by C. J. Box
David stared at the far-off slope of the property, and came to as the father stood within the span of camera. “Mr. Holzer, it’s a pleasure. Corina is on her way to greet and welcome you to our home.” The man smiled, his teeth as white as the dog, his eyes genuinely flickering with positivity; anything could be resolved, all it took was strategy and resources, solid logic, and, of course, friends, connections. “It’ll take her a bit to get to you; we’ve been spending most of our days in the guest residence.”
David said, “Thank you,” not certain if he was supposed to push an intercom button.
The kid’s dad kept talking. “It’s nearly time for dinner, or at least an early one, can I have something prepared for you?”
David shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary. I’ve only come with an update. I won’t take up much of your time.” David thought he heard the word nonsense as Corina opened the door and handed David a glass bottle of sparkling water and turned, motioned for him to follow her.
Inside the large home they trekked down pristine corridors, paintings on the walls as large as interstate signs and staff milling about. They passed a room set up with video equipment, sound systems, and lights and screens for professional headshots. David followed the woman through a massive kitchen onto a mason patio that dwarfed his own home. At the bottom of the mammoth steps sat a golf cart. Corina pointed to the passenger seat. “Sit.”
They drove over acres of grass, the guesthouse in the distance and cool air lapping at both of their bangs. Finally the father came into view, standing in a circular driveway, hands in his pockets and his face wearing that same calm, positive smile. Corina killed the motor and hurried off the cart and toward a back entrance.
“Mr. Holzer,” said the man. His handshake was all attorney, not lawyer, soft and assured, a winner all the time.
“Yes,” said David. “Your son,” he added, “is he home?”
“Why, yes,” said the man, his smile fading only a little. “But let’s go inside. Have a drink.”
“I’d rather not,” said David. “I’d like it if your son heard what I have to say.” The attorney raised his chin, examined David, considered his eyes. “I assure you I’m only here to provide some information,” said David.
The attorney glanced over his shoulder and back again at David. “Come on inside and I’ll have Teresa bring him down.” They walked into the house, the spring sun slipping behind the trees and the cold evening air descending.
Once in the living room, a flatscreen muted, a French movie playing with subtitles, David decided he’d come across the wrong way. “Actually, I’d love a white wine,” he said. The attorney smiled and motioned for Corina.
They talked about weather. “I suppose you’ll be glad when this is settled,” said the attorney. He responded to David’s silence. “I understand you’re an avid hiker, to Shanty Falls, that is.” Corina handed them both a white wine as the kid and his mother appeared at the edge of the room. The woman was small, even mousy, which surprised David.
“Yes?” she said as the kid looked at David as though he had no idea who he was. David knew what he was about to do wouldn’t last long—maybe an hour? Two, before they called and found out the truth?
David stood, handed the wine to the attorney. “I’m afraid,” said David, and he paused, looked to Corina standing in the foyer. “I’ve come to let you know that the girl is dead. She passed away a few hours ago.” The mother put her hand to her stomach and slowly turned and walked away. The attorney rose and went to his son. They stood side by side.
“What’s that now?” said the attorney. The kid looked at his father, both tall in the same way, hair alike too.
David put his hands in his pockets, felt the necklace he’d made his mother. “Yes, it’s terribly sad, but I thought you should know. My ex-wife and daughter work in the ICU. She went into cardiac arrest and couldn’t be revived.” The lies felt like punches, and David followed the one-two combination with some gut shots. “The deputy also called.” The attorney held his kid, the two tall handsome men stooped now, about to be knocked out. “They, of course, will now bring murder charges.” The kid sobbed while the dad looked around, as if searching for something to hold them both up.
David stood silent for a while, then said, “I really shouldn’t have come, but I thought you should know.” The phone rang, and kept ringing. Corina held her hand over her mouth. David turned and walked to the door. “I’ll drive myself back to my car,” he said. The kid sobbed and then started crying like a small child, demanding his father “get Mommy, get Mommy.”
* * *
On the golf cart, gliding over the soft hummocks, swallows dipped down and flashed up again. David hadn’t expected he’d feel anything but sadness after he’d offered up the con, but he also hadn’t anticipated the hatred he had for the kid, his parents. Near a gate that led around another, smaller fountain, he left the golf cart and walked toward his car at the curb. His phone vibrated in his pocket, clinking softly against the monarch under plastic. He pulled it out and answered. “Dad,” said Sam. “What are you doing?”
David couldn’t answer.
DAVID DEAN
The Duelist
FROM Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
With jackets removed and cravats undone, the two men faced each other in the sweltering heat of the new morning. The older man was tall and robust-looking, with curls and a large mustache, the younger of average height and delicate frame. Like a fiery eye, the distant sun rose above the sandbar they stood upon, revealing a desolate waste of scrub oak, sassafras trees, and driftwood, a shifting island that lay just beyond the reach of Mississippi law.
Having no excuse to remove their own outer clothing, the small gathering of spectators sweated and chafed. Most were also afflicted with hangovers, or remained actively drunk, which only added to their discomfort. One gentleman, whose straw hat had blown off crossing the Big Muddy, had passed out from the sun beating down on his bald pate. Now he lay, pale as a corpse, beneath the meager shade of a tenacious palmetto.
Myron Gill, his own dented top hat firmly settled on his large skull, predicted, “He’ll have company soon enough,” nodding at the unfortunate bald man. “Only he shan’t be breathing.” Tall and cadaverous, Myron’s somber appearance belied his curious and gregarious nature.
Standing to his left, the small, portly stranger he addressed replied, “You wager it will be that boy?”
Even at the distance they stood, it was plain to see the pistol in the younger man’s hand tremble from time to time.
“He has only minutes left on this earth, I fear,” Myron declared, taking a moment to study his fellow spectator. Though he had crossed the river with all the other drunks, loafers, and gamblers from the tavern, Myron had not seen him before this morning. Small and neat, he had a certain fussiness of appearance, his cravat a frothy, if somewhat soiled, work of art, his clothing expensive. Myron’s keen eye noted a slight fraying of the cuffs and lapels gone shiny with wear. This was a man who had seen better times. Beneath the shadow of the stranger’s once-white plantation hat, Myron discerned he was dark-complexioned and brown-eyed, his black hair worn long, its oily locks cascading to his small, rounded shoulders.
“You are both satisfied with your weapons and that they have been properly primed and charged?” asked the referee loudly enough for the spectators to hear. He was a former senator, now retired to private life.
Nodding his head, the bigger man answered, “Yes, yes . . . Let’s proceed—this heat is ghastly.”
“Yes,” the smaller agreed, glancing up at his challenger, his fair hair hanging in damp strings along his pale cheeks. “I’m satisfied.”
“There is still time to rescind the challenge,” the referee reminded the big man. “Mr. Forrester has made it clear on several occasions that he never meant to give offense. You both may withdraw from this with honor. You’ve only to say the word, Captain Noddy.”
“He should’ve considere
d that before making his slanderous claims. May we continue?”
With a sympathetic glance at Forrester, the referee called out, “If there is nothing more to be said, then . . . gentlemen, turn and await my count.”
At this command the spectators went silent, the hot wind riffling through the dry leaves the only sound.
“Perhaps he will only wound the boy,” the man with the frayed cuffs ventured in a whisper. “Surely he is a sporting man?”
“He is not,” Myron assured him. “The boy will die.”
Turning their backs to one another, the duelists raised their pistols and took a measured step with each number called out. Upon the number ten being reached, there was a pause in the count.
The portly man with the frayed cuffs glanced at his fellow spectators. None appeared to be breathing.
“Turn and aim!” the retired senator commanded.
Pivoting smartly, the duelists lowered their pieces.
“Fire!”
At this crucial moment the weapon of the unfortunate Forrester once more shook in his grasp, sending the bullet that followed far wide of his opponent.
“Dear God,” he managed to gasp before Captain Noddy’s answering shot entered his skull through his left eye. Collapsing onto the hot sands, his limbs twitched convulsively for several moments before falling still.
The doctor who had been standing by knelt down in a perfunctory examination, though it was obvious to all that life was extinct.
“Dead . . .” the doctor confirmed with an exasperated gesture, adding, “What else?” Stalking off toward one of the beached rowboats that had transported them all, he cried, “I don’t know why I’m here; the undertaker should attend these damned things, not me.”
“As I said,” Myron murmured.
“Yes . . . you did . . . you did indeed,” the portly man agreed. Taking a pinch of snuff, he regarded the slender, pitiful corpse of Forrester and opined, “Why, I don’t think he was much more than eighteen.”
He offered the silver snuff case to Myron.
Shaking his head, Myron replied, “We’d best be off. This is a thirsty crew, and they won’t hold the boats a moment longer than they must.”
Turning toward the waiting vessels, the portly man remarked, “By God, Noddy is a fearsome marksman—that shot went exactly where he aimed it.” Shaking his head, he added, “He could have spared that boy just as easily.”
Minutes later they were rowing hard against the current for Natchez.
* * *
Sharing a table at one of the many gambling dens that lay at the foot of the Natchez bluffs, Myron remarked to his new companion, “Here’s to another day’s living,” raising his glass on high.
“Yes, another day,” the portly man rejoined. “It’s never certain, is it?”
“We’ve seen clear evidence of that this morning.”
“Another . . . ?” The portly man signaled the young boy running from table to table.
“You’ve been damned generous . . . mister . . . mister . . . Good heavens, have I forgot your name already?”
“Not at all, we’ve yet to exchange them. My name is LeClair . . . Darius LeClair, newly arrived from Mobile.” He flipped the boy a coin and was rewarded with two more bourbons.
“A pleasure, Mr. LeClair.”
“Please call me Darius; I’m not one to stand on ceremony.”
“Darius . . . yes . . . a pleasure! I am Myron Gill, long a resident of this fine city.”
“We are well met, sir, as I’ve never set foot here until last night, arriving by late coach. It was my good fortune to fall in with you this morning.”
Setting his now half-empty glass next to his dented top hat, Myron mopped his formidable brow. “How then, might I ask, did you come to be amongst the dueling party?”
Smiling broadly, Darius answered, “Having come in for a nightcap, I found the saloon abuzz with nothing but talk of your Captain Horatio Noddy and his latest duel! The tales of his prowess described him as a modern Achilles—deadly and indestructible. When I saw a party was gathering to witness this Homeric figure’s latest exploits, I simply joined them. Hence our fortuitous meeting this morning!”
“And were you satisfied with your hero?” Myron asked.
“Oh yes . . . quite satisfied. Truly he is a terrible opponent. Why anyone would agree to face him, I can’t imagine. It would seem his reputation alone would preclude any sensible man from doing so.”
“One would think so . . .” Myron began, distracted as a small party of men entered the saloon to hails and huzzahs. “You conjure the devil and he appears,” he exclaimed in a whisper.
“Why, it is the man himself,” Darius concurred.
Despite the crowded circumstances, a table was vacated for the hero and his entourage. Darius recognized the duelist’s second, as well as several hangers-on from the sandbar.
Returning to his previous topic, Darius asked, “Why then do they do it, Myron?”
“Face him . . . Noddy . . . do you mean?”
“Exactly.”
Myron took another pull from his whiskey glass. “Most were young fools from the country—like our fellow Forrester. They come into Natchez to negotiate loans, or arrange the sale of their cotton, et cetera . . . Being young, they usually find their way to ‘The Bottoms,’ as we have so colorfully named this delightful district of gambling dens, saloons, and whorehouses, to indulge their vices, as young men will.”
Setting his now empty glass down onto the sticky tabletop, Myron leaned toward the smaller Darius and spoke in a confidential tone. “I suspect that that is why you are here, my new friend, to relieve some of these callow lads of their excess cash. Do I recognize a fellow gambler in you, sir?”
Smiling back, Darius answered, “You do, indeed, sir. Games of chance have been my stock in trade for many years.” Running his hands down his shabby lapels, he added, “As you have perhaps inferred from my appearance, my luck has abandoned me of late, necessitating the need for me to remove myself from my beloved Mobile—hence my arrival in this Athens of the South.”
“The truth be told,” Myron responded with a sheepish grin, “I am not a native myself, but a son of Memphis, where, like you, I found my circumstances somewhat straitened by a series of poor decisions. But I have made my home here for many years now and feel confident to be your guide and adviser . . . and my first, and most urgent, advice to you would be to avoid that man at all cost.” He tilted his head carefully in Captain Noddy’s direction, adding, “At peril of your life.”
“How have so many run afoul of this fearsome man?” Darius persisted.
“You may well ask—Noddy seems to wait for them like some great spider in his web. This latest affaire d’honneur resulted from the young bumpkin making the unfortunate claim that New Orleans was a more robust city than Natchez. It fell upon the sensitive ears of our captain as a slur upon the character of our upstanding citizens. He likened it to being accused of some form of communal slothfulness. The others whom he called out committed similar unforgivable, and fatal, remarks.”
“And how many lives has our Captain Noddy deprived their owners of as of this latest duel?”
“I reckon our Mr. Forrester to have been number twelve.”
“Number twelve . . .” Darius repeated, staring across the smoky, busy tavern at Noddy’s jubilant table—several women of questionable character had joined his party, the laughter grown louder.
Waving the bar boy over, Darius tossed a few coins onto his platter and gave him some instructions. Within moments their whiskeys had been replenished, while a fresh round arrived at Captain Noddy’s table.
As the two gamblers watched, Myron in puzzlement, Darius with a pleasant smile, the bar boy was quizzed as to the origins of the fresh drinks. With a grimy finger he indicated the correct table. Darius raised his glass as the captain and his followers turned to take in their benefactors. Seeing the scrutiny they had come under, Myron hastened to raise his own glass
, spilling some down his sleeve.
The captain’s handsome face creased ever so slightly in acknowledgment. If he actually smiled, it was concealed beneath his mustache.
As he was turning away once more, Darius called out, “A good and thorough killing today, Captain Noddy; that young whelp stood no chance! You surpassed him completely!”
The hubbub at the captain’s table softened somewhat at this, and Noddy studied his new, and enthusiastic, supporter carefully for several moments before returning his attentions to the young women at hand.
“Don’t say another—” Myron began hoarsely.
“Why, it was as if that young man had never fired a pistol before today, so outclassed was he!” Darius called over. “A memorable action, sir . . . memorable indeed!”
Noddy’s table had now gone silent, while the rest of the tavern’s occupants grew quieter by degrees, according to their level of inebriation.
“Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?” Myron whispered urgently. “Remember what you witnessed this morning!”