EQMM, January 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  As I was leaving, I came across Sue sitting at a table with a group of friends on the terrace of a café nearby, opposite the abbey. They had had quite a lot to drink, and they invited me to join them. It could have been a pleasant evening, if they hadn't told me that John and Mary's belongings had been auctioned in their absence, that they'd been seized by the bailiffs. Apparently they owed large sums of money to quite a lot of people. Nobody knew where they'd gone. Everybody had tried to find them, in vain. Eventually, even the house had been sold. The man who'd bought it, at auction, was the estate agent who'd showed it to me.

  I couldn't bring myself to go inside the house and fall asleep in one of those empty rooms, on the floor, as I'd planned. I was feeling more and more uneasy about that past friendship, which was turning into an obsession. There was I in the garden with the key in my hand, about to put it in the lock, when I stopped. It was late, but I decided to go and see Collins all the same; I knew he would still be up and grateful for any company. Tonight, his friends had told me something I'd already suspected: He didn't have any set routine. He would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and go back to bed at three in the afternoon. Sometimes, he would decide to drive back to England on a whim, and stay there without getting in touch with anybody for three or four weeks. But there was nothing very surprising about that for anyone who knew the Dordogne and its exiles.

  I could see him through his window in the blue glow of a television screen. He must be watching a news bulletin or the weather forecast on the BBC, thanks to satellite television.

  He opened the door. He was obviously delighted to see me, but I must say that my heart sank when he declared that he'd received another video from his family, and that he had just started watching it. To get through the ordeal, I accepted the whisky he offered and didn't even say “just a little” or “a drop."

  It was deadly dull, of course, and I watched without much attention, except when suddenly it struck me that the relatives on the screen were not the same as last time.

  "Is this still your sister?” I asked.

  "Yes, and my brother-in-law,” he said, turning towards me with a beaming smile. He was obviously delighted to see that I was touched by the film.

  "How many sisters have you got?"

  "Just the one. Listen, listen to what the little one is about to say ... he's so funny."

  And sure enough, the kid on the screen made an inept joke. The only funny thing about him was that he didn't look at all as he'd looked in the other video. But I didn't ask questions; I wasn't interested in Collins's nephews and I didn't want to have the whole family tree explained to me.

  Eventually, as I was falling asleep on the sofa, Collins told me that I could spend the night in his guest room. And I accepted gladly.

  The following day, he drove me to Brantôme. I'd decided to go and drink a strong cup of coffee on the terrace, as it was Monday, and to buy the English Sunday papers which arrived a day late in the shops. I hoped that within half an hour I would find the energy to go and confront the estate agent.

  That's when I saw the photo. Collins's family. They were all there, sitting in a row on a sofa. It reminded me of the video I'd seen the night before. But the article's headline told me they were all dead, that they'd been dead for months.

  Suddenly I understood why he behaved in such an eccentric manner. Even by Dordogne standards. Wasn't he doing with these films what I'd been doing trying to buy back my friends’ house? He watched those films over and over again to give himself the illusion that all the dead people were still alive, even showing them to his guests and friends. The article explained that the family had all been murdered, at home, one night, by one or several men, the inquest hadn't been able to establish which. The parents had been killed first, then the murderers had stepped into the children's bedrooms.

  I thought about poor Collins and the images that must haunt his worried mind. I wanted to go back and see him, ask him all sorts of questions about the people he had lost, and listen while he talked about them as if they weren't dead.

  But I had something to do first. It was half-past eleven. I'd decided to go and see the estate agent to ask him why he'd lied to me, to tell him that John and Mary had been very close friends, and that I'd spent many a day in that house that I now wanted to buy. I intended to tell him that he'd been accused of having an affair with Mary, thus being partly responsible for their leaving. And what did he have to say for himself?

  But I did nothing of the sort. I ordered another coffee and looked through the paper until I found the article again; I looked at Collins's family—all those people who'd been murdered in Batley. Then I folded up the paper and threw it in the first bin I found.

  I took a taxi to Collins's place. I passed the château again that would send Mary dreaming of aristocratic grandeur, stone floors and cold corridors; I thought back about Collins asking me if I would use my dead friends’ bedroom and his little nod towards the window.

  He was both friendly and worried when he saw me. I asked him if I could come in. I put my hand on his arm, and tried to look as sympathetic as I could as I said: “I heard the terrible news."

  "What? What news?"

  "Your family ... they're dead, aren't they?"

  He looked me straight in the eye for a few seconds, motionless, and then he began to sob madly. He wiped his eyes, he was snivelling like a child, and he nodded frantically, repeating: “Yes, yes, they're all dead."

  "I came to tell you that ... I understand; I'm sorry. I know what it's like, and I was worried about you when I heard the news."

  "How did you learn?” he asked, still sobbing away.

  "In the papers. They even printed their picture."

  He was now crying on my shoulder, full of sorrow and gratitude.

  I asked if he sometimes took tranquilizers. He said yes, that there was a box in his medicine cabinet. He was crushed; it was as if he didn't have the strength to be suspicious anymore. I offered to bring him a glass of water with a pill; he accepted immediately.

  I went to the bathroom cabinet and found more than one box of tranquilizers; it was full of drugs of all sorts, including an impressive collection of sleeping pills. I gave him a generous whisky and a very efficient dose of sleeping pills mixed with the drink.

  He calmed down almost instantly, and started to talk, telling me how much he loved his family, and how hard it is to see everything you hold dear disappear around you.

  * * * *

  When he'd fallen asleep, his mouth gaping, I began to go through his things. I went to the cassettes and DVDs next to the television set and read their labels. Names, dates, and places. And suddenly I knew what was in all of those films: images of people who didn't exist anymore. People who'd been massacred by Collins, and whom he watched regularly while imagining that he felt love and affection for them. The two families I'd seen on the home videos were not the same. He had killed them and come back from England with their souvenirs to watch on his television screen in the Dordogne.

  In the cupboard next to the television, in the middle of neat rows, I found what I was really looking for: a VHS tape bearing the title “John and Mary.” I didn't have the courage to watch. They were probably there, waving to the camera at Collins's request, before he butchered them with a knife, an axe, a sledgehammer, who knows? Maybe Collins, like me, had said childishly, “They're my best friends” when he'd shown this video to some stranger or other. It wasn't by chance that he'd pointed out the right window when he was talking about John and Mary's bedroom.

  While I picked up the phone to call the psychiatric ward of the nearest hospital, I looked at the bottom shelves, and there I saw a tape that bore my name, made, no doubt, while I'd slept last night, a guest in his house.

  Copyright ©2006 by Louis Sanders. First published in French by Nouvel Observateur.

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  STONE COLD CHRISTMAS:

  Art by Mark Evans

  * * * *

/>   Doug Allyn has written mainly series stories for EQMM over the past several years. This time out he introduces an entirely new set of characters, and a plot complete with financial shenanigans, an investigation of union politics by the F.B.I., and a family's complicated loyalties. He's EQMM's all-time Readers Award favorite: Since 1992, eight of this stories have taken first place.

  The limousine looked half a block long. A GM Hummer, an army assault vehicle with its sheet metal stretched to limo length. Coal-mine black with opaque windows. Bulletproof. Crude as a coffin on wheels and totally out of place rolling silently down a street where working-class folks drove pickups or econo-cars.

  As the limo eased to the curb, two bodyguards scrambled out. Big men, one white, one black. Both burly, in leather car coats. No weapons showing, but they kept their hands in their pockets as they scanned the streets for trouble.

  They didn't spot any. The neighborhood looked cordial as a Christmas card, Norman Rockwell-style. Two-story suburban saltboxes decked out in their holiday best, evergreen wreaths on front doors, colored lights winking in the windows, plastic snowmen smiling on frosty lawns.

  Sean crouched in the shadow of the shrouded porch swing until the two goons were satisfied the street was clear. Then one nodded to the driver, the limo's rear door popped open, and Iron Mike O'Donnell climbed out. Looked as rough as his reputation. Two hundred forty pounds of beef on a six-foot frame. Played center on the Northridge high-school football team, a long time back.

  Twenty years older now, forty pounds heavier, Iron Mike looked like what he was, union boss of the Refuse Haulers Local 106, a radical splinter of the Teamsters. “The most dangerous labor leader since Jimmy Hoffa,” according to Newsweek.

  Surprise was his best chance, so Sean kept utterly still, waiting for Iron Mike to cross the sidewalk. As the boss's brogan touched the first step, Sean launched.

  Charging out of the shadows, he vaulted the porch railing, tackling Mike chest-high, wrestling him to the ground, the two men sprawling on the lawn as they scuffled for an advantage.

  For a frozen instant the bodyguards were too stunned to react, then they seized Sean, pulling him off, pinning his arms so Iron Mike could work him over.

  "You moron!” Mike said, dusting himself off. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

  "Just wondering if you're as tough as your press releases claim."

  "Too tough for you. You still tackle like a girl,” Mike snorted, tousling the younger man's hair, wrapping him in a bear hug as the bodyguards exchanged puzzled glances. “It's okay, guys, it's just my half-wit brother. Been awhile, Sean."

  "Not long enough. Once a year under the same roof is all my career can handle."

  "Career,” Mike snorted. “Sean's a banker, guys. A freakin’ capitalist lackey."

  "Guilty as charged,” Sean admitted. “How was jail?"

  "Lousy. Is that real food I smell? What's Mom cookin'?"

  "Everything.” Sean grinned. “Every damn thing you ever heard of. Welcome home."

  Arms over each other's shoulders, the brothers led the way into the house, where their tiny silver-haired mom, in her flowered apron, with a dab of flour on the tip of her nose, greeted Mike with squeals of delight. Even their chocolate Labrador barked a hello before returning to his corner of the kitchen, patiently hoping for a handout.

  After hugging her boys hello and welcoming Mike's bodyguards, Mrs. O'Donnell shooed the men into the dining room to the long oaken table beneath a wagon-wheel chandelier.

  Iron Mike served up mugs of Irish coffee all around, then took his seat at the head of the table. And relaxed just a little. Home and free. At last.

  "So, what's new, little brother?"

  "You are,” Sean said. “All over TV and the national press. That article in Newsweek said you were a Communist. I didn't even know you could spell Communist."

  "I can't. I hire computer nerds like you to spell it."

  "But what's the point?” Sean pressed. “Communism flopped twenty years ago, or hadn't you heard?"

  "I know.” Mike grinned. “Know what being a Commie amounts to these days?"

  Sean shook his head.

  "That's the beauty of it, laddie. Neither does anyone else. But it sounds dangerous, and in my business, making businessmen nervous is our stock in trade."

  "So you're not really a Commie? Just a labor thug?"

  "And you're a capitalist pig."

  "Enough name-calling, boys,” Mother Meg yelled from the kitchen. “No more politics at my table, I declare a truce for the holidays. Do you hear?"

  "Yes, Ma,” the brothers answered together.

  "Are you two brothers, really?” Joe Briggs, the black bodyguard, asked, leaning back in his chair. “You don't even look alike."

  True. Barrel-chested with a bullet head, Iron Mike was Black Irish, dark eyes, darker outlook. Sean was as tall as his brother but slender as a whip, fair-haired, with his mother's green eyes. Dressed preppie: fashionably faded jeans, button-down Pendleton shirt, deck shoes, no socks.

  "Different fathers,” Mike explained. “My dad was killed on the road when I was six. His eighteen-wheeler hit a train. After he'd been driving forty hours straight. And people wonder why I'm a Commie."

  "My dad met Ma at a USO dance,” Sean offered. “A soldier. Bought it in Vietnam."

  "Actually, they're both adopted,” their mother said, delivering steaming bowls of bean soup to the table. “Bought one from a circus, the other belongs to the milkman. I can never remember which."

  "We never had a milkman, Ma,” Mike said.

  "The plumber, then,” she said. “I've got corned-beef sandwiches coming, boys, but save some space for dessert. Tomorrow's a big day."

  "Nothing for me, Ma,” Sean said, rising. “I'll take Bowser for a run before dinner. If my girlfriend calls, tell her I'll be back in an hour. And for God's sake don't let these knuckleheads talk to her."

  "You invited a girlfriend for Christmas?” Mike said, surprised. “That's a first. Anything serious?"

  "Might be,” Sean said. “Assuming she doesn't run for her life as soon as she sees you and your goons."

  "Does she play poker?"

  "No, but her brother does. He's coming, too."

  "Doesn't trust you two alone, huh?” Mike eyed his brother. “Don't blame him. Do I know these people?"

  "No, they're business acquaintances,” Sean said quickly, lacing up his running shoes and grabbing a jacket off the hook. “Back in a bit. Come on, Bowser."

  The big black Lab bounded up and beat Sean out the door.

  "What's little brother's new girl like, Mom?” Mike asked.

  "I haven't met her yet, but I'm sure she's very nice."

  "Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “If he's bringing her for Christmas, she must be."

  * * * *

  Outside, Sean set a steady pace, enjoying the nip of the winter wind, jogging down the sidewalk as the afternoon faded and the streetlights winked on. Bowser covered twice as much ground, charging happily over lawns, pausing to water every tree, racing to catch up.

  At the end of the block, Sean looked around, then veered into the city park, slowing to a walk as he spotted the car parked near the water fountains. A man and a woman climbed out, both tall, with short hairstyles. It looked better on her. She had strong Mediterranean features, handsome rather than pretty, dark eyes and deep auburn hair. Natural, not dyed.

  "Agent Vanston.” Sean nodded at the man. “And I take it Stretch here is supposed to pass as my lady friend?"

  "I'm Agent Gia Sirico, Mr. O'Donnell,” the woman said. No one offered to shake hands.

  "No offense, Red, but you're not my type. I usually date petite blondes and my brother knows that."

  Sirico shrugged. “For this weekend, your taste runs to Italian redheads. Unless you'd rather spend the next ten years in a cell. That's the fall for embezzlement, Mr. O'Donnell. Ten hard years."

  "Call me Sean. You're supposed to be my girlfriend."


  "Okay, Sean. Call me Gia, not Red. The only reds we care about are in Haulers Local 106."

  "I don't like the goons in Mike's union, either. Which is the only reason I'm doing this. I didn't embezzle a dime. There must be a computer malfunction at the bank."

  "No doubt,” Vanston snorted. “But at the moment, your accounts are short half a mil, O'Donnell. So what will it be? A little cooperation or Christmas in jail?"

  "I said I'd help you and I will. Just don't expect me to like it. What do I do?"

  "Keep it simple,” Vanston said briskly. “You introduce Gia and me as your girlfriend and her brother, Gia and Carl Moscone, and you help us to blend in."

  "It may not work. My brother's no fool."

  "You'd better make it work, sport. If Red Mike doesn't buy your act we'll bust you on the spot and haul you out in cuffs."

  "You mean you'll try."

  "Is that a threat?” Gia asked.

  "More like a promise. Because if my half-brother guesses I'm selling him out, jail's the least of my worries. I won't get out of there alive. And neither will you."

  * * * *

  By the time Sean and Bowser got back, the street was already lined with cars. Uncles, aunts, in-laws, cousins, and neighbors. Hardworking Irish-Americans coming to celebrate the holiday with their nearest and dearest and to welcome their notorious kinsman home from the lockup.

  While Iron Mike basked in their affection and good wishes, Mother Meg kept the dining room table piled with finger food and sandwiches. Occasionally a man would take Mike aside for a quiet discussion—a job for a relative, a beef with a boss. No promises asked or given, but the problem was noted and a debt was incurred.