I heard footsteps and a shadow appeared in the doorway. I kept my shoulder pressed against the hole. I wasn't moving a muscle; I didn't dare breathe. I could see the shadow through a crack. He came forward just enough to pick up two more buckets and walked out again. His eyes didn't have time to adjust to the dark interior. I pulled my arm out and went to the corner where I could see him.
I jerked my head back as the door of the cabin opened. The one in overalls leaned out the door. "I heated up the beans for breakfast," he said.
"Beans all we got?"
"Tiny's 'sposed to go to the store."
The guy with the buckets peeled off his gloves and apron, and the two men disappeared into the cabin. I slipped around to the front and went into the open door of the smokehouse. I saw what I needed right away. One method of cooking methamphetamine requires red phosphorus. Meth cooks get it from matches or road flares. I grabbed a flare from a box and ducked back out the door. I went around to my hole and reached inside the old smokehouse. With my pocketknife I sawed on the gas hose until I heard a satisfying hiss. I pulled the cap off the road flare and scratched it across the end. The flare burst to life, spitting a bright red flame into the cool morning air. I tossed it through the hole towards the other side of the building and ran for the outhouse, pulling my gun from behind my back as I ran.
Delbert Fish was just opening the door of the outhouse when I hit it with my shoulder. I jerked the door back open to find him holding his nose, blood already running down his face. He was groaning, and while he was still dazed, I ran the action on the gun and pointed the muzzle right at the bridge of his nose. His eyes widened as he looked down the bore of the forty-five.
"Stay quiet and you may live through this," I said. He just blinked as I grabbed a handful of filthy undershirt and jerked him out of the outhouse.
I was expecting a spectacular explosion and fireball about now, a diversion so I could get Fish out of there, but what I heard was the distinctive rumble of a Harley as Tiny Buckman rode out of the woods on the four-wheeler trail on an old Panhead Harley-Davidson. A look of consternation wrinkled his brow, and quickly turned to blind rage as he recognized me. He reached down and brought out a short-barreled, lever-action rifle from a scabbard on the bike; he stepped off the Harley, letting it fall. I turned to run, shoving Fish back against the outhouse. He grabbed onto me as the whole outfit tipped over the side of the hill. The drop-off was steep and our combined weight splintered the small building. I lost any grip I had on Fish as we both tumbled head over heels down the steep slope. Small saplings and underbrush slowed our descent, but the rocky hillside took its toll on exposed flesh. I came to an abrupt stop, flat on my back, staring up through the canopy of oaks at a darkening sky. I turned my head to see Fish lying in a heap next to me. The steepness of the slope was interrupted by an old logging road that had stopped our tumble.
A loud whoosh and blast sent sheets of rusty tin and weathered boards raining down through the trees. The propane had finally ignited. I hoped that it would distract Tiny and buy me some time. I grabbed a dazed Fish by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
"I can't breathe!" he managed to say. He was holding his side and wheezing, his face screwed up in pain.
"You'll live," I said. "We've got to move." His knees started to buckle, so I gave him a hard kick in the butt.
"You're gonna kill me!"
"No, dumb-ass, I'm going to keep you from getting killed. Etta Mae hired me to find you."
His face was smeared with blood and dirt; a green sumac leaf was stuck to his cheek. I started to put his arm over my shoulder to help him, but he came to life and jerked away from me. He looked confused. He didn't know whether to believe me or not.
A clap of thunder echoed through the valley. Fish and I stared at each other. We both heard the rush of feet on the soft leaves followed by a low growl. I reached behind my back for my gun, but it was gone. I must have lost it in the tumble down the hill. I watched helplessly as a brindle-colored ball of teeth and muscle shot out of the woods, rocketing toward Fish. He put up an arm even as he screamed. The dog launched itself at his throat, catching the arm instead between powerful jaws. Fish went down on his back, howling in pain and terror. The dog had its tail end toward me as it jerked its massive head back and forth, pulling on Fish's arm as if to tear it off. With the classic two steps of a punter, I kicked up between the dog's legs with a heavy thump that even sounded like a football. The dog yelped as it flipped up over its victim, landing in the trail where it lay thrashing in agony, its testicles crushed.
I grabbed Fish by his good arm and pulled him up. "Let's go!" I yelled.
We both heard it at the same time, something else coming noisily through the brush. I caught a glimpse of another dog, this one struggling, dragging a length of chain that was catching on the foliage, slowing the dog's progress.
"Oh God, it's Rosie!" Fish looked at me pleadingly, his arm bleeding and useless, hanging at his side.
"Down the trail," I yelled. "Run!"
He didn't have to be told twice. Fish was surprisingly fast, and I was right behind him. The old logging road was dim and overgrown, but it was much easier going than bushwhacking through the timber. It curved around the brow of the hill toward where I had tied the mule.
The dog was gaining on us. The road was easier running for Rosie, dragging her chain. I was looking back at her when Fish stopped so suddenly, I almost bowled him over. He bent over with his good hand on his knee, coughing and wheezing, trying to get his breath. Fish was winded and bleeding so badly that even I could follow the trail he was leaving. He wasn't going to make it. Not like this.
Rosie barked and growled; she slowed and crouched slightly as she squared up at me. I knew that I should find a weapon and stand my ground, but I couldn't help myself. I turned and ran straight down the side of the mountain.
The dog came crashing after me as I started down the hill. I jumped over a deadfall, nearly going down. The dog tried to go around and the chain momentarily snagged. I kept running, but the terrain was getting steeper, and I was doing more falling than running. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move off to my left. At first I thought it was a deer; it startled me enough that I lost my footing and tumbled headlong down the rocky slope. I landed hard against a big oak tree.
The dog was almost on me. I knew that I couldn't get away from it now. I picked up a rock the size of a softball, hoping to crack the demon's skull when it came.
It wasn't a deer that I had seen. It was the big sorrel mule that I had ridden in on. I guess I spooked him, running down the side of the mountain. I had looped the reins around a branch, and Abner had pulled them loose, gaining his freedom. He had his oversized ears laid back, and when that snarling, snapping pit bull came by, the big mule struck with the agility of a snake and sunk his teeth into the nape of the dog's neck. Rosie was a pit-bull bitch that must have weighed fifty or sixty pounds, but the mule picked her up, twisted his head sideways, and slapped the dog into the rocky ground in the blink of an eye. I ducked as the chain whipped around and smacked the trunk of the tree that I was lying against. I have seen broncs in the rodeos of eastern Oklahoma that would go straight up and land on all four feet at once: a bone-jarring experience for a cowboy. Abner went up in the air, arched his back, and landed with all four hooves on the stunned dog; the air went out of her lungs like a smashed accordion. The act was so violent that I found myself cringing for the dog. The mule grabbed an ear in his teeth and shook the dog once more, but there was no fight left. The dog was quite dead.
Abner let go and backed away quietly. He looked at me, perhaps waiting for my approval. I spoke to him softly and put a hand out to gather the reins. He calmly reached over and stripped the leaves from a sapling and began munching, seemingly content. I patted his neck and praised him as I led him back up to the trail.
Fish hadn't moved. He was sobbing as he held the weight of his damaged arm with the good one. He jerked his head up when he he
ard us coming. The terror in his eyes morphed into anger when he saw that it was me.
"I'm bleedin' to death, you bastard!"
"You're lucky she went after me," I said. "Now shut up and hold still." I took out my knife and cut one of the leather tie-downs from the saddle. The dog had severed an artery on Fish's arm. I tied the leather above his elbow as a tourniquet, but he had already lost a lot of blood and was looking pale.
Fish was too weak to walk, so I helped him up onto the saddle. I was hoping that he could hang on until I could get him down to the highway. I was leading Abner, but also counting on the mule to find the way down. The logging road turned back up the ridge.
"Abner, I hope you know the way out. I sure as hell don't."
The mule turned and I followed, continuing up the logging road. I walked beside him, holding Fish in the saddle. The man was bent over the saddle horn, barely able to hold on. We came to a small patch of cedars that I thought I recognized from the trip in. The mule pushed his way through the limbs into a small clearing. It was the end of the road. Fish groaned and started to slide from the saddle. I caught him and helped him to the ground.
The forest canopy was replaced by angry, black clouds. The thunder was rumbling again, and the first few drops of rain began to patter on the cedars and the clumps of grass that struggled to survive in the rocky ground. The sky opened up and the rain began to fall as if dumped from a bucket. The sound of it drowned out all the other senses, and I was beginning to relax, thinking we had escaped.
This was when the four-wheeler burst through the trees and skidded to a halt. Tiny stood up on the machine and leveled his carbine even as I pulled Fish to his feet. Abner, spooked by the machine, brayed and ran off through the cedars. Bullets twanged through the branches as I shoved Fish through the evergreens and out of sight of our pursuer. I couldn't see where we were going as I pushed Fish forward. He began shoving back, clawing at me and screaming. Tiny was running after us now, I could hear him grunting with effort and growling like some kind of animal. Fish was pushing back on me.
I felt Fish's full weight on the handful of undershirt that I was gripping. I tried to pull him up as I realized that the ground was falling out beneath us. We had broken through the cedars only to find a bluff. The rain was beating down now, but I could hear the river below us. It must have been at least forty feet down, and I had no idea how deep the water was, but I gave Fish a mighty shove, and together we dropped into the void.
I let go of my prisoner during our descent. I found myself flailing my arms, trying to keep upright. It seemed like an eternity in the air. I plunged into the cold water of the stream, a churning, frothy torrent. The water was dark as I clawed my way back to the surface, gasping for precious air.
I broke the surface and heard a cough next to me. I turned to see Fish disappearing beneath the foam. I grabbed at him and managed to snag his long hair. I was vaguely aware of a shadow descending upon us. A mighty kathump! seemed to shake the river itself, as Tiny's massive bulk slapped into the rocks next to the stream. I caught a glimpse of the big man's empty stare, his face flattened against the rocks of the riverbank, as the current swept us away. It was not a pleasant sight.
I don't remember much after that. I guess I managed to keep Fish's head above water until some kayakers spotted us near the state highway bridge. Two tanned and athletic-looking fellows dragged us out of the rushing water. My teeth were chattering with the cold. Fish didn't even have enough energy to shiver. One of the kayakers had a signal on his cell and was calling 911.
"Am I gonna make it?" Fish asked. His speech was slurred and his face had a ghastly pallor.
"You better," I said. I would hate to face Miss Etta Mae if I got her nephew killed. "By the way, Delbert, can you swim at all?"
"Not a lick," he said, weakly.
"A Fish that can't swim." I just shook my head.
Delbert Fish testified at his trial that Seymour "Tiny" Buckman had beaten and raped the girl. The DNA evidence agreed with him. I guess Miss Etta Mae was right that Delbert Fish was not guilty of that crime. She was willing to ignore his culpability on a host of other infractions that sent him back into the Arkansas penal system. She volunteered for a bible study through Prison Fellowship, so she could work with Delbert. I don't know if Fish ever repented, but I took the two hundred that Etta Mae offered. It didn't seem like much for what I did, but I got the ten grand in reward money. Besides, the woman had spanked me for something I didn't even do at a vacation bible school one time. I figured she owed me that much.
The Arkansas state police seemed to appreciate the fact that I had burned down a major methamphetamine lab. They rounded up most of a biker gang that had been distributing the stuff in the four-state area. I went back to the site of the old still to retrieve my .45 semiauto. My dad had bought the gun for sixteen dollars after he got out of the service, and it had sentimental value. The old fellow who owned the store closed it up for a day and took me fishing. That little creek had more smallmouth, and bigger ones, than I had ever seen before. It's a wonder that Field and Stream hasn't done a feature on it yet. After a couple of write-ups in the local papers, I got another call from one of those big-time private-detective agencies. It was tempting, I must admit. But how much does a man really need to be happy? I think I'll just flag down the drink-cart gal for another Budweiser, finish the back nine, and meet Karen, my on-again-off-again girlfriend, at the Nineteenth Hole. I think it's all-you-can-eat crab legs tonight.
Copyright © 2012 by Jim Davis. Black Mask Magazine title, logo, and mask device copyright © 2012 by Keith Alan Deutsch. Licensed by written permission.
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BEAUTY
by Rubem Fonseca | 1644 words
EQMM has published several short stories by Rubem Fonseca over the years. As we have noted on past occasions, the author is one of Brazil's best-known literary figures, a writer whose work is considered groundbreaking for its gritty and realistic depiction of life in the cities of his native country. What we have not mentioned before is that the author was once a policeman in Rio de Janeiro, where he rose to the rank of police commissioner.
Translated from the Portuguese by Clifford E. Landers
Then Elza told me: "When I see myself in the mirror I feel like dying. I look at photographs of when I was twenty, you remember me when I was twenty, don't you? And I think, how did this happen? I forget that, like someone said, time is the worst poison of all. I should have died when I was twenty, it doesn't matter how, run over, murdered, a brick falling on my head. If I'd known I was going to end up like this, look at me, just look at me, go ahead and look at me, if I'd known I was going to end up like this, I would've killed myself. But would it do any good? Do you believe in the soul?"
"Soul?"
"Anima, in Latin. In theology, the incorporeal, nonmaterial, invisible substance created by God in his image; the source and engine of every human act."
"Of course."
"And the soul also ages, doesn't it?"
"I don't know. If there's life after death, it's a noncorporeal existence . . ."
"I read in a book by a philosopher that the soul ages too."
"Ages?"
"Yes. But I don't know what he meant by that. When I saw myself in the mirror I thought, When I die is my soul going to have this decadent, horrible look?"
"If the soul has a noncorporeal existence—" I began to say, but Elza interrupted, crying convulsively, saying between sobs, "I should have killed myself when I was twenty, when I was twenty . . ."
I remembered her at twenty. A beautiful woman. Now, sitting with me at the bar, was an ugly, fat woman, aged and depressed. Yes, Elza should have killed herself, or else someone should have had the kindness to do it for her, an unequaled gesture of generosity and nobility.
I went home and got two slices of moldy bread from the refrigerator and placed them in a small toaster oven, planning to make a sandwich. But then I realized I didn't have anything to put between the slices
of toast. Go out and buy something at the corner supermarket? I didn't feel like eating; those slices of toasted bread were enough. I wanted to think. A human being's beauty is a joy that's short-lived; its enchantment and quality don't increase, they disappear. Elza was right: For a woman as beautiful as she was at twenty, old age is worse than death.
Elza is my patient. I'm a doctor, a general practitioner. Before getting my medical degree I studied chemistry, but I changed majors a year before graduating. I wanted a profession in which I could help people, so I chose medicine. If patients call me late at night to complain about a problem, I respond completely willingly and if necessary go to their home. But for a long time now I've been contemplating a gesture of generosity, a truly transcendental kindness, something sublime never before achieved. I lie awake nights thinking about it. I needed to show my generosity in a different way, not merely by attending to people who can't pay for the consultation, or by giving alms, but by something quite different . . . uniquely sublime.
I live alone and when I leave the office I go straight home. For dinner I have some soup that the maid leaves for me. I like being alone; by the time I arrive, the maid has already been gone for a long time, and when I leave early for the office she hasn't gotten in yet. I can't even recall what she looks like, don't know if she's white, black, or biracial, or Chinese, or a dwarf. I do know I pay her a good salary and make no demands.
ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE Page 15
