EQMM, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

"I just paid you a lot of money. I don't think one little wrapper is going to hurt you."

  "Pick that goddamned thing up off my deck or I swear to God there's going to be a man overboard in about two seconds.” George was already at the end of his rope and Bryan hadn't even made his first cast yet. The whole ride toward the dam had been nothing but unremitting chatter about the new Hummer his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday, about the trips to the Bahamas he'd taken to go bone fishing, about how if the poor of Rochester would just get off their butts and look for work, the whole welfare problem would solve itself.

  Bryan reached down, grabbed the wrapper, and was about to toss it into the water when he saw George's eyes bearing down on him. He crumpled it and stuck it in his pocket instead.

  Over the course of the next several hours, George trolled in the shadows of the looming dam, but Bryan never had a strike.

  "You know, in the Bahamas most of the captains have a policy that if you don't catch a bone fish, they give you half your money back."

  "Well, this is New York and there ain't no such policy,” said George. He reached in his coat and pulled out his cigarettes.

  "And the captain at least brings sandwiches and drinks for his clients. Oh, shoot, I'm stuck again."

  For the third time in the last hour, Bryan had managed to get his line caught in the propeller of the outboard engine. George took the wooden paddle that he always kept on board for emergencies and reached over the gunwale. With the flat end, he fumbled with the line until he got the J-plug free. He tossed it back into the water and said, “You're clear. And just to remind you, I didn't need to make no damn sandwiches when I didn't have no one booked."

  "Well, still, you'd think you'd have something to eat on board. What if you broke down and got stranded out here? I haven't seen another boat in hours."

  "That's because they ain't biting today,” said George, taking a long drag off his cigarette. He gazed at the hulking presence of the dam and said, “I'll happily take you on back."

  "No, I want to get my money's worth. I'm just hungry, that's all.” He reached into his inside coat pocket and searched around until he extracted a package of peanut-butter crackers. He opened them and began eating, not bothering to offer one to George. “In the Bahamas, usually you don't have time to eat anyway because you're too busy catching fish."

  "Is that right?” said George, leaning slightly on the dripping paddle like an old man with a cane. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and exhaled out the side of his mouth.

  * * * *

  Schmidt opened the hatch door, retrieved the anchor wrapped with fifty feet of yellow nylon rope, and handed it to George. The body stayed near the hull, almost magnetically, as if it gained some sort of comfort by sticking close to the boat's side; as if it recalled being on board just a few days before and wanted to get back on.

  George calmly unwound the rope while letting the anchor sway back and forth over the water like a hypnotist's watch. He then pitched the steel across the corpse, though it fell a little shy, hitting the dead man's back before dropping into the water. The cadaver turned on its side for an instant, revealing a swollen, indiscernible face. Then it rolled back over, weeble-wobbling like a buoy. Deep gashes of pink on its neck, where the gulls had been pecking away, caught the soft light of the morning sunshine. The wounds gleamed in sharp contrast to the blue of the dead man's ski parka.

  "All right, now grab the boat hook from in there,” said George, holding the yellow cord in one hand while pointing to a long compartment with the other. “It's in that other hatch. Once you get it, try and go underneath the stiff and hook the rope. After you snag it, you're gonna have to toss the anchor over him again. And then keep doing it. Wrap him like a spider does a fly. Got me?"

  "Yeah, I got you,” said Schmidt. He removed the lengthy boat hook, which looked like an elongated fire poker, from the hatch and tried to snag the rope attached to the anchor.

  After several failed attempts, George said, “Give me the goddamned thing.” He handed the nylon cord to Schmidt and grabbed the boat hook. Not so accidentally, he stuck the corpse several different times with the sharp point of the gaff. Tissue and small chunks of skin frittered away in the water like saturated bread in a duck pond. He finally hooked the anchor and flipped it over the body—a process he repeated several times until it felt secure.

  When he had the corpse wrapped tight, George took the end of the rope and tied it with a hitch knot to a steel ring at the stern. Then he went to the helm. “I'll need you men to keep an eye on him. If we lose him, we'll have to do it all over again. That is, if he don't sink with the extra weight of that anchor."

  Lou nodded.

  "You got it, Cap'n,” said Schmidt. “And you know, judging by his size, I'm starting to think more and more that he just might be that car kid."

  "He looked pretty big in all the pictures in the paper,” said Lou.

  "Wouldn't that be some shit, Cap'n? If we found that missing car kid?"

  George looked straight ahead and said, “Yeah, that'd be some shit."

  "What's fifty thousand divided by three?” asked Lou.

  "That's like twenty grand apiece,” said Schmidt. “Hey, Cap'n, what would you do with your share if this happens to be him?"

  George pushed the throttle forward but kept it at a low speed as they set off. Though it was subtle, he felt the drag of the corpse—only a captain who really knew his boat would have ever noticed.

  "What're you talking about?” grumbled George.

  "Last night, on the news, there was an interview with the father. That Mulleny guy who owns all the car lots. Said he was offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for any information that led to the return of his son. So what would you do with your part?"

  George looked off at the cloudless blue sky and the magnificent colors changing around him. All of the anxiety, all of the trepidation that had been eating away at him dissipated to some degree. “Guess I'd retire. Maybe head to the Keys. Or the Bahamas or something. I hear the bone fishing's pretty good."

  "Hell yeah,” said Schmidt. “The Keys have got all kinds of good bars down there."

  "Yeah, lots of bars,” said Lou. “But lots of queers, too."

  George increased his speed by a notch as he pondered and fantasized over his options.

  * * * *

  "Listen, we ought to be heading back before too long,” said George. “It'll be dark soon and clearly they ain't hungry today."

  "Unlike your paying client,” said Bryan, “who is starved. But as long as there's light, I want to fish. I paid for a whole day, I want to fish for a whole day."

  George wondered what particular god he'd pissed off to deserve this. “I'll give you another half-hour. I'll use the trolling motor and slowly head toward the marina, then I gotta fire up the big mother and get back. Once that sun disappears, it'll start getting cool quick."

  "Oh, shoot, you're gonna kill me,” said Bryan, holding the point of the rod over the rear gunnel. “I think I got it all tangled up again."

  George walked to the stern, grabbed the paddle, and tried to lift the line away from the prop, but Bryan had really managed to foul things up this time. The line had wrapped and twisted itself into a complicated bird's nest. George used the paddle to try and free things for the next five minutes, then frustratingly pulled and prodded on the line with his calloused bare hands to no avail. He needed the needle-nose pliers from his toolbox to clean things up, then he wanted to get the hell home and be finished with the nightmare.

  As George turned around, Bryan stood by the side of the boat, his jeans and boxer shorts dropped to his ankles. A flood of anger quickly grew inside of George until the rage boiled with such pressure that nothing could hold it back. Before George realized that Bryan was only relieving himself and wasn't doing anything lecherous, he hit him in the back of the neck with the edge of the paddle as if swinging for the fence. The wooden paddle acted like an axe blade as it bit into the fatty skin
just below his Elmer Fudd hat. Bryan crumpled and blood immediately oozed from the gash, snaking over the deck like a lazy crimson river.

  George, having no control over what he'd just done, panicked. He took the blade and struck two more times until the end of the paddle splintered and the heavy gurgling of Bryan's labored breath ceased. George sat down in his captain's chair, still holding the end of the paddle, and gazed at the blank wall of the dam. He breathed heavily as he looked around for any signs of witnesses. It was nearly dusk and there was no other boat on the water. Up above, on the dam, he saw nothing. No maintenance people, no caretakers, no operators, no nothing. George felt an overwhelming sense of calm as he pulled up Bryan's drawers, then fingered the leather wallet in the back pocket. While he patiently waited for darkness, the wall of the dam turned a comforting shade of fire-orange as the sun cast its final light for the day.

  * * * *

  Once George realized that the body trailing behind the boat seemed secure, he decided to notify the Coast Guard. He got on his radio, gave his name and boat information, and then explained the situation.

  "I've got a body. Found it a few miles from the dam."

  The static-filled, muffled voice came back a moment later, crackling over George's speaker. “Don't touch it. Give us the coordinates and stay with the body. We'll send someone out immediately."

  George looked at Schmidt, who turned his head and smiled. “It's a little too late for that,” said George into the transmitter. He smiled back at Schmidt, though the bandanna masked the grin. “I've got him tied off the stern and I'm en route."

  "That's a negative,” replied the voice. “Leave the body where it is. Don't touch it. I repeat, don't touch the body."

  "Negative. I'm bringing him in. I'll be at the Kodak plant in forty-five minutes."

  The excited voice began again, but George snapped off the radio. He pulled the bandanna from his face and fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. He tapped one partially out and lipped it from the pack. “Goddamn, it's been one hell of a week,” he mumbled, rolling the wheel of the lighter against the coarse texture of his jeans. He looked back over his shoulder. A stream of foamy whitewater trailed off the dead man as he tumbled in the wake's sunken depression, bouncing along like cans attached to the bumper of a newlywed's car. The gulls followed, keeping tabs on their moving meal. George nodded toward the cooler and said to Schmidt, “You mind if I get one of those?"

  Schmidt jumped up from his swivel chair. “Not at all, Cap'n. I was just thinking the same thing.” He reached into the cooler and brought out two cans of beer. He cracked one for George and handed it to him.

  Cold drops of moisture rolled down the side of the can, collecting on the tips of George's fingers. He removed the dangling cigarette from his lips, squinting as the smoke burned his eyes, and took a long pull from the can. Memories of the good old days flooded him. He was inundated with a happiness he hadn't felt in years—a release, like a razor blade letting a blister.

  "So you say it's a fifty-thousand-dollar reward?"

  "That's right,” said Schmidt. “Hell, if we gotta find a dead body, we might as well get something for it. I sure hope it's the missing car kid."

  "Yeah, me too,” said George. He took another drink, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. He turned his face toward the sun, relishing the taste he'd never forgotten, then increased the speed by another notch as he steered the boat toward the Kodak plant. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens,” he said, chugging the beer down in a few swallows. “You mind if I get one more?"

  "Sure thing,” said Schmidt. “We got plenty."

  "Good. I got a feeling I'm gonna need ‘em,” said George as he cracked open the new can and took another long swallow, preparing himself for whatever was about to come.

  (c) 2008 by Scott Loring Sanders

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: THE ALEXANDRIAN SOLUTION by Edward D. Hoch

  This new story by Edward D. Hoch is the last original tale he completed for EQMM. We saved it for the final issue of the year in which we lost the great short story writer and friend of this magazine. Ed Hoch's 35-year-plus streak of unbroken publication in EQMM will continue for a few months as we bring you some of his stories that have appeared elsewhere. But we salute him here and now for all the wonderful stories, including this last, that he wrote for us.

  My father was sometimes called the Wizard of Time,” the bearded man told Rand and Leila. “You can see why."

  Indeed they could. Rosco Mathers was seated behind an ancient desk with intricately carved legs, surrounded by timepieces of every sort. Several were on the wall above his head, while twin grandfather clocks stood like sentinels behind him. An hourglass rested on the desk itself, where some men might have had a cigar humidor or a computer monitor.

  "We can see that you like clocks,” Leila remarked, “even though none of them seem to be going. Why are they all stopped at different times?"

  "One of my many idiosyncrasies,” he answered with a smile.

  Rand nodded. “But I'm wondering why you invited my wife and me to visit you."

  Rosco Mathers continued smiling. “I heard you were visiting here. Do you come to Egypt often?"

  "Every few years. Leila had an Egyptian father and was raised here. Usually we go to Cairo but we decided to visit Alexandria this time."

  "And I understand you were once a cipher expert with British Intelligence."

  "That was many years ago. It seems as if I've been retired for a lifetime."

  "But you've written books and occasionally given lectures. You have stayed current with espionage work."

  "It's all different from my day. Ciphers are generated by computer now."

  "You still know a great deal about them. You must be skilled at deciphering messages of the more traditional sort. I have a message I need deciphered."

  Rand shrugged. “It's been years since I did any work like that."

  Leila agreed. “We're just here on a vacation. We want to visit the Graeco-Roman Museum."

  "And so you should,” the bearded man agreed. “The museum contains many artifacts from our ancient Alexandrian civilization, combining the cultures of Egypt, Greece, and Rome."

  "But you're not Egyptian, not with a name like Rosco Mathers,” Leila observed.

  "Certainly not! My father was on the embassy staff in Cairo thirty years ago and I was brought up here. When he retired and returned to England I decided to remain here."

  "In Alexandria rather than Cairo."

  "Of course. It is the city founded by Alexander the Great, site of the greatest library in the ancient world. Today it remains Egypt's largest port, handling sixty percent of the nation's imports and exports. The days of the money changers and hashish sellers are giving way to a new century's international commerce."

  "Where is the message you want me to look at?” Rand asked, seeing no way out of it at this point.

  "Right here.” Mathers passed Rand a square of onion-skin paper that had been folded many times to fit into a tiny space.

  Rand saw at once that it was a numbers cipher, divided into five-digit groups that stretched across the page in several columns. He was reminded of a standard Soviet spy cipher used during World War II. He might be able to solve it, given a few hours. “I can try,” he said. “I won't promise anything. If I can't solve it this afternoon, I'll return it to you."

  "Very well,” Rosco Mathers told him. “Naturally I'll pay you for your time. I'm just thankful you were in the city when I needed you. I will phone your hotel later to see how you're progressing."

  Rand and his wife were at the Cecil Hotel overlooking the vast Midan Saad Zaghlul square near the beach, because even in advanced middle age Leila still loved the water. When he'd first met her, many years earlier, she was an archeologist searching for tombs in the polluted Nile River. “So much of Egypt is dusty,” she told him then. “I like to wash it off me as often as possible."

  Someo
ne had told Mathers they were staying at the Cecil and he'd recognized Rand's name from his book on cipher technology. They'd responded to the invitation to visit Mathers at his office right across the square, where modern architecture stood in stark contrast to the museums, mosques, and monuments of past centuries. Now they returned to their hotel, where Rand set about breaking the cipher.

  "I believe I'll do a bit of shopping,” Leila told him. “There's no sense both of us wasting an afternoon while you ponder over that thing."

  "The man's father was the Wizard of Time, after all,” Rand told her with a touch of irony. “He deserves some special treatment."

  "But what does he do with all those clocks? What does he do, period?"

  "Perhaps if I can decipher this, we'll know."

  "You seem quite confident that you will."

  "If it's the old Soviet cipher with a grid using two numbers for each letter, it'll be fairly simple to crack. Come back in an hour or two. I'll know more then."

  Rand cleared off the hotel room's desk and started working. It brought back fond—and not so fond—memories of his long hours of toil when he headed up the Department of Concealed Communications for British Intelligence. After a few false starts he thought something was beginning to emerge. This being Egypt, he was fairly certain the message would be in Arabic, English, or French. He saw that he was correct when English words began to emerge. The use of an old Soviet cipher meant simply that the sender had probably been in Egypt in the early 1970s when Soviet advisors were stationed there.

  He'd finished about half the job, enough to know that a shipment of arms was involved, when Leila returned with a shopping bag. “I see you found something,” he greeted her from the desk.

  "I found something, all right! One of the little shops had a most unusual clock, and I asked the proprietor if she knew Rosco Mathers, whose father was the Wizard of Time. She said she'd known him quite well and had been devastated by his death."

  "What?"

  Leila nodded. “She attended his funeral two weeks ago."

  * * * *

  Rand began to wonder what he'd gotten himself into. “I believe I'd like to speak with that woman,” he told Leila.