At the western edge of Cape Cod, in the grandest bedroom in the sprawling residence known as Gray Gables, Frances Cleveland couldn’t stifle the rising sound of her own screams. Between pains, she rested. The late morning breeze drifted across the lawn from Buzzards Bay, fluttering the lace curtain and cooling the sweat on her forehead.

Even at this moment, Frances felt grateful that Grover chose to spend summers away from Washington’s heat, away from the prying public. Here, in this secluded haven, she needn’t fear strangers hovering near the windows of the Executive Mansion for a glimpse of their president—or, more likely, of his wife and daughters. She could concentrate her fears on her pains and pray for the safe birth of her third child, in the same way she had for her first and again for her second. Frances expected from experience that her suffering would soon recede, replaced by the joy of motherhood. She did not know that before the day was over, her bodily misery would end, yielding not to joy but to overwhelming terror.

The previous February, after sensing a flutter beneath her gown while greeting a crowd of visitors at a reception, Frances guessed the baby would be her third girl. Practiced at keeping confidences, she never mentioned her prediction to her preoccupied husband. When she gave birth to another girl, the blathering journalists would have their say. They would try out their jokes about the president’s little harem. Most days, Frances ignored the journalists. Most days, she trusted Grover to love each of his babies.

The image of a trio of girls was far from Frances’s mind now, as she suffered in bed. She cried out, too loudly. Dr. Bryant reminded her that she’d survived labor pains before. “Don’t you dare say that again,” she said, in a shrill tone that surprised her.

At last, Frances heard the newborn’s cry, faint but lovely. Dr. Bryant chuckled while he clamped and cut the cord. “Mrs. Cleveland, should I bring the president upstairs to see his new daughter? He’s pacing on the front porch. Once he sees this one—she’s beautiful—he won’t regret it’s not a son.”

“Yes,” Frances said, with the strongest voice she could muster. A girl, as she’d guessed. For an instant, with the last of her contractions, she’d ignored her prediction and hoped for a boy. Now, she didn’t linger on that momentary weakness of character. She let a surge of pride swell over her, above the exhaustion. She’d done it. Again.

Frances turned to the local midwife hired to assist. “Tell the steward, his name is Sinclair, to get Ruth and Esther. I want my daughters to see their new sister.”

Frances raised herself a few inches, enough to see the midwife slip into the hall. The woman returned and gave Frances a nod. The girls would come shortly. Frances sank back and watched the midwife wipe down the infant and swaddle her. She did look beautiful. “Here,” Frances said, crooking her arm to make room for Marion, the name Grover chose that would serve for a girl or a boy. The same name as a town across Buzzards Bay, where many of their friends lived. Frances appreciated Grover’s decision to buy an estate on the outskirts of a different but nearby town, Bourne. The family could escape Washington’s heat and busybodies.

And escape the threats.

Hours earlier, Frances gave thanks for the breeze blowing through the open window, reminding her that Gray Gables was perfectly located on a point overlooking the Bay’s east side. But now she blocked the sound of wind and waves. straining to make sense of other sounds, to hear what Grover would say about a third daughter. The doctor scurried downstairs. The midwife remained stationed over the bed, tending to Frances and crooning softly to the baby. Frances ignored the woman, mindful only of the voices wafting in through the window. First, low tones as the doctor talked to Grover. They were friends. Dr. Bryant saved Grover’s life two summers ago, removing the cancer eating away at his palate. Now, Frances imagined the doctor patting her thickset husband on his shoulder and shaking his hand. She hoped Grover would offer the doctor a contented smile. Seconds later, Grover clomped upstairs. The doctor followed behind, with lighter steps.

“So happy, Frankie.” Her husband used one of her nicknames. After their wedding, she asked Grover to call her by her more dignified name, Frances. He still used Frankie or Frank in private moments. She let him—the nicknames added tenderness to his gruff voice. “The doctor tells me you’re fine. You managed without chloroform this time, too. And the baby’s healthy. Marion, right? Three girls. They will enjoy each other’s company.”

He said the right thing. She didn’t need to feel anxious about another girl. He was a good man, kind to her, whatever others thought. He wouldn’t hold the baby, rarely did. But he wiped his chubby hand on a cloth, then touched Marion’s forehead. He stood there for a few minutes, cherishing their third child. For him, it was a fourth, but no matter. His eyes shifted to gaze at her. He wouldn’t see the tall, slender belle he married nine years ago, the one the reporters called lovely. He’d see a tired, sweat-drenched woman who looked every day of her thirty years.

“Ruth and Esther?” Frances asked again, eyeing the midwife. “Did you send Sinclair for them?”

“Yes, ma’am. The steward went a minute ago.” The midwife spoke quietly, carefully. She’d feel nervous in the presence of the president.

Still almost flat in bed, Frances clutched Marion, admiring the infant. Perfect features. Ten fingers and ten toes. Another blessing from God.

A familiar sound at the door. Sinclair knocked softly. His usual pattern—soft, loud, soft—keeping to the household code. Another sound, when the midwife opened the door. Next, Frances would hear four little feet rushing toward the newest baby.

No feet. Only hushed words.

“Sinclair found Annie,” the midwife said. “She’s your older daughter’s nursemaid, right? He tells me she needs another minute to bring Ruth and to tell your younger daughter’s nursemaid to bring Esther.” The midwife stood far from Frances’s bed, speaking almost in a whisper.

Grover didn’t look concerned. His rough mustache skimmed Frances’s cheek as he kissed her lightly on her damp forehead. She was too tired to return the kiss. She heard him drop into the nearby rocking chair.

“Joseph,” he said, addressing the doctor, “you’re certain Frankie is fine? No complications?”

“Just fine, Grover. Ready for the next one before long.”

Four years earlier, when Ruth was born, Dr. Joseph Bryant told Frances how to manage her family. “Breastfeed for six months.” He looked straight at her, with no awkwardness. “You’ll not get in the family way, and the baby will stay healthy. After six months, well, you and Grover can proceed to another.” And so they had. Esther after Ruth. Marion after Esther. A daughter every two years.

Frances closed her eyes, relying on her ears. Dr. Bryant thanked the midwife for her assistance. The woman tidied up, gathering soiled sheets and opening a chest, hunting for fresh linens. The room went silent, except for the soft, repetitious squeak of the rocking chair. Grover leaned up, then back, up then back. Frances sensed herself drifting off.

Another soft knock, barely a sound, followed by a pause, and two more soft knocks. Not Sinclair. One of the nursemaids. Annie? The midwife opened the door. “Ma’am.” Annie’s voice came out as a croak. “I can’t find Ruth.”

***

Excerpt from FIRST DAUGHTER by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Copyright 2026 by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Reproduced with permission from Marlie Parker Wasserman. All rights reserved.

ONE

Present Day, Los Angeles
Carly Bennett

Light blue on dirty blonde.

Creative writing professor Carly Bennett did a quick scan of her face from its reflection in the window that overlooked the University of Southern California quad and smoothed a crease in her pencil skirt.

If Carly had known that the dean of the English department would schedule a last-minute meeting with her, she would’ve picked a better outfit than one that screamed, “I had no time to take this to the cleaner, so I ran a fast iron over it. But thank God the skirt is black so no one can see the stain from when my coffee cup lid jimmied its way free this morning.”

Nothing like near first-degree burns on your thigh from an errant Starbucks Pike to jolt a person awake during LA’s slog of a commute.

No matter. Here she was.

And she’d be ready. Even though she needed to master her prep on the fly.

Carly turned the corner to the English department’s Office of the Dean and forged through her speaking points that she’d deliver to her boss, Bert Scanlon.

“Making the LA Times’s ‘Thirty-Under-Thirty’ list was a complete surprise, but I’m so happy that the article will shine a spotlight on the great work our team is doing under your leadership.”

Ack. Too mealy-mouthed. Plus, it made her sound like a big-headed brown-noser. And nobody likes that person.

“Thank you for the kind words. Please know how much I appreciate that you believe in me, and I swear, I won’t let you down.”

Better, and that sentiment was from the heart.

Carly pictured her face, front and center on the page when she’d pulled up the LA Times story that morning and hoped that the people she used to know from her early Malibu days saw it too.

Elitist jerks.

As for herself, Carly had read the write-up, over and over, until she could now recite it in perpetuity.

Carly passed by the USC English department’s wall of fame, which showcased its students’ esteemed awards through the years. She paused when she saw her name, capturing a moment in time from freshman year. Her: scared to near speechlessness amongst the far cooler co-eds but finding strength behind her pen.

Winner of the 2018 Undergraduate Writing Prize—First Place: Carly Bennett

Had she really come this far? Most would’ve marked her a losing bet at age twelve, her personal line of demarcation, but sometimes, even dark horses can come from behind and win the whole damn thing.

Four. Three. Two. One.

“You got this,” Carly whispered.

She reached for the security of her inhaler in her briefcase and entered Scanlon’s office.

Gretchyn Olson, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was working the phone with precision. She held up a single finger when she saw Carly.

While she waited, Carly continued to clutch her briefcase in one hand and placed the other behind her back, where she dug a fingernail into a stray cuticle.

After a beat, Scanlon’s assistant put the call on hold.

“They’re waiting for you,” Gretchyn said. “Hang in there, kid. Sometimes, you need to play the game.”

They? And what game was she talking about?

Carly’s neck felt hot, but she made certain she was smiling when she entered the office, where she locked eyes with Scanlon, who rose to greet her. Scanlon had a Mr. Clean, shiny bald head, and his stomach struggled to stay behind the confines of the clasped gold buttons of his tweed coat.

Seated across from the dean of the English department was an unfamiliar male, who was well dressed, neatly manicured, and appeared to be in his early fifties.

Carly shot the stranger an equally polite smile. Who was this guy?

“Miss Bennett, thank you for taking time to swing by under such short notice,” Scanlon said.

“Of course, sir.”

Maybe the man was another reporter from the paper who covered the education beat and was writing a follow-up article on the English department.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Franklin Yeager. You taught Frank’s son, Landon, last semester.”

In that moment, Carly felt like someone had jabbed an ice pick into her high-flying helium balloon.

The room became very still as Carly struggled to find the appropriate response.

“In all due respect, if this is about my former student, I think any further discussion should be held in private and between the administration, but I was under the impression the incident and disciplinary action had been decided,” Carly said.

A robotic delivery, but at least she got the words out.

“There’ve been some developments that have been brought to my attention. I asked Frank to come in so we could clear the air, so to speak,” Scanlon said. “Please, sit, Miss Bennett.”

Carly kept her place, arms folded, standing above the men, but when Scanlon cleared his throat, she acquiesced and found a seat next to her former student’s father.

“Landon didn’t plagiarize the paper,” Yeager said.

Yes, he did! Carly wanted to scream. Instead, she slipped her hands underneath her legs, in case her palms started to sweat.

“If my son did cheat, I’d be the first to request that USC boot him out the door on his fanny,” Yeager continued. “But I know my kid, and I also know a liar, and Landon is beside himself over this false accusation. I’ll be honest with you, when Landon first told me about the whole mess, I was ready to call my lawyer, but since Bert is an old friend, I thought, why not try and hash things out man-to-man first.”

She had to respond. The words were there, ready to make her point, if only she could find the ability and the guts to say them.

“But he did ch-ch-cheat,” Carly said, despising the catch in her voice.

When was the last time she’d stuttered? Probably a year ago, during her annual review with Scanlon. She wondered if the universe would grant her a reprieve, and somehow the two men hadn’t picked up on her residual speech impediment, which still ambushed her in the worst possible moments, rising like an unkillable weed despite all her years of work to get rid of it.

She shot a glance at Yeager, whose mouth had turned up into a bow that resembled a smirk or, worse, pity.

If she were going down, at least she had to throw a punch.

“I want all my students to excel, and if they need extra time on an assignment, they know I’ll give it to them, and my door is always open if they need additional help. But the paper Landon wrote was a complete replica of one I received from a different student last year. We’re talking down to the semicolon.”

Carly looked to Scanlon, hoping for some back-up, but the dean kept his focus on Yeager.

“Then it wasn’t a case of cheating but purely accidental on Landon’s part,” Yeager said. “Or is the word coincidental? You’re the English whizzes in here, and I’m a businessman who wouldn’t know a semicolon from a hyphen, but I do know mistakes can be made, even by well-meaning young professors. How long have you been a teacher? You look more like a co-ed than a professor, and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways.”

Yeager chuckled, sounding to Carly like the laugh was cover so he wouldn’t sound like a creep.

Too late.

Carly fought to speak up and defend herself. But she remained still and silent, stuck between two powerful, rich males who were doing a very fine job of reeling in the young, errant female who didn’t know her place.

“This is my second year at USC.”

“Miss Bennett is still relatively new to our school as a professor, but she’s a rising star in our English department and did quite well as a student here before joining our professional fold.”

The heat that Carly had felt in her neck earlier had now exploded into a full-blown, five-alarm inferno, despite Scanlon throwing her a pseudo-bone.

Carly had crossed her legs and put a hand to her throat to try and cover her growing rash when she noticed Yeager was staring at something on the bottom of her black high heel. Whatever it was seemed to give him great satisfaction.

“Mr. Scanlon . . .” Carly pleaded, but the dean interrupted.

“I appreciate that you hold your students to the highest of standards, as you should, but since Frank is a trusted friend to the school, this time, we’ll expunge the previous disciplinary action and wipe the slate clean. Landon can resubmit the assignment and finish up the course through independent study, so he won’t lose credit. I have your word that Landon will be more careful in his work going forward, Frank?”

“You bet. My kid is a good boy, and I knew we could wrangle this problem to the ground. You have my word on my kid and on my continued support. Generations of Yeagers have supported this school, and we’ll continue the tradition. “Fight on for ol’ SC, our men fight on to victory!” Yeager warbled, hitting the notes of the USC fight song slightly off-key but with great confidence in his delivery.

When Yeager stood to shake the dean’s hand, Carly looked to the bottom of her high heel and saw a Macy’s close-out sale sticker still affixed to its outsole.

Her previous high-flying balloon was now bits of spent plastic that an entitled rich boy and his adult minions had tossed into the dumpster.

“No hard feelings, OK? New teachers can make mistakes with the best of them,” Yeager said.

He extended his hand to Carly.

You sold your integrity for a buck, and to a total cheese bag when you know I’m right! Carly wanted to scream to Scanlon.

Instead, Carly remained quiet and stared at Yeager’s outstretched hand.

Scanlon cleared his throat again.

“Miss Bennett, the matter has been settled,” Scanlon answered.

The dean’s eyes narrowed, and Carly followed his cue.

She reached for Yeager’s hand, gave it a quick shake, and regretted it the second her skin touched Yeager’s.

“That will be all, Miss Bennett.”

This was so unfair. She had to stand her ground.

“Is there something else you wanted to say?” Scanlon pressed.

Carly paused, searching for the words. They were right there, but when she jumped from the platform to catch the brass ring, she missed and spiraled into freefall.

“Miss Bennett?” Scanlon asked.

“Th–th–th–thank you, sir.”

She couldn’t remember leaving the office, but there she was, back in the lobby. Carly hurried past Gretchyn, and by the time she reached the corridor, she was certain that she heard the two men laughing from behind the office door.

“HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!”

*

After escaping the humiliation-fest in Scanlon’s office, Carly lowered her head so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact, or worse, engage in fake, idle chitchat after her fall, and continued her fast walk to the USC faculty bathroom. She had ten minutes until her advanced creative writing class started, which was threading the needle a bit, but the familiar vice was constricting her chest, and if she didn’t take a pull from her inhaler soon, she’d be in the throes of a full-fledged, not to mention very public, asthma attack.

She struggled for air and rushed into an open stall. Once inside, she slammed the door, snatched her inhaler from her briefcase, and gave it a quick shake. She heard the familiar whistling sound coming from her throat and shoved her rescue inhaler into her mouth.

Feeling like a five-hundred-pound man was now sitting on her chest, Carly fought to stay calm. She closed her eyes, forced herself to hold her breath for the requisite ten seconds between puffs and prayed for the corticosteroid to kick in.

When the tightness in her lungs loosened, she could see, plain as day, her old practice phrase, the one she’d started reciting at boarding school to help conquer her stutter.

When her breathing steadied to a normal inhale-in, exhale-out, she whispered the words aloud to find her center.

“The girl wore her hair in two braids, tied with two blue bows.”

Not bad. Her voice was clear and strong this time, unlike her herky-jerky performance earlier.

How had she let herself choke, and on such an epic scale?

Feeling like she was no longer dry-drowning from her asthma attack, Carly took one more hit of her inhaler. She squeezed the metal canister and pictured Scanlon’s and Yeager’s mugs, having a big old chuckle at her expense.

“Never again,” Carly whispered, not quite believing it, but at least it was a start.

She rose from crouching position in the stall, straightened her shoulders, and then shot her middle finger in the air.

“That’s bravery right there, giving the bird to a restroom door instead of standing up for yourself. Next time will be different.”

Carly exited the stall and was relieved to see the faculty bathroom was still empty.

She splashed cold water from the sink onto her face, then patted her sticky armpits with a wad of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. A poor girl’s spa day.

Having no idea how much time had passed since the start of her asthma attack, Carly worried that she was late for her next class. She grabbed her phone from her briefcase to check the time and gasped.

On the home screen was a photo memory, which captured a hoped-for promise never to come.

Carly ran her finger over the image of her mother and studied her twelve-year-old self. The photo had been taken by her then soon-to-be stepbrother Julien, on the day she’d met him and the rest of the Whites.

A pang of melancholy cut through her. Everybody would’ve believed her if she were a rich boy.

***

Excerpt from Everyone Is Perfect Here by Jane Haseldine. Copyright 2026 by Jane Haseldine. Reproduced with permission from Jane Haseldine. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

“Nobody’s allowed to die on one of my sets!” hollered Jack L. Warner. “Who’s the jackass who wants to halt my production?”

Flanked by his personal assistant Bill Schaefer, Jack dragged Hal B. Wallis, his head of production, over to the sound stage filming Yankee Doodle Dandy, starring James Cagney. He swung open the door as soon as the red warning light turned off and stormed inside.

Michael Curtiz, the film’s director, dumped his megaphone and threw down the gauntlet. The parade band on stage accompanied his rage with a drumroll and cymbals.

Warner nabbed Curtiz’s discarded megaphone. “Rally the troops—all of them! I have a studio-wide announcement.”

Curtiz, turning red, clamped his hands over his ears. The actors and background extras, dressed in woolen military uniforms, stopped marching and sweltered under the hot lights. The live orchestra fell silent.

“Sir, maybe we should check out the dead body first,” Schaefer suggested with hesitation.

At Warner’s command, an assistant rolled back a piece of movable scenery to reveal a prone figure, an unknown young man wearing bloodied street clothes, but with a swastika carved on his neck.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Warner asked. “He looks like he’s just sleeping on the job.”

Backing up a few steps, Wallis broke out in a cold sweat. “Has any-one been a-ble to i-den-ti-fy him?”

The assistant director strained to keep self-control but trembled. “Every-one denies knowing him. Our director, however, insisted we ignore the victim and stay on schedule.”

Wallis, turning green, gulped down his rising bile but regained his voice. “That’s unconscionable. We should secure the set. Everyone will have to swear to secrecy, and under no circumstances is the press to know about it.” Schaefer clutched his stomach, and his knees became unsteady. He grabbed a chair to brace himself.

Jack L. strutted the sound stage like Napoleon planning a counterattack and examined the casualty of war with a sense of unnerving calm. He wrinkled his nose and instructed his assistant, “Better call the Burbank PD. Won’t take long under these broiling lights for him to stink to high heaven.” The actors, who’d remained in the stance of military attention, were about to wilt. Offstage, on both sides, waited singers and female tap dancers dressed in skimpy satin costumes as a tribute to Uncle Sam.

“At ease!” Warner shouted, accompanied by a round of relieved sighs. “You think you can direct my film picture?” Curtiz shouted in his choppy version of Hungarian-bastardized English.

“I can and I will,” Warner barked. “Don’t forget, I sign your paychecks! Furthermore, I still can’t understand why you summoned half the musicians’ union to play instruments off-camera when you could’ve used a recording. Money wasted!”

Curtiz glared, with fire in his eyes. “It’s because they’re featured on camera at the beginning and the end of the scene!” He cursed in his native Hungarian tongue and stormed off the set.

Jimmy Cagney, the star of the show, followed. “You can find me in my dressing room.”

Undaunted by his director and lead actor’s histrionics, Warner demanded to see the production notes. After a quick glance, he scraped his fingernails through his receding hairline.

“Too much…can’t picture it. Summon your editors and set up a projector—somewhere—anywhere, on the damned wall if we must. I’d need to see the dailies and bring me that hot-headed Hungarian Goulash Gulag Meister and his la-di-da lead actor.”

Wallis broke the point of his pencil by slamming it down on his notepad. “All these delays…I don’t want to hear a word from you about going over budget.”

“I’m the one who makes the final decisions. Respect your commanding officer!” Warner admonished his confused subordinate.

Wallis gave him a weak salutation, but only out of respect. “Aye! Aye, sir!” Warner gave one last look at the body. “Go ahead, call the police,” he said to Schaefer. “And hire those two private detectives.”

Wallis scratched his head with a look as if a screwball comedian had thrown a cream pie in his face. “Who?” he asked.

Warner clenched his jaw. “Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, those young kids who solved the Blackbird Killer Case and saved the cast of The Maltese Falcon. That was a close call for everyone.”

* * *

The phone rang at B. Norman Investigations. Guy picked up and said Jack Warner’s assistant was on the line. Babs motioned for him to hand over the receiver.

“The Big Boss desires your company,” Schaefer told her.

“If he doesn’t mind throwing in two mouth-watering prime-rib dinners at the Smoke House for us,” Babs said, who hadn’t eaten all day, “we’ll consider that his consultation fee.”

The two PI partners headed downstairs to their building’s garage, where they now had their own assigned adjacent parking spaces instead of playing roulette for empty spots on the street. Babs put her key into the ignition of her ailing Crosley—the Clown Car, the brunt of Guy’s constant jokes, with a paint job that resembled a motley patchwork. The moment she put her foot on the gas pedal, it made a bone-shaking screech of metal against metal and emitted exhaust that would’ve choked a triceratops.

“We’re taking mine,” Guy said after he stopped wheezing. He rolled up his windows to keep out the foul scent. “Can’t believe you never had the sense to replace that fossil since it never ran well.”

They pulled out of the garage, and he donned his sunglasses. “Now, you’re stuck with it since our government stopped new automobile production and only people in vital professions, such as doctors and clergymen, qualify to purchase remaining inventories.”

“Private eyes don’t have priority?”

He shook his head. “Not in your sweet life. Those assembly lines are being converted to produce tanks, aircraft, and weapons for the military. Mark my words. Next thing you know, they’ll demand that we ration fuel and rubber for our tires like they do in England. Read the papers if you don’t believe me.”

Guy flashed his Warner Brothers pass to the gate security guard. Babs panicked as she searched inside her purse. “I must’ve left mine in my car.”

“Try flirting,” Guy whispered.

She snorted in defiance. “I will not!”

Much to her surprise, he sweet-talked his way into saying, “She’s with me,” and pulled into an empty guest parking slot.

When they arrived at the Yankee Doodle sound stage, the crime scene investigation was well underway. The Burbank PD sectioned off the area where the deceased lay, but nearby, Curtiz insisted on conducting rehearsals even if it was too noisy to roll sound. He ordered the gaffer and his electrical crew to prep the lights for the next set of shots, but they went berserk, thinking a light was shorting out every time the crime scene photographer’s flashbulb went off.

Curtiz insisted his captive cast and crew finish what they started. He’d work around the police, even if it meant yelling and screaming, at the risk of losing his voice, to make sure they kept quiet.

“Isn’t Jimmy Cagney your star?” Guy looked around for the missing actor.

Curtiz made an unintelligible grunt and spat into his handkerchief. “We shall work around his crybaby tantrums.” He launched a new battle with Wallis. “You complain that clocks ticking means money. Then why does Warner have to be such a stingy fat cat?”

Wallis bit his lip to keep from laughing at the director’s deliberate jabs at the English language. “Our detectives-for-hire are here.” He pointed out Babs and Guy. “Jack wants you to perform the entire number, Yankee Doodle Dandy, from start to finish.”

The director stood his ground. “That’s not how we shoot it. We fall behind schedule. Then Jack gets more and more angry.”

Warner paced the floor, bellyaching to himself and to any of the cops who would listen. “What if Cagney had been the intended victim? Not that I’m glad this man is an unknown Joe Palooka, but you get where I’m coming from.”

The moment Babs saw the corpse, her stomach lurched. Guy took his handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth. “Did you find any ID?”

“Found a driver’s license in his wallet,” said one cop. “He’s got a German-sounding name: Gerhard Sauer.”

Warner, holding a script, muscled in on their conversation. “I want to see this scene played out from start to finish.”

Since Cagney left the set, Guy volunteered to stand in and improvise his choreography, but the studio head ignored his suggestion. “If that fussy thespian wants to act like a child, I’ll just have to take over and go through the motions.”

Babs took her notepad out of her pocketbook. “Did anyone hear any strange noises?” She looked around for reactions but got none. “Did you consider that someone killed Sauer elsewhere and, for whatever reason, dumped his body backstage?”

Babs blew her anger out of her nose. No one seemed to listen. Wallis gave the PIs an overview to get them up to speed. “The film, Yankee Doodle Dandy, is about the life of lyricist and composer George M. Cohan. He performed with his family, and they called themselves The Four Cohans. Playing his father, we’ve got the famous actor who played the shot-up Captain Jacoby from The Maltese Falcon, Walter Huston.”

“Give My Regards to Broadway is also one of Cohan’s famous songs,” Guy mentioned.

“We’ve included that one, along with Over There. All patriotic numbers that helped us endure WWI. Just think, we have a song for every star and a star for every stripe.”

Wallis stopped and scratched his chin. “You know…I rather like that line. Must insist on using that quote for our trailer. However, what you’ll see on screen is a show within a show, as if our cinematographer was shooting a documentary. At the beginning and the end of the scene, the camera will pan, showing an establishing shot of everyone inside the theater. That’s where our live orchestra comes in.

“The Cohans perform in a stage production of a show titled George Washington, Jr. The song-and-dance medley scene we had been shooting before everything went haywire centers on Grand Old Flag. Once edited, it will look like we shot it from start to finish, but since Warner told me you used to be actors, you probably know that most of the time we shoot scenes out of order. We’ll stop within sections to film close-ups and from different angles. Everyone’s curious to see if there are clues about the killer in the footage we’ve shot so far.”

Babs asked Wallis if he’d drop her a line when the footage was available for viewing.

Jack Warner, however, seemed to have his own agenda. He took over as director and insisted on doing a dry run. “Up with the curtain! Places, please. Stand by, and on with the show of the century. It’s the most original thing to hit Broadway. You know why? Cagney…or Cohan, to be more accurate, is the whole darned U.S. of A. squeezed into one pair of pants.”

Wallis asked the PIs to follow him and take seats with the extras in the audience.

“How many actors does the scene start off with?” Babs asked.

“Not including the live orchestra and the packed seats filled with the audience, I guess there are about thirty-five, but more join in later.”

Lighter on his feet than expected, Warner skipped across the stage and justified substituting for Cagney, who refused to leave his dressing room. “Believe it or not, I’ve had experience as an entertainer. When my brothers and I started our family business, I used to sing in the aisles in between screenings.”

Wallis drew a deep breath and released it. “There he goes again. The boss loves telling everyone the story of his debut in show business. Often, I wonder whether Jack secretly always wanted to be a performer instead of running a studio.” He explained the upcoming scene while everyone blocked the action. “Jimmy sings Grand Old Flag. Twenty young Boy Scouts stride in from the top of the stairs. Betsy Ross sews the flag, upstage center. Eight more adults, who look like members of a military band, join them in song and advance from upstage right. After that, we cut away to five or six members of a fife and drum corps.”

The PIs made every effort to follow Wallis while Warner danced on stage with the hired actors. “Upstage left, a variety of singers march forward, representing the common man and the working class—policemen, bakers, bankers, a nurse, miners, railroad workers—showing their solidarity. Everyone turns toward the flag and breaks into My Country, ’Tis of Thee in front of people manning an anti-aircraft gun.”

Guy, who had been counting on his fingers, lost track. “How many would that add?”

“Probably another thirty. Central Casting must’ve broken out bottles of champagne after receiving our requisitions. Then the stage curtains close, and the spotlight falls on Cagney, downstage right. In come the tap- dancing dames, many bearing American flags. This is where we rival MGM’s schmaltzy musicals with their elaborate costumes and choreography. Enter Uncle Sam, played by Walter Huston, and the Statue of Liberty. Then Jimmy wows everyone with his signature dance steps. More female flag bearers emerge from behind the rear curtain. Our stage crew has rigged the floor with conveyor belts, giving the illusion that the actors are marching toward the audience while they’re actually staying in place.”

“Otherwise, they’d march right off the stage,” said Babs.

“Correct, but we wouldn’t want them to do that,” Wallis explained. “As the cinematographer pulls back and widens the focal length of his lens, background curtains continue to open until we see a painted backdrop of the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. I’m no expert in visual effects, but it gives the audience the feeling there must be well over a hundred people proceeding down the boulevard. Pretty spectacular, don’t you think?”

The assistant director leapt onstage and reminded Warner that the soldier actors were still suffering under the scorching lights and waiting for their next order. “Sir, we’re not rolling camera. We should dismiss them.”

“Tell them it’s a wrap until further notice. I won’t approve an exorbitant dry-cleaning bill for everyone schvitzing in their costumes.”

With military precision, the assistants rounded up the various groups of performers and shuttled them toward wardrobe. Curtiz and James Wong Howe, his cinematographer, remained to discuss how they’d execute the rest of that scene.

Warner scribbled a note and handed it to his assistant. “Bill, tell these two to drop everything. I’m calling a meeting to order and want them present.”

Schaefer reviewed his memo pad. “Sir, you scheduled one with them already.” Then he checked his watch. “They should be there…right now.”

Jack pointed to Babs and Guy. “Then you’re coming with me and away from the crime scene.” In a rush, he sprinted ahead.

Babs shouted loudly enough for him to hear her as he gained distance. “We’ll need to sign a contract to make our assignment official!”

“Pick up the pace, you slowpokes, and I’ll cut you a check after we get there.”

***

Excerpt from Round Up the Unusual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright 2026 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

May 1979

In 1979, I was living in a two-bedroom apartment in my hometown of Skokie, IL with my best friend Gary. I was 22 years old, a few months removed from my sophomore year at Illinois State University–and I say `removed’ literally, since the Dean of Students had strongly pointed out that school wasn’t the best choice for me. Gary and I both had “floater jobs” which basically covered our monthly rent, weed, beer, and food, in that order. The landlord would likely say the rent and weed could be in a reverse order. Basically, I seemed to be following a destiny first noted in my 8th-grade yearbook from Oakview Junior High, where I was dubbed “town clown.” My mom was horrified. Me? I took it as a badge of honor, one that kept wearing through high school and my short stint in college.

It was a typical September Sunday. Gary and I were laying around, recovering from hangovers and planning our next adventure. Around four o’clock, the phone rang. It was my Dad.

“Hey, Jeff, are you busy?”

“Well, a little. Hanging out.”

“I really need to speak with you. Can you come over?”

I was at that age when I didn’t really have anything against my parents. I’d see them for birthdays and holidays and when I wanted to conduct a secret withdrawal from the packed meat freezer they kept in their basement, but I didn’t see the need to spend any time with them. “Is it important?”

His answer was firm. “It’s important enough that I’m asking you to come over—now.”

That was good enough for me. I quickly jumped into the shower to wash off the after-aroma of the previous night’s parties. As the hot water rushed down, my mind began spinning with scenarios. What did he want to talk about? Abruptly it dawned on me that maybe he was going to tell me he was dying. My mind always moved at a mile a minute, and all of a sudden it came to a screeching halt.

Why else would he need to talk to me? My dad was an ordinary man–52-years old, husband, father of four, CEO of an Envelope Company, recovering alcoholic, and my hero. He really was my rock, and more than made up for my distracted mother. How would I survive without him? We always shared this unspoken bond of my inheriting his OCD gene. And while he never appreciated that I was that town clown and high school fuck-up, he admired my work ethic. When I did put my mind to something, I took it to completion, whether it was shoveling neighbor’s sidewalks in those Chicago winters or moving their lawns in the summer. Even as an eight-year-old. And if I had suddenly kicked the bucket at age 20, that would have been the story of my life—a human oxymoron who had a great work ethic yet couldn’t keep a job.

He hugged me when I came through the door and told my mom to let us be. We went upstairs to my parents’ bedroom, which was decorated with a complete Brady Bunch-era motif: matching avocado and orange bedspread and curtains, beige shag carpeting, large imitation Picasso paintings on the walls. We sat together on the bench seat at the bottom of the bed, connected at the hip. He started to put his arm around my shoulder, and almost instantly I began to cry. “Dad, please don’t die on me!” I began to sob.

Startled, he jumped to his feet, then put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me! That’s not what this is about. I’m not dying! But now that you mention it, you are killing me.” I started to say something, but he quickly interrupted, “Seriously, I need you to listen to me.”

He started speaking to me, but it was more of a sermon. The tone in his voice was unlike anything I had heard from him before. I had never heard him in such an authoritative voice. I could already tell that I had either upset or disappointed him, but just did not know how or why. I quickly learned. “You are wasting your life,” he said. “You have always had an outstanding work ethic, he told me, along with an incredible quick wit, which I was just throwing away by being a smart ass, just looking for the laugh. “If you were ever able to use that wit in a more “think on your feet” manner instead of just being a comedian, you could have great value to some company one day.” He looked at me directly in the eye. “I didn’t send you to college to be a fuck-up. You have a gift, and I cannot allow you to waste it. You need to get your collective shit together.”

I was stunned, and very upset. Not so much about what he said, but because I knew it was dead-on.

My mind jumped back to a moment two summers before, when I was working in his company warehouse. The combination of my 17-year-old male hormones and the highly Latina warehouse staff were just too much for me to overcome, and I devoted far more time to chasing skirts than my responsibilities. He sat me down then, too, but instead of giving me a sermon, he fired me. I know that conversation was painful for both him to say and me to hear as well. It wasn’t so much that I embarrassed him as the boss’s son getting canned, but what hurt me most was that I had let him down. Here I was, letting him down again. What most upset me was knowing that he was not proud of me.

I drove back to the apartment. The aroma of cannabis greeted my arrival. Gary passed me the loaded a pipe as I entered, saying something to the extent of “you look like you need one.” But what I needed is what I had just received. My dad was my hero, and I had been confronted with the fact that I was failing him. And really, I had also been confronted with the fact that I was failing myself. “No thanks,” I said to Gary, echoing the words my dad had just said to me, “I really need to start getting my shit together.”

The very next day, I started searching the Help Wanted section in the Chicago Tribune. Some company called Tek Aids two towns over was looking for a warehouse worker. I had never heard of them, but I knew I wanted that job. I’m not sure why, but the ad called out to me. Maybe I just wanted a job quickly so I could get back into my dad’s good favor. For the interview, I put my best foot forward, wearing the blue blazer my mother bought me for high school graduation and borrowing a paisley tie I had bought Dad for Father’s Day.

They were a family business about five years old that had set themselves up as a computer peripherals distributor. They sold printers, monitors, and bins full of internal parts. Jud, the founder and CEO, gave me a tour of the 15,000sf facility. I could tell he had great pride in his operation, and I was impressed that he knew every employee on a first-name basis.

The warehouse was sloppy and seemed a little disorganized. I knew I could fix that. What surprised me is that they also had a tech area in the warehouse, run by a guy wearing thick lenses a lab coast – he looked like mad scientist. They were building student tech systems for community colleges, based upon Ohio Scientific’s Challenger 1P single-processor computer systems. “A warehouse and tech?” I said to Jud, without reply.

I did find it interesting that he was already introducing me, and after the tour, we went into his wife Lorrayne’s office and they both told be the job responsibilities. I was trying not to jump the gun, but it sure seemed like I was already hired. And I was really hoping they would, and I knew I was looking into a crystal ball and seeing my future. Perhaps I was willing it to happen by confidently adding “I look forward to hearing from you sometime tomorrow.” She gave me a strange look, perhaps due to my presumptuousness. “The blazer and tie won’t be necessary when you come back,” she said. At that point, I knew the job would be mine. I was already reorganizing the sloppy warehouse in my head.

I started two days later. Two years later, I was promoted to Vice President of Sales. Twenty years and three days after my Dad’s sermon, I founded my own IT server-building company, morphing into the video surveillance recording market in 2009. By the time of my retirement on my 66th birthday on July 21, 2023, I had built a company that is the world’s largest supplier of purpose-built surveillance video recording appliances, with over a quarter-million devices recording the video surveillance from over four million cameras in 91 countries around the globe. And all at the most secure sites or coolest companies in the world.

Here’s the story of how that happened.

***

Excerpt from It Worked For Me by Jeff Burgess. Copyright 2026 by Jeff Burgess. Reproduced with permission from Jeff Burgess. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. Oh, not only about the dead—sure, that’s when everyone starts whispering about the dearly departed. No, I’m talking about the secrets of the living who are left behind. Sometimes, those people get brazen about their dastardly deeds when someone involved in those deeds dies. They don’t always keep them well hidden. Often, too, a death sheds too much light on too many people. Light others would rather not be in—like Wyle E. Coyote’s oncoming train in the tunnel. It can be too revealing for some. Blinding for others. One secret often leads to another. Another death. And by another death, I mean murder.

So, if you want to know who your friends are, or what they’re truly up to, kill one.

It works every time.

What makes me so sure? Murder is my thing. I’m a homicide cop in the historic Virginia city of Winchester. Winchester has a hell of a murder rate that most don’t know about. I know because I’ve solved more than twenty murders in the last few years alone. Well, seventeen to be precise. Three deaths were accidents and suicides—not something I tell stories about. But the other seventeen—phew, what a rush. As you can see, I’m an expert on the dead.

More about that later.

At the moment, it was a beautiful August afternoon in Winchester, Virginia. As always on these beautiful August days in Winchester, it was hot as, er, … it was hot. Luckily, instead of being in the dog days of summer, I sat in the air conditioning atop a stack of wooden crates in our local library, ogling the beautiful woman working across the room from me. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a silk veil, and her green eyes sparkled even in the dark. At thirty-eight, she had the hourglass figure a twenty-year-old would die for—and today it was wrapped in jeans and a denim shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This lady’s charm and intelligence radiated an allure that stole my heart the moment I pulled her over for an undeserved speeding ticket back in the day. Sure, sure, it was unethical. Hey, I didn’t give her the ticket after securing a date.

Fortunately, the statute of limitations on cheesy pickup ploys expired years ago.

This lady was doing her best to ignore me—difficult as it was—though she wanted nothing more than to get lost in my affections. No, really, it’s true.

Full disclosure. This angel was formally Dr. Angela Hill Tucker, Assistant Dean and Chairwoman of History at the Mosby Center for American Studies, University of the Shenandoah Valley. Yep, my wife. Today, she was researching a new historical find in the Lower-Level Research Room at the Handley Library, a local historical landmark. The Lower Level is actually the library’s finished basement. Since it’s a classy place, they call it the Lower Level.

Angel sat at a cluttered wooden desk beside crates of documents discovered in a formerly undiscovered sub-basement at the Winchester Courthouse—another historic building. Yeah, I know, we have a lot of historic buildings in town. That’s because Winchester dates back to George Washington’s day, and we’ve played a big part in American history ever since. Anyway, she had just opened one of the six large, wooden crates to begin work. The first few items she took out were more of the same as many of the other crates—folded files tied with leather straps. There were a few land maps and surveyors’ drawings, and an old silver-plate photograph of a family standing around a horse carriage with grim, pasty faces.

Angel was in heaven—pardon the pun. She spent much of her life in rooms just like this one, doing what she was now doing—researching old stuff. Okay, it’s historically significant old stuff. The other part of her life she spent in pursuit of her real passion—trying to be a crack detective like me. Oh, I’m her real passion, too. But don’t tell her I said that. It’s our secret.

All day, I’d sat with my feet propped up on a crate, bored. I had on the same clothes as usual—blue jeans, running shoes, a blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. Angel once called my ensemble, ‘old guy sexy.’ I don’t know about the old guy—I’m only forty-one—but I’ll take the sexy part.

“Hey, Angel,” I said, stretching. “How about we go grab takeout?”

She ignored me. Not unusual. Not that she was so focused on her work, but because working at a small table across the room was her research assistant, Andy-somebody. She didn’t want to fluster him, so she just made believe I wasn’t around. We have this thing, you see.

“Hey, it’s a beautiful summer day. Maybe steaks on the grill and wine?”

She glanced up and gave me one of those “God, I want you” looks. Okay, maybe it was a “quiet, I’m working” look.

“Angela?” The thin, shaggy-haired assistant, Andrew Pellman, walked to the stack of crates beside her. He lifted one of the crates, grunted a little from the unexpected weight, and set it on the corner of her desk. “I’m done computerizing the inventory from crates one and two. Shall I get a head start on crate four while you finish crate three?”

“No, Andrew. We’ll keep to our process.” She saw his face melt into a pout. Me, I would have let him cry, but she was the kind soul in the family. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and begin. Follow our guidelines closely. One document at a time. Identify, inventory, and scan what you can. Photograph any that won’t stand up to the scanning process. Andrew, be careful—very careful.”

His face lit up. “Sure, Angela, I’ll be careful.”

Pellman was a meek kid in his mid-twenties. He was working on his doctoral thesis at the university, and Angel was his dissertation advisor. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I have a sixth sense about people. When he was around, my BS meter pings like it does with politicians and faux car warranty stalkers. Andy was a new class of “some people” that I hadn’t labeled yet.

“I think you should call me Professor Tucker,” Angel said with an easy tone. “Let’s keep this professional. Okay?”

“Yes, Professor Tucker.”

“It’s not personal, Andrew.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Angel flipped through a document and stopped. She retrieved another and did a comparison. Finally, she looked over at Pellman. “Have you seen any references to ‘M35W?’ Do you recognize it from anything you’ve done?”

“Why?” He walked to her worktable. “Is it important?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems out of place. Like some kind of acronym or citation. Can you check your new research engine tomorrow?”

“Sure, okay. It’ll give me a good test run on my changes to the algorithm.” His face beamed. “Thank you.”

Andrew’s doctoral studies used computers to perform detailed research traditionally done by historians and doctoral students. One day, that program he wrote would likely replace those researchers with keyboards and mice—the electronic kind, not the crumb snatchers. You know, like self-checkout machines at the grocery store. You do all the work, and they charge you the same price. Then, they’ll fire five clerks who the machines replaced. Great plan, Andy. I wonder how many historians you’ll replace with your gadgets.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Her cell rang, and she took the call. “Professor Tucker.” The caller had Angel’s complete attention. I knew that because she jotted some notes and checked her watch twice—all the while continuing to ignore me. So, it must have been really important, right? “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.”

“Professor Tucker?” Andrew asked.

She glanced over at Andrew as she tapped off the call. “We’re done for the day, Andrew.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I can help.”

“No, it’s fine. I have to meet someone up in the rotunda. We’ll start again in the morning.” She began straightening her papers and stuffing files into her worn, leather briefcase.

“Who?” he asked.

I said, “Never you mind, sonny-boy. You work for her, not the other way around.” I winked at Angel. “Millennials, right?”

She hefted her briefcase. “Something to do with our Apple Harvest research.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the crates of research. “Want me to gather up your research and get it to your car? There’s an awful lot here.”

“Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.” She gave him the keypad code for her Explorer. “Leave my briefcase and the files beside it here. The rest can go in my vehicle. Please make sure it’s locked when you’re done. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Professor Tucker.” His face lit up. “See you in the morning.”

I followed Angel through the Stewart Bell Jr. Archive Room, into the Lower Lobby, and up the stairs toward the main library entrance.

“I don’t like him, Angel. He’s shifty.”

“Shifty, Tuck?” Finally, she acknowledged me. I wore her down. “No one says ‘shifty’ anymore.”

“It’s coming back in style.”

She grinned and whispered, “Is that your detective-senses talking or because he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking?”

“He doesn’t stare. He ogles.”

“Yes, he ogles.”

“I can get Bear to check him—”

“No, Tuck. He’s fine. I don’t like it when you’re jealous.”

Me, jealous? No. It was purely a professional irritation I felt whenever Andy was around. Truly.

We reached the first-floor hall that led into the main library rooms. There, she made her way into the rotunda at the library entrance. She stopped beside a high-back wood bench where Library Lil—the bronze statue of a young girl reading a book—sat.

A tall, thin man about thirty stepped out of one of the meeting rooms along the west hallway. He glanced around before he headed our way. He wore dark slacks and a dark sport jacket over a white, button-down dress shirt that was untucked in that new-millennial style, and penny-loafers. He strode to us and looked around his entire trip.

“That must be Special Agent Kerns with the DOD,” Angel whispered. “He called just now.”

A fed? Interested in her research? I asked her that.

“I don’t know. He said it was about my Apple Harvest research and that it was classified. Go wait somewhere.”

“I am somewhere. I’m here.”

She gave me the evil eye, so I meandered to a bench nearby.

As Kerns approached, fingers began dancing up my spine—hot, pointy fingers. I didn’t like those fingers. Every time they did the mambo up my vertebrae, something bad happened in the next few beats.

Kerns reached Angel, proffered a hand, and said something with a serious, tight expression on his face. Then, he hooked a thumb toward the main entrance doors.

Angel shook his hand and smiled faintly, a sure sign she was unsure of him.

Those fingers reached the base of my brain and squeezed…

“Angel, get down!” I lunged forward and pulled her away from Kerns, down behind Library Lil’s bench.

Kerns stood there, frozen in an eerie mist. His arms shot out sideways, and he seemed to lift onto his toes. His face contorted into a stunned, painful grimace.

“Tuck?” Angel cried. “What’s happening to him?”

Hell if I knew.

Kerns’ entire body vibrated and shuddered. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. The lights above us flickered wildly and went out. The original iron, brass, and blown-glass chandelier swayed dramatically two floors overhead. Its lights flickered and went dark.

When I glanced back at Kerns lying on the floor, I cringed.

Blood flowed from his ears, nose, and mouth. It seeped from his eye sockets, where his eyeballs looked like soft-boiled eggs stewing in their sockets. His hands and fingers were dark red and bony. His face and neck had oddly sunk, and his skin looked like it had been draped over his bones as though someone had sucked the tissue and muscle from beneath. He looked like he had melted inside.

The only thing left of him was his clothes and a spreading pool of goo.

Kerns was dead, sure enough. He’d been murdered, too, right in front of Angel and a dozen people. I knew no one had seen anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything. Me included.

Well, that’s not true. I knew something. Special Agent Kerns didn’t die of a heart attack because of a poor diet. He wasn’t killed by a sniper with a silenced rifle, a knife-throwing ninja assassin, or by an Amazonian’s blow dart. He died of something else.

What killed him, I had no idea. But it scared the life out of me.

***

Excerpt from Dying With A Secret by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

An armored truck with a mounted machine gun roared up behind the two police motorcyclists. Something is terribly wrong. She ducked deeper behind the luggage and stared into the darkness. She desperately searched for a rational explanation. A cold knife pierced her core.

After speeding through intersections and red traffic lights, the vehicles came to a sudden halt. Gate hinges squealed in protest. The impulse to leap from the back of the truck fought with her intense need to remain hidden. If it were not for the armed vehicle at the rear, she would have jumped and disappeared into the night. In another moment, the opportunity vanished.

The vehicles lurched forward. Through the flap’s opening, she saw a massive iron gate. High walls extended on either side. The vehicles stopped.

The motorcyclists drove to either side of the truck. The armored vehicle surged forward, nearly crashing into the back of the supply truck (where Eliza is hiding). Eliza scrambled to put more of the luggage between her and the mounted gun. It bore down on her as if it had spied her. She gasped.

Eliza strained to hear a pleasant greeting, an apology for the change of plans, anything that would tell her heart to stop its thundering in her chest.

Someone shouted, “Ikhrog men al Araba,” then in English, “Get out of the bus!”

“Stay together,” Charlie called out. At first the volunteers sounded merely annoyed, but their mood rapidly deteriorated.

“Charlie, there’s a mounted automatic weapon on that truck. Something’s not right here.” The man’s alarm ricocheted through his companions. Quick footsteps reminded Eliza of nervous horses in a corral – wild-eyed, snorting and circling as they searched for an escape.

Charlie attempted to calm his group. “I’m sure this will all make sense. I’ll see why there’s been a change. Who’s in charge here?” he called.

Scattered thoughts fed her fear. The unmistakable sound of large guns being maneuvered sucked the air from Eliza’s lungs. Near the supply truck, she heard the ping, ping of a cell phone, then the trembling voice of a woman crying, “Ralph, pick up the phone. Please. Oh God ….” The woman screamed. With a blast of gunfire, her cries stopped. Bullets pierced the canvas and shattered a suitcase in front of Eliza.

Her body trembled violently. In minutes she would be killed. The luggage offered no protection. Terrified to make any sound, yet frantic to hide, she pressed her backpack to her chest. She gasped as if starved for oxygen. Tears ran down her cheeks as she heard the terrified people and Charlie beg for their lives.
This is only one of my nightmares. I’ll wake up and everything will be fine.

The truck with the mounted machine gun swerved around the supply truck. Deafening sounds of machine gun blasts and screams tore through her chest. She plunged down among the luggage.

A man came into her view as he lunged toward the gate. A police officer ran after him and fired several shots into the man’s back. The American dropped, bloody and lifeless.

Suddenly, an armed man dashed to the rear of the supply truck and saw her. She gasped. Oh my God, he’s going to kill me. I’ve got once chance. Get his gun. Her martial arts training kicked in. She lunged forward. As they grappled, both fell.

Falling on top of him Eliza punched his groin. He cried out in agony. She crab crawled on all fours toward his weapon several feet away. Too late she saw a boot aimed at her head.

She ducked for cover under the supply truck. Too late. The cop stomped on her head, ramming her forehead into the pavement hard. Her momentum pushed her under the truck’s back end.

Dazed, she checked to see if he followed her. He was struggling to free his boot, snared in her scarf. A gun’s muzzle appeared, aimed in her direction. Bullets ripped through her coat’s shoulder. Puffs of down feathers stuck to the sweat and blood on her face.

I’m hit. Get out. Run. Eliza kicked and crawled out from under the truck on the far side of the killers. The deafening gunfire and screams surrounded her. Her mind froze. She pressed her body into the truck’s solid frame.

More bullets smacked the ground near her. More vehicles arrived. Bright headlights blinded her. She turned away to shield her eyes. Desperate, she ran an erratic, aimless course. Silhouettes of shapes, helmets, guns and bloody bodies flashed in front of her. Keep running. Dodge. Find cover. She ran like a wild animal, blind to the teeth that would tear her apart.

When the thunder from the machine gun stopped she glanced back. The man at the machine gun tumbled head first off the truck. His companions continued to fire their weapons, but now toward the gate. More shots came from behind the blinding lights. The men ran toward the front of the supply truck. Riddled with bullets, their bodies twisted and fell.

Silence.

Eliza gazed in bewilderment at the tall form appearing in the light. He raced forward past the open gate, his weapon raised in her direction. More men followed behind him. She ran, searching for cover.

He shouted, “Tawakaf and am, la tatharak Kiff.” Then in English, “Stop where you are. Don’t move! Stop.”

A short burst of gunfire. Bullets struck the ground a few yards in front of her. She skidded to a stop. Breathless, she turned toward the gunman. She could not make out his face below the dark helmet. He wore a police uniform like the killers had – black from head to toe. If not for his vehicle’s headlights, he would have been invisible. He raced toward her, his weapon held steadfast in her direction.

***

Excerpt from Forbidden: Better Wear Your Flak Jacket by F. Stone. Copyright © 2017 by F. Stone. Reproduced with permission from F. Stone. All rights reserved.