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  We sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the shadows were lengthening.

  “Time to lock up, Sonny,” the bartender eased himself off his stool. “I have to go home and have a bath. Get my best suit out of the mothballs.”

  “What time do you think she’ll be here?”

  He looked at me in surprise. “After evening chores, of course. Farm life don’t stop even for a ten-year vow.”

  I reached into my wallet but the old bartender wouldn’t let me pay.

  “I reckon I’ll make enough tonight to cover it,” he chuckled.

  As much as I wanted to get home, I knew I had to see the end of the story. I’d passed a run-down motel a few kilometers outside of town, so I turned my car around. I took a room there and had a short nap.

  By the time I got back to town the bar was hopping. They were lined up three-deep at the wooden counter. Two young men were acting as bartenders; the old man sat on his stool and talked to the patrons. All conversation was of the fair Mary McConnell and the evil Jack McNeil.

  Not a seat in the place was free. I pushed my way through the crowd and nodded to the old man. Again, no one asked what I wanted to drink but just handed me a beer. The bartender reached into his apron and pulled out an old-fashioned bottle opener and pulled off the cap.

  I leaned against the wall in a far corner of the room, where I could see everything. Most of the men were in their fifties and sixties or more. All were dressed in the same uniform of cheap, shiny suit, starched white shirt, and thin black tie. Didn’t anyone in this town ever get to Toronto for a shopping trip? The air was thick with the smell of smoke and department-store men’s cologne. A few women sat at tables by the door. They wore homemade dresses and clunky black shoes with thick heels. Several of the women sported colorful hats; one even wore gloves. None of the women were drinking wine or beer, rather they sipped daintily at glasses of what looked like lemonade.

  They didn’t have to tell me she was coming. At an instant the place fell silent. The door opened and a path cleared through the room like Moses at the Red Sea.

  When the old man told me his story that afternoon I’d been sure he was exaggerating. Maybe Mary had been a somewhat pretty small-town girl in her youth but after twenty-five years on the farm and four children and then a stint in prison, I was expecting a stout, worn-out old woman. I stared in astonishment. She was outstanding. Fine lines were chiseled in the skin around her mouth and under her eyes, her thick black hair was liberally streaked with gray, her hands were coarse, but Mary McConnell would still be a traffic-stopper anywhere. Her flamboyant red gown was hopelessly old-fashioned, but it gave her an air of ageless glamour and set off her lush figure to perfection. A string of pearls hung around her neck and a red ostrich feather dressed her hair.

  “That’s the dress she wore to the Christmas party at the mine office with the Barnett boy,” I heard one man whisper to his companion.

  “Aye, and her mama’s pearls.”

  Mary moved gracefully through the crowd smiling at everyone in turn. She stopped beside the bar and turned to face the crowd. You could have heard a pin drop.

  Mary raised her hand. “My daughter’s husband kindly presented me with a small check upon my release. I would therefore like to buy a drink for everyone in this town.”

  A great cheer went up and men pushed forward.

  Mary turned slowly to face the old man who had told me her story. They stared at each other for a long time. Not a word was spoken. From across the room I could feel the strength of a love that would never die.

  When everyone had a drink (in some cases two), Mary raised her hand again. Again the room fell silent. “Let’s drink to Jack McNeil,” she cried, throwing back her head and draining her glass, “the foulest man ever walked God’s green Earth.” With that she hurled her glass against the wall.

  “Bartender,” she said, “another round for me and all my friends.”

  It was time to take my leave. I wanted to say goodbye to the old bartender, but when I stood in front of him, he didn’t even see me. He had eyes only for his Mary.

  “We’ve lost so many years,” I heard him say.

  “Yes, and we will never have them,” she said, “but we will have this night. I will not try to make up for all that I have lost. It is too late. But we will party here every year on November 22nd and think of what might have been.”

  He nodded sadly. “Every year.”

  As I turned to go, some old fellow, his hair plastered down with goo, bumped into me as he pushed up to the bar. “It’s my turn,” he shouted. “A round for everyone.”

  Not until I was in the street standing in a pool of light cast by the bar windows did I realize that the man had paid for a round of drinks for the entire town with a five-dollar bill.

  I drove slowly back to the motel deep in thought.

  “Big night in town,” I said to the desk clerk.

  She yawned. “What town would that be?”

  “Why, Black River, of course.”

  “Black River.” She looked at me in amazement. “That whole town was deserted before the war, when the mine closed. No one’s lived there since. Buildings were all torn down years ago. You must be thinking of another town.”

  “Are you sure? I was just there. Lots of people around, big party at the bar.”

  The woman laughed and returned to her magazine. “Not in Black River, there isn’t, buddy.”

  Despite the lateness of the hour, I was determined to prove the woman wrong, if only for my own peace of mind. Clouds had moved in to cover any light that might be cast by moon or stars. As I drove, the headlights of my car cut a thin beam of civilization through the thick darkness of the Northern Ontario wilderness. I don’t remember there being any turn-off required to get to Black River, but there must be. In the darkness I must have I missed it, even though I drove up and down that stretch of highway several times.

  I didn’t go back to the motel. I drove south, all through the rest of the night heading home.

  I arrived at the office to the welcome news that my territory had been changed and I would now be working much closer to home.

  I never forgot the little town of Black River, but it was a few years before I got the chance to travel north again. In bright summer daylight I drove the highway, taking every turning I could find. The motel was still there, right where I left it, but of the town of Black River? Not a sign.

  I’ll come back on November 22. Perhaps I can find it then.

  Chaos Points

  A Young Adult Mystery

  Meg Dobson

  As an author of young adult fiction, I met the Poisoned Pen’s new YA imprint publisher at Arizona State University’s Desert Night, Rising Stars writing conference. Although crime fiction/thrillers are my favorite reading genres, I’d never written one. By happenstance, the summer before, I attended Writers Police Academy. It is a comprehensive hands-on police/FBI/forensic/Secret Service conference for writers. I was prepared to write the genre.

  I mentioned to the publisher I’d be interested in submitting, but I wanted to write about serious issues that modern teens face every day. I wanted to write the gritty, but not have it be in-your-face violent. (The bodies stay off page, for example.) The publisher said that was what they wanted—YA crime fiction with an edge.

  My Poisoned Pencil 2015 debut novel Chaos Theory dealt with an underage confidential informant. This is my third Kami short story: Politics of Chaos released in a 2015 Sisters in Crime anthology, and the 2016 Malice Domestic anthology included Elemental Chaos. Politics dealt with the Secret Service and a daughter of a presidential contender; Elemental Chaos dealt with bullying and a terrorist threat.

  —M.D.

  ***

  In Nighthawks, the artist, Edward Hopper, painted people (random chaos points) frozen in time and place. Beyond that, the viewer knows nothing.
Yet the Nighthawks’ characters hold tension, causing the observer to ask questions. Who are those people? Why are they there? Do they have homes, people who love them, families who care? The viewer suspects secrets, but can never know them.

  I reread my team’s e-file on Emma Carson’s sister. Margot, a high school junior, had been a chaos point that met another, which resulted in her death. Thorough and organized, the e-file facts are as beautiful to my logical mind as Hopper’s Nighthawks is to the art critic. My friends and I, we could get hurt—again. Do we do this or not?

  I bury the painful memories and whisper, “Yes,” while closing the laptop.

  A high school student in a small Iowa college town, my daily interests are more fitting for Nancy Drew—only my team rides the edge. My crime team deals with the ugly, the horrible, and sometimes the fatal.

  ***

  Three Weeks Later

  “Earth to Kam-iii!!!” Sandy says with her normal extension of my name and the assumed exclamation marks. From behind me, my best friend grabs my shoulders. “What’s up? You don’t daydream.”

  She’s right, but I’d been off in Edward Hopper Nighthawks-ville again. The artist’s work haunts me. I knew why. He left the questions unanswered, and that, I cannot accept. I don’t believe in unsolved mysteries. Chaos points become chaos threads. I follow them; it’s what I do.

  That, and I’m scared about last time—the hurt, the pain. Nighthawks is a safe refuge because it never changes. Those people were forever trapped, unable to move forward into their destinies. That has advantages. You know, hide your head in the sand, don’t rock the boat—all those trite clichés.

  “Stay on point!” Sandy sticks her thumbs into the top of my spine.

  “Ouch.” I straighten my shoulders back. Under my thin long-sleeved t-shirt, the vile push-up bra crushes the girls upward. Darn angel TV ads. Pain accompanies her second thumb jam, and I gasp in stale cigarette smoke and other gross smells from the motel room. It is dirty, ugly, and disgusting.

  The chaos points have built one atop the other, amassing energy and mass. It’ll be a tsunami release. There’s no stopping it now, right? But the painful memories from last time won’t shake off.

  I say, “Sandy…”

  She eases into professional mode—no exclamation marks. This is serious, Sandy. The Sandy most people never hear or see. She says, “Forget it, worrywart. Emma and her family need answers. We’re getting them.”

  There’s a knock on our motel door. Daniel’s masculine, “Ready?” slips through the thin prefab.

  “Yep,” Sandy says.

  “Come on.” Through the door, Daniel’s deep voice ripples along my nerve-endings. He doesn’t talk much. In those two simple words he’s said: Everything’s set. Everyone’s waiting. Let’s get this done. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s saying. It’s tough communicating with the big silent type.

  I slip on the thin hoodie over my tight t-shirt, leaving it unzipped.

  Seen from the back, Sandy and I could be sisters—me the older and her the younger, because she’s eight inches shorter, but we’re the same age. From the front, we can’t be more different. Her Vietnamese almond eyes contrast to my black ones. Her chin and brow are wide and delicate. Mine are blocked and strong. I lift the hood over my head.

  Stepping outside, the sun is setting. The fading rays highlight the snow-filled gaps between the crop stubble. Nervous, my deep breath draws in the tart and wild air, but it also carries the disgusting taste of rubber tires. Traffic roars by on Highway 30. I release the air from my lungs and it leaves tiny icicles inside my hoodie.

  Daniel lets out a short huff seeing me. In our strange friendship, he’s never blatantly focused on my breasts. He does now. Of course, they are on full alert, thanks to this outfit and the freezing temperature. Darn. I mean he’s noticed. He’s a guy, but this is…gross.

  I say, “Get out of here, Daniel. See you there.”

  “Right.” He backs instead of turning toward his car. At least his eyes are on my face, but he has this goofy grin.

  I whisper to Sandy, “I’ll kill you for this.”

  “Hey, whatever it takes. We agreed. We get justice tonight, Kami.”

  For the umpteenth time, Sam the Amateur Graffiti Artist re-inspects our dirt/mud-smeared license plate on the forest green pickup I call the Green Machine. For me, Sam’s name, and often others, comes with a descriptive label. The dirt he’s smeared on the plate disguises the truck’s numbers and the Iowa county ID. Luis Sanchez, our police mentor, insisted on it for our protection.

  Sam the Finally Satisfied tosses the keys to Sandy, his girlfriend, and blows her a good luck kiss, jumping into the borrowed four-door sedan with Daniel. They both wave and head out of the motel parking lot. Crossing the highway overpass, they will pull into the targeted Sip N Go. They’ll order pizza of whatever kind isn’t pre-made and wait for it and us.

  I tug the loose ends of the hoodie tight against the freezing Ides of March and shiver. “You should have let me wear my parka. This looks too obvious.”

  She grins and pops the locks on the Green Machine. “Testosterone never minds obvious.”

  With my hand resting on the pickup’s roof, I blink my eyes and they open to a darkened world. My heart beats hard and fast as I climb into the passenger side. Then Sandy drives out of the parking lot.

  Across from the motel is a truck stop packed with cars and semi-trucks. At the entrance sits one car. It’s another loaner. Hollywood Gavin and Luis, our police liaison, lean against it. Hollywood is handsome—think Robert Pattinson, and you’ll get the nickname. He’s private-school smooth next to Daniel’s hard edges.

  Gavin revs my hormone engine when he wants, but Daniel is a never-ending-cinnamon-roll yummy. Our three chaos points bounce around like popcorn kernels in hot oil. How’s a woman to decide? My counselor helps me with that. Data sets are so much easier to understand and far more predictable.

  Gavin’s our computer hacker. We’d brought him on for our January case, and he’d signed up for the long haul.

  Sandy the Movie Buff swipes her nose in her con signal. Gavin tugs an ear in reply. Then he flicks his thumb on his smartphone. Hidden in the parked cars and semis, the unseen police cavalry mounts.

  She drives the Green Machine south, trailing Daniel and Sam’s path over the highway. Nervous, I wish I’d peed back at the motel.

  Sandy’s purse sits on the armrest between us. I pull out her driver’s license. The birth year is crudely altered. She’d used the edge of a steak knife and black ink to do it.

  I say, “This is too fake. He’ll know.”

  “If it’s over-the-top altered, it will be easier to convict him. Now, shut up and concentrate.”

  Sandy turns into the convenience store parking lot. Inside the store’s glass doors, Sam and Daniel stand by the pizza station talking to an older woman with frizzy dyed red hair and “built like a brick outhouse,” as my grandma used to say. At the cash register, the dirty-blond guy restocks the cigarette case. He doesn’t check out the mud-smeared license plate. Sam the Graffiti Artist will be ticked.

  “Let’s do it,” Sandy says.

  Regretting the poor bathroom visit choice, I replay my police training on avoiding entrapment. I’m not letting this case die on a technicality. My stage fright vanishes. I’m riding the chaos thread now, enjoying the addictive thrill of the chase.

  ***

  Inside, we ignore Sam and Daniel who are our undercover protection and head for the cold drink cabinet doors. Sandy’s a cool pro. The creep behind the register focuses on me. So I twit beautifully: hoodie unzipped, shoulders back, boobs at attention. We grab two six-packs of beer, and head for the register.

  Sandy grins and her boot taps my tennis shoe. I square my shoulders even more.

  “That’s a lot of beer for two girls,” Dirty-Blond says.

/>   Sandy says, “Pity party. She broke up with her boyfriend.”

  I try to look dumped and semi-interested in the jerk. He scans the stuff, but Sandy doesn’t offer her driver’s license.

  “I need your ID.”

  “Sure.”

  My best friend pulls it out while I lean over the counter. When Sandy hands him the dummied driver’s license, he lifts it below my boob level so he can peek at both.

  “What’s your birthday?” This time his voice has a threatening quality to it. He’s spotted the alteration.

  Sandy gives him the fake date without a qualm of guilt. He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t stop the sale.

  Instead, he asks, “Where are you partying tonight? I get off in half an hour. Been a bit lonely myself.”

  I drop both elbows onto the counter top with boobs popping. “At the motel. We’ll take cigarettes too; whatever you like.”

  “How about I join you later?”

  Sandy goes Southern with her voice. “You do that, sweetie.”

  That seals the bargain. He reaches back and pulls out a carton, scanning them. Sandy runs her credit card through the reading slot. He passes the fake ID back, and his hand glides against my angel-lifted boobs. I want to slug him.

  Daniel, now in line behind us, holds two pizza boxes. His large muscled hands tighten and loosen on them with a crunch. Crunch. Crunch. I brush against him as we leave. My look says, Ignore the creep—focus. I can talk big-silent-guy too.

  Sandy and I dump the beer in the backseat and drive back over the highway bridge. She swipes her nose again at Gavin, who thumbs his phone and climbs in the passenger door. Luis in the driver’s seat plops a blue cherry bubble on the car’s roof. Then they peel out and head over the bridge.

  Black-and-whites stream from behind semis and RVs. Lights spin. Sirens blare. You’d think it was a police Memorial Day parade. Sandy makes a U-turn and follows, returning to the scene of the crime.

  I punch in a number on my smartphone. “Emma?”