One Of My First Stories Published In A Pulp Fiction Magazine

Thought you might like this.  It is the either the first or second story I ever sold to a major pulp magazine; 1986.

A PENNY SAVED

OR

HOW INFLATION SAVED THE NATION

The complex was located in the frozen northland under a hundred feet of stone and permafrost.  The great scientist who labored there had won the Nobel before entering the complex to begin what he considered to be his life’s work; the creation of the perfect weapon.

The scientist invested fifteen years in the creation of X-Gamma Nine.

For each of those years a thousand lives were spent proving the weapon effective.  Finally, all was ready and “Uncle” Ivan, iron-fisted leader of the Motherland’s people was called in to witness the final test.

The test went perfectly.  Not one of the test subjects had the discourtesy to live and ruin “Uncle’s” work.

Ivan was elated.  Finally, the enemy of the motherland would be brought to its proud knees.  Ivan was so happy, in fact, that he allowed the scientist to live out the short remainder of his life in a forced labor camp.  As a hero of the people the scientist was given one end of a crosscut saw.  He didn’t even have to work up to the position.  Those in the know were encouraged by the evidence of a softening attitude on the part of “Uncle.”

Ivan smiled, happy he could gladden the hearts of his people so.  Then he laid plans for the destruction of the enemy.

…..

The fifty sealed packets were stacked neatly on the table at the front of the room.  Ivan himself addressed the fifty agents.

“Comrades,” Ivan began.  “You have been chosen to participate in the greatest mission ever undertaken on behalf of the Motherland.  You will be directly responsible for the elimination of our principle enemy from the face of the earth.”

“Each of these packets contains a penny.  In the land of the enemy each is a collector’s item of moderate value.  That is your excuse for having such an item. Collector’s coins are routinely sealed in this manner.  At the conclusion of this meeting each of you will take one of these packets and board the submarine waiting at the dock outside. The vessel will take you to various rendezvous off the enemy coast. You will be briefed as to your targets once on board. Each of you will see to it that you reach your target by August sixth.  At precisely 10:05 AM on August sixth you will go to a busy area in the target city and spill the penny onto the ground.  choose an area where it is certain to be found.”

Uncle paused for effect.  “Each of these pennies, gentlemen, is coated with a substance containing infected with a germ developed by our greatest scientific mind. The germ dies after an hour’s exposure to air but during that hour, anyone who picks the penny up will absorb the germ into the bloodstream. That person will die seventy-six hours later. Anyone who comes into physical contact with the victim during that time will die also. The victim feels nothing until the last hours so the disease will spread through the population like wildfire. Estimates are for a 70% kill in the target areas. Targets have been picked to maximize the effect of the kill on the enemy political and military structure.  Go and do your duty well.”

The leader raised his fist to the sky.  “TO THE REVOLUTION!"

"TO THE REVOLUTION!" the fifty shouted back.

………

Timmy Bensen and his friend John walked across the street.  It was a busystreet so they hurried.

Timmy was poor by American standards. John's father owned Franklin's. He numbered a Senator as one of his customers.

As the boys hurried along, Timmy's eye caught the bright flash of sunlight on polished copper. On another day Timmy might have picked up the penny but John was with him today and John's dad was rich. Timmy gave the penny a contemptuous kick. The coin rolled along the curb and down a storm sewer.

Without a human host X-Gamma Nine existed for but an hour. Timmy's town,and the nearby missle base, never knew that they were targets.

Joe needed a drink.  Already he was beginning to shake. Suddenly his eye was drawn to the shiny object on the sidewalk. Joe stooped and reached then drew his hand back.  “So bright and only a penny?”

Joe straightened, standing taller than before. "Hey mister.^1I he said to a passerby. "Got half a buck? I could sure use a cup of coffee."

As Joe pocketed the two quarters the man had given him he gave the penny a kick. The penny rolled under a building.  Joe walked away whistling. He felt great. After all, a man has his pride. 

...........

The re-call message arrived at 9:30 the morning of August sixth. Boris had been ambassador for an unusually long time so he was used to impossible demands but this last was an outrage. "Be clear of the country by 10:00 AM or don't come home," the message read.”

Fear clutched at the ulcer nested in the ambassador's stomach. Orders are orders, especially when "Uncle" gives them, Boris thought as he headed for the airport, not bothering to pack.

The trip to the airport took thirty minutes and the clock on the dash read 9:40. It seemed hopeless but Boris knew that there was still a chance.  If Boris didn't make the airport on time he would become, in the eyes of the leader, a non-person; someone incapable of following orders.

That the orders could not be followed was no excuse.  The pilot of the plane had associated with Boris so if Boris was a non-person, the pilot was a non-person as well. Siberia was cold. The pilot would wait.

The limo screeched to a halt.

"Not bad," Boris muttered. The clock on the dash read 10:03.

Boris hurried toward the gate where his plane waited. Boris knew that according to the pilot's log the plane was already airborne. He began to run.

Because of his speed Boris was a step past the object before it registered on his mind as a coin. He almost didn't stop but as a comrade had remarked some years ago, "A kopek saved is a kopek earned."

Boris stopped, grabbed the penny and ran toward the plane. The agent who had carefully placed the penny smiled as he saw the fat "capitalist" stop and grab the prize.

An ebullient Ivan met the plane carrying Boris. As a gesture of friendship, and for long service, and because Ivan anticipated with glee the demise of the enemy, Boris was greeted with a personal handshake from the great leader.

Sometimes Work Just Gets In The Way!

Well, I thought You're Next! The Assault On Traditional Rural Lifestyles would be ready in July... 
Whoops!  Someone commissioned a book on another topic (more about that one soon) so... I'm hoping the 1'st of October.

So here, just for fun, is the expanded temporary, draft, preliminary, etc. introduction to You're Next.  A shorter version of this was contained in the last post.

This photo or something similar will have the large red circle with a slash through it representing the wishes of the urban centrics that this kind of farm be restricted or eliminated

INTRODUCTION

It’s Not Paranoia When They Really Are Out To End Your Lifestyle Choices

It is ironic that in America, at a time when more and more people want to trade in the treadmill of urban life to return to the nation’s rural roots, the right to choose to live a traditional rural lifestyle is under assault by powerful political forces dedicated to ending traditional rural lifestyles in favor of the purported benefits of life in the high rise city.

Not so long ago a Super Bowl commercial extolling the virtues of “the farmer” touched the emotions of Americans.  Today words like “local food,” “sustainability,” “food security” and “buy local” permeate the conversations of the very people working hard to end the very lifestyle they profess admiration for; a cadre of people passionately committed to the end of significant use of rural lands in traditional ways.

The assault comes on many fronts, not all of them as visible as recent Bureau of Land Management attempts to expand its already huge empire in the Southwestern United States.  In fact, the most effective attacks on traditional uses of the land are hidden, often deliberately, from public view.  Those militantly demanding the land be cleared of residents work to restrict the use of water, work to consolidate small acreages into “factory farm” sized parcels, oppose allowing small acreages to be made available to families desiring to live the traditional rural lifestyle, seek to end the ability to own and operate rural businesses capable of serving rural residents and, in a hundred other ways, swarm onto the landscape looking for ways to end meaningful use of the nation’s farm and forest lands as they seek to achieve a long term goal of pushing landowners off the land and into the city.

Posing as supporters, those opposed to the living of traditional rural lifestyles speak in glowing terms about farmland preservation, sustainability, food security and, environmental protections while actually bringing forward an agenda aimed at eliminating small scale farming by passing legislation designed to crush rural businesses, removing or denying water rights necessary to grow crops, and seizing control of huge acreages under the guise of preserving the land for “future generations,” or the promise of environmental enhancement.

This book is about a national assault on traditional rural lifestyles and productive natural resource lands being played out in hundreds of communities in all 50 of these disunited states.   Whatcom County, a sparsely populated county located at the northwest corner of the continental United States is pointed to as indicative of those hundreds of communities because the on-going assault seen throughout the country began in Whatcom County decades ago.  The county is seen as a leader by many in the anti-rural movement; as a template transferrable to other regions, for techniques designed to take away the choice millions of Americans have made, or hope to make someday, to experience a traditional rural lifestyle in America.   

In Whatcom County the assault on traditional rural lifestyles is led by a small cadre of “Urban Centric” activists with close connections to state and national activist groups.  The group has had the assistance of one of America’s top legal firms at their beck and call.  The public story put forward is that the assistance is provided at no cost.  The activists have a firm grip on the local political system and work hard to “repel all boarders” when threatened with political change.  The anti-rural clique is firmly entrenched in well-funded local groups purporting to support local farms and farmers but putting forward regulatory changes harmful to those same local farms and farmers.

In short, Whatcom County is racing down the same roads hundreds of other jurisdictions in America are exploring but, because anti rural activists have been at work in the county for so long and because they are better organized than their kindred souls elsewhere, the county can be looked to as an example of how and why the anti-rural movement is having growing success across the landscape of America.

The message to the rest of America being broadcast by those seeking to end traditional rural lifestyles from sea to shining sea is:

YOU’RE NEXT!

You're Next! The Assault On Traditional Rural Lifestyles

Recent news from Nevada, Texas and, other parts of the king's realm led me to believe a book I've been working on, or rather, off and on, for two plus years needs to be finished.  Based on an article I wrote for Acres Magazine a couple of years ago, the book examines the tensions between rural America and urban activists we've seen highlighted in recent months.
So, the book will be finished and available at Amazon and on Kindle by about July of this year.

Here's a potential illustration:

 
 Here's a few sentences from the book's forward:
  

It’s Not Paranoia If They Really Are Out To End Your Lifestyle Choices

It is ironic that in America, at a time when more and more people want to trade in the treadmill of urban life to return to the nation’s rural roots, the right to choose to live a traditional rural lifestyle is under assault by powerful political forces dedicated to ending traditional rural lifestyles in favor of the purported benefits of life in the high rise city.

Not so long ago a Super Bowl commercial extolling the virtues of “the farmer” touched the emotions of Americans.  Today words like “local food,” “sustainability,” “food security” and “buy local” permeate the conversations of the very people working hard to end the very lifestyle they profess admiration for; a cadre of people passionately committed to the end of significant use of rural lands in traditional ways.

The assault comes on many fronts, not all of them as visible as recent Bureau of Land Management attempts to expand its already huge empire.  In fact, the most effective attacks on traditional uses of the land are hidden, often deliberately, from public view.  Those militantly demanding the land be cleared of residents work to restrict the use of water, work to consolidate small acreages into “factory farm” sized parcels, oppose allowing small acreages to be made available to families desiring to live the traditional rural lifestyle, seek to end the ability to own and operate rural businesses capable of serving rural residents and, in a hundred other ways, swarm onto the landscape looking for ways to end meaningful use of the nation’s farm and forest lands as a way to achieve a long term goal of pushing landowners off the land and into the city.

Posing as supporters, those opposed to the living of traditional rural lifestyles speak in glowing terms about farmland preservation, sustainability, food security and, environmental protections while actually bringing forward an agenda aimed at eliminating small scale farming by passing legislation designed to crush rural businesses, removing or denying water rights necessary to grow crops, and seizing control of huge acreages under the guise of preserving the land for “future generations,” or the promise of environmental enhancement.

Well, now I've gone and said I'd do it... guess I'd better get to it!

It's A Mystery, It's A History, It's A Good Read And, You Can Buy It On Amazon Or Kindle Now

The kinks (not the singing group) are worked out and you can now buy The Mystery Of The Shaman's Secret!

The book is available in both paperback and kindle versions at http://www.amazon.com/Jack-Petree/e/B0074BCEV6,  Dangerous Game, Jack's first novel is also available.

Suspense Fiction Set In Washington Received Great Reviews

Kindle also has a lending library allowing you to read books for free.  You might think I'd not like that but the innovative thing about kindle's lending library is that I get a bit of spare change as well.

So go out and buy, buy, buy like you've never bought before or, at least read the free one for crying out loud.

And thanks for all the support over the years, 

Jack

The Mystery of The Shaman's Secret To Be Published Next Week: See Sample Chapters Below

Finally... "The Mystery Of The Shaman's Secret should be available on Amazon, Kindle and other platforms in both paperback and electronic versions by mid-next week.

Since this is an announcement about what is going to happen I thought you'd enjoy seeing the cover as it was pre-proof and, if you're kind enough to buy the book, you'll see the adjustment made to make the cover a bit less crowded.

Below, you'll find chapters one and two.  Don't worry about the unfamiliar names, the cast of characters is not very large and you'll soon find yourself swinging along...

The chapters are also pre-final proof so, if you notice a typo it should be fixed in the final version but, again, I thought it might be fun to see pre-proof.  It's astonishing how much work goes into a book after the "work" is done! 

The setting is Han China, in the first century B.C., and, to begin the book, you will find a brief discussion about the historical figures the story is about.  Most of the major characters actually lived and, the fiction is woven through some actual events in the court of the time.

So, enjoy.  I'll post a Facebook notice when the book actually comes available.

Chapter 1

Crime And Punishment

Jyang Choong sat quietly watching the scene below. From time to time his eyes focused on the shaman but mostly Jyang studied the face of Emperor Wu.

The temple had been especially constructed for this occasion. Looking more barbarian than Chinese, it was shaped like a shallow drinking bowl. The floor of the bowl was bare save for a slightly raised platform in the middle. This platform was small, less than a pace across.

A man stood on the platform. At his feet lay two objects: a small oil lamp and a misshapen lump that had apparently once been molded into the shape of a human being and then buried.

The man stood as erectly and proudly as his wrecked body allowed. The effects of three days at the hands of the prosecutor’s staff of torturers were obvious. The man would never walk properly again even should he survive the ordeal before him and horrible scars would mark him for life; but for now these were the least of the man’s considerations. He stood silently, but gazed at his sovereign with a look of sorrow.

“Are you certain of the charges?” Emperor Wu asked as he watched the shaman perform the chants.

“There can be no doubt, my Emperor,” Jyang Choong answered.

“He was one of my oldest and most trusted advisors,” the Emperor mused. “I find it difficult to believe that he would practice wu-gu. Why would he be attracted to the evil magic?”

“There can be no doubt,” Jyang repeated.

The Emperor’s throne was located at the north rim of the bowl. Various functionaries of the court were seated at different points around the depression. All looked down intently at the man below.

The shaman continued his chants for a time and then suddenly stopped. He walked to a point in front of the Emperor, then prostrated himself. “The man has not practiced wu-gu,” the shaman proclaimed.

The Emperor glared at Jyang.

“You find no fault with the man?” Jyang called out.

“There is an emanation of evil,” the shaman answered, “but my efforts fail to detect what the man has done.”

“What of chu-tsu shang?” Jyang asked.

A muffled gasp from the crowd followed the question; Chu-tsu shang, cursing the Emperor, calling down spirits to do harm to the exalted body, was as heinous a crime as a man could commit.

“NO!” The shout echoed through the temple. “My Lord Ruler knows of my faithful service. Do not dishonor my life and my death by such a charge.” These were the first words the proud man on the platform had spoken in three days.

The Emperor turned to Jyang.

“You go too far,” the Emperor hissed, fire flashing in his eyes. “He has been my faithful servant since his birth. I cannot believe that of him.”

“Let the shaman test him then,” Jyang Choong answered, loudly enough for all to hear. “If he passes the test, there is no dishonor, for he will have been proven loyal. The dishonor will then be mine and I will take his place on the platform and his place in death.”

“You are so sure?” the Emperor asked.

“I am,” Jyang answered.

“Let it be done.” The Emperor nodded to the shaman who quickly re­sumed his place in front of the prisoner. The chants began.

The Emperor turned back to Jyang. “You risk everything?” he asked.

“I risk nothing,” Jyang replied. “I exist to serve the Emperor. If I serve well, I live. If not, I die.” The Emperor, inured to empty flattery, gazed quizzi­cally at Jyang, but said nothing. Both men turned to watch the scene below.

The shaman was from north of the Great Wall, in the eyes of most of the Emperor’s retinue, a foreigner. His clothing was dirty, barbaric in cut, and covered with strange designs. He whirled and twirled, here and there, mouthing strange words never before heard in the capital city of the Han. No one noticed him motion to a serving boy stationed at the top of the stairway leading from the bottom of the bowl shaped temple to the top. The serving boy signaled back, then nodded to his master below. The shaman embarked on a particularly vigorous series of moves, then froze in place, a wild, keening cry coming from his lips. His hands pointed to the prisoner in the center of the cleared space. All eyes focused on the shaman and on the object of his cry.

The shaman’s keening wail seemed to go on forever. The watchers won­dered to themselves how a man could utter such a noise and keep doing it for so long. Soon, all in the audience found themselves almost involuntarily leaning forward, hypnotized by the awful sound. Suddenly, when it appeared that the cry could go on no longer without something snapping in the old man’s throat, there came a loud “WOOMP” and the entire floor of the temple seemed to have ignited in an explosive rush of heat and fire.

Instinctively the crowd drew back. Then, as individuals within it gathered their wits, the crowd surged forward towards what appeared to be a magical flame remaining after the initial explosion.

The Emperor was among the startled onlookers straining towards the platform. Only Jyang Choong remained seated, a slight smile playing on his lips. After a short time the prisoner ceased to scream.

Chapter 2

An Emperor Under Threat

The braver members of the crowd edged toward but then quickly fell back from the charred corpse, covering dainty noses with kerchiefs, sleeves or whatever was close at hand. A peculiar, bitter-sour smell could be detected in the air. It mixed with the disconcertingly pleasant roast pork- like odor of burning human flesh. The shaman and the prosecutor exchanged glances as the latter at last rose from his seat and moved forward to the Emperor’s side.

“So,” the Emperor muttered, “he was indeed guilty. The conspirators multiply as I grow older.” The Emperor Wu, Lord of all that was Civilized Under Heaven, the literal representative of Heaven on earth, seemed to age as he spoke these bitter words. His cheeks sank inward and his skin paled beneath the sheen of sweat evoked by the mysterious holy fire.

The chief prosecutor took this in. Jyang was a large, fleshy man, still in the vigor of middle age. Taking care to mask from his voice the contempt of the still young for the ineffectually old, the chief prosecutor sought to soothe his sovereign.

“Such is the price of success, Your Majesty,” he said. “Always there are those who would plot the fall of the One who sustains us. But happily there are weapons against those men of evil. Your Majesty’s enemies will continue to be confounded, for I have found a means of detecting the black magic men of darkness would use against the royal person. So long as I stand by the side of the Emperor, no man may practice such evil against him.”

“Most impressive,” Emperor Wu replied, regaining his emotional balance and directing a sharp glance at his chief prosecutor. The demands of power had long since taught the Emperor to mistrust even those closest to him. The just concluded lesson had only reinforced this mistrust. The chief prosecutor’s methods were indeed powerful but such power brought with it threats to the Emperor.

“You and your agents have done well. I suppose you are right. This sort of thing is inevitable. That damnable Chen woman tried the wu-gu magic on me when I was little more than a boy. That was nearly forty years ago, but my… 

Dead Broke.. A New Story Free For, Hopefully, Your Reading Pleasure

Well, last year did not go as I'd planned.  The book (The Mystery of the Shaman's Secret) did not make it through the publishing process, much less its prequel, a mystery of the Shang dynasty.  A couple of other works in progress were deferred, and I got a new knee for Christmas.

Thanks for your patience.  I am promised the book will be ready for a final look through by the end of this week with subsequent publication within a week or two, I am walking without a cane or a walker now and, am actually getting a little work done.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the following story; a kind of mystery about revenge from beyond the grave.

DEAD BROKE - by Jack Petree

He saw his grandson stalking towards him. He wondered at the hatred in the boy's eyes.  As the boy approached he reached up, with his left hand, and clasped the cross that hung from his neck.

There was no struggle. There was no point.  The old man was eighty-five and ill.  His grandson was twenty-two and comparatively strong.

He watched as the boy lifted the pillow, nearly panicking as the pillow was pressed to his face.  His instinct was to fight back but he drew himself together. He wanted to die with dignity. He'd made his peace with his maker. He was ready. 

He clasped the cross even tighter.

He died.

1

"We happen to think you're probably right, Mr. Weber," the lieutenant said.

The lieutenant stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray stationed on the desk in front of him then leaned back and regarded his visitor. "The problem is we can't prove it and aren't likely to."

"That's all I really needed to know."

The man sitting in front of the lieutenant's desk stood to go. "In addition to being Mr. Waggoner's attorney, I was his friend. Mr. Waggoner had loyal friends. We wanted to know for sure before we decided on a course of action."

"So now you know," the lieutenant said, lighting another of the noxious weeds he was so fond of.

The lieutenant paused for a moment then looked at the man in front of him with a steady gaze. "Now you know," he repeated.  “I hate it.  I hate it every time something like this happens.  I hate the thought that the grandson will probably get away with it and I hate the fact that I'm powerless to do anything about it but I tell you this in warning.  If you try to take revenge I'll come after you with every tool I have.  Don't try to take the law into your own hands."

Mr. Weber, one of the town's most prominent lawyers, stared back at the lieutenant without flinching. "I'd be disappointed at less," he replied. "Revenge will be taken though.  Mr. Waggoner arranged for it before his death.  I am simply the instrument he chose to use in exacting that revenge."

The lawyer gave the lieutenant a mocking half-smile, turned and left.  

The lieutenant sighed as he watched the attorney leave.  He liked the man, Weber seemed to be one of the few lawyers in town who seemed to be strictly on the up and up.  It would be a shame if the attorney did something overtly illegal.  The lieutenant wouldn't relish that arrest at all, he decided, though he knew that he would make it.

2

"What in hell do you mean!"

Alfred Waggoner IV slammed his fist down on the lawyer's desk.

"My grandfather was one of the richest men in the state. The newspapers estimated his wealth at over two hundred million dollars.  I want to know where that money went!"

Waggoner stood, quivering with rage. Money was his obsession in life.

Mr. Weber gazed at Waggoner, the trace of a smile evident though Weber’s distaste for the man was obvious in his stare.

Weber handed the man who'd killed his friend a sheaf of papers.

"A full audit of the estate," he said. "I'd suggest you look it over."

Waggoner was livid. He glanced at the papers then threw them back at the lawyer.

"You did it!" Waggoner screamed.  "I don't know how, but you did it but you'll pay for it.  I'll get that money if it's the last thing I do."

The furious man turned and stalked out of Weber's office.

Now Weber was sure; completely sure.  He picked up the phone.

"Lieutenant?" the attorney asked when the connection was made.  "Have you made any progress on the murder of Alfred Waggoner?"

The reply was in the negative.

"I was afraid of that," Weber sighed. "Would it help if I told you that Mr. Waggoner left a sign that he'd been murdered?"

"A sign?" the lieutenant exploded. "What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Waggoner knew what sort of a man his grandson had become," came the answer. "He knew his life was in danger so he arranged a sign; many of Mr. Waggoner’s closest friends knew of it. His purpose was to tell us, from the grave, that he'd been murdered."

"Are you serious?" the lieutenant asked.

"Very," came the answer.

"What kind of a sign?" the lieutenant asked.

"Mr. Waggoner wore a cross," Weber said. "If you will consult your file on the murder you'll see that Mr. Waggoner was clasping the cross in his left hand when he died."

"So what?"

"Mr. Waggoner was right handed," Weber said. "He arranged a sign based on that fact. If he thought his grandson had something to do with his death, the cross would be clenched in his left hand. If not, the cross would either be in his right hand or, simply hanging free.  Several friends knew of the plan and could testify to its existence if necessary."

"Why are you telling me this?" the lieutenant asked. "You know something that flimsy would never hold up in court."

"True," Weber said, sounding a little sad. "I wanted you to know about the clue.  I thought it might make you work a little harder on the case. I still have some hope Mr. Waggoner's grandson could be brought to court for the deed. It would allow me to avoid doing my duty to a dead friend."

"I'll go over things again,” the lieutenant responded.  “Not because of what you’ve told me but because it is both my job and, it is the right thing to do.”

"Thank you," Weber replied.  "I could ask no more."

Four weeks later, Weber appeared at the door of the old mansion that now belonged to Alfred Waggoner IV.  At first Waggoner refused to see him but changed his mind-when informed that the visit concerned the missing funds.

"Well," he sneered as the lawyer was ushered into the room. "Did you decide to come clean and return the money you stole from me?"

Weber said nothing for a moment; he simply leveled a calm gaze at the man in front of him, examining the youth with interest.

Alfred Waggoner IV did not look well at all. His face was gaunt and flushed. He trembled as he spoke. "You don't look well Mr. Waggoner," Weber said at last, a very slight smile tracing across his face.

"You wouldn't look well either if someone had cheated you out of two hundred million dollars. I can't sleep. I can't eat."

Waggoner stood, shaking, whether out of anger of because of a physical malady was unclear, then moved over to Weber.  "Enough of that," he spat out.  "What is it you have to say about my money?"

"Does it mean so much?" Weber asked.

"What do you mean?" Waggoner exploded. "Of course it means so much!  Wouldn't it be important to you?"

Waggoner cut off the lawyer's answer.

"Let's get on with it," he roared, managing to draw strength from his anger. The lawyer reached into his coat pocket and removed an envelope.  He handed it to the man who’d killed his friend. 

The envelope was heavy and had a waxy feel to it.

"What's this?" Waggoner asked, suspicious at the unusual feel of the document.

"Read the document inside,” came the reply. "It will tell you what happened to the money.  It is written in your grandfather’s own hand.  I have a duplicate, replicating the document down to the especially treated envelope containing the missive. “

"At that, a look of greed swept across the younger man's face.  Waggoner ripped the envelope open and eagerly began to read. 

“My dear grandson,” the piece began.  “If you are reading this I feel sorry for you.  I want you to know I forgive you for what you have done but I cannot allow you to profit from your actions. Had you waited for my natural death, Mr. Weber, my good friend and the executor of my estate, would have been delivering a check for some fifteen million dollars to you at this moment.  It would have been but a part of my legacy to you. Over the course of the next few years, millions more would have been delivered as other friends would have come forward with monies I've entrusted to them.”

Waggoner blanched as he read on; “You just couldn’t wait.  Because of that, your bequest is as follows…”

“What is this?” Waggoner hissed.

“I suggest you read on,” Weber replied.

“I've left you two hundred thousand dollars and the family mansion. If you sell the mansion - I know it's tough to sell a drafty old relic of the past but I’ve arranged to assure you get a fair price - and invest the money you should be able to live in a moderate style for some time.  Unfortunately, I know many men like the man you’ve become.  I've dealt with them all my life. Your greed will torment you. You won't sleep. You won't eat. The desire to get back what could have been, should have been, yours, will consume you.  Life for you will be a self created hell and I will have had my revenge. I'm so sorry for you."

Waggoner had scarcely finished reading when the paper he held burst into flame. The young man dropped the burning document then stared at Weber, a look of horror on his face; the veins on his forehead pulsing as though they might burst at any moment.  "My money," the young man stammered. "I want my money."

Now Weber’s smile was open and frank.  "I'm sorry," he said. "It's my money now. I'll send you periodic reports on how I'm enjoying it.  I think I'll begin with a trip around the world.  After all, you’ve given me the means to retire from my practice.”

"Get out!" Waggoner screamed. "Get out!"  He picked up a paperweight from a nearby desk.  "Get out!" he screamed again, holding the weight as though ready to throw it.

Weber shook his head sadly and turned to go.

3

Almost three years to the day after Weber's meeting with Alfred Waggoner IV, the body of the young man was found, brains blown out as the result of a shotgun blast.

As Weber sadly read the newspaper account, there was a knock at the front door.

"Come in," he said, putting the paper down. The lieutenant appeared.   

"Yes?" Weber asked. "I’ve been expecting you; what can I do for you lieutenant?"

"I want to know you didn't do it," the lieutenant responded.  "I just want to hear you say you had nothing to do with Waggoner’s death."

Weber sat back in his seat, quietly regarding the lieutenant.  "Are you interviewing me to gather material for an arrest?" he finally asked.

"No," the lieutenant returned, "It's just that I've got to know. I told you last year that I'd track you down if you took the law into your own hands. When I heard he'd killed himself I got to wondering. I want to hear it from you in person, for I consider you to be a man of honor. I want to hear that you had nothing to do with the death of Alfred Waggoner IV."

"I'm sorry," Weber replied after composing himself.  "I'm afraid I had everything to do with his death.  With the help of a few friends loyal to the memory of Alfred’s grandfather,” he continued.

The lieutenant shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at such an admission.

"I don't suppose you'd tell me how you did it?" he said, finally. "We found no evidence at the scene to point the finger towards anything but a self-inflicted death."

"I'll tell you," Weber replied. "There's no reason you shouldn't know."

The lieutenant pulled a notebook from his pocket. "May I take notes?" he asked.

The lawyer spread his hands to show that it didn't matter.

"The weapon used on Mr. Waggoner was not a shotgun," Weber said when the lieutenant was ready. "The weapon used to drive Mr. Waggoner to his death was greed."

"Greed?"

"Greed," Weber responded. "Have you ever noticed that when a man becomes obsessed with money he loses all sense of proportion?"

The lieutenant nodded an affirmative.

Mr. Waggoner senior understood that kind of mind," Weber continued.  “In his will, Mr. Waggoner left his grandson enough money to live on in modest comfort for the rest of his days but also let him know, in a death letter, delivered by myself, that he could have had millions more had he exercised some patience."

"Is that why he sued you?" the lieutenant asked.

Weber nodded.

"Each month or two for the past three years, someone has gone to Alfred with the information that he had been given five, or ten, or more millions of dollars by his grandfather. That money would have been Alfred's had he waited but, now, because of what he'd done, title to the money would transfer to the man who'd been charged with its delivery had Alfred not been guilty of murder.”

The lawyer paused for a moment, a slight smile on his lips at the memory.  “Can you imagine the effect such announcements, coming one atop the other, would have on the mind of someone consumed by greed? Can you imagine the thoughts passing through young Alfred's mind as man after man told him how he'd lost millions for lack of a little patience?"

“It would be like the supposed Chinese water torture we all heard about when we were kids,” the lieutenant responded, a smile on his own face now.  “It must have infected and preyed on his mind."

"And on his pocketbook," the attorney continued.  "He spent most of the money he did receive from his grandfather's estate trying to recover what his grandfather had given away."

"Didn't he win some of those cases?”

"That he did," the attorney replied with a smile. "He was supposed to win them. Before the old man died we calculated the odds of his grandson's winning and set things up so that it cost him ten dollars for every five he recovered. With his compulsive greed ruling his mind Alfred never noticed what we were doing to him until, yesterday I suppose, he woke up and found himself penniless.”

"And that put him over the edge?" the lieutenant mused.

“And that put him over the edge,” came the reply.  "So you see, lieutenant, Mr. Waggoner senior’s friends have done exactly what we set out to do; we revenged our friend's murder.  So what do you plan to do next?"

"See that I never cross you, and your friends," the lieutenant replied, tearing the pages from his notebook and tossing them in a nearby wastebasket.  “I wouldn’t want to end up like Waggoner; ‘dead broke.”’