Transgressions

by Ed McBain

  The back door slammed open and for an instant she saw Dermot’s head and shoulders outlined against the house, his arm raised.

  “Run!” she yelled at Connor. Then in case Dermot had not heard her, she did it again.

  This time Connor obeyed. At least they were drawing one of them away from the house, and there had been no shots inside. She caught up and grasped his hand, leaping over the sea grass and running down onto the beach, towards the low rise of the sandhills twenty yards away, where at least there was a little shelter.

  They were racing over the beach near the tide line where it was hard and firm when the shot rang out. Connor stumbled and pitched forward, his hand going to the scarlet stain spreading across his chest and shoulder. He rolled over and over, carried by the impetus of his speed, then lay still.

  Bridget stopped abruptly, and turned back. Dermot was standing on the soft sand just in front of the sea grass, the gun still held out stiffly in front of him. He could pull the trigger again any moment, all he had to do was tighten his grip.

  She waited. Oddly, she did not feel a terrible loss. As long as Liam had got away, something was saved. Perhaps Rosie had even gone with him, at least far enough to be out of sight of the house. If they were alive, that was enough. This was a clean way to go, here on the wind-scoured sand, one shot, and then oblivion. It was a bad time, but a good place to die.

  Dermot lowered the gun, not right down, he still held it in his hand. He started walking towards her, slowly, evenly.

  She did not know if Connor was dead or not. A chest wound might be fatal, but it looked to be closer to the shoulder. Just in case he was still alive, she moved away from him, and began to walk up towards Dermot. If he came down for her, he might shoot Connor again, to make sure. She increased her speed. Strange how she could walk so easily even where the wet sand changed to dry, slithering under her feet. She stopped a couple of yards from Dermot. He was smiling. “You don’t care that I shot him, do you!” he said, his eyes wide, his face pale, with two spots of colour high on his cheeks.

  “You have no idea what I care about,” she answered coldly.

  “You’d rather have Paddy, wouldn’t you!” he said, his lip curling in disgust. “He’d use you, and throw you away.”

  “It really doesn’t matter what you think,” she said wearily, surprised that now it was almost over, that was the exact truth. All she needed was time for Liam to get away, and Rosie if possible.

  He jerked the gun towards the house. “Well, let’s see, shall we? Is the Reverend O’Malley’s wife as cold as she looks? Or his daughter, the pretty turncoat, Roisin?”

  If she refused to move, she had no doubt he’d shoot her where she stood. Walking would gain a little more time, only minutes, but minutes might count. She obeyed slowly, passing him and walking ahead. She stepped carefully through the clumps of sea grass and onto the level stretch at the beginning of the lawn, or what passed for it. The sheets were still billowing. She had no idea where Paddy or Sean were. There was no sign of life from the house, and no sound.

  She reached the sheets blowing towards her. The plastic laundry basket was just in front of her, empty. Why should she go into the house with him without a fight? It was ridiculous. Rosie might be in there. Even if she wasn’t, why should Bridget herself let it be easy?

  She picked up the laundry basket and threw it at his feet just as he emerged between the sheets.

  He had not had time to see it and dodge. It caught him below the knee, hard enough to cost him his balance. He stumbled forward, still clutching the gun. He was on his hands and knees, his face twisted with rage, already beginning to scramble up again.

  She reached for the clothes prop, grasping it with both hands, yanking it out from the line and swinging it wide in a half circle, low and with all her weight behind it. The end of it caught him on the side of the head with a crack she felt all the way through her own body. He fell over sideways and lay motionless, the gun on the ground six inches away from his limp hand.

  She scrambled over to him, her body shaking. She picked up the gun, then looked at him. The upper side of his head was bleeding, but not heavily. She knew from the angle of it that he had to be dead. His neck was broken.

  She felt sick. But she still needed to face Sean and Paddy.

  She walked shakily over to the back door and opened it. The kitchen was empty. “Roisin!” she called.

  “Mum!”

  The bedroom door crashed wide and Roisin came out, her eyes hollow with fear.

  There was no time for hugging, for any kind of emotion. “Where’s Liam?” Bridget asked. “And Sean?”

  “Liam’s gone, as you told him,” Roisin answered. “Sean went up the hill after Paddy. I heard him shout. I don’t think he came back. Where’s Dad?” The look in her face betrayed that she knew.

  “On the beach,” Bridget replied. “Dermot’s dead. I don’t know how your father is, I hadn’t time to look. Take the tea towels and see what you can do.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got the gun. I have to find Paddy and Sean.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’ll shoot them if I have to.” She meant it. She could, to save herself and Roisin. “Go.”

  Roisin obeyed, and Bridget set off carefully up the slope, watching all the time, keeping both hands on the gun, ready to use it the moment she saw any kind of movement in the tussock and heather.

  She had followed the track all the way to the ridge and beyond when she saw Paddy’s body lying in a clear patch of grass, his shirt a pale blur against the green, except for the wide, bright red stain of blood across his chest, right in the middle.

  Where was Sean? There was no time to allow herself grief now, or any understanding of the waste. She had heard only one shot. Sean was alive somewhere, maybe waiting, watching her right now. Then why had he not shot her too?

  She turned around slowly, searching for him, expecting the noise and the shattering weight of the bullet any moment. But all she could hear was the distant sound of the waves, and bees in the heather. She could see where it had been broken, trampled down around Paddy as if there had been a fight there. Stems were snapped off, the damp earth gouged. The trail led to the edge of a little gully.

  Very carefully she walked over towards it, holding the gun in front of her, ready to squeeze the trigger. She looked from right to left, and back again. If Sean was still here, why did he do nothing?

  She came to the edge and looked over. She saw him immediately, lying on his back, his body twisted, hips and legs crooked, right thigh bent half under him. His eyes were still open and the gun in his hand.

  He shot at her, but it went wide. The angle was wrong, and he could not move to correct it.

  She thought of shooting him, but it was cold-blooded, unnecessary. She also thought of saying something, but that was unnecessary too. His pelvis was broken, and at least one leg. He was not going to get out of the gully until someone came and carried him.

  She turned away and walked back down the path to the house, and into the kitchen. It was empty. The pan of potatoes, half cooked, stood in the sink. Roisin had thought to take them off before she went into the bedroom.

  She should go down to the sand and see if Connor was alive, and if she could do anything for him. At least she could help Roisin. She picked up a couple of bath towels and went out of the back door and past Dermot’s body, over the edge of the sea grass and down the sand. Roisin was walking towards her, Connor lay beyond, where he had fallen, but she could not see clearly enough to know whether he was in exactly the same position or not.

  Roisin stopped as Bridget reached her. Her face was wet with tears.

  “He won’t let me do anything,” her voice choked. “He won’t even listen to me.”

  So he was alive! And conscious. For an instant Bridget did not even know if she was glad or not. It was as if walls had closed around her again.

  “Mum?”

  Yes, of course she must
be pleased. He didn’t deserve to die. And she didn’t have to stay inside the walls. It was her choice. If she paid her ransom she could escape. She must never forget that again.

  “He may change his mind,” she said gently, looking at Roisin. “But if he doesn’t, you’ll have to accept that. You made your choice, it’s your husband and your child. It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s what you think. But if you care, I believe it’s the right choice. And whether I like what you do or not, I shall always love you . . . as you will love your child.” She touched Roisin for a moment, just the tips of her fingers to her cheek, then she walked on down the sand to Connor.

  He looked at her as she knelt beside him. He was very white and there was a lot of blood on his shirt, but he seemed quite conscious. The tea towels were on the sand. She picked them up, rolled them into pads, and placed them firmly on the wound.

  He winced and cried out.

  “You should have let Rosie do it,” she told him. “It would have cost you less blood.”

  “Never!” he said between clenched teeth, gasping as the pain washed through him in waves. “I don’t have a daughter.”

  “That’s your choice, Connor.” She took one of the long towels to put it round him as well as she could to keep the pads in place. “I expect she’ll forgive you for your part in this. Whether you forgive her or not is up to you, but I can tell you now, if you don’t, you’ll lose more than she will. By the way, you might like to know that Sean killed Paddy, but his own pelvis is broken, and he’s lying up the hill in a gully. He’ll be there until someone carries him out.”

  He stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

  “And I killed Dermot.” She could hardly believe her own words, though they were terribly, irrevocably true.

  He blinked.

  “Liam’s gone for the police,” she added. “I expect they’ll be here soon. And a doctor.”

  “I can’t feel my left arm,” he said.

  She rolled up the other towel and eased it under his head. “I’ll go up to the house and get a blanket. You should be kept warm.”

  “No!” He breathed in and out slowly. “Stay with me!”

  “Oh, I probably will,” she replied. “But on my terms, Connor, not on yours. And I’m going to get the blanket. Shock can kill, if you get cold.” She rose to her feet, smiling very slightly to herself, and walked back up the sand.

  JOYCE CAROL OATES

  _________

  From the publication of her first book of short stories, By the North Gate, in 1963, Joyce Carol Oates has been the most prolific of major American writers, turning out novels, short stories, reviews, essays, and plays in an unceasing flow as remarkable for its quality as its volume. Writers who are extremely prolific often risk not being taken as seriously as they should—if one can write it that fast, how good can it be? Oates, however, has largely escaped that trap, and even her increasing identification with crime fiction, at a time when the field has attracted a number of other mainstream literary figures, has not lessened her reputation as a formidable author in the least. Many of Oates’s works contain at least some elements of crime and mystery, from the National Book Award winner them, through the Chappaquiddick fictionalization Black Water and the Jeffrey Dahmer-inspired serial-killer novel Zombie, to her controversial 738-page fictionalized biography of Marilyn Monroe, Blonde. The element of detection becomes explicit with the investigations of amateur sleuth Xavier Kilgarvan in the novel The Mysteries of Winterthurn, which, the author explains in an afterword to the 1985 paperback edition, “is the third in a quintet of experimental novels that deal, in genre form, with nineteenth- and early twentieth-century America.” Why would a literary writer like Oates choose to work in such “deliberately confining structures”? Because “the formal discipline of’genre’ . . . forces us inevitably to a radical re-visioning of the world and the craft of fiction.” Oates, who numbers among her honors in a related genre the Bram Stoker Award of the Horror Writers of America, did not establish an explicit crime-fiction identity until Lives of the Twins appeared under the pseudonym Rosamund Smith. Initially intended to be a secret, the identity of Smith was revealed almost immediately, and later novels were bylined Joyce Carol Oates (large print) writing as Rosamund Smith (smaller print). Her recent novels include The Falls, I’ll Take You There, and Rape: A Love Story.

  THE CORN MAIDEN:

  A LOVE STORY

  Joyce Carol Oates

  APRIL

  YOU ASSHOLES!

  Whywhy you’re asking here’s why her hair.

  I mean her hair! I mean like I saw it in the sun it’s pale silky gold like corn tassels and in the sun sparks might catch. And her eyes that smiled at me sort of nervous and hopeful like she could not know (but who could know?) what is Jude’s wish. For I am Jude the Obscure, I am the Master of Eyes. I am not to be judged by crude eyes like yours, assholes.

  There was her mother. I saw them together. I saw the mother stoop to kiss her. That arrow entered my heart. I thought I will make you see me. I would not forgive.

  Okay then. More specific. Some kind of report you assholes will type up. Maybe there’s a space for the medical examiner’s verdict cause of death.

  Note: The Sacrifice of the Corn Maiden is a composite drawn from traditional sacrificial rituals of the Iroquois, Pawnee, and Blackfoot Indian tribes.

  Assholes don’t have a clue do you. If you did you’d know it is futile to type up reports as if such will grant you truth or even “facts.”

  Whywhy in the night at my computer clickclickclicking through galaxies and there was revealed on my birthday (March 11) the Master of Eyes granting me my wish that is why. All that you wish will be made manifest in Time. If you are Masters.

  Jude the Obscure he named me. In cyberspace we were twinned.

  Here’s why in sixth grade a field trip to the museum of natural history and Jude wandered off from the silly giggling children to stare at the Onigara exhibit of the Sacrifice of the Corn Maiden. This exhibit is graphic in nature and not recommended for children younger than sixteen unless with parental guidance you stepped through an archway into a fluorescent-lit interior of dusty display cases to stare at the Corn Maiden with braided black bristles for hair and flat face and blind eyes and mouth widened in an expression of permanent wonder beyond even terror and it was that vision that entered Jude’s heart powerful as any arrow shot into the Corn Maiden’s heart that is why.

  Because it was an experiment to see if God would allow it that is why.

  Because there was no one to stop me that is why.

  DISCIPLES

  We never thought Jude was serious!

  We never thought it would turn out like it did.

  We never thought . . .

  . . . just didn’t!

  Never meant . . .

  . . . never!

  Nobody had anything against . . .

  . . . . .

  (Jude said it’s Taboo to utter that name.)

  Jude was the Master of Eyes. She was our leader all through school. Jude was just so cool.

  Fifth grade, Jude instructed us how to get HIGH sniffing S. Where Jude got S., we didn’t know.

  Seventh grade, Jude gave us E. Like the older kids take. From her secret contact at the high school Jude got E.

  When you’re HIGH you love everybody but the secret is basically you don’t give a damn.

  That is what’s so nice! HIGH floating above Skatskill like you could drop a bomb on Skatskill Day or your own house and there’s your own family rushing out their clothes and hair on fire and screaming for help and you would smile because it would not touch you. That is HIGH.

  Secrets no one else knew.

  XXX videos at Jude’s house.

  Jude’s grandmother Mrs. Trahern the widow of somebody famous.

  Feral cats we fed. Cool!

  Ritalin and Xanax Jude’s doctors prescribed, Jude only just pretended to take that shit. In her bathroom, a supply of years.

 
Haagen Dazs French Vanilla ice cream we fed the Corn Maiden.

  The Corn Maiden was sleepy almost at once, yawning. Ice cream tastes so good! Just one pill ground up, a half teaspoon. It was magic. We could not believe it.

  Jude said you can’t believe the magic you possess until somebody instructs how to unleash it.

  The Corn Maiden had never been to Jude’s house before. But Jude was friendly to her beginning back in March. Told us the Master of Eyes had granted her a wish on her birthday. And we were counted in that wish.

  The plan was to establish trust.

  The plan was to prepare for the Corn Maiden in the knowledge that one day there would be the magic hour when (Jude predicted) like a lightning flash lighting up the dark all would become clear.

  This was so. We were in readiness, and the magic hour was so.

  There is a rear entrance to the Trahern house. We came that way.

  The Corn Maiden walked! On her own two feet the Corn Maiden walked, she was not forced, or carried.

  Of her own volition Jude said.

  It was not so in the Onigara Indian ceremony. There, the Corn Maiden did not come of her own volition but was kidnapped.

  An enemy tribe would kidnap her. She would never return to her people.

  The Corn Maiden would be buried, she would be laid among the corn seed in the sun and the earth covered over her. Jude told us of this like an old fairy tale to make you smile, but not to ask Why.

  Jude did not like us to ask Why.

  The Corn Maiden was never threatened. The Corn Maiden was treated with reverence, respect, and kindness.

  (Except we had to scare her, a little. There was no other way Jude said.)

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays she would come by the 7-Eleven store on the way home from school. Why this was, Jude knew. Mostly high school kids hang out there. Older kids, smoking. Crummy mini-mall on the state highway. Rug remnant store, hair and nails salon, Chinese takeout & the 7-Eleven. Behind are Dumpsters and a stink like something rotten.