Hazard and Somerset

by Gregory Ashe

He opened his phone, opened the Find My Friends app, and clicked Somers’s name. The map showed a red pin, and the red pin was at their house. Hazard grinned. He had expected something like this: an elaborate web of clues, leading Hazard out into the city so that Somers could set up the brunch in the comfort of their home. Somers had probably left the back door unlocked, driven around the block, and sneaked back into the house. Now Hazard just had to find him.

  Heeling off the sneakers, Hazard padded through the house, doing his best to avoid the floorboards that creaked. He opened door after door, checking rooms in sudden, silent bursts, hoping to catch Somers unaware. But room after room was empty.

  After searching the first floor, Hazard crept back upstairs. Their bedroom. The hall bathroom. The office. Outside Evie’s door, he paused, listened, and heard nothing. He threw open the door and charged in. No Somers, just the usual disarray of dolls and dress-up clothes and toys.

  Except today, three things were different: a piece of paper, with a vertical arrow drawn on it, was taped to the front of Evie’s dresser; when Hazard followed the arrow up to the top of the dresser, he saw a phone that he recognized as Somers’s; and next to the phone was a camera.

  Hazard’s phone began to ring.

  “A burner phone and call forwarding” he snapped when he answered the call. “Very clever. How long have you been planning this?”

  “A year. Exactly. Since your last birthday didn’t really go the way I’d hoped.”

  “God damn it, John.”

  “I’m very disappointed in you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “You tried to cheat.”

  “The movie theater. The parking garage. I already figured out your shitty poem.”

  Somers tsked. “I told you to send me a picture when you got there.”

  “Just give me the next clue.”

  “Ree, sweetheart, I’m realizing that you might not want to play this game.”

  “Big fucking surprise.”

  “I’m realizing that you might need to be motivated.”

  “No, what I need is for my boyfriend to let me have one day of the year when I can—”

  “So, here’s a little motivation: I’m going to start setting a timer for each little mystery. And for each mystery you don’t solve before the time runs out, I’m going to eat one of these mini quiches. And when I run out of mini quiches, I’m going to start in on these things called micro fudge cakes, which I haven’t tried before but look really, really good.”

  “On your fucking life, John. Those are my birthday quiches. Those are my fudge bites.”

  “You’ve got ten minutes, Ree. And I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”

  “You are a monster,” Hazard shouted into the phone as he ran to the garage.

  The call disconnected, but he was pretty sure Somers was laughing again.

  III

  APRIL 24

  WEDNESDAY

  8:01 AM

  WAHREDUA WAS A SMALL TOWN, and Hazard made it to the movie theater’s parking garage in eight minutes. He hadn’t checked the time until he’d been in the Odyssey, speeding across town, and he didn’t know exactly when Somers had started the countdown. The minivan rocked over speedbumps as he went up two levels, and he parked in the same stall they had used for the impromptu make-out session. The garage was completely empty, thank God, and he got out of the minivan and snapped a picture on his phone, which he then sent to Somers.

  Good job, was the reply.

  Fuck you.

  You’re a great detective. I knew I chose the right person when I hired you.

  You are going to regret this. You are going to regret this very much.

  A series of laugh-crying emojis came through.

  Hazard sent back several knives. Fire. And, for good measure, a skull.

  The thief’s first demand was that I send him a picture of sunset and sunrise, but he wants them both in the same picture. He gave me another deadline; fifteen minutes.

  Hazard didn’t bother responding. The spring morning was chilly, and he hugged himself as he bounced in place, thinking. Sunrise and sunset in the same photograph? Maybe at certain latitudes. Certain times of year. The Arctic Circle, maybe? At the summer solstice? Fifteen minutes wasn’t going to be enough time. The next best option would be to digitally manipulate an image so that it showed sunset and sunrise at the same time. Hazard wasn’t exactly a tech wizard, but he thought he could copy and paste two images onto the same document. And Somers hadn’t specified anything about the quality of the image. But with the drive back to the house—or to his office—he’d lose most of the fifteen minutes just driving. He didn’t think the remaining time would be enough for him to start up the computer, find the right images, and figure out enough basic digital editing to combine them.

  He sprinted toward the minivan. If he drove fast enough, and if he searched images on his phone at stoplights, he might be able to make it. Somers would probably laugh about how precise Hazard was being, but Somers—

  Hazard forced himself to stop.

  Somers had planned this game.

  Somers knew him.

  And Somers knew how literally he could take some things.

  A prickling flush ran through Hazard’s chest. Somers had picked this place for a reason. And he had set the time limit for a reason. And, while Somers would no doubt enjoy lording it over Hazard if Hazard failed to solve the puzzle in time—Hazard could imagine Somers still bragging about it when they were in a nursing home together—Somers wasn’t a cheat, and he wouldn’t have imposed an arbitrary time limit that made it almost impossible for Hazard to succeed.

  So, what was Hazard overlooking?

  He heard his own words, hearing their literal meaning, and grinned. He jogged to the stairs and climbed to the top of the parking garage. Air whipped over the concrete, making him shiver as he reached the edge of the structure. He leaned out, looking south. This part of Wahredua was a mixture of old and new: the older construction was on large plots, with minimal effort made to conserve space because, back then, land in Wahredua hadn’t been at a premium. Twenty years ago, the spot where Hazard stood had been a sprawling grocery store that had eventually been bulldozed for redevelopment. The newer construction shot up vertically, like the movie theater and parking garage. To the south, he spotted a senior living facility, a 70s-era strip mall where he’d bought his first gay paperback, and a Jack in the Box.

  Hazard looked east. The sun was already clear of the horizon, which probably meant it didn’t count as sunrise anymore, but Hazard had a guess that Somers wouldn’t care too much. Somers wanted Hazard to play the game; anything on top of that was gravy. East offered a long strip of new buildings, most of them apartments and condos, with the stumps of bars and liquor stores and a Chinese take-out place the only evidence of a previous generation. Hazard made a mental note to check the Chinese place; maybe the name had something to do with the sun.

  He checked the north side of the structure, which overlooked a city park, scruffy with old flyers and plastic shopping bags that had gotten caught in the trees. Beyond that, the three-story edifice of Grand Rivere People’s Bank made Hazard remember standing in line while his mother waited to cash his father’s paycheck, sometimes Friday afternoons, sometimes first thing Monday mornings.

  West, older style apartment buildings proliferated along the street, all of varying heights, all the same shades of brown and tan, all with tar-patched roofs. Taken in from above, they resembled a clump of fungus. Or maybe a cancerous growth. Hazard doubted the sunrise had anything to do with that.

  He took the stairs two at a time, realizing that his time was running out. If he’d been wrong about Somers’s expectations, if he’d made the wrong choice and there wasn’t some clever twist on the demand that Somers had posed, then he wouldn’t have chance to correct his error.

  But Hazard wasn’t wrong; he knew he wasn’t wrong.

  At the botto
m of the garage, he went east first, running down the block and ignoring the startled looks of men and women just starting their days. Skidding to a stop in front of the take-out restaurant, he looked for any clue about a sunrise: The Golden Wok, with a menu taped inside the window, and a 4’x4’ vinyl cling of a panda cooking something in the wok. No sunrise. Hazard sprinted back the way he had come.

  “Watch out, asshole,” came a shout from behind him, but Hazard didn’t bother looking back.

  His next try was the playground. Maybe they had something shaped like a sun or a sunrise. He wandered past the aging equipment: a jungle gym with rust streaking the supports; a merry-go-round with an enormous dent in the platform; a stainless steel slide, still bright as a mirror, the kind that as a child Hazard had been both fascinated by and terrified of, hot enough in the summer to burn the kids that dared to try it. The breeze shifted, and a flyer slapped against Hazard’s sneaker, wrapping around his foot. Hazard picked it up, flattened it, and saw LADY LUSCIOUS - DOUBLE D - THEY’RE ALL REAL BOYS and then a phone number printed in red three times. He folded it and tucked it in his back pocket for Somers.

  He tried the bank, just a quick jog around the building, but the only thing in the window was a poster advertising a comically low APY for a savings account, and Hazard snorted and kept moving. He jogged back the other way, south now. He checked his watch. He had three minutes before Somers ate one of the quiches.

  When he saw the sign for SUNSET SENIOR LIVING, he started grinning. He took a minute figuring out the right position, and then he snapped the picture. He sent it, and his phone buzzed a moment later.

  There once was a man from Ur, he met a guy with fur, they had a good time, then he stepped out of line, and now he’s a real goner.

  Hazard texted back: Another terrible poem. And a limerick. You can do better than that.

  2 minutes.

  2 minutes? Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t drive to the library in five minutes.

  You figured it out! 1:43.

  Hazard started running.

  IV

  APRIL 24

  WEDNESDAY

  8:19 AM

  GASPING AND BLOWING, HAZARD stumbled to a stop in front of the library. He snapped a picture and sent it. Then he slumped forward, hands on knees, and tried to recover from sprinting. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been easy to drive from the parking garage to the library in two minutes, but not in the middle of Wahredua’s rush hour. And, of course, Somers would have known that perfectly well. Asshole.

  After wiping his face, Hazard stretched his back, grunted, and checked his phone. Another text. He felt a little of the same charge that he experienced with a new case, a particularly difficult one. Somers’s riddles weren’t exactly brain benders, but combined with the time limits and the unscrupulous use of insider knowledge—knowing how Hazard’s mind worked and twisting it against him—made the game surprisingly challenging. And pleasant.

  Hazard scrubbed out that last part.

  The next text said, The next demand is for you to arrange a meeting between your childhood crush and your big-boy crush.

  You were not my high school crush.

  The phone remained still in Hazard’s hand.

  You were my high school bully.

  Nothing.

  You were my tormentor.

  Nothing.

  My high-school crush was Ricky Welter. He had those blond curls.

  Ricky Welter was an asshole, Ree!!!!! Don’t even pretend you liked him.

  The heart has its own reasons.

  15 minutes.

  And I don’t have a big-boy crush on anyone.

  The phone’s screen timed out.

  Hazard unlocked it and sent another message: I don’t. I have a handsome fiancé. He takes up my entire life. I love him like crazy.

  Nothing.

  He takes up every spare minute. I wouldn’t have time for a crush if I wanted to.

  A bubble appeared, showing Somers was composing, and then the bubble vanished, and then it started again, vanished again, started again, vanished. Hazard grinned.

  Then a single emoji came through: a clock.

  Asshole, Hazard texted back.

  He took the stairs up to the library’s main entrance; the building was locked until nine, but Hazard guessed that Somers had either arranged for Hazard to get into the building somehow or expected him to do some misdemeanor breaking and entering. When Hazard got to the top of the stairs, he had his answer.

  Jessica Hariguchi didn’t look like a librarian. She had her glossy black hair in a ponytail, and she was wearing yoga pants and a quarter-zip pullover. Hazard knew her age—when she had gotten the job as head librarian, he had felt like it was his civic duty to investigate her, just to make sure the collection of Wahredua’s Public Library was in safe hands—and he knew twenty-eight wasn’t young. Not really. And she had a good degree in library science. And she had publications. But he had still been on the fence about her until they had met and she had started The Stack.

  “You’re falling behind,” she said as she pushed open the door.

  “John roped you into this?”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I meant.” She pointed over her shoulder, indicating the circulation desk, where she kept The Stack for Hazard. “I added four more yesterday: Dolly and Dolly: Human Cloning and the Future of Country Music; String Theory: A Psycholegal Account of the Newport Knitting Murders; Ozark Myths and Moonshine; and a fourth one. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

  “What is it?” Hazard asked, stepping past her. He had grown up in this library, and he knew it better than he knew any other place. Somers had made a mistake, challenging him here. And while, yes, some things had changed after Jessica had taken over—a thorough weeding of the collection, a new layout for the first three floors, a self-check-out system that had obviated Hazard’s major complaint about the library—other things had remained the same—the ancient drinking fountain, the smell of paper and binding glue, the wall of photographs documenting forty years of Wahredua Wildcat Wild Readers, an elite club for kids who read more than ten books during the summer. Hazard’s picture showed up on the wall fourteen times, more than anyone else’s—twelve years of school, plus kindergarten, plus Mrs. McCreary, the ancient librarian at the time, had made an exception and let Hazard participate one last time after he graduated high school.

  “Grown in our Garden: Slugs, Sex, and the Origins of the Cabbage Patch Dolls.” Jessica eyed him as they walked toward the desk. “You know I give you first dibs, but I can just send it into general circulation.”

  “I guess I should at least look at it,” Hazard said, and then he cleared his throat. “Might have something interesting.”

  “Sure.”

  “You never know.”

  Jessica nodded once.

  “So,” Hazard said, “what did John leave for me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Jessica. I’m done with this stupid game.”

  “He just asked me if I’d let you in early. I don’t mind doing it for you; your late fees paid most of our activity budget last year.”

  Hazard grunted. “Do you have any Wahredua High yearbooks?”

  “Nope.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. The school library keeps those. You could head over there; they’ve already started the school day, so I know they’re open.”

  “No.” Hazard frowned. “What about newspaper archives?”

  “We’ve got digital access to the Courier archives after 2011. Does that help?”

  “What about before that?”

  “We have microfiche.”

  “Good Christ.”

  “What do you need? Oh, wait. Am I supposed to help you?”

  “Did he say you couldn’t?”

  “No, but I don’t know the rules.”

  “Fuck his rules. I’m not letting him eat one of my quiches.”
>
  Jessica’s eyebrows went up.

  “Never mind,” Hazard mumbled.

  “What do you need?”

  “A picture of John from high school. And a picture of him today. And, because I want to fuck with him, a picture of Ricky Welter.”

  “Who’s Ricky? Was he cute?”

  “He was an overgrown thug with a face like a hatchet. But sometimes, John is too fucking smug for his own good.”

  “I don’t know how to help you with the picture from high school. Do you know if John-Henry or the other guy, Ricky, were ever featured in the Courier back then?”

  “I doubt it. Maybe for something with sports.”

  “That means looking at each edition page by page.”

  “I don’t have time for that. What about a recent picture?”

  “You don’t have any pictures of your own boyfriend?”

  “Fiancé,” Hazard said. “And of course I have pictures of him. But I’m supposed to find it here.”

  “Sure, that makes sense,” Jessica said.

  “Without the attitude, please,” Hazard said. “Librarians are supposed to be meek and mousy.”

  “I’ll remember that the next time a Ken Burns documentary comes in.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I’m just joking.”

  “No, holy shit. John thinks he’s so fucking smart. Be right back. Get me that picture of John, a recent one.”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Sure,” he shot back as he ran into the stacks, “whatever.”

  Hazard found the DVD he was looking for. He was halfway back to the circulation desk when he rerouted himself, grabbed a second DVD, and had to fight a grin. It was time for another lesson—a small one—in humility.

  “Got it,” Jessica said, holding up a color printout of Somers. He was accepting an award from the FBI, a huge smile on his face. He looked perfect.

  “Thank you,” Hazard said. “Can you call over to the high school? Maybe they can scan a picture, send it over, and we can print it.”

  “That is well within the range of my capabilities.”

  Hazard groaned. “Will you do it?”