AHMM, December 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Better than me,” Amocis said hastily, as if Redhunt had accused him. “But the birds look rotten.” Like the warrior's, their carcasses had frozen and thawed several times. “I wouldn't eat them."

  "I wager a starving Englishman would,” I said. After all, I had seen what they were reduced to eating in Jamestown.

  Redhunt looked at me but said nothing. Next he examined Kokoum's quiver and counted the arrows. “One is missing. Did you find an arrow?” he asked Pocahontas.

  "Mattah,” she said.

  "Show me the bloody boulder. The rest of you, keep away from the body. Do not follow us."

  The two made their way gingerly through the swamp, parting clumps of reeds. A few times they plunged through the ice into the water. Around them alarmed birds flew up, hiding them briefly behind a curtain of rising and settling white wings. Redhunt stooped to study something. It would be extremely difficult, I thought, even for Redhunt to find signs of a killer's trail out there.

  At last, they climbed up on a boulder.

  "What are they looking at?” asked Kasha.

  "A Monacan enemy's blood,” I said, to turn suspicion away from myself and the other English. “Redhunt can tell their blood from ours."

  Amocis eyed me suspiciously. “Oh? And English blood?"

  "It wasn't Englishmen,” I said.

  Redhunt picked something up. Then the two made their way back to us. Without a word, Redhunt walked to the campfire. His moccasins and leggings were soaked. He looked like a tired wolf—ready to snarl at the first person who dared to speak. He sat down abruptly and pulled off his moccasins to warm his frozen feet at the fire. Pocahontas did the same. We crowded around them.

  Reading our minds, Redhunt held up a long black flight feather.

  "From the Monacan's warlock!” I said.

  "Is that what logic tells you?” Redhunt asked, disappointed in me. “I found no signs of any man fleeing through the swamp. Granted, the very best hunter couldn't track a giant elk out there right now. Even so, I don't believe Kokoum's killer escaped through the swamp."

  "But how did the killer escape without a trace?” said Pocahontas. “What's the meaning of the bloody boulder? Did some wounded enemy step on it to throw a warclub that struck Kokoum in the back of his skull? It seems impossible."

  "It is."

  "But the blood?” she persisted.

  "Kokoum always hit his target,” said Redhunt. “His hand still clutches the bow, but his arrow was loosed at something on the boulder, probably the instant before he died. From the body's position, it's clear the death blow could only have come from one direction. That direction is not the swamp.” Again he held up the black feather. “Is not Kokoum's killer plain to see?"

  I stared at my cold feet, afraid to catch someone's accusing eye fixed on me. Kasha looked at Pocahontas, who stared back at her. Aguasquaw covered her face in her hands. Amocis looked at me.

  "Who but the Cutthroat English would be so cowardly?” Pocahontas asked.

  Amocis spat at me.

  "I grant you, the English are not to be trusted,” said Redhunt. “But as Ward-no-tuak said, the English are so hungry they would have stolen Kokoum's game. Besides, it would have taken more than trickery for a clumsy Englishman to get close enough to drive a pike into Kokoum's skull and then leave without a trace. No Monacan's snowshoes, and certainly no Englishman's boots, could have walked up to the bird blind without leaving a mark."

  "It was a demon, then?” I blurted out.

  "Of course not,” said Kasha, “Kokoum's killer did leave tracks—Pocahontas’ tracks."

  In the shocked silence, all I heard were tiny icicles tinkling to the ground in the bird blind a few feet away. No one wanted to admit it, but Kasha's logic was good. The only person besides Kokoum who walked around the bird blind was Pocahontas.

  And then a rare thing happened. For one fleeting instant, Redhunt let his anger show. Even brave Amocis took a step back in fear.

  "You're fools. Pocahontas had no reason to kill Kokoum. She could have left him for Percy if she had so desired,” he said. “But, Kasha, you stood to become immeasurably wealthy if your brother died childless. And you, Aguasquaw, it looks as if you preferred Amocis over your husband, but had no excuse to leave him. He was good man, didn't beat you. And, Amocis, you coveted Aguasquaw. Besides, there's unmistakable proof of Pocahontas’ innocence. Kokoum was dead when she found him.” He sighed wearily.

  "Snow fell on Kokoum's body before Pocahontas got here. Even before she reached the swamp. Her tracks in the snow prove that. There is no snow on the body now because it melted in the sun. Kokoum died before it snowed."

  Then Redhunt pointed to the icicle-covered spruce, whose branches sheltered the body. The icicles focused the sun's rays like hundreds of burning-glasses.

  "Watch, my friends,” he said. “Kokoum's killer is about to reveal himself—in the bird blind."

  Kasha gasped. Amocis snapped the bow off his shoulder and readied an arrow. Aguasquaw clutched her arms around herself. Pocahontas took a step toward the bird blind.

  A sharp crack sounded. A branch high in the spruce dipped and swayed, as if something had brushed it. From the shower of snow and ice, a black swan rose into the air, an arrow dangling from its breast. The bird struggled up into the clear blue sky, where its white companions now were flying north. But it could not reach them. It dipped and glided and finally came to rest again far out in the swamp. A black shadow in the brittle reeds.

  Then a crash near the body drew our eyes back to the bird blind, where a giant icicle pierced the earth like a spear.

  "Stay clear!” warned Redhunt. He retrieved the icicle and held it up toward the sun. In my mind's eye I could see its big brother crashing down on Kokoum's skull.

  "You mean that Kokoum wasn't murdered,” I said. “An icicle killed him."

  "Of course. Would you prefer to believe that Kokoum foolishly allowed Monacans or Englishmen to trick him? No. Just when Kokoum wounded the swan, some other bird landed in the spruce, shaking the branches. It wouldn't be the first time falling ice impaled a man."

  I thought that Kasha and Amocis and Aguasquaw must be ashamed to realize how wrong they had been. For my part, I was suddenly relieved of the burden of suspicion, which, like heavy snow, had weighed on me for hours.

  "Kokoum must have been so enthralled by the sight of the rare black swan that he let down his guard, forgot about the sun warming the branches above him. He knew better than to expose himself to falling ice, but even a wily hunter can grow careless celebrating the end of a ‘No Bird Winter.’”

  That winter lived forever in our memories. I was sent back to Jamestown, where I became a translator. Kasha inherited Kokoum's wealth. Amocis married Aguasquaw. The emperor Powhatan, of course, never responded to Captain Percy's absurd proposal. And Pocahontas, as you may have heard, eventually married an Englishman, but not because she wanted to be tickled by his beard. It was part of her plan to conquer the English—a plan that failed only because she died in London, hacking up blood. Or so the Cutthroats claimed.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Catherine Mambretti

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  Fiction: MANDELBROT'S PATTERNS by Keith McCarthy

  He was sitting in the bathroom looking at her corpse, as if it were the most normal thing in the world...

  The phone's call was magnified by the dark of the night, a demanding intrusion that was not going to be ignored.

  First there was a sigh, then a hand reached out for t
he phone and a deep, almost husky male voice asked, “Yes?” There was a pause. “Yes, that's right ... Where?” Another of the same. “Who?” This with some interest. “You're sure? ... Okay.” Once more, nothing was said, before, “No, don't worry. I'll contact her. I think she's visiting her mother."

  The phone was placed back on its stand and there was silence again, as if the room were empty.

  Then softly...

  "Trouble?” This voice was female.

  "Dead woman. Found in the bath. Apparently her wrists were slit."

  "Suicide? What's it got to do with us?"

  "It's Kate Reed, the wife of Dr. Phil Reed."

  For the first time, there was a sense of interest in the room.

  "Reed? The forensic pathologist?"

  "The same. He was actually the one who phoned in with the call."

  After a moment, “I still don't see why they have to phone a detective sergeant in the middle of the night."

  "They were after his detective inspector."

  "So they found her, although they don't know that. I still don't see why they were after either of us."

  An unearthly yowling sounded in the distance as fox called to fox between the dustbins, and with a sigh, the answer was given.

  "Apparently he sat there and watched her do it."

  * * * *

  They spent the remaining hours of darkness at a very plush five-bedroom detached house in the suburbs, feelings of déja vu fighting with feelings of boredom. They had seen the body naked in the bath, the rose-pink water almost completely hiding her embarrassment, a pallid face showing a degree of relaxation that no living human could ever hope to assume. There was no evidence of a fight, nothing even to suggest an argument, a row, or even a small tiff. Their examination of the house had revealed no money problems, no evidence of extra-marital affairs, nothing that suggested anything other than an ordinary marriage.

  * * * *

  "I still don't believe it."

  "Believe it, Hannah. Believe it."

  "Phil Reed is not a murderer."

  Sam had learned to have great respect for Hannah Angelman's abilities in the seven months he had known her, but this time he thought that she was wrong.

  "But when she was found, he was sitting in the bathroom just looking at her corpse, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The scalpel was on the side of the bath. He'd been drinking wine—had a couple of glasses. There was even a half empty glass of wine on the side of the bath by the body, as if to make out that she'd joined in."

  "But has he admitted to murder?"

  "He hasn't said anything much. He wants to talk to you."

  She leaned back in her chair, looking toward Sam as he stood in front of her desk, yet not seeing him.

  "Are we sure the house was secure?"

  "Completely."

  "So there was no possibility of third-party involvement?"

  "None whatsoever."

  Another possibility excluded, she reflected that the options were running out for Dr. Philip Reed.

  Outside the window of her office some seagulls, ranging far from their usual home around the Gloucester docks, called raucously as they hovered in the swirling spring air. As if called by them, she rose from her chair and went to stare out the window at the constant traffic of Lansdowne Road; the morning rush into Cheltenham was just beginning.

  "It's an odd way to murder someone ... maybe it is suicide."

  "With him watching? Anyway, his fingerprints are all over the handle of the scalpel, which is clear evidence that he took an active part in things. I don't know what else you need. Accept it, Hannah. He killed her."

  "Other than the cuts to her wrists, was there any evidence of trauma to the body?"

  "The pathologist says the only thing he can find are two tiny puncture marks, one by each of the cuts."

  "Nothing else? No ligature marks? No head injury?"

  "No."

  "That would suggest that she allowed him to do it."

  "Unless she was drugged. Perhaps that's what the puncture marks mean; or perhaps he put something in her wine. We'll only know for sure when we get the toxicology back in a day or two."

  Hannah turned back to him. “No, she was complicit. At worst this was assisted suicide."

  Sam snorted. “Assisted and spectated, then. She was naked in the bath, Hannah. He must have sat there and watched her die."

  "Poor sod."

  He couldn't believe what he had heard. “Why do you say that? After what he's just done, I don't think he deserves any sympathy."

  "There's a lot of history in that marriage, Sam."

  "I think he drugged her while she was in the bath—hence her glass of wine—then slit both her wrists and sat and watched her while she bled to death. That's horrible, that's unforgivable. No amount of history comes anywhere near to excusing that."

  "It might explain it, though."

  "I don't see how."

  She turned abruptly around. “Why don't we go and find out? Where is he?"

  "Room three. Fisher's with him."

  * * * *

  As they walked down the stairs to the interview rooms, Sam said, “He had everything. Large house, big car, beautiful wife, and now he's thrown it all down the drain. What drives a man to do that? Surely it can't just have been a row."

  "Which is why I'm having a problem with this. Something tells me that there's more to this than is at present apparent."

  It was when they had nearly reached the interview room that Sam asked, “What did you mean by ‘history'?"

  "They had a child, but it died after a few weeks. Internal abnormalities or something. It was a blessing, really."

  "Oh."

  "They never had any more luck. Phil and his wife had many good things in their lives, but I don't think they ever considered them adequate compensation. I look at Phil and I see a lovely man who's as crippled as effectively as if he were paraplegic."

  It was the tone as much as the words that impressed Sam. He asked with a slight smile that hid concern, “Have you got a thing for him, Hannah?"

  She laughed. “There's no need for jealousy, Sam."

  For Sam's liking, this was altogether too public a place for such sentiments. “Not so loud. I thought we were being discreet. You know what this place is like. There's always someone listening."

  "Oh, of course.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Mustn't have a D.I. sleeping with her sergeant. The world might end."

  "It might ... for us."

  She stopped quite abruptly so that he had to turn slightly to face her. She asked, “Would that bother you?"

  "Of course it would."

  "I'm not just another conquest?"

  He looked around, as if the painted stone walls might hide camouflaged eavesdroppers. “Of course not!"

  She examined him for a brief moment, twitched a smile, then sighed, “Good."

  He stepped toward her and said in a low tone, “I mean it, Hannah."

  A nod, but one that was not as certain as it might have been. “Good."

  She began walking again and he fell into step. “So why are you so convinced about Phil Reed's innocence?” he asked.

  She had to think about that one. Eventually, all she could produce was: “I've just known him a long time. He's not a killer."

  "Wasn't maybe. He is now."

  * * * *

  "Is that steak okay? It certainly looks good."

  Her mouth full, Kate nodded at once. “Mmm ... delicious."

  He thought, You're beautiful. Even a blind man would be able to tell that.

  "And the wine? You like the wine?"

  "I certainly do."

  Reed smiled. “So I should hope, considering the price."

  He hadn't really been able to afford the restaurant—if truth be told, he felt out of place in it—but he had things to say tonight.

  "Well it's very good ... mmm ... very good indeed."

  "I thought so."

&
nbsp; The couple at the table next to them were in their late sixties and would not have looked out of place at an imperial ball; he suspected that they were looking secretly askance at the whippersnappers so uncomfortably close to them, perhaps unable to believe that they had let people in who were not related to the Lord Lieutenant of the County.

  "So what's the excuse for such extravagance?"

  "Do I need an excuse?"

  "Well ... it's hardly in character."

  He pretended outrage. “How dare you! I'll have you know, I've been known to spend three pounds on a bottle of wine."

  "And the rest!” Her smile gilded a lily and somehow improved it.

  "Anyone would think I'm a cheapskate."

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Wouldn't they just?"

  "Oh! So that's what you think, is it?” He turned his face away, corners of his mouth turned downward. If he hoped for sympathy, it was a hope that was doomed from the off.

  "Me and a few thousand others..."

  There was no background music in the restaurant, no violins. As he let the silence between them grow, the chattering around them intruded.

  His timing was good, though.

  "So you wouldn't want to marry me?” The tone—hurt innocence—was also good.

  "What?"

  Feigned surprise. “You wouldn't want to marry me. What with me being a cheapskate."

  As she realized what he had said, her face erupted with bright delight. “Oh ... Oh, God..."

  "Fair enough,” he went on, apparently oblivious of her reaction. “I'll strike you off the list and then move on..."

  "You mean it?"

  He shrugged. “It was only an idea. It doesn't matter."

  She reached out, grasped his hand, as if to make him realize that she had something to say. “Of course I do! My God! Of course I do. I thought you'd never ask."

  He continued in the same slightly distracted tone, “Only, now that I've got a consultant's job..."

  "You what?” Her voice rose appreciably, and Lord and Lady Muck next door did not like it.

  "Didn't I tell you? I've been appointed as consultant pathologist at Saint Benjamin's. I start in three months."

  "That's fantastic!"

  "Is that a ‘yes’ to marriage, then?"