Donna made it almost to the edge of town before she broke down sobbing. I pulled over and rubbed her back. “Enough of that,” I said. “She’ll be fine.”
Donna nodded and wiped at her eyes. I dug in the console, handed her a tissue. She honked her nose. Then she took a deep breath and shoved open her door. “Trade places,” she said. “I need to drive.”
We followed our shadow and watched the prairie roll by until the sun disappeared behind us. The empty U-Haul rattled on our tail in the dark. The Tahoe felt bigger with just the two of us.
We stopped for the night at the same place where we’d started the morning. Donna said she was hungry for junk food and asked if I wanted anything from the gas station nearby. A bag of chips sounded all right. I sat on the bed and watched the news while she was gone.
When she hadn’t come back in an hour, I started to worry. Then the door clicked and in she came, reeking of cigarettes, a bulging grocery sack in her arms. She had a look on her face I hadn’t seen in years. As far as I knew, she hadn’t smoked a cigarette since before Julie was born.
“What’s all that?” I said.
She came over and showed me: two laptop computers, two touch-screen smart phones, and a dashboard GPS unit. All used. She pulled them out one after the other, like steaks from the market. I looked at her.
“I asked the girl at the counter for another key card to room 172.” She wore a goofy smile. “Know what she did?”
I looked at the pile of loot on the bed and couldn’t believe this woman I’d married. Room 172. We were in 124.
I said, “So, no chips?”
When our next-door neighbors sent their kids off to college, Carla picked up her photography again; Roger bought a solid-body Fender and turned the other bedroom into a recording studio. “What empty nest?” he asked me on their patio one evening, grinning like a pirate as he cracked another home-brewed beer.
Over the years I’ve wondered what Roger and Carla would say if they knew our real story. Donna and I lived pretty fast, once upon a time—we weren’t high school sweethearts, like we’ve always told them; the man who introduced us died alone in prison when Julie was small. As far as Julie knows, she grew up in the suburbs with small-business owners for parents. It would knock that kid right out of her cowboy boots to learn she was born in the back of a getaway car.
“I should feel guilty,” Donna said in the morning, somewhere in the Nebraska Sandhills. “They looked like a nice pair.” She was still talking about the couple from room 172—at least what she’d seen of them, heading for a late-night dip in the motel pool, just before she’d slipped in and robbed them blind.
I couldn’t help smiling. “Well,” I said, “At least you got that out of your system.”
We drove on toward the sunrise, the empty U-Haul rattling behind us, nowhere to be anytime soon. A sign up ahead said LODGING NEXT RIGHT. She raised her eyebrows at me.
Sean Doolittle is the award-winning author of six novels of crime and suspense, including Lake Country, his latest. Doolittle’s books have been praised by such contemporaries as Dennis Lehane, Laura Lippman, Harlan Coben, Michael Connelly, and Lee Child. His short fiction has appeared in The Best American Mystery Stories 2002 and elsewhere. The author lives in western Iowa with his family.
THE PROFESSIONAL
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Brendan DuBois
In the lower Connecticut Valley town of Spencer, Olsen sat in his Crown Victoria sedan, eating a container of boysenberry yogurt, when things around him drastically and spectacularly went to shit. He was on Main Street in a Police Cruisers Only spot, the radio on so he could listen in to the dispatcher’s infrequent calls, the latest being that the sole day cruiser suddenly was at the town garage for unexpected repairs.
It was a grand spring day with people milling along the sidewalks, most of them local college students from Massachusetts or Connecticut, spending their parents’ hard-invested money. Stores lined both sides of the street, and there was a brown UPS truck making deliveries, a white van near a deli unloading plastic-wrapped food boxes, and a shiny black armored van in a handicapped zone, with a bored-looking guard leaning against the closed doors. The van’s paintwork said IRON VAULT PROTECTION SERVICE. Olsen shifted in his seat. The Kevlar vest he wore under his blue blazer, shirt, and tie was stiff, but it was part of the job. Jobs. It looked like everyone out there was quietly doing his or her job, and it made Olsen content. He liked professionalism in everything, whether something as complex as space travel or something as simple as street cleaning. But parking in a handicapped spot was definitely not professional. Maybe he should do something about it. The van’s rear doors opened up.
A spoonful of yogurt was en route to his mouth, just one minute before noon, when a red, mud-splattered Chevy pickup truck with oversize tires roared up from a side street and skidded to a halt behind the armored van. Two men burst out, wearing ski masks and carrying shotguns. The first one got out quickly and shot the no-longer-bored-looking guard at the rear.
BOOM! The hollow sound echoed up the narrow street, and people started screaming and running away, as if that annual Spanish bull run had suddenly dropped by. The second guy fired his shotgun and a window shattered. More screams. A guard tumbled out of the van’s rear, firing off several rounds from his pistol, and a street lamp a few yards away broke to pieces. Another shotgun blast, the guard dropped, and the two robbers ducked inside the open van.
Olsen carefully put his spoon inside his yogurt container. Aloud he said, “You have got to be kidding me.”
The two men came out of the van, screaming at each other, each holding bags in one hand, shotguns in the other. The bags were tossed into the rear of the truck. Another shotgun blast. BOOM! A male pedestrian across the way fell. More screams. More shouts between the robbers. Two more canvas bags tossed into the truck bed. They got back in. Smoke rose from scorched rubber as the driver punched the accelerator. The truck slewed as it roared up Main Street, clipping two parked cars.
Olsen wiped his lips with a napkin, started up his Crown Victoria, and began his pursuit.
From downtown Spencer there were at least three ways of getting onto state roads and from there, the nearest Interstate, in about ten minutes. The knuckleheads up ahead chose none of those routes. They kept on going straight on the local Route 12, the truck easy to follow. Olsen kept his distance, ignoring the panicked chatter over his police radio. There. A quick turn up a narrow paved road, going up into the hills. Olsen slowed and made the turn as well.
It didn’t take long. About a half mile up the narrow country road there was a dirt cutoff to the left. A cloud of dust was eddying in the air, and fresh tire tracks were cut into the dirt. Olsen braked, pondered his options, and decided a direct approach was best. He turned left and sped down the dirt road. It widened into a dead end. The pickup truck was next to a light-blue Ford Escort. Two men were at the rear of the truck, their faces red and sweaty, hair matted down, no doubt from having worn those ski masks.
Olsen braked again, put the Crown Vic in park, and stepped out.
The nearest guy said crossly, “The hell do you want?” as his companion reached into the open truck bed for a shotgun.
“Not much,” Olsen said, as he took out a Sig Sauer 9 mm and shot the first one dead, and then from his ankle holster, quickly removed a .357 stainless steel Ruger, and did the same to the second.
A quick glance into the canvas bags revealed bundles of single dollar bills, a whole lot of bank deposits with local checks, and lots of rolled coins.
That was it.
Olsen shook his head, went back to work, and after a while, strolled back to his Crown Victoria.
“Amateurs,” he said.
A month later, Olsen was back in his Crown Victoria, once again eating lunch, once again enjoying the sights of downtown Spencer. The people were out, the sun was shining, and once again, the van from IRON VAULT PROTECTION SERVICES—with two new guards—was in the handica
pped spot.
He took another swallow from the yogurt. The news from last month had been shocking, but the Spencer police had quickly solved the case. Two brothers had wanted to make a quick score, but had bungled the entire thing. An argument ensued as they tried to divvy up the meager loot, ending up in a shoot-out that killed them both.
It was almost noon. Olsen put the yogurt container down, removed his new 9 mm Beretta, and started up the Crown Victoria. Earlier on, the dispatcher had once again reported the town’s sole police cruiser was back in the garage. Can you believe that?
He pulled into traffic and eased up to the armored van, whose doors were now open.
Olsen stopped the car, stepped out, and went to work. In a land of amateurs, the professional was always king.
Brendan DuBois is the award-winning author of more than 115 short stories and twelve novels, including Deadly Cove (2011, St. Martin’s Press). His stories have appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, numerous anthologies including The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century, and have twice won Shamus Awards and three Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations. Visit his website at BrendanDuBois.com.
THE PROMISE
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Warren C. Easley
Momma always said I slept like a nervous bird. When I heard the front door click open that night, I got up and peeked down the hall. It was Momma’s new boyfriend, Duane, and he was just closing the door behind him.
He looked real surprised to see me. “Oh, hi, Sprout. Just havin’ a smoke outside.”
I hated it when he called me Sprout. My name’s Kat. “You must have smoked a pack, ’cause I heard you go out a long time ago.”
He laughed, but his eyes got kind of small and hard. “One cigarette. You were dreaming.”
Early the next morning, I heard Momma’s cell ring. Momma rushed into my room. “Kat, get up. Something’s happened to Pop Pop.” We drove over to my grandfather’s house. There were lots of police cars and flashing lights. Momma told me to stay in the car. I knew something awful had happened, and my heart sort of shriveled up in my chest.
I started thinking about the day before. I was at Pop Pop’s house, teaching him how to use his new cell phone:
“Punch the number in first, then press the little green light. That sends the call.”
He chuckled the way he always does, ’specially when he’s laughing at himself. “I’m an old dog, Kat. It’s hard to teach me new tricks.”
He was gray and bent with big hands rough as tree bark, but his eyes had a kindness in them that shined like a light. “You’re not old,” I told him, “least not to me.”
Before I left he hugged me and gave me a serious look. “How are things at home?”
I dropped my eyes. “All right.”
“That new fella, Duane, he’s treating you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?”
My face got a little hot. I didn’t like Duane, but couldn’t say why. “He’s okay.”
“Are they using?”
“I don’t know, Pop Pop. I keep to my room, mostly.”
He hugged me again. “Listen, now that you’ve taught me to use this phone, you can call me anytime, Kat. I promise I’ll ans—”
I jumped when Momma opened the car door. She was all in tears. “Pop Pop got robbed last night,” she said.
“Is he okay?”
“No, Kat. He’s not. Pop Pop’s dead. The burglar killed him.”
Momma held me for a long time. When I stopped crying, she said, “Kat, the police want to talk to you. Listen, honey, they don’t like Duane ’cause he’s got a record. Don’t say nothin’ bad about him, okay?”
“Momma, he went out last night. I heard him.”
She gripped my shoulders so hard it hurt. “No, he didn’t, Kat. He was with me. Don’t say that to the police. Please, honey. Duane’s a good man.”
I talked to a nice police lady and didn’t say anything bad about Duane or Momma. Another policeman came in, and the nice lady excused herself and joined him across the room. I looked down at the hole in the toe of my sneaker like I wasn’t listening, but I was. “The murder weapon’s missing,” he said in a low tone. “Something heavy, like a hammer.” She told the man about Pop Pop’s cell phone. The man nodded and said, “That’s missing, too, along with his wallet and cash.”
When everything in the apartment got quiet that night, I snuck out of my room. Duane kept his tools on a shelf next to the washer. I pulled a chair up and looked for his hammer. I’d used it just the other day and knew it had red paint on the handle. The hammer was gone.
“Whatcha lookin’ for, Sprout?” I jerked around and there was Duane. A cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth, and his eyes were hard again, like little stones.
A pack of spiders crawled down my back. “Uh, a screwdriver,” I answered, pulling one out of the toolbox and adding real fast, “You’re not supposed to smoke in the apartment.”
He blew smoke from his nose and smiled like a snake. “Things are gonna change around here, Sprout. We’re gonna move out of this dump into your granddad’s house.”
I lay in bed with my door locked, trying to think what to do. When I finally dozed off, I dreamed about Pop Pop. He smiled down at me, held up his cell phone, and said, “You can call me anytime, Kat. I promise I’ll answer.”
I woke up and snuck Momma’s cell phone from the hall table. When I tapped in Pop Pop’s number, it rang several times before going to voice mail—“Hi, this is Claude. Leave a message.” He did answer me! When I heard his voice, I knew what I needed to do.
I slipped out the front door and ran down Fourth Avenue till I got to the alley that cut through to Pop Pop’s street. There were a few lights, but it was mostly dark and scary in there.
I started down the alley, dialing Pop Pop’s number again and again. My legs were shaking, but the sound of his voice kept me going. Halfway in I heard it—the ringtone I’d put on his phone. It came from a humongous trash can. I took the lid off and pulled hard on the lip of the can, tipping it over with a crash. Dogs started barking up and down the alley. I didn’t care.
I sifted through the garbage till I found a plastic bag that buzzed with Pop Pop’s ringtone. The bag was tied shut, but a wooden handle with red paint on it had punched through the side. I put the lighted face of my phone up to the handle and saw a clear fingerprint in blood.
I dialed 911 and sat down to wait.
THIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN EVERY DAY FICTION.
Warren C. Easley lives on a ridge overlooking the Willamette Valley near Portland, Oregon. A chemist and former R & D executive, he is the recipient of a Willamette Writers Kay Snow Award for fiction, and his short stories have won several awards. Easley is author of the Cal Claxton Oregon mysteries (WarrenEasley.com), which will be published by Poisoned Pen Press beginning in the summer of 2013.
A STUDENT OF HISTORY
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Gerald Elias
Patient? Of course I’m patient. I’m patient as a saint, so I’ve been told. I can watch a glacier melt, though maybe that was a better analogy back in the day. Patience is one of the great virtues. If the creationists understood that for three billion years—more or less—evolution has been the miracle that demonstrates God’s patience, maybe they wouldn’t be so impatient to throw it under the bus. But patience has its limits, doesn’t it? After all, we let Hitler invade half of Europe trying to be patient. Get him to listen to reason. Who was it—Neville Chamberlain—that said “peace in our time”? There’s a fine line between patience and appeasement. As a student of history, sometimes you have to draw a line in the sand, don’t you? So you’re not taken advantage of.
Then there’s mercy. That’s the other great virtue. I love that speech Portia gives in The Merchant of Venice, the quality of mercy. It’s one of my favorites. Give me a sec while I put on my best Laurence-Olivie
r-in-drag accent: “The quality of mercy is not strain’d. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that…” Am I boring you? All right then, I’ll cut to the chase, since you seem to be in a hurry. Blah blah blah blah blah “it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute to God himself and earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice.” Etcetera. I believe that to be some of Shakespeare’s best writing. She really did screw Shylock, though. Took away everything that was important to him and forced him to be a Christian. I think there’s a bit of hypocrisy going on there, but still she makes a good point, even if there’s no black and white. Like when we dropped the bomb. Most of the people in Hiroshima probably didn’t think we were being merciful, but then when you look at the big picture—all the others who would’ve died had we not done it; and don’t forget Russia was on Japan’s doorstep. What would the world be like now if we had been thinking of mercy in the narrow sense? I’m talking about religion and war a lot, aren’t I? They seem to go hand in hand in a way. I think people have a right to believe what they want, though I’m not particularly observant. I don’t approve of fanaticism of any kind. Believe me, I’ve seen more than enough of that for your lifetime and mine. It really is good to be home. Why did I kill her? I believe that’s what you asked me. If she hadn’t been a stranger, I probably wouldn’t have. Let me amend that to be perfectly honest: I might not have. But she put her hand on me for no good reason. None that I could think of at that moment, anyway. There really was no choice. It’s easy to be a Monday-morning quarterback, isn’t it? At that moment I had to draw a line in the sand. Didn’t I?
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