Fantastic Detectives

by Dean Wesley Smith

  Fiction River: Fantastic Detectives

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith

  Series Editors

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Editor

  Table of Contents

  Foreword: Just Great Stories

  Dean Wesley Smith

  Introduction: Fantastic Writers

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Case Cracked

  Joe Cron

  Living with the Past

  Dayle A. Dermatis

  All She Can Be

  Karen L. Abrahamson

  Under Oregon

  Kara Legend

  Role Model

  Kevin J. Anderson

  Death in Hathaway Tower

  Ryan M. Williams

  Trouble Aboard the Flying Scotsman

  Alistair Kimble

  Containing Patient Zero

  Paul Eckheart

  Canine Agent Rocky Arnold vs. The Evil Alliance

  Juliet Nordeen

  An Incursion of Mice

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  They’re Back!

  Dean Wesley Smith

  About the Editor

  Copyright Information

  Foreword

  Just Great Stories

  Dean Wesley Smith

  As a mystery writer, I loved the idea of Fantastic Detectives when it got attached to a volume of Fiction River back in the planning stages of this series. Just the idea excited me, and then Kris, the editor of this volume, pointed out to me that one of my major series characters under my own name, Poker Boy, was in essence a fantastic detective.

  No wonder I liked the idea.

  And she told me she wanted a Poker Boy story from me for the volume. No way could I ever say no to an editor (who is also my wife). So in these pages there is a Poker Boy adventure.

  As a professional writer, I know a smash-up of two areas like detective fiction and fantastic fiction takes some practice and a weird mind-set to pull off at any level, let alone at the level of craft that Kris would demand for this volume. She won a Hugo Award, after all, for her professional editing because of her demand for quality fiction in anything she edited.

  When writers focus on such things like “writing a detective story with a fantastic element” or “writing a fantastic story with a detective character,” the writer often forgets that a good story and entertainment for the reader must come first.

  So I was a little worried Kris would find stories for this volume.

  It turned out that I didn’t need to worry. She pulled it off, found the stories, and even wrote a fun one herself for the volume, since she is also an Edgar Award-nominated mystery writer under various names.

  I also liked this idea for a Fiction River volume because of the very title: Fantastic Detectives. That title fits everything Fiction River is about for me. This series of volumes does not allow genre lines or false marketing lines to hold back the writers or the editors.

  From volume to volume, Fiction River plays with genre lines, either purposely breaking them, or more often just ignoring them. Each story stays true to the title of the volume, but not some genre limitation. The only requirement: A quality story.

  Kris and I have both been writers known for crossing genre lines. Sometimes we would change names when we did, other times we would focus a story slightly one side of the line or the other.

  In publishing of ten years ago, that was difficult because of marketing. But in this new world, readers are starting to like more blurring of genre lines. And Kris and I love that.

  We know that by having that as a focus for this series of volumes, and allowing editors and writers to move freely across genre lines when a story demands it, some readers will be surprised by some stories in a volume. Readers often like being surprised. Other reader’s personal tastes won’t allow them to like every story in an issue. We figure that’s fine as well. In fact, we figure only the editor of the volume will like every story in a volume.

  But no matter what, every story will be a quality story, told well, by a professional storyteller.

  And we know this focus is working because after a year now, Fiction River has more subscribers and sells more copies online and in local bookstores than ever. And the sales and subscribers keep growing every month. So something about the focus on quality fiction with no restrictions is working.

  So I hope you enjoy this volume of Fiction River. I sure did. Some of the stories in here are dark, some are light, some are wild, and some are just great stories. All are mystery detective stories in one form or another. And all have a fantastic element to them.

  No genre lines.

  Just great stories.

  —Dean Wesley Smith

  February 6, 2014

  Lincoln City, Oregon

  Introduction

  Fantastic Writers

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Here’s what I knew when we started planning Year Two of Fiction River. I knew I would ask my good friend Kevin J. Anderson for one of his Dan Shamble Zombie stories. I also knew that Kevin, who always does the work of 85 people in the time it takes one to eat dinner, needed to work the story into his massive schedule.

  Dan Shamble is light urban fantasy. So I figured we’d do an urban fantasy issue of Fiction River, but I kept dithering. Urban Fantasy seemed too broad. Zombie stories would kill me (pun intended). Only a handful of people ever write zombies well. Kevin is one of them—um, that is, the people who write good zombie stories; he’s not a real zombie. Not even close.

  So, fast forward to May of 2013, when WMG Publishing’s mighty publisher, Allyson Longueira, started demanding that I commit to a title for Fiction River #9. I was staring down the barrel of an upcoming workshop on the mystery genre in June, and so I said, “Fantastic Detectives.”

  And now for a little history. Dean Wesley Smith and I have taught workshops for professional writers since the 1990s. Throughout all the workshops, we’ve given assignments based on possible anthologies. Sometimes the anthologies were real. (There are many Tekno Books anthologies, published by DAW and edited by folks like Denise Little, Loren L. Coleman, and John Helfers, that originated at our workshops.) Sometimes, those anthologies were just gleams in Teacher Rusch’s eye.

  At a couple of workshops, Dean assigned some fantasy/mystery stories, and those stories tanked. Writers who had Hugo-nominations and literary awards, bestsellers and fan favorites, who attended the workshop somehow couldn’t write about a mystery and a fantastic creature at the same time. (I think the worst one was some kind of Elf Noir, or something.)

  So when I said, “Fantastic Detectives,” and thought of assigning the anthology to my upcoming mystery workshop, I figured I’d get maybe one story out of the entire project. Maybe. One. And I wasn’t even sure about that.

  The final story of the workshop (they had four) was to write a fantastic detective story. And something clicked for these folks. Because I could have used each and every story written. I asked for them, and asked to consider them for Fiction River.

  Some folks forwarded their stories to me. Others sent their stories to markets that I suggested. As I mentioned in the introduction to Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift, I get conflicted between my desires for this publication and my desire to support my writers. If the writer had a story that looked like the start of a great series, I urged them to send elsewhere. Because we’re never sure what genre we have coming up in Fiction River, and I couldn’t guarantee that we’d be able to support a short story series.

  Not every story in the volume came from the mystery workshop. Some, like the tales by Fiction River regular Dayle A. Dermatis and by Writers of the Future winner Pau
l Eckheart were stories I’d seen elsewhere and wanted. And when I asked Kevin for a Dan Shamble story, I knew it had to be paired with one of Dean’s Poker Boy stories.

  In fact, I envisioned the anthology starting with Dan Shamble and ending with Poker Boy. But the best laid plans of Mice and Editors went awry, because Joe Cron blew me away with “Case Cracked.” I think it’s one of the best stories I’ve read. It’s certainly one of the most memorable.

  I had to start with Joe’s Frank Dumpty, which meant shuffling everything around.

  I’d given myself quite a challenge. I think the reason I’d initially balked at calling this an urban fantasy anthology is because as both a writer and an editor, I rarely stick to one genre. And true to form, I didn’t stick here. Nor did I stick to one tone.

  Some stories are lighthearted. Ryan M. Williams’ “Death in Hathaway Tower” is a traditional cozy complete with lemon custard, a murder in the library, and—elves. You know, like Agatha Christie used to do. Joe Cron’s story is hard-boiled. Literally.

  Other stories are quite dark. Kara Legend’s “Under Oregon” deals with the sinister side of family history. Paul Eckheart’s “Containing Patient Zero” deals with a public health crisis that feels incredibly real.

  Several stories mix the dark and the light, like Juliet Nordeen’s “Canine Agent Rocky Arnold vs. The Evil Alliance.” Yes, our viewpoint character is (for the most part) our canine friend, but the problems at the heart of this tale are not easy ones.

  As I’ve done in previous Fiction Rivers, I ease you through the mood changes. Read this volume in order, and I promise, you’ll slide from light to dark and back again. But read out of order, and you get dealer’s choice—and not just because Poker Boy has graced these pages again.

  When Fantastic Detectives was just a glimmer in my editorial eye, I had no idea how wonderful this volume would turn out. I couldn’t imagine the breadth and depth of the stories I’d find.

  I love sharing good fiction with you folks. That’s what Fiction River is all about.

  And our ninth volume is filled with fantastic fiction. Not just because of the out-of-this-world characters and settings, but because of the great writers who’ve shared their imaginations with us.

  I hope you enjoy reading this volume as much as I did.

  —Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  February 4, 2014

  Lincoln City, Oregon

  Introduction to “Case Cracked”

  Fantastic Detectives begins with the ultimate hard-boiled detective story. And the ultimate hard-boiled hero.

  “Case Cracked” comes from the wild imagination of Joe Cron. Joe, like many writers, has held a variety of jobs. He calls them professional creative endeavors, because they’re all one and the same to him. He’s written several novels and many short stories. He has performed on the piano in all types of bands, combos, and orchestras. He’s acted onstage in over fifty theatrical productions. He’s written for the theater as well.

  All of those skills coalesced into this little story about a dark and stormy night on the rain-slicked city streets. A murder, a detective—and the beginning of our fantastic trip into the unknown…

  Case Cracked

  Joe Cron

  The pavement gleamed with the oily sheen of avarice. Streetlights fashioned a weary column down the block, struggling in their losing battle against the dusky haze. The drowsy drips from the gray-worn awning of the nearby diner set the rhythm of the evening. Each waft of the light breeze brought the faint odor of wet greed. This was Magic City.

  My ambling gait broke abruptly when my foot splashed and soaked my sagging black socks. I stepped in a puddle. Couldn’t see it; there was a middle-aged gut in the way. Nothing to do about that when you’re an egg.

  The name’s Dumpty. Frank Dumpty. I’m with MCPD.

  I’ve been a detective a long time. Maybe too long. I’ve seen ugly things in this town. One of the ugliest was two years ago when my kid brother bought the farm. He was on the force, too. Name was Stu, but he had a nickname from making the rounds with a lot of dames. What can I say; Stu was a player.

  Jake Spout, captain at the precinct, kept me out of it. Said I was too close. We argued, but deep down I knew it was the right move by Jake, and with a gargoyle, especially your boss, you pick your battles carefully. Still, I never believed the malarkey in the cover report. The one that hit the press. They said he fell. Yeah, right. Stu was a lot of things, but he was agile as a cat. If he was sitting on a wall in the first place—and I have my doubts—losing his balance was out of the question. And if the king sent any horses or men, I’ll eat my hat. I tried to get my hands on the real file, but it came up conveniently missing. All I ever dug up was that the doctors tried to get him together again, but there was a piece missing. A big chest piece, about a foot across. No patching that. Not even with magic.

  Magic is hard to come by, and expensive. Never mind the name of the city. Magic is what drives this place crazy. When people decide they need it, they’ll do anything to get it. That’s where the problems start.

  Just now, I was making my way to a troll’s place. Nasty part of town, but then it’s a nasty town. Sure, the society types—the elves, nymphs, fairies—have their fancy digs, but the money comes from the backs of the have-nots, and that makes it all nasty to my way.

  The street was an endless string of slums, all in slate gray. Trolls, goblins, ogres. None of them had what you’d call a sense of color. Each door was short and wide, like the tenants, and they all had a single, round window above it. One in five of the windows had glass; the rest were open air. Lots of these folks preferred it that way. The exterior walls were simple panels. No layered siding or shingles or bricks. In the daytime, it was ugly. After dark, even with the streetlamps, it was like trudging through a cave. I’d been here earlier in the day, but finding the same place again was like picking a rock out of a cobblestone road.

  I was in the only outfit I ever wore: black pants, white shirt, brown trench coat, blue fedora. My socks and shoes were plain, black, and now, wet. I had a pistol strapped to my hip. Cops weren’t allowed to use magic. Go figure. Didn’t matter much to me; magic could be unpredictable. I felt safer with a dozen hollowpoints in my Glock.

  The house I was looking for was a crime scene a few hours ago. A troll, Andy Bridgeman, got himself splattered all over his nest. It’s the kind of case that fades away for most cops, almost as fast as it pops up. No forensic evidence, no apparent motive. No leads. It didn’t feel right to me, though. The wife. She kept saying she had no idea how this would happen, but it didn’t make sense. Who needs to off a troll in the slum? In his home? She knew something she wasn’t saying, and she was too nervous to spit it out. Maybe somebody had her scared. Maybe if I could talk to her without so many uniforms around, she’d spill it.

  I chose a door and knocked. It creaked and swung, and behind it was Marge Bridgeman, Andy’s wife. She was about five-two, stocky. Greenish complexion and Neanderthal features, with a unibrow you could use to clean the grill. Not bad for a troll, but she wasn’t my type. She was in a simple, one-piece burlap dress, long enough that I didn’t see much but bare feet.

  “Oh, hello, Detective Dumpty,” she said weakly, stepping back a little from the door. “Won’t you come in?” She used English for my sake, but with a thick accent of Mountain Troll. She sounded like she was coughing on every word, through a mouthful of pea soup. It didn’t help that she’d been crying. I could tell by all the snot coating her chin and the bodice of her dress.

  I stepped inside. It was a typical troll place. Dirt floor. Stench like a combination of dead fish and more dead fish. In the middle of the room, a firepit with a metal rod suspended across it for hanging a pot or roasting. Mostly rocks and small plants along the walls around it, except for one of the back corners, where there was a large, round, flat pile of straw and small sticks. The nest. At the moment, most of the sticks were stained red.

  Marge waved a gnarled, hairy hand at one of
the larger rocks. “Have a seat,” she said.

  “No thanks, I’ll stand,” I said.

  Marge swung the door closed and stood near it, wringing her hands. “What can I help you with?” She was a trooper. With all she’d just been through, she was still polite and putting up a collected front.

  “I’ll get to the point,” I said. “I know you were nervous when we talked earlier. I get it. Lots of cops around, the shock of finding your husband that way. But people don’t get shot up for no reason. If he was just a working stiff like you say—um, sorry about the ‘stiff’ thing, I didn’t mean to—anyway, nobody stands to gain from killing him. Are you sure there isn’t something you didn’t tell us?”

  Marge was staring at the bloody nest. “Not at all. I told you everything I know.” That’s what she said, but the shakiness was still there, and it wasn’t just from grief. She was still plenty nervous to talk about it.

  I cut to the chase. “They threatened you, didn’t they?”

  She looked down and shifted her weight. “I can’t …”

  “Trust me,” I said. “I know the bad guys are scary. I can help you, but I need you to help me. Give me something here.”

  “But … they said …”

  “I know, I know,” I said, “but I can stop this. I can keep it from happening to others like your husband. Give me the chance.”

  Marge looked up into my eyes.

  “You were here, weren’t you,” I said.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I said I found him, but that’s not true. They did it …” she started tearing up, and her voice waivered. It was hard enough to understand her without that, and now it was nearly impossible.

  “They did it right in front of me,” she said. “They said he was too far behind, and they don’t like people getting behind. They said if I told anybody, the same would happen to me.”