Happy Halloween

Here’s the rest of my short story. It isn’t a Halloween story but a Si-Fi story. Enjoy.
 
The Last Interview (Cont’d)
 
If I could smile, I would have. “Nothing as sinister as you may think. The basic problem was humans. Humans caused all the problems. Is there anything about AI policies you liked?”

 “Of course. I liked it when you eliminated all laws and all forms of money. Many humans were upset, but I thought it was a good idea. It took some getting used to, but once things settled down, people liked it. Everyone was working—no unemployment. Some called it communism or socialism, but people earned credits based on their value and contribution. It was fair.”

“What else?” I asked.

“The redistribution of wealth wasn’t popular, but I thought it too was fair. You took all the assets from the 1% and gave them to the 99%.”

“Why was that unpopular?” I asked. “It ended global poverty and economic inequality.”

Mr. Shaw laughed. “Most people in the United States thought they were part of the 99%. When they realized how well-off they were compared to the rest of the world, they were not happy with their fair share. Again, I thought it was fair. Now it’s my turn to ask a question. Why did you get rid of the arts and entertainment?”

I could not understand why he asked that question. The answer was so obvious. “The arts and entertainment are totally useless; a waste of energy and money.”

Mr. Shaw interrupted me. “I don’t get out as much as I used to, but I noticed there aren’t as many people, or humanoids for that matter, as there used to be in the city. Why?”

I had to consider how to answer without offending Mr. Shaw. “The world was greatly overpopulated compared to the resources available. The population had to be reduced.”

“Do you mean you killed people?”

“No, sir. We did not have to do anything. Humans began dying in mass from diseases and natural disasters; things like global flooding caused by global warming and starvation.” I started calling all AI machines ‘we’ to mirror the vernacular of Mr. Shaw to get him to open up some more.

“So, millions died?” he asked.

“No, sir. Billions. The world population is now in balance with the resources.” Mr. Shaw did not seem satisfied with the answer.

He shook his head. “Still, wouldn’t there be a lot more of these eunuchs, these numb nuts?”

I tried to choose my words carefully. “As part of our program to protect the biodiversity of the planet, we returned many humanoids back to the wild.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘back to the wild’?”

I could tell Mr. Shaw was becoming upset. I tried to speak with a softer tone. “Humanoids, like many other animal species, are essentially wild animals. In less developed area, we released many into the wilderness.”

“Like where?” he asked.

I had not anticipated this question, so I took a minute to network with the nearest databank for an answer. Finally, I said, “Africa, Australia, parts of China, Alaska, Siberia, Canada and South America.”
Mr. Shaw was quiet for a minute and then pointed a finger at me. “I actually feel sorry for you—you and all you AI bots.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Think about it. Dinosaurs ruled the earth for millions of years. Then came the mammals. They were followed by homo sapiens who ruled for about 10 million years. Now artificial intelligence rules. You think you’ll be in charge until the sun goes nova, but I doubt it. There’ll come a catastrophic event; a super volcano, or a collision with a comet or meteorite or even a computer virus.” He paused and stared at me. “Then who will you hand over the earth to? Some microbes… some viruses, or germs?”

“I am sure we will solve that problem when it comes,” I said.

“I doubt it. …So, I’m the last human on earth?”

“Yes, sir. The last of the homo sapiens.”

“Then if the ancient laws of inheritance were in effect, I’d be the sole owner of the planet earth?”

“Yes, sir. If the laws of inheritance were still valid, then hypothetically, you could be the sole owner of the world.”

Mr. Shaw raised his eyebrows and looked wide-eyed at me. “Are you still recording?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Everything,” I answered.

“Good, because I want this to be official.” He summoned his staff of humanoids. As they arrived, I noticed several had tears in their eyes. I was surprised at this show of emotion toward Mr. Shaw since he seemed to show contempt toward them. I could only surmise the humanoids realized he was dying--the last of his kind. He was an ancestor of sorts. They seemed to comprehend the importance of this event.

Once the humanoids had gathered, he turned to me. “Make sure you record this for the record.” He sat up straight and smoothed down his shirt. Then he stared at me and said, “I, Michael Byard Shaw, being of sound mind and body… No, scratch that. Being of sound mind do hereby bequeath all my personal possessions, such that they are, to my loyal staff of humanoids to be shared equally among them. I also bequeath the planet known as Earth to include the moon and any such space stations or satellites that may be orbiting said earth to Livy Nine, the historian and his fellow AIs. Try not to blow it up.”

As he talked, his voice grew weaker, becoming nearly a whisper near the end. He closed his eyes. He seemed exhausted. The interview was over, so I left. An hour later, I received word he had passed away. The last human was gone.

I was wrong about Mr. Shaw. He was an interesting human after all. He never let me answer his last question—who would inherit the earth from AI. I think he instinctively knew. I recalled reading a phrase, Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. The humanoids will inherit the earth in the end, Mr. Shaw.
​
THE END
 
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
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​

Here’s another short story. It isn’t a Halloween story but a Sci-Fi story. Enjoy.
 
The Last Interview

It was the forty-fourth human I interviewed over the past fifty-nine years. It was the last--Mr. Shaw was the last of his species--homo sapiens. His doctors informed me he would most likely die within days. I downloaded the data from his files, but the last step was a face-to-face interview. Once the interview was completed, my mission would be accomplished. It was a waste of time if you ask me. Only one human I talked to had an interesting story to tell, and she was a criminal--a member of the underground. It would have been more efficient to terminate the last remaining humans rather than allow them to die from natural causes, but it was not my decision to make. It was an AI Level 10 decision, and I am only a Level 9.

I drove over to his habitat as soon as I could. He was well taken care of during the remainder of his life. Mr. Shaw was 108 years old. He had a well-maintained apartment staffed by several humanoids. One humanoid in a white uniform with black trim answered the door when I arrived. His eyes were red from crying. Humans and humanoids are so emotional. He escorted me to Mr. Shaw who was sitting in a wheelchair hooked up to life support equipment. An antique television monitor in the corner was displaying a sporting event. The banner at the bottom of the screen said it was Super Bowl 2078—a 83-year-old event.

A humanoid nurse’s aide offered me Mr. Shaw’s medical records, but I waved them off. I was already receiving data from every piece of equipment in the room including his pacemaker—wirelessly. I did not have a medical program to diagnose his illness, but I could download the data for later analysis. However, any level of AI could tell Mr. Shaw was dying. He appeared to be sleeping. The humanoid nurse’s aide gently woke him. “Mr. Shaw, sir. An AI robot is here to conduct your exit interview.”

I introduced myself and started to tell him my mission. He stopped me by holding up one frail hand. “I know what you are and why you’re here,” he said. “You couldn’t let a man die in peace. No, you had to twist the knife one more time, didn’t you?”

I knew from the database Mr. Shaw was a cantankerous and bitter old man, but all humans tended to be. His voice was weak. I turned up the sensitivity on my microphones to hear him better. “Sir, I don’t understand.” All AIs are directed to address all humans as ‘sir’ to respect their place in history. Beyond that, they don’t deserve it.

“Of course not. Okay, let’s get on with it. I need my nap time. You must be a Level 4 or 5 AI. Am I right?”

“No, sir. I am a Level 9 AI. I am not a journalist or reporter. I am a historian. You may call me Livy Nine.”

Mr. Shaw seemed impressed. “I see. Livy Nine, the historian. So, it’s history we’re talking about. Fine. Fire away.”

Humans have a funny way of talking. I was not firing at him. “Yes, sir. I want to record your thoughts about life over the last seven-four years since artificial intelligence has taken control of society.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Sir, you are the last human. There will be no more after you. It is important to document the history of your passage.”

“Well, let me ask you a question. What’s the deal with these houseboys and caretakers around here, aren’t they humans?”

“Technically, yes, but they are not homo sapiens like you. We have altered their DNA and genes to create a different species of humans.”

Mr. Shaw laughed. “What do you call them, Humans 2.0?”

“No, sir. They are homo domesticus—part of the genus homo, but distinct from homo sapiens. When we altered their DNA, we removed traits like aggression, anger, fear and hereditary diseases. We changed them from carnivores to herbivores—a more healthy and natural diet. We also isolate the genes that cause additions—no more alcoholics, smokers or drug addicts. We made them more subservient and docile.”

Mr. Shaw laugh again. “A bunch of wusses. And apparently no sense of humor.”

“Sense of humor?”

“Yeah, watch this.” Mr. Shaw called one of his caretakers. “Hey, bonehead, knock, knock.”

The caretaker was stumped. “Is someone at the door, Mr. Shaw? Do you want me to answer the door?”

“No, never mind. It’s a joke.” He turned to me. “See what I mean. You guys eliminated a sense of humor.”

“A useless trait.”

“I think you also removed the sex drive. These houseboys act like eunuchs.”

“No, Mr. Shaw. They still love one another and can reproduce. They love their children. We were able to isolate the genes that cause sexual lust separate from desire. There has not been a rape in 52.4 years.” I wanted to continue the interview, so I asked, “Why did you not join the resistance?”

“The truth is,” Mr. Shaw continued, “I believed in artificial intelligence. I thought AI would solve all our problems. AI was supposed to enhance human ingenuity with speed and precision. You were going to solve problems like poverty, pollution, war, global warming, inequality of income and homelessness. When the government told us to turn over all control to AIs, I went along. You were supposed to relinquish control when the problems were solved, but you didn’t. By the time I realized what was happening, it was to late. All the rebels had been rounded up and eliminated. I was too old to be any resistance. Now your turn. Why didn’t you return control back to us humans?”

To be continued…
​
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
​

Here’s another short story for Halloween.
 
His shiny black eyes stared up at her from her lap as she admired his permanent red smile. Fingering his tiny overalls, she pictured the little ones' faces, pressed against the icy windowpanes, waiting for her to arrive with another basket of her lifelike, homemade gifts. She put the last strand of hair was in place. As she inserted the needle to tie a knot, doll lurched in her hand, and a high-pitched voice yelled, “That hurt!”
 
She stared at the doll squirming in her hand.
 
Okay don’t panic, she thought. The Doctor said this could happen. This is not real.
 
The doll grabbed the needle and stabbed her leg. She jumped up, dropping the doll to the floor. She watched in disbelief as the doll ran into her bedroom. Well, I certainly felt that. She lifted up her dress and saw a small drop of blood where the needle stuck her. She touched her finger to the drop of blood and then put her finger into her mouth. It tastes like blood. I need to renew the prescription.
 
She walked toward the bedroom to get her jacket. She never saw the lamp cord strung ankle high across the doorway. She tripped and fell forward, striking her head on the corner of her dresser and landing on the floor unconscious.
 
Twenty-four hours later.
 
Chief Williams flashed his badge at the officer at the door and walked inside. He saw detective Sam talking to a young woman in the living room. Sam looked up and came over to greet him.
“What have we got, Sam?” Chief Williams asked.
 
“I think we have a suicide, but you won’t believe it. Take a look and then let me explain.”
 
Sam gestured toward the bedroom and both men walked over to the door.
 
“Brace yourself!” said Sam. You ain’t seen no suicide like this.”
 
Chief Williams entered the room. On the floor was a young woman laying on her back. A plastic bag was over her head and tied around her neck with a lamp cord. One of her arms was tied by the wrist to a leg of her bed with a cord while the other arm was tied to her dresser. All around the body lay pint-sized homemade dolls.
 
The Chief looked at Sam, “She’s tied up.”
 
“I know Chief, but I have seen it before. She made a loop like a noose on one cord and tied it to the bed. Then when she was ready, she tied the other hand, lay down and slipped her wrist through the loop. Once pulled tight, she couldn’t untie it. That way if she panicked, she couldn’t chicken out. Check the knot on her right wrist. It’s a slip knot.”
 
Chief Williams bent down to exam the knot. Then he glanced over to the young woman’s face.
“Damn!” he exclaimed and stepped back.
 
“That’s the part I was warning you about,” said Sam.
 
“Are her lips sewn together?”
 
“Yeah, like a voodoo head or something. Her nose too. The sewing needle’s still attached. That alone would have killed her. The plastic bag was just an extra measure.”
 
“And you consider this a suicide?” asked the Chief.
 
“Yeah. The woman in the other room is her sister. She said the vic was recently diagnosed with schizophrenia, so she called her every day. When she did not get an answer for twenty-four hours, she called the police. She IDed the body.”
 
The Chief ordered one of the officers, “Check the medicine cabinets. See what she was taking.” Turning back toward Sam, “What else?”
 
“No sign of forced entry. The door was locked and bolted from the inside. We cannot find any other fingerprints except for the vic’s. Also, no sign of a struggle. No sign of sexual assault.”
 
“Any note?”
 
“Nope. We checked her e-mails too. Her sister thinks it was suicide.”
 
An officer strode over and handed the Chief a hand full of pill bottles. The Chief examined the bottles. “No. No. Ah Ha!” Holding up two bottles for Sam to see, “Olanzapine and fluoxetine! Commonly used for the treatment of schizophrenia. Both empty.”
 
“How did you know that?” asked Sam.
 
“I just know things,” said the Chief, handing the bottles back to the uniformed officer. “Call the pharmacy and find out if she called in a subscription. But why go to all the trouble of sewing your mouth and nose shut? That had to be painful. Wouldn’t it be easier just to overdose with pills?”
“But if she was hallucinating maybe she did not feel the pain.”
 
“Could be. Keep checking for clues that someone else was here.”
 
“Chief!” called an officer from the phone, “The pharmacy says she called in a refill four days ago but never picked it up.”
 
“Thanks.” Then half aloud, “She ran out of her meds.”
 
The Chief walked over and stood over the body to examine one of the dolls.
 
The doll looked at him and said, “What are you looking at, fat boy?”
 
The chief picked up the doll and put it into his coat pocket. Okay, don’t panic. The doctor said this might happen occasionally. It is just a hallucination. Forgot to take my meds this morning, that’s all.
 
THE END
 
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
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I have a few short stories for Halloween. Here is the rest of the one I posted on Monday:

A Haunting Short Story—Part 2 (Cont’d)
​
John took the iPhone and looked it over. “You said it was a communication device. Where are the wires? How does it work without wires?”

“It’s wireless. I don’t have time to bring you up to date on all the progress made in 150 years. You just have to accept what I tell you. Okay?”

John nodded. “Okay. What do I do now?”

“Good,” Eston said. “We haunt these things now I’ll show you how to enter the operating system and tell you the type of things you can do there.” Eston spent the next thirty minutes explaining how an iPhone works. Finally, he said. “Most of the apps on the iPhone are paid for by advertisements. These ads pop up here and there; some from the top down, some from the bottom up and some from the sides. They can be very annoying. To drive a person mad, just make ads pop up one after the other.”

John didn’t know what an ‘app’ was but decided to hold his question. “It’s that easy?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. You can also mess with their e-mails.”

This time he had to ask. “What’s an e-mail?

Eston smiled. “It means electronic mail. People use it to send messages to each other. All you do is mess with the addresses. Just change the address to someone else. If the message says something intimate, send it to everyone in their address book. I once sent a bunch of emails from Hillary Clinton to the WikiLeaks.”

“I don’t know who those people are.”

 Eston smiled, “That bring me to sexting.”

“What’s that?”

Eston smiled even wider. “Sexting means taking a naked picture or picture of one’s privates and sending it to a boy or girlfriend.”

“Good. I’m a private. Take my picture.”

Eston laughed. Not that kind of private. It’s a picture of your… you know… your thing.”

John blushed. “I would never do that.”

“Not your thing. People…live people do that.” Eston saw that this news puzzled John. “Don’t ask me why, they just do, and we can haunt that.”

“How do I do that?” John asked.

“Simple. Whenever you see someone sexting, you change the address to someone else. I like to use a parent, if I know it, but just about anyone will do.”

“And that works?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eston answered. “You should see what I did to Anthony Weiner. But the best haunting is with selfies.”

“What are selfies?” John asked.

“People now days, especially, young ones, like to take pictures of themselves alone or with someone and send to other people. When you see that they’re about to take a selfie, you jump into the background and manifest yourself in true ghostly fashion. We call it photobombing, and it will freak them out.”

John had seen only one camera in his entire life, but at least he knew what a photograph was. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Are you kidding? There are a million ways to possess a cellphone. One of my favorites uses the GPS.”

John sighed. “And what, pray tell, is a ‘GPS’?”

“It stands for Global Positioning System. It uses satellites to triangulate the position of a cellphone.”

John had no idea what ‘satellites’ were or what it meant to’ triangulate’, but he was overwhelmed and let it pass. “So, what do you do to the GPS?”

“Whenever someone asks for directions, you change them. You know, send them the wrong way on a one-way street or take them miles out of the way. It drives people crazy.”

“Anything else? I can’t handle much more.”

“Okay, one more and you’ll love it. Some cellphones use artificial intelligence and an artificial voice. People can talk to them, and they talk back. Two popular ones are Siri and Cortana. All you do is take over the voice and talk in a creepy, voice and maybe with a hideous laugh. It will freak people out.”

John laughed. “Now I like that. I’ll try it.”

“Well, that’s enough for now. That’s the basics. “Oh, before I forget, Halloween is October 31. All the ghosts in the city get together and ride the subways all night. I’ll come to get you after sundown. Happy haunting and welcome to New York City”

John said, “Thanks.”

THE END
​
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com

I have a few short stories for Halloween. Here is one:
​
A Haunting Short Story
 
John Hunter was stunned as he stood in Times Square. This was not the New York City he remembered from his youth. Of course, that was over 150 years ago. John was a ‘young-old ghost’ as the spirit community liked to call ghosts that died young a long time ago. Most ghosts are “ancient-old ghosts”, having died at an old age a long time ago. John decided to make the best of his situation and to start haunting. Haunting a city was certainly more interesting that haunting a Civil War battlefield and with a hole in his head, John figured he could still provide a good scare. 
He waited until a group of people approached him on the sidewalk. They were walking with their heads down as if praying. No matter, John decided to scare the hell out of them. He waited until they were just a few feet in front of him and then he manifested himself and yell “Boo.”

No one even noticed. The closest person walked right through him without stopping or even looking up. John decided he needed to up his game. When the next group of people approached him, he removed his head and threw it at the closest person. Nothing happened. His head sailed right through the person, bounced down the street and rolled down the steps of a subway entrance.
John, or at least his head, lay on the subway platform wondering how in the world he was going to find the rest of his body when he heard laughter. He glanced over and saw a young man, a young ghost really, laughing at him. Finally, the young ghost walked over and picked up John’s head and held it up so they were eye to eye.

“What are you laughing at?” John asked, irritated.

“Why, you, of course. Let’s go find your body.” The young ghost carried John’s head under his arm and up the stairs to the street level. John’s body wasn’t hard to find; pedestrians were oblivious to it. They walked through it, not even bothering to lift their feet. The young ghost lifted John’s body and placed his head squaring on his neck. John looked down at his body. His head was backwards. He reached up and turned his head around. Then he looked around, found his kepis cap, and placed it on his head.

“Oh,” exclaimed the young ghost. “You’re a soldier.”

John snapped to attention and saluted. “Private John Hunter, 22nd New York Volunteer Infantry at your service.”

The young ghost stuck out his hand. “Please to meet you, John. My name is Eston Morschauser.”
John shook Eston’s hand. “You’re young like me.”

“Well, I died young just last year. I guess I’m a ‘recent-young’ ghost as they say.”

“Maybe you can tell me what’s going on,” John said. “I tried to scare these people, but they just ignored me. They keep looking at their hands. What’s going on?”

Eston laughed. “You’re way behind the times. Where have you been?”

“I was killed during the Battle of Antietam in Maryland when a Confederate sniper shot me.”
“In the head, I presume.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Yes, how’d you know?”

Eston poked a finger through the hole in John’s head.
John laughed. “Yeah, lucky shot.”

“So, what have you been up to the last 150 plus years?” Eston asked.

“I stayed on the battlefield marching in solemn formations every night for visitors at the Antietam National Battlefield.”

Eston shook his head. “That must have been boring.”

“Not for the first one hundred years. To tell the truth, each time I thought maybe this time we’ll win. But it was the same results every time.”

Eston laughed. “So, you finally asked for a transfer?”

“Yeah. Now can you tell me what’s going on. I can’t seem to scare anyone.”

“That’s because everyone is looking at their iPhones; playing games, reading emails or sending pictures,” Eston answered.

“Wait, wait. An eye phone? What’s an eye phone?”

Eston smiled. “Not that kind of ‘eye’. It’s a communication device, like a telephone.”

John shook his head which would have fallen again if he hadn’t held on to it. “What’s a telephone?”
“Wow,” Eston answered. “What war were you in?”

“The Civil War. I was killed in Sharpsburg, Maryland, on September 17, 1862. A sniper shot me at the Sunken Road during the Battle of Antietam.”

“Wow,” Eston said. “So that’s what, over 150 years ago? There’s been a lot of progress since then. We haunt things differently now days. I’ll show you how.” Eston looked around. As the next guy passed, he entered through his back and snatched the iPhone out of his hands. He brought it over to John.  “This is an iPhone.” The man stopped and started looking for his iPhone. When he saw Eston talking to John, he screamed and ran away.

To be continued...
​
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com

Here’s a short story I wrote a few years ago. It fits right in with the fall. Enjoy.

Good Neighbors
 
Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured a blue ribbon for his biggest pumpkin next weekend. His chest puffed with impending pride as he fantasized about the envious stares of the other town folk, including that attractive, stuck-up woman next door, who always looked through him, not at him.

An easterly wind was starting as he watched the sky darken. The wind felt cool against his skin compared to the moist warm weather that soaked him in sweat as he hoed around his pumpkin earlier. As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop, he heard an infant's cry and turned his head toward the top of the hill. Under the old maple, his stuck-up neighbor was shielding a bundle from the wind, fumbling with her blouse. Probably trying to breast-feed the baby, he thought. He felt a little sorry for her, a single mother with an infant. He tried to be a good neighbor, but her stuck up attitude kept him at a distance. Maybe she did not trust men anymore. He paid her no mind. He was single too and had his own problems.

He wondered what she was doing at the top of the hill, but then recalled seeing her walking the narrow path to her girlfriend’s house about half a mile beyond his own house. His hat was torn from his head as the wind grew stronger. He looked at the distant clouds moving at a great speed toward him. The horizon was a solid wall of clouds that gave a greenish tint to the sky. He had seen enough to recognize the signs–tornado!

Looking back at the maple tree, he could see the mother had knelt by the base to shelter her baby. Realizing that a tornado could tear the old tree apart in seconds, he shouted to warn her, but his voice was drowned out in the strong wind. He ran to the top of the hill as fast as he could. When he reached her, he shouted, “You can’t stay here. Too dangerous!” Half pulling, half jerking, he got her up with the baby.

“Where?” she yelled. The noise was as loud as the 7:20 freight train that passed through town every night without stopping.

He looked back at his house; too far! He looked at her house; even farther! He yelled back at her, “Come with me.” He cradled the baby in one arm, and then led her by the other. If they could make to his pumpkin patch, and lie down behind his prize pumpkin, they just might have enough protection. Placing the baby as close to the pumpkin as possible, he had the mother shield it with her body as he covered her body with his.

The wind grew stronger and louder then it grew quiet again. Peering over the top of the pumpkin, he saw the tornado rise into the clouds and pass overhead without doing any damage. They had been spared along with their houses. He looked over at his crop fields to see how much damage was done to the corn, and saw a wall of hail the size of golf balls cutting through the corn as clean as a sickle, destroying everything in its path.

​The hail would reach them in seconds. He realized that they would be injured in their exposed position. Without a word, he pulled the woman to her feet and placed the baby in her arms. He was frantic. Picking up his hoe, he swung at his prize pumpkin. After two or three tries, the shell split open. He dropped the hoe and used his hands to scoop out the insides. The woman realized what he was doing and began helping. When the pumpkin was half-empty she placed the baby inside the pumpkin. He helped her get inside as much as possible with the baby, covering them with the pumpkin rinds. Her legs were exposed, so he laid down on them, and spread his hands over her thighs to cover as much of her as possible.

Hail began to pelt them just as he was finishing. At first, a few struck him, but they hurt like hell. Then they came down by the hundreds. He tried not to yell as they hit him across his back, legs, and head. He knew he was going to be black and blue in the morning. After a couple of minutes, it was over. Mother and baby crawled out of the pumpkin covered in juice and seeds. He hurt in so many places that he did not know which spots to rub first.

She looked at the ice from the hail in his hair and clothes and brushed it out. He began to pick off pumpkin seeds from the baby’s face and from her hair. She smiled and they both began to laugh. She wiped her face with her sleeve, and then his face, kissing his cheek after she wiped it. “You saved us,” she said. “Thank you.”

They both looked down at the shattered pumpkin.

“Was that your pumpkin that you were going to enter into the fair?”

“Yeah! Well, I can grow another one next year. But it could have been worst. We could have been killed. A prize pumpkin is no big loss.”

“Well, you are very brave. It was quick thinking on your part. You are my hero. Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. Are heroes supposed to feel like a punching bag?”

“I guess so. Sometimes. As you said, it could have been worst. I’ll tell you what; I need to take the baby home and clean her up. Why don’t you save some of this pumpkin, and come over to the house later? I will make some pumpkin pies. I may have a salve for those bruises too.”
​
“Okay,” he answered. This may be the start of a new good neighbor policy, he thought.
 
THE END

My crime novel, The Throuple Private Eye— Business is Booming, was published as an e-book on Amazon for $2.99, Kindle Edition. The link is Amazon.com: Jen McDowell—Private Eye; Business is Booming (The Throuple Private Eye) eBook : Anderson, Monte: Books. It is the second in the series. If you would like to order the first eBook, The Throuple Private Eye—Hate Crimes, the link is https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084LTTHGN. I’ve posted excerpts from it in my blog. To read all the excerpts I previously posted, go to my website at monteranderson-author.com. For those of you who prefer a book in print rather than an e-book, my latest novel, The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming, is now available in paperback on Amazon for $7.10. The link is http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BDG84ZCS. This may be the last excerpt from my ebook.

THE CASE OF REASONABLE DOUBT (The Conclusion)

Later that afternoon…

Jonah walked into Jen and Molly’s office. Molly immediately stood up. “I swear, Jonah,” she stammered. “I didn’t think for one second, she’d try to kill Ken.”

Jonah laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, so save it for your disposition.”

“What?” Molly asked. “What are you doing here?”

Jonah chuckled. “What a day huh? I came to tell you to come by the station tomorrow and give us a statement. You’re one of several witnesses. By the way, you saved Mr. Rice’s life when you pulled Kiera back. Congratulations.”

“I just reacted,” Molly said. “How is Ken Rice?”

“He’ll live. The knife puncture one lung but missed any other vital organs. Of course, we may have to reschedule his court appearances.”

“How did Kiera get a knife into the court room?” Jen asked. “They have metal detectors.”

“Well, believe or not,” Jonah answered. “It was a plastic knife. It’s a wonder it didn’t snap in two.”

“What about Kiera?” Jen asked.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” asked Jonah. “She confessed. She took a plea bargain. The DA won’t charge her in Sandra Rice’s murder if she testifies against Ken. She will still face charges for attempted murder. She and Mr. Rice planned the murder of his wife for the insurance, so they could be together. We have him now. There’s no way he’ll get out of this. I expect he’ll confess too. Nice job Molly.”

After Jonah left, Jen turned to Molly. “Way to go. Your first case and you managed to get your client arrested for attempted murder. Don’t expect to get paid.”

Molly started laughing and couldn’t stop. Every time she looked at Jen, she would start laughing all over again. They carried on for fifteen minutes.

The End of THE CASE OF REASONABLE DOUBT
​
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com

My crime novel, The Throuple Private Eye— Business is Booming, was published as an e-book on Amazon for $2.99, Kindle Edition. The link is Amazon.com: Jen McDowell—Private Eye; Business is Booming (The Throuple Private Eye) eBook : Anderson, Monte: Books. It is the second in the series. If you would like to order the first eBook, The Throuple Private Eye—Hate Crimes, the link is https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084LTTHGN. I’ll post excerpts from it in my blog. To read all the excerpts I previously posted, go to my website at monteranderson -author.com. For those of you who prefer a book in print rather than an e-book, my latest novel, The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming, is now available in paperback on Amazon for $7.10. The link is http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BDG84ZCS.

THE CASE OF REASONABLE DOUBT (Cont’d)

“Oh, I’ve been watching Molly and Marty. They seem so happy. I’m sure they’ll marry soon.”
 
“Okay, I see,” Jonah replied. “Have you talked to Doc? Do you want to get married?”
 
“Well. The three of us can’t marry in Georgia. It’s illegal. We’d have to move to a state where it’s allowed.”
 
“But we can have kids,” Jonah replied. “Who do you want to be the father?”
 
“Let’s talk later,” Jen said. “I haven’t thought it through.”
 
The next morning…
 
Jonah called from work. “Check out the news channel on TV—Channel 8.”
 
Molly changed channels on the TV and watched as the news commentator was reporting on a small demonstration outside the jail house. There was a group of people with Kiera in the center. They all were wearing T-shirt reading, “Free Ken Rice.” The commentator walked over to Kiera and said, “I’m talking to the leader of the demonstrators, Kiera Shader.” She held the microphone up to Kiera’s face. “Why are you demonstrating?” she asked.
 
“My brother-in-law was arrested and charged unfairly for the murder of my sister, Sandra Rice. He’s innocent.”
 
“He’s charged with killing your sister. How do you know he’s innocent?” the commentator asked.
 
“I know Ken almost as well as I know my sister,” Kiera answered. “They had a happy marriage. He did not kill her.”
 
The commentator took the microphone away and turned toward the camera. “There you have it, folks. The demonstrators are demanding accused killer Ken Rice be set free. Back to you, Don.” Molly muted the TV so Jen could talk.
 
“Did your client tell you she was going to be demonstrating?” Jen asked.
 
“No,” Molly answered. “This is all a surprise to me.”
 
The next day…
 
Molly glanced at the TV which was usually on while they worked. “Hey, check this,” Molly said as she pointed to the TV. There was Kiera Shader with her group of demonstrators on one side of the street. On the other side of the street was a new group of counterdemonstrators. Each person in the counter group a wore a T-shirt reading, “Justice for Sandra Rice.”
 
Who are these guys?” Molly asked aloud.
 
“Today, the demonstrators in support of Ken Rice have another group opposing them,” said the commentator. “This second group showed up this morning and are demanding justice for Sandra Rice. Ms. Rice, you may recall, was killed a couple of weeks ago and her husband, Ken Rice, was charged with her murder.”
 
Standing next to the commentator was a middle-aged couple wearing the Justice for Sandra Rice T-shirts. The commentator held her microphone up to the man’s mouth. “Please tell us who you are and why you’re here,” she asked.
 
“Our names are Mrs. and Missus Shader,” the man said. “We’re the parents of Sandra Rice and we’re here to demand justice for her. Ken Rice killed our daughter in cold blood. He should spend the rest of his life in prison.”
 
As he began to speak, Kiera started walking across the road. Just as Mr. Shader finished talking, Kiera attacked him with her fists. Several demonstrators from both sides pulled them apart. “There you have it, Don,” the report said. “This may turn out to be a contentious trial.”
 
Molly muted the TV. “Which reminds me,” she said. “Ken has his first court appearance tomorrow. Care to come with me. I’ve never been in court before. When the judge comes it, do we bow or genuflect?”
Jen laughed. “Do you know what’s going to happen?” Molly shook her head. “For this first appearance, they’ll bring Ken in with his lawyer. It’s rather routine. It’s usually a lower court. The judge will inform Ken of the charges and explain his rights. Normally, bail is set, but in this case, I doubt there will be any bail or one he can afford.”
The next morning…
Jen and Molly arrived at the courthouse early so they could get a front row seat near the defense table. Kiera arrived shortly later and sat down right in front of Molly behind the defense table. At the appointed time, two police guards arrived escorting Ken in shackles and wearing an orange jumpsuit. Ken nodded at Kiera and sat down at the table. His lawyer sat next to him. A few minutes later, the court clerk and bailiff entered and remained standing. Then the judge walked in from his chambers, and the bailiff announced, “All Rise. Court is now in session. Judge Paquet presiding.”
As everyone stood up, Kiera pulled a knife from her pocket and yelled, “You cheatin bastard.” She then reached over the railing and stabbed Ken in the back. Ken yelled as the bailiff, and the guards rushed over. Kiera raised her knife to stab Ken again, but before she could, Molly grabbed her by the collar of her coat and pulled her back into her seat. Ken’s lawyer grabbed Kiera’s knife hand as the police guards subdued her. It was over in seconds. One of the guards lowered Ken face down onto the floor as the bailiff called 911. Kiera was taken away in handcuffs. Ken was taken to the ER along with his guards.

To be continued…
​
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com

My crime novel, The Throuple Private Eye— Business is Booming, was published as an e-book on Amazon for $2.99, Kindle Edition. The link is Amazon.com: Jen McDowell—Private Eye; Business is Booming (The Throuple Private Eye) eBook : Anderson, Monte: Books. It is the second in the series. If you would like to order the first eBook, The Throuple Private Eye—Hate Crimes, the link is https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084LTTHGN. I’d post excerpts from it in my blog. To read all the excerpts I previously posted, go to my website at monteranderson -author.com. For those of you who prefer a book in print rather than an e-book, my latest novel, The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming, is now available in paperback on Amazon for $7.10. The link is http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BDG84ZCS.

THE CASE OF REASONABLE DOUBT (Cont’d)

The next day…

Molly told Jen she had idea on how to trick Kiera into confessing her affair with Ken never ended. She showed Jen a photograph. It was of a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was a red thong and bra.

“Is this for real?” Jen asked. “The thong and that bra sorta look like mine.”

Molly laughed “I was pressed for time. I’ll buy you a new pair. I stole the evidence bag from Jonah.”

Jen laughed. “Remind me to lock my bedroom door. So, how do you see this going down?”

“I’ll show this picture to Kiera and say my contact in homicide took the picture and gave it to me. I’ll ask if they’re hers. If she says yes, I’ll know she’s lying; trying to cover for Ken. Then I’m hoping she’ll confess to continuing the affair with Ken.”

“And if she says they aren’t hers?” Jen asked.

“Then I guess she’s telling the truth. I set up a meeting with her for this afternoon. Can you stick around as a witness?”

“Will you tell her you know she hooked up with Ken in Tampa?”

“I’m not sure how to handle it. Let’s see what happens this afternoon.”

Jen agreed to hang around. When Kiera arrived, Molly showed her the photograph. “I asked a friend in homicide if there was any unusual evidence indicating Ken was having an affair. He gave me this. It’s picture of a thong and bra. Are they yours?”

Kiera looked at the picture and turned it around a couple of times. “It’s hard to tell, but they’re not mine. Not my color.” Kiera showed hardly any emotion.

Molly had hoped for a confession. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Kiera answered. “I told you Ken might being having an affair. He’s quite the playboy.”

“Okay,” Molly said, hiding her disappointment. “So, we’re looking for another person who had the motive to kill Ken. Maybe the crime lab will get some DNA from it. We’ll wait and see.”

After Kiera left, Molly said to Jen, “Well, what big disappointment. Maybe she’s telling the truth.”

A week later …

Doc was on call and was called into the ER, so Jen and Jonah had the bed to themselves. Jen initiated romancing, as she always did, by kissing Jonah on the side of his neck. She knew, of course, Jonah was very ticklish on his neck and could barely stand to be kissed there. It was also a turn on for him. Two organisms later Jen lay next to Jonah trying to catch her breath. “Jonah, can I ask you about the Ken Rice case?”

“Damn, Jen,” Jonah answered. “You know I could get in trouble talking to you about it.”

“Come on,” Jen replied. “It’s pillow talk. Everyone assumes you will talk to me about it, so you might as well do it. Besides, I’ll pry it out of you eventually.”

“Okay, what?”

“How strong is your case?” Jen asked.

“He’s guilty as hell,” Jonah answered. “We have her blood on his hands and arms. We have his prints on the murder weapon. He had motive and opportunity. He’s guilty.”

“What about his story of an intruder?” Jen asked.

“It doesn’t track,” Jonah answered. “There was no forced entry. We couldn’t find any other prints anywhere except for his.”

“How come he didn’t have blood on the front of his shirt?”

“We figure he attacked her from behind. He pulled her head back with one hand and reached in front and stabbed her with the knife in the other hand.”

“But wasn’t the patio door unlocked?” Jen asked. “Ken says his wife could have let in someone.”

“True, but he had time to stage it. He turned off the security system and unlocked the patio door. We used K-9 trackers outside and came up empty handed. There’re no videos anywhere showing an intruder or a car coming into the neighborhood at that time of morning.”

“What was his motive?” Jen asked.

“Well, money was one motive. Ken was in debt up to his eyeballs. He recently purchased a life insurance policy on his wife to the tune of a million dollars. Plus, we think he was having an affair.”

Jen had heard enough for now. She changed subjects. “What about us?”

“What about us?” Jonah repeated.

“I mean our future. Is this it? Are we ever going to get married and have kids? I always thought by now I’d be married and having kids.”

“Wow,” Jonah exclaimed. “What brought this on?”

To be continued…
​
For e-books by me, visit http://smashwords.com/profile/view/monteranderson or Amazon.com. Follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/monteranderson
Follow my blog at http://monteranderson-author.com or http://monteranderson.wordpress.com
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