Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016
- Автор: Дивер Джеффри, Эллин Стенли
- Год: 2016
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penny Publications
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016». Краткое содержание книги:
Which was odd. My dad inherited this hilltop from his grand-pop, and though I couldn’t recall the exact details of my mother’s will, I knew the old place had come down to me.
Not that it’s worth much. There are vast oceans of vacant land in Vale County. Eighty thousand acres of state and federal woodlands, probably three times that in private hands. There’s more open land in northern Michigan than in half the countries in the UN.
Most of it’s primeval forest, like the ground surrounding this hilltop, as far as the eye can see. Natural habitat for native species too numerous to count, from earthworms to opossums, on up to the predators that feed on them. Coyotes and wolves, bobcats and bears.
And us, of course.
But in these woods, primates aren’t automatically at the top of the food chain. Every once in a while, a rogue bear or a coyote pack will remind us of that fact.
I stomped out the ashes of my campfire, walked out to the Jeep, and drove into town.
When I was a kid, Valhalla was a quiet little resort town snoozing on Michigan’s north shore. Nowadays it’s booming, flush with Internet money. Fierce young entrepreneurs, buying up everything in sight. Big-box chain stores springing up along the lakeshore roads, housing projects blanketing the hills above the town, so new the windows still have stickers on them.
The last bastion of my teen years is Oldtowne, the historic center of the village, six blocks of nineteenth-century buildings, some original, some updated, all faithful to their Victorian roots. Cobblestone streets and sidewalks, globular street lamps.
And the heart of the heart?
The Jury’s Inn. The old saloon dates back to the First World War. Built across the street from the courthouse, it’s a hangout for cops, lawyers, and media people, and locals who want to keep up with the latest gossip.
I took a seat at a corner table, facing the door with my back to the wall. An old habit, but a smart one. Ask Wild Bill Hickok.
The joint was buzzing like a hive, the jukebox thumping out Motown oldies, cops scarfing up lunch while newspeople sniffed around for headlines and lawyers swapped away their clients’ rights like a game of Texas hold ’em.
Nordic ambiance. Blond furniture, birch paneling, wagon-wheel chandeliers. Table lamps fashioned from deer antlers.
At the rear of the dining room, a massive octagonal table sits apart from the others, ensuring privacy for anyone who chooses it.
Today it was Todd Girard, prosecuting attorney for the five northern counties, sitting with a judge and a couple of cops I vaguely remembered.
I doubted a soul in the place would remember me.
But I was wrong about that.
“Jax?”
I glanced up. A tall woman in a khaki uniform was frowning down at me. She looked vaguely familiar, definitely someone I should know. But I didn’t.
“You are Jackson LaDart, right? Jake and Yvonne’s boy?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, starting to rise. “I’m sorry, but I don’t—”
“Marge Kazmarek,” she said, waving me back to my seat. She sat down facing me, but didn’t offer her hand.
“Of course,” I said. “You’re Chief Kazmarek’s wife.”
“Actually, I am Chief Kazmarek now,” she said, indicating the badge on her blouse. “Walt had a coronary chasing a dealer off school grounds last year. The city council asked me to fill in for the remainder of his term. I’m surprised to see you. When you didn’t show at your mother’s funeral, I thought you might be—”
“—dead?”
“A man who doesn’t show for his own ma’s funeral better be dead.”
“We were in the field, Chief, turning a mountaintop into an airstrip. I didn’t get word until it was over.”
“The army should do better by you boys.”
“I haven’t been in the military for a while.”
“I heard you quit the army but stayed in the war. Couldn’t imagine why anybody’d do that.”
“The CIA pays five times army wages, for the same kind of construction work.”
“With people still shooting at you?”
“Sometimes, sure. It comes with the territory. Why?”
“Your buddy Brian Baylor came home a few months ago, or half of him did. He’s staying with his sister. I hear he’s in pretty rough shape.”
I looked away, avoiding her eyes.
“You didn’t know?” she asked.
“Brian and I... got separated after it happened. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Because you left him? To die?”
I just stared at her.
“Brian was in Valhalla Samaritan for a month before they sent him home,” she explained, meeting my eyes dead on. “The nurses said he babbled in his sleep sometimes. Begging you not to leave him. And cursing you. What the hell happened over there, Jax?”
“A whole lot happened, Chief. Every damned day. None of it anybody’s business. Half the world’s at war, from Peshawar to Paris. Maybe you’ve seen it on TV.”
“Brian says you were working for some rag-head warlord.”
“His name was Omar Khalid, he was my friend and an ally. And since he was slaughtered, along with his whole family, you might want to watch your tone.”
“I don’t give a damn about anything over there, Jax. I’m sorry as hell about Brian, but you’re the one I’m worried about. Who are you working for now?”
“I’m between jobs. Why?”
“Lot of new faces in town. Some of them hard-case vets. Thought you might be one of them.”
“I’m not a new face.”
“But you got no people here anymore. So what are you doing here, Jax?”
“Visiting my hometown, Chief. Why would that be a problem?”
“You were always a problem, Jax, even as a kid. And now? There’s no work for mercenaries around here. Go back to your war, son, or find yourself a new one, the farther off the better.”
“I’m just passing through, Chief.”
“Glad to hear that, since they pay me to keep the peace around here,” she said, rising to go. “Make it a quick visit, Jax, and don’t expect to trip over no welcome mat.”
“Chief? I crashed at my folks’ old place last night. The property’s been posted with ‘no trespassing’ signs.”
“Then it sounds like you were trespassing.”
“On my own property?”
“A lot of land’s changed hands in the county recently,” she said. “Your buddy Danny Froggett’s handling most of it. He might know something.”
“I’ll ask. Thank you.”
She didn’t bother to answer. Shot me with a fingertip instead. Then strode briskly over to the Old Boys’ table to chat up the cops. Several of them glanced my way. Not hostile, just mentally taking my picture. For further reference.
I signaled the waitress for my check.
Outside, on that sun-dappled street, it almost felt like a long-lost teenage summer again, back in my hometown. But not for long. Too many cars, too new. Mostly SUVs, overgrown, overpowered road hogs that will never charge up anything steeper than a drive-thru at Burger King.
America. I love this country, but I’ve spent most of my adult life in foreign wars, and when I do make it home, I feel more and more like an immigrant. A stranger in a strange land.
Everybody mumbles now, talking to themselves as they walk down the street. I know they have cell phones plugged into their ears, that they’re actually carrying on a conversation with someone else, but it weirds me out...
And I was stalling.
Delaying the inevitable. Putting off the real reason I’d come back.
I had to see Brian again. To face him. And explain, if I could.
First things first. The chief said he was staying with his sister, and Peg was a reporter with the Valhalla News, just up the street.