EQMM, September-October 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The sight sickened me. I tipped my soup down the sink and made a really strong coffee, then locked the office and took a long bike ride through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens to the sanctuary I called home.

  But I biked back well in time to witness the group's return. Mr. Sharpe was considerably less buoyant. It took him all of two minutes to scribble his resignation.

  "I'll type it up, if you like,” I offered.

  He politely declined.

  That night, I was mugged as I rode past the Long Water, heading for Peter Pan. I'd just discarded my tatty old tartan thermos in one of the bins when someone leaped out of the shadows and knocked me senseless.

  Luckily, they didn't nick my tote, because it had my passport in it. Ignored my bike, too. Old sit-up-and-begs didn't rate too highly on the black market, even then.

  When I came around after six days in an induced coma, the doctors said I'd had a lucky escape. Miraculous, more likely, I realized later. Depressed skull fracture and two broken ribs. They didn't even mention the ruined pair of new sheer, sequined tights.

  Phillip and Mr. Bloor visited me in Charing Cross Hospital. The professor sent a lovely bunch of lilies from Aalsmeer.

  "Death flowers,” I giggled. The drugs must've gone to my head.

  Phillip just sat there, more pale than any lily.

  Mr. Bloor wasn't exactly animated, either. Just his fists kept clenching and unclenching, like he wanted to beat someone to pulp.

  "Harley's dead,” Phillip finally uttered.

  Mr. Bloor remained rigid.

  "What happened?” I struggled to sit up, but the room had started to spin.

  "Seemed like flu at first, but the police think it's some sort of poison. They're doing tests.” He looked at Mr. Bloor and cleared his throat.

  "Algy Sharpe's been arrested. A witness identified him hanging about your house. He'd been under a lot of stress lately; obviously he cracked."

  Obviously.

  He'd been just as obvious on the cycle path the night I was mugged. Porkpie hat. The muttered, “Take that, Flower,” as the sharp points of his shiny shoes kicked in.

  I understood his bitterness towards me. He'd been caught out trying to poach a few rather unremarkable company secrets before taking his even less remarkable sales skills elsewhere.

  I couldn't imagine he'd killed Harley.

  * * * *

  In my sworn statement, I stuck strictly to the facts.

  "Mr. Sharpe did call Harley a scoundrel,” I sobbed truthfully, when questioned. “Said someone should shake him down a peg or two. I think those were his exact words."

  The professor said enough for everyone later, at the trial. Sharpe's obsession with me. His reference to a certain herbicide as “killing juice.” His disloyalty to the company. Then, of course, the crucial empty vial discovered in his alligator-hide briefcase.

  Harley's murder didn't rate a mention in that month's call home to Mother. She'd only have worried.

  Bridget's back, and sharing with Phillip. Worked out brilliantly, because he has a spare bed. Caris is staying in Strasbourg with a ski instructor called Jurgen. Going tonight to see Elizabeth Taylor in The Little Foxes at The Victoria Palace. Hyde Park a riot of colour. George down the Portobello reckons it'll be a smashing summer.

  That was all years ago now, but if I'm honest, there's a big part of me that still yearns for London. I'd done things there I'd never have dreamed of doing at home.

  The professor writes every Christmas. He says poor Mr. Sharpe's done his time and is now living in quite a nice part of Kensington.

  On the streets.

  Ironic, really. When I was there, I'd see the street people and wonder about the reasons for their slide into ruin. Some had such cultured accents.

  Mr. Bloor, my loyal protector, is living out his retirement not far from his old trial sites in Kent. A quiet retiree, from all reports. Gran always said you had to watch the quiet ones.

  Life's quiet here too, in Australia, surrounded by memories and old books.

  Like the first edition Harley was so keen to see that lunchtime, when I poured him his last, strong coffee.

  He should never have violated my personal space like that. He should never have seen those tapes and my remarkable letter to a rival manufacturer of “killing juice."

  He should never have tried to blackmail me, either.

  It was wrong.

  Quiet as the grave it is, here.

  Copyright © 2009 Cheryl Rogers

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: CANDLES AND WINDOWS by Brian Muir

  Here with the perfect trick-or-treating tale is Brian Muir. The story is a return EQMM outing for the un-named P.I. who's so mysteriously drawn we have to infer even her sex. She's named for the first time, we've learned, in the author's just-completed novel. Mr. Muir works in movies. He has recently done English-language adaptations of four Jet Li martial arts films and worked with horror icon George Romero. He's currently at work on a 3-D Garfield cartoon.

  Ghoulish décor festooned homes throughout the neighborhood: jagged-toothed jack-o'-lanterns with heads aflame greeted visitors on porch steps; rag-doll witches on broomsticks took flight from rooftops; strings of pumpkin bulbs dangled from tree limbs, with skeletons and cobwebs and black spiders plump.

  But the modest Cosseli home just south of Johnson Creek Boulevard sported no such décor. No fake gravestones in the yard nor Grim Reaper behind the hedge; the family in no mood to mock death, for it was as if the dark-hooded apparition really loomed over the home, curved scythe poised to strike, his blade nicked by the bones of countless victims.

  Hence, the lone candle of hope flaring in a front window.

  * * * *

  Halloween was a dry one, but cold. The air bit into your skin even before the sun went down. It had rained a few days earlier, knocking big broad leaves off trees, so thick on the sidewalks you had to kick through wet piles of them like used paper towels. If you weren't careful you'd slip on the slick leafy coating.

  The Willamette was high and sluggish and black running under the Sellwood Bridge, but the old gal hadn't given up any secrets lately; little Cheri Cosseli's body hadn't washed onto the bank anywhere near Portland or downstream.

  That's why I thought there might still be a chance to find her, slim though it was. The police always tell us that after two days the chance of finding a missing child alive is slim to none. Hell, even after only a few hours the news usually isn't good.

  The lengthier the child's absence, the more police presence tends to dwindle. It's not their fault; they have a lot on their plate and playing the odds on a kid missing more than a few days isn't an efficient use of man-hours.

  Little Cheri had been missing almost a week; plenty of time for her body to wash ashore, if she'd been dumped there. But like I say, it hadn't. Nor had it turned up at the morgue. So I opted to keep looking.

  This was on my own time, you understand. I wasn't working for the family; hadn't even met them. All I knew of the Cosselis was what I'd seen on TV: a middle-class father and mother, he a produce man at Fred Meyer and she a housewife raising two children. Their son often appeared on the news with them, a spindly teen with mismatched limbs and ears like big potato chips, prone to wearing black T-shirts (his most recent had been a Freddy Krueger tee, perhaps inappropriate under the present circumstance, given Freddy was a child killer). He tried to appear tough and resilient but was unable to stanch the flow of tears as he talked to reporters about his little sister.

  The Cosselis and their friends had posted fliers all over the neighborhood, east from Oaks Park and west past Reed College; south to the Clackamas County line and as far north as Powell. Hopefully a wide enough area, given that child predators often stay within their “comfort zone,” unlikely to stray until they've sufficiently mined the area and brought too much heat down upon themselves.

  I traveled the search area using TriMet. It's a great way to watch the sidewalks while someone else d
oes the driving. I'd get off on different stops and walk the streets, checking alleyways behind rows of tiny homes, my long black greatcoat helping me vanish into shadow like Claude Rains unfurling his Invisible Man bandages.

  I moved by dusk and well into night. Evenings were when the predator would most likely be on the hunt, with children out playing in their yards or at the parks. Prime time for one to be snatched into darkness, given that the sun dipped around six this time of year, its dwindling light playing tricks on the eye.

  During my walks, I'd often see police cars cruising the streets, maybe searching for little Cheri and her abductor. More than once a black-and-white slowed as it rolled past me, the male cops inside checking out my long black hair and shapely rear under the coat.

  It's not only my vanity that allows me to believe I'm being eyeballed by the police. There have been a handful of times when I've run afoul of the local gendarmes. Not by breaking any laws (that they know of), but simply by doing their job when they weren't able to.

  I'd been hoping for a break in the case before Halloween because the predator who'd taken Cheri was still out there and in a few hours the sidewalks would be bursting ripe with prey, all dressed as little ghosts and ghouls. As the sun hung low over the Portland hills, momentarily breaking through charcoal clouds to bounce orange off the buildings downtown, I stopped by Rossa's Coffee Shack for a boost.

  Rossa knew what I needed and lazily poured me a Daily Brew, black, and slid it across the counter. The place was empty but for him and me. While I waited for my joe to cool, he closed the front door and flicked off the sign outside.

  "Closing up early?"

  "Don't want trick-or-treaters,” he said. “They're a pain."

  "Just put a bucket of candy bars out front. They'll help themselves to what they need and won't so much as say ‘boo’ to you."

  "You know what candy costs these days?"

  "A real Halloween Scrooge, aren't you, Rossa?"

  He glowered, wiping the counter with a dirty rag, switching off the urns.

  "Don't be surprised if when you get here to open up in the morning you find the place has been egged and TP'ed.” I sipped the coffee. It was still too hot, but tasted good going down.

  "You don't usually stop by at night,” he said. “What gives?"

  "Taking a stroll. Lending an eye to that search for the missing girl."

  He nodded grimly. “If you find the scum that took her, do me a favor and bring him in here before you take him to the cops. I'll give him some third-degree burns in a very delicate area."

  "More than likely he'll already be sore down there from my kicking boot."

  "Good luck."

  "I'll need it."

  As Rossa dumped old grounds in the trash, I strolled to the far wall where he displayed his Trail Blazers memorabilia. I reached behind the long team photo of the near-championship ‘99-2000 roster to check for messages. My personal post office.

  I found nothing there. No pleas for help, no line on a new job, and last but not least, no tip regarding the missing Cosseli girl.

  Maybe I was hoping for too much.

  I took my coffee for a walk up into the Sellwood district, looking for a missing child and her abductor, the odds marking him as white, between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Strike that. At least with the aforementioned proverbial needle, the haystack is stationary and you know the needle's in there somewhere.

  But since I had no knowledge the Cosseli girl was still out there—alive, anyway—and her abductor could easily blend in tonight with myriad werewolves and aliens all swarming like ants on a cinnamon roll, that needle was looking better and better.

  A high, piercing scream whirled me around. A teenaged couple dressed as Leatherface victims shot down the sidewalk, chasing a comrade down the street.

  I shook my head. Even knowing it was Halloween, I hadn't been prepared; too on edge. Lucky I had the lid on the coffee or I would've spilled it as I'd spun around.

  By now the sun was asleep, but the sky still light enough to see a good distance, though hazy like dim TV reception. Little ones wearing capes and robes and swirling fabrics, faces covered with masks and makeup, carried paper sacks and plastic jack-o'-lanterns, being led from house to house by one parent or two, sometimes supervised by older children or babysitters.

  Back in my day, we waited until full dark to go trick-or-treating. That's what made it scary and fun. Sometimes we went out in big groups, parents watching from down the street, talking with other bored mothers and fathers, hardly keeping an eye on us at all. But those were different times. Back then, you could still play with lawn darts without causing a Congressional uproar.

  Streetlights warmed, cutting through thick tree limbs and dead leaves. This middle-class suburb sometimes flirted with upper middle-class, depending what corner you turned. The homes, most of the two-story variety, were close together, separated by hedges and driveways. The two-lane streets running north-south were well-traveled enough to warrant speed bumps, but the smaller roads running east-west were often barren and dark, their tar crumbling and scarred.

  It was those scarred streets I clung to; up and down, back and forth, trying to figure an angle to help me narrow the search. Polite groups of costumed children excused themselves as parents weaved them around me, on the hunt for fresh candy. The happy cry of “Trick or treeeeeat” sing-songed up and down the block.

  I heard the humming engine of a large car slowing behind me, tires crunching loose pebbles. I didn't turn to look but rather waited until it crept past; I felt the heat from its engine warming my leg. As I suspected, it was a police car, though this one was unmarked, as they say. Plain black tires, beige paint job, and at least two too many antennae bristling from the rear quarter; not as undercover as they'd like to think.

  I cocked my head to glance through the passenger window. A red light perched on the dashboard, dormant. The cop behind the wheel, wearing a plain grey suit about as stylish as his car, was a good enough looking guy, I suppose, if you like blond hair, cleft chins, and perfect teeth. His smile was polite, but I wouldn't call it flirtatious. It disappeared quickly as he kept moving, keeping a close eye on the roaming band of children crossing the street up ahead.

  As I watched the car roll on, I was blindsided by a kid running full on, slamming into me, knocking the wind out of my sails. This time, I did spill the coffee.

  "David! Watch where you're going!” A young mother strode toward me with a little girl in tow.

  The ten-year-old who ran into me—David—lifted a rubber gorilla mask. “Sorry."

  I tried to be patient with him as I shook burning hot coffee off my hand, “Maybe I should've been looking too."

  "Oh no,” said the woman, as if I were one of her little ones. “Here,” she handed me a handkerchief to wipe my hand.

  "Thanks."

  "It's better than wiping it on your coat,” she said, reaching out to feel the fabric. “That's nice."

  I handed the handkerchief back.

  She said, “These kids are a little too excited tonight. Sometimes they're tough for me to keep a handle on, at least since my husband passed away."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. But I remember how exciting Halloween was when I was a kid. Can't blame them for being exuberant."

  "I'm King Kong,” said David.

  "Okay,” I replied, stifling my comment that a rubber mask alone does not an Eighth Wonder make.

  I bent to smile at the little girl, truly cute, dressed as an angel. “Well, if he's King Kong, does that make you Fay Wray?"

  The little angel looked up at me, wide-eyed, her mother holding on to both shoulders, keeping her close.

  "She's a little overwhelmed, I think,” said the mother. “It's sort of her first Halloween."

  The angel was maybe five; it might be the first Halloween she'd remember.

  "All these ghosts and goblins are kinda scary, aren't they, honey?” I asked.
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  She glanced down at her hands, picking at a bag of Skittles.

  "Don't eat your candy yet, hon,” chided her mom.

  With face downcast, the angel glanced up as if apologizing to me.

  "Maybe we should take her home. David?"

  "Okay, Mom.” David reached out and grabbed the little girl's hand. “Come on, Suzie."

  "...Danny,” she said as he pulled her away. A bright yellow Skittle fell out of the open bag in their wake, bouncing like a tiddly-wink on the sidewalk.

  "Not too far!” the mother shouted after, grinning. “For some reason, she thinks Danny's a better name for her brother than David. If I'd had her first I would have consulted her on it.” She touched my arm warmly. “I owe you a coffee."

  I waved it off. “Forget it."

  She smiled and turned to go.

  I said, “Keep a close eye on them."

  She nodded, resolute. “I will."

  She and every other parent out here was of like mind, keeping an eye out for the Boogeyman. The real one.

  I watched the trio disappear around the corner, then turned and hiked up to the intersection, tossing my now-empty coffee cup in a garbage can.

  A pack of teenagers swarmed around me, old enough to be unsupervised, waiting for the light to change. Their costumes were lame: overalls or cowboy hats; one kid wore a T-shirt with a tuxedo printed on it, oh so clever. One of the girls had disheveled hair, and was draped in nothing but a burlap sack; a bag lady, I guess. Loud and obnoxious, they shoved into each other like punk fans in a mosh pit. A guy with Mickey Mouse ears bounced off my arm, jostling for space. But I didn't give him any.

  He looked at me as if I'd just teleported there from outer space.

  "Oh,” he dripped with sarcasm. “Excuse me."

  His buddies tittered.

  "No excuse for you, clown."

  He reacted as if I'd slapped him. Well, not really. If I'd slapped him, he'd be on his keister.

  "Hey,” he said. “What's yer problem?"

  "Careful with your horsing around. You might knock somebody into traffic."

  "Whatever."

  The light changed. I hung back while the group crossed en masse. Halfway across the street, Mickey Mouse whirled around and waved a little birdy at me. His gang thought it was more hilarious than a rerun of Friends, though that's not a tall order.