And if not? Well, she wasn't around to argue.
The gravestone was easy to spot—not because it was any more impressive than the others, which it wasn't, but because the marble was still bright and new. Showroom quality. Surrounded by so much aging, sun-bleached stone, Angela's marker almost didn't seem it belonged. But then, that was like Angela herself.
He stopped at the foot of her grave, where the grass, though already grown in, still didn't quite blend with the older grass around it. The inscription contained her name, the years she lived, and the following line:
She showed the way.
When he'd ordered her burial, recovering in his hospital bed, he'd briefly considered a lengthier passage—some inspirational words from one of her heroes, maybe—but nothing seemed to match the power of those four words. And now, finally seeing the inscription in person, he was glad he'd chosen it. Simple was best, even if it was enigmatic. Other people might wonder exactly what it meant, but that was all right. She would have wanted to make them wonder. To make them think.
"Hello, Angela," he said.
As if in response, the wind died. Without the wind, the solitude was more noticeable, the loneliness in his heart more pronounced. How odd, that a year after standing witness to one woman's death—Zoe's grandmother, Mattie, whose ashes they'd scattered over the bluffs—that he should return to face the ocean to say farewell to another friend. It was getting to be a bad habit.
"Sorry it took me a while to get out here," Gage said. He hadn't planned on speaking aloud. He didn't seem like the sort of man who would speak aloud to the dead. But now that he was here, it seemed entirely natural. "I'd like to say it was because I was on the mend, you know, but that was only partly it. I needed to think about some things. Some things you told me that night you died. You know what I'm talking about? I bet you do."
He didn't really expect a response, but he waited a few beats just the same.
"I told you I was retired," he continued. "I told you I was done with this business. And you remember what you said? You said, 'You can't retire from what you are, Garrison.' You remember that? Yeah, you were a real bitch for saying it. It was just the sort of thing you were good at, saying the thing that would get to somebody. That would stick with them long after you were gone."
The word 'gone' had more finality to it than he'd intended, more weight, and his rising anger was washed away by his sorrow.
"I thought about it a lot in the hospital," Gage said. "I really do want to retire, you know. I don't want that life any more. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized you were right. And the more I realized you were right, the better I felt. So that's why I'm here. I wanted to—I don't know, say thanks. Sometimes a teacher needs to tell a student things they don't want to hear. No more hiding, Angela. I'm back. For good this time."
He wasn't sure he'd said everything he'd needed to say. Maybe he should say something about taking up the sword of justice, of defending the innocent from evil, of being a lone voice for truth against the growing armies of the self-righteous and the small-minded. It might have been the sort of thing she would have liked, if he said them with pizzazz and poetry. But what would be the point? The proof of his conviction was in the doing, after all.
He looked around. Still alone. It was just as well. No one saw him take the bright red apple out of his coat pocket and place it on her gravestone. He watched the apple for a moment, expecting the wind to pick up and blow it to the grass, but the air was still.
When he was sure his face would betray no emotion, he descended the trail to the van. Zoe was there in the passenger seat, ear buds on, and she took them off when he opened the door.
"Hey," she said.
She smiled. It was a warm smile, and the warmth couldn't be hidden behind black eyeliner and black hair dye and black clothes. He didn't think she would have wanted to hide it anyway, but he wasn't willing to test this theory by remarking on it. When she'd shot Bruzzi, he'd feared the worst, an unraveling of the fragile psyche she'd spent months rebuilding after her abduction the previous year, but the opposite had happened. Shooting Bruzzi, strange as it was, had allowed her to shake free some of her demons. And Bruzzi, lying to her about his intentions before he died, had to be given some credit.
There was no way he would ever forgive Bruzzi for killing Janet. But maybe he didn't hate him quite as much anymore either. Whether that was good or bad Gage couldn't say.
"All done here, then?" Zoe said.
Gage put the key in the ignition and started the van. He'd enticed her to come along for the ride because he'd told her there was a cute kid at Jaybee's Grocery he owed a cup of coffee for his help on the case—although now Gage was regretting it. What was he doing, playing matchmaker for a teenage girl? He must have been out of his mind.
Putting the van in gear, he looked at her, thinking about her question. Was he done here? He returned her smile with one of his own. It almost even felt good.
"Just getting started," he said.
About the Author
SCOTT WILLIAM CARTER's first novel, The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a "touching and impressive debut" and won the prestigious Oregon Book Award. Since then, he has published ten novels and over fifty short stories, his fiction spanning a wide variety of genres and styles. He's the author of two acclaimed mysteries featuring the curmudgeonly Garrison Gage, The Gray and Guilty Sea and A Desperate Place for Dying. His most recent book for younger readers, Wooden Bones, chronicles the untold story of Pinocchio and was singled out for praise by the Junior Library Guild. He lives in Oregon with his wife and children. Visit him online at www.scottwilliamcarter.com.
Please continue for a sneak preview of
Everybody Loves a Hero,
a collection of crime and suspense stories.
Everybody Loves a Hero
What makes a hero? In these ten riveting tales of crime and suspense, Carter takes the reader on a thrilling journey from the back streets of Chicago to the windy bluffs of the Oregon coast exploring that very question. There's good guys, bad guys, and everything in between. Some stories are dark and brooding, others light and quirky, and some defy categorization altogether. Nolte's first collection is sure to please fans of crime fiction as well as those who enjoy well-crafted short stories.
Everybody Loves a Hero
Ten Tales of Crime and Suspense
Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, January 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Jack Nolte. Copyright © 2013 by Scott William Carter.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Contents
Everybody Loves a Hero
It Records Automatically
Mr. Midnight
Clowning Around
Goodman's Gold
Follow the Brown Van
Calling for Phil
No Morals Please
A Trunk Full of Elephants
A Plunder By Pilgrims
Everybody Loves a Hero
The stiff, icy wind pricked at Trevor's face. It was a hair before six in the morning and much of Chicago slumbered. When he reached the end of the street, he leaned against the brick apartment building at the designated spot and pulled his cell phone out of his trench coat. Though the street was empty, he pretended to have a conversation with a broker. Yeah, yeah, I hear you, the timing's right, sure.
He had learned over the years that even if you didn't think anyone was watching, it was better to play it safe.
Still, he was glad he had to wait only a few minutes before he heard the woman scream. His new wingtips weren't do
ing a damn thing to keep his toes warm.
After a moment's hesitation—after all, even the bravest of heroes paused when they heard a scream—he ducked onto Ontario and charged up the street. The sky was the color of old concrete. He saw them immediately: two guys in black ski masks, dirty jeans, and worn high school varsity jackets tussling with a redheaded woman in purple sweats. They'd cornered her against her black Lexus. One them was clutching at her black purse while the other was attempting to tug down her sweatpants.
Trevor launched himself at both her assailants, all of them going down hard on the pavement. When Trevor scrambled to his feet, palms scraped, he saw the shapes of people through the fitness center's tinted windows behind them. Good. An audience always helped.
"You're dead, punk," one the guys said.
Trevor really wished they would come up with more original lines. Her attackers staggered up, both of them at least a head taller and twenty pounds heavier than him. One produced a knife with a black handle and a long serrated edge. The woman screamed, but Trevor didn't look at her. This part required all of his concentration.
First came the guy without the knife. He swung his right fist, then his left, and each time Trevor dodged. Trevor landed a punch to the gut and sent the guy sprawling, gasping. Then the second guy came on, the knife slashing at the brittle air. Trevor locked onto the guy's arm, spun, and elbowed him in the gut. The guy let out a woomph and doubled over.
Police sirens blared in the distance. Both muggers were up in a hurry and running, one of them snatching her purse off the ground. Trevor took off after them, slowly gaining, feeling the cold air burn in his lungs. When they were nearly to the corner, the guy with the purse dropped it and sped off after his partner.
Trevor jogged to a stop and picked up the purse. Paused there a moment, holding his side, grimacing. The grimace was important. You always had to grimace. Heading back to the woman, he saw a few spandex-clad girls from the athletic club, bodies steaming in the cold, surrounding the woman and offering comfort, and it wasn't until he was nearly upon them that he finally got his first good look at her. He had always believed that not seeing a picture of the woman ahead of time would ensure his first reaction was more genuine, but now he saw how dangerous that had been. He should have looked at the picture. He should have been more careful.
He knew her.
He had known her since he was nine years old.
As the women around her parted, eyes filled first with suspicion, then softening to that familiar my hero glow, Trevor felt a chill. Her hair had been more of an auburn, not red, and she had probably put on twenty pounds since he had seen her last, but it was definitely her. The mole on her nose. The slight downward slant of her hazel eyes. The ivory tint of her skin. There was no doubt. Diana. It was Diana, for God's sake.
"Hello," he said.
* * * * *
"Her maiden name was Garvin," Trevor said. "Diana Garvin. Not Kellanger. It's why I didn't recognize it."
His breath misted on the glass. If he looked down, he saw the Chicago river twenty-two stories below, a black serpent amidst all the window-lit buildings. Fog had rolled in that evening, giving all the outside lights a fuzzy glow. It was pleasantly warm in the room, but he felt the coolness of the air next to the glass.
"You're shittin' us," Bob said. No matter how hard he tried, he could never quite shake his Boston accent. "Fourth grade? Did she even have tits back then?"
He turned and looked at them. The Hilton's hotel room was large and luxurious as hotel rooms went. Bob sat on the edge of the king bed, a Heineken in one hand, TV remote in the other. His silk flower print shirt was unbuttoned halfway, his gold chain and obnoxiously large cross lost in all his silver chest hair. Marvin, redheaded and pale, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, sat at the little table paging through the Tribune. A Bulls game was on the television. They were getting crushed by the Celtics.
Looking at them, Trevor was often left wondering how exactly it was that he ended up partnering with these two morons. They were useful, but between them they had the intelligence of a bar stool.
"From fourth to tenth grade back in Idaho," Trevor said. "Before my family moved to New Jersey."
"No kiddin?" Bob said. "You bang her?"
Marvin, flipping the pages of his newspaper, snickered. Trevor sighed.
"No, I most assuredly didn't," he said.
"Ah, ah, but you wanted to," Bob said. "I can tell."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Bet he'd like to go to bed with her now," Marvin said. His own voice had echoes of Brooklyn in it, but he was much better at hiding this when he wanted to.
Trevor turned back to the window. He didn't want them to see that they were getting to him. He was thirty-six now, meaning the last time he had seen Diana had been nearly twenty years earlier. Dear God, twenty years. "We moved in different circles," he said quietly, mostly to himself. "I don't think she really knew me. She . . . I mean, I would have liked to know her better."
This came out awkwardly, and there was a moment of silence. Trevor regretted saying it. When you bathed in a pool of vipers, showing weakness was deadly.
But how many times had he composed love notes to her only to throw them into the river on his way to school? How many times had he stared at the back of her head in class and tried to will her to turn and smile at him, only to have her go on blissfully unaware of his existence?
And of course there was the time with the locker. It happened in tenth grade, when he finally got up the nerve to ask her out. He remembered how he had a lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball, how she had stared at him as if he had just stepped out of a flying saucer. When he had just been about to get the words straight, something about going to a movie, maybe ice cream later, you know, if you're free, some football player with cologne that smelled like fresh tar tackled him into the locker. That had been humiliating enough, but it hadn't been why he despised Diana.
He despised her because she had laughed.
Until then, he had thought that being ignored was the worst kind of cruelty. But being nothing but a joke to someone you adored . . . that was far worse. He had resolved right then he would never to be a joke to anyone ever again. No one would ever laugh at him like that. No one.
Sighing, Marvin folded his paper. "You're sure she didn't recognize you?"
"Positive," Trevor said. "I talked with her for ten minutes and she still didn't know." But what he didn't tell them was how, when she asked him his name, he had accidentally told her the truth—Trevor Allen—rather an alias. That she didn’t remember him even after he told her his name made him hate her even more.
"You gave her your card?" Marvin said.
"Yes."
"Well, if she doesn't call . . ."
"She'll call." Trevor was certain of it. Her eyes had practically been glowing when she looked at him. Oh yes, everybody loves a hero. He thought about how she once looked in a cheerleading outfit, wondered how her naked hips would feel when he slid his hands over them.
"Yeah, and then he can finally bang her," Bob said, and he punctuated this remark with a belch.
Trevor grimaced. He thought about how wonderful it would be to finally get away from these fools. He hadn't told them, but this was his last job. He had been planning it for a long time. He had enough saved that he could sit on a beach in Puerto Rico for years without lifting a finger. Afterwards, he'd get into some other line of work, something more noble. Maybe he'd be a lawyer.
He had been hoping for a last job that would be something special, and along came Diana. It must have been fate. Now she'd find out what real cruelty was.
"She'll definitely call," Trevor said again.
* * * * *
The next morning, while eating breakfast at a diner on Twenty-Fifth, Trevor got the call on his cell phone. She wanted to take him to dinner. To thank him, of course.
And while Bob, sitting across the table, made an obscene gesture by sticking his index finger in and
out of a hole formed with his left hand, Trevor suavely told her that he'd love to have dinner with her. Gone was the awkward and introverted Trevor, once bruised by bullies and scorned at by women. In his place was the confident and worldly Trevor, the guy that knew all the people and had all the connections, a guy who was just waiting for the right woman to come along and see the heart of gold hidden behind his cocky demeanor. It was all in the voice. All in the tone. She laughed a girlish laugh and he knew he was reeling her in right from the start.
Oh yes, he was going to love hurting her.
* * * * *
Their first date, they ate in the back of an Italian restaurant, everything done in reds—the high walls, the embroidered tablecloths, the velvet seat cushions. A candle in a glass jar flickered between them, the cherry wood table small enough that it created a sense of intimacy all by itself. A violin concerto played from the speakers in the corners. Now and then, they heard muted laughter from the bar around the corner, caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.
"I buy and sell things," he said, when the inevitable question came. He smiled. "Preferably selling for more than I buy."
She chuckled and dabbed at her lips with her cloth napkin. Her black evening dress had a plunging neckline. The tops of her breasts were a creamy white. She didn't have breasts like that in high school. They made her seem so much more womanly.
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