Yarnell did a quick one-eighty in the direction of the voice, and accomplished a step and a half sideways toward the anonymity of the dense vegetation before Beaumont managed to halt his exodus.
“We got company,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.
“I noticed,” said Beaumont.
“What's he talking about a Human Fly?”
“There's something I forgot to tell you,” Beaumont whispered.
“What?” inquired Yarnell in a louder voice.
“He's really good,” said the slurred voice.
“It's about the Thin Guy,” Beaumont whispered back.
“Yeah?” Yarnell almost shouted.
“Yeah,” replied the slurred voice, “you should've been here when he climbed the building. It was awesome.”
“That's what I was going to tell you,” whispered Beaumont. “The Thin Guy's been taking some online courses on how to climb buildings. You wanted to know how the inside man was gonna get inside. Well, that's how.”
Now Yarnell lowered his own voice to a loud whisper. “You're telling me that the Thin Guy climbed ten stories up the side of this building without help?”
“I saw him first,” continued the slurred voice, “so I called my fraternity brothers and they all came over to watch him go up. Man, it was great. He shimmied up that wall like he had suction cups on his hands and feet. I even took video with my cell phone camera. Me and my girlfriend are going to put it on YouTube. It'll go viral.”
“You hear that,” whispered Yarnell, “our burgle job is going to be on the Internet for the whole world to see. Don't you think now is a good time to leave before we become police celebrities?”
“Give me a minute to think,” muttered Beaumont.
“Oh, look,” shouted the slurred voice as its owner pointed toward the sky.
Yarnell craned his neck and looked up.
A head poked itself over the railing of the tenth-story balcony. Next, a long rope slithered down the condo wall. A body dressed in black soon swung itself over the railing and grabbed the rope.
“Hey, everybody,” shouted the slurred voice, “the Human Fly is coming down.”
“I hope he's cute,” said a feminine voice that seemed to be coming from about ten feet up in the air behind them.
Yarnell felt a mass of people crowd around. He glanced to his immediate left, where the slurred voice was now standing, and decided its owner must be either a muscle builder or a very large football player for some university up north.
“You got the camera on video, babe?” inquired the slurred voice.
“We're rolling,” said the feminine voice on high. “Just quit moving and stand still. I think you've had too much to drink.”
Yarnell finally located the feminine voice somewhere a few feet above the shoulders of the very large football player. She was a bikini-clad female who could have passed for a college cheerleader anywhere in the Ivy League.
At the top of the condo, a dark, bulky, odd-shaped figure started making its way down the rope.
“There he is,” shouted the crowd.
“I thought the Thin Guy was going to lower the treasure down on the rope first,” whispered Yarnell.
“That was the way I understood the plan,” replied Beaumont with a shrug.
An outside light suddenly lit up one of the sixth-floor balconies overlooking the condo's north side.
“What are you people doing down there?” screamed an elderly lady in her bathrobe, hair done up in large curlers. “Go party someplace else and let decent folks sleep before I call the police on you.”
As the black-clad figure on the rope dropped down past the lit sixth-floor balcony, he appeared to be swinging from left to right and back again. Periodically, the swinging rope passed in front of the lady's face.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” the Thin Guy said politely. “I'll be out of your way in a moment.”
Her mouth hung slack as her head rotated back and forth to keep time with his slow metronome motion on the condo wall.
With the benefit of the light from the balcony, Yarnell could see why the Thin Guy's dark form was so bulky and odd shaped. The man appeared to have a large rectangle strapped to his back. This rectangle was catching the strong ocean breeze much like a sail on a ship. As a result, the wind off the ocean blew him inland along the condo wall. When the breeze let up, gravity swung him back toward the Atlantic side.
“What the hell's he doing?” asked Yarnell.
“Don't know,” said Beaumont.
“Keep the camera rolling, babe,” roared the slurred voice. “We're making history here.” As he raised his right fist at the end of his muscular arm to accentuate his statement, the bikini-clad student on his shoulders shifted her weight to maintain her precarious perch. The football player in turn lurched to the right in order to keep his own balance.
“Yeeowww,” screamed Yarnell. “You stepped on my foot.” He hobbled toward Beaumont. “I think you broke it.”
“Sorry, man,” slurred the voice.
“Hold still,” ordered the cheerleader on high. “You're going to ruin the video.”
Yarnell leaned on Beaumont for support as he raised his left foot to check the damage and almost fell over as Beaumont moved forward to stabilize the Thin Guy's gyrations on the rope.
In the few seconds before the mob of college spring-breakers swarmed around the Thin Guy, Beaumont got in some quick quiet questions.
“I thought you were gonna lower the treasure down to us on a rope.”
“I was,” replied the Thin Guy as he unwound himself from the rope, “but the man must have already moved it elsewhere. All I could find were these Spanish doubloons encased in plastic for souvenirs.” He handed over four squares of clear plastic with dark blue backgrounds. One shiny gold coin resided inside each square.
Beaumont quickly stuck the doubloons in his pants pocket. “So what's that thing on your back?”
“I couldn't find anything else of the treasure, but I kinda liked the oil painting that covered his empty wall safe, so I took it.”
“You mean like a Picasso or a van Gogh?”
Yarnell could hear the hope in Beaumont's voice.
“I don't know,” replied the Thin Guy. “Did them fellas like to paint old sailing ships in stormy seas?”
“I just now called the police on all you noisy people down there,” screamed the lady from the sixth-floor balcony as one of her hair curlers unrolled and let a wisp of gray go flapping in the breeze.
At the sound of the word “police,” Yarnell immediately started limping for the back way out. Even as he made his lumbering departure, he could hear the crowd of college students raising the Thin Guy up on their own shoulders and now cheering him on as some kind of hero of the moment. The only positive aspect as far as Yarnell could see was that during this whole happening the Thin Guy had been wearing a skintight, black body outfit from head to toe, much like speed skaters wore in the Olympics. And his face was striped with some kind of black camouflage paint, all of which meant that even if the video went viral on YouTube, the cops wouldn't be able to recognize him. This also meant that the police wouldn't be able to tie Yarnell and Beaumont to the burglary. All Yarnell had to do was make good his own escape.
A wail of sirens grew in the distance and seemed to be growing closer.
Yarnell had just broken out of the jungle at the rear of the condo and stepped onto the sand when the first wave of fellow escapees caught up from behind. The mass of the crowd bore him bodily onto the beach at the front of the rush. Then suddenly, the mob split up and disappeared into the larger crowd of partying students, impromptu gatherings at nearby beer gardens, and other groups hanging around campfires.
Yarnell found himself deposited at the outskirts of one of the campfires. He snatched up a large, abandoned beach towel, hooded it over his head for concealment, and wrapped the remainder around his back and shoulders. Then, he hunkered down on the sand to ease his throbbing left foot, which he was sure had be
en broken when that drunk football player stepped on his arch back at the condo. If nothing else, it was at least a hairline crack requiring some kind of pain meds.
Somebody at the fire pressed a cold beer bottle into his right hand.
Yarnell nodded his thanks and scooted in closer to the group of spring-breakers gathered around the fire. It was nice to be unconditionally accepted at times like these.
As he sipped his beer, a roar went up back at the vegetation line. Looking over the upraised bottom of his beer bottle, Yarnell watched a running crowd of spring-breakers with the Thin Guy held high in their midst. They seemed to be headed toward a brightly lit area where a booming music concert was being held. At the sound of a second roar, which included the crackle of multiple radio traffic, Yarnell swiveled his beer bottle back in the direction of the condo. Here came a smaller crowd of men in police uniforms. They seemed to be in pursuit of the Human Fly and his fleeing cohorts. Yarnell swung his beer bottle and attention back toward the first group, but they were already melting into the multitude of spring-breakers surrounding the band stage. From this distance, Yarnell couldn't tell if the band was doing their own rendition of Who Let the Dogs Out or something resembling Call 9-1-1. In any case, it was loud and everybody seemed to be having a good time.
Then he wondered where Beaumont was and what he was doing right now. Damn, Beaumont had his return airline ticket. This was part of why Yarnell didn't like hurry-up jobs. Things went wrong, and he always ended up on the pointed end of the stick. He was gonna have to be more careful about making choices in the future.
A girl in a red bikini reached into a nearby ice chest and handed Yarnell another beer.
Maybe this will work out, Yarnell told himself. After all, he'd finally got to spring break and did it without having to attend college anywhere. He'd also evaded the police at the scene of the burglary. And better yet, he'd been down here in Florida without running into any alligators.
Although he had noticed what looked like a log bobbing up and down out there at the edge of the surf. Maybe he'd keep an eye in that direction from time to time, just in case.
Copyright © 2012 R.T. Lawton
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* * *
Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH: DOGWATCH
* * * *
Copyright 2011, Shutterstock / Charles Ostrand
* * * *
We will give a prize of $25 to the person who invents the best mystery story (in 250 words or less, and be sure to include a crime) based on the above photograph. The story will be printed in a future issue. Reply to AHMM, Dell Magazines, 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, New York 10007-2352. Please label your entry “May Contest,” and be sure your name and address are written on the story you submit. If you would like your story returned, please include an SASE.
© 2011 Shutterstock / Charles Ostrand
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* * *
Fiction: WIND POWER
by Eve Fisher
* * * *
Art by Hank Blaustein
* * * *
“Are you out of your freaking mind?” I shouted over the telephone at Bob Olson.
“What are you talking about, Linda?”
“I'm talking about you and Tina Corson, what else? Lunch at Mellette's—”
“So what?”
“Whispering in the chips aisle at Food King—”
“Wait a second—”
“Parking at Lake Howard. You want to tell me what's going on? Or rather, what you think is going on?”
“Tina and I are friends. That's all. We went to school together.”
“Yeah, and she dumped you. I know all about it.” I should. It was my shoulder he'd cried on all those years ago.
“And that's it. She's married.”
“Congratulations. You noticed.”
He hung up on me. Jerk. Men do the damnedest things when they hit the high middle ages. Bob got Elsie, a beautiful, hyperactive Irish Setter with the brains of a rabbit. He insisted on bringing her along on every walk, drive, and camping trip, but other than that I'd thought he was sailing through his midlife crisis fairly well.
The phone rang and I picked it up.
“Yes?”
“I don't know where the hell you get off, prying into my private life. Who I see and where I go is my own damn business. If you don't have anything better to do than spy on me—”
I hung up on him.
Maybe I was out of line. After all, despite the constant gossip of Laskin, South Dakota, Bob and I are just friends. But still. Tina. I walked around my living room, shaking my head. And it wasn't like Bob was the first guy Tina'd seen on the side. What on earth was he—
The phone rang again.
“What now?”
“Linda?”
“Yeah?”
“Linda, it's Glen. Glen Coughlin? Your date for tonight?”
“Glen!” That screeching sound was me, changing gears. “Hi, there.”
“You okay?”
“Yes. I just had . . . never mind. Hard day. So what's going on?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I'm running about half an hour late. Conference call to Denver. Sorry. But I'll be there by seven. Okay?”
“That's fine. No problem.”
I'd met Glen Coughlin at a Kiwanis lunch the week before. He was from Colorado, and was in Laskin to convince the Laskin Power Cooperative (among others) to sign up with his organization, the High Plains Wind Power Consortium, to develop a wind farm. I thought it sounded like a natural for the Dakotas, where the wind never stops blowing, but for some reason the CEO of Laskin Power Cooperative, Brandt Corson (yes, Tina's husband), wasn't going for it. Glen was sticking around, trying to get him to change his mind, which was fine with me. We'd lunched together a couple of times, and now were graduating to dinner. I enjoyed his company. I hadn't dated anyone in a long time. In a small town, any single man in my age bracket generally has some fatal flaw that explains why he didn't get married in his twenties. And the recently divorced ones are all looking for someone who'll put out on the first date.
So I was very happy, sitting in the Laskin Country Club with Glen and a glass of wine, waiting for our steaks. I'd already seen Tina and Brandt, who were with a large, loud group on the other side of the room, but I wasn't going to let that bother me.
“Isn't there anyplace I can get away from Corson?” Glen asked, conversationally.
“Probably not,” I replied.
“How do people stand working for him?”
“Oh, he's not that bad. There are worse.”
“Mmm. Try negotiating with him.”
“No, thanks.”
“Smart.” He glanced over at the group again and said, “That's his wife next to him, right? The blonde?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I could have sworn I saw her yesterday with someone else.”
“Tina has a lot of friends,” I said grimly.
“She's young for Corson.”
“Trophy wife. Of course it's been a while, so the shine may be dulling.”
Glen smiled at me. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, let's see. Brandt hit his midlife crisis late, and went kind of nuts. He dumped his wife Donna, who'd put up with him for almost thirty years, God knows how. To make matters worse, Donna's lawyer was a friend of Brandt's, and Donna didn't get near what she should have . . . Anyway, after that, Brandt bought a vat of musk and a new suit, and dived into the dating ocean with all the grace of an aging walrus. Or maybe a bear with a potbelly and, as you can see, a comb-over that rivals Donald Trump's.” Glen was laughing so hard I thought he'd fall over. “Let's see . . . within a year, he married Wanda the Biker at Sturgis. That lasted six months. Then he married—he likes getting married—some chick from Sioux Falls who came and went really fast. I don't even remember her name. And then he found Tina. Now Tina's hobby for years has been marrying money and spending it, and she had just shed her las
t husband. I believe her fourth.” I leaned over and said, confidentially, “She's not as young as she looks, by the way. Money'll do that. Anyway, they went off to Colorado, got married, and they've been prominent on the social circuit ever since.”
“More. More!”
“Not much more to tell. That was five years ago, so this one might last. There they are, large as life and almost as natural.”
“I assume he knew her past history?”
“Everybody in Laskin knows.”
“Well, that lets that out as leverage.”
“I keep telling you, try bribery. Brandt's cheap.”
“Then this deal should be a natural. The Consortium will handle all the setup costs.”
“They will?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “Maybe he just doesn't like you.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, Brandt's like that. If he takes a dislike to someone, that's it.”
“That's not very professional.”
“This is his town. He doesn't need to be.”
“Great. Enough of that. Tell me some more of those crazy stories about your family.”
So I did. He was laughing again when I saw Bob come in and head for the bar. I wound up my Aunt Olive, the Hermit of Laskin, story quicker than usual, and excused myself. On my way back from the ladies’ room, I stopped at the bar.
“Waiting for someone?”
“I knew you were spying.”
“I'm not the spy. I've got a date,” I said.
Bob craned his neck around. “Oh, yeah. That crazy wind power guy.”
“Nothing crazy about it. If I had the money, I'd put a windmill on my roof.”
“He looks like a used-car salesman.”
“Beats looking desperate,” I said, and walked away.
“That's the guy I saw Corson's wife with,” Glen said when I sat back down. “Who is he?”
“Bob Olson,” I said. “Journalist with our local newspaper. Did I ever tell you about my Aunt Matt and the four roasters?”
There was a big article in the Sioux Falls Argus Leader that Friday about wind power and its benefits. Glen's company was mentioned, among others, and so was Laskin, as a potential site. That got everybody in town talking. Monday's Laskin Observer was full of letters to the editor, all about wind farms, ranging from mild approval to rants about “obstructionists who stand in the way of progress.” I sighed. Every old farmer in the county was going to show up at the courthouse today to yap about it to me. Like I had anything to do with it. But I had been seen in public with Glen, which made me an instant expert. It was going to be a long day.
AHMM, May 2012 Page 5
