Bound by Mystery Page 16

  The beam went straight to the ground, and he stepped quickly toward me.

  At three paces from me I said, “Stop.”

  He did, his head jerking from side-to-side like a nervous bird.

  “Expecting someone?”

  His voice cracked. “No.”

  “Now strip.”

  “What?”

  “Until you’re bare-ass naked.”

  “I have no weapons.”

  “Well, I do, so you better listen.”

  He stripped down to his shoes.

  “Those too, and the watch.”

  I took his flashlight, turned it off, and kept him standing there until he shook from the cold. I turned on the light and motioned toward the building with the gun muzzle. “Inside.”

  The dank smell of old olive oil hung in the air; the only sound the gentle sloshing of oil inside a two-story high storage tank. I shone the light on the tank. “I always wished I could afford one of those modern stainless steel tanks. Maybe someday.”

  “Is that what you want?” He said, still shaking. “Money?”

  “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet? Money didn’t work on the girl. What makes you think it will work on me?”

  “This is about the girl?”

  I raised the submachine gun to my shoulder and took aim at the middle of his forehead. “I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to try to explain your way out of that one. But let me caution you. If you’re about to say you had nothing to do with what happened to her, and fail to convince me, I am going to empty this magazine into your balls.” I aimed the muzzle at his groin. “Now, what did you want to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. Now, up those steps to the top of the tank.”

  He stumbled up the stairs.

  I followed him up, and shone the flashlight into the tank. “Say hello.”

  He looked half at me, as he edged up to the tank and peered in. “They’re alive!”

  “Yep, every last one of them, including the one I let run free until I could arrange to blow up your car. All nicely packed together like a half-dozen sardines in a half-meter of oil, with duct tape over their mouths and their hands taped behind their backs.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you down there untying your friends.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” I waved the MP5K at his head.

  He gripped ahold of the tank’s edge and swung over the side trying to ease down, but his hands slipped and he fell with a splash into the oil.

  “Undo them.” I said.

  It took him five minutes.

  “Okay. Attention, everyone.” I nodded toward the front door and an overhead light went on. “We’re about to enter into a business transaction and I need your undivided attention. Do I have it?”

  No answer.

  “I’ll need a verbal answer from each of you.” I waved the gun above the tank.

  “Yes,” said a chorus.

  “Good. My colleague, who assisted me with the lights, is a childhood friend and an accomplished Athenian lawyer. He’s prepared documents for each of you sign. The terms are simple and straightforward. Each of you is selling your press and trees to the cooperative headed by Thalia Georges. In exchange, you’ll receive a twenty-year payout based upon the fair market value of your property today, plus annual interest on the unpaid balance, at bank rates.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Once-Nattily Dressed. “We have no reason to agree to this. Your little olive oil charade isn’t scaring any of us. You’d have to kill us all, and you wouldn’t dare, because you know you’ll never get away with it.”

  Some nodded, but not all.

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe you need more convincing, but so be it.” I walked around to the other side of the tank.

  “Look out below,” I yelled, and tossed one of the bodyguards over the side. Fifteen seconds later I tossed in the second, each with his throat cut.

  I stared over the edge of the tank. “Convinced?”

  Silence.

  “Good, and for any of you who might be thinking of later reneging on this deal, or possibly taking revenge, permit me to explain the penalty for such a breach of trust. If Ms. Georges should so much as slip in her shower, or if I ever see one of you in this valley after tomorrow, you all die. In other words, be prepared to keep a close eye on each other, because if anyone of you steps out of line, you’re all dead. Period, end of story.”

  I held up a cylinder. “For example. This is an incendiary grenade.” I pulled the pin.

  “Should I decide to drop this, you’ll all be French fries in a matter of minutes. So, what will it be, folks, fries or good-byes?”

  Everyone signed that night, and disappeared from the valley the next day.

  When I presented Thalia with the signed agreements she didn’t smile, nor did she cry.

  I also told her that the two men who’d attacked her had died in a freak accident in a partially filled oil vat. Apparently they’d been using an acetylene torch to repair a crack in the steel lining and ended up frying themselves into harmless crispy critters.

  Thalia smiled.

  Apollo couldn’t have been more pleased than I at such a smile.

  Her Mama’s Pearls

  Vicki Delany

  Way back in 2006, Poisoned Pen Press published my debut novel of psychological suspense, Scare the Light Away. I still remember how excited I was when I got the e-mail from Editor-in-Chief Barbara Peters, saying they liked my book and wanted to publish it—but first I had to cut 20,000 words! In the years since, the press has published two additional novels of stand-alone suspense, as well as eight books in the Constable Molly Smith series, the latest in 2016. And, the excitement continues….

  —V.D.

  ***

  The town wasn’t marked on the map.

  I snorted in frustration; this was supposed to be the latest, most comprehensive map available, and it didn’t have this two-bit town marked on it. I punched the buttons on the GPS. Nothing but a single straight line showing the highway.

  My car radio was tuned into an oldies station, and I was singing along with the Beatles on “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” when, with a burst of static, the song ended. I flipped the dials: nothing but more static and dead air. A brand new car, everything top of the line, and the radio couldn’t even get me through the first trip.

  It was late November, and although snow had not yet fallen, the forest was drawing in on itself, preparing for the long winter to come. I’d been on the road for two weeks. The first sales trip for my new job, installing and supporting computer equipment to mining companies. It was also the first time I’d been away from home since my marriage. I was thoroughly sick of lumpy motel beds, tasteless diner food, and the endless expanse of Northern Ontario rocks and pine trees. I thought of nothing but getting back to the city.

  As the highway became the main street I slowed down, intending to cruise through town and out again. It was a small town, all right; I could see clear from one end to the other, to where the highway opened up again and continued on timelessly. It looked old, too. The buildings were mostly wooden. Handmade signs swinging in the wind marked the few small storefronts.

  Although I’d stopped for a lunch break less than an hour ago I had a sudden urge for a beer and pulled up to the sidewalk before I was even fully aware of making the decision to stop.

  I got out of the car and took in my surroundings; a general air of neglect and decay lay over the town. The buildings were in desperate need of a few coats of paint. Loose wooden shingles clattered in the cold wind. A hand-rail on the steps of the tiny white church across the road had broken off and lay like a barrier across the front door.

  I hadn’t yet seen a single person or car. The str
eets were as deserted as the morning after Judgment Day.

  As in most small northern towns, the bar was instantly recognizable. It was the only building on the street that had any appearance of being used.

  I pushed open the swinging door and walked into the dusky gloom. I stood in the doorway letting my eyes adjust to the lack of light. At first I thought I was the only person in the bar, but gradually I made out the shape of the bartender wiping glasses behind the counter.

  He watched me approach in silence. Before I could place my order, he slapped a bottle of beer on the bar.

  “Cheers.”

  I wiped my eyes and attempted to focus on the bartender. He was an old guy, with a full scraggly beard, mostly gray shot with black, and badly cut hair, wearing a pair of loose dust-colored trousers held up by worn suspenders that might once have been red but were now more of a dirty pink.

  “Cheers. Nice little town you have here,” I lied.

  He grunted and went back to washing the glasses.

  “Where is everyone?”

  He looked at me.

  “I mean, in the town. I haven’t seen a single person except yourself since I got here. Where is everyone?”

  He put down the glass and turned to face me. “They’re all at home, I reckon, at home getting ready. Big night tonight.”

  “Big night, how?”

  “Every red-blooded man in this town has been waiting many a long year for this very night. I reckon they’re all at home right now, taking baths and washing their hair and puttin’ on cologne. Old John Albright was spotted yesterday buying a bottle of shampoo in the general store.” He shook his head and chuckled, “John probably ain’t had his hair washed since his mama did it for him.”

  “Why? What’s going to happen tonight?”

  He eyed my beer thoughtfully. “It’s a long story.”

  “Let me buy you a drink, then,” I said, “and you can tell it to me.”

  Another bottle appeared. He drank deeply and then pulled a stool up to the bar.

  I could tell this was going to be a long story, indeed. I was anxious to get home, and had planned on driving most of the night. But somehow, before the old man even began, I knew I wanted to hear his tale.

  “Tonight Mary McConnell is coming back to town.”

  “Mary McConnell, is she some old-time movie star? I’ve never heard of her.”

  “No, you won’t know her. But every man in this town does. You see, Mary’s the most beautiful woman most of us have ever seen. This here town ain’t much, and it’s fading fast; pretty soon there ain’t gonna be nothing left. But Mary, she always made this town real special. Poor Mary.

  “Mary McConnell was the most beautiful girl you ever did see. And not just beautiful, but nice too, real nice. Kind to everyone. Even the other girls, who you’d think would be jealous of Mary, they liked her too. Her parents thought the world of Mary, she was their only child. They loved her so much. Too much maybe.

  “They wanted nothing but the best for Mary. They expected her to make a good marriage. I know they was looking over to the next town, to the Barnett boy. Him bein’ the only son and his dad the big mine owner. All of us boys, we were all hoping to catch Mary’s eye. Any one of us would have given anything for Mary. We would have made her happy.”

  He stared at his bottle as if the past were playing itself out before his eyes. I expect it was.

  “But our Mary, she had a mind of her own, you see. She treated that Barnett boy like he were dirt. Probably because her parents chose him. One day, right out of the blue, it was announced that Mary was going to marry Jack McNeil.” The old man spat on the floor.

  “Jack McNeil. Even back then he was nothing but a low-down, lying skunk. Never had done a decent day’s work in all his life. But he was a charmer, I guess. And he had charmed our Mary. I remember their wedding day as clear as if it was yesterday. Mary, looking as beautiful as only Mary could. Her poor mother’s face all red and swollen from crying, and as for her old dad, he looked like he’d swallowed a thundercloud. Jack, of course, was grinning all over his stupid face, like the cat who’d swallowed the cream. The whole town came out to the wedding, of course. Everyone said they wouldn’t believe it if they couldn’t see it with their own eyes. That was the last time anyone ever saw Mary smile.

  “The wedding was organized right quick. We all knew why soon enough. Mr. McConnell gave the best part of his farm to Mary and Jack, and money to build a house. McConnell had the most prosperous farm in the county in them days. That didn’t last long. Little bit o’ neglect and a farm goes downhill pretty fast. As for the money for the house,” he snorted in disgust, “Jack didn’t keep much of it. Nothing but a shack he put up for our Mary and her baby. Mr. McConnell didn’t last long after the wedding. He died that very winter; Mrs. McConnell moved away to live with her sister. She would come to town a couple of times a year to visit Mary. She sure aged fast, Mrs. McConnell.

  “Then Mary and Jack got the rest of the farm and the big old farmhouse. Three more babies Mary had, all of them girls. Prettiest little gals you ever did see. Took after their mom, they did. Mary looked after those girls real well. She didn’t have nothing for herself, but her girls always had bright ribbons in their hair and clean dresses. Real polite they were, too.

  “Mary looked after the farm as best she could. Didn’t get no help from Jack, let me tell you. See that table over there, the one in the corner? That’s where Jack sat, day after day, drinking beer and telling everyone what a great man he was. None of the boys from town would have nothing to do with him, but in those days we got a lot of strangers passing through and they would always let Jack buy them a drink and listen to him talk.

  “While Jack was in here drinking and talking all day long, my poor Mary was working on that farm and raising those girls all by herself.”

  Overcome by emotion the old man fell silent. I noticed that he no longer referred to “our Mary” but to “my Mary.” He wiped his eyes and continued.

  “Folks were mighty sure Jack raised his hand to Mary more than once. She’d not be seen in town for a couple weeks, then she’d tell the women at the store she’d been sick. She broke her arm, said she fell down the stairs.” The old man shrugged, and his eyes slipped away from mine. “No one wanted to interfere. Jack had a temper, we all knew that, and what happens between a man and his wife is their business, right?”

  I didn’t bother to argue. The old man’s guilt was written all over his face.

  “To make matters worse, if anything could be worse, the bastard never stopped chasing women. Louise Robinson told everyone in town that on the very day Mary was having her first daughter, she saw Jack arm in arm with some fancy lady. For a few years more, Jack still had the charm. He acted like a randy alley-cat all over this part of the county, never tried to hide it, neither. And when the drink took effect and the charm was gone, Jack paid for it. Everyone in town tried to hide what was going on from Mary, but of course she knew. She said nothing and kept on working the farm and raising those girls. You see, she was just too proud. Too proud to let any of us see how much she was hurting.

  “But time passes. Mary’s daughters grew up to be fine young women. At her last daughter’s wedding, after the bride and groom had left and the younger children been taken home, when Jack was snoring it off under a table in the corner, Mary stood up in front of everyone.

  ‘“I have an announcement to make,’ she said, ‘Jack McNeil and I have been married for twenty-five years. For twenty-five years Jack has drunk and whored his way through this county, and smacked me around whenever he felt like it. For twenty-five years I have put up with it and raised my daughters as best I can. Tomorrow, I’m moving on.’ Now, none of us knew what she meant, but we were thunderstruck, as you can imagine. Mary walked out the door, head high, leaving Jack dead to the world.

  “No one knows what happened when he got
home. But next thing we knew the police were out at the farm and Mary, my precious Mary, was under arrest. For murder.”

  “She killed Jack?”

  “Yup. With his own hunting’ rifle. I went and visited her in the jail in the police station. Her face was mighty banged up, and it was easy to see she weren’t able to move well, I can tell you. The trial was the talk of the town. I was there every day, sitting in the front row, letting her know she weren’t alone. She told the court Jack had hit her when he got home from the wedding, and she’d finally had enough. She grabbed the hunting rifle he left on the kitchen table and let him have it. She didn’t seem too sorry about it. I wondered if she’d planned it—wouldn’t have blamed her if she did. If that’s what she meant by moving on.”

  “I hope she got off,” I said, “Clearly, she was a battered woman.”

  “Guilty. She got ten years.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She had the right to defend herself.”

  “Jury didn’t see it that way. Man’s got a right to control his wife, or so some say.”

  I was stunned at the severity of the sentence. This place was such a backwater it seemed that modern legal defenses hadn’t reached it yet.

  “It coulda been worse. Some folk said she was lucky she didn’t hang.”

  I assumed he was speaking rhetorically.

  “Everyone who’d been at the wedding saw how much Jack drunk that night. And we all knew he hit her. I figure the jury took that into consideration.”

  I shook my head. Finished my beer. “Okay, but you still haven’t told me what’s happening tonight. Why’s tonight going to be so special?”

  “When they took her away, off to prison, Mary stood up and made a statement to the court. She said when she got out she was coming back to this town and in one grand, glorious night she’d make up for all of her lost years.”

  “You think it’s going to be tonight?” I said.

  “We got word she left the prison yesterday morning. Mary’s youngest daughter and her husband took over the farm. They live there and that’s where Mary’ll be going.”