"Where in the hell did you get that thing?” Kevin asked breathlessly. “It's wicked!"
Kieran had been so engrossed in gluing on the broken hand that he had failed to hear his brother approach. He jumped to his feet, placing himself protectively between the statue of Kali and Kevin, all his plans to keep her hidden amongst the clutter of their tottering, one-car garage instantly dashed by his brother's unexpected appearance.
"She's mine!” was all he could think to say.
"Easy, my little psycho . . . who said any differently, huh?” He advanced on Kieran's prize, unable to take his eyes from it. “Oh yeah, my man, you have scored big with this. She's Hindu, right? Goddess of something, right?"
Kieran held his ground, suddenly uneasy. Kevin did not sound right—the rapid-fire speech and questions were unlike him. If he didn't know something, he would usually act as if it were unimportant or trivial; it was out of character for him to show enthusiasm or undue interest.
"Don't touch her,” Kieran warned.
Kevin was standing over both boy and carving now, scrutinizing the amazing figure, his face a rapacious mask, his eyes all dark pupil. “What does somebody pay for something like this?” he asked aloud. “That's what I'd love to know. A few thousand wouldn't surprise me . . . maybe more."
Not once did he actually address his little brother. Kieran felt as if Kevin did not see him at all, and he didn't like the odor that seemed to pulse from his brother's sweat-sheened skin. It reminded him of hospitals and industrial disinfectant. He took a step back involuntarily and collided with the statue of Kali. Even as he spun about he could hear it totter on the loose wooden planks of the garage floor, and only just caught it in time. The newly reattached appendage flew off with his clumsy embrace and skittered beneath a bench.
He turned and shouted into his brother's face, “Get out of here, Kevin! And don't touch her, you stupid crankhead, she's mine."
Kevin took a surprised step back, his face pale and blank. “No one said different . . . I hear you. Whoa . . . what has gotten into little brother? You gone all schizoid or something? Just came in to check on you—Mom's a little worried, that's all . . . what with the black eye and all, and you being more of a psycho than usual, that kind of thing. I could give a rat's ass myself."
He took another step back and his face grew crafty and bold. “But if I did want . . . that,” he pointed at the voluptuous warrior, “I'd take it . . . hear me?” He stuck his tongue out in unconscious imitation of the object of their dispute, then withdrew it again.
"No, you won't,” Kieran blazed back.
"You've got to sleep sometime,” Kevin teased. “Not me, though. I can stay awake for days.” The next step back took him out the door and Kieran was left with only the medical stench that trailed his brother like a following ghost.
For the next three nights, Kieran slept on a pallet in the garage at the foot of Kali.
* * * *
The morning of the third night, Kieran was unexpectedly greeted by his mother when he came into the kitchen from the garage. He knew instantly that something was wrong; she stood between him and the cereal boxes in the cabinet, still in her housecoat and smoking nervously.
"I need to know what's going on,” she began, “why you are sleeping in the garage, for God's sake, and where is your brother?” Her words were rapid and urgent, and her anxiety frightened Kieran.
"It's stuffy in my room because that window still sticks. . . . “
"Stop that,” she demanded. “I don't have time to listen to that nonsense just now. Where is Kevin? Did you know he hasn't been here—or at school—for three days? When is the last time you saw your brother?"
Kieran was stunned into silence by his mother's vehemence, even as he struggled to understand the situation—Kevin was missing? Her fear entered him like the wet, charred smell that still hung over the neighborhood. Tears stood in her eyes.
"I don't know . . . “ Kieran began weakly; fearing that somehow he might be held responsible, that somehow he might be responsible, though for what, he wasn't certain. “Three nights ago,” he whispered. “I'm pretty sure."
"Three nights ago,” his mother repeated in a near wail. “Oh God,” she cried. “Then it's true, he has been gone that long! When the school called, I thought he had just been playing hooky; it never occurred to me that he wasn't coming home at night. I just thought I was missing him ‘cause of the shift work.
"Why didn't you tell me, Kieran? And why are you sleeping in the garage? What's been happening around here . . . can you please tell me?"
Her pleas cracked that fragile thing that he carried about in his chest, and tears began to leak from his eyes. “I didn't notice he wasn't here,” he confessed, feeling suddenly very ashamed. “I'm sorry, Mom, I'm sorry. We had an argument and . . . “ He trailed off, uncertain how to proceed without revealing his secrets.
"An argument about what?” she asked, sensing a clue, a thread that might lead her to her eldest son. “Tell me."
"Over something of mine,” he hedged. “Something he wanted, but I said no, that's all. I don't think I should have to . . . “
Suddenly, he recalled his bike flying apart on his first attempt at possession of Kali and the words of the old woman, followed by his pummeling at the hands of the fat boy on the night of the actual theft and the inferno that followed, and lastly, he remembered Kevin approaching his hard-won prize, greed and avarice etched into his features, and it was suddenly clear to Kieran what must happen next.
His mother's words finally pierced his thoughts and he looked up to find her crying openly. “I want you to go out, right now, and talk to everybody you know and find out if they've seen Kevin. Are you listening, Kieran? I mean everybody.” She clearly gave little weight to his story of the argument and this relieved him of having to lie about its object.
"Yes, ma'am . . . okay,” he agreed, already turning for the door.
"I'm gonna get on the phone to the department,” she continued, sniffling. “I know Kevin's been a handful and maybe some people think he's delinquent or something, but he's my boy and I'm gonna . . . “
"Wait,” Kieran demanded, alarmed at the thought of the police entering into the matter. Once they arrived, his freedom of movement would be severely curtailed. “Just let me try and find out something,” he pleaded. “Once the cops get involved, no one will say anything."
His mother said nothing, but studied him warily.
* * * *
Now that his mind was made up, Kieran could not return the ominous black carving quickly enough, though he did exercise caution upon lowering her once more into the wagon. His repair of the broken hand was barely visible and it was his desire to return the Dark Mother without further damage.
Kieran didn't bother to wait until night, as he felt certain the old woman knew quite well who had stolen her property in any case. He paused only at the foot of her driveway in order to gather his courage for the last leg of his penitent journey. The house awaited him with the same blank countenance as on his previous visits.
As he hauled the heavy wagon up the smooth drive, the front door silently opened and the old woman, dressed today in scarlet, and accompanied by her eldest son in his grey suit, stepped out onto the porch. Kieran thought they appeared to be expecting him.
Swallowing the knot of fear that threatened to choke him, he completed the final few steps and brought the wagon to a halt at their feet; stopped, brought his hands together, and bowed. They responded in kind. Then the old woman laughed delightedly and pointed with some excitement at the contents of the wagon; even as her son stepped down and carefully lifted the statue of Kali from within and returned it to the spot from which Kieran had taken it. They appeared well pleased altogether.
The son extracted several bills of large denomination from his wallet and offered them to Kieran, who stared at them in bafflement. He backed away, dragging his now-empty wagon with him. “Thank you,” the man said in heavily accented English. “Thank
you very much."
"I just want my brother back,” Kieran said softly, still backing away.
The man appeared puzzled, as if he were having trouble interpreting Kieran's words. “Your brother?” he repeated. “Yes, I hope so. Good luck with that, my young friend."
"We need him back,” Kieran said once more, as the vultures across the street began to launch themselves into the air in their clumsy morning ritual, and the old woman placed newly picked flowers at the feet of Kali.
* * * *
When Kieran returned home, the police had already arrived—his mother had not been able to wait. Kevin was still missing and there was no light he could shed on his brother's disappearance. His mother did not go in to work that day and allowed Kieran to remain at home as well, and after the officers had departed, they spent the entire day together watching old movies on TV wrapped in a comforter on the couch. The phone never rang.
That evening Kieran heated up canned soup and prepared tuna fish sandwiches for their supper, but his mother barely tasted hers, and at some point he must have fallen asleep. The sound of his doorknob rattling brought him instantly to wakefulness and he sat up in bed, puzzled as to how he had gotten there, and switched on his bedside lamp.
Kevin, looking drawn, haggard, and years older than he should, peered at him through fingers raised to shield his tender eyes against the light. “Hey, loser,” he said, his voice sounding dry and unused, “why's Mom asleep on the couch? I miss somethin’ around here?"
Kieran vaulted out of his bed and threw his arms around his bewildered brother, causing him to stagger. “Kevin,” he said hoarsely into the folds of his jacket. “Kevin."
Kevin pushed him away to arm's length and stared blearily at his younger sibling. “I must have,” he rasped, “I must have missed something all right, for all . . . this.” He grinned at Kieran. “Hugging me and all."
"Where have you been? Mom's worried sick about you. Where have you been?” Kieran whispered urgently.
"Been?” Kevin repeated, as if really trying to remember. “Out,” he concluded.
"For three days?” Kieran asked.
"Three days,” he stupidly repeated Kieran's words. “You sure it's been three days, Lil’ Bro'?” He could see from Kieran's expression that he was. “Oh, huh. How ‘bout that? Do you know I have no earthly idea?"
"I thought she had you,” Kieran suddenly sobbed.
"She . . . who?” Kevin asked, puzzled and alarmed at his little brother's unusual display of emotion. But Kieran remained silent.
Kevin knelt down and took his hands. “No, K-man, there's no ‘she’ . . . not that I remember, anyway,” he joshed. “But I'll tell you something, freaky boy, wherever I was, it wasn't good, that much I do know, and I'm not ever gonna go back there again. I mean that, little brother . . . I'm turned inside out."
"Me too,” Kieran agreed, dragging a sleeve across his running nose.
From the darkness of the living room they could hear their mother stir and call out in rising tones, “Kev, is that you, Kevin, honey?"
"Is she gonna rip me a new one?” Kevin asked with a lopsided grin.
"Oh yeah,” Kieran assured him. “She loves you, Kevin . . . me too,” he added quietly.
"I know that,” his brother replied, then turned to face their mother as she thundered down upon them, screaming his name.
Copyright © 2010 David Dean
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Poetry: MYSTERY by Anna Marie Smith
Streetlights:
Trying, in vain, to show the path
Yet, darkness prevails
Mystery rules, holds fast
—and beckons:
Come, apprentice of Agatha,
I will lead you into nether-lands
of swirling brume, and avaricious
hands of mist
—
Where, even the voice of the owl, I have muted
I have stilled the voice that was tonight's
I have erased the page that was today's
Come into the world of rune characters
Where you must write your own verse
Come hither
into my silent world
where nothing is shared
—
Where no other soul is there
to reach for
No landmark to guide your stumbling footstep
This page, which I give you, is blank
You must craft your own poetry
for tonight there is only you
—and me
—
I shall lead you where
no footstep of man has fallen
I will take you into a cryptic expanse of
conundrum and aberration
I'll swirl around you,
obliterating your world
I will pillage from your eyes their sight
I shall hold you in lonely isolation
I am fog
—by Anna Marie Smith
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE YOU-GOTTA-BE-KIDDING KIDNAPPING by William Link
* * * *
Art by Ron Bucalo
* * * *
EQMM's July issue will be distributed, this year, to attendees of the 2010 Malice Domestic Convention in Arlington, Virginia. Receiving the Poirot Award for Outstanding Contributions to the Mystery at the event is William Link, creator and producer, along with Richard Levinson, of some of the best-known TV mysteries of all time, including The Adventures of Ellery Queen and Columbo. EQMM salutes this outstanding writer, whose first work of fiction appeared in EQMM in 1954.
* * * *
Salvatore (Sally) met with the godfather, Franco Calderella, in the study of his Staten Island mansion. The bookshelves were filled mostly with Mario Puzo first editions, some with “autographs,” as Calderella proudly called them.
Sally tried to avoid these meetings, his usual dyspeptic stomach already on acid-alert. Franco's assignments were, well, sometimes wacko, to say the least. Sally was most comfortable with a no-nonsense, old-fashioned hit job, take down a scumbag going into his favorite steakhouse or while he was enjoying a rubdown. He had an idea that even the victim preferred getting it that way—a no-frills kill, the delicious thought of a big juicy chunk of sirloin in his thoughts just before he bought it—the bullet, that is. But Calderella had different ideas.
"This is a kidnapping, Sally. Now hold on!—I know that's not your job specialty but even though you're getting on in the years, you can adapt."
Christ, Sally thought, I'm only fifty-five and Franco's pushing hard at seventy-five. But he merely nodded, sipping the scotch on the rocks that Monroe, the butler, had brought him. “Who do I snatch?"
"Internal Revenue agent. Name of Steve Swales."
His acid stomach was suddenly reporting for duty. “That would be a Federal thing,” Sally said, gulping the Cutty now. “The Feds could come after us big-time."
"No way.” Franco smiled, petting one of his Puzo first editions lying conspicuously on the desk. “I did some checking. The Swales family is so rich they'd cough up the ransom in a New York second."
Now it got quicker than a minute?! “Why?"
"A rich family like them, they make campaign contributions, grease the biggest palms, they got clout. But they wouldn't call in the Feds in a situation like this."
Sally restrained a burp. “Why not?"
"Because we're going to ask for only four hundred and fifty-three dollars and nineteen cents for the ransom.” He sat back in triumph, opened the humidor on the desk, and selected two fat coronas. “Try this new Dominican,” he said, handing one to Sally.
What Sally really wanted was another scotch. “I grab the son, they don't blow a whistle even though they got pols in their pocket?"
"Nah. Why bother? Besides, they'll figure out I'm the guy they're dealing with. You think they'd wanna screw with the mob on a sum so stupid as this?"
Now Sally wanted desperately to leave the beau
tiful walnut-paneled room with all the tall shelves of Puzo looming over him. He foresaw a nightmare: someday Calderella putting a hit out on his advancing craziness, what do they call it these days, Alzheimer's?
"You still troubled?” Franco asked, extending a lighter for Sally's cigar. “Sally, you look troubled. You are really showing your age these days."
He silently counted—one . . . two . . . three—then: “What's with this el-cheapo ransom?"
Now Franco's face darkened. “My last income-tax report, you know, on my plumbing storefront in the Bronx? These stupid bastards want four hundred fifty-three nineteen. Can you believe it?"
"But Franco, why do a snatch for a stupid bag of peanuts like that? For Chris'sake, pay the I.R.S."
A fist hit Puzo. “No! It's the principle. We don't have principles anymore, what the hell's this country coming to? Let me tell you something, Sally. My father said in the Old Country the Finanza—the tax guys?—they go to a little village in Calabria to collect? They get mowed down! You're not gonna shoot this Steve Swales. I mean, only if you have to."
World War II acid attack. “But Franco, this ain't Calabria!” he pleaded.
"I get whining now? I just got finished telling you you're not gonna kill this twerp. You're not gonna touch a hair on his head, even though I hear he's bald. No, we get the family to cough up the four hundred fifty-three nineteen and I pay that to the I.R.S. like the solid citizen I am.” A thunderous laugh. “Your sense of humor's up where the sun just set. Getting old, Sally."
Sally wearily shook his head. At least this crazy guy always paid him. “You think we could get Monroe back with that bottle of scotch?"
"Snatch Swales, Sally-boy, and I'll send you a case."
* * * *
He made it a fairly simple operation: He got another of Calderella's men, the Hamster, a squat, mute, self-effacing guy with curly hair growing from odd corners of his nose and some kind of annoying, sinus-sniffing problem. But he was a real pro, competent, a great backup, even though it was like you had some kind of hairy, sniffing animal in your scam. They grabbed the Swales kid after he had left his taxi at Grand Central on his way home. They had followed him from the Fed building downtown. Sally pulled to the curb and the Hamster forced Swales into the back of the van, got him nicely chloroformed and gagged, a hood over his bald head, handcuffs on his wrists. The kid got a flash of the Hamster, Sally knew, but not him at the wheel. A few people had noticed what happened, but went merrily on their New York way, probably thinking it was one of those TV crime shows on location.
EQMM, July 2010 Page 5
