The Best American Mystery Stories 2013

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  I was waiting outside, on the porch. I didn’t smoke anymore, but I smoked that night to keep my lungs warm. The sky was brighter than when I was a kid, thanks to the big-box stores and strip malls dotting the highway. My father didn’t rate any police protection—though it took a few months, the government got all they wanted out of him, and the local uniforms could be bought off with grocery money. He was inside, drinking his best wine, the stuff he used to kid he was saving for my wedding, and waiting to join his Maria. Uncle Peter’s giant boat of a Caddy, still all polished and gleaming, drove up the curve of the driveway. My mother always loved this house.

  “Hey, kid,” he said conversationally. “When’d you get in? Haven’t seen you since your poor mother, bless her in heaven, passed.” Uncle Peter wasn’t as huge as he used to be. He looked partially deflated, like a Macy’s Day parade balloon half an hour after the crowds left.

  “I just got here this morning. Took in the sights. Had some fresh snapper; the fish are better out here than in California, you know. Had a Crazy Vanilla ice cream down at the store, went to Gunther’s, that sort of thing.”

  “Gunther’s, eh? You a pool hustler now?” He edged forward, keeping his hands in front of him. Maybe he wouldn’t kill me here on this porch. Maybe Northport was still a nice small town, where a gunshot wouldn’t be written off as a car backfiring, where porch lights might blink on and screen doors swing open at one in the morning.

  “Nah, they had a reading tonight. I was one of the readers.” I lit another cigarette. “It was even listed in the paper; they ran my picture. Homecoming for Local Author.”

  “A reading?” He was confused. Good. Maybe a little drunk, too. I hoped he’d have to be to kill his own brother in cold blood, never mind having to kill me, too. “Like, people just sit there and read?”

  “No, Uncle Peter; we read aloud. It’s like a show. It’s for Kerouac’s memorial anniversary. They do one every October at Gunther’s.”

  “Was Louie there? Jess?”

  I shook my head. “Nah, the regulars clear out when the poets hit the stage. You know how Northport is . . .” I waved my right hand, the cherry of my cigarette bobbing along in the shadows, so he didn’t see what I reached for until my old extendable baton telescoped out and smacked him right in the shin. Uncle Peter was still a large man—it’s like trying to chop down a tree with a baseball bat. Something he would say! But he was old and slow, and I got up and swung the baton down on his head three, four times, and I shouted. I shouted, “I love my mother! I love my mother! I love my mother and father!” No porch lights went on. No screen doors swung open, except for the one behind me.

  “Pete . . .” my father said, his mouth heavy with wine. I didn’t know which of us he meant.

  The Cadillac is eating Pennsylvania for breakfast by the time the sky lightens. My father’s next to me, leaning his head out the window like a dog. His son’s crazy, the craziest man he’s ever known, but he’s alive. Alive and free and on the road. Forget property taxes, chemicals on the lawns to keep them green. Forget the police, forget the families of New York, who are all dying or senile or in prison or watching better versions of themselves on the television and saying to themselves, Yeah, yeah. Al Pacino, that’s me. Forget Long Island, that little turd hanging off the end of America. California, here we come! We have a suitcase full of unmarked bills my father had hidden behind the drywall in the garage, my bandaged-up uncle in the trunk banging away on the lid. We have nothing to lose, everything to live for, my father and I. Dad figures his brother will calm down by the time we get to Ohio; then we can let him out and have a little “sit-down” about his future. I hope Uncle Peter decides to come with us. We’ll fall asleep and wake up again a million times. In the West, the sun peeks out distantly on the horizon, a great white pearl.

  EMILY ST. JOHN MANDEL

  Drifter

  FROM Venice Noir

  Ponte dei Sospiri

  WHEN ZOË’S HUSBAND DIED she decided to travel. She was twenty-eight years old and had seen very little of the world, and this seemed like the best possible moment to leave Michigan. A friend from art school had been to the Arctic in the summertime once and she’d told Zoë about the landscape’s clear beauty, the wildflowers, ice-blue lakes, and slate mountains. Now it wasn’t summer, but that was almost the point. Zoë boarded a series of flights to the Northwest Territories and found herself in a lunar kingdom of shadows and ice, scoured landscape. The sun behaved strangely. The days were short.

  “Trying to lose yourself?” Zoë’s brother asked, when she called from a hotel in Inuvik to tell him where she’d gone. Zoë’s husband, Peter, had been dead for four weeks. She had given up the apartment, sold or given away all of her belongings. People were concerned.

  “Trying to find myself,” she said, which wasn’t at all true but had the desired effect of slightly reassuring her family. Losing herself wasn’t enough. Zoë wanted to erase herself. She wanted extremity. She wanted to be eradicated, but she didn’t want to die. When she left the hotel she felt swallowed up by the landscape, by the absolute cold. By night she stared through the hotel room window at the northern lights, colors shifting across the breadth of the sky. She liked it here, but she was restless and she’d heard of a town that was even farther north: Tuktoyaktuk, on the edge of the Beaufort Sea.

  “The ice road just opened,” a man behind the counter in a coffee shop told her when she asked about it. “Should have no problem getting up there.” He looked at her doubtfully. “You got a four-by-four?”

  “No,” Zoë said. She’d sold her car before she left Michigan.

  “I know a guy who’s going up tomorrow. Probably take you with him if you split the cost of gas. I’ll ask him if you want.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” What she truly appreciated was the way the man in the café didn’t ask why she’d want to go to Tuktoyaktuk this time of year, or what she was doing in the far north in the first place. Over the weekend she agreed on a fee for gas expenses and got into a truck with a silent man in his fifties who navigated them seamlessly down a ramp onto the frozen MacKenzie River.

  Zoë had heard the phrase ice road in the café without thinking about what it might mean. It meant driving on ice. Driving in slow motion with chains on the tires, fifteen kilometers an hour with the lights of enormous rigs shining ahead and behind them in the four P.M. darkness. They drove up the river to the northern edge of the world and then turned right and drove for a time over the frozen Beaufort Sea.

  The village itself was like Inuvik, only smaller, darker, more utilitarian, little windows shining bright in the permanent twilight. Daylight lasted four hours, but the stars here were brighter than any she’d ever seen. She felt that she’d traveled beyond the edge of the world and landed on some colder planet farther from the sun. Aurora borealis in the sky most nights, shifting vapors of green and yellow that she watched by the hour, sitting alone by the hotel window wrapped in blankets with the lights out. On the third day she rented a snowmobile, got a cursory driving lesson from the man who ran the rental business, and drove a little way out of town.

  Zoë liked the sound of the machine, the din and the forward momentum, but it wasn’t a smooth ride and she felt as if her bones were rattling. She stopped by the sea. She could go no farther. She climbed off the machine and walked a few paces to look out at the horizon, blue shadows of icebergs. The sun was low above the ice, the few scattered lights of Tuktoyaktuk shining in the near distance.

  “I am not unafraid,” she whispered, to Peter, to herself. She had said this first, in the dazed weeks just after the diagnosis, when they were trying to come up with words to frame the catastrophe. They had repeated it to each other in the final nine months that followed, a private phrase that conveyed hope and stoicism and terror in equal measure. The cold was getting to her now, her fingers numb inside her gloves. She turned, and for a fraction of a second Peter was standing there beside the snowmobile, smiling at her in the fading light. He was
gone in less than a heartbeat, less than a blink.

  “Oh God,” Zoë whispered, “oh no, please, please . . .” It took a moment to restart the snowmobile; she kicked at it frantically, not daring to look up. There was movement at the edge of her vision, faint as a curl of cigarette smoke. She heard Peter’s voice as though from a long way off, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. The cologne he used to wear on special occasions hung sweet and clear in the freezing air. The snowmobile jerked into motion and her tears froze on her face. She left all the lights on in the hotel room that night and packed up to leave the north in the morning, a slow process at this time of year, performed in increments over a number of weeks. There were several runways that had to be navigated to get from the Arctic Circle to the warmer parts of the continent, and most of them were frozen over. There were long delays in northern airports, sometimes for days at a stretch. She slept on benches, ate out of vending machines, washed in public restrooms, and felt somewhat deranged. Her reflection was pale and hollow-eyed in mirrors and darkened windows, hair standing up in all directions. It wasn’t until she was sitting in the airport in Edmonton two and a half weeks later, drinking coffee after a sleepless night and staring out at an airplane that would take her farther south as soon as a storm cleared, that it occurred to her to wonder why she’d been afraid of Peter’s ghost.

  Zoë arrived in the Toronto airport and spent some time considering flights back to Michigan, but she had no desire to return just yet, and the situation seemed to call for a new continent. Zoë and Peter had made a good living dealing coke to college students and she still had a few thousand dollars at her disposal, so she flew from Toronto to Paris and lived for some time in a marginal neighborhood, trying unsuccessfully to learn French. But the lines and beauty of Paris reminded her too much of the architectural paintings Peter had been working on when they’d met at art school and her money dwindled rapidly there, so she left France and began a slow, directionless slide across the continent, heading mostly south and east.

  Zoë didn’t have much money now. There were dark little places in winter where she didn’t speak the language, and she occasionally forgot which town she was in. She found a job busing tables in Slovakia for a while. She heard there were resort jobs to be had on the Croatian coast, so she made her way through Hungary and then worked for some months as a waitress near the Adriatic Sea. On the day she saw Peter walking across the town square she packed her things and resumed a halting eastward migration, through Bosnia and Herzegovina, across a corner of Serbia and through Albania, toward Greece. It was important in those days to keep moving. She saw Peter sometimes, always at a slight distance, moving through crowds in various countries. Not looking at her, not sick anymore, seemingly in somewhat of a rush. She was perfectly aware every time that it couldn’t possibly be him—Peter was buried in her family’s plot in Ann Arbor—but that didn’t make her see him any less often.

  “I’m worried about you,” her brother said. He persisted in keeping in contact, which was thoughtful but also somehow annoying. She was trying to drift across a landscape without remembering and he kept pinning her to home.

  “There’s no need to worry,” she replied. “I’m just traveling a little.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t have a home,” she said. “I’m like that song. I’m a rolling stone.”

  “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

  She didn’t see that this was any of his business. She took a long pull of whiskey before she answered him. “Of course not. And even if I was drinking, what difference would it make? Haven’t I always been the black sheep?” This was in Albania, at a pay phone in the lobby of a rundown hotel near the Greek border. The clerk glared at her from behind the front desk but said nothing.

  “It doesn’t matter what you’ve always been,” her brother said. “All that matters is that everyone’s worried, Zoë, we all love you,” and she understood from his voice how tired she’d made him. “We all want you to come home.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost Peter there.”

  In Greece, after two years of travel, she discovered that she could sell landscape paintings to tourists. Zoë disliked painting landscapes. She had other interests. On the days when she painted landscapes she spent a lot of time swearing at the canvas. In her last three years in the United States she’d taken to painting extreme close-ups of liquid in glasses, and she’d felt that she’d found something, if not her mature style, then the style that might lead to it. She’d loved the way glass and ice and liquid caught the light, the warmth of red wine in a low-lit room, the suspension of bubbles in champagne, in seltzer, lime slices trapped among ice cubes with tiny bubbles clinging silver to the peel. Her work had been shown in galleries. She’d entertained thoughts of a brilliant future. It was difficult to paint landscapes again after all these years of ice cubes and extreme martini-glass close-ups, after the two years of traveling and not painting at all, but on the other hand she was nearly out of money.

  She lived in a dilapidated inn by the sea, where she cleaned and helped the cook in exchange for a room and sold paintings to tourists for food money. Her life wasn’t unpleasant. She had come to realize the value of southern countries: she would never have imagined this quality of sunlight, the way it bleached the landscape, the way it seemed to pass through her, the way it burned away the darkest parts of her thoughts. She spent a lot of time on the beach with a fifth of whiskey, disappearing into brilliant light. She attracted frowns from passersby, but she didn’t think it was such a terrible thing, actually, drinking a little by the sea. She didn’t see why people had to be so judgmental about it.

  Zoë had been in Greece for six months when she decided to keep moving. She knew she wanted to remain in a southern country and she spent a long time studying maps of India, but she was afraid of malaria and she wasn’t sure how a person would go about getting vaccination shots in Greece. She’d always wanted to see Venice, so she spent two weeks trying to sell the last of her landscape paintings, abandoned the ones she couldn’t sell along the beach in the early morning, took a bus to Athens and then a cheap flight to Rome. She did crossword puzzles and read the International Herald Tribune all the way to Italy, where she found upon arrival that she had just enough money left to get to Venice by train.

  It was September and a tide had overtaken the city. The water had risen over the streets and tourists moved slowly on walkways, wearing strange boots that looked like bright plastic shopping bags tied up to their knees. In a doorway near the train station she counted the last of her money. Eighteen euros and eighty-seven cents. Her bank account was empty, and she had no credit cards. She didn’t want to spend money on a vaporetto, so she made her way on foot through the drowning city, trying not to think about how little money she had or what might become of her now. There was an unexpected pleasure in wading through the water and getting her shoes wet, childhood memories of splashing in puddles with her dog.

  Zoë came upon St. Mark’s Square, turned now into a shallow lake. She waded out over the cobblestones in water up to her knees and stood before the domes and archways of St. Mark’s Cathedral, pigeons wheeling through the air above her, and this was when she realized that she’d had it wrong: it wasn’t that she’d always wanted to come to Venice, it was that Peter had always wanted to come to Venice. He had painted this cathedral from photographs a dozen times. He was everywhere.

  She turned away and left the square, but within minutes she had landed in another of Peter’s paintings. She looked up from a bridge and was ambushed by memory. Detroit, the year before Peter got sick, their apartment filled with canvases, a Sunday afternoon: “It’s called the Bridge of Sighs,” Peter said, and stepped back from the easel so she could see what he’d done. All this time later here it was before her, an enclosed white bridge with two stone-grated windows high over the canal, somehow dimmer in life than it had been in her husband’s luminous painting.

  She crossed t
he bridge and spent some time wandering, watching the movement of boats from the flooded sides of canals, from the arcing bridges, these crafts gliding on the water streets. She came upon a narrow canal that Peter had never painted, a place where the water hadn’t reached the level of the promenade, and for the first time all day she was perfectly alone. She had lost track of where she was. A residential quarter far from St. Mark’s Square, houses crowded tall and silent on either side. The water of the canal was almost still.

  Zoë sat on a step and pulled her knees in close to her chest. She would have to buy food soon, and then the eighteen euros would deplete still further. She’d been dimly aware of how little money she had when she’d bought the train ticket, but it somehow hadn’t registered, all she’d really thought of was the next destination, and now she didn’t have the money to either get out of Venice or stay here. She could call her family, but she knew they’d only buy her a plane ticket back to Michigan. She could go to the American consulate, but what would they do except return her to the United States? She was looking at the rippling shadows the houses cast on the canal in the end-of-afternoon light, thinking of how she’d paint this water if she still had money for paint, and this was when she became aware of footsteps. A tall man in jeans and an expensive-looking sweater, dark curly hair and sunglasses that reflected her own pale face when he looked at her. He stopped before her and said something that she didn’t immediately comprehend.

  “Parla inglese?” she asked, in what was meant to be a steady voice. It came out wavery.