EQMM, September-October 2010 Read online

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  Cover ar by Gail Cross

  CONTENTS

  Fiction: THE SCENT OF LILACS by Doug Allyn

  Passport to Crime: THE DIVERGENT MAN by Marc R. Soto

  Fiction: TANGLE BEACH by David Braly

  Poetry: LEGEND? by Jane Paynter

  Fiction: TONTINE by Peter Turnbull

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  Fiction: MR. ALIBI by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Department of First Stories: ADMINISTRATIVE LEAVE by Audrey Webb

  Fiction: OPEN AND SHUT CASE by Marilyn Todd

  Fiction: THE LAST LAUGH by Bill Pronzini

  Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  Fiction: TO KILL AN UMP by Brendan DuBois

  Fiction: LEON AND SQUEAK by Ronald Levitsky

  Black Mask: BEERSHEBA by Joyce Carol Oates

  Fiction: SO MUCH IN COMMON by Mary Jane Maffini

  Fiction: INCOMPATIBLES by Robert Barnard

  Fiction: ARCHIE'S BEEN FRAMED by Dave Zeltserman

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  Fiction: THE SCENT OF LILACS by Doug Allyn

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  Art by Allen Davis

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  Doug Allyn began his short story writing career in the mid 1980s, at around the same time another great crime short story writer, Brendan DuBois debuted in EQMM's Department of First Stories. This is Doug Allyn's 100th published story, a number he's reached at almost exactly the same time as Mr. DuBois, who also has a story in this issue. Doug Allyn is, of course, a perennial favorite of this magazine's readers; he's the winner of eight EQMM Readers Awards, the most recent for 2009.

  March 11, 1865

  Reynolds County, Missouri

  The horsemen drifted out of the dawn mist like wolves, strung out loosely across the hillside in a ragged line, their nostrils snorting steam in the morning chill. Two outriders on the flanks, five more in the main body. Polly guessed they'd already placed riflemen along the stone fence beyond her barn, ready to cut down anyone who tried to run.

  Her son was sitting on the corner of the porch, whetting the scythe, daydreaming. “Jason,” Polly said quietly. “Riders are coming. Get to the barn. And walk! All the way."

  Without a word, the ten-year-old rose and sauntered across the yard as he'd been taught, toting a hay blade longer than he was tall. He disappeared inside. A moment later the loading door in the upper loft inched open a crack.

  Picking up a besom broom, Polly casually swept her way across the porch to the front door of the farmhouse. She opened it to sweep off the sill, then left it ajar as she turned to face the riders coming across the stubbled fields to the house.

  Federals. Of a sort. Only one rider was in full uniform, a Union cavalry captain—tall, hollow-eyed, and gaunt as a vulture, with a thin moustache and goatee. His men were irregulars, dressed in a mix of work clothes and uniform coats or pants. Farmers and tradesmen, from the look of them. Definitely Union, though. Their mounts were sleek and well fed. She'd heard Forrest's men were slaughtering their horses for food.

  The riders sized her up as they filed into the yard. A farm wife, square as a stump in a man's flannel shirt, canvas trousers, and pebble-leg boots. Handsome once, perhaps, but careworn now, her auburn hair wild and awry in the chill March wind, her hands reddened and rough from field work.

  Polly scanned their faces, desperately hoping to recognize someone—damn. Aaron Meachum was with them, slouch hat down over his eyes, grizzled cheek distorted by a plug of chaw. Trouble.

  Casually, she sidled half a step closer to the doorway.

  "Good day to you, ma'am,” their leader said softly. “I am Captain Charles Gilliaume, of the Eighth Missouri. My men and I—"

  "These men aren't Eighth Missouri,” Polly said coldly. “They're Redleg militia. Hessians, most likely."

  "Hessians?"

  "It's what these Rebs call the kraut-heads,” Meachum said. “Like them German mercenaries back in the Revolution? Most of Sigel's troops was Germans from St. Louis when they raided through here in ‘sixty-two."

  "I see.” The captain nodded. “You're quite right, ma'am. My men are a militia unit from Jefferson City, and many of them are of German extraction. But they're as American as you or I now. May we step down?"

  "Captain, there is a creek on the far side of my garden. You're welcome to water your animals. I have nothing more to offer you. We've been picked clean by both sides. Hospitality in southern Missouri is runnin’ a little thin these days, hard to come by as seed corn."

  "She'd find grain quick enough if we were wearin’ butternut brown,” Aaron Meachum said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto her porch. “The whole damn McKee family's secesh; everybody ‘round here knows it."

  "Is that true, ma'am?” the captain asked. “I see no men about. Are they with the rebels?"

  "My husband is in Springfield trying to earn a few dollars. His eldest son is with Bedford Forrest up Tennessee way, his second boy's with the Union blockade at Charleston. The two youngest headed down to Arkansas to find Sterling Price after Yank militia run off our horses in ‘sixty-one."

  "Rebels,” Meachum spat.

  "Three Confederates,” Polly corrected, “and one Federal. At least they're real soldiers, Captain."

  "As we are, ma'am."

  "Real soldiers don't ride with trash. This fella, Aaron Meachum, is a Jayhawker who was murdering and burning in Kansas long before the war. He runs easier with coyotes than with men."

  "Mr. Meachum isn't actually a member of our unit, ma'am, he was retained as a guide."

  "Well, he doubtless knows the trails through these hills. He's used most of them running from the law. If he's your guide, Captain, you're on the road to perdition."

  "Armies are like families, ma'am, you can't choose your kin. We're seeking slaves and deserters, Miz McKee. I'm told you have slaves here."

  "Who told you that? Meachum? Look around you, Captain, this ain't no plantation. We raise saddle horses and draft animals and we're only three days from the Illinois line. Even if we held with slavery, and we don't, it's tough enough to keep animals from runnin’ off, to say nothin’ of men. Our stock's been stolen, our crops burned. We had no slaves before the war and we've
surely no need of them now. There's only me and my boy here, you have my word."

  "In that case, a search won't take long,” Gilliaume said. At his nod, the troopers and Meachum began to dismount.

  "No!” Polly's voice cracked like a whip, freezing them as she snaked the scattergun from inside the open door, leveling it at Gilliaume, earing back both hammers.

  "Madam, be reasonable, you can't possibly prevail against us."

  "That won't matter to you, Captain. Or to Meachum. Or to one or two near you. My boy is covering you from the barn with a ten-gauge goose gun loaded with double-ought buckshot. If I fire, so will he."

  "And you will surely die, ma'am. As will your son."

  "No matter. We only have a little flour and some cornmeal. My boy's legs are bowing from the rickets ‘cause Rebs butchered our milk cow. You soldier boys have taken all but the gleanings of the fields. For God's sake, sir, your animals are better fed than most folks around here. We have nothing for you. Unless Old Sam Curtis is paying bounty money for murdering women and boys."

  Gilliaume stared coolly down at Polly, ignoring the shotgun muzzle, taking her measure. She knew that look. Death had shouldered him aside to kill his friends so often that he was weary of waiting for it, impatient for his turn.

  But not today. “Gentlemen, the lady says she has no slaves and I believe her. And since there's clearly no forage for us here, we'll move on."

  "You're lettin’ her run us off?” Meachum said, outraged. “Our orders say deserters, slaves, and arms. She's armed, ain't she?"

  "So she is,” Gilliaume said wryly. “Personally, I interpret our orders to mean military arms, not rusty shotguns in the hands of farm wives, but you have my permission to disarm her if you wish, Mr. Meachum. But kindly give me a moment to back my mount away. This is my best cape and bloodstains are damned bothersome to remove."

  Clucking to his gelding, Gilliaume backed his mount off a few steps, touched his hat brim to Polly, then turned away. The rest of the patrol fell in behind him, moving off at a walk. Leaving her to face Meachum alone. She shifted the shotgun, centering it on his chest.

  "You got yourself an edge today, Polly McKee,” Meachum spat. “But you ain't seen the last of me. I expect your britches must get mighty cold with your man gone. Maybe I'll swing by another time, get a little fire goin’ in them pants of yours. I'll be back."

  "But not by daylight, I'll wager, you Jayhawk son of a bitch! Come ahead on, anytime, I'll give you more fire than you can handle. If you ever so much as set foot on my land again, Aaron Meachum, I swear I will blow you out of your raggedy-ass boots! Now git off my place! Git!" she shouted into the face of his mount, spooking the beast. It shied away, kicking. Meachum sawed at the reins but the brute's manners were no better than its owner's. Bucking and snorting, it sprinted off to rejoin the patrol, with Meachum clinging to the saddle horn, cursing his animal and Polly all the way.

  The laughter and catcalls that greeted him echoed off the hills. It wasn't much comfort, but it was something.

  She waited on the porch, her old scattergun in the crook of her arm, watching the troop splash through the creek and vanish into the woods beyond. And then she waited a bit longer, until she was dead certain they were gone.

  Stepping into the house, she carefully stood the shotgun in its customary place by the door. And then, in the sweet-scented silence of her parlor, she released a long, ragged breath. And hugged herself fiercely, trying to control her trembling.

  Gus McKee sensed the danger before he heard it. Huddled over his campfire, warming his hands, he felt a sudden tingle between his shoulder blades, sharp as a nudge from a spike bayonet. Something was moving outside the flickering halo of the firelight, inching closer in the dark.

  Nerves, maybe? A ghost walking on his grave?

  No. The horses sensed it too, shifting uneasily in their brush corral at the base of the ridge, raising their heads, tasting the wind. Someone was circling his camp. Definitely.

  Gus hadn't survived three years in these mountains by ignoring his instincts.

  His battered Jenks-Remington carbine was in a rock cleft with his bedroll but the primer tape was so old the gun only fired half the time. If the intruder meant to harm him, he'd probably be dead already. Best to wait him out and—a twig snapped in the shadows.

  Gus rose slowly, keeping his hands in plain sight. “Come on in, and welcome,” he said quietly. “I've got no weapon, and nothin’ worth stealin', but I got stew on the fire—"

  "Shut your mouth. Are you alone?"

  "My son's up in the ridges, hunting. He'll be back in a while, I expect."

  "When did he leave?"

  "I . . . don't recall, around noon, I guess."

  "You're lying, old man. I been watching your camp since morning. Nobody's come or gone.” The youth stepped out of the shadows. Tall and gawky, he hadn't seen twenty yet, but his weapon was man-sized, a Colt horse pistol, the hammer eared back, the muzzle centered on Gus's belly.

  His ragged uniform jacket was so faded and grimy Gus couldn't make out its original color. Union artillery blue? Or Arkansas gray? Didn't matter which side the boy was on anyway; he'd obviously been on the dodge awhile. Dirty face, scraggly beard, sunken eyes. His cheeks were hollow from hunger.

  "My name's Gus McKee, son. I give you my word you got nothin’ to fear from me. I'm hidin’ in these mountains, waitin’ out the fight, the same as you."

  "Are you a soldier?” The boy's eyes flicked around the campsite, jumpy as a cricket on a cook stove.

  "I was once,” Gus acknowledged. “Went down to Mexico with Winfield Scott in ‘forty-six. Killed folks I had nothin’ against in places you never heard of. Hell, I never heard of ‘em and I was there. Still carry a musket ball in my hip from those days. One war's enough for any man. I want no part of this one."

  "If you ain't a deserter, why are you hidin’ out up here?"

  "Me and the wife got a little stock ranch west of Reynolds. Raise mostly draft animals, a few saddlebreds. But southern Missouri's sorry country for breedin’ horses nowadays. Lyon and his Hessians raided my place on their way to Springfield in ‘sixty-one—"

  "Hessians?"

  "Germans,” Gus explained. “Immigrants fresh off the boat. Strong for the Union. After Lyon got killed at Wilson's Creek, both sides started raidin’ stock, burnin’ our crops. Between the sojer boys and runaway slaves headed north, we're about picked clean. I brung the last of our animals up into these hills so my boys will have somethin’ to come home to when it's over."

  "You got boys in the fight? Which side?"

  "Both sides.” Gus sighed. “Oldest run away to sea in ‘fifty-seven, stayed with the Union navy when war broke out. Last I heard he was on the Hartford, off Mobile Bay. Second oldest is with Bedford Forrest, two younger boys went off with General Price in ‘sixty-two."

  "And which side do you favor, Mr. McKee?"

  "I favor livin’ through these troubled times, same as you. Can I put my hands down? Coffee's ‘bout to boil over and it's damn hard to come by in these hills. I'm pleased to share my grub with you, son, but you might as well lower that pistol. You don't want to shoot nobody."

  "Want's got nothin’ to do with it, mister. I'll do what I have to, if you give me cause. Understand?” But the boy holstered his horse pistol as Gus knelt to retrieve the steaming pot from the coals. Pouring two cups of scalding brew, Gus passed one to the youth, who nodded his thanks.

  "I didn't catch your name, son."

  "It's Mitchell. Elias Mitchell. Eli will do. And I apologize for comin’ down hard on you like this. I been on the run."

  "You're a Federal. From up north.” It wasn't a question.

  Eli nodded, sipping the coffee. “How'd you know?"

  "You never heard of Hessians, for one thing. Whereabouts you from?"

  "Illinois. My folks farm eighty acres near Cairo. I enlisted for a year but my unit got busted up after Perryville and the new outfit they sent me to was drafted for the duration.
I've served nearly four years, and seen more killin’ than . . . Anyways, I got a letter that said my folks are farin’ poorly. I've had enough. I joined up to save the Union and free the slaves but all we're doin’ now is burnin’ out farms and villages, leavin’ poor folks to starve. I couldn't take it no more. Lit out from Vicksburg last month, been workin’ my way home since."

  "You're still a ways from Illinois."

  "Not as fur as I was. Had a horse for a while but she went lame on me, had to turn her loose."

  "Near here?” Gus asked sharply, suddenly wary.

  "No, down in Arkansas, two weeks back. Why?"

  "These hills may look empty, but they ain't. Union patrols are out, foraging, huntin’ stragglers from both sides. Got a bounty on Union deserters, boy, twenty dollars a head."

  "Twenty dollars! Hell, that's more'n we been gettin’ paid!"

  "It's worse than that. The bounty's for dead or alive and they ain't fussy about which."

  "Man, that's crazy,” Eli said, shaking his head. “You're doin’ the proper thing stayin’ up here, Mr. McKee. There ain't no right side in this fight no more. If there ever was."

  "Maybe not. You got any money, boy?"

  "Money? No sir. A few Dixie singles for souvenirs, is all. I'm afraid I can't pay you for the coffee. Sorry."

  "So am I, especially since I was hopin’ to sell you a horse. Is your word any good?"

  "Yes sir, I believe it is,” Eli said, puzzled. “Why?"

  "Because I believe I'm going to loan you a horse, young Mitchell. But I want your solemn word I'll get my animal back when this war is over."

  "I don't understand."

  "Boy, I been shiftin’ my little herd around these hills, dodgin’ Union and Reb patrols, Jayhawkers and outlaws, for damn near three years now. But I know every trail and pass in these mountains. You don't. If you keep on walkin’ home through the Ozarks, you'll be taken sure as God made the green apples. Maybe they'll even track you back to me. The way I see it, the sooner you're long gone from here, the better for both of us. With a horse and a little luck you can be home in a week."