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:
“Dropping off a friend. But I stayed on afterwards, getting my head together.”
“A lost cause, I’m guessing.”
“It was fun to try. How about you?”
“Not having much fun, lately. My marriage broke up, you know.”
“No, man, I hadn’t heard. What happened?”
“Carol took off to find herself. Last I heard she was living in Taos with a yoga instructor.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I said.
“It happens, about half the time, nowadays.” Frog shrugged. “Tell me about Paris.”
“It was... like the songs say. City of Light. Barges on the Seine, chestnut trees in blossom. And for the first time in a long time, nobody was trying to kill me. So I visited the Louvre, hooked up with an art dealer. Wasted some afternoons in sidewalk cafes on the Champs-Élysées listening to people arguing politics or music or art.”
“So the obvious question is... why the hell did you come back, Jax?”
“I couldn’t sleep there, Frog. I kept waking in the night. Listening to the traffic, listening to footsteps in the hallway. I thought it was combat stress, that it would pass.
“Then one night I woke and realized what I was listening for. Wind sighing in the pines, the Vale River chuckling in the dark. I needed to come home, Frog. If I still have one.”
“Valhalla will always be—”
“I mean my home. I stopped by my folks’ old place. It’s posted with notrespassing signs. Sav-Land Management?”
“You mean the hilltop? With the burned-out cabin? I, um, I got a fat offer for it a few months ago, Jax. Got you a helluva price.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Hell, you didn’t ask me to do anything, Jax. You gave me power of attorney to settle your mom’s estate four years ago and I haven’t heard from you since. It was a good offer and I haggled it up to triple the going rate. I thought you’d be happy to unload it. Back in the day, you couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
He was right about that part.
But wrong about the rest.
Working in war zones, I’ve dealt with some hard cases, warlords and tribal chieftains who’ve survived invasions, jihads, and political shifts that would baffle Machiavelli. I can’t always be sure if someone’s telling me the truth, but I usually know when they’re not. And somewhere in the middle of Froggy’s explanation, I realized my oldest friend was lying to me.
Lying faster than a dog could trot.
I just couldn’t imagine why.
“Who bought the old place, Frog?”
“A new guy in town, Phil Savarese. He took over the Buffalo Country Game Ranch, wants to expand the operation. He’s been buying a lot of land around the county. It was a strong offer, Jax. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“How strong an offer?”
“I don’t recall offhand, but it was definitely over market value—”
“Good. If he paid too much, he won’t mind flipping it for a quick profit. Offer him a ten-percent bump, Frog. Buy it back.”
“It’s too late for that, Jax,” he said quickly. “We’ve already bundled it into a package that’s been transferred to a holding company.”
“We? You’re working with him? And this Savarese isn’t buying it for himself? To expand his game ranch?”
Frog glanced away, looking for a workable explanation in the corner of the room. He wasn’t a very good liar. Probably hadn’t had much practice.
Damn.
“Where I’ve been, over in the Sandbox? Villagers don’t have much, Frog. A mud hooch, a few goats, and a rifle. I dealt with tribal elders a lot, negotiating for landing strips, or roads, or strongholds. They’re Muslims, so most of ’em considered me an enemy, a Crusader. But they still treated me like a guest, shared what little they had. And for the most part, they were honest. And they didn’t have to be. The Koran forgives a lie to an enemy, Frog. But I thought we were friends.”
“We are, Jax. We go back—”
“I know we were friends then. What about now?”
“That’s not fair. You can’t come back after all this time, and expect—”
“That we’d still be friends?”
He started to say something, then hesitated, and that moment of silence told me more than I wanted to know.
“Okay, I’ll make it simple for you, Frog. I don’t care what Savarese paid you. I didn’t okay the sale and I want my land back. Tell him you made a mistake, or — hell, I don’t care what you tell him. But get my hilltop back.”
“Damn it, Jax, you don’t understand. Savarese isn’t somebody I can say no to. He’s got some rough customers working for him—”
“How rough?”
“Some of the old-time landowners are reluctant to sell. Savarese has guys who can change their minds. You don’t want that kind of trouble over a lousy forty acres. Let me put you into something better. Lakefront, with a beach or—”
I waved him off.
“Frog, I’ve been places you can’t imagine. I’ve seen things, and done things that I can hardly believe myself. I’ve lived in mud huts and Paris hotels, but I couldn’t sleep there. That hilltop, on that dead-end road? It may be the only place on this planet I actually belong. I want it back.”
“Jax, I can’t. Half my business, more than half, is tied up with Savarese. He’s not somebody I can cross.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“Hell yes. You don’t know what he’s like—”
“Then maybe I should meet him. Where do I find this guy, Frog?”
He told me, then rose to usher me out the door. “Jax, please let this go. Let me handle it for you.”
“Maybe I will, Frog. God knows, I’ve got troubles enough. I’m not looking for more.”
“Good,” he said, relieved. “This was never personal, you know. It was just business. We’re still friends, right?”
He offered his hand, for auld lang syne.
I pretended not to notice.
I drove out to the Buffalo Country Game Ranch under a full head of steam, but slowed my roll as I blew through the gate.
The place looked like a Frontier World set from Disneyland, teleported to the woodlands of northern Michigan. Three stories tall and half a block long, the main house was a soaring, surreal fortress built of gigantic pine logs with a Gone With the Wind — sized front porch topped by a widow’s walk. All it lacked were brass cannons on the parapets and a Morricone soundtrack.
The wilderness-outpost effect was marred by the dozen luxury SUVs parked beside the building, all top of the line. Navigators, Escalades, even a HumVee stretch limo that looked like a prop from Star Wars. I pulled my rented Jeep up beside the Hummer and trotted up the steps into the massive log manor house, blinking in the dim light as the heavy oaken door closed behind me with a pneumatic shush.
Inside, the clubhouse was the size of a basketball court, with the same gleaming hardwood floors.
Faux antler chandeliers dangled from the ceiling beams, on anchor chains that looked like they’d been salvaged from the Titanic. One wall was a solid bank of sixty-inch TV screens, baseball, football, horse racing, and soccer all competing simultaneously in silence as massive hunting trophies stared sightlessly down from their mounts.
Trophy heads circled the room. Moose, elk, polar, black, and grizzly bears, even an elephant. But mostly they were bison bulls, magnificent even in death.
I understand killing. Nearly every creature on the planet kills something else to survive. I grew up in the back country, so I’ve been hunting since I was old enough to carry a.22, and I’m good at it.