We’ve always wanted to publish a serial novel in 12 Gauge.  Writers like Dickens and Wodehouse cut their teeth writing novels published in newspapers and magazines; a web magazine seemed the perfect place to update this tradition. We wanted to put up a cliff-hanger, something that would keep readers coming back, but it also had to be more than hack-work. We finally found what we were looking for. 12 Gauge is very proud to publish the first installment of Jerry Holt’s novel (or mystery).  We’ll be publishing the work (along with the title) as it is written.  The work is a sequel to the author’s award winning novel, Killing of Strangers, starring the same narrator, detective Sam Haggard.

Chapter One

              The last time I'd seen Krista Sheffield was the late afternoon of the day Three-Mile Island nearly blew its top.  There's an association in that for me, since on that day Krista would be responsible for a little disaster in my life.  We'd spent the most of that raw March day in bed in her German Village apartment, making what for me was memorable love.  But then we'd gotten dressed and gone down the street to the Mont, as was our habit, for huevos rancheros and margueritas.  And there I'd been, forking down eggs with post-coital gusto, when she'd lowered the hammer on me.  Something about trying other options.  We'd actually finished the meal, although I'd had no appetite for it anymore.  I remember asking why, if this had been her plan, she'd taken me into her bed that day.  And I remember her reply:  "Can you think of a nicer way to say goodbye?"

And so I had sat watching her out the window of the Mont as she had departed first, her copper hair whipping in the wind; that long duster she had worn then wind-whipped as well.   And I remember that, when she had crossed Third street and was about to turn at the corner, she did turn back and she did wave--No: raised her hand only slightly, tentative, reflective--one of those gestures etched, burned on the mind that you know you're going to goddam remember forever--and then she was gone.

I'd been to German Village many times since then, but never back to the Mont.  I knew it was still in business, because I'd be browsing the Sunday Columbus Dispatch and see an ad. I still walked to the newsstand and got the Dispatch and the New York Times every Sunday morning.  It was a habit from my time with Krista.  Some of our best moments had come on those  mornings, and their memories, like newspaper sections read and tossed to the floor, still scattered the surface of my heart.  So sure, I checked on all the old places.  Of course I did.

It had been Krista's suggestion that we meet there.  She'd called me at home down in Two Rivers last Sunday morning, right out of the blue, twenty years later.  After I'd picked my insides up off the floor I'd said "When?" before I ever thought of saying "What about?" and she'd laughed a laugh I remembered all too well.

"Sam,"  she'd told me. "It's professional."

"You mean you need security work?"

"No.  I need a detective.  Actually, I need you.  It's professional, but it's personal, too.  You know Whitney died."

"Who?"

"Whitney.  Whitney Dobbs."

"I had no idea," I said.  "If I miss it in the Sunday Dispatch, I miss it."   This came out wooden, and I hadn't intended that.  So I'd added:  "I'm sorry."

If the reference to the Sunday paper had stirred anything, her voice hadn't betrayed it.  "I might have missed it too," she said.  "I hadn't heard from him in--oh, maybe two years.  He would call, and then he wouldn't.  But week before last I got this call, and then he sent me...."

"Sent you what?"

She'd given a little click of her tongue that I remembered, too:  it always meant the conversation was over.  "I have to show you," she said.  "When can I drive down?"

"I'll drive up," I said.  How about this evening?"

"Five?  Would that put you back too late?"

"I have some business up there anyway.  Maybe I'll grab a hotel.  Where do you want to meet?"

"Well..." she'd said.  "The Mont?"

"Great," I'd told her.  We'd said a few other things after that and hung up.  The Mont.  If she can take it I can. But then I'd thought that maybe it didn't have that kind of resonance for her.  Maybe to her it was just a place we both knew; a convenient landmark.

          ********************************* 

I'd left Two Rivers in October sunlight, but it was raining by the time I got to German Village.  The Mont wasn't doing much in the way of business on this Sunday afternoon, and I had no trouble finding Krista in the bar where she'd said she'd be waiting, despite the gloom in there.  She was sitting by herself at a window table.  It wasn't our table or anything--wasn't even our bar so far as I could tell.  The whole place, in fact looked entirely different to me.

She saw me at the same time I saw her, and stood. The closer I got, the better she looked:  same shoulder-length reddish-auburn hair; same startling green eyes; eyes still alert with some secret knowledge I'd never discerned. Turtleneck and jeans, same as always, only more expensive. She came into my arms quickly and easily.  We brushed lips cautiously and retreated from that, but stood holding each other anyway, in some half-commitment.

"Sam Haggard," she said, "you're looking fine."

"I'm looking old," I told her.  "But you look fine."  She did, too.  I could see crinkles of time near her eyes now, but on her they worked.

"Let's sit," she said.

"Didn't the bar used to be over there?"  I said, following her to the table. 

"I think they're getting ready for Oktoberfest." she said.  "And then they changed it all around in the 80s, anyway.  New owners; same menu."

"Thank God for that," I said, taking the chair opposite her.  "I always liked the breakfasts."

"I know you did," she said, and smiled. "I already got a drink.  What would you like?"

 I knew what the drink in front of her was: Jamison’s neat.  A second glass sat beside it, filled with raisins. An ancient habit: she liked to plop a few in her drink.

"You must still be a regular," I said, nodding at the raisins.

"Haven't been here since--since then," she said.  "I brought my own.  In a Kleenex."

            The bartender had appeared by this time, and I ordered a tap beer.  "How's your life?" I asked her when we were alone again.

"It's good.  I'm married."

"I know.  Cass Chandler.  Investment banker.  No kids."

"Detective work?" she said.

"Just honing my skills.  I check you out on the internet from time to time.  Congratulations on the book, by the way.  I guess it's done pretty well."

"They keep asking for new editions, " she said.  Some years ago Krista had put her Master's degree from Ohio State to work for her by authoring what would become a widely-used high school textbook in Ohio History. 

"And you?" she asked me.  "Your life is good?"

"Better than I deserve.  I do a lot of contract security work, but the real thing still comes along every now and then."

She sat back and sized me up.  My beer came.  We toasted each other.  "Sam. A detective.  I saw when you went on the force.  Cut out the clipping; put it on the refrigerator and everything."

"That didn't last long," I said.

"Maybe you were meant to work alone.  Did you ever marry?"

"Yep.  Didn't take.  Guess I was meant to live alone, too. What's up with Whitney, anyway?"

Krista picked three or four raisins out of the glass in front of her and sprinkled them on her drink.  "I told you," she said, "he passed away."

I hadn't thought of Whitney Dobbs in over ten years, I was sure.  He'd been a fixture in the Village in the late 70s, during that time of counterculture in collision.  While most of us back then were trying to find lives someplace far from the trauma of Vietnam and even further from Disco, Whitney had been a genuine 60s throwback, stuck fast in psychedelic cement.  He was older than the rest of us, balding and paunched but with a sweet childishness about him, a tabula rasa quality. He'd worked ostensibly as an actuary, but he never seemed to go to an office.  In fact, I'd never seen the guy when he wasn't stoned.  Whitney was one of those guys who was just always there; at parties, for example, talking with someone, clutching a beer, puffing on something, an amiable doorstop.  He loved the music but didn't play it; he just loved it.  Knew every great riff from Robert Johnson to Robert Plant.  I'd had plenty of those party conversations with him, but I wasn't close to him.  I didn't really know anyone who was.  Whitney was a blip on our precomputer screens, and that fact now conveyed a measure of guilt to me.

"I'm sorry,"  I said again.  "When, and what of?"

"Last week, Thursday, I guess.  He was found in his apartment, the man who called me from the funeral home said.  Heart attack, evidently."

"What was he, sixty?"

"Fifty-eight," she said.  "He called me sometimes, most recently the week before last."

"And what did he say?"

"He said a lot, and...." she stopped, sighed.  "Well, look," she said.  "How do you want me to do this?  It gets pretty strange."       

"Start with the strangest part," I said.  "We'll work from there."

She turned in her seat and reached beneath it; came up with a large box.  She set in on the table and then pushed it toward me,  as if unloading a burden.

"What is it?" I said.

"It's Whitney," she told me. 

"I remember a larger guy," I said.

"It's his ashes,"  Krista said. "The funeral home had them delivered this morning. No funeral; no family.  He had them sent to me."

"Can they do that?"

"They did."

"Kinda touching," I said.  "But not that strange.  There were years when I thought about sending you the same package. "

She gave me a look, then extracted a large manila envelope from her purse.

"Just kidding," I said.  "What's in the envelope?"

"His will.  Read this damn thing."

I undid the string on the envelope and dumped the contents on the table.  Outside the storm had really set in, and our window was streaked in rain and late afternoon light. A letter lay in front on me, a baggie, and an audio cassette tape.  The baggie appeared to contain, if memory served me, about a quarter ounce of pot.

"That's contraband," I said.

"Read the letter."

I opened it.  Two pages, the first handwritten in big, sloping letters. That page read:

"Dear Krista:

 Thanks for the good talk the other night.  I don't really

 have anybody else to leave this with, so I hope you don't

 mind. I know this is a hassle, but Hell you know I never did plan ahead, hah hah.  Thanks for everything in advance.

      Your Old Friend, Whitney" 

Beside the "hah hah" one of those smiling faces had been drawn, badly.  This small thing, so human, tugged at me unreasonably. I picked up the other page, which was a will, typed, signed, and notarized.  It read as follows:

"I am Whitney James Dobb, and I am of sound mind, and I do request that upon my death my body be cremated and that in lieu of formal service a small ceremony be shared by the  following individuals:

 Krista Chandler

 John Spires

 Greta Carroll

 Ben Skeens

 "I ask that they roll my ashes together with some of the Brown County Strain found in the accompanying packet, and that I be smoked by them in a mutual spirit and remembrance and celebration.  I also ask that the accompanying tape be played during the ceremony, on which may be heard what are unquestionably the ten greatest rock and roll songs ever recorded.   They are:"

 Following were ten song titles.  Then there appeared the signatures of Whitney, a lawyer named Justin Bliss, and a notary named Luellen Plummer.  I looked back at the song titles.  Whitney was right:  they really were the ten greatest rock and roll songs ever recorded.  From both the Stones inclusions right down to the Lou Reed, anyone would have been hard put to disagree.     

"Good music," I said, then cleared my throat. "Let me get this straight."

"Tough to do," she told me.

"As straight as I can.  He wants you to roll him and smoke him."

"That's it.  Four of us.  Together."

"The cops might have a little trouble with that.  Not to mention the Health Department.  Who are these other people?"

"I have no idea.  I think John Spires....Wasn't John Spires the name of that black guy, the blues player, we used to go see over in that club on the west side?"

"Yeah, come to think of it.  But he could be dead himself.  He was pretty old then."

"Listen," she said.  "I know this sounds pretty Alice In Wonderland...."

I thought it sounded more like The Big Chill Meets Eating Raoul, but I didn't say so.

"Sam," she said finally.  "Who the hell else was I gonna call?"

We looked at each other.  The light through the rain was softer now. The time change had taken place the night before, and it would be dark soon, prematurely so, it would seem.  This was what Krista had meant when she asked me if this meeting would make me too late. 

"Are you going to do this?"  I asked her.

"It's a will," she said.  "Or something like it."  She shrugged. "Look, this is....well, it's beyond spooky to me.  I haven't even smoked dope for twenty years--Well, except for maybe a couple of Grateful Dead concerts--and I haven't, you know, lived the life in as long as I can remember.  I just talked to the guy on the phone when he called, which was just about always late at night and he always seemed to be crocked, and...."

"Who's the lawyer?  This Justin Bliss."

"I don't know."

"Did you look him up?"

"Yes.  He's in the Riffe Tower, downtown."

"You call him?"

"God, no. I haven't even told Cass anything about this.  He's an understanding guy, but...."

My luck:  I'd been holding out hope that Cass was a Superprick.  "But what?"

She tossed her hair.  "But this is just too weird," she said.  "I feel like my past just jumped up and bit me on the butt."

We sat some more, contemplating the evidence on the table as if we had stumbled on a cache of runestones. 

"Well," I said finally.  "I can't make a damn thing sinister out of it.  It is what it is."

Krista sprinkled a few more raisins.

"But maybe if I took a couple of hits off Old Whitney here...."  I began.

She blazed.  "And you wonder why I don't tell anybody?" she said.

"OK; point taken,"  I laughed.  She did, too.

"There's more," she told me.

"What would that be?"

"The night he called me, he....Something was really wrong."

"Like?"

"He told me he was going to send me something....And he sounded really ripped, really incoherent.  And then he said... he said he thought somebody might try to kill him."

I remember that moment especially, because I remember how Krista's face had caught that late afternoon light through the rain.  It played across her features, in streams of chiaroscuro. 

"What else did he say?" I asked her.

"Well, I said What do you mean, Whitney, and then he said that he'd gotten in really bad on something.  And he said that it didn't make any difference now whether he stayed where he was or whether he left."

"Sounds like Ole Andreson," I said.

"Who?"

"In a Hemingway story.  'The Killers.' A guy who's going to be killed by the mob says the only decision he has to make is whether to stay in and get it or go out and get it."

"He had that kind of resignation," Krista said.  "That's what bothers me.  I don't think the Mob or something like that was after him, but....  Maybe he was killed by somebody.  Maybe it wasn't a heart attack."

"What about the funeral home?"

"I haven't called them, either.  Come on, Sam.  I need some direction here.  I'm in history; you're the dick."  She smiled and then brought her hand across the table and covered mine with it.  I looked down.  There was a whitish scar near her thumb that I didn't remember.

I caught and held her fingers in my own.  "Maybe if you get these four together, you get some answers," I said.

"That occurred to me," she said.

"OK," I said again.  "Let's do it."

"I have to hire you.  What do you charge?"

"Pro bono," I said. "For Whitney."

She raised her eyebrows at me, then looked at me hard.  "It's not going to work that way, Sam," she said.  "Either you take this seriously, or you don't."

"And if I take a fee..."

"You take it seriously."

"Then you need to write me a check for a thousand dollars," I said.  "I'll work off that for a week."

"All right," she told me.  And she produced a checkbook.  "This is on my personal account," she said.

"Thanks," I said, as she handed it over.  "I'll try to earn it." I stuffed the check, along with Whitney's last trip and testament, back into the envelope and waved at the bartender for another round.

"I can't come in drunk," she told me.

"You won't," I said. 

We quit around seven, having exhausted our shared knowledge of Whitney Dobbs and having, in the process, pretty well caught up with each other.  The rain had stopped and I walked her out into a foggy darkness.  Up and down the sidewalk lay rainwater pools of reflected light.  At the corner, she said:  "Where's your car?"

"The other way."

"I'm up this block.  I'll call you."  She raised on her toes and kissed my cheek. "I liked seeing you," she said. "I wasn't sure I would, but I did."

I hefted the box she'd brought me.  Whitney in death was an armful.  "I'm glad I came," I said.  "I'm going home with an urn of ashes, a quarter ounce of primo dope, and a thousand bucks.  Can I have a party, or what?"

She smiled at me.  "Well, that's what Whitney had in mind," she said.

"Hard to fault the thought.  Maybe it'll catch on and become the funeral of the future."

"Maybe it will," she said.

We looked at each other.

"And other thing," I said, "I got to see you."