Swamp Monster

by C. A. Newsome

  The wedge of Mal’s headlights cut through the black void, leading him on while concealing everything outside its reach. In a way it was like stage lights. You couldn’t see beyond them either, unless you put your mind to it.

  It used to make him nervous. But he’d learned every inch of road, every farm, and he found the dark and quiet relaxing after the adrenaline rush of performing.

  Tonight he carried emeralds and gold coins in the compartment under his chassis, accessible through the floorboard if you knew it was there and how to open it.

  Good luck finding it if you didn’t.

  This booty would join the growing stash of jewelry and gold bits under his barn. Last night he’d added a strange little statue of an angel pulling a Roman chariot. Only instead of an ancient soldier, the chariot held an egg.

  The thing reminded him of dust collectors littering his grandmother’s house. But diamonds and sapphires smothered the little chariot, and Pete said it once belonged to Russian royalty. Mal supposed if you were that rich, you didn’t need taste.

  It had been an excellent night, both shows flawless. He’d sent Rose a wink when he caught her gaping at him with the puppy dog eyes that irritated Esme so much. Her mouth made an “O” when he removed the scarf draped over a bottle of champagne to reveal an army boot. He wondered how it would feel to press his mouth against those astonished lips.

  Rose was just a kid, easily impressed. Pete’s crowd saw shows in Manhattan and Paris. They were always looking for new thrills, and he needed new tricks.

  Houdini did his escapes. That wasn’t Mal’s bag, but maybe he could set Esme up for an escape and turn it into something else, say tie her up and handcuff her and lock her in a chest, then Esme shows up on the other side of the club, still tied up. He’d have her cuss him out for laughs. She’d like that.

  He was still smiling when two trucks roared out of a stand of trees, blinding him with their lights as they blocked the road. Mal whipped his eyes up to his rear-view mirror. Two more cars cut onto the road behind him. No way through the woods on his right. With a mental apology to McMurtry and his cows, Mal whipped the steering wheel hard to the left and plowed through a split-rail fence.

  Shouts from the trucks. He slowed before he hit a cow and killed his hearse. Cross the field or cut back to the pavement? They’d see him coming and their cars were faster than his. He might get out in front of them, but they had the horsepower to catch up. Now that all bets were off, they’d just run him into a ditch. The field, then.

  His passing disturbed the sleeping cows, who obliged by milling in his wake, mooing distress as he worked his way through the herd. Two trucks drove through the hole he’d made in the fence, stopping when faced with the cows. If he was fast and agile, he’d make the road on the far side of the field while the herd stalled Dalitz’s men.

  Kill the lights? He’d be safer in the dark, unless he drove into a cow and wrecked the hearse. Or drove over a rock and punctured a tire. Lights on then, even if meant the goons knew exactly where he was.

  Could he use that? Get a bit further ahead, leave the car with the lights on and take off on foot? It would be hell to find him in the dark, but he wouldn’t have time to retrieve Pete’s package. Too big a risk they’d catch up to him before he got the goods and got gone.

  Unless he lucked on a dirt track, it was a mile over rough ground to the next road. Mal shoved away all thoughts of the men chasing him and the chaos in his wake, keeping his eyes on the narrow slice of light. It didn’t matter who they were or how they knew what he was carrying. He’d worry about that after he lost them.

  Ahead, silhouettes of McMurtry’s barn, outbuildings, house. The road would be a few hundred feet beyond. His lights struck the hoped-for dirt track. He cut his lights, drove fifty feet, then made a hard right, chancing a glance in his mirror as he wheeled onto the track.

  A truck emerged from the throng of cows, picking up speed. A shotgun blast. Someone standing in the truck bed, aiming over the top. Purely for show. He was too far ahead for them to hit him. That would change if they caught up. He gauged the distance to the house. A minute, ninety seconds. If luck held, he’d make it.

  The mooing cows, the gun blast. Lights should be coming on in the farmhouse. Alarm prickling his senses, he goosed the accelerator, roared around the house.

  A tractor loomed, blocking his path. He braked hard. A thump on the running board. A figure clung to the top of the passenger window, a revolver aimed at Mal’s head.

  In a more nimble car, Mal might have swerved to throw the goon off, dodged the tractor and escaped. But the man had his arm inside the window, and the Caddy’s running board made a sturdy platform.

  Mal dove for the passenger door and shoved it open, into the goon’s gut.

  Mal found himself stripped to his shorts and hogtied on the floor of McMurtry’s barn. Goons swarmed his beloved hearse by the light of oil lamps. He ached where he’d been manhandled, but surrender saved him the broken ribs and worse resistance would have bought him. Goons loved pounding flesh and breaking bones. They needed little provocation.

  Hot breath in his face, stinking of bad rye, the light too dim to see the goon’s face. A voice, angry and hoarse.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “Whaddya take us for? Where did you hide it?”

  Mal mustered indignation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t a fellow drive down the road without getting waylaid?”

  A boot in the ribs, searing agony.

  Mal forced words past the pain. “Moe Dalitz can’t just rob trucks, he has to terrify staff? Some boss he’ll make if he gets his hands on the BH.”

  Snorts all around. He’d said something funny. What? The sound of a knife, ripping into his leather seats.

  “Hey, hey, stop that!”

  Agony exploded in his head.

  Day 20

  Thursday, May 9, 2019

  Lia restrained Gypsy in the Moby wrap while Peter knelt to unhook Chewy and Viola inside the dog park corral. The dogs shot through the gate, Chewy on his daily perimeter patrol, Viola to their usual table for pets.

  Peter grumbled. “I hate doing this.”

  “It will be fine.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “You have a better option?”

  Peter sighed. “No.”

  “Then buck up, buttercup.”

  He placed a hand on the small of Lia’s back, escorting her into the park. “Thank you for your support.”

  Bailey and José waved from the table. Viola simpered at Steve and Terry, wagging her tail as she begged for treats. Lia extracted Gypsy from her papoose, placing her next to Kita’s reclining bulk on the table. Gypsy’s head swiveled, overwhelmed by reaching hands. She curled into Kita’s side. Kita grunted.

  “Hail,” Terry said. “What brings our esteemed detective here on a weekday?”

  Peter sat by Terry, clasping his hands in a position that was almost prayerful. “I could use a favor. A friend of Andrew Heenan’s is in town. She wants to see the tree. Can you take her?”

  Terry scratched his beard. “Is she attractive?”

  Bailey grabbed Terry’s camo cap, smacking his head with it.

  Terry winced. “Ah, anything to help a damsel in distress. We can go tomorrow if she wants.”

  Peter gave Terry a direct look. “She doesn’t want attention. I’m trusting you not to tell anyone. ”

  “Moi? Discretion is my middle name.”

  “That means no poking her for information,” Steve said.

  Terry muttered to himself, the words “no respect” audible to everyone at the table.

  Lia sat, coaxing, “She’s taking charge of his remains. You’ll have the entire trip to make your case for Smaug. Just be sensitive. Don’t make Peter regret asking you.”

  Terry’s face turned mulish. “I am the soul of subtlety.”

  “Subtle like a freight train,” Bailey cracked.

  “
José,” Lia said, “remember the day you helped us with Ruth’s things?”

  “You kidding? I still have nightmares.”

  “Sorry about that. Alma said Ruth had a complete set of yearbooks. Did anyone get to them before you?”

  José tapped a finger in front of Gypsy’s muzzle, trying to get her attention. “Too much going on. Bigfoot coulda made love to a unicorn and I woulda missed it.”

  Terry perked up. “Are the yearbooks for your mystery lady?”

  Peter opened his mouth to speak. Every phone at the table chimed. Bailey checked hers first.

  “Susan posted a video. I wonder who the lucky kook is today.”

  Lia patted Peter’s leg. “We might as well get it over with.”

  ___________

  Susan’s Snippets with :X

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  Jim leaned over Lia’s shoulder, rubbing his beard as he squinted at Bailey’s phone. “Who’s colon X?”

  “That’s emoticon for ‘keeping my mouth shut,’” Steve said. “It’s a surprise guest.”

  Susan’s face filled the tiny screen, her surroundings blocked by the floppy brim of an oversized hat. Wide-eyed, she tilted her face coyly and raised a finger to her lips.

  “Shhh. I’m sitting in the lobby of Quality Inn on Mitchell Avenue.”

  The screen cut to an exterior view of the hotel.

  “Detective Peter Dourson, lead investigator in the 1987 death of magician Andrew Heenan, passed through these doors an hour ago.”

  The growl was not a dog. It was Peter. “I’ll kill her.”

  “Hush,” Bailey said. “We’re watching.”

  Lia squeezed his hand.

  Susan returned. “What possible reason could Detective Dourson have for spending so much time at a hotel in the middle of his investigation? Stick around and find out.”

  Susan’s face faded away, replaced by Peter crossing the lobby with a small woman in dark slacks.

  “Who is this attractive mystery woman? Why is Detective Dourson closeted with her in a hotel room on city time?”

  ___________

  Peter shoved off the picnic table and stalked away, Viola trailing behind him. No way around it. He had to call Susan. He said a small prayer of thanks that he’d kept her card in his wallet, then took a minute to block his number before he punched in hers.

  Susan’s voice was chipper. “Susan Sweeney.”

  “You’ve gone too far.”

  “Goodness, Peter, can’t you even say hello? Where are your manners?”

  “I have plenty of manners. You know this because I have not reached through the phone to throttle you.”

  “My, my, is that a threat?”

  Peter took a deep breath.

  “You need to take that video down. Now.”

  “Which video? I have many.”

  “Don’t play games, Susan. I don’t care about your kooks and their goofy stories, but this one has to go.”

  “Don’t want your girlfriend to see what you’re up to when you’re supposed to be fighting crime? Really, Peter, that woman has to be your mother’s age.”

  “That was police business and not for public consumption.”

  “Says you. I know my rights. You were in a public place. I wonder what Lia will think when she sees it.”

  “Lia has seen it, and she doesn’t think what you want her to think. If that video isn’t down in the next ten minutes, I will arrest you for interfering with official business. That’s ninety days. In jail.”

  “You’re determined to lock me up. I wonder why.”

  “Clock’s ticking.” Peter jabbed the tiny red handset and stuffed his phone back in his pocket, desperate for a sheetrock wall to ram his fist through.

  As he stared into the surrounding woods, a hand touched his sleeve. Lia.

  “Will you be okay?”

  “Ask me after I tell Parker. Do me a favor. Refresh that video and see if it’s still online.”

  “You don’t want to do it?”

  “I don’t trust myself not to break the phone if she hasn’t pulled it.”

  Fifty yards ahead of him, Lia opened the corral gate for Chewy. She shot Peter a worried look, adjusting Gypsy in the Moby wrap as she waited for him to catch up.

  Phone to his ear, he snapped his fingers at Viola—currently sniffing who knew what—and lengthened his stride. Back at the table, José laughed. Terry’s supply of cougar jokes must be holding out.

  Parker sighed audibly through Peter’s phone. “Just for the record, how did your ex-fiancée catch you on camera with Ms. Olson?”

  “She wanted lunch. We left the hotel at the same time.”

  “We don’t need an investigation into cops dating on the job.”

  “It wasn’t a date.”

  “Won’t matter. Tell me the worst. At least tell me she didn’t look like a hooker.”

  “Jenny Olson dresses like a nun. The video came down inside fifteen minutes. There were two hundred and twenty-three hits the last time I refreshed my screen.”

  “Could be worse. Ignoring your ex isn’t working. What can we do about her?”

  “Can’t arrest her. She hasn’t broken any laws.”

  “Yet. Is she a reasonable woman?”

  “Not often, sir.”

  “I’ll have a chat with her about boundaries. Then she does what she does. If an actual reporter calls, you were on official business and cannot comment on the nature of that business.”

  “It’s nothing but the truth, sir.”

  “That’s an advantage. I can’t imagine there’s any risk to Ms. Olson as a result of this exposure, but encourage her to change hotels.”

  “Immediately, sir.”

  “How did your interview go yesterday?”

  “Ms. Olson was forthcoming and provided an avenue for investigation, but right now, I’m stuck.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “We need to identify students in her drama club, but pages are missing from the relevant yearbook.”

  “Are there no other copies?”

  He and Lia had spent Wednesday evening unboxing Ruth’s junk in a hot, sweaty attic because Alma said Ruth had a full set. Two dozen yearbooks. None of them from 1987.

  “No, sir. We tried Classmates.com, but the most recent volume they have is 1979.”

  “Eight years too early.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Earth and Iron

  Sunday, March 10, 1940

  Mal’s nearly naked body shivered in the cold, waking him. He kept his eyes closed as he assessed his condition: packed earth beneath his cheek, an ache in his skull, arms wrenched behind and tied so tightly he had no sensation in his hands. Mouth parched. A weight on his ankle. Everything he could feel hurt.

  Silence told him he was alone, but he didn’t dare trust it.

  Mal kept his breathing even, cracking his eyes a nearly invisible slit to find unrelenting black. He gusted a loud, frustrated sigh, wishing he could roll onto his back. Tried to lick his lips but couldn’t work up enough saliva. Something clanked. That weight on his ankle. Iron. A shackle.

  He was somewhere light didn’t reach, a cave or a basement. They hadn’t bothered to gag him. Wherever he was, no one could hear him scream, at least no one who would help him.

  He sent his mind back to the last thing he remembered. Pain, in his head. Before that, snorts and chuckles. He’d said something—what had he said? About their boss, Moe Dalitz, and they’d laughed. Their boss wasn’t Dalitz. Who, then?

  Someone else had been watching. Not Dalitz’s cronies—there wasn’t a goon whose life would be worth a plugged nickel if they pulled this stunt behind his back. Someone thought they would get away with it, someone who either bribed or intimidated McMurtry to keep silent, because the farm was part of the setup.

  Why involve McMurtry? Smarter to ambush him at the barn after he unloaded. Except Mal was careful, never driving to the barn if there wa
s a car behind him. Easy enough to see headlights in the wee hours and too dangerous to risk driving with the lights off on the rolling, twisty Kentucky back roads.

  He remembered the sound of a knife ripping into his upholstery. Good luck with that.

  As thoughts chased around his injured head, two facts emerged. This was someone close enough to Pete to know about the skim, and they hadn’t found his barn. He’d make sure the bastards never did.

  Day 21

  Friday, May 10, 2019

  As a bleary-eyed Lia poured the morning kibble, a rap at the kitchen door set Gypsy barking. Alma stood on the porch, silhouetted by the barely risen sun as she held up her phone.

  At the table, Peter said, “The swamp monster won’t be much of a watchdog if she waits for people to knock before she barks.”

  “Hush.” Lia waved Alma in. “I’m making eggs. Are you hungry?”

  Alma took the seat opposite Peter. “I ate hours ago. But I thought you should see this.”

  Gypsy sniffed at Alma’s ankles, then ran back to her dish before Chewy could start in on it.

  Lia paused long enough to ensure canine mayhem did not erupt, then sat. “What is it?”

  Alma tapped her phone and set it in the middle of the table. “Susan’s kook of the day.”

  ___________

  Susan’s Snippets with Dixie Langford

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  Dixie Langford’s ancient cat’s eye glasses and fuchsia lipstick dominated the screen, clashing with a carrot-colored beehive that had to be a bad wig. Or roadkill. A patchwork jacket in screaming primary colors made faux-Trelawney’s scarves look tastefully subdued. Susan appeared unconcerned that her guest’s multiple assaults against fashion might crack the camera lens.

  “Mrs. Mitchell, what did you think when you read about the discovery of Andrew Heenan’s bones last week?”