The Best of the Best American Mystery Stories

by Otto Penzler

  Then all of a sudden these searchlights started up. They was some ways away, but I still got spooked and backed away from the window. Pulled my gun out. Only then I saw that it wasn’t nothing to do with the robbery. It was just a couple of big spotlights shining on the Lookout. They must’ve gone on every night, this time.

  I looked up at it. From here it didn’t look like a face at all. It was just a rock. Gray and brown and these funny pine trees growing sideways out of cracks.

  Watching it for a minute or two. Looking out over the town, and something that guy was saying went into my head. Not the words, really. Just the thought. And I was thinking about everybody in that town. Leading normal lives. There was a church steeple and the roofs of small houses. A lot of little yellow lights in town. You could just make out the hills in the distance. And I wished for a minute I was in one of them houses. Sitting there. Watching TV with a wife next to me. Like Sandy or somebody.

  I turned back from the window and I said, “You’d just walk down to the road and back? That’s it?”

  “That’s all. I won’t run off, you don’t go get your gun. We trust each other. What could be simpler?”

  Listening to the wind. Not strong but a steady hiss that was comforting in a funny way even though any other time I’da thought it sounded cold and raw. It was like I heard a voice. I don’t know from where. Something in me said I ought to do this.

  I didn’t say nothing else ’cause I was right on the edge and I was afraid he’d say something that’d make me change my mind. I just took the Smith & Wesson and looked at it for a minute, then put it on the kitchen table. I came back with the Buck and cut his feet free. Then I figured if I was going to do it I ought go all the way. So I cut his hands free, too. Weller seemed surprised I did that. But he smiled like he knew I was playing the game. I pulled him to his feet and held the blade to his neck and took him to the door.

  “You’re doing a good thing,” he said.

  I was thinking, Oh man, I can’t believe this. It’s crazy.

  I opened the door and smelled cold fall air and woodsmoke and pine, and I heard the wind in the rocks and trees above our heads.

  “Go on,” I told him.

  Weller didn’t look back to check up on me . . . Faith, I guess. He kept walking real slow down toward the road.

  I felt funny, I’ll tell you, and a couple of times when he went past some real shadowy places in the driveway and could disappear I was like, oh man, this is all messed up. I’m crazy.

  I almost panicked a few times and bolted for the Smitty but I didn’t. When Weller got down near the sidewalk, I was actually holding my breath. I expected him to go, I really did. I was looking for that moment—when people tense up, when they’re gonna swing or draw down on you or bolt. It’s like their bodies’re shouting what they’re going to be doing before they do it. Only Weller wasn’t doing none of that. He walked down to the sidewalk real casual. And he turned and looked up at the face of the Lookout, like he was just another weekender. Then he turned around. He nodded at me. Which is when the car came by. It was a state trooper. Those’re the dark cars, and he didn’t have the lightbar going. So he was almost on us before I knew it. I guess I was looking at Weller so hard I didn’t see nothing else.

  There it was, two doors away, and Weller saw it the same time I did.

  And I thought, That’s it. Oh, hell.

  But when I was turning to get the gun, I saw this like flash of motion down by the road. And I stopped cold.

  Could you believe it? Weller’d dropped onto the ground and rolled underneath a tree. I closed the door real fast and watched from the window. The trooper stopped and turned his light on the driveway. The beam—it was real bright—it moved up and down and hit all the bushes and the front of the house, then back to the road. But it was like Weller was digging down into the pine needles to keep from being seen. I mean, he was hiding from those sons of bitches. Doing whatever he could to stay out of the way of the light.

  Then the car moved on, and I saw the lights checking out the house next door and then it was gone. I kept my eyes on Weller the whole time, and he didn’t do nothing stupid. I seen him climb out from under the trees and dust himself off. Then he came walking back to the house. Easy, like he was walking to a bar to meet some buddies.

  He came inside and shook his head. Gave this little sigh, like relief. And laughed. Then he held his hands out. I didn’t even ask him to.

  I taped ’em up again with adhesive tape, and he sat down in the chair, picked up his scotch, and sipped it.

  And damn, I’ll tell you something. The God’s truth. I felt good. Naw, naw, it wasn’t like I’d seen the light or anything like that. But I was thinking that of all the people in my life—my dad or Sandy or Toth or anybody else—I never did really trust them. I’d never let myself go all the way. And here, tonight, I did. With a stranger and somebody who had the power to do me some harm. It was a pretty scary feeling, but it was also a good feeling.

  It was a little thing, real little. But maybe that’s where stuff like this starts. I realized then that I’d been wrong. I could let him go. Oh, I’d keep him tied up here. Gagged. It’d be a day or so before he’d get out. But he’d agree to that. I knew he would. And I’d write his name and address down, let him know I knew where him and his family lived. But that was only part of why I was thinking I’d let him go. I wasn’t sure what the rest of it was. But it was something about what’d just happened, something between me and him.

  “How you feel?” he asked.

  I wasn’t going to give too much away. No, sir. But I couldn’t help saying, “I thought I was gone then. But you did right by me.”

  “And you did right, too, Jack.” And then he said, “Pour us another round.”

  I filled the glasses to the top. We tapped ’em.

  “Here’s to you, Jack. And to faith.”

  “To faith.”

  I tossed back the whiskey, and when I lowered my head, sniffing air through my nose to clear my head, well, that was when he got me. Right in the face.

  He was good, that son of a bitch. Tossed the glass low so that even when I ducked, automatically, the booze caught me in the eyes, and man, that stung like nobody’s business. I couldn’t believe it. I was howling in pain and going for the knife. But it was too late. He had it all planned out, exactly what I was going to do. How I was gonna move. He brought his knee up into my chin and knocked a couple of teeth out, and I went over onto my back before I could get the knife out my pocket. Then he dropped down on my belly with his knee—I remembered I’d never bothered to tape his feet up again—and he knocked the wind out, and there I was lying, like I was paralyzed, trying to breathe and all. Only I couldn’t. And the pain was incredible, but what was worse was the feeling that he didn’t trust me.

  I was whispering, “No, no, no. I was going to, man. You don’t understand. I was going to let you go.”

  I couldn’t see nothing and couldn’t really hear nothing either, my ears were roaring so much. I was gasping, “You don’t understand you don’t understand.”

  Man, the pain was so bad. So bad . . .

  Weller must’ve got the tape off his hands, chewed through it, I guess, ’cause he was rolling me over. I felt him tape my hands together, then grab me and drag me over to a chair, tape my feet to the legs. He got some water and threw it in my face to wash the whiskey out of my eyes.

  He sat down in a chair in front of me. And he just stared at me for a long time while I caught my breath. He picked up his glass, poured more scotch. I shied away, thinking he was going to throw it in my face again, but he just sat there, sipping it and staring at me.

  “You . . . I was going to let you go. I was.”

  “I know,” he said. Still calm.

  “You know?”

  “I could see it in your face. I’ve been a salesman for twenty-five years, remember? I know when I’ve closed a deal.”

  I’m a pretty strong guy, ’specially when I’m mad, and
I tried real hard to break through that tape but there was no doing it. “Goddamn you!” I shouted. “You said you weren’t going to turn me in. You, all your goddamn talk about faith . . .”

  “Shhhh,” Weller whispered. And he sat back, crossing his legs. Easy as could be. Looking me up and down. “That fellow your friend shot back at the drugstore. The customer at the counter?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “He was my friend. It’s his place my wife and I are staying at this weekend. With all our kids.”

  I just stared at him. His friend? What was he saying?

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Be quiet,” he said, real soft. “I’ve known him for years. Gerry was one of my best friends.”

  “I didn’t want nobody to die. I—”

  “But somebody did die. And it was your fault.”

  “Toth . . .”

  He whispered, “It was your fault.”

  “All right, you tricked me. Call the cops. Get it over with, you goddamn liar.”

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” He shook his head. Why was he so calm? His hands weren’t shaking. He wasn’t looking around, nervous and all. Nothing like that. He said, “If I’d wanted to turn you in, I would just’ve flagged down that squad car a few minutes ago. But I said I wouldn’t do that. And I won’t. I gave you my word I wouldn’t tell the cops a thing about you. And I won’t.”

  “Then what do you want?” I shouted. “Tell me.” Trying to bust through that tape. And as he unfolded my Buck knife with a click, I was thinking of something I told him.

  Oh man, no . . . Oh, no.

  “Yeah, being blind, I guess. That’d be the worst thing I could think of.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “What’m I going to do, Jack?” Weller said. He cut the last bit of tape off his wrists with the Buck, then looked up at me. “Well, I’ll tell you. I spent a good bit of time tonight proving to you that you shouldn’t kill me. And now . . .”

  “What, man? What?”

  “Now I’m going to spend a good bit of time proving to you that you should’ve.”

  Then, real slow, Weller finished his scotch and stood up. And he walked toward me, that weird little smile on his face.

  BRENDAN DUBOIS

  The Dark Snow

  FROM Playboy

  WHEN I GET TO THE STEPS of my lakeside home, the door is open. I slowly walk in, my hand reaching for the phantom weapon at my side, everything about me extended and tingling as I enter the strange place that used to be mine. I step through the small kitchen, my boots crunching the broken glassware and dishes on the tile floor. Inside the living room with its cathedral ceiling the furniture has been upended, as if an earthquake had struck.

  I pause for a second, looking out the large windows and past the enclosed porch, down to the frozen waters of Lake Marie. Off in the distance are the snow-covered peaks of the White Mountains. I wait, trembling, my hand still curving for that elusive weapon. They are gone, but their handiwork remains. The living room is a jumble of furniture, torn books and magazines, shattered pictures and frames. On one clear white plaster wall, next to the fireplace, two words have been written in what looks to be ketchup: GO HOME.

  This is my home. I turn over a chair and drag it to the windows. I sit and look out at the crisp winter landscape, my legs stretched out, holding both hands still in my lap, which is quite a feat.

  For my hands at that moment want to be wrapped around someone’s throat.

  After a long time wandering, I came to Nansen, New Hampshire, in the late summer and purchased a house along the shoreline of Lake Marie. I didn’t waste much time, and I didn’t bargain. I made an offer that was about a thousand dollars below the asking price, and in less than a month it belonged to me.

  At first I didn’t know what to do with it. I had never had a residence that was actually mine. Everything before this had been apartments, hotel rooms, or temporary officer’s quarters. The first few nights I couldn’t sleep inside. I would go outside to the long dock that extends into the deep blue waters of the lake, bundle myself up in a sleeping bag over a thin foam mattress, and stare up at the stars, listening to the loons getting ready for their long winter trip. The loons don’t necessarily fly south; the ones here go out to the cold Atlantic and float with the waves and currents, not once touching land the entire winter.

  As I snuggled in my bag I thought it was a good analogy for what I’d been doing. I had drifted too long. It was time to come back to dry land.

  After getting the power and other utilities up and running and moving in the few boxes of stuff that belonged to me, I checked the bulky folder that had accompanied my retirement and pulled out an envelope with a doctor’s name on it. Inside were official papers that directed me to talk to him, and I shrugged and decided it was better than sitting in an empty house getting drunk. I phoned and got an appointment for the next day.

  His name was Ron Longley and he worked in Manchester, the state’s largest city and about an hour’s drive south of Lake Marie. His office was in a refurbished brick building along the banks of the Merrimack River. I imagined I could still smell the sweat and toil of the French Canadians who had worked here for so many years in the shoe, textile, and leather mills until their distant cousins in Georgia and Alabama took their jobs away.

  I wasn’t too sure what to make of Ron during our first session. He showed me some documents that made him a Department of Defense contractor and gave his current classification level, and then, after signing the usual insurance nonsense, we got down to it. He was about ten years younger than I, with a mustache and not much hair on top. He wore jeans, a light blue shirt, and a tie that looked as if about six tubes of paint had been squirted onto it, and he said, “Well, here we are.”

  “That we are,” I said. “And would you believe I’ve already forgotten if you’re a psychologist or a psychiatrist?”

  That made for a good laugh. With a casual wave of his hand, he said, “Makes no difference. What would you like to talk about?”

  “What should I talk about?”

  A shrug, one of many I would eventually see. “Whatever’s on your mind.”

  “Really?” I said, not bothering to hide the challenge in my voice. “Try this one on then, doc. I’m wondering what I’m doing here. And another thing I’m wondering about is paperwork. Are you going to be making a report down south on how I do? You working under some deadline, some pressure?”

  His hands were on his belly and he smiled. “Nope.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “If you want to come in here and talk baseball for fifty minutes, that’s fine with me.”

  I looked at him and those eyes. Maybe it’s my change of view since retirement, but there was something trustworthy about him. I said, “You know what’s really on my mind?”

  “No, but I’d like to know.”

  “My new house,” I said. “It’s great. It’s on a big lake and there aren’t any close neighbors, and I can sit on the dock at night and see stars I haven’t seen in a long time. But I’ve been having problems sleeping.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked, and I was glad he wasn’t one of those stereotypical head docs, the ones who take a lot of notes.

  “Weapons.”

  “Weapons?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I miss my weapons.” A deep breath. “Look, you’ve seen my files, you know the places Uncle Sam has sent me and the jobs I’ve done. All those years, I had pistols or rifles or heavy weapons, always at my side, under my bed or in a closet. But when I moved into that house, well, I don’t have them anymore.”

  “How does that make you feel?” Even though the question was friendly, I knew it was a real doc question and not a from-the-next-barstool type of question.

  I rubbed my hands. “I really feel like I’m changing my ways. But damn it. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I smiled. “I sure could use a good night’s sleep.” />
  As I drove back home, I thought, Hell, it’s only a little white lie.

  The fact is, I did have my weapons.

  They were locked up in the basement, in strongboxes with heavy combination locks. I couldn’t get to them quickly, but I certainly hadn’t tossed them away.

  I hadn’t been lying when I told Ron I couldn’t sleep. That part was entirely true.

  I thought, as I drove up the dirt road to my house, scaring a possum that scuttled along the side of the gravel, that the real problem with living in my new home was so slight that I was embarrassed to bring it up to Ron.

  It was the noise.

  I was living in a rural paradise, with clean air, clean water, and views of the woods and lake and mountains that almost broke my heart each time I climbed out of bed, stiff with old dreams and old scars. The long days were filled with work and activities I’d never had time for. Cutting old brush and trimming dead branches. Planting annuals. Clearing my tiny beach of leaves and other debris. Filling bird feeders. And during the long evenings on the front porch or on the dock, I tackled thick history books.

  But one night after dinner—I surprised myself at how much I enjoyed cooking—I was out on the dock, sitting in a fifties-era web lawn chair, a glass of red wine in my hand and a history of the Apollo space program in my lap. Along the shoreline of Lake Marie, I could see the lights of the cottages and other homes. Every night there were fewer and fewer lights, as more of the summer people boarded up their places and headed back to suburbia.

  I was enjoying my wine and the book and the slight breeze, but there was also a distraction: three high-powered speedboats, racing around on the lake and tossing up great spray and noise. They were dragging people along in inner tubes, and it was hard to concentrate on my book. After a while the engines slowed and I was hoping the boats would head back to their docks, but they drifted together and ropes were exchanged, and soon they became a large raft. A couple of grills were set up and there were more hoots and yells, and then a sound system kicked in, with rock music and a heavy bass that echoed among the hills.