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:
He failed to hear the opening of the front door.
“Don’t even think of moving,” a voice from the darkness warned as a brilliant light captured him and Twinning in its beam like actors in some macabre play.
For several moments Stuart couldn’t speak or move as he stared stupidly into the blinding radiance. Finally, he managed to say, “He’s... he’s dead.”
Several shadows detached themselves from the mass framed in the doorway and moved toward him.
“We can see that for ourselves,” one of them said.
They were close enough now that Stuart could see that they were police officers. “I didn’t do this. He was... already dead when I found him,” he explained, trying hard to appear rational, to be rational, even as everything he thought he knew of himself seemed to shatter like glass and fall away.
“When was that?” the smaller of the two asked, as the larger cuffed Stuart’s hands behind his back. “When you came here before... or now? We got a witness who saw you and wrote down your license-plate number, thought you were acting strangely. I think she was right. She called us when she saw you come back tonight.”
Shining the light on Twinning’s blackened face, the officer answered his own question, “I’d say before.” The beam swept across the overturned pail, the cleaning supplies. “I see,” he murmured. Turning the light onto the stairs, he barked at two officers who had remained near the door, “Sean, you and Will check the bedrooms. There’s supposed to be a family lives here.”
“They’re dead too,” Stuart said in a hopeless tone, surrendering his flimsy composure and beginning to weep as he thought of how different things would be if he had called Brad Twinning when he should have. Thinking, too, of his own family cowering before him earlier, terrified of what they saw in him, dreading what he might do when he returned.
“Sarge, there’s three more up here!” a strained voice called down in confirmation.
Bowing his head as large, hot tears ran down his stubbled cheeks, Stuart began to plead, “I didn’t do this... I didn’t... I swear I didn’t!”
Patting him on the shoulder, the police sergeant began to lead Stuart away, replying in a reasonable tone and with the faintest of smiles, “Of course you didn’t — you just dropped by to lend a hand with the housework.”
As he began to chuckle, one by one, the other officers joined in, and soon the rustle of suppressed laughter echoed within the house of the dead.
© 2018 by David Dean
A House in the Country
by Susan Dunlap
Susan Dunlap is the author of four popular mystery series. Her latest book, 2016’s Out of Nowhere (Severn House), belongs to the stuntwoman Darcy Lott series. “Darcy remains an unusual and appealing character who uses both Zen discipline and daredevil instincts to solve crimes,” said Booklist of this entry in the series. We have another Dunlap story coming up soon!
It took all of Aaron Higjbee’s self-control not to rev the engine of the red sports car. His hand tightened on the gearshift; his was almost in spasm above the accelerator. But he could not take the chance.
It was so unfair. He’d spent weeks figuring how to beat the alarms on summer houses and he’d come away with jack all. Then, out of the blue he spotted this hot car, top down, key dangling in the ignition. No one around. It was, like, too good to be true.
He’d sidled up, swung himself like a gymnast over the door, slid down into the seat, and took off. Hot dude in a hot car! Like he was in one of those sports-car videos, taking curves at sixty, downshifting at the last second, gears grinding, sparks flying behind him. Like he was doing Daytona.
That had been a couple hours ago.
Now the tank was near empty, his own tank was just about bursting. He’d pee later. Now he had to face facts. A red sports car! Red was bad for all the reasons it was so hot. Too late to take it back. Too far. He was out in the country where summer people lived in what they called “cottages.” Couldn’t ditch the car because it was night and cold and how was he going to get home?
So, play to your strengths, right?
He spotted the driveway first, then the house. Light on inside — the kitchen or hall or bathroom — a dead giveaway to a dude as sharp as him. The place would be empty, but just in case, he backed the car into the driveway out of sight of the road and left it ready for fast getaway. Up the driveway there’d be a kitchen cupboard with cans of soup, tuna, stuff the owners couldn’t be bothered taking. Maybe beer, whiskey. He’d piss, he’d eat, then he’d figure out what to do. Maybe there was someone he could call who he could trust more than his for-shit friends.
He started toward the house, turned, and shot a final glance at the road. Trees hanging over the blacktop, two narrow lanes leading to more narrow roads. A blink of moonlight showed the deep ruts, which he already knew too well.
A second blink lit the car.
And the license plate.
CD11.
He couldn’t believe it! How could he have such rotten, lousy, unfair luck? CD11. A congressman’s plate. A congressman’s car! Every sheriff in the county would be hunting it.
He had to get out of here.
But go where? Would he have to ditch the car and walk home through the woods? Walk all night? Food, he’d need food.
He ran up the driveway, around the back of the house, and eyed the windows for alarm wires.
Bathroom? Its wires were so obvious it was like announcing the place was wired. The next window — bedroom? No wires he could see. The window was eight feet off the ground. He hoisted himself up, peered over the sill into the dark room at... Sheesh!.. a guy sleeping in there!
Lousy, unfair luck!
His hands went slack.
He dropped with a thud.
A door flew open. Flashlight blinded him. Woman barked: “In here. Keep your hands up. Up! Move!”
He couldn’t believe — Dammit! He should have run. But he was so startled, shocked, terrified, outraged that it was all he could do to not wet his pants. Then he spotted the automatic on the counter by the door. He couldn’t believe...
Then he saw the woman’s hand hovering over it. Her hand was as shaky as he was.
Okay, not all bad luck. He could manage this. He walked in.
She stood between him and the gun, motioned him to the far side of the kitchen. It was all white — walls, cabinets, sink, even towels. The gun stood out like a display in a store window.
The woman could have been in the store window too. Middle-aged but doable. Jeans, woolly sweater. She looked jumpy, more freaked than he was. Jumpy was bad. Jumpy with a gun, real bad. She was saying, “Empty your pockets. There, on that counter behind you. Everything, lay it all out. Don’t think about it. I can shoot you before you turn around.”
She was trying hard to sound tough. Maybe the phone was out? Maybe there was no cell coverage. He could handle her. The kitchen was only ten feet square, an easy leap for him. Slowly he pulled out his wallet, the key to the car but not his own keys, a wad of toilet paper he’d used for his nose, a mint. Keeping his hand as close to them as hers was to the gun, he made her an offer: “I can leave; it’ll be like I was never here.”
“Drive off into the night?”
“Yeah.”
She took a step back, away from him, turning it over in her mind, he figured. “Why should I believe you won’t go get your friends and come back now that you know I’m here alone.”
“But you’re not alone.”
She did a double take at that and he knew he was in the driver’s seat. He tapped his fingers on the counter and demanded, “The man in the bedroom, he your husband?”