Page 73 - Tales Apocalyptic and Dystopian

Cannon’s Last Case
(Fantastic Transactions 3, 2006)

In response to repeated knocking a lock snapped open, followed
by the door—to the point of stopping at the end of a very short
chain. No light issued from within.
“What is it?”
The voice, old and hoarse, bore traces of a long-extinct regional
accent the visitor could not identify.
“Spike? I mean, Mr. Cannon?”
She spoke loudly without modulation, not adjusting to a quiet
hallway in a retirement block.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Mary Chase. I need help from a—a private
investigator.”
“Not private enough, evidently.”
The reply was brusque. Muffled banging began next door, as if a
cane were beating against a very thin wall.
“Here,” she said. “I have nothing to hide.”
She put her hand up to the opening, expecting the beep of a chip-
scanner. Silence. Undaunted she activated her com unit and offered
it, screen first, to the unseen occupant. It was not touched.
“Don’t you want to know who I am?”
The door began to close, only to reopen completely when the
chain was slipped.
“I know all I need to.”
A wizened balding man half a century older, a few inches shorter
and several pounds lighter than the woman in the hallway emerged,
blinking behind spectacles tape-wrapped at the bridge.
“Really?” Her eyebrows and mouth registered surprise and delight.
“You mean you could tell from my voice that I am left-handed, have
a scar on the back of my neck, ate Crushed Crispies for breakfast and
wear size eight shoes?”
He laughed, a dry wheeze.
“You have been dipping into some rather old literary sources, Miss
Chase—anyone can note the absence of a wedding ring on the finger

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