EQMM, May 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "And the earth brought forth grass and herb yielding seed after his kind and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind: and God saw that it was good."

  These words now struck me with an uncommon power, as if they had sprung from my own thinking. I looked to Priscilla, but she was staring into the fire. I called her by name and still she did not look at me. I reached out, touched her chin, and turned her face towards mine.

  "Priscilla,” I said. “That is your name now. A name you must trust in and be satisfied with. It is a strong name, and with it the Lord shall recognize you as his own. Do you accept this name? Do you accept the Lord as He who walks beside you always?"

  She looked through me without any expression at all. Behind us at the table, Eliza read softly to Jane. I thought to myself, If that will not move you, perhaps this will. I drew Harry's parcel from my jacket and did not look at her as I unwrapped it, trembling as I was with anticipation. Revealed to me there was a pendant of bone, upon which some strange pagan figure had been carved. Some rude bird or beast. I sensed Priscilla watching as I turned the relic over in my hands. When at last I looked to her she met my gaze and for the first time truly saw me. Her stare was searching, as if it were I who had been silent for so long.

  I said nothing, for just then Harold came in from the barn. I wrapped up the pendant and put it away. Priscilla turned her stare into the fire. I had not the will to do any writing and so bedded down like the others. But rest was long in coming, my mind unbridled by all that had occurred. At last I prayed to Him for guidance, mouthing silently the words, and soon fell headlong into sleep. And He heard me, and set me dreaming.

  I dreamt of my own dear wife the night of her passing. There she lay, cursing the child that was killing her. Her face wrought with fear, for she knew her words horrible and mistaken. In the dream, as in life, I could not bear it and made everyone leave, even the doctor. I could not bear for them to look in on her in such a state. In the dream, all went dark. I felt myself falling away from the scene at hand and it was by some odd force that I regained my sight. But now I was alone in the room, for He in His merciful grace had come for her. I knelt by the bed and pressed my face to the sheets and found them cold. The creak of the door bade me turn and rise. There she stood, as sound and still as something carved from stone. Through silence alone she beckoned me. I rose to my feet and took a step and then another. She turned and fled. And though I made to follow her, beyond that door lay the thickest forest. I called her name and stumbled through the brush, but twilight fell and I lost her to a thousand trees.

  Out of this I woke to the dark and a worried voice.

  "She's gone."

  Eliza loomed over me, holding a candle. By it, I made out Priscilla's empty bed. Harold stood in the door, peering out into the night.

  "Get the dog,” I said, and pulled on my boots. He turned and looked at me strangely. I cannot remember what he or Eliza might have said then, for I was set on the task. Taking a cover from Priscilla's bed, I scented the dog and watched the creature whine and circle the cabin for a trace. Then we were off through the dark, across the fields and into the woods. As I ran I thought of Priscilla and her searching look and knew it was fear I had seen. I thought of Harry and his murderous intent. The sly, pleading tone of his wicked voice. You got to help us, he had cried, and handed me that devilish parcel, knowing her fear of it would drive her from the safety of my hearth. I envisioned that still, gaunt figure amidst the trees and urged myself forward.

  An hour passed before dawn creased the sky and it was not long after that that I found her, curled up and shivering against a tree. The dog stood by her, barking. I said her name and knelt beside her and took her tenderly in my arms. But she fought at me, gouged my eyes. I dropped her, cursing, and watched her run. She did not get far before I was on her again. Kicking and clawing, she tried to force my hand, but my grasp was tight and I would not let her go. She had come several miles following the creek, and it was these same miles I now tracked over with her in my arms.

  At the sound of the dog Eliza ran out to meet us. “Poor, dear child,” she said, and took her from me.

  I hardly spoke, merely collected my things and said I would be back in the evening. All day I worked at the edge of the forest. I worked and waited for Harry, and it was not long before dusk that I heard his call.

  "Preacher,” said the voice, and I went into the woods and there he stood like before, a fugitive from all that is deemed good by Him. He asked me would I help him see her, and I nodded, and beheld with a quickening terror his devilish smile.

  "When?” he asked.

  It was then that I hit him. He was not expecting it, and he staggered back and before he fell I had laid into him once more. We went down together, the both of us grappling and gasping for breath. He had a hold on me now, but I am the stronger man, and taller, and managed to turn him and pin him down from behind. Though he thrashed against my weight, a rap to his skull made silence of his struggle. I rose, frenzied with exertion, and went out to the clearing where I'd left my things. From my sack I took the rope I had brought and went back to tie his hands. When this was done I took up my fowling piece and nudged him with it. He stirred and cursed and I told him to get up. This he managed to do, stumbling so he nearly fell. Walk, I said, and kept my distance as there hurled from his mouth such obscenities I did not think even to remember them. Twice on our way back he refused to go on, and twice I urged him forward with the tip of my piece. As we came into the yard I called for Harold and he appeared from the barn and met us.

  "In God's name,” he said in wonder.

  "The very one,” I answered. “Bring out Priscilla."

  He looked at me hard, but did not say a word. He went into the cabin. A moment passed before they emerged, Harold and Eliza with Priscilla supported between them. At the sight of her Harry fell penitently to his knees and began to weep. I did not look at Harold or Eliza, knowing they wished me to say what it was I'd done and why. But I was intent upon Priscilla's face, and no words came save those I imagined her to speak:

  In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me.

  For here, before me, knelt a murderer, a man for whom nights had been sleeplessly met. A man at the end of his wicked tether, now helpless as a child.

  All of this she saw and understood.

  Harry cursed me through his sobs, and it was at that moment that Priscilla uttered a sound, and tearing herself from Eliza's grasp, ran raging towards him. With but a step I was between them and caught her against my chest. She thrashed and clawed at me, and I dropped my piece and grasped her wrists. In such a way I held her until Harold and Eliza could pull her away. Only then did she crumple, drained of all spirit. Together, Harold and Eliza carried her back to the cabin. I turned to Harry and said his name. Still on his knees, he would not look up at me. “Lie down,” I said, and this he did willingly, docilely, as if preparing for baptism. With what rope remained I tied his feet, then left him for the barn where I saddled my horse. Two horses I needed now, and so I led out Harold's good mare as well and led them both to where Harry lay. Harold had come out of the cabin and watched me through the twilight. I had to call him twice before he came and helped me swing Harry like a sack over the back of the mare. With Harold's horse in tow I rode to town.

  At the jail I told the sentinels whom I had. They clamored for Mr. Corey and when he appeared he asked me how it happened. I said as how Harry had found me at work by the woods and set on me without mercy.

  Mr. Corey shook his head. “That fool boy."

  I rode back through the dark and put away the horses. When I came into the cabin, Eliza rose to meet me.

  "It's as if she's died,” she said. I looked to where Priscilla lay curled in the bed, her face to the wall. How far from death she seemed to me at that moment!

  To Eliza I said, “She has seen there is nothing to fear. I am sure it is relief she feels."

  I cleared my throat and said, “He hang
s tomorrow,” and taking a lantern, excused myself to the barn where, in thanks to Him, I have written all of this down.

  * * * *

  14 March

  Mr. Corey took me in to see him. He sat slumped against the wall, his hands still tied behind him. Not till I said his name did he raise his face to meet me.

  I said, “The Lord is merciful. Repent and He will cherish you as His own."

  He fixed his glare on me and I was glad his hands were tied. He said, “I always knew you were one of ‘em, a preacher ridin’ about with Damnation on his lips, spreadin’ the horror of Hell and Devil to everyone he sees. Well, leave now, ‘cause I hear nothin’ in that traitorous talk."

  "Surely you do not mean that,” I said.

  He laughed. “What is Eternal Damnation to this place?"

  I said, “It is a state like none other. Your soul boils as the heavens cloud over. Never again will you see the light of day."

  He said, “You should scribble a book for all that clever speech.” He spit again and cleared his throat and inched himself upright against the wall. “What'll happen to her now?"

  "I will care for her myself,” I answered.

  A fit came over him. He seethed and trembled and struggled against his bonds. “You're a devil,” he said.

  "Do you have a Bible?” I asked. “If you don't have a Bible, I'm bound to give you one."

  He shook his head and looked away. “Nothin’ from you I'd touch now."

  I knelt and laid the Bible I'd been holding in one hand beside him. “I'll see to it they untie your hands.” He looked at it and then at me.

  "I cannot read."

  "The Lord can still forgive you if you ask,” I said.

  When I came out of the jail, a crowd was gathering round the scaffold, but I did not stay to see him hang. I started back, along the road through the woods. The day was warm, a blessing from His High and Solitary Majesty. Smoke was in the air, brush burned by farmers who would, in the mingled soil and ashes, sow their crop. I could not help but think of Creation. I dismounted and knelt there in the grass by the road and said the words to myself, feeling now that all might be made new, scathed yet unscathed.

  And the earth brought forth grass and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind.

  And here a dimness came over my eyes, a twilight through which the world shone bleary and the birds and the wind came only to silence. His grace had settled over me. I could not stand or make a sound. The sun, His hearth, loomed near and by that fire's warmth and light a life moved swiftly through its course. My own life, the shuttered dark giving way to trees and fields, a cabin whose hearth gleamed sweetly. There she lay, awake and waiting. She rose to meet me, opened her mouth to speak. l

  Copyright © 2010 Will Dunlap

  * * * *

  AUTHOR'S Acknowledgements: Historical detail is drawn from “The Autobiography of Jacob Bower: a Frontier Baptist Preacher and Missionary” as well as Sanford C. Cox's Recollections of the Early Settlement of the Wabash Valley, from which this story's first sentence is taken.

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  Department: 2009 READERS AWARD

  * * * *

  Mick Herron

  * * * *

  Doug Allyn

  * * * *

  Clark Howard

  * * * *

  Dave Zeltserman

  * * * *

  We have a tie this year, and a newcomer enters the winner's circle: Mick Herron's “Dolphin Junction” and Doug Allyn's “An Early Christmas” both take first place!

  Novel readers will know Mick Herron as the author of the thriller Reconstruction and four P.I. novels featuring Zoe Boehm. Hot off the presses from Soho is another Herron novel, Slow Horses. The Oxford, England, author is clearly equally adept at short-story writing. His “Proof of Love” (EQMM 9-10/08) was nominated for last year's BarryAward. Like it, this year's first-place “Dolphin Junction” (12/09) is filled with the kind of menace, psychological insight, and unexpected twists that EQMM readers relish.

  Past Edgar Allan Poe Award winner Doug Allyn has claimed the Readers Award's top spot many times. “An Early Christmas” (1/09), this year's first-place tale, is darker than usual, but Mr. Allyn is unfailingly skilled at making readers care about the characters he creates, whatever his plot or setting. The short-story form is the Michigan musician-turned-writer's forte, but he's also an accomplished novelist whose two latest books were recently published in Europe.

  Also a multiple Readers Award winner, Clark Howard claimed second place this year for his dark adventure tale “White Wolves” (11/09). Set in Alaska, the story demonstrates the past Edgar winner's brilliant evocation of setting and the tension that infuses his work. In 2009, Clark Howard received (to a standing ovation) the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer for Lifetime Achievement. As well as being favorites of EQMM readers, his stories regularly claim places in best-of-the year anthologies.

  Third place this year goes to Dave Zeltserman for “Julius Katz” (9-10/09), a story that contains a most unusual character: a tie-clip-sized electronic device. His new Readers Award scroll is far from the only recognition the New Jersey author has received lately. His novel Small Crimes was named one of the top five mystery novels of 2008by NPR and one of the best novels of 2008 by the Washington Post. A second novel in that series, Pariah, appeared on the Washington Post's list of best novels of 2009.

  Fourth ... “Famous Last Words” by Doug Allyn

  Fifth ... “The Valhalla Verdict” by Doug Allyn

  Sixth ... “For the Jingle” by Jack Fredrickson

  Seventh ... “The Bleeding Chair” by Janwillem van de Wetering

  Eighth ... “The Case of the Piss-Poor Gold” by Lee Goldberg

  Ninth ... “Central Islin, U.S.A.” by Lou Manfredo

  Tenth ... “Dummy” by Brian Muir

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: LITTLE OLD LADIES by Simon Brett

  "The great British mystery writers, P.D. James, Ruth Rendell, and Brett, have a way of making murder so, well, civilized,” the MilwaukeeJournal Sentinel once said in reviewing Simon Brett's work. The statement certainly holds for this new short story, set in a quiet English village. The author has also completed the eleventh of a series of novels set in the fictional West Sussex village of Fethering: Readers won't want to miss The Shooting in the Shop (Macmillan UK, March 2010).

  Brenda Winshott was an unwilling investigator of crime. But then she'd never been one to push herself forward. Given a more forceful manner, she might well have been elected Chairwoman of the Morton-cum-Budely Village Committee. She certainly had the administrative skills and people skills to discharge the job efficiently. But because she generally kept so quiet, no one considered her for the role. Instead, the members had elected as “Chair” (an appellation that Brenda Winshott silently detested) Joan Fullerton, whose administrative skills were minimal and people skills nonexistent.

  But Joan Fullerton was a woman of unassailable conviction in her own rightness. The thought had never occurred to her that she might be wrong. Throughout a long marriage, she had worn down her husband to such a point that when he finally found peace, there was so little of his personality left that he did not so much die as simply evaporate. Her two sons had been subjected to a similar emotional bludgeoning, with the result that they had almost as little will left in them as their deceased father. Piers had repeated the errors of the previous generation by marrying Lynette, who was almost as bossy as her mother-in-law. She ran Morton-cum-Budely's only restaurant, The Garlic Press, which prided itself on its locally sourced organic menu, and where her husband acted as an ineffectual greeter. Tristram, the younger son, far too terrified by seeing what had happened to his father ever to risk taking on a wife himself, was equally ineffectual in his job as a French teacher in a nearby girls’ school, Grantley House. Neither son would dare to admit, even to themselves, how much they loathed their mot
her.

  Nor did Joan Fullerton endear herself to the other residents of Morton-cum-Budely. It was a Devon village of almost excessive prettiness, populated largely by the retired. And since men were made of frailer stuff, most of those who survived were little old ladies, punctiliously polite to everyone they met face-to-face, and equally poisonous about them as soon as their backs were turned.

  So the loathing in which Joan Fullerton was held by the entire village would never have been guessed from the genteel charm with which all the locals greeted her in her perambulations up and down the High—and indeed only—street of Morton-cum-Budely. For Brenda Winshott, naturally quiet, there was perhaps not so much difference between her public behaviour to and private opinion of Joan Fullerton, but in others the contrast was more marked. Queenie Miles, who lived in Yew Tree Cottage and had always felt that chairing the village committee was her birthright, never ceased from vilifying the incumbent “Chair,” except in Joan Fullerton's presence, when her unctuous obsequiousness was as exaggerated as her inner hatred.

  The social life of Morton-cum-Budely had been compared by one rather venturesome local to “a stationary cruise.” Gainful employment did not feature in anyone's daily routine, and housework was generally done by women shipped in from adjacent, but less picturesque and well-heeled, villages. At lunchtimes some of the residents might meet in the local pub, The Old Trout; substantial cream teas were ingested at the Chintz Cafe; and in the early evening there was usually an exchange of gin and tonics in one or other of the daintily appointed cottages. At all of these encounters the same topics of conversation were recycled, rather like the air in a hotel lounge. Excitements, except for the regular anno domini demise of the older of the little old ladies, were rare. In recent years the only mystery in Morton-cum-Budely to make the pages of the local newspaper had been solved by the headline “Dead Ducks: Ferrets Blamed."