Jim Baen's Universe

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Fantasy Stories

The Nature of Things

Written by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

Illustrated by Emily Tolson

"Can someone explain to me what a box labeled 'cookware' is doing in the upstairs guest bath?"

Harry Ferguson looked up from the laptop perched atop the kitchen table to see his wife, Marilyn, standing in the kitchen archway rooting in her purse for her keys.

Across the table from Harry, his teenaged daughter, Kim, looked up from her last bite of Rice Krispies. "I didn't do it."

"Don't look at me." Her younger brother, Scott, had already deposited his dishes in the sink.

"Gosh," said Marilyn, still rooting. "Must've been those darned cookware fairies. Harry, honey, if you could move it back down . . . Oh, here they are." Marilyn produced her car keys with a flourish. "I'm off. In the car, kids."

Scott was already out the door with the delicate patter of size eleven sneakers. His sister followed at a more decorous pace.

"Sure you'll be okay here with Megan?" Marilyn asked Harry. "What if you have to go to the office?"

"I'll just take Meg with me. Gwen loves her."

"Hm. How does the DA feel about it?"

"He'll love anything that contributes to the prosecution of a case, even if it involves a five-year-old in the law library. He might even hire her. After all, she knows everything."

Marilyn laughed and kissed his cheek. "Good luck."

Good luck. He'd need it, he mused over his coffee. It was a bad time to have moved into a new house, but moving was always a pain in the wazoo, and the real-estate market did not obey human whim.

Which made his personal and professional life a matched set; the case he was working on was equally disobedient. They had a body—Marcellus Boite, owner of a downtown gun shop. They had a suspect—Ernest Combs, a small time embezzler Boite had the misfortune to hire. They had a motive—Boite had recently reported to the police that some inventory was missing. They had opportunity—Combs had no alibi for the time of his employer's death. They had suspicious behavior—confronted with a police presence, Combs fled, though he claimed an emergency at home.

What they did not have was a murder weapon.

Boite had died of a single .38 caliber bullet to the head, but no gun had been found during the search of Combs' home and car, and no record existed that he had ever owned one. Till now, he'd been a "numbers" man—mangling accounts not people; his thefts had been confined to the virtual world. His fingerprints were everywhere at the crime scene, but then he worked there. The only place they mattered was on the conspicuously absent murder weapon.

Harry grimaced at the taste of his coffee and went to the fridge for milk. The carton was empty.

"Damn." He was in the act of putting the carton back when he caught himself and sheepishly threw it in the trash.

Returning to his makeshift laptop, he read Combs' criminal record again, slowly. A tiny sound from the foyer made him glance up expecting to see Meg. The words "How're you feeling, sweetie" stalled on his lips when he realized there was no one there.

"Winslow, leave the ficus alone!"

There was a rustle of foliage and the soft thump of little cat feet. Harry went back to the futile task of trying to pry leads out of Combs' file.

Ernest Combs was a man without a life. A man who could be reduced to a birth date, a list of schools, a series of dead-end jobs, and a succession of unspectacular crimes. Maybe, Harry thought, he'd committed murder out of boredom, figuring that prison had to be more stimulating than life on the outside.

The rustle of ficus leaves repeated. Without raising his head, Harry said, "Winslow! You're cruisin' for a bruisin'."

"What's that mean?"

Harry jumped. His youngest daughter stood in the foyer, still in her PJs, a stuffed Pooh bear tucked under one arm.

"Hi, sweetie," he said, wondering what had made him think he could work at home. "Feeling better?"

"I'm hungry," she announced and flounced into the kitchen to pull herself up into a chair across from him.

He wasn't getting anywhere with Ernest Combs anyway. He rose and began a search for breakfast cereal. "Glad to hear it. What'll it be?"

"Scrambledy eggs. Please, Daddy?"

He made the mistake of looking at her. The sweet heart‑shaped face with its chocolaty brown eyes, the silky auburn hair, tousled from sleep. Her Pooh bear smiled amiably at him from under her chin.

"As you wish. If I can find the cookware."

They'd been in the house for about a week and had yet to cook. They'd unpacked cereal bowls and flatware and little else. Nothing was where it belonged, every available corner was piled with boxes, the furniture was half-arranged. As were Harry's thoughts. He felt guilty for not unpacking, but knew if he unpacked, the guilt of not working on the case would be just as intense.

Belatedly, Harry recalled that the cookware box was in the upstairs bathroom. He dragged it down to the kitchen, popped the lid, and rummaged for a sauté pan.

"Daddy? What sort of animal lives in a closet?"

Goody, Harry thought, a five-year-old joke. "I give, honey, what lives in a closet?"

"Dad-dy," she said in a tone of voice that suggested he had slightly less wattage than an oven light.

The phone rang and he leapt to get it before the voicemail kicked in, giving Megan the universal shush sign, finger to lips. "Ferguson's."

"We may have a problem," his assistant Gwen said without preamble. "We've got two weeks to build a case. Not four."

"How did that happen?"

"Fortis pled personal duress. Her baby is due in a month and a half. She told the judge it might be early. Which is such bull. Merle Fortis has delivered two weeks late three times running. And, if that's not bad enough, the date change lands us with a different judge: 'Technicality' Quinn."

Harry rolled his eyes. Justice Erica Quinn had earned her nickname for an unparalleled record of throwing cases out on technicalities.

"Yeah, I know," Gwen said, as if she had heard his eyes turning in their sockets. "I have some case law for you, counselor. I know Meg's not well, and I'd bring it to you, but John's got me on the Edwards case. I'm not even getting a lunch break."

"Meg's well enough to ride in the car."

"Great. I'll leave the stuff on your desk."

Harry rang off, his mind tilting slightly at the thought of trying to mount this case in two weeks. His eyes went unfocused to the ficus benjamina by the front door. It seemed to have blossomed. A bright red sock was cradled among the leaves.

Damned cat. He retrieved the sock and shook out the ficus debris. A "watched" feeling made his nape hairs prickle; he turned to find Winslow regarding him quizzically from the middle of the staircase. A strange creature whose behavior was less than catlike, Winslow followed his favorite human everywhere. He allowed himself to be led on a leash. He fetched. He stole socks.

Harry shook the sock at him. "Winslow, I'm sorry we haven't found your cat toys, but . . ." He knew a moment of guilt as the tabby's dark yellow eyes gazed back at him, soulful and doggish. He decided he'd buy a catnip mouse today. A red one.

"Hey, Meg, honey, how about breakfast at Applebee's?"

****

"Fortis will move for dismissal due to insufficient evidence." Those were the first words out of Gwen's mouth when Harry entered the office. She smiled when she saw Megan standing in the doorway behind him. "Hi, sweetie. How're you feeling?"

"My nose is sniffly." She demonstrated.

"The case law?" Harry prompted.

Gwen ignored him. "Poor baby. Want a tissue?" She snatched one from the box on her desk.

"Gwen, the case law?"

"Oh, yeah. Here." She moved to his desk and bent to embrace a stack of legal books. A rainbow of little vinyl tags sprouted festively from the pages.

"The blue ones," Gwen said, "are cases in which the defendant worked for the victim. The red ones deal with search and seizure powers. In the yellow ones the defendant skipped bail. Purely cautionary."

"Any of them give you gooseflesh?"

Gwen swore that when she encountered items that "meant something" she felt as if someone were blowing on the back of her neck.

"Anderson vs. the State of California," she said, then added, "Want me to show you how to use that tissue, sweetie?" She was smiling past Harry at Megan who was snuffling into Pooh's ear.

Gwen, he thought, is a mother waiting to happen. "I can arrange for you to borrow her."

"Hah. Go study your case law, counselor."

Homeward bound, Harry was jarred out of his ruminations by an irregular thudding on the back of his car seat. "Meg, please stop that."

The thudding was replaced by steady pressure.

"Megan! Stop kicking my seat." He glanced up into the rear view mirror, half expecting to catch an urchin grin; she was gazing out the window.

She faced forward. "I wasn't kicking your seat, Daddy."

"You were pushing it with your feet."

"No, I wasn't."

"Meg."

"I wasn't."

He pulled the car into the driveway contemplating how to handle the fib. "Look, honey. I realize I wasn't paying as much attention to you as I should have at breakfast. But you really need to refrain from these little demonstrations of—"

"What's 'refrain'?"

"Never mind."

"Can I watch TV, Daddy?" Megan asked as they came through the front door.

Harry tripped over a pair of shoes left smack in the middle of the entry and hopped forward, trying not to topple over.

Meg giggled. "You look like a kangaroo."

"Thanks. Yes, you may watch TV." Chances were, she'd fall asleep and he would get some work done . . . and he wouldn't have to enforce naptime.

Harry went back to the kitchen—noting with annoyance that he'd forgotten to turn off the lights—and started weeding through the case law. As Gwen predicted, he found Anderson vs. the State of California interesting. Because the prime suspect had worked for the victim and the crime had occurred in the workplace, the judge had extended the search warrant to the home of the suspect's ex-wife, which was between his office and home. There they'd found the murder weapon.

Combs didn't have an ex-wife, or even a girlfriend. But the scenario of him dumping the weapon between work and home seemed plausible. The police had gotten to Combs' house within thirty seconds of his arrival, surprising him as he came out of his kitchen. He'd had no time to hide a weapon. Yet no weapon had been found.

Harry went over the timeline: Mrs. Boite called 911; the arresting officers spotted Combs' car less than a half-mile from the crime scene and tailed him back to his house. They'd lost sight of him for about twenty seconds when he ran a light. He'd had no time to take a detour. If he dropped the gun somewhere, it had to be in a direct path between the crime scene and his house.

Harry checked Combs' phone records. Prior to the murder, he'd called only two numbers with addresses in the target area. Ignoring the stentorian falsetto of Muppets filtering in from the living room, Harry e-mailed the numbers to the lead detective, tagged "urgent." Then he wandered the house, thinking, turning off lights, straightening pictures, moving things from one place to another. He mulled over Ernest Combs as he "tsked" over the state of the upstairs bathroom, wondering why a row of hair clips marched across the top of the toilet tank.

Combs had a motive.

He dumped the hair clips into a drawer.

Of course, it was a motive that worked for a number of people, including the victim's wife.

Combs had opportunity.

He moved mouthwash from the floor to the medicine cabinet.

Closing the cabinet, he caught movement in the mirror—someone passing the open bathroom door. Meg was too small for him to see more than the top of her head in the bathroom mirror.

He poked his head out into the hall. There was no one there. He started down the hall toward the master bedroom. An inhuman shriek greeted him at the door and Winslow shot out into the hall like a furry cannon ball. He ricocheted off Harry's knees, and skidded toward the staircase.

Heart pounding, Harry teetered on the bedroom threshold with the eerie feeling there was someone standing behind the half-open door. He sucked in a breath and barged into the room, slamming the door against the wall. No one was behind the door.

Harry shook his head, clucking ruefully at himself. He was as bad as Winslow—jumping at shadows. Dufus.

The phone rang, drawing him downstairs.

"Checked those numbers," Gwen told him. "Both businesses. A Blockbuster Video and a pawnshop."

"Pawnshop? Okay, let's get—"

"Done," Gwen said. "Detectives Price and Kirwan are on it even as we speak. If that's not where Combs disposed of the weapon, maybe it's where he purchased it. You coming to work tomorrow?"

"That's the plan. Marilyn got another professor to cover for her. I can't wait to get back. A half-moved-into house is . . . damned distracting."

As he rang off, the cartoon voices from the living room cut off in mid squeak. "Daddy, Winslow and I are gonna take a nap."

He turned to find Meg standing in the foyer with the cat draped over one arm, looking singularly more relaxed than it had the last time he'd seen it. Meg padded upstairs and Harry went back to his case. He was deeply engrossed when he got an e-mail from Detective Price announcing that the pawnshop was a dead end. The owner, Bill Greeley by name, recognized Combs, but had never sold him anything. He'd done a background check on Combs the first time he tried to buy something, uncovered his criminal record, and refused service.

Which didn't keep Combs from trying, Greeley noted, though he denied that Combs had ever tried to sell him anything.

So, Combs didn't get the gun at the pawnshop nor, if the owner was to be believed, did he dump it there. Then . . . Harry called up a manifest of Boite's missing inventory. What better place for Combs to arm himself than his employer's stock? Combs' harassment of the pawnshop owner might just be a means of covering his ass.

"All right." Harry leaned closer to the screen. There were indeed a number of .38 caliber guns missing—five Smith and Wessons, two Colts, and a couple of Glocks.

Harry's train of thought was derailed by what sounded like a police chase being conducted at warp speed by chipmunks. "Meg, turn that down!"

The cacophony continued. Harry popped up from the table and crossed the foyer to the living room. "Meg, I asked—" He stopped. The TV blared toons into an empty room. He turned off the TV and went upstairs where he found Meg fast asleep on her bed, Winslow sitting Sphinx-like at her feet.

"I gotta get back to the office," Harry told the cat, who yawned.

Downstairs, the front door opened. "Dammit, Harry—you left your shoes in the middle of the entry!"

Harry had left his shoes neatly on the mat behind the ficus, but decided to let it go. He was sincerely glad Marilyn was home, because it meant he could remand stewardship of the house to her, recover his wits, and get to work.

****

"So now you know Combs had a weapon, right?" Marilyn asked as she settled under the covers.

"If he's the one who stole the guns, yeah. The murder weapon was a .38—probably a Smith and Wesson. That narrows it down to five guns in Boite's missing inventory. If the murder weapon came from Boite's inventory."

"But?"

"But if we don't find the gun, Combs may walk."

"Bummer."

"Meg's going to school tomorrow, right?" Harry asked, yawning.

"I'd rather keep her home one more day, but I've got it covered. You can return to work, counselor."

"God bless you," Harry murmured. "This house is . . . creepy."

"What?"

Reality began to recede toward sleep. "Shoes," he mumbled.

****

"Daddy? Dad-dy!" Meg was a blur in the dim light. "Daddy, something's under my bed. Make it go away."

Like a well-trained dog, he rose, trailed her docilely to her room, and looked under her bed. "Nothing there, Muffin."

"I bet he went back into the closet."

He straightened. "Oh. Do you want me to chase him away?"

"No, I don't mind him being there. I just don't like it when he crawls under my bed. He wakes me up."

"Okay. Well, um, you stay in that closet then, you hear?" he said to the half-closed door.

Meg beamed. "Thanks, Daddy."

****

The next morning, Harry packed his briefcase and escaped the house gleefully, leaving Marilyn in charge. He piled the two older kids into the car and ferried them to school, absently pondering the connection between Combs and the pawnshop; wondering if there wasn't more there than met the eye. Maybe . . .

"Hey, Scott. Stop kneeing me in the back."

"Huh?"

"You're pushing on the back of my seat," Harry complained, pulling into the turnaround in front of the high school.

Kim shot a grin back at her brother as she opened her door. "Busted. See ya, Dad."

"I wasn't pushing on your seat," Scott said. His door slammed.

"Yeah, right," Harry muttered. "Nobody kicks my seat. Nobody leaves the TV on, or the bathroom lights, or the water. Nobody leaves shoes lying in the entry."

He pulled away from the school trying to regain his concentration. Was the pawnshop owner witness or accomplice? If Combs was ripping off his boss, the guns had to go somewhere. It might be productive to bring the guy in . . .

"Dammit, Scott, I said stop!" Harry's annoyance guttered in the realization that Scott was on his way to Algebra 101. He pulled over against the curb and craned his neck around to peer down the back of the seat, expecting to find that Winslow had snuck into the car.

No Winslow.

Great. Now I'm having back spasms.

By the time he stepped out of the elevator into the DA's office, Harry was much more chipper. He had a hunch. He told Gwen as much the moment he entered the office.

"You hide it so well," she said, straight-faced.

Not long after, Harry found himself behind a two-way mirror in an interrogation room watching Detectives Price and Kirwan question Bill Greeley, pawnshop owner. Greeley stuck doggedly to the claim that he knew Ernest Combs only as a nuisance who continued to try to buy weapons and ammo he wouldn't sell him.

"I'm a law abiding American citizen, dammit," Greeley said for the fiftieth time. "A card-carrying member of the NRA and Neighborhood Watch. I don't sell guns to criminals. Ernest Combs was a criminal."

Detective Price looked into the two-way, rolled his eyes, and mouthed "No go" to the invisible Harry.

"I think he's being straight," Price said later. "The way his eyes bugged out when we asked if he'd purchased arms from Combs, I thought he was going to have a coronary."

"Maybe he's a good actor," Harry said.

"Yeah, but Combs isn't. Practically the first thing he said when the question of gun ownership came up was, 'I can't buy a gun in this freakin' town. I tried.' Maybe he was planning all along to use this guy as a sort of alibi—you know, establish that he'd made repeated attempts to buy a gun and failed."

"I still think that gun is hidden somewhere on his property," said Detective Kirwan. "We mentioned that we'd interviewed Greeley. He seemed completely unconcerned, then asked if we'd finished tossing his house. Said we'd better have put everything back where we found it. Said he'd hold us responsible if there was any damage to the place. He seemed a little angsty about it."

"Chitra, we've turned that whole damn place over," argued Price. "The gun's not there."

Harry chewed his lip. "He was exiting the kitchen when the arresting officers entered the house."

The detectives nodded.

"So they started the search there."

"We dismantled the kitchen," Price said, "pulled appliances out from the wall, even looked for hidden compartments."

Kirwan added, "First, we thought it was in the broiler pan because the door was slightly ajar—and stuck, as if it had been closed in a big hurry. Maybe he started to stash the gun there, then changed his mind. Maybe it was a deke."

"He didn't have time to change his mind," objected Price. "And why bother with misdirection? We searched everywhere."

"Was he nervous about the search?"

"Yeah, he was. But apparently he didn't need to be."

****

After lunch Harry paid a visit to Combs' house. It wasn't much more than a shoebox with a peaked roof, but it had obviously just been through a major remodel. Combs had moved in a scant three months before. There were three rooms downstairs: living room, kitchen, bath. The furnishings were simple but tasteful. And they were of a quality beyond the means of most store clerks. There was a hand-knotted silk Persian carpet. The kitchen had Viking appliances.

Suppressing envy, Harry checked the broiler tray, the lettuce crisper, and the garbage disposal, knowing the detectives had already done that. Then he moved to the second floor.

Up a flight of spiral stairs he was confronted by a single, long room with a sharply peaked ceiling that ran the length of the house from front to back. The bed was cherry wood, with side table and dresser to match. A wardrobe stood at the end of the room opposite the door. A wood-burning stove hunkered halfway between in a wide gable, its pipe extending up into the ceiling. Ashes littered the floor in front of it, a souvenir of the police search. Every drawer and cabinet hung open.

Harry had bubkes. No clues, no epiphanies, not even a niggle. He went home to the joys of unpacking.

"Any idea where the cookware went?" Marilyn followed her voice into the foyer. "I'd swear it was right here by the table this morning."

"It was. I brought it down myself." Harry mounted the staircase, intent on a quick change into a sweat suit.

"Huh . . . By the way, you left every light on downstairs this morning."

He stopped halfway up the stairs. "No, I didn't. I only left the foyer light on."

"Oh. Must've been Scott."

"Wasn't me." Scott's voice floated from the living room on a raft of video game sound effects.

Marilyn gestured "never mind" and headed back into the kitchen. "If I can't find the cookware there'll be no dinner tonight—unless you want to order out."

"Pizza!" yelled Scott.

At the top of the stairs, Harry nearly collided with Kim who'd appeared on the landing cradling a box.

"Cookware?"

Kim nodded. "It was in the upstairs bathroom."

"Again? I brought it downstairs," said Harry.

"Sure, Dad." Kim gave him an indulgent smile, then carried the box downstairs.

Marilyn had come out of the kitchen again. She winked up at Harry. "Poltergeists. They