Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018
- Автор: Ловси Питер, Зельцерман Дэйв
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018». Краткое содержание книги:
According to the article, an investigation had been launched following a series of unexplained disappearances in the area, and it led to a macabre discovery: Miss Pamela Sykes, 57, spinster, warehouse employee at a mall, had buried no less than seven bodies in her little garden. According to her confession, her first victim was thirty years ago. The rest followed at sporadic intervals. She had suffered sexual violence when she was a teenager, and she had a “score to settle” with rapists and abusers of any kind. Yes, it was a kind of mission she’d given herself. Yes, she’d acted alone in every case. No, she did not feel any particular remorse.
The librarian announced that it was time to clear out of the reading room. Before closing the magazine, Angelique met the eyes of Miss Sykes staring out of the photo. As she rose from her chair she heard the deep, reassuring voice of her landlady:
“Take care, love.”
© Gallimard Jeunesse, Paris, 2013; translation
© 2018 by Samuel Ashworth
Duty, Honor, Hammett
by Stacy Woodson
Stacy Woodson is a U.S. Army veteran, and she’s made use of her firsthand knowledge of the military in this debut story. In 2017, she won the Daphne du Maurier Award for best romantic suspense, in the single-title, unpublished category, and one of her (unpublished) stories was a 2016 Killer Nashville Claymore finalist. She contributes nonfiction to Publishers Weekly and DIY MFA.
In Arlington Cemetery, under the steps of the Memorial Amphitheater, the clock in Tomb Guard Quarters chimed.
“Bells. Bells.” Tuck, my trainer, echoed the time warning.
But I remained at attention — chin up, chest out, shoulders back — while he inspected my uniform. My brass shone. My medals were exact. And my shoes sparkled like a Mop & Glo ad.
Tuck still made another pass, his success tied to mine. This time, he attacked my jacket with a lint roller. The tape crinkled back and forth as he wheeled it across my shoulders.
“Looking good, Jimmy.” He finally gave his approval, even though he still hovered like a parent on the first day of preschool.
I loosened my shoulders and tried to relax, but all I could think about was the performance test that loomed ahead.
My standard is perfection.
Line six of the Sentinel’s Creed echoed in my head, a reminder of what I needed to achieve. My uniform. My movements. Everything I did was cataloged and graded. With a ninety-percent attrition rate, few Tomb guards rose to the level of sentinel. If I made one mistake, one misstep...
My family’s sentinel legacy ended with me.
I swallowed and tried to push the thought away. Instead, my chest tightened, and the coat belted against me suddenly felt like a straitjacket.
“You okay, Specialist Reilly?” I looked up. Sergeant Spanelli, my relief commander, stood in the doorway. His uniform shone like mine. Medals filled his chest and gleamed like armor against the blue backdrop of his wool coat. He donned his service cap and pushed against the sides to adjust the fit rather than smudge the shiny brim. He checked himself in the mirror and then his dark eyes met mine. “Specialist Reilly...”
“Sergeant?”
“Are. You. Okay?”
“Roger that, Sergeant,” I responded quickly, even though my heart still slammed back and forth against my rib cage.
Spanelli’s eyes narrowed as if he didn’t buy it. A second passed. Then two. “All right,” he finally said. His baritone voice tweaked my frayed nerves. “I’m headed up.” He slipped on his polarized sunglasses, and my wide eyes reflected back at me. “Have a good walk.”
“See you topside,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.
Spanelli’s hulking hand smacked at the exit button to the exterior door. The lock disengaged and the door yawned open. He ascended the stairs, and the door eased shut behind him.
My gaze returned to the Ready Room and all its spit-shined glory: polished uniform accessories perched on wide wooden shelves, varnished leather furniture arranged in a perfect square, and aged photographs that chronicled a ninety-year sentinel legacy.
I glanced back in the mirror. My brother, in his army combat uniform, sat behind me.
Just like you.
Just like Dad.
Today, I walk the mat.
I turned to face him, but the chair was empty. My shoulders sagged.
Tuck disappeared down the hallway. When he returned, he handed me a spray bottle filled with water. I spritzed the palms of my gloves and hoped the moisture was enough to keep my M14 rifle from slipping against the fabric.
Tuck took the bottle. “It’s GO time.”
I swallowed hard. I needed to nail this.
For my dad.
For my brother.
For the Reilly family.
I grabbed my M14 from the rifle rack, pulled the charging handle, and inspected the chamber. It was clear. I brought the weapon to port arms, pressed the exit button, and took the stairs. The metal cheaters on my shoes click-clacked against the risers like some kind of clicking time bomb. I wondered if it was possible to explode from anxiety.
I made it to the top and stepped onto the walkway. The sun glared off the marble. I squinted, despite the sunglasses, and worked my way to the plaza — the Memorial Amphitheater at my left and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at my right. I stopped at the inspection block and blew out a breath.
Here we go.
I dropped my M14 to port arms and unlocked the bolt — the signal to Sergeant Spanelli that I was ready to begin.
Spanelli’s shoes click-clacked against the ground before I saw him. He marched past me to the black mat and continued until he was in front of the Tomb. He executed a right face, rendered a salute, and then turned toward the crowd of spectators behind the rails and chains.
“Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? I am Sergeant Spanelli of the Third Infantry Division, U.S. Army. Guard of Honor, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The ceremony you are about to witness is the Changing of the Guard. In keeping with the dignity of the ceremony, it’s requested everyone remain silent and standing.”
The crowd lulled to a whisper. I wondered how many were there. But I didn’t look. My eyes remained fixed forward.
My standard is perfection.
Spanelli marched toward me. His movements were fluid, nearly elegant. He grabbed my weapon and snapped it back and forth between his hands as he worked through the white-glove inspection.
Satisfied, he returned my rifle, and I moved it to shoulder arms. We marched in unison to the retiring guard at the center of the Tomb and saluted the Unknown. Orders were passed, and I took my place on the mat.
Twenty-one steps. Turn. Face the Tomb. Hold for twenty-one seconds. Turn. Move rifle to outside shoulder. Repeat.
Again and again.
Each sequence choreographed, each movement flawless.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Soon, my relief took his place on the inspection block, and I was at the end of my perfect shift, until a strangled sound shattered the silence:
CACAW. CACAW.
My teeth clenched, and my fingers wrapped tight around the butt of my weapon.
I exhaled sharply and forced my focus on the sequence:
Face tomb.
Count: One. Two. Three—
CACAW. CACAW.