The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

by John Sandford

  “I could use a hand, Watson.”

  The voice startled me. In disbelief, I stared below where young Holmes hung upside down, flat against the chasm wall, his right ankle secured with a rope that, as I followed it, I could see was tied to the base of the tree. I drew him up quickly. When I’d pulled him to safety, I couldn’t help myself. I took him firmly into my arms and hugged him dearly.

  “Please, Watson, a little decorum,” Holmes whispered into my ear.

  “I took his number off my aunt’s cell phone and called him,” the boy explained to me as we stood on the bridge with the rest of the crowd and watched the body being dealt with below. We’d talked with several policemen already and were waiting for a detective who was supposed to arrive soon to take our official statements.

  “I told him I knew who he was and that I wanted to meet him here, and that if he didn’t come I would tell my aunt exactly who he was, and I would inform the police as well.”

  “You knew about this neighborhood circus?”

  He looked at me with disappointment. “I never do anything without knowing everything in advance. I was certain Moriarty would feel quite comfortable in this setting. Bold and, I speculated, reckless.”

  “Why didn’t he just skip town?”

  “Because I’m Holmes and he was Moriarty. Just as I thought, he couldn’t resist the confrontation. A simple push, that was all he thought it would take. But because I’d anticipated his move and held to him, my own weight carried him over the edge along with me.”

  “Except that you had the rope around your ankle.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you just talk to the police?”

  “He was a clever fellow. He slipped them in California and Portland and Denver. There was no reason to believe he couldn’t slip them here. No, Watson, this was something I had to take care of myself.”

  The detective finally arrived, a tall fellow in an ill-fitting brown suit. “We’ve called your aunt and uncle,” he informed the boy. “When they get here, we’ll all sit down together and talk.”

  “May I stay with him?” I asked.

  “For now,” the detective agreed.

  I looked at Holmes. The crowd had cleared away from him but still stared, as if he was just another of the oddities of the evening. He was a lonely boy, with no friends. But I thought he needed one. Didn’t everybody, even the most brilliant and solitary among us?

  “When this is all over, I’ll still expect to see you in my office on Thursday,” I said, then added with a gentle and genuine smile, “my dear Sherlock.”

  K. MCGEE

  Dot Rat

  FROM Mystery Weekly Magazine

  When Helen was young and couldn’t sleep she’d conjure a comforting circle of people she loved, but now most of them were gone and instead she spent her white nights watching an endless loop of losses and regrets jumping a fence like cartoon sheep. At three-thirty, she gave up and rose from bed.

  The house was cold, and she turned up the thermostat and then stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and staring out the window into the backyard. A streetlight threw her garden in shadows. Against the white fence was an unfamiliar silhouette. Like furniture that assumes the shapes of monsters in the dark, she was sure the shadow would resolve itself if she looked at it long enough. Had she left the wheelbarrow outside? But she knew she hadn’t. And then, just as the kettle let out a sharp whistle, the dark shape against her fence moved.

  “Cass?” she called, turning the burner off. Her voice sounded weak in the quiet. She listened for the taps of her Staffordshire terrier’s nails on the floor. Maybe it was Cass out by the fence. She’d left the doggie door open. But the shape looked too big, and besides, would Cass stay out there in the cold alone?

  “Cass?” she called again, but still nothing. Which wasn’t right. Even from a deep sleep, Cass came running at the sound of her name.

  Helen grabbed a heavy metal flashlight and moved to the back door. She hesitated for a moment. The neighborhood had seen its share of problems, but none lately. And whatever lurked back there had breached her fence and come into her yard. She couldn’t allow that.

  She opened the door and walked past overgrown tomato plants and a row of cabbages toward the fence. When she was a few yards away, she turned on the flashlight and pointed. Two sets of eyes shone in the beam. A boy, leaning against the fence, arms around Cass.

  Helen bent over and whispered, “Who are you?”

  “I’m not doing nothing. Just resting.”

  Cass whined and the boy released her. She moved to Helen, tail wagging, and then back to the boy, as if to ease an introduction. Helen started to tell him the fence was there for a reason, but the boy stood and Helen got a shock. His head barely came to her waist.

  “Too cold out here to rest. Come inside.” Helen patted her thigh twice for Cass to follow and turned to the house. She listened for sounds behind her, half expecting to hear light, rapid footsteps in retreat. That would be best. He should be home, with his own people. But when she climbed the porch stairs to the back door and turned, the boy was a few steps behind, next to Cass. She opened the door and waited while dog and then boy entered.

  Inside he stood next to the door, visibly shivering and taking in his surroundings as if trying to decide whether to stay or flee.

  “I was just making tea,” she said. “Would you like something hot?”

  “You got coffee?”

  “Regular?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She moved to the kitchen and reached for the bag of decaf. She wasn’t going to give a child real coffee. After she made it, she added plenty of cream and sugar and carried it to the low table in the parlor along with her cup of tea.

  “Here you go,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

  The boy hadn’t moved from his place by the door, but now he stepped toward her. Cass looped from her to the boy, leading him into the parlor.

  Helen drank her tea in silence, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He held the mug with two hands, drank his coffee eagerly, and looked at the bookshelves. His hair was light brown and clung to his head like a cap, his eyes hazel.

  “You got a lot of books,” he said as he put the empty mug down.

  “You like books?”

  He answered with a shrug that could have meant yes, no, or undecided.

  “Who’s that?” He pointed to a framed photograph on the table next to him.

  The couple seemed like strangers, her face unlined, her hair dark against the white veil, Sean’s wide, pale Irish face so earnest. “That’s my wedding photo,” she said.

  The boy studied it, his face serious. “Is he sleeping?”

  “You could say that. Sean died fifteen years ago.” She didn’t like to think about Sean’s death. “Would you like more coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She took his mug to the kitchen and refilled it. When she returned, his head was thrown back, his eyes shut and mouth open. Cass lay on the sofa next to him, her head in his lap.

  Helen set the coffee down and looked him over. Even if he was small for his age, he couldn’t be more than ten. What was he doing out at night? He looked too thin, there was dirt under his nails and grime on his neck, and he smelled like Cass when she needed a bath. Was he homeless? Or just a fellow insomniac from the neighborhood? Helen didn’t recognize him, but then, she didn’t pay much attention to kids on the street. She should call the police, but Cass seemed to know this boy. And what he needed most at the moment was rest. Besides, Helen didn’t trust police. She was used to handling her own problems.

  She took a heavy blue blanket from the closet—one that held up in the washing machine—and dropped it over the boy. She was tempted to remove his shoes, but decided it would only wake him. Plus she didn’t relish getting close to his filthy socks. Just as well the sofa was already the color of dirt. She took The Brothers Karamazov from the shelves and retreated to her bedro
om to read, but instead she slept.

  When she woke at eight, the blanket was folded on the sofa, the coffee mug empty, and the boy gone. Cass slinked off the sofa sheepishly, sniffed at the blanket, and followed Helen into the kitchen. Helen laundered the blanket in hot water with extra bleach, thinking about lice. That night she drifted to the back door several times, checking for the boy, but Cass stayed inside and there were no mysterious shadows along the fence. After two more nights, Helen decided to forget about him.

  There was a string of warm days, too warm for October in Massachusetts, and between her shifts at the library Helen worked furiously to harvest the last of her tomatoes, beans, and cabbages and put the beds to sleep for the winter. Pulling up roots and spreading layers of compost was a big job, and she slept well.

  Two weeks after the first time she saw the boy, Helen rose at seven to a cold morning, made herself coffee, and discovered him asleep on the sofa, Cass stretched next to him. He wore a different T-shirt, and he seemed about as dirty, not worse, so maybe he wasn’t homeless. She checked the back door; still locked. He must have crawled through Cass’s doggie door. She checked her purse. Cash and credit cards were where they belonged. But then, if he were breaking in to steal, presumably he wouldn’t stick around for a nap.

  She returned to the kitchen. She didn’t care for breakfast herself. Just a cup of coffee or two was enough in the morning. She knew nothing about children. Would the boy eat eggs, and how would he want them? And how many? He was small, but he was growing. She decided on three, scrambled with cheese—the way Sean had liked them—and two pieces of toast.

  He stirred on the sofa as she set the plate on the table, and then stood so quickly he startled Cass, who scrambled off the sofa and let out a muffled bark of protest.

  “Come have breakfast,” she said, going back to the kitchen for the coffee.

  He stepped toward the table. “What time is it?”

  “Seven-twenty.”

  “I have to go to school.”

  “No time for breakfast?”

  He glanced at the plate and then at the back door.

  She pointed. “The bathroom’s that way, first door, if you want to wash your hands.”

  He looked toward the hall, forehead creased. She sat and sipped her coffee, waiting for him to decide, but then lost patience. “Go on. The eggs are getting cold.”

  When he returned from the bathroom, he took a seat and ate as if he’d entered a race, head down, scooping his food. Nobody had bothered to teach him table manners.

  “I’m Helen, by the way. What’s your name?”

  He answered without pausing to swallow.

  “Andy?” It was hard to hear around the eggs and toast, but he nodded in response.

  “You must live quite close, Andy.”

  He nodded again, drank the rest of his coffee, and set the mug down with finality. Then he stood. “Thank you. I have to go to school.”

  “Right. See you some other time, Andy.”

  He stopped at the back door, a hand on the knob, and without turning said, “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t seem to.”

  And then he was gone. After she cleared up the dishes, she went to the kitchen desk and looked at the calendar. It was marked with her work hours at the library, where she volunteered twice a week, a dentist appointment, nothing else. Both times Andy had come in from the cold on Wednesday nights. Maybe there was something that happened at his house on Wednesdays. Maybe not. Twice wasn’t a pattern. At least she’d learned a few things this time: he lived in the neighborhood, he went to school, and his name was Andy. Also, he was hungry.

  She decided if Andy came back she’d have to call the police. She ran through a list of the old contacts in the Boston Police Department and wondered how many were still around. The kid was in some kind of trouble, and she’d learned a long time ago not to go borrowing trouble. Life brought enough. And she didn’t know anything about kids. “It’s none of my affair,” she muttered. That decided, she locked her purse in her bedroom dresser at night, and she left the blue blanket and an old pillow on the sofa. No reason for him to be cold all night, even if she’d be turning him over to the police in the morning.

  The next time she saw Andy was at sunset on Sunday. He sat leaning against the fence, petting Cass. There was something awkward in his movements, and when she crossed the yard she could see he had a bloody lip and a welt under one eye. He nodded at her and kept stroking Cass.

  “You want to come in and feed her?” she asked.

  He got up slowly. “Sure.”

  She gave him Cass’s bowl and showed him the kibble and measuring cup. “Just one. She eats twice a day, and we don’t want her getting fat.”

  “Okay. And she needs water.”

  “Right.”

  He filled the bowls and stood watching Cass eat. “She’s a pit bull, isn’t she?” he said.

  “Staffordshire terrier.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Attitude.”

  He nodded like it was the answer he expected.

  “You been in an accident?” she said.

  “Nah, just Uncle Jake. Best to stay out of his way when he has an appointment with Mr. Jameson.”

  He used the phrase like he’d heard it a hundred times, I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Jameson.

  “Is that who you live with? Your uncle?”

  He nodded. “Uncle Jake’s all I got.”

  That sounded memorized as well. I’m all you’ve got, kid. You better get lost now. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Jameson. She was beginning to dislike Uncle Jake, a man who routinely drank so much Irish whiskey he would beat a small child. Not that it was any of her business.

  “You have time for a bath before we eat dinner.”

  “A bath?” He looked at her like she’d offered to saw off a limb.

  “You know how to draw a bath, don’t you?”

  “I’m almost ten!”

  “How long until you are ten?”

  He slid a gaze to her and away and shrugged his shoulders with the eloquence of an old man.

  “Best to stay clean when you’ve got cuts and scrapes, unless you want to be dealing with a nasty infection and pus and unsightly scars.” She paused to see if he was going to challenge this, but he seemed suitably impressed. “Use plenty of soap and shampoo. And toss your clothes in the hall. They look like they could stand running through the laundry.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t eat dinner bare naked.”

  “You can borrow one of Sean’s old shirts.”

  He stood frowning at her, probably trying to think of another objection.

  “Go on, now. I’ve got to get dinner.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He turned and trudged toward the bathroom, Cass at his heels.

  When he came out Sean’s red flannel shirt hung to his pale calves and she got her first look at the boy under the dirt. He had a bruise on his temple and there were probably others beneath the shirt. His hair had a wave and was going to be blond when it dried. Without being asked he came to the table and took the same seat he’d used for breakfast. Helen had made spaghetti and meatballs as well as steaming beans and cabbage from her garden. She set a full plate in front of him, along with a glass of milk. He ate with the same concentration as before, but at a more leisurely pace.

  “Those came from the yard,” she said as he ate a forkful of beans.

  He froze, staring at his plate, then looked up at her with a smile of disbelief. “No suh!”

  “What do you think the back garden’s for?”

  He shook his head and resumed eating. After dinner, she had him dry while she washed. They returned to the parlor, where he looked around thoroughly and finally asked, “You don’t have a TV.”

  Helen had a television in her bedroom, along with a shelf of DVDs, most of them movies made long before Andy was born. But she didn’t want him in her bedroom.

  “I us
ually read at night,” she said.

  Andy looked at her for a moment and then gazed at Cass, no doubt pitying any dog that had to live without a television.

  “Do you read, Andy?”

  He nodded. “Course. I’m almost ten.”

  “Right. Well . . . you can read . . .” Her shelves were full of hardback copies of classics bought at used bookstores over a lifetime, all in good condition. The Limited Editions Club and Heritage Club books were her favorites. She liked the slipcases and the illustrations. She didn’t have children’s books. What would a boy Andy’s age want to read? Maybe he’d like The Three Musketeers? Huckleberry Finn? Did kids like Twain? Would he know how to treat a good hardback? She looked at her shelves and then remembered a boxed set she bought years ago. It was on the bottom shelf under a thick layer of dust. She pulled out the first of four books and handed it to him. “You can try this one.”

  He looked at it. “The Hobbit?”

  “You read it already?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You don’t need glasses, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well then.” Helen read The Red and the Black in her easy chair while Andy read on the sofa next to Cass. She wasn’t sure if he liked the book, but he turned the pages at regular if somewhat lengthy intervals, so she assumed he was getting through it.

  She left once to put his clothes in the dryer and again to take them out and fold them. Andy kept reading. At nine o’clock she noticed his head starting to bob over the pages.

  “I’m ready to sleep now,” she said, standing up. “Good night, Andy.”

  “Good night,” he said, his voice sleepy. “Thanks for the spaghetti.”

  She nodded and went into her bedroom, frowning because she didn’t have a toothbrush for him and then thinking about the phone call she’d have to make in the morning. He obviously needed a new home, someone to feed him and take care of him, but it wasn’t going to be her. He needed a mother, not a grandmother. She dozed off thinking about how she’d explain Andy to the cops, and how she’d explain the cops to Andy.

  Perhaps it was the prospect of police in the morning that disrupted her sleep. She woke at one and read for a few hours before going back to sleep, and when she woke again, it was after eight. She had lost the habit of using an alarm clock, and as she rose she realized she’d probably lost her chance to deal with Andy. Sure enough, he was already gone, The Hobbit returned to its place on the bottom shelf, the blanket, pillow, and shirt forming a neat stack at one end of the sofa. She looked down at the blanket, glad she wouldn’t have to wash it this time. Was Andy’s neatness normal? Weren’t young boys usually messy? She went to the back door to lock it after him, but it was already locked. He must have left through the doggie door. She felt a surge of emotion, something like regret or pity, and turned swiftly to go to the kitchen. “It’s not your problem. He’s not even family,” she muttered as she made coffee. But she knew this time she couldn’t just forget him. She’d fed him, and like any stray, he would return for more.