POSTHUMOUS, by Marlane Quade CookThomas Porter casually dropped the thin paperback on the desk and went to stare out the french doors at the night sky. The view in his office was the best thing about it—apart from the shelves of rare books and leather-bound furniture, of course. He walked back to his desk chair and sat, tilting it back, while he perused the room and ran through his thoughts. A man in his early middle years, Thomas’ beard was going just gray enough to give him that—was it cliched to say distinguished?—look that went so well with the persona he was cultivating. He surveyed his study, his books, his leather furniture, with an air of pleased satisfaction.
“Ahem,” a curt voice broke into his thoughts, and he turned abruptly, not expecting anyone else to be in the room.
A tall
