AHMM, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2010 Dell Magazines

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cover by Patricia Hamilton/Gettyimages.com

  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: AND JUSTICE FOR ALL? by Linda Landrigan

  Fiction: SUNDOWN, 290 WEST by David Dietrich

  Fiction: WHEN THE APRICOTS BLOOM by Ellen Larson

  Fiction: NO TROUBLE AT ALL by Douglas Grant Johnson

  Fiction: CERTIFIED by Eve Fisher

  Fiction: THEY CALLED HER THE GUNGIRL by O'Neil De Noux

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Fiction: WHAT PEOPLE LEAVE BEHIND by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Fiction: INDEPENDENCE DAY by R. T. Lawton

  Fiction: TRUE LITERATURE by Ivan Oñate

  Fiction: THE MOB TAPES by David Braly

  Fiction: THE SILVER PENNIES by Mike Culpepper

  Black Orchid Novella Award: STRANGLEHOLD by Steve Liskow

  Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2010

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: AND JUSTICE FOR ALL? by Linda Landrigan

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  One aspect of crime that often gets short shrift in mystery stories is the effect on the victim's family, but this month we have two stories that nicely explore this issue. Both Douglas Grant Johnson's “No Trouble at All” and Kristine Kathryn Rusch's “What People Leave Behind” particularly deal with the effects of crime on the children left behind.

  Three stories in this issue, meanwhile—"When the Apricots Bloom” by Ellen Larson, who makes her AHMM debut this month; “They Called Her the Gungirl” by O'Neil De Noux; and R. T. Lawton's humorous tale “Independence Day"—all take their drama from the complexities of criminal justice systems both in the States and abroad.

  The remaining stories in this issue run the gamut from procedurals to tales of grift to a continuation of the Icelandic series by Mike Culpepper, including the latest winner of our Black Orchid Novella Award.—LINDA LANDRIGAN, EDITOR

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: SUNDOWN, 290 WEST by David Dietrich

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  Art by Andrew R. Wright

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  The ancient Ford pickup belched a blue cloud of exhaust as it lumbered back onto Highway 290. I'd been grateful for the ride—anything beats walking in the heat and humidity of a Central Texas summer—but the truck's air conditioner had been out of order. The driver, a rancher-type in full Western attire, had apologized profusely, saying he'd been fixin' to get it repaired for the longest time.

  For forty miles we drove with the windows rolled down. Hot and damp air blasted our faces and whistled through truck's cab. Our conversation, such as it was, consisted of much back-and-forth yelling. Beyond the part about the broken air conditioner, I can't say for sure what we talked about or even if we were talking about the same things.

  That's how I found myself standing at the side of the highway, guitar case in hand, knapsack over my shoulder, my left thumb out for every passing motorist to see. Massive storm clouds were on the horizon, rolling in fast. Flashes of light and distant rumbles of thunder promised a nasty storm, probably in half an hour or less.

  This was not a good thing, considering I was forty miles from the next wide spot in the road and thus any sort of dry accommodations for the night.

  I wasn't expecting to receive another ride so close to sundown. Most people have either too much common sense or just enough simple survival instinct to know better than to pick up a hitchhiker at night. The few who do pick up hitchhikers after dark are either naive or not people I'd want to ride with, day or night.

  I knew from road signs I'd seen during my ride with the rancher that there was a rest stop about five miles up the road. It wouldn't be perfect, but at least I might be able to dodge some of the rain by hiding out under an overhang or a picnic table. A much louder rumble of thunder quickened my pace a bit when a certain Mercedes passed me for the second time.

  This was the heart of the Central Texas wine country, so I figured they were probably day-tripping Austinites who'd spent the afternoon sampling the local product. Now trapped in a fermented grape-fueled haze, they were having a hard time figuring out which way was east. The coming rainstorm wouldn't help them a bit.

  The Benz disappeared around a curve and I continued walking. My thumb was still hanging out when I heard the sound of an approaching car behind me a minute or so later. It turned out to be the Benz. This time it pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

  The passenger-side window rolled down as I approached the car. I bent down to look inside, expecting yuppie types. I wasn't disappointed. The driver was in his early thirties, handsome in a J.Crew catalogue kind of way, and sported a sloppy, fashionably unkempt look that probably took him an hour a day to achieve. The woman looked a little younger than the man. Her hair was red and curly and her complexion was fair, bordering on pale. Her smile was quick and her voice was warm and velvety. The word seductive came to mind.

  "Looking for a ride?” she asked.

  "Where are you headed?” I asked. “I noticed you pass me a couple of times going in different directions."

  She threw her head back and laughed, like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard.

  "Chad's got no sense of direction,” she said then. The guy behind the wheel (Chad, I assumed) smiled and shrugged, but he said nothing. “We're El Paso-bound."

  "Long drive,” I said.

  "True enough,” she replied.

  "True enough,” I echoed. “I'd love a ride."

  "Cool. Hop in,” she said, and smiled again. One more time with that smile and I'd be in love.

  I opened the back door of the Mercedes, slid my knapsack and guitar case onto the seat, and slipped into an ice-cold corner of paradise. The day's heat had kept my shirt plastered to my back since mid morning, but the car's air conditioning quickly went to work, cooling and drying me and my shirt.

  "Oh,” I said, stretching the syllable about a hundred yards. “This feels great."

  "Long day?” Chad asked over the subtle clicking of the turn signal.

  "Very,” I said. “Rides have been few and far between."

  As the Benz accelerated back onto the highway, the woman turned around in her seat and extended her hand.

  "I'm Lindsay,” she said, taking my hand. She held it a few seconds longer than I expected, then nodded toward the driver and said, “And this is Chad."

  "Nice to meet you both,” I said. “I'm Evan."

  "So where are you headed, Evan?” Lindsay asked.

  "California."

  "Hitchhiking the whole way?” asked Chad.

  "That's the plan,” I said.

  "Wow,” said Lindsay, as if I'd just announced I was going to climb Mount Everest. She looked at me a moment longer, winked, and turned back around to face forward.

  "Nice of you to give me a ride,” I said. “It's much appreciated."

  "Our pleasure,” said Chad. He looked up at me in the rearview mirror. There was no smile on his face to match the light, friendly tone in his voice.

  "Do you play?” Lindsay asked, nodding toward the guitar case.

  "Nah,” I replied. “I just think I look cool when I carry the case.
"

  She looked a little disappointed.

  "Just kidding,” I said. “I play."

  "What kinda music?” asked Lindsay.

  "Whatever they'll pay me to play. I've been playing mostly country lately."

  I expected her to ask me to play something, but she didn't.

  "Pick up hitchhikers a lot? Most people don't these days,” I said. My eyes were drawn to the speedometer. The car was so smooth and quiet that I was surprised to see that the needle was fixed just south of triple digits. Chad's foot contained some serious lead.

  "Nah,” said Chad. “You're the first in a long time."

  Within a few minutes we were in darkness and the first few drops of rain had begun to fall, but not enough for Chad to turn on the wipers. Inside the car the only light was a subtle and almost soothing red glow from the instrument panel and radio controls. The radio was on, but the volume was too low for me to make out what was playing. It could have been rock music or talk radio. We fell into a silence and the quiet, coupled with the gentle motion of the car, eased me into a light sleep.

  When I woke we were stopped at a gas station. It was an old-fashioned place, the kind with just a couple of pumps under an overhang and a small repair garage. Rain was coming down in truckloads. The driver's seat was empty. Lindsay was looking toward the station's little shop area.

  "How long was I out?” I asked, and managed to scare the heck out of Lindsay. She let out a startled cry.

  "You scared me,” she said.

  "Sorry ‘bout that,” I said. “Didn't mean to."

  She regained her composure quickly and turned back to the window.

  "No problem,” she said with an almost legit chuckle.

  Chad was walking back to the car now. Walking pretty fast, actually. I hadn't seen him walk before, so I figured maybe he just walked that fast all the time. He turned the key in the ignition almost immediately and we were back on the highway in seconds.

  "Here,” I said, slipping my wallet out of my back pocket, “let me chip in on the gas."

  Chad waved me off.

  "Appreciate the offer,” he said. “But you're our guest."

  "Cool,” I said.

  Chad nodded and kept his eyes on the road. A few miles up, Lindsay turned again in my direction. She locked eyes with me in the dim light and smiled. Earlier her smiles had warmed me, but not anymore. Something had changed.

  We drove on and another silence—this time an uncomfortable one—settled inside the car. A couple of times Lindsay looked over at Chad and Chad returned her look. They didn't say anything out loud, but there were clearly messages flowing through the looks they were giving each other. Probably about me. I guessed that I'd managed to upset her, which upset him.

  My guess was their next move was to find a place to drop me off. Which was not good since we were in the dead center of the middle of nowhere, a concept that takes on new dimensions in Texas.

  The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted Chad and Lindsay's plotting. They seemed startled by the sound and immediately reached for their respective cell phones. I could tell, though, that it wasn't either of their phones that were ringing. It was the car itself. Or, rather, the phone built into the car.

  Chad seemed to figure this out after a few seconds because he started pressing buttons on the steering wheel to make it stop. Suddenly a female voice replaced the music that had been playing.

  "Hello?” There was a brief pause, then, “Hello? Ben?"

  Chad hurriedly stabbed at the buttons on the steering wheel and the voice went away. He and Lindsay shot each other a glance and Chad began tapping the steering wheel.

  "Who's Ben?” I asked. “Or maybe a better question is, Where is Ben? In the trunk of the car?"

  Chad and Lindsay shot each other yet another glance. This one made my stomach sink. I'd only been half serious about the trunk thing.

  More glances passed between them, then Lindsay turned around and flashed two things. The first was her great, formerly love-inspiring smile. The second was a pistol. It looked like a 9mm to me, probably a Glock, but it was hard to tell in the dim light and the brand probably didn't matter anyway. Content to let the gun do the talking, she didn't say a word.

  The threat of imminent death can do wonders to focus the mind. Or, as in my case, since this wasn't the first time I'd been confronted with a gun, it can make one a bit cavalier.

  "So when did you steal Ben's car?” I asked.

  No answer.

  "You robbed that gas station back there."

  No reply. I was sensing a pattern.

  "I wonder if . . .” I began to say.

  Evidently I'd stretched Lindsay's patience, because she pointed the gun at me.

  "Next question?” she asked.

  "Just one,” I replied. “What's your favorite song by the eighties easy-listening group Air Supply?"

  I thought a little sarcasm might defuse the situation a bit, and it seemed to, at least for a few seconds. Then the red and blue flashing lights appeared behind us.

  Lindsay uttered an obscenity that I won't print here. Chad took the same obscenity and formed a compound word that was no more printable than Lindsay's utterance.

  "Well,” I said, “you have been driving a little fast."

  "Shut up,” said Chad. He didn't yell, which was nice.

  Chad let up on the gas and flicked on the turn signal.

  "Stay cool,” Lindsay said to me, nodding toward the gun, which she slipped between her seat and the center console.

  "You do the same, Bonnie,” I said. “I'm just an innocent bystander."

  "It'll be healthier for you if you keep your mouth shut,” said Chad. He tried to sound menacing but didn't quite pull it off. Lindsay was clearly the tough guy in the relationship.

  Chad slowed the Benz to a stop on the shoulder, rolled down his window, and shut off the engine. Like the good citizen that he was pretending to be, he put both of his hands in plain sight on the steering wheel. Lindsay kept hers in her lap.

  It was a state trooper who'd pulled us over. The spotlights on his patrol car lit up the Mercedes. The trooper, wearing a yellow slicker, approached the car with typical cop caution, flashlight in his left hand, his right hand resting on the grip of his holstered pistol. He was an older guy, but tall, broad shouldered, and solid as a railroad engine.

  "Evening,” he said to Chad, while the beam of his flashlight made a quick pass through the car, pausing on each of our faces. The beam and his gaze lingered on my face a bit longer than I would have preferred. “You were running a little fast back there, partner."

  "Was I?” said Chad. “The car's so quiet it's hard to tell sometimes."

  "Got your license handy?"

  Chad handed it over.

  "Be right back,” said the trooper.

  Chad watched him in the side view mirror, a calculating expression on his face.

  "Gonna pop him?” I asked.

  Chad, a man, I'd discovered, of very few words, didn't answer.

  "Shoot him and they'll hunt you down."

  "Shut up,” hissed Lindsay.

  "If you're lucky,” I continued, beyond caring, “they won't take you alive. If they do, you'll get a few years in Huntsville before they stick the needle in your arm."

  Chad kept his head forward and his eyes on the trooper. Lindsay gritted her teeth and glared at me. She wasn't so pretty anymore. Suddenly Chad tensed. I turned my head slightly and saw the trooper hustling back to the Mercedes. Lindsay's hand slid quickly toward her pistol. I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting for the fireworks to begin.

  "Your lucky night,” said the trooper, handing Chad his license. “Just got dispatched to a collision outside Stonewall. Watch your speed, ‘specially in this weather, hear?"

  "Yes sir,” said Chad. “Thank you."

  Chad watched in the rearview mirror as the trooper got back into his patrol car, whipped a U-turn, and quickly disappeared eastbound. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped l
oudly and almost immediately. Chad laughed nervously, clearly relieved. He started the car and eased back onto the highway.

  Ten miles up the road the car slowed and we pulled into the empty, unlit parking lot of a closed peach stand. Chad turned off the headlights. A series of lightning flashes lit up the lot as bright as day and a moment later it sounded like the roof of the car was being pelted with thousands of ball bearings. We were being treated to a hailstorm. If we'd turned on the news we'd probably have heard we were in the middle of a tornado watch zone.

  "I'm surprised you didn't say something to the trooper back there,” said Chad, speaking up so he could be heard over the roof-pelting hail.

  "What was I gonna say?” I said. "These two have guns. Help me! Some-thing like that?"

  "Yeah. Something like that."

  "Didn't need the unnecessary attention,” I said.

  For some reason this made both of them laugh.

  "Something funny?” I asked.

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  "As if you'd have something to worry about,” said Lindsay.

  "Yeah,” I said. "As if."

  "Did you ever wonder,” said Lindsay, “why we picked you up in the first place?"

  The look in Lindsay's eyes could only have been described as gleefully homicidal. Actually, the look could have also been accurately described as belonging to the type of people who pick up hitchhikers at night. She started to reach for the pistol again. Instead of an answer to her question, I offered a question of my own.

  "Ever wonder,” I said, “why sane people don't pick up hitchhikers at night?"

  I reached into my knapsack and showed them why.

  Copyright © 2010 David Dietrich

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: WHEN THE APRICOTS BLOOM by Ellen Larson

  A diminutive orange car pulled away from the train station and scooted through the empty streets of Benha, Egypt. It turned the wrong way up a one-way street (to trim three blocks off the trip) and stopped before a sprawling five-story edifice that dominated the city center by virtue of its imposing green facade and air of decaying grandiosity.