Killer Year

by Lee Child

  But the congratulatory pep talk was impotent and George’s sadness returned and I had a hankering to drink myself to sleep. A bad idea. I tried to focus on just one of the multiple streams of thought that clamored for my attention. The voices in my head were doing just fine without any help from me, so I finally gave up and let them fight it out amongst themselves. As I sat there, George Garcia’s sadness grew and morphed into Sarah Shipman’s sadness. And mine. And everyone’s.

  We encounter people like George and Sarah and Phil (and even Betty) and we say to ourselves: There but for the grace of God go I. Then we are self-satisfied. Look how grateful we are, not taking our good fortune for granted. Look how virtuous. We pity George and Sarah and we wallow in our gratitude, because pity and gratitude reinforce the illusion of a great distance between us and them. We avoid that other thought. The thought that goes: Better him than me. Because we’re all just one bad decision from being George Garcia. One serving of bad luck from being Sarah Shipman.

  And there are nights when the proximity is impossible to ignore. This night, the choice was insomnia or booze and I had a big day tomorrow so I chose tired instead of hungover. And made it to bed relatively sober.

  I pulled into the dusty driveway at 8:50 A.M. No other cars on the property. Which meant George’s mom had already come and gone, or she was late … or George had been lying to me. The cottage door was unlocked and I let myself in.

  The smell of feces and fear told me all I needed to know. George’s body lay on the couch, an empty bottle of cheap vodka at his side. He’d opened his wrists with a hunting knife, which lay on his chest. The cushions had absorbed a lot of blood and there was a large puddle, dark and viscous, on the floor beneath his right arm, which hung off the side of the couch. Flies congregated around the blood puddle, like greedy tourists at a Vegas buffet.

  There was a note: “Tell the lady I’m sorry about her legs.” Signed, “George S. Garcia, Jr.”

  I snatched up George’s cigarettes and lighter and marched outside and lit a smoke and took a deep drag and got a head rush. I paced back and forth from the cottage to my car, thinking, You’ve got a dead witness, an unsigned statement, and an unverifiable recording of that statement. Thinking, You idiot, why did you leave him alone? Thinking, You’ve still got the touch, Dudgeon … not too shabby. Fuck.

  I called Rik Ransom and his secretary heard the tone of my voice and put me straight through.

  “I just read the email,” said Rik. “Really nice job on the statement, Ray. Outstanding. You may have earned a bonus.”

  “Things are complicated,” I said.

  “Complicated how?”

  “Trust me, you do not want to know. Just call Juno and read them the statement. Tell them that we have George Garcia in a safe place and he is no longer under their control.” Another drag on the cigarette. “And Rik, time is of the essence. We’re expecting some thugs from Juno this afternoon.”

  “So get out of there.”

  “Can’t. And don’t ask.”

  “You’re serious,” he said.

  “Deadly. Look, I know this isn’t normal procedure. You’re the lawyer and I’m just the keyhole-peeper but you’ve got to trust me on this, no questions.” There was silence on the line.

  “All right, Ray. If you say it’s complicated, then it’s complicated.” He cleared his throat. “We go back a ways, you and me. But I have to be frank with you. A rumor went around, after the Amodeo thing …”

  “Yes.”

  “Rumor was, you’d become a little unhinged. Maybe more than a little.”

  I had no idea how to answer that. “It was blown out of proportion, Rik. I’m telling you, I’m acting in your best interest here. Right now you really don’t want to know the details, and you’ll thank me later.”

  “I see.” Another protracted silence. “Okay, I’m going to follow you on this, Ray.”

  “Just make the deal fast and call me when it’s done.”

  They rolled up well before noon, in a dark blue Lincoln Continental. The Lincoln pulled into the dirt driveway and came to a stop about fifteen feet in front of me. I held my position—sitting on the top step, cell phone to my left. Pistol in my right hand, pointing casually at the ground about six feet in front of me. They got out of the Lincoln and closed the doors.

  Tough guys in fancy suits.

  The taller one was a trim six four and pumped iron a couple times a week, I guessed. The shorter one was about six feet and looked like a poster child for steroid abuse. Probably weighed in at a hard 260. I’m five nine. You could call it almost five ten with my shoes on. I weigh about 170. With my shoes on.

  But there was a gun in my hand, while they both clutched handfuls of moist air.

  “Hi, fellas,” I said with a neutral tone. “My name’s Ray. I’m a licensed private detective and I’ve been retained as Mr. Garcia’s bodyguard. Mr. Garcia does not wish to have any visitors, and you’re on private property. Please leave.”

  “And if we don’t?” said Shorty. His eyes gleamed with a hunger that said he wanted this thing to escalate. But Stretch sent him a glare and I got the picture. Stretch was the boss—maybe Juno’s resident tough-guy lawyer. Shorty was a paid goon, probably had some fancy title like “Vice President of Corporate Security.”

  “Listen, Ray,” said Stretch with a rubber-band mouth. “We need to speak with Mr. Garcia. Five minutes and we’re gone. History. Out of your hair.” He gave me a rubber-band smile and they took a step forward in unison and I raised the gun and pointed it at Stretch and said, “Hands!”

  They stopped in unison and raised their hands slightly. They were now a dozen feet—four quick steps—away. They’d gained three feet and all they’d given up was about five inches distance from hand to gun. If they had guns.

  “You’re bluffing,” said Stretch. I admired his ability to hold my eyes. Not because my eyes are particularly intimidating but because when someone points a gun at you, the urge to stare at the gun can be overwhelming.

  “Yeah,” said Shorty, “you ain’t gonna shoot.” His right leg moved forward a few inches.

  “You’ll be first,” I said to Stretch. Thinking, Goddamn, this sucks.

  “Stand down,” Stretch said to Shorty. A quick glance at a duly admonished Shorty, standing down as ordered. Eyes back to Stretch.

  “As I said, you’ll be first. Whatever happens after that probably won’t make you feel a whole lot better.” This was tough-guy talk, which is not really my strong suit. I wondered how I was doing. Stretch had lost a half inch off his smile and now he put it back but it looked unnatural.

  “All right,” Stretch said, “but we need to hear it from Mr. Garcia.”

  Shorty cupped his hands to his mouth and called, “Hey Georgie, you want us to go? Just come to the window and say the word and we’re gone, buddy!”

  “He won’t come,” I said. Truer words were never spoken. “Look, guys … we all know that either one of you could kick my ass around the block without breaking a sweat. That’s why I’ll have to fire first.” I added my left hand to my right, holding the pistol in a Weaver stance. “So you have to leave the property now, or I’ll be forced to defend my client.” My mouth wouldn’t smile even if I bribed it, so I didn’t bother trying. I just sat there, thinking, This is taking too long …

  Stretch made his decision and, by virtue of some sort of goon telepathy, they both stepped back and opened their doors in unison. “We’ll just park on the road over there,” Stretch jerked a long thumb toward the road about fifty feet away.

  “Fine,” I said, “you guys hang out over there and call your boss. I’ll hang here and call mine. I expect you’ll get instructions to leave but maybe I’m wrong. We’ll see. Meantime, as long as you’re on the public road we’re cool.”

  “We’ll let you know what happens,” said Stretch.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  They got in the car and backed out of the driveway and parked on the road, blocking the drive. I le
t the gun point at the ground and forced my hand to relax a bit, to keep circulation to the fingers. I took a few deep breaths, picked up the cell phone, and dialed Rik Ransom.

  “It’s Dudgeon,” I said. “Got company over here. Two very bad men from Juno. I need you to speed things along.”

  “Jesus, Ray. Don’t get killed.”

  “Doing my best. How much longer?”

  “I’m waiting for a call back. They’re stalling.”

  “Until they hear from Stretch, I suspect.” Back at the car, Stretch held a cell phone to his ear. “Rik, they’re calling it in. Get ready now and make this deal fast.”

  “Why don’t you just get outta there? You’ve got the signed statement.”

  “I didn’t say it was signed.”

  “Well get the fucker to sign it …” There was a pause on the line. “Oh shit. Don’t tell me—”

  “I didn’t tell you anything. Just work fast. Shorten the deadline.” Stretch closed his flip phone. “He’s off the phone. If they don’t call in a minute or two, you call them.” I hung up and nodded at Stretch. He nodded back at me.

  And we waited. I was glad to be waiting outside. Inside, I’d have to watch the strange spasmodic slow-motion rigor mortis dance. And smell the exotic perfumes of decay. By comparison, Stretch and Shorty were good company. So I just sat in the hot sun, feeding mosquitoes and waiting for the phone to ring.

  An hour and forty minutes later, Stretch got out of the car and walked toward me. I stood and moved off the steps, keeping him between me and Shorty. I aimed at his chest and he held his hands up at about shoulder height but didn’t stop. My sweat-covered forearms reflected the afternoon sun. “Far enough,” I said at about twenty feet. He stopped.

  “We’re all professionals, doing our jobs here,” he said.

  “Right.”

  “Good. See, my associate needs some toilet paper.”

  “You are kidding me,” I said.

  “Swear to God,” he said and smiled, almost like a real person.

  I felt my own mouth smile. “Really?”

  “Hey, don’t rub it in.” He jerked his thumb back toward the car. “He’s gonna be hearing about this for a very long time, I promise you.”

  “Well, I hate to give you an even better story to tell, but there’s a gas station a few miles up. He can leave you on the road and come back, or you can both go and come back. Best I can do.”

  “Come on, have a heart. Do it for my sake, I gotta sit in the car with the guy.” The rubber-band smile returned and sent me into high alert.

  “Sorry, no.” I held the gun steady. Wait him out … We stared lovingly into each other’s eyes for a millennium or two.

  “You’re Ray Dudgeon, right?”

  “I am.”

  “You didn’t say so earlier.”

  “Would it have scared you away?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Stretch shrugged and his smile faded. “Thought you’d be taller,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “No. You’re not.” He turned around and walked back to the car and got in. I returned to my position on the top step.

  Another fifty minutes trickled by while I sat there, sweating and feeding even more mosquitoes. It was in the upper nineties and the T-shirt was now plastered to my back. The Juno boys sat in air-conditioned luxury in their Lincoln Continental. Pussies.

  The cell phone rang and I answered it.

  “Ray, we did it! Whoo-boy, we did it!”

  “Close to ten million?”

  “Hell, we passed ten an hour ago. Naturally, with our newfound strength, I raised the bar to fifteen this morning. We settled on twelve.”

  “Done deal?”

  “Like dinner. Notarized faxes have been exchanged and couriers have been dispatched with originals. We’re official.”

  “Then why haven’t my friends heard the good news?”

  “Oh, shit. I thought they’d be long gone by now. That’s terrible, Ray. Really sorry about that. I’ll make a call.”

  “Sure would appreciate it,” I said, and broke the connection.

  Ten minutes passed and then Stretch answered his flip phone and listened and bobbed his head. He flipped the phone shut and Shorty reached down and put the car in gear without looking in my direction. Stretch nodded at me. I held up my hand and nodded back. The car pulled away, down the dusty road and out of sight. I picked up the cell phone and dialed 911.

  I’d just found a dead body and it was my duty to report it.

  Prodigal Me

  by J. T. Ellison

  Women are great crime writers. They always have been, and for a long time now they have set the agenda and driven the genre. All my favorite writers are women. Why? Are they better writers than men? Not exactly, but somehow they develop nuance and context more effortlessly. Check out this story by J. T. Ellison. It’s a classic short, with a great payoff twist in the final paragraphs. But watch how J. T. paints the feel, the context, the background, with deft, subtle, unforced strokes. That’s not just talent—it’s talent plus total self-confidence, which is a truly winning combination.

  —Lee Child,

  New York Tïmes bestselling author of One Shot

  He’s not speaking to me again.

  It’s happened before. I think the longest we’ve ever gone without some sort of verbal communication is two weeks. But that was back when he thought I’d tricked him and let myself get pregnant. I hadn’t, but he didn’t want to hear that from me. I remember it was two weeks because when I started to bleed, he started talking. Apologies, for the most part. The black eye had faded away by then, too.

  So I don’t usually become alarmed when he quits conversing. I’m just not sure why I’m getting the silent treatment. I wonder how long it’s going to last? It can actually be quite nice, not having to make conversation. We can sit at the kitchen table, each sipping from our respective coffee cups. I have many cups. I decide which to use based on my mood each morning. Today I have one of my favorites, decorated in loops and swirls of color, abstract, joyful. That’s how I woke this morning, content, but feeling a bit out of place. This was the perfect chalice to represent my feelings. Yesterday it was the bone white with the geometric triangular handle. All sharp edges and uncomfortable to hold. No elegance there, befitting the dark nastiness that I’d felt when I got up. But today was different. Better. Happy. Even without speech.

  I watched him from under my lashes, tasting the bitter brew. He’d made the coffee before I arose. He’d been doing that lately, and it was unusual. Normally I was the first to the kitchen, the coffee was my responsibility. I certainly made a better pot. I wondered if that was why he’d designated the coffee to me in the first place, because his was lousy.

  He was snapping the pages of the paper, passing through them so quickly that I knew he wasn’t really reading anything. He knew I was watching him, and he heaved a sigh and laid the paper flat on the wood. He looked at me then, finally. His eyes were bloodshot. Not attractive at all. When we’d first met, he’d had the most beautiful blue eyes, a shade that matched the sky on a crisp fall day. Today, they were muddy, a hint of brown in the azure depths. He didn’t meet my eye, just stared at my shoulder. I slid my silk dressing gown down just a bit, enough for the smooth white skin above my collarbone to show. He dragged in a breath, swept up his cup and threw it at the kitchen sink. It shattered, and I rolled my eyes. Typical for him, communicating through violence. For a smart man, he was so very stupid.

  I glanced at the clock on the stove; it was well past time for him to leave for work. I sat back in my chair, ignoring him. The sooner he was out of here, the sooner I could clean up his mess and start my own day.

  He didn’t leave right away. He’d walked out of the kitchen right after his temper tantrum, but went into his study instead of heading out the front door. He generally preferred that I stay out of his study. Even our maid, Marie-Cecile, was only allowed in twice a week to vac
uum and dust, but she was never allowed to touch the desk proper. Those were his rules, and Marie-Cecile stuck by them faithfully, even while she muttered Haitian curses under her breath. It always gave me joy to see her in there, hexing him for his transgressions.

  It struck me that I hadn’t noticed Marie-Cecile’s car in the drive. She came every day at 9:00 A.M. like clockwork, with Sundays off. With a house this size, you have to have someone to help with the work. Besides, all of our friends had someone come in. Personally, Marie-Cecile was the best of the lot, but perhaps I’m bragging.

  Today was Thursday, and it was already 9:30 A.M. Normally, I’d be at the club; my Tuesday/Thursday golf group would be teeing off between seven and nine. I’d slept later than usual, and I wasn’t in the mood to play this morning. I’d join them for lunch instead.

  I set about making the kitchen right, wondering where Marie-Cecile was. Not like her to be tardy, to miss a day without letting me know in advance she wouldn’t be here. She’d only done that about three times in the three years she’d been cleaning for us. Very reliable, was Marie-Cecile. No matter. I was certainly capable of straightening up. The cup had been made of heavy fired clay, and though it had broken into about fourteen pieces, they weren’t shards and slivers, but well-formed chunks that made it a cinch to gather. That done, I wandered back to our bedroom.

  Sunlight spilled through the windowpane, enhancing the patina on the buttery walls. I’d designed this room myself. The decorator had commandeered the house, overloading the rooms with her personal touches, but I wanted one small place that I knew was mine, and mine alone. Guests didn’t get to venture into this part of the house anyway. It was my own little refuge, even more so now that he was sleeping in his study. Eight bedrooms, and he chooses a hobnailed leather sofa. To each his own.

  The bed wasn’t made, which was odd. I knew I’d put it together before I made my way downstairs this morning. I always do. It’s the first thing that happens when I wake up. I slide out the right edge, pull the covers up, and make the bed. Maybe he had come back into the room after I went downstairs, pulled the covers back to tick me off. Typical.