Blind Date

by Pearce Hansen

He slowly came back to himself, the pill fog gone for the first time in years it seemed. He looked slyly around at the dayroom, keeping his face as slack as it had been the moment before, looking at all the other medicated zombies he lived with. He didn’t bother trying to analyze why things were clear again, he was in the moment, assessing. Proud rage threatened to spill past his mask though: all the ward attendants appeared bored, they joked with each other as they wandered carelessly among all their dayroom charges. How dare they feel safe around him? Where were the restraints they’d honored him with when he first came here, the blood of his last victims still fresh on his hands?

He smelled Doctor Leeds approaching. He allowed his mouth to hang open, let his eyes go unfocused as his old nemesis studied him; there was a young woman next to him in a staff uniform.

“He’s still in there somewhere, I’m sure,” Doctor Leeds said, his voice deep and gloating. “Modern pharmacology has brought the old dragon low.”

“Yes father,” the uniformed girl said quietly, looking at the floor.

“Don’t ever call me that here,” Doctor Leeds hissed. Leeds's uniformed daughter winced, and then the two were gone.

He sat there patiently for the rest of the day, allowed himself to be herded along with the rest of the shamblers to the meds-locker just before lights out. Doctor Leeds daughter handed him his pills; the bored attendants made sure he swallowed the horse-pills, made sure he didn’t hide them under his tongue. He joined the parade to the dormitory, and climbed onto his cot, irritated that he wasn’t even confined to a padded cell. He waited for the pills to take effect, reflecting that his charade would become real soon enough, that this day’s lucidity would be gone soon enough. This latest dose of meds would take him away into the haze again, this time forever. No escape, after all.

But later he lay awake in the night, eyes closed as he listened to the mumbling dreamers surrounding him, studying his continued clarity. ‘Modern pharmacology,’ Leeds had said – how it must have pleased Leeds to disrespect him, to make light of him by using pills as a cage. What was happening here? Why wasn’t he doped up anymore? He was suspicious, this couldn’t possibly be to his benefit. Once could mean a weak batch of anti-psychotics, but this ongoing lucidity had to mean enemy action. The good Doctor’s “profiling” had put him in here in the first place. Perhaps Leeds was trying to trick him. But it didn’t matter, the old needs were back in full force now – even if he was serving another’s plan, he had no choice but to go forward.

He uncoiled from his cot, grateful that the long inactivity had not stunted his physicality. He floated though the dorm-room to the staff-office in the corner, mouth open to improve his hearing as he tried to psychically locate whoever was on night duty. He reached the office and snuck a peek around the half open door. The attendant lay there next to the desk, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. A spilled cup of coffee next to the white clad corpse, the brown liquid still steaming and acrid smelling as it puddled on the linoleum. There was no blood, which was frustrating – but the door to the day room was open, and excitement overpowered his irritation as he glided through.

The main security office looked unmanned, and he hurried so as to overpower the security personnel that he knew would be there, gleeful to be in the zone again for the first time in ages. But both the rent-a-cops were dead too, some one had gotten to them before him and stolen all his fun. This time there was blood however: they both had extra mouths carved across their throats, those twin bloody smiles calling out to him in old bon homie. His nostrils flared at the delicious copper smell of their uncongealed blood, still spreading from the death wounds.

“Hah!” he sighed softly to himself as he picked up the bloody butcher knife from the desk, as convenient placed as if it had put there solely for his benefit.

Outside the main entrance, a car was waiting with the engine running. He was around to the driver’s side in a blur, the butcher knife poised to address the driver. As he readied to insert the blade, he reflected on just how fortunate the driver was – he wouldn’t be able to take as much time here as he liked.

The blade stopped as he recognized Doctor Leeds’ daughter. The girl acted as if she didn’t even notice the blade.

“You want to look in the trunk,” she said, as she pressed a dash button. There was blood on her hand

He moved to the open trunk. She was at his mercy, he could reach her before she could drive away – he was strong again. And now, looking down at Doctor Leeds hogtied in the trunk with his mouth duct-taped shut, he felt even stronger. Strong enough to kill God, strong enough to rape the Devil. It felt good.

Leeds's daughter was standing next to him now, looking down at her father. “After you’re done with Daddy, I’d like it if you come home and take care of my Mom before you decide what you’re going to do with me.”

He looked at the girl, and she looked right back, meeting his eyes without fear, as if they were family. He reflected that her being out of the car meant that he wouldn’t get any blood in the car’s interior – she’d deliberately made it easier for him.

He smiled down at her father, at her gift to him. “Deal,” he said.
Then, as she watched and as Leeds stared up at him with screaming eyes, he bent over and got to work.

Bio:Pearce Hansen is the author of STREET RAISED, available now at Amazon.com. He assures the reader that he's not the twisted mutant freak his writing would seem to indicate. Check out his MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/pearce_hansen

THE CASE OF THE LOST VALENTINE

by Sandra Seamans

The door banged open, smacking the wall and nearly breaking the ancient frosted glass window with my name painted on it. I looked up and shook my head. Dames. They always have to make an entrance.

She stomped into my office, a Marilyn Monroe hairdo framing a face wrinkled by a lifetime of living, ready to pour out her sob story. Just once, I'd like to get through a Valentine's Day without an old broad on a crying jag.

"Can I help you, lady?"

"Are you Mr. Cupid? Horatio T. Cupid? Private eye?"

"That's what the name on my door says."

"And are you the Cupid who was working out of this office back in 1944?"

"That'd be me. Why?"

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"Lady, we're talking sixty plus years here. Between the turnover in this office and my age, I'm lucky to remember who I am. And I gotta trust that you didn't look like an AARP Marilyn Monroe back then. You were probably still in rompers and a bib."

"I was sixteen and in love with a soldier named Billy Sikes. He was stationed in France and I hired you to deliver my valentine to him. I just found out that he never got that valentine. He never knew how much I loved him, so he married some little French hussy."

"Look, Lady. There was a war going on and I was trying not to get my butt shot off. Between dodging grenades and gunfire, a few valentines were bound to get lost in the cracks. What do you want, a refund?"

"A refund? You destroyed my life and you think I've come here for a refund? Billy Sikes became one of the richest men in the world while I was sitting at home on my Daddy's porch waiting for him to come sweep me off my feet. You ruined my life."

"Jeez, Lady. I can't guarantee every romance is gonna work out. I ain't no miracle worker you know."

"That's not what you told me back in 1944. You promised me that Billy would love me forever, you swore on your mother's grave. Now, he's dead and I've wasted my entire life waiting for a man who forgot all about me."

"Well, that's the breaks, Lady."

"That's all you've got to say?"

"Yep, that'd be it."

I eased back in my chair and waited for the dame to break into the routine crying jag. Instead, she stands up, pulls a cupid's bow from her purse and shoots me through the heart with an arrow. The lady and me will be getting married this afternoon. She says she’ll be damned if she’s going to her grave an old maid.

From the case files of Horatio T. Cupid, private eye. Soon to be retired and living in sunny Florida with his new bride.

END

Bio: Sandra's stories can be found in "The Ex Factor Anthology", Mouth Full of Bullets, and Crime and Suspense.

MANTRAP

A Bo Fexler Short Story
by Clair Dickson

"Don't I know you from some where? I said softly, forgoing my normal, careful enunciation that's the product of speech therapy.

"Excuse me?" asked the man I just sat next to at the bar, looking me over. I gripped a glass and offered a shaky smile.

"I know you from somewhere. I remember you," I pressed again. "Victor?"

"Yeah . . . I don't . . . remember you. I'd think I would." He stopped to linger on the view my deep V-neck shirt allows.

"Bonnie. You don't remember me?"

"No. I'm sorry. Maybe we can try again," he suggested. "Where do I know you from?"

"Weren't you at Jane Kelsey's wedding?"

"Yeah. My girlfriend was a friend of hers from work."

"Girlfriend?"

"We broke up. That's why I'm here." He put his arm around me.

I leaned in, breathing on his shoulder. "You're still hot," I told him.

"So are you."

I nodded to the bartender. "Could I get another?"

He set another glass of completely watered-down alcohol in front of me. I don't drink when I'm working. "So, Victor, what you been up to since I last saw you?"

"Working construction still. I'm a concrete worker." Our faces were less than an inch apart. For a moment, I held it there, our breath mingling before I pulled away and took another drink.

"What happened with the girlfriend? Marie, wasn't it?"

"Haven't seen much of her."

"Why'd you break up?" I asked, putting my hand on his thigh.

"Wasn't working out."

"That's too bad." I turned my face to his and he moved closer. He moved in for the kiss. We were both out of breath when I broke our lips apart.

"Wow." He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

I didn't give him the chance to catch his breath before I kissed him again fiercely.

"Come back to my place," he implored.

"Seems kind of fast."

He kissed my neck. "We don't have to move fast. We can take it real slow."

"All right," I breathed. "I'll follow you home." Though little lost puppy's are less dangerous.

"Are you sure you can drive?"

"I'm fine. I haven't had that much."

Victor paid our tabs. The night air had a chill to it, typical of early March. A short caravan later, Victor and I arrived at his apartment. I stopped him on the stairs for another kiss before we went inside.

Once the door was closed, I backed him up to the couch and sat him down simply by suggestion. Then, I knelt on the couch straddling him.

"Are you naughty?" I purred.

"Oh yeah," he breathed.

I touched my lips to his lower lip, but didn't kiss his mouth. "Yeah? Ever done something really bad? I mean-- like . . . real bad."

"You like that?"

I responded with another teasing kiss.

"Okay, um-- how bad?"

"You ever kicked someone's ass for your girlfriend?" I took off my shirt.

"Of course."

"Tell me about it." He hesitated until I placed his hands on my breasts.

"Ah-- how about this? When Marie and I were breaking up, I mean-- I knew it was coming-- I started seeing this new girl. Karen said she was afraid of her friend finding out because her friend would out her to Marie. She said she was meeting her friend for dinner that weekend. So, I waited for her friend and jumped her in the parking lot."

"When was this?"

"Huh? Oh, last month."

"Week of February sixth."

"Yeah . . . I think so. How--"

"Read it in the local paper." I took his wrists in a pincer-grip. "Tell me more. Tell me about how you jumped her," I continued in a soft, low purr.

He wet his lips. "All right-- she was leaving the restaurant. Her car was parked out back. I went between these two cars--"

"What kind of cars?"

"Uh, one was a red SUV. The other was a blue pick-up truck. When she passed the SUV, I grabbed her and pulled her behind it, so no one could see."

"Tell me what her face looked like?" I whispered into his ear.

"Couldn't really tell. She had a green and yellow striped scarf wrapped around her face. It was cold that night. Come on-- let me touch--"

"You pulled her behind the SUV, punched her in the head, threw her on the ground and kicked her in the head and chest until she blacked out-- and you never saw her face?"

The information had a sudden calming and sobering effect on him. "Yeah . . ."

"Well, here you go," I announced, taking a photo from my back pocket. "Now you can see her face."

"Marie? She said she got in a car wreck--"

"The only thing I don't get," I put in as I stood and shrugged back into my shirt, "is why she'd tell you that."

"I-- there's gotta be a mistake. I wouldn't have beaten Marie up."

"Victor. Why'd she say it was a car accident?"

His head snapped to a level position. "Because she was cheating on me. She said she was out of town visiting her sister. Maybe she lied because she was still here, just with someone else."

"You know there was someone else?"

"That's why we broke up."

"Not over your lover?"

"No. But what do you care?"

"My name is Bo Fexler. I'm a private investigator. Marie hired me to find out who beat her up that night in the parking lot," I explained simply.

"So, what made you think it was me?"

"It's always a lover-- current or former. And I already knew it wasn't her ex."

"You seduce him too?"

I gave him a flirty little smile as I let myself out of the apartment with a gust of cold air.

BIO: Clair has been delighted with her recent string of success that places her number of accepted stories at 15. She's been published in Mysterical-E, Powderburn, MuzzleFlash, Crime & Suspense, and Flashot. She writes in the free minutes she has as an alternative high school teacher.

BUT JACKSON-SMYTHE IS DEAD!

by Robin Hillard

Norman Jackson-Smythe is dead!

William knows he is dead. When Jackson-Smythe collapsed, William was in the washroom and he waited until the man stopped breathing before screaming for help. At the hospital doctors confirmed the diagnosis, the undertaker had no qualms about putting the body in a box and the office manager arranged a wreath.

William went to the funeral. When the curtain dropped in front of the coffin he knew where Jackson-Smythe had gone: into the hellfire flames of the crematorium oven. Jackson-Smythe is dead!

But here he is, marching up the street as if he never had that heart attack.

It is not Jackson-Smythe. William forces his legs to move, one in front of the other, carrying him closer to the thing ahead. Is it a ghost? No way. Would a ghost be walking down the street on a Saturday morning?

As it comes nearer the figure will lose its shape and the body will have a stranger’s face. For sure.

But the closer it comes, the more it looks like Jackson Smythe.

“You’re dead!”

William realises he spoke aloud when a young woman pushing a stroller shies away with a jerk that makes her child scream.

The familiar throat-clearing cough! William leaps sideways through the nearest door, a bakery. He moves to the back of the shop and stares at shelves.

“Two loaves of wholemeal, please,” the voice of Jackson-Smythe demands, as it always had, a healthy bread.

Dead men don’t eat bread!

William waits till footsteps leave the shop – surely a ghost would move more quietly?

He swings around. Peers out the door and sees saw the customer’s back, a back with the shape of Jackson-Smythe, crossing the road. The woman behind the counter wrinkles her nose as if, like William, she smells a charred meat pie.

He goes straight home and bolts his door. Can dead men walk through doors? He switches on the radio but over the announcer’s voice he can hear footsteps. The heavy tread of an overweight man.

“No one is tramping about outside,” he tells himself. “No one is coming through the door.” He turns off the radio.

It is stuffy with everything closed, and the room smells like burnt meat.

William is nervous for the next few days ... but as time passes he forgets his fear. And things are going well in William’s world.

He is next in line for Jackson ’s post. Now he is in charge of ordering supplies and can implement his own system. So he often stays back late, to deal with matters that need privacy. Sometimes, in the empty rooms, he thinks he smells scorched steak.

Then one evening in the delivery bay, while he is talking to a contractor, there is an awful stench.

“Pphew,” his companion sniffs. “Bit of a pong, eh?”

A crunch of gravel behind them - footsteps of a heavy man? William turns. An overweight back is moving away. AWAY. It stops beside a car. An old black sedan like the one that had been parked, every day, in the space reserved for Jackson-Smythe. The car Sheila drives, now her husband has no need of it.

Ghosts do not drive!

It must be a member of staff, someone who stayed late, going home in an old black car.

The engine starts. The car turns and moves up the lane, heading for William.

He pulls his companion out of the way as a familiar bent antenna scrapes his face.

“Bloody car!”

“Wot car?”

William splutters an explanation and the contractor shrugs. “It’s the stink,” he says. “Leaking gas. It’s getting to you mate.”

It must be leaking gas.

Jackson-Smythe – his body reduced to crematorium ash - could not – possibly - be driving his old car.

William accepts a bundle of notes and gives, in exchange the signed order form. He will be glad to be home.

But there in front of his gate is the old, black car.

Ghosts do not drive! It has to be Sheila.

She is waiting on the porch. “I was just passing. I thought I would drop in.”

Just passing? In the cul-de-sac? He has to take her inside.

“Careful aren’t you,” she says as he bolts the door.

“I was sort of hoping you would get in touch.”

She prowls around his sitting room, “You know, it was sort of funny, you being there – when Normie died.”

Normie?

“He was a bit of a stick. Not that I didn’t love him,” she says, “I did. But he’s gone.”

“Has he? I mean,” William adds quickly, “sometimes, at work, it’s hard to believe...”

“I know. That’s what I feel – as if he’s still around. And I’m sick of being on my own. Phoo,” she sniffs, “Your neighbour’s having a barbecue!”

The neighbour is a Buddhist – vegetarian – but William nods. He has to get rid of the woman.

“I’ve got a meeting,” he says, and pushes her outside.

He can’t face staying in the flat himself. He drives around for a couple of hours, parks for a sleep and is woken by a torch flashed in his face. He swears he is sober, and his breath proves him right.

“I was a bit tired,” he says, “I’ve been working late.”

The young policeman sniffs, grumbles about “that smell” and walks away.

William wrinkles his nose. A stench like burnt roast pork. He opens the window to get some air, and the car swerves dangerously. It veers across the centre line - he pulls it back.

It swerves again. Something is pulling the wheel. He struggles to get control of the car as it moved, purposefully, into the oncoming lights - the huge, round eyes of a lorry.

William screams as he feels the crash and the scorching heat of a burning car. There is a stench of petrol and the acrid smell of burning flesh.

Bio: Robin Hillard has taught in Australia, England, and Canada. She has published a book of poetry and had stories and poems published in a number of print magazines and ezines.

ALL THE GOOD AND TENSIONS

by Clair Dickson

The women were ecstatic to see each other again after nearly fifteen years apart. They had lost touch when Bev's husband accepted a transfer to the far side of the state. Eventually, the logistics of hauling increasing numbers of small children across the distance resulted in both women seeing each other less and less, until it was never.

The years passed, phone numbers and addresses changed. It was not that they had forgotten about each other, only that their lives no longer allowed them time, they thought, to continue that friendship. Until one day, when Bev answered the door to find a flower-delivery man on the doorstep with a large, basket of varicolored flowers.

Tucked in between the petals was a little card that ultimately raised more questions than it could answer in the 2 inch by 4 inch space inside. The card claimed the flowers were from Bev's long-misplaced friend, Carrie Lusson. And it included Carrie's phone number.

When Bev called Carrie, both women wept at the mere idea of meeting up again. They lived closer now, and their children older. In fact, Bev's kids were all in high school. Carrie's youngest was eleven. The two women met for lunch, happy and anxious. But they were as they remembered each other.

Then the question was asked. A question that was pushed by curiosity-- innocent enough. Except, the most innocent questions tend to lead to the ugliest answers.

Bev, wiping her mouth with a napkin, leaned in and asked how Carrie managed to find her. She went on to explain how she had looked for Carrie, but been unsuccessful at it.

Carrie was flabbergasted. After all, it was Bev who had called her first, seemingly out of the blue. As Carrie tried to stammer out her astonished questions, Bev fumbled in her purse for the card. She handed Carrie the flower-basket card. And Carrie quietly explained that it wasn't her handwriting and that she never sent any flowers.

Curiosity got the better of the women, and they decided to investigate the origins of the flowers. It was easy enough to wade into, like a gradually sloping shoreline. They called the flower shop and were told that Gerry Lusson had purchased the flowers.

Carrie was pleased that her husband would do such a thing. In fact, as Bev was putting her cell phone back into her crowded purse, Carrie explained how Gerry had been doing lots of nice things for her like that. It was to make up for having to work long hours lately.

Bev, an embittered divorcee who looks upon all men with hardened eyes, was skeptical of those long hours. She suggested that while Gerry was away for many hours of the day, it was not necessarily because he was working.

The enjoyment Carrie felt about the flowers, candy, and reunion her husband had given her wilted faster than a week-old bouquet. She hadn't seen much of Gerry, but she had seen the increase in money they'd gotten from his recent raise. Or recent alleged raise. But Carrie, oddly, wanted to trust her husband.

So, with that damning evidence, Bev offered to pay the tab of a private investigator. It was her opinion that Carrie know for certain. Even after learning that her own husband had been involved in three affairs besides the one Bev caught him in the middle of, Bev thought it better to know than to wonder. Carrie wasn't gung-ho on the idea; however, she was more of an "any way the wind blows" sort of person. And Bev was blowing.

Obviously, the investigation started with surveillance of Gerry Lusson. For several weeks, Gerry was tailed in one of several cars by a PI with a collection of library books and nearly endless patience. So long as someone was paying the tab, the surveillance could continue indefinitely. However, Carrie became increasingly upset and finally called of the investigation. She had enough. She had a large collection of photographs and written reports that were conclusive.

The investigation had revealed that his day at the office began just before nine. He left for lunch with a few pals from the office: three men and one woman. All returned from lunch just a few minutes short of an hour. Most of the office folks left after five, with the cars clearing from the lot like a horde of ants after picking the picnic blanket clean. The remaining dozen cars left an hour or so later, leaving two for security. Gerry's only deviations were the times and the ties. He had a collection of ties that suggested he was considered difficult to buy gifts for.

His day ended between six and seven. On his way home, he usually stopped at the same place for a coffee and a fruity-flavored pastry. He lingered for a few minutes over the drink and Danish before heading home. To his wife. Where things started to get heated. Then he lingered a little longer over his coffee and crumpet. And she just knew he was actually spending a little longer with the other woman whom the PI wasn't smart enough to catch.

The only person at the divorce proceedings several weeks later who was not hurt and resentful was the PI, there to testify on the evidence provided. Evidence that showed, conclusively, that Gerry Lusson did not have any affair. He had been honest and faithful. For whatever it was worth at that point, with the trust broken like a drop-kicked egg carton.

The Lusson marriage was probably broken with the first accusation of wrong doing, planted by Bev when they discussed the origins of an otherwise benign bouquet. From there, the cracks spread until the whole relationship was nothing but painful shards, and Gerry and Carrie Lusson stood before a divorce lawyer with lists of demands.

At least Gerry learned he should never do anything as nice as buy gifts or flowers or, worse, help his wife reunite with an old friend.

THE END

BIO: Clair has had a dozen stories accepted for publication in the past year. She writes in the vast amounts of free time she has as an alternative/ adult high school teacher, or when she puts a movie on in class. She's been accused of being the meanest, hardest teacher and she's okay with that.