The Best American Mystery Stories 2016

by Elizabeth George

  “What a life, my love.” Jeff cuddled his bride of fifty years.

  “Yes, it is. Atlanta was the right place to raise our boys, but these North Carolina mountains are perfect for me.”

  “That’s good, because we can’t afford to move. Not many folks can even travel.”

  “I’m happy watching water freeze into icicles that thaw the next day.” She smiled.

  “Very inspirational.” Jeff squinched his eyes.

  Come live with me and be my love,

  And we will all the pleasures prove

  That hills and valleys, dale and field,

  And all the craggy mountains yield.

  “Very impressive.” Sally chuckled. “High school English?”

  “That’s all I can remember from last week. Christopher Marlowe.” He tugged the faded red braid that lay halfway down her back.

  “I like it when you remember to be romantic.” She tilted her head back to cock an eyebrow.

  “I’m a Renaissance man.” He smiled into her pale blue eyes.

  “We do all right by ourselves, don’t we?” She spoke softly. “Jeff, I don’t ever want to go to one of those old-people homes.”

  “We’ll take care of each other, honey. I promise.” He hugged her close, his eyes misting.

  Time stood still as they watched the fluttering attendance at the bird feeders.

  “I do wish that Daniel and Chad could be here with us.”

  “They were always big-city boys, honey.” He swallowed hard and looked to the mountains. “They never spent a day reading a book.”

  “Or walking deer trails.” She sighed deeply. “I know, but I worry that they’re not getting enough to eat.”

  The turkeys abruptly took flight.

  “Something spooked them,” he said.

  “Probably the fox casing my hen house. And if I see him, I’m going to shoot him.” Sally reached for the binoculars from the roll-top desk to examine the outbuildings near their young orchard. “One day I’ll be able to trade jars of preserves.”

  “Unless Mr. Bear or Woody Woodchuck sneaks up on us and confiscates our fruit.”

  “I won’t allow any varmint to steal my food. We worked too hard.”

  Jeff laughed. He had always admired her spunk.

  The scrape of boots on the front deck turned their attention. Over the loft railing they could see a dark face glower through the glass at the top of the mahogany door. Someone else in a black ski mask pressed his nose to the porch window and peered into the cabin’s main room.

  Jeff felt a spasm of fear squeeze his chest. His wife dropped the binoculars on a chair and hastened toward the steps.

  “Be careful, Sally. Looks like trouble, those slackers from the bottom of the hill.”

  She hesitated. “They can see we’re here.”

  “Stay with me.”

  Jeff sought options of self-defense. His pistol was tucked away at the top of the closet in the downstairs bedroom. Out of reach. The penknife in his pocket would be slow to open. Need something with a sharp point. He glanced at the letter opener on the desk, the scissors, a ballpoint.

  The knob turned, and a huge shaggy head loomed around the door. “Hallow, anyone ta home?”

  “We’re up here in the loft,” shouted Jeff. “Hang on, we’re coming down.” The fireplace poker!

  The two men invited themselves in. “Nice place you got here.”

  Jeff’s heart was pounding as he descended the open staircase, Sally behind him. He steeled his intention to be cordial as long as possible. “Come in by the fire.”

  “Thank ya kindly.” The husky intruder in the camouflage bibs clumped to the hearth, leaving wet tracks on the oval braided rug. “Shoar looks like another snow headed our way.”

  His sidekick stood by the door, looking around the large room. He rolled his stocking cap off his face up to the top of his head, uncovering short brown hair and stubbly beard. Denim cuffs partially hid the burn scars on his chapped hands.

  “Aren’t you from the cluster of mobile homes in the valley?” Jeff asked.

  “Yep, my family all lives together. Like the Kennedys.” His laugh revealed a cavern of sparse teeth stained by the bits of tobacco wedged among them.

  Jeff didn’t see any bulges suggesting concealed weapons. He forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  The stranger turned away from the blazing warmth. “Friend, times are tough. We ate our last chicken for Christmas dinner. I see you still got some.”

  “Yes, we do. We’ve hatched a few eggs and made our own flock.”

  “We ate ours, didn’t have nothin’ else.” He picked up the beach photo from the mantel. “Big boys. They live here? Or you two all alone in these woods?”

  “We have friends and relatives nearby.” Jeff claimed the family memory and replaced it below the grapevine wreath. He didn’t mention both sons had been killed in Afghanistan.

  “Sounds like the good life.” The behemoth called out to his hostess, who stood behind the island sink. “What do you think, honey? You like it here?”

  “I certainly do.” Sally picked at a button on her sweater.

  “Forgot my manners, darlin’. My name’s Boyd. What’s yourn?”

  Jeff interrupted. “What brings you boys up the mountain?” He stationed himself between his wife and the two strangers. He expected Sally to follow his lead, whatever it would be.

  “Well, like I said. We need meat, and we’re mighty tired of squirrel. I seen them turkeys in front of your place, and it ’pears to me that they’d make a right tasty dinner. Course they scattered when we come up the drive.”

  “If you follow the tracks, you could catch up to them. They poke along.”

  “I know that.” Boyd glanced upward at the thick exposed beams. “Yep, real nice place.” He reached out a dirty fingernail to touch the photo again. “We need some firewood too. I seen you have a big pile out there.”

  “Work at it all winter,” said Jeff. “The stack closest to the back door is seasoned. Behind that is what I cut this year from the trees damaged by the ice storm.”

  “Too cold to go out in that stuff.” Boyd wrapped his large paw around the fireplace poker, swiped the screen to the side, and nudged a flaming log. Sparks flew.

  Jeff picked up the coffee mug next to his chair and clutched it tightly.

  “Would you boys like some vegetable soup? I could heat it up real quick.” Sally pulled a jar from the pantry.

  Jeff nodded at her. Smart idea—appear neighborly, nonthreatening.

  The younger man at the door perked up. “Sounds good, don’t it, Boyd?” His thin frame looked as though it could use another meal.

  “Shoar. We’ll stay to eat. We’re not in no hurry.” Boyd shed his jacket, tossing it across a tartan footstool. A tiny snowball from the sleeve melted on Sally’s knitting. “C’mon, Cooter. Make yourself ta home.”

  Sally poured the soup into the iron pot. “Would you care to wash up first? We could turn on the pump.”

  “So you got your well water, do ya?” Boyd moved directly to the table, rubbing his palms on his barrel chest. His hunting cap still covered tangled strands of long black hair. “We can’t ’ford no generator.”

  “We tried to get prepared last year when the government looked shaky. We put back a few extra groceries each month. Installed a woodstove downstairs.” Jeff took the kettle from his wife, hung it on the fireplace crane, and swung it over the blaze. “I’ll warm up some coffee.”

  “I reckon you lost a bundle in the stock market crash.”

  “Everyone did.” Jeff retrieved the coffeepot from the hutch, where Sally had misplaced it.

  “I didn’t.” Again the toothless grin.

  “Me neither.” Cooter burst into squeals.

  Boyd slapped his thigh and hooted at him. “You was in prison.”

  “Oh, yeah.” And they both laughed rabidly until Boyd abruptly stopped. Cooter closed his mouth immediately, eyes on his companion.

 
; Jeff smiled indulgently while he positioned the ceramic pot close to the fire.

  Sally stood motionless behind the kitchen island.

  “Honey, do we have any bread?” Jeff squeezed her arm as he passed. When he got a serrated knife to place near her cutting board, he secreted a paring knife in his cardigan pocket. He handed Sally her apron.

  “Seen any deer?” Boyd scraped a ladder-back chair into position as he sat down. Cooter sat across from him, imitating his friend’s table manners.

  Sally opened a cabinet door. And a drawer.

  “Not recently. I was hoping our little herd would grow.” Jeff studied his guests from his stool at the granite countertop, away from the greasy animal odor trapped in their clothing. “Someone shot the two bucks last month.”

  “That was me. Got one, anyway. Big ten-pointer, wadn’t it, Cooter?”

  “Shoar was, Boyd. A rack this long.” He held his hands three feet away from each other. Cooter bumped Boyd’s hand with his over and over. “Too bad we couldn’t use his head. Remember that, Boyd? ’Member that?”

  “You’re my buddy, ain’t ya? You helped plant that salt lick and all.”

  Cooter sat up straight and nodded. “I followed that trail of blood to finish him off, too. I’d do anythin’ for you.” He smiled. His tiny eyes burned brightly. “Buddy.”

  While their guests jawed about dressing deer meat, Sally placed a plate of thick-sliced bread on the table. Boyd watched her cleavage rise and fall as she leaned forward to serve soup to her guests. Jeff watched Boyd.

  “I ain’t never et at a rich man’s table. Looks good, don’t it, Boyd?” Cooter leaned both forearms on the oak table, bread in one hand, spoon in the other. He hunched close over his bowl and quickly slurped every drop. Belching loudly, he leaned backward, balancing on two legs of his chair. “Yessir. That was extry good.” He swiped his mouth with his sleeve, napkin still in its decorative holder.

  Sally poured coffee for the men and then retreated behind the counter.

  Boyd pushed away his empty bowl and lit a cigarette. “So you got a big pension comin’ in? You must be one of them guys with a sweet retirement package. I heard about it when they was bailin’ out all them companies with hard-earned money from us little folks. You one of them?”

  “I don’t have a pension, but I don’t think it should concern you.” Jeff used a checked napkin to dab a coffee drip from his neat gray beard.

  “You’re wrong about that, mister. Everything you do concerns me. You live in my backyard.” He nodded at Cooter. “Ain’t that right?” Boyd flicked an ash into the soup bowl. “Our grandpappy used ta own all this land afore the developers got hold to it. I know every creek and holler.”

  “No doubt your grandpappy got paid for it. You should be the rich one,” remarked Jeff.

  “Well, I ain’t. My folks bought a restaurant, and we all worked at the family bizness. We tried to make a go of it, but neighbors quit eatin’ out. Nothin’ to be done but shut ’er down.” Boyd pushed back his chair and stood up. He gave Cooter what was left of his cigarette. “What kinda work did you do?”

  Jeff got to his feet. “I’m an electrician.”

  “You musta owned your own bizness. You got some mighty fine things here.” Boyd winked at Sally. “And a fat diamond ring for the missus.”

  She frowned and put her hand in her apron pocket.

  “I saved what I could in the good years. And didn’t go into debt. We retired on Social Security, but since there’s no longer any of that, we just make do.” Jeff hoped to move them toward the door.

  “You’re making it better than me and my family.”

  “We live a quiet life. It was hard to get used to kerosene lamps, but at least we can read at night. One day they’ll get the power up and going again in this area.”

  “It just ain’t right for some people to have so much and others to have nuttin’.” Cooter rhythmically slapped his spoon on the table until Sally snatched it to wash in the sink.

  “The guv’ner said we should share. You ready to share with me, neighbor?” Boyd moved closer to Jeff, forcing him to look up or step back.

  Jeff looked up.

  “Sure. I’ll tell you what. You can take half of my woodpile.”

  “That’s a start.” Boyd slapped Jeff on the back, unsettling him.

  “What are you going to trade? Share means helping each other.” Jeff was determined to show some strength.

  “I don’t have nothin’.”

  “Do you have any beer?” Jeff asked.

  Cooter sat up straight.

  “I ain’t givin’ up my beer,” said Boyd.

  “Maybe you have something stronger in that shed in the woods? The one where I’ve seen smoke?” He had to show strength or they would run right over him.

  Boyd narrowed his eyes at the stooped man in front of him.

  “I don’t think that concerns you,” Boyd mocked.

  “Tell it, Boyd.” Cooter twisted a stalk of baby’s breath from the dried centerpiece and crushed it slowly between thumb and forefinger.

  “Sounds like you’re mad at us because we prepared for hard times. You could have done the same thing,” said Jeff. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “I lost my job when all the furniture companies went to China. That ain’t right.”

  “Companies moved where they could have lower operating expenses. No union jobs.”

  “My girl would do better in a union. She works at a nursing home, and they cut her hours. She can’t pay her car note.”

  “You’re right.” Jeff nodded. “People all over the country are struggling.”

  “Yep. Fifteen teachers at the high school were let go.”

  “Ain’t so many prison guards left, neither.” Cooter giggled. He swiped the crumbs from the table with his sleeve.

  “No way I can get work. But a man’s gotta take care of his family,” said Boyd, his voice sharp and loud.

  Cooter stood, sucked in one last mouthful of smoke, and threw the cigarette butt into the fire as he ambled past.

  “I think we agree on that.” Jeff spoke softly. “It’s power and greed that’ll ruin us. All of us.” He took shallow breaths now. He put one hand into his sweater pocket.

  “You don’t seem to be worried.” Boyd snorted.

  “Worrying won’t change things. We’re too old to work, and too old to revolt.”

  “You’re right. You’re too old. What use are yunz?” Boyd grabbed his jacket and brushed Sally’s knitting to the floor.

  “Not for you to say.” Jeff eased the paring knife out but kept it hidden at his side.

  Sally started out of the kitchen area, her forehead furrowed. Jeff stopped her with a shake of his head.

  “Well, grandpa. Let me tell you how it’s gonna happen. First off, I’m takin’ all your wood. We’re gonna load it on my pickup right now.” Boyd motioned at Cooter. “Then tomorrow I’m takin’ all your chickens. And I’m sendin’ my young-uns up here to get all your canned goods. Whacha got to say about that, old man?”

  “I say you’re stealin’.” Jeff raised his voice and stepped closer.

  Sally slipped out of the kitchen. Jeff heard her lock the bedroom door. She was safe.

  “Hey, Cooter, look at that there recliner. Help me move it to the porch. We’ll carry it on top of the wood.”

  “I worked hard for my possessions. You have no right to them,” Jeff shouted. He made his decision. “You will not take them.”

  “Who’s gonna stop me?”

  “Me.” Jeff thrust his knife at Boyd’s chest.

  The men guffawed. A titanic arm brushed him aside. Jeff banged his shin on the footstool.

  As he fell toward the hearth, he caught a glimpse of a determined Sally returning to the room. “No! Go back!”

  “You will leave,” said Sally. “Now.”

  Jeff watched in horror as she charged the visitors.

  “Boyd, she got a gun!”

  “Honey, give it to me.�
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  Sally fired.

  At daybreak the doves fluttered off in different directions at the sound of knocking on the log cabin door. With every muscle in his body complaining, Jeff limped over to peer through its glass at two teenage boys. One wore a ski mask. “Sally, we have visitors.”

  Jeff unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Good morning, sir. We’re looking for our pa.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen anyone today. Two men stopped to visit yesterday.”

  “Our big brother found Pa’s truck down by the creek but no sign of nobody,” said the shorter boy. “He had to go on to work, so me and Danny are out lookin’.”

  “That’s strange. They said they were going to hunt for turkeys.” Jeff peered past them into the frozen forest. The crows roosted noisily. “Do you boys want to come in? You must be cold.”

  “Thanks, we are. The sun don’t feel too warm when the wind goes right through ya,” said Danny. They entered, stomping their snowy boots on the clean mat at the door. “Pa’s shotgun was missing from over the back window. I think mebbe he and Cousin Cooter have a deer stand close to the creek.” His adult baritone contrasted with the teenage acne erupting on his forehead. “Sweet place you got here, mister.”

  “Could you eat some livermush with eggs?”

  The teenagers exchanged bright-eyed looks. “We sure could. That sounds great.” They hung their jackets next to Jeff’s parka on the pegs by the door and removed their boots.

  “We were just about ready to sit down to breakfast.” Jeff went to the kitchen to help Sally. She stood motionless at the sink. She stared at the boys.

  “One day I’m gonna have me a log cabin like this.” Danny surveyed the room as he moved in holey socks toward the fieldstone fireplace.

  The younger one made a sliding approach to the roaring fire.

  “Careful, Brad.”

  “This feels good, don’t it?” He put his hands toward the heat.

  Danny examined the beach photo on the mantel.

  Jeff pointed out the basin of water at the antique washstand, and the boys rinsed their hands. Sally set places for them at the table.