Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Category: Serialized

  • Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze (Part 4)

    Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze (Part 4)

    The two suns climbed the west sky. One was an old red sun, fat and slow. The other was a small white point, sharp as a needle. It had not been there when Xabier first came to the Slydal Plain. He had stopped wondering about it. A planet this far out could keep whatever stars it liked.

    Below him, the five sheep grazed in the triangle corner of the field. The two rams pulled at the grass. The doe-eyed ewe stayed close to her lamb. The old ewe stood a little apart, chewing slowly, her weight belt sagging on her thin haunches. Xabier lay flat behind the rock with the controller in his lap. The buried wire ran under his elbow like a vein.

    He waited. Nymphs bounced in his hair. The locusts hummed. A sheep bleated far up the field, and the flock answered.

    Nothing moved in the corner.

    “Etorri,” he whispered. “Come on, then.”

    He set his thumb on the knob and turned it a hair. A needle on the dial twitched. He turned it again. The posts in the corner gave off a faint tick, tick, like rain on the freighter’s hull. He swept the dial slowly from one end to the other. Nothing. He swept it back.

    Halfway up the dial, the air in the corner shivered.

    It looked like heat over a road. Then it looked like a man. Four outlines stood among the bait sheep, silver grey, edged in thin light. A fifth stood farther back near the cliff, as if he had come to watch. They wore hoods and long cloaks that hung oddly in the heavy, still air. Filters covered their mouths, just like his own. Each held a long gun with a fat drum under the barrel, and a fine cable wound on the drum.

    They were men. Not monsters. Men.

    Xabier’s mouth went dry. He had pictured bows and arrows. He had pictured something with claws. He had not pictured men who breathed through filters and stood on two legs in his field.

    One of the outlines looked down at his own arm. He had seen himself go silver. He jerked his head around at the others. The array had worked. They knew it.

    The four hunters scattered like quail. But one of them was quicker with his fear than the rest. He swung his gun and fired. A blue flash snapped from the barrel, a spark where the cable left the cloak. The harpoon took the bigger ram in the neck from no more than ten meters off. The ram fell bleating. The drum whined, and the cable went tight, and the ram began to slide across the grass toward the rocks.

    “Ez!” Xabier was on his feet before he thought about it.

    He grabbed his staff and the shears from his belt. He pushed off the rock and flew. One stroke of the staff against the ground, then another, rowing through the dense air in long, low arcs. He came down beside the sliding ram and caught the cable in the blades of his shears. It was thin as fishing line and tough as wire. He squeezed with both hands. The cable parted with a crack and whipped back into the ripple.

    The ram lay still. Blood ran into the wool at his neck. Xabier knew that wound. He had seen it on three sheep already.

    The hunters ran for the cliffs. Their outlines flickered as they crossed the array wire, silver, then nothing, then silver again. The slowest of them was the one at the back, the watcher. He moved like a man with stiff knees. His cable trailed behind him, loose, unreeled, dragging through the bracken.

    Xabier dug in his staff and pushed. He flew. He landed with both boots on the trailing cable, and the old hunter jerked to a stop like a dog at the end of a lead.

    They both went down. In this gravity, going down took a long time. They tumbled together in a slow, ugly arc, cable wrapping their legs, the gun spinning away. The hunter’s elbow caught Xabier in the ribs. Xabier grabbed a fistful of zamarra. It was curly, tough leather, and he clung to the wool. It tore at the hood, and the hunter twisted away.

    They landed in the grass. Xabier toppled over. He held the torn hood in one hand and raised his staff with the other.

    He did not swing.

    He was looking at his own face.

    It was older. Forty years older, maybe more. The sandy brown hair had gone grey and thin. Deep lines ran from the nose to the corners of the mouth. But it was his nose. His chin. His small ears that his mother used to tug. The eyes were his eyes, set in a face the sun had worked over for a long time.

    The old man looked up at him. His filter hissed. Something passed over his face that Xabier could not read. It looked like grief.

    “Txiki,” the old man said.

    Little one.

    Then he twisted like an eel, kicked free of the cable, and was up and gone in three long bounds. His cloak flickered silver over the array wire and vanished into the rocks. He left the gun in the grass.

    Xabier sat in the bracken for a long time. His ribs hurt. His hands shook. The flock watched him from up the field.

    He picked up the gun. It was heavier than it looked. The drum held a long coil of the fine cable, and the harpoon was a short barbed shaft with a ring at the tail. He wrapped his hand around the grip.

    It did not fit. The grip had been worn smooth by years of a hand, and the hand had been on the wrong side. The thumb groove sat on the right. The finger grooves curved for a left hand. Xabier was right handed. He had always been right-handed. His mother had slapped his left hand off the spoon until it was.

    He set the gun down.

    “That’s not my hand,” he told the ram. “That’s a left hand. Mother would have slapped it.”

    He thought of the face he had glimpsed in the ripple that first day, when the black sheep fell. He had told himself it was a trick of the light. It had looked familiar even then. He had not let himself wonder why.

    He sat with the dead ram until the chimes rang. Tin, ting, tin, tang. The flock came down off the hill on its own, the way it always did when the bells played. He walked the four remaining sheep back to the barn. The old ewe walked the slowest. He dragged the ram himself, rowing with his staff, and laid him in the shade by the door.

    Inside, he fitted the sheep with fresh filters. He did not wish them a good day. He went to the tack drawer.

    The note was where it had always been, under the spare straps. He had found it his first day, folded in four. He had always thought the shepherd before him had left it. A kind man, he had decided. A careful man. He unfolded it now.

    Kontuz ehiztariekin. The hunters will come for the five.

    He had read it a hundred times and thought it was nonsense.

    “The five what?” he had asked the sheep that first day. Maite had only chewed.

    He knew now.

    He took the note to the workbench and laid it next to his map of the field. He had drawn the map two days ago. Squares at each post. Thin lines for the wire. Labels in his own careful hand. Hegoaldeko zutoina. Zelaia. Zuhaitz.

    He looked at the note. He looked at the map.

    The “K” had the same lazy loop. The “h” leaned the same way. And there, in ehiztariekin, the “z” had a crooked tail that dropped below the line and hooked back. He had made that “Z” since he was six years old. His teacher had called it a little fishhook. No one else on Earth made a “Z” like that.

    He looked at Zelaia on his map. The same fishhook.

    The warning was in his own handwriting.

    “Nirea da,” he said to the empty barn. “The note’s mine. I wrote it, and I don’t remember writing it.”


    Other Writings You May Like

    Sheep May Safely Graze – Part Three Sheep May Safely Graze – Part Two Sheep May Safely Graze – Part One Sheep May Safely Graze (Part 5)
    Read more: Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze (Part 4)
  • The Zepplin of Lost Souls (Part One)

    The Zepplin of Lost Souls (Part One)

    1939 Zeppelin adventure

    As war looms over the continent, a new hydrogen zeppelin, the Nordstern, slips her moorings in Frankfurt bound for New York. An original short story written in the style of 1930’s Pulp Fiction, this tale is a thrilling 1939 zeppelin adventure.

    Rhein-Main Airfield, Frankfurt, June 1939

    The steward held out a silver tray.

    “Matches, mein Herr. Lighters. Anything that makes a spark.”

    Jack Brandt emptied his coat pocket. One box of Swedish safety matches. Half full.

    He set it on the tray. The steward thanked him and moved on.

    Jack kept one match. It was tucked behind the sweatband of his hat. Old habits.

    Above him the Nordstern filled the evening sky. Eight hundred feet of silver skin. Swastikas on the tail fins. Searchlights crawled along her belly. She was the newest ship in the German fleet. She flew on hydrogen because America would not sell Germany helium.

    Hydrogen. Jack had read the newspapers in 1937. Everybody had.

    “Herr Brandt?”

    The voice was soft. Polite. Jack turned.

    The man wore a gray civilian suit that fit him like a uniform. Pale eyes. A small smile that never reached them.

    “Sturmbannführer Erich Voss,” the man said. “Security. We are responsible for the passengers’ safety on this crossing.”

    “Swell,” Jack said. “I feel safer already.”

    “You sell instruments. Gauges. Calipers. Yes?”

    “Precision instruments. Milwaukee’s finest.”

    “And you were at the docks on Tuesday, Herr Brandt? The night the Gestapo lost a prisoner by the river?”

    Jack smiled. “I was at the opera on Tuesday. Wagner. Four hours. I’d remember a dock.”

    “Would you?” Voss tipped his hat. “We will talk again. It is a long way to New York.”

    He walked off toward the gangway.

    Jack let out a breath. On Tuesday a man in a black mask had pulled a Jewish printer out of a Gestapo car by the Main River. The masked man left a snuffed match on the car’s hood. New York papers called him the Lamplighter.

    Jack had never seen the printer again. He hoped the man was in Holland by now.

    “You are nervous, young man. Everybody is nervous the first time.”

    An old man stood at his elbow. White mustache. A cardboard suitcase tied with string. He held a yellowed slip of paper in both hands like a holy relic.

    “Elias Brenner,” the old man said. “Bookkeeper. Retired. Friedrichshafen.”

    “Jack Brandt. Salesman. Not retired.”

    Brenner held up the paper. “Do you know what this is?”

    Jack squinted. It was a ticket. Printed in 1920. Luftschiff Nordstern. Friedrichshafen. Berlin. Stockholm.

    “There was another Nordstern?”

    “The first one. LZ 121. Built for the Stockholm route. I bought a ticket to go marry a Swedish girl. Ingrid.” Brenner sighed. “The ship never flew the route. In 1921 the French took her. Reparations. They renamed her Méditerranée. Scrapped in 1926.”

    “And Ingrid?”

    “The first Nordstern, young man, went to the French. Like my Ingrid’s letters, she simply stopped arriving.” He folded the ticket away. “Nineteen years I waited to fly on a Nordstern. Tonight I fly.”

    The ground crew shouted. Ropes slapped. Jack followed the old man up the gangway into the belly of the ship.

    The Chief Steward served dinner at nine.

    Consommé. Then fish. Then tenderloin on toast. The dining room ran down the whole port side of A deck. Silk paintings on the walls. White linen. Real silver.

    Jack ate and watched.

    There were thirty-one passengers. He counted. Salesmen do.

    At the far end of the lounge a woman played the piano. Lotte Krämer. Tall, dark, theatrical. She tickled the keys like they owed her money. The piano was aluminum. A Blüthner. It weighed less than a fat man and echoed like a church.

    A small man in a brown suit stood behind it. Paul Weller, piano tuner. He had a leather kit of hammers and mutes. Between Krämer’s pieces he leaned in and tightened a pin. He hummed while he worked. Mendelssohn. Jack recognized the tune. It was not a tune anybody hummed in Germany these days.

    Weller kept looking across the room. At Voss.

    Every time Voss looked back, Weller dropped his eyes.

    “Interesting man,” said the gentleman beside Jack.

    Dr. Anselm Roth. Gray beard. Chemist’s hands, stained yellow at the fingertips. He worked for IG Farben and carried a fat leather wallet he never let go of.

    “The tuner?” Jack asked.

    Roth leaned close. His voice dropped.

    “That man is not a tuner. He needs…”

    A shadow fell over the table.

    “Dr. Roth.” Voss smiled down at them. “We were hoping you would join us for a cigar. Before the smoking room closes?”

    Roth closed his mouth. He folded his napkin. He did not finish the sentence.

    “Of course, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

    Across the table, old Brenner tapped his water glass. The water sat slightly tilted.

    “You see that?” Brenner said to nobody. “She trims heavy forward. Right by the lounge. For forty years I kept books on freight. I know when something weighs more than the ledger says.”

    Nobody listened to him. Nobody ever listened to a bookkeeper.

    The smoking room was on B deck.

    It was the only place on the ship a man could light a cigarette. It was kept at higher pressure than the rest of the ship. If hydrogen ever leaked, it would be pushed out, not sucked in. You entered through a double door airlock beside a little bar. The barman watched everybody come and go.

    His name was Ernst Pohl. He was thin and gray and he counted things out loud.

    “One lighter,” he told Jack at eleven thirty. “Electric. Mounted on the wall. Nobody takes fire out of this room. Nobody.”

    “I believe you.”

    “I was at Lakehurst. May 1937. Ground crew.” Pohl wiped a glass. “Thirty six people. I counted them after.”

    Jack did not ask anything else.

    At midnight Pohl sealed the room. One passenger remained inside. Roth. He wanted one last cigar alone, he said, with the lights of the Rhine below the sealed windows.

    Pohl wrote it in his log. 24.00. Dr. Roth. Alone.

    Jack went to bed.

    At one in the morning somebody screamed.

    Jack was in the corridor in his shirtsleeves before the second scream. Passengers spilled out of fabric cabins. A steward ran past.

    The airlock stood open. Pohl stumbled out of it, both hands over his eyes.

    “My head,” he gasped. “I can’t see. Everything is dark. Everything… so small.”

    Jack caught him. Pohl’s pupils were pinpricks. Black dots in gray glass.

    Through the inner door Jack saw Roth.

    The chemist sat in a leather chair by the window. His cigar had fallen to the carpet, unlit. His eyes were open. His pupils were tiny. There was no blood. No wound. Just a faint smell in the air. Sweet. Like fruit left too long in a bowl.

    Jack started forward.

    A hand stopped him.

    “No, Herr Brandt.”

    Voss stepped past him into the room. He walked straight to the body. He bent over Roth and studied the dead man’s face. He breathed the air. He stood there a full minute.

    Nothing happened to him.

    Jack noticed that. He noticed Voss’s eyes, too, in the electric light. Wide. Black. Like a cat’s at night.

    He filed it away. He did not know yet what drawer it went in.

    The captain arrived in a dressing gown. Kapitän Albrecht Sander. Short, square, worried.

    “A heart attack,” the captain said. “Yes? An old man. A cigar.”

    “Perhaps,” Voss said. “But we will investigate, Kapitän. Quietly. Nobody must panic. Not on this ship. Not with this hydrogen over our heads.”

    “Of course.”

    “The room stays sealed. I take charge of the inquiry. On the authority of Berlin.”

    The captain nodded. He looked relieved to hand it over.

    Voss turned. His eyes found Jack.

    “Herr Brandt. You sat with Dr. Roth at dinner. He whispered to you. We saw it.”

    “He was telling me about the fish.”

    “Was he? Then you will tell us about the fish. At length.” Voss nodded to two stewards. “Herr Brandt is confined to his cabin. A guard at the door. Nobody visits him.”

    “You’re arresting me?”

    “We are protecting you,” Voss said. “Somebody aboard this ship has killed a man without leaving a mark. You were the last one he spoke to. If you are innocent, you are in danger. If you are not…”

    He shrugged.

    The stewards took Jack by the arms.

    He let them. Fighting on a hydrogen ship was a bad idea. He had a feeling it was going to come to that anyway.

    They walked him down the corridor past the dark windows. Somewhere below, the Atlantic waited.

    The door of his cabin closed. A key turned.

    Jack sat on his bunk in the dark.

    A man was dead from something nobody could see. The killer was still aboard. So was the weapon. And the only man who had tried to warn him was cooling in a sealed room above sixteen gas cells full of hydrogen.

    Jack Brandt was a prisoner.

    Somewhere on this ship was death. Only death wasn’t locked up.

    Part Two coming


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    Read more: The Zepplin of Lost Souls (Part One)
  • The Spill of Sangria Blood: A Little Game of Cat and Mouse

    The Spill of Sangria Blood: A Little Game of Cat and Mouse

    [In this final part of The Spill of Sangria Blood, zoo security guard Torely Stone comes face-to-face with the killer of his best friend Tom Dantry. Of course, he’s nearly killed himself, goes on a wild chase, and finally corners the killer behind the elephant enclosure.]

    The idea of cat and mouse is for the cat to lay a trap for the mouse and wait for it to bite. Of course, it call all end up like a Tom and Jerry cartoon; too often the mouse is smarter than the cat. I felt strongly that I was the cat, but frankly, I had no clue who was the mouse.

    Of course, little details would never stop me. I had to think up a good plan and let the mouse come to me.

    I needn’t wait long. The zoo board named zoologist Amy Peters as the new zoo director and on top of it all, it announced the zoo would go ahead with Project Atlas and begin fundraising for the now named Tom Dantry Memorial Zoo Expansion. Peters had been put in charge and she wanted this whole Dantry death behind her.

    “Project Atlas is Tom Dantry’s legacy,” Peters explained to the press. “The Kokosia Zoo will become a premier research zoo here on the Central Coast.”

    I thought the zoo expansion was the perfect way to bring out the killer. Resurrect an idea Dantry died for and invite the killer to come and target another zoo director. I didn’t like the idea of feeding Amy Peters’ to the lions, but I would make sure she never faced danger.

    “You know, putting Project Atlas into play invites the killer to try again,” I warned Peters.

    “We need this solved so we can start raising money,” she offered. “Any closer to finding the killer?”

    “We had some ideas but they have all fallen through. Honestly, this might be a way of drawing them out.”

    “I’m not keen on becoming bait,” Peters stated.

    “Of course,” I replied. “I will solve this before it comes to that.”

    “Project Atlas” was the bait to draw the killer out. I didn’t relish using my friend Amy Peters as the next sacrifice, but my plan took the now real “Project Atlas” and made it a new target. If the killer wanted the plan gone, they were going to come after Peters.

    The newspaper headline announced a ‘major expansion’ to the zoo and laid out all the details of the plan. The news went through the proposed changes and how the zoo planned to raise money to pay for it.

    Amy Peters stood in the line of fire as the new zoo director and the chief cheerleader for the project. All I needed now was a mouse to come take the bait.

    After a few weeks nobody tried to kill Amy Peters and the plans for Project Atlas moved forward. It was clear to me Project Atlas was not the reason for Dantry’s death, the shooting of Miguel and Eli, and all of the endless dead ends of this case.

    It had to be something personal tied to Dantry. But what? Waters and I went through the facts again over lunch at Spinnakers.

    “Jenna Shaw made it clear Dantry was never going to leave his wife,” Winters reminded me with a mouth full of roasted turkey. He swallowed and took a long drink of sweet tea.

    “The wife never made sense to me,” I exclaimed. “Dantry was a bachelor. I never met a wife in all the years I knew him. He didn’t have one.”

    “Maybe he had a secret life,” Winters offered. “Perhaps he had several secret families hidden all over the place and one of the wives found out.”

    He was being sarcastic and the idea was preposterous. Or was it? 

    “We need to talk with Jenna Shaw again. Find out what she mean’t by Dantry having a wife.”

    I asked Carrie to invite Jenna Shaw to my office to clear the air. I wanted to shed light on her mysterious comment. Carrie went about setting the meeting.

    “Why are you meeting her here?” quizzed Carrie. “Shouldn’t this be done at the sheriff’s office?”

    “I don’t want her to think she’s a suspect. At least not yet,” I replied. “Plus, she’s aware of how things look; she will be more open if she thinks this meeting isn’t all out there for anyone to see.”

    Jenna Shaw walked into my office looking a bit disheveled and unpolished. Her usual high-end demeanor was replaced with a loose hoodie, sweats, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Honestly, I thought she might be on vacation.

    “I’ve been home sick these past few days,” she announced. “And I’ve been out of the loop; the board made their press announcement about the zoo expansion without me.”

    “How do you feel about Amy Peters becoming the new zoo director?”

    “Fine, I guess,” Shaw replied. “Someone’s got to do it.”

    The phone rang and Carrie answered it though the window separating my office from the foyer. She interrupt my conversation with Shaw through the intercom. 

    “Ms. Peters would like for you to swing by her office,” she announced. Carrie went back to tidying her desk and and I turned my attention back to Shaw. “You said something interesting the other day,” I started. “You told me Dantry had a wife and he was never going to leave her for you.”

    Shaw squirmed in her seat. “I don’t want to talk about my affair with Dantry.”

    “I don’t really care about that. I am interested in Dantry’s wife,” I declared. “Did you ever meet her?”

    Shaw hesitated. “I saw them once at a charitable event. He introduced her as his wife.”

    “Really?” I still didn’t believe it. All through our friendship I only knew him as a bachelor. “What did she look like?”

    “She was a bit older than him, I think. Brunette hair cut short and red lipstick.”

    “Why did you think Dantry would never leave her?”

    “Because he told me,” Shaw exclaimed. She started to cry. “That’s why we were fighting. He told me that the affair was over.”

    Shaw’s alibi had checked out; she was having drinks with the Finkle’s after the ballet and couldn’t have killed Dantry.

    “I understand how upsetting this is,” I offered. “I’m sorry you’re going through it.”

    “Are you any closer to finding his killer?” Shaw asked.

    “No. But you’ve been helpful,” I said offering her support as she stood from the chair. 

    As we walked from my office, Carrie was gone from her desk and I found a note: “Meet me behind the elephants.” The hair on my neck stood at attention and I sensed dread. Could Carrie know something about Dantry’s death?

    The twilight sun cast eerie shadows across Carrie’s face as I caught up to her behind the empty elephant enclosure. Her eyes darted like a trapped animal’s, a cocktail of fear and defiance swirling in their depths.

    “You’re close to solving this?” she trembled and bit her lip.

    “I have a lead… thanks to Ms. Shaw.”

    “I heard you through the intercom.” She paused and went on angrily. “You have to understand…” I feared her next words. “I had to kill him.”

    She pressed her back against the concrete wall, chest heaving. Her news floored me and I felt a rush of nausea. She was agitated, and for a moment, I thought she might make a run for it. Her lips curled into a snarl.

    “He was going to leave us,” she spat. “My mother. Me. Toss us aside like scraps they feed pigs.”

    I took a step closer, careful not to spook her. “That doesn’t justify murder.”

    Carrie let out a bitter laugh that echoed off the empty cages around us. “Justify? You have no idea what that bastard put us through. The promises. The lies. Did you know he was going to marry mother?”

    Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d known Dantry for years; thought I had him pegged. I never learned he was dating my sister.  Let alone marry her. Shows what I know.

    “He told mom he loved her,” Carrie continued, her voice breaking. “Said we’d be a family. Then I found the pictures of him and Jenna with a note. Jenna said she loved him.”

    I could see the hurt radiating off her in waves, mixing with a desperate anger that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

    “So you decided to feed him to the lions?” I asked, unable to keep the edge from my tone.

    Carrie’s eyes flashed. “I couldn’t let him ruin our lives. You don’t understand. Mom… she wouldn’t survive being abandoned again.”

    The pieces were falling into place, forming a picture I wished I could un-see. This wasn’t just about jealousy or revenge. It was about a desperate attempt to hold a fragile world together.

    “There were other ways, Carrie,” I said, softening my voice. “Legal ways.”

    She shook her head violently. “No. He had to go. It was the only way to protect what matters.”

    As I looked at her – this young woman I’d worked alongside for months, my niece – a hollowness grew in my chest. How had I missed the storm brewing behind those eyes?

    I stared at Carrie, my mind reeling. This girl – barely out of college – had orchestrated a murder with the cold calculation of a seasoned hitman. And I’d been blind to it all, chasing after low-hanging fruit and missing the fruit in front of me.

    “It wasn’t enough to kill him, was it?” I asked, my voice gravelly. “You had to pin it on someone else.”

    Carrie’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Eli Price was perfect,” she said, her tone chillingly matter-of-fact. “I chased him and Miguel and waited for Eli to fight back. He picked up the tranquilizer rifle and came after me.”

    “Except I showed up,” I offered. “Why did you shoot Eli?”

    “He was pretty convincing in his dumbass manner,” she snapped. “You were buying it up.”

    “Jesus, Carrie,” I muttered, running a hand through my thinning hair. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The lives you’ve ruined?”

    She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “I did what I had to do. For my family.”

    Family. The word hit me like a sucker punch. My sister’s face flashed through my mind. What would this do to her? 

    “There’s always a choice,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Always.”

    Carrie’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to fight for every scrap of happiness you get.”

    I reflected on her words. I was fighting my whole career and bumping up against a wall. Now, I had another wall to face.

    The weight of my badge hung heavy – metaphorical now, but no less weighted – pressing down on me. Duty warred with self-preservation, and I understood whatever I chose next would change everything.

    I reached over to comfort her, a gesture of support for family. Carrie pulled back. I watched her carefully, my old cop instincts kicking into high gear. Her eyes darted left and right, seeking an escape route. 

    “Carrie,” I said, keeping my voice deep and steady, “let’s talk this through. There’s still a way—”

    She bolted. 

    One second she was there, the next she was a blur of movement, darting between the shadowy animal enclosures.

    “Carrie!” I shouted, my feet already pounding the pavement after her. “Stop!”

    My lungs burned as I sprinted down the dim path. When did I get so old? The zoo was a maze of twisting walkways and looming exhibits. Somewhere, a monkey shrieked, as if mocking my wheezing pursuit.

    “This isn’t going to end well for anyone!” I called out, rounding a corner. My knees creaked in protest. “Just stop and we can figure this out!”

    The path ahead forked, and I hesitated for a split second. Left or right? In that moment of indecision, Carrie vanished like a magician’s assistant.

    “Shit,” I muttered, choosing left on instinct.

    My footsteps echoed off concrete as I ran past empty food stalls and shuttered gift shops. The air was thick with the musky scent of animals and the cloying sweetness of popcorn gone stale. It was like chasing a ghost through a carnival funhouse.

    I slowed to a jog, straining my ears. The zoo had gone eerily quiet, as if every creature was holding its breath, watching the human drama unfold. My heart thundered in my chest, drowning out any subtle sounds that might betray Carrie’s location.

    “Come on, Carrie,” I called out, my voice echoing in the empty zoo. “Let’s not drag this out. Neither of us wants to spend the night playing hide and seek with the lemurs.”

    Silence answered me. I took a cautious step forward, every sense on high alert. The stakes were too high for mistakes. One wrong move and this whole situation could turn into lion show without a tamer.

    As I inched forward, I couldn’t help but think: when did my life become a bad episode of Wild Kingdom meets Law & Order?

    A flicker of movement caught my eye; a shadow darting between the elephant enclosure and the reptile house. Bingo.

    Rounding the corner, I caught sight of her silhouette in the moonlight. She was running full tilt, her blonde hair streaming behind her like a comet’s tail.

    “Stop!” I yelled.

    Then luck intervened and Carrie hit a patch of water leftover from the nightly cleanup. She slipped and fell headfirst into a wall. I caught up with her, rolling once before coming to a stop. I found myself face-to-face with my niece, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance.

    I reached for my gun and raised it.

    “I don’t want to shoot you,” I exclaimed, begging her to give up. “But I will if you run again.”

    She stared at me, breathing heavily, and looking like a cornered cat.

    “Carrie,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “you know I have to turn you in.”

    The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. I could feel the conflict raging inside me. On one hand, justice demanded that Carrie face consequences for her actions. On the other, the scandal would tear my family apart. My sister would be devastated; her daughter at the center of a murder.

    Carrie must have sensed my hesitation. “Please, Uncle” she pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears. “You can let me go. We can forget this ever happened.”

    For a moment—just a moment—I considered it. Then I thought of Dantry. His life snuffed out because of her actions. I thought of Miguel and Eli, one nearly dead and the other nearly framed for murder.

    With a heavy sigh, I reached for my phone. “I’m sorry, kid,” I said, dialing the number from memory. “Some things are bigger than family.”

    As I waited for the call to connect, I caught Carrie’s eye. There was no anger there anymore, just a resigned sadness. I felt it mirrored in my own heart.

    “This is Stone,” I said when the dispatcher picked up. “I need officers at the zoo. I’ve got a suspect in custody for the murder of Tom Dantry.”

    The flashing blue and red lights pierced the darkness, casting eerie shadows across the zoo’s deserted pathways. I watched as two officers led Carrie away, her head bowed and shoulders slumped. A cocktail of emotions churned in my gut—relief that justice would be served, sadness for the mess we’d all have to wade through.

    “You did the right thing, Stone,” Detective Winters said, clapping me on the shoulder.

    I nodded, my throat too tight for words. As the patrol car pulled away, I muttered, “Doesn’t make it any better.”

    With the excitement dying down, the zoo settled into an unsettling quiet. I found myself wandering the empty pathways, the events of the night replaying in my mind like some twisted highlight reel.

    Passing the warthog exhibit, I chuckled darkly. “At least you fellas get three squares and bars between you and your problems.”

    The horned pigs ignored me, probably used to the ramblings of night guards and zookeepers.

    I paused by the elephant habitat, leaning against the railing. “What a goddamn mess,” I sighed, rubbing my face. “How the hell am I gonna explain this to Mary?”

    The thought of my sister learning about Carrie’s involvement; it made my stomach turn. But as I stood there, surrounded by the ambient sounds of nocturnal animals, a strange sense of calm washed over me.

    “One step at a time, old man,” I told myself, pushing off the railing. “You’ve weathered worse storms.”

    As I made my way towards the exit, I couldn’t help but feel like I was leaving more than just a case behind. A chapter of my life was closing, but damned if I knew what the next one would bring.

    I stopped at the zoo’s main gate, my hand resting on the cold metal, then turned to face the darkened zoo, its silhouette a reminder of the twists and turns this case had taken. 

    I thought about how I had landed here, the ups and downs of my career and the challenges of remaining relevant in a world that forgot about you about as fast as a speeding mustang. The cool night air filled my lungs as I took a deep breath. I couldn’t help but chuckle, a mix of exhaustion and dark humor coloring my thoughts.

    “Maybe,” I mused aloud, “this is exactly what I needed. A kick in the pants from the universe.”

    As I spoke the words, I felt a familiar fire ignite in my gut. It was the same determination that had driven me through countless cases, the unwavering resolve that had defined my career as a cop and now as the head of zoo security.

    As the first hints of dawn began to color the sky, I straightened up, rolling my shoulders. I turned back to face the darkened zoo, its silhouette a reminder of the twists and turns this case had taken. “Whatever comes next,” I said aloud, my voice firm, “I’ll face it head-on. No backing down now.”

    For the first time in years, I felt truly alive. Ready to face whatever came next.

    “Hell, maybe I’ll write a book. ‘The Day the Zoo Went Wild: A Memoir by Torely Stone, the Zoo Detective.’”

    As I walked to my car, each step felt like a step towards a new chapter. The road ahead was uncertain, but I was ready to navigate it with the same grit and integrity that had brought me this far.

    “Time to face the music,” I said, starting the engine. “And hope it’s not a sad funeral march.”

    With one last glance at the zoo in my rearview mirror, I pulled away, ready to write the next page of this unpredictable story called life.

    The End


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  • The Spill of Sangria Blood: Dances With The Devil

    Part Three: The Spill of Sangria Blood

    (Torely Stone continues to investigate the death of Tom Dantry by interviewing suspects Jenna Shaw and Rachel Holt. He also comes face-to-face with the killer and pays the price as he dances with the devil in the third part of the novella The Spill of Sangria Blood.)

    Dances with the devil

    The Kokosia Zoo was a sensory overload on this balmy Saturday afternoon. A discord of shrieks—both human and animal—assaulted my ears as I shuffled away from Spinnakers in the middle of the zoo. My nostrils were assaulted by the pungent cocktail of sunscreen, cotton candy, and eau de elephant dung. 

    Everywhere I looked a veritable menagerie of humanity that rivaled the actual zoo inhabitants. Frazzled moms pushed strollers like battering rams, their exhausted expressions a stark contrast to their spawn’s sugar-fueled mania. I narrowly dodged a sticky-fingered toddler on a rampage, his harried mother in hot pursuit.

    “Trevor, no! We do not lick the penguin enclosure!” 

    I snorted, earning a dirty look from Trevor’s mom. Sorry, lady. Your kid’s probably building immunity or something.

    As I meandered past the flamingo pond, I saw a gaggle of single men prowling the pathways. They strutted about like peacocks, eyes darting from animal exhibits to any female that looked vaguely unattached. One bold specimen sidled up to a young woman peering at the warthogs.

    “Hey there. You really like those little guys. Wanna grab a coffee and talk about… warthogs?”

    I cringed at the awkward pickup attempt. The woman’s polite but firm rejection was almost drowned out by a nearby lion’s well-timed roar. 

    Oh to be young and stupid again, I thought to myself. After all my experiences, I still was trying to prove something. I emphasized with the guy and thought about my own bad timings. A lot of failures, with the end of my sheriff career at the top of them. Why is it that no matter all the good you do, you’re only remembered for the failures?

    Dantry’s death had me back in the thick of things. Maybe solving this would land me into real police work? So far, I had no clue about the killer, but “Project Atlas” was pointing me to a motive. What was Dantry hiding and who was involved?

    Jenna was a possibility and so was Rachel Holt. But just because they were women, didn’t mean they weren’t involved. I needed to go over that list in the “Project Atlas” folder. As soon as Winters’ searched Dantry’s office and put it into evidence.

    The lush vegetation lining the walkways provided a brief respite from the my thoughts about the case. I paused beneath a towering eucalyptus, its distinctive aroma mingling with the salty tang of the nearby Pacific. A gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming jasmine, a stark contrast to the earthy musk emanating from the primate enclosures.

    As I continued my walk through the zoo, with its mix of humanity and nature, I couldn’t help thinking that the peacefulness was a far cry from the events of last night. And I wondered if things had settled down or if more monkey business was on the way.

    Winters and crime scene techs were going through Dantry’s office when I showed up to make sure he’d secured the “Project Atlas” folder. He waived for me to join him. Jenna Shaw also was in the room rocking in place and holding a brown day planner.

    “Jenna has something that ties you to Dantry,” Winters reached for the planner. He pointed to an entry. “Looks like you and Dantry were going to meet regarding Project Atlas.”

    I read the entry for myself: “Meet Stone. Discuss Atlas termination.”

    “I have no idea,” I handed back the planner to Winters. “Maybe he planned to bring me into the loop.”

    “Jenna thinks you met with Dantry and didn’t like what he told you. Gives you a motive,” Winters intimated and Jenna agreed by nodding.

    “First off, me and Dantry would have to meet, which didn’t happen. And secondly, I was drinking mojitos when he was killed.” 

    After being shot at and chasing the killer, I was in no mood for Winters’ acting like a jackass. “Let’s go down this safari trail; a better question to ask is where were you Ms. Shaw?”

    Jenna Shaw turned white. “I was home… I went to bed… I had nothing to do with the murder!”

    “You told me Dantry and you were in a relationship.” I threw that little tidbit out to turn the table. Shaw turned fuming mad and beet red.

    “I told you that in confidence,” she shrieked. “You had no right!”

    “I suppose you can provide an alibi for the time of Dantry’s death?” Winters scrutinized Jenna’s face waiting for an answer.

    “Just what I told you: I was home.”

    “My assistant Carrie can back me up on my schedule and whether I met with Dantry or not.” I offered. ”Which sounds a whole lot more than what you’ve got Ms. Shaw.”

    “Dantry came over… and we had a fight. But I didn’t kill him!” Shaw insisted.

    “Sounds like you had motive Ms Shaw.” I caught Winters’ eye and he nodded.

    Jenna Shaw glared at me with the penetrating eyes of a cobra. Winters handcuffed her arms behind her back and led her out of the office. At last we had someone who might have the means for Dantry’s death. If we had motive, was another story. We had to find out the answers when Winters questioned Ms. Shaw.

    After I left Dantry’s office, I wandered down to see Rachel Holt. The head veterinarian was readying to leave her office.

    “Mind if we talk?”

    Dr. Holt’s fingers were fidgeting with the stethoscope around her neck, her eyes darting around the room like a caged animal looking for escape.

      “Dr. Holt,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension. “You and Dantry had some disagreements recently, didn’t you?”

      Rachel’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting mine. “I… we had professional differences, yes.”

      “Professional differences?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Would these ‘differences’ have anything to do with an expansion of the zoo?”

      The color drained from Rachel’s face faster than water from a leaky bucket. “How did you-“

      “I’m head of security, doc. It’s my job to know things.” I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

      Rachel’s shoulders slumped. “Dantry… his expansion plan focused on breeding endangered species without regard for genetic diversity. It was all about profit, not conservation. I couldn’t stand for it.”

      “Project Atlas was just a plan, right?” I offered to Dr. Holt. She was puzzled.

      “Is that what he was calling it? I never heard the name. He only told me about his plan a few weeks ago.”

      Either she knew more than she was saying about “Project Atlas” or she was clueless. I nodded, filing away the information. Dr. Holt might be hiding something, but her passion was genuine.

      Dr. Holt’s assistant rushed into the office. “We need you. A giraffe is hurt.” Without saying goodbye, Dr. Holt left faster than a gazelle.

      No matter. Winters returned and I caught up on the attack at the Chimpanzee House. Three people stood out; Eli, Miguel, and the fast fellow who led me on a chase all over the zoo before vanishing.

      “Miguel’s going to live and Eli needed some stitches,” Winters said.

      “Why were they hanging out with the chimps?”

      “Turns out they were doing some sleuthing on their own,” Winters explained. “They recognized arguing and thought it might be the murderer.” 

      “And the dart guns?”

      “Eli says he grabbed one in the veterinary office behind the chimps for protection,” Winters stated. “Sounds like they needed it.”

      I pondered what Winters told me.

      “We aren’t any closer to solving this.”

      “Well, maybe Ms. Shaw can fill in some cracks.”

      Jenna Shaw sat alone in the interrogation room as Winters wandered in with the “Project Atlas” folder and a cup of coffee. He offered the cup to her as I watched them through the observation window.

      “Do you want an attorney?” he asked.

      “No. Nothing I say will connect me to Dantry’s murder.”

      Winters started with some basic questions that led to Shaw’s fight with Dantry.

      “What was the fight about?” Winters quizzed Shaw who tapped her fingers on the metal table. She offered nothing.

      “Let’s talk about Project Atlas, shall we?”

      A sharp intake of breath.

      “I don’t recognize what you’re talking about,” she replied, her voice wavering.

      Winters chuckled darkly. “Cut the crap, sweetheart. You and Dantry were more than just colleagues, weren’t you? What got you so mad you killed him for it?”

      “I didn’t kill him. Although I wanted to.” Shaw shouted. “He was never going to leave his wife… so I ended it.”

      That didn’t make sense. Dantry was a bachelor. I was sure of it.

      “You sound like a woman scorned,” Winters scoffed. “I suppose you’re going to tell me now you just amicably ended it?”

      “Yes. And then he left.” Shaw replied. “We were supposed to go to the ballet. I still had the tickets, so I went alone.”

      This was new information and took the wind out of my sails.

      “You can prove you went to the ballet?” demanded Winters.

      “I met up with Dr. Finkle and his wife Mary. We stayed for the performance and then had drinks. I didn’t get home until after 1.”

      Winters left the interrogation room and I met him in the hallway.

      “If the Finkle’s confirm she was with them, she has an alibi.” Winters declared. “With an alibi we’re back to square one.”

      “Listen, Dantry was a bachelor,” I pressed. “So, I can’t figure out this mysterious wife.”

      Winters shrugged and went into the interrogation room to release her.

      As I stood alone in the hallway, all I could think about was we were at the beginning. All we had was a folder covered in lipstick and perfume, and two female suspects who looked like they didn’t do it. 

      Shaw had said she and Dantry were having an affair and he wasn’t going to leave his wife. My friend Dantry was a bachelor, so Shaw related another thing that didn’t make any sense. The only thing that did make sense was Dantry was dead and we were no closer to pinning the killer. 

    The sheriff’s office was nothing like I remembered; it was cleaner and modern. The waiting area resembled a hotel lobby. The walls, once adorned with the weathered faces of sheriffs past, now gleamed with sterile white paint. A single photo hung in solitary splendor – an official-looking photo of Sheriff Shelton. All the deputies behind the counter were new and no one recognized me. So much for legacy; no one would pat me on the back if they wanted to.

    I absently pushed through the glass doors into the bright afternoon sun. The courthouse square spread out before me, a patchwork of old and new. The sandwich shop where I’d spent countless lunch breaks still stood, but now it was flanked by a trendy coffee bar and a vegan bakery. Next to them was the park where I often ate my sandwich. 

    Uneven brick paver stones made up the streets around the courthouse square and they were just as worn. I took it all in; lawyers, defendants, and family walked around me conducting business with the county. I couldn’t help but think; they all were animals out on furlough waiting to be put back in their cages.

    “Speaking of cages,” I laughed to myself. “I’d better get back to mine.” I stepped off the curb and reached for my fob to enter the car. 

      That’s when I sensed it – a faint whistle cutting through the air. Before I could react, something pinged off the car roof. A dart clattered to the sidewalk, its needle glinting in the sunlight. Stunned pedestrians quickly moved away. I turned in the direction of the shooter. I didn’t see anyone except a line of people in front of the sandwich shop. 

      I dropped to the ground, my aging knees protesting. Another dart whizzed past, lodging itself between the car’s window and door frame.

      “What the hell?” I growled, scanning the rooftops for the unseen assailant.

      My heart pounded in my chest as I army-crawled to a nearby planter. The paver bricks bit into my palms, a grim reminder that I was too old for this crap.

    I ducked close to the paver bricks. They were warm. That’s my last full memory as a sharp sting bloomed between my shoulder blades. The warmth spread out across my body as the sedative dribbled from the tip of the dart. Heat waves billowed up around me.

      “Ah, shi-” I managed to slur before darkness claimed me, leaving me sprawled ungracefully in front of the courthouse like a discarded mannequin.

    I groaned and pried my eyelids open, faced with sterile beige walls closing in around me. My head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and then run over by a steamroller. My tongue was fuzzy and swollen as if I had swallowed a kiwi. Blinking away the fog, I made out three figures hovering over me: Winters’ craggy face, Carrie’s concerned frown, and… wait, was that Mary?

      “What the hell?” I croaked, my voice raspy. “Sis, what are you doing here?”

      Mary leaned in, her familiar scent of lavender and worry washing over me. “Oh, Torely. Thank God you’re awake. I came as soon as Carrie called me.”

      I tried to sit up, but my limbs fell like lead weights. “Heard what? Last thing I remember, I was…” The memory slipped away like sand through my fingers.

      Carrie placed a gentle hand on my arm. “You were hit with a tranquilizer dart. You’ve been out cold for hours.”

      “Jesus,” I muttered. “Someone’s taking this game of darts way too seriously.”

      Winters stepped forward, his face grim. “This is no game, Stone. The killer is closing in, and they want you six feet under.”

      I attempted a sardonic laugh, but it came out more like a wheeze. “Well, aren’t I the popular one? And here I thought my charm was wearing off.”

      Mary’s eyes welled up with tears. “Torely, please. This isn’t funny. You need to let the police handle this investigation before it’s too late.”

      I took a deep breath, wincing at the dull ache in my back where the tranquilizer dart had struck. “Look, the fact that someone’s trying to take me out means I must be close to cracking this case. They want me dead because I’m a threat.”

      Carrie’s eyebrows knitted together, her usual cool demeanor cracking. “That’s not exactly comforting, boss. You’re not invincible.”

      “Trust me, I’m well aware,” I muttered, gesturing to my current state. “But think about it. Why go to all this trouble if I wasn’t onto something?”

      Winters crossed his arms, his weathered face a mask of concern. “It’s a hell of a risk you’re taking, Stone. We can’t even tell who we’re up against.”

      I managed a wry smile. “That’s the thing about mysteries, detective. You don’t know until you do.”

      Mary grabbed my hand, her grip tight. “Torely, please. Find another way.”

      I squeezed her hand back, my throat tightening. “I wish I could, sis. But sometimes, you’ve got to dance with the devil to catch him.”

      The room fell silent again, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. I could feel their worry, their fear. Part of me wanted to give in, to walk away and leave this godforsaken case behind. But I knew I couldn’t. Not when I was this close to unmasking a killer.

      “So,” I said, mustering as much bravado as I could, “who’s up for a little game of cat and mouse?” Though I was not entirely sure which one I was at this point.

    (Part 4 Coming November 7, 2024)


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  • The Spill of Sangria Blood: The Lions Sleep Tonight

    The Spill of Sangria Blood: The Lions Sleep Tonight

    Tom Dantry lie twisted and battered in the lion enclosure. Orange feathers stuck out of his right eye and the back of his head balanced on a metal tip poking through a bloody hole in his skull. If Dantry saw it coming, it likely didn’t matter. The tranquilizer dart scrambled his brain before breaking the skin on the back of his head.

    From the wound, a stream of sangria blood pooled on the bricks. I figured the killer exhaled heavy into a blowpipe or the dart ripped from a gun overfilled with compressed gas. Either way, this murder ended the life of my good friend Tom. I intend to find the killer and shove the dart gun, point first, up his ass.

    My name is Torely Stone. My job borders on the mundane. I hear guest stories, patrol the zoo grounds, and write citations for dogs off their leash. Murder does not make the top of the list of a zoo security guard. Apart from the gruesomeness of seeing Tom’s dead body, I am pissed.

    As a former Diablo Valley sheriff, I have a reputation for obtaining justice. Something I plan to do even if it takes giving up my retirement job to find the killer.

    (more…)


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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing – Part Nine

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing – Part Nine

    Trash and debris covered the floor leading to the lab. Nurses, guards, and other people covered in blood and gashes poured out of rooms lining the hall. We stumbled passed them and ran toward the center of destruction.

    We turned a corner. I noted a considerable rip running through the center of the lab like a giant claw hammer had torn through the building. Pieces of paper, debris, and insulation floated where the ceiling used to be. I now went to the central area, where all the computers and Dan-clones had been standing.

    On the far end of the room, Colonel Cox slumped against the wall and a smudge of blood showed where his head used to sit on his shoulders. There was no way he wasn’t dead.

    The chest of the clone I once thought was my brother Dan, sat on the floor next to the colonel’s body. Wires, tubes, and fluid dripped out of the bottom. He had no legs. With an outstretched hand he motioned for me to come closer.

    “He wanted me to kill you,” said the clone. “Use our collective mind to alter the weather and destroy you. I couldn’t do it. Our creator never wanted us to do evil. We only were designed…”

     The clone stopped whirling and his mouth froze before he could finish his sentence.

    “Designed to end a drought, time rain storms to optimize the growing season, make it possible to enjoy a snowstorm on Christmas Eve,” said a familiar voice.

    I turned away from the clone and Colonel Cox to face a haggard version of my brother Dan. He had a bandage around his waist and was standing on crutches next to the nurse from earlier. Behind him, a gigantic cube rotated on a wall screen.

    I wondered if it was really my brother.

    “Come here, brother. Let me look at you,” said Dan. I hesitated. “Oh, I’m real,” he said. “I’m not one of these clones.”

    “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you come home?”

    “I wanted to. But I came back less of myself,” he said grabbing my arm. “I wandered around until I could pull it together. By the time I finished college, everyone believed I was dead. I decided it was better that way.”

    “Mom would have taken you back in dead or alive,” I said. “Your death hit her real hard.”

    Dan pulled me closer. My brother was very much alive.

    “I understand none of this. Messing with the weather, tearing up Pretty Prairie, all those people dead. It makes no sense,” I said to my brother.

    “I never wanted that,” said Dan. “Colonel Cox forced me to develop my invention into a weapon. In the lab, I wanted to make it rain,” he said. I stood feeling both happy and confused.

     “It was a fluke. One minute I was tinkering at a university in Wisconsin and the next thing I was heading up an Air Force weapons program here in Kansas.”

    “How did you get to be so smart?” I asked. The Dan I loved was more of a jock than a scientist. “Facing death in the desert changes your perspective,” he said. “And being forced to kill your little brother changes everything back.”

    “We’ll, I’m glad you didn’t kill me,” I laughed. Charlie chimed in. “Me too. I don’t think rotting in a grave would have fit into my life of ignorant bliss.”

    We all laughed.

    I sat at the counter in the diner in Pretty Prairie waiting for Sally to refill my coffee. Farmers overfilled the place and my favorite waitress didn’t seem to notice me as usual. She was too busy handing out plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. I thought about reaching behind and filling my cup myself.

    The bell on the door of the diner rang out and in slipped Dan and Charlie returning from filling the car with gas and stowing our things. Dan slapped me on the back.

    “Best be going brother.”

    “Yeah, after I refill my coffee.” Sally made it to my end of the counter holding the pot of black gold and looking as sassy as ever.

    “Think you can give me a go cup?”

    “Will you finally get the hell out of here?”

    Charlie laughed. “I don’t think she ever liked you.” Sally smiled. “Oh, I like him. About as much as I like liver and onions.”

    She handed me a Styrofoam cup and touched the back of my hand. A soft, flirtatious goodbye.

     Just the way I like it.

    THE END

    Jake Rutledge returns in Jake Rutledge and the Acadiana Gator Treasure

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing

    Looking for a new adventure? Walk around in Jake’s shoes.https://t.co/OOkd9VBHyh pic.twitter.com/FvqK46Ra8w

    — wordsmithholler (@wordsmithholler) July 11, 2018

    If you enjoyed this story, consider reading Cindy’s Sin, the first novelette I wrote after my stroke.


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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing – Part Eight

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing – Part Eight

    That’s when I recognized it. They dressed Dan in a pure white cloth suit covering up a series of tubes, wires, and circuits. He wasn’t my brother! He was just an android made to resemble him.

    “Why does he look like Dan?” I roared at the colonel.

    “He was a good as anyone,” Colonel Cox answered. “We needed a face of a person already dead. It didn’t matter who. Your brother popped up.”

    In fact, all the scientists in white coats looked like Dan. There must have been six or seven.

    “Why so many?”

    “The whole thing is a secret experiment,” said the colonel. “Your presence puts a crimp in the plan. We will have to figure out what to do with you.”

    Colonel Cox stared at me and in our locked eyes I realized he would not let me go back to Pretty Prairie.

    “What have you done with Charlie?” I realized I hadn’t seen my friend since the fight outside our cell. Even if he was with me, I didn’t expect he was going to just walk out of here either.

    “He’s entertaining my guys,” said the colonel. “He’ll be along soon.”

    Dan rose from his chair and walked over to the colonel. He looked calm, and I wondered if his protest with the flag had been an act.

    “I feel much better now,” Dan told the colonel. “I remain in your service.”

    “What is he, a slave?” I shouted at Cox. “The only reason I’m in this mess is because I believed him when he said you were trying to turn the weather into a weapon. Plus, he looked like my brother.”

    “Amazing what a little tuneup and a computer wipe can do to make you more than willing to press on,” said the colonel. “Are you seeing what’s going on here?”

    Actually, I did, and it made me mad.

    “We will keep testing this weapon and no one will be the wiser,” said the colonel. “Guards. Take him and clean him up. I don’t want to see him again.”

    The guards pushed me all the way down the hall, passed the weight room, around the corner through another narrow hallway, until we arrived at an infirmary where I found Charlie. He was sitting on a raised gurney with a nurse swabbing blood off his right eyebrow.

    “It looks like you took it harder than the other guy,” I said. Charlie winced as the nurse dabbed on some iodine. His left arm was in a sling, and he resembled a torn raggedy doll.

    “I don’t know why they are fixing you up,” I said. Charlie frowned, and I was honest with him. “I get the distinct impression they plan to kill us.”

    “No, we will not kill you,” said a blue-shirted sergeant. “We will let a tornado do that.” He laughed. Charlie and I did not join him. In fact, it was the first time I recognized fear in Charlie’s eyes. “Tornado?”

    “Yeah, we’re testing the weather machine on you next.”

    “We’ve already had it tested on us, so we’re good,” I retorted. The sergeant just looked at me failing to laugh. He did not see the irony of my previous experience in Pretty Prairie. He turned away to talk to the other guards.

    “Well, we should look at you too,” said the nurse in a pleasant tone like she was stitching up two farmers rather than sending a couple guys to their doom.

     “I’ll need you to show me your arm, hon.” I waited and hesitated. She smiled. I did as she told me and watched the airmen in blue.

    The biggest guard bummed a cigarette off the littlest, and they stood in front of a door talking. They reminded me of that cartoon where the alpha dog prances around with the little dog yapping and jumping after him. The little guy was trying too hard to laugh at the big guy’s jokes.

    The nurse placed an electrode on my left temple, my neck, my arm, and my chest. She had also dressed Charlie with wires coming out of his shirt. I suppose she was prepping me for the science project they planned to conduct on Charlie and me.

     When she had finished dabbing my cuts, the nurse took the gauze and iodine and danced around the guards. She smiled, pretended to laugh at the airman’s joke, and hurried out the door.

    That left me and Charlie alone. I felt rotten and Charlie appeared worse.

    “So what’s the plan? Drive us out into the prairie, tie us up, and wait for the tornado to pound us without a weather warning?” Both guards looked through me and went back to laughing.

    “Seriously. You don’t think we’re going with you without a fight?” I taunted them with the hope they would come closer.

    The airman weighed in. “Yeah, we will strap you down like guinea pigs and wait for the storm. Now sit over there and be quiet.”

    “I hardly think you can hold me down, let alone the little guy.” The small guard bristled at my taunt and started toward us. “Look dude, I’m the one with the gun.”

    He had a point. Charlie and me only had our fists and each other. Still, I thought I could take him. I inched toward the guards. Charlie stood with me. Both of the guards reached for their holsters and told us to stop.

    “Come one step closer, and we’ll shoot,” said the big guy. It appeared he hoped we would rush them.

    “Look. We’re tired, we want to go home, and we’re done with today,” I said. “If you want to shoot us, do it. Shooting us would be a relief.”

    The larger guard laughed and the little guy joined in. I didn’t care at this point. The whole mess wore me out.

    “Sorry, I got you into this.” Charlie shrugged his shoulders and stood taller.

    Before we could start a fight, the room shook, and we fell to the floor. Dust and smoke rolled into the room and a massive explosion took out the lab.

    I jumped up, and reaching through the dust, grabbed Charlie by the arm. Together we leaped over the guards and ran toward the lab.

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing

    Looking for a new adventure? Walk around in Jake’s shoes.https://t.co/OOkd9VBHyh pic.twitter.com/FvqK46Ra8w

    — wordsmithholler (@wordsmithholler) July 11, 2018

    I you liked this story, check out Cindy’s Sin, the first novelette I wrote about a girl traveling to Las Vegas to get revenge.


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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Seven

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Seven

    “I am not sure he is my brother, and I am not sure he isn’t my brother,” I was talking to myself and Charlie didn’t care. With Dan missing, I felt absurd once I heard the words come out of my mouth. Charlie just let me ponder it out.

    “He resembles him, but he doesn’t act like him,” I pondered. “And you know Charlie, he knew nothing about the time I smacked him in the head with my front forks. I don’t think he’s my brother.”

    “Well, then who is he?” asked Charlie who bounced in his seat as we passed over a pothole.

    Before he was dead, I started asking Dan some questions. The motorcycle accident came up as a little test of his memory and my brother failed. He knew nothing about being hit in the head with my front forks. He failed a few other memory tests too. Such as the time we tried to set the farm ablaze with fireworks.

    None of this matter though because Dan didn’t want to walk down memory lane. He was still on a mission and before I could call him on his memory lapses, he told me about his plan to get back to the base, capture the weather machine, and keep the Air Force from turning it into a weapon.

    He had pulled himself off the IV stand and was still alive. He knew the Air Force would come for him, and he was just waiting.

    “I will power down for a few minutes and get some rest,” Dan told me before shutting his eyes. A few minutes later I found the contacts. Dan never moved an inch. Then the Air Force came, Dan escaped, and Charlie and I were going to the brig.

    I caught Charlie up to the present.

    Dan had told me he had to get back to the base, sneak into the lab, and take away the weather machine. I presumed he meant to destroy it, but everything was happening so fast I forgot to ask questions.

    “The guy isn’t dead?” Charlie questioned my story. We were riding with five of the airmen, and they had already warned us to “shut our mouths.”

    “No. In fact, he should be right behind us.”

    I lost track of Dan when I had to run outside to stop World War III. Before I left the diner, I convinced Sally to attend to him and do whatever he wanted.

     I now wondered if that was such a good idea. Sally counted on tips to round out her check, and she might have put off any field trips to the base. I glanced at my watch.

    “Just after two,” I muttered to myself. “Sally should have finished the lunch rush.”

    “What part of quite don’t your get?” an airman asked. “Why are you talking to yourself?”

    I glared at him, but didn’t open my mouth again until we rolled into the base. Charlie looked at me and nodded.

    We have been friends a long time and Charlie seems to understand my impromptu plans by a simple glance. He rose from his seat and lunged at me.

    “You no-good bastard,” Charlie screamed. “This is your fault.” He threw a punch, which landed on my chin. I fell backward. As I scrambled to climb up, two airmen wrestled Charlie and pinned him against a tire.

    “What the hell is going on in here?” Colonel Cox stood at the back of the van waiting for an answer.

    “These two haven’t followed a single command since we left Pretty Prairie, sir,” said an airman. “And now this one wants to fight.” He grabbed Charlie by the shoulder and stood him up.

    “Put them in the brig until we can sort them out,” said Colonel Cox.

    Three airmen shoved me and Charlie into what amounted to a chain-link cage. We each had a bed and a blanket. Where the bathroom was, I didn’t know, but I wished I had asked.

    They searched my pockets and took away the contacts in the medicine bottle. I hoped they would think it was only aspirin. We were now alone.

    “The weatherman is alive?” said Charlie.

    “I think he has a few more lives left to live,” I said as I looked around the cages for a way out.

    “Nice punch. I was hoping they would take us right to the brig.”

    “Anything else I can do?”

    “You can look for a way out of here.” Charlie looked around his cell and the warehouse they locked us in. I couldn’t find a door.

    “I’m guessing that guy isn’t your brother?”

    “Pretty sure. He favors him though.” I had decided there was no way the weatherman was Dan.

    “You keep saying that like you hope it’s true.” I thought Charlie made a point. Losing Dan with no trace in Afghanistan had left me and my mom and dad lost. It was too much to hope for a happy reunion.

    Still, the weatherman lacked some of Dan’s features, and he had no memory of some of our key exploits as kids. Memory loss? I think I was putting too much faith in hope.

    “We need to figure out how to escape.” I looked around the room and tried to push way the fence or twist around the posts. It was sturdy. Someone stretched the fence trying to kick through it. I pulled at the chain link and tried to stretch it more to free it from the post.

    “We don’t have a lot of time,” I said. “Charlie, find a camera and see if we’re being watched.”

    I turned over my bed to see if I could tear off a leg and use it to rip the fence. The aluminum leg bent off after a little effort. I used it as a lever to pull away the fence from the post.

     I made progress and soon one of the fence wires broke. I tore into it with more fury and snapped a few more wires. Now, I could grab the fence and pull it away from the post.

     A small hole formed against the wall. I pulled on the post trying to bend it in half. Soon, I could push my head through the hole. Two wiggles and I was outside the cell.

    “You made swift work of that,” said Charlie. “Now get me out.”

    I used the bed leg to work on breaking the lock holding Charlie in. It was a tough go, and the lock refused to break. Out of the corner of my eye I followed an arm reach around me and drag me to the ground. An airman had me pinned. I observed a hidden camera behind our cell.

    “Well Charlie, you missed a camera,” I said pushing back at the airman. I saw a second airman throw Charlie back into the cell. He bounced back from the fence, and judging from the look on his face, he knew he had messed up.

    The airman slammed me into the cell. He wrenched my arm around my back, as a steady stream of blue-uniformed sentries filled the space between me and Charlie.

    They rushed in and brought Charlie out holding his hands up. They had us and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

    I pulled away, and the guard held me as another brought down a baton in a swift thrust to my shoulders.

    I let out a groan and everything went black.

    I woke up in a huge computer room with various people twisting knobs, staring at screens, and recording measurements on tablets. The guards had taken off my cuffs, and I rubbed my sore neck. In the center of the room, nurses were intent on taking care of Dan, the weatherman.

    They cleaned his face and from his neck down he wore a white jumpsuit. The clothing appeared too white, and I thought they wrapped him in a cloud. I recalled the storm, the torn up clinic, and Dan going off to the Middle East.

    “I thought you were dead,” I said to Dan who acted like he did not hear me. I would have asked him again if Colonel Cox hadn’t boomed from behind me.

    “Oh, he’s very much alive.” The colonel walked around to block my view of the weatherman. “Only he’s not your brother.”

    I sort of knew this already although I still hoped it was Dan.

    “Well, you had me fooled.”

    “You know,” said the colonel. “We never even considered the two of you might run into each other.”

    “It is a mystery,” I said. “I suppose you’ve cloned my sister too?”

    “I wouldn’t call it cloning.” I scanned the room as the various scientists turned toward me.

    “More like artificial intelligence.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing

    Looking for a new adventure? Walk around in Jake’s shoes.https://t.co/OOkd9VBHyh pic.twitter.com/FvqK46Ra8w

    — wordsmithholler (@wordsmithholler) July 11, 2018



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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six

    The airmen formed up like an F-16 to storm the diner. I kept tabs on them from the street as they poked, prodded, and shoved the farmers. Shortly, the biggest airmen came out.

    “He’s not here.” I figured he missed the storm cellar. “Try the basement,” I said.

    Colonel Cox pointed at the diner and the soldier ran back inside. I saw Sally point to the floor and a line of blue airmen disappeared into the basement.

    After ten minutes, the big guy came out again.

    “He’s not in there.”

    “What are you pulling?” Colonel Cox said. He didn’t give me the impression it thrilled him.

    “He was lying down there earlier,” I poked around the room. “He couldn’t have gone too far.”

    “Why don’t you show us.” The Colonel pushed me from behind toward the diner.

    I led him and the rest of the Air Force’s finest down the stairs into the basement. The farmers watched us pass, and each one was whispering. I’m sure this was the most excitement any of them had in a long time.

    The basement was full of shadows and it took a while for my eyes to adjust. I thought about the contacts in my pocket and made sure they were still there. Through the dancing light, I could recognize Dan’s outline where I had left him.

    “He’s right there.” I’ll admit I had a snarky tone in my voice. I was thinking how stupid were these people?

    “You mean this pile of clothes,” an airman said. He surprised me.

    I rushed over to where Dan had been bleeding an hour ago and where I found him lying on the table. There was nothing but his clothes.

    “Someone had to take him!”

    It made little sense. He was lying right there and now there was nothing.

    “Detain this asshole and make sure he doesn’t disappear,” Colonel Cox said. “Funny guy. Maybe a trip to base can help clear your memory. Or, you can sit in the brig and think about it.”

    The giant airman grabbed me from behind and pinned my arms. I tried to run. Too bad he was stronger and faster. We climbed out of the basement with me in handcuffs.

    “Jake, what’s going on?”

    “Just a quick field trip to see what kind of steak they serve in the Air Force,” I said. “How do you like yours? I’ll bring one back.”

    “Don’t count on it, miss,” Colonel Cox said. “He’s likely to be locked up for a while.”

    They shoved me into the van and I found Charlie waiting in the corner for me.

    “They got you too?”

    “Yep,” Charlie said. “Those airmen don’t like a pitchfork in the ass.”

    “Dan’s gone,” I said. “Apparently, he wasn’t as dead as I thought.”

    The truck lurched forward, and we moved toward the air base.

    “We’ll it looks like we’re on our way,” I said. “We should be able to find figure all this out in no time.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Five

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Five

    It never fails. Sally took longer than I thought she needed to pour the coffee. I was mad and irritated. I looked around at the faces in the diner. I was so happy everyone could gather at their usual breakfast spot and act like nothing had happened. They were all assholes.

    I held me head. I felt like someone made me suck on an exhaust pipe all night long. And my brother Dan, the weatherman, lay below us dead in the basement. Not that anyone around here seemed to care.

    Charlie buttered a biscuit while I tore open three packets of sugar into my coffee. I stirred the black syrup, and I cracked my neck. I let out a long yawn and tried to recover from my malaise.

    The farmer next to me tore into his breakfast with his knife and fork like he was ringing a bell.

    “Those good eggs?” I asked.

    “Yes.”

    “You know there’s a dead guy below you, right?”

    He stopped in mid-bite and slowly brought the fork to his plate. He struggled to see past his boots and the floor.

    “No. I didn’t.”

    “Don’t worry about it,” I said. There was no point in going into it. “Any damage out at your farm?”

    “No. Not a thing.” He turned to gaze at the broken clinic. “Nothing like here.”

    He scrutinized the pile of brick, wood, and plaster where the clinic once stood. Smoke rose from the rubble where I spent last night watching a storm crush the walls, suck out the sheriff, and toss an IV stand into my brother.

    As I thought about the events of last night, a stream of four Air Force trucks rolled through and blocked the view.

    I motioned to the Charlie. “What are they doing back?”

    A patrol of blue airmen jumped off the trucks and marched over to the clinic. The airmen picked up debris and hauled it to a waiting Colonel Cox. A sergeant barked orders while he supervised. Every once in a while the colonel would stop the airmen hauling the debris. A man in a white coat joined him, and they to an interest in pieces of rock and sheet rock covered in frost.

    “Come on Jake. Let’s go look.” Charlie said from the open door.

    “You go on ahead Charlie. I need to figure out something first.”

    A bell chimed as Charlie left the diner, and he ambled over to the crowd watching the soldiers work. A few farmers stayed close to their eggs and couldn’t care about the crowd. I walked over to the storm cellar door and disappeared under the floor.

    Sally glanced at me before returning to cleaning the counter. She moved to help a few more customers eating their eggs. I thought to myself another day in tornado alley. Nothing, especially a tornado, could stop the folks of Pretty Prairie from moving on.

    Dan lay silent in the basement. I fumbled for a light switch and a fluorescent flickered to a shade of pale green. I inched over to the body and uncovered his face. He resembled a dead version of me.

    In the clinic, he told me he was my brother. The nose matched mine, but one thing bothered me. In the clinic, his eyes were brown. When I was a kid, Dan had blue eyes. So I decided to see.

    I lifted the lid of the right eye and it stared out into the room. The color of the eyeball was unnatural. Then I solved it. He was wearing contacts!

    I wet my finger with my tongue. It didn’t bother Dan that I was sticking my finger in his eye. He didn’t move, and so I was not as careful moving his head.

    I held the contact to my face and peered through the lens. There was a faint pattern around the edges. It was too light and I couldn’t be sure what I was seeing. I stuck the contact in.

    You know, thinking back, if others were around, I might have paused before sticking a contact lens from a dead guy in my eye. Something like that would not go unnoticed. I revolved around to make sure I was alone. The thought of wearing a dead man’s contact made me squeamish. Still, I needed to know what was going on, and lying there, Dan was in no position to offer any clues.

    I blinked a few times to settle the contact in place. It was a hard glass contact lens — not one of those plastic films — and it felt weird. I had to blink a few times to make sure it stayed in place.

    I opened my eye wide and focused on the far wall until a diamond pattern in four colors surrounding a center purple dot appeared. I blinked again to secure it in place.

    The pattern didn’t go away. I decided the glass contact was a key.

    The storm cellar door slammed shut, and I jumped away from Dan. The door swung up as I pulled the contact out of my eye.

    “Jake, you better get back up here. Charlie has started a riot.” Sally stood at the top of the stairs looking down into the basement. “Jake, you still down there?”

    “I think Charlie can fight for himself. Why would he start a riot?”

    “The airmen are trying to take the sheriff away and his family doesn’t want him to go. They say it’s for his own good. But the sheriff is a bloody mess, and it’s disrespectful to be taking a dead man away from his family.”

    “Just a sec.” I lifted Dan’s left eye and revealed another brown contact. It had a similar pattern. I lifted it up and cradled it in my left hand. Now I was juggling two contacts in my clinched hands and had nothing to carry them in.

    “Jake, it’s getting bad out there.” Sally insisted. I thought how funny it was how everyone needed to jump when she called.

    I set both contacts on Dan’s chest and searched for something to keep them safe. All I found was Dan’s wallet, an envelope, and an aspirin bottle buried deep in his pocket. I put both contacts in the bottle, shoved it and the other stuff in my pocket, and ran up the stairs.

    I spied a small riot taking place in front of the diner with soldiers on one side, farmers on the other, and Charlie holding them off with a pitchfork. He was standing beside a gurney covered in cloth and a leg sticking out. I assumed it was the body of the sheriff.

    I recognized the 4X4 and the football players from last night who were standing by the body like defenders. They were in a crouch and trying to defend the body as airmen closed in.

    An older woman comforted a crying girl while trying to hold back a militant third woman who was yelling at Colonel Cox. With no one to stop him, Charlie had set off his last stand. I rushed out the diner and into the street.

    “Whoa. Why do we seem to have the beginnings of World War III starting in the streets of Pretty Prairie? I think we need to calm down.” No one heard me.

    I never have trouble jumping into a fray and taking charge. As a kid, I was the one on the playground who set all the rules. My dad always told me to appear to be in charge and everyone else will follow your lead.

    Except this fight. This time, the colonel believed he was in charge. All I did was give him a new target.

    “Well, well, well, if it ain’t the guy who thinks my flag-burning scientist is a long, lost brother. Did you have a swell reunion?”

    I could taste the sarcasm and the whole crowd settled down to listen.

    The colonel pointed at the destruction of the clinic. “Your brother caused this, and he’s the only one who can put the genie back in the bottle.”

    I shook my head from side-to-side. “No, I don’t see how a flash of nature has anything to do with my brother.”

    “Oh no? Well, your brother not only created the tornado that tore up your clinic, but he scheduled it so he could escape. Now where is he?”

    I scuffed my shoe and glanced back at the diner. Colonel Cox followed my eye.

    “The weatherman’s in the diner. Go get him,” Colonel Cox bellowed. The airmen ran towards the diner.

    I thought about Dan’s silently lying in the diner and wondered how he went to Afghanistan a soldier and came back a climate-controlling mad man.

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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