The Best American Mystery Stories 2019

by Jonathan Lethem

  “I know you’re too old for comic books, Will. Maybe you could stick them away in a closet somewhere, and maybe they’re still worth something. Who knows, maybe they can pay for a few years of college down the road. I know some of these things can be pretty valuable. But whatever you decide to do with them is up to you. They’re yours.”

  Will kept scanning the pages. “Thanks, Uncle Jack,” he said for the second time. His words still sounded thin and forced, but this time Jack could hear something else. He grabbed Will and pulled him in over the box for a hug. Will laid the Swamp Thing comic on the porch and hugged him back. While holding him tight, Jack whispered into his ear, “Detective Comics, number eighty-three, page twelve, across the top of the Sea-Monkeys ad. I wrote a number. Someone will always answer that number—always. Do you hear me, son? There’s an entire world out there that belongs to you—and you alone. You’re my blood. There’s nothing more important than that. Nothing.”

  Will found himself hugging his uncle back as hard as he could. He felt a hard lump of metal tucked under his uncle’s arm, against his ribs. It had to be a gun, he thought. His dad hated guns. Will had never even seen one in real life. He almost pulled back and asked Jack about it, but he didn’t. It was Jack who let go.

  He pushed himself up off the porch, wiped at his face with both hands, and walked away from the house without saying goodbye. He looked back as he got in the car and watched his nephew pull out another tattered issue—The Green Arrow & The Green Lantern: Hard Traveling Heroes. It had been one of Hank’s favorites. He pulled the Ruger P95 out of his holster and slipped it into the glove box before he cranked up the SUV and carefully backed it out of the drive. He knew Hank would never forgive him for exposing his son to his world, but Hank was dead, and Jack would be, too, eventually. And now the Parsons family name—and all the respect it commanded throughout the Southeast—was not going to end with him. It didn’t have to. No more need for grooming one of the idiots who worked under him. Fate had provided Jack with an heir. All he needed to do now was wait for the call, and he was sure the call would come.

  TONYA D. PRICE

  Payback

  from Fiction River

  On a warm September morning I had gone out to pick up the Sunday Boston Globe at the end of my driveway when I spotted a big red dog racing toward me, running smack down the middle of Pleasant Street. He gave me a quick check before twisting his anvil-shaped head to look back at the direction he had come. His ears lay flat on the top of his head and his brown eyes had the wide-eyed stare of a wild animal desperate to escape a predator.

  My guess was he was either full Doberman or a mix. I called to him but he didn’t slow down, instead the sound of a human voice seemed to panic him into picking up his pace. Looking back up the dirt road I tried to make out what had spooked the poor thing so bad. A powder blue Porsche raced toward me, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  People drove too fast down the narrow country road all the time so the speed didn’t spook me. The hand sticking out the passenger window pointing a gun at the dog—that spooked me.

  I froze as my mind struggled to make sense of what I saw. Two quick gunshots jolted me out of my indecision. We had a six-foot-high boulder at the corner of my driveway. For over five years I had cursed that boulder every time I had to plow the snow around the thing, now I used it for cover and blessed that rock for saving my life.

  The Porsche sped by. The guy leaning out the passenger window fired two more rounds at the escaping dog.

  People being mean to each other I could take, but I could never abide cruelty aimed at some poor dog. Feeling helpless, and mad as hell at the idiot behind the wheel of the Porsche, I ran out from my hiding spot and picked up a rock off my stone wall, hurling it hard at the car.

  Maybe a good scare would cause them to leave the dog alone. In college I spent four years on the bench as the third-string pitcher. Couldn’t find the plate to save my life. This time I nailed the Porsche with a softball-sized piece of granite, smashing the rear window just as the car slowed on the curve down our hill.

  The wheels squealed on the pavement and I smelled burned rubber as the car took the curve and vanished out of sight.

  My first reaction: serves the idiots right if they crashed their fancy car.

  My second reaction: throwing a rock at a car could land me in jail.

  A few minutes later the Porsche reappeared, backing up the street so fast the car swerved left and right as the driver struggled to keep control. This time the gun sticking out the passenger window pointed my way.

  Inside our house, my husband and six-month-old baby daughter took their morning nap together in our bedroom. I started to run toward the house but stopped. If I ran inside, I might be leading these lunatics to my family.

  Living out in the country, we had no neighbors close by to run to for help.

  I’d left the cell phone on my nightstand. I was the one the men were after.

  In an effort to lead them away from the house, I ran into the woods. Too scared to look behind me, I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could on the narrow path, taking care not to trip on the tree roots sticking up along the ground.

  The men didn’t call after me.

  They didn’t fire their gun at me.

  But I was sure they were behind me.

  About a half hour later, I reached Iron Mine Pond. I waded into the warm water and hid among the lily pads, waiting for the men from the Porsche to arrive.

  After ten minutes of swatting flies and mosquitoes, I began to wonder if maybe the guys had come to their senses and not bothered to follow me. After another five minutes, I pulled myself out of the water, my clothes wet and my shoes waterlogged.

  On the way home I kept off the path, taking care to wind my way through the wetlands, risking tick bites over being spotted by the men who had fired at the dog.

  As I walked, I began to calm down. Reason replaced panic.

  No doubt the men had thought better of going after me and had decided to go home rather than get into a confrontation. Shooting at a dog was probably a misdemeanor. Shooting at a person would definitely get you jail time. The worse that would come of the whole affair would be a court case over smashing the car window.

  I’d never been in trouble and they pointed the gun at me. I decided I would probably not be in that much trouble after all. Maybe I could claim self-defense.

  I was looking forward to a hot bath and getting dinner ready by the time I came within sight of my house.

  Instead, I spotted the Porsche in my driveway, smashed rear window and all. Neither the driver nor his gun-happy passenger appeared to be inside. Where had they gone?

  They weren’t in the yard.

  My house was a two-story colonial, cedar shingles with a big wide farmer’s porch. I didn’t see them on the porch.

  After checking again that the men weren’t lurking in the yard somewhere I edged closer to the house and saw the front door stood ajar. My husband grew up in Manhattan. He never left the door unlocked, let alone open.

  More likely the men had forced their way into the house and they had left the door open, but why?

  Why even go into the house? The men might have been mad at me for throwing a rock at their car but they knew I wasn’t inside the house. Were they waiting for me to return?

  The nearest police station was five miles away. The nearest house, three miles away. What would the men do to my family if I tried to run to get help? I doubted I could do much good in the house. My family’s best bet would be for me to get help.

  We had two Volvos in the garage but the Porsche blocked the driveway. Maybe I didn’t need to get into my car if I could start the Porsche.

  Woods lined both sides of my driveway. Using the thick pine trees for cover, I crept along the ground, staying close to the old stone fence as I inched toward the sports car.

  Every few minutes, I checked the door.

  With no sign of the men in the yard or on the porch, I made
my way to where a large forsythia blocked the view of the driveway. Taking care to stay out of the sightline from the house, I dashed in front of the car, then walked half-bent-over around to the driver’s side.

  I tried to open the door latch. The men might have left my front door open but they had locked their car.

  I decided the smart thing to do would be to walk up the street in hopes of finding a car to flag down. Then I could use someone’s cell to call the police. The plan seemed the best course of action even though part of me wanted to charge inside the house, but what good would that do? I might even get my family killed.

  The plan made sense. I might even have followed it if I hadn’t heard my baby crying.

  And my husband shouting.

  And the single shot.

  I started to run for the house, not caring if anyone saw me or not.

  There was more shouting.

  Then I heard Jim’s voice.

  He was alive.

  I needed to keep him that way.

  It was the gunfire that sent me running toward the backyard gate. My husband had used a bike lock to keep the gate shut. I put both hands on the gate’s top bar, jumped and pulled my legs over, landing on my feet.

  The shed was new and built to look like a mini-version of our house. I didn’t have the key but I decided I would smash the door down if I had to. There were tools inside. Tools I needed if I were to try to save Jim.

  The double doors for driving the John Deere riding lawn mower were padlocked but we never locked the side door. I slipped inside and searched for a weapon. Something not too heavy to carry. Something that could kill.

  Something I could handle.

  The axe was too heavy and not terribly accurate. I went for my fishing knife. The seven-inch, serrated blade would make a nasty cut. A short bungee cord served as a belt. I pushed one end through the knife-sheaf belt loop and tied the cord around my waist. My long work shirttail just covered the knife sheaf.

  I still had my old softball bat but the men might be able to get that away from me. An old can of wasp spray would be more effective. Jim and I never owned a gun—except for a cordless nail gun, heavy as hell. At least it was loaded with a tape of nails. I just prayed it still worked.

  Then I went to try and save my husband and my child.

  From the shed, I could see the large copper clock on our raised deck that overlooked the backyard. An hour had passed since I first saw the dog running down the street. The sun shone overhead, a harsh glare.

  The large windows in our sunroom provided a clear view inside. Both the sunroom and kitchen appeared empty. Two entrances led into the house from the back: a cellar door into the basement or the deck slider. I chose the slider.

  When I was halfway across the yard I heard the familiar sound of the slider opening. Caught in a no-man’s-land without any cover, I charged forward, lugging the nailer. I ran to hide below the raised deck.

  I dived underneath the planks, lying facedown on the stone pebble base.

  A single set of footsteps on the deck above told me someone had come outside alone. There had been two men in the Porsche, but if I could get rid of one of them, then the odds might be a little better for rescuing my husband and daughter.

  I needed to keep whoever was above me in the yard, separate from his buddy. I grabbed a nearby pebble and threw it into the woods on the edge of the lawn.

  I heard footsteps going toward the house.

  Jim’s cry kept going off in my head. I had to do something and soon.

  “Hey!” I stayed hidden by the side of the deck, fighting the pounding in my head and the voice screaming that I had just made a huge mistake.

  Convinced surprise might be my only hope, I knelt on the ground, holding the wasp spray at my side, and set the nailer on the ground beside me.

  The footsteps stopped. They changed direction, walking toward the stairs leading to the lawn rather than back toward the house.

  I could hear someone on the stairs.

  A teenage boy with long hair and a NY JETS cap peeked around the edge of the deck. He was a small, skinny kid. He spotted me, breaking into a wide smile that showed his braces. Up until that moment I hadn’t gotten a good look at either of the guys.

  Why did he have to be so damn young?

  “Well, well, well . . . What are you doing out here? We’ve been looking for you. That Porsche you wrecked, that’s Matt’s daddy’s car. Matt loves that car. He isn’t very happy with you right now.” The boy laughed. “Nope, not happy at all.” He brushed a lock of long greasy brown hair out of his eyes. He didn’t look cruel. He looked young. Young and stupid.

  Except he was cruel, I reminded myself. He had a gun tucked in his pants’ waistband. A gun he had used to shoot at the dog and me.

  I had no choice but to rise to my feet. I aimed the wasp spray at him and squeezed the button. My attack came so unexpectedly I caught him full in the face. It must have hurt like hell by the sound of his screams.

  Above us the slider squeaked open. “Dave? You okay, man?”

  Dave wiped his eyes with his hand, then pulled out his gun. His arm swiped in every direction as if frantic to find me. In his wild swatting, he struck my arm with his free hand, then brought the gun around.

  I dropped to the ground and balanced the nailer on the concrete deck footing. A bullet whizzed by my head.

  There’s a good chance I had my eyes closed when I pulled the trigger. I only knew I shot off three nails. When I opened my eyes I found only one of the three-inch nails had hit the boy.

  Right in the middle of his forehead.

  As he fell, his gun went off, breaking the window in the door to the garage.

  On television, you hear stories of people who survive getting a nail in their head. I debated if I should fire again. I couldn’t take a chance he might attack another time. His eyes stared at the sky. He didn’t blink.

  I didn’t feel anything for him. All I felt was desperation to save my family.

  “Shit! What did you do? What did you fucking do? Dave?” A second teenager, about the same age as the first, rounded the edge of the deck. This one looked more athletic than the other kid. He wore a muscle shirt and he had muscles to show off.

  I raised the wasp spray again but nothing came out. The boy picked up his friend’s gun. Insanely, I didn’t freeze this time. Instead I thought, if he shoots me I can’t save Jim.

  I dropped the heavy nail gun and the empty wasp-spray can. I ran as fast as I could away from him toward the far end of the house.

  The fence wrapped around the entire yard. I was trapped but I ran anyway.

  I had no plan.

  The gun went off again. Something whished past my right ear, but I ran harder and started to zigzag my way across the yard. Once a television reporter had said running in a zigzag pattern could make you a harder target to hit.

  At the edge of the house, I decided to try and leap the picket fence again. I slowed down. If I didn’t clear the fence and had to hang for a moment at the top and hoist myself over, I would make an easy target.

  Overthinking such things usually leads to trouble. This time proved no different. My foot struck two of the pickets. Rather than go over the fence I fell down on the lawn, landing in front of the boy with the gun.

  He stood over me, his hand steady. His finger on the trigger. “Get on your feet.” The order didn’t sound like it came from a teenager.

  This time I had no choice. He had me.

  I raised my hands in defeat. “Okay.”

  He motioned with the gun in the direction of the deck. “We just wanted to scare you. Just hurt you a little bit for breaking the window. You didn’t need to kill Dave, you bitch.”

  Maybe talking to him could save my family. Worth a try, anyway. “Windows can be paid for. I’ll pay for the window. Shooting a dog is a minor offense. Shooting a person is murder.”

  “Yes, I know. You can tell that to the judge.”

  Then he had no plans to kill me. T
he little bit of hope helped. If he wasn’t going to kill me, he wasn’t planning on killing my family.

  We went onto the deck and into the silent house. Everything in the kitchen and sunroom looked the way I had left things before I went out to do a bit of gardening.

  “Where’s the baby?” My daughter would be hungry by now. She should be crying but I heard nothing. “Jim?”

  From the upstairs my husband called out, “Sarah?”

  The boy pushed me forward. “Into the living room. “

  I yelled, “Is the baby all right?”

  The boy leveled the gun at me. “Shut up.”

  He wasn’t able to stop my husband’s answer. “We are both okay. Just . . . just I’m tied up.”

  I feared the worst as I entered the living room but the basket of white laundry I had left beside our brown leather sectional was still there. The CDs remained in place in the bookcase beside the collection of piano music my husband stored in the bookcase.

  The boy walked over to my husband’s grand piano. “Yours?”

  “No.”

  He ran his index finger over the polished top of Jim’s beloved Kawai. “You don’t play?”

  “No.”

  The boy didn’t say anything. He just stared at me until I felt I had to offer him something. “I play the guitar.”

  My Martin hung from the wall. The boy smiled and walked over to admire the instrument. He took a step back, raised the gun, fired into the guitar, sending Madagascar Rosewood splinters into the air. Steel wires flew across the room like shrapnel.

  “That Porsche you wrecked. That’s my father’s car. He’s going to be plenty mad when he sees what you did to it.”

  So this was his game. “I told you I’ll pay for the window.”

  “Good, you can start tonight.” The boy cocked his head to one side. “Any other instruments you play?”

  “No.”

  “Nice house you have here.” He took his time walking around the room, then motioned toward the hall. “Why don’t you take me on a tour?”

  I led the way down the hall, stopping at the bathroom. Not much he could destroy there. “Toilet, shower.”