OWL HEAD LAKE By Harris Tobias

Owl Head Lake

 One wonders how these places get their names. There was nothing especially owlish about its 60 acres of surface or the little islands that poked their domed heads above it. It was a pretty lake, peaceful and pristine. Exactly the kind of place Monty needed for a few days of splendid isolation. Fishing, reading, getting back in touch with his inner man. A few precious days to decompress before the firm reeled him back in and sucked him dry.

     There were a couple of reasons Owl Head Lake appealed to him. One was its inaccessibility. Three miles of dirt road to a primitive campground ruled out all but the most determined campers. The second was its unpopularity. The lake had acquired a bad reputation ever since people began disappearing from its shores—a group of teenagers vanished a few years ago, their tents and gear untouched. Before that a family went missing without a trace. And those were just the two that he knew of; he supposed there were more. On both occasions the lake was dragged, divers sent into its murky depths, to no avail. The divers reported the lake was uncommonly deep and cold but harbored nothing out of the ordinary. So the stories grew that the lake was cursed and as the stories multiplied, the locals kept away and its campsites gradually fell into disrepair.

     If tall tales and ghost stories kept campers away, that suited Monty just fine. The last thing he wanted was company, some garrulous stranger making chitchat about the weather or some tedious retired couple from Des Moines. No Owl Head Lake was just the tonic he needed. Who knew what happened to those teen-age campers. Kids are famous for making stupid decisions. He could imagine them yelling, “Watch this” just before plunging over a cliff.

     As for the lake’s reputation for being haunted or stalked by a serial killer, well he was a city boy and violent death was all around him. He knew the odds of being killed by a stranger were greater than getting struck by lightening. And besides as a lawyer he made his living defending the most depraved sociopaths on the planet. No, he wasn’t afraid of a violent end, he was afraid of some friendly camper destroying his solitude.

     His heart sank when he first drove in and saw the bright blue of a tent pitched near his favorite site. He needn’t have worried the neighbors were packing up and leaving. The man came over to Monty his face showing obvious signs of distress.

     “I wouldn’t be staying here, fella, if I was you.”

     “Oh, why’s that,” an obviously relieved Monty asked.

     “There’s something wrong with that lake. Something evil. You hear them stories about people disappearing and all?”

     “I heard ‘em,” Monty said. “A lot of old wives tales if you ask me.”

     “Maybe, but I aint staying to find out, we all heard weird noises last night and now my dog’s gone missing. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye open for him. If he shows up would you give me a call?”

     The old man handed Monty a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Monty promised he’d do that. He watched the man pack his gear calling “Rufus” every few minutes until he finally drove away leaving nothing but blissful silence behind. When the neighbor was gone, Monty tossed the phone number in the fire, mixed himself a cocktail and sat facing the lake.

     The sun was low in the sky, the birds were active, ducks, geese and herons making their living from nature’s intricate web. The graceful herons, like statues working the margins while flotillas of ducks and Canada Geese patrolled the deep water like opposing fleets. On the small islands, a glint of white, an owl or bald eagle. Fabulous, this is the stuff his spirit thrived on.

     In spite of the scenery, his mind drifted back to his high-pressure job. He had to admit it was a hell of a way to make a living. Sure everyone is entitled to the best defense they can afford blah, blah, but his rich clients knew they could buy their way out of almost anything. Did it make him feel dirty? No, not really. He was a hired gun. Someone had to safeguard the civil rights of wealthy child molesters, drug dealers, thieves and murderers. How should it make him feel? He didn’t make the rules. Still, thank goodness for places like this, islands of peace and quiet to soothe a troubled mind. Nature restored his soul. He raised his glass to the setting sun by way of thanks.

     Weren’t there three islands in the middle of the lake? Oh yes. From this angle it looked like two but there were the three little mounds. He knew them well; he called them the 3 knobs. They looked like the tops of three heads, dome shaped and symmetrical. They reminded him of three bathers wearing forested bathing caps. Something spooked the Canada Geese just then. They broke the placid surface of the lake in a spontaneous dash into the air sounding their alarms. He admired the natural world. Now there was a system of justice that made sense. Eat or be eaten, the strongest survive, that was how it should be. There was no plea-bargaining out there, no sir-ee-bob.

     When his attention returned to the islands, they were spread out in a line before him. The sun was a golden ball spreading jewels on the rippled surface. The fleeing geese reminded him of the case he just finished litigating. Chichi Maldonado. What a piece of work. If ever anyone deserved to be locked away, it was Chichi. Bargaining down multiple felonies to a few months in a country club prison due to a technicality. That’s why he made the big bucks. He even got a bonus for that bit of work. What a system.

     Was he mistaken or was the configuration of the islands slightly different? One of the knobs seemed to have drifted closer. It must be a trick of the light. The sun was almost down. What a scene. A sky striped like cotton candy and grape soda. The reflection on the lake was flawless. What a picture. He pulled out his camera and snapped a few for posterity. The heron called and took wing. Calling it a day he guessed.

     The ducks too took wing. Where do ducks sleep he wondered. He loved the sunsets on this lake. He was here six months before. He looked back in the little camera’s memory and pulled up some shots he’d taken in May. Yes, that was another soul satisfying sunset. What was different about that earlier shot? The knobs. In the earlier picture they were somewhere else entirely. That’s strange he thought. It was his last rational thought before the island dragged him kicking and screaming into its toothy maw.

RETURN TO THE LAUGHING CITY by Richard Godwin

If you are easily offended, then please don't read on... but if you like madness and dark humour, please do!

Return to the Laughing City


I was trying on one of the newest suits.

I strapped it on like armour, standard mechanized metals mined from the Azure Fields.

It felt like an Iron Maiden without the spikes.

I never needed that kind of protection, a kill’s a kill, wearing that shit was like fucking with a condom, playing the piano with gloves on.

I took it off and handed it back to the bounty salesman. They were amassing weapons for the new breed of assassins. I thought they were a bunch of pussies.

If you don’t like blood don’t take the job.

I needed to feel every vibration, every fluctuation in the kill, like the tremors in a lover’s body and soul.

I went outside and stared at the Azure Fields.

A pale blue ghost in some hallucination.

They blew in the wind that kicked up from nuclear fall out when the punctured sun bled.

It had a certain poetry, a half orange dripping red from a broken skyline. Beyond it you could see the event horizon of an imploding supernova.

Nothing was real in this desert of scars and broken humanity.

I looked out at the wounded horizon, it felt like witnessing a rape behind reinforced glass.

You want to punch your way through it but your knuckles are bleeding.

This place will strip the flesh from you and chisel your bones.

I thought about the assignment.

Baw had been long forgotten when I took the job.

I’d been smoking a few renegades out and handing them in to local government bureaus where they just shuffled papers and threw them back in the water with a few more scars than they already had.

I’d got my own army by now and these men were hungry for killing.

I’d kept them since I assassinated Artemus Lime.

When I put the suit on I didn’t expect to be going back to the Laughing City.

But then I knew not to expect a fucking thing from the cold comfort farm of my life.

If I was going back I was going naked.

I wanted to move with the air on my skin.

Jarves Long was a fat cat businessman.

He was part tetronium, the new metal that guys were smoking because it gave them erections that lasted for a year.

Painful flaming unrelieved hard-ons they could only alleviate by mass fucking.

Panacea drugs was behind it and once again hadn’t banked on its side effects.

What the fuck did they care?

The hookers were happy, wives less so, I’d made a load of money buying shares in KY jelly.

It was such sweet pleasure to see their value rocket while men with obscene bulges ran amok in the streets.

The air was full of the acrid smell of spent semen for weeks on end.

Long spent little time with me in his air conditioned office.

He looked like a fat walrus. There was something wrong with his face.

‘I want you to remove this man’, he said, sliding a photograph across the table at me.

I knew who he was.

‘You serious?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’, he said, scratching his prick.

‘You want me to kill Manuel Blaize?’

He met my comment with a blank stare.

I looked at his face and realised what was missing. He had no eyelashes.

‘Why do you want him dead?’, I said.

‘Let’s say he has reneged on a deal and is a threat.’

Outside in the lift on the way down I thought it through.

Manuel Blaize was the nastiest killer you’ll ever meet.

Face covered in scars, Mexican, army trained, half android, liked eating the brains of his victims and good with a knife.

I headed up to the Laughing City.

I had my flame gun with me and my usual array of weapons, hardcore killing machines that can do the job just right depending on the situation and the man.

Always read your man, that’s the way you get to clean up in this business.

If you get him wrong, you’re wasting your time.

I like shootings best, a quick shot, spurt of blood and home.

Home is where the empty metal surfaces are, the lack of human life, an assassin’s pad.

Like a hotel room built for fast exits and entrances.

I live in a theatre of the macabre, and I count the bodies.

I wanted to scalp Blaize.

He’d killed so many men I knew.

I also promised a friend a little something from the Laughing City.

Lynn Queen was after some Crow and I knew just how to hand it to her.

She’d been brave enough to expose the lies of the system down below and I wanted to give her something back, even if she was a Royalist.

I arrived in the City as mercury rained from the sky.

It was crazier than the last time.

The light flickered orange and red like a deranged traffic light and the Lizard Dogs and Silver Crows were out.

I watched one fly off with the mangled remnants of a dog’s penis in its mouth, sit on a burned out car and tear it piecemeal with its claws.

I headed to the hotel where I began my search.

I found two locations for Blaize, one where he met his recruits, young Mexican militaries who would kill anyone for the right money, the other a whorehouse he used.

My hacking showed me he also liked Drip02, the new hallucinogenic drug, a million times more powerful than LSD.

He’d shoved some up a whore’s cunt and performed a little operation with his knives.

As I was about to leave Long messaged me.

‘Dispose of the body’, was all he said.

I passed by the River HaHa, filled with aborted foetuses. These were the mutated terminations of hookers’ encounters with some of the more extreme customers of the City.

From time to time one of them would float to the surface with a distended hand or an eye ball the size of a blood orange popping out of a collapsed head.

I got a shuttle and headed to Blaize’s headquarters.

It was black there, no light and I figured I’d go in.

Nothing except empty space the size of a hanger.

Blaize never left any trace, he killed with precision.

I left.

As I made my way back I bent to check the time and felt something hiss by my ear.

I ducked and saw one of his knives land in the side of a Lizard Dog.

It ripped right through it spilling a mile of coiled and swirling guts on the menses strewn pavement.

I turned and saw Blaize’s scarred face vanish.

I made my way back as the laughter started that night.

It was worse than the last time.

It was as if an audience were screaming insanely at a joke.

A high pitched whine of a cacophony of deranged hilarity took over the air waves until I made my hotel room and closed the door.

I was going to kill him tonight.

I got my flare gun and my A1 which can shoot through reinforced steel.

I ate some powdered heart and made my way to the blood bath.

The Tripped Out Fuck House lay at the edge of the City.

It was the last stop beyond the Whore’s Hole.

The driver wouldn’t take me there and I had to walk.

Some mutant hookers were strutting past some garbage that spilled onto the broken road.

I could make out the tip of the desert beyond the City, the place where no one goes.

‘Fuck me any way you want’, one of them said.

She wore neon boots and a skirt the size of a rag and put her hand inside herself as
she licked her face with her ten inch tongue.

‘It’s OK I’ve eaten’, I said.

The other one approached me, swaying with what I assumed was intended to be an erotic gesture, although she looked like she desperately needed to pee.

Her eyes were made with beaded jewels and she pulled out an obscenely large breast.

‘I can clean the floor with my clit while hanging from the ceiling’, she said.

‘I have a cleaner thank you.’

They squealed with obscenities as I passed them.

The Tripped Out Fuck House was busy.

I don’t know what was worse, the fact that they used lights that turned everything yellow or that they were playing Black Lace.

Even in a good mood Agadoo made me want to kill.

Its popularity in the Laughing City stemmed from the fact that it encouraged tourists to dance obscenely and make merry, like some grotesque backdrop to the endless tapes of the chuckles and guffaws.

A couple of whores laid their sweating hands on me.

‘You want some wet snatch?’, one of them said.

‘No, I’m just here to push pineapple, shake the tree.’

‘Don’t you like us?’, the other one said.

‘I met a hula mistress somewhere in Waikiki.’

I edged past the whores and disappeared up the back staircase.

I’d checked out the layout and it was simple.

The fuck rooms were upstairs.

I’d timed it right, Blaize had gone in earlier and downed a huge dose of Drip02.

I disturbed a few fucks and found him in a room with a glitter ball hanging from the ceiling.

He was fucking a whore up the ass while another one sprayed him with come.

They saw me, he saw a series of mutant animals and began throwing knives, and as the whores ran out I incinerated him. I fried him to a crisp.

Then I shot him for good measure.

I held my gun against his ravaged face, pushed deep into a cicatrix the shape of a swollen gash and blew his head apart.

I looked around the room.

Shards of obscenities lay among the waste and used condoms, dildoes of all shapes and specifications adorned the fuck room.

Blaize’s jaw bone hung dripping from the glitter ball like a detumescent penis.

And I dragged his smoking body down the back stairs and into the street.

His skin looked like it was covered in burnt potato chips and syphilitic scabs.

Outside mercury rained from the sky and bombed and ricocheted like malign stars falling from a hole in time.

The whores were gone, the Dogs and Crows were out and they were not in a good mood.

I watched a Crow peck a Dog’s eyeball from his head. He squawked in wild delirium.

I walked to the edge of the River Haha dragging Blaze’s body on the ruined ground.

His skin was falling from his bones and lay lodged with chunks of flesh that were skewered on the sharp stones.

The sound was deafening now, the laughter had been turned up full volume.

I leaned down and scalped Blaize, running my razor sharp knife in a perfect circle round his skull and peeling it away like a label.

‘Well, looks like you lost this one’, I said.

The old assassin’s methods are the best.

I took one last look at his bleeding head, and using the knife he had tucked in his pocket, cut his stomach open, releasing all the gases. Then I tied some rocks and waste metal to him.

‘Can’t have you floating’, I said.

I threw him in the red and foaming water and watched him sink below the decayed foetuses that hovered like deformed nightmares on the black current.

Then I returned to my hotel where I packed.

I wrote ‘invoice’ on Blaize’s scalp with a marker pen.

As I made my way to the space port I stopped in the street and took a shot of a Silver Crow.

Back home I went to get my money from Long.

‘Good job’, he said, sliding the cash across his desk.

‘A little present for you’, I said.

I’ll never forget his face when I laid Blaize’s scalp on his desk.

He had the outraged shock of a meat eater who has never seen an animal slaughtered.

His lashless eyeballs stared into space.

I paid a visit to Lynn and gave her the shot.

She looked down at it and seemed unable to remove her gaze from it.

‘You’re not avoiding eye contact are you?’, I said.

I could see she was delighted.

Her efficiency never failed to amaze me.

She put it on the cover of her magazine the next day.

I invested my money in some new weapons.

I began training my army for what I had in mind.

BIO:
Richard Godwin's novel 'Apostle Rising' is being published March 10th 2011 and he is widely published in magazines such as A Twist Of Noir and Pulp Metal Magazine and anthologies, as well as being a produced playwright. His story 'Pike N Flytrap' is in the latest issue of Needle Magazine and his story 'Face Off' is in Issue #5 of Crime Factory.You can check out his writing credentials here and listen to his recent interview on The Authors Show
http://www.richardgodwin.net/You can pre-order a copy of 'Apostle Rising' here.

Intermission... LEE HUGHES... brief update...

Hi Folks,
I know some of you have been wondering where, and how, our horror editor Lee is... for a brief update, and to send him your good wishes, just pop over to my blog here.
Regards,
Col

PREY by J. R. Lindermuth

PREY


They came out of the dark, circling him like vultures honing on the scent of a carcass.

Stan waited, not saying a word, knowing there was naught he could say to dissuade them. He was in their territory. He was outnumbered. He was prey.

The leader approached now, coming so close Stan smelled the man’s sour breath. “You got any money?” the man asked.

Stan shook his head. “I got a proposition.”

“We don’t deal in propositions,” one of the others said with a coarse laugh. “We like money better.”

“Money is what I’m talking about,” Stan told them.

“Whyncha say so? Spit it out, bitch.”

Stan took a deep breath and swallowed. “I want you to…” He hesitated. Could he really do this? The leader leaned closer. He took the lapel of Stan’s jacket between thumb and forefinger. “Nice cloth. Must have cost a bundle.”

“Yeah, he even smells rich,” the other said, sidling up. Whyn’t we just take his wallet? Should be plenty of money. Some nice credit cards. And look at that watch. Who knows what else. Whadya say, Jimmy? Shall we…”

“No, wait,” Stan pleaded. “Let me tell you my proposition. I’ll pay you—much more than what I’m carrying tonight.”

“Go on,” the leader said, interested.

Stan pointed. “See that building. The tall one over there?”

“Yeah. We sees it everyday. So what?”

“The owner—he’s my, uh, competition.”

“Ol’ Ray? You want we should pop Ray?”

“Well, not exactly. You see…”

“So come on, chump. What exactly is it you’re proposin’?”

Stan swallowed. He wished he still smoked. Maybe that would take the edge off his fear. He seldom came down here. Usually he got his rents in the mail. He’d only come down once in the past year. “Like I said, Ray is my competition. I own another building. The one back there—behind you.”

Some of the others turned and looked at his building. The leader kept his gaze fixed on Stan. “So you’re a slum lord, just like Ray. You gouge folks for rent and don’t fix nothin’. Why should we help you?”

The comment irked Stan. He didn’t consider himself a slum lord. He was a landlord. They didn’t understand what it cost to operate a building. They didn’t understand how people complained constantly but were often late with their rent. But he held his tongue. He needed their help. “I’ll pay you,” he said.

“Yeah. You said. So you don’t want us to pop Ray what you want us to do?”

“I want the old bastard dead. But it has to look like an accident. If it looks like he was murdered the cops will be coming down on me. Because we’re in competition… you get what I’m talking about?”

The leader grinned. “I ain’t stupid. So what’s the deal? How much are you offerin’ for us doin’ the deed?”

“Uh, maybe three?”

“Three what?”

“Thousand. Three thousand. That’s what I meant.”

“Make it five.”

Stan nibbled his lip. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Take it or leave it. You don’t wanna pay, do ol’ Ray youself.”

Stan didn’t answer right away. The punk called Jimmy turned and slouched off down the street followed by his retinue.

“Wait!” Stan called.

Jimmy came back, grinning. “Thought you’d see it my way.”

***

More than a week passed before he saw the obit in the paper. Stan had almost given up, thinking they’d taken his down payment of half the money and weren’t going to do the job. He smiled, reading how Ray had apparently fallen down a flight of stairs in his building and suffered fatal injuries. Stan rubbed his hands together in delight. Ray had no family. The building would go up for sale soon. Stan doubted anyone else would want to put in an offer. It would be his. He’d have two buildings. A little adjustment in the rents and he’d have back his money in no time.

There was only one flaw in the situation. He’d promised to go down as soon as he had proof the deed was done and pay off the contract. The thought of it made him queasy in the stomach. But it had to be done. No way he was going to take a chance on cheating them out of their money.

***

They met in the parking lot behind his building. Jimmy and his crew were just as scary as before. But Stan had a little insurance this time. He had the money for them. He also had a .25 automatic in his jacket pocket.

Jimmy took his time counting the money, taking it from the carrier bag and counting it out on the hood of Stan’s car.

“We good?” Stan asked as Jimmy tallied the last bills and stuffed the money back in the bag.

Jimmy handed the bag to one of his crew and grinned at Stan. “We good.”

Stan stepped around him, going for his car.

“What’s your hurry?” Jimmy said, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I-uh-gotta back up town.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a busy man. But first we gotta show you somethin’.”

“What?”

“Inside.”

“In the building?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I…” Stan fidgeted.

“Come on, dog,” Jimmy said, throwing an arm across his shoulders. “It won’t take long.” They herded him along with them into the building. Stan’s mouth went dry. What were they up to?

The foyer smelled of decay, mildew and unwashed bodies. Stan sweating all the way, they went up, up in the old elevator until they reached the top floor.

“What are you doing? Why did you bring me up here?” He reached in his pocket for the comfort of the gun. It wasn’t there. When had they taken it?

“This is your building, right? You been in here before.”

“Of course I have.”

“Well, we wanna show you somethin’. Come on.” They maneuvered him to the staircase leading up to the roof.

“I don’t understand. What’s this all about?” Stan asked as they came out on the roof. The night air was cold and clammy on his face.

“Look over there. See that?”

Ray’s building. There was enough light from the moon and surrounding structures for him to make it out clearly. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Before ol’ Ray had his accident we had us a discussion and came to an agreement. He signed his building over to us.”

“What?”

“Figgered we’d give you a chance to do the same.” Jimmy drew a document from his jacket and waved it in front of Stan’s face. “Give ol’ Stan a pen, Tony.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Yeah. You said that before. Just take the pen and sign where the X is. It says you’re givin’ the building to us for a buck.”

“A buck! Are you crazy?”

“Not the last I looked. Just sign, bitch. I got your dollar right here.” He held up the bill.

Stan took a deep breath and accepted the pen. “I sign if you’ll let me go?”

“Sure. You can fly right out of here.”

This was crazy. These chumps didn’t know anything about real estate or the law. He was being coerced. His lawyer would sort it out. Stan signed and handed the paper and pen back to Jimmy.

“That’s a good man,” Jimmy said. “Now we got us two buildings, boys.” He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

“I can go now?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said with a grin. “Said you could. Help him out boys.”

Two of them seized him by the arms. “W-what are you doing?”

“Said you could fly, man.”

And they flung Stan off the roof.


BIO:
J. R. Lindermuth is the author of eight novels, including four in the Sticks Hetrick mystery series. His short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines, both print and on line.

Being Someone Else (July 2010), Whiskey Creek Press
Watch The Hour (April 2009), Whiskey Creek Press
http://jrlindermuth.com

Submissions suspended...

... due to overload! But the show still goes on...

Hi Folks,

The editors are overjoyed at the site's growing popularity, but this does mean a couple of changes are necessary.

Firstly, the auto-reply email you receive when submitting should now inform you that we could take up to a month before a decision is made regarding your story. So please query only after the month has expired. Obviously, once the backlog's reduced we expect to be quicker.

Also, to the right is a submissions box - simple traffic light system: green means submissions are 'go', and red speaks for itself.

Finally, we've reverted the word count from 2,500 back to 2,000. However, stories already in the pipeline will not be affected.

Postings will continue as normal, and many exciting new stories await.

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FRANKLIN'S PASS by Patrick Whittaker

Make Patrick feel welcome on his debut with the mystery of...

Franklin's Pass

‘So you didn’t see an armoured van?’ asked a perplexed Inspector Venn.

The foreman sighed impatiently. ‘As I’ve repeatedly told everyone who’s questioned me: no. There’s been precious little traffic and I would have noticed.’

Venn looked along the narrow road. Cutting through a wooded valley, it was flanked by drainage ditches that should have made it impossible for the van to have left the highway here. And yet, according to his information, it must have done.

His men combed the woods but his gut told him they were wasting their time.

‘Excuse me,’ said the foreman. ‘But we’ve potholes to fill.’

The foreman’s team – seasoned navvies one and all - stood beside their tar truck, shovels in hand. Their displeasure at being kept from working was all too plain.

‘Sorry to have held you up,’ said Venn. ‘Please carry on.’

***

Back at the police station, Venn locked himself in his office and reviewed the facts. At 7:06, the van had left London carrying gold worth £7 million. It’s tracking device relayed its position as it headed north - until it reached Franklin’s Pass where contact was lost.

Venn put his feet on the desk and checked his note book. At first nobody had been alarmed. Franklin’s Pass was a known radio black spot. They took it for granted they’d pick up the van again in a couple of minutes. But they didn’t.

He watched CCTV footage. Thanks to an out of town supermarket, he had proof that at 9:37 the van was on its prescribed route and approximately 10 minutes from the pass.

On the other side of Franklin’s Pass, a petrol station kept an electronic eye on the road and captured traffic going both ways. Venn watched that morning’s tape. At 9:50 – about when he would have expected the van to appear – a sports car hurried past. A minute later, a family saloon towing a caravan headed in the opposite direction. And then a minibus rolled by. If the van had reached the pass, the occupants of the minibus must have seen it. He made a note to have the vehicle traced.

After the minibus came a tractor, a bulldozer and a camper van.

And that was it.

Venn picked up his phone. ‘Sergeant Norris, I want the personnel records of everyone in the van and everyone monitoring its progress. If this isn’t an inside job, I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

The workmen filled the last pothole in Franklin’s Pass. Taking pride in their work, they paused to tell each other how smooth the road looked and how well the new tar blended with the old.

‘Well done, lads,’ said the foreman. ‘That’s a job well done.’

As the tar truck lumbered on to the next site, the workmen climbed aboard their minibus. The foreman sat next to the driver. ‘Off you go, Harry, and drive carefully. We’ve had quite enough bother from the police for one day.’

Inspector Venn gave up on sleep. Although his flat was the cosiest of bachelor pads, on nights such as this it seemed too large.

I’m like a bonbon rattling around inside an otherwise empty tin, he mused as he cleared the kitchen table.

From the freezer, he took out packets of convenience food – burgers, faggots, lasagne – and stood them on the table in parallel lines. These represented the steep hills of Franklin’s Pass with their impenetrable trees. A tin of corned beef made do as the armoured van.

Now what else was there? Oh yes. The supermarket. Venn placed his tea caddy at one end of the table. At the other, a carton of milk did duty as the petrol station.
Which left just the road gang (six batteries) with their tar truck (a jar of Marmite) and minibus (half a bar of cooking chocolate).

‘Right,’ he muttered, steering the corned beef past the caddy. ‘This is where you were last sighted. But your tracker says you made it to Franklin’s Pass without mishap.’

Or had they? Supposing the van had been hijacked before the pass and its tracker disabled? Then all the thieves had to do was turn on an identical tracker and drive it along the van’s route.

But if that had happened, why did the thieves effectively raise the alarm by turning off the tracker at Franklin’s Pass?

Simple. To direct attention away from the van’s actual location. In which case, the decoy vehicle would be on the petrol station’s CCTV tape. With computer enhancement, it should be possible to make out its registration.

Of course, the van might actually have made it to the pass. If so, why hadn’t the workmen seen it?

Maybe they had. Maybe they’d hijacked it, forced the guards out, blasted open the doors and hid both the loot and the van. All in the space of 20 minutes.

‘Now you’re clutching at straws, you fool.’

Someone else who couldn’t sleep was the foreman. Despite the risks, he felt compelled to revisit the crime scene.

Parking at the mouth of the pass with his headlights on full beam, he experienced a warm glow as he surveyed the road’s flawless surface and recalled the moment the armoured van had rolled over the tar-covered canvas. He’d caught a brief glimpse of the driver’s shocked face as the ground swallowed him up.

With the van occupying most of it, the hole was quickly filled in. Then the boys had gone to work, resurfacing the road, tamping down the tar and covering it with just enough dirt to make it look old. They’d finished minutes before the police arrived.

Now all they had to do was wait until the heat was off. Then they could safely return to Franklin’s Pass with an excavator and some cutting equipment.

As for the guards in the van: he’d see they got a decent burial. It was the least he could do.


BIO:
Patrick Whittaker is an author, screenwriter & playwright. Find out more here...
www.coldfusion.freewebtools.com

BROWN BAG LUNCH By James C. Clar

We're a few days late, but nevertheless, we're sure you'll enjoy the latest Higa and Kanahele tale just right for valentine's day...

Brown Bag Lunch

“Tell us again what happened, Mrs. Maeda,” HPD Detective Jake Higa instructed the agitated young woman who sat across the desk from him. Higa and his partner, Ray Kanahele, had commandeered a manager’s cubicle on the ground floor of the new Bank of Hawaii Center that occupied most of the block along Kalakaua Avenue between Lewers Street and Beachwalk. Like most days for the past month or so it had rained lightly in the morning but the afternoon brought with it bright sunshine, blue skies, puffy white clouds and light trade winds. The temperature hovered in the low 80’s.

Maeda fingered her wedding ring. She seemed to be looking past Higa and through the tinted glass of the large window that swept in an arc around the front of the building. A small crowd had gathered outside on the sidewalk in response to the police cruisers and uniformed officers who had secured the area in the general vicinity of the bank. Palm trees swayed in what looked, from inside the bank, like a tropical pantomime.

“He had a gun detective. It’s just like I told you already.” Maeda’s lilting voice betrayed just a trace of irritation. Kanahele had earlier fetched the young woman a cup of tea. Both policemen had been concerned about her going into shock. At the very least, her nerves were shot and they were doing everything they could to keep her on an even keel while they pieced together her story.

“We realize that,” Kanahele spoke in his most placatory tone. “The thing is you notice stuff when you’re under stress without even being aware of it. It’s an unconscious thing, right? So every time you go back over the story it’s possible you might remember something else, something that might help us here.”

“And, to be honest,” Higa chimed in quietly with a smile, “my partner and I have had a long day already. Maybe we missed something you told us the first time through. We’re trying to cover our bases here as well.”

As Higa intended, Helen Maeda looked over at the two men with an expression of sympathy, solidarity even. And, in fact, it truly had been a rough day.

“Jesus Christ, Jake,” Kanahele had complained an hour or so earlier as the two overworked and decidedly underpaid detectives left their car where they parked it on Kalakaua Avenue and ID’d their way through the police cordon that had been set up around the entrance to the Bank of Hawaii building.

“This is the third call we’ve answered today. Damn! We haven’t even had lunch yet. All I’ve had are coffee and a couple malasadas.”

“You stopped at Leonard’s on your way in?” Higa’s question had carried the note of accusation.

“Yeah. I didn’t bring you any ‘cause I know you don’t eat them.” The stocky, lumbering Kanahele had been temporarily preoccupied with visions of the sugary Portuguese doughnuts to which he was partial and for which the aforementioned bakery over on Kapahulu was noted. His wiry, health-conscious partner nodded his head.

“Anyhow, isn’t anyone else working today?”

“You know how it is, Ray,” Higa replied. “Pretty much anybody that’s available is here. There was a freeze on time off over the holidays and now, of course, everybody’s using their time before they lose it.”

“Shit, the holidays. Don’t remind me. What a ‘freak show’ that was. You know, reality is twisted enough in Waikiki under normal circumstances. Folks from the Mainland just can’t handle Christmas in Hawai’i Nei. I mean, Santa in a canoe, palm trees with ornaments and hula elves? It overloads their circuits. And I’m not even talking about the homegrown shoplifters, pickpockets, dopers, prostitutes and homeless people who flood the area looking for a little holiday cheer.”

Almost on cue, someone dressed as a giant green frog could be seen waving at and handing leaflets or pocket menus to the hordes of sunburned tourists who walked down the street a block or two from where the two policemen stood.

“See what I’m saying?” Kanahele pointed with an air of vindication. “It’s that new chain Mexican place that just opened in the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center.  Maybe drugs are the answer. It might be the only way to cope. Anyhow, now we got Valentine’s Day to contend with.”

Kanahele had paused for a moment.

“Listen, Jake, speaking of Valentine’s Day, I’ve been meaning to ask …that is, Maile has been wondering … how’s it going with you and that Nakamura woman. You’ve seen her a few times, right?

Higa stopped and looked down before answering as if weighing his words.

“Yes. We’ve gone out a couple of times … for dinner. Actually, though, I’ve been spending more time with Toshio. He’s a great kid … a special kid.”

Kanahele recalled the young boy and his vivid imagination from a previous case.

“I’m taking it one step at a time, Ray. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated anyone.”

Higa’s wife had left him over ten years ago, just before Kanahele had been promoted to detective and assigned as his partner. In all the time they had worked together since then, Kanahele couldn’t recall his Japanese-American friend taking an active interest in a woman. The fact that the normally stoic and serious Higa had actually asked Mary Nakamura out had been a frequent topic of conversation in the Kanahele hale of late.

“To be honest,” Higa went on to confide, “I’m not even sure Mary is genuinely interested in me. There are times when it seems that what she likes most is the fact that Toshi and I get along so well. I don’t blame her. The boy’s never had a ‘father’ or, really, any kind of positive male role model.”

“Yeah, well, that ‘moke she had living with her … you know, that Eddie dude who disappeared … was a total loser. No doubt. But, listen. I saw they way you two were lookin’ at one another when we were interviewing her. She’s interested alright. She’s probably a little gun shy, too, know what I mean? I’ll talk to Maile. We’ll have the two of you … or the three of you, whatever you want … over for a cookout or something. Maile will be able to tell where thing’s stand. I guarantee. You know I’m right.

Higa smiled. “Thanks, Ray. Let me think about it before you make any plans. OK? We’ve got enough on our plates here today as it is.”

And so the detectives were decidedly glad when Helen Maeda acquiesced without further complaint and launched into her story again.

“I was just about to go to lunch … we stagger our breaks, right … when this young Asian kid, he might have been Filipino, I’m not sure, came up to my position.”

“You said he had shoulder length black hair, a blue tank top and a tattoo on his shoulder, correct?” Higa interrupted before his partner mentioned their own lack of a lunch break … again. “What did the tattoo look like again?”

“It was one of those stylized turtle ‘tats you see on t-shirts and stuff all around here, know what I mean? I think they call them tribal tattoos.” The policemen nodded their heads. Around them, a small cadre of plainclothes and uniformed officers conducted interviews with other bank staff and two or three patrons who were unfortunate enough to have been in the building at the time of the incident.

“Anyhow, the kid was probably nineteen or so – maybe early twenties. I could tell right away that something was up.

“How so” Higa asked? His pen was poised over his battered, black Moleskine notebook.

“Well, for one thing, he was looking around like crazy. He was obviously nervous, hyped up, lolo … you know what I mean? And he kept muttering something about his girlfriend; at least I think that’s who he was talking about. I had to ask him three times what I could help him with. Next thing you know, he starts waving a gun at me.”

“Did you trigger a silent alarm?” Kanahele inquired. “I mean, you must have a panic button.”

Helen Maeda looked down. Her pretty face flushed red.

“Listen, officers. We just moved over here into this building.”

Kanahele nodded his head. “Yeah, sure, I know. I had a day off and my wife and I were in Waikiki. We stopped by for your grand opening celebration.”

Higa looked at his longtime friend.

“They had a band, Jake, out front on the sidewalk. Plus free pu-pu’s. Maile had been doing some shopping.”

Higa shook his head and smiled. The slender man turned back to the frazzled bank teller.

“Mrs. Maeda, I’m not sure I follow. What does that have to do with the alarm?”

“Well, in our old location, the alarm was on the floor. You had to activate it with your foot. Kind of like the high-beams on older cars. Here the thing’s on the inside of the counter, under the lip. And it has a cover you have to pop off before you can push it. That’s supposed to prevent anyone hitting the thing by accident.”

Higa and Kanahele waited for Maeda to continue.

“The thing is,” the young woman stammered, “I was so nervous, I mean, the guy was waving a gun in my face, I only thought of the alarm as he started to walk away. Even then, well, I started searching for the thing on the floor with my foot. I kept kicking the bag that had my lunch in it. It took me a few seconds to remember that, here, the alarm’s under the counter. I think he was already out the door before I tripped it. Listen, we have drills, but I was shaking. I could hardly think. Will I get into trouble because …?”

“Hey,” Kanahele, offered the sobbing woman one of his trademark handkerchiefs. “No worries. You did great. We’ll make sure we talk to you manager, if it even comes up, OK?”

An EMT vehicle passed outside on Kalakaua Avenue; probably called to assist someone stung by a box jellyfish or tossed off a surfboard and onto the rocks. Higa used the interruption of the down-Doppler strain of the siren to refocus the conversation. “Let’s go back to the point when he pulled the gun. What happened next?”

“The kid shoved a paper bag at me, you know, one of those small, brown sandwich bags. He said ‘fill it’ and started looked around like crazy again. I was so flustered I didn’t know what to do first. Anyhow, I dropped it. I mean, my hands were shaking. I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“What did the kid do?” Kanahele interjected.

“Nothing,” Helen Maeda almost smiled. “He was nervous too. I don’t even think he noticed.”

“And that’s when, you know …” Higa prompted.

“Yeah. I guess if I had realized what a chance I was taking I never would have done it. It was like I was in a trance. I did it without really thinking about it.”

“Maybe your training kicked in after all.” Kanahele smiled.

“Sure. The thing is, the kid never looked. He just took it from my hands and bolted out the door. Like I said, I think that’s when I finally hit the alarm. I’m so sorry.”

“Mrs. Maeda,” Higa spoke as he closed his notebook, “you have nothing to worry about on that score. In fact, I’m willing to bet there’s probably a commendation for you in all of this.”

“Listen, detectives, at this point I’d be happy if someone bought me my lunch. I mean, I was planning on going to the bank after work myself. I need some cash. That’s why I was brown-bagging it today in the first place.”

***

“Jesus, Jake,” Kanahele remarked later as the two men left the Bank of Hawaii building and emerged on the street and into the bright, late afternoon sunshine, “I’ll bet that kid was pissed when he opened that bag. Shit. Instead of a sack full of money he ends up with a peanut butter and apple-banana sandwich, some yogurt and an Ito En green tea!”

Higa smiled, almost the equivalent of a laugh for him. “Well, at least he got a healthy lunch for his efforts. And no one was hurt, that’s something. That gun worries me, though. Let’s hope we pick the kid up sooner rather than later.”

Higa paused. “Ray, have you gotten Maile anything for Valentine’s day yet? You know what’ll happen if you forget again this year.”

“I was going to get her some flowers or something after we got off today. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Listen,” Higa suggested, there’s that Teddy Bear World place right next door here. You know, it used to be Planet Hollywood before they went bankrupt. You want to go in and look around? You might find something in there. I don’t mind. It won’t take long.”

Kanahele looked at his partner and arched his eyebrows. Almost at once a knowing expression animated his features.

“Sure thing, Jake. Hey. Maybe you might find something in there too, right? Let’s go take a look.”

***

A few blocks away on the curving path that ran between McCully and Kalakaua Avenue, Charlie Ona sat on a bench and watched the sunlight glint off the surface of the Ala Wai Canal. He tossed a few crumbs into the water and, almost instantaneously, a dozen or so minnows emerged from its depths to start a short-lived feeding frenzy.

Charlie finished his sandwich, crumbled up the brown paper bag that held it and tossed it into a green receptacle emblazoned with the state seal and motto. He wiped his hands on his jeans and un-tucked the long-sleeved t-shirt he had changed into a few moments ago.

Shit, shit, shit … he muttered to himself over and over again as he stood up. He had no idea how that bitch back at the bank had tricked him like she had. Some day he’d go back and teach her a lesson. For now, though, he had more immediate problems. Like, if he didn’t score some money or wasn’t able to swipe something to give his girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, she might just kick him out of her place. Then what would he do? After all, that was the only reason he put up with her raggedy ass.

The gun, Charlie thought as he started walking. Maybe I can sell the gun …

The End

BIO:

James C. Clar's short fiction has been published in print as well as on the Internet. His work may be found in places like The Taj Mahal Review, Flashshot, Golden Visions Magazine, Word Catalyst Magazine, Antipodean SF, Bewildering Stories, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Static Movement, The Magazine of Crime & Suspense, Weirdyear, Apollo's Lyre. and 365 Tomorrows. Stories featuring Honolulu Detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele have appeared previously here on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.

TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT by Paul Newman

Take it or Leave it


“C’mon, now. You know it’s worth more than that! That’s real gold!” The little man’s voice cracked as he said it.

Mick didn’t give a shit.

“Look at that counter. You see that? Watches! Two dozen fucking watches! I need another watch like I need another heart attack. You want money? Go steal a laptop or something! Twenty bucks; take it or leave it.” Mick pretended to clean the glass showcase but he watched the old man and waited.

While he waited the bell over the door rang. A kid walked in. Late teens. Long hair and shredded jeans and a worn out leather jacket. He was long and stringy, not much meat on him. He carried a hard black plastic guitar case. It still had a price tag dangling from it on a piece of string.

Mick walked over to talk to the kid while the old man made up his mind. He heard the old guy talking to himself as he walked away. “I’m sorry Annie. You know I’d never do it if I didn’t have to...” Mick laughed to himself as he walked away. Who the fuck was Annie? Crazy old bastard.

When Mick got close enough he noticed the kid’s eyes. His pupils were drawn in tight like dots and they didn’t want to focus on anything. He got a bad feeling but it was too late.

The punk reached in his jacket and pulled out a revolver. Its barrel was short and stubby and scarred in places where the paint had worn away. Its handle was wrapped in worn duct tape. His hands shook as he pointed the thing at Mick.

“Gimme the money, Asshole!” He shouted. The words got jumbled on their way out but Mick got the point.

He held his hands way up high and talked nice and slow. “Heh, heh. Calm down now, buddy. Nice and easy. Nobodies gotta get hurt here.” Mick moved sideways toward the counter and the cash register. Nothing sudden. Nice and slow. He pushed a button on the dusty register and a bell rang and the cash drawer kicked open.

The kid seemed to relax, his hand shook a little less and he let the barrel of the gun drop toward the floor.

The old man must have recognized the kid. He shuffled over closer, waving his cane at the punk like a billy club. “Peter? Is that you? Peter Matthews from down the street? What are you doing with that gun? Does your mother know what you’re doing?”

Mick could see from the look on the punk’s face that he knew the old man. It was enough to panic the kid; he dropped the guitar case and started shooting.

Mick ducked down low behind the display case. Glass exploded all around him. He pushed the alarm button and grabbed the sawed-off then looked around the counter. The old man was on the floor. He wasn’t moving. There was a big dark stain spreading on the linoleum underneath him.

The kid looked around like he wasn’t sure where he was or how he got there. He said something to himself, just a couple mumbled words; then shoved the barrel of the pistol in his mouth. He pulled the trigger and slumped to the floor.

Mick heard the sirens already. He moved over to the old man on the floor. He smelled like chicken noodle soup and cheap laundry soap. His face was stuck with his mouth half open like he had one last thing he wanted to say.

Mick reached in the old man’s pocket and took out the watch. He replaced it with two ten dollar bills. After a half second, he reached back in the pocket and took one of the bills back. He went back behind the counter to wait for the cops to show up.

BIO:
Paul Newman's most recent published stories appeared in: Ethereal Tales May/10, Midnight In Hell March/10, and Beat To A Pulp Feb./10. If you're interested, you can find a few more stories on his website http://www.logicalvoodoo.com/

LISITSKAIA'S QUARTER by KEITH GINGELL

Lisitskaia’s Quarter

Lieutenant Grigori Tselikova was in no mood for bullshit after an eight hour drive from  Kemerovo airport on bad roads in a worn out Volkswagen hire-car, and a night getting bitten by dog fleas in a run down pension. Before he even opened his mouth Grigori could sense Yakov Lisitskaia, the area uchastkovyi was full of it, and more than ready to dish it up.

‘So, what brings a Militisya detective to my quarter, Comrade?’ Lisitskaia asked as he finished pouring himself a slug of vodka and prepared to fill a glass for his “guest.”

Grigori placed his hand over the empty glass and leant forward. ‘We’re called Police now and the days of being Comrades are long gone . . . . Comrade Lisitskaia.’

The man sitting opposite Grigori appeared un-phased by his aggression. He leaned back and burst into spluttering phlegm choked laughter which terminated in a short coughing fit. ‘Not in these parts, Mr. “Medvedev policeman.” Time goes very slow around here.’ He paused to slug down the vodka. ‘We are 4000 kilometres from Mr Putin’s “new” Russia in one of the most isolated quarters in the federation. There’s nothing around here except Wolves, Bears and trappers.’ Lisitskaia became serious and leaned right across his desk until his fat round unshaven face filled Grigori’s view. ‘So, what the fuck are you doing in my quarter ? . . . Comrade.’

Grigori slapped a photograph of a long haired young man on the desk. ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Andrei Slavina.’

Lisitskaia ignored the picture.’ Like I said. What the fuck are you doing here.’

‘We know he came to this quarter. This is the last thing we know about his whereabouts.’

‘I don’t know any Andrei Slavina.’

‘You’re the uchastkovyi. He must have come to register his presence here.’

‘Not if he had something to hide.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Sez, you. Everybody has—‘

‘He didn’t. Look at the picture, Lisitskaia!’

Lisitskaia glanced at the photo. ‘So. You want something from me. We all want something.’ He sat back, crossed his arms and waited.

‘I don’t do bribes.’

‘Then you’ll go back to Moscow empty handed, lieutenant.’

Grigori stood and stretched himself to his full 2.03metres. He picked up his chair and carried it around to Lisitskaia’s side of the desk and placed is very close to him. Then he sat down and leaned his massive body into Lisitskaia’s shoulder and looked ahead.

In a collaborative tone, Grigori said, ‘You know, I think it’s time to let you know where I worked before I became a policeman.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a badge decorated with a KGB emblem and laid it on the desk. ‘Did Andrei Slavina register with you?’

Grigori felt Lisitskaia’s shoulders slump. ‘Yeah, he came in here about three months ago.’

Grigori grabbed the label of Lisitskaia’s uniform. ‘I know that you dog’s turd. I want to know where he went after he signed in. You were supposed to ask him.’

‘He went where all the others went. What’s so special about this guy anyway?’

‘What d’you mean? All the others?’

‘People’ve been coming here and disappearing for years. Didn’t you hear the rumours, Mr. Ex-KGB?’

‘I wasn’t based in Russia.’

‘Yeah, well. Some of your colleagues knew what was going on up there, I’m damn sure about that.’

‘Up where?’

Lisitskaia pointed vaguely to his left. ‘Ostrov-in-the-valley. It’s a settlement from medieval days. Nobody knows where the people came from, but there’s been stories about weird things going up there for generations. It seems to attract all sorts of nosey bastards.’

‘What kind of weird things?’

‘I dunno. Black magic or something like that I suppose.’

‘Hey, you’re the uchastkovyi. Why didn’t you look into it?’

‘You of all people should know that. When I started in this job thirty-five years ago I asked questions, but I gave up on that when I reported the disappearance of a young couple and your “people” paid me a visit. After that all I did was try and talk those idiots out of going there. In the end I gave up on that too.’

‘Why didn’t you ever go and investigate?’

Lisitskaia picked up the Grigori’s KGB badge, then threw it down like it was red-hot. He ran his finger down the four inch scar on his cheek. ‘Why d’you think?’

Grigori started to feel some empathy for Lisitskaia: he had cared once.

‘What is in this, Ostrov-in-the-valley?’

‘I told you it’s a settlement. Houses I guess.’

‘Can you show me how to get there.’

Lisitskaia pushed his chair back and turned it to face Grigori. ‘So you want to go up there and look for this.’ He paused and picked up the photo. ‘This fucking whisker-less hippy? What’s so special about this guy that the Moscow Po-lice want to look for him when nobody gave a shit about dozens of others?’

‘Dozens?’

‘Yeah. Dozens. At least twenty in the thirty-five years I’ve been here and sure as Bears fuck in the forest they weren’t the first.’

‘This case was brought to our attention because he’s from Moscow, that’s all.’

‘Bull . . . . Shit! There’s something special about this guy. I can smell it.’

Grigori knew Lisitskaia had him. How could he tell him Andrei Slavina was the wayward, but naïve son of a Politburo minister, and a close relation of Putin, who’d got into Occult and had managed to give his secret service shadowers the slip? Russia had changed in the last twenty years: but not that much.

‘I told you, he’s from Moscow. He’s been reported missing. I’m looking for him.’

Lisitskaia poured himself another vodka and slugged it straight down. ‘Okay, Mr. Moscow, it’s your funeral. I’ll show you the road. It’s a two hour drive, but don’t expect me to wait up for you tonight.’

Two hours on a road barely fit for donkeys brought Grigori to a large sloping clearing in a dark Pine forest. About thirty scruffy wooden houses were spread out in front of him. The windows in all of them were shuttered. Around twenty metres up the road, on the right was a larger building which resembled a barn. A battered ex-Soviet army truck and a horse drawn cart (minus horse) sat along side it. There was no sign of humanity or animals. Grigori stopped his car across the road from the barn and stepped out. There was total silence, not even any bird-song despite it being a fine summer morning. He stretched to un-knot his muscles and looked around, wondering what to do.

Finally, he crossed the road and pushed on the door of the barn. It opened silently. Inside there was a counter, it seemed this place was a kind of general store, but the shelves were pretty much empty and there was nobody inside. He was about to turn around and walk out when he heard a rustle and a sort of whimper come from behind a door which led into a room at the rear the counter. Something told Gregori to take care and he drew his Morakov before slowly entering the room.

He heard a gasp from the right-hand corner. He swung around and saw two men holding a naked young woman on the floor. One man appeared to be in the process of throttling her with a rope. The other was spread-eagled across her, trying to hold her still.

Gregori cocked the gun and aimed it at the men. ‘Get off her: NOW.’

‘It’s not what you think,’ the guy laying over her shouted. ‘We have to do this for the village.’

‘I said, get off her or I’ll shoot.’

‘We can’t,’ the man with the rope said. ‘It’s our only chance.’

The men didn’t appear to be armed. Gregori ran over and kicked the guy on the girl hard on the side of his head. He flew off and lay unconscious against the wall. The other man stared at Gregori and frantically tightened his grip on the half-dead girl’s neck.

‘Let go of the rope or I’ll blow your fucking brains out,’ Gregori screamed.

‘No. Never.’ The guy screamed back.

Gregori fired the Morakov, sending a 9mm bullet ripping through the strangler’s right bicep. He jerked backward and passed out. Just to make sure, Gregori kicked him in the face. He removed the rope and checked the girls pulse. She seemed barely alive.

Within a minute Gregori had the men handcuffed together and hog-tied with the rope they’d been using. He turned his attention to the girl. She was breathing slowly and shivering. He covered her naked body with his jacket and went to his car to fetch the bottle of water Lisitskaia had given him for the journey.

When he returned to the room, he was surprised to find the girl standing naked in front of him. The two men had regained consciousness and were shouting at him to run.

The girl walked up to Gregory and whispered, ‘Thank you, thank you,’ and flung her arms around him.

Embarrassed, he tried to push her away, but her grip became tighter. Her arms seemed to extend and coil themselves around his body several times, gripping him so tight he couldn’t breath. Then he felt a thousand needles pierce his body simultaneously.

The last thing Gregori saw before his life drained away was the terrified faces of the two men he had condemned to death.

Short bio:

I have been writing fiction for about five years firstly as a hobby, but now I am getting serious about it. I have stories published in Volumes 3 and 4 of Radgepacket and one in the upcoming Volume 5. I also have a couple of stories on the Radgepacket website.

NO WORRIES by Chris Rhatigan

Let's welcome Chris on his TKnC debut...


No Worries


The car rolled into the mall parking lot, headlights off. Dmitri took a long slurp of coffee and smacked his lips a few times.

The sound burrowed into Lamar’s brain, rattled around, repeated itself over and over. Lamar curled his gloved fingers into fists. The busted vents in Dmitri’s Geo spewed frozen air and dust.

“So that’s your genius plan? That’s what you couldn’t tell me before?”

“What is wrong with it?” Dmitri said. “It is, what do you call it? A smash and grab?”

Trusting Dmitri seemed like a passable idea when they were guzzling Bud Lights a couple of nights ago. Lamar needed money real bad. Asia, the stripper he was shacking up with, had expensive tastes.

Dmitri said he could get him a few thousand, easy. “You show up Wednesday morning,” Dmitri said. “Five o’clock. You will learn more then.”

Lamar figured that whatever Dmitri had up his sleeve was sketchy. But he figured it would be more along the lines of petty crime.

“Your plan is fucking stupid. That’s the problem.”

“It will work, my friend.” He took another nasty slurp of coffee. Lamar clutched his fists tighter. “I know many others who have done this but in the daytime. We do our work under the cloak of night. See? It is better that way.”

“First of all, the sun is rising. And second, I thought you’d done this before?”

“Not me exactly, but people I know. They tell me how this works.” He drummed on the steering wheel, his smile showing teeth the color of margarine. How he could be so relaxed in this situation was beyond Lamar’s understanding. “You worry too much. You trust Dmitri. Everything will be ok.”

They pulled in front of the automatic doors that led to the food court and Barrister’s Jewelry. Dmitri nearly coughed up a lung when they got outside and hocked a loogie onto the ice. Lamar wondered if Dmitri could go five seconds without making a disgusting noise. The man was like a walking wet fart.

Dmitri popped the trunk. He handed Lamar a sledgehammer. Of course, Lamar thought, he makes the big guy do the dirty work.

“That window. Next to the door. You smash that.”

The wind kicked up the powdery snow, stinging Lamar’s face and neck. He trudged over, planted himself by the window. At least the jewelry store was inside a heated building.

Lamar saw the reflection of headlights as he shattered the window.

He whirled around. A police car circling the edge of the parking lot. He dropped the sledgehammer, grabbed Dmitri’s sleeve and pulled him into the bushes. The cruiser pulled into the lot and shined a spotlight on them.

“The cops do rounds here? You didn’t check that out?”

“This is not a problem.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? What could make you worried?”

Dmitri shrugged. Pulled a handgun out of an inside jacket pocket and loaded it. “You see? I handle it.”

“What is this shit? I didn’t agree to this.”

“You would rather spend twenty years in jail then?”

“It wouldn’t be that long. A couple of years for attempted burglary—tops.”

“Maybe for you. But you do not have the priors.”

“So you think you'll get less jail time by killing a cop? Are you fucking insane?”

Dmitri exhaled, aimed. Lamar couldn’t believe it—he was actually going to do it. He always knew Dmitri was full of dumb confidence. But this?

“Don’t do it, man. I’m serious.”

“Shut up. You are killing my concentration.”

Lamar didn’t have to think about it. He reached behind him and grabbed the handle of the sledgehammer, lifted it from the snow.

He swung and the metal head struck Dmitri’s bony chest. The strike rang hollow like Dmitri had no organs. Sent him flying into the brick wall with a thud.

Finally, sounds Lamar liked. Dmitri colored the snow pink with the blood he coughed up.

Lamar leaned in, whispered, “You worried yet?”

BIO:
Chris Rhatigan’s fiction has been published in A Twist of Noir, Mysterical-E, Yellow Mama and Pulp Metal Magazine. He also has work upcoming at the brand-spanking-new Pulp Carnivale. His blog, Death by Killing, is all about the world of short crime fiction.