EQMM, March-April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I'm more worried about him not living here, Doc, or at least his not staying alive."

  The doc cut his eyes at me sharply. “What do you mean, Deputy?"

  "I'm still thinking about it. What did you think about those burns on Mrs. Kelton's hand?"

  "They weren't too bad. Mild, with a little blistering. They likely hurt a bit but if they're kept clean there shouldn't be any problems."

  "You figure they came from a hot grill, like she's saying?"

  His frown deepened, and he looked at the gravel underfoot. “Well, I don't know. Now that you mention it, they didn't look quite right for that somehow."

  "Yeah."

  Teddy Kelton had emerged from the lunchroom and was lurking over in the shadow of the pump islands. He was starting to take an interest in us “Look, Doc, I may get back to you on this in a day or two. In the meantime, you remember what those burns looked like, okay?"

  The doc gave me a beetle-browed squint. “What are you thinking, boy?"

  "Thinking don't count, Doc, knowing does. And as soon as I know a little more, I'll let you in on it."

  As the doc drove off I went down the line of cabins to where I'd parked the ‘57. The chrome of her door handles was so hot it scorched you to touch them but there were some things under the front seat I figured I might need in the near future.

  Making sure I was out of sight of the lunchroom, I tucked my .45 Colt Commander's model under my belt, letting my T-shirt hang loosely over the automatic. Then I slipped a reload clip and my red-handled paratrooper's switchblade into my pocket.

  Teddy Kelton was sitting with his back to one of the Esso pumps as I sauntered back to the main building. I nodded to him in passing and he didn't respond. He just watched out of the corner of his eye as I pushed through the screen door into the lunchroom.

  The little cafe, with its fading Formica counter and row of cracked Naugahyde stools, was like the rest of Devlin, clean, worn, and out of its right time. A couple of World War II vintage Coke promotions bled a little color onto the white-enameled walls, and a tough Mojave fly was trying to batter its way through a plastic cake cover.

  A couple of booths were located at either end of the room and Lisette occupied the one that put her in the direct blast of the counter fan. She'd freshened up and had changed into a sundress and sandals. A bottle of Pepsi with a straw in it shared the booth's tabletop with her sketchbook. A page was covered with a series of her lightning-quick impression drawings: a snatch of desert skyline, a wrecked truck belly-up beside a highway, the slack face of an unconscious old man.

  Sue Kelton wasn't in sight, but there was the intermittent click and clatter of someone moving around in the kitchen.

  The Princess didn't say anything, but she looked up as I slid into the booth across from her.

  "The kid give you any trouble?” I inquired, keeping my voice pitched under the purr of the fan.

  She shrugged. “Nothing beyond giving my dress the X-ray treatment. He seems to be a little distracted. So does Momma."

  "Pick up on anything else?"

  "When Mrs. Kelton came back from the cabin, there was a tight little conference between mother and son in the kitchen.” The Princess took a sip of her soda. “I couldn't hear anything over the fans. Then the boy went out to keep an eye on things."

  He was still at it. Looking over Lisette's shoulder, I could see Teddy boy scoping us out through the front windows. Reaching under the table, I tapped her lightly on the knee with the closed switchblade. She cocked an eyebrow at me and accepted the knife. From beneath the tabletop I heard the snick of the blade deploying as she tested the spring action of the wicked little shiv.

  "I've gotta go up the road for a while.” I said. “Go over and sit with the old man. Talk to him. Offer to do his portrait. Say he reminds you of your father. I don't care what reason you give, but don't leave him alone for a minute until I get back."

  The Princess closed the knife one-handed. Pretending to straighten a dress strap she deftly executed a gang-moll shift, making the palmed blade disappear into her bra. “It wasn't an accident, was it?"

  "The accident is that he's still alive."

  * * * *

  Firing up the ‘57, I motored out to the highway, turning west. I kept it casual until I was out of sight of the station, then I stood on it. I was pretty sure Lisette could pick up anything that'd be laid down back at Devlin. She can flip from cool kitten to hellcat when the mood's on her. Still, I didn't want to leave her holding the fort alone for too long.

  When your wheels are set up right, speed doesn't make you overheat, it's the slow that'll do it. The low-boy convoy was long gone and Route 66 was clear as Car and I burned up to the wreck site. I was running on police business so I didn't hesitate to let Car run the way she likes. It only took a few minutes to get back to the piled-up pickup.

  The wrecker hadn't arrived from Barstow yet, likely he'd wait for the cool after sundown. It didn't take me long to find what I was looking for. The truck's swamp cooler had been torn out of the cab window during the roll-over and it lay a few yards away from the hulk, beatup but pretty much intact.

  The sand around it was dry as the rest of the desert.

  The cooler had been badly dented in the crash and because I was being careful about any fingerprints on the casing it took me awhile to get the reservoir cap open. I thrust a couple of fingers inside.

  Nothing. Abso-flat-ass-lutely nothing.

  Gingerly I carried the swamp cooler up to Car, stowing it in the trunk. Firing up again, I continued my tear up 66 to the next desert station up the line.

  Amboy is located at the turnoff south to the big Marine base at Twenty-Nine Palms, so there's a little more to it than at Devlin. You could almost call it a town, with a couple of gas stations and a stand-alone cafe, painted the usual reflective desert white.

  The cafe was my target.

  A few wilted travelers were rehydrating inside with pop and ice cream as I stalked up to the cash register. I flashed my badge at the shift manager, demanding to know where they got their dairy products. The startled woman didn't know offhand, the owner handled the detail work like that, but a quick check of the freezer turned up a stencil on the side of one of the big brown cardboard ice cream tubs that named an Apple Valley dairy.

  With an extra-thick cherry milkshake cooling me down, I made use of the cafe's public telephone and made a couple of calls. The first, to directory assistance, got me the number of the dairy. The second got me the dairy itself.

  All the people at the dairy had to do was answer two questions. They did.

  I tossed off the last of my milkshake and made a third call to the San Bernardino County sheriff's station in Barstow.

  * * * *

  And that, my man, is how I ended up sitting in the john of a tourist cabin in Devlin, California, waiting for a murderer, and/or murderers, to show up.

  Well, maybe murderer was kinda strong. They hadn't actually killed anybody yet, but like “A for effort,” you know?

  Out in the still darkness I heard a screen door open and close, not by any sharp honest bang but by the faint creak of springs stretching and relaxing. It sounded like it came from the main building. I settled the .45 in my hand and waited.

  Footfalls on gravel, light, and coming closer. More than one set. The steps came to the cabin's front steps, and the doorknob turned, the cabin door easing open.

  It had been left unlocked, of course, so Sue Kelton could come in and check on her husband during the night.

  Between Lisette and me, Rupe Kelton had been checked on real good up until bedtime. Doc Purcell had come by to have another long look at him as well, and had hung around for some time. What with one thing and another, Kelton hadn't been left alone for a second until the old-timer had rather testily run us all out with the request that we kindly let him get some sleep.

  His loving wife had wanted to stay in the cabin with him, but he'd told her not to be silly. He'd be just fine if everybody woul
d just quit fussing over him.

  Silently I stood up. I'd already checked the bathroom's floorboards out for creaks. Two silhouettes stood just inside the cabin's doorway. One of them took a stealthy step toward the bed, holding up something bulky.

  I snaked my free hand around the doorframe and hit the light switch for the main room. “You should have done the job yourself, lady. Your kid would have only taken the fall for accessory then."

  Sue Kelton and her son blinked in the light of the single overhead bulb, the boy still holding the pillow he'd planned on smothering his stepfather with.

  Only there wasn't anybody to smother. The lumpy shape under the sheet had been artistically made up out of the wadded blankets taken from my cabin.

  Sue Kelton's mouth worked, trying to shape the first instinctive denial, and Teddy Kelton dropped the pillow and took a step toward me, fists clenching. I didn't actually aim the Commander at him, I just lifted it a little, giving the kid the word that he was about to do something really stupid.

  Outside, there were more running footfalls as Lisette and the two San Bernardino deputies came tearing across from next-door, responding to the cabin's light coming on.

  * * * *

  Rupe Kelton looked almost as bad as when we'd hauled him out of the wreck that afternoon. Now, his stepfamily was under arrest for his attempted murder. He didn't much want to believe it and who could blame him?

  We'd smuggled the old guy into Lisette's cabin after lights-out and Doc Purcell had managed him while we'd set up the bushwhack. I'd called the doc back to help us keep Kelton covered that evening. After he'd left for the second time, Purcell had parked down the highway and had walked back with the men from the Barstow sheriff's station.

  "Sue wouldn't do that,” Kelton mumbled, staring down at his sheet-covered knees. “I knew she wasn't all that happy, but she wouldn't do that."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Kelton, but your wife's already copped to it.” I stood at the foot of the iron-framed bed, my thumbs hooked in my belt. “She's taking responsibility for the whole thing. I guess she wants to keep as much of the heat off her son as she can, although he was in on the deal all the way."

  "But why?"

  "An old story. She wanted to move back to what she figured was civilization and you were the one holding her back."

  "Didn't know it was getting that bad,” he said dully. “If I'd known, I'd have sold out. I would. Or I'd have given her a divorce, if that's what she really wanted."

  I could only shrug. “It wasn't just that. She figured any alimony you could pay wouldn't be worth it, and the only disposable asset you possessed was Devlin station. Only to dispose of it, she first had to dispose of you."

  I couldn't dress it up any prettier. In the weeping hysteria that had followed her arrest, Sue Kelton had made it clear that her April ... well, July-September marriage had only been about the bucks.

  Lisette sat on one edge of Kelton's bed, one small hand lightly stroking his skinny shoulder, trying to make him feel not so all alone. She knows something about being alone and being used. Inside of that sleek sophisticate's armor was a big bowl of mush for the kicked-around of this world. Dr. Purcell sat on the other side, frowning over the old man's pulse.

  Kelton shook his head, wanting it all to go away. “I still don't understand, Deputy. You're sayin’ they tried to kill me, but I only had a car accident. That wasn't anybody's fault but mine."

  "It wasn't any kind of accident, sir,” I replied. “You were supposed to die in that wreck. Only your wife didn't figure on you getting stuck behind those slow movers along with the rest of us. The speed limit on this stretch of Route 66 is normally fifty-five. But you were only doing about thirty when you went off the road. The pile-up that was supposed to kill you only banged you up some."

  "But nothin’ happened!” he protested. “I just kinda dozed off."

  "You were being poisoned, sir."

  "Poisoned?"

  "The boy knows what he's talking about, Rupe,” Doc Purcell interjected. “Carbon dioxide poisoning. Looking back, the symptoms stuck out all over you, but it was something I just wasn't looking for. You were suffocating and you never knew it."

  "Suffocating?” The old man tried to grope back to his last memories before the crash. “I remember it feelin’ kinda close in the truck, but I didn't want to crack the window because it was so nice and cool inside."

  "There was a reason for that,” I replied. “Who set up the swamp cooler on your truck this afternoon?"

  "Why, Teddy said he'd do it.” A hint of bitterness leaked into Kelton's voice. “I guess I shoulda known right then something was up. That boy's never done me a favor before, and it was damn rare that he ever did anything at all."

  "He wasn't doing you any favors today. He and his mom packed your swamp cooler full of dry ice, frozen carbon dioxide, instead of regular water ice. That's why your cooler was working so well. Dry ice is a whole lot colder than the good old wet kind.

  "But it still melts, or rather vaporizes back into carbon dioxide gas. The airflow coming in through your swamp cooler was heavily contaminated. In the confined space of your truck cab the concentration gradually built up high enough to knock you woozy. Since you were feeling cool and you weren't exerting, you didn't feel yourself getting short of breath until it was too late and you were going off the road. It was a neat move. A coroner likely wouldn't have noticed a thing and it would have been written off as a plain old traffic fatality."

  Lisette nodded in thoughtful approval. Back in Chicago in the good old days, certain members of her family had managed a subsidiary of Murder Inc. and, while she's pretty much gone straight, she could still appreciate a slick rub-out when she saw one. “Where'd they get the stuff from, Kevin?” she asked. “You can't pick dry ice up just anywhere. Especially out here."

  "It was brought to them, Princess. You had the weekly dairy delivery for your lunchroom this morning, didn't you, Mr. Kelton?"

  "Sure thing.” He nodded. “Our milk and ice cream and such, same as usual. I signed for it a little while before I started in to Barstow."

  "That's where the murder weapon came from. I talked with the dairy that services all of the stations along this stretch of 66. Their delivery truck doesn't use mechanical refrigeration. It's just a heavily insulated, hard-side van. They use blocks of dry ice to keep everything cold. While the delivery driver was making his drop-off, your stepson snuck out and swiped a chunk of the stuff. The San Bernardino lab crew was able to lift some of his fingerprints from the cold-locker handles and the side of the truck.

  "While you were getting dressed to go to town, your wife and your stepson were packing your swamp cooler full of frozen poison gas. Their fingerprints were all over the cooler casing."

  "Damn,” Kelton repeated. A flicker of a rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Sue always said this place would be the death of me, an’ she was damn near right."

  I kinda had a hunch then that the old sand lizard was gonna be okay. If you're tough enough to survive the high desert, there's not a lot that can kill you.

  "Dry ice, for Christ's sake.” Doc Purcell tossed his stethoscope back into the fishing-tackle box he used for a medical kit. “I don't know how the hell you ever came up with that one, Deputy. I'd never have thought of it, and after thirty years of patching up after Barstow Saturday nights I'd thought I'd seen it all."

  "There were a couple of things,” I replied. “For one, when I recovered the swamp cooler from the wreck site, both the reservoir and the wick filter were bone dry. Sure, ice melts and water evaporates rapidly in the high desert, but not that fast. There should have been some residual moisture left in that cooler if it had been loaded with frozen water. But dry ice evaporates away into nothing."

  The doc digested the idea. “All right, fine. But here's the question, quiz kid. What made you suspicious of Rupe's swamp cooler in the first place?"

  "It was Mrs. Kelton,” I replied. “She bitched her own play. She may have read a
bout dry ice somewhere, but she'd obviously never handled any of it before. Like I said, that stuff is seriously cold! Remember those funny-looking burns you treated on her hand?"

  "Yeah?"

  "They weren't burns. Since you've done all of your docing out here, it's not surprising you wouldn't recognize them for what they were. But I did. I spent a winter on the line in Korea and, man, I got real familiar with it.

  "I had to wonder, just how in the heck does anybody pick up a case of frostbite in the middle of the Mojave Desert?"

  ©2009 by James H. Cobb

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: COMEBACK by Ed Gorman

  * * * *

  Art by Laurie Harden

  * * * *

  Ed Gorman's March 1996 EQMM story “Out There in the Darkness” was later expanded by the author into a novel entitled The Poker Club, and will soon be released as a motion picture under the same title. Also coming out soon is a new Gorman novel, The Midnight Room. The following story will appear, at around the same time this issue goes on sale, in an anthology celebrating the work of author and screen writer Richard Matheson entitled He Is Legend.

  * * * *

  The morning of the birthday bash this dude with hair plugs and a black camel's hair coat and the imperious air only a big-time businessman exudes walks into Guitar City and starts looking around at all the instruments and amps.

  A tourist. Most places you see a guy who looks like this you automatically think this is the ideal customer. But in the business of selling high-end guitars and amps you don't want somebody who looks like he just drove over from the brokerage house in his Mercedes but will only spend a few hundred on his kid.

  Some of my best sales have gone to guys who look like street trash. They know music.

  I wandered over to him. I assumed he didn't know what he was holding. The Gibson Custom Shop ‘59 Les Paul cost a few thousand more than I make a month—and I do all right.