EQMM, July 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I don't know yet,” he lied.

  "Yes, you do. You're no more hard-hearted than I am."

  "Ah, but you are hard-hearted where I'm concerned."

  "Perhaps not,” she said. “Perhaps my heart is softer for you than you think."

  He said with sudden soaring hope, “My dear Sabina, does that mean—?"

  "You're not going to tell Mrs. Canford about her son, are you?"

  "No. Certainly not. Never."

  "A wise decision,” she said. “Now suppose we get back to work?"

  He sat bewildered at his desk. Had she meant what she'd said a moment ago about her softening heart, or had she merely been toying with him to elicit his promise? He couldn't decide which. Poor smitten fool that he was, all he knew for certain was that now he pined for her affections more than ever.

  Copyright © 2010 Bill Pronzini

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  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  The Stiletto Gang would be a great title for a movie, right? Nobody's used it for a movie, however, or even for a book, but it's the name of a blog (thestilettogang.blogspot.com) hosted by a group of “women writers on a mission to bring mystery, humor, and high heels to the world.” Who are these women? I'm glad you asked. They're Evelyn David, who posts on Mondays, Marilyn Meredith (Tuesdays), Maggie Barbieri, (Wednesdays), Rachel Brady (last Friday of the month), Misa Ramirez (last two Thursdays), and Susan McBride (first and third Fridays). On the first two Thursdays and the second Friday each month, they have guest posters. So you get plenty of variety, and you're sure to find something to enjoy, from personal posts about income taxes to comments about the authors’ current novels. The writers also have their scheduled appearances noted in a sidebar, along with links to their websites.

  Mysterious Matters (mysteriousmatters.typepad.com) is a completely different kind of blog. It's “designed to educate and entertain both writers and readers of mystery and suspense novels with tips, comments, and the inside story of the mystery publishing business,” and its author prefers to remain anonymous. He's a man, known to his readers only as “Agatho,” in honor of Agatha Christie, and his blog contains “advice for new writers; the topic of money; reviews; used books; mistakes often made by people in their first books; mystery listservs and mystery on the Internet; and so forth.” Recently he's had posts on character development in genre fiction ("utter nonsense"), a review of the year 2009 as it pertains to mystery fiction, and the role of plot in fiction. His goal is “to be honest and straightforward,” and it's always interesting to see what he has to say.

  If you're looking for fine, thoughtful reviews, you should be aware of Lesa's Book Critiques (lesasbookcritiques.blogspot.com), with Lesa Holstine, a librarian in Glendale, Arizona. Lesa's the winner of the 2009 Spine-tingler Award for Best Reviewer, just in case you were wondering if you could trust her taste. She occasionally writes other kinds of posts, including those touting the “hot titles” for some particular month. Or she might write about her library's brown-bag luncheons, quarterly events where she talks to library patrons about her favorite books from the preceding three months. Lesa recently lost her husband, Jim, to cancer, and her personal posts on that occasion are both insightful and moving. They're well worth looking for among the reviews.

  Bill Crider's own peculiar blog can be found at billcrider.blogspot.com.

  Copyright © 2010 Bill Crider

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  Fiction: THE VENGEANCE OF KALI by David Dean

  2007 Readers Award winner David Dean, by day the chief of police in a New Jersey resort town, has been writing a lot of stories lately. The pro-tagonist of this latest tale is an eleven- year-old thief whose secret world is observed, from above, by a flock of buzzards. The story's feathered char-acters have a counterpart in the real world. “They dwell,” the author tells us, “less than a mile from my house, on a street very similar to the one described.” We'll have more from this evocative writer later this year.

  Kieran sat on his bike at the edge of the wood line and watched the new people transfer their furnishings from the van to the house. He had been doing so for nearly half an hour and not been noticed. This did not surprise him. It was in his character, in fact integral to his lifestyle, that he not be seen or remarked upon. Living in his older brother's long shadow, and dwelling at the lower tier of his neighborhood's age group, had taught him the art of near invisibility. Even his red hair failed to excite notice, so practiced was he at living in the shadows.

  The people that he watched from astride his travel-worn, stripped-down bike, however, could expect nothing but scrutiny. The strange reddish hue of their dark skins and the exotic chirping of their outlandish language guaranteed it in Kieran's neighborhood, and he found it difficult to take his eyes from them. In fact, he could not have been more astounded at their manifestation had they been deposited there by a spacecraft, as opposed to the Mercedes SUVs and other expensive cars they had arrived in just minutes before the moving van.

  Moments before their remarkable landfall, Kieran had been coursing along on the narrow bike paths that bisected the few remaining woods of his neighborhood, traveling unseen from one street to the next as he studied the backyards of the houses within a several-block radius. It was from these observations that he would sometimes schedule return visits under cover of darkness to select and remove objects that he coveted—his bike being an example, hence its stripped-down conversion to avoid identification.

  Other thefts lacked such obvious value, but spoke to some inarticulate need, such as his surprising and difficult appropriation of a backyard soccer net. The actual removal of this unwieldy object had been extremely difficult and fraught with the peril of discovery, yet he had accomplished it in the dark of night and somehow dragged it the two blocks to his home without arousing victim or witnesses.

  Sadly, as Kieran had failed to secure a soccer ball and did not know how the game was played in any case, the net was left to collect only leaves and debris as it began its slow decline from neglect in his backyard—a monument, perhaps, to something he could not yet articulate. But on this long Sunday afternoon in early autumn no such thoughts occupied his mind, for he had chanced upon the interlopers just as they began their disembarkation.

  With cries like strange birds they greeted one another as their caravan of luxury cars disgorged them onto the newly asphalted drive. The men were all quite thin and small, sporting thick moustaches; their clothing running the gamut from somber suits to brightly colored and zippered warmup togs. The women were even more arresting, with long black hair that glistened in the warm sun, while their bodies, draped in diaphanous materials dyed outlandish pinks, purples, and greens, glimmered beneath the soft September sky.

  Each person stopped short of embracing the other, instead bringing their hands together as if in prayer and momentarily bowing their heads. Once this had been accomplished, it appeared they were free to hug, shake hands, or kiss. Kieran watched entranced, thinking of the dragonflies he sometimes observed over the lichen-covered birdbath in his backyard, hovering and circling close to one another before dipping slightly in the humid air and racing off.

  Suddenly, one of the older men pointed in Kieran's direction and without any unnecessary movement the boy withdrew several feet further into the shadows beneath the canopy of dry, coloring leaves. It was as if he had simply faded out of the picture—a minute, but possibly distracting figure in the landscape removed with cloth and turpentine.

  Yet he needn't have feared, for the gaze of all rose to the treetops and halted, the faces of the men closing in consternation, even as the women's pursed in distaste and their large, dark eyes widened in barely suppressed horror. There followed a silence that was, in turn, replaced by a hubbub in the foreign tongue of the newcomers. Several more of them began pointing at the treetops and exclaiming in alarmed tones.

  Kieran had no need of a translator to divine the cause of their clamor; he was very familiar wit
h the troop of undertakers that roosted opposite their home site and even now flapped their ragged wings and sidled uneasily on their branches under the hostile gaze of their newest neighbors. Kieran could not recall a time when they had not dwelt there.

  As a small boy, he could remember lying on his back in the adjoining field, now long given over to lots for upscale homes, and watching the great birds rustle and flap amongst the branches of the largest trees. On such mornings, clear and dappled with sun, they emerged from the arboreal gloom as dark, shapeless shadows perched singly or in discontented, peevish clusters, shoving and pecking their fellow tribe members.

  As the sun's rays began to pierce their enclave, wings would be thrown wide to absorb the warmth and dry the damp from their feathers; these violent, inconsiderate actions often dislodging a fellow vulture and forcing him to flap wildly as he sought to obtain the next available perch and avoid crashing into the earth.

  After a period of this, at what always appeared to be an agreed-upon moment, though Kieran had never heard the carrion eaters utter a single sound, first one, followed by another, then another, would fall forth from the limbs they had been so unwilling to leave but moments before, throw wide their great wings, and begin their ungainly climb into the morning sky.

  At these moments, Kieran thought there could not be a clumsier, less flight-worthy bird; yet once they clambered onto that first thermal that would raise them into the heavens on its column of superheated air, they attained the grace of angels. They were no longer the clown princes of the bird world, but an aerial ballet troupe silently wheeling across the heavens in follow-the-leader acrobatics. It seemed to Kieran that they could glide for hours without a single beat of the wing, without the least effort at staying aloft. It was only when they returned to their roost each evening that he was reminded again of what ugly creatures they really were, with their ragged cloaks of dusty wings and their raw, blood-dipped heads—their forlornly comic return heralded by the crash of branches, the scattering of leaves, and a rain of sad, dirty feathers.

  Kieran watched as the oldest of the men, the same one who had first noticed the turkey vultures, hurried over to the rear door of one of the Mercedes. Even from across the street, Kieran could recognize the body language of deference, as the man opened the door, made the obligatory prayer gesture, and offered his arm to whoever was within.

  Kieran stared in wonder as the tiny figure, wrapped in gold-and-white cloth, was deposited onto the smooth, oily-looking drive and the entire company went silent, brought their hands together as one, and bowed. The ancient woman, who appeared no larger than a child to the eleven-year-old Kieran, returned the gesture, then spoke; her tiny voice carried away in the light breeze. The newcomers smiled without showing their teeth, their heads still slightly inclined. Kieran sensed that they were uncomfortable about something—that they were awaiting the old woman's judgment.

  The older gentleman who stood clutching her elbow (Kieran couldn't help but think of him as a gentleman due to his age and the fact that he wore a suit) spoke then, and pointed again to the trees, though this time it appeared to be for the old woman's benefit. His gesture was at once reluctant and dismissive. Then he and the rest returned once more to silence.

  Kieran had already guessed that this ancient woman was the matriarch of the clan and the rest, her children, grandchildren, and possibly great-grandchildren. He awaited her judgment with interest—if she disapproved of the vultures, would they simply return to their cars and leave?

  She stood within the circle of her large family and tilted her head up to the treetops, shading her eyes with one hand as she steadied herself on her eldest son's arm with the other. Her hair, uncovered like the younger women's, fell down her back as a great rope of grey, bound by gold ribbon.

  All eyes, including Kieran's, followed her gaze to settle on the unattractive birds, who shuffled uneasily on their whitened limbs. Several, apparently unable to bear the tension, launched themselves in muffled explosions of discomfort to cant awkwardly this way and that between the trees as they sought the anonymity of the deeper forest. The old woman continued to study them.

  Kieran's interest returned to her and there he found her eldest regarding her with concern and it suddenly dawned on the boy that this gentleman had failed to notice the birds prior to this day, and that this failure might have actual consequences—it was up to the old lady to pronounce judgment.

  Suddenly, she brought her palms together and held them aloft as if greeting the vultures and smiled. She spoke several words to the assembled family and laughed merrily; then pointed quite openly to the great birds and spoke once more. Now everyone joined in on the joke, if that was what it was, and Kieran could see, even at a distance, relief flood the features of the eldest son; the lines of consternation smoothed out by hilarity and laughter. This time when they smiled, the entire family revealed brilliant teeth and uplifted faces. They would stay—and with that, the eldest escorted her toward the front door and possession, as the older sons and all the women followed in train, leaving only the younger men to resume the job of unpacking the van.

  As the front door closed behind the procession, Kieran was left in the shadow of the wood, his curiosity replaced by a strange longing that felt like a fragile egg within his bony chest. And after several long moments of watching for something more, though he could not say what, he lifted the bike between his legs and walked it in a semicircle to face the way he had come, suddenly aware of the cheap quality of his stolen prize and the dull, faded colors of his jeans and black T-shirt gone nearly grey with washings. Then, like his feathered companions, the boy flew back into the woods, bumping and careening his way into the greater darkness.

  * * * *

  When Kieran arrived home, his mother stood at the kitchen sink, still wrapped in her housecoat, coffee in one hand and first cigarette of the day in the other, watching the sun sink beneath the western treeline. Her mass of springy red hair floated about her shoulders in an unkempt nimbus highlighted by the fading light from the window. Though she looked tired and dark beneath the eyes, her smile upon seeing him lent her face a plucky, good-natured attractiveness that might be confused with beauty in a younger woman. Kieran sometimes thought that she was beautiful.

  She reached out expertly with the hand holding her smoke, and without so much as spilling her ash, caught his long hair as he tried to slip by, leant over, and planted a large, moist kiss on his reluctant cheek. In that brief instant, Kieran was treated to an unwanted glimpse of her ample cleavage, barely contained within the loose confines of her gown.

  As she straightened up and caught the focus of his gaze, she popped the cigarette back into her mouth and ran a finger down his short, straight nose. “Boys,” she said wistfully and smiled, “always grow up to be men and men can never get over . . . “ She caught herself and stopped. “All girls have these, you know.” She arched an eyebrow at her son. “They're no big deal, believe me."

  "I know that,” Kieran mumbled as he tried to slip by once more.

  "I've got to work tonight . . . you know thattoo, right,” she continued, turning to place her cup in the sink, still smiling.

  "Yessss,” he hissed in exasperation and embarrassment. Kieran's mom worked rotating twelve-hour shifts as a dispatcher at the police department, and he was well acquainted with her schedule—it was while she was on night shifts that he was able to do his best work. Kevin, his sixteen-year-old brother, was supposed to watch him during these absences, but seldom actually did and made little pretense of the matter.

  "You smell like pine,” his mom said thoughtfully. “Where've you been?"

  "Nowhere,” he replied automatically. “Did you know some foreigners are moving in on Palomino Drive?"

  "Foreigners,” she repeated. “What makes you say that?"

  "You should see them,” he answered.

  "There are some barbequed ribs from that takeout you like in the fridge,” she pronounced, suddenly aware of the time; then stubb
ed out her smoke and sailed down the short corridor to the bathroom and her shower. “I also got that cole slaw and potato salad you love so much,” she called back to him as she was closing the door, “and don't wait for your brother . . . believe it or not, he called and said he'd be a little late."

  "Good,” Kieran replied, snatching up the remotes for the television and the video games. “I hope he never comes home."

  "What's that?” His mother's muffled voice reached him through the door and over the running water.

  "Nothing,” Kieran assured her. “I said okay."

  * * * *

  It was after one o'clock in the morning when Kevin finally arrived home for his babysitting duties. He awoke Kieran as he stumbled down the hallway searching for his own bedroom, then suddenly retraced his steps back to his little brother's room and threw open the door. There was a pause as he hung silhouetted in the door frame, reeking of booze and an odd, chemical odor. Kieran tried to pretend he was still asleep by keeping his breathing steady; then, Kevin switched the light on.

  "Just wanted to make sure the boogeyman hadn't gotten you,” he slurred, his long, dark hair framing a lean face that might someday be handsome. His heavy-lidded blue eyes slid over Kieran with amusement.

  "There's no such thing,” Kieran responded automatically, the barbeque sauce now sour in his stomach.

  "You better hope not, as much time as Mom leaves you alone."

  "You're supposed to watch me,” Kieran blazed hotly in defense of their mother and much against his own best judgment.

  "Is that right?” Kevin asked. “Wouldn't that be the job of your daddy?"

  Kieran winced at the allusion to their separate fathers.

  "I'm not your daddy,” his brother concluded flatly. “But at least I look in on you to make sure you're alive. Who else would?"

  This was a question that Kieran had no wish to dwell on and it hurt his pride that he was, in fact, very glad to see his brother. “Get out of my room, Kevin, I'm trying to sleep,” was all he could think to say.