The Best American Mystery Stories 2016

by Elizabeth George

  Gunfire erupted in the outer room. Above the din, a high-pitched voice screamed orders in Chinese. Hung Lo’s troops had arrived.

  I found Abernathy in the small office, rifling a desk. One hand clutched a wad of greenbacks.

  “There’s more here,” he said. “There must be. Help me look.”

  I lunged across the desk, grabbed his tie, and hauled him toward the doorway.

  The hall was full of men—Zartell’s men, firing back toward the entrance. They blocked our route to the secret exit.

  Abernathy kicked my shins, tried to bite my hand.

  “Behave!” I batted his nose with my gun barrel. “In case you don’t know it yet, both sides want to boil you in oil.”

  Bullets zipped up and down the hall. Muzzle fire illuminated passing hatchets and knives. Men yelped, grunted, screamed, swore.

  Abernathy quivered so hard he made my teeth rattle.

  “We have to surrender!” he cried.

  “Be your age. They’re taking no prisoners.”

  But the idea stuck in my skull. Maybe he had something.

  I put my lips close to the doorway and shouted, “Wait! Hold it!”

  The barrage slowed to half its fury, a mere ten shots per second.

  “We give up!” I roared. “We surrender!”

  My reasoning, such as it was, went like this: the Chinese would think the Zartell faction was folding, and Zartell’s men would think the surrender had come from one of their own.

  The shooting dwindled to single pops and bangs. While everyone’s brains were scrambled, I yanked Abernathy into the hall, pushing through the gangsters in search of the exit.

  Gangsters, as a rule, don’t like to be pushed. They pushed back, cursing as they did, and Hung Lo’s men assumed the cursing was meant for them. We were still a yard and a half from the panel when the battle resumed.

  Gunpowder scorched my cheek. A knife blade stole my hat. Lead thwacked into meat all around us. Abernathy squalled like a baby. A bullet slammed into my hindquarters, and I felt like squalling too, but I kicked and clawed my way through the dead and dying, bruised my shoulder on the secret panel, and shoved Abernathy through.

  The only sensible thing was to follow. I wasn’t Zartell’s keeper. I’d resented him my entire life, and for all I knew, he may have been responsible for my father’s death. The world would be a better place without him. The only sensible thing was to let him die.

  I stood there telling myself these things until my mother’s face swam up again.

  No promises, I repeated.

  But I kicked the panel shut and bawled, “Nick! Where the hell are you?”

  A flying tomahawk took away part of my ear. Before I could check how much was left, a heavy slug tore through my leg. I sat down hard, damning Zartell, my mother, the Old Man, and half of mankind.

  When I tried to get up, it was no-go. I damned the rest of mankind and had progressed to the animals and little fishes when a dark shape loomed above me.

  “Hello, Pete,” the shape said. “You rang?”

  I thumped the wall with my foot. “Secret panel.”

  Zartell leaned against it, trying twice more before he found the sweet spot. The air buzzed with lead and cutlery, but nothing touched him. He bent, grabbed my ankles, and dragged me through. The door clicked shut behind us.

  “I suppose I should be grateful,” I said.

  “You should at that, but I know it’s against your nature.”

  He hauled me up and duck-walked me down the passageway. Muffled explosions hurried us on our way. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought it was Chinese New Year.

  I awoke with a head full of visions and a snootful of disinfectant. In the visions, I saw myself stagger into the basement of the Chinese laundry, saw the astonished face of an old woman boiling shirts, and collapsed as Zartell scurried away. The disinfectant represented the here and now, where I lay sidesaddle on a hospital bed.

  My leg and hindquarters hurt like hell.

  From a chair beside the bed, the Old Man studied me as if measuring my neck for a noose.

  I broke the silence. “My ass hurts.”

  “Thanks to you,” he said, “so does mine.”

  Lacking a suitable reply, I said, “Where’s Abernathy?”

  “In the wind. Trying to outrun Zartell’s bounty hunters and Hung Lo’s hatchet men.”

  I did my best to look displeased.

  “Feeling pretty full of yourself, are you? I wouldn’t. When they catch him, he’ll wish he’d died in the opium den.”

  “If they catch him.”

  “When. And you may have won a reprieve for Zartell, but his time is coming too.”

  I had no more argument in me. “What about Mutt and Jeff?”

  “They have their walking papers. They’ll never work for the agency again.”

  I felt the noose slip around my neck.

  “And what about me?”

  The Old Man tugged the pack of Fatimas from his pocket, shook one free, scowled at the NO SMOKING sign above my bed, scowled at me, and lit the cigarette anyway.

  A shape darkened the doorway and a man strode in.

  I said, “Hello, Mike.”

  He grinned at the Old Man. “You tell him yet?”

  “No.” The old guy scowled at me some more.

  The noose tightened.

  “I saw three alternatives,” the Old Man said. He ticked them off on his fingers. “One—fire Abernathy and let him leave unpunished. Two—have him arrested and drag the agency’s name through the muck. Or three—make the problem go away permanently.” He grimaced as if the words pained him. “You saw a fourth option, and acted on it.”

  My ears stretched. This resembled the beginning of a compliment.

  “Disobeying orders was rash,” the Old Man went on, “and it was stupid. But you caught a break, and your stupidity paid off, at least in the Abernathy matter. Saving Zartell was something else entirely.”

  So much for the compliment.

  “What he’s trying to say,” Mike put in, “is that you remind him of himself when he was a fine young hellion. And if the worst that happens to you is getting shot in the ass, you might live long enough to become a decent Continental op.”

  “I’m already a decent op,” I told him, “but I’m nothing like old Beelzebub here, and never will be. If he has an ounce of human feeling in him I’ll butter my hat and eat it.”

  The Old Man did that terrible thing with his lips.

  “Your hat is safe enough,” he said. “As to how different we are, it may interest you to know I once had a mother. She even tried to tell me how to do my job.”

  I held his gaze until my gums began to bleed.

  “So what’d you do?”

  “Framed her on a bunko rap. She got three to five in Joliet.”

  I was deciding whether to believe that when he said, “Mike is transferring up from San Francisco. He’ll be training you.”

  My brain did a somersault.

  Mike executed a mock bow. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “I still have a job?”

  “It won’t be all wine and roses,” the Old Man said. “This office still needs a manager. And this town needs someone to shave its fur and dig the leeches out of its hide.”

  I stared at him, hoping I’d misunderstood.

  I hadn’t.

  “The agency gave me the option of staying retired or becoming your new boss. Guess which I chose?”

  ROBERT LOPRESTI

  Street of the Dead House

  FROM nEvermore!

  WHAT AM I? That is the question.

  I sit in this cage, waiting for them to come stare at me, mimic me as I once mimicked them, perhaps poke me with sticks, and as they wonder what I am, so do I.

  I don’t think Mama had any doubts about what she was. I don’t think she could even think the question. That is the gift and the punishment Professor gave me.

  I remember Mama, a little. We were happy and li
fe was simple, so simple. Food was all around us, dangers were few, and there was nothing we needed. When I was scared or hungry Mama would pick me up and cradle me to her furry breast.

  I was never cold. It was always warm where we lived, not this place, called Paris or France. Goujon cannot talk about anything without giving it two names. Sometimes he calls me an Ourang-Outang, and sometimes an ape.

  Mama called us nothing, for she could not speak like people, or sign as I have learned to do. That did not bother her. She was always happy, until she died.

  The hunters came in the morning, firing guns and shouting. Mama picked me up and ran. She made it into the trees but there was another hunter waiting in front of her. He made a noise as if he were playing a game, but this was no game. He fired his gun and Mama fell from the tree. I landed on top of her but she was already dead.

  My life has made no sense since then.

  I remember the first time I saw Professor. He tilted his head when he looked at me and spoke. We were in his house. The smell of the hunters was finally gone.

  He gave me food and tried to be kind but I was afraid. The food tasted wrong and soon I got sleepy, but not the kind of sleepy I knew with Mama.

  I know now something in the food made me sleep. Things were confused after that and I would wake up with pain in my head.

  He did things to my head. Each time I woke the room looked different, clearer somehow. And one day when Professor spoke I understood some of his noises.

  “Ah, Jupiter. You are with me again. And you are grasping my words, aren’t you? The chemicals are working just as I predicted.”

  He held out a piece of fruit. “Are you hungry, Jupiter?”

  I was. I reached for it.

  He pulled it away and moved his other hand. “Do this, Jupiter. It means orange. Tell me you want an orange.”

  After a few more tries I understood. I copied his hand and he gave me the orange.

  That was my first lesson. That was my first surrender.

  Many more sleeps, many more words, many more pains in the head.

  Soon I knew enough gestures to ask Professor questions.

  Where is Mama?

  “Dead. Hunters killed her. When I heard they brought back a baby I bought you from them.”

  Do you have a mama?

  “I did, Jupiter. Everyone does. I will show you a picture of mine. I grew up in a place called Lyon. It is far from here, and full of men like me.”

  Where is your mama?

  “She died when I was young.”

  Killed by hunters?

  “No, Jupiter. She got sick. Not sick like you did last month. Much worse.”

  Where did you live?

  “With my papa. Oh dear. A papa is something like a mama. You had one too but Ourang-Outang papas don’t live with their children. I don’t know why. My papa was a baker. That means he made bread, like I eat with my meals.”

  I tried bread once. It had no taste.

  Did your papa die?

  “Yes, but that was much later. There was an accident, he was hit by a wagon. You’ve seen pictures of wagons.” His face changed again. “I had to go to the morgue to fetch him. I knew then I would leave Lyon, because it made me so sad.”

  What is that?

  “What is . . . oh, morgue? It is a house where they put the dead.”

  Did they put my mama there?

  “No, Jupiter. Only men.”

  Why?

  “Well.” He scratched his head. “I think it is because men think that only they have souls.”

  What is that?

  Professor waved his arms. “I was afraid you would ask! I know nothing about souls. We would need a priest to explain that—and don’t bother asking me what a priest is, because I can’t explain that either. Let’s say a soul is what makes men different from animals.”

  A soul lets you speak?

  More head scratching. “I’ll have to think about that one, Jupiter.”

  I lived in the middle of the house, where there were trees to make nests in. It was surrounded by white walls, and Professor lived on the other side of the walls. There were some windows, spaces in the walls with bars, through which I could see into his rooms. There were also bars on the top of my part of the house.

  One day Professor came to me, excited. “We are to have a visitor, Jupiter! A man who speaks French.”

  What is that?

  “The words I speak, that I have been teaching you. Men from different places use different sounds, and French is how they speak where I was born. Most men here speak English, or Dutch, or Malay.”

  He made the playing noise. “So many ways to talk, Jupiter. But until now none here have spoken as I do.”

  Is that why they are afraid of me? Because they cannot speak to me?

  His face changed. “Why do you say they are afraid?”

  I can smell it on your helpers. The men who clean and cook.

  “Have any of them bothered you, Jupiter?”

  No. But they peek in my room when you are not there. Some of them speak but I do not know what they say. And when I tried to sign back they did not understand.

  Professor got quiet. “I am sorry they are afraid of you, Jupiter. Men fear what they don’t understand. Perhaps I should have let my helpers visit you, but I didn’t want to confuse you with many kinds of words.”

  He stood up. “We will see how things go with the sailor, yes? Maybe we can find more friends for you.”

  What is that?

  “What, friend?”

  No.

  “Hmm. Then . . . sailor? A sailor is a man who travels on boats. I have shown you pictures of boats, yes? We need a sign for sailor, I see.”

  Boat man.

  His face changed. “Very good, Jupiter. You are getting better and better at thinking of signs.”

  I want to see the sailor.

  I smelled him as soon as he came into the house. The sailor smelled like the fish Professor sometimes eats, and like the smoke some of the helpers smell of.

  I heard them while they ate.

  “So, where are you from, Monsieur Goujon? Is that a Norman accent?”

  “It is, professor. I was born near Caen, but I have lived most of my life with my uncle near Paris. That is actually why I am here in Borneo. He asked me to supervise a load of precious cargo, so I left my ship and will take another back.”

  “Excellent. I trust you will visit me often while you are here. It is a rare treat to chat with someone who speaks the mother tongue.”

  “How can I resist such a charming host? Not to mention this wonderful food.”

  It didn’t smell wonderful to me. Mostly bread and burnt meat.

  “I am amazed that you can survive here in this primitive land. Pirates, natives, opposing armies . . . and yet here you sit in this beautiful villa! How do you do it?”

  “Ah well, it is a little miracle, I suppose. The English assume I am a French spy, and would root me out if they could, but this end of the island is run by the Dutch and the Dyaks, and they have no desire to lose the only physician in their territory.

  “When I first reached Borneo some of the Malay pirates tried to take me as their personal physician, but I told them I couldn’t work that way. If they wanted my services they would have to set me free—and they did! I suspect they feared I could make them sick as well as heal them. But they come by cover of darkness, when they need me.”

  “Professor, if I am not being rude, may I ask what a scholar like yourself is doing out in the wilderness? It amazed me to hear about you.”

  “Hmm.” Professor’s voice got quieter. “What did you hear, exactly?”

  The sailor made the playing noise. “Oh, you know what the locals are like. The natives are pagans and the Dutch aren’t much better. They say that you have turned animals into servants!”

  “I suppose that is better than if they thought I turned my servants into animals.” They made the playing sound. “In fact, my friend, they are closer to the tr
uth than you might imagine. But they are far away too.”

  “Really? I am fascinated! Please explain.”

  “Very well. I should tell you I was trained as a doctor in France. I found myself working in a rural area, and, alas, there were many feeble-minded people there.”

  “Very sad, but I have heard that that condition runs in families.”

  “It does. And often a healthy member of such a clan will produce feeble-minded offspring, even though both parents seemed completely normal.”

  “Perhaps the family is cursed by God.”

  “I know nothing of curses, my friend. As a natural philosopher I can only deal with this world. But my breakthrough came when a fever struck our village and, alas, killed a number of small children, both the normal and the feeble-minded.”

  “Death makes no distinctions, I know.”

  “Very true. But it occurred to me that I had a great opportunity here that for the sake of all mankind I could not let slip away. As you know, what we call the mind is contained here, in the skull.”

  “The brain, yes. I saw one once, when a man was killed by an explosion.”

  “Ah. Then you understand that there is nothing magical about the brain. It is just a pile of meat, one might say. And yet all art and literature and wisdom spring from it, yes? So I decided to see if there was a difference between the healthy and feeble-minded brains.”

  I heard nothing for a moment. When the sailor spoke he sounded different. “You cut open dead children? Is that legal?”

  “No. Autopsies, for that is the word, are not legal in France. But they should be, or how can medicine advance? My so-called crime was discovered and I had to flee the country. How I wound up in Borneo is a long story. But the important thing is what I learned. The feeble-minded brain looked different; there were variations in shape. It did not smell like a normal brain, and I became convinced that there were chemical differences. I thought perhaps it might be possible to improve the little ones.”

  “Surely you have not been experimenting on living children, professor!”

  “No, my friend. Not even on feeble-minded ones, although I hope I will get the chance to do so. Out here I was able to try my ideas out on apes. Have you seen them?”