Blinking in the darkness, Colm heard the rustling in the corner before he saw anything. He leapt away from the sound, crouching.
"Ha!” Gunnlaug stepped into the shaft of light from the broken roof. He carried a naked sword. “I know you,” he said, peering closer. “You're the slave that saw me at Thorolf's place. You did well not to raise any fuss then.” He slid his sword back into its scabbard and came closer. “Have you anything to eat?"
Colm shook his head. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw Gunnlaug's belongings piled on what remained of the benches. A bow and quiver of arrows lay on top. “Did you kill a lamb up in the meadow?"
"Yes, but I heard someone coming and hid. If I had known it was just that old slave ... Anyway, he got it and I have no food."
"That was my lamb."
"Yes? Do you have another? Listen, go get me one. Or a sheep, even. I could eat a whole cow, I think. Come on, slave! Go get me some food!"
Colm bowed his head and moved forward. When he was next to Gunnlaug he pulled the scramasax from under his shirt and thrust it into the man's belly. The long knife entered below Gunnlaug's ribs and Colm pushed the blade up, seeking his heart, lifting, for an instant, the man's body from the floor. Then Gunnlaug dropped and his weight pulled Colm's blade down as his body slid onto the dirt. His shirt darkened with blood. “You shouldn't have killed my lamb,” whispered Colm. But Gunnlaug's eyes glazed over and there was no reply. Colm squatted beside the corpse and waited. A fly buzzed onto Gunnlaug's face. Soon there was another.
* * * *
"Well,” said Bjorn, “Magnus will be pleased."
"Or perhaps disappointed that he didn't stick the blade in himself,” said Thorolf.
The two men stared down at Gunnlaug's body. Colm stood nearby, waiting. Bjorn said, “Perhaps you should run your sword into the wound and take credit for this killing."
Thorolf shook his head. “No. The truth comes out and then I would look a fool without honor.” He glanced at Colm. “Though there might be some talk about a slave having done this deed."
"A slave! Do you think I would let a slave go armed?” said Bjorn. “Colm's a free man! Of course he owes me,” he added hastily, looking Colm's way, “um, seven years labor. Not all his labor, mind you. He has still one lamb to look after.” He peered at Colm through narrowed eyes. Colm was dumbfounded. He managed to nod.
"Well—” Thorolf's eyebrows raised. “—and here I thought he was a slave. Perhaps you told me at Althing and I forgot."
"I should have announced it there,” said Bjorn, “but so much was going on."
"Yes. Well, he is a very capable man, I think. You know, he could prove to be a farmer of quality. Suppose ... now consider this: Suppose he spent your seven years working this abandoned farm here and, beginning the harvest after this next one, gave you a tenth part of his crop and increase in herds."
"That might be fair. But what would your share be for granting him the land?"
"Also a tenth. For ten years.” He turned to Colm. “So what do you say? Will you take on this obligation? In ten years the farm is yours without burden."
Colm's head blazed with ideas like a fire spreading in a strawpile. He could see the farm—his farm—with fields and herds, the house made whole. “I want...” Colm choked. He remembered old Edgar stuttering and caught himself straight and spoke up: “I want you to give me the slave Gwyneth. I will pay!” he added quickly.
Bjorn made a face. “I can see you need a woman around the place, but that slave is important to my wife right now and tends her in her illness."
Colm nodded. “She will owe you seven years of labor."
Thorolf laughed, “Another bargain, this. But do you want her free or do you want her a slave?"
"If Bjorn gives her to me as a slave I will free her. Whether he frees her or I do, I will then marry her."
"I see,” said Bjorn. “Well, let me speak with my wife and see what she says. I know she likes this girl."
Colm's eyes swam and he sank to his knees. Freedom! Land! Gwyneth! All he dreamed of now come to him! Thorolf chuckled, “Best stand up, man. You'll get blood on your trousers."
Colm realized he was kneeling in the bloody dirt next to Gunnlaug's body. And what was he doing anyway, here on his knees like a slave? He fought to keep back tears and rose to look clear eyed into the other faces, free man to free man.
Copyright © 2009 Mike Culpepper
Tim Foley
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Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by by Willie Rose
Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.
JRT IYP REH E DTZKJEJOYX YA ITOXC E GVTLTD VOJJVT JROTA, EXH JRT CKEDH MEF GYXLOXGTH RT MEF FJTEVOXC FYWTJROXC, IKJ RT GYKVHX'J GEJGR ROW EJ OJ.
—VTOCR VKXHOX
cipher: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
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Fiction: OUT OF HER DEPTH by John C. Boland
Another wave took the boat broadside, and she wallowed like a drunken whore. Hy Coberly, who had come in second at Wimbledon nine years ago and had invested his pro money wisely—real estate on Florida's Treasure Coast, plus several thousand ounces of gold bullion largely invisible in a Panama bank and a nest egg of inflation-indexed Treasury bonds—didn't care what the boat did. She might be sinking. Felt like it—the lazy tipping of the deck that took too long to right itself each time, the sixty-degree arc the stars cut, streaking through his wet lashes, the groan of rigging, which was out of his line of vision. Then there was the pale shaft sticking at the sky like a pointer, which rose from the right side of his chest and remained steady relative to his position. When the boat rolled, he moved with it. When he moved, the shaft moved with him. Or perhaps it moved with the boat itself, and he was just a soft intermediary.
He hadn't seen Susie Jean in a few minutes. Last time she had shined a flashlight into his eyes, determined that he wasn't dead, and had gone off to whatever she was doing. Cleaning out his billfold. Emptying the little strongbox. He'd tried to explain there wasn't much in either place. Not worth this. He usually had his bank wire money when he reached a port. He never needed much. Keeping the Mojito afloat cost plenty, but he didn't spend much on shore.
Unless he was trying to impress a woman.
His hand brushed the deck. He wasn't really paralyzed, it was just shock that made him unable to move. That and maybe the shaft itself, if it was buried in the deck.
Susie Jean had claimed to remember his performance at Wimbledon, but that was after he'd told her. She wouldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen nine years ago. Plainly from her questions, she didn't know much about tennis. So how likely was it that she remembered how a twentieth-seed Australian had made it into the top ranks for a little while?
He used to joke with Nicole that for two years the great players had played bad tennis.
The third year, they were good again.
But Hy Coberly had put away his winnings, his endorsements, and he'd had good advice from Charley Pottle in Boca, not the least of which was a prenup with Nicole. So he hadn't had to go the country club pro route, teaching matrons spin at fifty bucks an hour plus tips. He had been his own man. Not too eager to hoist the drinking flag. Not too grasping when a willing bed partner came along. He had time. He was thirty-six. The boat was an indulgence, but he had to live somewhere. It hadn't cost much more than a small house in Delray Beach would have, the upkeep wasn't much worse, and he got to move around ... only half looking for the thing he would do for the rest of his life.
Not tennis. Not real estate. Maybe short travel films; he'd always been good with a camera, and an Aussie's view of the Carib's easygoing ports might find a market on cable....
The hand that was on the deck felt sticky wetness.
Big mistake, buying the spear gun.
He opened his eyes wide
r. The stars shifted to port, as a wave broke amidships.
Below deck came a crash. Susie Jean getting impatient.
No question she had picked him up at Cozumel. She'd crossed the Camino Real's patio in a low-waisted sundress, the skirt blowing at mid calf, straw hat tilted against the noon glare, expensive sandals flashing, came straight to the table where he was having lunch, and asked if he was the charter captain. Asked sweetly, not brashly. It had been a chancy thing. He could have said no and let her go away. Maybe she'd have had a backup line, maybe not.
And maybe it hadn't been chancy at all. She had read him right. He didn't instantly go on the make, but he didn't rush to get rid of a young woman who approached with a hesitant smile.
"Sorry,” Hy said.
Was he ever.
"No, you really didn't look like a charter captain,” Susie Jean said, “but that means I'm out of luck, not to mention two hundred dollars. The little boy seemed so honest."
"So you gave him a deposit?"
She looked past the brim of her hat at the metal blue sky. “Actually, the whole fare.” She put a hand to her forehead, not exactly threatening to faint or cry. “Oh, brother!"
And like a wooden boy on strings, Hy Coberly stood up and dragged the nearest chair back. “Maybe you should sit down."
"Debbie told me I'd been suckered. Oh, brother!"
He liked young women whose strongest expletive was Oh, brother!
She sank into the chair, pulled her hat off. An umbrella threw a partial shadow. She had short burnt-blonde hair, a tan that had been baking for more than a few weeks. It didn't occur to him that a girl who had spent months in Mexican resorts would know better than to hand over money to a boy who promised a boat ride.
"Debbie took off with Tony,” she explained, and he was supposed to get the drift. “Xel-Ha. Do you know where that is?"
"Down the coast."
Debbie gone with Tony, her money gone except for twenty-eight dollars, which wouldn't buy a room on Cozumel, suntanned long-legged girl with no place to stay.
A lot of her browned shoulders was visible, along with the arms, patches of legs when she crossed them, ankles, of course, broad back when she turned away looking for rescue—she wouldn't ask this stranger for help—and Hy also liked the fact he didn't see any body art. This girl had enough independence of mind not to get tattooed in any of the obvious, visible places. Perhaps not at all.
"Have you had lunch?” he asked.
"No, but I think I'd better conserve my resources,” she said.
He waved away the idea.
Slap.
A foot hit the deck near his head. Bare toes poked his cheek.
"Listen, Diego. Are you listening?"
He squinted at the shadowy knee that bent near his face. He sensed more than saw the cutoff jeans and sweatshirt she'd donned for belowdecks prowling. There was no light except from the stars. Whatever glow leaked from the binnacle or the cabin got lost before it reached him, so he couldn't see the pert face. Couldn't know whether she wore a look of dismay, or amusement, or concentration—each of which he'd seen many times in the previous thirty-six hours. Susie Jean had only three states of being. Random buttons delivered one or another, sometimes in fast succession. Dismay, amusement, concentration. Never anger, or resentment, or fear.
"Are you listening?"
He moved his hand in the blood that had leaked from him.
"No.” He wasn't either. He was mostly dreaming.
"You better listen. I'm getting impatient.” Fingers touched his face gently, plucked his lower lip.
* * * *
Nicole Coberly didn't think much of the investigator's boat. It was shabby—you could read that on her face even if you didn't look at the slack rigging and unvarnished trim—and too small, almost an insult to the other boats parked in the marina on the Atlantic side of Key West, and besides that, the boat needed a good housekeeper. So she sat on the little bench in the cockpit with her knees together and knew that Meggie Trevor, the apparent owner, wasn't a housekeeper. Or a yachtsman. At twenty-three, snub-nosed and barely over five feet tall, she didn't look much like an investigator either.
"All I need is for you to prove my husband is dead,” Nicole Coberly said. “Ex-husband as of next Tuesday, but dear, dear Hy until then. My lawyer said you were good. He also said you were meaner than you look. I guess you'd have to be."
"He was playing with you."
"He does that. I let him get away with it because Woody is also meaner than he looks."
Woody Erskine, her lawyer, was a power in Key West, not much taller than Meg, fifty-some years older. He claimed he had worked with Meg's father a few presidents ago at CIA. Meggie Trevor had trouble imagining Woody as a CIA field man. No trouble picturing him pulling strings from a distance.
"How long has your husband been missing?"
"Do you know Cozumel?"
"By reputation.” It was an island off the Yucatan coast of Mexico. More than occasionally, Meggie thought about trying to run her old ketch down that way, see if it would stay afloat long enough to get her away from Florida. Her father had left her the boat twice—once when she thought he was dead, the second time when he headed off to Miami to work for an agency that needed someone ruthless. If a living man could have a ghost, Daniel Trevor's ghost haunted the Lower Keys and Meggie. She was tired of seeing him over her shoulder.
"Hy was last seen on Cozumel on the eighteenth."
Today was the ninth.
"His boat ran aground on a reef off Isla Mujeres the night of the twentieth. Do you know Isla Mujeres?” Before the younger woman could answer, Nicole Coberly said, “It's an island north of Cozumel. There was a great deal of blood on the boat. The Mexican police are involved, but Woody isn't getting answers. If we could establish that the blood is Hy's, we'd have a strong argument that he died before the divorce became final. That would make a big difference to me."
"How big?"
"It depends on how much the s.o.b. has—or had. We had a killer pre-nup. Let me tell you something. Don't marry a has-been tennis star for love. If you do, make sure he knows how to spell monogamy."
"Okay,” said the investigator. She doubted she would ever marry, was pretty sure if she did it wouldn't be to a washed-up tennis player. At twenty-three, she thought she knew herself. She didn't believe in love. It hadn't lasted for her parents. It hadn't lasted for the Coberlys. It had never lasted for herself. She took the job Mrs. Coberly offered, deposited a check drawn on a Miami bank, went to Mexico, and eventually submitted a written report.
* * * *
I didn't ask Nicole Coberly if she had hired someone to murder her husband, but she had pretty good ESP.
"If I was going to kill Hy, I'd have done it before the divorce,” she said. “Five years ago would have been just right. I was younger and prettier. Shouldn't have wasted those years on Hy. We waste them on someone, don't we?"
She heard a creak, turned and saw the marina's co-owner, Arthur Hawkes, with one foot on the gunnel. She gave a little jump but didn't shriek.
"Brought your mail, Meggie,” he said, handing me two small pieces across, then leaning in, not quite wetting his lips at Mrs. Coberly. She looked at him the way you would look at a sea slug on a dinner plate, and she had it about right. If a sea slug could walk, his name would be Arthur, who crept past my boat at dusk or dawn, peeking in portholes hoping to catch some skin. If I got way behind on slip fees, I might have to give him a flash. Then I would shoot him.
"Thank you, Arthur,” I said.
He took the hint, and watching him shamble off, Nicole Coberly whispered, “Creepy!"
"You haven't been in Key West long, have you?” I said.
* * * *
Woody Erskine hasn't had an office in years. He kept an old refectory table on an enclosed second-story porch where he could watch the antics on Key West's main drag, Duval Street, while pretending to attend to clients’ affairs. He never spent time in court. He claimed not to
have written a motion since leaving Washington. Mostly he went around nudging friends, working things out. Woody was a guy you went to when you wanted important people nudged. He nudged the city and rickety waterfront buildings got razed to build condos, and Key West lost some more of its seedy charm. He had sent me work several times in the past year.
"I didn't handle Nicole's divorce,” he said, raising his palms as if expecting a slashing attack. “Or her pre-nup, God knows. When the consular office called her about Mr. Coberly, she had been living here six months. Mrs. Funicelli steered her to me."
Mrs. Funicelli was an arts matron who had a garden full of stuffed parrots. Some people said she had strangled them all herself. Woody gave me the once-over on Hy Coberly, handed me printouts of e-mails from the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City. “His lawyer is up in Boca, Charles Pottle, hadn't talked to Coberly in seven or eight weeks. He knew Coberly was puttering around on his boat but not where. Pottle is sending the Mexicans DNA samples that Coberly had to provide two years ago in a paternity suit.” Woody's round face wasn't made for smiling, and he didn't try. “Plaintiff lost. Coberly wasn't the papa. Lucky's as good as virtuous, you know that? Sometimes better."
If lucky was the best I could do, I would take it. I was living on my father's ratty ketch, painting bad pictures that a few tourists bought, doing security gigs when they came along, toying with moving back north to graduate school because there was no future in any of this. I had reached that jumping-off point where there's nothing farther south but open water. So lucky wouldn't hurt.
I talked on the phone to the lawyer up in Boca. Charles Pottle agreed it was a mess when somebody died outside the territorial limits. Worse when a body hadn't been found.
AHMM, December 2009 Page 4
