Six bodies had been recovered from Lonnie Wayne Smith’s basement. It was interesting to him that the house even had a basement―there were damned few basements in Austin, likely due to the rocky nature of the soil. But Smith’s house had been built around 1895, and while it may not have been one of the architectural jewels of the Victorian Era, it was spacious, well-made and solid. Someone, somewhere back in that previous lost century, had been determined to dig. Unfortunately, all these years later, someone else had chosen to stock the place, but with exactly the wrong thing.
Lonnie Wayne Smith had been indicted by the Grand Jury that morning. Three of the Grand Jurors, all men, had thrown up at the pictures. That’s when Ralph Bigham knew the case was going to be a slam dunk. Some lawyer would no doubt latch onto the case and try to plead it out to insanity. But then again the insanity defense usually didn’t go over well in Texas courts. Particularly for serial killers.
“The smell,” Ralph said. The sun was going down across the lake and to the west, and most of the canoes and kayaks were plodding their way across the surface back towards the various boat ramps dotting the shore. “Why don’t the neighbors ever notice the smell?”
Delores Rogers was there. She took the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out. “These things will kill you. Besides that, there’s a Burn Ban in effect. That includes smoking outdoors.”
“Oh. Forgot.”
“They don’t smell it because they’re kind of use to it,” Delores said.
“What do you mean?”
“I suppose we are talking about Smith’s neighbors, right?”
“Right,” Bigham agreed.
“Maybe in the back of their minds they know something is there. That it’s something very, how shall we say, not right. It’s there when they go out to their cars in the morning to go to work. Maybe they think ‘It’s coming up from the ground’ or ‘It’s those trashcans across the way.’ Something like that. Or maybe they’re afraid to know what they know. Like the neighbors must have known near Buchenwald or Auschwitz.”
“That’s a pretty bleak look, don’t you think?” Ralph said.
“Well, you asked,” Delores said. “But I’ll tell you what. What gets me is that girl kissing him. Letting him feel her up and everything. Like she said, she knew there was some smell there. Something ‘underneath’, she said. She just didn’t know what it was, though.”
“Underneath,” Ralph said. “Yeah. That fits.
The two lapsed into silence for a moment.
“By the way, dogs do it,” Ralph said.
“Do what?”
“They do what Lonnie Smith did. They find a carcass like that, then they play with it and roll around in it and get the dead smell all over them. I never figured that one out satisfactorily for myself. Why dogs do it, that is.”
“Dogs don’t do that!” Delores said.
“You have never lived in the country,” Ralph said.
Delores paused for a moment.
“True,” she admitted.
“But I think I know why,” Ralph continued. “It’s only a theory, and in this instance it only applies to the dogs.”
“I’m dying for you to tell me,” Delores said.
“I am willing to bet that Necrotizing fasciitis bacteria is nature’s only true and effective flea and tick treatment.”
Delores raised her eyebrows. “Ahh. I get it. But what about Smith? Why would he act like a dog? And why the hell didn’t his flesh start rotting?”
Ralph shook his head. “Since we’re having him held at the hospital pending a full toxicology report, I will guess that he’ll be found to be a carrier. And, by definition, carriers are immune. Classic Typhoid Mary syndrome.”
“Fleas and ticks,” Delores said, and shivered.
“Probably,” Ralph said, “he has skin problems when he isn’t messing around with dead bodies.”
Ralph detected Delores’ shudder.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back down to the hospital and see what the lab guys have got so far. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“You’re on.”
* * *
George Wier lives in Austin, Texas with his lovely wife Sallie, two dogs and two cats. He has been writing in earnest for more than twenty-five years, and is the author of the Bill Travis Mystery series and co-author of Long Fall From Heaven (2012). He also writes science-fiction, steampunk, and is an avid short-story writer.
Visit his website at http://georgewier.com
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For a Soldier
Jason Deas
The war ended and kids streamed home. All of them left something behind—some more than others. Morgan returned with tattered baggage.
His parents drove him home from the airstrip. He didn’t say a word except that he wasn’t ready to talk. His mom and dad seemed to understand.
At home, Morgan went upstairs alone, shut the door, put his kit bag down and sat on his bed as a rush of images flooded his mind. Fear, joy, pain, brotherhood, loss. He’d never felt more out of place and surreal than he did at that moment. Homesick for the jungle, he sobbed quietly into his hands. He had a love/hate relationship with the bush and at that moment his heart splintered in new directions. He felt as though he’d been chewed up and spit out and wished he’d been swallowed like his best friend Crimson.
Morgan put on a Black Sabbath album and stared at a picture of the two of them as he wondered what Crimson would be doing if he’d made it home. The song tickled his ears and he shuddered with pleasure as he peered into the faces in the photograph.
Morgan took off the Sabbath album, put it back in its sleeve, and replaced it with a Jackson Browne record and turned off the lights. Even before sleep his head began to spin as if he were already in dreams. It was the first time in memory he’d gone to sleep without a gun. Sitting up in the dark, he blindly felt around under his bed until he recognized the familiar form that comforted him like a pacifier. He retrieved a gun his father had bought him on his eighteenth birthday. Rubbing his finger past the trigger he wondered how many times he’d pulled the one on his military weapon. Without doing so, Morgan knew exactly how it felt, what it sounded like, and even what it smelled like. With the gun in his right hand and his dog tags in his left, missing the night sounds of the jungle, he slept.
After six hours he awoke on the floor beside the bed. In the middle of the night he’d ripped off the sheets and moved to the comfort of the hard floor. With his gun still in his right hand he thought about the day ahead and all the proper things that should be done by a soldier home from war. His parents would want to have the entire family over for a homecoming dinner and the thought soured his mood.
I don’t want to talk about this. How would they ever understand? What if somebody asks if I had to kill someone? Of course I did! We all did. What will my sister think if she learns I killed nearly a hundred men? She’ll probably be scared of me.
Morgan was sure he’d be watched like an animal in the zoo. The idea of the dinner grew uglier in his mind. He knew the family would all claim to understand what he was going through. His older uncles and aunts would offer advice. As the scenario played out in his mind, he knew at some point he would get annoyed, boil over, and explode, saying something cruel and hurtful to them all. He imagined himself storming out of the room, pounding up the stairs, slamming a few doors, and sitting on his bed missing Crimson. Morgan made a mental note to ask his mother to postpone the party until he was a little more adjusted.
Morgan also thought a phone call to his ex-girlfriend would be the customary and polite thing to do. The war had ripped them apart after a year of letters came from an evolving soldier who began to deny life existed elsewhere in the world in order to survive. Morgan wrote her regularly at first and she wrote him daily. A feeling of separation began growing inside him at boot camp and intensified with his deployment. The line that connected them became so thin it snapped as he came to the point where he didn’t know who she was anymore b
ecause he didn’t recognize himself.
The break happened early one morning on watch, long before the sun rose. He’d been staring at a tree for minutes, hypnotized by fatigue when he saw something move to his far left. As his heart pounded wildly and his muscles tensed, Morgan tried to catch his breath. Camouflaged by a neatly devised cover which left open enough space to see and shoot, Morgan studied the young face of the combatant creeping toward him. The young man jittered with fear. Knowing what he had to do, Morgan lifted his weapon, aimed and fired. The slug hit him in the mouth, collapsing his head and exploding it at the same time. Morgan froze. A mind shattering confusion rocked his entire being as he witnessed the death. His first kill. A part of him snapped and became disconnected from everything he believed about himself and the heavens. From that moment on, he began the process of tearing himself apart and putting the pieces back together again.
Morgan never wrote his girlfriend again. He dropped her unopened letters in odd places in ceremony, disregarding the life he’d known. The idea of the two situations existing simultaneously boggled his mind and enraged him. So, he forgot about it and accepted the fact he was involved in one of the strangest human activities imaginable—war.
Morgan looked at his watch to discover it was 5:10 a.m. Darkness covered the windows with no hint of a rising sun. After six hours of physical inactivity his body was ready to go. Not so sure about his mind, his thoughts slipped away to Crimson and a promise they’d made a year before in the jungle. The two had been away from cities, barracks, and alcohol for nearly two weeks. The friends missed alcohol almost as much as they missed home. Shaking hands, the two promised that their first day back in the United States would be one of record breaking alcohol consumption. Since Crimson didn’t make it, Morgan decided he would have to drink for two.
He tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen to search for the alcohol which would be his breakfast. The first place he checked was the cabinet over the magnet-covered fridge. Bingo! A half gallon of rum and a bottle of whiskey brightened his morning as he immediately turned his thoughts to a mixer. Quickly finding soda, his next task was to retrieve glasses and ice. Morgan filled two glasses with ice, one for Crimson and one for himself. Crimson’s favorite drink was rum and coke. Sitting down at the kitchen table with the two drinks in front of him, he didn’t waste any time and took a good long drink from both glasses, one after the other. A deep breath escaped his lungs as the rum ran down his throat.
Putting his hands behind his head, Morgan stretched, smiled, and let out an incredible sigh. It was a sigh of disbelief, awareness, new beginnings, and power. What will the world do with me now? I guess the real question is what will I do with the world? The last time Morgan had been in the United States he was nineteen years old. He’d graduated high school and was working in a warehouse when his country called. His life was pretty boring besides his girlfriend and his guitar, and he was certain they’d both be there on his return. And now he was back, years later with an uncertain future.
Remembering the drinks, he picked them up, one in each hand and made a toast to Crimson, wishing him well, wherever he was. Feeling his presence, he laughed as he lifted one drink to his mouth, and then the other. Morgan knew that wherever he was, Crimson was missing him just as much. Morgan knew one day their paths would cross again. If there is such a thing as soul mates, we were mates. Mates get separated at times, but they always reunite.
Finishing the two drinks, he looked at the whiskey and decided to have two more rum and cokes. The ice hadn’t had time to melt, and he played bartender again, refilling the two glasses. A tiny hint of a buzz began in his head and trickled all the way down his spine to the floor. Wiggling his feet and picking up the two glasses, he clinked them together again. “Cheers,” he said as he held the glasses up for the empty room. Morgan wondered what time his parents would be up and knew he’d be drunk.
Standing up, he walked to the window to admire God’s work as light filtered through the window and into his eyes. Gripping the cold porcelain sink a shiver moved his entire body as he heard Crimson’s laugh in his head. Crimson had laughed more than any person Morgan had ever met. He had the ability to find humor in just about any situation. He’d been clever as a master thief, yet honest as a monk. Hearing the laugh again, Morgan turned away from the window.
It was whiskey time. After finding two shot glasses, he filled them both to their limit. One of the shot glasses had Big Ben on the front with the word “London” written in dark blue. The other was the Statue of Liberty and read, “Visit New York.” Morgan designated Lady Liberty for Crimson in honor of his newfound freedom and took Big Ben for himself as a reminder of his time left on earth. He thought about how much he hated whiskey as he stared at the two glasses. His stomach shuddered. He thought of Crimson and the jungle promise of drunkenness as he tossed the shots back in succession. Breathing hard out of his nose he filled them up again and made an imaginary toast to the great cycle of life and death before draining them again.
Feeling highly awake and alive, he jumped up for more ice, soda, and rum. Before sitting back down at the kitchen table, Morgan opened the fridge and grabbed two cans of beer. As he sauntered across the room the alcohol coursed through his body and twinkled in his head like a small piece of heaven. The sun made her daily appearance. It was the same sun which beat down on him and Crimson in the jungle.
When the four drinks were finished the clock read 6:50 a.m. and Morgan’s head spun—a hurricane heading for an unsuspecting shore. Barefooted, he stumbled out of the kitchen and onto the front lawn. Looking down, Morgan admired the gorgeous green between his feet. Twitching his toes, the cold wet morning dew sent a quiver through his body all the way up to his scattered, electrified brain. Morgan’s eyes scanned the neighborhood and the houses along the street. Raising his fist he screamed, “I’ve lived more than any of you ever will. You sleep like happy babies and don’t know what you’ve put your children through. I made it back and now you have to deal with me.”
Spying a baseball bat in the carport, he sprinted toward it as his feet tried to keep up with his head. Too slow to get the message, he tumbled across the driveway smashing and scraping his elbow. Warm blood trickled down his arm. Back on his feet he grabbed the bat and raced successfully toward the first mailbox in sight. Taking a left-handed stance he swung. The wooden bat struck the metal box. The second swing knocked it to the ground. He yelled toward the mailbox owner’s house. “How about that you blind complacent asshole?” Morgan strutted toward the next mailbox as he changed form and smashed it like he was chopping wood. “I want my best friend back!”
Feeling an incredible wave of nausea, he stumbled back to his yard and fell to his knees. The neighborhood and world began spinning as he felt his liquid breakfast beginning its journey out of his body. Feeling a hand on his back he turned to see his concerned mother staring into his eyes. She rubbed her fingertips up and down his back as he watched the grass dance and twirl before him. Morgan’s stomach contracted. He dug his fingers into the grass as pure liquid emptied itself from his body. His mother continued to caress his back as his body heaved again, dispelling more of the alcoholic breakfast. Sweat poured from his face and tears began to run down his cheeks as he mumbled Crimson’s name over and over. A colorful array of profanities followed.
Turning his attention to his mother, with his head still facing the ground, he began to speak. He gave her a figure of how many people he possibly killed in the jungle and what a savage he’d been. He told her he’d shot, stabbed, and beat other men to death with his bare hands. She listened and never stopped rubbing his back as he babbled on as if he was at confession.
Every so often he would stop for a moment to throw up, but he always picked up right where he left off, laying his sins out at his mother’s feet. She never interrupted or said a single word until he was entirely finished. When she sensed he was, she kissed him on top of his head and said, “Thank you, son.”
* * *
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Jason Deas has taught art in elementary schools for over a decade. He is a songwriter, sculptor, and makes a mean pot of chili. Most of his writing used to take place at Georgia campgrounds, inside a three-man tent or sitting at an uncomfortable concrete picnic table. He wouldn't have had it any other way until he one day found a 70's-model camper where he now writes in luxury. After writing Birdsongs, a mystery for adults, his nieces asked him to write a book for kids. He granted their wish and wrote Camp Timber View. He had so much fun writing it he wrote another middle grade novel titled The Big Stinky City. He recently finished the Benny James mystery series with books titled Pushed and Brushed Away. Jason is currently putting the finishing touches on a new mystery titled Private Eye.
www.jasondeas.com
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How to Knit Yourself a Husband in Five Easy Steps
Traci Tyne Hilton
Step 1
Heidi Lowe fingered the soft skein of wooly yak yarn. It would give her a rash but it was the kind of yarn the professionals used. The puce-y greenish color, a sort of heathered nuclear vomit washed her out, so she wouldn’t want to wear whatever she could make with it, even if she hadn’t been allergic. But it was on clearance, so if she wore non-latex disposable rubber gloves while she worked with it, she’d definitely fit in at the Knit-In for Peace.
She wanted peace, in theory. War meant a lot of people getting maimed and killed. But with her double major in economics and history she saw the need for war. It built economies, (for the winners and the losers, in the end.) Germany wouldn’t be the EU powerhouse it was today if the Nazi’s hadn’t lost the war.
She put the green yarn down. Thoughts of Germany brought a pang like heartburn to her chest. She had left Wolfgang in Germany. She grabbed a skein of grey yarn. She didn’t care what the price was, or the fiber content. The puce-y nuclear vomit green was too cheerful. She was knitting for peace, not for the circus.
The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters Page 8