But there was no life in Hagerty's limbs. He had barely the strength to sit upright. One side of his face was knotted and frozen, the skin tight enough to burst, the other side lazy and drooping. His mouth was crooked, slack with drool. Placido Geist knew him for the victim of stroke. Hagerty's eyes were still alive, though, filled with fury and resentment, the look of a man insulted, an insult he was helpless to revenge. His very flesh had failed him, and his anger at this final indignity burned hot enough to make his waxy skin glow from within.
He stared at Placido Geist. “This man should hang,” he said. His voice was papery. The bounty hunter was surprised he still had the power of speech. “Hang,” he rasped.
Peter Hagerty looked up at Duquesne, still on horseback. “We've got rope,” he said. “And enough men to see justice done. Are you thinking to stop it?"
"Let's talk about hanging,” the sheriff said. “Your baby brother persuaded a couple of your cowhands to lynch a kid who'd crossed him over a whore."
"You heard that from the whore,” Peter said.
"I heard that from the whore,” Placido Geist corrected him. “You know it to be true. So does every man standing here."
"Every man standing here works for my father,” Peter said.
"You know damn well I'll take the gun over the rope,” the bounty hunter said. “And this bunch can kill me, of that I have no doubt, if it comes to that, but I'll drop a good five of them first, and you'll be the first one to fall."
"Hang him,” the old man growled. Spit was running down his chin. He vibrated with palsy.
"You're never going to be the man your father was, Peter,” Placido Geist said. “Maybe you can be a better one. He requires an injury to be redeemed, but this isn't your grief. I shot your brother dead. He was a boy who needed killing."
"You can't ask this of me,” Peter Hagerty said.
"I can ask,” the bounty hunter said. “You live with your choices. You can keep faith with a dead man, or a dying one, or you can choose to accept different results."
"He was my brother, damn you."
"He was a ne'er-do-well. You have it in you to be the man your father expects. You have it in you to be the man you might expect of yourself. You're assuming too great a burden."
"You're talking to stay alive."
"I'm talking to keep you alive, boy,” Placido Geist told him. “I'd regret having to kill you, but regret won't get in my way if you force my hand."
"Hang him,” old man Hagerty whispered furiously. The violence of his inner thoughts seemed the only thing sustaining him, his life suspended on a thread, like the thread of saliva suspended from the corner of his mouth, silvery as a cobweb and nearly as insubstantial.
"What's it going to be?” Placido Geist asked Peter Hagerty.
"Your father's anger will haunt you, either way you choose."
"Aw, piss on it,” Peter muttered, defeated.
In the charged silence, the sound of the lever gun being cocked was as crisp as a coin dropping on a marble bar. None of the men turned, careful not to break their brittle truce.
"These people sheltered me,” the kid holding the Winchester ‘94 said. “I owe them for that kindness."
Duquesne glanced over his shoulder, not shifting his weight or altering his posture. “And who might you be?” he asked.
"He'd be Kick Emory,” Placido Geist said.
"That would be me,” Emory acknowledged.
"This is the man a certain Colonel Benét holds responsible for the death of his son Nathan,” the bounty hunter explained to Duquesne. “The colonel put money on his head."
"Not that you'll ever collect,” Emory said.
"Never meant to,” Placido Geist said. “I found the colonel distasteful. I turned his money down."
"Wasn't it enough?"
"I've no interest in you,” Placido Geist said. “Far as I'm concerned, you're no longer worth saving."
"You've got too much mouth,” Emory said, moving a little to the right for a clean shot at the bounty hunter.
Duquesne stood in the stirrups and made a quick half turn with his upper body, bringing the twelve-gauge to bear, and blew Kick Emory's belly through his backbone.
* * * *
"Will they lift the reward?"
"That's up to Peter Hagerty.” Placido Geist shrugged, tightening the saddle cinches. “I don't see him following in his father's footsteps. You thought he wouldn't bargain, but we came to an accommodation."
"He might not forgive you for shaming him,” Duquesne said.
"Forgiveness is for God,” Placido Geist said. “The rest of us muddle along the best we can."
Duquesne smiled. “What's the story with Emory, the kid who had it in mind to shoot you?"
"His pelt's worth fifty thousand dollars, you take it in to Austin and deliver the goods to Randolph Benét."
Duquesne was shocked at the amount.
"I chose not to be the instrument of the colonel's revenge, but I've no objection to your collecting on the debt."
"Blood money."
"And paid for in kind,” Placido Geist said. He mounted the claybank mare. “I'm obliged to you for it."
He rode out.
Duquesne watched him go. Of course the colonel's money was tainted. The only thing left untainted was self-respect.
There were always fated moments, though, he reflected. Perhaps his had come the first time the bounty hunter rode into town, bringing trouble the way a storm front presages rain. The sheriff didn't fault Placido Geist.
It's said that character is destiny. And how not? Duquesne asked himself. A man's character was all he had to show. You played the cards you were dealt. Some men lived up to their own expectations and some didn't. Some men lived lives without expectation and had no credit to redeem when they were called to the final account. What did it matter? You tried to become the man you imagined yourself to be, knowing that every man dies disappointed in himself.
But the dead have no memory. Only the living remember. At the end of the day, they alone survive to bear witness.
"So, a happy outcome,” the judge said.
"I'm not convinced there are happy outcomes,” Placido Geist said.
"Didn't we have this conversation once before?” Lamar asked him. “The perfect proving to be the enemy of the good?"
"Not precisely my point,” the bounty hunter said. “I meant the scales aren't balanced."
"You don't have a murder warrant hanging over your head, or a bounty on your remains."
"I find it less than complete."
"We've had this same conversation too,” Lamar said. “When is a thing finished? It's done when you decide it's done."
"I'd imagine it to be done,” Placido Geist said.
"What's your argument with it, then?” the judge asked him.
"Lack of absolution."
"Whose? Kick Emory dead, albeit unfortunately. Thus, the colonel mollified.” Lamar held up his hand. “The reverse of your intention, I understand. Still. This ill-found business with the Hagertys resolved, or at least held in abeyance. Where are you looking for indulgence? I'm not the pope in Rome."
"I have myself to answer to."
"Answer to yourself, then,” Lamar said to him, “but do it on your own time.” He lifted the decanter of Tennessee whiskey onto the table and set down two glasses. “I refuse to listen to a man sober, if he's going to wax lugubrious."
"Lugubrious?” Placido Geist took umbrage. “I'm asking you to parse a moral issue,” he said.
"Horse snot. You're turning sentimental."
The last thing he ever thought he'd be accused of. “You're turning downright Biblical in your dotage,” he said.
"I sat the bench thirty damn years, and I was Moses."
"Moses, my teeth."
They glared at each other, and then the judge suddenly burst out laughing. “Here we are, bickering like an old married couple,” he said. “Is that dignified?"
"No, but comforting,” the bounty
hunter said.
Lamar put out the chess pieces. “When is justice honestly served?” he asked, rhetorically. “The younger of Hagerty's sons died at your hand because you knew he'd escape the noose."
"That was bad luck all around."
"It was necessary,” the judge insisted.
"I'm not offering an apology."
"But you doubt yourself."
"I doubt the wisdom that's passed down, like the laws of the Hebrews,” Placido Geist said. “We're drawn to absolutes and condemned to folly."
"Each of us makes choices. It's only given to fools to make the easy ones, because they choose the simpler course."
"The lesser of two evils."
"Evil isn't a matter of degree,” the judge said.
"Derek Hagerty wasn't evil and neither was Kick Emory,” the bounty hunter answered. “Foolish or willful or just plain damn dumb stupid, but wickedness found them by accident."
"And so did you,” Lamar said. “Was that accident or their own doom? The turning of the wheel, appointed and implacable."
"Pour the whiskey,” Placido Geist said. “This conversation is making me dry."
Lamar tipped the shot glasses full. “No man goes dry in my house,” he said.
Copyright © 2006 David Edgerley Gates
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose
Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.
U ETZ'G FGTZK GA GSUZW THAJG SUY NTUGUZR UZ GSI DAAY TZK WZANUZR SI'F RAUZR GA RIG UG. UG'F GAA KTYZIK TNLJX.
—IDZIFG SIYUZRNTP
CIPHER ANSWER: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
[Back to Table of Contents]
SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
I can't stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he's going to get it. It's too damed awful.
—Ernest Hemingway
From “The Killers” (1927) by Ernest Hemingway
thekilrs uvwxyzabcdfgjmnopq
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
[Back to Table of Contents]
NO PICNIC by MITCH ALDERMAN
* * * *
Sean Qualls
* * * *
A true, frog-drowning, Central Florida thunderstorm was beating at the windows at Bubba Simms Investigations. Lightning strobed the walls while the continuous rain formed waves on the glass. Bubba sat with his feet on the desk, hands behind his head, enjoying the spectacle. The pleasure felt richer because he wasn't standing outside directing traffic around a wreck, as he had done so often for twenty years. Thunderstorms were better to watch like this than through the windshield wipers of a Polk County Sheriff's Department patrol car.
A smash of thunder sounded a split second after the flash, and the lights flickered. Bubba had done his cardio on the treadmill for forty-five minutes at Big Al's Iron Works to start the day. He'd posted a bill to Arnie at State Wide Insurance. He'd feasted on a fine lunch at the Holiday Inn buffet. And now there was free entertainment. If only he were sleepy, he could take a nap in his recliner over in the corner of the office. He was glad Elvis was inside; a muddy blue-tick hound made for memorable greetings.
Then he heard the alley door bang, the metal booming shut from the wind. Loud steps climbed the staircase and proceeded down the hallway through the stacks of abandoned furniture that the landlord kept stored on the second floor. Someone was coming to Simms Investigations. And in this storm, they must be serious.
Bubba decided to make coffee. Whoever it was would be wet, and the AC was set low in his office. He was running water into the pot when the door opened. A man, wearing a black rain slicker, ducked as he entered, then took his Stetson off and shook his body. Water flew.
"Damn, Charles, you could have done that down the hall,” Bubba said as he started the Mr. Coffee. Charles Baird had not had many refinements when Bubba had first met him, and the intervening years had not changed him much.
"I'm too pissed to be polite today. My apologies if I ruint your decor,” Baird said. He hung the slicker on the hook at the top of the door. He dropped his hat on the sofa and stretched. His hands touched the ceiling. He might have been even taller than Bubba's six five, but he didn't weigh anywhere near three hundred pounds. His face was creased, cross checked from sun and laughter, and he had a slight scar on the left side of his nose where a skin cancer had been removed.
"You got anything to drink?” he asked.
"Coffee will be ready in a minute."
"I mean a drink. This is a private eye's office, isn't it? There should be a bottle of cheap whiskey in that desk."
"I got protein tablets, diet soda, ibuprofen, and some Midol that Kathi left."
"I'll take the coffee. Black. How you been?"
"Fine. How's the cattle business?"
"Eat up with high feed prices, high trucking costs, high vet bills, and low value per pound. The usual. That coffee ready?"
"Sit down and relax. Watch the rain. That's good for the grass, isn't it?"
"One good damn thing all day."
Charles Baird owned more than a few square miles of pasture out past Lake Wales on the southern edge of Polk County. He also owned some groves near Frostproof, a Peterbilt truck dealership in Haines City, and a pool hall in Bartow, supposedly the result of a bet on the Buccaneers. But he had grown up a cowboy on his daddy's ranch, and it had stuck.
Charles sat and crossed his red, white, and blue boots at the ankle. He interlaced his fingers behind his head.
"The world is gone to crap,” he said.
"How so today?"
"There's a sumbitch that needs killing, and I don't think I can get away with doing it. My daddy would have just shot him. And worse, he's a damn Yankee. A New Englander, I think. Says car like a crow would.” Charles rolled his head, and Bubba heard his neck pop. “So Bubba, I guess I'm gonna have to get you to do it for me."
Bubba poured the coffee and handed Charles his cup. Then he sat behind his desk and propped his boots on the corner. “I don't ordinarily hire out to shoot people. I'd have to have a really good reason, and even then, I'd charge extra."
"We've all become too civilized. Friends won't even protect a man's horse from a thief."
"Someone stole your horse?"
"Stole him and plans on eating him."
"Sounds like a sumbitch all right, but I'd still have to charge extra to shoot him.” They sipped their coffee. Then Charles grinned. “It's been a hell of a day."
"Tell me about the sumbitch."
"I was trying to find this bay mare that had gone missing. I had a day with nothing else to do but soothe my restlessness, so I saddled up and rode down to the south end of the land, where those big oak hammocks butt into Seven-Mile Thicket running clear to the bombing range land. The only near-enough-to-heaven left in this godforsaken, overpopulated county; untouched land that's still the best deer hunting left in Florida. I don't care what those rednecks in the Panhandle say. Anyway, I find an Airstream parked there next to the hammock, electricity attached and an outhouse built. It's been since the end of last deer season that I was last down there, but this was like toadstools popping up. There's a garden and a pump house. In the shade, tied to a limb, is Martin's Daisy, the bay mare, so I ride up next to her.” He sat the empty cup on the floor. “Then a guy in camos and a beard steps from behind a tree. Tells me to get off his land. I tell him that's my horse. He says the horse ate his garden, and he's gonna eat the horse. You quit laughing, Bubba Simms."
"You have a squatter on your land who eats horses?” Bubba tried to maintain his composure but failed. “Why didn't you just take the horse and leave?"
"He had a gun. One of those Browning falling blocks. Looked like a .45-70."
"He would have shot you?"
"He sure gave me the creeps. You know what it's like when you're as big as we are. Most people av
oid confronting us. The ones that do are usually in the right, crazy, or just plain mean. In any case, I didn't get off my horse."
"Have the sheriff evict him."
"He says he owns the land. Inherited it."
"Does he?"
"That's what I want you to find out. That land's been our hunting refuge my entire life; I need to know who he is, is the land his, what he plans on doing with the horse. I'll pay him something nominal for the mare if it is his land, but he ain't gonna eat her. That's for damn sure."
"Don't you have a regular lawyer for land stuff?"
"Yes, but he'd blab all over about what happened. He's discreet with the legal stuff, but funny he tells everywhere. I don't feel like hearing giggles when I'm at the bank. You understand the limits of being big. Besides, you're cheaper than the dadgum lawyer."
"Use my judgment about shooting him?"
"Depends on what you plan on charging me."
"The usual rates, plus an invite to the next barbecue you have."
"Go ahead and shoot him then."
Bubba wrote down the property details and Charles's phone numbers. Charles signed the contract form and gave him two days’ fee in crisp hundreds. The rain had dwindled by the time they finished. Charles put on his slicker and hat, then shook Bubba's hand. His boots pounded all the way along the hall, through the storage area, down the stairs, and out into the alley. Bubba decided he had time to drive to Bartow before the county tax office closed.
When Bubba reached the tax appraiser's office, he found Miss Hazel behind the counter in her pale blue twinset and pearls, looking very much the twinkling matron. Miss Hazel had looked the same, except in pink, when Bubba had first entered the tax appraiser's office as a rookie patrolman trying to find a road that his boss had insisted existed, but he couldn't find. Miss Hazel had known exactly where it was, when it was created, who lived on it, and why.
"Miss Hazel, you look as sparkling as a spring morning,” Bubba said, leaning on the counter.
"And you look like you have grown even more than I ever imagined you could. Which road can I find for you today?"
"Charles Baird wants me to look at some land on the south side of his Lake Wales pasture, down near the bombing range land. New road, land that was inherited, is what he heard."
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