"I'm thinking it's the only thing that makes sense. But I'm not sure why you first left him on the landing."
"We heard Mendy on the roof, only I didn't know it was Mendy. So we dropped him and crept down the stairs again. Who would have thought the little devil would take matters into his own hands and decide to become a hero?"
He sat silently, gingerly flexing his fingers back and forth, just letting her talk.
"I didn't know what to do when that terrible man came and took my father off to jail. If I had the courage to kill myself, I would have done it then."
She stopped and pulled herself upright to allow a man and woman to climb the stairs of the stoop they were sitting on, the woman throwing them a curious look as she went by.
"I visited Papa in his cell this morning and we talked about it,” Rachel continued in a tight voice. “He knows it was Mama who murdered that fiend, but he cannot let her go to jail for it. He was coughing so bad, his handkerchief, his sleeve was full of blood.” She closed her eyes briefly. “He realizes he doesn't have long for this world. I told him whatever happened, I would take care of Sorele and Mendy, see that they got an education. But he knows I'd have to give up my own dreams in order for that to happen. So this is the only way he can take care of his family—by taking her place, he leaves them with a mother, at least."
For a moment he could see her fighting back tears. Then she turned toward him, those disconcerting sea-green eyes searching his own. “So, Mr. McCreary. The fate of our family is in your hands."
"No, Miss Leitner. I've told you the decision was up to you, and I'm thinking that you've made it."
Rachel looked down at her hands. She would be feeling in his debt, he realized, wondering what he would want from her in repayment for keeping her secret. And what could he say that she would believe? All he wanted was to get his old job back, to have the shame of it all wiped away, and that wasn't likely to happen. So he said nothing.
For some time they sat, side by side, each lost in their own thoughts. After a while, McCreary noticed a moth—or was it a butterfly?—fluttering around. It was a pale, powdery yellow color, like the sun on a hazy morning. McCreary, born and raised in the tenements, had seen very few butterflies in his life, and so hoped it was a butterfly and not a common moth. And if it was, how had it found its way into this brick and iron city? What did it eat? How would it live?
He tapped Rachel's arm and pointed. For a moment she stared blankly at him. Then she followed his finger and when she saw it, she didn't actually smile, but her face softened a little. For a few minutes they watched it as it swooped delicately along the iron railing, flitting in and out of the shadows thrown by the stoops, until it flew behind a pile of wooden crates and was gone from sight. He arose then and gave her his hand to help her up. Together they turned and walked back toward Ludlow Street.
Copyright (c) 2008 Harriet Rzetelny
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Fiction: SARGASSO SEA by John C. Boland
Pointer, who shared their table that evening, said, “This ship doesn't attract party types. Two days out, two days back. It's generally pretty tranquil."
Two days out was enough, thought Carlos.
"There aren't many children on board,” Pointer added. “That helps. Personally, I enjoy having young people around—couples your age, who may have read a book I haven't. The ship's library isn't up-to-date. But children...” His hand lifted from his glass in a small, hopeless gesture.
"They're cute if they're your own,” said a small woman sitting beside Deborah. “Do you two have children?"
"Not yet,” said Deborah.
"Mine weren't cute,” said the small woman, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Bowles. “They aren't particularly attractive as adults, either. So I enjoy spending their inheritance on my cruises."
It couldn't be much money if she could run through it on this ship, Carlos thought, stretching to see a waiter who might bring him a glass of wine. The dining room, which had twenty-five or thirty tables, wasn't well staffed. At the moment, he couldn't see a single person who might be a server.
"Is there a captain's dinner?” Deborah asked.
"A few nights from now,” said Mrs. Bowles.
Half hearing her answer, Carlos frowned. She had to be wrong. Just then his thoughts were interrupted by Pointer, who remarked, “Nobody dresses for those things. You needn't worry about that."
They made a late round of the deck, Deborah trying to spot constellations, but in truth she couldn't tell one part of the sky from another. She gave up and said hopefully, “Should we have a nightcap?"
"If we can find a waiter,” Carlos said.
* * * *
The morning was still and hot. Without moving, Carlos squinted past a scarred railing onto a sea that was so flat the ship could have been dead in the water. Deborah was in the chair a foot to his left, wrapped in white, her delicate nose painted in white.
The fellow named Pointer certainly knew shipboard life. He had told them last night that they would fall into lazy habits right off. After a while, sighting a dolphin would become an event.
"One day gets to be much like another,” the older man said. “When you've been sailing as long as I have."
"Are you retired?” Deborah asked.
"You could say. Had a falling out with my partners. Now I've nothing to do. Isn't that what we all dream of?"
"You know,” Deborah said, sitting up, “I think we've stopped."
* * * *
They were definitely stopped. Carlos got up, went over and leaned on the railing. Brown ropes of seaweed lay close to the hull, spreading away in broken patches like a half-eaten carpet, reaching into a hazy distance. He sensed someone beside him.
"Old wives’ tale that the stuff wraps itself around the propeller shaft,” Pointer said. “It's algae, you know. Sargassum bacciferum to be exact. I wouldn't, I suppose, want to try rowing my way out."
"Why have we stopped?"
"Oh, there may be weather ahead."
Carlos let his glance travel up the superstructure, looking for the bridge. He couldn't pick it out, but he didn't suppose it mattered. Passengers wouldn't be allowed near a ship's critical centers.
"It can't be anything major, can it? They would tell us, wouldn't they?"
"I'm sure there'll be an announcement at dinner,” Pointer said.
They were underway by dinner, and the matter slipped from Carlos's mind. He asked Deborah to join a card game in the lounge, which went on late. Then there were several nightcaps and a stroll on deck. The C deck fantail, close to the water, seemed ideal for watching the phosphorescent wake. When he emerged from the men's room, he knew he was tipsy. He could see his wife ahead, no more solid than a wraith in the moonlight. He followed and was only a step behind when she gave a sign of noticing him.
She weighed next to nothing.
It struck him odd, in her short descent to the water, that she didn't scream. Probably couldn't believe it. He had trouble believing himself that he had finally done it.
* * * *
He should have felt worse about it, but he felt he had separated himself from the mediocrity of his past in a profound way that deserved awe instead of guilt. For seven years, almost as long as he had been married, he had been an assistant principal, little more than a glorified busboy to the headmaster, as his ambitions withered. Now the ambitions would flower, and who knew what lay ahead?
The police would talk to him, of course, but he would get through it. Carlos? Murder Deborah? Everyone who knew them would scoff. There was no insurance policy on Deborah's life. No bank accounts or property that amounted to anything. Their lives were tranquil, without anger or scandal. They were comfortably dull people who should have stayed married forever.
The headmaster wouldn't have tolerated divorce, but he would accept tragedy. Maybe even encourage his aide to wallow in his grief a little. So there might be a few months paid leave, which would carry him well on the way with th
at play he had been meaning to write.
He stumbled down to the cabin, flopped onto the berth.
Then he almost screamed.
Deborah lifted her head from a pillow and murmured, “Where have you been?"
* * * *
Carlos bit the bedsheet and quivered. How had he made such a mistake? His jumbled thoughts spun. Deborah had never been more than a few paces ahead of him—except as he had come from the restroom. Who had been there in the dark, a woman of about Deborah's frailty? Carlos lay stiff and sleepless. It wasn't just the horror of having murdered an innocent person that clutched at him—how many people were truly innocent?—it was the sickening knowledge that he was still bound to her. A single cruise couldn't have two women fall overboard. He and Deborah would be together until he devised something else. And when would that be?
Sensing he was awake, Deborah moved closer. “I really love you, you know."
He stifled a sob.
* * * *
In the morning there was no alarm over a missing woman. Carlos relaxed marginally. Perhaps she had been traveling alone, a foolish thing to do. What did people expect to happen to them when they traveled alone? She must have been one of those gray bundles of sticks who vanished into the woodwork and might not be missed for days.
Before lunch, Carlos sat beside Pointer in the lounge and said, “Another day with no excitement, hmm?” Inviting contradiction, he half expected to hear, “Oh, I don't know. Mrs. So and So's nowhere to be found."
But Pointer didn't disagree. He nodded vaguely, lifting his glance from an empty tall glass. “I'm sleeping ten hours at a stretch."
How interesting, Carlos thought.
"Lazy me,” Pointer said.
Feeling a touch on his shoulder, Carlos turned. Once he had welcomed Deborah's unexpected touches, her timid caresses, even her insistent nuzzling. Now he tightened his shoulder to avoid flinching.
"I missed you on deck,” she said.
He had worried at breakfast that she would see some mark of guilt on him. But she had never understood much of anything that was inside him, and she had chatted gaily, her hand reaching repeatedly across the table for his, claiming every moment of his awareness.
He thought again: I really should feel worse about this.
"I'm going back on deck,” Deborah said. “Don't be long.” She waited for his answer.
"I won't be,” he promised.
She left. Carlos stared at his hands. Inept hands. He could almost hear the headmaster's wheedling, “What? You couldn't get that right?"
"I apologize for mentioning this,” said Pointer.
"Yes?"
"Your wife is rather a cloying woman. I should mind my own business.... But it's as if certain people carry a sign on their sleeve—'Love me or else.’ I would find that hard to take."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Pointer's faded blue eyes, rimmed with dampness, weren't the least bit apologetic. “Haven't you ever wanted to be rid of her?"
Carlos stood up.
"You needn't worry, other people wouldn't notice,” Pointer said. “But you would be happier without her, wouldn't you? Ah, there's Mrs. Bowles!"
As the little woman reached the table, Pointer whispered, “This young fellow is tired of his wife."
Her round face pitying, Mrs. Bowles said, “That's so sad!"
Pointer tapped Carlos's wrist. “Sit down, young man. Perhaps we can help. What have you done about your unhappiness? That's the question."
"Done?"
"You must have done something,” Mrs. Bowles said. “Everyone does something. For example, I poisoned my first husband. That was so many years ago.” She shook her head, smiling, as if the faded memory still held pleasure. “He was a wretched character—possessive, alcoholic—and a devoted sailor. Insisted we go out on his catamaran every weekend. I never liked being on the water...."
Carlos doubted she had poisoned anyone. There were faculty members at the school who were only a step or two removed from such gentle lunacy. They were easy to trap in their contradictions.
"You dislike the water,” Carlos pointed out, “but you spend your time cruising."
She nodded. “Ironic, isn't it?"
"Irony is hard to escape,” said Pointer. “My law practice was everything to me. Yet here I am. The mind remains sharp and analytical. Yet I spend my day snoozing. There is damn little on this boat to think about. Perhaps that's why I'm so interested in your situation. You see, if I were married to a woman such as Deborah, I'm afraid I would want to beat her brains in.” He glanced at Mrs. Bowles.
"Oh, me too,” she said.
"It would take a saint to resist the urge. Do you think our young friend is a saint, Mrs. Bowles?"
"He's nice looking."
"But not saintly?"
"No. But he's handsome enough to get himself a new wife—if the old one were laid to rest."
"I wonder if he's realized that."
"He would be pretty stupid not to."
They both looked at Carlos. Pointer said, “Doesn't look like a saint, and doesn't look stupid. So I would say, reasoning deductively, that he's thought about it and acted on the thought. Question for the defense: Then why is Deborah still with him?"
Mrs. Bowles answered quickly. “Botched the job!"
Carlos felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. They couldn't know, unless one of them had seen him on deck. And in that case, they knew everything. Pushing back from the table, Carlos choked, “You're both out of your minds!"
"Are you going to leave us?” Pointer asked. “It would be fun, wouldn't it, if we guessed how you spoiled the job?"
Mrs. Bowles covered her mouth. “I hope he didn't leave the gas on."
"No, no, Mrs. Bowles! That would take down the entire house, and he only wanted to be rid of the woman. I would bet anything he used carbon monoxide."
Carlos froze.
Pointer's fingers drummed the table. “He probably left the car running in the garage under their bedroom. What do you say, young man?"
Unable to speak, Carlos shook his head.
Deborah knew. That was the only explanation. Not about last night, but about July. She knew, or strongly suspected, and had poured out her fears to this old man, who wasn't nearly as sharp as he pretended. Not even a clever lawyer could arrive deductively at the exact truth. How would Pointer even know they had a garage?
Who else had she told? Her sister? Her mother?
It didn't matter, Carlos thought, stumbling from the lounge. He wouldn't dare make another attempt on her, ever. She had ensured herself a long, safe, stultifying life, with a husband as captive who could be destroyed on a whim. Each day he would wonder, had she cried out her secret to the headmaster? Were the police coming up the stairs? He would never be free. But there was a way.
He crossed the deck to the railing, swung a leg over and looked down.
The impact with the water knocked him senseless.
* * * *
Blinking at the sunlight, Carlos raised himself from the steamer chair. It was late afternoon, a warm and still afternoon, like several that had passed. A thought worked its way out of the back of his mind. How many days had he been aboard?
Two days out, two days back.
It seemed much longer.
If today was the fourth day, they must be headed for port. But in all directions the horizon was empty. No birds had come to greet the ship.
If today wasn't the fourth afternoon—
"Don't you remember?” Pointer spoke from the next chair. “You threw yourself overboard."
Carlos remembered. The brutal collision with the water, its embrace. Who had rescued him?
"Used to try it myself,” Pointer said. “Went overboard and found I was right back here in time for breakfast. Did it twice and got the message."
Carlos stared at him.
"Bored as I am, I'm stuck here. That's the point, I guess. I wonder about you. You tried to murder your wife—"<
br />
Carlos's head snapped around. But Deborah, in the other chair, didn't seem to be listening.
"Carbon monoxide, in the garage."
"You can't know that."
Pointer sounded amused. “Do you remember waiting with her, to get a little dose of fumes yourself to make it look good? Perhaps falling asleep?"
Carlos blinked. Very bright sky. No breeze. “I don't believe this."
Pointer chuckled. “It's just a theory. Us, this ship—a theory must fit the facts. In my case, do you punish an ambitious man by giving him all eternity to do nothing?"
Carlos felt himself slipping. The old man was insane, but there was an insidiousness in his madness. He said, “What did you do to deserve punishment?"
"I used to remember. But now, it's been so long...."
Carlos thought of rational explanations. The carbon monoxide must have starved his brain of oxygen for too long, and he was lying in a hospital ward hallucinating. While doctors prepared to harvest his organs?
"I can't really sleep,” Pointer complained. “I doze but I don't sleep. Sleep would be an escape."
Deborah spoke from her chair. “You were weak, darling, but I forgive you. What matters is we're together."
Together.
Carlos shivered.
If this wasn't the fourth day or the sixth day, which day was it?
Copyright (c) 2008 John C. Boland
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Fiction: BAJA by Edward D. Hoch
Annie Sears had been a detective with the San Diego Police Department only a few months when she received an unexpected assignment. She was to accompany one of the veteran detectives to La Paz near the tip of Baja California to bring back a prisoner being extradited to the United States. Frank Munson, the detective sergeant she'd be traveling with, was middle aged and a bit stocky, wearing a belt in its last notch that told Annie he'd been putting on weight.
"This is one bad guy,” he told Annie in the squad room, handing her the plane ticket for the following day's flight. “Dunstan Quentis is his name.” He passed over a photograph, apparently a mug shot, showing a scruffy-looking man with a shiny shaved head. “His parents were Mexican Americans, very religious. He and his older brother both started out studying for the priesthood. After that he graduated from passing bad checks to stealing jewelry. He served a stretch in prison, and when he came out he turned to armed robbery. Last month while fleeing from a jewelry store holdup on Broadway, he hit a police officer with his car and killed him."
AHMM, September 2008 Page 3