AHMM, December 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He'd hung his head then.

  "Forget the police. You could put your business up for collateral to afford a high-powered lawyer, and I don't want to take the chance you'll skate. So here's what's going to happen...” Gun in hand, his sister dead, he was remarkably calm and assured. “You're going to bring her back in here and lay her where she fell, here on the floor. Just as if you did it and took off running like a sniveling coward.

  "Then you and me are going to take a drive."

  * * * *

  So this was it. Out here in the middle of the woods in the dead of night. Digging a grave for a body.

  I deserve this.

  Man's law, or perhaps his justice, risen up to trump his future punishment from God.

  Maybe that's as it should be.

  And maybe my brother will somehow find out about this and come hunting Dex. Two vengeful brothers fighting it out.

  But he knew it would never happen. He wouldn't be found out here for years and years. If ever.

  "Go on. Keep digging. I want you nice and deep.” Headlights glinted off the pistol barrel and the gleam of clenched teeth.

  Will he have mercy and shoot me first, or will he bury me alive?

  He closed his eyes to say one final, selfish prayer.

  Copyright (c) 2006 Brian Muir

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  THE PASSENGER by John C. Boland

  * * * *

  William R. Warren, Jr.

  * * * *

  Spreading the map under the dash light, Paula said, “I'm sorry, your navigator was dozing.” As they sat in the breakdown lane, she hunched over the printed sheet, tracing the turnpike through its numerous turnoffs. The finger found a dot in an empty stretch. “Take the next exit. Mill Creek Highway crosses Route 30. We'll be all right."

  "If we don't slide into a snowbank,” Herb Moss said.

  "We'll backtrack about ten miles.” She kept the map open.

  When they left the interstate, it was twenty after four. At the junction, neon lights announced country bars, gas stations, motels with vacancies. Off the highway, Herb Moss glimpsed a water park with its slides cloaked in snow. A log building with Indian souvenirs on the porch gushed smoke from a metal chimney. Mill Creek Highway, they found, hadn't been plowed that afternoon.

  * * * *

  They crossed an iron bridge, passed a cluster of forlorn houses. The grayness rode with them in the car, suppressing conversation. Paula huddled in, brushing contact with his arm, face pale, arms tucked into the opposing sleeves of her parka. Her lips had gotten chapped over the last couple of days, and her gaiety had faded into subdued watchfulness as the cold sank through sweaters and silk underwear. They weren't young anymore, though not yet middle-aged, and Paula felt the cold. The brochure had made the mountains look romantic, an invitation to cuddly intimacy. The reality pushed them apart. In their room on the second floor of the Spruce Mountain Lodge the sheets were dank, and as he rose from fitful sleep after midnight, Herb had felt his wife shivering.

  Watching the road, she murmured, “We shouldn't have gone out today."

  He agreed, but he didn't answer.

  They had driven east, then north, to tour one of the mansions overlooking the Hudson. It had been closed since the 1950s, according to the woman who conducted them through the high-ceilinged ballrooms and dining rooms. There had been plans to tear down the building until a historical group bought it for renovation. A large man was sanding a floor in an empty, spacious room. From its tall windows, Herb Moss and his wife could see through the lace of snow the slow-moving gray floes of the river.

  "It's beautiful,” Paula told their hostess.

  "I wouldn't live anywhere else,” the woman responded.

  A confirmed urbanite, Herb had wondered if their lives would be changed if they lived this far from the city. Did places impart rhythms that defined the inhabitants, pacing the blood, scheduling passions, or was it the other way around? He tried to picture himself living at the edge of an Adirondack town. There would be no afternoons with a pretty, young student at a museum or evenings at the concert hall, no cutting edge plays in black-painted storefronts. He would drive the family SUV on Saturday mornings to a regional shopping mall, return to a warm living room full of his books, maybe to an early glass of scotch, and he noticed that the vague image of a woman who hovered somewhere in this fantasy did not resemble Paula.

  "How far?” he asked.

  "I think we're about eight miles from Wheeler."

  He nodded. They hadn't slid into a snowbank. Glancing over a stone wall into a sloping pasture, he saw a small truck with a plow laboring up what could have been a private road. Once they reached Route 30, the roads would be cleared. He could decide whether this would be their last night at the lodge, whether they would go home tomorrow and hire lawyers. He felt as remote from her as the cold spaces made one huddled-in village distant from another. She may have believed things were okay. Either she thought he didn't know about Grady, or she believed he was willing to pretend not to know. How well you pretended was what mattered in much of their life.

  Grady was charming, and Herb Moss had been right to distrust charm. He detested it in students. Charm was a talent cultivated by people who didn't want to work hard. Herb believed it sheltered many other character flaws as well, nasty little habits that sprang up in the human soul like toadstools in the shade.

  He saw the deer, half starved and slack shouldered, in time to slow to avoid it, but as the car swerved he felt a pull against the steering as the back wheels skated on packed snow. There was a thump as the car made contact with a roadside snow mound, which slowed them to a crawl. He steered back to his own side of the road. All the way he felt the thud-thud of a bent wheel. He stopped, put on flashers.

  "You okay?"

  Paula nodded. Of course she was okay.

  He got out, glanced down the road. This would be exactly the time for a truck to come along, gluing him to its radiator. The road was empty. He checked the trunk. It would be absurd to drive from here with the trunk lid waving like a loose tongue. The lid hadn't opened. He kicked snow off the left rear wheel, wondering how bad the damage was. He thought the wheel was visibly tilted.

  It was below freezing, almost dark, and the wind was driving pellets of snow against the fenders like nails clicking.

  He ducked his head into the car. “Try your phone,” he said. By the time the AAA truck arrived, it would be dark. And very cold. A county police car might come along before then. If he could drive the car a few miles...

  "Any signal?” he asked.

  "No."

  He clapped his cold hands together. As if summoned, headlights flickered behind him. The truck came slowly, its plow blade raised, chains muffled, fenders trembling, right headlamp wobbling like an eye that wanted to close. When the truck stopped beside them, a fogged window rolled down and a bearded pink face leaned out. The pits in the ripe cheeks made Herb think of exposure to salt or cinders. The driver shouted down at him.

  "Are you broken down?"

  "Wheel's bent,” Herb Moss said. “Can you tow us?"

  "Let me see.” The man who climbed down from the cab wore a cap with ear flaps, a couple of shirts, but no outer jacket. He brought with him a strong odor of tobacco and coffee and a fainter smell of unwashed flannel. As he inspected the wheel, he noticed the woman in the passenger seat and gave a small wave, accompanied by a wink. At the front of the car, he felt the area under the bumper. He wasn't wearing gloves and his fingers were thick and red, as if they had been boiled.

  "I don't have a chain on the truck,” the man said. “Got a little rope, but I'm afraid if I tow you, we'll ruin your transmission. These foreign cars are complicated. Then when you sue, my boss will have my scalp."

  "We wouldn't—"

  "I'll give you a lift to Wheeler if you want. I think that'd be a good idea. They got a tow truck."

  "Well..."

  "You can't wait out here. Somebody comes along in the
dark, they could drive right into you."

  Paula was climbing out on her side, pressing the door against a wall of hard snow.

  "We can't even get a phone signal,” she said.

  "Not surprised,” their rescuer said. He looked at her with the clumsy greed of a man who lived alone. “There's not much on this road."

  "Now you tell us.” She smiled.

  "Didn't know you before.” He gestured past Herb at the car's trunk. “You got any luggage?"

  "It's at our hotel,” Herb said.

  "Climb in then. I'm Floyd, by the way. Good thing I was out this way clearing driveways. You could've frozen waiting for the next guy."

  They squeezed into the truck cab, Herb at the window, his wife between them. As Floyd got the truck moving, she shifted a couple of times, snuggling her hip against the stranger's.

  "Do you work in Wheeler?” she asked.

  "Guy who owns the truck lives in Wheeler. I do a little driving for him."

  "Do you think there's a taxi in Wheeler? We're staying at the Spruce Mountain Lodge."

  "Where's that?"

  "Route 30."

  "Oh ... those places are expensive. Should've figured from your car.” He rubbed his nose on the back of a hand. “We ain't got taxis, but somebody'll drive you up. Don't worry."

  Paula adjusted herself. “I'm not worried."

  Floyd looked at her, and then looked away quickly.

  Wheeler turned out to be bigger than Herb had expected, with a large gas plaza cutting a bright hole in the night, a small Italian restaurant blinking a red chef's hat onto the sidewalk, a drugstore with hair-color advertisements in the window. Floyd drove the truck right up to the service station's front door, left the engine running, and set the brake. “Let's see what we can do,” he said and sprang down.

  Herb Moss climbed down, felt ice prickle his forehead. He could see it falling, freezing bits of light pilling on the truck fender. He helped his wife down, held her arm even when she was on the ground.

  Absently, she said, “Thank you,” and steadied herself on him as they rounded the truck. “You could break your neck tonight."

  "I wonder if there's a hospital,” Herb said.

  "Kingston?"

  "Yeah.” How many miles away? “Better not break anything."

  They followed Floyd into the mini-mart, onto wet cardboard. The bearded man waved to a woman behind the counter and disappeared among the racks of potato chips and dog meal, toes together.

  "I gotta go too,” Paula said.

  Herb glanced at a clock over the door. It was barely five thirty. The short days fooled him. At seven he would feel like it was ten. After that it didn't matter, it would just be night, however long it lasted.

  Floyd came back as Herb was pouring coffee, accepted a large container, and went over to the counter. “Where's Marty and the truck?” he asked. “These folks’ car broke down."

  The woman had big blue eyes, blue-glossed lips, blond hair held in a scrunchie. “Marty's got the truck up on the rack. Bearings shot. Ain't that something?"

  "His timing's something,” Floyd agreed.

  "We got twenty calls tonight, and he's out of luck. Mad as heck."

  "Don't blame him."

  "Is there another tow truck in town?” Herb asked.

  "Just ours,” the woman said.

  "We'll have to call Triple A."

  "That's us too.” She slapped a blue-lined pad onto the counter. “You write the details for me, Marty'll get you hauled in by tomorrow afternoon. Where you stayin'? Put that down. Phone number. What you think's wrong. You didn't leave valuables?"

  "No.” Herb thought about that answer. He imagined the tow truck owner bringing the car to the station, opening it up, starting to work on it. There were no valuables, but ... “If Marty could just tow the car up to the Spruce Mountain Lodge, that would be ideal."

  "That'll cost you."

  "No problem. I'll give you credit card information. I'd like to have the work done by our regular mechanic, you understand."

  "Makes no difference to me. Let me swipe your card."

  "And can we get a ride?"

  Paula came back, leaned on the counter so that her rump pointed a little at Floyd, who had found a chili dog. The bearded man sauntered back to the counter. “If no one tells my boss, guess I could give you a lift. Being as you're stuck."

  "That'd be just wonderful,” Paula said.

  When they went outside, Floyd speculated on whether the interstate would be closed. “You get some of those rigs blastin’ downhill, when they hit ice and jackknife, they take out everything in three lanes. We'll just go this way up to Route 30, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Whaddya do when you get your car? Have it towed home?"

  "I guess."

  "Might be cheaper to have Marty fix it."

  "That might void the warranty,” Herb said.

  Floyd nodded. “You don't want to do that."

  * * * *

  Spruce Mountain Lodge was lit up like a Christmas tree, the better to lure visitors who didn't know how cold the rooms could be. They said goodnight to Floyd, Herb handing over a suitable amount of money, complimenting the bearded man on his driving. The roads were as glazed as frozen rivers. In another hour, Herb thought, they would have had to find a room in Wheeler.

  "Early dinner or late?” Paula asked from the bathroom.

  "Late,” Herb said. “We need to warm up these sheets."

  "Late is good.” She came out of the bathroom, eyes bright, smile lascivious. She thought things were okay. Probably imagined she could take up with Grady again when she got home.

  When they went down to dinner, Herb felt flushed and exhausted and almost content. He ordered a good bottle of wine and raised a glass to her. “I guess we'll be here a few days longer. Here's to making the most of it."

  "Here's to us,” she said.

  But when he came out of the bathroom much later, she was just closing her phone, and he knew she had been trying to call somebody.

  * * * *

  A burly, middle-aged sheriff's deputy interrupted breakfast. In deference to the lodge's genteel atmosphere, he took off his hat when entering the dining room. “Mr. and Mrs. Moss? I'm here about your car."

  Herb's fork stayed at the same place it had been when he saw the deputy enter the room. He tried out answers in his mind. “Our car?” “Our car?” He looked at the man across a forkful of food he didn't recognize. “Yes?"

  "We didn't find out till this morning. An out-of-state guy slammed his pickup truck into your vehicle overnight. There was an explosion and fire. ‘Fraid your car's totaled."

  "Oh,” said Herb.

  "Be glad you weren't in it. Both guys in the pickup were thrown from their vehicle. Only the blood spray showed us where they landed in the snow.” He glanced sideways at Paula. “Sorry, ma'am. One guy, I shouldn't tell you this, but one guy didn't have any clothes on. Haven't found an ID for him either."

  He watched Herb's eyes, smiled a little. “You didn't have a naked guy in your car?"

  "Our car?"

  "He could've been in either vehicle. It was pretty bad.” He cast a faint bad-boy grin at the woman.

  "Sorry, Officer,” said Herb.

  "Nothing to be sorry about. We'll get you an accident report for your insurance company."

  "Are we in any trouble, leaving the car on the road?"

  "You were broken down. What could you do? The pickup was driving too fast."

  "A man was naked?” Paula asked. “In this weather?"

  The deputy nodded, pretending to be solemn. “Makes me wonder which guy was driving."

  He left and Paula suppressed a laugh with both hands. “That's too weird,” she said.

  * * * *

  They rented a new car and found that when they wore warmer clothes the Spruce Mountain Lodge was quite comfortable. Each evening, they sat near the fire in the library, easy in their renewed intimacy. They avoided road trips. At least once a d
ay, when Herb was otherwise occupied, Paula used her phone to try to call her lover.

  Copyright (c) 2006 John C. Boland

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  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  This month, three writers from the British Isles bring gritty and witty crimes novels to the States.

  Stephen Booth continues to impress with his Peak District procedurals featuring mismatched Derbyshire C.I.D. detectives Ben Cooper and Diane Fry. In ONE LAST BREATH (Bantam, $25), the fifth entry in the series, their current case reaches back to an old murder investigated by Ben's father. That case proves as labyrinthine as the Peak District cave system that sets the backdrop for the series.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  When Mansell Quinn was found in his home with the bloody body of his lover, he was arrested, and when he confessed, he was sentenced to a lengthy term in prison. Although he later recanted his confession, he served his time in full, with few visits from his wife (who divorced him) or anyone else. Now he has been released, and he promises retribution.

  While the force tries to locate Quinn and figure out whom he might target in his quest for revenge, Ben is drawn back to the original murder and to his father's handling of the case. The application of DNA testing and the plethora of modern forensic tools to the evidence produce some puzzling discrepancies. Despite Quinn's confession, Ben begins to wonder whether Quinn really was guilty.

  Booth's always solid plotting proves absorbing. As Quinn eludes capture in the rugged hills and valleys of the area, Ben and Diane peel away layer upon layer to arrive at the startling nugget of truth.

  WHY WE DIE (Carroll & Graf, $25.95) is Mick Herron's third mystery, and it is filled with wonderfully offbeat characters, starting with the resourceful, relentless, and resilient London P.I. Zoë Boehm. Among the oddballs making life difficult for Zoë are three mismatched criminal brothers; a would-be suicide who is diverted by the impulse to rescue a battered wife; a disgraced and discharged ex-cop who blames Zoë for all his troubles; and a female chauffer/bodyguard, Win, built like a linebacker but lithe and shrewd as well.