by Doug Allyn
Outside, the pulsing thunder of the two-liter engine was more bearable, but still not far below the threshold of real pain. Achermann gestured him into the passenger seat. He hesitated. Was this to be another exercise in intimidation? Probably. He came to a decision.
“Go ahead,” he shouted above the throbbing engine. “I’ll watch.” Perhaps while Achermann was roaring around the track he could persuade the chauffeur to get him out of this predicament. Doubtful, to say the least, but anything was worth a try. There was sudden silence as Achermann killed the engine. Hamilton, surprised in the midst of his thoughts, experienced a guilty twinge as he met Achermann’s eyes.
“You do not want a test ride?” Achermann demanded. His disappointment was obvious. And dangerous. “Or,” he sneered, “did you want to drive a few laps yourself?” It was clear he deemed Hamilton incompetent to operate such a vehicle. And very likely he was correct. But...
“In fact, yes,” Hamilton said, jumping at the only chance he could see to escape. “I’d prefer to drive it myself.” There. He’d managed to say it before he could change his mind. What the hell? His survival was at stake, as Achermann had rather heavy-handedly pointed out. Besides, he reminded himself, Achermann believed the briefcase held $250,000. That was his hole card.
Achermann extricated himself from the car with considerable difficulty. The doorsill was only inches from the ground, and his stiff leg was a hindrance, as Hamilton noted with some satisfaction. Finally he was on his feet, scowling and muttering unintelligibly. Hamilton slid into the seat, placing the briefcase on the seat next to him. He found the ignition switch, and, just remembering to depress the clutch pedal, fired the engine. As he buckled into the seat harness, Achermann reached past him and grabbed the briefcase. “I’ll just take care of this for you,” he shouted over the din of 180 horsepower. He waved Hamilton toward the track, his face a portrait of sardonic triumph.
Hamilton slipped the clutch and tried gently to boost the RPM’s enough to overcome inertia without stalling, but the accelerator pedal was amazingly touchy and he redlined the tachometer. The tires howled as they broke traction, and the car fishtailed sickeningly down the ramp toward the track. He had one lap in which to learn the intricacies of this high-powered monster. After one circuit, he’d whip off the track and head for the gate. He bitterly regretted the loss of his briefcase; it would surely cost him his job. But this was his only chance. He’d need incredible luck just to get away with his life.
He shifted gears, grinding and shuddering as he swept into the first turn, and fought to concentrate on the controls. How many times had he dreamed of being behind the wheel of a race car? Well, dammit, here he was. And it was only a car after all...
He overcorrected as he came into the straightaway and jagged back and forth across the entire width of the track before he regained control. God, this thing was touchy! He stabbed his left foot at the clutch to shift higher and hit the brake pedal instead just as he was entering the second turn. The car slammed into a four-wheel drift, and in desperation, Hamilton released the steering wheel, lifting his foot from the accelerator and noticing the speedometer for the first time. A giant fist clamped his heart as he saw that he was doing 130. As the car miraculously recovered, he realized that the indicated speed was in kilometers, which converted to a mere eighty miles per hour. He fought his way through the remainder of the curve, accelerating again on the straightaway, and there ahead was the ramp leading back to the estate road. He gripped the wheel and centered the ramp between the sleek curves of the wheel wells. This would have to be it.
Hamilton roared down the straightaway and up the sloping ramp to the apron. Achermann, the dogs, and the limousine blurred past on his right as he accelerated onto the estate road and headed back the way they’d come. He had no time for a look in the rearview mirror, all his attention being required to keep this fretful little overpowered skateboard on the road. As he wheeled through the numerous turnings of the road, he began to feel a little glow of pride suffusing the stark fear which had been gripping his guts for what seemed an eternity. But he dared not spare the attention to enjoy it. The driveway to the manor house flashed past on his left, and the next moment he was belting along beside the lake, the speedo reading 190. He remembered there was a tunnel up ahead some where and judiciously throttled back, finally able to spare a glance at the rearview mirror. No pursuit was in sight, thank God. His mind leaped ahead. How was he going to get past the gate? Well, he thought, grinning slightly, he’d bum that bridge when he came to it.
Ahead yawned the tunnel, the rock walls flanking its mouth looking remarkably hard and unforgiving. He downshifted and took a deep breath. The next instant he was in total darkness, the thunderous growl of the engine blatting off the surrounding stone walls and hammering his eardrums. The steering wheel felt like a slender bar of soap in his sweaty hands. He heard himself moan softly, and then there was light ahead. Another second, and he flashed into sunshine, fighting to hold the car steady through a long, sweeping right-hand curve. The gate was not far off now.
He began to slow the car, seeming to have outrun his panic for the time being. Shifting down through the gears, he pondered the problem of the gate. He assumed it was operated in the same way as the garage doors. Perhaps there was a transmitter in this car. Not likely, but he began looking anyway. The roadway flared, and the gate was before him, looking very substantial in the gray stone wall. He took a second look. By God! It was swinging open! His mind reeled. Could there be an electric eye along the approach? Well, it didn’t matter, he was free now! Through the gate and onto the road he sped, directly into the massive stainless-steel radiator of the Rolls-Royce which was just turning to enter the gate.
There was a thundering crash as the two vehicles ground together, broken glass scattering like diamonds across the roadway. The nose of the fiberglass-bodied 904 buckled for a millisecond, then shattered blindingly, the suspension members and steering gear contorting and snapping under stress they’d never been intended to take. The box-beam longitudinal frame members dove under the front axle of the Rolls, sparks showering in every direction. In less than a second both vehicles were at rest, the tortured remains of the Porsche beneath the front axle of the big Rolls. A jet of blistering steam from the ruptured radiator of the larger car seared Hamilton’s neck, and he struggled desperately to free himself from the wreckage. He heard voices.
“What in the hell is my 904 doing out here?” an obviously enraged woman was demanding.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Sabeth,” a man’s voice replied. “Did you recognize the driver?”
“It’s no one I’ve ever seen. Get him out of there. If he’s still alive, I want some answers!”
Hamilton was still alive all right, and beginning to wish he wasn’t.
A man’s face came into view as the hood of the Rolls was raised. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” was all he could say. It happened to be the truth.
“D’you mind telling us what you’re doing in this car? On this property?”
“Trying to get away from that madman,” he groaned. “Please, get me out of here.”
“Of course,” the man assured him. “What’s this about a madman?”
“Achermann! The owner.”
The stranger’s face showed amazement. “Achermann? Owner? What in hell do you mean? My wife owns this car!”
The woman’s voice rose above this last.
“David, what does he mean? Is he deranged?”
Hamilton was beginning to think this might well be the case. Nothing was making any sense. He hated himself for asking, but he had to know. “Who is Achermann, then?”
“Achermann! Why, he’s our kennel keeper. What of it?”
Hamilton began to giggle. At first softly, then louder, and louder, until he was laughing uncontrollably, tears tracking down his cheeks and mixing with blood. And after a time, his thoughts turned to Joyce.
The Final Paragraph
by Henry Slesar
“You know what I think it is?” Jerry said to the burly detective. “Two hundred thousand cries for help. That’s what Flench was trying to send.”
The detective turned away from the computer screen, one of a half-dozen work stations lined up like tombstones in the brightly lit office. The analogy was apt, since the body of Ralph Flench had just been removed from the room.
“These things are hooked up to two hundred thousand others?”
“It’s called the internet,” Jerry said. He was in his element. Jerry was only a rookie, but his reputation as a computer hacker had put him in tandem with the top homicide cop on the force.
Joe Bliss knew he was a computer illiterate, but at his age he didn’t feel obliged to learn new tricks. He was only half listening when Jerry told him about the internet, describing all the on-line services and all the bulletin board members gleefully tapping messages to each other across something Jerry called cyberspace. All Bliss wanted to know was: which one of Flench’s subordinates slipped rat poison into his office-party cocktail?
Apparently, Flench had been a frustrated military man. The six people in his command became his personal regiment. He marched between their desks like an Inspector General, looking for the slightest breach of discipline. In the past year, he had discharged two employees, one for playing a game of Crystal Quest, the other for exchanging e-mail banter with a young woman.
Bliss couldn’t decide which of the six hated Flench the most. Bill Milton and Ann Green didn’t conceal their feelings. Frank Ryan’s eyes blazed with hatred. Jack Marvin had smiled throughout the interrogation, Jane Denning made unlady-like remarks about the dead man. Bill Leeds suggested another party, to celebrate.
There weren’t many signs of the fatal Christmas party: an artificial tree, a wreath, a few plastic cups, one of which was Exhibit A in the police laboratory. It had yielded no fingerprints; only traces of the poison that had ended Ralph Flench’s life.
“Somebody handed it to him,” Bliss said. “He must have known his killer. But he didn’t know it was his murderer until the party was over and he was alone...”
“Then the pains started,” Jerry said. “He must have been too weak to call anybody, so he did the next best thing — sent a message out to the internet!”
Bliss grunted. “That’s why I brought you in, kid, so you could figure out what he was trying to send. What is it, anyway? Some kind of computer code?”
Jerry looked at the screen and read the symbols again.
“Y3O0 JQ4F8H 5468HT 59 I800 J3.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “There isn’t any special code. There are coded instructions, but this is just garbage. ‘Garbage in, garbage out.’ That’s what we always say... Ever think of taking lessons, Detective?”
He grinned smugly and Bliss, annoyed, started out of the room. But in the doorway, he stopped suddenly and clumped back to the computer desk. He sat down and said:
“I think I’ll give you a lesson, wise guy. In how to catch a killer.
The Hit
by Michael Z. Lewin
© 1994 by Michael Z. Lewin
A new short story by Michael Z. Lewin
When it comes to lively dialogue, Michael Z. Lewin is one of the best in the crime field. Not surprising when you learn that he has devoted a good part of his career to writing radio plays for the BBC. The following story could almost be a radio play, consisting as it does almost entirely of an exchange between two young people on a train...
❖
The man walked slowly along the aisle and then stopped. “Excuse me,” he said.
The woman looked up from her book. “Yes?”
“Is this seat taken?” He pointed to one of two empty across the table she was resting her elbows on.
“No,” she said, without betraying her annoyance. The carriage was by no means full. Elsewhere there were empty pairs of seats, even another table. Oh well, it happens. She could always move to another seat herself. Unfair. A pain. A fact of life.
The woman picked her book up.
Inevitably the man spoke again. “Are you enjoying it?” The woman said nothing. The man, however, persisted. “The book. Is it good?”
“Fine,” the woman said without raising her eyes.
The man said, “It’s just that I have been waiting my whole career for this moment.”
Still not raising her eyes, and despite her expectations, the woman felt a flicker of curiosity as she digested what he had said. She said, “Oh yes?” in a way that could equally be the prelude for a go-away-and-leave-me-alone outburst.
“My whole career,” the man repeated easily. “It’s been sort of a dream. A career target. And now it’s happened.”
The woman put her book down. “What are you talking about?” she said.
“I wrote what you are reading,” the man said.
“You...” She looked at the cover of the book.
With a modest laugh, the man said, “I am Clive Kessler. I’ve always hoped that one day I would see someone reading one of my books on the train and now it’s happened. I suppose it’s a rite-of-passage event for a writer. A coming of age.” He grinned good-naturedly.
The woman smiled. “You’re Clive Kessler?” she asked, and once the question was out, she felt stupid to have asked it.
Kessler reached across the table, asking to shake hands. In a mock-American voice he said, “And you are my one millionth customer, so you win the grand prize.”
The woman shook hands. “What prize?”
“A cuppa coffee and a Briddish Rail donut. D’ya take sugar?”
“Yes,” the woman said.
“I’ll be right back,” the man said.
By the time Kessler returned with two coffees and two jam donuts the woman had read what little there was about the author on the cover of her paperback thriller.
“I didn’t know how much sugar to bring,” he said. “If one of these mingy little packets isn’t enough you can always scrape some off a donut. Here, use mine.” He began to scrape sugar onto a serviette. “No no,” she laughed. “This is plenty.”
“If you’re sure,” he said. “As my one millionth customer, I want to see you’re treated right.”
“I must say,” she said, “you’re younger than I would have expected, for having written eight novels.”
“And you’re younger than I expected my millionth reader to be,” Kessler said quickly. “No, in fact I am older than I look.”
“Are you?”
“Thirty-four. Do I look thirty-four?”
She shook her head. Although his hair was beginning to recede, she would have guessed late twenties. Not an unpleasant-looking man, and when he joked his face lit up.
“And you’re what? About forty-five?”
“Thank you very much.”
“Fifty? Fifty-five? It’s just that my publisher tells me I particularly appeal to the older reader.”
“Really?” she asked.
“So I was told.”
“I’m surprised.”
“I will fax my publisher immediately and have my image corrected,” he said. “Conductor? Conductor? I want to send a fax. Where is the conductor? They’re never around when you need one. So, how old are you? It’s not that I would ask on my own account, but if I am to prove my point with the publisher...”
“Twenty,” she said.
“Twenty,” he repeated. “And lovely with it. And did your parents give you a name, or do they just call you what mine used to call me. ‘Oy, you. Come here. Clean this mess. No, I don’t believe your brother did it.’ I was fifteen before I realised that my name wasn’t ‘Oy, you.’ ”
“Really?” she asked.
“All those years thinking I was Japanese. Sounds Japanese, doesn’t it? ‘Oy, you.’ People teasing me because I lost the war. I never understood.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” she said.
“Let’s ju
st say that I lead a rich fantasy life. But of course I have to, don’t I?”
“Where do your ideas come from, then?”
“From the very air we breathe. They’re all around us.”
“No, really.”
“Really? Well, as you’re a prize-winning reader, I’ll tell you. They come from paying attention to what I see and what I read and what happens to me. And then I try to think of different ways it might have happened.”
“Different ways?”
“If I do it the same way everybody else does it, then there’s no point, is there? If I write the three little pigs, who cares? But if I write a story called the three little wolves, then I’m on my way. See?”
“I think so,” she said.
“So,” Kessler said. “Do you have a name?”
“Catherine. But people call me Cat.”
“So, Cat, are you married? Do you have children?”
“Give us a chance!” she said.
“I keep forgetting. You’re not one of my typical readers. You’re my one millionth reader.”
“Am I? Really?”
“I hereby pronounce you Clive Kessler’s official one millionth reader. If you accept this official position, you must shake my hand again.”
They shook hands again but this time the man did not release the woman immediately. “You have nice hands,” he said quietly. “But I expect everybody tells you that.” He released her.
She said, “No, they don’t.”
“Well, they should. Because you do. And that’s official, too. But to make your hands official we must shake books on it.” He picked up her book. Instinctively she grabbed it, too. He shook the book up and down. “There,” he said, “we’ve shaken books on it, so it’s settled.”