Free Mercury Rises by Robert Kroese

manipulation of a minute amount of interplanar energy for a valid entry code, obediently opened the iron gate for the BMW. Eddie zoomed up to the house and squealed to a stop. Then, performing a similar trick on the front door locks and the house's security sensors, he entered the mansion.
    The house was large but sparsely furnished; he moved rapidly from room to room, looking everywhere he thought somebody might possibly have hidden a manuscript. Eventually he came to a heavy wood door at the end of a hallway that had evidently been locked from the other side. Once again taking hold of a slim vein of interplanar energy pulsing through the air, he created a slight kinetic push that nudged aside the latch of the door. Opening the door, he strode in and was immediately greeted with five very loud pops that startled him tremendously, temporarily distracting him from the five bullet holes that had been torn in his chest.
    Before Eddie could even appraise his condition, Katie Midford's tile floor leaped up from behind him and cracked him on the back of his head. He lay there, dazed and bleeding, nearly insensible with pain, while a well-built blond woman in a stylish black leather jacket and sunglasses approached him coolly. In her right hand was a smoking Glock 17 pistol.
    "You gonna get up?" the woman asked.
    This struck Eddie as rather rude. If there was any condition that gave a man carte blanche to lie down and take it easy for a bit, it was being shot five times in the chest with a nine-millimeter automatic pistol. But then Eddie wasn't a man. Still, he was in an awful lot of pain, and a great deal of blood that by all rights should still have been inside him was now re-coloring Katie Midford's grout lines. He lay on the tile and groaned.
    "Reason I ask is," said the woman, who was still pointing the pistol in Eddie's direction, "I need to know if I should reload or get a shovel."
    Eddie managed a chuckle. "Shoot me again and you'll regret it," he said.
    The woman squeezed the trigger again. Nothing happened. She checked the gun's magazine, releasing a handful of bullets into her palm. She peered at them curiously for a moment before popping one in her mouth. "Nice," she said. "Chocolate bullets. Haven't seen that one before. Gonna be a bitch to clean the Glock though." Melted chocolate dripped from the gun's barrel.
    She replaced the gun in a shoulder holster and held out her hand to Eddie. "Name's Cody," she said. "Cody Lang." She seemed profoundly unsurprised by Eddie's supernatural abilities.
    With Cody's help, Eddie struggled to his feet. "I'm Eddie Pratt," he said.
    "Sorry about shooting you, Eddie Pratt. My line of work can be dangerous. And you are trespassing, you know. Come on, let's sit in the parlor. I'll make you a drink."
    "Your line of business," Eddie echoed weakly. "And what would that be, exactly?" He stumbled along after Cody and collapsed in an easy chair in the parlor. Cody made them a couple of gin and tonics from the bar and sat down across from him. She handed Eddie one of the drinks. Eddie took it, wincing with pain as muscles in his not-quite-healed-chest tightened.
    "Actress slash private investigator," Cody said.
    "Um, what?" Eddie replied.
    "That's my line of business. Lines of business."
    Eddie was puzzled. "That's sort of an odd combination, isn't it?"
    "In this town," Cody said, "there's a surprising amount of overlap." She reached into her jacket, and for a split second Eddie prepared to pull the chocolate bullet trick again. But her hand came out bearing only a small white card. She handed it to Eddie. It read:
     
     
    Cody Lang,
    Actress and Private Investigator
     
     
    Specializing in:
     
Infidelity

Bail Bonds

Polygraphs

Body Double

Thigh Model

Crying on Command
     
    "Crying on command?" asked Eddie.
    "Would you like to see?" asked Cody.
    "Oh, uh, that's OK," said Eddie, who was secretly wishing he had asked about something higher on the list.
    "Fine," said Cody. "I don't...really