EQMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I smiled. “Still, all these stairs must be hard on you. Especially with that punctured lung of yours. Not so easy getting around, is it, Bobby?"

  Bobby Riggins stared at me hard. “Do I know you, dude?"

  "Nope. But we have a mutual friend."

  "Yeah? Who's that?"

  "Malcolm White,” I said, touching my swollen nose. “He did a number on me too."

  The kid's face went pale. “I have to get to class."

  "White has a little sister,” I said. “Her name's Kelly. She's a freshman here, living in the same dorm as Rebecca King. At least, she did live there. Right now, her home is the ICU of Saint Luke's. In a coma, from what I understand."

  "I don't know what you're talking about,” said Riggins.

  He tried to brush past me, but I gave him a short uppercut to the solar plexus. Not hard enough to be a bone-breaker, but enough to do the job.

  Eyes wide, Riggins clutched his chest and went down to one knee. His breathing was short and labored. “Christ, watch it, dude! My doctor says I can't take any shots like that. I could open up the lung again."

  "Then you better start talking,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “What happened to Kelly White?"

  * * * *

  The Spy Shop sat tucked in a corner strip mall, a few miles from the university. It was a little specialty store that sold surveillance cameras, anti-bugging equipment, and self-defense products—anything a wannabe James Bond could possibly desire.

  Roaming the shelves, I punched a number into my cell phone. Normally, I used a landline for business calls, but I intended to keep this conversation brief.

  Rebecca King picked up on the third ring. “Hello?"

  "Hey there, Becky."

  "What do you want?” she asked abruptly.

  "Funny you should ask. I was thinking my fee's still a little light."

  She took a breath and held it. “You can't keep doing this. We had a deal."

  "And now the deal has changed. You can thank your friend Bob for that. He spilled his guts about Kelly. About what you made her do."

  Rebecca went quiet again, most likely thinking her options over. The little Spy Shop seemed to shrink around me as I waited for her response.

  "How much?” she asked finally.

  "Let's make it ten thousand even. You can forget my daily expenses. What a bargain, huh?"

  "And you'll make sure he doesn't bother me again?"

  "I'll take care of Malcolm, you just worry about getting that money together. I'll swing by for it after the job is done."

  "Just curious,” Rebecca said, “but how do you know for sure I'll pay up?"

  I tapped the display case, letting the sales clerk know I wanted to see one of the self-defense products behind the glass. I held the weapon up to the light. It was black and glossy and felt good in my hand. “I trust you,” I told her.

  * * * *

  Malcolm White stepped out of the temp agency and locked the doors behind him. He was the last one out of the building and his blue Neon sat alone in the parking lot.

  Perfect, I thought.

  The setting sun gave me some shadows to work with. I kept completely still, crouched behind a big potted plant, waiting for White to get closer. As he passed my hiding place, I fell into step behind him. I gripped my new toy tightly and tried to slow down my racing pulse.

  "Nice night, isn't it, Malcolm?"

  White froze in his tracks, an instant statue. Then he tried to spin around to face me. This time, I was too quick for him. I jabbed the stun gun into his neck and sent 600,000 hot volts rampaging through his nervous system. White jerked like a trout yanked out of the water. He twitched a few times, then his body crumpled to the blacktop.

  "Sorry about that,” I said. “Couldn't risk you using any more of that kung fu on me."

  White sat up, straightening his glasses. “Karate,” he said, correcting me.

  "Whatever.” I switched the stun gun to my left hand and pulled the Smith & Wesson from the waistband of my jeans. I expected some sort of reaction from White—some fear in his eyes, maybe a little begging. But he only looked at the big revolver and sighed, a sad, lonely look etched into his face.

  "Are you going to shoot me?” he asked.

  "I haven't decided yet. Why don't you tell me about your sister?"

  "Kelly? Why would you want to know about her?"

  "I have a gun,” I said. “Humor me."

  White nodded, as if the idea of talking pleased him. “Kelly and Rebecca lived in the same dorm, became friends the first day of classes. Rebecca was like the cool big sister Kelly never had. They did everything together. It didn't take long for Kelly to become infatuated. That's the kind of girl she is. Smart and pretty, but with low self-esteem. The perfect victim for someone like Rebecca King."

  I kept silent, letting him talk his piece.

  "Midway through the semester, Kelly started having money problems. She didn't get the grant she wanted and couldn't pay for her spring class load. It was a huge blow to her. Then Rebecca came up with this bright idea. She figured out a way Kelly could stay in school. And it would only cost her one night of her life."

  "What happened?"

  White was still on the blacktop, hugging his knees now like a child would. “There are men in this world,” he said, “who'll pay a lot of money to have a night with an eighteen-year-old girl. They'll pay even more if they can be rough with her. Bobby Riggins was supposed to wait outside the room, make sure Kelly was safe. He didn't do his job very well."

  I crouched down to my haunches so White and I could see eye to eye. “Did you ever find the guy? The one who hurt your sister?"

  "Yeah. Bobby told me all about him. But not without some convincing.” White let out an angry laugh. “The man was a real-estate agent. I caught him alone in one of his properties. Left him on the imitation hardwood floors, bleeding. I can't tell you for sure if he's alive or dead. It doesn't really matter anymore."

  "Why not?"

  A faraway look fell like a shadow over White's face. “It's all my fault, you see? Kelly asked me for the money for school, but I turned her away. And now I might never hear her voice again."

  The last of the day's sunlight shined off the barrel of my .357. White gazed at the gleaming chrome as if it was a flickering prayer candle. “So now that you've heard my story,” he said, “are you going to use that thing?"

  I hefted the revolver, bringing it up like a duelist would. “Yeah, I'm going to use it. Just not the way you think."

  Before White could say another word, I bent over and pressed the stun gun hard against his chest. 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... I counted and watched his teeth clamp together as his body trembled with angry electricity.

  After he passed out, I aimed the Smith & Wesson into the air and pulled the trigger six times as fast as I could. Then I wiped the revolver clean and clamped it in White's hand.

  By the time the sirens closed in, I was long gone.

  * * * *

  Rebecca King met me where it had all begun, poolside at the ASU fitness center. She sat at a table this time, dressed in shorts and a tank top instead of her swimsuit. She wore sunglasses and sipped iced tea, just another coed enjoying the spring sunshine.

  "I liked you better all wet,” I said, pulling up a chair. I swiped her iced tea and took a long drink from its straw.

  "Is it over?” she asked.

  I grabbed a Manila folder from my gym bag and slid out a few snapshots. “These were taken outside a Scottsdale police precinct. He's being held there right now, waiting on the judge to set his preliminary hearing."

  Rebecca eyed the photographs—Malcolm White in the back of a squad car—White in handcuffs flanked by two uniformed officers—White being led into the precinct detention center. “I told you I didn't want the police involved,” Rebecca said. Her jaw was tight with tension.

  "Don't worry. His arrest has nothing to do with you. It seems Mr. White unlawfully discharged a firearm within city limits. Unfortunat
ely for him, the weapon in question was used in an armed robbery last week."

  "You planted a gun on him? A gun you used in a robbery?"

  "They'll hold White for a few days for questioning,” I said. I decided not to tell her that I wasn't a stickup artist. I just bought the gun from one.

  Rebecca sat back in her chair, squinting at me in the sunlight. “How do I know he won't come after me again once he gets out of jail?"

  "I had a long talk with the guy. You won't be seeing him again. If you do, just call me. I'll take care of it, free of charge.” I stole her tea again and took another long sip. “Now about my money..."

  Rebecca suddenly found her shoes very interesting. “I have it,” she said, her eyes avoiding mine. “Most of it."

  "How much?"

  "Eight thousand three hundred.” When she heard my frustrated sigh, she reached across the table and touched my hand. “I'll get you the rest later. I promise. Until then, maybe I can compensate you in another way."

  I slowly stood up and gazed down at her, letting her sweat a little under the weight of my fifty-yard stare. Then I fished a card out of my back pocket. On the front, it was plain, except for one of my highjacked cell-phone numbers. On the back, I scribbled an address. “I'll be staying at the Hotel San Carlos for the next week. Room number two-oh-six. Why don't you come visit me Thursday night?"

  "Thursday night,” she repeated, smirking. “But you know, I'm not like Kelly. I won't do any of the rough stuff."

  "Don't worry about me, Becky. I'm nothing if not a gentleman."

  * * * *

  A pair of beefy corrections officers led Malcolm White into the conference room and removed his leg shackles. They kept his handcuffs on, sat him down in a chair across from mine, and then filed out the door without saying a word.

  White eyed my cheap suit and imitation leather briefcase. “How did you get in here?"

  "Told them I was your lawyer."

  He tried to fight off a grin, but failed. “You're some piece of work."

  "That's the general consensus,” I said. “What are they charging you with?"

  "I'm not sure. Crazy as it sounds, I think they might believe my story. I've got no criminal record. And I was working the night your gun was used in the robbery."

  "Lucky you."

  Smiling, White nodded, then rested his handcuffed wrists on the table between us. He leaned in close to me, as if he was trying to inspect the pores on my nose. “Are you here to threaten me?"

  "What if I say yes?"

  White shrugged sadly. His eyes went vacant. “I found out from the public defender that Kelly passed away last night. She couldn't fight anymore. And now I'm alone. Just me and my guilt. What more can you do to me?"

  I snapped open the briefcase and removed a single white business card.

  "What's this?” he asked, holding the card up in the dim light.

  "The address of the San Carlos Hotel,” I said. Then I reached back into my case and pulled out a standard business-size envelope. “And when you get out, this will be waiting for you with your personal possessions."

  Behind the Coke-bottle glasses, Malcolm White narrowed his gaze at me. “I don't understand. What's in it?"

  "The key to room two-oh-six,” I said. “Rebecca King will be paying a visit there Thursday night. Tell her I said hi."

  (c)2007 by Mike MacLean

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  DEVOURED by Ruth Francisco

  * * * *

  Art by Laurie Harden

  * * * *

  Ruth Francisco writes mainstream as well as crime novels, and the following story does not fall quite squarely into the crime genre. We include it because it maintains superb suspense throughout—quite a feat given that most readers will recall a real-life incident on which it appears to be based. The California author's latest novel is The Secret Memoirs of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

  * * * *

  1.

  Chuffing, snuffling, snorting, the bear circles the tent knocking around an empty pot, the ground sagging under his weight, his rancid-sweet bear smell saturating the moist air. An aluminum support for the supply tent clatters to the ground, startling the bear. The bear huffs angrily, bouncing back, shaking the earth.

  "Somebody is curious out there,” he says, amused, getting up out of his sleeping bag, moving, as he does, like a kid playing dodge ball, swiftly, clumsily, boisterously.

  "Don't go out there,” she whispers.

  "Don't worry. I just have to defend my territory."

  He unzips the tent and yells, “Hey, get out of here!"

  As he steps out into the dark.

  * * * *

  2.

  Rain rattles down on the nylon tent. A gust of wind pops the outside fly. The bare branches of the alder trees clack against each other like the bones of skeletons.

  It is late in the season, early October, on a rugged peninsula in Alaska. The air is cold and damp, the wind chilling, the light dim and sepia-toned. The weary sun barely inches over the horizon before sagging again below the mountains. The mud flats that stretch a quarter of a mile to the ocean at low tide are empty. A few male bears crowd the creek, aggressive, hungry still.

  The man and the woman had planned to leave, had indeed left once already, taking a floatplane to Kodiak Island, intending to catch a jet to Anchorage, then on to Los Angeles. They were looking forward to their return to Malibu, to the dull predictability of traffic, sun, and socializing. To television and cell phones. To a much-needed hibernation of the human soul—for the fight for survival in the wild, while exhilarating, is exhausting.

  Gillian's departing ticket was for two weeks ago. He had tried to leave with her. But the airline wouldn't change his ticket unless he paid the difference between his discounted fare and the normal price—airline policy—which, of course, was more than the cost of his original ticket. So they returned to the Grizzly Maze. After expressing indignation—"Goddamn corporate bullshit!” After he expressed indignation. After he was asked by security guards to leave the terminal.

  * * * *

  3.

  The floatplane took off, an orange bumblebee buzzing up into the air, bouncing on the turbulence, leaving them. Neither of them moved until they no longer heard the plane's engine.

  They looked around as if assessing their chances for survival. Their gear, in orange and green waterproof bags, was lined up on the shore. It was only for two more weeks ... and yet ... they were so alone. It felt as if they were facing a self-imposed punitive sentence.

  They were there because the world of men had gone desperately wrong, and they clung to something wild and savage and real that made sense to them. One last glimpse before returning to that other world. Yet they felt a strange foreboding, as if they had disobeyed the warning of their fairy godmother—Leave at midnight. Don't look back!

  The world they returned to appeared to be fading, its color seeping away in a slow dissolve. As if a spell had worn off, and the summer paradise of turquoise lakes, blueberries, and salmon-filled creeks was slipping away into a twilight zone, a barren moonscape, dun and dingy.

  The sedge grasses were dusty brown, five feet high, waving as if combed by an invisible brush. The yellow leaves of the willows swayed and fluttered in the wind. The sky was violently alive: heavy gray cumulonimbus, speeding white cirrus, weighty black altostratus, churning nimbostratus, clouds so dense and volatile that one could almost hear them rumbling in on enormous wheels.

  The bears should be gone, but several older males, underweight and hungry, lingered, prowling and scavenging. Restless. Like thieving crows, they grabbed what they could, swiping up the cohos, the dying salmon that had already spawned. The bears sensed the winter would be long and severe. They felt the long-nailed witch called starvation scratching at the soft part of their bellies.

  They were there, alone and together, man, woman, bear.

  His body relaxed as soon as the plane disappeared into the mist. He turned and looked
at her almost as if he were surprised she was there. His anger was gone, his eyes taking on a gray, watery look.

  He looked chastened, she thought, wearing the face of a young man dropped off in front of his childhood home, who must pick up his bags, enter the house, and face the parents he fled in shame. Or perhaps he wore the face of a soldier returning from war, a soldier who planned never to leave home again.

  He has returned to finish something, she thought.

  Without speaking, he threw a pack on his back, picked up a bag in either hand, and trudged up the hill.

  * * * *

  4.

  "I'm glad you came back with me,” he says while playing with the ends of her hair, making a brush to tickle his nose. “I'm such an asshole sometimes. It's just like every time I go back, someone tries to break my balls."

  He means back to civilization.

  Their sleeping bags are zipped together, their legs intertwined. He tucks his long white feet between her calves to warm his toes. Their breath is visible inside the tent. Their noses are moist and red. They lean on their elbows, tilting toward the Coleman lamp, which gives a little heat, nibbling trail mix to keep their jaws moving and warm.

  "I've got my bears, I've got my woman, I've got good munchies. It doesn't get any better than this."

  Gillian smiles, knowing that he is as uncomfortable as she is in the gloomy cold. He is a bon vivant, a self-indulgent surfer-dude sort of fellow, not an outdoorsman at all, not really, but one who endures discomfort for his bears. She smiles, loving his daily refrain, It doesn't get any better than this, a California cliché, a prayer perhaps, a patter of words he uses to express what? Gratitude? Happiness? Hope?

  He lifts her chin to kiss her. “I wish we didn't have to leave."

  But of course they must. The bears are departing for their dens up in the mountains. Soon there will only be snow and sleet storms. Soon even the sun will leave and the maze will return to Hades, to alder tunnels of darkness, skies filled with clouds, black and heavy, oppressing the earth. No place for any living creature.

  "We'll always have Malibu,” she says, inching her hand up his chest under his flannel shirt and his thermal underwear, her fingers cold, tickling him. He grins, aroused, the very word Malibu conjuring up images of hot tubs and sun and sex, long lingering meals of fresh vegetables and fish, pink sunrises, and midnight swims under the stars.