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  ALFRED HITCHCOCK MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  October 2006

  Vol. 51, No. 10

  Dell Magazines

  New York

  Cover by Shannon Stirnweis

  FICTION

  THE VALLEY OF ANGUSTIAS by Steven Torres

  THE PECULIAR DEATH OF DANIEL HUNT by Keith McCarthy

  BOXES OF HELL by Elaine Menge

  RUSSELL DAVENPORT AND THE BREAK-IN ARTISTS by Alex Auswaks

  THE COTTONWOODS by David Edgerley Gates

  SURVIVING SPOUSE by Doug Allyn

  AHMM CLASSIC

  SHATTERPROOF by Jim Fusilli

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  Visit us online at www.TheMysteryPlace.com!

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES: BAD BEGINNINGS? by Linda Landrigan

  THE VALLEY OF ANGUSTIAS by Steven Torres

  THE PECULIAR DEATH OF DANIEL HUNT by Keith McCarthy

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  BOXES OF HELL by Elaine Menge

  RUSSELL DAVENPORT AND THE BREAK-IN ARTISTS by Alex Auswaks

  THE COTTONWOODS by David Edgerley Gates

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  SURVIVING SPOUSE by Doug Allyn

  AHMM CLASSIC: SHATTERPROOF by Jim Fusilli

  COMING IN NOVEMBER 2006

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  EDITOR'S NOTES: BAD BEGINNINGS? by Linda Landrigan

  It all has to start somewhere. In this issue we have a number of “bad” beginnings to take note of. Steven Torres introduced AHMM readers to his Puerto Rican sheriff, Luis Gonzalo, in these pages last year ("UFO,” November 2005). Gonzalo returns in this issue, though as a much younger man, in “The Valley of Angustias,” a story about how he got his start in crime. Doug Allyn also brings us a story about a new beginning, of sorts, with “Surviving Spouse.” Insurance Investigator Russell Davenport helps a young, pregnant woman when her boyfriend ("a tea leaf") is run down by a van in the dead of night in “Russell Davenport and the Break-In Artists” by Alex Auswaks. Elaine Menge doesn't disappoint with “Boxes of Hell,” which could could be described as a story about the end of a bad situation, or the beginning of bad karma—you'll have to decide that for yourself.

  We welcome Keith McCarthy to this issue with “The Peculiar Death of Daniel Hunt,” featuring pathologist John Eisenmenger and solicitor Helena Flemming, who are the main characters in Mr. McCarthy's forensic series published by Carroll & Graf (A World Full of Weeping, the latest, came out in June.). Mr. McCarthy is himself a pathologist when he isn't writing. Our AHMM Classic was another beginning for Jim Fusilli. Not only was it the first story he published with us in 1988, it was also his first published short story. Mr. Fusilli has gone on to publish the critically acclaimed series featuring Manhattan-based P.I. Terry Orr. The fourth in the series, Hard, Hard City, was published in 2004 by Putnam.

  With this issue we also welcome the return of a reader favorite: David Edgerley Gates brings us another Placido Geist story, “The Cottonwoods,” which is short but satisfying—and is a prelude to a longer story that we will be publishing soon in an upcoming issue.

  Bad beginnings perhaps, but when they're bad, they're very, very good!

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE VALLEY OF ANGUSTIAS by Steven Torres

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  Ron Chironna

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  When outsiders start attacking the townsfolk, a bar owner offers protection—for a price.

  It was the first of June, 1964, and Luis Gonzalo, one week after graduating from college, was looking for work. He was the first citizen of Angustias to attain a college degree and return to the small town, but that did nothing to make his search for employment easy.

  "Don Jose is going to be planting a few acres of banana and platano,” Gonzalo's mother said.

  "I didn't study agriculture,” Gonzalo answered. He didn't look at her as he said it, but he knew she was staring at him. His father had scratched the dirt to pick out a living; his grandfathers both still did. What made him think he was better than farmwork? How could he explain to her that he didn't think he was better? He didn't think it, but he hoped it.

  "History and literature,” his mother said, and though she had cheered when he accepted his diploma a few days before, it was an indictment when she said it.

  That morning, Gonzalo went to see the mayor. The mayor also had been at the graduation and had whispered something at the end of the ceremony about a job.

  Francisco Cruz was happy to see Gonzalo, but that was no special honor. Francisco Cruz was happy to see everyone; it was the quality that got him elected every four years. He greeted Gonzalo with a hug and a slap on the back. Cruz was a small man; had he been larger the slap would have hurt. He guided Gonzalo into a chair, then sat in the leather swivel chair behind the desk. The pleasantries took five minutes—asking about Gonzalo's mother and sister, other family members, friends, although he and Gonzalo had spoken just the day before.

  "I'm here about the job,” Gonzalo said. He had been squirming in his seat throughout the talk.

  "What job?” Francisco Cruz said. Gonzalo's stomach dropped, and he took in a small gasp of air.

  "Oh, the job, the job,” Cruz said. Another smile spilled across his face. “Sure, sure. Well, we always have work here in the city. Right now we have one job open. I don't know if you want it, but maybe...” Cruz put his hands up as though to say all was out of his power.

  "What is it?” Gonzalo asked. He had several plans for his near future, and all of them involved a salary.

  "Road cleaning. We need an extra man now in the summer. The grass grows so fast, and Chuito Acevedo retired recently. It pays the minimum, of course, but next year the state is going to build a new stretch of highway through here. There will be more hiring to do then. In a few years, you might be able to move up to supervisor then, who knows, maybe road repair, work with tar, that sort of thing."

  Cruz's smile was large as he said this. It was a plum position, funded by the state, with a health plan; regular work—the roadside weeds never stopped growing so there was never a layoff or furlough. Gonzalo's smile did not fare so well. He tried to maintain it as Cruz explained about the job, but his teeth dried, and he was sure there was disappointment written all over his face. In the end there was a silence between the two men. In a minute even Cruz's smile began to fade.

  "Do you want time to think about it?” Cruz asked.

  Gonzalo would have liked to have been able to say “No” right then, but at the moment he was trying to calculate whether there was any other prospect for him, whether he would have to stay in the road cleaning job all his life or whether it could be used as a stepping stone to a position that had nothing to do with roads. How much was minimum wage when multiplied by forty hours? Could there be overtime pay?

  "Can I give you my answer next week?” he asked.

  Cruz's smil
e disappeared completely for a moment, but he regained it.

  "Next Monday? Sure. No more than that though. Those weeds don't wait."

  Gonzalo left the alcaldia, the government building, and took a seat on a bench in the town plaza. The morning sun was still gentle. In an hour or two, it would roast. He tried to think through his options and the complications that surrounded his job hunting. He had met the perfect woman in college and wanted to marry her, this summer if he could. He had promised her it would be possible. His degrees perfectly suited him to be a high school teacher, but there were no openings anywhere near to Angustias; he had checked that even before graduating. He could find a job in a distant city; he had no doubt about that, but his mother had long been a widow, and he didn't like to leave her. His practical experience was limited. He had worked on the land with his father as a small boy. When his father died, Gonzalo had gone to work for other farms in the area, picking coffee or peas, yams or bananas during the school vacations and weekends. Throughout college he had worked in several stores—the bookstore, a pizzeria, a shoe store. Retail, he thought to himself, and he got off his bench.

  Rafael Martín owned a large grocery store not more than a hundred yards from the plaza. He was getting older and had occasions when the store was closed for a day or more due to illness. Before Gonzalo had crossed the distance to Martín's store, he had convinced himself that Martín needed an assistant manager.

  When he walked into the store, Rafael Martín was doubled over behind the counter in a coughing fit; a lit cigar was in his right hand as he patted his chest with it.

  "You know, they say smoking is bad for you,” Gonzalo started. He wanted to sound helpful, smart, and yet an easy conversationalist. Martín looked at him a moment and coughed some more.

  "Who says that?” Martín said.

  Gonzalo shrugged.

  "I've been smoking cigars for fifty years,” Martín said. Proof that smoking could do no harm.

  Another coughing fit served as a perfect introduction of Gonzalo's purpose.

  "An assistant?” Martín sounded like he thought he was being scammed, but Gonzalo explained the advantages.

  "You can take a vacation; we can stay open late; if you're sick, the store doesn't have to close."

  Martín was thoughtful a few moments, half convinced. Another coughing fit, and he waved Gonzalo away.

  "Tonight,” he said. “Before I close. We'll talk."

  It was an hour-long walk home, but Gonzalo smiled the whole way. He ate his lunch with a great appetite, showered, changed into clothes he thought looked a little more like those an assistant manager would wear, and planned to walk back late in the afternoon. Even his mother approved of him working for Rafael Martín. The man was wealthy, childless, and she told her son that there was no limit to what might happen if Don Martín hired him. Assistant managers became managers became partners became owners.

  "I don't even have the job yet,” Gonzalo said, but it was hard to stop thinking of the possibilities.

  Not wanting to sweat during the walk back to town, Gonzalo left early, walked slowly, and arrived an hour before the appointed time. He sat on a bench in the plaza to wait.

  There were a dozen businesses on the blocks leading away from the plaza that let out workers at that hour. Some went home, some went to nearby restaurants or bars, some congregated in the plaza to talk. The sun, which had shown no mercy earlier, relented. Gonzalo watched the people while keeping track of the passing time on his watch. Though he had spent much of the past four years away from Angustias, every face was immediately recognizable to him. At ten minutes to the hour, he rose and made his way to the store of Rafael Martín.

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  Martín usually sat on a crate behind the counter of his store until near closing time, when he started to shuffle through the store putting things away and preparing to lock up. Gonzalo walked in a few minutes before six. Not finding the owner sitting on his customary crate or walking through the establishment, Gonzalo headed for the small room that Martín used as an office and as extra storage space. Martín was inside, on the floor, bleeding and breathing fast and shallow.

  "Don Martín,” Gonzalo said. Don Martín didn't answer. Gonzalo knelt beside the older man and touched his face. Don Martín focused his eyes on Gonzalo's and moved a shaky hand up toward his face.

  "I'll get help."

  Gonzalo ran out of the store, straight for the alcaldia. It was closed, but he knew where Francisco Cruz lived; it wasn't far.

  The mayor of Angustias came to the door himself. He was busy chewing.

  "What?” he asked. “If it's about the..."

  "Don Martín is dying."

  Gonzalo explained what he had seen, Francisco Cruz made a call to the nearest hospital, then they both went to Martín's store.

  Don Martín was less able to focus by the time Gonzalo knelt at his side again. His breathing had become a bit more regular, but his jaw wouldn't work, and one of his fingers was broken, jutting out from his hand at an unnatural angle.

  "Who did this to you?” Francisco Cruz asked several times, using different tones of voice as though that might help to make himself understood. Don Martín's gaze rolled from one man to the other as though he were trying to figure out who they were.

  The paramedics, when they arrived a half hour later, walked through a small crowd that had filled the front of the store and gurneyed Don Martín out. Their initial estimate was that Don Martín's jaw was broken along with several of his ribs. The doctors in Ponce would be able to say more. Francisco Cruz told Martín he would meet with him in the hospital; Martín would not have to face his treatment alone. He wasn't sure Martín understood him.

  The ambulance left, and Cruz did the work of securing the store for the night, sending the spectators home, and locking the door. Gonzalo helped, and the two men walked to Cruz's home together.

  "And you?” he asked Gonzalo.

  "Me what?"

  "What role do you have in all of this? Why were you back in town this late? What were you doing in the store?"

  "Don Martín said he might hire me to help run the store. Assistant manager."

  "Did he?"

  "Did he what?"

  "Hire you?"

  "I was supposed to find out his decision at six. When I went in, he was lying on the ground like you saw him."

  "And there was no one else in the store? No one outside?"

  "No one in the store. Plenty of people outside on the plaza."

  Cruz got into his car and motioned Gonzalo into the passenger seat.

  "Anybody you don't know? Anybody who could have done this?"

  Without warming the car's motor, Cruz pulled away and was soon on the road to Ponce. Gonzalo took a minute to make a mental inventory of the people he had seen on the plaza. No one he could not identify. Certainly no one who would have attacked Don Martín. In fact, he couldn't think of anyone in all of Angustias who would have attacked the man even though Don Martín was known to be cantankerous sometimes. He told the mayor this.

  "Well, someone did it,” Cruz said. Gonzalo didn't bother to agree with the assessment out loud. He wondered if there was any way Don Martín could have gotten his injuries from a fall. Nothing came to mind.

  It was nearly a two-hour wait in the hospital before Cruz and Gonzalo were allowed to see Don Martín. His mouth was wired shut, his hand was in a cast with his pinky in a splint. There were bandages on his legs—the doctor said the man's shins had been kicked, as had his ribs.

  "How are you doing?” Mayor Cruz asked. Don Martín rolled his eyes.

  "Do you know who did this?” Gonzalo asked.

  Don Martín shook his head. He had lived all his life in Angustias, and the entire town, more or less, passed through his store at one time or another; if he didn't recognize who had beat him, they were outsiders.

  "Was it just one man?"

  Don Martín held up two fingers. Hand signals and nodding brought out more information. The two men w
ere young—in their twenties—and they were each about Gonzalo's height and weight—five ten and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Don Martín started to tire as he signaled to explain the type of clothes the young men had on—jeans, sneakers, T-shirts.

  "One last question,” Gonzalo said. “Do you know which direction the two men entered the store from? Did they come in from the plaza or from the other side?"

  Don Martín didn't know.

  Francisco Cruz didn't smile on the drive back to Angustias. There is always crime in any town. Angustias was too small to have its own police force, but that did not mean there weren't thefts, domestic disputes, and barroom fights. This, however, was different from what Cruz normally had to deal with. Two men had come to Angustias and very nearly killed one of its citizens. Another kick in the ribs might have finished the storeowner. The worst aspect of the crime was its anonymous nature—strangers selecting a stranger and attacking him for no reason. Nothing had been taken from the store. If money wasn't the issue, and there was no personal relationship between victim and perpetrator, then the crime was random. Nothing was more terrifying.

  "Those were good questions,” the mayor told Gonzalo as they neared Angustias.

  "Well, I had plenty more,” Gonzalo said.

  "Maybe you can ask them tomorrow."

  Gonzalo didn't say anything. He would have loved to figure out who did this to Don Martín and why, but he wasn't a detective. He wasn't even the assistant manager of the store. He had a job search to conduct.

  By the time the mayor drove back into Angustias, police had arrived and taken a look at the store and were waiting to get a statement from Gonzalo. He didn't have much to say. He hadn't seen anyone suspicious, hadn't heard anything, and Don Martín hadn't said anything. The officers had found someone who was in the store right after quitting time at five. That left about forty-five minutes between the customer and Gonzalo's arrival in the store. One of the officers had Gonzalo repeat his story, pressing him a bit on each fact. It seemed he was their best suspect.