Ernest gasped. An answering hiss greeted him. The turkey vulture. Claws anchored on the magnolia limb just outside the opening, the bird was peering into the den, gnarly head slung low, black feathered shoulders hunched high.
Ernest jerked his head back and pushed the door shut with all his might as if to lock out the bogeyman on the other side. That bird wasn't cruising for packages of ground beef or chicken. It was looking for him!
Hands shaking, he dropped the flashlight.
"Shit,” he said, making an exaggerated effort to open his eyes, forgetting that the room was pitch black only because the flashlight was gone, and not because his eyes were closed.
Ernest's quick movements caused more water to pour into his rubber waders. For moral support, he patted the buffalo nickel in its square glass case just over his heart.
His breaths came fast, then slowed. He had to lower his right hand into the water to lift the backup flashlight from the pocket he'd slipped it into earlier. He gave the on button a forward push. Thank God, it worked, even though it had been soaking since he'd entered Wartburg's house.
"Stupid bird,” Ernest said. “Just a stupid bird.” Why had he reacted like that? If he'd merely waved his arms in the air, the bird would have taken off. But it had caught him off guard, scared him.
He let out a snorting chuckle and thought of the yellow canoe waiting outside the back door. “Call it a day,” he muttered. Grimacing, he reached his hand down into the water again. He found the knob and pulled.
The door wouldn't budge. He hiked his shoulders, then relaxed, let his head drop backward to loosen the muscles there. He gave it another try, pulling hard. Nothing.
Slowly, as if to think this latest development over, he backed up to the desk. The flashlight's intense beam buzzed around the small room. He didn't want to touch the desk, but he was so tired, he needed something to lean on. It gave some, then settled to the floor under his weight.
Everything had gone so smoothly, the doors being open and all. This setback was just a little wrinkle. He could break the door down if he wanted. On a bad day, he could break it down.
Without turning, he pushed an object away that had come out from behind the desk when he'd leaned his weight on it, floated out and bumped his hip. The object boomeranged, bumped him more insistently.
He shined the flashlight down to reveal a pale, freckled scalp, gray hair fanning out around it like a halo. The head was connected to a bloated body. Mr. Wartburg's.
Ernest lunged for the door. More water poured into his waders, water Mr. Wartburg had been preparing for him. The door wouldn't open. He held the flashlight in one hand and banged with the fist of his other. “Let me out! Hey Jeff, Mike. Hey you, Coast Guard!"
Wartburg's body tapped the small of his back. Ernest flattened his stomach against the odd, paneled door. “Let me out. I'll do anything. Sorry, sorry,” he chanted, addressing a god he'd always believed was as much a nonentity as his own father. He remembered Missy Golden's aquarium. “I fed her fish,” he said, capping that last word with an apologist's whimpering question mark.
"I'll give it back, give it all back. Earrings too.” He plunged the hand that didn't hold the flashlight beneath the T-shirt's collar and grabbed at the coin holders that rested against his waistband. He flung them into the acrid water as if they were so many leeches feeding on him. He lowered a shoulder and bammed it against the door. “See, see? I'm tossing ‘em back. He pulled and pushed on the doorknob.
Hot, thirsty, he thought of the canoe under the magnolia, the water bottles waiting for him. If the Coast Guard, or even a low-down thief passed out front, they wouldn't see the boat, wouldn't hear his yells. He was in Mr. Wartburg's crypt, along with a bunch of old coins, many of them so old that no one alive today had ever touched them.
Wartburg's corpse nudged him again. He gave it a kick that should send it into the next parish, then popped the door another good one with his shoulder. His waders took in more overflow, making him feel like a kid who'd wet himself.
"I'm giving the coins up,” he said. “I'm leaving them be.” His hand patted the zippered pocket over his heart where the 1937 D three-legged buffalo nickel nestled. All but that one, he'd given back.
"That one too,” a voice deep inside him demanded.
Hand over heart, one of the sharp corners of the square glass case jabbing his chest, Ernest answered: “No.” He couldn't unzip that pocket and toss the precious nickel into this wretched gumbo. Not the three-legged buffalo. Never.
Instead, he beat against the door with his backup flashlight. Kept beating until it, too, flew from his hand, and struck the water with a matter-of-fact plunk. Then it was just him, the three-legged buffalo, and old man Wartburg, in the dark.
Copyright © 2009 Elaine Menge
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Fiction: THE POWDER ROOM by John M. Floyd
* * * *
Jorge Mascarenhas
* * * *
At exactly six thirty Martin Field looked up from his desk to see a man standing in his office doorway. At first Field was surprised; his receptionist usually announced visitors. Then he remembered the time. He was probably the only one left on site.
The man at the door hesitated. “I don't have an appointment, Mr. Field. My name's Ed Loomis—and I realize it's late."
Field smiled. “No rest for the weary.” He stood and extended a hand. “It seems you already know who I am."
"Everybody knows who Martin Field is.” After shaking hands Ed Loomis settled into a chair facing the desk. He gave the room and the view of the sunset through the office window a long look. “Nice setup you have here."
Field nodded his thanks. He was proud of the place. When he'd decided years ago to start his own engineering firm, he'd also decided it would be no ordinary company. The layout of his corporate headquarters reflected that plan: The main office—this building—was a two-story farmhouse in the hills of west Arkansas. The bedrooms had been converted into offices, the outbuildings into labs and equipment storage, the barn into an employee fitness center, the surrounding land into lawns and gardens. The front entrance was a simple gate in a split-rail fence.
Not surprisingly, his management style was as efficient and unassuming as his business site. The firm was widely praised for both its expertise and its results. But the main reason for his success, Field reminded himself now, was the company's regard and respect for its clients, whether they had appointments or not.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Loomis?” he asked.
Ed Loomis looked out the window again before answering, and Field studied him a moment. Nothing unusual: fortyish, sandy hair, sport coat, jeans, loafers. But there was something odd about him too. Something about the face...
"I work for the government,” Loomis said, without turning. “We're about to do some construction down at the airbase."
"You don't look like you work for the government."
Loomis grinned, and they locked eyes. “I said I work. Unlike most.” When Field didn't reply, Loomis said, “Project manager. I'm outside more than in."
Field nodded again. “I miss those days. The base, you said. What kind of construction?"
"The highly confidential kind."
"Well, my firm's done classified government work before, Mr. Loomis—"
"Not like this.” Loomis took a thick sheaf of folded papers from an inside pocket of his coat, but made no move to show them to Field. “You'll see what I mean, I think, once you read the report."
Field sat there a moment, waiting. “So are you going to show it to me?"
"There's a small problem,” Loomis said. “On the one hand, I can't allow you to keep it. On the other, I must get back to my own office—I've not been granted the time to wait here tonight until you read through it all."
Field leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. “Then why did you come?"
"Good question.” Loomis tapped the report with a forefinger. “I've been authorized to
leave it with you,” he said, “if you can guarantee that it'll be properly secured, here on the premises."
"Are you telling me this is the only copy you have?"
"I'm telling you that the matter is—how did you put it?—classified."
Field stayed quiet a moment. “How classified?"
"Highly,” Loomis said again. “Can you assure me, Mr. Field, that it'll be properly secured?"
"I have a vault, if that's what you're asking."
"What kind?"
"It's a Bingham wall safe. Model 3000, I believe. Burglarproof, fireproof."
Ed Loomis seemed to consider that.
"You want to see it?"
Instead of answering, Loomis said, “I understand you have explosives here."
Field frowned. “This is a civil engineering firm, Mr. Loomis, and this is the Ozarks. As you probably know, our work sometimes requires excavations, and excavations sometimes require blasting. We have several hundred pounds here at the site.” He paused a moment. “It presents no threat to the contents of my vault, if that's your concern."
"How so?"
Field pointed to the window. “You might've noticed the old storm cellar there in the yard. It's still a storm cellar in case a tornado comes through, but it's been converted into a bunker, of sorts. Steel door, steel roof underneath the sod, polycarbonate glass window, walls two feet thick. My employees call it the powder room."
"The powder room?"
"As in gunpowder,” Field said. “The bunker contains all our explosives."
"So any accident, or mishap..."
Field nodded. “Any blast occurring inside would be confined largely to the bunker, and anything happening outside wouldn't affect the stored materials."
Loomis seemed to give that some thought. Then: “Back to the safe. That model has a time lock, doesn't it?"
"You've done your homework,” Field said. “The timer's preset. This one ensures that the vault can be opened only once a day."
"And a day consists of..."
"In our case, from ten a.m. until ten a.m."
"Is that a problem?” Loomis asked.
"Not for you and me, it isn't. It hasn't been opened yet today."
Very slowly, Ed Loomis's eyes changed, and a cold smile spread across his face. At the same time, a cold dread spread through Field's stomach. Instantly he realized his mistake.
He had let his eagerness about a so-called government contract override caution. Loomis's questions—his whole act—had been no more than a means to obtain that one last answer.
Field felt his pulse thudding in his ears.
He shifted his gaze downward, to the sheaf of papers in his visitor's lap, and all doubt vanished.
In Loomis's left hand was a black revolver, peeking out from underneath the report. It was pointed at Martin Field's chest.
"I think now I will take a look at that safe, Mr. Field."
* * * *
The engineer drew a long, shaky breath. He was alone and unarmed. Resistance, he knew, was futile. In those few seconds it occurred to him what had seemed strange about Ed Loomis's face earlier. It looked too lined and weathered. Too hard.
As if in a trance Field rose from his desk chair and crossed the room to a set of bookshelves. His legs, he noticed, didn't seem to want to work right.
On the top shelf, chest high, were several notebooks, a set of surveyor's tools, a camera, and a vase of flowers. Beside them, hanging on the wall, was a framed painting of a misty mountain valley.
Without a word Field lifted the picture from its hook and set it aside, revealing a two-foot-square safe set into the wall.
"Open it,” Loomis said. The folded papers had disappeared, presumably back into a coat pocket. In the midst of his other muddled thoughts Field found himself wondering what the “report” had really been. Blank sheets, probably.
He forced his mind back to the matter at hand.
"And if I don't?” he asked.
Ed Loomis cocked the pistol and tilted it a bit, so Field was staring down its barrel. “They told me you were smart,” Loomis said. “Don't disappoint me."
Still Field hesitated. “You're sure you want to do this? It's not even full dark outside. Somebody could wander in here any minute—"
Loomis shook his head. “As you said, I do my homework, Mr. Field. I know you and your wife live in town, half an hour south, I know your nearest neighbor here is a mile away, I know you discourage your employees from staying after hours, and I know your car when I see it. Besides mine, it's the only one in the lot.” He paused. “I suppose, under normal circumstances, someone could drive up and join us here ... but these aren't normal circumstances. Matter of fact, there's a sawhorse in the middle of the road half a mile from your gate, with a road closed sign on it and a couple of those big orange witch's hats on each side, and they'll stay there until I drive back through and pick them up.” He let that sink in, then nodded toward the vault. “Open it."
Two minutes later the door to the wall safe was standing open, and a stack of cash and securities was laid out on the glass-topped coffee table. An expression somewhere between childish awe and adult greed had stamped itself on Ed Loomis's face.
Field felt, more than anything else, a deep sadness.
"You know, I think I'll need something to carry all this in,” Loomis said, as if he'd just remembered being asked to stop by the market on his way home from work. Still holding the gun, he grabbed a leather monogrammed briefcase from Field's desk, emptied it onto the desktop, returned with it to the coffee table, and began packing the case with bills.
Field studied him a moment. “So all you are,” he said, “is a common thief."
"Not exactly.” Loomis glanced up from his work and smiled. “It's just supposed to look that way."
"What?"
"I'm not here to rob you, Mr. Field. I'm here to kill you."
* * * *
Martin Field just stared at him.
"It's true,” Loomis said. “I was hired by one of your ... how shall I put it? Your competitors. The robbery is just to throw the cops off the track.” He resumed the task of loading the briefcase. “A nice bonus, though, I must say."
Field made no reply. He stood there beside the open vault, the bile rising in his throat, trying to process this new information. The idea that someone would want him dead for a price was almost as unsettling as the news that he was about to die. One by one, Martin Field's muscles began to sag. He felt tired and scared and sick, and thought he probably looked it too. What he didn't look, though, was threatening—he never had. And that was probably what made Ed Loomis take his eyes off him for a minute as Loomis continued to transfer the money from the tabletop to the briefcase.
A sudden noise brought Loomis's head up. A tight, solid thump, like the sound you hear when you close a refrigerator, or slam the door of an expensive car. The thump was followed by a series of tiny metallic clicks.
Loomis dropped the case, whirled around, raised the gun.
Martin Field stared back at him. Field was standing exactly as before, except that his right hand was raised and pressed flat against the vault door, which was now closed. He watched as understanding dawned on Loomis's face.
The little clicks had been the sounds of the lock's tumblers falling back into place.
"What the hell are you doing?” Loomis said.
"Just tidying up.” To Field's surprise, despite his fear, he felt himself smile a little. “I wanted a little something to remember you by."
Loomis's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?"
"I took your picture,” Field said.
The room went dead quiet.
"What?"
"It'll be a good one, I think. You, leaning over my coffee table with a gun in your hand and a grin on your face, stuffing money into a briefcase with my initials on the side. Self-explanatory, I think they call that."
Ed Loomis's gaze lasered into him. “What the hell are you talking ab—"
* *
* *
"Remember the camera, Mr. Loomis? The camera sitting here on the bookshelf?” Together, they turned to look at the place where it had been. “It's my wife's, she left it here the other day. She photographs flowers, of all things."
"So?” Even as Field's voice had become more steady, Loomis's began to tremble. “Where is it?"
"It's in the safe. I told you, I took your picture. With these lamps I didn't even need a flash."
A long silence dragged by.
Realization, Field noticed, was beginning to set in.
"I don't believe you,” Loomis whispered. He seemed suddenly to have lost all interest in packing the briefcase.
Field shrugged. “It's true."
"You couldn't have,” Loomis said. “You didn't have time—"
"Oh, but I did. The time, the opportunity, and the motivation. Your likeness, my friend, is now preserved, on film inside a camera inside a safe that's locked until after ten o'clock tomorrow morning. And even then, I'm one of only three people who can open it.” Field folded his arms across his chest. “I think this is what's called, in sports terms, a ‘shift in momentum.’”
Loomis was the one sweating now. His face glistened in the lamplight.
But he didn't look ready to surrender.
"You're crazy if you think that'll stop me from killing you,” he said. He raised the cocked pistol. “Even if you did what you said, nobody's gonna care anything about that camera."
"Is that so? Think a minute, Loomis. Imagine the sequence of events. A prominent businessman is robbed and murdered in his office—"
"Murdered,” Loomis corrected. “Not robbed. Nobody'll know about the robbery.” He drew his brows together, thinking. “I won't leave anything lying around,” he murmured, as if to himself. “I was going to, to throw ‘em off, but I won't now. I'll pick everything up. Nobody'll know anything was taken."
"You're wrong,” Field said. “The vault's the first thing they'll check. At least two people besides me know what's in it. They'll damn sure know what's not, when they see it gone.” He paused for a beat, watching the other man's face. “Back to my scenario. Prominent businessman is robbed and murdered in his office. A small fortune is stolen from his wall safe. A camera is then found inside the otherwise empty safe. ‘What the hell's that doing there, Lieutenant,?’ one detective asks the other..."
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 17
