Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Larry was not anywhere near as clumsy with a hammer as Pig Eye had claimed. From the looks of Dennis’s head, Larry’s blows had found the mark each time. Thomas thought that Larry must have liked the heft of the hammer as much as Thomas did himself.

Larry was standing with the hammer in his fist, breathing hard and looking sadly at Pig Eye. Mary was on her knees about ten feet away, sobbing, but the sound was muffled and Thomas saw that she had one hand balled into a fist and half-buried in her mouth.

“Hey,” a voice said.

At first Thomas couldn’t figure out who spoke. It was not until the word was repeated that Thomas understood it was Larry.

“Yeah,” Thomas said.

“Pig Eye told me to meet him here.” Larry spoke slowly and quietly, as if he had to think hard to come up with the words, and then was embarrassed to have made a noise at all. “Said to wait till the job got going good. Said nobody’d mind.” He turned from his friend to the woman. “She owe you money?”

“Yeah.”

Larry dropped the hammer and walked over to where Dennis lay. He fished around and found a wallet, drawing from it a raft of bills. He handed them to Thomas. “Here.” He picked up the hammer again. “Go,” he said.

Thomas hesitated, looking at Mary, whose eyes were still fixed on the ground.

“Go,” Larry said. He looked back and forth from the partly built deck to the kneeling woman. “I got work to finish.”

Thomas looked at the money in his hand. He turned to Mary, who watched him with what might have been hope, fresh tears slipping down her face, sure that he would save her. He understood then that that was what she had done for him. Trying to warn him off and then, when he missed the point, not telling Dennis that the guy he really wanted was hiding in the garage. Now she wanted him to return the favor.

Larry’s eyes had an unfocused glaze to them, the hammer red in his fist. “Go on now,” he said quietly.

Mary didn’t say anything in words, just with her eyes. Thomas looked at the money again, folded it, stuffed it in his pocket. Then he walked to the side of the house and down the driveway towards the street.

The Cat Came Back by Kathryn Cross

A Canadian and a writer of children’s stories, the author of this tale prefers to have her work published under a pseudonym. We can tell you, however, that she is the wife of a former member of the Canadian armed forces and has lived in Germany, Holland, and Israel. Her past employment includes stints as a baker, a medical research assistant, and a historical interpreter. Her EQMM debut is her second piece of adult fiction; the first appeared in Country Woman magazine.

* * *

“Why not come along,” Catherine coaxed. She ran her hands down that black sheath dress she wore. The one that made her look so hot. “You might have a good time.”

“Why not,” I agreed, because of the dress, knowing I’d be bored six ways to Sunday.

So, here I am, at Roger what’s-his-face’s little soiree, surrounded by the geeks, freaks, and arteests that are Catherine’s friends and make up this oh-so-stimulating crowd. I take another swig of the useless drink Roger’s bartender poured me and slip an unattended bottle of rye into my jacket pocket so it will be close to hand.

Catherine’s on the opposite side of the room, caught in a little cluster of admirers. Everyone calls her Cat. She has the green eyes, sleek body, and graceful moves. Everyone thinks Cat belongs to them. Richard, there, for example, the guy she works for at the art gallery, her esteemed big boss. He’s got his arm locked around her waist. And if that plump hand of his strays to her tight little butt, I swear I’ll break all five of those professionally manicured fingers.

I catch Cat’s eye; she flashes her Cheshire-cat grin. Then she extracts herself from Richard’s grasp and weaves through the crowd toward me.

I start whistling beneath my breath. Whistling the tune to “The Cat Came Back.” You know, that song about the cat that couldn’t stay away. Cat recognizes the tune, all right — she’s heard me whistling it before — and her smile widens. When I open my arms, she snuggles with a purr into my embrace. I’m the one, now, who’s got his hand on her butt, the only one whose hand has the right to be there. Cat’s mine. She belongs to me, to nobody else. I clasp her to me so the length of her body presses against mine, her breasts, hips, her thighs—