The Swamp Killers

by Sarah M. Chen

  So what does Olivia do? She gets the news out, every means at her disposal. Someone has stolen money—doesn’t matter that there isn’t any money. In fact, better that way. If money had been stolen, do you think they’d let that leak out? Money gotten in a criminal way? But that’s just part of it. Lawful or not, do they want to risk someone finding it? Losing it forever? Not a chance. There’s no money. But the idea of money, that gets people mobilized. And the whole idea of Timmy being a fed? That turns everyone against him, doesn’t matter the truth. Money and betrayal—it’s a good story. Get the press on your side, get the word out, get what you want.

  And when that didn’t work quickly enough? Now we hear that Olivia Duplass has died—which is just another ploy. Sympathy. Get Melody to come out of hiding and come home, pay her respects. And there’s the matriarch sitting high in her chair, waiting.

  You have all that?

  Okay, now there’s this—Timmy getting his haircut and Melody not being with him and—

  Do you know how Timmy paid me?

  One-dollar bills. Crumpled bills, I should add.

  This is not a man with a suitcase full of money.

  So why would someone who’s, number one, on the run and, number two, down on his money—why would he spend his money on a haircut? And a full shampoo, which is three dollars more?

  I’ll tell you why.

  Love.

  Which is what I realized, him sitting here, once I’d gotten past thinking he’d maybe come to kill me, and even before the paper hit the stoop next morning.

  This boy was in love. I could feel it in his scalp.

  And him being a bad man—which I could feel too—that was part of the conflict, this conflict raging inside of him.

  And outside too. Because where’s the object of his love? This Melody, as I found out?

  Somewhere else, and him getting himself spiffed up for her.

  Like Santo Trafficante told me, it’ll take more than a haircut to shape some people up, but this Timmy, he’s young, he doesn’t know that.

  Timmy’s done bad things, wants to rehabilitate his image, wants to classy himself up for a woman who—I learn later—was out of his league and probably looking down on him, can’t help it, even in love. But she’s trying to take the high road, now he wants to take it with her, so…shaping himself up outside, trying to shape himself up inside, paying his last dollars to—

  Why?

  A marriage proposal? The wedding itself?

  I’m thinking the latter. Melody wasn’t with him. And a groom doesn’t see the bride on the wedding day, not until the big moment, even if you’re eloping.

  Again, I didn’t know all this then, but I could feel both the badness and the love and the conflict between the two, and once I’d relaxed my thinking that he hadn’t come to whack me, I took the conversation in another direction.

  “Big day?” I ask him.

  He hesitated, this stiffening in his shoulders. “What do you mean?”

  “Getting a nice haircut,” I say. “There’s a lady in your life, am I right?”

  He lets out his breath, comes out as a laugh. Those shoulders releasing a little.

  “Special day?” I say. “Special plans ahead?”

  “You could say that.” Looking over his head, I see the smile on him in the mirror there—this sheepish kind of smile, out of keeping with the badness emanating from him.

  And then everything later in the paper, reading between the lines, it just brought things into focus.

  What’s that? You’re asking about how I said was before? How Timmy was the boy’s name?

  No, no, I didn’t mean he’s dead, not at all. Only that he’s probably not going by that name anymore. End of a haircut, I write down the bill, keep a ledger, even cash customers—the IRS, doesn’t matter to them how you get the money, only that they get theirs. Ledger’s up there on the counter. Put down everyone’s name, yours too when we’re done, you’ll see.

  So Timmy’s handing across those crumpled dollar bills, and I ask him his name, and the name he gives isn’t Timmy. It’s Herbert. Herbert Johnson. Not that I knew it wasn’t his name at the time.

  “Well, Mr. Johnson,” I say, “I hope you and your new bride have a happy life together.”

  He gives me a puzzled look, and then he smiles, says, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  And I say, “Honeymooning someplace special?”

  And he hesitates for a second again, same as before but not as tense, and then he says, “Mobile.”

  “Alabama’s beautiful Gulf Coast,” I say. “It’s a popular destination these days.”

  Come to think of it, I could’ve retired there myself. Maybe should’ve.

  “Best wishes to you both,” I tell him, and then the next day, there he is in the paper—Timmy Milici, or looked just like him. Herbert Johnson, that’s who he was to me, who he is now. Was, is, that’s what I’m talking about. And if those mobsters supposedly looking for him, or those feds, either one, if they want to find the two of them…well, who knows, I might be the only one who knows where to look, am I right?

  Not that the mob is showing up in this chair looking for information—ha ha! Could you imagine? Some mobster sitting down in the chair like you are right now? Tracking down leads…

  Anyway, that’s the story. Wouldn’t be telling it to just anybody, reasons I just said, of course—and don’t you spread it around neither, you hear? Discretion, like I said before. Watch what you say. Words to live by.

  Truth be told, though, between you and me, I’m glad they found a way out. Hope they find a…well, a simple life. Away from it all. Same as I have.

  And look at that, finished up the story and your hair too. Good timing!

  Let me spin you around to the mirror. Now, see here if that isn’t the best haircut you’ve had in a while, you tell me it’s not! I can see by your own smile it’s the truth, you don’t have to say it.

  Now, comb it wet or dry? Or—

  A shave? Well, would’ve done that first if—

  No, hold up there, let me get the razor myself and—

  Oh, wait.

  Oh, no.

  Oh—

  Back to TOC

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  Of E.A. AYMAR’s The Unrepentant, Publishers Weekly wrote, “gut-wrenching…readers who appreciate depth of character alongside gritty nonstop action will be rewarded.” His past thrillers include the novel-in-stories The Night of the Flood (in which he served as co-editor and contributor). He has a monthly column in the Washington Independent Review of Books, and he is also the Managing Editor of The Thrill Begins. He was born in Panama and now lives and writes in the D.C./MD/VA triangle.

  SARAH M. CHEN has worked a variety of odd jobs, from script reader to private investigator assistant. She’s published numerous short stories and a children’s book. Her noir novella, Cleaning Up Finn with All Due Respect Books, was an Anthony finalist and IPPY Award winner. She’s the co-editor of The Night of the Flood, and is a sometimes contributor for the Los Angeles Review of Books.

  HILARY DAVIDSON is the bestselling author of six crime novels, including One Small Sacrifice and The Damage Done. Her latest book, Don’t Look Down, was published by Thomas & Mercer in February 2020. Her short stories have appeared in Thuglit, Ellery Queen, and just about everywhere in between. The winner of two Anthony Awards and a Derringer Award for her crime fiction, she is also a journalist and the author of 18 nonfiction books.

  ALEX DOLAN is the author of The Euthanist and The Empress of Tempera. He is also the creator of the audio drama “The Patron Saint of Suicides,” and hosts the show “Thrill Seekers,” part of the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network.

  REBECCA DRAKE is the author of the novels Just Between Us, Only Ever You, The Dead Place, The Next Killing, and Don’t Be Afraid, as well as short fiction featured in A Thousand Doors and Pittsburgh Noir. She’s a Penn State grad and has taught in Set
on Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction MFA program. A native New Yorker, she currently lives in Pittsburgh, PA with her husband, two children, a big cat, and a small dog. Find more at RebeccaDrake.com.

  GWEN FLORIO is the author of the five-book Lola Wicks series, and a standalone, Silent Hearts. A new series launches in 2020 with the publication of Best Laid Plans. She's the editor of the Missoulian newspaper in Montana.

  Publishers Weekly bestselling author ELIZABETH HEITER likes her suspense to feature strong heroines, chilling villains, psychological twists, and some romance. Her research has taken her into the minds of serial killers, through murder investigations, and onto the FBI Academy’s shooting range. Her novels have been published in more than a dozen countries and translated into eight languages; they've also been shortlisted for the HOLT Medallion, the Daphne Du Maurier award, the National Readers' Choice award and the Booksellers' Best award and won the RT Reviewers' Choice award.

  J.J. HENSLEY is a former police officer and former Special Agent with the U.S. Secret Service. He’s the author of the crime novels Resolve, Measure Twice, Chalk’s Outline, Bolt Action Remedy, Record Scratch, Forgiveness Dies, and several short stories. J.J. is a contributing columnist to the International Thriller Writers’ site, The Thrill Begins. He is originally from Huntington, WV, began his adventuring into writing while living in Pittsburgh, and currently resides near Savannah, Georgia.

  SJI (SUSI) HOLLIDAY is the London-based Scottish author of six bestselling novels, the latest of which, Violet, has been optioned for film. Her work has been described as dark, twisted and unputdownable, a bit like herself—who when not writing, spends her time analyzing data from clinical trials, eating cheese, and mostly just sleeping.

  SHANNON KIRK is the international bestselling and award-winning author of Method 15/33, The Extraordinary Journey of Vivienne Marshall, In the Vines, Gretchen, Viebury Grove, and short stories in four anthologies. Shannon is also a contributor to the International Thriller Writers' The Thrill Begins. Growing up in New Hampshire, Shannon and her brothers were encouraged by their parents to pursue the arts, which instilled in her a love for writing at a young age. A graduate of Suffolk Law School in Massachusetts, Shannon is a practicing litigation attorney and former adjunct law professor, specializing in electronic-evidence law. When she isn’t writing or practicing law, Shannon spends time with her husband, son, and two cats. To learn more about her, visit ShannonKirkBooks.com.

  TARA LASKOWSKI is the author of the debut novel One Night Gone, and two short story collections, Modern Manners for Your Inner Demons and Bystanders. Her Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine story “The Case of the Vanishing Professor" won a 2019 Agatha Award. She was the longtime editor of the online flash fiction journal SmokeLong Quarterly and is now a consulting editor for the publication. Tara grew up in Pennsylvania and lives in Virginia.

  JENNY MILCHMAN is the Mary Higgins Clark award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of five psychological thrillers, including the forthcoming The Second Mother. Her third novel is currently optioned for film. Having traveled the country on what Shelf Awareness called "the world's longest book tour," Jenny now speaks nationally on the importance of the face-to-face in a virtual world. She gives writing workshops on such subjects as developing your author brand and building suspense, and is a member of the Sisters in Crime Speakers Bureau and a former vice president of International Thriller Writers.

  ALAN ORLOFF’s thriller Pray for the Innocent won the 2019 ITW Thriller Award for Best E-Book Original. His debut mystery, Diamonds for the Dead, was an Agatha Award finalist; his story, “Dying in Dokesville,” won a 2019 Derringer Award (“Happy Birthday” was a 2018 finalist); and “Rule Number One” was selected for The Best American Mystery Stories 2018. His first PI novel, I Know Where You Sleep, was released from Down & Out Books in February. Alan loves cake and arugula, but not together. Never together.

  TOM SWETERLITSCH is the author of the novels The Gone World and Tomorrow and Tomorrow. He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and daughter.

  ART TAYLOR is the author of the collection The Boy Detective & The Summer of ’74 and Other Tales of Suspense and of On the Road with Del & Louise: A Novel in Stories, winner of the Agatha Award for Best First Novel. He won the 2019 Edgar Award for Best Short Story for “English 398: Fiction Workshop,” published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, and his short fiction has also won the Agatha, Anthony, Derringer, and Macavity Awards. He is an associate professor of English at George Mason University.

  WENDY TYSON is an author, attorney, and former therapist whose background inspires her mysteries and thrillers. Wendy writes three mysteries series: the bestselling Greenhouse Series, the Allison Campbell series, and the Percy Powers Crime Series. Her short stories have been published in literary journals and crime fiction anthologies, and she’s a regular contributor to International Thriller Writers’ online magazines, The Big Thrill and The Thrill Begins. Wendy and her family live in Vermont.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from A Dark Homage, the first book in the Delilah Powers series by Wendy Tyson.

  Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

  PROLOGUE

  The sound, a subtle scrape of metal against metal, drilled through her subconscious, jarring her awake. She picked her head up off her desk, wiped a thin line of drool from her chin, and looked around the dim room, telling herself to focus. Outside, the wind howled. The branches of a pine hit her window in a rhythmic tap, tap, tap. She tried to listen beyond the wind, beyond the falling rain, beyond the pounding of her own heart. Only silence.

  Quickly, fervently, she organized the materials she’d been working on into a pile and fastened them with a binder clip. She shoved everything into a desk drawer and locked the drawer with a small silver key. Her computer screen was black, so she tapped the mouse and waited impatiently for the screen to come alive. Just to be safe, she hit the save button, exited the document, and shut down her computer. All of this took her a minute, tops. It felt like forever.

  She stole a glance at the clock on her desk. Two-forty-eight. Had she bolted the doors and windows before she’d gone into her study? It’d been early, so no, probably not. Damn.

  She made her way through the study and out into the hallway that divided her one-story house. The darkness felt thick and viscous, enveloping her in dread. Try as she might, she still heard nothing beyond the storm. Perhaps it had been a dream. But her gut said otherwise—and once upon a time she’d been a woman who trusted her gut.

  She didn’t dare turn on a light. Feeling her way along the walls, she passed the open doors to her bedroom and bath, each room a dark abyss in the early morning hour. She held her breath. A few more feet and she would be in the living room. Beyond that, the kitchen and the back door. She needed to check the locks. Then she could return to her study and finish what she’d needed to finish in the first place.

  A table lamp in the living room cast shadows across the small, carpeted space. Her gaze flew from one end of the room to the other, pausing in the darkened corners, searching for movement. Nothing looked disturbed. Relieved, she crept to the front door and fastened the bolts, stopping only to take a deep breath in a failed attempt to calm her jittery nerves. A year of running had made her paranoid. A year of relative anonymity had, perhaps, made her careless.

  Paranoia was fine. But she could ill afford to be careless.

  She turned, pulling her cardigan closer against a sudden chill. For the briefest of moments, her mind flitted to another time, to feelings of warmth and contentment. Some things were bigger than one person’s feelings and she forced herself back to the present. To her own safety. To the safety of others.

  The kitchen was dark.

  Her pulse raced. She could have sworn she’d put the light on over the stove. Yes, she was certain. She’d retired to her study after a dinner of bread and soup and had left the l
ight on after cleaning the kitchen. She always left that light on.

  But the light was off.

  That meant either…

  “Hello, Emily.”

  She jumped. While her eyes scanned the darkened kitchen for the person who went with the disembodied voice, her mind spun with more practical matters. What had she left out in her study? What would they find?

  He said, “This place is very…quaint.”

  She spotted him in the shadows. He sat sprawled on a chair by the back door, his legs out in front of him, something long and metal on the table by his side. Darkness hid his face, but she recognized the voice.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  “We have our sources.”

  “We,” she repeated.

  “Does that bother you, Emily?”

  She remained silent, her eyes on the back door, which, she noticed now, stood slightly ajar. How long would it take her to reach it—could she get there before he did?

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “You know what we want.”

  “You can’t have it.”

  He smiled. It was a shark’s grin, full of cold-blooded malice, a reminder of who he was and all that he stood for. She knew then that she could tell herself whatever lies gave her momentary comfort, but the truth was, she was going to die in this house, far from everything she held so dear.

  Oddly, this sudden understanding gave her strength. She forced herself to meet his gaze. She smiled. “Killing me will do you absolutely no good.”

  He raised his harm. In his hand was a needle. Another icy smile. “I beg to differ.”

  She shook her head, grateful for careful planning. He—they, she reminded herself—could take what they could from her. But it wouldn’t be everything.