D. N. Schmidt

THEY ATE THE WAITRESS?

A Brief History of the American Free Territories

The Old Days came to an end with the Washington Riots. People finally grew tired of the endless wars, the ever-increasing taxes, and a Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms that refused to sell you anything. So, for the second time in the nation’s history, the capital was burned to the ground. According to eyewitnesses, the first of the fires were started by Mitch Deslin and his men. They stood watching, silent, as the politicians fled.

No one seems to know exactly how Deslin became the head of the freedom fighters. Some say the government’s last breath was spent destroying vital historical records. Others say the revolutionaries hid the truth themselves, embarrassed that their leader was a game show host. Regardless of the reason, one thing is known for sure: it was Deslin who first suggested killing the president.

President John Solano’s assassination was not the first one to be filmed. It was not even the first to be shown live on national television. However, it was certainly the most entertaining. On the day of the Washington Riots, the Secret Service attempted to rush President Solano and his wife away to their bomb shelter, but Deslin’s men were already waiting by the helicopter. The band of freedom fighters quickly gunned down the Secret Service, and then Mitch Deslin, the host of It’s Your Lucky Day, shot the president in the head. As for Mrs. Solano, no one knows what happened to her. Seconds after her husband was killed, the station cut to a commercial.

Soon, politicians were hunted into near-extinction, like the snow leopard, the bison, or the teacup Chihuahua. The federal government declared bankruptcy and disbanded. Texas and Alaska became independent nations. The rest of the country forswore politics forever, becoming known as the American Free Territories.

The death of politics was the birth of a new American Dream. It was far better than the old American Dream, which was to die before your creditors found out where you lived. In the new America, hardworking individuals would finally get to keep everything they earned. No one would have to work forty hours a week, only to see half of their paycheck stolen by Washington. On the other hand, if anyone actually enjoyed wasting money on useless things, they could still go to college.

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Security patrols across the American Free Territories trust the Mark 9 Laser Stunner to take down suspects quickly and safely. Not on a patrol? The Stunner is great at teaching pets to keep off the furniture![3] Troubled by unruly, disobedient children? A quick blast from the Laser Stunner makes any child[4] easy to handle!

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Chapter One

When Nick Wergild regained consciousness, he was hanging from the third story window of a whorehouse in Beaver Creek, Montana. Forty feet below him was an ornate, concrete fountain that looked like a rather uncomfortable place to land. The only thing keeping him from the waiting embrace of gravity was a pair of handcuffs, a heavy, silver chain connecting his wrist to that of Quentin Fairbanks, former politician and current lunatic. Realizing where he was, Nick decided that opening his eyes had been a horrible mistake.

Quentin Fairbanks was a sizeable man, both in height and in girth, with all the charm and sex appeal of a young Joseph Stalin. He was seventy-three but appeared to be around forty. His wealth gave him access to advanced anti-aging medical treatments that most people only knew through rumors and urban legends. He had an odor like old milk, which he concealed with cologne that smelled like old fish. On this particular day, he was wearing a rumpled tuxedo, a black cashmere overcoat, and a smile like a crack in the surface of a frozen lake.

“So, the brilliant manhunter is finally awake! As much as I’ve enjoyed our little time together, I really must cut things short.” Fairbanks reached into his jacket with his free hand, producing a rusty, chrome hacksaw.

“The only thing worse than being murdered,” Nick thought, “is being murdered by someone making bad puns.” Calling up to Fairbanks, he said, “The handcuffs are spider steel. Impossible to cut. Why don’t you saw through your arm instead?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He had forgotten the most important rule of manhunting: Don’t taunt the crazies. Fairbanks removed his belt and jammed it in his mouth, scowling determinedly. He pressed the saw to his wrist and let its teeth eat away at his flesh.

“Oh, holy hell,” Nick thought. “I’m finally going to die. I wonder if my life will flash before my eyes. – No, I’ll be dead too soon. Maybe just the highlights: birth, first day of school, losing my virginity on a tugboat…” His reminiscing gave way to horror as Fairbanks’ blood began to fall. “I can’t keep living this way. No amount of reward money is worth this!”

Fairbanks was the one remaining evil from the Old Days, the last of the politicians. He had worked in the capital for years, right until the end. He would have kept working after that, but once the government collapsed, he stopped getting paid. It was hard for the government to pay for much of anything, once IRS headquarters had been burned to the ground. He had been in hiding since the day of the Washington Riots, using various aliases, forged documents, and fake mustaches. Apparently, he still had a lot of enemies. Even after all those years, they would still give a lot of money to see him behind bars. Or beaten with a tire iron. Either one, really. They weren’t picky.

With no government to collect taxes, there were no police. The criminal justice system and protection services were now the domain of insurance companies, private security firms, and manhunters. Manhunters like Nick were a special breed of private detective, experts in solving crimes, tracking down fugitives, and hand-to-gun combat. (It was easier than hand-to-hand combat, especially if you were the one with the gun.)

If criminals couldn’t be found by the security patrols, the victims offered a reward to the first manhunter who could. The reward for Fairbanks’ capture was the highest Nick had ever seen. After several weeks of searching, Fairbanks remained elusive. Finally, Nick had a stroke of inspiration. (For Nick, inspiration always felt like a stroke.) He found a way to get Fairbanks to come to him: he would marry his daughter.

◊

Melinda Fairbanks came from a wealthy family, but her father’s years in hiding had left her nearly penniless, forcing her to take a job transcribing audio books for the deaf. Her mother had given birth rather late in life, making her not too much older than Nick. Still, this did not make him feel any better about what he had to do. Melinda was a thin, nervous sort of woman whose prominent nose and bizarre hairstyle made her resemble a malnourished Shetland sheepdog. However, if you had a few drinks, took off your glasses, turned off the lights, and gouged out your eyes with a spoon, she could be almost pretty.

Nick met Melinda at a charity auction in Seattle. A security firm was auctioning off the estate of a serial killer and donating the proceeds to his victims’ families. Unfortunately, most of the killer’s possessions were vending machine toys, old romance novels, and eerily realistic ceramic clowns. To encourage bidding, the auctioneer offered to personally deliver each item, either to the winner’s home or to the local dump.

Nick arrived at the auction, lit a cigarette, and cornered a waiter. “Excuse me. Do you see that woman sitting by herself, at the table in the corner? I would like to buy her a drink.”

“It’s an open bar, sir,” the waiter replied. “Drinks are free.”

“In that case, send her twelve.” He waited for the drinks to be delivered and then strolled over to Melinda’s table. “So, are you drunk enough to think I’m cute, or should I come back in an hour?”

“What?”

“Nothing. My name is Nick Wergild, and I’m a billionaire with a heart condition.”

They were soon engaged. Mr. Fairbanks sent a video mail, saying that he would pay for the wedding. It would be an expensive ceremony, with limo service for all the guests, a live orchestra and, at Nick’s request, an ice sculpture of a grizzly bear playing the banjo. Melinda insisted that the wedding be held in Billings, Montana, where she had been raised. Her entire family would be attending, save for her sister, who was out of the country, and an uncle who thought there might be something good on TV that day.

Nick was in the men’s room, changing into his tuxedo, when Fairbanks arrived. As Nick had requested, the limo driver announced his arrival with two sharp blasts of his horn. Hurriedly, Nick pulled on his jacket and rushed outside, meeting Fairbanks in the church’s small, gravel parking lot.

“So, Fairbanks, we meet at last.”

“Nicholas, my boy, we’re about to be family! Please, call me ‘Sir.’”

“Actually, that’s the problem. I’m not getting married at all. This was just a ploy to bring you out of hiding.” Nick reached into his jacket and drew his laser stunner, aiming the black, metal tube at Fairbanks’ head. “A lot of people are dead because of you, people whose families have waited a long time for justice. Also, there’s a reward and I could really use the cash. Turn around and put your hands on your head. You’re coming with me.”

“My god,” Fairbanks moaned. “You’re leaving my daughter at the altar? She’ll be heartbroken! Or she would have been, if she weren’t marrying you for your money. Of course, if you’re really a manhunter, you don’t have any… But still, I imagine she’ll be disappointed. Probably. I suppose.”

“Forget about her,” Nick said, locking Fairbanks in handcuffs. “Get in the car. I have to take you back to Vancouver to get my reward.”

“Canada?” Fairbanks gasped. “Can’t you just shoot me?”

“Oh, god, no. The good Vancouver, in Washington.” Nick shoved his prisoner into the rental car and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Get comfortable. It’s going to be one hell of a long drive.”

“Can I listen to the radio?”

“No. Be quiet or I’ll make you ride in the trunk.”

Nick took a moment to punch in an address into his navigation system before continuing on his way. After taxes were eliminated, the roads became privately owned. No one wanted to drive on roads full of toll booths so, instead, most roads were funded by advertising. The ad companies soon lined the nation’s highways with twelve-foot-high, flashing billboards. If you didn’t know exactly where you were headed, it was easy to get lost. Billboards didn’t make very good landmarks. In just a few hours, what was once a billboard for “Cannabliss Cigarettes” could become a billboard for “Holy Spirit Church, Inc.”

After an hour of driving, Nick found himself in Beaver Creek. He pulled into a rest stop, parking in the grass next to the restrooms. “Come on,” he said, “I have to pollute the groundwater.”

“I don’t,” Fairbanks snapped. “Sorry about that. I know how you girls like to go to the bathroom in groups.”

“Well, that was hurtful. However, I can’t leave you sitting in here alone. This isn’t a security patrol car; you can open the back doors from the inside. That’s why I’ve been driving ninety miles an hour all this time, to keep you from opening the door and jumping. Well that, and because it’s fun. If you drive fast enough, the blood rushes to the back of your brain and you see the strangest things…”

Nick dragged his prisoner into the restroom, handcuffing him to a pipe hanging from the ceiling. He stepped into a stall and sighed, exhausted. The restroom hadn’t been cleaned since the early Mesozoic Era. Thousands of travelers had passed through, leaving behind various smells, stains, and bodily fluids. Just above the toilet paper dispenser, someone with a red marker and shaky handwriting had written “Are you paranoid, or is that just what they want you to think?”

He read graffiti for a while, chuckling at the dirty limericks. Suddenly, filthy, brown water seeped under the stall. Opening the door, he found that the water pipe was broken and Fairbanks was gone.

“Oh, holy hell.”

He rushed outside just in time to see Fairbanks dash across the highway, artfully dodging speeding cars. Nick chased after him, holding traffic at bay with his badge and laser stunner. Horns blaring, motorists greeted him with obscene gestures and hurled fast food containers.

Fairbanks ducked into a large, Victorian house. The building had crimson lights hanging from the porch and a flashing neon sign identifying it as “Aphrodite’s Temple,” a brothel. By the time Nick made it inside, Fairbanks had vanished.

The walls of Aphrodite’s Temple were dark wood engraved with scenes from the Kama Sutra. The floors were marble tile covered with shaggy, burgundy rugs. An ornate chandelier swayed gently; apparently some guests upstairs were shaking the floor. Near the door, a video screen on the wall was playing a documentary on the history of the brothel.

“…since the days of government, when prostitution was illegal. However, the women of Aphrodite’s Temple were able to get around the law. Customers were given sex for free, but charged three hundred dollars to leave without cuddling.”

The front hall was an immense, two-story passageway with a desk at the far end manned by an AutoGreeter. The Schlock Products™ AutoGreeter was a low-end variety of mechanical receptionist. The top half of the machine looked like a well-dressed, young woman, but the bottom half resembled an abstract sculpture thrown together from surgical tubing, transistors, and old air conditioner parts. An AutoGreeter was supposed to be capable of the same variety of facial expressions as a real human, but this one could only manage two: “smiling” and “mild stroke.”

“Hello,” the android chirped, “and welcome to Aphrodite’s Temple! May I show you our menu? We have very pretty girls!”

“No thanks,” he said, scanning the room. “I’m just looking for someone. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Welcome to Aphrodite’s Temple!” the android repeated. “May I show you our menu? We have very handsome boys!”

“I’m looking for a man in handcuffs,” Nick explained, annoyed. “Did you see which way he went?”

“Handcuffs are on sale in our gift shop! Welcome to Aphrodite’s Temple! Would you like to see our menu? We have boys that look like pretty girls!”

Nick stormed past the malfunctioning machine. The hallway ended in double doors. Pushing his way through, he found himself in a small kitchen. A large, steaming roast was sitting atop a doily-covered counter. A plump, white-haired woman in a floral print apron was pulling a pie from an oven. Needless to say, he was stunned. It was like finding a Norman Rockwell painting hanging in an outhouse.

“Yes?” the woman asked, placing the pie on a windowsill. It smelled like blueberry. “Can I help you with something, son?”

“Did you see a fat man in handcuffs run through here?”

“Oh no,” she laughed, wiping her hands on a tattered dishtowel. “Did your playmate get away?”

“It’s not like that. See, I was engaged to his daughter, but only so I could get to him. – Wait, that doesn’t sound right. …Just forget it.” He turned for the doors, but stopped suddenly. “I have to ask you something, or it will bug me for the rest of the day. Why does a brothel need a kitchen?”

“It’s for the messy lovers, mostly,” the woman said. “Some of the boys like to cover the girls in pudding or whipped cream. Back in my younger days, I knew a nice man who loved to pour hollandaise sauce all over my body. I would have preferred béarnaise, but I wasn’t ready to share such a personal secret with him…”

“I’d really better go,” Nick said, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He left the woman to her reminiscing and headed upstairs.

The second story held endless rows of “guest rooms.” Most of them were identical, with a hot tub, waterbed, and a mirror on the ceiling. Other rooms were built around a particular theme: medieval dungeon, Roman bathhouse, dog kennel. Most of the guest rooms were occupied and, of course, locked. Nick searched the vacant rooms, gradually working his way down the hall. He accidentally walked in on a few couples but, fortunately, none of them were doing anything strange. At least, nothing stranger than what he did at home.

Opening a door, he saw that there was no bed in the room, just a stack of mops and cleaning supplies. It was either a storage closet or another theme room. Plastic shelves in the back were filled with cases of “Liquid Codpiece,” a spray-on prophylactic. The spray formed a protective layer that was thinner than a traditional condom and transferred heat better. The only downside was pulling it off.

A soft squeak from down the hall. He poked his head out of the closet just in time to see Fairbanks duck into an empty guest room. Nick sprinted down the hall and threw himself at the door. The door slammed open, knocking Fairbanks to the floor, his head bouncing painfully off the marble tile.

“Get up!” Nick yelled. “Slowly.” Grabbing a nearby bedpost, Fairbanks pulled himself to his feet. He was still wearing Nick’s handcuffs. “I can’t risk you getting away again. You’ve forced me to chain myself to you. I hope you’re happy.” Nick unlocked one of the cuffs and snapped it on his own wrist and then pushed Fairbanks down the hall to the stairs. He seemed almost eager to go, taking two steps at a time. “Slow it down, Fairbanks.” But Fairbanks leapt down the stairs four at a time, dragging Nick behind him. Suddenly, Nick lost his footing. He slid down the stairs, crashing into a wall.

Darkness.

◊

When Nick regained consciousness, he was hanging from the third story window of a whorehouse in Beaver Creek, Montana. Forty feet below him was an ornate, concrete fountain that looked a rather uncomfortable place to land. At the window above him, Quentin Fairbanks was busy sawing off his own arm.

“Wait a minute!” Nick yelled. “I have a question for you.”

Fairbanks pulled the belt from his mouth, his face clenched in pain. “Do you mind? I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Why didn’t you just take the handcuff key?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Fairbanks asked, bewildered.

“I was unconscious. Why didn’t you take the handcuff key from my pocket before you threw me out the window?”

“I… ah… the…Well, this is embarrassing. I don’t suppose you would toss the key up here? No? Are you sure? Last chance! …Alright, fine. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll just get back to the amputation!” Fairbanks sighed, frustrated. Biting down on his belt once more, he returned to sawing at his arm. He struck an artery, blood spraying the window and dripping down onto Nick’s face.

Wiping the blood from his eyes, Nick reached for the windowsill. Try as he might, the handcuff chain was simply too long; he couldn’t quite reach. Staring at the ground, he imagined his body broken on the cement fountain.

“Looks like I’ve run out of options.” He reached into his pocket, his fingertips brushing a familiar object: his laser stunner. “This is going to hurt.” He aimed at Fairbanks’ forehead and fired. A white bolt of electricity arced through the air, knocking Fairbanks to the floor. The electricity flashed down his arm, through the metal handcuffs, and into Nick.

Once more, darkness.

◊

Painfully, Nick opened his eyes. His wrist was free, and Fairbanks was gone. He found himself looking up at a group of scantily-clad women holding bullwhips, riding crops, and leather paddles. One of the women, a redhead in a lace teddy so thin it was practically imaginary, helped Nick to his feet. “I knew that was dangerous,” he said, “but I didn’t think it would kill me. Oh, well. At least I went to heaven!”

“Heaven? No, you’re still in the Temple.” The wall of women parted, revealing Quentin Fairbanks collapsed on the floor. Three of the women were sitting on him, while a fourth threatened him with a cattle prod. “Who are you guys, anyway?”

Nick explained the events of the past few days, omitting the part about leaving a woman at the altar. His version of the story also had a car chase, gratuitous nudity, and a song and dance number. Other than that, though, it was strictly the truth.

“That’s quite a tale, Mr. Wergild,” the redhead said at last. “But one you left something out. You said this guy was a politician, but not what position he held.”

“I’m not positive, but I think he was Secretary of Agriculture.”

“Oh. Do you think he’ll be in the work camps for a while?”

“After the arbitrator hears about him trying to saw off his arm, he’ll probably end up in an insane asylum.” Nick gazed down at Fairbanks and sighed. “Listen, this guy is very dangerous, and my handcuffs obviously aren’t enough to keep him under control. Do you have anything I could use to restrain him?”

The women cackled uproariously. “He wants to know if we have any restraints!” the redhead laughed. “Can you believe this guy?”

◊

As Nick drove back to Vancouver, Quentin Fairbanks was sprawled face-down in the backseat. His arms were encased in a tight, black restraint called a “monoglove,” a solid sheath of leather enclosing everything from his fingers to his elbows. Leather straps around the shoulders further reduced his movements. He was also wearing six pairs of leg irons, a ball gag, and a tight, vinyl hobble skirt.

The drive to Vancouver took nearly sixteen hours. Nick passed the time smoking a pack of Cannabliss Cigarettes and tailgating slow drivers. He dropped off Fairbanks at a security patrol office, where the desk sergeant reminded him that it was illegal to humiliate a captive.

“Don’t blame me,” Nick replied. “He was like this when I found him.”

“Oh… Well, everybody needs a hobby!”

Finally, Nick arrived at his office building. He trudged across the parking lot to his office and collapsed at his desk, exhausted. He pulled a bottle of pills from a drawer and, smiling dimly, took a much-needed break from reality.

Chapter Two

Nick didn’t notice the man walk in, as he was far too busy having several hallucinations at once. He was in his office on the south side of Vancouver, sitting behind his giant, stainless steel desk, barely aware of the world outside his mind.

The walls were covered in framed newsfeed articles touting his accomplishments. He had edited most of the articles to make them more flattering or to remove the death threats. Occasionally, he would get carried away. As a result, several of the articles were completely fabricated. He had never even met the pope, let alone stolen his girlfriend. In the Old Days, he would have also had a detective’s license hanging on the wall. Without a government, this was no longer necessary. People could start any sort of business, as long as they didn’t defraud anyone. You could wake up one morning and decide to become a brain surgeon, as long as you told your customers you had no idea what you were doing.

Several giraffes stood idly, mouths open, like bored guests at a cocktail party. They didn’t seem to notice that a filing cabinet with a cigarette lighter was trying to set them on fire. An elegantly dressed waiter explained to the coat rack that there were no salmon puffs right now, but if she would just be patient, a new batch would be ready shortly. Of course, none of them were real. They were the result of the powerful hallucinogens that were Nick’s main defense against the continued onslaught of reality.

Behind Nick’s left ear was an inducer, a small, black disk covered in tiny buttons. The inducer fired electromagnetic pulses into the user’s brain, producing near-overwhelming synesthesia. While under its influence, words had shapes and smells had sounds. If Nick played some music, he could see it hanging in the air, each note a different color. Oddly, blues songs were always orange.

He was also enjoying a far more common, electronic hallucination known as “television”. He had been watching comedies most of the day, but had switched to drama when he ran out of marijuana. Currently, the hologram projector in his desk was showing a war movie. Several miniature tanks crawled to the top of his stapler, preparing to bombard the enemy camp hidden behind his coffee mug. The LSD made the film’s special effects simply fantastic. Unfortunately, the plot was unintelligible. But for that, the drugs may have been less to blame than the director.

All these things combined meant that the normally vigilant detective never saw the white-haired man in the ridiculously expensive suit barge into his office. He also didn’t notice the man wave his hand through the hologram, impatiently check his watch, and clear his throat in an “I’m here, why don’t you notice me, you ass?” sort of way. Frustrated, the man jabbed Nick in the chest with the pointy end of his umbrella.

Nick lurched back in surprise and fell out of his chair. Picking himself up, he switched off the hologram, yanked off his inducer and stared. The man in his office was older, late sixties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair. He had a long, thin frame and a face creased with years of stress and worry. He wore a gray fedora and an Italian suit that, strangely, appeared to be melting.

“And what can I do for you, sir?” Nick asked cautiously. “If this is another hallucination,” he thought, “he’ll probably tell me to kill my girlfriend, or sell my soul to the devil, or to take up knitting.”

Extending a slender hand, the man offered Nick a business card. “Good evening, Mr. Wergild. My name is Todd Sweeney. I own a several businesses here in town, and I have run into a rather unfortunate problem with one of my employees. You have a reputation for solving unusual cases, so I thought you could help.” Todd spoke with a British accent but sounded as if he had been in America for quite a while.

“A man of your means ought to have crime insurance,” Nick said dismissively, now fairly certain that he was dealing with an actual person. He dropped back into his chair and tried to look professional.

“I have got insurance,” Todd insisted, gesturing with his umbrella. “However, my problem is rather… unique. Should I report it to my insurance company, I am positive that the story would soon reach the media. I assumed a private investigator would be rather more discrete.” He crossed and uncrossed his arms nervously, his silver wristwatch flashing in the dim lighting.

“I understand. No one wants bad publicity.” Nick motioned for Todd to take a seat. “May I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Cigarette?”

“Again, no.”

“Horse tranquilizer?”

“What?”

“Nothing. So, what’s the problem? ”

Todd took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I suppose I should start by saying that there has been a murder. The head waitress at my restaurant, a young woman named Renée Flockhart. When her family discovers what has occurred, they will have every reason in the world to sue me. I would like you to locate the killer before I inform her parents of the murder. If they already have their reimbursement coming, they may decide to not pursue the matter in court.”

After the government collapsed, the private sector took over emergency and protection services. As there were no police, most people purchased crime insurance. If they were assaulted or robbed, the insurance company would reimburse them and then send their investigators after the suspect. Captured suspects were tried by an independent arbiter.

Non-violent criminals, if they had a legitimate job, were implanted with a tracking device and their wages docked until the insurance company recovered its losses. However, criminals were locked away in work camps if they were dangerous, unemployed, or aromatically challenged. The profit from their labors was given to the insurance company. The prisoners generally did simple, mindlessly repetitive work like making furniture, assembling toys, or writing for television.

Victims without insurance had to hire a manhunter like Nick. A typical manhunter would find the criminal in exchange for a percentage of the docked wages or work camp profits. Nick liked to call it “The Great Commission.”

“Look, Sweeney,” Nick said, standing unsteadily, “it can take months to solve a murder. I hope you have a meat locker at that restaurant of yours. By tomorrow morning, your dead woman will start stinking up the place.”

“Well, that’s just it. She won’t. There’s no body.”

“What happened to the body? It didn’t just get up and walk away! …Did it?”

Todd seemed anxious, unsure how to properly explain himself. “I’m sure you know about hospital organ purchase programs.”

“Sure. If you sign a sales contract, the hospital will buy your organs when you die. It’s a good way to pay for your funeral expenses.” Nick opened several desk drawers, looking for his bottle of little yellow pills. “Downers” always helped him concentrate on important conversations.

“The restaurant has a similar program,” Todd explained. “Anyone in good health may sign a contract with us and, after the hospital removes their vital organs, we get the rest of the body.”

“Wait… Why do you want the rest of the body?” Nick didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

“For the meat.”

Nick gave up on looking for the pills. This conversation called for bourbon. “You buy human bodies for the meat? Are you a cannibal, Sweeney?”

“I would never eat a human being; I’m a vegetarian. However, I have no problem catering to the wishes of my clientele.”

“Is that what happened? They ate the waitress? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you…”

Todd looked rather embarrassed. “It seems so. Believe it or not, there is a demand for such things. Actually, as strange as it may sound, many of my best customers are vegans. They have no objection to eating human meat as humans are the only animals that can consent to being eaten.”

“Unless you count parrots,” Nick observed, “or those gorillas that know sign language. But you never got consent. Flockhart was eaten, but she didn’t want to be?”

“Yes, that appears to be the case. The bodies are quite valuable, which has created a bit of a black market. Therefore, we keep multiple copies of the contracts and the delivery receipts. This shows that the person was not murdered, but rather died of natural causes.”

“Murder is a natural cause,” Nick insisted. “It happens in nature all the time. Animals fight over mates, or to control their territory. Squirrels kill for pleasure.”

“As I was saying,” Todd interrupted, continuing his story, “I was doing my regular audit of our records when I came across an error. We had recorded a body that didn’t have a matching delivery receipt… It seemed that we had a body that had never been shipped to us!”

Nick poured himself a glass of bourbon and offered Todd one, which he politely refused. “So, what do you think that means?”

“Renée had been listed as a missing person for days. I hadn’t seen her since June, about four weeks ago. There was no sign of a struggle at her apartment, so the insurance investigators assumed she had left town to avoid her debts. I assumed that she had found another job… But it looks like she was murdered, and her body was smuggled into my restaurant. It appears that the killer decided it was a good way to dispose of the evidence.”

“And that’s why you’re so worried about her family suing you,” Nick thought. “And why shouldn’t they? You might not have killed her, but you cooked her.” To Todd he said, “So you expect me to solve a murder that happened over a month ago, with no body and no crime scene? That’s impossible!”

“If you do it in a week, I will pay you five thousand in gold, plus your normal commission, and a gift certificate from my restaurant.”

Nick grabbed Todd’s hand and pumped his arm. “I’ll need half the money up front… You can keep the gift certificate.”

Chapter Three

Nick sat in his office, smoking his breakfast. He had a pile of matchbooks and a new pack of Cannabliss Cigarettes on his desk. The marijuana cigarettes were very popular, due in part to their animated spokesman, a fish with dreadlocks named “Bob Marlin.” They were available in “original” or a variety of flavors: chocolate, strawberry, and PCP.

A motorcycle rumbled into the parking lot and, a moment later, a tattooed twenty-something man in a blue jumpsuit strolled into his office. “Oh, hey! You’re that detective! I saw you in those newsfeed photos.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” he protested, throwing up his hands. “I’ve never been to Maryland, I don’t know how to use night vision goggles, and I certainly don’t own any snorkeling gear! Even if I did, those photos are much too blurry to tell it’s me.”

“You’re not the manhunter who put Quentin Fairbanks in the nuthouse?”

“Oh, those photos. Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

“I’m from Hermes Messenger Service. I’ve got a package for you.” The messenger handed Nick a locked, steel box and gestured for him to sign the electronic clipboard strapped to his wrist. Clearing his throat, the messenger held out his other hand for a tip.

“I catch thieves, murderers, and rapists,” Nick said, “and you bring people boxes. If I don’t get tipped, why should you?” The messenger scowled and jabbed his pinkie fingers at Nick’s throat. It was one of the newer obscene gestures, made popular by a recent shampoo commercial. The messenger stormed out of the office, and Nick closed and locked the door.

The box held a folder of information on Renée Flockhart: her home address, employment history, and student records from Yale and Ellison High School. There were also a few photos, mostly from a Christmas party at the restaurant. She had been twenty-six, five-foot-two, and gorgeous. She had worn her black hair very short, but it suited her well.

Under the folder was a black, drawstring bag filled with twenty-five hundred dollars in gold coins. On one side, the coins were engraved with their weight as certified by a local bank. The other side featured a portrait of Mitch Deslin, the recently deceased anarchist game show host.

Nick wanted to begin his investigation without alerting Todd’s employees, as any of them could have been involved in the murder. He decided to wait until nightfall. He sprawled on the floor in his office and dropped a sugar cube into his mouth. For a moment he was still, just listening to the sound of his breathing. The window opened by itself and a great cloud of insects floated into the room. The cloud shaped itself into a woman, naked, skin shiny and wet. She dropped to one knee, her hand reaching down to touch his face. She brushed his cheek and shattered into pieces, covering him in blackened moths.

His head began to clear. The window was closed, but the room was cold. Eight hours had passed by unnoticed. He poured a cup of coffee and walked out to the parking lot. Lighting another Cannabliss cigarette, he climbed into his car. It was a small, sporty model with all the standard features: navigational computer, Chameleon brand color-changing paintjob, and fade-to-black windows for sleeping on the go. It was also equipped with the new Schlock Products™ anti-theft alarm. If anyone opened the door without the correct key, it turned on the radio. This would startle the thief so much that he would be too nervous to steal the car. At least, that’s what the commercial said.

The restaurant was near the Columbia River, a few blocks from a park. It was a large, gray building shaped like an “L,” set far back from the road. The lot was small and poorly-lit, almost as if Todd Sweeney didn’t want anyone to notice the restaurant was there. Nick waited outside for a few minutes, watching the customers drive home. Finally, Todd came out and approached his car. He was dressed just as he had been the day before.

“Sweeney doesn’t seem like the type of person to wear the same clothing two days in a row,” Nick thought. “He must have had a closet full of identical gray suits, like some sort of incredibly dull superhero.”

“There are still a few of my employees on the premises,” Todd said, gesturing to the door, “but they should be gone fairly soon. You might as well come inside.”

“Hey, Sweeney,” Nick said as he climbed out of his car, “What’s the deal with this place? There’s no sign.” In fact, there was nothing to indicate that it was a restaurant at all.

“We sell human flesh at three hundred dollars a pound. Individuals with such specific tastes generally find us on their own.”

“Three hundred dollars a pound?” Nick sputtered, shaking his head. “What are these, famous corpses?”

“It is a very fair price, considering the rarity of donations. Besides, long pigs – humans – have very little meat in them. Granted, you can get some nice steaks from the upper leg, but not nearly as much as, say, cattle…”

As they crossed the lot, Todd gave Nick a brief lecture on butchering “long pigs.” The most difficult part of the operation was gutting, as the butcher could accidentally cut into the intestines and make a “rather unpleasant mess.” After that, the butcher removed the skin, cut it into strips, and sent it to the kitchen, where the chef deep fried it and sold it as a side dish. “Human rinds” were very popular, especially the barbeque flavor.

Although Todd and his staff always referred to the meat as “long pig,” he insisted that it was merely a colloquialism. The meat tasted nothing like pork. The flavor was actually closer to premium-grade beef or veal. The taste was similar enough that, if human meat were seasoned or sauced, it could be difficult to tell the difference. For this reason, he had all of the meat butchered on-site. Anyone who wondered if the restaurant served genuine human flesh could simply ask to watch.

After what seemed to Nick like an eternity, they stepped inside the restaurant. The walls were covered in hand-screened wallpaper and paintings that would have ended up on the walls of a hotel had the artist not added four extra zeros to the price tag in what was clearly a twisted practical joke.

“So, what do you name a restaurant for wealthy cannibals?” Nick asked. “‘Bone Appetite?’ ‘Homosoupian?’ ‘Cup of Joe?’”

“Are you quite done?”

“How about ‘The Canniballroom?’ Or ‘Soylent on the Green?’”

“My restaurant,” Todd snapped, “is called ‘Hand to Mouth.’”

Stepping into the lobby, Nick noticed the maitre d’ station. Talking to the air, he said, “Yes, I have a reservation for Donner, party of four… No, wait, make that three…”

“If you’re through wasting time, I would like to–” Todd stopped in mid-sentence, distracted by a woman just stepping into the lobby. She had unnaturally red hair and an emerald green dress that looked short enough to make sitting down dangerous.

“Oh, Todd!” she called. “Marcy said you had my paycheck.”

“Certainly. One moment.” Todd fumbled in his jacket pockets, searching.

The woman turned to Nick and offered him her hand. “Hi, I’m Jessica Campbell.” She twisted a bit of her hair around her finger, giving Nick a smile that seemed to say “I know you’re picturing me naked, but I don’t mind.” Her hair had HiLites woven throughout, thin strands of plastic that glowed softly, giving her an almost angelic radiance.

“I’m Nick Wergild, Food Health Magazine.”

“Oh, are you here to make sure everything’s clean and sanitary?”

“Sure. I have to look the place over so we can give Hand to Mouth a good rating in our next issue. We’re reviewing all of the cannibalistic restaurants in the northwest… We should have plenty of space left for ads.”

“So, how much do you make at that magazine?” she asked, gently stroking his arm.

“I do alright,” he said, smiling. “Not enough to eat here, though. I hear dinner costs an arm and a leg.”

“Never heard that one before… After you’re done, do you want to go do something?” she asked, sliding her hand to his chest.

“Oh, sure. Dinner? Drinks? Pie eating contest?”

Todd shoved an envelope into Jessica’s hands. “I found it. Now, your shift is over, so I suggest that you head home.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the door. Returning to Nick, he said, “Please accept my apologies. I simply cannot have anyone standing about. Any of my employees could be involved with the murder, so it will be better if no one knew about your investigation.”

“Come on, Sweeny,” Nick grumbled, “She thinks I’m here to look for bugs, not bodies. Anyway, there’ll be time for that later. Show me where you make the ground Chuck.” As they walked, Nick tried to come up with a good cannibalism joke based around English food. There was blood pudding, sure, but that was too easy. “How about ‘Steve and kidney pie’?” he thought. “Fisherman and chips? Human beans on toast? …Ah, I’ll keep working on it.”

Todd took Nick down to the far end of the restaurant, where a gray door was marked “No Admittance – Employees Only – Empleados Solamente.” Pointing at a tiny camera over the door, Nick asked, “Do you have any footage from the night of the murder?”

“Unfortunately, no. I erase all of the old footage at the beginning of every month. The video files from that night were deleted days before I realized anything had occurred.”

“That’s too bad. Usually video of the murder taking place makes solving the case so much easier. Especially if it clearly shows the murderer’s face as he drops his wallet in a pool of his own DNA.” Noticing Todd’s puzzled expression, he added, “It happened once! Unfortunately, we had to let the guy go. A typo in the paperwork listed his crime as ‘man laughter.’”

Ignoring Nick, Todd unlocked the door and showed him inside. The butcher shop was one long, foul-smelling room with freezer doors at the far end. There were several extremely thick, steel tables with various saws and meat slicers attached. Behind one of the tables stood a gigantic man with a face like a constipated bulldog. He was cutting thin slices of meat from what was left of a human leg. Looking up, he called, “Evening, Mr. Sweeney. Just finishing up here.”

“Alright, Gordon,” Todd replied. “Lock up when you are finished.” Turning to Nick, he said quietly, “This fellow is Gordon Dunmore. He manages the butcher shop. Worked here for years.”

“He would have known Flockhart, right?” Nick whispered. “It seems odd to me that he wouldn’t have recognized her body.”

“Occasionally,” Todd said, “the donor bodies have their heads removed at the hospital. It helps to protect their privacy, and gives their families something to keep for the funeral. I imagine that the killer would have decapitated Renée, to insure that her body would blend in with the others.”

“Well, that’s good news!” Realizing how that sounded, he added, “I mean good for me. I’ll have at least one body part to look for. Now, does this place have a back door?”

“Certainly. Come this way.” Todd showed Nick to the delivery bay doors. “Both doors are solid steel, with triple-bolting security locks. The small door next to them leads to the employee car park. There are seven security cameras outside, all of them equipped with night vision.”

“Is this the only way inside?” Nick asked, examining the locks. There were no scratches or dents to indicate the lock had been forced open. “Any windows? Skylights? Giant ventilation ducts someone could crawl through?”

“The only other way in is through the restaurant. I certainly would not want windows back here… My customers enjoy the food, but most would never want to see it prepared.” Todd sighed dejectedly. “I thought that my security was sufficient. I was only worried about people stealing meat, not leaving me more. Ah, but c’est la vie.”

“I think you mean ‘c’est la mort.’ Well, there’s no use examining the butcher shop; there must be blood from dozens of people in here. I should have a look outside.”

“Certainly. The car park is this way.”

There was an overhang by the door where the butcher shop employees could smoke and stay out of the rain. “Well, look at that!” Nick thought. “This might have provided enough protection from the elements to preserve some evidence.” Standing in the parking lot, he pulled a tiny, black box from his pocket. “This is an ultraviolet light,” he explained. “If Renée was killed before she was brought here, there might still be drops of blood or other fluids.”

“Other fluids?”

“Anything, really. Urine, saliva, Dijon mustard… And if I can’t find anything with the light, I can always hose everything down with luminol. Luminol is a chemical that glows when it comes into contact with blood. …It also reacts with copper, which is nice. Whenever I investigate a crime scene, I find a penny.” He waved the light along the doorframe, watching closely for any signs of fluorescing body fluids. “Did Flockhart have any enemies?” he asked, not looking up from his work.

“Well, I know some of the employees resented my promoting her to head waitress. Any of them could have disliked her, I suppose. She could be rather curt at times. And there is always her ex-boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend? Why didn’t you say so! Tell me about him.” Three tiny dots of blood were visible at the bottom of the doorframe, glowing yellow under the ultraviolet light. Turning around, Nick could see that there was a curved trail leading back into the parking lot.

“His name is Clayton West. He saw Renée for about a year, until a bad breakup a few months ago. She wanted children, but he did not. He also thought that she was having an affair. I have no idea if that was the truth or if it was just something he said to make her seem like the villain.”

Only half listening, Nick followed the trail of blood. It crept for a few feet, curving sharply to the right. Three feet later, it ended abruptly. “Here’s what we know,” he said, gesturing with the light. “The killer had Flockhart in the back of his trunk. See where the blood trail bends? He carried her around the back of the car on his way to the restaurant’s back door.”

“And that tells us what, exactly?”

“When the murderer brought Flockhart’s body here, he didn’t do it on foot.”

“Of course he didn’t!” Todd snapped. He was beginning to second-guess his choice of investigator. “You would have to be insane to walk through the streets carrying a body.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I investigated a murder a few years ago where that’s exactly what had happened. Two men started a fight with a third and killed him. They each grabbed an arm and carried his limp body for sixteen blocks without anyone noticing anything was wrong.”

Todd blanched. “How could they get away with something like that?”

“It was Saint Patrick’s day.”

Todd grumbled something under his breath. He stopped second-guessing his choice and began to third and fourth-guess it. “I had dinner with Clayton and Renée a handful of times. I still have Clayton’s address, if you would like to pay him a visit.”

“Yes, but not tonight. It’s getting late.” He switched off the light and performed an exaggerated yawn and stretch. It was always best to pretend to be exhausted when you wanted to quit working for the day. “I have to go. Contact me tomorrow with Clayton’s address. Also, give me the names and addresses of the rest of your staff, especially that redhead that was in here earlier.”

Nick followed Todd back to the butcher shop. Something on the floor glinted in the light. There, just inside the doorway, was a silver guitar pick. Using a tissue, Nick grabbed the pick and dropped it in his jacket pocket. Normally, he would have placed it in an evidence bag, but Gordon seemed to be watching him. At this point, it was best to keep the investigation a secret. Besides, he was out of evidence bags. He’d used the last one to hold a sandwich.

Todd headed for the door to the restaurant, but Nick lagged behind. Approaching Gordon, he said, “Hey, I’ve seen you before somewhere. Weren’t you at that party at Renée’s place a couple months ago?”

“No, don’t think so. She doesn’t like me so much.” Gordon stared at his hands, picking at a hangnail. “No idea why. Always tried to be so nice to her.”

“But you like her, right?” Nick said, smiling. “I mean, I bet everybody does. She’s a cute one, that Renée.”

“Not everybody,” Gordon said, wrapping a stack of meat in plastic. “Jessica always thought she was uptight, conceited. I always thought she was pretty… nice. I was sorry to see her go.”

“Why did she leave?”

“No idea.” Gordon carried the meat to the freezer, shoving it inside. “How do you know her again?”

“We used to date, a long time ago. Didn’t last long. She was into all sorts of weird, sexual things… Bondage, water sports, monogamy… Well, I’ve got to run. It was good talking with you.” Nick followed Todd out to the parking lot and drove home, deep in thought.

Nick was in his apartment, getting ready for bed, when a deliveryman dropped off a large bouquet of flowers. At first, he assumed the deliveryman had the wrong address. One of his neighbors had flowers delivered constantly. She was a mortician and held funeral services in her apartment. Quite a challenge in a four-story walkup. But, no, the flowers were actually for him. Nick dropped the bouquet on the kitchen table and read the card.

Dear Mr. Wergild,

You deserve to die for what you did to me. People like you are too selfish to live! I will have my revenge. If I ever catch you alone, I will slit your throat!

He tossed the card in the trash. “They couldn’t have signed their name? This could have come from anybody. An ex-girlfriend, my landlord, Grandma…” Suddenly, he remembered that he needed to recharge his portable ultraviolet light. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack in the hall and pulled the light from the pocket. On his way into the kitchen, the light slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. The bulb exploded, scattering black glass across the tile. The plastic battery case was nearly cracked in half.

“Oh, holy hell! And I’ll probably need it again tomorrow, too. I might as well go get a new one now. There’s some equipment I’ve been meaning to buy, anyway.” Reluctantly, he dressed, grabbed his jacket, and went shopping.

He pulled into the lot of Little Brother’s, the local spy gadget superstore. It was the only place in town where you could get tear gas, a grappling hook, and a bug detector in the same trip. Oddly, they were open twenty-four hours a day. Apparently there were a lot of people who needed night vision goggles at four in the morning.

He stepped inside, trying to remember where they kept the crime scene equipment. Several customers were standing by a glass display counter, where a salesman was explaining how to hide a camera inside of a bidet. For legal reasons, he said, his instructions were “strictly for entertainment purposes only.” At the customer service counter, a sweaty man in a clear, plastic raincoat was complaining that he couldn’t find a bulletproof vest comfortable enough to sleep in.

Sophia Wynne, the night manager, stood at the back of the store, digging through a rack of camouflage pants, camouflage jackets, and camouflage lingerie. Every few seconds, she would pause to write something on the electronic clipboard strapped to her wrist. She was a petite blonde with mismatched eyes, the result of a transplant surgery years earlier. She wore one of the form-fitting, black jumpsuits the store sold for nighttime reconnaissance missions. Nick thought it made her look like an actress auditioning for the role of “sexy jewel thief.”

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, “Do you sell ferrets?” Sophia laughed loudly, drawing rude looks from customers. It was an inside joke. I’d explain, but you really had to be there.

“Hey, Nick. Haven’t seen you in weeks! Where’ve you been?”

“My last manhunt took me out of state. I got to go to a whorehouse and tie up an old man in bondage gear. Good times.”

Sophia had been friends with Nick long enough to not ask questions if she wasn’t absolutely sure she wanted to know the answer. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Listen, Wynne, I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“You’re not,” she said quietly, making sure no one was in earshot. “Pretending to take inventory makes it easier to ignore the customers. They never have any questions that require my level of expertise, you know? Most nights, all we get are perverts looking for x-ray specs.”

“Which aisle were those in again?”

“Relax, cowboy. All you can see are bones. Not exactly sexy, unless you’re into the malnourished waif type.”

“Now that we’ve gotten the witty banter out of the way, I need an ultraviolet light.”

She gestured for him to follow, leading him to a glass display case full of cameras. On top of the display case was a stack of purple boxes labeled “CSIUVLEDINC”. She switched off her clipboard and handed him one of the lights. “You know, most of the people who buy these things are college kids with dorm rooms full of black light posters or paranoids searching hotel bed sheets for stains. Nice to know they occasionally get used for their intended purpose. …So, how will you be paying?”

“Client still hasn’t sent me the reward money for my last case. Can you put this on my tab?”

She sighed, frustrated. “You know you haven’t paid me for anything in months! Your tab is so big that it has smaller tabs orbiting around it. If I add anything else, it’s liable to collapse into a black hole and suck the cash register into a parallel dimension.”

“Well, Wynne, I don’t know what to say. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t paid my landlady in months, either.”

“Why would that make me feel better?” He just shrugged. “Nick, I’ve got Big Boss Man breathing down my neck, and not in a good way. I feel horrible doing this to a friend, but I can’t give you any more credit.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re just doing your job. That’s what’s important, right?” He patted his pockets, pretending to search for cash. Feigning surprise, he pulled some coins from his money pouch. “Oh, looks like I have some cash after all.”

“How amazing,” she said flatly. She rang up the light and shoved it into a plastic bag, nearly tearing a hole in the bottom. “Nick, I’ve heard stories about you, but it’s hard to tell the truth from myths, urban legends, and your own lies. Are you any good at what you do?”

“I’m the best there is, baby!”

She jabbed him in the chest with a sharply-manicured finger. “Do you remember what I told you about that?”

“That if I keep calling you ‘baby,’ you’ll use my testicles for castanets?”

“And I won’t warn you again. Now, as I was saying, I might have a way for you to work off your debt. – As a detective, you ass. Stop smiling at me like that.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He used his fingers to pull the corners of his mouth into a more serious expression. “Please, continue.”

“A few weeks ago, my cat died, so I went to the pet store to get a new one. They had Perma-Kittens on sale. I guess they do something to their growth hormone levels so they stay small and cute forever. Not important. The point is that the salesclerk was really creepy. He kept standing too close to me, asking me personal questions, touching my hair.” She cringed at the memory. “He must have copied my address of off my credit card because, ever since then, he’s been stalking me!”

“Stalking? What has he been doing, exactly?” It was important to ask. Sophia was given to exaggeration. She had once called in sick with the bubonic plague.

“He shows up outside my apartment, he shows up here, he’s at the grocery store whenever I am…” She switched on her clipboard and tapped to open a folder. “I’ve been keeping notes; it’s all right here. I told my security patrol about it, but they won’t do anything. Each time he appears, we’re in a public place, so he hasn’t broken any laws. I can’t prove he’s following me, but maybe you can.”

He considered his options. On one hand, he was already on a case, which was taking up a lot of his time. On the other hand, Little Brother’s could turn his tab over to a collections agency, and the collections agents could take his possessions in payment. They could take his car, his computer, his drugs… “I’ll do it!”

“Oh, thank you so much!” She leaned over the counter, giving him a grateful hug.

“Email me your notes tomorrow morning and I’ll get started as soon as I can. You might consider skipping work. If he’s dangerous, it could be the only way to insure your safety.” He wanted to add “and you could spend the day off with me,” but it didn’t seem worth the effort.

She handed him his bag and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Stop by if you want anything else from me.” Seeing confusion in his eyes, she added, “I mean more detective stuff. You know, magnifying glass, pipe, deerstalker hat…”

“Oh, that. Yes, will do.” They said their goodbyes and he headed to the door, lighting yet another cigarette.

“You should quit smoking,” she called after him.

“I should do a lot of things.”

Chapter Four

Early the next morning, Nick forced himself out of bed and drove out to Renée’s apartment, where he searched for a way inside. The building’s forty-three stories of chrome and glass shone brightly in the rising sun. In a recent newsfeed interview, the architect had said that the shape of the building was supposed to represent “the triumph of the human spirit over adversity.” Nick thought it looked more like a giant marital aid, but what did he know about modern art?

He found a small, open window near the ground. Kicking out the screen, he slid inside, dropping down into the building’s laundry room. “That was easy. I’ve seen daycare centers with better security. Of course, they needed it. Some of those kids could be dangerous, especially the ones in solitary confinement. Well, while I’m down here, I should pick up a disguise.” There were several piles of clothes left by people waiting for an empty washer. Digging through the dirty laundry, he searched for something that didn’t smell too strongly of sweat, smoke, or other, more mysterious odors. He grabbed a knit cap and an oversized basketball jersey and headed for the stairs.

The apartment doors were reinforced steel, locked with fingerprint scanners. His usual methods would be no help getting inside Renée’s. He knocked on the maintenance manager’s door and a beefy man in blue coveralls answered. Just past the doorway stood a small table with a glass jar on top marked “Tipping isn’t just for cows.”

“And just what in the hell do you want?” the maintenance man demanded. “There’s a pretty long waiting list for repairs, so if your refrigerator is broken or something, it’ll stay that way until Cocytus boils. Unless you want to throw some coin in my tip jar.”

“No, that’s not it,” Nick said. “Listen, I used to live here with this girl. She kicked me out of the apartment a month ago and she still hasn’t sent me my stuff. I just want inside to get my television.”

“Not my problem,” the maintenance man said, cracking his knuckles.

“I’ll give you fourteen dollars.”

He considered Nick’s kind offer for a moment. “Yeah, alright. But listen: if she finds out about this, I never saw you.”

The maintenance man led the way to Renée’s apartment. There were a couple of young girls in the hallway playing with a robot kitten. Or, rather, they were watching the robot kitten play by itself. Most toys were so advanced that they didn’t need the child at all. It was almost as good as watching television.

“Here we are, apartment 43.” The maintenance man pressed his thumb to the scanner plate and weaved Nick inside. “Hey, buddy, remember, you’re just taking your TV. If anything else comes up missing, I can always give your description to the security patrols.”

“Make sure to tell them about my adorable dimples.”

“Weirdo.”

Nick slammed the door and turned to examine his surroundings. As Renée’s murder was not yet public knowledge, her rent and utilities were still being automatically withdrawn from her bank account. As far as the apartment superintendent knew, she was still living there. Her place had been left as it was the day she was murdered. At least, for the most part. A maid service still came by once a week. This meant that any fingerprints or DNA evidence would have been long since wiped away.

“On the other hand,” he thought, “their cleaning the apartment is a clue in itself. A maid wouldn’t have cleaned up blood splatters or bullet holes. If her apartment looked like a crime scene, they would have called a security patrol. That means one of two things: either the murder happened someplace else, or Renée was killed in a way that didn’t leave a mess.”

The apartment was annoyingly cheerful. The sunny yellow walls were covered in posters of babies dressed like flowers and kittens clinging to tree limbs. The window blinds were on a timer, opening automatically at dawn. Oddly, none of her windows doubled as TVs. Apparently Renée liked to look outside.

In the corner of the living room stood a small bookshelf filled with memory tabs and photo albums. “Looks like Renée wasn’t a big fan of reading,” he thought. “An entire bookshelf for only three books.” Taking a closer look, he realized that the “books” were actually Schlock Products™ Secret Safes, metal boxes disguised as large dictionaries. They might have passed for genuine books if the word “Dictionary” hadn’t been in quotation marks. Renée hadn’t bothered to lock them. There was nothing inside but cheap costume jewelry and a few antique Federal Reserve Notes. He pocketed the later, planning to give them to Sophia, as she collected that sort of thing. She also collected celebrity blood samples, but he didn’t see any lying around.

Above the bookshelf was a cork bulletin board with various theater tickets, receipts, and notes pinned to it. “Buy eggs,” “Get keys back from Clayton,” “Tell Mom that’s not a neck massager.”

Nick walked into the bathroom, which Renée had apparently turned into a shampoo history museum. Other than the clutter, the bathroom was as spotless as an albino Dalmatian. In fact, it was so clean that he felt guilty about his own bathroom, where the mildew was evolving into intelligent life.

After searching the bedroom, he decided that Todd was right. There were no signs of a struggle, nothing out of the ordinary, even under the ultraviolet light. He grabbed some things from Renée’s lingerie drawer, just so the visit wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.

◊

Sophia’s email didn’t arrive until late that night. Her stalker’s name was Luke Bender, a low-level employee at a pet store called “Fur Sure.” At first, he would just appear in line behind her at the coffee shop or the deli. She assumed he lived in the area, that it was only a coincidence. However, she started seeing him in the parking lot of her apartment complex. She would leave for work at eleven PM and he would be there, watching her door. When she got to Little Brother’s, he would be there, pretending to shop. She never actually saw him follow her but, clearly, he must have. If Nick could prove Luke had been following her, there was a good chance Luke’s insurance company would charge him with stalking.

One thing Nick had in his favor was the respective genders of the people involved. It was much harder to pursue a stalking case when it was a woman stalking a man. For men, being followed by an obsessed female was a common fantasy, so much so that Washington had a chain of Rent-A-Stalker stores. Customers could hire an actress to pursue them, lurk outside their bedroom window, or confront them in public and scream “Why oh why won’t you let me love you?”

Sophia had drawn a map at the bottom of her email. “That’s odd,” he thought. “She sent me Bender’s home address. How would she get that? I’ll have to ask her about it later.” Stranger still, the address was in a very upscale neighborhood. The homes in the area were all in the multimillion dollar range, far too expensive for anyone working at a pet store. He made a mental note to find out how Luke could pay for such a place.

Closing the email, he switched to the internet and searched for Luke Bender in the newsfeed archives. There were dozens of results:

• Local Man Arrested for Stealing Merry-Go-Round

• Local Man Arrested for Selling Orphans through the Mail

• Local Man Arrested for Renting Internal Organs to Elderly

• Local Man Arrested for Running Penguin Cock Fights

• Local Man Arrested for Operating Taco Stand in Public Restroom

Skimming the last article, Nick thought that anyone dumb enough to buy a taco in a men’s room deserved what they got. “Regardless, this Bender sounds like a real loser, and possibly dangerous. I’d better pay him a visit.”

Fur Sure had a sign in the front window advertising the Perma-Kittens sale. The sign noted that, due to several pending lawsuits, Perma-Babies were no longer available. Stepping inside, Nick checked the nametags of all the salesclerks he could find. None of them said “Luke.” He wandered to the aquarium department at the back of the store.

A small photograph on the wall showed a bored-looking man holding a tiny, plastic net, the kind used to extract fish from a tank. His thick hair was spiked with gel, and a dragon tattooed wrapped around each arm. His eyebrows were pierced with enough rings to support a curtain rod. The photo caption read “Luke Bender, Fish and Aquarium Department Ass. Manager.”

“His parents must be so proud. Well, if he’s not working tonight, he might be out at Sophie’s place. I should make sure she’s okay. First, in case he shows up later, a little surveillance.” He waited for the fish aisle to be clear of customers and salesclerks. Moving quickly, he plunged his arms into a tank and hid a tiny, waterproof surveillance camera inside one of the goldfish. Wiping his hands on his shirt, he returned to his car.

The drive to Sophia’s apartment complex was familiar, almost reassuringly so. He had met her two years earlier, when she had first started working at Little Brother’s. Since then, he had given her a ride home from work maybe half a dozen times. She never invited him inside. After working all night, she was always exhausted and would head directly to bed. At least, that was the reason she always gave. Why would she lie?

He drove through the lot, searching for anyone that looked out of place. Each apartment had its own entrance, which meant that Luke could see Sophia the moment she stepped outside. But the cars were empty. If Luke were there, he wasn’t sitting in his car. Perhaps his obsession had moved beyond stalking.

He imagined her standing in her bathtub, shaving her legs, and cutting herself with the razor. In his mind, he saw a single drop of blood rolling down her thigh and splashing on the floor. Her eyes would follow the drop of blood on its journey, and then she would look up to see Luke standing in the doorway. Her screams would only excite him more.

“Oh, holy hell.”

Nick parked across two spaces, ran to her apartment, and banged on her door. Nothing. “Maybe she’s in bed… being smothered with a pillow. I should break the door down.” He turned on his heel, intending to grab his Halligan tool from his trunk, but he stopped short. Her car wasn’t in the lot. “What the hell? I told her to stay home from work!” His anger vanished as suddenly as it came. What if Luke was at Little Brother’s?

He crossed town as fast as his car could take him. Pulling in front of the door, he ran inside, his engine still running. “Where’s Sophia?” he shouted at no one in particular.

“Who’s asking?” a salesman said. Keeping his eyes on Nick, he reached below the display counter, feeling for the alarm button.

Nick produced his manhunter’s badge. “Is she here or not?”

“She’s in the back, selling someone a pistol.”

Sure enough, Sophia was standing behind the gun counter, calmly talking with a customer. “You can hide a gun on your body and still pass a strip search,” she explained. “Of course, if you do get kidnapped, anything your captors do to you can’t possibly be worse than the process of hiding the gun.”

“Good point,” the customer said. “Do you have anything smaller than a .22?”

She nodded. Glancing up, she noticed Nick staring at her. “Nick! What’s wrong?”

“Why are you here, Wynne?” he demanded.

“I work here. Big Boss Man tends to pay me more if I show up. Did you solve my case already?”

“No, I just wanted…” Glancing around the room, he noticed a large poster advertising one of Little Brother’s new sale items, a plastic gun that looked like something from a 1940’s space movie.

Try the new Enuresis Zapper! Only $299.95 for your very own incontinence-producing ray gun! Works up to fifty yards away! Fun at parties!

Indicating the poster, he said, “I’d like one of those. Do you do gift wrap? My nephew’s turning eight next week…”

Back at home, he collapsed on his couch, three hundred dollars poorer and incredibly depressed. His mind tortured him with questions. What was wrong with him? Why didn’t he just talk to her? Should he chase her stalker first or Renée’s killer? Did he have any drugs left? He decided to deal with the last question first, as it was the easiest.

Moments later, he was sprawled on the floor, watching his head float to the ceiling. What was he thinking about before? Something about a girl?

Chapter Five

The next morning, Nick was in the shower, debating what to do next. He came up with some of his best ideas in the shower, which is why most of them involved rubber ducks or dandruff shampoo. Toweling off, he grabbed his transmitter from atop his dresser. “Trans Sweeny.”

The transmitter was the size of a golf ball cut in half and looked something like a chrome-plated ladybug. At the sound of Nick’s voice, the transmitter opened its “eyes,” two tiny cameras that would send his image to Todd Sweeny’s home video screen. Moments later, a six-inch hologram of Todd’s head appeared above Nick’s palm.

“Ah, Mr. Wergild, yes. What can I do for you?”

“I need to see whatever’s left of Flockhart. After you chop up a corpse, what happens to the remains?”

“After we strip a long pig of its meat,” Todd corrected, “we sell the leftovers to an elderly couple in Oregon who make scrimshaw.”

“…What’s scrimshaw?” he asked reluctantly. Whatever it was, he knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Art made from bones.”

“Oh, lovely. That’s not creepy at all…”

◊

The scrimshaw store was in the tiny town of Fossil, Oregon, about three hours away. The shop wasn’t hard to find, as there were only about five hundred people in the whole area. It was a dilapidated shack with faded blue paint, sitting across the street from a museum. A battered sign outside read “Napoleon’s Boney Art.”

“That’s the thing I hate about my job,” Nick thought. “I can arrest murderers and rapists, but I’m powerless to stop people who make bad puns.”

The inside of the store was one large room. The walls were darkly stained paneling decorated with autographed photos of the various celebrities that had supposedly been there. Strangely, they were all signed in the same handwriting, and many of the celebrities had forgotten how to spell their own names. Either the photos were fakes or the Hollywood lifestyle had rotted their brains. Possibly both.

Ancient, glass display cases divided the store into several sections. One case held flutes carved from femurs. Another case was filled with bowls made from skulls, some bleached white, but most painted in bright colors. Stacked near the door, a few pieces of furniture made from bones and barbed wire slowly gathered dust.

In the back of the store stood the sales counter, an immense, oaken thing inlayed with pieces of bone. On top of the counter, next to the cash register, a gray parrot dozed in a wrought iron birdcage. Behind the counter, a white haired man sat on a stool and stared at a grainy hologram of a daytime talk show.

“You must be Napoleon,” Nick said, extending his hand. “Or should I say mister….” Napoleon ignored his attempt at a handshake. Awkwardly, Nick pulled his hand away and drummed his fingers on the counter. “Nice parrot.”

“He’s my buddy,” Napoleon grunted. “The wife makes me keep him here at the store because he makes noise when we make love. I never saw what the big deal was. She made those noises first!”

Nick was suddenly desperate to change the subject. He introduced himself and quickly explained the situation: Renée’s apparent murder, the missing body, his joke about the Donner party, everything. “Have you received any damaged bones in the past month?” he asked. “Shattered skulls? Fractured femurs? Cracked coccyx?”

“No, can’t say I have. Everything is usually in perfect condition. The bones Mr. Sweeny sends here are always sealed in packing foam.” Packing foam was a chemical spray used in the shipping industry. After an object was coated in it, the packing foam expanded, providing a layer of rubber-like protection. It was also a tasty dessert topping.

Nick pulled his transmitter from his pocket. “Even so, I would like to call in a forensics team to examine your inventory. I know it’s a bit of an imposition but, if you have any of Flockhart’s bones here, it would help me find the killer. You could be a hero. Think of it! You could have a low-budget, made-for-TV movie loosely based on the story of your life!”

“I don’t want people looking around my shop,” Napoleon snapped. He yanked the transmitter from Nick’s hand and tossed it roughly onto the counter. “It’s not like when I was a kid. This is my property, and I don’t have to let anybody come in here. Private property is sacred, damn it! You have to respect that, even in the middle of a murder investigation. It would be better to let a thousand murderers go free than to see the rights of one innocent man trampled underfoot!”

“I’ll give you twelve dollars.”

“Sure.”

◊

A white van pulled in front of the shop. It had a blue light bar on the top and a red and gold magnetic sign on its side. “Bend Forensic Investigation – Homicides, Sex Crimes, and Assaults – Also Available for Children’s Parties.” Four women and three men in white lab coats piled out of the van and headed into the shop. While they opened the display cases and examined Napoleon’s morbid creations, Nick waited outside, enjoying a cigarette. Actually, “enjoying” is an understatement. Compared to how the rest of his day was going, smoking the cigarette was unbridled ecstasy.

Overhead, a black and yellow airplane buzzed by like an enormous bumblebee. A dog walker brushed past Nick, grimacing and waving away his smoke. An ice cream truck rolled slowly through the neighborhood. Oddly, it was playing Ride of the Valkyries. The team supervisor, a woman with a severely shaved head and a silver nose ring, joined him on the sidewalk. Her name tag said “Wendy.”

“Mr. Wergild,” she said, checking her clipboard, “the majority of the bones appeared to be either male or of the wrong age, so they were rejected immediately. The bones from young, petite females belonged to just three individuals. We have taken scrapings from the bones and, as guaranteed in our commercial, you will have your DNA results in about an hour. Do you have a major credit card?”

“No, I do everything in cash.” Most credit card companies refused to do business with Nick, as he treated bills like mosquito bites: tiny annoyances that would go away if he ignored them long enough. “But not to worry. My client will be taking care of everything.” He made a transmission to Todd Sweeny.

“What is it now?” Todd demanded, annoyed. It looked like he had just gotten out of the shower.

“I need you to send your credit card number to Bend Forensic Investigation. I’ll give you their frequency…”

Nick followed Wendy back into the shop. Still sitting behind the sales counter, Napoleon was feeding the parrot a spinach leaf. In between bites, the parrot emitted shrill grunts and groans. One of the investigators, a heavyset man with a pockmarked face, rushed over to Wendy. “The DNA tests are finished,” he said, showing her his wrist clipboard. “No matches with our victim. One of the individuals had her DNA on file with a genetic research company in Portland. Another individual matched the employee records at a local bank; they keep their employee’s DNA on file as an anti-theft measure. The third was obviously too elderly. Her joints had deteriorated.”

“They won’t do that if you roll them properly,” Nick said.

“I have something else that might catch your interest,” the investigator said, addressing Wendy. “I happened to look out the back window, and it looks like the shopkeeper is stripping bones in the alley behind the store. The thing is, the chemicals he’s using are known to cause cancer, birth defects, and excessive bleeding from the eyes. He’s just letting the chemicals run down the street and into the sewer! I’m sure his insurance company wouldn’t be too happy about that!”

Wendy moaned, exhausted. “Mr. Wergild, I’ve had a very hard week, and I would really like to get home to get some sleep. Would you mind taking care of the old man for me?”

“No problem.” He smiled, lighting a cigarette and walking out to the alley. “Hey Nappy!” he called. “We’ve got to have a little talk.”

“What’s about?” the old man asked, grimacing like he had a lemon wedged in a very uncomfortable place.

“Do you have health insurance?”

“Of course. How else would I have lived this long? You kids think new livers grow on trees?”

“Not in this climate. Listen, Nappy, every insurance company in the country has public health provisions in their contracts, which you have broken. Hell, you didn’t just break them, you stomped on them and smashed them into little pieces. Unless you have about a half million dollars to turn over to your insurance company, I’m going to have to arrest you.”

“You can’t do this!” Napoleon screamed. His bird squawked in fright, flapping its wings futilely. “You’ll bankrupt me! They’ll take my store!”

“Relax. They will probably just take the lion’s share of your money now, and then seize whatever’s left when you die. It’s just like having kids…”

“I’ll get you for this, Wergild!” He balled his hands into fists. “I’ll bash in your skull!”

“The last time I punched an elderly man, it ended up on the local news. Turns out, he wasn’t even the real Elvis. So let’s skip the fistfight, okay?”

“Well, can I at least run away?”

“Fine. I’ll get your cane.”

Napoleon didn’t get very far. Nick waited for a security team to arrive and take the old man into custody. He would be held just long enough for evidence to be collected and for the insurance company to investigate the rate of cancer in the area. The insurance company would reimburse any victims, using Napoleon’s fines to cover their losses. If he had anything left over, he would probably lose it in the numerous lawsuits that were certain to follow. All things considered, not his best day.

On his way home to Vancouver, Nick set his transmitter on the dashboard and contacted Todd Sweeney again. “I may not have found Flockhart’s bones,” Nick said, “but the trip was still worthwhile. If the art dealer doesn’t have Renée’s remains, that only leaves two options: the killer still has them, or disposed of them someplace else. I’ll try to find out if an unidentified skeleton has been discovered in the Vancouver area. In the meantime, I think I need to visit your restaurant again.”

After that, he put in a transmission to a friend at Seattle Safe Harbor, a crime insurance company. He was forwarded to video mail. Either his friend was away from his desk, or he was avoiding Nick’s calls. Probably both.

“Hey, buddy.” Nick always called his friends “buddy.” It was easier than learning their names. “I need you to do me a favor. Let me know if there have been any Jane Does found in the past month. The one I’m looking for should just be a pile of bones by now. If you find her, I’ll consider deleting those photos of you with your mistress. …Is that the right term? Not sure what to call it when it’s a horse. Anyway, call me back.”

Chapter Six

The sun slid below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in crimson and violet. The lights in the parking lot flickered on, buzzing like trapped houseflies. “And here I am again,” Nick thought, “at a restaurant for white collar cannibals. I still can’t believe it. It’s even worse than that place that sold chicken tartare…”

He watched a cluster of foreign businessmen walk inside, grinning and laughing at some private joke. Even at a distance, he could tell that one of their suits cost more than what he made in a decade. Behind the businessmen came the local weatherman. He was wearing a baseball cap, scarf, and sunglasses, obviously trying to keep from being recognized. A few minutes later, a baseball player from a Portland team walked in, his wife beside him. She was holding their infant daughter.

“At least she’s too young to eat meat,” Nick decided. “For a few more months, anyway. And then it can be pureed…” He shuddered involuntarily. Noise from across the road pulled him away from unpleasant thoughts.

The strip mall across the street was dominated by a gaudily-painted bar called “J.B. Funambulist’s.” The owner was Steven Jenkins, a local celebrity who had written a popular book on speed-reading. Most people finished the book in under an hour thanks to his great tips, and the fact that it was only ten pages long.

A handful of protesters stood outside the bar, waving signs and shouting something he couldn’t quite hear over the traffic noise. A man near the front of the group was wearing a three-piece suit, a top hat, and a monocle, like a caricature of a nineteenth-century railroad tycoon. Nick waited for a break in the traffic and hurried across the street. Stepping into the bar’s parking lot, he could finally make out their words.

“One, two, three, four! Evil millionaires who eat the poor! Five, six, seven, eight! Does human flesh really taste that great?”

Nick wandered over to a woman holding a bullhorn, apparently leading the chanting. “Excuse me, but do you realize you’re protesting the wrong business? Hand to Mouth is across the street.”

“I know that!” she said slowly, slurring her words. “Don’t you think I know that? We wanted to protest over there, but the owner said we couldn’t use his popperty… property… without buying something. And everything he sells has human flesh in it. And that’s… icky.”

“And J.B. Funambulist’s let’s you protest in their parking lot?”

“They sure do,” she laughed “as long as we buy a round of drinks every twenty minutes!”

The top-hatted man stumbled to the edge of the parking lot, shaking his fist more or less in the direction of the restaurant. “You evil, heartless bastards! I’ll show you! I’ll show everybody!” Apparently the thing he was so desperate to show everyone was in his pants. He fumbled with his belt, dropped his trousers, and made a sound like a lovesick moose. Nick lurched back as the man regurgitated several pints of beer onto the pavement.

Nick placed his hand on the leader’s shoulder, guiding her away from the putrid muck.             “I noticed you folks are all wearing gold pins,” he said, reading the engraving. “What’s ‘Scunner Consulting’?”

“They paid us to be here today. Next week, we’re protesting a slim… skim… a scrimshaw dealer a couple towns over.” The woman put a finger to her lips. “Shh! That’s a secret! Who told you that?”

“Well, I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll let you get back to chanting slogans.” Obviously, she was far too intoxicated to be helpful. He left her to her drunken faux activism and returned to the restaurant.

The maitre d’ at Hand to Mouth was a tall, lanky man with a neatly shaved head and a wispy mustache. His name tag said “Paulo.” Paulo peered at Nick suspiciously, like he was a maggot swimming in his foie gras. “Do you have a reservation, sir?” he said in a tone that clearly indicated “sir” was code for “you underclass piece of filth who couldn’t afford to eat here even if you brought your own food and ate it while cowering in the men’s room.”

“Actually,” Nick explained calmly, “I just came inside to tell you that your car is being stolen.”

“What? Not my baby! Oh my sweet lord!” Paulo ran from his station in a panic. Heading for the door, he grabbed a potted plant from the lobby, apparently to defend himself against the would-be car thieves. Smiling to himself, Nick wondered what kind of person would consider an angel-wing begonia a dangerous weapon.

The tables at Hand to Mouth were highly-polished, black mahogany decorated with carvings of medieval and Renaissance art. The tops of the tables had circular indentations marking recessed plate warmers. The chairs were high-backed thrones with feet like lion’s paws. Everything else was trimmed in gold or studded with jewels or expensive for other reasons that only the absurdly wealthy could understand.

A waiter spoke to a table full of young women, awkwardly explaining how the chef prepared the Rocky Mountain oysters. Two children in overalls chased each other, laughing, steak knives in their hands. Their parents didn’t seem to notice. Sitting near the back of the restaurant was Dr. Günter von Plumpsklo, a plastic surgeon and minor celebrity. He was famous for being the first doctor to perform cosmetic surgery on internal organs. It was important to look your best at your autopsy. After all, those would be the last photos of you ever taken.

Nick wandered over to a table and threw his coat over a chair. Taking a seat, he waited for a server. At the next table, a young woman was sitting by herself, eating the last few bites of a steak. Her hair was cut in a short bob, dyed pink, almost the same color as her low-cut cocktail dress. Around her neck was a black leather choker studded with pink diamonds. It looked like a remarkably expensive cat’s collar. Nick cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, but I’ve never been here before. What would you recommend?”

“Oh, anything, really,” she said casually, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Your second meal is the one that really matters. The first time people try the food, most of them are too focused on what it used to be to enjoy the taste.”

“What’s it like to eat another human being?”

“It is a miraculous, life-changing experience,” she said, closing her eyes. “Like giving birth in reverse. Instead of bringing a miracle into the world, you take a miracle into yourself. The moment I first heard about this place, I knew I had to come. The first bite was like touching the face of god. It made me feel immortal. I knew, somehow, that I was eating the person’s soul.”

“Do the steaks come with a baked potato?”

“And your choice of soups.” Opening her eyes, she smiled brightly. “The ‘clam’ chowder is to die for – No pun intended!”

“I’ll have to try that.” He offered her his hand. “By the way, I’m Rick Welding.”

“Gabrielle.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what do you do, Ms…?”

“It’s just Gabrielle. I’m a singer/songwriter,” she said, pronouncing the slash as a separate word. “And what do you do, Rick Welding?”

“I’m the entertainment manager of a new nightclub on the south side of Portland. We’re opening in a few days. I’m supposed to audition some performers.”

“What kind of performers are you looking for?”

“The usual… Strippers, showgirls, plate spinners…”

“Oh, you! Be serious!” she laughed, touching his arm.

“Actually, we do need singers. There’s just something about the sound of a woman’s voice that makes men want to buy overpriced mixed drinks.”

“Well, well, well! Why don’t you come over to my place sometime and I can audition for you privately?” Rising from the table, she handed him a business card with a tiny hologram chip embedded in its surface. He rubbed the chip with his thumb, and a tiny Gabrielle appeared on the card. The hologram waved, blew him a kiss, and then flickered and vanished. “I have an appointment right now,” the real Gabrielle said, “but you can trans me tonight. I’ll be up outrageously late. Ciao, baby!”

As he watched Gabrielle slink out the door, Nick heard a familiar voice coming from behind him. He turned in his seat to see Todd Sweeney having an animated conversation with one of the waiters. The waiter was a man of about twenty, with bleached blonde hair and a sallow complexion, wearing the same white shirt, red tie, khaki slacks combination as the rest of the male staff. He had a silver ichthus, the “Jesus fish” symbol, tattooed on his wrist.

“For the last time, Aaron,” Todd barked, “I do not want you in the back with Gordon! You are to remain in the dining hall with the rest of the waiters! You are banned from the rest of the building!”

“Alright! I’ll stay out of the damned butcher shop! Now, if you are finished publicly humiliating me, I have customers waiting.” Aaron pulled a notepad from his apron, switched it on, and strode across the room to Nick’s table. “Hello,” he said listlessly, “My name is Aaron and, as the cliché goes, I’ll be your waiter. What can I get for you this fine evening, my good sir?”

“Does everything have people in it?”

“Yes.”

“Even the bread?”

“Especially the bread.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have a beer.”

Aaron made a mark on his notepad. “Good choice, sir. For first-time customers, all of our beers come with a free basket of ‘chicken’ fingers.”

“Oh, lucky me.”

Glancing up from his notes, Aaron eyed Nick suspiciously. “And… don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“You might have seen me on television,” he replied. “I was in an ad for a plastic surgery clinic. I was the ‘before’ picture.”

Aaron’s face showed that he didn’t believe Nick, but realized that he was not in the proper social position to call him a liar. After all, he was bringing him food, not reading his resume. Forcing a smile, he said, “Oh, I remember you now. I’ll be right back with your order.”

Twenty minutes later, he still hadn’t returned. But Nick didn’t mind. In fact, he was rather relieved. “A chance to do undercover work in a cannibal restaurant without having to eat any of the food!” he thought happily. “Boy, this worked out well.”

“And here’s your chicken!” It was Jessica, the flirtatious redhead from the other night. Her hair was pinned into a bun with silver chopsticks. She wore a distractingly short skirt and a blouse that looked tight enough to cut off her circulation. “Oh, you’re that magazine guy! Dick, right?”

“Nick, actually,” he said, forcing himself to make eye contact. “And keep it down; I’m undercover here.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “I should have known. This is one of those secret restaurant reviews, right?”

“Exactly. I want to get the authentic experience, so just treat me how you treat everybody else at Hand to Mouth.” Glancing down at his plate, he suddenly felt very ill. “Well, not like him.”

She frowned at him concernedly. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m just fine,” he lied. He took a deep breath and waited for the nausea to pass. It didn’t. “I was just wondering what happened to my waiter.”

“It looks like Aaron walked off the job.”

“He left? Just like that? Why?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say. He’s been pretty unstable lately, throwing fits, crying over nothing. He’s been hanging around Gordon a lot, too. They’re both kind of creepy, if you ask me.” She picked up a knife from the table and checked her reflection in the blade. “Speaking of oddballs, I noticed you talking to Gabrielle.”

“Oh? What’s so odd about her? I mean, other than eating here.”

“Well, first of all, she enjoys the food a little too much.”

“I noticed. I’ve never seen a woman get that excited about food that wasn’t covered in chocolate.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very funny. I’m serious about her food fetish, though. I heard she’s trying to sleep with a man for every salad dressing. So far, she’s been with a Russian, a Frenchman, and a guy who lives on a ranch.”

“What’s she going to do for bleu cheese?”

“I have no idea. You know, Gabrielle’s so obsessed with sex, she’s gotten a little ‘touchy feely’ with the staff.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Even the girls!”

“You mean she’s touched the waitresses inappropriately? Describe it to me. In detail. Slowly.”

“She doesn’t do it much anymore, mostly because Renée, the old head waitress, threatened her. Grabby Gabby thinks she can get anything she wants because she’s a rich bitch, but Renée told her to go to hell.”

“Does Gabrielle have keys to the restaurant?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t being too blunt. “Or maybe the alarm codes?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Unless someone in management gave them to her. Why are you so interested in her?” She almost sounded jealous. “Does she have something to do with your article?”

“I also write music reviews.” He pulled a pen and paper from his jacket pocket and pretended to make some notes. “But let’s talk about Hand to Mouth. Do you have any inside information about the restaurant you’d like to share? I promise I won’t use your name in my review.”

Jessica scanned the room to make sure none of the other servers were watching. She leaned in close to him, her breasts gently brushing his shoulder, and whispered in his ear. “I have something to share, but it’s not information.”

“I, ah, have a girlfriend. Her name is… Let me think… I’ll have it in a second…”

The kitchen door squeaked open and Todd Sweeney stepped into the dining hall. He stomped over to Nick’s table and grabbed Jessica’s wrist. She tried to pull away, but Todd was much stronger than he appeared. As he dragged her back to the kitchen, Nick could hear him berating Jessica under his breath. “That will be quite enough! I am so tired of your little performances. If you want things to continue the way–” But the kitchen door swung closed.

Reluctantly, Nick peered down at the pieces of meat on his plate, forcing himself not to imagine the person they used to be. “I should have just ordered a salad. Of course, if they have a salad, it’s probably a meat-based vegetable substitute.” He waited for the couple at the next table to be distracted by their waiter and then slipped his plate onto the tray of their baby’s highchair.

The kitchen doors opened once more and Todd reappeared. Scowling angrily, he stormed out of the dining room and headed for the lobby. Nick tossed a few coins on the table and followed.

Having just shown some customers to their table, Paulo returned to his station. “There he is!” he shouted, pointing a shaky finger in Nick’s direction. “That man! That horrible, terrible man! He told me that my car was being stolen so he could sneak into the restaurant! We should have him arrested!”

“Relax, Paulo,” Todd said, obviously annoyed. “Mr. Wergild is an acquaintance of mine.”

“But… he fibbed!”

“As long as he paid for his meal, who gives a damn? Take your lunch break now. I have to speak with Mr. Wergild in private.”

Paulo’s lower lip quivered in protest. He pulled a tiny, lavender date book from his pocket and waved it at his employer. “But I am not scheduled to go for another two hours, and I was going to use my lunch break to get a manicure. If you miss an appointment with Serge, you cannot get another!”

Rubbing his forehead, Todd sighed and waved Paulo towards the door. “Damn it all… Get out of here before I send you back to your old job cleaning the filters at the sewage plant!”

Paulo’s cheeks burned red with embarrassment, the blush spreading to the top of his bald head. Shamefaced, he grabbed his coat and trudged out the door. The moment he stepped out of sight, Todd gestured for Nick to come closer. “How is your investigation progressing?” he asked quietly.

“These things take time,” Nick said, trying to sound reassuring. “My search of the scrimshaw place came up empty, but I suspected as much. The killer has obviously gone to great lengths to destroy the body, so leaving the skeleton behind wouldn’t have fit his M.O. However, I felt I should be thorough, so I had to check.” He paused to gauge Todd’s reaction. “I hope he’s buying this,” he thought. “I don’t want to pay for the forensics team myself.”

“Are confident that you can find the killer? Without a body? Without any clues?”

“There are always clues. The perfect murder has yet to be committed. …Unless you count Jack the Ripper. Or the Zodiac Killer. Or the Lincoln assassination.”

“Lincoln? But Booth was caught!”

“Or is that what they want you to think?” Nick checked his watch. “I should be getting back to work. I have an appointment with a sketch artist.”

“There were no witnesses,” Todd said. “How can you get a sketch of the killer?”

“Oh, murderers all look the same. Beard stubble, bad posture, an eye patch or two. I’ll trans you as soon as I have some new information.”

As Nick stepped outside, he thought he heard Jessica’s voice, but street noise drowned out the sound. He paused to glance at the address on Gabrielle’s business card. It had her transmitter’s frequency but no last name. “Just ‘Gabrielle.’ That’s showbiz for you. All the popular singers go by one name: Dominique, Natalie, MusicTron.exe…”

With the sharp hiss of air brakes, a delivery truck pulled into the lot. It circled to the back of the building, the butcher shop. He followed it around the corner. The driver, a balding, older man with a stomach like a pregnant watermelon, unlocked the trailer and began loading some crates of wine bottles onto a rusty hand truck.

“And how are you this fine evening?” Nick called.

“Terrible,” the driver said, not taking his eyes off his work. “Not that anybody gives a damn.” It was more a statement of fact than a complaint. “You work for the restaurant?”

“I sure do. Just started a few days ago.”

“How you like working here?”

“Fine, so far. Everybody’s been real nice. Except… Well, there’s this waitress, Jessica Campbell. Do you know her?”

“She that redhead with the legs?” the driver asked, grinning perversely.

“And arms as well.”

“And that ass! Where’d she get an ass like that?”

“I believe it’s a family heirloom. Other than her physical attributes, what do you think of her?”

“See, I don’t know her real good,” the driver replied. “But I’ve talked to her a few times. She seems nice enough. But a few weeks ago, saw her outside, flirting with what’s-his-name…” He stared down at his shoes, trying to remember. “You know, the skinny, pasty fellow, walks like somebody shoved a flagpole up his ass?”

“Todd Sweeney.”

“Yeah, that’s him. Anyway, I showed up to make my delivery, and she was back here, pawing at him. I told Sweeney that I could come back later, but he said to go ahead and unload the booze. So I did. And you know what? This other girl, I think she’s the manager, she saw Jessica out here and started screaming at her. ‘Get back to work,’ ‘I should fire your ass,’ and all that.”

“Did the manager see Campbell with Sweeney?”

“Can’t say for sure.” The driver gestured at the hand truck. “I was distracted, unloading my crates.”

“Yes, I can imagine that such work demands every ounce of your intellect.”

The driver didn’t seem to notice he’d been insulted. “Maybe she saw him, maybe she didn’t. Either way, that manager of yours is one rude bitch. I’d walk on eggshells around her if I were you. Figuratively speaking, that is.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Nick muttered. He walked off, leaving the driver to his work. “If Renée caught Jessica with Sweeney,” he thought, “Jessica would naturally want to keep her from telling Sweeney’s wife. No, I’d better not get ahead of myself. I don’t know anything for sure, yet.”

His transmitter buzzing, he walked around the corner for some privacy. It was his friend from Seattle Safe Harbor. “Hey, buddy,” Nick said. “What have you found? Anything?”

“There were several Jane Does in my records, but most of them were the wrong ethnicity or age, not your girl. There’s one Jane Doe that was found stripped to the bone, but, fortunately, the bones were engraved with barcodes. They were part of a cadaver from a medical supply company. No luck this time, sorry.”

Nick sighed deeply, suddenly feeling very tired. “Thanks anyway. Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

“What about those photos of my mistress?”

“Got to go. Talk to you later, buddy!”

Chapter Seven

The following morning, Nick decided to search Jessica Campbell’s place. She was studying interior design at a local college. She lived on campus with two other girls, so any evidence would be well-hidden. She wouldn’t have any internal organs in jars or lumps of bloody meat lying around. Only pre-med students could get away with that. “If she is the killer,” he thought, climbing into his car, “she should give something away. Now, what should I ask her? ‘Hey, remember me? I’m Nick Wergild. My magazine is doing a piece on female cannibal murderers. Do you know anyone I should interview?’ Right, that would work. Why don’t I just shove her head in the toilet until she confesses?”

He parked a few blocks from the college and walked the rest of the way. On the corner stood a homeless-looking man in an old, military surplus coat with a Canadian flag stitched to the back. He was holding a dirty cardboard sign that said “Existential Angst – Please Help.” A charity had built a homeless shelter about ten blocks away, so Nick figured the guy was just scamming the college kids.

For the most part, the students were there to drink, party with their friends, and find the philosophical views most likely to offend their parents. The few serious students were older, working adults getting just the right degree to land that dream job as the junior assistant to the vice president of pencil sharpening.

The campus was on the large side and beautifully landscaped. The trees were on hydraulic pedestals which rotated throughout the day so that the campus always had just the right amount of shade. The campus had its own artificial lake for the school hockey team. A kind of sprinkler system delivered daily showers of liquid nitrogen, keeping the lake permanently frozen.

A student in a gray toga grabbed Nick’s arm and pressed a crumpled flyer into his hand. “Hello, sir! Would you like to hear about the Church of the Mundane?”

“Actually, I’m kind of in a hurry…”

“My mother always told me that if I prayed enough and said just the right things, God would speak to me. And he did! He spoke to me and gave me a message of hope for the whole world. Problem is, I gave the message three years ago, and God is still talking. He tells me about weird dreams he had, which shampoo he’s been using, his favorite kind of toast… Did you know God prefers rye bread to wheat br–”

Nick jammed the flyer in the student’s mouth and continued on his way. “I already have a religion,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m a narcissist.”

Jessica’s dorm was on the far end of the campus, a squat, two-story, brick building with a forest of satellite dishes on the roof. Her window was on the ground floor, hidden behind a large topiary shaped like a dolphin. Peeking inside, he saw that her roommates were out. Soft, classical music played from an unseen source. The bathroom door stood open, revealing a very naked Jessica shaving her legs. This done, she washed off her makeup and carefully removed the HiLites from her hair. He watched her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she took an eyebrow pencil from the counter and pressed it to her chin.

“What the hell? Why is she drawing beard stubble on her face?”

She pinned up her long, scarlet hair and slipped on a short, blonde wig. Holding her breath, she bound her breasts with a wide, elastic bandage. She pulled on a white undershirt and pair of boxers, followed by a silk shirt and tan slacks. In the space of fifteen minutes, she had transformed herself from a stunningly gorgeous woman to a slightly feminine, young man. She switched off the music and headed for the door.

“A female crossdresser?” he thought, confused. “What’s the point? Women can wear anything they want. Except maybe codpieces… So why add a fake beard? Is she dating a woman? Is it follicle envy? Maybe Renée found out about her little hobby, and Jessica killed her to keep it a secret! – Good god, everyone at that restaurant is nuts. Must be something in the bottled water.”

He hurried around the corner to the parking lot and ducked behind a tree, just in time to watch Jessica climb in an orange convertible. He ran to his own car and sped after her. Following a few car lengths behind, he was careful to not lose her at the lights. Jessica drove for an hour, eventually pulling into the lot of a place called Le Théâtre d’Jolis Hommes.

“Now this makes more sense,” he thought. “She’s in a play.” He parked across the street and waited for her to step inside the theater. “Only a handful of other cars in the lot; audience hasn’t arrived yet. If I can’t blend in with a crowd, I’ll have to watch her from outside.” He zipped up his jacket and stepped across the street.

Glancing in the windows, he circled the building until he found the women’s dressing rooms. There were many beautiful women in various states of undress, but no Jessica. “Wait a minute,” he thought. “Those beautiful women in various states of undress are men! This must be one of those drag theaters… Alright, so where is Jessica? Maybe there’s another dressing room?”

He checked a nearby window. The next dressing room was for the actors playing the male roles. They were talking about someone named “Billy” who had fallen off the stage during a dance number in the last show. Suddenly, someone at the door drew their attention.

“Hey, Billy!” one of the actors said. “We were just talking about you!” Nick changed position at the window to get a better view of the door. “Billy” was Jessica.

“Hello, Ty,” she said, in a voice from deep in her chest. “You know, I blame you for what happened last night. You shouldn’t have told me to break a leg!”

They shared a laugh and Jessica walked off. Nick stepped two windows down and looked in on yet another dressing room, this one the star’s. Jessica walked inside and took a seat at a vanity. Washing off the fake beard stubble, she tossed a disposable razor in the trash, apparently to make it appear as if she had actually shaved.

She stripped down to her boxers and flipped through a rack of costumes by the wall, finally settling on a floor-length, midnight blue gown. Returning to the vanity, she applied a layer of heavy, evening makeup and traded her short, blonde wig for a shoulder length, black one, which she twisted into a French braid.

He left his post at the window and walked to the front of the building. The sign at the box office said “Today and Tomorrow: Danielle or Daniel?” He found a printout from a newsfeed in a trashcan. Turning to the theater section, he searched for Jessica’s play.

Danielle or Daniel?

A young woman named Danielle wants desperately to become an actress but can’t find anyone to take her seriously. One night, she discovers a traditional Shakespearian theater on the edge of town where all of the women’s parts are played by men. She disguises herself as a male and auditions for the female lead.

Will anyone discover that the handsome and talented Daniel is really Danielle? And what will she do when Britney, her former roommate, asks her on a date?

A fun comedy for the whole family. Featuring an all-male cast and starring newcomer Billy Incognita.

“She must be desperate for acting gigs,” he mumbled to himself. “I mean, to pretend to be a man so she can get a woman’s role… So, she’s a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman? …Damn, this is even more confusing than that remake of Citizen Cane, the one where ‘Rosebud’ was the name of a hooker in Atlantic City.” He sighed resignedly, tossing the printout back into the trash. “She’s probably not the killer. But I should check out her dorm room, just in case.”

On his way back to the campus, he passed the same homeless-looking man standing on the corner. He had made a new sign: “Nihilist – I could get a job, but what’s the point?”

The main door of Jessica’s dorm was left unlocked during the day. He walked inside, hoping he didn’t look too out of place. Several students were playing Pain Ball in the lounge. A silver ball floated through the air, “hunting” the players. Whenever it found one, it gave them a powerful electric shock and zipped off in search of another player. The goal of the game was to trick the ball into going after the other players, usually by tossing small objects in their direction. The ball detected sound and motion and followed whatever the players threw. It was a strange game. No one could really win; they just played for the pleasure of inflicting pain on each other.

He walked down the main hall until he came to a door marked “Heather C – Resident Assistant.” The door muffled the sound of reggae music and someone singing along. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. He gave the door a swift kick with his boot. Someone inside said “Hold on, man!” The door opened to reveal a young woman with a blonde bob and baby blue skin. After tanning fell out of fashion, the spray-on tan companies switched to selling skin dye. Blue was a very popular color that year. “Um, hi?” she asked, brushing her hair from her face. She tapped a button on her wristwatch, silencing the music. The heavy smell of cherry-scented incense wafted into the hall.

“Hello there. My name is Nick and I’m collecting panties for charity. With your help, we can find a cure!”

“Did you need something,” she asked, laughing, “Or are you just here to hit on me? Or, I suppose, both?”

“Actually,” he said, fumbling in his pockets, “I have a plastic bag in my jacket filled to the brim with marijuana. But, the thing is, I really hate to smoke alone…”

“You think I’m going to invite you into my room just because you have cannabis? It’s a weed, man. Grows anywhere. It’s cheaper than ramen.”

“Not this stuff. It was genetically engineered by a mad scientist, grown by Tibetan monks, and then cursed by a witchdoctor. This is the stuff wet dreams are made of.”

“Well, all right,” she said reluctantly, waving him into her room. “But I’m not sleeping with you until I’m too stoned to remember that I slept with you…”

Nick didn’t have long to wait. Ten minutes later, Heather tossed her cigarette into a potted plant and flopped on the bed. “I’m ready for love,” she said sweetly. She stretched and sighed. Moving swiftly, he grabbed her wrists and handcuffed her to the bed frame.

“Oh! You’re kinky,” she said, pleasantly surprised.

“I sure am. You know what’s really kinky? Leaving you here for a couple of hours while I go visit another girl’s room…” He grabbed her keycard from her dresser and stepped into the hall, locking the door.

As a resident assistant, Heather’s keycard could access any room on her floor. Nick opened Jessica’s door slowly, peering inside. Her roommates were still out, probably at class. The dorm room was very large, even for three people. The beds had royal blue linens which matched the throw rug on the tile floor. One of the new, paper-thin televisions was pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. There were a few shelves and cabinets, but they held nothing out of the ordinary, just cosmetics, school supplies, and the girls’ pet rodents. Their names were scrawled in black marker on the side of their cage: “The Four Gerbils of the Apocalypse: Strife, War, Famine, and Cutie Pie.”

“Okay, Jessica, let’s see what you’ve got in your dresser.”

Nick began his search with her underwear drawer, where he found a photo frame. He switched it on and scrolled quickly through the images, mostly snapshots of Jessica and friends at school. But then he came to some photos of the restaurant. Lots of waiters and waitresses, work parties, and Todd Sweeney. He replaced the frame in her dresser and searched the other drawers. Other than a riding crop and a hot pink, leather corset, there was nothing of interest.

He decided to search the nightstand. There was a pair of thick paperbacks in the top drawer: “Shakespearian Somniloquence: Learn to Act in Your Sleep,” and “Transvestite Beauty Secrets: Men who Look Like Women Help Women to Also Look Like Women, But Better.” The second drawer was filled with candles, disposable lighters, and memory tabs of that month’s popular songs.

“Nothing else in here… I should check under the bed.” There was a small, orange box hiding in the back. He stretched to reach it, but froze. Someone in the hall was rattling the doorknob. He dove under the bed. From his hiding place, he saw a pair of brown leather boots and a pair of white sneakers walk into the room.

“Jessie left the door unlocked!” the boots groaned. “Again! She’s so damn irresponsible.”

“At least she cleaned up,” said the sneakers. “God knows I wasn’t going to.”

“Too bad we all can’t have a maid at home,” the boots said darkly. “Some of us even have to work for our tuition.”

“Can I help it if my daddy invented self-changing diapers? Being rich isn’t a choice! I was just born that way!”

“Alright, fine,” the boots said. “Forget it. Let’s do something fun. Do you want to go swimming?”

“Swimming?” The sneakers laughed. “What, in the public pool? People pee in there! If I wanted to soak in a stranger’s urine, I would visit that weird nightclub downtown.”

Jessica’s roommates spent the next few hours studying, eventually deciding to take a break to watch television. Finally, they had to leave for a party. As soon as they left the room, Nick slid out from his hiding place, dusted himself off, and climbed out the window. His transmitter interrupted his walk back to the car. He pulled it from his pocket, watching a tiny, holographic Gabrielle appear in midair.

“Why didn’t you trans me last night?” she pouted. “I was really hoping to hear from you.”

“Sorry about that,” he muttered. “I was called away suddenly. Family emergency.”

“Oh? What happened?” Her eyes were more suspicious than concerned.

“Bar fight.”

“What? How is that a family emergency?”

“My grandmother got stabbed. It was her fault, really. She shouldn’t have insulted those bikers.”

“Oh. That’s… odd. Well, are you doing anything right now? Why don’t you come over?”

“Why don’t you come to my place instead?” he suggested. “You can audition for me, I can grill us a couple steaks, and maybe afterwards we can try out my new hot tub. You can show me your voice and your… other talents.”

“Oh, you’re naughty, Nick,” she laughed.

He gave her an address in Portland. “I’m heading home, so you can come over now, if you like.”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Ciao, baby!”

Nick switched off his transmitter and climbed in his car. “She’s publicly fought with Renee,” he thought, lighting a cigarette. “I can imagine she could get inside the restaurant fairly easily. A woman like her would have no trouble flirting with an employee to get the alarm code. At this point, she’s a definite possibility.”

◊

Gabrielle lived in one of the most upscale neighborhoods in Vancouver. Residents were wealthy enough to pay for the roads themselves, so there were no billboards anywhere. The roads had odd names like “Elm Street” and “Shady Lane.” In most neighborhoods, the roads were owned by advertising agencies that sold the naming rights to the highest bidder. As a result, most people lived on streets with names like “Chester’s Cheesy Pizza Road” or “Jenkins’ Cold Sore Treatment Lip Balm Avenue.”

Gabrielle lived in a three-story Colonial Revival home surrounded by oak trees and a wrought iron fence. The gate stood open invitingly. “My imaginary Portland apartment is twenty minutes away,” Nick thought. “Gabrielle will probably spend fifteen minutes driving up and down the street, searching for the building. And then she’ll trans me, and I’ll tell her to meet me at the nightclub instead. More driving, more searching, and then a very angry trip back home. Altogether, she should be gone for at least an hour.”

Walking up the long, winding driveway, he noticed an open window on the top floor. He climbed a nearby tree, grunting with the exertion. Standing unsteadily, he leapt from the tree to the roof. Carefully, he leaned over the edge and knocked the screen from the open window. He swung down into the room, landing gently on a polished bamboo floor.

The library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, with a wheeled ladder affixed to a track running the circumference of the room. There were biographies of famous singers, guides on writing a hit single, and other, more general books about music.

An alarm sensor blinked at the top of the window frame. “Those sensors don’t work if you leave the windows open! She’s lucky I’m not here to steal anything. …Actually, I should steal something. Just to teach her a lesson, of course…”

He scanned the room under his portable black light. “Nothing here. No blood stains, no weapons.” Hiding in the corner, a small cabinet held a few copies of “classic” novels, the kind of writing only English Literature professors loved. “She could have forced Renée to read A Farewell to Arms…No, that can’t be right. It was murder, not suicide.”

He stepped across the hall where a heavy, soundproof door opened to reveal a large space filled with musical instruments. The centerpiece was a pink grand piano. In one corner, a drum set and xylophone gathered dust. In another corner sat several cardboard boxes filled with memory tabs of Gabrielle’s music. A row of electric guitars were hung on the wall like artwork, with individual spotlights highlighting each one. He didn’t know much about guitars, but he assumed they were collector’s items. A wooden stand at the back of the room was reserved for brass instruments.

Again, a quick scan with the light turned up nothing. “If Gabrielle is the killer, she probably didn’t beat Renée to death with a flugelhorn. I should move on.”

Further down the hallway, Nick came to a small office. There was an antique writing desk, a computer with a pricey holographic monitor, and a row of oddly cheap, aluminum filing cabinets. On top of a small table was a Schlock Products™ combination photocopier/paper shredder. It was a useful device, if you had to make a copy and destroy the original at the same time.

There was a small safe with an alphanumeric keypad under the table. “I know her type. The combination is probably the name of one of her songs.” He tried several titles, finally hitting the jackpot with La Petite Mortuary. Inside the safe were a large bag of coins, some remarkably tacky jewelry, and a thick, black ledger. Most of the ledger seemed to be records of bank deposits. Tens of thousands of dollars deposited in an account every few weeks. “Probably just her record company sending her royalty checks. – I’m running out of time here. Better try something else.”

The next door was a bedroom. In the back of the room stood a king sized, four-poster bed with a white bedspread to match the rug. Sitting on the bed, in a blue silk nightgown, was Gabrielle. In her hand was a pistol the size of an antiaircraft gun.

Nick dove to the floor as the wall behind him exploded in a shower of plaster. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for the library. He leapt out the window, half climbing and half falling down the tree. He didn’t stop running until he was back in his car.

His sides ached. He hadn’t gotten that much exercise in quite a while. The last time he climbed down a tree to escape from a woman’s house was in high school, the night of his junior prom. Unfortunately, his date’s husband had come home early.

“What the hell?” he gasped, fumbling for his keys. “Why wasn’t she on her way to Portland? She said she would be gone! She’ll probably call a security patrol and have them watch the house for the next couple of days. I should leave her alone for awhile. I can’t catch the killer if I get arrested for trespassing. While I’m waiting, I should check on Bender. Hopefully, he’s at work and not watching Sophie.”

◊

Back at home, Nick switched on his computer and connected to the video feed from his hidden camera at the pet store. Luke Bender was shoving a trash robot that didn’t seem to know which direction it was supposed to move. Kicking it violently, he knocked it through a pair of swinging doors into a back room. A ponytailed man in a white apron walked onscreen and said hello.

As the camera was underwater in a fish tank, there wasn’t actually any sound. However, it was an advanced model that could read lips. Any spoken words appeared on the screen like subtitles in a foreign film. Due to an unfortunate software glitch, the camera had a tiny bit of trouble with homonyms.

MAN1: Luke, eye want yew two billed a display inn the cat supplies I’ll. Were halving a sail on kit tea lit her.

MAN2: Aye Kant rite now, hairy. Isle kneed page two help me, butt cheese out getting sum heir.

MAN1: Owe, that’s write. Islet page go on brake. Ewe get start, Ted, and aisle collar down hear late her. …Any weigh, I herd yew and so fee uh whir Bach two gather. Dew yew guise halve sum thing planned fore two knight?

MAN2: Wee mite, I’m naught shore. Weed disgust halving a pear of stakes at hour favor it plays, this lit till dining haul up the rowed.

MAN1: Aren’t they clothed be cause of aunts?

MAN2: Jest fore a phew daze. Well, know thyme too wrest. Eyed bettor git were king, hairy.

MAN1: Awl wright. Sea yew lay tare.

“Sophie’s dating Bender?” Nick thought. “No, she can’t be. But how else would she get his home address? He must be her ex. She dumped him, he got obsessive and stalky, and so she came to me for help. She didn’t tell me because she’s embarrassed about dating such a loser. …Well, all I have to do now is go back to Sophie’s and wait for him to show up. Should be easy to prove he’s stalking her. I just wish she’d been a little more honest with me.”

It had been a very long day, so he took a moment to make a cup of coffee. Baldwin Brew, a popular brand that had radioactive dust mixed in with the grounds to keep it warm. Drinking too much could give you cancer, but you didn’t have to bother with an insulated mug.

As he sped to Sophia’s, the combination of caffeine and stress twisted his stomach into a knot. It felt like a taut-line hitch or possibly a directional figure eight. It was hard to tell; he wasn’t that good with knots. He decided to take some pills to distract himself. A few minutes later, the apartment complex came into view. He turned the corner at full speed, scattering a group of children playing in the parking lot. Several of the kids cornered him when he stepped out of the car.

“Are you insane?” the oldest one screamed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“That was my fault? You’re the ones playing out here in the middle of the night!”

“When are we supposed to play flashlight tag? Noon?”

“Oh, shut the hell up.” Nick pushed his way past the children and continued through the lot. Sensing some motion at Sophia’s door, he ducked behind a tree. It was Luke. In the dim light from a nearby lamppost, Luke fumbled in his pockets, eventually producing a plastic keycard. He casually unlocked Sophia’s door and slipped inside. A moment later, a light came from the front window.

“Odd. If she broke up with him, surely she would have changed the code on her door lock. Well, maybe they didn’t break up. Maybe he’s unbalanced, and she’s afraid to break up with him. Or maybe he cheated on her, and she wants revenge. Either way, she didn’t hire me to catch a stalker. She hired me to frame an innocent man. Me, a manhunter! I’m supposed to defend the law, not use it to further my own selfish ends! She wants me to break the law! …Well, alright then. Good to know.”

After some careful thought, he formed what he considered a particularly brilliant plan. Unfortunately, it would take some time to collect the things he needed. He would have to return in the morning. Besides, just then, he had a perfect opportunity to pay a visit to Renée’s ex-boyfriend, Clayton West.

Chapter Eight

As Nick’s car locked onto the highway’s magnetic rail, he put his feet up on the dashboard and closed his eyes. The navigation system’s breathy, feminine voice read off the names of the passing exits. Hearing a few familiar street names, he realized that Gordon’s apartment was on the way. A quick command reset his route. The car shifted onto a new rail with a gentle clink.

Heading toward the Columbia River, he thought, “According to Sweeney’s records, Gordon lives just inside of Oregon. Why would anyone commute so far for such a low-paying job? Well, I suppose it’s not all bad. You get to meet new people, hold one-sided conversations with them, cut them into little pieces…”

After twenty minutes of high-speed driving, he pulled into the lot of Wellington Apartments. The decaying building had once been a factory for Grandma Edith’s Snack Cakes. The company had gone out of business when it was discovered that their Chocolate Sweeties contained insecticides, mercury, and forty-three grams of saturated fat.

The new owners had converted the building into apartments and then simply let it rot. The building was the same dirty, gray color as the cement lot and just as cracked. An ancient pile of empty beer cans in the yard had been recently declared a historical landmark. The dumpster in the back hadn’t been emptied in so long that it was the site of frequent archeological digs.

“Now this is just sad,” he thought. “The guy spends all day slicing up human corpses, makes as much money as a babysitter, and he has to go home to a place like this. He’d almost be better off at a work camp. At least they get free TV.” He climbed the steep stairs to the main entrance. Despite the rundown condition of the building, the door looked very secure. There was even what appeared to be an alarm sensor mounted to the top of the doorway.

He returned to his car and pulled two bulging, paper sacks from the trunk. He carried them back up the stairs and waited. Soon, an older woman in a green sweater came up the steps to the apartment door. Pretending he had just arrived, he tried to reach into his pants pocket without putting down the sacks.

“Oh, do you need inside, honey?” the woman asked. She smiled politely, revealing teeth like popcorn kernels.

“Yes, please. I can’t reach my keys. We’re having a party and I have to get there before the girls do. You see, I’ve got the whipped cream.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hold on, young man.” She yanked a large keycard from her purse and carefully unlocked the security door, the alarm light blinking off. The woman held the door open and waved him inside.

“Thank you so much,” he smiled. “Have a nice night.” Once the woman had gone on her way, he dropped the sacks by the door, spilling the old socks he had stuffed inside.

Gordon’s apartment was on the fifth floor. There was no alarm sensor, but there was a doorknob lock, two bolt locks, and a security chain. “I can’t believe this. He attached all this hardware to a pressed wood, hollow core door. It’s like going to war in a tee-shirt and bulletproof pants.” A couple of kicks with his steel-toed boot cracked the flimsy door nearly in half.

“Hey!” A voice from behind him. Nick turned to face a very short, very angry man in a bathrobe, Gordon’s neighbor from across the hall. “Cut out the banging!” the man snapped, shaking his fist. “You’re disturbing my ferrets!”

“Oh, sorry,” Nick said. “When it gets humid like this, the wood expands and the door sticks, so I have to force it a little.”

“Not my problem, Noisy McLoudington. Just stop with the racket!” He returned to his apartment, slamming the door closed.

Nick pushed open what was left of Gordon’s door and stepped inside. “Good thing Gordon’s at work,” he thought. “Explaining the noise to him would be much more challenging.” He turned on a flashlight and examined his surroundings. It was amazing that such a big man lived in such a tiny apartment.

There was a miniature kitchen with one of the new Schlock Products™ freezer/oven combos. He dimly remembered seeing the commercial on television: “It can’t be beat! It cools and it heats!” It looked like a great space saver, but the commercial never explained what you were supposed to do with your frozen food while you were cooking.

The living room was even smaller than the kitchen. There was an exercise machine in one corner that looked like an abstract sculpture of an octopus. College dorm-style, cinderblock-and-wooden-plank shelves lined three walls. There was a camera and a few memory tabs on a shelf, mostly movies recorded from TV. Resting on top of the memory tabs was a long, silver tube that was either a large flashlight or a shockingly huge marital aid. Next to the tabs was a small, wire-bound notebook. It was mostly filled with grocery and to-do lists, but one page was different. This page was blank, save for two words written large and underlined: insurance fraud.

“Well, that’s interesting. Is that about Renée? Or is it just a reminder to commit insurance fraud later? Like, by burning this dump to the ground..?”

The shelf also held a brass, second-place trophy engraved with “Ellison High Kendo Team”. On the other side of the room hung Gordon’s diploma, again from Ellison High School. The date Gordon graduated was printed at the bottom. “Let’s see, that would make him twenty-four or twenty-five. He looks older, though. …I wonder if he was voted ‘Most Likely to Carve up Human Corpses for a Living.’”

He examined the rest of the shelves and, other than an exhaustingly comprehensive pornography collection, found nothing of interest. He decided to try the bedroom.

A nude woman was sprawled across the bed. Her head was shaved almost to the skin. Her small, strikingly perky breasts gently rose and fell with the soft whisper of her breathing. Around her neck, a tiny, gold crucifix reflected the beam of his flashlight. On the floor by the bed lay a crumpled, black dress. A decorative rack on the wall behind her held half a dozen Japanese swords.

“‘Kendo’ must be a Japanese style of sword fighting,” he thought. “Well, I can’t very well search the room with her in there, especially since she’s six inches away from a weapon. She looks like the type that would stab below the belt… Well, nothing else I can do here. Looks like it’s time to go see Clayton.”

◊

Clayton West’s home was in a fashionable part of town, the kind of neighborhood young people moved to after they’d given up on becoming rock stars and artists and resigned themselves to working in an office for the rest of their lives. A row of bushes lined Clayton’s driveway, each trimmed into a perfect sphere. The house had round, protruding windows, hemispheres of glass. It looked rather like an overpriced, suburban submarine.

Nick crept cautiously up the driveway to the garage. Shining a flashlight in the window, he saw nothing but bare concrete. “No car. Looks like Clayton’s out for the evening. Still, I’d better be quick. In this neighborhood, security shoots first and asks questions at your autopsy.”

In an effort to prevent costly claims, some insurance companies employed security guards to patrol customers’ neighborhoods. The guards were heavily armed but also tightly restricted in where they could go, what they could investigate, and who they could arrest. Being kept on such a short leash made them resent manhunters, who had much greater freedom. Especially manhunters like Nick, who pretty much did as he pleased.

“I could pick the locks on the front door,” he thought, “but that would take time, and I don’t know how long I have until Clayton comes home. Looks like it’s the old Santa Claus gag…” He pulled his car up to the garage. He jumped from the roof of his car to the rain gutter and, once he pulled himself up, it was an easy climb to the chimney. However, sliding down the chimney was not nearly as much fun as he’d imagined.

Brushing off the soot, he switched on his flashlight and examined Clayton’s living room. The hardwood floor was covered in a circular, checkerboard pattern rug. The room smelled strongly of new paint, probably the hunter green on the walls. A line of framed photographs were hung over the fireplace. They were the old-fashioned, paper kind of photos, all of Renée.

“Nothing unusual. He dated her for a long time; of course he’ll have pictures.”

Then he turned to the other walls. They, too, were covered in photos of Renée: Renée walking down the street, Renée viewed through a window or from behind bushes, Renée putting on a sweater, Renée biting her toenails. He guessed there were around three dozen photos just in the living room. “On the other hand, this is a bit much. Not even Rent-A-Stalker gives you this much attention! I should make a record of this.” He pulled his transmitter from jacket and switched it into “record” mode.

“I am collecting evidence at the home of Clayton West,” he said into the tiny, twin cameras. “Subject appears to be obsessed with the victim, his ex-girlfriend, Renée Flockhart. Possibly psychotic. (Clayton, not Renée.) As Renée never returned her keys, Clayton could have had access to the premises through her. Also, take a look at this rug. Isn’t it hideous?”

He filmed a few close-up shots of the photos, taking a couple off the wall to get a closer look. The frames were gray, almost the same color as the nails upon which they were hung. They were cheap and flimsy, the kind of frame that usually held a liberal arts degree. Finished filming, he decided to quickly investigate the other rooms.

A calendar in the hallway had several days marked “FLORIDA” in red. It looked like Clayton was leaving for vacation in a week.

The first door was the study. There was a computer in the corner and several long rows of bookshelves. According to Todd, Clayton bought paperback novels at random, as he only used them as accessories for his bookend collection. Next to the computer stood a stack of papers. Most of the pile was printouts of emails, correspondence with friends. However, near the bottom of the stack was a letter from Clayton’s medical insurance company:

Your new Schlock Products™ artificial heart comes with the latest in micro- processor software: HeartBeater 0.93b!

Please note that your new heart is designed for low-impact activities. Avoid all unnecessary stress, such as the following:

*Jogging

*Weight training

*Sexual activity lasting more than three minutes

*Thoughts of an overly philosophical nature

*Sasquatch hunting

*Drag racing (Cars or transvestites.)

Keep away from microwave ovens, garage door openers, and television remote controls. For internal use only. Not to be used as a sump pump.

There was nothing else in the study, so he continued down the hallway. “Oh, here’s the bedroom. Bed, dresser, television, enormous, snarling German Shepherd…”

He aimed his laser stunner at the dog’s head. Before he could fire, he heard the front door bang open, then heavy footsteps down the hall. “Anderson Security Company! You have three seconds to prove you’re not a thief before we open fire!”

Nick turned to face the six security guards who were all pointing very large handguns at his head. Shielding his eyes from the laser sights, he said, “Jimmy? Is that you?”

A thick-necked guard switched off his laser sight and pointed a flashlight at him. “Nick? Nick Wergild? Fancy meeting you here! You know, we warned you that the next time you broke into a house there’d be consequences. Dire consequences.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said, taking out his money pouch. “So, bribes all around then?”

Chapter Nine

The following morning, Nick was roused from a deep sleep by the sound of his transmitter. As usual, the return to consciousness was particularly irritating. For Nick, the waking world was a lot like a cocktail party: aggravating, tedious, and full of people he would rather strangle than speak to. Also, there was a lot of booze.

He answered the transmitter, Sophia’s head appearing above his palm. “That psycho is outside!” she said, chewing on a fingernail. “I was trying to avoid him so I switched shifts with a friend but he must have found out somehow. He’s here at the store! My shift is over soon. Can you come over here and film him while he follows me home?”

“That wouldn’t prove anything,” he said groggily. Yawning and stretching, he climbed out of bed. “It would be too difficult to film both you and Bender at the same time. Without both of your cars in the same shot, there wouldn’t be any real evidence of stalking. I’ll have to head to your place and film him once he gets there. Don’t go home for about half an hour; I’ll need some time to get everything ready.” He reached down to cut the transmission.

“Nick, wait! I’m scared. Will you keep talking to me?”

“Sure. What did you want to talk about?”

“Just keep talking…”

As it was during the day, there were quite a few employees and customers around, so Nick figured Luke wouldn’t risk coming into the store. Nick got dressed and ran a couple of errands, all the while doing his best to keep Sophia’s mind off the man waiting for her outside. His first stop was at a small store called Notable Furniture. (The name confused shoppers, but they refused to change it.) Dividing his attention between Sophia and a salesclerk, he ordered a living room set and had it sent to an apartment in her complex that she knew to be empty.

Back in his car, he finished telling her about his night at Clayton West’s. “…And the last security guard, I decided to let him live. There had been more than enough bloodshed for one night.”

His second stop was at a moving van rental lot. In order to get a van, customers had to leave their cars behind as collateral. If they didn’t return the van on time, their cars were crushed into cubes and sold as extremely heavy coffee tables. He left his car and continued on to Sophia’s in a large moving van.

He found a space in front of the empty apartment. Notable Furniture’s deliverymen were already there, unloading the bedroom set. “I have to go, Wynne. You can head on home. I’ll be here, waiting to intercept Bender.” She seemed unsure but agreed to do as he said.

The building manager came outside to see what was being delivered. She pulled her bathrobe closed and, bunny slippers flopping, padded over to Nick. “What’s this all about?” She jabbed an angry finger at the van. “Nobody’s scheduled to move in this week!”

“Good morning, madam.” Nick extended his hand, but she was not in the mood for polite greetings. He shook his own hand instead. “I was supposed to move in to the extended stay hotel down the road, but the man at the front desk said they won’t be finished cleaning my room until late this evening. Apparently, the previous tenant was quite a slob; he threw blood everywhere and left a chalk outline of himself on the floor. Anyway, I was wondering if I could rent this apartment just for the day.”

“The owner wouldn’t like that. I’m supposed to collect a security deposit, first and last month’s rent…”

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, I’m certain I can coax you into changing your mind.”

Smiling, she adjusted the curlers in her hair. “My husband will be home in an hour, but you can coax me until then…” He considered explaining what the word meant, but decided it would be easier just to bribe her.

Like the other apartments in the complex, this one had its own entrance directly off of the parking lot. Nick and the deliverymen moved the furniture into the front room, finishing just as Sophia arrived. He tipped the deliverymen and sent them on their way. Luke arrived moments later, parking across from Sophia’s door and lighting a cigarette. “Apparently Sophie doesn’t let him smoke in the house,” Nick thought. He sauntered up to Luke’s car and casually knocked on the window.

Luke cracked the window and scowled. “What the hell do you want?”

“Hi there! Luke Bender, right? I recognized you from the newsfeeds. Big fan of your work. Anyway, I’m robbing an apartment across the way. Since you have a history with this sort of thing, I thought you might help me out. There’s thousands of dollars of stuff in there. I‘d go halfsies with you, of course.”

“I don’t know about that… I’m waiting for someone.”

“How about two-thirdsies? Or three-fourthsies?”

Luke’s eyes bounced from Nick to Sophia’s door and back. “Well, alright, as long as it doesn’t take too long.”

“No, this shouldn’t take long at all.”

Nick handed Luke a stack of coins. Working together, they loaded the couch and chairs into the van. Sitting down to rest, Nick asked Luke to go back inside for the last piece of furniture, as it was small enough for one person to carry. As soon as he was out of earshot, Nick switched on his transmitter and called a security team. “Help! I’m being robbed! He’s already taken my credenza, and now he’s back for my ottoman and chesterfield!”

◊

Twenty minutes later, Sophia and Nick were standing in the parking lot, watching Luke being dragged away by a security patrol. Two crime scene technicians collected DNA samples from the furniture, van, and the door of the apartment. They asked about there not being any furniture in the kitchen or bedroom, but Nick assured them there had been. Apparently, he said, Luke had cleaned out most of the apartment already and had returned to empty the living room. As he was a manhunter and Luke was a repeat offender, they took him at his word.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Nick said. “I also had a pinball machine. Make sure he buys me a new one.”

“So there’s no proof he was stalking me?” Sophia asked.

Nick took her arm and led her a few steps away, so that the security team couldn’t overhear. “I didn’t bother trying to get any proof because I knew the stalking story was a lie. You just wanted me to frame him.”

“What are you talking about, Nick?”

“I spied on him at work. He told a friend all about how you two are dating. At first, I figured he must have been lying, but how else would he have gotten into your apartment?”

Sophia gasped. “He broke into my apartment? And you saw him? Why didn’t you do something?”

“He had a keycard, Wynne!” He rubbed the back of his head and groaned. “What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“I told you how he showed up at Little Brother’s! He must have gotten into the locker room and taken my keycard from my purse. I thought I’d lost it, so I had the building manager make me a new one. Ask her!”

“How did you have his home address, then?”

“How the hell do you think? I sell surveillance equipment, you ass! I had one of my employees put a tracking device on his car. It’s disguised as an ‘Ask me about my grandkids’ bumper sticker.” She gestured at the vehicle, which was about to be towed. “Go take a look! God, I can’t believe you don’t trust me!”

They were silent for a long, awkward moment. The security patrol loaded Luke into the back of their car and headed for their office, where an arbitrator would be waiting to hear his case. The crime scene technicians informed Nick that they had found Luke’s DNA, so the furniture would not have to be taken as evidence. However, Luke’s DNA would not be returned to him until after his trial. They collected their tools and were on their way.

“One thing I can’t figure out,” Sophia said suddenly. “If you thought Luke was innocent, why did you decide to frame him?”

“I didn’t,” Nick said, digging in his pocket for his transmitter. “I simply encouraged him to break the law. There’s a difference. – Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to get back to work. Sweeney will want to know how the investigation is progressing.”

“Nick, wait…”

Turning his back, he walked out of earshot and leaned against a lamppost. He switched on his transmitter and said “Trans Sweeny.” With a soft ping, a six-inch hologram of a woman’s head appeared above his palm. She had skin like an actress in a soap commercial and strawberry blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight she had trouble blinking.

“Oh! Sorry,” he said, “transmission error. Must be getting some interference. I was trying to reach Todd Sweeney.”

“He’s out at the moment, Mr. Wergild. I’m his wife, Margery.”

“Either that’s really amazing plastic surgery,” he thought, “Or she’s at least thirty years younger than Sweeney.” To Margery, he said, “Oh! You’re Sweeney’s wife? You’re not English.”

“No, I’m from Canada. Ever been?”

“Not on purpose. Listen, you know who I am, so I assume you know about Flockhart’s murder.”

“Yes, of course. A horrible tragedy. I have my own theories about who it might have been, but I’m interested to see what you have to say on the matter.”

He described what he had discovered in Clayton’s house. “I’ll send you the video later. Let me know what you think.”

As he walked back to the van, Sophia tried to stop him, wanting to talk, but he simply brushed past her. For a moment, he watched her in his rearview mirror, shrinking in the distance. “Go back,” he thought. “Just talk to her. What’s the worst that can happen? Embarrassment, rejection, humiliation, drinking to escape the pain, and driving into a tree, sure. But other than that, what could go wrong?”

He returned to Notable Furniture and grabbed the nearest salesclerk, an older woman in a white cardigan. “Hello there!” he said. “Earlier today, I bought a living room set from one of your coworkers. I would like to return it.”

“Was there a problem with the furniture, sir?”

“Yes, actually. I’m pretty sure the couch is haunted.”

“I’m going to have to check with my manager…”

The manager decided that giving him a refund was easier than debating the existence of the afterlife. Nick left the store and drove the van back to the rental lot. He returned to his car and, once he was back on the road, some cigarettes and pills helped take his mind off her.

He circled his apartment building, looking for a parking space. All of the nearby spots were filled, forcing him to park two blocks away. Someone must have been throwing a party. As he trudged up the hill to his apartment, he vowed revenge against the orange motorcycle parked in his usual space. “I can’t believe this! That guy doesn’t even need a whole space. Can’t he just park on the sidewalk? – Wait, what’s that in the sky? Is that… a pool table?”

Of course, it would make no sense for a pool table to be falling from the sky. Technically, it was a billiard table. He leapt out of the way, landing in some nearby azalea bushes.

The table crashed to the ground, spraying felt-covered shrapnel. He picked himself up, brushing off his jacket. Scouring the ground, he found a piece of debris with the name “Amidon Game Rental” engraved on a brass plate. “Looks like someone just lost their deposit.”

Coming home, he stepped through the door and carefully wiped his feet on his Schlock Products™ self-cleaning doormat. Its chemical coating dissolved dirt, mud, grass, rubber, leather, cotton, and eventually, human skin. It kept your carpets from getting dirty, but you had to move quickly.

He brought his transmitter into the living room, where he copied the footage of Clayton West’s apartment to his computer and sent it to Margery Sweeney. A light on the computer flashed, alerting him to a new video mail. Todd Sweeney appeared on the screen. He was sitting in an overstuffed, leather chair, apparently in his office. A large oil painting on the wall behind him showed a smiling, white-haired man. A brass plaque identified the man as “Our first volunteer.”

“Mr. Wergild, one of my waiters has not returned to work since the day you came to the restaurant. If he is the killer, he might have discovered the investigation and become too scared to return.”

“Or perhaps,” Nick thought, “he found a new job, one that doesn’t involve serving People Burgers.”

“I need you to surveil him. His name is Aaron Spinner. I am sending you a recent photo and a map to his house.”

“It looks like the killer is Clayton West,” Nick thought, “but it’s Sweeney’s money, so I’ll do what he wants… Aaron has already met me once, but he didn’t know I was a manhunter, so I should be okay. Plus, he must see dozens of customers each day. What are the odds he’ll remember me?” Nick didn’t consider himself very memorable. Some of his best friends hadn’t talked to him in decades.

He printed a copy of Todd’s map and walked to the door. Sensing him approach, the coat rack tossed his jacket into the air. Catching it deftly, he stepped outside.

◊

Todd’s records were out of date. The apartment building listed as Aaron’s address had been torn down several months earlier. Apparently it had been full of mold, asbestos, and snakes. Fortunately, there was another address on the records. At Aaron’s request, Todd sent a third of his paycheck to the Dale Brothers’ Youth Shelter. “Those shelters are only for the unemployed,” Nick thought, “but it’s worth a shot. It’s open to the public, so I should get inside with no problems.”

The youth shelter was an immense, underground building that had once been a government missile complex. There were three subterranean silos connected by tunnels, for a total of sixty thousand square feet of space. There were about four hundred beds, most filled with homeless teenagers and runaways. The shelter also had a few dozen cribs, for those teenagers who had trouble remembering how condoms worked.

Walking down the long ramp into the complex, Nick heard the sound of music coming from the chapel. The midweek service was starting. He hurried into the chapel and took a seat near the back.

The preacher was a short, burly man with skin like fried ham. He wore a rumpled, wool suit that looked like it had been rescued from a newly-buried corpse. More than once. “Children, children,” he said, already perspiring heavily under the stage lights, “people are selfish! People say, if I can’t make a dollar helping others, why should I? But we need to be there for each other!” The large man wiped a meaty hand across his brow. He opened a leather-bound Bible to read aloud from Second Kings, chapter six.

“In a time of great famine, the king of Israel surveyed the land. The king passed by when a woman cried out to him, ‘Help me my lord, oh my king!’ And the king said, ‘What is wrong?’ And she replied, ‘This woman said to me, give your son, so that we may eat him today, and we will eat my son tomorrow. So we boiled my son, and we ate him. I said to her the next day, give me your son, that we may eat him. But she has hidden her son from me!’ …You see, children? Selfish!”

Coughing loudly, the preacher paused to pour himself a drink of water. “And that, my children, is why Jesus said to love your neighbor! As he said in the book of John, chapter six: ‘I am the bread from heaven. If anyone eats this bread, he will live forever. The bread that is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world. Whoever eats my flesh, and drinks my blood, has eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is real meat and my blood is real drink. He that eats my flesh, and drinks my blood, dwells in me, and I dwell in him.’ And in Ecclesiastes chapter six, verse seven, we read this…”

After the long and rather disturbing sermon, Nick waited by the door, watching the crowd line up to leave. Finally Aaron appeared, stopping to shake the preacher’s hand on his way out. Aaron looked as if he hadn’t showered in days. Nick couldn’t quite hear what he said to the preacher, but they were both smiling. It looked like Aaron had appreciated his message.

Cautiously, Nick followed Aaron to the parking lot, watched him get in his car, and followed him to the highway. A few miles later, they drove past a rundown farmhouse that Nick recognized from a documentary he had seen a few years earlier, America’s Greatest Crackpots. It was the home of Lester Brown, a man who claimed to have invented the printing press, gunpowder, periwinkles, and Belgium. In reality, he had only ever invented one thing: the commbang. The commbang was a combination comma and exclamation point, used whenever a writer needed an emphatic pause.

At last, Nick stopped across the street from Aaron’s house. Aaron Spinner lived in an old, Victorian-style home near the cemetery off of highway 205. Nick’s navigation system said that the house was owned by an Edith Spinner.

Before that, the place had been a funeral home, back when people had been buried whole instead of just cremated. The increasing price of land meant that cemeteries no longer offered individual plots. Instead, most people ended up in columbariums, concrete filing cabinets for urns. Forty-three people could fit in the space of one old-fashioned grave. Only the extremely wealthy weren’t cremated. Most of them had their bodies shot into space, to spend eternity flying through the cosmos. Nick always wondered if someday aliens would contact the earth to say “Hey, stop sending us your garbage!”

He put on a cheap, disposable necktie and a phony Vancouver Bank and Trust ID badge. Strapping an electronic clipboard to his arm, he strode confidently to the door and banged the knocker.

Aaron answered immediately. “What? What’s the problem?”

“Mr. Spinner?”

“Yeah, I’m Aaron Spinner. More importantly, who are you?”

“I’m Rick Welding with Vancouver Bank and Trust. Our records show that you are six months behind on your mortgage payments. We will repossess your house next week if you don’t pay up.”

Aaron shook his head like he was making a martini in his skull. “What do mean? My mother bought this house twenty years ago directly from the former owner. She never had a mortgage.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spinner,” Nick said, tapping the clipboard, “but, if you don’t make a payment by Monday, we’ll have to send a security patrol out here to burn your house to the ground.”

“I thought the bank was going to repossess it..?”

“Standard procedure. We’ll set the place on fire Monday morning, whether you’re in there or not.”

“Look, look,” Aaron said nervously, “Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll find my mom’s copy of the deed? I’m sure we can resolve this peaceably… peacefully… Whichever you prefer.” Aaron led Nick into the living room and motioned for him to have a seat on an overstuffed, high-backed sofa. Aaron excused himself and walked down the hall.

The living room reminded Nick of his grandmother’s house. Everything was floral prints and lace doilies and candy dishes filled with striped mints so old that they were gray with dust. The only thing missing was the antique dollhouse filled with half-empty whisky bottles.

Nick blew on a piece of candy and popped it in his mouth. Walking in a slow circle, he examined the photos and knickknacks spread throughout the room. Several statues of the Virgin Mary were gathered on a shelf like a flock of pigeons. A poster of the crucifixion hung on the wall over the couch. A motion sensor in the poster made the eyes move to follow him around the room. The only evidence that a young man lived in the house was a battered guitar leaning against a wall. “Mom’s a religious nut, but that doesn’t make Aaron a killer. At least, not automatically…”

He peaked down the hall. No sign of Aaron. Stepping through a door, he found himself in the kitchen. Rows of glass-fronted cabinets were filled with floral print china and historical disaster collector’s plates. The collector’s plates looked as if they had never been used, which made sense; it would be hard to enjoy a meal while you looked at the Hindenburg crash.

The next room was a bedroom, obviously Aaron’s mother’s. The closet was filled with denim dresses and gaudy appliqué vests, the kind of clothes usually worn by a children’s librarian, kindergarten teacher, or raving lunatic. A drawer in the bedside table held an autographed Bible, which was probably not authentic.

The bed was covered in emerald green sheets and a thick patchwork quilt. Each patch was embroidered with a different scene from the Bible. Whoever had made the quilt hadn’t followed the stories very closely. A patch in the center showed Moses parting the Hudson River and Noah’s ark running aground.

An old bath towel lay across the bed at an odd angle. Nick pulled a pen from his jacket and used it to lift the corner of the towel. The quilt underneath was stained with blood. A voice from behind him: “Do all bankers search through their customer’s personal belongings?” Aaron stood in the doorway, a thick, manila folder clutched tightly in his hands.

“What happened here?” Nick asked casually.

“It’s red wine.”

“Wine doesn’t turn rusty brown when it dries.”

“Alright, you caught me. It’s blood.” Aaron’s eyes focused on the wall next to Nick, avoiding his gaze. “I slaughtered a lamb. The damn thing bled all over the place.”

“That’s just about the worst lie I’ve ever heard. Who slaughters animals in the bedroom? What the hell do you think the garage is for?” Nick picked up the towel and tossed it aside. “We both know where this blood came from. Why didn’t you replace the sheets? You certainly had enough time to get rid of them.”

“You aren’t with the bank.” He tossed the folder on the floor. “Who do you really work for?”

“Your boss. He noticed you haven’t been at work for a few days, so he sent me here to check on you.”

“It’s his fault!” Aaron howled, suddenly furious. “I told him to let me keep working in the butcher shop! But no, he made me switch to the wait staff. How am I supposed to–?” He gazed up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. “I just need to work in the butcher shop, alright?”

“Aaron,” Nick said calmly, “Did you murder Flockhart? It’s alright if you did. I’m sure you had a good reason.”

“I didn’t kill her!” he insisted, his voice cracking with strain. “Not that I didn’t want to. I didn’t need to kill anyone until Mr. Sweeney forced me to switch positions at work. Everything was alright when I was working in the butcher shop. I could take care of everything then.”

“Why don’t you have a seat so we can talk?” Nick put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder and led him into the living room. Aaron took a seat on the couch and Nick sat down across from him on a rocking chair. “Now, take care of what?”

Aaron took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I’m a sinner… I tried different churches – Catholic, Protestant, Mormon, Christianarchist – but the guilt never went away. The preacher at the youth center is good, but he can’t help me. I take communion and feel ashamed, like the bread and wine could never make me clean. But then I discovered that God had special instructions for me.” Aaron opened one of the Bibles on the coffee table and handed it to Nick, pointing at an underlined passage.

And Aaron will lay his hands upon the head of the goat and put all the sins of Israel upon its head. The goat shall bear all their sins. And Aaron shall wash his skin with water in the holy place, put on his clothes, and offer the sacrifice. The goat is for the sin offering. Its blood was brought in to make atonement in the holy place. Aaron will carry it forth in the camp and they shall burn its flesh in the fire.

Aaron took back the Bible and closed it, gently stroking the cover with his fingertips. “When I was working in the butcher shop, I could pray and lay my hands on a corpse’s forehead and God would put my sins onto it. It would be cooked and eaten by those rich folks, and they would take my sin into themselves. But Todd fired a couple of waiters and forced me to take their place. So I had to get my own flesh. I showed my mother the passages I found in the Bible, and she agreed that I was doing the right thing. That’s why she…” He gasped, fighting back tears.

“She what, Aaron? What did she do?” Nick’s hand moved automatically for the handle of his laser stunner.

“She volunteered. She sacrificed herself to save me from my sins. My mother was a saint, and I killed her. She was my own personal Jesus Christ.”

“What did you do with the body?”

“I buried her. God help me, I buried her in the floor of the cellar. She’s still down there, and it’s already been three days… I waited three days, just like the Bible says! I don’t understand it!”

Nick left Aaron moaning on the couch. He stepped into the kitchen and contacted a security patrol. They arrived a few minutes later with their DNA testing equipment, a stun net, and a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist recommended that Aaron take a long rest at a high-security mental hospital. “And Aaron,” he said, “When you get out, find a new line of work.”

The security patrol went down to the cellar and exhumed Mrs. Spinner’s body. The arteries in the neck were severed cleanly and there was no evidence of a struggle. Testing showed that the blood on the bed was hers. There was a duffle bag of money in Aaron’s car but, as the vehicle was low on fuel and in a poor state of repair, it did not look like he had been planning to leave town. More importantly, with the psychiatrist’s examination taken into account, Aaron was almost guaranteed to be found mentally ill.

Nick contacted Todd and explained what had happened. “So, it seems that Aaron didn’t kill Flockhart. But you should probably fire him anyway.”

“I would say so!” Todd gasped. “Is there anything else you wanted to…” He paused to yell at someone out of view. “Would you please be quiet? I am trying to transmit!”

“What’s the problem?”

“Nothing important, my apologies.” He sighed sadly. “That singer Gabrielle is arguing with my staff again. Insufferable woman! I really ought to ban her from the restaurant.”

“No, hold on.” Nick stepped outside, headed for his car. “Listen, Sweeney, I need you to make sure Gabrielle stays at Hand to Mouth for another twenty minutes or so. I have to talk to her in person.”

He sped to the restaurant, parking next to Gabrielle’s car. It was easy to spot, as it was the same pink as her hair. He ducked behind a lamp post and watched the door. At last, Gabrielle came outside. He waited until she was almost to her car door. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said darkly, stepping into view.

“Nick! I… I didn’t expect to run into you.”

“I’ll ask the questions around here! Why did you try to kill me?”

“Kill you?” Gabrielle sputtered, taking a deep breath. “Was that you in my house the other night?”

“You know damn well who it was. You asked to see me, and when I got to your place, you tried to blow my head off! Not the worst date I’ve ever had, but still…”

“I thought it was a prowler!” she insisted, throwing up her hands. “I was dressing, I heard a noise, and I saw someone standing in the doorway, so I pulled my gun from the nightstand and fired. I had no idea it was you, I swear. You practically promised me a job at your club. Why on earth would I want to kill you?”

“I still haven’t figured that one out. Most people don’t want to murder their boss until their first day at work. Whatever your reason, I’m sure it has something to do with how you know my real name. I gave you an alias when we met, remember?”

“Why would you do that?” she asked. “Was the nightclub story just a scam? Were you just trying to get me in bed with you?”

“What do you know about pool tables falling from the sky?”

Gabrielle just stared uncomprehendingly. “You’re crazy, Nick,” she said finally. “Or Rick. Dick. Whatever your name is.” She opened her car door and threw her purse in the backseat. “When you figure out who you want to be, let me know. Until then, leave me alone. And don’t try breaking into my house again. I’ve hired a security guard.”

Chapter Ten

Early the next morning, Nick was in the shower, considering his options. “Aaron Spinner is a lunatic and a murderer, but he didn’t kill Renée. – Damn it. What’s the point of catching a matricidal maniac if you’re not going to get paid? – And Gabrielle is two seconds away from calling a security team to arrest me. I’d better stay away from her… for now. Well, looks like I’m headed back to Clayton’s. I think it’s time for a nice, polite interrogation.”

He parked across the street from Clayton’s house and waited. After a couple of hours, Clayton’s garage door opened and his dark blue SUV pulled out into the street. Nick followed, keeping at a safe distance.

Clayton pulled into the lot of Diabolical Donuts. The diner was owned by a devil-worshiping cult that used fast food to promote the seven deadly sins: gluttony, sloth, lust, pride, envy, anger, and greed. They had originally promoted forty-three deadly sins, but that took too much time.

The donuts were delicious, but extremely expensive. This encouraged gluttony, followed soon after by anger. The tables were equipped with massaging recliners to encourage sloth. Each location was staffed by scantily-clad servers who would flirt with some of the customers but completely ignore the rest. This lead to lust, pride, and envy. However, it was the owners who were greedy, not the customers. Hey, close enough.

When Clayton disappeared inside, Nick pulled a tire iron from his trunk and waited just out of sight. Clayton soon returned, carrying a large sack and a tray of coffee cups. As he strolled towards his car, Nick calmly blocked his path and knocked the food from his hands. Grabbing Clayton by the shirt collar, he dragged him across the lot, pulling him behind a garbage bin where they couldn’t be seen. Nick threw Clayton to the ground and stood over him menacingly, his weapon at the ready. “I’m Rick Welding, Renée’s cousin. I know you killed her. And now, you’re going to pay.” He raised the tire iron over his head.

“Wait, stop!” Clayton shielded his face with his arms, bracing for the blow. “I didn’t do anything, I swear! I didn’t even know she was dead!”

“How could you not know? You dated her for years, but you didn’t even keep in touch?”

“I tried. After a while, she wouldn’t even take my calls. I was an asshole, I admit it. I didn’t want kids, so I told her to pack up her things and get out of my house. But I didn’t kill her! I had no idea this would happen.”

“I don’t believe you, you dumb son of a bitch.” Nick waved the tire iron over Clayton’s head. “Prove it to me or I’ll hurt you.”

“I haven’t seen her for weeks!” he insisted. “Ask her friends, or her parents. She always told them how she didn’t want to see me!”

“You haven’t been stalking her?”

“What? No, of course not. I have a new girlfriend. She keeps my mind off of Renée. Besides, if I wanted to follow a woman around, I would just call Rent-A-Stalker. They’re having a sale.”

“Well, I don’t know. You could be lying, so I’m going to have to break your legs. What’s your least favorite: tibias or fibulas?”

“Please, no! I need my legs. They make me taller!” He looked close to tears.

“Fine,” Nick sighed. “I won’t maim you. Give me your bag of donuts and we’ll call it even. – And they’d better have sprinkles!”

◊

After a quick breakfast of stolen pastries, Nick drove home slowly, lost in thought. “Clayton seemed genuinely surprised to hear of Renée’s death. But, I suppose I should take his advice and check up on him.” He pulled his transmitter from his pocket and set it on the dashboard. “Directory.”

At his command, the blue and gold logo of the Directory Genie service appeared, and an electronic voice said, “Welcome! What is your wish?”

“Last name Flockhart, somewhere in Washington.” There were only two listings, and one was Renée’s. He contacted the other, a Kurt Flockhart. A bald, wrinkled head appeared in the air.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Mr. Flockhart? This is Rick Welding, with Vancouver Bank and Trust.” He flashed his phony ID badge at the cameras. “I am trying to locate Clayton West, and I thought you might know where he is.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. He used to date my daughter. I thought they were going to get married some day, but he broke up with her weeks ago.” He grumbled something crude under his breath. “She hasn’t seen him since. Why are you looking for Clayton? What’d he do?”

“He verbally abused an ATM. Your daughter has had no contact at all with Clayton West?”

“None that I know of. And she tells me everything. And I mean everything. That girl just won’t shut up. She takes after her mother that way. She’ll probably pile on the lard the second she gets married, too…”

“Alright. Thank you for your time.” Cutting the transmission, he thought, “Clayton’s not exactly in the clear, but his guilt seems less likely. Either way, I could sure use a break.”

On his way home, he stopped at The Foobar and Grill. He picked up a steaming box of fried chicken and returned to the parking lot. “Wait, he forgot to give me my change.” He turned around just in time to see a grand piano fall from the sky. It crashed through the roof, thudding in E-major. The sound seemed to echo forever, like the last note in an overrated 60s rock song.

The owner, a bespectacled man in a stained apron, rushed outside and, panting, grabbed Nick by the shoulder. “Did you see where that came from?”

“Nowhere,” he said. “There wasn’t an airplane or helicopter or zeppelin or anything. It just fell from the empty sky.”

“Damn it. I wonder if my insurance will cover this.”

“A piano through the roof? I don’t think so. But it might cover a grease fire.”

“Good thinking.” The owner pulled a box of matches from his apron pocket. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go establish an alibi.”

◊

Nick spent the evening at home relaxing. His apartment was rather small, but he used the space well. He had a couch that folded out into a bed, a chair that folded out into a loveseat, and a fish tank that folded out into a bathtub. The nicest thing in the apartment was the floor. A few years earlier, he had solved a rash of thefts at a home improvement store. As a bonus, they sent workmen to his apartment to install wall-to-wall Living Carpet. The “carpet” was actually fur grown from mutated chinchilla DNA. If he happened to stain it, he could just shave off the damaged area and watch it grow back, good as new. The only downside was the flea shampoo.

He sat on his couch, watching his wrap-around, holographic television. Actually, he wasn’t so much watching the TV as he was the fish swimming in the air in front of it. The hallucinogen he had taken an hour earlier still hadn’t worn off. The drug floating in his bloodstream was an extract of genetically altered morning glory seeds. Like all drugs, it was completely legal, but you had to purchase special “recreational drug user” medical insurance. As he spent weeks at a time subsisting solely on marijuana, alcohol, and powerful hallucinogens, his medical insurance bills looked like the national defense budget of a small country.

Once, during a particularly long bender, God appeared to him and told him the meaning of life. Unfortunately, he could only remember what it was when he was high, and those were the times when it really didn’t seem to matter.

He smiled dimly at a gray fish playing by the wall, swimming in and out of the electrical outlet. What did it remind him of? Something gray in a wall, but what? Reluctantly, he realized that he had to clear his head. He headed into the kitchen and poured himself some tea, a popular brand called Mountain State. He loved their jingle:

Mountain State Tea

is ready and waiting

to help you stop

hallucinating!

Waiting for his tea to cool, he switched on his computer and replayed the video of Clayton West’s home. He watched his hand reach out and pull two of Clayton’s photos from the wall. “The nails in the wall aren’t painted!” he realized with a start, accidentally knocking over his mug. “The photos must be newer than the paintjob. Who would hang dozens of photos without waiting for the paint to dry? Something’s wrong here. I’d better tell Sweeney what I’ve found.”

As if it had read his mind, Nick’s transmitter buzzed. He pulled it from between his couch cushions and answered. Margery Sweeney appeared in the air. “I was just going to trans you,” he said. “I think I know who the killer was. It looks like–”

“I know who it was,” she interrupted. “It was my husband.”

“No, no, it was– wait, do I still get paid?”

“Yes, Mr. Wergild,” she sighed, as if his financial concerns were petty and beneath her, “you still get your money. I have strong suspicions about my husband but little in the way of proof. I will gladly double whatever my husband paid you if you will investigate him for me. Plus expenses, of course.”

“Hold on,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. His head was still swimming in fog. “First, tell me why you think your husband is a murderer. Other than the fact that he owns a restaurant for cannibals.”

“My husband was cheating on me with Renée,” she said bitterly. “She was such a little slut. But I don’t blame her. I knew what a womanizer Todd was before I married him, so I made him sign a prenuptial agreement: If he had an affair, I would get two-thirds of everything, including that precious restaurant of his. For years, everything was fine. But I guess I haven’t trusted him ever since I realized he was defrauding our insurance company. Things got even worse about three months ago, when I started finding things…”

“What sort of things?”

“A stray earring, a lipstick, even a pair of panties. At first, I thought he was a transvestite. But that didn’t make any sense. If he were a crossdresser, he would have shaved his back hair. And then Renée disappeared. As soon as I found out she was murdered, I realized what had happened: Todd was sleeping with her, but he killed her to conceal their affair. He didn’t hire you to investigate the murder; he hired you to help him frame Clayton!”

“But the deliveryman said it was Jessica that was flirting with Sweeney,” Nick thought. “When Renée screamed at Jessica, she must have been trying to scare her away from her man. Renée was already competing with his wife, and she didn’t want another woman in the picture.” He put down his mug and wiped his mouth. “Now, Mrs. Sweeney, you were saying something about doubling my pay?”

Chapter Eleven

The following night, Nick prepared to refocus his investigation on Todd Sweeney. Sure, it was rather unethical to investigate someone while he was technically still a client, but being ethical didn’t pay the rent. At least, he assumed it didn’t. He had never really tried. “Since this is technically a new case, I should make a list of new expenses I can add to Margery’s bill. The restaurant is in town, so I can’t charge her for hotel bills or plane tickets or souvenir snow globes… What, then?”

He lit a cigarette and took a slow drag. Holding in the smoke, he waited for some chemically-sparked inspiration. “I could always use some new equipment. With the money she’ll be getting from Todd, she can afford to buy me some new toys. Unfortunately, the only place in town that sells my kind of toys is Little Brother’s.” That would mean seeing Sophia. Talking to her. And lately, it just didn’t feel right. “Well, it will be worth an awkward conversation to score a few grand in gear. I’ve suffered a lot worse for a lot less.”

Sophia’s rusty, brown car was parked by the front entrance. It was an older model that still ran on gasoline. It broke down constantly, which was an increasingly expensive problem. It was getting harder and harder to find a mechanic who knew how the old engines worked. The last mechanic had told her he couldn’t fix it because he didn’t have the proper vacuum tubes.

“Still, I hope she never gets rid of it,” he thought, rubbing the hood. “We always have the best conversations when I drive her home. God, I wish her car would break down just one more time, so we could talk like that again. Being stuck together just makes things easier. Relationships are so much simpler when someone can’t leave.” He had a sudden flash of Sophia tied to a chair. He headed into the store, smiling.

A customer was returning one of Little Brother’s most expensive items: a personal spy satellite. The satellites were cheaper than the ones used by governments, as they flew at a much lower orbit. Unfortunately, the customer explained, this one had flown too low. He had to call the fire department when it became stuck in a tree.

As usual, Sophia was in the back, doing her best to stay away from customers. The tiny speakers in her earrings played music only she could hear. Her head was swaying gently. She wanted to dance but forced herself to stay still. The last time she had given in to the urge, she had pirouetted into a wall.

Nick headed for the camera counter, which was out of her line of sight. He already had a camera but, like any technology, there were always newer and nicer models to replace it. He slammed his money pouch on the counter and told the salesman, “Show me the latest and greatest thing you’ve got.”

“Certainly, sir. I have here a camera so new that it technically won’t be invented until next Thursday. It can take photos at forty-three yottapixels. That’s forty-three septillion pixels, which is slightly higher resolution than real life. Compared to this camera’s photos, physical reality is grainy and pixelated.”

Nick knew he was exaggerating but, as Margery was paying, it didn’t seem to matter. He bought the camera, some extra batteries, and a telephoto lens long enough to give a horse an inferiority complex. “I’d better get out of here,” he thought, “before Sophie sees me.”

As he walked across the parking lot, he heard a strange, whistling sound. An immense, wrought iron buffet table was falling from the sky. It was hard to tell for certain, due to its speed, but it looked like an antique. The buffet table hurtled over his head and crashed on the pavement, crumpling like a soda can.

Bewildered, he stared up at the sky. As before, there was no sign of its source. No planes, no helicopters, no autogyros. Suddenly, he realized who had been trying to kill him. Only one person could drop furniture from the clouds. “Missed me again, God!”

◊

Nick parked at the bar across the street from Hand to Mouth and waited for Todd to leave for the evening. To help pass the time, he counted his money. Margery had emptied her private investment account to cover his fee, selling forty-three hundred shares of Sphinx Tech, a company that made toupees for hairless cats. She hated to do it but, if Nick could prove Todd was the killer, she would have plenty more cash coming her way.

Some movement in the lot caught his attention. Peering though his camera’s zoom lens, he watched Gordon walk from the restaurant toward his car. Todd rushed out behind him, yelling something. The distance made his words inaudible. He grabbed Gordon’s belt and violently yanked down his pants, revealing several large plastic bags tied to his legs. More yelling. Embarrassed, Gordon piled the bags in Todd’s hands, pulled up his pants, and trudged slowly to his car. Gordon drove off, and Todd returned to his office.

Waiting. Smoking. Twiddling of thumbs. Bored, Nick toyed with his navigation system. Pulling up a local map, he found that Donald Canard’s house had recently been flagged “For Sale.” Donald wasn’t asking for much, possibly because his house was next door to the Vancouver Scream Therapy Center.

A car pulled into the lot and slowly circled the restaurant. Nick took a few photos, even though it was far too dark to see the driver. A brilliant flash of white. Tongues of fire lapped at the restaurant’s sides. Tires squealing, the car sped away like a gazelle with an inner ear disorder.

He connected to the local security computer. “There’s been an explosion at Hand to Mouth. Looks like a pipe bomb. I’m sending photos of the suspect’s vehicle, which is now heading south on Westside Highway. Send a security patrol and a fire truck immediately. Victim heavily insured.”

“Message received.” The computer’s voice was annoyingly polite, like a flight attendant or a museum tour guide or a Canadian. “My records show that Hand to Mouth has a contract with Happy Bunny Insurance. A security patrol car is on its way after the suspect, and a fire truck will be at Hand to Mouth in approximately four and a half minutes.”

He left the bar and pulled into the restaurant’s tiny parking lot. He sprinted to the windows outside Todd’s office. The inside was entirely obscured by smoke and flames. While he waited for the fire truck, he tried to light a cigarette off the blaze but only managed to burn his fingers.

Screaming.

Two windows down, there was a brightly-colored pane of stained glass. Barely visible inside, Todd Sweeney cried out for help. Nick waved for Todd to stand back, and then hurled a trash can through the glass. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it across the window frame, covering the jagged knives of broken glass. Grabbing Todd’s arms, he pulled him out and dragged him away from the burning building.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Wergild,” Todd wheezed. He sat in the grass at the edge of the lot, coughing violently. “I must be cursed. First a murder, and then the building catches fire while I am in the restroom, the only room without a window that opens. I must remember to tell Margery that her bloody stained glass artwork nearly killed me. I am sure she will find it most amusing.” But Nick wasn’t listening. He was too busy watching his leather jacket burn.

A fire truck pulled into the lot, sirens blaring. Its rear doors opened, releasing half a dozen men in silver jumpsuits. The truck’s octopus, a bright yellow, eight-legged robot the size of a horse, came scurrying out after them. The firefighters connected a hose to a nearby hydrant, the octopus dragging the other end to the flames. Once in position, the robot forced its spiked legs into the blacktop, anchoring itself to the ground. It switched on the hose, releasing a blue torrent of water and chemicals.

Moments later, a white convertible rolled into the lot. A woman in a lime green pantsuit, apparently the claims adjuster, hopped out and brought Todd some papers to sign: “Acknowledgement of fire fighting attempt”, “Waiver of water damage claims”, and “Withdraw of fire damage claims in the event the fire was started by a malfunctioning Schlock Products™ freezer/oven combo.”

The firefighters and their machine managed to extinguish the blaze before it spread beyond Todd’s office. They covered the burned area in yellow warning signs and stapled plastic sheeting in place to keep out the rain and insects. As the bomb had struck a load-bearing wall, they also brought in a pair of hydraulic jacks to support the roof until repairs could be made.

As the firefighters finished up the job, the driver invited the captain to come relax with the team at a strip club. “How is that relaxing?” he asked. “Watching people slide down poles just reminds me of work.”

Once they were alone, Todd gestured for Nick to come closer. “I believe I know who started the blaze,” he said, his voice strained from coughing. “Unless I miss my guess, there is a good chance they were also involved in Renée’s murder.”

“Well, don’t keep it to yourself, Sweeney! Who was it?”

“Scunner Consulting. It is a social activist group headed by a man named Reid Mason. They protest businesses all over the country: zoos, chicken farms, that genetics lab that makes the apples that taste like bacon… and, lately, Hand to Mouth. Mason claims that he has nothing personal against me, he just hates my restaurant. He finds it disgusting, the rich eating the poor. He even writes articles about it for the newsfeeds. I believe the last one was called ‘An Immodest Proposal.’”

“And you think he hates it enough to have Flockhart killed?” Nick asked. “How can anyone hate something that much without being married to it?”

“He has tried to put a stop to the restaurant many, many times, but nothing has worked. Perhaps he finally resorted to murder. And now, arson.” Todd sighed, staring at the hole where his office used to be.

“If he did it, I’ll find proof. – For the right price, I can prove it’s him, even if he’s innocent.” Of course, Nick was just joking. Mostly.

Nick smiled, putting away his notebook. “Hey, I know what will cheer you up… A circus ringmaster hires a new performer. That night, the owner of the circus comes to watch the new act. The performer walks to the center ring, grabs a man from the audience, and takes a bite out of his neck. The owner says to the ringmaster, ‘Damn it, I told you to hire a human cannonball!’”

Todd was too depressed to laugh.

Chapter Twelve

Nick contacted Scunner Consulting the next morning, aiming his transmitter high enough to make sure that no one could see he hadn’t bothered to put on pants. The organization’s logo appeared above his palm, a shiny, happy-looking globe with the letters “SC” suspended behind it. The logo dissolved, replaced by a woman’s cheery face. She wore thick-framed, fashion-statement-only glasses and earrings that resembled tiny, silver wind chimes.

“Scunner Consulting!” she chirped. “My name is Judy. How can I help you?” Her smile was far too wide for so early in the day.

“Hello there, Judy. My name is Dr. Glen Ridwick. I’m interested in doing some volunteer work with your organization.”

“Oh, you’re a doctor? Great! I’ve got this mole that I’ve been worried about… Hold on, I’ll move the camera.”

“Actually, I’m a veterinarian. So I’m afraid I can’t help, unless the mole is burrowing in your garden.” It was a half-hearted joke, but she laughed hysterically. He wondered if she wore the wind chimes to take advantage of the breeze blowing through her ears.

“A pet doctor? Oh, good. My cat has been having problems, too. This morning, he coughed up something that might have been a lizard.” She reached for her purse. “I’ve got some photos…”

For an uncomfortable twenty minutes, he improvised what he hoped was good medical advice. Finally, Judy made an appointment for him to speak to Reid Mason. Reid was a busy man and couldn’t see Nick until Monday.

Ending the transmission, Nick realized he had a message. Someone had tried to reach him while he had been talking to Judy.

A man in a ski mask appeared above his palm. A grainy, black-and-white hologram, undoubtedly from a public transmitter booth. “Mr. Wergild,” he said, his voice electronically disguised, “we have kidnapped Gabrielle. If you ever want to see her again, bring five million dollars to the docks. Come tonight at seven, alone. Look for the building with brown stripes.” He paused, listening to someone off camera. “Apparently the stripes are more of a burnt sienna. Either way, we’re watching you. Call for help and she’s dead.”

“Why the hell do they think I have five million dollars?” Nick wondered. “And why would I trade it for a woman who has already tried to kill me? Why would I trade it for any woman, when I could use it to buy a really nice boat?”

He replayed the message, watching for any clues. As public transmitter booths were intended for emergencies, they automatically broadcasted their locations. Unfortunately, the information was of no help. As he expected, the booth was at the docks, too.

“Whoever they are, this has to be connected to Renée’s murder. I have to help Gabrielle before she gets killed too. …How much do you charge someone for rescuing her from kidnappers? If she won’t pay me, can I give her back?”

◊

The sun slid away, plunging the city into darkness. A bitter wind came up from Portland, carrying dark clouds and rain. As his car drifted slowly over the waterlogged streets, he forced himself not to think about where the rest of the night might take him. He left the car in a back alley and walked the last few blocks to the harbor, a large, steel suitcase under his arm. It was heavy, around sixty pounds, the weight of five million dollars in rhodium coins. However, not having five million dollars to spare, it was actually filled with rocks.

A rundown factory squatted at the end of the street. A flickering lamppost shed just enough light to read the tin sign over the door: “Caries Candy Company.” He pulled a pair of binoculars from his jacket and took a closer look. “This must be the place,” he thought. “Although, the stripes are more of a mahogany than a burnt sienna…” The parking lot was empty, the building dark. A man in a ski mask stood guard by the door. Oddly, he was facing the wrong direction, towards the sea.

Nick crept down the street, careful not to make any noise that might draw the lookout’s attention. Finally, he stood at arm’s length to the masked man, who still hadn’t moved. Nick leaned back and swung the heavy suitcase, hitting him in the back of the skull. The man’s head flew off, landing several feet away.

“It’s a dummy,” he thought, dropping the suitcase in shock. “A mannequin. That means this is a–” A black dart stabbed him in the arm. “–trap.”

◊

Nick opened his eyes, choking. He was on the floor of a small, dimly lit room that was rapidly filling with warm liquid. Stumbling to his feet, he leaned against the wall, coughing the stuff from his lungs. The thick, brown liquid was coming from a steel pipe jutting from the wall ten feet above him.

“What is this gunk?” he thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste was familiar. “Oh, chocolate! Thank god. That could have been so much worse…” He rubbed his arm, still sore from the tranquilizer dart. “So, apparently the kidnappers made me come all the way out to a candy factory just to drown me in melted chocolate. Why not use a gun? Maybe they were trying to make my death look like a highly-improbable accident… Have to figure things out later. This syrup is already up to my knees.”

At one point, the room must have been used as a secure storage closet. The door was reinforced steel and equipped with a biometric lock. Unfortunately, it was impossible to use lock picks on a fingerprint scanner. The room was windowless, the only light coming from a bare bulb near the ceiling. The walls were wood covered in peeling, green paint and old advertisements for candy. Unlike the thin plaster of his apartment building, these walls looked too solid to kick through.

“I’d better get some help. Wait, where’s my transmitter? Damn them. They must have taken it.” He emptied his pockets, looking for anything that might help. His laser stunner was gone, as well. He had a cigarette lighter, half a pack of cigarettes, his money pouch, and a set of lock picks. Unfortunately, he had left his battering ram in his other pants.

The chocolate splashed at his waist.

He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at the ceiling. A shrill alarm buzzer sounded. “I have no idea where the nearest fire station is. If the fire department doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to drown. I already know what the newsfeed headlines will say: ‘Death by Chocolate.’”

Chapter Thirteen

“Oh, god, it hurts to breathe. And that’s pretty much the least strenuous thing you can do…” Nick lay on a hospital gurney, his face covered with an oxygen mask. He had inhaled so much chocolate that it felt like there was an Easter basket lodged in his lungs. A paramedic mentioned that breathing chocolate, while not recommended, was not nearly as bad as some of the things people did to their bodies for fun. Also, it was better to do it in smoke form, rather than liquid. Nick thanked him for his advice and suggested that he go have marital relations with a wood chipper.

A security patrol was busying itself inside the factory, examining the gunk-coated room. Someone had done hours of serious plumbing work to pipe in the chocolate, but had managed to avoid leaving behind any fingerprints, hairs, or other evidence. There was no trace of Gabrielle anywhere. On the plus side, the factory smelled delicious.

After a brief examination, the paramedic declared Nick fit to drive home. Tired as he was, his first concern was not getting chocolate on the upholstery. Fortunately, he always kept an emergency “in case I wake up and can’t remember where I am” bag in the trunk. He changed clothes in the back of the ambulance and tossed his chocolate-coated clothing into a nearby dumpster.

Back at his apartment, he collapsed on the couch and fell into a fitful sleep. An hour later, his convalescence was interrupted by a transmission from the captain of the security patrol. “I have some good news, Mr. Wergild. We have located your kidnap victim.”

“You found Gabrielle?” He bolted upright, nearly knocking over the coffee table in front of the couch. “Did you catch the kidnappers? Did they hurt her? Is she going to pay me?”

“She was at home. When I asked her about the kidnapping, she had no idea what I was talking about. She had spent the evening performing at a nightclub on the other side of Vancouver.”

“Oh, holy hell… I can’t believe this! Does she have any witnesses?”

“Two hundred and forty-three.” Grinning, he added, “Would you like their transmission frequencies?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said glumly, pushing himself up from the couch. “Did Gabrielle have any idea why the kidnappers would have called me and not a relative?”

“She said most of her family lives in another state.”

“Oh, alright. Thanks for your help.”

“No thanks necessary,” the captain said. “You’ll be getting quite the hefty bill in the morning.”

Nick switched off his transmitter and trudged off to bed. “Maybe she doesn’t have anything to do with these attempts on my life after all. Maybe the phony kidnapper is one of my old enemies, someone I arrested years ago. Or it’s Renée’s killer trying to get rid of me before I solve the case. Or an ex-girlfriend. Or grandma…”

◊

The next morning, Nick was taking a bath when he was struck by a sudden flash of brilliance. He leapt out of the tub, dripping wet and covered in soap, and rushed into the kitchen. Grabbing his transmitter, he contacted the captain of the security patrol. “What is Gabrielle’s last name?!”

The sound of fingers tap dancing across a keyboard. “My records show her full name is… Gabrielle Valula Fairbanks. Why?”

“I’ll tell you later.” He returned to the bathroom and hopped back into the tub. Sadly, the bubbles had dissolved. With a sigh, he let out the water and showered off the soap. Ten minutes later, he was dry, dressed, and on his way to Gabrielle Fairbanks’ gargantuan house.

He parked across the street, grabbed his spare laser stunner from the glove compartment, and cautiously crept to her yard, hiding behind a tree. The front door banged open and a portly man in an ill-fitting security guard uniform stepped outside. Trudging across the grass, the guard scanned the area for any signs of an intruder. Spying Nick’s car, he reached for his transmitter.

Before the guard could call out a warning, Nick stepped out from behind his tree and fired. The guard collapsed, shaking violently. Moving quickly, Nick grabbed the guard’s handcuffs and secured his hands behind his back.

A few minutes later, the guard reluctantly returned to consciousness. Nick grabbed the guard’s transmitter from his belt and pressed it to his face. “You have a choice,” he growled. “You can call Ms. Fairbanks and tell her to come outside, or I can kick your fat head in until the lawn is covered in brains.”

“What was the first choice again?”

Nick gave the guard a little extra encouragement in the form of a boot to the solar plexus. At last, he did as ordered. After another stunner blast, Nick dragged him to the front porch, hiding behind the front door. Moments later, Gabrielle joined her security guard on the ground. Nick dragged his unconscious prisoners into the kitchen, dropping them roughly into Gabrielle’s high-backed, wooden chairs. He handcuffed the comatose couple and waited for them to regain consciousness.

“Nick?” Gabrielle moaned. “I can’t believe you still think I’m trying to kill you. As I told the security patrolmen, I had nothing to do with your little adventure at the candy factory. I have plenty of witnesses.”

“I know you’re lying!” Nick pulled a box of toothpicks from a cabinet. Grabbing the guard’s wrist, he jammed one of the wooden slivers under his fingernail. The guard screamed in agony. “Now, tell me the truth.”

“But you haven’t asked me anything!” the guard protested.

“Not you,” Nick snapped. “Her. I’m too much of a gentleman to torture a woman. It’s just how I was raised.”

“Nick, I am telling you the truth,” Gabrielle insisted. “Please believe me. I have no idea who’s been after you.”

He jabbed another toothpick under the guard’s thumbnail, drawing pained howls. “I can torture him all day if I have to,” he said. “Your name is Fairbanks. I left your sister at the altar, arrested your father, and turned him over to the authorities wearing nothing but leather bondage gear.”

“Why were you wearing leather bondage gear?”

“Not me. Him.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “But I’m sure you know all this. Your father must have called you from the nut house and told you all about me; that’s how you knew my real name. You knew how I hurt your family, and you were desperate for revenge.”

“Of course I was!” she spat, struggling vainly against her restraints. “I despise you, Nick. It pained me to flirt with you, but I knew you were arrogant and stupid enough to fall for it. When you invited me over, I was certain you wanted me out of the house so you could search the place. So I left a window open, grabbed my pistol, and waited for you to arrive. It would have appeared as if I had simply killed a prowler. No arbitrator in the territories would have convicted me. For all I knew, I was about be raped! But I only tried to kill you one time. Get over it.”

He took a moment to consider her explanation. “You sound like you’re telling the truth. But I’d better torture him a little more, just to be sure.”

An hour of tormenting the guard did nothing to change Gabrielle’s story. Nick made a quick transmission to his lawyer, who drew up a contract for everyone to sign. In exchange for Gabrielle not pressing charges against Nick for breaking into her house, Nick agreed to not have her arrested for trying to kill him. The security guard agreed to not press charges in exchange for three hundred dollars and a box of snack cakes. Nick didn’t want them anymore. They were chocolate.

After everything was signed and stamped, Nick headed home. “The good news is that Gabrielle probably won’t try to kill me again. The bad news is that I still don’t know who the kidnapper was or why he tried to kill me. – God, I’m tired. I’m definitely taking tomorrow off.”

Chapter Fourteen

Later that day, while waiting for his meeting with Reid, Nick passed the time at his computer reading the newsfeeds. The top story was the strained relations between the Republic of Texas and the United Territories of Alaska. The ROT felt that the UTA wasn’t exporting enough oil, and the UTA felt that the ROT didn’t appreciate how hard to was to get anything done when it was so damn cold all the time.

The arts feed told of a scandal at a local gallery. They had made millions selling paintings supposedly created by an artistically-gifted horse that used her tail as a brush. However, a critic had discovered that the paintings were actually created by a classically trained artist who’d spent forty years studying Renaissance masterworks. Once the story hit the media, the gallery went out of business. The remaining paintings were sold to a fast food restaurant. Customers could get one free with the purchase of a large milkshake.

The local crime newsfeed had a brief story about the fire at Hand to Mouth. The security patrol found a car matching the description Nick had given them. It was found a few blocks away from the restaurant, abandoned and on fire. The car had been stolen the day before from a family that lived nearby. Their insurance company had already announced that it was not going to pay, as there was no proof that the car hadn’t been on fire when they bought it.

Finished reading, Nick popped a memory tab into the slot in his TV and sat down to watch a movie. Finally, it was time for his meeting with Reid.

The offices of Scunner Consulting were built like an Art Deco prison. The bulletproof windows were barred. The eight-foot cement wall surrounding the property looked like it could keep out a burglar or a horde of Mongols. Nick stopped at the gate and introduced himself to the intercom. Questions were asked, lists were consulted, urine samples were taken. Finally, he was allowed inside.

As he sat in the waiting room, he read some pamphlets about Scunner Consulting’s various charitable efforts:

Save the Sasquatch

Stop alien abduction

Evict the homeless

Stop abducting aliens

Help the widows of Sasquatch victims

Nothing about cannibalistic restaurants. Odd. He made a mental note to check the newsfeeds for records of their past protests.

A woman in a yellow sundress took a seat on the other side of the room. She checked her watch, frowned, and impatiently tapped her foot. She pulled a rubber stick from her pocket and chewed on the end. It was a Flavifier, a kind of everlasting lollipop. The commercial claimed they helped users to relax, quit smoking, or quit overeating.

“Pacifiers for adults,” Nick thought, smiling to himself. “How pathetic. – Damn, did I leave my cigarettes in the car?”

Judy the receptionist checked her clipboard and cleared her throat. “Dr. Ridwick, Mr. Mason will see you now.”

Nick didn’t move.

“Dr. Ridwick? Dr. Glen Ridwick?”

With a start, he remembered he was using an alias. “Oh, sorry. I’m ready now.”

“This way, sir.” Judy glanced down at her clipboard. “If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of name is Ridwick? I’m a big genealogy buff, you see.”

“Um… Dutch?”

She smiled, bouncing excitedly. “Oh, I have family in the Netherlands! What part of the country is your family from?”

“Pennsylvania.”

Nick brushed past Judy and walked into Reid’s office. The office was filled with overstuffed leather chairs and a long, granite-topped table. The walls were covered in paintings done in a new style called “non-goal-oriented, monochromatic drip art.” Some people thought the artist had simply taken a can of black paint and splattered it onto a white canvas. Of course, those people didn’t have enough money to buy avant-garde art, so what did they know?

Reid sat behind a gigantic, oak pedestal desk. The panel in the front of the desk seemed much thicker than normal, probably bulletproof. “Good afternoon, Dr. Ridwick. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve heard about your efforts to put a stop to Hand to Mouth,” he said, taking a seat. “I’d like to help you, if I can. They need to be stopped. As a doctor, I’ve devoted my life to helping the terminally ill, but they treat them like farm animals. And not in a good way.”

“Hand to Mouth,” Reid grumbled, folding his arms. “That place disgusts me. What they do is just sickening.”

“Yes, it’s horrible. And expensive!” Nick made certain the office door was closed and that no one was listening. “Did you hear about the restaurant catching fire the other night? Was that…?”

“Was that what? Us? No, of course not. Although, I can’t say I’m sorry it happened. Todd Sweeney certainly deserves it, and worse. Much worse.”

Reid gave Nick a tall stack of pamphlets and some information on the next anti-anthropophagous restaurants meeting. Apparently “anthropophagous” meant “people-eating.” There was also a meeting about “coprophagous” restaurants. Nick was afraid to ask what that meant. Finally, Reid had a press conference to attend, so he had Judy walk Nick to the door.

Nick drove home from the office, speeding, his thoughts choked with anger. His investigation of Scunner Consulting and Reid Mason had gotten him virtually nothing. “And I wasted a perfectly good, anagrammatic pseudonym. Those things are hard to come up with! Well, I don’t want to try breaking into that place. The security’s tighter than Sophie’s jeans.”

His thoughts were interrupted by his buzzing transmitter. A representative from an arbitrator’s office informed him that Luke Bender had been found guilty of robbing Nick’s temporary apartment. Also, several expensive parrots had been stolen from Fur Sure a few months earlier, but they had been found in Luke’s home, hidden in the back of his sock drawer. Thus, he was on his way to a work camp, and would be locked away for quite some time.

“That,” Nick thought, “gives me an excellent idea. If I can’t go through the security at Scunner Consulting, maybe I can go around it…” He made a quick u-turn and headed for the pet store.

A sign in the front window advertised their current sale: “Thirty Percent off All Emotionally Disturbed Toy Poodles – Puppy Antidepressants Free.” He stepped inside and was immediately approached by a salesclerk, a wispy man with frosted blond hair. His nametag said “Brice.” He was carrying a sleepy-looking, black cat and stroking it behind the ears.

Brice assaulted him with a smile. “Welcome to Fur Sure. Can I interest you in a kitty today?”

“No, I’m just looking for the pet food.”

“Everybody can use another kitty!” he persisted. “This is Cloudy. She’s a two-year-old Persian we rescued from an abandoned apartment. I could tell you a lot of stories about this cat. You might say she’s a cat ‘o nine tales!”

Nick didn’t laugh. “I have a large lizard at home,” he said, “and I need to buy some food for him. Do you have any crickets?”

“Certainly. We have pet food of every category.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asked innocently. He led Nick down the main aisle to a row of aquariums. “Here are our little buggies.” Bending down, Brice dropped the cat to the floor and watched it scurry away. “How many crickets did you wish to purr-chase?”

“At least a gross,” Nick said, tapping on the aquarium glass.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Brice replied, “but we only have about a hundred in stock at the moment. Shall I order you some more from our catalog?”

“Stop that! Just ring them up for me.”

“Would you like an aquarium, as well? I’m sure you wouldn’t want the crickets to escape. That would be a cataclysmic catastrophe!”

Nick grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him forward. “I swear to god, if you make one more cat-related pun, I will beat you to death with my bare hands and feed your corpse to the gerbils.”

“S-s-sorry, sir,” he whimpered, pulling away. “I’ll ring this right up for you, sir.” Brice carried the aquarium of crickets to the counter and punched some figures into the cash register. “I noticed you have a pair of handcuffs on your belt,” he said nervously. “Are you a security patroller?”

“No,” Nick grunted. “I’m a manhunter.”

“How exciting. I wish someone would do something about the crime in this neighborhood! We’ve been having trouble with…”

“With what?”

“Nothing.”

“Having trouble with what?” he demanded, annoyed.

“…A cat burglar.”

Nick punched Brice in the mouth and watched him crumple to the floor. He tossed a few coins on the counter and, the aquarium under his arm, calmly walked out the door.

Chapter Fifteen

That evening, Nick returned to Scunner Consulting, parking his car across the street from the front gate. He changed into a pair of coveralls and a matching baseball cap, covering his face with a gas mask. The coveralls were new, but the gasmask was an old gift from an ex-girlfriend. She had given him the mask so they could play her favorite bedroom game, “the radioactive schoolgirl and the naughty hazmat team member.”

Opening his trunk, he pulled out a large, steel tank labeled “Danger – Insecticide – Poisonous Gas – Not to Be Used to Inflate Pool Toys.” He strapped the tank to his back and headed for the gate. Stopping at the intercom, he said, “Someone call for an exterminator?”

The intercom buzzed and a frantic woman’s voice said, “Oh, thank god! Hurry up and get in here! They’re everywhere!” The gate squeaked open. He stopped at the front desk, where Judy the receptionist was busy panicking. “I can’t believe you got here this fast!” she said gratefully.

“I happened to be in the neighborhood. An office building down the street was infested with lobsters. So, what’s the problem here?”

“Bugs!” she squealed. “A team of bike messengers came by this afternoon, and they delivered packages to half the people in the office. The packages were full of crickets! We caught what we could but, by now, they’ve gotten into the air vents. Ooh, I hate bugs!”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said, tapping his tank. “I’ve got plenty of poison for all of them.”

“Is it safe for us to be in here while you’re spraying?”

“That depends – how often do you like to breathe?”

He strolled through the office, squirting random objects with gas. The employees pulled their shirts over their noses and fled to the break room. Soon, the main hall was empty. Finding himself alone, he shoved the hose under Reid’s door and turned on the gas. After a few minutes, he heard a loud thump. Warning labels to the contrary, he had actually filled the tank with surgical anesthetic. He kicked open the door and found Reid collapsed on the floor, drooling a map of Bolivia on the carpet.

An oak filing cabinet was bolted to the floor in the back of the office. Nick dropped to his knees, examining the lock. “Hardened steel casing, eleven pick-resistant spool pins, extra-narrow keyway… Looks very secure.” He lifted the gas tank over his head and hurled it at the cabinet. The wood shattered, oak splinters flying.

Digging through the files, he found some credit card numbers that he thought might come in handy later. A thick, manila folder was marked “Financial Records.” He laughed to himself. “Mason probably kept this in here to keep it safe from computer hackers.” There were records of several small payments made to Gordon Dunmore, a large payment made to Clayton West, and two very large payments sent to someone named “Donald Canard.” These payments had been mailed to an address in an office building just blocks away from Renée’s apartment.

There were also records of donations made to Scunner Consulting. Tens of thousands of dollars, deposited every few months.

“These dates look familiar,” he thought. “Wait, these are the same days on the ledger I found at Gabrielle’s. She was making deposits into Reid’s bank account, not her own! Looks like she’s been funding Reid’s crusade against Hand to Mouth. …Renée yelled at Gabrielle for harassing the waitresses. Was she upset enough to want revenge? If so, was she just trying to destroy the restaurant, or did she want something more? If someone in the group is responsible for Renée’s murder, Gabrielle may just be an accessory.”

He checked his watch. Reid would be unconscious for another hour at least, but there was nothing else in his office to search. “Well, Gordon’s the first suspect on this list. I should find out how he earns his pay.”

On his way to the door, he noticed he still had some anesthetic left in the tank. He slipped the hose under the break room door and turned on the gas. He strolled back to his car, happier than he had been in days.

Chapter Sixteen

Nick set his navigation system to drive him to Gordon’s apartment. It was late enough that Gordon would be home from work. Hopefully, he would go out for the evening. Nick parked across the street and waited. Finally, Gordon’s blue pickup pulled out of the lot and rolled down the street. Nick switched his headlights from “bright” to “nonchalant” and followed at a safe distance.

Gordon pulled into the gravel parking lot of a small bar. Nick watched him go inside, waited a few minutes, and then went to the door. Neon tubes flashed the words “The White Horse.” A drug bar. Usually, there would be the logo of a drug testing laboratory in the window, showing that an independent body had examined the business for drug purity, safety, and other important consumer issues. The only thing The White Horse had in the window was a sign reading “Official meeting place of the Vancouver Solipsism Club – Join us now! Meet interesting people!”

Nick walked inside, scanning the room for Gordon. Heavy smoke and bad lighting made it difficult to see. He decided to try a flashlight. The walls of The White Horse were gray stone covered in graffiti, stains, dirt, and what appeared to be blood. The unfinished pine tables looked as if they had been taken from a prison cafeteria. Inexplicably, the ceiling was covered in footprints.

Sitting at the bar was a familiar-looking, blue-skinned woman: Heather, the RA from Jessica’s school. “Oh, holy hell,” he moaned. “I can’t let her see me. …Wait, it looks like she’s paying her bill. I should hide somewhere until she leaves.” He turned off his flashlight and ducked into the men’s room. It was empty but smelled strongly of recent guests. He drummed his fingers on the wall and counted the seconds. The door squeaked open.

“Nick! I thought I saw you come in here. Listen, I need to talk to you.”

“I know. I forgot to release you from the bed.”

“I was there for fourteen hours, Nick. By the time one of the girls found me, I had already wet myself. Twice. It was the most erotic experience of my life.”

“I’m so sorry. I needed your key card so I could get into a friend’s dorm room. I’ll understand if you want to have me arrest– Wait, did you say erotic?”

“Oh yes,” she breathed. “It was amazing! I had never had much experience with bondage before, but you showed me a whole new world of sensual pleasures. The only downside is, now that I enjoy being restrained, I’ll have to buy all sorts of equipment. Do you know where I can get a straitjacket?”

“I know a place where they might give you one… You know, we never did get a chance to make love. Come over here.” He took her hand and led her across the room. Pushing her against the wall, he slowly, seductively, handcuffed her to a urinal. “I’ll be back in a day or two. Don’t go anywhere!”

Nick stepped out of the men’s room, spotting Gordon immediately. He was sitting on a stool in front of an enormous, coin-operated hookah. “Well,” Nick thought, “it doesn’t look like he’ll be clear-headed enough to recognize me from our brief meeting the other day.” He took the stool next to Gordon and said, “Hey, pal, do I know you?”

“Don’t think so,” he mumbled.

“Oh, my mistake. What’s in the hookah?”

“Some Vietnamese stuff, very nice,” Gordon said, jabbing a thick finger at the huge, green marijuana leaf painted on the side of the hookah. “They said it’s a strain originally brought over by vets coming back from ‘Nam.”

“Sounds great.” Nick put a five dollar coin in the slot and wiped the end of his hose. There were no disposable mouth pieces. He would have to put his lips where many, many mouths had been before. “It’s disgusting now,” he thought, “but in a few minutes, I won’t care anymore.”

The two men smoked in silence. Nick watched Gordon closely, attempting to judge the fine line between “loss of inhibitions” and “can’t follow a conversation, let alone remember anything helpful.” Their smoke floated up to join the great cloud at the ceiling, where it was sucked into the ventilation system and released out a vent on the roof. The wind carried the smoke to a nearby tree, where several squirrels suddenly became hungry and confused.

After an hour or so, Nick said, “You know, I never introduced myself. I’m Dr. Glen Ridwick. I’m with Scunner Consulting. Mr. Mason wanted me to ask if you would do another job for him.”

“Doing what?”

“The, ah, same thing you did before. Exactly like that.”

“You need more information?” Gordon asked, scowling. “Already told you guys everything I know about those people. Can’t get any new info because I was fired for stealing office supplies. And money. And a refrigerator.” He shook his head sadly. “Didn’t think they were watching.”

“Oh, darn. And we really needed your help to fight the good fight against overpriced, poorly-lit restaurants for well-to-do cannibals. Anyway, who did you give this information to? I’d like to talk to them.”

“What information?”

“The info you had about your friends at Hand to Mouth. The reason we paid you.”

“I paid for what?”

“Oh, god. I waited too long!” Realizing he had to buy some time for Gordon to sober up, he grabbed Gordon’s arm and helped him walk the five feet to the nearest table. He waved over a nearby waitress, a heavily-tattooed blonde with a pair of lip rings. “Do you have any actual food in this place?”

“Sure, honey. French fries, chicken wings, shrimp cocktail, onion rings, pickled eggs, grilled swordfish with mango chutney served on a bed of Russian caviar…”

“You can’t be serious.”

“No, really!” she said. “Pickled eggs!”

“Fine. Two shrimp cocktails and two coffees.”

“No,” Gordon grunted, banging a meaty fist on the table. “Tea. Want a tea!”

It took twenty minutes for the waitress to return with their order. Gordon seemed marginally more alert. “This is good stuff,” he mumbled around a mouthful of shrimp. “Every time I have seafood, I think about this girl I used to know. Erin something. She never wanted to eat anything when we went out, only when we were making love.”

“That’s awfully weird.” Nick didn’t want to hear the rest of the story, but he didn’t want to risk alienating Gordon before he found out what else he knew.

“It’s not that unusual,” Gordon said slowly, still somewhat stoned. “Lot of people associate food with sex, love, comfort.” He paused to finish his glass of tea. “It’s oral fixation, like Siegfried Freud… People learn it when they’re babies. That’s why people like to kiss. Putting someone in your mouth makes you feel more in love. That’s also why cats carry their kittens in their mouths. That, and they don’t have hands… What was I talking about?”

“Are you drunk?” Nick asked.

“Maybe just a little,” Gordon laughed.

“How the hell are you drunk?”

“Their ice tea… It’s imported from Long Island.”

“Oh, holy hell.” He grabbed Gordon’s jacket, pulling him close. “Listen up, you fat idiot: Reid Mason paid you for information about Hand to Mouth. Reid’s not the type of guy to get his hands dirty, so the killer must have been someone else. Who did you give this information to?”

“Think you mean, ‘To whom did you give this information’,” Gordon slurred.

“Just tell me!” Nick slammed his fist on the table, drawing angry looks from the nearby tables. “What the hell is your problem?” he asked the room. “Haven’t you ever seen an undercover interrogation before?”

“Donald Canard,” muttered Gordon, right before he fell off his chair. “Should go visit Lawn Island, an’ meet the guy who makes this delislush bedvergage…”

“Well, he’s gone. Nothing more I can do here. I should go home and conduct some serious research.”

A young woman in a dangerously short, black dress breezed up to his table. She had chin-length, blonde hair and a tiny, gold crucifix around her neck. Like a cigarette girl in the Old Days, she had a large, multi-compartment tray hanging from her shoulders on a leather strap. However, most tobacco companies had gone out of business six days after the end of the “war on drugs”. Her tray was filled with brightly-colored vials, test tubes, and syringes.

Her smile was deadly. “Hey there, cutie,” she said sweetly.

“And what’s your name?”

“I am Faith.”

“Of course you are.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Our top story today, a local man has set a new record for the world’s largest bonsai tree…”

When Nick opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was. The last thing he remembered was flirting with a needle girl, but this didn’t look like her bedroom. Besides, he wasn’t feeling the usual post-coitus cocktail of relaxation and guilt. The only thing he felt was pain. His entire body ached, from his head to his flexor digitorum brevis muscles. He was in bed in a sterile, white room, a morning news program playing on the ceiling above him.

“The hospital,” he realized. The smell was unmistakable. The room had a can of air freshener on a timer going off at fifteen minute intervals, but its efforts were futile. All it could do was add the scent of wild flowers to the potent mixture of industrial-strength disinfectant, stale body odor, urine, and death.

Sophia was sitting in an armchair at the side of the bed, reading. She looked up from her magazine and jolted. “Oh, you’re awake! God, I was so scared! It’s such a relief to see that you’re okay.” She pulled her chair closer to the bed and thumbed a button on the headboard, switching off the ceiling.

“What happened? Did they put something in the LSD?”

“Not quite.” Her hands tightened, crushing the magazine. She wanted to strangle him but, given his current condition, she decided to take out her anger on her copy of Lady’s Monthly. “The doctors said you had heroin and cocaine in your system. Marijuana isn’t enough anymore? You have to do speedballs, too?”

“Wynne, you know I don’t do uppers. I’m perky enough already.”

“Oh, right,” she said, folding her arms. “How did that stuff get in your blood if you didn’t put it there?”

“I don’t remember a lot of what happened last night, but I have some ideas. It was an overdose, but it wasn’t an accident. Someone must have wanted me dead, injected that stuff in me when I was too… distracted… to notice.”

“So you’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and you decide to get high? Didn’t you think that was dangerous? Or at least counterproductive? God, you must be crazy.”

“Maybe I am,” he said. “Insanity runs in my family. My mother had obsessive-compulsive disorder and attention deficit problems. She would clean everything neurotically, for three minutes at a time. My dad was even worse. He was a chronic procrastinator with a messiah complex. He would always talk about how he was going to save the world, eventually. And my cousin–”

“Stop it, Nick!” she snapped. “Every time I try to talk to you about something serious, you tell stupid jokes!” She took a breath and released it slowly. She rose from her chair and sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t understand why you’re so defensive around me when all I want is to be close to you and to know that you’re safe.”

“Why do you care? I’m just another customer. It’s not like you give a damn about me.”

“Right, Nick, I don’t care. That’s why I left work and drove all the way out here to see you. That’s why I’m…” But her voice was lost in tears.

He sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around her. Softly, he said, “Wynne, it’s going to be alright. Don’t worry. Don’t cry.”

“But why do any drugs there at all? The doctor said the bar they found you in wasn’t even safety rated.”

“Sometimes I have to get away from my life. Just take a break from everything. Using drugs is like hitchhiking with a sign that says ‘anywhere but here.’ I enjoy catching bad guys. I enjoy knowing that I’ll have money coming in from my past arrests, even if I can’t work anymore. I enjoy breaking into a suspect’s house and looking through their stuff. But most of my life is awful.” He was suddenly aware of how tightly he was holding her. He forced his arms to relax. “Sure, occasionally I get to beat up a rapist and leave him naked in the baboon cage at the zoo, but still… It’s not fun. Half the time, I don’t even trust the people that hire me.”

“You can always trust me. But I have to know you’re going to take better care of yourself. You need to be more careful! I work so hard at getting close to someone. If you’re not going to be around for a while, what’s the point?”

He wanted to say something more, but his mouth wouldn’t open. “If you show someone your scars,” he thought, “there is always a risk that they might be disgusted and look away. Even worse, they might pretend that their skin is perfect.” Gently, slowly, he pulled away from her. “I wonder what’s on TV.”

Chapter Eighteen

The next morning, a strange noise jolted Nick from his dreams. It sounded as if someone were vacuuming, but there was no one in the room. “Must be in the hall,” he thought. “Probably have a cleaning robot set on a timer. I should go out there and tell them to shut the damn thing off… or at least send in a robot that makes coffee.” He felt strangely lightheaded. Groggily, he climbed out of his bed and slipped on his thin, blue hospital gown, closing it tightly against the cold. The door refused to open; the knob wouldn’t even turn. “Why the hell is this door locked?” He banged on the door and shouted. “Is this the psych ward? I’m not crazy! I just have intimacy issues!”

Nothing.

He crossed the room and pounded the nurse call button hanging by his bed. No response. The strange sound grew louder, the walls rumbling like distant thunder. He scoured the room, searching for the source of the noise. There was a strong draft coming from the vents near the bed. Oddly, both the return vent and supply vent were sucking in air.

He decided to try the window. Pulling back the curtains, he discovered that it had been sealed shut. A hard, white substance coated the edges of the frame, some sort of industrial adhesive. “The door’s probably glued shut with the same stuff. An air-tight seal. Whoever did this wants me to suffocate! Well, I’d better get out of here before the lack of oxygen damages my… skull meat.”

He hurled the chair at the window. It bounced off harmlessly, clattering to the floor. Shatterproof security glass. Probably installed to keep uninsured patients from climbing out the window to escape their bills, the old “recuperate and run.”

He threw open the closet doors and grabbed his coat. Hospital security had taken his laser stunner, as not even manhunters were allowed to bring weapons into a hospital. (Crossbows were okay, as long as you promised not to take them to the pediatrics ward.) He did, however, have his trusty pocket knife. He attacked the seal around the window, chipping at the industrial adhesive. It was like trying to dig through cement with a spoon.

His head throbbed. “Well, I’m screwed. I should hide in the closet, so when someone opens the door, my corpse will fall out dramatically.”

He noticed a yellow tube on the floor. “Looks like the killer left behind his sealant gun. There’s one last thing I can try…” He climbed onto the bed and sprayed the vent with adhesive. A few quick blasts sealed it shut. He stepped off the bed and sat on the floor. “I’m still trapped in here, but I won’t suffocate. Not yet, anyway. I must have a good ten minutes of air left.” Safe for the moment, he decided it would be a good time to lose consciousness.

◊

He awoke to discover the hospital’s elderly custodian jabbing him in the ribs with a broom handle. Next to the man was a janitorial robot, a humming, buzzing thing resembling a chrome-plated fire hydrant. The robot nudged Nick in the shoulder, trying to get him to move so it could polish the floor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with that sealant gun?” the custodian demanded. “I’m trying to clean the hospital, and you idiots are gluing your damn doors shut! I had to cut through the door with a saw! What the hell is wrong with you, boy?”

“Sorry,” Nick said slowly, his head pounding. “Don’t know what I was thinking. Won’t happen again.” Still feeling very ill, he decided that, if the attempts on his life were to continue, he would much rather be murdered in the comfort of his own home. He grabbed his suitcase and left the custodian to his duties. Stepping into the hall, he saw that an industrial vacuum had been attached to the ventilation system with duct tape. It seemed the janitor had switched it off just in time.

He made a transmission to Sophia and asked her to drive him home. “The doctor said I’m fine,” he lied. “He that said near-fatal drug overdoses aren’t that serious, what with modern medicine and all. Just need some vitamin C, a little Echinacea, a couple doses of methadone… ”

Waiting outside, he wondered just how big his hospital bill was going to be. “Why did The White Horse have to call an ambulance? Couldn’t they just have left me on the floor?” He sighed glumly. He could already feel his money pouch getting lighter. “Well, things could be worse. Death may be the cheapest of my healthcare options, but it does come with some unpleasant side-effects.”

◊

He sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee, going over his notes. Sophia was asleep on his couch.

“I should investigate Donald Canard,” he thought, adding more sugar to his coffee. “I have to find out what Gordon told him. Also, it looks like Clayton is finally out of town. Hopefully, he took that damn dog with him. If I can get around his security system, I’ll finally have a chance to search his place undisturbed. But first, I have to get back on the horse.”

He waited until nightfall and then, reluctantly, he returned to The White Horse. “It’s hard to look confident walking into a place that almost killed you a few days ago. Maybe this is a bad idea after all. If someone is trying to kill me, perhaps it’s better to give him his space, just until he calms down. Maybe send him a nice fruit basket, those fancy soaps no one’s allowed to touch…” He grabbed a passing waitress by the shoulder. “Where’s Faith?”

“What’s that, honey?” she asked, wiping her hands on her sauce-stained apron.

“I need to find Faith.”

“Have you tried Mormonism?”

“Faith is one of your needle girls,” he explained impatiently. “She was here last night. Black dress, blond hair, voice like a porn star.”

“Oh, her. She’s not in t’night. I think it’s her and her boyfriend’s anniversary. They been goin’ out for three years now, but what she see in that boy I’ll never know.”

“Were you here last night? Did you see her talk to me?”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“Something bad happened, and I need help remembering the details.”

The waitress laughed. “Hon, somethin’ bad happen ‘tween you and her, you better off forgettin’. Just go to the free clinic and get tested.”

“You said she had a boyfriend,” he said. “What’s his name?”

“Don. Don somethin’.”

“Canard?”

“No, thanks, I just ate.” She adjusted her apron, tightening the strings. “Anyways, I hope you find your gal. I gotta get back to work.”

“So,” he thought, “Donald Canard had his girlfriend try to kill me. He knows that I’m getting close to something, and he’s starting to panic. – Wait a minute! How the hell do they know what I look like? Do the people at Scunner Consulting know I’m investigating them? Both times I visited their offices I was in a disguise, so they should have no idea who I am. There is only one person connected to Scunner Consulting who knows the real me: Gabrielle Fairbanks. I’ll come back to The White Horse another day, when Faith is working.”

He felt too tired to drive, so he switched on the autopilot and had the navigation system take him to Gabrielle’s place. The computer decided to take the scenic route, which meant slightly nicer billboards.

The only building visible between the flashing rows of neon signs was the Christianarchist Church of Vancouver. The Christianarchists had been founded two decades before the government collapsed. In the Old Days, they spent most of their time planning political protests and talking about how they would serve no authority but God and would gladly kill anyone who said differently. Now that the government was gone, no thanks to them, they mostly spent their time standing around saying, “Great, that’s exactly what we wanted. Anybody thinking about forming a new government? No? You sure? Because you’d better not! Alright then. Who wants coffee cake?”

Finally, he arrived at Gabrielle’s house. The instant he set foot in the yard, a portly man in an ill-fitting security guard’s uniform stepped out from behind a tree. “You there! Stop what you’re – Oh god! It’s you again!” He drew his revolver and, hand shaking, attempted to aim it at Nick’s chest. “You’d better get out of here, mister. You’re not allowed on the premises.”

“Relax, guy,” Nick said, showing his hands empty. The guard cocked his gun. Nick lunged forward, grabbed his wrist, and pried the revolver from his hand. He opened the cylinder and dumped the bullets into his palm. Tossing the gun in the grass, he slipped the bullets in his jacket pocket. “Now that everybody’s calm, I just want to talk to Ms. Fairbanks for a minute.”

“You can’t. She’s on a world concert tour. She’s headed to Tokyo, then Berlin, Moscow, Boise…”

“Do you have a transmission frequency where she can be reached?”

“I’m only allowed to give out that information to friends and family and the gentlemen and ladies she is currently sleeping with. And you’re none of those things.” He gestured at the front porch. “If you want, you can ring the bell and leave a message. Camera’s just above the house numbers.”

“No thanks. I’ll just have to hope that her tour keeps her too busy to try to kill me again…” He walked back to his car, dejected. “Can’t investigate her while her house is being guarded. If I knock out the security guard again, he’ll probably sue me. Have to move on to another suspect… Next in line, Clayton West.”

He made a quick stop at a hardware store to pick up some insulated rubber gloves before continuing to Clayton’s place. He didn’t want to climb down the chimney again, as the soot had completely ruined his jacket. He had also ruined his underwear, but that happened when saw the German shepherd. There was also the matter of Clayton’s alarm system.

Snapping on the rubber gloves, he pulled the hydraulic jack from his trunk and carried it to Clayton’s front porch. He bent a paperclip into a “U” shape and jammed it into the electrical outlet by the door, producing a dull popping sound and the smell of smoke. “The electrical short should mean the alarm is off. If not, I’ll have to have another talk with security. I don’t have enough money left in my bribery budget. They’ll either take my car or shoot me. Quite possibly both.”

Shoving the hydraulic jack into place, he pushed the door out of its frame. He waited a few moments for the sound of sirens but, hearing nothing, continued inside.

Clayton had left his television on. An excited announcer was introducing a new cartoon series: “Captain Steam, The Coal-Powered Superhero! As fast as a nineteenth century locomotive, Captain Steam travels the country bringing criminals the toxic smoke of justice!”

The photos in the living room were gone, the walls stripped bare. “Perhaps Clayton discovered that I’d been here and he decided to hide the evidence. Or maybe he found someone else to stalk, and he’s slowly replacing them with photos of his new lady. …Lucky her.”

He headed for the bedroom. No dog. He decided to dig through the enormous, walk-in closet. He found a large, cardboard box marked “Renée’s shit – bonfire.” Makeup, tampons, a box of Flavifiers, forty-three different kinds of shampoo, and a threadbare, gray sweater. “She was wearing that sweater in a bunch of the photos. Since Clayton still has it, he must have been dating her when the photos were taken!” Searching the rest of the closet, he found some cufflinks and a leather jacket. He decided to take them with him, in case they turned out to be evidence. Or expensive.

◊

Sophia was up and getting ready for work, singing in the shower. She was a beautiful woman, but her signing sounded like a cat. Being sawed in half.

Nick poured himself a cup of coffee and reviewed his notes. “It looks like Clayton’s in the clear. What next? If I can’t get to Faith at work, maybe I can catch her at her boyfriend Donald’s place.” He dug through his closet for his disguise trunk. He selected a black, curly wig, a fake mustache, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. “While I’m there, I should see what I can dig up on Donald.”

Donald Canard’s place was a few blocks from the Pearson Airport. The smallish ranch house was a textbook example of the “less is more, and by ‘more’ I mean ‘more expensive’” school of architecture. Donald had a black and yellow Cessna sitting in his front yard. There were deep ruts in the grass from where the tiny plane had taxied back and forth. While there were no rules against using a residential road as a runway, it was still frowned upon by security patrols, insurance companies, and the kids playing street hockey.

The bell played the first few notes of Wild Blue Yonder. The door opened to reveal a slightly chubby man in a wool cardigan. “Hello? What is it?”

“Mr. Canard?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you at the dinner hour, but it’s important. I’m Glen Ridwick. I do volunteer work for Scunner Consulting. I was wondering if I could talk with you for a moment.”

“Certainly. Come inside.” Donald led Nick to his sunken family room. A recliner and couch lined one wall, and a glass computer desk stood against the other. The computer was running a holographic screen saver, tiny sparrows flying a few inches in front of the monitor. Nick took off his coat and sat on the couch.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Donald asked. “I have coffee, ice tea, and Cloud Nine.” Cloud Nine was an energy drink, lightly fruit flavored and filled with caffeine, vitamins, and antidepressants.

“Coffee would be great.”

“Alright. …Oh, actually, I finished the last pot. I’ll put on a new one.”

As soon as Donald walked out the door, Nick stepped across the room to the computer. Shooing away the holographic birds, he searched the hard drive for anything incriminating. Other than a few games, everything was locked. “Don’t have time to try to guess his password. I’ll have to try something else.” He couldn’t open any of the folders, but he could see their names. One file in particular was very interesting: Quick-E Backup Pro. The software made continuous backup copies of a user’s files. If their hard drive malfunctioned or they dropped their laptop in the hot tub, users could simply visit the Quick-E website to download copies of all their files.

He switched the screen saver back on and returned to his seat. Moments later, Donald returned, carrying two steaming mugs on a tray. He set the tray on an end table and took a seat in the recliner. “What did you needed to discuss, Mr. Ridwick?”

Nick suddenly realized he hadn’t planned a cover story. “So… I assume you know Reid Mason?”

“Yes, of course. He’s my employer. I fly Mr. Mason to natural disasters, funerals, and other media events.”

“What’s his connection with that pop singer Gabrielle?”

Donald grabbed his mug from the tray and blew away the steam. “She read a few of Reid’s newsfeed articles and, apparently, her philosophical views were similar, so she decided to give his group some funding. Of course, this is all quite hush-hush. She doesn’t want Scunner Consulting’s more controversial actions to bring her bad publicity. Pop stars aren’t supposed to have opinions. They’re just supposed to sing, look pretty, and ‘accidentally’ expose their genitals to photographers. …Why do you ask?”

“I, ah… I was just angling for tickets to her show. I guess she doesn’t give away concert tickets to the volunteers, if she wants her relationship with Scunner Consulting to remain a secret. Thank you for your time, and the coffee.”

◊

Back at home, Nick put a few coins in his mouth, trying not to think about where they might have been. He filled a large plastic bag with ice and, holding it against his jaw, put in a transmission to TouchItsSoft, the makers of Quick-E Backup Pro.

A woman with dangly, plastic earrings appeared over his transmitter. “Hello, this is TouchItsSoft,” she said. “How may I help you?” Her voice had the practiced quality of a foreigner who had studied to sound American.

“Yef,” Nick mumbled, “I’m Donald Canard.” TouchItsSoft had millions of customers, so there was virtually no chance of anyone knowing what Donald looked like. “I fink I gave fomeone my paffword by miftake.”

“I’m sorry?” the woman said. “I’m having trouble understanding you.”

“I juft had jaw furgery,” Nick muttered. “I waf in a bar fight wif Nick Wergild, and he broke my jaw. He’f one raging, macho hombre.”

“And you accidentally gave him your password?” the woman asked, bewildered.

“Juft change my paffword, pleaf.”

“No problem, we can change your password for you. Just tell me your original password, please.”

“My original paffword? Its mmmgghh.”

“What was that?” the woman asked, straining to sound patient.

“My paffword is mmmgghhh.”

“Why don’t I just look that up for you, sir?” the woman suggested, obviously tired of the conversation. The clacking of fingers tapping a keyboard. “Alright, your new password is ‘PenguinsAreDelicious.’ If you need anything else, feel free to call. After your jaw heals. Goodbye.”

He switched on his computer and logged on to TouchItsSoft’s website. Moments later, he had copies of every file on Donald’s computer. There were flight simulator games, newsfeed articles on aircraft, airport-themed pornography, and other related material. Finally, came across a hidden folder. Inside were files labeled “Hand to Mouth legal records,” “Renée’s credit reports,” “processing human flesh,” and more. Records from the restaurant, and information only Renée would have known. He copied all the files to his computer, as well as a folder of photos.

“So, Donald paid Gordon for information about the restaurant. Gordon told him about Renée and Clayton. Donald paid Clayton for Renée’s extra keys, broke into Renée’s apartment to look for dirt on the restaurant… She caught him snooping, so he killed her.” He laughed, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “I’ve got you, you son of a bitch! I just need a little more proof before I turn you in.”

Chapter Nineteen

Nick’s clock radio woke him early the next day with a song called “Defenestration Fascination” by Sylvester P. Nettling. He was famous for his bluegrass interpretations of old disco songs. They were simple arrangements, just a ukulele, an ocarina, and Sylvester’s singing, which sounded like a drug-addled chipmunk with anger issues. He was big in Japan. Nick bolted upright and tossed the radio out the window. After a quick shower, he headed for Renée’s apartment.

Checking his rearview mirror, he changed lanes and pulled off the highway exit. A black van pulled off at the same time, just a few car lengths behind him. “It must be a security van,” he thought. “It has a MotoStoppa dish on the front.” The Schlock Products™ MotoStoppa3000 could short-circuit a car’s computer with a blast of microwave energy. This disabled the engine, but left the driver able to control the vehicle enough to bring it to a safe stop. It was a useful device if you needed to end a high-speed chase, clear your way through rush hour traffic, or catch up with the ice cream man.

Smoke poured from his air vents. All the warning lights lit up at once, then immediately burned out. Finally, the engine died. He pulled the car to the side of the road, gliding slowly to a stop.

He grabbed his laser stunner and jumped out of the car. “You’re not with the security patrol,” he called to the van. “They would have ordered me to pull over first. Or shot out my tires. Who are you guys? Is this about my student loans? Let me assure you, there’s no need to break my legs. I jog every morning, so my knees could go out as early as next Thursday.”

The van’s doors opened and two men stepped into the street. The first was a bloated chimp with a ponytail and a t-shirt featuring characters from a thirty-year-old comic book. The second was a tall, sallow worm who wore an orange and black jumpsuit. It was a replica of the uniform worn by the cast of the hit television show Lesbian Vampire Space Pirates. Nick aimed his laser stunner at the fat one and fired. Nothing.

The thin man giggled, pointing to the microwave dish bolted to the van. “It fries electronics, idiot.”

The fat one reached under his shirt, momentarily exposing his globulous, furry belly. He pulled a shockingly large revolver from his waistband, aiming it at Nick’s head. “However, this is fully operational. Stanley, shove the manhunter in the back of the van.”

“Hold on,” Nick said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather fight hand-to-hand?”

The fat man cocked his gun. “What are we, Amish?”

“Oh, I see. You’re afraid! I don’t blame you. I’m a black belt in Tong Sui, Bak Choi, and Dim Sum.”

“Those are Chinese foods.”

“What’s your point?”

The men decided it was probably best to just ignore him. The skinny one, apparently Stanley, pulled Nick’s hands behind his back and snapped handcuffs on his wrists. He shoved Nick in the back of the van. They made a quick u-turn and sped down the highway, driving for what felt like hours.

The stench of fried circuit board drifted from Nick’s jacket pocket. His transmitter. With a groan, he realized that he had lost all of the data in its memory: clients’ contact information, notes on his cases, pornography, all gone.

He struggled and stretched until he could reach the handcuff key in his pocket. It didn’t fit. Catching a glimpse of the handcuffs, he saw that they were engraved with the logo of a Japanese security company. “Well, no wonder that didn’t work. The hole’s the wrong shape. And these cuffs probably require a key with an immobilizer chip, like a ‘hotwire-proof’ car or a little girl’s diary.”

At last, the van squealed to a stop. The fat one grabbed Nick by the arm and yanked him out of the van. They were standing in the parking lot of a large, dilapidated building. Other than the van, the lot was empty. “An abandoned warehouse?” Nick laughed. “What happens now? You give me a pair of cement shoes and make me sleep with the fishes?”

“Quiet, jackass,” the fat one growled.

Stanley grabbed his companion’s shoulder. “It’s my turn with the gun, Eric.”

“I bought it!” he protested.

“With our money,” said Stanley.

“Fine, whatever. I don’t care.” Eric handed Stanley the gun. Stanley prodded Nick in the back with his weapon, pushing him up a short flight of stairs and through a small door. The door opened to an immense room, apparently the warehouse’s loading dock.

The floor was cracked cement covered in oily stains and ancient chewing gum. In one corner of the room sat an immense, complicated-looking array of computers, a collection of printers, a Tesla coil, and several large boxes that didn’t appear to do anything but flash their lights and beep. On the far side of the warehouse lurked an immense, wooden contraption, apparently some sort of catapult. It had a large, canvas sling on one end and a gigantic, iron counterweight on the other. It looked large enough to throw a car.

Eric wrapped a length of rope around Nick’s chest, tying him roughly to an old office chair with broken wheels. Nick’s legs were free, but the chair wobbled so much that he couldn’t move without feeling like he was about to tip over. Normally he enjoyed the feeling. In fact, he spent many of his weekends taking copious amounts of pills in an attempt to create it. However, in this situation, it was rather disconcerting.

Eric sat down at one of the computers, typing furiously. Only Stanley appeared concerned with their prisoner. Stanley scratched his forehead with the barrel of the gun, smiling darkly. “So, Mr. Wergild, I suppose you’re wondering why we’ve brought you here.”

“No, not really.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You’re not interested? Not even a little bit?”

“I guess I’m not the curious type,” Nick explained, shrugging.

“Well, I feel like I have to tell you why you’re here. I’d hate to kill you without you even knowing why.”

Nick was suddenly nervous. “So it’s to be torture, then? Fine! Torture me all you want!”

“I was just going to shoot you,” Stanley explained, confused. “Torture would just be cruel. And I really can’t handle screaming. Reminds me of how my parents always used to fight…”

“But I have secrets!” Nick insisted. “Did you know they’re making a Lesbian Vampire Space Pirates movie? I read the script! If you let me go, I might tell you how it ends!”

“I wouldn’t want to know that!” Stanley gasped, clutching his chest. “I’ve been waiting three years for that movie! It would completely spoil the experience!”

“Oh, right. What about… Wait, I’ve got something.” He paused, trying to remember the name of the star. “Jade Raven! I know her home address!”

“You really know where she lives?” Stanley asked eagerly.

“I sure do,” Nick said. “Before she got into acting, she was my sister’s roommate’s cousin’s accountant’s former hairdresser. But I’ll never tell.”

Stanley placed the gun on top of the scanner. He rummaged through the pile of electronics, eventually coming up with an old car battery and some jumper cables. “Fine,” he said, “I guess I’ll torture you after all.”

“Or you could bribe me,” Nick said, wishing he had thought through his plan a little more. “I know! Let me go, and I’ll transmit you her address later. How does that sound?”

Stanley connected the cables and touched the ends, spraying sparks. The sound drew Eric’s attention. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re just supposed to invite him to the warehouse, politely explain why we kidnapped him, and then shoot him in the face. That’s what our employer wants.”

“Fine!” Stanley sighed, dropping the cables. Cocking the gun, he aimed it squarely at Nick’s perspiring forehead.

Suddenly, Nick remembered the bullets he had taken from Gabrielle’s security guard. They were still in his jacket pocket. He didn’t have a pistol, but he might still be able to use them to escape. He just had to wait for the right time. He glanced over at the catapult on the other side of the room. “You’re just going to use a gun? Why not just throw more furniture at me?”

“It was Eric’s idea,” Stanley said, gesturing at the medieval machine. “We were supposed to kill you, so Eric said, ‘Hey, why don’t we use my trebuchet?’ I kept telling him that it only works against stationary objects, like fucking castles, but he didn’t listen. Besides, when you only have to murder one person, using a catapult is overkill. It’s like brushing your teeth with a belt sander. Fortunately, after a few spectacular failures, he let me try technology from this century.”

“And that’s when you tried to drown me in chocolate and sucked all the air out of my hospital room?”

“Are you going to bring up all our failures? That’s just rude! We captured you and dragged you to our warehouse, but did we tease you about it? No!” He took a deep breath and, a little more relaxed, continued. “Now, what were we talking about?”

“You were about to say why we’re going to murder him,” Eric offered helpfully.

“Right, right. We work for Quentin Fairbanks. He saw our commercial and knew immediately that we were the right guys for the job.”

“Hitmen have commercials?”

“Actually, we’re writers,” Stanley explained. “Fairbanks saw the commercial for our new novel, Supernatural Undead Crazy Killers. He offered us ten million to murder you. At first, we didn’t want to do it. Us, hitmen? But then Fairbanks pointed out that the best writers draw from their own experiences, so we thought–”

“Did he contact you from the nut house?” Nick interrupted. “He might have a hard time signing your paycheck with his arms in a straitjacket.”

“What the hell are you babbling about?” Stanley asked. “He sent us a video mail. He said that you left his daughter at the altar and, for that, you had to die.” He raised his gun once more.

“Wait!” Nick said, struggling against the rope. “I’m trying to tell you something! He’s in the McMurphy Insane Asylum in Seattle! Trans the place if you don’t believe me. With him locked up, how are you going to prove you killed me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hitmen have to prove they’ve killed their targets before they get paid. How are you going to do that? Fairbanks is trapped in an asylum. You can’t exactly bring a corpse in there, not even during visiting hours.”

“He’s right,” Eric said. “I forgot. We’re supposed to catch the whole thing on video. We can’t use our transmitters because the video would have our account data attached… Do we have an old-fashioned camera in this pile of junk?”

“No, we don’t,” Stanley grumbled. “I’d better go to the antique store and get one.”

“I’ll stay here, keep an eye on him.”

“That’s not necessary,” Nick said. “I won’t go anywhere. Promise!”

Stanley handed Eric the gun and, laughing, walked out the door. Eric turned his chair to face his captive, placing the gun on the armrest. “Don’t try anything. I’m perfectly willing to shoot you before Stanley returns. He wants to film your death, but video of your corpse will get the message across just as well.”

For a moment, silence.

“While we’re waiting for the camera,” Nick said finally, “would you like to see a magic trick?”

“I’m not untying you.”

“You don’t have to. Just watch closely.” He furrowed his brow, concentrating. “I simply say the magic words klaatu barada nikto, and all the bullets in your revolver disappear!”

Eric aimed the gun at his prisoner’s crotch. “So I can pull the trigger, then?”

“Certainly.” Nick tugged the hem of his leather jacket. The bullets in his pocket clacked noisily. “But first, you’ll need your ammunition back.”

Eric laughed. “Alright, I’ll play along. Let’s see what’s in your coat.” He reached in Nick’s jacket and pulled out the bullets. “What the hell..?”

“I can see you’re skeptical,” Nick said. “But those are really your bullets. Go ahead, check your gun!” Eric opened the cylinder and peered inside. Nick jumped to his feet, the chair still tied to his back. He ran across the loading dock, headed for the door.

“Hey, come back here!” Eric pushed the cylinder back into place and, holding the gun in both hands, aimed carefully. The shot missed Nick’s head by three feet.

Nick kicked open the door and leapt down the stairs. The weight on his back threw off his balance. He fell down the steps, landing on his stomach, his head bouncing off the pavement. He struggled to his feet, stars shooting through his eyes. Blinking away the dancing lights, he rushed to the other side of the lot.

The large man was slow to reach the door. His shots blasted holes in the blacktop. Nick ran across the lot, through a patch of trees, and down a trash-strewn alleyway. He jogged for several blocks, ducking between two parking garages. He wriggled out of the ropes, the pieces of the broken chair clattering to the ground. The handcuffs still held his hands behind his back. He paused, listening. “No gunshots. I guess I must be safe. Fat boy probably doesn’t want to run this far.”

After a few blocks, he saw a familiar-looking blue box: an emergency transmitter booth. Stepping inside, he was greeted by an overly-friendly, computer-generated voice: “Welcome, and thank you for choosing Prolix Communications! Name and city, please.”

“I could call a security patrol, tell them what happened,” he thought, “but that would be pretty embarrassing. Even so, I still need some help.” To the transmitter booth, he said, “Business listings. Any locksmith, city of Vancouver.”

“Please insert one dollar.”

“Oh, hell.”

He struggled and stretched to reach his money pouch. He dropped a coin into the booth’s slot, and then positioned his body so that the handcuffs wouldn’t be visible to the camera.

A voice came from nowhere. “Hello?” Apparently the booth’s hologram projector was out of order.

“I locked myself out of the house,” he lied. “Can you come to this transmitter booth?”

“Be there in forty-five minutes,” the locksmith’s voice replied. “Maybe a couple less.” The booth beeped, ending the call.

He leaned against the side of the booth and lowered himself to his feet. His head felt like a piece of meat on a skewer. “God, I hope the locksmith has a sense of humor.”

Chapter Twenty

The following morning, Nick had a rental car sent to his apartment. “Technically, my car was destroyed because of my last case, which I had already declared closed. Can I still charge the rest home folks for it? – God, I wish Fairbanks had murdered Renée. That would make my life so much easier.”

Feeling stressed, he decided to have a long, relaxing breakfast at his favorite coffee house, a little place called Caffè Ebbro. A neon sign in the front window flashed their slogan: “Our Coffee Has Booze In It.”

Picking at an apple bacon omelet, he tried to go over a copy of his case notes, but Sophia forced her way into his thoughts. “Why can’t I keep my mind on Renée? Sophie came to the hospital and I wouldn’t even speak to her. I told myself that I didn’t have the energy to maintain a conversation, but that was just an excuse. She cares about me so much; more than anybody else does, that’s for damn sure. Why can’t I just talk to her? Why can’t I talk to anybody? – God, these eggs are terrible. Breakfast here is like something out of H.P. Lovecraft.”

A woman in a blue shawl stepped through the door, carrying a crying toddler over her shoulder. It was pulling at her hair and screaming like a teenager in a horror movie. “What would I do if Sophie wanted children?” he wondered. “Having a child is like losing a finger: you can deal with one or two, but three or more could ruin your life. Even if you baby-proof the house, sometimes babies still get in.” He finished the last few bites of egg and stubbed out his cigarette in the butter dish. “Even if Sophia never wants children, staying with any woman long enough will change your life forever. Sometimes even in a good way.”

He was finally ready to see her. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he had to say something. It was early enough in the morning that her shift at work should have been just about over. He would try to catch her before she went home.

The sign in the parking lot was supposed to say “Little Brothers – Always Open.” Someone with a socket wrench and too much free time had rearranged the letters. Now the sign read “two LOnely lips At her Breast.”

He stepped inside and headed for the back of the store, hoping to find Sophia in the employee locker room. The store was very busy for so early in the morning. A salesman was demonstrating an advanced lie detector that could also identify fibs, exaggeration, and hyperbole. Across the aisle, another salesman was showing a customer how to properly hide a spy camera inside another, slightly larger spy camera. Over by the office supplies, a new poster advertised “Pen Ultimate: Almost the Last Writing Instrument You’ll Ever Need.”

Ignoring the “Employees Only” sign, he pulled open the door to the locker room. Empty. Sophia’s voice drifted to him from across the store. “I think I have something like that in stock. Over here, next to the salt and pepper spray.” He weaved his way through the crowd, finally close enough to see her customer. Sophia was standing behind the gun counter, talking to a leggy redhead in a tight sweater: Jessica Campbell.

He ducked behind a mannequin and, peering through its armpit, watched the women lean over the counter. Sophia was idly rolling a long, black tube under her fingertips. The tube had a couple of large buttons on the side, one of which was protected by a latched safety cover. “It can deliver quite a nasty shock,” she said, “at just the right frequency to stop the heart muscles.”

“How exciting!” Jessica breathed. “That’s fatal, right?”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “Well, I suppose you could bounce up and down and hope some blood reached your brain…”

“And that button’s the power control..?”

“Yes. It has a relatively gentle buzz, for when you want to drag things out for a while, a stronger jolt, for when you want screaming and gasping for air, or a painful blast to finish you in seconds.”

Jessica covered her mouth and stared at the floor. “Good, good. Sometimes you just want to get it over with quickly, you know? Just get on with the rest of your life.”

Nick stepped out from behind the mannequin in what he hoped was a dramatic fashion. “Just who are you planning to ‘finish’, Miss Campbell? My money is on Todd Sweeney.”

Jessica grabbed the tube from the counter and pointed it at his head. “Maybe I’ll finish you first!” She pressed the largest button. The tube emitted a low, humming sound, a burst of blue light, and then… nothing. “Bang! Bang!” she laughed, twirling the tube on her fingers like a baton.

Sophia groaned, exasperated. “Nick, you ass, she’s not going to kill anybody… You can get up off the floor now.”

Brushing off his pants, he ignored the stares of the startled customers. “Then what’s she going to do with it?”

“She came in to look at our cameras,” Sophia explained. “We got to talking, and she mentioned that she hadn’t had a date in a while, so I told her to get the X43. You see, only the highest voltage is lethal. The lowest voltage just feels kind of nice…”

Tossing some coins on the counter, Jessica shoved the gun in her pocket. “What can I say? Danger is sexy. If I could, I would date a bobcat.”

For once, Nick was at a loss for words. Ignoring Sophia’s attempt at a goodbye, he returned to his car. “I’ve never been this embarrassed in my life,” he thought. “At least, not since I was eight, when Mom explained human reproduction in graphic detail. The worst part was, I had actually asked her ‘where do rabies came from’.”

◊

He drove out to Renée’s building, careful to see that he wasn’t being followed. He slipped in through the laundry room again, this time not bothering with a disguise.

He knocked on one of Renée’s neighbor’s doors and waited. There were sounds of movement and someone stubbing their toe and swearing. Eventually, the door was opened by a barefoot woman in a pink bathrobe. “Hello, ma’am,” he said, showing her a printed photo of Donald Canard. “I’m Detective Wergild, and I’m investigating the murder of one of your neighbors. Do you recognize this man?”

“I’m not sure,” she said thoughtfully, squinting at the photograph. “No, wait, I think so. That’s the guy I saw a few weeks ago. It was late at night, and I heard the girl next door screaming. I stepped into the hall to see what was wrong, and that guy in the picture ran out of her apartment. I guess you never caught him, huh?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Do you remember what night this was?”

“I think… six weeks ago? Yeah, that’s when it was, because that was the day after rent was due.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m positive. Landlord reminded me about it eight times. Guess I should think about paying…”

“Alright. Thank you for your time.”

He checked with all the apartments on the floor. All the residents who had heard or seen anything said it had been six weeks since the incident. Riding down in the elevator, he reevaluated his case. “Six weeks ago. That doesn’t make any sense. If it was six weeks ago, not four, then Renée was alive after the break-in. When Donald left her apartment, Renée was still alive! What’s going on here?”

His transmitter buzzed. He yanked it from his pocket, and Margery Sweeney’s tiny head appeared above his palm. “Hello, Mr. Wergild. I’m calling to check on your progress.” He reviewed everything that had happened since they had last spoken, skipping over the part about being attacked with a sex toy. “So, despite our agreement, you’ve done absolutely nothing to investigate my husband. This does not make me happy, Mr. Wergild.” She spat his name like an obscenity.

“That’s not where my instincts have led me.”

“I don’t give a damn about your instincts! I paid you a great deal of money, Mr. Wergild. I demand that you investigate my husband immediately or I will take you to court for breach of contract!”

He flipped off his transmitter and headed for the parking lot. “Great, another damn distraction. Looks like I’ll be in a rest home before this case is finished…” Glumly, he pointed his car towards Hand to Mouth.

There were no other cars in the lot. A notice on the front door said “Closed for renovations. Catering still available!” Some of the debris from the fire had been carried away, but there was still a giant hole where the front of Todd Sweeney’s office used to be.

He picked up a piece of broken glass from the shattered bathroom window and sliced a flap in the firefighters’ plastic sheeting. Stepping inside, he immediately noticed something odd. “There are overhead sprinklers in here… Why didn’t the bomb set them off?” He dragged a garbage can in from the parking lot, turned it upside-down, and climbed on top. When he pulled on one of the sprinkler heads, it broke off in his hand. “They’re just glued to the ceiling, not connected to anything! He did just enough work to get discounted fire insurance. I wonder if…”

He forced open Todd’s office door and stepped into the restaurant, where he found the security camera above the entrance to the butcher shop. Stretching, he grabbed the camera’s wire and tugged gently. The wire slid free from the wall. “Another fake! Probably all the cameras in the building are. So, that’s why Sweeney didn’t have video of Renée’s killer. Renée probably knew about the cameras, since she was practically the manager… And if she knew, she might have told–”

His thoughts were interrupted by his transmitter. It was a man he didn’t recognize. Early thirties, slicked back hair, and a rather ill-advised soul patch. “Hello, Mr. Wergild. I am Clayton West. You paid me a visit the other night.”

“That’s funny. I don’t remember talking to you.” For legal reasons, Nick never admitted to doing anything. He wouldn’t even reminisce with old friends without using the word “allegedly.”

“I wasn’t home at the time, but I know you were here. You see, I have hidden security cameras covering every inch of my house. I have footage of you breaking in, looking through my things, criticizing my decorating. Had you arrived a few hours earlier, you would have seen those photos being planted here.”

“You have video? Who did it?”

“I didn’t recognize the person, but I have a feeling you might. Come by and look at the footage for yourself. I’ll explain everything when you get here. And bring my leather jacket with you!”

Chapter Twenty-One

Nick rang Clayton’s doorbell and waited. No answer. He rang again and knocked on the door, just in case the bell was out of order and the ringing sound was only in his head. Still, nothing. He put his ear to the door and listened.

A man’s voice shouted, “Men! Men! Men!”

“Men?” More screaming. He tried to kick in the door. It didn’t budge, but he managed to bend the steel plate in the toe of his boot. He grabbed his Halligan bar from the car. It was a forced entry tool used by firefighters and security patrols, a kind of combination pickaxe/hammer/crowbar. It could easily hack apart a door frame or pry open a window. In an emergency, it could also open beer bottles. He slipped the spiked end into the keyhole and pried the lock apart. He shouldered open the door and, drawing his laser stunner, cautiously peered inside. Nothing. Stepping through the door, he found a pool of blood on the kitchen tile.

A voice came from outside. “Anderson Security Incorporated! Prepare to die!”

“That’s not proper procedure!” he called. “You’re supposed to say ‘come out with your hands up’ or ‘surrender peacefully,’ something like that!”

“Alright, fine!” the voice replied. “Come out peacefully, and surrender to our hail of bullets!”

“If you shoot me, you’ll have to fill out a lot of paperwork afterwards!”

“No, we won’t! We have a girl from the secretarial pool! Her name’s Becky!”

A small, green object crashed through the kitchen window and rolled across the floor, stopping at his feet. “What the hell is that?” He nudged it with his boot. “I’ve seen those before. They used to make them here, when we had a government… You pull that pin out and throw it… Oh, holy hell. Grenade!”

His mind flashed back to something his grandfather used to say. “If a hand grenade falls at your feet early in the morning, nothing worse can happen to you for the rest of the day. Or, in most cases, the rest of your life.”

Suddenly, he remembered the Halligan in his hands. Swinging it like a golf club, he knocked the grenade out the front door. “Fore!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next morning, Nick scanned the local newsfeeds. Amazingly, it looked like no one had been hurt by the grenade. According to one article, the security guards had ducked, the grenade flying over their heads and landing at the feet of a dog walker. She was unharmed, but had a hell of a time explaining what happened to the poodles.

The article quoted one of the security guards as saying “We never saw the guy who threw the grenade, but he knew us! Right before he threw it, he shouted ‘Forth!’ Sergeant Forth has gone into hiding until further notice. If his wife needs him, he’ll be at The Highway Hotel, room 43.”

“This means the security patrols aren’t after me,” Nick thought. “At least, not for the grenade. They’re still trying to find the guy who keeps stealing pins from the bowling alley…”

A transmission from Margery Sweeney interrupted his reading. “Look, I’ve been chasing other leads,” he said. “I’ll get to investigating your husband in –”

“Come to the restaurant immediately,” she said, her voice tense with fear. “My husband has murdered Clayton West.”

“I’m on my way.”

Although glad that the case was coming to an end, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed that he hadn’t been the one to discover the killer. Dark doubts began to surface. He had been at this for years and, other than seeing his name in the newsfeeds, he hadn’t really gotten anywhere. Other manhunters had secretaries, assistants, health insurance. What if he just wasn’t meant to be a manhunter? What if he was meant to be an arbitrator? Or a lawyer? Or a periodontist?

His transmitter buzzed again. Sophia. “Nick, are you busy?”

“Actually, I was on my way to arrest a murd–”

“Oh, good. We really need to talk. There’s this distance between us, and I can’t stand it anymore. We’ve been friends for years, but I can’t say that I really know you.”

“Do we really have to deal with this now?” he growled.

“Nick, I need more of you. You can’t expect me to give and give without getting anything in return. How many times do I have to say ‘I love you’ before you’ll believe me?”

“I can’t handle this right now. I’m about to wrap up the case, and I need to focus. Our relationship will still be there tomorrow.” As Nick entered the darkness of a tunnel, Sophia flickered and faded away.

◊

Margery met Nick in the restaurant lobby. She led the way to the butcher shop, wringing her hands nervously. She gestured to a huge machine in the corner, a five-foot high, stainless steel bowl with a narrow step ladder bolted to its side. The rim of the bowl was coated with a layer of rusty blood. “I think Todd was trying to pulverize the bones.”

Reluctantly, he climbed the ladder and peered inside. The blood had turned the mass of lumpy dough a dark, reddish brown. Bits of bone and intestines were spread throughout the sticky mess. The muscles and tissue had been reduced to something like ground beef. In the center of the dough, visible under a layer of blood and muck, was Clayton West’s skull. His face had been torn by the mixer’s blades, but it was still clearly him. Nick’s stomach lurched. “Whatever you do, don’t sell this bread. At least, not at full price.”

As they returned to the lobby to escape the smell, he wondered how many pills he would have to take to get the image of Clayton West’s shredded skin out of his head. “Does Mr. Sweeney know what you’ve found here?”

“No, he’s at the contractor’s. Apparently they’re overcharging us for the repairs to the office.”

“Wow. The contractor’s cheating you and your husband’s a murderer. Not the best day you’ve ever had, is it?”

Arriving at the contractor’s office, Nick found Todd Sweeney arguing with a grotesquely overweigh man in paint-splattered overalls. “I do not want any bloody marble! Why the hell would anyone use marble on an office floor? Who do you think I am, the bloody Pope of Restaurateurs?”

“Sweeney,” Nick interrupted. “I have a break in the case, which we should discuss in private. Come with me.”

“Whatever it is, I am sure it can wait!”

“Actually,” he said, drawing his stunner, “no, it can’t.”

“Is that one of those electroshock guns?”

“Yes. And, trust me, it hurts like hell. It also gives the arresting detective a great opportunity to abuse and/or humiliate you.”

Todd rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Let’s take my car.”

Back at the restaurant, Margery was in Todd’s office, busy screaming orders at the repair crew. Nick took Todd to the lobby, where they could be alone, and handcuffed him to a chair. “Why did you kill Clayton West?”

“What? I had no idea he was even dead.”

“Don’t lie to me. You killed him, dragged his body to the restaurant, and tried to destroy the evidence in an industrial bread mixer! …Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

“There is a body in the bread mixer?” he sputtered, baffled. “How revolting! We usually just add little bits of meat for flavor. A whole person would just be unpleasant.”

“It really is. And it smells awful.”

“I understand how this appears to you, but I am not a bloody murderer!” he insisted, struggling against his bonds. “Anyone could have brought a body in here last night. In case you forgot, there is an entire wall missing!”

“I know that. But you’re the one with a motive! You killed Clayton to cover up your attempt to frame him for the murder of Renée Flockhart, who you killed to cover up your affair!”

“Why would I kill Renée to cover up my affair with Jessica?”

“You’re sleeping with Flockhart and Campbell?”

“No, just Jessica. …And my upstairs maid. And the girl at the drycleaner’s. And occasionally my wife. But mostly Jessica.” He shook his head sadly. “That first night you came to the restaurant, Jessica flirted with you to make me jealous. She gets upset with me, now and then, because I refuse to get a divorce.”

“Why would someone bring a body in here if they knew you had security cameras?” Nick knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Todd say the words.

“The cameras are decoys,” he reluctantly replied. “They move in response to motion, but they cannot actually record anything. Believe me, I may be cheating the insurance company, but I am no killer.”

“Other than you, who knows about the fake cameras?”

“With Renée gone, that just leaves–”

“Might we have a word with you, Mr. Wergild?” Nick turned at the sound. It was Eric and Stanley, the authors/hitmen. They were standing in the doorway, grinning dementedly and holding pistols big enough to fire rail spikes, which they probably did. “This time,” Stanley said, “no mistakes. No catapults, no deathtraps, no longwinded and slightly clichéd explanations of our evil plans. Just us shooting you in the face.”

“Out of all the people who have tried to kill me,” Nick said, forcing a smile, “You guys have been the most persistent. I say, after all that trouble, you deserve it. But can I offer you a suggestion first? Don’t shoot me here. The restaurant has an attached butcher shop.” He pointed to a door down the hall. “Why don’t you shoot me back there? The floor and tables are covered in human blood. A security patrol would never be able to isolate your DNA in all that mess. You’ll get away with murder, guaranteed.”

Todd stared up at Nick like he had suggested that they all go skinny dipping in a swimming pool full of lemon juice and broken glass. “You must have one hell of a plan,” he whispered tensely.

“Not really. But I’m sure I’ll think of something. If I don’t, at least I saved your carpet from some nasty stains.”

Eric and Stanley conferred for a moment. “The butcher shop sounds like a good idea,” Eric said finally. He waved his pistol at Todd. “And your friend there is coming with us. We can’t have any witnesses. I’m sure you understand.”

“Guys,” Nick said, “my employer here is handcuffed to a heavy chair. Being elderly and rather feeble, he can’t possibly drag it all that way. Would you mind if I released him?”

“First,” Stanley said, “toss your stunner over here.” Nick pulled the black tube from his pocket and rolled it across the floor. “Now you can unlock the handcuffs. Slowly.”

Nick fumbled in his pocket. “Where is that darn key? I can’t – Oh, here it is.” He unlocked Todd and retrieved his handcuffs from the back of the chair. “You know, you guys are better hitmen than I thought. You got inside without my seeing you; I never even had a chance to draw my weapon or trans security. Dozens of people – nay, hundreds – have tried to kill me, but it looks like you two will actually succeed.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Stanley growled. “We need to kill you guys and dispose of your bodies before seven; we have dinner reservations.”

The gunmen prodded Nick and Todd down the hall and into the butcher shop. Stanley gestured for them to stand by a huge, steel table, where Gordon’s work with the bone saw had covered the floor in a Rorschach test of dried blood. “Alright, who wants to go first?”

Nick put up his hands. “Wait a second, guys. I have another idea.”

“God, he’s just full of helpful tips,” Eric laughed. “Can you believe this guy?”

“Even though the blood will take care of any DNA evidence, you should think about going to Canada for a few days, just to be on the safe side. The quickest way is probably to take I-205 North towards Seattle, and then take the exit onto the I-5. After that, you merge onto the–”

“Hold on,” Eric said, “I want to write this down.” Nick described the entire drive to Canada, including several interesting places to go sightseeing along the way. He also recommended a few extended stay hotels and some nice places to eat in Alberta. “Thanks for the tips,” Eric said finally, “But now, we’re definitely going to have to kill you.” They cocked their gigantic guns.

“Wait, wait!” Nick cried. “Don’t I get one last request?”

“C’mon already!” Stanley snapped. “I’m really getting tired of this.”

“Look in the freezer.”

“That’s it?” he asked. “That’s the last thing you want in the world? And then you can die happy?”

“I don’t know about ‘happy,’ but that’s it. Just look in the freezer.”

“Fine,” Stanly sighed. “Eric, keep an eye on these two. This might be a trick.” Stanly shoved his gun in the waistband of his slacks and stepped over the walk-in freezer. Opening the door, he shivered in the chilly fog. “My god! What the hell is this? Are those..?”

“What’s in there, Stan?” Eric asked. But Stanley just stood at the freezer door, staring blankly. Eric walked backwards across the room to his partner, waving his gun between Todd and Nick. He turned to look inside the freezer, and immediately had to vomit.

“Sweeney, grab an end of this table,” Nick said quietly, “and follow my lead.”

Before the hitmen could regain their composure, Nick and Todd tipped the table on its side, the heavy bone saw crashing to the floor. Using the table as a battering ram, they rushed at the two hitmen, knocking them into the freezer. Nick slammed the door, and he and Todd barricaded it with the table.

“We need more weight against the door to keep them inside,” Todd said.

“I don’t think so. They’re probably too panicked to look for the emergency release. Even if they know what kind of food you serve here, most people can’t handle seeing a frozen, skinless corpse hanging on a meat hook.”

With a tremendous thud, the butcher shop’s doors broke free from their frames, clattering to the floor. A dozen men in white uniforms spilled into the room, guns drawn. “Happy Bunny Insurance! Move and you’re dead!”

“About time you guys got here!” Nick yelled, disgusted. “I called ten minutes ago! I can get a pizza faster than this!”

After the gunmen were taken into custody, the crime scene investigators collected their evidence and brief statements from Nick and Todd. They also questioned Margery but, as she had been busy berating the repair crew, she had heard nothing.

Alone again, Todd invited Nick into the kitchen for a drink. “You may have almost gotten me killed,” Todd said, “but, you also saved my life. For that, I feel I owe you a scotch. – Oh, in all the confusion, I forgot to ask: How in the bloody hell did you get a security patrol here?”

Nick smiled, feeling like a magician being asked about a trick. “When I reached into my pocket for the key, I switched on my transmitter. The sound was muffled by my pocket, but the patrol could hear everything I said.”

He emptied his glass and slid it across the counter for a refill. “Now I have a question for you: Other than you, your wife, and Flockhart, who else knew about your phony security cameras?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“We set this up pretty quickly,” Margery said. “Do you think we have time for you to go over what happened?”

Nick and Margery were sitting in the offices of Buckley Arbitration, waiting for the rest of the group to arrive. The office was one immense room with a long, mahogany conference table stretching down the center. Several of the chairs were equipped with manacles for securing dangerous suspects. The manacles on the other chairs were purely for decoration. Overhead, three cameras recorded the proceedings.

He checked his watch. “It looks like we have time for a denouncement. But first, you’ll be interested to hear that I have a video recording of your husband’s interrogation. He admits to having an affair with Jessica Campbell. If you want the video file, it’ll cost you ten grand.”

“Fine,” Margery said bitterly. With a couple of clicks on her transmitter, she made a deposit in Nick’s bank account. “I can get rid of him and that damn restaurant by the end of the month. Several of those giant box stores want the land the restaurant is on; it should go for about three million at auction.”

“Scunner Consulting wanted some information on the restaurant,” he said, “anything they could use to shut the place down. So, Reid Mason found a contact on the inside. This contact told him about Flockhart and her ex-boyfriend, Clayton West. Mason sent his pilot/henchman, Donald Canard, to buy Flockhart’s spare set of keys from West. Canard broke into Flockhart’s apartment, but she caught him and threw him out. She was unhurt, but too scared to return to work.”

“So, Donald didn’t kill her.”

“That’s right. The killer was on the inside, someone who had worked at the restaurant long enough to know about Flockhart’s relationship with West, someone who knew that the security cameras were fakes. The restaurant looked like the perfect place to dispose of the body, what with the lax security, people eating the evidence, and whatnot.”

“Did you ever find out who was funding Scunner Consulting?”

“A woman named Gabrielle Fairbanks. It doesn’t look like she was involved with the killings, so I didn’t invite her to testify.” More to the point, he wanted to avoid another attempt on his life. There was a lot of security at the trial, but that might not have stopped someone as determined as Gabrielle. “And here’s our killer now.”

Two security patrolmen entered the room, dragging a handcuffed Jessica Campbell between them. “I didn’t do anything!” she squealed, struggling violently. “I’m innocent! You’ve got nothing on me! Nothing!” The patrolmen locked her to a chair, taking a seat on either side.

Next through the door was Todd Sweeney, followed by Gordon Dunmore and the rest of the restaurant staff. In murder cases, it was common for coworkers to be called in as character witnesses. A woman in an orange pantsuit strolled in, a sharkskin briefcase under her arm. “Good afternoon, everyone. I am Arbitrator Green, and I will be judging the case today. Are all the parties involved present and signed in?”

“Yes,” Todd replied. “Everyone is here. I am Todd Sweeney, this is my wife Margery, and over there is Gordon Dunmore.”

At these words, the two security patrolmen bolted from their chairs and drew their laser stunners. “Gordon Dunmore,” the taller one said, “you are under arrest for the murders of Renée Flockhart and Clayton West. According to your contract with your insurance company, we have the right to hold you for up to a week until your case is evaluated by an independent arbitrator.”

The patrolmen handcuffed Gordon and pulled him to the door. “It wasn’t me!” he protested. “It was Jessica! I have proof!” Arbitrator Green released Jessica from the chair and excused herself from the room, heading for her next case.

“Thanks again for your help, Jessica,” Nick said. “Arrests are so much easier when you have the suspect cornered in a high-security building like this. Otherwise, they tend to run and you have to do the whole high speed chase thing, call in the helicopter with the skycam and electron bolt cannon, alert the evening news, place bets on when they’ll get caught… It’s just a big mess.”

“No problem,” she replied, rubbing her wrists. “I’m always looking for acting jobs. This was pretty fun!”

“You are an actress?” Todd asked. “You never told me that.”

“Yep!” Jessica chirped. “I even wrote a play: Momma’s Boy, a romantic comedy based on Oedipus Rex…”

A scream came from the hall, followed closely by a loud crash. The security patrolmen stumbled back into the courtroom, one bleeding profusely from the neck, the other holding his hand over what would soon be a black eye. “Dunmore attacked us,” the bleeding man groaned. “He headbutted Frank and bit a chunk out of my neck! Before we could stop him, he ran down the hall and jumped through a window.”

Nick’s face went through several expressions, trying to decide if shock, amazement, or confusion was more appropriate. It settled on rage. “I can’t believe this! I went through weeks of work to find the killer, and you let him escape!”

“What do you think this is, a movie? He jumped through a window! He’s in the middle of the street, bleeding to death.”

An ambulance carried Gordon to the emergency room. The doctors sealed his wounds with artificial skin and transferred him to the high-security wing of the hospital to await his trial. Unfortunately, the adult section was full, so they were forced to place him in the high-security pediatrics ward. Nick made sure there were several guards in place, both inside and outside of his room, before going home to catch up on lost sleep.

When Nick returned to his apartment, he found a note pinned to the door. He carried it inside to his kitchen table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Nick,

When I first started working at Little Brother’s, you were one of my favorite regulars. I tried for so long to be your friend, but you always held me at a distance. But when I got the trans from the hospital, they told me your file had me listed as your emergency contact. Your only contact. You don’t have anyone else in your life, but you still treat me this way? Why?

When they told me you almost died, I realized something: I don’t know what my life would be like if you weren’t around, and I never want to find out. Every time your work takes you out of town, I miss you terribly. But, at the same time, I feel like I never really got to know you.

Sometimes I feel like I should quit trying. Are we ever going to have the chance to grow closer? Between the drugs and the murderers and people flinging large pieces of furniture at you, I find it hard to believe you’ll always be around. If you don’t leave me, someone will take you away. The worst part is, you just don’t even care.

--- Sophie

He placed his transmitter on the table and drummed his fingers. His coffee cup slowly gathered a collection of cigarette butts and ash. A beam of sunlight dropped in through the window, walked across the table, slid down to the floor, and faded away.

His transmitter bleeped and Jessica’s head appeared in the air. In the darkened room, she was the only light. “Nick, how are you? I know you’re probably busy catching crooks and all, but…”

“What the hell do you want?” He reached for his coffee but, remembering that he had turned it into an ashtray, pushed it away.

She didn’t seem to notice his anger. “Now that my little… flirtation… with Todd has come out into the open, I’m not exactly welcome around him anymore. So I’m free to see other people. Aren’t you the lucky one?”

“Why me? Don’t you know what a horrible person I am?”

“Look, I’ll level with you. When I thought you were just a writer, I only flirted with you to make Todd jealous. But now that I know you’re a manhunter, you seem so much more… exciting. Aside from the occasional murder, being a waitress is pretty damn dull. I need someone dangerous to bring a little life into my world.”

“Oh, I’m dangerous, baby. Dangerous like a fork in the eye. …Jessica, I’m flattered, but I’m not in the mood to talk.”

“That’s fine with me. If you come over, we can do everything but.”

He told himself he wasn’t driving to her place. He told himself he was only going out to get something to eat. That was it. But the car always drove where it wanted to go. An hour later, he found himself across the street from the college campus.

Jessica was a good woman. She didn’t make too many demands.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The following morning, Nick was in the shower when he heard his transmitter buzzing in the next room. Not feeling entirely awake, he decided to deal with whoever it was after he’d had his coffee.

And some booze.

And maybe some pills.

A few seconds later, he heard his own voice say “Hi, you’ve reached Nick Wergild, manhunter extraordinaire. I can’t answer your transmission right now because either I’m asleep, with a client, or someone is trying to kill me. The way my life has been going lately, possibly all three. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Maybe.”

“Hi, it’s Jessica. I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work. Don’t get me wrong, it had nothing to do with last night. You were… acceptable. That’s not the problem. I found the blister packs from your ‘medication’ in the trash. I can’t be with someone who takes pills to escape reality. The real world is a beautiful place. Maybe you could see that if you spent some time here.”

Another relationship over. He paused for a moment, expecting to be hit by the usual wave of depression, guilt, and self-loathing, the feeling he always got after being dumped or eating too much cake, but nothing happened. He simply didn’t care about her enough for the rejection to hurt. But with Sophia, things were different. Her opinions mattered. She mattered.

“Ever since we first met, I held her at a distance. I never wanted her to discover the cracks in my facade. But when she came to the hospital, she saw me at my absolute worst, and she stayed with me. I had to be unconscious to stop hiding from her, but I did it. Everything was out in the open, and she didn’t run away.” For the first time in months, he sang in the shower.

◊

Nick spent the next three days finishing collecting the evidence against Gordon, working constantly, with barely enough time to sleep. He had to act quickly. According to Gordon’s contract with the insurance company, he couldn’t be held for more than seven days without a conviction. An arbitrator had already ruled that Gordon was healthy enough to stand trial, even though he was still recovering from his encounter with the window. As soon as Nick was ready, he let Todd know it was safe to call Renée’s parents and inform them about their daughter’s death.

The morning of the trial, Nick smoked some breakfast and watched the local newsfeeds. A lantern-jawed anchor with a facial tic frowned in disapproval at a recent plane crash. “And in entertainment news,” he said, showing the camera a disturbingly white smile, “a new book has reached the top of the sales charts: Supernatural Undead Crazy Killers. Authors Eric Spellman and Stanley Aguirre are currently incarcerated in a work camp, but they have been granted a week’s leave to go on a book tour. The authors had this to say: ‘Our first stop will be Vancouver, where we will brutally murder Nick Wergild.’ What a couple of fun, crazy guys! And now for the weather…”

With an exhausted sigh, Nick put out his last cigarette and headed for the arbitrator’s office. “This,” he thought, “is going to be one hell of a long day.”

Along with the Flockharts, Todd, Margery, and Jessica were there, and also some of Gordon’s neighbors. Near the back of the room was the woman with the shaved head Nick had found sleeping in Gordon’s apartment. She looked to have been crying.

Nick took the stand and reiterated everything he had told Margery. “Dunmore made three attempts to frame other individuals for the murder. He threw a pipe bomb into Sweeney’s office, knowing that I would assume it was Donald Canard, an employee of Scunner Consulting. Dunmore also attempted to frame Clayton West, planting the photographs that I mentioned earlier. I believe Dunmore killed West to keep him from telling me about the fraudulent photos. Finally, Dunmore moved West’s body to the restaurant in an attempt to frame Sweeney for both murders.”

He paused to dig through his notes. “Dunmore’s contract with his insurance company permitted me to investigate his home. In his bedroom, I discovered what was most likely the camera used to take the photos, as well as materials that could be used to build a pipe bomb like the one that set fire to the restaurant. I also found a suspicious-looking substance in Dunmore’s freezer, which DNA testing proved to be the remains of Renée Flockhart. The remains only weighed ten pounds. The rest of the flesh, I would imagine, Dunmore had already consumed.”

After Nick left the stand, several of Gordon’s neighbors testified, saying what a “creepy guy” he was and how he “always smells like death” and “never says hello in the lobby anymore.”

A kendo expert testified next. She said that the wounds to Clayton’s skull were from a katana, a Japanese sword, just like the one in Gordon’s apartment. Earlier, she had told Nick privately that “men” was the term for a cutting blow to the forehead, shouted during tournaments. However, as Nick didn’t want anyone to know that had broken into Clayton’s house, he kept quiet about that particular detail of the case.

Finally, it was Gordon’s turn to take the stand. His large frame seemed shrunken, his shoulders stooped. “My lawyer told me I’m certain to be convicted,” he said, shaking his head. “The evidence is just too great. He said I’ll have to pay for everything, so I should just cooperate and make the trial less expensive for myself. Or my estate, I guess…” He took a long drink of water and cleared his throat. “I knew about the investigation from the beginning… Jessica heard Mr. Sweeney and Mr. Wergild talking, and she told me what they said. She didn’t know I had done it; she was just gossiping.”

Gordon paused, staring at the water in his glass. “I’ve known Renée since high school. She never noticed me. She was more interested in seniors, guys with money and cars. So I gave up on her and dated other girls. I had a few girlfriends that I loved, but things never quite worked out. Either I didn’t have enough money or I wasn’t good looking enough or I was too emotionally distant or too clingy. Something was always wrong.”

“Once I got this job,” he continued, “I realized that my crush never went away. I wanted to ask Renée out, but Mr. Sweeney doesn’t like his employees dating coworkers. I got so mad at him for that. So damn mad! I wanted to hurt him, so I sold some information to that activist group. I didn’t know it at the time, but they broke into Renée’s place, scared her pretty bad. She didn’t show up to work for a week. I thought she quit… I could finally ask her out! I went to her place, and we talked… I asked her if she would ever consider maybe, possibly, getting involved with me, but she shot me down. She had gotten a job in The Republic of Texas. I’d never see her again. Just like everybody else in my life, she was going to go.”

Tears spilled down his pockmarked cheeks. The arbitrator asked if he needed a break, but he just shook his head. Taking a deep breath, he said, “That’s when I had an idea: I could keep her here! She was so little, and I’m such a big guy. Her neck broke so easily… I dragged her to the restaurant, where I cut her up and stored her in the freezer. I took bits of her home over the next few weeks, until Mr. Sweeney caught me. He thought I was stealing from him. But she belonged to me! She is me, now. I ate every piece of her, and she’s a part of me forever.”

Oddly, Renée’s parents didn’t seem upset. They looked like they were watching golf on television. Something that disturbing, that bizarre, would take days to sink in. The arbitrator stood and stacked his legal papers into a great, towering pile. “Mr. Dunmore has demonstrated that he is an extremely dangerous individual. Therefore, he will spend the rest of his life in a maximum security work camp. As Clayton West has no known heirs, the profits from Mr. Dunmore’s labor will be divided between the Flockharts and Detective Wergild. Mr. Dunmore’s possessions will be sold, as will his internal organs on the event of his death. The money from those sales will be given to the Flockharts.”

A squadron of heavily-armed security patrolmen led Gordon from the office. Todd and Margery waved awkwardly at Nick from across the room and walked out, leaving in opposite directions. Jessica looked at her watch for a few seconds and then trotted after Todd. Finally, the arbitrator grabbed his briefcase and left for another trial.

Nick sighed, exhausted. “At last, it’s over.”

A gloved hand covered his eyes. A woman’s voice said, “Guess who, you stupid piece of shit!”

“Mom?”

The hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. It was the woman from Gordon Dunmore’s apartment. Her other hand tightly clutched a straight razor. “Recognize me now, asshole?”

“You’re some bald woman. I saw you at Dunmore’s place.”

“Here’s a hint: I wear a wig at work.”

“Oh, holy hell. You’re Faith! You tried to kill me! Well, you’re lucky that I never hit a woman. Technically, it’ll be this folding chair that hits you.”

Faith laughed, toying idly with the razor, swinging it like a butterfly knife. “Go ahead, just try to fight me. I’m wearing these gloves for a reason: I just rubbed so much LSD into your face that you’ll be tripping for a solid year!”

“But why?”

“Because it makes it easier for me to kill you,” she said slowly, like she was explaining it to a small child.

“I realize that,” he said. “What I meant was why do you want to kill me?”

“You got Don sent to a work camp!”

“No, I didn’t. I got Gordon Dunmore sent to a work camp. Don Canard didn’t kill anyone. That I know of, anyway.”

“I’m talking about Gordon!” she snapped. “Everyone calls him ‘Don.’ He only goes by ‘Gordon’ at work. He told me you were investigating him… He led you to the bar where I work, and I injected you with a speedball. When I left, you were choking on your own vomit.”

But he wasn’t listening. He was staring down at his chest, pawing at his shirt. “Could you do something about these scorpions? What if they get in my pants?”

Faith laughed darkly. “Well, it looks like your time has come.” The razor flashing in her hand, she lunged for his throat. Suddenly, she collapsed on the floor, convulsing violently.

Nick slipped his stunner back into his pocket. “Don’t they teach needle girls anything about their products anymore? LSD takes at least twenty minutes to have any effect. You should have done something to distract me until it was too late. Started a fire, grabbed a hostage, taken your top off…” He snapped his handcuffs on her wrists and, as soon as she was able to stand, he pulled her to her feet.

“I’m never going to see Don again!” she whimpered weakly. “We were going to be married!”

“Weren’t you paying attention? He’s still in love with Flockhart! Damn. Isn’t that just like a woman? ‘I know he’s a psychotic, cannibal murderer, but I can change him!’”

“I’ll get out eventually, you know. I’ve seen the women’s work camps. Minimal security… I’ll escape and kill you.”

“You’re not going to a work camp,” he explained. “I arrested your fiancée, so I figure you have every right to be mad. I’m not pressing charges.”

“If you’re not taking me in,” she said worriedly, “what are you going to do?”

“We’re going for a drive.”

He threw her over his shoulder and carried her to his car. He grabbed her money pouch, shoved it in his pocket, and dropped her roughly into the trunk. She looked embarrassed and angry, which was very difficult to do at the same time. Not quite as tricky as “terrified and bemused,” but still challenging, as far as facial expressions go. “Get comfortable,” he laughed. “You’re going to be in there for awhile.”

◊

Nick drove for hours, the LSD a nice distraction from the endless wall of billboards. Finally, he arrived at the Canadian border. He flashed his manhunter’s badge and was allowed to pass without his car being searched. Normally, the Canadian border guards would have checked the trunk for drugs or illegal aliens or Sasquatch hunting gear. There was no American border patrol, but the Canadians checked people leaving the country as well as entering. It was an attempt to keep Canadian addicts from traveling to the territories to buy the few drugs that were still illegal in their homeland. It also cut down on the number of Canadian entertainers fleeing to Hollywood.

A few miles past the border, he stopped for fuel and supplies. He threw a water jug and a heavy, tan bag in the backseat and continued on. As he traveled north, the temperature dropped, eventually becoming cold enough that the car’s computer switched on the heater.

He parked in the grass at the side of the road and dragged the bag from his backseat. He emptied the bag on the ground, mixing its contents with water. “And now, we wait.”

◊

Nick yanked Faith out of the trunk and placed her on her feet. He pointed to a large, gray lump on the ground. “That’s fifty pounds of cement. Your passport’s in the center. If you want back across the border, I suggest looking for a wheelbarrow.”

He hopped back in his car and headed for home. As he passed the Canadian border, he wondered if the four hundred mile walk back to Vancouver would give Faith time to rethink her life and her relationship with Gordon, or just make her really, really pissed off. “Either way, I’ll at least have the weekend to myself. Thank god. I’ve had enough of these weirdoes.”

He pulled his transmitter from his jacket pocket and tried to contact Sophia, but there was no answer. His transmission was forwarded to her video mail. “Sophie, hi,” he said. “I suppose you could be in the shower, or you could be ignoring me on purpose. I’m not sure which. If you get this message, trans me back. I think I’m finally ready to talk.”

His tolerance level was so high that Faith’s LSD was already wearing off. He fumbled in his glove compartment for a bit, eventually coming up with a tin full of sugar cubes. He placed one in his mouth and felt it dissolve into sweetness and light.

The sky was filled with butterflies.

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- D.N. Schmidt

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 by D. N. Schmidt

All rights reserved

Notes

1

Not for use on the elderly or people with heart conditions. Do not use while bathing. Stunner blasts may cause some people to have an out-of-body experience in which they are dragged into hell and tortured by their family and loved ones. This is normal.

2

Guarantee only applies to humans. The Stunner has no effect on bears, elephants, and most types of dolphin.

3

To avoid risk of fire, shave cats before use.

4

Not to be used on children who tent to wet themselves when electrocuted.

Content

D. N. Schmidt
THEY ATE THE WAITRESS?

A Brief History of the American Free Territories

Take ’em down FAST with the Mark 9 Laser Stunner! (From the Schlock Products™ Catalog, Page 43)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

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Copyright

Notes