to fancy dinners. Making her work late so he’d have time to chat her up. Well, he’d make him regret ever saying hello to Linda Smote.

Click. Click.

He reached for the box of cartridges lying on the ground next to his knee. As his fingers extended, the box slid away. “What the hell?”

There was only a second to wonder how that happened. No wind… no hill to slide on… No matter. He needed those bullets. He got on his knees and crawled after the box as it continued to slide along the ground, just out of reach. “Hey, stop!”

When Everett reached the rear of his cover vehicle, he got to his feet as the box of ammunition halted three feet away. Instead of sliding forward, it rose and hovered in the air, four or so feet off the ground. The harried gunman stood, his eyes bulging, and gaped at the impossible feat before him. Transfixed, he never noticed the man behind him until Frank Gamble tapped him on the shoulder.

***

First on the scene, Officer Clay Roberts found Frank Gamble leaning against a damaged Impala with a pale blond man handcuffed to the vehicle’s bumper. The guy had an ugly purple bruise on his chin, but he otherwise seemed unharmed. Another man in a dark business suit paced in the space between vehicles as he screamed into his cell phone. Gamble ignored both men, his attention focused on the hunting rifle and ammunition on the ground at his feet.

Clay shook his head. It appeared Gamble lived up to his damn near gaudy reputation. Depending on who you talked to, the guy was both a legend and a joke at the station, with stories from both camps too crazy to believe. Still… He scanned the damage to vehicles and buildings while considering what Gamble had been up against. Today, Clay leaned toward legend.

***

Frank answered his phone as the APD took Everett Smote into custody.

“Are you alright, Frank?” It was Regina Wilkes, his other partner.

“Yeah, we’re good, Reggie. I’ve got to go down and give a statement with our client, but the only damage is to cars and buildings.”

“Uh, that might not be true. Vicky Carlson just got off the phone after a twenty-minute ear-burning rant. She wants you in her office first thing in the morning. In her words, no excuses.”

A familiar knot formed in Frank’s gut—the one he always got when he had to speak to Victoria Carlson… or face a firing squad. “Oh, boy.”

“Yeah.” Reggie was quiet for a minute. “Is Lou with you?”

“Yes, he’s here. You need him?”

“If you don’t need him at the station.”

Frank scanned the parking lot for his partner. Through the chaos of police cars, emergency vehicles, first responders, and reporters, he found him. For not the first time, Frank wondered why, when police officers, or even law enforcement vehicles were around, Lou often showed up in his old uniform. And according to Lou, he couldn’t help it.

At least today, there was no blood splashed across the front of his dress blues. Today, Louis Epps might have been any other cop. He leaned against a police car, watching one of their former compatriots, Sergeant Sandra Marley. Frank wished Lou would leave that alone.

“Lou doesn’t need to be anywhere near the station, Reggie. I’ll send him back to the office in a sec.”

“You take it slow yourself.” She ended the call.

Frank considered his partner as the knot in his gut tightened. Some troubles don’t end even when you’re dead.

--- End ---
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