EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

"Oh no. That stupid—Roy's not a fighter. He was drunk but I never thought he'd have the guts to...” Her voice trailed off.

  "Did he have a reason to shoot Dean Jackman?"

  She looked at her hands. “No. Dean and I are friends. Just friends, really. Roy got this idea something was going on, and he just wouldn't shut up about it."

  "Roy own a handgun?"

  She gave a bitter laugh, waved her hand at the glass-fronted gun case next to the TV. “He has two pistols. And some rifles.” She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “He likes guns. No paycheck for six months, no job, but he'd rather starve than sell those guns. We fought about it. You know he paid a thousand dollars for one of those pistols? That was right before he got laid off at the mill."

  Ennis checked the gun case, found it unlocked. A couple of .22s, a Winchester .30-30, and a scoped bolt-action Remington. The two leather holsters were both empty.

  "When he left here, did he say he was going after Dean Jackman?"

  She swallowed hard and shook her head. “He didn't say that. He said other things, horrible things. In front of the kids."

  "Did you let Dean know?"

  She nodded. “I called him on his cell phone, told him Roy was on the warpath...."

  There was a phone beside the sofa; Ennis saw the number was the same one he had noticed on Jackman's cell phone.

  "What time was that?"

  "I don't know, around ten. He was just pulling into Westy's when I called. We had talked about meeting there. He wanted to talk about a listing I'm working on. That's all. Anyway, when Roy stormed out of here he took my keys, so I called Dean to let him know."

  "A business meeting? Westy's on karaoke night?"

  Her mouth tightened, the lines a bit more visible now.

  "We both like music, okay? Where else were we going to meet? They don't have a Starbucks in this town."

  "You called at ten, exactly?"

  She stabbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Maybe a little after, I don't remember. He said not to worry, he was going to ... he was going to come out here. Then I called back to tell him not to and there was no answer."

  Ennis decided not to mention that Jackman was staring at the bar ceiling by then, but she caught his look. Her hands went to her face. “Oh God."

  "What time did Roy leave here?"

  She rubbed her face. “I don't know; I got home at seven or so and he was already into the whiskey. He was supposed to go hunting with his brothers for the week, but for some reason he didn't. He was so drunk; I've never seen him like that. The kids were here and he just started in on me, accusing me of things. Just wouldn't quit. I tried to take the kids and leave, but he grabbed my keys and wouldn't give them back. He must have left about nine."

  Her voice cracked and she stabbed out the cigarette.

  "I hated for the kids to see that. He was shouting, swearing. Poor little Andrea ... and Richie wouldn't help, wouldn't do anything. I screamed at him to call the cops but he wouldn't. He's passive, like his dad. When Roy drove off he went into his room and hasn't been out. He won't talk about it."

  Alana picked up the remote control on the coffee table, touched the On button, then touched it off again. She turned it over in her hands, shaking her head. “First time in our marriage Roy decides to do something, be proactive, he kills a good man. A fine, funny man. Dean laughed at everything. He was just so positive. So cheerful."

  She sobbed and turned away, fumbling for a Kleenex in the coffee-table clutter. Proactive, Ennis thought. Positive. The sort of words they'd drum into you in a real-estate marketing seminar.

  "Roy's never been there as a father,” Alana said. “He buys them new bikes we can't afford, takes them fishing once in a while, he thinks that's all he has to do."

  Her eyes glittered when she looked at him again. “He's never been there as a husband, either."

  * * * *

  It was after midnight when Ennis left the Winnett residence. Still hours left in the shift, and he wasn't sure what to do next. There wasn't much to suggest Roy Winnett wasn't the right guy, except for Janell Rector's insistence that he'd wandered into the Last Chance right after the start of Law & Order. Well, it wasn't inconceivable that Janell was wrong—maybe tonight's episode had started later for some reason. He'd find a way to check on that tomorrow.

  He drove up to the end of Main Street and pulled into the parking lot of the Town Pump, an all-night gas station and convenience store that also housed a keno parlor optimistically named Lucky Lil's Casino. The name always amused Ennis: There was no luck, and no Lil, and it was not precisely a casino in the sense of roulette wheels and croupiers—but there it was. His friend Chuck Butler, who managed the place, always said it was the most profitable part of the franchise. A couple of dusty pickups were parked outside—karaoke night diehards, Ennis guessed, making sure they emptied their pockets of every last bit of cash before heading home.

  Chuck had his back to the door and was watching ESPN when Ennis came in. He was still wearing that stupid “Kawasakis for Christ” biker vest; he swore it was a motorcycle club he'd belonged to at some point in the ‘eighties, even though Ennis had never run across any other members and had never known the guy to own a Kawasaki.

  Chuck turned at Ennis's approach. “Yo, Adrian!” Chuck was immensely amused by this reference to the Rocky movies—and therefore to Ennis's hometown. He had been greeting the deputy this way nearly every day for the last seven years.

  "Hey, Chuck."

  "Shit, I heard about Dean Jackman.” He shook his head. “Poor bastard. Saw it coming, though."

  "Too bad he didn't."

  Chuck rubbed the stubble on his ample chin. “Man, you just never know. Guy was in here earlier tonight. Get this: looking for white wine. All I got is pink; I don't know why they call it white zinfandel."

  Ennis had wondered the same thing.

  "By himself?"

  "Acting like he was. But the Chuckerino sees all: He also bought a pack of Virginia Slims, and I don't believe Mr. Jackman smokes. Then when he leaves the store, I notice him smiling at somebody in the front seat. Tinted glass in the Escalade, so I can't get a positive ID. But I got a theory."

  "You and the rest of the town, I think."

  Chuck nodded. “Guess he and Alana decided to knock off early, check out each other's real estate. Hell of it was, bunch of kids were coming across the street just when Dean was going out. Little Richie—that's Roy's boy—was with them. You know, laughing and grab-assin’ around, like kids do. I saw him stop when Dean opened his door. Suddenly he wasn't laughing no more. Looked like he'd been cold-cocked."

  "That's bad."

  Chuck shook his head sadly. “Yep. I think he saw his mom in there, Dean sliding in with a bottle of wine and a pack of smokes, and assumed the worst."

  They considered this in silence. Ennis could see what had set Roy Winnett off on this particular night: The boy had gotten home before his mother and told what he'd seen. Possibly it had come as a complete shock: It wouldn't have been the first time a spouse being cheated on was the last to know. So Roy had canceled his hunting trip, probably spent the next hour or two drinking, his guts churning, waiting for the sound of his wife's Taurus in the driveway.

  Ennis and Chuck gazed out at the empty street, watching leaves and paper debris hurrying by on the wind. Back in the casino, Ennis heard the dreary bleating of a keno machine—sounded as if one of the high-rollers back there was temporarily a few dollars richer.

  Outside, the city police car pulled up to the pump. Kevin Heibein got out and started pumping gas, his narrow shoulders hunched against the cold. Ennis walked out to greet him.

  "Hey,” the young cop said, flashing a smile. “Busy night, huh? How you make out on that Westy's thing? Man, a homicide. Wish I could have helped."

  "Yeah, me too,” Ennis said. “What was the deal on the hit-and-run?"

  "Oh, it wasn't a hit-and-run. Mae Begley was the driver, she made the call on her cell ph
one, stayed right there. She was pretty shook up. Wasn't her fault, though."

  "Who got hit?"

  "Kid on a bike. He'll live. Broken leg and a concussion. Scared the shit out of me, he was unconscious in the ditch when I got there. Thought he was dead.” Heibein replaced the nozzle in the gas pump, the fuel cap on the old Crown Vic cruiser. He was shivering and drew his sleeve across his nose. “I didn't know him, but Keith, one of the EMTs, did. Richie Winnett, I guess his folks live up there about a mile. Dressed all in black, riding his damned mountain bike in the middle of the road..."

  Heibein caught Ennis's look. “What? You know him, too?"

  * * * *

  The weedy ditch was bathed in the lights of Ennis's cruiser; Heibein had parked his car at the curve with the flashers going.

  "Right here, huh?"

  Heibein swept a flashlight beam over a place in the barrow pit where the high weeds had been tramped down. A few bits of broken reflector gleamed in the gravel.

  "See that rock? Kid lands one foot to the right and he's a vegetable. Little shit is lucky to be alive. You should see the bike."

  Ennis produced his own flashlight and walked to the spot, playing the beam over the flattened weeds. He stopped, then moved forward slowly, studying the ground.

  Heibein cleared his throat. “What you looking for? I'm pretty sure we got everything, the bike is back at the station..."

  Ennis said nothing. He swept the beam carefully from side to side, advancing a half-step at a time. He was about to give up when he spied a dark shape and leaned forward.

  Something about the fat checkered grips, the way they curled in the tall grass, brought to mind a rattlesnake. Ennis jerked his hand back, then leaned forward again, hoping Heibein hadn't noticed. He parted the weeds. It was a big revolver, dirt and grass on the hammer where it had fallen: Colt Anaconda, .44 caliber. Roy Winnett's other handgun, Ennis guessed. He was willing to bet this one had been fired a few hours earlier.

  * * * *

  Worland only had two stoplights, and both were flashing yellow now, swaying in the north wind sweeping down from Canada. Ennis got out of the car and gazed up the street into the darkness beyond. The air smelled of wood smoke and frost; it wouldn't be long now until the first snow. The town was unusually empty, even for this late. Normally on karaoke night there might still be a car or two cruising Main, kids waiting in vain for something to happen, or a couple of mismatched refugees from the bars looking to parlay an evening's alcohol abuse into a night's romance. They had all gone home. Maybe word of the homicide had finally cast a pall over things. Maybe there was hope for the town after all.

  He had just returned from another trip to the Winnett residence. It seemed Heibein had not gotten around to informing Alana about the injuries to her son—being new, he assumed somebody else had. At the doorway to her son's room, she had begun weeping uncontrollably at the sight of the empty bed. The darkened room was bitterly cold from the open window.

  It was a short bike ride from the Winnett place to town, an even shorter distance north to Westy's Tavern. Had Richie Winnett set out meaning to kill his mother's lover, or had he just meant to threaten him? Hard to say: When loaded guns came out, sometimes motives and meanings went by the wayside. Ennis remembered what Ray Esposito had said about someone laughing, just before the shots. He had a hunch that wouldn't have been the boy. He could picture the shivering teenager in the gravel parking lot, his family unraveling and his father's pistol tucked into his jeans. Probably he would not have seen much humor in the situation. Dean, according to Alana, laughed at everything. Ennis had to wonder: What would have happened if Dean Jackman hadn't laughed?

  Well, he'd know more if the boy was able to talk tomorrow. He couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid: waking up to a dozen different kinds of pain and a life forever changed. Not to mention his father. Ennis tried to remember the worst hangover he'd ever had, thought how much worse would be the one Roy Winnett had in store this morning. He thought of the damaged wives and the daughters, and finally thought of Dean Jackman himself, a man old enough to know better, getting up in front of a crowd and singing “Dancing in the Dark."

  How did the song go? “Can't start a fire without a spark.” True enough, Ennis thought. But when you did start that fire, there was no telling how much it would burn.

  Copyright © 2006 David Knadler

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  FALSE LIGHT by Margaret Murphy

  Margaret Murphy's first novel, Goodnight, My Angel,was shortlisted for Britain's “First Blood” award for best debut crime novel. Her latest book, The Dispossessed (New English Library), was called “an eye-opening shocker of a novel” by the Times Literary Supplement.

  From her viewpoint high above street level Carol can see St. George's Hall. Undergoing renovation, it is swathed in plastic, a colonnaded monument in bubble-wrap. To her right, the sun sinks low and golden over the Mersey tunnel entrance. She loves the broad sweep of steps down from the Greco-Roman facade of the museum. She walks slowly, taking her time, head up, shoulders back; it makes her feel grand, like a movie star. She wears a trouser suit—a good linen mix in pale green. Her hair, ice-blond and fine as spun silk, lifts in a faint breeze and she enjoys a moment of blessed coolness.

  Carol has been working late on a new coleopteran exhibition. Her favourites are the iridescent types; they shimmer with false light—purple and green and electric blue—oil on water, prisms in sunlight. She checks her watch. Eight-thirty. Not too late to chance crossing the cobbled street into St. John's Gardens.

  The borders are planted with blue violas and pink biennial dianthus; warmed by the sun and enclosed within the walls of the old churchyard of St. John's, the scent of violets and cloves is almost hypnotic. Laughter carries from one of the lawns to her right and she glances without turning her head. A group of students, talking, flirting, testing their knowledge of their current reading on their friends. Harmless.

  She passes them unnoticed. She has learned the art of invisibility: Walk confidently but without show; look like you know where you're headed; stare straight through a crowd, as though you can see your goal unimpeded by the crush—as though they are invisible. Never meet the eye of a stranger.

  Traffic is heavy, belching hot exhaust fumes into the already hot and exhausted air. Too early for the clubs, but too hot to wait indoors for dark, the streets are already thronged with youths in white shirts, eager for the rut, eyeing the tanned girls who flaunt their toned midriffs and thighs. Liverpool city centre swelters in a brown heat haze, the crowds irascible and uncomfortable in their own skins: The heat has taken the fun out of the game.

  Central station is empty. She walks invisible past the guard at the ticket barrier. She hears voices raised, laughter; it echoes, reminding her of swimming baths, caves. Cave men. The constant scream of a faulty escalator handrail, rubber on metal, sets her teeth on edge, but it is cooler underground, and she is grateful for this.

  The voices grow louder, nearer. She sees them without looking, using her peripheral vision. An untaught skill, urban survival. Three boys—only three. They hoot and howl, pounding the air with their shouts. The space—the emptiness of the platform—lends them size and significance. She keeps her gaze steady and flat, moves to the shelter of one of the massive square pillars to escape notice.

  A faint whine and a puff of warm air announce the approach of a train. She hangs back, waiting to see what the boys will do. The vibration passes down the line like a series of whip-cracks, then the first glimpse: twin aspects, insectile, emerging from the dark. The train slows and stops with an electrical sigh.

  The boys jostle each other into a carriage to her left. She steps into the next. Four or five others sit at discreet distances, respecting each other's space, taking care to avoid eye contact as they plunge into the tunnels and deep cuts on the edge of the city centre. Two disembark at Brunswick. Then she sees the three boys at the link doors; they peer into her carriage, grinning, making animal
noises. She looks out of the window. They come in and she looks up again, alarmed, catches the eye of the man in the seat diagonally opposite. She sees him sometimes when she works late. Grey suit, tie loosened, respectable, early forties. He smiles and she is reassured. It's okay.

  The boys sit at the far end of the carriage, out of sight, but she can hear them; their laughter, their sniggers. A whiff of solvent and the squeak of a marker pen on glass—they're vandalising the windows. She won't look. A woman gets off at St. Michael's; their mutual vulnerability allows a brief moment of contact. Carol sees her own fear reflected in the woman's eyes.

  The boys get up—she sees them ghosted in the window—it's almost night and the steep embankments on either side of the track draw darkness down into the carriage. Two tall lads, one who looks younger, nervous. They are dressed in the uniform of sports gear, trainers, baseball caps. She takes her paperback from her shoulder bag and pretends to read. The largest of the three walks down the car and sits opposite, staring at her until she is forced to look up. He has short brown hair and grey hate-filled eyes. His mouth is twisted with fury—against what? She knows the standards: society, authority, the self; but looking into this boy's eyes she sees his hatred is directed at her. You don't know me, she wants to say, but the words won't come. He continues staring and she looks away again. Her invisibility has failed her.

  A man gets out at the next stop. She wants to get out with him, to stay close, to ask for his protection, but her legs won't carry her and she focuses instead on her book and prays the boy will go away.

  Now it's just her and the three boys and the man in the suit. She wants to be home, to be out of the heat, drinking chilled wine, listening to the blackbird in her hawthorn tree improvising a tune in the last glimmer of dusk. She wants to be left alone.

  The other two have been loitering at the far end of the carriage, but now one of them comes forward and kneels on the seat behind the tall youth, peering through the gap between the headrests. He has jug ears and a snub nose, which make him seem childlike—monstrous.