Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

by Doug Allyn

  Irina’s own two eyes betrayed nothing but a hunger for something she was unable to define until presently, with a heavy sigh, she spoke her husband’s name. “I’m so frightened.”

  “Don’t be. It’s over now. You must try to put it out of your mind.”

  “How can I? I feel as if I’ll never enjoy another moment’s peace of mind.”

  She felt sure that by now Guy Subjack must know his attempt to kill her had failed, but how could one predict what a person deranged by love or by hate might do? He must know there was no way the police could prove he’d attacked her even if she gave them his name, so it wasn’t likely he’d panic and run away. Irina could not shake off the fear that he might try again. She remembered how his voice had rung with conviction when he’d said the only way they’d be finished was if one of them ended up in the cemetery.

  “You know I’m here to protect you,” Darwin said.

  “Now, yes, but what about tomorrow and the day after? When I’m here alone.”

  He smiled and reached for her hand. “My dear, you’re not going to be alone. I’m taking a couple of weeks off from the clinic. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone right now.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t have blamed you, you know, if you’d simply left me there to die.”

  “Irina!”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “How could you even think such a terrible thought?”

  “Because I’ve been a rotten wife. Maybe it took a brush with death to make me realize how lucky I’ve been. And how unfairly I’ve treated you.”

  This outburst of remorse was entirely sincere. The experience had shaken her to the depths. That boredom and restlessness had driven her into a series of casual brief affairs she could understand, but that she could have been so blind to the possibly dangerous consequences of her folly made her wonder if she herself could be emotionally unstable to the point of madness.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “You’ve been a perfect wife.”

  There was no trace of satire in the remark, which made her feel even more guilty. “By taking you for granted? By deceiving you?”

  “If that’s true, I’ve only myself to blame.”

  “You’re much too forbearing, you know that. To think if it weren’t for you...”

  He rebuked her with a smile. “I don’t want your gratitude, foolish girl.”

  “I will try to be a better wife, I promise.”

  “Have I often complained?”

  “No. Maybe that’s been part of the problem.”

  “Then we shall both turn over new leaves.” He looked again at the dragonfly, so beautiful and voracious. “Believe it or not, there is a bright side to all this if it teaches us to value what we have.”

  Two days later the phone rang when Darwin was at work in his study.

  “Irina? Are you alone?”

  Guy’s voice, which had once so excited her, produced only a thrill of horror. “You must be insane!” she cried. “If it weren’t for my husband I would have told the police about you. And I will, I swear I will if you ever call me or try to come near me again.”

  Not waiting for his reply she quickly hung up the phone and hugged her trembling body.

  A week later Daversa paid them a visit. Darwin greeted him at the door. Irina was working in the garden.

  “I’ve put off contacting you, hoping I’d have something. Unfortunately, we’ve simply nothing at all to go on.”

  “Irina will be disappointed.”

  “How is she?”

  Darwin pulled a long face. “I’m worried about her. I can’t leave her alone, not even for an hour. She’s in a constant state of nerves. The slightest noise alarms her. She jumps whenever the phone rings, and she can’t sleep.”

  “It’ll take time.” Daversa hesitated. “Dr. Russell, as long as we’re alone I feel obliged to ask a rather indelicate question. Has your wife given you any cause at all to suspect she might have held something back?”

  Darwin looked at him with astonishment. “Good lord, what are you implying?”

  “Sir, it clearly appears from all the evidence that someone came here with the deliberate intention of killing your wife. Someone, I’m assuming for argument’s sake, who knew she would be alone. So the question remains: Why did he want to kill her? I must ask you this: Could there be someone in your wife’s past who might bear a grudge against her? A murderous grudge?”

  “Impossible. We’ve been married fifteen years.”

  “She’s considerably younger than you, sir, and a beautiful woman.”

  “A disgruntled lover, is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “I take it you find the notion unlikely?”

  “I find it preposterous.”

  The detective looked at him as if he thought the doctor’s denial might be a bit too fervent for belief.

  “I’m sorry, but you do realize we’re fishing in the dark.”

  “A maniac, Lieutenant. It’s the only possible explanation.”

  Daversa had no sooner left the house than Irina appeared in the doorway.

  “Thank you, Darwin.”

  “You heard?”

  “Why didn’t you tell him about Alex?”

  “My dear, that was two years ago. We agreed never to mention it again.”

  “I’m sorry, but I am grateful for your not telling Daversa about him. As if Alex could ever have done anything like that. The idea’s ludicrous.”

  Darwin took her in his arms. “This can’t go on, you know. Eventually I’m going to have to return to the clinic. You simply must try to put all this behind you.”

  “No! You can’t leave me alone. Not yet.”

  “Irina, we must resume a normal life.”

  She tried to find the courage to tell him the truth, but could not; better to risk her life by remaining silent than the death of her marriage, the marriage that now meant everything to her, by speaking out. “You’re right, I know, darling. Please, just be patient with me.”

  “My dear, haven’t I always been?”

  The days passed with no visible sign of improvement in Irina’s mental state; a full-fledged anxiety neurosis threatened, with the usual physical manifestations: depression, chronic sleeplessness, and weight loss. Her eyes were shadowed and wore a constantly haunted look. At her insistence, she and Darwin were again occupying the same bedroom; even with the windows locked she could not bear sleeping alone. Their social life was nonexistent.

  Darwin tried to reason with her. “You must begin seeing people. You can’t live like this.”

  “I don’t want people,” she retorted bitterly. “I’ve had too many people. You’re the only one I need. The only one I can trust and feel safe with. Promise you won’t ever leave me.”

  “As if I ever would.”

  “God knows I gave you every reason to.”

  “Past history, my dear. I love you. I always have. Did you suppose I’d let Alex ruin our lives?”

  “Before Alex there were others. You know that.”

  “But after Alex you gave me your word you would never be unfaithful again. That was enough for me.”

  Finally the day arrived when Darwin knew he must take a firm hand.

  “I want you to depend on me, Irina, but your dependence is becoming almost pathological. You simply must pull yourself together.”

  She pleaded, implored, and finally raged, but he was resolved. He must return to work. When neither tears nor words would sway him, Irina insisted she could not stay in the house alone without protection.

  “My dear, you’re not suggesting I hire a bodyguard, surely.”

  “A gun. You must buy me a gun. I must be able to defend myself if anything like that happens again.”

  He could not discourage the idea, and so he bought her a gun and taught her how to use it, though with the gravest misgivings. He was troubled by disturbing visions of Irina mistaking some casual caller for an intruder and perhaps shooting an innocent man. Yet posse
ssion of the weapon did seem to produce a calming effect on her nerves. She was less easily agitated, and at night, with Darwin at one side and the gun in the bedside table at her other side, she was able to sleep again.

  The news of Guy Subjack’s death was as shattering to Irina as the car crash that had taken his life. That it might have been an accident the police, according to news reports, were unable to disprove, although there were no skid marks, the weather was clear, and there was evidence Subjack had been drinking heavily before leaving the club.

  Only Irina knew the truth. A letter arrived at the house the morning after Guy’s death.

  My dearest Irina, I told you the only way it would ever be over between us was if one of us ended up in the cemetery. I don’t want to go on living without you. Maybe this is the only way I can be sure you’ll never forget me. Guy.

  As Darwin had known Guy Subjack from the club, his failure to mention the man’s death might have seemed peculiar to Irina had she been less overwhelmed by the most acute feelings of guilt. That Guy had been hinting at suicide rather than murder during that last meeting had never entered Irina’s mind, and how could she not have assumed he must have been her assailant when the attack followed so closely upon that final meeting? Now she was left with the conviction that Darwin had been right, the intruder could only have been some demented stranger.

  But it was the conviction that Guy had loved her, loved her as perhaps no other man but Darwin ever had, that excited the most excruciating sense of guilt. The knowledge that she was responsible for the death of a young man who had loved her with a truly romantic passion was almost too burdensome to bear.

  That night as they were getting into bed Irina’s sense of remorse overpowered discretion. Almost without forethought she told Darwin about the affair with Guy Subjack and how it had ended.

  This emotional upheaval seemed not to disturb Darwin. Calmly, he removed his watch and placed it on the stand beside the bed.

  “You mustn’t let it upset you, my dear. And I’m not blind, you know. I was quite aware of your relationship with Subjack.”

  Irina recoiled with a startled look. “But we were so careful!”

  “Not careful enough.” There was a certain unmistakable smugness in his tone.

  “And you said not a word!”

  “We both said a great many words, after Alex. You see, I really did believe you, Irina. That Alex would be the last.”

  “And I meant it, darling,” she cried. “I truly did. But then I met Guy and... You do believe me now, I know, that it can never happen again. After that awful experience I could never look at another man but you. I’m a different person now. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  Darwin regarded her with a sorrowful look. “I wish I’d known it was over between you and Subjack. But then it might not have made any difference. It might have happened again with someone else. You’re rather like the dragonfly, my love, beautiful, alluring, and voracious. I decided I had to try something drastic. You see, I believed it might possibly change everything if you felt you owed me your life. It worked far better than I’d dared hope.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’ve been honest with me, Irina. I must be honest with you. I staged that ‘intruder’ attack to bring you to your senses. I hope you’ll forgive me as I’ve so often forgiven you.”

  When he’d finished explaining precisely how he’d disguised himself and faked the attack, Irina appeared too stunned to speak. Her face had gone whiter than he’d ever seen it. Without a word she turned her back to him and opened the drawer of her nightstand.

  When Daversa had finished conferring with the coroner in the bedroom, he rejoined Irina downstairs. She remained in the same trancelike state of immobility, which might easily have been mistaken for the calmest serenity, as when he’d questioned her. He wasn’t sure it would do any good to pursue his inquiries before morning; nevertheless, he asked her if she was still certain it was the same man.

  Irina turned her gaze from the lacquered cabinet where she’d hidden the gun. She nodded. For a moment Daversa almost thought he detected the wisp of a smile on her lips, but then it was gone.

  “Oh yes, Lieutenant. Don’t ask me how I can be so certain, but I am. I would stake my life on it. The same man who tried to kill me was in that bedroom.”

  Fox in the Briars

  by Kate Wilhelm

  © 1994 by Kate Wilhelm

  A new short story by Kate Wilhelm

  Kate Wilhelm is an author who crosses effortlessly from genre to genre, hut as the Washington Post put it, “A taste for horror or science fiction or fantasy or contemporary fiction is not necessary to appreciate Kate Wilhelm. Her work transcends genre.” Recently Ms. Wilhelm has been devoting much of her time to crime fiction. In this novella-length work she demonstrates her ability to weave a tale complex not only in plot but in psychology...

  ❖

  The tangle of blackberries looked impenetrable, canes as thick as a man’s arm, arching branches fifteen, twenty feet long. Jordan Langford stopped to wipe his face, cursed the leather glove, took it off, and wiped again. He motioned to Will Magnusson to move ahead a few more yards with the tractor. The sickle bar, lowered almost to the ground, cut through the tangled mass very slowly because no one knew if boulders lurked, hidden beneath the greenery, and a boulder would tear up the blade.

  He tugged a long, many-branched cane up from the bank of the creek. They couldn’t let the canes fall into the water, dam it, cause a flood, wash out the newly planted grapes on the other side of the creek.

  It started to rain. For a moment Jordan stopped with his face lifted, mouthing curses; then he ducked his head and weaved his way through brambles to the tractor. “What do you think?”

  Will shrugged. “Not much of a rain yet. How about if we just finish the stretch to the bridge?”

  The bridge was two hundred feet away, a little wooden span level with the gravel road that bordered the acreage. Last summer Jordan had uncovered it, but the brambles had reclaimed this side, making it appear that the bridge led only to the thicket to vanish there. He grinned at Will, and they went back to work.

  Little Agate Creek was three feet deep and four feet wide, with steep banks, and as Will liked to say, she was a good runner; she had cut a seven- or eight-foot gorge in her race down the mountain.

  After a while, the two men changed places. Then Will was signaling with both hands, and Jordan stopped, a few yards short of the bridge. On the gravel road on the south side Ellen Blair grinned and waved from her Mazda. Her short curly hair was frizzy from the damp; she looked like a kid joyriding in a hot car.

  Will motioned for him to come. Jordan raised the sickle bar, backed up to more level ground, and turned off the key. Will was at the top of the bank; Ellen, under a bright red and white umbrella, had left her car and was coming toward them.

  “Look,” Will said, pointing, when Jordan drew near.

  Where they had cut the brambles on the bank, the dirt had been loosened enough to uproot branches. In the newly exposed dirt Jordan saw a flash of gold being washed by the rain, and then he saw that the gold was on a bone, a finger bone. He leaned over and picked it up, a finger bone with a ring on it.

  “What is it?” Ellen called from the bridge.

  He held it up for her to see, and he thought for a second that she was going to faint. The color washed from her face; she swayed and backed up a step, another.

  “There’s more,” Will said. “Leg, ribs...”

  Ellen ran back to her car, and Jordan yelled after her, “Go to the trailer and call the sheriff.”

  He looked again at the finger bone, gray with encrusted mud, pitted, a man’s finger. The ring was heavy, solid gold maybe, it was fashioned into a coiled snake, its head up and back in striking position, with emerald eyes and a red tongue.

  Ellen’s hands were shaking too hard to dial the first time she tried. She took a deep breath, and this time placed the call. Then she dug in her purs
e for her small address book and found the number for the McMinnville library and dialed. Patty Westwood answered.

  “They found some bones,” Ellen whispered hoarsely. “With his ring. The sheriff’s on his way here. Patty, I’ll have to tell him about that night.”

  “For God’s sake! Ellen? Is that you? What are you talking about?” Patty’s voice sounded distant and strange.

  Ellen started over. “I’m at Jordan’s, in his trailer. I just called the sheriff. Jordan and Will uncovered bones, a finger bone with Philip’s ring. I saw it, Patty! Philip’s ring! They’ll ask questions.”

  There was a pause, and when Patty’s voice was back it was cool and forceful. “Listen to me, Ellen. Get out of there. Go home. I’ll come over as soon as I can — fifteen minutes. Don’t wait for the sheriff, just go on home.”

  Ellen nodded. “All right. But hurry, Patty. Please. I saw the finger, just a bone, with his ring on it!” She was shaking again; she hung up and stood watching the nearly spastic movements of her hands for a second or two before she hurried out to her car and started back to town, five miles away. In her mind’s eye she saw the finger bone and the ring with the emerald eyes and the darting ruby tongue.

  Suddenly the bone was flesh and blood, and there was another hand with an identical ring, both hands moving back and forth over a shallow pottery bowl, and above the hypnotic motions of the hands, a bare torso with snakes painted on it and a gold necklace made of twined snakes with raised heads, emerald eyes, long red tongues. The gold and the gemstones caught the flashing firelight and gleamed, came alive, writhing...

  She felt her car swerve, planing, and fought to hold it on the wet road. With the car under control again, she drove more slowly, paying attention now. She entered Crystal Falls on a back street and drove to her apartment, parked, and ran inside.