Kwik Krimes (28 page)

The others hung on his response. The motorcyclist felt pressure from the crowd. A simple yes would grant them the satisfaction they craved and return to the motorcyclist his privacy, though not his solitude.

“People are afraid of the truth,” he said.

The attendee nodded heartily, as did others around him. “You can say that again.”

“They reject facts that threaten their worldview. They want simple answers to complex questions. They are immature and wish to remain that way.”

More enthusiastic nodding. “True, that.”

The lounge had fallen nearly silent, all focus on the motorcyclist. “Here, I think, is the real question,” he said, addressing the faces turned his way. “If some secret entity could seed charges throughout twin one-hundred-and-ten-story skyscrapers without anyone knowing…if they could frame nineteen Arabs as terrorist hijackers…if they could fake a plane crash at the Pentagon and shoot down a passenger jet over Pennsylvania…if they could pull off all this and more in front of billions of people watching on live television…then how can they allow any dissenters to live? I ask those who have exposed the real truth—why haven’t they come for you yet?”

The attendee’s resolve flickered, his brow furrowing as he formed his response.

“What if…” the motorcyclist said, stopping the attendee before he could answer. As he did so, he pulled out his brand-new mobile phone and rested it atop the bar, like a detonator. “What if they have been waiting years to get you all together, in one location? What if, this time, they sent in just one guy, to finish the job…?”

The bartender emerged from the kitchen two minutes later with a large tray of chips and appetizers in her hand—and stopped, looking aghast at the empty lounge.

Only the motorcyclist remained, his eyes on the overhead television.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Kobe got fouled on a three.” He finished his drink with a steady hand. “I think I’ll order something now.”

Chuck Hogan is the
New York Times
best-selling author of several acclaimed novels, including
Devils in Exile
and
Prince of Thieves,
which was awarded the Hammett Prize and adapted into the 2010 hit film
The Town.
He is also the co-author, with Oscar-winning filmmaker Guillermo del Toro, of the international best-selling Strain Trilogy. His short fiction has twice been anthologized in
The Best American Mystery Stories
annual.

Wendy Hornsby

T
he old apple tree in the back corner of Stella Mary’s garden began to bloom early in the spring. By late June its branches were heavy with ripening fruit.

“Funniest thing.” Arlo Holbrook, Stella Mary’s next-door neighbor, leaned his elbows atop the fence that separated their yards and eyed the tree. Eyed her, too; nosy, horny bastard, she thought. “All these years, that scraggly tree never produced anything but dead leaves for Fred to rake in the fall. Now look at it.”

“I’ll have a pie or two from it, that’s for sure.” Stella Mary continued troweling fresh mulch into the soil around the base of the tree. She knew from the way that men—Arlo among them—had begun to take particular notice of her again that the tree wasn’t the only thing in her garden that had blossomed that spring.

“Yep, that puny tree used to piss off Fred,” Arlo said.

“A lot of things pissed off Fred,” she said.

“What do you hear from him?”

“Not one word since October, Arlo.” She raised her chin enough to see his face. “Remember, I have a restraining order.”

Arlo had the grace to blush. “I told you before, I’m sorry I asked him to come over that day. It’s just that Fred’s a real strong guy and I needed some muscle to help dig out that big ficus
tree—roots you know, fouling the sewer line. Jesus, seems like we dug down halfway to China before we got them all.”

“I remember.”

“Anyway, frame of mind Fred was in at the time—getting served with the divorce and all—it wasn’t a good idea for me to put an ax in one hand and a can of beer in the other. I guess it just didn’t occur to me…” He seemed properly chagrined.

“Don’t know that I ever thanked you for returning the ax, Stella Mary. Your back door looks good as new.”

“Uh-huh,” was all she said, and went back to work.

“Your garden puts mine to shame this year.” He surveyed her yard, took in the fat red tomatoes spilling over their frames, the lovely cukes and peas, the masses of ripe blackberries hanging heavily in the corner bramble. “It’s almost like that ficus poisoned the soil; nothing wants to grow back there. Don’t know what I’m doing wrong. What’s your magic?”

“No magic, Arlo, just dig, fertilize, water, pray.”

He studied the fresh soil around the base of the apple tree. “That what you did here? Dig?”

“Root-bound,” she said. “Like all living things, the tree needed room to grow and breathe.”

Arlo was silent long enough that Stella Mary began to hope that he had come to the end of his conversational string and would go tend to his own business. She had been so perfectly happy that morning, working in solitude under the shade of the tree, the air perfumed by sun-warmed apples and fresh-turned earth. Until Arlo showed up.

She raised her chin and found him still there, staring at her.

“The guys at the club were talking about Fred the other day,” he said. “No one has heard from him since that set-to last fall. When he didn’t show up to be Santa Claus at the Kiwanis Christmas banquet, well, folks understood; still embarrassed about the
restraining order and all that. But when he hadn’t bounced back in time for the club’s Memorial Day golf tournament…”

There was something accusatory in Arlo’s voice, in the intensity of his expression as he studied her. Stella Mary sat back on her heels and wiped her cheeks with the cuffs of her garden gloves—pretty new ones—as she met his gaze. Surely Arlo understood that Fred’s constant “bouncing back” after she filed for divorce was the reason she had to get a restraining order.

He said, “I have this gut feeling that something bad has happened to Fred.”

“Knowing Fred as I do, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” She rose and dropped her trowel into the pocket of her gardening apron. “Tell Cora I’ll save her enough apples for a pie.”

She turned and strode purposefully toward the house. The blessedly tidy, quiet house.

The table was laid for her supper when the doorbell rang. On the front porch she found a trio of uniformed policemen with shovels, a cadaver dog, and a search warrant.

“I would never have suspected my neighbor to be possessed of such a lively imagination,” she said as she led the officers around back to search under the apple tree. They promised not to harm either the tree or its burgeoning crop, and so, leaving them to their task, she went inside to enjoy her meal.

“Sorry you were inconvenienced, ma’am,” the sergeant in charge offered as he finished the fresh blackberry cobbler Stella Mary served the men when they had finished their search. “But since your neighbor is on the city council, well, certain pressure was brought to bear.”

“I understand,” she said as she wrapped a basket of blackberries for the officer to take home to his wife.

“I hope there isn’t bad blood after this,” he said.

“There’s no bad blood,” she said, handing him the berries. “Not on this side of the fence.”

Wendy Hornsby is the Edgar Allan Poe Award–winning creator of the Maggie MacGowen series and is the author of many short stories. Her ninth mystery,
The Hanging,
was released by Perseverance Press in September 2012. Her first seven books are now available from
MysteriousPress.com
in electronic-reading formats. When she isn’t writing, she teaches history at Long Beach City College. Visit her website at
WendyHornsby.com
.

David Housewright

H
e heard the fear in her voice the moment she recognized his.

“No phone calls,” she said. “We agreed to communicate only through chat rooms.”

He assured her that it was an emergency and directed her to a park they both knew.

“Are we in trouble, Kevin?” she asked.

“Yes, Emma. I’m sorry.”

He was sorry, too. Sorry for her, but mostly sorry for himself. A year ago, Kevin was named the youngest vice president in the firm. Old Man Torrance himself had taken notice and often invited Kevin and his beautiful bride, Lisa, to gatherings at his fabulous estate—that’s where he was introduced to Emma, Torrance’s long-legged trophy wife. Unfortunately, he and Lisa had drifted apart, mostly because of the grueling hours Kevin worked and the long trips Torrance sent him on. They hadn’t enjoyed sex in weeks. Kevin decided if she was going to be that way…He met Emma in the elevator. She was willing, so he slept with her that evening. Kevin meant for it to be a one-night stand, something to remind him that he was still desirable to women. Yet he saw her again the
following week and then a third time three days later—never at the same place twice. They had been very careful.

Emma was waiting for him on the park bench. He could see the anxiety on her face. He answered her nervous questions by presenting a letter that he’d discovered in his mailbox.
I know about your affair
, it said, and:
I will tell Torrance unless I’m paid $10,000.
The letter was accompanied by three laser-printed photographs. The first was taken through a bedroom window and showed Kevin and Emma embracing. They were embracing in the second photo as well, although Emma’s yellow sundress was now lying at their feet. In the third photo, Emma’s bra and panties had joined the sundress.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“Pay him. He’s threatening to take away my wife, my job, probably my career. What would you lose?”

“Everything. The way our prenup is written, and Roger—his temper—you can’t imagine his temper. And his kids…What was I thinking, sleeping with you?”

“Good question.” Kevin was attempting to sound blasé yet was surprised at the ache he felt. He liked Emma and thought she liked him. “I can come up with five thousand dollars.”

“I can find the rest, but what if he wants more?” Emma asked.

Turned out the blackmailer did want more. Kevin had followed his instructions impeccably—the cash was sealed inside a white envelope with
Room 1242
written on it and brought to the front desk of a downtown hotel. Kevin gave the envelope to a clerk. He tried to learn who was staying in 1242, but the hotel had a policy against revealing information about its guests. Two weeks later, Kevin received a second letter. The instructions were identical to the first except for a change in room number and hotel.

“What are we going to do?” This time it was Kevin who asked the question. “I can’t keep withdrawing five thousand dollars in cash from our accounts without Lisa finding out.”

“Sooner or later he’ll betray us, anyway,” Emma said. “I know he will.”

“Maybe we should just go to our spouses and explain…”

“No, no, no, no, no. When I married Roger everyone accused me of being a gold digger, a blonde bimbo from the wrong side of the tracks who was using her looks and sex to snare a rich husband. It wasn’t true. I married Roger because I genuinely loved him. There’s no way he’s leaving me. No way I’m leaving him. They were right about one thing, though. I am from the wrong side of the tracks. I know people.”

“What’s that mean?”

Emma glanced cautiously around her. When she was sure no one was watching, she dipped into her bag and produced a white envelope. She told Kevin to take it and follow the blackmailer’s instructions. Roger knew what it was, yet asked anyway.

“It’s a letter bomb,” Emma said. “We’re lucky because the blackmailer expects the envelope to be thick with cash. It allows us to pack it with more explosives. Otherwise it would just pop and flash like a firework.”

Kevin held the bomb as if taking a deep breath would be enough to set it off. Emma told him to relax, but he couldn’t. He gave her a long list of reasons why they shouldn’t do this.

“We have no choice,” Emma said. “Besides, it’s the blackmailer’s fault. He started it.” Kevin still wasn’t convinced. She kissed him, kissed him passionately. “Do this and I’ll sleep with you one last time,” she said.