He was pondering this when the footstep sounded behind him. He whirled around, heart thudding. A leather work boot was visible on the stairs. Then another, and a leg clad in khaki work pants. Charles Gardner descended carefully to the landing. This time he wasn't carrying the oxygen bottle but a Model 1911 Army Colt. The smile Ennis had seen before.
"Well, well. Thought I'd catch somebody in here,” he said.
"Sheriff's office,” Ennis said. “I'm the guy you talked to earlier."
Gardner shook his head. “Sheriff? Where's your uniform? And that don't look like a sheriff's car out front. So now I'm the one getting nosy. What the hell you doing down here?"
"That's none of your business."
The smile got meaner. “Hell it ain't. People coming and going at all hours. I'm getting a little tired of it."
He brought the pistol up, thumbed back the hammer. Ennis stared, unsure now whether he was dealing with malice or dementia.
"You want to see my ID?"
"Keep your hands where they are. Goddamn little punk, trying to browbeat me in my own goddamn yard.” Gardner coughed into his fist and spat. He drew a raspy breath with some difficulty.
"Figured it out, huh? She said somebody would, sooner or later."
"Who?"
"Shut up. You know who. I told her, ‘You let her die, cuffed to the bed down here, now you got to live with it.’ But of course it's me ends up dealing with it, useless bitch. Pretty good job, I thought, for one day's work. Only way we could be sure.” The old man coughed again. He pulled at his nose, examined the results. “Could have used more lime, I guess, or more plastic. Lisette, she'd complain about the smell sometimes after that, but it was gone after a year or so."
Ennis felt sick. At least some of it was fear. He was beginning to believe Charles Gardner wasn't telling him this to ease his conscience. He found his voice.
"You want to come down to the office with me and talk about this? Might be better that way."
Gardner stared, and then laughed. This provoked another round of coughing. Ennis thought to rush him then, but the gun didn't waver. The old man's eyes were rheumy as he caught his breath.
"Think I'm confessing? You dumb bastard. Just feels good talking about it after all these years. Ain't like you're going to tell anybody. And me, well, I figure a bullet in the brain is better than lung cancer.” He shrugged. “Or maybe not. I'll see how it goes after they find you."
Now Gardner's grin seemed pure evil. “You were asking about the daughter. I knew her all right. Knew her pretty damn good before the end. Funny thing, that was Lisette's idea. Takes all kinds, huh? Woman was crazy, all that demon shit. I can see why she hung herself."
He pointed the .45 at the deputy's chest. “Hell of it was, I never did get my extension cord back."
Afterward, Ennis never could say what it was that made Charles Gardner glance back up the stairs. Or what he saw there that took the smile from his face as completely as if he'd been stabbed. The old man gasped out something and began to cough, three raw barks that stretched into long, wheezing heaves. He doubled over and then sank to his knees, the gun barrel dropping lower with each upheaval.
Ennis took the chance given. He jumped to his right and slapped at the light switch. There was a flash in the darkness as the pistol roared. He scrambled forward blindly, tripped on the landing, and collapsed on top of Gardner. He was still holding the Maglite and began hammering away at the old man's heaving form. The muzzle flashed again and he swung in a panic, sure he'd been hit. It took most of a minute before he realized that Charles Gardner's body had gone limp.
He got up, panting. The flashlight still worked. A pool of blood was blooming under the motionless figure of the old man, who appeared to have shot himself in the abdomen during the struggle. Ennis checked for a pulse. He got out his cell phone and tried to dial 911, missing on the first couple of tries. While it was ringing, he flipped on the overhead light.
There was another bullet hole in the middle of the Sheetrock wall. He walked to it, angled the flashlight so he could peer through. He saw only blackness on the other side.
* * * *
Ennis leaned against the Blazer and watched as the last wall at 221 Linda went down. It was the first day of spring and a brisk breeze snatched away the dust cloud.
A car pulled up behind his. Laurel Hogue got out and came to stand beside him.
"Shouldn't you be in school?"
"I wanted to see this. Mr. Swan said it was okay."
Ennis couldn't blame her. He suspected she had also visited the cemetery, where the remains of another sixteen-year-old girl were finally resting after thirty years unmourned in a walled-off room. Ennis had stopped by himself a couple of times, had noticed the fresh flowers on the grave.
They watched as the Michigan loader churned forward through the mud, scooping up debris from the flattened house. Some of it took flight: bits of insulation and wallpaper, a flash of yellow that Ennis thought might be a remnant of crime-scene tape.
"I was thinking about the Gray Lady,” Laurel said. “I always thought it was the mother. You know, an evil spirit. But now I wonder."
Ennis wondered too. Not that he was going to admit it, or get into a discussion about spirits, evil or otherwise. But he often replayed the night in the basement, sometimes imagining he'd heard a word of recognition in the last gasp of Charles Gardner, just before the coughing fit had felled him.
Had he? He went back and forth on it. But if there was a word, he thought, it might well have been “Sophie."
Copyright (c) 2007 David A. Knadler
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: SKULL AND CROSS-EXAMINATIONS by Toni L. P. Kelner
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Art by Mark Evan Walker
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Toni L. P. Kelner won an Anthony Award and was nominated for a Macavity Award for her 2002 EQMM story “Bible Belt.” This year she won an Agatha Award and was nomina-ted for an Anthony for her AHMM story “Sleeping With the Plush.” But she's not only a distinguished short-story writer; she's the author of more than half a dozen novels and she'll launch a new series about a freelance writer soon in Without Mercy (Five Star Press).
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18 June 1680
Dearest Mother,
I take pen in hand to inform you of the unexpected events that took place during my voyage to Jamaica to begin the career as a lawyer Father so wished me to have. But before I begin in earnest, I must warn you to have your vial of smelling salts nearby, should you be overcome by horror at my tale, particularly the murder. Do bear in mind that I survived said events, and of course was not myself murdered, or I would not now be writing this letter. Moreover, the ending is a happy one and speaks well of my expectations. Even Father may admit that I performed adequately, so you may need the smelling salts to counter the shock, should he speak well of me. I admit to feeling not a little pride at the resolution of my first case before the bar, or rather, before the mast.
Are you now fortified? If so, I shall begin. Despite Father's assertions, I did not find sea travel to be invigorating, bracing, or any of the other healthy adjectives he employed before having me escorted up the gangplank of Fortune's Daughter. Ironically, any and all of those terms accurately describe my previous life studying at Oxford and dabbling in university theatrics, though I do not think Father agrees.
The voyage was, in fact, deadening to the senses. My nose was the first to go. This was a mercy, if truth be told, given the way it was constantly assailed by the odors of unwashed sailors, the tar and other materials of the ship itself, and the livestock brought aboard to provide fresh food. Next, my hearing was attacked by the constant sounds of waves slapping petulantly at the hull, sails flapping in the wind, and the nearly incomprehensible language of the sailors. Though they reputedly speak the King's English, I would be hard-pressed to prove it in court, even if Father himself were sitting on the bench. Finally the sense of sight was dulled, for there was nothing to se
e. Yes, the sunsets were quite colorful when the weather was fine, but one looked much like the next. When the weather was not fine, there was nothing at all to see.
Fortunately, the one sense that remained perfectly intact was my sense of self-preservation. I had need of it several weeks into our journey, when we were attacked by pirates.
Yes, Mother, pirates. I trust you have made use of your smelling salts by now, perhaps augmented with a strong cup of tea, thoroughly laden with sugar. Either of those nostrums would have served me well when I realized we were under attack, but my only comfort was remembering Shylock's words in The Merchant of Venice when he itemizes the hazards of sea travel, specifically mentioning pirates. Had Father given that warning the attention it deserved, I might not have found myself in such dire straits. How unfortunate that Father continues to hold a grudge for Shakespeare's jovial suggestion to kill all the lawyers.
I will not spend much time describing the attack, for the attack did not take up much time. When the pirate ship was first spotted, it was flying friendly colors, so the captain was unconcerned as it drew near. Only as they came into firing range was that flag lowered and a more ominous banner raised.
I should explain that a pirate's flag is far more individualized than I had hitherto suspected. Apparently they view them as a coat of arms of sorts, identifying the captain and the depth of his intentions, and the infamous skull and crossbones is but one design. A red flag means ... Well, let me say that it is a blessing that our attacker did not fly a red flag. The Brazen Mermaid—for that was the name of the attacker—flew a relatively benign black flag emblazoned with a sword thrust into the chest of a skeleton.
By the time the flag was noticed by the sailors aboard the inappropriately named Fortune's Daughter, the fight was essentially lost. There was no time to use the small cannon we carried—in fact, our sailors barely had time to arm themselves before grappling hooks were tossed onto our deck and the pirates started to board, already primed to attack.
Battle is far noisier than I'd imagined: gunshots and the clashing of swords, punctuated by yells, groans, and vile cursing. I cannot speak of the appearance of those events, because I saw none of them. I did consider joining in, but having neither a weapon nor skill in using same, I relied on the better part of valor and stayed in my cabin with my fellow passenger, Squire Turow, who was as frantically busy as the combatants on deck.
I have not yet mentioned Squire Turow, a stout, self-satisfied gentleman returning to his home in Jamaica. As the only two passengers on board, we'd become better acquainted than perhaps we would have under other circumstances. When I learned that he had a daughter of marriageable age, I had high hopes of continuing and, depending on the charms of the daughter, perhaps deepening the friendship once we arrived in Port Royal. Though Turow is a tedious man, it has long been accepted as truth among my fellows that a young lady's attractions are in inverse proportion to those of her father, and judging by this, Miss Turow must be a rare beauty, nearly as lovely as my dear sister Kate.
Those plans were far from both our minds that day, as Squire Turow filled a sack with every one of his belongings that might be considered valuable, from a handful of farthings to his snuff box to a rather tasteless necklace intended as a gift for his daughter. Then he concealed the sack in a location he hoped would escape detection by invaders.
I cannot help but add that had I not already known that Squire Turow was not a university man, his choice of hiding places would have confirmed it. No man leaves the gates of Oxford without learning, at the very least, how to conceal one's private effects from his classmates. Turow settled on a marginal site, and by marginal, I mean that it was marginally better than dyeing the sack bright red and placing it in the middle of the room with a placard labeling it “TREASURE."
As for me, I'd heard tales of the efficiency with which pirates can convince men to reveal the whereabouts of their wealth, and had no wish to experience any demonstrations of that efficiency. So I placed that which I believed worth stealing into my purse, and tucked it into a pocket, easily accessible should it be demanded. Not that there was a great deal to include, of course. Father's decision to limit my funds was unexpectedly fortuitous. Because of the gold trim, I even included the handsome folding case that sister Kate gave me before my departure, much though I disliked the idea of losing it. I did, however, remove the miniatures of you and Kate from its compartments and place them in an inner vest pocket, feeling that a pirate would be uninterested in them. Sadly, I was unable to pry Father's loose.
All too soon, the sounds of battle ended, and a cheer rang out that was patently not from the crew of Fortune's Daughter. Squire Turow's florid face went whiter than the sails. Moments later, the door to the cabin burst open. Two of the most frightening specimens I had ever had the misfortune to encounter rushed in, though at first all I saw were the cutlasses they brandished.
The taller man had a horror of black curls waving from beneath the blood-red kerchief tied round his head. “Lay down your arms!” he bellowed. “The ship is taken and you are prisoners of Captain Parker of the Brazen Mermaid!"
Having no weapons to lay down, I obeyed the spirit if not the wording of his command by raising my own arms, and Turow did the same.
The other man, a wiry fellow with a yellow kerchief, said, “Hand over your blunt, or it'll be the worse for you."
Though I'd never heard the word used in that manner before, it took no scholarship to recognize the meaning, and I retrieved my pouch of valuables and offered it to the man.
Only then did I notice that the saffron-kerchiefed pirate was missing his left hand. In its place was a club fashioned of wood with bands of steel reinforcing it. The bloodstained wood left no doubt as to how he made use of it.
Unsure of the appropriate way to make the transfer, I tossed it to the other pirate instead, who caught it and tucked it into his belt.
"Now you,” the one-handed pirate said to Squire Turow.
"I don't know what you're talking about,” Turow said, less convincingly than the rawest university player.
Certainly his performance did not impress the black-haired pirate, who stepped forward and raised his cutlass. “You think I won't be able to carve it out of you? You'll be begging for me to take it before I'm even winded!"
"Gardner,” the smaller pirate said, “the captain said we was to take prisoners, and kill only if we have to."
"Aye, but he said to find all that was worth finding, too!” the other one snapped. “That's what I aim to do."
Turow assumed a look of obstinate determination, and glared at the pirate, who sheathed his cutlass only long enough to draw a dagger nearly as long.
"For the love of God, Turow,” I expostulated. “Give them your gold!"
"Never!"
"Shall I slice off the nose first?” the pirate speculated with an unpleasant gleam in his eye. “Or maybe an ear?"
Turow said nothing, and the pirate paused, whether to draw out his pleasure or to give Turow another chance, I could not say. Then he stepped closer and said, “If that's what you want, you putrid sack of—"
"It's in the dresser,” I said. “Wedged behind the bottom drawer."
"You craven!” Turow thundered. “You're no better than they are!"
"Your life is worth more than a bag of gold and trinkets."
"My honor is worth still more,” he replied, “but I see that you have none to protect."
While we bickered, the smaller pirate found Turow's bag and tossed it to the other, who looked sorely disappointed as he returned his dagger to its sheath. Then they manhandled us out of the cabin and up onto the deck. The carnage there was horrific, Mother, and in deference to your delicacy, I'll refrain from giving details. I will say that having witnessed the aftereffects of the loss of a hand, the scenes in our university production of Titus Andronicus dealing with the amputation of Lavinia's hands were far too circumspect. Then again, perhaps accuracy is not advisable, unless one has the theater's s
melling-salts concession.
Turow and I were pushed and prodded toward a huddle of sailors and officers from Fortune's Daughter who were being watched over by a trio of armed pirates. Sadly, the captain was not among them. In fact, fully half the crew had gone to their reward.
Once they had rounded up all the survivors, a pirate announced that we were being taken on board the Brazen Mermaid. Several gangplanks had been put in place between the two vessels, and we made our precarious way across. Once aboard, we were herded toward the bow of the ship and told to remain there, with a new set of guards on duty.
Meanwhile, back on Fortune's Daughter, the pirates were taking everything not nailed down, as well as some items that had previously been quite securely attached. Though there was some gold on board, most of the hold had been filled with foodstuffs and woolens, and it may surprise you, Mother, to find that the pirates were delighted with this commonplace cargo. Even pirates must eat and protect themselves from the elements, not to mention the possibility of trading the ill-gotten goods.
Finally the plunderers had taken everything of value save the boards that made up the ship itself. The gangplanks and ropes connecting the vessels were removed, and we set sail.
The men from Fortune's Daughter were much moved by the sight of their ravished vessel, and kept their eyes upon it until it faded from view. Even I was affected, though I had not particularly enjoyed my time aboard. Perhaps it was because I thought it likely I would find my stay on the Brazen Mermaid even less congenial.
After no little time, during which we had naught to do but share fears about our probable fate, a tall man with the air of command approached us. Evidently he'd had time to change his garments since the battle, for he was wearing a brocade surcoat, satin breeches, and a handsome tricorne hat topped with an egret feather. Unless he'd been born a gentleman, he was of course breaking every sumptuary law ever written, but he did so with élan.
EQMM, February 2008 Page 5