The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  Roy snapped back the hammer, the sound loud in the bedroom. "And maybe I'll do one of your knees, just to balance everything out."

  The man started blubbering and Nicky stood up, sheet held against her body. "Wait, babe, wait!"

  "Did I say you could talk? Did I?"

  "No, please," she said, holding a hand out. "Maybe we can work out a deal. Something to make it right. I mean, I was being paid, all right? Maybe if you get compensated, too, promise not to hurt Clarence here, then we can just end it here tonight."

  The man called Clarence said, "Yes, yes, that sounds good. Honest, look, let's see if we can work something out."

  Roy took a relaxed breath, slowly pulled the trigger with one hand and lowered the hammer with the other. His fury and anger seemed to seep away from him, just like every time before— except for that one time each in California and Washington when things didn't go well and they had to move away—

  "All right," he said. "Start talking."

  * * *

  In the Jeep Cherokee he was exhausted. The drive back to Morrill Lake seemed to take forever, and since they had both gotten inside and driven away from Lovell, not one word had been said for a long while.

  Finally, Nicky cleared her throat and said, "Well."

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "Yep."

  He coughed, hating the taste of the tobacco and bourbon in his mouth. "Did I get you back there, when I took a swipe at you? I thought for sure my hand caught the edge of your chin."

  She laughed and he saw her hand move against her face. "Yeah, I think you did. Don't worry. I'll put an icepack on it tonight."

  He reached over, squeezed her leg. "Sorry about that."

  "Not to worry, not to worry."

  "And who was Clarence?" Roy asked.

  He could sense her smile next to him. "Some rich boy whose daddy left him a lot of money, and not a lot of social skills. A nice little boy with some very odd desires."

  Another mile went by. "So," Roy said. "What's the haul tonight?"

  Nicky reached up, turned on the overhead light, and then began rummaging through a brown paper grocery bag, like a housewife checking her day's shopping. "Let's see. Five thousand in cash. Five gold Krugerrands. A couple of gold bracelets. One diamond pinky ring— and if I ever see you in a pinky ring, I'll slap you silly, hon— and one of those PalmPilot computers. A good night's work, don't you think?"

  He remembered seeing her almost naked in bed with that man, that rich, lonely fat man who probably thought he had gotten the date of his life through the Internet. He remembered the other times as well, where the script had been followed, and the two times when it hadn't. Once, in California, where a rich Silicon Valley guy started laughing at him, egging him on. And once, as well, in Washington, where the guy had started right in and had pinned Nicky down on a couch in the living room, tearing at her as if he thought since he was paying for her he could do anything he wanted.

  Both times, things went wrong. Both times that fury inside of him had just blown out, like a rocket engine, and he had emptied his pistol in both of those guys, wiping away their grins, wiping away their hungers. After each time, they had moved away and had started up again: Such was their way of life.

  He glanced over at her, smiling. "Yes, it was a good night's work."

  * * *

  After they got back to the cottage and had put away their tools and their rewards, they went to bed and performed the traditional after-work celebration, which was always fun, and which was always a good way of reaffirming their love and commitment to each other. Then they took a shower together, so that Roy could get the grease out of his hair, and Nicky could get the scent of another man's bedroom off her body.

  The night was quite warm and they went out to the porch, still unclothed, glasses of Remy Martin in their hands. Roy slowly caressed the naked back of his wife as they stretched out on the couch, a single sheet over the both of them. Nicky went on for a while about Muriel next door, how the old woman appreciated the drive into town to meet her sisters, and Nicky said she was planning to take her grocery shopping later the next day. Then, Roy smiled and told her of Henry's offer.

  Nicky sat up so quick that she almost spilled his glass of cognac. "You're not teasing me, are you? This is the God's honest truth?"

  He sipped at the cognac, glad to finally wash out the taste of tobacco and bourbon from his mouth. "The honest truth, hon. Once Henry and Muriel die, we get the house and this cottage. We can live up here year round, if you'd like, and get a little income from renting out the cottage. Maybe cut back on your work schedule."

  She hugged him tight. "Oh, Roy, that sounds wonderful… My God, it's a dream come true, it really is. Imagine being up here for the whole summer, not having to move out when the next renters come by. Imagine what it'll be like in the fall, when the leaves change. Or when the lake freezes over. We can snowshoe and ski and you can take up ice fishing and—"

  He started laughing, kissing at her neck. "Slow down, hon, slow down. It's going to happen, but probably not right away. We're going to be in their wills. We're not getting everything tomorrow."

  "Oh, I know, but still… oh, Roy, it's going to be great."

  They lay there for a few more minutes, each sipping at their cognac, and then a loon call started, and then another, and then a third. The yodeling and calling echoed among the trees and bills of the lake, and Nicky snuggled in close to Roy and said, "Darling?"

  "Yes?"

  "Henry and Muriel… how old are they?"

  "Don't know," he said. "Probably their late seventies."

  "What do you think their life expectancy is?"

  "Don't rightly know," Roy said. "They could both pass on this winter. But they're both hardy New Englanders. They could last another decade."

  "Oh." The loon noise continued and Roy thought that he was the luckiest man in the world to be in such a place and to have such a woman at his side.

  She spoke up again. "Do you think… well, do you think you could figure out a way to… well, you know… speed things up. I mean, well, I hate to think of us waiting for another ten or fifteen years, you know?"

  He knew exactly what was going on in her mind, and he reached down and kissed the top of her head. "That's some thought, dear, but no. We're not going to do anything to them."

  "Why?" she asked.

  Roy recalled something Henry had said yesterday. "Because we're good people, that's why. Even Henry said that to me. And not killing your neighbors is what good people do."

  Nicky laughed and snuggled in under his arm. "Thanks for reminding me."

  He kissed her again. "You're welcome."

  Nancy Pickard

  Afraid of the Dark

  NANCY PICKARD (along with other writers such as Carolyn Hart and Joan Hess) has turned the cozy form inside out. She's managed to keep its spunk while imbuing it with greater depth and relevance to reflect the lives of contemporary women. This is so true, in fact, that many of her so-called "cozies" offer the reader much truer portraits of our time than many so-called "serious" suspense novels. Here is one of Nancy's best stories, "Afraid of the Dark," which first appeared in the anthology The Night Awakens.

  Afraid of the Dark

  Nancy Pickard

  Friday, September 19

  She thought she'd already used up all of her courage.

  Simply by stepping into the doorway of the abandoned tunnel underneath the Kansas prairie, Amelia felt as if she'd called upon every ounce of nerve she possessed. She had just enough left, maybe, to help her walk farther into the underground rooms. And after that? Then her entire lifetime's supply of bravery would be depleted, Amelia felt quite sure.

  Yes, there was a bare electric light bulb hanging from the deteriorating ceiling. Yes, it glared forth a naked illumination, powered perhaps by some old generator left behind to rot. And, yes, it lighted the underground room for the first few yards that Amelia could see, as she held her breath and tried to work up enough
gumption to get her legs to move forward. But she couldn't see beyond the light.

  An improbable scene lay before her.

  An antique barber shop. Underground. Chairs and all.

  It was all revealed for the first time in who knew how many decades, by the bare light, to her astonished eyes.

  The walls of the barber shop in the tunnel had been plastered, once upon a time, but she wouldn't want to touch the slime that glistened on them now. Amelia couldn't tell what color they might have been painted when the underground chambers were constructed seventy-five years ago. Fifty years before she was even born. She knew there wasn't merely this tiny barber shop but also a mercantile store, a church, and a town hall. Amelia felt there was no way she could work up the nerve to explore all of it, not now, not ever.

  The decaying wood floor revealed earth beneath her feet.

  It had all been a clever idea, a cool commercial and civic venue dreamed up by the citizens of Spale, Kansas, population 956 men, women, and children in the year 1922. It's still as cool as a grave, Amelia thought as she stood shivering in the doorway. Just emptier. Unless she counted herself, which in that context she didn't want to. The decrepit roads and buildings above her head were a ghost town now, with all the former residents fled to cemeteries or to other destinies.

  In seventy-five years, everything made by the hand of man in Spale had changed. Not much in nature had, Amelia guessed. She imagined that the heavy heat of Indian summer hung as heavily on this day as it had all those many days ago. The humidity was probably just as high as it had ever been, and the falling leaves were no doubt just as golden as they used to be. They had escaped the heat and mosquitoes of their Kansas summers by coming down here to do their business and say their communal prayers, and they'd used it to escape cyclones and bitter winter days, as well. Thirty-two couples were married in the underground chapel. Countless whiskers were shaved in the barber shop.

  Amelia knew all those facts and more.

  What she didn't know was what lay in the darkness ahead of her.

  At least there was light. She believed she could stand almost anything as long as there was even a glimmer of light. It was total darkness she feared more than anything on earth.

  Amelia stepped reluctantly forward, until she could rest her left hand on the filigreed silver arm of the closest barber's chair. There was a badly cracked and distorted mirror behind it. She looked and saw herself. As if she were a distant observer, Amelia took in her own widened brown eyes, the disarray of her short brown, curly hair, the sweat stains on her red T-shirt, and the streaks of dirt on her jeans, and she thought, I look scared. Unnerved by the visual evidence of her fear, Amelia glanced away and down into the further darkness at the other end of the shop. As dim shapes revealed themselves, she realized there was a third barber chair and that someone was seated in it.

  "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed.

  Several events seemed to happen at once.

  Close enough now to the last chair to see who was in it, Amelia suddenly felt a deep, deep coldness. The man in the chair was dead. At the sight of his wide-eyed face, she was pierced by such unexpected sorrow that it temporarily submerged her shock.

  Briefly lifting her gaze to a mirror behind the third chair, she then saw another man's face appear in the doorway behind her, and she— gratefully— recognized that man, too.

  "Look!" she cried, whirling to face him. "Oh, look at what's happened—"

  But instead of walking into the room to join her, he reached in with one hand. He jerked with fierce quickness on the chain attached to the light fixture. The chain broke off as the light went out.

  "No! Oh, please, no!"

  Pitched into total darkness, underneath the town of Spale, Amelia couldn't see the door close. But she could hear it slam with a dirt-muffled thud, and she heard the awful sound of the long wooden bar being thrown across it.

  And she could hear her own screaming.

  My God, what a fool she'd been.

  * * *

  Tuesday, September 16

  "Ghost towns of Kansas?"

  In New York City, in the office of the managing editor of American Times, Amelia Blaney had slapped the palm of her left hand against the side of her head, as if to clear her ears. The spontaneous gesture was meant to indicate, humorously, that— surely— she had misunderstood her boss. It was not possible, her facial expression suggested, that she had heard him correctly.

  One side of Dan Hale's thin mouth lifted in wry acknowledgment of her humor, but he didn't say, "Just kidding." Instead, he inquired, bitingly, "Is it the word ghost, town, or Kansas that gives you trouble, Amelia?"

  She was merely young, not stupid. She knew that Dan himself was originally from the state. Maybe he hated it; maybe he loved it. Already regretting her comic miming, Amelia trod carefully with her next words.

  "No doubt," she said tactfully, "Kansas is beautiful in September. All that golden… wheat."

  "It's not a wheat state."

  "It's not? Corn, then."

  "Corn is green in the fields."

  Amelia grasped the edge of her chair to keep from throwing up her hands. Okay! she thought in exasperated surrender. Whatever! She decided to skip over Kansas altogether and cut to the truth.

  "I'm afraid of the dark," she admitted.

  She said it lightly, not really expecting her boss to believe her, much less to feel sympathy and to change his mind. But it was embarrassingly true. Ever since she was a small child, Amelia had been nearly pathologically afraid of the dark. As much as a claustrophobic hates closets, as much as an agoraphobic is terrified of open spaces, Amelia was scared of the dark. She felt panicky and sick on the rare occasions when she got caught without sunlight, nightlight, flashlight, or headlight. She didn't know why, hadn't even been able to tell a shrink what it was— exactly— that she was scared was going to "get" her in the dark. She only knew the fear was excruciatingly real, and only as far away as the next sunset.

  Sure enough, the characteristic little curve appeared at the side of Dan Hale's mouth again. She could see that he thought she was joking. Nearly everybody did, including her last boyfriend, who had finally walked out, angrily accusing her of ignoring his needs because he couldn't sleep with a light on in the bedroom. She couldn't sleep without it. She had cried when he left, but the truth was that she was less afraid of being alone than she was of the dark.

  In one scathing word, Dan summed up his reaction: "So?"

  Amelia tried one last time, though she knew that no reporter with only six months of job experience between this moment and journalism school could afford to reject an assignment, no matter if it turned her knees to custard and made her feel queasy. Dan Hale could have told her to interview a serial killer, and she might not have trembled, but this— this hit her where she knew she had a gaping hole in her courage.

  "So," she explained, "that's where ghosts live. In the dark."

  Amelia smiled tentatively at her boss, knowing it must look more like a grimace. A skeleton's grin.

  He didn't appear to notice. In fact, he next uttered what at first sounded to Amelia like a total non sequitur.

  "You're an animal nut, right?"

  Startled at the change of subject from ghosts to animals and taken aback at his phrasing, Amelia replied with a cautious, "Yes?" She was surprised that Dan knew of her passion for animals. She supposed it must show on her college transcript that she had had a brief flirtation with veterinary medicine, before switching to J school. The transcript would not, she hoped, betray how disastrous and tragic the outcome of that flirtation had been. Amelia had ghosts of her own that she would have hated for any reporter, such as herself, to investigate.

  "I thought so," Dan said. His voice was brisk now, and she knew it was a done deal. She was going to Kansas. He said, "That's why I've made reservations for you at the Serengeti Bed and Breakfast."

  Amelia nearly whacked the side of her head again. Incredulously, she said, "The what?"r />
  "It's a bed-and-breakfast inn on the grounds of an exotic animal farm," he told her, which only increased her astonishment. "Camels, llamas, giraffes. Ostriches, elks, kangaroos. It's all owned by a vet."

  "Now, there's a story," she murmured, then flushed with embarrassment because she'd said it loud enough for him to hear. But good grief! She couldn't keep herself from reacting. An exotic animal farm? In Kansas? Could such a thing be true? And if so, would she get to see these animals, maybe even touch them? As unlikely as it seemed, Amelia began to feel excited about the assignment.